NOTHING SACRED

NOTHING SACRED

DOUGLAS WICKARD

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright 2014 Douglas Wickard

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of Douglas Wickard.

Books by Douglas Wickard

The Sami Saxton Series

A Perfect Husband

A Perfect Setup

Perfect (12.25.14)

The Dan Hammer FBI Series

Nothing Sacred

Encounter

~ Early Praise for NOTHING SACRED ~

★★★★★ “…superb, chilling, visceral, raw…a masterpiece. Wickard deserves a place amongst the key writers of suspenseful thrilling crime writing.”

Helen White, Goodreads Review

★★★★★ “NOTHING SACRED is the enthralling, emotionally charged and evocative prequel to [Wickard’s] powerful thriller ENCOUNTER. It will captivate, unsettle, evoke deep and passionate feelings and haunt you long after the final page is read.”

Pat O’Meara, Goodreads Review

★★★★★ “…Mr. Wickard is a master at scene setting.

All the senses are used when a new scene is revealed.”

Dana Griffin, Author of COERCED and THE COVER UP

★★★★ “Mr. Wickard is fast making his place in history as one of THE best authors out there.”

Melanie Adkins ~ Have You Heard My Book Reviews

ENCOUNTER

★★★★★ “Once again, a tour-de-force from Mr. Wickard.”

Helen White, Amazon Review

“Sexy, hot & heart-pounding, this thriller will turn you inside out.”

Melanie Adkins ~ Have You Heard Book Reviews

A PERFECT HUSBAND

“Up there with Jonathon Kellerman…” Fleur Smithwick,

Author of HOW TO MAKE A FRIEND

A PERFECT SETUP

“Wickard surpasses Jeffery Deaver…”  ★★★★★

Nancy Silk, Amazon Review

WARNING

NOTHING SACRED contains graphic descriptions

that may be offensive and unsuitable for some readers.

Parental discretion is advised.

strike

“You yourselves are your last hope.”

“Possessing the Secret of Joy”

~ Alice Walker

June 14, 2007

Thursday

Citadel Mall

Charleston, South Carolina

1

Choosing?

I love choosing.

Having a choice is one of the benefits I derive for this little hobby of mine. That and cleaning the environment of filth. No really, I have an unnatural sense of cleanliness. To the point of being obsessive, some people might think. I’ll give you an example. I carry razor blades with me to scrape off all those annoying pieces of sticky paper plastered on everything; display boards, bathroom stalls… actually, anywhere messy pigs migrate and have the incessant need to vandalize. Back before the neurotic use of cell phones, I’d even clean off public telephones. In case of an emergency and I needed to use one, (God forbid) the phone had to be spotless. Bacteria free and purely pristine. Some people look at me strangely. They stare. They think I have a problem. I don’t. I just prefer it that way. Clean and tidy.

No one assigned me this position. I took it. Like most things in my life. Not to mention the fact that I really enjoy getting what I want, when I want it. Better yet, that incredible high I achieve in getting away with it. Kind of like playing God. That’s an added bonus.

A dividend.

The mall is one of my favorite places to hang out. To “choose” from, that is. It’s big and spacious with plenty of people milling about, roaming in-and-out of brand name stores, spending all their hard earned cash. I stay pretty inconspicuous with all the foot traffic. Not that you would notice anything different about me from the next person. You wouldn’t. Trust me. Well, you might think I’m attractive. Give me a second glance, a look, maybe even… choose me.

I’ve got my eye on a girl. I’ve been watching her really close. Her boyfriend’s been calling her “Angie.” Of course, I immediately think of Mick Jagger!

“Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear…”

But, I’m running out of time, checking my watch a little too frequently, waiting to make my move. I can’t afford to be careless. Nobody can ever afford to be careless. Everything according to plan. Just like the last time. They still haven’t found the body. I doubt they ever will. That’s how good I am. That stupid slut never knew what hit her.

Beautiful, Angie…

Her boyfriend is walking in my direction. He moves toward me, a loaded spring in each step. She follows close behind him like a dizzy puppy, texting on her cell phone. Dainty, pretty fingers fly over the miniature keyboard in a heated frenzy. They’re eating a disgusting pretzel, dipping it into some gooey orange sauce and feeding it to one another. Taking pictures, laughing, posting on Facebook, Twitter or some other social media outlet. How cute. I play cool and continue sipping on my coffee. I don’t pay them the slightest bit of attention. They sit down next to me on the wooden bench. Her arm brushes up against me. Accidentally. I almost drop my Styrofoam cup. Her sweater is tight, cottony; her nipples stand erect, playing hide-and-seek through the fabric. Her jeans are faded, that “washed-a-thousand-times” blue. A patch is sewn on her ass that reads: “DON’T GO THERE.” I can’t help but be offended, because that is precisely what I did. I went there. And everybody else, too. Another year, and she’ll be ruined. A whore for sure.

“Sor-ry,” she coos with that sweet, saccharine southern drawl.

I look the other way. I bite at my upper lip.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, do you have the time?” her boyfriend asks. They compete for the thickest accent. She wins. Hands down. He looks like he just walked off the set of a Steven Spielberg movie. You know the type. All American, wispy brown hair, athletic. Already has facial hair. He wears braces to correct an overbite. A capital “F” is sewn with confidence on the front of his athletic jersey. Does it stand for varsity football? Or “fucker?” I bet he has a nice, big cock. Everything overdeveloped. Shows off in the shower after gym class, giving less fortunate boys a complex. Yeah, you definitely know the type.

I extend my arm in their direction, advertising my expensive Rolex wristwatch. I graze my hand up against Angie…

Beautiful Angie…

I don’t speak. I just act polite and smile.

He thanks me as they jump up and leave their trash behind. That really pisses me off. Filthy pigs! I snatch up the paper napkin coated with mustard or cheese and walk to the trashcan. I don’t take my eyes off her. Not for one second. I pitch the pig’s trash in the receptacle, take a hand sanitizer cloth from my pocket and follow them. Slowly. Her walk attracts the attention of several people, predominately older men. Their heads turn as she passes by. She is a looker. And to tell you the truth, I don’t blame them.

That’s why I chose her.

I must act quickly now.

“Wait for me,” I hear him say as he enters the men’s restroom.

“No way! I’m coming with you.”

Smart girl. But not smart enough.

She follows him into the bathroom. An elderly man exits with the aid of a cane. He shakes his head in disapproval before disappearing into a sea of shoppers. I stand still. I wait for the right moment. I saunter into a Barnes & Noble Bookstore and pick up the latest bestseller. Interesting. I choose James Patterson. A romance novel. He’s changing genres. I chuckle as I place the book back into the bin. I’m not an avid reader of the genre.

Her boyfriend exits the restroom and positions himself as guard at the door. Such gallantry. After a few seconds, she exits. She wipes her hands on her ass and pushes back light, curly hair across her shoulders. It falls in perfect ringlets to her waist. They kiss and grab at each other’s hands. Lovebirds. She must be what? All of thirteen. He looks older, at least seventeen. And I can tell Angie isn’t the first girl he’s ruined. He has that cocky stride of a winner. A peacock practicing his skills, perfecting his lines, sharpening his tool for the next young thing that falls prey to his desires.

It’s up to me now. I must save her before he spoils her. Ruins her untouched excellence. And, I must be quick about it. I hurry across the polished tile floor toward the main exit. I wave goodbye to the pimply-faced barista at Starbucks who made my coffee. My café latte. See? Nobody knows. Nobody suspects. I pass by the miniature police station located at the mall entrance. I smile at the nice black lady sitting behind the desk browsing through a magazine. She nods her head in my direction.

The glass doors open automatically. A gentle, cool breeze invigorates me. I take advantage of the last hint of cold weather and take a deep rejuvenating breath. The warmth from the sun surrenders to dusk. Magenta ribbons streak across a pale blue sky.

I keep a keen eye on the two of them as they stumble over each other’s hungry advances. They head down a row of parked cars. He unlocks her side first. Always a gentleman. He has a jeep.

He would have a jeep!

I quicken my pace two rows over, grabbing at the bottom of my coat pocket for keys, checking over my shoulder for fear I might lose them. I unlock the door to my rental car and slide in. I lower the window to dispel the heat. Engines turn over. I watch through the tinted glass of my windshield. I remove my sunglasses to get a better view. No obstructions.

My plan is in place. On the passenger seat beside me, positioned in plain view, is my freedom. My tools, encased in orderly fashion at the bottom of a small, nondescript wooden box. My exquisite instruments. I run my hand over the top of the box. Folded neatly beneath the box is the dress she will wear. The cotton smock, white like the virgin she still is. It will soon turn red from the blood she will spill. For her sins. My soul will then be cleansed. Then and only then.

My small sacrifice.

I put the car in reverse and back out of my tight parking space. Guiding the automatic gear shift into drive, I turn the steering wheel in their direction.

The sacred ritual will take place at sunset.

You want to know why? Because I planned it that way.

June 14, 2007

Thursday

6:22 PM

2

Every Thursday evening, like clockwork, George Madden chauffeured Edna into Charleston for her weekly prayer meeting. They left early, while it was still light out because George suffered from terrible night blindness. He’d been to the doctor. But, what could the freakin’ doctor do for night blindness? Edna complained. She hated driving. She hated just about anything having to do with an automobile. Then again, Edna complained pretty much about everything. Twenty-two years of marriage. Martial bliss, George called it. Oh well, he’d adjusted, or so he kept telling himself. Anyway, about his night blindness. George took the usual precautions. He turned down the rearview mirror to stop the oncoming glare, drove on well-lit roads, and tried using streets with those sparkle-bumps on the divider. What else? Oh yeah, he wore glasses. He damn well better. His vision wasn’t so good any more.

It was a stupid saying, but Edna said it anyway. “George, ya’ got Coke bottles for glasses.” They kind of snickered, not because it was funny or anything, but because she’d been telling him that for some time now. Kind of nostalgic. Even with all the precautions in place that night, nothing was gonna prepare George’s old eyes for the sight they were about to behold.

Edna and George lived about twenty miles outside Charleston in a little community known as Goose Creek. It was a quiet place. Lots of sprawling, two-level rental complexes equipped with tennis courts, swimming pools and nicely manicured lawns. The developers wanted the tenants to feel like they were getting something for their money. They enjoyed it all right. Anyway, they were driving into the City, passing by the usual scenery – strip malls, movie theaters and restaurants. George remembered Edna saying something about wanting to try a new fast food joint that just recently popped up. A movie star had opened up a whole slew of them. Edna sure enjoyed her movie stars. She read all about them in one of those supermarket gossip magazines. The Globe. The Enquirer. George remembered saying something like, “Yeah, yeah,” because Edna also loved eating. Out. She used to be one hell of a cook back when the kids were home. Now those pots and pans just hung above the stove and collected dust. Money flew right out the window on a account of them eating out every night.

George dropped Edna off at the church located on Meeting Street, not far from the University. He pecked at her cheek and watched her skedaddle across the concrete pavement to the entrance of The Circular Congregation Church. Her big ass created tidal waves underneath her flowery, floor-length skirt. It looked more like a tent to George.

Oh Edna, when did you get to be so… big?

George was proud to mention, perhaps even brag a bit, that he’d maintained his same weight since being discharged from the military back in the late sixties.

Seeing Edna’s large ass wiggle like a Jell-O mold got George’s blood going.

George, why don’t you treat yourself tonight and go out to that Pussy Place out on Old Towne Road?

Entrance was dirt cheap. Besides, why not? Won’t be long before George’s ass was seated in a booth at some chain restaurant watching Edna stuff her fat face anyway.

Oh, hell yeah, that’s what I’ll do!

Before George could count to three, that old Buick Regal seemed to have a mind all its own and was steering itself right over Memorial Bridge. Yep, tonight George was going in search of a little action.

On the radio, George was listening to that song… “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody baby, if I can’t have you…” … just singing along as he drove, having himself one hell of a good time. It was getting darker though and Old Towne Road had a stretch of highway up ahead that was pretty isolated. Hell, somebody could get lost out here if they weren’t paying attention. There weren’t a lot of street lights either. Darkness was landing on George faster than a Boeing 747. He started getting a little jumpy. He sat upright in his seat and adjusted his glasses. He flicked down the rearview mirror and prayed for a speck of white, a dot of relief. Some kind of light. Pink neon sure would be nice. What was the name of that place? “Pink Pussy?” Or maybe “Pussy Palace?” Hell, he knew it had pussy in it. Off the record, George didn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea. He didn’t do this a lot. Not every day, anyway. Sometimes, he even missed a week or two. Sometimes.

A neon sign came blasting into view right in the nick of time. A blessing. The place was called “Silk Stockings.” If he hadn’t come upon it soon, he was about ready to do a u-turn and head right straight back to Edna. Mother. Guilt. He hated it. But forget about all that now. He was here! Soon he’d be lost in a lush oasis of luscious smelling booty before he could count to ten.

He parked the Buick in the rear, next to a reeking dipsey-dumpster. Smelled like shit, but he preferred it. He didn’t like flashing his dirty laundry around. Besides, it wasn’t nobody’s damn business anyway. He had yet to witness somebody he knew out here. Strange, huh? And, if he did, what would they have on him? Nothing! So fuck ‘em! That’s what he would say. Whooo hooo! George was in a mood tonight! Watch out “Pussy Palace,” or whatever the hell the name was.

He paid his money at the door and strolled into the place like he owned it. In the background, the DJ Herb was talking shit, as usual.

“For your credit card, you can have a private lap dance with Candy Cane in the Champagne Lounge…”

George liked Candy. She was nice and all, but for a hundred bucks he wanted something more than a lap dance. Besides, he played it safe. He left all his credit cards at home. Just in case the urge fell upon him. He got into trouble once with that. Never again. Instead, he moseyed up to the bar.

The bartender swiveled a napkin in front of him. “How’s it goin’ George?”

A lot of really nice people worked here. Sonny was one of them. “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

“Usual?”

“Damn, you’re good. For somebody who don’t come in here a whole hell of a lot, you sure do have a good memory.”

Sonny twisted open a miniature bottle of some panther-piss vodka. He poured it into a tall glass. George didn’t pay for premium. Why waste money on advertising? Sonny passed George a vodka and tonic. No fruit.

“It’s my business, George.” Sonny turned and headed to the other end of the bar. It was a big bar, too, the size of a football field. George turned his attention to the stage. He sure didn’t want to stare at Sonny’s big ass. He saw enough of that at home.

Edna…

Linda was performing at the moment. All the girls working the place were stacked. George whistled. He gave a holler. He wanted to let the girls know he was here. That he was coming. He’d bet one of his monthly social security checks that every last one of  ‘em could go to New York City and dance on Broadway if they wanted to. If the right person were to come in and discover them. He took a slurp of his drink. The tonic tickled the straggly hairs in his nose. Sonny poured a good, strong one. That was important to George. It took the edge off.

“Hi, Georgie.” Sandra passed by. She brushed his crotch. She was wearing a pink thong that slid all the way up her naked ass.

“Whoa’ down there horsey.” He gave her a flick with his finger. Sometimes the girls got a bit too forward. George didn’t like that. He wanted to be the one in charge. In control. Let Georgie make the decisions for a change. At least for tonight. “All right, Sandra?” She paid him no mind. She went right on about her business, stopping every so often at a table to deposit a beer or sit on somebody’s lap.

George called out for Sonny and asked for some change. Leaving a fifty cent tip on the bar, George hightailed it toward the runway. “Thanks, Sonny.” He threw the change into an empty champagne bucket. It jingled a lonely death as George moved to his favorite spot, right up close to the stage. All the girls knew George, knew he was a good tipper. “Preferred customer,” they called him. They all possessed a sixth sense about those who carried the cash, the money, the green.

Linda was moving like water. Not one ripple of fat on her. So smooth the way she undulated in and out. Sweet motion. He took out a single bill and folded it neatly in half. Linda got a whiff. She played all seductive in front of him, pursing her lips, touching her pussy, rubbing her nipples. George’s pecker went petrified. Glad to know it still existed. No shit! Linda bent over backwards for that blasted one dollar bill. George passed her an extra buck for that move. She took the bill

and stuck it in her lacy garter, way up high on the inside of her leg. That beautiful tan thigh. Then, she pivoted on spiked heels and took off after another sniff of green.

George checked out the competition. Some jerk started smoking next to him. George hated smoke, the smell of it, the stench, the way it stunk up his clothes. He picked up his drink and ambled back to the bar. He could have one more cocktail. That was his limit. It was bad enough he had to brush his teeth, spray Chloraseptic into his mouth and eat a pack of Tic-Tacs before picking up the beloved Edna. It was worth it. George hid it under the front seat of the car. In all the years Edna and he had been married, Edna had not once caught on. Not once. Can you believe it?

By the time George reached the bar, Sonny had already poured him another. They exchanged a few more pleasantries. George passed over his empty glass, and this time, handed Sonny a dollar tip. Sonny smiled. Everybody here worked for the green. The booze was rushing fast to his head. He was feeling a little hot, so he loosened up his collar. He spotted Sandra making her way toward him. Now, he was ready.

“Ready, Freddie?”

Sandra knew his name was George. She slayed him the way she called him that, all cutesy and all. As always, he followed her. She walked down a tiny, dim hallway to the back of the Club. It got darker as they progressed. George took off his glasses. No night blindness here! He tagged along down some stairs, all the while watching Sandra’s ass shimmy. She had long red hair that fell down over her shoulders, all the way to her tiny butt. And for some damn reason, she always wore pink. Pink everything. Always. Never had George ever seen Sandra dressed in any other color. Pink, pink, pink.

Personally, George’s favorite color was blue.

Sandra opened a door. Inside was another entrance with a sign that read: DO NOT ENTER.

They entered into a cramped room with a single bed made up in cheap white sheets. A wooden bedside table sat next to it. It reminded George of Okinawa. When he was in the Army. The only light came from a red globe floating around in a lava lamp. It oozed up and down as George sat on the cot. The mattress squeaked with his weight. He knew the sounds of this bed. He’d memorized the sounds of Sandra.

She pulled a tiny embroidered square cushion out from under the mattress and positioned it between George’s legs. His woody was begging for a little “Sandra attention” about now. Unbuckling his belt she pulled at his zipper exposing George’s boxer shorts.

“I like your undies, Freddie,” she whimpered.

That was George’s cue. He leaned back. He watched the fan move in slow motion on the ceiling. He felt the warmth of Sandra’s mouth. He swallowed hard and stretched his arms back as far as they could go.

Oh, Dear Lord, forgive me my trespasses, as I forgive those…

“Relax, Georgie. You know I love giving you head.”

He fingered her soft hair. Thousands upon thousands of baby fine threads flowed down her naked back. Sweet, sweet movement. She shifted her mouth and allowed her hands to move in tandem, up and down. George got a little embarrassed. He’d like to think his pecker was hung as good as the next guy, but honestly, it wasn’t. Sandra made him feel like it was though. She sure must have one hell of an incredible imagination. That’s all George could think. Sometimes, George fell in love with Sandra. Really. And often, more times than he cared to admit, he fantasized Sandra actually fell in love with him.

“Good boy, Georgie.” She gurgled.

She felt George stiffen. Sandra knew the rules. She’d somehow created them.

Edna would never do this. Never. Never, never, never. Not in a million years! Edna didn’t do much of anything these days. She complained a lot about her weight. Daily. How she was gonna go on another diet. Hourly. How she needed to lose weight. She just never let up. How she wanted to get back into one of those old dresses hanging in the closet like dead memories. That wasn’t ever gonna happen. Ever.

What about me? George asked.

“I don’t worry about you, George.” That’s all she would say. What the heck was that supposed to mean?

George came. A wave of built up frustration released as Sandra swallowed. George didn’t quite believe it himself, but for as long as he’d been coming here (no pun intended), Sandra always finished the exact same way. Every damn time. Somehow, George felt safe with Sandra.

Afterwards, she would always say, “Yummy, Georgie. You’re better than a facial.”

Whatever that meant.

George would chuckle, pass her a twenty, usually with a five dollar tip. Sandra would slowly stand up, push the cushion back under the bed with her toe, and hurry to the door. Before leaving, she’d turn around and give that little girl smile, the one George loved so much.

“See ya next week, Sugar.”

Then, she’d quietly slip out the door.

George listened to the silence for a second. The groan of the bed. The whirl of the fan moving overhead. It brought him back, crashing to the floor like broken glass. Reality. Suddenly, there was Edna. Only Edna. Edna waiting outside the church. Edna standing next to the palm trees on Meeting Street. Edna eating an ice cream cone because he wasn’t there on time. Blaming everything on George. Edna saying to George in that “Edna” way, “Have a good time, George.”

George pulled up his pants, buckled his belt and left. Quietly.

He stumbled, sex-drunk and light headed through the narrow corridor, back up the stairs and into the smoke-filled, pink neon-lit room.

Yeah, I guess I did, Edna. I had a real nice time.

“See ya’ next week, George.” Sonny waved goodbye.

A lot of really nice people worked here. George smiled back. “You too, Sonny. You’ve got one hell of a memory.”

George had to be honest with himself. Each time he left “Silk Stockings” he felt a sense of loss, some loneliness. Like a big black cloud pissed on him or something. He didn’t quite understand why he felt that way, he just did. He thought it might have something to do with his life. The way things were right now. The way things had turned out for him. And Edna. For a few minutes inside, George got a chance to escape. Pretend. Be somebody else. Somebody different. Then George wondered, what’s so bad about your life? He could certainly have it a hell of a lot worse.

He opened the car door and retrieved his oral douche kit from under the seat. He went about the routine of cleaning and spraying and disinfecting his mouth. There. All better. He smiled at himself in the mirror. He put his glasses on, turned over the ignition and, before he knew it he was headed back to Meeting Street. Back to Charleston. Back to Edna.

As George was driving on Old Towne Road, all those sour thoughts swimming around in his head like pregnant tadpoles, he wasn’t really paying much attention to the fact it was pitch black out. The road in front of him was looking more like a long piece of spent charcoal than a lit up landing strip. A speeding car approached from behind without warning, right up on his ass, nearly blinding him. “Son of a bitch!” George honked his horn several times until the asshole swerved fast around him. George’s heart was racing. His thoughts were jumpy. He readjusted his glasses on his nose. He squinted into the windshield to get a notion of where the road was turning when he saw it.

On either side of him were large trees. Plantation oaks, Edna called them. He didn’t care what the hell they were called, the mere presence of them was making him nervous. Spanish moss dripped like cobwebs from their branches. It reminded George of witch’s fingers. Being out here, right now, was downright spooky. Gave him the creeps. All those darting shadows were beginning to play tricks with his head. He pulled off to the side of the road. There wasn’t much of a shoulder. The car sat parked on top of high grass and low growing weeds. A choir of crickets and frogs serenaded him out the window. Swamps were out there. He must have taken a wrong turn. “Dammit!” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing. Just complete and utter blackness. Was it his imagination or was he feeling more drunk than usual tonight? Maybe it was his medications. He would have a talk with his doctor. Maybe he should just turn his ass around and call Edna from that gas station a ways back. Edna kept tabs on their only cell phone. There was a gas station wasn’t there? Yeah, right. What would he say to her? What would he tell her? Edna, honey, listen, I’m running a bit late…

Shit!

Then George caught sight of it again. The first time he tried to ignore it. But he couldn’t this time. A white thing kept darting in and out from behind the tree line. What in Sam hill? He tried to focus, cussing at his night blindness, straining to see more clearly. He wasn’t usually frightened, but this was making the hairs on the back of his neck sing “Dixie.” For a second, George thought it might be one of those alien abductions. Edna and him had watched repeats of that show every once and a while. What was it called? Strange Planet. He glanced at the blue-black sky. Stars and constellations and even more stars and constellations. From grade school, he located the Big Dipper.

He put his attention back to the woods. Pure black. He must have been seeing things. He wiped the sweat from off his forehead with a handkerchief. Thank you, Lord. Out there in the murky distance, the only thing he saw now were miles and miles of trees. And his overactive imagination. Then, it reappeared. Again. Like Tinker Bell from Disney. Instead of it flitting around, this sprite, or whatever the hell it was, would just fall down, only to get right back up and fall right back down again.

“Jesus, mother of God!” George screamed into the windshield, his face pressed into the glass. “It’s a person. Holy fuck. Somebody’s in trouble.”

He scrambled to grab the emergency flashlight from under the seat. In the process he upset his toothbrush and Thursday night paraphernalia kit. “Shit. Piss. Damn.”

He opened the car door, knelt down on the gravel road and rummaged through the under guts of the seat. There. Finally. He grabbed the flashlight, checked to make sure it was working and took off. He leaped over the ditch, filled with muddy water and briar weeds. He left the car door wide open. With the inside light on, he’d be able to find his way back.

George had never been one of those sporting kind of guys, but tonight, he did some mighty fancy footwork. He ran like a motherfucker until his sides ached and his heart was pounding. A cool mist had settled over the field. His boots were wet and soggy and heavy. George felt invigorated. Like he did during tactical maneuvers. When he was young and fit and back in the Army. When he had a job. A purpose. A mission. Something other than driving Edna around to a different restaurant every damn night.

The light from his flashlight cut through the low-hanging trees like a hacksaw. It poked and prodded at the black curtain of forest. He didn’t care. He wasn’t scared. He continued running, moving in the direction of that fallen white thing.

It was down when he got there, like a deer or a wounded animal. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl until he flashed the light on it. Tiny little toes had red nail polish on them. She wore a bathrobe. Not terrycloth like a towel, but white, cottony and long. It covered most of her body. The bottom half, down by her feet, was purple-red in color. The moonlight overhead made it appear crimson. Like a rainbow. He turned and vomited. He excused himself, wiped off his mouth with his sleeve and bent over her. He touched her shoulder and waited for a response. Nothing. He turned her over. He wiped the mud from off her face. Lord, there was an emptiness there. A horrible, horrible emptiness. He shone his light into her eyes. Nothing. He remembered from the military to check to see if the pupils got bigger, or smaller. Dilated. But, they didn’t. Oh, God, give him strength. Her hair was hanging down over her face and shoulders, a tangled, sweaty mess. He could barely make out the face. He pushed her hair back. It was a girl all right, a young one too, no older than twelve, thirteen tops. What should he do? He felt for a pulse. He put his head down close to her chest and listened for breathing. She was, but just barely. Her pulse was weak, a fragile thread, sprinting at a hummingbird’s frantic pace. He needed to get this girl to a hospital, lickity split. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. She was light, not even a hundred pounds. He started running. He could feel the jolt of adrenaline kick his ass as he headed back toward the car. He could barely see the glow from the inside light. Thank God, he left it on.

Edna would be waiting. Edna was waiting. What was he to do about Edna? He fought his way across the field through the tall grass. Briars stuck to his pants, his ankles. They stabbed at his skin. He could smell blood. And stale urine. He wanted to throw up again. But he kept running, trying not to think about it. How would he feel if this was his baby girl?

When he arrived back to his car, he would drive like a banshee to the nearest hospital in Charleston. With or without his damn night blindness. He would deliver this little girl close to where Edna was. He would tell the doctors exactly what happened. Every last detail. Everything. How he found this poor girl in a field off Old Towne Road. He would explain it all. He would. He would tell them he was on his way back from…

Oh, hell…

Almost everything.

June 14, 2007

11:32 PM

Medical University of South Carolina

Charleston, South Carolina

3

Sleep had value.

Enormous, immense, larger-than-life value. And, as Chief Surgical Resident at one of the largest medical facilities in the south, to Dr. Sydia Garrison, sleep took on greater importance than money. Prestige. Even though she hated admitting it, food. Definitely sex. In fact, sex was something she hardly ever thought about any longer.

Ah, yes, the benefits of sleep.

She had often wondered why she specialized in surgery. How did a young, tender, idealistic mind like hers accept the terms and conditions of such a time-consuming, not to mention, grueling profession? And the answer that came back to her was always the same. Because “they” said, she couldn’t do it. It didn’t have anything to do with her being a black female, although she had to admit, in some instances, it had helped. When she applied to medical school, minorities were “in.” Affirmative action. She was the shimmering example of what an African American woman could do with direction, unwavering focus, and let’s not forget, cash. Hey, use what you got. Right?

Everybody told her it would be rough. She figured, “it couldn’t be that bad.” After all, she was a survivor. She’d beat the odds most of her life. And won. Besides, she tended to believe most people exaggerated anyway. Well, she would be the first one to enlighten anybody about the wonderful world of medicine. It was that bad.

So many crucial, critical life and death decisions depended on the coherency of a walking, talking, and breathing coffee urn dressed up in a white lab coat. Fortunately, she made assessments quickly and efficiently. Decaf need not apply. She gave credit where credit was due. The six packs of sugar she habitually poured into the bitter brew percolating morning, noon and night on each of the floor’s ward kitchens, helped out immensely. She honestly believed Starbucks should franchise in hospitals. They would make a bloody fortune on residents, interns and medical students alone. Marathon days like today, running late into the night and continuing well after morning rounds tomorrow, felt more like sleepwalking than practicing her profession. Only those never ending cups of java and the consistent hum of the elevator, which she’d designated as her own personal lullaby, helped save her.

There was an on call room for the residents in the basement. Next to Central Supply. Nothing special. A cot made daily with clean linens, some old worn out pillows, but more importantly, another coffee pot. This particular model, though, was no Mr. Coffee. The hospital kept it filled with water and it sat sadly, on a hot plate. Since staff rarely got the opportunity to use the room, hospital administration felt they were saving money. Pastel-colored Easter baskets sat beside it, jammed with an assortment of herbal teas, instant coffee packets and synthetic creamers. Underneath, a knee-high refrigerator held sodas, juices and outdated yogurts. Magazines, playing cards, and a television, complete with a CD player furnished up-to-date extravagant entertainment. The only problem -- she couldn’t remember the last time in five years she had stayed in the room and actually watched a movie. Come to think of it, she couldn’t even remember the last movie she saw.

What was it?

Her favorite accommodation was the private bathroom furnished with a single stall, a lock and a shower. Strong, hot water, soap, and a toothbrush had raised her soul to higher levels of coherency quicker than eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Yes… sleep!

Her preferred hiding place was on the second floor. In Radiology. Late at night, after being up for some twenty hours, give her that long, flat, black cold table. And darkness. In darkness, her mind went quiet.  She had, on occasion, settled into one of the narrow wooden pews that lined the hospital chapel. But each time she had used it, somebody in the middle of the night would sneak into the small, quiet sanctuary for a silent vigil and wake her up. Her head would droop, her shoulders drop and she’d be sprawled out like a human map in full view of the crucified Jesus hanging above the miniature pulpit. Embarrassed, she’d clean the drool from the side of her mouth and cross herself before exiting. And, she wasn’t even Catholic! Listening to the tranquil sound of water falling from the fountain outside in the hallway may be high on her list for meditation, but for sleeping? No, thank you. She’d take X-ray.

*   *   *

It was late. She checked her watch. Almost eleven forty and quiet. For a change. Deadly quiet.

A few hours earlier she’d assisted Dr. Stearns, the Senior Medical Resident on call in the ER, sew up a smartass, ten year old. Evidently, the brat had put his hand through a window, lacerating his left index finger. His mother gave that history. Luckily, the arterial blood supply wasn’t damaged enough for a skin graft. She was able to reattach the flap without surgery, but twenty four stitches later, the kid refused to cry. Not even a flinch. This boy was tough. She wouldn’t want to meet him in five years in a dark alley. While she was working on his finger, he kept staring at her with dazed, black eyes. In a creepy sort of way. She thought maybe he was on drugs or something. Or, maybe he’d never seen a female doctor before. But what bothered her the most, was after she’d completed the procedure, the kid’s mother; a trailer park trollop with a bad dye job and daisy ducks two sizes too small, grabbed the boys hand -- the one she’d just finished working on -- and pulled him out into the hallway. As he was leaving, he turned around and with that same strange look mouthed directly at her… nigger.

Nigger!

After everything she’d accomplished, competed against and succeeded in, won, some white trash trailer park brat could still hurt her by calling her the “n” word.

She had gotten better. Before, she would have walked right out into that hallway and slapped his young white face, with or without the mother present. Now, she took it as a part of her oath. Everybody got sick. Everybody was entitled to treatment. Tonight, she was on call and had to take what they gave her. It was all a part of her job, her training. So, instead of slapping the little shit, she called him back into the examination room and gave him a painful tetanus shot.

And, as she administered it, she gave him an enormous, ear to ear smile.

She retreated from the ER, content with her revenge, and took the elevator back up to the fourth surgical floor. She would do quick rounds, go through some charts and chat with Brenda, one of her least favorite night nurses. She would grab another cup of coffee and quietly slip away to the second floor and Radiology. Sleep. She took the back stairway to consolidate time; after all, she needed exercise too. No sooner had she taken her first long sip of coffee and made it to the stairs, her beeper went off, her name reverberated over the loudspeaker.

“Dr. Garrison…”

She glanced again at her watch.

Wasn’t it too late to be using the paging system?

“Dr. Garrison to the Emergency Room. Dr. Garrison to the Emergency Room. STAT!”

It was the “STAT” that concerned her. She knew Dr. Stearns was down there. Stearns was an excellent intern, an exemplary resident, and would make a terrific doctor. She’d taken notice of him when he went through his surgical rotation. So whatever was happening in the ER must be something over his head. There was a good team playing down there this evening. Beth, the head nurse, who’d assisted her with the kid, knew her shit. One of the best trauma nurses Sydia had ever worked with. If she ever woke up staring into the ceiling of a moving ambulance, Beth would be the nurse she’d want waiting for her. Not much on sentiment, in fact, Beth could be downright abrasive at times, but the lady knew what to do in a crisis. And, as everybody knew, the ER was full of minor crises and major emergencies.

“Damn, you Beth.” She ran down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. The intercom was calling a code. Somebody had stopped breathing. Somebody’s heart had just quit. Somebody was dying. The green tiles of the hallway went static. Electricity crackled as every available white coat headed in the direction of the ER. Whoever this player was had decided to expire. And, as a doctor, Sydia took that personally.

As she approached the ER, Hawkins, a third year medical student pushed through the double doors. Short and stocky, he reminded Sydia of Danny DeVito. His white lab coat grazed the floor. Even in a state of emergency, she couldn’t help but be offended by his slovenliness.

“You’re not going to believe this hit. I tried calling Davenport…”

“You’re kidding, right?” Sydia interrupted him. Every resident knew that Dr. Davenport, the Chief of Medicine at MUSC never picked up a call from the ER. Never. Especially when he knew the surgical resident on call was...Sydia. “What is it?”

“This one’s on her way to the OR. Or the box, whichever comes first.”

She hated it when medical students talked flip like that.

“She’s on support. I drew her labs. And a blood gas. Dr. Stearns wants her carbon load. I’ll be right back.” Stearns waddled away in the direction of the laboratory.

Sydia noticed Housekeeping. Usually, she would wave a perfunctory “hello” to the team of African American and Latino workers who methodically cleaned the floors, the tables, straightened up magazines and emptied the trashcans. Now, they stood together, leaning on their brooms, their carts. Silent.

She needed to accelerate. Pump up the volume. Get in there and take charge. And, yet another side of her wanted to stay outside. With Housekeeping. Be among them for once. Looking in. Let Dr. Stearns earn his stripes, take responsibility and bark out the orders. But, then again, he had paged her for a reason. Maybe this patient was on her way to the OR.

She entered into familiar grounds and pushed past the ubiquitous smell of rubbing alcohol, room deodorizer, blood, and bleach. Beth motioned from one of the trauma rooms. She was in the process of taking an electrocardiogram. Sydia passed by another examining room. It was hard to believe a young girl was getting her throat swabbed for a culture right next door to a life or death emergency. An ER nurse patiently dabbed at the girl’s tonsils. Beth grabbed Sydia’s coat and pulled her into the room. The resuscitation team was in full dizzying motion. Under her breath, Beth said, “I don’t know about this one, Doc.” She rubbed her nose with the backside of her hand.

Was this Beth?

Hard-driving, aggressive Beth, holding back tears.

“She must be all of twelve, if that.” Beth said.

Stearns was at the front of the examination table yelling commands at the patient. “Stay with us. Come on, honey, you can do it. Stay with us. Another milligram of Epi, please!” Even in pressure, Stearns maintained politeness. Control. She had to hand it to him, she wasn’t sure if she could.

The Respiratory therapist had inserted a tube down the girl’s throat. She was breathing, but only with the help of the respirator. Fluids were pushed through an IV line into her left arm at an increased rate. A blood pressure cuff was secured around a liter bag of Ringer’s lactate to help accelerate the liquids into her system. Technicians, nurses and interns, dressed in scrubs and white lab coats, hovered around her as if they were performing a séance. Sydia approached the table and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, everybody made room.

She had never seen Beth so visibly shaken. She expected the worse. “How much Epi did you administer?” Her position as Senior Resident was never finished. Always questioning. Always training.

“SDE.”

Stearns wanted to impress her. “What is it, Stearns?”

“She’s stabilizing. That’s what’s important.” Tension ignited in the room. “That’s not the reason I paged you.”

He was right. Sydia backed off. She checked the heart monitor, listened for ventricular arrhythmias. She grabbed the lead from the electrocardiogram and started reading it through her fingers. “Blood pressure?”

“Seventy over thirty, but coming back. Pulse is getting stronger, too.” Another junior intern piped in. He logged his findings into the patient’s chart. It appeared as if volumes had already been entered.

Sydia removed the stained white sheet covering the girl’s lower body. The pillow elevating her legs was drenched with blood.

Beth stood beside her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” She removed the oversized ice pack from between the girl’s legs. “Not in all my years.” She covered her eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Stearns, this girl needs blood, not just Ringer’s. Did you do a type and cross?”

“Of course, I did. It’s with the rest of her labs. Should be back any second now, along with a blood gas.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll get it by tomorrow. Get some O negative units, just to keep her going? Now!” Her cynicism never ceased to amaze her. “Hello? Is there a doctor in the house? And what about some Dopamine?”

“No.”

“Do it,” she ordered. “We have to get some blood circulating to her heart. She’s in shock.”

She re-examined the patient as Stearns broke an ampule of Dopamine, retracted it into a syringe and injected it piggyback into the patient’s IV line. Sydia began doing a meticulous head to toe evaluation of the girl. She checked for broken bones, dislocations, any deep or soft tissue injuries. “Has anybody contacted the cops? What we have here is definitely an assault victim.”

“Who had time?” One of the nurses shouted back.

Sydia gave a dismissive look. “Who found the girl? What about x-rays, particularly of the pelvic region?”

Stearns shot Sydia a similar stare. Everybody was on overtime. Overtaxed and overworked. Patience was a luxury. Tempers flared and fanned.

A decision needed to be made. So, Sydia made it. “Beth, call the OR. I want a room. And clean up this girl. Call Dr. Randall in, too. I want him doing anesthesia.”

Beth turned away from the table. “Are you sure you want to call..?”

“Just do it, Beth. Please.”

Sydia’s personality shifted from first gear into fifth. Dr. Stearns probably wasn’t too happy with Sydia’s attitude, but, in the end, this little girl would be. At the front desk, Sydia called the OR and talked to the technician on duty. He would have a room ready. No hassle. No wait. What a surprise! Then again, it was midnight.

As Sydia exited the Emergency Room, an older, intense looking man stood by the entranceway. He approached her, panic dancing in his eyes. “Is she goin’ to be okay? Is she alive?”

This must be the man who transported the girl to the hospital. Sydia did an assessment. Her immediate perception of a person’s physical state greatly inspired her insight into their mental status. Or, as her mother had shared with her, secretly, late in the evening, serenaded by the rush and swell of the wind whipping through the dying Eucalyptus trees outside their hut, “Sydia, you’ve got the gift.”

He appeared to be in his early sixties, slim build, six feet or so, and under severe stress. Increased blood pressure and heart rate, he seemed greatly agitated. As she was talking on the telephone to the technician in the Operating Room, she noticed him nervously pacing back and forth in the waiting room.  Every so often, he would look out the window, lost in thought. He wore a large green scrub coat over his civilian clothes and, upon closer examination, Sydia realized the colorful plaid shirt he wore underneath was soaked with blood.

June 15, 2007

12:22 AM

Friday

4

Tips.

Every reporter’s dream. Or nightmare. Take Bob Woodward, for example, from The Washington Post. He got whispered tips on the Watergate story from a guy named Deep Throat. In a parking garage. It happened. And personally, Janice Porter was not opposed to having it happen to her. In fact, she felt tips had real merit. Especially when she was the proud recipient of them. Which was rare. You just never knew what might break. Did Woodward know that Deep Throat had national news involving the President of the United States?

Jesus!

Then again, this was Charleston. And everybody knew nothing ever happened in Charleston!

The evening started out innocently enough. Janice was out with her girlfriend, actually not really her girlfriend. It was only their second date. But Janice liked her. She liked her a lot. They were having a few beers; actually, Janice was drinking beer. Lisette was drinking Merlot. That’s her name. Lisette. Beautiful, huh? They were at a bar/French restaurant located on South Market Street called The Mistral, minding their own business, enjoying the atmosphere, and listening to Shrimp City Slim’s Jazz Band. It was Lisette’s suggestion. Janice wasn’t much of an aficionado on jazz. To her, Slim and his band sounded more like some lounge act from Vegas, but Lisette knew one of the musicians, so, hey, she was learning early on in this game about the big “C” -- compromise.

So, there they were, mechanically picking at the bottom of the bowl for the last few cheddar cheese Goldfish and appreciating Slim’s last set. Thank God. Janice was down to her last drop of Sam Adams draft and taking in the earnest ambiance of the place. Old movie posters hung on salmon-colored walls. Loud floral banquettes screamed out in discomfort. Francoise, the short, plump, bar maid rearranged what seemed like a million miniature bottles of booze. She emptied a twelve pack of Absolut Citron, unloading them in neat single files on the wood shelf, all the while swaying her ass back and forth to the sounds of Slim City’s South.

It must have been around midnight. Janice forgot to wear her watch, but was working up her courage, thinking about asking Lisette to spend the night, when, of course, her cell phone went off. Shit! Everybody turned to look. Sorry. Janice thought she had turned it off. She retrieved it from her shirt pocket and put it on mute. She checked the number. Nothing familiar. She excused herself, walked to the back of the restaurant and reconnected. Several waiters dressed in long-sleeved white shirts, black pants, and a wild assortment of colorful ties darted past her. They were closing down the back dining room as Janice counted down the rings. About to disconnect, the line picked up. Quiet. Nothing on the other end.

“Hello?” Stillness. Not even static. “You called me? This is Janice Porter.”

Silence.

“Fuck you.” Janice ended the call and strode back to the bar. To her surprise, the bowl of Goldfish had been replenished. Yes! Why was she so hungry? They had just finished dinner. Nice place, too. The Magnolia on East Bay Street. Very expensive and delicious. Nerves, she guessed. She proceeded to order another Sam Adams. She checked out Lisette’s wine glass. Always considerate. Half full. She thanked Francoise, took a mouthful of cold ale and watched Lisette’s back move, swaying gently to the music. Nothing hard or jarring about Lisette, just long, winding curves. A fan in the back of the room made Lisette’s sleeveless, silk shirt flutter against her cocoa skin. Janice imagined a thousand yellow butterflies trapped inside and all of them enjoying the view.

Tonight was a school night for “Sweetie.” See, that’s how serious Janice was. She’d already given Lisette a nickname. Sweetie was a schoolteacher. She taught the sixth grade in North Charleston. So, after the set finished, they exchanged a few words with her musician friends and finished their drinks. Lisette had parked in the First Citizens Bank lot, right next door to the restaurant, so it took all of about two seconds before they were standing beside Lisette’s red Saturn. An awkward moment between them. The first of the evening. North Charleston was a hop, skip and a jump on I-26, but, if Lisette was anything like Janice, she hated driving. Alone. Particularly late at night. And, since Janice just happened to live conveniently around the corner, on Jeffrey Street... cute, quaint, and oh so quiet…

“Stay with me tonight…” Janice couldn’t believe she actually said it. Just like that, the words exploded from out of her mouth. Loose cannon.

Lisette turned and smiled. She took Janice’s hands and gently cupped her face. Soft skin with a lingering scent of moisturizer. Then, Lisette kissed Janice, tenderly on the lips before beeping her car door unlocked. Janice felt herself drown in an ocean full of cocoa oil and mush. Do senses usually become so heightened when craving somebody? “Thanks, honey,” she said, “I gotta get home. I’m getting my classroom ready for summer vacation. But, I’ll call you in the morning.”

The window automatically lowered as Janice leaned down and returned the favor. Lisette responded affectionately. Then she locked the door and fastened her seatbelt. Unlike Janice, Lisette followed all the rules.

“Call me when you get home. I’ll sleep better.” Janice liked saying shit like that. It made her feel like a good mother. Parental. Caring. She hoped Lisette felt the same way.

Lisette mouthed “okay,” blew another kiss and automatically upped the window. She placed a sweater over her bare shoulders, turned the ignition and backed out of her parking space. Janice watched as red taillights grew dimmer and disappeared around the corner.

She really liked Lisette. She thought she could be “the one.” Janice crossed the street, passed by the deserted market and walked down Meeting Street. Charleston rolled up the carpet early on weeknights. Every night for that matter. She turned left at the corner and strolled up the driveway to her apartment complex. Actually, it was more like an antebellum estate remodeled into apartments. Delightful. She had the bottom floor. They called it a garden apartment, because of the courtyard located outside of her front door, she figured. The weather felt unusually cool for June. And damp. A low mist hovered in the night air. She could smell the faint smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. Soon the lilac bush would be blushing purple. It was the reason she took the place. Janice loved lilac.

Jake, her beautiful Weimaraner awaited her return. His large gray paws jumped up on the door as she pulled house keys from her jeans. He continued even after she entered. Janice thought it was a puppy thing, but two years later, he still insisted on greeting her like the Tasmanian devil!

“Hey, Jakey. What’s up, you?” She called him “Jakey” affectionately. Nicknames again.

The way people had conversations with their pets was amazing. Including Janice. In fact, she was probably worse than most. While the door was still open, Jake made a hasty retreat into the courtyard and relieved himself on the curb. She grabbed his leash and walked him to East Bay Street, passing by impressive southern architecture that made up their great City. An appropriate backdrop for Jake to do his business. She cleaned up after him, she wished everybody did, and deposited his creation into an outside waste bin and hurried back home. She didn’t want to miss Lisette’s call. Her “Sweetie.”

She entered the apartment to her cell phone vibrating on the dining room table. Ahhhh, perfect timing. Of course, Janice fantasized it was Lisette, telling her she’d changed her mind, that she’d be right over with wine and cheese and Janice would be the lucky lesbian lotto winner of her generous, and incredible hospitality. And body. Don’t forget that. With that fantasy festering in her brain, naturally, Janice didn’t walk calmly to her cell phone, but ran, like a bat out of hell. Jake sprinted after her, sensing her sudden movement as some mad dog game and grabbed his pet dinosaur on the way. Well, what used to be a dinosaur anyway! Ferociously he shook it back and forth. Janice pretended not to notice. She could be such a bitch.

“Lisette?” She answered, out of breath.

“Janice Porter?”

It wasn’t Lisette. She wanted to hang up, but didn’t. In a dull, flat, unimpressive voice, she answered. “Yeah, this is Janice. Who’s this?”

“… from the Post and Courier?”

“No, from Bay Watch, asshole. Who is this?”

“A little tip, sweetheart. A story’s taking shape over at MUSC.” The voice was low and breathy. Androgynous.

“I’m having a hard time hearing you…”

“This could be the story of a lifetime.”

Story of a lifetime? In Charleston? Yeah, right.

Her call waiting beeped.

“Hold on for a second. I have another call.” She went to press hold.

“Don’t hang up on me.”

“Don’t take it personally, okay? I have another call.” She pushed the button. “Hello.” Lisette’s mellifluous voice intercepted.

“I’m home. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Will you be up for awhile?” Janice asked.

“At this hour?”

Janice registered a pang of insecurity in Lisette’s tone. “Tell me about it!” Always the sensitive. Preternaturally sensitive. Janice tried sounding more pissed than excited. Then again, Lisette had a right to know. The right to question. She would. If there was ever a time to question, now would be the time. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. “I took Jake for a walk. When I got home, my cell was ringing. I thought it was you…”

“It doesn’t matter. I hope everything’s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow from school.” Slight pause. “I miss you, already.”

“Damn, that sounds nice.” And, she meant it. “I can’t wait to see you. I had a great time tonight.”

“Me, too you.” She could hear Lisette hold back a yawn. “Sweet dreams.”

“Good night, sweetie.”

Janice reconnected to the other caller. She listened for breathing, background noise, anything. Instead, all she heard was silence.

Shit!

She thought about the voice. About what the voice had said. Story of a lifetime. Tip. Bob Woodward. It was all a jumble. A crossword puzzle waiting to be solved. And, Janice happened to love crossword puzzles, figuring things out, connecting letters to form words. She pondered her options for a moment. She would have to act fast. She could do several things. Call the Criminal Investigation Bureaus (CIB) at the precinct and ask if the Lieutenant knew of anything. Or, she could call Donny, her cousin’s husband, who just happened to be a cop at the Lockwood precinct. Better yet, he worked the midnight shift. She put her faith in family and dialed Donny. He would know if the information she’d received was on the up and up.

Donny and Janine had helped Janice out when she first moved to Charleston from Philadelphia. Janine was more like a sister than a cousin. They’d grown up together, shared dolls, Barbie’s, tea sets… first kisses, even. In fact, Janine was the first girl Janice had ever actually kissed. Janine had a difficult time adjusting to Janice being a lesbian, in the beginning, but gradually, she chilled. What else could she do? Janice adored her. And Donny was an absolute dreamboat, which brought to mind Mystery Date, that stupid game from Milton Bradley they used to play as kids. Janice would invariably get the nerd, while Janine always managed to walk off with the homecoming king. Then, she freaking married him. Not fair! Donny. He treated Janine like a treasure and she was happy for both of them. Besides, it was Donny who told her in that unmistakable Queen’s accent, “You ever got a problem, you call me, no matter what time, I don’t care, you hear? Just call. If it takes a fuckin’ army I’ll be there for ya.”

Men. Don’t you just love ‘em? All that chivalry and testosterone!

The telephone at the precinct rang about a thousand times. “Police Precinct, Sergeant David Krunster. May I be of some assistance to you?”

“Donny Mateo, please.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

Janice heehawed around for a second. The last thing she wanted was Mr. Charm School to know she was a reporter. “Janine, his wife.”

“One moment, please.”

The line went mute as she watched Jake sleep. He lay at her feet, his long, gray body curled up around her. Damn, he was beautiful. He must have been having a nightmare. His body twitched every so often. The shredded green dinosaur sat beside him, momentarily retired.

“What’s up?”

That familiar accent interrupted Janice’s terrible thoughts of teasing Jake awake. She was incorrigible.

“Donny, it Janice.”

“No kiddin’! What’s up?”

“Mr. Hospitality didn’t buy into it?”

“Nope. Not for a second. You okay?”

“Fine. I just got a phone call. Actually, an anonymous tip. “Story of a lifetime,” the voice said. You know I’m a sucker for shit like that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“MUSC? How about it? Heard anything?”

Silence.

“Donny?”

“Listen, Janice…”

“What? Tell me.”

She heard Donny cup the phone with the palm of his hand and talk to somebody for a second before returning. “There is something, but it’s kind of hard to talk right now.”

“People hanging around?”

“You got it.”

His voice became muffled, almost a whisper. “A girl was found tonight. Out on Old Towne Road…”

“Donny, I can’t hear you. Speak up.” She made a mental note to get her hearing checked. Use her medical insurance for something other than pap smears and mammograms.

“On Old Towne Road. They found a girl. A young girl…” He said it again, this time louder.

“Is she dead?”

“This can’t get out. I mean it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Donny…” She was yelling at this point. “… is she dead?”

“Janny, my ass will be grass if this gets out. You hear me?”

“Don’t worry about it.” She hated it when he called her “Janny.” Janice was her name, not Janny. Just because his name ended in a “Y,” he felt he could make everybody else’s fit.

“We’re trying to do the right thing, here, Janny. Notify the parents, and all. To be honest, it’s a fuckin’ mess.”

Answer my question. “Did she die?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What else?” She asked.

“There’s a sicko out there. I mean a real sicko! The girl was freakin’ mutilated down there, you know, her private parts.”

Janice tried to picture a mutilated girl. Little pieces of flesh scattered around on a hospital gurney like pickup sticks. Gross.

“I can’t talk about it. People are comin’ back into the room. Sorry, babe.”

“That’s alright.”

The line went dead. She stood, frozen, enthralled by the prospect of a story, a career breaking story no less, and, of course, the notion of possible danger always got her wet. Her two most favorite things. A story and danger. Okay, one more thing to add to the list. Her three most favorite things. Lisette. She would have to include her now too. Definitely.

Jake raised his head from the floor and tilted it to one side in that adorable way only Jake could do.

Janice ended the call and pondered her options. She was stubborn. She was terrific at following directions to a point, but don’t overload her circuits. She was tightly coiled and easily set off. Loose cannon. Unlike Lisette, Janice liked it when all hell broke loose. Chaos! As a child, she absolutely drove her mother crazy. At sixteen, her therapist informed her mother that if she didn’t get over the compulsion to destroy herself, she probably wouldn’t live to see thirty. Imagine a head doctor, a shrink for God’s sake, saying something like that. Well she had six weeks to go. Any bets?

Janice grabbed her jacket from off the chair and a steno pad. Her constant companion. She even had clothes on for a change. She hated admitting it, but there had been a few times she’d been so eager, so desperate for a story, she’d actually showed up at a crime scene still wearing her pajamas. Early bird gets the worm. No pride. No wonder she got crank calls. The cops probably had a sick bet going on. Get that female reporter, you know, the one with the big tits. We heard she fucking streaks to the scene. Almost made her want to laugh. Almost.

Lisette.

Sigh.

She was glad Lisette called. She was relieved to know Lisette was home safely. Securely tucked into her Queen sized bed. Not that Janice would know Lisette had a Queen sized bed. She had never actually been to Lisette’s house, or been alone with her in it. She tried imagining it though. All cozy and warm, made up in fall colors, burnt reds and browns, every shade to match Lisette’s hair, her skin. And that smell. She could overdose on that smell. She liked Lisette. More than she cared to admit.

As usual, Jake followed her to the front door, his stubby tail moving like a whirly bird. She leaned down and planted an enormous kiss on his snout. She took in his smell. Pure sweet dog. He loved it when she did that. He only hated it when she would leave.

“Jake, maybe we’d be better off if I just loved you. Only you. Keep things simple. Nice and safe. No disappointments, no hurts, no nasty goodbyes. What do ‘ya think?”

Jake wagged his tail. What did he know?

Janice caught herself off guard. She hated when she did that. She realized something significant this evening. An epiphany, maybe. At this age and stage of her life, danger and journalism made her feel infinitely safer than being loved by another human being. Wow! That was a terrifying thought.

“Sorry, Jake.” She said as she closed the door behind her. She made another mental note to call around town tomorrow. Get back into therapy. She was almost thirty for God’s sake. Maybe it was time she allowed herself some emotional healing. Some closeness. Jake whimpered as she locked the door. She hurried down the cobblestone path toward Jeffery Street; an enormous full moon loomed above her, a giant, radiant halo. A large circular slice of Swiss cheese.

Terrifying all right…

In fact, the thought actually broke her heart.

June 15, 2007

Friday

1:32 AM

5

Dying was inevitable.

A certainty. It was going to happen to all of us one of these days. One way or another. What caused Detective Dan Hammer concern were the different ways in which one could die. The arbitrariness of it all. A flip of a coin. A right turn, a wrong move. All part of our inescapable future. All of us prisoners of our own inevitable fate.

There he goes again. Thinking.

