

The Color of Sin

by Paul Westwood

Copyright 2014 Paul Westwood

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Chapter 1

It was supposed to have been a nice and quiet evening at home. My current home being an old warehouse that I had personally converted into apartments. I, of course, had kept the entire top floor and left the space underneath empty so I wouldn't be bothered by the worst impulses of humanity: noise. The other units brought in a tidy income though I purposefully kept the rents low enough to keep out the neuvo-rich. Instead, the building was populated with artists, workers, and a mish-mash of hustlers and conmen. They were the type of people who kept to themselves and weren't always asking questions about the landlord above. Instead they were quite happy to get entrance to such a secure building at an affordable price. And considering the area we lived in, D Street Avenue in Las Vegas, a little safety went a long way.

I was sitting on the sofa with my legs up on the footrest and half a Gimlet at my elbow. On my lap was a tablet. I was scrolling through a map app, trying to find the best way to drive out of this town. July was coming, which meant the hottest part of the year. A vacation was due, and I was entertaining the thought of taking my car on an extended tour of Oregon. I really didn't want to leave - I liked this town - but I was overcome with a feeling of restlessness. I had been bored as of late, which often happens in my line of work.

In the corner of my eye, I saw the graceful movement of Melodie Glass, who was working on some new dance moves. She had come over for the privacy and the fact that I had a massive space to practice in. The huge JE Labs speakers and exotic Mark Levinson electronics were an additional bonus. The high-revved pop music sounded dismal to my ears, but she seemed to enjoy the fidelity as she stretched and contorted her dancer's body into moves that only can be done by top-level gymnasts or professional strippers. She was the latter sort.

Melodie was pale with long black hair, smooth skin, and a face that revealed an Asian ancestor. She was skinny but well-endowed on top – work done by a good plastic surgeon – and had the well-muscled legs of someone who moved all day for a living. She was wearing a faded black leotard with red legwarmers. Her hair was pulled back and kept in place with a hair clip. Though taller than your average woman, she was still a few inches shorter than me.

She was working her body hard. If I had installed a stripper pole, I'm sure she would have been sweating even harder. But instead, she was practicing her floor routine, the gyrations meant to keep the dollar bills coming. With the stiff competition in Vegas, the men and women who made their living at exotic dancing, Melodie made sure to stay in shape and keep her dances fresh. Even with the air conditioning running at full blast, there was a slight odor of perspiration. From the track lighting above I could see a gleam of sweat on her exposed skin.

I put the tablet down and took a sip of my drink. Lime juice mixed with gin had a wonderful way of sharpening the senses. As I drank, I saw Melodie stop. She went over to the CD player and turned off the power, sending a momentary thump through the speakers. I frowned, knowing that something serious was on her mind.

"Devon?"

"Yes?" I replied as I set my drink back down.

She took a step closer. "Is it true what people say about you?"

"What do people say?"

"That you help people in need."

"I don't think I've ever been called charitable."

"You know what I mean."

I gave her a half of a smile. "Yes, it's true that I help those who can't help themselves. Of course there has to be some profit in it." I vaguely pointed at the luxury furnishings and the expensive rug at our feet. "This sort of stuff doesn't come cheap. I am, after not, not running a charity here. But there are some rules to the game. The first, of course, is that I won't go killing for money. The second is that I won't harm the innocent, though the latter is questionable since I have never met anyone who is truly innocent."

"You're the most cynical man I've ever met," she purred.

"I prefer the word experienced. But I did not earn my money by doing anything that is unethical – within the confines of what I consider ethical, that is."

She leered at me. "That leaves a wide range of possibilities, honey." She instantly turned serious again. "Maybe you really could help a friend of mine. Her name is Cleora Kinney. She's a co-worker of mine at the Pussycat Lounge. She's only been there a few days and anyone can tell that she isn't cut out for the life. But I do know that she needs help and I can't think of anyone but you."

I scratched my chin in thought. After a few moments of this, I said, "I wasn't exactly planning to be in town for very much longer. Anyway, I'm not hurting for money right now."

"This is something interesting."

"What is it?" I asked, taking the bait.

"Last night, after our shift was done, we got to drinking and talking. After a few beers she opened up and told me everything. We're talking a lot of money here."

"A few thousand dollars? A hundred thousand?"

"Maybe it would be better if you would talk to her yourself. I would hate to tell you the wrong thing and have you turn down the job. She can explain it better than I can."

"Now you've got me interested."

She closed the space between us with a few sultry steps – all hips and doe-like eyes. It was a good performance that got my heart racing, even though I knew the act was as false as a street bought Rolex.

She said, "That's the point, honey. She'll be here in a few minutes."

"What?"

She reached over and ran a hand through my hair. "Don't worry, you'll like her. Everyone does." She then sauntered off, showing her backside to good effect. She went back to the stereo, turned the CD back on, and began to dance to the rhythm of the music.

I returned my attention to the Gimlet. I took a drink and tasted nothing. I was too busy being angry with Melodie to notice the flavor. I put the glass down and tried to return my attention to the map on the tablet. But the route I had chosen instead blurred and disappeared from my vision. Instead I busily thought of the possibilities: a changed will that left the poor girl out of a sizable estate, a drug dealing boyfriend, or some stolen merchandise that she knew about. Dancers like that were always making friends with rich men who wanted to share their wealth. What could be different with this woman?

The door buzzer went off. It was just barely audible over the thump of the music. I got up off the sofa, threw Melodie a nasty smile, and went to unlock the steel reinforced door. After that, it was a walk to the elevator that I had specially modified so that it took a code to access my two floors. As an extra precaution, the door leading to the staircase was locked with thick doors at the floor levels. With the wired alarm system I had installed myself; no one could get inside without me knowing. In case I was out of the building, I had a computer setup to send an email to my cellphone. This may all sound rather paranoid, but when you do my type of work, a little caution goes a long way.

The door to the elevator opened. I got inside, selected the ground floor, and waited impatiently as I was taken slowly down. In the entryway, I saw a young blonde waiting behind the door. The glass of this entryway was reinforced with chicken wire. The wood was thick and old, an original part of the warehouse. With a flourish, I opened the door and let her in.

"I'm Cleora," she said as she offered her hand.

"Devon Pierce," I replied. We shook. "Come right this way."

In silence, we rode up in the elevator. There I studied her. In profile she looked good. With small features, she looked more like a teenager than a woman who works the stage for a living. Her nose was straight and the color of her eyebrows matched the color of her blonde hair. She had honest to goodness freckles, blue eyes, and a page boy haircut. She was wearing a shapeless top and a black skirt that went down to the knees. Long white socks and tennis shoes added to the school girl effect. The calves had the muscled tone of a dancer. I could see why men would like her, but there was also a coldness there that would be hard to penetrate.

"Come right this way," I said as I opened the door to my apartment.

She went in and let out a gasp. It's a common enough reaction when new visitors see the wood floors, plush rugs, the paintings on the brick wall, the gleaming stereo, and the Herman Miller furniture. The entire effect was that of stylish modernity and was a far cry from the ghetto streets a few stories below us. This was my hideaway from the world and only trusted souls were allowed into the inner sanctum. Part of my annoyance with Melodie was giving access to her friend without my permission. But if you can't trust your friends, than whom can you trust?

"Are you a drug dealer?" Cleora asked.

Seeing the arrival of her friend, Melodie stopped the CD player. I noticed that this time she had done it correctly by using the buttons. She said, "No, and he's not part of the mob either. He's just a rich bastard."

I could see that this answer did nothing to clear up the confusion. I added, "I'm not that rich. But I do like to live comfortably. As for my income, I consider myself as a sort of an investor. This building, for example, used to be a warehouse. I provided apartments for the people of this neighborhood and in the process built a place for myself that I found comfortable. I also have other interests that meet my financial needs."

"But why this neighborhood? You could be living big in Summerlin." That was a more swank part of town.

Melodie answered, "Devon here isn't like other people. He likes to associate with conmen, junkies, and strippers. He thinks normal people are boring."

I nodded. "And their lives are rather boring without the sort of problems I find interesting. Perhaps I could help you."

Melodie said, "Cleora, why don't you tell Devon here all about your problem. I'll go shower and change." With those words, she went down the hallway and went into the bathroom. The sound of running water was immediately heard.

It was obvious that Cleora was feeling uncertain, so I went over to the bar and fixed her a drink. While I was pouring out the vodka, she sat down at the stool and waited until I was done. She gratefully accepted the screwdriver, taking a tentative sip.

She said, "I don't feel right being here. I mean what can anyone do for me?"

"I don't know anything about your situation so I can't possibly answer your question. But we could start at the beginning."

Cleora gave me a shy look, an honest to goodness inside view at the real woman underneath the veneer of the armor she must have developed in her line of work. I could see why Melodie said that this girl was not cut out for the job as an exotic dancer.

She finally said, "Okay, but this is going to sound a little crazy."

"Try me."

"My real name is Amy. Cleora is my professional name – everyone uses it except my sister. You see I was an army brat. That meant I never had a real home. Instead my family traveled from base to base. Five years ago, when I was eighteen, I got pregnant. This happened over in Henderson."

This was a suburb that southwest of Las Vegas.

"We were living in a little ranch home in a neighborhood Luckily my old man was off on his first tour in Afghanistan when I found out I was going to have a child or else there would have been hell to pay. The father of the baby was a boy named Timothy King who was an awkward kid I went to school with. There was nothing ever serious about us; instead we were just friends who liked to fool around. I don't know where he is now. I really don't care. So I had a little girl. She's named Madison. She's the only reason I came to you. I want her to go to college. I want her to have the things that I never had."

I nodded and didn't say anything. Now that she was on a roll there was no stopping her now.

"My father Bill Kinney was a captain in the Special Forces, doing some type of work for the government. It was all hush-hush, you know, top secret. We were never rich, that's for sure. But somehow when he was sent over to Afghanistan, he must have discovered some way to make money. I don't know what it was or how he got it back to the States, but that's not important. I know it had to be illegal, whatever he did. I mean they don't hand out free cash to soldiers, do they? But he was a hard man who thought he was the toughest thing on the planet. The older he got, the more he had to prove himself. A week after he returned from his final combat tour, he went out to the bar. He got into a fight with a younger man - some tough college football player. It must have been a lucky punch, because apparently my father just folded up like a house of cards when he got hit in the side of the head. He never regained consciousness. He died two days later."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She gave a shrug. "That was two years ago. I wasn't that sad at the time. And I'm not exactly grieving now."

"How did you find out about the money?"

"When Bill came back, he couldn't keep it a secret. He told my mother and my sister Kim and I that we were going to be rich soon. He also told us that we couldn't tell a soul. He made us promise."

I pursed my lips together. "Did your father tell you the source of this new found wealth?"

She shook her head and took another sip of her drink. "I thought he was making it up. Not that he was the sort of person to lie, but he came back from the war a changed man. He was a drunk. He was abusive toward my mother. He threatened my little girl. I thought he was telling us lies about the money to keep us happy."

I was skeptical now. "What made you change your mind? I mean one day you don't believe him and the next you're suddenly sure that there is a fortune just waiting for you."

"I'm getting there. Eight months ago a man named Keith Miller came to the door. He ended up staying with us. He claimed to have known my father over in Afghanistan; that they had served together in the Green Berets. He was just out of the army and looking for a job. My mother let him stay with us until he could get back on his feet. I wish she had thrown the bum out on his ass."

The sudden venom caught me by surprise. But before I could say anything, she continued on, her jaw tight and unyielding.

"Keith said he knew my father well. He said they had spent two tours together. He had no family and nowhere to go. At first he seemed so kind. He was good with his hands and really helped around the house. After a few weeks, he even got a job as a bouncer at the club I worked at in Henderson. He isn't a big guy but he's got muscle. I've seen him fight and toss out some real tough guys. I admit that it felt good to have someone strong around. He seemed to like me and my daughter quite a lot. And with my mother sick with lung cancer, my sister and I really needed him.

"In the end I fell in love with Keith. We might as well have been married, that's how close he was to me. He seemed to be a good man. And when mother died, Kim quit job as receptionist so she could take care of her two sons from a former marriage and my daughter. It was up to Keith and me to bring in the money. Things were tight and I was glad for all the help I could get from him. But there was some strange quirk about Keith that became quite bothersome. You see he loved to talk about my father. I thought he was just waxing nostalgic about an old comrade, wanting to know Bill's habits: where he liked to visit, or where my dad hunted, or what kind of work he had done around the house. Keith also took a real keen interest in gardening and found some excuse to dig up most of the yard. I didn't pay any attention to this until the day that he left."

"It sounds like he was looking for something," I commented dryly.

She took the final sip from her glass. The ice cubes were all melted. I also noticed that the water in the bathroom was off and Melodie hadn't come out yet.

"Whatever it was, he found it," she said. "One day I awoke and Keith was gone. He only took his personal stuff and never showed up at work. This was two months ago. To be honest, I wasn't all that surprised. I knew that he wasn't that good for me. But there was one strange thing that really got me shook up. In the back of that house was a patio that wasn't much larger than one of your rugs. It was made with old flagstones. One of them had been removed. Underneath was a hole that contained a scrap of canvas that was olive green. I can tell you that it didn't take too many leaps of the imagination to put the pieces together. Something, perhaps that money my father talked so much about, had been hidden there.

"I was angry as hell. I thought I would never see Keith again. I had to quit my job at Henderson and come to Vegas to get a better paying job. But just last week, after I had gotten out my shift at my new job at the Pussycat Lounge, I was driving home. I saw him outside of the Sands casino, pulling some breezy redhead out of a new Lexus with temporary tags. She looked high maintenance and much too rich for a man like him. Before I could find a parking spot, the two of them disappeared inside. I searched around the casino but didn't see them. I ended up camping in the lobby. It was an hour later when he came out with that woman. Like a fool, I ran after him, demanding all sorts of explanations. He practically ran away, dragging that bitch with him. They hopped into that car and took off. I ran to my car and started following them. Two blocks later, he dropped her off at the entrance of a ritzy condo called Eastgate. After that, I lost him in the traffic. I think he knew that I was following him."

"And you think he found the money that your father hid? Perhaps he just shacked up with a new woman."

Cleora actually blushed. "I can tell you that Keith isn't the type who can a snooty woman fall for him. He's different – uneducated and good with his hands. He's no gigolo."

I let out a small sigh of exasperation. "It's a general observation of mine that woman of all classes aren't particular when it comes to a man's background. If they like what they see, then they'll try and get him."

"You don't know Keith. He's a brute. And I'm not just saying that out of hatred. He can be tender and even sweet, but there's an anger inside of him that is downright scary. I have the scars to prove it. No woman in her right mind would be with him long. As I said, I was glad when he was gone. I also got scared that he would come after me, once there weren't any witnesses around. He can be cruel if he thinks he's been wronged. I'm glad that I left Henderson."

"Can I see a picture of him," I asked.

She took out her cellphone and flicked through a few screens. She handed the device over. I looked at an image of a lean man with a narrow face, dark eyes, and a military haircut. He was standing next to the door of a house and wasn't smiling. Some woman would call him handsome, but I saw someone trying to hide the animal within.

"You no longer live with your sister?" I asked.

"No, I share an apartment with one of the girls from the Pussycat. It's easier that way. I send my extra money back to my sister, who is busy taking care of my daughter, and visit them on the weekends."

"Would you like another drink?"

She shook her head. "No thanks. So will you take on my case?"

"I'm not a private detective. Let me give it some thought and I'll get back to you."

Cleora dragged a cellphone out from the heavy purse that was still slung over her shoulder. "Would you like my number?"

"That won't be necessary at this time. I'll contact you through Melodie."

After that, I walked her down to the front entrance. I waited until she got into her car – a beat up Kia – and drove away. Deep in thought, I went back to the apartment. Once the door shut, I could hear the Melodie humming some unknown song. The sound was coming from the bedroom. I went there, walking gently on the sides of my feet.

"Hey," I said through the half-open door.

"Why don't you come in?" Her voice was low and filled with desire.

I took a few steps inside. With the gauze curtains across the windows, the room was dim. I could just see the Stickley bed and matching side tables with their Tiffany lamps. Lying on top of the bed was Melodie. She wasn't wearing anything at all except for a smirk. The look suited her quite well. She was propped up on a pair of pillows, her long black and wet hair leaving a dark stain on the cotton. There was no extra fat on this specimen, only toned but shapely muscles that only accentuated her natural curves. She wasn't shy about me looking either, but we had our fling in the past so there was nothing new that Melodie could share with me.

"So what do you think of my new friend?" she asked. She said the words casually as if we were talking on a street corner.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. "I like her. It appears that Cleora has led a tough life. But she still managed to find her way through. That proves she's got her head on right."

"I like her too. So will you help her out?"

"I've got to think about it. There is a lot I need to know before I can even begin to find out what was stolen from her."

"So do think really think that this Keith character did find something that her father buried in the backyard?"

"It seems plausible. Bill Kinney served in Afghanistan. To me that means poppies, opium, and heroin. With all the supplies being ferried back and forth, it wouldn't be that hard to smuggle some drugs into the country. You know as well as I do that it is a quick and dirty way to make some money."

Before I could react, Melodie grabbed my arm. I did not resist as he pulled me closer, guiding my hand to one of her perfectly formed breasts. That plastic surgeon really was a genius. But before my fingers touched the ruby hardness of her nipple, pulled back, easily breaking her grip.

"Damn it, Devon," she said sourly.

I rubbed my chin and stared into her dark eyes. "You know as well as I do, Melodie that the game is over between you and me. Anyway, I thought you had a new boyfriend."

"I do," she said nastily as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

"Hold on, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"It's too damn late," Melodie spat out. She ran out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where she slammed the door with enough force to make the internal walls shake. She was a strong girl.

I went back to the living room. There I began to paw through some records that were tucked inside a bookcase. I found a Handel record. I went over to the Goldmund turntable, turned it on and, after turning a few knobs, had some glorious baroque music pouring elegantly out of the speakers. I stood in front of the stereo and listened intently, trying not to think of what could have happened in that bedroom. Don't get me wrong, I liked Melodie quite a bit and felt like a fool for turning her down, but I also did not want to rekindle that old flame. Before we had broken up, things had gotten complicated. I was happy to be friends with her and didn't want anything more than that – or so I told myself.

When she finally came out of the bathroom, Melodie was dressed in her street clothes: a miniskirt, a red sleeveless top, and a pair of high heels. Her damp hair was twisted into two long braids. A plastic grocery bag containing her workout clothes were in hand. She looked shyly at me, unable to meet my eyes. This was so unlike her that I felt a moment of pity.

"A fight with Angelo?" This was Melodie's boyfriend, a small-time hustler who I personally disliked. Of course I generally didn't cotton to anyone who sold cocaine.

She nodded. "It was a bad one. I was just trying to prove something to myself. I'm sorry."

"It's no problem."

"I wish things had worked out between us. If they did, I wouldn't be stuck with Angelo. He can be such a bastard sometimes."

I raised an eyebrow. "So can I. Things weren't always smooth sailing between the two of us."

She frowned, her eyes misted with tears. "Angelo is my Keith. They both take advantage of women who are in need. But I can't help myself. That's why I feel so strongly about Cleora. You have to do something for her."

"I'll have to think about it," I said. "Come on, let's get you home."

I escorted her down to her car, a new Mini Cooper. A chaste kiss on the cheek and I sent her on her way. I watched the taillights recede into the maze of traffic. I could already feel the heat of the day slowly start to give away to the chill of the desert night. It would take hours of time but it was inevitable. Around me were the sounds of civilization: people talking, the thud of a car door shutting, and the low rumble of an airplane flying overhead. But I was far away from all of that. Instead I was thinking that I needed some time and space to forget. And only then could I make a decision.
Chapter 2

It was morning. I had spent the evening listening to music and uselessly going through the map on the tablet. The vacation I had in mind was slipping away, replaced by a new challenge. It was one that I could not turn down. So after a night of restless sleep, I had a breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs. Once I consumed enough coffee to start the old brain, I showered and dressed in a conservative gray suit with a white shirt, black loafers, and a red tie. A look in the mirror and I saw a man of higher than average height, a square jaw with a day of stubble, dark brown hair, and blue eyes. I could easily pass for a mid-level manager, or some tourist trying to impress the local waitress.

When I was finished with the morning routine, I headed down the flight of stairs, moving quickly down the steps until my heart was beating fast. I was feeling good by the time I opened the door to the garage. I looked at my truck, a rather decrepit black Ford F-150, and decided that it wouldn't fit the character I was playing. Instead, I took the silver Chevy Impala, a bland sedan more fitting of the middle-class. It was also the sort of car that no one looked at twice. Mine was actually the V8 model that had been modified on the outside to look more like a Plain Jane rental. There was no reason to crow about the available power under the hood.

I started the car up. After I hit the remote for the security gate, I drove out and headed toward the nearest Lexus dealership which was over on the west side of town. The traffic this Saturday morning was light and it only took a few minutes of sedate driving to reach my destination. It was your usual car lot filled with shiny new models in the front and the more haggard cars pushed off to the side like unwanted children. I found a customer parking spot, got out of the Impala, and began to walk the line of parked sedans. It was only a brief moment of time when a salesman came bounding out of the front door to offer his assistance.

He was nearing middle-age with the accompanying bulge in the stomach and receding hairline. He was dressed in a polo shirt and khaki pants. His skin was tan and a broad grin exposed the whites of his teeth which were dazzling in the desert sun. After a firm handshake, we were suddenly the best of friends.

"I'm Rob Hart. Looking for anything special?"

I slapped a most eager expression on my face. "I just got a real nice bonus check. I thought it would be a good time to buy the missus a new car."

The salesman glanced at my poor Chevy which looked distinctly out of place in all this opulence. Pointing to a nearby car, he said carefully, "The ES330 is a nice little automobile. Rides real smooth too. It will come fully loaded with leather and satellite radio. It would be perfect for your little lady."

I pretended to give this some thought. "Well I don't know. Do you have anything a little bit bigger? I mean when I drive a car I like to have plenty of legroom. It's hell hauling four kids around, even with a minivan. A trip to Disneyland just puts a crick into my back like you wouldn't believe."

Hart studied me closer, glancing at my shoes as if expecting to find dog shit. "Perhaps an SUV?" he asked uneasily, the quick friendship between us beginning to dissipate.

I took a few steps and touched the hood of a nearby LS460. "What about this fine beauty?" I asked.

"You do know how much these cars cost, don't you?"

"Plenty," I replied, giving my voice a rougher edge. "But I will want a special deal like you gave my friend."

"Your friend?"

"Yes. His name is Keith Miller. Do you know him?"

The mention of that name made Hart stiffen. He tried to cover it up by giving me an awkward smile, but by then I knew I had hit the jackpot. Of course there was only one Lexus dealership in Las Vegas, so my bet had been an easy one. Of course Keith could have traveled out to the suburbs to buy from another lot, but a man suddenly flush with money wouldn't have bothered.

"No, I don't," he finally said once he had regained control of himself.

"I'm sure you would have remembered him. He would have paid cash. I aim to do the same thing if the deal is right."

The man blinked a few times and then the broad smile returned. "Well that's different. I can offer you MSRP. Of course it's a bit of extra paperwork, but we can go back to my office and work out the details."

I took another stab in the dark. "Like my friend, I'm not exactly keen on having this transaction reported to the IRS. He told me you made did some special wrangling so there wouldn't be any chance of that happening. Do you understand me?"

Hart looked around the lot as if we were being listened to by the FBI. His voice lowered, he said, "It will cost you extra. But yes, I can do it for you."

"What kind of bonus for your services are we talking about?"

"An extra ten thousand for myself on top of my commission. In cash."

"Don't kid yourself," I said nastily. "I'll give you five and you'll like it."

My sudden change caught the salesman by surprise. He said, "I don't know. I've got expenses and it's not exactly safe to be cooking the books like this."

"You did it for Keith, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I didn't do it for a measly five-thousand dollars, no matter what your friend said."

"Yeah, he is a bit of a braggart, telling me what a great deal he got from you. But I'll compromise with you – I'll give you eight for your trouble."

Hart nodded, looking a bit happier than before. "We can start the paperwork now," he suggested.

"I'll go get the money first," I said as I started walking toward my car.

"What was your name again?" he asked.

"I didn't tell you for a reason," I replied. I opened the car door, slid inside and started the engine. When I drove away, I could see Hart in the rear view mirror, staring at the back of my car. He looked worried.

I drove back to my apartment. After parking the car I went upstairs and changed to my workout clothes. One floor down was my buffer space between the other units in the building. It was a cavernous room that was filled with exercise equipment. I spent every day here, either weightlifting or running the treadmill. After selecting a suitable album to listen to in the portable player, I first did some light bench pressing and then hit the squat rack. As I felt the pressure of the barbell against my back, I thought of what I had learned from my trip to the dealership.

First of all, it appeared that Keith Miller really had come into some money. No bouncer is buying luxury cars with cash unless they are dealing in something illegal. He must have sounded out several dealerships until he found one that was unscrupulous enough to swing a deal that wouldn't involve the IRS. This indicated someone who was familiar with criminal activities and hiding income; something that I knew quite a bit about myself. Of course any real conman would have purchased a less conspicuous car than a Lexus, and they certainly wouldn't trust someone like Rob Hart. Keith was a small-time hustler then, the sort who had perhaps already seen the inside of jail at least once. That didn't make him any less dangerous, just someone who was running mostly on instinct.

When I was done with my workout, I went back upstairs and took a quick shower. I changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I turned on the stereo and treated myself to _The Wild Swans_ , a long time sentimental favorite of mine. As that played in the background, I thawed a steak from the freezer, and then fried it up in a pan, a heresy for the charbroiled boys, but I prefer to taste the meat, not burnt wood. Some steam broccoli and a beer rounded out the meal. When I was finished eating, I tidied up the kitchen and then flipped the record over to listen to the other side.

I sat on the sofa and thought of all the questions I had. I had plenty more for Cleora and even some for her sister. I would also like to know more about Bill Kinney and the sort of business he got up to while overseas. That would shed some light on the type of product that Keith had cashed out on. The obvious answer was cash that had been earned through the selling of drugs. But why would Kinney bury that in the back yard when a safer place, like an inside wall or even a bank safe deposit box would do?

That would have been a better, especially if he was really concerned about the well-being of his family. If cash was ruled out, that left drugs, jewels, and precious metals. Any of those three would require a middleman, the first being the most dangerous of them all. But even the last two could be trouble if the dealer was unscrupulous.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the sofa. I napped. I listened to a few records and paged through a number of websites; just passing the time away. After a dinner of chicken breast with homemade wine sauce, asparagus fried with olive oil, and a glass of wine, I began to prepare for an evening out.

I went to the bathroom and looked myself in the mirror. Since I was heading for a meaner neighborhood, I combed my hair back, giving it a rougher look. I then splashed on some cheap cologne. In the bedroom, I found an old foam trucker hat and a brown hooded sweatshirt. I removed my t-shirt. I wasn't expecting any trouble at this stage of the game, but also didn't want to be caught flatfooted either. In the dresser drawer was a plastic knife – no, not something you would find in a cafeteria – but made of hard ABS and with a sharped end with a serrated edge. Using a roll of black tape, I attached the blade to the spot between my shoulder blades. It was one place that most people, even the police, skip when giving a pat down. After I dressed, I put on my Doc Marten steel toe boots which added another inch to my considerable height.

I then went to the living room and sat down again, trying not to get carried away by the scent of the hunt. There was always a thrill when I had a new quarry - an additional excitement that was a good departure from my normal, regulated existence. I waited with the lights off and only got up when the orange glow of the summer sun had disappeared under the horizon. It was Saturday night, the time when Vegas came alive with a blaze of neon. The red carpet was out and the carnival barkers were on the sidewalk, trying to pull in the rubes for an overpriced thrill.

I locked up and set the alarm. I went down to the garage and started up the worn-looking pickup truck. My foot touched the pedal and I gave the engine a few revs. The warble of the supercharged Ford Lightning crate motor sounded like magic. With the manual transmission and sticky tires out back, I could jump ahead of just about anything except the most dedicated sports cars. It was a fun combination of power that had surprised more than a few unwitting drivers. No one suspected that such a dirty old truck had that kind of mill. I pulled out of the garage and soon found myself in the throng of traffic heading toward the Strip.

The light and flash from the casinos was almost blinding - all neon and moving signs. It was bright enough that even daylight seemed pale in comparison. It was artificial glamor of no lasting quality, meant to keep the visitors distracted from the realization that they were being fleeced. If your idea of a good time is all-you-can-eat buffets, crowded sidewalks, noisy hotel rooms, and the minimal chance of striking it rich, then Vegas is the place for you. It was, of course, all a shallow sham but still the tourists kept on coming. Like moths to the flame they would keep on coming until the electricity ran out or money was outlawed. It was just a taste of an exotic life that few ever attained and no one really loved.

The roads here were thick with traffic. I circled around a few times until I found a good parking space. No one paid me any attention as I got out of the truck and joined the crowds. It was all laughter and toothy smiles; everyone on the make as if trying to find some adventure in this one-dimensional town. A few blocks later and the streets became a little meaner. I sauntered over to the Pussycat Lounge and gave the bouncer a familiar nod. He was a big man with a shaved head and arms thicker than my thighs. He gave me an uneasy smile and let me pass without even a cursory examination.

It was loud inside, the rhythmic music pumping out of the ceiling-mounted speakers. It was also dim, nothing but stage lights and a rotating disco ball. There was a narrow stage that jutted into rows of tables. A long bar of dark wood and stools bolted to the floor took up most of the left side of the room. It was crowded, the stage busy with several dancers in various states of undress, gaudy clinging clothes at the most or just a thong at the least. The seats on the floor below were packed with customers with hard eyes and drunken laughter. There was a scent of barely restrained lust in the air; the frustrated sexuality of men not getting what they really wanted. Like a poor shopper, they could look and even touch, but rarely buy.

After my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I spotted an empty booth in the back that was far away from the action. After I was seated, a waitress stopped by. I knew her as Anne. Though dressed more demurely than the strippers, she was still had to wear extremely short skirts with nylons and a stiff white shirt that glowed under the black lights.

"Hello, Dev," she said. "What are you drinking tonight?"

I pretended to think about it, even though the answer was always the same. "I gimlet will do. And make sure it is made with Rose's lime juice and Plymouth gin."

"As always," she said as she jotted down my order inside a notebook.

I peered at the dancers working the floor, earning their dollar bills. "When is Cleora coming on?"

"Oh, a new love interest? Whatever happened to you and Melodie?"

Other than my eyebrows rising slightly, the rest of my expression remained impassive. "I had no idea I was the topic of gossip."

She laughed. "There's nothing else to do around here but gossip. And even though you're familiar here, no one really knows you. I mean a man dressed like a factory worker who talks like a professor, orders top-shelf gin, and manages to date the prettiest girl here is going to draw some attention."

"There's nothing mysterious about me, I can assure you of that."

"If you say so," Anne said. "But your new friend will be out once Melodie is done with her act." With those words, the waitress then disappeared to fill my order.

I frowned, chiding myself for becoming known here. I was getting sloppy. I would have to find another place to hang out soon and stay under the radar. There was always a chance that if my name popped up, let's say during a police investigation, that could mean all sorts of trouble. I wanted privacy, not to be at the beck and call of some government official or, even worse, the tax man. My thoughts were cut off by a voice that came over the speakers.

It was the DJ announcing the next act. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Pussycat is proud to present Melodie. I want to hear a big round of applause!"

There was a scattering of clapping from the audience. And then a hush as the woman in question strode out with a fully-grown tiger on a chain. The two of them got an eyeful of awe as they made a slow sensuous circuit past the stripper poles and along the length of the stage. This was no small town strip joint, this was Vegas. With a slow turn, she then led the cat offstage and handed it off to a helper. The pace of the music quickened and rose in volume as Melodie leaped to the nearest pole and began to writhe and stretch. She had the attention of everyone in the building.

Anne delivered my drink.

I barely noticed her, but dug out a ten dollar bill from my wallet. I handed it over and had to shout over the music to tell her to keep the change.

Melodie was working hard as she moved with practice ease. Her legs wrapped the pole tightly as she flung her arms out and slowly circled down to the ground. A kick away and then she did a graceful pair of splits. Even with all these motions, her eyes remained alive and the expression was that of someone falling in love. Or at least that's what I imagined since at this distance I could not clearly see her, but I had seen her act enough to know that she was a professional: part actress, part dancer, and full-time seducer. Minute after minute, a piece of clothing was removed until nothing remained but a black thong. When Melodie was finished the crowd broke into an enthusiastic applause with additional whistles and catcalls. She gave a little bow and left, her hips moving with perfect syncopation.

"And thank you, Melodie!" the DJ's voice crackled over the speakers. "She'll visit our fine patrons next, so make sure to have your tips ready! And next up is our newest dancer, Cleora!"

I remembered to take a sip of my drink. The bartender had used a touch too much lime juice, but it was still passable. I watched with curiosity as Cleora came out. There was no tiger or blasting music. Instead the speakers above poured out a gentle ballad. She hooked a leg to the stripper pole and swung her body slowly up, moving awkwardly. Compared to the previous dancer, she looked shy and gawky. But still there was a lovely charm, like a virgin getting ready for her wedding night. In a strange way it was more erotic than the experienced motions of Melodie. When her dance was over, and she scampered away wearing nothing but high-cut white panties, the crowd let out a collective sigh as if it had just glimpsed a more innocent time in their lives.

The DJ came on to announce the next act.

Someone slid into the seat across from me. It was Melodie. Her bare breasts moved up and down as she breathed. Like any experienced exotic dancer she did not seem very self-conscious of her nakedness.

"Good evening, Devon. I'm surprised to see you here."

"How could I go another day without seeing you?"

She smiled grimly at me, her eyes flashing a spark of anger that quickly died. She was remembering that I had recently shot her down. "I thought you would be out of Vegas by now. So have you decided to help Cleora out?"

I nodded. "Do you want something to drink?"

"No, I've got to go work the crowd first, but you can treat me when I get back."

"It'll be my pleasure."

She gave me a grin that was all teeth. "So what do you think of Cleora's moves? She isn't that quick on her feet."

I shrugged. "She has promise."

"Yeah, if you mean the sweet girl act. That won't last. It never does."

"Did you come here just to badmouth her or do you have something else to say?"

She laughed. "I just wanted to know if you are really the bastard that I think you are or if there really is a heart beating inside of you."

"Perhaps a little bit of both," I replied.

"That's a good as answer that I'll get out of you. But I'm happy that you've decided to help her. I have to go now, but I'll have one of the waitresses tell Cleora that you are here."

"Thanks," I said, putting more meaning into my gratitude than she expected.

Her face softened. Melodie slid out of the booth and said, "I'll be seeing you around, Dev."

