A Dangerous Affair

A handsome ex-convict sparks an affair with a small town sheriff's wife, igniting a firestorm of passion—and vengeance.

by

Jason Melby

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-332-8

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Thank You.

Also by Jason Melby

Enemy Among Us

Without a Trace...

To anyone who has ever found true love

and fought to keep it.

"It is easier to suppress the first desire

than to satisfy all that follow it."

~Benjamin Franklin

Chapter 1

Lakewood, Florida

Red neon bled through the rumpled curtains in the squalid motel room where Sheriff Alan Blanchart tucked his shirttail into his polyester pants and zipped his fly. He peeled a hundred dollar bill from a silver money clip and gave it to the naked starlet perched on the bed in front of him. "You got a name?" he asked the alluring mocha-skinned girl who looked barely old enough to buy beer. He buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie on the crisp uniform shirt he wore beneath his bullet-proof vest.

The girl stuffed the cash in her purse. "Who do you want me to be?" She held a cigarette between slender fingernails painted with glitter polish and pulled the sheet above her chest. She scratched at the custom wig she wore over curly brown hair to cover a patch of disfigured scalp caught in the gears of a faulty circus ride.

Blanchart tied his patent leather shoes and admired his reflection in the high sheen finish.

The girl giggled. Dark mascara underscored her smoldering brown eyes. "You must get hot under all that gear."

"Better to sweat than bleed."

"Can I wear your badge?"

Blanchart scratched his finger on the thick mustache that hid a jagged scar on his lip, a childhood souvenir from repeated contact with his pappy's fist. "You haven't earned it."

The girl blew smoke. "So what does it take to earn a shiny badge like that?"

Blanchart fastened his Boston Leather duty belt. He stared at the girl through malignant eyes and said, "More than you know."

He tapped his wedding band on the wooden baton suspended from his belt. Marred with divots and scratches, the length of straight-grain hickory proved more useful at subduing perpetrators than the pepper spray or the twenty-thousand volt Taser he carried. In the hands of a trained operator, the head-cracking baton delivered a blunt force message loud enough for the deaf to hear.

The girl flicked ash on the carpet. She wanted to leave the bed and get dressed, but the vibe coming from her scabby John compelled her to stay.

Blanchart kneeled on the edge of the bed. His two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame sunk into the worn mattress springs. He touched the girl's face and felt her tremble under his callused hand. In some ways, she resembled his wife—the woman he swore an oath to love and cherish for as long as he walked the earth. In other ways, she personified everything he loathed about women who traded sex for money.

His pager chirped.

He read the message on the monochrome display and gathered his sheriff's hat from the dresser. "I have to go."

Outside the motel, he settled behind the wheel of his black Police Interceptor with tinted windows, dual exhaust, and a whip antenna on the trunk. Static crackled from the radio in the mobile command center, where a rugged laptop disclosed the criminal history on anyone with a valid name, license, or registered plate number. Dash-mounted radar kept tabs on speeders. Behind his seat, a Remington 870 shotgun kept the peace.

He drove fast, running parallel to the railroad tracks that bisected the small town of Lakewood, Florida. Population seventy thousand. A place where families raised their children in the relatively quiet confines of Sheriff Blanchart's jurisdiction.

He delegated mundane tasks to subordinate officers, affording him the opportunity to manage his extracurricular activities. When time allowed, he fielded domestic disputes and the occasional burglary that often resulted from a drug addict trying to score. Despite the conservative, well educated, and mostly crime-free demographic, bad elements prevailed in the housing tracts meant to shelter the working poor.

He knifed his way through a construction zone outside a mobile home park where plastic pink flamingos decorated the entrance. He gunned the engine at a stop sign and detoured through a golf course neighborhood segregated by winding cul-de-sacs and man-made retention ponds. Guided by the map in his head, he followed the quickest route to the stretch of manufactured housing situated beyond an elementary school playground.

He slowed behind an empty patrol car parked more than a block from a ramshackle residence obscured by heaping fronds and overgrown bramble.

He keyed the mike on his lapel. "This is Blanchart. What's your twenty?"

"I'm at the back of the residence," a deputy replied over the radio. "The house with the blue tarp on the roof."

Blanchart exited his car and slid the hickory baton through the brass ring holder on his belt. He unsnapped the leather holster strap and withdrew his service pistol. "Hold your position," he said softly into his radio mike. "I'm approaching from the east side on foot." He kept the muzzle down, advancing beyond a row of metal trash cans near the carport entrance.

He leaned against the stucco finish and peered inside an open window at the kitchen littered with jugs of antifreeze and open bottles of drain cleaner. Hundreds of empty pill packets filled a box in the corner. Ether-soaked coffee filters floated in a baking pan at one end of the warped kitchen counter. At the other end, a snarled web of colored extension cords fed a dozen hot plates from an overloaded power strip.

Blanchart craned his neck and saw a man in a gas mask emerge from the other room with a sawed-off shotgun resting on his shoulder. Behind him, jugs of hydrochloric acid sat precariously on a wobbly card table straddling cans of benzene and camp stove fuel. "I've got an armed perp with a shotgun," he whispered into the mike. "Do you see him?"

"Negative, Sheriff," the deputy replied, his voice barely audible from the lowest volume setting. "The house looks empty."

"Secure the back of the residence," Blanchart ordered. "Wait for my signal." He maintained a two-hand grip on his service weapon and side-stepped around back with uncanny agility for a man his size.

He followed his deputy through the screened porch and they advanced inside the house single file. Accosted by the fog of phenyl-acetone and ethylene chloride vapors, he covered his mouth with his sleeve and assumed a position behind a load-bearing wall stacked with boxes of bubble wrap and plastic tubing. In twenty-two years of law enforcement, he'd confronted his share of paranoid junkies who had morphed into superhuman animals from prolonged exposure to their own product.

"Cop!" a muted voice shouted through a charcoal-filtered mask.

Blanchart ducked just before a twelve-gauge blast tore a crater-size hole above his head and pelted him with pulverized plaster.

He hugged the floor. Boxes toppled over him as he scuttled behind a sofa.

"Sheriff's Department!" Blanchart hollered at the Kamikaze moron throwing shots in a house of flammable vapors.

The shooter racked the shotgun. A spent shell casing hit the floor and bounced sideways, trailing smoke.

"Can you see the shooter?" Blanchart called out to his deputy, choking on the bittersweet taste of heated ethylene glycol.

"In the kitchen," the deputy replied.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm good," the deputy shouted back.

Blanchart knew that despite objections from friends and family, his deputy had abandoned his teaching position to pursue a law enforcement career, arguing that a small town meant small crimes. In barely three years out of the academy, his deputy had nabbed his share of speeders and made his first DUI arrest a week before his twenty-fourth birthday. But the Sheriff knew that nothing his deputy had seen or done before could compare to the shit storm swirling around him right now

A screen-door slammed.

Blanchart peered around the sofa to see a second perp bolting from the front of the house. "Give it up," he called out to the shooter in the kitchen. "Drop your weapon and come out where I can see you, slowly, with your hands behind your head."

"Fuck you!" the gunman shouted, his voice muffled by the gas mask on his face.

"No one has to die today," Blanchart reassured him. "We can walk out together—or I can haul you out in a body bag. The choice is yours."

"I don't trust cops."

"You're not alone," Blanchart shouted back. "Wrong place, wrong time. It happens. Come out and we can talk about it. No one wants to see this go bad." He pumped his fist at the deputy across the room and mouthed the word window. He drew a box shape in the air with his finger.

The deputy retreated through the screened porch at the back of the house and made his way toward the kitchen in the front.

"I'm not going down for this," the gunman shouted.

"No one's looking to jam you up," Blanchart said to keep the conversation moving—and to buy more time. "I can't help you unless you give up the gun."

The masked shooter paced back and forth with the shotgun stock butted tight against his shoulder. He knew Sheriff Blanchart by reputation but never dreamed he'd confront the man face to face. "Let me walk and you can keep the product," he bargained. "All of it."

"You're wasting my time."

"I'll give you names," the shooter pleaded.

"Don't want them."

"I'll give you locations."

"Don't need them."

Blanchart saw the shooter blink behind the gas mask's triangular eye pieces. He kicked a box of pill packets against the wall. The Sheriff had him cornered with one way in and no way out. "I'm not going back to the joint!"

"That's not my call. Give up the weapon and come out with your hands where I can see them."

The shooter unloaded two more shells in the sheriff's direction, exploding a plume of sofa stuffing.

Blanchart hugged the carpet. His right leg burned from a superficial wound. "You're not hearing me."

"I'm not going back to prison."

"I'm not sending you."

The shooter loaded his last shotgun shell.

"Freeze!" the sheriff's deputy shouted from outside the kitchen window.

The shooter tucked the muzzle under his chin and pulled the trigger. His head exploded like a watermelon, spackling the walls and ceiling with vaporized blood, bone fragments, and sticky grey matter.

The deputy reentered the house and gagged on the carnage smorgasbord. He braced a hand on his knee and vomited. "Why would he do that?"

Blanchart advanced. He holstered his service pistol and stepped around the body. "Did you get a good look at the second perp?"

The deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Caucasian. Late twenties. Thin build. Black hair. He had a tattoo on his neck."

"You sure?"

"I'd recognize him if I saw him again."

"You did good," Blanchart assured him.

The deputy stared at the bloody corpse. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"People do crazy things."

The deputy reached for his radio mike. "I'll call it in."

"I already did," said Blanchart. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves. "How did you find this place?"

"Dispatch put out the call. I was first on the scene."

Blanchart grabbed the bloody shotgun from the floor and loaded a new shell from his pocket. "You see anyone else besides this fool and the one that got away?"

"No," the deputy answered. He moved slowly around the stockpile of explosive chemicals. "There's enough shit in here to keep a dozen cooks busy full time. If I hadn't found this place—"

Blanchart raised the shotgun to the deputy's face and pulled the trigger. "...you'd still be alive."

Chapter 2

Tallahassee, Florida

Lloyd Sullivan clenched the vertical iron bars inside the maximum security cell he called home. Clean-shaven with sky-blue eyes and light brown hair, he wore thin sideburns along his chiseled jaw line. He stood tall in his white T-shirt stretched taut over sharply defined pecs, shoulders, and biceps that complemented his powerful legs shaped like twin towers of solid oak.

A few feet away, his cell-mate stretched out on the lower bunk with an open book propped on his chest.

"What time is it?" Lloyd asked with his back to the older, wiser inmate serving life for a crime of passion.

"Staring out that cage won't make it go any faster."

Lloyd relaxed his grip. A long-time resident in the house of no remorse, he was waiting for his second chance at life outside the concrete walls of the eight-by-nine bunker he occupied twenty-three hours a day.

Lloyd masked his emotions behind an intrepid gaze and filtered his inner voice from the clamor of jeering inmates while he rehearsed the performance of a lifetime. For months, his cell-mate coached him on body language and facial gestures. The prison librarian schooled him on proper diction, the importance of good eye contact, and how to establish a warm rapport with a skeptical audience.

"You know what this means?" Lloyd's cell-mate asked without looking up from his book.

Lloyd turned his head. "I won't have to look at your ugly mug anymore?"

"Just keep it real. You're a better man because of time spent in this place, not in spite of it. Today is yours to win or lose. Don't fuck it up."

Lloyd stepped back from the bars when the lurking day shift guard approached the cell in steel-toed boots. A stocky, Viking-size man with meaty arms, the guard moonlighted in a mixed martial arts dojo. On routine prison days, he carried a ruthless reputation inside the compound. This time, he carried an assortment of thick leather belts, chains, handcuffs, and enough cans of Mace to suppress a small riot.

"Open on twelve!" the hulking guard called to the shift supervisor who manned a panel of blue and red buttons inside the control room's impact-resistant bubble.

The sliding steel bars at Lloyd's cell opened with a metallic ratchet sound.

"Move back," the guard instructed Lloyd. "Farther."

Lloyd kept his arms in front, elbows bent, palms up, exposing a large crucifix tattoo on his right inside forearm.

"You know the drill," the guard continued. His breath reeked of spicy garlic chicken. "Strip down. Throw your clothes in the corner."

Lloyd pulled his shirt over his broad shoulders revealing granite abs and a three-inch scar under his right armpit. He dropped his boxers and assumed the position, devoid of modesty or shame while his prison escort conducted the routine inspection.

"Open your mouth and lift up your tongue."

Lloyd complied.

"Show me your hands," the guard instructed. "Now run them through your hair. Let me see behind your ears. Put your hands in the air and turn around. Wiggle your toes. Bend over. Spread your cheeks. Cough. Get dressed."

Outside the cell, Lloyd shuffled along the hallway in wrist restraints and ankle bracelets designed to inhibit a prisoner's forward motion. Rows of locked windows trapped stagnant, humid air inside the overcrowded D-block.

Keys rattled.

Toilets flushed.

Raving inmates exchanged obscenities from their carbon copy digs, each equipped with a wall-mounted double bunk, an unmovable stool, and a combination stainless-steel sink and toilet.

In the shadows, straight-off-the-bus newbies languished within the jaws of the penitentiary on a futile quest for anonymity. Dressed in prison-issue skivvies with elastic waistbands two sizes too big, they found their squalid conditions in stark contrast to their comfy suburban lifestyle.

Lloyd proceeded down the metal staircase to the bottom tier constructed with a series of hallways jutting out like spokes on a wheel. Above him, inmates barked, howled, and snorted like caged beasts, stuffing blankets and sheets in their toilets in an effort to flood their cells. Dried feces clung to rolls of hurled toilet paper that descended from the upper tier. The pervasive odor of spilled urine and tobacco smoke hung in the air with the buzz of fluorescent ballasts, blaring televisions, institutional loudspeakers, and the ever-present gangster rap that defined the prison life bedlam.

Escorted by the Viking guard in front and a second man behind, Lloyd followed a maze of gates and fences until he entered the yard—where the general population gathered in cliques behind a two-story fence topped with hoops of glistening concertina wire. Lloyd recognized the prisoners who slinked along the east wall to congregate among themselves and avoid the guards dressed in gray slacks, white shirts, and maroon ties. On the west side, groups of fierce, lean, and muscular inmates commandeered the weight pile equipped with bench press machines, crooked barbells, and rusted plates. Rival gangs occupied the wobbly bleachers, employing subtle nods and hand gestures to communicate surreptitiously with other members they instructed to bury knives and pipes in the yard. Above the chaos, Lloyd spotted the guards who monitored the confined space with automatic rifles, housed inside four air-conditioned towers aligned equidistant around the property.

Sensing danger, Lloyd shifted his attention front and center to ignore the Mexican Mafia soldiers approaching from the bleachers. At the edge of his peripheral vision, members of the Aryan Brotherhood gathered to show force against the Black Guerrilla Family lingering on the basketball courts.

Despite his best efforts, Lloyd had made his share of enemies during his tenure in the hostile environment. And none hated him more than the Mexican Mafia, who resented his stubborn propensity to side with the black population when the balance of power shifted.

"Yo hessay," a Mafia soldier in sagging khaki pants and laced boots called out to Lloyd. "Where you going?"

Lloyd followed the guard in front of him, ignoring the young shot caller with arms sleeved out in dagger tattoos.

Irate at Lloyd's indifference to his presence, the raging Mexican signaled for his posse to follow. "I'm talking to you, hessay." He lifted his shirt to his chest to expose the bullet hole scars on his stomach.

"Move away," the guard ordered.

"You got no play, homey," the Mexican soldier heckled Lloyd. He waited for his men to cram behind him and surreptitiously pass the weapon—a basic shank fashioned from a broken chair leg that had been smuggled into the vocational training shop, sharpened, and then smuggled back out in a pouch sewn inside a jacket sleeve.

Lloyd deflected the taunts with unshakeable concentration, his mind centered on a single objective.

"I said wussup, vato," the soldier persisted despite the guard's verbal warning and the threat of a beanbag shot to the body from a rookie tower guard itching to pull the trigger. "Yo, motherfucker! I'm talkin' at you!" Fueled by vengeance, the soldier charged at Lloyd with the shank concealed behind his forearm.

Lloyd embraced the attack in his shackled hands, using his wrist restraints to trap the weapon and throw his attacker violently to the ground with an elbow lock and a graceful redirection of force.

Before the other guards on the ground could respond, the control tower abandoned the usual warning shots and fired a barrage of bullets at the ground.

A hundred prisoners hit the dirt all at once.

The loudspeakers crackled. "Everybody on the ground! NOW!"

A buzzer signaled the staff to place the general population on lockdown. One guard confiscated the Mexican soldier's weapon; another hauled the instigator to solitary confinement.

"Keep moving." The big guard prodded Lloyd with his meat hook hands.

Lloyd ventured toward the gauntlet of security checkpoints positioned between the yard and the inside entrance to the "love shack"—a minimal security administrative services building that housed the paper pushers and served as a gateway between the incarcerated criminals and those free to come and go with the outside world.

A warning sign greeted Lloyd at the entrance. Large red letters made a statement about the authorized use of deadly force. Smaller print mentioned the use of video and audio surveillance.

Escorted by the guard, Lloyd entered a changing room and had his prisoner restraints removed under close supervision from another armed officer stationed in the admin services building.

Lloyd donned a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt. "I'm supposed to have shoes with these," he said, his words squandered on indifferent ears.

Lloyd tucked in his shirt and followed the big guard to a conference room with a window air conditioner and a video surveillance camera mounted in the ceiling. A folding chair faced a metal table with a water pitcher and a tray of plastic cups on top.

"Sit down," the guard instructed.

Lloyd planted himself in the kindergarten chair. He kept his posture ramrod straight with his hands in his lap and his wrists cuffed and fastened to a chain around his waist. His prison-issue slacks fit him loose and short, causing the pant legs to ride high above his bare feet in flip-flop sandals.

He recognized the conference room from his first parole board hearing. The same bland walls stared back at him. This time fresh paint fumes came through the ventilation ducts. If only for a short while, he relished his time in the peaceful enclave, removed from the D-block netherworld of perpetual disruption and violence. "I like what they did with the place," he told his stone-face chaperone.

Minutes passed like hours while Lloyd waited for the four-member panel from the Florida Parole Commission to arrive.

Three middle-aged Caucasian men and an older Puerto Rican woman assumed their spot at the conference table. A court reporter set up a portable stenograph machine.

One panel member poured water. Another sneezed in a handkerchief. A third projected his own indifference toward the one person who stood between himself and an early lunch.

"Good morning," the chairwoman said, acknowledging Lloyd.

"Good morning," Lloyd replied with a smile.

"We've all read your file, Mr. Sullivan. Since this is not your first dance, I'll get right to the point. You've had quite a ride in this facility, including a failed parole evaluation in 2007. Since that time, the court has asked this board to reexamine your case. We have. And to be honest, aside from your age, I'm not convinced much else has changed. What makes you think you're more equipped to enter society today than you were the last time we met?"

Lloyd pondered this first of several probing questions designed to peel away the cheap veneer of false pretense and expose an inmate's true state of rehabilitation. Three years ago, the panel had asked him the same question. This time, he'd prepared a more carefully thought-out answer.

Chapter 3

Jamie Blanchart hauled groceries from the cherry red Volvo S-40 in her two car garage. Her hourglass figure strained beneath the sleeveless yellow sundress she wore over a lace bra and panties. Designer shades hid oval eyes inherited from her Polynesian mother. Straight auburn hair framed her heart-shaped face and brushed the top of her C-cup breasts.

She carried the milk and OJ first. Then she went back for the bags of canned goods, frozen chicken, and the six-pack of her husband's favorite beer.

She slid her clogs onto a shelf in the laundry room inside their three-bedroom home and carried the cold groceries to the counter by the fridge. She checked the microwave timer. The smell of baked tenderloin filled the quiet house.

She crammed the frozen food in the freezer and organized the cold groceries in the fridge. The milk went on the bottom shelf. Cheese and meat went in the middle drawer. Beverages belonged in the door panel below the condiments. Butter came from sticks, not tubs of yellow spread. Milk was two percent. Cheddar cheese was sharp. Lettuce had to be crispy, not limp. And anything else Alan Blanchart wanted, Alan got.

With the groceries finished, she grabbed a dust rag and a bottle of Pledge. She tackled the China hutch first, a gift from Alan for their five-year anniversary. She worked the rag in a clockwise motion along the mahogany grain, her image reflected in the glass doors that displayed the antique china.

She used a feather duster on the silver candle holders and the faux bouquet of flowers on the dining room table. She ran the stick vacuum on the hardwood floor outside Alan's study, where the door to her man's domain remained locked at all times.

She avoided the empty nursery and the flood of mixed emotions that always followed when she entered the room alone. Life was good to her, if not always fair. She had what she needed, more so than what she wanted. And although at times she missed her career, she held fond memories of her friends and the life she knew before marriage.

A product of foster care, she had worked hard to find her place in the world. Now, at almost forty, she finally had a permanent home, a husband, and food on the table. She had found the American dream. Or so she convinced herself.

She stowed her cleaning supplies in the butler pantry organized more methodically than a surgical suite. She aligned the canned goods an inch apart and six inches from the front of the shelf, the way Alan liked it. Cereal, oatmeal, and breakfast bars faced out from the middle rack above the paper products. Toiletries and other sundry items were segregated in colored bins on the bottom racks.

When she heard the garage door open, she pressed her hands along her dress to flatten wrinkles. She washed up in the powder room sink and primped her hair.

"You're home." She greeted her husband with a peck on the cheek. She could smell the cheap perfume on his collar.

Sheriff Blanchart hung his hat in the closet the same way he did every time he came home, except on the special nights when he brought home flowers or a box of Jamie's favorite candy.

Tonight wasn't one of those nights.

"Did you make the appointment?" Blanchart asked bluntly. He unfastened his duty belt and hung it on the closet hook beside his hat.

Jamie touched the butterfly tattoo etched between the dermal layers of skin on her upper back. A spring break memento from a college road trip to Daytona Beach, the tattoo served as a constant reminder about the consequences of her actions, and how at times, even the best intentions could have a negative affect. "I called the doctor's office this morning," she said. "I have an appointment for next week."

Blanchart stooped to kiss her. Nearly ten inches taller than his life partner, he cupped Jamie's chin in his hand the way a forensic pathologist might examine a human skull.

Jamie looked down. "I have to check on dinner." She reached for an oven mitt in the sliding drawer by the stove. There were no indecisions with Alan. His mood was hot or cold; content or irate; happy or sad. Sometimes he came home himself, and sometimes he came home a stranger in his own skin. On the good days, he kept to himself. On the bad days, he made her the center of attention.

Jamie opened the oven to check the meat thermometer. A blast of hot air greeted her face. "How was work?"

Blanchart ran his hand along the countertop to check for dust. "Not great."

"I cooked beef tonight," said Jamie. "Your favorite."

Blanchart shook his head. "Not tonight."

Jamie closed the oven. "I can save it for tomorrow."

Blanchart took a beer from the fridge. "This isn't cold enough."

Jamie stiffened. "I just got home from the store."

"Which one?"

"The same one I always go to. I saved the receipt."

Blanchart twisted off the cap and moved to the sliding glass doors facing the screened porch outside. "The pool looks dirty."

"The guy didn't come today. I called this afternoon and left a message."

Blanchart nudged a crooked wedding picture on the wall near the kitchen. He drank his beer in solitude, his thoughts distracted by recent events. "Did the mail come?" he asked rhetorically.

"I put it in the basket."

"Did anyone call?"

"Not that I know of."

Blanchart downed his beer. "I lost a deputy today."

"Oh my God..." Jamie pulled the roast from the oven and set it on the stove to cool. "What happened?"

"Simon Carter died in the line of duty."

Jamie recognized the name. "His wife just had a baby."

Blanchart picked at the beer bottle label with his thumbnail and hovered close to his wife. He touched her shoulder with his other hand. "I need to schedule his service. We should send his family flowers."

Jamie reached up to touch his hand. "Are you okay?"

Blanchart pulled away. He rinsed the empty bottle in the sink and squeezed it in a vise-like grip. "If I want your sympathy, I'll ask you for it."

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You didn't kill him."

Jamie transferred the roast to a storage container with a lid and left Alan to his own machinations. She shared a tenuous connection with her husband of twelve years and knew what buttons to avoid.

Blanchart squeezed the bottle harder, his jaw muscles twitching from the effort.

The brown glass imploded with a pop. Broken pieces clinked in the double sink.

Blanchart stared at the thorn of splintered glass stabbing his palm. Blood drizzled toward his sleeve.

Jamie retrieved the first aid kit from the pantry and tore open a pack of four-by-four gauze. "That cut looks deep."

Blanchart rolled his sleeve back, plucked splintered shards without flinching and rinsed the blood to expose the sliced skin. He dried his hand on a dishtowel and pressed the gauze on the deepest cut. Blood pooled in the cotton fiber.

"You might need stitches," said Jamie.

Blanchart wrapped the dishtowel around his hand. "Clean up this mess and don't let the glass go down the drain." He left the room momentarily and returned with the flashlight from his duty belt.

Jamie could see the vein throbbing at her husband's temple, knew blood pounded in his head—as it always did when he considered she'd stepped out of bounds. He could tolerate only so much before his patience snapped and his role as her husband and care provider reverted to that of teacher. During the course of their marriage, he'd taught her many lessons to educate her in a manner consistent with his beliefs.

Jamie used a wet napkin to wipe the glass fragments from the stainless steel basin.

Blanchart raised the flashlight. "You missed some."

"Where?"

Blanchart shone the light in the garbage disposal. "Down there."

Jamie peered inside the disposal opening. Light reflected off the broken glass. "How do I get them out?"

"One piece at a time."

"I can't reach in there," Jamie said with an apologetic tone. Her face was ashen.

"I'll hold the light."

Jamie stared at the garbage disposal. Her pulse raced. She brushed her fingers on the rubber trap above the circular metal teeth inside the grinding chamber. "My hand won't fit."

"Yes it will."

"What if it gets stuck?"

"It won't."

"What if the motor comes on by accident?"

Blanchart thrust the light in her face and touched his wounded hand to the garbage disposal switch. "Do you trust me?"

Jamie felt the knot tighten in her throat as if an invisible noose slowly choked the life out of her. She nodded almost imperceptibly and whispered, "Yes."

Blanchart leaned closer and touched her face. "Good. Because a marriage without trust ends in mayhem."

Chapter 4

Lloyd gazed through layers of pollen, dust, and carbon emission residue caked on the prison bus window. Mesmerized by the sun's orange glow fading beneath the central Florida landscape of banana palms and hibiscus shrubs, he held his breath until his starving lungs forced him to inhale.

He wasn't dreaming.

His departure from the regimented life in a cell block dorm was happening in real time, in living, vibrant color, but without the fanfare he'd imagined. His chance to start over, to pick up where his life had ended ten years ago, had finally come to fruition. The light felt brighter. The air smelled cleaner. The freedom he'd dreamed about tasted sweeter than a cane sugar soda. He had the rest of his natural days to look forward to. And many disturbing images to forget.

Lost in his own solitude, he shared a bench seat with the same correctional officer who initially indoctrinated him to a world behind bars—an irony gone unnoticed until Lloyd recognized the guard's hand deformity, where two fingers grew together as one and ended at a point with a single nail. A thick beard hid the man's hardened face—a man who'd lost his voice box to cancer and his conscience to the devil himself.

A fitting end, Lloyd thought, to the bastard who reaped profits from the pain and suffering of younger inmates recruited to participate in human cock fights—gang-bangers, mostly, with lots of attitude and little common sense, lured by the promise of easy coin and special favors if they won with a vicious display of force. Most of them fought the good fight and returned to their cells physically and emotionally bludgeoned by bigger, meaner, hungrier machines disguised as men.

After years of powdered milk and dirty water, Lloyd salivated over thoughts of cold beer, warm steak, and a hot baked potato or fries. Not the lame-dick fries the prison served, but the over-salted, golden brown crunchy ones McDonald's cranked out by the millions. The salted grease would melt in his mouth the way the glob of whipped butter would dissolve on his open baked potato. And yet despite his desire for real food, a more potent hunger gnawed at him, a deeper emotional famine he experienced during his lengthy incarceration.

When the bus arrived at the scheduled destination, Lloyd stepped out as a free man in his jeans and leather ankle boots embroidered with a cross on one side, the same clothes he wore the day the judge passed sentence in the courtroom and tore his family apart.

He ventured across the street toward an abandoned strip mall and a bus shelter, where a handful of weary travelers waited for the public transportation to arrive.

"You got a light?" a young woman asked. She approached Lloyd with her arm akimbo and an unlit cigarette between her fingers.

"Sorry," Lloyd told the mocha-skinned girl in a miniskirt and heels with a wig and glitter nail polish. "I don't smoke." He advanced toward the bus shelter with the girl in his shadow, swinging her arm in sync with her hips. "Can I help you?" he asked.

A streetlight petered out overhead after several seconds of random flickering.

"Tell me what you did."

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you come off the short bus," the girl explained. "That bus only stops here once a month. Mostly after dark."

Lloyd pressed on.

The girl followed. "Were you a dope slinger? A car jacker? You ever kill anybody? The cops found a joint in my cousin's car one time. He told them he'd never seen it before. The cops also found a bag of weed in his glove box. Said he'd never seen that before either. I think they put it there on purpose when he wasn't looking. That kind of shit happens all the time." She took a lighter from her purse. "You don't talk much," she said. She blocked the wind to light her cigarette and blew smoke away from Lloyd. "You want a date?"

"I'll pass," said Lloyd.

"You gay?"

"No."

"Are you sick in the head?"

"No."

"Are you sick in the ass?"

Lloyd stopped on the broken sidewalk littered with fast food wrappers and discarded cigarettes. "Do your parents know you're out here trying to pick up strangers?"

"What are you, some kind of Boy Scout? How young do I look to you?"

Lloyd stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Too young to be out here alone."

"I'm clean, and I ain't never touched a needle."

"Go home," Lloyd urged her as a stranger with a smash-nose face inside a hooded sweatshirt approached from a black Escalade with spinning rims.

"There a problem here?" the man asked Lloyd in a deep, resonating voice. He gave Lloyd the once-over with fierce, deep-set eyes that almost glowed beneath his hood.

"We're cool," said Lloyd. He turned to follow the arriving bus. "I don't want any trouble," he spoke over his shoulder. He looked directly at the girl and said, "Get on the bus."

"Look here," the hooded stranger challenged Lloyd. "I run a business. This here's my merchandise. You touch it, you buy it."

Lloyd watched the group board the bus. "Not tonight."

The stranger pulled a butterfly knife from his sweatshirt pocket and flashed the blade. "Give up the wallet, motherfucker."

Lloyd touched his back pocket. "I must have left it at home."

The stranger pressed the scalpel-sharp blade to Lloyd's throat. "Are you trippin? Give up the wallet or give up your life."

"You're the boss," Lloyd acknowledged, his heart rate barely higher than his standing pulse. In less time than it took to sneeze, Lloyd disarmed his opponent and barked his heel against the taller man's shin, prompting his attacker to hunch forward. In the same instant, Lloyd yanked the man's head down and smashed his grill against a rising knee, knocking him out cold.

"Shop's closed," Lloyd mumbled. He stomped the knife with his heel and tossed the broken weapon at the trees. Then he boarded the bus and grabbed the overhead rail, facing opposite the minor irritation in a skirt who claimed a seat between a homeless man and a grandmother clutching her purse.

"You got some serious anger issues," the girl chastised Lloyd. "You need to cool your jets and find some peace."

Lloyd switched hands on the rail. "You need to find better friends."

The girl unwrapped a wad of grape bubble gum and started chewing in earnest. "You got a name?"

"Lloyd."

"What kind of medieval name is that?"

"Mine," Lloyd replied with a hint of attitude. He had enough on his plate without befriending a teenage runaway and all the baggage she brought with her. "Look, I don't know you. You don't know me. Let's leave it at that."

"Where are you headed?" the girl asked. She blew a softball size bubble.

"The same place you should be. Home."

The girl popped the gum with her nail. She tugged at her miniskirt. "What are you staring at?"

Lloyd held his arm out. "Give me your hand."

"What for?"

"Just give me your hand."

The girl held her hand out, nails up.

Lloyd turned her wrist. He ran his finger on her palm, tracing the lines that betrayed her tough girl facade. He followed the life line across the middle of her palm between the index finger and the thumb. He studied the shape of the hand and fingers. "You have great potential. Don't squander it."

The girl tried to pull her hand away, but Lloyd held on.

"You can read a lot from a person's hands. If you believe that sort of thing."

"Let go!" the girl exclaimed. "Or the next thing you're gonna read is my fist in your face."

Lloyd released his grip. "Where do you live?"

"You're looking at it," the girl replied. "I got nowhere to be. My Mom's dead. My Pop's been in jail forever."

"I'm sorry."

She blew a bubble in her mouth and popped it between her teeth. "No matter. I'm an independent business woman now."

Lloyd followed her hand gestures as she talked. A bundle of human potential wrapped in a pretty package with no direction and a welfare net to catch her fall. A girl starving for a hot meal, a clean bed, and a shoulder to cry on. An easy target for a predator lurking in plain sight with the conscience of a serial killer. "So that's your plan?"

"You got a better idea?" the girl asked. She rubbed Lloyd's knee. "I can be anyone you want me to be."

Lloyd pushed her hand away.

"You got a problem dating black women?"

"I have a problem dating children."

"I'm older than you think."

"And smarter than you pretend to be."

The girl rolled her eyes. "What are you? My fairy godmother now?"

Lloyd shifted his weight to his back foot before the bus came to a stop. "I'm getting out. You're staying on."

The air brakes hissed. The folding doors opened.

Lloyd took a crumpled Jackson from his wallet and gave it to the girl.

"What's that for?" she asked him.

"Your ticket home."

Chapter 5

Lloyd recognized the scraggly patch of farmland beyond the town that had sprung up in his absence. In the moonlit distance, single family subdivisions encroached on dormant pastures against a backdrop of felled woodlands laced with sabal palms that once buffered thriving wildlife from human civilization. Two-lane roads had expanded into four. Giant cell phone towers had materialized above the red maple tree lines, like robotic warlords from outer space.

His boots crunched on the gravel driveway winding to the two-story, wood frame farmhouse crowded by overgrown trees and the constant drone of interstate traffic less than a mile away. On closer inspection, he noticed boarded-up windows and frayed blue tarps covering large gaps of missing shingles on the storm-ravaged roof. Tattered sections of weathered fencing and a faded "For Sale" sign were obscured by patches of creeping beggarweed. To the east, a large pond served as a natural habitat for creatures big and small, including the occasional alligator patrolling the water.

Lloyd approached the screened front porch overrun with purple jacaranda shrubs and trumpet-shaped hibiscus flowers. For as long as he could remember, the farmhouse belonged to his adoptive parents who helped a troubled teenage boy and showed him love—the same parents who fought hard to keep him out of prison.

A motion sensor activated a bank of floodlights against the side of the house, exposing the three-car garage.

A patio door creaked open, followed by the click-clack sound of a lever-action rifle.

"Who's there?" an elderly woman wearing a flannel nightgown and straw sandals called out in a raspy voice.

"It's me," Lloyd replied. "I'm home."

Brenda Sullivan stepped around an iron sugar kettle and studied the stranger in jeans and a white T-shirt. She lowered the Winchester rifle and reached for the folded bifocals in her pocket. "Lloyd?"

"I would have called, but I don't have a phone."

"What in God's name are you doing here?"

"I'm on parole," said Lloyd. "I'm a free man now." He advanced up the porch steps and hugged his mother, a woman who'd spent the latter half of her adult life raising two boys with the hope she'd see both lead happy, successful, lives. She'd failed on both accounts.

Brenda swatted a mosquito with her frail, bird-like arm. She lowered the rifle and peered at him. "You look taller and skinnier than I remember," she said. "Don't they feed you in prison?"

"Three hots and a cot."

"How'd you get here?"

"I took the bus and walked," said Lloyd. He smelled the liquor on her breath as he followed her inside the sparsely furnished home with exposed beam ceilings and wicker furniture. "Where's Dad?"

Brenda ignored the question as she gathered up empty whiskey bottles and threw them in the kitchen trash. "I've been busy."

"I can tell."

"There's sliced bread in the pantry," said Brenda. "I keep a jar of chunky peanut butter. The kind you like. I'll let you open it."

"Is Dad around?"

"Your father's not with us anymore," she said flatly. "He passed away last year."

The words hit Lloyd in the stomach like a Terminator punch, knocking the wind out of him before his brain could process the information. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry you had to find out like this. You weren't the easiest person to get a hold of."

Lloyd put his hands on his head. "Jesus, Mom you really should have told me. I can't believe he's gone. What happened?"

Brenda searched the kitchen cabinet for a new bottle. She twisted the cap and filled a dirty glass with Jack Daniels. "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Your brother never made the funeral. Too busy playing with his little whore to pay his respects."

"Go easy on the sauce," Lloyd cautioned her. "If Dad saw you like this—"

"I'm not his concern anymore." Brenda steadied herself on the counter. "People live. People die. The cycle of life doesn't stop."

Lloyd noticed the family photos on the fridge. Pictures of a happier time. "Where's Josh? Or is he dead too?"

"Don't be morbid. Your brother's still in Lakewood, alive and well. Got himself a girlfriend with a kid that's not his, or so he claims. They share a trailer together."

Lloyd stepped over piles of dirty laundry in the hall and found more empty bottles than he could carry in both hands. "When did you start drinking like this?"

"The doctor says my liver's dying. The rest of me is still trying to catch up."

"You need to quit."

"And you need to mind your manners. It was hard on all of us when you left. Hard on me. Hard on your father. Harder on Josh more than any of us, I suppose."

Lloyd poured the contents of an open bottle of Wild Turkey down the sink. "This stuff'll kill you."

"Hey!" Brenda protested. "I paid good money for that bottle."

"Spend it on something else."

"I'll spend my money on whatever the hell I want."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

"I'm not the one who went to prison," Brenda scolded her oldest adopted son. "If you'd stayed out of trouble, none of this would have happened."

"We've all made mistakes," Lloyd confessed. "I've paid for mine."

"So did your father." Brenda swallowed. Her tongue felt dry. Her hands felt numb. "What are you planning to do now? Sponge off me like your brother does?"

"I'll find a job."

"Doing what?"

Lloyd shrugged. "Anything. Maybe teach."

Brenda snickered. "No school's going to hire an ex-convict. You might as well tape a sign on your forehead."

"I'm still the same man I was before."

"You were the one who could have had a good life. Raised a nice family. Made a name for yourself. But you pissed it away like your brother." She staggered toward him with yellow hues around her red-rimmed eyes. "What happened to you? You were a good kid. Now you come back here with your tattooed arms and your attitude."

Lloyd watched her wobble on shaky legs. "You should have told me sooner about Dad."

Brenda swayed in place. "Your father shot himself in the head." She staggered toward Lloyd, well on her way into a drunken stupor. Her eyelids fluttered. "I buried him at Seaside Cemetery. He always did want to live close to the water."

Lloyd caught her as she passed out in front of him. He checked her pulse before he carried her to her room. Nothing he could say or do would change what happened. That much he knew for certain. Tomorrow would bring a new day, and with it, a chance for a new beginning.

Chapter 6

Jamie used a wooden spoon to chip away at a frozen clump of beef stew in a three-quart saucepan on the stove. An under-cabinet radio played a smooth jazz melody from her favorite radio station. The music carried her to a better place. A time when life was simple and unadulterated from the influence of her significant other. A time when her needs came first, and the dormant temper of Alan Blanchart remained as stationary and uneventful as the leftover entrée on her flat top range.

The music segued to commercials. The washer hit the spin cycle in the laundry room, gyrating the unbalanced load in the oversized tub.

She sliced a cucumber and added it to the grated carrots and diced tomato in the bowl of mixed greens. She sprinkled fresh parmesan and added homemade croutons to the mix the way Alan liked it.

With dinner preparations nearly finished, she hung her apron in the pantry and hauled a load of clean laundry from the dryer to her bedroom.

She folded Alan's shirts in a neat and orderly fashion. She folded his socks and underwear in the same manner, placing each garment in her husband's bureau drawer. Socks to the left. Underwear to the right. White T-shirts belonged in the bottom drawer stacked in piles of three.

She wiped the sinks in the bathrooms and mopped the floors. She dusted the family room and the dining room table. She took out the trash and cleaned the windows.

Chores were a fact of life. A nuisance at times, but one she could live with. They kept her busy and provided a welcome distraction from her menial existence as the wife of Sheriff Blanchart. Dreams came and went, yet her married life persisted, despite the challenges and the ambiguity that defined where Alan's life ended and hers began.

Settled in the quiet, rural suburb of Lakewood, Florida, she kept her business to herself. From all accounts, the neighbors respected her privacy, going out of their way to steer clear of an awkward conversation with the small town sheriff's wife who came and went at prescribed times. Girl Scouts shied away. Trick-or-treaters kept their distance at Halloween. The mailman slipped in and out like a ghost.

She wiped a smudge from the bathroom mirror in the foyer and cleaned the sink with a disinfectant wipe. She folded the hand towel in thirds and placed a fresh roll of toilet paper on the spool. Then she grabbed the cordless phone from the kitchen on the third ring and answered, "Hello?"

"Can you hear me?" Samantha Perkins shouted over a spirited MC and loud strip club music.

Jamie could tell her caller, as usual, was in the strip club where she worked. "Barely," she replied.

Samantha apparently moved away from the source of the music. "How 'bout now?"

"A little better." Jamie stirred the saucepan and mashed the big wooden spoon at the melting clump of stew. She covered the top with a lid and adjusted the burner. "Are you at work?"

"Just changing. You sound distracted. Is this a bad time?"

"It's fine," Jamie lied with an eye on the microwave timer. "I'm cooking dinner," she said, retrieving her apron from the pantry.

"Where've you been? I left you messages. I thought maybe you went into witness protection or something."

Jamie watched the pool boy through the kitchen window. His tan arms flexed inside his muscle shirt as he brushed the pool up and down. "I'm just busy."

"Are you back to work yet?"

"I'm staying home."

"I thought you took that nursing job?"

"I turned it down."

"Why?"

"Alan needs me at home."

"You'll go crazy at home," Samantha insisted.

Jamie rubbed her hands on her apron. "Are you on break?"

"I go on stage in five minutes." Samantha sneezed on the other end. "Charley sent me flowers."

Jamie smiled. She could hear the excitement in her best friend's voice. "The guy you met on-line?"

"He had them delivered to the club."

"He's falling hard for you."

"You think?"

"How many dates have you had with him?" Jamie asked.

"Three."

"Did you kiss him?"

"We covered that base on our first date."

"Was it good?"

"Amazing."

"You always say that."

"I'm serious this time."

Jamie sprinkled salt and pepper in the stew. The taste was close but not quite to Alan's liking. "What's so great about his guy?"

"He listens to me," Samantha confided. "He cares about me as a person, not an object."

Jamie tucked the phone between her chin and shoulder. She added more pepper to the simmering meal and stirred the pot. "He wants to get inside your pants." She paused before the next words came out of her mouth. An extended silence persisted on the line. "You already slept with him didn't you."

"I'm a dancer, not a slut."

"That's why he sent you roses."

"I didn't say they were roses," Samantha said.

"You're unbelievable. You just met this guy on-line."

"He's not a creep."

"That doesn't mean you should sleep with him on your first date."

"It was our second. And I couldn't help myself. I feel this amazing chemistry between us. Like nothing I've ever felt before."

Jamie stuck the wooden spoon in her mouth and pretended to gag. "I still think you should take it slow."

"Look who's talking," Samantha countered over the phone. "What about you and Kyle Miller? Or Ben Redcliff. Or that ski instructor you hooked up with over Christmas break in college? You practically jumped his bones the minute we got back to the lodge."

"I was taking lessons from him."

Samantha laughed. "I bet you were."

Jamie laid the wooden spoon on a plate. "I just hate to see you get burned again."

"I can take care of myself. You're the one with the perfect life in your sunny Florida home with a pool."

Jamie laid the placemats on the table. "It's not as easy as you think."

"That's why I'm coming down for your birthday."

"Sam—"

"It's not a debate. I felt bad when I missed your party last year."

"I never had a party last year."

"Exactly. And you didn't turn forty last year."

"I don't want to turn forty this year."

"Any woman would kill to have a figure like yours at your age."

Jamie switched the phone to her other ear. "I'll put that in my diary."

"Make sure you write in big letters," Samantha teased, "so you can read them without your glasses." She laughed to herself. "I'm serious about your birthday. We'll rent a limo in Miami and go club hopping. I'll take you to a Chippendales show."

"Alan would never go for that."

"What your hubby doesn't know won't hurt him."

"It's not the strippers," said Jamie. She grabbed plates from the cabinet and set the table. Her neck hurt from craning it against the phone. "He's strict about other people staying over."

"Forget about him. This is your birthday."

"I should probably do something simple at home," said Jamie.

"Why don't you come up here? We can see a show. Go out for Sushi. We'll have a girls' weekend in New York."

"I can't afford it right now."

"I'll buy your ticket. Call it an early birthday present."

Jamie set the silverware by the dinner plates. "Alan won't let me."

"Since when do you need his permission? It's one weekend, Jamie. You deserve it."

Jamie paced back and forth. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Alan needs me at home. Work's been stressful for him lately."

"Alan can survive one weekend without you."

Jamie caught the headlights in the front bay window as Alan's cruiser turned into the driveway. "He's home. I have to go."

"I'm serious, Jamie. Don't be a stranger. You're going to have fun on your birthday if I have to come down there and steal you away myself."

Jamie heard the door open and hung up. "You're home early," she announced as the sheriff emerged from the laundry room entrance.

Blanchart hugged his wife before he removed his duty belt and hung it in the closet. "Smells good," he said. He followed Jamie to the kitchen. "I'm starving."

Jamie stirred the pot with her back to him. "How was your day?"

"Predictable."

"Did you make the funeral arrangements?" Jamie asked over her shoulder.

"It's taken care of."

"How is Deputy Carter's wife holding up?"

Blanchart rubbed her shoulders. "You feel tense. You should take a hot bath tonight."

Jamie turned down the burner and dipped a ladle in the stew. "How's your hand?"

Blanchart kissed her nape. "Better, now that you're here."

"I have salad to put out."

"Leave it."

"I thought you were hungry?"

"I ate a big lunch."

Jamie turned around and kissed him on the cheek. "Dinner's ready, silly."

Blanchart checked the caller ID list on the house phone. "Who called?"

"Samantha."

"Your stripper friend from New York?"

"She's a dancer."

"What did she want?"

"She wanted to talk about her new boyfriend."

"What else?"

"Nothing. She asked about my birthday. She wants to come down and spend the weekend with me."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd talk to you about it."

Alan dipped the wooden spoon in the stew and licked it. The broth was bland. The potatoes overcooked. The house was clean, but his wife smelled dirty. "What did you do to your hair?"

"I added some highlights."

"You look cheap."

"I can take them out."

Blanchart glared at Jamie with piercing eyes. "You can't undo a mistake like that."

"The color wears out."

"So does my patience."

Jamie cowered from her husband. "I'm sorry... I just thought it might be nice to try something different. I didn't think you would notice so much."

Blanchart jammed the spoon in the stew. "Then why bother to mess with your hair at all?" He looked out the kitchen window and scowled at the pool boy with sandy blond hair and an easy smile. "Who are you trying to impress?"

"No one."

Blanchart closed the window shade. Veins twitched in his forehead. His eyes were red with fury. "If you're lying to me..."

"I'm not," Jamie insisted. "I swear."

Blanchart cupped a clammy hand on Jamie's mouth and squeezed her face hard enough to control her head movement without bruising her cheeks. He shoved her against the hot oven door. "Your appearance reflects on me. God knows what the hell you've been doing in this house all day besides playing with your hair, but you better pray your housework is done." Saliva frothed at the corner of his mouth. "A good wife knows her place."

Jamie stood on her toes. Her eyes darted wildly back and forth. "You're hurting me," she mumbled through Blanchart's grasp.

"Can you be a good wife for me? Can you?"

Jamie nodded.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes," Jamie squeaked through fish lips.

Blanchart let go. "I'm going out of town for a few days. Can I trust you while I'm gone?"

Jamie wiped the smeared mascara on her teary face. "Of course."

Blanchart brushed his hand against her hair. "Cancel the pool service. You can manage the pool by yourself from now on." He touched the stitches on his hand and made a fist. "And make sure you wash your car when I'm gone. It looks like shit in my garage."

Chapter 7

Lloyd nestled a rebuilt carburetor in his palm, admiring his handiwork like a transplant surgeon inspecting an artificial heart. He rubbed a clean rag over the aluminum body to remove any excess solvent and chose a box-end wrench from his late father's roll-away toolbox. Every tool served a specific purpose, and every tool had a place inside its designated drawer.

He installed the carburetor on a '74 Triumph Bonneville motorcycle. Despite decades of technological improvements lavished on newer models, the antique 750cc British bike had soul. And unlike similar rides, it distinguished itself as a bike that liked to be ridden hard, a trait his father often indulged.

With the carburetor remounted, he unclipped the overnight charger from the battery terminals and turned the ignition key to the on position. The headlight glowed pale yellow inside the single, foggy lens mounted beneath the chrome handlebars.

"You're still here," Brenda said in a raspy voice. She entered the garage in the same clothes she'd worn the night before. "How long have you been up?"

"Since dawn," said Lloyd.

"Why?"

Lloyd notched the shifter in neutral. "I guess old habits die hard."

Brenda scratched the back of her head. "That bike hasn't started in years."

"Have a little faith," Lloyd replied.

"I should have sold it when I had the chance."

"But you couldn't."

Brenda shrugged. She maintained her sodden expression. "It meant too much to your father. He spent more time with his bike than he did with me."

Lloyd pressed the starter button on the right handlebar, a custom feature his father added to replace the original kick-start system.

The parallel twin motor cranked through several revolutions, coughing and sputtering before the air-fuel mixture ignited inside the cylinders and sent a muffled roar from the polished chrome exhaust.

Lloyd cracked the throttle.

The motor revved, filling the back of the garage with blue-gray smoke.

Brenda covered her mouth with her sleeve and pressed the garage door opener to evacuate the fumes. "How long are you going to tinker with that thing?"

Lloyd killed the motor. "Until I'm finished."

"Your father never rode it much."

"That's what he wanted you to think," Lloyd said sheepishly. "He rode it all the time when you were gone to visit family."

Brenda unscrewed her flask. Her cheeks were flush. "He always was a sneaky bastard. I suppose he would have wanted you to have it."

Lloyd wiped down the tools and placed them in their respective drawers. He wiped his hands with a rag and pointed at the back wall where dust and cobwebs collected on the floor. "What happened to the rest of Dad's stuff?"

"I sold it."

"What about his car?"

"This house doesn't run on charity." Brenda gave Lloyd an envelope with his name written in block letters on the front. "Your father wanted to mail this to you, but he never got the chance."

Lloyd folded the envelop and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Brenda asked.

"My hands are dirty."

Brenda scratched her neck.

"You feel all right?" asked Lloyd. He figured the smell of solvents wasn't helping her hangover.

"I'm dandy. It's you I'm worried about after all these years away from the outside world."

Lloyd checked his mug in the handlebar mirror. His hardened muscles flexed with the effort to push the four-hundred pound machine from the cramped work station. "I can take care of myself."

Brenda sipped her flask. She propped one hand on the workbench to maintain her equilibrium. "I wrote when I could. You know that, don't you?"

"I thought you gave up on me. I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"No one gave up on you," said Brenda in a maudlin voice. "You're a survivor."

"If I could change what happened—"

"You can't live in the past." Brenda grinned. Her lips looked tight and dry. "It's important you leave the bad behind you."

Lloyd straddled the bike and brought it to an upright position, balancing the weight between his legs. "I wish I could have been at Dad's funeral."

"It wasn't much. A cheap casket in a big hole. Smelled like earthworms."

"I miss him."

Brenda shook her head. Her stiff, arthritic fingers maintained a tentative grip on the pewter flask. "There's nothing you can do for him now. Go see your brother and spend some time with the living."

"I haven't talked to Josh in years," Lloyd professed. "What am I supposed to say?"

"He's the only brother you'll ever have."

"Adopted brother," Lloyd corrected her. "We don't share the same blood."

"You didn't share your father's either. That never stopped him from loving you like his own."

Lloyd erased a fingerprint smudge on the bike's handlebar and rubbed the rag along the gas tank. "This bike was Dad's baby."

"Are you going to ride it or burp it? You've been fiddling with it all morning."

Lloyd raised the kickstand. He pressed the starter button and twisted the throttle. "Get on," he shouted above the noise.

Brenda shuddered, aghast at the notion of riding on two wheels. "That thing is a death trap."

"Just a short ride," Lloyd insisted. "Down the driveway and back. The fresh air will do you good."

"What if something happens?"

Lloyd revved the motor some more. "At this point, Mom, what have you got to lose?"

Chapter 8

Ronald Varden charged through his halfway house armed with a clipboard and a set of flex cuffs. A former Florida State Police Trooper, he embraced his new role as parole officer and commander-in-chief to a group of paroled ex-convicts. At five-foot-four and a hundred and fifty-five pounds soaking wet, Varden compensated for his lack of physical stature with strict discipline and zero tolerance for anyone who broke the rules.

He snapped on the lights in the men's sleeping quarters and garnered a collective groan. When no one moved, he blew the whistle attached to a string around his neck.

As if on queue, seven rousted men assembled themselves in lackluster formation to prepare for the routine inspection. An eighth man, Terrence Montgomery, hugged a pillow on his head to shield his eyes and ears from the morning assault on his senses. His large feet extended beyond the end of the bunk.

"Let's go," Varden barked. His voice resonated with disdain. He approached Montgomery's bunk while the other men formed a single-file line outside the hall.

"Move your fat ass," a rebel-rouser hollered.

"Maybe he bought the farm," an older ex-con piped up.

Varden silenced the crowd with a threatening glance. "Time's up, Montgomery. You know the drill."

Montgomery hummed The Star Spangled Banner. He bent his legs to draw his knees from the end of the bed. "Pick on someone your own size."

No stranger to verbal abuse, Varden parried most insults with his thick-skinned temperament, which more often than not, kept his own response in check.

But this time was different.

Varden bastinadoed Montgomery's bare feet with the clipboard.

Montgomery threw his pillow and snapped, "Fucking Jheri curl cracker! Can't a brother get some sleep in here?"

The audience of peers chuckled.

"Move your ass!" Varden blasted the insubordinate parolee. "And I mean now!"

"Why don't you kiss my black ass."

The room went silent.

Varden toyed with the flex cuffs. "Your black ass is why I'm here."

Montgomery looked up from the bottom bunk. "What are you saying?"

"You had your shot."

"I'm not going back," said Montgomery. "No sir. Not now. Not today. Not ever."

Varden laid the clipboard on the top bunk. He lacked sympathy for the men in his care, especially someone like Montgomery who beat the system on a four-year stint for rape by convincing a brain-dead jury he was under the influence when it happened. "The judge signed the warrant, Montgomery. Get on your feet."

Montgomery rolled out of his bunk and stood toe-to-toe with Varden. "This is bullshit, man. I did my time." He motioned to the seven housemates who stood at attention, transfixed by the scene that some had already witnessed and a few experienced for the first time. "Which one of you motherfuckers ratted me out?" He shoved Varden aside with minimal effort and lunged at the group—until a pair of barbed electrodes hit him in the back, applying forty thousand volts to his neuromuscular system. The result was instantaneous and pronounced, inducing convulsions and large muscle twitching.

Sheriff Blanchart released the Taser trigger and plucked the electrodes from the big man's back. He rolled Montgomery onto his belly and handcuffed his arms behind his back. "Show's over," he told the crowd.

Varden helped Blanchart escort the dazed parole violator to the unmarked cruiser outside.

"What took you so long?" Varden asked.

"I stopped for gas."

"I still have his paperwork."

"I'll take him from here," said Blanchart. He pushed his hand on the crown of Montgomery's head and guided him into the back seat. "That's two this month," Blanchart said to Varden. "Fifty bucks says you won't break the record."

Varden shook the sheriff's hand. "I'll take that bet." He watched the sheriff leave the parking lot as a black motorcycle approached with a smoke trail in its wake.

"Get inside," Varden ordered the men gathered out front.

The rider parked the bike and dismounted.

"Can I help you?" Varden asked.

Lloyd unzipped his father's Triumph leather jacket and ran a hand through his wind-blown hair. "I'm Lloyd Sullivan. I'm supposed to report to my PO this morning."

"You're late." Varden gestured toward the house.

Lloyd followed him to an upstairs office inside the converted two-story home and handed Varden his prison paperwork. "I was told to report by nine."

Varden slid his reading glasses on and scrutinized the court-ordered document. "This release was dated yesterday. If you learned anything in prison, I hope you mastered the art of reading."

"I was told—"

"Save it. I give every convict who comes through my house one chance to screw up without penalty. You just spent yours. You may have played your get-out-of-jail-free card, but you still have a long way to go. The state of Florida has granted you a conditional release, pending successful completion of your supervised probation. Are we clear?"

"I understand."

"I see you did time at Marion and Leavenworth. That's a tough schedule. You must have fucked up pretty bad to get transferred out of state."

"I did my time."