Dan was driving toward North Charleston on East Bay Street thinking about Wallace. Again. What else was new? He’d been thinking about Wallace a lot lately. Thinking about his recent death. About Wallace’s family. His wife, June. Their kids, Jason and Eli. Those two teenage boys sure would need their Daddy. More than ever now. It was tough being a teenager these days. Dan kept telling himself to “get your ass over there, Hammer.” Check up on ‘em. Make sure they’re doing okay. Wallace would have wanted that. Wallace would have been so disappointed in Dan for not being there. Somehow, Dan just couldn’t pull himself around to doing it. Not now, anyway. Not yet. It was hard for Dan. He would see Wallace in those kids. Wallace’s features etched all over their faces. Even the boy’s bodies reminded Dan of Wallace. Tall and lanky. Made for basketball. Dan felt lost without Wallace sitting beside him. Wallace was his partner. His friend.

They tossed a coin that night at the Quick Mart. Standard procedure. All part of their nightly routine. Day old doughnuts and black coffee. Wallace liked half and half with his. And lots of sugar. He drank his coffee so damn sweet. Dan didn’t know how he drank that shit, but he did. Didn’t even flinch. He once told Dan he liked his coffee to look and taste like his wife, June. Cappuccino. After a few years of hearing that, Dan began making a joke of it. Cappuccino, my ass! They laughed a lot about Wallace’s coffee habits.

Dan couldn’t even buy a cup of coffee now without thinking about Wallace.

That night, as always, they tossed the quarter. That night, Wallace lost the toss. Dan remembered flicking off the beams of the cruiser as they pulled into the Quick Mart parking lot. A few cars were lined up outside the entrance. They parked inconspicuously to the side. Wallace pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and took out a few bills. Dan joked he shouldn’t be taking a trip to Vegas any time soon, because Wallace had lost the bet the last few times. His luck had been wavering on empty. Wallace gave a sneer, exposing big white teeth. He opened the passenger door and sauntered toward the entrance. Halfway there, he turned around and strolled back. Dan lowered the window. “What?”

“How do you like your coffee?” Wallace asked, knowing full well Dan took his coffee black. As black as Wallace.

Dan answered like a smart-ass. “Free!”

Wallace snickered and turned back toward white neon. Dan watched on as he entered and walked down the aisle past the magazine rack to the back of the store where the coffee station was located. Glass brew pots were lined up, tiered on different levels, steam rolling out from the tops. He could imagine Wallace adding all that cream and sugar standing at the little condiment station. Dan knew that store like the back of his hand. He’d been there a thousand times. On the slim chance, he lost the toss.

Dan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He whistled a ditty. He watched a teenage girl in a flimsy tank top exit the store. She hurried down a side street, her tits all loose and floppy. He watched bugs collect in a swarm around the streetlamp. The night was humid. Very humid.

Then, something changed.

Dan wasn’t exactly sure when he realized it, but something was off. He cocked his head to get a better view through the windshield. He wanted to see Wallace. There was a need to check on him, but he didn’t know why. Make sure Wallace was okay. Where the hell was he?

A little too late, a car revved its engine. Not in the parking lot, but on the side street. Lights flashed, a gun fired and before Dan knew it, Wallace was being escorted out of the store, a gun to his head, an arm throttled around his throat. And Wallace wasn’t a small guy. In fact, Wallace was six feet tall and sturdy which made the asshole holding him look like a fucking giant. Dan reached for his pistol and flicked off the safety. The coolness melted in his hand. His eyebrow started twitching, a nervous tick.

No sudden moves, Dan.

If he opened the door, the inside light would turn on. Dan didn’t want to draw any attention. He watched for a few seconds from the bottom of the passenger window. He inched his way across the vinyl seat to get a better look. A closer shot. The person dragged Wallace halfway down the sidewalk before releasing him.

Now!

Dan made his move. He pounded the passenger door open, held it for cover and rolled out and onto the blacktop. Wallace yelled out, “Stop! Police. Drop your weapon!”

Then, the unexpected happened. Another gunshot. Dan looked up as Wallace took lead in his chest. He watched his fucking partner be shot. The bullet hit with such force, it hurtled Wallace backwards against a dirty white trash can. Empty soda cans rattled across the asphalt.

Did Wallace have his vest on? Did he?

Dan got to his feet and ran toward him. Screaming. No words. No sentences. Just sounds. Distorted, fucking sounds. A car peeled out to the right. Rubber burned as another gunshot split the silence. The bullet whizzed past Dan’s ear. Lucky, he guessed. Dan grabbed Wallace by the shirt and pulled him up to his chest. He started crying. Somebody ran from out of the Quick Mart. Dizzy commotion surrounded them. He yelled for somebody to call for an ambulance. Officer down. 10-53. But Dan knew. He knew they weren’t going to need the EMS.

That night, looking into Wallace’s blank eyes, Dan wanted to kill somebody. That humid summer evening, Dan felt enough rage to last an entire lifetime.

He lost his partner that night. His best friend.

Green light.

Dan accelerated, foot down on the pedal. He’d driven this way home so many times, the car practically steered itself. He passed by the familiar landmarks. The underpass that always reminded him of a concrete spider web, the sprawling tenement shacks that lined the Avenue, a boarded up Church’s Chicken with a huge FOR SALE sign dangling in the cracked window. Soon, he’d pass by the naval shipyard. A big empty hanger of darkness. When the Navy pulled out of Charleston, something changed. The energy of Charleston shifted.

Dan thought too damn much when he was driving.

After Wallace died, the Chief sat him down and gave him a lecture. He explained the symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome. The Chief thought it might be a good idea if he took some time, a leave of absence. Take a little vacation. “Some R&R.” Dan passed. He wasn’t much on vacations. Besides, in Dan’s line of work, you risked your life. Every day. Wallace just had a run in with bad luck.

Chief Abrams informed Dan that they were doing a full-out investigation on Wallace’s case. Dan was happy to hear it. He’d like to see those punks put away. For life.

Dan thought about leaving the force after Wallace died. He sure as hell didn’t want Alexandra growing up without a father. It scared him for a few beats. He never thought about mortality much before. When his luck might change. Ask Wallace.

A toss of a coin.

But, he stayed on. Stubborn, he guessed. What else was he going to do? End up like his Daddy. Jobless and broke at fifty. Borrowing twenty bucks from Dan each time he came to visit. Knowing damn well the money would be used to stock the refrigerator full of beer. Wall to wall longneck Budweiser’s. No, thank you. Dan wanted something better than that.

His Daddy finally did die. Alone, of a heart attack. Dan didn’t even go to the funeral. His Mama was upset. He had other commitments. He supposed he should have felt guilty, not paying his respects and all, a good southern boy like him. But, he didn’t. He didn’t feel he owed his Daddy much of anything. He’d said his goodbyes already. A long time ago.

His new family was the force. And Dan’s Daddy was the farthest thing from being a cop. He wasn’t much of a father, either. If a patrol car came within fifty yards, you had better believe his Daddy was headed in the opposite direction. Not that he was a crook or anything, he wasn’t, his Dad just played by a different set of rules. His own. And his Mama and he just sort of went along blindly for the ride. What else were they supposed to do?

It was one of the reason’s Dan joined the force in the first place. He liked the discipline. Rules were meant to be followed. Obeyed. Codes of justice had to be adhered to or consequences were paid. Why would Dan want this? Your guess was as good as his was. He never remembered having any overwhelming urge to be of service to people. As a kid, he never joined the Boy Scouts or the YMCA, or shit like that. He never worked at an old folks home or carted pigs to the state fair for 4-H. He hated group gatherings altogether. A bunch of boys camping out in the woods acting out bad adult behavior. That didn’t sound like a whole lot of fun, particularly when he realized adults weren’t much different… acting out bad childhood behavior. Ironic. So, Dan stayed alone most of the time. A loner. It was easier for him. And, being the only child, he got used to being by himself. Both of his parents were gone most of the day, just putting food on the table, or staying out of each other’s hair. There never seemed to be enough on the table. It was always empty. No seconds. With the police force, Dan belonged. He could finally believe in something.

He thought all that would change when he got married. Boy was Dan wrong! Gina was supposed to make it all worthwhile for him. She was his pretty, strawberry blonde angel he met after high school. Those big, blue green eyes. They’d keep changing each time she’d switch the color of her top. It was the strangest thing. Just the sight of Gina made his legs weak. He’d feel flushed and get all crazy excited. That wonderful sinking feeling. It was an incredible time in his life. Dan had never felt anything like it before Gina. Maybe when Alexandra was born. She was Dan’s little princess. At that time, Dan didn’t think it could get much better. He had the entire package.  The whole enchilada. He had a great job, a new sparkly wife and little Alexandra. He had it all. And he tried like hell to make it work. Be there for them, when he could, that is. The one thing Dan Hammer was, was honorable.

Time passed. The “when he could” started becoming a bit too frequent. That was when things between he and Gina started sliding downhill. He understood. It was the breaks of being a cop. And, later a detective. It soaked up a lot of his time. And, unfortunately, theirs. Dan was young, energetic, on his way up the ladder. He wanted to be a detective more than anything.

He kept his nose clean, did the right thing, paid his dues and eventually Dan was rewarded. A raise. A promotion. Plainclothes detective. The money was shit in the beginning, but he stuck it out. Dan didn’t care so much about the money, just as long as he could take care of Alexandra. If he could do that, his life was sweet.

As sweet as Wallace’s coffee.

Dan saw Alexandra on the weekends. Gina used to live close by. That made it a hell of lot easier. Then when the divorce was finalized, Gina decided to move with the baby to Isle of Palms. About four years ago. Time sure does go fast. Dan didn’t mind the move. It was pretty out there with the beach and the sun.

When Gina and he were first married, they shared a dream. They were going to save enough money to put a down payment on a small bungalow at the beach. Weird how things planned for never seemed to materialize.

Well, with the summer about here, Dan hoped he would get to see more of Alexandra. He loved that precious little angel.

This area of town wasn’t anything special. Like most urban communities, there was an invisible line separating the rich from the poor. Charleston wasn’t any different. Drive a few miles toward the historic Battery section of town and witness southern opulence at its flashiest. All those pastel-colored townhouses lined up along the waterfront. From the harbor, it looked like a rainbow. Some of the front porches of those houses were bigger than Dan’s apartment.

Almost home now. Alicia was out on the street. The local hooker. She waved as Dan turned the corner. “Hey, Alicia.” Except for her, the neighborhood was quiet. Not much activity. Alicia was probably feeling similar thoughts. The only thing going on with Dan was in his freaking head. Dan thought too damn much.

His cell phone went off. It never failed. Just when Dan was fantasizing a hot shower and an early night to bed, he gets a call. He pulled into a Krispy Crème parking lot.

“Hammer.” Why didn’t they use the scanner? Damn scanner had been silent all evening. Not even the usual bad static. Precinct used his cell phone when they didn’t want information leaking. Nosy reporters.

Dan listened. A situation over at the Medical University. They were expecting him. Police officers Rogers and Evans were keeping a man there for questioning. Dan ended the call and did a u-turn. He left a trail of blue smoke in the rearview mirror. One of the benefits of being a detective. Dan took the on ramp to I-26 at seventy miles an hour speeding toward Charleston. Toward wealth.  See how fast life can change?

Wasn’t he only moments ago on his way home for some well-deserved rest? Kick back and take in some CSI. Enjoy some of his own company… for a change. Yeah. Big laugh. Duty called. Just one of the rules. That and the fact that he actually loved his job. Really. He loved it!

Oh, there were some dislikes. Sometimes, Dan blamed himself for Wallace’s death. The “what if’s” tended to haunt him. The price he paid for packing a pistol. Being a detective. What if he’d been quicker? Known sooner? Taken the first shot? Would Wallace still be around? Dan wondered.

And then, the ultimate question…

What if Dan would have lost the toss?

1:36 AM

June 15, 2007

MUSC

6

“George, is that you?”

George was in deep shit! The minute he heard Edna’s voice, he knew he was knee high in a pile of manure. “Edna? Honey?”

“Don’t you honey me?”

The line went dead.

Edna hung up on him. Whadaya think about that? George reached into his pants pocket for another couple of quarters. As God was his witness, this was his punishment. All those Thursday nights, dropping Edna off at that stupid church, watchin’ her waddle up those six cement steps. God will have no mercy on him this time.

George tried depositing the quarters into the pay phone, but his hands were shaking so badly, he dropped one. Damn thing. It rolled into the main lobby of the Emergency Room. George scrambled for it. He hunkered down on all fours, like an anteater, close to the floor. He retrieved the coin and walked back to try again. This time he stabilized his trembling hand so he wouldn’t drop it. He punched in the number and listened for the ring. Surprisingly enough, Edna picked up.

George started talking. Quickly. Rambling would be a better way to describe it. “Edna, now before you hang up on me, you just hear me out…”

Edna sighed. “George, I am so tired of listening to you.”

“Edna,” George pleaded, “listen to me, honey. Please.”

“Where are you, George?”

“I’m down at the hospital. The Medical University. In Charleston.”

“If you had any idea what kinda’ nightmare you put me through tonight…” Pause. “Where?”

Her tone changed. George could visualize her, standing by the wall phone, hand on her hip, just waiting to pick a fight. Then, slowly, slowly… dropping her arm down to her side.

“Downtown. At the Medical University,” he answered.

“Are you okay?”

George had scared her. She felt guilty. The tables had turned for a brief nanosecond. Take advantage of it. “I’m fine.”

“Then what are you doing there? What’s going on, George?”

“I’m being questioned…”

“Questioned? By who? For what?”

“Edna, I found a girl on Old Towne Road…”

“A girl? What in the devil were you doin’ out on Old Towne Road?”

George stumbled on this one.  What was he supposed to say? Well, Edna, I went to this pussy place and this girl, well honey, she sucked my dick. Just thinking about it gave him a tug from his pecker. “Passing time, Edna. Just waiting to come, I mean, waitin’ to pick you up. There was this white thing flitting around in the woods out there. You know, by the movie theater. The one we saw Enchanted at?”

“Yes, George.” She sounded like Wilma from the Flintstones. He hated it when she took that tone of voice. It made him want to have a friend like Barney. They didn’t have many friends.

“I saved a girl’s life tonight, Edna.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know. They’re taking me over to Lockwood precinct for some questioning.”

“You’re not in any trouble are you, George?”

“Edna, I saved a girl’s life tonight. I’m probably gonna be in the paper tomorrow. I’m a hero. I’m just waiting here until the detective arrives.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do while you’re being Superman, George? I haven’t eaten yet.”

That’s all she ever thought about. Food. Always thinking about her damn stomach. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, hon. Promise.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Edna, I promise.”

Long pause. Maybe Edna actually missed him. “Well, be careful, George. If you need anything, you call. I’m here.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’m just a little shook up.”

“Did I tell you that I had to wait an hour for that bus tonight… an hour! Then, the bus was full…”

There she goes.

“I had to stand. And you know, George, how nasty people can be sometimes. I try turning the other cheek, but they just sit there and stare, as uncomfortable as I am standing on that bus. With my bad leg and all…”

“I gotta go, sweetheart. I’ll see you later. ‘Bye.”

This time, George hung up. Whew! The questioning at the precinct would be a breeze compared to that.

George hurried back into the Emergency Room and took a seat. He looked around the reception area for the detective. What was his name? Detective… Hammond? No. Hammer. That’s it. Like Mike Hammer from the Mickey Spillane novels. He read a few of them when he was younger.

George picked up an outdated People Magazine from the table. A couple of cops stood outside smoking cigarettes. George was glad he was inside. He hated the smell of smoke. C’mon Hammer, let’s get this show on the road.

June 15, 2007

1:48 AM

MUSC

7

Curiosity always got the best of her. Thank God, she wasn’t a cat. She’d have been dead years ago! No, really, Janice had a relentless, aggressive nature, which tended to get her into trouble. A lot. It was a compulsion. Be first, be the best, get the scoop. Before anybody else. To rule. Some people jogged, Janice ran. Why waste time? She wasn’t the type to sit around and wait. She had to get there. As fast as she could. Before there was nothing left to get. Good thing she had an excuse.

She was an only child.

The Medical University was about twenty minutes from her apartment, unless she was in a hurry. Which she was, so it took about half the time. She should have brought Jake. He loved exercise. The more the better. She was positive the hospital staff wouldn’t appreciate a ninety pound dog running around their Emergency Room. Even if the dog was as adorable as Jake.

MUSC was enormous. A sprawling brick complex positioned smack-dab in the heart of downtown Charleston. Janice was out of breath as she ran by the front entrance of Roper Hospital (private, well-to-do), past the side entrance and around to the back, where the ER was located. Evans’s voice greeted her as she rounded the corner.

“You remembered to wear clothes for a change?” Evans snapped his fingers, loudly. “Damn the bad luck.”

Evans was a police officer friend of Donny. They palled around together, went out for pizza, bowled on the same league, played in the police softball team. Janice tagged along with “the guys” from time to time. Men. She ran up the cement steps two at a time. She neglected holding onto the steel banister. “That call was from you, wasn’t it?” She whispered into his ear. “I might have guessed.”

Evans looked around, then nodded. “Yours truly.”

Evans had been diligently trying to make a move on Janice since the first day she arrived in Charleston. Call it Southern hormones. Or plain old stubbornness. Janice didn’t have the heart to tell him he was barking up the wrong tree. She guessed Janine and Donny didn’t either, because Evans just kept right on coming, exerting a whole lot of exhausting effort in her direction. Eveready, she called him. She hoped he might run into Lisette and her out one night. It would certainly make things a hell of a lot easier. Besides, she hated the job of crushing another male’s ego. Southern gentlemen were so, so sensitive. “Everybody’s Ashley.” Then again, if it helped get her a story, hells bells, Janice could flirt and play and cajole with the best of them. And did. So, she was a whore at some level. Wasn’t everybody? She watched Evans flick his cigarette into the street.

“Thought you were giving it up?” Janice said, adding insult to injury. “Can’t expect me to be kissing you with your mouth tasting and smelling like an ashtray!” She was so bad. Tease. Flirt. Repeat.

Evans turned to his partner. Janice had embarrassed him. “This is Officer Rogers,” he interjected, changing the subject. “He’s new to the force. Janice Porter from the Courier.”

Janice shook his hand. Hard. She liked making strong first impressions. “Pleasure.”

“Nice hand shake.”

She looked through the windows of the Emergency Room. “So, what’s going on here? Where’s my story of a lifetime?”

Evans put his hands in his front pockets. Why did men always do that when they got nervous? “Old Hammerhead just arrived. He’s inside questioning the guy that brought the girl in. That’s about it so far.”

Janice pulled out her steno pad and started jotting down notes. “What’s his name? You know him?” She looked up at Evans. He was attractive. Buzz cut. Blue eyes. Crooked front teeth that overlapped.

“Madden. George Madden.”

“M-a-d-d-e-n?” She spelled it back to him. She would never misspell another name as long as she lived. She also always remembered to cross her “t’s” and dot her “i’s.”

Evans nodded. “Madden. He found the girl. We’re taking him back to the precinct for questioning, if Hammer ever gets his ass back downstairs.”

“Where’d he go?”

Officer Rogers spoke up, out of nowhere, like a jack in the box, too long ignored. “The girl went into surgery. Been some time now. She’s supposedly on her way to Intensive Care.” He fished around in his front pocket for another Marlboro Red.

Evans interrupted, “… over two hours, I heard. Hey, pass me one.”

“Buy your own!” Instead, Rogers offered one to Janice.

“No thanks.” Janice never smoked, never did, and never would. Once an obsessive, always an obsessive. Her attention went back to Evans. “So Hammer’s upstairs waiting to talk to..?”

“The doctor. The admitting doctor. She did the surgery.”

“She?”

“Yeah.” Evans lit up the cig and took a deep drag, exhaling smoke rings into the damp, night air. Janice shook her head. Evans smiled. “I’ll brush my teeth.”

“Madden a suspect?”

“Ask him yourself. You’re the reporter.”

Janice walked past Evans and elbowed him in the stomach. “You’re a shit, you know it?” Evans flinched as Janice pushed the metal entry button. “Let me know if you spot Hammer. Knock on the window or something.”

“Will do, boss.”

The automatic door swooshed open. Inside, Janice blew Evans a kiss. A big one. Thanks for the tip, she mouthed. He understood. He appreciated her discretion. The last thing an officer needed was pressure from the brass for alerting the press. What did they think they were? Piranhas? Hell, Janice was trying to make a living just like everybody else. Okay, if she were to be totally honest… it was also to get her name out there too.

Officers gave tips for personal reasons, like Evans. Or, they did it to get back at the Chief for some cockamamie injustice or another. There were probably a thousand different reasons. She didn’t really give a rat’s ass, as long as she was on the receiving end.

In the beginning, Janice couldn’t get arrested. No leads. Nothing. She was poison, except of course to Donny. And those leads were few and far between. It was almost expected that Donny would squeal, so anytime a story hit the press with Janice’s byline attached, the finger automatically pointed in Donny’s direction. It caused some grief at home and at work, and with Janine expecting a baby at the time, Janice stopped asking. A pushy broad she was, but she wasn’t out to make anybody’s life miserable. Or, get somebody fired, which is what they threatened to do to Donny. Bastards.

The Emergency Room buzzed with its own distinct order as Janice approached Madden. He was sitting down on one of those generic, orange plastic chairs. Janice called out his name and he jumped a bit. He wasn’t expecting to have a conversation with her, she guessed. A woman. After all, he was waiting for Hammer. The man.

“George Madden?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“May I have a few words with you? Is that okay?”

“Who are you?”

“Janice Porter. I’m from the Post and Courier.” Janice showed him her press card. Legit. Professional.

George looked at the ID and at her picture. He glanced for a second at Janice then back down to the floor again. “Post and Courier?”

“I’m wondering if you might be able to give me some information about the girl you found this evening.”

George took another long take at the photo before speaking. “What do you want to know?”

“What time did you find the girl? Where did you find her? How old is she, guessing that is? You know, the usual questions. You watch the same TV shows I do, don’t you?” Go for humor. Lighten him up a bit.

“This has never happened to me before.”

“I hope not.” She flipped to a fresh page in her steno book.

“I’m kinda nervous. My wife, Edna, she’s not here. She’s at home.”

Janice sat down beside him. Of course, he was nervous. Little dots of perspiration were beading up on his forehead. His thumbs were rotating in and out of each other like an overzealous water mill. She was getting dizzy just watching them.

Go for sweetness.

“I understand,” she said in her most syrupy of voices. She reached out and touched his wrist. Dry, pale skin with sporadic patches of thinning dark hair. She should be ashamed of herself, but she continued. She checked the time. She had to squeeze out this information before the Hammer got back. She looked outside. Evans and Rogers were still there. Still smoking. Still shooting the shit. They would let Janice know if Hammer was coming. Hammer was no saint. And, he hated reporters. On several occasions, he’d been known to throw the press out. Literally. Pick them up and boot them out the door. It was known. Don’t mess with Detective Dan Hammer. Particularly since his partner’s death. Everybody knew. Everybody abided. Charleston was a smallish community. Reputations spread quickly. Like swamp water.

“Have you talked with Detective Hammer yet?”

George cleared his throat. “Well, when the Detective first got here, he started askin’ me some questions, but then that nurse over there…” he pointed a crooked arthritic finger toward the ER where a nurse was talking on a telephone. “… called him over to the desk. After she stopped talkin’, well, he ran back there, to the elevator, I guess.”

“Did he say he’d be back?”

“Nope. But those cops outside there, well they arrived first, before the detective, and I overheard him telling them to wait until he finished upstairs. I guess they want to take me to the precinct.”

Story of a lifetime…

The phrase kept repeating in her head like a bad Barry Manilow melody. Janice smiled. Fucking fantastic. She was the first one on the case. The first to arrive at the scene. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Evans. She glanced out at him. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. Hell, she might have sex with him after all. Call it a charity fuck! All right, young lady, compose yourself. Don’t go overboard. Get the details first. See if you have a story before getting all excited.

“George..?”

“Yes?” George prepared himself. He folded his hands in his lap like a choirboy and sat straight up in his chair.

Good boy, George, Georgie…

She began like a schoolteacher. A nice one. Like Lisette. The kind you brought an apple to. “I’m going to ask you some very important questions, George, and I want you to answer them as honestly as you can. Okay?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He took a short pause, scanned the room, stretched his neck from side to side and then looked back at Janice. His expression was one of a child. An inquisitive child. A sweet, innocent child about to ask for a piece of candy. Then quietly, he spoke. “Will I be in the paper tomorrow? My wife, Edna, she wants to know.”

Janice watched the small hand of the generic wall clock yawn toward two. “Maybe George…” She smiled sheepishly, embarrassed by her indulgent self-involvement.

Story of a lifetime…

“… if all goes well, we both will.”

2:00 AM

June 15, 2007

Friday

MUSC

8

She had several nicknames in the Operating Room. “Precision,” being her favorite, which was self-explanatory. “Ambo,” she’d deduced, was her innate raw talent, the ambidextrous gift she possessed, while closing. Her hands working together, an elite, effortless team, symmetrically pulling, twisting, tying and cutting the clear sutures as if choreographed, as if Divinely guided. “The Michelangelo of the OR.” Apropos. Although, now that she actually thought about it, it could very well be the surgical staff calling her “Rambo.”

Bitch, of course.

Young scrub nurses and OR technicians assisting her had been known to whisper under their breath the proverbial bitch. Better that, than nigger. What that little shit called her earlier in the evening. She had a difficult time even thinking the word, let alone saying it. Peculiar how one small word could penetrate the thick skin she’d developed. More like Naugahyde, by now. At this age and stage, she didn’t have the time or the need to worry about infantile name-calling. The truth was, she was an excellent surgeon. One of the best at the University. And any of her colleagues or peers would concur.

The little girl she just worked on would agree. She was lucky to have her as her surgeon.

She needed her.

Initial examination of Jane Doe (unfortunately, the hospital had no patient identification on the girl and began emergency procedures before any consent form could be signed) revealed a well-nourished, thirteen to fifteen year old white female, admitted via the Emergency Room Trauma Center at around eleven o’clock PM, June 14, 2007.

Patient presented exterior evidence of multiple trauma wounds, three deep, moon-shaped lacerations to the right cheek area, all made from a sharp object, perhaps a razorblade or a knife. Several surface hematomas were displayed across her forehead. External ligature marks were noted on both right and left ankles, and both left and right wrists. At the time of admission, neurosurgery was not called in for a consultation since patient responded, although slightly, to painful stimulus. A CT scan later confirmed a large subdural hematoma at the base of her skull, most probably due to a massive hit against the occipital cranial wall. No skull fracture was evident on x-ray. No rib or extremity fractures were noted upon initial examination. No irregular stomach patterns. Limited bowel sounds.

Patient coded in the ER due to left ventricle shutdown, most probably hypovolemic. Patient was intubated and infused with Ringer’s Lactate solution, 1 mg. Epinephrine per/hr. IV piggyback to hydrate. Dopamine, 2 mg. administered to increase blood volume to heart. Type and cross ordered, including a full drug screen. Complete battery of blood work was obtained and sent to the laboratory. Urinary catheter was inserted. Urinalysis and urine cultures were taken. Patient was transported immediately to the OR and infused with two pints of O negative blood while awaiting type and cross results. Patient underwent surgery (see surgery chart for vitals), and stabilized slowly in recovery. Last recorded systolic blood pressure was at 70, and patient was taken off life support. She is now breathing on her own.

Excessive blood loss originated from the patient’s vaginal area. Labia majora, labia minora and clitoris had been completely excised in a mutilated fashion, more commonly referred to as a “complete circumcision.” Patient’s vaginal wall had been sewn together with what appeared to be black animal hair, perhaps from a horse. Small bone fragments, perhaps those from a chicken, had been used to pierce through what was left of the surrounding adipose tissue and laced up.

Patient’s right areola had been lopped off in similar barbaric fashion. Plastic surgery consultation was completed in the AM. Left breast appeared intact, except for multiple pinpricks around the areola.

Once the removal of the bone fragments and animal hair were completed, the vaginal wall was opened. No evidence of penetration or internal trauma. A small glass vial was recovered from deep within the cavity. Inside the container, on a bloodstained piece of tightly folded cloth was written…“for her sins.”

*  *  *

“Dr. Garrison. Excuse me, Dr. Garrison.”

She heard the voice. It came to her through water. She found herself in thought, dispatched to some remote exotic island, lying back lazily on a white sandy beach listening to the azure waves break against a sun-drenched shoreline.

“Dr. Garrison,” the voice became clearer. “Her parents are here. The girl has been identified. They would like to speak with you.”

The steady drone of Jane Doe’s heartbeat beeping on the cardiac monitor and Rebecca’s nasally voice catapulted her back into the Recovery Room. Her parents? Identified? She has a name.

“What?”

“Also, Detective Hammer is here to see you. He’s down in the Emergency Room.”

Suddenly, she was very popular.

She finished her entry in Jane Doe’s chart. She walked a fine line with emotion tonight. She raced against it routinely. It was the part of her job she hated. Thankfully, she was very competitive. Rarely was there much of a contest. But this evening, with that young girl, the race almost won out. And, she almost allowed it to win. Just thinking about the prospect of what that girl had to live with for the rest of her life, well, it literally took her breath away. It wasn’t often she wanted to leave the OR to vomit, the sight of something so horrible, so hideous that she might actually succumb to the pressure. Usually, she could remove herself. Another gift she possessed. Most doctors had it, and utilized it from time to time, she presumed. They had to. The profession would be sheer torture without it, without something. She believed knowledge, if applied correctly, had the innate ability to allow distance, a safe shore away from emotional jeopardy. The God Syndrome, she called it. She happened to think it was a part of the Hippocratic Oath. Read the fine print. It’s there, between the words, the hidden lines.

She walked around to the side of the bed and felt the girl’s forehead with her palm. She was a firm believer in hands-on healing. It came from her ancestry, handed down through generations. She was prevented from feeling the girl’s skin due to a maze of sterile gauze wrapped around her head like a mummy during surgery. The girl was gone. Totally sedated. She was absent, somewhere far away. Maybe close to where she had just returned. An exotic island? Are azure waves beating against your shoreline, little one? She hoped so. Better for her she was out. God give her strength once she awakened.

In the nurse’s station, Dr. Garrison filled out post op orders. She wanted to continue the sedation with plenty of pain medication, PRN as needed. Give the girl as much comfort as possible. She would start with a wide spectrum antibiotic. God only knew what cutting utensil had been used. From the tear of the skin, it appeared as if it could have been the lid from a tin can. Truly horrific. She was lucky, though. She was a healthy girl, with a strong immune system. Then again, who’s to say she’s lucky?

Soon, she would transfer Angie across the hall to the SICU. In her own, private room, if available. She wanted the girl to have some privacy.

“Dr. Garrison?”

“Yes.” Her tone was flat. She was exhausted.

“Are you willing to talk with the parent’s now?” Rebecca, one of the Recovery Room nurses stood in front of Dr. Garrison, pert and well put together. Even in her scrub greens, she appeared pressed. Her blonde hair was tightly curled and lacquered with layers of hair spray. A pink barrette secured a clump of petrified bangs. Rebecca was holding a chart. The nail polish on her manicured fingers matched the barrette to a “t.” What a surprise!

“I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?” She wasn’t impressed by Rebecca’s appearance. She’d been known to occasionally bite at her fingernails, particularly after three pots of coffee and no sleep. A nasty habit she was trying to quit. Nail biting, that is.

Rebecca gave a reassuring smile.

Dr. Garrison wanted to slap her.

She pushed Jane Doe’s chart into Rebecca’s chest and passed by her, pressed the metal doors of the Recovery Room open and entered into the florescent waiting area.

She should have brought sunglasses.

A couple in their mid-forties immediately stood up and approached her, desperation chiseled on their faces. She was far too tired to try accessing them.

“Doctor, oh my God, is she all right? How is my Angie?” The woman’s voice was pleading, seeking solace the doctor couldn’t provide. She noticed an older version of Angie rapidly moving toward her. Same facial features, particularly the nose. Petite and perfect. The mother’s hair was showing gray, but styled in much the same manner as her daughter’s. The mother didn’t want to let go of her youth. Her power.

Dr. Garrison couldn’t help herself. Accessing.

The husband stood back. He tagged along behind, his tail between his legs. In matters such as these, the women want the news first. Men tended to think things over, ruminate, come up with a plan of action, or at least try. Even if it was futile.

Women sought relief, men tried to fix things.

The wife hurried across the room, black flats shuffling across the linoleum. Dr. Garrison realized she was not the only one who’d lost the race with emotions. She could tell both of them had been through their own hellacious obstacle course. She was also aware that there was nothing she could tell them that was going to make them feel any better, other than the fact their little girl, Angie, was alive.

June 15, 2007

2:04 AM

Friday

MUSC

9

It was a rare event, Dan Hammer visiting hospitals. For one thing, not many of his clients ended up here. Most weren’t so lucky. Usually, they went straight to the morgue. Pass GO. Do not collect two hundred dollars. No need for a FREE, get out of jail card. Sometimes, he wondered who was better off.

In his mind, there was never anything good associated with hospitals. The corridors were cold and impersonal. What they lacked in warmth, they certainly didn’t make up for it in comfort. To add additional insult to injury, the elevators were large and sterile and freezing. Huge refrigerators on pulleys. Just navigating to the fourth floor was an all-night adventure.  Dan was on his way to the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. That was where the “Good Doctor” was supposed to be.

You would expect the elevator ride to be on express service at this late hour. Not on your life! Each floor the car stopped on, another hospital employee either got on or got off. Like worker ants, they entered into their private world of sterile tunnels. Dan looked at his watch. He was praying he didn’t miss her. He grabbed the crumpled piece of paper the nurse from the Emergency Room had given him. Perfect script, the letters identical to the ones lining the chalkboard back in elementary school. Dan gave her an ‘A’ for penmanship. He silently mouthed out the name. Gar-ri-son. Easy. Dr. Garrison. Look for a female, the nurse had said.

Fourth floor.

The metal doors slid apart with a ding. Dan entered onto more tiled floors. A rival ant colony was thriving. Buzzers and beeps in the distance, the faint sound of water running. Could there be a waterfall nearby? Was he hallucinating at this late hour? A sign on the opposite side of the elevator met him at eye level. To his right, the hospital chapel, to his left, SICU. Bingo.

Sectioned off behind glass windows was a waiting area. Inside, an assortment of chairs and sofas lined the walls. Cheap, dime store lamps dimly lighted the room. A selection of current magazines were scattered across a wooden coffee table. A few people slept, undisturbed by the light, hospital- issued blankets thrown over their shoulders for warmth. Dan ventured into the confined space. Outside, Charleston harbor blended in with the night sky. Houseboats twinkled on the horizon like stubborn fireflies. He took a seat. He felt like he should take a number. He tried being quiet. He didn’t want to disturb anybody.

At the far end of the hallway, near the entrance to the SICU, a middle-aged couple stood next to a tall woman dressed in scrub greens. The nurse in the ER had informed Dan the girl would be spending the night in Intensive Care before moving her across the hall to the general surgery ward in the morning.

From behind the glass divider, Dan tried eavesdropping, hoping to absorb a drop of information the technician was telling the couple. He couldn’t. So, he sat patiently and waited.

Even though Alexandra wasn’t born in this hospital, Dan could remember the day of her birth. Gina had endured a difficult labor, Alexandra being her first baby and all. Unfortunately, Dan wasn’t around to watch or offer much support. Gina made it to the hospital by herself. In a taxi. In time, thank God. As usual, Dan was on duty somewhere, fighting the forces of evil, his cell phone on mute. Dan arrived at his baby girl’s birth late. Of course, it was another strike against him. One more “out” in the continuing games between Gina and him. At the time, it felt more like the Olympics. Somebody should have been keeping score. Secretly, Gina was. In all honesty, Dan really couldn’t blame her. He’d be pissed off too. But, what was he supposed to do? What could he do? He remembered driving to the hospital like a lunatic, rushing into the nursery to hold Alexandra for the first time. She was wrapped head to toe in soft white and pink blankets. The feeling he got, holding his sweet newborn daughter… pure JOY. A father. Still, even now, that feeling gets to him. Right in the heart. The face of Alexandra materialized on the glass partition, as big as life, like somebody was actually projecting a video of her.

Dan focused on his vision. Outside, he noticed the technician hurrying down the corridor toward the elevator. Dan hurled himself out of his daydream and followed, observing her preoccupation, her forehead furrowed with obvious stress and fatigue.

“Excuse me,” Dan checked the spelling on the paper. “Is Dr. Garrison still in there, or did she leave already?”

She turned and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her green scrubs. “I’m Doctor Garrison.”

“You?” Dan was dumbfounded. He knew she was a woman, but not a woman.

“I’m very tired. I don’t have time for this.” She turned toward the elevator.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to meet…”

“What?” Over her shoulder. “A woman?”

“No, I knew you were a woman. Beth, down in the ER… she told me…”

“How professional of her.”

“I just didn’t expect you to be, well, if you don’t mind me saying...”

“You know what? Cut the shit, all right. Whoever you are. What do you want?”

“A word. With you.” Dr. Garrison stared hard for a long time. Dan didn’t know if he was making headway or not.

“You’re a damn reporter, aren’t you?” She looked around as if seeking assistance. “I should have known. Goddammit, how the hell did you get up here?”

“Detective Dan Hammer from the Charleston Police Department. Homicide Division.” Dan showed her his badge. She wasn’t impressed. He passed her his calling card. She ignored it.

“This had been one hell of a night, Detective. And, as much as I would like to help you, I can’t. Not tonight…”

Dan enjoyed her feistiness, her edge. “You must be tired, I get it. But in order for me to make some sense out of all…”

She cut him off. “What exactly don’t you understand?” Her voice had a trace of an accent. British maybe. It floated over her words like soft snowfall.

“I hear an accent. Are you British?”

“Why are you wasting my time? Good night, Detective.” The good doctor turned her back and pressed the button for the elevator. Several times. Impatient. Annoyed. Exhausted.

How could Dan not notice her height, her slender frame, the way her hair was piled up on top of her head? All messy.

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Something. A soda, maybe?” Dan wanted to make peace. An offering.

“No, thank you.” She crossed her arms and began tapping her toe. She looked up at the ceiling becoming more irritated by the second. She watched the yellow elevator light count down the floors. She pressed the button again.

Dan bravely moved forward. “Whatever happened to that little girl, I don’t want happening again, all right? And in order for that not to happen, I need your help.”

The double metal doors opened. An empty elevator. It sat there, suspended, waiting and then closed. Without her. The doctor turned toward Dan and focused her intense green eyes on him. Now he understood why she was a physician. When she looked at him, he felt like the most important person in the world. “All right, Detective. What is it that you would like to know? I have her parents in the next room and they don’t even know the severity of her injuries.”

“At some point, I will need to speak with them.”

“You guys are all alike.”

Dan didn’t quite understand what she meant, but he knew it wasn’t a compliment. Dan faked it when he could. “It’s important to talk with the parents. Find out what they know, if anything.”

“What they know, or what they believe? At this point, it doesn’t make much difference. This afternoon, everything was fine. They watched their teenage daughter leave home and go out on a date with her boyfriend, and by midnight, someone, somewhere…”

Dan pulled a note pad and a pen from his back pocket and started taking notes. “Can you be a little bit more specific?”

“Specific? How’s this?” She whispered softly so as not to offend anybody. “Fuck off, Detective! Is that specific enough for you?” Her hand reached out for the elevator button again. Dan blocked it. Her skin was soft. Her nails were short and chewed. The picture somehow didn’t jell. Dan noticed clear polish. What was left, anyway. He had a knack for observation.

She flinched at his touch. “Get your hands off me before I call Security. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I apologize for my abrupt behavior, Doctor, but you have to understand…”

“I don’t have to understand anything.”

“This situation is much different then what I’m used to. In the little I do know about this case…”

“This isn’t a case, Detective. That little girl in there is more than a case. She is a living and breathing human being who happens to be all of thirteen years old. A case?”

“Terminology.”

“Death is a nasty part of my job, too, if that’s what you’re implying. I live with the likelihood that on any given day I’ll get to witness it. Firsthand. So, believe me when I tell you this Detective Hammer, I know all too well the thin line between emotionally separating myself from patients and getting involved. And this case, as you call it, is the exception. This girl needs every ounce of my emotional involvement. All of ours, for that matter. Including her parents.”

“Does the girl have a name?”

“Angie Kessler.”

“I don’t mean to sound cold or impersonal, but from what you’ve told me, and given the severity of the attack, if you want me to be brutally honest, I don’t think this young lady…”

“Angie.”

“Excuse me. I don’t think Angie was intended to stay alive. That may sound cynical to you, but I believe whoever did this, didn’t want Angie sticking around to tell the gory details. And, with that particular scenario in mind, Dr. Garrison, I wouldn’t be dealing with you at all this evening. Nothing personal. I’d probably be dealing with the Medical Examiner or the County Coroner. And probably have a whole lot more information to go on than what I do right now.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m happy Angie survived. It’s gonna save me a whole lot of paperwork later on this morning, but Angie’s torturer got sloppy. He didn’t finish the job, at which point, I don’t have diddly squat to go on. Understand now?”

Dr. Garrison glanced at her watch. “Sorry. I’ve been up now for…” she tried calculating the hours silently in her head, then stopped, the effort far too taxing, “… too long. I’m tired. I need sleep, not coffee, and lots of it. Can we discuss this tomorrow? I promise not to be such a bitch.”

“One quick question and then I’ll go.”

Huge sigh. “All right. What?”

“Was there anything left with the victim when she was brought in? Something left on her, maybe? Anything out of the ordinary? If this “thing” is about to strike again, he might want to let us know. As much as these kinds of killers crave isolation, they also want attention. It could be the only thing, if anything, we have right now.”

Pause.

“There was something.”

“Yes?”

The Doctor looked around, wanting privacy. “Angie had been sexually mutilated in a savage, barbaric fashion. Her entire labia, including her clitoris had been excised and then infibulated…”

Dan tried scribbling down the word, working through the syllables. “In-fib-u… Which means?”

“In layman’s terms, she was completely circumcised. There wasn’t much skin left, and what was, was sewn together with pieces of broken bones and animal hair. Horse hair, I’m guessing.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dan’s stomach flipped. The doctor noticed his discomfort.

She continued, lowering her line of vision to the floor. “It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. And I’ve witnessed a lot.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Once I removed the bones and the hair, I checked inside the cavity for damage. I could only imagine what was in store for me. Thankfully, everything was intact.”

“No signs of forced entry, no anal sex, violent penetration of any sort? I apologize for being so blunt, but was anything pushed up into her uterus or anus?”

“No. As I said, Detective, everything was intact.”

“Every detail is important, Doctor. Maybe Angie just happened to be at the right place at the wrong time, or, maybe she was a victim of some random sadistic act. Or, it could be something very different. Maybe she was stalked, maliciously chosen… maybe somebody right now is being watched.”

The doctor said nothing.

Dan continued. “Did you notice any kind of fluid on the body? Seminal fluid, maybe? Were samples taken?”

“I noticed a balm applied to the outside of the wound area after she’d been sewn up. It was like a salve, buttery, but thicker. And sticky. I didn’t notice any fluids. She was lying in mud. She was covered in dirt when she arrived in the ER. It was difficult making anything out. Besides, I wasn’t interested in taking samples. I was interested in saving her life. She coded in the trauma room from loss of blood. Angie was dying. This wasn’t rape.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Inside her uterus I found a small glass container.”

“Like what? A medication vial?”

“Similar, but smaller. Naturally, I was surprised.”

“And?”

“There was a piece of fabric tightly wadded up and tucked inside. The cloth was bloodstained, it was difficult to make out the wording, but I think it read… ‘for her sins.’”

“How sick can you fucking get?” Dan’s voice became animated. “This doesn’t sound like some random act when somebody is leaving love notes.” Dan realized too late that he was raising his voice. “Where is it?”

“You can stop yelling, Detective. I’m standing right next to you.” The doctor’s face turned hard, the soft circular lines Dan noticed earlier now grew sharp and edgy. “I put it in a specimen container while she was in the OR. A sterile one, if it makes any difference.”

“I’ll need to send it to the Lab. Can you get it for me?”

“Yes. Of course. Tomorrow.”

“Pardon me for a second. I need to call the ER. Is there somewhere private?”

Dr. Garrison escorted Dan back into the unit.  Dan stole a glance into Angie’s private cubicle. Her parents were sitting in chairs beside the bed. His heart went out to them. What would he do if it were his little girl? Alexandra. The phone rang in the ER several times before somebody picked up.

“Let me speak with Beth.” Dan observed Dr. Garrison’s beauty. Even with no sleep, she was a vision of grace and strength. She entered Angie’s stall. She laid her hand on Angie’s forehead. He could tell she was a wonderful doctor. Caring and supportive. And fiercely protective. Angie’s parents were asking questions when Beth came on the line.

“Beth, this is Detective Hammer. I’m upstairs with Dr. Garrison. Can you get me Officer Evans on the line?” There was a pause. “He should be sitting with George Madden, the guy who brought in the girl. Maybe another officer.”

Through the receiver, he could hear Beth call out Evans’s name. The phone went mute. Several minutes passed before he heard the line go live and footsteps approach.

“Yeah, what’s up?” It was Evans all right.

“You still have Madden down there?”

“Yep.”

“I want you to drive him out to where he found the girl.”

“Now?”

“Start a search. I’ll radio the precinct for backup. I want every available cop out there combing that area.”

“Why all the hurry, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“I’ve got a hunch Angie’s not the only one.”

“Should we wait for you?”

“No. I want to chat with her parents. Wherever you are, I’ll find you. It shouldn’t be too difficult.” Dan ended the call, surprised to see the doctor standing beside him.

“You are not talking to her parents. Not tonight. Doctor’s orders.” Her voice turned soft. “Haven’t they been through enough? Have some bloody compassion, Detective.”

Dan pushed forward. “Compassion doesn’t save lives. When can I speak with Angie?”

“She’s heavily sedated. She needs time to rest. To heal. I’m not cheerleading for a quick awakening.”

Dan checked out his reflection in his shoes. He needed a shave. Badly. He rubbed his fingers over his stubble. “You’re right.”

“Give it a rest. She’s been through hell.”

“Just so you understand, Doctor. Angie’s our only link.”

“Angie’s going to be fine. She’s safe here. Give it some time, for God’s sake.”

“Will you be here tomorrow?” Dan didn’t fully understand why he asked her that question. Permanence, maybe. He wanted to know somebody could be found at the same place, at the same time, every day with a moderate amount of consistency.

The doctor checked her watch. Again. In her line of work, she probably checked it frequently. “Don’t you mean, today, Detective?”

Dan looked at his cheap Timex. The silver metal was chipped and in need of repair. “Right.”

“To answer your final question, Detective, no. I will not be here. One of the good things about being on call. After morning rounds tomorrow, the rest of the day belongs to me.”

“Tough job.”

“Somebody’s got to do it.” She offered a half smile. He’d been waiting all evening for it. “I could say the same thing about you.”

“I guess.” Dan escorted the good doctor down the hallway, past the waiting room to the elevator. He pushed the down button. The dial lit up from gray to yellow. Within seconds, the metal door opened. “After you,” Dan said, doing a grand gesture with his hand, his business card conveniently displayed for easy retrieval. For some reason, he was trying to win this woman over. He motioned for Dr. Garrison to enter the silver cave first.

Surprisingly, she took him up on both of his offers.

June 14, 2007

2:06 AM

Friday

10

After questioning George Madden, Janice called Louis Santiago, the Night Editor at the Post and Courier. Louis’s voice carried an air of superiority. That “been there, done that” sort of attitude. Janice could care less. In her book, Louis was all right. He reminded her of an antique piece of furniture -- a hard back with a soft, cushy middle. An Oreo cookie. Besides, Janice knew Louis honestly liked her. Respected her. Louis thought Janice had “moxie.”

Louis had appropriately nicknamed Janice “Mouth,” which to most people would be offensive, but to Janice it was endearing. And true. Janice did have quite the mouth on her!

Janice also realized she wouldn’t be the only one reporting on this story. This was front page news. It would take precedence over everything. She had to have all her ducks in a row, so to speak, in order to convince Louis to let her be the first one out of the gate. What she didn’t know, at the time, was the gruesome magnitude of what was about to unfold in the next few hours. Their sleepy town of Charleston, South Carolina was about to be put on the map in a major way and Janice “Mouth” Porter was about to be the Reporter responsible for making it all go down.

She called Santiago from the hospital, slipping outside and using her cell. She gave a brief overview of what Madden had told her, enough to spark some interest. Experience had also taught her, it didn’t hurt to ask questions to peripheral people standing around the scene as well. The cleaning crew, in this situation, was more than willing to spill the proverbial beans. The only snag was the ER staff. Nobody in there was talking. Not a peep. They went about their business as if nothing had ever happened.

Santiago’s voice was like gravel when he finally did pick up. Janice could picture him, hunched up over his cluttered desk, his balding head reflected in the florescent lights overhead.

A lot of editors might not have given Janice the price of admission, but Louis, God bless him, was all ears.

Of course, Janice’s voice was as loud at two o’clock in the morning as it was in a bowling alley ordering another beer. “Louis, it’s Mouth!”

“Porco dio.”

“I got front page on this one. Help me out.” Janice was twisting a strand of hair to the point of hurting, intuiting Louis’s ebbing interest.

“I’m listening.” He fumbled on the desk for a pencil.

“You want some coffee?”

“Hold on for one hot second. You know never to call me without details. How many times…”

Janice stopped listening. She never listened. In fact, she cut him off. “… Krispy Kreme coffee?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I haven’t heard a peep. Nothing. What are ‘ya coming in for? Nothing’s come over the scanner.”

Intrepid reporters. Always screening the police scanner for the possibility of a lead.

“They’re keeping it quiet. Real quiet. But let me tell you, when you hear this one, it’s gonna send shivers right up your spine!”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what my wife keeps saying. I’m waiting.”

Marriage. A mental note. Shoot her if she ever considered changing stripes.

Janice continued. She didn’t want to leak too much, but she had to feed him enough to keep his limited attention span piqued. “A girl was found out on Old Towne Road. Left for dead, but somehow she managed to crawl out onto the road, or something. I just finished talking with this person, Madden. He was the one who found the girl and took her in.”

“She dead? How old?”

With that toss of a tidbit, she had him. Hook, line and sinker. “This story is going to rattle a few chains, Louis, not to mention, sell papers.” And everybody understood what that did for an author’s byline.

She could visualize Louis, massaging his temples, holding onto his pencil in that awkward slant only lefties do.

“Where are you?”

“At the hospital. The girl’s alive, Louis. She lived. I want this one. I’m up for it.”

“Let me at least try and get hold of Finch.”

“Finch? Who the fuck is Finch? Fuck Finch.” She thought of a bird, fluttering in some wooden cage. “Louis, come on. This one’s mine. I found it. I want it. It’s got my name all over it, Dammit!”

“Sorry, Mouth. Finch is the police reporter on duty tonight.”

“Police reporter on duty?” She snorted at the absurdity. “Since when does Charleston, South Carolina have a police reporter on duty?”

“Don’t worry about it, he probably won’t pick up.”

“Can’t blame him. When’s the last time you used him? The attack on Fort Sumter?”

“Very funny. You got a name yet on the girl?”

“Angie Kessler.”

“How’d you get that? They usually keep that information sealed tight, like a nun’s twat.”

“Hospital Admitting.”

Louis shook his head. Who else but Janice “Mouth” Porter would feign relative and get the kids name? “Don’t forget, lots of half and half with my coffee.”

“You need to start watching your cholesterol.”

Janice ended the call, left MUSC and ran the twenty blocks to Dunkin Donuts. It was the least she could do. She was too lazy to go get her car and drive to the Krispy Kreme. While waiting for the slower-than-molasses counter person to fill up the Styrofoam containers, her mind was organizing material. It was important to have a strategy. What’s first? Title. She needed a great headline hook on this one.

Story of a lifetime…

She also knew, in order to make morning deadline, she would have to hurry. She kept checking her watch. If anybody were to see her, they would probably think she had some sort of spastic tick.

The counter person had obviously sampled one too many Boston Cream donuts and was, unfortunately, testing Janice’s last nerve. Janice’s body language was screaming out, “Just give me the Goddamn half and half on the side.” She grabbed the coffees, threw a five dollar bill on the counter and ran. For her life.

I’m on a deadline. A story is breaking.

Louis was waiting as Janice barreled through the wooden doors.

“It’s only you, Mouth. You’re on your own, at least until six, so make it good.”

“Yes!” She gave Louis a high five and a huge kiss on his grainy cheek, passed him his coffee, ran to the Metro desk and turned on the computer. She pulled her pad from her jacket pocket and started writing, random thoughts at first, notes, just to get her going. Then, gradually the focus would materialize. Put it all out on the table first and see what showed up. The computer beeped and belched as it went through the obstacle course of software.

At this point, nothing had actually happened. Angie Kessler was alive.

Then, as if on cue, she heard Evans’s voice come over the scanner. Unmistakably Evans, loud and clear. Always available when she needed him, the handsome oaf, holding onto the radio handset and flicking another cigarette butt. One of Roger’s, she was sure.

“Advising all available units. All available units. We got a Code 30 out here on Old Towne Road.”

Evans kept repeating the site, “Old Towne Road.” It sounded peculiar to Janice, annoying almost. Unless, of course, he was signaling something. Something unspoken. Code 30? Read between the lines, Janice. What’s he saying?

“What’s a Code 30, Louis?” Evans was reiterating something he didn’t want any ordinary reporter to pick up. Unless a certain reporter was already familiar with the Angie Kessler case. As far as Janice knew, she and the original officers were the only ones privileged with that information, unless…

Louis flipped through a reference book that listed the codes officers use. “Let me see… Officer needs help. Emergency.”

“Holy shit!” Janice flew up from her chair so fast she knocked over her coffee.

Louis leaped up with her. “What?”

“Get a photographer out there. Now!”

“What?”

“A photographer.”

“Where?”

“Old Towne Road. And make it snappy.” Janice was already sticking her pad and pen back into her jacket and heading for the exit.

“What about the story?” Louis asked.

“On my Mother’s grave…”

“On your Mother’s grave?”

Janice watched Louis hold his hands up in the air. Exasperated. She wished she had a camera. She caught Louis in a vulnerable moment. One she could use some day. As blackmail.

“Dammit, Louis, don’t you get it? They found another body.”

“C’mon.”

“With all due respect, Sir, move your ass!” The last thing Janice witnessed before leaving the office was Louis picking up the telephone.

June 15, 2007

2:22 AM

Friday

11

Dan Hammer was an honorable man. But, he wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes, like everybody. Dan thought it had to do with timing. Or possibly… opportunity.

Did Dan know how taken he would be with Dr. Garrison?

Did he understand the seriousness of Angie Kessler and her violent attack? Absolutely. It would have been downright stupid to say he didn’t. After all, he was the one who played by the rules, never cheated and hardly every cussed. A squirrel was on the loose and it was his job to find him.

So, what happened?

Between arriving at Old Towne Road and the ground floor exit of the hospital, when he touched Dr. Garrison’s hand, initiating a friendly handshake. What was all that about?

A light rain coated the windshield of his Plymouth as he crossed the James Island Bridge. Actually, it was more like a fine mist. Fog was rolling in over the lowlands. It caused him to use his windshield wipers and drive slower than usual. He was enjoying his sudden bout of quiet time. Solitude. No radio. No static. No FM.

The hypnotic motion of the wipers kept him company. The scanner blinked from channel to channel, red pinpricks of light exploding like tiny flares inside its black metal frame. The night dispatcher was transmitting intermittent calls, each more jumbled than the next. As Dan reached over to turn down the volume, he wondered why he never played a musical instrument as a kid. Interesting the things one thinks about when alone.