I wouldn't swear to it, but I thought I saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. That made me feel rotten inside. But I didn't chase after her. That chapter of my life was over. Instead I watched as she approached the nearest table, which was filled with drunken louts. She soon had them laughing at her jokes as she gathered a fistful of dollar bills for lap dances. I felt a sick jealousy that was tempered by reality. We could never be together without eventually breaking into a nasty fight. That would never do. So I nursed my drink and waited.

My wait wasn't long. Cleora came to the booth. She was wearing a silvery robe that was nearly translucent. She sat down across from me, looking shy.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello, Mr. Pierce. Why are you here?"

"I've made my decision. I want to help you."

"Really? That's wonderful!"

"Don't get too excited. If there is any money left over from Keith's spending, I will want twenty-five percent of it along with any expenses that occur."

"That sounds fair."

"I've done a little research and came to the conclusion that this Keith Miller did steal something from you. What it is, I cannot say, but it may be something illegal."

"I don't want to be involved with anything that was stolen."

"We don't know that yet, but the possibility is there. I would, however, like to visit your home in Henderson and talk to your sister."

"Why? Would could she have to do with this?"

"It's a matter of impressions. I want to know what she thought of Keith. And there is another matter. I want to see how this mysterious item or items were hidden."

"Tomorrow is Sunday. That's when I usually visit."

"Good. I would also like to know if any of your father's friends live in the area. I would like to talk to them and see what I can find out. The more the better. Are there any letters or anything like that?"

"That could be. My father would send my mom emails almost every week. Her old laptop might still have the password for her account."

"Good, I'll pick you up in the morning. Give me your address."

"I would prefer to meet at your place. My apartment isn't the type that I want friends to see."

I gave in to this idea. "Outside my building at ten in the morning."

"I'll be there."

Cleora then pulled herself out of the booth. I noticed that the silvery material clung to her body in interesting ways. With one last glance in my direction, she went to go work the crowd.
Chapter 3

Cleora sat quietly next to me as I navigated the Impala through the confines of Las Vegas and onto the highway. We were making good time. There wasn't much traffic; no surprise considering that it was Sunday morning. Those of faith were sitting in the pews of their church of choice while us sinners were nursing hangovers. I only felt a little bleary-eyed while my passenger would let out an occasional involuntary whimper of pain from the effects of her late night job. Looking at her, one would never guess what she did for a living. Her hair was wrapped up in baseball cap while her makeup was carefully applied. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and a pair of black yoga pants, looking more like college student or a young mother out on errands. Our conversation had been stilted; almost formal. I wondered why until I was taken with an idea.

"It doesn't matter," I started out after a long dry spell of talk.

"What doesn't?"

"I mean I don't care that you work as a dancer. It didn't bother me when I dated Melodie and it certainly doesn't bother me now."

She gave me a sidelong glance. "It isn't you, Devon, it's me. I feel so damn immoral every time I go home and see my kid. She thinks I'm a model doing photographs for a fashion magazine. At least that's what I told her."

I kept my eyes on the road as I responded. "Don't let it get to you. I mean you are doing what you can to provide for her. That's all that matters in the end."

"Melodie told me that you were a funny man."

"I assume you two weren't discussing my sense of humor. Are there any other personality traits of mine that you two discussed?" There was a moment of silence. I gave her a quick look and saw that she was blushing. As Melodie said, the good girl act can only go so far.

When she finally responded, her voice was uneven. "She said you were good in bed. But she also said you were kind and generous, or that you could be if you were in the right mood. Otherwise you were a quiet bastard, to use her own words, who wouldn't care if the world ended today."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said dryly.

We were out of Las Vegas proper. The casinos, hotels, and restaurants gave way to strip malls and houses packed together so closely that the owners were sitting in each other's laps. I suppose such an arrangement was slightly better than living in the average apartment, but for the cost it hardly seemed worth the effort.

As we got closer to Henderson, Cleora became more animated, telling me where to turn. It was obvious that she was excited to see her daughter. I took an exit and then we went down a crowded side road and, at her direction, parked in front of a modest ranch home. It was an odd little place with pale green siding on top and a basement covered in red brick that just poked halfway out of the ground. There was a sorry looking cactus garden and set of concrete steps that led up to the front door. Parked in the driveway was an old blue Dodge Minivan with peeling paint. They certainly weren't living big here, but by the condition of the neighboring homes, neither was anyone else.

With Cleora taking the lead, we went inside. In front of the television, which was turned off, were three children noisily playing a board game. After seeing us, a cute blonde separated herself and went running to Cleora and hugged her tightly. This was Madison, her daughter. The two other children, a boy named Will and a girl named April, were pointed out. They didn't seem to care that I was there; I was just another adult to be ignored.

The furnishing here - a brown cloth sofa, floor lamp, a recliner, and coffee – looked decidedly abused, as did the carpeting underfoot. There was the smell of cooking in the air and the air-conditioning, a requirement in a desert state like Nevada, seemed to push the atmosphere around more than cool it. To the left, a hallway disappeared where the bedrooms and bathroom would be. At the back was a wide opening where the sound of running water and the clank of dishes being washed could be heard.

Cleora's sister Kim came in. She was wearing a pair of loose gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt that had been adorned with some type of food stain. Her skin was pale and her hair was brown. She was sloppier looking than her sibling; which wasn't surprising considering she was a frazzled mother chasing after three children. But the brown eyes revealed an innate kindness that hadn't been totally crushed by the demands put on her. A long vacation and a few weeks of working out would put a new spring into her step. But it would be several more years of parenting before she could indulge herself in such a fashion.

After the introductions were made, the adults retreated into the kitchen, leaving the children to their fun. Kim busied herself making a pot of coffee while Cleora and I found place to sit at the table. I inwardly cringed at the dirty linoleum floor and the pile of smelly dishes that hadn't been cleaned yet. We were soon all sitting together, drinking out of mismatched mugs.

Before I had a chance to talk, Kim asked, "Do you work with my sister?"

"No," I replied. "We have a common friend. I just happened to be going this way and offered her a ride."

"I see," she said. "I don't like what Amy, excuse me, Cleora, does for a living, so I'm glad she's not hanging out with some lecherous old man. At least you look normal."

"Looks can be deceiving, but I have no evil designs on your sister." That explanation seemed to satisfy her.

Cleora, looking embarrassed, asked "Do we still have mom's laptop?"

Kim answered, "I think so. Check in my bedroom. It should be on the side table, under the alarm clock."

Putting her coffee cup down, Cleora left. Kim and I stared at each other.

She said, "A man could do a lot worse than her."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't see a ring on your finger, and Cleora is quite beautiful. She's just had a run of bad luck when it comes to men. Maybe you can change that."

"Unlike Keith Miller?"

She looked at me with surprise. "So she told you about him?

"About everything there is to know, unless you can tell me more."

"I'm not sure if I should, but there isn't much to say except that Cleora really loved him. At the time she was so vulnerable that any man could come along and sweep her off her feet. It was just too bad that it had to be Keith. He was all fast talk and busy hands. He couldn't even stop touching me and I'm nothing great to look at. Keith used her and treated her bad. I mean bad. She'll say otherwise, but she cried and cried the day he left. She really did love him, even though he was a creep. And then to make matters worse, Cleora saw him with some rich woman. That just reopened all those old wounds that were just starting to heal up. Keith is probably shacked up together with his new woman while he robs her blind. Just like he robbed us."

"So you think your father really did get rich in Afghanistan?"

She shrugged. "It seems that way."

Cleora came back into the kitchen, lugging a black laptop. She set it down in front of me. She then plugged the power supply into the wall and we waited as it booted up.

I asked, "Do either of you know someone who served with your father? Preferably local?"

"Are you with the police?" Kim asked, finally getting suspicious enough of my questions to ask.

"No," I replied. "But I am here to help you and your sister."

The tightness in her jaw finally relaxed enough so she could answer. "There is a Bob Peabody. He was my father's commanding officer. He came to the funeral. I don't know exactly where he lives but I'm sure you could find out."

I took out my smartphone and made a note of the name. The computer, an older model, finally finished booting up. I started a browser and, at Cleora's suggestion, opened a bookmarked email site. Luckily the password defaulted. The first page displayed nothing but spam entries. I clicked backward in time until I reached some personal messages.

"Can I keep this for a few days?" I asked. "It is going to take some time to search through and find the information I need. I'm hoping to get some more names of the men your father served with."

The two sisters looked momentarily at each other. "I guess so," Kim finally answered.

I shut the computer off, got up and began to wind the power cord up. I said, "I'm heading back to Vegas. Do you want a ride back, Cleora?"

She shook her head. "No, I still want to spend some time with Madison."

"I'll take her back," Kim said.

Laptop tucked under my arm, I made my leave. I smiled at the kids who were now busy watching some cartoon. Other than a shy smile from Madison, they didn't pay any attention to me once I was out of their field of vision. Typical.

Before going back to the car, I headed around the side and went to the rear of the house. There was a cramped backyard with a swing set with a broken chain. The patio was made of flagstones fitted sloppily together; obviously the work of an amateur. One of them looked more offset than the others. Setting the computer down, I managed to pry and pull it up. Underneath was an empty hole that went down a few feet. I let the flagstone drop back into place. There was no clue here but it did collaborate Cleora's story. I left.

It was nearing lunch now so I stopped at a local grocery store and got a chicken salad to go. I also stocked up on some bottled water, a few snacks, and a magazine about stereo equipment. After eating the quick lunch in the parking lot, I started driving again, heading into the heart of the downtown. Traffic was picking up with a slew of tourists eager to rejoin the eternal party of Vegas.

Skirting past the casinos, I drove to the Eastgate condominiums, a tall but narrow building made of glass and metal. In the front there was a circular driveway that was edged with flowers. The driveway led to the parking lot below. A fountain made out of red tiles sprayed up a column of water. There was no doorman. There was an open spot on the street, so I parked the car, but at such an angle that I couldn't be immediately seen by anyone leaving. I opened up the laptop, turned it on, and began fiddling with the electric switches of the car seat until I got found a comfortable position.

The first rule of doing a stakeout is not to be noticed. It's okay to be seen, but the watcher can't stick out like a sore thumb. Swinging a camera around with a telephoto lens is a surefire way to have your cover blown. Instead any passerby would see a random nobody going through email on his computer or reading a magazine; perfectly reasonable activities in these days of self-absorption. I began paging through the emails. After many pages of spam, shared recipes, and weather alerts, I finally hit the years when Bill Kinney was serving in Afghanistan. I took a pad of paper from the glove box and began to take notes.

Kinney was no lengthy writer, but his terse descriptions of the war were interesting. He wrote of the cold nights, bad food, the customs of the locals, the fortitude of the enemy, the firefights, and the loneliness he felt without his wife and daughters. Luckily the Green Berets were a tight group, so there were only a few names mentioned over and over. As I worked, I would occasionally glance at the building to see who was coming and going. There wasn't much to see – an elderly couple driving out in a red Infiniti, a pizza delivery, and a middle-aged blonde walking her dog. An hour later and I was done reading emails. By then I had gotten a pretty good idea of what Bill Kinney was like: a man with enough bravado but with an underlying insecurity that he was worthless and unloved. That was nothing new. I also had a list of eight additional names to investigate. With any luck, a few of them would be in the area. If not, it would be time to do some traveling.

I was stuck reading the magazine. The sun was really blazing high in the sky now. Even with windows down, I was hot, my brow dripping with sweat. Every few minutes I had to start the car, turn on the air conditioning, roll up the windows, and bask in the greatest invention of mankind.

It was nearing four o'clock and I was about to give up for the day when I saw a car coming out of the underground garage. It was a newer BMW 3-Series with silver paint and a black convertible top that was laced up. There was a flash of red hair. I caught a glimpse of a woman: attractive but distracted. The car turned, heading in the same direction as the nose of my Impala was pointing. I started the engine and began to follow her.

There is usually an art to the one man tail, a ballet of hiding behind other cars and staying far back as possible. There was, however, no need for any of these precautions since the driver of the BMW was weaving erratically like a drunk. It was so bad that I feared that a wandering police patrol would pick her up. Luckily she only went a few blocks before turning sloppily into the parking lot of liquor store. The car came to a sudden stop and took up two spaces. I kept on going. After taking the first corner, I parked the car and trotted back to the liquor store. That only took me a few minutes. The car was still there but the driver was gone.

I walked into the liquor store, pausing to look at some magazines near the front. I could see a redhead in a sleeveless white dress shouting at a dark-skinned man with thick black hair behind the counter.

She said, "I've got the money. Give me the bottle!"

He had a thick accent, probably Indian. "I am sorry, I cannot."

"I'm the fucking customer."

"You must leave, madam, or I will have to call the police."

I had to do something before things got out of control. I took a few steps toward them. I said, "I'm sorry, I'll take care of this."

She didn't even have time to protest as I grabbed her by the arm and hustled her out of the store. She was too drunk to resist. Instead she stumbled along, taking much of my strength to keep her upright. When we got to her car, she rested sloppily against the passenger side fender, staring crazily at me and not knowing what to do. I pulled the purse off of her shoulder and began to root through it. I found a set of keys with an attached remote. Using it, I unlocked the doors. She was still too shocked to say anything as I stuffed her inside the car and then clicked the seat belt in place. I got into the other side, started up the engine, and soon had us heading back to Eastgate.

You could feel the tension in the air. Fear had finally pierced that drunken haze. She was pulling away, fumbling to open the door. She was about to scream.

I said as calmly as I could, "You're lucky that I came along or else you could have been arrested."

"Are you kidnapping me?" she demanded, fighting to sound as sober as possible. It was a good fight but one that she ultimately lost since her words were still slurred and almost incomprehensible. But at least she stopped fidgeting so much.

"No, I'm a friend," I said as disarmingly as possible.

"I don't know you," she spat back, now becoming angry once again.

I gave the woman a glance, finally getting a good look at her. She was tall and thin, but not quite willowy. The blaze of long sweeping red hair looked natural with the kind of shadings that don't come out of a bottle. There were faint freckles under her eyes, which were green, and the skin tone was pale Irish. She was wearing a white dress that looked to be made by some upscale designer. The shoes were open toe heels. She had on red nail polish that was starting to show some chipping. A woman like her could have looked like a million dollars if she wasn't a lush.

"You know me now. I've Devon Pierce. I want to talk to you about Keith Miller."

Her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped open, revealing some good dental work. All of the fight was out of her now. "Keith?" she managed to sputter out. "What about him?"

I didn't answer. Instead I turned the BMW onto the Eastgate driveway and pulled up to the garage gate. There must have been some type of electronic pass inside the car, for it automatically swung open.

"What spot is yours?" I asked as I drove into the parking garage.

"Five-oh-two," she answered numbly.

I found the spot and gently eased the car between the lines. Around us were several cars: all foreign and expensive. I shut the engine off and the handed her the keys. She held them in her hand like they were about to bite her. She was shaking hard.

I said, "I'm not going to hurt you. I just have some questions. I want to know where I can find Keith."

Her eyes looked dully at me as if remembering some terrible pain. She looked sick, like she was about to draw her last breath. The words fell out of her mouth and hung in the air like butterflies. "I need to get upstairs. I need your help."

Taking the keys from her hand, I opened my door and pulled myself out. I wrangled her out of the car. Together we walked like a pair of drunks trying to fight our way to the top of the stairs. She gave a violent shudder, turned her head and retched, splashing a trail of watery vomit on the concrete floor. It smelled of vodka and bile. We kept on going until we reached the elevator. It took forever for the car to come down. She was weeping now, her head tucked inside the crook of my shoulder. I could only hope that we didn't run into anyone else. The doors opened. The elevator was empty. I dragged her inside and leaned her against the wall. As I reached over and hit the button for the fifth floor, she collapsed. The doors shut and we started upward with a jerk.

After a few moments, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. The wide hallway here was lit with ceiling lamps that were made to look antique. The floor had thick burgundy carpeting, and the walls were decorated with expensive wallpaper, and the ceilings had heavy trim pieces made of dark wood. I took her by the arms and dragged her out of the elevator. Two doors down and I found the door to her condominium. I tried several of the keys on the ring and one finally fit. I opened the door and soon had her safely inside. I let out a sigh of relief.

The interior smelled strongly of stale cigarettes and the sour stink of spilled beer. It was dark inside. Letting the woman rest on the floor, I hit the light switch on the wall and made a quick tour of the place, just to make sure that no one else was here. In the living room the furnishings were all Arts and Crafts antiques – the real thing, not modern reproductions – sitting on white wall-to-wall carpeting. In front of the sofa was a coffee table that was littered with empty bottles and overfilled ashtrays. Jagged broken glass rested on the floor; apparently smashed when someone had thrown a glass into an oil painting on the wall.

Down a short hallway there was a bathroom, the countertop crammed with makeup. The shower door hung open. Piles of clothes were on the floor. It smelled of sickness.

Next was a small office that looked quite tidy in comparison to the rest of the place. Rows of leather-bound books sat nestled inside of shelves. There was a shiny white Macintosh computer resting on a desk with a leather chair. It looked like the sort of place that real work could get done.

Moving on, I found the master bedroom. It had a large antique bed, a Stickley dresser and matching side tables with stained-glass lamps. It reminded me of my own bedroom. She obviously had good taste. The blankets and sheets of the bed looked to have been thrown around by a madman. The bare mattress had a bloodstain and I could see a pair of handcuff hanging from the headboard. I shook my head, wondering what sort of horrible act had gone on in here.

I heard a door shut and that horrendous sound of someone vomiting. Leaving the bedroom, I saw that the bathroom door had been shut. I waited there until there was the sound of the toilet flushing. I knocked on the door.

"Are you okay in there?"

It took her a few moments to respond. "Who is it?" was the answer. She sounded ragged and forlorn through the thin door.

"You remember, I'm Devon. I'm the guy who dragged you up here."

"Yes, that's right."

"I didn't catch your name."

"Pauline Wise. I'm afraid you aren't seeing me at my best." And then she began to laugh. It wasn't the sort that was pleasant and filled with humor. Instead there was an unpleasant hysterical edge that was unsettling to my ears. It went on for far too long and seemed like it would never stop.

I tried the door. It was locked. I put my shoulder into it. The thin wood splintered and gave away. I could see Pauline lying on the floor, looking as if she was having a fit. Reaching into the room, I unlocked the door from the inside and entered. If I had been in a movie, I would have slapped her on the cheek to snap her out of it. But that could possibly make things worse. It's also a rule of mine to never strike a woman. Instead I found a grimy washcloth and began to bath her face with cold water. I whispered in her ear, repeating that everything was going to be okay. Soon her laughter became a sob and then a torrent of tears.

It was hard going, but I managed to pick her up off of the floor. Cradling her like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold, I brought her to the office, the only place that had no stench of memories best forgotten. I put her on the carpeting and then went to the bedroom, where I found an extra pillow and blanket inside the closet. I took these back to the office and made sure she was comfortable. Those green eyes were looking past me, staring at the ceiling as if seeing some grand vision. And then they fluttered shut. She began to lightly snore.

By this time I was feeling pretty wretched myself. I went to the kitchen and found that the cupboards and refrigerator were empty of food. I found a glass in the sink of dirty dishes, cleaned it off, and poured some water into it. I drank deeply, thinking of what I had to do next.

I reached for the cellphone in my pocket and looked over my list of contacts. Against my better judgment, I called Leo Sutton.
Chapter 4

Leo had the looks of a simple country doctor – with the ever-present black suit and impeccable bedside manner – but he had lost his license quite a number of years ago. Now he peddled pills to junkies, gave supposed vitamin shots to recovering alcoholics, and treated those too afraid to visit the hospital. It was a flourishing business being the medical man of the underworld. He could, however, be counted on keeping his mouth shut. I did not know who Pauline was or what she did for a living, so I did not dare to take a gamble with her reputation by taking her to a hospital.

He came within the hour. I buzzed the front entrance to let him in. When I answered the door, I saw a shorty dumpy man in a dark pinstripe suit. He was tired and his skin was an unhealthy gray. Except for a low horseshoe of snowy white hair, his head was bald. The nose was bent at an angle, and the gray eyes were slightly off-center. He was carrying a black leather bag that looked almost as beaten as the owner.

Leo immediately asked, "Where is she?"

"In the office. Second door on the left."

Without a further word, he disappeared down the hallway. I continued cleaning; loading the dishwasher, picking up the bottles, and emptying the ashtrays. The air conditioning was on high in an attempt to circulate the unpleasant odors out. I noticed, with some despair, that the wood on the antique coffee table now had several water rings and a single burn mark from an errant cigarette. The whole top would have to be refinished. I wondered if Pauline could also be fixed. Her scars ran much deeper and weren't only physical.

By the time Leo came out I was almost finished. He looked angry. If he was a younger man, I think he would have taken a swing at me.

"What in the hell did you do to that poor girl?"

"You know me better than that, Doc," I replied.

"Don't call me that. So it wasn't you?"

"Of course not. But I'm on the trail of the man who hurt her. What's the prognosis?"

"She's a wreck. She hasn't been feeding herself, at least not with food. It's been all booze. I gave her a shot of vitamins, so that should help. She still needs something substantial to eat. As for her mental state, she's damaged goods. I saw marks on her wrists and throat. Her back was covered with bruises as if someone had been beating her." He looked over the richly furnished living room and attached kitchen. "She doesn't strike me as the sort who is into the kinky lifestyle."

"You never can tell with the wealthy. What do I need to do?"

"Food and rest is the first thing. And for God's sake, keep her away from the bottle so she'll have a chance to recover. I'll give you some Valium. Give her one of these pills four times a day. With any luck, she won't have to spend time at the funny farm."

"I can do that. How much do I owe you?"

"For the house call and pills, an even two-hundred dollars will do."

I pulled out my wallet and dug out the money he requested. I handed the bills over.

"Good old Dev, the man who always pays without complaint."

"It is a good way to buy some loyalty and even a little secrecy. I would prefer if you didn't go spreading her condition around to the folks that you and I both know."

He looked shocked that I would even make the suggestion. "You know that if I went squealing every time I went to help a patient out, I wouldn't be long for this world. I've got a reputation to keep."

"I know it, but I just wanted to hear it."

He rummaged through his case and brought out a bottle of pills - most likely stolen – and handed them to me. "I'll stop by tomorrow night to check up on her. If you had any sense you would take her to a hospital."

"It's a damn shame you lost your license, Doc. You must have been one hell of a physician."

He stiffened. "My only fault was caring too much for my patients. I cannot stand to see someone suffer. They thought I was too easy with my prescription pad, handing out pain pills. Those damn bureaucratic fools."

I showed Leo to the door. "You're alright by me," I said.

"Thank you."

After he left, I grabbed a pill and filled a clean glass with water. I went to the office to look in on my patient. She was still awake, but still exhausted and wrung out. At least now I could see some color on her cheeks. She was out of her dress and was now wearing a t-shirt. I didn't know what else was on under the blanket.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

Pauline answered, "I feel like hell. Who was that doctor?"

"Leo is just a friend of mine." I didn't mention that he really wasn't a doctor, at least not legally.

"He seemed nice."

"Good manners. You're supposed to take this pill every few hours. Can you sit up?"

Like an obedient child she did as I requested, taking the pill and swallowing it with a gulp of water. Afterward she sunk back to the floor.

"Are you comfortable?" I asked as I took the glass from her hand.

Pauline nodded sleepily.

"You can move to the bedroom if you want. I put clean sheets on the bed."

This time the reaction was more violent. Her eyes opened wide and her breathing became labored. "No, don't make me. I can't go in there."

"Now there is nothing to worry about," I hushed her. "You can stay right where you're at. Go ahead and get some more sleep. We'll talk later."

The emotions drained out of her. "Mmmkay," she answered sleepily.

I turned the lights off and gently shut the door. I waited for a few minutes more and then, after pocketing the keys, rode the elevator down to the lobby. I gave a friendly wave to another resident coming in. Outside I started walking, heading toward my Impala. It was still in the same spot that I had left it. By then evening was coming on strong. The sun was a glowing red orb pressed tight against the horizon. The air was dry and the sky was clear. I got inside the car and drove to the nearest supermarket to stock up on supplies. I bought some steak, eggs, bacon, a bottle of red wine, plenty of fresh vegetables, heavy cream, and some good cheese.

By the time I was finished at the store, the sun was gone and the moon was out. The distant blaze of the neon lights downtown had washed out the stars, making the night sky look empty and friendless. It seemed like a month had gone by since Keith Miller had entered my life. I wondered how long he would have a hold on Pauline. I drove slowly back, feeling ashamed of the human race - so much good and so much evil.

Outside Eastgate I parked on the street. The car could stay there until the morning, but after that, it would be easy prey for the Vegas Parking Enforcement, an arm of the city government that was more feared than the police. If they towed your vehicle away, it would take an army of lawyers to pry it loose. It was just another friendly service provided by the local crime syndicate currently installed in the mayor's office. Perhaps I was being cynical.

When I entered Pauline's condominium, everything was quiet. I went to the office door and opened it. To my relief she was still sleeping peacefully; breathing with deep, peaceful regularity. I felt as if I was looking after a newborn that needed protection from the cruelty of the world.

After I shut the door, I went to kitchen and started cooking. There was a nice gas oven and I found a stainless steel pan. I fried up a thick sirloin and two eggs. A dash of salt and some pepper made the whole meal go down a lot easier. To treat myself, I allowed myself a single glass of wine. I then sat on the sofa and turned on the television. Cable always bored me silly, but without my stereo and records, I felt like there was very little to do. So after numbly watching a documentary on the Vietnam War, I shut of the TV and then all of the lights. I went to the bathroom, used the mouthwash, and then returned to the sofa to lie down.

I stripped down to my t-shirt and boxers. In the darkness I rested on my back and listened to the whir of the air conditioning. I was still keyed up. I thought I could never sleep again. The glow of the street lights behind the shut curtains seemed too bright. I wanted to curse the inventor of the light bulb. My world, however, finally slipped into darkness and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

I heard a moan and then a cry of pain. I couldn't figure out where I was. My eyes opened but I could see nothing but darkness. Twisting my head, I saw the distant digits of the microwave clock in the kitchen. It was three in the morning. I remembered where I was and who was making that noise. Groggily, I pulled myself up off of the sofa and staggered toward the office.

Pauline was still inside the room, turning over restlessly as if stuck in a nightmare world. In the gloom, I got down on my knees and shook her shoulders. She finally awoke with a start and began to cry. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and held her until the sobbing began to abate.

"Come on," I said as I helped her up. "Let's go find you something to eat."

Pauline let me lead her to the little dining table next to the kitchen. She sat down at the chair. I turned on the overhead light and saw that, in addition to the t-shirt, she was wearing a pair of white cotton panties. I had a flashback to Cleora's act at the Pussycat. I felt momentarily guilty but reminded myself that I had seen women in various states of undress before. She looked too frail and hurt to lust after.

As Pauline quietly sat there, I went to the kitchen and began to whip up some quick and dirty scrambled eggs. When I was done, I placed the food in front of her along with a tall glass of ice water. She just stared at the eggs like she had never seen food before.

"Can I have a drink?" she asked with an unmistakable alcoholic hunger.

"Maybe a small one, but you'll have to eat something first."

As Pauline began to pick at the eggs, I sat down across from her to watch. She looked uncomfortable by the attention, so I began to ramble on about the best way to prepare omelets: without any milk and the use of chopsticks to keep the eggs from sticking to the bottom of the Teflon-coated pan. She didn't seem to care for that information – she was still too damaged inside to think about trivial matters. To her the world was now a place with unknown dangers and men who could not be trusted. Perhaps I was one of those men – she didn't know yet.

When she had finished half of the scrambled eggs, she gave up eating. The water remained untouched. "Where is my drink?" she asked, the eyes pleading.

"Maybe later. I want you to have some water first."

I might as well have suggested that she drink poison. Pauline pushed the glass away. "I need a drink. A beer or maybe some whiskey. Just a little will help."

"I'll compromise with you." I picked the glass off of the table and carried it into the kitchen. I went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of wine. I poured a few ounces into the water. When I returned with this concoction, she looked aghast at the waste of perfectly good alcohol. But like any drunk, she took what she could get and quaffed down the liquid until there was nothing left but two lonely ice cubes.

"Just who are you?" she asked as she peered over the lip of the glass.

"I've already told you. I'm Devon."

"But what are you doing here? Why are you playing nursemaid to a nasty little bitch like me?"

"Maybe I enjoy the company."

"Down in the parking lot, you said something about Keith. Are you a friend of his?"

"Do I look and act like a friend of his? I don't usually associate with bullies. Let's just say that I'm working for someone who he double-crossed. What did he do to you?"

Pauline grew silent, not meeting my gaze. After a few moments, the words came spilling out. "I got this place in the divorce settlement. My ex-husband, Robert, is a vice-president at a marketing company. It meant big money and long hours. We should have never gotten married but we were young kids in love. Only after a few years of unhappily married disaster did I realize it was a mistake. Or should I say that we both realized it was a mistake. The divorce was amiable enough. I got this place. He stayed out in Los Angeles at our house in Beverly Hills. He's already shacked up with a new love, some woman who he works with. I'm sure they spend their days talking about the job – a perfect match." She gave me a bitter smile. "I guess I sound like a bitch but that's how I feel. Anyway, it was only after the divorce that I realized I had no friends left here and a family that lives way back in Maryland."

"You could always go back to your parents."

She shook her head. "My dad died three years ago. My mother is living with my sister Beth, who has a house packed full of kids and a husband, when I'm there, who spends his time ogling me. It's not quite the place I want to go back to. I wanted to become my own woman, but everything has gone to hell."

"Just tough luck."

"Or perhaps I just don't know how to handle the real world. You won't believe it but I'm shy. I don't get people and I get a little scared when I'm around them, like I'm missing the social cues. It wasn't so bad in high school and college. At least back then it seemed like people wanted to be friendly. Now I'm not so sure. Perhaps I'm out of practice."

"It doesn't get any easier with age," I commented.

"So I moved here to Vegas with my tail between my legs, hoping to make a new start. Robert had a gambling addiction – Blackjack and Texas Hold 'Em – so this condominium made a good second home for him. Me? I never exactly loved the place but now I hate it."

"Because of Keith?"

Pauline chewed on her bottom lip. "I was lonely when I came to Vegas. I don't know anyone in the building and I don't have any friends here. I mean Robert and I would come here for the weekend with the people we knew in Los Angeles. So after the divorce was finalized, I started going out to the casinos. I met a number of men, most who just wanted to get in my pants. They were clumsy in their advances. It was kind of sweet but not the relationship I wanted after my marriage ended. But when I ran into Keith, he knew how to play me like a fool. I'm paying for that decision. I'll always be paying for it." The last couple of words came out as a sob.

I could tell she was getting tired. But at least she was talking now. That was better than the breakdown of yesterday. However I knew that the worst of her story was yet to come. She could save it for another time.

"Let's get you back to bed," I suggested.

"Okay," she agreed meekly.

Taking her hand, I led Pauline back to the office. She was unsteady on her feet as if our conversation had drained all the energy out of her. But she was a tough kid. Without a word of protest, she slumped on top of the blanket and was asleep within seconds. Leaving the door open, I shut off all the lights and returned to the sofa.

Finding sleep was going to be difficult. As I listened to the creaks and unknown sounds of the building, I thought of what she said. She was a stranger in town, vulnerable to the right monster that happened to come along in the form of Keith Miller. He was the type with an unnatural gift could pick up on a woman in a weakened state; easy prey because of their insecurities. I wondered how many others had fallen under his evil spell. I drifted off to sleep. My dreams were unpleasant, filled with ominous meanings, missing friends, and dark, hidden places.

I awoke to the smell of coffee and the smell of frying eggs. Opening my eyes I saw Pauline in the kitchen. She had a big artificial smile plastered on her face and was standing over the stove with a spatula in hand. She was wearing a gown this time, all shimmering blue silk that hinted at her feminine curves. It was then that I noticed the empty bottle of wine by the sink. I had been a fool not to dump it down the drain.

"Good morning, Devon," she said brightly once she notice that I was moving around.

"I suppose it is," I said angrily, "especially if you've had a few drinks. You shouldn't have done that."

The spatula in her hand fell and clattered on the floor. Her eyes grew wet with tears and the skin on her face turned pale. She then turned and ran out of the room and disappeared down the hallway. I felt ashamed of myself for snapping at her, but last night I had been so happy with her progress. To see it tossed away like that meant we still had a long way to go before she could function alone on her own.

I finished cooking the eggs and also added on a few slices of bacon. I threw this on a plate and set it on the table. I then headed toward the office. She was lying on the floor face down. The sobs were audible.

"I finished making the breakfast. You had better eat it before it gets cold."

"I can't do anything right," she said with ragged breaths. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. But you have to eat. You have to stay sober. Now move it."

She pushed herself off the ground. With dejected shoulders, she brushed past me and went to the kitchen. I gave her another Valium with a glass of water. Once I saw she was eating, I went to the bathroom and showered. The hot water made me feel a little bit better, but I knew I had still had a long day in front of me. But I reminded myself that it could only get better. We had already hit the bottom.

When I was done, I stepped out and grabbed the towel. It was then that I noticed the bathroom door, that I hadn't bothered to lock, was open. Pauline was standing there, staring into my eyes. She didn't seem to notice that I wasn't wearing anything. I felt distinctly vulnerable; not a situation I particularly liked.

She said, "I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to drink anymore. You're right. I won't do it again." She sounded more like a chastened child than an adult. It was unsettling.

"Don't let it worry you," I said as I wrapped the towel around my waist.

"If there is anything else you want me to do, I'll gladly help you." She gave me an unpleasant leer that reminded me of a storefront mannequin; all hard eyes and plastic manners.

"Not right now. I want you to get in that shower and wash."

With a slow movement, Pauline reached for some hidden catch on the neck of the gown. The blue material made a slithering noise as the gown dropped to the floor. She was wearing nothing underneath. A glance and I saw that her body looked good but a tad puffy, the effect of too many bad calories from the weeks of boozing. But still, it took a lot of willpower to keep my gaze locked on those lovely green eyes. I reached into the shower stall, started the water and adjusted the knob until the water was good and warm. I then took her by the arm and steered her into the watery blast. She let out a gasp. I turned my back and angrily walked out of the room, cursing myself for getting involved with this woman.

When she came out of the bathroom and joined me on the sofa, Pauline was wearing the gown again. Her hair was wet and her skin was scrubbed to a healthy pink. Her attitude was also uncertain, doing anything but meeting my searching gaze.

"Don't you like me?" she finally asked after wedging herself into the corner of the cushion.

"Of course I do," I replied. "But let's not play these sorts of games right now. You have to get better first. You have to let go of those bad memories before you can go out and make some good ones. If we do anything together right now, it will only be tainted by Keith. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

She shook her head. "So what are we going to do in the meanwhile?"