"So I see." Varden scrolled through Lloyd's file on his computer. "Are you a tough guy, Mr. Sullivan? I get a lot of tough guys through here. Most are back in prison within a week."

Varden removed his glasses and pulled out a packet of stapled papers from the hulking sixties-era metal desk with an integrated file cabinet. A bulleted list descended from the title, HOUSE RULES, at the top of the first page. "This copy is yours. Read it, remember it, and obey it. Keep it under your pillow with your bible. Treat it with the same respect, and you might complete your sixty days without violating your agreement with the state."

Lloyd flipped through the stapled pages. Each section outlined specific rules and regulations and the sanctions imposed for not following them. "Is there a test at the end?"

Varden frowned at the feeble attempt to humor him. He opened a closet drawer and retrieved a plastic bag with clothes and essential toiletries. "These clothes are state property. Two pair of jeans, two shirts, two pair of socks, and two pair of underwear. These items are clean and inventoried. You will return them in the same condition you received them. You pay a one time fee for the hygiene products whether you use them or not. I suggest you use them. Any questions?"

Lloyd shook his head.

Varden pointed to the House Rules packet in Lloyd's possession. "Leave your John Hancock on the last page. You keep the original and make a copy for me. The library has a machine you can use."

Lloyd followed Varden downstairs to the recreation room, where men groused about Montgomery's unexpected departure and the new guy's arrival.

The conversations ceased in Varden's presence.

"For those who haven't figured it out yet, we have a new guest in our house. Lloyd Sullivan. He'll be joining us for a while."

"A short while," a convict chimed in.

"What happened to Montgomery?" another convict asked.

"Montgomery broke the rules," Varden replied. "He made his choice."

The other ex-cons made eye contact with Lloyd.

"This ain't the Hilton," someone hollered.

"Damn straight."

"I've slept in better dumpsters."

"You got a sister?"

Varden blew the whistle to derail the random banter. "Enough. Show a little respect and you might earn a little in return. You're not in prison any more so stop acting like it."

Lloyd followed Varden on the nickel tour of the former real estate title company converted into a state-run halfway house.

"Take a look around, Mr. Sullivan. This is your home for the next sixty days. A transition point from the life you knew on the inside to the real world. While you're here, you will respect my rules. If you do not have a job lined up, I suggest you find one. Idle minds are the devil's playground."

Varden continued toward the laundry room. "You do your own clothes here. The machines are coin-operated. If you don't know how to use them, ask someone. If you can't find something, ask someone. Don't come to me unless you've asked someone else first. I'm not here to hold your hand. I'm not your mother. I'm not your father. I'm not your friend. You want advice, see a lawyer. You want to make a confession, see a priest. Don't come to me with your problems. I've got enough of my own already."

Varden killed the lights in the laundry room and dropped an empty detergent bottle in the trash. "If you want food, you buy it. If you want a home-cooked meal, you cook it. You make a mess, you clean it. Curfew starts at 2200 hours and ends at 0800. That's ten o'clock p.m. to eight o'clock a.m. for you civilians who can't tell time. During those ten hours, you will be present and accounted for. Understood? You break curfew once, I write you up. You break it twice, and you're gone. If you think I'm bullshitting, call Montgomery and ask him yourself."

Lloyd rolled the House Rules booklet in his hands. The house reeked of sweat and dirty socks. In less than twenty-four hours he'd gone from sharing a cell with one prisoner to sharing a house with seven. Still, his life had changed for the better. No more bars in his face every morning. No more strip-search events from guards on a quest for illegal contraband. Compared to his prison bunker, the house felt like a castle. The view from every window was priceless. Even the stale, testosterone-laden air smelled like spring flowers compared to the stench of incarceration.

Varden snapped his fingers. "You still with me, Mr. Sullivan? You look baffled."

Lloyd shook his head. "Just soaking it in."

"Well soak on this. Women are forbidden inside the house at any time. That goes for friends and family too. No pornographic material of any kind. That includes picture magazines, computer files, blow-up dolls, or anything else you can jerk off with or stick your dick inside. If you get the urge to beat your meat, do it on your own time away from here. I have a zero tolerance policy for any drugs or alcohol on the premises. No exceptions. That applies to the possession of firearms as well—or weapons of any kind as defined on page six. Random room inspections occur at my discretion, at any time without notice. And don't think I won't find what you're hiding. I know every inch of this place like I know my own johnson. Still with me?"

"Yes."

"You're allowed two showers a day. I suggest you take them. This house is air-conditioned, but I don't keep it cold." Varden pointed to the telephones in the lobby entrance. "You can make local calls. Long distance is on your dime. Trash goes out on Monday and Thursday. I don't care who takes it, so long as it gets done. Same goes for the lawn and outside maintenance. There's a chore chart on the front door. Make sure your name gets on it—in several places. There's plenty of work to go around."

Lloyd followed Varden to his room—complete with a desk, a chair, and a bunk bed against the wall. On the top bunk, the sheets were folded tight and square beneath the mattress. The bottom bed remained a shuffled mess from the morning altercation. A photo of Montgomery's wife and son remained on the dresser by the bed.

"This is your space now," Varden explained. "I'll introduce you to your bunk-mate later. Any questions?"

"Not yet."

Varden snatched an electronic ankle bracelet from the top of the bed post. "Pull your left pantleg up."

Lloyd tugged on his jeans. "What's that?"

Varden strapped the GPS tracking device to Lloyd's ankle. A green LED came on to signal the operational status. "An invention to make my life easier." He passed a hand-held scanner over the tracking device. "In accordance with the conditions of your early release, you will be required to wear this device at all times day and night. No exceptions. If you leave the city limits, it'll tell me, and I will revoke your parole. If you try to remove this device or tamper with it in any manner, I will know about it and—"

"I get it," said Lloyd. He rubbed his ankle where the strap fit snug above his boot.

Varden shot a scathing glance at Lloyd. He'd seen the same look of contempt before. Contempt for the new surroundings. Contempt for the rules and regulations. Contempt for authority itself. "I'll be watching you, Mr. Sullivan. Sooner or later you will fuck up, just like the man you're replacing. And when you do, I'll throw your ass on the short bus back to prison. Most men who come through this house don't last ten days. Recidivism runs high. If you don't know what it means, look it up. None of you belong here. All of you belong behind bars. This is my house, Mr. Sullivan. You might be out of prison, but the state of Florida still owns you. And for the next eight weeks, so do I."

Chapter 9

At half past midnight, Sheriff Blanchart sat alone in his police cruiser with the X-band radar pointed at the apex of a sweeping turn a few hundred feet from his favorite hiding spot. Concealed behind a palm tree grove, he clocked vehicles traveling well above the posted limit, including those that slowed in advance of his position. A few drivers made feeble attempts at a quick lane change to hide behind another car. Flagrant violators accelerated in defiance, thumbing their nose at the law.

He sipped coffee from a thermos he kept in his bag of goodies replete with water, snacks, and a private collection of confiscated weapons. Content in his dark mobile office, he'd done his homework and waited patiently for days, enjoying the solitude until the vehicle he wanted finally crossed his path.

When a black Hummer H2 with custom rims scored ninety miles-an-hour on the radar, Blanchart dumped the coffee from his thermos lid and hit the lights. He mashed the accelerator, prompting the rear Dunlops to spin momentarily on loose sand before they bit terra firma and launched the two-ton Ford in pursuit.

Up ahead, the Hummer accelerated. But Blanchart's mile-munching cruiser steadily closed the gap between himself and the SUV.

Blanchart followed his target for several miles until the chase concluded on a seldom traveled patch of county road—where the runaway driver suddenly felt more inclined to face a ticket than let a bad situation get worse.

Blanchart got out of his car in his sheriff's hat and black leather driving gloves. He secured the hickory baton on his duty belt and unbuckled his holster strap. He approached the Hummer from the driver's blind spot near the rear quarter panel and tapped the window with a D-cell flashlight.

The glass powered down.

Blanchart shone the light at Vince Parr, a former addict and low-end dealer he'd busted several years ago for the sale and distribution of methamphetamine. A former dirt bike racer turned tweeker, Vince Parr spent more effort getting high from his own product than he did trying to sell it.

Blanchart directed the light inside the Hummer's cabin.

"Is there a problem, Sheriff?" Parr asked. His pupils contracted from the halogen bulb's intensity.

"Turn the motor off."

Parr killed the engine. Blanchard eyed him as he licked his tongue along his gum line and snorted. "My debt was settled, Sheriff. Your words, not mine." He stretched across the seat to reach for the glove compartment. "The car's legal. I got the papers right here."

Blanchart drew his service weapon. "Get out of the vehicle."

"Just a sec—"

Blanchart fired inside the cabin, shattering the passenger window.

"What the fuck!" Parr shouted.

Blanchart wrenched open the door, yanked Parr out by the hair and shoved him against the hood. He frisked him from head to toe. "Do you have anything sharp in your pockets?"

"No."

"Are you concealing any weapons?"

"Hell, no! What do you want from me?"

Blanchart holstered his service pistol. He pulled his baton and cracked it against Parr's sciatic nerve.

Parr crumpled on the pavement by the Hummer's beefy tire, clutching his upper thigh.

"That's for speeding," Blanchart schooled him. He belted Parr's other leg about the knee and shin with bone-crunching precision. "That's for trying to get away."

Parr moaned in agony, rolling side to side on the ground, his lower extremities throbbing from the pain.

"I need information," said Blanchart. "Tell me what I need to know, and you'll survive with broken bones. Lie to me, and your quality of life goes downhill fast from there."

"What do you want?"

"My deputy found a meth lab on Lipscomb Street."

"So?"

"It wasn't mine. Someone's trying to step on my product. I need to know who."

Parr scooted himself backward against the Hummer's bumper. "Some biker dude rode through here a few days ago. I heard a rumor he was in the business. That's all I know. I swear on my mother's grave."

"I need a name."

Parr put a hand out in a defensive posture. "I swear that's all I got."

"I need a name," said Blanchart. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger side to inspect the glove compartment.

Out of view from the sheriff, Parr reached underneath the bumper to retrieve the compact .25 semi-auto concealed in a Velcro clasp. "I've been out of the game. I'm not plugged in anymore."

Blanchart opened the glove box to find a loaded .45 tucked behind a stash of condiments and fast food napkins. He tucked the gun in his belt and aimed the flashlight on Parr's wallet stuffed between the seats. He snagged five hundred in cash and a stolen Visa card.

Outside the Hummer, he panned the light at the back of the vehicle. "I found your prints on a gun in that meth lab," he said out loud. "Someone was there that day and got away. I think that someone was you."

Parr crawled away from the bumper. His view from the front of the Hummer remained obscured by the open passenger door. "I was out of town."

"When?" said Blanchart. "Think about it, carefully."

"All week. I was out of state all week."

"I need a name."

"Morallen. Manny Morallen. He worked the job on Lipscomb Street."

Blanchart opened the Hummer's tail gate and inspected the empty cargo space. "Morallen doesn't know his head from his ass. Try again."

"That's all I got. I swear."

Blanchart advanced along the driver's side. "I need a name."

Parr slid his finger on the trigger. "I got your name right here." He fired twice with a jerky trigger finger and missed his target completely. A third shot glanced off the rear quarter panel and embedded itself in the pavement.

Blanchart dove for cover behind the driver's door and turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the engine and slammed the transmission in drive.

The three-ton truck steamrolled over Parr with a sickening crunch.

Blanchart drove in reverse and got out.

Parr embraced his mangled arm bent backwards at the shoulder joint. A broken collar bone protruded through the skin. A tread mark impression stained the front of his pants and shirt. His face looked pale.

"I need a name," said Blanchart. He scooped the .25 semi-auto from the ground beside Parr's body.

Parr gurgled blood. His eyelids twitched. "Lll... Lee... Leeland..."

"Leeland who?"

Parr lolled his head and hissed, "Mrkssss."

Blanchart fired two shots at the Hummer. Then he tossed Parr's gun for the crime scene weenies to find.

Chapter 10

Liberated from the confines of the halfway house tyranny, Lloyd rode the Triumph with the wind in his hair and the morning sun on his face; the drone from the vertical twin motor a constant companion propelling the vintage bike and its rider at the posted speed limit.

He relished the thrill of two-wheel travel, his mind telepathically linked to the bike's handlebars, which responded to the slightest downward pressure on either side. He pressed left, and the bike leaned left. He pressed right, and the bike responded accordingly, its four-hundred-pound weight moving with the grace and agility of an all-star running back.

Miles of hot pavement rolled under the Triumph's wheels and tingled Lloyd's senses with sweet persuasion. Above him, tattered wisps of foamy white clouds hovered on a boundless canvas of azure sky more breathtaking than anything he had ever seen. Or anything he'd ever imagined in prison.

Never ride faster than your angel can fly, his dad would preach in his brain-bowl helmet with a broken chin strap. And in a way, Lloyd felt like maybe his dad was riding with him—or at least keeping tabs on his prized possession from somewhere beyond the grave.

Despite the turbulent airflow swirling about his chest and head, Lloyd enjoyed the sensory overload from his immediate surroundings.

He applied the brakes when he reached a pock-marked stop sign tilted sideways by the edge of the road—a victim of shotgun joyrides and gale force winds from a tropical storm the year before.

Throughout the residential area, ubiquitous blue tarps sheltered damaged roof tops with missing shingles and exposed plywood panels. Corrugated shutters covered windows of vacant homes built on tiny parcels carved side by side on prickly, sun-baked lawns while their snowbird owners enjoyed the cooler weather up north until the first autumn chill drove them back to their seasonal retreats.

He turned right and continued in low gear until he found the familiar entrance to the trailer park community he once grew up in.

He rode to Josh's unit and killed the engine. A pair of sandhill cranes squawked above him as they flew over the property.

He dropped the kickstand and leaned the bike toward a blue Geo Metro with missing hubcaps and a broken antenna. He swung his right leg over the seat and unzipped his leather jacket. A light breeze greeted the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his muscular physique.

A woman's silhouette appeared behind the trailer's screen-door, her long hair draped on the front of her shoulders. Thin bands of smoke ascended from the cigarette between her fingers.

"Can I help you?" Sheila Jarvis asked behind the screen. She drew a long breath from the Marlboro Light and parted a lock of hair from her emerald eyes.

"I'm looking for Josh Sullivan. Does he still live here?"

"Who are you?"

"His brother."

"Josh doesn't have a brother."

"That's what he told you?" Lloyd pointed to the Geo. "That's his car."

"How do you know?"

"He was drunk when he broke the antenna in half. He tried to hit me with it when I took his keys."

Sheila blew smoke through the screen. "How come he lied about you?"

"I've been gone a long time."

"So has my cherry. Doesn't mean I forgot my first time." Lloyd watched her eyes as she looked him up and down. "You don't look like him. He's not here."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"He comes and goes."

A baby cried inside the trailer. A long, high-pitched wail that screamed I'm hungry.

Sheila opened the screen-door far enough to flick her cigarette butt. "I have to go."

Lloyd turned to leave. "If you see Josh, tell him I was here."

Sheila disappeared inside the trailer and returned with an infant in her arms. She pointed to the faded red '69 Mustang pulling in beside the community mailbox. "Tell him yourself."

Lloyd watched his lanky six-foot, six-inch brother unfold himself from the two-door coupe with mag wheels and rusted rocker panels.

"What are you doing here?" Josh asked, a full head taller than his older adopted sibling.

Lloyd reached his arm around Josh's back and hugged him.

Josh reciprocated with an awkward embrace. He looked down at Lloyd through dark sunglasses. "When did you get out?"

"Two days ago. I made parole."

"That's great." Josh squeezed the bridge of his nose and invited Lloyd inside the trailer.

Clutter was everywhere. A box fan blew air at the thrift store furniture beside a stroller and an infant car seat. A blanket with baby toys covered the floor beneath a plasma television. On the opposite wall, a broken window air conditioner protruded near a black cello case on wheels.

"Do you play?" asked Lloyd.

"It's Sheila's."

Josh shook a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered a smoke to his brother.

"I'll pass," said Lloyd.

"Since when?" Josh rubbed his teeth with his tongue. He followed Sheila and the baby toward the back of the trailer. She carried a bottle of formula and a burp cloth.

Lloyd watched as Sheila cradled her baby in her arm and tested the formula on her inside wrist. He could see her whispering at Josh—knew she was asking about him.

Josh closed the door on Sheila and returned to the front of the trailer. "The baby's not mine," he told Lloyd. "I hooked up with Sheila after she got pregnant with her ex. I didn't realize at the time..." He lit a cigarette. "Can't smoke near the baby."

"That's smart," said Lloyd.

Josh twisted two cans of Bud from the six-pack holder in the fridge and tossed one at Lloyd who caught the errant pass high and right. "Did you play ball in prison?"

"Not really."

"What was it like?"

"Like no place you want to be." Lloyd savored the flavor of cheap beer. Even the crappy stuff tasted better than the prison hooch he choked down on occasion. "You're still driving that same piece of shit?"

"I've had it since high school," Josh recalled. "I still remember hiding in the back when Mom drove us." He shared a laugh with his brother.

Lloyd snorted beer through his nose. "You asked her to let you ride in the trunk."

Josh nodded. "That turd on wheels was the worst part about going to school. I told Mom I'd rather walk to the prom."

"You never went to the prom," said Lloyd. And in the same instant, he regretted the comment. "You didn't miss anything."

Josh dropped his cigarette in his beer can. The burning tobacco fizzled. "It's not my dream car, but it runs."

"Funny how things change."

"Serious... Is that Dad's bike outside?"

"I got it running."

"I'll trade you," Josh offered.

"You don't know how to ride."

Josh lit another cigarette. "That never stopped me before." He wiped the edge of his nose. "Sheila lets me drive her car for errands. I drive the beater to work."

"Are you still working hard or hardly working?"

"I did construction for a long time. The builder let me go last year when the market took a dump. I was making eighteen an hour with overtime. People would camp out to buy a house that cost three times what it was worth. Now you can't give them away."

Lloyd stared at the baby blanket on the rug. "What about school?"

Josh ignored the question and gathered toys from the floor by the baby swing. "You haven't changed in eight years."

"Ten," Lloyd corrected him.

"You still look ripped. Must have pumped a lot of iron in prison."

"A little."

"What was the food like?"

"It sucked."

"Did you get in fights?"

Lloyd crumpled his empty beer can. "Where should I put this?"

"Under the sink."

Lloyd pushed the can in the trash. "Mom asked about you."

Josh nodded. His cigarette bounced in the corner of his mouth when he talked. "Must have been the booze talking."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"Last summer."

"She's sick, you know."

Josh dumped the rest of his beer in the kitchen sink. "You wanna see something cool?"

"Will it get me arrested?"

Josh put his fingers in his mouth and pulled his dentures out. He flashed a toothless grin. "Don't try this at home."

Lloyd stared at his brother.

"Pretty cool," Josh mumbled with a toothless grin. He wiggled his jaw and popped the dentures back in. "It's hard to talk without them."

"What happened?"

"The meth rotted out my teeth. My front ones were in pretty bad shape. The dentist had to pull a couple molars in the back. It hurt like hell for a week." He bit down to seat the dentures. "I feel like an old man sometimes, but at least I can chew again."

"Do you still get high?"

Josh pressed his tongue against his gum line to adjust the fit. "I've been clean for three years. After you were busted I hit a wall and started chasing the wrong crowd. I was good at that, I guess." He avoided eye contact with Lloyd. "Nobody wants to grow up and be a junkie."

"No worries," Lloyd reassured him. "It's behind you now."

"You need a place to crash?"

"I'm good for the next sixty days. The state has me chained to a halfway house. Part of my parole agreement."

"That sucks."

"It's better than the alternative."

Josh shoved his hand in his pocket. "You need some cash?"

Lloyd shrugged. "I'll find work."

Josh pulled out a crumpled Jackson and offered it to his brother. "It's all I have on me."

"Put your money away."

"Take it."

"I didn't come here to ask for money."

"It's not a handout. It's a loan."

Lloyd took the bill. "I'll pay you back."

Josh smoked his second cigarette to the butt and snuffed it in the sink. "Sheila's got a girlfriend I could hook you up with."

"I'll pass."

"She's got a nice body."

Sheila entered the room with one hand supporting her baby's soggy bottom and the other on his back. "We're out of diapers," she blurted.

"I bought two boxes this morning," said Josh. "They're in the trunk."

"Can you get them, please? My hands are kind of full right now."

"In a second."

"When are you going to fix the AC? It feels like Hell's Kitchen in here."

"Put a cold washcloth on your face."

Sheila cradled her baby. "It's not me I'm worried about."

"I'll fix it tomorrow."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"I had to work a double shift."

"You didn't have to watch the football game."

Josh tapped Lloyd on the arm. "I'll be right back."

"You need help?" Lloyd offered.

"I got it."

Lloyd wiped his forehead. Despite the fan blowing, he could feel the sweat dripping down his face. "What's his name?" he asked Sheila.

Sheila dabbed the burp cloth on her baby's mouth. "Logan."

"He has your eyes."

"He has his moments. I never planned on getting pregnant."

"How old is he?"

Sheila stared at the cross tattoo on Lloyd's forearm. "Twelve weeks." She also noticed his boots and the bulge from his ankle monitor. Lloyd watched her face change as the pieces suddenly came together. "When did you get out?"

Lloyd opened the screen-door for his brother.

Josh balanced two boxes of Huggies on his arm. "I bought the good ones like you asked," he said.

Sheila rolled her eyes. "You got the wrong size again."

The infant cried in fits and starts.

Sheila countered with a gentle bounce and a vigorous pat on the back. "How come you never told me you had a brother in prison?"

"Ahh... probably because it was none of your business."

The baby screamed.

"I'm on parole," Lloyd confessed.

"For what?" asked Sheila.

"Doesn't matter," Josh defended his brother.

Sheila switched the baby to her other shoulder. "You promised me you were clean."

"I am," Josh argued.

"Then what is he doing here?"

"He came to see me."

Sheila rolled her eyes. "Exactly."

"What does that mean?"

Sheila tore a fresh diaper from the box and carried the baby away. "I think your brother should leave."

"He's family."

"Not to me."

Lloyd let himself out. "I'll catch up later."

Josh followed him to the driveway. "Wait up."

"I've got a long ride back," said Lloyd. He threw his leg over the bike and centered the front wheel. Then he keyed the ignition and started the motor.

Josh looked back at the trailer. "She gets like this when she's on the rag. You just have to tune her out."

Lloyd checked the view in his mirrors. "It's cool."

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

"I haven't thought about it," said Lloyd.

Josh pulled a business card from his wallet. "I manage a car wash in Plant City about forty minutes from here. We could use some extra help. The pay sucks, but it's better than nothing. If you come by early, I'll introduce you to the owner."

Lloyd kept the bike in neutral. "I've got a curfew at ten."

"We close at seven."

Lloyd rolled the bike backwards. He pulled the clutch and notched the transmission in gear. "I'll think about it."

Chapter 11

Lloyd parked the Triumph near the base of a thirty-foot flagpole at the entrance to the Seaside Cemetery. Offshore winds rifled Old Glory to attention. Dark clouds gathered in tight formation, threatening to resolve the semi-drought condition with a copious amount of rain.

At the opposite end of the property, a Cadillac hearse led a funeral procession toward an open burial plot marked with fresh bouquets from mourners gathered at the site.

Lloyd dismounted the bike and stretched his arms above his head. He could smell the salty air and almost taste it on his tongue.

The sound of ruffled canvas followed him to his father's grave marker. He read the short inscription. The simple words conjured memories of the father he loved and respected. A man who left him wondering, What happened and why?

Thunder pounded the sky above him.

Despite the ensuing crescendo of dime-size raindrops bouncing at Lloyd's feet, he hung his head and said a silent prayer for the man who taught him right from wrong; the man who showed him what it felt like to be part of a normal family.

He opened the crumpled envelop Brenda gave him and read the ink-smeared note he found inside:

Lloyd,

I'm sorry for what has happened, but this was God's plan not mine. I accept what you have done, and I forgive you. No man is perfect. Sometimes we succumb to our temptations despite our best intentions. I hope this letter finds you in good health and good conscience. I wish I could offer you more. If you need an escape from reality, dig up Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Forgive me for not expressing myself to you in person, but as you know, I have never been a man of words.

Love, Robert.

* * *

Soaked to the bone on the Triumph at fifty miles an hour, Lloyd punched holes through the asteroid field of steady precipitation pelting his eyes and face. Stay alert and stay alive, he told himself, enduring the white-knuckle ride over wet pavement blended with an oily sheen of hydrocarbon residue.

He hugged the double yellow line to avoid the lake-size patches of runoff water. With tire friction at a premium, he kept the bike nearly upright through the turns, leaning just far enough to negotiate the bends in the road.

He had an hour to spare before the evening curfew started—an easy achievement despite the rain, if not for a faulty sensor that indicated an indefinite quarter tank of gas.

The engine sputtered and coughed, inhaling more air than fuel from the depleted reserve.

Lloyd drifted to a stop several miles from the nearest gas station. He tapped the hollow gas tank, confirming his own stupidity for not observing the odometer more closely.

Tired and drenched, he pushed the Triumph with his hip against the bike's frame to balance the center of gravity. A tractor trailer roared by with the air horn blasting. Cars followed in formation, but no one stopped.

Not even Sheriff Blanchart in his unmarked cruiser.

Chapter 12

Ronald Varden counted seven men inside the halfway house with the backup lights engaged. He carried a police radio in one hand and a lantern flashlight in the other. The loss of power he could live with, a missing convict he could not. After his stint as a Florida State Trooper, he'd worked as a correctional officer inside the county jail in Sharpes. He understood how temptation could make a man do crazy, unpredictable things. He'd survived his share of confrontations and earned the stitches in his head to prove it. On the scale of evolution, a convicted felon was no more a man behind bars than a wild animal, never to be trusted no matter how reformed or docile he appeared to credulous members of society.

Despite his own tarnished record hammered by unfounded accusations of unnecessary use of force, Varden doled out equal punishment to everyone who broke the rules. And despite the parole board assessments of the apathetic inmates who hid behind their rehabilitation guise, every convict was essentially the same. Unchanged. No better than he was before he entered the prison system.

He trusted no one but himself when it came to managing his own house of ex-convicts, who'd learned over time how to carefully manipulate a broken system for a chance at a new life. A chance they neither valued nor deserved.

The lights flickered, then came back on. A portable radio in the other room played rap music. Then as if on cue, Lloyd Sullivan entered the house dripping wet.

"You're late, Mr. Sullivan."

Parolees gathered around Varden to witness the inevitable confrontation.

Lloyd stood grim-faced. He left his wet boots on the outside matt. "I ran out of gas."

"Curfew started two hours ago."

"I had to push my bike to get here."

"The rules of this house are simple, Mr. Sullivan. I expect you to follow them like everyone else."

Varden quoted the house rules from memory. "Part two, section four, curfew restrictions. If at any time a parolee fails to notify the proper authority, that's me, of his whereabouts prior to his late arrival for evening head count, said parolee will receive one strike." He glared at Lloyd. "Is it starting to sink in now?"

"I get it."

"Keep it up, Mr. Sullivan. I'll have you back in lockup before the week is finished." Varden unclipped his PDA from his hip holster and dabbed the pointer at the screen. "You're making faster progress than I thought."

Lloyd wiped his face. "What do you mean?"

"You were speeding. That's a moving violation, Mr. Sullivan. That's strike two. One more and your time is done here."

"I wasn't speeding."

Varden pointed to Lloyd's ankle bracelet. "Technology is a beautiful thing. I know where you are and where you're going before you get there. I know how fast, how long, and how far. I can know where you eat breakfast every morning and how often you take a shit. I can practically read your mind." He shifted his attention to the other men. "Lights out in five. That goes for everyone."

* * *

Lloyd pushed his way through the line of convicts hanging on the words of condemnation. He hung up his wet leather jacket behind the door in his room and pulled his shirt over his head. A wall of abdominal muscles melded with his carved pectorals that flexed as he wrung out his soaking wet shirt in a bucket on the floor beneath a ceiling leak.

"Does this always happen?" he asked the dark-skinned bunk-mate resting in the top bunk with a reading light clipped to a textbook on what appeared to be electrical circuit theory.

Marvin Tate looked down at Lloyd. "Only when it rains." He wore androgynous features with a blue bandanna around his head. He dropped a fist and bumped knuckles with Lloyd. "Name's Tate. Marvin Tate. The ladies often mistake me for Denzel, but you know... sometimes you gotta play the cards you're dealt."

"I'm Lloyd."

Marvin adjusted the book-mounted reading light. "I saw you the other day when Varden gave you the tour. Stay off his radar or you'll be bunking with Montgomery in county."

Lloyd stepped out of his wet jeans and settled on the bottom bunk. "How long have you been in this house?"

"Eighteen days, twelve hours, and forty minutes give or take." Marvin skimmed the chapter summary. "How long were you in the joint?"

"Too long," said Lloyd.

Marvin slid his finger to hold his place in the chapter summary. "You don't look like the head-busting type. I figure you for manslaughter. Some dude groped your girl at a bar. You were drunk, got in a fight. He threw down first. BAM! You hit him back harder than you meant to. Dude croaks. You take the rap. I've heard it a hundred times. Am I right?"

"Something like that."

"I knew it," said Marvin. "I did four years on a B&E. Believe that? Judge threw the book in my face. I kept my mouth shut and did my time. I may be a lot of things, but I'm not a rat."

"Good to know."

"Why? You got something to hide?" Marvin stared at him, clearly gauging Lloyd's reaction. "I'm just messin' with you." His grin faded with the heated look on Lloyd's face.

A door slammed from somewhere inside the house. The television in the other room went silent. Bits of loud conversation faded out of earshot.

"You got family here?" Marvin asked.

"My mother. And a brother." Lloyd rested the back of his hand against his forehead. Barely forty-eight hours out of prison and he found himself a gnat's ass away from violating his parole and losing the freedom he embraced. "What about you?"

"I got a sister who lives in Kansas City. My folks live in Jacksonville, Missouri. I grew up there. Went to school. Got mixed up with the wrong woman. That's when it hit the fan. It always starts with a pretty woman."

"Amen to that."

Marvin propped his head on his lumpy pillow. "Life ain't the same as you remember it when you first get out. You see your reality check bounce when you fill out your first job application. When people discover you did time, they dismiss you like a bad juror. No one wants to be an ex-con. No one sure as hell wants to hire one either. You come out thinking you paid your debt, but once you're back in the real world again you learn your tab's never paid. People you knew look at you different, like you grew a third eye in the middle of your forehead. The ones that act like they're still your friends are lying to your face."

Marvin's eyes were red. Lloyd wondered how long he'd been reading, then rolled on his side away from the leaking roof and the constant drip-drip-drip in the plastic bucket. "What's the deal with Varden?"

"Varden hates everyone who comes through here. Black, white, red, brown—it don't matter. We're all the same in his eyes. And he knows things. In a weird way. Like he really can read your mind. I think he spent some time in the pen himself in a former life. God brought him back to work this place and remind him of what he used to be."

Lloyd touched his ankle monitor and looked up to see Marvin staring down at him from the top bunk.

"Don't mess with that," Marvin warned. "It's got an anti-tamper circuit wired into the clasp. You can trash it with a hacksaw and some serious elbow grease, but Varden will have you back in cuffs faster than you can say 'oh shit.'"

"Can Varden really track us with this?"

"Like a deer in a rifle scope."

"Great..."

Marvin opened the chapter summary again. "You play football?"

"I played a little college ball."

"You must have played linebacker. You got the shoulders for it."

Lloyd thought about his brother's offer at the car wash. "Can you spot me some coin?" he asked Marvin straight up.

"You lose your wallet in the rain?"

"I'm good for it."

Marvin closed the book and reached under his pillow, producing a billfold. He folded a Jackson in half and passed it down to Lloyd. "A white dude asking a brother for a loan? Never thought I'd see the day. Keep this on the down low. I don't want every motherfucker in here trying to tap me for some paper."

Chapter 13

Leslie Dancroft wedged a yellow legal folder in her overstuffed cabinet and closed the drawer on her fourth felony case in three days. An assistant public defender, she worked the gamut from DUI arrests to attempted murder charges, representing indigent parties who lacked the financial wherewithal to buy their way out of a conviction. An average law school student, she'd passed the Florida Bar on her second attempt and joined the Public Defender's Office for a two-year stint. Fifteen years and several hundred cases later, she questioned her desire to continue the job with crazy hours, lousy pay, and minimal recognition from her peers who'd chosen the private partner track.

Unlike the hired guns she countered in legal circles, she drove a used car and shopped at discount malls, trading materialistic wares for the chance to make a difference. Never one to back down, she fought hard with all the passion and tenacity of a high-priced attorney on retainer, making friends and enemies along the way.

She blew her puffy red nose in a moisturized tissue and rubbed a dollop of hand sanitizer on her hands. She needed more than a few sick days to regain her strength—she needed a serious vacation. Not a sit-around-the-house-and-sulk vacation, but a big budget trip to a spa in Sedona or a bungalow retreat on the sugar-sand coast in Bermuda, where her biggest decision would involve a choice between a salted margarita or a frozen daiquiri.

"You dropped this," Public Defender George Anderson announced, stooping to retrieve a packet of Tylenol Cold from the floor by Leslie's desk. He wore a paisley silk tie around his unbuttoned collar. An honors graduate and former law professor, he made his mark as a public defender who knew how to grease the wheels without getting his nails dirty.

Leslie opened her desk drawer to grab her purse, ignoring the new case file in her boss's hand. "Have a nice evening."

"I was hoping you hadn't left yet—"

"Forget it, George."

George stared in Leslie's direction with his wandering eye turned up at the ceiling—a genetic flaw most juries found unnerving despite his professional appearance. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Yes, I do, George." Leslie gathered her purse and her attaché case. "I'm at the ass end of a fourteen hour day and halfway to a glass of cold Riesling with my Chinese take-out. Whatever you're hiding in that folder can wait."

"I need a favor."

"I'm all out of favors."

"I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't urgent," said George.

"Define 'urgent.'"

George scratched at his shirt tag. "Would you be serious for a second?"

Leslie motioned to the stack of accordion folders piled on her desktop calendar, marred with coffee ring stains and ink-smeared phone numbers. "I'll give you 'serious,' George. Drop another case in my lap and I'll strangle you. Slowly. Until your eyes pop out of your head."

"I have another case I need you on."

"And I need a date with Brad Pitt. That doesn't mean it's going to happen."

"Leslie—"

"I have ten open cases and a cold. I haven't slept three hours in three days. Find another lackey to do your bidding. I'm out of here."

"I really need you on this one."

Leslie sneezed. "What about Henderson?"

"He's on medical leave."

"Then give it to Jablonski. That slacker hasn't seen any action in months."

"He's on vacation," said George.

"So am I," Leslie countered.

George parked himself on the edge of Leslie's desk and loosened his tie a little further. "I'm getting squeezed by the mayor on this one."

"Sounds kinky," said Leslie with a hint of sarcasm.

"The state attorney's pushing hard. If I had the resources—"

"I wouldn't be here," said Leslie.

"That's not true. You love this job."

"I love the law," said Leslie. "This job can bite me."

George stood up and put his hands on the desk in a more aggressive posture. "That time of the month already?"

Leslie gave him the bird.

George shook his head. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing. That's the problem. I'm forty-two years old. I don't have friends outside of work. I don't have hobbies. The last time I met a man for dinner, Clinton was still in office. I share a home with two small cats and a large rechargeable vibrator. What kind of life is that? What type of woman does this to herself?"

George leaned across the desk. "The type who's passionate about her work. The type who puts her clients' needs before her own. That's why I hired you. That's why I need you on this. You're the best defense attorney in the county. Hell, in this state."

Leslie blew her nose. "Save the platitudes for your paralegal servants. I want a life outside this office, George. Nothing fancy or extravagant. Just a chance to feel human again. This place owes me that much. Just because my social life is nonexistent doesn't mean I should be the one saddled with all the heavy lifting around here."

"Judge Dugan requested you by name."

"DUI Dugan? I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

George opened the file. "The defendant is thirty-four-year old Manny Morallen. He's scheduled for arraignment in three days. Dugan appointed us when Manny's attorney pulled a no-show at pretrial. Morallen wants to cut a deal in exchange for information."

"Information on what?"

George dropped the file on her desk. "That's what you're going to find out."

"What are the charges?"

"Illegal possession of a firearm during the commission of a felony, possession of a controlled substance, and first degree murder of a deputy sheriff."

Leslie rubbed her nose. The swelling in her nasal passages made it harder to breath. "Sounds like a train wreck. What do you expect me to do with this?"

"Find out what Morallen's offering. Talk to the state attorney's office and see if we can hammer out a deal. I think they'll bend on this one."

"How do you know?"

"Morallen has something they want. Whatever it is he's offering, it's got the state's attention."

"So I work the plea bargain and push Morallen toward a lighter sentence. Then what?"

"Then get on with your vacation. You need some downtime. You've earned it."

"What if he's innocent?" Leslie asked almost rhetorically. She skimmed the police report and the defendant's prior convictions. "I won't sign a deal until I see what the state puts on the table."

"Manny Morallen killed a cop."

"Allegedly," said Leslie.

"The evidence supports a conviction. Morallen's a career criminal. He served eight years for cocaine distribution. He did a nickel in Pelican Bay for armed robbery. He has a laundry list of priors going back to his juvenile record. Everything from petty theft to assault with a deadly weapon."

Leslie skimmed the rest of the file. "I say he's a long way from murder. Especially a cop killing."

"Maybe he's on the fast track," said George.

"Do you think this is gang-related?"

"In our county?"

"We've seen it before."

"Not since Blanchart took office. This case smells like a drug bust gone bad. Morallen panicked and made a poor decision. It happens."

Leslie took a minute to let the facts sink in. She'd read a hundred jackets on career criminals like Morallen. Clients resigned to a life of crime in lieu of any formal education or a normal work routine. But this time, something in the file didn't click. Nothing she could point to specifically, yet. Just a strong intuition honed from years of doing battle with the legal system.

"Wrap it up and put a bow on it," George prodded.

Leslie saw a spasm of pain in his face. She knew he had a stomach ulcer. "You're unbelievable."

"I owe you."

"I want a window office," Leslie stipulated while she had her boss on the ropes. "I need a little more sunshine in my life. This office is such a downer."

"Done."

"And my own parking space."

"I'll have to check with building maintenance," said George. "I don't make the rules."

"And another week of paid vacation."

"You're killing me..."

"I'm just getting started."

George frowned. "Don't push it. You may be the best attorney I have, but no one's irreplaceable."

Leslie stuffed the file in her bloated attaché case. "Don't tease me. Getting fired could be the best thing I've done all year."

Chapter 14

Awakened by loud hammering, Brenda Sullivan swiped her arm at the clock radio on her nightstand. She rubbed her swollen eyes, shielded from the midmorning sun by overlapping velvet drapes blocking any vestige of light from the windows.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

She covered her head with her pillow. The clock showed 11:45. Too early to get up, and too late to pretend it was all a bad dream.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

She kicked her leg out and smacked the mattress. Her body ached for more sleep and a shot of something stronger in her coffee.

She sat up and blew her puffy nose with a tissue the color of her gaunt complexion. Strands of fallen hair clung to her nightgown. The pain in her head reverberated from the constant pounding.

Still half-asleep, she pushed the comforter aside and slid her callused feet into her flip-flop sandals. A lizard scampered under the bed.

She used her arms to guide herself to the screened porch without her glasses. She squinted to see Lloyd climbing down a ladder propped against the gutter along the edge of the roof. "What are you doing?" she asked her uninvited guest.

Lloyd slid a claw hammer in his tool belt. "Did I wake you?"

"You could wake Jimmy Hoffa with that racket."

"I replaced most of the missing shingles but some of the wood's rotted."

Brenda rubbed her bloodshot eyes. She saw the Triumph leaning on its kickstand in the driveway. "I didn't ask you to do that."

"Didn't have to."

"I can't pay you."

"I don't need your money." Lloyd hoisted a sheet of plywood over his head. Sheathed in sweat from the humid air, he propped the four-by-eight section across a pair of sawhorses from his father's garage. He drew a tape measure across one end and marked a line with a pencil. Pressing the wood with one hand, he used deep, aggressive thrusts to work the handsaw with his powerful arm.

Brenda cinched the belt on her robe. "How long is this going to take?"

"A few more hours. There's a lot of wood to replace."

"You're going to wake the neighbors."

Lloyd stopped sawing. "It's almost noon."

"I'm on West Coast time..."

Lloyd continued the straight cut along the red chalk line. "I couldn't find Dad's power tools."

"I sold them." Brenda scratched her head. "How long is this going to take?" she asked a second time.

"As long as it takes."

Brenda hovered near Lloyd's work space.

"Do you need something?" Lloyd asked her. "You're in the way."

Brenda stepped back and put her hand on her forehead to block the sun. "When you're done out here, I have a running toilet you can fix."

* * *

Lloyd searched the bookshelf in his father's study. Books on fly fishing and bird-watching stood spine out against a collection of Ernest Hemingway novels. On the shelf below, he found textbooks on photography, criminology, latent fingerprint analysis, and the physics of flight. At the bottom, a stack of National Geographic magazines formed a bookend for a hard cover series on motorcycle touring.

He found his father's desk neat and orderly the way he remembered it, with framed photographs along the edge. He picked up a five-by-seven inch image of himself and Josh posing outside the house with their arms around each others' shoulders. He thought about his high school years, sneaking beer and chasing girls. Arguing over who could take Dad's car on Friday night. Being grounded for skipping school. Mowing lawns to buy his parents a new TV for Christmas.

"Coffee's ready," Brenda announced outside her late husband's study. She handed Lloyd a steaming mug of black java.

Lloyd put the photo down and grabbed his old college football from the top bookshelf. Despite his thirst for water, he craved the taste of real coffee.

"I miss him too," said Brenda, her breath marinated with Columbian breakfast blend and Wild Turkey.

"I went by his grave yesterday," said Lloyd. His fingers touched the stitching on the worn pigskin. "It felt weird to be there."

"Are the flowers still in place? They should be. I paid extra for those."

Lloyd set the ball down. "It looked real nice. I read the note he left me."

"Your father was a strange bird. He never said what was on his mind. Always kept it bottled up like some kind of national security secret."

Lloyd sipped the coffee, black as tar with all the flavor of hot asphalt. "Did Dad ever read Jules Verne?"

"Who?"

"The author."

"What author?"

"Forget it. I was checking Dad's books and it reminded me of something." He followed Brenda to the patio, his thoughts still tied to the note his father wrote him.

Brenda sat on the end of a moldy chaise lounge. She refilled her cup from the carafe and added a splash of whiskey from her flask. "You want some?" she offered Lloyd.

"No thanks."

"This stuff'll put hair on your chest."

"I have hair on my chest."

* * *

Brenda sipped the warm concoction and leaned herself back in the chair. "Smartass," she mumbled. A morning buzz kept her going and helped her forget about the blood she found in her urine the night before. Over the years, she'd cared for several girls in the foster system before adopting her two boys. But of all the children she'd cared for, none perplexed her more than Lloyd and his stubbornness. He'd gone to good schools. He'd made the right friends. For the most part, he'd stayed out of trouble. Until the cops showed up to arrest him. She remembered the scene like it was yesterday. Lloyd broke the law and broke her heart. Whatever demons possessed him to throw his life away, God forgave him and so had she. "You still like my coffee?"

"It's great," said Lloyd with his best poker face.

"You're a lousy liar."

"It's fine."

"I have a friend at the supermarket who gets me the beans for free. I grind them myself at home."

Lloyd choked down another swallow. "It's strong."

"Did you have coffee in prison?"

"You could call it that," said Lloyd.

"You want hot cocoa instead? Your brother always liked the way I made it."

Lloyd nudged the rope hammock. "I saw Josh yesterday. Met his girlfriend and her baby."

"You mean the tramp? She's served more meat than Burger King. She's using Josh to support her kid. He's using her for sex." Brenda grabbed her stomach and bent over in a wrenching cough. She covered her mouth with her hand, but red saliva seeped between her fingers.

Lloyd scanned the labels on the empty prescription bottles on the patio table. "Are you okay?"

Brenda fanned him away. "I'm fine," she grunted. "If I need your help, I'll ask for it."

"You're sick."

"You think?"

"You shouldn't be in this house alone. You need to be where people can take care of you."

"I'm not dying in some piss-ass nursing home. Besides, I'm broke. Your father worked to pay the bills. My government checks don't cover much any more. If the bank doesn't take this house, the termites will."

* * *

Lloyd carried his coffee mug inside and discreetly dumped the contents in the sink. He gathered the trash and stuffed the bag in the rolling can outside. "When's trash pick-up?"

"Tuesday and Friday."

"I'll come by and take it out the night before."

"I can take care of myself," said Brenda. She sloshed coffee on her robe, her gnarled fingers clenched tight around the handle.

"I'm just trying to help."

Brenda ran cold water on a paper towel. She dabbed the coffee stain on her robe. "Before you and Josh came along, I raised four girls in this house. Can you believe that? Two families adopted, all of them before the oldest turned sixteen. Those girls were a handful, but not like you and Josh."

"You and Dad did a lot for us. Let me return the favor, at least until you get your strength back."

"Don't patronize me, Lloyd. Your father always did that. I shouldn't have to hear it from you. There's no getting better for me. My days above ground are numbered. I've come to accept that and so should you."

Chapter 15

Jamie stood barefoot on the scale inside the doctor's office and nudged the balance bar to the right. She knew without reading the hash marks she'd lost five pounds overnight. She could almost feel the weight melt away from the back of her legs where her slender thighs met her hips, the part she worked hardest to keep firm by jogging every morning after Alan left for work.

Convinced the scale was never calibrated properly, she stepped down from the base plate and sat on the crinkly white paper stretched across the doctor's examination table. An otoscope with disposable plastic ear speculums hung on the opposite wall beside a poster on lung disease that warned about the dangers of smoking.

She scooted back on the table and checked her watch. She had errands to run, a house to clean, and dinner to prepare by six. The car needed gas. The bills needed stamps. She needed chemicals for the pool and fabric softener for the washing machine. She had shirts at the dry cleaners and a basket of laundry to fold.

She kept every facet of her life on schedule, right down to the time she ventured outside for the morning paper in the driveway. Her life existed not as Jamie Blanchart but as the wife of Sheriff Alan Blanchart. She loved him for the man who once showered her with attention; who brought her flowers every weekend and worshiped the ground she walked on. But over time, her love had turned to fear. She missed her parents. She missed her friends. Most of all, she missed the Jamie Blanchart she used to know—and cringed at the woman she barely recognized.

A soft knock preceded the doctor's entrance. "Good morning," he offered Jamie as he entered the room with her patient file. A third generation dermatologist with four grandchildren and a head of silver hair, he conveyed a warm demeanor.

"Good morning," Jamie responded with her head down.

"How long has it been since your last exam?" the doctor asked.

"About a year."

The doctor reviewed her medical history. He noted the loss in weight and the elevated blood pressure readings. "So what brings you here today?"

Jamie nudged her blouse below her shoulder to expose the butterfly tattoo on her back. "I need to get this removed."

The doctor cleared his throat and sat on the rolling stool. "Go ahead and turn around. I need you to remove your shirt so I can examine the area more closely. You can leave your bra on."

Jamie lifted her blouse over her head. Faint bruising along her side marred an otherwise flawless torso.

The doctor noticed the obvious signs of physical abuse, which suggested more about Sheriff Blanchart than he cared to know, especially in a town where the law's reach extended beyond the boundaries of its own authority.

He pressed on Jamie's side to assess the condition of the bruising near her ribs. "Does this hurt?"

"A little," said Jamie, despite the intensity of the pain.

"I'd like to get an X-ray. Just to rule out any fractures."

"I'm fine. I slipped in the tub and landed funny. It looks worse than it feels."

"Has this happened before?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" the doctor challenged her.

"Positive."

"You should be more careful," the doctor cautioned. He touched the tattoo. "How long have you had this?"

"Since college."

Jamie felt cold hands on her skin. "What's your opinion on laser removal?"

"Given the size and location of your tattoo, you would be a good candidate. It's uncomfortable and usually takes several visits to obliterate the pigment. We could freeze the area instead and use a rotary abrasion instrument to remove the image."

"You mean grind it away?"

"It's not as harsh as it sounds. I use a local anesthetic to numb the area." He examined the butterfly wings more closely, noting the mix of colors injected under the skin. "Another option is a surgical excision to remove the image with a scalpel." He pinched the skin. "I might be able to excise the entire area in one visit."

"What about scarring?"

"There would be some scarring."

"How much?"

The doctor removed his gloves. "It depends on the individual person. It varies from patient to patient. Go ahead and put your shirt back on."

"What do you think I should do?"

"In your case, laser treatment might be the best alternative. It will take a few weeks for the skin to heal, but it's the least invasive procedure."

Jamie climbed down from the examination table. Her cell phone vibrated in her purse. "How soon can you schedule me?"

"My receptionist can set an appointment for you."

Jamie read Alan's name from the caller ID. She had two minutes to reply before Alan called again—and got angry. "I have to go."

The doctor stood in front of her for a moment. "I'd like to schedule you for an x-ray on your ribs. It shouldn't take long."

"I'm fine," said Jamie. "Really. It's just a bruise."

"Most likely, but I won't know for certain without examining the film."

"I really have to go."

"What about the next time?"

"I told you," said Jamie. "It was an accident."

"Accidents like those have a way of getting progressively worse."

Jamie reached for the door. "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Blanchart. Nothing at all."

Chapter 16

Josh lit a cigarette by the soda machine outside Sonny's Car Wash. He kept his morning break to a minimum with the owner watching the shop—a pompous Texan with old oil money who drove a red Dodge Viper with a blue racing stripe painted down the middle of the hood.

Josh knew how everyone sucked up to Sonny, especially the towel boys who worked the end of the wash line for minimum wage plus tips. He also knew Sonny loved the illegal workers for their willingness to tolerate twelve-hour shifts six days a week in the Florida heat with no benefits. At Sonny's Car Wash, labor laws went the way of prohibition. Men either worked like dogs or quit without pay. Wetbacks who stayed on and tolerated the boss earned a nickel raise on the unofficial payroll. Legal immigrants earned a quarter.

Josh himself earned kudos for his efforts and the promise of an annual bonus if he held the cost of materials down while increasing the weekly car volume—a classic Catch-22 because the more cars he washed, the more chemicals he consumed. This left him with two choices: dilute the already watered-down soap even further or speed up the wash line to handle more cars in an hour. Both options sucked because both meant the cars didn't clean up as well, which brought more angry customers demanding a re-wash, which consumed even more chemical agents.

For Josh, the job was a job. A steady paycheck with reasonable job security. What he'd failed to learn in school, he'd learned on his own, busting ass from one dead-end gig to another before he landed at Sonny's Car Wash. Sonny took him under his wing and taught him about the car wash business. How to maintain the equipment. How to improve customer service. And most importantly, how to keep the illegals happy to minimize payroll expenses. Any fool could work for minimum wage, Sonny taught him, but a desperate man would always work for less.

Josh finished his cigarette as Lloyd rode up on the Triumph.

"I didn't think you'd show," Josh said to his older brother.

Lloyd dismounted and unzipped his motorcycle jacket. Josh knew his brother's confidence was reduced from the minor trepidation about his criminal record. He motioned for Lloyd to follow him inside to the back office.

"What do you need?" Sonny asked when the two men entered his world. He wore a wide brim Stetson on his mostly bald head. Snakeskin boots with a one-inch lift bumped his height to just below average. The edge of his oversized belt buckle disappeared inside the substantial girth beneath his flannel shirt.

"I told you about my brother, Lloyd," Josh started.

Sonny sifted through the pile of junk mail on his desk to find the Hooter's calendar he'd ordered six weeks ago. He used a Bowie knife to slit the cellophane wrapper and retrieve the goods. He beamed at the October photo. "Would you look at those..."

Josh leaned beside the desk and towered over his boss to peek at the leggy brunette. "But can she cook?"

"Does it matter?" said Sonny.

Lloyd kept silent.

Sonny flipped to November. "Did you need something?"

"My brother's looking for work," said Josh. "I told him we could use the help."

"That's why we hired Alberto."

"Alberto hasn't shown up for a week. I heard he moved his family back to Texas."

Sonny laid the calendar on his desk and shot a perfunctory glance at Lloyd. "What do you know about washing cars?"

Lloyd shrugged.

"It's not a trick question, son."

"Sure," said Lloyd. "I know how to wash a car."

"Let me see your application."

"He just got here," said Josh.

Sonny pointed to the cross tattoo on Lloyd's inside forearm. "Where did you pick that up?"

"Here and there."

"You've done time, haven't you? Hard time. I can always tell. How long?"

Lloyd frowned. "Ten years."

"What for?"

Josh took Sonny aside by the inspection window facing the wash line. "I'll vouch for him."

"I don't like him," Sonny balked.

"He's legit," said Josh. "And he speaks English."

"I don't care if he speaks Latin. A monkey can do this job. I could find a hundred guys like him on the street if I had to."

Josh persisted. "You said yourself we need the help. He won the Heisman in college. His team won back-to-back championships."

"I run a business, not a football team."

"Just throw him a bone. At least a few weeks until he gets back on his feet. If business picks up, we'll keep him. If not, we'll let him go. Right now we need the help. Lloyd needs a paycheck."

"I caught the last guy skimming the register."

"Lloyd's not like that."

"Not interested," said Sonny. He scooped the calendar from his desk. "I'm taking this for a joy ride on the can. I need you to watch the front while I'm gone."

"Just give him a chance. He's my brother, not some loser who walked in off the street. My word. He won't let you down."

Sonny contemplated the situation before he stepped in front of Lloyd and said, "I'll give you a shot because you're Josh's brother. But if I catch you stealing so much as a stick of gum from someone's car, I'll have you arrested. And I will press charges."

Lloyd stuck his hand out to shake. "Thanks."

Sonny ignored the gesture and stormed out.

Josh slapped his brother on the shoulder. "I'll show you what to do."

"Now?"

"I'll clock you in. We get busy around lunch time and then again around five. When it rains, it's dead. When the weather clears, we're slammed again." He brought Lloyd outside to the car wash entrance and grabbed a vacuum hose. "Use the hard nozzle on floorboards and seats. Use the bristle brush for doors and dashboards, but not on glass."

Lloyd took the hose. "I think I can manage."

"Wait until the customer gets out of the car. Then start with the mats. If the car's in really bad shape, do the best you can with the vacuum and let it roll. The line has to keep moving."

A four-wheel-drive Toyota Tundra pulled up.

Lloyd opened the door for the driver and quickly vacuumed the interior after the driver got out.

"Now pull it up to the tracks," Josh instructed. "Always make sure the car's in neutral. The track will bring it in automatically."

Lloyd drove the Tundra forward and nudged the transmission into neutral.

Josh waved the next car ahead. A red Volvo S40 with a female driver and no passengers. He held his hand up for the driver to stop.

* * *

Lloyd opened the door for Jamie Blanchart and felt a rush of adrenaline when his gaze met hers, an instant attraction of gravitational proportion complemented by a radiating warmth that spread from his inner core to his beaming smile. He stared at her angelic face and erased his past—a dark, secluded space now flooded with a scintillating light, obscuring everything outside the breathtaking view in front of him.

Jamie blushed. "Excuse me," she said, pushing her door wider to make her way around him.

Josh smacked his brother on the shoulder. "Let's go." He snapped his fingers by Lloyd's ear. "Hey! You with me? Sonny's watching."

Lloyd stepped away from the Volvo and saw his new boss outside with Varden. "How well do you know Sonny?" Lloyd asked his brother.

"Well enough to know he doesn't give second chances. Don't fuck this up, or we'll both be looking for another job."

Chapter 17

Blanchart patrolled the familiar Lakewood streets behind the wheel of his cruiser. A wedding photo taped to the dashboard above his laptop reminded him of his good fortune. He had a nice house, a beautiful wife, and a job that afforded him the ability to run a lucrative operation. An operation now threatened by an arrogant parasite who underestimated the consequences of his actions.

Blanchart circled the block with his side-mounted spotlight aimed at an abandoned shopping mall frequented by prostitutes and local vagrants scrounging for a piece of the American dream. Tonight was slow, with some of the usual suspects peddling their wares in another part of town.

He made a second pass along the mall's south entrance where his spotlight caught a hooker in fishnet stockings and a purple tube top bobbing for apples through the window of a small sedan. He blipped the siren and flashed the police lights to scare the driver away, leaving the young prostitute to fend for herself.

He drove toward her, slowly.

"Damn... Sheriff... Can't a bitch earn a livin' without no po-lease involvement? I got mouths to feed at home."

Blanchart aimed the spotlight at her face.

The hooker stood knock-kneed, her arms crossed at her chest. She blocked the light with her hand. "I was just giving directions."

"I could tell," said Blanchart. "Get in the car."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Get in the car or spend the night in jail."

"Why you always got to be like that? You want the house special or a straight-up fuck?" She climbed in the passenger seat and checked her lipstick in the visor mirror. Braless cleavage spilled out of her top when she leaned over to touch the sheriff's thigh. "It's aw'ight. I'll take care of you."

Blanchart pulled a C-note from a roll of cash. "Leeland Marks. Where can I find him?"

"Who?"

