

### The Coogan Curse

the Smashwords Edition of

a StoneThread Publication

Copyright © 2011 Larry Long

StoneThread License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Please don't resell it or give it away.

If you want to share this book, please purchase an additional copy as a gift.

Thank you for respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

* * * * *

Credits

Cover photo courtesy of Frykman Studio Gallery, Sister Bay, Wisconsin.

Editing, formatting and cover design by Harvey Stanbrough.

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### The Coogan Curse

Larry Long

Chapter One

Kurt heard the police siren and his gaze shot to the rear view mirror. _Ah, damn it!_ Red and blue flashing lights were barreling toward him from a quarter-mile back. _Welcome home_ , he thought. He lifted his foot off the accelerator. _How do they even know I'm here?_ He'd been inside the city limits less than two minutes. No one had seemed to notice him and only a few intimates even knew that he would be in town.

The police car roared closer, tailgating.

Kurt poised his foot over the brake pedal, prepared to pull onto the shoulder and stop, but the cop swept past him and sped away along the curving, two-lane road ahead. _Whew! Not so much as a glance my way_.

He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. _What are you scared of? They can't hurt you._ He'd come in from Chicago to wrap up a little personal business over the weekend. On Monday morning he'd leave exhaust fumes for Rock Bluff, Nebraska and be gone from his boyhood home in perpetuity

Two minutes later, up ahead, the neon sign for _Lola's Happy Corner_ glowed through the dull February overcast, but before Kurt reached the parking lot another siren wailed from back down the highway. He hovered just off the right edge of the road until the county sheriff's cruiser raced past just as the city cop had before.

_Must've been an accident up the road_ , Kurt figured. _Maybe a bad one. Something's sure as hell going on._ He smiled. _Well, they'll just blame it on the curse._

He had learned early in life that all manner of serious misfortune in Coogan County, from death to bad crops to unwanted pregnancy, were usually ascribed to "the curse." He shook his head, smiling. _Superstitious, backwards clods_.

Kurt eased into Lola's Happy Corner, the little town's cornerstone roadside tavern for as long as there'd been a road. The jammed parking lot surrounding it, easily the size of a baseball diamond, was rimmed on all sides by a wall of plowed snow about eight feet high. Kurt had to squeeze into a cranny some distance from the dingy, brown-shingled building.

The moment he stepped out of his car he sensed something was out of place. Not the smell. That was just Lola's grill. Not the air. In February it always felt like flying needles. He looked around. Nothing seemed' amiss. _Is it a sound? Yes..._ _that low howl._ He searched the landscape... and his gaze fell on a copse of pine trees on the hill behind Lola's. _Wind, I guess. Never heard it like that though. '_

Kurt looked over the cluster of vehicles around him. _Fifty? Seventy? Maybe more...._ That was typical for a Friday lunch hour. Locals were gathered to prime for the weekend, most telling each other and themselves boozy lies about fantasized triumphs. But you could usually hear their raucous laughs and chatter from a mile away. On that day Kurt had to jog across the lot and through the door before he heard voices, and they weren't raucous.

As he stepped inside, all heads swung toward him, but they swung away again even before Kurt had his coat off. _That's it, gang. Pay no attention to the man who just came in._ _Just some nobody_.

The murky main room, redolent of meat and onions sizzling in grease, was packed as Kurt had expected. Lunch-goers clustered in both smoking and non-smoking sections, sitting, standing, leaning, but conversations were hushed, and laughter was rare and forced.

Kurt hung his leather 'flight jacket on one of the racks near the entrance and headed for the john. He hadn't made a potty stop since leaving his motel that morning, and three hours was a long time when a guy was sipping coffee.

Afterward he stood at the sink, washing his hands and checking himself in the dusky mirror. His brown eyes were a little bloodshot, and scattered black whisker stubble betrayed a sloppy shave. He glanced lower _. Got to do something about that gut when I get home_. He ran one hand through his short-cropped hair. _Are those wrinkles at the corners of my mouth?_ He hunched his shoulders, leaned closer to the glass. _Yep. Tiny wrinkles._ _Well, maybe that's good. Might make it harder for some particularly noisome old neighbors to recognize me._ He leaned on the sink, sighed. _Is there a chance in hell I can get this done and leave without being harassed?_ He shook his head. _Not likely._ But he'd made promises and he wasn't about to sidestep old enemies in keeping them.

He splashed cold water on his face, wiped it off with a scratchy paper towel, then returned to the dining room.

He took one of the last stools at the horseshoe bar and looked around. A woman he recognized from high school was looking out a corner window, swaying gently to whatever tune was playing on her I-Pod. She was two or three years older than Kurt. _Betty Lou something._ Dressed in a tight sweater and slacks, she looked even better than he remembered. _Wonder if she's still married_.

A male voice came from behind Kurt'. "Your name McBride _?_ "

Startled and girded for confrontation, Kurt swiveled to face the speaker. What he found was a smiling, familiar visage. "Ceece!" He shook hands and patted the man's shoulder. "Great to see you, Coach."

"Not so great as seeing Betty Lou's ass, I guess." Laughing, the stocky, balding man took the stool next to Kurt's. "What the hell you doin' back in town?"

"Mom's estate... a couple more details to get ironed out."

"Sorry I couldn't make the funeral. Vi and I spent the holidays with her mom in California."

Kurt shrugged. "Thanks for the card... and the nice donation. We're getting new prayer books for St. Paul's."

"How're things in Chicago?"

"Great," Kurt said. "Just wrapped up a two-month murder trial on Wednesday. Put two really nasty bastards away till kingdom come."

"What's your title now?"

"Assistant State's Attorney."

"Sounds pretty fancy."

"Just means prosecutor." Kurt leaned closer to Ceece. "Something wrong around here today?"

The coach sighed, took a sip of coffee from the mug he was carrying. "Why? You see something unusual?"

Kurt shrugged. "Feels like a funeral in here. And two cop cars passed me a few minutes ago. Didn't you hear the sirens?"

"I heard 'em."

"A county cruiser and a city cruiser going the same direction like their asses were on fire. That's a little unusual for Rock Bluff, isn't it?"

Ceece toyed with his mug on the bar top. "I'm told there were some 'events' last night got everybody spooked."

"Events?"

"A couple farmers had livestock mutilated last night... a dozen windows broken down town, some tires slashed. One fire out by the county line." He turned to face Kurt. "You know the kind of reaction that stuff gets in this town."

"The Curse."

"I figure some teenage vandals, but that don't account for Tim Willet."

"Carney Willet's boy?"

Ceece nodded. "His dad let him have the car last night and nobody's seen him since. No phone call, nothing."

"Accident maybe?"

"Not that anybody knows about." Ceece shrugged. "They've checked all the hospitals, the cops."

"Maybe he's got a girl up in Plattsmouth or some place."

"Don't know why he'd drive thirty miles. He can have any gal right here in town for a wink and a smile." Ceece flashed a tiny grin. "You remember what that's like."

"Unless 'ol' Carney Billet's changed a lot since I left, there'll be hell to pay when his kid does show up."

"And I can't let him play in tonight's game. Curfew's ten o'clock. Rules are rules." Ceece shook his head. "We won't beat Bellevue without him."

A frazzled waitress set a burger and fries in front of the coach and turned to Kurt, tablet in hand, blushing, blubbering something that sounded like, "All set?" She scribbled Kurt's order of a beer and a BLT without taking her eyes off him, then hurried away with a tiny giggle.

Kurt nudged Ceece's elbow, nodded at the departing waitress. "That's Sherry Marsh, isn't it?"

"Yep." The coach gathered his sandwich for a bite.

"Wow. She must weigh two hundred pounds."

"You're puttin' on a few pounds yourself. And _she_ doesn't have time to go to a gym."

"She used to be pretty good looking."

"Ten years ago," Ceece said. "Three babies ago."

A tight voice beside Kurt said, "Well, lookie what other shit The Curse brung back to town."

Kurt whirled to face the speaker.

"Hello, McBride." Skinny, seedy-looking Arlo Frey was wearing a sour smile.

Kurt's face tightened. "Hi, Arlo."

The corner of Arlo's mouth jittered. "You movin' back to town?"

"You with the census bureau now?" said Kurt.

"Could be."

"What happens when you run out of fingers and toes?"

"You movin' back or not?"

Kurt glared at his questioner. "I've got a good job and a nice apartment in Chicago, Arlo. Why in hell would I want to move back to a place where _you_ live?" He noticed the patrons turning their attention to him and Aldo.

"Chicago's a good place for you," Arlo said. "What you doing here?"

Kurt snuffed. "None of your damn business." He was bigger and in better shape than Arlo—and the two other troglodytes lurking behind Arlo's shoulders—and he wasn't afraid of pain. What he feared was not knowing how to punch another human being. He'd had all the usual shoving and wrestling forays, but he'd never been in a fistfight. Arlo and his mates had been bashing each other around since they could tell themselves apart.

"I'm bettin' you're in on all the trouble we got today." Arlo snarled. "Let's step outside. I'll get the truth ou—"

"Get lost, Arlo." Coach Maxwell used the voice that had, for nearly twenty-five years, turned insolent high school boys into lapdogs. "Come back tonight with the other drunks."

Arlo Frey avoided Ceece's stare. "We don't want no yella-bellies around here, Coach."

"There's no yella-bellies at this bar," Maxwell said. "Unless maybe one of those goons behind you qualifies. Be just like you, three on one."

Arlo fixed his eyes on Kurt. "You comin' outside, McBride?"

Kurt took a deep breath. "You want that, Arlo, I'm your man." He stepped off the stool.

Coach Ceece did the same, almost in step, holding Kurt in his place. "You don't have to prove anything to anybody." He turned to Arlo and company. "I told you to get lost, you stupid son of a bitch." He stared at Arlo. "Kurt, if you even so much as see this prick again while you're in town, just tell me. I happen to know Arlo here is on probation right now, and Chief Hanika would love an excuse to send his ass off to the pen for a few years."

Arlo flashed his beady eyes up at Ceece, then looked at Kurt again. "Go back to your faggot friends in Chicago." He turned and stomped to a booth along the wall, his two buddies a step behind. He stared at Kurt as he sat.

"I can take care of myself, Ceece." Kurt slid back onto his stool.

"No reason to sink to their level." The coach resumed his seat.

The waitress, Sherry, plopped Kurt's beer in front of him.

He wrapped a hand around the tall bottle and took a swig. "Guess they'll never forget... or understand."

"Some. Not all."

"Been nearly thirteen years, for crying out loud," Kurt said.

"What Arlo Frey thinks isn't worth spit. How long you gonna be in town?

"Just for the weekend. I'm driving back Monday."

"I'll talk to Dar Hanika," Ceece said. "Get Arlo behind bars while you're here."

"He doesn't scare me."

"He should. The stupid bastard went after Arch Carneal with a ball-peen hammer."

"Why?"

"Something Arch said about Arlo's live-in, I guess. He gets in one more scrape and he's in the joint for three years." The coach looked toward a voice calling from across the room.

"Ceece? Ceece!"

Kurt followed Ceece's gaze to a well-dressed, middle-aged guy standing at the entrance to Lola's private party room in the back of the building. His head nearly scraped the door frame.

The man gestured with one arm, raised his voice. "Come on over, Coach. There's a guy here I want you to meet."

Ceece swallowed his last bite. "Come on, Kurt. Be my excuse to get out of this."

Kurt left his beer and followed Coach Maxwell through the crowd to join big Dale Muncie, manager of the Union Pacific Railroad branch office in Rock Bluff.

Dale spoke more softly. "We're trying to hire a hotshot accountant from Des Moines. Give us a hand on selling Rock Bluff."

Ceece ushered Kurt forward. "You remember Kurt McBride."

"Sure." Muncie, his plush red hair impeccably groomed as usual, nodded with a puny smile. "Nice to see you again, McBride."

The three slipped through an open double-door and onto the grimy linoleum floor of the room reserved for group functions. Five other lunch-goers, two men and three women, were clustered just inside the entrance. Introductions were exchanged, extra folding chairs were found and everyone took seats at one of the room's round folding tables.

Lola herself, the sole proprietor, then stepped up beside Muncie with her order pad and pencil. "Special today is the fish plate."

Blanch asked, "What kind of fish?"

"Fried."

"Excuse me." Kurt got up. "I left my beer and BLT on the bar."

Lola held up a hand. "Keep yer seat. Sherry'll bring it in."

Kurt sat back down.

No one ordered the fish.

Lola shuffled away and all conversation deferred to a bespectacled, rotund job candidate from Des Moines named Rich Steinkuhler. Talk quickly focused on Rock Bluff High School's successful athletic teams and how Coach Maxwell had won seven state championships.

Muncie said, "That kind of tradition could mean a lot to your two boys."

Steinkuhler pointed at the little table on the other side of the room. "What's that?"

Muncie peered over his should at the object in question. "It's called bumper pool." He grinned. "Don't see them around much nowadays. Want to play a game?"

Muncie and his top lieutenant, the paunchy, balding Harry Barnhart, formed one team; Coach Ceece and the accountant made up the other.

"Guess you'll have to entertain the girls, Kurt," Muncie said as they were getting up. "Nasty job, but somebody's got to do it." He laughed and the four men assembled around the little green-topped table, sorted out cue sticks and chalked them their tips.

"I've got a full size snooker table in my basement," Steinkuhler said as he rolled up his sleeves.

Kurt was left with the three women, two he knew as long-time U.P. employees, one who was new and extremely pretty. Fluffy blond hair, blue eyes. _Young, too. Maybe just out of college._ He was proud of how he'd managed to get a seat beside her at the table. "How long have you worked at UP, Miss Dodge?" he asked cordially.

"Dodd," the girl said with an effortless smile.

The two middle-age women seated on the other side of Cassie leaned back in their chairs and folded their arms almost in unison.

Kurt blushed. "Sorry. I missed your first name too."

"Cassandra," the young woman said. "Cassie." She pulled her sweater tight around her shoulders. "Is it cold in here or is it just me?"

"It's chilly." Kurt looked around the ceiling.

"Maybe that howling wind just makes it seem cold," Cassie said.

Kurt shook his head. "No. The room has no vents. The only heat in here filters in from the front room." He started to get up. "And that can't be much with the doors closed. I'll open 'em."

Cassie put one hand on his arm. "No, that's okay." She pulled her overcoat from the chair to cover her shoulders. "I think Mr. Muncie wants the privacy."

Sherry came through the doors carrying Kurt's lunch order and sat it in front of him. "Hi, Kurt." She blushed, then hurried out.

"I think you have an admirer," Cassie said.

"Old school chum." Kurt glanced at Muncie, who was giving the guest of honor his best shuck and jive. Then he turned his attention back to Cassie. "And you're new at the office, right?"

"January first."

Fran Molk, the taller and thinner of the two older women, addressed Kurt. "I hear you've sold your mother's house, David."

Kurt nodded. "To a nice family." No one had called him by his first name since grade school. "From Lincoln."

Fran and her colleague, Blanche Bleeker, short and plump, managed tight smiles.

"You didn't want to move back here?" Blanche said.

"I'm really happy in Chicago, Mrs. Bleeker."

Fran Molk casually checked her fingernails. "Some people enjoy the anonymity of the big city."

Kurt turned to Cassie. "Where are you from?"

"I graduated from Lincoln High. Went to the U for a couple of years, then moved to Omaha and went to work."

"You're with the clerical staff?"

"Word processing, spread sheets, bookkeeping." She waved a finger, giggled nervously. "Not accounting."

"We're very happy with Cassie," Blanche said tersely, then looked at Kurt. "You're working for the City of Chicago?"

"The Cook County State's Attorney's Office," Kurt said.

"Still no Mrs. McBride?" Fran Molk smirked.

Kurt heaved a phony sigh. "I've been in lots of weddings, but none of 'em were mine. Alas."

Cassie chuckled. "You're a lawyer?"

"Guilty."

"Rock Bluff your hometown?"

"Guilty again."

Fran looked at Cassie. "David graduated a year after my son Carl." She tossed a peevish glance at Kurt. "Carl played football at Iowa State... even after he was injured. He still can't hear out of his right ear." She turned to Kurt. "He was thirty-one just last week. Married. Two beautiful kids." Looking smug, she leaned back in her chair again.

"Did you play sports?" Cassie asked Kurt.

"Only in high school."

"When it was convenient." Fran Molk stood. "Excuse me."

Blanche also rose and the two women marched off toward the ladies' room, tugging their overcoats around their shoulders.

"I thought about going to law school... once." Cassie toyed with her napkin.

"Didn't work out?"

She shook her head. "Maybe someday."

"Your husband work for the U.P. too?"

She smiled. "No husband."

"Really?"

"I live with my sister and our baby girl," Cassie said.

"Oh." Kurt grinned. "Good."

"The sister or the baby girl?"

"All three of you."

She pulled the napkin out of her lap, fumbled with it. "You graduated from Nebraska?"

Kurt nodded. "Then Creighton Law two years later. Spent three years with the D.A. in Milwaukee and now I'm in Chicago."

"Exciting?"

Kurt nodded. "Can be. But it's mostly writing briefs and researching precedents."

"I thought prosecutors had to do a lot of investigation. You know, like on TV?"

He chuckled. "The cops do most of that. I'm just their spokesman when all the facts are in."

Cassie nodded toward Coach Ceece as he lined up a shot at the bumper pool table. "You and the coach are good friends?"

"Kurt looked around at his mentor and friend. "I still get through the tough times on what I learned from him." He looked back to Cassie. Smiled. "I bet you were a cheerleader in high school, huh?"

Cassie laughed. "Does it show?"

"Looks and personality always show."

"Well, aren't you kind? So I guess the act is working, huh?"

As Kurt chuckled, a familiar sound arose in the distance.

The others heard it too. They all froze, turning their attention to the unwelcome noise.

Guest of honor Steinkuhler was the first to speak. "Is that a siren?"

The scream grew louder.

Big Dale Muncie finally coughed up a scoff. "Ah, probably just those guys we heard going out now coming back for lunch." He looked at Steinkuhler. "Your shot, Rich. Make it and we win."

The entrance door opened and in popped Fran Molk and Blanche Bleeker, back from the ladies' room.

"There's a police car turning into the parking lot outside!" screeched Fran.

"What's going on?" Blanche demanded.

The pool players all straightened up and put their cues aside.

Ceece Maxwell headed for the door. "Everybody relax. I'll go see what's up."

The siren groaned into silence.

Cassie leaned closer to Kurt. "This morning at work I heard some women talking about a fire last night and some other trouble... some animals killed?"

Dale Muncie was standing out of Steinkuhler's sight line drawing one finger across his throat and mouthing, "Cut, cut, cut."

Kurt looked at Cassie with a carefree smile. "It's the middle of February. Everybody's got cabin fever. Kids always think up some mischief this time of year just to survive the boredom."

"No need to worry," Muncie added. "We've got a fully staffed and trained city police force and the country sheriff's department is located here. Nobody's gonna get hurt."

The outer room, thus far subdued, started to rumble. Conversations grew into a dull roar punctuated with shouts and yelling. The din moved closer to the entrance of the private room' until the double doors burst open and Ceece and a uniformed law officer struggled out of the mass of bodies into the room.

The coach turned to face the crowd.

"What's going on Ceece?" someone asked.

"Let Dar tell us," said others.

"Let me get him calmed down first, okay?" He pushed a few bodies back and closed the doors into a sea of angry, fearful faces. Then he turned, took the cop's arm and led him to a seat at the table. "Come over here and sit down and take a few deep breaths; then start at the top."

Kurt ushered the other members of Muncie's lunch party off to one side of the room and stayed with them.

The lanky, middle-aged man with wire-rim glasses was Rock Bluff's Chief of Police, Dar Hanika. One of his coat sleeves was stained with dark fluid. His cheek was smeared with what was probably the same substance: blood. His face was ashen as he struggled to get his breath. He inhaled deeply, then fell into a coughing spell.

Ceece handed him his handkerchief.

Finally the chief straightened himself up in the chair and found the coach's eyes. "We found Terry Willet, Ceece. It's bad. _Real_ bad."

""Ceece dropped to one knee "What happened?"

"Up on Pierman's Peak. He was torn to pieces."

Ceece glanced at the doors to make sure they were closed tightly, then looked at Kurt. "Brace those with something."

Kurt turned to Cassie. "Nice to meet you. I hope to see you again, but for now, excuse me." He got up and jammed a chair under the door knobs.

Ceece turned back to Dar. "You're sure it was Tim Willet?"

Hanika nodded. "I never seen anything like it". "Arms broke like dead sticks, head a bloody pulp. And the girl was worse."

"Girl?" Ceece leaned closer to the chief. "Who?"

The chief shook his head. "We can't tell. Her face was gone... clothes all ripped to shreds... both bodies naked." He looked Ceece directly in the eye. "It looked like something _ate_ his cock and balls."

A collective moan came from everyone in the room.

Ceece patted Dar's shoulder. "You're _certain_ it's Terry Willet?"

"Oh, yeah." Hanika unzipped his parka. "He's got that birthmark on his shoulder, y'know?"

Ceece nodded.

"And it was his dad's car," the chief said. "We checked the plate."

"Didn't the girl have a purse?"

The chief shook his head. "Didn't find one. Tim didn't have any ID either."

"You contact his dad or mom?"

The chief sighed and shook his head. "Didn't think of it. I been so"—"

Ceece patted the chief's shoulder again, then turned to Dale Muncie. "You know Carney Willet?"

"We contract with him now and then," Muncie said.

"You feel all right calling him, telling him?"

"That his son's dead? Well—"

"I need to help Dar right now."

Muncie took a deep breath. "Okay."

The coach led Muncie to the double doors and opened them a crack. A throng of curious faces looked back at him. He searched them for a moment, then found Lola, the proprietor'. "Lola, let Dale use the office phone, okay?"

Lola pushed to the front of the onlookers and took Dale by the arm. "Come on, Dale." She shoved two men out of her way. "Step aside, boys. This ain't a crap game."

"What's up, Ceece?" a voice yelled from the midst of the crowd.

"Yeah," others echoed. "What's goin' on?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. Just give me a few minutes." He closed the door and went back to Dar's side. "Larry Roberts there with the ambulance?"

Dar nodded. "Him and Will Tesch and Cal Morantz from the sheriff's office. They're keeping an eye on things. Don't know what else to do."

Kurt stood beside the kneeling coach. "Those bodies will have to go for autopsies. Doc Culligan still the County Coroner?"

"Doc's half-retired," Ceece said. "He's someplace in Texas right now for the winter."

_That_ _lying son of a bitch has been half-retired all his life_ , Kurt thought. "Who's the county attorney?"

"Tom Gering. He's laid up with a broken leg."

"I radioed Darlene to call the state patrol," Chief Hanika said. "Haven't heard nothing yet." He looked up at Ceece. "You go out there with me and wait?"

Ceece nodded. "And we've got a big-city prosecutor to go along and see that we do everything right." He gestured toward Kurt.

Kurt's face turned sour. "I'm a lawyer, Coach, not a detective."

"You know what detectives look for, don't you?"

"Sure, but—"

"He's an outsider, Ceece," Police Chief Hanika whined from his chair.

"He's right." Kurt raised both hands. "It's none of my business."

Hanika stood. "We don't want a man like him stickin' his nose in our affairs."

Ceece glared at the cop. "That's _bullshit_! He's a good man and he's a professional in law enforcement. We can use his training to sort this out."

"Thanks, Ceece," Kurt said. "But I'd rather not get involved."

Ceece took a step toward Kurt and looked him in the eye. "I need your help." He turned to the others in the room. "I'll ask you all to stay in here for a while. Keep the door closed. We don't want those kids' folks hearing about this through the rumor mill."

"How long?" Rich Steinkuhler, the recruit, looked like he might be sick.

"Wait till the crowd thins out." Ceece glanced at his watch. "Most of 'em have to be back at work in a half-hour, so...." He turned back to the chief and Kurt. "Come on." The three men headed for the entryway doors.

With Coach Maxwell in the lead, they eased through the crowd to the main entrance, and Kurt and the coach grabbed their coats off the rack.

Ceece turned to face the muttering assembly again. "We don't need any gawkers on this right now, folks. You'll know something as soon as we do. So just stay here and finish your lunch and go about your business as usual. There's nothing you can do chasing us around."

"Who's gonna protect you from that yella-belly?" It was Aldo Frey.

Chapter Two

As he pulled onto the highway, Hanika radioed the receptionist-dispatcher at the police station. "Any word from the state patrol, Darlene?"

"They called a couple minutes ago. A car and two troopers are supposed to be here in a half-hour, forty-five minutes. Oh, they wanted to know if this was a homicide or what."

"Right now it's a what." Dar signed off.

Ceece turned toward the chief and laid his arm along the top of the front seat. "How'd you find the bodies?"

"Bert Tabor called," the chief said. "He was out chasing a steer that got loose last night."

"I heard somebody lost some livestock last night."

"DeWayne Dowd, Bob Whittle, Holly Marks—they all had critters mutilated by _something_ last night," Dar said. "I haven't had time to get out there and have a look."

Ceece turned to Kurt in the back seat. "Sounds like some kind of animal runnin' loose. Wolf, coyote... maybe some breed of cat."

"A different animal than I've ever seen, that's for sure." The chief kept his eyes on the road.

From the back seat, Kurt asked, "You say Tim and the girl were naked, Dar?"

"Bare as boiled eggs, 'cept for their socks."

"And the clothes were ripped up?"

"In shreds."

"I don't know, Ceece," Kurt said. "Think a predator would do that?"

Ceece looked at Dar. "Any idea who the female is?"

The chief shook his head. "Nobody's been reported missing lately. You know if Willet had a steady gal?"

"Pretty much played the field," Ceece said.

Kurt sat forward. "Could be a girl from another town."

"I told you," Dar said. " _Nobody's_ reported missing... anyplace."

"How about a girl living by herself?" Kurt asked. "A canning factory girl?"

Ceece thought a moment. "They usually double up in those apartments around the park."

"Maybe a roommate's keeping mum, afraid she'll get her pal in trouble," Kurt said.

Dar grabbed his mic again. "Darlene, call the canning factory. See who didn't show up for work today. If there's a young woman not accounted for, let me know. And check with the U.P. office too."

"Ten-four."

The cruiser began the climb up the winding, one-lane path that led to Pierman's Peak, a flat space atop one of the bluffs on the town's western edge. In the daylight hours it provided a panoramic view of the community below, laid out in a valley stretching east to the Missouri River. At night teenagers used the spot for a lovers' lane.

The police car crossed a clay surface that was half the size of a football field. Three vehicles were parked at the other end: the county sheriff's cruiser and city squad car that had passed Kurt earlier; the ambulance, run by Roberts Funeral Home; and a late-model Buick, apparently the victim's, with three of its four doors standing open.

Deputy Sheriff Cal Morantz and Police Officer Will Tesch climbed out the front doors of the county cruiser; mortician and ambulance driver Larry Roberts exited from the rear.

Kurt exchanged terse greetings with the men and everyone ducked into a bone-chilling wind as they approached the splayed sedan.

Blood spatter covered the entire front of the dark-green car, including most of the windshield. Human body parts were strewn beneath the front bumper from tire to tire. Limbs and a faceless head lay torn from a nearby torso, the thoracic cavity open, intestines and organs scattered around like discarded toys. But it had breasts, more or less in place, and female genitalia. It had been a woman, apparently quite young.

"Here." Officer Tesch stood at the left rear of the vehicle, pointing.

The little group inched in his direction until they could all see, whether or not they wanted to, what he was pointing at: a naked male, limbs broken, throat half-gone, face mangled. The dead boy's groin was a mass of raw meat.

Ceece coughed, turned away and pulled his handkerchief from a back pocket. "Jesus Christ!" He blew his nose. "Shit!" He took a deep breath. "He was a damn nice kid."

Kurt edged close to the boy's corpse and knelt.

"What you doing, McBride?" Deputy Morantz blustered. "This is a crime scene!"

"Leave him be," Chief Hanika said. "He's a big-wheel lawyer now. Ceece figures maybe he can help... if he don't get scared."

"Don't know what harm he could do," Tesch grudgingly allowed, thumbs hooked in his Sam Browne belt. "Not now."

Kurt had long since learned to ignore the contempt he always faced when he returned to his hometown. With the exception of Ceece and a few others, none of the yokels was worth worrying about or, as Ceece had pointed out at Lola's, fighting with.

He looked over the wounds on what was left of Tim Willet. No doubt a savage animal, a large one, had done much of the damage. He'd prosecuted a woman in Milwaukee after her Rottweiler had mauled a neighbor, so he'd seen the work of jaws and claws before. But there were other wounds, smooth lacerations that could only have been made by some kind of sharp instrument. And the clothes looked both ripped _and sliced_.

Ceece knelt beside him. "What do you think?"

"I think you need a forensics specialist looking into this as soon as possible." Kurt told Ceece about the tooth marks and knife-like cuts.

"A coyote with a bowie knife?" Ceece turned away from the corpse and spat.

"How could an animal get them out of the car?" Kurt pointed. "The windows are rolled up, none are broken, the windshield's intact, and the doors haven't been forced open." He shrugged. "Think they were screwing in the moonlight on frozen dirt?"

"Don't be tellin' anybody about some half-wolf, half-man, for Christ's sake. They'll have curse stories all over the countryside before dark. People'll be hidin' in their cellars again."

Kurt looked at Ceece. "Might not be a bad idea." He stood and went to the female's remains.

As an electronic voice sounded from inside the sheriff's squad car, Deputy Morantz turned from the others. "That's my radio. Now what?" He trotted toward the county cruiser.

"You don't believe in that curse crap, do you?" Ceece whispered as he tagged along beside Kurt.

"Oh hell no. But this isn't the work of a renegade coyote just wandering through." He dropped to one knee. "Whatever or whoever is behind these killings will be looking for more." Spotting something around the girl's crotch, he pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and lifted a dab of white substance with it. "Looks like semen."

Ceece looked away. "You do what they were doing, you get semen."

Kurt looked closely at the fluid. "Hope the pathologist checks that DNA to see if it's Willet's. Might belong to some pervert in the system." He rubbed the sample back onto the victim's thigh.

Ceece leaned closer. "You think maybe the killer—"

Kurt shrugged, stood, and looked around, dusting off his hands.

Ceece spat again. "Goddamn mess!" He looked at Kurt. "You figure out who did this, get 'em off the street, and you'll never hear anybody in this town call you a yella-belly again."

"Yeah." Kurt glanced poignantly at his old coach, then scoffed. "As if I give a shit." He waved at the crime scene. "The state troopers will want their crime scene crew to scour the whole area, so you'd better have Dar rope it off. Don't move anything till they get here."

Ceece scribbled something in the little notepad he carried.

"And I think you'd better have him issue a warning about some wild animal on the loose," Kurt said. "Tell people to stay inside if at all possible till further notice. And try to do it without scaring the holy shit out of 'em,""

"Dar will know enough to do that."

Kurt looked Ceece in the eye. "Think so?" He jerked his thumb toward Chief Hanika. "He's about like tits on a boar, as far I'm concerned."

"A cop in a town of six thousand issues traffic tickets and throws drunks in jail. You know that. Running into a maniac killer's gonna be like space travel till he gets his bearings."

"I wouldn't want my safety in his hands," Kurt said. "Back at Lola's, I thought he was gonna cry."

Ceece's glare bored into Kurt, but he spoke softly. "Don't be disrespectful of these people. They paid for the schools that made you a lawyer."

"And they exacted a price for it, as I recall."

"A lot of 'em are ignorant, including the chief of police. But they're your people, Kurt, and you're one of them."

"No, Ceece," he scoffed. "I work very hard at _not_ being one of them."

"Dar!" yelled the deputy sheriff through the open window of his cruiser. "There's been another one. I just talked to the sheriff over at Bob Tillson's farm. He wants me over there. Says there's blood all over the barn." He stepped into his squad car.

"Ah, shit!" Chief Hanika spun and looked at Ceece. "It's the goddamn curse, Ceece. I knew it wasn't over! I _knew_ it!"

## 

## Chapter Three

While Ceece and the others crawled into Dar's warm squad car to wait for the state troopers, Kurt hailed down Deputy Cal Morantz before he pulled away in his cruiser. "Going past Lola's?" he yelled.

Morantz lowered his front window. "Say what?"

"Are you going past Lola's Happy Corner?"

"Only way to Tillsons' farm."

"Drop me off?"

Morantz waved Kurt to his car.

They were halfway to Lola's before either spoke again.

"When I was a kid you was my idol," Cal said. "You know that?"

"You were pretty young when I was in school."

"Fourth grade... fifth. I was pretty stupid too. Didn't know the score."

Kurt's eyes narrowed. "And now you're all grown up and makin' what, five hundred bucks a week?"

Cal set his jaw and tightened his grip on the wheel. "Sheriff Wylie's retiring after his next term. I'll be right in line for the job."

Kurt worked his neck muscles, grimacing as he pulled taught tendons.

"You don't think I could get elected sheriff?" Cal's voice cracked.

"I don't know anything about you. I'm thirty years old. You're twenty-three, twenty-four?"

"Twenty-four."

"I was long gone by the time you were out of school." Kurt noticed the young man's pout. _What the hell_? _He's just a kid_. "I do know this," he said cordially. "Wylie O'Shea wouldn't hire just anybody for his deputy."

Cal sat a little straighter. After a moment he asked, "You ever see anything like those bodies back there?"

Kurt told him about the woman with the Rottweiler in Milwaukee.

"What I seen didn't look like no dog done it," Cal said. "Even two dogs." He looked over at Kurt. "You wanna go on out to Tillson's with me? Get a look-see? Sheriff might like your opinion."

"I'm a lawyer, Cal. You boys don't need me poking around."

"I got a feeling we're gonna need all the help we can get on this one."

Kurt pointed to Lola's parking lot. "Just drop me there by the pole."

Cal pulled up under the bar and grill's road sign and Kurt hopped out onto the snow-packed driveway.

"Thanks for your help, McBride. This is gonna be a bitch." The deputy waggled a hand at Kurt and sped south for the Tillson place.

_Your town, your problem,_ Kurt thought. Still, he had to wonder what the deputy would find at that farm. _The same thing we just saw at the Peak? Who or what could kill like that_? _And how many more will there be_? A gust of wind caught him squarely in the face. _Jesus!_ He jerked his coat collar up around his jaws and sprinted to the door.

In the forty-five minutes since he'd left with Ceece, the lunch crowd had thinned to a few stragglers. He walked to the bar and spoke to Lola, working at the cash register. "Ceece and I rushed off before we could pay our bill. I had a BLT and a Bud. Looked like the coach had a burger and coffee."

Lola slammed the register drawer closed, picked up a canvas bag and strolled toward Kurt. "Coach's money's no good in here. Yours is four-fifty."

Kurt laid a five dollar bill on the bar.

"You're McBride, 'ain't'ya?"

"Yep."

"Member you from high school, playin' sports." She pocketed the five. "You never came in here much."

"I moved away pretty young."

"Still a handsome boy, I'll give you that." She turned and walked off toward the back rooms.

Kurt looked around the place. As a teenager, he'd lunched there a few times, on those rare occasions when he or one of his buddies had access to a car. Like all the other males raised in Rock Bluff, he'd lusted for his twenty-first birthday and the right to stroll into Lola's at night for a few drinks with the boys, but for him it never worked out. When he turned twenty-one he was mired in life at the University in Lincoln. Even if he'd been living at home he probably wouldn't have had the nerve to show himself in the town's storied watering hole. Not after what had happened.

The doors to the banquet room opened quietly and Dale Muncie peeked out. "All clear," he said over his shoulder to the others. He strolled into the main room, followed by his party from the Union Pacific office.

Kurt spotted the accountant that Muncie was recruiting. Ashen-faced Rich Steinkuhler of Des Moines obviously wouldn't be moving to Rock Bluff anytime soon. Somebody in that back room had probably trotted out stories of the curse.

Cassie Dodd stepped away from the group toward Kurt. "Was it as bad as the chief said?" Her lunch companions stopped, waiting.

Kurt looked around. The few other remaining patrons scattered in booths or at distant tables seemed uninterested. He spoke quietly to the group. "Maybe worse."

Kurt motioned his listeners to gather around him. "Some kind of attack... wolf, coyote maybe."

A little gasp came from Fran Molk. "That's just what I was afraid of!"

"The curse!" Harry Barnhart whispered. "I knew it wasn't over!"

"It'll help if you don't say anything until Chief Hanika makes an official statement," Kurt said. "Maybe he'll have something more specific by tonight."

"Any idea who the girl is?" Dale Muncie asked with feigned authority.

"They're looking for names of people who didn't report for work today."

"We had one," Blanche Bleeker said. "Marcie Swift. She didn't call or anything. And she's been talking about some high school boy."

"You should get that information to the police as soon as you can," Kurt said.

Blanche hurried toward the pay phone by the door. "I told her she'd get in trouble with a boy that age."

Kurt motioned the others closer still. "You need to know something else." He could almost hear the foreheads around him wrinkling into frowns. "They found other bodies."

"Other bodies?" Harry Barnhart's eyes bulged.

"Down at Tillson's farm," Kurt said. "I don't know how many. Sounds like the same situation."

"It _is_ the curse!" Fran Molk blurted.

"I've got to get home," Rich Steinkuhler told Muncie, apparently convinced that even Des Moines wasn't nearly far enough away. "I can phone you about the job on Monday."

"You haven't seen the shop areas yet, and—"

"I have to leave, Mr. Muncie! Now!"

"Sure, Rich." Muncie sighed and ushered his group toward the door. "I'll take you to your car right after we drop the others at the office." He slipped into his camelhair topcoat.

"My car's parked at the motel," Steinkuhler said. "Just up the road from here. I don't want to go all the way to your office and back."

"The women have to get back to work. So does Harry."

Steinkuhler's face reddened. "Isn't there a cab in this town?"

"I can take Harry and the ladies," Kurt said. "I don't have to be any place till later."

"Good." Steinkuhler opened the front door. "Let's go."

Muncie and his ruffled recruit took off for the Big Muddy Motel while Harry Barnhart and the three women piled into Kurt's Ford Taurus.

"I don't think we'll be seeing any more of Mr. Steinkuhler," Blanche said from the rear seat. She and Fran Molk were on either side of Cassie.

Harry Barnhart, two years from retirement, bristled beside Kurt. "If he's that much of a pansy, we don't want him anyway." After an uncomfortable glance at Kurt, he peered out the right side window. "Goddamn curse...."

"That's nonsense, Harry." Kurt pulled onto the highway and headed for downtown. "The curse is a fairy tale."

Fran Molk leaned forward from the back seat. "You can say that after what's happened around here over the last forty years? All the bad luck, money lost?"

Blanche turned to Cassie. "Thirty-eight major fires, nearly one for every year since it started. Dozens of farm animals mutilated, fifteen people dead or gone without a trace."

"And that's just the ones they _know_ about," Fran added.

Kurt said, "All they _know_ is that every fire was intentionally set by a person or persons unknown."

Fran sat back. "They never found a fingerprint, a footprint, anything."

"Yeah," Kurt scoffed. "The arsonist was good. Does that make him somebody's ghost?"

"Not just somebody's," Harry Barnhart murmured. "Arthur's and Alfa's."

"I was told this curse ended a few years ago," Cassie said quietly.

Blanche grunted. "We thought it had. We _prayed_ it had."

"There hasn't been an incident for more than eight years," Fran said. "Or hadn't been. Until now."

"Maybe they'll find an explanation this time." Cassie's smile at her companions was unrequited.

Fran crossed her arms over her chest.

Blanche looked out her window.

Cassie cleared her throat. "It went on for forty years?"

Kurt turned slightly while keeping his eyes on the road. "It started in the sixties and was still a hot topic when I went off to college."

Harry Barnhart squirmed in his seat. "Let's not talk about it anymore."

"I was just gonna give her the facts," Kurt said. "She can decide for herself if it makes sense."

"Tell her in private, please. I've heard it enough."

Kurt found Cassie's face in the rear view mirror and smiled at her. _I'd love to talk with Ms. Dodd in private_ , he thought. _Like at dinner tonight?_

Cassie looked away without returning the smile.

Fran Molk checked her graying hair in a compact mirror. "Maybe it's not the curse at all. Think about those illegals working down at the canning factory now. They've got dogs, big ones."

"And God knows they hate white people," Blanche Bleeker added. "Won't even speak our language."

Fran snapped her compact closed. "It could be some kind of terrorist plot to drive us out of our own homes."

"Let's hope that's the case," Harry Barnhart said quietly.

Kurt eyed Harry. "You'd rather fight terrorists than the curse?"

"You can _see_ terrorists. Shoot 'em down like rats."

"Rats don't shoot back."

Barnhart bristled. "And you can outlaw 'em. Pete Nolan pitched a new statute to the city council last week. It bans Arabs and Mexicans from Rock Bluff after sundown."

Kurt again looked at his passenger in disbelief. "Ever hear of the Constitution?"

"Pete says we can get it in under the Patriot Act."

"That's bullshit, Harry." Kurt turned to the women in the back seat. "Pardon my French."

"Aren't you against the terrorists, David?" Blanche asked with a sour face.

"Sure, but I'm also against lumping all dark-skinned people into one pile and then setting it on fire."

"If they're not terrorists, they don't have anything to worry about," Fran said.

"So long as they get out of town while the sun is up." Kurt shook his head. "Racial profiling is pretty nasty business."

"Saves lives," Barnhart said.

"I know a family in Milwaukee who would disagree." Kurt turned slightly so all the passengers could hear him. "A Latino friend of mine in Milwaukee was painting his living room one day and ran out to pick up his wife from work. He had on grubby, paint-stained clothes and he forgot to grab his wallet. On the way home a cop pulled him over, asked what he was doing in that neighborhood. My friend said he lived just two blocks up the street, but didn't have a driver's license to prove it. The cop pulled him out of the car, clubbed him, hauled him off to jail and threw him in the tank with all the deadbeats. Before the night was over, some crack-head beat him to death."

Kurt let the story sink in a moment. "His name was Ramon. His family came from Puerto Rico fifty years ago. Like the rest of his family, he was a proud U.S. citizen, something the cop would have found out if he'd gotten past Ramon's looks." He eyeballed Harry Barnhart. "Tell Ramon's family racial profiling saves lives."

"I don't know how that police officer could live with himself after that," said Cassie.

Kurt steered the car to a stop in front of the Union Pacific Railroad branch office.

Before anyone could open a door, Blanche Bleeker said, "All I know is that illegals are running wild in the streets in this country and it'd be just like the Coogans to bring them here to kill us in our beds."

Everyone, including Kurt, got out without another word. Cassie was the last.

Kurt was waiting, wearing his best smile. "You really want to know more about the curse?" He glanced around to be sure the others were beyond earshot. "I could tell you all about it over dinner."

Cassie peeked around Kurt at her companions, hunched against the cold on their way to the front door. "I'd have to ask my sister. She might have plans."

"Your sister?"

"One of us has to take care of Lizzie."

"Your sister's baby."

" _Our_ baby." She gritted her teeth against the frigid air.

"I could call you about six."

Cassie rattled off the seven-digit number, then rushed up the sidewalk.

Kurt slid behind the wheel and slammed the door. His teeth were nearly chattering. _She probably wants to talk it over with Blanche and Fran; that sure as hell won't help. Ought to forget the whole thing_. But his few friends in Rock Bluff were probably busy and he hated eating alone. _What was that phone number?_ He jotted it on an envelope in the console.

Chapter Four

Kurt drove south toward the Big Muddy Motel, his headquarters through Sunday night. He glanced at the clock: about two-forty. There was ample time to check in and freshen up. His meeting with the old friend who was handling his parents' estate was set for 4:30 p.m.

The new owners of the house where he'd grown up were scheduled to formally take possession the next day, Saturday. On Sunday he'd present St. Paul's Episcopal Church, on behalf of his late father and mother, with a new set of prayer books and a generous stipend for upkeep of the building and grounds. With that, his business— _all_ of his business— would be finished in Rock Bluff.

Of course he might stop by from time to time if it was convenient. Visit the family gravesite. Make sure it was getting the perpetual care he'd paid for. Relive some memories of the good old days and the extraordinary man and woman who had given him life and nurtured him to adulthood.

Something painful squeezed up through his esophagus, then slipped down again into the pit of his stomach. He felt queasy. Thoughts of his mom and dad had slipped up on him and left him weak. _God, I loved them both so much!_ He felt his eyes burning. _They were the bravest people I ever knew_. But he _didn't_ know them—that was the problem—not until it was too late.

He remembered the story. Their first child, a boy, was deformed and died after a year and a half of agony. The doctors had told Marty and Estelle McBride they should never again take a chance on having a child. They had worried when Estelle had accidentally gotten pregnant, but knew in their hearts that God wanted them to have the baby.

Kurt was the baby. He was a big, healthy boy, unquestionable proof of God's intentions. And his mom and dad had literally built their lives around him. His happiness was their happiness, his sadness, their sadness, his needs, their needs. He'd thought all parents were like that until it was too late to thank them.

He'd made them proud. He was a good student, an outstanding athlete, popular, ambitious, and a hard worker: all the virtues of a well-bred, well-raised child. When his disgrace came, they said it was nothing to worry about, that it was not his fault, nothing he could control. He believed them, naturally, but at their respective funerals he wondered whether maybe they'd told just him what he'd wanted to hear. Maybe they were both deeply ashamed of their son.

His dad, Marty, had died of a sudden, massive coronary over a year ago. Then, just before last Christmas, Estelle had slipped in the bathtub and the fall had killed her. Both were quick and relatively painless deaths, the kind even brave people pray for, but they were too soon. He'd needed more time to acknowledge their greatness, shower them with love and admiration, pay them back for all the pleasures they'd foregone in deference to him. He'd wanted them to bask in the glory they deserved.

Kurt struggled to swallow as tears slid down his cheeks. He wanted to stop the car and bawl like a baby. He straightened up, cleared his throat, and looked for the Big Muddy Motel sign up ahead.

His parents' only mistake, he told himself, was settling in a hick town like Rock Bluff, a town full of fools, drunks and bible thumpers with less brainpower than a tree full of starlings. _Knee-jerk idiots and hicks, all of them. Well, not all. Ceece and Vic Rathe, and Bernie Tomchek and his wife, Cicely... some others._ But most of the smart ones had moved away, just as he had.

He pulled into the motel driveway and stopped near the main office. He'd get checked in, take care of his business, then call this Cassandra Dodd to see whether she wanted to go out with him. More than likely she was just another country hick looking for a husband. A guy his age, with his reputation didn't have a chance. _Who cares?_ he thought. _It doesn't really matter anyway_.

"Oh. You have a message, Mr. McBride," the woman behind the motel counter said a few minutes later. "From Sheriff O'Shea."

"Leave a number?"

She handed him a note. "I think that's a cell phone. Lots of static."

He looked at the note. _Yeah..._ _the Tillson farm_.

A few moments later he parked his dark blue Taurus in front of his room and schlepped his suitcase and satchel inside. The first order of business was hanging up his pants and shirts. He hated wrinkles and insisted on creased trousers. Just as he finished his chore, the phone beside the bed rang. "McBride."

"Wylie O'Shea, McBride. You get my message?"

"I was about to jump in the shower, Sheriff."

"I'm over at Bob Tillson's place. Cal Morantz says you're helping Dar with that mess up on Pierman's Peak."

"I looked around, that's about all," Kurt said.

"How 'bout you come out here and do the same? I need somebody with experience in this stuff."

"Another killing?"

"Three." The sheriff hesitated. "Like you found at the Peak, from what Cal says."

Kurt looked at his watch. "I have a meeting with Vic Rathe at four-thirty."

"We're only a couple miles south of town. Won't take you an hour to stop by, includin' travel time."

"Have you sent for the state patrol forensics people in Lincoln?"

"They won't get over here till they're done at the Peak. I got plans to make before nightfall."

"Your victims inside?"

"In the barn," the sheriff said.

"Just seal the place up and leave Cal on watch till the troopers get there."

"I got a woman here who wants to know what happened to her husband and two sons."

Kurt sat down on the bed. "Maggie?" She'd been his childhood baby sitter a few times.

"She found 'em over the noon hour. When they didn't come in at twelve, she went lookin'."

"How is she?"

"Numb. When you get here you'll see why."

Kurt sighed. "I know where the place is. I used to hunt in their timber."

After dressing in clean jeans and a turtleneck sweater, he drove to the Tillson farm, wondering whether Maggie Tillson had heard or seen anything of the attacker. _An animal capable of the kind of damage I saw at Pierman's Peak would have to be big and make some hellish noise. Maybe she has some idea what we're up against._

"She heard the guys yelling about somethin', but thought nothin' of it. They was always at each other. Other than that there was nothing unusual. Said even the chickens was quiet." White-haired, paunchy, veteran Sheriff Wylie O'Shea waddled along beside Kurt as they came to the barn door and stopped. "I guess you've seen gruesome before." He held the door open.

Kurt kept his eyes on the frozen earth as he slid past O'Shea and into the barn. When he looked up, it was dark, and it grew darker still when the sheriff let the door close behind them. Small wings flapped somewhere above the hayloft. A hoof stomped on hard clay to his right; there was a snort. He unconsciously steeled himself for stench, but icy air was the only smell.

Then the sheriff found the light switch.

In the yellow glow of a single hundred-watt bulb, three faces looked back at Kurt, all from severed heads. One was mounted on the handle of a pitchfork leaning against a stall. Another was wedged into the hayloft ladder. A third dangled from the end of a rope tied from a rafter. The eyes were open, looking nowhere, the mouths twisted. On the floor, human flesh, limbs, and organs lay scattered about in frozen straw.

Kurt realized he was clenching his fists along with the rest of his body and tried to relax. He turned to find Wylie O'Shea staring at him. The sheriff shrugged, then looked off into the dark part of the barn.

Kurt crept to the head on the rope. After a moment he made out the visage of Bob Tillson, age sixty, a farmer. The rope had been nailed to the top of his skull. _After_ _he was dead?_ Kurt hoped so. He looked at the sheriff. "Now we know our killer is human."

"Not by my measure."

"It took human hands to mount the heads." Kurt pointed. "And Bob's was _cut_ off, not torn." He leaned closer to the severed skull. "A knife, I'd guess, and pretty sharp."

"Whatever it was didn't have no human soul," Wylie said quietly. "And there's teeth marks ever' place... claw marks too. Big ones. That ain't human."

Kurt visited the other two skulls, then returned to the sheriff's side. "They've been dead a while. Maybe eight hours or so."

"Thing probably got in here when it was dark," Wylie said. "It was prob'ly waitin' when they come to work this morning."

"And turned invisible when it was finished?"

The sheriff pointed. "You know there's thick woods not twenty feet from that back door." ""

Kurt chewed on his lip. "And she didn't hear anything, right?" He shook his head, sighed, and finally turned to the sheriff. "We need to keep everything just like it is for the forensics guys. They'll want to photograph it and tag it. The way this stuff is spread around might say something about the killer."

"They'll take it all back to the lab in Lincoln, I guess. Sort it out there which parts go with who."

"Not that it matters much," Kurt said. "Same woman's burying all three."

Wylie looked at Kurt. "What you found up at the Peak look anything like this?"

"The heads weren't stuck up any place."

"Same killer, you figure?"

"Looks like it to me, Wylie."

The sheriff scrunched his chin and surveyed the scene again. "I never seen a killing like this." He shook his head. "God only knows what could've done it."

"Can you seal off the barn?"

"Enough to keep varmints out." He headed for the light switch. "Get the door open so we can see where it is."

The two pulled their jackets tight over slumped shoulders as they stepped into the cold afternoon and started back toward the house a hundred yards away.

"Good thing you've got the stones for this kind of work," Wylie shouted over the wind. "Most folks lose their lunch getting' that close to mangled humans."

"Lucky I didn't get much lunch today."

The sheriff chuckled. "I always did think you were a pretty tough kid."

Kurt glanced at him skeptically. "You're part of a pretty small club."

"Folks always want to think the worst, I guess. You know they're gonna say all this killin' is because of the curse."

"The curse is bullshit."

"No man I ever seen has teeth like that... and claws."

"No ghosts do either." Kurt glanced at Wylie, particularly his bare head. "You ought'a get yourself one of those trooper hats like your deputies wear. 'You don't have enough hair left to go commando in this weather."

"Them damn Stetsons? Cal and Jimmy wanted 'em. And sunglasses. Not for me. I don't want to run around lookin' like the Lone Ranger."

Kurt smiled. "Not much chance of that."

Wiley chuckled softly. "Still a smart ass, huh?"

A blue Honda Accord had pulled into the yard and stopped near the front walk.

Father Claude Cassidy stepped out, tugging the collar of his topcoat close to his chin. "Cal called," he shouted as Kurt and Wylie approached. "Said there's something wrong with Maggie."

"She's in the house, Father," Wylie said.

"What's going on?"

"Let's all get in your nice warm car."

Kurt stopped. "I've got to get back to town, Sheriff. I've got that meeting with Vic Rathe. There's nothing more I can do here, anyway."

"You gonna be at the Big Muddy in case the state patrol boys ask?"

Kurt nodded. "But I can't tell 'em anything they won't hear from you."

"Maybe they'll just want to talk to an expert from Chicago," Wylie said with a wink. "How 'bout a cell phone?"

Kurt waited for Wylie to pull out a pen and paper, then gave him the number.

Wylie looked up with a frown. "That's long distance."

"Price of doing business with a guy from Chicago, I guess." Kurt patted the sheriff's shoulder, then sprinted for his car.

Father Cassidy looked perplexed. "What's this about the state patrol?"

The sheriff opened the Honda's right front door. "You won't believe it."

Chapter Five

As he drove away, Kurt tuned to an oldies radio station in Omaha, but soon found himself in no mood for boy-girl songs. The scenes at Pierman's Peak and Tillson's farm didn't play well with Perry Como or Tony Bennett. Neither did the probability that he was going to be spending the evening alone. _What's Cassie's number?_ He found the envelope he'd used for a note pad and glanced at the digits on the back. _I'll give her a buzz. Why not? All she can do is call me names and tell me to go to hell_.

He got a hot shower and changed into another set of clean clothes, as if the others were stained by the ugliness he'd seen. Just as he was working out what he'd say to the woman he hoped to dine with that night, the phone rang.

_Shit! Wiley again?_ "McBride."

"Hi. This is Cassie Dodd."

Kurt sat down on the bed and smiled. "Hi."

"My sister can take care of Lizzie tonight if you still want to have dinner."

"Sure I still want to."

"She called me here at work about something else, so I asked her."

"Pick you up about six-thirty?" Kurt gathered his writing materials.

"Fine."

"And you live at?"

"Five-thirty-eight Avenue D, apartment two. That's just to the left as you come in the main door."

Cassie's call gave Kurt the refreshment he'd sought in the shower and change of clothes. The scenes of the day softened in his mind's eye and he looked forward to taking care of his business and enjoying the evening. Cassie had sounded pretty eager on the phone. Maybe there was a fire burning behind those innocent blue eyes. It would be fun finding out how hot it was.

"Wow!" Vic Rathe said. "Five murders? You don't have five murders in one day in Chicago!"

"We also don't have The Curse in Chicago." Kurt took a sip of coffee. He and Rathe, fast friends since childhood, were sitting in Rathe's law office to conclude the final disposition of Estelle McBride's will.

The proceeds Kurt had inherited from his parent's estate totaled $147,000 including the imminent sale of their home. He'd spent $2500 on new prayer books for St. Paul's and planned to donate another $10,000 to the church on Sunday for general maintenance and remodeling. He'd put the balance into savings for his own children's education. _If I ever have any children._ But all the mundane paperwork would have to wait. Rock Bluff's sudden crime wave was the topic of the moment.

"Scary," Rathe said.

"You and Jen might want to take a winter vacation someplace."

"Maybe the killer was just passing through." Vic drummed his fingers on the desk.

"Hard for you to believe one of the good citizens turned maniac overnight?"

"No citizen in this town could do what you described." Rathe bit a fingernail. "You think it's even safe to go out at night?"

"Night? The Tillson's were killed between 7:00 a.m. and noon." Kurt sat back and crossed his legs. "And there were three of them. Bob was a big strong man and his boys weren't far behind. Personally, I'm not going anywhere in this town— _any_ time—without a loaded gun."

"You got one now?"

Kurt patted the pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. "Department issue thirty-eight."

Vic picked up his phone, punched a pre-programmed number, and waited. "Hi, Hon. I just wanted to be sure you're okay. I've got some pretty ugly news." He gave his wife, Jen, a brief recap of what Kurt had told him. "Just lock all the doors and stay inside. My twelve-gauge is in the hall closet." After he hung up, he wiped a hand across his face. "Well, let's get these papers signed so I can get home."

"Will this take care of the closing too?"

Rathe shook his head. "We have to do all of that tomorrow with the buyers and their lawyer present." He looked at his old pal and smiled. "Don't worry. I'll get you out of here first thing Monday morning."

Kurt grinned. "I'll take that as a solemn promise."

Driving back to the Big Muddy Motel, Kurt wondered about his date that night. Maybe he should call it off, stay in the motel and watch TV. Maybe everybody in town should spend their Friday night like that, even those going to the basketball game. He turned right, heading for the high school.

"I don't know what to do," Ceece told Kurt as they sat in the coach's office, his usual station on a late game-day afternoon. "If we cancel or postpone, that screws up the conference standings, and it's too late for make-ups. We're only three weeks from district tournaments. But if we play and some citizen gets butchered"—" He raised his hands helplessly. "Then again, it might be good to give people something else to think about. Everybody holed up, gabbing about the curse, getting each other all worked up—that could turn pretty ugly." Ceece tilted back in his desk chair with a sigh.

"Christ, don't you have a mayor in this town to make decisions like this?" Kurt wandered to a row of team photos strung across the back wall.

"Ben Ingersoll," said Ceece. "He left it up to me."

Kurt scoffed. "Old Ben's probably barricaded in his basement." He focused on the last picture; checked out the players' names imprinted over their respective images. Tim Willet was kneeling in the front row. _Nice looking kid. Real shame_.

"Mayor's a volunteer job in this town," Ceece said. "As they say, you get what you pay for."

Kurt turned from the pictures and straddled a chair. "State patrol boys staying around town?"

Ceece nodded. "They sent for another car after we heard from Wylie O'Shea. They'll probably send for five or six more when they get a load of what's in Tillsons' barn."

Kurt glanced at his watch, heaved a sigh. "You've got less than an hour to decide whether to play or not."

"What would you do?"

"Like I said this afternoon, Coach, this is none of my business." He started to get up.

"There _is_ one more thing you could do," Ceece said.

"Oh-oh." Kurt sat again.

"Harlan Bergman's been missing since Sunday night. Some of the boys were talking about it at coffee yesterday morning."

Kurt frowned. "I thought he left town after Wylie fired him."

"He moved back about a year later. Does private detective work around the county, works in his brother's feed store between clients. He was a pretty good cop."

"If you don't mind a guy who trades speeding tickets for poontang."

"I called his wife a half-hour ago. Still hasn't seen hide nor hair since he left. That's five days gone."

"Cops looking for him?"

Ceece waved a hand. "They figure he's holed up with a chippy someplace and he'll come home when his peter gets sore enough."

Kurt shrugged. "Pretty good theory."

"But I've been thinking... he disappeared just like Tim Willet did, and around the same time." He shook his head. "Probably just a coincidence, but—"

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Go talk to Sally Bergman."

"Aw, Ceece."

"Just see if there's been anything unusual going on with Harlan... maybe somebody might have a grudge, maybe he knew one or more of today's victims... that sort of thing."

"Why don't you ask her yourself?"

"I don't know how to. What do I say? And even if I knew what to ask, I still wouldn't know what answers to look for. I'm a schoolteacher. You make your living asking questions."

"I don't have a whole lot of time, Coach. I've got the closing, the church—"

"It'll take maybe an hour, and it might make a big difference in figuring out all this killing."

Kurt shook his head. _Highly unlikely_ , he thought. _But how can I turn Coach Ceece down?_ "I'll see what I can do. No promises."

As he walked to his car images from the day's carnage drifted into his thoughts again. He had no idea who or what was behind the savagery, but he knew there was a perfectly logical explanation and the state patrol experts would uncover it sooner or later. And it wouldn't have anything to do with Harlan Bergman or communists. _Or the Coogan Curse...._

Chapter Six

Cassie Dodd lived in a new six-unit apartment house four blocks south of Lincoln Avenue, the town's main thoroughfare. Kurt rapped on her door at 6:25 p.m.

"You're a prompt one." She gestured for him to step in. "Come say hello to Kate and Lizzie."

Kurt slipped past her into the living room where a dark-haired woman resembling Cassie stood waiting with a smile. A toddler sat by her feet on the floor.

"Hi, Kurt," the woman said. "I'm Cassie's older sister."

"Nice to meet you... Kate?"

"Right." She looked down. "And this is Elizabeth—Lizzie—our pride and joy."

Kurt knelt close to Lizzie as she reached out to him. "Well, hello to you too, Lizzie." He shook her hand, chuckled, then patted the little girl's head and looked at Kate. "She looks like you."

"I should hope so," Kate said with a laugh. "I'm her momma's sister."

Kurt's face stiffened a moment, but he managed to sustain his smile. "I guess it's only natural." His laugh was shaky.

"Actually," Kate said as she bent and picked the child up. "She looks more like our dad than anybody else."

"I bet he's a proud grandpa," Kurt babbled.

Cassie grabbed her coat off the end of the couch. "I'm ready when you are... unless you've changed your mind."

Kurt glanced back and forth between the two sisters, both pretty, both waiting for the results of their little character test. "Why would I change my mind?"

Kate's smile was tentative. "Some men don't like to date mothers."

"Soiled goods," Cassie added.

"Makes no difference to me." Kurt shrugged, smiling like a man who fears his fly's open. He took Cassie's coat from her and held it while she slipped into it, then ushered her out the door and down the walk to his car.

"You both work at the U.P. office?" he said as they drove up Lincoln Avenue.

"Kate works at the canning factory. Four till midnight shift, Sunday through Thursday."

"Tough duty."

"Fits our needs. One of us is always free to look after Cassie."

Kurt turned the heater fan on high. "Something happen to your husband?"

"I never had a husband... and I'm not looking for one. Kate and I and Lizzie get along just fine, thank you very much."

"I didn't mean to pry."

Cassie rustled in her seat for a moment. "It's only natural you'd be curious."

"And you've said all you're going to say on the matter?"