"You are going to do nothing. You can watch some television. And then you can eat lunch. After that you are going to take a nap. And then Leo is going to come by and tell me what I should do with you. Okay?"

She nodded. The fight was out of her – for now.

The rest of the day was spent in a sort of lazy rainy day way. With the blinds shut and the air conditioning on, that condominium was like a space capsule floating in the middle of nowhere. We ate and we talked of nothing important. I went over the emails on the laptop, delving as far back as I could, searching for clues for the source of Bill Kinney's money. I found nothing new. Pauline watched some old movies on cable, her attention barely held by the black and white images. She slept and dozed, and ate the food that I put in front of her; whiling the minutes away until the sun went down.

After supper, the intercom buzzer went off. It was Leo. I let him in and waited impatiently until he knocked on the door. I let him in.

"How's the patient?" he asked.

"Watching television," I replied. The low murmur of canned voices could be heard coming from the living room. "Pauline is doing better. No hysterics. She seems to have taken a real liking to me." I filled him in on the bottle of wine and the sexual offer.

He gave this thought and then said, "She's had one hell of a shock. It's only natural that she has come to depend on you."

I pointed to the direction of the bedroom. "Something terrible went on in here. She hasn't talked about it yet, but I can feel her leading up to it."

The old doctor sadly shook his head. "I've seen many evil things in my time – rape and torture only being slightly less worse than death. Pauline is showing the classic symptoms of having been violated in a terrible way."

"Should I take her to get professional help? Like a mental hospital?"

"That depends on you, my friend. Are you trying to get rid of her or help her? If it is the latter, then I would say stick by her side. You can see her through this spell better than any psychiatrist. She needs to get this experience behind her, not to be examined or poked through at every angle by some tin god who has never seen life outside of a college campus. You are the best chance she has of returning to normal."

"I was thinking of taking her out of this place and over to my apartment."

"I agree that would be for the best. For her there are too many bad memories here. Let her talk. Let her get this brute out of her system. But let me warn you, it will take some considerable time."

"I know," I said with resignation.
Chapter 5

After Leo made his cursory examination of Pauline and left, I went to the living room and stood in front of the television to make my announcement.

"Get up," I told her. "We're getting out of here."

She looked momentarily annoyed for the interruption but the passive expression quickly returned. "Where are we going?"

"To my place. You'll have to pack enough clothes for a week and any makeup you want to bring with. We're clearing out."

Instead of looking scared, Pauline let out a sigh of relief. "I've been scared that Keith could come back at any moment."

"He's got the keys to this place?"

She nodded. "I've been scared stiff thinking of him coming through that door again."

That has been a fear of mine too but I had thought that Pauline needed a familiar place to stay while she recovered, not a kidnapping job to stay at an unknown apartment with a complete stranger. Now that we had gotten to know each other – just a little – she would feel safe, especially since my intentions, at least so far, had been honorable.

"Don't worry," I said. "I can handle Keith."

"You look strong enough, but he is awful mean. I've seen him knock out a club bouncer with only one punch. Keith was in the army doing secret work. He never was too clear on the matter."

"Green Beret," I said. "That would mean plenty of martial arts trickery, good with blades, and an expert marksman. But trust me, I can handle him." At least that's the lie I told myself. You could never be too sure until the day came when you ran into someone better.

Pauline didn't look very convinced, but got up from the sofa, the blue gown whispering of untold secrets as she stepped by. As I tidied up in the kitchen, I could hear her rummage through the closet in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, she came back pulling a piece of wheeled luggage. She was wearing a zipped gray sweatshirt with a white t-shirt peeking out underneath and a pair of skintight black exercise pants. On her feet was a pair of light brown boots that looked barely durable enough for climbing the stairs of the local mall. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.

Before exiting, I turned off the air conditioning and the various lights. We left the BMW in the parking ramp since it was more noticeable than my anonymous sedan. I loaded the luggage into the trunk and then opened the passenger door for her. I got behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove. I was feeling paranoid enough that I took a long circuitous route back to my apartment. It seemed impossible that Keith Miller knew that I was on his trail, but Pauline was an obvious target who could lead him to me.

The sky was dark with the paintbrush of night. The neon signs glimmered and rolled, a cascade of brilliant light. The traffic moved on, a flow of cars filled with seekers of pleasure no matter how fleeting. It was a hypnotic motion of gaudy thrills. I hated this town. I loved this town. It brought out the worst in people, exploiting their weaknesses for flesh and money, but there was still a kernel of redemption in this sea of sin. Not everyone fell under the spell; instead they lived their lives like anyone else: working to survive, falling in love, raising families, and trying to make sense of it all. That possibility of normality – for those who wanted it – was always available, even to those souls who had fallen through the cracks of society.

My thoughts were interrupted by Pauline. She was staring out of the windshield, looking at nothing. She began to speak; her voice low enough it was barely audible over the thrum of the tires.

She said, "It was a Friday night. I decided to go to the Luxor casino because I had never been there before. It was crowded with gamblers and men and women looking for a good time. I managed to get a seat at the bar. I was feeling unhappy so I started drinking hard, something I normally don't do. I had a few gin & tonics which always make me feel cleverer than I really am. There is something about red hair that draws men to me like a magnet, like they are expecting some fiery red demon in bed. I'm afraid they are usually disappointed, at least my husband was. He wanted a trophy wife and that's what he got.

"So by the time I was on drink number four, I was also on man number four. They kept coming up, all trying to impressive me with their little jokes and innuendo. This last one was a real doozy, a businessman visiting Vegas for some manufacturing convention. He was fat and smelled of cheap cigars. He let it slip that he was married with two kids, an all American dad looking for a good night on the town. It made me sick to my stomach, not so much for him but myself. I felt like I had sunk to a new low in life.

"It was then that Keith sat down on the other side of me. He said a few words to the man, something about leaving a poor woman like me alone. There must have been something in Keith's eyes, for the convention goer decided to tackle an easier target. I was relieved and felt some gratitude toward my rescuer. Unlike the previous men, Keith didn't seem to be on the make. Instead we talked of Vegas and how phony everyone here was. He seemed pleasant enough and a gentleman too. I didn't get a glimpse of the real man until a few days later.

My first impression of him was of someone who never completed college, but still had been successful as an entrepreneur. He had money but no taste. He spoke of his career in the military and some hush-hush missions he did in Afghanistan. It certainly improved his standing in my eyes since he is not particularly impressive to look at – like a feral cat, not well groomed and lacking in manners. But there was still an honest gruffness that was a change from the usual gigolos circling around me.

"By the time I was on my sixth drink, I wasn't feeling too good. I decided to call it a night. I was expecting him to try and go home with me. Instead all he asked for was my phone number. I eagerly gave it to him, thinking I had met someone who, at the very least, could be a friend. I got a message from him the next night, and even though I was still recovering from one hell of a hangover, I went out. We met at the Luxor again. He was courteous as ever, all compliments and small talk. I didn't have as much to drink that night and began to notice some flaws that indicated trouble."

"Like what?" I murmured, afraid of breaking the spell.

"Keith was rude to the waitress. When we made a tour of the gambling tables, he walked with his jaw stuck out as if ready to pick a fight with anyone who bumped into him. But at least when it came to me, it was all smiles and asking if I was happy. It was a warning that I should have taken to heart. Instead I let him kiss me goodnight. I know now that he was stringing me along, letting my guard drop so he could go in for the kill. He got what he wanted, that's for sure."

That was all Pauline had to say for now. She fell into silence again. I did not push her, fearing she would clam up forever. Instead I finished the drive to my apartment and parked in the garage. By the expression on her face, I could tell she wasn't too impressed by the digs. I wheeled her suitcase to the elevator and we waited together as it came down. Once inside, I inserted the special key into the lock, automatically bypassing the rest of the floors. We rode up to the top and got out.

I checked the alarms in the hallway and everything was still set as I had left it. Of course I would have been notified via my cellphone, but I still didn't have full trust in any technology, no matter how proven. I then went to the door and opened it, letting Pauline go first. Like the few others who have visited my inner sanctum, she let out a little gasp when she saw the expensive furnishings, gleaming kitchen, towering speakers, the stash of stereo gear, and the extensive music collection.

She glanced my way, reanalyzing what she knew of me. She finally blurted out, "What exactly do you do for a living, Dev?"

"A little of this and a little of that. I'm an investor. For example, I own this building. It's divided into apartments below us. The security you saw was installed by me. Living here gives me plenty of breathing room from the outside world. I also do jobs for certain individuals, mostly friends, who need help."

"I see. Is part of your so-called investing have to do with damsels in distress? I mean what's the return in helping me out?"

"That's easy enough. I told you I was trying to track this Keith Miller down. He stole something."

"From the mob?"

"Don't jump to conclusions. I would never get involved with those boys. First of all, they're too damn stupid for letting the Feds on to them. Sure, we both deal with money that was made under the table, but what I do isn't illegal – at least for the most part. And secondly, they're nothing but goons."

"What did Keith steal?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out," I admitted. "He sold or is still selling something that was stolen from my client, a young single mother. He used to be a bouncer at a strip club and now he's buying luxury cars with cash and taking high class women like you out. I was hoping you could help me."

"Me?"

I could sense that I was moving her along to fast. She was still weak and confused. I said, "Why don't you have a seat. I'll fire up the stereo and we can listen to some records before we go to sleep. This is a bachelor pad, so there's only one bedroom. I'll let you have it."

Pauline nodded. After kicking off her shoes, she sat on the sofa with her legs folded underneath her butt.

I turned on the electronics, cleaned the stylus and then began sorting through my collection, looking for the perfect record for the moment. I did a quick search and found an Emeralds album, a relaxing mix of vintage synthesizer and driving guitar. As the first notes streamed out of the speakers, I noticed an initial look of skepticism from Pauline. I went and lowered the temperature on the thermostat and then went and stuffed the bottles of booze from the top of the bar into the lockable cupboards underneath. By the time I was finished, her eyes were closed and it was obvious by the soft contours of her jaw that she was enjoying the music.

I sat down on the other side of the sofa. She opened her eyes and stared at me, looking as if she was trying to read my mind.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I can't help but feel that I am being used. Like you are only taking care of me for your own selfish reasons."

"That's understandable. Perhaps you are, since I hope to fill in some gaps using your knowledge of Keith. But you can rest assured that I would gladly help you, no matter what your situation was. I'm just a sucker for a pretty face. Right now I just want you to get well. You can tell me the rest of your story later."

Pauline seemed to accept my explanation. Stretching the length of her body out on the sofa, she rested her head, face up, on my lap. Her crimson hair cascaded over my thighs and stomach. I traced the edges of my fingertips against her pale, soft skin. She closed her eyes and relaxed. In between songs, I could hear her quiet breathing. By the time the record had finished, she was sound asleep. I was feeling tired myself but managed to extricate myself without waking her. I then lifted her up, cradling that warm body against mine, and carried her into my bedroom. When I was finished making her comfortable, I returned to the sofa with a blanket. I was going to have a restless night thinking of her.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my cellphone, which was on the coffee table, going off. I looked at the screen and saw it was ten in the morning. I had slept in. Melodie was calling.

"Morning," I said, trying not to sound groggy.

"I haven't heard from you for a while and neither has Cleora. She's wondering if you gave up on her."

"Of course not. I just ran into a little unexpected business."

"Like what?"

"I believe the lady in question said I was rescuing a damsel in distress."

"Another woman in your life? It hardly seems to be the time and place for a new romance."

"This one is special. Remember the rich red-head that was seen with Keith? Her name is Pauline. That bastard left her with a drinking habit and a number of lessons that no one woman should learn. I'm hoping she has a line on his location."

"She hasn't told you yet?"

"No, she's in a bad way. But she'll get there in the end. Tell Cleora not to worry, okay? I have some other leads that I'm going to follow up on."

"Okay, Dev. But I want you to be careful."

"I will be. And thanks again for the wakeup call."

I hung up the phone and forced myself to stand up. I went to the kitchen and put fresh grounds into the coffee maker. Once it was bubbling away, I went to the bathroom and took a shower. When I was finished, I wrapped the towel around my waist and went to my bedroom. The door was open. I could see Pauline lying on the bed, her head turned to face the row of windows. The sky was blue and the light of the morning sun was almost blinding.

"Are you awake?" I ventured.

"Yes," she answered softly.

"Sorry for my lack of modesty, but last night I forgot to lay out some clothes."

Pauline turned over to face me. She only lingered on my body for a brief second. She said formally, "We've already seen each other in our birthday suits. But I applaud you for your discretion."

"You're not making it easy on me," I said as I began rummaging through the dresser.

"I just wanted to apologize for yesterday when I tried to force myself on you. This sounds silly but I feel ugly now. Perhaps tainted would be a better word. I need to know if men still find me attractive."

"A man would be a damn fool not to," I said. I was in the walk-in closet now, picking out a light gray suit and a clean white shirt. When I was done, I walked out with a bundle of clothes in hand. I gave her a friendly leer. "We'll discuss your sexual hang ups when I'm done dressing."

Pauline made a face at me and stuck out her tongue. She must be feeling better.

I returned to the bathroom and put on the suit. I styled my hair with a touch of Brylcreem, trying to look like an earnest, creative type. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who needed a vacation, preferably at the beach with a six pack of beer. I lied to myself that day would be coming soon enough.

Pauline was at the bar, looking plaintively over the line of remaining mixers. It was obvious that she was still thinking of alcohol. There was a mug of coffee in her hand. She was wearing a bathrobe of mine. When she turned her head and saw me, she let out a whistle. "You do clean up nicely."

"Only when I want to. I have to go run some errands now. I hope you can be good while I'm gone."

"But what am I supposed to do all day? There's no television and I want to get outside."

"Get some sun and read a book," I suggested. "I don't want to leave you here all by yourself but I don't have much choice in the matter. Just a warning, I'll be setting the alarms and will be notified if you break your way out."

"So I'm a prisoner?"

"Of course not, but you'll be safer here - safer from the temptation of the bottle and the odd chance that Keith decides to go looking for you."

"You said something about getting some sun. Is there a balcony I can use?"

"I've got something better than that. Come and follow me."

We went out the front and up the stairs. There was a metal door here that I unlocked. I opened it and let Pauline go first. This was the roof of the building. I had built a patio here with an awning of white sailcloth to keep the sun out. There was a pair of cedar Adirondack chairs with matching footstools and a low table to hold drinks. Beyond that was a raised hot tub, the base covered in slate. Surrounding this little oasis were rows and rows of potted plants, mostly cactus since they didn't require constant watering in the heat of the desert sun.

"Dev, it's beautiful!" Pauline exclaimed.

"Just a little escape from the troubles of the world."

There were no nearby buildings of the same height or higher, so the privacy was enough that I could enjoy myself. Of course a curious enough person could use a telescope from the one of the downtown skyscrapers and get a good view. I had often wondered how many times Melodie has been spied on; she had no compunctions for stripping down to do a little nude sunbathing or hot tubbing.

"Well I have to get going," I said. "I'll be back in a few hours. Now don't forget what I said: the doors leading to the floors below will be locked and the alarm will be set. The elevator can only be used if you have the passkey."

"Why would I want to go anywhere when I have all of this to enjoy?"

"That's the spirit."

Pauline stopped taking in the sights and turned her attention to me. She took a step forward and tilted her head upward. I kissed her lightly on the mouth.

"That's a down payment for coming attractions," I said.

Before she could say or do anything in return, I headed for the door, taking the steps down three at a time. On my way down I set the alarms on the two stairway doors, locking each one as I went. Down in the garage, I took the Impala again and hit the streets, heading to the northern part of the valley. In a half hour I was in the suburban jungle of strip malls, SUVs, and soccer moms ferrying their kids around. At night dad would come home and drink his beer and bitch about the boss. Welcome to America, the land of the eternal gripe.

After a minor traffic jam and a few zigzag detours, I found myself in a post-war development of tract housing, back in the days when they made the lots small and the homes even smaller. The garages were usually an afterthought, detached and tucked in the back. I checked the address I had scribbled down and then stopped when I saw I had reached the right one, the residence of Bob Peabody, a former Green Beret colonel.

The home was made of red brick with white shingles and white wood trim. The front was dominated by a bay window with drawn curtains. A short flight of stairs with a white-painted metal railing led to the front door. The driveway was gravel and some scraggly bushes, which would have done better further north, sat amongst a thin layer of graying bark. The yard, like so many others in this town, was scraggly. It seems that no one learns that growing grass in the desert was a futile gesture. But there was something about suburbia that made it necessary.

I got out of the Impala. In my hand was a legal notepad. Out of practice, I looked the area over to see if anyone was paying any attention to me. Except for some kids a few houses down, no one was braving the summer heat. I marched up to the front door and gave it a few hard raps.

It wasn't long until the knock was answered. The door swung open, revealing a man in the latter stretch of middle-age. But you would never guessed it based on his physique – all lean muscle and upright posture – but instead by the worn faces and nearly black eyes that had seen too much death. He was wearing khaki shorts, sandals, and a plain black t-shirt, but somehow his past military bearing was unmistakable.

"I'm not buying anything," he growled.

"That's good, because I'm not selling."

"What do you want then? To read the gas meter?" His manners weren't getting much better; it was all bluff designed to keep the troops in on their toes.

I wasn't having any of it. "I'm here to ask you some questions. That's if your name is Robert Peabody."

"It is. What do you want to ask me?"

"I'm working on a book about the Special Forces, specifically the most recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was hoping to collect stories from the men who served there."

It was obvious that my answer has taken Robert by surprise. His eyes rose momentarily and his lips twisted together with some forgotten memory that had come flooding back. "I don't want to talk about it," he eventually spat out.

I nodded. "I've talked to other veterans and they've had the same reaction. I know the situation out there was tough. I know you lost some good men. This book is supposed to be a history of those days, so the future generation won't ever forget." I thought I was laying it on thick, but these old soldiers can be quite sentimental.

Instead of saying no, he asked, "Why didn't you call or email me instead of showing up on my doorstep?"

"It's been my experience that it is easier to turn someone down unless you meet them face to face."

"I suppose that is true. What is your name?"

I thought about giving him my real one, but decided against it. This was a man who most likely still had contacts inside the CIA. Once he found out that I really wasn't writing a book, he may want to retaliate. As far as I was concerned, I didn't want to be on anyone's list of enemies.

"I'm Vincent Poole, but you can call me Vince," I lied, trying to keep my expression as pleasant as possible.

"Have you published any other works?"

"Nothing that you would have read," I replied. "I mean I'm still trying to break into this business. I've done some magazine work and I've written articles for online sites."

Peabody seemed to accept my story. The door opened further and he took a step back to let me pass. "Why don't you come in and we can talk a little. If I like you, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Thanks," I said brightly.

The front door led to a living room. The furniture was old-fashioned and the green carpeting was threadbare. An old tube television was tucked into the corner and there was a smell of old age in the air. The painting on the mantle would have looked better hanging at the Salvation Army.

"This used to be my parent's house," Peabody explained. "When I retired from the service, I started living here. They died a few years ago but I never had the chance to redecorate the place."

"I see," I said as I took a seat on the sofa.

He took a seat in an old armchair and stretched his legs out. "So how did you get my name?"

"From someone who used to serve with you," I replied. I pretended to look through the notebook on my lap. "He's a source that I promised complete confidentiality. He said you knew something illegal that Bill Kinney was doing. Kinney is dead so I thought I would come and ask you."

The mention of that name made him freeze. The only part that moved was his jaw as it opened and closed with the sound of teeth clinking together. His cheeks then flushed red with anger. "Who told you that? Give me his name!"

"I can't reveal my source."

"Just what kind of story are you writing? I don't want to be involved in anything that will dishonor my old unit. Maybe you had better leave."

I gave him the most understanding smile I could muster. "I'm not here to in any official capacity. I'm not a policeman or any kind of government agent. All I want is an accurate history, one with warts and everything. I won't mention any names specifically in my book, but there will be a chapter on the drug trade and the effect it had on the men. It is my understanding that some soldiers got rich dealing. If you could explain how and why, then perhaps there would be some understanding by the reader. I'll also add that I'm not accusing you of any improprieties, but I just want to really hear what life was like out there, and what the men did to survive."

Looking deep in thought, Peabody slouched back in his chair. He nodded a few times to himself as if struggling to reach a decision. He finally said, "I'll tell you, but this is off the record. You can use this story in your book, but I don't want my name or anyone else mentioned."

"You have my promise."
Chapter 6

Peabody looked me over as if weighing the words he was about to say. There was a minute sigh and then his expression darkened. "The popular misconception about Green Berets is that we are some super elite warrior who can single-handedly take out an entire enemy regiment armed with nothing but a butter knife. In reality we bleed and die like anyone else but are smart enough to use our small numbers to great effect. But just like in the days of Vietnam, we aren't interested in going after the enemy by ourselves. We leave those types of missions for the Rangers and the Seals, who like to go in guns blazing. The real job of a Green Beret is to make contact with the locals, convince them to join our side, and give the training so they can fight properly."

It was obvious that he given this sort of speech before.

He continued, "It's a dirty job and requires men who are willing to take risks beyond the call of duty – living in terrible conditions, far away from an army base with their hot showers, good food, and a cot to sleep in. Instead a Green Beret has to live like a native and think like one. We learn their customs; their very way of life. I've lived in huts and even out in the open. I've had to sleep on the ground with nothing but my uniform to keep me warm. I've had to eat goat and drink muddy water. It takes a certain kind of soldier that can make it through that kind of experience. You can be sold out any time and the Taliban are ferocious fighters that have plenty of resources at their disposal. It's no picnic, that's for sure."

I was busy jotting all of this down. I said, "Surely some soldiers must fall prey to drugs or any other vice that comes that way."

"Alcohol is forbidden in strict Muslim countries, but getting a bottle of whiskey is possible if you know the right people. Of course that can be said for any banned substance in any country. But drugs, especially opium, are easily available in Afghanistan. Neither was much of an issue with my men since anyone caught drunk or drugged up would have been court-martialed and removed from the service. The Green Berets are an elite force that requires years of training. Most soldiers would rather die that get forcibly removed."

"But there was still trouble?"

"There are many vices in the world. Money, as they say, is the root of all evil."

"So there were some soldiers making a few extra dollars on the side?"

He nodded sadly. "It's a common enough problem. Some trading is done with good intentions, like getting a rug for your hut or buying a goat for a cookout, but others are done out of pure greed. The Khost province, which is close to Pakistan, is, unfortunately, thick with antiquities. A gold chain or a piece of ancient jade means very little to the haji, not when they can get some AK-47 ammunition in return. Raw opium is also very common."

"Was Bill Kinney involved in such trading?"

"Bill had two good friends over there. A corporal named Keith Miller, and a lieutenant Eric Sanders. They worked together trading with the natives."

Of course I recognized Miller, but I checked my list of names that I had already drawn up and saw Sanders had also been mentioned in the emails.

"What exactly did they do?" I asked.

"That's the thing. I knew they were trading for illegal goods with the locals, but I could never prove it. They had a damn good hiding spot – one that I never discovered – and had some way of ferrying out the goods, probably through someone on the helicopters that came to supply us. As for what they did, you would have to ask them."

"Surely you must have some idea."

"There are always rumors. I've heard stories about a trove of gold stolen from a tomb, and even raw diamonds moved from Pakistan. Of course opium is the obvious answer. I know the streets of America are now flooded with the stuff, most of it brought in by smuggling the drugs through military supply lines."

"Did you ever catch anyone? Was anyone ever punished for dealing with the locals?"

Peabody made an unpleasant grimace; his forehead furrowed. "I was busy fighting a goddamn war, not looking after the morals of my boys. As long my soldiers did what they were ordered and didn't shirk, I gave them plenty of leeway. Bill Kinney was one hell of a soldier. He had several kills to his name and was feared greatly by the Taliban. They even put a bounty out to be collected by anyone who could kill him."

"What about Keith Miller or Eric Sanders?"

"Miller was just one in a sea of faces. I never had to deal with him directly. On the other hand, Sanders was a lieutenant and had to carry out orders, some at my personal direction. To tell you the truth, I never liked the man. He was all bluff, always bragging about this and that, but actually getting very little done. He never directly went against my wishes, but instead would come up empty-handed if asked to take out a mujahideen or go out on patrol. The men who report to him loved the man. Probably because they knew that they would be coming back to the base in one piece. Sanders lacked initiative."

"You just said that no one under your command was a shirker."

He gave me an unpleasant look. "Ideally, yes. But when you're in a war, you have to deal with the tools that you are given. Sanders was good with the locals and picked up their language real quick. He was a crack shot and good with weapons. I used him the best that I could, which was as an official interpreter and for training the locals."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"The Green Berets are a tight group. I'm retired but still keep up with the soldiers who I once commanded. Sanders, like me, is out of army now. He is running some real estate business of his own over in Los Angeles. The messages I got from him makes it sound like he is a millionaire. I'm not sure if it's all bravado or not. You never can tell with someone like him."

"He sounds like the type who makes outlandish claims."

"As I said, Sanders is his own best promoter. We had plenty of time to talk out there. He was always going on about some get-rich-quick scheme: currency trading, medical stocks, and land deals. It was no surprise when I found out that he had gone into real estate after his army gig was up.

"What about Bill Kinney. Was he out to get rich?"

The colonel sighed. "Bill was getting on in age. The thing about the army is that they take care of you, but once you're out, that's it. Other than a small pension, he had nothing to look forward to. He had a family to look after. I don't blame him for getting wrapped up with Sanders or Miller."

I changed topics and began asking Peabody general questions about the war and the worst situations he had encountered. It was all thrilling and perfect fodder for a real writer. I learned about the Taliban, roadside bombs, the tribal laws, and living hard in the middle of a combat zone. He seemed to really warm to me and it was almost two hours later when I was able to pry myself away, promising I would send him a copy of the book when it was finished.

By the time I returned to the car, I was starving. I headed back to my apartment. There I parked, and went upstairs. The alarms were still set. There was the smell of cooking chicken. Entering the front door, I saw Pauline busy in the kitchen, working a frying pan. She was wearing a pair of jeans, no socks or shoes, and a simple burgundy shirt with a plunging neckline. There was some light classical music playing on the stereo.

"You're back," she said, beaming at me.

"What are you cooking?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"Your refrigerator and cupboards aren't very well stocked. Do you just live on steak and bacon?"

"Pretty much yes, as long as you add a salad, and the occasional drink."

"Are you one of those Paleo diet people?"

"Not exactly. I try to minimize sugar and carbohydrates as much as I can. I do make exceptions for alcohol though."

"You do look trim, but I couldn't go a day without some potato chips."

"I'm not evangelical about it. I don't care what another person does with their body. That's up to them. I just want to be left alone."

"So you're a Libertarian too?"

"You can keep on trying to fit me into your neat little categories, but really, I have very little interest in politics or deciding how other people should live. As far as I can tell, the latter has been tried for years with very little success. I certainly wouldn't count on anyone, especially a politician, to decide what I should eat, who I can screw, or what car to drive."

Pauline blinked a few time and then quickly changed the subject. "I'm making Rosemary Chicken with steamed broccoli. I hope that's to your liking."

I nodded eagerly. "I'm not used to having someone else doing the cooking. I'm looking forward to it."

"You can consider it a small down payment for everything you have done for me. I want to be useful. While I'm staying here I can cook and clean for you."

"That's not necessary. You're my guest. You don't have to do anything unless you want to."

"I've already done a whole bunch of nothing today. I've slept on that patio of yours and even used the hot tub. It's rather liberating to be outside without a stitch of clothing on."

I raised my eyebrows in mock shock. "You surprise me. I usually save that entertainment for when the lights go out."

She gave me a shy smile that held plenty of promises. "Why don't you set the table and we can discuss our fetishes later."

"That's right, we never got around to discussing your sexual hang ups. I'm sure it will make for some interesting conversation."

"Not that interesting," Pauline said, her expression revealing a painful memory.

I had almost thought that she was back to normal. That was a mistake. I would have to let her come around at her own pace. Instead of saying anything else, I pulled some plates and silverware out and placed them on the dining room table. Even though it was after four, we were running on a different schedule than the outside world. This was a good time as any for lunch. I took out two wine glasses and filled them with cold tonic water from the refrigerator. The drinks could do with a splash of gin but I would also forgo alcohol until she was ready.

Pauline served dinner, nervously watching my first taste. The chicken was good, the rosemary a much needed change from my normal salt and pepper. The broccoli was undercooked, but I didn't complain since some people liked it that way.

"Was your errand successful?" she asked between bites.

I took a drink of tonic water before answering. "I saw a man named Bob Peabody. He used to be a Green Beret colonel. Bill Kinney, who served with Keith, was involved in some sort of illegal trade with the natives over in Afghanistan. The colonel wasn't sure what they were dealing in, possibly drugs, but it was something. Did Keith ever give you any clues how he made his money?"

"He just said something about the stock market."

"More like the black market."

"So what are you going to do next?"

"There was another man involved in their scheme. His name is Eric Sanders. Is that name familiar to you?"

Pauline looked upward, concentrating on nothing but trying to retrieve an old memory. She answered, "I was drunk. I mean really drunk. We were at some dive bar. Keith had been pawing at me all night, just waiting to get me home so he could do his things to me. His cellphone went off. He answered and immediately started shouting at the person on the other end. I couldn't understand what Keith was going on about, something about how he hadn't found it yet. And then he told the person to fuck off before hanging up. He mumbled to himself and said the name Sanders under his breath. Then grabbed me by the arm and hauled me back to my condominium. At least that's how I remember it."

"It sounds like Kinney screwed his friends out of some money, or else they decided they wanted to take his share. I was planning on going to Los Angeles to talk to this Eric Sanders."

"Are you going to go by yourself?"

"Why do you ask? Do you think you are up for a road trip?"

"I think so," she replied uncertainly. "How long were you planning to be gone?"

"Until tomorrow night. It's going to be a lot of driving."

"I think I can manage that. I want to be close to you. I don't think I can handle a night without you nearby."

"Okay," I said after a moment of thought. "Pack something for an overnight trip. I may have to leave you at the hotel for a little while when I'm off questioning this Sanders."

"I can handle that."

Pauline went to the bedroom to pack. While she was busy doing that, I cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the plates and silverware into the dishwasher. I took the wine glasses and cleaned them by hand. They were antique and a little too delicate to trust to a machine. Afterward I used the computer and looked up the phone number of Eric Sanders. I narrowed it down to the correct number by doing several cross searches. I then went into the bedroom and put together a bag of clothing. While in the closet, I removed a hidden panel and, amongst the various weapons inside, selected a Colt Defender - a sub-compact pistol - and a pistol harness. The .40 caliber slug wasn't a charging Rhino stopper, but it would put a sizable hole in anyone who stopped long enough to get hit. I added this equipment to the bag, hiding them on the very bottom. When I was done, the panel went back into place. After I was finished in the bedroom, I went to the bathroom and added the toiletries I would need.

I found Pauline at the front door, waiting to go. I shut down the stereo, set the alarm system, and turned off all the lights. Down to the garage we went. We took the Impala. We were soon caught in the crush of rush hour as the office workers fled back to the safety of their suburban paradise. It took a long time to get on the highway which was bumper-to-bumper, but, as the exits went by, the traffic diminished. It was only then that we could start to eat up some miles.

As I drove, Pauline fiddled with the stereo. She apparently liked modern pop music which was only a small strike against her. At least she kept the volume low enough that we could talk. The tone of the conversation was light. I discussed cars, which seemed to bore her to no end, and so I eventually shut my mouth. She prattled on about her childhood – an apparently abnormal one since there were so few roadblocks or trouble – and life in a small town.

She finally said, "You've gotten quiet. What was your childhood like?"

"Not much to say. I grew up in a suburb outside of Grand Rapids, a city over in Michigan. I hated the closed-mindedness of the place. I made a vow to myself that I would really experience life. So I did."

"What did you do?"

"A little college and a little of everything else – I went down to Brazil and worked on a beef farm, I waited tables in New York City, I was a messenger in Chicago, and then I went out to California to try my hand in the film industry. I had no success in that, but realized there were plenty of ways to make money that didn't involve working for someone else. It's a long story but I got involved in the security business, doing a little bodyguard work on the side. In my spare time I began to lift weights plus a little jogging and take some Krava Maga classes. I apparently have a natural talent for violence, or so I have been told."

"Krava Maga? Is that like Karate?"

"You could say that."

"I feel that I know so little about you, but you know everything about me."

"I like my privacy."

"But you're rich. Tell me how you made all of your money. I bet that's an interesting story."

"That's no secret. I just didn't spend much in the beginning. I took whatever extra I had and started investing it. I started with stocks, but found that was a sucker's game since the big players are pulling all the levers. So I got into local real estate and certain opportunities."

She made a grumpy face. "You're being vague again."

"As I said, I like my privacy. And don't take this the wrong way, but there is always a chance that someday you'll have to sell me out to save your own skin. The less you know about me, the safer I am."

She said sullenly, "I don't think I would ever rat you out. Not after what you've done for me."

"You never know what someone will do in a given situation."

"You must think that I'm a silly thing. Are you really that confident in yourself or is it all bluff?"

I gave her a quick, awkward grin. "Man, our lofty morals aside, are animals. Like beasts they fear the alpha wolf but still want to nip at his heels. If he's aggressive enough then maybe they will leave him alone. But if the pack senses any kind of weakness, they'll be after you and tear you into shreds."

"You make it sound so primitive. We're not wolves."

"There's a difference between the life of a middle-class woman and the rest of the world. You should know that after meeting Keith."

I could feel her eyes on me, searching my face.

She said, "You're not anything like him."

"Don't fool yourself. I may not be an abusive jerk, but he and I both know the rules of the game. We both know that in order to survive you have to give it all in a fight. There will be no holding back when we finally meet."

Pauline became silent. She turned to stare out the window, watching the setting sun that was hanging right in front of us. The desert here was beautiful, the blue sky slowly turning into a deep purple as the night took over. It was a rough, untamed country that was filled with rolling hills, scrub brush, and stony outcrops. It reminded me of cowboys and every western movie I had ever seen. I loved the sparseness and the sense of unlimited wildness, harking back to a simpler time. It wasn't a matter of being old-fashioned, but just a hatred of the worst aspects of our modern world. Too many people were lost in a limited fantasy world of computers and superficial friendships. They did not know the physical feeling of overcoming almost insurmountable odds. I just hoped that Pauline could learn from her experience and not become consumed by it.