Sometimes, Dan surprised himself.

Heading west on Highway 61 en route to Old Towne Road, Dan once again reflected on his meeting with Dr. Garrison. It poked into his consciousness, like the headlights peeking through the wet murkiness from the opposite side of the median. What time was it anyway? Dan looked at his watch with its green glow-in-the-dark hands. After two. He yawned. It was that “in-between time.” “Dead time.” Like flying. That patch of space between takeoff and landing when there were no interruptions, no conversations, no cell phones. Free air. Dan craved it. It allowed him an opportunity to ruminate. Think things over. Create theories. If he enjoyed writing more, he would keep a journal. His brain was very methodical. A machine, almost. He collected information and immediately began organizing. Prioritizing. Call it “mental triage.” Columns appeared. Numbers. Tools showed up, like on a computer. He could bold, highlight, and underline…it all sounded crazy.

Dan rubbed a small circular patch on his side window. He glanced out into the darkness. Tonight, his attention was far away, far from where it should be. A monster was loose. So why weren’t his thoughts with Angie? Or Angie’s perpetrator? Her mutilated body?

His mood was mirroring the weather. And, of all things, he was reflecting on his brief encounter with Dr. Garrison. Again. And in such high definition detail. The way she wet her lips in the middle of a sentence. The sheer force of her, the stamina she exuded when explaining herself. The crease in her forehead each time her undivided attention was on Dan. Direct and focused, she listened, her interest keen. Disciplined. Facial features that didn’t require makeup, defined only by sharp lines and soft curves. She carried off both extremes very well.

Her presence stole too much of his time, too much of his attention.

Focus Dan. Keep your thoughts centered.

On Angie. Little Angie. Angie needed all of his concentration right now.

A rise occurred in his pants. Unplanned and disconnected from any sexual thought. Or so he thought. It just sort of happened. By itself. Masturbation was usually not an option. Okay, occasionally Dan would jack off, choke the chicken, whack-the-Willy, for medicinal purposes, only.

If you don’t use it, you lose it sort of thing...

Don’t go there, Dan.

Think about Alexandra.

Whatever Dr. Garrison had surgically installed into his head tonight was definitely working. Overtime. His “Willy” was functioning just fine.

Shit.

He fantasized Dr. Garrison walking into the Waiting Room. Her steely green eyes were staring at him, the exact same way she had earlier. Behind them, in the hallway, the hospital buzzed with its own distinct activity. Muzak played Addicted to Love from a matchbox speaker. Her attention remained solely on him, and only him.

“Get on the floor,” she commanded. “On your knees.” She pointed to a space of carpet in front of her. Dan couldn’t help himself. He crawled into her space and into her fantasy, more than happy to oblige. He looked up. She was tall and overpowering. A woman of extraordinary supremacy and strength. She alone had the power to heal. She alone had the potency to save Dan. “Take off my shoes,” she said in a deep, calm voice. As Dan uncovered her smooth, lovely feet, his excitement grew. He wanted to lick her. Suck on each individual toe. The color, the smell, his very own fudgesicle.

She instructed him to untie her scrubs at the waist. They fell to the ground in a rumpled mess. She stepped out of them and stood before him. Nude. A Goddess. He reached down to unzip his pants, tugging to free his dick through Hanes briefs. There was heat. And fever as he released himself and held his circumference. A trickle of precum oozed to meet his hand midway down his shaft. She watched with idle curiosity the power she had over him. This masculine display was mildly amusing to her, to say the least.

Her intention was to never touch him. He knew that. But, she held the key to his healing anyway.

He took his left hand from off the steering wheel, long enough to open the window. He needed air. His throat was parched. Dry. Water. She refused to bring any. She stood there and watched. Her attention directed solely on his cock.

Dan could feel the air rushing in, cooling off the beads of sweat forming around the base of his neck. He held on tighter as his fantasy unfolded.

A car approached from the rear, blinking bright lights and honking. Dan’s awakening to total consciousness was sudden and brutal. He was going fifteen miles per hour in a fifty mile per hour speed zone. No wonder the driver was pissed off!

He swerved to the shoulder of the road. Gravel spit at the sides of the car. He slowed down, and then came to a complete stop. He was panting like a played out dog, working very hard to catch up with himself. With his Master. Ahead of him, red taillights faded in the murky haze.

He landed.

In fact, he exploded. All over his pants and himself. Tension released. He zoned out for a brief, blurry second. His first thought was to lie down on the front seat and take a nap. Stretch out like a big, fat Tomcat. He knew he couldn’t. He checked the rearview mirror. Nothing. The same, up ahead. He sat there. A complete mess in his lap. He remembered a certain vacation he took with Gina, before the baby. Before the trouble. It seemed like a past life now. They were traveling from Los Angeles to Carmel, and Gina was intent on giving him a blowjob in the car. While he was driving, no less. So, of course he was more than happy to oblige, being younger at the time and performance-oriented. Gina didn’t complete the task and he never came. Maybe that should have been an omen. A metaphor for what was to come. Then again, who thinks of omen’s when driving on Pacific Coast Highway, a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean to your left and picturesque Carmel in your not too distant future?

Fantasy complete, semen laced Dan’s pants. He began contemplating his next plan of action. He felt frozen, unable to move for fear of contaminating dry spaces. He wasn’t as focused as usual. The life of a lonely detective.

In the trunk were beach towels for when he visited Alexandra. He laughed at the irony. He jumped from the car and popped open the trunk. Any car passing him would think he was some arthritic creature from the swamp. The black lagoon. He rubbed some water from off the roof onto his hands and dried himself off. Repositioning himself back into his pants, he laughed aloud.

He hoped nobody would want to shake his hand.

He entered the car and slowly gained equilibrium and speed.

Sectioned off and lit up with red and blue flashing lights was a piece of highway. Orange flares marked the side of the road. A real Fourth of July celebration. Parked helter skelter alongside the road were five or six squad cars. An ambulance was idling, nose pitched head first into the ditch. The area had been roped off with the usual yellow and black police tape. Dan pulled over and grabbed his ID from his jacket pocket, just in case he didn’t know somebody. Charleston was small. State wouldn’t be on site yet, would they? He slammed the door and noticed the used beach towel tossed on the front side of the passenger floor. Evans approached Dan. His voice was unusually aggressive.

“Je-sus Christ, Dan. Where the hell have you been?”

Dan cleared his throat. “Just left the hospital. Why? Whatcha got?”

In the background, another car pulled over onto the shoulder and screeched to a halt. A blonde woman exited. She neglected turning off her headlights and barreled toward the perimeter.

“Who’s she?”

Evans turned to look, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Reporter?” Dan asked.

“Don’t know. Don’t think so.”

“She doesn’t look familiar.” Dan sized Evans up. He appeared visibly shaken, an uncharacteristic attribute for somebody his size and build. “Shit, Dan. About half a mile in. There’s a clearing. Body’s been there for some time, man. It’s a fucking mess.”

“Guess that’s why there’s a convention going on out here?” Dan pushed through the yellow tape. Madden was sitting in the back seat of one of the squad cars. He glanced up at Dan resignedly. “This the place Madden found the other girl?”

“Yeah. We called dispatch. We had to get the Coroner out here. This one wasn’t so lucky. The Coroner pronounced her. Didn’t have to go too far in to determine it either.” Evans clamped his nose shut. Dan got the hint. “We tried radioing you.”

Dan leaped over the shallow ditch filled with saltwater marsh and prickly weeds. He misjudged the last step and sank in up to his ankle. “I’m on a roll this evening,” he said, as he pulled his collar up tight against his neck. The light drizzle felt cold against his skin. Evans just nodded and followed. They passed by a borderline of trees, mostly large, timeless oaks. Spanish moss hung down from enormous limbs, kissing the ground and swaying like gossamer. Flashlights filtered in and out of the dense thicket of trees, a cavalry of voices reverberated up ahead.

“What’d the Doc say?” Evans tagged a few steps behind. He tried catching up with Dan’s brisk stride. The long stretch of silence was difficult for Evans to deal with. Some people hated silence. Evans was one of them. Dan kept walking, his thoughts were mounting, jumping through hoops, straining to make sense out of the scenario. Organizing. Prioritizing. Kicking himself in the ass. Why didn’t he speak to the parents? Does Dr. Garrison have a boyfriend? This girl..? Is it a girl? Make a call to the precinct. Get recent reports of missing children. Rudely, for no reason, Dan said, “Shut the fuck up, Evans.” What he really wanted to say, was shut the fuck up to himself.  Stop the banter, the endless loop of thoughts loitering in his head, repeating themselves, over and over again, one tireless mill, and going absolutely… nowhere.

They entered the clearing. Evans went to light up a cigarette. Dan turned and snatched it from out of his mouth. He stuffed it into his pants pocket. “Where the hell were you planning on putting that thing out?”

Evans shrugged.

“I’m sure there’s an ashtray out here, just for you, dickwad.” Silence. “In case you forgot, Evans, this is a crime scene. And, unless I’m mistaken there is NO SMOKING at a crime scene.”

“Forgot.”

“Forgot?” Synapses exploded, a faint headache was beginning to rumble.

“Sorry.”

Dan shook his head. Sometimes he felt like he was in the middle of a Three Stooges episode, only there was just the two of them. Dan moved closer to the body. The nearer he got, the worse the smell. “Another girl? A “yes” or a “no” will be fine.”

“Yes.” Evans scoped out the area. “Gonna be kinda hard finding any evidence out here.”

“When I need your two cents, I’ll ask for it, okay?” Dan was hoping somebody had already taken charge, scouted out the surrounding area and began taking notes. It wouldn’t surprise him if nobody had. “Where’s the Coroner?”

“Around here somewhere. I just saw him.” Evans scratched his head. It was a wonder he could manage to do two things at the same time.

Dan began writing down his own notes. A patch of dirt, twelve feet by twelve feet made up the clearing. To the left of him was the body. Two triangles of three wooden stakes were burrowed deep into the ground. Three feet separated each triangle. One stake was at the top and two were at the bottom. He scanned for footprints, tire marks, anything. He drew a picture of the crime scene, checked out significant landmarks to triangulate. He wanted an exact location of the body. The victim, from what he could surmise in the darkness, was female. Even Evans had identified that. Her legs were spread-eagled, her ankles firmly attached by ligatures to each of the two wooden stakes. Her pelvic area was exposed. The only garment she wore was a robe, rolled up above, what was left of her waist. It was difficult making out the color, but Dan imagined that at one time it had been white. Tied together and secured at the top were the girl’s bony wrists. Through the tangle of matted hair, Dan could see blonde strands. A gruesome sight.

He walked up to the body, hands behind his back. Red-orange flares positioned around the scene created transient ghoulish light. Decomposition had made its ugly appearance. Not much luck in securing forensic samples, but enough, perhaps to get a positive identification. Fortunately, the wind was blowing. The rain helped. The smell of decaying flesh was one of the worst ever. Even after thirteen years on the force, Dan was still not used to it. He hoped to God he never would.

Flashbulbs popped as police photographers entered the secluded area. Dan finished his drawing and looked back in the direction of his car. The fine mist had turned to rain. His face was wet. “Anybody call the Medical Examiner?” Quiet, except for the shuffling of feet slogging through the thick mud. “Figures. After they’re done here, have somebody stay and secure the area overnight. Then get this body to the morgue. Radio the Medical Examiner on duty. I want an autopsy tonight. I’ll meet up with the body there.”

Dan walked around the corpse. Positioned beside it were an identical set of wooden stakes, driven deeply and securely into the ground. He bent down and took a closer look. Attached to the wooden stake were ropes. “Make sure you collect these too. You hear me, Evans. I want them sent to the lab.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Somehow, Angie had escaped.

Angie had to have known the killer.

June 15, 2007

5:05 AM

Friday

Morgue

12

Dr. Marjorie Dunlap was the Medical Examiner on duty. Not only was she a well-respected physician, but also a board-certified Pathologist, which made life a bit easier for Dan. She also had an excellent reputation for working well with police officers.

Dan’s presence at the Morgue and watching the autopsy was advantageous for several reasons. One, he didn’t have to wait several weeks for the autopsy report. Two, he was able to ask pertinent questions that might not ordinarily be found on the “formal” report, and three, he found Dr. Dunlap, or Marjorie, as Dan called her, incredibly attractive.

Marjorie greeted Dan at the side entrance of the Morgue. He got the frigid feeling she was “tickled pink” to see him. And, Dan wasn’t all that keen on seeing her either, hospitals and morgues being the last place he’d want to visit anybody at 5 AM in the morning. Nothing good ever happened in either location. You couldn’t pay Dan enough money to do what Dr. Marjorie Dunlap did for a profession.

“This better be good, Hammer,” she said, leaning up against the clam colored wall, her arms folded protectively above her waist. “I’m missing my beauty sleep.”

“What about me?” Dan asked, dripping with water from the rain. The smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant were overpowering.

“What about you?” Marjorie was prepared. His kind of girl. Already she was suited up. Pink scrubs, a plastic bib covering her torso, and a protective surgical mask dangling down across her under developed chest. Cat-shaped sunglasses outlined pale gray eyes. She noticed Dan’s interest and turned away, following the mortuary assistant as he rolled the gurney carrying the black body bag to the end of the hallway.

Marjorie and Dan were on a first name basis. At one time, while she was recovering from her divorce, and Dan was convalescing from his, they helped each other get back on their feet. In other words, they fooled around a couple of times. He watched Marjorie from behind. She had excellent legs. All that morning tennis. He tagged behind the deadly procession following a squeaky wheel. The other officers he sent home. Bad enough, he had to stay.

“Autopsy Suite,” Marjorie chuckled as she pushed open the double metal doors. “Put the body over there, Ben.”

Ben, her Assistant, reminded Dan of the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. Dan had just finished reading the story to Alexandra on her last weekend visit. Big and clumsy, he maneuvered the gurney toward the examining table and heaved the body up and over.

Marjorie grabbed a package of sterile gloves from the shelf, peeled it open and slipped them on, popping each finger into place. Ben followed suit. In perfect sync. Ben then proceeded to unzip the body bag, remove the body and cover it with a white flimsy sheet. The overly ripe smell emanating from the opened container competed with the frigid air circulating throughout the room. Unfortunately, ripe won out. Marjorie picked up her portable tape recorder, attached it to the front of her pink scrub top pocket, and approached the body.

“I can tell you right now, there’s not much use in using the Lumalite.” Marjorie spoke bluntly. She rarely used adjectives and always kept focused on the work at hand. To be truthful, Dan loved watching her. She turned her attention to Ben. “You have the camera loaded, Benny?”

Ben nodded.

Dan guessed “Benny” was a term of endearment. Did Dan feel a tinge of jealousy? Ben didn’t seem to mind or notice as he fumbled around on the counter for his Minolta 35mm camera.

“This girl’s been dead for some time now.” Marjorie continued. “Lumalite’s worthless unless you’re interested in finding out what kind of critters used her carcass for a midnight snack.”

“That’s what I love about you, Doc.” Dan waited for her eyes to meet his. “Your incredible sensitivity. How long?” Dan stayed a fair distance away from the table, out of her way. He leaned up against a counter and crossed his legs Marlboro Man-style. Too close and he’d probably have to sit on the floor. His stomach was strong, but not that strong. He didn’t want to take any chances.

“Hard to tell…” Marjorie’s voice trailed off as she forged on, working over the body with large metal tweezers and forceps. Her hands prodded and fished, investigating each jagged curve while Ben took test shots of the floor. Flashbulbs ignited. He then proceeded to photograph the body from every possible angle. “My guess would be two weeks, maybe three, judging from the decomposition. She’s young. Thirteen, fourteen years old. Poor thing put up a struggle, though. Look here. She bit her tongue. Clear through.” Next, Marjorie worked her hands over the body, face, and neck. “No evidence of strangulation, no bruise marks around her neck, not that I can tell, but we’ll check that when we open her up…could be disguised…” Next the extremities. First the arms, then the legs. Marjorie talked calmly into her recorder. “Although it’s difficult to judge, there appears to be no puncture wounds on either of the arms, but severe ligatures are evident on both wrists and the ankles. Obviously, this girl was tied up. Her leg muscles are rigid. Look at this… Jesus Christ, Dan!”

“What?”

“What?” Marjorie faced Dan with terror in her eyes. “What in the hell happened to this girl?” She turned back to the body and investigated the girl’s pelvic area closer. She adjusted her glasses high up on her nose. “Dan, this girl’s been cut...” Dan walked closer to the table, the smell of rotting flesh disgusting. He watched as Marjorie took a scalpel from the steel pushcart and began cutting away at something. “Get a shot of this, Ben.” He crossed in front of Dan and positioned himself at the foot of the table. “Dan, her labia’s been sewn up with something. It looks like guitar string or something…maybe wire.”

Marjorie retracted something with her tweezers and placed it into a specimen container. Labels were already prepared, printed out earlier and on the stand ready to go. She slapped one on the sample and went back to the table. “The genitals are badly decomposed, no telling what animal’s been foraging around in there, but these fragments, it looks to me like they’re pieces of bone. Here look.” She lifted a shard of bone up to the spotlight with her tweezers. They both stared and squinted. “This is definitely bone, Dan. From a chicken or a turkey, some kind of fowl. It looks like these bone chips were used to penetrate the layers of her…” Marjorie dropped her tweezers on the metal tray and turned away from the table. She turned off her recorder. Everybody had a limit. Marjorie just found hers. “This is wretched, Dan. Really, really horrible.”

“Without sounding morbid, the other girl…”

“What other girl?” She cut Dan off before he could finish. “Another girl?”

“Earlier this evening…”

“What?”

“A girl was found stumbling around out on Old Towne Road. Some guy saw her weaving in the wooded area out there. He brought her over to MUSC. She’s alive.”

“What kind of world do we live in?” Marjorie threw her hands up into the air. In despair? Confusion? Dan couldn’t guess. He didn’t have all the answers.

“When human beings, people, can do this to one another…I just don’t know.” Exasperated, Marjorie clicked on her recorder, picked up the tweezers and once again turned her attention back to the body.

“This body was found at the same location.” Dan added. “Further back off the road, about a half mile into the woods. We may have a serial here.”

Marjorie continued to work, probing crevices, ignoring the last piece of information Dan gave her. People dealt with denial differently. Marjorie had a daughter, around the same age as this girl. Alice must be at least eleven or twelve by now.

“No forced entry, vaginally or rectally. Thank God for that.”

“Trajectory?”

“She was exposed when this occurred. Her clothes were off. I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what kind of instrument was used to cut her. The laceration edges aren’t clean, like from a razor or a knife, but they’re not jagged either. It would be difficult to calculate the path since she wasn’t wearing clothes, but I would guess the perpetrator was right-handed. That’s worth something, isn’t it? She was tied down. Restrained. Whoever did this was on their knees, bending down in front of her. Impossible to get height and weight…did you check the scene?”

“It was dark. I have to go back. I’ll check the area better when it’s light.”

“One thing I will say, whoever did this, did a good job. That’s for sure. Sick bastard.”

“Cause of death?”

“She sure as hell lost a lot of blood. That’s my first guess. Trauma, massive blood loss, shock.” Once again, Marjorie withdrew her tweezers. In their grasp was a small glass vial. “I’ll be God- damned.”

Dan moved in closer. “What now?” Dan could smell baby powder on Marjorie’s neck. Summer mornings perched up against overstuffed pillows, lying naked in Marjorie’s king sized bed watching her as she applied scented talcum to her back. Her chest. Her thighs. At the time, Dan thought it was for him. Now he understood why. It masked the acrid stench of death.

Marjorie had opened the vial and removed the bloodstained fabric. She held it up toward the spotlight. “For his sins…” she read aloud.

“Let me see.” Dan looked. “The other girl in the hospital… same thing. Hers read, ‘For her sins…’”

Marjorie deposited the piece of fabric into another empty sample container, closed the lid and slammed it onto the tray. “What a miserable fuck! Whoever did this to these poor girls should suffer. He should have his penis lopped off and be left to die. Bastard!” Ben pulled away from the examining table and took cover.

Dan held Marjorie in his arms for a brief second. It felt comfortable again. Safe. Like time had never passed. Ben was growing progressively nervous from their open display of intimacy.

Marjorie backed away. “Thanks, Dan, but, that’s not necessary.” She walked toward the sink, pulled her surgical gloves off and threw them into the sealed trashcan. Red signs with a large blaring triangle warned of biological hazards. “There’s really nothing more I can do here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Am I not speaking English?”

“I need some sort of identification. I want to find out who this girl is. Where she came from. Did you notice any tattoos, scars, recognizable body marks? What about serology? Fiber samples? I’ll send everything out today. To Washington, if I have to. At least give me a blood type.”

“I know my job, Dan, and I just don’t know what else to tell you.” She pushed short blond hair around her ear with an index finger. She did it a lot. It annoyed Dan now, and it annoyed Dan then, when it mattered. “I can take some tissue, some root hair samples, if you like, but that will take time at the Lab. You know as well as I do that all this is useless in the long run without positive identification from a family member. Other than that, there’s not much more I can do. What we’ve got here is simply a Jane Doe on our hands.” Marjorie glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. She was losing patience, back-peddling, treading water like an athlete. This had upset her more than she was letting on. Dan understood. It upset him, too. Or, maybe she enjoyed the tables being turned. Her power struggle with Dan continued, even now in this chilly, deadly environment.

“Dental records?” Dan was grasping at straws. “Anything?” He didn’t want this girl buried without somebody close to her being notified. Her mother, her father, somebody needed to know. “She deserves protocol, Marjorie. For the record.”

“I don’t have a problem with protocol. I just don’t want to do it now, at five thirty in the morning. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“These are unusual circumstances. They merit everything we can muster. I haven’t slept yet, either.”

Marjorie turned her back on Dan. “Oh, so that’s why you look like shit.”

“Will you need me for anything else?” A muffled groan came from the other side of the room. Dan hoped it was coming from Ben.

“Put the body in 102. You can leave then. Thanks, Ben.” Gone were the niceties. Out the nonexistent windows.

Dan realized he was cold. Freezing, actually. How low did they keep the temperature in this room? He shivered from the subnormal temperature or maybe just pure exhaustion. He leaned back up against the counter and massaged his arms. Circulation techniques.

“Come on, Dan. Follow me to the office. I need a cigarette. It’s warmer in there. You’re turning purple.”

“I need your help, Marjorie. More than just a report or a determination on a death certificate. I need this information entered into the computer ASAP. Later this morning, hopefully.”

VICAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program) was a computer program designed by the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Upon entering specific information about a violent crime, a comparative analysis could be made available, immediately almost, to other police agencies across the country that, online, could alert authorities whenever a serious crime was committed of a similar nature. Dan felt this dead girl and Angie Kessler warranted consideration. A violent act. A violent crime. Luckily, Charleston had recently installed the VICAP terminal. Dan was one of the fortunate candidates who volunteered to take the trip to Quantico and undergo the three week training program on proper data entry procedures.

Then again, Marjorie was right. Maybe he was getting overly excited about the prospects of being involved in something bigger than the usual local misdemeanors that blew through Charleston on a regular, more boring basis.

“What? You want the FBI involved?” Marjorie pulled a pack of cigarettes from her scrub gown and lit up, exhaling a long plume of smoke toward the NO SMOKING sign.

“I want to finish what we started.”

She choked on some smoke. “There was a time, Dan, I would have longed to hear those words come from your mouth. Now, you’re a little late.” She ran some water into the sink, lowered her head and took a sip. “But, let’s not get into that right now.” She looked in Ben’s direction. He’d been busy, securing Jane Doe’s body into the refrigerator. He returned to the room wiping his hands with a paper towel. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, staring down at his feet, fiddling with his large, clean hands.

“Dr. Dunlap, is there anything else you’ll be needing?”

“Moral support. Stick around.” Marjorie’s deadpan was stunning.

“Play fair.” Dan intercepted. “We’re both on your side.”

“What do you mean, play fair? I am playing fair. Don’t you think I understand your concern? It’s commendable. Really. But there’s nothing more I can do right now.”

“Whoever is responsible for these grotesque killings…”

“Killings? One killing. Done weeks ago.”

“… is probably plotting his next move, right now, as we speak.”

Marjorie pulled her scrub sleeve up and checked the time. “At five thirty in the morning? I doubt it. I really, really doubt it.”

Dan hated when she patronized him. What he despised more was her ability to level him. In seconds, Marjorie could make him feel like an insecure Altar Boy, caught with his pants down and running nude up and down the church aisle during service. Dan had reached his tipping point. That was it. “Enough, Marjorie.” Dan had met his limit. Even he had one. He caught the gray of her eyes at point blank range and communicated that “don’t fuck with me” look. She knew the look. She’d seen it before. Meanwhile, the extremes of Marjorie’s emotions both baffled and intrigued him. One minute she was enraged, on the verge of a breakdown, and the next she was detached, emotionally removed, taking pot shots at a killer.

She took another deep drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she talked in a molasses-thick, phony Southern accent. “Aren’t you being a bit overeager about all this? I mean, really Dan. This isn’t a Hollywood movie. It’s not like Hannibal Lecter is on the prowl, terrorizing our quaint little seaside town of Charleston.”

“Somebody sure is.” Dan reached for a clean pack of sterile gloves. He ripped open the package. Un procedure-like. He pulled out the contents. Each glove had its own protective wrapping. Opening it like a book, he offered them to Marjorie. “Now, can we finish this autopsy?”

Marjorie walked toward him. Reluctantly. She flipped her cigarette into the metal sink. It sizzled and died. One at a time, she slipped her hands into the appropriate glove. Light powder floated to the floor. Hopefully, so would her ego. “Say ‘please.’”

“Pretty please. With a cherry on top.”

She approached the metal examining table that once held the body of Jane Doe. Ben took a deep sigh, already aware of what his next chore would be. “Well, you heard the man, Benny.”

The room fell quiet, except for the constant hum of the frigid air conditioner pumping glacial air into the room. Ben retrieved the body, rolled it back into the room on a gurney and hoisted it up onto the table.

Marjorie stood to the side of the body. She slowly unfolded the white sheet covering Jane Doe. Adjusting her surgical mask over her face, she reached for another scalpel from the metal pushcart and positioned herself at the head of the table. She began the autopsy by making the customary Y incision. Dan assumed his usual stance against the counter.

“You owe me for this one, Hammer.”

Dan nodded in agreement. Or victory.

With a click, she turned on her pocket recorder.

Dan’s kind of girl.

match

Outside Dakar

Senegal, Africa

1981

13

Lifeless.

The terrain is abandoned. Daylight falls earlier out here, far from the hectic pace of the City. Gray shadows whisper to one another. They frighten me as I crouch lower to the ground and hold my mother’s hand.

The giant branches of the cottonsilk tree sway back and forth. They bow playfully, enticing me to run outdoors, climb up into their large thick limbs and take cover. They seduce me into reaching my ruddy hands and feet around their immense trunks and shimmy my small body all the way to the top. There, I can see the world. There, I can play God. Scream if I want to. I can cry out, loud and clear, far across the deserted land. Maybe then, somebody will hear me. Maybe then somebody will see me. Save me. Save us.

I hear a noise in the distance. Through the haze of dust and heat, the horizon holds a sky soaked with blood. I feel it is an omen.

A cloud of noisy smoke appears against the horizontal plain and approaches our small hut. I stand up. I cup my hand and squint through the small circle. Perhaps my prayers have been answered. Perhaps it is Papa coming to rescue us. Or, is it them? No, it wouldn’t be them. They would come on foot, not by a white man’s engine.

I examine my mother. I look closely at her dry, chafed hands. I inspect each line and indentation. I compare hers to mine. A trace of color remains on her short, bitten nails. Pink, the color of life.

She is wearing her Batik gown. It was her request. In happier times, she wore it. For celebrations. Festivals. Sewn in our native colors, the gown is threaded in lavender, purple and orange. Now, it is all that remains of her past. Beautiful and alive, the colors dance, full of Spirit and electricity, while all around her nose and mouth flies are abuzz.

Flies understand death. Like vultures.

I wipe my mother’s cracked lips with warm, milky water. It was all I could find. Yesterday, when the tribesman left us, they did not supply us with food or water. I wonder if it is my mother’s fate to die in my arms. I must stop thinking thoughts like this. Mother is alive. She is safe, even if her eyes are closed. They’ve been shut for most of the day now. Little beats of pulse pump weakly beneath the fragile skin. Her breath is short and shallow. I monitor her chest carefully, the rise and fall of her breathing. Each time she breathes, I count secretly to myself. Every so often she stops. Then, my heart beats faster. My hands begin to sweat. I grow nervous and anxious. Don’t leave me alone. I do not want to die. Not out here. Not like this. I stand tall beside her. I try not to smell the strong odor coming from her bony body. In desperation, I try holding her. My tears fall heavy upon her face. I wipe them off. Quickly. How selfish of me to need comfort. I fear I am a horrible child. A dreadful mistake. That this entire situation is all my fault. Then, as if by some Divine intervention, Mother breathes again, her chest rises, and the colors of her gown dance and sing. I am saved.

My Mother’s keeper...

The screeching of brakes, and the purr of an engine running without movement. Then footsteps, heavy and fast, walking in my direction. If it is Papa, how did he know where to find us? So far from the city. So far from Dakar. So far from England. Wasn’t that their wish? To never allow anybody to find us. To punish us. To make us suffer. Like the others. I huddle my body behind the wooden slat, scrunched low in the dusty corner and wait. Large black ants carry weight a hundred times their size across the dirt floor.

Footsteps grow closer.

I lean to the side of the window and peek out.

It is Papa. I remember the pictures. The ones Mother showed me. The ones she kept buried, hidden deep in her travel case under her bed. The ones she was never allowed to display. To anybody. And the letters… the beautiful handwritten letters on lovely paper.

“Our secret,” she whispered. “Our bond. Our blood.”

Blonde wavy hair blowing in the wind. Just like the yellowed photographs. Only now, his hair is shorter. I watch Papa shield his face against the sand. The squall. I try picking her up. I wrap my skinny arms around her wasted torso, but her body is too rigid, too hard. I will take her to safety myself, if I have to. Now, Papa is here. Papa will help. I know it. Mother will be fine.

Mother lifts her head in my direction. She opens her mouth to speak. She is in extreme discomfort.

I am doing the best I can to stop the flies. I am trying, Mother. She does not want to be seen like this. She does not want Papa seeing her in this way. Not with flies buzzing around her face. I understand. I touch her brow with a piece of my shirt soaked in the cloudy water. Her body is a volcano of fever. A fine mist of sweat erupts on her forehead. My Mother’s skin, once so beautiful, and so clear, the color of java and cocoa beans all mixed together. Now it hangs on her body like loose wallpaper, pale and ghostly. I am sure Papa will remember how Mama used to look. I will ask him, later, when we are all safe.

I run to the open doorway. I scream out to my Papa. “Please, hurry. It is almost too late.” My voice knows no boundaries of pain. Papa is coming. Like a beautiful white angel, Papa arrives to transport my Mother and me to safety. I sprint back to the table. I trip over the clay pot filled with the milky water.

Mother grabs my arm. Forcefully. She takes my wrist and pulls me close to her. Her eyes open. She stares deep into my soul. She opens her mouth to speak. Her breath is stale and sour. My eyes grow soft.

“Mama, help is on the way. Papa is here.”

She does not waver. She does not go weak. Her fingers turn white from the force of her grip around my forearm.

“What is it? What are you trying to tell me?”

Papa’s voice calls out. Loudly. “Let’s go, child.”

I face my Father.

Behind me, a release.

In panic, I turn back to my Mother. Her eyes focus on Papa. And not with love as one would expect. Not with love or forgiveness. Mother’s eyes burn with heat. Hate.

I wait for her chest to rise. I count the beats. I wait for the lavender, purple and orange colors to dance. To sing. But they don’t.

One, two, three…

They have stopped dancing. I stop counting. I reach up and gently close Mother’s eyelids.

“Now!” Papa shouts, this time louder, urgency rattles in his voice.

Papa, my beautiful white angel.

Purple clouds hover, momentarily hiding the setting sun. A cool breeze rustles across the red dirt floor. I catch a chill. Goosebumps break out like a wild rash all over my legs and arms.

Mother…

She passes by me in Spirit. Past Papa, past the cottonsilk tree, past the whispering shadows, past her tortured past and flies free. Full of freedom and fierce independence. Out and over the abandoned terrain she soars, high above the parched, cracked land, higher still than the carrion circling overhead, waiting impatiently to feed upon her dead body.

Her final quest, to chase after the fiery sunset.

My omen is prophetic.

I am a Prophet, even at my young age.

Mother’s body lies empty. Still. Silent. Past Papa, past the doorway, I peer into a sky soaked with blood, and in that frozen moment, I too take flight. A part of me becomes one with the land, my land. Lifeless. Part of me dies with my Mother.

My Mother’s keeper…

“Take me, Papa,” I say without feeling. Emotion is something detached now. Something removed. As distant and as out of reach as the horizon. I cradle my small hand in his large fist. Papa pulls me outside toward his white man’s engine.

I never look back.

In all the confusion, I forget to cry…

Friday

7:52 AM

Fredericksburg, Virginia

14

When Harry Wright made the decision to be alone, he traveled to a sacred place. Interesting, it should be located so close to the Medical Center, a quick five minute jaunt by car. In no traffic. Nestled alongside the Potomac River’s edge, his special spot carried a lifetime of memories, dreams, disappointments and, more recently, despair. Even so, Harry continued to venture here. And remember.

On clear days, he can look out Susan’s window, located on the seventh floor of the hospital and see it. Out there. Patiently awaiting him and his return. Not to sound morbid, but when Harry dies, he wants his ashes to be scattered here. Why? He can’t explain it. There’s nothing fancy about the place. In fact, it’s a far cry from any park, the Battery, or even the seaport. It just holds something. Something special.

Standard park benches line the winding cement pathway. Distributed here and there are trashcans. During the season, an assortment of mobile, fast food trucks popped up and parked alongside the street. They did a gangbuster business, hustling their wares in the humid, Summer heat.

Harry parked his car in the empty lot. He strolled over freshly mowed grass toward the water. He inhaled the air. Intoxicatingly fresh. Crisp. The arrival of green buds blooming on the birch trees trumpeted Spring, its glorious arrival in full miraculous progress. Soon, his place (Harry could get very territorial) would be jam-packed. Everybody would be dressed up, or dressed down, in his or her new Summer swimwear, negotiating prime river front property.

“To everything, turn, turn, turn…

There is a season, turn, turn, turn…”

He sang silently to himself.

Morning sunlight filtered in and out of low threatening clouds. There could be rain.

Of course, Harry forgot his umbrella.

His quiet refuge, not far from the main highway, had been his sanctuary. He discovered the place by accident, returning home from one of his many travels. He couldn’t recall what struck his fancy. Was it the water? The grassy slope connecting the small two lane highway? Or the freedom he felt, that first day, returning fresh off a case that prompted him to stop and stand firmly on the wooden deck and unite with God and his glorious horizon? For whatever reason, he chose it. And, still did. Even though he now shared it, yearly, with millions of people. To Harry, it was his. Whenever his Spirit gauge sunk below half a tank, whenever he needed some quiet time all to himself to think, just get away from the world, be alone, like today, he’d return.

The actual structure had changed dramatically throughout the years. But the sense of serenity was constant and the river always seemed to welcome him back.

Runners were out early, keeping a steady stride in their pastel-colored jogging suits. Every now and then, a person brushed past him, picking out property, ready to explore the world through the eyes of The Washington Post or the latest bestseller. From open paper cups, the fresh roasted smell of coffee lingered, strong and steamy in their wake. Everybody wanted a kiss from the sun. Destroy the shroud pallor of winter. Sun kissed!

Today, Harry came to cry.

He could be anonymous here. Nobody knew him. Nobody cared to know him. On occasion, when the children were younger, Harry would bring them here. Susan loved stopping by on the way home from Fairview Beach. They would scuff along the sandy boardwalk, hand in hand, shuffling their feet across the burning cement. They would buy the kids single scoops of rainbow flavored Italian gelato, sit on one of the many park benches and watch the sunset lazily set over Coppertoned shoulders. All they discussed was the future, tomorrow…

Well, tomorrow came. And quickly. All the children were grown now. Nancy, their youngest daughter lived in Phoenix with her husband, Terry and their two adorable girls, Justine, age seven and Sandy, age five. Nancy had her hands full, raising the girls and balancing a challenging teaching position at the University. To Harry, those two young ladies were the most precious grandchildren in the world. Of course, he was prejudiced. And then there was Thomas, their oldest son who stayed on in D.C. The perpetual bachelor. A lawyer now, he represented an international commodities firm out of Boston and was trying to break into the entertainment business. Why? Harry didn’t know. He was a handsome boy, quick-tempered and fiercely competitive. Thomas was having the time of his life. At his age, Harry was probably worse. Harry had softened some with age.

The family had gathered back in town this week. Not for a wedding, or a graduation, or a ceremony, although their family had had more than their share of joyous celebrations. No, they were getting together on a more serious note. Susan was dying.

One day, she’s fine, vibrant, full of piss and vinegar, and the next, she’s losing a terminal bout with cancer and playing with a dreadfully disadvantaged hand. Harry wasn’t prepared. How could he be? The warrior male believed he would be the first one to go. “Selfish, to the end, you men,” Susan would say. And she was probably right. But, Harry intended to keep on being selfish. To the very, very end.

Susan and Harry were planning a celebratory vacation in honor of his pending retirement. They were going to paint the town red. It took some convincing on Susan’s part. Harry had never been the profligate type. He prepared for a rainy day. Susan on the other hand, wouldn’t hear of it and stubbornly convinced him. “This time, Harry,” she said, grabbing his hand from across the table and making dizzy circles in his palm, “we are going all out! Just you and me. C’mon. Whadaya say? Let’s go fucking crazy for once!” Harry remembered the couple seated next to them at the restaurant, a conservative pair in their late sixties, glaring at them with intense disapproval. “We deserve it, Harry.”

God, he remembered the night so clearly. They were dining in one of those fancy restaurants located in Williamsburg. The Historic District. Harry had reserved a Suite at the Colonial Townhouses. With a fireplace, even. Of course, the dinner had all the trappings of tapping the bottom on Harry’s wallet. White tablecloths, a delicious bottle of red wine waiting for them at the table, something Susan picked out, of course. Waiters prancing about in cumberbunds, white napkins floating across starched arms like matadors. Everything busy and distracting. Perhaps it was the wine. Harry was a Dewar’s drinker. White Label. Neat.

That night could have been New Year’s Eve, the way they celebrated. Instead of Harry wearing his usual boring, gray work suit, Susan insisted he dress up in his wool tweed jacket accompanied by a colorful new tie she’d picked out for him. She practically twisted his arm before leaving the room that night. She wanted everything to be perfect. And should he even begin to describe how ravishing Susan looked? Stunning! Her face was luminous, iridescent in the wavering candlelight. But then again, she had what to work with. Long, auburn hair tousled out of control, secured half-successfully by an overworked barrette on the top of her head. The sweetest and softest of smiles. Susan reminded Harry of a fifteen watt light bulb, warm and pink and so easy to get close to. And, Harry hated to admit it, but he loved it when she cursed. It was just so out of character for her.

Well, he learned his lesson. See what happened when you planned for a rainy day? It showed up when you least expected it too. At that dinner, they had exactly six months left until Harry’s retirement. They had planned to go to Tahiti. They had even bought the tickets. Unfortunately, they would never make the trip. Together.

Harry had already given the FBI twenty two years of their thirty three years together. Which didn’t even include the years he was enlisted in the military. But, Harry couldn’t complain. He loved their time. When the kids asked for advice about enlisting, Harry would be the first to say, “a little bit of intelligence and a whole lot of motivation can go a long way in the military.” It proved well by Harry.

The last few years in the Army, Harry worked for CID (Criminal Investigation Division). And, secretly had his heart set on working with the Bureau after his discharge, preferably the Behavioral Science Unit. At the time, back in the early seventies, that particular unit was undergoing some incredible changes in the technique of investigation. Particularly in the area of violent crimes, which had always held a curious fascination for Harry. Since he was a kid, even. He must have been seven or eight years old when a man from his neighborhood in Highland Park, a suburb of Chicago, was arrested and convicted for killing five women. When Harry heard about the slayings, even at that young age, he was intrigued. What kind of mind could commit not one, but five heinous crimes? Although he didn’t find out the gory details accompanying the deaths until years later, he knew he would be involved in the investigation and in the sentencing of people who mass murdered. With Harry’s military service behind him, an Honorable Discharge in his pocket and two years active duty working with the CID, it made sense the Bureau would be eyeing Harry for possible recruitment. They did, and Harry gratefully accepted and had been with the Agency ever since.

Life had been fair to Harry. To both of them, Susan and himself. Life had been good. Now life was throwing the unexpected monkey wrench into the pot and Harry was pissed off. Angry. Hurt. Susan and Harry had intended on spending many more years together. Hell, they’d planned it, right here, at this park, together on this bench, looking out over this dull and turbulent water. Not only was Harry entering back into the world as a retired older gentleman, but now a widower. Harry. Single? After all those years. Very few things in life scared him, and in his line of work, with what he’d seen over the years, you’d be hard pressed to find something that could, but freedom… that word scared the living be-Jesus out of him.

Freedom.

Clouds moved in swiftly above Harry. He took another breath of damp, spring air and tried not to remember. A few random raindrops fell. Heavy and weighted. He watched the cloud pattern dance, reflected in the green water. He wanted to strike a deal with God, possibly even with the devil.

“Memories are all one has left at the end of a life,” he once heard somebody say. And as Harry stood on the boardwalk, holding himself upright, his legs weak with sorrow and anticipated loss, his futile attempt at arresting his emotions felt twisted and bleak. Stop the mental snapshots of Susan, their life, the years spent together! But, how could he? Really. How could he possibly do that? And, why would he want to?

His cell phone beeped. He reached for it in his front coat pocket and checked the number, hoping it wasn’t the Hospital. Praying that his selfish need for privacy was not ill timed.

Thankfully, it was Quantico. And urgent. And being the workhorse he was, and always had been, and he guessed, always would be, Harry took the call.

Friday

7:42 AM

Battery Park

Charleston, South Carolina

15

You will burn in hell for what you did, you stupid, stupid bitch…

Playing God for a fool can only result in one thing.

Yet, how could I have been so careless? So foolish! What went wrong? How did that little whore escape? I planned it all so well. So tidy. So perfect. Right down to the minute details. To the absolute second.

No mistakes.

The knots, the ropes, the ritual… everything. All of it went flawlessly. No mess.

Or, so I thought.

Then, to wake up this morning and read the papers. The shock! What a surprise to find out the stupid bitch lived…

Well, Angie, “Beautiful Angie”… it’s not over yet.

Now is not the time to belabor the situation. Beat myself up. Shit happens. I must concentrate my attention on my newest Princess. Focus all my energy on my current priority. This one will be different. Definitely.

It had better be…

Trust me, not one mistake. Absolute perfection… all the way. This will send those clowns on a wild goose chase for sure. Guaranteed.

I’ve been sitting on this park bench across the street from her house, inconspicuously watching for almost an hour now. Taking mental notes. Her rich Daddy left earlier. A car service picked him up. He ran out the door with his cell phone attached to his ear. Soon, she’ll be leaving, usually fourteen minutes before the hour, give or take a few. She has a history of being unpredictable, oftentimes running late for her morning babysitting job. I don’t mind. I make exceptions for perfection.

Sixteen minutes before eight. Still, no sign of her.

I grab my copy of the Post and Courier neatly folded beside me. I feast my eyes on the cover page. The headline story reads:

One Dead, One Survives the Grisly Attack of The Mutilator.

The Mutilator?

Couldn’t they come up with something better than that?

It has been interesting though. Sitting here, observing other people’s reaction to the story. It takes on surreal proportions. Nonchalantly, they come, strolling into the park, casually purchasing a paper. As they continue, slowly immersing themselves in the story, their mood changes, and their disposition varies. Some sit down, some hurry off, others just shake their heads in disbelief. They have anything to worry about.

Trust me.

People never know how to respond to fear. Especially in Charleston. Everybody maintains a certain level of southern hospitality. Not to mention superficiality. Keep it quiet. Don’t talk too loud. Not here.

So, in an effort to sell papers, the media -- God bless them -- rattle people awake. Take full advantage of the situation, any situation, target the news into the public’s already television- viewer mentality and scare the living “shit” out of them. Secular to the bone. Everybody’s afraid to go to sleep at night for fear the “boogeyman” might come out and get them. You would think I was camping out in their backyards, waiting for darkness to fall.

It’s not personal in the least. Unless, of course, I choose you…

Back to the paper. Below the headline, taking up the entire left quadrant of the front page is the ubiquitous black and white photograph, which truly turns the entire thing into tabloid. Right out of The Enquirer. Two men, clad in parkas, heroically lift a stretcher carrying the dead girl’s body across a wide gully while rain pelts down upon them. Crowds of onlookers watch on in horror. All very dramatic. It starts the terror train rolling. I’m witnessing the aftershocks now. I can tell the difference. Mothers, who previously allowed their children to run wild, like feral animals, now begin trailing behind them. Everywhere. Like they suddenly care. Young girls, on their way to school, dressed up in uniforms, begin walking together in packs, continually looking over their shoulders. Teenage boys, eager for an opportunity to play at being real men, wait on the street corners, hoping for the opportunity to escort the young women to safety.

Ruin them.

I shake my head. The world is truly a ghetto.

Personally, I enjoy the attention. It gives me a sense of satisfaction knowing they will never catch me. Particularly after this new exhibition.

Warmth covers my left wrist. A slight stinging sensation. Pinpricks to the skin.

How could you allow Angie to get away?

I continue my surveillance. Where is she?

No mistakes this time...

My left hand clutches the handle of a ten pound weight inside my coat pocket. My fingers are sweaty from all the excitement. I realize, too late, that I’ve been sharpening the razor blade with my own skin. Blood flows freely over my wrist, around my watch, and drips onto my raincoat.

Damn!

I didn’t even feel it. My level of awareness was so intense. Concentrated. I place a napkin, leftover from my morning coffee, over the cut. How deep is it? Do I need stitches? This is all I need. I peel back the napkin. Blood oozes from surrounding tissue. Nothing serious. I’ll live.

You’ll probably mess up. Just like the last time…

I can’t afford this kind of carelessness. Not again. Not ever. The gray, calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean soothe my nerves. The expansive shade of the giant oak tree I sit under bathes me. Huge branches bow majestically before me. Leaves rustle, as if they are dancing, flickering in the morning breeze. The sound reminds me of rain. Soft and steady and consistent. An empty sweetheart cup rattles along down the sidewalk. It echoes ominously as I apply more pressure to my cut. Hopefully, the bleeding will stop. If not, what do I do? What hospital should I go to? I pray it lets up on its own.

Ah… there she is! My prize for waiting so patiently. My reward. She exits the house, slams the screen door and scurries down the few cement steps balancing an armload of books and a backpack. Her pleated skirt is well above her knees. You like parading those legs, don’t you? You bet you do, you little whore! My hands begin perspiring again. I lose awareness of my cut. My attention is now devoted entirely to her. The napkin falls accidentally to the ground. I glance around to make sure nobody’s seen it. I take great pride in my ability to acclimate myself. But I don’t necessarily want to be noticed, either, especially with a bloody napkin. Considering today’s headline, a tissue soaked with blood is something that would get attention.

No mistakes…

Particularly after “Angie Baby.”

I scoop the tissue from off the ground and wipe my nose with it. Everybody gets a nosebleed occasionally. Right?

The Princess stands on the front steps of her castle waiting for somebody to pick her up. She puts her books down, reaches inside her backpack and pulls out a cigarette. I can’t make out which brand. I can’t believe she smokes! She looks back at the screen door, sits down on one of the steps, lights the cigarette and takes a few deep drags. Not bad for a young girl. How young, I wonder.

Sun reflects off the water. I shield my eyes. Specks of white light shimmer on the manicured lawn in front of me. A German shepherd hoists his leg at the base of a palm tree, his owner engrossed in his paper. My story. I put my sunglasses on. Like a celebrity. No autographs, please. Everything turns a light shade of pink, including the small triangle of underwear, barely visible from between her legs.

I have an stigmatism that causes me to wear tinted glasses. I unbutton my raincoat halfway and wipe the perspiration from the back of my neck with the used napkin. The bloody one. It must be getting warmer out. And so early in the season.

An older woman appears at the door. Her Mother maybe? She screams something at the girl but I can’t understand her. I’m too far away. I mind my own business. The girl flicks her cigarette onto the sidewalk. It swivels and lands and dies.

Litterbug…

She gets up and marches back toward the screen door. Once there, she confronts the woman, her young back arched in defiance, her finger pointing accusatorily. This is too interesting. I must hear what is being said. I casually meander in their direction. I grab onto the weight. I would really like to hit the bitch now, if I could. But, of course, I can’t. I must wait. As planned.

“… you heard me, young lady. You’re grounded!”

It must be her Mother. She slams the screen door and disappears into the vast blackness of the house. And what a house it is. The wrap-around porch is furnished far better than most people’s living room. Decoratively placed around the whitewashed deck is dark colored wicker furniture. Bright floral cushions accompany the set. Large terracotta pots overflow with flowers. Petunias and geraniums line the porch while healthy green ferns and spider plants hang down intermittently from the second floor balcony. Displayed in honor of the United States is the American flag. It whips loudly in the breeze. Very patriotic. Like a Norman Rockwell painting. The entire package designed and preserved intentionally for the multitude of tour groups that swarm past on a day-to-day basis.

I hate tour groups. Boring. Perhaps “The Mutilator” will stop some of that nonsense.

The Princess stands at the door. She pauses for a second, debating her next move. Should she follow her Mother inside or stay as she is? Pubescent rebellion.

I’ve crossed the street now. I raise my sunglasses and look in her direction. Casually.  Oh, she notices me. She smiles politely. I nod my head, tip my oversized ball cap and graciously smile back, like a good tourist.

Pitching her backpack over her shoulder, she grabs her books and defiantly stomps off the porch. Athletic, isn’t she? She pushes past me. I pause. I try breathing in her fumes. The slight stench of fresh perfume. I can’t make out if it’s her or the aroma from all those fresh flowers planted on the porch. Geraniums maybe? Semi-sweet and earthy. Up the steps, through the mesh screen, her Mother sneaks a worried glance. She watches on as her daughter continues down the street.

Say goodbye, Mother.

Say goodbye!

I follow her unnoticed for a couple of blocks. As practiced, I turn down an alternate street. I know her routine. In approximately three minutes, we will meet up. I check my watch, the second hand nearing noon. I count down the seconds until she turns the corner at Lenwood…

… Perfect…

Everything. Even the bleeding has stopped.

I romanticize, caught up in a fantasy. Her hair is long and over her shoulder, but lighter in color than the last one. Just the way I like it. Each girl offering herself as a sacrifice must have curls. It’s a prerequisite. Always. I also like the way this one parts her hair to the side. A tiny clip holds the bangs in place. It is difficult determining the design of the barrette from this distance, but earlier, when she rushed past me, I faintly remember seeing a plastic butterfly frozen in flight in multiple colors.

I hurry and turn down Limehouse. I check my watch again. Thirty seconds. I don’t want to miss her. Next, I make a left turn on Tradd Street. Where is she?

Don’t you dare fuck up this time… remember your wrist…

Finally!

I see her. Thank you, you precious Angel. You have not deviated. Not yet. You are asking me for your salvation, aren’t you? Otherwise, you would have turned onto another street. This is an omen. Don’t worry, Princess, I will save you. I promise. With the sunset comes your redemption. Just as we’ve planned for.

I think ahead. My actions are methodical, calculated, practiced to the second. I will interchange with her on Savage Street. How perfect. I parked the rental car there earlier. I tighten my grip on the weight. Don’t slip.

Don’t you dare fuck up!

Adrenaline pumps. This is the best part. One quick blow to the temple at extremely close range. That will do it. My best backhand. That will leave her stunned and confused, enough to push her into the trunk already unlocked, open and waiting. Just like the other two. Totally unsuspecting.

At precisely the perfect moment, she turns the corner. She begins walking in my direction, smoking another foul cigarette. A fuzzy sensation washes over me, a ripple of curious satisfaction. Almost sexual. This one will be my best yet!

I imagine the tiny patch of hair hidden between her legs, soft and blonde and light to the touch. Like a feather. I conjure up a fantasy of her shaving for the first time, encouraging seduction, imitating the refined qualities of her genteel Mother. A Southern woman of uncommonly good breeding who’s inherited everything she owns by spreading her legs and positioning herself in a supine position. Those tiny, bleached white panties. They should be red. This one is no virgin. She’s used goods. I know that for a fact. I’ve been following this lamb for weeks. Gathering information. Getting her ready for the slaughter. I picked her specifically for that reason. She’s pregnant. With seed. It was vital. For this particular ritual, the chosen had to be with child. So, I picked a real whore, not some phony imitation. I had to make sure. What better way?

No mistakes…

In fact, I know her boyfriend. One of them, anyway. This one likes being soiled. I actually watched her. What a sick sight that was.

One more block…

She approaches. So unaware. So blindly innocent. I watch as she crosses the street, under the shade of a huge palmetto tree. Sunlight weaves staccato patterns upon her face.

Half a block…

I take a speedy glance around. As hoped for, no one is around. Anywhere. Not a living soul. No excuse to mess up this time. Not a chance. I see my rental, excellently positioned across the street. Waiting. And ready. I remember parking here earlier this morning. How lucky I was in finding the perfect parking space. An omen, again, of good things to come. How jittery I was. Nervous. Excited. The prospects before me.

By habit, she crosses the street. Right by the fire hydrant, directly opposite the front of my car. I step off the curb. My heart is beating wildly. I check in both directions for traffic. Clear. We should intersect approximately… I check my watch… out of habit…

Shit!

The bright red slash across my wrist. The cut is open and bleeding…

Where is the napkin?

Without thinking, I stash my hand back into the bottom of my pocket. I loosen my grip on the weight and search my coat, sifting through the detritus, all the while watching as she draws closer. Closer. I remain calm. Composed. Careful.

Timing… timing…

She passes by me at arm’s length, submerged in her own somber mood. Can I smell her? Should I turn around and come up on her from behind, while she’s unsuspecting? No. Not that way! I like it when they know. I like seeing the stunned expression on their faces. That jolt of terror that comes over them. The confusion in their eyes as they slowly wash away and lose consciousness. She didn’t even smile as she passed by me. She must not have recognized me. Her savior. God. All she did was drop the butt of her cigarette at my feet. How awful. She didn’t even bother to put it out. Thankfully, she didn’t look up.

I’m frantic.

Where’s my napkin?

I turn, just in time to see the Princess’s backpack round the next corner. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Please forgive me.

What’s worse, I’ve lost my bloody napkin.

No mistakes this time… no mistakes!

I turn around and around in circles. I scan the ground. Feel dizzy. I pick up the cigarette butt and place it in my pocket. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. I must remember to throw it away properly in a trash can. I retrace my steps; I check every crevice, each crack of the sidewalk, the street I recently crossed. Nothing.

You can’t afford a second mistake, stupid!

I hate it when plans don’t go as intended. Everything must be perfect. Meticulous.

I return to the Battery. I follow the same progression of streets, careful not to miss a turn or a crossing. Almost eight thirty when I arrive and still no luck. No napkin. More people have flooded into the park. An explosion of pedestrians. They are enjoying the weather, the sun, the day. I see an orange box kite floating in the sky.

I hate it.

Leisurely, I stroll back to the Princess’s house and stand at her front gate. It’s important, not attracting any attention. There, wadded up on the sidewalk is my used napkin, what’s left of it, anyway. Large black crows have gathered. They take turns pecking at the debris as if it might hold a surprise inside.