Her smile was thin. "We all have little our secrets."

Kurt recalled the smug looks on Fern's and Blanche's faces at the lunch table in Lola's that day. _Have they told Cassie about my "cowardice?"_ _Probably_.

In Kurt's opinion, Nave's Club 74 was the only real restaurant in Rock Bluff. The other eateries were hamburger joints, lunch counters or, like Lola's Happy Corner, part of a tavern. If you liked beer and catfish on Friday nights, and most of the population did, then you went to Nave's. And if the owner was one of the few old buddies you had left in town, you got a comfortable booth in the rear.

Cassie slid smoothly into her side while looking around. "Looks like we got the last two seats."

Kurt stashed their winter coats on a hanger attached to the booth. "You'd never know it by listening."

Cassie closed her eyes a moment. "Sounds like church services. Just before the sermon."

"There's not even any music tonight."

"Well," Cassie said, "that'll make it easier for us to talk." She noticed her place setting. "It's been a long time since I've been in a restaurant with real tablecloths and napkins."

They're real," Kurt said. "And eighty years ago they were new... like everything else." He looked around the gymnasium-sized dining room laid out with tables in the center and booths along three walls. The décor was ancient pine-paneling and red drapes. "Looks like they're doing gold-rush business in beer and booze."

Cassie inhaled deeply. "People are scared. I guess five murders will do that."

A frazzled but attractive young woman approached them. "Something from the bar first?"

Cassie asked, "Could I get a strawberry margarita with sugar?"

The server sniffed. "We've got whiskey and mix. Like, you know, tequila and seven?"

They settled for large draughts of Miller Lite and ordered the catfish special.

As the server left, Kurt scanned the room again, estimating the crowd. "Ceece was thinking about canceling the basketball game when I talked to him earlier, telling everybody to stay home. Guess he decided against it."

"Is it that dangerous?"

Kurt shrugged. "I don't know, but _I_ wouldn't be out tonight without a gun in my pocket."

Cassie shifted uncomfortably.

Kurt frowned. "Guns make you nervous?"

"A _need_ for guns makes me nervous."

"Actually, I've never fired one at a person, but I guess I'm running a little scared tonight." He leaned forward and told her what he'd seen at the Tillson farm that afternoon. As he finished and sat back, the server shoved their two steins of beer onto the table and scurried off.

The deep frown that had grown across Cassie's forehead as she listened was still burned in place. "And you think _a person_ did that to them?"

"I've never seen an animal use a knife," Kurt said. "Let's just hope the killer is long gone by now."

Cassie dug her cell phone out of her purse.

"That won't work in here. Cell service in this area is horrible. Nobody cares enough to do anything about it."

Her eyes darted around the room, searching. "Is there a pay phone?"

Kurt pointed. "Over there, on the other side of that arch."

"I want to call Kate and make sure the door and windows are locked tight." Cassie scrambled out of the booth.

"I probably should've told her that before we left," Kurt muttered.

"If I'd known what I know now, we _wouldn't_ have left." She hurried toward the pay phone.

Kurt noticed some motion at a table near the center of the main room.

Celia McGraw, an old schoolmate, cheerleader and all around queen bee of Kurt's Rock Bluff High School class, was waving franticly in his direction. Seated with an older woman and two school-age children, she hurried a remark to her companions and bustled to the rear booth. "Hey, Kurt! It's been _years_!" Celia slid into Cassie's vacant seat.

"Where's Dale tonight?" Her husband was also a classmate.

"He took Robbie to the basketball game. Robbie's our twelve year old."

They quickly brought each other up to date on their lives and Celia got to the point of her visit. "I heard you were with them when they found Tim Willet and the Tillsons today."

"I wasn't there in any official capacity. Coach Ceece and Wiley asked for my observations. That's all there was to it.

Cassie returned from her phone call and, amidst introductions, Celia slid out of Cassie's seat and stood at the edge of the table' as Cassie slipped back into the booth.

"Tim and some girl were found naked?" Celia said.

Kurt heaved a sigh and looked Celia in the eye. "What was left of them."

"Yeah?" Celia squatted, leaning a bit on the table. "I heard something tore 'em up pretty bad."

"Not a _thing_. A who. Or a bunch of 'whos.' Human beings. Why he or she or they chose these victims is where Wylie and Dar Hanika and the state patrol have to start looking."

"You're not going to help?"

"I will as long as I'm here, but come Monday morning, I'm headed back to Chi town."

Cassie leaned into the conversation. "Everybody at the office blames it on the curse."

"That's nuts." Celia stood. "We could have terrorists all around us and people in this berg are talking about some old wives' tale."

"They're called 'urban legends' now, Cele."

"Yeah, I know. 'Old wives' has a whole different meaning nowadays."

They all chuckled.

"God," Celia said with a sigh. "I think that's the first time I've laughed all day." Her happy face fell away, her gaze locked on Kurt. "I hate to say it, but I'm almost scared to drive home with Mom and the kids."

"Stay away from dark, lonely places," Kurt said. "Stick to the main roads. Don't stop unless you absolutely have to, and then keep your windows up and the doors locked."

"Our _house_ will be dark and lonely when we get there... _if_ we do." With a frown and a meager wave, Celia returned to her table just as the harried young server arrived with Kurt's and Cassie's catfish dinners.

Kurt ordered another beer before she left, and the two dug into their meals. "The news about the Tillsons scare your sister?"

"Nothing scares Kate."

"She have a weapon of some kind?"

"A ten-inch butcher knife and really bad temper."

"Seemed pretty nice to me," Kurt mused.

"You ever been to a protest? You know, anti-government, anti-establishment, that kind of thing?"

"Can't say as I have. Saw a couple in downtown Chicago, but I was five stories above the fray."

"Well, Kate hasn't missed one she could get to in her whole life. She was thrown in jail a couple of times in Omaha." Cassie shook her head. "Taking on cops with night sticks and mace never phased her."

"Any particular cause?"

Cassie swallowed a bite of fish, pursed her lips. "Stop the war. Save the trees." A tiny grin tugged at her lips. "Free the cows."

Kurt laughed. "That's the one. There's an old Marlin Brando movie about a bunch of outlaw bikers. A guy asks Brando's character 'What are you protesting?' Brando says, 'Whaddya got?'"

"That's Kate." Cassie's smile spread across her face and she laughed out loud.

As they ate, Kurt couldn't help admire his companion's elegant table manners, her poise, her femininity. "I hope your sister doesn't try too much of that rebel stuff around here. This is an old fashioned town... and I do mean _old_."

Cassie sat back from the table. "Someone might hurt her?"

Kurt grimaced. "Maybe, but I guarantee you nobody would employ her."

Cassie sighed. "Nothing new there. Two months ago she had an executive assistant job with Mutual Insurance in Omaha. Now she's a washer at the canning factory here in Rock Bluff." Cassie toyed with her checkered napkin, then looked up at Kurt. "You think someone here would actually attack her physically for spouting off?"

Kurt set his knife and fork down. "This town is mired in the past, Cassie. People here don't care much for change. The population at the end of World War II was about 5,000 and it hasn't varied by a hundred more or less in the sixty-two years since. Not many new people come in, and even fewer leave. They're simply born and die in an order that keeps things constant."

"They don't get bored?"

"Apparently not. There's no cable TV here. As you know, cell phone service is marginal at best. Only the few people with satellite dishes have high-speed Internet access. You probably noticed there's no McDonald's, no Burger King. Of all the franchise outlets around, only two survived here: a Dairy Queen and an A&W Drive-In. Nearly all retail business is still centered downtown. No new or old shops have set up on the superhighway bypass west of town."

The waitress set Kurt's refilled stein on the table.

He immediately quaffed a large gulp while staring at Cassie over the rim. "After dinner," he asked as he lowered the stein, you want to go to the basketball game? The movie?"

"Let's go back to our place. We can have a drink, play cards, watch TV."

_I've got booze at my motel too_ , Kurt thought. _And your sister won't be looking on._ But he was sure Cassie wouldn't buy that.

"If you want to go to the game by yourself," she said. "Feel free. I don't want to spoil your evening."

_Is that a brush-off_? "I'd love to come over... if you're sure I wouldn't be intruding."

"Oh, not at all! Kate loves company."

"She doesn't protest against lawyers?"

"Not one who's a guest in her home."

"Okay then. Maybe there'll be something on the TV news about what's going on around here."

Cassie folded her napkin and set it beside her empty plate. "And I'll know my baby is safe."

I don't think she means me... yet.

Kate Dodd swirled the ice cubes around in her drink and looked over at Kurt. "Maybe by the time I go to work Sunday afternoon they'll have the killings cleared up."

Kurt swallowed the last of his third bourbon and water. "If not, you might want to call in sick."

"Like we could afford that," Cassie mumbled.

The three, shoes off, feet up, were lolling in the living room of the simply and sparsely furnished flat. The boom box radio was tuned to an Omaha music station with the volume low.

Cassie had stopped with one vodka tonic.

Kate was on her third. Her words were a little slurred. "You don't seem scared."

Kurt pointed at his parka hanging over a chair back. "I've got a pistol in my coat."

Kate exchanged a quick glance with Cassie. "I've been thinking about getting us a gun. Can't afford it right now."

"You said you'd tell me the story behind The Curse," Cassie said.

"Yeah." Kate sat up straight. "People just say 'The Curse.' You're a native. What's it all about?"

"Superstition mostly. Started back in the sixties, and it's The _Coogan_ Curse."

Kate grabbed another handful of fat-free potato chips and nibbled one at a time. "Okay, what's a Coogan?"

"The county's named after them," Kurt said. "The family patriarch was our most famous pioneer. He built the bridge over the Missouri River, started the bank, gobbled up most of the good land. He left his heirs more money than they could count and a reputation for running roughshod over anybody who got in their way."

Kate sat back, crossed one leg over the other. "Real popular folks, I bet."

"My Dad used the word 'reviled.' But everybody was too scared to do anything. Then in 1960 the family mansion burned down... with the last two living Coogans inside."

"Murder?" asked Kate.

"Nobody knows, and the bodies were too charred to tell. Dad said since everybody wanted to kill Alfa and Arthur, they figured that's what somebody finally did. Even the cops were too happy to ask many questions."

Cassie wrapped her hands around one knee. "This Alfa and Arthur, they didn't have any children?"

"They were sister and brother. Alfa was what they called 'wild.' That's how rich tramps were described in those days. I guess she had tongues either wagging or hanging out everywhere she went."

"Some belonging to other women's husbands, I'll bet." Cassie said. "The one's hanging out."

"Husbands, fathers, teenage sons—Alfa was something." Kurt picked up his drink. "And her little brother, Arthur... well, he was just a nasty S.O.B. The original spoiled rich kid. Anybody crossed him, he destroyed them. Bought up loans and foreclosed, got people fired, forced them out of business, had 'em thrown in jail."

Cassie's head tilted. "He had his own Jail?"

"Everything in the county was his one way or another."

"So after the fire, people figured the Coogans' ghosts cursed the town." Kate smirked.

Kurt shook his head. "All of Coogan County." He cleared his throat. "My Dad said the trouble started around 1961. First there were fires, one every week or so for a while. The same kind that burned down the Coogan mansion. People died in some of 'em. Then other people disappeared from their homes or off the street—just vanished. In the sixties and seventies over a dozen citizens around here either dropped off the face of the earth or died mysteriously." Kurt looked at Cassie, lounging beside him on the couch. "Your boss's younger brother was one of 'em."

"Mr. Muncie's brother?"

Kurt nodded. "Found hanging from a tree branch when he was a junior in high school. Some said it was an accident, and some said it was suicide. Most said it was The Curse. Pretty soon any misfortune in Coogan County was blamed on The Curse." He took a swallow of his drink. "After what happened today you'll be hearing curse stories till you puke."

"It'll probably be on the national news," Cassie said. "Will your friends in Chicago be worried about you?"

"Not for long. I'll be back Monday night. And the more attention this gets, the sooner they'll find whoever's behind it."

Kate got up tentatively. "I want some more chips."

"There's coffee in the percolator," Cassie said.

"I only had three drinks, baby sister. I'm not drunk." Walking a step-over-step straight line to make her point, she disappeared into the kitchen.

"You don't think the killings have anything to do with The Curse?" Cassie said.

"I think The Curse is superstitious bullshit." He looked at her. "Pardon my French." He pointed to his glass. "Blame the booze."

Cassie smiled indulgently. "I'm not offended by a little profanity, Kurt."

Kate ducked her head back into the living room. "Hell yes, the curse is bullshit. People in this country see goddamn boogiemen in their corn flakes." As she resumed her mission in the kitchen, the phone rang.

Cassie answered, then motioned that it was for Kurt.

Scowling, Kurt took the phone. "Yeah?"

"Wylie O'Shea, McBride. I need help again."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"Tried yer cell phone. No answer. Called Vic Rathe. He said you was with one of the Dodd girls."

Kurt held the mouthpiece away, looked at the ceiling. "'Aren't small towns wonderful?"

Wiley apparently heard him. "What's that?"

"How can I help, Sheriff?" Kurt said into the phone.

"We made an arrest. Might have our killer. Need a lawyer for the interrogatin'. You do it for us?"

Kurt's face tightened. "You caught the _killer_?"

Cassie moved to his side, her eyes on his.

"Big, crazy bastard," Wylie said.

"I'll be at the jail in five minutes." Kurt handed Cassie the phone and retrieved his coat. "Sheriff thinks he's got the killer."

"Thank God!" Cassie said.

"I've got to get over there."

"Get where?" Kate came in with a bowl of potato chips and a cup of coffee.

"They've caught the killers," Cassie told her sister.

Kurt grabbed Kate's coffee and chugged it down, wincing as the brew burned his mouth and esophagus. "I'll let you know what happens."

"Thanks for dinner," Cassie said.

"My pleasure. Sorry about the circumstances." He left.

Cassie pushed the door closed behind him, then locked it, and both women drifted back to their seats in the living room.

"The news will be on in twenty minutes." Kate turned on the twenty-inch TV and went to refill her coffee mug.

Cassie dropped into an overstuffed chair.

"Think we'll ever see Mr. McBride again?" Kate yelled from the kitchen.

"I get the feeling he doesn't think much of his hometown."

"Those women at the office told you he had some trouble here, didn't they?"

"Something to do with sports," Cassie said. "It didn't make sense to me."

Kate returned and sat on the couch. "You like him?"

"Didn't you?"

"He wasn't _my_ date."

Cassie chuckled. "A _date_... sounds like high school."

"Did you _like_ him?"

"He's sure a looker. Good sense of humor."

Kate heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Answer the goddamned question, Cassandra."

"I think I'm a little too plain for him." She went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Chapter Seven

Five minutes later Kurt was standing beside Sheriff Wylie O'Shea, looking at a mammoth, unkempt human form, apparently male, in one of the four cells at the county jail. A plainclothes trooper from the state patrol, part of the unit sent to the crime scene at Tillson's farm, was also on hand.

Kurt got as close to the bars as he dared. "Looks like a pretty tough customer."

"Four hundred pounds of muscle and mean," the sheriff said.

"What makes you think he's the killer?"

"The five boys he put in the hospital," the sheriff said. "A crew of Union Pacific carpenters found him sleeping in a boxcar this afternoon. When they tried to roust him, he beat three of 'em senseless and sent the other one scurrying for help. After dark a bunch of the workshop boys trapped him in a tool shed. Bought him down with crowbars and pipes and hauled him to the jail. In all, five UP guys were hauled off to the Falls City hospital, and they're still in critical condition." Wiley leaned into Kurt's face. "And he bit 'em, McBride!. Chewed on their flesh like it was chicken dinner." He pointed. "If you look close, you'll see there's still blood in his whiskers."

Kurt spotted the bloodstains. "What's he have to say for himself?"

"Just spits on the floor and gives you that mad-dog stare. Hasn't said word one."

"Any identification?"

Wylie shook his head. "We found a snot rag and $16 in cash... nine ones and a five. I'm bettin' that'll be the total of what those kids and the Tillson's had on 'em when they died."

"But the teeth marks we saw on the bodies weren't made by a human," Kurt said.

"Not all of 'em. But maybe a scavenger came along after they was dead."

Kurt eyed the sheriff dubiously. "A _big_ scavenger."

"We might have a rogue wolf, even a cougar. Too old to kill for itself, so it has to make do on what it can find."

"Our lab crew will figure out what kind of animal it was," said state patrol Lieutenant Bill Barnett. "But I saw human teeth marks on the dead girl's breasts."

Kurt turned to look at the prisoner again, then slipped closer to the cell and wrapped his fingers around a bar. The prisoner's right fist clenched, his neck muscles tightened, his biceps swelled, and his stare sharpened to needle points.

_Wow. Vulture eyes_. Kurt stepped back. "Fingerprints?"

"Took six of us, but we got 'em." Wylie chuckled. "And DNA."

"I'll take them back to Lincoln tonight," said Lt. Barnett. "Run them through our files in the morning."

_He put five guys in critical condition_ _?_ Kurt appraised the suspect again. "We'd better do our questioning from out here, I guess."

"Nah. He's shackled and chained to the wall." Sheriff O'Shea pointed at his pistol. "Besides, I'll have my gun handy. Don't want the son of a bitch thinking he's got us scared."

Kurt frowned at him. "You can't take your loaded gun into a cell, Wylie. Christ!"

The sheriff blustered. "This ain't Chicago! I do what I damn please!"

Lt. Barnett moved closer to O'Shea. "I can oversee things from out here, Sheriff." He held out his hand.

Wylie looked at the hand a moment. "Yeah... okay." He withdrew his sidearm from its holster and gave it to the trooper. "I'll get the key."

Kurt looked through the bars. "We need to ask you some questions, Sir. We mean you no harm. If you try to help us, we can help you. Is that clear?"

The man sat on the cot, glaring, a mountain of rock-hard flesh and, Kurt guessed, human rage.

"Just stay on that cot, Mister." The sheriff unlocked and opened the door.

The prisoner's heavy breathing quickened as Kurt and Wylie stepped into the cell and locked it behind them.

The man's gaze darted back and forth between his two visitors. He leaned forward until the chain stopped him. Unless it broke he couldn't get to his feet.

"My name is McBride." Kurt gestured to Wylie. "This is Sheriff O'Shea. Do you need anything?"

The suspect jerked his head aside and spat on the floor.

"That's his answer to everything," the sheriff said.

Kurt tried a faint smile. "How about a glass of water?"

Silence.

"Are you hurt? Would you like to see a doctor?"

Silence, then another quick spit.

"May I call you by your first name?"

Silence.

A sudden, loud crash sucked everyone's gaze, including the prisoner's, toward Lt. Barnett. He'd smashed his coffee mug against the cell bars.

"His hearing seems fine." Barnett dropped the cup handle to the floor with the other debris.

After another ten minutes of silence and spitting, Kurt shook his head and moved toward the door. "Maybe he'll be better after some sleep." He shrugged, waiting for Barnett to let them out of the cell.

"Could be he doesn't speak English," the trooper said as he opened the door.

Kurt stepped out, then turned to look at the prisoner again. "Or speak at all."

Wiley closed the cell door behind them. "I guess the doctors can figure that one out. "They can give him a shot, put him under, and run some tests."

O'Shea and the three men started for the outer office.

"You ain't puttin' no goddamned needle in _me_ , you sons a bitches."

It took everyone a moment to realize who had spoken. The four hundred pound giant had the voice of pubescent boy.

Kurt turned and walked slowly back toward the cell. "Oh, but we will, Sir. Have you ever had a shot of truth serum?"

The prisoner spat to the side again.

"Sodium pentothal—that's the official name for it." Kurt held his forefingers six inches apart. "They use a really long needle."

"You ain't shovin' no needle in me, cocksucker."

"Of course we will. Tomorrow morning. And you'll relax and answer every question we ask. You won't be able to help yourself. You'll tell us about every bad thing you ever did, from the first time you pulled your pee-pee."

Another spit. The suspect's gaze began darting about.

"You have some little secrets you want to keep?"

"I ain't done nothin'."

"What's your name?"

"Bissell."

Kurt leaned against the front of the cell, cocked an eyebrow.

"Halley John Bissell."

"Got a home, Halley John Bissell?"

"Gulf Ledge... Mississippi."

Sheriff O'Shea and Lt. Barnett gathered beside Kurt.

"I'll tell you what, Bissell," Kurt said. "The sheriff and I will come in there and ask our questions, and if you answer all of them and we think you're telling the truth, maybe we won't need that needle."

"I didn't do _nothing_!"

"Then what are you scared of?" Kurt looked at Sheriff O'Shea and motioned for him to open the cell door again.

"I hate cops." Bissell spat on his shoe, accidentally.

"Where'd you spend last night?" Kurt slipped inside, went to the cot across from Bissell and sat.

O'Shea pulled the door closed behind them and leaned against it.

"Don't know," the prisoner said. "Inside a railroad car someplace. Couldn't see out."

The sheriff asked, "When'd you get to Rock Bluff?"

"Rock what?"

The interrogation continued for nearly an hour. Halley Bissell adamantly denied any involvement with any deaths anywhere at any time. "Fact is,"" 'cept fer this afternoon down at the shop, I ain't _never_ hurt another human... _ever_!"

Kurt got to his feet. "Okay, Mr. Bissell. The sheriff and I will sleep on this and think about whether or not we'll need that needle."

"I told the truth!"

"You sleep on it, too. If you think of anything more, tell the sheriff when he comes in first thing tomorrow. We don't want to waste truth serum any more than you want that shot."

After locking the cell, Wylie led Kurt and Barnett to the front office where they took seats around the conference table, covered at the moment by a scattered deck of playing cards.

"This where you and the boys while away cold winter days playing gin, Wylie?" Kurt said with a wink at Barnett.

The sheriff shrugged. "Why not? Ain't enough room in here for target shootin'." He turned to the state patrol investigator. "You believe that guy's just twenty-six years old?"

"Let's hope his fingerprints are on file in Lincoln," Lt. Barnett said. "Those won't lie."

Kurt said, "I'm not convinced _he_ was lying."

Wylie O'Shea scowled. "Sure he lied! They said he snapped arms and legs like matchsticks down at the shop. Tossed guys all over the yard."

"Oh he's been in fights before," Kurt said. "But that doesn't mean he killed anybody."

"Even with the bites?" The sheriff shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

"We'll take a blood sample tomorrow," said Lt. Barnett. "And we'll go over his clothes for possible evidence. If we find something linking him to one of the crime scenes, then you've probably got your man."

Wylie O'Shea plopped his feet up on the table. "I think we got our man even without that evidence."

"Good luck on taking a blood sample," Kurt said.

"Want me to help you get Mr. Bissell out of his irons so he can bed down?" Barnett asked the sheriff.

"Let's wait till Jimmy comes on at eleven," O'Shea said. "That'll make four of us."

Kurt stood. "Three. I'm headed for some sack time."

Sheriff O'Shea chuckled. "Can't say as I blame you." He winked. "Which one of them little gals you sleepin' with? Or is it both?" He nudged Lt. Barnett and smiled.

"I just met them today, Wylie."

"Never slowed you down before."

"Rumors." Kurt started for the door, then stopped. "Could I use the phone?"

Wylie chuckled again and pointed. "Use my office there."

Kurt slipped into the tiny cubicle that served as a private office for the Coogan County Sheriff and dialed the seven digits from memory.

"Hello?" The voice was sharp.

Kurt couldn't tell if it was Cassie or Kate. "Hi. It's Kurt McBride."

"Did they get him?"

"Is this Cassie?"

"Hang on."

Kurt heard the phone being passed.

"Hi, Kurt. Everything okay?"

"Your sister sounds a little upset," Kurt said. "Did I wake you?"

Cassie cleared her throat. "We've had a couple of strange calls since you left. Pretty scary."

"Dirty?"

"Somebody just breathing. Wouldn't talk. We had four calls."

"Sounds like maybe one of you has a secret admirer," said Kurt. "Maybe somebody from work?"

"Speaking of work... the girl who was killed up on the hill? Turns out it was Marcie Swift from my office. The one Blanche mentioned at the café."

"Sorry."

"It just brings it pretty close to home," Cassie said.

"How'd you find out it was her?"

"The TV news. They covered the Tillson family, too." She took a swallow of something. "We're pretty scared. What'd you find out at the jail?"

"I'm just about to leave." Kurt peeked out to be sure the sheriff wasn't eavesdropping. "I don't know whether this guy is the killer. Better not unlock the doors and windows just yet."

"Don't worry about that!"

"You interested in going to the movies tomorrow night?"

"I couldn't leave Kate and Lizzie with all this," Cassie said.

"Sure."

"If you want to get a chicken or something and bring it over here, I'd be glad to cook it."

"What about steaks?" He could hear Cassie conferring with her sister.

"Kate cooks great steaks," she finally said. "On a little barbecue."

"It's February." Kurt chuckled.

"She's got a warm coat. And plenty of antifreeze, if you know what I mean."

"I'll bring some vodka, too. Isn't that what you two drink?"

Cassie giggled. "Anything that goes with Seven-Up or tonic water."

Kurt signed off and slipped back into the front office just as a commotion in the cells brought the sheriff and state trooper to their feet.

"That son of a bitch tryin' to bust out?" Wylie hurried through the door to the lockup with Barnett and Kurt close behind.

They found Halley John Bissell writhing on the floor of his cell, his feet thrashing against the shackles and chain that bound them, his arms flailing on the concrete floor. His eyes were wide and fixed. He was grunting in spasms.

"Some kind of fit," the sheriff said.

Kurt looked around the room. "Throw some cold water on him."

O'Shea nodded. "How 'bout some snow?"

"We need a bucket or a bowl," Kurt said. "How about your coffee urn?"

The sheriff started for the office.

Barnett held up a hand, stopping everyone. "He's in shock. Needs a shot of phenobarbital, I'd say. There's a needle in my car." He didn't move, but kept both eyes on the prisoner

Kurt and O'Shea' followed the Lieutenant's gaze.

Halley John Bissell's writhing slowed at once. The kicking quickly became tugs. The grunts stopped. The eyes regained focus and found the onlookers. "I get spells," Bissell said through heavy breaths. "Started when I was a kid." His body relaxed and he stretched out on the floor.

"I'll get that needle just in case," Barnett said, then made a move for the door.

"No." Bissell raised his head and strained into a sitting position. "No needle. I'm okay."

After watching the prisoner crawl back onto his cot, the three men ambled to the outer office.

"Good eye, Barnett," Kurt said as Wylie closed the door. "He had _me_ fooled."

"You'd better warn your deputies about him, Sheriff," the trooper said. "He's tricky."

"He ain't gonna fool either one of my boys," Wylie O'Shea said. "Don't worry about that."

Kurt again started for the exit and stopped. "Oh, Sheriff, Ceece says Harlan Bergman's missing. He wants me to interview his wife tomorrow. That gonna cramp your style?"

"Waste of time,"" but have at 'er. Can't do no harm."

"You don't think Harlan's in trouble some place?"

The sheriff shook his head. "I checked all the hospitals and put out an APB right after she called Thursday. No reports on him or his car." The sheriff plopped into his chair. "Be all right with me if the bastard never comes back."

"He's the one you had to fire, right?" Lt. Barnett asked.

Wylie nodded. "And he's been a loud-mouthed pain in the ass ever since."

Kurt leaned against the wall. "Wants his job back?"

Wylie scoffed. " _His_ job? He wants _mine_. Ran against me in the last election and still is. Ever thing I do he runs around tellin' folks how he could'a done it better." He shook his head. "Crazy bastard. Wouldn't be surprised if he's behind some of the mischief going on around here just to shovel shit on me."

Kurt frowned. "Really think he'd do that?"

"He'd do anything to get behind a badge and gun again... _anything_. These murders are gonna give him enough fodder to last till election day."

"Unless he's one of the victims." Kurt headed for the exit.

Chapter Eight

The next morning, Saturday, Kurt parked in an angled space on Lincoln Avenue in front of Mom's Kitchen, a hole-in-the-wall cafe popular for its cheap and hearty breakfasts. The town's main thoroughfare was full of parked cars, but not moving traffic, motorized or foot. As he stepped into Mom's and stood looking about for a seat he overheard one of the hushed conversations at the counter.

"We're staying in the storm cellar," bank teller Ray Paulson was telling druggist Mark Price. "If it's safe against tornados, it'll keep this thing out."

"I tried to buy a new rifle this morning," Price said. "Sold out. All over town."

All the other powwows in the little shop that morning dealt with the same topic: the mutilated corpses found the day before. An older man waved at him from the other side of the horseshoe counter.

Kurt recognized him as Will Henning, an old pal of his dad's. He mouthed a greeting, made a little salute.

Henning pointed at the empty seat in his two-person booth and motioned Kurt to join him. It was nearly the last vacancy in the whole joint.

As Kurt sat down, the man said quietly, "I hear you know something about all this.".

"I got a look at the bodies, but I don't really know much."

"What about the prisoner?"

_So word has gotten out about that too_. "I talked with the guy. The state patrol should know something about him before the day's over."

"Think he's the killer?"

Kurt shrugged. "Could be him. Could be somebody else. But it's _not_ Arthur and Alfa Coogan, that's for sure."

"I heard the bodies was all mutilated like some animal got to 'em."

"There could be a wolf or coyote on the prowl," Kurt said, raising his voice to benefit any eavesdroppers. "People should stick together and stay out of lonely places."

"If you carry a gun," a teenager said from a spot by the front window. "You can go any damn place you want."

Kurt looked around the little interior. Most of the two-dozen conversations had ceased. "Like I said, stick together and you'll be okay."

No one spoke for a moment.

A mature male with a smoker's throat said from somewhere on the far side of the crowded counter, "Them chickenshits are always scared of guns."

Kurt couldn't see the speaker. Names and faces came to mind, but what did it matter? With everybody in the place staring at him, including the old family friend across the table, he felt trapped and a bit furious. He vaulted himself to a standing position on the seat of the booth, whipped the service revolver from his jacket pocket and held it up. "Let me show you a gun, folks. This a Cook County State's Attorney Department standard issue Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver. It's designed for killing and maiming human bodies. It has no other purpose. Of course, you need a license to have one of these, but you boys have a right to tote around your rifles and shotguns if you want. And if you don't run into the killers, you can always shoot at each other for a while. I doubt anybody will get hurt too badly." He jumped down and took his seat again.

A woman cleared her throat, her gaze drifting from Kurt to other targets, and muted mumblings slowly cranked up again.

Will Henning glanced about cautiously. "Folks are just jumpy, Kurt. All anybody's heard are rumors." He checked his watch. "The sheriff usually gets around town and tells folks what's up."

"I know." Kurt decided he didn't need breakfast, stood and dropped a dollar on the table. "That ought to cover the damage, Will."

"You didn't order anything."

"No, but I had such a good time." He managed a smile for the long-time family friend and patted his shoulder. "The state patrol's on top of the killings. You'll be okay." He flipped his dad's pal a wave and strode out the door just as a county squad car careened up Lincoln Avenue at sixty plus miles per hour. _Who's at the wheel?_ He saw who it was. _Holy_ _shit_ _!_

Kurt sprinted the two blocks from Mom's Kitchen to the county jail, up the front steps, through the double door entry into the outer office and found just what he expected.

The door leading to the cell area was half off its hinges, the conference table lay on its side and Sheriff Wylie O'Shea was sitting on the floor with blood dripping from a gash on his bald scalp.

"Goddamned Jimmy fell for it!" O'Shea groaned.

"Need a doctor?"

"Gimme a minute." The sheriff began pushing himself up, waved Kurt away, and finally stood.

Kurt stepped into the cell area. Halley John Bissell's cubicle was empty, its bloodstained door standing ajar, one blood-soaked corner imbedded in the skull of a lifeless body on the concrete floor.

Kurt knelt beside Deputy Jimmy Quayle, searching for signs of life. All he found was pooling blood on the floor and brain matter oozing from the head wound. There was no breath, no pulse.

"He dead?" Wylie O'Shea leaned against the outer office door jamb, still dabbing his wounded head. He turned to the radio console as it began screeching.

"Goddamnit, Wylie!" It was Police Chief Hanika's voice. "Who's driving that county cruiser? He's goin' like a bat outta hell!"

The sheriff shuffled to the dispatch station and switched on the microphone. "That's our killer, Dar. He broke jail! Where's he at?"

"Headed north on 74, going a hundred miles an hour. He's probably outside the city limits by now. Where's them state patrol boys?"

"All out at Tillson's farm the other direction. I'll try to get you some help."

Wylie grabbed the phone and punched the speed dial button for the Patrol's emergency headquarters in Lincoln. They in turn issued an all-points bulletin for the missing county vehicle and its assumed occupant: an escaped alleged killer, considered armed and extremely dangerous.

The sheriff stepped back into the lockup where Kurt was kneeling beside the slain deputy.

"I guess there's not much we can do for 'ol' Jimmy," O'Shea said.

Kurt stood. "Bissell used the cell door for a battering ram." He looked at the sheriff. "How'd he get out of those shackles?"

"We took 'em off last night so he could sleep better. Didn't think to put 'em back before I left to make my rounds this morning." He walked to Kurt's side, dabbing his wound with a rag. "I warned Jimmy about the stunt that son of a bitch tried last night. I guess the kid wasn't listening." Wylie shook his head. "He was a damn fine boy."

Kurt patted the sheriff's shoulder and ushered him toward the front office. "The forensics team will want things left just as they are."

"Jimmy called me on the radio, said the prisoner was havin' a heart attack or something. I told him it was a trick. 'Just leave the bastard be,' I said." He slumped into a chair, pointing at the cockeyed door hanging by one hinge. "Time I got here, Bissell was bustin' through there like it was wet paper. He tossed me ass over elbows. I hit the table and flipped. He was gonna finish me... had Jimmy's nightstick in one fist, headin' right for me. Thank God the radio squelched. He spooked, grabbed some car keys off the desk and headed out."

"Have a gun?"

"Didn't see one."

Kurt looked through the door at the corpse sprawled by the cell. The deputy's sidearm was still in its holster. He surveyed the floor of the cell area, then the office. "Guess he figured he didn't need this either." He picked up Jimmy Quayle's nightstick and set it on the desk.

"I hope they nab that fucker before he rips up somebody else."

Chapter Nine

Kurt left Wylie O'Shea in the hands of the town's new general practitioner, a young guy who'd just finished his residency at Omaha's Clarkson Hospital. The doctor was putting some stitches in the sheriff's scalp, but he didn't believe there was any serious injury.

The temperature in Rock Bluff had moved into the teens and light snow was falling as Kurt drove up Lincoln Avenue toward the house he'd called home for the first twenty-two years of his life. It was just after ten, and he was supposed to meet Melvin and Meredith Jacobs, the Lincoln couple who were buying his parents' place, at ten-thirty.

The gray February Saturday morning reminded him of a thousand others he'd known just like it, except for the stillness. Nothing was moving but snowflakes, and they were small, slow and far apart. No kids jostled on the sidewalks. No adults drifted past the lighted store windows. Cars were all quietly nestled before parking meters, docilely gathering white specks.

He didn't see Ceece Maxwell's 'ninety-eight Chevy Cavalier among them, though. That was odd. The coach was always center stage when trouble hit, even if his basketball team _had_ lost the night before. _Is he out at Tillson's farm with the crime scene team? Or maybe with Dar Hanika?_

As he made the turn for Ceece's little house a block from the high school, Kurt assumed the town had not yet learned of the prisoner's escape. All anybody could've seen was a county squad car speeding up Lincoln Avenue, and that was nothing unusual. No one who knew what had happened at the jail would say a word without an okay from Bill Barnett, the State Trooper working on the murder investigation. _When that news gets out_ _,_ _this town's gonna seal up like a submarine. And if Bissell claims another victim_ , _Wylie O'Shea won't get work sweeping barroom floors_.

As he drove past Ceece's house he saw the coach's car tucked under the carport. He pulled up at the curb to see if there was a problem. The lights were on inside, so he assumed Ceece and his wife, Vi, must be in there. Just as he opened the car door to get out, the coach came out the front door, waving and yelling. "Boy did you come by at the right time!" He tossed a thumb toward his car. "Battery's deader than sand!" He trotted down the sidewalk toward Kurt's car and slipped. "Oops!" He caught his balance, laughed, and climbed into the right front seat. "Not a bad move for an old fart." He laughed again.

"Looks like you need a snow shovel."

"Tomorrow," Ceece said. "We're supposed to get eight more inches by morning."

"Shit!"

"I been tryin' to raise Clem Huber at the garage for half an hour. Thought I'd have to hike."

Kurt pulled the car into the street, heading for the Mobil Oil Service Station a few blocks away. "Hear about the arrest?"

"Arrest?"

"You must've hit the sack early last night," said Kurt.

"Team looked bad without Willett." Ceece shook his head. "I haven't had the guts to turn on a radio or TV. What's going on?"

Kurt related the story of Halley John Bissell's capture, arrest, interrogation and escape.

"Sounds like one bad hombre," the coach said.

"I don't think the word's out yet that he's on the loose."

"When'd it happen?"

Kurt checked his watch. "'Bout an hour ago, I'd guess.

"If there's an APB out, somebody's gonna get it on the news before too long. Then watch out."

"Maybe a big snow will help," said Kurt. "Keep some of the boozed-up vigilantes off the streets."

"There." Ceece pointed to the upcoming sign for Huber's Mobil. "State patrol better camp out around here for a few days. Nobody's gonna put much faith in Dar and Wylie and their boys. Not with five dead and a suspect running free."

Kurt pulled into the service station apron and stopped, and Ceece got out. "I see Clem in the office," the coach said. "He'll get me started." He waved, drifting toward the station door. "Where you gonna be if I need you?"

"I don't know, Ceece. I've got some errands to take care of at the house." He shrugged. "I'll call your place around noon."

Ceece gave him an okay sign and slipped in through the door.

_Eight more inches by morning_ _? Well, the roads ought to be cleared off by Monday. I can still get out unless there's more._ _Damn snow_ _!_ He wasn't due back at the Cook County State's Attorney's Office in Chicago for another week. Still, he didn't want to spend one second of that week in Rock Bluff.

Instead of taking Lincoln Avenue and then the highway to get to his old house, he turned on 9th Street and traveled through the neighborhoods he'd known as a child. There was Bud Herring's old house. And Mike Lutz's. Lights were on in both places because of the cloud cover. Vic Rathe's parents still lived in the big old stucco place where the gang used to gather after school, playing hot video games. Vic himself had built a sprawling new brick house on what had been the Holman property next door. _The lawyer business in Rock Bluff must be good,_ Kurt thought. _Awful good._

He passed the vacant lot where they'd all learned the basic skills of football, baseball and track. Basketball had to be played at Tiny Iverson's because he was the only kid in town with a netted hoop and a concrete playing surface. How many times had they shoveled snow off that driveway, turned on the back porch light and played three-on-three basketball—sometimes wearing gloves and overshoes—till their parents made them come home and go to bed? _Funny how it all seems so..._ _recent_ _._ He'd thought of such times as ancient history even in high school, and as long-ago kid stuff while he was in college. After that, they were simply giddy fragments of a life far removed from his own. But on that gray Saturday morning it was his life again, connected as firmly to David Kurtis McBride, Chicago prosecutor, as the nails on his fingers.

He was nearly overcome by a deep sense of loss, deeper than any he'd known since his mom's funeral. He could almost see himself and his friends roughhousing around the yards. _Is all that_ _gone_ _? Why 'didn't I notice it slipping away? How did I let it vanish into thin air without saying_ _goodbye_ _?_

He felt his lips tighten, his eyes burn. Tears squeezed through when his boyhood home came into view, with Vic Rathe's car parked at the front curb. He pulled in behind the Lexus and sat for a moment, getting his emotions in check before going in to meet Melvin and Meredith Jacobs and say farewell to yet another precious part of his life. As he reached for the 'door handle, Rathe came down the front walk. Kurt waited while his old friend crawled in beside him.

"They called from Lincoln," Vic said. "Can't make it. Afraid of the weather."

"Goddamnit...." Kurt lay his head on the headrest. "Now what do we do?"

"We do it by mail, I guess. Unless you can wait around till next Saturday. That's the first time Melvin can get away."

"Fuck Melvin and the horse he rode in on."

"Okay, let's go down to my office. You can sign all this stuff and we'll get it sent off to their lawyer."

"How long will all that take?"

"Till the deal's closed?" Vic thought a moment. "Three weeks at the most."

"I was expecting the money _today_." Kurt sat up and slapped the steering wheel.

"I can lend you—"

"I'm giving the church a cashier's check for ten grand tomorrow. Now I'll have to cover it with my savings."

"I'm sure the church can wait three weeks," Rathe said.

"Half those assholes have been whispering about me for over ten years. I want to look 'em right in their beady little eyes when I bail that dinky damn church out of hock."

Vic Rathe opened his car door. "See'ya at the office."

Chapter Ten

Half an hour later, Vic stacked all the properly endorsed legal documents in a large envelope. Kurt stood and stretched. "Ol' Melvin understands he ain't moving in till his check and all the other stuff is in my fat little fist?"

"He's disappointed, but the weather's just too bad," Vic said.

"Worse in Lincoln?"

"Much... and moving this way." Vic sealed the manila envelope and swiveled to face a door in the back corner of his office. "Honey? Can you put some postage on this?"

Kurt said, "Jen's here?"

The back door opened and Vic's wife stepped out of a tiny room, removing her glasses. "Hi, Kurt. I was just about to join you guys."

They shook hands, exchanging smiles. Jen, still svelte, still stacked, had the perfect face for her short-cropped, brown hair.

Kurt turned to Vic and grinned. "Got your wife working now?"

Jen kissed Vic on the cheek, then looked at Kurt. "I come in on Saturday mornings to file and maybe do some bookwork. Good clerical help's hard to find these days." She took the big envelope and sat down. "So what do you think about all the trouble?"

"Hear about the escape this morning?"

"Escape?" Jen and Vic shared a glance.

Kurt told them about Bissell and his violent getaway. "But it's not my problem. I'm going back to Chicago Monday morning."

Vic leaned toward his old pal. "How long ago did all that happen?"

"About an hour ago, I guess." Kurt checked his watch. "Nine or so."

"Why don't you call the sheriff and see what's up?"

"You're the one who lives here," Kurt said with a smile. "You call him."

"You're the prosecutor. He won't tell me diddly squat."

Kurt sighed. "What's the number?"

"Here." Vic found the sheriff's number in his desk phone's on-board directory, hit Send and handed Kurt the receiver.

"It's McBride, Sheriff. Anything new on Halley John Bissell?" He chatted with Wylie for less than a minute, then handed the phone back to Vic. "State patrol guys just got in from Tillson's. No word on the fugitive."

"I get the feeling you don't think the guy did it." Vic hung up the phone.

Kurt laced his fingers behind his head, leaned back, and crossed one leg over the other. "He could've done it. He proved he's a killer. Strong as an ox and crazy as hell."

"But?"

Kurt shook his head. "There's something about those crime scenes. A screwball like Bissell might leave bodies scattered to hell and back, but it'd be _random_. Same thing for a wolf or coyote. What I saw—especially at Tillson's—was _not_ random. It looked set up for somebody's benefit."

"So a human did the killing, then some scavengers got the corpses?"

"They'd have to be big scavengers," Kurt said. "And fast. Maggie Tillson didn't see or hear anybody or anything around the barn before she found Bob and the boys."

Vic's gaze drifted to the single window in his office and the falling snow outside. "So Arthur and Alfa did it with help from some misbegotten creature they met in Hell?"

"Name ten people in town who wouldn't believe that."

"I'm not worried about the curse." Vic looked back over at Kurt. "Have you thought about terrorists?"

Kurt sat up in his chair. "Jesus, Vic! That's ridiculous. Just what Blanche Bleeker and Fern Molk said, by the way. They're both pushing sixty now, and they weren't real bright in their prime."

"We've got some Arab-looking people around town now," Jen said quietly.

"I've seen 'em." Kurt splayed his hands. "Same drifters and hillbillies that've been around here forever. That dark skin comes from not bathing."

"There are others now," Vic said.

"Sure. Latinos, I'd guess. Maybe half-breed Indians. But I'll bet not one can speak Arabic."

Jen sat on the corner of Vic's desk. "We don't want to take that gamble."

Kurt intertwined his fingers and wrapped them around one knee. "And Jihadists would terrorize this hick town because...?"

"To get a foothold here," Vic said. "Take control of government. Set up one of their cells."

Jen bobbed her head toward the north. "Strategic Air Command headquarters is just up the road. You don't think they'd like to get some suicide bombers in there?"

Kurt looked at his friends, then smiled and nodded. "Well, maybe you're right. Who knows what's in the heads of people who fly planes into buildings on purpose." He stood. "Have you discussed your theory with anybody else in town?"

"Bud and Lacy Upchurch were over last night," said Jen. "They think it's a possibility."

Kurt frowned. "Yesterday Harry Barnhart said he'd rather take on terrorists than the curse. I'm sure he's got lots of company. It wouldn't take much to set off a witch hunt against drifters and hillbillies in this county."

Jen slid off the desktop to her feet. "You know we wouldn't encourage anything like that!"

"We just feel terrorism is something to consider," Vic said. "Especially where human beings have been senselessly mutilated. Has Wiley even mentioned the possibility?"

"I haven't had a chance to swap theories with anybody yet." He checked his watch. "Maybe I can sit down with Wiley and Lt. Barnett from the state patrol when I'm done here."

"We can speak to them," Jen said. "But it'd have a lot more impact coming from you."

Vic looked out the window. "Oh oh." "Still planning on leaving town on Monday?"

"Sooner if I can."

Vic pointed outside. "Have you noticed that white stuff falling from the sky?"

Kurt's gaze shifted to the falling snow. "Oh, man! Don't even _think_ stuff like that!"

"Let's see what the weatherman says." Vic turned to his computer screen and called up the five-day forecast. "Eight to twelve inches by morning, tapering off tomorrow, flurries the rest of the week."

Kurt waved a hand dismissively. "What do those guys know?"

Jen smiled. "Suppose it's all part of The Curse?"

The three shared a chuckle, then Kurt pointed to the computer. "Nice to see you're among the chosen few with high speed Internet in this town."

"Let me know if you need to use it," said Vic.

"If I get snowed in, I just might. I could hook up my laptop." He winked at Vic. "Nice to know I've got a rich friend."

Vic grinned. "Satellite service is only a hundred bucks a month."

"Yeah. I saw your new little house this morning. Didn't get that for a hundred a month."

"Housing prices are good right now," Vic said with a shrug.

"Apparently so's business." Kurt stood.

Jen got up too. "I'll drop your package at the post office, then"—" She looked at Kurt. "You know, there _is_ something...."

"About the post office?" Kurt quipped.

"About that girl who was killed... Marcie Swift." She glanced at her husband. "Marcie lived up the block from us after she left her parents."

"Come on, Honey," Vic said. "Don't be repeating nasty rumors about a dead girl."

Kurt took a step toward Jen. "No, please... anything might be helpful."

"Last summer she was dating one of the Tillson boys, maybe both."

Kurt's mouth curled into a smile. "Both?"

Vic got to his feet. "We don't _know_ that."

"Maybe worse," Jen went on. "We heard that Bob Tillson's wife found him and the boys and Marcie making a sex video in the barn one night."

Kurt frowned at Jen, then turned to Vic with a little smirk. "The family that plays together...."

Chapter Eleven

"I'll grant you this Bissell is a killer and a threat to society," state patrol Lt. Bill Barnett said. "But killing the deputy like he did and mutilating five human beings beyond recognition are _not_ the same crimes."

Sheriff O'Shea put his hands on his hips. "Well, he would've tore me up too if the radio hadn't spooked him."

"Bissell's just a big, crazy bum, Wylie." Police Chief Hanika was watching the three state patrol crime scene investigators working around Deputy Quayle's corpse on the cell floor. "Whatever killed them kids was a helluva lot more than that. Probably not even human."

O'Shea scoffed. "We ain't had a murder in this county in seven years. Now you sayin' _two_ killers showed up on the same day? And one of 'em is a ghost?"

"The killings of the kids and Tillsons could be related," Kurt said. He told them about Marcie Swift's rumored dalliances with the Tillsons. "If that's true, all the victims other than Marcie were guys _screwing_ Marcie. How's that for a coincidence?"

Bill Barnett took a seat at the repaired conference table.

Chief Hanika leaned against the doorframe.

Wylie O'Shea fiddled with the bandage on his tender scalp.

When the three men broke up their discussion just before noon, there were more questions than answers in everyone's mind, except Wylie O'Shea's. "We get this Bissell, there won't be no more killing."

Kurt slipped into the sheriff's office and called Ceece Maxwell. "My visit to Mrs. Bergman all set?"

"Two o'clock," the coach said. "She's pretty anxious to meet you."

"Wylie says 'ol' Harlan's been trying to bushwhack him."

"Harlan's been sharing a lot of twenty-twenty hindsight with the county's voters, if that's what you mean."

"So maybe Mrs. Bergman is afraid she can't trust the sheriff."

"Maybe," Ceece said. "But Wylie's nothing if not honest. You might want to tell her that."

"I hope she's not expecting too much from me. Is there anything in particular I need to know about her?"

"Why don't you come over for lunch with Vi and me? We'll talk about it."

The coach, his wife and Kurt were in the Maxwells' kitchen lunching on hot Reuben sandwiches and cold Budweiser. "Harlan married Sally about six years ago," Ceece said. "Met her in Omaha, where he moved after Wylie fired him." Outside, snowflakes were falling steadily past the windows.

"She was a widow." Viola, a slim, attractive brunette, was two inches taller than the coach. "Lost her husband in the Gulf War."

Ceece picked up the narrative. "She and Harlan moved back here so he could run against Wylie for sheriff three years ago. Bought a house. Stayed put."

"Sally's a sweet lady," Vi said. "Everybody likes her... and feels sorry for her. Harlan's such a carouser and she seems so fragile."

"Does she know he messes around?" Kurt asked.

"Never lets on that she does." Ceece finished his beer and went to the fridge for another. "But she's nobody's fool. Runs the front office at the phone company, keeps all the books for Harlan's brother's feed store." He sat again and opened his fresh brew. "Guess there's not much she can do but leave him and go on her own again."

Vi said, "Single women in their late-forties don't have many friends... of either gender."

"At least she doesn't need a breadwinner," Kurt said.

Ceece chuckled. "No, you can't call Harlan Bergman a 'breadwinner.' I'm sure it was her money bought their house and pays most of the bills. Harlan's too hung up on being sheriff to worry about little stuff like food and shelter." He leaned back and sighed. "But Sally's really worried about him. I could tell by her voice. She loves him, I guess, despite his shenanigans."

"Harlan can be a charming man," Vi said. "Still got his looks. Used to be a lot of fun till he lost that deputy job."

"You know he played tackle for Nebraska back in the late seventies?" Ceece asked Kurt.

Kurt nodded. "And that he flunked out."

"Not because he's stupid." Ceece sat up again. "He's not the dense ex-jock that a lotta people think he is."

"What was he fired for?"

Ceece sighed again. "Chug Wilmot caught him doing the deed with Mrs. Wilmot, started a fight. Harlan broke the guy's arm and cracked his skull."

"It wasn't the first time Harlan was involved in an altercation over another woman," Vi added.

"I heard the stories." Kurt stretched out on the chair and crossed his ankles. "Wyllie thinks Harlan's stealing and vandalizing around here just to make him look bad."

Ceece pursed his lips, glanced at Vi, and shrugged. "I think Harlan's gone a little nuts over being sheriff," Ceece finally said. "I wouldn't put much past him."

Vi leaned back with a sigh. "Not much." She stood, gathered the empty plates and took them to the sink.

Kurt propped his elbows on the tabletop and leaned forward. "Did he ever screw around with Marcie Swift?"

The coach's brow furrowed for a moment. "Marcie had a 'reputation,' as they say, even with older guys, but I never heard anything about Harlan Bergman and her."

From the sink, Viola said, "Be a little remiss to think the two most promiscuous people in town didn't somehow get together at least for a tryst or two."

Ceece nodded. "And if somebody knew about it they'd keep mum for Sally's sake.

Vi finished stuffing the dishes in the washer. "There was a rumor that Marcie was pregnant at one time by some big shot, but no baby ever showed up."

"Well, no baby that we know about." Ceece grinned at Kurt. "She put on a lot of weight one spring, then left school for a week or so. Came back lookin' like her old self."

"Almost." Vi came to the table and sat. "But I don't think Harlan was living here at that time."

Kurt related what Jen Rathe had said about Marcie and the three Tillsons making a sex video. "So it looks like the four male victims are all tied to Marcie."

"Probably five if Harlan winds up among the deceased," Ceece added.

Kurt eyed the coach. "I wasn't thinking of Harlan as a victim."

Ceece's neck stiffened, and he frowned at Kurt. "You thinking Harlan is the _killer_?"

"Maybe Marcie just wanted a couple wham-bams and then told Harlan to get lost. Maybe he didn't want to." He looked at Vi, then back at the coach. "The guy has a violent temper. You know that."

Ceece shook his head. "What I saw on the peak was more than violence. And what about those bite marks?"

"Scavengers. Folks have seen bobcats up in those hills over the years. Maybe a pack of dogs."

Vi licked her lips. "And he killed the Tillsons because...?"

"Maybe Marcie was leaving Harlan for one of them." Kurt crossed his arms over his chest.

"Or all three." The coach took a swig of his beer.

"But Harlan's been missing since Sunday night," Vi said.

Kurt smiled. "Hell of an alibi, huh? He shows up here tomorrow or Monday, can't figure why anybody would think he was missing, it was just another business trip, the kind he makes all the time."

Ceece grunted. "And where's he been?"

"Omaha or Des Moines or even Kansas City, making sure he's seen by people in restaurants, hotels, maybe with a client or two. He'll have plenty of people to verify that he was nowhere around here last week. Of course nobody will think to check out his specific whereabouts on Thursday night and early Friday. He was gone all week and that's that. Now he can settle in with Sally. Revenge accomplished. And as a bonus, Wylie and Dar Hanika have five murders they'll never solve."

Ceece grunted and got up to get a fresh beer from the fridge. "Harlan's smart, but only a Chicago lawyer would think up with a scheme like that. If Harlan's absence has anything to do with the killings, my money says he's a victim."

"Let's hope he really is somewhere on business," Vi said.

The phone rang and Ceece answered. "Maxwell's.'" He listened. "I'm gonna put you on speaker, Dar." He hit another button and set the phone down.

Chief Hanika's voice blared from the receiver. "They got him, Ceece. Found the car smashed into a power pole over by Des Moines."

"Who?"

"Bissell. The fugitive."

"He's alive?"

"In a Des Moines hospital," Hanika said. "Say he's not critical."

"They gonna keep him in Des Moines?" Kurt shouted from across the room.

"Probably a day or two," the chief said. "Then they'll ship him to Lincoln, to the state pen, at least for a while."

"Good idea." Ceece finished the conversation and hung up. "So we won't have panic over an escaped killer."

"Sheriff O'Shea can thank his lucky stars," Vi said.

When Kurt left at about one-thirty, two inches of new snow had accumulated on Ceece's driveway and walks. The weather forecast on his car radio said that predictions for southeastern Nebraska were now ten to fourteen inches by Sunday morning. He looked at the heavy skies. _Son of a bitch_....

### Chapter Twelve

#

"Yes?" Sally Bergman said as she opened her front door. "Are you Kurt?"

"Kurt McBride, Ma'am. Nice to meet you."

The forty-something woman, petite and faintly pretty, nodded and waved Kurt into the small living room. "Come in, please." Her short hair was marcelled, reminiscent of a 1920s flapper. "Finally, someone I can talk to about Harlan."

"Still haven't heard from him?"

"Not a peep." She gently ushered Kurt to the couch, then brought over a silver tray containing a carafe of dark fluid, two cups and a plate of small cakes. "How do you like your coffee?"

As Sally served their refreshments, Kurt glanced around the place she and Harlan Bergman called home. The furniture and décor were tasteful, some of it comprised of likely family heirlooms, and everything in sight was tidy.

Sally sat in a wing chair opposite the couch. "Harlan has been gone before, but never longer than two days without calling."

"Your phone working okay?"

She nodded. "I've used it a lot this week, local and long distance."

"Was Harlan upset about anything when he left?"

"He's been anxious the last few months... mostly about the election next fall." She pulled a Marlboro from a pack in her dress pocket. "Do you mind?"

Kurt shook his head.

Sally lit her cigarette and blew the smoke away from Kurt. "He wants that sheriff job so bad." She crossed one arm over her stomach and propped the elbow of the other on it, holding her cigarette aloft.

"His trip have anything to do with that?"

"He just said he had business in Omaha." She crossed one leg over the other and bounced the dangling foot.

Kurt took a long sip of coffee. "You and he having any... marital problems?"

"I'm sure you know Harlan's reputation." She kept her eyes on the nervous foot. "He's a rounder, I know that. It doesn't bother me. Other than that, he's a good mate." Her chin quivered slightly.

"There are lots of stories about men going out for a pack of cigarettes and never coming home. I—"

"Not Harlan." Sally tapped her cigarette ashes in a tray. "He's not the self-reliant type. Can't cook, wash, or even manage his own money. The girls who attract him couldn't take care of him—or wouldn't—and he knows that."

"He carry a cell phone?"

She shook her head. "Says they're too unreliable around here."

"Did you try him at his hotel in Omaha?"

She shrugged. "I tried everyone he's ever mentioned."

"So he didn't say which one he'd be at?"

"Seldom does."

"How about contacts?" Kurt set his coffee cup on the table. "He mention anybody he was going to see?"

"He never mentions business to me. Just gives me the bills and payments."

"Any troubles collecting on accounts lately?"

Sally frowned, then shook her head. "No... in fact, he's been getting some of the largest fees ever in the last month."

"You don't know from whom?"

"I only know who clients are when they pay by check. This has all been in cash."

Kurt sat back. "That unusual?"

Sally shook her head. "Checks tell people working at the bank who's paying whom for what."

_So Harlan's got a hot client paying cash_. "There's got to be some record some place. He have an office area in the house?"

"In the basement. Would you like to see it?"

Kurt stood. "Maybe there's something that'll point to where he went."

Sally stubbed out her smoke. "I never go down there. The kitchen table's my desk." She led Kurt through the kitchen to a back vestibule and then down a wooden staircase into the basement. A tomb-like chamber at the bottom was lit only by two narrow windows near the ceiling until Sally switched on the naked bulb hanging at the center of the room.

The place was furnished with a washer, a dryer, a sink, a floor drain, three clothes lines, a furnace and a battered, roll-top desk jammed against one wall. An unpainted plywood cubicle about ten feet square occupied a far corner.

Sally noticed Kurt staring at the structure as they stepped off the stairs. "That's Harlan's dark room," she explained. "He does all his own photography."

Kurt nodded.

"He's an awfully good investigator." Her eyes begged Kurt for some reassurance.

"'He was a good cop," Kurt said. "I know that for a fact." He moved to the desk and turned on the goose-neck lamp.

"You're with the police, aren't you?" Sally said.

"I'm a criminal prosecutor. That makes me a sort-of cop... in Chicago."

As Sally quietly outlined some of Harlan's other virtues, Kurt rummaged through the cluttered contents of the old roll top, both outside and in. Nothing there looked germane. Same for the shop-worn electric typewriter and the waste basket on the floor.

"Could I look in the dark room?"

Sally nodded, then showed Kurt how to open the tiny door and turn on the interior light.

The inside of the place reminded Kurt of the tree house he and Tiny Iverson had built when they were kids—protruding nails, crooked joints, uneven timbers and patched cracks to block incoming light. Whatever Harlan's talents might be, they didn't run to carpentry. Or, apparently, state-of-the-art technology. _Isn't Detective Harlan aware of digital cameras, computers and printers?_

The room was crowded with traditional photography gear: developing trays, a sink, a printer, rollers, and brushes. Wires had been strung for drying prints. A Leica thirty-five- millimeter camera and accessories occupied the top of a small table. Unfortunately, there was no work product in sight: no prints, negatives or contact sheets.

"He didn't take his camera?" Sally was lurking just behind Kurt's shoulder. "That's strange."

"Maybe he forgot it."

"Harlan forgets to come home sometimes, but he never forgets the tools of his trade. Never."

Kurt pointed at a chest of drawers in the corner. "May I?"

Sally nodded.

Searching through all four drawers garnered nothing but empty manila file folders, until something slipped from the stack in his hand and dropped to the floor. He knelt and picked it up. _A contact sheet...._ There were two rows of thirty-five millimeter black and white shots taken around local hangouts—the grocery store, the drug store, bars, the bowling alley, Lola's Happy Corner, the pool hall—with people, mostly young, mostly male, coming and going. And the same familiar face was in the center of every picture, a face Kurt had seen the night before in Coach Maxwell's office: basketball hero and murder victim Tim Willet.

"I'd like to take this with me if you don't mind," he said.

Sally held out a hand to take the sheet from Kurt. "What is it?" She pulled the page close and looked it over. "Proofs."

"Recognize anyone?"

"I recognize that boy." She pointed to Willet. "But I don't recall the name." Sally looked at her guest. "We don't get around young people much."

Haven't been watching TV news today?

"Coach Maxwell will know his name."

Kurt couldn't find the nerve to ask about Harlan and Marcie Swift.

Sally handed back the contact sheet. "Sure. Take it. Anything that might help. Harlan had a whole envelope full of those when he left. I saw it in his briefcase when I put in his bag lunch."

"Maybe we've stumbled onto something." He looked at her. "We're doing everything possible to locate Harlan. He probably just got busy and forgot to call. Anyway, thanks for the swell cupcakes and coffee." Then he excused himself and left to finish his other business.

Walking through light snowfall to his car, he tried to sort out what he'd just seen and heard. Thoughts raced through his mind. _Harlan' took candid snapshots of the first murder victim... that connects him to the killings_. _And a new client has been paying him large sums of cash. Is there a connection? Did the wealthy client hire Harlan to kill Tim Willet? Or one of the Tillsons? Or Marcie Swift? Or Did Harlan sell his services as a hit man knowing the results would sully Wylie O'Shea's chances for re-election? Maybe. Maybe_. _Then again, the customer's motive might have nothing to do with Wylie O'Shea or Marcie Swift or the Tillson murders_. No one scenario made total sense.

Just as Kurt opened his car door, a light came on in his head. _It_ could _make sense. If...._ He recalled the scenario he'd laid out for Ceece and Vil. _That would account for the sudden income._ A smile came to his lips. _Is Harlan that smart_?