We stopped in Barstow, a not very large town that happened to have a military base, an intersection of roads, and a railway. Once I was off the highway, I filled the car up and then proceeded into the old downtown where Pauline selected a Mexican restaurant to eat at. It was a quaint place that served good authentic burritos, unlike the Americanized version that have forever tainted our pallets. We didn't talk much. Now that her knight in shining armor was a little tarnished, she seemed suspicious of me. Perhaps she thought I was going to turn into another Keith. She already had enough monsters in her life so I couldn't blame her.

I drove onward, not stopping until we hit the edges of Los Angeles. I stopped at a small motel; one that was off the main road and had a deserted lot. It was one of those funny places \- just a single row with doors facing a parking space - that was a leftover from the 1950s. At my request, the clerk gave me two units situated next to each other. I paid cash. I saw Pauline to her door and then let myself into my room. Inside there was a single bed with green sheets, an ugly brown dresser, and easy chair that had a ripped cushion. Home sweet home. The carpeting was red shag. I feared walking on it barefoot. A television was tucked in the corner. The room smelled of Lysol and stale cigarettes.

After putting my bag down, I went to the tiny bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I then went and sat on the edge of the bed. Pulling the cellphone from my pocket, I dialed a number that I had already looked up in Vegas.

Someone picked up. Across the line I heard a brief burst of laughter in the background. "Hello?" a man said. His words were slurred.

"Yes, I'm Vincent Poole," I lied. "I'm trying to reach Eric Sanders."

"You're speaking to him, buddy. What do you want?"

"Are you the Eric Sanders who served in Afghanistan as a Green Beret?"

"Yes. Just who is this?" His tone was getting angrier, speaking out of the bottle instead of the head.

"I was talking to your commanding officer, Colonel Peabody. He told me that you might be interested in talking about your time in Afghanistan. I'm writing a book about the war."

"Peabody? Yeah, I know him alright. Why don't you come on over and we can talk about this book of yours. We're having a little party here at the house in celebration of a big sale I just got."

"That sounds good, Mr. Sanders. Let me have your address and I'll come as soon as I can."

He gave me the location of his house and some directions that didn't make much sense. Thankfully I had a GPS unit in the car that would get me there.

"Is it okay if I bring someone? I have my girlfriend with me."

"Sure! The more women the better!"

"Okay, I'll see you in a little while."

This was a stroke of luck. I feared he would turn me down and I would have to come up with another excuse to see him. But the alcohol had loosened his tongue and more importantly, his brain. A natural braggart gets even worse after a few drinks.

I took my coat off. I dug into the bag, pulled the gun and holster out. I put the rig on over my shirt, reflexively checked that there wasn't a load in the chamber of the Colt, and then slid the little gun inside the holster. I put my coat back on and checked in the mirror that there wasn't any sort of bulge under my armpit. There were no plans to kill anyone tonight, but I wanted the kind of protection that a pistol could offer. If I really wanted to murder someone, I would have brought a shotgun with, especially since there's no ballistic test for matching buckshot to the barrel.

I left the room and knocked on Pauline's door. She was still dressed and didn't look very relaxed. Maybe she didn't like the room.

"How would you like to go to a party?" I asked.
Chapter 7

Sanders lived out in Marina Del Ray, an upscale seaside community that had a high cost of entry. I drove past his house which was a modern eyesore of painted concrete and glass windows. It would have made a dandy prison. It was built on a double lot, but the land still wasn't enough to contain the ugly structure which dominated the neighborhood of trim Cape Cods. The front yard was only a few feet deep, all perfectly manicured green grass and two dainty trees that would soon outgrow their limited space. Parking here was a nightmare, the street clogged with luxury cars and oversized SUVs. I managed to find a space a block over and slid the Impala in.

"Ready?" I asked Pauline as we got out of the car.

"I guess so. How do I look?"

She was still wearing a sweatshirt and exercise paints. I replied, "You're the type of woman who could wear a burlap sack and the men would still come running. The women would be asking where you got that delightful dress."

"You're the biggest liar I've ever met."

Smiling, she took me by the arm and together we walked back toward the house. The neighborhood here had a distinct nautical air, with gaudy anchors and overly cute names written on weathered boards near the front door. Of course there was a massive marina only a few blocks away and the weekend sailors here must have been numerous. Personally I had no experience with sailing beyond being pulled on a set of skis. I had no urge to change that either.

As we approached the front entrance, the sound of music and laughter could be heard emanating from the interior. I knocked a few times but there was no response. It was obvious that no one could hear us. Opening the door, I let Pauline pass through first. Inside was even worse that the exterior; a padded black leather sofa, thick white carpeting, track lighting, and a large flat-screen television was my first impression of the living room. There was a mob of people here, the men all khaki pants, polo shirts, white teeth, and short hair, and the women wore sleeveless dresses with sculpted hairstyles and big gold earrings. It was my version of Dante's Inferno.

A man and woman broke away from the pack and approached us.. He was approaching middle-age fast: large belly, a nut brown head that had been shaved bald, and a roadmap of wrinkles around blue eyes. One would never have guessed that just a few years ago this man was an elite soldier; the only evidence of that was the sure and steady way he moved through the crowded room. The woman was a sloppy blond with a black dress and just a hint of white showing in her hair. She didn't look particularly happy to see us, but perhaps she was a touch more sober than the others.

"You must be Mr. Poole," he said, sticking his paw out to shake.

We shook hands. His grip was hard but sweaty. He ground my knuckles together. I didn't return the favor.

"I'm Eric Sanders. This is my wife, Rachel."

"Please to meet you." I shook her hand. The clasp felt like a wet noodle.

I said, "I'm sorry to interrupt your party. What's the occasion?"

Beaming, Sanders said, "This is my team of real estate agents. We've been busting our asses trying to make this big deal go through. We've been buying up old homes over in Compton. I have some contacts in the city government that say this certain area is going to be home to a new public housing development. Needless to say when it comes time to sell the property, we'll make a nice big profit off the deal. It took a lot of cash and time to makes this all work."

I'm sure he wouldn't have told me all of this if it wasn't for the booze running through his veins. Of course what he was doing was highly unethical, buying the homes of poor people who had no idea that their property value was about to skyrocket. I wanted to give him a good smack, but instead smiled and nodded in agreement like he was the cleverest fellow on the planet.

I said, "That's great. By the way, let me introduce you to my girlfriend here. Say hello, Tricia." That was the fake name that we had come up for her.

It took Pauline a second to realize that we were discussing her. "Hello," she said uncertainly. She was too guileless for this game of deception.

Sanders took her hand and kissed it with a drunken flourish. "You are a beauty! Come over and meet my friends."

With Sanders leading the way, Pauline disappeared into a crowd of admirers. I just hoped she kept her promise and remembered to stay away from the alcohol. A bigger concern was that she could forgot to respond to her cover name or give mine away. I began to wander, first grabbing a Diet Coke from a table busy with drinks. I went from room to room, saying hello to the few people who bothered to make eye contact with me. I was a stranger here, not part of their little seedy business, so I was mostly ignored. That was okay with me; I was just passing time until I could talk to Sanders alone. By the look of these drinkers it would be a few hours before that happened. I could only imagine how hungover they would be when it was time to stumble into work.

The rest of the interior was decorated in modern America nightmare – unobtrusive colors, heavy furniture with an almost medieval build, and completely lifeless paintings on the wall – reproductions, of course. It had all the life of a hotel room. You could bulldoze this entire collection of junk into the sea and no one would care for the loss.

It was an open floor plan, each room melding into another without walls or doors. I reached the end, trying to find a quiet place to sit and think. My nostrils were assaulted by a familiar smell that seemed out of place in this neighborhood. I turned near a corner bookshelf and saw the shadow of a sofa stuck in a darkened niche. Someone was sitting there. A yellow flame snapped open and I saw a glass pipe being lit. It was crack cocaine.

"Excuse me," I said as I tried to back out without causing any undue trouble.

"Fuck you, mister," a voice in the gloom said. The pipe was dropped. It was a young man, really more of a boy. He was up on his feet, charging toward me.

In the dim light, he was nothing but a steak of flesh, dark hair, white shirt and light pants. Just as he was about to tackle me, I neatly stepped aside and let him go by. I gave him backward kick which gave a bit of unexpected momentum. He tried to compensate, but quickly lost his footing on the wood floor and tumbled forward into a big potted plant. Fighting inside a home can be a dangerous proposition if you don't keep track of your surroundings.

With a roar, he pulled himself up off the ground. It was one thing to lose a fight, but to lose it so easily was embarrassing. He was going to try and pummel me into the ground, even if it was going to kill him. I had to put an end to this quickly before it got out of hand. This time he came at me slowly, trying to gauge what my next move was going to be. He certainly was no boxer – his footwork was all wrong. Jutting my jaw out, I made myself an easy target. The massive roundhouse swing that came was telegraphed from a mile away. I stepped into it, getting so close that I could smell his sour breath. His bicep grazed the side of my head. I punched him sharply on the side of the neck. He crumpled to the floor, this time falling on top of a side table. The lamp fell off and broke with a smash.

I snapped out of my combat stance and tried to look confused. The overhead light turned on, flooding the area with that pale white fluorescent light. Sanders came rushing in with his wife, followed by a few other guests from the party. Pauline was in the back of the pack, her expression blank.

"What in hell just happened?" Sanders asked, looking over the wreckage. The kid was on the floor, writhing in pain as he desperately tried to stand up.

I angrily spat out, "I was attacked by this brat here. I was looking around your house and found him smoking crack."

Sanders turned his ire on the boy. "Is this true, Chris?"

With a sway, he stood up, and surveyed the gathered crowd. He said, "You don't give a shit about me. Why should you care what I do?" He glanced toward Rachel and then stormed off, leaving a wake of curious onlookers.

Running after him, Sanders bellowed, "Come back here! Come back here! I'm not finished with you!"

There was an uncomfortable silence from the guests. No one wanted to be here anymore.

Rachel was at my elbow. She said in a low voice, "I'm sorry you had to be involved in this little family drama."

"I'm still confused. Who was that boy, his son?"

"Yes, that was Chris, the offspring from Eric's first marriage. Needless to say he and I don't get along very well. He's only seventeen and one gigantic pain in the ass, to put it kindly. I just hope you weren't hurt."

"I'll live."

"Well you must excuse me. I have to see after the guests. She hurried off.

Only Pauline remained. She looked confused.

"You doing okay?" I asked her.

"It's strange. I've been hidden away at my house and your place is like a fortress. I've been alone for so long that I don't know how to talk to people. Those men in there were pawing at me. I wanted to scream but I couldn't do anything but listen to them and pray it would end soon."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone. I guess I wasn't thinking."

She gave me a weak smile, indicating some sort of acceptance for my apology. "I wish we could go back home. I liked traveling. It felt so damn free like I didn't have to think of my troubles anymore."

"We won't be here for too much longer. We'll be able to leave in the morning."

"I guess I should have stayed at the motel."

"Maybe so. But everything will work out."

She slipped her arms into mine. Together we went back to the living room. There was no one left here. It was quiet now. The party had died a sudden death. I sat down on the sofa. Pauline took the other end. Our wait wasn't too long. Sanders came out. He looked disheveled and had a slightly unsteady walk. The drink was really starting to catch up to him.

"You're still here?" he asked, obviously annoyed.

"I'm sorry what happened in there. I certainly didn't come here with the expectation of getting into a fistfight with your son."

A flash of anger showed, momentarily lighting up those drunken and dulled eyes. "That little shit had it coming to him. You got him good, alright."

"I'll pay for any damages," I suggested.

He shook his head. "No, I've got loads of money. I'm a rich man. Anyway, it should be that fool boy who should be picking up the tab. I'll take it out of his allowance. Consider the matter dropped."

"That's very kind of you. I wonder if you still have some time for a little interview. I'm only going to be in Los Angeles until tomorrow morning, so would right now work?"

Sanders eyed Pauline. "I don't want to say anything that would offend your girlfriend, so I would prefer to speak without her around. You see some tough situations went down in Afghanistan; horrible and bloody combat, for one. It's not a conversation for polite company."

"Why don't the two of us go out and get something to eat?" I suggested. "I'm sure you know of a good restaurant that is open this time of night."

"You know that's a brilliant idea. After that little spat with Chris I think it's best that I leave the house for a little while."

"And just what am I supposed to do in the meanwhile?" Pauline asked grumpily.

"Take the car back to the hotel. I can get a taxi back."

"Okay. I know how to find my way back." She didn't look very happy by this idea.

"I'll walk you out." I got up from the sofa.

Sanders said, "Let me go tell my wife. I'll meet you outside."

I opened the door for Pauline. We walked back to the Impala. I dug the keys out of my pocket and handed them to her. "Are you positive you know the way back?"

"I lived in Beverly Hills for a long time. I know my way around Los Angeles." She frowned. "You're not going to hurt Sanders are you, Dev?"

"Whatever put that thought into your head?"

"We were inside the house. I was talking to some man who couldn't stop looking at me in that queer way that young men get. When I heard that crash and ran into that room and saw that boy lying on the floor, I remembered what you said about being good at violence. I saw something in your eyes that I hadn't seen before – at least from you. It made me scared. It made me think of Keith."

"I told you that Keith and I were much alike. But I will never hurt you or anyone who doesn't deserve it."

"You sound like judge, jury, and executioner. What happens if you're wrong? Did that ever occur to you?"

"It hasn't yet."

Pauline gave me a sour look. A peck on the cheek and she hopped in the car, started the engine, and took off. I watched the taillights recede. The car turned and then was gone. I thought that I didn't like to have a traveling conscience with me and was glad that she had left. But I also felt a disappointment with myself, almost as if I wasn't living up her impossible expectations. Even with everything that had happened to her, she still clung to some middle-class morality. Such innocence was touching, and perhaps that was really what Keith wanted to destroy; not just a high class woman, but her very sense of identity.

A horn honked and a low slung black Jaguar came to a screeching halt in front of me. The windows were rolled down. Sanders was behind the wheel.

"Come on, let's get that grub," he said.

I walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. As soon as I got in, Sanders took off with lurch. He was driving like a mad man, all anger fueled by booze.

"You ever have any problem with the police around here?" I asked as politely as I could.

"What?"

"You're driving a little fast, that's all."

He slowed the car down to a more reasonable rate. With a little bad luck he would still get a patrol car after him, but the chances were now greatly reduced. He said, "I'm just worried about my son, Chris. He's been nothing but trouble ever since the day I got married to Rachel. I don't know what to do."

"We all did stupid things when we were young."

"What do you mean? You caught him red-handed smoking crack! That shit is addicting."

"You can put him in rehab or you can let him experiment and hope he finds out that drugs aren't his thing. He doesn't strike me as an addict."

"I guess so," he said uncertainly.

"If he's doing that in the house, it means he isn't a serious user. He could have done that at the beach, in the garage, or even at the dealer's house. Instead he was practically smoking right out in the open. It seems to be that he wanted to be caught – probably by you."

"You know, you're making me feel better already. I bet he's just trying to get back at me."

"I guess so."

"It's a damn shame that Chris doesn't get along with my wife Rachel. Those two should be thick as thieves."

"It's an old story. No son or daughter likes their stepmother."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. At least Chris will be heading off to college next year. Maybe there will finally be some peace and quiet."

Sanders pulled into the parking lot of a greasy spoon. There weren't many cars here, which wasn't surprising considering it was just after midnight on a weekday. I was relieved that we weren't going to eat at a chain restaurant. I hated the fake atmosphere of those places, designed at a soulless corporate headquarters for maximum friendliness and minimum portions. It was a fine way to turn a profit if you didn't give a damn about the customer and was more interested in pulling money from their wallets.

We went inside. It was comfortably dim and there was a smell of breakfast in the air. The few other customers didn't pay us any attention. A yawning waitress showed us to a booth. I stuck with water to drink and ordered an omelet. Sanders got a pot of black coffee and a cheeseburger with fries. That kind of eating wasn't going to help his waistline.

"So where do you want to start?" he asked, while pouring a cup of coffee.

I never could understand how someone could imbibe so much caffeine at such a late hour, unless they were practiced insomniacs. "How did you join the Green Berets?" I asked.

"Looking at the money I have now and you would never guess that I didn't go to college. My parents just couldn't afford it. So, like many other poor kids, I joined the army. Of course it was better than hanging around Park Ridge in Chicago and collecting welfare. I wanted to get out of that dump and see the world. Sure, I didn't exactly cotton to all the rules and regulations in the army, but I'm a natural target shooter. When I was in the army, I won competitions. They liked me so much that I was sent to officer school. After that it was the Green Berets.

"It was actually a good peaceful life until 9/11 hit. Before that shit went down I was married young and had Chris. I won't say much about my first wife. Let's just say that motherhood didn't come naturally to her. She ran off with another guy only a few months after Chris was born. Anyway, after all that trouble with Al-Qaeda there was a big demand for Special Forces. I said what the hell and decided to stay in the army. I was involved in all the shit right from the beginning – Tora Bora in Afghanistan and then in the hunt for Saddam over in Iraq. However a few years of that bad mojo and you start to think that if you don't play your cards right, then a bullet is going to find you. I always wanted something bigger in life; not just to be a grunt or even a low-level officer in the army. When the current president started the surge in Afghanistan, I was put under Bob Peabody's command. That was the last tour I did before quitting that whole wretched business and going into real estate. It's been going real good ever since."

"What did you do on that last tour?"

"The usual: try to train some backwards natives how to act like real soldiers. Between you and me, it isn't worth the trouble. The spirit is there, but the discipline certainly isn't. Those bastards can't shoot and they certainly aren't very brave. I don't blame them myself; why die for your country when there isn't anything to die for? Afghanistan is an ancient country. It's been there for centuries and no one has ever really conquered it. Sure, we've got one hell of an air force and can beat any army on the Earth, but the Mujahideen will just outlast us. They've got the will, something the American population and especially the politicians don't. The bad guys will win the war alright, no matter what the armchair generals say."

The food came. We began to eat.

Now it was time to show him a card in my hand. "According to Colonel Peabody, you were real close to Bill Kinney. What can you tell me about him?"

That name made Sanders look up from his plate. He stopped chewing. A French fry dangled loosely in his hand. "Nothing much," he said with a mouthful of food. "I mean we hung out and did lots of crazy stuff together. Old Bill was one hell of a fighter, which was funny since he had a family back home. You would think that would make a man real cautious. I've always been real careful myself."

Now it was time to show another card in my hand. "Did Bill worry about money? After all, no one gets rich in army and he had a family to support."

Sanders stared hard at me, his eye blazing with anger. "Are you a government agent? IRS?"

"I can assure you that I am not. Why do you ask?"

"Your questions are taking a strange turn. Bill and I were just friends, that's all. It was a damn shame that he died. Who would have thought that old Bill, Mr. Indestructible, would get killed by a sucker punch from a snot-nosed brat."

"Strange things happen."

"Yes they do. Like a mystery man showing up on my doorstep with some breezy redhead. He proceeds to beat up a man younger than himself, but yet you don't have a scratch. I'm trained in hand-to-hand combat myself. What exactly did you do to Chris?"

I didn't answer. Instead I dropped another bomb on him. "What can you tell me about Keith Miller?"

His eyes cold as ice, Sanders licked his lips. It wasn't nervousness. Instead he was making a decision whether or not to strike me. I could tell because I had seen that look before. I prepared myself to duck.

Instead he asked, "What exactly has that bastard Colonel Peabody been telling you about me?" His voice was low and threatening.

The waitress took this moment to interrupt our conversation to ask us how the food tasted. We both broke into easy smiles, acting the part of pleased customers. After refilling my glass, she retreated back to the kitchen. By the expression on her face, she didn't quite buy our story. The tension in the air was so thick that it couldn't even be cut with the dull butter knife resting in my right hand.

Before Sanders could continue, I cut him off. I kept the tone of my voice friendly, but not displaying any weakness. "There's no reason to get excited. I'm doing a special chapter on the black-market. It was the colonel's opinion that you, along with Kinney and Miller, were involved in something illegal. I would like to hear about it. I promise that I won't mention anyone by name. You can be an anonymous source."

The tension in the air broke. Sanders smiled, obviously no longer considering me a threat. He said, "I'm afraid the colonel was talking out of his ass. There's no story there."

"Are you sure?"

"Positively. I'm an honest businessman so why would I be involved in anything illegal?"

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time." I could tell he was lying.

"It's no problem. We'll finish up this late night dinner and I'll drive you back home. I'll even pick up the check."

I ate the rest of my omelet, taking my time as Sanders regaled me of stories about his heroics in Afghanistan and Iraq. It mostly sounded like bullshit, but I pretended to be more interested than I really was. By the time we both finished eating, we were wary friends again. He paid using a credit card, bragged to the waitress about the tip she was going to get, and then we left the restaurant.

Using the clicker on his remote, Sanders unlocked the car doors of the Jaguar. I got in first. He slid in behind the steering wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. At the same time I cracked him hard in the side of the head, just above the ear. With a single surprised gasp, he went unconscious and slumped forward.
Chapter 8

I wasn't familiar with this area so I would have to improvise. I got out of the car and went over to the driver's side door and opened it. I wrestled Sanders across the center console until he was on the other side. These damn new cars with their bucket seats made the job difficult. When everything was in place, I started the car, hit the lights, and started driving back toward the house. But when it came time to turn onto his street, I instead passed it by and headed toward the seashore.

I passed by the first marina, all fencing and security lights. I drove on until I found another place further down the road. It catered toward the low-rent crowd with an open parking lot that led directly to wooden docks. A few boats were tied up here, but it looked relatively deserted compared to the more popular sites. I pulled the Jaguar up next to a Suburban, effectively blocking the car from view if anyone happened to drive by. I let myself take a few deep breaths before continuing the next phase of the operation.

Gripping Sanders by the armpits, I pulled him out of the car and dragged him toward the docks. There was a little office here that had the lights off. We went by this and onto the wide wooden planks. His heels bounced along the grooves, making a strange washboard noise. I found what I was looking for: a row of empty slips. The nearest boat was a good fifty yards away; the windows dark. I dropped the body near the edge of the water.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a pair of long plastic zip ties. One went around Sander's ankles while the other bound the wrists together behind his back. It didn't take long for me to find a rope that had been discarded by some sailor; marinas were thick with the stuff since even a small sailboat required yards and yards of line. I cinched the length of rope around his armpits and then made a knot, creating a noose that was tight against his chest. One last touch was needed. I pulled the handkerchief from my breast pocket and tied it around his mouth as a gag.

Taking the other end of the rope, I used my foot and rolled Sanders into the dark water. The splash wasn't much, just a ripple. His body sunk quickly and disappeared into the depths below. I counted to ten and then started pulling on the rope. Sanders's head came up, his bald hair shiny with moisture. He was awake now. The eyes were wide with fear. His lips were pressed tightly against the gag as he tried to gasp for air.

I leaned over and talked in a low voice. "I'm not a big fan of inflicting pain on people since that doesn't always get the results that I want. That's especially true with someone who has been instructed how to resist interrogation, such as you. Being a Green Beret, you've been waterboarded and who knows what else as part of your rigorous training. But there is a difference here – this is life and death, not just feeling a prick of pain or a momentary discomfort. Do you understand?"

Sanders nodded eagerly, but I saw something in his eyes. He wasn't really scared yet. I let the rope go slack in my hands, and down he dropped like a rock. I could only imagine the panic he felt as his feet hit the bottom. All he could do was writhe helplessly and wait, praying that I would pull him up.

This time I waited for a full thirty seconds. When he came up, water drained out of his nose. He looked sick and pale. The fight was out of him. I wasn't feeling too good myself. I had no stomach for this activity but I couldn't see any other way around it.

I said, "I'm going to take that gag off. If you scream for help, you're going down to the bottom again and I won't be pulling you back up. You got that?"

Sanders nodded.

Keeping one hand on the rope, I leaned over and pulled the gag down from his mouth.

With wheezing lungs, he began to suck in large quantities of air. "Damn you," he spat out. There was an edge of real panic in his voice. This is where I wanted him.

I said, "Now let's start at the beginning. How did you make your money in Afghanistan?"

"Gold. It was gold." The words came out quick. "Bill and I traded American cash for antiquities. It started off innocently enough, a few dollars for a little figurine that caught my fancy. It turned out to be pure gold. But the Pashtun we were dealing with had plenty more, stuff stolen from graves and such. There was millions of dollars just there for the taking. I used all the money that I had in my savings account and so did Bill. We started buying everything that we could, even trading in ammunition or weapons that had been captured by the enemy. That idiot Colonel Peabody thought it was someone in the native militia doing the stealing. We kept everything in a hole that was well-hidden underneath a heavy rock. It was located a few clicks away from the village we were staying at. We only visited it at night so the colonel wouldn't get suspicious."

"Those kind of artifacts would have been hard to move back to the states. How did you do it?"

"Bill wanted to bring the objects back unaltered. It was easy to see that he was an amateur at this kind of game. I told him it would be too dangerous since tracing it back to us would be too easy if the military police got involved. There was a blacksmith in the village. I gave him some money to keep his mouth shut and melt all the gold down and make them into small bars. That made the gold easier to transport and hide. We only moved a few at a time.."

"What was Keith Miller's role in all of this? I haven't heard you mention his name yet."

"Keith knew a Blackhawk pilot who was willing to take the cargo out for us. Keith got a cut of the action, five percent from the both of us. He was up to his neck in some other ventures, I know that. This was just another bit of action for him. The gold was hidden at one of the big bases. Everyone got their cut but there was enough money to go around."

The confidence was returning in Sander's voice. I began to wonder if he was telling the truth again. I let go of the rope and watched as his face disappeared beneath the black water. This time I waited for almost a full minute. I could feel the length twitch and jerk in my hands. By the time I pulled him back up, he was begging for me to stop.

I wasn't feeling too proud of myself – taking a fully grown man and making him cry – but it was something that needed to be done. I couldn't get the information from him any other way. He was a practiced liar and only the fear of death would make him talk straight.

I asked, "How did you get the gold back to the States?"

He sputtered, "You bastard! I'll tell you. We built false bottoms in our footlockers. The bars were thin enough that no one could tell the difference unless they knew what they were looking for."

"How much gold are talking about? What was your haul?"

"Almost twenty-two pounds each."

I let out a whistle. I did a quick calculation. That was over four-hundred thousand dollars, more or less.

Sanders continued, "You can't get anything from me. There's nothing left of my haul. I needed money fast to start my business. I sold it to a mob man who I knew from Chicago and had it converted to cash. I had two-hundred thousand dollars when I was finished. I took one hell of a bath on that deal, but it was enough to get me going."

"What about Bill?"

"I assume he had the chance to cash out or at least tell his wife about the gold. I didn't think about it, really. I'm doing well enough that I don't need his money."

"Bullshit," I said. "I know you're lying. You're working with Keith to get it back, aren't you? But he double-crossed you, didn't he?"

Sanders nervously watched my hands, readying himself in case I let go of the rope. After a frightened moan he gave in and finally said, "After I heard Kinney died, I went to the funeral home. I saw his wife and girls there. They were dressed like paupers. It was my guess that they never found out about the gold. That meant it was hidden somewhere."

"And where does Keith fit in all of this now?"

"I was busy with my work. I didn't have time to go looking into the gold, nor could I think of how to approach the family. But that all changed when Keith showed up at my door one day. He was out of the army and had burned through all the money he had made. He wanted a hand out. But I gave him a job instead. We talked and talked, deciding he could gain the trust of the mother or one of the daughters, and gain access to the house. He moved in but couldn't find the gold, at least not right away. Now he no longer returns my phone calls. I assume he finally found what he was looking for."

"You don't sound too angry about it."

A rare grin broke his strained expression. "It's part of the game. You win some and you lose some. Sure I was pissed, but I've got my own worries. That money I got down in Mexico? I fed it slowly into my business, but those boys at the IRS are smarter than me. The Feds began to wonder where this extra money was coming from. I got audited. It cost me a fortune in attorneys to keep them off my back. I was hoping Kinney's share of the gold would have made up my losses. I'm hurting now, spread too thin. If the city government doesn't buy my property soon, I'm going to go broke."

"Do you know where Keith is now?"

"Still in Las Vegas, at least I think so. He's doing his best to disappear."

Sanders looked positively sick now. The summer heat of the day in Los Angeles was high as always, but the nights were cooler. Sitting in the ocean water for so long was beginning to take its toll on him. It was time to get him out of there before there were any permanent effects. I tugged on the rope, leaned over, and grabbed Sanders by the arm. With much effort I was able to drag him out of the water. He rested on the wooden planks, shivering and making little whimpering noises. Using the jackknife in my pocket, I cut the zip tie on his ankles. I took my handkerchief back. I helped him stand and, with my help, we headed back toward the Jaguar.

His feet were unsteady. He lurched and stumbled, once falling and requiring my help to stand again. I was wary that he would try something, but he was helpless enough after such an ordeal and with his wrists still firmly kept together by the zip tie. I unlocked the doors and stuffed him into the passenger seat, and even locked the seat belt into place. Sanders never protested, but instead acted like a weak child. I got in the driver's side door, started the car up and headed back toward his home.

"I don't feel well," he finally said. "I'm sick."

"Don't worry, I'll have you back with your family soon enough."

I drove slowly, just a few miles per hour under the posted speed limit. Except for a single pair of headlights going the other way, I didn't see another car on the road. We were two lone actors on a darkened stage. This part of the play was almost over. There was very little left to say, our time together was almost done. I pulled in front of his house. The lights were off. I got out and pulled the pistol out from under my jacket. I stuffed it into my pocket. Going over to the other side of the car, I helped Sanders out.

"I'm going to remove the zip tie around your wrists. I hope you won't give me any trouble. Be warned that I have a gun. I'll use it if I have to."

"There will be no trouble. I just want to get to bed."

"I hope so." I cut his wrists free.

I handed the car keys over to Sanders. He limped over to the front door and unlocked it. I followed him in. His wife, Rachel, was waiting for us on the sofa. The table lamp went on.

"My god, honey, what happened to you?" she asked, mouth wide.

I said the first lie that came to mind. "We were out by the marina. He had too much to drink and slipped into the water. Luckily I was able to pull him out before he drowned."

"What were you two doing out there?" she asked as she ran over to help her husband.

"Just looking at the boats," Sanders answered, eagerly adding to my little story. Perhaps it was the fear of being belittled in front of his wife, or else it was Stockholm syndrome. A bond of trust, even though it was sadistic one, had been formed between us. The very idea made me feel ill.

I was about to turn and leave when Rachel said, "I want to talk to you. Could you wait here?"

"Okay," I said, wondering what she would say.

While the two of them went off to some back corner of the house, I spent my time pacing back and forth. Even though I was used to the late nights, I was beginning to feel tired. I was also feeling a little ashamed of myself for taking a man and breaking him so easily. The majority of the male race lives in a fog of bravado, always thinking they were indestructible and immune to the effects of the world; as if hunger, fear, and death were things that just happened to other people. Only a few of us can face reality since our illusions are more comfortable. I wondered how well I would have held up in the same situation.

Rachel returned. She sat down on the sofa and supported her chin with a hand. She looked over me with half closed eyes. "It's been one hell of a night, stranger."

I stopped my wandering about the room and instead stood in front of her with my arms crossed. "What do you want?" I asked. My voice sounded more menacing than I meant.

"Eric is in bed. He seems awfully sick."

"He's had a rough night and will have an even rougher morning."

"I suppose he had too much to drink."

"I guess so. What did you want to talk to me about?"

She finally came to the point. "It's about Chris. Did Eric talk about him?"

"Just the normal step-mother and son issues you are going through."

She hesitated before saying, "I don't know why I'm telling you this, but Eric and I haven't been married very long – just five months now. There have been many other men in my life, most of them worthless deadbeats, but some that I really cared about. Last week, when I was alone in the house, one of my old flames came around. We got to talking about the past. And then we started having sex right here on this sofa. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was a damn mistake. Chris came home earlier than expected and discovered my friend and I going at it like dogs in heat. I fear that he is going to tell her father about it. He hasn't yet – at least as far as I know. I thought he was going to give the whole game away when he went on his little tirade after you busted in on him doing that crack. Now I know he really hates my guts."

"I don't know what to say. I'm not exactly that well versed in family matters."

Rachel gave me a crooked smile. "But I gather you know plenty about life. I don't know who else to talk to. What do you think I should do?"

"It depends. You can hope that he keeps quiet, or you can have a little talk with him and explain what happened."

She made a face. "I don't like the second option. I'm supposed to explain to Chris that her new mother is a slut? I'm sure that will go down real well."

I shook my head. "Of course not. Tell him that you made a mistake. Apologize for what happened and add that it will never happen again. You just have to convince him that you love Eric, even if you don't."

"Of course I love my husband. If course it helps that he's rich, but he really does care for me. After my history, I'll take what I can get, even though I apparently still have some troubles keeping my panties on."

I started to edge toward the door. I was tired and didn't want to play the part of a marriage counselor any longer. She must have caught my expression since she rose, and came to stand in front of me. She was close enough that I could feel her breath. It smelled like toothpaste.

Rachel said, "I just wanted to thank you for looking after my husband. And for giving me advice." She got on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek. "Now why don't you go back home and leave my family alone?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said politely. And then I opened the door and left without looking back. I was tired of the Sanders and all their troubles. The way things were going with this family, it wouldn't be long before they fell into disarray; destroyed by their selfishness.

It wasn't until I was on the sidewalk that I realized that I had let Pauline take the car. It was a long way back to the hotel, so I reached for my cellphone and was about to call information to get a taxi. But my motion was stopped by the sudden glare of headlights. I turned and saw an approaching car. I tensed my leg muscles and got ready to jump and roll out of the way in case there was a burst of gunfire. Instead it slowed and honked its horn. It was only then that I realized it was my Impala. Now I could see Pauline behind the wheel. She was giving me a healthy scowl.

I got in and slumped into the passenger seat. "Thanks for waiting for me."

"Did you hurt him?"

"No If you saw me bring him home, he still was in one piece."

"I saw it. I was parked out here, waiting."

"You thought I was going to murder him? Nothing happened except he told me what I wanted. He's safe in bed, sleeping away."

Pauline didn't say anything. Instead she jammed the transmission into drive and took off, lightly feathering the gas. She had no real sense of how to drive the Impala yet. She was too busy fighting the engine instead of letting the car doing the hard work. It was a jerky ride.

"What did you find out?" she finally asked after a few miles had gone by.

I let out a yawn. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. "I know how Keith got rich. Sanders and Kinney were smuggling gold from Afghanistan over to the States. Keith was the middleman who got his cut of the deal. When Kinney died, the remaining two began working together to find out where it was hidden. Keith eventually found the place, but he double-crossed Sanders, leaving his new partner with nothing. With his newfound wealth, he started to live big. He got cocky and sure of himself. He thought he could do anything in the world now that he had nearly half a million dollars. It was just your bad luck, Pauline, that you met him when you did."

"Yeah," she said softly, lost in thought. "What are we going to do next?"