"The guy who's been stepping where he doesn't belong. Where is he?" Blanchart waved the money in her face.

"I ain't never heard that name befo'."

Blanchart grabbed her by the back of the head and covered her face with a rag. Then he slammed his fist against her nose.

The rag swelled with blood.

"That won't be good for business."

"What the fuck you do that for?" the woman cried. Tears poured out. "Why you trippin' on me? All up in my business? Dumb honky motherfucker. You done broke my nose!"

Blanchart pushed the cigarette lighter in the socket.

"Did Leeland promise you free junk? Or a corner with more traffic?" He twisted his wedding band on his finger. "These streets don't belong to him, they belong to me."

The hooker wiped her swollen nose. Blood dripped on her lap. "I swear I can't picture no dude named Leeland."

"Picture this," Blanchart grumbled. He popped the lighter and pressed the glowing element on her leg.

The hooker screamed. She clawed her nails at Blanchart's arm to make him stop.

The lighter smoked. The smell of burned flesh circulated in the cabin.

Blanchart let go and reinserted the lighter in the twelve-volt receptacle. He observed his trembling hostage, which pleased him. He had no compunction about killing her and leaving her body in the road, but she'd always come through for him in the past. In his experience, the only bad informant was a dead informant.

"If I snitch on him he'll kill me and my baby."

"There are worse things than death."

The lighter popped.

Blanchart grabbed her hair and brought the glowing element toward her eye. "This might sting a little."

"I heard he likes to hang at this biker bar near the water," the hooker blurted.

"Which one?"

"The Tiki Hut. Near the FEMA trailers."

"What else?"

"That's it. I heard he likes to party three on one. I never met the dude before. That's all I got. I swear."

Blanchart stuffed the cash in her top and wiped her nose with the rag. "Go back to work. You'll know when I need you again. And keep this conversation to yourself—or the next time you see me will be the last."

Chapter 18

Leslie rubbed her eyes when she entered the courthouse detention cell and gave the okay signal to the deputy behind the observation mirror. She dropped her attaché case on the table and slid a chair across from her shackled client.

"My name is Leslie Dancroft," she said in her congested voice before she settled in behind the table and thumbed through a bundle of legal folders. "I'm with the public defender's office. The court appointed me to represent you. I'd like to start by asking you—"

"Where's my lawyer?" Manny Morallen demanded in his prisoner restraints and orange jumpsuit with the collar covering a portion of the black Yin/Yang symbol on his neck. His pork chop sideburns extended toward his chin and melded with a thick mustache. His arms were sleeved out in prison ink with the word "Defiance" spelled out in black letters across his knuckles.

"I am your lawyer," said Leslie, projecting an air of confidence and a bit of indifference toward the man she knew only by name and rap sheet.

"I want the dude who was here before," Morallen protested. "The one who said he could make this go away."

"Right now I am that dude, Mr. Morallen, and the only thing standing between you and a swift conviction. I suggest you lose the attitude and share some love about what happened on the night of October twelfth in the house on Lipscomb Street."

"How soon can you get me out of here?"

"Your bail hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Given the charges and your criminal record, I wouldn't hold your breath. You've been charged with first degree murder of a Lakewood Deputy Sheriff who happened to be a married father of one. That won't earn you any points with a jury."

Morallen jerked against the arm restraints. "I didn't kill no cop!"

Leslie felt tiny saliva particles hit her face, so she scooted her chair back. A correctional officer entered the room.

"You good in here?" the officer asked her.

Leslie wiped her chin. She burned her gaze at Morallen and asked, "Are we good in here?"

Morallen settled himself in his chair. "We're cool." He waited for the officer to leave before he whispered, "I was there, inside the house, when that cop was killed. But I didn't touch him. I'm just a cook."

Leslie opened Morallen's folder and skimmed the highlights. "Apparently not a very good one. You were busted twice in Miami-Dade and nearly blew up a house in Homestead."

"Those charges were dropped," said Morallen.

"Did you learn your trade in prison?"

"My uncle taught me."

"Professor Enrique Morallen," Leslie quoted from Morallen's file.

"He was until the cops shot him dead at a traffic stop."

"Sounds like you have a beef with the law." Leslie opened Morallen's file. "Sheriff Blanchart's arrest report indicates you were taken into custody outside a campground two days after the Lipscomb Street incident took place. Investigators found your prints on a twelve-gauge shotgun left at the scene, the same shotgun allegedly used to kill Deputy Sheriff Randal Carter."

"I didn't kill him!" Morallen sat up straight in his chair. "Believe what you want, but I'm innocent."

"The sheriff's report identifies you as the shooter."

"No way—"

"Can you explain why your prints were on the gun?"

"I ain't saying I never touched it. I'm saying I never shot it."

"Then what did you do with it?"

"Hell if I know. I must have picked it up and moved it or something. Guns are dangerous. I don't mess with them."

Leslie rolled her eyes. And politicians don't lie... She wrote a note to herself. A reminder to pick up more nasal decongestant on her way home. "That's a touching story, but you're a lousy liar. I can't help you if you're not up front with me."

"I was there. I'll give you that. But I swear I didn't shoot no cop."

"Then who did?"

Morallen looked away from Leslie and gazed at the video surveillance camera in the ceiling. "I was working the stove when deputy do-right showed up."

"You mean Deputy Carter?"

"Whatever. I didn't wait around to catch his name."

Leslie showed a photo of Carter on the slab in the morgue, the picture taken to show the undamaged side of his face. "Is this the man you saw?"

"Yeah, that's him. The sheriff rolled up a few minutes later. Tried to sneak around back like he was some kind of super cop."

"How many people were in the house with you?"

"Just me and one other dude."

"This dude have a name?"

"Hugo. I don't know his last name. He kept to himself. Walked around in his stupid gas mask like he was Darth Vader or something."

"Why was he there?"

"Security. The house was his."

Leslie jotted notes on her legal pad. "So the two of you were in the house cooking drugs when Sheriff Blanchart and Deputy Carter responded to the scene. Tell me what happened after that."

Morallen eyed the surveillance camera.

Leslie followed his stare. "The camera's video only. There's no audio. Anything you tell me is confidential."

"Hugo went Mad Max on those cops. Started shooting up the place. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Blasting through walls and furniture and shit. I got up in the attic and stayed low. That's when the cop was killed."

"Why were you hiding in the attic?"

"I wasn't hiding. I store the finished product up there."

"So you figured you'd wait until the sheriff's party ended and then make off with the goods?"

"Yeah..."

"Did you see Hugo shoot Deputy Carter?"

"You got it wrong. Your man had Hugo cornered in the kitchen. Hugo ate the shotgun himself. Blew his own brains out before anyone could slap the cuffs on him."

Leslie replayed Morallen's story in her mind. "If Hugo was the only other person in the house besides you, and he didn't shoot Carter, then who did?"

Morallen kept silent for several seconds. Then he leaned over the table and said, "I want a deal."

"Are you stoned?"

"Lady, this is a give and take situation. You give me a deal I can live with and I'll tell you what I saw."

"You've been in the system before," said Leslie. Her throat felt scratchy and sore. "So you know how this works." She swallowed a dry mouth, desperate for a sip of water. "You tell me what you know—all of it—and I'll see what I can do for you. You jerk me around and throw shit on my face, and you'll get the same in return."

"So that's how you wanna play this," said Morallen.

"I don't play games. Right now I'm the only friend you've got. You can either tell me what you know and make an effort to help yourself—or get comfortable with the thought of life in prison."

Morallen leaned back in his chair with puckered lips and kept his mouth shut.

Leslie sat and waited. She'd seen it so many times before. He was contemplating his next move. And deciding the lady lawyer had more spine than the dude she replaced. And the balls to match.

"You gotta get me some protection in here," he said in a voice barely loud enough to hear.

"From what?"

"The law."

"What are you talking about?" said Leslie.

"Blanchart."

"Sheriff Blanchart?"

Morallen nodded.

Leslie put her pen down. "You're wasting my time."

"I saw what I saw."

"Maybe you should have been the one wearing the gas mask. I think you inhaled too much of your own product and things got fuzzy. That toxic sludge you concocted will do that to you."

"I'm telling you the truth. God as my witness, I watched Blanchart pick up the shotgun and blow his man away. Shot him right in the face. Stone cold."

"Just like that?" said Leslie.

"Just like that."

"And why should I believe you?"

"Because that cop is bad news. He's the one who should be locked up in here, not me." Morallen slumped back in his chair.

He's tired. Defeated. Leslie tapped her pen on the desk. She struggled to breath through a stuffy nose with only moderate relief from the second dose of cold medicine she had ingested in the last four hours. "You're no different than every other felon who believes every cop's dirty. No one in the state attorney's office would buy this story. And neither do I."

"It's not a story."

"It's ludicrous and unfounded. You'd stand a better chance of pleading temporary insanity."

"But I'm not crazy," said Morallen.

"Then give me something I can use to fight back with. Something real. Something I can leverage against the charges brought against you."

Morallen wrinkled his face like he swallowed a shot of vinegar. "I'm as real as it gets, not some piece of shit junkie trying to score."

"Right..." said Leslie. "You're just the guy who supplies the drugs to feed their habit." She read his file more closely. "It's been a long day..." She glanced up and saw the conflict in his eyes. "I see you've been on anti-depressant medication before."

"I quit taking it."

"That's good," said Leslie. "That might be something we can use. I can argue your state of mind at the time of the shooting. You had intent to do harm but not intent to kill. You meant to shoot over Carter's head to scare him, but you missed and accidentally shot him in the face instead. If I could convince the state attorney to drop the first degree murder charge down to second degree, that would take the death penalty out of the equation. You could be out in twenty to twenty-five."

"Years?"

"Maybe less with good behavior."

"I can't do twenty years."

"You should have thought of that before you pulled the trigger. The sheriff claims you killed a cop. Consider yourself lucky to be alive."

Morallen flexed his muscles. "How many times I gotta tell you. I didn't kill no fucking cop!"

Leslie closed the folder. She knew Blanchart by reputation as a law enforcement veteran with zero tolerance for crime. A pillar of the community who'd won re-election with his war on drugs campaign and the positive results to back it up. The preliminary investigation supported the sheriff's account of events. Nothing in the police report suggested any means or motive to support Morallen's version. It was Blanchart's word against Morallen's, a convicted felon who'd say anything to save his bacon.

Leslie rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Say I believe you, which I don't. No jury would take the word of a career criminal over an upstanding sheriff. Not in your wildest dreams. If you keep pitching this story, the state will think you're desperate and push for the maximum penalty."

"So you're telling me I'm fucked."

"I'm telling you your prints are on the murder weapon. You admit you were at the scene. Your only supporting witness killed himself—"

"I know what I saw. That's the God's honest truth."

"Why would the sheriff kill his own deputy?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" said Morallen, a second before he turned his head to see Sheriff Blanchart enter the room unannounced.

"Ask me what?" said Blanchart.

Leslie covered her notes with her hands. "How did you get in here?"

"I run this jail."

"This is a privileged conversation. You can't be in here."

Blanchart sauntered around the table, pointing to the clock on the wall. "Time's up, counselor. The rat's going back in his cage."

Blanchart unchained Morallen from the chair. "Let's go, Cinderella."

"We're not finished in here," said Leslie.

"You are for now."

Chapter 19

Lloyd sat on the stairs of the halfway house with his old college football at his feet. He sipped from a warm Diet Coke and stared at the moon. Muffled country music carried from an open window. A light breeze passed on the stench from a leaking septic tank.

"Even shit smells better when you're free," Marvin observed from the patio table a few feet away. He pinched a new cigarette between his lips. "The county's known about the problem for years." He lit up and blew smoke toward the open cable TV box in front of him. He touched the tip of a soldering iron to a printed circuit board and attached a pair of wires.

Lloyd finished his Diet Coke and stomped the can flat. The delicious taste from the sugar-free sweetener lingered with his memory of the driver of the red Volvo at the car wash. An intoxicating woman who turned him inside out with her smile and her sweet perfume.

Marvin stripped the ends from another pair of wires and opened a spiral notebook to review his hand-drawn schematic. He traced the path from the cable box connection to the custom circuit he designed. "You see your future up there?" he asked Lloyd.

"Huh?" said Lloyd.

"You've been staring at those stars like a treasure map."

"I forgot how many there are. They seem so close."

"They're a million miles away."

"They're so bright."

Marvin took a long drag and exhaled through the side of his mouth. "You need to get out more."

Lloyd stood up and smacked the pigskin between his hands. The dry leather stirred memories of a former life. "You almost done over there?"

"What's the rush? There's no game on tonight."

Lloyd threw the ball straight up and caught it. "You ever have one of those days where you can't tell the difference between sad and happy?"

"I've been there," said Marvin.

"I thought it would be different when I got out," Lloyd confessed.

"Different how?"

"I'm not sure. It's not like I was hoping for a big parade or something. This sounds stupid, but I kind of miss my old routine. I put up with the same crap at the same time every day for so long, I felt like it was part of me."

Marvin spooled a length of solder from the coil. "That's what they call 'institutionalized.' I know a lot of brothers who'd be happy to trade places with you."

Lloyd watched his roommate at work. "It's all good. I'm just saying it's different, that's all."

Marvin soldered another wire and tested the circuit connection. He smiled at the green LED and closed the notebook. "I'm sorry about your pop. I lost a cousin when I was in the joint. Dumb fool started running with gang bangers and got caught up in a drive-by. An AK-47 ripped him in half because some motherfucker didn't like the way my cousin looked at his girl. Stupid shit like that makes you wonder sometimes. In the end, it's all about the choices you make."

"That's just it," Lloyd said. "I've made some bad ones. Life's different on the outside. I feel like I'm still fighting something."

"Let it go. You can't live in two worlds at once. You gotta focus on what's in front of you. Don't unpack more than you need."

Lloyd squeezed the football between his hands. "I saw a lot of bad shit in the joint. That stuff sticks with you. I come out here now, and I feel like I've missed out on so much."

"You got a wife?"

"No."

"Any kids?"

"No."

"Then you haven't missed nothing," said Marvin. "Take what you got in front of you and go from there. God gave you a second chance. Make the best of it. Don't fuck it up now, at least not until you punch your ticket from Varden. He will make your life miserable if you let him. So don't."

"I thought you wanted to throw the ball?"

Marvin crushed out his cigarette on the ground and unplugged the soldering iron. "You tap any pussy since you got out? Cause you're tighter than the Tin Man on a rainy day."

"What do you care?"

Marvin pushed the table aside. "Just curious if I should sleep with my ass against the wall."

Lloyd drew his arm back and pump-faked a hard pass.

Marvin put his hands out to catch it. "Don't do me like that. I got delicate work on this table."

"Go long," said Lloyd. "See if you can make the winning grab."

Marvin placed the cover on the cable box and secured it with a screwdriver. "I'm just saying... Ten years is a long stretch without a woman. You need to get back in the game."

Varden beat a path toward the men. "Ten minutes to lights out," he barked. He pointed to the smoldering butt on the ground. "Pick that shit up."

Marvin snagged the smoldering filter and gathered his tools from the table. "It's fixed."

Varden turned his attention to Lloyd. "Why aren't you on kitchen duty?"

"I finished early."

"Uh huh..." Varden pointed to the Triumph in the parking lot. "You got a helmet to go with that?"

"They're not required."

"They are without proper insurance."

Lloyd palmed the football in his massive hand. "I'm covered."

Varden deliberately stepped inside Lloyd's personal space, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I spoke with your boss today. I told him any issues he has with you, he brings to me."

Lloyd pictured a headbutt to Varden's face. The satisfaction of hurting him would be thrilling—but short-lived, he figured.

Varden glared at Lloyd. "Throw your clothes over there." He pointed to the patio table.

"What?"

"You heard me." Varden pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket.

Men gathered from the house to witness the confrontation that had become a twisted rite of passage for new house guests who challenged Varden's authority.

"Chapter six, section four, Mr. Sullivan. All parolees under direct supervision in a state-approved facility shall be subject to personal inspection, at random, for the purpose of determining the presence of illegal contraband found on, near, or within, said person."

"I've got nothing to hide."

"We all have something to hide, Mr. Sullivan. The question is whether or not you get caught."

Lloyd could see the other men watching him, chuckling, whispering, waiting for him to cave—or better yet—blow up at Varden and get hauled away in cuffs.

Lloyd knew a fight with Varden would cost him his freedom, but if he backed down to the man in charge, he'd lose all respect. And if prison life taught him anything, it taught him you never give up respect.

"Let it go," said Marvin. "A hard man shatters. A strong man endures."

Varden brandished a Taser from his belt. A blue spark sizzled between the conductive prongs. "This will happen with or without your cooperation, Mr. Sullivan. Either way, the choice is yours."

Chapter 20

Jamie locked the bathroom door and slid herself inside the oval soaking tub, filled with scented, turquoise water. She leaned back against the bath pillow and faced the glow from a cranberry candle in the steam-glazed mirror. The thrum of steady rain against the bathroom skylight quelled the sound of distant traffic.

She let her thoughts drift on autopilot, reflecting on the simple life she'd enjoyed in her twenties. A time devoid of Alan Blanchart, uncluttered by a wife's responsibilities and life's unpredictable nature; a time with no one to care for but herself, when the world revolved around her own pleasures.

Unaccustomed to romance, she'd gained more experience from books than from personal knowledge. She shared her life with Alan Blanchart, and her commitment to uphold the vows of matrimony through the good times and the bad. Yet despite her promise, she couldn't deny the rekindled sense of longing she'd felt in the presence of the handsome car wash attendant who stirred a dormant passion inside her.

She slid a wet washcloth from her shoulder to her naked chest, rubbing her flat abdomen in small circles to massage the area below her navel and north of her waxed pubic region.

She spread her legs in the moisturized effervescence, reliving the moment when she brushed against the rugged stranger and felt an instant, almost indescribable connection.

She closed her eyes and imagined a forbidden kiss. Her fingers traced along her erogenous zone, provoking sensations she hadn't felt for months. She moaned softly, her inhibitions subsiding in the sanctuary of her warm bath. Stimulated by a feather touch, she awakened a sensual craving induced by a guilty pleasure—abruptly ended by an incoming call.

She dried her hands on a bath towel and reached for her cell phone on the toilet lid. "Hi there," she greeted Alan, his name prominently displayed on the caller ID.

"You sound out of breath," Blanchart said through the speakerphone in his cruiser.

"I'm taking a bath. Are you coming home?"

"Not yet. Did you see the dermatologist?"

"I did. I'm on the schedule for next week."

Blanchart typed a Web address on the laptop keyboard in his cruiser. "Did you get the car washed?"

Jamie thought about her answer. "I did, but it rained. I'll have to go back again."

"Did you get the mail?"

"It's on the table."

"Any packages?"

"Not today. A few bills came. I recycled the junk mail."

"What else?"

"Samantha called again. She keeps asking to come down for my birthday."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd have to talk to you."

A long silence came over the phone. Jamie heard a voice in the background. "Are you still there?" she asked.

Blanchart spoke in a monotone voice, preoccupied with the Website content. "Samantha's important to you, so she's important to me. If she wants to come see you, let her come. Don't let me stand in the way."

"Really?" Jamie said incredulously."

"Thank you," said Jamie. "It means a lot to me." She pressed the phone against her ear to compensate for the weak signal. "You still there?"

"I have to go," said Blanchart, tersely. "Make sure you set the alarm."

"I will."

"And don't forget to blow the candle out. Those things will burn the house down."

Jamie covered her breasts with the washcloth and slid beneath the waterline. She stared at the ceiling and felt her bath grow cold.

Chapter 21

Leeland Marks drank Crystal at two in the morning, from a champagne flute in the back of a stretched limousine. Gold cuff links sparkled on the sleeves of his black Armani blazer. Grey whisker stubble outlined a budding goatee and mustache, adding chic with a pinch of sinister to the man who ruled a mounting empire.

An entrepreneur with the right connections to the right people at the right time, he'd built a thriving drug business from the ground up. Everything from manufacturing to distribution and sales came under his purview. Expenses were down with revenues at triple digits and rising steadily from increased demand for his methamphetamine product. Drawing from raw talent and years of MBA experience, he acquired new properties and expanded his market base from a single West Coast operation to a network of high-volume kitchens established in low-rent, high-yield locations across the country.

In less than three years, he'd emerged from the rubble of a Wall Street layoff to achieve unprecedented success. In three days, he'd negotiate the deal of the century and secure his position of power as the self-proclaimed CEO of a legitimate holding company laundering millions through private investment accounts.

"Don't be such a downer," he told the three-hundred-pound gorilla seated across from him. Leeland filled a second glass and pushed it toward the heavy-set bodyguard with a bald head, a diamond stud earring, and a canvas of tribal tattoos circumnavigating his bulging biceps.

"I don't drink," the bodyguard said in a grave voice. He carried a pair of Smith & Wesson SW99s in a leather shoulder rig decked out with magazines of hollow-point .45s.

Leeland downed the second glass himself. "For five grand a week you should squawk like a fucking chicken if I tell you to. My success is our success. I wouldn't be here without your help." He powered down the tinted window and tossed the empty bottle on the street. Then he pressed the chauffer intercom and said, "Turn at the flashing light."

The limousine scrubbed speed and hung a right at the three-way yellow, its tires crunching shrubs and fallen branches along the soggy road pummeled by an isolated thunderstorm. At the opposite end, the road opened to a pitch black clearing where an empty aircraft hangar sat near a private runway barely visible at night.

The bodyguard cocked his head back and forth. Tendons cracked and popped inside his massive neck. "They're late."

"They'll be here," said Leeland.

The bodyguard checked his watch. "It's too quiet."

"We're on private property in the middle of jumbuck nowhere. It's supposed to be quiet."

The limousine parked inside the hangar and the lights were killed.

Leeland dialed his cell phone and reached his wife's voicemail. "Hey, baby," he said. "Our flight's delayed. Give the kids a hug for me. I'll see you when I'm back." He popped the cork on another bottle of Crystal. Foam drizzled down the glass and onto his lap. He turned to his minion. "Get me a towel."

The bodyguard tossed a hand cloth at his boss and opened the door to get out. "I need a smoke."

Leeland dabbed the cloth on his lap. "Don't go far." He poured his glass and set the bottle in the chiller. The party was over, but the night was young. A victim of his own temptation, he maintained a separate life on the road, fed by his desire for constant female attention and the lavish accoutrements his empire afforded him.

He opened a cocaine vial from his blazer pocket and snorted from the tip of his manicured pinky nail. The instant high jacked his energy level. Long on revelry and short on sleep, the bump kept him alert and on edge.

Minutes passed.

The plane's delay clouded his head with paranoia. His patience waned. Everything was taking too long. Way too long. He'd doled out a lot of cash to secure reliable transportation. Transportation that failed to arrive on time. No one in a cartel family would stand for this treatment, he thought. Why should I?

He checked his watch.

The what ifs began to freefall.

Was I followed? Who else knew about the destination? Did I pick the wrong hangar? Why did Dutch leave the limo for a smoke? And what the fuck's taking so long?

He pulled out a converted TEC-9 from a gym bag and tapped the chauffer window with the muzzle. "Stay here."

Dirt crunched under Leland's boots outside the limo. The smell of burned tobacco lingered in the humid air as he stepped over a pair of wheel chocks beside a grease stain embedded in the cracked concrete floor. An engine hoist stood inside a small workshop with a rolling tool chest and a pair of hundred gallon fuel drums. A chain and pulley hung from the rafters.

Leeland checked the empty runway and doubled back toward the hangar's makeshift waiting room. He kicked the door open and charged inside, restraining his trigger finger from unleashing the TEC-9's fury. A big screen television, wet bar, and plush leather chairs occupied the otherwise empty space. A chain and padlock secured the emergency exit.

The sound of footsteps brought him full circle to the workspace with the hundred gallon drums. He panned the submachine gun and signaled for the limo driver to stay put.

A shadow moved on the corrugated steel wall behind him.

A metallic clink made him jump.

"Jesus Christ!" he shouted at his bodyguard. "You scared the shit out of me!"

The bodyguard stowed his gold lighter and blew smoke. "Take it easy with that—"

"I nearly blew your fucking head off," Leeland vented. He brushed a grease smear on his coat sleeve. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The limo revved loudly and sped away in reverse, leaving a patch of burned rubber in its tracks.

Greeted with the sound of police sirens, the bodyguard pulled the pair of .45s from his shoulder rig and fired at the flashing blue lights outside the hangar.

A deputy sheriff rammed the runaway limo while a second patrol car screeched to a stop. Cops scurried for cover like roaches in an all-night diner. Flash-bang grenades bounced inside the hangar and exploded.

Leeland fired a long burst from the thirty-six-round clip, stitching holes in the car blocking his exit.

The bodyguard ran sideways and shot at anything that moved. Bullets ricocheted through plumes of caustic smoke drifting through the lethal mêlée. Empty brass clanged against the floor.

Leeland fired wildly, hitting everything but the human targets in front of him. "Kill them all!" he shouted without any inclination of how badly the odds played out. He ran toward the back room and slammed the door behind him. He propped a chair to block the entrance and turned his attention to the emergency exit.

He emptied the TEC-9 at the padlock and rammed his body at the exit door. He tossed the weapon and sprinted for the dense tree line a hundred yards from the hangar.

Out of breath and out of immediate danger, he glanced over his shoulder to glimpse at the chaos he'd abandoned. He ventured deeper into the woods before a round from a silenced .22 pierced his thigh muscle and lodged inside his femur.

Leeland dropped to the ground and pressed his hand on the burning wound. He crawled sideways on his good leg, pawing at the dirt with his free hand, his pants soaked in urine.

"Your flight's been canceled," said Blanchart, who emerged from the darkness wearing night vision goggles and a backpack with a folding shovel.

"Who are you?" Leeland asked.

Blanchart removed the goggles and let his eyes adjust to the natural moonlight. He compared the photo from his pocket to the suspect on the ground. "You're a hard man to find."

"I need a doctor!" cried Leeland. His heart raced from the drugs and adrenaline in his system.

"You need a lesson." Blanchart waited for the sound of gunfire to subside. He kept his radio on mute. "You've been stepping on my product," he said. He pressed his boot on Leland's leg. "Who do you work for?"

"Nobody."

"I need a name."

"Fuck you!" Leeland hissed, the initial pain from the gunshot obscured by the mixture of alcohol and cocaine in his system. "You're a dead man. I'll kill your wife. I'll kill your children. I'll kill your fucking dog."

Blanchart shot him in the kneecap.

This time the pain dropped a bomb on Leeland Marks as if an ax split his leg in half.

"I need a name," said Blanchart.

Leeland cowered at the base of a tree, his leg on fire from the bullet lodged between his bone and tendons. "I want a lawyer!"

"That ship's sailed. I can't help you unless you let me."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Blanchart aimed the silencer at Leland's good leg.

"Who hired you?" Leeland asked in desperation. "Whatever they're paying you I'll double it. I'll triple it!"

"I need a name."

"There is no fucking name," Leeland cried. "I run the operation myself."

Blanchart fired at Leland's other kneecap.

Leeland moaned in agony, his body incapacitated from strategically-placed shots to his lower limbs. "He'll kill my family if I talk. I have a wife and kids. I'll give you everything I have. Twenty million dollars. Cash."

Blanchart knelt down beside his victim and pressed the silenced muzzle to Leland's groin. "I need a name."

"Uri Costa... He—he financed the operation. He has Columbian connections."

"Where is he?"

"He works out of LA. I never met him face to face. That's all I know. I swear..."

Blanchart aimed the gun at Leland's head. "What else?"

"That's it..."

"Give me your right hand," said Blanchart.

"What for?"

Blanchart pressed the muzzle at Leland's temple. "Give me your hand."

Leeland let go of his wounded knee and extended a shaky arm to Blanchart.

Blanchart grabbed the arm and twisted sharply to lock the joints in a straight position. With control of the limb, he slid the gun in his holster and said, "Hold still." He retrieved a pair of pruning shears from his zipper pocket and pressed the scissor blades to the base of Leland's thumb. He squeezed hard to snip off the manicured digit in one chomp.

Leeland screamed in agony.

"Almost there," said Blanchart. He touched the blades to the base of the index finger and clamped down again, lopping the digit like a piece of dried kindling.

Leeland screamed as he clutched his three-finger hand. "You said... You said you'd help me."

Blanchart pressed the muzzle to Leland's forehead and pulled the trigger twice. "I just did."

Chapter 22

Josh rummaged through his mobile home closet filled with stacks of Playboy, Rolling Stone, and Popular Science magazines. He skimmed the cover of Playboy's Girls Next Door edition and tossed it in a separate pile. Issues of Rolling Stone found a home on the top shelf with his hidden DVD collection. Back issues of Popular Science found a home in the trash. "I've got more Playboy in this closet than Hugh Hefner," he said out loud.

"That's not a bad thing," said Lloyd, hovering uncomfortably in the background with his pride on hold.

"It is if Sheila finds them," said Josh. "She hates Playboy. She says the girls always make her look fat. I keep telling her it's not what you have or don't have, it's how you use what God gave you." He dug through an old box for a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee. "These might be long, but they'll probably fit you in the waist."

"Thanks," said Lloyd with a mix of gratitude and humility. "I really appreciate it. If you have any old shirts I can wear, I'll take those too."

Josh sniffed a wrinkled Metallic concert shirt. "This smells like rotten ass but it's still good. I thought I had more clothes in here, but Sheila must have donated them. The rest of this crap is hers." He poked around the back of the closet and tossed a pair of balled-up maternity panties at Lloyd. "Why don't you try these on for size?"

Lloyd tossed the panties back. "Why don't I try them around your head?" He stuffed the jeans and shirt in an old backpack. "You and Sheila have a good thing going."

"It works for us," said Josh. "I never thought I'd be a dad to someone else's kid."

"I never thought I'd be digging in your closet for old clothes."

Josh lit a cigarette and blew smoke. "Don't sweat it. Just help me clean this place up before Sheila gets back."

"I'll run the vacuum," Lloyd offered.

Josh pointed down the hall. "It's in the other closet, outside the bathroom."

Lloyd found the Hoover upright sandwiched between a mop bucket and a set of golf clubs. He lifted the vacuum by a broken handle and bumped his arm against the shelf above his shoulder. The force knocked boxes of junk on the floor, spilling books, sneakers, card games, and a Chinese-made .38 special.

Josh scooped the gun away.

"Where did that come from?" asked Lloyd.

"I bought it at a pawn shop."

"What for?"

"Protection," said Josh. "Someone broke into the trailer next to us. Probably the same pervert I caught peeping in our window."

Lloyd peered nervously at the trailer's open screen-door.

Josh dropped the gun in the box and buried it with the rest of the junk he'd collected over the years. "What's up?"

"I could lose my parole just for breathing on a gun. If my PO shows up here—"

"Chill out," said Josh. "The gun's mine."

"It doesn't matter."

"I bought it legal."

"You don't get it," said Lloyd. "I can't be in the same room with a gun. They could send me back to prison."

"I think you're paranoid."

"I think you're foolish."

Josh put the box away. "If someone breaks in our trailer, I'd rather be the fool with the gun than the fool without."

Lloyd shook his head. "Does Sheila know about it?"

"It was her idea. She wanted something for protection when I'm gone at meetings. She hates to be here by herself."

"Buy her a dog instead."

Josh blew smoke. "She's scared a dog would hurt the baby."

Lloyd thought about his brother's twisted logic. "How long have you been going to meetings?"

Josh took another drag. This time he held the smoke in his lungs for a second longer before he exhaled. "Since I got out of rehab. About a year before Dad died."

Lloyd felt his stomach twist in knots like an over-wound rubber band in a balsa wood plane. Prison life taught him to keep his emotions in check from the wolves who could smell weakness, no matter how subtle or subdued. New punks coming into the joint stood the most to lose, followed by inmates who ran to the guards for help at the first sign of trouble. In prison, the normal rules of society were moot. For the uninitiated, any semblance of law and order quickly vanished with a lack of self worth and hope. Boys fought. Men killed. Invisible boundaries were set and never crossed. "If I hadn't been locked up—"

"It wouldn't have changed anything," said Josh. "Dad had his demons like the rest of us. There's nothing you or me or Mom or anyone could have done to stop him."

Josh shook his head. "After you left, he never spoke to me again. Not one word. Like I never existed. You were the one who went to prison."

"And you were the one too busy getting high to care about anything but yourself."

Josh stormed outside and let the screen-door slam behind him. "It's not my fault."

Lloyd followed his brother. He slid his arms through the backpack straps and mounted the Triumph. "Dad was no saint. Half the time I didn't get him either. But he believed in us. He wanted a better life for us."

Josh scratched above his eyebrow. "I can't take it back." He kicked a rock beside the trailer and nudged his dentures with this thumb. "My problems weren't yours to solve."

"I know," Lloyd acknowledged to his brother with empathy in his heart.

"Then why did you take the rap for me?"

Lloyd turned the ignition key and brought the kickstand up. "What do you want me to say? That I wish it was you who went to prison instead of me? I made the choice for both of us."

"I never asked you to."

"That's not the point," said Lloyd. He leaned on the handlebars and nodded at the run-down trailer home. "I tried to give you a second chance. To have a better life—than this. When I went to prison, I expected my world to fall apart. Not yours."

"I'm happy with my life," said Josh. "I've moved on."

"Since when? Dad's dead. Mom's trying to drink herself into an early grave. I feel like I'm the only one who cares about this family anymore."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"Try a little harder," said Lloyd. "Mom can barely function on her own. The house is falling apart around her. She and Dad did a lot for us. The least we can do is return the favor."

Josh watched Sheila's Mustang turn into the community entrance. "I have my own family to take care of now. Sheila's taking classes at night to become a nurse. We're trying to scrape enough together for a nice apartment. Someplace big enough for her kid to have his own room." He puffed his cigarette. "I'm sorry for what happened to you. If I could take it back... I was never cut out for prison. You know that. I would have died in there."

Lloyd pressed the Triumph's starter button. "Part of me already has." He cranked the throttle and took off before Sheila's car reached the mailbox.

* * *

Josh crushed out his cigarette and watched his brother ride away. "What took you so long?" he asked Sheila before she exited the red coupe and unfastened the infant car seat.

Sheila hoisted the groggy baby on her shoulder. "Logan fell asleep in the car after I picked him up from daycare."

Josh gathered grocery bags from the trunk. "My brother just left."

"So?"

"I didn't want you to think I was hiding something."

"Are you?" Sheila asked in an angry tone. "I told you I didn't want him around."

"Why do you have to be such a bitch about this?"

Shelia carried her son inside. "Because he gives me the creeps."

"He's my brother."

"He's a bad influence," Sheila said hotly.

Josh followed her to the baby's crib. "On who?" He watched Sheila lay her baby on his side and cover him with a blue blanket. "Lloyd's been through hell. I'm the only family he has left."

"Stop shouting. You'll wake the baby."

"I'm not shouting," said Josh. He followed Sheila out of the room. "Did you buy more smokes?"

"You didn't tell me to."

"You always pick up more when you buy groceries."

"Well I didn't this time."

"Then I need to run out real quick."

"Not now. I need you to watch Logan for me."

"I'll be back in five minutes."

"I'm already late for class."

"Tonight?"

"I have class every Tuesday and Thursday, Josh. I've told you a hundred times."

Josh poked through the groceries. "I can't believe you didn't pick up more cigarettes at the store."

"I didn't know we needed them." Sheila gathered her books from the table. "I'll only be gone a couple hours. Logan needs a fresh diaper when he wakes up. There's a bottle of formula in the fridge. Don't forget to warm it up before you feed him. You have to test it on your wrist."

"I know."

"I have to go. If you can't survive two hours without a cigarette, you've got bigger problems than I thought."

"You should have bought them at the store."

"You told me you were trying to quit."

Josh eased the screen-door closed behind Sheila, allowing the latch to catch quietly. "Forget what I said before. I'm not a quitter."

Chapter 23

Lloyd rubbed a Saab 9-5 with a chamois to absorb the residual rinse water. He dressed the tires with a creamy white solution, spraying just enough to coat the rubber without wasting the product. The face of a clock, his brother taught him. Four squirts on each tire. One for each quarter turn around the wheel. The less product used, the more profit earned, Josh explained. Making money washing cars didn't take an education. It took cheap labor and attention to detail.

Despite the Florida heat and humidity, Lloyd welcomed the sun's merciless rays roasting his arms and face. He relished the sweat permeating his shirt and jeans. He worked hours side by side with the Central American recruits, mostly refugees from Honduras, San Salvador, Brazil, and other pockets of impoverished countries where minimum wage at Sonny's Car Wash could feed the family back home.

Lloyd earned a five-minute break every two hours, enough time to snag a drink and take a piss before the next car rolled through the wash tunnel.

He performed without fail and without complaint, content, for now, to earn an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. A monotonous routine not unlike his time in prison, where a regimented schedule governed every facet of his day-to-day life.

Inside the penitentiary, he'd witnessed a lifetime of brutality and human suffering from a system run amuck with crooked guards and gang influence meant to bludgeon any semblance of goodwill toward men. With his life behind bars worth less than spit, he forged alliances with other inmates equal to or beyond his own standing with the shot callers who ran the joint. One-on-one fights rarely happened in the open, subjecting victims to random beatings outside the purview of surveillance cameras or the guards on duty. Everything from sharpened plastic to broken pipes became a weapon of choice.

For convicts with the right connections, coke and heroin traded hands with ease; though respect remained the dominate currency. Those who had respect called the shots; those who didn't, slept with one eye open in a world where violence begat violence, and brutality knew no limits.

A black Mercedes 550 SL drove away as the next car rolled through the automated wash tunnel—a red Volvo S40 with tinted glass.

Lloyd glanced at Jamie who left the building and stood beside the tip box outside. "Almost done," he said, strolling over to the Igloo water cooler in the shade. He sipped from a paper cup. He could feel her gaze upon him, inviting him to open up.

* * *

"Thank you," Jamie replied curtly. She curled her fingers around her purse strap to expose her diamond wedding ring. She turned her head, pretending to stare at the parking lot and the line of cars snaked around the back of the building. She folded her arms across her chest, blushing like a school girl with a crush. The car was dirty, she told herself. It needed cleaning. Nothing more. Get in, get out, and get home. People who play with fire get burned.

Lloyd filled a second funnel cup with water and offered it with a smile. "Thirsty?"

"No thank you."

"It's on the house."

Jamie stuffed two dollars in the tip box and strolled toward the shiny Volvo.

Lloyd opened her door for her. "Do you like motorcycles?"

"Excuse me?"

"Have you ever ridden on the back of a bike?"

"Those are dangerous."

"Life's dangerous. That doesn't mean we stop living."

Jamie closed her door and powered down her window. She wanted to leave and she wanted to stay. Mostly she wanted to stop a bad idea before it started.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" Lloyd offered before the next car exited the wash tunnel. He wrung out the chamois in his large hands, squeezing every ounce of water from the spongy, synthetic towel.

"I'm married," said Jamie. She flashed her wedding band.

"But are you happy?"

Jamie looked away. Flustered by this man with a smile that scaled her fortress walls, she put the Volvo in gear and drove away with the parking brake on.

Chapter 24

Leslie Dancroft waited in her boss's office, anticipating another apathetic lecture on the county's depleted budget and the unofficial mandate to sell her clients on a plea bargain deal in lieu of a costly trial.

George would coach her on the scales of justice and flatter her with platitudes about a job well done. He would stress the issue of pressing workloads on his overburdened staff and deliver his condescending sermon about the mission of the public defender's office—how every indigent defendant had the right to a trial by his peers and why the funding wasn't there to make it happen.

She would gripe about her clients' needs, and George would counter with his convoluted spiel about accountability, perseverance, and how life's not always fair. In the end, she would find herself with more work than humanly possible and leave the office in a state of indignation.

Experience taught her the same lessons over and over in the legal salt mine where she squandered more energy on half-baked deals than preparing for a day in court. What one prosecutor thought fair and reasonable, another would throw back in her face. She would counteroffer. The prosecution would accept or reject, and so on and so forth, all in the name of judicial efficiency.

"Don't start," Leslie said before George finished writing a note in his daily planner. "I've been here since four this morning." She blew her nose in a moisturized tissue, resigned to the fact her allergies weren't at fault, and how she suffered from a full-blown cold.

"I need you to do me a favor," said George.

"Forget it."

George closed his planner and glanced up at Leslie with his lazy eye pointed at the ceiling. "I want you to take some vacation. At least a week. Two if you need it."

"Who says I need a vacation?"

"You look like you swallowed a hand-grenade."

Leslie honked her nose again. "Yesterday I couldn't tunnel my way out of here. Now you want me on a plane?"

"A plane, a bus, a train... whatever works for you."

"Wasn't that a comedy with John Candy?"

"John Candy's dead."

"So is your sense of humor," said Leslie.

George kept a straight face. "How many hours have you logged this month?"

"Too many."

"My point exactly," said George. "Take some down time. Get healthy. Go to the spa or whatever it is you do when you're not here."

Leslie waited for the dream to end, anticipating the obnoxious beep from her alarm clock and the sober realization her one-night stand with George Clooney never happened. "What about my case load?"

"I've already reassigned your work," said George.

"Without telling me?"

"What do you think I'm doing now?"

"I have a dozen cases pending," said Leslie. Her voice cracked from her dry throat. "I can't just disappear on vacation at a time like this."

George motioned with his hands when he talked. "There's never a right time. Yesterday you threatened to strangle me if I didn't let you go. Now I can't get you out of my hair."

"I'm a woman, George. I'm prone to change my mind. Tell me your wife doesn't do the same."

George grabbed his office phone on the second ring and covered the microphone with his hand. "Only when I beg for sex." He motioned for Leslie to leave. "Get some rest. You look like you need it."

"What about Manny Morallen?"

"Who?"

"The defendant you dropped in my lap, George. I've already signed on to represent him."

"Steinman can take over for you."

"Steinman couldn't find his ass with both hands. I think this case deserves more attention before we lob it over the fence."

George pointed to the door. "I need to take this call. Pass the Morallen case to Steinman. He'll give it the attention it deserves."

Leslie stormed back to her office and unlocked her file cabinet. It wasn't the elephant in the room that bothered her; it was the dung it left behind.

She thumbed through the folders under "M" and pulled the Morallen file for Steinman, a boy in a cheap suit with a year on the job and a law degree from an online college. She needed the Morallen case like she needed a dose of herpes. She had enough on her plate to put her sanity at risk without adding another career criminal to her roster.

George was right. She deserved a vacation, someplace far away with less humidity and smaller bugs. She needed some downtime and a chance to rekindle her private life, preferably with a man, any man with a decent smile, a good job, and a tight package. But something about Manny Morallen's case struck a chord in her and dismissed any notion she had about taking a vacation.

She opened the Morallen file to review the police report signed by Sheriff Blanchart himself. If she'd learned anything from her time in the trenches, she'd learned to trust her instincts. And her instincts told her to keep digging.

Nothing about Morallen's recidivist pedigree stood out from the other career criminals she represented. A resident of the California legal system for most of his adult life, Morallen served time for everything from petty theft to armed robbery and aggravated assault. He had every reason to lie. Yet innocent or guilty, he deserved a good defense like any other client she represented. She owed him that. Morallen owed her the truth.

She reviewed her notes between sneezes. In his statement, Morallen confessed to the firearm possession but vehemently denied his involvement in the deputy's shooting.

Were his statements specious? Morallen had the opportunity and the means to kill Deputy Carter. But what about motive? If Morallen hid in the attic while Hugo shot himself, why come out of hiding to shoot a cop in the face? And where was Blanchart when it happened? If Blanchart witnessed the shooting of his own deputy, how could he be so sloppy as to let Morallen get away?

The facts were obvious but inconclusive at the same time. There were gaping holes in Morallen's story, his shades of innocence obscured by too many contradictions of fact.

She combed through Sheriff Blanchart's report, highlighting any facet of his statement she deemed questionable. With the sheriff's personal record beyond reproach, she had to stand on her head to look for dirt where it didn't show.

She read on.

Deputy Carter responded to a burglary at 1220 Lipscomb Street. He was first on the scene. Blanchart arrived seven minutes later. Both men witnessed an armed perpetrator enter the house wearing a gas mask of some sort. Both men identified themselves as law enforcement officers and exchanged gunfire with the masked suspect, Hugo Sanchez, who was holding a shotgun. Deputy Carter shot and killed Hugo while Manny Morallen and a third suspect exited the house.

She went back and read the last paragraph again. She was sick but not senile. In her interview notes, Morallen claimed Hugo killed himself with the shotgun before Deputy Carter could make an arrest. Morallen also failed to mention a third person in the house.

But you know Morallen's a liar. He's a convicted felon. A repeat offender with no moral obligation to do anything aside from trying to save his own ass. Lying comes natural to him.

The report continued to the next page.

Sheriff Blanchart began a foot pursuit for the suspects who fled the house on Lipscomb Street and left Carter on site to wait for back-up. When Blanchart heard a second shot, he broke off his foot pursuit and returned to the crime scene to witness Morallen shoot Carter in the face and disappear out the back. Blanchart radioed another call for help and stayed with Carter until the paramedics arrived.

The lab found both Hugo Sanchez' and Manny Morallen's prints on the shotgun used to kill Deputy Carter. The same shotgun Morallen claimed Hugo shot himself with. A latent print recovered from a door handle came back to a felon named Leeland Marks, a mid-level drug dealer wanted for questioning two years ago in a Los Angeles homicide investigation.

Blanchart's story seemed to fit. Too neatly, perhaps, for a chaotic confrontation that lasted less than three minutes and left two men dead, including a cop and a suspect who pulled a Kurt Cobain.

Leslie gathered her interview notes. Morallen claimed to be hiding in the attic when he witnessed Blanchart pull the trigger on his own man. Yet Blanchart claimed he saw Morallen commit the murder. The stories didn't jive.

Leslie squeezed the bridge of her nose, desperate to ease the pressure on her swollen sinuses. You're wasting your time. Morallen's playing you like a cheap harmonica. His prints are on the weapon. He has a rap sheet with a history of violence. His credibility is nil. He resisted arrest and killed a cop in the process. But why would Morallen run out of the house and then go back to shoot Deputy Carter?

She skimmed the sheriff's report again, comparing Blanchart's statements against her interview notes. She flipped the page and remembered Morallen's comment about the product he stashed in the attic. The sheriff's report cited confiscated items from the makeshift lab, including hazardous chemicals, drug paraphernalia, and fifty thousand dollars in cash—but no mention of any drugs seized from the attic.

And what about Leeland Marks? Was he a witness or a perpetrator in Carter's murder? Why did Morallen fail to mention Leeland Marks in his statement?

At best, Morallen was lying. At worst, he was telling the truth. Either way, she needed more evidence to corroborate or contradict Morallen's account of events, starting with a closer look at Sheriff Blanchart himself.

Chapter 25

Varden sat on a terra cotta leather sofa with his hands cupped tightly together and his back ramrod straight. Water trickled from a tabletop fountain inside the contemporary office decorated with faux painted walls of varied hues blended to match the modern décor and the teak-framed medical school diploma.

"I'm not sure what to say," Varden acknowledged to Doctor Lacy, the young female psychiatrist he found attractive enough to tolerate for more than five minutes at a time. Reluctant to open up about his life, he felt compelled to say something to fill the silence. But his personal life was personal. And any facet of his past he chose to share, he would do so with discretion.

"Why don't you start by making yourself more comfortable," Doctor Lacy suggested. She parted a lock of straight hair from her light brown complexion and flashed a cheery, cover-girl smile. A notepad rested on her knee-length skirt that covered the top of her slender legs. "Relax, Mr. Varden. This isn't a dental visit. No shots or drills, I promise."

"You're not what I expected," said Varden. He parted his hands and leaned against the sofa's rolled panel arm. His fingers tapped at the brass nail heads.

"And what were you expecting?"

Varden avoided prolonged eye contact, unwilling to glimpse the enemy for more than a second at a time. "Someone older. More mature."

"Define 'more mature.'"

"An old lady with a double chin and glasses."

Doctor Lacy wrote notes in shorthand.

"What are you writing?" Varden asked bluntly.

"Notes about our conversation. Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"A little."

"Mr. Varden, there are no right or wrong answers in these sessions. Anything you share with me is kept confidential." Doctor Lacy lifted her notepad from her lap and crossed one knee above the other. "Are you still taking the new antiviral medication I prescribed?"

"That's none of your business."

"I'm a medical doctor, Mr. Varden. I take a heuristic approach to my work. The more I understand about your physical as well as your psychiatric health, the better equipped I am to help you."

Varden stood up to leave. "I need to get back to the house."

"No one's forcing you to be here, Mr. Varden. My office will invoice your health care provider whether you decide to stay or not. The decision is up to you."

Varden returned to the sofa. He wanted to bolt for the door, but he couldn't. Not yet. Not without some semblance of closure. "It breaks down like this," he started with his confidence on the rise. "There are some aspects of my life I feel more comfortable discussing than others."

"That's a perfectly normal reaction. I think you will find over time this process does get easier for you."

"There's nothing you or anyone else can do to cure me," said Varden.

Doctor Lacy shook her head slowly. "True, from a physiological perspective. But that doesn't mean you stop fighting. It's important for you to take the antiviral meds. Every day. If the side affects are too pronounced, I can adjust the dosage."

"I'm good."

Doctor Lacy made a note. "Tell me more about your work. How is it affecting you?"

"You're the shrink. Aren't you supposed to tell me?"

"Do you leave the job at work or do you take it home with you?"

"I run a halfway house," said Varden. "I baby-sit ex-convicts living under the same roof. Work and home are one and the same for me."

"That must be stressful."

"I take the good with the bad."

"Do you resent them for what happened?"

Varden clenched his fists. He turned his attention to the window beside the desk and stared at the clouds. "Wouldn't you?"

"These men under your supervision are not the same men who hurt you."

"I never said they were."

"Yet you still hold them accountable."

"Wouldn't you?"

Doctor Lacy met Varden's gaze without blinking. "Why did you choose this line of work?"

"It's what I know. And it pays the bills."

"Any job can pay the bills. The question is why do you insert yourself in such an openly stressful environment?"

Varden turned the tables. "Why do you do what you do?"

"I like my work."

"So do I," said Varden. "You're trying to solve a problem that doesn't exist."

Doctor Lacy tapped the two-hundred dollar pen on her knee. "Let's talk about your life outside of work. What keeps you busy in your free time?"

Varden rubbed his hands together. "My schedule doesn't come with much free time. Sometimes I catch a movie or a quick pick-up game on the court. I read a book now and then. Sometimes I catch a game on TV."

"Do you ever associate with ex-convicts outside of work?"

"Never."

Doctor Lacy scribbled in her notepad. "How long have you been divorced?"

"How is that relevant to anything?"

"Six degrees of separation, Mr. Varden. Everything we experience in life is relevant to something else in one way or another."

"Twelve years," said Varden. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

"Around the time your daughter disappeared?"

Varden stood up. "We're done here."

"I thought you were stronger than that."

"Don't play me, Doc. You think you know me? My life? You don't know anything about me or my family."

"That's what I'm trying to understand."

"Then understand this: I'm not here to be your puppet or your first private practice experiment. I did my homework too. You're barely four years out of school and eighteen months beyond a funny farm residency."

"You think I'm inexperienced?"

"I think you pretend to be something you're not."

"Is that what really bothers you," Doctor Lacy pushed back, "or is there something more pressing you need to talk about?"

Varden put his hands on her desk to exert a position of power. "Don't twist this around."

Doctor Lacy dropped her notepad on the desk and stood up. "I'm not judging you, Mr. Varden. I'm trying to help you. If that concept is too difficult for you to grasp, I invite you to leave and go find another shoulder to cry on."

Chapter 26

Josh turned the sofa cushions upside down, relentless in his quest to find a single cigarette and put an end to his incessant craving.

He dug between the cushions and found a used Band-Aid, a popsicle stick, and an empty stamp book.

He groped his hands in the cracks along the frame to find pennies, gum wrappers, lint, and a moldy pacifier—but not a crumb of tobacco from the hundreds of packs he'd opened on the sofa in the last several months.

He searched the space behind the stove and the back of the kitchen cabinets while Sheila's baby cried in the adjacent room, frustrated by hunger pains and a soiled diaper.

He checked the junk drawer in the kitchen, the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, his gym bag and anywhere else a stray cigarette might hide; even one he smoked but didn't finish; one that broke in half and went unnoticed.

He weighed his desperation against the consequence of a run to the store, knowing Sheila would kill him if she came home early and found her baby left alone.

He pawed through the trash can for his ash tray litter and the empty pack he'd tossed earlier. He cursed himself for not buying a second carton when he had the chance. His throat ached. His chest felt tight. The shakes came back with a vengeance.

Against the advice of his sponsor, he'd traded one addiction for another to help him balance the highs and lows from prolonged withdrawal. For the most part it worked. The good days were good. The bad days were tolerable. But lately the girlfriend, much like his nicotine craving, became increasingly difficult to manage. She failed to understand the burden her kid put on their relationship. There were too many baby chores to keep track of and too many nights without sleep. As time wore on, his patience wore out. He felt more like a prisoner in his own home, forced to suffer while he waited for Sheila to return from class.

He downed a cold beer from the fridge, but the alcohol had no affect on his thirst for lung candy. He needed a cigarette.

He grabbed his wallet and keys, prepared to make a run to the store before Sheila got home. Down and back in under five, he convinced himself.

Sack up and be a man for once in your life.

Sheila would never know. He would tell her he found the extra pack in a drawer. Logan would be in his crib where she'd left him. Life would go on without a hitch. Problem solved.

Josh paced by the worn sofa. Warm air basted the room from the broken air conditioner, causing him to sweat profusely. The baby's incessant crying heaped more frustration on an already intolerable situation.

Josh had made big mistakes in early years and refused to commit another one by leaving Logan unattended, even for five minutes. Josh knew the baby cried for a reason and would continue to cry until someone changed his diaper and plugged a bottle in his mouth.

Josh marched to Logan's crib and gave a loud shah! to the three-month-old flush with tears. "Stop crying!"

The frightened baby cried louder.

Josh left the room and stormed out of the trailer. He searched his car for a cigarette and came up empty. He put his hands on the car keys in his pocket with the gumption to drive away. But he couldn't. Not in light of the vow he'd made to himself to turn his life around by making smart decisions. And leaving Logan alone, even for a few minutes, wasn't one of them.

He kicked the car and slammed his hand on the roof. He could hear the high-pitch wailing from outside the trailer before he went back inside.

"I got you," he said as he approached the crib. He carried the crying infant to the changing table and unbuttoned the one-piece suit at the bottom. He inhaled through his mouth to avoid the stink from the loaded diaper.

Butt naked from the waist down, Logan kicked and screamed in defiance of the hunger pains that ruled his world.

Josh pressed his arm across Logan's tiny chest to keep him from rolling over. He tossed the soiled diaper in the trash and plucked a handful of aloe wipes from the shelf underneath the changing table. "Hold still!"

He wiped the baby's bottom and secured a fresh diaper between the squirming legs. Then he draped a burp cloth over his shoulder and brought the boy against his chest.

In the kitchen, he warmed a bottle in the microwave and tested the formula on his wrist.

Way too hot.

He added tap water to cool the mix, coddling the hysterical infant with his free arm.

You should have bailed when you had the chance. You could be on your second cigarette by now. You brought this on yourself. Took on more than you could handle.

The baby smelled the milk—and the raw emotion coming from the stranger in his presence.

Josh shoved the bottle at Logan's tiny mouth, nudging the nipple back and forth along the pink gum line. Formula seeped from the pin prick opening and dripped on Logan's face and neck.

Josh rocked the baby in his arm. The boy wasn't his responsibility, it was Sheila's. Her baby, her problem. Logan would drink from a bottle, but only if Sheila fed him, and even then, he usually threw up more than he swallowed.

Josh set the bottle on the kitchen counter and bounced the baby on his knee. He needed one cigarette. One precious cancer stick, regular or light, menthol or not, filtered or unfiltered. He could take the baby with him, kicking and screaming to the mini-mart, but Sheila had the car seat in her Mustang.

Josh shook the bottle of baby formula and tested the temperature on his wrist. Not too hot. Not too cold.

He jabbed the nipple up and down inside the baby's mouth to entice the boy to eat.

He'd agreed to baby-sit Sheila's kid, not put up with dirty diapers and the endless crying.

He bounced the fragile infant harder and harder, slapping Logan gently on the back to vent a simmering temper.

When Logan refused the bottle again, Josh hurled it at the sink. A fit of rage unfolded in slow motion. Any concept of right or wrong faded quickly with his loss of self control, his conscience disengaged from the veracity of his actions.

"Shut up!" Josh yelled at the screaming infant, shaking the baby harder and harder until the crying finally stopped.

Chapter 27

Jamie disrobed in the sterile doctor's office. She draped her clothes on the rolling chair and stepped into the disposable gown. She tied the drawstring behind her back and sat on the observation table. Same song, different verse, she told herself, prepared to endure round two of the tattoo removal treatment.

She touched the fading butterfly on the back of her shoulder and felt a part of herself disappear with the image etched beneath the top layers of skin.

A soft knock came at the door. "Come in," she said, tugging on the front of her gown to cover her breasts.

Blanchart entered the office in uniform, his sheriff's hat in hand. "It's me."

"I thought you were out of town," said Jamie, slightly taken aback by the impromptu visit.