He wanted to speed over to Ceece's house and share his new theory, but Saturday afternoon was drawing to a close. He had something very personal to do before bidding a final farewell to his old hometown.

Chapter Thirteen

After stopping at the Handy Market Liquor Store just off Highway 74 to pick up a six-pack and a quart of vodka, he drove to his boyhood home. Parking in the street was his only option; the alley to the rear garage was quickly becoming impassable.

Inside the empty house, he kicked off his wet shoes, folded his coat, sat down on the floor and opened a bottle of beer. A long swig tasted fantastic, and he could feel the alcohol doing its work.

Just after his mom's funeral, he'd consigned all the home's major furnishings—appliances, drapes, linens, china, silver and dishes—to a local auctioneer. He gave the clothing, knickknacks and other personal items to the women of Paul's Women's Auxiliary in return for their packing the items and hauling everything away for their next rummage sale. Kurt's presence hadn't been required for any of it. The pain of seeing or touching those items that had been so close to his mom and dad, that had been so much a part of his growing up, would have been unbearable.

He finished the first beer and popped another, looking about the empty living room, letting long-stifled memories find their way into his head. He grew maudlin, partially because of the alcohol, but it somehow felt good. He drank his third beer, fully aware of tears running down his cheeks. When the bottle was empty, he lay back on the floor, using his coat for a pillow. It was getting dark when he woke up.

Chapter Fourteen

"Look who made it through the snow!" Kate held the door open for Kurt and swept one hand into the living room, trying awkwardly to curtsy. Apparently cocktails had already been served.

"Thanks." Kurt had showered, shaved and dressed in a shirt and tie for his Saturday dinner with the Dodd sisters. He felt more refreshed than he had since before leaving Chicago.

Cassie came into the living room carrying Lizzie. "Is it as bad out as it looks?"

"I don't know," Kurt said. "How bad does it look?" He handed Kate a package of three T-bones and the bottle of vodka, then slipped out of his topcoat. "It's not too cold, but the snow just keeps dropping out of the sky. Must be six inches already."

"Wow!" Kate held the open package of meat for her sister to see. "These are beauties!"

"Dolby's Meat Market. Avenue A and 5th Street."

The sight of Cassie added to Kurt's exhilaration. She wore a blue blouse that set off her eyes perfectly, and a tight, clinging skirt. _Too bad we can't send Kate and the baby out to play in the snow._

Kate took the meat to the kitchen, then made a round of drinks and they all settled near a bowl of potato chips and cheese dip. They laughed at Lizzie toddling around, and then Kurt told them about Halley John Bissell's escape and recapture.

Cassie picked up her daughter. "What was the deputy's name?"

"Jimmy... something. I can't remember."

"That's six dead. We sure picked a nice town to move to." Kate finished her drink and went to make another.

"You probably noticed," Cassie said quietly. "Kate's been drinking since before it got dark."

"Depressing weather," Kate yelled from the kitchen. "And tell him about the phone calls."

Cassie looked uncomfortable with the subject. "We got three more today."

"I forgot about the calls." Kurt put his drink down on the coffee table. "Same routine?"

"Whoever it is just listens and breathes. Won't answer."

"Any idea who's doing it?"

Cassie avoided his eyes. "We've only been in town six weeks."

"Nobody at work has been ogling either one of you?"

Kate plopped back into her seat with a full glass. "I think it's some damn kid who doesn't even know who we are."

"Could be." Cassie stood with Lizzie in her arms. "I've got to feed our sweetie. Then she'll be ready for bed." She carried the child into the kitchen.

Kate held her drink in both hands and looked at Kurt. "How come you moved away from here?"

"The Chicago climate."

Kate barked a laugh., then looked at Kurt. "Those bitches Cass works with don't think much of you."

Kurt took a sip from his glass, smiled. "That's okay. I don't think much of them either... or their shithole of a town."

"You really pissed some people off, huh?" Kate said.

The phone rang.

Kate almost spilled her booze, then sat frozen.

"You'll have to get it, Kate," Cassie yelled from the kitchen.

Kurt stood. "Let me." He went to the screeching instrument and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" He could hear someone breathing on the other end of the line. "Hello. This is Kurt McBride. Who's calling, please?"

More breathing. Steady, not labored.

"I'm with the Cook County State's Attorney's Office, and I've put a trace on this line. You—" The caller hung up. "You can kiss my ass."

"She hang up?" Kate was chewing her lower lip.

Kurt replaced the receiver. "She _?_ "

"Whoever it was." Kate gulped her drink.

Kurt strolled back to his seat on the couch. "I've never heard of a woman making obscene phone calls."

Cassie peeked her head around the corner. "Maybe you scared him off."

Kate didn't cook outside on the charcoal grill as planned. She was in bed, out cold, at seven-fifteen, just after Lizzie went down for the night. Cassie broiled the steaks in the oven with baked potatoes, and she and Kurt had a quiet dinner for two while listening to music on the radio. They adjourned to the living room with fresh drinks at about eight-thirty.

"You want to watch TV?" Cassie wandered toward the small-screen TV on a table in a one corner.

"The music's fine," Kurt said, nestling into one end of the sofa. "Just sit down." He tapped the back of the couch.

"The radio loud enough?"

He tapped the furniture again.

Cassie sat down next to Kurt, but as far away as she could. "I probably shouldn't be drinking this much. If Lizzie needs me—"

"Just be a pretty girl for a little while, okay?"

"A _pretty girl_?" Her cheeks flushed slightly. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"That's what you are," Kurt said with a gentle smile.

"Guys usually see unwed mothers as easy marks." Cassie's eyes locked on Kurt's.

"Joseph didn't think that about Mary."

Cassie muffled a giggle. "You'll burn in hell!" She laughed again.

"So did you work for the U.P. in Omaha?"

She shook her head. "I was with St. Joseph Hospital. Receptionist."

"And Kate worked for an insurance company, you said?"

"Until they fired her for being 'left-wing loony.'" Cassie sat back on the couch, turning to face Kurt at the other end.

He dropped his arm on the back of the couch. "That why you moved here?"

"She didn't have much opportunity in Omaha." Cassie took a long swallow of her vodka tonic. "Besides, we needed a change."

Kurt slid down into his seat and crossed his legs. "She had no trouble signing on at the canning factory?"

" _She_ didn't. My boss, Mr. Muncie, warned _me_ that the U.P. home office knew about Kate and if there was any trouble they'd have to let me go. Public relations and all that."

"Are you a protester too?"

Cassie sighed. "I don't know. I think I shouldn't have to be terrified every day that somebody's going to blow up the world." She draped one arm on the back of the couch. "And Kate shouldn't lose her job because of what she says."

"Amen to that." Kurt grabbed his glass. "But everybody's afraid right now. And they're not sure of what exactly, so they dream up faces to hate."

"You're not worried?"

"The hysteria going around scares the hell out of me." He finished his drink and held up his empty glass. "Want another?"

Cassie shook her head and nodded at the one swallow she had left. "This is fine."

Kurt set his glass on the coffee table. "Yeah, I've had enough for one night." He twisted in the corner of the couch to face Cassie. "So you two have been in town how long?"

"Six weeks." Cassie said.

"I guess there was nothing keeping you in Omaha. I mean, family or anything? Lizzie's father?"

"Our family's in Lincoln."

"I never really appreciated my family until it was too late." He told her about his parents' deaths and his time of reflection that afternoon.

"You don't have any relatives left here at all?"

"Anywhere," he said. "Except for a couple of stray cousins around Omaha someplace."

"Kate and I still have everybody, all in Lincoln."

"It's important for kids to know their grandparents."

"Depends on the grandparents."

Kurt looked at her with a frown.

Cassie pulled her feet and legs up under her and smiled. "You don't have a 'special girl' back in Chicago?"

"Anywhere." He kept staring at her.

"From what I hear, you've never been exactly lonely."

He shook his head. "Never thought I was... until today." Kurt's gaze drifted past Cassie's shoulder. Suddenly he stood and bolted out the apartment door and through the main entrance onto the front stoop, then grabbed the handrail to keep his balance. The new snow was ankle deep, and in leather-soled dress shoes he didn't stand a chance.

"What is it?" Cassie, right behind him, kept hold of the front door.

"Somebody was looking in your window."

"What?"

"I saw him and he saw me." Kurt scanned the darkness around the front of the apartment house. "Bastard knows I can't chase him in this shit." He glanced at the falling flakes, then wiped snow from his shoes and pants legs.

"Should we call the police?"

Kurt ushered Cassie back into the apartment. "Make sure all these windows are locked tight and keep the shades pulled." He went to the phone, dialed the police department number and told the operator what had happened. "Maybe Dar can send over a cruiser... let the sucker know we're serious."

Officer Will Tesch dropped by forty-five minutes later and left his squad car sitting at the curb, engine running, lights flashing. For half an hour he discussed the peeper—and the recent murders—with Kurt and Cassie over hot chocolate and cupcakes. His main focus seemed to be the weather. "Supposed to get another foot," he said just before leaving.

"Maybe you should stay here," Cassie told Kurt after Tesch left.

"For my safety or yours?"

"Both."

Kurt glanced at his watch. "It's time for me to get back to the motel." He patted her shoulder. "But it's nice to feel needed."

"I really wish you'd stay. The roads must be awful."

"You guys don't need some man layin' around in his underwear," Kurt said.

"We'd have privacy. There's a rollaway bed in Lizzie's room you can use. She can sleep with me."

Kurt retrieved his coat from a chair back. "Kate might not be so hospitable, especially with the hangover she's gonna have."

"Kate loves company."

While Cassie moved Lizzie and made up the spare bed, Kurt watched the ten o'clock news on TV.

"Officials are asking everyone to stay off the roads and inside if at all possible," the reporter announced several times.

"See?" Cassie said as she returned from her bed-making chores. "Even the TV man thinks you should stay."

They chatted for another hour, mostly about the people and idiosyncrasies of Rock Bluff, then had some cookies and retired to their respective beds.

Just before nodding off about eleven-thirty, Kurt thought of Cassie sitting on the couch, sipping her drink, laughing and talking. _Flirting? Yes, but with so much class. And not a phony bone in her body._ He'd always thought about having a woman like her in his life, but none had come along. At age thirty, it was about time to find one. _Maybe God steered me to Rock Bluff one last time because Cassie's here...._

Outside, the snow kept falling. By midnight, Officer Tesch's wheel tracks were completely covered. But a lithe figure darting around in the blizzard outside Cassie and Kate's apartment was making new and deeper tracks.

Chapter Fifteen

Kurt hated wearing the same T-shirt and shorts two days in a row, especially after sleeping in them. But he couldn't very well borrow clean stuff from Cassie or Kate. So he climbed into his clothes on Sunday morning with some distaste, then dashed into the john, hoping one of the women had left a comb or brush available. A razor and shave cream, he knew, would be too much to expect. He didn't even consider a tooth brush.

But he found all those articles neatly laid out for him on top of the toilet tank. So when he joined the sisters and little Lizzie in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, he looked neat and felt reasonably refreshed.

"Come have some coffee and breakfast," Kate said from her seat at the table. "You ain't goin' anywhere. Rock Bluff is shut down. Snowed-in like Donner Pass. According to all the Omaha radio and TV stations, so is most of Eastern Nebraska. None of the highways are open, no stores are doing business, and none of the churches are saving souls."

Kurt went to the living room window and surveyed the sun-washed winterscape outside. _Nothing moving, not even kids with sleds._ Everything was buried by at least a foot of new snow, probably more. _It'll be hours before the roads are passable. I'll be lucky to get out of town by Tuesday._ _Shit_ _!_

Cassie came up behind him. "You play dominoes?"

"I'm better at computer games," Kurt said.

"Ours is broke. We're saving up to get it fixed."

They spent the day playing board games and cards, checking the radio, talking and watching what little TV had to offer on the six available channels. It was Kurt's first extended confinement with a child, particularly a toddler. By late afternoon he began getting the hang of it. Just as he began getting the hang of sharing casual time with a personable, unassuming young woman. Cassie's looks were a bonus.

And her sister was a pain in the ass. Kate's likeness to Cassie stopped with the eyes and cheekbones. _Well, the figures are similar too, but...._ Cassie was a model of equanimity; Kate could be delirious one moment and morose the next. Cassie was caring and thoughtful; Kate was self-centered and often cold. Although they squabbled, the sisters never fought. And it was clear they loved each other and little Lizzie unconditionally.

Kurt was reminded of the special love his mom and dad had shared. He was certain he could feel that way about Cassie Dodd in no time. And it was clear she was attracted to him as well, like every other girl he'd ever given the time of day. Except Kate.

"Is that on TV?" Kate yelled from the kitchen.

Kurt and Cassie listened.

Cassie smiled. "It's outside."

The three adults scrambled to the picture window, searching for the source of engine noise. It was the city snowplow grinding its way down 5th Street.

"Finally!" Kate said. "We can get out of this hole."

Cassie looked at her sister. "And go where?"

"I think she means me." Kurt went to the closet for his coat.

"Don't get all pissed off," Kate said. "I just meant we're not trapped anymore."

"There's a car." Cassie pointed behind the snowplow.

"That's Ceece!" Kurt slipped into his topcoat.

They watched the snowplow struggle past, then saw the car behind it stop. Coach Ceece Maxwell got out and waded through snow to their front stoop.

Kurt met him in the hallway. "What's up?"

"Need you to look at something." He started back to his car. "Come on."

Kurt thanked Cassie and Kate for their hospitality, kissed Lizzie goodbye and joined Ceece in plodding back to the street, despite having no overshoes. "Where we going?"'

"The end of 4th Street," Ceece said. "Old house up there burned down last night. Been vacant for years, off by itself." He started the engine. "With the storm and all, they just let 'er burn."

"And now...?"

"Chief Hanika drove by for a look-see when the road was cleared. Found some bodies in the ashes." Ceece eased the car forward along the path plowed down the center of the street.

"Probably some bums who needed shelter from the snow." Kurt looked at the coach. "How many?"

"That's the problem. Dar says he can't tell. He doesn't know what to do."

"Surprise, surprise," Kurt muttered. "Where's Barnett and his state patrol team?"

"In Lincoln. Went back early yesterday afternoon. They won't be coming here again till late tomorrow, maybe Tuesday."

"I can't help," Kurt said.

"Dar's afraid it's related to those other killings."

"Not likely." Kurt frowned. "How'd you know where to find me this morning?"

"Called Wylie when I couldn't get you at the motel or on your cell." Ceece suppressed a grin. "Looks like you got a pretty sweet deal going."

Kurt sighed, then told the coach about his "friendship" with Kate and Cassie Dodd.

A few minutes later they stopped behind a police car on the corner of Avenue H and 4th Street and again waded through knee-high snow to a black pile of smoldering rubble. Chief Dar Hanika was hunkered behind the only part of the building still upright, the fireplace and chimney.

"This place was vacant when I was growing up," Kurt said as he and the coach huddled with Chief Hanika. "We used to come here to drink beer and feel up girls." He pointed. "In fact, right over there—" He dropped his hand when he saw a lump of seared human remains,. Then more of the same, scattered across the mud floor— _all_ across it. "Son of a bitch!"

"I got no idea how many's in there," Dar said.

Kurt crept through the debris a ways, then stopped and looked around. "It'll take a crime lab to figure this out." He joined the others again.

"I got Larry Roberts coming with tarps to put over everything." Dar looked at Kurt. "Anything else?"

"Carl Wise still in business?" Kurt asked.

"He takes wedding pictures, yearbook stuff," said Ceece. "Why?"

"We need pictures of everything here just the way we found it."

"My cell phone takes pictures." Ceece pointed to his car. "I'll get it."

Kurt held up a hand. "We need better resolution than that—high-end digital images."

Dar Hanika said, "Carl's probably never even been to a crime scene."

Kurt sighed. "I can help him." He looked up to see a middle-aged man and woman about to join them.

It was Ralph Eager, a loan officer at the local bank, and his wife, Debra. After quick glances at Kurt without nods or smiles, they directed their remarks to Police Chief Hanika.

"Wonder who those bodies belong to?" Ralph asked smugly.

"Morning, Ralph, Deb," Dar said politely. "You see people hanging around here last night?"

"Last _night_? We called your office two weeks ago and three times since! That shack has been infested with hillbillies for the last month."

"Thought we cleaned 'em out of there just after Christmas."

Ralph crossed his arms over his chest. "They came back. And we made damn sure Will Tesch, your number two man, knew all about it."

"Guess he forgot to tell me."

"What do you mean by infested?" Kurt asked. "How many were there?"

Ralph pointedly looked away from Kurt and tugged his parka collar tighter. "Must have been at least a dozen. Men, women, a couple of kids—"

"And I don't know how many dogs," his wife added. "One that looked big as a pony."

Kurt looked over the smoldering mess again. "That was what? A two-bedroom house with no indoor plumbing?"

"Well, they had electricity," snapped Deb Eager. "We heard their radios enough in the middle of the night."

"You should've done something about this, Dar." Ralph all but shook his finger at the police chief. "They were a public nuisance."

Deb was equally irate. "You'll find wine and whiskey bottles under this snow. Probably one a square foot." She sniffed. "Uncivilized animals!"

"Spark from the fireplace probably set it off." Dar kept his eyes on the rubble. "They was all layin' around stewed and didn't wake up till it was too late."

"I don't think 'there are a dozen bodies out there," said Kurt. "Maybe six at the most."

Ralph shrugged. "Some of them probably got out and ran back to their shacks in the bluffs."

"In the blizzard?" Kurt cocked his head, frowned at Ralph.

The Eagers starred at him for a moment, then turned and left.

"Well," Dar said with a sigh. "It looks like this has nothing to do with those murders on Friday. I guess we can be thankful for that." He kicked snow off his feet. "Still think it's all part of the curse."

"I don't think the Coogans are after hillbillies." Kurt and Ceece went back to the coach's car to wait for the local photographer.

Chapter Sixteen

It was well after dark when Kurt finally got back to his motel. He stayed in the shower almost half an hour, then plopped on the bed in clean underwear. He wondered where Cassie was at that moment. _What's she doing?_ _What's she wearing_ _?_ Those thoughts led to a nap that would've been longer if it weren't for the telephone.

"McBride," he mumbled into the receiver.

"It's Cassie. You got home okay, I guess."

"I meant to call you. I fell asleep."

"Did you find more murders?"

Kurt told her about the fire and its apparent victims, then sat up. "You going to work tomorrow?"

"I don't know. The schools are closed till noon. That's all I've heard. You're not leaving tomorrow, are you?"

"The roads won't be clear. I have next week off, so it won't matter. How about Kate? She live through her hangover?"

"She left right after you did. I haven't seen her since."

Kurt checked his watch. "Three hours ago? Where was she going?"

"Drug store, she said."

"And she took the car?"

"Yes."

Kurt rolled his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. "Maybe she—I don't know. Where could she go?"

"I'm worried."

"You need anything? I mean for you or the baby?"

"We're okay." She didn't sound okay.

"I'll drive around a little, see if I can spot the car. Blue Dodge, right?"

"Two door. License number 20-255."

"I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes."

As Kurt pulled away from the motel, snowflakes were drifting through the cold night air. _Christ!_ _Has the earth turned sideways? Is the goddamned_ _North Pole_ _sticking out of Omaha now?_

Most of the heavily travelled streets had been plowed, but the lanes were narrow and snow-packed. Driving was treacherous, especially while keeping an eye out for a blue Dodge. It took Kurt over half an hour to wend his way to Cassie's apartment and report he'd seen nothing of her sister.

"Come in," Cassie said, leaving the door open as she went to the window.

"She probably met somebody from work and went for a few drinks." Kurt pushed the door closed, took off his jacket and threw it on a chair.

"On Sunday night? Where?"

He sat on the couch. "Hey, maybe she knows somebody at the country club. They serve booze on Sunday. Or maybe they're just having Cokes."

"I don't think _anyplace_ is open." Cassie dropped into the rocking chair.

"Somebody could have invited her over," Kurt said. "Does' she have a cell phone?"

Cassie pointed to a small table at one end of the couch. On it, plugged into a battery charger that was plugged into a wall—sat the Dodd sisters' cell phone. "She put it there Friday night to charge and forgot it."

Kurt searched for something reassuring. "Well, the damn things don't work very well in this town, anyway. Like everything else."

Cassie tried to smile. "Have you had supper?"

"Supper? Guess I slept right through it.'

"There's some leftover ham in the fridge."

As the evening dragged on, Cassie went to the picture window every fifteen minutes, peering up and down the street. The only action was light snow falling and occasional headlights going one way or the other.

After the ten o'clock news, Kurt called Dar Hanika, but he got no response.

Sheriff Wylie O'Shea was next, and he answered on the extension line in his home. He'd been monitoring the radio since early morning, he said. "I've heard no reports of unidentified victims or stranded motorists."

"Nothing about a Kathryn or Kate Dodd?"

"Lose one of your little gals?" O'Shea chuckled.

"Just covering all the bases, Wylie. Good night." He hung up, looked at Cassie, shrugged and sat back down on the couch.

"The rollaway is still made up," she said. "Why don't you get your clothes and move over here till the roads are open to Chicago?"

Kurt chewed on a knuckle for a moment. "I'll stay the night, but my official residence is still the Big Muddy Motel." He kicked off his loafers. "This town is full of mouths that like to talk."

Cassie sat back in the rocking chair with a sigh. "Especially about unwed mothers."

"And unpopular ex-townies." He watched Cassie rock slowly. "I'm sure you heard all about what an asshole I am."

"Something about a football game... or was it basketball? It doesn't matter to me."

Kurt intertwined his fingers behind his head and leaned back on the couch, looking at the ceiling but focused much farther away. "The Nebraska Class B State High School Football Championship game. Seacrest Field in Lincoln. Holdrege St. Cecelia was ranked number one and undefeated, and we were ranked number two and also undefeated."

"Vic Rathe and I led the Rock Bluff Rangers down the field to a touchdown on our first possession of the game. Put Holdrege behind for the first time all season. Then our team went on defense and forced a three-and-out. Back on offense, I fired a thirty-yard pass to Rathe. Then I lost sight of everything but the lights over the field after two overgrown slobs smashed me into the turf. It felt like something in my shoulder exploded," Kurt said. "I thought it must've been ripped off. All I could do was roll around and squeal. I don't know how long I stayed down before Coach Ceece and a student manager helped me off the field. My whole right side was just throbbing. It hurt so bad I could barely keep my eyes open. Seacrest Field didn't have x-ray facilities back then, so there was no way to get a quick read on the injury. All we could do was rely on Doc Culligan's opinion.

"When the pain started to ease, Doc had me try to move my arm around, see what kind of range of motion I had. I couldn't do much without a helluva hurt. Doc said he thought my collarbone was broken and told me I wouldn't be playing anymore high school football. A moment later Ceece was kneeling beside me, and I shared the bad news. I think I was crying a little. Ceece looked like he wanted to cry too."

Cassie looked at him with sympathy. "That must have been awful for you."

Kurt nodded. "Anyway, by the time I could get my attention back on the game, it was almost halftime. Our guys were doing super on defense, but they couldn't muster any kind of scoring threat. As the fourth quarter started, so did the Holdrege offense, and they tied the game with about nine minutes left. Our defense regrouped and held, but the guys just couldn't move the damn ball. And all I could do was stand beside Ceece and watch. Just as the game appeared headed for overtime, our backup quarterback fumbled, and a defender picked it up and ran it to the three-yard line. Holdrege kicked a field goal with no time left on the clock. The final score was Holdrege 10, Rock Bluff 7."

He looked at the floor. "We stood there and watched them hoist the state championship trophy, jumping and yelling, throwing high-fives, and pounding each other on the back. I'd never felt so awful."

"It wasn't your fault," Cassie said.

"No one thought so that night." Kurt sat up and looked into his empty glass. "Next day I went down to Doc Culligan's clinic and he x-rayed my collarbone." He looked at Cassie. "Guess what? It wasn't broken. All I had was a stinger. It was a bitching pain, but nothing that should have kept me out of the game. By noon, everyone in town was talking about Kurt McBride chickening out of the championship game, how I was scared to play after I took a solid hit. A state football championship means more to people in this town than bringing in a billion-dollar industry. They didn't get it that year because I quit on them. It was inexcusable... outrageous... unforgivable."

Cassie's mouth hung open. "But it was the _doctor's_ mistake! Don't they know that?"

"Ol' Doc Culligan covered his ass. Said he told me it _might_ be broken. And he never mentioned anything about saying I shouldn't go back into the game."

"What did he tell your coach?"

"He and Ceece never talked directly, I guess. Coach took my word that I couldn't go back in."

"That wasn't your fault either."

Kurt sat up and rubbed his chin. "That wasn't the prevailing opinion in Rock Bluff. Everybody turned hostile. I was shunned on the streets, even ignored by old friends, and the local businessman who'd offered me a partnership after college called off the deal. They painted stuff like 'chickenshit' all over our house in yellow. They vandalized the car. They called on the phone day and night for a week, swore at mom and dad, threatened them, tossed rocks through the windows, and shot the house with BB guns."

"All because of a _football game_? That's awful!"

"The basketball season that year gave me some relief. I led the team in scoring, made honorable mention for all-state and brought the school to within one point of a state basketball championship. So that kind of put the football catastrophe on a back burner. If we'd scored one more basket in that championship game maybe they would have forgiven me altogether." He looked at Cassie with a whimsical grin. "No such luck."

"Who cares? You knew the truth."

Kurt slid up to the edge of the couch. "Did I?"

Cassie rocked in her seat, gently.

"Would I have gone back into that Holdrege game if Doc had said I could? I remember standing on that sideline, hurting worse than I ever had and damn glad I wasn't on the back end of any more hard hits."

"So you've felt guilty for thirteen years?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Cassie left her chair and sat beside him on the couch. "Cowards don't feel guilty." She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

Kurt returned her kiss, but restrained from making anything more of the moment. "I hope that's true."

She dropped her head on his shoulder. "Now I've got a confession of my own."

Kurt gave her a little hug and waited.

"I told you Kate and I needed a change from Omaha?"

Kurt nodded. "She lost her job, yeah."

"We left because of Kate's lover. They'd been seeing each other for almost two years and Kate wanted to break it off. But the person refused, got mad, and threatened her. Then we started getting phone calls like the ones yesterday, somebody just breathing. The tires on our car were slashed, and we'd find notes stuffed in the mailbox and under the door. Kate was almost run over once. We were terrified."

"You called the cops?"

She nodded. "They couldn't make an arrest without proof."

"So you moved here."

"In December," Cassie said. "Just before Christmas. I started work on January second."

"Now you think the guy's found you here in Rock Bluff?"

Cassie raised her head. "I didn't say _guy_."

Kurt turned to face her.

"Kate's not attracted to guys."

His eyes opened a bit wider.

"That doesn't make her dirty or a pervert," Cassie said.

"No."

"You've never known a lesbian? Even in Chicago?"

"Sure," Kurt said. "I just didn't expect that kind of normalcy to ever reach Rock Bluff."

"I'm sure Kate would lose her job here if anyone found out."

"You can take that to the bank." He slid back a little from Cassie. "Combined with her protesting history, they'd probably throw her in jail." He leaned closer to Cassie. "You think those calls yesterday were from this—"

"Karen... Karen Maino. I'm sure they were. Kate was sure too."

"And you think she has something to do with Kate's disappearance."

"Does anything else make sense?"

Kurt stood. "Do you have her phone number in Omaha?"

"I called it yesterday. Disconnected."

"License plate?"

Cassie grabbed a pencil from the coffee table, racked her brain for a moment, then wrote the number on a scrap of newspaper, as well as the make and color of Karen Maino's car.

"What's she look like?"

"Just a minute. Cassie trotted into Kate's bedroom. A moment later she came back carrying an oversize manila envelope and holding a snapshot.

Kurt took the picture. Karen Maino was a small, attractive woman about Cassie's age with short dark hair and dark eyes. _Not at all what you'd expect a sexual predator to look like._ He called Sheriff O'Shea at home.

"My turn to ask for some help, Wylie."

"I owe you a favor, that's for sure."

Kurt gave O'Shea a full description of Karen Maino, of her car and of Katherine Dodd and her car. "I can get you pictures of the women tomorrow morning, but I need the state patrol to issue APBs on these people as soon as possible."

"What'd they do?"

"Kate's missing. Maino's been harassing her for a long time. I'm sure she's responsible for the woman's disappearance," Kurt said. "Maybe you could check with Omaha P.D., see if she's got a record."

The sheriff sniffed. "But you don't know for sure she was taken against her will?"

"I know she's been missing for eight hours and there's no place in this town to go right now."

"No offense, but we been askin' a lot of the state patrol the last couple days. I send 'em on some wild goose chase, they ain't gonna be too anxious to keep helping us with all these killings."

"It's not a wild goose chase." He hung up the phone and turned to Cassie, who was standing beside him. "Now I feel like we're doing something, at least." He reached for the envelope in her hand. "Mind if I have a look?"

Cassie let him take the package and they both sat on the couch, spreading the envelope's contents in front of them on the coffee table.

Kurt shuffled through photos of Kate, Cassie, Lizzie, Karen Maino and some unknown adults, men and women in their twenties. None appeared to be parents or relatives.

"Lizzie's father's not in there," Cassie said. "If that's what you're looking for."

"I'm just looking."

"Someday maybe I can tell you about him." She scooped the photos back into the envelopes and returned them to Kate's bedroom.

Kurt stood, stretched, and looked out the window in both directions, then sat in an overstuffed chair facing the tiny TV screen

When Cassie came back she was looking at her watch. "Let's check the ten o'clock news." She sat on the hassock in front of their easy chair, punched the remote. "There might be something."

There wasn't. When the news ended, the Omaha station carried an infomercial touting a weight-loss program "proven by the stars."

Cassie shut it off. "It's not like Kate hasn't gone off without telling anybody before." She sighed and went to the window yet again. "Maybe she and Karen made up and went to a motel someplace."

"There are two others besides mine." Kurt couldn't help ogling Cassie's backside as she faced the opposite direction.

"If she had an accident there'd be a report from somebody."

"I'm sure the sheriff issued an all-points bulletin," Kurt said. "People are keeping an eye out for her."

Cassie stepped closer to the window and closed the drapes. "I'm just not going to worry about it. If Kate has one talent, it's taking care of herself." She sat in the nearby rocking chair and looked at Kurt.

He looked back at her for a moment, then smiled. "You can sit here." Kurt swept a hand across his lap.

Cassie muffled a smile, then walked slowly to Kurt and dropped herself across his legs and knees. "Hope I'm not too heavy. I think I've put on a few pounds."

"Feels like they're all in the right places." He patted her thigh, felt the leg band of her panties under her skirt, and snapped it.

Her lips were waiting for his when he looked up.

They necked like teenagers, for nearly an hour. _Is she seeking relief from her worries through sex?_ Kurt thought. _Probably_ _... but she's_ _so_ _sweet._

Finally Cassie struggled to her feet. "We'd better get to bed." She tugged her skirt down and closed a couple of blouse buttons. "I'll get Lizzie moved into my room."

Kurt wrapped his hand around her wrist. "We could leave Lizzie right where she is."

Cassie looked into his eyes, her mouth open.

"Of course Kate probably _will_ be coming home," Kurt said. "And she'd—"

"Kate and I don't have any secrets." She pulled Kurt to his feet and they walked toward her bedroom, their arms wrapped around each other's waists. Just before they reached the door, Cassie stopped and pulled Kurt to her, then slipped her hands onto his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Kurt." She looked into his eyes, then dropped her head on his chest. "I can't. I wish I could. If I knew Kate was safe somewhere, then—"

Kurt took her face in his hands, raised it to him and gently kissed her lips. "I'll help you move Lizzie."

Chapter Seventeen

As Kurt brushed a thin layer of snow off the windshield of his car the next morning, he was sure neighbors were watching. By nightfall most of Rock Bluff would know for certain that he'd spent Sunday night in the Dodd girls' apartment and that big sister Kate was not around to chaperone.

Would someone send out a petition to ban unwed mothers from the nice, clean neighborhood? Condemn Cassie for having wild sex orgies? _Nah. They'll just gossip about "the little tramp" until some fresher scandal gets their attention._ _Maybe 'they'll send over one of the preachers to pull Cassie's soul from the cusp of hellfire._ Kurt 'snorted. _She has more character than all the rumor mongers put together. One day she'll rise to a station in life they can't even imagine._

Squinting against sunlight reflected off the snow-covered landscape, he saw Cassie and Lizzie watching from inside the apartment front window. His new lover had been forced to take a sick day—unpaid, of course—because of Kate's absence. That would be a blow to their budget, but there was no other choice.

Kurt waved at the two, then crawled into his car and started the engine. Cassie was smiling, but he knew she was worried sick about her sister. He hoped the photos of Karen Maino and Kate that he was delivering to Sheriff O'Shea wouldn't be needed, that the missing sister would soon show up with an explanation. Until then, though, they should proceed with expectations of the worst possible outcome.

He'd made a quick phone call to the sheriff after breakfast for some details about Karen but had learned nothing helpful. She had no criminal record. Kate didn't either, but she was listed in a confidential Omaha P.D. bulletin about "suspected trouble makers."

He pulled away from the curb and, with a final wave to Cassie and the baby, headed for the county jail. In his conversation with Wylie O'Shea he hadn't mentioned the burned-out house and charred bodies from the day before, and the sheriff hadn't either. _Good. Let Chief Dar wrestle with that one. It's his job._

He hoped his involvement in local problems was over, but he was no longer obsessed with getting out of town. He planned on staying until the following Sunday, and he planned to spend every possible minute he could with Ms. Cassie Dodd. Thoughts of forever were occurring to him for the first time.

Up 5th Street a snowplow was clearing curb areas in the wake of vehicles that had been driven off to work. Passing the huge tractor would be awkward, and following behind it would be too slow. He made a right turn onto Avenue A and found a tow truck from Huber's Mobil blocking the street halfway up the block.

The wrecker driver was tugging his cable toward the front of a car parked at one curb, fender-deep in snow. Apparently the plow had come by before the car's owner could move it and now that was impossible without help. Kurt pegged a man on the nearby sidewalk wearing a hooded parka as the guilty party. As he slowed to make a U turn and retreat, he looked closer at the disabled car: _Dodge Aspen, dark blue._ _1997_ _? Holy frijole!_

He drove to the tow truck and jumped out, then jogged to the front of the mired vehicle where the wrecker driver was kneeling in search of a place to hook his cable. "What's the plate number on that thing?"

"I don't know," the man said, and jerked his thumb toward the onlooker. "He's the one wants it moved."

Kurt recognized the older man on the sidewalk as Ed Binder, the local druggist.

"You're McBride, aren't you?" asked Binder.

Kurt bobbed his head once. "Is this Kate Dodd's car?"

Binder shrugged. "It's in front of my house with the keys locked inside is all I know. Plow couldn't clear the snow."

As the wrecker operator got to his feet, Kurt saw the license plate: 20-255. _Kate's car. Damn._ He looked in the left-front window and spotted the keys dangling from the ignition lock, not realizing for a moment that—save for a few jagged shards at the top and bottom—the glass in that door was gone. He again looked at Binder on the sidewalk. "How long's it been here?"

"It was there when we got up. Not one I've seen around here."

Nothing inside the car looked damaged. No torn clothes, ripped upholstery, broken plastic, or stains.

He stepped away as the tow truck's winch groaned and started reeling in cable. The front end of Kate's Dodge rose from the piled snow and the chassis jerked forward on its rear wheels, nuzzling up to the wrecker and dripping dark fluid onto the white powder beneath it.

"Hold it!" Kurt dashed to the stained snow, knelt and examined a drop of the stuff on his finger."

"What are you doin'?" The driver yelled, leaning out of his cab.

Kurt rose and walked to the truck. "This is blood." He showed the driver the sample. "It's dripping from the rear end."

"How do you know it's blood?"

"Look at it." He held out his finger. "Smell it. That's not oil or transmission fluid."

The driver waved it away and put his engine in neutral. "What should we do?"

"Got a crowbar?"

He didn't, but he had a jack handle and Kurt used it to jimmy the trunk lock. All three men stood back as the lid unfolded, revealing the contents.

"Jesus Christ!" The tow truck operator stepped away from the car.

"Oh my word!" Ed Binder leaned in to the compartment to get a better look. "Who would do that to a human being?"

Kurt was sure the mutilated body wasn't Kate Dodd's. It was too small. The slashed face, slit throat and mangled limbs belonged to a young female, but identifying her would take some detective work. Then he saw something he remembered from a photo. A tattoo on the back of one hand.

The latest victim in the Rock Bluff killing spree was twenty-two year old Karen Maino.

Chapter Eighteen

Flying snow shot from behind the departing tow truck and splattered Kurt's face. He and Rock Bluff Police Officer Will Tesch turned away from the shower and closed the double door of the municipal garage. Kate's Dodge and its gruesome cargo were locked inside.

The two went in through the back door of the police station, passed the four six-by-eight cells and entered the tiny office at the front of the building, both shedding their coats.

"I suppose we should've left the car out there where you found it," Tesch said. "But the chief said bring 'er in, so"—"

"The wrecker had that scene pretty well neutered," said Kurt.

County Sheriff Wylie O'Shea came in the door. "Saw Huber's tow truck driving away. What's up?"

Kurt told him what they'd found on the side street.

"The dead girl's one of 'em you were looking for?" Wylie asked.

Kurt nodded. "Karen Maino. The car belongs to Kate Dodd." He pulled the photos of Kate and Karen from a shipping envelope and handed them to the sheriff.

Wylie studied the pictures.

Tesch peeked over his shoulder.

"No idea where the other one is?" the sheriff asked Kurt.

Kurt shook his head.

"Well, I guess this little one didn't do the kidnapping," O'Shea said, handing Tesch the pictures. "I just stopped in to tell you that this Maino girl's car is parked right up on Lincoln Avenue, across from Wiebold's Drug."

Kurt sighed. "Right on the main drag."

"With all this snow, we ain't had much time to look for runaways." Wylie glanced at the police officer. "Right, Will?"

"We been busy." Tesch plopped into the chair behind the chief's desk.

Kurt grabbed a filthy mug off the table and filled it with steaming ooze from an ancient percolator. "Where is it now? Karen's car?"

"Right where they found it." Wylie O'Shea slipped out of his parka and shook it. "She won't be needin' transportation, I figure."

"State patrol team will want to go through it," Kurt said. "Whenever they get here."

"They're here. Road's open from Lincoln." Wylie tossed his coat on the desktop. "Barnett and his crew are up at that house that burned down yesterday."

"With the chief," Tesch added.

Kurt looked at the sheriff. "You heard about that?"

Wylie nodded, then took a chair by the door. "All I know is my boy Halley John Bissell is still in a Des Moines hospital and will be till Wednesday afternoon."

"Still want to believe he killed the Tillsons?" said Kurt.

"All you gotta do is prove he didn't."

Tesch put the photos down. "He didn't kill them people in the fire and he didn't kill this little gal."

"Not directly, no." Wylie crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. "But them bums run in packs, you know."

Kurt sniffed. "And bums or hoboes have Kate Dodd someplace? Come on, Wylie."

"Where'd you find the car?"

"Avenue B, between 4th and 5th."

Wylie smiled. "Two blocks from the U.P. tracks."

"Bullshit." Kurt turned away from the sheriff.

"I'm just pullin' your leg, McBride. We got an APB out on your girl. I'll e-mail her picture soon as I get back to the office."

Kurt took a sip of his coffee, almost spit it out, then swallowed with a grimace. As he glanced out the front window state patrol Lt. Bill Barnett and Chief Dar Hanika were exiting the Rock Bluff city squad car. A state patrol cruiser with two men inside pulled up beside it.

Kurt wanted to get out and tell Cassie about Karen Maino face to face. The murder left little doubt that Kate was in serious trouble. He didn't want Cassie learning the news from strangers or an Omaha radio or TV station. She'd be devastated, fearing for her sister's life, imagining herself left alone to care for Lizzie. First, though, he wanted to check with Barnett about the fire.

"Still here, McBride?" Barnett came in first, followed by Chief Hanika. "Nasty weather for driving." He greeted O'Shea and Will Tesch.

Will got up and moved away from his boss's desk. "What you figure happened?"

"We know there are four corpses," Lt. Barnett said as he unzipped his jacket. "Males, we think."

Chief Hanika whined like a pouting child. "Damn curse."

Lt. Barnett sat on the front edge of the chief's desk, eyeing Tesch. "I understand we have another victim."

"Out in the garage," the officer said.

Kurt explained Kate's disappearance and his discovery of Karen Maino's mutilated body.

Chief Hanika ushered Tesch toward the front door. "Show the patrol boys where the car is."

"Sure, Dar," the officer said. "They can drive around to the garage."

Kurt waited for the door to close behind the departing city cop. "Four males. Any guesses on age?"

"My guess would be adults, under forty," Barnett said.

The sheriff scratched his head. "Hoboes?"

"Ralph Eager and his wife said a bunch of them were nested there." Kurt leaned against a wall.

"Yeah, but that don't mean those are hobo's bodies." Chief Hanika searched around his cluttered desktop and finally pulled out a flyer with four pictures on it. He pinned the sheet to a bulletin board behind him. "I'm bettin' our four Post Toasties are right here."

Kurt, Barnett and O'Shea stepped up to examine the flyer.

"Meester, Cobble, Biles and Stuntz." The sheriff chuckled. "There's four duds to draw to."

"I remember those guys as kids," said Kurt. "What are they, in their mid-twenties now?"

Chief Hanika nodded. "They all spent more time in police custody than school."

"Chief says they've been on the run since last fall," Barnett told Kurt. "Maybe picked the wrong place to hide."

Kurt cocked his head. "What makes you think they're the ones in the fire?"

"Found Meester's car hidden in that old shed behind the house," Chief Hanika said. "Them four never got far from that Pontiac, or each other."

"What were they running from?" Kurt asked.

O'Shea nodded toward the chief. "Us."

"Stuntz and Cobble worked at the bowling alley," Hanika said. "Some money came up missing. Pretty soon, so did they. We been lookin' for 'em ever since."

"And they'd be in a house full of hillbillies?" Kurt looked skeptical.

The men thought about that for a moment, then Sheriff O'Shea said, "Maybe they were hard up for a place to stay Saturday night, what with the blizzard and all. Found the house occupied, tried to throw the squatters out, and got killed for their trouble. Fire got started during the fight."

The chief was almost grinning. "Any case, it's no loss. Them boys was bad."

Wylie nodded. "They was always in hot water for one thing or another. Meester went—son of a bitch!"

Kurt looked at Wylie. "What?"

"I was gonna say Pete Meester went to the pen when he was eighteen. Then I remembered why." O'Shea stared at Kurt. "Statutory rape. He got caught fuckin' jail bait. A fourteen year old girl: Marcie Swift!"

Lt. Barnett's eyes widened. "The girl killed up on the peak?"

Chief Hanika nodded, then spoke quietly. "Her daddy's one of them holy roller preachers. He filed charges." Hanika sat down in his chair. "Ain't that something?"

Kurt, the sheriff and Barnett silently pondered the information.

"And don't forget the Tillsons." Kurt finally said. "Now here she pops up again." He turned to Bill Barnett. "That's a lot of coincidence."

Barnett pursed his lips. "Could there be an ex-boyfriend on the prowl?"

"Marcie's been hosed by a lot of fellas," Hanika said. "You could shoot any ten guys in this town, and five of 'em been in Marcie's pants. But none of 'em had teeth like a cougar." The chief rocked back in his chair. "Goddamned curse."

Sheriff O'Shea looked out the front window. "She was in on that whore house deal too, don't forget." He explained to Kurt and Barnett that, two years earlier, a local farmhouse was used as a brothel, featuring women from Rock Bluff. Most were tramps or restless housewives, but Marcie Swift had also joined up and soon became the star attraction. "Place was common knowledge all over the county. We had to raid it."

"Run by a farmer?" Kurt asked O'Shea.

The sheriff nodded. "Herm Weston. Wasn't his fault, though. Bunch of hotshots from town conned him. They took most of the profits. Never could prove it, though." He turned away from the window again. "Judge slapped Herm with a thousand dollar fine and that was that."

Kurt picked up the big vanilla envelope in which he'd brought the missing girls' pictures. "There's one more chestnut to throw in this fire." He withdrew a photographer's contact sheet and handed it to Wylie. "I found this in Harlan's Bergman's darkroom yesterday."

The other two officers squeezed up to get a look.

"Tim Willet." The sheriff looked at Kurt with a deep frown, then eyed Lt. Barnett. "The other body at the peak."

Barnett took a closer look at picture. "Who's this Harlan?"

"Local P.I.," Kurt said. "Been missing since Sunday. Or at least his wife thinks he's missing. She told me Harlan's got a new client paying beaucoup bucks in cash." Kurt sat on the edge of Dar's desk. "Harlan used to be one of Wylie's deputies. Now he wants the sheriff's job for himself in the election this fall. This bloodbath is just what he needs to disgrace Wylie. Could be irrelevant, but"—"

"Harlan's been bad mouthing me for five years," Wylie said. "He'd give up Christmas and Saturday nights to beat me in the election."

"And he's a known carouser," Kurt said. "I'll give you nine to one he's boffed Marcie Swift a time or two."

Lt. Barnett asked Kurt, "You think this P.I. might be the killer?"

"The brutality of the murders, the way the bodies were displayed for everybody to notice. Somebody's sending a message." Kurt leaned back against the wall again. "If there's anyone in this community with a disposition to maim and murder it'd have to be Harlan."

Police Chief Hanika huffed. "And where'd all this cash he's bringing home come from all of a sudden?"

Now all eyes shifted to Kurt.

"Took me a while to work that out. But what if one of our wealthy citizens wants Wiley ousted as bad as Harlan does? Such a person could be funding what I guess we might call an _unconventional_ campaign."

Hanika shook his head. "This killing is politics? Bullshit."

Barnett leaned toward Kurt. "And now Harlan's missing because...?"

"What better way to give himself an alibi for the murders and then draw attention to himself at a critical moment? Everybody in the county knows he's gone right now. When he comes back tonight or tomorrow, it'll be big news—at exactly the same time people are getting more pissed off at Wiley by the hour. Then all the killing miraculously stops with Harlan's return. Who's gonna be the county hero when election time rolls around?"

Lt. Barnett persisted. "Depends on how well he explains his current absence."

Kurt shrugged. "He got busy. Tried to call the Missus but the phone must have been out. Thought he told her he was coming back next Tuesday, something like that. In the meantime a lot of reliable witnesses have seen him buzzing around in Omaha for the last week."

Wylie's eyes narrowed. "But he snuck back here when nobody was lookin' and did his dirty work."

Kurt conceded, "Maybe Marcie Swift was a target and maybe she was collateral damage. Only Harlan knows for sure."

Barnett nodded and put his hands in his back pockets, then glanced around at his companions. "Looks like there are a number of scenarios we need to check out. Let's start with what we've got right here." He looked at Kurt. "The girl who's disappeared is a friend of yours?"

"She and the corpse out in the garage were buddies in Omaha before the Dodd sisters moved here."

"And the two disappeared yesterday?"

"Kate left the apartment just before noon. As far as I know, no one's heard from her since."

Barnett's eyes locked on Kurt's. "This Kate and the victim were _close_ friends?"

Kurt glanced at Chief Hanika and Wylie O'Shea, then back at the state patrol officer. "They were _very_ close."

"Either of them have any connection with the Swift girl?"

"Kate's sister worked in the same office with her," said Kurt. "But I don't think Kate and Marcie ever met."

Barnett nodded toward the rear of the building. "The body's out there?"

"Right this way." Chief Hanika started for the back door.

"You won't need me, Lieutenant." Kurt grabbed his coat.

"What's your number?" Barnett jotted down Kurt's cell number and Cassie's home phone. "I've got a couple things I'd like to talk over with you."

"I should be at the Dodd's number the rest of the day." As Kurt left police headquarters, a gray panel truck with _KMTV Channel 3_ painted across the side pulled into a parking spot on the other side of the street right in front of the courthouse. _Looks like those APBs on Kate and Karen got somebody's attention_ , he thought. Before long the whole country would know about the bizarre goings-on in Rock Bluff, Nebraska. _I hope Cassie's not been paying much attention to TV since I left._

Chapter Nineteen

When Kurt got to the apartment, Cassie was slipping out of Lizzie's bedroom, a finger across her lips. She closed the door quietly and met Kurt in the living room. She searched his eyes. "Any news?"

Kurt took her hands in his. "They found Kate's car." He tightened his grip as 'Cassie started to speak. "She wasn't in it. Karen was. Dead."

Cassie's head tilted slightly as the meaning of Kurt's words sank in. "But Kate"—"

"There was no sign of Kate, good or bad." He led her to a seat on the couch and related his discovery of the body and the subsequent conversations at police headquarters.

"Aren't they searching for her?"

"All the cops are keeping an eye out, including the state patrol. The story will be on radio and TV and in the papers. I gave O'Shea her picture."

"She could be lying hurt somewhere."

Kurt patted Cassie's leg. "You want to tell your parents before they hear it on the news?"

She shook her head.

"I'll call them."

"Let's worry about Kate," Cassie said.

Kurt shrugged. "I just thought you'd want them to know."

Cassie snapped to her feet and stared out the picture window. "You think she's dead, don't you?"

"I think she's in serious trouble."

Cassie's head bowed, and one hand grasped her forehead.

Kurt said, "We could go look for her."

She turned to him, tears streaming down her face. "I'll get Lizzie bundled up." She whisked past Kurt to the child's room.

"There's nobody who could baby sit?"

"Betty Toline lives across the hall," she yelled over her shoulder. "But she's working."

A few minutes later, driving up Lincoln Avenue, they passed the Mobil station tow truck pulling Karen Maino's Ford Escort in the opposite direction.

"That's Karen's car," Kurt said. "They found it parked right here on the main drag."

Cassie's head followed the wrecker's path, then swung forward again. She pulled Lizzie tighter to her chest. "Did they look in the trunk?"

Kurt felt his throat tighten. "Let's go see." He swung the car into a tight U turn and tailed the tow rig without regard to the honking horns and gestures of other motorists.

"You look inside?" he yelled at the tow truck driver while piling out of his car at the municipal garage.

Gus Cowell opened his door and leaned out of the cab. "I seen you make that U, McBride." He was few years older than Kurt, a lifelong Rock Bluff resident. "Big wheel like you can't bother 'bout local laws?"

"Did you look in the trunk?"

"What's it to you?" Cowell jumped to the ground and reached for the winch switch. "Far as I know, you ain't no cop in this town."

Cassie, holding Lizzie and standing by the right front door of Kurt's car, said, "Did you look in the goddamned trunk?" '

Gus Cowell looked at her, his mouth open.

"Why would I look in there?" Gus said softly.

Kurt hurried to the front door of Karen's car, opened it and reached inside to trip the remote trunk release. Then he hustled to the rear as the lid yawned open.

Cassie stood frozen a few feet behind the vehicle.

Gus Cowell leaned on the hood of the car'.

Only Kurt had a clear view of the trunk's interior. He swallowed, then turned to Cassie. "Nothing."

She drew Lizzie tight to her chest. "Thank God!"

Gus Cowell stepped closer and peered past Kurt's shoulder. "Empty." He looked at Kurt. "What was you lookin' for?"

"A past-due library book." Kurt trotted back to his Taurus and got in.

Cassie was already inside, her eyes closed, her head tilted back on the seat. "Where to now?"

With the radio constantly tuned to KKAR in Omaha, Kurt cruised every commercial and residential street in Rock Bluff, seldom exceeding twenty-five miles per hour. At one-thirty, he stopped to pick up some hamburgers they could eat in the car. Cassie fed Lizzie a jar of baby food.

Then they covered every rural road within ten miles of town. There was no sign of Kate and no mention of Rock Bluff on the radio. By five-thirty, it was too dark to continue.

"Let's go home," Cassie said over Lizzie's squirming and fussing. "Baby girl's had a dirty diaper for hours."

"Yeah." Kurt stopped at the Big Muddy Motel, picked up his luggage and laundry and checked out. "I don't care what these people think," he told Cassie on their way to the apartment.

Chapter Twenty

At just after six, they heard the news they'd been expecting on television. "The news in Rock Bluff this Monday night is the Coogan Curse," the reporter said. "The town sixty-two miles south of Omaha reports a total of ten murders since early Friday morning. Many locals believe the crime spree is part of a forty-five year old curse on the area." The picture changed to a still photo of a familiar face. "Lt. Bill Barnett of the Nebraska state patrol says all ten deaths were homicides, but the exact causes of death won't be known until autopsies are completed later this week. In fact, four victims have yet to be officially identified." The camera cut to snapshots of Marcie Swift and Terry Willet. "The first two victims were found Friday morning at the lovers' lane in Rock Bluff. They're listed as twenty-one year old Marcella Swift and seventeen...."

Kurt was startled when he saw Marcie Swift's face for the first time. "She was one gorgeous girl," he said as much to himself as Cassie. _Who does she remind me of?_ _Some movie queen? No... somebody closer._ He looked over at Cassie, sitting in the rocking chair and holding Lizzie to her shoulder. "Were Marcie's eyes really that blue?"

"Yes," Cassie said.

"Like yours."

"And Kate's." She tightened her grip on her daughter.

And somebody else's.... Who?

The phone rang. Cassie answered and signaled Kurt it was for him.

"McBride."

"Bill Barnett. Got a minute?"

"I just heard your name on TV," Kurt said. "Something about a bunch of murders."

"I talked to your boss in Chicago a little earlier, Kurt. I asked him if he'd give you some leave to help us on this. He agreed to two weeks. That's unpaid, but we'd make up your salary with a consultant's fee. What do you think?"

"Wow, I'm flattered, Lieutenant, but I think Wylie O'Shea can handle it. Thanks anyway."

"The sheriff's a good man, but his investigative experience is pretty limited, and he's got a county to run. We need expertise on this case full time."

"I'm a lawyer," Kurt said. "My job is in the courtroom."

"But you've handled a lot of murder cases and worked with forensics people. Your boss says you're good at it."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Your hometown needs you, my friend."

Kurt's lips tightened. "I don't owe these clowns a drop of spit, Lieutenant. I'll help my friend find her sister, but then I'm going back to Chicago. That's my home now."

"Oh... well—"

"Thanks for the offer. I'll be here through Saturday. If I can help during that time, I'll be glad to." He bade Barnett a polite goodbye.

Cassie was looking at him. "The state patrol guy?"

"Asked me if I wanted to work as a consultant for a couple of weeks." He noticed she was frowning. "I'll stay till I know you're okay, but then I want to go home. Okay?"

"I hope it won't take till Saturday," she said.

They watched the news on television at ten o'clock and heard essentially the same story that was on at six, complete with photos of the seven identified victims. No new developments were announced.

Marcie Swift's likeness again teased Kurt's memory, leaving him uneasy. _Was she at my mom's or dad's funerals?_ Those were the only times he'd been in Rock Bluff when the woman was an adult. By the time they went to bed, he realized that it wasn't Marcy who kept dancing away from his recall. It was someone she looked like.

He wrestled with who until the phone rang at just after midnight.

"McBride," he answered after racing into the living room with Cassie at his heels. The only response was heavy breathing. "What the—" He held the phone away from his face and glared at it.

Cassie stared, puzzled.

"Who is this?" He yelled into the receiver.

"Lookin' fer Cassie Dodd," a husky, mushy male voice said.

"Who's calling?"

"Sister." The speaker was obviously drunk.

"Let me speak to her," Kurt said. He heard the man breathing, then signaled Cassie to share the receiver.

"Who you?" the voice asked.

"I'm her sister's lawyer. Name's McBride."

Kurt and Cassie heard the man muffle the phone, then speak to someone close by. They exchanged frantic glances, waiting.

"Kurt?" It was Kate's voice.

Cassie grabbed Kurt's hand holding the phone. "Kate? Is that you?"

"Yeah, Kid. It's me," Kate said. "Come get me. Please. Fast. I'm in bad shape."

"Where are you?" Cassie glanced at Kurt's face an inch from hers.

"I got no idea in hell, Honey," Kate answered. "Someplace in the country. Kurt's with you, right?"

"I'm here, Kate," Kurt said.

"I need you to come get me. The guy who picked me up is named Ike. He'll tell you how to get here."

Ike took the phone. "My place is three—"

"Is this Ike Hanson?" Kurt said.

"Yep."

"Still live down by Cutter's pond?"

Ike snuffed. "I know you?"

"I know where you live, Ike. We'll be there in fifteen minutes. Give the phone to Kate again, please."

"Hurry up. I'm freezing my ass off," Kate said.

"Do you need a doctor?"

"Just get me home."

"Should we bring the sheriff?"

Kate coughed. "Just get me _home_!"

Chapter Twenty-One

Cassie roused Betty Toline, the middle-age neighbor from across the hall, and deposited Lizzie with her. Seventeen minutes later Kurt's Ford pulled into the shabby farmstead that widower Ike Hanson called home. Cassie was running through the falling snow toward the front door by the time Kurt killed the engine.

The two women hugged and cried in the tiny kitchen as Kurt looked on from the doorway and Ike watched from a chair at the kitchen table. Kate, looking drawn and shaken, wore a tattered blanket wrapped around her upper body, some kind of skirt and men's ankle-high work shoes. _All stuff Ike rummaged from around his house_ , Kurt surmised.

"Where the hell have you been?" Cassie finally blurted over sobs.

"Long story," Kate said. "Long, _long_ story."

"Found 'er runnin' out of a ditch in knee-high snow, wearin' little slippers." Ike, sipping coffee from a mug, was still bombed, awkwardly slurring syllables through numb lips and false teeth.

"Nearby?"

Ike started to speak, then frowned and rubbed his chin. "Seemed pretty near. Don't recall exactly."

"Who cares?" Kate hugged the cloth around her. "Mind if I borrow your bedding, Ike? And your shoes?"

Ike waved a hand, tried a smile, and belched.

Headlights swooshed through the kitchen window as a car pulled into the farmyard. Everyone but Ike found a place to look out into the yard lit only by a low-watt porch lamp.

A giant' figure emerged from a panel truck.

Kate spoke in a harsh whisper. "Toe Head!" She stumbled away from the window. "He's the bastard who took me!" She grabbed Cassie's hand. "Let's get out of here! He'll kill us all!"

Kurt reached into his parka pocket for the department-issue thirty-eight—and remembered the pistol was in his topcoat back at Cassie's.

A fist pounded on the kitchen door.

Ike lurched out of his chair. "Go out the front." He waved an arm in the direction of the darkened room beyond the kitchen, then tottered toward the rear entrance.

Kurt looked around for something to use as a weapon. "He can't be that tough."

"The guy weighs four hundred pounds!" Kate was poised to run. "Let's _go_."

Kate and Cassie, hand in hand, scrambled away.

Kurt hesitated, noticed that the shadow of the guy outside blocked the entire doorway, and joined the women. _Christ, is Halley John Bissell back_?

The living room was pitch-black, but they stumbled through it, found the front door and bolted into the moonless night. Only the glow from the back porch lamp on the other side of the house guided them across Ike's front yard.

"He'll be on us in a second," Kurt said, then pointed to the right. "That way. To the road." He grabbed Cassie's arm and pulled her toward him. "Follow me."

The women did as Kurt directed. The three plowed through a foot of snow, crawled over a wood fence, crossed the snow-packed gravel road, negotiated a barbed wire fence and headed downhill through an open field.

Doors banged behind them at Ike's house and on the panel truck.

Kurt glanced back, but he didn't see anyone following them. _Good._ If they could get to what he called Khyber Pass with nobody on their heels, they had a chance. _If_ _Khyber Pass is still there._

"Goddamnit!" Kate stumbled and rolled through the snow. "I can't see shit!"

"Come on!" Kurt panted, grabbing her hand and pulling her up. "I know a place... at the bottom of the hill."

They churned on, gasping for breath, ignoring the cuts from the barbed wire. The downhill trip ended when a tree branch slapped Kurt across the face.

He yipped, then dropped to one knee, trying to get his bearings. "The pond is right around here. The place we want is right behind it."

"What place?" Cassie bent forward, propped her hands on her knees, and took deep breaths.

"The pass. We called it Khyber Pass when I was a kid." Kurt got to his feet and ushered the woman along with him. When he felt the ground turning uphill, he shifted their march to the right. "Come on."

After a few steps, Kate stumbled again. "This is a goddamned _mountain_!" Her eyes strained as she searched the darkness ahead of them.

Kurt kept moving, stopping to feel his way around clumps of bushes on the hillside. "Somewhere along here there's a slit that goes through to the other side."

"Hold it." Cassie stood frozen.

The other two did the same.

They all heard noises from up the hill behind them, like feet running through snow. Fast.

"He's coming!" Kate hugged herself to Cassie.

Kurt thought it sounded more like a horse than a man, and he hastened his search along the base of the bluff called King Hill. "Here!" He pushed the women in front of him. "It's tight. You'll have to squeeze."

"I don't see anything," Cassie said.

Kurt ushered them both forward. "Feel your way. It's wider at the bottom. Crawl!"

"Where does this go?" Kate's voice was muffled as she entered the passageway.

"Away from that guy behind us." As the sound of the pounding feet grew louder, he dropped to his knees and followed Cassie into the narrow crevice. He hadn't been near the spot in almost twenty years. _Is it wide enough for adults?_

Behind him, a mass of living flesh slammed into the rocks where they'd entered. The man was obviously too big to follow. _Whew_ _! But why didn't he yell? That collision had to hurt._ The only noise was a hissing, like air spurting from a tire.

Scrambling and scratching sounds followed, interspersed with the hiss. A rock fell. Then a crash of falling earth rang out from the entrance.

Kurt ran into Cassie's butt when she stopped.

"What was that?" she yelled.

"My head hitting your ass."

"That _sound_!"

"Behind us," Kurt said. "Keep going."

Kate's voice from up ahead was difficult to understand. "I can't see my hand in front of my face!"

Kurt could still hear hissing and clawing, but it was growing more muted as they moved farther away from it. "Just keep crawling. I think we're safe now." _Unless the pass is blocked_ _._ _Then we're trapped_.

He knew they were about a third of the way through the half-mile thick bluff known as King Hill. It ran southward some six miles from the edge of Rock Bluff, creating a two hundred foot high barrier between the bottomland on the east and the farm fields to the west. When they emerged on the east side, they would be at the Union Pacific Railroad tracks and could follow them the three miles into town, right to the U.P. shops where a skeleton crew would be on duty in the wee hours. Their pursuer couldn't climb King Hill's high, rugged slopes, and he couldn't go around in less time than it would take the three to reach their destination.