"Get some sleep. And then tomorrow we'll return to Vegas."

"But what about Keith?"

I slowly shook my head. "I'll have to put some feelers out. He'll be found – hopefully before he spends all that money."

We rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence. With each mile she got better at driving. The car slid gently into the parking space. With a nod toward her, I got out and headed toward my room. After unlocking the door, I went in. I turned on the lights. The bed was inviting. I stripped down to my boxers and t-shirt, went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Afterward, I shut the lights off and slipped under the covers. Within moments I was asleep.

I was dreaming. I was in black water. I couldn't see. I was struggling to rise to the top but I was bound with ropes. No matter what I did, I sunk to the muddy bottom. I was trapped. The pressure and pressure grew. I wanted to scream but I couldn't breathe. There was a noise that repeated itself over and over. It was a strange buzzing sound. It took me a moment to realize that my cellphone was ringing. I swam back into consciousness and scrambled to find the infernal device.

I found it on the nightstand where I had placed it before falling asleep. "Yes?" I said blurrily without checking the caller ID.

The voice on the other end was that of a woman. It took me a second to realize who was talking. "It's me, Melodie. Devon, Are you awake?" There was a distinct undercurrent of panic in her voice.

"I am now. What's going on?"

"I'm at the Sunrise hospital. It's Cleora. She's been beaten. They don't know if she's going to make it through the night."

"What happened?" I asked. A jolt of anger washed away the cobwebs of sleep.

"No one knows. She's unconscious. Some drunk found her lying in the alleyway outside the club. She was lying in a pool of her own blood. He called the police. That's all I know."

"Melodie, did she work last night?"

"Yes. She did her routine like clockwork."

I thought for a moment before asking, "Did anything out of the ordinary happen?"

"No." There was a pause. "But now that you mention it, Cleora almost missed her first jump onto the pole. She caught herself in time and then went on as normal. After her act, she went down and did the rounds with the clientele."

"Was it busy there?"

"Not very. Monday night is never busy."

"Did she talk to any man there longer than normal?"

"I don't know, I was in the dressing room at the time. Do you think she was talking to Keith?"

"You're guess is as good as mine, but it's a safe bet."

"Dev, where are you? Can you come to the hospital right now?"

"I'm in L.A. I'll be home tomorrow. I'll stop by to see how she's doing then, okay?"

There was the smallest of sobs, distorted by the earpiece of the cellphone. "Goodbye," she finally blurted out. And then she hung up.

I tried to go back to sleep but my thoughts were haunted by memories of Cleora.
Chapter 9

It was late morning by the time I dragged myself out of bed. I showered and dressed, choosing a clean white shirt and a lightweight gray suit. I wore no tie. I was packing up when there was a knock on the door. I went and answered it. It was Pauline. She was dressed in a white summer dress decorated with a light imprint of flowers. It looked quite nice and I told her so. She looked fresh and rested and ready to go. I felt tired and hungover; minus the fond memory of drinking.

I packed the car, but let her drive. After dropping of the keys at the motel office, we hit the highway but only drove for a short distance before stopping for a late breakfast at a truck stop. After that it was a straight shot to Vegas. I spent my time dozing, trying to ignore the obnoxious music seeping out of the speakers. By the time noon rolled around, I was ready to face the world again.

Pulling the cellphone out of the breast pocket of my suit, I scrolled through my list of contacts until I found the name I was looking for. I dialed. After four rings, someone answered.

"Good afternoon, this is Ray." The voice was nasal and irritating, but Ray Diaz had deep ties with the Vegas jewelry business, which also included the trade of precious metals.

"Devon Pierce here. I was wondering if you could help me out."

"Hey, Dev! It's been a long time. What have you been up to?"

I looked over at Pauline. "Oh, just a little babysitting, and a few other things."

"I can only imagine the type of babe you've got." He laughed at his own joke. "What can I do for you?"

"This is just between you and me, but I have some questions about the sale of gold."

"Go ahead, I'm your man."

"Let's say I came across some gold with no history, or even some bars without markings. How hard would it be to sell them?"

"The gold market is largely unregulated," Diaz replied. "Provided you aren't trying to sell millions of dollars of the stuff, it would be quite easy to find a buyer. The gold bugs are going crazy thinking that the end of the world is coming, so they are buying everything that they can. Maybe they are right, and maybe they are wrong, but it's been great for business. Personally, if I was in that situation, and wanted to keep the government snoops away, I would sell small portions at a time. Why, do you have some product to move?"

"No, but I'm inquiring about someone named Keith Miller who may have recently sold some gold bars. The product would have been fairly thin and not too long; created using primitive methods. I'm trying to get a line on the location of this seller."

"That sounds like a rather unique product, I'm sure someone will remember something about that kind of transaction. I'll call some of my friends and ask around."

"That would be much appreciated. Just send me a bill for your time."

"Ha! This is one is on the house, Dev, provided you set me up with one of Melodie's friends."

"I'll see what I can do. And thanks again." I hung up the phone.

"Who was that?" Pauline asked, her eyes locked on the highway.

"Just a friend of mine. Look, I hate to ask you this, but I need to know more about Keith. We've kept clear of talking much about him since I feared you wouldn't be up to the task. I thought we had some more time. But things have changed. I got a phone call after we returned to the hotel. The woman I'm working for, Cleora, was brutally attacked last night. I think it was Keith who did it. She is in a coma right now and may not live."

From my vantage point in the passenger seat, I could see Pauline press her lips together. She didn't say anything, but her already pale skin became even whiter. The car dropped in speed. For a moment I thought she was going to pull over, but I saw her jaw tighten as if she was gathering some inner strength from somewhere deep inside. We began to accelerate back to normal again.

She said, "Keith made me do some terrible things, or acts that were terrible in hindsight. At the time I may have enjoyed them. I don't want to admit that to anyone, not even myself. You see I was addicted to him, thinking that he was everything I needed to live. Now I know that he was brainwashing me, making me dependent on him. And after Keith left, he expected me to fall apart. And I would have if you hadn't come along. I like to tell myself that I'm stronger than that, but I really was teetering on the edge of sanity."

"It's okay," I said. "I've had friends who've been on the edge of the abyss. They were taken over by their own personal demons: drugs, alcohol, or loneliness. Some can walk away and start a new life, while others take the plunge and never come back. They spiral out of control and either die or go insane. You've been lucky enough to be given a second chance. Take it and don't let the past consume you."

"I never knew you were a psychiatrist," she said sarcastically.

"It's all part of the service. But why are you telling me all of this?"

She gave a quick glance in my direction before returning her attention to driving. Between gritted teeth she said, "I don't want to depend on anyone anymore. At least that's what I keep telling myself. But I've grown dependent on you. I love you and don't want you to think that I'm some horrible woman because of what I did with Keith. Those stories will come out someday soon, and once you hear them, I fear that you won't want me. And now that I've made a little fool of myself, you can start laughing."

"I'm not laughing now, nor will I laugh at you in the future."

"Fair enough, but I noticed you didn't say that you love me."

I saw the color of red anger flushing the paleness of her cheek. I said carefully, "I've just got over another woman. I'm fond of you and want to be your friend, but I'm not ready to discuss love. I don't want to make any promises, not until things have had a chance to settle down. Right now it would feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

"Fair enough," she said again, but the bitterness was gone from her voice.

"We've gotten off track," I said. "I need to find Keith. Do you have any idea where he could be hiding?"

"No."

"If he did attack my friend Cleora, then there is a great chance that he could be skipping town, if he hasn't already. If she comes out of that coma and starts talking to the police, he'll want to leave before that happens."

She shook he head, this time only mouthing her negative response.

We fell into an uneasy silence. I was disappointed in her, but also understood that just the mention of Keith was enough to send Pauline into a state. I would have to hope that Diaz would pull through for me, and that Keith had been foolish enough to use his own name and identification when selling the gold. If he was half the con man I thought he was, then a fake driver's license would have been the smarter move. Only time would tell.

However, to my surprise, Pauline began to speak. The words were so low that I could just make them out over the hush of the air conditioning and the rumble of the tires against the concrete.

With a tortured voice she said, "Keith spent most of his time at my place, watching movies until he thought it was time to go out at night. Until then he would drink and he would smoke some nasty cigarettes. When he felt like it, he would screw me. I was expected to buy the beer, get takeout food, and see that I did whatever he asked. I lived like a slave. We spent most of our time outside the condo going to the casinos. Sometimes Keith would disappear for a day or two, never telling me when he would be coming back. During those times, I continued to drink and sleep, trying to recover from the abuses that I received from him. I wanted to die, but yet I thought suicide would have disappointed him – strange as that sounds.

"But there was one time that Keith brought me along with him. It was dark out and by that time I was so drunk that I blacked out during the trip in his car. When he shook me awake, we were at a big lake, the lights of the nearby boats reflecting off the water. There was a boat there – a house boat, I believe – that we went to. It was white and big with rows of windows. When I got inside, I saw that this was the place he lived at – his clothes were all over the floor of the bedroom and the kitchen was a mess. We spent the night there.

"The next day he ordered me to clean the place up. I washed clothes, folded laundry, vacuumed, and cleaned the kitchen. For my reward, I got to sit on the back of the boat and do some swimming too. I saw we were at some kind of marina. At the time I really didn't care where it was. I was too busy pouring the drinks down my throat. We went back to my place that evening. I don't think Keith really wanted me to know where he lived, but was just too lazy to clean up his own mess. We never went back there again."

I said, "You had to be on Lake Mead. It's an artificial body of water that was created by the Hoover Dam. Do you remember the name of the marina?"

"Dev, I didn't even know what day it was."

"The lake has over a hundred miles of coastline and a half dozen major marinas. He could be tied up at someone's private slip, or even over in Arizona. That means I will have plenty of ground to cover." I had a thought. "You didn't see the name of the boat on the stern, did you?"

"It was called the _Double Date_."

I gave a chuckle. "That sounds real classy. It will make the job easier though. I can call around and see where it is currently tied up."

Pauline drove the rest of the way to Las Vegas. Instead of heading back to my apartment, we went to the hospital. She stayed in the car while I went inside. After visiting information, I took the elevator up to third floor and went off to find Cleora. There is something distasteful about hospitals: it's the lingering smell of death covered up by disinfectants and the memories of countless suffering. The doctors in their white coats had all the personality of accountants, measuring coldly who would live and who would die. It was a nasty place that I preferred to stay far away from.

I found Cleora's room. I knocked on the door and went inside since there was no answer. She was lying in a bed, her body and face hidden by a maze of tubes and wires. Only her long blonde hair was visible, covering the pillow like a golden shroud. Shoved up against the wall, a row of machinery beeped and wheezed away, keeping her alive like some science experiment gone horribly wrong. I fought the urge to tear away the equipment and snuff that fragile life. It wasn't out of cruelty, but mercy. It hurt to see someone damaged so. Instead I sat down on the chair, found her hand and held it. Cleora's eyes were closed shut by black and red bruised puffiness. A ventilator mask covered her nose and mouth, but through the clear plastic I could see more bruising and torn skin. She looked ever so pale, as if the Grim Reaper had already visited.

"I'm sorry," I said to the body on the edge of death.

I sat there for a few moments, feeling the rage course through my veins until the anger turned into a hard diamond. I was going to get Keith and make him pay. He had already tried to kill two women; if there was third out there, then perhaps the next time he would be successful. I couldn't let that happen.

After one final squeeze of her hand, I let go. I left the room. The hallways outside were a blur of activity – doctors, nurses, and patients – that flowed past me like water. I went back to the car and got inside.

"Are you okay?" Pauline asked.

"No, I'm not."

"I understand," was all the she said.

She started up the car and joined the rush of traffic outside. She drove to my building and into the parking garage. I got out and took the luggage from the trunk. We took the elevator up. When I opened the door to my apartment, I felt a sense of relief to be back in my place. I immediately went to the stereo and turned it on. I pulled a record out from the collection, selecting _Asylum Party's_ first album to spin on the turntable. I then settled down into the sofa to listen.

Pauline had disappeared into the bedroom with the luggage. By the time I was flipping the record over to the second side, she came out to sit down on the sofa. I turned the volume down to a more suitable level for conversation and went to join her. She put her arm around my shoulder, coaxing me to put my head in her lap. I rested on my side. She rubbed the back of my head and played with my hair. I felt the vestiges of my anger and sorrow begin to ebb away.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"There's nothing to apologize for."

"I guess I don't like hospitals."

"Nobody does."

I turned my head so I could look her in the eyes. They were kind, filled with concern. She leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were warm. It felt as if a spell has been broken. I eagerly returned the kiss. Her response was one of hunger. I pushed myself up and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. We looked at each other, talking without words. I took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom.

Pauline looked at the bed with a fleeting moment of panic. And then she pulled me down so we both fell on top of the covers. We explored each other's bodies, gently touching and caressing. We had been together and knew each other, but now there was something new and wonderful here. I kissed and kissed her until my mouth felt bruised and my tongue was tired. But we kept on going, disappearing into the deep veil of pleasure that only happened in the very beginning of a romance. Her body was warm and inviting, and, after her dress and silk bra were removed, the flesh became hot to the touch. She helped me undress until I had nothing but my boxers on; laughing as she took off my socks. I rolled on top of her. Her hands dug into my back as she whispered into my ear, kissed my neck, and the arched her back so I could nestle my face between those beautiful breasts.

But then Pauline unexpectedly pulled away, her eyes wide and staring past me. She was remembering Keith; some horrible memory that had interrupted our moment. Perhaps I had done something that reminded her of some particularly bad event. She twisted and turned from my grasp, and then, with her back turned, curled up into a ball as if trying to stop me from looking at her nakedness.

"I can't do this," she sobbed.

"What is it?" I asked, keeping my voice low and calm.

"It's Keith. I see you. Then I see him. I feel you. Then I feel him. I'm worthless! I'm dirty! No one will ever love me again."

Resting my head in the crook of my elbow, I began to trace slow, gentle circles along her back. Pauline shuddered, rebelling against my touch. But as I continued, she began to breathe easier.

I said, "We don't have to rush at anything. We have all the time in the world."

"But I love you. I wanted to show how much I love you. You seemed to be hurting bad inside so I thought that this would help."

"Trust me, it does." I cinched her closer so that our bodies were spooned together. She snuggled in closer, taking my hands and wrapping my arms around her body. I kissed the back of her neck and smelled her hair. Our chests moved together, breathing as one. I thought of how hard this must be for her, trying to give in to the normal impulses but only to be overtaken by the memory of Keith. Whatever damage he had done ran deep, creating scars – both mental and physical – that would take a long time to heal. She had tried too soon.

Pauline squirmed. At first I thought she was trying to get away from me. Instead she took my right hand and kissed the palm. And then she kissed the tip of my forefinger before running her tongue along the entire length. She repeated action on my middle finger, eventually working her way to my pinky. I said nothing, but instead let her go at her own pace. She turned over, stared into my eyes and kissed me on the mouth. Before removing her underwear, she reached down and slipped off my boxers. Then she pushed me on my back and clambered on top of me. Her body felt like fire. We made love until she was satiated and I was drained. Afterward we slept with her wrapped inside of my arms.

When I woke up, my stomach was growling. I gently extricated myself from the bed and went and showered. When I returned to the bedroom she was up, leaning against the headboard with a mound of pillows providing support. She still had nothing on. An odd look was playing on her face: half guilt and half satisfaction. In the end the latter won the battle.

"Good evening," she said.

"Likewise," I said in reply as I went into the walk-in closet and began digging through the closet. She had already laid claim to much of the space inside so it was more difficult to find the clothes I wanted. I selected a black t-shirt, a dark brown hooded sweatshirt with a zip and a pair of black jeans. The combination would provide the camouflage I would need for working at night but wouldn't draw any comment for looking out of place. For shoes, I selected a pair of black steel-toed boots. This pair was well-beaten in and comfortable. Before wearing the sweatshirt, I retrieved the Colt pistol and harness from the luggage. I put the rig on.

When I came out, Pauline was dressing. I watched as she did a reverse striptease for me. The finale – a dressed woman – was somewhat of a letdown compared to the starting point, but I wasn't going to complain.

"What would you like for dinner?" I asked when it was apparent that the show was over.

"A big sloppy pepperoni pizza."

I made a face of disgust. "I'll have to pass on that. How does chicken salad sound?"

"I had no idea I was living with a monk."

I ignored the barb. "The makings are in the refrigerator."

"And now I'm the cook too?" she asked with a coy smile. It was obvious that a new level of confidence had been restored.

"Any help would be much appreciated," I replied with false subservience. "I was planning on making some phone calls."

"You go right ahead."

I went to the living room, stuck my cellphone on the charger, and began to make some calls to the marinas around Lake Mead. There were a few major ones on the Las Vegas side that were the obvious choice. Pretending to be a friend of Keith's, I asked if the _Double Date_ was moored in any of their available slips. The answer was always no. I then turned my attention to Arizona. Once again the results were negative.

Frustrated, I put the phone down and went to the stereo. I put on a Handel harpsichord album and then went to the kitchen to watch as Pauline put the finishing touches to the meal. We ate at the countertop, reduced to small talk like an old married couple. It was a nice change compared to the tension of before. After the meal was done, I cleaned up and loaded the dishwasher. Pauline slinked off to the bedroom and returned a few minutes later. She was wearing a white bikini and had a towel in her hand.

She said, "I'm going to head up to the roof and enjoy the evening. Did you have any luck finding that boat?"

I shook my head. "No, so far it's only a ghost ship. I was going to try the smaller marinas next. Lake Mead is a fairly popular spot with tourists and residents alike. He has to be somewhere."

"Okay. If you need anything, you know where I'll be." She headed toward the door.

I got up, followed her, and switched off the alarm so she could pass through. I said, "If you can think of anything else, any kind of memory about the location of the boat, please let me know."

"I'll try," she said uncertainly. And then she went out the door and up the stairs.

Returning to the cellphone, I called a few more marinas and came up empty-handed. I was running out of ideas and possibly out of time. Keith had been lucky so far, having brutalized one and nearly killing another. Soon that luck would run out and he would be nabbed by the police. But I wanted to get to him first or else the remnants of that treasure would be forever gone.

I was about to make another phone call when the front door burst open. It was Pauline. The bathing suit was dripping wet and there was a trail of water. With excitement she said, "I remembered something about the location. I was lying out in the back of the boat trying to sleep. There was the sound of some boys playing nearby. I think they were sneaking around trying to get a better look at me. I stood up to yell at them and they ran away. I saw a shore was a sandy beach with a playground. There were a few families there, all kids playing in the water while the parents watched from beach chairs. Behind them was a building, perhaps a place to change clothes."

"Anything else?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. Though, now that I think about it, there were some cabins with cars parked next to them. It looked like a camp."

I gave this new information some thought. "It sounds like a resort, a place where you could rent a boat or a cottage for the night. That will simplify things."

Pauline beamed at me, happy to be of service. She blew me a kiss and scampered back upstairs.

I had no success at first but a few phone calls later and I was talking to Mr. Greer of The Sandy Hill Resort.

"I'm looking for a boat called the _Double Date_. I was supposed to meet my friend there tonight but he was never too clear about where he was staying. Is he there?"

"You're a friend of Mr. Miller?" the voice on the other end asked. He didn't seem too impressed by that piece of information.

"Not really," I said, trying to sound official. "I'm working for a debt collection agency. We've been trying to track down Keith Miller for some time."

"Is that so?" There was spark of enthusiasm. "Well then, don't mention my name, but I'll tell you where he is alright. The _Double Date_ is in slip F-14. I hope you get him and get him good."

"Not a popular man?" I guessed.

"Let's just say that he's made more enemies than friends. He keeps everyone else awake with his parties, and the women on board don't seem to keep their clothes on. There have been quite a number of complaints."

"Why don't you kick him out then?"

The voice on the other end of the line faltered. "W-w-why he threatened me, said he would beat me up if I went to the police. One look at him and you would believe it. I think he'll go away in a few days. At least that's what I'm hoping."

"If you don't mind, please don't mention to him that I called. I would like this to be a surprise."

"You're a better man than me if you want to mess with him. Don't worry, I won't say a thing."

"Thank you, Mr. Greer."

I hung up the phone. I could feel myself smiling.
Chapter 10

For a change of pace, I took the truck out. By the time I was on the streets, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The neon light was on, indicating that Vegas was open for business. I drove carefully, staying low and slow in the right lane. Once I was out the city proper, I went through a number of twists and turns before finding myself in Boulder City. After a few miles of suburban hell, I was driving in Lake Mead National Park, a canyon carved by the Colorado River and now flooded by the Hoover Dam. The houses were gone and it was only me, the moon, and my fellow travelers out in the desert twilight. The black asphalt cut through the scrub and rock; a modern Chisholm trail.

Thanks to the GPS unit I carried, I was able to find the resort. I got off the main road. After taking a gravel two-track, I went up a small incline, past a wooden sign with yellow lettering, and then Lake Mead was finally visible. There wasn't much to see in the darkness except for the moon shining off of the water. Rows of yellow lights on the land indicated the location of the rental cabins, while further on, where the docks were, white hulled boats could be seen. It was a pretty sight. Based on the cars in the dirt parking lot, the Sandy Hill Resort drew the middle class more than the well-heeled tourist.

It was no surprise when I saw a silver Lexus. It was the only one in the lot. It had to be Keith's. I parked next to it and got out of the truck. I walked to the management office which was a low slung building decorated with paintings of cookies and pie. The lights were still on. I went inside. It was busy with parents and kids, ordering ice cream from a harried young woman. I sidestepped this chaos and went to a counter where a middle-aged man was. He had flecks of gray in his hair, but a friendly practiced smile that showed he was eager to please his customers. A sign on the desk indicated that this was Mr. Greer.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked.

I tried my Michigan accent. "I need a place to stay. I've been on the road for a long time." I hoped he did not recognize my voice from the phone call. Not that it really mattered, but in case something violent occurred I didn't him linking my name with my number. "Preferably somewhere quieter than this," I added as I eyed the nearby mob.

"How many are in your party?" he asked.

"Just me."

"This isn't exactly a good place for a single man, but I'm sure we could fit you in somewhere. Would you prefer a house or a boat?"

"I'm afraid I would get seasick," I said, laughing at myself.

"I have a cabin available on the very end. It should be quiet enough, but I'm glad to say that after midnight you won't hear much at all. This is, after all, a family place and we don't condone late night shenanigans."

"I would prefer something by the water. It's a beautiful view."

He began rummaging through some papers. "How long are you staying, sir?"

"Just a few days. I was planning to run up to Vegas and do some gambling, but I'm not what you call a big city kind of guy. I like the look of this place – friendly like."

"The views are spectacular, sir. Cabin 9C should work out just fine for you." He pulled out a key from a desk drawer and put it on the desk. "You'll find it on the last row, right near the marina entrance."

"Do you take cash?"

"Of course, sir. But you'll have to put an addition one-hundred dollar deposit to cover any possible damages. The deposit will be refunded when you return the key."

"I can manage that."

After signing some paper and handing over a wad of money, I was the proud owner of a brass key. I said my thank yous and goodbyes, and then left. I got back inside the truck, started it up, and drove slowly through the resort as I studied the lay of the land. The roads here crisscrossed in a regular pattern between the rows of cookie cutter cabins of all the same color and size. On the edge of the shore, I found my cabin, the number on a metal sign attached to the wall. I parked in the little gravel driveway near the door and got out, bringing a large duffel bag with me. From the marina came laughter, sounding nearby.

Inside the cabin there was a small kitchenette, a tiny dining room table, an open door that led to a miniscule bathroom, and a room with two queen-sized beds. A stairway led to a loft with another bed. It would be damn crowded here with a family. The furnishings were all hotel cheap, made for sturdiness, not comfort. I threw the duffel bag on one of the ground floor beds and zipped it open. Inside were a few changes of clothes, a pair of shoes, a cellphone that was turned off, a sawed-off shotgun loaded with buckshot, a can of lighter fluid and a lighter, and a pair of binoculars. I took the last item out and then zipped the bag shut.

Dousing the lights, I slowly drew the curtains in the main room back a few inches. Before my cabin was a wooden boardwalk that soon split like fingers on a hand to the different slips of the marina. It was crowded with ships; a few sails but mostly the big power cruisers and a handful of speedboats. Overhead sodium lights were strung along the length of the marina. I scanned over the assembled flotilla until one stuck out. Its lights were on and there was quite a crowd on the top deck. I put the binoculars to my eyes and got a closer look. There were a number of young men and women on board, mostly the latter. They had cans of beers in their hands and looked to be having a good time. Even at this distance I could hear the faint trickle of laughter and music filtering through the glass of the window.

It was too busy to do anything, so I settled down to wait. The hours ticked by. I paced back and forth, checking the view every few minutes. At midnight the other boats were dark but the party still went on at the _Double Date_. If anything the volume from that ship grew louder as the alcohol removed whatever social restraints remained. It wasn't until two in the morning that the revelers began to exit, leaving only a small knot of the most hardened drinkers left. It was then that I finally made out the figure of Keith Miller. He was sitting in the captain's chair, acting like a king to a band of courtiers. At this distance there wasn't enough detail to make out his expression, but I could tell by the way he laconically held the beer in his hand, and the posture of indifference that he thought himself above the others. As for the others, I saw a three young women giggling amongst themselves and two men who looked drunk as hell.

It was over an hour later when the party finally shut down. I saw another couple stagger away while the others stayed on board. The lights went out and peace finally came to the Sandy Hill Resort. I waited another thirty minutes before leaving. I wasn't planning anything drastic yet – instead I wanted to get a closer look at the boat and make my plans once I knew the layout. Unlike my questioning of Eric Sanders, this was no time to go rushing in; not with a boat full of witnesses. I would have to finalize my plan to get to Keith and have him reveal the remaining gold. That would be a tricky proposition.

Slipping out the door, I walked straight for the dock, acting like I belonged there. I headed straight for the row that held Keith's ship. When I got close, I saw it was a substantial houseboat with rows of tinted windows on the main deck, and portholes on the bottom. There was a pilot house on top, ringed by railing. It was here that the party took place; the evidence of empty beer cans could still be seen. I kept on walking, examining what I could out of the corner of my eye. Out of sight, I reached the end of the dock and waited, counting to a thousand before going past the boat again.

As I strode past, I saw something new. It was a girl with dark hair. She was on top of the houseboat, leaning against the railing. She was standing in the shadows, barely visible under the glare of the sodium lights. She was wearing a bathrobe and was looking out to the dark water beyond. She heard my footsteps and turned to look at me. I gave her a friendly wave, one late night reveler to another. She didn't respond, but instead stared at me before returning her attention back to the lake. In that brief moment I saw someone who looked a little scared and unsure of herself. I could only imagine what Keith had been doing to her.

I walked back to my cabin. After brushing my teeth and taking a shower, I went to bed. Even though my mind was busy trying to finalize my plan, I fell asleep quickly and dreamed of nothing memorable.

There was the sound of someone crying – it sounded like a child. And then came the shouting. The crying increased in volume. I awoke in a daze, trying to find my bearings. I opened my eyes and checked the alarm clock. It was almost eleven in the morning. The sound was coming from the front of my cabin. I groggily pulled myself off the bed, looked through the curtain, and saw a red-faced man – perhaps his father - shouting at a boy who was sprawled on the ground. The youth finally picked himself up and the two ambled off, apparently on friendly terms again.

The day crowd was out in force. From my cabin I could see that the number of boats in the marina had diminished and the nearby beach was crowded with swimmers, mostly young kids splashing in the water. Inwardly cursing at the whole sorry lot for waking me up, I picked up the binoculars and did a quick sweep of Keith's boat. It was still there, looking like a ghost ship compared to the busy nearby watercraft. With nothing to see, I took a shower and changed into shorts, a pair of sandals, and a white t-shirt. After slapping on some suntan lotion, I threw on a baseball cap and some dark sunglasses. I left, locked the cabin up and headed toward the beach. I still had no firm plan in mind, but instead decided to wait and see if anything fell in my lap.

The sun above was blazing hot, the sand was baking, and the water at my feet was as warm as bathwater. I felt as if I was drowning in my own sweat. The beach was teeming with children of all ages who were busy whooping it up as they splashed about. Bored parents sat underneath umbrellas, occasionally looking up from books to make sure their progeny hadn't drowned. I noticed a mob of teenagers toward the back of the beach - obviously trying to stay as far away from the adults as possible. Beyond them was a strip of sidewalk, a playground, and building to change in, and a small takeout place that had a long line of waiting customers. Since I was hungry, I headed in this direction.

Passing through the children and parents was easy enough, but there was a tension in the air as I approached the teenagers. Whoever I was, I certainly wasn't cool enough for these spotty-faced youths. The girls pointedly ignored me, while the boys tried to size me up as if they wanted to start a fight. It was a sad display of machismo that I easily ignored. I got in line behind an obese man, my eyes scanning the menu printed on top of the little restaurant. It was classic tourist fare: ice cream, hamburgers, hotdogs, and sodas. The prices were exorbitant. It's always nice having a monopoly.

I felt someone touching the top of my hand. I spun around and saw myself looking at a young woman who was eighteen or nineteen years old. She had dark hair, tanned skin, and was wearing a navy blue bikini that fit her leggy body quite well. The face was pretty: all big brown eyes, fine cheekbones, and full lips. In a couple of years she would be a beautiful woman, but for now she was merely cute. It took me a moment to realize that it was the same girl who I had seen on top of Keith's boat, staring off into the water beyond.

"Do I know you?" I asked, feigning confusion.

"You're the man I saw last night. The one walking in the marina when no one else was awake. You looked lonely."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Me neither."

"You've got a lot on your mind?" I asked.

"Yeah, who doesn't?"

"Me too." I shuffled forward as the line moved.

She took a step with me. "What's your name?

"Devon."

"Valerie," she said as if ashamed of it. "It sounds so snobby, doesn't it?"

"No, not really. Are you having a good time at this resort?"

She made a face. "I was dragged here by my parents. I go to college for one year and this is my summer vacation, forced to spend it here with my mom and dad. They think I'm some sort of babysitter for my twelve-old brother, but I made it clear that they can't tell me what to do anymore."

"Was that your parent's boat I saw you at? It looks like they were having one hell of a party."

"No, of course not, that was some guy's boat. His name is Keith. He's a real square but he gives us beer."

"Oh, there is more than one of you?"

She blushed. "I have my friends Ella and Sarah come with me. They have their boyfriends, Brady and Thomas, so I'm sort of the third wheel. Keith acts younger than is his age, but he's got the boat and the liquor. It beats babysitting my little brother."

"What do your parents think of all this?"

She gave me a look of disapproval. "I stay out of their way and they stay out of mine."

It was my turn at the counter. "Do you want anything?" I asked Valerie. "My treat."

"I actually just came over to talk to you, but I'll take an ice cream cone – chocolate."

I ordered the sugary confection and then a hotdog and water for myself. I paid and then handed the cone to my new friend. As we walked along, I began to eat. I noticed that Valerie was the type to get plenty of attention. The boys just couldn't seem to keep their eyes off of her. And I, being the old man, got some nasty looks for having such a girl all to myself. We found a shady spot and settled down in the sand.

I said, "You said you wanted to talk to me. Any reason why or do you just like strangers?"

She shot me a pair of goo-goo eyes, all sugar and corn syrup. Her voice took on a lilting quality. Young women are so obvious. "As I said, I'm the third wheel. I was hoping you would like to hang out with me."

"Why me?"

"Take a look around – it's either married men or teenage boys. You appear to be single and I don't exactly see a wedding ring on your finger. No strings attached – which means no nasty emails or stalking in your future."

"I'm honored – I guess."

She stuck her tongue out at me. "Why exactly are you here at this resort? I mean it doesn't seem like the kind of place that you would go."

I shrugged. "Maybe I just like the sound of children playing and their parents yelling at them."

She laughed. "I bet you've never changed a diaper in your life. Come on, let's go for a swim."

"Okay."

We spent the rest of the day swimming, talking, and lying around in the sun. Valeria was a smart little creature, but so terribly inexperienced. At least she appeared to take me at face value when there was really a darker side hidden under false promises and smiles. What she really wanted was attention and a man to spend time with. I gave her both of those things, listening to her silly talk about college. She didn't seem that interested in me, which was fine as far as I was concerned. Instead – at least according to her fantasy – this was a summer romance with no long term consequences.

When evening rolled around, I was feeling fairly exhausted, but Valerie demanded that I take her out to eat somewhere far away from the resort. I readily agreed, but suggested that we both change. So off she went while I headed back to my cabin. Once inside, I put on a pair of jeans and wore a polo shirt. I also switched to boat shoes, trying to look the part of a tourist with a few extra dollars to spend.

It wasn't long before there was a knock at the door. I went and answered it and found Valerie there. She had switched to a dark green knit dress with exposed shoulders and a pair of high-heels. I gave a whistle in appreciation. It was good to see some effort for a change instead of the sloppiness hat has infected modern attire.

"You do clean up nicely," I said. "Hold on a second while I grab my wallet and keys."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come in?" she asked, using a seductive voice that she probably learned from the movies.

I glanced at her wondering if I should take up her offer. It didn't take long for me to reach a decision: Pauline was all that I needed right now. Adding another woman to the mix would only complicate my life.

"Let's grab something to eat first," I said. "You've kept me busy all day and I've hardly eaten a thing."

"I suppose so," she said, only pouting a little. No one likes to get turned down, even if their offer isn't that obvious.

I locked the cabin up and we went to the truck. She didn't seem very impressed by the old thing. Like a gentleman, I opened the door for her. She got in showing a lot of leg, shooting me a crooked smile. I ignored the obvious invitation and instead went to my side and slid behind the steering wheel. I started up the engine and off we went. To hide the true capabilities of the truck, I drove slowly, letting any traffic pass by unchallenged.

A few miles away, I stopped at a chophouse. Inside we ate steaks as I listened to Valerie chatter on about her friends and family. She seemed jealous of Ella and Sarah, or at least the ongoing relationships with their respective boyfriends. Instead she was just stuck with Keith who spent his time pawing at her. There was some indication that they had slept together, but she wasn't telling me that. At least not yet. Valerie was apparently so glad that I had happened along, someone big and strong enough to keep this lecherous man off her back. I listened to all of this, nodding and adding little worthless comments. It's been my experience that people like to talk but not necessarily hear solutions.

Afterward, we hopped into the truck and headed back. I stopped at a liquor store and got a bottle of whiskey – nothing too expensive. By the time we returned to the resort, the stars were out and the moon was shining over the water. I parked and together we began walking back to my cabin.

"What now, lover boy?" Valerie purred as she held onto my arm. She was leaning close into me, all hips and breasts.

"I don't know," I said, playing dumb.