“Shoo!” I wave the birds away with my good hand and pick up the loose shreds of the red stained paper. They caw and squawk as they hop away on to the street and take flight, angry and frustrated and annoyed. I deposit the napkin and cigarette butt into a trash receptacle.

All that remains of my wasted day.

I’ve lost her.

But not for long…

Friday

10:47 AM

16

Jake had a ritual that annoyed the hell out of Janice. And, being that Jake slept with Janice most of the time (for lack of any other available suitors) and assumed the absentee title (for the time being, anyway) he had no hesitation in making his practice irksomely habitual. Just when Janice was diving into some decent REM sleep patterns, Jake would take it upon himself to stand up on the bed, shake vehemently, sit back down on his haunches, place his paw on her shoulder, stretch his long gray neck down to wherever Janice’s face was and lick her. On the lips. “Lesbian Kisses,” she called them. She thought he did it intentionally, knowing it tormented the hell out of her. Weimaraners. Such needy, divine creatures. They required an inordinate amount of time and attention, and Mr. Jake was no exception to the breed. He ran on his own distinct schedule, oblivious that Janice had just taken her sorry ass to bed, comatose from jumping morning hurdles with copy deadlines.

“All right, already, you silly dog.”

Jake leaped from the bed and tore ass to the front door, nails clicking on the hardwood floor, paws sliding and barreling around the apartment furniture. It was a wonder Janice had anything of value left. Retrieving his leash from the wall hook, Jake high tailed it back to the bed. Now, how could she be upset? Luckily, Janice was saved by her cell phone going off. Jake would have to wait. On Janice’s schedule, for once, for a change.

Her voice was scruffy, scratchy from no sleep and damp midnight air. “Hello?” Jake bowed down before her, paws outstretched in her direction. A playful growl emitted from him as he swiveled his head back and forth with his leash. Playtime.

“You’ve been a busy lady.” Lisette’s voice melted the connection. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

Janice played dumb. Coy. Calm and mysterious. Character traits that never rested easy with her. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you seen the front page of the P & C? Your name is on it. Right there! On page one.”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been in bed…” She rolled over and consulted the red flashing numbers of her digital clock. “… for exactly… thirty minutes. I was up all night. I’m exhausted.”

“I won’t keep you then. I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you.”

“Proud?” Always the teacher. “You at school?” Janice thought about what Lisette said. Proud. Proud. Proud. She said it silently to herself over and over again, with different intonations, flattered and taken aback at the same time.

“I’m on my lunch break. I was thinking… maybe I could cook for you tonight. Mexican. You into it?”

Into it? Is she crazy?

“Si. Of course. Yes. Sounds terrific.” Anything was better than Mickey-D’s. Lisette would be shocked if she were to check out her refrigerator right now. The only thing containing any RFDA nutritional value would be leftover Chinese food. From three nights ago. Gross. Oh, and maybe a Heineken.

Call waiting beeped. “Hold that thought. I have another call.”

“Busy, busy,” Lisette said, as Janice pressed ENTER.

“Yeah?” She reached for some bottled water left by the bedside.

“Mouth, Louis.”

Janice couldn’t believe it. Louis was her Siamese twin throughout the evening and on into the early morning hours. Proofreading, copy editing, securing the right photograph for the piece. She gave Louis full credit for helping her meet deadlines, intravenously dripping coffee into her veins and feeding her one too many glazed doughnuts. Janice’s favorite.

“How’s it look? We did it, didn’t we?”

“Front page, Mouth. Front fucking page. This is big! Real big! The biggest thing to hit Charleston in a long, long time. I need you down here. Like yesterday!”

“Hold on for one second, okay?” Janice reconnected to Lisette. “Hon?”

“I’m here…”

“Gotta go! Leave a message with details for tonight. I can’t wait to catch up.”

“Got it.”

Janice longed to have Lisette beside her, kiss her, make passionate love to her, perform a host of savory and erotic acts on her. All that would have to wait. Instead, she rolled out of bed and pressed her ITunes on. Melissa Ethridge blasted through the apartment breaking sound barriers. Poor Jake. He only wanted to pee. “See you, later.”

Janice heard the click. She imagined Lisette briefly looking at her cell phone and shaking her head. Smiling as she walked back into her classroom. Standing at the chalkboard, teaching, surrounded in her educational element. Multiplication tables and penmanship. English. Janice reconnected to Louis.

“Mouth…”

“I’m dressing. I’ll be right down.”

“Why should that stop you? It never has before.”

“Fuck you, wise guy!” She heard him snickering on the other end.

“Listen, I really have to hand it to you. Thanks for getting me involved.”

“What are you talking about?” She debated taking a shower. “I didn’t really have a choice now, did I?” She tugged at her slacks, pulling them up with one hand to her waist. Forget the shower. Jake got a kick out of watching her contortion act and started woofing his “okay, time to play with me, bark.”

“See you soon,” Louis quipped. “Make it snappy!”

Janice hung up on him. “Okay, you big beautiful mutt. Let’s go for a W-A-L-K.” She spelled out the letters, slowly, making Jake go even crazier. He’d figured it out already. He was smarter than that. She snatched the leash away from him, snapped it onto his collar and sprinted for the door. The first item on her agenda? Buy a copy of the Post and Courier, of course.

* * *

She entered the newsroom to a fanfare of applause and public display of attention she wasn’t accustomed to.

“How’d you do it..? Where’d you get the tip..? Was it Donny..?”

She hurried down the hallway to Louis’s office. She felt overwhelmed, giddy and completely uncomfortable with all this newfound admiration. She would prefer to stay just Janice Porter. Remember her? She used to work here, with you, yesterday. Before The Syndicated Press picked up her piece and jettisoned it out to every other National newspaper. Charleston was finally hitting the big leagues!

Louis greeted her with open arms, ushered her into his eclectic office and slammed the door. Staff gathered around outside sniffing out leads. Shadows lurked behind frosted glass, hoping for a scoop, a spin-off, a late night edition piece. Everybody wanted in on the action. Competitive to the max. Janice couldn’t blame them.

“We’ve added some more reporters.”

Janice made herself comfortable in Louis’s brown leather armchair, torn but cozy. The room smelled of sweet tobacco and mildew. “I’m not surprised. I expected it. If this is what I think it…”

Louis didn’t let her finish. He lit up a cigarette, a menthol with an old-fashioned metal lighter. He closed it by flicking the cover, the routine practiced and precise. She imagined the legion of cigarettes smoked in order to achieve such level of precision. The price he would eventually pay. She shrugged it off as Louis deposited the lighter back into the front pocket of his white crinkled shirt. Just like Janice’s father used to do. “Cigarette?”

“No thanks. The one bad habit I don’t binge on.”

Yellow, half moons outlined Louis’s underarm. He hacked a smoker’s cough. Deep. Dark. Disgusting.

“Had a chest X-ray lately? That sounds ugly.”

“I’m getting a cold. That’s what this job will do to you.”

Louis hadn’t showered yet, either. Janice wondered if he’d gotten any sleep.

Deja vu.

Dad. He had one of those lighters. Now she remembered. The obnoxious smell of butane and lighter fluid. Tobacco. False teeth. She remembered it well. Too well. Too close, for comfort.

Louis interrupted her mental crossfire. “They’ve called in the FBI.”

“What?” Janice straightened up in her chair.

Story of a lifetime…

Might even get a book deal out of it.

“They think it’s a serial, don’t they?” Janice looked around the room searching for a coffee machine. “You got any coffee?” Not that she hadn’t had enough already. Her body was functioning solely on hypersensitive nerves, jacked up adrenaline and caffeine. Coffee and, of course, Lisette. Her upcoming fantasy evening with Lisette was already percolating in her deviant imagination.

“Not saying at this point.” Louis walked to the door, opened it and watched on as people scurried away like cockroaches. He called out to his secretary. “How ‘bout some coffee in here.” Turning, he asked, “You take it black, right?”

“Right.”

He screamed out, “Black! And make sure it’s fresh. Not like the last shit you gave me.”

Janice finished off another cuticle as Louis slammed the door. “They don’t want to cause any unnecessary terror. I can’t blame ‘em. We’ve already received a call from the Mayor’s office this morning. Everybody’s concerned.”

The Mayor’s office. Janice felt as if she were being swept away and deposited smack dab in the middle of some low budget, B-level horror flick. Right on cue, a petite, gaunt woman with straw looking hair entered into the office with a mug of steaming coffee. She offered it to Louis.

“It’s for her.” He scoffed, pointing in Janice’s direction.

Janice stood up and reached for the coffee. “Thank you, darling.” She responded kindly, smiled and left.

“Personally, Mouth, I got a gut on this and it’s gonna be big.”

“Big… as in… what else do you want from me?” Her job, she felt, was already completed. “I do feel pressed to say one thing, though, Louis…”

“What’s that?” He took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled a long chain of cloudy smoke. He aggressively put out the cigarette in an ashtray shaped like the state of Puerto Rico, Louis’s home turf, his stomping grounds. Dead butts and airy cylinders of ash overflowed onto his desk.

“I sure wouldn’t want to be that girl when she wakes up.”

Louis withdrew for a moment. He faced the window. “Me either. Poor thing.” Midday sun cast shadows on his unshaved, sallow face.

In Janice’s line of work, it was important to bring the people back to the real story. The real issue. In this case, she felt it was her duty. Not necessarily for her, but for the girl. For Angie. And, for the first time, ever, she felt it as an obligation. She realized Louis’s desperation. How badly he needed this story as well. Almost as much as she did.

“Maybe there is something we can do, Mouth.” Louis, always thinking.

“What’s that?”

“The attending physician. You get the name of the doctor who administered treatment that first night?” Louis stretched. He rubbed his eyes and sat back down behind his desk. One big, sleepy gorilla.

“I wrote it down somewhere.” She began rooting through pages in her pad. “… Gordenson, Garrison… why?”

“You think he’d be willing to give us a piece?”

“She.”

“A woman. Even better. What about it? Put a human spin to the story. Sympathy factor.” He explained it like a pitch, like he was shopping a screenplay to a seedy producer securing a movie deal. “The female admitting doctor responds with a public announcement, a warning about the brutality of the slayings.”

“I don’t know, Louis. Believe me, there’s already a shitload of sympathy around the case. That girl lost her, well, let’s just say, she’s virtually without any female sexual organs. Besides, the hospital crew’s close mouthed about it. The doctor was talking to Hammer on the ward floor when I left. I definitely did not want to have a run in with him.” Janice took another gulp of coffee wishing she had some Advil. Or TUMS for the heartburn she was surely going to get.

“Try, won’t you?”

Janice set the cup down on his desk. “Thanks for the mud.”

Louis watched as she walked to the door. “You did a great job, Mouth. I just want you to know… I’m proud of you.”

“What is it? You’re the second person that’s said that today. Everybody’s proud of me and it’s not even noon yet.”

“Take it as a compliment. I would.”

“That’s the difference between you and me. I’m great at giving. It’s the receiving I have a hard time with.” The frosted glass door rattled as Janice exited. Similar to her life lately. A lot of skeletons chasing after her.

Friday

11:32 AM

17

Dan took a much needed break from violence and autopsies and drove to the Isle of Palms. Even without sleep, he needed to see his daughter. Connect with her innocence. Some sanity.

Like a gunshot, he sped south on I-26 toward Charleston. Far from Goose Creek, track housing, mini malls and George Madden. More in miles than memory. George was a funny guy. Funny peculiar, as his grandmother used to say. George seemed less interested in sharing information about his heroic adventure than his wife. On the other hand, Edna, well, let’s just say, she seemed genuinely curious about the whole ordeal. Dan kept getting the feeling Edna knew more than she was letting on.

Edna greeted Dan warmly and ushered him into their home. A rotund woman who occupied a generous portion of their cramped living space, she promptly excused herself into the kitchen. She returned carrying a serving tray stacked with miniature toast points and marmalade. Very hospitable. Dan noticed Edna had difficulty navigating her terrain comfortably. Her shoes appeared far too small for her swollen feet, cutting off valuable circulation. The floral housedress she wore was large and blowzy. It had that faded, about to be retired look. Dan couldn’t help but notice the fleshy folds of fat hanging from her upper arms.

“Coffee, Detective?” She asked, positioning the tray on the wooden table.

“Great.” Dan checked out the living room. The house had that warm, musty, lived-in kind of smell. A Bible sat next to the tray. A painted picture of the Lord Jesus hung like a Christmas ornament on the wall, the back of His head illuminated by a low-watt pink light bulb. Dan kept waiting for the damn thing to begin blinking. Weirder, still, he kept wondering why he felt so comfortable.

Funny peculiar…

George sat quietly on the sofa. It was large and ugly and beige in color. Most of the living room was taken up by it. Dan sat opposite George in a beat-up leather recliner. Dishtowels were placed on the used armrests to protect the raveling fabric. Dan stopped rocking by leaning forward into the table.

“There’s a big handle, right there on the side, if you’d like to recline.” George reached over and pointed out the wooden lever.

Dan stopped him at the pass. “This is fine.” George resumed his standard position, at ease, awaiting further instructions from Edna, his live in female drill sergeant. She waddled back into the room. A matching sugar bowl and creamer teetered clumsily in the palm of her chubby hand.

“Sugar?”

“Yes, dear.” George replied, in monotone.

“I’m talking to the nice Detective, George. He was the one kind enough to follow you all the way back here. Besides, your hands aren’t broken.” Pause. “Not yet, anyway.” A sarcastic smile, a slight snort and then three teaspoons of sugar dumped in steady succession into her tiny teacup. Fat fingers daintily stirred the concoction. Edna hoisted it up to her mouth, tasted the coffee, pinkie finger extended, and then proceeded to add another spoonful. Clearing her throat, she looked up at Dan and winked. Her watery eyes appeared to twinkle.

At that point, Dan knew more about Edna and George’s marriage than he cared to. Even so, she continued to illuminate him. Besides, the coffee was excellent and he was exhausted. He needed the caffeine. Edna proceeded to tell Dan how she used the sofa as a bed whenever her sister, Luella came to visit from Savannah. How it unfolded out into a Queen sized bed. Dan nodded and sipped. Nodded and sipped. George remained perfectly quiet. Dan felt sorry for George. But then again, Dan was beginning to feel sorry for most men over the age of twenty-five!

Dan made an exaggerated motion to check the time. “Wow. Time flies.” He thanked Edna for her kindness, her hospitality and her coffee before excusing himself. He had taken about as much information from George Madden as he was ever going to need, but he passed his card over to him just the same. As a courtesy. Dan gave the customary detective rap, “give me a call if you remember anything…” as Edna hobbled along beside him to the front door. At one point, she reached over and steadied herself on Dan’s arm. He allowed her the moment.

“You’re welcome to stay for lunch, if you like, Detective.” She brushed gray hair from off her forehead with the back of her thick wrist. It was a difficult move to complete, dexterity not being one of Edna’s better attributes. At one time, Edna might have been beautiful. Dan got the feeling she was actually flirting with him.

Of course, Dan refused the offer.

The screen door banged shut. Dan ambled down the few broken concrete steps to his car. Edna stood behind the ripped screen. She waved goodbye. Dan couldn’t see George standing behind her. He must have already disappeared into his life.

And, Dan was ready to withdraw into a lost part of his. Alexandra. The only fragment that still made any sense.

Gina hated it when Dan showed up unexpectedly. Her excuse was that Alexandra became too excited after spending any time with him. It made it difficult for Gina to start their day with any sort of regularity. Dan said, “fuck that.” Alexandra was his daughter, too, for Christ’s sake.

The worst of the morning traffic had ceased as he crossed over the new Cooper River Bridge. What remained on the road belonged to families, vacationers, or young kids, teenagers skipping class and heading to the beach. Piled high in the backseats were blankets, towels, coolers and volleyballs. Beach gear. Dan used to keep theirs in the backseat, too. When Gina, Alexandra and he were together. When they were a family. Now, Dan tossed everything into the trunk.

He used it for emergencies…

The Isle of Palms. What a perfect place to visit. Or live. Seven sundrenched miles of wide, clean beaches. The Atlantic Ocean at your doorstep and warm, inviting South Carolina sun on your face. Dan could almost smell Summer simmering. That blend of coconut oil and Hawaiian Tropic smoldering in the air. Fruit drinks, frosty Corona Beer and margaritas. Dan’s personal favorite tequila was Don Julio, Silver.

He avoided the line of cars entering The Visitor Center and passed through Mount Pleasant. He drove the few miles of two lane traffic, past strip malls and fast food chains. How many times had they made a pit stop at the Dairy Queen? Quenching their thirst with ginger ale served over crushed ice or an ice cream cone after a relaxing day at the beach. Or feasted on their fantastic Sloppy Joes, sauce dripping carelessly onto their tanned, brown skin.

A young girl in her teens, blonde hair and very shapely ran from a convertible. She wore nothing more than a neon orange thong bikini. She giggled as she entered, pulling the Dairy Queen door open and vanishing into the air conditioning. Her boyfriend waited outside, bare-chested. He listened to the radio. The volume was pumped up so loud, the bass track reverberated. He moved his head to the beat. Do these kids have any idea a maniac’s loose and causing havoc on young women? Probably at this very moment, picking his next victim. Sorting through the wide assortment of tourists, choosing the next trophy for his curious collection. An ideal situation for a killer.

Dan drove bumper to bumper, waiting for the congestion to ease. With so much additional tourist traffic, you would think the City of Mount Pleasant would increase their two lane highway to at least a four-way. He followed the steady procession across the connector bridge. It passed over the Intracoastal Waterway. Murky, green water traveled uninterrupted to the Atlantic and to the Charleston Harbor. Luckily, no boats were crossing. Otherwise, he would have to sit and wait while the drawbridge rose. He passed by unscathed. Fishermen lined the side of the road. Their poles dangled sunlight into the stream. A constant parade of cyclists, kids on rollerblades, long boarders, and joggers traveled the long stretch of miles in stride.

A rustic sign welcomed Dan to the Isle of Palms. Finally. It seemed to be the only thing constant year after year. That old wooden logo. Dan knew the road. He’d driven it a thousand times. Palms Boulevard. He followed it until he got to Forty First Street and made a left hand turn. At the end of the block was a pair of well-maintained tennis courts and a recreational facility. He used to play tennis there, back when he was younger. Back when he was trying to impress Gina. Now, the most exercise he got was… not much.

He leisurely drove past Gina’s small beach house. Their house. He turned around in the parking lot at the end of the street. Gravel crunched as he made the u-turn and parked in a vacant space two houses before theirs. He turned off the ignition and watched, spying on his own home, his own child. How crazy was that?

He looked in the rearview mirror. His image caught him off guard. He looked like shit. Without sleep and a shave, he was beginning to resemble a serial killer himself. He was in desperate need of a kind word, a gentle touch, a cold shower. He rubbed his eyes, cleared his throat and spit out the window. Dan never considered himself a handsome man, but he knew he had something. There was something special about him. A sparkle. Some magic. Maybe it was his eyes. His build. His Mom used to tell him it was his eyes. “You’ve got your Father’s eyes,” she’d say. That was all right. He’d seen photos of his Dad. His eyes seemed attractive enough. For a guy, anyway. When Dan was younger, he did work out at the gym. A lot. It was the thing to do. Push the weights, get the girls. Not that it did much good. Look where it got him. He got the girl, but then what happened?

Dan did have a slight paunch gathering around his waist. Some heft. A bit of a girth. He actually liked himself better with it. That middle age spread. Even though he hated the thought of being middle aged. Just turning thirty six, Dan didn’t really consider himself old yet but, according to his insurance company, he was. Dan needed a shave. He’d feel a hell of a lot better with a shower and a toothbrush. A little breakfast wouldn’t hurt either. Maybe stop thinking for a second. Cease the incessant tape looping around in his brain like a manic pinball machine.

He fantasized about walking up those steps and turning the doorknob to the cottage and entering into the smell of breakfast cooking on the stove. Alexandra would jump up into his arms, all slobbery and wet, screaming, “Daddy, Daddy!” And Dan would tell her how adorable she was, and did she happen to look into the mirror this morning and see who the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world was? Then, he would saunter over to the stove and give Gina a gentle pinch on the ass. She hated that, but he would do it anyway. Just to provoke her. Then Gina would tell him to sit down. She would insist Dan wash his hands from all that crime he’d been dealing with. She would plop down on to his plate two over medium eggs beside a patch of well done, crispy bacon. Extra crispy, just the way he liked it. Gina made a fantastic breakfast.

“I already washed my hands,” Dan would tell her, but of course, he hadn’t.

In real life, the front door did open. Alexandra came barreling out from the house, Gina running fast behind her. She scooped up Alexandra into her arms, not an easy feat for a five year old, and together they laughed and giggled and hugged. He could almost hear them. He imagined he could, anyway. Gina was an excellent mother. That much he gave her. She was probably an exceptional wife, too. How would he know?

He looked up at the house with its large gray porch, whitewashed wooden railing and hunter green crooked shutters. He lived in squalor so his daughter could have a nice place to grow up. Personally, he felt the Isle of Palms was an ideal spot to raise a child. Lots of sunshine. Fresh ocean air. Good schools. Progressive, they were told, when they were out shopping, scouting for options. Gina picked the school herself. All on her own, which was unusual. Gina tended to be the dependent type, needing a lot of attention.

Alexandra was busy with her coloring book, lying on her belly, legs dangling, completely absorbed. Gina looked out over the porch railing. She cleared a wisp of dark hair from her eyes allowing some midday sun to kiss her face. Tall and tan, Gina was an attractive woman. She had legs that seemed to go on forever and the sexiest, tiniest ankles. Dan happened to love ankles. She looked down at Alexandra, made some comment about her coloring talent, and then back up again. Casually, Gina looked in Dan’s direction, instantly recognizing his car.

Damn!

Gina pulled her sunglasses down from off her forehead. She zoomed in and took a closer look, identifying Dan sitting in his shitty, run down car.

He turned the ignition over. He wouldn’t want to mess up Alexandra’s schedule. As he passed by the house, he noticed her holding onto her picture, waving it for Gina to look at. Dan fantasized her showing it to him. He would be over-the-top with his compliments. He would let her know what a talented artist she was, what a terrific young lady she was becoming and all that he was missing.

He turned right onto Palms Boulevard toward Mount Pleasant and on into Charleston. A killer was on the loose.

Somebody might actually need him.

Friday

12:43 PM

18

Susan knew immediately. What could possibly be said about somebody who’d lived their entire life for somebody else, been beside them, with them, for so many years? There’s an intuitive understanding. A sixth sense. An incredible familiarity. It brought a smile across Susan’s face. Her eyes became soft and ageless. Even now, in her painful state, she got it.  Harry was at his best while he was working. Perhaps it gave her faith. Some confidence surrounding her own life that it wasn’t yet reaching its dramatic conclusion. Life went on. People got up, went to work, had families… survived.

Who really knew what Susan was thinking?

Nancy, their daughter, sat uncomfortably on a wooden chair beside Susan’s bed, unsuspecting of anything. She massaged Keri lotion onto Susan’s hands.

“Harry?” Susan’s voice was pregnant with intrigue.

Nancy looked up, then back to her mother. Her brown ponytail flip-flopped in the air with each over reactive move. “What?”

“There’s a problem in Charleston. They found a body. A young girl, thirteen years old. Another one is in Intensive Care.”

Susan shook her head and reached up for Harry. “Come here, you.”

Harry walked over to the bed and leaned toward her. He could smell the lotion. He could feel Susan’s skinny arms fumbling to reach around his wide back. “What’s the world coming to?”

Harry heard himself say, almost mechanically, “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”

“Sometimes, Harry, I think I’m better off.”

Harry pulled Susan’s frail body close. He could feel her rib cage, the pure exertion it took for her to hold on. He caught Nancy’s expression of shock, audibly digesting the information he’d just announced. It was obviously giving her horrendous indigestion.

“Don’t tell me you have to go to Charleston!” Nancy interrupted. An aggressive tone was building in her voice, gathering momentum, a storm about to break. “I’m sure the FBI has other people they can send. Right?”

Instead of a long, elaborate explanation, Harry went for few words. Clarity. “I have to go.”

“What do you mean, you have to go? What about Mom?”

Susan took hold of Nancy’s hand. “It’s okay, dear. I’ve been through this a thousand times…”

“I know, but…”

“It’s his job. He loves it.”

Harry chimed in, attempting to make his case stronger. “A friend of mine called. From Columbia. I worked with him before…”

“Excuse me, but I think this situation needs a little of your attention for the time being.” Nancy stood up from her chair. She moved to the window. Her body language was closed and protective. Sunlight danced off her face. Small crow’s feet gathered around her eyes as she squinted into her reflection. Even Nancy, their little girl, was not immune to the assault of age or time. She tightened her arms above her waist. “What’s going to happen when you retire? I mean…”

Harry sat down beside Susan. The mattress sighed. “Charleston isn’t that far, Nancy. If you need me, I can get back here in four or five hours. Quicker if I fly. I’ve already discussed it with your Mother’s doctors.”

“Dad…” Nancy faced Harry, interrupting his explanation. She could care less. Her expression was tense. Hard. “You should hear yourself, what you’re saying. Mom needs you. What do you mean, four or five hours? We might only have four or five minutes…” She covered her mouth with her hand, controlling her rage.

“Nancy, stop this.” Harry stood. “Enough is enough.”

“… you really can’t go through with this. Not now, Daddy.”

“Will both of you please stop talking as if I’m not even in the same damn room.” Susan grabbed Harry’s arm. She gave a slight tug, as much as she could.

Harry wasn’t making much progress. It was evident staying with Susan meant being here for Nancy as well. Harry couldn’t blame her. Her Mother was dying. The first death the family had had to deal with, witness, absorb. It was a shock and extremely difficult. For all of them. Witnessing mortality and getting in touch with their own.

Until now, all Nancy had experienced was overtures. Life and birth and celebration. To be called upon so prematurely to watch the woman who gave her life, and who resembled her physically in so many wonderful ways, march headlong into death must be excruciatingly painful and overwhelming. No words could describe Nancy’s pain right now. Not even his. And in Harry’s career, witnessing death act itself out in so many dissimilar ways, at so many diverse levels, one would think it would never get under one’s skin. Not the way it used to when Harry was younger. But he was mistaken. When death hits home, it changes everything.

Perhaps Nancy read his mind. Her chin quivered in that special way it used to when she was a child, holding back tears. Not wanting Harry to notice, she cast her eyes down onto the bleached white sheets.

“It’s okay, Nancy. Really. I’m going to be fine. For a while.” Susan tried in vain to comfort her.

Silence.

Horrible, horrible silence.

Harry tried cutting the ribbon of tension holding the room hostage. “Hey, where are my two favorite grandchildren?” He clapped his hands together. It startled Nancy. She jumped slightly then returned to the window.

“With Thomas. Getting ice cream. They should be back any minute.” She stared blankly out the window before ambling back to the chair and sitting down. Her body language was far from open. Far from this hospital room. She too, longed to escape this place, this process, this unfortunate reality.

Harry opened a pack of lemon glycerin swabs from the bedside table. He dabbed one of them lightly over Susan’s dry, cracked lips.

“Do you want some water, or some juice, honey?” He asked.

Susan mouthed “no.” It had become painful to swallow. The cancer had metastasized to her throat. Cancer. The deadliest serial killer of them all. Susan’s arm looked like a purple pin cushion, bruised and pricked from nurses sticking needles into her every two hours. Recently, the doctor had installed a morphine shunt into her sternum. She was sore for a while, but the “as needed” morphine could be administered much easier. “A losing battle,” the doctors had said. Surgery was not an option.

Harry rubbed Susan’s pale forehead. Her skin was translucent. Spidery veins ran haywire then disappeared into her slight hairline. He reached out for Nancy’s arm. She changed her position in her chair and pulled away.

“When do you leave?” Susan’s voice, paper-thin, whispered in Harry’s ear. He could still hear her. Susan’s distinctive tone. He regressed. He remembered her yelling out for dinner. Standing on the front porch, years before, when the kids were still young and in school. She would get so damn angry if they weren’t at the table when they were supposed to be. Back then, when she was strong, her voice carried. The whole neighborhood could hear her reveille. Every night at six o’clock sharp. Right after the news.

Harry looked at his watch.

“Are you kidding?” Nancy made no bones about her unhappiness. She kept pushing, challenging, and provoking Harry. Subtle gestures took on enormous attitude. The rolling of the eyes. The way she defiantly shook her head. Exaggerated sighs. Stubborn qualities she unfortunately inherited from Harry.

“They’ve established a task force.” Harry tried sounding convincing. On a mission. “They’re afraid he’ll hit again.” Harry felt like a teenager, persuading his parents for the keys to the car. I promise. I’ll be home early…

Nancy wasn’t interested. She could care less about a task force or even a serial killer for that matter. Her Mother was dying and she was pissed off. “Can you at least wait until the girls get back?”

“Of course.” Harry understood. He was pissed off, too. He reached for Nancy’s arm. “Of course, I can.”

Time passed. The sun shifted its position in Susan’s private room. Warm spots moved like water bugs across the wall and ceiling and bed. Harry held onto Susan’s cool hand as she quietly slept. Eventually, he held Nancy. And later, before the girls arrived with sticky hands from chocolate ice cream, Nancy softened and allowed herself to cry. An explosion of pent up emotion, pain, sadness and grief.

Another wonderful quality she’d inherited from… Susan.

Friday

3:32 PM

MUSC

Charleston, South Carolina

19

She heard voices.

Beside her.

Familiar and comforting.

Blood pulsed through her thick body, keeping a steady, slow cadence. The solid sound of beeps was nearby, next to her head.

Where was she?

Her eyelids felt heavy, weighted down. Fat. She tried conjuring up an image. Miniature dumbbells attached like false eyelashes. But the logic wouldn’t allow her to connect any. Her wiring had been shorted out. Her fuses were blown. But those voices…they continued…

Please, keep talking. Please…don’t let me go…

* * *

For fifteen minutes, he’d been watching the door, left open earlier by that cute, attractive female nurse. She’d come in to change Angie’s IV, check her heart rate and blood pressure. Everything was fancy now. State-of-the-art. A computer screen told them what they needed to know. What they needed to do. Wires and gadgets were hooked up all over Angie’s body. It sent information to the nurse’s station remotely, within seconds. Not like in the old days when nurses would wake you up every couple of hours just to see if you were alive! That nurse was a cute thing, though. He had always been a sucker for a uniform. Fantasy. Yeah, pure fantasy. She scurried in and checked Angie’s monitor, recorded a few things in her chart and left, back to the activity and commotion of the hallway.

Meanwhile, there was no activity in this room. No movement at all. Nothing. They kept waiting for Angie to move, wink, cough, or blink. Anything. Hell, they would be happy if she farted, for God’s sake. Absolutely ecstatic. But she hadn’t. She just lay there. Asleep. And each time he considered getting up to leave, he changed his mind. Instead, he would readjust his ass on that damn uncomfortable hospital chair and look at Sarah,  his wife. Call it guilt, he guessed. He tapped the box of his Marlboros in his front shirt pocket with his index finger. He kept time with the beeps. Finally, he’d had enough. “I’m going down to the cafeteria, Sarah. You want anything?”

“What?” Oh, the look on Sarah’s face. Like he just committed manslaughter or something worse. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. What if Angie comes to? What if our precious little Angie wakes up and you’re not here? Huh?”

He was half-tempted to just shut up and sit his ass back down. Hell, he loved his daughter, too. Besides, Angie would want him to take a little cigarette break. Wasn’t he the one who didn’t rat on his own daughter when he caught her smoking after cheerleading practice with her girlfriends in the garage? “Sarah, I want a cigarette, if that’s okay with you.”

“You are leaving your daughter who is practically…” Sarah whispered, softly, shielding her mouth with her hand, “… comatose…” Then louder, with conviction “… to have a damn cigarette. You should be ashamed of yourself, Donald Kessler. Shame on you!”

“Keep your voice down, Sarah. There’s no need for that kind of talk. We’ve both been here all night. Remember? I was here, too, you know. You need a break, yourself.”

“Never. I don’t even believe you. Leaving your daughter to have a cigarette! That just burns me up.” She turned back to Angie and shook her head. That little action really pissed him off. Then, to make matters even worse, she started talking to Angie. “Your Father is leaving to go have a cigarette, dear.”

That was it! He’d had enough. “Sarah, may I please have a word with you out in the hallway?”

“Absolutely not. I am not leaving my baby. Not for one red second.” She tugged at her knit sweater, securing it around her waist. He could see tears forming in the corner of her eyes. He could shoot himself for getting her so riled up. Him and his damn smoking anyway. He should have quit years ago. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away.

“I’m sorry, Sarah.” He bent down to kiss her, tenderly on the cheek. “I’m really sorry. I’m a jackass. You hear me, Angie?”

He had never seen such pain in Sarah’s eyes. Ever. “What did we ever do to deserve this, Donald? Can you answer me that? Can you?”

Sarah leaned up and touched Angie’s forehead. A small patch of skin was left exposed between her eyebrows. The rest of her head had been wrapped with sterile gauze and tape.

“I don’t know, honey. But, we need to take a little break.” He attempted to check his watch. He could not believe it. “We’ve been sitting here for almost sixteen hours.”

Sarah looked at him, her brown eyes red and swollen. It appeared as if she’d aged ten years in one night. “Go ahead. I’m sorry, hon.” She took his face in her hands and pulled him close. “You’re a good man, Donald. I’m sorry. This is just so difficult…”

He pulled her up from the chair, positioned her arms around his waist and gave her a loving hug. The door opened. A male nurse, tall and good looking, dressed in all white entered.

“Oooops, sorry. Am I disturbing something?” he asked. He carried a mischievous glint in his eye.

Sarah and Donald pulled themselves apart. Snagged. Like when they were caught making out in the back seat of his old Dodge Dart. Flashback of them in that damn relic. He smiled sheepishly, concealing a blush while Sarah tugged once again at her sweater. She made a quick attempt to find a lost hairdo. He stretched his back and tucked his shirt into his chinos.

“Change of shift. Just checking to make sure everything is A-OK with Miss Angie, here.” The male nurse was young, slim and attractive. Very put together. His hair was military short, a crew cut and he talked with exaggerated kindness.

“She hasn’t moved at all. Nothing,” Sarah said.

“It will take some time.” The nurse continued speaking as he emptied bloody, pink urine from Angie’s catheter bag into a plastic measuring cup. He walked with purpose into the bathroom, measured the urine and then flushed it down the toilet. Rinsing out the container in the sink, he returned to the bed and recorded his findings in Angie’s chart. “Her urine is looking much better this evening.”

“That’s good?” Donald asked, scratching his head. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean? Her…”

“Donald.” Sarah interrupted him. “Shhh.”

“I know how concerned you both are, but you need to rest. Why don’t you take a little break? Just an hour or so. There’s a waiting room right outside the ICU. It has some lounge chairs and sofas. You can relax. Take a nap. If anything changes, I’ll come and get you. Right away.”

“Exactly honey.” He spoke up. “That’s what I keep telling her.”

“I just want to be here when she does wake up. That’s all.” Sarah turned her back to the bed and grabbed hold of Angie’s limp hand.

“Totally understandable,” the nurse walked to the door. “Angie’s pretty well sedated. Dr. Garrison wants her to sleep. She needs a lot of that right now. Just don’t forget to take care of yourselves.”

“Thank you.” Donald was relieved as hell and liking this guy more and more. Now, maybe he could have that cigarette.

Sarah leaned over the metal railing and kissed Angie on the cheek before they all left the room and entered into the hallway.

“Just for a few minutes, Donald.” Sarah said, looking back one last time.

“Yes, dear. We’ll just be a few minutes.” He could already taste black coffee and that first delicious inhale of his cigarette. Donald guided Sarah down the corridor, searching frantically for matches hiding somewhere in his pants pockets.

* * *

Please.

Don’t leave me.

Please don’t leave me.

It’s dark in here...

She could sense the loss. Feel their absence.

Pause.

Oh, thank God, You’re back.

Company.

She could sense it. Somebody was present.

Thank you for not leaving...

Movement. Beyond and around her. She tried raising her eyelids to see who it was.

Who is it?

Mommy? Daddy?

Is that you?

She wanted to use her hands to help free her, but they felt waterlogged. Like they were lying on the bottom of an enormous blue ocean. The water was warm though, like flannel sheets on a cold Winter’s night, when it’s far too chilly for just a thin cotton blanket.

“Our time is the very shadow that passeth away…”

Voices.

Soft.

Melodic.

Yes, voices. Please, sing to me.

“Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, before they be withered…”

It must be the voices of angels.

Angels.

“For God created man to be immortal, and made him to be an image of his own eternity. Nevertheless, through envy of the devil came death into the world…”

Oh, Angel from Heaven anoint me. Use your Holy water. Save me, and protect me, and heal me.

Oh, Angel, sent from God, help me fight.

Help me fight for my life.

“The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die, and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us to be utter destruction, but they are at peace.”

Yes, yes…

I am in Divine peace.

At church.

The retreat.

Remember, Mommy?

All of us positioned up on the hill, waiting, standing there, the wind blowing, anticipating Jesus to enter us. The sun shining on our faces. The smell of freshly cut grass and magnolias, I think. Sweet. Intoxicating. I remember the day smelled so, so sweet. And Reverend Jason standing with us at the top of the hill, his hands held high above him reaching out toward the radiant sky, taking us all in and showing us the way home to Jesus. I had to scrunch my eyes, the sun was so bright. Reverend Jason looked like a large white sheet, billowing in the afternoon breeze.

Save us, Jesus. Save us.

Mommy and Daddy watching their little girl accept the Lord Jesus into her life.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Can you see me?

Are you watching your little Angie now?

I am allowing him in. Yes, into my life. Again. Yes, yes… enter me. Your Holy water bathes me in peace. I want to speak. I want to sing. I want to yell out. I want to pray. I feel so saved…

“For though they be punished in the sight of men, yet is their hope full of immortality.”

Your Holy water is cold. It stings.

It smells different from what Reverend Jason used.

This Holy water makes my throat feel tight. And icy. Like the ice I fell through when we were visiting Grandma’s house in New Jersey. Remember? I was little then and wearing the new ice skates Santa brought me for Christmas.

A tinge of panic.

Like then, when the crack began to split and the freezing water began seeping up through the jagged edges.

When the earth opened up and swallowed me…

Icy cold.

Why should I be scared? Everything is fine. Relax. Rest.

She tried reaching out for something. Anything. She needed to feel reality. A hard surface to hold onto, to center her. A few times after she drank Jack Daniels with Daryl, and she got drunk dizzy, she would grip onto her bedside table. It helped. But everything seemed different now. Her hands were heavy. Dense. It was getting difficult for her to breathe.

Mommy?

“And having been a little chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded: For God proved them, and found them worthy for himself.”

God?

Why can’t I breathe?

Why do I smell fumes? Like gasoline.

Whose hand is that?

Mommy?

Daddy?

Is that your hand, Mom?

Mom?

MOM!

She tried screaming, but her voice was lost at sea…

* * *

“Richard?”

Richard stood behind her, in front of the medicine cabinet, logging narcotics, a change of shift function he didn’t mind doing.

“Yes?” He answered.

Rebecca just loved the way he talked. Richard could say “yeah” or “uh-huh,” but when Richard said “yes,” so correctly, so perfectly, so succinctly, you could even hear the “s” trail off at the end.

“Do you smell smoke or is that just me?” She scrunched up her nose and sniffed at the air. She sat straight up in her swivel back chair, laboriously transcribing what seemed like a thousand doctor’s orders into patient’s charts.

“I told that guy he couldn’t smoke on the floor. Fool.”

“What guy?” She asked, looking at her nice new French manicure, adjusting her wedding ring so the two carat diamond stood straight up at attention like a big old hard-on.

“Angie’s father. Mr. Kessler. Room 401. He could barely wait to light up that damn cigarette.”

“Richard, can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

She swiveled her chair around in his direction. “I just love your accent.” And she did, too. Rebecca playfully circled back around. She also thought Richard had a hot ass. His butt hugged those pressed white pants like spandex. All tight and toned from all those hours lifting weights. Squats. She tried not to pay any attention, but it did get her thoughts ticking. Rebecca went about her business. She realized Richard was probably gay anyway. The elevator doors opened with that familiar ding. Rebecca watched Angie’s parents edge their way out into the corridor. “Speak of the devil,” she said, standing up from her chair, ready to receive them. She noticed Richard turn around as well. In fact, Rebecca gave her most professional smile as Mr. and Mrs. Kessler walked down the short hallway, past the Waiting Room and opened the glass doors to the Unit.

It was only when Mrs. Kessler -- Rebecca thought her name was Sarah -- turned in the direction of Angie’s room that she realized what her eyes had taken in, just two seconds earlier.

In the doorway of Room 401 was Angie’s bed, completely engulfed in flames. A fireball of sparks and smoke. A raging fire flared up to the ceiling, licking at the hospital curtains hanging from the window.

Rebecca didn’t know if they all stood there perplexed by the sight or frozen in pure shock, but they all just stared for a second in disbelief, gawking at that bed, watching a curly wave of gray smoke roll out toward them. And then, the most blood-curdling cry Rebecca had ever heard in her entire life as Mrs. Kessler screamed, what sounded like “Angieeeeee,” and ran right into that inferno and threw herself head first onto that bed and into that fire.

Friday

4:07 PM

20

“Yeah?”

Afternoon light bled through closed bedroom blinds. Dan rolled over and answered the call. It was an instinctive gesture, almost as natural as…sleeping. In the process, he turned the alarm clock out of view, avoiding the automatic response to calculate how little zzz’s he’d actually gotten.

Chief Abram’s voice was about as welcome as an earthquake. “Get your ass to MUSC. I’ll meet you there.”

“What?” Dan’s voice wasn’t much better. He cleared his throat with a swig of leftover, flat Pepsi sitting on the floor by his bed. “What happened?”

“Just get your ass up, Hammer, and stop asking so many damn questions.”

“But, that’s my job, boss. That’s why you pay me the big bucks!”

The Chief was not amused. He didn’t respond.

Dan’s cell phone went dead.

Bastard!

Dan secured his hands behind his head and stared at the dingy, off-white ceiling. A large crack dominated a huge section, to the extent it resembled the entire coastline of Florida. Years ago, when he first noticed the plaster breaking, back in its infancy, back when he cared about what the ceiling looked like, it reminded him of Italy, that boot like projection with the pointy end. Greece, maybe. Now, in its current stage of maturity, Florida seemed more appropriate. Even though Dan’s preference was still and always would be… Italy. When he started thinking, which happened a lot lately, he wished he had a hobby. An interest. Something.

He turned the clock back around. The time read precisely 4:21 PM. That would mean he got exactly… he counted on his fingers… two hours and fourteen minutes of sleep. Thanks, Chief!

Dan had always admired and respected him. He held a soft spot. The Chief had been a mentor to Dan in many ways. He could be rude, cruel and oftentimes difficult to handle, but he’d always been honest. Fair. From the old school. The old South. The quiet, calm and sleepy South. Hell, the most exciting thing they ever witnessed down here was domestic squabbles and Hurricane Hugo. But this? This was way out of the ordinary. Out of everybody’s league, out of their comfort zone. A blood bath involving two teenage girls was not the norm in Charleston, let alone the possibility of a freaking serial killer. Hell, that was reserved for things like the Movie of the Week, or HBO. This was major shit that just blew in, and Dan would bet a pretty penny that Police Chief Abrams was feeling the Mayor’s heat tight around the collar right about now. Particularly with the Post and Courier hitting the stands this morning.

Dan pulled himself to the side of the bed and sat up. He barely missed upsetting a can of flat Pepsi. A slight, humid breeze blew in through the open window. The dusty Venetian blinds rattled. It practically hypnotized him. He fought the urge to lie back down and decided instead to jump up. Like a lunatic. To get the blood circulating. Left in a heap on the floor were the clothes he wore earlier. Guess he wouldn’t be wearing that suit. He stepped over the mound of shoes and week-old dirty laundry before heading to the bathroom through a tiny adjoining hallway. In the living room, sun was pouring in through the open window. He felt guilty. He could barely see the outside, the glass was so dirty. It was on his list of things to do, if he ever got around to doing it. If he could even find the freakin’ list. He chuckled and shook his head.

He was a mess.

He passed by Alexandra’s picture hanging on the wall in the hallway. Gina had it taken by an expensive professional photographer up in Columbia for Alexandra’s fourth birthday. Cost him an arm and a leg, but it was worth it. Alexandra wore her favorite pink dress for the session, the one Dan had picked out. And Gina, against his better judgment, had put one of those stupid elastic, lacy bands around her head. It didn’t matter. Alexandra looked adorable.

He kissed his finger and put it to the glass holding her tiny face captive. “Love you, baby girl.” He whispered as he entered the bathroom. His stomach made a hearty growl as he relieved himself. Looking into the frothy toilet reminded him of his earlier drive to the Isle of Palms. The emptiness he felt in his gut driving back to Charleston.

Love you, baby girl…

He checked himself out in the mirror. “Hello, you handsome devil.” Then, he realized he was staring at himself. “You look like pure shit, Hammer.” He began the hot water and opened the medicine cabinet for his razor. If there was one thing he must do, was shave. Shaving always made him feel like a new man.

Well, he could dream, couldn’t he?

Forty five minutes later, showered and shaved, he locked the front door to his beautiful, spacious North Charleston apartment. He glanced across the busy intersection toward the Naval Regional Medical Center. A giant concrete aircraft carrier marooned on a still tarmac sea. The sun was a fiery orange peg, perched like a huge egg on the flat roof of the Hospital.

He secured his .38 pistol into his leather holster, buttoned up his two week old, navy blue suit, and walked down the two flights of stairs to his car. At the bottom, by the carport were kids, barefoot with runny noses, playing jump rope.

“‘Yo mista,” one of them called out. “‘Ya gotta quarta?”

Dan reached into the bottom of his pocket and felt the jingle of a few leftover coins. Probably from the last time he wore the jacket. He pulled out the change, picked out two quarters and handed it to the wiry black kid with the bent glasses. The boy held onto the metal handrail, one foot propped on top of the other and swayed back and forth.

“Here ya go.” Dan placed the quarters in his small, dirty hands.

“Thanks, bro.” The kid cried out, jumped from off the lattice and raced back to the safety of his brothers and sisters.

Dan was happy.

Clean.

He’d taken a shower. Shaved. A quick pit stop at Mickey D’s drive through for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese to arrest his growling stomach and, hell, he’d be good as new!

Friday

4:15 PM

21

Dr. Garrison’s apartment was located about ten minutes from downtown Charleston in a small seaside community known as Folly Beach.

Following Louis’s lead and, with the help of an acquaintance-friend Janice had met through Donny (who just so happened to work at MUSC), she decided to take a quick jaunt to the historic island and see if Dr. Garrison wouldn’t mind having a little heart to heart, girlfriend to girlfriend bonding session. It wasn’t everyday a girl received a story of a lifetime. Right?

The Water’s Edge was the deluxe rental community Dr. Garrison lived at, and from the way it appeared, it had all the sweeping amenities of luxury living. And, whoever designed the grounds didn’t call it The Water’s Edge for nothing. The Folly Beach Pier was conveniently located a few minutes away, within walking distance from the property. Once there, you could stroll the boardwalk, populated with snack bars, restaurants and trendy tourist shops. A sightseeing bonanza. And, if the pier or the beach didn’t do it for you, the complex itself provided a plethora of extravagant elegant accommodations. Enough to satisfy any overworked physician.

An enormous, hourglass swimming pool shimmered in the center of a beautifully coiffed garden. On the lacquered wooden decks were lawn chairs, yellow and white striped cabanas, matching umbrellas and a larger than life Jacuzzi. Palm trees and lush tropical foliage added to the beauty of the grounds and the pool. All this should keep any tenant lavishly content, at least until the first of the month rolled around and the rent was due. In the middle of this sprawling, coastal property was a full service clubhouse, equipped with billiards, ping pong tables and tennis courts.

Shangri-La.

Janice was in the wrong profession. She should have been a real estate broker.

Needing to use the restroom, Janice chose to investigate the clubhouse first. Inside, she noticed how meticulously clean everything was. A housekeeping attendant was actually cleaning the front window as she entered. She politely opened the door for Janice and offered a shy exchange before going about her business. Janice strolled over polished terracotta floors to the Ladies Room. She passed through a lounge, decorated with earth colored divans and wicker chairs. Reminding her more of a changing room than a relief station, it came equipped with showers, a sauna (real redwood) and a steam room. Each amenity worked flawlessly on its own automatic timer. She entered into her private stall. As she sat, she looked around for graffiti, loose cigarette ashes… anything unkempt, but everything was clean and polished to a high patina. She washed her hands at the marble sink and noticed a beautiful supply of bathroom accessories. Neatly displayed on the vanity were fluffy hand towels, individually folded. Wow!

Outside the restroom was a coed game room stocked with every imaginable gadget you could possibly think of. Several computerized dartboards lined the walls. Decks of cards, chess sets and ornate wood engraved backgammon boards rested on top of imported mosaic tabletops. Tucked away in a back corner was a pool table. Janice noticed the colorful balls already positioned in their triangular cue. How could she resist? She grabbed at one of the several pool sticks from off the wall, chalked it up and implemented one of her famous powerhouse breaks. To her surprise and chagrin, the only ball that sunk into the side pocket was the white one. Scratch! She dropped the stick on the table and continued her weary tour of how the other half lived. The rich half, that is.

Where’s Robin Leach when you need him?

A separate room was crammed with an assortment of coin-operated vending machines. She took a dollar bill from her pocket, smoothed out the dog-eared edges, fed it through the money slot and pressed the large rectangular button for Coke. It spit and burped and banged out a cold can into the bin located at the bottom.

She moseyed back through the adult playroom and entered the outside world. She pulled on her sunglasses and observed, in the distance behind a high wire fence, several couples dressed in white outfits swinging at tennis balls across a double court.

Large, two story brick structures fanned out over rolling lawns. The grounds were meticulously landscaped with exotic shrubs and flowers. How would one sign up? And, did they allow dogs? Jake would have a field day! Janice walked to the front of one of the apartment complex. Displayed in large black lettering on the brick facade: 201 – 229. She glanced at her wadded up piece of paper. 427. She passed by the Jacuzzi, void of people, wishing she’d remembered to bring her bathing suit. A few tenants lounged by the pool tanning themselves. Couples. The smell of suntan oil wafted in the air. Janice longed for a daiquiri. A margarita. Anything except this nonalcoholic Coca Cola! She casually waved to two woman playing tennis (they didn’t wave back). She crossed over another grassy knoll to the next apartment structure. In the parking lot across the street, a young girl practiced riding her bicycle. She spun around in dizzy circles with the aid of training wheels. Tassels, in an assortment of pastel, sparkly colors flowed freely from the handlebars like fireworks. Janice sensed somebody was watching. Within minutes, Janice turned to see the girl’s mother, or babysitter, or guardian run from an adjacent complex, gather the girl up in her arms and efficiently escort her and her bicycle up the winding sidewalk to the safety of the garage.

Safety.

Janice couldn’t blame her. She could only imagine the terror seeping into the community since the morning paper hit the stands. “The Mutilator.” And, Janice couldn’t believe she was the lucky reporter responsible for it. She continued walking, a woman on a mission.

400 – 429.

Bingo!

She approached the building with obvious apprehension. Upstairs, the second story apartments began numbering at 415. Holding onto the steel black handrail, she climbed the steps. What should she say? How would she initiate a conversation with Dr. Garrison? How would the Doctor feel about a snoopy reporter finding out her home address and driving to Folly Beach to interrogate her? Especially after the Hammerhead had assaulted her. Questions tumbled like Bingo balls as she advanced down the hall to apartment 427. The actual door appeared insignificant. Not as snazzy as one would expect considering the elegance of the clubhouse downstairs. But clean. The hallways were orderly. Positioned in the center of the plain green door was a brass knocker. It covered a tiny peephole. On the right side was an illuminated orange doorbell. Janice stood there, silently, contemplating on how to proceed. She opted for the doorbell. More professional.

“Can I help you with something?”

Wait one second. She hadn’t even buzzed yet.

Janice turned in the direction of the voice.

“Who are you looking for?” the woman asked, putting down a paper bag filled with groceries. She rummaged in her purse for keys. “Well?”

“You need any help with that?” Janice responded with kindness, feeling more like a girl scout than a reporter.

“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks.” She paused for a second and then looked up at Janice with an unwavering focus. “Well?”

Janice stood for what seemed like an hour taking in this exquisite specimen of a woman. She was smitten. In love. Unequivocally. Sorry, Lisette. Clearing her throat, Janice proceeded. “I’m looking for a Dr. Garrison. I have her listed as living here.” She showed her the crumbled-up piece of scrap paper she took from MUSC Admitting. “Right here, it says Apartment 427, Water’s Edge, Folly Beach. I must have missed her. She doesn’t seem to be at home.”

Finding her keys, the woman collected her bag of groceries and unlocked the door to 427. Janice moved out of her way.

“I’m Dr. Garrison. What can I do for you?”

“You’re Dr. Garrison?” Janice was stunned. Amazed was more like it. Some women have all the luck. Beauty and brains. She immediately hated her.

“Who are you?”

“Janice Porter, from the Post and Courier.”

“A Reporter?” Now she sounded intrigued. Or disgusted. The two not easily distinguishable. The door opened with a pop. She entered into her apartment, turned and held the door firmly with her hand. Janice glanced around her tall frame, briefly, absorbing the details of her apartment. Neat and clean. But dark. The window shades in the living room were drawn, the curtains closed. A cool draft emanated from the narrow slit in the doorway. Air conditioning. Central, Janice bet. “I have nothing further to say. Really. How did you find out where I live? Admitting?”

“It really wasn’t that difficult. I wonder if you might be able to give me…” Dr. Garrison slammed the door in Janice’s face. She took stock of her options. And started knocking. She neglected using the brass fixture. Chains rattled.

The door opened again, but this time only a sliver. Linked across the slit was a metal chain. “I’ve already told the police everything I know about that girl. Now, please, leave me alone. Just go away. It’s my only day off.”

“I understand that, and I do apologize for bothering you on your day off. I can only imagine the amount of hours you put in at that hospital, but this case is very important and very significant. And Angie Kessler is your patient, isn’t she?”

“I admitted her. I was the admitting physician.”

“Well, if we could just sit down for a second…”

“I don’t think so.”

“You might have some information that could shed new light on this case or possible some new evidence. Or, at least clear up some of the missing pieces of the puzzle. You do realize there’s a killer on the loose.”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t have any additional information.” She started to close the door.

Janice’s cell phone went off. It gave both of them a much needed reprieve. A moment to pause and regroup while Janice checked the number. Louis. The newsroom, alerting Janice of an emergency. She noticed the bars on her cell were low. Her signal bad. Janice looked through the narrow crack. “Listen, I know you want me to leave, but, do you think I might be able to use your landline? There seems to be no service here and my work is calling. An emergency. I’m sure you understand.”

“The complex must have a pay phone somewhere.” She pointed toward the clubhouse.

“If you don’t mind…”

Annoyed, the Doctor reluctantly unlocked the latch, opened the door and allowed Janice entry. “In the kitchen. Please make it quick.”

Janice brushed past an antique dining room table. Four matching chairs were pushed up underneath. She entered into the small, compact kitchen. Generic white would best describe it. White tiles, white cabinets, and a white dishwasher. All newly remodeled. Pristinely clean. No food was sitting out, except for some fruit arranged picturesquely in an artsy-fartsy ceramic bowl on, of course, a white Formica countertop. The telephone hung on the wall. It too, was white. What else? Everything appeared sanitary. Sterile. Like at the hospital. Janice dialed Louis’s number. It rang four or five times before somebody answered.