"Shit!" Kate yelled. "I can't make it! It's too narrow!"

"Stand up," Kurt said. "Try to crawl over."

Kate grunted and scrambled. "Son of a bitch! Now my foot's caught!" She groaned as she pulled, then fell to the ground. "Damn." She got to her feet again. "Okay. Give me your hands, Cass. Don't drag your feet." She helped her sister over the tight spot, and then Cassie did the same for Kurt. Standing, they edged along for a ways, then had to crawl again.

Kurt and some buddies had found the rocky passageway and dubbed it "Khyber Pass" when they were kids. They'd had to do some digging and rock-moving to open the gap wider in spots, but in the summers of their childhood it saved them an hour's walk each way to their favorite swimming hole, Cutter's Pond. That night, it probably had saved his and Kate and Cassie's lives.

"I think I'm through," Kate shouted. "Yeah!" Her voice echoed across open countryside. "I'm out!"

Moments later Cassie cleared the opening. Then came Kurt. The three huddled against the cold.

Kate again strained to make out the landscape around them. "Now what?"

"The U.P. tracks are right out there." Kurt pointed ahead of them, then waved his hand north. "We follow 'em right to town."

Cassie gave him a hug. "We'll take your word for it."

"I guess Toe Head was too big to follow," Kate said. "But he was making some god-awful noises, wasn't he?"

"Something was." Kurt brushed dirt and rocks from his jeans. "It's about a three-mile hike to town. You want to rest first?"

"It's too damn cold to rest." Kate stepped away from the others. "Let's just go."

Kurt led the way to the railroad tracks, then north toward Rock Bluff.

Cassie stayed close to her sister. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

Kate barked a bitter laugh. "I'm okay. Other than freezing and cut up a little. I just need a bath and some food."

Cassie almost whispered. "Did he—"

"Is my virtue still intact? Well—" She stopped suddenly and turned to Cassie. "What happened to Karen?"

Kurt and Cassie looked at each other.

"They found her," said Cassie quietly.

Kate leaned into her sister's face. "Found her?"

"She's dead." Kurt looked up at the snowflakes drifting earthward.

"Toe Head! That son of a bitch!" Kate turned and headed down the tracks again. "Probably would have killed me too."

The three trudged toward town, all repeatedly glancing about at the darkness, their eyes fearful and anxious.

"We've been looking for you since Sunday night," Cassie finally said.

"What day is it now?"

"Monday. Well, I guess it's early Tuesday morning, actually."

"I couldn't tell." Kate shook her head. "There were no windows in that place." She sighed. "I just wanted some goddamned _aspirin_."

As they covered the hour-long journey along the railroad tracks, Kate told them about her last thirty hours....

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Sunday I was hung over and we were out of aspirin. So after the snow let up, I figured I could run down to Walgreen's and be back in ten minutes. "When I walked into the drugstore, this humongous guy at the magazine rack started ogling me. Big, ugly bastard. I didn't know how ugly. I got my stuff and gave him a wide berth on the way out. "I trotted to my car, hopped in and there was Karen sitting right there in the passenger seat. Scared the crap out of me."

Cassie said, "I _told_ you to lock the car when you get out!"

Kate waved a hand dismissively, then looked over at Kurt. "I suppose you know about Karen and me. Our _perversion_?"

Kurt nodded tersely.

"After all the crazy shit she'd pulled in Omaha, I didn't know what was up. Then I figured that was silly. I thought, Karen's pretty small, so how can she hurt me? We talked for a few minutes, just chatter, you know. Then I noticed the ape from inside the store staring at me from the sidewalk. I pulled out, drove to a side street, and parked along the curb.

"Karen wasn't pissed off, not really. She was just hurt. I tried to make her feel better and still say we were quits. We probably talked for fifteen minutes or so."

"Next thing I knew the driver's side window crashed behind me and something had hold of my head and shoulders, pulling me out, jamming a rag over my nose and mouth. Must've been chloroform 'cause it doused me like a match in the wind.

"I don't know how long I was out, but when I came to, I was locked in a little cement room. Figured it was a cellar. One puny light bulb hanging from a cord. There was a bucket there, and some toilet paper. And Toe Head—that's what I called the big turd after a while—"

"The guy from the drugstore?" Kurt asked.

"Yeah. Biggest son of a bitch I ever saw. He handed in food a couple times. Fruit, bread, cheese. Finally he came in with an armful of clothes. His accent was really bad, but I knew he wanted me to change into the stuff. I thought he was gonna watch, but he left when I started unbuttoning."

Kurt interrupted. "He had an accent?"

"Sounded like one of those terrorists on TV."

"What clothes did he give you?" Cassie asked.

"Stuff like grandma used to wear. Full underpants went over a garter belt to hold up thigh-high socks. The bra matched the panties but it was at least two sizes too small—really pushed 'em up. Then there was a full nylon slip, a see-through blouse, a tight skirt that went way below my knees and pumps. I felt like I was dressed for _Father Knows Best_."

"Yuck," Cassie said. "I think I know what's coming."

"When Toe Head came back, he blindfolded me and led me through some kind of tunnel. I bumped against cement walls a couple of times. It was pretty tight and our breathing made echoes.

"We climbed two separate flights of stairs, then went across thick carpet for a ways and through a door. When he pulled off the blindfold, I was in a huge bedroom. Toe Head left and closed the door behind him.

"Music was coming from someplace, a CD player, I guess. Sappy, big-band stuff. Then I heard a man's creepy voice from someplace in the shadows. 'Come here where I can get a good look at you,' he said. I looked over past the bed and saw this shadow in a big, overstuffed chair. I couldn't make out his face. The only light was from a table lamp behind him. I got the feeling he was old."

"Figures!" Cassie spat.

"I went over and stood in front of the guy. I didn't know what to say. He told me to turn around, slow, so I did. Then he said I was pretty and said he wanted to see what was under all the clothes. He told me to take off one piece at a time. Of course all I was thinking about was getting away, and the lamp on the table beside the jerk gave me an idea. I asked him if I could dance while I undressed and he just sort of shrugged his shoulders.

"I made up some dance steps. Funky stuff, but it worked. He was like frozen while I went back and forth peeling stuff off, and I was getting closer and closer to him. I was a couple feet from the lamp when I got down to my underpants and the socks and stuff. He said, 'Give me the panties. Leave the rest on.' Lucky for me I got to keep those socks and shoes."

Cassie said, "Never mind that you were almost naked in front of a stranger."

"I would've died before lettin' him touch me." Kate spat on the ground. "I slipped the undies off and flipped 'em right into his face, then dove for the table lamp. I grabbed it by the neck and smashed the marble base into the dirty bastard's head.

"He threw up his arms, but not quick enough. The butt end of that lamp smashed right into his forehead. Blood spurted all over the place. He tipped over backwards in the chair, grabbin' at his skull. "It was loud. I knew somebody had to have heard it, so I got a straight chair and jammed it under the door knob. I heard someone running on the other side of the door. I took the lamp, smashed the glass out of the window, grabbed a blanket from the bed and bailed out—jumped feet first with no idea where I'd land.

"Luckily it was on a lower section of roof, but the damn thing was steep and frozen over. I started sliding and couldn't stop. Just when I thought I was going over, I slammed into a satellite dish and held on. After I got control, I worked along the gutter until I found a porch pole, then threw the blanket over and shinnied down." She looked at Cassie. "Just like we used to do at home."

Cassie's mouth was open. "What about clothes?"

"I wrapped the blanket around me, broke the heels off the shoes and took off out the lane. Don't try running on frozen gravel with leather soles, I'll tell'ya. I went down on my knees and ass at least a dozen times." She stopped, pulled her skirt up to reveal torn nylons and scratched, bleeding legs. "That's gonna hurt like a bitch if I ever get warm enough to feel anything below my chin." She dropped the skirt and resumed their trek toward town.

"I was sure Toe Head would be on me any second, but I finally got to the main road okay."

"He was probably busy tending to his boss," Kurt said. "Sounds like you did him some real damage."

"We can hope," added Cassie.

Kate continued. "I don't know how far I went" "or how long it took, but I finally just ran out of gas. I had to squat a while to catch my breath. When I took off again, I turned right at one crossroad, then right again at the next one, I think... maybe it was left... or maybe I turned three times."

Kurt said, "You can sort that out after you've had a chance to recover."

Kate sighed heavily. "The next thing I remember is headlights coming up behind me. I started for the ditch, figuring to hide, but changed my mind. I needed help _and soon_. I was so cold and sore... just played out. I turned around and waited for whoever it was, waving my arms. If it turned out to be Toe Head, so be it.

"The car slowed down, rolled past a ways, then stopped and backed up until it was even with me. It was a beat-up old pickup, and the cab was too dark to see the driver. The window screeched down real slow and the smell of booze got stronger with every inch. Then a thin little voice slurred something about helping me.

"I stuck my head in, saw old Ike and knew he was harmless. I said I needed a phone and he said to hop in. You know the rest." Kate stopped. Her chin quivered slightly. She turned away, then walked a few steps away from the others. A sob escaped, then another.

As Kate' began heaving with gasps, Cassie hurried to wrap her arms around her sister. "That's okay, Sis. Let it out."

She did, weeping hard for several minutes. Finally gaining control, she straightened and wiped away the tears. "Sorry, Kids."

The three silently moved on up the tracks for another mile or so and at last stepped under the yard lights of the U.P. shops adjacent to King Hill's northern edge. Kurt directed them into the round house, where they drew curious stares from the half-dozen carpenters mending boxcars.

"We need a phone," Kurt told one of the men.

A middle-aged guy showed them to a small office area. Just as he was closing the door, they heard a round of laughter from the gathered workers they'd just passed through.

Kate dropped into a chair. "If I saw me right now, I'd probably laugh too."

Kurt called the sheriff's office and got Deputy Cal Morantz, working the graveyard shift. "I found our missing lady, Deputy. We need some protection."

Twenty minutes later, Sheriff Wylie O'Shea himself picked up Kurt and Cassie and Kate and took them to the Dodd apartment some six blocks away.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"You never seen this big fella before?" Wylie sat backwards in a straight chair by the coffee table.

Kate was sprawled on the couch, sipping hot coffee. After a long shower, she'd told the sheriff about her abduction and escape. "I've never seen anybody even close to his size. He had to weigh four hundred pounds."

"Big guy like that killed my deputy a couple days ago."

"Bissell was in Des Moines Sunday night," Kurt said from across the room. "In the hospital."

"Yeah." O'Shea scratched his chin. "I was just thinkin' how peculiar it is having two ol' boys that big in town the same time."

Kurt snorted. "You've got ten dead bodies, Wylie, in four days. We can't even say how nine of 'em died or whether a human or animal killed 'em. And then a woman was kidnapped off the street. 'Peculiar"' is just about normal in this town right now."

Kate asked the sheriff, "Did your guy stink?"

Wylie cocked his head. "Stink?"

"Yeah," Kate went on. "You ever been with horses in a barn after they been out in the rain? That kind of stink."

"Toe Head smelled like a wet horse?" Kurt said.

"Lots of horses. Wet and sweaty... and sour. Not just him, the whole cellar. It was okay upstairs."

Cassie leaned against the archway between the kitchen and living room. "Maybe you were in a stable."

"I didn't walk on any straw, I know that. And how does a horse get wet in February?"

"Sweat." Kurt said. "And melted snow. But who rides a horse in two feet of snow? A farmer, even if he's socked in, would use a tractor, not a horse."

"'Less you don't have a tractor." Wylie looked a bit smug. "Like hillbillies... the kind that was in that house burned down."

Kurt shook his head. "From what Kate said, the guys who had her weren't hillbillies."

Wylie leaned toward the kidnap victim. "What'd you call him? The guy who nabbed you?"

"Toe Head," Kate said. "That's what he looked like... a human big toe with a face drawn on it." She frowned. "Bald, big bushy eyes, huge nose. And he was dark. Like a really great suntan."

The sheriff pursed his lips. "Think you could find your way back to that place?"

"Maybe. If Ike knows where he picked me up."

The sheriff sat back and looked at his watch. "I ought to be checking up on old Ike. See if he's okay."

Kate set her coffee on the end table and looked at Wylie. "Did you talk to Karen's family?"

"Police chief did. State patrol took the body to Lincoln. They'll ship it to her folks after the autopsy."

"I'll call her mom tomorrow." Kate scowled at her coffee cup. "This shit's not helping. I need something to make me sleep. I'm wired like a space heater."

"Want some wine?" Cassie said. "We've got that stuff you bought at Christmas."

Kate got to her feet. "You guys can talk about this without me. I'm gonna try to drink myself into a stupor." She went to a kitchen cabinet, found the bottle of wine, and started for her bedroom.

"You'll need to come down to the office when you can and write all this up," the sheriff said.

Kate stopped and looked back at O'Shea. "I don't suppose you have anything like a computer with word processing."

Wylie smiled. "Bernice just got a new PC."

Kate raised her brows. "Windows XP or Vista?"

"Windows? She's got a regular TV screen"

Kate went to bed.

Kurt looked at Cassie. "Your sister's one lucky lady."

The sheriff stood and returned his chair to its place against one wall. "Maybe 'ol' Halley John Bissell's got a brother."""" Stranger things have happened." The sheriff pointed at the phone. "Mind?"

"All yours." Kurt went to Cassie and the two left the sheriff to make his call. Kurt hugged her. "You look pooped, too."

"Lizzie wakes up about seven." She kissed him lightly on the lips and slipped down the hall.

O'Shea hung up the phone. "Ike don't answer. Better run out there. Want to ride along and get your car?"

"I damned near forgot about the car." Kurt glanced at his watch: _3:20 a.m._ "How soon can we get Kate's Dodge back from Hanika?"

"Barnett and his boys took it to the crime lab in Lincoln."

Kurt muttered, "She might not even want it back." He looked at the sheriff. "Is a deputy on duty?"

"Cal Morantz."

"Somebody needs to keep an eye on the girls. That guy might know where she lives."

"I'll shag down Cal." O'Shea headed for his squad car.

Kurt retrieved the pistol from his topcoat, then went to Cassie's bedroom. "I have to go with the sheriff to get my car." He held up the gun. "Know how to use this?"

She took the weapon. "My dad and brothers are hunters."

"A deputy sheriff will be watching the place." He started out. "Come lock the door behind me and hook the safety chain."

Chapter Twenty-Four

"Cal's coming right over," Sheriff O'Shea said when Kurt climbed into the front seat of the patrol car. "Toe Face probably don't know who she is anyhow."

"Toe _Head_."

The sheriff pulled away from the curb. "You get a good look at him?"

Kurt shook his head. "Silhouette... just enough to see how big he was and run." He sat back with a sigh.

"I thought you carried a weapon."

"Forgot it," Kurt said. _But_ _would it have made any difference_ _?_ _Could I kill a human being_ _?_

The first time he'd killed anything he was ten. His weapon was a BB gun; the prey was a sparrow, a "spatsy," as the little brownish-gray birds were called. His gunslinger skills began with toy guns, playing Rambo, then advanced to endless target practice with the air rifle, shooting at inanimate objects before he eventually began pursuing wildlife. He couldn't wait for his first kill, but when he saw the feathered body drop lifeless from a telephone wire, a lump caught in his throat. He ran to the fallen creature, saw its beak jerk for one last breath, and watched it freeze in death. He'd wanted to run home bawling, but he'd stayed. The next kill was easier, and soon ending lives was as inconsequential as throwing rocks in the river. Over his teen years he'd bagged enough rabbits, squirrels, ducks and quail to feed the Rock Bluff population for a year.

Then, a couple of years ago, not long after his dad's funeral, he'd gone quail hunting in Wisconsin with some Milwaukee friends. He'd taken no pleasure in the outing. Each time he raised his gun, he saw that first spatsy from his childhood and 'he couldn't pull the trigger. Soon it came to him. As a boy, he'd blithely taken life for granted—easy come, easy go—but seeing his dad in a casket made him realize how precious life is, and that all creatures get only one chance at it on this earth. He'd sold his rifle and shotgun after returning home.

Could he have shot Toe Head with his thirty-eight? _I certainly showed I didn't have the guts to face the guy without it. Maybe all my detractors in Rock Bluff are right. Maybe I'm a coward who' cheated my teammates because I was scared of a little pain...._

The sheriff said, "If this Toe Face has been hangin' around here long, maybe somebody's seen him someplace."

Kurt refocused on the drive to Ike Hanson's farm. "A four-hundred pound bald guy with a suntan should definitely draw attention." _But_ _why_ _was he hanging around_ _?_ "Any results back from the crime lab yet?"

"Should have something tomorrow," O'Shea said. "Lookin' for anything in particular?"

"Just wondering about the semen we found on Marcie Swift. What if it's not the Willet kid's?"

The sheriff shot Kurt a glance. "Or it ain't human."

"Oh come on, Wylie! Jesus!"

"You saw them bodies all chewed up."

"Karen Maino wasn't chewed up," Kurt said.

"That's what I been sayin.' This Toe Face might not have anything to do with the other murders."

"The autopsy should tell."

They rode in silence for a while.

Wylie cleared his throat. "This little gal, Kate... she tend to exaggerate any?"

Kurt turned to the sheriff. "You think she lied about what happened?"

"Not lied... just maybe over-told. That stuff about making her strip and all. Kind'a raunchy."

"Why would she embellish?"

Wylie shrugged. "I don't know. Being kidnapped for a sex party seems a little far-fetched to me... maybe wishful thinking."

"I heard her tell the story twice and it was exactly the same. I saw the guy who took her and the clothes she was wearing. I'd bet her story's true, Wylie, every word of it." He kept his eyes on the road ahead. "Besides, Kate Dodd doesn't fantasize about men."

"We don't know that for a fact."

Kurt squirmed. "She and Karen Maino weren't just friends. They were lovers."

Wylie lifted his foot off the accelerator and looked at Kurt. "She's queer?"

"Lesbian."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

The sheriff slowed, then turned off the highway onto the gravel road to Ike Hanson's farm. "Suppose maybe the 'ol' boy who made her strip hired Toe Face to find him some tail?"

"You know anybody around here likely to do that?" Kurt stretched his legs and neck, both sore from the frantic escape and no sleep. "Maybe somebody connected with that farmer's whore house?"

Wylie thought it over a moment, then shook his head. "Them boys was just looking for a little fun and extra cash. They're not perverts."

"How about Marcie Swift?"

"What about her?"

"Any of those guys involved with Marcie?"

"They all fucked her," the sheriff said. "But then, half the town did."

Kurt recalled Marcie's photo, and wondered again why her face seemed so familiar. Then he saw lights on at the Hanson farmhouse. "Looks like Ike's still up."

"'"O'Shea pulled the cruiser into Ike's farmyard, stopping behind Kurt's Taurus and Ike's pickup. The sheriff grabbed his flashlight and lit their way from the car to the kitchen door. "Lots of traffic on this 'ol' path tonight."

Kurt rapped on the screen door, waited a minute, then gently stepped into the kitchen with Wylie following. "Ike?" The ceiling light was still on, but the table and one chair were tipped over. "Ike?" Kurt saw the old farmer's coffee cup on the floor, smashed. "You here, Ike?"

The sheriff and Kurt went through the one-story house room by room and returned to the kitchen.

"Toe Head took him," Kurt said.

"Could be he got away. To the barn, maybe, or the old chicken shed."

The two men searched every possible hiding spot on the little farmstead. No chickens, no cattle, no hogs, no Ike.

"Let's go home." The sheriff led the way back to the cars. "I'll come out and get some fingerprints later."

"Does Ike have any relatives we should call?"

The sheriff shook his head. "His two boys moved away... Colorado, I think—four, five years back. 'Course, you know his wife's been dead a long time."

"Yeah."

"He never got over losin' her." The sheriff cast his flashlight beam around the premises as they moved toward the driveway. "One of those footprints belongs to Toe Face, I'd bet." He searched around the parked cars. "Right there." He stopped, then pointed his light a few feet up the path. "What's that?" Wylie crept to a curious mark in the packed snow and knelt. "Son of a bitch!"

Kurt dropped to one knee beside the sheriff.

The two looked at each other, then at the imprint again, and hastened to their feet, scrambling toward the road, eyes and the flashlight pouring over the ground beneath them.

"There!" O'Shea yelled, and they bent to examine another impression, which—as they looked further—turned out to be a series of impressions. "Tracks," Wylie murmured. A set of four footprints, each the size of a horse's hoof, ran across the road and into the field on the other side. But they weren't hoof prints. They were left by _paws_.

"And you laughed when I said it might not be human," Wylie said.

Kurt stood. "Come on."

They followed the paw prints to and over the fence into the field that led down to King Hill and Khyber Pass.

"That ain't no bobcat," Wylie said as they looked down the hill.

Kurt remembered the sounds of the running feet behind him when he was searching for the escape route, then the crash of flesh into the rocks and clay of the hill. _And no cry of pain_. "I know this is your show, Wylie, and I'm not trying to tell you how to run it, but I think this little discovery had better stay just between you, me and Bill Barnett."

Wylie dropped the flashlight to his side, frowning at Kurt. "What the hell we got here, McBride?"

Kurt started back across the road. "Not the curse, Wylie. Not the curse."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ring the doorbell, kick down the door or sleep in the hallway for the next two hours—at 4:30 a.m. when he arrived back at the Dodds' apartment those were Kurt's options. He didn't have keys and he knew the safety chain inside was locked. He didn't want to wake Cassie or Kate—or worse, Lizzie—but one of the women had to come let him in. So he cringed and depressed the button. _Christ! It sounded like Big Ben._ Two minutes passed with no response. _Shit! Are they okay in there_? His hand shot toward the doorbell again.

"Who's there?" It was Cassie. Her near-whisper was tense.

"It's me. You okay?"

The locks clicked open, the chain dropped away and the door swung inward.

Cassie stood a few feet inside, her lips drawn tight, pointing Kurt's pistol at his chest. "Thank God!" She lowered the weapon and fell into his arms.

Kurt hugged her tightly, then moved them both into the living room, closed the door and held her face up to his. "Something happen?"

Cassie shook her head. "You said to be careful." She stepped back. "Was the old guy okay?"

"Gone."

"I was afraid of that."

"How's Kate doing?"

"Haven't heard a peep since you left."

Kurt slipped out of his coat and checked his watch. "You're not going to work tomorrow, right?"

Again, she shook her head. "Kate says we can afford one more day." She stepped to the door and re-locked it. "See anything of the kidnapper?"

"Tracks."

"Maybe that's good." She motioned toward the kitchen. "Want some coffee or something?"

"Just bed." He wrapped one arm around her and led the way to the bedrooms. "Maybe tomorrow night we can share the same one."

She smiled up at him, a shy twinkle in her eye. "Maybe."

He stopped and kissed her. "Goodnight."

He slipped into the room with the rollaway, all neatly turned down and ready for him. Sleep came almost instantly.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It seemed only minutes had passed when he awoke at twelve forty-five the next afternoon. He peeked into the living room, waved at the women and Lizzie, and jumped into the shower.

"Want some bacon and eggs?" Cassie yelled over the pouring water.

"About twelve pounds of both."

He found the morning _Omaha World-Herald_ lying on the table when he sat down for breakfast. The front page featured a story about the Rock Bluff killings and "The Coogan Curse." Alfa and Arthur Coogan, it said, the last remaining heirs of the county's pioneer Coogan family, had cursed the area after they were murdered in their home in 1960. According to Rock Bluff locals, the recent slaughter was a continued manifestation of the forty-seven year old hex. Photos of the five known victims rimmed the top of the story; Coogan family photos were spread across the bottom.

Kurt nearly disgorged his mouthful of coffee when he saw the picture of Alfa. His eyes snapped up the page to the image of Marcie Swift. _Of course! Marcie's almost a carbon copy of Alfa Coogan! That's why she looked so familiar!_ Portraits of all the Coogans hung in the courthouse and the high school. "Well I'll be damned," he said aloud.

Cassie looked up from her work on a meatloaf. "Marcie Swift looked a lot like that Coogan woman. I know." She came and sat at the table. "Could they be related?"

Kurt took a deep breath. "Arthur and Alfa died in 'sixty. Marcie wasn't born till what, 'eighty-six?"

"And they were the last of the Coogans?"

"Might be a couple shoe-string cousins. The guy who inherited everything wasn't even named Coogan," Kurt said.

Kate strolled in. "What's all the chatter?" She draped an arm over her sister's shoulder.

Kurt showed her the pictures of Marcie and Alfa.

Kate took the paper, turned it over, and gave it back. "Did you get a look at the pictures here?" She pointed at two photos in the lower left corner. "We made it, too."

The snapshots Kurt had given Wylie O'Shea were included in an article about Karen Maino's murder and Kate's disappearance.

"I guess nobody told 'em yet that I got away," said Kate.

"That'll be in tomorrow's paper." Kurt pointed to a line in the story. "But now Toe Head knows right where to find you." Kate's place of work and home address were listed. Kurt slid back from the table. "Maybe we need a safe house."

"A motel or something? That'd be expensive," said Cassie.

"And we still have to go back and forth to work," Kate added. "We don't get paid vacation or sick days."

Kurt pushed the newspaper aside. "You're not working today, right?"

"Not today," Kate said. "Boss told me to stay home, with pay. I'd be too much of a distraction at work, so I'm worth more to him to have me here. Tomorrow I'm back on from four to midnight."

"You should take the whole week off, at least," Kurt said.

"Tell him that."

"Does he know you're still in jeopardy?"

"I do manual labor, Kurt, for eight bucks an hour. They don't give a shit about my jeopardy."

"Don't you guys have a union?"

"I'm workin' on that."

Kurt grinned at her. "That might knock you out of employee of the month competition."

Kate's laugh was hearty and healthy.

Kurt looked at Cassie. "You going in tomorrow?"

"Have to."

He got to his feet. "Okay. But I take you both to work and pick you up. No exceptions."

"That'll be nice," said Cassie. "But aren't you going back on Sunday?"

"Let's hope Toe Head and his friends are caught by then." He left the women at the kitchen table, stepped over little Lizzie playing on the living room floor, and sat down by the telephone.

His first call was to his old friend, Vic Rathe. "When do the Jacobs want to close on the house?"

"I've been trying to call you about that, Kurt," Rathe said. "You ever answer your cell?"

"My bad."

"Anyhow, I talked to Melvin earlier this morning and they're not sure they even want to move to Rock Bluff."

"I guess the curse story made the Lincoln paper."

"It's even made the _national_ papers."

Kurt sat back with a sigh. "How much did they put up for earnest money?"

"Five thousand."

"Well, they've got till five tonight to make up their minds or I take that deposit and run."

"I don't think they'll object," said Rathe. "He was willing to turn down the big promotion that goes with moving here. I doubt earnest money's a big deal."

"Chickenshit." Kurt saw the two women looking at him through the kitchen doorway. "Couldn't drive in the snow and now he lets some superstitious bullshit scare him off. Good riddance."

His next call was to Sheriff Wylie O'Shea.

"We got some reports back from the lab," Wylie said. "That little item you wondered about? The semen?"

Kurt waited.

"It's Willet's. And they say the saliva around the bites belongs to some kind of big cat. They're shipping a sample to the feds for an ID."

"Think that four-hundred pound bald guy could be part cat?" Kurt said.

"I hope you didn't say that loud enough for anybody to hear."

Kurt chuckled. "Our secret, Wiley. Any word on how Karen Maino died?"

"Neck broke," O'Shea said. "Doc says there was bark stuck in her face. Like somebody grabbed her by the ankles and bashed her skull into a tree trunk. Used a knife after that."

"Crazy fucker."

"Hunting knife, they figure."

"What'd they say about the other victims?"

The sheriff turned a page in his notebook. "They all died of broken necks. The mutilation was post mortem. Cat saliva around the bite marks. Looks like you and me wasn't seein' things in the snow last night."

"You talk to anybody about that?"

"Told Barnett when he called with the report," Wylie said. "He agrees. Mum's the word. He's sendin' somebody over to Ike's to have a look."

"What about those bodies in the fire?"

"Can't tell for sure who they are. Lab people wanted dental records or x-rays of the them missing boys, but none of 'em ever seen a dentist or doctor, so far as anybody knows. They're looking for family members to help with a DNA check."

"Killed like the others?"

"Near as they can tell."

"Anything on Ike Hanson?"

"I was out there this morning. Picked up a few fingerprints. State patrol's gonna check on 'em."'' Ike's truck was still parked where it was last night, keys in the ignition. 'I kind'a wonder if Ike, as drunk as he was, might have ambled off in the snow. "But the only tracks I saw besides them at the kitchen door was in the front yard, where you and the gals ran. And I called around to hospitals to see if they might have him. Nope."

"Did you ask about a guy with a table lamp smashed into his face?"

"If Toe Head's partner needed stitching up last night, he didn't get it from anybody I know."

"Maybe she killed him." Kurt saw Kate looking on curiously from the kitchen. "Has anybody told the newspapers about Kate's escape?"

"Not yet."

"She talked to her boss this morning," Kurt said. "So it's probably common knowledge by now."

"The APB's out for Toe Face. Reporters are gonna figure something's goin' on. 'Course I can't say much till I get her formal statement written up and signed. She comin' in?"

"What time?"

"Soon as possible," Wylie said.

"How about one-thirty?"

When Kurt finished his conversation and looked up, Kate and Cassie were sitting side by side on the couch.

"Sounds like the sheriff had some news," said Kate.

Kurt related what Wylie had said, avoiding any mention of "the cat prints or saliva."

Kate slid to the front edge of the couch. "So you figure Toe Head killed those other people too?"

"Except for Wylie's deputy." Kurt glanced at his watch. "I just promised the sheriff you'd be in his office in thirty-six minutes."

"The statement. I know." Kate turned to Cassie. "You and Lizzie gotta come along too, Cass. I don't want that bastard getting you two." She picked up Lizzie and handed her to Cassie.

Kurt stood and stretched. "We need some safe place to stay till this is over."

"Where would that be?" Cassie lugged her daughter to the closet and got the child's snowsuit.

Kurt's mouth opened, then closed. Then he smiled. "How about Chicago?"

"Weren't you talking on the phone about your parents' old house?" Kate pulled her parka from its hanger.

"We could use it, but there's no furniture." Kurt got his coat and checked to be sure the pistol was back in the pocket. "I sold everything: curtains, bedding—"

"We'll be okay here," Cassie said. "As long as we stick together."

They locked the apartment, climbed into Kurt's car and headed for the Coogan County Jail. Turning left on Avenue C, they passed a large reddish vehicle coming from the other direction. Kurt didn't notice that it was a panel truck.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Had to bring the whole clan," Kurt told Wylie O'Shea as he ushered his group into the sheriff's outer office. "Hope you don't mind."

"'Course not." Wylie grinned and pointed to secretary/receptionist Bernice Holman's vacant desk. "Bernice left the computer all turned on and ready to go."

As the visitors pulled off their coats and caps, Kurt wandered to the Coogan County map covering most of one wall. "Got the crime scenes all staked out, I see." He pointed to red pins stuck in the surface. "The Peak, Tillson's, the burned-out house, Ike's farm, Kate's car and...." He looked at Wylie. "The jail?"

O'Shea pointed to the cell area. "Deputy Jimmy Quayle died right in there."

"Wylie, if stubbornness paid wages you'd be the richest guy in town." Kurt turned to Kate. "Did Ike say where he was coming from when he picked you up?"

"I figured a bar someplace," Kate said. "But he didn't tell me that."

"What direction were you driving when you got to Ike's house?" He pointed at the map. "This way is north, this is south."

Kate shook her head, shrugged. "I don't know."

"Which way did he turn into his place, right or left?"

She chewed her lip, frowned, and tried to think, then shook her head. "I can't remember. I was so damn cold and scared. Sorry."

Kurt sighed. "So you could've come from either direction."

"I guess so."

"Any idea how long it took to get to the farm from where he picked you up?"

"It could've been five minutes or an hour, Kurt. My brain was in park." She took a seat at Bernice's desk and began fiddling with keyboard and cursor. "Now what do you want me to say?"

Wylie said, "Write up what happened from Sunday night at the drugstore to when you got home this morning."

"Shit," Kate mumbled. "Hope nobody's in a hurry." She began her work.

Cassie took Lizzie to a corner of the conference table and dug some of the child's toys from her purse.

Kurt studied the wall map with Wylie looking over his shoulder. "Ike could've been coming from Rulo or Clover," he said. "Maybe even Elk Creek or Stella."

"Or just out cruisin' around sipping home-made hooch." Wylie leaned on the counter.

"That likely?"

"After his wife died, Ike took to 'drivin' those back roads day and night. Usually drunk if he could lay his hands on liquor."

Kurt jabbed the pin representing Hanson's farm. "I'll bet where they took Kate is within a ten mile radius of here." He turned to Wylie. "Can we get a list of everybody living in that area?"

"County clerk can put one together." The sheriff went to the vacant deputy's desk and picked up the phone. "Ought to have it before the day's out."

While Wylie spoke with someone at the courthouse, Kurt sat down at the table with Cassie and Lizzie. He hadn't mastered baby talk yet, so playing with the toddler was a matter of laughs, pinches and pats. He looked up at Cassie. "Sorry you had to get caught up in all this stuff."

Cassie glanced at Kurt, then concentrated on her daughter. "We thought we were moving _away_ from trouble." She picked up Lizzie and set the child on her lap. "You think these killings are related to those others over the years?"

"Those other people died in fires and accidents. Nobody was mutilated or chewed to pieces. And there was an incident every year or so, not ten in one weekend. And nobody saw a four-hundred pound bald guy."

"With big teeth."

Kurt recalled the paw prints in the snow and what Wylie had said about the autopsy: _bite marks_. "I think what we've got here is altogether different from what happened before."

The sheriff put a chubby hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Donny Sheen over at the clerk's office says he can tell us who lives in every farmhouse in the county. Want to go give him a listen?"

Kurt looked at Cassie, then at Kate, working at the other end of the room. "I guess she's safe here."

Wylie chuckled. "Come on, McBride. Nobody's gonna break _into_ the county jail." He grabbed his parka and hat. "I'll lock this door behind us," he told the women.

The clerk's office was in the courthouse next door. A large county map just like the sheriff's hung on one wall, and Donald Sheen, the assistant clerk, looked eager to prove that he knew exactly who lived where in Coogan County.

"Of the 16,361 residents in Coogan County," Donnie said, "1,986 live on farms."

Kurt smiled. "Exactly 1,986?"

Donnie licked his lips. "Give or take a half-dozen, I suppose." He pointed to the map. "As you can see, I've marked the area you asked about with numbered pins."

He handed Kurt a sheet of paper. "That's a list of the names that go with the numbers."

Kurt held the sheet so Wylie could read it and the two studied the map. "These people have been around a long time."

"In that area the farm population doesn't change much," said the sheriff. "Just different generations."

"Where was that whorehouse?"

Wylie pointed toward the top of the map. "Up north there. Pert' near the county line. Herm Weston's place."

"She didn't run that far." Unable to find even one unfamiliar resident or suspicious name, Kurt turned to the sheriff. "Maybe somebody commandeered one of these places."

The sheriff looked over the top of his glasses at his new colleague. "Want to do a house-to-house?"

Kurt handed the page back to Donnie. "I have to stay with the women. After the story in this morning's paper, he knows right where to find Kate." He looked Wylie O'Shea in the eye. "Besides, it's not my job to find this guy, Sheriff. I don't even live in this state."

Donnie Sheen stepped up behind the two. "Who knows where _who_ lives?"

Wylie ignored Donnie and looked at Kurt. "You help clear this thing up, people around here gonna think you're a hero again."

"I outgrew people around here a long time ago." He turned, waited for Donnie to step out of his way, then strode to the door and out.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

When Kurt and the Dodd family got back to the apartment, the phone was ringing. Cassie answered, then motioned to Kurt. "For you," she whispered.

Kurt mouthed, "Who?"

Cassie shrugged.

"McBride."

"This is Sally Bergman, David. I'm sorry to bother you. Chief Hanika said I could reach you at this number. He says you found your friend? The missing girl?"

"Yes. Last night. She's shaken, but safe at home."

"Wonderful! Her picture was on the news yesterday. I didn't know it had anything to do with you until the chief told me a few minutes ago. Was she really kidnapped?"

"'Fraid so.

"Did they find who did it?"

"Sheriff's working hard on finding him. Somebody who lives out in the Cutter's Pond vicinity, we think."

"Cutter's Pond... you wouldn't think a kidnapper would be living around there."

"Lot of strange stuff going on," said Kurt. "Not much surprises me anymore."

"The reason for my call is I think Harlan might be in Falls City."

"You told Chief Hanika that?"

"He said he couldn't ask the Falls City police to get involved on such sketchy evidence."

"Such as?"

"Yesterday was wash day, and when I went through a pair of Harlan's soiled trousers I found a matchbook from a motel in Falls City."

"Is that unusual?"

"No, but he's stayed there quite often so I called. I talked to a woman. The owner's wife. She said they had no record of anyone named Harlan Bergman _ever_ being there, so I described him. She was a little evasive at first, but I think she felt sorry for me. She told me that a man fitting Harlan's description rents a room there by the month. He's registered as Harry Snider. No one answered the phone and his car wasn't there. I guess the room's at the far end of the building so they don't see him come and go."

"You left a message for him to call you?"

'Yes. But I'm calling you because the owner said Harlan—or this Harry Snider who looks like him—had a visitor last Monday morning, the day after he got there. It was a great big man, bald, driving a red panel truck."

Kurt's neck stiffened. "You tell the police?"

Sally didn't answer immediately, then sounded miffed. "Chief Hanika was quite short with me, actually. I felt he really didn't care."

Kurt got the motel phone number from Sally and promised to call her right away if something developed. Then he called Sheriff O'Shea and reported Sally's news.

"Pick you up in fifteen minutes," Wylie said.

The Cedars Motel was on the south side of Falls City, directly across the highway from what was once that city's main summer attraction, the Starview Drive-In Theatre. But it wasn't the 1950s and it wasn't summer. In fact the temperature was hovering near zero, and thirty mile per hour winds were redistributing the recently accumulated snow in blinding gusts.

Kurt and Wylie squeezed through the motel's office door side by side, stomping snow from their shoes at the same time.

"Gotta love Nebraska weather!" Kurt puffed.

A small, plain, mid-forties male greeted them blandly and stood waiting.

"I'm Sheriff O'Shea from Coogan County. I called earlier?"

"About Mr. Snider?" He nodded. "Haven't seen him yet."

"You the manager?" Wylie asked.

"Owner. Mr. Snead. Calvin Snead."

Kurt pulled out a photo they'd picked up from Sally Bergman. "This look like Mr. Snider?"

The man focused through his bifocals, then looked up calmly. "That is Mr. Snider."

"And he's still registered here?" said Wylie.

"He's always registered here. Pays his bill promptly every month. In cash."

Wylie leaned on the counter. "You don't find that a little suspicious?"

"Business is business, Sheriff," the little man snipped. "We offer a product and service in return for profit. It's called capitalism. This great country was built on it."

"Keepin' a house of ill repute is business all right, but it's against the law."

"When Mr. Snider stays here his room is his castle. He deserves all the privacy you get in your own bedroom."

"Even if he's committing adultery?"

"That's for him and his wife and their clergy to contend with—or lawyers—not a simple inn keeper like me."

Kurt moved up beside Wylie. "We're working a murder case... multiple mass murder and mutilation. You probably heard about it. If 'Mr. Snider' is involved, your inn is going to be very much a part of the publicity. You want the Cedars Motel to be known as a shack-up joint? Might send a few travelers on up the road for lodging, don't you think?"

Snead looked like he wanted to spit something out. "I'm cooperating in every way possible. There's no need to threaten me."

"No threat, Mr. Snead," said Wylie. "We just want you to know what's goin' on." He smiled. "Now, tell me about the visitor Harlan had last Monday."

"Harlan?"

Wylie pointed to the photo on the counter. "This fella."

"I noticed because he was the biggest man I've ever seen. Looked like he could tip over the building. No hat, bald."

"He went to Harlan's room?"

Snead nodded. "Seemed to know the number. As I said on the phone, he was in a faded red panel truck."

Kurt said, "And that was a week ago Monday... the third, right?"

Snead nodded. "The third."

"We'd like a peek inside that room, please."

Snead's nose twitched as he retrieved a key and handed it to Wylie. "I know he's not there. I called when I saw your vehicle pull in."

Wylie nodded toward the door. "Want to come along?"

"I have work to do here." He slipped onto a stool and began sorting through receipts.

"Whoa!" Wylie moaned as they stepped out into the blowing snow. "Like a damn sandstorm!"

They bowed their necks and trudged down the 'sidewalk to the farthest door, room 15. Wylie used the key, let them in and snapped on the ceiling light, which was about the equivalent of one burning match.

Kurt shivered, stomped his feet and looked around. "So this is Harlan Bergman's love nest. What a shithole!"

"Let's get some light in here." Wylie pushed the flimsy drapes aside and raised the roll-up window shade.

Gray light splashed into the room, revealing its contents: a tiny bathroom at one end, a standard bed and night stand against one wall, a mirror-less dresser with an ancient TV set on top across from the bed, and two brown plastic chairs near the door.

"Not exactly the Four Seasons," Kurt said.

But there were traces of Harlan. His hat, scarf and topcoat were piled in one chair, his rubber boots beneath it. His briefcase sat on the floor next to the bed and his open suitcase was on top of the dresser. Otherwise, the room was in perfect order, the bed made, the wastebasket empty, the towels fresh, or at least recently laundered.

Kurt noticed something peeking out from under the bed and knelt to see what it was. "Well, what's this?" He picked up a contact sheet like the one he'd found Saturday in Harlan's darkroom. Twenty-four black-and-white thirty-five millimeter images filled the page. "Oh, boy." He took the sheet to Wylie near the window.

"Recognize these faces?"

Wylie surveyed the images. "Son of a bitch!" Four faces looked back at him, six different shots of each—Pete Meester, Fred Cobble, Chet Biles and Spade Stuntz—the four young men thought to have been mutilated and burned on Saturday night. "I guess they were the ones in that old house," Wylie wheezed.

"So Harlan had pictures of Tim Willet and these guys. I gotta think there are other contact sheets with other faces, like Marcie Swift's and the Tillsons'."

Wylie scrunched his face. "He was fingering the victims with these?"

Kurt nodded. "For Toe Head or whatever his name is. And who knows how many other faces he's got for future murders?"

"Son of a bitch!" Wylie repeated.

Kurt pointed at the clothing on the chair. "Now, tell me Harlan's out in this weather running around in his shirtsleeves and wingtips." He glanced around the room. "Let's go room to room, including Mr. Snead's quarters."

They hurried back to the main office and barged in on Calvin Snead doing a crossword puzzle behind the counter.

"We need to search every room," Kurt said, then pointed at the interior door behind Snead. "What's in there?"

"Laundry, supplies."

Wylie swept around the counter. "Let's see."

Wylie and Kurt rummaged through the narrow room, moving sheets, blankets, towels and mattresses, looking for Harlan Bergman. He wasn't there.

Pushing Snead ahead of them with his pass key, they gave each of the other fourteen rooms the same scrutiny. Not till they arrived at number eight did they find life. Two shocked men in their mid-thirties looked up from the bed as Wylie barreled in through the door.

"Sorry, fellas." The sheriff backed out, his face a bit flushed. "Not too picky about what's goin' on in your place, huh, Snead?"

The rest of the units, like those before number eight, were vacant. With the search complete, Kurt confronted the motel owner. "Is there any way he could have left here in a car without you seeing him?"

"Easily. I seldom look out the window on days like this."

"And you're the only one here?"

"Since noon, yes."

The sheriff and Kurt returned to Harlan's room, both obviously deep in thought, and shed their parkas. Kurt sat down on the bed, and Wylie wandered to the window.

"He's got to be out there with somebody. Kurt lay back on the pillow. "Let's just lay low in here and wait."

"Suppose ol' Snead would try to tip him off?" Wylie wondered.

"I think Mr. Snead is wishing to hell he'd never heard of Mr. Snider. He wants us gone like last week. Letting us catch our boy is his quickest way out."

"Drive-in movie's just across the road," Wylie said. "Don't see many of those around anymore."

"There're maybe five in the whole country."

"Suppose they'll be running a movie tonight?" He grinned at Kurt. "I got a pretty good shot at the screen from here."

Kurt looked at his watch. Four-ten. Darkness was less than an hour away. _Come on, Harlan, wherever you are. Time to call it a day_.

"By god there's a car over there!"

Kurt sat up. "A car?"

"At the movie." Wylie chuckled. "Sittin' there like the shows about to start—'cept its hubcap deep in snow. Probably fender-deep before that wind today blew some drifts away."

Kurt sighed and lay back down.

Wylie kept his eyes on the drive-in lot. "Bet some 'ol' boy took his honey in there Sunday night to make out and then couldn't _get_ out." He chuckled some more. "Hope he wasn't steppin' out on Mama." His smile changed into a curious frown. "What kind of car does Harlan drive?"

"Toyota. Black, four-door." Kurt sat up quickly. "That it?"

"It's black." He squinted. "With four doors."

The two men threw on their coats, hurried to the squad car and headed for the drive-in movie on the other side of the highway. As expected, there was no barricade at the entrance, only a _Closed for the Season_ sign. Unfortunately, the unplowed snow had drifted high from the 'sharp winds.

Wylie stopped the squad car. "We gotta leg it."

The two men jumped out and waded through snow sometimes up to their waists until they got to the lone vehicle sitting dead center in the lot. Kurt went to the rear and brushed blown snow from the license plate, then knelt. "That's it." He stood and put his hands on his hips, panting from the trek. He looked at Wylie, who was leaning against the trunk, then both men tried to look through the back window, made translucent by flying snow.

Kurt saw something above the front seatback. "Is that a head?"

Wylie slipped along the left side of the vehicle, Kurt along the right.

"Glass is covered with solid ice," Wylie said as he stopped beside the driver's side door. "Shit! Door's locked." He tried the rear and got the same result.

"This one too." Kurt scraped flakes and chips from the right window until he had a decent view inside the vehicle. A human form lolled in the driver's seat, arms at its sides, head twisted to an impossible angle, eyes staring blankly forward. After a moment Kurt recognized him. "It's Harlan Bergman. His neck's broken."

The sound of shattering glass startled Kurt. Wylie had used the butt of his pistol to break the driver's side window. "Jesus, Wylie!" Kurt spat over the top of the car. "Give me a heads up, will'ya?" He moved around the vehicle to join Sheriff O'Shea.

"Sorry." Wylie unlocked the left front door, opened it, then sniffed at the air. "Stinks a little, but not what I figured." He felt around the upper torso and tried to move one arm. "I think he's froze."

"That explains the absence of stench."

Wylie took stock of Bergman's remains. "That little homo gal's neck was broke the same way."

"And by the same hands, I'm sure." Kurt looked over the site. "The car's been here since before the Sunday night blizzard. Couldn't drive it in here after. I'd guess Harlan's been dead for at least two days. Maybe over a week."

Wylie slammed the door shut. "Let's get the locals to rope off this area. I'll call Barnett in Lincoln. He'll be real happy, sending more of his people out on this case."

They returned to the motel and Wylie phoned their findings to the proper authorities. He also assigned Deputy Cal Morantz to deliver the bad news to Herman's widow, Sally Bergman.

It was dark by the time they climbed into the Coogan County squad car and started home.

"I guess the murders ain't connected with Harlan's run for sheriff," Wylie said.

"He was just a hired hand." Kurt slid down and propped his head on the seatback. "Probably didn't even know what those pictures were for."

"He would've sure figured it out after the killin' started."

"And by then, he was an unnecessary liability to Toe Head and his pals."

"Think this means they're done with their killin'"?

"Probably means they're at least done taking pictures of victims. If we could get a look at the rest of those contact sheets...."

"Yeah."

They covered most of the forty-five minute trip home without speaking of anything related to the killing spree. Kurt wanted to sleep on the day's events, gain some perspective, then get the viewpoint of someone more objective than he or Wylie.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

After dropping off Cassie at the U.P. office on Wednesday morning, Kurt drove directly to the high school and hurried down to Ceece Maxwell's office. The coach was reading that morning's _Omaha World-Herald,_ the sports section, which included an item about his basketball team's close win the night before.

"Hey, Kurt." He sat back with a smile. "How's everything with the Dodd girls?"

"You heard about Kate?"

"Story's all over town. You saved her from some bald Goliath out by Cutter's Pond."

"'Saved' is a little overstated." Kurt sat on the edge of an adjacent desk. "But she's safe, at least for now." He licked his lips. "Heard about Harlan Bergman?"

A deep frown darkened the coach's face. "What?"

"Wiley and I found him dead in Falls City yesterday afternoon. Neck broken like a twig."

"Just like that girl in the trunk."

"Exactly. Except he wasn't cut up." Kurt related his discovery of the contact sheets with shots of some victims. "I found one of Tim Willet in Harlan's basement and another one of the four Pop Tarts at the hotel." He smiled. "And guess who was Harlan's last visitor at the motel?"

"A bald Goliath?

"Bingo."

Ceece rested his elbows on his desktop. "So whether he knew it or not, Harlan was balls deep in this murder spree." Coach shook his head. "He always wanted to play rough. Guess he finally got more than he could handle." He looked up at Kurt. "This big guy the same one who nabbed Kate Dodd?"

"Has to be." Kurt leaned back. "I just wish we could get a look at the rest of those contact sheets Harlan gave him."

"The rest?"

"Sally Bergman told me Harlan took a whole stack of pictures when he left home."

"Maybe of people who haven't been killed yet?"

Kurt said, "I'm bettin' Tim Willet and those four guys weren't dead yet when Harlan delivered the first contact sheets."

The coach rocked back again and put his feet on the desk. "Why would the killer hire Harlan to get pictures of his victims?"

"Only thing I can figure is the killer didn't know what his targets looked like."

"Because the killer is hired help too?"

Kurt nodded. "In my opinion, there's somebody out there with a god-awful grudge against certain individuals in this county, and he's commissioned their murder in the most brutal, barbaric way possible."

"Including Harlan."

Kurt shrugged. "Harlan's job was finished and he knew too much. He wasn't mutilated like the others."

The coach sat up straight. "So now all you've got to do is find out who made up that list of people for Harlan to photograph."

Chapter Thirty

It was three forty-five that afternoon when Kurt dropped off Kate for work at the West Fork Packing Company, three blocks from the apartment. A few minutes earlier, he'd picked up Cassie at the end of her work shift at the U.P.

"I'll be here to get you at quarter to twelve," Kurt told Kate. "Don't leave the building till you see me. Okay?"

Kate kissed Lizzie, handed the child to Cassie and patted Kurt's shoulder. "No sweat." She dashed down the walk and in through the main entrance.

"Your parents must have heard she was missing." Kurt left the semi-circular drive that fronted the canning factory. "Have you heard from them?"

Cassie shook her head.

"Excuse me, but I think that's pretty weird."

Cassie sighed. "Our parents disowned us. First Kate, then me."

Kurt turned right.

"Aren't we going home?"

"I'm going to get a bigger gun. You and Kate can keep mine." He glanced at the road, then looked at Cassie. " _Disowned_ you?"

"Kate's a lesbian. I gave birth to a bastard. Our parents are strict Catholics."

Kurt drove up Lincoln Avenue to Hosholtz's Hardware Store and pulled into an angled parking space. He put the Taurus in neutral and set the hand brake. "They don't even keep track of you?"

"Not that we know of."

"That's awful."

"Kate and I and Lizzie are a family. That's all we need."

"How did they find out about Kate?"

"When she was a freshman in college she got caught with another girl. The sorority kicked her out. Mom and Dad told her to change her ways. She said no, and they said goodbye. When I learned I was pregnant, they insisted I marry the boy. I went to live with Kate in Omaha. That's how it's been ever since."

"They know about Lizzie?"

"They didn't learn from me or Kate." Kurt squeezed her hand and got out, locking the door behind him.

It took ten minutes for him to pick out and buy the gun he wanted—a forty-four caliber Colt revolver—and return to the car. By then he had worked up the nerve to ask his most serious question. "Does Lizzie's father know about her?"

"He's not part of my life now."

"Did he know you were pregnant?"

"He knew."

"And?"

Cassie avoided his gaze. "And he's not part of my life now."

_Is that what you want_ _?_ He couldn't bring himself to ask. "Nice fella."

It was painful for him to think of Cassie with another guy, but it also aroused him.

Throughout the rest of the evening, Kurt couldn't take his eyes or mind off Cassie's body. Every move or position that accentuated her breasts or thighs, butt or crotch—not to mention her remarkable face—sent blood coursing to his groin. More than once he thought of slipping into the bathroom and relieving himself.

Instead, he counted the minutes until seventy-thirty-six, when Cassie slipped out of Lizzie's bedroom after putting the child down for the night.

"I thought you'd never get that done." He stood at the hall entrance, smiling vaguely, his eyes glistening.

"Was she bothering you?"

He reached for her hand and pulled her toward the couch. "No, but you were... ever since we got home." Kurt dropped into a sitting position and pulled Cassie down beside him for a passionate kiss. A moment later she was lying back, her skirt around her waist, his hands pouring over the most intimate parts of her body. Then they were kissing again, tongues exploring mouths. Finally he stood, shedding his pants and pulling off her panties.

The coupling was fierce, faultless and brief. Kurt's ecstasy exploded of its own volition in less than two minutes and left him wheezing next to her left ear. When he'd caught his breath, he stood and helped Cassie up.

As she got to her feet, she made a sour face. "Ewe." Holding her skirt away from her body and giggling, she trotted gingerly to the bathroom. "I've got to get these clothes off."

Kurt was waiting when she came out. He led her to the rollaway bed for two more rounds before he had to go pick up Kate.

'''''Outside, Kurt cussed the below-zero Nebraska night when it bit him in the face. He hunkered against the cold, trotted to his car and drove slump-shouldered to the canning factory. _Cassie's so sweet, so sensuous, and a joy to be around_ , he thought. She was the first female in his life who could keep his attention when the sex was over. He could imagine coming home to her every night for the rest of his life.

It was eleven fifty-two when he pulled into the West Fork driveway and stopped along the curb. The air blasting from the car's heater was beginning to lose its chill. _Would Cassie be willing to move to Chicago_? _Nothing's keeping her in Nebraska except Kate_ _, and_ _they could all move_. They could get apartments in the same building. Or buy a house big enough for Kate to have her own quarters. Of course that would be after he made a name for himself in the State's Attorney's Office and went into private practice.

He looked up to see the front doors open and the second shift workers scurry out, some to sidewalks and some to the adjacent parking lot. He turned the dome light on in case Kate couldn't recognize his car in the dark.

But Kate didn't come out. At ten past midnight, one lone straggler slipped through the door and no one else followed.

Kurt slid across the seat and rolled down the window. "Excuse me," he yelled to a last departing worker. "Is Kate Dodd still in there?"

The woman pulled her coat tighter and stepped closer to Kurt's car. "Kate Dodd? I saw her around ten. Paged to the office, something about an emergency phone call. She never came back."

Kurt jumped out the door, thanked the woman and sprinted to the entrance where a janitor was about to lock up for the night. "I'm looking for Kate Dodd," he yelled through the glass, then pulled the door open and went in. "Have you seen her?"

"Just came on, Buddy," the young janitor said. "Who was it?"

"Kate Dodd."

The man smiled. "Yeah. The looker. She's on second shift. Probably gone by now."

"She didn't come out," Kurt said. "I've been here for fifteen minutes. Where's the office?"

"Third floor, top of the stairs, but—"

Kurt bounded up the nearby steps, unzipping his coat for access to the new pistol stuck in his belt.

"There's nobody in management after ten, Buddy," the janitor yelled after him. "She ain't up there in the dark."

And dark is just what Kurt found, both on the stairs and when he arrived breathless on the third floor. The only light was filtering through translucent door panels of the closed main office halfway down the hall. He took a deep breath, drew his weapon, crept to the entrance and tried the knob. It was unlocked. Stepping inside quietly, he could make out a cluster of desks in the shadows surrounded by a dozen smaller offices, all with closed doors. The meager visibility came from a glow behind the glass in one of them. "Hello? Anybody here?"

No answer.

He squeezed the gun butt in his right hand and cautiously approached the lighted panel. "Hello?" He turned the knob slowly, then threw the door fully open. Two human bodies lay strewn on the floor, apparently lifeless. One was Kate's.

Kurt knelt beside her and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Then he noticed her neck was twisted just like Harlan Bergman's, snapped like dry tinder. "Ah, fuck!" He quickly checked the other victim, a middle-age man he recognized as Hank Dubois, and found his neck likewise mangled. _The work of a four hundred pound bald guy_ _!_

He stood and leaned against the wall, searching for equilibrium. _What now?_ _Call the police? What about Cassie?_ He didn't want her to hear sirens and he didn't want to give her the news over the telephone.

He dashed down the stairs, yelling. "Hey! Janitor? Hello? Hey!"

The young janitor was waiting at the bottom. "What the hell's goin' on?"

"Kate and Hank Dubois have been murdered."

" _What_ _?_ "

Kurt pointed upward. "In the office. Call the police." He headed for the door.

"Murdered? You sure?"

"Tell Hanika I'm at the Dodd's apartment."

"Who the hell are _you_?"

Kurt slammed through the door and sprinted to his car, glad he'd left the engine running.

It took him less than five minutes to get to the apartment.

Cassie was standing by the TV set when he burst through the door. "What's wrong?" She looked past Kurt. "Where's Kate?"

"There's been trouble."

"Kate?"

"Toe Head found her."

Cassie stared at Kurt for a moment. "Is she okay?"

Kurt shook his head.

"Oh, God. He didn't—"

"She's gone, Cassie. I'm sorry."

"Gone?"

"He killed her." Kurt slammed the door behind him.

Cassie stood frozen a moment, her eyes locked on Kurt's. She shook her head slowly, then lost control.

Kurt took her in his arms, hugged her to him, and finally guided her to a seat on the couch.

She raised her head, biting her lower lip. "What happened?"

Kurt described his findings at the canning factory, avoiding details of how Kate's neck had been savaged.

"That dirty son of a _bitch_!" She covered her face with both hands and wept.

Kurt pulled her into another hug and held her until she could speak again.

"Can I see her?" She didn't bother wiping her eyes or cheeks.

"Tomorrow."

Cassie struggled to her feet and into the bathroom. Just as she closed the door and turned on the exhaust fan, the phone rang.

Kurt answered. "McBride."

"I guess that was you found the bodies." It was Police Chief Hanika.

"I had to get back here and help Cassie."

"I need you at the station first thing tomorrow. Talk over what happened."

"As soon as I'm sure Cassie's safe, I'll be there."

"You figure that big guy killed her?"

"I figure. You at the factory now?"

"Waitin' for Larry Roberts to haul off the corpses," said Hanika.

"Get photos of the crime scene?"

"Made some notes. I'm not leavin' two stiffs layin' where people gotta work in a few hours."

"Who'll do the autopsy?"

"I'll call Barnett tomorrow. He'll send down a state patrol doc."

"I'll be in as soon as I can." Kurt hung up the phone and sat back in the rocking chair. Somebody on the outside had probably made a fake emergency phone call to the canning factory and Toe Head was waiting for Kate when she went to the office. Too bad for Hank Dubois that he was with her.

Had the guy come to abduct Kate again or to eliminate her as a witness? Maybe his boss wanted her back for another "party" and she gave the big slob too much of a fight. Did they know she had a sister who was even more attractive? _I can't take a chance they don't_ _._ He sat up and grabbed the phone again, started to make a call, then sat back, thinking about what he had in mind. _He'll understand_ _._ He dialed the still-familiar number.

"Maxwell's," Ceece's sleepy voice answered.

"It's Kurt, Coach. Sorry to wake you, but I need a friend."

"Kurt?"

"I just found Kate Dodd murdered at the canning factory... by the guy who kidnapped her Sunday."

Ceece cleared his throat, then coughed. "Murdered? That big guy?"

Kurt related his discovery of the bodies and why he feared Cassie might be in jeopardy.

"What can I do?"

"He knows where Cassie lives. She's not safe here."

"Where's her family?"

Kurt hesitated. "Kate was her only family except for the baby."

"You never told me about a baby."

"She has a two year old daughter."

"Just a minute," Ceece said.

Kurt heard the coach conferring with his wife, Vi.

"She and the baby could stay with us for a while," Ceece said. "Is that what you had in mind?"

"That's what I was hoping you'd say. Of course I'll reimburse you for any costs."

"We can discuss that later. You want to bring her over now?"

"Sometime about mid-morning, I think. Cassie wants to see her sister's body first. I'll call you just before we come."

"I'll be at school. Call me there."

"I really appreciate this, Ceece. Cassie will too. She's pretty much left on her own."

"Except for you."

Kurt swallowed. "I'm not exactly an expert on caring for others."

"Where _you_ gonna stay?"

"I'll sleep here in the apartment, I guess."

"You can have our couch," Ceece said.

"One or the other, for a few days. If they don't get this bastard by Sunday, maybe Cassie will come live in Chicago."

"Gonna be tough for her with no family."

"Maybe she'll have one before long."

Chapter Thirty-One

"If you're here with us all the time we'll be safe," Cassie told Kurt. Puffy-eyed and drowsy, she was feeding Lizzie her Thursday morning breakfast in the kitchen.

Kurt sat across the oval table. "I can't be here all the time."

"I've got the gun."

"And sometimes you sleep. So do I. If they want you, we're sitting ducks."

"Maybe they don't want me." Cassie wiped Lizzie's face and took the dishes to the sink.

"We can't take that chance, Cass. And you'll love the Maxwells."

Cassie busied herself with the washing.

"Ceece's the most respected man in this town." He took Lizzie from her highchair and put her on the floor to play. "He could have any elected office he wants. Anybody in town has trouble, they call Ceece."

"Including you."

Kurt sighed. "I don't have many close friends left, but I think I'm as special to Ceece as he is to me." He told her how Maxwell and his wife, Viola, had come to Rock Bluff twenty-some years earlier and soon became civic and social leaders. Vi managed the local water utility office, and Ceece taught biology and coached all inter-scholastic sports at the high school. He'd won seven Class B high school state championships. "I told you about the ones we almost got when I was a senior."

"He doesn't know me from sick 'em." Her chin quivered slightly, and she sniffed.