As we got closer to the shore, the sound of music and laughter bounced over the water. Of course it was coming from Keith's boat. A sizable crowd had already gathered, ready to drink and be merry.

"Why don't we go see your friends?" I suggested.

"But they're boring!"

"You go ahead and I'll catch up. And why don't you take the whiskey with you?"

"Okay." She was pouting again, unhappy to be turned down yet again. Letting go of my arm, she took the bottle from my hand and headed off toward the marina, swinging her hips with as much gusto as she could summon. It was a fine sight and I felt like a heel for hiding the truth from her.

Unlocking the cabin, I went in and reached for the duffel bag. I pulled out the cellphone, turned it on and checked that the battery was still fully charged. I went into the setup and turned the GPS location on. I then got out the roll of duct tape, the lighter fluid and a lighter. I tucked the Colt inside my waistband, and wore my shirt untucked, hoping the bulge wasn't noticeable. As for my last measure, I taped the hard plastic knife between my shoulder blades.

I jogged back to the parking lot, located the silver Lexus, and went to the rear of the car. Once I saw that the coast was clear, I dropped to my knees, turned around and got on my back. I took a long length of tape and quickly attached the cellphone to the space above the gas tank. Standing back up, I considered slashing the tires, but feared I would be caught, and there was the possibility that they were run-flats, which were designed to go some distance even if damaged. Anyway, this was all just a precaution if my main plan went awry.

After brushing any errant dust off of my clothes, I walked quickly back to the marina. As soon as I hit the boardwalk, I took on a leisurely stroll as if I didn't have a care in the world. I passed some other residents who were stonily ignoring the sound of revelry coming from the houseboat. The closer I got to the craft, the more I wondered why the management hadn't called the police. Keith was cocksure, thinking himself untouchable. I was about to change that.

I climbed on board and found myself mixed with a mob of people. For the most part they were young – at that age where socializing was the nadir of existence – and filled with the unbridled energy. I felt old just being there, almost as if I was moving in slow motion. Theirs was a chorus of babble, shiny eyes, and a seemingly unlimited supply of booze and beer. The decks were crowded and it took me some time to find Valerie. She was near Keith and her friends, talking with animation. I caught her eye and she waved me over.

"Everyone, this is Devon, the man I was telling you about."

I gave the assembled group a friend grin, making sure not to concentrate on any one person for too long. Nonetheless I was aware that Keith was watching me carefully. Perhaps he didn't like his little plaything stolen away.

"Devon, this is here Ella."

I shook hands with her. She was a petite thing with mousy hair, a delicate mouth, and a pair of square nerdy glasses. She moved with self-conscious clumsiness, trying to prevent a disaster before it happened. Her clothing was simple: a black mini-skirt and a rose-colored sleeveless shirt with a red silk scarf wrapped around her long and narrow neck. She was beautiful but didn't know it. It's a precious trait in a world filled with wannabe movie stars.

Sarah was much like Valerie: a real knockout that would only get better once a few years went by and if she took care of herself. A life like this – late nights and booze – would roughen the edges, making the body age prematurely. I've seen it happen before. She would have to grab who she could quick, before it was too late.

Their boyfriends, Brady and Thomas, were generic college students without a trace of personality or individuality. They could have crawled out of the same wardrobe and even had matching hair styles. After giving them a nod, I promptly forgot that they were even there.

"And Devon, this is Keith."

I kept my expression friendly as he leaned over to grab my hand. We shook. He was an old-fashioned knuckle grinder. I wasn't going to try and match his strength since as far as he was concerned, I was just another lamb for the slaughter: someone easily cowed by the alpha wolf.

"Glad to meet you," he said. His voice was low and firm, only slightly betraying his military background by the clipped way he formed the words. Upon closer inspection I saw a man who was all muscle; not in a bulging bodybuilding sense but tough and sinewy. He was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, boat shoes, and a muscle shirt underneath a thin gray sweatshirt. He stood like a practiced fencer, looking as if he could strike at any moment. Even in the crowd, Keith had a clear space around him, giving off danger signs to anyone who strayed to close. Perhaps I was the only one who consciously recognized the threat, but it was there.
Chapter 11

"This one hell of a nice boat you have here," I said to Keith.

He slowly nodded, showing nothing but a toothy grin that was as artificial as a stripper's smile. He put a paw on Valerie's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. I could see that his hands were tough and strong as old leather.

He asked, "What kind of line are you in?" It was a friendly conversation that anyone could have but there was an undercurrent of suspicion that caught me off-guard.

I thought of a quick lie. "Line? Oh, you mean what do I do for a living? I work in electronic sales - mostly high-end audio and theater installations. Of course once the real estate market dropped out, sales have really slowed. No one wants to spend money on that kind of junk anymore."

His hand dropped down and gave the poor girl a squeeze on her arm. Valerie gave him a weak smile and then looked at me, her eyes flashing was anger. She obviously expected me to intervene. Instead I did nothing, even as he began stroking the side of her thigh in a languid fashion. It was plain that he had no real interest in her but instead was trying to get a rise out of me. I wasn't taking the bait.

Keith finally gave up and dropped his hand back to his side. He made a fist that clenched and unclenched. "So things are a little tight?"

"Yes, but I make enough to pay the bills."

"That's good to know. Have a good time." And then he turned on his heel and stalked off to the pilot's chair. There he sat, beer bottle held loosely in his hand and only rarely coming to rest on those thick lips.

Valerie's face was flushed red with anger. "Why didn't you do anything to stop him groping me?"

"I'm not your bodyguard," I replied. "He seemed quite familiar with you and I don't know where the two of you stand. You can't expect me to start swinging at everyone you don't like. Before you know it, I would be in jail or have a busted up face."

"Get me a drink," she demanded, unable to look me in the eyes.

"Okay," I said acting contrite. Valerie was my ticket to getting close to Keith so this was no time for a spat. I needed to stay onboard to put my plan in action.

I walked away, forcing my shoulders to slump and my head to be bowed forward. I had to look suitably chastened when I came back. I spent the next few minutes wandering over the small space of the boat. I went down below into the little kitchenette, which was well-stocked with booze, and then poked my head into the two bedrooms and the bathroom. I really wasn't expecting the gold to fall in my lap, but I did want to get a feel for the ship and the location of anything out of the ordinary. In the kitchen I pushed past two college kids, grabbed a pair of beers from the refrigerator, and then ducked into a short staircase down to the lowest part of the ship. I opened a steel door to look inside this deck. There was nothing here but a pair of silent diesel engines, the electric generator – which was humming along nicely – and some tools sitting on a heavy-duty workbench. The lights were bare bulbs. Coils of ropes and boat bumpers were hanging on hooks on the wall. My minute search once again revealed nothing of note.

I hurried back to the top deck. I located Valerie and gave her one of the beers. She looked a little less angry with me but still touchy enough that I had to be careful. She put her arm in the crook of mine. We talked and walked, greeting the other partiers but mostly sticking close to her friends. Valerie was putting down the alcohol hard, drinking whatever she could lay her hands on. I didn't try to stop her – I had my own reasons why – and spent my time fetching whatever she asked for. As for myself, I switched to vodka and tonic, minus the vodka.

The crowd here was getting drunker and drunker; all leering smiles and pressed flesh. Above this all, wrapped in his own thoughts, was Keith Miller. He sat glued to that captain's chair with that silly grin pasted on that tanned face. It was unnerving the way he watched the assembled partiers. He really did think that he was a wolf among sheep, able to do and take whomever he wanted. And it wasn't long before I realized that his attention wasn't on Valerie, but Ella. And the reason why was obvious – she was the most sensitive of the lot; the one who could be driven to the edge of despair and possibly to her doom. Keith didn't want a hardy playmate who could take his abuse. Valerie and Sarah would be all tears, but they would bounce back to live another day. Instead he wanted someone he could hurt permanently – perhaps by the ultimate thrill: death. Ella, with all her clumsiness, was the one and there was nothing that anyone, including her boyfriend, could do about it. But Keith hadn't counted on me. I wouldn't give him the chance.

The hours rolled by and the guests began to leave one by one. Valerie was drunk as hell and could only stand by leaning against me. From time to time she would whisper in my ear, promising some unworldly pleasures if I dragged her back to my cabin. Instead I would laugh and promise that we would be leaving soon. Ella stayed close to her boyfriend, the two of them looking quite the worse for wear; all haggard and sleepy. Sarah and Thomas had disappeared somewhere below deck, ostensibly do lie down and recover from the alcohol intake.

Once the other guests were gone, Keith rose from his chair and approached us. He had been drinking very little and appeared as sober as a pastor on Sunday morning. Those eyes were unblinking and unfathomable. "How are you holding up?" he asked me.

"Nothing another drink can't fix," I replied, slurring my words on purpose.

"It seems that our playmates needed to have a little lie down. What do you think about going on a little cruise so we can check out the canyon in the moonlight? It's quite the sight."

I looked at Valerie. She was trying to make sense of the conversation but was clearly failing. She mumbled something indistinct and then her head slumped against my chest.

I replied, "I fear any kind of motion will leave you with a very messy boat. This whole lot will be seasick once we're underway. To tell you the truth, I may have to join them in the bathroom if the motion gets too violent."

"You'll be fine," Keith said. "Take her below while I get the lines."

"Okay," I carefully responded. I had an uneasy sensation that he wanted to get away from the shore so he could lower the boom on me. But that didn't make any sense, unless he was so enraged about Valerie that he wanted to have his revenge. But I had an ace in the hole, a hidden gun and no fear of using it. Once we were out on the lake, the situation would be to my advantage.

Valerie wobbled drunkenly as I took her down to the deck below. There she slumped on the low sofa that was integrated into the space-saving kitchen table. From the nearest bedroom I could hear Sarah and Thomas involved in some seriously loud intercourse. It was an odd sound that only heightened the weirdness of the situation. The diesels suddenly caught and the boat moved queasily under my feet. I was no sailor and I gulped, steeling my stomach against the lurches and unsteadiness that were about to come.

"I'll be back in a minute," I told Valerie. "Why don't you have a rest?"

"Come back soon, lover. I need you."

I leaned over and kissed her chastely on the cheek. She was a good kid in a bad place. Before she could make things more interesting, I went back up.

By the time I reached the top deck, the boat was moving forward at a sluggish pace, slipping past the parked ships safe in their slips. The stars grew brighter as we drew away from the artificial light of the marina. Along the shore the darkened cabins stood in mute silence to the little drama that was about to unfold. Keith was at the helm, one hand on the wheel and the other on the throttle. Ella and Brady were on a nearby padded bench, the both of them looking a little green. I went and joined them but remained standing since the motion of the ship was more bearable in that position.

"Beautiful night," Keith said. His voice was low and cold. He talked as he steered keeping his eye on the water in front.

With the moon reflecting on the water and the high moon-like cliffs and hills throwing long dark shadows it would have been a wonderful picture. I was, however, too keyed up to care for the scenery. There was danger in the air. I could smell it.

"Yes it is," I finally answered.

"So, Devon, were you ever in the army?"

"No, I'm not what you call the military type. You could call me a pacifist."

He let out a chuckle. "Is that so? I was in the army – a Green Beret and all."

"That's the special forces, right? That must have been a tough life."

"Yes, I saw plenty of fighting. I was over in Afghanistan and Iraq. Did you ever have to fight to save your life or the life of your comrades?"

He glanced at me. I saw that his eyes were narrowed with concentration; almost as if he was trying to look through my skin and into my heart. It was an unsettling feeling but I had met – and even beaten – men who were tougher than him. At least that's what I told myself to steady the old nerves.

I said, "I've been in a few scrapes, but hardly anything life-threatening. I imagine my experiences can't compare to anything you saw over there."

"Damn straight."

Keith suddenly jerked the throttle forward and the diesels really began to pour it on. I momentarily lost my footing. It was then that Keith turned and swung a big wide fist at my head. It was an obvious move and I was ready for it, but I was still off balance when I dodged. I moved my head to the side but his blow connected with the side of my neck. It was powerful, sending a ribbon of red pain shooting down my side. I went with the motion and kept falling backwards, bringing up my right leg for a kick to his groin. It would have connected with any other man, but he was fast as a snake. He jumped to the side. My foot struck his thigh which was nothing but muscled rock.

I took a step back and regained my footing. I could see Bradley and Ella frozen in their seats, staring at us with eyes wide open. The unexpected violence had caught them off-guard. It would be another few seconds before they would react with the normal squeals of protest.

This time I tried a feint with my left hand, making it look as if I was going in for a lazy roundhouse punch. As that arm moved, I brought up my right and went for a blow to the throat. But it felt as if I was a half step behind Keith. With ease, he ignored my left and blocked my right with a sweeping forearm. I took that moment and went in for a stomp to the ankle, hoping to really cripple the bastard. But once again he expected that move and danced away before I could connect. If I couldn't match Keith in a fair fight, I told myself, than I would have to put an end to this now.

My hand shot for the pistol tucked in my waistband. But my shirt was in the way. That extra second of struggling to free the gun was a century too long. He took a step toward me. I lifted the barrel up but it was too late. He must have known I was packing and wanted to neutralize that threat as quickly as possible. I felt his hand, which was as tight as iron, grab my wrist and squeeze. The other hand bunched up into a fist which began pummeling me in the mid-section. It felt like hammer blows against my stomach muscles. I could feel myself gasping for air and my gun hand begin to go numb. I could smell the beer on his breath. He seemed unbeatable – immovable – the winner.

The most important lesson when learning how to fight is to do the unexpected. According to Keith's instincts, I would continue to concentrate on bringing up the gun to fire, letting my body take the punishment in the vain hope that I could fire in time to stop him. If I was the type to panic, that would have been the obvious move. Instead I jerked my head forward and my forehead connected with his nose. I could feel the bone underneath give away with a sickening crunch. He gave out a brief grunt, the only indication that he really could feel pain. However, the shock was enough that his grip loosened and the blows stopped pelting my stomach. I had the gun barrel up now and I fired it directly into his gut.

The little twenty-five caliber bullet should have made a hole in that damned flesh – if he had been standing there. Instead Keith twisted away just in time. The bullet whistled out above the open water making me wish I had somehow smuggled a shotgun on board. I pulled the trigger again, but his arm came down \- the hand formed like an axe. The chopping motion went right across my outstretched gun hand as I fired. The bullet went into the floor. The pistol fell to the ground and went skittering across the deck. I had nothing left but the knife taped underneath my neck, but I would have no chance to reach for that last-ditch weapon. I would have to win by strength and guile, which hadn't proved to be very successful so far.

The audience for our struggle finally came to life. Ella let out a scream while Bradley decided to stand and protest.

He said, "What's going on here?"

Keith and I ignored this interruption. At worst the boy would try to break up the fight, but the appearance of a gun apparently deterred any heroic action on his part.

The boat had been going at a good clip with no one to steer. It wouldn't be long before we ran into something. I looked momentarily past my attacker and saw that a length of shore was approaching fast. It was all rocks and would surely rip the bottom of the hull open. Keith must have caught the concern on my face, for he quickly turned and grabbed the wheel and violently spun it. The deck tilted to an alarming degree, sending Bradley in a wild fall, all feet and scrambling hands. It would have been funny if it wasn't for the gravity of the situation. He fell face forward on to the floor. Luckily I had braced myself against the railing and suffered no ill effects.

I took this moment to launch myself forward, aiming low for Keith's feet. He was in the middle of turning to face me and tried to step away from my attack, but my broad arms swept up his ankles. Down he went, striking the back of his head against the dashboard. He was momentarily stunned, sitting on the floor with blinking eyes that were unable to focus. I rolled up on my knees and cocked my fist back, ready to deliver the killing blow. But before I could swing, I felt somebody grab my hand. It was Bradley, who had finally decided that now was a good time to intervene. He had both of his hands pulling against my arm.

"Stop it!" he begged, clearly not understanding what was going on.

I had to get him off me before Keith regained his senses. I kicked backward with my feet, pushing my shoulders hard into his body. He took a few steps backward, letting go of my hand to keep his balance. I flipped over on my knees and turned to face Bradley. It was a mistake. A sudden blow to the back of my head sent my senses spinning, nothing but flashing lights with blackness creeping around the edges. It was Keith who had taken the opportunity to strike me while my attention was elsewhere. I would have done the same thing if given the chance. In a daze, I tried to get away but I was barely hanging on to my consciousness which kept trying to slip away. Keith's arm slipped over my neck. I could feel the muscles tighten, cutting off the precious oxygen to my brain. I was slipping away fast. Trying to break free, I attempted to stomp on his foot but I felt as weak as a kitten. The world spun away into darkness. I momentarily passed out. Or at least it only seemed like a moment.

When I awoke, I found myself lying on the deck. The early dawn was just beginning to break across the silent stony cliffs. I couldn't move. I could feel rough rope tied around my wrists. When I moved my legs, I could feel the tautness of a line between my ankles and my hands. It was obvious that I had been trussed up, making it impossible to stand. Looking around, I saw Keith steering the boat. Bradley was nowhere to be seen, but Ella was on the floor, sobbing with her eyes shielded from view. She had nothing on and there were ugly bruises on her arms and legs. I wriggled and squirmed, pleading for her to help. She was too wrapped up in her own troubles to give me any help.

The boat slowed and stopped. Keith turned and looked at me. My little Colt pistol was in his hand. It was with some satisfaction that I saw his nose was a bent to the side and still bloodied.

"So you're awake," he said. In a few strides he was standing next to me. "You're a damn good fighter. It's too bad that we were stopped before we found out who the real winner would have been. Oh well, I'm not going to cry any tears over it since I suspect you may have beaten me."

I cleared my throat. I spoke with all the calmness I could find – understatement is a notable skill of the British. "It was a good workout."

He fished something out of his pocket. It was the lighter fluid. "What were you planning to do with this? Set fire to my boat?"

I nodded. I was hoping to start a small fire so Keith would have gone rushing off to save the gold, revealing the place he had hidden it. Now it seemed like a silly plan.

He dropped that subject. "I bet you're wondering why I attacked you, Devon. There's no reason to play games – I know who you are and what you are trying to do."

"That much is obvious, but how did you know?"

"Sanders told me." Keith saw the expression on my face. "And you thought he hated my guts for double-crossing him. Why yes he does, but he hates you even more. I merely stole from him by not sharing the loot. You, on the other hand, broke that poor bastard's spirit by that devious water torture. I'm not sure that even I would have survived that kind of questioning."

"I would be willing to give you a demonstration."

He laughed. "Perhaps some other time. Yes, Sanders told me that you were hot on my trail looking for that gold. You're working for that bitch, Cleora, aren't you? She's a good for nothing slut. I'm glad I beat some sense into her. I'm curious, what's your cut?"

I didn't answer. Instead I just stared at him, wishing I had had a chance to finish this bastard off.

Keith gave me a good kick in the ribs. I could feel something snap inside as the bolt of pain abruptly came and went.

He said, "You see the problem with Sanders is that he has always been more talk than action. He was always full of himself, an easy man to break. Lucky for him he had never been in a really bad situation before. Me, on the other hand, I've been to hell and back. I've fought and I've killed plenty of men and women. I was good friends with Bill Kinney. I deserve this gold and, unlike you, I'm not going to leave any problems behind that can come and bite me in the ass."

I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of begging for my life. The game was over and I had turned up snake eyes. There were no more moves left. I did however ask, "What about her?"

He turned to look at Ella. He licked his lips before answering, "She's coming with me. I'm not done with my fun. If she's good to me, then maybe I'll let her live."

"And Valerie? And Sarah? Bradley? Thomas? Are you going to kill all of them too?"

He smiled – a wicked display of pulled back lips and teeth. "You know accidents do happen, especially for those who have been drinking too much."

He gave me another kick and then pulled on the line holding my wrists and ankles together, dragging me face down the stairs leading to the main deck. There wasn't anything I could do but take it. It was a rough trip, each jolt making my ribs ache even more. From there we went down yet another flight. I heard a door open and then I was yanked inside. It was the engine room. There was the sound of the thrumming diesels, the rpms low. With a jerk, I found myself lying on my side, staring at the glare of a light bulb.

Keith's face swam into view. "I don't know how much of a sailor you are, Devon, but I'll give you a little lesson. In a car the engine needs antifreeze so it doesn't overheat. A boat engine works the same way but gets uses water from the outside as the coolant. It's pumped in and then pumped out. Simple enough. The boat doesn't sink because it's a closed system. But with a little pipe rerouting, the water from the outside the hull can come inside. Even after the engines die, the open seacock will still let the water in. Eventually the boat will go under. It's too bad that you won't be able to escape by the time that happens. It will be some time for the investigators to figure out what happened here."

He disappeared from view and began to do some work. I heard the clank of metal on metal, and then there was a rushing noise that was audible over the sound of the engine. I managed to push my head up and saw Keith standing over the diesel engines. Water was gushing from a thick black hose and spilling on the floor. I looked around the engine room. I saw Bradley and Thomas tied together at the wrists, held in place by a work table leg that was bolted to the floor. Sarah and Valerie were each tied to some overhead pipes, possibly fuel or fresh water lines. They all looked shocked for being caught in this modern day horror movie. The alcohol they had drunk was long dissipated by the higher power of adrenaline. The chance of death certainly had a funny way of making one terribly sober.

Keith came back to talk to me. "It won't be long," he said.

"Please let us go," Valerie pleaded.

"Why are you doing this?" Sarah added.

After a brief heartless laugh, he replied, "Because I want to."

I said, "You won't get away with it. Once the boat is found and divers are sent down, it will be obvious that we've been murdered. Why don't you just shoot us?"

"Now where is the fun in that? Don't worry, it will be some time before anyone finds the boat. I will have plenty of time to get away. And trust me, I won't be an easy man to find."

I could feel something cold hitting my feet. At this rate it would be long before my face would be covered with water.

"Well, it's been nice sparring with you, but I have places to go. Goodbye."

He left. The door shut with a metallic clang.
Chapter 12

"We're going to drown! What are we going to do?" Valerie asked, her voice cracking with panic.

"Nothing," I shouted over the sound of the diesels.

"You mean we're going to die?" Bradley whined.

The cold water was now rising quickly. I twisted and rolled, using my arms and legs to move like clumsy hermit crab. I ignored the pain in my ribs and the sick panic that tried to take over the synapses in my brain.

When I got close enough to the others that I no longer had to shout over the sound of the idling engines, I said, "We have to wait until he leaves. Only then can we try to escape."

"What is this all about?" Valerie demanded to know. "Why are we locked up in here?" She was panicky and kept looking at the rising water gushing from the engines.

"Yeah," Bradley said. "I saw you two fighting and then you pulled out a gun. What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?"

"It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell it to you someday. But all you have to know is that Keith has raped one woman and almost killed another. Your friend Ella is in grave danger – she's a captive. Now if we don't work together, we're all going to drown. Can anyone free themselves?"

Bradley and Thomas tried the bonds without any luck. The table had thick legs and the bolts holding it to the floor were big. It would take a hacksaw to cut through that metal. The situation for the women looked a little more promising, the metal piping was two inches thick and ran the length of the wall and in several spots disappeared into ceiling above. Perhaps with some concerted effort, a section could break free. It was the only thing worth trying unless I could somehow find something sharp enough to cut the ropes that bound me.

"He's back!" Thomas breathed out, staring past me.

I craned my neck around and saw Keith. He was in the doorway. An odd expression – like that of a madman – played on that lined face. After a moment he laughed coldly and then shut the door with a clank.

The others began to cry out, pleading for him to come back. I hushed them, my ears straining to hear over the pounding of the pistons and the gurgling of the ever-increasing water. It was a minute later when I heard the faint sound of something heavy being moved overhead. A few seconds passed and then there was the brief sound of someone – probably Keith – yelling. After that there was nothing.

I was so intent listening that I nearly jumped when the cold water splashed against my groin. We had to get out of here now.

"Pull on those pipes," I told Valerie and Sarah. "Give it everything you've got."

"Okay, I'll give it a try," Sarah said, finally speaking. She looked more scared than the others, barely holding her fear in check.

"On the count of three!" Valerie said.

I was proud to see this inner strength coming out. Perhaps there was something positive to say about the younger generation.

"One! Two! Three!" they said in unison.

With a concerted effort, the two young women jerked against their bonds. The overhead pipe creaked and groaned but did not budge. After another weaker attempt they gave up.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" Valerie howled.

Sarah broke out into tears while the two boys looked dumbfounded, as if hoping to be woken from a terrible dream.

"Use your feet against the wall," I suggested. "Push that way and you'll get more leverage. Hurry!" By now the water was covering half of my body. In another minute I would be struggling to keep my head above gurgling water. It made me think of Eric Sanders and the way I had questioned him. Fate certainly worked in strange ways.

Using their feet braced against the wall, Valerie and Sarah pushed. The rope cut cruelly into their wrists, turning the skin red and raw. They grunted and groaned as the pipe squeaked in time with their movements. With one more gasp – and the fear of death that can bring out the most amazing determination – there was a wrenching noise of metal snapping a bent joint. The two of them broke free and fell next to me. Extra water began to gush out of the broken pipe.

"Help me," I demanded, busy lifting my neck so I could continue to breathe.

Valerie concentrated on removing the rope around my wrists while Sarah began helping the others. In a few tense moments I was free. I stood up. The water was at my knees now. I ran to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Keith made sure there would be no easy escape. He did, in his haste, leave us the tools to see to our escape. I went over to the diesels and, one by one, pulled the wiring that lead to the glow plugs. The mighty engines shuddered to a stop and the water coming out of the coolant system became a weak trickle before ending altogether.

The others were all free now, looking at me to give the orders.

After checking that my cellphone was gone, I said, "I have a feeling that Keith opened every porthole and seacock he could find; anything to make this ship sink faster. We won't be out of danger until we're out of here. Is there anybody who can't swim?"

Nobody said anything.

"That's good because there's plenty more swimming left to do. Now let's take a look at the tools here and see what we can find to break out."

The workbench was littered with tools, the type of gear any sailor would need to do a quick fix while out in open waters. The crowbar and hammer were the obvious choice. I picked them up and waded toward the door. I noticed the water was still coming in, albeit at a slower pace than before. There was also a tilt to the floor heading to the stern of the ship. Once the rear was underwater, escape would be impossible except for the very best swimmers who could hold their breath long enough.

I tried to slide the crowbar between the doorway and the door, but it was a tight fit. This was no cheap wood, but was made with steel – an overkill attempt to keep water out of the engine room. There was no way that I would be able to pry the door free. Instead I would have to attack the lock. I swung the hammer down on the door handle, bending it downward. I repeated the blow over and over again, working as hard as I could. When the water was up to my waist, the handle broke free. I stuck my finger inside, trying to free the deadbolt inside. I found the metal slot and pulled it free. The door swung open.

The rest of the captives let out a sigh, pushed past me, and began to rush for the exit. The rear of the boat was now dangerously waterlogged. There was a feeling that one errant wave would sink the whole craft.

It was Bradley who reached the staircase first. He got a few steps up it and then there was the audible rattle of bullets, sounding like a submachine gun or an assault rifle. Several hit the metal walls and decking above, ricocheting with violent whines. Bradley collapsed, falling backward with a torrent of blood that splashed against the back wall and mixed quickly with the water. The girls screamed as I rushed over to his now still body and found a bullet had punctured his face right underneath his left eye. I gently turned his head over and saw there was a massive exit wound located in the back of the skull. Of course he was dead – no one could take that sort of damage to the brain and live. With professional interest, I noticed that Keith was using a heavy jacketed round, probably 7.62mm from an AK-47 or some other Warsaw Pact standard. They weren't particularly accurate rifles but could spray enough bullets to eventually hit the target.

I turned to face the remaining survivors. I said, "Bradley is dead. There is nothing we can do about that now. I need everyone to stay low. It has to be Keith out there, either still onboard or in the life raft, who is shooting at us. He is sticking around to make sure that we really go down with the ship."

"I wish he would have shot us first," Valerie said glumly as the water swirled around her chest.

"We're not out of the game yet," I said. "Now stay here and wait until I come back."

"Where are you going?" Sarah managed to blurt out over her sobbing.

"No time to explain, but I'll be back." That was one promise that I hoped I could make.

I took a few steps up until I could just look over the edge of the stern. There, a few yards off, was the boat's orange life raft. Keith was inside, looking down the sights of an AK-47. Ella was next to him, crouching in the corner of the boat with her hands over her ears.

Pulling my head up another few inches, I let Keith see me. He opened fired, letting out a torrent of bullets. I dropped down and skinned my shins against the metal stairs. When the firing stopped, I looked over the edge again. He was busy changing clips. Without hesitation, I bounded up the staircase and to the next deck. I dove headfirst into the kitchen just as the windows behind me shattered into a storm of broken glass caused by a hail of lead from the clacking rifle.

When the bullets stopped coming, I began crawling on the floor toward the front of the cabin. My hands and knees were chewed up by broken glass, but I didn't care. I kicked open the master bedroom door and, once I saw that nobody was there, I began to search for some kind of weapon. I looked under the bed and in the dresser but found nothing. It had been my hope that Keith had left something useful behind, like a pistol, or even better, a rifle. But if there was a cache of weapons, they were hidden, probably in the same location that once held the gold.

There was a fire extinguisher stashed near the headboard. I took it and smashed out one of the forward windows. I got a good look at where we were – it was some offshoot of the main lake; a side canyon that wouldn't see many early morning fishermen. The stony outcroppings were only some hundred yards away, an easy morning swim. If I had been alone I would have tried for the shore, hoping that the cover of the boat would stop me from being seen. But I felt responsible for Valerie and her silly friends since they wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for me. So instead of running for it, I clambered through the window and carefully climbed up to the next deck.

This was an exposed location. It would be easy enough for Keith to see me if I got too close to the rear. So instead I crawled carefully through the helm window and crouched behind the captain's chair. I was about to reach for the radio when I saw it had smashed to pieces. Keith had made sure there would be no last moment calls of distress. And with no cellphones, we were at his mercy unless I could think of some way of fighting back. That's when my wandering gaze alighted on a plastic container strapped underneath the dashboard. I pulled it out and opened the lid. Inside, next to a first-aid kit, was an orange plastic launcher shaped like a gun. There were also four flares that would fit. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

I pulled out the gun and loaded it, jamming the extra flares in my pant pockets. The next move was going to be tricky since he had a lot more firepower than I did. Crawling on my belly, I got close enough to the stern on the ship that I could make out the life raft. Keith was on it, looking intently over the sights of the rifle. It took him only a second to see me and open fire. The heavy mechanical clatter was impressive as the AK-47 went full automatic and began to chew at the fiberglass and metal with a wild fury. I ducked and rolled back as the world exploded into flying glass and shrapnel. I felt something hit me in the thigh, a momentary burst of pain that felt as if I had been kicked by a mule. I groaned and waited for the right moment.

The barrage of fire stopped. I quickly stood up. Keith was changing clips again. I sighted down the pistol, not taking too long since I didn't have the time. I fired. The flare streaked out the end, and, to my consternation, fell three feet to the left of the life raft. Dropping immediately back to the floor, I cursed the inaccuracy of the damned thing even though it wasn't exactly made for shooting at targets. The worst part was that Keith now knew that I could fight back to a limited degree. That meant he would be a lot more careful the next time, perhaps saving his shots until he had a clear target. My job, at least how I saw it, was to take out the life raft, a much bigger target than he had to deal with.

I reloaded the flare gun again. The stern of the ship was now leaning backward and to port at a dangerous level, making standing difficult. Valerie and her friends couldn't last much longer. They would have to expose themselves to the murderous fire of that AK-47 very soon. That meant I would have to take a risk.

From the safety of the deck, I called out, "Keith! Can you hear me?"

"I hear you," he eventually replied. "What do you want?"

"I want you to let those kids go. This is between me and you."

"I don't think so."

"Are you afraid?"

He laughed. "Don't try that macho bullshit on me. You're the one in a tight spot, not me. I only have to sit here and wait. You're the one who is going to lose."

While Keith was busy congratulating himself, I slipped out through the front window over the dashboard. I was out of view. I then dangled myself over the prow and let my body fall into the water like a jackknife. I only made the tiniest of splashes; a sound easily covered by the gurgling and shifting of the boat. Instead of swimming upward toward the surface, I struck off to the side; going as far as I could until my breath ran out. When my head finally broke through the water, I gulped in some air. I saw that Keith was busy looking at the ship, ignoring any other avenue of possible attack. Ella looked as if she was on another planet, not caring at all what was happening. Once I had a lungful of oxygen, I struck off underwater again, going as fast as I could. I'm no great swimmer but the adrenaline rushing through my veins helped.

The next time I surfaced, I saw that I was behind the life raft by some twenty yards. Keith had his back to me, watching as the houseboat gave another lurch and went down another foot at the stern. It wouldn't be too much longer before the whole thing rolled and sank. I wondered how much longer Valerie and her friends could last. My answer came sooner than I wanted. I could hear them shouting in panic, their voices bouncing over the water. Someone must have poked their head where Keith could see it since he opened fired with the AK-47 again. There was a long spray of bullets that slammed the rear of the boat.

As this happened, I kicked upward with my feet and pointed the plastic gun at the life raft. I fired, shooting a red flare. At this distance and angle, it was an easy shot. The flare actually hit Keith's back and then bounced back into the plastic bottom of the tiny craft. He was so surprised by the unexpected attack that the rifle slipped out of his hands and plunged into the water below. He let out a curse. The life raft began to smoke and Ella broke out of her shocked state and began to scream. Keith began scrambling to put out the fire and I began swimming toward them as hard as I could. As I swam, I dropped the flare gun and pulled off the plastic knife taped to my back. It wasn't long before I was seen.

Keith was on his knees when he saw me. He pulled out a pistol – my Colt – and began firing. It was my luck that he was on an unstable platform or he would have drilled me right in the forehead. The bullet splashed uncomfortably close to me, and the next one hit my left shoulder. The pain felt like a hot line of white heat. I was already in so much agony that it didn't seem to matter. I pushed hard and up against the soft edge of life raft, trying to upset the little craft. It was too heavy to flip over but the motion was enough to upset the balance of the passengers.

With a scream Ella went headfirst in the water. Keith apparently caught himself in time. He slipped forward. And then to my surprise, he suddenly vaulted over the side with a backpack in one hand. That had to be the remaining gold. It was suicide to try and swim with something so heavy. There was no way he could last more than a few minutes.

I tried to push the raft to the side so I could swim after him. But I found that my left arm wasn't working any more. It was the gunshot wound for that Colt pistol. I was now completely out of energy and going into shock from the pain that had been inflicted. Now all I could do was cradle the slowly deflating lifeboat and hope that Keith would go do us all a favor and drown. I prayed the others had the strength to save themselves so they could rescue me.
Chapter 13

When I awoke, I found that I was lying in a hospital bed. The lights inside were dim and the only thing I could hear was the beeping of some machine. My shoulder felt incredibly stiff but I found that I couldn't feel a thing. I looked around and saw a figure sitting on a nearby chair, oblivious to my motions. I blinked a few times, focused, and saw it was Valerie. Her mouth was slightly open and a gentle snore came out. She looked too tired to bother waking, so I closed my eyes and drifted away, not even thinking of how I got there.