Blanchart kissed her forehead. "I got back early." He dropped his hat on the chair. "Where's the doctor?"

"He just stepped out."

Blanchart inspected the treated area on Jamie's shoulder blade. "Does it hurt?"

"A little. The laser feels like a rubber band snap when it's on. When it's over, it feels more like a bad sunburn. The doctor gave me an ice pack for the pain. I think I'll ask him for something stronger."

Blanchart poked his finger on the faded tattoo. "You have such flawless skin. So soft and tender."

"How did you know I was here?" Jamie asked cautiously.

"I was in the area. I saw your car in the hospital parking lot." Blanchart touched Jamie's chin and steered her toward him. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

Jamie brushed his hand. "I am. I'm just surprised, that's all."

Blanchart grinned a Son of Sam smile. "Who were you expecting?"

"The doctor said he'd be right back."

Blanchart rubbed the side of her slender arms, brushing his fingertips against her naked breasts through the paper robe. He kissed the side of her neck and smelled the perfume he'd bought for her. The more he hungered for his wife, the more he longed to feel her naked body against his own.

"Alan..."

"Relax," came the terse reply from a man who would not be denied. "I have another trip coming up. I'll be gone for a few days. I always miss you when I'm gone."

Jamie bristled when he touched her breasts. Confined in an outpatient room, she imagined herself on a quiet beach with powdered sand between her toes and warm surf lapping at her feet. A secluded stretch of uninhabited paradise a million miles away from the man she married. A happy place where life made sense and all her troubles simply followed the tide out to sea. "The doctor will be here soon."

Blanchart moved to the edge of the table and spread Jamie's knees. He stroked her inner thighs with eager hands. "I'll be quick."

"Not in here."

"I'll decide the when and where," Blanchart scolded her.

"What if the nurse comes in?"

Blanchart licked the space behind Jamie's ear. He untied her drawstring with one hand and whispered, "How 'bout you start showing me some fucking affection."

Jamie flinched at the words that repulsed her more than Alan's touch. Despite the relative safety of her doctor's office, she found herself at the mercy of the man she had vowed to love and honor. "The door's unlocked," she said, pulling on the front of her gown to expose her breasts.

Alan unbuckled his duty belt and dropped it beside his hat on the chair. He reached for the door handle and felt it move.

"Excuse me, Sheriff," the doctor interrupted, nudging his way inside the room. "Sorry to intrude."

"You should be more careful," Blanchart warned.

"My apologies," the doctor said. "I didn't realize you were here."

Blanchart gathered his hat and duty belt from the chair. He moved slowly to stifle the erection in his pants without making an obvious attempt to do so. "Take your time, Doc. Better to measure twice and cut once."

"She'll be fine, Sheriff."

Blanchart winked at Jamie who turned sideways on the observation table. "I'll see you at home."

Chapter 28

Sheila held Josh's hand in a crowded hospital waiting room, her emotions channeled through a tenuous connection with her boyfriend of seven months. She cried openly in front of strangers, wiping a tissue at the smeared mascara on her cheek.

"He'll be okay," Josh offered.

Sheila leaned on Josh's arm for support. "We've been here for over an hour. What the hell is taking so long?"

Josh hugged her. "They're doing everything they can," he reassured her, folding lies on top of lies so thick he almost believed them himself. He squeezed her hand and kept the truth squirreled away in a place where no one would ever find it.

He'd spent every second of the agonizing ambulance ride rehearsing the same story in his mind until he convinced himself the less Sheila knew about what happened, the better it was for everyone.

Josh let go of Sheila's hand and stood up to stretch from his cramped position. "I'll be back in a minute," he said, slinking toward the nearest exit. He bummed a cigarette from a custodian on break outside the building and prayed his little secret would stay hidden forever.

There were times in his life where he could smoke three cigarettes at once. This was one where he could stuff the entire pack in his mouth and light every cigarette together in a cloud of smoke so big he could see it from Goggle.

He'd landed in big-time jams before, but nothing compared to the shit he stepped into with Sheila's kid. He had no one to blame for what happened but Sheila. The kid was hers. She could have taken him with her. She could have dropped him at her friend's house. She could have left him in daycare. Instead, she chose the selfish route, never thinking about the consequences.

He blew smoke. I'm not cut out for kids, he told himself. Especially crying babies.

He watched Sheila approach from the automatic doors and said, "I just needed some fresh air."

Sheila wiped her nose with a tissue. "How much longer do we have to wait?" She took a hit from Josh's cigarette.

"They're doing everything they can."

"What if he's—"

Josh put his arm around her. "He'll be fine. This is one of the best hospitals in the county."

Sheila rubbed her nose with her finger. "I still don't understand what happened..." Her eyes darted from side to side.

Josh could tell her brain was in overdrive trying to process the events leading up to the unthinkable. He cupped his palms together and gestured with a scooping motion. "I found him on the floor a little while after you left. He must have fallen out of the crib."

"What were you doing before then?"

"Nothing. I went to make Logan's bottle when I heard him crying. I figured he was hungry when I hurt him—heard him..."

"How did he get out of the crib?" Sheila asked.

"He must have climbed out."

"Logan's only twelve weeks old," said Sheila. "He can't even sit up on his own."

"He's stronger than you think."

Sheila stared at him a moment. "Did you leave the gate down?"

"I never touched it. You put him in there before you left. The gate was down when I found him." He blew smoke away from Sheila's tortured expression. "Maybe you forgot to put it up?"

"He was sleeping when I put him in his crib," Sheila recalled. "I know I put the gate up. I always do." She read the face of a man she'd trusted with her baby's life. A man with a history of drug abuse. "Were you high?"

"Do I look high to you?"

"No, but you've been there before."

"Not since you've known me. I don't touch that stuff anymore. I go to work. I go to meetings. I come home. That's it."

"Then tell me what happened."

"I told you what happened." Josh flicked ash on the ground. "It was an accident."

Sheila eyed him as she processed the information.

Josh could see her connecting the dots in her mind and saw her face change when it hit her.

"I was gone for two hours before the hospital called me! You said you found Logan on the floor by his crib a few minutes after I left. That doesn't make any sense."

"That's not what I said."

"Yes it is. You just told me."

"I said an hour or so after you left."

"You said a little while after I left."

Josh threw his hands in the air. "What's the fucking difference? This isn't easy for me either. A little while, a few minutes, an hour or so—I don't remember exactly how long. Everything happened so fast."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. I found Logan on the floor crying."

"When?"

"I told you I needed cigarettes. You dumped him on me and you left for class. I could have snuck out and bought a pack, but I didn't. You're lucky I was there to help him in the first place."

Sheila saw the red light flashing on her bullshit meter. Josh's story didn't mesh. Her mother's intuition gnawed at her, prodding her to question everything. She wanted answers. And she wanted the truth. "Why didn't you check on him when he started crying?"

"I did."

"You told me you made his bottle while he was crying."

"I checked on him first. Then I made his bottle. He was hungry. What else was I supposed to do?"

"You should have changed his diaper first."

"I wanted to warm up the bottle first."

"And that's when you found him on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Was he crying?"

"A little."

"The nurse told me he was unresponsive. She said he was unconscious when the paramedics found him."

Josh blew smoke. "Maybe they gave him something to calm him down."

"They don't give drugs to babies. He was sleeping when I left. All you had to do was watch him for a couple hours."

Josh flicked his cigarette at the street and went back to the waiting room inside.

Sheila followed. She sat in the corner and stared up at a wall-mounted television showing The Price is Right reruns. She grabbed a magazine and flipped the pages without reading until a somber-faced doctor with hunched shoulders and a five o'clock shadow approached her, a stethoscope around his neck.

"Ms. Jarvis?"

"Yes."

"Could you come with me, please?"

"Is my son okay?"

"This way, please."

The doctor closed the trauma room curtain around Sheila and Josh who stood opposite a portable x-ray monitor. "Ms. Jarvis—"

"Where's my son?" Sheila asked.

"Your son's safe," the doctor explained. "He stands a good chance of making a successful recovery." The doctor checked his pager and read the incoming message.

"I want to see him," said Sheila.

"Your son's been admitted for observation. I'd like to run some more tests."

"For what?"

"When a baby is vigorously shaken, the head rocks back and forth in a whiplash motion. This motion can cause internal bleeding inside the skull, which in turn increases pressure on the brain, causing it to pull apart."

"I don't understand."

"A baby's brain tissue is very fragile. At six months of age and younger, infants are highly susceptible to head trauma from the lack of neck muscle development."

Sheila pointed her finger at Josh. "You told me he fell out of the crib."

"He did," Josh insisted.

"Don't lie to me!"

"I never touched him."

"Ms. Jarvis," the doctor interjected, "I've diagnosed a hundred cases of shaken baby syndrome and I can tell you with a high degree of confidence your son's injuries are not consistent with a fall."

"Are you sure?" said Sheila.

"The forces applied to his brain were several times stronger than a low range fall could produce."

"I want to see my son!"

"I'm afraid that's not possible right now."

"Let me see him!" Sheila screamed. "I'm not leaving this hospital without my baby!"

"Ms. Jarvis—"

"I'm his mother goddammit! You can't keep him from me. I'll sue you and this hospital!"

"I understand your concern. This is standard procedure in all child abuse cases." The doctor parted the privacy curtain to reveal there was a sheriff's deputy in the room. "I've notified child protective services. This officer will assist you until they arrive."

Chapter 29

Brenda started her morning the same way she started every morning with her ailing liver, enduring frequent bouts of vomiting and diarrhea that left her cramped and dehydrated. No miracle of modern medicine would save her—a reality she came to terms with before her health insurance lapsed. Absent her prescription medication, she swallowed whiskey to ease the gut-wrenching pain that started in the pit of her stomach and progressed like a baseball inching through her digestive tract. Her solitary days had turned to weeks, which turned to months, alone in the house she'd built with her husband of thirty years.

She filled her flask from a bottle of Wild Turkey and meandered to the garage in her slippers and robe. "You still working on that thing?" she asked Lloyd, who hunkered beside the Triumph with a screwdriver.

"There's a problem with the fuel tank sensor."

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind I thought I'd fixed already."

"Let it go," said Brenda. She touched her hand to her side. "I never heard you come in. After all the banging on my roof, I figured I'd know when you're around."

"You were sleeping when I came in. You shouldn't leave the house unlocked."

"I never lock my doors at night. That's why I live in the country."

Lloyd tested the fuel sender and moved on to address other issues with the bike. "You look tired."

"I'll have plenty of time to sleep when I meet my maker," said Brenda. She limped over to the bike. "Your father spent half his life in here, tinkering on projects until all hours of the morning. If it wasn't the bike it was some newfangled gadget he had to play with. Sometimes we'd get in arguments over silly stuff and he'd set up a cot in here. Stubborn bastard. Even when he knew he was wrong, which was often, he would camp in this garage until he found the courage to apologize."

Lloyd tightened the bolt on the chain and sprocket tensioner. He pressed the chain with his finger to test the slack. Too much, and the chain might come loose at high speed. Too little, and the chain would wear prematurely from excessive friction.

"Your father kept a small TV in the back to watch your games. He kept the volume so high I could hear it all over the house."

"I thought he hated football," said Lloyd. "He told me college was for learning, not for playing games."

"Your father was a complicated man."

Lloyd wiped his hands on a rag. "Is that why he shot himself?"

Brenda leaned against a tool chest. Even standing in one spot took more energy than she could spare some mornings. "That's not for me to say."

"What happened?"

Brenda shook her head. "Does it matter?"

Lloyd pointed to a pharmacy bag on the work bench. "I picked those up for you."

Brenda inspected the contents. "What is this?" She tore the bag open and read the labels. Actigall, Furosemide, Cholestyramine, Bumetanide.

"The pharmacy would only refill the ones that weren't expired."

"My insurance won't cover these," said Brenda.

"I took care of it."

"How?"

"I didn't steal the money if that's what you're asking. I got a job at Josh's car wash."

Brenda folded the top of the bag and sipped her flask. "I can't pay you for this."

"I'm not asking you to. Just take the pills."

"Don't waste all your money on me."

"It's mine to waste."

"These pills won't cure me."

"Neither will the booze."

Brenda went back inside the house and returned with a photo album. "Your father would have wanted you to have this."

Lloyd opened the cover and found pages of photos taken of himself and his team at numerous college games. "What is this?"

"Your father took these with one of his fancy cameras. He wanted to frame all the pictures of you, but he never got around to it." She coughed in her hand. "They're yours now."

Lloyd examined the pages, starting with his Freshman year as a second string linebacker. He flipped ahead to his senior year and found a photo of the Heisman Trophy with his name on it. "I always thought he hated football."

"He hated that you never chose the path he wanted for you. You were driven to succeed. He could see it in you early on. You had real talent for something most people only dream about. He wasn't angry at you for playing football. He was jealous. Seeing you go to prison tore him apart. All your potential, just pissed away."

"Is that why he took his own life?"

"Only two people can answer that. One is God. The other is dead."

"How come Dad never came to visit me?"

"He did on occasion. He just didn't want you to know about it. He could never bring himself to go inside."

"Why?"

Brenda wiped a tear away. "Why do any of us do the things we do? Your father always did the unexpected. That was his nature. I think he felt embarrassed and ashamed."

"For me?"

"For himself. For not doing more to try and keep you out of prison."

Lloyd set the photo album on the tool cart. The more he learned, the deeper his grief descended. "The roof's fixed. I found an old push mower out back. I'll start on the lawn tomorrow."

Brenda hugged him. "I'm glad you're back."

Chapter 30

Leslie Dancroft reviewed her notes beside a box of Kleenex and a large accordion file folder on the steel table inside the muted interview room. Her somber mood exacerbated by the gray concrete walls and dim lighting, she faced the ambiguity of an observation mirror and her own diluted sense of justice as she waited for Morallen's arrival. What she knew to be true, she could live with. What she didn't know kept her up at night, toiling over the case she refused to relinquish despite George's instructions to the contrary.

She found no hard evidence to support Manny Morallen's version of events leading up to Deputy Carter's murder. Without something tangible to balance the scales, her defense was dead in the water. Morallen, a career criminal who'd pimp his own grandmother to keep himself out of jail, gave a statement that held no weight in court. And despite his caustic demeanor and self-proclaimed loathing of men in uniform, Morallen appeared to have the one thing the majority of her client's lacked—a conscience. Nonetheless, eighteen years of courtroom experience convinced her Morallen's jury would conclude their deliberations in the time it took to order lunch. The verdict—guilty as charged with a minimum sentence of life without parole and a push from the state attorney for the death penalty.

She read Blanchart's report over and over, searching for a discrepancy she could parlay into reasonable doubt. Compelled to follow the truth wherever it led her, she refused to give up, prepared to dig in and fight before she pinned her client's fate on a miracle.

More than twenty minutes late, Morallen finally arrived in his orange jumpsuit and restraints. His pork chop sideburns grew ragged on his face, replete with a black eye and substantial facial bruising.

"You're late." Leslie spoke through a stuffy nose. "We don't have a lot of time." She signaled for the armed escort to leave the room before she introduced her digital voice recorder.

"What are you doing here?" Morallen grumbled.

"What happened to your face?"

"I fell down the stairs."

"In a single story jail?"

"It happens."

"I'll talk to someone—"

"Don't," Morallen insisted. "I can handle my own in here."

"Who did this to you?"

Morallen turned away from the mirror. "What do you want?"

"I need to ask you some more questions about your statement."

Morallen put his handcuffed hands on the table. "It's your dime."

"How did you come to know Leeland Marks?"

"What's it matter?"

"How did you get involved with him?"

Morallen rubbed his chin. "We did time together. He offered me a job when I got back to the world. I took it."

Leslie retrieved the crime scene photos from a folder and spread them on the table. "What do you see in these pictures?"

"This some kind of trick question?" Morallen asked. He stifled a yawn and realized his jaw hurt too much to let it out.

"Look at the photos," Leslie prompted him.

Morallen gave a cursory glance. "That's Hugo and the dead cop."

"How can you be certain about the cop with half his face shot off?"

"Because only two cops were there. And the other one's still breathing."

"Do you recognize the shotgun in the photo?"

Morallen shrugged.

"Yes or no."

"It looks like Hugo's gun."

Leslie moved the first set of photos to make room on the table. "Is it possible Hugo shot Deputy Carter before he shot himself?"

Morallen leaned across the table. He whispered in an angry tone. "Lady, how many times can I tell you? Hugo didn't kill no one but himself."

Leslie sneezed into a tissue. She blew her puffy nose and showed a photo of Vince Parr in the morgue. "Do you recognize this man?"

"What are you? Some kind of detective?"

Leslie persisted. "Do you recognize him or not?"

"Yeah. I seen him before. His name's Parr. What's he got to do with me?"

"The sheriff's department found him dead on the side of the road three days ago. Victim of a hit and run. Turns out his prints were also found in the house on Lipscomb Street."

"So?"

"Maybe Vince Parr was in the house with you when Carter was killed. Maybe he saw something he shouldn't have. And maybe you had him killed to keep him quiet."

"From inside this joint?"

"It wouldn't be the first time someone ordered a hit from behind bars."

"Lady I'm just a cook. I ain't got that kind of juice."

"Then who does?"

"How the fuck should I know?" said Morallen. "I only met Parr a couple times. The dude was messed up. That's all I can tell you."

Leslie cleared her throat again. She yearned for the bottled water the officer confiscated before she passed through the metal detectors. "What was your connection to Parr?"

"Parr delivered the materials. Hugo and me cooked the shit."

"And the three of you worked for Leeland Marks?"

"Yeah."

"Was Leeland Marks in the house when Carter was killed?"

Morallen glanced at the camera in the ceiling. "Marks never got his hands dirty. He was all about the business. Like a silent partner. He was the money man. Never touched the product himself. Had a niece who overdosed on meth and croaked. Said he'd never sell to kids again."

"Real humanitarian," Leslie mumbled to herself.

"Human what?"

Leslie rolled her eyes and jotted notes on her legal pad. "Never mind."

Morallen lowered his voice. "You think we could pin this murder rap on Marks?"

"I think it's something we could sell the jury." Leslie gathered the crime scene photos. Given Morallen's criminal background, she had reason to doubt him, yet she trusted his statements. Why exactly, she couldn't say at the moment, but her instincts told her Morallen had something to hide. They also told her he stopped short at murder.

She pulled a copy of the state's lab report. "One more thing... When you were arrested, the sheriff's office tested your hands for the presence of gunshot residue. The good news is, the results came back negative. The bad news is, the sheriff's office didn't test you until they found you two days after Carter was shot. The prosecution will argue you had ample time to wash the evidence away before you were taken into custody." She blew her nose and reviewed the highlighted text at the bottom of the page. "The lab also found traces of GSR on your shirt."

"So?"

"It means you either fired a weapon, or you were standing next to someone who did."

"I told you I was hiding in the attic when the shit went down."

"Then how do you explain the gun powder residue on your shirt?"

"I can't. I didn't shoot no one." Morallen pointed to the accordion file holder. "You got my mug shot in there?"

Leslie searched the alphabetized holder and laid the black and white photo on the table.

"That's not my shirt," Morallen proclaimed. "I mean that's the shirt I was wearing when they busted me, but that's not the shirt I had on at the house."

"Are you sure?"

"I tossed it in a dumpster so the dogs couldn't track me."

"Did you ever fire a gun while you were wearing the shirt?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. Does this mean my case gets tossed out?"

"Not exactly. But it's a win for us."

Leslie gathered Morallen's photo in her folder. She had experience with dirty clients. Dirty cops were another animal altogether. If Blanchart was somehow involved in Carter's murder, she needed more than a convicted felon's testimony and a pile of circumstantial evidence.

"So now what?" Morallen asked.

"Sit tight a little longer. Someone posted your bail this morning."

Chapter 31

Lloyd splashed cold water on his face in the restroom at Sonny's. He wiped a paper towel on his sunburned skin, grateful for the paycheck and supremely hungry for food that didn't come in a plastic carton. Burdened by the circumstances of his father's death, he yearned for an explanation from the man who lay buried beneath the earth. But the conversation would have to wait. He had his whole life ahead of him with no intention of an early exit.

Where his father failed to teach him about the ways of the world, prison filled in the gaps. From the second he'd stepped out of the transport bus, he discovered how life behind bars preached its own set of unspoken rules and consequences. Rapes, murders, and perpetual threats defined the norm in a closed society governed by those in power—and feared by those who lacked the courage to stand tall and face their troubles, real or imagined.

Some problems he left behind; others he carried with him for the long haul, unable to shake the guilty conscience that metastasized from his core beliefs and hindered his ability to carve a better life for himself. A life with dignity and purpose. A life without remorse for the savage acts of self-defense that shielded him from larger predators who broke the spirit of frightened inmates and turned weaker men into slaves. What happens in here today, defines who you are tomorrow, his cell-mate would preach. A man with nothing to lose has nothing to fear. A man with nothing to fear commands respect.

Outside the restroom, Lloyd pulled his time card from the rack on the wall near Sonny's office and poked his head in the customer waiting room to find the last person he expected to see.

Jamie poured coffee in a paper cup. Startled by the loud cha-chink from the time card machine, she bumped the coffee pot on the counter and splashed the back of her hand.

Lloyd grabbed a stack of napkins by the counter. "Did it get you?"

"I'm fine," said Jamie. Her hand throbbed from the scalding burn, but the initial pain wore off quickly, courtesy of the mild sedative in her system.

Lloyd offered the napkins. "You should run it under cold water."

"It's fine."

Lloyd fed a dollar in the drink machine and pressed the button for a twenty-ounce Dasani. He gave the cold bottle to Jamie. "Hold this on your hand. It will take the sting away."

"You keep it," said Jamie, noting Lloyd's sweat-soaked shirt. "You look like you need it more than I do."

Lloyd sniffed the air. Immune to his own fragrance after working in the sun all day, he felt nervous and euphoric at the same time, as if he jumped from an airplane naked. "I'm Lloyd," he said, his smile beaming at Jamie. "You've been here twice this week, and I still don't know your name."

"Do you know all your customers by name?"

"Only the ones that matter."

Jamie blushed. "You're the only car wash in town."

"So I hear," said Lloyd. He wiped the spilled coffee from the counter.

Jamie looked away. "How long have you worked here?"

"A couple weeks," said Lloyd. "How long have you been married?"

"That's kind of personal, don't you think?"

"Not really," said Lloyd.

Jamie twisted her wedding band on her finger. "Twelve years."

"Do you love him?"

"Of course I love him. Why would I marry someone I don't love?" She stared at Lloyd's forearm and the cross tattoo sketched in black ink. "Where did you get that?"

"That's kind of personal," said Lloyd, his radiant smile slowly melting the wall of ice in front of him. "Don't you think?"

"Not really," said Jamie, in lock-step with Lloyd's overt attempt at mockery.

Lloyd strained his imagination to think of something funny to say, anything to coax a reaction from the woman who held his undivided attention. "I got it in prison," he confessed.

"What did you do?"

"I broke the law."

Jamie sipped her coffee. Light cream. No sugar. She felt threatened and secure all at once. She'd done what her husband asked her to do and washed the car. A task she completed with no repercussions to fear, aside from a tinge of guilt for conversing with a man who spent time behind bars. A man with penetrating eyes and a stimulating aura about him. "I should check on my car," she said in an effort to disengage the conversation.

"Do you use the library?" asked Lloyd.

"Excuse me?"

"I go there to read. Thursday nights, usually. It's quiet. And private."

Jamie blushed. She toyed with her necklace, light-headed and anxious to abandon the awkward conversation.

"Your car's ready, Mrs. Blanchart," Sonny announced outside the waiting room.

Jamie dropped her cup in the trash and excused herself.

"You better be clocked out," Sonny harped at Lloyd. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago."

Lloyd pulled his time card from the rack and held it for Sonny to read. He waved the bottled water. "Just came to get a drink."

"Where's your brother? I haven't seen him in days."

"He's sick."

"He better be on life support. No work, no pay. Comprender?"

"I'll tell him."

Sonny took the time card from Lloyd. "I have your brother on the schedule every day next week. If I catch him playing hookey, you'll both be looking for another job."

Chapter 32

Josh waited outside Sheila's trailer home, watching her car make the turn at the entrance. Cigarette butts littered the ground at his feet.

For the first time in years, he finally had his shit together. He worked a steady job, earned a steady paycheck, and found a woman to take care of him. He lived in the present. He planned for the future. He deserved a second chance. A clean start like the one his brother got when he walked out of prison.

He sent Sheila flowers. He left her messages on her phone. He stuck notes on her windshield. He sent her cards in the mail. And yet despite his best intentions, he failed to change her mind about tossing him out of her home and out of her life forever.

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked Sheila when she pulled up beside the trailer and got out.

Sheila lugged her bookbag on her shoulder. She looked haggard, her eyes sunken and dark in the absence of sleep. "What are you doing here?"

"I need my stuff."

Sheila went inside. "You've been drinking."

Josh followed her. "No, I haven't."

"I can smell it on your breath."

"So I had a couple beers to take the edge off. Big fucking deal. You're not the only one who's suffered over this." He tripped on a phone book used to prop the screen-door open. "Where's Logan?"

"Child services won't release him until the judge signs the order."

"I'm sorry," said Josh. "For everything. I never meant to hurt him. You should know I would never hurt you or Logan."

"Save it—"

"I'm serious. I'm really sorry about what happened. You have to give me a second chance. I can make this work."

"It's too late, Josh."

"No, it's not. Please... I can't lose you now. Not like this. My sponsor says I need to reconcile and make amends."

Sheila dropped her bookbag on the floor. "Sounds like a personal problem. Your stuff's on the floor in the other room."

"So that's it?"

"You're lucky it's not on the street. On fire."

Josh shook open a plastic trash bag and stuffed his clothes inside. He searched the trailer for anything else that belonged to him and found a pair of old sneakers, a broken umbrella, and a faux leather jacket he'd bought himself for Christmas. He packed what he could and rifled through the junk in the closet, snagging the loaded revolver when Sheila wasn't looking. "Where's my TV?" he asked when he noticed the empty space on the wall.

"I sold it."

"I paid two grand for that flat screen!"

"I needed the money for school."

"Then sell your own shit."

"You nearly killed my son, Josh. Now you're worried about a stupid TV?"

"I care about getting paid. You at least owe me half. I never meant to hurt Logan. What else do you want me to say?"

"I have class in an hour," said Sheila.

"If I could take back what happened, I would. But I can't. Where the hell am I supposed to go now?"

"Not my problem," said Sheila.

Josh reached for a Coke from the fridge.

"Those are mine," Sheila groaned. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke in the trailer's stuffy air.

"I bought these before I left," said Josh.

"Whatever... Just take them and the rest of your shit and get out of here."

"I need a ride to work."

"Are you serious? Take your own car."

Josh scratched his arms. He could feel his world tearing at the seams. "I'm almost out of gas."

"Then buy more."

"I'm broke."

"Then hitch a ride."

"I don't have time. I could lose my job if I'm late again."

"Again, not my problem."

"Stop saying that," Josh whined. "You keep saying that like I'm some kind of stranger to you." He clicked the ceiling fan on high. "I'm not asking to borrow your car. I just need a ride to work. I'll come back for my car when I get my paycheck. But I can't get my paycheck unless I get a ride to work."

"Sucks for you."

"What do you expect me to do?"

Sheila flicked her ash in an empty can and shrugged her shoulders. "Call a cab."

"I told you I'm tapped out."

Sheila folded her arms. "I don't have time to take you."

"You can drop me on your way to class."

Sheila scowled at Josh. Her eyebrows arched. "Tomorrow's trash day. Whatever crap you leave behind is going in the dumpster."

"Why are you being such a bitch about this? After all the money I spent on you and all the times I fixed your car—"

"Are you finished?"

"You owe me."

"Get out."

Josh lifted his bag of clothes and watched the bottom split open. "Shit!" He shook open another bag and stuffed his belongings inside.

"Hurry up," Sheila spurred him.

"The bag broke."

"Not my problem."

"Stop saying that!"

"It's my house. I'll say whatever the hell I feel like saying."

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!" Sheila snapped back. She kicked the bag. "I'll call the cops."

"Stop shouting at me."

Sheila pushed him backwards. "I said 'Get out!'"

Josh slammed his elbow on the corner of the wall. "You stupid bitch!"

Sheila flicked her cigarette at Josh and missed.

Josh punched her in the mouth.

Sheila fell backwards. She touched her fingers to her bloody lip and came out swinging, her fists thrashing wildly at Josh's head.

Josh fended off the blows with his long reach before he grabbed a porcelain gnome from the bookshelf and smashed it on Sheila's head.

Sheila collapsed on the floor. Blood oozed from the jagged cut above her ear.

"Get up!" Josh shouted. He stood over Sheila's body and nudged her in the back with his foot. "I barely touched you."

He knelt down and put his ear to her chest. "Get up!" He slapped her face and put his hand on her mouth to check her breathing.

Nothing.

He cupped his mouth over hers and blew. He laced his hands and pushed on her chest, mimicking the CPR technique he saw on television.

He leaned in closer and put his shoulders into it, driving the palm of his hand against her breast plate.

He checked her breathing again.

Still nothing.

He dialed 911 on his cell phone but canceled before the operator answered.

The room swirled around him like an Oklahoma twister, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. It was an accident, he told himself. A stupid accident! I didn't mean it...

He peeked out the window overlooking the neighbor's trailer and saw the vacant carport.

This isn't happening... You were never here.

He opened the cello case, shoved the cello into the bedroom, and stuffed Sheila's body inside the velvet lined container. He folded her arms at her chest and crammed her head inside the padded neck partition.

He folded her legs backward at the knee and pushed.

Then he closed the lid and secured the first latch at the bottom. When the top refused to shut completely, he sat on it for leverage, using his body weight to seal the deal. He rinsed his hands in the sink and wiped away any blood he could find on the case's plastic exterior.

He grabbed a bag of kitchen trash for appearances and wheeled the hidden body outside the trailer. The length of a football field spanned the distance to the dumpster—and the first stop on the garbage truck's morning route.

First the baby and now this, he thought. He had gone 0-2 before and watched his brother go to prison. This time he manned up to his own problems and did what he had to do. His years of drug-free existence negated by a single, stupid mistake, he had no one to blame but himself.

He carried the trash in one hand while he pulled the hundred pound load with the other, his progress impeded by the weight of a guilty conscience and the bitter taste of his own remorse.

Chapter 33

Doctor Lacy nudged the designer glasses on her button nose. "Are you ready?" she asked Varden.

Varden shifted uncomfortably on the leather sofa. He thought about his answer and why he came to her office in the first place. No matter how hard the climb or how far the fall, he needed the one thing he hoped Doctor Lacy could provide—closure.

"Mr. Varden?"

Varden held the young doctor's gaze from across the room. "Sorry." He leaned back on the sofa cushion and let the supple leather cradle him. He tapped his heel to vent his nervous energy. "I haven't seen my daughter Trisha since she disappeared. There you have it. Am I supposed to feel better now?"

"When did she disappear?"

"July 11th, 1999," Varden recalled. "I still remember Trisha running around the back yard chasing that mutt her mother bought her for Christmas. The dog wore a purple collar with a nametag. The tag always jingled when he ran. Trisha loved that dog's pug nose. She named him Elvis, but she always called him Elvi. A stupid name for a stupid dog I never wanted her to have in the first place. Trisha's mother never learned to say 'No.' I said from day one the dog was too much responsibility for an eight-year-old."

"What happened?" Doctor Lacy asked directly. She kept her notepad on her desk and her hands in her lap.

"The dog got through the fence. Trisha went after it. Neither one of them came back." He wiped his eye with the back of his hand.

"And you blame your wife."

"Ex-wife. She filed for divorce a year later."

"How did that make you feel?"

"How do you think? My wife was weak. She couldn't handle the stress anymore."

"And what about you? How do you handle the stress?"

Varden undressed her with his eyes. "I take small bites and chew."

Doctor Lacy restrained herself from reaching for her pen and paper. "And the police never found your daughter?"

"I wouldn't be here if they had."

"That's a lot to carry."

"It's what I don't know that hurts the most," said Varden. "I can accept my daughter's gone. What I need to know is why?"

Doctor Lacy crossed her legs at her knees and toyed with the pearl necklace at the front of her satin blouse. "Would it bring you closure?"

Varden sat up. His shoulders tensed. He stared into a void only he could see. "When I find the man who took my baby... I'll find closure."

"Vengeance won't cure the hurt."

"No, but it will take the sting away."

"You don't strike me as the violent type," said Doctor Lacy.

"You don't know me very well."

"Is that why you harbor such resentment for the men in your care?"

"It's not my job to care for them," said Varden. "It's my job to enforce the rules."

Doctor Lacy pushed a lock of hair away from her face. "Do you blame them for what happened to you and your daughter?"

"I blame myself for my daughter. That one's on me. I know she's gone, but part of me... Part of me thinks maybe there's a chance. You know? A small chance she's still out there waiting for me to find her."

"Is that what brought you here?"

"You tell me."

Doctor Lacy turned away to face the window. "I can't bring your daughter back, Mr. Varden. And I can't explain why she disappeared."

Varden leaned forward. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"

"You're invested in the grieving process. That's a good sign. The process takes time."

Varden settled back in the sofa. "Until I know for certain she's dead, I have to believe she's still alive."

"At some point you have to let go."

"Do you have children, doctor?"

"No."

"Then try to imagine for one second what I'm dealing with here."

"I imagine it's a lot."

Varden cupped his face in his hands and mumbled, "You have no idea."

Chapter 34

Lloyd dreamed in vivid colors, his restless movements constrained by the massive erection in his pants. He could feel Jamie's warmth pressed against him, the scent of her perfume so strong he could almost taste it.

He rolled on his side in a pole-vault motion, careful not to bend the swollen appendage under his own weight. He touched his hand to Jamie's face and kissed her painted lips, moist and sweet. He felt her tongue tease his mouth as he pulled her closer to embrace her warmth and devour her like no woman he had ever known before.

He touched her delicious breasts, enriched by her flawless figure, soft and pliant in his powerful hands. He kissed her nipples, brushing his tongue along the textured contours of her skin. Pressure swelled inside him. His heart pounded in his throat when his energy met her glowing aura, sustaining a sexual connection beyond the physical plane—a spiritual bond consecrated by their unbridled passion for one another. Then as quickly as her image came to him, it faded.

Lloyd rolled on his back, his euphoric state obliterated by a shrill announcement piercing the early morning hour.

Varden blew the whistle a second time. His face turned red. "Rise and shine, ladies." He kicked Lloyd's bed frame and flicked the lights on. "Up and out," he yelled across the hall. He pounded the mattress by Marvin's head. "You too, Sunshine. Let's go."

"What time is it?" asked Lloyd, blinded by the rows of overhead track lights strategically placed to maximize their assault on his eyes. He shoved the blanket aside and stood up from the lower bunk. He tucked his somewhat diminished, but still ample erection in the side of his boxer shorts.

"Stow your junk, Mr. Sullivan. That's the last thing I need to see."

Lloyd adjusted himself again, his jubilant fantasy supplanted by the angry warden's callous demeanor.

Varden waited for Marvin to comply. "Let's go, Mr. Tate. I'm not getting any younger."

"Why you gotta run this drill three times a week?" Marvin whined.

"Mind over matter, Mr. Tate. I don't mind, so it don't matter."

Marvin joined the group while Varden tossed the sheets and mattresses on the rack assigned to Tate and Sullivan.

Men grumbled and pointed from the hallway outside, but no one interfered with Varden's mission.

A one-man wrecking ball, Varden tore pillows inside out, turned dresser drawers upside down, and scoured every inch of Lloyd's foot locker until he uncovered what he'd planned to find all along: folded pages from Playgirl magazine. "Would you look at that, Mr. Sullivan." He unfolded the glossy photos and displayed his discovery to the room of spineless observers praying the next bunk Varden searched wasn't theirs. "Looks like Mr. Sullivan enjoys playing for the other team. Who knew?"

Varden turned to Lloyd. "Is this what got you fired up this morning?"

"I've never seen that before," Lloyd stated loudly.

"Do you know what this is, Mr. Sullivan? It's strike number three for you. A ticket back to prison. Section nine, paragraph two, states—"

"I know what it says," Lloyd belted out in frustration.

Varden crumpled the glossy pages in his hand. "Are you trying to screw with me?"

"I'm trying to educate you."

A chuckle from the back of the room extinguished quickly in the heated confrontation.

"Do you prefer the company of other men, Mr. Sullivan? Because as certain as the sun will rise, most every man in this room took a pole between the pillows at one time or another. But I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to enforce the rules."

Lloyd kept his emotions in check. A fight with Varden would only blemish his jacket further and promote another obstacle to overcome when he challenged his parole violation in court.

Varden pressed harder. "What you do outside of here is your business. What you do inside these walls is mine." He pointed his finger at the audience in the hall. "Let this be a warning to the rest of you. There is no expectation of privacy in this facility. Like it or not, you men are under my direct supervision. You are all on provisional status. My policies are zero tolerance. No discussion. No exception. Am I making myself clear? Or do I need to haul the rest of you out with Mr. Sullivan?"

Varden put his hand to his ear. "I didn't hear you."

"No Sir," came the collective reply from everyone but Lloyd and Marvin.

Varden pulled his cell phone from his belt. "Get dressed," he told Lloyd. "I'll have the sheriff here in twenty minutes."

Marvin blocked Varden's path.

Varden stood firm with his hands on his hips. "You got something to say, Mr. Tate?"

Marvin cleared his throat. "The magazine doesn't belong to Lloyd."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because it belongs to me."

Chapter 35

Jolted from oblivion by the sudden impact of garbage truck forks slamming into hollow dumpster sleeves, Sheila regained consciousness inside the pitch-black confines of her musical coffin. With her body pressed against the padded case, she imagined herself on an ambulance stretcher with her head and neck immobilized. In her mind, Logan cried above the low frequency drone from the diesel engine under load as she struggled to move her contorted limbs. Physically immobilized and oxygen deprived, she opened her eyes against the velvet lining with her nose mashed into her face.

Her sense of time and space obscured, she grappled with a muddled recollection of events, oblivious to her concussion and broken ribs, but keenly aware that something was terribly wrong.

* * *

The front loader lifted the dumpster overhead and flipped it upside down, dropping the cello case and its human contents in the hopper with an avalanche of plastic trash bags and sticky refuse. Then the driver revved the engine to power the hydraulic press and compact the jumbled debris with crushing force.

Chapter 36

Lloyd rode the Triumph through heavy traffic, mindful of his speed and the dark blue Chevy Impala lingering several cars behind. He'd spotted the familiar vehicle two lights back, when the driver pulled a U-turn and tailed him on a meandering route through town. Now he recognized the tool behind the wheel, glancing back long enough to make sure Varden didn't lose him in traffic.

Lloyd grabbed the clutch and downshifted with his left foot before he leaned the bike through another turn.

The blue Impala hung back and followed Lloyd through a tree-lined neighborhood with cookie cutter mailboxes and manicured lawns.

Lloyd slowed at the stop sign and checked his mirrors. He remembered the streets that ended with palm tree roundabouts designed to manage the flow of traffic between adjacent subdivisions governed by coercive Home Owner Associations. The nostalgic moment reminded him of a time when his father ran the HOA board for two years in a deed-restricted community before he lost his stomach to the bickering and draconian politics from elected members who made a career out of hassling their own neighbors over trivial covenant violations. The ignorant, highfalutin' mongrels ruled with a Stalin fist, enforcing fines or legal action against homeowners who failed to sweep errant blades of cut grass from their driveways.

After the HOA fiasco, his new parents sold the house and moved the family from the planned community to a well water farmhouse on a two acre parcel, far away from the self prescribed dictators. A place where no one controlled how they lived their lives or what color they painted their shutters.

He turned right, accelerated to twenty-five miles an hour, and followed the street through a roundabout that continued to a four-way stop. This time he sat on purpose, idling, waiting patiently for Varden's blue Impala to catch up and slow behind him.

The trap was set.

Lloyd drove straight ahead, guiding his bike through the narrow space between the shoulder and the island separation that blocked four wheel traffic from entering the adjoining neighborhood. Free to travel without a chaperone, he followed the residential street out to the main thoroughfare and continued toward his final destination.

* * *

Lloyd found a quiet spot near the back of the library, where a corner cubicle with a PC workstation provided Internet access. Thirty minutes before close, he placed the cursor on the search prompt and typed "Jules Verne."

The screen returned several references to the book 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, written by Jules Verne. He clicked on a few hyperlinks and skimmed the text. Then he scrolled to a newspaper article for a Julian Verne obituary with the last name spelled the same as in his father's note.

"Julian Arthur Verne, 73, of Lakewood, Florida, died Monday, December 3, 2003. Mr. Verne was born in Jacksonville, Florida, March 24, 1930. He is survived by a younger sister and an older brother, both from Rochester, New York. Mr. Verne's wife of 40 years, Adrian Lynn Verne, preceded him in death. Funeral services will be conducted at one p.m. on Tuesday at the Seaside Funeral Home."

Lloyd unfolded the crumpled note his father gave him and read the words from a new perspective.

Lloyd,

I'm sorry for what has happened, but this was God's plan not mine. I accept what you have done, and I forgive you. No man is perfect. Sometimes we succumb to our temptations despite our best intentions. I hope this letter finds you in good health and good conscience. I wish I could offer you more. If you need an escape from reality, dig up Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Forgive me for not expressing myself to you in person, but as you know, I have never been a man of words.

Love, Robert.

* * *

A hacking cough reverberated through the library, followed by the bark of a wooden chair leg on a tile floor. A wheelchair motor hummed in the background.

Lloyd sensed someone watching him, a quiet presence stalking him from the rows of dusty books facing spine out. He stood up and stretched, curling his fists toward his shoulders.

A subtle movement caught his eye as a figure spied him from across the room, hiding behind the literary masters bound in paper and ink.

Lloyd strolled toward the emergency exit near the end of the aisle by the water fountain and a window looking out at the side of the parking lot. He recognized the car discretely parked behind a Salvation Army trailer on blocks. The cat and mouse routine had continued long enough. The time to confront his fear was now.

He roamed the aisles one by one, working his way toward the nonfiction section by the wall, where he found his quarry hiding in the farthest corner of the empty room.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered.

Jamie trembled in her yellow sundress. "Just looking," she said, her shallow voice oscillating with every nervous fiber in her body.

Lloyd moved toward her.

Jamie stepped onto a librarian stool and rose above the floor. She gazed down at Lloyd, her breasts even with his chin. She touched her hands to his shoulders, broad and deep—and strong as case-hardened steel. She lost herself in his eyes, enraptured by the energy radiating from his aura.

Lloyd slid his hands along her slender legs. He lifted the bottom of her dress inch by inch, restraining his burning desire while his warm fingers met the back of her sculpted thighs.

Jamie blushed in her vulnerable position. She pressed Lloyd's hands through her cotton dress in a token effort to impede his advance. Her heart raced. Wetness streamed to her delicate region, priming her body to accommodate his thickness. "Don't..." she moaned in protest, her ability to think and reason diluted in her own pool of lust.

Lloyd maintained delicate pressure on Jamie's soft skin, his thumbs caressing her inner thigh, his warm breath and tender lips kissing the front of her belly as he slid her panties to her ankles and brought his smile inside her dress.

Jamie balanced herself with one hand on the bookshelf, her other hand cupping the back of Lloyd's head. Her rational mind felt indecent and exposed, terrified by the thought of someone watching—and the consequences of her tryst. But involuntary actions prevailed, governed by a chemical reaction that promoted an overwhelming desire to experience a physical connection with the stranger she'd fantasized about. Now the moment was hers to indulge, if only for an instant outside the confines of her miserable married life.

She ached for the fantasy she felt compelled to live without, her mood rigid but unguarded, teetering on the verge of insanity from the delicate pressure of Lloyd's tongue. "Don't stop," she groaned, yearning for the moment to last forever.

Lloyd continued his advance, employing slow, deliberate motions on her delicate flesh until he felt her quivering orgasm come to pass. Then he stood up and loosened his belt buckle to relieve the pressure in his pants. His heart pounded with anticipation.

Jamie stepped down from the stool and discovered the intensity of Lloyd's physical prowess. She glanced down the aisle of books before she swallowed the head of Lloyd's perfectly sculpted penis, warm and smooth inside her mouth.

Lloyd savored the sensations in his loins from the amateur, yet proficient ability of the woman who devoured him. When the tingling sensations became unbearable, he tightened his fists and fought the urge to spill himself too soon.

His knees weakened until his willpower collapsed from the strain of agonizing pleasure. Unable to hold out any longer, he gently, but firmly, pulled Jamie's head away and negotiated her backside toward him with her legs spread apart.

Breathless with anticipation, he pressed his warm tip at her entrance, intensifying his desire for a physical connection that transcended a casual encounter and embraced an animal instinct.

He entered her slowly from behind, his fingertips caressing her nipples through the front of her dress while he guided himself in and out, slowly at first, then more assertively.

He moved with graceful thrusts, deep and shallow and deep again. He held her hips in his powerful hands and directed her movements the way a skilled equestrian controlled a spirited ride, pulling her tightness against him before he glimpsed the point of no return, unable to sustain his resistance any longer. He felt her come a second time, his body melting with pleasure as he rocked his hips to glide smoothly within her, pulsing with long, rhythmic strokes until his entire body shuddered in a mind-bending climax.

Chapter 37

Leslie drove west outside Orlando until she reached the outskirts of a small town she knew by heart; a town she grew up in with two younger brothers and an older sister in her family's two bedroom condo overlooking a lake with more alligators than fish; a town Deputy Carter's widow called home.

"My name is Leslie Dancroft." She introduced herself outside Theresa Carter's screen-door. "We spoke on the phone this morning." She held up her government ID card.

Theresa Carter cradled her newborn in her arm, cupping the baby's head in her hand to adjust the hungry mouth over the nipple poking through her maternity bra. She glanced at the laminated identification card and the dirty Lexus in her driveway.

"Is this a bad time?" asked Leslie.

"It's as good a time as any," Theresa offered. She invited Leslie to the living room and sat on a faded love seat with a pillow under her arm and a burp cloth over her shoulder. "Will this bother you?"

"Not at all," said Leslie, somewhat squeamish about the infant's aggressive sucking posture on her mother's breast.

"Some people get offended," Theresa said in a solemn voice.

"What's your baby's name?"

"Amelia. We named her after my great grandmother."

"She's beautiful."

"Thank you."

"How often does she feed?"

"About every couple hours."

"Does it hurt?"

"You adapt to it. I take it you don't have children?"

"Not yet." Leslie folded the page in her legal pad. Doped up on cough syrup and nasal decongestants, she fought to keep her concentration. "Thank you for your time Mrs. Carter. I'll keep this brief."

Theresa adjusted the baby's posture to facilitate the flow of milk. "You said you wanted to ask me about Simon. About the insurance money?"

"Indirectly, so to speak. I'm an attorney—"

"What kind of attorney?"

"I work with the public defender's office."

"Are you telling me you represent the bastard who shot my Simon?"

"I work for the county. I'm trying to learn the truth about what happened."

"What does this have to do with insurance money?"

"The person responsible for your husband's murder—"

"The person who killed my husband is in custody. Unless you came to bring me a check, I want you to leave."

Leslie forced a smile. "Mrs. Carter, the man the police arrested might be guilty of other crimes, but murder isn't one of them. That means your husband's killer is still at large, jeopardizing the lives of other innocent people—of other law enforcement officers. Your husband wouldn't want that. Would you?"

Theresa eased the baby girl from her breast and hugged her against the burp cloth on her shoulder. She patted her daughter's back with a gentle hand. "How do you know this man didn't kill Simon?"

"I can't disclose the details. You have to trust me. For the sake of argument, even if I am wrong, and I strongly believe I'm not, your husband's benefits will be paid to you, in full, regardless of who the jury convicts. I want to see justice served as much as you do, but convicting an innocent man won't bring your husband back."

Theresa waited for the baby's burp before she continued feeding. "What do you want to know?"

Leslie reached inside her purse and activated her digital voice recorder. "Anything you can tell me about Simon, specifically about the night he died."

"I can't remember much, except he never came home. I got a phone call that he was hurt. Dead is dead. No need to sugarcoat the words."

Leslie turned her head and coughed away from Theresa and the baby. Her throat felt achy, scratchy, like she swallowed broken glass. "I'm sorry. I know this is difficult. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

The baby gave a loud burp, followed by a stream of creamy white spit-up.

Theresa wiped the baby's mouth and propped her face on the burp cloth draped over her shoulder. "I call her my little piglet. All she does is eat and poop. And sleep, sometimes." She stuffed a pillow at the small of her back. "Simon used to teach middle school algebra. He burned out after a couple years and wanted a career change. I begged him not to go into law enforcement. I told him I didn't care what he did for a living as long as it didn't involve people shooting at him. The school kids missed him. They were hard on him at times, but they loved him. Teaching was in his heart, not playing cops and robbers."

"Did he have friends in the sheriff's department?"

"A few. He took me to the policemen's dance last year. I was pregnant at the time and didn't feel much like dancing."

"Was there anyone in particular that he liked to socialize with after work? A partner maybe, or a mentor?"

Theresa thought for a moment. "He rode solo like everyone else in the department. His rookie year he rode with the sheriff from time to time. Said it was part of his training plan."

"Sheriff Blanchart?" Leslie asked to confirm her notes.

"Yes."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Only the one time, at a charity event. Simon introduced me to him. I could tell Simon liked him by the way he spoke about him. Simon was proud to work for Sheriff Blanchart. He said Blanchart taught him everything the academy didn't. Simon reached out to him like a big brother. Only white. No offense."

"None taken. How well did you know Sheriff Blanchart?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was he friendly outside of work?"

"He seemed like any other boss, I guess. I know he liked Simon. I can't speak to what he thought about me."

"Did your husband ever complain about Sheriff Blanchart?"

"If he did, he didn't do it in front of me. Simon loved his job, except for the overnight hours. He felt bad about leaving me with the baby at night. I told him it didn't matter. He wasn't equipped to feed her anyway." Theresa forced a smile. "I miss him so much." She propped the baby on her shoulder to start the burping process again. The infant squirmed in her hands, crying in fits and starts.

"I'm sorry," Leslie offered. "I know this is hard for you."

Theresa wiped away a tear. "The last day I saw my husband he left the same time he always did. I packed a supper for him and kissed him good-bye. He seemed distant, quiet, like he had a lot on his mind. The night shift did that to him. He never really took to sleeping in the daytime. That's all I can think of."

"I appreciate your time, Mrs. Carter, especially under the circumstances. You've been a big help."

Theresa stood up and bounced gently with her baby. "It smells like we need a diaper change."

"May I use your restroom?" Leslie asked.

"It's down the hallway on the left."

Leslie gathered her notes in her attaché case. She reached the end of the hall and turned on the bathroom light. Instead of entering the bathroom, she closed the door from the outside and slipped into the adjacent office while Theresa brought her baby to the nursery.

Leslie started with the desk, searching the lateral file drawers for anything that might offer new direction. She found lesson plans, student evaluation forms, and several empty folders leftover from Carter's teaching career but nothing tangible to help her case.

She searched the crumpled printer pages in the trash can. She found a menu for a Chinese restaurant, directions for a breast pump machine, a home equity loan application, and several newspaper articles on methamphetamine abuse detailing the rise of drug labs in suburban neighborhoods. She stuffed the articles in her pocket and powered on the computer to search Deputy Carter's email.

She scrolled through the "Sent" folder and checked the "Deleted Items" box, skimming the email titles arranged by date. When a title caught her eye, she opened the message and read: I talked to Blanchart. He suspects there's a snake in the house. Need to be careful. Can you meet tomorrow?"

She read the email date and noted the recipient's email address—xyzpdq22@aol.com.

"Can I help you?" Theresa asked from outside the study.

Leslie jumped. "I was just searching for directions. The computer was on so I—"

"No it wasn't. I never gave you permission to go in there."

"I'm only trying to help your husband."

"My husband is dead, Ms. Dancroft. Ain't nobody helping him right now but God."

"Was your husband in trouble?"

"I would like you to leave now."

Leslie moved away from the study. "Your husband died under suspicious circumstances. I'm only trying to find the truth about what happened."

"Then search somewhere else. If I find you on my property again, I'll introduce you to the sheriff myself."

Chapter 38

Jamie parked in her driveway and kept the Volvo's engine running. The turn signal indicator flashed in the dashboard display. The smell of sex lingered on her person.

She stared at the pair of dark porch lights, each mounted on opposite sides of the two car garage. Convinced she'd turned them on before she left the house, she surmised one of two things must have happened: either both lights burned out at once—or Alan came home early from his trip and turned them off.

She pressed the transmitter button on her visor and watched the garage door open to reveal the absence of Alan's car. She drove inside, relieved to find the sanctuary of an empty garage.

The door rattled shut behind her while she sat with the engine running. Exhaust fumes polluted the air.

Befuddled, ashamed, and somewhat stunned by the indelible mark she cast on herself and her marriage, she could never undo what was done. Yet despite the guilt, part of her wanted to rewind the tape and relive the forbidden act of giving herself to another man. At the same time, her sensible side demanded she purge the whole experience from her memory as if her rendezvous with Lloyd never happened. And so the tug of war raged on, feeding from raw emotions she endeavored to suppress in her complacent married life. Alan offered food and shelter, at a price. Lloyd offered a new beginning and a reawakening of her senses.

Light-headed from the fumes vented inside the car, she killed the ignition and got out. She headed for the laundry room to throw her clothes in the washing machine. Extra soap. Extra rinse. And an extra dryer sheet to mask any hint of impropriety.

She settled her nerves in the shower, letting the water cascade down her hair and back while she relived the sensuous encounter in her mind. Whatever spell Lloyd Sullivan had cast upon her, he did with skillful acts of pleasure, stoking her fire to the edge of climax and back so many times she thought her vagina would explode. If her body was covered in a billion nerve endings, Lloyd tingled every one of them. His eyes, his touch, the very sound of his voice in her ear stirred a passion deep within her.

She quivered at the thought of his erection inside her. Warm and solid to the touch, but thriving with a life all its own. A masterful piece of human design intended for procreation but capable of delivering such delicious satisfaction.

She rubbed a washcloth on her face, basking in her prolonged afterglow from the exotic exploit that opened a gateway to another world—a place where she felt uninhibited and empowered. A place she yearned to explore again.

Chapter 39

Blanchart waited outside Uri Costa's gated Victorian mansion in a rented Pontiac G6 with New York plates. Dressed in a chauffeur's uniform with a faux beard and a custom wig, he parked behind a wall of maple trees and a wrought iron fence with spear-tipped railings. The radio played hits from the '80s while his thoughts played out a home invasion robbery gone bad.

Blanchart twisted the end of his natural mustache and scrutinized Uri Costa's family photos. He studied the faces of the wife and children; the contour of their lips; the color of their eyes. He knew the family's routine. He knew where the dogs took a shit in the yard. And he knew the guard rotations and the coverage zones for each surveillance camera.

He opened a black briefcase on his lap and reviewed the blueprint of the upstate residence, courtesy of a builder he knew in Jersey. He traced a path with his finger, memorizing the layout of the rooms and the home's primary egress points. There would be no evidence of his involvement, only latent fingerprints and DNA left behind from Leeland Marks.

He rubbed a spot on the window with his gloved hand to clear the condensation. Lakewood belonged to him. He ran the operation with the partners he trusted and no one else—a lesson he taught Vince Parr and Leeland Marks. A lesson Uri Costa and his family wouldn't enjoy.

Thoughts of Jamie kept him warm inside. His wife, his forever partner, had a birthday coming soon, and he wanted to surprise her with something more than flowers or a small gift. The woman he loved more than life itself serviced him to satisfaction. But like any good wife, she needed training, which required patience and perseverance on his part. Lately he wanted more of her than she seemed willing to give. A result of her tattoo surgery, perhaps.

He waited for the black limousine to reach the bottom of the gated driveway. Then he drove ahead a quarter mile to the narrow, one-lane bridge above a rocky ravine and parked in the middle of the road. His plan unfolded on schedule, providing ample time to accomplish his objective and catch the red-eye flight back home.

The limo honked at the empty Pontiac obstructing its path at the narrow bridge.

Blanchart stepped out of the shadows, his outline reflected in the limousine's black lacquer finish.

The driver lowered the tinted glass. "You're blocking the road."

"I'm out of gas," Blanchart said convincingly. "I called for a tow. The guy said he would be here in an hour or so."

"This road is private property," the driver pointed out. "You shouldn't be on it."

"My bad," said Blanchart with his hands in his jacket pockets. "I took a wrong turn and got lost. If you give me a hand, we could push my car far enough to let you pass."

The burly driver got out in jeans and a leather blazer. He stared at the stranger who bore a striking resemblance to himself. "Who are you?" he asked, casually reaching for the 9mm pistol in his shoulder holster.

Blanchart fired the silenced .22 from his jacket pocket and hit his target three times in the chest. "Your replacement."

He shoved the driver over the guardrail and watched the body topple head-long on the rocks twenty feet below. With step two complete, he grabbed his briefcase from the car and climbed inside the Mercedes stretch-limo. He lowered the privacy glass to check for passengers and backed the limo toward a wider section of road to turn around.