Kurt came up beside her and leaned against the counter. "He knows you're important to me."

She looked up at him, frowning. "Maybe we don't have to look for Toe Head." A tear dropped off her cheek. "Let him find _us_."

"With you as _bait_?" He shook his head. "No chance in hell."

"The police could have someone spying around the clock. Wait till he shows up and _bang_."

"The cops wouldn't go along," Kurt said. "It's against regulations."

Cassie went to Lizzie and picked her up. "Do we _need_ the police?"

"You mean nab him ourselves? Just you and me? You know how much jeopardy that would put you and Lizzie in?" _Not to mention the pressure on me_ _._

She looked at him a moment, then dropped into a chair, hugging her daughter, and cried quietly.

"But there is something that might work." Kurt stood, then paced across the kitchen and back. "Yeah. It'd be worth a try." He looked at Cassie and her baby. "But not till you're safe at the Maxwell's."

"Should I pack bags?" Her voice was thick.

Kurt thought a moment. "Just stuff some clean undies and diapers in a sack. Enough for a couple of days. I'll come back for more if you need it."

As Cassie carried Lizzie down the hall to her bedroom, Kurt went to the phone and called Bill Barnett at the state patrol office in Lincoln.

"We're just about to leave for Rock Bluff," the lieutenant said. "Sorry to hear about your friend's sister. How's she getting along?"

"Her boss at U.P. told her to take all the time she needs, without pay, of course."

"Generous fella."

"I wish he was the only fella we have to worry about." Keeping his voice low, Kurt voiced his concern that the killer might have his sights on Cassie. Then he outlined a plan that had occurred to him while Cassie was suggesting a trap for Toe Head.

"Might work," Barnett said. "Let me check with some people here and call you when I get to Rock Bluff."

"I'm going to be running around a lot, Lieutenant. Let me call you."

"If you can't get my cell phone, I'll be at the police station," Barnett said. "Or the jail."

Chapter Thirty-Two

At eighty-thirty Kurt parked his car in front of Roberts Funeral Home. Larry had agreed to let Cassie see her sister's corpse prior to the autopsy scheduled for later that morning. Larry's wife, Mary Roberts, looked after Lizzie during the fifteen-minute visit to the embalming room.

"Will we need to transport the deceased to another facility?" Larry Roberts asked as he, Kurt and Cassie returned to the funeral home lobby. "Or will interment be here in Rock Bluff?"

"We can take care of that later, Larry," Kurt said. "Cassie's not—"

"I'm okay." Her eyes were swollen, her nose red, her voice raw.

"There's room in my folks' cemetery plot," Kurt told her. "They bought four spaces when I was born."

"I can buy my own." Cassie explained that she and Kate had both taken out life insurance policies when Lizzie was born. With the double indemnity clause, the policy would pay thirty thousand dollars for Kate's death.

Larry Roberts showed them into his office and immediately outlined his "premium service," including casket, vault and cemetery plot. The price tag was just under fifteen thousand dollars. As saddened as she was, Cassie was able to find a perfectly satisfactory package for around nine thousand.

The viewing would be Sunday night, with non-sectarian services and burial Monday morning. Roberts took some information from Cassie and promised to get it in the newspapers.

"Larry's doing a year's worth of business in less than a week," Kurt said as he and Cassie left the funeral home. "I peeked at his calendar when you were talking. He buried Jimmy Quayle yesterday. He's got Willett and Swift this afternoon, the three Tillsons in the morning and Hank Dubois on Saturday afternoon. And then on Monday, he has those four from the fire and Kate. I guess Karen Maino had family in Omaha."

"That was her home," Cassie said.

Kurt started the car. "Eleven murders... twelve unless old Ike Hanson sprouted wings." He shook his head. "That bald-headed bastard has a lot to answer for."

"I guess we're lucky he didn't butcher Kate like he did the others," Cassie said.

"He was in a hurry. Had to get in and out without leaving more witnesses."

Cassie slowly lowered her head into her hands and cried.

Kurt pulled Lizzie onto his lap, drove to Ceece's house and parked in the driveway. He looked at Cassie. "You okay?"

She used a handkerchief to wipe her face, then looked up, her chin still quivering, and nodded.

Kurt handed Lizzie to her and ushered them toward the front stoop.

Viola Maxwell opened the door. "Good morning, I'm Vi. So sorry about your sister." Still the gracious hostess Kurt remembered from his youth, Vi tastefully handled the introductions, showed Cassie the spare bedroom in the basement and invited everyone to coffee and Danish at the kitchen table. Her manner, as always, was caring but not patronizing, and when Kurt left for the police station he was pleased with his decision to once again turn for help to his boyhood mentor.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The sun was a huge, orange spotlight mounted on the solid blue sky that Thursday morning, but the thermometer didn't seem to care. It had read minus four when they left the apartment and hadn't changed much in the two hours since.

Kurt glanced up 8th Street as he drove through its intersection with Avenue D. His old house was up there, just four blocks away, sitting empty, alone. _Why not go have a look?_ He stopped, backed up to the intersection and drove up the hill south.

How many times had he covered that route? Thousands, he guessed, rushing through the adventures of his young life. And despite anything that happened, he always knew there was safety and comfort inside the walls of 402 South 8th Street.

He pulled up to the curb and parked. The place, built in the 1920s, seemed friendlier than it had when he'd stopped on Saturday. Maybe the house sensed that he wasn't going to leave it in the hands of strangers after all.

He tried to picture living there again, only with Cassie and Lizzie and the other little McBrides who would surely come along. _On a February Thursday morning like this all the kids would be off to school. Cassie would be taking care of her chores around the Victorian manse, and I'd be at my office downtown, somewhere off Lincoln Avenue. Why not? Because my kids would probably be known as the children of the town coward, that's why not._ Rather than being the most popular couple in town like his mom and dad, he and Cassie and their children would be largely shunned in Rock Bluff, just as he had been for the past ten years.

He looked at the 'wrap-around porch, the steepled dormers off the second-floor rooms, the large bay window, the yard made up of two city lots with plenty of room for swings and badminton nets and croquet courses. The place needed some repair, of course, but mostly cosmetic: paint, plaster, window glass. A house like that in a decent Chicago area neighborhood would go for at least 500 K.

He reached into the glove box and took out the ten thousand dollar cashier's check made out to St. Paul's Episcopal Church. He tore it up and put the pieces in his ashtray.

Cassie wouldn't want to leave Rock Bluff until the score was settled with Toe Head et al, and Kurt couldn't bear to leave her. He recalled what Ceece said at the first murder scene: _You figure out who did this and get 'em off the street, and you'll never hear anybody around here call you a chickenshit again._

The same thought had occurred to him that day, and several times since. Maybe he could regain some stature in his hometown if he discovered who was doing the killing and brought the scuzz-ball to justice. And what if he could, at long last, put an end to the Coogan Curse?

_Maybe I could partner up with Vic Rathe_. He pulled away from the curb and headed for the police station. _There should be plenty of demand in Coogan County for two sharp attorneys, especially if one's considered a hero of sorts._

Chapter Thirty-Four

Lt. Bill Barnett, one of his state troopers and an M. D. from forensics had just arrived at police headquarters when Kurt walked in.

"Morning, McBride," Barnett said. "The chief here was just giving Doc Marlow and Tom directions to the mortuary."

"I just left," Kurt said. "They've got a full house, thanks to Toe Head."

Chief Hanika and the state patrol team looked puzzled.

"That's what Kate—the latest victim—called the guy who kidnapped her... well, before he killed her."

"Oh," Chief Hanika said. "The big guy with no hair?"

Kurt nodded, then turned to Barnett. "I have something in my car I'd like to show you, Lieutenant. Could you step out here with me?"

While the chief looked down his nose, Kurt and the state patrol investigator walked to the Taurus and slipped into the front seat.

"I gave some thought to the plan you called about," Barnett said. "I—"

Kurt held up a hand. "We need to settle something else first."

Barnett waited.

"That offer you made about hiring me as a consultant on this case?"

"Still on, if that's your question."

Kurt offered the lieutenant his hand. "It's a deal. Consider me on your payroll as of this minute."

Barnett smiled. "Tell your boss to call me if he needs any clarification." He glanced around the outside of the car, then turned back to Kurt. "Now, let's talk about this little scheme you came up with."

Fifteen minutes later, the lieutenant got out of the car.

Kurt followed. "Probably be better not to mention any of this to Dar or the sheriff. Might be awkward."

Barnett nodded and opened the door to the police station.

_Might be even more awkward if I screw up_ , Kurt thought. He was a lawyer—a courtroom lawyer—not an investigator, but he wasn't a coward either, and he desperately needed to prove it.

Chapter Thirty-Five

_People shouldn't die in Nebraska in February_ , Kurt thought. _They're too hard to bury. Not just for the mourners but for the guys who dig the hole_.

He guided Cassie away from the graveside and into the back seat of the mortuary's black Cadillac sedan, then slid in beside her. Other mourners and funeral workers hurried to their own vehicles, sending up vapor clouds with every breath.

The services were sparsely attended, but that was no insult: all Kate's and Cassie's friends were hourly workers and few could manage a Monday morning off. The many flower arrangements and cards sent from both Omaha and Rock Bluff were a truer testament to the respect colleagues and acquaintances had for the Dodd sisters.

As the limo drove out through the cemetery gates, Kurt could see his mom and dad's corner plot just up the hill. _If I could only talk to Dad one more time... tell Mom how much I love her._ Those were regrets he would take to his own grave.

He wondered what Cassie was thinking about her family at that moment. No one had shown up or even contacted her despite Kate's murder. He couldn't understand parents who'd abandon their kids for any reason, and the same for kids who'd abandon their siblings. They had to know Cassie was suffering. They could discard her like leftovers just because she accidentally got pregnant? He'd never seen a trace of such malice in Cassie or Kate. _Maybe they were adopted._

"That's Norman's car!" Cassie blurted as the limo stopped in the funeral home driveway. She pressed her face to the backdoor window, staring at a light blue Geo hatchback parked at the curb.

A figure emerged from the car. A man, blond, about Kurt's size, but younger.

_Lizzie's father_ _?_ Kurt felt a knot in his stomach. It didn't abate when Cassie hopped from the car and ran into Norman's arms. Then he noticed the man's resemblance to the Dodd sisters.

He joined the hugging couple, his eyes locked on the man's face. "I'm Kurt McBride." He extended his hand.

Cassie turned to him, smiling through tears. "This is my brother, Norm."

Norm shook Kurt's hand. "I was just tellin' Cass 'I had car trouble. I left Hastings in plenty of time, but my gas line froze."

"It's okay. You're here now." Cassie slipped her arm through her brother's. "Let's get inside."

They hurried into the funeral home lobby where Cassie picked up the guest book and a flower bouquet. Kurt invited Norm to join them at the Maxwell's house.

Viola Maxwell, taking a hiatus from her work at the water utility that day, had coffee and cookies for the few invited guests: Dale Muncie, the U.P. Director and Cassie's boss, came for a while, and so did Blanche Bleeker, Fran Molk and several other co-workers. Kurt's old pal Vic Rathe and his wife, Jen, paid their respects, as did Cassie's neighbor from across the hall, Betty Toline. Sheriff Wylie O'Shea and Police Chief Hanika came together and left the same way ten minutes later.

"Mom wouldn't even discuss it with me on the phone," Norman Dodd told Kurt as the two sat by themselves in Ceece Maxwell's den. "As far as she's concerned, Kate's been dead for three years."

"And Cassie?"

"She's dead, too."

"And apparently your father agrees." Kurt shook his head sadly.

"Dad brings home the money. Mom takes it from there. The Church is everything." He talked about his imperious mother and deferential father, and how the children—three boys and three girls—were divided into two camps: he, Kate and Cassie formed one alliance, and his two older brothers and remaining older sister comprised the other. The latter group was blindly loyal to Mom. The younger three fought constantly with the woman over her strict rules and harsh punishments. "Sex is the _big_ no-no," Norm said. "In her mind, what Kate did can never be excused."

"What she _did_?"

"A homosexual act." Norm looked into his coffee cup. "To Mom, it's an abomination and Kate was a pervert. She said as much."

Kurt sat back and crossed his legs. "And Cassie was a whore, I suppose."

"If she'd married the father or had gone away someplace, had the baby and put it up for adoption, Mom would've taken her back." He looked at Kurt. "But Cassie _wanted_ that baby."

"Because she loved the father?"

"She'll always love him, I guess."

Cassie slipped into the room." Are you two getting acquainted?" She sat on the arm of Kurt's chair, draping one arm over his shoulder. "I hope you're not telling Kurt our family secrets."

Norm looked back and forth between his sister and Kurt. "Are you two—"

Cassie smiled. "Kurt's been hired by the state patrol to work on the murders." She told her brother the essentials of Kurt's background. "If anybody can catch this Toe Head guy, it's Kurt."

"Maybe you should come to Hastings and live with me for a while," Norm told Cassie.

She shook her head. "Kate was murdered here. I'm not leaving till they catch the son of a bitch or he kills me too."

Her remark reminded Kurt of his plans for that night and he excused himself. He liked Norman Dodd, he concluded while making his way to the phone in Ceece's bedroom. The guy had Cassie's gentle ways and Kate's brutal honesty. The other Dodds sounded like a five-car pile-up. _But what did he say about Lizzie's father? That Cassie would always love him?_ _That was before she met me!_

He dialed the long-distance number, spoke to his party for less than two minutes, then rejoined the guests. Everything was set for the coming night.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The woman arrived at the Maxwell home just after dark and then accompanied Kurt to the Dodd apartment across town. She carried a blanketed bundle hugged tightly to her chest as they went from the car into the building.

Inside, they doffed coats, stashed the bundle and settled down for the evening. She wore a thirty-eight revolver holstered on a thigh under her skirt. Kurt, with his new forty-four in a back pocket, turned on the TV, opened the front drapes slightly and raised the shade on a side window.

Across the street, plainclothes state trooper Ray Gower sat in a darkened front room with binoculars.

"Why don't I sit on the couch and you lay with your back against me?" Kurt said. "If we have a spy he won't get a good look at your face." He sat down and slipped his revolved between his hip and the back of the couch.

Marilyn Tabor did as Kurt suggested. She was roughly Cassie's size, maybe a bit heavier, and wore a blond wig. Her face didn't resemble Cassandra Dodd's, but it would take a clear, close look to see that.

"I've never worked with a lady cop," Kurt said when they were both comfortable.

"I'm not really a cop. I just work freelance."

"In Omaha?"

"And Lincoln. Sometimes I work for the state patrol, like now."

Kurt tried to keep his eyes off the open drapes and the crack under the shade. "How long you been at it?"

"About two years. I was a clerical at the Omaha courthouse. A vice detective asked me to play a call girl at the Marriot, snag some big shots for soliciting. I never went back to a typewriter."

"Liked rousting horny guys?"

"Liked the money." She turned to look at him. "You're freelancing too, aren't you?"

Kurt told her about himself and how he'd become involved in the situation. "So the State of Nebraska's picking up my expenses and reimbursing lost income."

"That okay with your boss in Chicago?"

"He's glad to see me get some on-the-job experience at no cost to his budget."

As the evening wore on they changed positions several times, always settling in a tableaux that would not afford a Peeping Tom a clear view of Marilyn's face.

At just after one, Kurt got up and stretched. "Why don't we turn in? Maybe that's what he's waiting for."

After Kurt pulled the shades tightly to bar any further observation from without, he went to Cassie's bed and Marilyn took the rollaway in Lizzie's room.

Nothing disturbed their sleep.

The next day, they had a quick cup of coffee at the apartment, then retired to the Maxwell's house. Marilyn shed the blond wig, changed into jeans and went back to her home in Omaha.

Later, Kurt and Cassie and Lizzie made themselves as conspicuous as possible in Rock Bluff, driving the main streets for over two hours. When night came, Kurt and Marilyn were back at the apartment again, lounging about and waiting.

"I like Cassie," Marilyn said. "Your fiancé?"

"I only met her about ten days ago."

"I figured you'd been together quite a while."

Kurt smiled.

"Lizzie's a cute baby."

"I wish I'd had something to do with that," said Kurt.

"Cassie's divorced?"

Kurt shrugged. "Single mom."

"Feisty."

A loud crash from the street startled them both.

Kurt rushed to the front window, pushing the drapes aside. In the darkness all he could see were headlights nestled against the back of his Ford Taurus. "Looks like somebody hit my car." He hurried out the door into the hallway, clicked off the overhead light and opened the front door. Just as he suspected, an ancient pick-up truck had smashed into the rear of his car. _Goddamn drunks_ _!_ He dashed back into the apartment and grabbed his parka. "Don't let anybody in unless you know it's me."

Outside, two figures were lurking at the far edge of the truck's headlights. Men, apparently, and fairly big ones. _Not_ _four hundred pounders, though._

Someone crushed into Kurt's left side, taking him to the snow-covered ground. As he tried to regain his feet, a pair of hands seized his shoulders and drove him back down. Then something struck the side of his head, followed by several blows to his stomach and chest. A foot smashed into his mouth, and then he was face down in the snow with somebody sitting astride his back, churning his face into the ground.

"Chickenshit cocksucker! Chickenshit cocksucker!"

He felt hands go around his neck, fingers sink into his trachea. Another kick crushed his nose, and another tore his cheek.

"I was in the poky three days on account of you, cocksucker!" The speaker squeezed harder.

Kurt fought for air, his strength waning fast.

A gunshot stopped everything.

"Get off of him!" Marilyn yelled from the front stoop.

Another shot from Marilyn's gun exploded in the freezing air.

The attacker on Kurt's back squealed in pain, grabbed a shoulder and fell to off one side.

A voice shouted from the street. "State patrol! Put your hands in the air! Now!"

Gasping and choking, Kurt managed to roll over. Marilyn was pointing her pistol at a man lying next to him, obviously wounded and flailing in pain.

Trooper Ray Gower came up behind two other thugs, standing wide-eyed with their hands in the air.

As he regained his senses, Kurt realized who his assailants were: Arlo Frey, the guy who'd accosted him at Lola's Happy Corner ten days earlier, and his buddies. Apparently Ceece had indeed arranged for Arlo to be jailed while Kurt was in Rock Bluff.

"You okay?" Marilyn yelled.

Kurt struggled to his feet, falling back three times before he made it. "I'll make it."

"Are these the guys we're looking for?" Sgt. Gower aimed his service revolver with one hand and a flashlight with the other.

"No." Kurt gave the state trooper and Marilyn a quick version of what happened and who the three attackers were.

"I need the doctor," Arlo cried from the ground. His shoulder was oozing blood.

"Looks like he'll need an ambulance." Kurt knelt by his grimacing attacker. "You don't assault somebody when you're on probation, you stupid bastard! Ceece was trying to keep your sorry ass out of prison." He stood. "Now you can spend a couple years in the old graybar hotel."

"How about you?" Gower looked up and down Kurt's tattered person.

"Nothing Neosporin and Band-Aids won't fix." Kurt walked down the sidewalk and surveyed the back of his car where it had been struck by the old pickup. "Shit! Over a thousand dollars' worth of damage!"

"Who's that truck belong to?" Gower demanded of his two standing prisoners.

Hands still aloft, they looked at each other, then one said. "Arlo." He dipped his head toward the wounded ring leader, still wallowing in pain.

" _You_ was drivin'!" the other spat.

The first one glared at his mate. "Arlo made me!"

"Arlo won't be making anybody do anything for a while." The state patrol officer ushered the thugs to positions beside the pickup.

It took an hour to get Arlo off to the Falls City hospital and his two accomplices on their way to the city jail. After Marilyn helped Kurt patch himself up, the two sat down with Sgt. Gower in the living room.

"We'd better call it a night, huh?" said Marilyn.

Kurt glanced at his watch, wincing when he turned his head. "It's just after ten. Our boy still might show up. "

"Not if he saw what just happened," said Gower.

Kurt tried to find a comfortable sitting position. "I don't think that would scare him off."

Marilyn straightened her wig. "Maybe he saw that I wasn't Cassie."

"Let's hang in here for the night," Kurt said.

They did, but to no avail.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

"Oh God! What happened?" Cassie rushed to Kurt and examined his visible wounds.

At shortly after 7:00 a.m. he and Marilyn were just returning to Ceece's house on Wednesday morning.

"Toe Head?"

Kurt shook his head. "Just a local yokel with a grudge. I'm okay, Cass." As they took seats around the living room, Kurt related his run-in with Arlo Frey the night before. "My car still runs, but barely. I didn't know whether we'd make it here."

"Maybe your bald guy's not interested in Cassie," said Coach Maxwell.

Kurt gently put his feet up on the hassock. "Marilyn's working with us for two more nights."

As if on cue, Marilyn pulled off her wig and headed for the bathroom to change clothes. "I gotta get home. I'm having lunch with some old girl friends."

Cassie sat back after looking over the cut on Kurt's cheek. "Think you're in shape to handle Toe Head?"

"I can still shoot straight," Kurt said. "So can Marilyn. She proved that."

"Maybe one of Dar's boys could pinch hit tonight," Ceece said. "Beat up like that, you won't be much of a body guard."

"I'll be okay by dark. Ouch!" Kurt jerked away after leaning on his right shoulder.

Cassie scowled at him. "Isn't that the arm you shoot with?"

Kurt groaned as he massaged the sprained limb. After a moment he looked over at Ceece. "How many cops work for Dar?"

"Three."

"You trust any of 'em?"

Ceece smiled. "They're all pretty good boys."

"Mind calling him?" Kurt lay back on the sofa. "See if one of those 'good boys' is available tonight?"

"Dar know anything about this trap you're setting?" Ceece asked.

"I suppose I owe him an apology for that."

"I'll cover it." Ceece went to the phone in the kitchen.

Vi glanced at her watch and followed her husband. "We need some toast and some more coffee."

Kurt rolled his head to look over at Cassie. "You going to work tomorrow?"

She nodded. "No choice. I've been out five days without pay. I don't want to lose the job."

"Those pricks ought to be paying you after all that's happened."

"I was afraid to ask."

"They wouldn't fire you, Cass. Your boss can be a weasel but he's a decent guy."

"Vi knows an older woman who can baby sit," Cassie said. "She's coming over this afternoon. I can afford her for a few days."

"What if you don't like her?"

Cassie shrugged. "I don't go to work."

Marilyn came out of the bathroom in slacks and a sweater. "I'm going now. Be back about five." She started for the front entrance.

Ceece returned from his phone conversation in the kitchen. ""Ernie Carblinski has volunteered to sit in at the apartment. Great guy."

At the door, Marilyn turned, looked at Kurt. "You got a sub?"

"Sorry," Kurt said. "I can't even stand up for long."

The undercover cop looked at Ceece. "Somebody you trust?"

"Take my word," the coach said.

Marilyn nodded at the coach and turned to Kurt. "I show up here like before?"

"Right."

"Hope you feel better," she said to Kurt, then turned with a wave and went out the front door.

Kurt tried to wave back, but grabbed his arm in pain. "Damn!" He looked up at Ceece. "So who's Ernie Carblinski?"

"Like I said, great guy."

Kurt looked him in the eye. "Great _cop_?"

"Will be with some experience." The coach sat down. "Kid's only three years out of high school. Played some good games for us. Started all four years in both football and basketball."

"Arlo Frey was a good athlete too," Kurt said.

"Arlo was mean and tough. Ernie was smart and tough... and a leader."

"About my size?"

Ceece nodded. "Close enough for night work."

Kurt struggled to stretch out. "Suppose he should be driving my car... if it works."

The coach held out his hand for the keys. "I'd better take it for a spin, see how bad it is."

"Won't you be late for school?"

Ceece smiled. "I run my job, Vi runs hers. Who's gonna bitch?"

Kurt dug his keys out and tossed them to his friend.

After Ceece left, Cassie stood and walked to the front window, watching the coach look over Kurt's Taurus. "Your car doesn't look that bad from here."

"Trunk's so smashed it won't open. I was afraid the crankshaft was broke. Gonna take a good body man and beaucoup bucks to make that car whole again."

Cassie turned to Kurt, frowning. "How much notice do I have to give before I move out of the apartment?"

"Thirty days is standard, but your situation's not standard. You want to move right away?"

"I can't pay the rent on my salary alone." She sighed. "Lizzie and I can get a smaller place. One bedroom, maybe."

Kurt struggled into a sitting position. "My parents' house is vacant. Why don't you move in there till things settle down?"

"It's a big house, isn't it?"

"So?"

"I don't have much furniture. Heat and electricity are pretty expensive."

"You want to live there, it's yours, rent-free, utilities-free."

Cassie frowned as she walked to the couch and sat. "I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't. I volunteered."

"I can find a little apartment."

He glanced toward the kitchen where Vi was buttering warm toast, then reached over and took Cassie's hand. He spoke softly. "I drove past the house the other day. I thought about us living there."

"Us?"

"You, me, Lizzie. And the next generation of McBrides."

Cassie's eyes locked on Kurt's. "Seriously?"

He nodded.

She looked down at their hands. "Are you saying you want to marry me?"

Kurt swallowed. "That's the idea."

"We... we've only known each other a little over a week."

"A _long_ week."

Vi Maxwell yelled from the kitchen, "I've got a little breakfast when you're hungry."

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Kurt didn't sleep well that night. The Maxwells' couch was okay for a healthy body but way too small for his aches and pains. What's more, he had to be up and dressed by seven in order to pick up the newly engaged baby sitter.

Her name was Alice Wolcott, an old friend of Ceece and Vi Maxwell and of Kurt's parents as well as. Her husband, Hal, had been killed in a car wreck some six months earlier. Alice wasn't destitute by any means, but the four dollars an hour Cassie offered for taking care of Lizzie would help. Besides, she'd been looking for something productive to keep her busy.

By 7:30 a.m. the Maxwells were both off to their respective jobs, Alice had been duly introduced to Lizzie, and Kurt was driving Cassie to the U.P. office. They used Marilyn's car; the undercover officer and Rock Bluff Patrolman Ernie Carblinski had taken Kurt's to the apartment the night before and hadn't returned yet.

Kurt looked at Cassie. "If it gets too tough, just call me. To hell with Muncie and his miserable job. We'll get along."

Cassie said quietly, "I'll be okay,"

"You can trust Alice. I've known her all my life. You don't need to be worrying about Lizzie."

"You'll be home all day?"

"I'd like to get a little more sleep," Kurt said. "Rough night." He'd planned to resume his talk with Cassie about their future, but the time didn't seem right. _Then again_ , _what's to talk about_? _She wants it and I want it, so we'll do it... after we've both had a chance to recuperate from all the shit_. His only uncertainty was leaving his job in Chicago, but he'd think about that later.

When he got back home at just after eight, the phone was ringing.

"I'll get it, Alice," he yelled to the baby sitter. He picked up the phone. "Maxwell's."

"Ceece?" a familiar voice on the other end asked.

"Kurt McBride. Ceece is—"

"Dar Hanika, McBride. You heard from Ernie this morning? He was supposed to be here forty-five minutes ago."

Kurt had to think for a moment. "The cop with Marilyn? I wasn't looking for him till around nine."

"Nobody answers the phone at the apartment," said the police chief.

"You dialing the right number?"

"It's the one you gave me. Tried it four times. Started a half-hour ago. No answer."

"Maybe they went someplace for breakfast."

"The state cop said your car was still parked there when he left about ten minutes ago."

Kurt let himself down onto a kitchen chair. "Could be something wrong with the line."

"Operator says it's clear."

"Well, I don't know," Kurt finally snapped. "Why don't you go _look_? Jesus!"

"I gotta have two drunks we hauled in last night over to the courthouse in fifteen minutes."

"If anything had happened last night, the state cop would have seen it."

"That's what he said."

Kurt took a deep breath. "Send one of your other guys over there."

"Will works four to eight, Mac just got off at seven."

"Have the sheriff check it out."

Dar bristled. "This ain't county business."

"Okay, Dar. I'll go have a look."

"I don't know what Ernie's up to, but you tell him to get his ass back here, pronto." The chief hung up.

Over the objections of his sore shoulder and ribs, Kurt chugged another cup of coffee and took off in Marilyn's tan Volvo.

He found his car, bashed-in trunk and all, parked directly in front of the apartment house. The shades in Cassie's place were drawn tight. Everything looked as it should. _Maybe the car wouldn't start and they got a ride with one of the neighbors_.

Kurt unlocked the apartment door and started in—until the inside security chain stopped him cold after a few inches. _Jesus_ _!_ _If that's still hooked, somebody has to be in there_. He sniffed through the gap. A sour odor. "Marilyn? Ernie? Anybody home?"

He stepped back and charged the door, good shoulder first. The chain clasp broke loose and he stumbled into the living room. "Marilyn?"

He gripped the butt of the Colt revolver stuck in his belt, went to the kitchen, and snapped on the overhead light. Dirty dishes lay in and around the sink.

The sour smell grew stronger as he eased down the hall, drawing the pistol and cocking its hammer. In a single move he threw the door to Lizzie's bedroom open and pointed the gun at everything in front of him: an empty, unmade rollaway bed and a childless crib. A shirt hung on the 'only chair; a man's shoes were tucked under the bed.

Across the hall, Kate's door was open, everything inside just as she'd left it.

Nothing was awry in the bathroom, either.

Then he heard some clatter behind Cassie's closed door. "Marilyn? Are you in there?"

No answer. Another noise.

He turned the knob and let the door swing inward. He was startled by a rush of cold air. The window was fully open, the storm window on the outside gone, a frigid February breeze rustling the blinds.

Closer, on the near side of the bed, the body of an obviously dead man dressed in a T-shirt, slacks and socks lay crumpled, the neck twisted grotesquely. Ernie Carblinski's corpse reminded Kurt of how he'd found Kate.

He stepped over the body and looked out the window. The snow directly beneath it was trampled, but narrowed into a visible trail to the alleyway beyond.

He examined the window and saw the lock on the sash was not broken and the glass was intact. The screws on the storm window, lying in the snow, had been removed from the outside. Kurt stepped back, trying to make sense of the scene. _Okay... someone took the outer window off with a screwdriver._ But the fully-intact inner window was locked tightly when he and Marilyn had left the day before. _Who_ _un_ _locked it? Ernie? Marilyn?_

He wandered back to the living room, still sorting through his rushing thoughts. _It had to be Toe Head. He came through the bedroom window during the night and took Marilyn with him, probably thinking she was Cassie. Ernie heard the struggle, came to help and got his neck broken. A new sex toy for Toe Head's boss? Will he kill her too when the fun's over? Then go after Cassie again?_

He was going to need some help, that was for sure. And he knew just the guy to ask.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

That night, from the Maxwell's living room, Kurt phoned Captain of Detectives Harmon Carmichael of the Chicago Police Department at his home. Kurt considered Harm one of the best homicide investigators in the country. When he brought a case to the Illinois State's Attorney's Office, it was all but open and shut. The two talked for over an hour.

Afterward, Kurt found Ceece working in his den.

The coach looked up from his work. "So what's your friend think?"

"Says if it were his case he'd check into Marcie Swift and find that house where they took Kate."

"Marcie?"

"She's the only common thread."

Ceece leaned back in his swivel chair. "He figures Kate and Marilyn are tied in with the other killings?"

"That's how he'd work it."

"Me too."

"So I guess tomorrow I'll look for people familiar with Marcie." Kurt plopped down in the leather easy chair. "Her dad was a preacher, right?"

Ceece nodded. "A rich one. Been driving Caddies for five or six years, ever since he went on TV. You know that _Voice of the Bible_ network?"

"That goes all over the country."

"And it keeps those cards and letters coming in," the coach said.

"I remember him in that little Christian church up on North 10th Street."

Ceece nodded. "That was before _Voice of the Bible_."

"And he let his daughter get an abortion?"

Ceece shrugged. "He'd deny it, regardless."

"Did he deny his daughter was the town tramp?"

The doorbell rang.

"I've got it!" Vi yelled from the living room.

"He tried to cover for her," Ceece said. "When she turned eighteen, he gave up. Took his wife and other two kids and moved to Lincoln. Got a nice big home on Sheridan Boulevard, I understand."

"Was the old man pissed off at Marcie?" said Kurt. "I mean _really_ pissed?"

"Enough to have her killed?"

Kurt waited for the coach to continue.

Ceece shook his head. "I don't know the guy."

"Who does?"

"His congregation, I'd guess. Lot of people here in town still hang on his every word. Maybe you should pay some of 'em a visit."

Kurt sat back. "Think they'll talk to me?"

"You can say you're working with me if that'll help."

"Great."

Ceece stepped over to his bookcase and got a Rock Bluff High School yearbook. "Let's see if I can remember who she pals around with."

Chief Hanika stepped into the doorway to Ceece's office. "Evening gents. Just dropped by with a little news. Halley John Bissell's dead."

Ceece pointed to a folding chair. "Have a seat."

"They was movin' him from Des Moines to the pen in Lincoln and he tried to bust loose again." Hanika sat. "Forced the car off the road, killed one guard and busted up another. But the second one got a shot off, killed 'ol' Halley on the spot."

"He didn't have anything to do with the murders anyhow," Ceece said.

"Maybe now O'Shea will stop claimin' he did." Hanika crossed his legs.

"Well," Kurt said. "I think Wylie was afraid his deputy's murder might get lost in the shuffle."

"Yeah. Now one of _my_ boys is dead." Hanika kept his eyes on his hands.

Kurt swallowed. "I should've been there."

"Wouldn't exactly be the first time you weren't," the chief muttered.

"Oh horseshit, Dar!" Ceece barked.

Hanika nodded at Kurt. "Well, this whole stakeout was his idea."

"And it was a _good_ idea!" said Ceece. "Damn near worked!" He leaned toward Hanika. "If you'd kept that goddamned Arlo Frey in jail, Kurt wouldn't have been banged up and we'd probably _have_ our killer!"

"You said McBride was leavin' last Sunday."

"I can't leave Cassie alone right now," said Kurt. "I'll be staying indefinitely."

Hanika looked at Ceece. "He's livin' here, at your place?"

Ceece squinted at the chief. "What the hell's that got to do with anything?"

"Look," Kurt said. "Toe Head killed Ernie and probably everybody else except Wylie's deputy. Let's blame _him_." He took a deep breath. "God only knows what he's gonna do with Marilyn."

"Same thing he tried to do with Kate." Ceece drummed a pencil on his desktop. "Then...." He tossed the pencil on the desk.

The three men watched it roll slowly across the wood surface and come to rest against a picture frame.

"Could be he wants ransom," Hanika said.

The wind outside blustered through a nearby pine tree.

Kurt crossed one leg over the other. "I told Marilyn how Kate escaped. Maybe that'll help."

Ceece tilted his chair, propped his feet on the desk. " _Finding her_ would help more."

Hanika grumbled, "I'm doin' all I can. I had Carl get lots of pictures at the apartment before we moved anything. State patrol crew will get over there tomorrow for fingerprints and such." He turned to Kurt. "They'll need Ms. Dodd's prints and DNA for comparison."

"How about mine?"

"Already got 'em from your office in Chicago."

"Figures," Kurt said. "Cassie will be at the U.P. all day tomorrow. The forensics team will either have to stop by there or wait till Saturday."

"I'll tell Barnett."

Ceece asked, "They gonna help find Marilyn?"

The chief nodded. "Sending over a chopper to look around those fields by Ike Hanson's place with a couple patrol units working the roads."

Kurt steepled his fingers. "I'll bet my life she's right where they took Kate."

"Right now that looks like a black hole." Ceece turned to the chief. "Ernie's body over at Roberts?"

"Yeah. Barnett's boys'll take it to Lincoln for an autopsy."

"How are his folks doing?"

"They got two younger kids... girls. Ernie was to carry on the family name."

"When's the funeral?"

"Saturday. Methodist church."

"We're gonna get this bastard," said Kurt. " _Before_ he kills Marilyn."

The chief looked at Kurt. "Can't figure how a guy as smart as Ernie could let somebody break in the door like that and surprise him—even in the middle of the night."

Kurt cocked his head, frowned. "I'm the one who kicked in the door. I told Will that this morning."

Hanika blinked. "You?" The chief cleared his throat. "I guess Will forgot to tell me."

"Our boy got in and out through Cassie's bedroom window. Had to. The front door was still locked and chained from the inside when I got there." He stood. "What I can't figure out is why that back window was unlocked."

"You sure it was?" said Ceece.

"Oh, yeah. The sill and latch clearly hadn't been jimmied." He took a few steps toward the door, then turned to face the others. "But Marilyn and I battened down all the apartment windows the first night we stayed there. Nobody was gonna sneak up on us."

"Maybe she got a little warm last night, needed some air."

Kurt shook his head. "The back rooms in that apartment are always cold. Besides, Marilyn wouldn't take a chance like that."

Ceece sat upright. "You sure this guy would fit through that window?"

"It's three feet wide. Plenty of room even for his fat ass." Kurt leaned against Ceece's desk. "But how did it get unlocked?" His eyes narrowed. "Unless...."

Ceece and the chief waited with curious frowns.

"Unless somebody slipped in there yesterday and unlatched it... greased the skids for 'ol' Toe Head."

"The apartment was locked up whenever you weren't there," Ceece said.

"There are other sets of keys around if the right person needs them." Kurt looked at Ceece.

"He bribed the landlord or the super?" Ceece sounded doubtful.

Kurt shrugged. "Maybe even the owner." He turned to Hanika. "Could you find out who that place belongs to? Who has access to the units?"

"I'm workin' for _you_ now?"

"You want to clear up this kidnapping, right?"

Ceece stood. "Hold on, guys." He addressed the chief. "He didn't mean any disrespect, Dar. Just check the records and see who's in charge of that apartment building. No big deal."

"And have one of your men ask around about seeing anybody unusual go in or out of there yesterday."

"Anybody?" Hanika scoffed. "Like a four hundred pound bald guy?"

"Anybody who's not a regular."

The chief glared at Kurt. "You can do the asking."

"I don't have a badge, Chief. Nobody has to talk to me."

"Send somebody over there, Dar," Ceece said. "It might be the break we need to end this stuff."

Hanika stood. "I'll do it myself." He pulled on his cap and started out, then stopped and turned to Kurt. "Tell Wylie he ought to be doin' a house-to-house search." The chief left.

Chapter Forty

"Where?" Sheriff Wylie O'Shea bellowed the next morning. "The whole county? She was kidnapped in _his_ town. It's as much his job as it is mine. Besides, the story's all over the news. Everybody's on the lookout."

"We could try some of the houses around Ike Hansen's place," Kurt said.

"Without warrants?" O'Shea sat on a small desk in the office area of the county jail.

"People with nothing to hide don't need warrants," said Kurt.

"Folks don't like cops tromping through their homes, McBride. Even innocent folks. And I don't have the manpower, anyway."

"State patrol could help."

The sheriff scoffed. "Not without more to go on than we got."

"Well, then let's get more." Kurt pulled a notepad from his parka. "I need Marcie Swift's school records."

Wylie peered over the top of his reading glasses. "What do you want with those?"

"She's connected to some of the other victims—the Tillsons, Pete Meester. Maybe I can figure out whether that means anything."

Wylie heaved a sigh and headed for his little office. "I'll call the superintendent."

Kurt checked the list Ceece had given him of Marcie's known high school cronies, and he'd gone through the phone book searching for names and addresses of those still living in Rock Bluff. There were ten males and three females. He hoped to get more names from Marcie's co-workers at the U.P. offices if boss Dale Muncie would give him permission to interview them.

He drifted to the county map that covered a sizable chunk of the wall of the outer office and looked it over. Thick lines, thin lines, straight lines, curved lines, red lines, black lines: somewhere along one of those country roads there was a large home where Marilyn Tabor was being held. But every farmer within ten miles of Ike Hanson's place had been there twenty years or more. Well-known, respectable citizens owned all the large, nice homes, the ones that would have carpeting in the upstairs hallway. Either Toe Head had pirated such a house or, after escaping, Kate had traveled a lot farther than would seem reasonable.

Kurt recalled Ike's house: the image of Toe Head at the door, the noises emanating from behind the Dodd sisters and him as they ran down the snow-covered hill, the crush of flesh against stone near the passageway, the huge paw prints. He had no theory to explain it all.

"Clyde says you can go over there and look through Marcie's file," the sheriff said, sauntering back into the room. "But you can't take anything out of the building 'less you get permission from next of kin."

"Fair enough," Kurt said. "Anytime?"

"Office is open till four-thirty."

It was just after nine, and Kurt wanted to know more about Marcie before he went through her public school file.

He hustled through the freezing air, got in his car and drove to the Union Pacific office building a few blocks away. He parked very near the spot where he'd dropped Cassie off for work two hours earlier.

The receptionist recognized Kurt from Kate's funeral and cordially led him to Dale Muncie's office.

He couldn't help noticing glares from Fran Molk and Blanche Bleeker as he walked through the clerical area.

Cassie was sitting at a desk just outside Muncie's door.

"How you doing?" he asked quietly.

Her smile was strained. "I'll make it."

"State patrol forensics been here?"

"I'm all fingerprinted. And they took a strand of hair."

He patted her shoulder and entered the boss's office.

"Have a seat, McBride," Muncie said. "We need to close the door?"

Kurt glanced at the roomful of women outside pretending they couldn't care less about his visit. "I don't have any secrets."

"You're not here to talk about Cassie's lost wages?"

"I'll leave that to your conscience, Dale. What I need is permission to interview people on your staff who knew Marcie Swift."

Muncie cleared his throat. "What for?"

"If we can figure out why she was murdered, maybe we'll get some idea of who did it."

"We?"

"Ceece Maxwell asked me to help out with the investigation. I'm sure you remember that day at Lola's."

Muncie sat back and crossed his arms. "I thought you'd be headed back to Chicago by now."

"This is my hometown. Still a lot of people here I care about."

"And one is sitting right outside."

Kurt glanced through the door at Cassie, fully intent on what she was doing on her computer.

"Two state patrol people were here about a half-hour ago." Muncie scooted his chair up and leaned across the desk. "She's not a suspect or anything, is she?"

"They're looking for evidence in her apartment and need to know what's _not_ relevant—like what's hers and what's mine."

"Oh?" Muncie glanced out the door at Cassie, then slid back. "Well, you can talk to my people, I guess. But I can't make them talk to you." He stood. "Cassie?"

Cassie grabbed a notepad and hurried into the office.

"Get out an in-house e-mail. Say Kurt McBride has permission to interview all employees about Marcie Swift. They can take whatever time is necessary. What questions they answer or don't answer is up to them."

"Yes Sir."

"Set him up in the conference room." He turned to Kurt. "Come back right after lunch. By then, everybody will have had a chance to think it over."

Kurt's next stop was Ceece's house to see how Alice Wolcott was getting along. "Hi, Mrs. Wolcott," Kurt said as he came in the front door. "I forgot some notes in Ceece's office." He didn't want Alice to think he was checking up on her, and he wasn't. He was checking on Lizzie. The new babysitter and her charge had hit it off well on their first day together, but he knew the two year old could be a little grouchy once the newness wore off. "Lizzie being a good girl?"

"She misses her mommy," said Alice. "But we're doing okay."

He knelt by the toddler as she peered up from her seat amidst toys on the floor. "You look sleepy, Sweetheart. Time for your nap?"

"Nap!" She threw a plastic ball and waited for Kurt's approval.

"She reminds me of my Linda," Alice said. "Lots of energy, no time for rest."

Ten minutes later, satisfied that Mrs. Wolcott and Lizzie were secure in each other's company, Kurt drove down Highway 74 and into the country. He wanted another look at Ike Hanson's place.

As he pulled into the yard and parked, everything looked as it had six days earlier. Ike's truck, snow piled around the tires, hadn't been moved. Blowing snow had also blurred the tracks around the truck and the house.

Kurt went to the area where he and Sheriff O'Shea had first found paw prints. They were faint, but still there, and surrounded by additional human tracks. _Probably those of the forensics specialist sent by Bill Barnett to examine the paw prints in the snow._

He gazed along the tail of tracks as they crossed the road and disappeared down the hill. If there hadn't been a passageway through King Hill, he, Kate and Cassie would have wound up looking like the Tillson boys.

Wearing penny loafers and no overshoes, he high-stepped through the snow and into the house through the kitchen door. His feet were wet and cold as he stomped on the dreary linoleum floor. But cold wasn't the most unpleasant sensation; there was also a smell, and it was far worse than the odor in Cassie's apartment the day before. _Something rotting... flesh._

He searched through the parlor, two small bedrooms and the bathroom, then returned to the kitchen, where the stink was worse than anywhere else. Something in the refrigerator? He opened the door. The little box was running and cool. Its sparse contents couldn't create the stench anyway.

The cellar! Why hadn't he thought of it a week ago? All these little farm homes had cellars for storm shelters and preserved foods. There was usually a trap door somewhere. He spotted a small rug just inside the archway leading to the parlor and peeled it off the floor. A tiny door with two hinges and a recessed handle lay beneath.

As he drew the door upward, the rotten smell exploded. Something dead was under the house, and Kurt feared he knew what it was. He swung himself onto the ladder and backed into the darkness below. When he pulled a string hooked to the doorframe, a yellow glow spread throughout the chamber. Crude wood shelving with scattered jars of fruits and vegetables fronted the room's four cement walls. A narrow tunnel at one end led to a stairway and an outside entrance. The source of the odor was somewhere near that opening.

Kurt pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, covered his nose and mouth and walked toward the tunnel. The room's hundred-watt bulb didn't reach the upper half of the steps, so he had to dig a packet of matches from his pocket and light one. He saw the rotting flesh lying near the door at the top.

He breathed a sigh of relief. It was a dead cat. A gray one, with white stripes. Big, maybe twenty pounds, but not the creature that had left eight-inch paw prints in the snow. Kurt lit another match. The poor beast had probably crawled into the cellar before the recent heavy snow, found its passageway blocked after the storm, and starved to death.

Kurt hurried to the ladder, then up and out of the house. Wylie needed to get somebody to clean up and lock the doors. It was, after all, Ike Hanson's home and there was still a chance he might return to it at some point.

Chapter Forty-One

"Do I stink?" Kurt asked Vic Rathe as they met in Lola's parking lot.

Rathe grinned. "More than usual?"

"I just had a run-in with a really dead cat." He related what he'd found at Ike Hanson's place as the two old pals hustled into Lola's and joined the Friday lunch crowd.

"After you've been in here for five minutes, you won't stink any more than anybody else."

They slipped into a booth.

"I've got to see a bunch of women this afternoon. I don't want to spook 'em by smelling like a dead cat."

Rathe shrugged. "So you'll smell like cigarette smoke. They're used to that."

A waitress popped out of the crowd, took their order, then disappeared again.

"I'm sure they killed 'ol' Ike," Kurt said.

"The kidnappers?"

"These guys are a lot more than kidnappers, Pal."

Rathe smiled. "So the curse might not be so far-fetched after all?"

"Curse my ass. There's a perfectly logical explanation for all this and I'm gonna find it."

Vic's amused expression slipped away. "I thought you had to be back at work in Chicago last Monday."

"I'm freelancing for the state patrol."

"As a prosecutor?"

"Investigator."

"What do you know about detective work? This isn't a game."

Kurt leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "I helped the woman I love bury her sister Monday, Vic. I sure as hell know it's not a game."

"I don't want to wind up burying _you_." He looked away for a moment, then snapped back. "Did you say the woman you _love_?"

"For the first time in my life."

"Pretty sudden." Rathe slid back against the back of the booth.

"I've never met a girl like her. Ever. I can't get enough of her."

Rathe ran his tongue back and forth along his teeth. "The best thing you could do is get her out of Rock Bluff, at least till this curse thing is over."

"Run away?"

"That's what I'd do if I could," Rathe said.

Kurt shook his head. "You don't know Cassie Dodd. She's not leaving here till her sister's killer is locked up or dead."

"That's crazy!" Vic barked.

Several heads turned to find the source of the noise.

Rathe threw an exasperated glance at the spectators and leaned closer to Kurt. "We've had unsolved killings in this town for forty years and lots of outraged sisters who couldn't do a damn thing, except maybe get themselves and some others killed too. Is that what you want?"

"You think these killings are connected to all that stuff blamed on the Coogans?"

"I don't know... maybe, maybe not." Rathe slid back a little. "But I think we ought to leave it to the cops."

"I _am_ the cops."

"Not really. And you've got a personal stake."

Kurt inhaled and let it out. "I'm thinking about moving back here, into the old house... with Cassie and Lizzie."

"Lizzie?"

He told Rathe about Cassie's baby.

"I'd love to see you living here." Rathe smiled. "That'd be great. Not everybody would share the sentiment, but who cares?"

"Maybe they'll be more hospitable if I can bring this killer down."

Rathe scowled. "What makes you think you have any chance of doing that?"

"I've got some leads."

"Like what?"

Kurt glanced about before answering. "I think it's got something to do with Marcie Swift." He enumerated Marcie's various links to the murders.

"But you haven't found any connection between her and your girl's sister," Vic said.

"I've got a lot of people to interview yet."

"Marcie was a slut. Everybody knew it. They're going to say whatever satisfies their righteous indignation, truth be damned."

"I know that."

The waitress arrived with their bottles of Pepsi. "Cheeseburgers'll be out in a few minutes," she said while sweeping off with her tray.

The two took long swallows from their bottles. Vic broke the silence. "Have you considered the possibility that the Dodd woman's murder has nothing to do with Marcie and the others?"

"All the necks were broken the same way. There aren't two men in this county who could do that to another human. Believe me, I've seen 'em."

"Marcie and Willet kid were cut up."

"After their necks were snapped."

Vic sighed. "Maybe you should imagine how your girl would look that same way. Or her child."

"Jesus Christ, Vic, that's an awful thing to say."

Rathe avoided his friend's eyes. "I know. Sorry. If I sound like I'm trying to scare you off, it's because I am. This is dangerous stuff. You should leave it alone."

"I can't."

"Think of all the shitty things people in this town have said and done. The last time we had lunch you thought nothing bad enough could happen to this town."

"I can put all that in the past."

Rathe shook his head. "Man, I hope you know what you're doing."

Kurt looked away, scanned over the lunch crowd a moment, then turned back to Vic. "You bring my five thousand dollar check from Melvin the Mouse?"

Chapter Forty-Two

"Do I smell bad?" Kurt asked Cassie just after he arrived at the U.P. offices an hour later.

She sniffed his coat and shirt. "Like cigarettes."

"Beats dead cat." He described his encounter in Ike's cellar. "Maybe having lunch at Lola's made me smell presentable."

"You and Ceece?"

"Vic Rathe."

"Any news?"

"He gave me a check for the earnest money deposited on the house. And a lecture on why I should take you and Lizzie and get out of Rock Bluff."

"And you said?"

"That we planned on living long and happy lives at 402 South 8th Street."

"After we get Toe Head." Cassie went to get the first interviewee.

Her name was Janet Aylors, the secretary whose desk was next to Marcie Swift's. "We all eat lunch together," Janet told Kurt. "But I didn't know her socially. She was single, and quite a bit younger."

They were seated on either side of a large conference table that filled most of a room adjacent to the main office. The steam radiators along one wall hissed and sputtered in a continuing struggle against the February weather outside.

Kurt rolled up his shirtsleeves. "She discuss her personal life?"

"Marcie talked about boys and parties. All the time. No matter what anybody else brought up, she turned the subject to boys."

"Boy _friends_?"

"Seemed like a new one every other day," Janet said. "And the latest was always the greatest."

"She ever have fights with them?"

Janet shrugged. "Not that she talked about."

"Any enemies here at work?"

"Most everybody liked her. She was cheerful, friendly. If she had bad moods, they never showed much."

Kurt shifted in his chair. "She mention her home life?"

"She didn't talk at all about her famous father, if that's what you mean. I heard they didn't get along, but not from her."

There were nine other women in the steno pool. The next six didn't add much to what Janet said. Blanche Bleeker was number seven.

"I've known Marcie since she was a tyke just starting Sunday school."

"You're a member of her father's church?" Kurt said.

"Holy Christian... it _was_ her father's church."

"Until his success on TV."

"And after for a while, up until a couple years ago." Her eyes narrowed. "You get _Voice of the Bible_ in Chicago?"

"WDQR."

"I suppose there are _some_ Christians in that town."

Kurt smiled. "I've been told Marcie and her dad didn't get along."

"I'm sure you've heard about her reputation," said Blanche. "God rest her soul."

"Must've been a little embarrassing for a man of the cloth."

"Micah Swift hates sin in anybody, let alone his own child." Blanche rested her elbows on the table, clasped her hands together. "He did everything a human being could to change her ways. But she was such a _contrary_ child, I swear! Sent by the devil himself."

"The reverend punished her?"

Blanche looked away. "I don't want to tell tales out of school."

"The more we know about her, the sooner we'll be able to find her killer."

"The Curse killed her."

"With the help of a huge bald guy," Kurt said.

"The devil has his soldiers."

_One that leaves paw prints_? "It's my understanding that the Reverend Swift—"

"Pastor Micah."

" _Pastor_ Swift gave up on Marcie when she turned eighteen."

"I was very disappointed," Blanche said. "That's why I got her the job here when she graduated."

"She talk to you about her dad?"

"Marcie only talked about happy things."

"Did he ever speak out in church about her?"

Blanche stood. "I've got to get back to work. Sorry I wasn't more help." She walked to the door, then turned. "Edna Touhy was the Swift's housekeeper for years." She left.

Kurt jotted down Edna's name.

Fran Molk stuck her head in the door a few minutes later. She and Blanche had been having lunch with Cassie the day Kurt arrived. "I just came to say I don't know anything about Marcie other than her job. She was smart, worked hard, never called in sick and got along well with her co-workers." Without having stepped into the room, she turned and went back to the main office.

Kurt's last interview was with Jenny Johnson, an athletic-looking woman about Cassie's age.

"I miss Marcie," she said, toying with the half-filled coffee mug she'd brought with her. "She was a fun kid. Great bowler."

Kurt leaned back. "As in strikes and spares?"

"She was on our team in the Friday mixed league at Ranch Bowl."

"Mixed?"

"Three gals, two guys. I was the substitute till Marcie... well, you know."

"So you socialized with her?"

"Every Friday night. Even if I wasn't subbing, I went with the team."

Kurt nibbled on his pencil' eraser. "Know any reason anybody would want to kill her?"

"Not _kill_ her. Maybe cuss her out. She pissed off a lot of guys."

"The guys on the bowling team?"

Jenny shook her head. "They got along swell. I'm sure they did it with her once or twice—to Marcie, screwing was like having coffee—but there wasn't anything romantic."

Kurt nodded without making eye contact.

"She'd start going with a guy, then just ditch him and take up with somebody new. Nobody kept her interest very long, I guess."

"Any of the jilted lovers try to hurt her?"

"Marcie wasn't scared of anybody— _anybody_ —and she never backed down. She sassed men better than they could give back. And she carried a sap in her purse. You know, one of those hard rubber clubs about the size of guy's d—" She looked away. "Penis."

"Ever have to use it?"

"I saw her wave it around at Howie Benson one night. Scared the shit out of him."

"She ever complain about one guy or another giving her trouble?"

Jenny shook her head. "Not to me."

"Talk about her dad?"

"She joked about what an ass he was a couple of times. 'Course she was living on her own by then. Her parents had moved to Lincoln."

"Never said _why_ he was an ass?"

"All the religious mumbo jumbo, I guess." Jenny took a swig of her coffee, then frowned as she set her cup down. "There was one guy who scared her though... a farmer... older guy, married... I think."

"Know his name?"

"He lived south of town someplace. Marcie drove out there every Thursday for a long time... two, maybe three months."

"She went to a married guy's _house_?"

Jenny looked at Kurt. "That does seem weird, doesn't it? But yeah. She met him there every Thursday and they had a party. Then just before the holidays she dumped him. I remember because for a while she talked about the great Christmas gift she was gonna get, and then she said it was over with him. I guess she tired of the guy too soon."

"Did she say anything about him being dangerous?"

"She never said so, but you could tell he made her nervous. She didn't joke about him like she did about the others. And she was kind'a on the lookout for him after bowling, but that only lasted a couple weeks. Then she was her old self again."

"Until she was murdered."

Chapter Forty-Three

It was ten past three when Kurt walked into the office of the Rock Bluff Superintendent of Schools on the main floor of the high school building. The receptionist-secretary was a local woman three years his junior. "Afternoon, Rita."

"Come in, Kurt." Smiling, Rita Willis rose from behind her desk. Dressed in a tight skirt and sweater, she was still the knockout that had drawn boys in flocks during her teen years. "The sheriff said you're helping him with the murder investigation." She signaled for him to follow her as she went to a side door, her ample figure wriggling in all the right places. "Marcie Swift's file is in the basement."

"Ceece got me involved in this stuff," Kurt said. "Now I'm stuck."

Rita started down the steps. "It seems like there's another killing every day."

They entered a dark lower room with shelves and file cabinets surrounding a small table and two chairs. The only light came from a dim fluorescent overhead.

"Sit down," Rita said. "I'll get the file. We don't have this stuff computerized yet, as you might expect." She went to one of the cabinets and pulled open a lower drawer,

causing her to bend from the hips. "It's a shame about Marcie. One of the smartest kids we've ever had."

The outline of Rita's panties pushed against her taught skirt while she dug through the files.

Kurt forced himself to look away. _She must drive those high school boys wild_!

"Terrific I.Q." She took a folder about an inch thick and handed it to Kurt. "I suppose you're investigating all the victims."

"Gotta start someplace." Kurt began looking through the records, despite his urge to stare at Rita.

She sat down on the edge of the table, her hips right in Kurt's sightline. "Marcie got Bs and Cs most of her life. Could've been valedictorian with a little effort."

"That's what they said about me." He glanced at her and winked.

"That's not what _I_ used to say about you." She returned the wink.

"You were pretty young when I was in school... and it was a long time ago."

"Back before we knew what all those urges were about."

Kurt tried to focus on Marcie Swift's file.

"I understand you were close to the Dodd girl who was killed," said Rita.

"Her sister, actually. She's my... we're close friends."

Rita giggled. "You're shackin' up is what I heard."

Kurt's lips tightened. "Cassie had terrible things happen to her the last couple weeks. I'm glad I can help."

"You can be my bodyguard anytime."

Kurt pointed at her left hand. "Looks like you've got full-time help with that."

Rita toyed with her wedding rings. "There's always room for improvement." She stood and went to the stairs. "Just leave that folder on the desk when you're done." She stopped and looked back at Kurt. "And don't take anything with you, okay? We probably really shouldn't even let you see the records without a court order."

"It's all safe, Rita, and confidential. Everything."

Rita nodded and disappeared up the steps.

Kurt found reports from first grade on, showing, just as Rita said, mostly Bs and Cs. It seemed the only troublesome subject for Marcie Swift was called "Citizenship"—straight Ds all through the primary grades. He'd had troubles in that area himself, but not Ds.

The girl's attendance record was solid, she got along well with others, demonstrated good hygiene, contributed to classroom discussions and "played well with others." _Yeah,_ Kurt thought. _More 'others' than anybody can count._

At the back of the file he found several handwritten pages paper-clipped together. Some were on notepaper, others on stationary. Holy Christian Church stationary. They were messages from Pastor Micah Swift to the high school principal, Bill Weidman, organized chronologically.

A few were excuses for absences, past or present. One of those confirmed something the Maxwells had said about Marcie:

Please excuse Marcie from classes for the next five to ten days. She must assist her aunt in Omaha recover from a serious illness. She promises to make up the schoolwork she misses.

Thank you.

Pastor Micah J. Swift

That would have been Marcie's junior year, Kurt calculated, when rumors about her pregnancy were said to be circulating. _She had to nurse a sick aunt_? _Who'd believe that bullshit_?

Most of the other notes were apologies:

Marcie regrets her behavior last Tuesday....

Please accept Marcie's apology for her actions in the band room....

I am sorry Marcie created such a stir this past week....

There were nearly two dozen such messages. No specific behavior was mentioned, but Kurt was sure he knew what it was. He thought about Blanche Bleeker's careful avoidance of the topic of the good pastor's discipline practices, and he had to wonder just how much Marcie was made to suffer for each of her dad's apologies.

He gathered the material, stuffed it back into the file and went upstairs to the main reception area. Rita Willis was working at her desk, and the door to Superintendent Marvin Reilly's private office was closed. Kurt sat down near Rita. "Marcie's father wrote a lot of apologies."

"Marcie liked sex."

Kurt nodded. "So I understand."

"Her first week as a freshman they caught her in the boys restroom."

"Doing what?"

Rita pulled her glasses off and looked up at him. "A girl just _standing_ in the boys john is enough."

"I read something about the band room too."

"There were a lot of rooms." Rita sat back and sighed. "And she wasn't the least bit careful. Sometimes I thought she wanted to get caught."

"A lot of different boys, I guess."

"A lot of different _males_. Age didn't matter."

"She must've made some enemies."

Rita shook her head. "Not in school. She never took other girls' boyfriends. She was careful about that. It was probably her only discretion when it came to sex."

"How about guys she dumped?"

"None of 'em ever bothered her as far as I know."

Kurt leaned on the desk. "It's a wonder she didn't get the clap."

"She did. Gonorrhea."

"Before or after her stint at the whorehouse?"

"She found out about it after." Rita glanced at the superintendent's door. "They got it treated pretty fast, but not before she infected a half-dozen guys." She leaned closer to Kurt. "One of them passed it on to his wife and got divorce papers in return. Now that's one enemy Marci _did_ make." She held a finger to her lips, then whispered. "Doc Culligan's nurse told me."

Kurt recalled his conversation with Jenny Johnson at the U.P. office. "Was this gentleman a farmer?"

"I can't tell you his name."

"I need to know, Rita. Marcie is the only connection I can make between all these murders."

"You're not buying the curse?"

Kurt scrunched his lips.

"Well, there's only been one divorce in this town in the last year." Rita got up, grabbed a stack of papers and marched into the hall, swinging her supple backside just a little more than necessary.

Kurt watched every step until she disappeared.

He was just opening his car door when he remembered his mom mentioning the divorce of some local big shot. _Who was it_? A name leaped into his head. _Holy shit_ _!_ _The most powerful man in the county_ _!_

Chapter Forty-Four

On Saturday morning, Kurt went straight to the county jail for a visit with Wylie O'Shea and found him hunkered beside a gas heater in his office.

"Ike Hanson's house is wide open," Kurt said. "Anybody could walk in and take whatever they want."

"And what's 'ol' Ike have that's worth stealing?"