The next time I woke up, Valerie was still there. She was awake, busy reading some fashion magazine. There was a bright Nevada sun blazing through the open curtains. When she saw that I was awake, her eyes grew wide. It looked like she was about to cry.

"Oh, Devon," she managed to say.

"Where am I?" I croaked out. My throat was dry as sandpaper.

Valerie got out of the chair and picked up a glass of water. With her help I managed a few swallows through the straw.

She replied, "You're at the hospital in Boulder City. They had to do some surgery to get a bullet out of your shoulder. You also have some cracked ribs and a wounded leg. The doctors say you are lucky to be alive."

"What happened out there? Where is Keith?"

"The boat was starting to fill up fast. There wasn't much time left. Sarah was sobbing away, thinking that we were done for. We were going to die anyway, so I was willing to take a chance with a bullet. Keith fired at us. Luckily no one was hit. But when I popped my head up again, I saw nothing but you and Ella at the side of the raft. She was trying to get you to help her, but you seemed lost. Anyway, we all swam out there. The _Double Date_ went down a few minutes after that."

"What about Keith? Did you see him?"

"No, I'm afraid not. We were too busy trying to keep you alive," she answered. "Using that life raft as a float, we had you hang on to the side while the rest of us swam to the nearest shore. After that I had a long hike to get some help. It was hot. I found some park rangers and they called in a boat to pick us up. By that time you were shut down, not even responding to questions. I thought you were going to die."

"Shock," I commented. "It's only in the movies that the hero can get beaten up, take a bullet, and then bounce back ready to drink a martini."

"They called an ambulance in and took you to the hospital. Of course since you were shot, the police were called in and started asking us a bunch of questions."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth, as far as I know it. I didn't mention your part much other then you tried to stop Keith from kidnapping Ella."

"So the police have no reason to think that I'm nothing but a hero who caught a bullet for his troubles."

"Something like that. I told them about the party and then how we left for a cruise early in the morning. And then how Keith seemed to go crazy, beating you up and tying us all up down in the engine room. I told them we were lucky to escape and you were wounded, but I didn't see it happen."

I nodded, digesting this information. Being questioned by the police was something I wasn't looking forward to doing since they were efficient at prying into people's lives. A good investigator, once he got hold of me, could find out a bunch of interesting details that would bring down the entire operation – a visit by the IRS would see me tied up in the court system for the rest of my life.

I asked, "What about Ella? How is she?"

Valerie bit her lip before answering. "She was raped. They brought her to a mental hospital so she can get the help that she needs. Is that why you were after him? What he did to other women?"

"Yes," I lied.

Or was it a lie? I had started this whole thing to get a cut of the money that really belonged to Cleora and her family. They needed it to live a better life, not spend it on toys like Keith had done. Now Cleora was also in a hospital, while two other women had been victims of this sexual predator. In the beginning I had no plant to inflict any permanent damage to Keith Miller, but now I wanted to see him dead.

"Well I hope he gets what is coming to him."

"He will," I responded.

Valerie rose and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. Close to my ear, she said in a low voice, "I just wanted to thank you for saving my life. I'm sorry that we never had a chance to hook up. I'm hoping that someday we can rectify that situation."

I nodded. "I would like that. Look me up the next time when you're in Vegas." I gave her my phone number and address.

"I will." And then she gave me a lingering kiss on the mouth before retreating. One final wave and she was out the door.

Once she was gone, I tested my strength by removing the IV drip from my arm - a delicate operation if you don't like needles – and heading toward the bathroom. The flesh of my shoulder was tender, but usable. The wound on my thigh was minor and I found that I could walk without a limp. It wouldn't be long before I had my full strength back. When I was done, I headed for the wardrobe where, along with my wallet and keys, I found the clothes I had been wearing. They were dry and folded neatly, with only a few bullet holes to remind me of what had happened. I stripped off the hospital gown and saw that a portion of my upper torso was covered in bandages. I gingerly dressed, trying to keep the pain at bay by gritting my teeth and pretending it didn't exist.

I was about done when a nurse in purple pajamas – I do miss the crisp white uniform and hat of days past – came into the room. She was older with gray streaks in her black hair, brown eyes, and a face like a hatchet. Her expression was pinched from too much worrying and the stomach showed that she enjoyed her sweets too much. She was suitably shocked when she saw that I was moving around like a real human being. That's the problem with the medical profession: they assume that the patients are helpless without their direction.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she blurted out.

"I'm leaving," I said as I slipped on my shoes.

"No you're not!" she exclaimed.

I stared hard into her eyes, dropping any pretense of friendliness. "Unless I have been arrested, I can come and go as I please. If I am detained by you, or any staff, I will see that the hospital is sued."

This threat got her flustered. "But you have to see the doctor before you can be discharged."

"Then bring him here," I thundered.

She skittered out of the room as fast as she could. In a few minutes, a little puffed up man came in. He had the white coat and stethoscope – the trademarks of his profession – and looked at me as if I was an interesting specimen to be examined under the microscope. His bald head was shiny with sweat, but the steady gaze from his cold gray eyes showed that he was used to giving out orders. He was a tin god in the small confines of this hospital.

"I am Dr. Lucas," he stated. "You are in no condition to leave yet."

"And why is that?"

He talked as if explaining the mysteries of the universe to a child. "You were shot in the shoulder. You're lucky that no major arteries were hit. It was a tricky operation to get out all the fragments. There was a lot of blood loss."

"But I am no longer in any danger, right?"

"You need plenty of rest."

I gave him a condescending smile. I could play his game too. "I can do that at home, eating what I want to eat and under the care of a friend. Unless there is some medication that I need or some further surgery that is required, then I don't see why I need to stay."

The doctor licked his lips, his eyes darting between me and the bed as if he was willing me to lie back down again. He said, "You'll have to be discharged. We didn't find any insurance card. Are you insured?"

"No insurance. Once I get home I'll cut you a check from my company."

"Okay," he said uncertainly.

"You've been told to keep me here, haven't you? I mean the police still want to question me, right?"

Lucas blinked a few times and his jaw shifted from side to side. He would have made a terrible poker player. "Yes, that's true. I'll have to call the sheriff's department and tell them you've been discharged. I know they wanted to ask you some questions concerning how you received that gunshot wound."

"And I'll be happy to answer them," I said with a grin that hid how I really felt about police officers. "It's just that I have to get back to my business since there are a number of loose ends that require my attention."

The doctor looked at me in a new light. I wasn't a thug; I was a harried businessman who thought that time was money. That made more sense in his limited worldview. The reality was that I wanted some distance between me and the fine officers of Boulder City law enforcement. Once I was back in Las Vegas I could stay safe behind missed phone calls, or, if necessary, a maze of lawyers. They had no evidence to tie me to any crime but an overzealous officer could easily use me as a scapegoat if they failed to turn up Keith Miller. Anyways, I wanted that bastard for myself. I wasn't about to let him get captured by the police and carted off to jail, safe from my reach.

After lunchtime I checked out of the hospital, giving them a business address to send the hefty bill to. You would think that cutting a man open and digging out some metal fragments wouldn't cost as much as a new car, but that's the state of modern medicine with the layers of bureaucracy between the consumer and the provider. I also didn't like that fact that I was now on some computer record that could be called up by anyone trying to get a line on me.

Miracles of miracles, I found a payphone – which have almost gone extinct – and called for a taxi. I waited outside until the yellow Crown Victoria showed up. I got inside and ordered the driver to take me back to the Sandy Hill resort. As the car pulled out of the hospital parking lot, I saw a sheriff patrol pull in. That doctor had been true to his word and had called the police, even though I was an innocent, relatively speaking. Some good citizens should just mind their own business. That meant going back to the resort could mean trouble. If the sheriff really wanted to get his hands on me it would be a simple matter of calling another patrol car by radio and staking out my cabin. There, inside the duffel bag, was evidence that I wasn't just an innocent bystander.

"Could you drive any faster?" I suggested to the cabbie. In the rear view mirror all I saw was a pair of brown eyes and dark skin.

With a thick accent he replied, "If I get a ticket, who will pay for it?"

"I will. And I'll give you a hundred dollar tip if you get me there in the next twenty minutes."

He laughed. "For a hundred dollars I'll introduce you to my sister. Now hold on."

The purr of the engine became a busy growl. The big car began to speed up. The other vehicles became a blur as we dodged through the traffic. Once we hit the edge of Lake Mead Park, I saw over the shoulder of the driver that the speedometer read just north of a hundred miles an hour. I didn't trust this car could go much faster than that, at least without blowing the cheap tires first.

It was some minutes later when I could finally let out a sigh of relief. There was the sign for the resort. The car slowed as the wheels hit the gravel road. In a dusty cloud, the driver stopped in front of the office. I paid him the fare plus the promised money.

"Thank you," I said as I hurriedly got out of the cab.

From there it was a quick walk to my cabin. I saw my truck parked out front and the next door neighbor piling his kids into a van. Everything looked peaceful but I didn't go walking directly in. Instead I headed to the beach and then, after I had lost myself in the crowd of afternoon sun worshipers, slowly began strolling in the direction of the marina. I didn't see anything that raised my alarm bells but there was still a sense of unease. It felt as if I was being watched even though there was no evidence to support the idea.

The vacationers were in high spirits today – a crowded noise of boats, children laughing, and people talking brightly through a cloud of alcohol. I was just a wandering shadow of no importance. I walked closely behind a group of tourists heading toward the marina, but split away once my cabin was close enough. With my key in hand I went through the door and found no one waiting inside. I ran through the rooms, gathering everything that I owned and stuffed it inside the duffel bag. I left the key on the kitchen counter. I then headed for the truck, throwing the bag on the passenger seat. I got behind the wheel, slammed the car door shut and started up the engine.

I didn't take off. At least not yet. Instead I released a hidden catch located on the door. A compartment opened up that I had previously cut open and then welded, creating a padded box. From the duffel bag I transferred the sawed-off shotgun and a few other suspicious odd and ends into the hiding spot. Once everything was back in place, I threw the truck into reverse and slowly backed out of the space. It was crowded with people walking the streets, so I crept slowly forward and then only gave the truck some serious gasoline once I was clear of the parking lot.

With my hurt shoulder I drove back to Vegas carefully, taking a roundabout way that wouldn't put me through Boulder City. My heart gave a leap when I saw a state trooper running a speed trap but he didn't pay me any attention. It was a wise decision on my part to register all of my vehicles through one of my many holding companies. It made me a little harder to track down through a license plate. By the time I reached my own street I was feeling a little less paranoid. As far as I could tell I hadn't been followed nor was there any reason to think that I should be. But not knowing whether Keith was dead or alive was obviously making me jumpy.

It felt good to park the truck in its normal parking space and take the elevator up to the apartment. Without even knocking, I entered and was immediately rushed by Pauline, who was a combination of anger and relief.

After a brief kiss on my mouth, she said, "Where have you been? I tried calling you all day!"

"My cellphone is at the bottom of the lake," I said after giving her a weak grin. I then handed her the keys. "Why don't you unlock the cupboard and fix me a drink? I think we both deserve one."

"Are you sure?" she asked uncertainly.

"Yeah, a gin and tonic with plenty of ice would do me wonders."

"I think I'll have the same."

She got to work while I sat carefully down on the sofa to minimize the pain of my shoulder. I felt incredibly tired – the effects of such abuse to my body and the drugs I had received at the hospital. I knew I was going to be really hurting in the morning. I leaned back into the comfort of the cushions and closed my eyes, listening to the tinkle of glass and ice as Pauline made the drinks. A moment of time slipped by.

"Devon?" a voice from out of the darkness called.

My eyelids fluttered a few time and it took me a moment to focus. I saw a tumbler of icy liquid floating in front of me. I reached out and took it, and put the lip of the glass to my mouth. I drank deeply and tasted the pine flavor of gin mixed with the bitterness of quinine. It was wonderful.

"You look like hell," Pauline said, her voice piercing my consciousness like a dagger.

I looked up at her, wondering where she came from. When I finally spoke, my words sounded faraway as if someone else was forming the words. "I managed to find Keith. As you said, he was living in a houseboat. It's a long story."

She sat down next to me. Her arm went around my waist. She said, "We have plenty of time."

I told her of how I rented the cabin and was able to watch the party on board the houseboat. And then I told her about Valerie and then how I got on the ship. And then how Keith knew who I was and the resulting fight. She gasped when I told her about the sinking ship, and the escape. I finally mentioned the bullet that had pierced my shoulder, sending me to the hospital. When I was done, my drink was finished and I could barely keep my eyes open.

"You need to go to bed," she said.

Pauline helped me. As I stood up, I only gave a small involuntary gasp of pain. Together we walked to the bedroom where she assisted me as I undressed. Wearing only my boxers and the bandage around my shoulder, I lowered myself onto the mattress, supporting the upper part of my body with a pile of pillows. I began to breathe a little easier in the position, the pain subsiding until it was a just a minor annoyance. I felt sleep trying to drag me down, but a sudden jolt made me rise.

"What is it?" Pauline asked. She was hovering over me, her expression giving away to concern.

"I need my tablet," I answered.

"Right now?"

"It's important."

She left the room and quickly returned with the device in question. I navigated through a couple of screens and then found the app I was looking for – a cellphone GPS locator. I entered the number of the phone I had taped to the underside of Keith's Lexus. In a few seconds I saw the car was located here in Vegas, specifically on Manhattan Street which was only a few blocks away from the Strip.

Pauline was looking over my shoulder. "What does it mean?" she asked.

I put the tablet down on the bed next to me. "As a backup, I hid an active smartphone underneath Keith's car. If he slipped through my grasp, I would be able to find out where he went. I never thought he would be going back to Vegas."

"You look surprised."

"I am. But I suppose it makes some kind of sense. Keith knows he's a wanted man and the police will be on the lookout for him and that car. I bet he drove it into town and ditched it." I began to pull myself out of the bed.

"And where do you think you are going?"

"I have to go find that car."

"You're not going anywhere," she said as she gently pushed me back down.

I tried to resist but I was too tired. I sunk back into the pillows and shut my eyes. Pauline put the tablet on the side table, shut off the light, and then got in the bed next to me. As sleep carried me away, I felt her wrap my arms around me. I smiled and tried to say something but instead slipped away into darkness.
Chapter 14

It was an uncomfortable night as pain in my shoulder bit into my sleep. Pauline kept me quiet, stroking my hair and covering my face with butterfly kisses. When I finally woke in the morning, I felt tired and confused, but knew that I had to get back to work. Keith wouldn't be in Vegas forever. I thought he was coming back here for something - perhaps to kill me. I couldn't wait around and let that happen. I had to find him first.

After extricating myself from Pauline, I pulled myself up off the bed. I looked at the clock. It was ten in the morning. I went and showered. The hot water began to work its magic, bringing some semblance of consciousness back to my sleep deprived brain. When I got out, I took off the bandage on my shoulder. The wound underneath was purple and yellow and stitched shut. I dug through the cupboards and found some Band-Aids which I used to cover the more oozing parts. Afterward I returned to the bedroom and saw that my companion had left. I quickly dressed, picking a button-up shirt that could be worn loosely over a pair of blue jeans. I went into the hidden weapon cache in the closet and got out Ruger LC380, a compact pistol that could easily be carried. I stuffed it into my waistband.

When I was done, I went out to the main room. Pauline was in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker as if wishing the device could magically brew faster than it was.

"Good morning," I said.

She harrumphed in my direction.

While she was busy ignoring me, I had a quick breakfast of string cheese and a handful of nuts, followed by a glass of water with three aspirin. I then began heading toward the front door. It was only then that Pauline spoke.

She said, "Devon?"

I stopped with my hand on the door knob. I slowly swiveled to face her. "Yes?"

"It's not going to last much longer between us, is it?"

"Something must have brought these ideas on."

She scowled at me. Those pale cheeks turned a fiery red. "The problem with you, Dev, is that you know me too well. You found a broken woman and made her whole again. You took a drunk and made her sober. Now I'm just supposed to wait around for the next miracle to happen. I won't have it. I can live my own life without your help and without that damn superior attitude of yours."

I took a step backwards, the bottom of my spine striking the door knob. I said, "You're frightened."

"Of course I'm frightened. I'm worried about you, Dev. You go running off, almost get drowned and then kicked around like a football. You end up shot and in the hospital. After only one night of rest, you're ready to run off for more adventure. I don't want to be stuck here, hoping and praying for you to come back through that door. Don't you know that I love you? It kills me thinking that something bad could happen to you."

"And I love you," I snapped back. "Don't worry, Pauline, I'm just going off to look at that car. I'll be back before you know it."

"Damn you," she spat out as I went out the door.

I set the alarm and headed down to the parking ramp. This time I took the Impala. Before heading toward Keith's car, I stopped at two locations. The first was the gas station where I topped off the gasoline, checked the air in the tires, and made sure there was enough oil in the crankshaft. As I worked, I thought of Pauline and my curse with women – I was too afraid of commitment, forever hoping that something better would come along. I knew that I cared for her, but she had been damaged. Was it love for a bird with a broken wing or something real? I didn't know.

When I was done with the car, I went over to the nearest wireless store and picked up a cellphone to replace the one that was sitting on the bottom of Lake Mead. The salesman tried to shove the latest model on to me, along with additional insurance and all the other bells and whistles. Instead I got the same one as I had before with no change to my plan. At the rate I was going through cellphones, why pay for the extras? Anyway, I didn't have the time to learn a new layout. It's a modern misconception that everything must be in a constant state of change, even if that change just complicates matters.

Returning to the car, I found there were several voice messages. All except one were from Pauline, her voice becoming more and more frantic with worry. The last message was from Ray Diaz, my jewelry connection.

He said, "Hey, Dev, this is Ray. I've got a line on that Keith character. He's been busy selling gold to a sort of friend of mine named Johnny Weis. He runs this little dive of shop called Heartland Pawn over on Oakwood Street. I had to pry the story out of Johnny since he's getting a good cut of the action. According to him, he's wholesaling the stuff to jewelers. He is supposed to be meeting Keith tonight at ten. I thought you would like to know."

I smiled to myself. That was one clue I could follow up on once I had visited Keith's Lexus. I started the car, fighting the lunch hour traffic as I headed to the Strip. Manhattan Street cuts right through the heart of the casinos, which looked strangely forlorn in the daytime. Without the impressive array of neon lights, it was like a model without her makeup or dinner without dessert. But no one else seemed to mind; the sidewalks were gutted with people and the streets were crowded with cars. There was a feeling of restlessness in the air as people waited for the blanket of night to return, which is when the real action started.

It was a few blocks of this when I saw a silver Lexus parked in a parking lot. The car was on the very edge of the asphalt, right next to the road. I pulled into the same lot, paid the parking attendant an exorbitant sum, and found one of the few spots left in the back. I shut the engine off and then opened the glove box. I pulled out an old-style folded map, the type that used to be given away at gas stations. Playing the part of tourist, I got out of the car and began to look bewildered as I studied the street. Unfolding the map, I took a few steps between the cars, paused, and then examined the symbols and lines on the paper.

I did this a few more times until I was at the rear of the Lexus. I then pulled out my cellphone and pretended to dial a number, all while juggling the map. Eventually I feigned a clumsy move, letting the paper flutter to the ground. I got on my hands and knees to retrieve the lost item. As quick as I could, I pulled the tape free from the gas trunk, and retrieved the phone I had placed there. I stuck this in my pocket along with the map and then got up, dusting my clothes free. I walked next to the driver's side of the car and saw nothing inside that would provide any clue of the owner's whereabouts.

Wondering what my next move could be, I joined the throngs of tourists. I walked in the blazing sun and felt hot and tired. After a few blocks of this, I ducked into a restaurant for lunch. It was crowded with customers waiting in line to eat some corporate mulch. I bypassed this and headed straight toward the bar where I had a whiskey and ginger ale, along with a hamburger. As usual I didn't eat the bun. Against my better judgment I skipped the second drink and instead began to watch the people passing by the window.

I really wasn't looking at them; instead I was thinking of what to do next. I could roam through the city all day without finding Keith, especially if he was smart enough to remain holed up somewhere. If he was smart, a quick flight out of the country or a run down to Mexico would keep him safe from the reach of the law. But that wasn't the man that I knew. Instead he would be out in the open, in a place that would be overlooked. Perhaps one of the luxury hotels, or even shacked up with another woman. But now that I knew about the meeting at the pawn store, I didn't have to do anything but wait.

A cellphone rang a few times before I recognized it was mine. I looked at who was calling, hoping it wasn't Pauline trying to track me down. To my relief I saw it was Melodie. I picked up.

"Hello?"

"Dev, this is Melodie. I'm at the hospital. It's Cleora – she's slipping fast. The doctors don't think she's going to last the day."

I felt the ever present specter of death momentarily squeeze my heart, sending my mind spinning into darkness. "I'll be there in a moment," I found myself saying.

I threw a couple of dollars on the table and left. The crowds of tourists that swarmed around me seemed alien and remote. They weren't part of reality. Instead they lived in an artificial world with misconceptions built on falsehoods and shallow dreams. The sickness in my expression must have been visible since my fellow pedestrians stayed clear of me. As I walked past Keith's Lexus, out of habit I looked through windows again, hoping to see some overlooked clue. There was nothing. I got inside my own car, started the engine up, and left the parking lot. I joined the traffic and headed toward the hospital.

Resisting the urge to go racing through the streets of the Strip, I instead drove slowly. There was no haste since Cleora would be dead no matter what I did. And perhaps that is the worst part of living, knowing that someday you will die. It doesn't matter if you lead a great heroic life, or were just a simple nobody, the end eventually comes for us all no matter how hard we struggle against the inevitable. But it isn't the dying who deserve the most pity, but those who survived, knowing the world would never be the same without the deceased. Cleora's daughter, Madison, would never have the chance to really know her mother. And without an income, her sister Kim would struggle to raise the remaining children.

I reached the hospital without incident. After circling the block a few times, I gave up and parked inside the ramp. It was crowded with cars but I found a spot on the very top. After taking the stairway down a few flights, I took the connecting walkway to the main building. Outside Cleora's room, I found two grief-stricken women, Melodie and Kim, talking to an unhealthy looking doctor with sallow skin, a long nose, and strained eyes. The kids were being kids, not really understanding what was going on and instead were busy chasing each other in a boisterous game of tag. I went and listened to the adult conversation.

With practiced sympathy, the doctor was speaking. "Miss Kinney was doing quite well with no signs of any immediate danger. Yes, she was unconscious for some time, but considering the damage she received from the assault, it was hardly surprising. It was her body's way of coping, shutting everything down until the healing was done. All I could do, medically speaking, was to help her along."

Kim said, "I was with her last night. She opened her eyes. She smiled at me before falling back asleep."

"That's what makes this new development so totally unexpected."

I asked, "What development is that?"

The doctor blinked a few times at me. "Who are you?" he asked.

"A friend of the family."

"I see. This morning Miss Kinney suffered a massive heart attack. We were able to resuscitate her, but the brain damage was extensive. Even if she did recover consciousness again, there wouldn't be anything there. Of course it is up to the family if they wish to continue treatment, but it is my recommendation that it is time to let her go."

"I can't do that," Kim sobbed, the skin of her face turning pink with anger.

Melodie reached for her hand and held it.

Kim looked at me, eyes brimming with tears. She asked, "What would you do?"

I glanced at the doctor, feeling a disdain for the medical profession. I replied, "I know where there is life, there is hope. But if she cannot breathe on her own and it takes a machine to keep the heart beating, then that is no life at all. I suggest you go in and see her. You'll find the answer with her."

"I'll keep an eye on the kids," Melodie suggested.

With her shoulders slumped forward, Kim swung open the door leading to her sister's room open and disappeared inside. The doctor gave me an odd look and then skulked off, obviously happy to be free of this little drama. Melodie got busy rounding up the kids, taking them to a little waiting room around the corner. I followed, feeling angry at all the damn injustices in the world. Of course there was nothing I could do about it which was the most frustrating part. In the normal course of life you can throw money at a problem, or knock some sense into a troublemaker. Now I was just a bystander.

After Melodie had settled the kids down in front of a television, she took my hand and pulled me down to sit next to her. We just sat there for a few minutes, both lost in our dark thoughts.

She finally said, "You're looking like hell, Dev."

"It's been a tough couple of days. I got a line on Keith, the guy who did this to Cleora. I'm going to go get him tonight."

She paused before saying anything else. Her eyes focused on Madison, who was busy watching some cartoon. When Melodie finally spoke, her words were filled with understandable venom. "I hope you kill the bastard. You can promise me that much, can't you?"

I carefully replied, "I can promise you nothing since I don't want you as a witness against me in any possible trial."

She gave me a weak smile in return. "Same old Devon – always cautious. It's a shame that Cleora couldn't stay out of trouble. And now she'll never dance again. She reminded me so much of myself, back when I was innocent."

"I have a hard time imagining you as innocent," I commented dryly. "You were, after all, my girlfriend for some time."

"Well it was true. I wasn't always a dancer. When I was a little girl I wanted nothing more than a husband and a houseful of children. But now I feel it's too late." She looked at the kids who had their eyes glued to the television set. "It sounds rather silly now, trying to imagine me with children of my own, busy worrying their grades and what time to start the crock pot. Can you see me doing that?"

"It's never too late," I replied. "You can quit the business and find yourself a better man than your boyfriend Angelo, or even me."

"A better man than you?" she laughed. "I have a hard time imagining that."

I squeezed her hand. "Now who is kidding who?"

"I don't know why you're always putting yourself down. I mean you have something that so many men don't – honor. You believe in something beyond money, a car, a bag of blow, or a good piece of ass. You follow your heart first. In this crazy world, that is something special."

"I'm not feeling very special right now. Instead I'm feeling damn tired; like an old boxer who has gone too many rounds with the new up-and-comer. I've got a sick lady at home and a dying one here, along with an old girlfriend telling me in no uncertain terms that she wants to be with me again. To tell you the truth, I don't know which way to turn."

"By the way, how do you like your new little friend? Is she pretty as I am?" An undercurrent of jealousy was there.

"Pauline? She's different than you, all red hair and high ideals. At least with you, I know I could count on you in a fight."

That seemed to give Melodie some satisfaction. After searching my face, she said, "You have to leave, don't you?"

"Yes," I answered. "You'll be okay here?"

"I'll get by."

I gave her a kiss on the cheek and then said goodbye to the children. They seemed more annoyed by my intrusion into their television time than anything else. I gave a final salute to Melodie and then began my journey back to the car.

As I walked down the connection walkway to the parking garage, alarm bells begin to ring in the back of my head. There was something wrong here but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. After many years in this business I learned to trust my instincts. Instead of going onward, I stopped and scuttled off to the side so the other pedestrians could pass. Through the glass panels of the walkway I could see the sun and the traffic passing underneath. I waited there for a few moments, trying to think of what was bothering me.

It was Keith. He had to be somewhere close by. Now that I thought of it, Cleora's heart attack was no coincidence. It had to have been Keith who had come here to the hospital, perhaps slipping some drug into her IV bag, or even giving her some injection. He knew that her death would bring me here. He only had to stake out the street leading to the hospital, follow me, and see where I had parked. Once he knew that, it would be a simple matter of setting up an ambush or even hooking a bomb up to my car. Keith was busy cleaning up loose ends before he got out of town. That meant once he was done with me, Pauline would be next. After that, perhaps Kim, her kids, and Madison would follow. Keith would want the killings done before the meeting at the pawnshop. After that, he could fly anywhere in the world.

Wishing the ache away, I rubbed my shoulder a few times. I was putting off the decision I had to make – I could either turn around and go call a taxi, which would be the prudent thing to do, or scout out the area first. Against my better judgment, I took the second choice. Perhaps it was the matter of my foolish pride, but the car was the quickest way home. If Keith had somehow found where I lived, then I had to be there to protect Pauline.

I started walking again, taking my time. The automatic doors opened and I was out in the parking ramp. Instead of taking the stairs, I began walking quickly along the concrete floors, taking the ramps upward to my destination. When I reached the second to last floor, I stopped and began to examine the surrounding area with as much detail as I could gather without looking suspicious. The lot here was crowded with vehicles of all different makes and models. A security camera was in the corner. A woman and child walked past, busy chattering. In the distance I heard someone laughing; the sound echoing strangely. Someone nearby slammed the door of a car and then the engine started up. These were all perfectly normal events but in my heightened state it was almost more than I could handle.

I took the last ramp slowly, craning my neck upward to catch a glimpse of my car. It was there, tucked in the corner where I had left it. The afternoon sun blazed hotly on the concrete here on the roof of the parking ramp. I looked along the edges of the parked vehicles, trying to find a pair of feet from some crouching man in waiting. There was nothing that I could see. I kept wondering where the boom was going to be lowered on me. It was obvious that my Impala would be the bait, and he expected me to be coming through the door of the glass-walled enclosure located across the way from the car. This little structure was meant to protect the stairway from the elements and would also provide an attacker with plenty of forewarning of my coming. But how would he do the deed?

I tried to put myself in his mind. If doing a long rifle shot, a moving target would be the hardest to hit. That meant Keith would wait until I was standing still or stopping to open a door. An explosive would just require proximity, but would be a messier job. It would also draw the attention of the FBI and the ATF, something that a man on the run wouldn't want in these days of heightened security. That meant the first option was the more likely, especially since a bullet was a hell of a lot cheaper than dynamite or a handful of C-4. But where would he set up the shot?

Feeling foolish, I retreated back a few steps to think this through. At this height Keith would either have to be firing from a hospital window or the roof of one of the nearby buildings. It wouldn't be a difficult shot, and a good man, even with a bolt-action rifle, could get off two or three rounds before the surprised victim could react. But there was one weakness that a solitary sniper suffered from: the scope. It limited the user's range of vision and made him zero in on a specific target area. Keith was expecting me to come up those stairs and through that door. If I instead came up from the ramp side, it would take him a few seconds to zero in on this unexpected direction, and that would only be true if he lifted his attention from the scope.

I pulled the gun out of my pocket and jacked the slide, chambering a round. The damn thing would be worthless against a rifle. It was only in the movies that a pistol could hit anything beyond fifty yards. A smart sniper kills from a distance for a simple reason – safety. But nonetheless, having a little firepower on my side, even though it was futile, gave me some measure of bravado – if I got hit by a bullet, at least I could fire my pistol fruitlessly into the air to protest the whims of fate.

I begin running, dodging and weaving as I went. I made it a few seconds without any kind of reaction. I felt foolish until there was a crack of breaking glass and, a millisecond later, the distant boom of a rifle. I didn't look to see what had been hit – probably the windshield of a car - but from the direction of the gunshot, Keith was firing from the hospital. How he had sneaked a rifle inside that building was an interesting question that I didn't have time to find an answer to. Instead I ran, pushing myself harder and faster than I ever had before. The fear of death has a strange way of bringing out unforeseen stamina.

I dodged to the left just as another shot came. This time the lead ricocheted near my feet, sending lead and concrete fragments whining by. That had been too close for comfort. I ducked toward the nearest car and sheltered behind the thick wall, clear of his line of fire. In that brief second I had seen a figure at a window, holding a rifle and sighting through a scope. He was a good sixty or seventy yards away, closer than I expected. From my position I stayed in a low hunch, I began working toward my car. I knew he would be waiting for me to rise from my cover. This would be the best chance for him to get me and perhaps, with a little luck, I could manage to fire enough bullets from the Ruger to score a hit. It was worth the chance.

I was a good fifteen feet away from the Impala, I readied myself by nervously checking the pistol, ensuring that the safety of was off. After taking a deep breath, and jumped up to my feet, extending the Ruger in the direction of where I had seen Keith standing. The window was empty. He was gone.
Chapter 15

I jumped in the Impala, started the engine up, and immediately rummaged through the glove box. I found the screwdriver I kept inside. I got back out of the car and unscrewed the plates on the back and front of the car. Since I had done this many times before, it only took a few seconds. I then got back inside, threw the plates on the passenger seat, and slammed the transmission into drive. I took off in a mighty squeal of burning rubber and a trail of smoke. I zoomed past startled pedestrians who were probably busy cursing me. When I got to the bottom of the ramp, there was a line of cars waiting to pass by the parking ramp attendant and the wooden gate that he controlled. I had no time for such pleasantries. Instead I drove through the entrance, breaking the barrier like a twig.

I burst out on to the street, nearly colliding with another car. The driver understandably panicked, hitting the brakes hard enough to make the nose of his car squat. I ignored the rude gesture he gave me and floored the gas, bringing the speed up to nearly triple-digits. I zigzagged through the traffic, thankful it wasn't rush hour. This is not the type of driving I recommend for cities, but I needed to get back to my apartment before Keith did. I knew the only reason he hadn't continued shooting at me was because he had run out of time. The sound of a rifle going off inside a hospital would be sure to quickly draw some attention, limiting the number of shots he could take. That was one reason I wasn't currently lying dead in a pool of my own blood.

The light far ahead turned red. The cross traffic here on this main artery was thick. I slammed on the brakes and managed to just stop in time. As the car jerked to a stop, I looked in the rear view mirror. Slipping past the traffic was a large SUV – a Chevy Suburban. It was a good fifty yards away now. Instead of speeding up, the truck seemed to be accelerating; heading straight toward the rear of my car. It was either someone looking for a race, or Keith out to finish the job.

Stepping on the accelerator, I lurched ahead, trying to find a hole in the wall of vehicles. After some nasty horns and the slamming of brakes, I pushed through the traffic, clipping the bumper of one car and getting tagged in the rear door by another. Looking in the rear view mirror again, I saw a large chrome bumper and a long hood. Behind the windshield I could see the face of Keith, his jaw set in a ghastly grimace. The SUV hit me hard, catapulting my Impala forward with neck jarring rush. But at least I was free of the intersection. I pulled ahead, quickly outpacing the heavier vehicle. The race was on. While I had speed and agility, Keith had weight and durability behind that truck frame. If I slowed down enough, or, God forbid, stopped, then it would be all over.