He drove to the gated entrance outside the Costa estate and pressed the intercom button. A security camera zoomed on his face.

"What happened?" a voice inquired from the scratchy speakerphone.

"Forgot my wallet," Blanchart mumbled with his driver's cap pulled down to hide his eyes.

"Hurry up," the voice replied.

The tall iron gate opened slowly, granting access to the sloping driveway made of hand-laid stone winding through the lavish grounds toward the home of Uri Costa.

Blanchart drove beyond the second set of hidden surveillance cameras and aimed the gun out his window to silence the Dobermans running toward him.

He approached the circular driveway outside the sculptured double door entrance, where another member of the armed security detail greeted the unscheduled return.

Blanchart waited for the roof-mounted camera to pan away before he jumped out and squeezed two rounds in the security guard's chest. He dragged the body outside the surveillance camera's field of view and checked his watch. He nudged the front of his chauffeur's cap and hustled toward the security operations shack more than two minutes ahead of schedule.

He fired at the set of cameras in the trees to extinguish any view of the driveway perimeter. The effort met with expected results as two men emerged from the security shack to investigate the lost signal.

Blanchart waited patiently behind an oak tree more than thirty feet away until both men stepped toward his line of sight. He squeezed the trigger four times to put two bullets in the back of each man's head before he tossed the weapon with Leeland Marks' fingerprints on the barrel.

He scanned the surveillance monitors in the operations shack and traded up for a dead guard's MP5 submachine gun. He flicked the fire mode selector toward the red "F" to employ the continuous fire mode.

Inside the main foyer, he stood beneath a crystal chandelier suspended from a silver chain, his pulse barely higher than his standing heart rate.

Stepping lightly, he ascended the spiral staircase above the Corinthian pillars separating the formal living room from the rest of the house. Flames crackled in the wood-burning fireplace behind a black mesh screen and a classic assortment of brass-handle tools.

He entered the vaulted master bedroom with the MP5's laser sight pointed at the empty bed. A solid red dot pegged the carved spindle posts and a cluster of down pillows.

Advancing slowly, he found the bathroom more spacious than his first apartment. Moonlight spilled across the marble vanity and the claw-foot tub centered beneath a skylight view.

He checked the rows of walk-in closets and the small sitting room with French doors that opened to a patio balcony. A breeze carried the scent of a Cuban cigar and the rustle of fallen leaves.

The sound of running water drew him back to the hallway and the Jack and Jill bedrooms.

He aimed the automatic weapon at the bathroom entrance and froze when he felt a muzzle at the back of his head.

"Don't turn around," Uri Costa said sternly in an Eastern European accent. "Give me the weapon."

Blanchart surrendered the MP5 to the man in a bathrobe and slippers.

"Now walk back the way you came."

Blanchart hesitated, his perfect plan spinning out of control.

"Move!"

Blanchart stepped away from the railing with a gun at his back.

Costa brought him to the basement that opened to an English garden setting with a brick-paver walkway extending toward an antique Victorian gazebo.

"Who are you to come into my house and threaten my family?" said Costa.

Blanchart maintained his silence.

Costa struck him on the back of the head with the MP5. "Tell me!"

Blanchart fell forward on a soapstone carving. He winced from the steel-on-bone contact.

A guard sprinted from the side entrance. Motion sensors activated a bank of flood lights. "They're all dead!" he exclaimed, nearly out of breath.

"Where's Kenny?" Costa asked.

"He's—he's dead too."

"Miguel?"

"I can't find him."

Costa kept the gun on Blanchart. "Get my family from the safe room and take them out of here."

The guard sneered at Blanchart. "What about him?"

"Just do as I ask."

"What about—"

"Go now!" Costa ordered. He jammed the submachine gun in Blanchart's back and shoved him to the ground face-first. He put his foot on Blanchart's neck and aimed the weapon at his head. "How did you get in here?" He lifted Blanchart's wallet and tossed the empty billfold in disgust. "Tell me, who sent you?"

Blanchart kept silent.

Costa took his foot away and kicked Blanchart in the gut repeatedly.

Blanchart curled himself in the fetal position and reached for the slender knife inside his concealed ankle sheath.

"I won't ask you again," Costa warned him.

"Leeland Marks," said Blanchart, spitting blood.

"Leeland sent you to do this thing? To kill me?"

"He has a contract."

Costa kicked Blanchart again. "I have a message for Leeland Marks." He set the MP5 on the brick half-wall and retrieved a machete from a cast iron urn. "And you're going to send it," Costa said triumphantly with the thin, curved blade raised high. "...one piece at a time."

Blanchart rolled on his side and plunged the double-edge pig sticker in Costa's groin.

Costa shouted in his native tongue, spilling blood at an alarming rate.

Blanchart stabbed him again, venting his anger at the man who'd tried to kill him. A man he knew only from pictures, until now.

Bathed in Costa's blood, Blanchart wiped the knife on his leg and replaced it in its ankle sheath. He retrieved the MP5 from the brick half-wall and confirmed the selector was still set to continuous fire mode. Prepared to storm the sprawling residence and finish what he came to do, he saw another guard approach from the side and took cover against the house.

Blanchart balanced the submachine gun in his capable hands and ripped a line of fire at his unsuspecting target, eviscerating the armed adversary with explosive firepower.

Smoke filled the air. A woman's scream filled the house.

Blanchart wiped his lip. Battered and bruised, he marched to the second floor to start a room-by-room search, limping from the beating he took at the hands of the man he came to kill. A man who sought to ruin everything he'd worked so hard to build.

"If you come out now, I won't hurt you," Blanchart shouted. His voice carried in the open foyer. Bloody shoeprints trailed him on the polished hardwood floor.

He started with the daughter's bedroom, inspecting the space beneath the bed and the area at the back of the closet crowded with dresses and shoes.

He exited through the Jack and Jill bathroom to find the adjoining boy's room empty as well. Another sweep of the master bedroom convinced him the upstairs portion was clear.

Fish or cut bait, he told himself, keenly aware that time was his enemy. If a 911 call went out, the front gate would only impede the local authorities for so long.

He descended the stairs one step at a time, the house eerily quiet, in his hunt for Costa's wife and children.

He searched the main level and returned to the family room, where the furniture seemed out of place near a load-bearing wall at the bottom of the stairwell entrance. The wood-burning fire popped and spat behind the steel mesh screen and the brass handle tool rack with a missing poker.

He moved the sofa and tapped his fist on the sheetrock; the taps produced a hollow sound. He kicked the baseboard. His foot rebounded sharply, accompanied by a muffled whimper.

He pressed both hands near the uneven chair rail to find the pressure sensor that opened the hidden storage compartment beneath the stairs. With access granted, he shoved aside empty boxes and luggage pieces to find Costa's wife huddled in the back with her daughter and son. "It's over," he said in a soft voice laced with bad intention. He kept the MP5 at his side and held his hand out in a token gesture.

"Take what you want," Maria Costa begged profusely. "I'll give you everything. Let my children go."

Blanchart ducked his head and crept forward.

Maria Costa waved a fireplace poker at the armed intruder. Her son and daughter cowered at her side. "Who are you?"

"Your husband sent me."

"What do you want from us?"

Blanchart grinned wickedly. "Your husband tried to take something from me. Now I need to take something of his."

"My children have nothing to do with their father's affairs."

"That's not my concern," said Blanchart.

"I would beg you for mercy, but I see no mercy in your heart."

Blanchart raised the submachine gun at the mother and children.

Maria Costa covered her children's eyes. "You will pay dearly for what you've done and for what you're about to do."

"Not in this lifetime," said Blanchart. He squeezed the trigger to empty the thirty-round magazine point blank and walked away.

Chapter 40

Lloyd straddled the Triumph with the kickstand down and watched the sun fall toward the horizon. The glow cast his shadow on the ground near the wall of plywood sheets that formed a drive-in movie screen. Behind him, speaker posts protruded from the sandy earth like giant match sticks in battalion formation, staggered forty yards deep in rows of ten.

He read the handwritten note scribbled in haste on the dollar bill Jamie slipped him at the car wash. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat. His world revolved around a woman he hardly knew, a woman he yearned to touch. To smell. To taste.

He found more than a physical connection with Jamie. He found a woman who understood him; a woman who accepted where he'd been and what he'd done; a woman long on heart and short on judgment; a woman not afraid to be herself.

He broke no laws. He made no excuses for his actions. He had the right to live his life the way he wanted. The state still owned him, but his future was his alone to decide.

He checked his watch and dismounted the bike to inspect the vacant grounds. He found the abandoned concession stand with the old-time popcorn machine caked in dust beside a cash register with an empty change drawer. Popcorn kernels dotted the floor beneath a spilled container on the counter.

The outmoded theater conjured memories of a time when he snuck through the entrance and hid between cars to catch a low-budget horror flick. He loved the movies, which fueled an early desire to be an actor until his father poured water on the flame. "Actors starve," his father had preached. "Real men earn a living the honest way. Chase your dreams on your own time. You can't support a family waiting tables in a Hollywood dive."

Lloyd picked up a rock and threw it toward the setting sun like a touchdown pass to an open receiver down-field. His heart jumped when he saw the red Volvo exit the highway and double back toward the giant screen. He waited impatiently for his lover to reach him, kicking his boot at the ground.

"I wasn't sure you would come," he said to Jamie, who emerged from the shiny sedan in a sleeveless top and miniskirt. Her perfume carried in the breeze.

Jamie threw her arms around Lloyd and hugged him in a warm embrace. "I can't stay long..."

Lloyd pulled her tight, holding her body next to his. He framed her face with his hands and gazed through her glasses at her beautiful eyes. "I missed you..."

Jamie opened her mouth to him, craving his touch, his warmth.

Lloyd swallowed her with a fervent kiss, his tongue wrapped with hers as he slid his hands down her back and felt her firm, naked flesh beneath her dress. He nibbled at her lower lip, kissing his way along the side of her neck with a satisfying moan.

"I can't do this," Jamie gasped as she pushed Lloyd away. But there was no conviction in her voice. No strength in her effort to physically disconnect herself from the one person she yearned to feel inside her.

"I need you," Lloyd panted. "All of you." He pressed his lips to Jamie's mouth with his eyes wide open, oblivious to the heavenly sunset or the voice in the back of his head warning him against such foolishness with a married woman.

Jamie hugged her arms around his neck, engulfing his mouth with hers, wanting more, needing more to satisfy the hunger consuming her day and night.

Lloyd could feel the wetness between her legs, void of any panty obstruction. A warm, aching fervor throbbed sinfully in his stomach.

"I want to feel you inside me," Jamie whispered in her lover's ear. She locked her arms around Lloyd and jumped onto his sturdy frame, locking her ankles behind his thighs, her body melting with anticipation.

Lloyd carried her behind the concession stand pavilion, facing away from the road. He rested her back against the wall, his fingers kneading her warm buttocks in a sensual massage. He braced her weight in his arms as she tore at his pants and sprung him free.

Lloyd lifted Jamie's hips and slowly brought her onto his thick erection one agonizing inch at a time as Jamie gripped his muscular arms and pressed her lush, tender breasts against him. He could feel the heat between them, a raging fire engulfing them as they clutched one another with their hips in motion, lost in a world all their own.

Lloyd buried himself inside his lover, the intensity of his urgent thrusts rising to crescendo, driven by an uncontrollable desire to please her. He could feel Jamie's nails dig into his skin, her pliant body bouncing in perfect time with every thrust until he felt her shudder with pleasure from the onset of a feverish orgasm.

Lloyd supported her with his arms, his torso defined and rippling with almost superhuman strength beneath his shirt. He slowed his thrusts, plunging himself to her core until he felt Jamie's desire rekindle, almost instant and hot, enveloping him tighter than before. And so he continued, on a seemingly endless quest to deliver all the passion he could summon for his lover, burning deep within him and more pronounced than anything he'd ever felt before. His body melded with Jamie's, gripping her tighter, hotter, and more relentlessly with every thrust of his rigid thickness. The bulbous head of his penis ignited a million nerve endings until his own desire began to overflow inside him, swelling beyond his ability to abstain from the aching need for release. He held on for Jamie's second orgasm, sheathed in the sweat of his endeavor before he spilled himself in one volcanic rush of nirvanic proportion.

When he finished, he helped Jamie lower her legs and balance herself against him on weak knees. Years of emotional neglect and pent-up angst melted in the fantasy come true.

Lloyd secured his pants and belt. He hugged his arms around Jamie with her head against his chest and whispered, "I could stay like this forever."

"What are we doing here?" Jamie asked him. She pressed her ear to Lloyd and heard his heart pounding inside his massive chest, the steady tempo drowning her voice of reason.

"Whatever we want."

Jamie lifted her head and kissed his lips. "Who are you?"

"Whoever you need me to be."

"You don't even know my name," said Jamie.

"And yet I know you better than you know yourself."

"This isn't me. I mean... I don't do things like this."

Lloyd scooped his precious Jamie off her feet and cradled her with one arm around her back and the other beneath her knees. He carried her to the Triumph.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you for a ride."

"What if someone sees us—"

"They won't."

Lloyd placed her gently on the seat. He pointed to the metal prongs mounted to the frame. "Keep your feet on those. Don't stand up."

"I've never ridden a motorcycle before," said Jamie.

"I've never had sex at a drive-in before."

"What if we tip over?"

"Not going to happen."

"What if we crash?"

"We won't."

Lloyd carefully swung his leg up and over. He planted both feet to distribute his weight before he righted the handlebars and raised the kickstand. He pulled the clutch and started the motor. The bike responded with a guttural rumble from the chrome tailpipes. "Hold on."

Jamie grabbed onto him, resting the side of her head against his back, terrified and thrilled at the same time. She closed her eyes when the bike got underway but opened them in the pending twilight when she felt the wind in her hair and the thrum of the big twin motor between her legs. The sounds and motions energized her sense of freedom, adventure, and uncertainty about the direction her life had taken.

Lloyd kept the ride short and circled back to the drive-in theater. He slowed the bike at the property entrance. The rear tire kicked up dust as he carved back and forth between the rows of speaker posts snarled in overgrown weeds. He revved the engine in low gear and popped the clutch, raising the front wheel momentarily.

Jamie screamed in his ear and tightened her grip before the bike skidded to a stop near her car. "Don't do that!"

Lloyd grinned ear to ear. "You're welcome."

Jamie blew her hair from her eyes, still perched on the Triumph's back seat with her arms firmly wrapped around Lloyd's chest from behind. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Lloyd cut the motor and dropped the kickstand. "Tell me you didn't like it, and I won't make you ride again."

"I didn't like it."

"Yes you did."

"How do you know?"

Lloyd kissed her passionately. "Stay with me."

Jamie let go and dismounted from the bike. "I can't." She shuffled toward her car, feeling light-headed from the bout of incredible sex and the euphoric ride on two wheels. "Alan comes back tomorrow morning."

Lloyd followed her. "Ten more minutes."

"I can't," said Jamie. "I have to go."

"My life's empty without you."

Jamie flashed her eyes at Lloyd. "And mine without you. But I can't stay here."

"When will I see you again?"

"You won't."

"Don't say that."

Jamie turned away, her tangled emotions pushing her closer to the hairy edge of insanity. "This isn't a game. If Alan found out about us..."

Lloyd touched her shoulder and caressed her soft, wind-blown hair. "He won't."

"I'm a married woman."

"Who's not in love with the man she married."

"It doesn't make this right."

"Then leave him," said Lloyd. "Be with me."

Jamie took his hand in hers and kissed it. "It's not that simple. There are things you don't know..."

"At least tell me your name."

"Jamie."

"That's a beautiful name."

"I really have to go."

Lloyd kept her hand in his. He rubbed his thumb on the soft texture of her skin. "Tell me more about you. Do you have family here? Do you have children?"

"I thought you knew me better than I know myself?"

"I know you're holding a deep sadness you can't let go. Something in your past. A death in the family."

Jamie pulled her hand away and crossed her arms at her chest. "How did you know?"

"I can feel it."

Jamie wiped a tear from her eye. "I gave birth to a stillborn child three years ago. So no, I don't have children."

Lloyd hugged her and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry." He held her for several minutes, her heart pressed against his. "Stay a little while longer."

Jamie kissed him for the last time and got back in her car with the window down. "I have to go."

Lloyd persisted. "Our life is what we make of it. I can't predict the future. I can't promise what will happen. I can only tell you I don't want it to happen without you. I think of you every minute of every day. There is nothing more precious to me than the time we spend together. If you let me, I can make you the happiest woman in the world."

"At this point in time," said Jamie, "you already have."

Lloyd put his hands on the Volvo's roof and shook his head. "You still haven't answered my question."

Jamie started the car. "I can't be late."

"Meet me here again, tomorrow. Same time."

Jamie drove away.

Lloyd cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Next time I'll let you drive." He mounted the Triumph and watched a blue Impala charge the entrance with its headlights pointed at the concession stand. The car stopped a few feet from his bike.

Varden jumped out with the engine running. "Old habits die hard, Mr. Sullivan."

"What do you want?" Lloyd asked sharply.

"You're trespassing on private property."

"I don't see any signs."

Varden pointed to a patch of weeds where a "No Trespassing" sign hung upside down from a length of broken chain barely visible in his headlights. "Step away from the bike and put your hands on the hood."

Lloyd dropped the kickstand and dismounted. "Are you serious?"

Varden shoved him face-forward onto the Impala's hood. "What are you doing here, Mr. Sullivan?"

"My bike had engine trouble. I pulled over to fix it."

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

"What are you doing all the way out here?"

"Looking for a pay phone."

Varden patted Lloyd's pockets and checked his ankle monitor. "You got anything on you I should know about? Knives, needles, drugs of any kind?"

Lloyd lifted his hands from the hood. "Nothing."

Varden shoved him back down. "I own you, Mr. Sullivan. Your ass belongs to me. Don't think for a second that I can't find you. That I don't know where you are or what you're up to. If I catch you dealing—"

"I'm not dealing."

Varden grabbed Lloyd by the hair and pulled his head back. "Then what are you really doing here?"

"I told you, my bike broke down."

Varden let go. "Where were you headed?"

"Nowhere."

"So you were just joy-riding for the fun of it, just minding your own business all the way to a piece of private property. You know this town as well as I do, Mr. Sullivan. There are only two reasons people come out to this site. To do something they're trying to hide or hide something they don't want you to find."

Varden stood by the Triumph. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and opened the blade. "You said you had engine trouble?"

"That's right."

Varden inspected the bike. He turned the ignition on, pulled the clutch, and pressed the starter button. The motor came to life instantly. "Must have been something in the gas."

Varden looked at Lloyd, still spread on the hood of his car. He wrapped his fist around the knife handle and plunged the blade in the Triumph's seat, slicing back and forth to shred his way through the foam rubber core. He dug his hands inside the cushion and tore a chunk from the base plate.

"You can't do that," said Lloyd.

"It's called 'probable cause' Mr. Sullivan. I'll find what you're hiding eventually."

"That's personal property."

"Your problem, not mine," Varden said hotly. "I know your type. You're a bottom feeder. A parasite who ignores the law and stirs trouble for those around him. That's how you earned your first stint in prison. Tonight I'm going to earn you a second."

Varden smashed the handlebar mirrors. He dented the gas tank with the butt of the knife and unscrewed the cap to peek inside.

"Search it all you want," said Lloyd. "You won't find anything."

Varden stabbed the rear tire. Air hissed from the narrow puncture. "I'm just getting started." He squeezed the tubeless tire as he moved his hand along the tread and stabbed the sidewall. "You might be right about this bike. It's got some issues."

"That's enough!" Lloyd shouted. He got off the car and charged at Varden. "You don't have the right to do this!"

Varden pointed the knife at Lloyd. "You don't have the balls." He turned sideways and kicked the bike until it toppled on its side. "That's for lying to me again." He stowed the knife and retreated to his car. The tires spun wildly under his lead foot, kicking up sand and pebbles as the car spun through a hundred and eighty degrees.

Varden powered down the window. "I could violate you for trespassing on private property, but that would be too easy." Varden gunned the engine in neutral with his arm out the window. "See you back at the ranch."

"How am I supposed to get there?"

"Phone a friend," said Varden. "There's a 7-Eleven with a payphone a few miles from here. Curfew starts in one hour. Twenty bucks says you'll never make it back in time."

Chapter 41

Leslie ordered a large double latte from the coffee house barista sporting a silver nose ring and a pierced tongue. She paid the teenage clown with her debit card and dropped a dollar in the tip jar. Behind her, CNN aired on a plasma TV in the room populated by the usual late night patrons engrossed in a quiet conversation, a riveting book, or a last-ditch effort to finish an overdue homework assignment.

When her latte arrived, she claimed a table for two and parked her caffeine fix beside her laptop. She logged into her government account and turned her screen to face away from any wandering eyes. Working in a public place outside her office—and outside the purview of her boss—made her feel human again. She liked the atmosphere. Subdued, but not dormant, like her apartment.

She opened the case file on Manny Morallen and found the email address she had lifted from Deputy Carter's computer. The anonymous identity of xyzpdq22 perturbed her enough to lob a subpoena at the Internet service provider—courtesy of Judge Dugan, who reluctantly granted her request based on credible, if not slightly skewed evidence.

She sipped her latte, inhaling the steam through her stuffy nose to breach the roadblock between her taste buds and her sense of smell. She tapped her finger on the keyboard touchpad and opened the AOL message.

She read the name registered to the xyzpdq22 account. The name itself meant nothing to her, but the owner's occupation caught her attention. How much did Deputy Carter really know about Blanchart? she wondered. Was it motive enough for Blanchart to kill him?

For the first time in days, her cold was dwindling to the point where she could almost taste her food and drink again. Her spirits were rising. And in her quest for justice, the pieces were finally starting to come together.

* * *

Varden drove the long way home. His desire to spend another night babysitting eight derelict convicts waned with every mile he put behind him. He imagined himself in bed with Doctor Lacy, a fine woman indeed. The type of woman who kept herself in shape and liked to flaunt her sex appeal. The good doctor needed a man in her life, and that man was him. Bold, virile, and ready to tackle any challenge she threw his way.

Approaching the halfway house, he found a dirty Lexus ES300 in his designated parking spot and pulled up alongside. "You're in my space," he told the petite brunette who got out of the Lexus to greet him.

"I'm looking for Ronald Varden," said Leslie.

Varden locked his car. "Who are you?"

"Leslie Dancroft. I work with the public defender's office. Are you Ronald Varden?"

Varden squinted at the pint-size inconvenience deflating his upbeat mood.

"I need to ask you a few questions," Leslie persisted, riding the caffeine wave from her double lattes.

"I'm busy," said Varden. He made tracks toward the house with his keys in hand.

Leslie followed him. "It's about Simon Carter."

"Who?"

"The sheriff's deputy killed in the line of duty two weeks ago. I'm sure you heard about it on the news."

Varden spied the men gawking at the female visitor through the windows. "Not here," he said to Leslie and brought her inside his office. "Shut the door."

Leslie handed Varden a police academy graduation photo of Deputy Carter in uniform. "Do you recognize this man?"

"I work in law enforcement, Ms. Dancroft. I knew about Simon Carter's death before his next of kin were notified."

"How well do you know Sheriff Blanchart?"

"I've worked with him. Why?"

"And you and Carter were friends?"

"What are you driving at Ms. Dancroft?"

Leslie presented a copy of the AOL email. "I found this on Carter's computer. It was sent to you."

Varden read the email. "I've never seen this before."

Leslie showed him a print-out with his customer contact information circled in red. "Maybe this will jog your memory. I subpoenaed your ISP. You and xyzpdq22 are one and the same."

"So Carter sent me an email. What does one thing have to do with the other?"

"Tell me what Carter meant by 'a snake in the house.'"

Varden leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling for several seconds. "Why do you care?"

"I can have you subpoenaed to testify in court."

"About what?"

"The truth. I have reason to suspect Sheriff Blanchart is dirty. So did Deputy Carter."

Varden fed the email print-out to the shredder beside his desk. "Those are dangerous accusations, Ms. Dancroft."

"I'm not afraid of Sheriff Blanchart," said Leslie. "Are you?"

Varden crossed his arms. He stared at the picture on his desk with his daughter holding a black lab puppy surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper and an artificial Christmas tree with an angel on top. "Carter came to me a few months ago. Said he had concerns about Blanchart."

"What kind of concerns?"

"Carter suspected Blanchart of running some sort of underground methamphetamine operation, which is ludicrous. I've known Sheriff Blanchart for twenty years. He can be a hard driver, but he's a good cop. He didn't get to be sheriff by sticking to the rules. There are lots of politics involved. Actions can get misconstrued. Words taken out of context."

"Why did Carter come to you?"

Varden shrugged. "His mother and my sister were tight in high school. Carter was like the nephew I never had."

"And his concerns about Blanchart didn't bother you?"

"They bothered me, sure, but it's not my place to stick my head where it don't belong. Whatever ideas Carter had about Blanchart, they were groundless. Besides, Carter had a habit of crying wolf."

"What do you mean?"

"Carter liked his attention. The more drama in his life the better. He was always finding problems that never really existed."

"What kind of cop was he?"

"He failed the academy the first time around. A good kid. Just wasn't cut out for the job."

"There's no mention of this in his records," said Leslie.

Varden shook his head. "Simon Carter had book smarts. But he was dumber than a bag of sand when it came to life on the streets. He had the brains but no common sense. When he washed out of the academy, he dropped the race card and claimed the county discriminated against him based on his ethnicity. He filed a lawsuit and threatened to expose what he called 'a corrupt system.'"

"Is it?"

Varden gave Leslie a sideways glance. "The judge threw the case out."

"But Carter became a cop."

"So he did. And a damn good one. In a way I guess he proved us all wrong. But he didn't do it alone. If it weren't for Blanchart himself, Carter would have been swabbing floors at Wal-Mart, begging to get his old teaching job back."

Leslie dug through her purse for a tissue. She blew her nose and noticed the family photo of a little girl on Varden's desk. "Is she your daughter? She's beautiful."

"I think we're done here," said Varden.

"You still haven't told me what Carter meant by 'a snake in the house.' His email also alluded to a meeting with you."

"Let it go, Ms. Dancroft."

"Not until you tell me what Carter knew about Blanchart."

"What's your angle in this?"

Leslie wiped her nose. "My client's facing life for the first-degree murder of a Lakewood deputy. My angle is trying to keep an innocent man out of prison and off death row."

"You can't prove Blanchart's dirty."

"Carter was killed in a meth lab along with another man who chose suicide over facing Sheriff Blanchart alone."

"Sometimes bad things happen to good people," said Varden. "You can always find dirt on someone if you look hard enough. Doesn't mean Blanchart's a bad cop."

"Did Carter look hard enough?"

Varden tapped his fingers on the desk. He'd dealt with the public defender's office before, but not with a pit bull like the one in front of him. "Has your client ever been in the system?" he asked emphatically.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It wouldn't be the first time a convicted felon tried to save himself by pointing fingers where they don't belong. No one likes a snitch, Ms. Dancroft."

"I have strong reason to believe my client is truly innocent."

"Because he's puttin' it to you?"

"Because he's innocent." Leslie shifted uncomfortably in her seat, more embarrassed than insulted by the sexual implication. "And I resent your accusation. My case could use your help. If you know something more, you have a moral obligation to tell me."

"I have a house of obligations, Ms. Dancroft. The last thing I need is more trouble coming down on me."

"Even if an innocent man goes to jail?"

Varden encroached on Leslie's personal space. "Every man who comes through this house was tried and convicted of crimes the state could prove. These men are also guilty of crimes the state could not. If your client killed Simon Carter he'll get what he deserves. If he didn't, then let him suffer for the sins of his past."

"How can you be so cynical?"

"I don't pull punches, Ms. Dancroft. I view the world through a different lens than most. If you're looking for sympathy, you've come to the wrong place."

"I'm looking for justice," said Leslie. "You work in law enforcement. Do the words 'protect and serve' mean anything to you anymore?"

Varden checked his watch. "I have a curfew to enforce."

Leslie blocked his exit. "At least tell me what Carter suspected. My client aside, you owe Carter that much."

"I can't be involved in this."

"Did Blanchart threaten you?"

Varden rubbed his forehead and turned around, confronted by a crisis of conscience. "Carter told me he heard things. Rumors mostly. About street level dealers disappearing. No bodies. No crimes. Just gone. At one point he had a dealer in custody for slinging crack in a school zone. The perp was facing a max sentence. Carter said this perp begged him to let it slide. The perp claimed he saw Blanchart kill a rival dealer in cold blood and steal the drugs."

"Did Carter tell anyone else about this?"

"He never said anything more about it to me, and I never asked. Are we done?"

"One more thing," said Leslie. "What do you know about Blanchart's predecessor?"

"Sheriff Neely? Not much. Good cop. Ran a tight ship in Lakewood. He retired a few months before Blanchart took over."

"Charles Neely died in a car accident six weeks before Blanchart became sheriff."

"What are you saying?"

"I think Blanchart killed him—or had him killed."

"We're done here," said Varden.

"Wait—"

Varden put his hand up to push Leslie aside. "You need to get out of my way before you get hurt."

Leslie stood firm. "Did Carter say anything more about Blanchart? Anything at all?"

"He said he wanted me to help him dig into Blanchart's past."

"Did you?"

Varden sighed, contemplating the bleeding heart attorney's true agenda. "I've worked this job a long time. If there's one thing I've learned all these years it's that some rocks are better left unturned."

Chapter 42

Invigorated by his brush with death at the hands of Uri Costa, Blanchart raced across town to the Lakewood coroner's office, blasting through intersections with his lights and sirens flashing. After a long flight marred with technical difficulties, he welcomed a hot shower, a cold beer, and a home-cooked meal from the wife he sorely missed. But the homecoming party would have to wait, thanks to the coroner's urgent message on his phone.

Inside the justice building, Blanchart took the elevator to the basement, munching on a bag of salted peanuts to curb his appetite. His stapled scalp, sutured forehead, and bruised ribs ached like a son-of-a-bitch in the absence of pain medication. But the pain kept him sharp. More alert. And served as a constant reminder to keep his guard up and stay focused on his priorities.

"You got here fast," the coroner acknowledged when Blanchart entered the autopsy room.

"I got your message when I landed," said Blanchart.

"Business or pleasure?"

Blanchart chewed the last salted peanut from his snack pack and stuffed the wrapper in his pocket. "A little bit of both."

The coroner adjusted the calibration on the organ scale. An Indiana native with a teenage daughter and a wife who constantly complained about the Florida humidity, he found solace by himself in the morgue. No one talked back to him. No one nagged him for money. And no one bitched about his dirty laundry on the floor. "What happened to your face?" he asked the sheriff, addressing the obvious without any real desire to know the truth from this man who played his cards close to his chest.

Blanchart covered his face with a paper mask to keep the smell of decomposing flesh from curling his nose hair. "Nothing I couldn't handle." He'd seen his share of bloody bodies and bloated corpses hauled out of watery graves. But in eighteen years of law enforcement, nothing hammered him like the contents from the damaged cello case. "What is this?" he asked the coroner, his voice muffled through the mask.

The coroner snapped on a pair of latex gloves from the box above the hazardous waste bin. "Young female. Or what's left of her. Mid to late twenties. Five-foot-three, give or take an inch. A landfill worker caught part of her arm sticking out of the case." He snapped the corpse's lower legs forward from their backward position. "You never get acclimated to the smell."

Blanchart gagged from the cocktail of decomposed tissue and anaerobically produced gases emanating from the bloated body, which was crawling with beetles and maggots. He inhaled through his mouth and swallowed a peanut chunk stuck between his teeth. "What happened to her?"

The coroner pulled the sheet back further to reveal the entire decaying corpse with a broken neck and one arm severed at the elbow. "From the looks of things, she suffered a crushing force."

"Time of death?"

"Judging by the state of putrefaction and the creamy consistency of her flesh, she died sometime between three to ten days ago."

"Can you be more specific?" said Blanchart, fighting to keep his snack in his stomach.

"I'll know more when the lab results come back."

"Who else knows about this?"

"Just us girls and the first officer on the scene, although he didn't stick around long when I got there. I called you as soon as I realized what we found."

"I'll need the officer's name."

"It's in my report."

Blanchart examined the woman's bloated body. He scrutinized a distorted butterfly tattoo above her pubic bone. "Did you find anything else inside the case?"

"No purse. No ID. But I did find a cell phone when I examined the body."

Blanchart covered his hand on his mask and inhaled through his mouth. "Her name's Sheila Jarvis."

"How do you know?" the coroner asked, somewhat surprised.

Blanchart pointed to the initials S.J. engraved on the cello case handle. "I also recognize the sloppy tattoo."

"A runaway?"

Blanchart shrugged. "A prostitute. I collared her two years ago for possession."

"I'll pull her file and compare the dental records. I'll let you deal with the next of kin."

"I can't recall any," said Blanchart, still lost in thought.

The coroner reviewed his notes on a clipboard by the autopsy table. "I did a rape kit to rule out sexual assault. Her torn labia and pelvic bone position indicates she gave birth fairly recently."

"How recently?"

"Three to four months. I sent a blood sample to the lab. I should have toxicology results in a few weeks."

Blanchart stepped away from the autopsy table. He used a Polaroid camera to snap a photo of the body. "Cause of death looks obvious to me."

"Not necessarily. She suffered numerous broken bones to her upper and lower extremities. Her lumbar vertebrae were shattered. I also found evidence of blunt force trauma to the occipital region of her skull but no indication of internal bleeding about the brain. All of these wounds were serious, but none of them killed her."

"Then what did?"

"Petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes supports my initial finding of traumatic asphyxiation, usually associated with victims who suffocate in an overturned car, or an avalanche, mud slide, that sort of thing. The enormous pressure bears down on their entire body and impairs their ability to breathe. I also found broken fingernails and defensive wounds on her hands and wrists, suggesting signs of struggle. Or an effort to claw her way out."

"You're saying she was stuffed inside the case alive?"

"It's possible."

Blanchart used a glove to examine the cell phone from the evidence tray. He scrolled through the list of calls. "I'll dump the phone records and have this dusted for prints. Fax me your autopsy report when you're finished. And forward all the lab results to me."

Chapter 43

Lloyd centered the Triumph on the plywood ramp extending from the tailgate of Marvin's truck. "I owe you," he told Marvin outside the halfway house.

Marvin helped him steady the machine on flat tires before the two men rolled it down the ramp tail first and propped it in an empty space.

"I mean it," Lloyd continued. "About the other day—"

Marvin shoved the boards in the truck bed and shut the tailgate. "Don't sweat it, Sullivan. You know I got your back. My time's almost up in here. I got a couple strikes to spare. You don't."

Lloyd assessed the bike's condition. The tires were trash, but the rest of the damage could be fixed with minimal effort. "I'm glad you were here when I called."

"I haven't been to that old drive-in for as long as I can remember," said Marvin. "I suspect neither have you."

"Just out for a ride."

"Is that lipstick on your neck?" asked Marvin.

Lloyd wiped at his neck.

"Other side."

Lloyd ran his hand through his hair. "I had a date."

"I hope she was worth it," said Marvin. "I've seen Varden go postal before, but not like this. Whatever you did to piss him off, it worked."

Lloyd nodded in agreement and checked his watch. Ten minutes to spare before curfew. "I just want my old life back, you know. Before everything went to shit."

"The old life died when you hit the joint," said Marvin. "Better to forget the past than ignore the present. Stop thinking about where you been and start looking at where you're going. You need to get your act together. Varden's got his hooks in you. Don't let him tear you down."

Lloyd thought about Marvin's advice, and he thought about Jamie. About the life he wanted to have with the woman he barely knew. A woman with the voice of an angel and a radiance that warmed him from the inside out. "Do you believe in Karma?"

"What are you asking me?"

Lloyd rephrased the question. "Do you believe our destiny is what we make of it or do you believe God plays a hand in all things?"

Marvin followed Lloyd to the house. "I believe there's a purpose for everything. Whether God's part of the equation for me or not, the jury's still out."

Lloyd met Varden at the door, expecting another confrontation in public.

Varden shook his head and grudgingly pinched a hard-earned Jackson from his money clip. He gave the bill to Lloyd and said, "Your luck won't last forever."

Lloyd stuffed the money in his pocket and thought, Neither will yours.

Chapter 44

Jamie scrubbed the bathrooms and the kitchen. She polished furniture to remove any trace of dust. She washed windows until the glass appeared invisible. She sorted clothes, folded towels, and paid the bills—anything to distract herself from the guilt stuck to her like warm syrup.

A prisoner in her own home, she'd discovered a newfound freedom, an emotional escape she could exercise at her own discretion while her husband attended to his business on the road. She'd shared herself with another man for reasons she failed to completely understand. In a moment of weakness, she'd severed her marital vows the instant Lloyd Sullivan penetrated her behind a wall of library books. In the wake of her indiscretion, she'd buried her remorse and met him again, despite her misgivings about their first rendezvous.

What happened, happened. She could neither undo the tawdry events nor erase them from her memory. She could only move forward with her normal routine and pretend to find happiness in the role of Mrs. Alan Blanchart. A role she'd grown adept at tolerating.

She jumped when the doorbell rang.

No one ever came to the front door. Not even Alan, unless a power outage knocked out the garage door opener.

The doorbell chimed a second time.

"Who is it?" she called out.

Through the blinds, she saw a taxi drive away from her house.

Paranoia rippled through her. Does Lloyd know my address? Did he follow me home? What if a neighbor saw him? What if Alan comes home early?

She checked the peephole and opened the door, relieved to greet the only friend she stayed in touch with. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Surprise!" said Samantha. She waved her arms in the air above her tube top shirt. Gold bracelets jingled on her wrists.

Jamie hugged her. "Seriously. What are you doing here?"

Samantha rolled her luggage into the house and dropped her Dolce&Gabbana handbag on the floor. She smiled through glossy lips, her face painted tastefully with Bobbi Brown hues harmonizing her eyes and hair. "It's your birthday, girlfriend."

"Not for two more days."

"So shoot me. I wanted to surprise you."

"You're lucky I was home," said Jamie.

"Lucky? You look like you just came back from a funeral. I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"I am," said Jamie. "I just wasn't expecting you so soon." She brought Samantha's luggage to the guest room and parked the bags by the bed. "It's not the Ritz, but it's comfy. I keep fresh sheets on the mattress. There are clean towels in the bathroom."

* * *

Samantha followed Jamie to the vaulted living room where plastic sheets covered the furniture opposite a grainy, black and white portrait of Alan's grandmother above the fireplace mantel. The house felt cavernous compared to her studio apartment. "This house is so much bigger than your other one."

"We thought we needed more space..."

"You look great," said Samantha, trying to keep the conversation on a happy note. She glanced at the baseboards that glistened like wet paint. The polished coffee table reflected the china cabinet with rows of crystal stemware perfectly aligned inside. "It's so quiet out here."

"Alan likes the privacy. Most of our neighbors are snowbirds."

"Is Alan home?"

"He's been traveling, but he'll be back early tonight."

Samantha roamed around the house. "I'm in the mood for a martini."

"We don't have vodka."

"Then let's make margaritas."

"I don't have tequila either."

Samantha stared through the sliding glass doors at the sparkling pool outside. "What do you have?"

"There's beer in the fridge."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Alan likes beer."

Samantha opened the glass doors and stepped onto the pool deck overlooking a spacious backyard with a storage shed and a view of the nature preserve extending beyond the property line. "Then let's go to happy hour."

"I can't," said Jamie.

"Why not?"

"I made dinner for Alan. We always eat dinner together when he gets home."

"I think he'll survive one meal without you."

"He's been on the road," said Jamie. "Tonight's important to him."

Samantha let it go. She dipped her hand in the pool. The warm water felt good. "So what's up with you?"

"Not much. You want something to drink? I've got water and ice tea. There's also diet soda in the fridge."

Samantha dried her hand on her Lucky jeans. "Why do you always change the subject when I ask you a question you don't want to answer?"

"I just asked you if you want a drink?"

"That's what I'm talking about," Samantha complained. "You hardly call any more. You never visit. I haven't seen you in like a year."

"I've been really busy."

"Doing what?"

"Stuff. I volunteer at the library. I keep the house in order. Alan likes everything to be in order."

Samantha wiped her finger on the spotless coffee table. "So what do you do for fun?"

"Alan and I go out all the time."

"I meant for you."

Jamie went to the kitchen and filled a glass from the water dispenser in the fridge. "I'm married now. I spend my free time with Alan."

Samantha stretched out in the chaise lounge beside the pool. "No drinks, no job, no parties, no friends. How do you live like this?"

"I have friends."

"Who?"

"Lots."

"I meant friends who live in Florida. If it wasn't for me, none of the other girls would even know you still exist. You're so sheltered down here all tucked away in your Mayberry town."

"I like Mayberry," said Jamie. "Just because you live in a big city doesn't mean I have the same desire. You're always worried about what I should or shouldn't do. I'm turning forty in two days. I'm not in college anymore. I don't dance on tables or do tequila shots until I'm wasted. Life's always been one big party for you. It's not the same for me."

"Maybe it should be. You're turning forty, not eighty. Loosen up. It's not like you've got a family to take care of."

Samantha thought about her comment after the fact. The topic of Jamie's stillborn son was out of bounds, even for a BFF. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. I'm just saying you're not burdened with a ton of responsibility. You should take more time for yourself, that's all. Ever since you got married, you've become like this different person."

"People grow up. People change. We're not kids anymore, Samantha."

"I think your husband's too controlling," Samantha blurted. "There. I said it. You can hate me if you want to, but it's true. He micromanages your life. I can't tell where he leaves off and you begin."

Jamie got up when she heard the garage door open. "Alan's particular. That's all."

* * *

Alan finished his dinner plate and retreated to his study, leaving Jamie and her uninvited guest to clear the dishes. Locked inside his own sanctuary, he sat at his computer desk and reviewed the log of inbound and outbound calls from the landline phone. He found two outbound calls he made to his mother and several inbound calls from telemarketers, but nothing to warrant further scrutiny.

He checked the video server for digital footage captured on the hidden cameras placed throughout the house. Prerecorded images appeared on separate twenty-one-inch monitors covering the main living areas as well as each bedroom, bathroom, and the garage.

He fast-forwarded through the majority of the seventy-two-hour log, bouncing his gaze from one image to the next. He found nothing unusual at first, until he reached a bathroom sequence with Jamie primping herself in the mirror.

He read the time stamp and questioned why his wife felt the need to paint her face and do her hair at six forty-five in the evening. He dragged the mouse and skipped two hours ahead to find Jamie hauling a load of groceries from the car at eight thirty-five. He watched her unload the food in the kitchen, and he watched her shower before she went to bed.

He closed the file and clicked on the live feed from the hidden camera tucked inside the guest bathroom's exhaust vent. He adjusted the wide angle view and pressed record to capture his female visitor. Aroused by the thought of Samantha naked, he touched himself and played out a violent fantasy. No woman knew him the way Jamie did, but not even his wife could tempt his pleasure the way a stranger in his own house could.

He switched cameras and observed Jamie and her girlfriend lingering in the kitchen. He zoomed on Samantha's breasts, determined to exploit her feminine features in his twisted imagination. It felt good to be home. Content in familiar surroundings.

He touched the staples in his scalp and relived the final moments of the Costa family's life while he stared at Samantha's image on the screen. The tingling sensation brought him to the edge of climax before his cell phone rang and shattered his private moment of reverie.

"Blanchart," he answered on the fifth ring.

"Sorry to bother you at home, Sheriff."

Blanchart recognized the deputy's voice. "What is it?"

"I dumped the cell phone records like you asked. The phone's registered to a Sheila Jarvis on Pinkerton Street. It's a trailer park near—"

"I know where it is."

"Her last call went out to a Josh Sullivan. I pulled his DMV record and got a last known address at the same location. You want me to pick him up?"

"No," Blanchart answered decisively. "I'll take it from here."

Chapter 45

Jamie relaxed in a pool-side lounge chair with a baggy shirt over her one-piece swimsuit. Sheltered from the gecko lizards, garden snakes, and other creepy crawlers outside the screened lanai, she sipped her margarita through a straw, compliments of Alan, who'd bought the margarita mix and the bottle of top shelf tequila to go with it. A special gift for a special celebration, he had told her before he went on duty.

Samantha finished her second margarita in her favorite pink bikini and her D&G shades. "I could get used to this—especially with the Cuervo buzz I'm getting."

Jamie crossed her legs and looked over at her friend. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too."

Jamie sipped her margarita until a brain freeze set in. "So tell me about this guy you met online. Is he cute?"

"He's cute enough," said Samantha.

"What else?"

"We met at a coffee shop in Manhattan and talked." Samantha smiled. "Nothing happened."

"Did you leave together?"

Samantha licked the salt on the rim of her glass. "What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"Desperate."

"I am not."

"You said so yourself."

"When?"

"The last time we talked."

"Like you remember what we said."

Jamie tapped her head. "Like a steel trap."

"You're full of shit."

Jamie laughed, something she hadn't done in a long time. It felt good. "You said your vibrator batteries went dead."

Samantha blushed. "Stop it."

"So what happened on this date?" Jamie pressed her closest friend. "What is it you're not telling me?"

"Honestly, he was cheesy like all the rest. He didn't even look like his picture. He uploaded his brother's photo online because, and get this, he told me, 'The camera makes me look fat.'" Samantha laughed until it hurt. "The camera didn't give him bad breath. Or the bushy eyebrows and the big honking nose."

Jamie touched Samantha's arm. "You're so mean. I'm sure he wasn't that bad."

"He was cheap, too. I had to pay for my own coffee."

Jamie chuckled. "You can't find a good man on the Internet. There are too many creeps out there. You never know who you'll end up with."

Samantha slurped the bottom of her glass through her straw. "I think all the good men got beamed into a spaceship and shipped to another planet to be sex slaves for some dying race."

Jamie twirled her straw in her glass. "Do you ever think about having kids?"

"Are you kidding me? My cat is all the stress I can handle right now. And it's not like I need a man to have a baby." Samantha got out of her chair and dipped her foot in the pool. Her gold ankle bracelet shimmered in the sunlight. "You ready for another refill?"

"I better not," said Jamie. "How much tequila did you put in these?"

Samantha went back inside to dig her cigarettes from her purse. "You only turn forty once, and I need a cigarette," she said from the kitchen.

"Don't smoke in the house," Jamie hollered. "Alan hates the smell. He'll be home soon."

Samantha carried the margarita pitcher and a pack of cigarettes outside and poured two refills. "Relax..." She lit up and blew smoke away from Jamie. "My smoking's not the problem."

"What are you implying?" Jamie snapped.

"Nothing. Let's have a toast. It's your birthday."

"I can't change who I married."

Samantha tapped her ash in an empty Diet Coke can. "Why not? People change partners like they change their sheets."

"Alan's not my partner. He's my husband."

"Who treats you like the family pet."

"That's not true."

Samantha took a long drag and pointed to the burned patch of skin on Jamie's shoulder, just visible under the shirt. "What happened to your butterfly tattoo?"

"I had it removed."

"Because you wanted to or because your husband made you do it?"

"I never liked it in the first place," said Jamie. "It was an impulse decision. Those are always the worst kind to make."

Samantha rubbed her tan leg and pointed to the bruise on Jamie's thigh. "You didn't get that pulling weeds."

"I work hard around the house. Not all of us can earn a living on stage."

Samantha blew smoke. "Alan keeps you on a leash. I'm sorry. I had to say it."

"Sometimes he's strict about things."

"He's controlling."

Jamie covered the bruise with her hand. "He has a stressful job."

"Is that how you got the bruise on your leg?"

"It's not a bruise. It's a mild discoloration. I could have got it having sex."

Samantha lowered her tinted glasses on her nose and studied Jamie's expression. "With Alan?"

Jamie shied away—she didn't want to go there.

But Samantha was already there. "Oh my God! I should have known. You met someone, didn't you?" Her grin lit up her face. "I knew you were acting weird yesterday. It wasn't me you were expecting to see!"

"That's not true."

"Then tell me I'm wrong. Look me in the eyes and tell me you're not having sex with another man."

"Keep your voice down!"

"Alan's not home."

Jamie felt lightheaded. She'd stuck her foot in her mouth so deep the laces tickled the back of her throat. "I'm not having this discussion."

"It seems so obvious now. That's why you didn't return my calls. You were hooking up."

"Stop it. If Alan found out—"

"Then it's true."

"I'm not saying it is."

Samantha dropped her half-smoked cigarette on the pool deck. "Is he good in bed?"

"Samantha..."

"I'm just asking."

"It's not about the sex," said Jamie.

"Yeah right. And you're fucking him for his inner beauty."

"I like him. I feel safe with him. I feel like I can be myself. He makes me feel good on the inside."

"I'll bet he does. What's his name?"

"Lloyd."

"Ohhhh... That sounds, sophisticated. What does he look like?"

"He's tall. Handsome. Strong. He has a big tattoo on his arm. And he rides a motorcycle."

"Bad boys aren't your type."

"He's not like that," said Jamie, defending her reputation in spite of the truth.

"How did you meet him?"

Jamie stared through the screened enclosure at a sand crane family trolling for grubs in the grass. "In the library."

"You're kidding."

Jamie blushed. "Swear to me you'll never share this with anyone."

Samantha rummaged in her purse for a folded pamphlet stuffed between her pocketbook and her makeup case. "I want you to look at this."

Jamie read the title, A New Beginning. "What is this?" She read the introduction and said, "I'm not going to a women's shelter."

"You said yourself you feel trapped in your marriage. I know how Alan treats you, Jamie. These people can help you."

"Where is this coming from?"

"If you're brave enough to have sex outside your marriage, you're brave enough to leave your husband."

"I can't. I'll lose the house, my marriage—"

"What marriage? Alan abuses you. Can't you see that? The longer you stay with him, the worse it's going to get."

"Have you ever seen me with a black eye or a broken nose? I've never been to an emergency room."

"That doesn't mean he doesn't hurt you. Alan controls every aspect of your life. Where you go, who you talk to, who you see. You should have left him a long time ago."

Jamie sniffed a peculiar smell from her drink. An odor she hadn't noticed before. "Alan can be stern sometimes, but he never hits me."

"He doesn't have to. I see how he looks at you. I know the kind of life you've had with him. You deserve so much better."

"It's not that simple."

Samantha touched Jamie's hand. "I have a contact in New York who can set this up."

"I'm not moving to New York. My life's here."

"You mean your lover's here."

"My friends are here."

"What friends?"

Jamie gave the pamphlet back. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"I'm not leaving here without you," Samantha prodded. "This is for your own good."

"What do you expect me to do? Just pack up my stuff and leave?"

Samantha flipped her hair back. "Women do it all the time. I've already contacted someone who can help. I told her about your situation. She wants you to come to New York."

Jamie shook her head. "Forget it. Alan would find me."

"My flight leaves tomorrow. I bought an extra ticket."

"This is crazy," said Jamie. She heard her own words echo in her head. Her eyelids felt heavy. "I need a glass of water."

"Don't change the subject on me."

"I'm serious. My head's killing me."

"I'll get a glass," Samantha offered, standing up.

* * *

Samantha entered the kitchen through the sliding glass doors and heard a noise in the bedroom hallway. She filled the tumbler from the water dispenser in the fridge and called out, "Hello?"

She a felt her stomach grumble. As usual, her buzz and hunger pains went hand in hand.

A noise brought her to Blanchart's study. She knocked softly and found the handle locked. "Hello?"

When no one answered, she stepped to the door at the end of the hall and entered the room decorated with children's wallpaper. A crib with a hanging fish mobile occupied one wall. A changing table with an empty diaper bin sat between the crib and an open closet with tiny pajamas and boxes of infant Huggies.

Samantha inspected the empty crib with a baby blanket neatly folded against a Webkinz monkey. She nudged the gliding rocker and watched the chair slide seamlessly back and forth in its frame. She felt happy and yet somewhat melancholic at the same time.

She left the nursery undisturbed the way she found it and gently shut the door. She carried the glass of water to the guest bedroom and searched the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Tylenol to suppress her sudden headache.

She shut the medicine cabinet and stared at the room's reflection in the mirror. The image looked hazy like a picture out of focus.

Her balance was failing as she began to sway.

She pulled the shower curtain open to placate her paranoia and swallowed two extra-strength capsules before her legs gave out and the floor rose up to meet her.

The glass smashed on the tile.

Dazed and disoriented, she found Alan Blanchart standing over her, his multiple heads a distorted menagerie of crooked smiles and sutured foreheads.

Blanchart rolled Samantha on her front and dragged her into the bedroom. He ripped her bikini bottom off and used his crushing weight to bear down on her.

Samantha endured the assault, her mind and body powerless against the drugs in her system and the monster disguised as a man.

When Blanchart finished, he zipped his pants and whistled a post-coital tune. "I own this town and everything in it, including you. Remember that before you drop by again unannounced."

Samantha curled herself in a ball. "I'll kill you."

Blanchart tucked his uniform in his pants and fixed his hair. "Those are big words."

Samantha felt the room sway.

Blanchart smirked. "Next time, smile for the camera. You never know how far a video will travel these days."

Samantha stood on wobbly legs and steadied herself against the wall. She knocked a picture frame with her elbow. "You won't get away with this."

Blanchart squeezed his hand on her throat and pinned her against the wall. "Remember this, Sweet Pea. You have no one to blame but yourself. And I have friends in high places."

"Let go of me," Samantha uttered.

Blanchart smacked her in the face. "That's for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." He smacked her again on the opposite cheek hard enough to leave a bruise. "That's for a lousy lay." He grabbed her open suitcase from the bed and dumped the contents on the floor. "Get dressed and get out. If I ever catch you in this house again, I'll kill you."

Chapter 46

Josh dumped the last of Brenda's silverware in his backpack and scavenged all the canned food he could steal from the pantry. A lit cigarette dangled between his thin, cracked lips. Scraggly hair fell in his glazed, insomniac eyes. Absorbed in a guilt-ridden stupor, his survival instincts took over, obscuring any rational thought about his predicament.

Unappreciated and now unemployed, Josh liberated the silver candlestick holders from the dining room table and pilfered anything else he could carry, including his father's bowling trophy with a brass faceplate. When he finished at the front of the house, he pawed through Brenda's dresser in her bedroom and emptied the antique gold from her jewelry chest.

"What are you doing?" Brenda hissed from her bed, barely lucid from her battle with end-stage cirrhosis. She reached for her glasses on the nightstand. "Where's Lloyd?"

"He left."

"Those don't belong to you."

"You won't be needing them," Josh mumbled through the cigarette dangling between his lips.

"That jewelry belonged to your grandmother," Brenda scolded him. She forced herself out of bed and followed Josh outside, groaning in pain. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

Brenda scratched her arms. "I have to pee. Don't throw your life away. You owe your brother more than that."

Josh started Sheila's Mustang and revved the engine. "I gotta go," he said without looking back at his adoptive mother who propped herself upright with the help of a cane.

Josh flipped his cigarette out the open window and found the rumpled road atlas in the heap of dirty clothes on the passenger seat. Rain dotted the windshield.

He drove away with a trunk full of stolen property, a carton of cigarettes, and ninety-seven dollars in small bills he'd skimmed from the register at Sonny's. Haunted by Sheila's image, he rubbed his eyes and begged forgiveness. Nothing made sense anymore. Not since Lloyd returned from prison. Not since Sheila made a mess out of everything. He needed time to think. Time to find himself again, without getting high or running to Lloyd to solve his problems. He needed time to forgive and forget. Time to focus on his future and what he wanted his life to become.

He stuffed his gun in the glove compartment and fumbled with the atlas, holding the wheel with his knees. The wipers stuttered back and forth. Condensation fogged the windows.

Leaving Florida was the easy part. Traveling cross-country to Mexico would take time. He wanted a place on the beach. Nothing fancy. A room with a bed and a television. He'd hock the stolen property to support himself until he found work. By the time anyone reported Sheila missing, her car would be long gone.

He slowed at the intersection and nudged his blinker to turn left at the green light. He waited for an oncoming car to pass while the light changed from yellow to red a second before he made the turn. When he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw the flashing blue lights appear and thought, What the hell?

He slowed his speed, hoping the cop would pass him, but the car stayed on his tail.

Stay calm. You ran a red light. Idiot. Take the ticket and move on.

He pulled onto the shoulder and waited for the cop to get out and approach him. He turned his wipers on when the rain picked up and rubbed his hand down his greasy face.

Shit, shit, shit.

The cop's headlights blasted through the Mustang's rear window. Cars passed on the left, pausing long enough to catch a glimpse of the late night scene.

Josh lowered his window and squinted at the flashlight in his face. "Is there a problem, officer?"

"Where are you headed in such a hurry?" Blanchart asked him. Rain danced on his sheriff's hat.

"Nowhere."

Blanchart inspected the car. "You always pack so much stuff for a trip to nowhere?"

Josh swallowed dryly. An acrid taste lingered in his mouth like bad morning breath. "I'm on vacation."

"At one AM?"

"I got a late start."

"Go ahead and pop the trunk for me."

Josh pulled the lever.

Blanchart inspected the random contents in the trunk and strolled around to the driver's side. "Step out of the car for me."

"I didn't see the light turn red."

Blanchart brandished his service pistol. "I'm not going to ask you again."

Josh got out of the Mustang with his hands in the air. "I don't want any trouble," he pleaded.

"Turn around and put your hands on the roof."