"It's his _home,_ Wiley... or was."

"The county's business is done out there. State patrol examined those tracks, looked around just like we did." The sheriff raised his hands. "I ain't in charge of Ike Hanson's estate."

"You get a report on the paw prints?"

"Yesterday." He took a sheet of paper from his desktop and read from it verbatim. "Large feline. Possibly freak cougar with exceptionally big feet. Animal leaving prints this size would normally weigh close to seven hundred pounds. Only Siberian tigers are that big." He looked up. "And get this. The jerk actually wrote 'You have Siberian Tigers in Rock Bluff, Sheriff? Somebody's pulling your leg.'" Wiley dropped the note on his desk. "Just like I figured. They think we're a bunch of stupid hayseeds."

Kurt sighed. "I'm sure they've heard about The Coogan Curse."

Wylie looked at him. "I've _seen_ the curse, McBride. It ain't just superstition."

"Those paw prints were sure as hell real." Kurt hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. "So you can't do anything to seal up Ike's house?"

"Could throw padlocks on the doors, I guess. Maybe hang a no trespassing sign."

"I'll help."

Wylie rubbed his hands in front of the heater, then reached for his coat. "I got some padlocks in the basement."

As the two men walked to Wylie's cruiser, Dar Hanika emerged from the police station across the street and signaled them to hold up. "We got some people missing this morning," he said as he joined Kurt and the sheriff. "Four kids on the U.P. bowling team came up missing this morning. Nobody can find 'em."

The sheriff opened the driver's side door of his car. "Boys or Girls?"

"Two of each."

"I thought there was five on a bowling team."

"Stan Wurtle went home with a cold," the chief said.

Wylie grinned. "The other four probably drove to Omaha and shacked up."

Dar shook his head. "All their cars is still sittin' in Lola's lot."

Wylie leaned against the doorframe. "Anybody check _under_ the booths at Lola's?" The sheriff chuckled.

"They was in there till closing," the chief said. "Then they just disappeared."

"Probably nothin'." Wylie crawled behind the wheel. "If we see four folks in bowling shirts, we'll give you a honk." He leaned out of the car. "They got names?"

"Chief Hanika handed him a slip of notepaper. "Rick Burgess, Strap Campbell, Bev Prohaska and Jenny Johnson."

Kurt slipped into the cruiser beside Wylie. "I just talked to Jenny Johnson yesterday afternoon."

O'Shea and Hanika waited for more.

"Said she replaced Marcie Swift on the bowling team." Kurt slipped the list of names from Wylie's paw.

After a moment the sheriff cleared his throat. "I bet we'll find 'em out playing house someplace." He closed his door.

Kurt shook his head. "I don't know, Wylie. Marcie Swift again." He sat back with a sigh. I got a bad feeling about this."

Passing the high school on the way out of town, Kurt felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach. "Who'd Rita Willis marry?"

"Rita? Oh, yeah. Miss Rock Bluff, 1998." Wylie smiled. "Married Roger Corbin."

"No shit? He graduated with me. I thought she'd get a winner."

"Roger's gonna own the biggest drug store in town one day."

Kurt remembered Rita's swaying behind as she left the office. "They have any kids?"

"A couple, I think." Wylie looked at Kurt. "Why?"

"Just curious. I forgot to ask when I talked to her yesterday."

"She say anything new about Marcie?"

"Cyril Sonnenberg," Kurt said.

"She told you about 'ol' Cyril, huh? How Marcie gave him the clap?

"She didn't tell me his name. Acted like it was a secret. I put two and two together."

Wylie scoffed. "Hell, Cyril's the one made it public. He wanted her arrested for soliciting and swore he'd sue her dad. I said, 'Fer Christs sake, Searle, you been fuckin' a seventeen year old kid. If I was you I'd go lay down and lick my wounds.'"

"He was pretty steamed?"

"Worse after his wife left him. She moved to Arizona."

"Carolie Sonnenberg gave up that mansion?"

"Along with a healthy chunk'a change, I'm sure."

Kurt turned toward Wylie and draped one arm on the back of the seat. "Man with Cyril's money could buy a lot of vengeance."

"Pretty good profits in the banking business, they say."

When Wylie pulled into Ike Hanson's yard, the old pickup was still standing where it had been since the night Kate escaped, but the tire tracks beyond it, running all the way to the barn, were brand new.

Kurt jostled the sheriff and pointed at the fresh tire marks.

Wylie turned off the engine. "We better walk down and see what that's all about."

They stayed a few feet to the side of a trail that went to the barn door.

"Looks like a truck of some kind," Wylie said. "Drove up here, turned around and backed up to the door."

"Then drove off again." Kurt looked at the tracks running past Ike's pickup and out to the road. "Suppose Ike had another truck someplace?"

"Maybe the old guy _is_ off with one of his buddies." The sheriff unlatched the barn door and pulled it open a few feet. The only light inside came from four windows in the hayloft and cracks in the walls. "Damn. I wonder if he's got electricity out here."

"There's a line running in." Kurt pointed to the overhead black wire strung from a pole near the house.

"Come on." Wylie O'Shea stepped inside the barn, felt around for the light switch, found it and turned it on. Low-watt bulbs glowed from each of the two milking stalls on one side. The main area was still dark.

Kurt slid the barn door all the way open, sweeping daylight into the building and across the floor.

Both men instinctively turned away from what they saw.

"I knew this was gonna be bad." Kurt swallowed hard, then turned to the spectacle on the floor.

Body parts were strewn over the entire area: an arm here, a leg there, a torso in between, a head across the way, entrails lying in piles. It looked very similar to the scenes at Tillsons' and on Pierman's Peak nearly two weeks before, except the human pieces were smaller, more ragged, and splayed over a wider area. And some were partially clothed.

_B_ _owling shirts_ _!_ Kurt spat.

"This one's whole 'cept for an arm." The sheriff, on his knees near a mound of flesh, rolled the body over. "Oh my Good Lord!" His hand shot to the victim's neck, checking the carotid artery. "She's _alive_!" Wylie jumped to his feet and ran toward the door. "It's Jenny Johnson! I'll radio for an ambulance!"

_Jenny Johnson! '_ Kurt hurried to the fallen woman's side and knelt, feeling for a pulse. It was there, barely. Same for the heartbeat. He slipped out of his parka and draped it over the unconscious victim. She'd lost a lot of blood. He cleared debris away from her mouth, then made a pillow for her head out of straw. "Stay with us, Jenny Johnson. Maybe you've got the answer to all our questions."

An hour later, Kurt, Wylie and Larry Roberts sat waiting in the hallway outside the Falls City Sacred Heart hospital emergency room. Jenny's mom and dad were on their way.

"You got her here as quick as you could," Wylie told Roberts. "It ain't your fault if she don't pull through."

Larry Roberts, the ambulance driver, funeral director, and mortician, looked up. "Think she's got a chance?"

Wylie shrugged. "She was breathin' when she went in."

"It'll be a wonder." Kurt shook his head. "Doctor said her arm was torn off at the socket. She probably went into shock right then, eight or nine hours ago."

"Could be why she didn't get chewed up like the others. Nobody noticed her after she went down."

"Or they thought she was too dead to be any fun." Kurt wanted to spit.

Wylie checked his watch again. "State patrol team ought to be pullin' into Ike's place anytime now."

"Where's this gonna end?" Larry Roberts' eyes met the sheriff's. "I count fifteen bodies in the last two weeks."

"And there's maybe one or two we haven't found yet," Wylie said.

"It looked like rabid wolves had been loose in that barn this morning." Roberts held a hand up. "And don't say anything about the curse!"

The sheriff pointed at Kurt. "He's got some theories. State patrol boys agree."

Roberts shifted his gaze to Kurt. "You're working with the state patrol?"

"Just trying to be a good citizen, Larry." He sat in an empty straight chair beside Roberts. "You know Micah Swift very well?"

"He's conducted a lot of our funeral services."

"What kind of guy is he?"

Larry Roberts thought a moment. "Distant."

"I hear he disowned his daughter," Kurt said.

"And rightfully so. She disgraced him."

"That piss him off?"

"I know he was embarrassed."

"Guy with his kind of power gets embarrassed, he can do some wild things."

Larry Roberts leaned back in the chair. "Like kill his own daughter?"

"Or maybe _have_ her killed, along with all her friends."

"I can see how he'd be after the boys involved." He pointed to the ER door. "But that victim in there is his own flesh and blood."

"Cyril Sonnenberg." Kurt stood, leaned against one wall. "He had trouble with Marcie, too."

Roberts looked at his hands. "I forgot about that."

"They say he's still in a tizzy."

"Not a man you'd want to provoke, that's for sure." Roberts took a deep breath, then looked up at Kurt. "But to kill like this is crazy. Cyril's mean, not nuts."

"He could be getting revenge on Marcie and the town both. Everybody's scared shitless."

Roberts' eyes fluttered. "Pretty risky."

A voice came from down the hall. "Where is she, Sheriff?" A middle-aged couple hurried up to the three men. "Where's my Jennifer, Sheriff?" It was Jenny's mom and dad, Pete and Tillie Johnson.

Sheriff Wylie O'Shea reassured both parents that their child was being well cared for. He ushered them to seats outside the emergency room door. "The doc should be coming out any minute."

It was actually a half-hour before the on-duty resident emerged from the emergency room to announce that they had done all they could for the patient and her life was now in the hands of the Almighty. Pete and Tillie Johnson went in to see their comatose daughter. The other three left for Rock Bluff.

Chapter Forty-Five

"Marcie Swift's bowling team." Wylie pulled his cruiser onto Highway 74 and headed north. "Why would somebody go after her bowling team?"

Kurt draped an arm on the back of the seat. "You're ready to admit she's at the center of all the killings?"

"At least for now, but it don't make much sense."

"It does to whoever's behind it," Kurt said.

"Gotta be a psycho."

"We both know Cyril Sonnenberg qualifies. And it sounds like Micah Swift does, too."

"Neither one of 'em owns a man-eatin' tiger."

Kurt stretched out in the seat as warm air started flowing from the heater. "Somebody does."

"Or this killer's one strange-lookin' son of a bitch."

Wylie turned off the highway and drove to Ike Hanson's. As expected, the state patrol forensics team and Bill Barnett were hard at work in the old barn.

"How's the other one?" Barnett yelled from the far side of the building.

Wylie wobbled one hand. "Still alive, but so-so."

"We've assembled three corpses," Barnett said as he went about studying the scene. "Two men and a woman. Are they your other missing persons?"

Wylie checked the faces, wincing each time. "That's them. I suppose I better let 'ol' Dar know what's going on here." He hurried back to the car with Kurt right behind him, then radioed Police Chief Hanika with news of their findings at Hanson's place.

The chief's voice was strained. "No doubt it's them?"

"Maybe the Johnson girl will make it long enough to tell us what happened," Wylie said. "Where's their cars?"

"Here in the garage. I went over to Lola's and looked 'em over, then had Carl tow 'em in."

"Find anything?"

"Plenty of empty beer bottles," Hanika said.

"I guess we better let everybody know they ain't missing anymore."

"I'll see if we can get a piece in this afternoon's paper... just say their bodies were found." Dar signed off.

"Damn!" Wylie said. "We got to _do_ something! Every gun store in Rock Bluff was sold out last Saturday. After this, folks will be sharpening pitch forks."

"All we can do is keep on looking." Kurt shivered and hunched his shoulders. "And pray for Jenny Johnson."

When the two walked into Lola's Happy Corner a few minutes later, it was a little past four and a Saturday crowd was gathering to ponder the fate of their missing friends. All conversations trailed off and every eye in the main room followed Sheriff O'Shea. Even Lola and the two waitresses ceased bustling.

Wylie pulled a chair from one of the tables and stood on it. "I know you all heard about Strap Campbell and them. Well, I'm sorry to tell you we found 'em... out in Ike Hanson's barn. Jenny Johnson is in the Falls City hospital barely alive and the other three are dead... murdered."

A restless silence hovered over the room until someone at the bar spoke up: "What happened?"

"Same thing as happened out at Tillsons and up at the Peak."

Some muttering preceded another voice: "All tore up?"

"They was last seen alive right here," Wylie said. "I'm gonna ask Lola to open the back room for Kurt McBride and me. We want to talk to anybody who saw 'em or knows anything about 'em."

"What's McBride have to do with it?" The question came from a nearby booth.

"I asked him to help," Wylie said. "He works on murders all the time in Chicago."

Someone coughed.

"Where's the chief of police?" shouted Vern Burdick, a teller at the Coogan State Bank.

Wiley gave Burdick a nasty glance. "Near as we can tell, these murders were committed out in the county. That's my territory. Dar's got his own cases at the canning factory and over in that apartment, plus one of his own men was killed. 'Course he's helpin' us just like we're helpin' him."

Burdick had another question. "Both looking for the same killer?"

Kurt stepped closer to the sheriff. "We can't comment on that right now, Vern. It's part of our investigation."

Wylie pointed over the crowd at the establishment owner, leaning on the bar. "Lola? You unlock the back for us?"

Lola set her cigarette in an ashtray and headed for the private room, digging out her keys.

Wylie turned his attention back to the lunch crowd. "If you saw that bunch last night or heard anything, come on back and tell us about it. Could be more important than you think." Wylie stepped down from the chair, replaced it and strode toward the door Lola was unlocking.

Kurt followed.

Wylie asked Lola. "You workin' last night?"

She shook her head. "Not when those kids was here. Dusty Rhoades and Maggie Stoll had the late shift."

"When they comin' in?"

"Round four... anytime now. I can call Dusty if you want."

"Yeah." Wylie patted her shoulder. "You found those kid's cars this morning?"

"I wanted 'em towed. When I phoned Dar, he said Jenny and them was missing." Lola glanced at the empty room. "I'll get Mae back here to set you up."

Kurt and Wylie took seats at a bare table.

Goose Wyrich strolled into the room and joined them. He'd been an all-state basketball star when Kurt was growing up. "I was in here when Strap and them come in about ten. They was still here when I left, just before last call."

Kurt pulled out his notepad and pen. "Who else was here?"

"Chuck Fultz, Sammy Knoll, Betty Lou Cole." He thought for a moment. "Dusty. Maggie for a while, but she left before me. And 'ol' Ted Stats. He's usually here till we shut off the TV."

Wylie crossed his legs. "No strangers?"

Goose shook his head, then stopped. "Oh. Gully Rolfs was hangin' around. Came in for a beer, but Dusty threw him out."

"Who's Gully?" Kurt asked.

"Lives up in the bluffs," Wylie said. "Just south of King Hill."

Goose stubbed out his Marlboro. "Damn hillbilly. Ought to know better'n to come around decent folks."

Kurt glared at Goose. "Hillbillies aren't decent folk?"

"Not that one. Merle Prohaska caught him window peekin' one night. Beat the shit out of him, killed his damn dog, and sent him packin'. We all figured he wouldn't dare show his face around town again."

"Killed his dog?" Kurt said.

"Had one of them hounds on a leash. We figured it was to warn him if somebody was coming." Goose chuckled. "Ol Merle's shotgun spoke up before the dog did."

Wylie ran his tongue around his teeth, frowning. "Merle Prohaska... that'd be Beverly's dad, right?"

Goose's eyes widened. "Sure! I never thought about that!"

Wylie turned to Kurt. "Bev was the other girl out at the barn this morning."

Goose leaned across the table. "And there was talk that Gully was in that bunch livin' up at the Stokes house. You know, the one that burned down a couple weeks ago? And Gully was braggin' he'd get even with Merle, too."

Kurt exchanged a glance with Wylie and then asked Goose, "He pay any attention to Bev or anybody with the bowling team while he was in here?"

"Couldn't miss Bev," Goose barked. "Not with those tits. That's why 'ol' Gully was lookin' in her window that night."

"Did you see him hangin' around when you left?" Wylie asked.

Goose jerked his thumb toward the wall. "There was a big panel truck outside when I left. Reddish. That's what Gully drives."

Kurt's lips tightened. "Have a license plate?"

A meek smile crossed Goose's face. "I looked at it, but...." He shrugged. "I'd had a few beers... you know."

"Sure," Kurt said. "Would you recognize the truck if you saw it again?"

"It was pretty dark."

Goose had little else to add, so Wylie thanked him for his help and ended the interview with a word of caution: "Keep the stuff about Gully Rolfs under your hat for now, okay?"

"Sure, Wylie."

"Don't want the boys goin' off half-cocked."

The dozen other habitués who stopped by Lola's back room had more questions and opinions than helpful information. Kurt and Wylie nibbled on sandwiches and sodas and were about to leave when Dusty Rhodes, the late-shift bartender, came in.

Dusty nodded to Kurt and Wiley. "Lola called. Said you were here." He sat down at the table. "Like I told Dar on the phone, those four left about the time they always do on Friday nights... after I threatened to throw 'em out."

"The last to leave?" Wylie asked.

"Always are," Dusty said. "After they was gone, I heard a commotion outside. Screechin' and shoutin'. I figured they was just playin' grab ass in the snow, liquored-up like they was."

"You check on 'em?" asked Wylie.

"Looked out the window. A car was just leaving the lot."

Kurt slid to the edge of his chair. "One of theirs?"

"Outside lights was off by then. All I seen was headlights and taillights."

"Could it have been a panel truck?"

"Yeah. I suppose. I figured they'd all jumped in one car and went off to raise more hell someplace."

The sheriff sighed. "Anybody in the bar earlier you didn't know?"

"Usual crowd 'cept for Gully Rolfs. I let him stay long enough to warm up, then told him to get."

Wylie nodded. "So we heard. Gully make trouble for you before?"

"Gully's a peeping Tom," Dusty said. "Got caught looking in Bev Prohaska's window. She was giving him the evil eye when he came in the door... figured she didn't want him any place near her."

As Kurt and Wylie left their table and made their way toward the exit, the dining room was still filling up, mostly with men. Voices grew louder by the second as the crowd surrounded three men in the center of the room: bank teller Vern Burdick, canning factory foreman Jess Grimm and the first customer Kurt and Wylie had interviewed, Goose Wyrich.

Burdick was sermonizing. "The devil's spawn have always lived in our midst. Says so in the Bible. They lurk about, ready to feed the evil of spirits like the Coogans."

Wylie leaned closer to Kurt. "Looks like Vern's got him a pulpit."

"And a snoot full of booze." Kurt thought, _The honest men go home to protect their families; the cowards stay huddled in a pack._ He shook his head. "Christ... what idiots."

Wylie was first out the door and led the way to his squad car.

"So what about this Gully?" Kurt said as they drove to the county jail. "The guy who met Harlan at the motel drove a red panel truck."

"A four hundred pound guy." The sheriff rolled down the window and spit. "Little 'ol' Gully wouldn't crowd one-sixty wearin' lead boots."

"I'm sure Toe Head's working with other guys. Maybe Gully is one of them."

Wylie shook his head. "Gully's a bum, not a killer. We heard lots about him hangin' around people's houses at nights, and Merle Prohaska caught him peeping, but he never tried to hurt anybody that I know of. He's not even a thief. Just ain't worth much."

"How many red panel trucks are there is this county?"

"Gully drives a twenty year old Dodge van. It was gray at one time. Now it's a rust bucket. It sure wasn't the one that motel owner saw in Falls City. Don't think it'd go that far all in one spurt."

"Goose said Gully was living in the house where those four guys were killed," Kurt said.

Wylie nodded. "And Gully'd be the first one runnin' for the hills if there was a fight."

"Maybe he got a glimpse of the killer on the way out."

Wylie turned the heater up to full. "Want to go talk to him tomorrow?"

"I'd want you along with me."

Wylie nodded. "Right after lunch. But let's take your car. This cruiser might spook him."

The two men drifted off into their own thoughts.

Chapter Forty-Six

As Cassie turned away from tucking Lizzie in that night, she nearly ran over Kurt standing right behind her. They were in the basement bedroom at the Maxwell home. Kurt put his finger to his lips and led her into the hallway. "I'm getting lonely." He kissed her. "I don't want to offend Ceece and Vi, but I have to touch you once in a while."

"I know." She kissed him, then put her head on his shoulder. "We've been here for a week now. I'm sure they're as sick of us as we are of being here."

Kurt leaned back against the wall. "I'd move you into the house, but that would cause all kinds of gossip."

"You lived with me in the apartment."

"And nobody in town will ever forget that. But we can always say Kate was there too, and we had separate bedrooms."

Cassie frowned. "Say to who?"

"The people we'll call friends when we're married and raising our family here. The people I'll do business with, whose kids will play with ours."

"You really want that?"

"Don't you?" He pulled her chin up with one finger.

"It's a nice dream."

Kurt smiled. "We can make it real."

"If Toe Head doesn't kill us."

"I'll get him before he can."

"Unless he gets you first."

"Don't worry." He kissed her, gently at first, then with some force. His hands found their way to her buttocks and kneaded gently, then moved up to her breasts. "Can we get out of here next Friday night? Just the two of us? We could drop Lizzie at Mrs. Wolcott's house."

"What do we tell Ceece and Vi?"

"The truth. We're driving to Omaha for a quiet meal. Ever been to Little Tony's in Council Bluffs?"

"Kate got pizza there a couple times."

"They have great steaks, too," Kurt said. "Afterward we can come back and I'll show you the house."

"It's empty."

He put his mouth close to her ear. "There's plush carpeting in the master bedroom."

Cassie took a step back and toyed with a button on Kurt's shirt. "You think it's right so soon after Kate?"

"It's just what she'd want you to do." He pulled her to him again. "You need a break."

A little giggle escaped as she looked down at their meshed hips. "Feels like _you_ need something too."

They locked hands and walked up the stairs to join Ceece and Vi in the living room.

Ceece looked up as they came in. "I was just reading about you in tonight's _Courier_." He folded the local newspaper and leaned back in his easy chair and looked at Kurt. "Says you told the reporter you had several good leads on the killer or killers.'

Kurt pulled Cassie to a seat beside him on the couch. "Your buddy Chief Hanika gave them that. I didn't talk to any reporter."

"True about the leads?"

"Today's murders sew it up as far as I'm concerned," said Kurt. "Marcie Swift was directly connected to _eleven_ of the victims."

Vi slid to the front of her chair. "Not to Cassie's sister or her friend."

"I'm convinced it all fits together somehow." Kurt patted Cassie's leg. "Something's gotta break here pretty soon. We know you guys are eager to get your privacy back."

"I should be paying you board and room," Cassie said.

Ceece dropped the paper on the floor beside him. "We're glad to see that room gets some use. It's been empty since Dickey left home."

"Eight years ago," Vi added.

Kurt smiled and turned to Cassie. "I used to baby sit him when I was thirteen, fourteen." He looked at Ceece. "Where is he now?"

"Aircraft carrier. U.S.S. Benteen," Ceece said. "We think somewhere off the coast of Yemen."

"A pilot?" asked Cassie.

"Navy Ensign." Vi tucked her feet under her behind. "Thank God."

"We'll have a new president pretty soon," Kurt said. "Maybe somebody who'll get the troops on their way home."

Cassie scooted forward on the couch. "I'd be glad to pay for some groceries."

Everyone looked toward Cassie, then Ceece chuckled. "Now _that_ will get us out of the Middle East."

All four laughed.

"Kurt gave me fifty dollars last week," Ceece went on. "You're paid up."

Vi nodded. "And you cook and clean as much as I do."

Kurt took Cassie's hand in his. "As soon as we're sure they're not after Cassie anymore, she can go back to her apartment."

" _An_ apartment," Cassie added. "I couldn't stand the old one."

Ceece drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "And when you gonna be sure Cassie's safe?"

Kurt sighed. "When we find the killer, I guess."

"That could be a while," Ceece said softly.

"I need to talk to some people from Micah Swift's church." Kurt frowned. "And his housekeeper, Edna... something. It's in my notes."

"Touhy," Vi said. "Edna Touhy. She works in the school cafeteria now. Strange woman."

Kurt nodded. "Before dinner I called some people who hung around with Marcie in high school. I'm meeting one Monday morning, but none of the others wanted to talk. Wouldn't say anything about Marcie's sex life or her family. Just told me she was fun and never meant to hurt anybody."

Ceece nodded. "She was a really sweet kid. Smiled and laughed a lot. I never believed those stories about her till I caught her in the furnace room one day with Bruce Feldhousen. She was a freshman and he was a senior."

Kurt cleared his throat. "Did everybody know why Cyril Sonnenberg's wife left him?"

"It was common knowledge," Vi said.

"And that Marcie was the girl?"

"Seemed like Marcie was always the girl," Ceece mumbled.

Cassie turned to Kurt. "I thought you told me Marcie didn't go after men who were taken?"

"She was a prostitute for a while," Ceece said. "Several guys picked up gonorrhea from her, including a local big shot: Cyril Sonnenberg. He gave it to his wife."

Cassie wrinkled her nose. "Yuck! So she divorced him?"

"It was the biggest joke in town," Vi said. "The haughty Cyril Sonnenberg left high and dry in his great big mansion. No wife, no kids, not even the family dog."

Kurt looked at Ceese. "Was that before Marcie graduated?"

Ceese nodded. "Summer between her junior and senior years, when she worked at that whorehouse up north." He looked at Cassie. "Excuse my French."

"Right after she' had the abortion." Kurt added.

Cassie squeezed Kurt's hand. "She killed her baby?"

Ceece said, "Maybe she had a miscarriage, maybe she never was pregnant." He related Marcie's peculiar "visit to her aunt" when she was sixteen. "But she looked a lot thinner when she got back."

Kurt caught Ceece's eye. "Suppose Cyril would wait almost five years to get his revenge?"

"He's methodical, I know that."

"I feel sorry for Marcie." Cassie shook her head, then stood. "I'm going to get ready for bed." She went to the basement bedroom.

"You're meeting one of Marcie's friends tomorrow?" Ceece asked Kurt.

"Maggie Stoll. Waitress at Lola's. I'm going to her house."

"I remember Maggie. Kind of a wallflower. Big girl." Ceece grabbed his paper off the floor. "You're going to her trailer?"

Kurt nodded. "Right after I drop my car at Holmeir's Garage and pick up a loaner."

"Gonna take a while to straighten out that rear end."

"Butch figures maybe a week."

The phone rang on the table next to Vi's chair. "What now?" She grabbed the receiver. "Maxwells'."

Kurt looked at his watch. Ten after eight. _For me?_

"Sure," Vi said to whoever was on the other end of the line, then looked at Kurt. "Vic Rathe." She handed over the phone and strolled toward her and Ceece's bedroom.

Kurt leaned against the wall. "Yeah, Vic?"

"I just read the story in today's _Courier_."

"Gruesome stuff."

"How's Jenny Johnson?"

"Hanging on."

"Doctors think she'll make it?"

"They're skeptical." Kurt sat down in the chair Vi had vacated. "She could tell us a lot about these bastards if she ever comes out of the coma."

"Paper says you've got some leads."

"Same ones I told you about yesterday, but now I'm absolutely certain."

"Marcie Swift?"

"You read the story. Those kids we found today were her bowling buddies," Kurt said.

Rathe was silent for a moment. "Lot of people in this town still have it in for you, Pal. Drawing attention to Marcie Swift's adventures is just gonna make it worse."

"She piss off some powerful people?"

"Some of the most powerful in this county," Rathe said.

"Like Cyril Sonnenberg? And Marcie's own dad?"

"Among others. She caused them a lot of grief they want forgotten."

"Or maybe one of them wants a little revenge."

"They're gonna want a little revenge on _you_ if you stir up everybody's memories."

"I'm gonna find these killers. If the citizens get pissed, that's tough tomatoes. It's for their own good."

"Take your girl and the baby and go back to Chicago till this blows over, Kurt."

"I told you, Cassie won't do that."

"Then go by yourself."

"And leave her here alone?" Kurt lowered his voice. "They already tried to kidnap her once."

"Then you both ought to be scared."

"We are."

Vic Rathe sighed. "I'd like to meet this woman. So would Jan. You doing anything next Friday night?"

"We're gonna slip up to Omaha by ourselves for a quiet dinner."

"With the baby?"

"We'll drop her off at Alice Wolcott's house," said Kurt. "She's our babysitter."

"I know Alice. I did her and Hal's wills."

"Maybe we could get together with you and Jan the next weekend."

"Okay. And if Ceece and Vi get tired of you, we've got room here. We can put the kids together, use one of their rooms, and we have a guest bedroom."

Kurt thought a moment. "Careful, Pardner. I might take you up on that."

"We wish you would. We kind of thought you'd come here in the first place."

"I guess I forgot you live in a mansion now."

"I've also got a wife who's home all day and loves kids. Built-in baby sitter."

"Cassie and I talked earlier tonight about getting out of the Maxwells' way pretty soon."

"Great! I'll tell Jan you're thinking about it."

The two long-time friends wrapped up their conversation and Kurt hung up. _There was genuine fear in his voice_ , he thought. Vic knew that Micah Swift and Cyril Sonnenberg were capable of doing serious harm. _Further evidence that one of those two men was behind the killings._

Footsteps thundered onto the wooden front porch and the doorbell went off like a fire siren.

"What the hell?" Ceece tossed his paper aside and hurried to open the front door.

Deputy Sheriff Cal Morantz, eyes bulging, dropped his hand from the bell button and shouted through the glass storm door: "Wylie needs you, Ceece! Over at Lola's! Right now!"

Ceece pushed the door aside. "Over at Lola's?"

Kurt stepped up to look over the coach's shoulder.

"They're on a rampage!" Cal went on. "Heading out to hang Gully Rolfs!"

Ceece waved an arm toward the living room. "Come in here. Calm down a little."

The deputy slipped inside, babbling all the while. "They got each other convinced Gully killed them kids this afternoon, and maybe the others. They all went home and got their guns. A whole mob, Wylie says."

Ceece sat on the couch and pulled Morantz down beside him. "Take a deep breath, Cal. I can't make sense out of what you're telling me. What's Gully Rolfs got to do with the murders?"

"He was there last night, at Lola's. Goose seen him and his truck."

Kurt saw the exasperation on Ceece's face. "The victims were drinking at Lola's last night," he told the coach. "Merle Prohaska's daughter Bev was one of them." He told Ceece what Goose Wyrich and Dusty Rhodes had said about Gully Rolfs and the Prohaska family.

Ceece turned to Cal. "So they think Gully Rolfs killed those kids because Merle shot his dog last summer?"

Cal Morantz swallowed, then spoke a bit more calmly. "Lola called Wylie about a half-hour ago, said the boys were guzzlin' booze and talkin' wild. She was scared."

"So Wylie went over?" said Ceece.

Cal nodded. "Radioed me five minutes after he got there. Said they was all cranked up, had themselves convinced Gully and some hillbillies are part of the curse and you're the only one could talk sense to 'em."

" _Wylie_ told you they were going after Gully, or Lola said that?" Kurt asked.

"Wylie!" The deputy stood. "We better get over there!"

Chapter Forty-Seven

Five minutes later they were on the way, Ceece in the county cruiser's front seat with Deputy Morantz and Kurt alone in the back.

Ceece grabbed Cal's hand when he reached for the siren switch. "Let's keep it calm and quiet." He turned to Kurt. "What'd Wylie say about Gully being in Lola's last night?"

"He didn't think much of it. But there's a rumor Gully was living in that burned-out house. We think he might've got a glimpse of the killers."

"Wiley doesn't think Gully's got anything to do with the murders?"

"Said Gully's not the type." Kurt leaned forward over the seatback. "What do you think?"

Ceece shrugged. "I don't know Gully personally. Seen him around, heard about him. Looks harmless."

When they arrived at Lola's entrance, it was flooded with a stream of cars pulling out onto the highway and heading south.

"Oh, boy." Ceece murmured.

Deputy Morantz came to a stop at the edge of the passing convoy. "That's the sheriff's car!" He pointed. "And it's full!"

"That's not Wylie at the wheel," Ceece said.

Kurt looked out the right side window. "Is that Lola waving?"

Cal and Ceece turned toward the tavern'. "Yeah," Ceece said. "I think she wants us."

"I'll go." Kurt jumped out of the cruiser, climbed over a bank of plowed snow next to the busy entrance and jogged to meet Lola.

She pointed inside. "They handcuffed Wylie to a bar stool!"

Kurt stopped some twenty feet away. "He okay?"

"Got a bloody forehead."

Kurt sprinted back to squad car.

Ceece opened the right side door. "What's going on?"

"I need Cal's handcuff keys." Kurt stuck his hand out to the deputy across Ceece's body.

"Where's Wylie?" Cal demanded.

"Give me the keys and I'll get him."

As Cal handed Kurt his key, the last car left Lola's and became the caboose on a train out of town.

"Looks like they're headed for the south bluffs," Ceece said.

"Don't leave till we get back." Kurt again sprinted for Lola's as she stood holding the front door open.

"Them fools say they're gonna hang Gully Rolfs," Lola cried as Kurt flew past.

Kurt spotted Sheriff Wylie O'Shea, half-sitting, half-kneeling on the floor, moping his bloody head with a rag, his right arm cuffed to the stem of a bar stool. "I got the key, Wylie." It took him a moment to get the key into the clasp and unfasten the manacle.

"Goddamn Teddy Larson blindsided me with a whiskey bottle!"

"You hurt?"

Wylie dropped the rag and massaged his newly-freed wrist. "Just bloody." He staggered to his feet with Kurt's help. "You get Ceece?"

"He's in the car with Cal."

The sheriff started for the door. "We better hustle out there before somebody gets killed." He grabbed his parka off a table as he passed it, then noticed something missing. "They got my gun! Son of a bitch!"

Kurt followed. "Gully Rolf's place?"

"That hillbilly nest in the bluffs. Other side of King Hill." Wylie shuffled past Lola, who was still tending the door.

Kurt stopped. "Call Larry Roberts," he told Lola. "Tell him to get his ambulance to Gully's or as close to it as he can get. And tell him to bring a doctor if one will come."

"What's the number?"

"Just go through 911." Kurt zipped his coat up and trotted into the night after Wylie'.

"They was headed south down the highway!" Cal bleated as the sheriff and Kurt climbed into the back seat. "Want me to head that way?"

"Ceece, you drive," Wylie said. "Cal, you get on the radio and try to raise the state patrol."

Cal and Ceece both piled out of the car, changed places and Ceece gunned the cruiser in pursuit of the departed vigilantes.

Wylie used his handkerchief to dab at his wounded forehead.

Ceece looked at Wylie in the rearview mirror. "What the hell happened in there?"

"They were startin' to get worked up when Kurt and me left three hours ago. I guess the story got around about Gully being in the bar with them kids last night and one thing led to another. Lola called me just before eight. By then it was 'outta control." He laid his head back on the seat, still dabbing. "They wouldn't listen to me. Shouted me down. I called Cal, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor shackled to a stool."

"Must be a couple dozen of 'em," said Kurt.

"Double that." Wylie coughed painfully. "A hell of a lot more than we can jail, I'll tell you that."

"I can't raise anybody at the patrol," Cal whined from the right front seat.

"Try the city. Maybe Hanika will give us a hand." The sheriff sat upright. "I don't know what it's gonna take to calm these monkeys down."

"They're scared," Ceece said. "Feel like they have to do something, I guess."

Cal turned to his boss. "How we gonna break it up?"

"Let's get there and find out what we got." The sheriff sat up where he could see the oncoming road over Ceece's shoulder. His directions took them off the highway onto a graveled road, then off that along a dirt byway that gradually narrowed into a path up the eastern slope of a bluff. The snow-covered surface had not been plowed; only the tracks of preceding vehicles made it passable. And it was obvious that many travelers had recently gone that way.

As they rounded a curve, Ceece said quietly, "Here we are." A scraggly line of shacks dotted the uphill side of the road for some distance ahead: weathered, battered, neglected hovels without utilities or plumbing, adorned by equally shabby vehicles parked out front. Here and there lantern light glowed from a window, but most of the structures were dark. It looked like a moonlit Depression Era shantytown except for a wide pool of light glowing a half-mile up the road.

"That's where they got Gully," said Wylie.

The four squinted ahead, trying to make out what was going on as Ceece pulled the cruiser to a stop behind a line of other vehicles parked off to one side of the road. At the front end of that line, some fifty yards away, three cars' headlamps were aimed into what passed for a front yard. A struggle in the midst of a mob was underway there while countless shadowy figures encircled the fracas, watching and shouting.

"What are they doing?" Cal whispered as the four cautiously approached on foot over the snow-packed ground.

"Jesus!" Ceece muttered, straining to see past the onlookers. "They stringing him up?"

Cal Morantz nearly choked. "They are!"

Kurt motioned for quiet, then spoke under his breath. "By his feet. Just by his feet. Don't panic."

They passed the sheriff's stolen cruiser parked among the other cars.

Under a cottonwood tree by the house, three men surrounded a bound captive. Three others tugged on one end of a rope that was draped over a low branch, its other end tied to their prey's feet. In less than a minute Gully Rolfs was hanging upside down, swaying in the freezing night.

A woman and several small children crouched nearby, all weeping and pleading.

Kurt and his companions stopped in the darkness behind the circled crowd of rooters and accomplices. They watched as four of the principals stepped back and gave the stage to two others: Vern Burdick and Goose Wyrich.

Wyrich pulled the leather belt from around his waist and bellowed, "We know it was you! Admit it, you stinking son of a bitch!" Goose, towering over his inverted captive, tore Gully's shirt from his back and lashed out with the strap.

Gully screeched as the whip tore across his bare skin.

The woman and kids wailed.

"Who helped you?" Wyrich screamed, then smashed Gully with another blow from the belt. "Give us a name! Point to a house!" Another lash echoed down the road, followed by a shotgun blast from beside the house. A dog whined in agony and went silent.

An unseen man cackled, "That one won't be chewing up any more kids."

"Shit!" Wylie said under his breath. "I forgot they took my gun."

Ceece turned to the sheriff. "You gonna shoot it out with fifty shotguns?"

Cal held his thirty-eight revolver out for the sheriff to take. "You can have mine."

Wylie looked at the pistol, looked at Ceece, then waved off his deputy's offer. "I got a shotgun in my trunk if it comes to that," he said quietly.

"Me too," echoed Cal.

"For all the good it'll do us." Ceece again perused the turmoil in front of the house as Wyrich struck another blow on little Gully's mangled back. "We gotta do something."

Kurt motioned for them to step farther back from the throng. "I've got a plan." He dropped to one knee and the others huddled around him. "How many rounds you have for that pistol and the shotguns?" he asked Wylie.

Wylie look at Cal, thought a moment. "Always keep a full box of shells in the cruisers for all firearms."

"That should do it." Kurt hurriedly outlined his plan to rescue Gully Rolfs.

Two minutes later, with Gully still screeching in agony and Goose still blistering the poor man's hide, shotgun and pistol blasts erupted from the line of parked cars.

Goose froze in mid-swing. His and the others' heads turned toward the road.

"What's goin' on?" cried Vern Burdick.

"Somebody's shootin' at our cars!" a voice in the back yelled.

Ceece Maxwell strolled into the main pool of light. "It's the sheriff and his deputy," he said in a calm, authoritative voice. "They plan to shoot out two tires on every car here." He gestured toward the line of houses. "Hope some of these folks won't mind putting you boys up for the night."

The men broke and started for their vehicles, but froze when a shotgun blasted pellets into the ground a few feet in front of the leaders.

Kurt, silhouetted against the headlight beams, lowered his weapon. "You gonna shoot him, boys? Gonna kill the sheriff and his deputy? Me and Ceece? How about all the people in town who know what's going on?"

More explosions rumbled from along the line of cars.

"Who you gonna shoot, chickenshit?" It was Merle Prohaska, father of one of the victims. "Think you could get all of us? A gutless wonder like you?"

"State patrol cars are five minutes away, Merle. You can take me down, but I'll press charges against any man who touches me. So will the others. Assault and battery is a felony."

"You'll have to kill us all," Ceece said.

The men turned again to see Coach Maxwell standing near Gully in the huddle of figures beneath the tree.

"Then you'll have to run like hell before the state patrol gets here." Ceece nudged Goose Wyrich away from Gully. "How far you think you'd get with murder charges hanging over your heads?"

Kurt drew their attention back to him. "You've already assaulted a law officer in the commission of his duty." Blasts continued to blare from amidst the parked cars. "God only knows how bad Gully's hurt," Kurt went on.

Ceece eased closer to Jimmy Read, the man still holding the rope on which Gully was strung. "You fellas are in enough trouble. Don't ruin your lives over this thing." He motioned for Read to lower the dangling captive.

Gully's family rushed to surround their loved one as his body crumpled on the frozen dirt.

Heads turned from Ceece to Kurt and back again several times.

"What you gonna do with Gully?" someone finally asked.

Kneeling, Ceece was untying Gully's hands. "Get him the hell out of here before you schmucks commit murder!"

Goose Wyrich took a step toward Ceece. "He killed all them people!"

"If he did, he'll pay with his life," Kurt said from the other side of the onlookers. "Would you rather pay for his murder with yours?"

"He's in league with the Coogans!" Val Wiles looked around for support and saw a couple of heads nod. He pointed along the road. "Half the people livin' in those shacks are too!"

"Who else in this county could butcher human beings?" Merle Prohaska yelled. "Cut 'em up like fish, sick their dogs on 'em?"

Vern Burdick was next. "They've brought the fires of hell to people around here for close to fifty years." He pointed at Gully. "But last night this one showed his hand, and now we know."

Kurt shifted his shotgun to one hand, the barrel pointing down. "You're saying Gully Rolfs and the people living in these hills are behind the curse?"

"They're the agents of the Coogans." Burdick looked as smug as he sounded. "We should have realized that years ago and run them out of here."

"Better late than never!" some hearty voice bellowed.

"Sloths, heathens, fornicators!" Burdick looked disdainfully at Gully. "Worthless people, really. They're easy prey for evil spirits."

Kurt pointed the barrel of his shotgun straight up, rested it on his shoulder, and scratched his head, looking at Burdick with mild amusement. "That's about the craziest goddamned thing I've ever heard anybody in this town say, Vern. How do you think it'll sound on tomorrow's news?"

Out on the road, three more shotgun blasts ended with the unmistakable sound of lead pellets hitting metal.

"All right!" a voice yelled. "Tell 'em to stop shootin!"

Several nervous "yeahs" and "that's enoughs" chirped from around the gathering.

Kurt turned toward the roadway and shouted, "All right, Sheriff. Hold your water for now."

"One more detail." Ceece cut through the twine around Gully's feet with a pocket knife. "Lay down your guns."

"Bullshit!" Vern Burdick bellowed.

"I give you my word you'll get 'em back tomorrow," Ceece said. "I'll have 'em out at Lola's. Stop by and pick 'em up."

"Leave my gun in the snow?" Stan Duffy was outraged.

"You mean it's not oiled, Stan?" Ceece helped Gully to his feet. "Thought all you guys took real good care of your tools."

"I'm not givin' up my gun to nobody!" Goose Wyrich said.

Wylie and his deputy stepped into the pool of light from one side. "That's how it's gonna be, boys. That or we'll shoot 'er out till the state patrol gets here."

Ceece propped up Gully with his shoulder and led the injured man into his home while the woman and kids clustered about.

Merle Prohaska laid his firearm on the snow-covered ground. "If this rusts, I'm gonna sue!" He started toward the road.

The others followed, slowly at first, one by one, then in a stampede to assess the damage to their vehicles.

"County's gonna by god give me new tires!" yelled someone trotting down the road.

Kurt joined Wylie and Cal in the front yard. "Good work, guys. Didn't I hear one of you actually hit something?"

Wylie chuckled. "Old hub cap in the ditch."

"Hey!" a voice in the distance yelled. "Mine's okay! I can haul five!"

"I'm not hurt!" echoed another.

A third sounded like it was Christmas morning. "My tires is all okay!"

The fourth was obviously baffled. "Nothing wrong here!"

Kurt leaned toward Wylie. "I think they're catching on."

The sheriff aimed his shotgun at the ground and fired, then pumped in another round and fired again.

Within seconds engines were turning over and within minutes all the cars except the two county cruisers had headed out of the bluffs.

"Let's dump those guns in your cruiser," Wylie told Cal. "Must be forty of 'em."

Cal pointed. "There's your pistol right over there."

"I'll see how Ceece is doing." Kurt trotted to the house and slipped in through the front door.

Gully was sitting in a kitchen chair by the pot-bellied stove, a blanket covering everything except his blistered back. He was chatting with Ceece, who was seated on what passed for the family's sofa.

"Hey thanks, Buddy," Gully gushed as he spotted Kurt. "I'm obliged. Real obliged."

Kurt pulled up a chair, noticing the man's wife and children huddled near the wood stove in the home's tiny kitchen. "You can thank us by answering a few questions."

Gully was still badly shaken, his face pale, his hands unsteady. "I don't know a thing about no murders, Buddy. I swear to Jesus I don't. Honest."

"We heard you lived up at that house that burned down a couple weeks ago," Ceece said.

"It wasn't us hurt them boys!" Gully sat up straighter. "Them crazy bastards done it! We was just hunkered in there to keep warm."

Kurt patted Gully's shoulder. "Tell us about the 'crazy bastards.'"

"There was three of 'em. One was the biggest son of a bitch I ever did see... almost couldn't get through the front door. They went after some boys come by to hoorah with us."

"You know any of 'em?" Ceece asked.

"The boys or the others?

"Both."

Gulley said he and his people—about twenty in all, counting women and children—had moved into the old house before Thanksgiving. The police ran them out after Christmas, but they bided their time and moved back in January. "The place heated up real good," he told them.

On a Saturday night not long after Gully's group took occupancy, four boys knocked on the door.

"One of 'em was named Meester," Gully said. "I never did know the others. The four said the place had been their wine-drinking retreat for years and wondered if they could come in, sit by the fire and warm themselves with muscatel. Naturally they had enough for everybody in the house. They left us a little radio and brought new batteries ever' time they came back, which was pretty often.

On the night of the fire, the "boys" were encamped around the fire as usual, playing the radio and swilling grape-wrought euphoria with Gully and his group. At some point, everyone was startled by a pounding on the front door, then the crash of splintering wood. "Then three men—a bald giant and two other boys I seen somewhere around town busted into the living room. They had knives near a foot long, and they took after our new friends. They didn't bother none of _us_ , just them four boys. They was punchin' 'em and stabbin' 'em like wild Indians."

"Well, all of us grabbed our coats and headed for the timber to hide. By the time we settled down and looked back, the house was on fire. We had to come on back here," he concluded. "Didn't make it till after sunup."

The sheriff opened the front door quietly and stepped in. "How's everybody in here?"

"Them lynchers gone?" Gully's red-rimmed eyes looked about to explode.

"Yep. And we got all their firepower stacked in Cal's cruiser." He sat in a nearby rocker. "Won't be no more trouble from them."

"Gully just told us what happened the night that old house burned down." Ceece related Gully's story.

Wylie looked at Gully. "Think you'd recognize any of those killers if you saw 'em again?"

"The big one sure enough. The other two... I just don't know. Seemed familiar sort of, but it was dark. All we had was candles and the fireplace."

Kurt leaned closer to Gully. "Any of your friends get a better look?"

Gully shook his head. "I was closest."

The sheriff stood. "Want us to take you to see a doctor?"

"Nah."

Gully's tiny wife, Annie, had emerged from the kitchen. "I got some salve I put on burns." Her clothes, like the rest of the family's, looked like items rejected from a rummage sale.

Ceece, too, got to his feet. "Sure nothing's broken?"

"I got sore spots from when they knocked me around." Gully stretched his arms and legs, grimacing. "Nothin' bad."

"You can file charges against those boys," Wiley said. "Assault and battery, kidnapping, false imprisonment. Why don't you come in Monday and talk about it?"

Gully swallowed. "I just want 'em to leave me alone."

Kurt patted Gully's leg, nodded to his wife, and led his companions in bidding the Rolfs family good evening. They all started for the door.

"Hey, Ceece," Gully said, trying to sit up straighter. "What'd that fella said about us folks being worthless?"

"Sorry about that, Gully. Some people think they're special."

"Was he right?"

Ceece glanced at Annie, then back at Gully. "The truth is, Gully, I've been told you're a real hard worker. People say they always get their money's worth when they hire Gully Rolfs." He nodded at Annie. "You folks take care."

Because Cal's cruiser was loaded with over forty rifles and shotguns, Kurt and Ceece both rode back to town with Wylie.

"They just wanted the four boys," Kurt reflected aloud as the car approached the highway. "Isn't that what Gully said?"

"Yep." Ceece was in the front seat with Wylie. "Looks you're right on. Marcie Swift is the link we're looking for."

_But the link to whom?_ Kurt thought. _Her parents? Cyril Sonnenberg?_ _Some spurned boyfriend?_ Or maybe that other individual: the one Sarah Stoll had promised to tell him about on Monday morning.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The instant Kurt crossed the railroad tracks Monday morning he knew it was his kind of car. The new Lexus ES loaner from Butch Holmeir's garage turned bumps into foam rubber. _Just the kind of automobile men of substance are expected to drive._ Cassie could have a nice Chevy van for her and the kids.

The sun streaming through the car windows and the cloudless sky belied a near-zero temperature outside. Rock Bluff looked like the front of a Christmas card. _The kind of place a man could call home... after a little housecleaning._

At just before nine, he pulled into Palmer's Mobile Estates—formerly Palmer's Trailer Park—on the north edge of town. It was home to some twenty-five families, and Sarah Stoll lived in a modest unit parked two rows from the entrance.

"I don't remember _not_ knowing Marcie." Sarah pushed the ancient electric percolator across the little table to Kurt. "My mom was a member of Holy Christian Church, so me and Marcie was together from Sunday school on." She took a drag from her Pall Mall. "Nobody ever had a better friend."

"You were one of the few, I understand."

"She was pretty private. I was the only one she trusted with personal stuff. And there was a lot she didn't even tell _me_."

"Hard to get close to?"

Sarah nodded. "But everybody liked her."

"You and she go out with boys together?"

A sour smile twisted the corner of Sarah's mouth. "Double date?" She shook her head. "Marcie liked to be alone with boys. Besides, boys never cared much about me." Her stubby fingers tapped ashes off her smoke. "I'm sure you've heard all about her little problem."

"Sounds pretty wild."

"She loved sex."

Kurt crossed one leg over the other. "She knew an awful lot of guys, I'm told."

"Lookin' for satisfaction she couldn't get, I guess."

"She say that?"

"Didn't have to."

"And she was pregnant once?"

Sarah sighed. "She got an abortion. Maybe she got a bunch. I don't know."

"And she had gonorrhea?"

"You writin' a dirty story about her or lookin' for her killer?"

Kurt sat up straight and pulled the tablet from his shirt pocket. "Sorry." He took a sip of his coffee and struggled not to make a face. "I'm looking for possible enemies. Maybe somebody who got the clap from her."

"They printed all those names in the _Courier_. That's when she worked in that whorehouse. She made some enemies, all right."

"Anybody stand out?"

"That rich guy. Sonnenberg? And old man Binder, the druggist. A couple more I can't remember. A half-dozen threatened her."

Kurt jotted a quick note. "She worry about the threats?"

"Not from those guys, but there was a fella last year really scared the crap out of her. That's the one I told you about on the phone."

"Jenny Johnson mentioned it too."

"He was from out of town... older guy, I think."

"A farmer maybe?"

Sarah exhaled smoke through her nose. "Could be. I never saw him."

"This was last Christmas?"

"October, November. I know it ended before Christmas. She stopped talkin' about him and started lookin' over her shoulder. Always nervous... jumpy, y'know?"

"Name?"

"She never said any names."

Kurt made another note. "How long was she upset?"

"Couple weeks, maybe three. She got over it, like everything else."

"And he was the only guy she ever worried about?"

"The only one I know of." Sarah frowned. "But...."

Kurt looked up from his notes. "But what?"

"You know that scruffy old duffer who hangs around town? With the old-fashioned sunglasses and dirty green cap? Josh?"

Everybody who ever walked down Lincoln Avenue on a Saturday night knew Josh, or what he looked like. Kurt nodded. "Yes?"

"He went up to Marcie not long ago and said something. I couldn't hear what it was, but she never got close to him again. Crossed the street if she saw him, or hustled past."

"Did she tell you what happened?"

"She just said, 'I hate that old coot.' Said it every time she saw him after that."

"This was _a_ _fter_ her trouble with the mysterious boyfriend?" Kurt chewed the tip of his pen.

"Right after. Christmas decorations was everyplace."

"I never heard of Josh bothering anybody. And he's really old. Hell, he was old when I was a kid."

"I told Marcie he was probably senile."

"Was he sexually harassing her?"

"Marcie didn't get harassed. Guys hooted and whistled and said dirty stuff all the time. Didn't bother her at all. And she wouldn't back down from God Almighty himself. That's who her dad thought he was, I can tell you that."

Kurt leaned back. "They didn't get along, I hear."

"She did what she wanted. To hell with him."

"Did he punish her?"

"She got shut up in her room a lot—a _lot_ —and I saw welts on her legs and back a couple times. Even on her shoulders." Sarah set her cigarette in the ashtray. "Sometimes in the summer she wore long sleeves and pants, no shorts or swimming suit."

"She didn't talk about it?"

"Just little stuff, like 'boy he was pissed last night.' Then she squirmed around like she was sore. I know she hated him."

"What did you think of him?"

Sarah shrugged, then shook her head. "That man's eyes. Whew! Talk about puttin' the fear of God in you! And sometimes I thought his voice was gonna blow the church windows out. But when he wasn't preachin', he never said much. Kind'a mousy, like he was scared of everybody." She looked up at Kurt. "He never done nothing to me, I guess. I don't think I ever heard him talk outside of church."

"And Marcie wasn't scared of him?"

"That one guy I told you about was the only person ever scared Marcie. Oh, and old Josh."

Hubie Jorns set a glass of water on the bar in front of Kurt. "I don't know his last name, I guess." He continued preparing for the day's business. He'd owned and operated The Avenue Tavern for over thirty years. "Just called him 'Old Josh' forever."

"Where's he live?"

Hubie frowned. "Seems to me it's someplace south. Not sure, though."

"He's a farmer?"

"Hires out, as I understand it. Or did when he was younger."

Kurt drummed his fingers on the table.

"Hey, go to the courthouse," Hubie said. "Look at the tax rolls. Can't be that many Joshes in this county."

Kurt took a sip of his water. "I just did. 'There are two: Joshua Marler owns the garage over in Stanley, and Josh Cole farms a place up near Mayfield. Wylie O'Shea knows 'em both."

Hubie stopped working and leaned against the bar. "Why all the interest in that old fart? He missing too?"

"Nah. His name came up and I just got curious. Seen him lately?"

Hubie thought a moment. "Don't think I have. Not this last weekend, anyhow." He looked at his watch. "Regulars be stopping for lunch pretty soon. Want me to ask around?"

"Get a last name if you can. A phone number, address. The guy might be able to help me out."

"With a lead on the killer?"

"He might have seen or heard something and not know it's important," Kurt said.

"Could be true of anybody."

"That's why I've been talking to so many people. Did _you_ know any of the victims?"

"Meester and those guys used to come in a lot," Hubie said.

"The one's found in the fire?"

"They're victims, ain't they?"

"No doubt in my mind. Know anybody who wanted to hurt 'em?"

Hubie pulled the towel off his shoulder and wiped a spot on the bar. "Them four got in a lot of trouble."

"Meester went to the state pen, didn't he?"

He nodded. "So did Biles and Stuntz. Car theft. And Cobble spent about half his life in either the city or county jail." He propped a foot up behind the bar and leaned on that leg. "They was bums... just bums. Don't think anybody would bother killing 'em."

"What'd you know about Marcie Swift?"

Hubie straightened up. "I never touched the girl, God rest her soul."

"But you knew a lot of guys who did?"

"Stories." He put his hands in the air. "And I ain't repeatin' a'one."

"She really pissed off some guys."

"Stupid bastards. Diddle a little girl like that, then bitch about getting their weenies pinched."

"Some got the clap."

"Oh, yeah." Hubie grinned. "'Ol' Cyril Sonnenberg for one. Did my heart good."

Kurt finished his water in two long gulps. "I hear the paper named the others."

"Paper named the ones caught in the raid on Weston's whorehouse. We only knew Cyril got the clap 'cause his wife blabbed it all over town before she left him." Hubie chuckled. "Did my heart good."

"But he was one of Marcie's customers at Weston's?"

Hubie leaned over the bar. "They say Cyril ran the joint. Snookered 'ol' Herm Weston into using his farmhouse, then Cyril would pocket the profits. Liked to watch too, from what I hear."

"Watch?"

"Had little peek holes in the walls."

The corner of Kurt's mouth curled into a tiny smile. "And sampled the merchandise now and then."

"Sounds like it."

"Who else worked there?"

"Some local gals. You probably knew a couple of 'em."

"Still live here?"

Hubie shook his head. "After the raid they was outcasts."

"And Cyril?"

"They couldn't prove he was involved." Hubie looked at Kurt. "But his wife didn't nave no doubts." He smiled. "Did my heart good."

"He's a cold-blooded son of a bitch."

"I never got within twenty feet of him. Man who owns a bridge, a bank and a bowling alley don't have much truck with a barkeep."

"When I was in high school a bunch of us went around asking for donations to get new football jerseys. Cyril threw us out of the bank."

Hubie refilled Kurt's glass with water, then leaned against the bar. "I remember when you was in school. Some good teams, football _and_ basketball. Too bad—"

"Yeah."

"You and Vic Rathe was a couple of the best we ever had."

"We had a lot of good men. Vic and I just got the headlines."

"And you two got the money for those new jerseys, didn't you? Even without Cyril's help?"

Kurt chuckled. "We both had a gift of gab, I guess. That's why we're both lawyers."

"Cyril's got a gift of _grab_. All those farms and homes he bought up... just like 'ol' Artie Coogan. Kicked folks out on the street. Fired men just 'cause he felt like it, not 'cause they did him wrong."

"But Marcie Swift _did_ do him wrong."

Hubie sniffed, wiped another spot on the bar, and leaned on one elbow.

"I heard she had trouble with her dad too," Kurt said.

"I know he put an ad in the paper right after she graduated. Said he was no longer responsible for her. Then he moved to Lincoln."

"What kind of guy was he?"

Hubie shrugged. "Preacher and a bartender don't exactly graze the same pasture."

"I never knew him either."

"He looked mean as hell," Hubie said.

"Kind of like Abe Lincoln before he was elected. Tall, skinny, deep-set eyes."

Two customers came through the front door.

Kurt stood. "Well, if you find out Josh's last name, let me know." He jotted Ceece's phone number on a napkin and pushed it toward Hubie. "I'm staying with Ceece Maxwell."

Hubie picked up the napkin. "Y'know, I never thought about it till now, but I don't know I've ever heard 'ol' Josh talk."

"Must've told somebody his name."

"That old green cap has his name sewed on the bill."

Kurt smiled. "Never seen him without that cap."

"Or blue bib overalls and them old sunglasses, summer and winter."

"Maybe he changed clothes and shaved for once in his life, and nobody recognizes him anymore."

Hubie laughed. "I'll keep my eye out for an old stranger this Saturday." He started to turn, but stopped. "You guys find that girl? The one they kidnapped?"

"Cops all over the Midwest are on the lookout." Kurt shrugged.

"Too bad," Hubie said. "Hope you find her before... well, you know." He moved off to serve the newcomers.

Chapter Forty-Nine

While nearly everyone else stopped for lunch, Kurt went to Rock Bluff's public library. _The Coogan Courier_ housed its morgue there and he wanted to look through some of the back issues.

He scrolled through the microfiche from weekly editions that covered one particular summer. The information he needed was in the Wednesday, August 13th edition:

Early Sunday morning, Coogan County Sheriff Wylie O'Shea and his deputies raided the farm home of Herman Gerhard Weston, RR 3, Rock Bluff. Five men and four women were taken into custody on misdemeanor charges.

The article listed the individuals involved and their respective fines, including $1,000 to Herm Weston for keeping a disorderly house. It also mentioned the arrest of "one seventeen year old juvenile female from Rock Bluff," who was remanded to the custody of her parents.

_A few red faces in Rock Bluff that summer_ _?_ _Small town people are so_ _good_ _at dispensing shame...._ Had one of those guys identified in the paper finally taken out his frustration on Marcie Swift? He jotted down the relevant names, then whimsically paged through the rest of the paper, scanning for anything familiar.

His late mom and dad had no doubt read every word in that old edition when it first hit the streets five years earlier. _My god_ , he thought. _These ad layouts haven't changed since I was a kid_. Same logos, same caricatures, same fonts. And there was one announcing the Brighton Brothers Circus coming to Omaha's Qwest Center in September, just as it always had come to that city when he was growing up. _They'll probably be out of business when my kids are old enough to go. Too bad._

After lunch at Mom's Kitchen, Kurt dropped in at Koehler's Furniture and picked out a davenport, a coffee table and a floor lamp for his parents' house. "It has to be delivered by Friday," he told Tommie Koehler.

"Friday's clear. Any particular time?"

"Morning would be best. Around nine?"

Tommie made a note on the bill of sale. "You just auctioned off all your folks' furniture, didn't you?"

"Before last Christmas."

"Having second thoughts about your old hometown?" Tommie's smile lacked enthusiasm.

"Just had an urge to buy furniture." Because the store didn't accept credit cards, Kurt wrote a check for $3,207.85 on his Chicago bank, glanced one more time at the spacious sofa and left to resume his investigation.

His next stop was the town's main grade school. He had an appointment with Edna Touhy for 1:30 p.m. in the cafeteria where she worked. The two took seats on opposite sides of a long, still-damp lunch table.

"I was with the Swifts for nearly fifteen years," she said. "Right after they moved to the big house on South 4th Street."

Kurt hated the lingering smell of cooked vegetables. "So you knew Marcie well?"

Edna, tall, thin, with lips perpetually forming an O, avoided Kurt's eyes. "I was just the housekeeper... a servant."

"But you lived there. You had to interact with family members."

"I had no authority over the children."

Kurt pushed his little tablet aside. "I'm not here to blame you for Marcie's troubles. I'm trying to find out who killed her and why."

"Meanness made that child what she was, in my opinion." The O that was Edna's mouth shrank.

"Mr. Swift?"

" _Pastor_ Swift."

"He was mean?"

"I never heard him say a kind word to any of his children. He gave orders and expected them to be followed."

"And if they weren't?"

"There were consequences... severe consequences." She finally looked at Kurt, then dipped her eyes again. "Marcie was regularly confined in her room without meals. When that didn't seem fitting, they closed the door and beat her."