“Louis, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Mouth, now get Louis on the phone.” Dr. Garrison moved into her living room. She sat on the edge of her sofa and sifted through a few magazines layered on the glass coffee table. Her black leather sofa. Janice rolled her eyes, hoping the Doctor noticed, realizing she was bothering the hell out of her. Although not intentionally. Janice turned back to the brightness of the kitchen.

“Mouth…” Louis’s voice was excited and nervous. Exhausted. “Get to the fucking hospital! That Kessler girl…”

“What?” Janice interrupted him.

Louis started yelling at other people in the background. Janice hated that. Telephones were going off. Whistles and beeps were incessantly ringing. The newsroom was in complete pandemonium! Janice didn’t care.

“Louis. Louis! Motherfucker…” she whispered under her breath. Then, she yelled into the receiver. “Goddammit, Louis, talk to me!”

“… she’s dead, Mouth.”

“She’s what?”

Dr. Garrison sensed Janice’s obvious agitation as she began pacing back and forth, twisting the telephone cord nervously in her fingers. Her feet began to perspire. Dr. Garrison stood up and approached the kitchen.

“Dead, Mouth. Along with the Mother.”

“The girl’s in a hospital, Louis. Come on.” Janice couldn’t believe what she was hearing, although she had no reason not to.

“A fire broke out in her room…”

“I don’t fucking believe it.”

“I’ve dispatched the photographer. It’s gonna be a media frenzy. We’ll be fighting with television crews from Columbia, plus local…”

“Fire?”

Dr. Garrison opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Evian. Janice deduced by the remaining contents, her main diet was predominately Hospital Cafeteria. Save for the bottles of water, a Yuban coffee container and 2% milk, her icebox was virtually empty. She offered Janice a glass from the cupboard. Janice shook her head “no.”

“Jesus Christ, Louis.”

Louis’s voice barreled through the receiver like thunder. “Get your ass to the hospital, Mouth. NOW!”

“Ten-four, Louis.” Janice hung up. She looked across the kitchen at Dr. Garrison. “Better get your keys, Doc.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“That Kessler girl…”

“What about her?”

The Doctor finished her water in one graceful tilt. She sat the glass down on the white countertop. Janice could only imagine how brilliant a surgeon she was. Those slim, delicate perfectly long fingers. In the short time Janice had witnessed Dr. Garrison, everything she did, including the most insignificant of things, like opening her front door, the refrigerator, sitting down, ever so poised on her sofa, each indiscriminant act resonated calmness. Discipline. God, how Janice envied her. She was all over the place. Emotionally and physically. “Sloppy Sue,” she called herself. Meanwhile, Dr. Garrison remained cool. Unflustered. Her aura a bath of serenity. Relaxed under pressure, able to handle all situations quickly and deftly and oh, so reserved.

“Nothing…” Janice said, trying desperately to imitate the Doctor’s demeanor without much success. “… except the Kessler girl is dead.”

5:07 PM

Friday

MUSC

22

Dan parked his car at Roper Hospital and walked the short distance to the MUSC Emergency Room. Often confused and within spitting distance from one another, the two hospitals were closely linked. He passed by a cloister of uniformed female nurses. They stood along the parking lot sidewalk smoking cigarettes. Their conversation was low-keyed and sullen. They took turns running to the end of the walkway and peaking around its mammoth brick structure toward MUSC. Then they would scurry back to the group and cackle, like chickens in a henhouse!

The weather had turned cool. Dead leaves rustled across the freshly planted lawn. The threat of rain loomed. Fire trucks, media vans and police cruisers lined the street as Dan hurried around the corner to the ER and pressed the silver entry button, crossing over the threshold to a fanfare of commotion and confusion.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” A tough-looking, African American female nurse approached him. Dan flashed his metal. “Sorry,” she said, directing him with her index finger down the hallway to the elevator, “…just checking. This place is a zoo! The fire was on the fourth floor.”

Dan eased his way through a maze of similar entranceways until he reached the main corridor. The elevators had been restricted due to the fire. He found the emergency stairway and took two steps at a time, entering the fourth floor out of breath, only to find the elevators were back in service. The fire had been secured.

Chief Abrams stood by the nurse’s station. He was conferring with several men decked out in bulky fire gear when he spotted Dan.

“Arson. The Fire Chief said it was arson, Hammer. Gasoline.”

“They send samples to the lab?” Dan responded in monotone, scoping out the floor.

Chief Abrams was a big man. He pulled his pants up around his waist and leaned on the counter. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose loudly. “Smoke’s really bad. It bothers my asthma.”

“Sure is.” Dan agreed. A thin, gray haze of residual smoke hung like City smog close to the ceiling.

The Chief continued. “I’m glad you’re here.” He put his hand on Dan’s shoulder and bared some weight. “Now, how in the Sam hill could somebody enter this floor, it being under constant surveillance and all? And then have enough time to swirl gasoline around a room and light a damn match? It just doesn’t make any sense!”

“Unless it’s somebody who works here. At the hospital.” Dan stated the obvious, matter-of-factly, finding it hard to believe the Chief hadn’t already made the same deduction himself. “Somebody was able to infiltrate the area without being noticed. Or somebody knows where to find hospital clothing. Where’s Central Supply?”

“Basement.”

“How else could he have been allowed access? Who were the nurses on duty? They must have seen somebody come from the elevator or the hallway. Any security? Cameras?”

“Over there.” Chief Abrams pointed to a female and a male nurse. They sat in chairs behind the nurse’s station hunkered against the back corner.

“Excuse me.” Dan showed his ID. “I’m Detective Hammer. I have some questions I need to ask you.”

The female nurse was blonde and petite. She peered up at him before lowering her head into her hands. Her eyes were red and swollen. A tall male nurse sat beside her, his arm protectively wrapped around her shoulder. He spoke first.

“We’ve told the police everything.”

“I understand…”

“Everything was fine…” he continued. “Angie’s parents had finally left the unit to go down to the Cafeteria. Mr. Kessler wanted a cigarette. They hadn’t left that room since the poor girl was admitted. Sixteen hours. That’s a long time. I was logging narcotics behind the desk and Rebecca was writing down doctor’s orders in patient’s charts. Right there…”

“Anybody enter the Unit during that time? Dan inquired, pulling out a pad and scribbling down notes.

“No, not that I’m aware of. The next thing we know, Rebecca smelled smoke…”

“Did you?”

“No. I told Rebecca that… I’ve been nursing a cold, so I haven’t been able to smell much of anything the last couple of days.”

Rebecca looked up. “The elevator door opened, we saw them exit and walk toward us, Mrs. Kessler and her husband entered the Unit… I could see them right in front of the desk…” She cast her gaze to the chair she had been seated in. “Anyway, I stood up to greet them and, for some reason, we all looked toward Angie’s room and… and… God, it was just awful. The room was filled with flames. I was in shock. I didn’t know what to do.” Rebecca started crying again. The male nurse grabbed another tissue for her and himself. They both started blotting and blowing their noses. “Next thing I know, Mrs. Kessler took off, running toward the room. I don’t think her husband knew what to do. We all just sort of stood for a second and watched. I know he tried to grab her, but she fought back. She took off. Just like that. He couldn’t catch her in time.”

The male nurse added to the story. “Next, we see Mrs. Kessler in that room, standing in the middle of those flames trying to extinguish the fire herself…”

“She looked like a poor little bird, just flapping her arms and screaming…”

The two sounded like an old married couple, completing each other’s sentences.

“It was horrible.” Rebecca buried her face in her hands again. “Just horrible.”

“And you saw no one enter the unit from the time Mr. and Mrs. Kessler left and when they returned from the cafeteria?”

They conferred with one another, and in similar fashion shook their heads “no.”

“Nobody. Not that I can remember.”

“Well, somebody gained access. Somewhere. Are there other stairways. Emergency exits other than the one I just used? Could somebody have entered the Unit without you knowing it?”

“They could have come up the back, I suppose. But, we would have seen them if they entered the room.”

“The door was cracked open. Angie was under constant observation. We were getting ready to transfer her to the surgical floor downstairs.”

“The door was open?” Dan inquired, sizing up the distance from the Nurse’s Station to her private room.

The male nurse stood up. He started waving his hands flamboyantly. “I had just checked on Angie. I was the one who suggested that the Kessler’s go down and take a break.” Now, he started crying. He yanked at another tissue and started dabbing at his eyes. “It’s probably all my fault.”

“Who pulled the fire alarm?”

“I told Rebecca to. I ran to the room, grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hallway and started putting the flames out myself. As much as I could. The alarm went off automatically. We have fire drills routinely here in the Hospital, but you just never think it will actually happen. Code Red. I called it! Then, nurses from the other floors started coming up to assist us in transporting our other patients to safety. It’s all part of the drill. I contained the fire as much as I could… at least it didn’t spread.”

“By the time the fire trucks arrived, it was too late. The fire had pretty much devoured everything in the room.”

“Where is Mr. Kessler?”

Rebecca piped up. “Oh, God, that poor man. They had to sedate him. By injection. He went crazy. They transported him to another floor on a gurney. It was just too much for him. To take it all in. It was too much for all of us.”

Dan thanked them, and left the two nurses with their used tissues and each other. He walked toward Angie’s room, now sealed off. Firefighters, carrying large gray hoses paraded past him. Police officers patrolled surrounding rooms looking for stray sparks. Dan recognized a few of the officers, familiar faces, but the atmosphere was dim and gloomy. Everybody remained quiet. The last of the firemen exited. They walked in assembly line-fashion to the back hallway where the Emergency Exit was located.

Dan entered Angie’s room, or what was left of it. The stale smell of smoke and water was strong and consuming. The windows had been broken. Shards of glass were sprayed all over the floor. With each step, Dan felt the crunch beneath his feet. The bed was nothing more than a skeleton of burned metal and spiraling gray funnels. Little plumes of withering smoke rose toward the ceiling from the wreckage. The surrounding area was black. The outer layer of paint and fabric had bubbled up and was stripped away. Bare.

“Nothing much left in here.” The weathered voice of Chief Abrams came from the doorway. His handkerchief covered his mouth. “The Coroner has taken what’s left of the bodies to the morgue.” He lowered his head, in the same way a father might react when a son or daughter disappointed him. “Sure will be glad when that guy from Washington gets here.”

Dan excused himself and reentered the off white hallway. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the FBI butting their noses into the case. On the other hand, he was looking forward to meeting Harry Wright again. He had been one of his teachers at the VICAP seminar held in Quantico. He held great respect and admiration for the man. Perhaps even some jealousy. Dan wanted to be the expert involved in this case. Perhaps, someday he would be.

Dan strolled by several empty rooms, opening doors, swinging them ajar enough to check interiors. Marooned in the middle of one room was a metal examining tray. Another had a large glass shelving unit layered to the ceiling with blue and green surgical kits. Others were similar to Angie’s. They sat empty, vacated, the patients transferred to other floors of the hospital.

Dan pushed the latch to the Emergency Exit door and entered into the landing of the stairwell. No alarm was in place. No signal of anyone entering or exiting. He stood there for a moment, looking down the steps. He took in the surrounding area scanning for clues, cigarette butts, gloves, surgical masks. Cameras. The area was clean, except for dirty boot tracks left behind from the firemen. Dan held onto the steel railing and looked up. Nothing. He reopened the emergency door and peaked down the hallway toward Angie’s room. He had a clear view. If he were the killer, he would have to wait. Here. Make sure the coast was clear. So, what did he do while he was waiting?

Dan closed the door and walked up the flight of stairs to the fifth floor landing. He looked in the corner of each step. An ardent breeze swirled. He shivered. Nothing. Damn! Totally unremarkable. He went back downstairs.

At the nurse’s station, Rebecca remained seated. The male nurse had left. “Does Staff use the emergency stairwell often?”

Rebecca wiped her nose with a tissue. “Sure, we all use it. All the time. When we don’t want to wait for the elevators.”

“So, the person who started the fire, if he were out there waiting, somebody or someone might have seen him, right? A staff member from another floor, maybe?” Dan sat down in a chair beside her.

“I guess. Sure.”

In the hallway, the elevator door opened. Ding. Dr. Garrison pushed through the barriers, walked down the hallway and entered into the Unit. Dan stood up to greet her.

“Dr. Garrison…”

Rebecca stood as well. By rote, out of respect, that silent, ongoing rivalry between doctor and nurse continually played out. Dr. Garrison moved around the reception desk and entered into the Nurse’s Station. “What in the hell happened here?”

“We’re not sure yet.” Dan answered.

At the elevator, more disorder. Commotion. That woman again. The one Dan saw at the crime scene, the one with the blonde hair. She pushed past the grip of Security and hurried toward the Unit. Two hospital guards in blue uniforms exited the elevator and chased after her.

Dan jumped up and moved around the desk. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit journalism.” He met the woman as she opened the doors. “Get the fuck out! What are you doing here anyway? Who let you up here?” Dan could feel his blood pressure begin to boil, his excitability increasing by the second. He grabbed the reporter by the arm and escorted her out the door and back down the hallway. Security watched on.

“Let go of me!” she screamed, releasing herself from his grip. “I will not leave!”

“How the hell did she get up here, anyway?” he asked the guards. This bitch knew exactly how to push every single one of his buttons.

“I have every right to be up here. As much as you do.”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“And, don’t call me sweetheart!” Headstrong and defiant, she bullied her way back into the Unit while Dr. Garrison watched on, shaking her head. Dan thought he faintly heard the good Doctor call him an “asshole.”

“Please, just stop all of this.”  Dr. Garrison had had enough. She exited the ICU and headed toward the elevators.

Dan followed. He stood beside her. After his raunchy display of anger, he waited a minute, a beat, and then went for lightness. “I can be an asshole. You’re right.”

She failed to get his humor. She said nothing. A girl after his own heart. He stalled, looked back toward the Unit, the Nurse’s Station. Inside, Rebecca was giving the blonde reporter an ear full.

The elevator door opened.

“I really would like to talk with you.”

Her eyes went dark and steely on him. “There isn’t much I care to say at this time, to you, or to anybody.” They entered the car together, each taking separate sides, each claiming their own personal territory. She pressed the button for the Lobby. Crossing her arms, she gave a huge sigh. Her body language was very specific. Closed. Shut down. Dan straightened his jacket, fixed his lopsided tie.

He recalled his first brief encounter with the good Doctor. He remembered his fantasy more specifically. He tried not to blush.

“Fine,” Dan said.

Heavy silence as they descended the four floors. And, to Dan’s surprise, express service. The metal doors opened to a crowd of people waiting to enter. Dan tagged along, slightly behind her. They passed by the Gift Shop. Small, pink stuffed elephants lined the windows. They headed in the direction of the main Lobby, past the large Information Desk when Dr. Garrison turned and confronted Dan.

“Detective Hammer.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you following me?”

For some strange reason, beyond Dan’s control, he blurted out, “… to ask you if you’d like to go for a cup of coffee, or a beer or something? It is your day off, isn’t it?”

For a minute, he thought he startled her, the notion sounded so absurd. He knew she wasn’t prepared. For that matter, neither was Dan. Then, as if a cloudy day miraculously turned sunny, a lightness crossed over her face and she smiled.

Out of frustration, disappointment, or not really knowing what else to do, Dan smiled back.

“Okay, I give up! You win!”

“What?” Dan fumbled for a response. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe his own charm or damned persistence. He took her arm, protectively, and escorted her through the revolving glass doors past a fanfare of unruly press gathering momentum outside.

“I guess they don’t call you Hammerhead for nothing,” she said en route.

“Who told you that?”

“Never mind.”

6:30 PM

Friday

23

“82 Queen. CLASSIC LOWCOUNTRY CUISINE. Step behind 82 Queen’s doors and you’ll enter into another world. This 18th century landmark captures Charleston’s romantic mystique, with seven splendid dining rooms, a turn-of-the-century garden courtyard, and an outdoor Raw Bar.”

Sydia sat alone at the wraparound mahogany bar sipping a medium-bodied, robust, berry-forward glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Being a compulsive reader, she perused the printed copy inside the restaurant’s matchbook. Nothing escaped Sydia’s grasp or gaze. She stashed the matches inside her coat pocket and took another swallow of wine, swirling it around her mouth, allowing the slow infusion of warmth to infiltrate her system. She was waiting for Detective Hammer to return from the little boy’s room.

A steady stream of customers, mostly young urban professionals, entered through the front door. Outfitted in tailored designer suits, they carried leather briefcases close to their sides, and ambled past the moderately-filled bar to the back of the restaurant. A short woman with shoulder length, grayish-brown, mousy hair greeted each party enthusiastically from behind the hostess stand. She escorted them outside through a garden patio, and followed a quaint cobblestone path surrounded by lush foliage to different dining rooms. Threaded intricately around each knobby limb of the canopied trees were tiny white fairy lights. It reminded Sydia of a trip to New York City, more specifically, having dinner with her Father at the Tavern on the Green. The food was so-so, at best banquet style cuisine, but gazing out the expansive floor to ceiling window and witnessing the enormous oak tree completely dressed up in sparkling lights was truly breathtaking.

Couples paraded past her, every so often stopping at the bar to say “Hello” to Rose, the female bartender. Sydia bought time by poking nonchalantly at bar mix, observing the proprietary way in which women held onto their men, only after spotting her sitting alone and a potential threat. Sydia registered the negativity in their thoughts. Whore. Black bitch. After all, she could spoil their chances. Ruin their hopes of marriage, children and the all encompassing fantasy of happily-ever-after. She took refuge by envisioning their simple, plebian lives. Boring. The most difficult decision of their day was determining which linens to use to set the evening dinner table. Or, which outfit to choose for that all-important office function. Or, should they keep their hair short, permed, or go au natural? How could they ever make a solid decision like pulling the plug on a patient breathing on life support? Or, for that matter, let that patient live like a vegetable the remainder of his or her comatose life.

Detective Hammer exited the bathroom and returned to the bar, rescuing her from her internal monologue, or more appropriately, her inner demons. Thankfully. He wiped the last hint of wetness from his hands on the seat of his pants. There was something so crude about this man. And yet, something so very attractive. Alive. She did one of her quick assessments as he inched closer. She imagined him to be in his mid-to late thirties. Probably ate his food far too fast, had a repugnant diet, and, at one point in his short, earthly existence, had or currently has a drinking problem. He appeared in relatively good shape, that is, for his age, although a small tire was forming around his midsection. A prerequisite for the job, she supposed. Besides those few minor disqualifications, she advised herself that Detective Dan Hammer was, quite honestly, in her humble evaluation, a sublime specimen of the male species!

“How’s the wine?” His voice was resonant, medium bodied like her Cabernet. He leaned in toward her when he spoke. Sydia could smell the lingering scent of a Peppermint Lifesaver. Her ego was hoping he’d taken it specifically for her.

“Terrific. Thanks. Am I the only one drinking this evening? Or are you on the wagon?” It unnerved Sydia when Hammer ordered a Perrier. Her fantasies of a romantic tryst immediately doused into the cold realities of “I’m on the job.” She swirled her finger around the top of her burgundy wine glass, a bad habit, waiting for it to cry. Alas, it wasn’t real crystal. She glanced at the assortment of tiny liquor bottles lined up in nice, organized rows inside the beautifully handcrafted wood cabinet behind the bar. Just the way she liked it.

Hammer looked in Rose’s direction and motioned for her to come over. “Rose…”

“Yes, yes…” she hurried from the other side of the bar.

“I would like you to meet a very special person.”

Sydia turned away, a bit shy and embarrassed. Her face flushed.

“Oh, yeah?” Rose had that in full-bloom appearance. Fleshy, with rosy cheeks and brown simple hair tied back in a ponytail. Her eyes twinkled as she peered across the bar, soaking up Hammer like a dry sponge ready to absorb.

“This is Doctor Garrison…” Hammer introduced her.

“Sydia. Please, call me Sydia, Detective Hammer.”

“Sydia?” Rose questioned. “That’s an interesting name. What’s the origin of it?”

Rose politely offered her hand across the bar.

In an honest attempt to do her profession proud, Sydia shook it with fortitude and strength.

“African. I’m originally from Senegal, but I’ve lived most of my life in Europe and in the States.”

“Wow. You have a very strong handshake.” Rose released quickly. She flexed her hand several times. “I’ve always hated a weak handshake, but, boy oh boy, you don’t ever have to worry about that.”

“I’m sorry. I spend so much of my time dealing with men… doctors, I mean, it’s something I picked up on the floors in med school. A competitive thing. Introductions had to be strong. Personal. And above all else, equal.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Rose smiled. She placed her hands on her curvy hips and returned her heartthrob eyes back to Hammer. “Well?” She wiped her forehead with a napkin. “Can I get you something else?”

Dan looked at Sydia. “You want another glass of wine?”

“Oh, hell, why not? I’ll take the same, please.”

“The same, then, for the lady and I’ll have a Makers Mark on the rocks. And another Perrier.”

“Comin’ right up.”

“A bourbon drinker?” Sydia was amused at the fact she was already learning essential information about the man standing beside her. Rose went about her bartending duties as Sydia attentively went about hers.

Hammer smiled. “I don’t remember your handshake being so strong.”

“That’s because I didn’t shake your hand, if you remember correctly.” A pensive moment. She observed the detective conscientiously taking a mental inventory of his faulty recollection.

“I won’t take it personally. And since we’re on first name basis now, I guess you really should be calling me Dan.”

She finished the last of her wine as Rose delivered the new one. She held up the glass. “Cheers. To your health, Dan. And to a long and happy life.” Rose returned to her post at the opposite end of the bar. She wasn’t pleased with the present situation surrounding Dan and Sydia. She gave a faint, insincere smile. Sydia proceeded to do something totally obnoxious. She winked at her, to tease, so Rose would notice.

Dan grabbed his rock glass and together they toasted.

“Here’s to you.” He added, taking a taste of the dark amber liquid. “Now, that’s strong.”

“So, Dan… one question.”

“I’m the Detective. I ask the questions.”

She laughed. “Okay, humor me, then. Why did you invite me out for a drink this evening?”

“I figured you wouldn’t go out to dinner…”

“Sweet.” And she honestly meant it. This guy was a charmer.

He fiddled with the red stir stick floating in his drink. He rotated the ice cubes counter-clockwise. Sydia on the other hand, found solace in bar food. She picked a cashew from the bowl filled with an assortment of mixed nuts. She dug for a honey roasted one buried in the bunch.

“Well, would’ve you?”

His attention was undividedly upon her. His blue eyes matched the color of his pressed, cotton, button down, long sleeved shirt. A greenish-blue. Cyan. She projected a mental picture of Dan, standing in a dark, oppressive room located at some precinct. A single, forty watt light bulb swayed. He stood there, so secure in his skin, interrogating some poor unfortunate lawbreaker and putting the squeeze on pretty good. The stalwart Detective forced answers by his physical presence alone. Either Sydia had been watching far too little television or just had an over-excitable imagination. “I don’t know. It’s been rough the last couple of days. Couple of weeks, actually. I’ve been working a lot of hours. Subbing for other Residents. I’m beginning to think that hospital has become an added appendage!” God, she was rambling. Her conversation had turned erratic and unfocused. Ignorant. She continued anyway. “I rarely have time for sleep, let alone go out for dinner. And with a Detective, no less.”

“It’s not a great time for me, either. The City is in a panic. People are scared.”

“The whole thing is just awful.” She wiped her lips with the paper napkin. “Any suspects?”

“No, nothing. Everything’s clean. Like a whistle. Not a trace. No fingerprints. Nothing.”

“Was the fire this evening… at the hospital, an accident? Electrical outlet or something?”

“I doubt it. That young girl, Angie, I mean… sorry, she was our only witness.”

Sydia nodded.

“Charleston’s a sleepy town. Trying to keep up. We’re not used to this sort of thing. Or, equipped. Sure, a drug bust, some domestic violence here and there, once in a blue moon a gunshot wound, but…”

“Gunshot wounds and related trauma injuries are on the increase in the ER, Dan. Since I’ve been working here, finishing my residency, I’ve witnessed the uptrend. Personally, I don’t think there’s anywhere on the map that’s immune to this kind of violence any longer. How about you?”

The wine was beginning to mellow Sydia, attacking her impulses. A thousand, soft downy pillows were landing all around her, soothing her. Comforting her. She forgot how good wine tasted and more importantly, how it felt.

“Hope for the best, I guess.” Dan said.

He spoke with few words. She admired that quality in a man. In anyone, actually. “You seem like a really positive guy. I like that. That good old boy attitude.” Dan looked embarrassed. He lowered his head. “Doesn’t anything ever faze you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What gets Dan Hammer down?”

“Not having my little girl with me…”

“You have a child?”

“Almost six now.”

“Wow. So I guess that means you must have a wife, also, then. Or at least you did have a wife.”

In a feeble attempt to avoid the question, Dan’s eyes went to the television set situated at the end of the bar. Sydia followed his line of vision. An attractive female news reporter, popular to the Charleston area, was standing in front of MUSC, microphone in hand, doing a report on the fire. BREAKING NEWS flashed across the screen. The parking lot behind the hospital was a foster home to fire trucks, police cars, and news vans. Police crews held back curious onlookers behind barricades. The reporter’s voice was barely audible.

“Hey, Rose, can you turn it up for a second?”

Rose grabbed the remote control and raised the volume. Everybody at the bar turned toward the television, engrossed in the story unfolding only a few short blocks away.

“Chief Sallen, from Charleston’s Fire Marshall Office recently gave a Press Conference stating, and I quote, ‘the fire that mysteriously started on the fourth floor of the Medical University of South Carolina and killed the lives of thirteen year old Angie Kessler and her mother, Sarah Kessler is now suspected to be the work of an arsonist. There is no further information. Every effort is being made to apprehend the person or persons responsible. Chief Sallen gave no mention of the fact that Angie Kessler was recently found on Old Towne Road, or to the gruesome discovery of a second body found dead in the same vicinity of an unknown, unidentifiable teenage girl…’”

The once cozy bar took on a sub zero chill.

Customers whispered to one another and ordered more drinks.

“Thank you, Rose.” Dan turned back to Sydia. “Sorry.”

Sydia didn’t know how to respond.

Dan finished his drink, let out a short sigh and took Sydia’s hand in his. The frisson she felt was welcome. And exciting. He could’ve been a surgeon! His hands were soft and strong and amazingly un calloused. His nails were short and manicured. Clean. She fantasized sucking on his thumb. Damn, she must be getting drunk!

“I guess we’ll discuss your wife another time.”

Dan interrupted her. “Ex wife.”

“Testy, testy…”

“It’s a testy subject. Hungry? Want to grab something to eat?”

“I’ve realized something in my life…”

“What’s that?” Dan gently massaged her hands, her fingers, triggering pressure points she’d forgotten she had.

“… I’ve come to the realization that if I wait long enough, everything eventually comes full circle.”

Dan shook his head in confusion. “So, should I take that as a “yes” or a “no?””

“Actually… a yes.”

Sydia’s cell phone vibrated at precisely that moment. “Great!”

“What?” Dan withdrew his hands for fear of overstepping his boundaries.

“One of the disadvantages of being a Senior Resident at the Hospital.” She pulled out her cell and checked the number. “Excuse me for one minute.” She slid off the barstool, the effect of the wine in full swing. She smiled at herself, aware of her giddy mood and walked to the back of the restaurant. She went outside under the forested canopy of twinkling lights and answered the call. A patient of hers, transported to SICU was having respiratory failure and the Resident on duty, a dimwit, needed her immediate assistance. Of course, she agreed to be there as quickly as possible and ended the call.

Damn!

Sydia strolled leisurely back to Dan. She placed her hand upon his waist, straining her fingers through the cotton material of his shirt to feel the warmth of his body, the masculine outline of his burly physique.

“I guess I’ll have to take a rain check on that dinner.”

“Emergency?”

“Something like that.” She pulled her windbreaker from off the back of the barstool and with limited agility attempted to put it on. Dan stood up to assist her. “You Southern boys sure know how to spoil a girl!”

“Try, at least. When’s you’re next day off?” He was feeling confident suddenly, assertive.

Sydia left Dan standing at the bar and walked toward the entrance. Midway there, she turned and looked at Dan. She liked what she saw. “Next year.” She smiled. “Interested in making a date?”

Dan chuckled. “Too long for me to wait. For any man.”

“I’m worth it.” Her words slurred. Enough to notice.

“I’m sure you are. Want me to escort you back?” Dan wanted her, wanted to be with her, hang on to her for dear life, and never let her go.

“Nah, I’m okay. It’s only a couple of blocks, and I definitely could use the walk. I only hope I’m worth something once I get back.”

“You’ll be fine.”

She patted her chest. “Some fresh air will do me good. Oxygenate.”

Sydia pushed the entrance door open. A swell of cool night air assaulted her. Then, she did something cold and utterly heartless. She didn’t bother to look back.

8:17 PM

Friday

24

“Ohhhh, Ba-by,” Lisette cooed, as she greeted Janice at the door with open arms. “Get that scrawny ass of yours in here!” In the background, Marvin Gaye’s sensual voice sang about Sexual Healing.

Janice entered Lisette’s waiting embrace. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.” She kissed Lisette’s sweet full lips, investigating the kinky row of dreadlocks that fell heavy and twisted and thick down the middle of her back. A whiff of something wonderful simmering in the kitchen ambushed each one of her senses.

“I hope you’re in the mood for Mexican.” Lisette uttered, grabbing Janice’s hand and slamming the front door behind them. She pulled her into the kitchen, her agreeable hostage. “I’ve made the food, honey, but I’m leaving the beverages up to you.” On the black and white tiled countertop sat an unopened bottle of Don Julio Silver Tequila, some fresh limes, Cointreau and a blender.

Janice observed the details of Lisette’s kitchen, her reporter duties working overtime. Cookbooks from every country lined the top of the refrigerator, separated by old wooden wine crates. A round table sat positioned in the corner of the room. Pushed up against it were two chairs with rattan backs. The walls were painted an eccentric canary yellow. A funny rooster clock hung above the sink. A full sized poster of Martin Luther King hung mounted on a door, presumably leading to the bathroom. An inscription printed in large black letters read: I HAVE A DREAM. Written in bold red at the bottom of the placard was a large X. Blood red.

The smell wafting from the stove was wonderful, overpowering almost! Spicy and warm, it tickled Janice’s nose. Her stomach gave a little growl. Hopefully, Lisette couldn’t hear. They knew each other, but not that well. Not yet, anyway.

“There’s ice in the freezer.” Lisette pointed to the refrigerator as she continued her preparation. “I picked some up on the way home from school.”

“I get the hint.” Janice retired her reporter skills for the time being and relied on her past incarnation as a prize bartender. It came in handy while she was putting herself through college. All those forgettable Friday and Saturday nights, standing hours behind big corporate restaurant chains like TGIF’s or Houlihan’s, while other waspish, sorority gals were out on dates and conversing with “Mr. Right,” Janice was counting down the wee small hours of the morning with Gin and Tonics. Her favorite time of the evening was thirty minutes before closing when her happy bartender – thanks for the shitty tip -- face peeled away and she offered her oral revenge. “Last call.”

Last call for alcohol. Amazing the puzzled look on customer’s faces as she curtly, without apology, removed their favorite libation from in front of them.

Later, counting dollar bills and grouping them into twenty dollar bundles like a stripper, Janice would run back to her studio apartment before dawn and get just enough sleep to start the entire routine all over again. Not to mention, studying.  Oh, fond memories…

Like the corners of my mind. Right?

More like riding a bicycle, Janice thought. She poured the liquor into the blender with equal amounts of lime juice, Cointreau and ice. Pushing the Puree button, she listened as the grind went from clunky to smooth.

“Yummy, I can taste it already.” Lisette took a tablespoon of bubbling mole poblano sauce, a Mexican specialty dish combining sixteen different ingredients, including herbs, spices and chocolate. She blew on the spoon several times before offering the sample to Janice. The flavor was amazing. Lisette gathered warm chips from the oven, Mexican rice with grilled corn and black beans from the stove. From the refrigerator, a fresh green salad topped with avocado, tomatoes and slivers of red onions was placed on the table, next to an assortment of bottled salad dressings. A colorful ceramic bowl brimming with homemade guacamole completed the setting. “Nothing fancy,” Lisette said, discounting her achievements.

“Right. Just whipped it up.” Janice did her part by pouring the frozen mixture of Margaritas into large Martini glasses, ice cold from the freezer. Garnishing them with fresh lime wedges, she placed them on the table, glasses steaming. “This looks beautiful,” Janice said, admiringly. She took a seat and waited for the hostess to present the main dish. From the oven, Lisette pulled out a pan filled with chicken basting in the rich, dark mole sauce. She sat it down on the table onto colorful potholders.

“Here it is. Direct from Mexico. Hope you like it.”

Lisette sat down next to Janice. She could smell the sexy oil of musk on her skin. A light odor of sandalwood drifted from the living room. She took a match and lit the candle, and then held Janice’s hand. “Let us pray.” Lowering her head, she began. “Dear Lord, we are grateful for this food placed before us, thankful for good friends and company this evening. May this food, provided by You, nurture us and be blessed in Your name. Amen.”

Janice listened to Lisette’s prayer. The way she enunciated each word for added meaning. Out of respect, she kept her eyes closed and her head lowered. Somehow, she wanted to be a part of this Universal homage to the Lord. A Lord. She just didn’t know how to go about it, or how to do it. It was how she had lived her life up until now, driven solely by facts. Hard and fast and concrete.

Then again, the quests Janice had always embarked upon were outwardly directed, never inwardly motivated. A Spiritual quest, so to speak. Maybe Lisette was a teacher in many ways. Maybe Lisette was her teacher. Janice thought, sitting here, so closely beside her, listening to Lisette’s soothing voice, sensing her unwavering belief, that she so wanted to be taught. She so wanted to be a part of Lisette’s homage. So, Janice decided to change things up. In essence, Janice’s tiny breath of a prayer, her lowered head, her closed eyes, her sweaty, nervous palms of devotion were for Lisette. Only for her.

Amen.

Janice took her Margarita and inhaled a slurp of its splendid iciness. Lisette followed.

“This is scrumptious.” Lisette said, squeezing her lime of any remaining juice over the top. “Girl, you haven’t lost your flair!”

“Let’s hope not.” Janice took a forkful of chicken. It literally fell off the bone, dripping in brown, gooey sauce. “And neither have you!”

Quiet moments over candlelight as they dipped warm tortilla chips into the guacamole, passed more rice and beans and added dressing to their salads. Janice chose the Light Ranch, forever watching her weight.

“So tell me…” Lisette initiated the conversation, lightly tossing her salad with her fork. “You’ve been quite a busy lady since I last saw you.”

“I’m exhausted. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so tired.”

Another pause. “Would you like to stay the night?” Janice looked up. Lisette responded with eyes so tender. She cared. At least Janice prayed she did. “I can’t disconnect your cell phone,” she continued, “but I can disconnect mine. You look like you could use a good night’s sleep.”

Janice didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt like crying. Instead, she stared down at the mixture of colors bleeding together on her plate. “Yes.” She responded tentatively for the first time in her earthly existence.

She was learning.

They sat together at the kitchen table. They chatted superficially about the colorful Mexican tablecloth Lisette collected on a recent trip to Cancun. They finished their dinner and devoured their drinks, having another round with extra shots of tequila on the side. They lightly salted the top of their hands, seductively licking each other’s, before slugging back the clear chilled shots. They bit down on limes and let the warmth surround them.

They watched the crooked minute hand progress sleepily on the funny rooster clock. They witnessed the candle burn out before them. The music playing from the living room stopped. The only sound… the rhythmic rise and fall of each other’s separate breathing. Then Lisette, once again, took Janice’s hand and led her into the bedroom. There, she gently disrobed her and ushered her into bed. Janice felt the texture of freshly laundered sheets pulled tight beneath her. The light, clean smell of lavender and sunshine, the lingering essence of Lisette’s naked body hovering above her, close by her, and all around her. Then, with the heightened sensitivity of a thousand blind angels learning the exquisite finger workings of Braille, Lisette carefully read Janice’s body, discovered the center of her sacred beauty and proceeded to nurture it.

Janice’s tiny breath of a prayer… answered.

Amen.

2:37 AM

Saturday

I-95 South

25

Harry had a dream.

Discarded like a piece of ratty luggage, the battered, torn remains of a female body had been thrown off a steep ravine and landed in a heavily wooded area south of Fredericksburg. Standing at the precipice of the cliff, Harry looked down and saw the naked torso, camouflaged under fallen leaves and scattered branches. A bare, bloated leg jettisoned outward at a grotesque angle like a twisted root around the elegant base of a majestic Maple tree.

He inched his way down the narrow gorge, holding onto samplings and wiry roots to help balance himself. The sky was gray and threatening. His feet were sodden with mud. His thoughts were projecting better days, extended weeks with time off, vacation, and his much anticipated, imminent retirement. He was alone. The rank, disgusting smell of decomposition mixed with wet vegetation and damp air competed for confined space. A fine mist hung low to the ground. Hungry flies circled, en masse, landing on the body, and then taking off. An annoying buzz permeated the roped off area. Harry reminded himself there was little he hadn’t witnessed in his career. He snapped on vinyl from his coat pocket. His soul was weary.

He bent down to examine the frail, gray, swollen back of the victim. Thin, curved bones protruded outward. Blood pooled in dark purple patches. He estimated how long the body had been here, how long she’d been dead. White, writhing maggots twisted and turned in the open wounds. Time of death? Automatically, he worked with equations and mathematics. It took his thoughts away. Off his profession, from what he did for a living. It separated the beast. Diverted the facts. At one time, this body breathed and danced, enjoyed sex and possibly even had children. Like him. This human being had been alive and well and healthy with feelings of loss and disappointment and joy.

Like him…

The body was female. She had short hair, styled at one time in a fashionable cut. Dried blood and decay matted it down against her skull. He turned the face toward him. In his terror, he saw the startling clear eyes of Susan.

His wife.

Harry bolted upright in bed. His tee shirt was soaked with perspiration. He looked at the clock. Twelve forty five. He’d only been asleep for forty five minutes. The mere thought of trying to get back to sleep sent panic throughout his body. What a horrifying picture. A horrific sight. He got up and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. At the dining room table, he cleared away newspapers and magazines. He made an empty space to lay his head down. In solitude, he cried. Again. Twice in one day. A record

Dressing in the lonely, dark bedroom, he left the house and drove directly to the hospital. The streets were empty, catatonic. From his open window, the soft sound of gears shifting, streetlights changing colors.

Surprise registered on the nurse’s face when he slipped quietly into Susan’s private room. He didn’t want to wake her. He only wanted to make sure she was okay. He needed to remind himself that Susan had not met the horrible fate he dreamed. In his mind, he knew she hadn’t. Then, he remembered Susan was dying and in some weird way, the nightmare was his way of subconsciously dealing with her death. Trained. Abandoned bodies littered alongside the highways, expressways and in dipsey dumpsters gave him answers. How somebody died. A random external event, violent and frantic and forced, he could explain. Comprehend. But how does one manage the internal? The implacable forces of human nature? The swift and ravaging power of the dreaded cancer?

Now, driving south on Interstate-95 toward Charleston, Harry found one way of dealing with Susan’s impending demise. Now, it felt like the only way. Work.

He knew he couldn’t go back to sleep. Not even if he climbed in beside Susan, squeezed his big body alongside her bony frame and forced his weight against hers, which he’d done, secretly, several times before. He also knew he couldn’t return home. The only other choice was to cancel his intended flight, scheduled to depart at 7:30 AM and drive the five hours to Charleston in the luxury of his own speed controlled car. A task force was forming at the Lockwood Precinct at 0800 hours and he would arrive, by his calculations, right on time. Mathematics had always been a strong suit for Harry.

On Susan’s bedside table, he left a note for the kids explaining he would call them first thing in the morning. For Susan, he left a message reminding her that he loved her. A smiley face with one eye blinking, drawn quickly underneath his sloppy signature “Harry,” was his not-so-secret way of saying so.

And, he did.

2:47 AM

Saturday

26

Journal Entry

I hate waiting.

Where the fuck is he? He promised he’d be here right after work. If Mommy finds out about this, I am really, really dead. I keep jumping up and looking out the window. Shit, I don’t see him. I have the lights out. It is pitch black in here. Just the miniature flashlight from my IPhone so I can write this entry. I went to the bathroom earlier… everything sounded quiet in Mommy and Daddy’s room. No action going on in there tonight, thank God! What would Mommy think of her little girl if she knew she was knocked up? Pregnant? I really cannot think about that right now, or I’ll start crying. I probably shouldn’t even be writing it down. Putting it all on paper. Mommy’s been such a snoop lately. Going through my dressers, my closets, reading everything she can get her grubby little mitts on. God, you would think I was some kind of criminal or something, the way she watches over me. But, that’s ok. Tomorrow morning, before I go to my babysitting job, I’ll burn this entry in the bathroom. I’ve done it before. Mommy just thinks I’m smoking cigarettes. She can hardly bitch about that. She smokes like a chimney herself, for God’s sake…

“Where the fuck are you?”

I just checked the window again. The street is so quiet. Spooky. Hardly any cars are out on the road. A few fishing boats are in the harbor. It’s really beautiful out there. Those yellow lights, way out there in the distance, flickering… on and off…

Finally…

“Phillip?” She tiptoed across the pink carpeted floor to the window. She thought she saw him. She unlocked the latch, opened the window, peered out over the sill and whispered, “Romeo, oh Romeo, where for art thou, Romeo?” She cracked herself up sometimes. She suppressed a giggle. God forbid her parents would hear. She could act like such a retard sometimes.

For sure.

Phillip maneuvered his lean body like a gymnast through a patch of hedge running alongside the house. Just the sight of him made Jenn’s face flush. Her knees weak. Her pussy twitched. She understood now what Juliet must have felt like. What she must have gone through. To be a woman. To be loved. Cherished. Made love to. Also, let’s be brutally honest, get laid.

Hello!

Unfortunately, Phillip had no idea what she was about to tell him. She had only just found out herself. She thought perhaps that the results were wrong. She’d performed the in home pregnancy test to check and see if the dot turned blue, or pink or whatever the color was. The results kept turning up positive. So after she finished work the other day, and scared out of her panties, she drove Mommy’s car to the Clinic in North Charleston. She made up some lame excuse, gave a fake name, sat in a depressing gray tiled Waiting Room and watched women come and go through the revolving doors. Pregnant and nervous as they entered, pale and shaking as they left. At least now she knew where to go for the abortion. In and out. Just like those burger stands out in California. Maybe one day they’d invent a drive through clinic. Unless, of course, Phillip didn’t want her to have an abortion. Unless perhaps, Phillip would want her to keep the baby. She knew he loved her. That was the reason they had gone “all the way” in the first place. Not that she was a prude or anything. She wasn’t. She’d listened to all her Mommy had told her. The whole bird’s and the bee’s bullshit. Sometimes, she actually did listen. Most of the time, anyway. She just hated it whenever her Mommy did tell her something, and it always came true. For some mysterious reason, it always seemed to happen.

Like, what the fuck was that?

Phillip slipped one foot through the open window and fell onto the floor. “Shhhh. Jesus, be quiet.” She helped him up, pulling at his arms, wrestling with his big, solid frame.

“Come on, hurry. I don’t want anybody to see you.” She led him from the window to the bed whispering as they went. “I thought you were coming straight from work.”

“I had to stay late. You heard about that fire?”

“No. Now shut up.” Phillip still had his white scrubs on. She pushed off his jacket and kissed his mouth, burrowing her tongue deep inside his. She tasted stale coffee on his breath. He needed a shave. Phillip worked as an ambulance driver at the MUSC. It was a decent job. Excellent benefits. Good enough, she guessed. What did she know about the work force? She was only in the tenth grade.

“Hey, my honey man…” she cooed, as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. Her breasts were free and loose underneath her flimsy pajama top. His arms felt so damn good, so fucking strong. Just holding onto him she was getting turned on. She hoped it would always be like this. This feeling of hunger. This need bordering on desperation. The desire to be with somebody so great, so strong, it was almost overpowering. She hardly recognized that feeling between Mommy and Daddy anymore. She knew they still loved each other. She just didn’t feel that passion between them anymore. That incredible lust to be with a person sexually. She prayed to God Phillip would always want her like he did right now.

“You’re one hot tamale tonight, aren’t ‘ya, babe?” Phillip responded by putting his cold hands up her pajama top and played with her nipples.

She pulled him onto the bed. She kicked off the comforter and sheets with her feet. They fell onto the floor in a tangled heap. She thrust her hand to his pants and unbuckled his belt. His prick was already hard. Like a fucking rock.

“Oh, Phillip, oh, Phillip,” she chanted into his neck, keeping her voice low. There was no way to describe her appetite, her frenzy, her insatiable need. She scooted her bottoms off and spread her legs open. Wide. She liked the way it felt when she stretched her thigh muscles all the way to the opposite sides of the bed. Sometimes, she would even point her toes. Like a gymnast, or a high-board diver or just a horny little slut needing to get some. She was so glad she wasn’t writing these thoughts down. Mommy would simply die!

Phillip’s cock was nice. What did she know about dicks? She’d only test driven a few. In her limited experience, she’d been extremely lucky. They’d all been perfect. Rods of steel. Supermen!

“Oh, Phillip, oh, yes…” She murmured into his ear as he inserted, the head at first, and then slowly, the rest of him popped in and slid inside her. Breathe, then push. Breathe, then push some more. “Not too loud, baby. Don’t want to wake up my Mommy and Daddy. They might get jealous of their little girl’s fun. Now, stick your tongue here Phillip. Yeah, baby, all the way down my ear. Yes. Now do my chest, Phillip. Around my breasts…yes, oh, Phillip. Can you hear me, Phillip? Do it. Yes, Phillip, yes…”

She could feel every inch of him inside her, every demi centimeter. She extended her legs so far, and so wide, a cramp was welling up in her lower calf muscle. Hurry, Phillip, hurry. She didn’t want to break her concentration. She didn’t want to have to bend her knee… the feeling was so damn good. So hot. So unbelievably intense. And tonight, Phillip, tonight it’s totally cool. Tonight little Jenn didn’t give a rat’s ass. She didn’t care. No clumsy, awkward moments with Mr. Raincoat. No wasted moments worrying about a freaking condom. No, Phillip, tonight it was only you. Just you and your undressed cock sealed up tight inside of her. So bang away, Phillip. Bang away!

After all, why worry? The baby was already forming. Deep, deep inside her. Buried within the layered folds and secret hiding places of her evolving womanhood. Picture it. Like a funny looking little embryo developing and growing and swimming around inside little Jennifer Stattler. She wondered if the tiny baby fetus would recognize Phillip’s sperm. Would the baby be able to distinguish between his brother’s and sister’s? Spinning around inside, doing summersaults and flip-flops against her fertile, engorged walls. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t. Because, maybe the baby wasn’t Phillip’s. Maybe it was Devin’s. Jennifer hadn’t told Phillip about Devin. The black Rastafarian with the uncut dick that reminded her of a huge plantain turned upside down. Devin, who worked part time at the market and was almost thirty. Devin who had told Jenn he came in flavors. That’s what he said, anyway. He had seduced her by telling Jenn his sperm tasted like chocolate. Imagine that? Chocolate sperm. Honest to God. And, anybody who knew Jenn, I mean, everybody knew how much Jenn loved chocolate. “Right, Phillip…

Yes, baby, yes…”

Almost as much as she loved Phillip.

Almost.

6:47 AM

I-95 South

Saturday

27

In all of Harry’s travels across the United States and abroad, he had never visited Charleston. The closest he got was back in 1986. He testified as an expert witness at the trial of Larry Gene Bell. Bell was standing trial for the murder of Shari Faye Smith. Even though the murder took place near Columbia, South Carolina, they held the trail in Berkeley County, near Charleston, due in part to the huge amount of publicity surrounding the case.

After a month of testimony, the jury took forty seven minutes to return the verdict. The court found Larry Gene Bell guilty of kidnapping and first degree murder. Four days later, upon further deliberation and recommendation from the jury, Larry Gene Bell was sentenced to death by electrocution.

It was a grisly case, publicized to an even greater extent when a movie of the week aired on television. Harry had mixed feelings about brutal killers becoming celebrities. Why give them what they always wanted? Notoriety. At the time, it was especially painful for him. He tried to separate himself emotionally from the case, but sometimes something as small as a picture or a stuffed animal or a lost child’s shoe would trigger an emotional response. Nancy was around the same age as Shari Faye Smith. Every time he saw Dawn, Shari’s sister, he thought of Nancy. His little girl. His heart went out to the parents of children who had lost their lives, their loved ones to insensitive, heinous murderers.

On the flip side, never had the union of law enforcement -- county, state and federal -- worked together so well and in such an organized fashion to successfully stop a dangerous serial killer early on in his destructive career. By marrying the expertise and talent of criminal profiling, crime analysis, traditional police and forensic techniques, state officials were able to apprehend and sentence Larry Gene Bell before another victim fell prey to his terror.

Larry Gene Bell died October 4, 1996 at South Carolina’s Correctional Facility by electrocution in the clutches of “Old Sparky.”

Harry turned off I-95 and merged onto I-26 toward Charleston. A green road sign informed him he had ninety six more miles to go. His stomach rumbled as ribbons, the color of salmon, streaked across the morning sky. Dawn was breaking. Daylight was sneaking up on him, straining through the thick black tree line. Sunlight tipped the tall pines lining both sides of the highway causing a strobe light effect on his windshield. Up ahead and to his right, beside a towering Exxon Station, was the familiar rectangular sign of The Waffle House. Comfort food. Fresh coffee. His signal turned on automatically. His stomach leads the way.

* * *

7:16 AM

“Shit!” she sat up and took a double take at the clock. She nudged Phillip hard in his side with her elbow. “You have to get out of here.”

She jumped up and ran across the carpeted floor. Jesus, it’s cold in here. Thankfully, she’d remembered to lock the door when Phillip first arrived. She pressed her ear to the wood and listened into the hallway. Did she detect movement? Quiet. Still, how embarrassing. She scampered back to the bed. Phillip was stretching, stiffening his legs and arms.

“We don’t have time for this. You have to go.” She hit him. Hard. “C’mon, Phillip. Now! I have to get to work.”

She was losing her patience. She grabbed her robe from the closet door, scrambled to step into her slippers from under the bed and hurried to the window. Phillip slowly sat up and slid on his underwear. Damn, she wished she had more time. He had a raging hard on.

“I have to piss.”

“You have to leave.” She opened the window. Early morning traffic was already zinging on the street below. A few joggers ran the Battery. Fishing boats peppered the harbor against the enormous Cooper River Bridge. A lone man sat reading a newspaper on the bench across the street. “C’mon, let’s go!”

Phillip leaned down to lace up his tennis shoes.

A triple knock on the door in rapid succession.

“Are you up yet?”

Silence.

“Jenn?”

“I’m up. Thanks.” She motioned for Phillip to hurry. He pulled his sweatshirt over his head as she grabbed for a cigarette. Lighting up, she stood by the window and puffed away like a maniac. Phillip grabbed his jacket from off the floor, positioned his cap backwards on his head and joined her at the window.

She whispered. “It’s about fucking time.” He leaned his torso out the sill, turned around and kissed her.

“Go!” She practically pushed him out the window. His breath stunk to high heaven. “I’ll talk to you later. Text me.” She flicked the cigarette and closed the window in his face.

Did she have time for a shower? She checked the clock. Seven thirty seven. Nope. Just enough time to get dressed and go. Fuck! She hated that. She probably smelled like sex. Phillip’s sticky was still inside her. Not so sticky anymore. She smiled as she unlocked the door and tiptoed down the hallway to the bathroom.

“Thanks for waking me up, Mommy. You’re a lifesaver.” She laid it on sweet. Sugar dripped from her tongue.

“You’re welcome.” She passed by the bedroom. “Jenn, honey, I told you a thousand times. I wish you’d stop smoking in your bedroom. If you must smoke, why don’t you just smoke in front of me?”

“Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m trying to quit.” She closed the bathroom door behind her.

* * *

Two women fighting for a bathroom

A conundrum.

Since it was Lisette’s apartment, and since Janice was the guest, and it was their first night together, Janice insisted Lisette go first. To Janice’s surprise, Lisette had prepared well. Fresh, clean towels and a newly bought, soft Oral-B toothbrush sat out on the porcelain sink ready for use. Already mounted high upon its bristles, glistening like a sparkling gem, was blue gel toothpaste. Never had anybody done that before. She scoped out Lisette’s bathroom. After all, she was a reporter, always prying, paying close attention to every detail.

Orange painted walls and a lingering sweet smell of coconut oil, musk and herbs, all rolled up together. It blended with the faint aroma of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Janice opened the shower curtain. Squeaky clean. She checked out the rack of body essentials lining Lisette’s shelf; Loofah’s and pumice stones and brushes with long handles to reach the lower back area. She turned the hot water on and fantasized Lisette’s generous hands dancing upon her, massaging her needs and her desires, when Lisette quietly entered the shower.

Never had Janice felt so receptive, so open, and so incredibly ready to receive another person. Lisette turned her around slowly and kneeled in front of her. Hot water steamed up the mirror and the bathroom. Lisette spread Janice’s thighs and gently took her with long, even strokes. Janice felt weak. Her feet tingled in the shallow, warm water. Hot liquid pulsated over her head, her shoulders, down her back and in between her buttocks. Eaten. Like ripe fruit. A mango or a papaya. Janice created her own in this erotic, delicious rain forest.

Afterwards, Lisette rinsed her mouth out with water and gave her a kiss. Janice could taste herself.

Then, sweetly, like a teacher, she purred, “Good Morning.”

Janice’s defenses melted. Again. Her gated walls of protection slipped open. The horrible memories of her Father pooled and festered and spiraled like a toxic whirlpool down the bathtub drain.

* * *

KC wobbled toward Harry. He purposely picked a table near the front of the restaurant. He wanted plenty of sunshine, as much as possible before entering the world of dungeons and dragons and darkness.

“Will that be all for ‘ya today?” KC asked, the brown and orange uniform she wore must have been XXXL.

“That will do it.” Harry answered.

KC did some extra doodling on her pad and deposited the check on the table. “Whenever you’re ready. Next time you’re in the area, stop on by and say ‘hi.’” She gave a sweet smile and walked away, maneuvering her body extraordinarily well for a woman her size.

Harry looked outside. The parking lot was full of cars already. Outlet stores lined the opposite side of the freeway. Billboards boasted thousands of towels in all sizes. Pots, pans, you name it, all predominately displayed and advertised. “WE WILL NOT BE UNDERSOLD.”

KC went about her job. Harry tried imagining her life. Her ramshackle house. The mess four kids can make, especially without proper supervision. Unintentionally, he profiled her husband. White and skinny, he probably worked the graveyard shift at some blue collar job, just making ends meet. Both of them without proper education after high school, if they finished at all. Maybe a GED. He envisioned KC returning home from work, shopping bags loaded down with junk food. Little Debbie’s and Hostess Cupcakes, lots of potato chips. Some milk and white bread for good measure. Plenty of Pepsi. The kids at home, left alone, unsupervised, without shoes. Dirty feet and runny noses.

Harry was caught off guard, brought back to reality when KC refilled his coffee cup.

Maybe he was wrong. He sure hoped so.

He took his check to an area near the front that read: PAY HERE. An older woman with white, pink tinted hair and fire engine red lipstick walked from an adjacent room. Her nametag read Loretta.

“Everything okay today, honey?” She took Harry’s money and administered change back to him like a bank teller, counting out the singles one by one.

“Just fine.” Harry collected his change, left a generous tip for KC on the table and walked outside into a blast of sunshine. He entered the number to the hospital in Fredericksburg and connected to the nurse’s station.

“Good morning, this is Harry Wright.”

Sharon answered, the AM nurse in charge of the General Medical Floor. “Susan’s doing just fine this morning, Mr. Wright. Would you like to speak with her?”

“I’m actually on the road. Tell her I’ll call as soon as I get situated at the hotel.”