Josh leaned toward the car spread-eagled. He shivered in the rain.

"Do you have anything sharp in your pockets?"

"No."

Blanchart patted him down and secured his hands behind his back.

"Am I under arrest?"

Blanchart escorted Josh to the back of the cruiser. "Get in."

Josh scooted across the vinyl seat with his wrists handcuffed behind his back. Wet hair hung in his eyes.

Blanchart drove west, away from the interstate along a desolate road through the sparsely populated farm land. Random bursts of static came over the police radio. Wipers swiped intermittently. "How do you know Sheila Jarvis?"

"She's my girlfriend," said Josh.

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"A few days ago."

Blanchart drove slowly, his headlights diminished by the driving rain. "Child services has her son. The doctor told me the child suffered physical abuse. He also told me you were the last person to have contact with the boy before the paramedics arrived."

"It was an accident. The kid fell out of the crib. I already explained this to the other cops."

Blanchart glanced over his shoulder as he drove. "Was that before or after you killed Sheila?"

"I didn't kill her," said Josh, fidgeting with his hands behind his back. "I haven't seen her in days."

"We found her body at the dump, Josh. She was crammed inside a cello case with your fingerprints on it."

"There must be some mistake."

Blanchart abandoned the main road and followed a private entrance that wound toward the Saint John's River. "The only mistake was not arresting you sooner. You're facing a serious stretch in prison."

"I didn't kill her."

"Did you know she was still alive when you dumped her body? She lived for hours. Paralyzed. Scared. Until the garbage truck compactor snapped her bones like a box of popsicle sticks."

"Stop it."

"That's a tough way to go, all twisted up like a pretzel." Blanchart stopped the car and turned his body to look at Josh through the cage. "Your time in prison will feel a lot like that. When the jury sees the photos of her bloated corpse, they're going to send you away for a very long time."

Blanchart turned back and kept driving. "Kind of hits you between the eyes, doesn't it. What made you do it? An act of rage? A crime of passion? Or did you plan it in advance? No body, no crime, was that it? Maybe you got tired of her mood swings and her crying baby. She wasn't fun anymore. You felt trapped. You wanted out."

"It wasn't like that," Josh grumbled from the back seat. "I think I'm going to be sick." He wrenched his upper body with his mouth closed until he couldn't hold the tide back any longer and vomited all over his lap.

Blanchart drove on. "I can't help you unless you tell me what happened. The state attorney's a real prick, but he'll listen to me."

Josh craned his neck to wipe his mouth on his shoulder. "It was an accident. I never meant to hurt her. She had a gun on me. When I tried to take it from her she fell and hit her head."

"I don't buy it."

"I swear that's what happened."

"Why didn't you call 911?"

"Because I thought she was already dead! I didn't know she was still alive. She wasn't breathing when I put her in that case. What else was I supposed to do?"

Blanchart followed the unmarked path through a muddy clearing with a view of a wetland area ripe with swamp water that formed a feeding trough for wild boars, snakes, and other indigenous predators who preyed on weaker animals in the murky water. "I've been at this job a long time. I read people like the morning paper. I know what they're thinking before they do. But what I can't figure out is what pushed you over the edge in the first place. Why did Sheila have a gun on you? You might have a case for self defense with mitigating circumstances. In other words, the jury would have to consider the context in which the killing took place. That assumes, of course, that you're telling the truth about the gun."

"I didn't mean to kill her."

"Of course not. No one means to do anything. Killing just happens by accident." Blanchart stopped the car. "This is the end of the road. Developers wanted to clear this land a few years back to build another dump. Ironic, isn't it?" He marveled at the lunacy of Josh's plan, which included turning left on a red light in a stolen car belonging to the woman he killed. "We all have choices, Josh. The challenge is living with the consequences. Are you prepared to live with those?"

Blanchart pulled his pocket knife out and unfolded the blade.

Josh stared at the knife. "What are you doing?"

"You're an addict, Josh. Once an addict, always an addict. Chances are I'll find the drugs in your abandoned car when I start my investigation. I'll write it up as a drug deal gone bad. Or maybe you offered a weary traveler a ride in your car. God knows it's happened before. You pick up a hitchhiker from the side of the road and offer him a ride. You engage in some awkward conversation while you play the get-to-know-you game. But the truth is you don't give a shit who he is. You're just wondering if the poor bastard you stopped to help will offer to pay you or not. Before you know it, you're twenty miles out of town. And when you least expect it, the stranger in your car pulls a knife like this one, cuts you open from bow to stern, and dumps your body for the vultures to find."

"Please..."

"We're beyond that point, Josh."

"I don't," Josh started, choking on his own words. Tears streamed down his face. "I don't want to die."

Blanchart rubbed the polished blade side to side on his thumb. Rain pounded the roof. "I can arrest you and introduce you to the world of musical beds from men three times your size—or I can spare the legal system and bleed you here."

"You can't do that."

Blanchart stared at Josh for several minutes without blinking. Without speaking. Then finally, after cleaning beneath his fingernails with the tip of the knife, he threw Josh a lifeline and said, "What if I could offer you salvation? A way out of an otherwise impossible situation? Would you take it?"

"Please," Josh sobbed. "Anything."

"Someone's been fucking my wife," said Blanchart. "I know it's not you. That leaves every other swinging dick in this town, including the men in my department. I want you to follow her. I want you to find out who she's been with. And I want you to kill him."

Chapter 47

Varden dreamed of rolling hills and mountain regions sprinkled with fresh snowfall. A place far away from the house of human rejects granted parole by a faulty judicial system too incompetent to help the innocent and too eager to support the guilty.

In his vision, he wandered barefoot across a snow-capped ridge beneath the dormant trees that bore the weight of heavy powder on their branches. When he came to a freshwater stream, he stopped at the water's frozen edge, smooth as glass above a salmon habitat. He inhaled the pure, frigid air and ventured toward the middle portion of the lazy brook that carved a path through a lower valley dotted by boulders and barren shrubs. He could sense someone or something upon him, anticipating his movements from the shadowy confines of the wooded territory blanketed by dark clouds.

His daughter's reflection appeared in the still water, her delicate features filtered through a liquid lens as she spoke in silence.

Varden stood shin-deep, unable to interpret his daughter's message or the motive behind the pained expression on her face. He touched his hand to the water's surface and watched the ripples distort the vivid specter—along with any hope of reconnecting with his precious loved one again.

He stared across the stream, marveled by the stillness of a frozen landscape teeming with frightened wildlife. A muskrat scurried toward an earth embankment. White geese flew west toward a blustery sky. To the east, a grizzly bear emerged from a patch of underbrush and lowered its head to sniff the ground, exposing the large hump of muscle mass between its shoulder blades. A pelt of thick, brown hair covered the animal's body with a fur overcoat dipped in white icing.

Varden waded toward shore, stalked by a predator ten times his own weight. His legs, once nimble and strong, felt numb from the icy river that stung his flesh below the knees.

The bear splashed the water with its forearms before it reared back on five-toed feet and roared. The carnivorous warning carried across the water and echoed between the vast canyon walls, causing snow to shake loose from the trees.

The bear galloped toward Varden at alarming speed, its massive profile advancing on the lone human with the urgency of a starving animal on a quest to end its hunger pains.

Varden shuffled through the water, his legs weakened from the cold and his mind impregnated with the fear of death. He ran in slow motion, his boots crunching on the permafrost table.

Motivated by the sight of dense forest and the prospect of immediate shelter, he detoured from his initial path and felt the warmth return to his lower limbs.

But the gap between beast and man closed faster as lethal claws the size of baseball mitts raked the earth in the predator's unyielding pursuit.

Varden ran harder, his heart pumping wildly in his chest until he tripped on a thick root and felt his feet leave the ground. Carried by his own momentum, he toppled through a frozen canopy of vegetation and landed on his side.

The mammoth creature rose up on two legs, its formidable incisors prepared to harvest its meal alive.

Varden crossed his arms above his head in false refuge and woke in the ambient light to find himself alone in bed, encapsulated in the aftermath of a dream so vivid he thought he'd died in his sleep. A scratching noise outside his window brought him to his feet.

He reached for the gun safe in his top dresser drawer and thumbed the combination to retrieve the .40 caliber Smith & Wesson. He jammed a loaded clip in the handle and pulled the slide back to chamber the first round.

He ventured toward the front of the house, where an outdoor motion sensor tripped a bank of flood lights to expose a figure dressed in black, sprinting away from the property.

He raised the gun and squinted down the fixed sight barrel.

"What's going on?" Marvin asked from the hall.

"Nothing," said Varden, his pulse pounding as he lowered the gun and took his finger off the trigger. "Shut up and get back in your room."

Chapter 48

Leslie used a keychain knife to slice through the crime scene tape along the door frame of the Lipscomb Street residence. Insects hovered near the porch light above her head, buzzing madly for a glimpse at the great unknown.

She turned on the lights inside the house and found the place stripped bare. A faucet dripped. Fresh paint fumes permeated her congested sinus tract.

She compared the kitchen entrance to the crime scene photos on her Blackberry. Every piece of lab equipment had been removed from the scene. Every Bunsen burner. Every beaker. Every bottle of chemical agent. The walls and floors were scrubbed clean, erasing any trace of blood or DNA residue.

She ventured through the property that showed like a vacant model home and found no evidence any crime had taken place, let alone a gruesome suicide followed by a heinous murder with a shotgun blast to the face. No chalk lines. No blood spatter. No bullet holes. No evidence to confirm or contradict Morallen's version of events.

She skimmed through the digital pictures until she found the photo of Deputy Carter on the floor with his head in pieces. She stood in the spot where the photo was taken and looked up at the ceiling. Morallen claimed he saw the shooter from the attic, but from where she stood, there was no attic access within view of the murder scene.

She searched the house again, inspecting the popcorn ceiling for an access panel but found nothing in the rooms or the closets to suggest an attic access existed—unless someone had concealed it with a fresh coat of plaster and paint.

Too many questions kept surfacing with no reasonable explanations, unless Morallen contrived his story to discredit Blanchart and generate reasonable doubt. But if Morallen killed Carter to evade police, why not shoot Carter in the body or the arm? Why the up-close-and-personal execution?

She also wondered how the sheriff's office recovered GSR from a shirt Morallen claimed he never wore at the scene. As for Blanchart himself, were drugs motive enough for him to kill another law enforcement officer, let alone a man he mentored right out of the academy? She had to dig deeper. That meant tapping resources outside her office without George's approval.

"This is Leslie," she said when her Blackberry signaled an incoming call.

The call stayed silent.

"Hello?"

She checked the anonymous display and dismissed the call. Lightning sizzled outside the kitchen window, facing a starless sky. Thunder rattled the single pane glass. Lights flickered from the power fluctuation. The stove clock flashed "12:00."

A chill brought goose bumps on her arms. Short hairs bristled on the back of her neck. She saw movement in the yard, or what she thought was movement from the brilliant streaks of lightning that faded to an eerie glow. She put her face to the window and screamed when a hand touched her shoulder from behind.

"Find what you're looking for?"

Leslie spun around to see Sheriff Blanchart in uniform. "What the hell are you doing here?" She swallowed her heart in her throat. "How did you get in here?"

"The same way you did."

Leslie slid her phone in her purse and discretely activated the voice recorder squeezed between her tissues and a can of mace. "You scared the shit out of me."

Blanchart smiled wryly. "I have that affect on people."

Leslie kept her distance. "What happened to your face?"

"Domestic dispute. The perp tried to fight his way free."

"Did he succeed?"

"No."

Leslie sensed a hostile tone in the sheriff's voice. Her instincts told her to cut and run, but her stronger half stood firm. "I've never seen a crime scene this clean before. What are you trying to hide?"

"What are you trying to find?"

"I don't have to disclose that to you," said Leslie.

Blanchart nodded. "I don't have to arrest you for trespassing either."

"I have the right to search the premises."

"And what have you found so far?"

"Inconsistency."

"Regarding what?"

Leslie moved closer to the door. The house suddenly felt much smaller in the presence of an armed sheriff with questionable intentions. "Where were you when Deputy Carter was shot?"

"Read my report."

"I have. Four times. I'd like to hear it from you." She watched Blanchart adjust the volume on his police radio and tap the nightstick on his duty belt. "Your report says you and Carter cornered Hugo Gonzalez in the kitchen. Deputy Carter snuck out the back, ran around the house, and surprised Hugo from the kitchen window. Carter brandished his weapon, and Hugo turned the shotgun on himself."

"You have a good memory, Ms. Dancroft."

"Where were you before Deputy Carter was killed?"

"Outside," said Blanchart. "Pursuing another perp on foot. Carter stayed behind to secure the scene until help arrived."

"Which perp?" said Leslie. "Vince Parr, Manny Morallen, or Leeland Marks?"

Blanchart shrugged. "I didn't get a good look."

"Did you and Carter clear the house before you chased after this other suspect?"

"Yes."

"But you claim you saw Manny Morallen shoot Deputy Carter."

"Correct."

"Now I'm confused," said Leslie. "How did you witness this murder if you were otherwise engaged in pursuing another perp?"

"The suspect got away. I ran back to the house and saw Manny Morallen shoot Deputy Carter in the kitchen."

"So Morallen just suddenly appeared out of nowhere?"

"He must have been hiding."

"You just told me you and Carter cleared the house."

"Morallen must have come back."

"Just like that," said Leslie. She faced her purse toward Blanchart to maximize the tiny microphone's reception. "The coroner's report indicates Carter had no defensive marks on his body. No evidence from his nail beds or his knuckles to suggest he struggled with his attacker."

"Morallen must have caught him by surprise."

"So Morallen either made himself invisible—or he ran out and came back, grabbed the shotgun from his dead friend Hugo, and shot Carter point blank in the face? Not in the back where he could have snuck up behind him, but front and center before Carter had a chance to draw his weapon."

"Carter made a rookie mistake."

"Carter was on the force for three years. His file contains two letters of accommodation, both signed by you. Doesn't seem like the rookie type to me."

Veins rippled on Blanchart's forehead. "When you work in law enforcement, you put your life on the line every day. You train for it. You prepare for it. But no matter how hard you train or how well you think you're prepared, sometimes the bad guys get lucky."

"And sometimes the good guys are bad."

"Careful, Ms. Dancroft. That kind of rhetoric could hurt morale in my department."

Leslie chose her next words carefully. Her phone vibrated in her purse. "Did you fire your weapon at Morallen?"

"I never got a clean shot."

"So Morallen shot Carter point blank and slipped away? Seems unlikely, don't you think?"

"Like I told you," Blanchart replied, "sometimes the bad guys get lucky. Now you really are starting to annoy me."

Leslie watched a patrol car pull up outside. The presence of another officer brought her a modicum of comfort. "What's your relationship to Vince Parr and Leeland Marks?"

"I can't discuss an open investigation."

"Do you think it's possible one of them killed Deputy Carter?"

"No."

"Because you saw Manny Morallen pull the trigger?"

"Yes," said Blanchart.

"Will you testify under oath?"

"I'm not on trial, Ms. Dancroft."

"Maybe you should be."

Blanchart watched his man exit the patrol car and approach the house. "You think I killed my own deputy?"

"Did you?"

"Why would I do such a thing?"

"To protect what's yours," said Leslie.

Blanchart stared at her, his face expressionless. "You'll have to excuse me, Ms. Dancroft. I have an important event to attend."

Chapter 49

Lloyd gathered a stack of damp envelopes from the mailbox at the end of his mother's driveway and carried them to the house. "Mom?" he called out from the broken screen-door he'd fixed twice already. He observed the busted latch where a pair of wood screws had been ripped from the frame.

"In here," a faint voice called from the bedroom.

Lloyd poked his head inside the room that smelled of booze and urine. "It's Lloyd," he said in a quiet voice, his attention momentarily distracted by the squalid conditions.

"I know who it is," said Brenda. "I heard your damn motorcycle two counties away." She propped herself against the headboard with pillows behind her back. Prescription bottles littered the nightstand. "What are you doing here?"

Lloyd gave her the soggy envelope with her social security check. "I found this in the mailbox."

"Next time leave it there, for all the good it does. What the hell am I supposed to do with... four hundred and fifty dollars a month?"

Lloyd set the check by the lamp. "Where's Josh?"

"He left," said Brenda.

"I thought he was taking care of you."

"He took care of me all right. Stole damn near everything but my pantyhose. He would have taken those too if he thought they were worth something."

"Where'd he go?"

Brenda cleared her throat. "He didn't say. I didn't ask. He took my good jewelry." She pointed to the antique jewelry chest. "I kept my grandmother's wedding band in there."

"Did you call the police?"

"He's my son."

Lloyd opened the empty drawer. "He's a thief."

"He's your brother."

"You should call the police."

"Nothing good will come of it," said Brenda.

Lloyd shook his head. "Who's going to look after you when I'm not here?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Not like this." Lloyd poured a glass of water from the bathroom sink. A cockroach scurried up from the drain. "You left your door unlocked again. The trash hasn't gone out in days."

"You told me you would take care of it."

"You're right," said Lloyd. "My bad..." He held the glass for his mother to drink. "I can't be here all the time. And you can't live like this."

Brenda touched his hand. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Dying will do that to you."

Lloyd set the glass down and reached inside his motorcycle jacket for a greeting card.

"What's this?" Brenda asked.

"Open it."

Brenda opened the Mother's Day card on her lap. "I need my reading glasses."

Lloyd brought her the glasses from the dresser. "You need help with these?"

"I can manage." Brenda put her glasses on and read the card. "You're a little late."

"I sent you cards from prison. I never knew if you got them or not."

Brenda kept her emotions in check. "I'm glad you're here. The card wasn't necessary, but thank you."

"I had flowers on the back of the bike, but they sort of blew away."

Brenda chuckled. She pushed the covers aside and hugged her son. "Help me up."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting up to make you a sandwich."

"I'm not hungry." Lloyd adjusted her pillows and examined the prescription bottles on the dresser. "You need to take your medications."

Brenda swung her legs out of bed and touched her feet to the floor, sighing with pain. "I'm not an invalid. I can still control my own bladder even without those pills."

"You still need to take them."

"They slow me down," Brenda countered. She used Lloyd's massive arm for leverage to adjust herself back in bed. "Another bottle would do me better."

"You'll drink yourself to death."

"This body's already gone. My brain just doesn't know it yet."

"How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"I can't hold much food down anymore. It never seems to taste right anyhow."

Lloyd searched the room. "You should be in a hospital."

"I'm not living in a public spectacle with a bunch of strangers who piss themselves."

"It beats living by yourself."

"Don't crack wise with me. Those places kill more people than they help. I might be a lost cause, but I'm not stupid."

"You'll be more comfortable."

"No sir."

"You'll have a nurse to help you," Lloyd challenged her. "They can take better care of you than I can. I'm on house parole. I have a curfew every night. I can't always be here when you need me."

"Forget it."

"You'll have three good meals a day."

"Hardly. Their slop would kill me before my liver does."

"Just try it out. If you're not happy, I'll bring you home."

Brenda shed her reading glasses. "Don't antagonize me, Lloyd. I'm not in the mood. I might be an old widow with terminal cancer, but I haven't lost my senses. I just want to be left alone in my own home, on my own terms. Understand?"

"I'm just saying—"

"Don't."

Lloyd felt the avalanche of stubborn attitude prevail. "You deserve a better quality of life."

"Son, that's the trouble with life. You can want what you want, but in the end, you only get what you get." Brenda leaned back, clearly exhausted from the effort to leave her bed. She pressed her hands on Lloyd's face. "Now tell me, who's the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one you've been hiding from me—I can smell her perfume on you."

Lloyd moved her hands away. "I'm not hiding anything from you."

"When do I get to meet her?" Brenda asked. Her smile beamed at Lloyd.

"It's complicated."

"Is she younger?"

"Mom—"

"Can she cook?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you better find out. The last thing you need is a woman who doesn't know her way around the kitchen."

"You never cooked," said Lloyd.

"And yet your father loved me all the same after thirty years of frozen dinners. Poor bastard." She scratched her hair. "So tell me how you met her."

"There's not much to tell."

Brenda took hold of Lloyd's hand and studied the lines on his palm. "Your father loved you very much. He would want you to know that. The day we brought you into our family was the proudest day of his life. He always talked about you. He always bragged about you to his friends. Someday you will be a great father to your own child."

"I'm not ready for that."

"That's not what I see."

Lloyd gently pulled his hand away. "Why did Dad kill himself? And don't tell me it's between him and God. I need to know whatever it is you're not telling me."

Brenda shifted her stare to somewhere far beyond the room. "Your father..." She lowered her head and wept quietly. "Two years ago, a postal worker filed an insurance claim through your father's company. Said he had injuries from a work-related accident that left him in a wheelchair. The company got suspicious and asked your father to investigate the claim. He took photos of this man hauling groceries, riding a bicycle... anything to prove the fraud."

Brenda coughed. She pulled a tissue from the box on her nightstand and covered her mouth. "Instead of submitting his report, your father blackmailed this loser for a split of the insurance payout."

"Why?"

"We were buried in legal bills. Lawyers hounded us for years after you went to prison. They were trying to take our house, our land... everything we owned. Your father saw a way out."

Lloyd scratched the back of his neck. "What happened?"

"This man threatened to hurt us, but he didn't have the balls. Your father hid the money. He never told me where. He said I was safer if I didn't know. A few days later, this man showed up at our house at night half-tanked and angry at the world, demanding your father give up his share of the settlement."

"Did you call the police?"

"And tell them what? Your father was just as guilty of fraud as what's-his-name. Jerry, Juno—Julian. His name was Julian Verne. I remember his face. And his hands. He had tiny hands with dainty fingers like a woman."

Lloyd paced. He thought about the note his father had left him. "Did Dad talk about this Julian?"

Brenda rubbed her eyes. "Not really. Julian disappeared for a while. A few months, maybe more. Then he came back. The rotten ones always do. He broke in the house when Josh was here and got in a fight. Josh went crazy, I mean wild-eyed crazy like I've never seen him before. Your brother went to town on Julian with a hammer. Killed him dead on our living room floor. The police arrested Josh and let him go on account of self-defense. But he wasn't the same."

"What happened to Dad?"

Brenda coughed in her hand and shuddered in pain. "I came home one night and found him dead in the yard. He still had the gun in his hand."

Lloyd stared at her in disbelief. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because nothing good would come of it. Your father was a good man who made a bad decision he couldn't live with."

"Dad wouldn't take his own life."

"Don't be so sure," said Brenda. "Sometimes you never know what you're capable of until you face your own demons."

"But Dad hated guns."

"Your brother hated needles. It never stopped him from shooting poison in his veins." Brenda touched her hand to her side. "Your father's gone. There's no point in digging up the past."

Lloyd saw the torment in her eyes. "What if I could buy you a new liver?"

Brenda smirked. "Are you nuts?"

"Maybe, but I think I know where Dad hid the money."

Chapter 50

Lloyd mounted his bike in the rain outside Sonny's Car Wash and followed Jamie's red Volvo to an old self-storage lot that had gone bankrupt in the housing bust. He rode through the waning daylight hours, absorbed in the notion of burying himself inside a woman who stirred a passion within him so overwhelming he would rather starve than endure another day without her.

He followed the four-door sedan to the back of the secluded storage property built from cinderblock walls and dismounted the Triumph in his wet leather jacket. Soaked to the bone, he raised the corrugated aluminum door on the eight-by-ten unit filled with old boxes and a rusted bicycle on flat tires.

Jamie hugged him in a long embrace. "I can't stay long," she said.

Lloyd wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. "I'll take as long as you can spare." He kissed her soft lips and ran his fingers through her hair. "I can't stand to be away from you." He kissed her ear, brushing his razor stubble against her soft cheek.

Jamie pressed her hands to his solid chest and gently pushed him away. "We can't do this any more."

"You don't mean that."

Jamie touched his face. "This is a mistake. What we're doing is wrong."

Lloyd slid his hands along her slender arms. He held her gaze and said, "Not for me. Not for us. Tell me you feel the same way."

"I can't," said Jamie. "I'm sorry."

"That's not what your eyes are telling me."

Jamie reached for Lloyd's hand and pulled it toward her. She drew him closer and laid her head against his chest. "Just hold me," she whispered. She felt the tingling sensation from her lover's touch. She'd crossed the line so many times she'd lost sight of where it was. Every effort to expel Lloyd Sullivan from her life met with genuine resistance from her heart.

Lloyd unfastened her bra from the back, skillfully working his fingers on the hook and loop clasp. He lifted her shirt far enough to kiss her tender breasts. "I missed you."

Jamie rejected his advance. "I can't tonight. Alan will smell the sex on me."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because a life without you is a life without meaning. I want you in my life. I need you in my life. I just don't see how that can happen."

Lloyd caressed her face. "If I could have but one wish come true in this lifetime, it would be to make you happy. I think about you every second of every day. Our time together is priceless to me. I would never take you for granted. I would never hurt you. In my life I've never met a woman as remarkable as you."

Jamie closed her eyes, straining against the pressure to let herself go. "You spent a long time in prison."

"Long enough to decide what I can live with and what I can't live without."

"I have to go."

"Stay with me," Lloyd implored her. "A little longer." He lifted her shirt higher, exposing the scar tissue on her back from a cigarette lighter and a leather belt. "What happened," he asked abruptly, confounded by the unexpected brutality.

"Don't—"

"I'm not judging you."

Jamie pulled her shirt down. "Then let it go."

Lloyd studied her expression. "Did someone hurt you?"

Jamie looked away. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." Lloyd held her close and kissed her forehead. "Did your husband do this to you?"

"It was an accident."

"It doesn't look like an accident. And it doesn't change how I feel about you."

"What am I supposed to do?"

Lloyd touched her chin and gently lifted her head to make eye contact again. "Leave him. Start a new life with me."

Jamie stared at Lloyd's liquid blue eyes, yearning to drown in them; to release herself with a man she longed to be with. But that was fantasy. And like it or not, her life with Alan would continue. "He doesn't hurt me anymore."

"Men like him don't change," said Lloyd with conviction in his voice. "He'll hurt you again, eventually."

Jamie hugged him tighter. Rain fell in sheets outside the storage unit. "It's getting dark. If I don't get home soon, Alan will get suspicious."

"Then leave him."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because he'd find me. And God knows what he would do to me."

"I'll protect you."

"How?"

Lloyd ran his hand through his hair. Caught between anger and disbelief, he grappled with what to tell Jamie before arriving at the only realistic conclusion he could think of. "We'll go to the police and file a restraining order. The court will force him to stay away from you."

"It won't work," said Jamie. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Why not?"

"Because my husband is the police."

Chapter 51

Varden heard Doctor Lacy arguing with her receptionist down the hall. Alone inside the doctor's office, he examined the framed George Washington University diploma on the wall. He read the Latin inscription Summa Cum Laude on the glass-enclosed parchment and thought about how many books his shrink must have read to earn such a prestigious piece of paper. More books than he'd read in his life, he surmised. Probably more books than he'd seen in his life.

He paced alone inside the office. The doctor's perfume lingered in the room with the smell of leather and potpourri. The trickling water fountain, an Eastern ploy to sooth the mind, further amplified his anxiety the way a dripping faucet drove him mad at night.

He found the sit-down-and-chat experience unsettling at best. To open his life to a stranger seemed wrong, even an attractive stranger like Doctor Lacy who maintained a striking resemblance to a college girlfriend he'd worshipped. A girlfriend he almost married until his future wife came along and led him astray.

He touched his finger to the stone slab in the Zen water fountain above the lateral file cabinet. The water felt warm, almost slippery in his fingers as it slid down the face of the rectangular granite and collected in a pebble basin.

Beneath the fountain, he noticed a gap in the top file drawer.

He tugged on the handle.

The drawer slid open a few inches, revealing a row of patient files organized alphabetically, "A" to "G."

He looked around the room and at the ceiling, discounting his minor indiscretion as a simple byproduct of his own curiosity. He cited Doctor Lacy for the lack of adequate security and considered her lucky that someone with high moral standards discovered the privacy breach before a less respectable person took advantage of the situation.

But the temptation persisted.

He pulled the drawer open farther, then he closed it shut. Ronald Varden had no moral quandaries about the line between right and wrong. The boundaries for him were crystal-clear.

But the drawer stayed open, its latch improperly seated in the doctor's haste to lock up and leave.

Varden pushed on the drawer and bent down to inspect the latching mechanism. He jostled the cylinder in his fingers, sliding the drawer on its tracks for a better look at the problem.

Then a patient's name caught his eye.

He glanced behind him and stared at the closed office door. He dismissed the temptation and walked away from the cabinet, propping himself on the leather sofa where he tried to forget what he saw—and what he'd learned from Leslie Dancroft's visit. As if his life wasn't screwed up enough, the last thing he needed was involvement in an ongoing investigation. Deputy Carter was dead. Nothing would bring him back. Not even a hell-bent public defender who used Blanchart's billboard portrait for target practice. He'd known Blanchart a long time, even before the man became sheriff. He was tough. He was mean. But he was always on the right side of the law.

Varden felt his pulse racing. Despite his own convictions about Blanchart, Carter's death posed too many questions to ignore, and Ms. Dancroft's fervor only added to the growing doubts he'd harbored since Carter first approached him about Blanchart. And now the longer he debated everything, the more he convinced himself there was nothing sacrosanct about Sheriff Blanchart's patient file.

Voices in the adjacent room provoked a quick decision. He had one chance to take advantage of the opportunity or risk a lifetime of second-guessing his own involvement in the various events leading up to Deputy Carter's death.

The drawer slid open on its ball-bearing track far enough to pluck the narrow ruled notes from the green hanging folder marked, Blanchart, Alan.

He skimmed the elegant cursive handwriting with perfect o's and slanted t's. He could smell the doctor's perfume on the paper as he traced his finger along her notes line by line, page by page, filled with random psychobabble of little consequence to anyone other than the doctor herself.

He took his finger away from where the underlined words almost screamed from the page.

Standard follow-up for an officer involved shooting.

Patient shows no remorse, indifferent. Exhibits antisocial/dissociative personality.

Aggressive impulse. Shallow emotional range, incapable of human attachment.

Pattern of aggressive narcissism, potential uninhibited gratification in sexual (criminal?) deviant behavior.

Patient warrants further analysis to accurately diagnose latent psychopathic tendencies!

Varden read the last sentence three times. He flipped back to the first page to double-check the patient's name, grappling for a plausible explanation.

Voices carried in the hallway outside the suite, followed by the strident click of high-heeled shoes.

Varden stuffed the handwritten notes in the hanging folder and closed the drawer a half second before Doctor Lacy returned.

"Sorry about the interruption. Are you ready, Mr. Varden?"

Varden sat on the leather sofa and rubbed a sweaty palm on his leg. "I'm all yours."

Chapter 52

Lloyd started his shift at Sonny's Car Wash the same way every morning, bored by the manual labor routine but optimistic about his chance to see the cherry red Volvo cross his path again. With Sonny out of town a few days sampling the delights of Vegas, he enjoyed a reprieve from the threat of unemployment on account of Josh's sporadic attendance at work.

He punched his timecard and joined the rank and file at the wash bay outside. He grabbed a rag from the supply cabinet and a bottle of generic vinyl cleaner. A few feet away, the roar of industrial fans directed high velocity air at the roof of a Buick LaCrosse while the female driver waited impatiently by the tip box.

Lloyd wiped down the car's interior in an orderly fashion without acknowledging the Spanish banter from the three-man crew. A dirty ashtray poked his memory of the cigarette burns on Jamie's back and stirred the angry emotions within him.

"Ándale! Ándale!" workers hollered outside the car, prompting Lloyd to move faster before the customer grew impatient and thought twice about leaving a tip.

Lloyd held the door for the driver and waited for the next vehicle. This time a black Ford Interceptor with tinted windows rolled through the wash tunnel.

* * *

Blanchart stuffed a dollar in the tip box and waited for his unmarked cruiser to come out. He'd followed Jamie's route on more than one occasion and recalled the familiar faces who worked at Sonny's Car Wash. Today, one face in particular stood out from the pack of laborers who shared a common ethnicity. A face he'd seen before at Varden's halfway house of losers.

Lloyd approached the Ford to wipe down the interior.

"That's good enough," insisted Blanchart in his sheriff's hat and tinted glasses. He ambled toward the cruiser and stared up and down at Lloyd. He made a mental note to ask Sonny about the new addition to his staff.

Lloyd nodded to the sheriff.

"How long have you worked here?" Blanchart asked him.

"A few weeks."

"You got a name?"

"Lloyd."

"That come with a last name?"

"Sullivan."

Blanchart propped his hands on his belt. "You're one of Varden's boys, aren't you?"

"I'm on parole, if that's what you're asking."

"Do you know who I am?" said Blanchart.

"A customer with a badge."

"That's right. I'm also the customer who can make your job disappear."

"Just trying to earn an honest wage," said Lloyd.

"Then try a little harder. This car looks like shit every time it comes out."

Maybe it's not the car that's the problem, Lloyd thought.

Blanchart nudged a piece of pork barbeque between his teeth with his tongue. The tiny scrap of meat had annoyed him since lunch. "How many days you got left in Varden's house?"

"Too many."

"How long were you incarcerated?"

"Long enough," said Lloyd, shifting his gaze to try and stifle his agitation.

Blanchart pulled the hickory baton from his duty belt and eased himself behind the wheel of his cruiser. "You have family here in Lakewood?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of? What the hell kind of answer is that? You either do or you don't." Blanchart nudged his sunglasses. "Stay out of trouble, Mr. Sullivan. I know where to find you if you don't."

Lloyd watched the sheriff drive away and felt a wave of negative energy persist like radioactive fallout, contaminating every living thing it touched—and eroding what little respect he held for law enforcement.

"Sullivan!" a voice shouted above the racket from the dryer fans.

Lloyd turned—and was surprised to find Sonny at the end of the wash line with his game face on and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Get in here!"

Lloyd followed the irate Texan to the back office area and asked, "What's up?"

Sonny flipped his Hooter's calendar to November. "You were supposed to be different. That's what your brother sold me. Instead, I'm five days into a Vegas vacation when your brother calls to tell me the register came up short for the third time this month."

"What are you saying?"

"I could have you arrested."

"For what?"

"Eighty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents. That was Tuesday. We were short more than two hundred dollars on Friday. That's not play money, Sullivan. That's my money! From my business! You can fuck me over once, but not twice. I have this place on camera. All I have to do is watch the tape."

"Go for it," said Lloyd. "I've got nothing to hide."

Sonny's angry jowls swelled like a puffer fish. "You're the reason I quit hiring ex-cons a long time ago."

Lloyd dropped his rag on Sonny's desk. "You want me to confess to something I didn't do?"

"I want you out of here! If I catch you on my property again, I'll have you arrested for grand larceny. Now pack your shit before I change my mind and call the sheriff back in here."

Lloyd pulled his sweaty shirt over his head and threw it at Sonny. "This belongs to you." He grabbed his street shirt and his motorcycle jacket from the men's room locker and mounted the damaged Triumph outside. Whatever beef Sonny had with him would find its way back to Varden eventually and heap another problem on the pile. Sonny was an ass but a boss he could tolerate. No more job meant no more money. And no more money meant more problems.

He pressed the starter button and cracked the throttle as a woman in a tan Honda Civic pulled into the spot beside him with her window down.

"Are you Lloyd?" the woman asked behind dark sunglasses, with a pink silk scarf around her neck.

Lloyd raised the kickstand with his boot. Prepared to back himself out and make tracks for home, he ignored the pretty blonde with long hair and heavy makeup.

"Jamie told me you worked here. You look just like she said."

Lloyd kept his hand on the brake, despite his better judgment to light up the rear tire and lay down a strip of rubber across Sonny's parking lot. "What do you want?"

"I'm Samantha, Jamie's friend. I need to talk to you."

"You've got me confused with someone else."

"You have a cross tattoo on your forearm. You went to prison for your brother. And you're the only one who looks man enough to ride a bike like that around here."

Lloyd kept the Triumph in neutral. "What do you want?"

Samantha backed her car out. "Not here."

Lloyd followed the Honda to a Wendy's and met Samantha inside. He bought her lunch and found a window seat looking out at the parking lot.

* * *

Samantha cased the dining area and sipped a Coke with no ice through a straw. She unfolded the wrapper on a spicy chicken sandwich and cheated her diet to feed the craving she reserved for stressful moments in her life. "Thanks," she said between bites of chicken with lettuce, tomato, and extra mayonnaise. She shoved fries into her mouth and licked the top of her chocolate frosty. "I only eat like this when I'm tense."

Lloyd rested his arm on the two-person table. "I'd hate to see you when you're hungry."

Samantha rolled her eyes. "How well do you know Jamie?"

"Well enough."

"Did you know her piece-of-shit husband is the sheriff?" She chewed a mouthful of chicken and washed it down with a sip of soda. She pulled her scarf away to reveal the purple bruising around her neck. "He did this to me three days ago. After he raped me."

She watched Lloyd. It took a moment for the news to sink in.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be. He'll get what's coming to him. I'm not looking for sympathy. It's Jamie I'm worried about. I knew her husband was an asshole the day she married him. I knew he put his hands on her, but I never figured he was capable of this." She wrapped the scarf around her neck and let the extra length hang down her back.

"I met him at the car wash this morning," said Lloyd. "He seemed like a prick."

"Does he know you're banging his wife?"

"It never came up."

Samantha gave a fleeting smile. "He doesn't know. He would've killed you if he did." She scooped the frosty into her mouth. Her taste buds savored the frozen treat while she diverted her attention from Lloyd to the restaurant entrance. "I've dated cops before, and I can tell you he's no cop. He's an asshole who should be neutered with a fork."

"Who else have you talked to about this?" asked Lloyd.

"I contacted a battered women's shelter through a friend of a friend in New York. I have to get Jamie out of Florida, and I need your help to do it."

"I'm on parole. I can't leave the county, much less the state."

"I did a background check on you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't like what I found. If you care at all about Jamie, you'll help me help her."

Lloyd stared out the window a moment or two. "What do you want me to do?"

"Jamie won't listen to me. I tried to get her on board, but that bastard has her under his spell. Jamie doesn't see what he's doing to her. Or the danger she's in. Especially with you in the picture."

"She's scared to leave him," said Lloyd.

"They always are. That's what the woman from the shelter told me. Abused women view their situation from a different perspective than most. They blame themselves more than they blame their abusers."

"That's ludicrous."

"That's reality." Samantha licked the salt from her fingers and reached in her purse for a cell phone. "Take this. It's a prepaid phone. I'm the only one with the number. I'll call you when I have all the details worked out. In the meantime, you have to help me convince her to leave."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"She trusts you. She wants to be with you. She'll do anything to keep you."

"What if you're wrong?"

"Just talk to her. Tell her you need her. Tell her you love her. Tell her you can't live without her. Then tell her you'll end it if she doesn't leave her husband."

Lloyd followed her stare. "I don't know—"

"What's there to know? Jamie doesn't like change, and she hates confrontation. Every now and then she needs a kick in the ass. No matter how bad it hurts." Samantha sipped her drink. "If you care for her at all—"

"Of course I care for her," said Lloyd. He brought his other arm on the table and put his hands together. "We have to be careful."

"If you're worried about the sheriff, he can't touch Jamie once I get her out of state."

"It's not the sheriff I'm worried about," said Lloyd. "It's the thought of going back to prison."

Chapter 53

Jamie waved through the window as Alan's unmarked cruiser backed out of the driveway. She pulled the living room curtains shut and retreated to the laundry room. She wanted time to herself and now she had it. Alone in her house and in her thoughts. Afraid to leave and afraid to stay. She wanted out of a marriage she couldn't leave. She longed for a relationship she couldn't have. She gave her heart to Lloyd Sullivan, but her husband held the title to her soul. Every moment she dreamed about her lover was wasted effort. She chose her fate when she married Alan Blanchart and vowed her commitment in front of friends and family in a house of God.

A loaded basket by the dryer served a timely distraction from her melancholy state. She carried clean sheets to the guest bedroom and dumped them on the bed. She tossed the pillows on the floor, where she noticed a tiny red stain in the oatmeal Berber. She got on her hands and knees and scratched the spot with her fingernail. Using a wet washcloth and a squirt of carpet cleaner she removed the mark completely without questioning how it got there in the first place.

She fluffed the pillows and adjusted the duvet to cover the bed frame. Then she propped the laundry basket under one arm and fixed the crooked painting on the wall outside the closet. When the frame dipped sideways, she set the basket down and used both hands to adjust the cheap oil painting of a western cattle drive. Another mother-in-law gift to throw in the fire along with the other tacky artifacts on the walls in here.

She pulled the picture away to check the hook and noticed a small electrical wire extending from the nail hole in the wall to the back of the framed canvas. She followed the wire with her fingers and inspected the front of the painting. A tiny camera hidden in the thick oil strokes stared back at her.

She yanked the wire out and set the frame on the floor. Perplexed by her discovery, she opened the closet and rubbed her hand along the wall behind a rack of winter clothes. The wire fed into the wall, and from there it disappeared.

She noticed the attic access panel above her head, where a length of two-by-four had been screwed in the ceiling to cover the entrance—and the gateway to a section of the house she'd never seen before. A section she'd never cared about until now.

She opened her pink toolbox under the kitchen sink and returned to the guest bedroom closet with a Phillips screwdriver. She stood on a shoe rack with one hand on the wall for balance and reached up to undo the first screw. The overhead task proved considerably harder than she thought at first, as she wrestled with the large screwdriver in her hand.

With the two-by-four down, she pushed the attic access panel through the opening and lifted herself up far enough to peek inside. She reached her hand out and grabbed a jointed truss to pull her skinny figure through the rectangular space. Inside the attic, she braced her feet on the roof joists, careful not to step on the drywall. Rows of fiberglass insulation lined the gaps between the rafters. A web of electrical wires ran the length of the dark confines, carefully intertwined by someone with a skillful and cunning hand.

She traced several wires from the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the ceiling above the garage where dead mice occupied a pair of traps in the corner. The smell of dust and insulation set her allergies in motion, prompting a sneeze attack and the dreaded itchy eyes.

Dismayed by her discovery, she lowered herself back down until her feet touched the wobbly shoe rack. She stepped to the floor with her arms extended above her head for support. Any semblance of trust she had with Alan dissolved completely. She felt disgusted. Betrayed. Cheated by the man who swore an oath to uphold the law—and the sanctity of their marriage.

She searched the bathroom and unscrewed the lights above the vanity. She checked the mirror on the wall beside the dresser and the picture hanging above the headboard. She searched her own bedroom and the remainder of her house, inspecting picture frames, lampshades, electrical sockets, and any other viable crevice she could find.

When her anger and curiosity brought her to Alan's study, she pressed the door handle and found it locked as expected. She ignored the warnings in her head and used the key Alan kept above the door frame. The house was hers as much as his. Whatever else Alan hid from her, she had a right to know about it.

Inside the study, a computer desk blocked the window overlooking the neighbor's yard. A tungsten gray file cabinet with a combination lock occupied the opposite corner. A custom bookshelf contained pornographic DVDs.

She stared at blank monitors flanked by a stack of digital video recorders with red LEDs staring back at her like rabid eyes. The house was wired from top to bottom, giving Alan unfettered access to her personal life, and to that of anyone who bothered to visit.

She pressed play on the unit labeled as "guest bedroom one" and forwarded to the previously recorded footage of Samantha in the shower.

She watched Samantha on the toilet; Samantha undressing in the bathroom; and finally, Samantha raped on the bedroom floor.

She closed her eyes, convinced the woman in the film was someone other than Samantha. But the camera didn't lie. The image, as vivid and real as the pain on Samantha's face, revealed yet another truth about the man she'd married.

Startled by the sound of the garage door, she left the study the way she found it and replaced the key above the door frame with the teeth facing out.

She darted back to the guest room and pressed the picture hook in the wall with her thumb. She adjusted the gaudy oil painting and left the laundry basket on the carpet above the freshly scrubbed stain.

She ran the shower and steadied herself on the shoe rack to screw the two-by-four back in place. She held the screws in one hand with the screwdriver and the wood plank in the other. Tiny flecks of sawdust fell in her eyes. Her heart raced. Her forearms trembled with fatigue.

When her foot slipped, she fell against the wall and dropped the last three screws on the carpet.

"Hello?" Blanchart called out from the laundry room entrance.

Jamie pushed the shoe rack against the wall and hid the hardware behind it. She pulled her shirt off and laid it on the bed.

"Jamie?" Blanchart called outside the guest bedroom.

Jamie took a deep breath. Her shoulder throbbed from her collision with the wall. "You're home early," she said, straining to mask the panic in her voice. She covered her chest with her arm. "I was just getting ready to shower."

Blanchart studied the room and the unmade bed with pillows on the floor. "Why are you showering in this room?"

"I just cleaned ours. I wanted to keep it fresh for you."

"Turn around."

Jamie swallowed. "What's wrong?"

"Turn around," Blanchart said more forcefully the second time. He touched the bandage that covered the tattoo surgery on Jamie's shoulder. "You've got something in your hair," he said matter-of-factly. He pinched a sawdust flake and rolled it between his fingers.

"I've been cleaning," said Jamie. She ran her fingers through her hair and granted Alan full view of the cleavage in her bra.

"Why are your eyes bloodshot?"

"Allergies."

"In November?"

"It happens."

Blanchart studied her expression and the bead of sweat trickling down her face. He stepped toward the closet and noticed the shoe rack tilted against the wall.

Jamie coughed on the lump in her throat and unfastened her bra. "The water's running," she said. "If you'd like to join me..."

Blanchart weighed the overt invitation for sex with the impulse to get what he needed and get out. "Another time," he said when a call came over his police radio. "Right now I have more important things to do."

Chapter 54

Leslie waited in George's office with her boss on the phone. She had enough trouble trying to pick apart Blanchart's story. The last thing she needed was her boss trying to poke holes in hers. "You pushed me to take the Morallen case," she said the second George hung up. "Now you're telling me to drop it?"

"No," said George. "I told you to drop this case days ago." He put his hand up as if to block the verbal onslaught of bitter retorts. He loosened his tie around his unbuttoned collar. "I think I caught what you have." He sipped his coffee and glanced at his daily planner. "If you'd gone on vacation like I had asked you to, you could have taken your sick germs with you."

"I have a gut feeling about Morallen," said Leslie. "I've been compiling evidence to support—"

"Save it. Stop playing games with me, and stop playing games with this case. You're a public defender, not a private detective."

"You told me I was the best attorney you had. So let me do my job."

"You have too much on your plate already."

"That never stopped me before. Right now I'm the only thing between Morallen and a wrongful conviction."

"Leave it alone," George warned her.

"You can't expect me to recuse myself this late in the game."

"I wouldn't have to if you'd listened to me the first time. You could have stayed on as co-defendant."

"That's bunk," said Leslie, "and you know it. I don't co-defend my own cases."

"Leslie—"

"Morallen's innocent. And I have a moral obligation to bring this case to trial."

"Regardless of what's best for your client?" said George.

"I know what's best for my client. I have an ethical obligation—"

"Which I recognize and respect," George acknowledged. "But you wouldn't be in this predicament, no, your client wouldn't be in this predicament if you'd pleaded his case from the get-go. You don't run this office. I do. The sooner you accept that, the better for both of us."

Leslie kept fighting. As long as she had air in her lungs and a steady pulse, she refused to concede her position to George. Whatever politics he aspired to achieve with the Morallen case would have to wait for the next stooge to come along. Morallen's case belonged to her and her alone. Nothing would change that. Not even a mulish boss who refused to admit his own lapse in judgment. "I'm still lead council."

"Not anymore."

"This is my case."

"It was never your case, Leslie."

"Morallen is the victim, not the perpetrator."

"He killed a cop."

"Allegedly. Or doesn't that term mean anything to you anymore?"

"Don't go there."

Leslie shifted into high gear. "That was Blanchart on the phone, wasn't it."

George focused his good eye on her, obviously determined not to back down. "He's threatening to press charges against you."

"On what grounds?"

"Trespass. Interfering with an ongoing investigation. Threatening an officer."

"Are you drinking from the same Kool Aid? Blanchart's an idiot."

"You accused him of murder."

"I asked him some hard questions. Questions I should have asked him from day one."

"Back away from this, Leslie. I'm serious. For once in your career, I need you to do what you're told."

"And what if I don't?"

"Blanchart's threatening to have you disbarred."

"On what grounds?"

"It doesn't matter," said George.

"He's bluffing."

"Are you willing to gamble your career? Blanchart has the right connections."

"So do I," said Leslie. "I hurt Blanchart's ego the other night and now he's trying to hit back by throwing his weight around."

George swallowed more of the bitter coffee. "Blanchart has influence in the mayor's office, especially with the state attorney."

Leslie could tell by looking at George that he felt like shit and things were getting worse. But she felt no sympathy for him. "I'm not intimidated by Blanchart. He's the one who should be worried if my evidence goes to court."

"You're picking a fight you can't win," said George. "Now I'm telling you as a friend and not your boss, stay away from Blanchart's crime scene. Stay away from Blanchart himself. And stay away from Manny Morallen. I appreciate your passion for your work, but this ends right here. Right now. Are we clear?"

Leslie stood up and shook her head at the rows of leather-bound law books on the shelving along the wall. "What happened to the man who used to stand for something? The sheriff barks and you tuck tail and run, tossing your principles to the curb along the way. I can't tell which one you serve more—the public's interest or Blanchart's ego."

George swiveled his chair and stared through a gap in the blinds. "The world's changed. It's time you learned to adapt." He turned his chair back to Leslie. "The state filed new charges against Morallen."

"Based on what?"

"New evidence ties Morallen to another recent homicide."

"What homicide?"

"A low-level drug dealer named Vince Parr. The sheriff's department found Morallen's prints on an unregistered revolver left at the scene."

"Morallen didn't kill Vince Parr. The case was a hit and run. And Morallen was in custody when it happened."

"The evidence supports a different story."

"Morallen's innocent."

"How can you know that?"

Leslie sighed. Despite her adrenaline boost, her energy waned. "Sometimes a little faith goes a long way."

"Or the wrong way," George countered. "The judge revoked Morallen's bail late this afternoon and issued a bench warrant for his arrest. That's why I called you in here."

"I haven't seen Morallen in days."

"Are you sure about that?"

Leslie felt her Blackberry vibrate. The caller ID displayed anonymous before she answered, "Hello?"

"Don't talk, just listen," said Morallen in a frantic voice distorted by bad reception.

Leslie kept a neutral expression. "I'm in a meeting right now. Can I call you back?"

"Meet me at the Sandpiper Motel, room 19, at ten sharp. I have something you should see."

"Can it wait?"

"It's about that cop's murder. I can prove Blanchart killed him."

"How?"

"Not on the phone."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Leslie offered. She ended the call and checked her watch. She knew the Sandpiper by reputation. A pay-by-the-hour dump frequented by prostitutes, drug dealers, and a few of her former clients.

"Who was that?" asked George.

Leslie forced a smile. "My neighbor's dog got out. She's worried he'll run away."

"That's not your problem."

"She's eighty-two years old. The police have better things to do."

"You can't save the world, Leslie."

"Maybe not, but a girl has the right to try."

Chapter 55

Leslie drove to the Sandpiper Motel hoping to find Manny Morallen before the cops did. If Morallen had something tangible on Blanchart, she'd use it to navigate the bureaucracy of federal law enforcement more concerned with fielding terrorist tips than investigating allegations of a crooked small-town sheriff. She had a tough pitch to implicate Blanchart in the death of his own deputy. And she needed more than circumstantial evidence. She needed irrefutable proof to convince herself and the FBI that Sheriff Alan Blanchart was involved in a murder conspiracy.

If Morallen came up empty, she faced an uphill battle armed with nothing but anecdotal evidence and a flighty witness with weak credibility. She also faced a hard decision—drop Morallen's case and forfeit her investigation into Blanchart or continue along the path of career suicide and pursue an underground investigation in spite of George's verbal warning.

In a court of law, procedure had its place. On the street, she had to think on her feet and make decisions based on the facts presented. George was another matter. If Morallen's case blew up in her face, her career with the public defender's office would end abruptly, and she would finally have the impetus to leave the public domain and land a private law position. With her Atlanta connections, she could earn twice the salary and put herself on a partner track where she belonged, litigating cases she believed in, not slinking through city hall to hash out last-minute plea bargains for clients guilty of one crime or another.

In her heart, she knew what she wanted. And it wasn't about the money or a corner office with a view. It was her own dogmatic desire to find the truth at whatever the cost. The truth never discriminated. The truth never bought its way out of a jail sentence. It simply was what it was. Black or white. Good or bad.

At nine fifty-eight, she parked outside the empty motel office and stashed her purse in the back of her car.

She climbed the stairs to the motel's second floor landing and read the room numbers one by one until she came upon room 19.

Lamplight radiated behind closed shades. Television noise blasted through the walls.

She knocked softly, waited a few seconds, and knocked again.

A man's voice inside the room asked, "Who is it?"

"I'm looking for Manny Morallen."

The chain lock slid free. A frail man with glazed eyes and track marks stuck his head out far enough to check both directions for cops. "What do you want?"

"Is Manny Morallen here?"

"Who?"

"Sorry," Leslie offered. "Wrong room." She backed away, curling her fingers around her keychain mace.

"Wait—you got any spare change? I ain't eaten in two days."

Leslie shook her head.

"I just need a little somethin'. I'm starvin' in here."

"Sorry," Leslie told him.

The door slammed in her face.

The room number jiggled on a loose screw.

Leslie touched the plastic 9 and turned it clockwise to read 6. She counted the number sequence on the adjacent rooms, baffled by her own inattention to detail.

She advanced to the real room 19 and found the door ajar with the blinds drawn and the lights out.

She felt the urge to run, convinced Morallen was either halfway to Mexico or dead in an alley somewhere. Don't cower from your fears, confront them. You didn't come this far to give up now.

She nudged her way inside the room and flicked the light switch. A desk lamp revealed an unkempt bed and soiled carpet with fast food wrappers in the trash.

"Manny?"

A tapping sound drew her attention toward the bathroom, where she caught the reflection of Morallen in the mirror, slumped on the floor with a needle in his arm and a trail of white foam oozing from his nose and mouth. She checked his pulse and recoiled in horror when she felt the dead body twitch.

A masked figure with gloved hands muted her scream, smothering her face from behind, with a knife pressed to her throat.

Leslie sprayed the air with Mace and bit down hard, sinking her teeth into an index finger. The action prompted a swift response from her attacker, who lost focus for an instant and relinquished his grip.

Leslie slammed her elbow in a backward motion at her attacker's groin and bolted for the door, barking her shin on the bed frame as she ran.

Half running, half hobbling, she scurried along the second floor banister and clattered down a flight of stairs. She hustled to the edge of the parking lot beyond the vending machine area. She ducked between two pick-up trucks and clutched her keychain Mace, cursing herself for leaving her Blackberry in the car. She wanted to cry and scream at the same time, but her survival instincts took over, compelling her to stay low in a cramped position on her hands and knees.

Heavy footsteps descended the motel stairs. Light rain dotted the parking lot.

Leslie peered underneath the chassis of a white Monte Carlo SS and prayed for the black boots to move away from her. But the size fourteen soles stayed put like a pair of sentries stationed close enough to hear her breathing. She begged forgiveness for every sin she'd ever committed, as if the vetting of her own transgressions would resolve her predicament.

Her muscles tensed when the boots stepped toward the Monte Carlo's rear quarter panel. Dark eyes peered through a black ski mask, searching for signs of movement, while the moonlight shimmered on the single-edged serrated blade.

Spurred by the fight or flight impulse, Leslie sprang from her hiding spot and bolted across the slippery pavement toward the open road, waving her arms and screaming like a banshee at an oncoming car that swerved in front of her. A horn blasted in the waning seconds it took the driver to regain control of his fish-tailing vehicle.

Leslie ran behind a gas station surrounded by stacks of used tires and skirted toward the railroad track. Lights from an oncoming train preceded a loud warning whistle.

She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare and saw a large figure advance in her direction.

"Who's there?" she shouted above the clamor of the approaching locomotive.

Blanchart kept his hands at his sides.

"What are you doing here?" Leslie called out, her voice strained with fear.

"I caught a domestic disturbance call."

"Where's your car?"

Blanchart blocked Leslie's path while the southbound train rambled along the tracks. "It's dangerous to be out here alone."

Leslie stepped backwards and limped on a twisted ankle. "You're not in uniform," she said, her world closing in from all sides.

"I'm off duty," said Blanchart. He gripped the silenced revolver tucked in his belt behind his back. "You should be more careful."

Leslie felt the rush of air from the fast-moving cargo train. She had nowhere to hide and no way to outrun the sheriff. This is it, she told herself, resigned to the hope that her teeth would match the bite marks on Blanchart's finger when the good guys found her body. "I spoke to the FBI," she blurted.

"Good for you," said Blanchart when a deputy's patrol car approached with the lights flashing.

"It's okay," Blanchart told the eager rookie who jumped out to assist him. "I'll take it from here."

Chapter 56

Varden followed Lloyd's Triumph for hours along a route that circled through town and back, until the last of the blinding sun disappeared below the horizon. He flipped his visor and grabbed a ham sandwich from an Igloo cooler. He chewed vigorously as if this meal were his last, washing down the sandwich with sour cream potato chips and cold coffee. In the door beside him, urine sloshed inside a plastic bottle wedged between a folded road atlas and a rechargeable flashlight.