Kurt retrieved his notepad and pen. "They?"

"Pastor and the missus. I heard screams coming from that bedroom that nearly curled my hair." Edna shook her head. "Then Marcie went right out and did what she got whipped for."

"Ever _see_ him hit Marcie or anybody else?"

"I saw him take off his belt when they went into her bedroom. I heard her cries."

"Did he yell at her?"

"With that voice, he didn't need to yell. The walls shook when he opened his mouth."

"Sounds like you were afraid of him."

Edna stiffened. "They paid twice as much as I could make doing anything else."

"You quit when they moved to Lincoln?"

"They didn't invite me to go with them."

"I guess Mrs. Swift agreed with the pastor's punishments?"

Edna squirmed a bit. "She always blamed Marcie's real parents."

Kurt froze. "Excuse me?"

"Marcie was adopted. The other two were their own children. The missus always bragged on how _they_ didn't get in trouble."

"How did Marcie feel about it? Being adopted?"

"Mad. At her real parents for putting her with the Swifts." Edna took a deep breath. "I think she did that dirty stuff just to get back at the pastor. Maybe if he forgave her once in a while and said he loved her, she would've straightened out."

"Did Marcie ask about her real parents?"

"Pastor always told her they found her on their doorstep, so to speak. Had no idea who her parents were." She joined her hands in her lap. "But the missus knew. I could tell from the look in her eyes when the subject came up."

"I heard Pastor Swift put an ad in the paper disowning Marcie."

"The pastor is a proud man. She embarrassed him." Edna looked away. "On purpose, if you ask me. She knew what would drive him crazy."

"Crazy enough to kill her, or to hire somebody to do it?"

Edna shrugged. "Who knows what's behind those eyes? Maybe it's God. Maybe it's the devil himself."

"Would you ever work for them again?"

"No." She stood. "I have to get back to work."

Kurt hurried through the cold to his borrowed car, glad to escape the cafeteria smell. He'd take the cigarette-and-stale-beer stench of Lola's anytime.

As he pulled away from the curb, he glanced at the fluorescent light glowing from the school's basement windows. A cafeteria full of screeching brats was not the most pleasant workplace, and it probably didn't pay more than minimum wage. Edna Touhy was understandably bitter toward the Swifts, so maybe she'd exaggerated their flaws a bit. But she wasn't fabricating the adoption.

"I need a copy of Marcie Swift's birth certificate," Kurt told Wylie O'Shea back at the jail. "Got a contact at the Bureau of Vital Stats?"

Wylie kept his eyes on the sports page. "Birth certificate?"

"She was adopted."

The sheriff looked up, thought a moment. "A wonder the pastor didn't put that in the paper when the shit hit the fan." He set the Omaha newspaper aside. "What's her birth certificate gonna tell you?"

"Who her mother was. Maybe her father."

"Figure maybe one of 'em was a seven-hundred pound cat?"

Kurt smiled. "One of 'em might know how the Swifts got her."

"Don't see what that's got to do with who killed her."

"She's our only lead, Wylie. It looks like most of the other victims were killed because of her. Who did she make mad enough to go that berserk?" He told Wylie what he'd learned from that day's interviews.

"Scared of old Josh?" Wylie scoffed. "Malarkey! That old geezer wouldn't hurt a cockroach."

"I'd still like to chat with him."

"Pop around the taverns Saturday night."

Kurt sat on the edge of the conference table. "You ever talk to him?"

Wylie rubbed his chin, then shook his head. "Not really talk. Just said hello and such."

"Hubie Jorns says he wouldn't know Josh's name if it wasn't sewed on the old cap he wears."

"But Sarah Stoll claims he walked up and spoke to Marcie right out of the blue," Wylie said. "That make sense?"

Kurt's shoulders fell. "Oh, yeah. And Sarah didn't seem like a crackpot."

"She's a good girl. Honest. Too bad she's so homely."

"The question is, how honest was Marcie?" He stood. "What's it gonna take to get that birth certificate?"

After one ring, Bernice Witherspoon answered the phone on her desk at the other end of the office.

"Her birth _date_ would help," Wylie said.

Kurt pulled out his notes and showed the date to Wylie so he could copy it.

"Sheriff?" Bernice held up the phone. "Falls City Hospital."

Chapter Fifty

Kurt, the sheriff and Police Chief Hanika met Dr. Mason Powell at just after seven that evening. He was the chief of staff at Falls City's Sacred Heart Hospital.

"Jenny Johnson regained consciousness during the lunch hour, and she's gotten stronger since. She's stable now, but very weak," the doctor said. "I can't let you stay more than fifteen minutes. We'll do surgery on her shoulder at six-thirty tomorrow morning, and she won't be able to communicate normally for about forty-eight hours after that, even if everything goes as planned. She's coherent at the moment and wants to talk, but please choose one spokesman and keep the stress to a minimum. She's heavily medicated, so expect some rambling and slurring."

"How bad is her arm?" Kurt asked.

"She'll have to learn to live with only one and be thankful for that. It looks like her left arm was ripped off at the shoulder by something." He shook his head. "Not human. Something powerful, like a winch." He looked at the sheriff. "You never found the arm?"

"We found lots of pieces," Wylie said. "State patrol boys have 'em all."

"Those other murders you've had up there," the doctor said. "Wasn't an animal involved?"

Wylie glanced about quickly before answering. "We found teeth marks. Still investigating." The sheriff patted Kurt's shoulder and nudged him forward. "McBride here will be our spokesman."

Kurt followed Dr. Powell into the emergency room with Wylie and Chief Hanika trailing a few feet behind. Pete and Tillie Johnson were sitting beside their daughter's bed.

"How we doing?" Powell asked quietly as he eased to his patient's side.

Jenny Johnson licked her dry lips. "Okay."

"Can you talk to the police for a few minutes?"

She raised her head, her glassy eyes aimed at Kurt. "McBride?"

"We talked at your office a couple days ago." Kurt slipped past the doctor, his tiny voice recorder in hand. "About Marcie Swift."

"How's the other guys?" Jenny stared at Kurt.

It took Kurt a second to realize the woman was asking about the people she'd been with that night. "Everything possible is being done for them." He looked around to see averted eyes. "You remember leaving Lola's Friday night?"

"What's today?"

"Monday."

"Yeah." She pressed her lips together. "I forget. We went to Lola's after bowling, like always."

She told her story in spurts, needing minor prompts a few times, stopping for a sip of water once and continually grasping for words and names. "We was a little loaded when we left Lola's," she said. "And at first I thought it was all a joke."

When they'd stepped into the winter night outside Lola's Happy Corner, two men were waiting, one with a rifle, and the other—a huge guy, maybe four hundred pounds and bald as an ice cube—with a knife. "Not a kitchen knife," she said. "More like a sword." The two had herded their captives into a panel truck and locked them in, then drove off. "We fell all over the place till we was on the road. Strap banged his head open pretty bad. That's when I got scared."

After what Jenny guessed as twenty minutes, they'd felt the truck pull off the road, cross some bumpy ground, stop, and back up. The two rear doors had swung open simultaneously, but whoever did it had stayed out of sight. Jenny said, "Then, the little peephole between truck's bed and the cab slid open. The big guy ordered everybody out. We did what he said and stood there in the dark. I heard the truck drive off, and a big door slammed behind it. Then something had me by the shoulder and tossed me across the floor. I felt awful pain—like _nothing_ before. Next thing I knew, I woke up here." She took another sip of water.

Kurt eased the recorder closer. "The guy with the rifle... ever see him before?"

"He looked familiar." She shook her head. "Can't put a name with him, though."

"The truck?"

"Didn't get much of a look... too dark." She heaved a sigh.

The doctor signaled Kurt to wrap up his interview and a minute later escorted the three law enforcement officials back into the hallway.

"She out of danger now?" Wylie O'Shea asked.

"If the operation goes well tomorrow she will be. An orthopedic surgeon from Clarkson in Omaha will be in charge."

"Tough to see a young girl like that maimed for life," the sheriff said.

"Thanks to you and Mr. McBride, at least she still _has_ a life."

Pete Johnson, the victim's dad, slipped out of the emergency room door into the hallway. "Any idea who's behind all this?"

"I heard what you heard," Kurt said. "A four hundred pound bald guy with a panel truck."

"Yeah... one who bites off arms and legs and chews 'em up," Police Chief Hanika added.

Jenny's dad looked like he wanted to spit on the floor. "Goddamned curse! We're movin' out of this county!" He stomped away to rejoin Jenny and his wife.

Dr. Powell shook his head. "The man who chases those Coogan ghosts back to Hell will _own_ Rock Bluff."

Chapter Fifty-One

That night Cassie presented Kurt with the first domestic issue of their relationship. Babysitter Alice Wolcott's widowed sister in Omaha had died unexpectedly and Alice, the oldest of her siblings, was saddled with all the funeral and burial arrangements. "She'll be gone until Friday, and no one else is available to care for Lizzie while I'm at work."

"I've never even been _alone_ with a kid that little," Kurt said.

"Either you babysit or I lose three day's' pay," she replied.

"I'll pay your lost wages out of my consultant fee."

"That's sweet," Cassie said. "But I really don't want to ask Mr. Muncie to go three days with no secretary. He wouldn't like that, especially with all the other time off I've taken lately."

"Aren't you forgetting Marilyn Tabor? Her chance of survival gets smaller with every passing hour."

Cassie took a deep breath. "I know. But Marilyn was taken nearly a week ago. If she's still alive, they don't intend to kill her."

"Maybe they just haven't tired of her yet. Maybe she's still 'new stuff' to some of the boys. That won't last forever."

"I know that, so let's think one step at a time. What are you going to do to find her tomorrow morning?"

"I've got to sit down and work that out," Kurt said.

"Can't you work it out and watch Lizzie at the same time?"

"Yeah, but—"

"If you think of some way to help Marilyn, come get me. If you don't, just keep working.

Kurt shoved his hands into his front pockets. "The answer's not here in this house."

Cassie's face tightened slightly. "Okay. I'll call Mr. Muncie."

"Nah." Kurt sighed. "I'll do it tomorrow morning, but I can't make any promises after that."

"Thank you." Cassie leaned over and kissed him.

After three full days of babysitting and brain wracking, Kurt was no closer to finding the mass killer than he was after speaking with Jenny Johnson at the hospital. But in that time he did get a crash course in infant care, and for the first few hours he was constantly on the verge of calling Cassie and throwing in the towel.

During those same hours, though, something else happened: he became totally enamored with the child who would soon be his adopted daughter. And between feedings, diaper changes and baby babble, he did find time to devise a strategy for finding 'the missing pieces of the puzzle—and to enjoy some impure fantasies about his upcoming evening with Cassie. Unfortunately, he couldn't escape occasional thoughts of Marilyn Tabor too, and where she might be at that moment.

"We've gotta find that farmhouse where they took Kate," Kurt said as he drove Cassie to work at the U.P. office on Friday morning. "I'm personally going house to house south of town after I drop you off."

"Alone?"

"I can handle myself."

"Toe Head's murdered fifteen people," said Cassie. " _Mangled_ them."

"And not one was carrying a forty-four caliber pistol."

Cassie crossed her arms and looked out the window.

"The sheriff's gonna check the farms east of the highway, and I'll take the west," Kurt said. "We can cover twice as much ground that way."

"I thought the sheriff was against going house to house."

"He got so tired of my phone calls he gave in."

"Does he know the state patrol is paying you?"

"He didn't hear it from me. Why?"

"You don't have any authority by yourself."

"I'll just say I'm helping Wylie out, or Ceece. Nobody's complained so far."

Cassie sighed. "You haven't shot anyone so far."

Kurt stopped in front of the Union Pacific office building and turned to face Cassie. "I'm not taking any chances, Cass."

"Just thinking of Toe Head scares me silly."

"Me too." He smiled. "But I'm sure as hell not gonna let him intrude on our plans for making this a special Friday night."

As usual, Kurt and Cassie's morning goodbye kiss drew stares from the other employees passing by the car.

"I'll be here at four-thirty," he said as she slid out the door. "We drop Lizzie off at six-thirty." He winked.

Cassie waved and joined her fellow workers on their march to another day at the office.

Kurt parked in the driveway of the house where he grew up, thankful that Vic Rathe had arranged for everything to be shoveled free of snow. The furniture could be delivered to the front that morning; he and Cassie could slip in through the back door that night.

Inside, his first task was to bump up the thermostat from sixty to seventy-two. He wouldn't be able to build a fire when he and Cassie arrived because decent aged wood was impossible to find so late in the year. They'd have to get by on forced air and body heat; Kurt was certain he could provide enough of that all by himself. _How long has it been since Cassie and I were intimate? Before Kate was killed... over two weeks._

He ambled through the big house, barren save for window blinds, visualizing where furniture and appliances could one day sit in his and Cassie's home. He got remodeling ideas; his dad had been a carpenter, so why couldn't he learn to be a do-it-yourselfer in his spare time? _What a great way to spend long winter nights with Cassie and the kids!_

From his old bedroom window on the second floor, he looked out onto the rambling yard. The property actually covered two city lots. _Maybe a modest pool off the patio at some point? Surely a tree house in that old box elder. And Cassie could have a garden like Mom's. Maybe not that big, but—_

The Koehler Furniture Truck stopped in front of the house.

Chapter Fifty-Two

With the davenport and accessories placed exactly as he remembered them in his parent's home, Kurt headed out of town. Donny Sheen in the county clerk's office had sent him a map that identified the farm sites south of Rock Bluff and west of Highway 74 by owner. No one named Josh was listed.

Driving into the country, he tried to think of some way he could automatically rule out a few locations. He knew he was looking for a large home, at least two stories, but nearly all the houses in the area fit that description. There were a few smaller dwellings, like Ike Hanson's, and a couple of single-wides, but those were rare exceptions.

He couldn't simply look for spots where Toe Head could hide his panel truck. Every working farm had a main barn and at least one other outbuilding: garage, equipment shed, livestock shelter.

His first stop was Ken and Mary Taylor's place a half-mile off the highway. Mary answered Kurt's knock and told him rather tersely that she and Ken were empty nesters and didn't have any lodgers. No, she hadn't seen any large bald man or panel truck recently, and yes, he could look around outside the place. "If you think that's necessary," she said, then closed the door abruptly and a little too hard.

Results from his next four stops were largely the same. Attitudes varied from harsher to borderline friendly, but no one behaved as if they had anything to hide.

At ten past noon, Kurt pulled into the farmyard of Ed and Ketty Greeley. The childless couple had taken over the spread—nearly seven hundred acres of farm ground and feedlots that could hold two hundred head of cattle—when Kurt was just a child. He remembered because his dad and mom had often voiced their wonder over people in their early twenties buying the finest livestock farm in Coogan County.

As a teenager Kurt had worked summers helping area farmers with their hay crops, and the Greeley place was one of his favorites. Ed and Ketty both seemed to like him and even took some interest in his athletic career. Besides that, Ketty was a fantastic cook. With a little luck, maybe he'd get an invitation to lunch.

"Hello, Kurt," Ketty said with her heavy Scandinavian brogue and a barely perceptible smile. "We haven't seen you in ten years or so." The smell of roast beef was wafting from the kitchen, but she didn't suggest he step inside.

Kurt gave her a quick summary of his career and explained what he was doing in Rock Bluff. "You probably heard, a woman was abducted and taken to a farmhouse somewhere around here."

Ketty nodded.

"She got loose, but the kidnapper found her and murdered her. Now he's got another woman."

Ed Greeley joined his wife at the door. "We know about all that. Don't have anything to do with us."

"I just wondered if you'd seen anything unusual lately," Kurt said. "A big, bald guy? A panel truck?" He didn't dare ask about an oversize bobcat.

"We'd have told the sheriff if we did," Ketty said icily.

Ed stepped closer. "Somebody tell you we know this guy?"

Kurt smiled. "I'm just going house to house, Ed. We know they took the girl someplace in this part of the county."

"And now you're Mr. Concerned Citizen?" Ed spat a little laugh. "Didn't seem all that noble when it was time to take a couple of hits on the football field."

The Greeleys, faces tight, stared at their visitor.

"I—" Kurt backed away from the door. "Sorry I bothered you." He bobbed his head and went back to his car. _Even Ed and Ketty think I'm yellow_? _I'm gonna get this goddamned Toe Head! Then people will_ know _what I am_!

He'd lost his appetite, but he stopped in the little town of Clover anyway. It had a filling station, a post office, a grocery store and a tavern that served lunch.

Kurt took a seat at the bar in Timm's Joint and checked the menu painted on the back wall: ham, scalloped potatoes and a pile of peas; hot beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and a pile of peas; and hamburger steak with French fries and a pile of peas. Pie was listed as a special. Kurt thought he'd make that his meal, but the owner, James Timm, apparently hadn't found the day very special.

"No pie," he told Kurt.

"I'll have the ham and a Bud."

The bartender ambled to a large stove behind the bar and pulled a roaster full of ham from the oven. _Jim Timm,_ Kurt thought—and _that_ was no nickname. His older brothers were Teddy and Tom. Apparently the elder Timms had a bizarre sense of humor. _Good_ , he thought. _Considering all the time Teddy and Tom spent in one jail or another they no doubt needed it._

He swiveled on his stool to look over the barroom.

Two dozen or so farm hands and other laborers were partaking of Timm's cuisine that day, and of his beverages.

Kurt's spoke over the chatter. "Anybody seen a fat bald guy around here lately?"

Most of the clientele looked up from their lunches and conversation.

"Drives a panel truck?" Kurt looked from face to face, seeing more irritation than interest.

Cal Graver met Kurt's eyes. "Fat and bald?"

Everyone's attention focused on Cal.

Cal grinned. "Sounds like Timm's wife."

The men, including Jim Timm, had a good laugh, then resumed their noon rituals. Kurt laughed too, and turned to force down the tasteless chow he'd been served. Just as he finished, a man slipped onto the stool beside him.

"You're McBride, right?"

Kurt nodded.

"I'm Vern Tillis. From over at Eaglebeak? We was in high school 'bout the same time."

"I remember you. Played eight-man football. All state, right?"

Tillis smiled. "I think I could've played with you and your buddy Rathe if we'd lived in Rock Bluff."

Kurt patted the man's shoulder. "Probably beat one of us out."

They shared a chuckle, then Tillis leaned closer. "I seen a panel truck a couple of times. At night. First time, maybe two weeks ago. He came up from behind and passed me like I was standin' still."

"On the highway?"

Tillis shook his head. "County road. Over near Ike Hanson's place." He leaned closer. "Ol' Ike ever show up?"

Kurt shook his head.

"Liked 'ol' Ike."

"Where was the truck the second time?"

"Little farther south, road runs by Crandle's. Same thing. Lights came out of no place and swoosh! He blew by throwin' gravel. Wanted to kill the son of a bitch."

"See the driver?"

"Cab was pitch dark."

Kurt finished his Bud and set the bottle down. "Sure it was the same truck both times?"

"Kind'a reddish. Never seen one that color before or since."

"That's the one. Didn't see where it turned in?"

"I seen it hang a right at Goble's corner and take off west—over toward Barstow's, Greeley's, them places."

Kurt let out a sigh. "I checked around there this morning. Nobody'd seen anything." He scratched his phone number on a matchbook cover and handed it to his new friend. "This is where you can reach me if there's anything else."

Tillis took the number and got to his feet. "I see that truck again, I'll give you a honk."

Kurt extended his hand. "Nice meeting you. It was Vern, right?"

Vern nodded as he shook Kurt's hand. "Sorry I wasn't more help."

Kurt drove past the Greeley farm and on to his visit at the next place west. But as he pulled into George Bloom's lane he saw a handwritten sign nailed to the fence: "No Quitters Allowed." Obviously the neighbors had phoned or e-mailed warnings of Kurt's presence.

He drove to the Moore place two miles west. Nobody answered his knock, but he knew there were people in the house.

Up the road, Clem Farber came to the door and told him to leave.

The next farm had a gate across the driveway and it was locked.

Merle Weems' wife, Nell, answered Kurt's ring and listened as he spoke through the screen door. Then she told him to go back to Chicago and walked away.

The next property was of no consequence. It belonged to Fritz Frey, father of Arlo, the hoodlum who'd attacked Kurt outside Cassie's apartment. It was a one-story ramshackle clapboard with no outbuildings. As Kurt drove past, old Fritz was on the porch, waving his shotgun in one hand and his fist in the other. Kurt didn't need to hear what the old fart was yelling. He kept driving all the way to town.

Obviously local hostility toward him wasn't dying out as he'd hoped it would. In fact, it seemed fiercer than ever, as if something—or someone—had stirred it up again. Had he done or said something out of line? Maybe the comments at Mom's Kitchen that Saturday morning. _Shit._ _All I'm trying to do is help the stupid bastards!_

"Folks _I_ talked to was friendly enough," Sheriff O'Shea said when Kurt stopped by the county jail. "But nobody'd seen anything they thought was unusual."

Kurt told him about Vern Tillis's panel truck sightings.

"I'm bettin' our boy is holed up west of the highway," Wylie said.

"Me, too." Kurt put Donnie Sheen's county map on the counter. "I don't mean to be telling you your job, Wylie, but you or Cal or somebody better go talk with those people who snubbed me."

Wylie sighed, thought a moment. "Give me a list. I'll go out when we're done here."

Kurt jotted down the names on a scrap of paper from the counter.

"Don't suppose those folks are gonna be any happier to see me than they were you. Not on a Friday night, at least."

Kurt handed him the note. "Somebody just might have seen some damn thing that could save Marilyn's life." He looked away. "If she's still got one." He started to leave.

"Hold on." Wylie stepped to the receptionist's desk. "I got that stuff from Marcie's birth certificate you wanted." He rifled about and came up with a sheet of lined notepaper. "They're sending a copy, but Bernice jotted down most of the details."

"Her father?"

"Not listed. Mother is a Katrina Ann Jorgenson, Omaha. No street address. Signed by a Doctor Wilkerson at Emanuel Hospital, April third. Adopted by Pastor and Mrs. Micah Swift, April fifteenth."

Kurt pondered that information a second. "Any Jorgenson's around here?"

"Swenson, Albertson...." Wylie scratched his chin. "There was a Jorgenson back in the seventies. Nah. That was _Jordan_. Double-digit inflation and interest wiped 'em out."

Kurt looked at his watch. "Many more days like this, depression's gonna wipe _me_ out." He started out, then stopped. "Have the forensics people reported what they found at the apartment?"

"Lots of fingerprints, Dar tells me. Yours, Ms. Dodd's, the sister's, Ernie's. And a passel they can't match to anybody."

"Sure." Kurt sighed. "Thank God it's Friday." He hurried off to pick up Cassie.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Cassie carried her bundled-up daughter into Alice Wolcott's home at 6:37 p.m. Kurt was right behind her with diapers, blankets and toys.

"Hello, Lizzie!" Alice took the child from Cassie's arms. "Are you coming to play at Auntie Alice's house?" She freed one arm to close the door behind Kurt. "It's so cold out tonight! Below zero, they said."

Kurt gave Cassie a quick leer. "Good night to cuddle."

"Your house feels cozy," Cassie told Alice.

"I like it plenty warm. That's old age, I guess."

Cassie patted her shoulder. "I hope you're recovering okay from your ordeal. I know how hard it is to lose a sister."

A momentary tremble touched the older woman's lips. Then she smiled. "Life goes on."

After they got Lizzie unwrapped and feeling at ease, Kurt and Cassie headed for the door.

"We won't be back till around twelve," Kurt said. "Busy night."

Alice waved a hand. "Don't worry. I've got Linda's old bed all made up. We'll be safe and cozy regardless of the time."

The couple sprinted from Alice's front door to the Lexus parked at the curb, engine running.

"Alone at last," Kurt said with a nasty grin. "We can get some sandwiches and go straight to the house if you want."

"I've been looking forward to Little Tony's."

Kurt pulled into the street, headed for Highway 74. "I could use a T-bone myself. Not to mention some time away from this town."

"I thought you were getting to like it here again."

He told her about his encounters in the country that day.

"I noticed you seemed pretty quiet when you picked me up from work," Cassie said.

"Feels like a kick in the gut."

"Just ignore those people. You know what really happened."

Kurt turned onto the highway and drove north toward Omaha-Council Bluffs. "The Greeleys, the Weems, Clem Farber." He shook his head. "Salt of the earth. If they think I'm shit, maybe I am."

"All they've heard are rumors. When they know the whole story, they'll understand."

"And when might that be?"

"When we send Toe Head to the electric chair."

"And that can't be too soon." Kurt pulled around and passed the car ahead of them.

"Especially for Marilyn Tabor."

"If she's still alive."

Cassie looked out her window. "Maybe...."

"What?"

"It might be better for her if she's not."

Kurt drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Well, we're not gonna find the fat bastard by talking to farmers."

"Pretty strange that _nobody's_ seen him."

"One guy saw his truck a couple of times... both at night."

"The sheriff didn't have any luck either?"

Kurt shook his head. "But at least nobody called him a quitter."

Cassie turned to face Kurt. "Could the sheriff try to guess which one of Marcie's friends is next and try to set another trap?"

Kurt thought about it a moment. "I've got a list of her buddies at Ceece's. I'll talk to Wylie about it tomorrow." He clicked the radio on and tuned it to an Omaha station playing pop music. "Let's forget about the murders for a while. Spoils my appetite."

"Hard to forget about what might be happening to Marilyn in that farmhouse... wherever it is."

He turned up the radio and they listened to the last two minutes of an Alicia Keys song. Kurt lowered the volume when the disc jockey came on. "I'd like to think we'll have that son of a bitch in a week, but—"

"I thought we weren't talking about the murders for a while."

"I'm actually talking about our living arrangements. Monday is the first of March. You should probably give your landlord his thirty-day notice."

Cassie folded her hands in her lap. "And what will I call home?"

"Vic and Jan Rathe want us to move in with them for a while."

"Your lawyer friend?"

"'Course we couldn't sleep together. They've got kids. We'd have separate beds like we do at Ceece and Vi's."

"I suppose."

"There's one other option."

Cassie leaned back, resting one arm atop the seat, her eyes on Kurt.

"We could get married and move to the house."

Her gaze shifted to the oncoming road for a moment, then back. "I'd like that."

A wide grin spread over Kurt's face. "I thought you would." He took Cassie's hand and pulled her close to him. "I got it all figured out on the way back this afternoon. We can get the license Monday and do it a week from tomorrow: March seventh." He squeezed her leg. "That's a date I should be able to remember for fifty or sixty years."

Cassie snuggled into his shoulder. "You sure you want to live here?"

"If we don't like it, we can go to Chicago."

"As long as we get Kate's killer, it doesn't matter to me where we live."

Throughout the rest of the trip to the restaurant, over the course of their steak dinners and while driving home, they talked of their future together: Kurt's adopting Lizzie, having more children, Cassie finishing college, Kurt's career, and sharing their lives as Mr. and Mrs. David Kurtis McBride. They touched, patted, cuddled, squeezed and occasionally kissed. By the time they came through the front door of Kurt's boyhood home, the foreplay was over.

"You know," Kurt said as they shed their coats and shoes. "I've never seen you totally naked in the light." He went to the front window and closed the tan vertical shades. "Strip for me."

Cassie stood in the middle of the room and removed all her clothes. She wasn't coquettish or vulgar or embarrassed.

It was the most erotic few minutes Kurt could remember. When she was naked except for her gold chain and crucifix, his mouth hung open. The small, pouty breasts, tiny waist, ample hips, solid legs and dark pubic triangle were his ultimate sexual fantasy in the flesh.

Cassie smiled. "Now you," she whispered.

Kurt hardly felt the clothes sliding off his skin. In a second those garments were in a pile on the floor and he and Cassie were in a pile on the brand new davenport.

"You're not wearing a rubber," Cassie said.

"We'll be married soon. Why bother?"

She put her hands on his chest. "We don't want another baby just yet."

Kurt scrambled to his feet, rifled through his pants for a pack of condoms, jammed one on and dove back into Cassie's waiting arms.

An hour later, they lay beside each other, exhausted. They'd only made love twice, but both bouts had been frenzied, urgent, and draining. _And totally gratifying_ , Kurt thought as he fondled one of Cassie's nipples. He wanted to sleep.

"We'd better go," Cassie said. "It's probably after midnight."

Kurt pushed himself up and looked at his watch. "Ten till." He struggled to his feet and started dressing.

Cassie did the same.

"I wanted to show you around the house." Kurt fumbled with his slacks, then stepped into them.

"That's okay," she said. "I know it's great. A lot like the one I grew up in."

"Will that be a problem?"

"I loved that old house." Cassie finished buttoning her blouse.

Kurt watched her for a moment. "You want to invite your brother or somebody to the wedding?"

Cassie shook her head. "Just you and me and maybe Ceece and Vi."

"I'll have to ask Vic and Jan," Kurt said. "I was best man in their wedding."

"I'm sorry we can't have a ceremony like that." She pulled her sweater down and got her coat.

The trip to Alice Wolcott's home took less than five minutes. _Perfect_ , Kurt thought. _Hard to find a baby sitter closer than that._

"I'm surprised she didn't leave a light on for us," Cassie said.

"Probably wants to save every penny she can."

They again left the car running and hurried up the walk.

"The doorbell will wake Lizzie," Cassie said quietly.

"So will taking her out into this ice box." Kurt hit the button, which sounded a chime in the house. After thirty seconds he did it again. And a third time. Not a peep from inside.

"Sound sleeper." Cassie, shoulders hunched against the cold, took Kurt's arm and hugged herself to him.

He tried the doorknob. It turned, and the door swung in. "People in these neighborhoods never lock their doors," he said. "I'll get a light." He stepped over the threshold and stumbled forward into the room, arms flailing. "Shit! What's on the floor?" He found a table lamp and switched it on.

A cry caught in Cassie's throat.

"Oh, God!" Kurt dropped to his knees beside the body of Alice Wolcott lying face down on the living room floor. Her head was twisted under her shoulder, much as Kate Dodd's had been. And like Kate, she was dead.

Kurt's and Cassie's eyes met. They sprinted to the bedroom for Lizzie. It was empty.

The two tore through the house, main floor, upstairs and basement. The child was gone.

"Her coat and snow pants!" Cassie rummaged through the pile of Lizzie's things on the hallway table. The winter clothes were missing. She threw open the front door and sprinted down the sidewalk in one direction, then the other.

Kurt watched from the stoop, then found Alice's telephone.

"Sorry to wake you, Wylie!" Kurt realized he was panting. "Toe Head's got Cassie's baby! Get out an APB on the panel truck! Now!"

An hour later, undertaker Larry Roberts and an assistant wheeled Alice Wolcott's corpse out the front door of her home. Kurt, Ceece and Sheriff Wylie O'Shea sat in the living room, sipping coffee that Coach Maxwell had brewed. Cassie stared at the floor, her lips drawn tight.

"That took some strength." Ceece still sounded sleepy. "I've never seen a neck mangled like that."

"He ought to be good at it," Kurt said. "He's been getting enough practice lately."

Cassie didn't look up. "What does he want with _Lizzie_?"

Ceece steepled his fingers and pressed them to his chin. "Whoever did it was careful enough to take her winter clothes along. That's a good sign."

Kurt shook his head absently. "Maybe it's a plain kidnapping. Maybe it has nothing to do with Toe Head."

Cassie glanced at him, then back at the floor. "I don't have any money for a ransom."

"We'll find your baby, Miss Dodd," Wylie said. "Every cop in the state has a description of Toe Head and his truck."

"They've had his description for over two weeks." Cassie got up and went to the bathroom.

"If it's Toe Head, he's got her at that farm house where he took Kate," Kurt said. "And Marilyn Tabor."

"And maybe Ike Hanson," the sheriff added. "But we can't raid every house in the southwest part of the county."

Kurt shot to his feet. "If he breaks an adult's neck like a rotten limb, imagine what he could do to a two year old!" He glanced down the hall toward the bathroom, then lowered his voice. "We've got to _do_ something, gentlemen! Cassie's been through enough with her sister, and now Lizzie. If he harms that baby he'll be killing Cassie too." He walked to the window and looked out.

Wylie cleared his throat.

Ceece popped a stick of gum into his mouth.

Kurt glanced outside just as a police cruiser pulled up behind his Lexus loaner. Dar Hanika got out, looking over the fancy sedan closely, then came to the house.

Just as he stepped in inside, Cassie came out of the John. "Let's go to Ceece's house. Maybe they'll try to contact us there."

Two minutes later, she and Kurt were huddled in the Lexus on their way to the Maxwell home.

"How did they know Lizzie was there?" Cassie's chin was quivering.

"Where?"

"Alice's house! We've never taken her there before! Did they follow us?"

"I've had my eye in the rear view mirror ever since Kate was kidnapped," Kurt said. "Nobody tailed us, believe me."

Cassie held tightly to the bundle of diapers and toys they'd dropped off with Lizzie. "Toe Head must have spies." She stifled a sob with the back of her hand.

Kurt turned on the heater fan. "People at your office know about our arrangement with Alice?"

"That she was our sitter. Not about tonight. Did you tell the sheriff?"

"I told Rathe. He told Jen, I'm sure. She might have mentioned it to somebody."

"Somebody who'd tell Toe Head?" said Cassie.

Kurt slammed his hands on the steering wheel. "Shit! I don't _know_! We've got dismembered corpses all over the county, a thug the size of King Kong nobody can find, a two-story house that vanished from the face of the earth, and some cat from hell that leaves elephant tracks! What damn sense can you make of it? Takes a better man than me, I guess!"

Cassie grasped Kurt's forearm with both her hands. "You can't quit! We've got to find Lizzie!"

Kurt stared at her, scowling. "I'm not gonna _quit_! Why would you even think that?"

"If you don't keep looking, nobody will."

"I love Lizzie, just like you! And for your information, I don't bail out!"

Cassie pulled her hands back to her face, weeping. "Why did we ever move to this goddamned town!"

Kurt swallowed and calmed himself. "Maybe they aren't really after Lizzie."

Cassie looked up, puzzled, considered the remark, then pointed to her own chest. "Me?"

"Maybe they grabbed Lizzie as collateral."

" _Collateral_?" She shook her head vaguely.

"Is there _anything_ you wouldn't do to get her back?"

Cassie slouched down, dropped her head on the seatback. "That's just sick." She closed her eyes.

"Yeah. 'Sick' pretty much describes the whole mess, doesn't it?" A few minutes later, Kurt pulled into Ceece's driveway and parked.

"What's that?" Cassie said, staring out at something under the windshield wiper. She stopped gathering Lizzie's belongings and leaned against the glass. "Looks like a note."

"That wasn't there when we parked in front of Alice's." Kurt slipped out his door, leaned across the hood, grabbed the object and got back inside. It was an envelope. _McBride_ was printed in large letters on the outside. Inside he found a one-paragraph, typewritten note. After reading it, he lowered the page to find Cassie staring at him.

Her voice was shallow. "Ransom note?"

_How in God's name can we pay it_?

Chapter Fifty-Four

Cassie read the note aloud for Ceece and Vi. '"McBride. If you want to see the baby alive again, get out of town. Take your woman with you. Stay away from here. Tell the police about this message and the child comes back in pieces. When we know you have met our demands, we will get her to the authorities unharmed. She will be okay unless you disobey.'"

Cassie looked up at her host and hostess, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Of course, it's not signed."

Ceece's gaze went to Kurt. "Maybe you got closer to your mystery house yesterday than you thought."

Kurt pulled a white, thin object about four inches long from his pocket and held it up. "They sent along something else with the note."

"An animal's tooth?" Ceece leaned forward for a better look. "Something big."

Kurt stared at the object. "Something that would leave scary foot prints."

Ceece nodded slowly. "And tear an arm off at the shoulder."

Vi took the note from Cassie. "Well, no animal sent this. Where did you find it?"

"Stuck under the wiper blade of my car," Kurt said.

Ceece peered over his wife's shoulder at the note. "So one of 'em was still outside the house after you two got back there?"

"Had to be." Kurt stood and walked to the window.

"Classy stationary," said Vi, examining the note. "Typed on an expensive typewriter."

"The kind rich guys have," Kurt said. "Like Cyril Sonnenberg."

"You need a lot more proof than this note," Ceece said.

Kurt turned from the window. "And we'll get it. Right from the horse's mouth."

"We can't go to the police!" said Cassie.

"I know. It's just us against Toe Head." Kurt sat on the arm of the couch. "We'll lay low tomorrow. Right here. We won't leave the house. When it's dark, we'll sneak out. Maybe get Rathe to stash a car for us someplace."

Ceece scowled. "To go where?"

"To Mr. Sonnenberg's lair."

"Just you and Cassie?" The coach waved a hand at Kurt. "That's nuts!"

"If he's the guy behind all this, we'll find proof in that house."

"If he's the guy, he'll have somebody _guarding_ that house!" Ceece snapped. "And _him_!"

"Maybe all we need is a look at him," Kurt said. "Kate clobbered Toe Head's boss with a lamp. I'm betting he's got some wounds."

"He's not gonna come to the door and show you."

"I wasn't planning on ringing the bell."

"Breaking and entering?" Ceece grunted. "You'll be the one who winds up in jail."

"You know he's got the best security system money can buy," Vi added.

Kurt shrugged. "What else can we do? We can't leave town and hope the kidnappers keep their promise about Lizzie."

"And they'll know if we call the police about the ransom note," Cassie added.

"The _local_ police maybe." Ceece turned to Kurt. "Call your friend at the state patrol, that lieutenant. He knows how to deal with these situations. Let his lab boys go over that note and the tooth."

Kurt shook his head. "There's a leak someplace, Ceece. They knew where Kate worked, got into her apartment, found out about Lizzie. Somebody's hooked up with Toe Head and his boss. Probably not anyone with the state patrol, but we can't take the chance."

"You can't do it alone," Vi said from her seat on the couch.

"We have you guys' help, don't we?" Cassie looked back and forth between Ceece and Vi.

"Of course you do," Vi said after a moment.

Kurt shoved his hands into his back pockets. "And Rathe will help."

"Not one of us knows anything about kidnappers," Ceece said.

"But we have a good idea who the bastards are."

"Let's say you're the county attorney here." Ceece crossed is arms over his chest. "And the sheriff wants to arrest Cyril Sonnenberg right now. What do we have on the guy?"

Kurt recapped his case against the millionaire: the man was ruthless and vile; he had the power and disposition to exert his will over anyone, irrespective of legal or ethical concerns; he had a hurricane-force ego, and the humiliation Marcie Swift dealt him would be unforgivable. "Means, motive and opportunity."

"That's enough to get you an arrest or search warrant?" Ceece held up one hand. "Be realistic, now."

"Probably not, but—"

"But you're ready to barge into his home and force him to confess?"

"I just want to search the place, maybe get a look at the guy. We don't have time to do it by the book."

The two men went back and forth for nearly half an hour. When they'd finished with Cyril Sonnenberg, they bandied arguments over the other suspects, particularly Marcie's father and the men arrested at the brothel.

Finally, Kurt glanced at his watch. "Look, everybody's pretty upset right now." He dropped into a chair. "Maybe we should try to get some rest and start fresh in the morning?"

Cassie rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't think I can sleep."

"Why don't you take a hot bath?" Vi said. "Soak for a while."

"That won't get my mind off Lizzie."

"But it might help settle your nerves."

Cassie got to her feet. "Well, it beats sitting here clenching my fists. Excuse me." She patted Kurt's head on her way to the basement bedroom.

Vi rose from the couch and pulled her robe tighter. "I don't know what to tell you." She handed Kurt the ransom note. "I'm sure you'll want to keep this in a safe place." She took Ceece's hand. "Come on, Coach. It's way too late for old people."

Kurt pulled off his shoes and dress shirt, then got his bedding from a closet. He plopped down on the sofa, squirming to find a comfortable position. The smell of Cassie's perfume on his pillow reminded him of all the plans he had for the two of them: plans that could implode if he didn't get Lizzie back safely.

The next thing he knew, daylight was creeping through the curtains and Cassie was sitting in an easy chair across from him.

He tried to check his wristwatch. "What time is it?"

"Seven thirty," Cassie said.

"Ceece and Vi off to work?"

"It's Saturday. They're still in bed."

Kurt struggled to sit up.

"Want some coffee?" she asked.

He nodded and got to his feet.

Cassie went to the kitchen.

As the previous evening's events re-materialized in Kurt's head, he slowly lowered himself back onto the couch. _Is Lizzie still alive? Will we ever see her again?_ He looked up as Cassie handed him a steaming cup. "You sleep?"

She sat down beside him. "Off and on."

"We'll get her back safe, Cass... somehow."

"I've been thinking about our trip to Sonnenberg's house tonight." She put her cup and saucer on the coffee table. "Maybe we should just walk. It can't be more than a couple miles."

"Not that far," Kurt said. "It's on the big bluff north of the courthouse. But Vic will loan us one of his cars."

"Can we trust Vic? And his wife?"

"We've been best friends all our lives."

"Well... he was the only one who knew we were dropping Lizzie at Alice's last night."

Kurt sipped his hot brew. "He didn't know it was a secret."

"He didn't know we were living in fear of Toe Head?"

"I never spelled it out. If somebody heard about Alice through him, it was by accident." He squeezed Cassie's leg. "I'd trust him with my life."

"And mine and Lizzie's?"

Kurt sighed. "Okay. We'll walk."

"Fucking wind!" Kurt tugged his coat collar higher.

"Try not to think about it," Cassie said as they hunched their shoulders against the near-zero temperature and occasional gusting winds.

After dark, they had sneaked out of the Maxwells' back door and down the alley to South 9th Street. Cyril Sonnenberg's palatial home was on North 2nd Street.

The day had been a swirling, ever-inverting cloud of desperation and tedium. Several of her coworkers at the U.P. had phoned Cassie to offer their condolences and ask about Lizzie. Sheriff O'Shea and Police Chief Hanika had taken turns calling every half-hour to report on their total lack of progress in searching for the child. They also asked about a ransom note. The one bright spot in the day was that Alice Wolcott's family had taken charge of the dead woman's remains and the attendant responsibilities.

"We don't know anything more than we did last night," Cassie told each of the callers.

Ceece and Kurt had discussed and re-discussed the most practical way for them to get into and out of the Sonnenberg house safely. Their solution had been a quick trip to the hardware store to pick up a glasscutter.

Dodging for cover from passing motorists, the two took sidewalks along Rock Bluff's darker, less-traveled streets. When they reached their destination after walking for half an hour, both were sweating under their parkas.

Cyril Sonnenberg's eight-bedroom home sat before them, a light in the front picture window and one near a corner on the second floor.

"Keep your gun out and ready," Kurt whispered to Cassie, then drew the big Colt from his waistband and checked the cylinder one more time.

Cassie took Kurt's thirty-eight out of her pocket and clicked the safety off. She held it in one hand, a flashlight in the other.

Kurt led the way through the darkness to the back of the house. They found what they needed about midway along the back wall: a full-size window with a lower edge about four feet from the ground.

Cassie shone the flashlight on the window. It was a double-pane horizontal sliding unit that locked between the left and right halves. Was that lock wired to an alarm system? They'd know shortly.

Kurt used the glasscutter to carve a small hole beside the interior latch. He deftly lifted the excised chunk out, handed it to Cassie and slipped his hand through the hole. He could tell the hardware was in good repair; he'd have no trouble opening the clasp. The question was: would ringing bells or sirens explode when he did? "Douse the flashlight," he whispered to Cassie. "And get ready to run."

He grasped the metal tip between his thumb and forefinger, closed his eyes and slowly moved the arm of the lock down into its open position.

The only sound was wind in the trees overhead.

_Whew_. He dropped his head, inhaled, patted Cassie's arm, then slid the right pane across the left, leaving them an opening half the size of the full window. "We'll have to ditch our parkas to get through."

With both coats lying on the ground next to the foundation, Kurt pulled himself through the narrow space, then took Cassie's hands and hoisted her inside. After their eyes adjusted, Kurt took the flashlight and clicked it on briefly. They were in the utility room with the washer, dryer and some other appliances. The door was about ten feet to their right. They crept forward, opened it slowly and stepped into the main floor hallway.

A familiar sound greeted them from the far end: the laughter and dialogue of a television sitcom. A bouncing, dim glow seeped through an archway connecting to the front room. Cassie and Kurt tiptoed to that opening and peeked around the frame.

A large-screen TV, placed directly between two picture windows, was facing them from across the room. Someone was sitting directly in front of it, watching, in a wheelchair. They could tell from the silhouetted hairstyle whether it was a man. No one else appeared to be present.

Kurt leaned close to Cassie's ear and whispered. "Stay here. Be the eyes in the back of my head."

She nodded and raised the pistol to her shoulder.

Kurt dashed into the room, swept in front the wheelchair and dropped to one knee, his Colt trained on the man. "Don't make a sound!" he hissed.

The withered face of Cyril Sonnenberg looked back at him, mouth agape, drool running down one side of his chin. His rheumy eyes shifted from the television screen to Kurt with little comprehension; he made a humming noise, then simply stared.

"He's crippled," Kurt gasped loud enough for Cassie to hear.

She hurried to his side, her eyes glued on Sonnenberg. "He looks a thousand years old."

Cyril's eyes shifted to Cassie. A frown grew up from his eyes.

"Did Kate do _that_ to him?" Kurt said.

A female voice broke the quiet. "He's had a stroke, McBride. Six months ago." Beverly Kasseris stepped from the darkness to Kurt's left. She'd worked for Doc Culligan since her graduation from nursing school fifteen years earlier. "Whatever revenge you're looking for won't hurt him much."

Kurt stood. "We're looking for the men who took Cassie's little girl."

Bev looked at Cassie. "Your child?"

"We'll do anything to get her back," said Cassie.

"You don't need guns. You're not in any danger here."

Kurt kept the pistol at his side. Cassie did the same with hers.

"Excuse me if I don't trust you, Ms. Kasseris," Kurt said. "These are troubled times."

The nurse went to a chair near her client and sat. "Well, old Cyril didn't cause the trouble, and neither did I."

Kurt relaxed a bit. "You work for him in your spare time?"

"Full time. Pays twice what Doc Culligan does."

The once-powerful Cyril Sonnenberg moaned something incoherent and brief.

"I moved in here the first of September," the nurse said. "When Cyril came home from the hospital. I guess I'll be around for the duration... however long that'll be."

Kurt dropped into a nearby chair. "And he's been out of commission all that time?"

"He can't wipe his own ass. That's not common knowledge, of course. The family wants it kept under wraps. Something about the old guy's legacy."

"It'd give people a lot of satisfaction to know he's permanently incapacitated," Kurt said.

Bev looked Kurt in the eye. "I doubt they'll take the word of a disgraced hero."

"How do we know we can believe you?" Cassie said. "Maybe this old man is just sick."

"Call Doc Culligan. He's usually home on Saturday." She pointed at the table. "Phone's right there. Number's beside it."

Kurt got up. "Come on, Cass. Cyril's done hurting people."

Chapter Fifty-Five

Half an hour later, he and Ceece were having drinks in the coach's home office.

"She's not gonna report you for breaking in?" Ceece asked.

"Word might get out about Cyril and his stroke," Kurt said. "They'd rather pay ten bucks to fix the window."

Ceece took a swallow of his highball. "So you can cross off Mr. Sonnenberg."

Kurt said, "I need to borrow your car tomorrow night."

"Trip to Lincoln?"

Kurt swirled the cubes around in his glass. "It's got to be Marcie's dad. Nothing else makes sense."

"That doesn't make much sense either."

"It's the only connection, Ceece."

"Pastor Swift kidnapping a girl for sex?" Ceece shook his head. "I'll believe it when you prove it." He looked up at Kurt. "The guy is surrounded by people every day of his life. If Cassie's sister banged him up, how could he keep it a secret?"

"He's a powerful man. Besides, he might not be personally involved. Toe Head and the guy at the farm are hired help. Kidnapping women was for their own amusement."

Ceece stood and finished his drink. "Well, Swift's a weird duck, I'll give you that."

"A duck who regularly beat his adopted daughter and then disowned her."

When Kurt woke up the next morning, Cassie, Ceece and Vi were talking in the kitchen. He pulled on his shirt, made his usual bathroom stop and joined them. "Morning."

After mumbled greetings, Ceece handed him the Section B cover of that Sunday's _Omaha World-Herald_. "Better read this _before_ breakfast," the coach said.

Kurt took the paper, leaned back against the fridge and read the headline atop a three column story: _Rock Bluff Lawyer Rips Investigation_. The story below surrounded a wide-angle picture of Rock Bluff taken from a northern hill. A photo of Vic Rathe was inset.

Victor Rathe has practiced law and sold real estate in Rock Bluff for five years. Until recently, he says, he always trusted local law enforcement implicitly. "We've just had our sixteenth murder in two weeks," he told the _World-Herald_ yesterday. "And the authorities are no closer to finding the killer than they were the day it started."

The story detailed the mayhem to which Rathe referred, including contentions by some that the chaos was the result of a forty-year-old curse.

"The curse is superstition," Rathe exclaimed. "The deaths are real and we need to find out who is behind them. In my opinion we're looking in the wrong direction." The attorney referred to efforts by local police to link the trouble to one of the victims.

That strategy is led by Rathe's one-time friend and Rock Bluff classmate, David McBride, now a prosecutor in Chicago.

"In my view, McBride has cleverly distracted attention from the real source of the trouble: his girlfriend." Rathe said he didn't believe the girlfriend, Cassandra Dodd of Rock Bluff, was responsible for the crimes, but that she is obviously more closely connected to the murders and kidnappings than anyone else.

"She worked with five of the victims: her sister and her sister's friend were victims; two cops watching her apartment—one killed, one kidnapped—were victims; an old man who tried to help her sister is missing; her own daughter has been kidnapped; and the woman killed Friday night was Miss Dodd's baby sitter."

Rathe added that the Dodd woman had only been in town a short time before the murders began and her sister was known to be a trouble maker.

"I'm sure McBride is just trying to protect someone he cares for, but he is putting our community in jeopardy at the same time. David had a falling out with the people here some years ago, so I'm sure our citizens' well-being is not his priority."

McBride's work on the investigation is being secretly funded by the state patrol, Rathe said.

Kurt lowered the paper.

"Still trust him with your life?" Cassie asked from her chair at the kitchen table.

Kurt let the paper fall to the floor. "Et tu, Brute?" He slid down the refrigerator door into a squat, rubbing his forehead with one hand.

"Sorry, Pal," Ceece said.

"Last week the guy invited me to come live in his _home_!" He looked up at the three faces around the table. "Now he's calling me _David_?"

Ceece scooted away from the table. "Get him on the phone. Maybe the paper got it all screwed up."

"Then he'd have called _me_ by now."

"Call him anyway," Ceece said. "You can't let a lifelong friendship end because of some newspaper story."

Kurt forced himself to his feet. "I'll use the extension in your office." His legs felt shaky as he tottered from the kitchen, across the living room, down the hall and into Ceece's little study. _What do you say to your best friend after he's just flushed you in public? "I'm gonna tell your mom about the time in the park when you pulled up Kay Newton's skirt?_ "

He grabbed the phone and dialed, hoping somehow the right words would tumble out when Vic answered.

"Hello?" It was Jen.

"It's Kurt. Vic home?"

Rathe's wife cleared her throat. "I guess you've read the paper."

"Is he home?"

"The paper got that stuff cockeyed, Kurt. He didn't say those things."

Kurt found his mouth dry. "I thought maybe that was it. But he had to tell 'em about my job with the state patrol? Nobody else knew."

"The reporter did."

_Bullshit!_ "Is he home?"

"He went over to church early," Jen Rathe said. "Check on the furnace or something."

"Did you know Cassie and I were dropping Lizzie at Alice Wolcott's Friday night?"

"No."

Kurt waited for more, then said, "Have him call, will you? I'm at Ceece's."

"Don't be too hard on him, Kurt. He shouldn't have talked to that reporter, but he didn't say what was in the paper."

"Thanks, Jen." After hanging up, Kurt exhaled from his toes. Vic would call later that afternoon and they'd get it all hashed out.

As he started for the kitchen, the phone rang. _Vic?_ He saw Ceece answer in the living room, but he slipped back into the office and picked up the receiver anyway, just in time to hear a voice roar, "Or we'll _run_ him out!"

There was a click.

Kurt looked at the phone, then put it in its cradle and joined the others in the kitchen. "Who was that on the phone?

"Probably one of Arlo Frey's friends," Ceece said. "Or his dad."

Kurt sat near Cassie. "About me?"

Ceece poured himself more coffee. "Don't sweat the bullshit, Kid."

The phone rang again and Vi hurried into the living room to answer while the others, holding their collective breath, stared after her.

"Maxwells'. This is Vi." She listened. "Morning, Sheriff."

Cassie's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh no!"

Vi motioned to Kurt. "Yes. He's here. Hang on." She handed Kurt the phone.

He grabbed the receiver as if it were about to bite him. "What's up, Wylie?"

The Maxwells and Cassie huddled around, staring at him, eyes burning.

Wylie's voice was soft. "Guess I should'a been callin' you sir all this time, huh?"

Kurt swallowed and gave the others an okay sign. "Just a second, Wylie." He handed Cassie the phone. "Nothing serious, but I'd better take it in the den." He trotted into Ceece's hideaway again and reconnected with the sheriff. "Sorry I didn't say anything about my deal with Barnett."

"Man doesn't know what's goin' on in his own department don't deserve to run it."

"We just thought—"

"I was a wet-nosed kid might get his feelings hurt? I'm a growed man, McBride. I ain't gonna fall down and bang my fists on the floor."

"I know that."

"I'm just as much a pro at what I do as you or Barnett or anybody else."

"My mistake, Sheriff. I just thought it was easier."

"Makin' me out a hick in front the whole county ain't easier fer me!"

"You're right. My fault."

"I'm still here if you need me. That's my job. But don't come around for coffee or swapping stories no more. You work the case your way, and I'll work it mine."

"If that's how you want it."

"I'm not buyin' all that shit in the paper about your girl, in case you're wondering. I'm not sold on Marcie Swift, either, but you get proof, I'll back you. You know where I am if you need me." Wylie O'Shea hung up.

"Shit." Kurt propped his elbows on Ceece's desk and dropped his head into his hands. Wylie O'Shea didn't deserve being treated like a boob. He was a good man. Kurt got up and wandered into the living room, where Ceece was waiting in his overstuffed chair. Vi and Cassie were still at the kitchen table.

"You're wearing a pretty long face, Pal," the coach said.

"I should've told Wylie about my deal with the patrol." He sat.

"Man don't have to go to college or work in Chicago to deserve respect." Ceece buried his face in the sports section of the paper.

There was a knock at the door.

Everyone's attention snapped to the front entrance.

"I'll get it." Kurt was dashing to the door as he spoke.

Barry Hosholtz, hardware store owner and longtime neighbor of Ceece's, was waiting on the other side. He nodded vaguely at Kurt, then looked past him. "Come to see the coach, McBride, but you'll do."

Ceece stepped up beside Kurt. "Right here, Barry."

"Some of the neighbors asked me to come over, Ceece. Frankly, we're worried about McBride here and the woman living this close to us. Look what happened to Alice Wolcott."

Ceece looked past Hosholtz at the row of snow-encrusted houses across the street. "Think I should throw 'em out in the cold, Barry?"

"Surely the state patrol can find a safe place for them... safe for everybody... where the police are handy." He turned to Kurt. "No offense, McBride, but we were all a lot better off when you were in Chicago."

"I didn't ask to get involved, Mr. Hosholtz."

"Well, the folks in this neighborhood _aren't_ involved, and we want it kept that way. Please take your friend and leave us in peace." His attention shifted back to Ceece. "We know you're just trying to be a Good Samaritan, Coach, like always, but you have to be a good neighbor too."

Kurt held his hand up. "We're leaving. We'll be gone this afternoon."

Ceece looked at him. "You'll be going of your own accord."

"We don't want to scare your neighbors, Ceece." He addressed Hosholtz. "Okay?"

"By afternoon?" Barry asked under a heavy frown.

"You've got my word." Kurt stepped back and Ceece closed the door.

"We can make it obvious we're leaving," Kurt said.

"Going where?"

"The apartment. If they're watching, they'll see us pack up and leave your house. Think we're following instructions, leaving town." He sat on the arm of the couch. "Cassie and I can cool it at her place, then sneak out after dark."

"They'll be watching for that Lexus."

"The cops parked Kate's car behind the apartment house. We'll take that."

Chapter Fifty-Six

As they packed their belongings into the car after lunch, the phone rang a dozen times. Some callers were sympathizers. Most were anonymous cowards threatening Kurt and Cassie. Two others were even less kind:

"Afternoon, Kurt. It's Butch Holmeir. Over at the garage?"

"Yeah, Butch," Kurt said.

"Listen, I'm gonna need that Lexus back. It doesn't have the insurance coverage I thought. You find some other wheels?"

A similar call came a half-hour later.

"Cassie," Vi yelled from the kitchen. "Your boss is on the phone."

"This is Cassie, Mr. Muncie."

"Sorry to bother you on a Sunday," Dale Muncie, the U.P. superintendent said.

"Is there a problem at work?"

"I'm sorry about your child, Cassie."

"Thank you."

"I'm sure you won't be in any mood to work tomorrow."

"I hadn't thought about it."

"Just stay home," Muncie said. "Concentrate on getting the little girl back. We'll pay you through Saturday the fifteenth. We'd hope by that time this will be all cleared up. If not...."

"Thank you, Mr. Muncie."

The one call Kurt wanted to get that afternoon—the one from Vic Rathe—never came.

"Oh!" Cassie stepped back from the apartment door and made a sour face. "It stinks!"

"It's been shut up since they hauled Ernie Carblinski's body away." Kurt recalled seeing the novice police officer's twisted corpse and wrenched neck. "Maybe we should go to my folks' house."

"No stove or anything."

"I can buy all that stuff. We'll be moving in pretty soon anyhow."

Cassie fanned the odor away from her face. "Let's get some air into the place." She marched to the first window in the living room and opened it.

As Kurt started to follow her, the door across the hall opened and Betty Toline stepped out.

"I thought I heard familiar voices," Betty said, waving to Cassie past Kurt's shoulder.

Cassie returned the wave with a piqued smile, then moved to the next window.

Betty spoke quietly. "Are you moving back in?"

"For tonight, anyway," Kurt said. "We're a little—"

"Yes. I'm so sorry about Lizzie. Any word?"

"All we can do is wait." Cassie went down the hall to the bedrooms.

"Your friend isn't helping at all, is he?" Betty scrutinized Kurt's face.

"My friend?"

"In the paper."

"Oh, Rathe," Kurt said. "That reporter twisted what he said."

"I should hope so. He told me he was working _for_ you."

"We've always been—He _told_ you?"

"That day he was here."

Kurt leaned against the doorframe. "I didn't know he was."

"A week ago. The day after that Arlo Frey attacked you out front here?"

_The day Ernie Carblinski stood-in for me_ , Kurt thought. _And got his neck broken._ "He was here that Wednesday?"

"Coming out the front door when I got back from the dentist. Said he was getting some things you needed over at the coach's house."

"He had keys?"

"Didn't you know? He owns all these apartments along here."

For a moment Kurt felt as if he were standing aside, witnessing his own conversation with Betty Toline. His legs were weak. "Yeah," he managed. "I remember now." He stepped into Cassie's apartment. "Excuse me, Betty."

"I'll be praying for all of you. Lizzie especially."

"Thanks." He closed the door and dropped into a chair. _Vic was in here the day '_ _somebody'_ _unlocked the bedroom window?_ He stumbled to the phone and dialed Rathe's number. It rang over twenty times. No answer. _He's probably giving Pastor Micah Swift a progress report_.

#### Chapter Fifty-Seven

At just after eleven, Cassie and Kurt entered Lincoln's city limits from the southeast. The heater fan in Kate's Dodge had been on high for the duration of the ninety-minute drive.

As tiny streams of warm air finally reached Kurt's face, he turned the fan down a notch. "I'm still planning on getting that marriage license tomorrow. Okay?"

"And get married next Saturday?"

"Or as soon as we can."

Cassie unbuttoned her coat collar. "As soon as we get Lizzie back." She turned to gaze out the side window.

Kurt turned onto Sheridan Boulevard, driving northwest. All the houses on both sides of the wide street were at least as big as Cyril Sonnenberg's. The one at 4342, where the Pastor Micah Swift and his family lived, was among the largest.

Kurt drove past once, then turned around, doused his lights and pulled up along the curb across the street from the darkened mansion.

"It was an old house when I was growing up," Cassie said.

"I hope that makes it easier to get into.

"The Lincoln Police drive around here a lot. This is the country club area."

The plan of attack was the same as it had been the night before: the pistols, the flashlight, the glasscutter—and another prayer for no alarm system. With a little luck they'd catch the good pastor sound asleep with none of his thugs lurking about.

Kurt pulled the bulb from the dome light and opened his door. "Let's go."

Tugging their parkas around them, they dashed across the divided boulevard, then through the snow-covered yard toward the back of the old brick building. About halfway along the side, Kurt stumbled over something and nearly fell. He switched on the flashlight, looking back to see what he'd tripped over.

Under the snow a door faced up from the ground, its top nestled against the house's foundation. Beneath it, Kurt knew, stairs connected to the basement.

Most big homes of that vintage had cellar doors for carrying laundry to and from clotheslines. Was it locked? Kurt handed Cassie the flashlight, then felt midway along the frame until... "Shit!" He found a closed padlock securing the door to its frame. He jerked the latch, "Son of a bitch!" It nearly came off in his hand. "Whoa. Some rotten wood?"

Kurt gently twisted the latch back and forth until it came free from its mooring, closed padlock and all.

He and Cassie pushed the heavy snow off the surface, then Kurt grasped the handle and pulled. It, too, came loose in his hand. Tossing it into deep snow, he felt around the door for some spot secure enough to bear the weight of the ancient wood. Finally he found something solid and knelt down to get a firm grip. "Here we go... " In one motion he rose and heaved the door up and open.

Cassie aimed the flashlight into the dark void below. Steps, small and steep, led to a cement floor and narrow hallway at the bottom. The two crept down the stairs, with Kurt lowering the door closed behind them.

They emerged from the cramped hallway into an area with a furnace and neatly stacked household rummage, then passed through a small door into the home's state-of-the-art laundry facilities. An open stairway connected the area to the main floor above.