“Will do. I heard you paid us a little surprise visit this morning. You were the hot topic at the nurse’s meeting.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, I’ll let Susan know you called.”

“Thank you, Sharon. I appreciate all you’re doing for her.”

“No worries. You take care now.”

“Send my love to Nancy and the girls.”

Harry ended the call. He paused for a moment. Maybe Nancy was right. Maybe he should have stayed home. How many times had he sacrificed his family for work? How often had he put his job first? Was it guilt raising its ugly head? Yep, it sure was. Loud and clear.

He went back inside and used the restroom before leaving. He was surprised at how clean it was. An automatic air freshener dispensed deodorizer as he washed his hands. An overly sweet odor, a condensed mist of mint hissed like a snake as it released above his head.

Using the sleeve of his jacket, Harry pushed the smeared glass doors of The Waffle House open. He took a deep, invigorating breath, filling his lungs. The scent of pine and early morning moisture. The fusty smell of earth and manure combined. Pure country. He repeated the process several times, as he crossed the parking lot to his car. He pulled a map of Charleston from out of the glove compartment, complete with directions to the Lockwood Precinct. He checked the time. Arrival should be in less than an hour.

Then, let the fun begin.

* * *

Dan’s profession as a Detective incorporated many different skills and job descriptions. Today, his arduous duty was to set up the conference room for “The Mutilator Task Force.”

Located on the third floor of the Lockwood Precinct, the conference room lacked light and atmosphere. It was a large, vacuous space comprised of drab, green floor tiling and dull, gray walls made of cement cinder block. A blackboard had been rolled in and placed in front of some fold up chairs, set up in a semi circle in the middle of the room. Off to the side was a small kitchenette. Nothing fancy. You wouldn’t be finding the room gracing the pages of Good Housekeeping any time soon! Dan began brewing a pot of coffee. Next to the Mr. Coffee machine was a dozen assorted Dunkin’ Donuts he’d picked up on his way in to the Precinct.

His trip to Quantico to attend the National Academy Class had kindled a special interest in the Investigative Support Unit. Under Chief John Douglas, the division’s name had changed from Behavioral Science to the latter “to get rid of the BS.” Dan hadn’t noticed much bullshit. The majority of special agents and instructors he encountered there were incredibly intelligent, had astute and accurate intuition, were diligent on the job and had enough integrity and self-confidence for three people. Among them, Harry Wright was Dan’s favorite. His style and poise were clean and precise. The way in which he profiled cases seemed more like the work of a psychic, or a superhero, than the act of a mere mortal man. Often, Wright would say, when out in the field profiling an UNSUB, when the PERP was finally apprehended, the Police Chief in charge would say to Harry, jokingly of course, “Why didn’t you just give us his address and telephone number?”

Harry Wright’s profiles were virginal. Tight.

Dan looked forward to working with Wright. Many state detectives and police chiefs held resentment when the FBI got involved in a case usually handled by local jurisdiction. Often, more deaths occurred senselessly because officers were unwilling to make that call to the regional FBI field offices, or get Quantico involved at all. It all had to do with egos. Whose dick was bigger? Who was going to solve the case first? Who ultimately would conquer and be the victor? The Investigative Unit Agents were the last ones to stress out about this, knowing full well it was usually the detectives or the police officers working in the area that ultimately apprehended the killers. Not them. They were merely tools. A well-trained tuning fork leading the locals to the perpetrator.

Dan poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. He lightened it with powdered Cremora (he forgot to buy milk) and snatched a cinnamon fritter from the box of donuts. He sat his ass down on a folding chair in the front row.

He hoped Harry Wright recognized him.

He prayed Harry Wright would lead him to the killer.

June 15, 2007

Saturday

7:49 AM

28

Her mother waited downstairs. Jenn could hear her, pacing back and forth in the terracotta foyer. Her high heeled shoes were making that annoyingly irritating noise. Clickety-clack, clickety-click. Please Mother, not today. Now was not the time to get into another long, boring argument. She was already late for work and Mrs. Preston had told her if she was late, one more time, she’d have to start looking for another babysitting job. Mrs. Preston needed somebody more reliable, more responsible, to take care of her little Bernard. Imagine. Jenn hated the brat anyway. Why would anybody call a child Bernard?

She looked over the painted balustrade. Imported from Italy, of course. She could still see her Mother prance into view, turn, pivot, and walk back out again. Maybe Jenn could sneak by without her noticing. What time was it? Oh, sweet Jesus. She needed to go. She grabbed her favorite GAP sweater, the one she shoplifted on a double dare with her best friend Sabrina and ran down the stairs. Two at a time. Maybe if she was fast, her mother wouldn’t see her, let alone, stop her.

“Jenny?”

Too late. Shit! She stopped and turned ever so sweetly. “Yes, Mommy?”

“May I have a word with you before you go?”

“I’m already running late for work. Can’t we talk later, when I get home from school?”

“I’ll drive you to Mrs. Preston’s if you want. I think we should talk.”

“That’s all right.” Jenn glanced outside to avoid eye contact. “I prefer walking. What is it? Can we make this quick, please.” She grabbed her black suede backpack from off a foyer chair and flung it over her shoulder. “C’mon. I’m late.”

She walked toward Jenn. She had that concerned look on her face. Oh, God, what now? She rested her arm around Jenn’s shoulder, the scent of coffee strong on her breath. She must have just finished smoking a cigarette. The lingering smell hovered above her like stale perfume. It almost made Jenn want to quit.

“Jenny?”

“What?” Jenn rounded her shoulders, hoping her Mother would get the hint and remove her arm. “What’s the matter, now?”

“I just want you to know… that I know.”

Jenn looked puzzled. What could she possibly know? “What? You know what?”

“I know about…” she paused in that fake, overly dramatic way, like she was filming an afternoon soap opera or something. So corny. Jenn was losing patience. And fast.

“What? What? WHAT do you know? Tell me!”

“… about Phillip. I know he stays with you. I know he was here last night.”

Jenn turned sixteen shades of white, then green, then gray, hoping what just fell from her  Mother’s lips was some sort of parental joke, a dream, some horrible PTA nightmare.

She continued, “I want to make sure you’re using some sort of protection, that’s all.”

Jenn felt as if she might pass out, right here, on the spot. The only thing she could think of doing was to leave. Exit. Get the fuck away from her Mother!

“Yes. I’m using protection.” She bolted for the door, pushed the screen so hard it bounced back against the side of the house with a twang.

Protection, she thought as she jumped the three cement steps, opened the trellised gate and took off running up East Bay Street.

Protection?

Well, to tell you the truth, Mother dear, it’s a little too late for protection. Your baby Jennifer has an appointment to go in for an abortion. Remember our little talk? Well, maybe you should have had that “little birds and the bees” talk two years ago when your Jenny first started playing with boys.

She could see it all, flashing before her. Forty years from now. When her Mother was an invalid and in some nursing home and her Daddy, a not-so-sweet memory. She’d be sitting beside her bedside confiding the entire horrible decadent deeds her only daughter had done. How she was the first girl in her class to lose her virginity. On a dare (of course). What else was new? To Jimmy Sanders, the Senior All Star football quarterback, who, on the way home from a football game, in the backseat of the bus, no less, decided to do his own private investigation. A winning season. Jenn said, “Deposit a quarter,” and he did. Oh, Mother, his dick was huge. And beautiful. Especially for her first time. She was as tight as a cherry. Bomb! Want to hear more? Mommy? Want to hear every itsy bitsy teeny weenie detail? Your little Jenny must have been all of what, thirteen?

Thanks for the concern, Mom, but you’re a tad bit late to start rapping about protection.

Silly cunt!

She pulled a cigarette from the side compartment of her backpack and lit up. Camel Light. She checked her watch. After eight. Who cared? She was already late. She slowed down her pace, enjoying the morning, the fresh air, her freedom. She turned down Savage Street. It was quiet and peaceful. Not a soul in sight. So, she’d be a few minutes late. She sat down on the curb and took another deep drag off her cigarette. The cement felt cold and rough against her ass. She pulled her skirt down to cover her thighs. Burr… She folded her arms to conserve heat. It was chilly out. Her nipples were hard. She knew what she would do. She would tell Mrs. Preston she had to take her mother to North Charleston. To that free abortion clinic. That would stop the bitch dead in her tracks. That would shut the witch up. Bernard!

Oh, well.

She stood up and brushed the dirt from off her rear end. She flicked her cigarette with one hand, something Philip had taught her. She watched as it spiraled into the gutter. Then, she crossed the street.

If she had one wish, it would be for her Mom and Dad to know her. Really know her. Know who she was, not the Jenny they needed her to be. She would really, really like to have cool parents. People she could actually talk with.

Up ahead, on the other side of the street, Jenn noticed another person stepping off the curb. He looked in each direction before crossing. His hand clenched the inside of his coat pocket. So, she wasn’t alone. Thank God. She often wondered what it would be like to pick up some stranger and just do them. In an alleyway or a public bathroom. Anywhere. Just do it! Go for it. The thought made her horny. It took her away for a second. She could escape the pain. The emotional anguish she felt so often. Parents. Expectations. Performing! She began fantasizing about the man approaching her. Hidden deep within the folds of his trench coat and white cotton boxer shorts, a one-eyed, cobra dick rested, preparing itself to strike.

Oh geez, Jenn. Get a grip!

Somehow, the whole scenario had a déjà vu feeling about it. Like she’d been here before. Maybe it was the raincoat he was wearing. Did Daddy have one like that? Or, the sunglasses? Large aviator frames that covered most of his face. He also wore a large ball cap. As Jenn inched closer, she could see her reflection in the glass, the faintest tint of pink. He was carrying a newspaper, held tight against his side. Kind of strange, but oh, so familiar.

Jenn smiled sweetly as she passed by. She flicked a wave of bouncy blond hair from off her shoulder, something her Mother had taught her to always do for strangers…

29

Stupid bitch!

draw

If anything is sacred…

The human body is sacred.”

‘I Sing the Body Electric’

~ Walt Whitman

8:47 AM

Saturday

30

“Hello?”

“May I please speak with Jennifer?”

“This is Mrs. Stattler, Jennifer’s Mother. May I help you?”

“We’ve been very patient with your daughter, Mrs. Stattler. Waiting for Jennifer to show up this morning, but…”

“For her babysitting job?”

“Yes, exactly. And it isn’t the…”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but Jennifer should be there by now. She left well over an hour ago…”

“Well…”

Mrs. Stattler hung up.

“Oh, dear God…”

Clickety-click on terra cotta.

8:49 AM

31

“It’s important to focus on the crime scene analysis and victimology. Right away,” Wright said, as Dan led him to the front of the conference room. He carried a bulky manila folder with him and placed it onto the table.

“Coffee?” Dan asked. He didn’t want to appear overly enthusiastic, a fan, a brownnoser.

“That would be great. Black. Thank you.” Harry flung his gray suit jacket over the back of the chair and took a seat. He rolled the sleeves of his white button down shirt up to his elbows and glanced quickly at his watch. “I apologize for being late. As you know, we have our work cut out for us.” Wright opened the envelope, emptied the contents onto the table and started shuffling though papers.

Dan poured Wright a cup of coffee in the kitchenette. He allowed Wright to use one of his personal mugs.

“Why were these victims selected over others?” Wright’s voice had range. Tone. Projection. “How were they killed?” Dan could hear him from the kitchen.

Dan delivered the coffee and took a seat beside Police Chief Abrams. Fellow officers sat behind them in a clump, organized as the Mutilator Task Force. It reminded Dan of a twelve step meeting. Everybody sat quietly and stared and sipped from their paper cups, mesmerized and attentive.

“From these two questions, we can begin to address the ultimate question: Who? I made a few notes when I initially checked out the file, but, unfortunately, I haven’t had the opportunity to study much of it. So, please bear with me. Detective Hammer, is there a Coroner’s report with this paperwork?”

Pressure released with a squeak from Dan’s chair as he walked back to the desk and sifted through the paperwork. Harry looked up. His eyes were old and tired and red from no sleep. But fierce with defiance, a sense of purpose, focus.

“You are the homicide detective working this case, am I right?”

I am.” Suddenly Dan was back in boot camp. Orlando Florida. On the grinder. Early morning roll call standing at parade rest. Nerves on overload.

“Were you the first Detective at the scene?”

“Other officers arrived before me, Sir. Officer Evans. I think…he was the first one at the location.” He looked out over the crowd in Evans’s direction. Evans sat slumped back in his chair, biting down on a jelly donut. “Here’s his report. Right here, Sir.”

Wright glanced up from his paper. “You think?”

Evans straightened his posture. He smoothed down his hair.

“Was there a Medical Examiner?”

“Yes, Sir. Dr. Marjorie Dunlap was the Medical Examiner on duty that night.”

“She is a physician, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Sir, and an excellent Medical Examiner, too, I might add.”

“We’ll see about that. I’ve had situations where the Coroner is nothing more than the local funeral director. He checks the body, gives it a push and says, ‘Yep, that boy sure is dead.’”

Chief Abrams hearty laugh boomed from behind Dan. Other officers in the room followed the Chief’s lead. Cinderblock had an irritating way of echoing. Dan didn’t find the story amusing. He felt protective and defensive of Marjorie. “I don’t think, I mean, I know you’ll find Dr. Dunlap’s protocol on the money. She’s quite comprehensive.”

Wright continued rearranging papers. “Was the crime scene altered in any way by the investigation team?”

“Not that I know of, Sir.”

“Who found the body? Family?”

“The first girl, Angie Kessler, the one who survived the attack was found on Old Towne Road stumbling along the side. A pedestrian, George Madden, picked the girl up and transported her to the hospital.”

“Was he questioned?”

“Yes. It wasn’t until later that we found the remains of the second victim.”

“Were photographs taken?” He rustled through more papers. “I don’t see any crime scene photos. I’d like to see the remains.”

“Yes, Sir, photographs were taken.” Wright must think we’re complete idiots. Country bumpkins. “I’ll collect them when we finish up here. They’re probably still at the Lab.”

Wright held his chin with his index finger. His eyes squinted. Was Dan the only one here? In the room? Wright’s concentration was overwhelming. Intense.

“Was anything taken that you know of; underwear, jewelry, anything that belonged to the victim? Souvenirs, maybe?”

Dan swallowed hard. He was being given the first degree. Others watched on in amusement. The Hammer finally under scrutiny. Hammerhead. Dan needed water. In his own mug. He spoke but his voice cracked. Clearing it, he answered, “not that I know of, Sir.”

“It’s important to visualize the crime scene. As close as possible to see how the offender left it. Do you understand?”

Everybody in the room nodded in agreement. Mannequins. Puppets. Robots.

“Detective Hammer, you may sit down.”

Saying his name aloud startled Dan. He was in a zone, dozing. A daze. Wright’s voice was hypnotic. He walked back to his seat, a zombie, as Wright continued.

“From what I see here, gentlemen, we have a very long way to go. We must start by recreating the crime scene. In our head. In order to do that, we need to know as much about the victims as possible. We have to imagine how they reacted. We have to put ourselves in their place, feel their fear, their pain. We have to understand what it felt like to scream in terror, realizing it won’t help, that the person or people responsible won’t stop…”

Wright stood up to make his point stronger. He began pacing back and forth. His shoes squeaked. He tapped the eraser of his pencil on his wrist.

He doesn’t remember me.

Wouldn’t he have said something by now?

Wright rested his large hands on the table, palms down, as if he were about to do a set of pushups. He talked like a preacher, sent from God. His word was God. He had a gift.

“But, just as difficult, we need to put ourselves in the role of the attacker as well, plan along with him, think how he thinks, understand and feel his gratification. This one sacred moment when all of his pent up fantasies can finally come true and he can gain ultimate control. Able to manipulate and dominate another human being. We have to walk in the killer’s shoes as well as the victim’s.”

Quiet.

Outside, a bird chirped sweetly, answering another bird’s call. Ironic. Sun spilled into the room through narrow, dirty slats. Motes of dust danced chaotically in the filtered light. Dan looked outside, searching for the bird. He needed a reminder, a gentle nudge that beauty still existed in the world. That nature and innocence could coexist together. Still. What he witnessed instead was a splotch of dried bird shit, streaking the glass pane a dingy dull gray and white.

8:52 AM

32

Janice was worried about Jake.

Her intention of going to Lisette’s house last evening was to have dinner. That was it! Then go home. No hanky panky. No fooling around. End of story. The last thing on her mind was staying over.

Or was it?

I’m a damn liar!

Jake would be absolutely crazy by now. Angry and upset. Probably pissed off and pooped all over the place. And, she wouldn’t blame him. She hadn’t even put papers down. Old, used Post and Courier’s worked well. Especially the editions without her byline. Sometimes the State sufficed, for good measure. Extra protection. Better absorbency.

How could she have known? She wasn’t a fortuneteller. Besides, what warning signals were there? Did she have the slightest suspicion that she would be seduced into being with Lisette? On Lisette? Underneath Lisette? Dear, sweet Lisette. Now, she knew. It was a fact. Janice Porter was definitely in love. In love. Really and truly. Seriously. With Lisette.

Jake. Back to Jake. She loved Jake, too.

She took King Street, the downtown exit ramp off I-26. Her speed dwindled as she turned onto Rutledge Avenue. Morning traffic clogged the highway like metal cholesterol. Not to mention all the construction. Charleston was bursting at the seams. The only place to go – to grow -- was up. She checked her watch. Almost nine. She wanted to catch up with Dr. Garrison during her morning rounds. Never one to let Louis down, she turned right on Bee Street. MUSC loomed in front of her like a huge concrete tomb.

Hopefully, Jake could wait another minute… or two.

Janice was working, as usual, on a deadline.

33

Motherfucker!

Let me out of here.

It was boiling hot in here and she couldn’t see. Something tight was wrapped around her wrists and ankles. Her arms were secured behind her. Her shoulders ached. There was a sweet, awful medicinal taste in her mouth. Like the time she tried coke with Lisa, one of her druggie friends. What was her boyfriend’s name? Lester. Lester scored them some coke one night and so they snorted a few lines. On a dare. Big deal. Boring. Lester told them to rub the rest, what was left of the powder onto their fingers and massage it into their gums. What? Go fuck yourself, Lester!

Where am I?

Let me out of here, you motherfucker! Now!

She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even talk.

Little puffs of breath from her nose. In and out. That was all she could do. She worked her tongue across the inside of her lips. They wouldn’t open. There was tape, something strong and durable clamped down hard across her mouth. Like adhesive or duct tape. It wrapped all the way around her head. Several times. It pulled at her hair each time she moved.

Ouch!

Who did this to me? What happened?

She tried collecting her thoughts. She felt hazy, dizzy, drugged.

She kicked out, but her feet caught against something hard. Metal perhaps. She moved her head backward and forward, but the tape pulled at her hair.

She was laying on something coarse, like carpet. Indoor outdoor. Like on their outside terrace. Where the gas barbecue was. She was lying in a fetal position, curled up, cramped into a tiny space. A trunk, maybe.

I’m in a fucking car!

Some motherfucker’s got me hostage in a freaking trunk!

She had a dull headache, a throb pulsed in her left temple. Somebody must have hit her on the head. Somebody deliberately did this. But who? When? Why?

Did Phillip stack some pot in that last cigarette she smoked? Shit, she must be so late for work.

Somebody better let me out of here before I get my ass reamed by Mrs. Preston. Or fired. Mrs. Preston warned me. She’ll hire somebody more reliable.

Somebody let me out of here.

Somebody better.

Somebody please let me out of here.

And quickly…

9:07 AM

MUSC

34

Dr. Ronald Kendleson, the Chairman of MUSC’s surgical residency program had decided to join Dr. Garrison for attending rounds. Eleven residents entered the surgical ward, located on the second floor of the hospital. Nerves splintered as the residents observed Dr. Kendleson dramatically pull charts from three post op patients. He flipped through the pages effortlessly, stopping every so often to write a note into his pocket-sized binder.

Dr. Garrison slipped in, unnoticed. She took a position at the front of the group. She nodded to the mass of green scrubs and white lab coats looking up to her for salvation. She understood their obvious tension and frustration. It hadn’t been that long ago that she, too, had been standing where they were now, waiting to be executed by Dr. Ron.

She always fared well with Dr. Kendleson. She made it a point to never be intimidated by him or by anybody. He enjoyed every opportunity to prey on other people’s weak points. Find their soft spot, zoom in on their vulnerabilities and use it against them. For sport. How many times had she seen a resident retreat from rounds, driven to virtual tears by his ruthless interrogations? His merciless questions. And, not only females. Men, too, feared his wrath. His personalized humiliation. He must have realized early on that Dr. Garrison was impenetrable. That she would stand up, debate, and even disagree with him at times, if she felt it were necessary. Besides, Dr. Ron understood one very important thing. Dr. Garrison knew her shit. She hadn’t studied that hard, for so long, for nothing.

They took their places around bed number six. The floor opened to a petite Asian resident, Soomie Kim. It was her turn to present the case.

Dr. Kendleson removed his glasses. He inserted the plastic end into his mouth and bit at the tip. He studied the chart, trolling for mistakes, missing details, any opportunity to strike.

Dr. Garrison watched on proudly. She’d stolen a moment, earlier, to browse through the patient’s chart. Everything was in order. Soomie was an excellent resident. Now, Dr. Garrison wanted her appearance to calm her down. Dr. Kim cleared her throat. She looked up, first at Dr. Kendleson, and then at Dr. Garrison who gave her a reassuring nod.

“The patient is a fifty four year old Caucasian male, admitted early this morning via ambulance service with a gunshot wound to his thoracic region…”

The drone of her tiny voice and the constant attack of monitors beeping beside the patient’s head made Dr. Garrison long for a cup of coffee. Black and hot with lots of sugar. She suppressed a yawn, and moved her head every so often to show her attention wasn’t wavering, even though it was. She glanced out at the reception area by the elevators. Freedom.

What?

She couldn’t believe her eyes. That damn reporter was back. Like a bad head cold.

She interrupted the presentation. “Excuse me for one moment.”

Dr. Kendleson repositioned his glasses. He glared at her through bifocal lenses. “Where are you going?” His voice groaned like Darth Vader from Star Wars.

“There’s a situation I need to clear up. I won’t be long. I apologize for interrupting your presentation, Dr. Kim.”

Dr. Garrison gathered angry momentum as she pushed through the glass enclosure separating the Unit from the hallway. The residents watched on as she exited.

Dr. Kendleson, upset that Dr. Garrison had stolen his thunder, clapped his hands together several times and said, “Let’s go, Dr. Kim! We don’t have all day.”

“What are you doing here?” Dr. Garrison asked, approaching the reporter, contempt burning in her eyes. What was her name? Janine, Jasmine..?

She extended her hand as if the Doctor might actually make an attempt to shake it.

Dr. Garrison walked right past her, eager to take advantage of this opportunity to fetch some coffee.

“Janice Porter, from the…”

“I know who you are.”

“We never actually got a formal opportunity to chat yesterday, with the fire and all…”

Dr. Garrison turned around and addressed her. “I’ve told you, over and over again, I have nothing more to say about the Kessler girl. I feel very sorry for her family, particularly her Father. I wish it would have ended differently…”

She’s a strange one, this one… bold. Fearless…

Janice interrupted her. “But it didn’t. Angie Kessler died. Here. In this hospital, two floors up. I’m actually shocked. Everybody seems to be handling it so well today… considering…”

“I was her physician.”

“Somebody actually walked right into her private room and made her into a human torch.”

“I saw the room. I was here. With you. Remember? What do you want from me? You seem to know more about the girl than I do.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you the one who coined the phrase, The Mutilator? Well, aren’t you? If I’m not mistaken, that was your face plastered all over the front page of the paper, wasn’t it?”

Janice took a step back. She blushed, catching herself in a priceless moment of personal recognition. It smacked her square in the face. A sucker punch. She felt embarrassed, shy, but proud. Proud. PROUD, “Ah, most of that information came from the gentleman who found her.”

Dr. Garrison craved coffee. And, a Valium. She pressed the elevator button. “I don’t know what else you could possibly want from me. I feel as if you’re harassing me.”

“Harassing you?” Janice chuckled, completely taken aback.

“That’s what it’s beginning to feel like. Showing up at my home. Following me around like…”

Hurry up, elevator. C’mon.

“Honestly, that’s not my intention, Dr. Garrison. Truly. I’m only trying to do my job. Trying to get to the bottom of this very ugly story, hoping maybe you might be willing to put a more personal spin on it…”

The elevator opened. Thank God. Dr. Garrison hurried in, hoping the reporter wouldn’t follow.

Janice stood stationary, a cement statue holding guard while Dr. Garrison took cover in the back corner. She reached out for the Lobby button and pulled her scrub coat tight around her body for comfort. The faint ding of the elevator closing and the reporter’s nauseating voice was the last thing she heard.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Dr. Garrison, and I say this with all due respect, I just wouldn’t expect a physician, like yourself, to be so aggressively uncooperative. That’s what puzzles me the most…”

10:27 AM

Lockwood Precinct

Conference Room

35

Harry was losing his voice.

He downed the last tepid swig of strong, burnt coffee from an oversized mug that read: NUMBER ONE DAD. He swallowed quickly in order not to taste the mud. Police precincts weren’t respected for their coffee, but perhaps in the South, they were renowned for their fathering. Harry looked over at Detective Hammer. “Could I please have a glass of water?”

Hammer jumped up. He walked to the side room and disappeared. The faint sound of suction releasing as the refrigerator opened.

“There are three distinct questions we need to ask ourselves in order to apprehend the perpetrator.” He glanced around the room. “Can anybody tell me the first?” A slight pause. He waited for some enthusiasm, some excitement. Nobody responded. “Okay, the first question we ask is what took place? This includes anything that might be behaviorally significant about the crime.”

Hammer returned to the desk. He placed the glass of cold water in front of him.

“Thank you.”  Harry ingested a large amount before setting the glass down. He felt the coldness soothe his throat and travel to his stomach. “That’s better. Secondly, we need to know why? Why did the crime happen the way it did? Remember, behavior reflects personality. Why was nothing of value taken? Was the mutilation done after death? Was the victim sexually assaulted? What are the underlying reasons for each behaviorally significant factor relating to this crime? And then, of course, this leads us to…who?”

A rapid succession of knocks at the door interrupted the question.

“Come in.”

Silence.

Faint voices echoed from the hallway. Upheaval was growing outside.

“What is it? Come in please.”

A police officer with carrot-colored hair poked his head around the door. “Police Chief Abrams, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have an all alert out. Another girl is missing.”

Abrams repositioned himself in his chair. He assimilated the information. He pulled a crinkled handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “Shit. Since when?”

“Just called in, sir. By the girl’s Mother. The girl’s name is Jennifer Stattler.”

Police Chief Abrams stood up. He tucked his shirt into his pants. He organized some papers on the desk in front of him and slipped them back into a folder.

“What’s the address?” Harry asked.

“High Battery. The harbor.”

Harry glanced over at Police Chief Abrams, then to Detective Hammer. “Let’s go, Detective. I’ll let you drive.”

36

Little puffs of breath.

In and out.

That’s all Jenn could do. Like sucking air through a cramped plastic straw. A colorful snorkel. Like being underwater.

Imagine yourself underwater, Jenn.

But I can’t get enough air.

I’m running out of oxygen.

Is this what it feels like to drown?

If she were underwater right now, she would go for it. She would take in a big breath. Just inhale a huge gulp of liquid coolness. Green and blue and clear. She would let it ripple and spin throughout her, swirl around inside her lungs, expand and push further, past boundaries, past her limit. That’s what she would do. If she were underwater. If she were to kill herself.

I think I would rather be dead than here.

But, she wasn’t underwater.

Dammit!

Motherfucker!

Drained. And exhausted. And the heat was stifling. Her pleated white shirt was wet and sticky and glued to her back. Her hands and feet were soaked with perspiration. It was so fucking hot. Like a sauna. She wanted air, Dammit. She needed some fresh air!

Whoever you are? Keeping me a prisoner in here, I want some air.

And water. Somebody. Please, please help me.

She kicked at the inside of the trunk. Somebody might hear. Maybe somebody was walking around outside. Somebody might actually hear her kicking.

Stop!

She couldn’t afford to get overly excited. It made her sweat more. Breathe faster. She had to be calm. Relax. And breathe. Little puffs of air, in and out through her nose.

“Puff the magic dragon…

Lives by the sea.

And frolics in the autumn mist…”

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

Nobody will help her. Nobody will save her.

Her shoulders were killing her. Aching. Especially her right side. She’d been lying on it for hours. She needed to move it. Reposition.

Little puffs of breath.

In and out.

Her right shoulder had fallen asleep. It felt like dead meat beneath her. Numb and dry and prickly. She tried rounding her shoulders. She imagined herself at the gym working out with free weights. She counted down the sets slowly. Pins and needles jabbed at her arm, tingling sensations. Finally, she was able to move, just a bit. Back and forth. Rocking. She didn’t want to overexert. She kept reminding herself to stay calm. Relax. And breathe.

She felt something hard and cool behind her. If she stretched the tips of her fingers, she could feel it. Sweet Jesus, thank you. She strained again. The ends of her fingers reached and extended. What was it? A jack? The car jack? It projected up and against the back of the trunk through a thin piece of carpeting.

She inched her body backwards. Toward the metal. Toward the jack. It wasn’t a large trunk. Not like her Mommy’s. Not like the Lexus. This trunk was smaller. Much smaller. Medium-sized. Moving her body took the precision of all of her parts. All of her strength. Like a caterpillar, she would breathe and scoot. Breathe and scoot. If her timing was off, not even an inch of progress.

A strand of loose, wet hair tickled at her nose. She couldn’t reach it. She couldn’t get to it. She couldn’t even use her tongue. She tried shaking her head to remove it. She was afraid the harder she shook, more of her hair would fall. She tried forgetting about it. The annoyance. The irritation. She tried concentrating on the jack. Her escape.

Her fingers didn’t have so far to stretch now. She could feel the metal edges pressing up against her. It wasn’t too sharp. Not sharp enough to cut, but maybe, if she rubbed the tape up against it, back and forth, several times, it would loosen. Like on TV. Maybe she could even cut through it.

Then what? What would she do then? Wait? Obviously, somebody was coming back for her. Somebody must want to hurt her to do all this.

Kill me?

She positioned herself firmly against the metal jack. The end jabbed at her butt. She didn’t care. It was a shot. A chance. It was now or never.

I’ll show you.

Don’t fuck with me.

Remember Jenn…

Little puffs of breath.

Little puffs of breath…

In and out…

And, up and down…

11:02 AM

37

Hammer led Harry Wright through a maze of eggshell colored hallways. Numb and fatigued, Harry followed blindly down an ancient, smelly stairwell to the front of the Precinct. A pleasant looking female officer with baby blue fingernail polish handed Hammer an envelope.

“Photographs,” she said, matter-of-factly. “From the Lab.”

Hammer took the folder, said a quick “thanks” and handed it off to Wright, as if they were part of one elaborate relay team racing for the Gold.

Palm trees outlined the parking lot. What heralded Harry’s arrival earlier this morning was a reality. He really was in the South. Those tall, billowing stalks, were in fact, real live palm trees. Dan pushed the glass and steel doors open. Warm, humid air mixed with exhaust fumes greeted them. On Lockwood Avenue, cars sped past at lightning speeds hoping to beat the upcoming string of traffic lights.

Hammer looked vaguely familiar to Harry. Did he know him from somewhere? Where?

Meanwhile, Hammer continued to address Harry with an apprehensive look that said, “Stay tuned.” Like he was anticipating, waiting for something. Expectant. A tinge of recognition? A pat on the back. A bone.

Unfortunately, Detective Hammer, Harry Wright’s tuning fork was sadly off-kilter now. Maybe tomorrow he’d have more to offer in that department. After some sleep. A little rest. That’s what Harry needed right now. He thought about going back to that cheap hotel, taking a long, hot shower (hopefully there was hot water) followed by a quick power nap. The side effects from driving all night had finally taken its toll. Harry felt sluggish. His throat was scratchy. He was not as young as he used to be. Not as young as Detective Hammer.

“I had a difficult time earlier.” Harry cleared his throat, wishing he had a Hall’s mentholated throat lozenge. “Talking, that is. It’s uncharacteristic of me. I pride myself on my training. My presentations.”

“You sounded fine to me.” Hammer pulled sunglasses from out of his navy blue pinstriped blazer and adjusted them onto his face.

Harry followed silently behind Dan. It was obvious Charleston was not accustomed to violent crimes. Not in the way Harry was. Not in the way anybody should be.

“If you want, I can take you back to your hotel first.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Hammer crossed in front of Harry. He escorted him to his vehicle, an antique Plymouth. And very well kept. Clean on the inside and out. And dark. The color of cranberries, deep red and purple. It made Harry thirsty. Perhaps they might stop for some lunch later.

“Where are you staying?” Dan asked, grateful he’d run his car through the car wash earlier that morning. Always the good boy. Always scouring for a crumb of approval.

“Not far from here.” Harry pointed in some direction, which could have been wrong. “Howard Johnson’s, I think. The Riverfront.”

Unlocking his door first, Hammer jumped in. He leaned over and unlocked the passenger side. The pas de deux continued. Harry slid in. He smelled the clean scent of a non smoker. Thank God. He buckled his seat belt. The shoulder strap needed immediate adjusting. Was he gaining more weight? He pulled and tugged and finally allowed another inch of freedom across his chest. He opened the envelope and pulled out the crime scene photos.

“To the Battery.” Harry said, knowing he had a rogue student in his presence. “There’s much to teach you.”

Hammer turned to Harry and smiled. He had a nice smile, friendly and engaging. Harry was reminded of himself at Hammer’s age. Self-confident. Edgy. That dangerous mix of arrogance and cocksureness. It was exhilarating to meet somebody with those attributes. Also exhausting. Was he ever that young? That age? He didn’t think so. Perhaps a thousand years ago. Or more. He leaned back into the worn folds of the hot vinyl seat and surrendered the driving to Hammer. And to remember. Oh, yes, he definitely could remember.

“So…” Hammer said, turning right onto Lockwood Boulevard and interfering with Harry’s private thoughts, “How’s the family?”

Harry glanced out his window, the powder blue skies, the towering naked palm trees. How lazily they swayed in the humid, stiff breeze as if bowing to one another in slow motion. Hot air pumped out onto Harry’s knees from the car’s air conditioner, warming up to hopefully cool down.

Harry remembered, sometimes to forget.

11:00 AM

38

Jake was much happier to see Janice than Dr. Garrison was. Happy might not be the appropriate word. Pissed off would probably be a better choice to describe Jake’s personality once Janice finally walked through the front door. Relieved, also.

After the initial, “I missed you so much” attack, Jake galloped to the wall, jumped up, grabbed his leash, ran back and dropped it in front of her. And before she had a chance to turn around and shut the door, he was already outside. Scrambling down the paver stones, claws clicking on the pavement, hoisting his leg up on the first available shrub he could find, grateful and thankful and happily unburdened. Janice felt miserable. She did a quick spot check around the apartment to make sure everything was intact. No shredded shoes. No tattered newspapers. (Jake knew better than that) No evidence of an accident. Not even Jake’s trusty green plastic dinosaur. Poor Jake. What a good boy. She parted the sheer curtains of the kitchen window. Jake chased after a Blue Jay, totally in his element. Jumping and barking and scurrying around the back courtyard.

She felt the vibration of her cell phone in her pocket and flopped down on her unmade bed to listen.

“Hey, Lisette here. Let me just say one thing…” Janice smiled, reflecting on their evening together.

“Mmmmmmmmmm. Bye.” Janice became embarrassed. She turned fifty different shades of red. She hid her face in her comforter before finally coming back up for air. Then, she pressed repeat and listened to the message again. And again. And again.

Beep.

“Porter. Tip. Another girl. Kidnapped. 410 East Bay Street. High Battery. Get on it. Stattler’s the name. Jennifer Stattler.” The voice, of course, was modified, disguised beyond conventional recognition. Janice had a faint, fat clue who it was.

She whistled. The good kind. The two fingers in the mouth kind. And loud. She loved the fact that she could whistle like the best of them. Damn proud. Jake came running, panting and sliding toward her. He thought she wanted to play. Make up for lost time. He bounced back and forth, bowing in front of her before retreating. Janice ran some cold water from the sink, filled his bowl and put it on the floor. He scrambled to the dish and slurped down large mouthfuls while she attached the leash to his collar.

“C’mon, Jake, let’s go.” She patted him firmly on his side. He rolled over and opened his hind legs exposing the soft pinkish-gray area next to his genitals. What is it about dogs? Then, Janice smiled sheepishly.

She should talk.

“We’re going on a little expedition. To East Bay Street.”

She grabbed her pen and pad. And this time, she remembered to bring Jake along.

11:06 AM

39

Noon traffic.

Dan drove south across Calhoun Street at a pregnant snail’s pace toward East Bay. He pointed out the various tourist attractions. Sights of interest. Charleston, with all of its current problems was one hell of a beautiful City. Wright nodded in agreement. The scanner remained mute. A crackle would ignite over the wire intermittently, a faint indecipherable echo in the background and then fizzle away quietly.

Wright intervened. “Interesting, I’ve never been to Charleston before. Susan and I have been meaning to get down here. We just never got around to it. I can’t believe how clean it is.”

“You’re used to Richmond. That’s quite a difference.”

“The closest I ever got to Charleston was Columbia.”

“The Larry Gene Bell trial. You were the expert witness. I read about it.”

“You’ve been doing your homework.”

“Fifty seven minutes to return the verdict.”

“Forty seven to be exact. Overwhelmingly guilty. Sentenced to first degree murder and kidnapping…”

“… death by electrocution.”

Wright brushed his hands clean of the memory. “Columbia’s nice, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”

“I’ve visited a few times. After my training class in Quantico, I took a tour of the district FBI field office up there. What’s his name? Halstrom?”

“Dale Halstrom. He’s the SAC in charge. Good friend of mine. He’s the one who contacted me about what’s happening down here.”

Dan nodded and changed the subject. “I took Alexandra, my little girl, to the zoo in Columbia once. They have a nice zoo there.” Dan felt obliged to do the obligatory. He pulled out his wallet and opened it to a snapshot of Alexandra. The traffic light at Meeting Street turned red. He stopped the car. The engine idled. He tapped his index fingers on the top of the steering wheel while Harry looked at Alexandra’s photo. He imagined Harry profiling his little girl, his doomed marriage, his lonely existence.

“It’s tough.” Wright handed Dan back his photograph. Dan stole one fast glance before tucking the picture back into his wallet.

Green light. Go.

“How long have you been divorced?” Wright surveyed the scenery outside his window. College students, weighted down with books and backpacks, darted in between streets and parked cars.

“Going on two years now.” Dan pointed to the falciform brick entranceway of the college. “College of Charleston. Good school, if you can afford it.”

“Marriage is difficult,” Wright commented, matter-of-factly. “That, I grant you. But nothing can ever prepare you for fatherhood.”

“You have two children, correct?”

“You have an excellent memory, Detective Hammer. How did you get all this information? You were only in Quantico for a couple of weeks, weren’t you?”

“I took you out for a couple of beers one night. After class.”

“You did?”

“Against policy regulations, I know, but you came along anyway.”

“I’ve been known to break a few rules now and then in my twenty five years.”

“We went to someplace in Fredericksburg. I forget the name of the place. I wanted to pick your brain about the Academy.”

“Then you picked well. And, to answer your question, I have a boy and a girl.” Wright took a deep breath. Maybe it was a sigh. “But, my kids are all grown now. In fact, Nancy has children of her own.”

“You’re a Grandfather.”

“A Grandfather.” Pause. “Susan and I have often talked about visiting Charleston.”

Wright was repeating himself. It was an awkward moment. Guess he had some flaws, too. “Why didn’t she come?” Dan asked.

Silence.

Dan turned the car onto East Bay Street. Clusters of trendy restaurants populated the right side of the street. Office workers dressed in business attire crossed in packs at the streetlights. Women carrying shopping bags leisurely peered into store windows. New mothers pushed expensive, name brand strollers. A lone dog walker waited patiently for the light to turn green.

A cell phone went off.

The scanner flat lined.

“Is that yours or mine?” Dan asked, scrambling to grab his cell and check. Wright made an urgent, spastic move for his pocket and then relaxed.

“Yours.” He said calmly. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “Thank God. Besides, mine vibrates.”

Dan chuckled as he checked the number. “I’m just going to pull over for a second. It’s Gina -- speak of the devil -- my ex.”

“No problem. I’ll wait in the car.”

Dan double-parked, flicked on his emergency lights and exited the car. He was expecting the worst. Alexandra’s sick. Alexandra’s in the hospital. Alexandra had some terrible accident. Wright sat complacently in the passenger seat checking out the fanfare of pedestrian traffic.

“Dan?” Gina’s unmistakable voice.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“You okay? You sound like you just finished running a marathon or something.”

“What do you want, Gina? Now’s not a good time for thirty questions.”

“Okay, okay. I just called to remind you about this evening…”

Dan checked his watch. He looked at the date. The time. “Remind me of what?”

“It’s Friday, Dan. Remember? You said you would watch Alexandra for me tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“It’s my Mother’s birthday. We’re taking her out for dinner. Remember? Girl’s night out. I told you about it.”

“Birthday. Oh, shit.”

“I told you to mark it down on your calendar, so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, Dan, tonight. I can drop Alexandra off at your place at around, say…”

“Gina, I hate to do this to you, and I would love to see Alexandra… more than anything…”

“She’s your daughter, too, you know.” Agitation was building. “I don’t believe this. Don’t tell me you forgot about this?”

“Watch your mouth. Is Alexandra near you? Is she listening in?”

“You promised Dan.”

“Gina, listen to me. The FBI is here. This case is…”

“I am listening to you...”

“Haven’t you been reading the papers? I’ve been working around the clock.”

“What else is new, Dan?”

“I’ll pay for the babysitter.”

“Overnight. I’m driving to Columbia. You knew that. You know what? I’ve got a better idea. Maybe I should just stand outside my house, on the curb and wait for you. The next time I see you sneaking around in that ratty ass car of yours, stalking me and your baby…”

“Stalking?”

“… I’ll put a damn restraining order on your ass. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll call the f’in cops on you.”

“I told you to watch your mouth. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“I’ve made some friends out here on the Island, too, you know.”

I’m sure you have.

“How’s that going to sit with the judge? Huh, Dan? Visitation rights are one thing, but stalking is another thing altogether.”

Assignation.

Proving ground. Once again. The bad boy metamorphosed into a horrible man who changed, far too quickly, into the horrific husband, who, in rapid succession, has tried desperately his whole fucking life to make good on all the bleak promises he ever made to a woman, one woman. Gina! Women!

“What time?” Dan asked, beaten.

“I’ll be at your apartment at seven. Sharp. And, please, Dan, don’t keep me waiting. Not like the last time.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I hope so.” In the background, Dan overheard Alexandra chatting away, trying to interrupt the conversation. Muddled voices conferred on the subject of where Daddy was. “You want to say “hi” to your Daddy?”

“Let me say “hello,” Gina,” realizing too late he was talking into a dead line. He slipped the phone back into his jacket and stepped off the curb. The sweet, fragrant scent of magnolia blossoms attacked him as he got back into the car.

11:17 AM

40

“Detective Hammer? This is Dr. Garrison… Sydia, I mean. Ah, this is a little embarrassing, calling you, and I apologize for leaving a message on your landline, but… what I have to talk to you about, well, it doesn’t really constitute an emergency. Let me see, the current time is 11:17 in the morning, and to be totally upfront, Dan, I would like to see you. Again. This evening, if possible. You have my cell phone number, and my home phone. I know you’re probably standing there, shaking your head right now, but, if you check your navy blue jacket, the one you wore out last evening to the restaurant, in your right hand pocket you will find a matchbook to “82 Queen Street,” and inside that you’ll find… well, let’s just say… you’ll find…m e. At least my home phone number, that is. I check in frequently. I’m at the hospital now. Working. A Doctor’s job is never finished. I look forward to hearing from you, Dan…”

Perfect!

She smiled. Then Sydia did a quick foot rotation and walked down the hallway to the elevators.

Dr. Kendleson’s office was located on the second floor.

She felt lethargic exiting onto the red carpeted corridor and walking the short stretch of CEO territory with noiseless footsteps. Executive offices paneled both sides of the passage. She cowered under the scrutiny of the overly-bright fluorescent ceiling lights. Administration. At the end of the hall, enclosed in a large glass partition, sat Dr. Kendleson’s secretary. She busied herself with paperwork.

“Dr. Garrison, what can I do for you?” She collected handfuls of paper from one pile and organized them brilliantly into another. Tedium.

“Is Ron in? I need to speak with him.”

“One second.” She picked up the telephone and dialed a few numbers. “Dr. Garrison is here… she would like to speak with you. Yes. Yes, Sir, very good.” She hung up and motioned for Sydia to enter.

Dr. Kendleson sat behind a large, highly polished desk. He hovered over several issues of the Journals of Modern Medicine. He removed his glasses, allowing them to dangle over his chest by an expensive golden chain.

“Is everything okay, Dr. Garrison?”

“Well, to be completley honest Sir, no. May I sit?” She pointed to one of the comfortable, raspberry colored chairs situated in front of his desk. His office smelled of Fabreeze room deodorizer.

“Sure. Make yourself comfortable.” He closed the tome of a journal to give the Doctor his full attention. “What is it?”

“As you’re aware, Sir, I’ve had a very stressful couple of days. The pressure has been, to say the least, nerve-wracking.”

“It’s been stressful for us all. The fire in the SICU isn’t the sort of press a Hospital needs. Or wants.”

“Speaking of press, which is the reason I had to leave rounds this morning. Detectives and reporters have been bombarding me since the Kessler girl was brought in. I was the admitting physician, as you know.”

“What is it you need, Dr. Garrison?” He leaned back in his leather recliner chair, lifted his glasses from his chest and inserted one of the ends into his mouth, an anxious mannerism she’d noticed many times before.

“With your permission, Sir, I would like the rest of the day off. I’ve already asked one of the residents to cover…”

“Who?”

“Dr. Kim. She’s one of the brightest and best surgical residents MUSC has seen in quite some time.”

“Since you, that is.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Dr. Kendleson. I appreciate your confidence in me.” She looked down at her white lab coat, embarrassed and entertained. Tedium.

“You’re welcome. I rarely give out compliments, you know that, but I feel you are one of the finest surgeons to walk through these halls in quite some time.”

“Thank you again, Sir.”

He flipped through a few notes. “Didn’t you leave for a few hours the other day? I was trying to get in touch with you…”

“When? Oh, you mean Thursday. Yes, I did. I had to pick up a few things at the mall. I came right back, though.”

“I don’t think what you’re asking for is such a problem as long as you’ve covered yourself. It’s fine with me. Get some rest.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll rest up for tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Dr. Kendleson repositioned his glasses back on his nose and stood up. He was a statuesque man with an elegant air about him. A decent body. All those early morning spin classes!

“I’m On Call.” She proffered her hand in his direction. He gave her a hardy handshake before she exited. Dr. Garrison remembered to say ‘thank you’ to the nice secretary as she reentered the red oasis of carpet flooding the hallway.

Freedom.

She took the elevator to the basement, retrieved her things from her locker and resigned herself to using the stairs back up to the first floor. Exercise. She entered onto the main level, already buzzing with activity. One thing about hospitals… never a dull moment. Several pages squawked over the loudspeaker. None for her, thank God. She hurried to the front entrance, grabbed her sunglasses from out of her purse, the aviator rose-tinted ones, and flipped the collar of her trench coat firmly up around the back of her neck. She reached for her keys in the side pocket.

Where are they?

Gone. She stopped. Frantic. She prodded the bottom of her bag. She always put them in the same place. Every day.

Why aren’t they here?

She leaned down and emptied the contents of her purse onto the beige tiled floor.

Jesus Christ!

“Everything okay, Dr. Garrison?”

She looked up. “What?” There, standing beside her was Phillip, the ambulance driver from the ER.

“Is everything okay? Do you need any help?” He leaned down to assist her.

She quickly scooped up her belongings from off the floor and shoved everything back into her handbag. Standing up, Phillip rose with her.

“Everything’s fine. Thank you.” She brushed hair back from off her forehead.

Ah, here they are…

“I was just looking for my car keys, and here they are.”

Relief.

I hold them up. I dangle them in front of Phillip’s eyes like a tiny bell, hypnotizing him into submission.

“See. But, thank you, Phillip. I appreciate your help.”

“No worries.” Phillip strode away, hands in his pockets.

I remember now. Suddenly, I recall. These aren’t mine. These are the rental keys. I rented a car this morning. Very early. Before dawn. I took a taxi from the Hospital to North Charleston, close to Goose Creek. Alamo. Yes, it’s all coming back to me.

The sun is hot. Much warmer than this morning. The car is parked in the distance and shining like a red ruby in the noonday sun. All alone, by itself, near the back fence. A few cars are parked nearby it, but not many. I prepare the key as I approach the driver’s side. I stop for a second. I think back to my quick run-in with Phillip. Poor, stupid Phillip. Then, I kick the back fender, as hard as I can. I unlock the door and lower the window. I check the rearview mirror. The coast is clear. Not a soul in sight. I turn over the ignition, watching traffic and drive along Highway 17.

My destination is already charted.

“Stupid bitch!”

41

Movement.

Finally.

And ventilation.

She was lying in her own piss. The smell was obnoxious. The heat inside the trunk was unbearable.

She tried holding it in. She knew what would happen. But the pain became overwhelming. Too much. Sometimes, she thought her bladder was the size of a peanut. Or smaller. Mommy always told her it wasn’t healthy to hold in her urine. So, she let it out, slowly at first, just a dribble, every so often. Then, the trickle began running down her leg, tickling her. She could feel the warmth flowing right between her thighs. She became so angry she finally just let it rip. She even raised her knee, separating her thighs. Boy, did she let loose. The force was so strong and steady she thought for sure somebody would see water leaking from the back of the car. But, they didn’t. Nobody saw anything. She couldn’t even hear voices. She tried listening, pressing her ear tight against the rear back light. As close to the red and orange plastic as she could. Nothing. Nobody.

Now at least there was air circulating. And thankfully, she could now scratch her legs where the pee had dried.

Little pinpricks of light bounced all around her as the car moved from shaded areas through open sunlight. Rubber tires hugged the asphalt underneath her. She experienced bumps without the comfort of shocks. Potholes. Cracks in the pavement. She could almost predict them. Prepare herself.

She was reading the road. What else could she do? When the car turned left, she turned left, Right, right. When the car accelerated, she moved with it. When it slowed down, her heart began beating. Faster.

Are we there yet?

Was she ready?

The engine talked to her. Communicated. At some galactic level, she understood the metallic language of the car. So she wouldn’t have to be alone. In the short time they’d been together, she and the car, they had become pretty good traveling companions. In a wacky, retarded sort of way, they both related. They were both hiding out, hidden under the flashy exterior of a hood and a trunk. Both of them were on a journey. Cool metaphor! Miss Langley, her English teacher would be so proud of her. The car had opened up to her. They had bonded with one another. And all for the price of a little company. Like sisters. Almost. Then again, she wouldn’t know. She never had a sister.

Sudden acceleration.

“Ouch! Fucker! My hair.” Shhhh…

That one hurt. She didn’t have time to prepare.

The driver was in a hurry, whoever the fucking pervert was. Better slow down. Better not go too fast. Wouldn’t want you to be pulled over by the highway patrol and spoil all your fun.

Besides, if that were to happen, it might fuck up Jenn’s plans.

Her little secret.

She could see now. She could scream, too, if she wanted. She didn’t dare. Instead, she would wait. She would stay perfectly still and hold onto her lovely piece of metal. She now held the tire jack firmly in both of her hands. She called it Jack, for lack of a better name. Jack would be present. They would bide their time together and wait for the son of a bitch who did this. Relish the thought of the trunk finally opening. The expression on that fucker’s face would be priceless. She wished that she had her IPhone so she could take a picture. Too bad the creep confiscated it. Instead of finding a helpless little girl tied up with duct tape, lying in piss, she would haul off and introduce the fucker to Jack. Her new best friend. Face to face.

Then, she would kill the motherfucker.

Trust me.

I will fucking kill him.

12:16 PM

42

410 East Bay Street. High Battery.

Jake systematically circled each palm tree, desperate for a quick whiff, afraid he might miss something. They reached the stark, treeless promenade surrounding Charleston Harbor far too quickly.

Sorry, Jake.

They climbed up the few cracked steps. Fishermen with sunburned faces stood like mannequins along the perimeter wall. Dented metal buckets sat beside them, filled to the brim with saltwater, fresh shrimp and live bait.

Jake found adventure in those pails, inquisitively investigating each one as they moseyed along the pier. Long fishing poles hung out over the ledge of the harbor wall. Salty, thick fingers became one with the line; intertwined, intuiting, tension building, as the fishermen held onto their private divining rods and waited for that all-important tug, that nascent nibble. Underneath them, scurrying along the jagged rocks like wiry sea monkeys, young boys learned the ropes, searching for hidden crayfish and shrimp. The smell of brine and fish permeated the area, combined with the dull sweet scent of the paper mill factory. Together, it created an odd olfactory sensation. The delicate mixture dusted the Charleston Battery like a clear, fine invisible mist.

Janice took a deep breath. She filled her lungs with the rich and fragrant smell. Across from her, positioned like an anchor in the choppy green blue water was Fort Sumter. It stood as a giant reminder of the Civil War and paid silent homage to the Union troops once stationed there. She made a mental note…

Invite Lisette here for a day trip. She might like visiting Fort Sumter. Pack a picnic basket. Romantic.

Jake spotted another dog. A gorgeous Doberman entered the park. Jake began pulling at his leash. He was a very social dog and wanted to meet and play with everybody!

Janice checked the addresses prominently displayed on the statuesque homes. She counted down the numbers as they continued walking. There it was. 410.  It stood tall and erect in all its refined Southern charm and confident glory. A beautifully preserved heirloom of historic architecture. One of the things Janice loved about the South. Particularly Charleston. City Council Officials had maintained the integrity of the buildings and played an important role in restoring the houses to their original luster. Members actually voted on the landmark structures, handing out yearly awards for the best renovations.

Presented with the certificate was quite an honor, and lucky homeowners displayed it proudly and prominently out in front of their properties.

“C’mon, let’s go.” Janice pulled at his leash. Jake could be very stubborn, like his master. He held firm. Janice yanked harder. She had a sneaky suspicion he was taking a liking to the Doberman. She turned to reprimand him. “Jake, let’s go.” He relinquished. Finally. This time.

They leaped off the promenade wall and were about to cross the street when Hammer’s unmarked car rounded the corner. It slowly approached the Stattler home and parked out front. He had a visitor in the car with him. An older gentleman with bushy white hair.

Dammit.

She missed her chance.

She sat on the wooden park bench situated directly across from the house and waited. Behind her, seagulls floated in the languid breeze, every so often circling, leveling off and then dive-bombing into the ocean for lunch. Janice put on her sunglasses. She observed, from the corner of her eye, as Hammer and his partner exited the car and walked up the few steps to the front door. A petite, refined woman rushed out to greet them before they had a chance to make it to the porch. She appeared panicky and upset and began pointing in the general vicinity of the park. All heads turned in that direction, including hers. Jake sat at her feet, temporarily exhausted, uninterested for the time being. Love had gotten the better of him. Like everybody, she guessed, from time to time.

She took her pad and began taking notes. She realized she’d received the tip first. Again. She was the premiere reporter on the scene.

Evans.

That big, lovable oaf of a sweetheart.