I sped up, trying to get as much distance as I could. The next intersection was a red light, already stacked with cars. Since there was nowhere else to go on this side of the road, I veered into the lanes of oncoming traffic. Cars dived left and right. I turned a sharp, skidding left, all the while cursing the heavy nose of this front-wheel drive buggy. Sure, it had plenty of power, but on the corners the damn tires were fighting me the entire way.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, I saw the Suburban go through the hole I had made. He couldn't take the corner as hard as I did, and I saw the rear of the SUV fishtail wildly before he sloughed off enough speed to regain control. Once again I accelerated, blowing through the next intersection. As I went past the waiting cars, I saw something that made my heart freeze – a Dodge Charger police car was there. The red and blue lights came on as it turned to follow me. But the police officer was concentrating so hard on my car that he did not see the oncoming Suburban. The heavier vehicle struck the patrol car right on the door, sending it spinning in an explosion of twisted metal and plastic fragments. The Suburban front end was a mess now, but the truck frame had protected any vital parts from getting damage. Though temporarily slowed down, it still plowed on like a wounded beast.

There were still a few blocks to go before I reached my apartment. I had to get their before the helicopters – either police or news – came out for the hunt. The patrol cars weren't that much of a worry since it would take a few minutes for them to marshal their forces. That would buy me enough time to get my car down in the garage, hidden from view. But I still had Keith to deal with.

As we neared the Strip the traffic became thicker, forcing me to slow down as I blew the horn and tried to find a way past. This allowed the pursuing Suburban to close the gap to only a few feet. In the rear view mirror I saw that Keith was in a rage now, the redness of his skin quite apparent. With one hand on the steering wheel, the other popped out the side of his open window. It took me a second to realize a large automatic was wrapped inside his fist. The first shot shattered the back window and the slug went into the heater controls, hopefully not damaging any important parts. I swerved as the next shot came. I don't know where it went but I wasn't going to let myself wait around for the next one.

This time I jerked the wheel hard and pulled up on the emergency brake at the same time, locking the rear wheels of the car. Turning completely around, I slid out of the way just as the Suburban roared past, the very edge of his bumper striking my rear fender with a hideous grating noise. I accelerated away, wondering how much longer this car would last after this kind of abuse. I then turned as soon as I could, keeping the speed up as much as I dared. I then turned yet again, running a red light, and then squeezed the Impala down an alleyway that ran behind a number of small businesses. Dodging past the trash cans and a delivery van, I exited and found myself on the road that led to my apartment. I had used this way before.

I slowed down a little. Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed my cellphone and dialed Pauline's number. She picked up after two rings, sounding a little testy as she said hello.

"This is Devon. I need you to meet me down in the garage. Don't bother to pack anything, just go!"

"What's going on?" she demanded to know.

"No time to explain. Just meet me there."

I hung up the phone, hoping she understood the urgency of my request. I left the snarl of traffic and turned down the alleyway leading to the garage. I hit the remote and slid under the gate as it opened. I pulled in next to the truck and parked. After shutting the engine off, I got out. Taking a quick walk around the Impala, I saw the poor thing was in no condition to go anywhere – the rear bumper was crumpled, the metal of the trunk was bent, and the door had a huge dent. The front didn't look that bad, mostly scrapes and a few dings, but this car was going to be hot for the next few days. There were plenty of witnesses who could describe the car and even the damage it had received. Taking it to a body shop was out of the question. Instead I would have to take it out of the city and have it scrapped.

Pauline came running up with her purse tucked under her arm. She looked worried.

"What happened to the car?" she asked, her eyes wide as she surveyed the damage.

"I had a little run in with Keith. He's on his way here. Get in the truck."

It was obvious that she was filled with questions, but got into the passenger side of the truck without any further complaint. I opened the door on my side, unlatched the secret compartment, and removed the shotgun. I slid it under the seat and then got behind the wheel. I started the truck up and pulled out, shutting the gate behind us. I drove slowly out of the alley and then turned on to the street, trying to blend into the traffic.

We didn't have long to go before I saw a helicopter flying overhead. The cars in front of me stopped since there was nowhere to go. We were in a traffic jam. My guess was that the police had cordoned the area off, and were busy looking for an abused silver Impala and a Suburban with a missing front end. It would have been amusing if Keith had been caught in this clumsy trap, but he was too clever to be outwitted by the bungling boys in blue.

My thoughts were interrupted by Pauline. She asked, "How do you think he found out where you live?"

I shrugged. "The Green Berets work closely with the CIA. I'm sure Keith still has plenty of contacts there. A search on the license plate of this truck, which was at the resort, would turn up that I was the owner. It would take some further intelligence work to gather all the buildings I own and try to figure out which one is my residence. Or there is a simpler solution: he tagged this truck with a GPS device."

"You mean he could be tracking us right now?"

"The thought just came to me. Once we'll clear of the roadblock ahead, I'll check."

"W-w-what would have happened to me if you hadn't beaten him back to the apartment?" she asked, licking her lips.

"Keith may know where I live, but I bet he is afraid of tackling me there since it's my home territory. He knows I'm dangerous and would be armed. That's why he tried to kill me out in the open at the hospital. Once I was dead he would have gotten inside the apartment and killed you," I replied. "Just like he killed Cleora."

Pauline let out a gasp. "That was the woman you were working for. She was at the hospital, recovering. What happened to her?"

"Maybe Cleora isn't really dead, but she might as well be. She had a heart attack, probably from some drug that Keith gave her. He did it to stop her from testifying against him and. There is no brain function left. Her sister, Kim, is deciding what to do. It's either a life as vegetable of living on a machine or else she's going to die. It's that simple."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah."

"What are we going to do next?"

"We? I'm driving you to a hotel. And then I'm going to go take care of Keith. He's caused enough trouble already."

The traffic inched forward. It was some time later that we passed through a line of police cars. The cops here were decked out in tactical gear, looking as if they were expecting a war to break out. Of course it was a silly show of force since it wasn't like Keith was going to come driving through here guns blazing. Instead he would have ditched the Suburban and gone on foot until he found another car to take. That would slow him down enough to take the heat off of me. He made a mistake. It would be his last.

I drove a few more blocks and then pulled over into a pizzeria parking lot. I motioned for Pauline to stay inside. I got out and began to run my hand along the fenders and bumpers, working my way around the truck. When I found nothing, I dropped to my knees, leaned over, and began to peer at the frame under the bed. I thought of when Keith would have had the chance to plant a tracker on my vehicle. If he had known I was there the first night, then he would have had a long time to place such a device in such a way that it would be hard to find. On the other hand, if Keith did the job after swimming away from the sinking boat, then he would have been in a hurry. There would be nothing clever about the placement.

I guessed on the latter idea. I stuck my hand along the back frame rails, a safe place from the elements. There was nothing there. The other obvious place was the spare tire which was tucked under the truck bed, held in place by a ratcheting chain. I slid my hand along the rubber tread and sidewalls. There was nothing there. But then my hand touched something metallic that placed against the inner rim of the tire. With some difficulty I pulled it out. The GPS tracker was nothing but a black plastic square box with a magnetic backing. It had a vaguely military look.

With a mischievous grin, I spied a car with a pizza delivery sign mounted on top. I walked by and, as I passed the rear fender, tucked the tracker under the wheel well. I then went to door and pretended to study the hours of operation. After a few seconds of this, I returned to the truck and got back inside.

"What's so funny?" Pauline asked after catching my expression.

"If Keith tries to find us by using his little trick tracker, he'll be running after a pizza delivery boy."

She merely nodded a response, obviously not finding any humor in the situation.

I started the truck up and then turned onto the street. I drove until we were out of the city limits. The conversation was nonexistent. Pauline was obviously deep in thought, ignoring my attempts to break through her self-imposed silence. I ended giving up and turned my concentration to the road. I soon found a hotel with a crowded parking lot. I turned in and pulled in next to the front entrance. Without saying a word to Pauline, I went in and got a room, paying with cash. When I had returned to the truck, she was ready to speak.

"When this is all over, I'm leaving, heading back to Maryland to be with my family again. I'm going to sell the condominium and won't be coming back to Vegas."

This confession stabbed me in the heart. I felt a greater sense of despair than I expected. "Okay," I managed to say.

She caught the emotion in my voice. "Oh, Devon, you know that I love you. Of course you know that."

"Do I? Then why are you leaving?" I thought about adding something to the effect that I didn't give a damn, but instead held my tongue.

"Because I can't stand being locked away while you're off risking your life. I know what Keith is capable of. Even if you beat him today, there will be someone in the future that you won't be able to handle. You have a death wish, my darling. And that's one wish I don't want any part of. If you could change your life and give this all up, then maybe I could stay with you."

I slowly nodded, letting her sharp words dissipate like a blow to the body. I said, "This is what I do. I didn't become rich by sitting back and letting the world run me. I take these chances because I want to."

"You take those chances because you need to. You get a thrill out of risking your life, don't you?"

"I suppose I do," I admitted.

She opened the door and stepped out of the truck. "When you're through playing these games, you know where I will be, okay? Don't forget that I love you and care for you. At first I was happy that you were going after Keith because I wanted him hurt for what he had done to me. But now that's all changed. I just want you. I don't give a damn about him anymore."

I had enough of this conversation. I was hurting inside but didn't want to show it. Instead I growled, "Shut the door. I have to go."

"Don't go. Come to the hotel room with me. We'll both go to Maryland."

"No thank you," I snapped back as I started up the engine. I jerked the transmission into drive and slowly edged away.

She began to run next to the truck. After a few steps she angrily slammed the door. The air was full of curses.

I accelerated out of the hotel parking lot, leaving a smoky patch of burnt rubber as I turned on the road. I wanted to open the engine all the way up and tear past the slow traffic. Instead I rolled down the window and let the hot hair buffet my face. I poked along, heading toward Heartland Pawn, which was on the other side of the city. There was no rush to get there since I didn't want to stakeout the place for hours before Keith was supposed to arrive for his meeting with Weis. However I didn't have anything else to do, so, in less than an hour, I found myself on Oakwood Street, slowly driving past the establishment in question.

This area was the low-rent district – rent to own furniture stores, plasma donations, used cars of questionable quality and no money down, and quite a number of thrift stores with their mothball smell. This is where the failures scrabbled to make a life, more often than not failing all the way until their dying day. Heartland Pawn was just another shop among many. It had a yellowed canopy with green lettering and drawing of diamonds and dollar signs. The front window had a neon sign indicating that the business was open. Behind the glass were a pair of massive but cheap stereo speakers, a pair of bicycles, a large television, and a set of metal bars to protect the junk from a smash and grab thief. The sidewalk here was cracked and the parking lot on the side was empty except for a trash dumpster in the back and a single car, an electric blue Monte Carlo with massively oversized rims. The door to the store faced the parking lot. Behind the building was the wall of a warehouse, and the sides of the property were enclosed by a tall fence made with tightly-fitted vertical wooden slats.

Traffic was thick here. Behind me, an impatient Toyota driver beeped his horn. Ignoring him, I took the next right and meandered through a few industrial blocks. After wasting a few minutes driving by a plastic injection company and a die shop, I headed back to take another pass down Oakwood Street. I didn't see anything that I didn't notice before but the details made a better impression. I began to get a glimmer of an idea how to get to Keith.

I drove until I found a greasy spoon restaurant. Going inside, I ordered a cup of coffee along with a steak, a side of broccoli, and a small baked potato. The waitress had a face like a broken watch but was fast with the food and kept my cup filled. I left a generous tip.

Back in the truck, I headed toward the pawn shop. I passed it again and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I took the first turn and parked only a block away. I shut the engine off. Rolling down the windows, I listened to the rush of the traffic and the voices of the few pedestrians who came this way. I was just a guy in a truck, waiting for his shift to begin. So I sat there, trying not to think of Pauline. I didn't have much success. What I felt for her wasn't exactly love, but something that was damn close. But no matter how I felt, I wasn't going to go crawling back to her, pleading for my case. She knew, as well as I did, that I wasn't going to change for anyone. This was my life and my way of doing things.

I checked the clock. It was just after seven. Night was just around the corner. I put the radio on and spun through the dial, trying to find some news. I found an announcer, who was clearly excited, telling the story of a high speed chase in the heart of the downtown. Shots had been fired but no one had been killed. The suspects were still at large but the police were closing in quickly. That made me laugh since here I was, feeling quite free. But still, Keith would be feeling the heat and would be moving quicker than he should. That's when he would start making mistakes.

The darkness of night finally came. Taking my cellphone out, I put it on the seat next to me. I knocked the rear view mirror free from the windshield. With my other hand, I pulled the shotgun out from under the seat and got out of the truck. I stuck the mirror in my pocket, shut the door and began to walk along the sidewalk toward the pawn shop. I kept barrel of the gun close to my thigh, letting it swing in time with my legs. When I hit Oakwood Street, the glare of the oncoming headlights made me blink. The drivers were too concerned with getting to their destination to bother to look at me, just a quick blur of a shadow.

I went past the lit sign of the pawn shop and strode into the parking lot. There was another vehicle, a Ford Explorer, here. I ignored this and headed straight for the dumpster. There was a small place here between the brick wall of the warehouse and the metal side of the container. Shoving the shotgun in first, I clambered into the space. I took the mirror out and placed it on the ground, angling it so I could see the entrance of the pawn shop. And then, ignoring the cramps in my legs, I sat there on my haunches and waited.

In a few minutes someone came out of the store. I felt my heart race and then sink. It was just a young kid with a computer tower under his arm. He got into the Explorer and left.

I adjusted my position, wishing the minutes away. It seemed like forever until I heard another car pull up. It was a black Honda Accord. The headlights went off and the car door opened. Out stepped Keith. He had a backpack in one hand. He looked suspiciously around, saw nothing, and then went inside the shop. I could have taken him there but decided to wait until the deal was done. That meant I would get cash instead of having to deal with raw gold. That would mean less trouble for the Kinney family.

I pulled myself up and turned so I could see down the edge of the dumpster. In a short moment, Keith came out. He had a pistol in one hand and the backpack in another. Before he could gain the safety of the car, I rose and fired the shotgun. In the confines of the parking lot, the sound was deafening. It took the blink of an eye to turn Keith from a human being to a wounded animal. Covered in blood, he began crawling for cover, trying to get behind the tires of the Honda. I never gave him the chance. I fire the shotgun again.

And then I was up. A few steps later I grabbed the bloodied bag and pulled it free from his hands. He was dead. Only a leer remained on that damaged face. I began walking quickly along the road, heading for the truck. It was over.
Chapter 16

It was night. I sat on the sofa and listened to the _These Immortal Souls_ record I had received through the mail that day. The bass thundered, the drums pounded, and the growl of the singer was almost like the real thing. But my mind was somewhere else tonight. Instead I thought of Pauline, wondering if I had somehow missed on something that I would never have again. It wasn't that the world was short of women, quite the contrary, but only a few special ones were worth falling in love with. I was never quite sure if Pauline was one of those or not, but it would have been nice to find out.

I turned my mind to other things – the stacks of cash I had given to Kim Kinney after the funeral of Cleora. It felt like blood money, and though it would never atone for the death of her sister, at least she could take comfort in knowing that her financial situation was secure. It was a faint comfort but one that would grow in strength as time went on.

As for my share, I lied when I told her that it had already been deducted. The money had too many unpleasant associations – mainly the feral nature of Keith Miller and the trail of victims he had left behind. I was glad that I had killed him, knowing that the world would be a better place without his sort. Nonetheless, I felt hollow inside, like I had somehow failed. And perhaps I had by not protecting Cleora. That was one wound on my psyche that would take a long time to heal.

My cellphone, which was on the coffee table, lit up. I looked at the number and did not recognize it. I got up and went over to the stereo to turn the volume down.

"Hello?" I said into the phone.

"This is Valerie."

"Yes?" I asked suspiciously. I was a little tired of rescuing wayward women.

"I'm downstairs. I tried ringing but there was no answer."

"What are you doing here?"

"You said I could stop by anytime I wanted. Is that okay?"

It was.

###

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The Other Works of Paul Westwood:

**Grave Injustice:** It had been in the Warren family for years: the ancestral home deep in the South. After the death of James's reclusive uncle, the house is now his to sell. But James is haunted by a childhood memory of a ghostly horror of a deceased young girl. With the help of his wife Beth, who is a law student, the young couple must solve a murder from the Civil War and lay to rest the spirit that still haunts the grounds. But the danger is not only in the past, but will come crashing into the present. Their lives and fortunes will be forever changed.

**Nano Zombie** : Not all zombies are undead. Brent is a man who lives in the near future, a crumbling civilization where man feeds upon man. Escaping from the chaos of the city, he is suddenly thrust into an unspeakable nightmare of sickness and war. In a world of apocalyptic horror, he battles for those he loves, an orphan girl and a woman with a mysterious past. In the desolated countryside, Brent fights to stay alive and find a cure to the most terrible disease that humanity has ever seen.

**Horror America** : Move over Sherlock Holmes! When the supernatural game's afoot, helpless people call on the good Dr. Townsend to save them. Ghosts, the undead, werewolves, and more horrors that man was not meant to see are loose in 1870s America, so it's up to Captain Parker, a gunslinger for hire, and Dr. Townsend to stop the horror. Yet when Townsend's beautiful daughter falls under the spell of a mysterious suitor, their fortitude will be tested in a battle like no other. Written in a series of connected short stories narrated by Parker, this novel will keep you turning pages late into the night.

**Lonely Are The Dead** : 1977. A ruthless serial-killer is stalking Bay City. His purpose is unknown, but the dismembered victims are always young and beautiful. In order to find the perpetrator, Police Detective Markus has to set aside his personal troubles, and pull the evidence together before panic sweeps the city. His only ally is Karen Dekker, a reporter with a tortured past and the chance to break the biggest story of her career.

**Malediction** : Two centuries after the Final War, civilization struggles to rise from the ashes of the new Dark Ages. An innocent man turned outlaw is forced on a journey across a desolated landscape, risking his life to deliver a warning to the growing rebellion. The message he carries will change the balance of power, and with it, the hopes of humanity.

**Murder at Zero Hour:** William Grant, an American, joins the British Army during the Great War. He is posted to France, where he witnesses the horrors of war on the front line. During a dangerous night patrol, a captain is murdered, leading to a series of unanswered questions. With only his wits, Grant must solve the mystery while keeping his own skin intact. Will he be a victim of war or just another victim?

**At Harper's Ferry** : The book that started it all. Jack Blackwood is a lonely drunk who starts a detective agency in the heart of Washington DC. As Fort Sumter is attacked, he and his partner Ezra are embroiled in a case that could change the very course of the war: the son of a retired congressman has gone missing, along with military papers outlining the Union's Anaconda Plan. At the heart of the matter is a beautiful prostitute, a trail of dead men, and a spy who will stop at nothing to deliver the plans to the Confederacy.

**At Bull Run** : The second book in the Blackwood Series. A wealthy man hires Jack Blackwood to find the murderer of his only son, who had recently joined a newly-formed Union cavalry regiment. In a city crowded with temptation, the investigation uncovers a killer who is targeting prostitutes and soldiers alike, causing panic in the ranks. Only Jack's wits and the power of the Colt can put a stop to the killings.

**At Shiloh** : The third book in the Blackwood series. As Grant's Army marches through Tennessee, it is beset by guerilla fighters led by the traitorous Major Gardner. An invaluable shipment of gold is stolen from the Union and must be retrieved at all costs. Posing as a guntrader, Jack must not only complete this impossible mission, but survive the perils of battle and the amorous advances of a widow trapped in an unfriendly town.

**The Blackwood Trilogy** : Jack Blackwood is a widower and a drunk. Ezra Miller is an ex-slave in a white man's world. Together, they run a detective agency in Washington DC. As the Civil War rages, they are involved in a series of cases that will change the very course of the war. This anthology collects all three adventures – At Harper's Ferry, At Bull Run, and At Shiloh - at one low price.

Free Bonus Chapter of Nano Zombie:

When the world came to an end, it was with more of a whimper than a bang. There were no comets, earthquakes, nuclear wars, or any other apocalyptic ending suitable for some Hollywood blockbuster. Instead events sort of crept up on humanity in a most underhanded fashion. No one expected it except for the usual scaremongers who were always braying about the coming end of the world. This time, for a change, they were right...

Chapter 1

It was early September, that time of year when summer was still strong in the bones of the land. I left for work that Monday morning, taking my old black pickup truck. Sure, there are faster and flashier vehicles out there, but they draw attention to the hijackers and thieves looking for a well-heeled victim. But nobody pays attention to an old Toyota with rust and a few dents. I also liked the off-road capabilities and the high stance which gave me an extra layer of safety from any would-be attackers. Not that I expected such a thing to happen to me, but in those days it was better to be safe than sorry.

As I pulled out of my driveway, I looked fondly at my old bungalow built during the Depression. What the little house lacked in size was made up for by comfort. I had added built-in bookshelves, converted the basement to a home theater, and refurbished the kitchen with new cabinets. It would have been a cramped place for a family, but there was no reason why a man made recently single needed anything larger. So far the neighborhood had been free of any looting and much of that had to do with the block watch. I'm sure the men enjoyed playing soldier - toting rifles over their shoulders and stopping any visitor by the blockade of cars at each end of the street.

In the past this time of year was normally for apples and farm markets, but yet again the harvest had been bad with the usual predictable rise in food prices. It was the lack of rain and the oppressive heat that was the real problem. It left the trees looking sallow and lifeless, the leaves small and undernourished. It had been like this all summer, leaving the yards brown and lifeless since no one dared to use water for something as silly as grass. Even for this time of year the heat during the day was still unbearable. I missed autumn, the smell of decaying plants and the snap of brisk morning frost. I wondered if anyone should ever see such days again.

I slowed as I reached the checkpoint. Stopping, I rolled down the window. Out from the corner house came Bill Hayward, who was a chunky man with bald head and all the manners of a longshoreman. He was wearing a pair of worn jeans, brown boots, and a camouflaged jacket that looked to have been bought at the local army surplus store. He gave me a friendly wave with his left hand since the other arm was cradling a new-looking Remington shotgun. Since I left for work every morning, I was hardly an unfamiliar sight, but he still liked to jaw for a few minutes. Like so many others on the block he was unemployed and in need of a little social outlet.

"Hey, Brent," he said with a half-hidden yawn. "Did you see the news this morning?"

I shook my head and took a sip from the coffee cup I had brought. Personally I had little interest in the news since most of it was bad. There was only so much a sane person could take before you just decided to stop watching. Too much of that kind of information could drive one mad, spending the nights awake with worry, tossing and turning.

He said excitedly, "The police force went on strike – complaining they haven't been paid for weeks. And me still paying property taxes and all, and they're worried about money." He gave a little laugh. "Not that anyone can afford anything these days. What I wouldn't do for a nice steak, but it's been nothing but bologna at my house. I'm sure you know as much as anyone the price of groceries."

I knew since I was paying over half my income on keeping food in the cupboards. For a single man that was a lot of money. I couldn't imagine what it was like trying to feed a family. "With the police on strike there's going to be trouble," I said as I shook my head in disbelief.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. You may want to stay home today, considering every two-bit criminal is going to be out looking for easy pickings. They might take a chance and give a try against us. All of the neighbors will have to stick together if we want to survive."

I let out an uneasy laugh. "These days we're all criminals in form or another. But I think I'll go out anyway. Someone has to go to work, even if it's for peanuts."

"Sure, sure," he said rapidly before pulling out a set of keys. "But still, be careful out there." He then climbed into a late-model sedan that was parked across the road. The car pulled forward just enough for me to nose my way through.

The streets this time of the morning were eerily quiet. It was only a year ago that I had to fight the daily battle of rush hour traffic. Now I had the entire stretch of blacktop to myself. As I slowly drove along, I kept my eyes busy wandering across the boarded houses and shuttered small businesses that packed the suburban roadside. I was looking for anything unfamiliar – such as a car poised in a driveway – something that could be used to ram or block my movement forward. There was nothing to see but the decay of weed-choked yellowing lawns, stripped cars, and with a majority of the buildings, open doors where the looters had already been.

I drove without incident to the industrial park that was the location of my current job at Rapid Engineering. I was immediately struck by the silence and lack of busy movement. The normal day-to-day activity beyond the high chain-link fence that protected the building was non-existent. Instead of the trucks, cars, and employees there was nothing but an empty lot. I hesitantly drove up the guard shack that protected the entrance to the plant. Impatiently honking my horn, I waited with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

From out of the guard shack came someone I did not recognize. He was a short man wearing black-colored police riot gear with the helmet visor flipped open. An AR-15 was slung on his side. "What do you want?" he barked with a voice that was more of a croak.

"I'm Brent Cohen. I work here," I replied as I eyed his finger which was resting over the trigger guard.

"Not anymore," the man spat out. "The whole plant has been closed for now. Everyone has been laid off."

"But what about my paycheck?" I asked impatiently. This hadn't been the first time I had been locked out of a job, but I still expected to get paid.

He shook his head from side to side. "I don't know about that. I'm sure you'll be contacted by someone."

"Thanks," I said sarcastically as I put the truck into gear and slowly backed out.

I was turning around the cul de sac to head back home when I saw another car approaching. It was an old Chevrolet Caprice. From the dent in the front bumper, I could tell it was April VanDyke, who was the plant supervisor. She recognized me and slowed down to a stop. I pulled up. From the height of my truck I could see a silver automatic pistol – a Colt - resting on the passenger seat. These days no one traveled unarmed.

April rolled down her window. She was a middle-aged woman with medium-length brown hair and a prominent nose. Her eyes were stuck in a permanent stare that some found unnerving. However, she was well-liked by everyone at the company since she had an easy manner and was always ready with a good joke.

"Hey, Brent," she said, "I'm sorry you had to make the trip in."

"What happened?" I asked. "When I was here on Friday I hadn't heard a word about the plant closing. Won't anyone let me in on the big secret?"

She gave a little shrug. "You know how it goes these days: the owner of the company decided he had enough trying to make ends meet. I just found out myself while I was driving in. The vice-presidents have been busy calling all the managers. You were just unlucky to get here before anyone else. I'm sure Bill will call you soon enough."

Bill Myers was the IT director I reported to. "I'm sure he will," I said glumly.

"Don't take it too hard, Brent. I'm supposed to go and wait outside and greet anyone who wasn't reached. I'm sorry. I really am. Take it easy."

"You too," I said. Rolling my window up, I pulled away. I was hardly surprised by this turn of events since it hadn't been the first time I had been laid off. The fact was that this was now a very common occurrence as company after company folded under the weight of increased expenses, disrupted supply lines, and decreased demand. But still, the idea of trying to find yet another place to work at seemed daunting because each new job was taking longer and longer to find. Perhaps this was the last one for me.

These thoughts were keeping my mind occupied as I drove home, once again taking it slow and easy. I kept my eyes busy scanning the roadside but the motion was mechanical. It took me a moment to realize that a column of smoke was ahead, billowing high against the jagged line of buildings and trees on the horizon. It was coming from the direction of my neighborhood. I stepped harder on the gas, this time ignoring my usual precautions.

I was lucky that the looters were so sure of themselves that they did not notice my approach. As I came within sight of my street, I saw the blockade of cars had been pushed through by a black semi, the diesel smoke still gurgling from the chrome exhaust stacks. The corner house belonging to Bill and Eileen Hayward was burning with high orange flames greedily consuming the wooden exterior. Even with the truck windows rolled up, I could hear a few gunfire shots. All along the shoulder of the road was a fleet of unguarded pickup trucks and vans to be used to haul away whatever the raiding rabble found. I slowed to a stop and parked, hoping my truck would fit in with the motley assortment of vehicles.

Last year the neighborhood had built a wall of sorts to protect the rear of the houses. It was cobbled together with wooden posts, barbed-wire, chain-link fence, and bits of board and corrugated metal. It wasn't much of a barrier but it was enough to slow trespassers until the block watch could respond. There had been a few intrusions now and then, but nothing of the magnitude that I was seeing now. But I needed to get to my house and take a closer look to see what was going on. If it was bad as it looked, I was also hoping to retrieve my Remington shotgun and Winchester rifle since they would be needed if I planned to make my way out of the city.

Before exiting the truck, I took out the loaded Browning forty-caliber pistol from the door pocket. I reflexively checked the clip and racked a round by pulling on the slide mechanism. I had ten shots which should be enough to see myself out of any quick trouble but certainly wasn't enough for the long haul. Keeping low and darting behind the assorted vehicles parked along the road, I edged my way towards the street that ran parallel to my own. This area had seen the inhabitants flee, the houses already looted long ago, leaving nothing but the usual broken windows, open doors, and weed-choked lawns. I had little worry of being heard since the screams and shouts coming from my neighborhood would easily cover my movement. I soon reached the home that sat to the back of mine.

The backyard here had a pool, the shallow dreams of suburbia long turned into an empty dry basin that now collected nothing but dead leaves. The grass around the cracked concrete was long and dry and moved easily with the wind. I stood with my back to the wall of house, and through the six-foot tall barbed-wire fence, I could see my own one-story brick home. There wasn't anyone guarding the back yard, so I stole across until I reached the fence. I had previously made a small crawlspace through the wire, just in case if I needed to leave in a hurry. I'm sure my neighbors also had their own hidden escape hatches and I could only pray that some of them had a chance to use them.

I sat on my haunches and pulled out two loose nails from the other side of the fence. A section on the bottom fell forward. I pulled it off to the side. With the barbed-wire scraping against my coat, I managed to just barely fit as I slowly wriggled through. Raising my head, I saw that I had gotten this far undetected. From my new vantage point, the sound of fighting was now louder than before. There were more screams, a few sporadic gunfire shots – though diminished compared to earlier - and a roaring of triumphant shouts from the assembled mob of looters. I could tell they were many in number and easily overwhelming what little resistance was left.

It was a quick dash and I was at the back door, fumbling with my keys. My hands were shaking as I entered. I was in the kitchen, the cabinet doors were open, the shelves now bare. Anything not food was left on the floor – papers, an old antique rotary telephone that had been ripped from the wall, and broken dishes and glasses. It was quiet here, but from my vantage point, I could look into the living room and see that the front door had been ripped from the hinges and now rested on the front lawn. The carpet was dirty from an army of feet. Through the open doorway, I could see groups of ill-dressed men and women moving in a chaotic fashion. Many were loading cars and trucks with whatever foodstuffs had been found, while others were laughing and passing bottles of booze back and forth. They seemed oblivious to everything, only stopping their manic activity when gunfire would erupt from somewhere nearby. I could only shake my head, thinking what fools they were. Sure, they could feed themselves today, but what about tomorrow? At this rate all the food in the city would soon be gone and these robbers would turn on each other, stealing and killing, until there was nobody left.

I quickly went to the front bedroom which served as a small office. My computer was there along with a collection of books. Standing in the corner, so far unopened, was my gun safe. It was a heavy thing and from the fresh scratches and marks on the green paint, apparently it had lived up to the advertisement and had withstood easy theft. I ran through the combination lock with practiced ease, inserted the key, and then pulled back the heavy doors. Inside were my rifle, shotgun, and a few boxes of ammunition. Slipping the Browning pistol into my coat pocket, I loaded up the shotgun with double-O. A little buckshot does wonders when facing a crowd.

It was time to get back to the truck. However, before I could leave, I heard a great rolling laughter come from outside. Going to the window, I lifted a corner of the curtain up. I saw the crowd outside part for some of my neighbors who were being led down the middle of the street. There was Steve Grant and his wife Terri, Joan Verrick, who lived next door, and Tyler Darby, a teenager of some ill-repute. Each was being guarded by a man on either side. They were marched to the front of the semi that had crashed through the barricade. The captives were forced down to their knees.

Standing on the hood of the semi-truck was a muscular man with short-cropped black hair. The distance was long enough where I couldn't make out his face but I saw that he was wearing a quasi-military uniform of tightly fitting black pants, shirt, and highly polished boots. With a bullhorn in his hands, he began to speak to the now quiet crowd.

His rough voice said, "As you all know, times have been tough. It has been especially tough on the poor, those who cannot afford to buy their way out of misery. Why do we have to suffer at the expense of the rich? There is no good answer to that question, is there, my friends? Many of us have lost brothers, sisters, parents, and children to the ills of starvation. We know what it is like to feel hungry, but see others thrive. But there is a way out. There is a way to survive. I have given you, my people, food. I have given you weapons. Now that the police are gone, nothing can stop us from taking over the city and taking what is rightfully ours!"

The mob roared with excitement.

He paused and looked smugly over them, his head slowly bobbing up and down like a modern day Mussolini. The man then held up his hands to quiet down the crowd. They readily complied. He continued. "The world is changing and we are going to be the vanguard of a new society. We are going to be the leaders that shape the next world. It is people like these," he said as he pointed at my neighbors, "with their petty values of working for themselves that are holding us back. We need to work together to survive. Why should we be starving in the streets when we have the power to take what is rightfully ours? I say we kill them as a lesson to others." He then jerked his hand across his throat in a cutting motion.

To my horror, I watched as Steve Grant was shot in the back of the head, execution style. The crowd laughed and jeered. There was nothing I could do unless I wanted to die myself. I quickly weighed the idea of rushing out, guns blazing, but there were just too many of them out there to do my own version of Custer's Last Stand. The gun cracked again and Terri joined her husband. Feeling helpless, I turned to leave. I was so wrapped in my own miserable thoughts that I didn't see anything until I ran straight into someone.

He was a tall man with a black beard and a red handkerchief tied over his long, lank hair. His thick arms poked out of a leather motorcycle vest.

"Hey! Who are you?" he asked suspiciously, raising his fist to strike me.

I didn't even answer but instead brought the butt of the shotgun up and tried to club him in the ear.

He was an obviously an experienced street fighter and easily dodged my clumsy blow. A quick jerk of his hand and the man drew a wicked-looking knife from belt. He then tried to plunge it straight into my stomach.

Luckily I turned aside just in time, the blade cutting through the jacket and into the shirt. The cold steel slid against my flesh, leaving a thin line of fiery pain. The realization that I was hurt sent a wave of hot anger flooding through my veins. I hadn't been in a fight since high school, but now my life was on the line. I didn't want to kill, but I didn't want to die either. There was only one thing left to do.

Stumbling backwards, I tried to bring the shotgun up to fire. It could have alerted those outside to my presence, but that was a chance I was willing to take. My assailant was too quick and stepped inside the arc of the swinging barrel, trying to bat the gun out of my hands. My finger was already on the trigger. In the confines of the room, the sound of the discharging shell was a sonic shock that momentarily stunned the both of us. I had missed but had managed to blow a hole into the drywall behind the man's head.

I don't know if it was my experience with guns or just fear, but I was quicker to react. Dropping my left hand off of the stock of the gun, I swung my fist into the man's throat. It wasn't a hard blow, but it was enough to send him reeling away, choking. I took the opportunity to give him a hard kick in the rear. He tumbled forward, hitting his forehead on the wall. I brought the butt of the shotgun down on the back of his neck. Unconscious, he crumpled to the floor. I fought the urge to shoot him, but instead ran over and kicked the knife away. I then stared at my handiwork, feeling surprised by my violent actions.

It was time to leave the city.