"Kitchen should be up there." Kurt took the flashlight, snapped it off and led the way to a door at the top. After slowly pushing the portal open, he crept onto the hardwood floor, stopped, then motioned Cassie to follow. Thanks to light beams spearing through the window from a distant streetlamp, they could see they were in the massive kitchen.

Kurt took Cassie's hand and they eased across the floor through an arch into a small dining room, then through a sitting room and finally into the main hallway. A carpeted, curving staircase, fifteen feet wide in places, led to the second floor.

"All the bedrooms are up there," Kurt whispered. "That's the family's private area, I'm sure of it." He started up, waved for her to follow and they tiptoed to the top of the steps. It was pitch dark except for a far back window, which caught some glow from the same streetlight that shone into the kitchen.

Kurt turned on the flashlight and cast it about. "He's behind one of those doors," he said in hushed tones. He pointed the light beam around some more until it landed on a grandfather clock standing against a wall halfway down the corridor. "Let's give him a call." He swished the light to a shallow alcove across from the top of the stairs. "Get over there and flatten yourself against the wall."

As Cassie scurried into partial hiding, Kurt went to the big clock, grabbed a back edge with both hands, propped a foot against the wall and pulled with all his strength. The mammoth timepiece nosedived to the floor.

An explosion of breaking glass, ersatz chime sounds and splintering wood roared through the hallway.

Kurt slipped into the recess beside Cassie and waited.

Somewhere feet hit the floor, a woman's voice yelled something harsh, and light spilled under one door, then another. One swung open, a switch clicked, and light flooded everything. First to reach the fallen clock was a middle-aged, svelte, severe woman. A young boy came up right behind her; then another woman appeared, heavy-set, with a nightcap and tugging the belt on her robe.

"The wind?" the bigger woman said.

"Don't be silly, Greta!" The first female looked around the hallway until she found the two figures pressed against the wall near the stairs. "We have intruders! Get my husband!"

With Cassie ducking behind his shoulder, Kurt stepped out of the alcove, the pistol drawn from his belt. "Sorry about your clock, Ma'am. We need to speak to Pastor Swift."

"I recognize you, McBride. I know you've been asking questions about us."

"I think you also know who has our baby," Kurt said.

A rumbling voice made for broadcasting came from down the hall. "What baby?" It was the pastor in the flesh, tall, lanky, with piecing, dark eyes. "We have no baby, Sir." Despite the man's size and volume, his tone was almost fearful. "Why would you think we have your _baby_?"

"Because whoever took her also killed Marcie."

Mrs. Swift stepped closer to Kurt. "We read about your theory in this morning's _World-Herald_."

"You don't need guns, Mr. McBride," said the pastor.

Kurt lowered his pistol. "We aren't here to hurt you or your family. We just want our little girl."

"Let's talk this over in my study." Pastor Swift gestured toward the steps, then turned to the older woman. "You and Jonas go back to bed, Greta. This is just a little misunderstanding."

Greta looked askance at Kurt and Cassie. "The police...?"

The pastor shook his head. "Just a misunderstanding."

Greta and the boy backed away and the pastor's wife led the others downstairs through the huge living room and into a richly furnished library.

Kurt shut the door behind them.

"You think all those murders in Rock Bluff were revenge against Marcella?" Micah Swift sat down behind his giant mahogany desk. "Maybe they were. God knows she hurt a lot of people."

"Including you," said Kurt.

Helen Swift was standing by a window, drapes fully closed, eyeing Kurt. "You think we'd be part of killing our own daughter?"

"But she wasn't really _your_ daughter, was she?"

Helen blinked once but kept her gaze on Kurt's. "Not genetically."

The pastor spoke softly. "That didn't make her any less ours."

"How about all the beatings? The bruises and welts? Do your other kids get those too?"

"We did what we thought necessary," Mrs. Swift said. "We didn't enjoy it."

"You have to be pretty mad to leave welts."

The pastor's wife sighed heavily. "I lost my temper a few times, Lord forgive me."

Kurt and Cassie's eyes snapped to Helen Swift.

A little smile pulled at the woman's thin lips. "You're surprised?" She walked behind her husband's chair, dropped her hands on either side of his neck. "Micah is the talker in the family. I handle the discipline. He punished her with words. I used his belt."

"She forced you to move out of town," Kurt said. "That had to be humiliating."

"We wanted to get off her back," Mrs. Swift said. "To acknowledge her adulthood... to show her she was only hurting herself, not us. Of course we hoped she'd change, but—"

"She didn't like being adopted, did she?" Kurt dropped into a straight chair.

Pastor Swift patted his wife's hand. "Despite all we gave her, she felt somehow unloved most of her adult life." He sat up, propping his elbows on the desk. "But we would never harm her, Mr. McBride. We loved her more than she ever knew."

Kurt glanced at Cassie and put the pistol back in his belt. "How about her real parents? Excuse me, her _genetic_ parents."

"We have no idea who they are," the pastor said. "A man came to the door one night, handed her to Helen and that was that. Had the name Marcella Jorgenson pinned to her clothes."

"What was the guy's name?"

"He didn't stay long enough to tell us," Helen said. "I never saw him before and I haven't seen him since."

"Marcie's father?"

Helen shrugged. "Possibly."

"As you surely know, her birth certificate says a Katrina Jorgenson of Omaha is the mother. She's probably a Mrs. somebody by now. You know her or where she might be?"

Both Swifts shook their heads.

Cassie stepped forward. "I don't believe any woman just hands her baby over to strangers and never looks back."

"We were well known in the community and for our church work," Micah said.

"I think a woman makes some arrangements _before_."

"Hard to know what a woman in that situation would do," Helen said.

Cassie's neck stiffened slightly. "Not if you've _been_ a woman in that situation."

Mrs. Swift looked into Cassie's eyes.

The pastor said, "The mother knew the child would be well cared for with us."

Cassie kept eye contact with Helen. "She wanted more than just well cared for. She wanted to know her baby would be _loved_. She'd have to _know_ her baby would be loved. That would mean meeting the new parents—at least the mother—before allowing any adoption."

Helen held her stare for a moment, then swallowed and looked down at her hands. "All she asked in return for the child was my promise never to reveal her real identity. I intend to keep that promise."

Micah looked up at his wife, then whispered, "You _did_ know her?" He turned to Kurt. "What difference does it really make, Mr. McBride?"

"Somebody connected to Marcie is behind all this killing. We're sure that 'somebody' has our baby. Maybe this mysterious woman's the link."

"If I thought it would help, I'd tell you all I know," Helen said. She shook her head slowly. "But she would _never_ be involved in murder and kidnapping. Not Ketty."

"It's hard to say what—" Kurt's breath caught in his throat. "Did you say _Ketty_?"

"Katrina," Helen added quickly.

Kurt took a step toward the pastor's wife. "Ketty is _short_ for Katrina."

Mrs. Swift avoided his gaze.

"My God!" Kurt grabbed Cassie's hand and ran for the front door. "Send me a bill for the clock in care of the state patrol."

He didn't utter another word until they were in the old Dodge driving away on Sheridan Boulevard. "I know where Lizzie is! I'm positive!"

"Who's Ketty?"

"She just happens to live in a big farmhouse about three miles from Ike Hanson's place. I was there Friday afternoon.' This is _it_ , Cass!"

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Kurt parked the car behind an old barn a half-mile from their destination. "I don't want to give them any warning'," he told Cassie. "Even seeing headlights at this hour might get somebody's attention. All we've got going for us is surprise."

"And God," Cassie said. "I hope."

Both too worked up to care about the near-zero temperature, they scrambled out of the vehicle and started their half-mile hike to Ed and Ketty Greeley's farm. Kurt had no idea why Ketty had given up her daughter for adoption twenty-two years earlier, but he was absolutely certain she had done just that. Perhaps the baby had resulted from an affair with another man, or maybe she and Ed just didn't want kids. That seemed peculiar, though. Kurt remembered Ketty fawning over kids whenever she was around them.

The sky was cloudless, the frozen, snow-covered countryside lit by a half-moon. As they approached the Greeley farm, they could see the house and outbuildings clearly. And anyone who might be looking out a window from one of those buildings would see _them_ clearly if they got any closer.

"We'll go down this turn row," Kurt said quietly, pointing to a fence on the north edge of the farmyard. "We'll work our way to the back of the house."

A long, narrow, screened-in porch lay along one side of the house. Summer help, like Kurt and his friends, had been served noontime meals there. Unlike other farms where Kurt had worked, no one was ever invited inside the Greeley home. He'd always wondered why two such friendly, generous people had been so guarded about their home. _Because there's something in there they want to hide_!

He and Cassie crept up the few back porch steps, then into a mudroom just outside the kitchen door. If it was the same old kitchen door he remembered, he could use the glasscutter on one of its dozen tiny windows.

Kurt held out one hand to Cassie behind him. "Flashlight," he whispered.

Cassie slipped it into his grasp.

He switched the beam on and aimed it at the kitchen door. Something caught his eye in passing. _Something green. What was that?_

He panned the light back across the row of outerwear hanging along one wall of the mudroom. Several pairs of coveralls and dozens of caps: one that looked somehow familiar. He took it off the hook, held it to the light. A name was stitched across the front: _Josh_.

_Josh?_ He glanced away, then looked again. _Josh? The funky old Josh who made Marcie so squeamish? He lives with Ketty and Ed?_

There was something else on the same hook. Blue bib overalls. And under those, a gray shirt with ancient sunglasses sticking out of a pocket.

"What's that?" Cassie whispered over Kurt's shoulder.

"Proof we're in the right place, I think."

The kitchen entrance was locked, but after removing one of the door's small glass panes Kurt reached inside and flipped both deadbolts. They tiptoed in, the flashlight switched off. It took about thirty seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dim moonlight drifting in through the windows.

Kurt pointed to their left and whispered. "Cellar." He eased toward the door with Cassie inches behind him. It wasn't locked, and a wooden stairway led downward. "This is probably where they had Kate penned up." _Is Marilyn Tabor down there?_ He switched the flashlight on, signaled Cassie to close the door behind them and started down the steps.

"It stinks!" Cassie murmured. "Like Kate said. And it's so damp. Terrible for Lizzie."

Kurt stopped at the basement floor and pulled out his pistol.

Cassie did the same.

Kurt sprayed the flashlight beam around the walls. "There." He walked to a doorway and flipped a switch, igniting a half-dozen bare bulbs hanging from the low ceiling. Laundry gear, furnace, canned foods, junk. The room covered most of the area directly below the house, but a low, narrow rectangular concrete tunnel ran off the back end.

"Can Toe Head get through that?" Cassie said quietly.

Kurt leaned close to her ear. "Stay here. If the kitchen door opens, come after me." He pushed her backwards until one wall was protecting her blind side, then crossed the floor and ducked into the tunnel.

The concrete shaft was about twenty-five feet long and looked tighter than it actually was. Someone Toe Head's size could easily pass through it.

He recalled Kate's words: She'd said her captor had led her through a long, narrow tunnel. "I bumped against cement walls a couple of times. And our breathing made echoes."

Kurt could hear reverberations from his own body movements, and felt certain he was retracing the steps Kate had taken almost three weeks before. What he found next strengthened that theory. The door at the end of tunnel was bolted shut from the near side.

He slid the latch open, pushed the door inward on its hinges and shined the flashlight around a room about the size of a double garage. There was a single door in each of the side walls and double doors directly across from him.

Kate had told them she'd been locked in a small room with a cement floor. "There was a bucket there," she'd said. "And some toilet paper. It was impossible to keep track of time."

Behind one of those two single doors was the room where Kate had been held captive. _Could Marilyn have survived in such a place for nearly ten days? How about Lizzie?_ Toe Head was ensconced beyond one of the other entrances, he was sure. _The single or the double?_

Kurt crept to the double doors, which were fastened like the room's main entrance, across the near side. He opened the bolt, pulled the doors apart, and aimed the flashlight straight into the darkness ahead. He leaped backward with a start that made him drop the light and nearly fall on his butt. _Is that a tooth? A bloody mouth_ _?_

With his pistol ready in his right hand, he quickly retrieved the flashlight and beamed it forward again. It _was_ a giant tooth—or a facsimile of one—in the mouth of an enormous, snarling tiger. It was a large painting, some six feet high and eight feet wide, hanging from the cellar ceiling. Behind the beast, a man holding a whip and chair was pictured. The caption at the top read, _Brighton Brothers Circus presents_ _Temujin_ _and Silent Death!_ The two lines at the bottom conveyed the explanation:

See this Giant Indian Sikh Command the 700-pound Man-Eater

He Captured in His Homeland

Kurt focused on the figure of the animal trainer, Temujin, the Indian Sikh. The bald pate, the mahogany skin, the giant body. It had to be the man they'd been calling Toe Head.

He searched for a light switch, found one and flipped it on. A low-watt ceiling lamp lit the room. Just then a violent crash along the back wall of the room' shook the hanging poster and sent Kurt reeling back a few steps. A frantic ruckus ensued behind the painting out of Kurt's sight—something alive, gasping, hissing, pounding itself against metal.

He cocked the pistol with one hand and used the other to draw the canvas aside. What he saw forced him again to step back: hair, claws and teeth crushed against steel bars, an enormous mouth biting furiously through spaces in the steel grid. Tawny-haired, with dark stripes and a head the size of a half-barrel, it was no doubt the Siberian tiger advertised on the poster. It's rotten breath nearly made Kurt choke.

_Is there a door on this thing_? With his gun pointed at the creature's head, Kurt looked over the front of the cage. He saw nothing like hinges or a latch or any break in the bars. Then he realized what else was missing amidst all the clatter: despite the animal's obvious rage, it didn't snarl or growl, only open-mouthed gasping and hissing sounds. _Is it mute?_ That would explain the absence of noise at those scenes where the bodies were ripped to shreds. And it would explain why no angry snorts had accompanied the pounding footfalls behind Cassie and Kate and him the night they'd run from Ike Hanson's farm. He looked over the furious animal, gnashing and flailing in front of him. _Should I shoot it?_ He squeezed the Colt in his hand. _Shame to destroy something that beautiful so long as it can't get out._

He backed around the poster, turned to leave, and stepped right into the arms of Toe Head.

The dark-skinned giant grabbed Kurt's arms, forcing him to drop the gun and the flashlight.

Kurt kicked and writhed, but his assailant had the strength of a Clydesdale. Toe Head's hands slid up to his neck, and he knew he'd be dead in seconds.

An explosion filled the room.

Toe Head's grip loosened.

Another explosion.

The Indian Sikh released Kurt completely and spun toward the noise.

Another explosion. Then three more.

Toe Head stumbled toward Cassie and her empty pistol.

Kurt, on one knee, swept up his Colt and fired it.

The first shot turned the attacker completely around. The second, third and fourth brought the man to his knees, then to the cement floor, face down, lifeless.

Kurt felt nothing at all as he had with that poor little spatsy he'd recklessly gunned down so many years ago. He hurried to the open door, his gaze locked on the tunnel. "That noise is gonna get somebody's attention." He reloaded the Colt revolver.

Cassie walked to the corpse and kicked it, then kicked it again and fell to her knees, pummeling the insensate flesh. "You filthy, goddamned son of a bitch! Rot in _Hell!_ _Rot! Rot! Rot!_ " She looked up at Kurt, tears streaming down her face. "What kind of people allow human garbage like this to live in their _house_?" She stood, making no attempt to stifle her tears or wipe them away, then saw the hanging poster and heard the commotion behind it. "What's all that?"

"Look behind the picture." Kurt was still peeking out the door, the gun held at his waist with both hands.

Cassie stood, pulled the poster aside and jumped away from the sight of the mammoth, thrashing cat. "Sweet Jesus!"

"He can't get loose."

Cassie stepped back, perusing the words and images. Then she looked at Kurt. "That accounts for the chewed up bodies."

Screams erupted from somewhere in the cellar.

Kurt and Cassie hurried out into the center room. One of the two single doors bracketing the cat's quarters stood open, obviously Toe Head's hideaway. The other was still closed and the sounds were coming from behind it.

"Marilyn?" Kurt glanced at Cassie, then hurried to the closed door. "Marilyn Tabor?"

"Please let me out!" It was a woman's voice.

Kurt told Cassie, "Keep your gun on the tunnel." Then he threw open the bolt and turned the handle.

The door flew open, impelled from the inside.

Marilyn Tabor, shoeless, pale, and wearing only a flimsy white slip, stumbled into the light, shielding her eyes. "I'm being held prisoner here! Please help!"

Kurt shoved the Colt under his belt and took Marilyn's hands. "It's Kurt McBride, Marilyn. You're safe now."

She leaned her face closer, blinking. "Kurt!" She threw herself into his arms. "Oh Jesus Christ! Thank God!" As she pulled back, her eyes 'widened at the sight of something behind him

Cassie yelled, "Kurt!" Her empty pistol clicked helplessly each time she pulled the trigger. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

As Kurt whirled about, Marilyn swept the Colt revolver from his waist and tucked it at her side.

Ed Greely, aiming his double-barreled shotgun at Kurt's chest, grabbed the empty revolver from Cassie's hand.

"Raise your hands, McBride."

"Kurt put his hands in the air, his body partially blocking Marilyn from Greeley's view. "What's going on, Ed?"

"Down on your knees. All of you."

"Where's my daughter, you son of a bitch?" Cassie screeched.

Ed shoved Cassie toward her two companions. "You were given instructions about your kid! You should'a followed 'em. Now _kneel_ or I'll blow your goddamned heads off!"

Kurt dropped to one knee.

Marilyn Tabor raised the Colt and shot Ed between the eyes.

Another man rushed through the door.

Marilyn shot him twice in the chest. She, Cassie and Kurt inched toward the two fallen bodies. Marilyn lowered the pistol but kept it ready. "Who are those guys?"

Kurt looked at her with a frown. "You never saw either one of them before?"

Marilyn shook her head. "The only one I've seen is twice their size—put together."

"He's dead." Kurt pointed at the double doors. "His body's in there." He took the pistol from her. "He hurt you?"

"Dirty bastard! He had me dress up in different stuff every night, took me upstairs, made me strip naked for somebody watching from the dark, then gave me a blanket and this." She tugged at her slip. "Those were the only times I was out of the room."

"Is my baby here?" Cassie voice was raspy.

Marilyn looked at her, wide-eyed. "Lizzie? Somebody's got Lizzie?"

Cassie's chin quivered as she nodded.

"God! That's awful! I'm so sorry." She pointed at the door behind her. "All I've seen is the inside of that cell and the bedroom upstairs."

"Keep an eye on that tunnel." Kurt went to the corpse of the man who'd come in after Ed and turned it face up. "Teddy Timm. Local jailbird. Brother owns a bar down the road in Clover."

The three stood silently, faces flushed, breathing heavily, recovering and trying to reconcile the last few minutes with reality. In the momentary hush, they faintly heard a child crying somewhere on the other side of the cement tunnel.

"That's Lizzie!" Cassie grabbed her empty gun off the floor and tore through the shaft toward the basement stairs.

Kurt was a step behind her.

Marilyn pulled the shotgun from Ed's death grip, recovered a pistol that Teddy Timm had dropped and followed the other two, glancing about wildly with every step.

In the kitchen, a set of narrow back steps led to the second floor.

"Take the main stairs," he directed Cassie. "And load your gun." He bolted up the narrow passageway and into what was obviously Ketty's sewing room. A Brother electric sewing machine stood against one wall, a large table sat in the center of the room, and bolts of cloth were scattered about on chairs.

He stepped into the main hallway, saw Cassie in the dim light dodging through a door near the top of the staircase and did the same to one near him. In a few seconds they were both back in the hall. Nothing.

The crying stopped. Cassie whispered, "Was that a choking sound?"

Kurt rushed into the next room. There, beneath the glow of a bedside lamp, Ketty Greeley sat in a rocking chair, a sniffling child clinging to her chest. It was Lizzie.

"Oh, thank God!" Cassie rushed past him and pulled her baby away from Ketty and into her own arms.

"She's fine," Ketty said. "The noise frightened her."

"Come on, Sweetie," Cassie murmured. "Mommy's got you. It's okay."

Kurt checked the hallway. "Stay in here," he told Cassie. "God only knows what else is in this house." He turned to face the comely Scandinavian woman he'd known and trusted most of his life. "Ed's been killed, Ketty, and two other guys. Are there more?"

"You're safe now." Ketty looked away. "I knew it would all end someday. I'm glad it did."

"The murders?"

Her eyes met his. "I was afraid."

Marilyn stepped into the room. "Where the hell are the rest of my clothes? It's cold."

Ketty went to a closet, found a bathrobe and tossed it to the freelance undercover cop. "This will have to do."

Kurt looked at Marilyn. "Can you call the sheriff?"

"Show me the phone." She pulled the old terrycloth garment over her slip.

"On the table," said Ketty. "Foot of the stairs." She sat in the rocker again.

Marilyn switched on the hallway light, started for the stairs, then stopped. "Where do I tell him to come?"

"The Greeley place," Kurt said.

"Greeley." She turned and hustled down the stairs.

Cassie wandered out of the room hugging her cranky daughter, weeping and comforting her simultaneously.

"I guess now I know why you and Ed were so unfriendly the other day," Kurt said. "Marcie Swift was your daughter."

A vague smile drifted across Ketty's face. "Beautiful child, wasn't she? Favored her father."

"And the father _wasn't_ Ed?" Kurt sat on the edge of the single bed.

Ketty shook her head. "He's not her father... or my husband. I've never had a husband."

"You two aren't even married?"

She shook her head again. "It was all an act... for over forty years."

"Why?"

"The profits from the farm," Ketty said. "We split them every year, fifty-fifty, since 1965."

Kurt laid the pistol beside him on the bed. "Nothing unusual about that."

"Except it's not our farm—his or mine. Neither one of us owns a square inch of it. She looked into Kurt's eyes. "I'm just hired help... so was Ed."

"Hired by?"

"Man named Josh Malloy, Marcie's biological father. Bought the place in '61 from the Spanglers."

"It's registered to Edward Greeley."

"Malloy has a letter voiding the deed anytime he wants to use it."

Kurt stood, shoved the gun in his waistband again, and paced a few steps. "So you _pretended_ to be man and wife all that time?"

"Publicly."

"For money."

"Ten times more than either one of us could make doing anything else," Ketty said. "And the life was good."

"But artificial."

"Didn't seem like that after a while."

"How did it get started?"

Ketty began rocking slowly. "Malloy put an ad in the Omaha paper for a housekeeper and a farmhand. Ed and me got the jobs. Later Malloy let us take the profits if we played man and wife, pretended to own the place... make folks think he didn't exist." Ketty shrugged. "I didn't see any harm. Wasn't _illegal_ or anything."

"Till later."

She stopped rocking. "I never broke any laws, Kurt. I never lied or cheated anybody. There was a lot I _didn't_ say, but—"

"All these murders, the wild animal, kidnapping women for sex—you just turned your head?"

She rocked again. "I didn't know about any of it... _for sure_ , anyhow."

"You didn't want to know."

"Nobody ever quits working for Josh Malloy. He's a lifetime employer." She looked at Kurt. "If you know what I mean."

"Besides you and Ed, how many others did he hire?"

"Over the years? I'd say at least a dozen."

"Teddy Timm?"

"For the last six months."

"And the big bald guy? With the tiger?"

"Hurdmeister... Luther Hurdmeister. Malloy found him at the circus when it played in Omaha last year."

"Does Malloy wear a fake beard and hang around the bars?"

"He figures that's the best way to find out what's going on," Ketty said.

"Why the disguise? Is he somebody people would know otherwise?"

"He seems to think so. I never saw him till I answered his ad. But I was from Omaha, and Ed came from Blair."

"But you know he's behind all the murders, the mutilating, Lizzie's kidnapping?"

"I suspected, but I never had any proof."

"You had the child in your _lap_!"

Ketty shrugged. "That didn't mean she was kidnapped."

Kurt leaned close to her face. "You _suspected_ he killed your own daughter and never tried to find out?"

"He's evil, Kurt. But he pays everybody so much they can't turn him down. Just ask your friend Rathe."

"Vic works for him too?"

"Six or seven years now." She stopped rocking. "I don't think he's ever been here or seen Josh... without his fake beard, anyhow."

"What did Josh have against Marcie?"

"You'll have to ask him."

"Where's he live?"

"In the corner room over the porch."

Kurt's brows shot up. "He's here _now_?" He jerked the pistol from his belt.

"He can't hurt you." Ketty got to her feet. "Come on."

Chapter Fifty-Nine

####

As Ketty started toward the closed door at the far end of the upper hallway, Marilyn arrived at the top of the stairs.

"Sheriff's on his way," she said, a bit out of breath.

Kurt went to her. "You okay? You've been through a lot the last ten days."

"And somebody's gonna pay."

He pointed down the hall. "I've got one more stop to make. See that nobody comes up those steps except the county sheriff." He moved on to Cassie.

She was sitting on a short bench in the hall holding her daughter in both arms, the thirty-eight pistol dangling from one hand. "Did they feed you, Honey?" she cooed. "You don't feel wet." She put the gun on the seat beside her.

Kurt knelt, facing the two, and squeezed Lizzie's tiny hand in one of his.

"I treated her like my own, Miss Dodd," Ketty said. "I wouldn't let them harm a baby." She resumed her trek to the master bedroom at the end of the corridor.

Kurt followed, checking the cylinder on his revolver.

Ketty rapped on the door, then opened it and stepped inside with Kurt one pace behind. "It's me, Josh."

"Goddamn it!" a weak, strained voice bellowed from the darkness on the other side of the chamber. "It's way past time for my shot!"

Kurt turned his head away for a moment to ready his senses for the stale room, reeking of medicine and disinfectant and scents covering human odors.

"And what the hell is all the noise?" A table lamp snapped on. Near it, a slight, heavily bandaged body lay in the middle of a king sized bed. One leg was in a toe-to-hip plaster cast. The person's face was obscured by gauze and tape over the nose and one eye. The other he trained on Kurt. "Who the hell are you?" the voice creaked.

"Name's McBride, Josh. I'm sure you've seen me around Rock Bluff."

"Little fucking coward! Couldn't keep your nose out of my business, could you?"

"Your business is closed."

Josh Malloy's one good eye rolled toward Ketty. "Where's Hurdmeister?

Ketty shoved the pillows under Malloy's shoulders. "McBride says they killed him and Ed and Teddy. He wouldn't be up here otherwise."

Josh lay back against his pillows. "Give me the shot, Goddamnit! It hurts!"

Ketty went to a little table and picked up a syringe and a bottle.

Kurt followed her and snatched the medication vial. "Let's not hurry with that." He checked the label. "Morphine." He looked at Josh. "I understand a guy feels pretty awful when this wears off."

"I need my medicine, you son of a bitch!"

"How'd you get so banged up, Josh?"

"Fell."

"After Kate Dodd smashed a lamp into your face?" He stepped closer to the bed. "You kidnapped a woman who was too tough for you, didn't you?"

"You'll play hell proving that."

Kurt walked to the corner window, shaded his eyes from the interior light and looked out. Just as Kate had described it: frozen shingles, small chimney, porch roof. He turned to face the injured man. "I've got all the proof I need."

"And I've got good lawyers."

"Like Vic Rathe?" Kurt leaned against the foot of the bed.

"Just give me my goddamned _shot_!" Josh blubbered.

"When you've told me why."

"Why what?"

"Why you had at least fifteen people murdered and mutilated in the last two weeks."

"Who says I did?" He slapped the side of the bed. "Give me the fucking _shot_!"

"Rathe will talk," Kurt said. "I think Ketty here is ready to talk. We'll find links to what's-his-name and his pet cat, and probably to Teddy Timm. We'll find the panel truck."

"Bullshit."

"You had them killed because of Marcie, right?"

Josh struggled to prop himself on his elbows. "Don't mention her name in this house!"

Kurt moved closer. "What did you have against Marcie?"

"You go straight to Hell!"

He held up the medication bottle. "I'll take this with me."

"Goddamn you!"

"You tell me about Marcie, you get your shot."

Josh took a few heavy breaths. "We had a contract. There were to be no other men—not one. _Not one!_ I caught her with a half-dozen."

"So you had them all killed?"

"I knew they were laughing behind my back. Her and her friends. All those little bastards who got in her pants. Well, I got the _last_ laugh."

Kurt glanced at Ketty, then back at Josh. "You knew who Marcie was?"

"The biggest whore in town. And the preacher's daughter."

"You thought she was the preacher's daughter?"

"That made it even sweeter, not that she needed any sweetening. She was _good_. The second best I ever had. Oh, the things that girl could do with her mouth and hips." Josh nearly choked. "I told. Now give me the shot."

Kurt handed the morphine vial to Ketty and backed away from the bed while the woman filled the syringe and injected the drug into Josh's hip. "What happened to your leg?" he asked after Ketty stepped aside. "Kate didn't mention hitting your leg."

"Who's Kate?" Josh wheezed.

"The woman who got away."

"Filthy bitch!"

"We found him on the floor, his leg underneath him," Ketty said. "Shattered it in two places."

"She hit him that hard?"

"He _is_ seventy-six years old, after all," she said.

"Seventy-six?" Kurt turned to Josh. "And still kidnapping women to strip for him?"

"He's always had a big appetite for sex." Ketty folded her hands in front of her. "I should know."

Josh's cackling sounded like a death rattle. He stabbed a finger toward Ketty. "I used to give _her_ holy hell when she was younger. Got her knocked up once! Right, Ketty?"

Kurt' turned to Ketty. "That was—?"

Ketty nodded.

"You know what happened to your child, Josh?" Kurt asked.

"Gave it away, I guess." The morphine was obviously taking effect.

"To the preacher." Kurt walked to the head of the bed. "To the preacher, Josh. It was a girl. Her name was Marcella."

No one spoke.

Josh's head rose slowly from the pillow. " _Marcie_ _?_ "

Ketty sighed. "Marcie."

The old man tried to focus his good eye on Ketty. "She was your—"

" _Our_ daughter. Yes."

Josh dropped flat on his back again. "My god! She got me again!"

"Marcie got you _again_?"

"Allie got me—my devil."

Kurt's face tightened. "Is that the morphine talking?" he asked Ketty.

She walked to the head of the bed and leaned closer to the old man. "Tell us about her, Josh. Tell us about your devil."

The man called Josh Malloy lay still and silent, his heavy breathing subsided, his muscles relaxed, and he reached into his distant past....

In slurred, often mangled words, he rambled on about being from a celebrated, prestigious family, of falling hopelessly in love with a girl called "Allie." As children, they had played together, eaten together, attended school together, learned about life and love together. By the time he was nine and she eleven, they were enjoying coitus regularly, as well as playing endless sex games that the very clever Allie was so good at devising.

Then she'd been burned alive when their family home accidentally caught fire. The blaze had also killed a young man with whom she and Josh were having a _ménage à trois_ that winter night. Badly disfigured and fearing blame for the two deaths, he'd gone into hiding, letting the world believe it was his body left beside Allie's in the smoldering rubble. With all his wealth, he'd had no trouble finding a lawyer to conspire in keeping his true identity secret—and making Joshua Alfred Malloy heir to the entire estate of the fire victims.

"Malloy was my Grandmother's maiden name." The morphine made Josh's chuckle sound obscene.

By the summer of that year, Josh had been living in a suite at Omaha's Blackstone Hotel, his burns and injuries from the fire completely healed. Plastic surgery had not only removed facial scars, it had also altered his appearance significantly—so much so that only close associates could recognize him. But that hadn't been good enough.

"There's no statute of limitations on murder. I wasn't taking any chances," he slurred.

So he'd disguised himself in worn clothes, grown a five-day stubble of whiskers and slapped on a pair of sunglasses that had belonged to his late father. Then he'd gone into all the little towns surrounding his former home.

"Including Rock Bluff?" Kurt asked.

"There were stories about Allie. _Dirty_ stories. Like she was a tramp. One guy said, 'Yeah, I fucked that bitch once. Had to tie a bale of hay to my ass so I wouldn't fall in!' Hateful stories. Like my sweet Allie was a wallowing pig." Josh's breathing grew harder.

"When I'd go home at night I'd hear her in my head. 'Do something!' I'd hear her screech. 'Shut the bastards up!' She was a _devil_!"

So he'd done something. First he'd bought the Spangler farm and moved into the spacious house. He'd called in an outfit from Kansas City to discreetly remodel the interior to fit his new way of life. Then he'd hired Ketty, "the Swede from Omaha," to keep house and cook, and a strapping farmer, Ed Greeley, from Blair, to run the place. Josh had the deed listed in Greeley's name and Ed and Ketty lived, outwardly, as man and wife. In point of fact, Ketty was _Josh's_ mistress until she became pregnant; Ed had always found his romance with other men's wives in Omaha and Lincoln.

"Ketty says that deed's a sham," said Kurt.

Josh's head lolled toward Kurt. "You think I'd give the place away?" He dropped back on the pillow. "I had to have a place to come to."

He'd hired a bodyguard by the name of Dooley Diggs, a mob killer out of Chicago. Under Josh's direction, Diggs and his minions had searched out Allie's detractors; he'd burned their homes and barns; vandalized their cars and equipment; killed their pets and livestock; assaulted several and murdered a half-dozen. Two particularly egregious offenders had been buried alive deep in Spangler farmland.

"Then, after about forty years, I didn't hear her anymore. The poking and stabbing in my head stopped."

His lawyer had died, as had his main henchman. "I hired that Rathe kid in Rock Bluff and there wasn't much left for me to do."

Kurt stood frozen, his mouth slightly open.

"Then I saw _her_ on the street one day." Josh took a few breaths. "Like always, I couldn't help myself."

Marcie was a budding teen when he'd first spotted her on the street in Rock Bluff, he said. He'd watched her grow, followed her exploits. "When she got caught in that whorehouse, I knew I was right. It was Allie, inside that kid's head as much as she was in mine."

He'd made arrangements through Vic Rathe to meet her at the Greeley farm one night the previous summer, and they'd struck a deal: she would entertain him there every Thursday night and go home with a thousand dollars in cash. The only caveat was that he be the only man in her life. There was to be no deviation from that rule.

"I knew she'd renege. It was only a matter of time. I listened for gossip on the streets, had Rathe keep an eye on her, then hired that private cop, Bergman, to tail her. And I found just what I expected. She was screwing a half-dozen sons'a bitches." Josh squirmed uncomfortably, despite the heavy drug dose. "I could hear 'em laughing behind my back—her lovers, her girlfriends—and Allie was laughing in my head. Well, like I said, I got the _last_ laugh."

Josh had wanted revenge that would leave the Philistines shivering in their shoes. Teddy Timm, who made a habit of hanging out with peripheral showbiz types whenever he could, had told him of one really nasty fellow he knew. He'd suggested Josh hire an out of work animal trainer who'd been with the Barton Brothers Circus when it passed through Omaha the year before.

"Called himself Temujin. Ha! He was a Pennsylvania Gypsy," Josh said. "And that old cat wouldn't go near a human unless it was scared or starving."

"Temujin is the bald guy we killed in the cellar?" Kurt said.

Ketty nodded. "Luther Hurdmeister."

Kurt fiddled with the pistol butt sticking out of his waistband. "The tiger is mute?"

"Can't make a peep," said Josh. "Probably born that way. But I wouldn't be surprised if Hurdmeister had it fixed. He was more animal than his cat." Josh barked something like a laugh. "When we had a job planned, he didn't feed the damn thing. It was ready to eat tin cans when he took it out."

Luther had barred off a part of the cellar as a cage for his pet and dug a passageway out through the back yard for getting the creature in and out. The animal did most of its work after the victims were dead. The only time it had done any actual killing was the bowling team in Ike Hanson's barn.

"Those chewed up corpses got some attention, huh?" Josh managed a wobbly smile, his eye watery.

"So what did kidnapping Kate Dodd have to do with your revenge against Marcie?"

"Who?"

"The woman who smashed your face and broke your leg."

"I _fell_."

"She never did anything to you or your lover?" Kurt said.

"Allie was in my head again. I could see her stripping off her clothes. Teasing me, like the old days. I was going nuts. I had Luther and Timm find a decent-looking woman to give me some relief."

"But she was more than you could handle."

"She tricked me!" Josh wailed. "Bitch! But she paid for it in the end." He let out another dog-like laugh.

"And Ike Hanson paid, too?"

"Goddamn meddling drunk. Who cares? Same for that gumshoe, Bergman. He probably got a piece of Marcie while he was at it."

"Well, your killing and kidnapping days are over, Josh... or whatever your name is."

Josh raised up on his elbows again. "It was _her_ fault!" He slapped the top of his bedside table. "She was my devil." He pounded on the little piece of furniture, stared at it, and pointed. "It was _her_!"

Kurt looked at Ketty, back at Josh, then at Ketty again. "Is there something inside that nightstand?"

Ketty slipped over to the table, slid its tiny top-drawer open. A postcard-size black and white photograph lay atop the contents. She picked it up, gasped, then recovered. "Oh. At first I thought it was Marcie." Ketty handed Kurt the picture. "I've seen this woman somewhere."

Kurt's stared into the face of woman in the photo, then swept his gaze from the black-and-white image in his hand to the old man in the bed. Thoughts swirled in his head. His voice was thick. "This is your _lover_?"

"My sweet Allie. The _bitch_!"

"This is Alfa _Coogan_ , Josh." Kurt's lips wrinkled into a sick smile. "She was your _sister,_ wasn't she?"

"My devil!"

Ketty took a step toward Kurt. "His sister?" She looked at the man on the bed. "I knew about an old lover, but—"

Kurt nodded toward Josh. "This is Arthur Coogan, Ketty." He had to take a breath. "You know, the family they named the county after? The man who supposedly died in a fire with his only living sister? The end of the Coogan line?" He shook his head slowly. "I thought he was just making that stuff up about all the killing."

Ketty looked at the old man, her face twisted. "Now you know why I was scared to quit." She turned to leave, and had to dodge the sheriff standing just behind Kurt.

"So I guess we can bury The Coogan Curse once and for all," said Wylie O'Shea.

Kurt turned from the bed. "How long you been here, Wylie?"

"Long enough." The sheriff walked up to the old man. "Arthur Coogan. I'll be go to hell!" He pulled the handcuffs off his belt. "Gimme your wrist, Artie."

"Handcuffs?" Coogan spat. "I've got a broken leg, you stupid bastard!"

Wylie snapped one clasp on Coogan's wrist, the other to the bed post. "And now you got a headboard hangin' to your arm."

Arthur Coogan turned to Kurt. "None of it was my fault, McBride! You _know_ that!"

"Not for me to decide. Thank God." He saw Ketty standing near the door. "He have any other little helpers?"

"I don't know of any, but then I'm not an insider."

"We'll just leave him be till we get done," Wylie said. "He ain't goin' no place."

"Been to the cellar yet?" Kurt asked as the two men started for the steps.

"Got a peek. Cal's down there. Probably killed that goddamned cat by now."

Kurt smiled. "So our paw prints weren't so nutty after all."

"I want to see the look on that lieutenant's face when the state patrol gets here," Wylie said.

"You called Barnett?"

"About to. Wanted all the cows in the barn first." Wylie stopped at the base of the staircase, picked up the phone and dialed 911. "This is Sheriff O'Shea in Coogan County, Ma'am. Patch me through to state patrol headquarters please. Sure, I'll wait."

While Wylie made his phone call to the state patrol emergency center, Kurt wandered into the kitchen.

Cassie was feeding Lizzie applesauce and milk at the table.

Kurt slipped up behind her, bent down, hugged her head to his, then kissed Lizzie's cheek. "It's over." He slid into a chair.

"The guy in the bedroom was behind it all?"

He told her the saga of Arthur Coogan and his bizarre, incestuous love-hate triangle.

Cassie cringed when he'd finished. "He didn't know Marcie Swift was his daughter?"

"Looked shocked when we told him," Kurt said.

"But he knew what he was doing with his sister."

Kurt nodded. "He knew. Maybe part of him wanted to run like hell, but another part couldn't resist her. He was her slave. Still is."

Cassie shook her head. "One person can't control another like that. He wanted all those things as much as she did."

"Well, he's a bad boy, no doubt about that. He had people butchered, for Christ's sake. Buried alive, burned."

"And didn't shed a tear," Wylie O'Shea said as he came into the kitchen. "'Cept for his own ass. But he'll probably say he was crazy and spend the rest of his life in some swanky nut house."

Kurt stood. "You get hold of Barnett?"

"Woke him from a sound sleep," Wylie said. "Him and his boys will be here by nine." He laughed. "Thought I was shittin' him about the cat." He looked around. "Where's that other woman? The part-time cop."

"Marilyn," Kurt said. "Marilyn Tabor."

Cassie cleaned applesauce off Lizzie's face. "She went back down into the cellar."

Kurt and the sheriff sauntered toward the basement steps.

"Did I hear right?" Wylie said. "Ol' Ed and Ketty weren't even married?

"Pretty good act, huh?" Kurt led the way downstairs. "I don't know if she should be charged with anything. She didn't know for sure what the old man was doing. And she was scared."

"And makin' a tidy profit."

"She's one of the most revered women in the county," Kurt said.

"We'll sit her down for a long talk tomorrow."

When they emerged from the tunnel they found Marilyn and Deputy Cal Morantz sitting on a low table by the double door.

Cal stood as his boss approached. "Near as I can figure, there's a back way into that cage. Nothing opens in front. Them bars are bolted tight, floor and ceiling."

Wylie patted his deputy on the back. "That's just what the man upstairs told us."

"I'm glad I didn't know I was next door to that thing," Marilyn said. "I don't even like house cats."

Wylie's nose wrinkled. "Damn thing stinks."

"Kate told us about the smell." Kurt stepped to the open doorway and looked across the room at the banner in front of the cage. "I suppose they'll have to kill that guy after all the human flesh they gave him."

"Surprised you didn't do it when you first saw him." Wylie walked into the room, surveying the enormous corpse of Luther Hurdmeister. "Cassie killed him?"

"We both did." Kurt gave Wylie the details of how Toe Head, Greeley and Timm had died.

"Self-defense, all the way around," said the sheriff. "State patrol boys will probably want to check your weapons at some point."

"They're both mine." Kurt reached for the Colt under his belt.

"Give it to your buddy Barnett. He's got the ballistics guys." The sheriff strolled into the outer room. "I'll get Larry Roberts out here, haul 'ol' Coogan down to the Falls City hospital. We can lock this place up for the night."

"Ol' who?" Deputy Morantz asked.

"It's a long story, Cal," the sheriff said. "Ought to keep people in this county talkin' for a couple hundred years. And maybe make a hero out of one particular guy I know." He winked at Kurt and started for the stairs.

Chapter Sixty

Kurt rolled out of bed in the apartment at quarter past one and, after stopping in the john, shuffled into the living room in his boxer shorts.

Cassie lay on the couch in her robe, sluggishly watching Lizzie toddle around the floor.

"Morning," he said, trying to focus on his watch. "Or afternoon, I guess." He fell into a chair. "How long you been up?"

"I'm still working on it."

"A whole different world with Toe Head gone. I keep thinking I should be worried about something."

Cassie raised herself on one elbow. "Will old Coogan repeat his story to the police?"

"Unless I miss my guess, Arthur Coogan is addicted to morphine. He'll do whatever it takes to get his fix." He yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Besides, I think the dirty bastard is proud of what he did."

"Pure evil." She shook her head slowly. "The is just pure evil."

"You look at that picture of Alfa, you know it's true." Kurt sat up a bit. "Anything on the radio or TV about last night?"

"I haven't checked."

There was a knock at the apartment door.

Kurt struggled to his feet. "I'll throw some pants on."

Cassie waited for Kurt to slip into the bedroom, then opened the door with the night chain still attached.

"Miss Dodd? I'm Lt. Barnett, state patrol."

Cassie unlatched the chain. "Come in, Lieutenant."

"Hey, Barnett." Kurt, buckling and zipping his slacks, walked into the living room.

Barnett extended his hand. "Congratulations, Kurt. Good work." He turned to Cassie. "To you too." He nodded toward Lizzie, staring at him from a seat on the floor. "Looks like your little girl's doing fine."

"We were lucky," Cassie said. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Thanks, no. I'm on my way to Falls City to see your Mr. Coogan again. A videographer is meeting us to record a formal statement."

Kurt stuck his hands in his back pockets. "You talked to him this morning?"

"He wasn't saying much. I got the story from the Jorgenson woman and the sheriff."

"What if he never talks?" Cassie glanced at Kurt.

"We have enough physical evidence to convict," said Barnett. "Besides you two will testify, and the sheriff heard most of his story. And the Jorgenson woman wants him skinned alive."

"Poor Ketty," Kurt said. "It's a little late for righteous indignation."

Cassie turned to him. "He murdered her little girl."

"She knew what he was for forty years and didn't do a thing to cramp his style."

Cassie looked away. "She was afraid."

"Well," said Barnett. "We won't have any trouble proving he was behind all the recent murders. The story about the Coogans and the curse and the sister, even about the Swift girl—that's another matter. If he denies what he said last night, then I guess it'll become one of those legends that locals argue for generations."

"You can exhume one of his parents and check the DNA," Kurt said.

"Do we have enough evidence for that? Digging up a corpse after fifty-some years? From what I've heard, not many people in this county want to taunt the Coogan ghosts." He checked his wristwatch. "Got to go. I'll probably see you both at the trial." He smiled and waggled a wave as he left.

Cassie closed the door. "Well, at least people will know you were the one who caught the killer. Whether he's actually Arthur Coogan or not doesn't matter."

"Life in this town will be a lot more pleasant if people know the truth behind the curse." Kurt curled up on the couch, made room for Cassie. "But there'll always be some who don't _want_ to know." He patted the space beside him. "Let's cuddle."

"Weren't we gonna get something at the courthouse today?"

Kurt frowned, then leaped up. "The license! Shit yes! Let's get dressed!" He started for the bedroom. "Oh, there's a call I have to make first." He went to the phone and punched in the number for Ceece's private office at the high school. The coach was always there between one and three.

"Maxwell."

"It's Kurt, Ceece. I've got some news." He told his mentor about everything that had happened the night before, from the trip to Pastor Swift's home to the handcuffing of Arthur Coogan. "Sorry I couldn't call sooner, but—"

"Sure. No problem," Ceece said. "I been hearing rumors about that stuff all morning anyway. Glad the good ones are true. Arthur Coogan. Wow."

"What the newsies might call a 'stunning development,' huh?"

"And Cassie and the baby are okay?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Great, Kid. I'm glad for you. Nice job."

"We couldn't have done it without you and Vi, Ceece. Your help, your trust—that gave me the biggest boost."

"I'll expect a generous bequeathal when you do your will."

"I need one more favor."

"You caught me in a good mood," Ceece said. "Shoot."

"Want to be my best man?"

Thanks to a warm front creeping in overnight, the temperature was in the mid-twenties when Kurt parked in front of the courthouse.

For the first time since Christmas, Cassie didn't need to cover her daughter's face when they got out of the car. "It feels great to walk outside with your head up," Cassie said.

"Let's not break out the swimming gear just yet." Kurt assumed the friendly nods and greetings they received on their way into the County Clerk's office were in deference to the beautiful little girl he was carrying, and maybe the equally beautiful big one walking beside him. Donnie Sheen in the clerk's office changed his mind.

"Here's the man of the hour now!" Sheen bellowed as Kurt's cadre came through the door. "Great job, Kurt. I knew you'd find those murdering loonies."

"Atta boy," Biff Nolan said as he walked past on his way out.

"I appreciate all your help with the maps," Kurt told Donnie as he sat Lizzie on the counter.

Donnie gave the child a pat and leaned toward Kurt. "Guy says he's Artie Coogan?"

"He _is_ Arthur Coogan. No doubt about it."

"Ain't that something? I never did buy into that Curse baloney."

"Too bad so many people had to die before we found old Artie." Kurt unzipped his parka. "We need to get a marriage license, Donnie."

Sheen laughed. "Lot of girls in town'll be sorry to hear that." He winked at Cassie.

Cassie's smile was tepid at best.

Five minutes later, as they turned to leave with their license in Cassie's purse, Sheriff Wylie O'Shea popped in the door. "Heard you two was here." He gave Kurt a big smile. "Getting a marriage license?" He offered his hand. "Congrats, 'ol' boy. You too, Ma'am."

"Word spreads fast in this town," Cassie said.

" _Ever'body's_ talkin' 'bout 'ol' Kurt today," the sheriff said. He turned to Kurt. "Barnett see you before he left town?"

"Seemed to think everything was in order," said Kurt. "But I forgot to ask him about Vic."

Wylie glanced at Donnie Sheen, then backed out the office, motioning for Kurt to follow. "We don't have anything to hold him on 'cept your word and the old man's."

"You can at least prove he's Coogan's lawyer—or Josh Malloy's."

#### "Can't arrest lawyers 'cause they work for bad guys. You ought'a know that."

Kurt sighed. "He'd just deny knowing what was really going on, I guess."

"Coogan can say different, but it's still his word against Rathe's—and who's gonna believe a murdering S.O.B. who's been playing dead since 1960?"

"Betty Toline saw Vic at the apartment the day they killed Ernie and took Marilyn."

"She see him _in_ the apartment? Besides, he owns the damn place."

Kurt thought for a moment. "He's the only person I told about Lizzie staying at Alice's house Friday night."

"What's that prove?"

"Proves the guy sold me out... and the whole town."

"Hurts to have your best friend go sour," Wylie said. "But tryin' to get even can cost a man his soul. Ask 'ol' Artie." The sheriff turned to Cassie. "When's the wedding?"

"Saturday. Ten o'clock. Judge Withers' chambers."

"Stop in if you're around," said Kurt.

Wylie smiled. "I'll do that." He accompanied them down the steps, then took a side exit leading to the jail.

Outside, Cassie and Kurt each held one of Lizzie's hands as they all walked to the car. A sedan with _Omaha World-Herald_ printed on the side was parked not far from Kate's Dodge.

"Looks like our little town's about to make the newspapers again," Kurt said with a broad smile.

Chapter Sixty-One

They hadn't been back in the apartment five minutes when the phone rang. It was a _World-Herald_ reporter calling from the sheriff's office. He wanted to bring a photographer over and interview Kurt and Cassie.

"Sure," Kurt told him.

Before that reporter arrived, others called from four Omaha TV stations, three Omaha radio stations and _The_ _Lincoln Journal-Star_. They, too, wanted interviews as soon as possible.

The radio and TV stories hit the air that night; the newspapers added more detailed accounts in their Tuesday morning editions. All were full of praise for David Kurtis McBride, and all were skeptical of the old man's claim to be Arthur Coogan.

#### At just after nine, Dale Muncie, the boss at the U.P. office, called to congratulate Cassie on the rescue of Lizzie, tell her she could still have the rest of the week off with pay and invite her and Kurt to his home for a party on Saturday night.

"Sorry, Mr. Muncie," she told him. "But we already have plans for Saturday. Thanks anyway."

"We'll take a rain check," Muncie said with a hearty chuckle.

Then Butch Holmeir phoned from his garage to tell Kurt he was sorry about the insurance problem with the Lexus. "Doesn't matter though, 'cause we got your Taurus fixed sooner than planned. One of my guys will drop it off over the lunch hour."

"Thanks, Butch. I appreciate the fast work."

Calls came in the rest of the morning from Cassie's co-workers and friends that Kurt never knew he had. All were congratulatory, and some even expressed thanks. One, from a Rock Bluff High classmate named Bernie Tomchek, was an invitation to lunch at Lola's Happy Corner. "Have a couple of drinks."

"I'm too tired to go out, Honey," Cassie said when Kurt asked her to go along. "I haven't had four hours of sleep in the last two days. You go ahead. Lizzie and I need a nap."

Kurt's money was no good at Lola's that day. Once he slid into a booth with Bernie and Fuzz Waldorf, free drinks stacked up around him like pigeons at a popcorn stand.

"Did you even _suspect_ the old man was Artie Coogan?" Fuzz asked over the surrounding din from well-wishers.

"Not till I saw the picture of Alfa."

Bernie leered from across the table. "My dad says she was the all-time hottie. Guys called her "the lay of the land."

Fuzz giggled. "Marcie was "the screw of the crew."

Boozy laughter poured from the booth.

"And old Arthur nailed 'em both and offed 'em both," Pooch Hoover mused. "What kind of a decadent son of a bitch fucks his sister and then his daughter?"

"You know what they say about absolute power." Kurt looked around at blank faces. Apparently no one did.

Gary Benson came to the rescue. "If I had all the money in the world I wouldn't be banging my sister, I'll tell you that."

"If you had all the money in the world," somebody in the back replied. " _I'd_ be banging your sister."

They all joined in hoots and howls.

"I don't know," Willie Winters said. "My grampa told me nobody could live through that Coogan fire."

"Horseshit," another guy yelled.

Willie bristled. "My grampa drove the fire truck that night. He should know."

Pooch Hoover leaned over the table toward Willie. "This the same grampa who cornered Charley Starkweather?"

It was after three when Kurt managed to pull away from the revelers and head back to the apartment. He tried to shake off the half-dozen highballs he'd consumed by concentrating on all the things he had to get done before the wedding: rings, furniture for the house, notice to Cassie's landlord, notice to his boss in Chicago. _And how about a wedding gift?_

He couldn't remember a happier time in his adult life. _Let's have some music!_

He snapped on the radio, heard the last chorus from a Carrie Underwood song, then listened to the news. First, there was a nice story about the Rock Bluff murders being solved with ample mention of him and Cassie. Unfortunately, there was more:

"The man charged with the murders has disappeared from Sacred Heart Hospital in Falls City," the reporter said. "Arthur Coogan, alias Josh Malloy—or vice versa—was taken to the emergency ward after his arrest early Monday morning by Coogan County authorities. He was thought to be immobile, with a broken leg in a full cast. But when a nurse checked on him early this morning, he was gone from the room. Police have launched an all-out manhunt in the Falls City area."

"That son of a _bitch!_ " Kurt screamed. He didn't need to work on sobering up any longer.

Chapter Sixty-Two

When he came down the alley to Cassie's parking space behind the apartment building, he found it occupied by an older Pontiac, a small one with a badly dented fender and a license plate showing that it was registered in Lincoln.

_Cassie's brother_?

"Hi," Cassie said as she got up from the couch when he came in. "This is Cob Eaton, Kurt... an old friend." Her voice seemed a little strident, her laugh shallow.

An athletic-looking man about Cassie's age, taller than Kurt and every bit as handsome, stood from his seat beside Cassie and shook Kurt's hand.

Kurt looked the man in the eye. "From Lincoln?"

"Went to school with Cassie." He had a steely smile, a firm handshake—and sneaky eyes.

Kurt motioned for him to sit back down. "You were friends in high school?"

Eaton sat beside Cassie again on the couch. They laughed. "And college."

"A _good_ friend."

Kurt noticed Cassie's cheeks were flushed.

Her eyes stayed on Eaton. "He saw the story about us in the Lincoln paper."

"I've been looking for Cassie for a long time," Eaton said. "Nobody would tell me where she moved."

Cassie giggled. "I told him they weren't keeping it secret. I just never mentioned it to anybody."

"Well, I was damn glad to see your picture in the paper." Eaton patted her leg.

"What do you do for a living, Cob?" Kurt asked.

"I tend bar right now. Duffy's Tavern in Lincoln."

"Remember it well," Kurt said. "Sipped many a brew in a booth at Duffy's when I was in school."

"Cob's going _back_ to school." Cassie announced proudly.

Kurt nodded. "Grad school or haven't you finished yet?"

"I dropped out a couple years ago. Needed to get my bearings."

"Kurt was an athlete too," Cassie told Eaton.

"Yeah," Cobb said. "I think I remember readin' about you when I was a kid. Had some pretty good teams in those days."

"We did okay in Class B."

"Me and Cassie went to Lincoln Northeast. 'Course us big guys put our pants on same as you little-towners. One leg at a time, you know?"

_Yeah. I know_. Kurt pursed his lips.

"I told Cob all about Kate and the others," Cassie said. "How you found the Greeley place, the old man."

They talked about the murders for a few minutes.

"I'm gonna be a lawyer." Cob put his feet up on the coffee table. "In a few years."

Kurt checked around the room. "Where's Lizzie?"

"Taking a nap," said Cassie. "I just put her down fifteen minutes ago. Cob got here right after you left. We had to have lunch... one thing, another."

Kurt crossed his arms over his chest. "Cob's been here since noon?"

"We had a lot of catching up to do." Eaton gave Kurt a broad grin, then patted Cassie's leg again. "That little Lizzie's a beauty, isn't she? Probably be the prettiest girl in school."

Kurt looked from Eaton to Cassie and back. "You're her father?"

Cob beamed. "I think she kind of resembles me."

_Maybe it's the whisker stubble_.

Cassie kept her gaze glued to the floor.

Kurt looked at Eaton. "You didn't know about her till today?"

"Not really."

Kurt frowned, cocked his head slightly.

"I mean, Cassie told me she was pregnant and then just disappeared."

"Probably buoyed by your supportive response," Kurt said.

The smile dropped from Eaton's face. "What's that mean?"

"Cob was upset when I told him," said Cassie. "He had a right to be."

"I had football, the fraternity," Eaton whined. "I got confused."

Cassie shook her head. "It was my fault. I misunderstood." She bit a fingernail. "I lost my head and just ran."

Kurt uncrossed his legs and sat back with a sigh. "Well, I guess late beats never."

"That's what I figure." Eaton flashed a cocky, mouth-open grin.

"I'm glad you found us." Kurt wanted to spit, but he turned to Cassie. "You tell Cob about our plans?"

Cassie met his eyes, then looked away. "I don't think we're going to be able to do that."

Kurt's eyes narrowed to slits. He felt dizzy. All the booze mixed with summer sausage and crackers had him screwed up. _What_ _?_ "We're not gonna be able to do what?"

She glanced at Cobb, then at her hands again. "Cob needs to be part of Lizzie's and my life now."

"He can see Lizzie," Kurt said. "We'll be living right here in Rock Bluff."

Cobb took Cassie's hand. "We been planning to get married since we were freshmen in high school."

Kurt's throat felt tight. He had to swallow. He looked at Cassie for some sign that it was all a big joke.

She kept her attention on the hand Cobb was holding.

"You're gonna marry _him_?" Kurt asked.

Cassie nodded, then spoke just above a whisper. "I think that would be best."

Kurt shot forward to the edge of his seat. "You haven't seen the son of a bitch in almost three years!" He was on his feet. "He _abandoned_ you, for Christ's sake!"

Cobb stood. "I explained about that."

Kurt shoved Eaton back onto the couch. "Sit down, you useless piece of shit!"

Cassie jumped between them. "Kurt! Please don't! Fighting won't help! Why don't you just go till Cob leaves? We'll talk about it tonight."

Eaton glared at Kurt from the couch, although he remained seated. "And you're moving outta here, Asshole!" Cassie remained standing between him and Kurt. "I know you been sleeping in the guest bed and all that. But I want you _gone_ now! Out!"

Kurt opened and closed his fists.

"Please, Kurt." She slid down beside Eaton on the couch. "He's going back to school. He'll make a good life for us."

Kurt swallowed again, wracking his brain. He paced to the front window. As promised, Butch Holmeir had parked the fully repaired Taurus at the curb. Kurt turned to Cassie. "You're _sure_?"

A tear ran down Cassie's cheek. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I've always loved him. I can't help it." As Eaton leaned down to kiss her, she deftly slipped away and hurried to the bathroom.

Chapter Sixty-Three

By six o'clock that night Kurt had said his goodbyes in Rock Bluff and was headed east across Iowa on Interstate 80. A case of Budweiser and two bags of potato chips sat on the seat beside him. He planned to drive until he ran out of one or the other, then get more of both and find a motel.

He couldn't put Cassie out of his mind: her face, her smile, the sound of her little laugh, her enticing blue eyes, the feel of her flesh. Would he ever again find such a woman? _Hell, I never thought I'd find_ one _..._ _._

_What was it she said?_ _I'm sorry, Kurt. I've always loved him. I can't help it._ That was true, he was certain. Cobb Eaton had her soul between his thumb and forefinger; all he had to do was squeeze. She'd have his babies, clean his house, pay his debts, give him sex and feed his ego until she died from the strain or he deserted her. Cassie's love was one of God's great blessings, and that aimless deadbeat would soak it up and piss it away like cheap wine.

He opened a beer. He was going to hurt for a long time, he knew that. _Might as well get used to it._ He took a long swig from the bottle. _Cold. Good_.

He thought about Vic Rathe. That hurt, too. They'd been close since grade school, and Kurt had cherished the friendship, but like his brief life with Cassie, it was over.

His three weeks in Rock Bluff hadn't all been a loss, he told himself. He had proven that he was not a coward and that he could, if he chose, be a damn good investigator. It was important for him to know that. And for the people of his hometown to know it too.

They weren't all rubes and bumpkins as he'd so often thought. Most were honest, caring human beings who worked hard and lived by their beliefs. Good people. Salt of the earth, as his mom used to say. Knowing that he once again enjoyed respect in the community was a comfort.

But he couldn't stand to live there again, not for another moment. Everywhere he looked he'd be reminded of Cassie and his dreams for their life together. Dreams like spring snow flakes, gone before they hit the ground.

He took another swallow of beer. A big one. The alcohol felt good working into his system. He belched.

He thought about Arthur Coogan, wherever he was. Unless the old pervert came forward at some point to tell his story for the entire world to hear, the curse would live on forever in Coogan County.

At that moment, Kurt was almost ready to admit being wrong about the curse. Maybe it really did exist. Not for the whole county, just for David Kurtis McBride. The fates that made him a favorite son as he grew to manhood in Rock Bluff seemed determined not to let him find happiness there as an adult. Why? Was it his selfishness? His pride? Or was thinking about "the fates" just backwoods superstition?

The highway ahead, rimed on both sides with deep snow, seemed to run on forever. Chicago was seven hours away; spring was even farther. And the answers to the questions in his head? _It'll probably take a lifetime to work those out_.

Ends

About the Author

Larry Long is a 1962 and '63 graduate of the University of Nebraska. He has been writing professionally all his adult life. In his career he has worked as a writer-producer-director at WMVS/WMVT, Milwaukee; WTTW, Chicago; the Nebraska ETV Network; and Wisconsin Public Television. Programs he has scripted for those institutions, several featured on PBS, received Midwest (Chicago) Emmys, Corporation for Public Broadcasting Awards and Addys among some 100-plus citations for excellence. He lives and works out of his home in Sahuarita, Arizona, a sun-soaked residential community south of Tucson. Visit his website at Larry Long Fiction.