She repositioned her sunglasses and took some mood notes. She described the area. The ambiance. The money. Prestige. This was definitely high incomeville! Lots of cash floating around this section of town. She used her cell phone and took a few photos of the area and the setting. Tone. A few glossy photographs of the community. Show it off. Although the location wasn’t necessarily visual, it could work as a “scene-setter.” That’s what they called it. There was something though. A feeling. Not seen, but felt. Palpable. The horror of absence. Abduction. It could happen, even to those living in the most affluent, protected of neighborhoods. Maybe she should add a few token lines about the killer. The Mutilator. What modus operandi does he seem to be doing? Following?

She glanced across the street. The lady was still using her hands, gesturing and articulating. She ushered Hammer and his friend into their home. Damn. More questions. More answers. More wasted time. She checked her watch. 12:40 PM. Maybe she should call Louis. Let him know where she was, what she’d been doing. She scanned the street. Nothing.

She stood up, tucked her pad back into her jacket and approached the street. She fished for some change in her jeans. Jake hesitated at first, enjoying his outside nap, but eventually he loped along beside her. They waited on the curb as several cars passed by. Jake heeled at her feet like the well-trained dog he was. Only when she gave the “Go” word, did he move.

“Go.”

They stepped off the curb. It was in that moment she caught the first glimpse of the car. She pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes to get a better look. A dark purple color on the outside, red almost, with a black interior. A compact car. Nothing big. Maybe a Honda Civic or perhaps a Camry?

The vehicle turned right off of Water and onto East Bay Street. Sunlight reflected off its hood. It pulled up in front of the Stattler home, practically double-parking beside Hammer’s Plymouth. Janice scurried across the street and found cover. She hid behind one of the thick trunks of a palm tree. Jake sniffed at the grass. He was back in dog mode, investigating his own specific set of clues. The car did a rolling stop, slowly inching forward before accelerating back up to speed again. Janice rolled around the edge of the tree and out of sight, in time to get a glimpse of the driver and the license tags. Rental.

A female.

Dr. Garrison?

Wait a second. Something’s fishy in Charleston!

When she went to visit Dr. Garrison yesterday, they had driven to the hospital together and she wasn’t driving a rental car. Janice knew that for a fact. She specifically remembered asking the Doctor if she could offer her a lift, since she had been kind enough to allow her the use of her telephone. She flat out refused, saying she’d rather drive her own car. Then she did something really rude. She pulled out a Clorox wipe from a plastic container and sanitized the receiver of the telephone. What? So, Janice followed her. In a black BMW, a 320I to be more specific. The car was gorgeous. The Doctor was gorgeous. The entire visual looked like it drove itself right out of a page from a glossy Vogue magazine. Here was this exquisite, light skinned black woman driving a sleek, expensive, well-maintained car. She recalled driving behind her, fantasizing about buying one exactly like it for Lisette. For her birthday. She had a fiendish plan to make Lisette’s co-workers jealous as hell. Especially the male staff.

Back to business…

Why would Dr. Garrison be driving a rental car? And why did she slow down in front of the Stattler home?

Chills crawled up her spine like an electric shock, a frisson of panic.

This was more than a story. This could be the story.

Dr. Garrison?

What now? What should she do? Run across the street and interrupt the Hammerhead while he was interviewing the Stattler’s? Tell him what she just saw? Hell no! Why should she advise him on her lucky run-in with synchronicity? There was a reason. And, it had her byline on it.

Better luck next time, Hammer. Hammerhead.

All she needed was a piece of evidence, a tiny shred of proof. Some ironclad data linking the Doctor and the story together. That would make it more than just a hunch. More than just a female reporter’s paranoid, overdramatic intuition. Besides, would Hammer believe her anyway? She doubted it. Dr. Garrison was very smart and very clever. She was a physician, for God’s sake.

This storyline was fucking flawless. It practically wrote itself.

But why Dr. Garrison?

This piece required more than Janice’s expert writing skills. This feature needed specifics. Why should she take somebody else’s secondhand information and report on it when she could get the scoop herself. Firsthand. Cold, hard, investigative facts that only Janice Porter could dig up. On her own. Alone.

Janice Porter… prepare yourself, girlfriend. Snap!

This was an exclusive. Front page sort of thing. Sunday edition. Don’t even try to argue, Louis. Janice’s continuing reputation was on the line with this one. Hell, not even Evans could take credit. She could already see her picture in the byline. Come to think of it, she needed a new photo. Another mental note: photograph.

And maybe a new car. Like the one she fantasized about for Lisette.

What now?

Mrs. Stattler could wait. For that matter, so could Louis. She only hoped the girl could. Hold on, little one, for just a little while longer. Right now, Janice needed to find out where Dr. Garrison rented that damn car. Then, she needed to take another jaunt to Folly Beach.

Jake looked up at Janice with inquisitive eyes, totally confused.

“Go.” Janice commanded. Jake jumped.

“Don’t worry. This time you get to come along for the ride.”

12:42 PM

43

Mrs. Stattler’s gait was so quick-paced and brisk, her pointed high heeled shoes seemed to tap dance across the burnt orange terracotta floors. She whimpered as she led Wright and Hammer into the drawing room. She used her hands in wide swimming stroke gestures.

“We have our problems with Jennifer, I’ll say that right up front, Detective...” Mrs. Stattler was a woman who built a career on hospitality.

“Hammer.” He looked over at Wright. “And, this is FBI Special Agent, Harry Wright from Virginia. Quantico.”

All politeness and smiles. “Quantico? Well, well. Pleasure. I feel safer already. Please, won’t you sit down?” She patted the sofa with her hand, gesturing comfort, warmth, a generosity of Southern spirit.  “Would you care for some coffee? Some ice tea? An afternoon nip? We do have a full bar.”

“Coffee.” Wright blurted out.

“… if it’s not too much trouble.” Dan added, completing Wright’s sentences. Already.

“Not at all.” Mrs. Stattler called down the hallway. “Eunice.” They sat in terminal silence waiting for Eunice to respond. When she finally answered, Mrs. Stattler shuttled her tightly wound package back to the corridor. “Eunice.”

A faint, low voice came from the back of the hall. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“Coffee, Eunice. For the nice detectives.” Mrs. Stattler pivoted, paused graciously at the beamed entranceway before sashaying back in their direction. She looked down at the floor as she walked. “Mercy,” she approached and sat opposite them on the fluffy, chintz covered loveseat. “I just don’t know. Stanley and I, that’s my husband, he’s on his way home, by the way. I called him at his office. Anyway, as I was saying, we’ve tried to be very patient with our little Jenn and her ways.”

“Ways?” Wright asked.

“She’s at that age, you know? Rebelling against me, her father… society. I think every kid goes through it. Don’t you?” Her pinched face had anguish written all over it. “Even me, when I was her age. We just had better boundaries back then. Better ways of dealing with all the pressure.” Mrs. Stattler bit down on one of her manicured fingernails. For show. For drama. Possibly for effect. “And, we didn’t have all that dreaded technology. I truly believe it is the cancer festering in our youth of today.”

Wright and Hammer looked at one another.

Eunice, a middle aged African American woman with graying hair entered the room. She was dressed in a baby blue uniform with a neckline that had a frilly white ruffle around it. Her apron was starched and trimmed in the same lacy pattern. The way she walked, it appeared as if she was carrying the weight of the whole world upon her burdened shoulders rather than the tiny silver tray service with coffee for three. Setting the tray down on the table, Eunice turned and exited. She completed her outfit by wearing white tube socks over her stockings. Her Nike tennis shoes squeaked as she walked to the exit.

“Thank you, Eunice.” Mrs. Stattler politely smiled at the detectives. She wanted them to recognize how considerate and thoughtful she was. An exemplary employer. Dan took notice.

Dainty, hand painted, pastel colored teacups lined the top of the tray, alongside a matching teapot, creamer and sugar bowl. A selection of extravagant cookies fanned out across the oval plate. Mrs. Stattler leaned over, exposing ample cleavage and poured hot coffee into the first cup. She’d done this service before. The perfect hostess. Charleston style.

“Can you give us Jennifer’s schedule? Interests? Hobbies? Boyfriends?” Dan asked, wanting to impress Wright with his interrogation skills, at the same time jumping mental hurdles, remembering the thousand things he needed to do at his apartment in preparation for Alexandra this evening. “Well?”

“She babysits every morning.” She looked up at Dan, her eyelashes fluttering. “Sugar? Milk?”

“Yes, please.” Dan intended on keeping his good Southern manners functioning as long as possible.

Wright chimed in. “I’ll take mine black. Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Oh, please call me Rachel. Jennifer’s part of that work program they started at her High School. To tell you the truth, I’m ecstatic about it. Let her understand the value of money and hard work early in life.” Mrs. Stattler stirred Dan’s coffee, evenly mixing the perfect amount of sugar and milk before passing it over. Wright, impatient for a decent cup, helped himself. He poured as Mrs. Stattler continued. “She works in the morning during the week, including Saturdays. She attends classes in the afternoon.”

Wright took a sip. His fingers looked big, clumsy and thick holding onto the fragile handle of the teacup. “Coffee’s delicious, Ma’am.” She nodded her head in approval. Crossing her legs, she exposed trim, muscular thighs with just the right amount of tan. “What year of school is Jenn in?” Wright inquired.

“She’s a Sophomore. We’ve been debating colleges, of course. Already. Time goes by so quickly. It just sneaks right up on you. One day, your baby’s in diapers, the next, well, she’s graduating.”

“Completely understand.” Wright smiled in agreement. “And, she walks to work? Correct?”

“Gentlemen, I told you all this before, didn’t I? I’m not sure exactly how she gets there. I know sometimes I’ve watched her leave from the porch and I’ve seen her go in that direction, toward the park, that is, but her boyfriend, Phillip, sometimes he picks her up also. He has a car.”

Commotion at the front entrance as a good looking, middle aged man entered the foyer. Eunice hurried into the hallway, eager to greet the head of the household, taking his coat before disappearing back into the refuge of the kitchen. He marched confidently into the drawing room. He pushed back a lock of sandy hair from out of his eyes and leaned down to kiss his wife. “I got here as fast as I could.” Dan got the queasy feeling it was Stanley.

Oh, brother.

“Honey, these men are detectives, Detective Hammer from the Charleston Police Department and FBI Agent...? I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Harry Wright. Pleasure to meet you.”

They both stood up to shake Stanley’s hand and exchanged the usual banal bullshit. They nodded in unison as they sat back down. Dan didn’t like the guy. His Southern gentleman routine grated on him and his nerves. Carly Simon’s song You’re So Vain came to mind.

They all returned to their awkward prospective roles.

The perfect wife interrupted. “Coffee, dear?”

“No, but I will have some gin.” Stanley went to the dry sink, opened a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and poured a good amount into a crystal glass. Ice cubes tinkled as he plopped them into his drink. He stirred the gin with his finger and took his designated seat next to his wife, gently taking her hand. It was a nice touch. Together, they personified an image. Middle aged poster couple of Barbie and Ken. Baby boomers turned fifty. What a sight, or spectacle! Dan couldn’t make up his mind. Why did it bother him so much in the first place? So this was how the American Dream was supposed to turn out? This was what we all dreamed of?

“We were just talking about Phillip, Stanley.” Mrs. Stattler made the announcement, bringing everybody’s thoughts back to the present. She maintained her role as the event coordinator. Everybody happy? Everyone gets equal time, equal opportunity. Just ask Eunice.

“What’s his last name?” Wright asked, finishing his thimble-sized coffee and pouring himself another. He selected a cookie dipped in dark chocolate from the ornate plate and dunked it into his cup several times before depositing the entire thing in his mouth. All at once. Dan looked on in quiet amazement. To be that comfortable in one’s own skin was very impressive.

“Danton.” Stanly intercepted the conversation with a line shot, a slam dunk for two points. “He’s a good kid. He works at the Hospital.”

“The Hospital?” Dan glanced over at Wright. Their eyes met. Dan could tell Harry was thinking the same thing. The scenario sounded faintly familiar to a case they studied at Quantico. “Medical University? MUSC?”

Rachel turned to Stanley for a silent referral. A moment of question. “Why, yes.” Her attention darted back to Dan, then Wright. “He’s as ambulance driver there. Why?” Dan happened to love the way Southern woman held their “y’s,” indefinitely, it seemed.

“Excuse me for one minute, Mrs. Stattler while I use my phone.” Dan stood and walked into the foyer. He didn’t want to alarm her or her husband that Phillip could be their man.

“Sure, of course.” Mrs. Stattler stood as Hammer exited.

Wright took the opportunity to steal another cookie while Mrs. Stattler moved Stanley’s glass to her mouth and took a healthy swallow of his gin.

44

Movement.

Steady motion. Travelling… travelling…

Her highly trained on-the-job skill of reading the roads was dead. Nil. She had lost it in the maze of left and right hand turns, quick accelerations and rapid declines. Her driver was advancing on a vast stretch of open road. For some time now. Moving at a steady, cruise-controlled speed of… perhaps 55 MPH.

She tried visualizing herself outside of this coffin. Running. Free. Appreciating her surroundings, the area countryside she grew up in. Lush waterways and sandy beaches. Marshes capped with brown furry pussy willows. Sand dunes hiding the ocean’s white-capped waves, breaking the chilly winds blowing off the Atlantic.

Did she remember the specific bumps she had traveled? Could she remember if she needed too? If she were asked? The various potholes, the cracks in the pavement? The big ones, the kind that made her body bounce and rattle as the car moved forward. Or was it just her vivid imagination now, playing retarded games with her? She wished she could recall.

One thing was for sure. Absolutely! She would not cry. She would never allow the piece-of-shit behind this kidnapping, this bad excuse for a human being to ever make her cry. Not even a whimper. Instead, she would laugh. Bend over and hoot with laughter, right in his face when she finally got her revenge.

In her fist was Jack. Her fingers were white-knuckled around its base. Waiting.

A left turn in the road. Then, a gradual slowing down.

Her body tensed. She readied herself for an assault. An attack. While travelling, she’d forgotten what the strain had felt like, that pulse zinging around inside of her like an electric racetrack. A calm mysteriously came over her. Like sleeping in the backseat of Mommy and Daddy’s car, while they talked. Or fought. Or, once she even remembered them having sex. Parked along a deserted road when they were on vacation.

Gross!

When the car was in motion, Jenn felt safe. Nothing could happen. Now that the car was slowing down, her instincts informed her of oncoming danger. Warning. Cautian. Ding, ding, ding… Red signals flashing. Gates were lowering. She only had one chance, one moment of opportunity, one fleeting attempt to get out of this thing alive.

Hold on, Jennifer. Use this break to free yourself. Just deck the motherfucker.

Stop.

The engine turned off. A pause. Preparation was in the works. Intentions were bearing down, pushing her to extremes. The car door opened with an annoying yawn, and then shut. Was it a heavy slam or a soft one? She couldn’t make it out. She was thinking that if the car door closed hard, the man was probably larger. Aggressive. Bigger than what she remembered. But, if it were weak, then the creep was smaller. Which was it?

Sweet Jesus, tell me! Please!

Footsteps. Not on concrete. But on the ground. Earth. She could barely make out the sound. Was he dragging something? Weeds? Was the car parked on a road? A lot? A driveway? No. They were on dirt. The ground around the car had grass. High grass. The slap and pull at the side of his shoes. Was it one person? Check the other side of the car. Yes. Definitely only one person. Only one door closed. The odds were even. Thank God.

Now what?

Why the silence?

Why the fucking aggravation?

Open the fucking trunk, Godammit and let me kill you, you motherfucker!

Jenn’s knuckles were burning from the force of her grip. She imagined them around his neck. She fantasized scratching his eyeballs out, biting him, hard, with such force, that afterwards she would have some of his flesh left in her mouth. She would taste his nasty blood.

Steady yourself, Jenn. Steady. Prepare yourself for light. That’s good. How? It was dark in here, except for the reflection from the taillight. She wished she had brought her sunglasses. Her tinted contact lenses even. That would have made the odds a bit better when he finally did open the trunk.

Damn you, Phillip. You’re the one that made me late. Otherwise, I would have had my contacts in. Bastard. It was all his fucking fault. Phillip got her into this crazy mess!

Stop it. Don’t lose your train of thought. Focus. Don’t ever stop preparing. Be ready. She would have to muster all her strength. This wasn’t a fucking TV movie, dummy.

Silence. Where the fuck was he?

Smash! A deafening crash hit the back of the car. On the left hand side. Plastic from the taillight shattered and sprayed inside the trunk, down by her feet. She jerked back and prepared for another assault.

What the hell was going on?

Jesus Fucking Christ. What now?

Outside, feet sledged though brush. Quickly. What’s happening? Are we leaving? Did somebody drive by and see him? Only the sound of keys turning over the ignition and the engine purring.

And the fumes. The smell of exhaust. Oh, sweet Jesus, not that. She covered her mouth with the top of her shirt. She tried not to breathe. She held her breath for as long as she could. She looked down at her feet. She could just barely see the plastic tubing. It was more like a hose, like the kind her Father used to clean the pool. She repositioned her foot and inched it toward the hole. She gave it a push with her foot but it wouldn’t budge. The ribbed lining was stuck on a shard of jagged plastic. She tried again. Harder. Her shoe broke off a tiny piece of the plastic in the process. Finally, the tube wiggled free and fell. It made no sound as it hit the ground. No alarm.

She coughed. Several times. She was sure that was what he was waiting to hear. He wanted to register when her coughing went silent. Mission accomplished. So, that’s what she did. She coughed, and coughed, all the while fanning the exhaust toward the hole. Her opening to the world. Her outlet to fresh air and sunlight. She wished she could somehow position herself at the other end of the trunk, but that was impossible. She had already tried. She wanted a drink of water. She wanted to feel the sunlight push through the tiny hole. She wanted to see daylight.

Then, finally, she went quiet. She waited.

They took turns for survival. Batter up!

The engine went dead. Footsteps sloshed from around the other side of the car. Same as before.

She prayed he wouldn’t see what she had done. She prayed to God. Please just open the trunk. Her body went into high alert. Energy pumped. Her hands held Jack with enforced strength. She focused every ounce of hate into her fingers, her fist. And prayed. She prayed he would just open the trunk.

Open the fucking trunk!

He didn’t.

Another kick from his shoe. A heavy punt. This man was big. A frantic dash to the driver’s seat. Keys jangled. She could hear him talking to himself. His voice was funny. High-pitched. He cursed at himself, murmured things, saying things she didn’t understand.

The engine started, but stalled.

Thank God.

Again, the engine turned over and this time it hummed to completion. Footsteps sledged to the back of the car. Mumblings. Grumblings. He reinserted the tube through the hole once again. Jenn kicked at it. Hard. It stayed fast. He was holding it in this time, pushing it further into the trunk. He wasn’t taking any chances. He wanted her dead. More rumblings. Incoherent chatter.

The colorless odor seeped into the trunk, into her skin, and into her lungs. It formed a hazy, orange colored fog.

She didn’t want to think about it.

She didn’t want to think about the baby swimming around inside her, floating in the toxic liquid. Instead, she daydreamed about drowning. Again. A waking fantasy. She imagined herself breathing in the green blue coolness of the water, like snorkeling with an icy, menthol cigarette. A Salem or a Kool.

From deep within a watery, black depth, her soul accepted her fate. She felt distant, separated from any feeling, from any emotion, from herself.

Was this really happening?

Raucous laughter tumbled together with saltwater tears in this acid aquarium. Swollen fingers tingled with numbness. Tropical fish, exotic in color, darted past her. Spots erupted like hot lava upon her skin. Cherry red tentacles loosened their fierce grip on Jack. Heavy eyelids slipped off the mauve and purple coral reefs and floated with ease into the cavernous emptiness. She sensed the fire but without the burn.

The fish tank suddenly didn’t seem as small as she expanded…

1:16 PM

45

“Susan? Honey, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Harry. I can hear you.”

A siren whined in the background.

“Harry, hold on, I need to...” Muffled coughing. Continuous. Strangling. “I have my good moments and bad. Like waves. They come and go. You know…”

“I guess, honey. I miss you.”

“Me too, you.”

Pause.

Police Officer Evans led Phillip Denton through the door of the precinct. A look of sheer terror registered on the young man’s face as Evans guided him down the hallway and into an interview room. Minutes later a man and a woman frantically entered and stopped at the front desk. An Officer directed them to a seat in the reception area. They sat beside one another, hands intertwined.

Susan’s voice was light, hardly audible. “Where are you?” She cleared her throat of thick mucus several times during the conversation. “It sounds like there’s certainly a lot going on…”

“I’m at the Precinct.”

“You’re not having a party are you? Without me?”

“Oh, yes, quite a party. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun!”

“You sound tired. And cranky, Harry.”

“I haven’t made it to the hotel yet.”

“How’s it going? Any leads?”

“No. And another girl is missing.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Get some rest. I just wanted to check in with you, make sure you know I’m thinking about you…”

“I love you, Harry, but my eyes are closing. It’s the Morphine…”

“I’ll call you later. My telephone numbers are with the nurses in case you need me. Or with Nancy. Plus, you have my cell phone…”

“Just find that damn killer and get back home.”

“I plan to. Bye, honey. Give the kids my love. I miss them.”

“I know, I know. Good luck, honey. Bye-bye.”

Harry visualized Susan slowly putting the receiver back down in its cradle. Paper thin skin covered skeleton-like fingers. Everything was working on overtime.

Harry stood in the noisy corridor, staring at his cell phone, wishing, hoping, and praying that it might give him some solace. It didn’t.

Down the corridor, Detective Hammer, Police Officer Evans and the young ambulance driver waited in a nondescript room. As generic as they come. Phillip sat in a wooden chair next to a side table. Evans and Hammer stood on either side of the boy. Evans was chewing gum as if he were running a marathon, every so often smacking an internal bubble with his teeth. In the doorway, Harry motioned for Hammer to meet him outside.

Hammer peered out in his direction. “Let the kid go.” Harry said, wishing he had a cigarette, a cigar, or some other filthy habit.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“Good.”

“He was with her this morning. They fooled around. For the record, it’s good to know.”

“For the record, Detective Hammer, this killer isn’t interested in sexual pleasure, or in the act of procreation. This killer is engaged specifically in the defiling and obliteration of it.” Harry looked outside. Palm trees. “Hopefully,” and Harry sincerely meant it, “Phillip will get to see her again. That is, if we do our job right.”

1:45 PM

46

“Our time is the very shadow that passeth away…”

How was I to know? How could I have possibly suspected the little whore to be so clever? It was my own fault, though. Allowing her to stay in that trunk for so long. It was fortunate I had a backup plan. Can you imagine? Finding her, that stupid bitch, waiting for me with that jack in her hand. How dare she try to fight me? God! And how fortunate for me. The heavens must really be on my side. My sacrifice. They must accept her as my offering. Not like Mother. My poor unsuspecting Mother.

I remove the clothes off her body. It is easy. A flimsy cotton, short sleeved shirt with tiny darts ironed down the back and that nothing skirt; black, short with pleats. Whore’s clothes. I pull her soiled panties off along with her bra. Victoria’s Secret. Garments of seduction. She’s developed for such a young girl. Nubile. Rosebud areolas. Precious. I notice she has a sucker mark. It bleeds down the side of her left breast. A hickey, I think they call it here in the States. Her crotch has a patch of soft, fine hair surrounding it. I try not to touch it with my sterile hands. Too dirty. Filthy. One foot is without a shoe. She painted her toes with dark polish. Black or purple. I can’t tell. Satan’s colors.

She is breathing, but just barely. She isn’t dead.

Good.

I unfold the white smock I created for her, the one she will wear for the ceremony. I slip her head through the opening at the neck and slide it down over her body. I don’t want to hurt her. My intention is to save her. It has always been to save her. The sleeveless tunic flows over her body down to her toes. It is part of the ritual. No colors. Her hair is wet and sweaty from being in the hot trunk, but some of the blonde curl is still present. I lightly free it with my hand. Her cheeks are full of color. Red like roses.

“Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, before they be withered…”

I pull her from out of the trunk. I try hard not to catch her skin on any of the metal latches. She must be unharmed, pristine for the ritual. No blood can spill. Grabbing underneath her arms, I drag her through the knee-high weeds to the burial plot. I prepared it especially for her. A new space. Meticulously, I went about clearing it, picking up debris and dead branches. It is far away from the road and surrounded by a fortress of large oak trees. They appear to be a thousand years old. Sunlight reflects through the cloak of swaying, shimmering leaves. The trunks are thick and wide like the Redwoods. I’ve never seen a Redwood, but I’ve heard about their magnificent glory, how tall and powerful they grow out on the Western coast.

This is a sacred act, one carried down through the bloodlines of my ancestors. Unfortunately, I was not chosen to continue the practice. But, I felt it was my duty. My role. My calling. So, I took it upon myself. I say a prayer as I tie her wrists together with sturdy twine and secure them to the post above her head. I have driven the wooden stakes into the earth.

No mistakes this time, Sydia. No escapes…

I dug the holes deeper this time. The ground was not as pliable as my last sacred spot. My old burial ground. It took some time to find this place. I feel it is better. Far from the village. You must get here by car. My hands are blistered from the demanding work. Mother will be so unhappy when she greets me.

I hurry to secure her legs. One to each post. I place the rope through a hole I drilled at the top. I wrap the cord around it several times before tying it. So very tight. Surgical knots work best.

A cough. Her head moves slightly in the short grass. A slithering worm.

Perfect.

She will be awake in time.

“For God created man to be immortal.”

I talk to her sweetly, as if I am reading her a bedtime story. They offered us candy, chocolate, a special treat. I neglected to bring any along with me. I cannot tell whether she hears me or not. Soon, she will. Very soon.

“… and made him to be an image of his own eternity. Nevertheless, through the envy of the devil came death into the world…”

I go to the other leg and tie the rope around her ankle. Tightly.

No mistakes this time, Sydia…

Her foot has turned a slight purple in color. It is a reaction from the carbon dioxide, the lack of oxygen circulating in her system. There is no other way for me to do it. I look up. Her tunic is open. Her legs are stiff from spreading them so wide apart. It is easier this way. I can concentrate on my work. Alone. I don’t have to enlist the aid of helpers to assist me in holding her down.

“The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall be no torment shall touch them…”

I continue my story. My verse of death I picked out specifically for the ritual. I don’t notice the bitch staring at me. I hardly notice anything. My concentration is so focused, so directed. So intense. When her foot slams into my face, shoving me backwards, I realize too late what has happened.

I hear her voice for the first time. It is loud and aggressive.

“Let me go! Let me go or I’ll kill you. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She screams out, loud, blood curdling cries. Worse than Mother ever did. I stand at a distance and watch. She takes her free foot and frantically tries undoing the other one with her painted toes.

Those Satan colored toenails.

I walk up to her. “You silly bitch.”

She stops fighting. She looks up at me, stunned. Paralyzed. I think she finally realizes whose presence she is in. God. A woman God. Then, she does something I had not prepared for. She begins to cry. Tears fill up in her eyes and roll down the sides of her cheeks.

“Please,” she whimpers, “don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt my baby.”

What can I say? “It’s Phillip’s baby. It’s Phillip’s semen floating around in your dirty snatch. It’s Phillip who hurt you, not me.”

I lean over and grab her leg. Firmly this time.

I tie the rope around her ankle. She keeps on crying. Whimpering. Pleading. Begging.

“How do you know Phillip?”

“I am doing this for your own good, you stupid bitch. Nobody thanks me. Why? Sexual pleasure is the root of all evil. The base of all of our problems. It caused all of mine and my Mother’s, so shut up, you whore.”

“Please, I beg of you. Don’t hurt me!”

“Why didn’t you say that to Phillip? He has hurt you more than anything I could ever do to you.”

“You’re crazy. You’re really crazy.” She licks her dry, cracked lips with her tongue. Like Mother.

Actually, this is when I most enjoy my job. When I’m playing God.

“In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die,” I say, as I lay the wooden box beside me in the clearing between her legs. I have purposely cut the grass extra short. So I can see better. I open the lid. Inside, my exquisite instruments. The tools I will use to connect her with me, making her one with my Mother…

“… and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us, utter destruction.”

I roll out another piece of white cotton material and open it, exposing the bones extracted from a male rooster. They’re brittle and sharp from drying in the sun. A coffee can lid, rusted but fine-edged. I lay them both out on the cloth precisely in the order in which I intend to use them. Then I wait for a sign.

“… they are in peace. For though they be punished in the sight of men, yet is their hope full of mortality. And having been a little chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded; for God proved them, and found them worthy for himself…I bless you, I become you…I am you.”

I stand up and step across her slight waist. I kneel down by her face and make the sign of the cross. The silly bitch has the audacity to spit at me. Me. God. I smile, reassuringly and push her hair away from her mouth. She tries to bite me. I stand up and laugh.

“I am doing this for your own good. You have to believe me.”

I step back, sit down and cross my legs Indian-style in my sacred space. I raise the white tunic to her waist. She raises her hips from off the ground, like they all do. Writhing around like a slithering worm. It is of no use. She cannot, will not escape. I take the last piece of cloth from the box and open it. No words have been written. No words need to. Not yet. Soon the words will read: FOR THEIR SINS. I will use this girl’s blood. The syringe is in my box. It will spell out the message. That comes later. Much later. It can wait. I look up, past the covering of green trees, weighted down with heavy branches and full of leaves. I stare at the sunlight bearing down upon us. And I wait. The sign will come. It always does.

The terrain is abandoned.

Shadows dance like ghosts.  I take hold of the metal lid, careful not to cut myself. Through the haze of red dust and dry heat, the horizon holds gentle a sky soaked with blood. I must turn this gown to colors. Colorful and alive, it will soon dance off the table… off the body…

“I don’t need comfort, Mother. I will not cry. I will be here for you. I am your keeper.”

“You’re crazy. What are you going to do to me?”

I block out her voice. I have to. Otherwise, how can I work? How am I to commune with Him?

“Mother, make her stop. Make her shut up. Please. I insist. This must go as planned. Perfectly.”

Blonde, wavy hair blowing in the distance. I hold Mother’s hand. I will deliver her to safety. I will deliver myself. I have to. Father will help. I know it. Now, she will be well. Now she will be saved.

The girl with the blond, curly hair stares at me. She opens her mouth to speak. She appears so young, so scared…

“Please, I am begging you, listen to me. I want to have this baby. Please, don’t do this. Please.” She screams louder. She understands now what she must do. How she is to play a role in this sacred act. “PLEASE! LET ME GO YOU STUPID BITCH!”

I touch her lovingly with the white cloth. She has somehow confused me. She is the stupid bitch. Not me.

I am God.

Her body is a volcano of fever. Sweat. Then, she pisses on my hand. Sometimes, they defecate, too. I come prepared. In my box, I bring along plastic bags just in case. And sterile wipes.

Her voice knows no boundaries of pain.

I see Him now, like a beautiful white angel, coming to save her. To save me. I return my attention to the act.

My sign has come. Like an omen. I am a prophet even at my young age…

I make my first incision. I must be complete.

They were…

Blood sprays over me. A thin, light mist. The white gown, now sacred, comes alive with color. I lick my lips. I taste the metallic salt. Blood gathers. The berry colored fluid pools. It soaks into the material like a thirsty sponge. I look for the rise, the interesting way her pelvis moves to meet my skillful hands. I get carried away. I take more than necessary.

They did…

Save some for sewing, Sydia.

The lavender, purple and orange colors combine in this ritual dance.

I steal one last look at Mother.

An expression of horror and excruciating pain lights up her face. She passes out frequently. Short spells lasting for only a minute or so, and then she comes to. I try counting down the minutes, the breaths. Then, a howl. Like a hungry coyote. Or a wolf left alone to fend for himself. It comes from somewhere deep, deep within her. The sound shatters the quiet setting. It echoes like a rabid breeze through the rustling leaves. Nobody can hear. Nobody cares. She will be left alone in this sacred place I have prepared for her. To die. As I was. As my Mother was.

Far from the hectic pace of the village…

4:16 PM

47

The Lounge at the Riverfront Howard Johnson’s was appropriately called “The Recovery Room,” since its location was in such close proximity to the Medical University.

Dan steered his car into the crowded parking lot. The banner advertising the bar hung prominently out in front. It made Wright chuckle at the implications.

“Whadaya say?” Dan glanced at his watch, realizing it wasn’t quite five yet. His Dad had a saying (funny Dan should remember). In order to avoid any amount of suspicion, wait until the sundial at least passed noon. Then one could guiltlessly partake of the creature. Even though his Father was one to never heed his own advice. He was usually up, long before Dan even made it downstairs, his favorite breakfast of champions – a thirteen ounce, longneck bottle of Budweiser.

Great. Wright probably thinks I’m an alcoholic.

Instead, Wright nodded “yes.” Unbuckling himself from the confines of his seatbelt, he opened the door and wrestled with an armload of case folders and files.

“Detective Hammer, with your usual characteristic instincts, this is a very good idea.”

Wright held onto the wooden handrail as he maneuvered up the steps, balancing the accessories in one arm. Halfway up, he waited for Dan to lock the car.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Dan closed the door and tucked the keys inside his jacket pocket, slightly embarrassed that Wright had caught him staring. They walked across a wooden planked outdoor deck toward the entrance. Screams from children splashing around in a nearby swimming pool echoed in the parking lot as they entered the moody ambiance of the bar. The sour smell of wood floors, draft beer and spilled whiskey perfumed the room. They stood for a moment, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dark before taking a seat at the large horseshoe bar. The place was relatively quiet, a nice respite before Happy Hour officially began.

“Thank God, they have peanuts.” Wright dove for the white ceramic bowl filled with the salty mix. A lasting mental picture -- Wright seated in Mrs. Stattler’s home, eating sugar cookies and drinking coffee from her delicate china cups, his pinkie finger extended in extreme refinement -- would haunt Dan forever.

“If you’re hungry, I can take you for some dinner. There’s a nice place…”

Wright cut him off. He cupped a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “No, thank you. This is fine.”

The bartender, a short woman with too much eye makeup and far too little clothing approached them with a hearty smile. “What will it be, Gentlemen?” Her accent was pure Southern.

“Beer. What do you have on draft?” Dan asked.

“What you see is what you get.” She pointed to the wooden pull handles decorating the shiny silver spouts.

“Bud Light for me.” Dan ordered first, stealing away a peanut. He looked around the semi-busy bar. Wright asked for a Dewar’s. Neat. The bartender scurried away, bending and scooping and pouring until she returned with Dan’s draft. She placed the frosty mug in front of him, the head foaming up and over the top. She delivered Wright’s drink, smiled politely and left. Her ass bounced off the coolers and lowboys as she pranced away.

“I got a funny feeling about this case.” Wright cleared his throat. He set his drink down and waved for the bartender.

Once again she appeared. “What’cha need, Sugar?”

“Could we please have some more peanuts, young lady?”

“Keep talkin’ like that and you can have whatever you want!” She gave Wright a wink before setting a fresh bowl down in front of them.

“What do you mean?” Dan asked, not sure if he should already know the answer, be guessing at finding one, or if he looked just plain damn stupid.

“Something isn’t right, it just doesn’t fit. I’m not exactly sure what it is. But my hunch is that boy, what’s his name?”

“Phillip?”

“Yeah, Phillip. I have a feeling he was set up.”

“Set up?”

“Everything seems a bit too neat. For my taste, anyway.” Another handful of peanuts unloaded into Wright’s mouth.

The act reminded Dan of a forklift, collecting, hoisting and dumping.

“Spicy ones.” Wright took another sip of his drink. “Usually, if the perpetrator is an organized offender, like what I’m witnessing here, there’s some cognitive mapping, a thought-out pattern. An event triggers the first killing; some stressful situation puts them over the edge. They become unsure of themselves, insecure. The fear of them being caught weighs heavy. Then, after several times out, they get a taste for it. They begin to feel omnipotent. Above the law.”

“That’s when they get careless.” Dan chimed in. He finished his beer and wiped the leftover froth from his mouth on his jacket sleeve.

“Absolutely. They fuck up, plain and simple. And that’s when we need to be on our toes. Be smarter than they are.” Wright waved down the barmaid. Again. “Excuse me. Hey, Honey, excuse me.”

“All right, all right, I’m coming. Another round?”

“Another beer, please, for the gentleman. I’ll take one too. On my check.” Pause. “Oh, what the hell, some more peanuts too, while you’re at it.” Wright checked around to see if any nosy patrons were loitering about before pulling the photographs out onto the bar. “No color prints?”

Dan sorted through the pictures. “Guess not.”

“You people certainly aren’t used to this sort of thing, are you?”

“That’s why we have people like you.”

“Locals usually can’t wait to get us out of their hair. They’re so afraid we’ll take the credit, like that really matters to us. If you could see the backlog of dead cases we have yet to wade through…”

“We all know, hell, it was taught to us at Quantico, it’s usually the local police that apprehend the suspect. That, persistence, and a lot of help from ordinary citizens.”

“We basically come in and just give you guys the addresses and telephone numbers.”

“Ah, there you go again.” Dan gave Wright a friendly nudge on the shoulder. They chuckled. It was a guy moment. Like Wright was already a buddy. A comrade. A partner. Wallace. It brought back memories. Wallace’s dry sense of humor, his sarcastic comments. A pang of emotion welled up in Dan’s throat. He swallowed it back with another mouthful of cold beer.

“Just kidding!” Wright snickered as he fanned the photos of the first female victim out in front of him. Her legs were spread-eagled, each ankle secured to two separate posts. Both hands were tied together and attached to another wooden stake above her head. “What’s particularly telling is the way her legs are separated. Spread out.” The girl’s body was badly decomposed. Ribs poked out through stretched skin. Her face was drawn to the side, covered with leaves, dirt and debris. Beside her was the vacant sight of the second victim. “Not a pretty scene.” Wright shook his head. “Did you ever identify the girl?”

“Nothing yet. We checked up and down the east coast, missing persons, all that. It’s only been three days since we found the body.”

“This isn’t a pissing contest but I’ve seen worse.” Wright zoned out for a second. He went somewhere far away. The only noise was the steady drone of the television screen above the bar and the intermittent sucking sound coming from the CO2 machine.  Wright returned and landed on the prints as if he’d never left. “If you look at this photograph, there’s more going on here than a staging element.”

They studied both pictures, carefully examining each detail, straining their eyes in the recessed light.

“Organized killers are methodical. They painstakingly plan their attacks, choosing their victim’s, allowing their fantasy to simmer and boil, fester until finally a stressor occurs. They lose their job, break up with a girlfriend, whatever. Then bang… they can’t stop themselves!”

“The fantasy’s been playing out in their head for so long, over and over again, that finally it just overpowers them. They have to act it out in the real world.” Dan repositioned himself closer on the barstool, enjoying this one-on-one contact. This one-on-one attention.

“Correct. And, fortunately for us, they always leave something behind. The best evidence is found at the crime scene. In this particular case, it’s blatantly obvious. Not only did the PERP leave a signature card, but also, he staged the entire elaborate scenario. These posts are positioned in a certain way…”

“Also, both victims had writings placed in small vials and inserted into their, well…  The second girl had “for her sins,” and the first had “for his sins.”

“How was it written? With what? Was it sent for analysis?”

“We sent it to Columbia for processing.”

“Columbia?” Harry groaned. “From now on, Detective Hammer, I give you full permission to send any and all things of this nature directly to the Smithsonian. In Washington. They have the best Forensics Laboratory in the country. In the world possibly. If you ever have a problem, call me. I have many friends up there. Columbia.” Wright shook his head.

“My guess, he used a syringe,” Dan interrupted. He understood Wright’s frustration. He felt just as dissatisfied with the backwardness of their system. “The wording was inscribed with the victim’s blood.”

“To divert attention. Like Phillip, the ambulance driver. That kid was definitely set up, Detective Hammer.”

“You can call me, Dan.”

“All right, Dan. We’re dealing with one complex, brilliant, wonderfully manipulative psychopathic mind here.”

Wright went back to the shots, pointing out the victim’s genital area. “I believe the mutilation aspect of the crime is personal. Particularly since the attack was directed at the female reproductive organs.”

“Could this be how the guy gets off? Sexually, I mean.” Dan thought back to the autopsy protocols. He did try to prepare himself somewhat for Wright. “No semen was found, inside, on, or around the victim.”

“Eliminating the female genitalia of the girls he abducts could be considered, although uncharacteristic, a sexual offense. It doesn’t always have to be penetration to be sexual. The more violent the act, the more mentally ill the PERP. That is generally the rule of thumb.”

Dan nodded.

“That could be a consideration,” Wright continued. “A fair amount of scenarios can and do take place against women who have been sexually assaulted, or molested, or even killed, without any evidence of violent sex, semen or penetration. In many cases, more than I care to admit, the act of penetration is enough. By anything. I’ve seen the whole gamut, umbrellas, sticks, even a baseball bat for God’s sake. All of this has to do with the PERP, unfortunately acting out his sexual fantasies against women.”

“The second victim had puncture wounds to her left breast. Pin pricks. Peculiar though, they were solely on one breast and only to one girl.”

“Further disrespect. My first take would be this person is young, late teens, early twenties, since he picks relatively low risk victims, teenage girls. He lives with a family member or relative in the general neighborhood and knows the surrounding area. He has difficulty in relationships, obviously with women, stemming from an unsatisfying relationship with his Mother…”

“Always blame the Mother…”

“He frequently visits hospitals. Could be a diabetic or have a chronic disease, asthma or allergies perhaps. He could also work a job in the healthcare industry, but I doubt it. Another piece of information and quite possibly the most important is this guy gets off on control. Playing God. He enjoys it! I get the feeling these victims are his first time out. But, it wouldn’t hurt to find out what VICAP brought back.”

“No similarities. I received the report yesterday. It’s there somewhere, with the rest of your papers, along with the release signature.”

“He’s clean, neat, almost to the extreme. He’s personable, mobile, able to work a good job and adaptable. He will have some abhorrent, hateful aversion toward the female body, particularly the genital area. Why else would he destroy the vagina the way he does? But, as I said, all this information could be very misleading. A setup intended to take police in the exact opposite direction. A direct ploy to lead us away. Clever. Cunning. And smart. We’re not just dealing with anybody here.”

Dan glanced at his watch. Already past five.

“I better get going. I’m babysitting tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Alexandra, my princess. I showed you her picture earlier.”

Wright scooped up the crime scene photos and papers and neatly arranged them back into the envelope. “I remember.”

“She’s pretty special. You have any photographs of your kids?”

“Used to. Tons of them. Now, we keep snapshots of their kids. We get our daily dose when they come to visit. That’s our reminder.”

Dan threw a twenty on the bar and grabbed his jacket. “Can’t be late. My ex-wife, you know?”

“Guess that story is for another time.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Harry.”

Before leaving, they toasted one another with empty mugs but full smiles.

5:36 PM

48

“Stay, Jake. Stay.”

Janice issued the command, holding onto Jake’s collar firmly. He responded by sitting down, of course, in the driver’s seat. Jake. She complimented him on his obedient nature. “Good boy.”

Across the parking lot was Dr. Garrison’s apartment complex. Janice shielded her eyes from the late afternoon sun. In all the excitement, she’d forgotten her sunglasses. Damn.

Jake looked at her, his ears flopped back and forth, his tongue panted rhythmically. He too, was intrigued with the area, hoping for an opportunity to explore the neighborhood. Janice still felt a pang of guilt, leaving Jake alone in the apartment, all by himself, while she soaked up all sorts of intimate affection and attention from Lisette. So today, after her walk along the Battery, she didn’t feel quite up to dumping the poor baby back at the house. Instead, she proposed a little outing. A day trip. Frisbee tosses on the beach. One of Jake’s favorite sports.

The orange, Day-glo Frisbee rested on the passenger seat floor as a reminder of good things to come. First things first. Jake needed some water.

Janice rolled down the front window an inch or two. She wanted some air circulating in the car. As she crossed the parking lot, she looked back to check on him. She entered the pool’s changing room. At the sink, she let tepid water turn cool before filling up Jake’s plastic bowl. Back at the car, Jake was more than happy to slurp up some water, slopping it everywhere. Janice slammed the door and locked it.

Before, she sat in the car waiting for about twenty minutes. For what? She didn’t really know. Maybe she was nervous. Feeling slightly stupid. At one point, she left the complex and drove to the nearest 7-11. Her idea was to call the Hospital and have Dr. Garrison paged. She wanted to find out if she had returned. If she was there. Or if she had left again. Who knew what she intended to find out? The staff kept her on hold for a long time before Janice finally hung up, impatient and frustrated. Before returning to Dr. Garrison’s complex she bought a pear flavored Snapple and Big Red chewing gum.

Earlier, she tracked down the rental car Dr. Garrison was driving from an Alamo dealer in Goose Creek. It was a smallish dealership, located near the local municipal airport in a cramped parking garage. The manager, Will, was more than happy to go against company policy and show off his customer service skills to assist Janice. If only there’d been something to assist her with. The information Dr. Garrison gave was standard, usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was all legit. Right down to her chicken-scratch signature on the registration. She used her own name, supplied a driver’s license from Massachusetts and cinched the deal with a green American Express card, Sydia Garrison prominently displayed at the bottom of the card with the appropriate MD after her name.

Janice felt slightly perplexed, not to mention, disappointed. She was expecting the Doctor to have used some exotic alias, and it turned out to be, well, nothing. But being the intrepid reporter she was, she felt inclined to push her bad luck even further and make the trip back to Folly Beach. The worst that could happen was Jake would finally get the exercise he missed yesterday. At one point, she thought about calling Louis to let him know where she was. With each dismal disappointment she encountered, she began feeling silly at her own instincts, blaming it on one too many Movie of the Week murder mysteries or reading far too many crime novels.

She passed a metal trash container that read: KEEP THIS AREA CLEAN. Respectfully, she deposited her empty Snapple bottle in the receptacle and walked up the winding sidewalk, manicured with lovely green grass and tiny purple flowers. She stood at the bottom of the stairwell for a few seconds, contemplating her next move.

What am I doing here?

Turn around and go back, stupid. You have not done anything wrong or illegal. Yet.

What would be the point if she didn’t finish what she started? Follow her instincts. The work, the risk, everything would fly right out the window. Besides, she was too damn proud to accept defeat. Stubborn was a better descriptor. Always the sucker, Janice worked better on a dare. Thrived. Give her a deadline. A challenge. That crazy competitive thing, again. She enjoyed taking chances, even if they were risky. No, she had crossed that line now and there was no way in hell she was backing down. Not now. Or ever, for that matter. Even if she was wrong, who would know?

Jake?

She took the stairs to the second level. Apartment 427. Jake wouldn’t care if she fucked up. She could mess up big time and he would still love her. For always. At the top of the landing, she turned around and leaned down to check on her car. There he was, sitting there, in the driver’s seat, watching her as she disappeared out of sight. She waved to him. He barked a few times, pressed his snout up against the slight slit in the window, and licked at the wind.

“Shhhh! Keep it down.”

She pulled the pair of yellow Rubbermaid gloves from her coat pocket, the ones she purchased at the 7-11. No way did she want any fingerprints hanging around for identification. She positioned herself in front of Dr. Garrison’s door. She looked around, up and down the corridor. She tried acting inconspicuous, even though what she was about to perform was very conspicuous.

Yellow?

Why didn’t the company make flesh-toned gloves?

She pulled a pointy, thin pick from her windbreaker, sighed deeply and rapped a few times on the door. And waited. Nerve-wracking tension. Nothing. Another heavy exhale before she began prodding the bottom lock, swiveling the pick around in its chamber. Hopefully, it was the only one secured. Positioned at eye level was a deadbolt. If that was locked, she was calling it quits. Enough Nancy Drew for one day! Within seconds, Janice heard the familiar clink of latches disabling and turned the doorknob.

Yes!

The lock opened. A jolt of cool air assaulted her as she entered the apartment and shut the door. Quickly. The faint smell of perfume or something sweet and fragrant emanated from the apartment. A girly girl’s pad, she thought to herself.

Thank you, Jesus.

And dark. The shades were drawn. The lights were off. Not a lot of warmth was exuding from the room, either. Everything looked pretty much the same as it did the last time she’d visited. She tiptoed into the kitchen. Same. Neat, overly orderly and white. Sterile. Like an Operating Room, except without the benefit of bright florescence.

The door to the bedroom was ajar. Janice peeked in. The blinds were closed. Afternoon sunlight seeped through the cracks. The room was pristinely clean. The bed was made up with expensive, pressed, cotton sheets. Name brand, European. A white, fluffy comforter fell like a soft cloud over the top. Four plump pillows rested at the head. Made with dedicated, perfectionist care, the sheet ends were tucked firmly under the mattress; expert hospital corners with flawlessly squared folds. Her Mother used to make her use them. She hated it. Her feet could never breathe. Now, she made a habit of always pulling the sheets out at the bottom of her bed before getting in. She slept better.

To the right was a desk created from one large piece of white Formica. Medical reference books lined the wall. Physician’s Desk Reference, Gray’s Anatomy, Surgical Procedure Manual. Made sense.

She was a Surgeon, after all.

The walls were bare. No paintings. No tchotchkes. No personal touches here or there. Not even a posed, fake family photograph. Anywhere, for that matter. Janice had seen model apartments exhibiting more warmth and coziness. Even showrooms at Macy’s were more inviting.

Janice was getting antsy, frustrated. Here she was, infiltrating a possible suspect, expecting to find dead bodies in the closets, souvenirs in the drawers, all kinds of serial killer paraphernalia, and instead she found a compulsively clean apartment of a workaholic.

Boring.

What was she expecting? A fifth year Surgical Resident who spends most of her waking hours at a Hospital. In the Operating Room, whether she needed to or not. She opened a few drawers of the dresser, just for shits and giggles, while she was here, anyway. Neatly placed in perfect rows as if on display at Victoria’s Secret, were panties and bras. She closed the drawer. She opened the sliding mirrors of the closet. A long line of hangers hung on the rack, all of them pointing in the same direction, each article of clothing individually protected in thin plastic covering. Weird. Janice glanced up at the three shelves. Empty, except for a couple of shoeboxes packed one on top of the other. Good brands, too.

She practically hit her head on the doorway when the telephone rang. Janice looked at the bedside table where the phone sat. Beside it was an ancient answering machine. They still made them!  The message gave the standard information: “You have reached 721-5478. Dr. Garrison is unable to take your call at this time. If this is a medical emergency, you can call the Medical University of South Carolina’s Front Desk at 723-8689 and they will have her paged for you. Thank you.”

Her voice was cool, contained and void of emotion. Janice found it interesting the way she addressed herself in the third person. What was more amusing was the person who was leaving a message.

“This is Detective Hammer. Uh, Dan. I just got your message.” A chuckle. “Actually, I just found the matchbook. Very good. I liked that. That was a good trick. Anyway, I’m happy you called, and…I would really enjoy spending some more time together…” Pause. “But, unfortunately tonight isn’t a good night. I’m babysitting the little one. You can call me when you get in. I’m home. You have the number.” Another snicker.

Holy cow! Detective Hammer? Dan? Hammerhead?

This case was getting more convoluted by the second! Janice kept staring at the red dot blinking on the answering machine. Dan Hammer? How the hell did that happen? The last time she saw the two of them, they were at each other’s throats waiting for the elevator at the Hospital. It was all too confusing trying to figure it out.

What time was it anyway? After five. Janice guessed her stint at being a detective was turning out to be less than desirable. Oh well.

She still had some time for Frisbee tosses at the beach with Jake before heading back to Charleston. First, she needed to check in with Louis. He probably thought she’d abandoned him. Would it be crass using the Doctor’s phone?

Yes.

She collected her big city, investigative ways and went back into the living room. She took one final sweep of the layout. The black leather sectional, the metal and glass coffee table, the fake fern hanging in the corner…

Yikes…

If Janice had to grade the décor of the place, in the appropriate pass/fail way, she would definitely have to give Dr. Garrison a fail. It grated on her, the design of the place. She only hoped Dr. Garrison was a better Surgeon than an interior decorator!

A large rectangle of afternoon light reflected off the coffee table.

I don’t remember the blinds being open.

The room was different. The lighting. Something had changed. The shades had been drawn. Closed. Janice had made a mental note of it. It had been dark when she entered the apartment, that she definitely remembered. The first flinch of a warning. Her first alarm. An adrenalin surge began firing warning rockets inside her chest. A heightened sense of awareness flared throughout her body.

Janice Porter, it’s time to go!

She reached out for the door handle…

5:46 PM

49

“Hey, girl. Where are you? Are you screening your calls?”

Pause.

“Okay. Give me a call when you get in. I’m home. And, what a day it’s been. Just in case you’ve forgotten who this is…let me remind you…Mmmmmmmmmm.”

Another long pause.

“Remember me? I think I’ve lost my mind.” Lisette gave a girlish, fun giggle. “Okay, Lois Lane. I hope that I’ll be hearing your voice real soon. Better yet, seeing that sweet ass of yours. Bye-bye for now.”

Silence.

7:07 PM

50

“Damn you, Gina.” Dan groaned as he scrambled to the front door, kicking loose articles of clothing and tennis shoes under tables and chairs as he went. “You’re early!”

Dan swung open the door.

“Dan.”

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?”

“Sure, sure, of course. What time is it?”

Sydia paused outside. “Am I interfering with something? Are you on your way out? If so…”

“Honestly…”

She opened the screen door and strolled into the cramped living room. A sweet smell lingered in her wake, like ripe watermelons, freshly washed hair. “Cops. Is honesty a requirement in getting accepted into the force?”

“Sometimes.” Dan responded, glancing at his watch, hoping Sydia wouldn’t notice. “Didn’t you get my message?”

Jesus. Pressure.

“How much do you pay in rent for this place?” She asked, absorbing in the environment. At the bookshelf, she browsed through several dusty titles.

“Cheap. Real cheap. Did I give you my address?”

Getting close to Dan, close enough to know whether he had shaved or not, she inquired seductively, “Detective Hammer is there a bedroom?”

Passion fruit, not watermelon…

Dan was not immune to the sensations of being with a beautiful woman, particularly one he’d had fantasies over. His problem stemmed from one of two things, poor timing, or plain old bad luck. And, just as his attention could falter even further, the distinct and recognizable horn of Gina’s car began blaring outside. Dan drew away. Sexual static crackled between the two of them as he pulled back the makeshift curtains. He was praying to his Saint Christopher Medallion hanging around his neck that it wasn’t Gina dropping off Alexandra, but, as life would have it, it was. Gina had arrived, Alexandra propped up on her hip like an added appendage. She made her way up the flight of stairs holding on to the banister.

“Excuse me for a minute.”

Dan greeted Gina at the door. Alexandra smiled and took a strand of hair and began doing lazy twirls with it. “Hi Daddy!”

“I don’t believe it.” Gina blurted out, catching her breath. Her voice took on a shrill, grating tone.

“You’re actually here.”

Alexandra extended her arms in Dan’s direction.

“I am,” Dan responded nervously. “How’s my baby girl?” He opened the door and took Alexandra into his arms along with all her weighted paraphernalia. Too late, Dan realized that Sydia had decided to join the group in the welcoming party. Dan read it indisputably in Gina’s immediate and anxious disposition. If Gina’s mood were gray walking up the steps, it just turned a serious shade of black.

“I didn’t know you were going to be having company.”

Dan gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t either, until just a few moments ago. Ah, this is Dr. Garrison… Sydia, I mean, and this is Gina, my ex-wife. Dan had to be honest. He purposely accented the ex. Of course, at this awkward and tense juncture in time, Gina and Sydia decide to contract a rare and deadly disease. Neither one of them were interested in helping in the niceties of introductions. Handshakes. Smiles. All forms of friendly greetings flew right out the dirty, cracked window. Even the tiniest intention of pretending to be nice disappeared.

Discomfort, irony and a succession of stressful seconds under extreme pressure ignited before Gina made the first comment. A dig, as usual.

“Well, well, well. Moving up in the world. A Doctor? My Mother will be so proud.”

“I doubt it.” From behind Dan, Sydia spoke, acridly interjecting her two cents into the strained mix.