He knew more about Lloyd Sullivan than Lloyd knew about himself. Random room inspections, court records, and the ever-present surveillance cameras afforded him an omniscient view of the young convict who'd served ten years in the poky. He knew everything about Lloyd Sullivan, from the way he dressed, to the food he ate and drank, to how much time he spent on the shitter every morning after breakfast.

In the span of his law enforcement career, Varden never saw an ex-convict who didn't fall back on old habits. Lloyd Sullivan was dealing drugs again. He could feel it in his bones.

He followed the Triumph to the library and parked in the last row, close enough to keep his eye on the prize but far enough to avoid detection. He grabbed the SLR camera from the seat and deactivated the flash.

Inside the building, he tracked his subject to the periodical section. There would be no more Mickey Mouse citations for speeding or skipping curfew. This time Lloyd Sullivan earned a bona fide parole violation that guaranteed him a one-way ticket back to life behind bars.

Varden followed his target to the media center and mulled about in the fiction section, waiting for the drug exchange to happen. He knew from experience that whatever weight Lloyd was pushing, he kept it out of the house and off his person, opting for a quiet, secluded, and readily accessible location to conduct his business.

Varden loitered near the end of the aisle, pretending to be engrossed in a book as the closing announcement came from the public address system.

The lights dimmed. Patrons approached the checkout counter with their books.

Varden peered through a gap in the bookshelf. He fit the camera lens between two hard-cover volumes and snapped a dozen photos of Lloyd, though the back of his helmet was towards the camera.

There were no drugs to speak of to be seen and no cash exchanging hands. Just the smack of disbelief when the ex-con in the Triumph jacket removed his helmet to reveal the face of Marvin Tate.

Chapter 57

Lloyd planted the shovel head firmly in the graveyard soil and pushed with his foot. Hunched inside a box-shaped hole more than three feet deep, he scooped the clump of sandy dirt, swinging the uprooted earth toward the pile above the grave of a man he hoped he wouldn't find.

He worked tirelessly, his sweaty palms blistered and sore from repeated contact with the shovel's wooden handle. Motivated by a looming curfew and the prospect of a third strike from Varden, he dug faster until he finally nicked the coffin lid.

He clanged the spade a second time to be sure. Then he knelt down beneath the ominous night sky so vast and powerful that his own life seemed insignificant. A tiny speck in a universe of uncertainty about his place in the world and the tenuous relationships he maintained with his family and the married woman he'd fallen in love with.

When a slow-moving vehicle approached the cemetery's gated entrance, he hit the ground above the coffin and killed the flashlight.

A sheriff's deputy idled his car beyond the gate, panning a spotlight at the cemetery.

Lloyd watched the focused beam shoot over his position toward the wooded area on the ten-acre property. White light blanketed rows of headstones in slow motion, illuminating everything above ground.

He clutched the shovel in a prone position with his boots crammed against a wall of dirt. The green LED flashed on his ankle monitor. He heard a car door open and close, followed by the faint sound of footsteps as the officer inspected the gated grounds on foot. A second light, more narrow and less concentrated, scanned the headstones through the fence.

Lloyd remained still inside the grave, fearful that the giant dirt mound would draw attention. Clouds drifted across the moon's path. Crickets chirped. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Earthworms slithered in and out of fresh soil.

Lloyd wiped dirt on his face. Sweat oozed from his pores. Time passed slowly, then he heard a police radio squawk. After the spot beam panned the ground beside him, it was extinguished. He heard the crunch of gravel under tires as the deputy drove away.

Lloyd poked his head out to verify the cop was gone. With his curfew looming, he pawed at the coffin with his bare hands, straddling the elongated box between his legs for leverage. He opened the lid and shone the flashlight at a black trash bag folded over itself. He tugged on the bag and flipped it upside down, spilling bricks of used bills secured with rubber bands. The money made him sick and elated at the same time, lending credence to Brenda's story about his father's effort to make the best of a bad situation.

He stuffed the cash inside a black backpack and climbed out to refill the man-made cavity. When he finished, he patted the loose surface with the shovel and nudged sections of torn sod to conceal the disturbance.

He carried the backpack on his shoulder and hiked through a clearing, where Jamie sat inside Marvin's pick-up. He tossed the shovel in the empty truck bed, unaware of the figure looming in the darkness beyond the trees.

"What took you so long?" Jamie asked when Lloyd climbed in the driver's seat.

"I had company."

"Did he see you?"

"I doubt it," said Lloyd. "If he did, he would have opened the gate." He drove out of the woods toward the main road and unzipped the bag on his lap. He handed bricks of cash to Jamie. "Take these."

"I can't."

"You'll need the money."

Jamie clung to his arm. "We'll need it. I can't do this alone."

Lloyd laced his fingers with Jamie's and kissed her hand gently. "Samantha has everything in place. She'll call me when you're safe."

"Did she say anything?" Jamie asked. She sounded afraid to hear the answer.

"About what?"

"Never mind..."

Lloyd rubbed her hand. "Samantha's on board all the way. And so am I."

"Then it's really happening?"

Lloyd nodded. "Just like we planned." He could sense Jamie's apprehension. Understandable given the circumstances, but not insurmountable. "Are you okay with everything at your end?"

"I think so," said Jamie. "I crushed enough pills to knock out an elephant."

"And you're sure he'll drink it?"

Jamie nodded slowly. "Alan has the same routine every night. He can't sleep without a drink before bed."

Lloyd detoured from the highway and followed an alternate route to Jamie's car at the Winn-Dixie parking lot. "Did you pack the duct tape?"

"Yes."

"And the Super Glue?"

"I did everything like you said."

"What about your husband's schedule?"

"He goes off duty for the next two days. No one will miss him."

Lloyd drove faster to make his curfew. "By the time anyone figures out he's missing, you'll be long gone."

Jamie searched her lover's eyes for strength, finding solace in the way Lloyd exuded such confidence. "What if something goes wrong?"

"It won't. Not if we stick to the plan. As soon as the pills take effect, grab all the video evidence you can carry from his study. When you leave the house, drive his car to this parking lot and find the tan Civic. It's a rental in Samantha's name. The key will be in the passenger wheel well. Drive straight to Orlando airport. Don't stop for anything. You're going to park in the short term lot. Samantha will meet you at the United gate."

"What if she's not there?"

"She will be."

"What if she changes her mind and refuses to testify?"

"She won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

Lloyd put his arm around her shoulder. "Because you found the courage to leave your husband and Samantha found the courage to help you do it."

"What if Alan finds me?"

"You'll be safe in New York. He has no authority outside his own jurisdiction. This time you'll have the law on your side."

"I'm scared," Jamie confided.

"Don't overthink it. Just stick to the plan."

Jamie laid her hand in Lloyd's. "I feel like everything's happening so fast."

"One step at a time," said Lloyd. "I'll meet up with you as soon as I finish my parole."

"How will you find me?"

"As beautiful as the first time I saw you."

Chapter 58

Leslie huddled inside her pre-owned Lexus outside a busy 7-Eleven and dialed George's cell phone. "Come on, come on..." She scanned the road and the cars at the gas pumps, expecting Blanchart to reappear any second—but without his staff to intervene in his endeavors.

"Hello?" George answered through the phone in a groggy voice, his tone barely lucid.

"George, it's Leslie. I need your help right away!"

"It's three-thirty in the morning. What the hell are you—"

"Hold on..."

Leslie watched a beer truck driver negotiate his rig beside a handicap spot, effectively blocking her view of the open road.

"You still there?" said George.

"He tried to kill me," Leslie whispered in her Blackberry. "He murdered Manny Morallen and then he tried to kill me."

"Who?"

"Sheriff Blanchart."

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm scared, George. He was, he was chasing me. He was going to kill me. I saw Morallen dead with a needle in his arm. Blanchart made it look like an overdose. I'm a witness. I can't—"

"Are you sure it was Blanchart?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? He put a knife to my throat."

"Did you see his face?"

"No, but—"

"Then how do you know it was him?"

"He must have followed me to Morallen's motel room."

"Morallen? Jesus Leslie, I told you to leave it alone!" His wife muttered in her sleep. He pushed her arm off his chest and rolled out of bed, trying to shake of the last vestiges of REM sleep and absorb the implications of what Leslie was saying.

"Morallen's dead. Blanchart killed him and then he went after me."

George tottered into his study and powered up his laptop. "How did you get away?"

"One of his men showed up unexpectedly. Blanchart got spooked."

George logged into his email account. "None of this makes any sense. Why would Blanchart try to kill you?"

"To hide the truth about the murders he's committed."

"Murders? I went to school with Alan Blanchart. I've known him for years. He's one of the good guys."

"Not anymore," said Leslie. "I'm scared, George. I need your help."

"Did you call the police?"

"I can't trust the local police right now."

"Where are you?"

"I can't go back to my apartment."

"You can trust me, Leslie. But I can't help you if I don't know where you are."

"I want the FBI involved. Someone outside of Blanchart's jurisdiction."

George opened his email contact list. "The FBI won't bite without evidence a federal crime's been committed."

"I have the evidence," Leslie uttered, her voice shaky and distracted before she ended the call and drove away.

* * *

George entered the courthouse building and placed his personal belongings on the X-ray belt. He walked through the scanner and collected his keys and change at the other end.

Disturbed by Leslie's accusations, he realized his prodigal attorney had found herself in a hole too deep to climb out of. Despite her impressive legal skills, Leslie had a knack for stepping in shit. And now the very skills that helped her thrive under pressure in a court of law were jeopardizing the integrity of the public defender's office—and pounding the last nail in her coffin.

He rode the elevator to the fifth floor and entered the lobby outside the state attorney's office. He opened the double glass doors flanked by Old Glory and the red striped flag from the state of Florida. "I need to speak with Jim Rosen immediately," he told the new receptionist.

"And who are you?"

"George Winston. From the public defender's office."

"Mr. Rosen is in a meeting."

"Tell him it's urgent."

The receptionist shook her head. "He's on a conference call."

George ignored the gate keeper and charged down the hall.

"Excuse me... Mr. Winston! You can't go in there!"

George found the state attorney behind the lacquered oval table in the meeting room filled with legal staff. "We need to talk," George announced in front of the group.

"I'm on a call," the state attorney rebuked him. "You can't be in here."

"The call can wait. I've got something you need to hear."

Chapter 59

Jamie brushed her teeth at the bathroom sink where Alan kept his antique straight razor on the basin by his toothbrush holder. She could tell by the way he dawdled about the bedroom in his underwear that he wanted sex. The subtle hand gestures. The fleeting glances at her ass in the mirror. The way he hovered in the bathroom while she bent over the sink.

She rinsed her mouth and placed her toothbrush in the holder. You can do this, she told herself, holding a washcloth in the stream of warm water. She rinsed her face, rubbing the space between her nose and cheeks where the oil and makeup residue liked to hide. She cringed inside when she felt her husband's erection press against her. Cold hands touched her shoulders by her camisole straps.

Blanchart kissed the nape of his wife's slender neck, his knob pressing through his boxer shorts. "You feel tense."

"I'm just tired."

"Not tonight you're not."

Jamie squeezed the washcloth over the sink. "I want to feel pretty for you."

Blanchart groped her breasts from behind, undeterred by his wife's subtle redirection. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." She felt his presence suffocate her personal space. "How's your forehead?"

"The stitches come out tomorrow."

Jamie rubbed the washcloth on the sink to remove a toothpaste stain. Her breasts felt lifeless in Alan's hands. "You never told me what happened on your trip."

Blanchart eased a strap from her shoulder. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Jamie forced a smile in the mirror. "I have to pee."

Blanchart backed away.

Jamie sat on the toilet trying to force herself to urinate while her husband loitered in the bathroom. She kept her head down, concentrating on the simple task she'd performed a million times since birth but couldn't accomplish when she needed to most. She squeezed her bladder and covered her face with her hands to block the waves of nervous energy perpetuated by Alan's gaze. She pleaded for the phone to ring, for Alan's pager to beep, for a bolt of lightning to strike the house, or an earthquake to split the floor in half. Instead, she endured the silence, accompanied by a dripping shower faucet and the sound of her own voice screaming inside her head, berating herself for emptying her bladder ten minutes before she brushed her teeth. "I need some privacy," she said in a sullen voice laced with apprehension about the consequences of her actions if her plan should fail. She dribbled in the toilet bowl, her token effort signaled by the drops of urine squeezed under duress.

Blanchart conceded and granted his wife a moment of privacy.

Jamie stalled as long as she could before she flushed and got up to wash her hands. She could see Alan fumbling with his magazines in the dresser.

She wiped the basin and the faucet. She folded the bathmat over the tub and adjusted the towels on the rack above the toilet. She brushed her hair in the mirror until Alan appeared sufficiently distracted. Then she put on her robe to cover herself and reached inside her makeup drawer to retrieve the lipstick tube filled with powdered sedative she'd pulverized in her coffee grinder. She slipped the tube in her robe pocket and turned out the light. "I'll be right back."

"Come here," said Blanchart.

Jamie moved slowly toward the bedroom door. "Just getting a glass of water."

"Not now."

Jamie's confidence stumbled. Afraid to challenge Alan's order and jeopardize her agenda, she surrendered to her husband's wishes. She had everything in place except one final, disgusting task she hadn't counted on. Her price for a chance at freedom and the prospect of escaping an abusive marriage.

She knew Alan would drink the water if she offered it after sex. If he drank too little, the pills might not take effect, a risk she tried to mitigate by adding extra hot pepper to the red sauce she'd made for dinner.

"You look nice tonight," Alan offered. He propped his arm above the sheets and patted her pillow. "Lose the robe."

Jamie let her robe fall at her feet. Her camisole hid what remained of her dignity.

She climbed in bed and closed her eyes. Alan's naked torso pressed against her, his hands tugging awkwardly at her panties.

She endured the next few minutes on her back before Alan finished and rolled away. An eternity in her mind, but a necessary evil that brought her one step closer to the goal she risked everything to achieve.

"Bring me a beer when you come back," said Blanchart, reaching for the television remote on the nightstand.

Jamie gathered herself in her robe and cinched the front strap. Alan's seed drizzled down her inner thigh. "I'll be right back."

She twisted the cap off a long-neck bottle from the fridge and dumped the powder inside. Her hands trembled as she waited for the foam to settle. She poured herself a glass of red wine from the open bottle on the counter and gulped it to calm her nerves. Keep it together, she told herself, convinced the worst was over. She had Samantha and Lloyd on her side. She had a fresh start waiting for her more than twelve hundred miles away from Lakewood. No one knew Alan the way she did, and no one understood her conflict. In her heart, she'd made her choice the instant she met Lloyd Sullivan. Her lover. Her savior. And the man she yearned to share her life with.

She gave the beer another swirl and prepared for phase two of her plan.

"Find what you need?" Blanchart asked from the back of the kitchen.

Jamie spilled on her robe. "I thought you were in bed." She set the wine glass down and ran a dishtowel in cold water to blot the stain.

"You were gone a long time," said Blanchart.

Jamie handed Alan the tainted beer. "I couldn't twist the cap."

"I'm off duty for a couple days," said Blanchart. "I thought we could do something special." He put the bottle to his lips as if to drink, then lowered it and said, "Unless you already have plans."

"Of course not." Jamie dabbed the red stain with the wet dishtowel. "What did you have in mind?"

"I thought we could take a drive to the beach and enjoy the change of scenery. It's a short ride."

"That would be nice," Jamie lied to his face. She downed her last sip of wine.

Blanchart touched her hair. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired."

Blanchart picked at the beer bottle with his thumb nail, scraping pieces of wet label on the floor. His jaw muscles twitched. His scathing glance burned a hole at Jamie.

"You're staring at me," said Jamie, compelled to break the awkward silence.

Blanchart raised the beer to his mouth. He brushed his lips across the top of his favorite beverage but didn't drink. "When was the last time you went to the beach?"

"I can't remember."

"Were you by yourself?"

"I never go there alone."

"Maybe you went with someone else?"

"I took Samantha when she came to visit."

Blanchart put the bottle to his lips and chugged the contents. He finished with a muffled burp.

Jamie looked down at the floor.

Blanchart rinsed the empty bottle in the sink. "You should have seen the look on her face. The same look I just saw on yours."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't think I'd find out, did you?"

Jamie felt lightheaded. The wine glass in her hand grew heavy. The room swayed like a boat on rolling seas. "Find out what?" Her words came harder. Her thoughts more difficult to formulate.

Blanchart took the glass away. "You didn't think I would notice you playing in my study?"

"I never go in your study."

"Your hands were all over my equipment the way my hands were all over Samantha's. She looks good on video. With a little coaching, she could land a career on her back."

Jamie balanced herself against the table in a dizzy, twilight state. "I feel, sick..."

Blanchart left the room and came back with an empty prescription bottle and a tube of Super Glue. "I found these taped to the back of your dresser drawer. You should be more careful."

Jamie shook her head. Her body felt weightless.

Blanchart's tone grew ominous. "You poured talcum powder in my beer. I laced your glass with something stronger." He opened the tube of Super Glue and dabbed a drop on each of Jamie's fingers before he pressed them against her naked thighs, leaving her arms locked in a criss-cross fashion above her groin. "That will teach you to keep your legs together."

"Please..."

"Save it for somehow who cares. I trusted you and you betrayed that trust. You're human. You're programmed from birth to make mistakes. The problem is we fail to realize the consequences of those mistakes until it's too late. In this case we're not talking about a failure to yield or excessive speeding. We're talking about a breach of trust between a husband and wife. And I always say a marriage without trust ends in mayhem."

He hoisted her on his shoulder and carried her outside beyond the screened pool to the open storage shed. "At some point, you're going to tell me all about the new man in your life. But first, we need to get you settled and give you time to think about your indiscretion. This wasn't an easy decision for me. The tough ones never are. In some countries, death is the punishment of choice. But fortunately we live in a civilized society. And I'm not a bad man."

He stuffed a scarf in her mouth and tied it behind her head inside the dank, musty shed. "This will feel a little tight at first."

He set her down and shoved a work bench toward the corner to reveal the outline of an opening cut into the floor. He poked his fingers through the air holes in the hinged plywood flap and lifted one end to expose the stapled pine box beneath the shed. A trail of copper brown fire ants crawled single file along the bottom edge.

Jamie pulled her fingers back, stretching the skin on her thighs until it hurt. Heavily sedated but still lucid, she found herself at the mercy of her own misfortune.

Alan shoved her inside the box and lowered the lid. Then he dragged the heavy workbench on top to secure his property in place.

Chapter 60

Lloyd stood with Marvin in Varden's office, his ears pricking for the sound of a house call that never came. His thoughts ran the gamut of possibilities. Did Jamie follow the plan? Did she find the rental car? Did she make it to the airport? Or has something gone terribly wrong?

"What's up with this?" Marvin whispered to his roommate. He rubbed his eyes. Lloyd could see they were red and bleary from Varden's late-night rousing.

* * *

Varden hung up the phone on his desk and launched the Web browser on his PC. He typed the URL address for the Florida Department of Corrections website and entered his user ID and password. He clicked the mouse to bring up the GPS locator with names appended to a local map on the monitor. He dragged the cursor over Lloyd's location history and scrolled to the street address for the Seaside Cemetery.

Varden swiveled the screen for Lloyd to read. "You care to tell me what the hell you were doing in the middle of Salem's Lot ninety minutes before curfew?"

Lloyd squinted at the blip in the center that showed his initials in parentheses. "My father's buried there."

"I see... And you were just paying your respects while Mr. Tate rode your motorcycle all over creation, pretending to be you."

"I don't follow," said Lloyd.

"Don't bullshit me, Sullivan. The cemetery closed three hours before you showed up on this screen. That's trespassing."

"I was standing outside the gate."

Varden redirected his wrath at Marvin. "What's your involvement in all this? And if I were you, I'd think very carefully about your answer."

Marvin shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. "He borrowed my truck. I needed a book from the library, so I borrowed his bike."

"And his jacket and helmet?"

"Just the jacket," Marvin corrected him. "The helmet's mine."

Varden clenched his teeth. Veins throbbed in his temple. "You wore that gear to hide your identity."

"There are only two kinds of riders," said Marvin. "Those who have crashed and those who will. I prefer to err on the side of caution."

"And your two-hour detour all over town?"

"I got lost."

Varden sneered at both men, uncertain about which one he wanted to kick the shit out of first. "That's convenient."

"It's not illegal," Marvin retorted in a condescending tone.

Varden pushed in the keyboard tray and stood up. "That's debatable. I've got one strike on you already Mr. Tate. If you're mixed up in something you shouldn't be, the time to come clean is now. Before I violate your parole for operating a motorcycle without a license."

"You can't do that," Lloyd chimed in, glancing at the clock on the wall.

"You have somewhere else to be, Mr. Sullivan? You've been acting squirrelly all night. Are you going to man up and take responsibility or drag Mr. Tate down with you?"

The house phone rang in the hall outside Varden's office.

Varden noted the pained expression on Lloyd's face. "Am I interrupting something, Mr. Sullivan?"

"What do you want from me?"

"Let's start with the truth about what you were doing in that cemetery last night. I have a warrant to search the truck, your bike, and your person, which I will tear apart piece by piece until I find the drugs you're hiding."

"Go for it," said Lloyd. He started to unbuckle his belt. "Don't tickle my balls when you're down there."

Varden grabbed the handcuffs from his desk drawer. "That's it, Sullivan. Your time is up."

"Ronald Varden?" a sheriff's deputy called out from the front of the house.

"Right here," said Varden. He turned to face Lloyd for the final time. "Your ride's waiting."

The deputy approached the men and unsnapped his handcuff pouch to withdraw the silver bracelets. "Ronald Varden?"

"He's all yours."

"I have a warrant for your arrest."

"What the hell are you doing?" said Varden.

"Please turn around and put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent—"

"What is this?"

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney. If you cannot afford one—"

"I know my rights!" said Varden. "What the hell are you charging me with?"

The deputy secured the cuffs. "Possession and distribution of child pornography."

"That's absurd. I'm a parole officer. This is my house. I've never seen child pornography in my life!" Varden stared at his computer, and saw it had reverted to a screensaver of naked boys. "What the... This isn't mine! I didn't do this!"

The deputy escorted Varden outside the house while other ex-cons spilled out to witness the commotion.

"I'll tell Montgomery to expect you," said Marvin.

"I'll have your ass for this," threatened Varden. "Both of you."

Marvin followed Lloyd to their room. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see another cop."

"What just happened here?"

"Varden has internet access through his cable provider. When he asked me to fix the TV box, I added a special feature."

"Varden's not a pervert," said Lloyd.

"He's no saint, either."

"That doesn't make it right."

"Tell that to Montgomery. Varden cooked up his third strike just like he tried to do to you. Montgomery never had a chance."

"So this is payback?"

"This is Karma. I haven't done anything to Varden that he hasn't already done to himself."

"It's still wrong," said Lloyd.

"What do you care? Varden's been riding you since you got here. You act like you'd rather get jacked for a third violation than see Varden get what's coming to him."

"You should have told me," said Lloyd. "That's all."

"Like you told me what you were doing with my truck?"

Lloyd gathered his Triumph jacket and slipped his backpack on his shoulder. He dug a crumpled Benjamin from his pocket and slapped it in Marvin's hand. "Are we square?"

"Yeah," said Marvin with a note of contempt. "We're square."

Chapter 61

Leslie sat inside her car beneath a tower of parking lot lights and a pole-mounted surveillance camera outside a Wal-Mart entrance. Without specific knowledge of who to look for, everyone in the retail circus appeared suspicious, including the RV driver who cut across the open lot in a faded Winnebago with Arizona plates.

She'd waited hours for an FBI agent to show without any communication from George, who seemed more interested in his own career advancement than helping her bring a bad cop to justice. Nothing in her life made sense any more. The justice system she trusted had come apart at the seams and no one gave a crap. Manny Morallen was dead, and the man who killed him would stop at nothing to bury the truth about the murder of his own deputy. Now her future teetered on the outcome of a midnight rendezvous with a federal agent she'd never met. An agent who George assured her would make contact and bring her to safety.

You're losing it, she told herself as a tall, heavyset man in a hooded sweatshirt headed in her direction with his hands in his pockets. She watched the stranger advance across the parking lot without a cart or a shopping bag or anything on his person to suggest he came to shop. The closer he got, the more facial details she discerned within the drawstring hood. Caucasian. Late thirties to early forties. Dark hair. Clean shaven.

It wasn't Blanchart. And it wasn't anyone else she recognized either.

Tired of the waiting game, Leslie put the Lexus in reverse and backed away from the tree-lined median as the undercover agent gave chase.

She mashed her foot on the gas pedal and plowed through a convoy of empty shopping carts behind her. She slammed the transmission in drive without stopping and cut the wheel to peel out of the parking lot toward the main thoroughfare. If the feds wouldn't come to her, she'd bring her case to them and drop a crooked cop in their lap.

She replayed the notes in her head, rehashing everything she suspected about Blanchart's involvement in the murder of Deputy Carter and Manny Morallen. As certain as the sun would rise, she knew Blanchart killed Morallen and then tried to kill her. In every situation, Blanchart had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to commit the crimes. George's friend or not, Blanchart was a worm inside the apple.

She took the interstate out of town and checked the destination route on her Blackberry. She'd spent her life defending a system that turned its back on the one client she knew for certain was innocent. And the one witness she'd hoped to leverage against the sheriff in court.

Despite the mounting evidence against him, Blanchart always found a way to counter her attack. But like all tyrants, she knew eventually his reign would end. Whatever power Blanchart held in his own private universe would dissolve when the feds slapped the cuffs on him.

The minute the FBI had Blanchart in custody, she'd tender her resignation with the public defender's office and start a new career with a private law firm. The same crazy hours, but much better pay—and eventually a more manageable schedule to afford her the kind of life she'd always dreamed about. A life with more time for fun and less time for stress.

Her Blackberry signaled an incoming call.

She laid into George. "This better be good! Your guy never showed!"

She flashed her high beams at the construction zone up ahead.

The connection remained silent.

"Did you hear what I said? I waited in the parking lot alone for three hours!"

"I heard you the first time," said Blanchart on the other end.

Leslie straightened in her seat. Her initial fear morphed into anger. "How did you get this number?"

"That's not important."

Leslie slowed her car and followed closely along the staggered concrete barrier. A section of unpaved blacktop rumbled under her tires. "You murdered Simon Carter and Manny Morallen, and I have the evidence to prove it."

"If you live long enough."

"Don't threaten me you sick bastard. I'm not afraid of you."

"Maybe you should be."

"I have enough to put you away for life," Leslie spoke loudly, her confidence building as her final destination drew closer.

"You have nothing," said Blanchart, his voice calm and resonant.

Leslie changed lanes to pass a slower moving car. "I think my friends at the FBI will disagree."

Blanchart took his time with the highly intelligent and elusive adversary more inventive—and lucky—than most enemies he pursued. "I admire your tenacity, Ms. Dancroft, especially coming from a public defender with an average track record and a law school rank at the bottom of her class. You failed the bar the first two times you took it. You never married because no self-respecting man would share his bed with you. Not even me. You spend all your time chasing fairytales, and yet you still don't get it. Now you're running from something you can't reconcile. And that's always been the case, hasn't it? Running is what you know. It's the only way for you to cope with the fear."

Leslie put the Blackberry on speaker mode. She gripped the wheel and accelerated to ninety-five. Wind turbulence buffeted the hood. "Don't underestimate me."

"On the contrary, Ms. Dancroft, you underestimate yourself. You had such potential, yet you chose to squander it in public practice, defending indigent criminals on the taxpayers' dime. You sacrificed your personal life for years with little gain. You have no husband. No children. No promise of a better future to look forward to."

"I have your demise to look forward to," said Leslie. "That's all the promise I need in my life right now."

Blanchart cleared his throat. "How far do you think you can take this?"

"Far enough to watch you get the needle."

The connection went silent for several seconds.

"You're in no position to threaten me," said Blanchart.

"I'm five minutes from an FBI field office," said Leslie with resounding confidence in her voice.

"Unfortunately for you, you're not going to make it."

"How do you know?"

"Because you just missed your exit."

Leslie looked up to see a pair of blinding headlights hit her rearview mirror. She stabbed the accelerator, but the car behind her kept pace, gaining ground as the mile markers ticked by. She checked her speed and fumbled with her phone, rattled by the sudden shift in the balance of power.

A crushing impact to her rear bumper whipped her body forward and buried her shoulder belt in her chest.

She braked hard and then accelerated a split second later, maintaining control of the car with a mountain climber's grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

She hailed the FBI on speed dial and heard the call connect when a second impact forced the car sideways, causing her to swerve toward oncoming traffic.

She veered right, then overcorrected to the left, slamming a section of guard rail at high speed. The Lexus spun out of control like a Matchbox car on a broken track, its twisted wreckage tumbling at high velocity, hurling metal and glass debris in a thousand directions at once before the crumpled sedan lost momentum and skidded upside-down on the roof, grinding sparks along the pavement.

* * *

Leslie opened her eyes to see the panoramic whirl of distant traffic. Flashing strobe lights moved in slow motion, reflected in tiny pieces of shattered glass scattered on the ground in front of her.

Pinned in her seatbelt upside down, she inhaled the smell of gasoline fumes through her broken nose. A punctured lung made breathing difficult. A splintered femur brought unbearable pain.

"Who else have you talked to?" said Blanchart, aiming a flashlight at Leslie's upside-down face.

Leslie gurgled on a lung filled with blood. Her body shivered from the cold enveloping her. "No one."

"Who else?"

"Can't breathe..."

Blanchart reached inside the empty passenger window and gathered the accordion file folders. "You've been in an accident. You're in shock. You'll die without immediate medical attention." He opened the folders and inspected the contents. "I can't help you unless you tell me what I need to know." He tossed the papers back inside Leslie's car and holstered his flashlight on his duty belt.

Leslie reached toward her hip and unfastened her seat belt to relieve the pressure on her chest and free her to move about. The transfer of weight sent shockwaves of pain through her leg. Transmission fluid dripped in her eye. The smell of death lingered like the Grim Reaper himself.

She reached for the digital recorder that spilled out of her purse in the crash and slid it away from the car.

Blanchart lit a cigarette and stooped to face Leslie eye-to-eye. "Who else has seen these files?"

Leslie curled a fist and sprung her middle finger. "Go to hell."

Blanchart stood up and took a long drag on the filtered Marlboro. Red-hot tobacco burned and crackled at the tip before he flicked the ignition source at the trail of spilled gasoline and said, "Ladies first."

Chapter 62

Lloyd rode his damaged Triumph to the Winn-Dixie parking lot and found the tan Civic where Samantha had parked it with the key still under the wheel well. He searched the lot for Jamie's Volvo or Blanchart's unmarked cruiser but found neither in plain view.

Something went wrong, he reasoned before he sped away from the parking lot and raced across town to the self-storage unit. He replayed the steps in his mind, convincing himself Jamie must have gone through with the plan. Every detail was accounted for. Every aspect double-checked.

He circled the abandoned property and ventured toward the back. Confident no one followed him, he dropped the kickstand and dismounted. Thunder rumbled in the night sky, marred by heat lightning and the onset of a passing shower.

He opened the rolling door to his father's storage unit and emptied the backpack full of cash in an old freezer chest. With Varden in custody, he had some latitude with his schedule, but if Varden could track his moves, so could his replacement.

He piled boxes above the freezer as steady rain began to fall. Outside the storage facility, a Geo Metro with a broken antenna pulled up beside the Triumph.

"What are you doing here?" Lloyd asked his brother, who got out of the car in a hurry.

"Looking for you."

"I know what you did to Mom."

Josh rubbed his nose with a shaky hand. "I'm not here for family counseling." Sweat dripped from his brow into dilated eyes that looked as tired and worn as the clothes he'd slept in. "Where's the money?"

Lloyd adjusted the empty backpack on his shoulder. "What money?"

Josh pulled a small revolver from his waistband and pointed the gun at Lloyd. "Open the bag."

"What are you doing?"

"I know about the money Dad stole. I saw you take it from the cemetery." Josh scratched his arms, first one then the other. "Let me see the bag."

Lloyd dropped the empty bag on the floor.

Josh unzipped the main compartment. "Where's the money?"

"I don't have it."

"Then where is it?"

"I gave it away."

"Bullshit!"

Lloyd kept his eye on the gun. "The money won't solve your problems."

"You don't know shit about my problems."

"I know they're bigger than any one man can handle himself."

"Did Mom tell you that?"

"You need help," said Lloyd. "I can help you if you let me."

"What I need is for you to give me the fucking money."

"Nothing good will come of this."

Josh pressed his dentures with his tongue. He hit the side of his fist against the cinderblock wall. He'd seen it coming with Lloyd, but he couldn't bring himself to accept the inevitable. "Spoken like the bro I know. A real life Superman. Always trying to save the day. But you can't solve everything. Not this time."

"I'll give you what money I have." Lloyd slowly lowered his hand and took out his wallet. He tossed it at his brother's feet.

Josh opened the leather billfold and dug out a pair of twenties. He spun around and flailed his arms, stomping the ground in a tantrum. He put the gun to his own head then aimed it back at Lloyd. "I know you're banging Blanchart's wife. I've seen you with her."

"That's got nothing to do with us."

"It has everything to do with us. I just want the money. Just give me the damn money and you'll never see me again."

"I told you I don't have it."

Josh aimed the gun at Lloyd's face. "Then you better find it. Fast!"

"I need time."

"There is no time!" Josh shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I swear to God I'll pull this fucking trigger unless you cough up the money right now."

Lloyd stepped backwards. "Hurting me isn't the answer. Whatever happened in the past is behind us. We can't go back and change it. The decisions you make right now will affect you for the rest of your life. Christ, Josh! I've seen you come unraveled before, but not like this!"

Josh squinted along the top of the barrel. "The rest of what life? I killed Sheila. I stuffed her body in her cello case and I hauled her to the curb like a bag of garbage. What kind of person does that?" The gun quivered in his hand. "She ruined everything for me. EVERYTHING! She hated both of us. She was going to throw me out. She never listened. She just kept yelling and screaming... I couldn't take it anymore."

Josh pressed the muzzle to Lloyd's nose. "Give me the money or I'll kill you where you stand."

"It's in here," said Lloyd. He pushed the stack of boxes aside and put his hand on the freezer chest. He opened the top and reached inside for the cash. Steady rain pinged the metal roof. Lightning sizzled in the super-heated air.

Josh stood over him with the gun. "Move!" he insisted, overcome by the prospect of so much cash.

Lloyd dropped the backpack in the freezer. "You'll need this."

Josh reached into the freezer for the bag with both hands.

Lloyd slammed the lid on his brother's hand, forcing him to drop the gun inside the freezer.

Josh jerked his arm free and tackled Lloyd against the wall in a drug-induced craze.

Lloyd fought back, his superior strength negated by his brother's meth-fueled rage as he exchanged random blows with Josh in an effort to subdue his taller sibling and force him into a submission hold.

But Josh kept coming like a man possessed. A man with nothing to lose and the will to kill if need be.

Josh slammed his knee into Lloyd's groin and snatched the gun from the freezer.

Both brothers wrestled for control of the weapon, grunting and straining in a macabre dance before the .38 revolver discharged at Lloyd's lower leg. The round tore a thin strip of pale meat along his calve through his pants and ripped the GPS monitor from his ankle.

Josh seized control of the gun and swiped a wobbly hand at his mouth, spitting and heaving from the violent confrontation with Lloyd. "Blanchart warned me about you." He held the gun on Lloyd. "I could kill you and walk away."

"Don't do it," said Lloyd. He pressed his hand on his shin.

Josh kept the gun on his brother while he gathered the rest of the cash.

"What would Dad think of this?" said Lloyd.

"I begged him to tell me where he hid the money. I didn't want to hurt him. But he wouldn't give it up."

"So you killed him?"

Josh wiped his nose. "I didn't mean to do it. I was in a bad way. He owed me! I saved his life from that scum-bag who tried to hurt us. Dad stole the money in the first place. All I wanted was a little something for me."

"I know you never meant to hurt him."

Josh shook his head. Lightning split the air so close he could smell it. "I can't do this anymore."

"You don't have to."

Josh shrugged. His swollen jaw hurt like hell. "You're right." He cocked the hammer and clutched a hand to his side. "I was never very good at much of anything, anyhow." He stared at the cash in the backpack. "Blanchart'll probably find me."

Lloyd put his hand out. "Give me the gun."

Josh pressed the hot muzzle to his temple. "Tell Mom I'm sorry."

"Tell her yourself."

Josh closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The loud pop reverberated inside the storage unit, where Lloyd dropped to his knees and cried.

Chapter 63

Petite and unassuming, Marsha Hollan moved with confidence through the crowded terminal inside the Orlando International Airport. A Judo black belt and senior advocate with an underground branch of the Haven Women's Shelter, Marsha empathized with her clients' plight. A runaway at age twelve, she'd fallen in love with the man of her dreams and married at age nineteen. Two black eyes and a broken eardrum later, she'd divorced her husband of three years and vowed never to marry again—until she'd reached her late twenties and the loneliness set in.

Her second husband was a doctor with a private practice in a small town where everyone knew everyone's business, including her marriage to a closet drunk. Divorce number two came and went, but the scars on her back and legs served a constant reminder of the past mistakes she refused to make again. For too many years, bad decisions became a way of life, eroding her self esteem to the point where she hated herself for what others had done to her. After years of counseling and ongoing support from a mentor at a women's shelter, she broke the chain of violence with a concealed weapon permit and a .357 Magnum fitted with a custom grip.

Instead of fighting against the abuse done to women, she helped women fight back. Every victim had a different story, but they all shared a common theme. And no matter how determined they were to leave their abuser, many clients could never bring themselves to cut the cord. Flogged by doomed relationships and overcrowded courts that often turned a blind eye toward domestic violence, her clients found themselves at the mercy of their bankrupt self-esteem with nowhere to go but down. Instead of learning to rise above their predicaments, they learned to fail, perpetuating the cycle of misery and self-loathing so integral to victims of spouse abuse.

Marsha checked the United flight number on the printed itinerary against the flight number displayed on the airport monitor. "Our flight leaves in half an hour," she reminded Samantha, who followed her through the busy terminal.

"She'll be here," Samantha said, hoping against hope she was right. She worked the crowds with Marsha, parsing the flock of weary travelers entering the security screening area, her nerves a jumbled wreck from sleepless nights and prescription meds that failed to ease her anxiety. Hyped from a double cappuccino and the hope that Jamie's relationship with her abusive husband had ended, she followed Marsha back and forth from the ticket counters to the common areas flooded with tourists and business travelers alike. "I still don't see her."

"Maybe she had second thoughts," said Marsha.

"Not this time."

Marsha compared Jamie's photo to the female passengers herded barefoot past the TSA screeners. "It wouldn't be the first time a client had a change of heart."

"She'll be here."

"I don't trust the boyfriend you described."

"He's the least of our problems," Samantha reassured the hired help.

Marsha stared at a woman who strongly resembled Jamie. "Maybe she found the wrong terminal?"

"Maybe she's already on the plane."

Marsha shook her head. "I checked the counter. Her boarding pass hasn't been scanned."

Samantha glanced at her watch for the tenth time in twenty minutes. "Maybe the car broke down."

"Not likely... Did you try the boyfriend again?"

"I left three messages."

Marsha checked her phone.

"She doesn't know your number," said Samantha. "She won't call—"

"Just keep looking. Right now we're the only hope Jamie has."

Samantha scanned the line at Starbuck's Coffee. She searched the concourse entrance for a woman who resembled Jamie in plain sight—or in a cheap disguise. "What happens if she doesn't show?"

"We leave without her."

"That's it?"

Marsha dialed her cell phone. "Your friend knew the schedule and the risks. We can't force her to be here if she doesn't want to."

"She'll be here."

"I can't miss this flight. I have other clients to support."

"I'm not leaving here without Jamie."

"That's your choice," said Marsha, "but at some point you have to realize there's only so much you can do. She hasn't showed. And she hasn't called. For all we know, she decided to run away with her boyfriend."

Samantha moved her head back and forth on a swivel, overwhelmed by the volume of passengers coming and going in all directions. "She wouldn't do that."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

Marsha checked her watch. "I've been doing this a long time. I can tell you from experience—"

"She'll be here."

"And what if she's not?"

Samantha chewed on Marsha's words and arrived at her own conclusion. "Then we go to her."

Chapter 64

Lloyd rode the Triumph like a missile between his legs, snapping through the gears with a pit-bull grip on the handlebars and a laser-beam focus on the rain-soaked road ahead. Two hundred thousand dollars in cash sagged inside his backpack while a gamut of raw emotions weighed heavily on his mind.

He set his sights for the interstate, charging the two-lane highway at more than twice the legal limit to leave his dead brother, his dying mother, and any semblance of a normal life with Jamie behind. Despite the uncertainty about his future and the guilt he carried with him, he felt more compelled to face a life on the run than add a manslaughter charge to his parole violations and spend the next twenty years fighting wolves in his old alma mater.

The siren came distant and faint at first, a mild lamentation from the wind in his ears, until the glint of flashing lights caught his handlebar mirrors.

He cracked the throttle wide open, force-feeding the dual carburetors all the octane they could burn. But the state police cruiser swallowed pavement at a faster clip, gaining ground on the antique bike that had drawn attention to itself when it blew through a radar trap.

Lloyd leaned forward in the seat, punching holes through the atmosphere at a hundred miles an hour. He pressed his torso against the gas tank to shield himself from the pelting rain and teeth-jarring turbulence as the engine vibrated between his legs like an angry hornet's nest.

When an oncoming van flashed its high beams, Lloyd split the lane to overtake several cars and put some traffic between himself and the fast-approaching cop.

He followed a crest in the highway and hugged the center line to guide the bike around a sweeping turn. When the pavement straightened, he clamped the brakes to scrub speed and followed a route heading east across a wooded stretch of county road.

He passed the gravel entrance to an abandoned trailer park dotted by plastic flamingos and a neighborhood watch sign stapled to a utility pole. Despite the adrenaline rush, the pain from the gunshot wound to his leg swelled with a vengeance, distracting him from the cavernous pothole up ahead.

The front tire dipped precariously, compressing the front forks to the hilt. The bike's momentum stopped abruptly, vaulting Lloyd over the handlebars and into the trees, where he cart-wheeled like a rag doll through the brush before the ground rose up beneath him and delivered a knockout punch.

Chapter 65

Blanchart got out of his unmarked cruiser and sidestepped a puddle to approach the locked storage unit. "Were you the first on scene?" he grilled the deputy patrolman wearing a yellow rain parka and holding a pair of bolt cutters in his hand.

"Yes Sir," the young officer answered. "Dispatch said someone reported sounds of gunfire in the area. I rolled up and searched the premises." He pointed to the Geo Metro with a broken antenna. "I found the car when I arrived."

"You find the owner?"

"The car was empty when I got here."

"Did you run the plates?"

"The vehicle's registered to a Joshua Sullivan. I got a last known address if you want it."

Blanchart squinted at a crimson smudge on the storage unit handle. "Looks like blood. We might get a usable print."

Blanchart poked the padlock shackle with a pen. "Did you touch the lock?"

"No Sir. I grabbed the bolt cutters from the trunk, but I waited until you got here."

"Back up," said Blanchart. He unholstered his service pistol and fired two rounds at the latch. He lifted the corrugated aluminum panel and recoiled at the smell of death inside the unit, where flecks of blood and brain matter spackled the roof and walls.

The deputy dropped the bolt cutters and covered his mouth with his hand. "What happened in here?"

Blanchart assessed the crime scene with a visual inspection of the crumpled boxes and a trampled collage of bloody shoeprints. "Don't step there," he told the deputy about to add a fresh boot print to the mix.

The deputy moved behind the sheriff and knocked over a pile of boxes on the horizontal freezer. "Sorry."

Blanchart slipped his hand in a latex glove and opened the freezer lid to find Josh's body with a hole in the side of his head. He touched the neck. "He's still warm. What time did the call from dispatch come in?"

"About forty-five minutes ago."

"Did you see anyone at all when you rolled up?"

"No Sir." The deputy leaned forward for a better look at the .38 revolver in the victim's hand. "Looks like two rounds were fired."

Blanchart noted the spatter pattern on the walls and ceiling. "Call the coroner and tell him to send the meat wagon."

The deputy stepped back and held his stomach. He vomited a leftover meatball sub on his shoes.

"Do that outside," said Blanchart. "You're puking all over my crime scene." He backtracked to his cruiser and grabbed the camera. "Stay away from the scene until the coroner gets here."

"No problem."

Blanchart snapped pictures of Josh's body in the freezer and studied the bloody boot prints leading outside.

"What about the gun?" asked the deputy.

Blanchart followed a diluted blood trail that tapered away from the property. "Bag it and have it processed for prints."

"You find something?"

"Maybe..." Blanchart noticed the contours in the sand and studied the narrow tire track. Too skinny for a car. Too wide for a bicycle. "I want road blocks set up at every intersection out of town. We're looking for someone on a motorcycle."

"You think he's still around?"

Blanchart retrieved a broken ankle monitor from a cluster of overgrown weeds. "You ask a lot of questions."

"Just trying to be thorough. Sir."

Blanchart held the device by a piece of torn strap.

"Looks like a GPS monitor," said the deputy.

Blanchart read the serial number from the back. "Looks like someone doesn't want to be found."

"What's it doing out here?"

Blanchart burned the serial number in his memory and dropped the evidence where he found it. He hustled back to his cruiser and jumped in the driver's seat. "Stay here until the coroner's finished."

"Where are you going?"

"To catch a killer."

Chapter 66

Jamie shivered in her silk camisole, confined inside a dark sarcophagus beneath her husband's toolshed. Her heart pumped wildly to feed exposed extremities crawling with red fire ants inflicting painful injections of alkaloid venom.

Trapped in a devil's tomb, she confronted the darkness surrounding her, more petrified at the thought of never seeing Lloyd again than death by suffocation. Her life was hers to save or lose amidst a seething vengeance that simmered over years of abuse and neglect. Her fear transformed into anger. Her anger morphed into determination.

She twisted her wrists, rotating her hands back and forth to rip her bonded fingertips from the epidermal layer on her thighs. With both hands free, she swatted at the red ants clamoring over the human tapestry of red welts and pustules dotted with bloody fingerprints.

She pounded the plywood above her head, kicking and screaming until her voice gave out. An inner strength welled up inside her. Beaten but not defeated, she stoked her desire to see Alan suffer for the countless acts of cruelty he'd thrust upon her and the people she loved.

She pushed up with her arms, straining from her chest and shoulders to move the three-quarter-inch thick sheet of wood. The unbearable weight seemed impossible to budge at first—a monumental impediment barring her path to escape and any chance of freedom from the husband she loathed.

She bit down hard on the scarf in her mouth, her neck tendons straining from the effort to maximize her efforts against the Goliath enemy above her. Anger fueled her adrenaline rush, compelling her muscles to perform beyond their normal capacity and leverage her untapped strength.

She pushed and squirmed until she raised the plywood far enough to topple the work bench on its side, shifting the enormous weight far enough to pry herself out from under the makeshift coffin lid and emerge like an animal from an underground cave.

Barefoot and trembling, she pulled the scarf down and smacked at ants crawling on her hair and ears. She pounded on the padlocked exit and cried for help, oblivious to the angry figure charging across the lawn.

* * *

Prodded by a loud scream, Lloyd regained consciousness and rolled himself over from a face-down position in a patch of soggy grass at the base of a red maple tree. He curled his arms toward his chest and made a fist in one hand. The throbbing pain in his leg returned. Rain water dripped on his forehead from the wet leaves above.

Dazed and disoriented, he stood up with the backpack still strapped on his shoulders and remembered a fuzzy sequence of events. He dug the disposable cell phone from a zipper pocket and pressed redial to call Samantha's phone.

Real or imagined, Jamie's screaming voice reverberated inside his head like a gong at the mercy of a drummer's mallet. He could feel the desperation in her words as if she stood face to face with him. She needed his help. And she needed it now.

Chapter 67

Brenda propped herself up with her hand on the back of a kitchen chair. She covered her nose and mouth with an oxygen mask attached to a cylinder on wheels and glared at her unwelcome guest.

"It's important that I find your son," Blanchart said in a monotone voice. He poured Brenda a glass of water from the kitchen sink buzzing with flies from an empty tuna can. In some ways, he felt sorry for the stubborn mother who resolved to squander her final moments on a fight she couldn't win. In other ways, he admired her tenacity. "I was hoping you could tell me where he is," he said, handing her the glass.

Brenda pulled the mask to her chin and sipped. "This tastes like piss. If you're trying to poison me, you're too late."

Blanchart searched the house for clues to Lloyd's whereabouts. After countless investigations, he'd learned how even the smallest details proved useful, no matter how benign they first appeared. "When was the last time you saw Lloyd?"

"I'm not his keeper," said Brenda, her voice cracking through the mask. "He comes and goes."

"Your son is a fugitive, Mrs. Sullivan. That title paints a target on his back. Men are eager to find him. Men who won't hesitate to shoot."

Brenda wheeled the portable oxygen tank to follow Blanchart through the house. "You won't find him here."

Blanchart plucked a family photo from the magnet on the refrigerator door. He recognized the man holding an arm around Brenda's shoulder. "I knew your husband. It was a shame he checked out the way he did. In the end, it's always the people you love who disappoint you the most."

"Get out of my house."

"That's not going to happen."

Brenda ambled toward the door. "You have no right to be here."

Blanchart slapped the magnet on the fridge. He had the old woman on a spit. Now it was time to turn up the heat. "Your husband's never coming back. Unless you want the same for Lloyd, I suggest you tell me where to find him."

He laid a photo on the table. "Your son Josh is dead, Mrs. Sullivan. We found Lloyd's fingerprints on the gun that killed him."

Brenda glanced at the photograph. "You're a liar."

"I'm a realist. You've already lost one son. Are you prepared to lose another?" Blanchart tapped the nightstick handle on his duty belt. "Time is our enemy, Mrs. Sullivan. The sooner you help me find your son, the sooner I can help him."

"Don't threaten me." Brenda spoke defiantly above the hiss of pressurized gas. "You've no interest in helping Lloyd."

"He'll end up like Josh."

"Josh got what he deserved."

"That's harsh," said Blanchart.

"The world's a harsh place."

Blanchart pulled the solid hickory from the brass ring holder on his duty belt and smacked the baton in his hand. "I'm the only friend Lloyd has. One way or another, you're going to tell me where he is."

"Fine," said Brenda. "Wait here."

* * *

Brenda rolled the steel canister down the hall to her room and parked herself on the edge of the bed beyond Blanchart's line of sight. She inhaled several breaths from the mask before she removed it and reached between the mattress for the lever-action Winchester. "My husband never liked you," she said to herself out of earshot from Blanchart. "And neither did I."

"People change," Blanchart replied as if he heard every word Brenda spoke to herself in confidence. He closed the blinds at the front of the house to ensure his efforts would go unnoticed.

"Evil stays the same," Brenda mumbled. The rifle sagged in her fragile arms as she lugged the loaded firearm across the room toward the hall. "I wish I could be more helpful," she said facetiously.

"He'll come to me eventually," Blanchart called out from somewhere inside the house.

"Why?"

"Because I have what he wants."

"And I have the same for you," said Brenda. She reached the end of the empty hall and steadied herself with the rifle. A sense of calm come over her. A peaceful premonition of a better life than the one she'd leave behind.

"Last chance," Blanchart's voice trailed off.

Brenda rounded the corner with the rifle barrel waist high and studied the empty room. "Sheriff?"

Despite her body's protest, she nestled the Winchester's stock against her shoulder the way her father taught her as an only child on the family farm. The effort met with stiff resistance. Her lungs hungered for the supplemental oxygen supply. "You're a coward," she said as loud as she could.

"Your boy can't hide forever."

Brenda shuffled toward the patio entrance. The stationary hammock swayed under its own power. "Stand out and show your face," she said, loping around the corner toward the bathroom with her finger on the trigger.

She nudged the shower curtain with the end of the rifle barrel, perplexed at the sheriff's ability to come and go unseen, like the devil himself. "You're an evil man," she said when she discerned Blanchart's presence behind her. She tried to pivot with the rifle but her efforts proved futile at best.

Blanchart hammered her about the head and neck with his baton. Blood splattered the shower curtain and walls.

"God won't forgive you for this," Brenda hissed through a broken jaw and shattered teeth.

Blanchart smiled and wiped his brow. "Perhaps," he growled, "but God's not the one in charge."

Chapter 68

Marsha Hollan parked her rented Nissan in the grass along the edge of a moonlit retention pond and killed the lights. She focused a pair of ten-by-fifty binoculars at Sheriff Blanchart's empty driveway. "It's hard to tell if someone's home," she said to Lloyd and Samantha who occupied the back seat. "The blinds are closed. I don't see any lights on."

"That doesn't mean she's not there," said Lloyd. His leg throbbed despite a copious amount of Advil and a padded field dressing around his ankle.

Marsha scanned the other houses down the street. "Everyone else has their trash cans at the curb. Either Blanchart forgot his or he's not home to do it."

Samantha shook her head. "Jamie always takes the trash out."

Marsha steadied her elbows on the Altima's door frame. She'd dealt with men like Blanchart before. Men who flaunted their narcissistic attitude and kept their spouse on a leash. Drunken tyrants who believed they ruled the world and everything in it. But this time the abuser was cold, calculated, and sober. He also carried a badge and a gun. "Maybe she got on a bus?"

"That wasn't the plan," said Lloyd.

"Plans change," Marsha countered.

Samantha gripped the front seat headrest and leaned toward Marsha's ear. "Jamie would have called by now. For all we know, Blanchart has her locked inside."

"We can't just storm the sheriff's house," said Marsha.

Samantha bristled at the do-nothing attitude from the Annie Oakley wannabe she'd hired to do what no one else could accomplish. "We can't just sit here."

Marsha handed the binoculars to Samantha. "We need to be patient and see what plays out."

Samantha checked the side of the house. "I'm all out of patience. What if Blanchart found out about her plan? What if Jamie's life is in danger?" She lowered the binoculars. "We have to search the house. It's the only way to know for sure."

Lloyd grabbed the binoculars from Samantha and searched for any sign of movement at the windows. "He could be watching us right now. Waiting for us to make a move."

"Then we confront him," Samantha argued.

Marsha turned around to face both passengers. "That's not a good idea."

"Why not? You're the one packing heat. He'd have to listen to you."

"He's a cop," Marsha reminded her overzealous client, who'd obviously seen one too many action movies. "I'm a civilian with a permit to carry. He could shoot us for trespassing—not to mention aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive." Marsha looked at Lloyd. "We have to be careful about this. For all we know, your girlfriend could be halfway to Mexico by now."

"No way," said Samantha.

"How do you know?"

"Because I know her."

"Do you? You said yourself you hardly talk to her anymore. Women in abusive relationships seldom act rationally. It's possible she changed her mind and decided not to leave her husband. It happens."

Samantha swallowed her pent-up rage. "Her husband forced himself on me. I'm not afraid of him, and I'm not afraid to testify in court. Jamie told me about the videos in his study. I need the evidence to prove my case—whether Jamie's home or not."

Marsha unwrapped a stick of spearmint gum and chewed it hungrily. "Men like Blanchart operate outside the law. Your testimony won't mean shit in court."

"It will if I show him raping me on tape."

"He'll argue consent. Make it sound like he did what you asked him to. The sex was rough but not forced. You never reported a crime. You have no physical evidence."

"That's bullshit."

Marsha spoke with her hands. "That's how the system works."

"Whose side are you on?"

"It's not about sides. It's about what you can or can't prove in a court of law. He's the fucking sheriff!"

"Who might have killed his own wife," Samantha added.

"We don't know that."

Lloyd gave back the binoculars and opened his disposable phone. "We need to search the house—to know for certain. But Marsha's right. The risk's too great without knowing if Blanchart's home."

"Then what are you getting at?" said Samantha.

"I'll make a bogus 911 call and leave a tip about myself hiding out in a motel. If Blanchart's inside, he'll leave in a hurry."

"And what if he doesn't?" said Marsha. "What if he stays inside and sends a deputy to field the call?"

Samantha sided with Lloyd. "It's worth a shot."

"I still don't like it," said Marsha, regretting her decision to skip her flight and stay in Florida.

"Neither do I," said Lloyd. "But right now it's the only play we've got."

Chapter 69

Lloyd peered inside the etched windowpane embedded in the oak-stained four panel door. "I don't see anyone," he told Samantha, who searched the ground at the front of the house for the spare key concealed inside a faux rock.

Marsha's voice came over the FRS walkie-talkie on Lloyd's belt. "What's happening?"

Lloyd unclipped the radio and pressed the transmit button. "We're still looking for the key."

"This is taking too long," Marsha's voice replied.

"Just keep your eyes open," Lloyd spoke into the mike. "I don't like surprises."

He helped Samantha comb the ground along the hedge that framed the front yard landscaping. "I thought you knew where it was?"

Samantha dug her painted nails in the mulch bed. "Jamie must have moved it." She brushed her hand on a lump in the soil and unearthed the man-made stone. "I found it!" she cried triumphantly as she opened the bottom compartment.