Gina followed. Two cats on a hot tin roof. “I’ll make sure I tell her tonight over dessert.” Gina raised her tinted shades to get a better look at Sydia through the mesh door.

She turned away and strutted back into the living room. She took a seat on the sofa and crossed her long, thin legs. If Dan didn’t know better, he would swear Sydia had been to his apartment before and lounged on his sofa at least a thousand times. Authority oozed from her very core.

“Have a nice time, Gina.” Dan said, trying to sound sincere. He also wanted this uncomfortable situation to end. “Don’t worry about Alexandra. She’ll be fine. Won’t you?” Alexandra nodded her head. Secretly, she knew she was Daddy’s girl.

“Tomorrow morning.” Gina strained her neck to see around Dan. By her reaction, he sensed she was observing Sydia, sitting on the couch, legs seductively crossed. “Eight o’clock. Sharp!”

“Everything will be fine.”

“I’ve heard that before. You forget Dan. I was married to you.”

That’s it. I’ve had enough.

Dan opened the door. “Come here.”

“What?” Gina turned to leave. “Dan, I don’t have time for this right now.”

Dan followed Gina outside to the metal railing. Alexandra had now become Dan’s new appendage on his hip. He grabbed Gina’s wrist, pulled her close and whispered into her ear, “Why do you hate me so much?”

“Stop this. I don’t hate you.”

Dan continued. “What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?”

For a minute, Gina stared into Dan’s eyes. He thought she might even begin to cry. Instead, she said. “Don’t upset the baby. Not before I leave.”

Dan looked at Alexandra nestled into his shoulder, sucking her thumb contently. “Alexandra’s fine.” The last thing Dan would ever want to do is upset his daughter.

Gina avoided the question by shaking Dan off and hurrying down the steps.

“My car’s running. I don’t want some asshole getting any ideas. That’s all I need!” At the bottom of the stairway, Gina reminded Dan to have Alexandra ready by eight. Again. Not eight-thirty, not ten after nine. Eight.

Dan nodded.

Under his breath, he whispered, “Of course, Gina. Of course.”

Dan watched Gina back her compact car out of the driveway and speed off. She didn’t wave goodbye. Alexandra smiled as they entered back into the apartment.

“Sydia, I have somebody very special I want you to meet.”

7:52 PM

51

The night was progressing routinely (if not downright boring) for Officer Reardon. He had just dropped Police Sergeant Kelly off at the Folly Beach Precinct and was on his way to Taco Bell to pick up a few burritos before heading back to work. He was planning on taking advantage of this opportunity and catch up on some long-overdue paperwork.

The call came through the scanner while he was in line at the drive-thru. Routine. Nothing serious. A disturbance over at The Water’s Edge apartment complex. Some dog was locked up in a car and going ballistic.

Reardon took the call, backed out of line, put his hunger on hold for the time being and headed toward the Beach to check out the situation.

When he arrived, a dog, large and gray was darting from the backseat of the car to the front. The poor critter was certainly in an agitated and excited state. The Officer peeked inside. To his surprise, he didn’t find any accidents. Not that he could see. The sun had set so he was using his flashlight. The light seemed to irritate the dog even more. The doors were locked up tight. The barking continued, a weird sort of bark, though. Low and guttural, like moaning. He noticed a plastic container in the backseat filled with water. An orange, neon colored, badly chewed up Frisbee rested on the passenger seat. The Officer’s first priority was to find out who the owner of the vehicle was and secondly, to get the dog out from the car.

He radioed the Precinct and did a search of the tags. Then he approached the residents living in the complex. The first neighbor he interviewed had called in the complaint. They were waiting for him at the top of the walkway. She and her husband had noticed the dog when they first arrived home from grocery shopping at the Piggly Wiggly. They had never seen that particular car parked in the neighborhood before, so naturally they became suspicious. When nobody arrived to claim it after several hours, they became even more concerned. They explained how the dog tried to paw its way out, and then, how it would literally collapse, only to begin digging at the door again. They felt so sorry for the pooch. They gave exaggerated physical gestures to the Officer, illustrating how the dog moaned and whimpered and cried. Some of the strangest sounds they’d ever heard coming from an animal.

“Have you contacted other neighbors concerning the dog, or the car?” the Officer asked, but they said “no.” They had lived in this particular complex for over fifteen years. They knew everything and anything that went on here. Older couples tended to be the “gatekeepers” of properties like this. Their main occupation after retirement, whether they chose to or not, was the comings and goings of their neighbors.

Back at the car, the Officer tried reaching his hand through the slit in the window, but his arm was too thick. The dog was well-behaved. He seemed to have an understanding of what the Officer was attempting to do. Reardon retrieved his Emergency lock kit from the squad car. Many times, civilians locked their keys in their automobiles. They’d be on the beach, enjoying the day and forget. He saw it every day. The Officers were used to it so they came prepared.

A curved metal wire, similar to a coat hanger usually did the trick. He guided the device through the opening of the window and attempted to catch the latch. He missed several times before finally snagging the ridge. It sprung with a pop. The door opened and the dog barreled out onto the street, his first priority, obviously was to pee. Which he did. In the parking lot, right next to the Officer’s boot. Then the dog did something very strange. He galloped up the curved pathway to a specific apartment complex. The 400’s. A halogen light illuminated the numbers against the dark brick façade. Then, the dog ran back to the car in full force, beckoning Officer Reardon to follow.

What?

He hurried after the dog, juggling his tool kit and flashlight in his hands. The dog stopped briefly at the door on the second level, 427, then barked and sniffed and did weird circles in the hallway. His first instinct was to press the doorbell, so that’s exactly what he did. He waited for an answer. Nothing. He kept his eyes on the dog. This particular breed was well known for their hunting ability as well as being highly regarded for their incredible sense of smell.

He pressed the doorbell again, he even tried knocking. He noticed the dog at the other end of the corridor, running down the stairwell. So he followed. What else could he do?

The dog galloped across the secluded grounds toward an area of neatly manicured trees surrounding the property. He turned back every so often to make sure the Officer could see him. The dog’s eyes turned white from the reflection in the flashlight.

Hunger pains growled in his stomach as he stumbled down the stairwell and onto the trimmed lawn. He arrived at the edge of the property. The dog was howling and frantically digging at the soft dirt surrounding a huge oak tree. Using his flashlight, he moved in closer. The creature’s behavior was so erratic and so strange. He kept pulling at something with his teeth and whimpering. The sound he made was wretched.

For Officer Reardon, it wasn’t the shock of finding a dead body that propelled him backwards off his feet, knocking him flat on his ass with a thud. It was the horrendous sight of seeing that body severed, cut up and mangled, joints and parts strewn across the dirt like a dissected animal. The picture sent shivers from the devil screaming up his spine. He scrambled to his feet, brushed off the wet dirt and grass from his butt and raced the short distance back to his squad car.

8:02 PM

52

“She’s asleep.” Dan shut the bedroom door leaving Alexandra alone on his bed surrounded by a heap of pillows and blankets. Candlelight illuminated Sydia’s face.

“She’s adorable. So alert. And smart.”

“Guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.” Dan grabbed his glass of red wine from the kitchen table and moved to the sofa.

“It feels comfortable enough.” Sydia circled the top of her wine glass with her finger before lifting it to her mouth for another sip. Seductively.

“I’m used to it.”

“C’mon, Detective, enough of the tortured husband routine.”

Dan sat down on the sofa beside her, always the gentleman, always respecting space and boundaries. “You like the wine?”

“Very much so.”

Dan lifted the bottle to pour her more. “Merlot. California. Very smooth.” Sydia met him halfway with her glass.

Dan attempted feeling comfortable in his own home, increasingly aware of his awkwardness in Sydia’s presence.

“I would love to take a trip back there one day. To California, that is…” Dan finished pouring from the bottle and set it back down on the coffee table. The traffic light outside changed colors. Red, yellow, then green. It measured the seconds of clumsy silence between them.

“I’ve only visited once, myself. Southern California. Los Angeles. I interviewed for Med School out there. UCLA.”

“And?”

“After an excruciatingly long wait, they finally did accept me, but I preferred to stay on the East Coast. Charleston seemed like a good fit, the perfect alternative.” Sydia stood up. “May I use your restroom?”

“Sure.” Dan gestured down the hallway, kicking himself for not cleaning the bathtub better or scouring the sink more efficiently. Did he flush the toilet?

Jesus!

Too late now. He settled back into the soft cushions of the sofa and waited. The moments seemed intolerable. The running of water, the toilet flushing, the bathroom light turned  out before the door creaked open and Sydia appeared again before him. “What made you come here tonight?” She picked up her glass and took another sip of wine. Did he have another bottle stashed away somewhere in the kitchen?

“Are you conducting another investigation, Detective?” Sydia resumed her position. She kicked off her shoes and curled up comfortably across from him. A feline presence of grace and curves and sexual dexterity.

“Possibly.”

“To see you. Why else?”

Flattered, Dan leaned over and kissed her. His reflexes were working more effectively than his intentions. Surprisingly, she reciprocated. She moved her hands around his neck and pulled him toward her. Dan took notice of his accelerated breathing. His heart racing…

Green light…

He could taste the residual flavor of wine on her breath. She rolled her tongue across his lips. Tenderly. He felt dizzy and stupid and uncharacteristically vulnerable as he opened his mouth to receive her.

He flashbacked to a crazy situation with a girl in Junior High School, Susan Valenti. She was in the class ahead of him and very popular with the boys for her after school education sessions. After seventh period one day, they strolled over to the baseball diamond and behind the wooden bleachers she kissed him. His first kiss. For him, that brief heavenly second held every answer to life, hope and expectancy. It allowed a tiny preview, Dan thought, of all the amazing things to come. When love and sex defined him, who he was and what he anticipated he would ultimately become. That experience was long before Gina. Long before heartbreak entered into the picture. Now, sharing this tender moment with Sydia, Dan was transported, once again, to that special place. For the time being, Sydia allowed him to forget. Life might not always turn out the way he’d intended it to, but if he were lucky, or patient, it might allow him the opportunity to rekindle a lost forgotten flame.

His hand reached for her blouse. He began unbuttoning, guiding tiny disks through tinier loops, exposing her chest. Sydia stretched out, lengthening her slender legs down the extent of the sofa. She massaged Dan’s calf muscles through the coarse fabric of his jeans. Again, she met him halfway, raising her chest to welcome him. The candlelight cast shadows on the walls around them as they acrobatically adjusted themselves. The boundaries Dan guarded so heavily began merging. He discovered the softness of her skin, the crest of her cleavage forming at the top of her bra, the attachment hooked in front. Sensing his need, Sydia reached up and unfastened it, exposing her breasts. He cupped her swell and lowered his mouth, gently hovering over her protruding dark nipples. They stood erect with expectant interest, as he tasted them. He teased her by blowing air around them. A slight purr, a moan, and then she sweetly cooed, “Yes, Dan, yes.”

Gone were the fantasies of submission. His dreamlike fantasy appointment with Sydia cloaked in hospital scrubs, barking commands to perform erotic tasks, spanking his raw ass while the hectic world of medicine swirled around them. Now, a different sort of sharing was taking place, an offering of mutual respected granted. Both were aware of the chemistry they were creating. Contributing. His masculine side was no longer in need of defending, expressing himself only in work or his gruff and often unapproachable behavior. Now, he seemed to take on a much-needed softness as he swerved to meet Sydia’s turns, her feminine curves. He sensed the boy again. The protective walls erected around him from all that hurt and loneliness began to thaw, crumble away and fall. Sydia lowered her hand to his waist. She unbuckled his belt buckle, awkward and big and old.

“Help me, Dan.”

He realized how long it had been since he’d been here, in this place, experiencing this kind of a sensual moment. His last attempt at sex with Marjorie was more like occupying spaces. Both of them performing a necessary function. A physical release for consenting adults to remind themselves that they were still breathing. Still alive. Still vital. But just barely. That static space between physical pleasure and emotional pain, and the afterward acknowledgment of all that is missing in between.

Dan adjusted his weight. He balanced himself on one leg as he removed his pants, his underwear and socks. Her eyes watched on as his body became exposed, vulnerable and half-naked. He sensed the quiet in the house. He strained to hear a stir, a cough, a random noise from Alexandra in the next room signaling his attention. Nothing. He prayed this moment would be uninterrupted. Even the street noise seemed muffled as he lay back down upon Sydia and once again kissed her.

Her hands moved with precision to Dan’s cock. She took him, felt him, and, in his mind, sized him up. Every possible liability he owned was instantaneously known and evaluated. His insecurities seemed to be present, always on guard, waiting in the boxing ring of his mind to beat himself up. At any occasion.

He waited for validation. A response from Sydia to continue, wondering why he needed her approval in the first place. Understanding immediately why his relationship with Gina was so dysfunctional. Why her confirmation of him was so important and yet, the one thing he reacted so strongly against. His work was not the only thing that kept him away from home. Dan would remain an island. At all costs. He would battle the forces of intimacy in the presence of hurricanes, knowing that drowning was inevitable. Security equaled trust and trust was one emotion he’d been deprived of. That and safety.

Sydia responded lovingly. She pulled Dan up and steered his cock into her mouth. He couldn’t help but think about his day, his tiredness, his absolute need for a shower. Embarrassed by his probable lack of hygiene.  Not noticing, or seeming not to care, Sydia took him, stroking and tugging.

Detaching, Dan lowered himself to straddle her thighs. He began unfastening her slacks. Sydia raised her arms above the sofa and held on. He guided her zipper down exposing slight panties and shimmied off her slacks. They fell to the floor next to his. He licked her belly button and headed south before she stopped him…

“What?”

Sydia shook her head. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not now…”

Dan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had just engaged on an emotional obstacle course to cross the finish line to this. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Dan. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me!” What the hell was going on? Once again, his insecurities started fucking around with him, raising their ugly heads and waging war against him. Dan sat up. He lost his erection. She stayed the same. Her hands were above her, still, stretched out and holding on to the sofa as if tied down.

“I can’t explain it. But…”

His cell phone went off, blasting the silence. It reverberated against the hollow walls of the apartment, doing a dance on the coffee table.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

Dan reached for the phone. “Yes?”

Evans was on the other end. Of course. Who else but Evans would interrupt Dan at the most inconvenient time? “What?”

Evans voice was tense and flustered. “Dan, you have to get out to Folly Beach. I just got off the phone with that FBI dude. I’ll pick him up at his hotel and we’ll meet you there.”

“What’s going on?”

“Don’t want to say anything over the line, but you better leave now.”

“I can’t leave now. I have Alexandra. I’m babysitting.” Dan looked over at Sydia. She was sitting up looking at him, a vacant stare on her face. The candle had burned out. The room seemed dark and ominous. His first response was to check on Alexandra.

“Get a fucking babysitter, Dan. And make it snappy. This is fucking awful.”

“Where?”

“The Water’s Edge apartment complex. Corner of East Actic and 3rd. You won’t be able to miss it. The entire police force is out there.”

Dan was writing down the address on a piece of paper. “I’m on my way.” He dropped the cell phone on the table and took a moment to compose himself. Back to Detective mode. Not some hypersensitive boy being dismissed.

“Dan, what’s going on?” Sydia reached for her slacks and began pulling them on. “Do you need me to leave?”

“No, I need you to stay. There’s an emergency in Folly Beach. I have to get out there…”

“What is it?”

“Didn’t say. Would you mind staying with Alexandra till I get back?” Dan was aware that he was standing buck naked in front of Sydia, his dick hanging down unobstructed from view. “Jesus!” He took his underwear and pants from the pile of clothes on the floor and began stuffing his legs through. Sitting back down on the sofa, he pulled on his socks and put his shoes on.

Sydia stood up and moved to the window. She crossed her arms. “Of course, Dan. Whatever I can do.” She turned toward him and smiled. The yellow light from the street lamp changed to red. It cast a weird glow on her and the living room as he lifted his holster from the kitchen table and exited the apartment.

9:32 PM

53

No mistakes this time, Sydia. No mistakes…

I stand in the still of Dan’s apartment. The shrill sound of a siren wails and dies in the distance. I look at the mess, the stench of masculine living. The habitat of a solitude being, surviving life without company, care, or even comfort. The majority of his time spent away… on a mission. Crusading the ongoing battle against good and evil. Like now.

And me, left behind, as guardian to his baby. The good Doctor.

Stupid, stupid, Dan.

So unconscious, and so unaware that Alexandra waits for me in the bedroom.

She sleeps now, snuggled in the illusion of her Father’s protection. An angel about to be saved.

My small sacrifice.

I wrote the letter earlier. I left it on the coffee table by the empty wine glass. Somewhere obvious. Someplace easy for Dan to find.

It will be important for him to discover the note quickly in order to bring this plan to its ultimate conclusion. So far, Dan has played along perfectly, unaware of his or his daughter’s participation. His collaboration so innocently unnoticed, masked only by his intense need for feminine attention and approval. Everything falling into place so perfectly. So utterly synchronistic. The heavens are in total agreement with my choice.

No mistakes…

I slip my tennis shoes on and tip toe into the bedroom. The door creaks as I open it. Inside, the slight purr of Alexandra’s breathing.

I catch myself staring, frozen in time, transported to a place far away. Past the bed, past the dilapidated venetian blinds, out the dirty, cracked window and into the night sky. A red neon light cast scarlet tones to the room.

A horizon soaked with blood…

By now, they’ve found the body of the reporter. They’ve probably obtained a search warrant and discovered the blood bath right inside the doorway. I’m sure the area is heavily secured as a crime scene. And Dan, realizing his mistake, his horror, too late.

Poor, poor, Dan.

How could Dan have known he would play such an important role in my absolution? Finally freeing me from this hell, all the years of guilt and shame and humiliation. How could he possibly know? Sitting at 82 Queen, sharing wine and family photos. Such a willing participant. So wrapped up in himself and his quest to pursue and conquer me… completely unsuspecting that I had already… chosen him…

9:42 PM

54

Driving to Folly Beach was effortless at this time of night, the I-26 was barren. Only a few cars peppered the highway as Dan made the necessary turn-offs. His approximate arrival time… fifteen minutes. The scanner was uncharacteristically quiet. Unusually calm.

His attention was scattered, intrigued by his brief encounter with Sydia. Her unannounced appearance. Her obvious attraction to him. It made him smile, blush. In the privacy of his own car, he flattered himself. He checked his image in the rearview mirror. He stole a glance, positioning himself to take in his entire face. Not bad. Sometimes, he understood why women found him so attractive.

Not at all the sort of thing he should be thinking about on the way to a crime scene.

WTF?

Low-hanging fog rolled like tendril fingers across the Folly River Bridge. At the traffic light, Dan made a left-hand turn onto East Atic Avenue. It wasn’t difficult locating his destination; blue, red and white flashing lights danced in the distance. Pedestrians were already gathering on the sidewalks. People loved drama. Wooden police barriers held nosy neighbors back. Dan accelerated, concentrating on what could possibly lie ahead. Sydia and Dan’s attempted act of lovemaking and his wily, wicked thoughts would have to wait for the time being.

Dan parked by the long stretch of boardwalk running alongside the ocean. The night sky was hazy gray melting into the Atlantic. No stars, only the faint outline of a white moon hidden somewhere behind moody clouds.

Across the street, Wright and Evans spotted his car. He pulled the collar tight around his neck and crossed the street to meet them. The air was uncommonly cold. And wet. You couldn’t pay Dan to live out here!

“I got here as quickly as I could.” Dan kept stride with Wright. Evans tagged along close behind. They waded past people, places, objects and yellow crime scene tape flapping unnervingly against strong gusts of wind. Evans appeared pale, as if he’d seen a ghost, or something far worse. He wasn’t his chatty, annoying, always talking about nothing-self.

“Who’s watching your daughter?”

“Surprise visitor. The good Doctor stopped over.”

“Garrison?” Wright raised his eyebrows.

“Yep. Go figure. Good old Evans, always interrupting…” Dan looked around. Evans was eavesdropping in on the conversation. “Right, Evans?”

Evans shrugged.

“Evans picked me up at the hotel. He called from the Precinct and brought me here.”

“What’ve we got? Nothing came over the scanner.” Dan walked with Wright past manicured grass, trimmed hedges, and perfectly potted and arranged flowers.

“Residents from the apartment complex called in a complaint about a dog being locked up in a car in one of the parking lots. The first Officer to arrive let the dog out and the animal went berserk.”

“Is he still here?”

“I’ve already chatted with him. The strangest thing… the dog led the Officer to a patch of trees on the outskirts of the property. Once there, the dog began pulling at something.”

“Yeah, don’t keep me in suspense.” Dan pulled out his yellow pad and began taking notes, still trying to prove his worth. They continued up the stairs, along a cement corridor lined with matching apartment doors and back down another stairwell. A swimming pool glistened in the distance. Several patio tables surrounded it. Colorful umbrellas shot up from the middle of the tables like bamboo reeds, now closed and dormant. Steam rose from an oval-shaped Jacuzzi as they walked faster over more grass and shrubbery. Dan’s socks were already damp. Yellow and black crime scene tape shimmered in the distance. It summoned their expected arrival. Flashlight streams moved in the dark, a crossfire of dancing beams. Flashbulbs popped as a forensic photographer took photos of the area.

Wright handed Dan gloves as they crossed over the line. Evans stayed behind. “What is it?”

“Gruesome. Female. Cut up and dumped here.”

“We have identification?” Dan lifted the blanket covering the body. His eyes were not prepared for the sight. Underneath laid the disjointed remains of Janice Porter, the annoying reporter who broke the case. Dan closed his eyes. He returned the blanket, showing what respect he could.

“Janice Porter.”

Wright nodded.

A cry came from out of nowhere. It pierced the already-tense mood. They looked over to see Evans on the ground, bawling like a baby, hitting the ground with his fists. “Jesus,” Dan said, “get him out of here.” Cops picked up Evans and escorted him back toward the main property.

“We’ve started canvassing the area, asking questions. There was one resident, a female, mentioned she saw Ms. Porter arrive in the afternoon. She remembered her vividly. Her daughter was playing in the driveway with a new bicycle and she’d come outside to escort her back in.”

News traveled fast in small, rural areas.

“Where was Porter’s car parked?”

“We passed it.”

“And the dog?”

“Contained.”

“Let’s talk with the Officer.”

10:34 PM

55

“Our time is the very shadow that passeth away…”

With the aid of a mild sedative, Alexandra continues to sleep. Night owls hoot around us. Swirling, diving sonar bats circle and silhouette the night sky.

Alexandra’s awakening to me at her bedside was welcome and unquestioning. I offered her a glass of apple juice, the small blue tablet already dissolved in it.

I will save her the pain I went through.

She asked to use the bathroom, which I attentively provided. I accompanied her as she went.

After all, I am her guardian.

Escorting Alexandra back into the bedroom, she never mentioned her Father or her Mother. I noticed the sedative affecting her coordination as she climbed back into the bed with my help. She smiled sweetly, thanked me, grabbed at her blankets and comforters and snuggled back into them. She drifted to sleep, unaware of her pivotal role in my release.

I carried her from the apartment wrapped in one of the blankets from the bed. I deposited her in the front passenger seat. Nobody noticed. The neighborhood was dead. The apartment complex quiet. The streets were empty as we drove over Folly Bridge to the original clearing.

My instruments waited for me in the backseat. Ready to save her. Me.

My small sacrifice…

At Old Towne Road, I was surprised to find the Police barriers still present, the area under quarantine. My sacred alter. I parked my car far from the main road and walked through the field carrying Alexandra to our final destination. My body had lost all sense of feeling. The wooden stakes were still present, evident of my precise dedication to perfection.

I positioned Alexandra down upon the damp earth and used the two stakes at the bottom of the triangle to secure her legs. Then I secured her hands. She was oblivious as I covered her up with the blanket. The temperature outside was cold.

“Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, before they be withered…”

I have prepared for her. It is so uncomplicated with the sedative.

“I bless you, I become you, I am you…”

I take my ritual place between her young legs.

Remember Mother. Remember… the heat, how hot it was that day. Scorching. I was so thirsty. They wouldn’t allow us water. Not until afterward… not until… afterward...

Now, all I must do is wait. The sign will arrive. It always does.

Shadows dance like ghosts…

I know the end is near.

Soon, I shall meet Mother as I promised I would.

My Mother’s keeper.

I shall soar high above the Southern oaks surrounding us, my mission complete. For now, I must wait. For Father. He will come and save me. Save us both. I know he will. For the instructions made it perfectly clear.

I am ready for my return, Mother…

10:01 PM

56

Police Officer Reardon was more than willing to recount his arrival to the apartment complex. He went into specific details on how he unlocked the car door and followed the dog to the body. Dan was impressed. The Officer made frequent glances to his spiral notebook, reading from legible notes scribbled in man-scratch writing.  Reardon explained the peculiar way in which the dog bolted from the car and hightailed it directly to Apartment 427. How the canine had made wild, crazy circles, sniffing around the base of the door before taking off down the back corridor stairwell and across the grounds of the complex.

Surrounding neighbors heard or saw nothing. They stated that “the lady” who lived in the apartment was quiet and seemed to work a lot. She didn’t get involved in neighborly functions, festive barbeques, potlucks; she was not overly friendly and stayed pretty much to herself. One neighbor thought she worked at a hospital, but nobody was sure. The apartment manager was unavailable for questioning. He lived nearby on East Ashley Avenue.

Wright and Hammer approached the Apartment with casual interest. It seemed suspicious that a dog would respond so inquisitively to a stranger’s apartment and was definitely worth investigating. The threshold lacked personal touches. Neighboring tenants had gone mad, it seemed, decorating their front areas with plants, tables, beach towels strewn over railings and sandals parked outside their doors laden with fine layers of sand. The overly stark quality in front of 427 was definitely noticeable.

Dan observed a tiny drop of smeared red paint about two inches away from the doorway. He bent down to take a closer look.

“What do you think?” Wright’s voice boomed over him.

“Paint maybe, possibly blood… I’ll be right back.” Dan left Wright at the doorway and went to his car. He opened the trunk and pulled out his Homicide Kit, compact but useful. Crowds of onlookers were kept at bay behind newly errected police barricades. News traveled fast. Voices carried as he walked up the pathway and rejoined Wright. “What happened? Where’s the body? What’s going on here?” Dan noticed the dog sitting in the driver’s seat awaiting his master’s arrival, lowering his head, close to the steering wheel, never losing focus on the door at the top of the landing. Dan felt sorry for him. Poor thing. Even though Janice Porter wasn’t one of his favorite people; it was horrible she met her untimely end in this way. Evans was so shook up after seeing the body they had to transport him directly to the ER. He began hyperventilating, couldn’t catch his breath, had some type an anxiety attack. His entire body began contorting in spasms from lack of oxygen to his muscles. Dan often wondered about those two. Where there was Evans, Porter was never far behind.

Dan pulled his digital camera out. He took several shots of the area. A long-range view to show relationship of the smear to its surrounding area and a short range shot to show the actual item being collected. He retrieved a razor blade from the kit and scraped a sample into a sterile container. He labeled the specimen with time and date and logged it into his notebook with corresponding information. He detailed the original position and location, sealed up the sample and sent it with an Officer back to the lab for examination. A nearby laboratory would perform the procedure necessary to obtain a blood type. If the specimen was blood, they would see if the type matched Porter. Evidence was crucial in building a case for trial. Every detail entered correctly. Dan had to be perfectly honest. He was showing off. Let the Wright observe the Hammerhead in action. His mind flashed to Sydia. How comfortable she looked, wine glass in her hand. Like she belonged there, with him.

Wright sneezed three times, each one accelerating in intensity. “Excuse me. Damn.”

“God Bless you.”

Wright wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He reached into his coat pocket for a handkerchief. Dan’s father used cloth handkerchiefs.  A vivid image of his Mother, dropping each of them, one by one, into the washing machine. Interesting what comes to mind…

Dan noticed a short, stocky gentleman moving with discomfort up the stairway. A set of keys dangled from his hip. His appearance was unkempt and tousled. He was badly in need of a shave. His pants were brown polyester and he wore a Hawaiian shirt too small to cover his protruding stomach. A cigarette hung from the side of his mouth. Puffs of smoke escaped as he lumbered up the stairs assisted by the metal banister.

“What’s all the racket about? Mind telling me?”

“I’m Detective Hammer from the Charleston Police and this is FBI Agent Harry Wright.” Dan showed him his badge. Wright was nonplussed by the sight.

“Somebody said there was a murder here? You aren’t safe anywhere these days.”

“I take it you’re the Manager?” The man reminded Dan of that character from the Batman series, the Penguin.

“Thirteen years now. Live around the corner. Never seen so many people hanging around here in all my days.”

“Would you mind giving us some information?”

“I don’t want no trouble.” He dropped his cigarette to the cement floor, stepped on it, and then leaned down to pick it up. He deposited the butt back in his pants pocket. “Like what? What do you want to know?”

“Who lives in this apartment?”

He pulled the chain to the keys jangling on his hip. “I’ll do one better than that.” He sorted through several layers of keys before examining a number written on a specific one. “Here we go.” He fit the key into the lock and turned, flipping the doorknob open. “It’s in my lease. I can enter a tenant’s apartment at will.” The door opened, exposing a dark interior. Cool air escaped into the hallway. No lights. No sound. Empty.

Wright spoke first. “We don’t have a search warrant, but with your permission, Sir, may we enter and take a look around?” They waited in anticipation for a dismissal. The chain of events that occurred daily in a police officer’s life were rarely, if ever, simple. The legal limitations in a criminal investigation concerning suspicion, sufficient probable cause, the filling out of affidavits to obtain a judge’s signature for a warrant, particularly in the dead of night, could be a test of patience and strength. This was a lucky break. Even if it led to nothing.

“Follow me.” The stubby man led the way. As they passed into the entryway foyer, he turned on the lights.

Dan looked down at his feet. “Jesus fucking Christ.” A puddle of blood, circling a six foot wide circumference surrounded them. At first sight, Dan jumped up to avoid stepping into it. Seconds later, Wright and the Manager witnessed the grisly sight and both followed. They stepped immediately back out into the hallway. Out of breath and gagging, the Manager sprinted to the terrace railing. His face turned white.

By accident, Wright and Hammer had discovered the original crime scene. The grounds located behind the building were used only as a dumping ground. Nothing had been touched. There wasn’t even an attempt to clean up the mess. The slaughter had taken place in the doorway. The body had been dismembered with the use of a handheld hacksaw. Residual tissue, bones and body parts littered the entry. The bloody instrument lay strewn on the floor. The remains had been discarded into black plastic bags, toted to the perimeter of the complex and thrown away, like trash, into and around, a shallow grave.

“Somebody was sure in a hurry.” Wright said, as he lunged over the bloodbath and into the apartment. Dan was surprised at his flexibility and followed after him. Outside he noticed the Manager using his cell phone.

Wright and Hammer cased the apartment. Dan pulled out his revolver, concurring with Wright each room’s safety. Property secured, Wright entered into the kitchen while Dan went into the bedroom. A feeling of pending doom lodged in the pit of his stomach. The bed was made. The closet doors were shut. The telephone answering machine was blinking, sporadic red blips. Dan looked in the closet mirror as he pressed PLAY.

“This is Detective Hammer. I… Dan that is. I got your message.” A chuckle. “Actually, I found the matches. Very good. I liked that…”

Dan pressed STOP.

He turned around.

Where am I? Who lives here?

His mind began scaling hurdles. Emotional balance was lost as he scaled dangerous perimeters on overload. Nerve impulses missed appropriate connectors. Much needed information jumbled. Medical reference books lined the desk…

…a Doctor?

Oh, dear God! A melting occurred in his stomach. Bile rose to his throat. A force so strong, so savage rose from deep within him, one he could not possibly contain, one originating from past regrets, past pain, and rage. Wright ran to the door as Dan landed on his knees, put his hands to his face and screamed.

“What? Dan, what’s going on?”

Dan rocked back and forth. He looked over at Wright, who was now kneeling down beside him. He held onto Wright’s shoulder. Outside the Manager yelled into the apartment.

“A Ms. Garrison. Sydia. The woman who lives in this apartment is Dr. Sydia Garrison.” He pronounced Sydia wrong.

Dan rose from the floor. “Sydia Garrison HAS MY BABY!”

10:08 PM

57

By the time you read this, Alexandra and I will be at our destination. Together, we wait for an omen. A sign to continue the sacred practice we have so joyously been brought together to perform. To celebrate! And finally complete. And you are a part of the practice. You will save me, Dan, and, in the process, save your daughter.

You almost discovered me. My scar… the ugly blemish I’ve physically worn since I too, was not quite six years old… for my sins, in memory of my dear Mother, and in combination with my beloved Father. Traditionally, when a child is born into the world, it bonds with the family. Unfortunately, my birth only caused separation, abandonment and ultimately… death.

My death, Dan.

But that is all behind me now… behind us…

As God, I have chosen to force my will, my life and my tradition upon Alexandra. The heavens have agreed. They have approved of my final sacred choice. Unlike the others, those silly cunts that paid for their sins with death, Alexandra shall live. She will be saved, as my Father saved me years ago. I will allow Alexandra to continue her life, so she, too, can carry the awful memory I have lived with, along with all those who have come before me, and all those who will endure the painful act after me. Alexandra will mature into womanhood with full knowledge that her temple has been destroyed, her feminine gift, her womanly power denied and the source of her pleasure forever engraved and carved out. It its place, an embarrassing hollow shell.

Alexandra will live, Dan, but she, too, will die. From the deprivation of Spirit I have learned to call home.

We wait for you…

Far from the hectic pace of the City…

In a sacred clearing prepared for the others before her.

Hurry…

God.

11:17 PM

58

As a cop, Dan took his work seriously. To a fault, some people might think. As a Detective, Dan had earned the respect and admiration of his colleagues and peers. There were times he considered his reputation at the Precinct to be more important than life itself. And yes, he tended to be rough around the edges, outspoken and, often, downright rude.

But as a Father, Dan took his role over the top. Being an absentee Dad didn’t help. It made him all the more protective. Nightly hugs before bedtime, colored pages hung up and bragged about on his refrigerator, bedtime stories before lights out; all gave a rare insight into a life he rarely got to experience, excluding, of course, the out of the ordinary emergencies that popped up from time to time. Or the mandatory, court-ordered, every other weekend visitation. Animal instincts came out to play. Dangerous and paternal impulses arose, not easily monitored on the Richter scale of acceptable human behavior when something or somebody jeopardized his Alexandra.

He realized all of that when Wright helped him up from off the floor and escorted him back to his car.

“You want company?”

Dan unlocked the driver’s side. His legs felt like Jell-O. He dropped the keys into a puddle of dark water. He was in shock. His body felt numb, cold, and detached as he leaned over to scoop them up. “No.”

“I’ll send reinforcement to your apartment. You might need it.” Wright reached out to stable Dan, but he had already left, leaving Wright abandoned on the boardwalk.

Dan sped back to North Charleston, consumed with self-guilt and self-hate. He wanted to kick himself in the ass for allowing Sydia to manipulate him the way she had. His character was flawed, pathetic and desperate – a stupid male creature led solely around by his dick. Meanwhile, Sydia’s intentions were probably in place from the very beginning. Right from the start. He caught his reflection in the window. He looked shrunken and small. A beaten man.

He arrived back at the apartment to find the front door wide open. Dominoes began falling. “Sydia!” He yelled into the dark, empty rooms. He pushed open the door with his foot. Nothing. “SYDIA!” Just the monotonous changing of the streetlight outside. On the coffee table, he discovered the note. The wine glass had been broken and lay shattered on the floor. As he read, he began to cry. Again. The idea of Alexandra being tortured was more than he could stand. Her slight body tied down with ligatures. Her little girl legs separated, open and vulnerable like the others…

Old Towne Road…

In a sacred clearing prepared for the others who came before her…

The apartment complex was quiet outside as he leaped down the stairwell. Normal people were sleeping, unaware of the horror he was about to witness. In the distance, a serenade of sirens shattered the stillness, careening toward his location.

He lunged into his car. He was on a mission. His purpose was intact. Save his baby. He revved the engine and peeled out from the parking lot. He turned right at the first traffic light onto Cosgrove Avenue, aware that he sped through a red light. The first of many as he raced past closed businesses and strip malls lit up with impersonal neon.

He followed Cosgrove until it combined with Highway 7. He hastened his speed across the Ashley River toward Sam Rittenberg Boulevard. To the left, yellow lights bobbed in the choppy water. A fine fog hung suspended, calm and still.

Old Towne Road…

The original clearing. He accelerated, breaking speed limits, forcing his beat up car to lean into the curves of the sleepy residential areas. He pushed hard on the gas, pressing the pedal all the way to the floor, passing through another red light at Poston. Up ahead, signboards displayed Charles Towne Landing, the first settlement in Charleston. It brought images of Gina to mind. Pictures of them together, their youth. Before Alexandra. When life was perfect. Easy. Different. Lazy Sunday afternoons picnicking there. Now, flashes from the past were only diversions. A way to escape the ever-present now. They exploded like vibrant firecrackers, and then disappeared without even a fizzle, a flat line flare.

The road veered to the left at Junction 171. The forgotten, old North Charleston Mall stood like a rickety skeleton, a lonely reminder of the growth spurt Charleston was presently undergoing.

He passed into a bedspread of darkness. Sporadic horse lanterns dotted the road. Residential homes sat back in reclusive shadowed beauty. Mailboxes lined up intermittently on the left and right side.

Dan flicked on his high beams. He didn’t want to miss his turn. A green sign read: Marvin Avenue. Unaware of his speed he turned left, well over eighty miles an hour. The car swerved dangerously around the corner. Two wheels left the road as he tried to gain control of the vehicle. The car lurched back on all fours, careened around the curve, and fishtailed into a deep ditch. Tires screeched as he came to a sudden and explosive halt.

“Jesus, fucking Christ!”

He clutched his holster, unlocking the protective band and heaved open the car door. He squeezed through the narrow opening into a waterway filled with mud and knee-high reeds. His feet sank into the soft earth. He lost his balance and fell over. Cold water seeped into his dry clothing. His hands pushed through mud that felt more like liquid mortar as he dug his fingers into the side of the bank for added support. He grabbed a hold of some prickly briar weeds, unaware, numb of the sting and pulled himself up and out of the trench. The inside car light was on, the door jammed into the muddy incline. He didn’t care. He took off, wet and tired and layered with dirt.

He reached the asphalt, stomped his feet several times and sprinted toward the clearing. His only guide, the white divider line in the middle of the lane. Up ahead and to his left he noticed the forested tree line of the clearing. Flashbacks of that original night. The dead girl. The police convention of blue and red lights. Evans, George Madden. He jumped down into the ditch, straddling the tall grass and bramble bushes and dashed into the field. A woody, twisted root caught his foot. He fell, face first onto the ground. It punched the wind from out of him, a huge crushing blow to his chest. The frustration was overwhelming. He felt paralyzed, overcome by grief and fear and self-doubt. Frozen. Then, a rush of adrenaline surged through him. A carnal rage enveloped him as he pushed himself back up onto his feet and continued running. He realized the incredible stamina of the human will. For one fleeting second, he understood how old ladies were able to lift cars to save loved ones. Dan seemed to have taken on super-human characteristics. He crashed the silence with a deafening scream and took off, again, running in the direction of the clearing. Crickets and frogs kept a crazy chorus with his cadence, their world suddenly invaded by an unwelcome alien imposter.

His mind, his thoughts, his actions…

Save his baby!

He would kill himself if anything ever happened to Alexandra.

He approached the dense, dark trees and went for his piece. The leather holster and gun caked with wet mud. He inched around the trees, brushing his hips against each jagged base. He picked at the dirt with his finger and unlocked the safety. He hunched down. Dry leaves and branches snapped under his feet. Cautiously, he continued.

Nothing sudden.

No false moves. His eyebrow twitched.

The clearing was black. A cacophony of forest sounds surrounded him. In the moonlight, shapes began to take form. He closed in, using surrounding trees as shelter. Under hazy moonlight, the original yellow and black crime scene tape flapped in the wind, rattling in the stillness.

In front of him, under the canopy of an old oak tree sat Sydia. Her hair was wild, not styled or tied back. It blew soft and loose in the night breeze. In front of her on the ground was a body, Alexandra, still and quiet, a blanket snuggled up close around her neck. The sight of his baby tied down like an animal, a prisoner of this crazy woman, made him choke. Alexandra held custody, a hostage because of him. Again, his bad choices. Before he could speak, a match sparked the night sky. A flame flickered and turned on. The glow illuminated Sydia’s face as Dan’s eyes adjusted. Between his baby’s straddled legs was a lantern.

“We’ve been waiting, Father.”

Hearing Sydia’s voice took Dan off guard. It sounded strange… different.

“Have you come to save us? Have you come to save me?”

His mind would not stop racing, an exhausting emotional race. The gun rested securely on his forearm, pointed in her direction. His first impulse was to shoot the bitch, his need for revenge so great, so sweet, and so intense.

“Is she okay? Is my baby okay?”

“We’ve been waiting for you, Father. Just like before. Remember?”

“What are you talking about? I’m not your Father, and she’s not your baby. Now untie her and give her to me. Immediately. We can talk about this.”

Keep her talking.

Dan made slow gains forward.

Jesus, I was falling in love with this woman…

“Then I won’t be saved. Would you rather leave me here...?”

“My name is Hammer. Dan. I am not your Father.

“But you are. And you must save me. The heavens have agreed. They have chosen you.”

“What are you talking about? The heavens?”

“There are no mistakes. Alexandra and I were brought together, united for our salvation. This five year old little girl is my small sacrifice in order to be saved. Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”

“Sydia Garrison. A Doctor, for Christ’s sake,” he screamed out.

“I am God. I have chosen to be saved. This is the conclusion for me. My final act. A life goes full circle. Remember? I have finished what I have chosen to do. My mission. My Mother’s sins, my Father’s sins, their sin together, and now the completion, the greatest sin of all. The ultimate outcome. Me. I must save myself, but only with your assistance.”

“Don’t do this!”

Dan inched closer. He could see Sydia’s face. The details of her skin, her lips, her perfect teeth as she spoke…

This woman can’t be a killer!

His baby and Sydia were no further than fifty yards away.

“Don’t come any closer. You must watch. All of it. What you did to us. You must observe what one careless act can do. Did do. What you brought into this world. And by doing so, you will understand the destruction you have caused. By taking a woman – my Mother – and having sex with her in the fields. You, a missionary, a man of the cloth. You were to bring only good. Not this! So therefore, now you must pay. You will never understand how offensive that act is to our culture. How insulting it is for a white man to be with a woman of color before she is married. What were you thinking? Didn’t you know? That you created a monster!” She moved the blanket up around Alexandra’s waist and stroked the inside of her legs. Lightly. Moving her fingers like a paintbrush, up and down Alexandra’s thigh as she spoke.

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. Listen to me…”

“I will perform the sacred act for you, Father. I will show you what they did to me.”

“Please Sydia. I have a gun! I don’t want to shoot! Don’t make me shoot you!”

“The time has come. The omen has arrived. I have been instructed to perform the ritual. It is sacred in our camp.” Sydia lifted a wooden box, opened it and positioned it in front of her in between Alexandra’s legs. She pulled out a tin can lid. “I was taken to a field, far from the City. Mother screamed when they took me. She did not know…”

“Sydia, you must stop, now! Don’t make me do this…”

“They held my Mother down. Her sisters kept her captive as the tribesmen marched four other girls and me off. We wore white dresses. It was our celebration into womanhood. They offered us candy, which we hardly ever received. Chocolate. Then, they took us to a clearing. It was dusty and my feet were hot and sore when we arrived. They placed us outside a small hut and lined us up. I was not quite six, yet, Father. The same age as Alexandra.”

“STOP! NOW!”

“The oldest in our group was nine. We never spoke of the tradition, but we all knew of it. When it was your time, they came for you. I was scared. They forbid us from talking. Or crying. And my Mother, she could not save me. She could not save herself. She spit at her sisters. She screamed at them to let her go. Hissed the truth at them, the lie of my Father. The reality of you. How you came and stole her from the tribe and fucked her in the fields. It was a sin, and as punishment, they forced her to be still. For you, Father.

The grandmother of our tribe came out from the hut. She carried a rooster in her arms. She drew out a huge hatchet and, in front of us, cut off the rooster’s head. He ran around in dizzy circles, headless, spraying us with his blood before finally falling. I can still feel the warm blood from that cock. How it spewed over my bare feet…”

“Sydia, please. You’re not well…”

“You will listen. You will understand. That is why I use chicken bones. They are sharp and brittle when dried properly in the sun. They can easily puncture the skin.” Sydia pulled a handful of bones from her box. They rattled as she placed them ceremoniously on the towel. The yellow light from the lantern flickered, illuminating their brittle whiteness. “I was the last of the four girls. I watched on as the grandmother sat between their legs. Other women from the tribe held down their hands and feet before she began cutting. I observed how the girls would rise to meet the cut, see the blood spray, the way she weaved her hand, cutting deep and forcefully. From one girl to the next, she would use the same sharp tool, piercing flesh and skin as if it were nothing. She would throw the scraps of flesh to the wild dogs that followed us from the camp. They growled and barked at one another as they fought for the skin, the torn pieces of raw meat.” Sydia reached for the tin can lid.

“Don’t do it, Sydia!”

“Then, it was my turn. I prayed to a God to save me. To make them go away. Leave me alone. But, they didn’t. I was just like the other girls. I felt the first cut. I bit down hard onto the piece of wood they put into my mouth. The pain was unbearable, Father. I could see grandmother’s white gown turn red with my blood. At a certain point, I blacked out…”

Sydia advanced her fingers to Alexandra’s genital area. She raised the tunic. Dan couldn’t take it any longer.

“Stop!” He screamed out. He pulled the trigger, preparing himself for the recoil. The gun jammed. Frantic, he yelled out again. “STOP THIS, NOW!” He reloaded, chambering another round. Fighting back tears and seconds, knowing what might have already happened, he took aim again and fired, but once again, his pistol jammed.

“We must begin.”

A jumble of static whirled past him as he took off running toward the clearing. Like a crazy man, he raised his hands, yelling, screaming into the night. Then, the first gun shot. It pierced the silence like a thunderbolt. Sydia looked up. She could almost touch Dan. He was so close to saving his baby. Another shot rang out. He felt the sleek penetration of a bullet as it ripped through his shoulder blade, splattering blood tissue. He screamed out, “Get down! GET THE FUCK DOWN!”

He propelled himself forward and flung his body into the clearing. He dropped hard onto the ground. His first impulse was to shelter Alexandra. Another explosion rang out. The bullet hit the lantern and ricocheted off. Metal rang out as the light exploded and kerosene fanned out over the area. Flames spread as Dan lunged toward Alexandra, crawling up beside her body. Shallow breathing. His baby was asleep. His baby girl was safe. He untied her arms and legs and clutched her close to his chest. He pulled her away from the fire and yelled out into the darkness.

“STOP SHOOTING! POLICE! PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN!”

A dark, heavy figure staggered into the clearing. Jesus Christ, it was Evans. He stumbled closer, either drugged or drunk, or both, weaving back and forth. He pointed his pistol in their direction.

“Evans! It’s Hammer. Drop your weapon.”

Evans voice was soft, emotional. “I… can’t… do… that, Dan.”

“DO IT! It’s an order.”

“Fuck you, Hammer! Did you see what that fucking sicko did? Did you see what was left of my friend?”

“Calm down, just calm down, Evans.”

Dan was torn. Life was so damn ironic. Here he was, protecting the woman he just moments ago wanted to kill himself.

“It’s too late for that, Evans.”

“No, Hammer, it’s not too late. You never understood her. You never understood Janice. You didn’t know how I felt about her. To you, she was just a nosy reporter…”

Dan struggled to stand up, pulling Sydia with him. She crouched down behind his back, mumbling words to herself as they inched out of the clearing and the growing fire. Evans continued toward them. The red and orange bonfire illuminated his wild face. His eyes were wide open.

Alexandra stirred. She nestled herself into the creases of Dan’s bloody jacket, now caked with dried mud. Behind Evans, a mile or so back, a line of squad cars arrived. The faint whirling sound of sirens moving closer. Then another shadow crossed over the crime scene. Dan breathed a sigh of relief.

Evans continued. “Move, Hammer. I want her. Let me take the bitch down. She needs to pay for what she did.”

“I won’t do that, Evans.”

“She was gonna do that sick thing to your daughter. You read the note. I’m fucking helping you out, man.”

The dots were beginning to connect. Evans had obviously gone to his apartment looking for Sydia. What he found was the note and followed the clues back to the original site.

“EVANS! Put your gun DOWN!” Wright’s voice boomed from the perimeter of the clearing.

Evans turned and fired as Wright flung himself for cover. Dan took the opportunity to hide Sydia and Alexandra behind a layer of trees.

Wright fired one shot. Evans fell to the ground, rolling around in a fetal position grabbing at his knee. “Mother fucker!”

Dan put Alexandra down on the ground and ran toward Evans, holding his own arm in a makeshift sling. He kicked Evans gun away as Wright entered into the clearing. He moved swiftly, first to Dan, then to Sydia and Alexandra.

“You all right?” He asked, checking Dan’s shoulder.

“I’ve been better.” Dan followed Wright back to Alexandra. He examined her body, checking for cuts, forgetting his own wound. His pain seemed so insignificant.

Sydia stared off into the distance. Lost. She muttered sounds to herself. Nothing tangible or coherent. Something about mistakes. How could Dan help but not feel sorry for her? Wright escorted her out of the clearing and into the field. She walked in baby steps, fumbling and tripping over her own feet.

Wright looked over his shoulder. “Let’s go home, Hammer. It’s over.”

Dan crossed the field behind them, Alexandra secure in his arms. A fusillade of sirens and flashing lights erupted in front of him. His senses slowly awakened and brought him back to life. Back to reality. His shoulder throbbed with intense pain. EMT’s intercepted him at the road. They took Alexandra and put Dan on a stretcher. Officers loaded Sydia into a squad car and drove away. Others ran to the clearing, including a crew of firefighters. Water gushed from thick hoses, shooting arches against the hazy moonlight. Officers guided Evans back to the road. Wright stood beside the gurney as two EMT techs hoisted Dan into the ambulance. A technician held Alexandra inside.

“Sorry, Dan.” Wright grabbed at Dan’s hand. “You felt something for her, didn’t you?”

“Did.”

“Well, you saved her. In more ways than even she expected.”

“Yeah, the good Doctor.”

A painful interruption as an EMT inserted a needle in Dan’s arm and started an IV. Clear fluid dripped from a plastic bag into his system. “Wright, there is one thing.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“How did you know? I mean, how did you know she’d come back here?”

“I didn’t. I took a chance. And sometimes a hunch is as good as it gets.”

The gurney slid forward. The ceiling of the ambulance was white and red.

MUSC

Sunday

7:00 AM

59

Dan was checked into the hospital at the Medical University of South Carolina.

Go figure.

His least favorite place.

Sunday morning arrived with a crescendo. The ordeal was over. From his hospital bed, he read the early Sunday edition of the Post and Courier. It announced the death of Janice Porter. Her photograph took up the entire front page. A memorial service was scheduled. Her body would be transported back to Philadelphia and her remains buried there. On the inside section, Chief Abrams informed the concerned public that “The Mutilator” task force had been dissolved. The case was closed. Law officials transported Sydia Garrison to a mental institution in Columbia, South Carolina. She waited further psychological testing and faced charges for the first degree murder of several young women in South Carolina and West Virginia. Parents protested, claiming Sydia would cop an insanity plea. The people sought solace and redemption. They wouldn’t be satisfied until Sydia received the death penalty.

Charleston gave a huge sigh of relief. In a few weeks, after a myriad of written reports were submitted and finalized, Charleston would return to its normal, quiet peaceful community by the sea. The search continued for Jennifer Stattler.

After a lengthy examination, the doctors gave Alexandra a clean bill of health. Except for a mild sedative circulating in her system, she was unharmed. The only thing Alexandra remembered was going to the bathroom. A nice black lady helped her get back into bed.

Gina arrived at the hospital early. Before dawn, driving back from Columbia as soon as she got word. A gathering commotion erupted at the nurse’s station when she entered, screaming, “Where’s my baby? Where’s my baby?” as she raced down the hallway toward Dan’s room.

Awake with the energy of only a child, even with a sedative, Alexandra ran to the door to greet her. “Mommy, Mommy!”

“Oh, my God. My baby. Hello, my sweet baby.” Gina leaned down and picked up Alexandra. With her living and breathing appendage once again positioned on her hip, Gina opened the door wider to Dan’s room. “I wish you’d quit this damn job.” She rocked Alexandra back and forth as she spoke, her eyes heavy with tears.

“Don’t cuss in front of the baby. Shootings and bloodshed are fine – but no cuss words!”

Gina tried a strained smile. “Oh my God, Dan. I…” Her voice trailed off. She buried her face in Alexandra’s neck. Then she did something completely un-Gina like. She walked over, looked down at Dan and said, “What would I do if I ever lost you? Who would I abuse?”

Dan thought he actually saw tears forming. Her eyes became misty as she leaned down and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

“I don’t have her things. We haven’t been back to my place yet. It’s all still at my apartment.”

“That’s okay. I can always come over and pick it up, can’t I?”

Dan thought about how enormously ironic his life currently was. He moved his face close to Gina and without monitoring himself gave her a slight peck on the cheek. Life was just too damn short to continue collecting injustices. Before she could speak, he said, “Just because.”

A knock interrupted them. Wright entered, unannounced. “Thought I’d be saying my goodbyes, Hammer.”

Gina made a move for the door.

“I don’t mean to barge in on you two…”

“I was just leaving. Say goodbye to your Daddy, honey.” Alexandra waved, and then stuck her thumb into her mouth.

“Wait, before you take her, can I have one more hug.” Gina positioned Alexandra down next to Dan. He pushed brown wisps of hair off her face. “Bye, bye, honey. I love you so much.” Alexandra gave him a kiss before Gina straightened up. “Thank you, Gina.”

Wright picked at leftovers on Dan’s breakfast tray. He examined a lonely piece of crispy bacon. Dan remembered Wright at the Recovery Room, sitting at the bar ingesting far too many peanuts. Gina gave a quick wave and exited.

“Seems to me, Hammer, like you need to be doing some thinking. Mind if I take that last piece?” Wright reached for the bacon.

“Go for it.”

“Charleston’s getting a little too small for you, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what about joining our team?” Wright poured a cup of water from the colorful cooler into a blue plastic cup.

“This some sort of joke?”

“Nope. The Force could use a good man like you, and with me retiring soon…”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Here’s my card. You think about it and give me a call. I’ll at least make sure you have a fighting chance.” Wright flicked Dan a business card. Then he moved to the door. “I’m leaving now. My wife needs me. But, do give me a call.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Call me, Harry. All my friends do.” And with that final acknowledgment, Wright did a quick military salute and exited the room.

Dan studied the ceiling, momentarily stunned. Did Harry Wright just offer him an opportunity with the FBI?

Wallace looked down upon him. And smiled.

Right turn, right move, Hammer.

It’s about time.

Dan made a wide grin. Just like Wallace would have done.

Out his hospital window, the sun peaked through a sky buried in early morning cloud cover.

When do I start packing?

Dedication

Today, FCG (female genital cutting, also known as “female circumcision”) rates are well above 70% in some African countries despite public criticism and government led law enforcement to reduce this practice. Other countries that share in this barbaric tradition include the Arabian Peninsula and Asia. Larry King, Oprah Winfrey and 60 Minutes have filmed segments on this horrific act. “In her bestselling, 1992 novel, Possessing the Secret of Joy, Alice Walker opened a painful door to the attention of the reading public…”  Nothing Sacred is dedicated to all women, past, present and future generations who continue to endure this appalling procedure.

Is there nothing sacred?

May 2014

Douglas Wickard

Los Angeles, California

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