Lloyd watched a minivan wind through the gated subdivision. "What about the alarm?"

"Jamie showed me the code," Samantha reassured him. She slid the key in the Baldwin cylinder. The lock turned freely, granting access to the furnished family room. Plastic sheets covered every piece of furniture but one. A broken grandfather clock stood prominently in the formal living room across from the gas fireplace. A faint ammonia smell hung in the air.

Samantha punched the four digit code in the security display to deactivate the silent alarm. The red LED turned green. "We're good. I'll check the bedrooms. You check the rest of the house."

Lloyd started in the kitchen and checked the adjacent pool bath. He checked the empty nursery and the guest bathroom.

Samantha searched the master bedroom and found Jamie's clothes in the closet. An open suitcase rested on the rumpled bed. She examined the empty bathroom and found a spotless sink with a dry hand-towel folded neatly through a brass ring holder by the mirror. "No one's been here for awhile," she hollered.

"I'll check the study," said Lloyd, who pounded his fist on the locked door. He jiggled the handle and pushed with his arm. Unsuccessful, he lowered his shoulder, bent his knees, and used his full body weight. This time his effort met with the loud crack of splintered wood.

Samantha followed Lloyd and stared at the vacant closet. "It's empty..." she said, dismayed by the missing evidence Jamie reassured her was there.

"He knows we're on to him," said Lloyd. "He's trying to cover his tracks."

"He killed her. I know he did."

"We don't know that. Just keep moving."

"Did you look at the pool area?" Samantha asked.

"Nothing," said Lloyd. "The other rooms are empty too. We should check the garage."

Samantha followed Lloyd to find the red Volvo parked in its designated spot. "That's her car."

Lloyd put his hand on the hood. It felt cool to the touch.

He popped the trunk and found a stash of empty grocery bags behind a cargo net.

Samantha looked over his shoulder. "This house gives me the creeps."

Lloyd eyed the ceiling and pulled down the folding ladder. He climbed inside the attic and tugged on the chain beneath the light socket to illuminate the space above the garage. Colored bins sat on sheets of plywood spanning the rafters stuffed with rolls of pink insulation.

He unzipped a large canvas bag to dismiss the unthinkable and found a dismantled Christmas tree stuffed inside.

"Do you see anything?" Samantha called out from below.

Lloyd pulled the chain and climbed down. He folded the ladder onto itself and raised the spring-assisted platform to the ceiling. "Nothing."

Samantha cupped her hand to her mouth. "He must have taken her somewhere."

"Where?"

"I have no idea," Samantha answered. "Jamie never travels. She never visits. She's been a prisoner in this house since the day she married Alan Blanchart. He never lets her out of his sight."

Chapter 70

Marsha sat in the rented Altima admiring the blue steel finish on her prized revolver. The gun gave her power and control in a world entirely out of control. She had fired more than a thousand rounds through the gun, making consistent head shots at twenty yards. Ambidextrous since birth, she felt as comfortable shooting right-handed as well as with her left. The million-dollar question wasn't whether she could hit her target—but whether she could point the gun at someone trained to shoot back.

She turned in her seat and leaned forward to check for movement in her mirror. A tingle traced the back of her neck.

She cocked the hammer and got out of the car. Her gut told her to pull the plug before a nosey neighbor spied someone in the sheriff's house and called the very cop they were desperate to avoid. Her good intentions not withstanding, she had no legal recourse if the cops caught wind of her search and rescue mission. Aside from the threat of jail time for breaking and entering, an arrest would hinder any chance of finding Jamie Blanchart—either dead or alive. What had started out as a routine extraction for a standard domestic abuse case, had devolved into a total clusterfuck.

A rodent scampered toward the pond with the clickity-clack of nails on pavement. A wind chime jingled on a neighbor's porch. What her broken eardrum failed to hear, her good ear compensated for with mixed results.

Marsha squeezed the pistol with her right hand and lowered her shoulders to relax her shooting posture.

She aimed the gun toward the Nissan's rear quarter panel and made her way around the car. She stared at the wide retention pond, sensing the low frequency vibrations from interstate traffic. Another false alarm brought on by her own handicap and the ghosts of her distant past.

Content with her surroundings, she eased the revolver's hammer against the back of the firing pin and retreated inside the car. For a second, her brain dismissed what her eyes were telling her when she noticed the unmarked cruiser in the sheriff's driveway.

"We're locked in!" Lloyd's voice blared from the walkie-talkie on the passenger seat.

Startled by the cry for help, Marsha keyed the mike and warned, "Blanchart's car's in the driveway!"

"We can't get out!" Lloyd's voice replied. "The doors must be locked from the outside!"

"Then break a window," Marsha barked in the walkie-talkie. "Just get the hell out of there!" She waited for Lloyd's reply. "Do you copy?"

She started the car and turned her head as shattered glass pelted the side of her face. A deflected bullet grazed her temple; another pierced her carotid artery, bathing the front of her shirt in O-negative.

She pressed her hand to her neck and dropped the .357 between her legs. Her eyes darted wildly. Her pulse roared in her ears. Neurons fired sporadically through her chemical synapses, the delicate circuitry in her brain discombobulated from the shock to her central nervous system. Then a third round penetrated her skull behind the ear.

Blanchart reached through the door and nudged the transmission in reverse. He turned the blood-stained wheel and stepped back to watch the car roll toward the retention pond and dip into a watery grave.

Chapter 71

Blanchart pressed his face to the sliding glass door, giving access to his dark living room. He noticed nothing unusual. No lights. No movement. No sign of anyone but his own reflection in the glass. Everything remained the way he'd left it before a bogus 911 call prompted a late-night change of plans.

He slipped his hand in the pocket of his polyester uniform slacks and pressed the key fob to unlock the house. He entered quietly and slipped his shoes off. His shadow followed his movements with the silenced .22 in his hand.

"Your friend is dead," he said out loud.

He pointed the gun at the living room, flanking the sofa and love seat combination. He moved softly, yet swiftly through the house.

"The bible says thou shall not covet another man's wife. It also mentions an eye for an eye—if you believe in that sort of thing."

His intuition brought him to the coat closet by the foyer. "I believe I have something you want, Mr. Sullivan. I know what you're thinking. And I promise, I'm not here to arrest you."

He searched the guest room and his study. "My condolences to your brother. I understand you two had issues. How did killing him make you feel?"

He stood still and waited patiently for the faint sound of movement—or fear. "I saw your mother the other night. She didn't make it."

He checked the peephole in the front door and turned on the porch lights. "You're a cockroach, Sullivan. A fucking insect without a conscience. I see men like you all the time. Most end up dead or in prison. Some wind up working for me. But none of them put their hands on my wife. That's where you crossed the line. I have a high tolerance for a lot of things. Adultery isn't one of them."

He searched the kitchen and fired two rounds through the pantry door, exploding a jar of grape jelly on the wire rack behind it. Spent casings clanged off the tile floor.

He inspected the sticky mess of purple Smucker's and continued his search. No one but himself would leave the house alive. His report would reflect a home invasion to justify the use of deadly force against Lloyd Sullivan. The crime scene weenies would handle the details and dispose of the corpse.

He moved toward the pool bathroom that opened to the kidney-shaped pool inside the screened lanai.

He pointed the gun at the empty glass block shower beside the commode and stared out the window at the pool. He flipped the switch to activate the outdoor lights and heard the in-ground sprinklers come alive with the steady hiss of pressurized water.

When the doorbell rang, he killed the pool lights and returned to the kitchen. A second ring prompted him to collect his spent shell casings and arrange his shirttail over the silenced .22 he concealed in the back of his pants.

Dismayed by the unprecedented midnight intrusion, he peeled the blinds at the front of the house to see a Florida State Police car in his driveway. "If you so much as sneeze," he called out to his unwanted guest lurking somewhere inside his house, "I will kill her." He checked the peephole and unlocked the deadbolt to greet the two suits approaching from the driveway.

"Sheriff Blanchart?" the first man inquired. He flashed a state police badge. "My name is Agent Donavan, with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement." He nodded to his colleague. "My partner, Agent Niles."

"What can I do for you?" Blanchart asked point-blank, hoping to steer the agents away as soon as possible.

Agent Donavan slipped his badge in his jacket pocket. An intrepid ex-Marine from the 41st Infantry, he walked with a kink in his step from the IED shrapnel still embedded in his knee. He spied Blanchart's duty weapon in his holster. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"What about?"

"May we come inside?"

Blanchart gave a wooden smile. "I'm on the ass end of a double shift. If you could come back tomorrow morning—"

"This won't take long," Agent Niles interrupted. A Skoal man since high school and a father of three girls, he spoke with a Carolina drawl that set most suspects at ease, and at times, betrayed his true intellect. He stood a head shorter than his senior partner but owned a strong upper body from grueling workouts on the Smith Machine. His shirt-sleeve covered an Army Ranger tattoo.

Blanchart stepped aside and allowed both men to enter. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No thanks," the agents replied in unison, glancing at each other—they'd recognized the smell of cordite instantly.

Agent Niles followed his partner and Sheriff Blanchart toward the back of the house. "Is there anyone home besides yourself, Sheriff?"

Blanchart shook his head. "My wife's been tied up out of town for a while. I'm flying solo until she gets back."

Agent Donavan watched his partner as Agent Niles took a notepad from his coat pocket and scratched the bald pattern on his head with a pen. He knew Niles was suspicious by nature, and the pair of them had bloodhound noses for dirty cops. Regardless of the cursory background check that raised more flags on Blanchart than a crash at Daytona Speedway, the sheriff reeked of guilt.

Niles said, "I noticed your wife's car in the garage."

"Her car?"

"I peeked in the side window. The Volvo's registered in her name."

"She took a cab," said Blanchart.

"Out of town?"

"To the airport."

"Business or pleasure?" Agent Niles pushed back.

"Excuse me?"

"You said your wife was tied up for a while out of town. On business or vacation?"

"She went to stay with relatives."

"For how long?"

"A few days."

"Whereabouts?"

Blanchart put his hands on his hips. "You guys must be really bored to come all the way out here and ask about my wife's affairs."

Agent Donavan unwrapped a stick of spearmint gum and offered one to Blanchart, who declined. "Nice house. How much would a place like this set me back?"

"Not much in today's market," said Blanchart. He opened the laundry room and started the washing machine.

Agent Donavan chewed his gum, wondering why Blanchart felt the need to wash clothes immediately after a double shift. He's still in uniform, for Christ sakes. The sheriff's body language and tone of voice portrayed a man who didn't rattle easily. "We're investigating a recent auto accident that involved a state employee named Leslie Dancroft. We understand you responded to the scene."

Blanchart looked incredulous. He poured liquid detergent in the washing machine.

"Did you know her, Sheriff?"

"I knew her by reputation."

"What can you tell us about the accident?"

"I haven't finished my final report," said Blanchart. He came out of the laundry room and followed the agents around the house, careful to keep his back turned away from both men at all times.

"We'd like to hear it from you in person," said Agent Niles.

Agent Donavan snapped his gum in his mouth. "Routine procedure. We came across some... inconsistencies in your initial statement, and we were hoping you could help us clarify a few things."

"I don't follow you."

Agent Niles scribbled on his pocket notepad. "Then let me draw you a map."

"We're all on the same team here," Agent Donavan said empathetically, to diffuse the escalating tension between his junior partner and the sheriff. He needed Blanchart to open up and disclose more than he intended without getting angry and stonewalling with his department's legal advocate. "In your initial statement to the highway patrol you indicated that you responded to the scene before the call was dispatched."

"Right place, right time," said Blanchart. "I responded to an earlier call near that vicinity when I came upon the accident."

"And what happened when you first arrived?"

"I called emergency medical services and secured the area."

"About what time?"

"As soon as I arrived."

"Your report stated you arrived on scene at 2:35 AM," Agent Niles pointed out. "Is that accurate?"

"I believe so."

"And Wuestoff Medical Center dispatched an ambulance at 2:37."

"If that's what my report said, then that's what happened."

"Pretty quick turnaround time, don't you think?"

Blanchart smiled wryly. "Every second counts."

"Did you perform any emergency medical assistance when you arrived?" asked Agent Donavan.

"What do you mean?"

Agent Niles lifted the pen from his notepad. "Did you try to extricate Ms. Dancroft from her vehicle?"

"The car was engulfed in flames," said Blanchart. "There was no way I could get to her without burning myself to death in the process."

"So you never approached the vehicle?"

"I kept my distance until fire rescue arrived."

Agent Niles kept writing. "If you were at a distance from the burning vehicle, how did you recognize Ms. Dancroft as the driver?"

"I didn't. Not at first."

"How long were you at the scene?" Agent Niles continued.

"Like I said in my statement. I was there until emergency services arrived."

"About what time did they arrive?"

"I can't recall exactly. A few minutes after I put the call out."

Agent Donavan strolled around the house while he talked. "We have a witness who claims they saw a man at the scene before Ms. Dancroft's vehicle caught fire."

"Then perhaps you should be questioning him," said Blanchart.

"The witness claims he saw a man in uniform," Agent Donavan explained.

"Witnesses portend to see a lot of things," said Blanchart. "That doesn't make them true."

"Point taken," said Agent Donavan. "But this guy is one of those retired Space Coast engineers with nothing better to do than set his watch to beep every hour. I hate the anal retentive type. Who gives a shit when the hour rolls around? If I need to know what time it is, I look at my watch." He exchanged glances with his partner and posed the follow-up question to Blanchart. "Is there anything more you'd like to share?"

Blanchart reached behind his back, pretending to scratch an itch. His fingers touched the semi-auto .22. "Not really..."

Agent Niles removed a wedding photo from the fireplace mantel. "You have a beautiful wife," he said with his Carolina drawl.

"She's a keeper," said Blanchart.

Agent Niles put the photo back. "Your department's had a tough year. Four murders in three months, including one of your own deputies killed in the line of duty. Any leads so far?"

Blanchart followed the men into the kitchen. "You know I can't discuss an open investigation."

Agent Donavan stared out at the pool. "We're not looking to jam up one of our own."

"I appreciate your concern," said Blanchart.

Agent Donavan noted the shed in the back yard. "A couple weeks ago, Ms. Dancroft approached the FBI with some disturbing accusations about your department. The feds weren't eager to get involved so they punted back to us."

"What type of accusations?"

"Does the name 'Manny Morallen' ring a bell?" asked Agent Niles. He poked his head inside the pantry.

"He killed my deputy."

"I'm sure you're also aware Manny Morallen turned up dead in a motel room three days ago," said Agent Donavan. He chewed vigorously on his flavorless wad of gum. "Ms. Dancroft was his attorney."

"Morallen was a drug addict," said Blanchart. "It happens."

Agent Niles poked his finger at the bullet holes in the pantry door. "According to her written statement, Ms. Dancroft seemed convinced you were directly involved in Morallen's murder. She also claimed in her statement you tried to kill her."

Blanchart forced a laugh. "Me?"

"Did I say something funny?"

"She was defending a cop killer. She was desperate to draw attention away from my primary suspect. You can't take her accusations seriously."

"We take everything seriously," said Agent Niles. He reached inside his jacket, ostensibly to scratch his armpit, and discretely unsnapped his holster. "We traced a cell phone call from Ms. Dancroft's phone to an FBI field office around the time of her accident."

"So?"

Agent Donavan stopped chewing and stared at Blanchart. "Why would a woman trapped inside a burning car bother to dial the FBI and not 911 instead? For that matter, how would she have the presence of mind to dial anything when she's choking on all that smoke?"

"You'd have to ask her yourself."

"We will as soon as she's able to talk," said Agent Niles.

"She's still alive?"

"She's in critical condition," said Agent Donavan, "but still very much alive. Are you surprised?" He turned his head when he heard a muffled whimper above the sound of the washing machine noise. "Is there anyone else in the house?"

Blanchart waited patiently for the right opportunity to present itself, holding back the urge to do what came natural. "Just us girls."

Agent Donavan signaled to his partner, who stepped forward. "Let's take a ride, Sheriff."

"Now?"

"You have someplace else to be?"

"I'm the sheriff in this town. I have everywhere else to be."

Agent Donavan circled the kitchen island. For the first time, he noticed a trace of blood on the back of the sheriff's sleeve. "You've got something on your sleeve." He pointed with his index finger. "By your wrist."

Blanchart looked down. "I cut my finger."

"Which one?" asked Agent Niles. "We're going to need you to come with us."

Agent Donavan held his hand out. "I need you to surrender your service weapon."

"Am I under arrest?"

"If you'll surrender your weapon..."

Blanchart unbuckled his holster strap and relinquished his duty pistol. He pinched his fingers above his nose and looked down, pretending to stifle the onset of a teary breakdown. "I need a second," he said, stepping away from the men to enter the pool bathroom.

"Stop right there," said Agent Niles. He reached for his own service weapon, but Blanchart's uncanny quickness prevailed.

Before either agent could react to the imminent threat, Blanchart drew the silenced .22 and cycled the trigger twice, shooting both men through the heart.

Smoke curled from the muzzle.

Blanchart stepped over the bodies and shot each man in the head two more times for good measure. Then he tore open the lower space inside the kitchen island and hauled Samantha out by her hair. He pressed the hot muzzle to her ear. "Where is he?"

"Right here!" Lloyd shouted from the pool bath entrance. He threw a carving knife end-over-end at Blanchart but the handle landed first.

Blanchart raised the gun at Lloyd.

Samantha knocked it away.

Lloyd charged at Blanchart, slamming the sheriff against the counter. He pummeled the sheriff with a flurry of elbows and fists before Blanchart pulled his hickory baton and jabbed it at Lloyd's solar plexus.

Lloyd retreated and grabbed a two-quart sauce pan from the dish rack. He swung the pan at Blanchart's face and nicked his chin.

Blanchart cracked his baton against Lloyd's head.

Lloyd slipped in a pool of blood and tripped over Agent Donavan's body.

"Drop it!" Samantha shouted. Her hands trembled around the checkered composite grip of Blanchart's duty weapon.

"You're not going to shoot me," Blanchart taunted her. He lunged with the baton.

Samantha fired randomly, punching holes in the walls and ceiling before Blanchart knocked the gun away and threw her to the ground.

Lloyd grabbed Agent Donovan's gun and turned it on Blanchart. "Last chance."

Blanchart raised the baton in a fit of rage.

Lloyd emptied the clip at Blanchart's body and watched the sheriff collapse in front of him.

Samantha covered her ears. "Stop it!" she shouted, unable to hear her own words.

Lloyd snatched the car keys from Blanchart's pocket. He stared through a window overlooking the pool and the utility shed near the back of the property line. "Did you check the shed?"

"What shed?" Samantha yelled above the ringing in her ears.

Lloyd grabbed her hand and ran outside. He entered the open storage space and stared at a toppled workbench with an old bullet press and an assortment of dirty surgical tools wrapped in a bloody rag.

He shoved the workbench aside and moved the heavy plywood to reveal the makeshift coffin beneath.

Samantha covered her mouth at the ghastly sight of a body wrapped in a plastic sheet.

Lloyd tugged at the sheet around the head. "It's not her," he said, wincing at Marvin Tate's dead face. "Let's go..."

"What about Jamie?"

"We'll find her," Lloyd said convincingly as he led Samantha around the house and back toward the driveway.

"Look out!" Samantha shouted when she saw Blanchart charge from the opposite side, doused from the automatic sprinklers.

Lloyd exchanged shots with Blanchart.

Samantha caught a high pressure round in the eye. The bullet ruptured her socket and lodged at the back of her brain.

Lloyd fired the last round from Agent Donavan's gun and dove inside the sheriff's cruiser to unlock the Remington pump-action from the center mounting post. He racked the shotgun to chamber the first shell as bullets peppered the windshield.

"It's over!" Blanchart shouted across the driveway in his Level II vest and reloaded.

Lloyd rolled away from the sheriff's cruiser and ducked behind the state police car for a better angle. He fired consecutive volleys from the pump-action twelve-gauge, striking Blanchart in the arm. "That's for Samantha," Lloyd shouted with venom in his veins.

Blanchart fired back off-balance at Lloyd who charged his position.

"Drop it!" Lloyd demanded.

Blanchart tossed the silenced .22. His arm bled profusely through his uniform sleeve. "You don't have the balls to finish this."

Lloyd rammed the shotgun's business end at Blanchart's chest, branding a small circle above the sheriff's badge. Water rained down on both men. "Where is she?"

Blanchart laughed. "Pull the trigger and you'll never see her again."

The faint wail of police sirens grew louder.

Lloyd pressed his boot on Blanchart's injured arm. "Where is she?"

Blanchart endured the pain. "This falls on you."

Lloyd shifted more weight on his foot. "Wrong answer."

"I decide who lives and dies," Blanchart growled.

Lloyd eased the shotgun barrel in Blanchart's mouth. "Not if I can help it." He squeezed the trigger and heard the click of an empty chamber.

Blanchart laughed with his mouth around the barrel.

Lloyd pumped the firearm and fired again to produce the same result. Out of time and out of options, he slammed the shotgun stock at Blanchart's face and knocked him cold. Then he commandeered the sheriff's bullet-ridden cruiser and tore out of the driveway in reverse, crushing the mailbox as he centered the wheel and peeled away from the secluded subdivision.

He fiddled with the police radio, his fingers smeared with blood not his own, and accelerated hard to distance himself from the carnage he left behind. His own anger had got the better of him in a moment of vengeance. In reality he had nothing to gain by killing Blanchart. And little to convince himself Jamie was still alive.

He'd witnessed more bloodshed in twenty-four hours than he had after ten years in prison. His gut feelings taught him when to fight and when to leave well enough alone. He'd fought for Jamie to the best of his ability without regard for the consequences of his actions. Now he blamed himself for her predicament, knowing nothing he could do would bring her back.

Distracted by a thump thump thump coming from the rear of the car, he adjusted the volume on the police radio and tried to discern the origin.

A flat? A busted tailpipe?

The pounding persisted. Too soft for a flat tire. Too random for a pebble in the tread. Too loud to be his imagination.

He slowed the car.

The thumping stopped for a moment, then continued.

Thump thump thump thump thump...

This time he sat bolt upright and pulled to the shoulder. He jammed the transmission in park and jumped out.

He popped the trunk and found Jamie bound and gagged with her arms and legs covered in welts, her terrified eyes staring back at him with a rag taped inside her mouth.

Chapter 72

Jamie opened the first aid kit from the glove box of her husband's police cruiser. "I thought I was dead..."

She stared at the trees flying by outside the shattered window. Wind turbulence whipped her hair about her face. Glass fragments littered the bullet-ridden seat. The acrid smell of hot ethylene glycol carried through the dashboard vents from a punctured radiator grill.

Lloyd checked his mirrors to spot the entourage of flashing lights from the law enforcement vehicles traveling in the opposite direction. "We have to get you to a hospital."

Jamie dabbed hydrocortisone ointment on her face and neck. "That's the first place he'll look."

"I never gave up on you," Lloyd professed.

Jamie touched his arm. "How long before he finds us?"

"He won't," said Lloyd, convinced of his own veracity from the passing euphoria of finding Jamie alive and his steadfast determination to keep her that way. He detoured from the main road and drove to the Winn-Dixie strip mall near the interstate.

"Where are we going?"

"We need to ditch this ride."

Jamie leaned across her seat and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I wouldn't be here if you hadn't done what you did for me."

"I'm just glad you're alive," said Lloyd, afraid to admit Alan Blanchart remained among the living.

He parked several spaces away from Samantha's tan Civic in the parking lot. As far as he knew, the car's existence hadn't been compromised. A gamble he had no choice but to take.

He observed his surroundings for several seconds to convince himself he wasn't followed. "Let's go..."

He found the key on a hardened wad of gum in the wheel well and popped the trunk where he hid the backpack full of cash.

Jamie climbed in the passenger seat. "I did everything like you said. He found out. He drugged me. I couldn't get away. He would have killed me." She squeezed Lloyd's forearm. "Where's Samantha?"

Lloyd drove out of the empty parking lot and checked his rear view mirror. "She didn't make it."

Jamie slumped in her seat. "Alan always gets what he wants in the end."

"Not any more," said Lloyd.

"I'll never be safe from him, will I?"

Lloyd took the map from between the seats and traced the route outlined in red. "Try and get some rest. We still have a long way to go."

Chapter 73

Lloyd put his hands on the storefront window of a Salvation Army shop outside Alfreda, Georgia, and peered at the racks of donated goods on display.

"Are you sure this is it?" Jamie asked him. She scratched at her neck and shoulder where her skin itched and burned from the red ant venom. She wanted to know exactly what happened to Alan, but she couldn't bring herself to ask.

Lloyd pounded on the glass. "I see someone inside."

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea. We should just take the money and disappear."

"Wait—" Lloyd persisted. "Someone's coming."

Jamie observed a slender woman with dark, curly hair and glasses advancing from the back of the store.

"We close at seven," the woman spoke through the glass. She pointed to the posted business hours.

Lloyd showed her a note with the name "Sandy" spelled out in block letters.

"At seven," the woman reiterated.

"Marsha Hollan gave this to me," Lloyd insisted. "She told me Sandy could help us."

The woman backed away from the window. "This is a donation exchange, not a homeless shelter."

"Marsha Hollan is dead," Lloyd informed her. "We need your help."

The woman stared at Jamie and unlocked the door. "Who are you?"

"Jamie Blanchart."

"Come inside. Alone."

Jamie looked at Lloyd and grabbed his hand. "He's with me," she told the woman.

The woman held the door and checked the street. "Follow me," she said quietly, escorting her unsolicited clients beyond the store displays toward the back of the deceptively large commercial space. She pressed the # sign on a keypad on the wall and typed a numeric code.

A door opened to reveal an office space with an older woman in a wheelchair behind a closed circuit monitor. Deep scar tissue covered one side of her badly burned face. "Who are they?" she asked her colleague.

"They're here for Sandy," the slender woman with curly hair explained. "Marsha's dead."

The woman in the wheelchair rolled back and forth in place, contemplating what action to take. "Close the door. And set the alarm before you leave."

"Are you Sandy?" Lloyd asked the woman in the wheelchair.

"I run an underground women's shelter, not a dating service. Marsha Hollan worked for me. If you're responsible for her death, I'll have the police here in under three minutes."

"I didn't hurt her," Lloyd insisted. He set the backpack down. "Everything, just came unraveled..."

"He saved my life," said Jamie.

The woman nodded. "I helped Marsha put your safety plan together. She was like a sister to me."

Jamie broke down in tears. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. Marsha had her heart in the right place but her head was on ass-backwards. She was reckless. She took too many chances. But she helped a lot of women."

The woman pulled a key from the thin gold chain around her neck and unlocked a cabinet drawer from her wheelchair. She gave Jamie a sealed envelope. "These are your new identification papers. Forged birth certificate and social security card. I need your picture to complete the passport. These aren't CIA quality, but few people can tell the difference."

"What about Lloyd?" Jamie asked with her arm around his waist.

"Your boyfriend's on his own," the woman answered. "This is not a witness protection program. If you want my advice, I suggest you two split up. Whatever trouble he's in will find its way back to you eventually."

Jamie read Lloyd's expression. "I can't do this alone," she said, the thought of leaving Lloyd again too unbearable to imagine.

Lloyd hugged her. "She's right, Jamie."

"No. She's not. I'm alive because of you. We're in this together or not at all."

Lloyd unzipped the bag and handed the woman a ten grand brick of hundred dollar bills. "You heard the lady. I'm all in."

The woman cleared her throat. "Domestic abuse usually stays in the home. Most angry husbands will quit looking for their spouses after the first month or so. Most of these losers don't have the time or financial resources to conduct an ongoing search for someone who doesn't want to be found. It's easier for them to find a new victim than chase the one who got away."

"My husband's a sheriff," said Jamie. "What if he comes after me?"

"Right now you're out of his jurisdiction and out of his life. I suggest you remain that way. Cop or not, his reach can only extend so far. In my experience, domestic abuse allegations won't bode well for his career. Don't contact him again. Not even through an attorney. It's imperative you sever all ties with him, including any mutual acquaintances or close friends you share. Those people no longer exist to you. The life you left behind is gone. The farther away you get from your abuser, the better your outcome will be."

"So what happens now?" asked Jamie.

"Where you go from here is entirely up to you," the woman explained. "The less I know about your plans, the better. I recommend you change your appearance and use public transportation exclusively, at least for the first six months. It's harder for someone to find you without a paper trail to follow. Don't call anyone. Don't write anyone. Stay away from the Internet. Buy a disposable phone and keep your business to yourself. If a stranger tries to strike up a conversation with you, keep it vague. And if by chance someone recognizes you, deny your true identity, no matter how insistent they are, and walk away. Keep a low profile. Don't give people a reason to remember you."

The woman wheeled herself to the safe and stuffed the cash inside. "I have a spare cot in the back and some medical supplies. We stock a small pantry if you're hungry. You can stay here for a few days and recoup. You both look like you need it. I'll take some photos and draft a new set of identification papers for your boyfriend. After that, you two are on your own."

Chapter 74

One week later

Lloyd rode near the back of a Greyhound bus with Jamie resting her head on his shoulder. Immersed in reading lights and random conversations from strangers eager to pass the time, he pondered the life he lost and the blood on his hands that left an indelible stain on the memory of his mother, his father, and the only sibling he'd ever known. He'd made his choice, and now his future with the woman he loved teetered on a pair of cheap disguises, fake birth certificates, and a single piece of carry-on luggage stuffed with two hundred and forty thousand dollars in cash, give or take a few grand. His life as he knew it was over, replaced by a man he hardly recognized any more. A stranger in his own shadow who witnessed his own good deeds—and the bad—without a thought to the repercussions of his actions. The last ten days took ten years off his life and forced him to question his decision to give so much of himself to a woman he hardly knew.

Stirred by the rumble of broken pavement, Jamie opened her eyelids and smiled. Several rows in front of her, a baby cried for a bottle. In the row beside her, a retired cab driver in a New York Mets cap snored with his head back and his mouth gaped open like a Venus Fly Trap. "Where are we?" she asked Lloyd, disoriented from the cinematic flourish of bright lights against the desert landscape.

"Almost in Phoenix," Lloyd whispered. "You were out before the movie ended." He took a crumpled copy of the USA Today from the seat pocket in front of him. The fake beard and mustache felt itchy over his fledging growth of authentic facial hair. He skimmed the headlines, reassuring himself his name remained absent from the printed media.

Jamie adjusted herself between the armrests, stretching her legs beneath the seat in front of her. She leaned her head against the window, her voluminous locks reduced to a short bob cut. She wore enough foundation to cover three faces and a long-sleeve shirt to hide the sores on her arms. "You forget how big this country is. I feel so far from home."

Lloyd took her hand. "That's not a bad thing." He glanced at an Austrian grandmother with silver hair seated in the aisle with the snoring cabby. The woman wore knee-high socks with a hand-sewn dress and clogs. A keepsake pendant hung from her gold rope necklace. A radiant face with youthful features suggested a younger, vibrant woman who thrived inside the shell of an aging body.

Lloyd stuffed the newspaper in the front seat pocket and turned away to avoid eye contact. The more you let someone engage you, the more likely they'll remember you. Keep to yourself. Anonymity is your ally.

The bus lumbered around a decreasing radius exit ramp and merged with the flow of evening traffic.

Lloyd shifted the soft-shell luggage on the floor between his legs. Ten hours in his seat left his butt saddle-sore, despite the occasional rest stop visit. With Varden in jail, he pondered how long it would take the state of Florida to discover his AWOL status and send the dogs after him with a warrant for his arrest. Or whether Blanchart would come looking for his prized possession.

The bus slowed at a gas station and parked away from the pumps.

"Why are we stopping?" Jamie asked.

Lloyd caught the bus driver's nervous appearance in the oversize mirror reflecting a splash of blue lights from an Arizona Highway Patrol car. "Stay calm," he told Jamie, reassuring himself that a focused mind always prevailed.

Lloyd peered above the row of headrests in front of him to see a uniformed officer enter the bus with a scowl etched within the wrinkles of his sun-dried face. "If he comes down the aisle," Lloyd cautioned, "turn your head and pretend you're sleeping."

Out of earshot from the heated conversation at the front of the bus, Lloyd strained to hear bits and pieces of the muffled banter between the driver and the Arizona Highway Patrolman.

Lloyd kept his head down when the armed patrolman left the driver and strolled the aisle. Another asshole with a gun and a badge, he thought as the Storm Trooper worked his way toward the rear of the bus.

There's a bomb on the bus! Lloyd rehearsed in silence. A desperate ploy to spur a stampede of panicked bodies in the cop's direction while he and Jamie rushed the emergency window exit in the back. His pulse accelerated. Sweat trickled from his sideburns despite the flow of cool air from the vents above his head. Five rows forward, a hungry baby wailed for the bottle he never got while his parents jockeyed for a better view of the flashing police lights outside.

"What's going on?" the Austrian grandmother asked Lloyd in a heavy accent.

"Nothing."

The woman craned her neck and nudged her reading glasses for a better view. "I hope there aren't any terrorists on this bus."

Lloyd shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

A garbled voice came over a police radio.

A second officer entered the bus and engaged the driver.

"What are they saying?" the grandmother pestered Lloyd.

Lloyd shrugged his broad shoulders and kept quiet.

The officer in the aisle turned around to engage the bus driver and his partner.

"What's happening?" Jamie asked.

Lloyd swallowed dryly. "Stay close to me." He wrapped his hand around the luggage handle, prepared to execute his plan.

"This is ridiculous," the grandmother bickered to herself. "I should have flown instead. I could have gotten there in half the time and avoided all this nonsense."

Lloyd ignored her.

"Are you all right?" the grandmother persisted. "You look like you're going to be sick." She touched his arm. "I have aspirin in my purse."

"I'm fine," said Lloyd.

"Are you sure? It's not a problem."

Lloyd took hold of Jamie's hand, prepared to issue the bomb announcement and make a run for their lives.

"I apologize for the delay," the driver's voice came over the speaker system. "One of Arizona's finest caught us with a broken tail light. We'll be stopping for the evening soon. The problem should be fixed by morning."

Lloyd settled back in his seat as the two officers exited the bus. He stared out Jamie's window, watching and waiting for the cops to leave before he let his guard down.

He kissed Jamie's hand. "You okay?"

Jamie leaned into her man, her heart still racing from the adrenaline rush. "I am now."

Chapter 75

Lloyd stood in his underwear and unzipped the suitcase on the motel bed. Steam gathered outside the shower while an evening news station aired an amber alert for a missing child.

He removed the top layer of clothes to reveal the crumpled bricks of worn currency and peeled two bills for pocket change. He knew the money would improve their situation, but like all things in life, it would run out eventually.

"Can you get me a towel?" Jamie called out from the bathroom. She held her arms across her naked breasts and shivered in the cold air. "And turn down the AC. It's freezing in here."

Lloyd grabbed a towel from the sink. He removed his fake beard to let his face breathe again and checked his stubble in the mirror. "It's a hundred degrees outside."

Jamie dried herself and wrapped the towel around her slender figure. "Not any more. The desert gets cold at night."

Lloyd kissed her softly on the cheek. "Did that hurt?"

"Not so much," said Jamie.

Lloyd gave her a gentle hug. "Did you save any hot water for me?"

Jamie touched his face. "Maybe you should take a cold shower instead." She turned her head and spied the cash in the suitcase. "I've never seen so much money in my life."

"Me neither," said Lloyd.

"Your father left this inside an empty grave?"

"Something like that."

Jamie found a brush in her purse and worked it through her short hair. "Doesn't that seem weird to you?"

"You never met my father."

"Why don't we buy a cheap car," Jamie offered, "and drive the rest of the way ourselves?"

"That might draw too much attention."

Jamie stopped brushing. "What about this afternoon? Those cops could have been searching for us."

"They weren't."

"This time," said Jamie. "I just think we'd be safer on our own than traveling with a pack of strangers."

"The cops could find us in a car just as easily."

"What if someone on the bus recognizes us?"

"We're not in the papers," said Lloyd. He flipped through the cable channels. "We're not on the news." He tossed the remote on the bed. "Tomorrow's a short ride. A few more days and we'll be home free. The old Jamie and Lloyd are gone. Now we're just a plain vanilla couple trying to get to where we're going."

"I like rocky road," said Jamie. She blushed from the steady rhythm of bedposts tapping the adjoining wall.

"When the time's right," said Lloyd, "I'll buy you a new car and a bungalow on the beach to go with it."

Jamie nudged her towel down her chest. "I'm not with you for your money."

Lloyd brushed the side of her breasts with his powerful hands. He kissed her gently on the mouth. "Does that hurt?"

"A tiny bit."

Lloyd scooped the back of her thighs and lifted her onto the sink facing toward him. He wrapped her legs around his waist and brushed the tip of his tongue between her lips. "How 'bout now?"

"Not so much..."

Lloyd gingerly kissed her face and neck. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not hurting me," Jamie whispered.

Lloyd carried her to the bed and laid her gently on her back. He shoved the suitcase aside, spilling the contents on the floor—and then a knock at the door killed the mood.

"Someone's here," said Jamie.

Jamie pulled her jeans on and hid inside the bathroom. "What if it's the police?"

"Just relax."

"But what if—"

"Shhhhhhh."

Lloyd checked the peephole and unfastened the privacy chain to greet the Austrian grandmother he recognized from the bus. "Can I help you?"

Undaunted by the bulge in Lloyd's boxers, the grandmother asked, "Do you know what time the bus departs tomorrow morning?"

"Eight o'clock."

The woman glanced inside the room. "I thought I heard the driver say nine," she said in her thick accent. "Sometimes I get my signals crossed. It happens when you get to be my age."

"The bus leaves at eight," Lloyd repeated.

"Thank you."

"Have a nice evening," Lloyd said to the intrusive guest as he started to push the door closed.

"Tell me—where are you from?"

"Texas," Lloyd answered despite his better judgment.

"What part?"

"Austin."

"That's a lovely area. My niece goes to college there. Her married name is Oswell. Maybe you know her husband?"

"It's a big city..."

"Of course," the woman replied curtly. "Sorry to trouble you so late. I'll see you in the morning."

Lloyd shut the door and secured the chain.

"Is she gone?" Jamie asked from the bathroom.

"She's gone," said Lloyd, his train of thought momentarily disrupted when he noticed his fake beard by the sink.

Chapter 76

The State Attorney for Florida's Eighteenth Judicial Circuit Court drove a black Lincoln Towncar through a landfill service entrance outside a three-story mountain of refuse. When he reached the summit, he parked beside a yellow bulldozer with its bucket in the raised position and got out.

"You're late," a state police captain announced from an unmarked police SUV a few yards away. He got out and walked around the bulldozer. His patent leather shoes sank into the spongy soil. A thirty-year member of the Florida Highway Patrol, he'd grown up ten miles from the county dump. He'd seen his share of changes over the years. None for the better. "Where's our public defender?"

"He didn't make it," said the state attorney. He shivered in a tweed blazer with a folded handkerchief in his breast pocket and lit a cigarette. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. His skin felt clammy against the sweat-soaked shirt beneath the oversized garment he wore to conceal the small caliber revolver he'd procured from a crime scene locker.

"We can't afford this kind of heat right now," the captain warned his co-conspirator. "Not until Blanchart's shit-storm blows over."

The state attorney blew smoke through his nose to mask the smell of landfill waste. His fever climbed passed a hundred and two degrees. "George suffered an overdose. The paramedics attempted to revive him, but he was gone before they got there."

The captain toyed with his wedding band. The landfill was quiet at night. And desolate. "Jesus Christ, Jim. You told me you had your man under control. The last thing we need is another body on our hands."

The state attorney flicked his ash from the unfiltered Camel. His head swelled like a pressure cooker. "You wanna say my name a little louder, in case your mike didn't catch it the first time."

"You think I'm wired?"

"I don't trust anyone."

"That makes two of us," said the captain. "I'll let you frisk me if you take your coat off and show me what you're hiding under there."

The state attorney rubbed his hand along his runny nose. His nerves buckled like wet spaghetti. "We're on the same team here. We all share equal stake in this operation. Trouble for one of us spells trouble for all."

"Who else knows about George?"

"No one outside the circle."

"You didn't have to kill him."

The state attorney shook out his handkerchief and sneezed in it. "George was an irritating pimple that wouldn't pop. A liability we couldn't carry anymore." He stuffed the snotrag in his pocket and took another drag. "Our revenue loss aside, we can't afford the media exposure. Too many people are asking questions. Miami's getting nervous. They want assurances that we have the right men in place."

"I have the right men on board," the captain stated emphatically.

"Like the two who showed up on Blanchart's doorstep?"

"That didn't come through me. I didn't find out about the investigation until it hit the fan. It won't happen again."

The state attorney scratched the bald spot on the back of his head. "We can't afford another Leslie Dancroft fiasco."

"It's under control," said the state police captain.

"And what about the two dead cops in Blanchart's house?"

"The media took care of it. Both men died in the line of duty defending the sheriff from a home invasion robbery. Their families were notified. Funerals are scheduled for next week."

The state attorney blew smoke. "What about the other bodies?"

The captain gestured toward the ground. "You're standing on them. We found a fake ID on the body inside the car Blanchart sank. The serial number on the gun we recovered came back to a Marsha Hollan from New York."

"What's her connection to Blanchart?"

"I'm still digging."

"What about the other woman?"

"Samantha Barnes. A thirty-three year old stripper from Manhattan. Since Marsha Hollan was from New York, I'm thinking there might be some connection."

The state attorney crushed out his cigarette beneath his penny loafer. "You think?" He stepped to the edge of the garbage mountain and stared at the cell tower lights across the interstate. "How much does Blanchart's wife know about our operation?"

"She's the least of our problems," said the captain. He looked back at the Lincoln. "Rumor has it she was banging some guy on the side and Blanchart caught her."

"Sounds like Blanchart couldn't satisfy his own constituents. What about our missing convict? Where the fuck is he and how much does he know?"

"He's on the loose, but we'll find him."

"Do it fast," said the state attorney. "He's a threat, and he's facing jail time. All we need is some liberal judge with a sympathetic ear to engage whatever bullshit story this guy decides to spin about Blanchart and this debacle he's promulgated. Everything comes back to Blanchart. This whole fucking mess falls on Blanchart."

"Better to deal with the devil we know than the devil we don't," said the captain.

"Not this time," said the state attorney. "Blanchart's made himself a liability. I want you to take him out, along with the missing wife and her convict boyfriend. And put a bow on it this time. We can't afford to have this blow up in our face."

"You say this like you're ordering Chinese take-out. I'm not in the murder-for-hire business. We can't kill everyone who comes in contact with Sheriff Blanchart."

"It's called damage control. I'll work on finding Blanchart's replacement. You make sure the deed gets done."

The captain looked up at the full moon shining above the landfill. He spotted the big dipper and caught the flash from a shooting star. "Must be my lucky day," he said as he reached for the back-up piece he brought to the party to ensure his silent partner stayed silent.

The state attorney slipped his hand inside his blazer. "You got here early."

"I like to be on time," said the captain.

"You could have picked a better place to meet."

"I could have picked a better partner."

"That makes two of us," said Blanchart from behind the yellow bulldozer. He held both men at gunpoint with the silenced .22.

"Where the hell have you been?" the captain asked him.

"Right place, right time," said Blanchart.

The state attorney backed away from the men with his hands in the air. "What are you doing?"

Blanchart shot the captain in the forehead twice, then he pointed the gun at his second target. "Taking out the trash."

"I was lying about everything I said," the state attorney back-pedaled. "I had to sell the story to get the captain here. I had to sound convincing."

"And the part about my wife?"

The state attorney moved slowly toward the Lincoln. "Just two guys shooting the shit. We go back a long ways. I put you in office. We had a deal."

Blanchart motioned with the gun. "I don't make deals. Get away from the car."

Urine trickled down the state attorney's leg. "You can't manage this alone. It's... it's too big. You need me."

"Who else knows about this operation?"

"No one."

Blanchart shot the state attorney in the hand. A through-and-through that left a small hole in the palm between the thumb and index finger. "I'm not convinced."

The state attorney clutched his wrist. Blood drizzled down his jacket sleeve. "I swear I would tell you if I knew."

Blanchart shot him in the thigh, clipping the femoral artery. "Does that jog your memory?"

The state attorney dropped to the ground and screamed, "You're out of your fucking mind!"

"You're running out of time, counselor."

"Wait!" The state attorney gripped his leg. Blood gushed between his fingers. "If there are any leaks in the captain's department, I'll help you find them and put this mess behind us. Then we can get on with doing what we do best."

"Which is what?"

"Making money. Lots and lots of money. In a few years we'll both retire with more money than God and walk away. Your wife'll have the life she always dreamed of."

Blanchart thought for a second, then said, "I am the life she always dreamed of."

"Are you fucking kidding me? I'm bleeding to death over here!"

"That's the first truth I've heard all night," said Blanchart.

"You're insane!"

Blanchart shot the state attorney in the head. Then he climbed inside the bulldozer cabin, wincing from a tender left arm, and started the motor. He lowered the bucket and shifted into forward gear. Tomorrow was a new day. And with it, another chance to reclaim what was lost.

Chapter 77

Jamie admired the sunset view from the balcony of an ocean-front suite. A light breeze swept eastward from the cool Pacific Ocean, toting a patch of wispy clouds in the endless expanse of the southern California sky.

Lloyd came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck. He hugged her gently, overlapping his arms onto hers. "This looks heavenly."

"I love it," said Jamie. "The ocean is so vibrant at night."

Lloyd kissed her shoulder. "I wasn't talking about the water."

Jamie felt Lloyd's powerful arms around her. His strength and warmth brought her comfort like she'd never known before. Her confidence bloomed. "I wish we could stay here forever."

Lloyd hugged her tighter. "You'll like Mexico even better."

Jamie inhaled the salty air and watched the sun fade away. "I'm grateful you came into my life."

"I'm grateful you wash your car," said Lloyd.

Jamie turned around to face her man and brushed her fingers on his face. "I'm serious. We found each other for a reason. I don't know why. I can't explain it. I'm just... so happy. If we'd never met I'd still be—"

"Don't go there," said Lloyd. "Stay focused on the here and now. Good things happen to good people. I can't imagine my life without you."

Jamie blushed. "I've never been to Mexico." She tried to bury her apprehensions, but she couldn't hold back the tears. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually like this. If something happens to you—"

"It won't."

"Promise me?"

Lloyd wiped her tears away with his thumb. "I promise you."

Jamie kissed his hand. "I feel like I've known you all my life, but I also feel like I hardly know you at all. Does that make any sense?"

"Ask me anything," Lloyd prompted her. "Anything you want. I keep no secrets from you."

"I doubt that," she teased him.

"Try me."

"Can you swim?"

"Like a fish."

Jamie thought about her grumbling stomach. "Do you cook?"

"Sort of."

"What does that mean?"

"I can boil water," said Lloyd.

"I don't even know your birthday. Or where you were born."

"January 20th. I was born in Florida."

Jamie followed him from the balcony to the furnished room with a sitting area beside the king-size bed and a small armoire. Soft textures and framed artwork gave the suite a homey feel. "How long can we stay here?"

"Until we get our money squared away. It's too risky to travel with all this cash."

Jamie checked her makeup in the hall mirror. "Let's go out tonight and celebrate. We can go someplace quiet."

"I think we should keep a low profile. The less we're out in public, the better."

"Once we leave here," said Jamie, "are we ever coming back?"

Lloyd plopped the suitcase on the bed and unzipped the top. "Why don't we go for a walk on the beach tonight. I can show you the constellations. Give you something to dream about."

"I have plenty to dream about," said Jamie. She scratched the back of her head and felt a tiny lump like a tick burrowed inside her scalp. She dug her nail at the minor irritation until it bled. "I'll be right back," she told Lloyd.

Lloyd poked at the suitcase contents and the bundles of cash. "If we exchange this all at once it'll draw too much attention."

Jamie opened the medicine cabinet in the bathroom to inspect the lump in the mirror. "I agree." She parted her hair. The more she picked at the BB-size object, the more it hurt. She took a nail file from her purse and pressed the tip to her scalp, determined to root out whatever burrowed itself in her head. She worked the tip gently up and down between the follicles, applying minimum force until she broke the skin. Relying more on touch than sight, she dug out a plastic sliver and pinched it between her nails. "Lloyd! Lloyd—come in here!"

Lloyd dropped the money and found Jamie at the sink. "What's wrong?"

"Look at this," said Jamie.

Lloyd stared at the tiny object in her bloody fingertips. "What happened?"

"I thought I had a tick in my—"

"Flush it!" Lloyd urged her.

"Why?"

Lloyd pushed her hand over the toilet bowl. "Hurry up."

"You're scaring me," said Jamie, startled by Lloyd's reaction and the sudden knock at the door.

"Housekeeping," announced a woman outside the 10th floor ocean-front suite.

Lloyd motioned for Jamie to stay put. He ventured toward the door as the maid pushed her cart inside the room. "No thank you," Lloyd told the maid firmly, as Jamie followed him from the bathroom.

"Wrong answer," said Blanchart, forcing his way past the hotel employee at gunpoint. He aimed the silenced .22 at Lloyd to control the room. Then he moved his arm and fired a single round at the maid's temporal lobe and shut the door. "Let's try this again."

"How did you—"

"Your bunkmate proved useful after all," said Blanchart. "He did all the talking. The tiny tracker I planted did all the heavy lifting for me. Finding you was a walk in the park."

Lloyd visualized Marvin's body in the shed. "Then you killed him and dumped him in a hole like an animal."

Blanchart smirked. "I didn't have room in the trunk."

Jamie clung to Lloyd's side.

Blanchart kept the gun on Lloyd. "I believe you have something that belongs to me." He reached for Jamie's arm and yanked her away.

Lloyd reached for the folding knife he'd tucked inside his back pocket.

"Drop the knife and kick it to me," said Blanchart.

Lloyd dropped the knife and kicked it toward Blanchart. "The police are on the way."

Blanchart picked up the knife and slid it in his back pocket. He led Jamie by the hair toward the balcony.

"Let her go!" Lloyd fumed. "This ends with me."

Blanchart moved through the velvet drapes with Jamie clawing at his arms. "You brought this on yourselves."

"Let her go!"

"You did this to her," said Blanchart.

Lloyd stepped within arm's reach of the gun, prepared to sacrifice himself to stop a madman from destroying the one thing in life he was willing to die for.

"I'm not going to kill you," Blanchart said out of the side of his mouth. He brought Jamie to the edge of the balcony railing. "I found a murder victim at the scene of a domestic dispute. You killed the maid and shoved my wife over the balcony in a jealous rage. When I'm done with you, your prints will be on this gun, and you'll spend the rest of your life where you belong while I find a new Mrs. Blanchart to replace the old." He brought Jamie's head over the railing and kept the gun trained on Lloyd. "Where the head goes, the body follows."

Jamie feigned a submissive posture and snatched the folded knife from her husband's pocket. She flipped it open and stabbed him in the lower back—up and under his vest to pierce his kidney and spleen.

Lloyd seized the gun when Blanchart flinched from the pain.

Blanchart stared at Lloyd. "You don't have the sack to end this."

Lloyd stepped aside. "I'm not going to kill you," he replied. "She is."

Jamie shoved Blanchart over the guardrail and watched him teeter like a puppet before he finally let go and toppled to the pavement with a bone-crunching pop.

Lloyd touched her shoulder and said, "It's over..."

Jamie turned to embrace him and saw the troubled look on his face.

"Drop the gun!" an officer barked inside the room with his service weapon drawn.

A red laser dot pegged the front of Lloyd's shirt.

A second officer checked the maid for a pulse. "She's gone."

"On your knees," the first officer ordered Lloyd. "Lace your hands behind your head." He collared Lloyd and brought him to his feet. "What the hell happened here?"

Lloyd shook his head. "You tell me. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried."

Chapter 78

One year later

Lloyd rocked a pencil back and forth between his fingers while his pro bono attorney flapped his gums behind the courtroom table. Lloyd could see the lips moving, but the words dissipated in the noise from the wheels of justice spinning hard and fast in the wrong direction. By all accounts, a mediocre lawyer in a thousand-dollar suit still amounted to a mediocre lawyer—a gold-plated tool with a highbrow degree who took the case to flaunt his name in the media circus surrounding the murder of a well-respected sheriff.

At the end of the day, Mr. Francis Tabor Esquire would go home to a cold beer, a hot shower, and a soft pillow. His stuffy, uneventful life would continue despite his client's ordeal. Win or lose, Mr. Tabor would keep his freedom, his waterfront home with a private slip, and the lease on his new Mercedes.

"Mr. Sullivan?"

Lloyd broke the pencil across his middle finger when Jamie entered the courtroom and claimed a front row seat. He watched her open a pack of tissues from her purse and mouth the words "I love you." He smiled warmly at her, his thoughts projected at the woman who'd risked her life to love him, if only for a short time. But to see her and not touch her ripped his heart in half. The thought of life without her was unbearable.

Mr. Tabor folded a sheet of paper over the top of his legal pad. "Mr. Sullivan?" he prodded Lloyd a second time.

"I'm with you," said Lloyd, staring at Jamie from across the courtroom.

"The judge will ask you if you understand the terms of the plea agreement. He will then ask you if you accept the terms outlined in the agreement. You respond in the affirmative. If the judge asks you—"

"What if I don't accept the terms?"

"We've covered this ground already, Mr. Sullivan. Given the circumstances, it's a fair deal."

Lloyd broke away from Jamie's gaze. "For whom? I'm the one facing hard time in federal prison. How fair does that sound to you?"

"It's a reasonable offer."

"Define 'reasonable.'"

"Mr. Sullivan—"

"Have you ever spent time in prison?"

"No, I have not," Mr. Tabor acknowledged in a patronizing tone.

"Then none of this plea bargain jargon means shit to you, does it?"

"Mr. Sullivan, I've been a criminal defense attorney for thirty years. In my experience, deals like this don't present themselves very often."

Lloyd dropped his shackled hands on the table. "In your experience... In my experience, the second you leave the county bus, life in the joint starts to eat at you. Slowly, at first, like a tumor in your brain. It doesn't kill you right away. It only cripples you. No more freedom. No more family. No more privacy. You're stripped of everything except the emptiness and the grief you carry with you. Your world revolves inside a cell no bigger than your bathroom. You eat, shit, and shower with the wolves. You turn a blind eye to the sheep too weak to defend themselves because you learn you can't help everybody, and the more you try, the faster you dig your own grave. Your friends are also your enemies. Your enemy's enemy is your friend, as long as you provide them with something they want. Every day you wonder if your next meal or your next shower or your next breath of fresh air in the yard will be your last. There are no time outs, no referees, no teammates to cheer you on when you're up—or scrape you off the floor when you take a beat-down. There's no compassion, no loyalty, no goodwill toward men. The prison experience conditions you to a life without meaning, without purpose, and most certainly without hope."

Mr. Tabor adjusted his tie. "I empathize with your plight, Mr. Sullivan, but the evidence is overwhelming. You're fortunate the interim state attorney is willing to deal at all. His predecessor would have nailed you to the cross."

"And what if I take the deal?"

"You plead guilty to the lesser charges in exchange for a sentence of twenty years, concurrent with your time served."

"But I'm not guilty."

Mr. Tabor pulled a file from his briefcase. "Attempted murder, kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, parole violations... Should I go on? The judge could sentence you to life without parole. You'll leave prison in a box. Is that what you want?"

"What happened to 'innocent until proven guilty?'"

"This is real life, Mr. Sullivan—not Court TV. If we take this to trial, the state will hammer you. Not to mention, you would still face extradition to California and face additional charges for felony kidnapping, attempted murder, and assault with a deadly weapon. You could spend three to five years in a California jail before your case ever went to trial."

Lloyd reflected on his attorney's advice. "Then we agree to disagree."

"You killed a Lakewood, Florida sheriff."

"Allegedly. Since when is self-defense against the law?"

"There's no evidence to corroborate your version of events."

"You have my word."

"This is a court of law, Mr. Sullivan. Your word means nothing."

Lloyd turned his attention back to Jamie. He could smell her perfume from across the room. He could picture his arms around her, holding her tightly and kissing her softly on her tender lips. "What about Jamie's testimony?"

"Mrs. Blanchart? She's still facing aiding and abetting charges."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"Perhaps. But either way, the prosecution would destroy her credibility."

"Does it bother you to ignore the truth?" asked Lloyd.

"The truth is whatever the state wants it to be. You are a convicted felon who engaged in a sexual liaison with a married woman. A sheriff's wife no less. You kidnapped her, allegedly, across state lines under willful flight from prosecution in Florida. You then conspired to kill her husband."

"Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, Mr. Sullivan. And as your attorney, I'm advising you to take the plea. Do the time and get on with your life. You've been in the system before and survived. You can do it again."

Lloyd felt the words roll away like oil in a Teflon pan. "Have you ever been so in love with a woman you would do anything—give anything—to be with her?"

Mr. Tabor touched the gold wedding band around his ring finger. "I'm a married man."

"I didn't ask if you were married," Lloyd corrected him. He watched the bailiff emerge from the judge's chambers. "Never ask a question you don't already know the answer to. Isn't that what they teach you in law school?"

"I'm your lawyer, not your priest, Mr. Sullivan. If you decline this plea agreement and go to trial, you will lose. And you will likely spend the rest of your life in prison. Is that what you want out of this?"

The bailiff escorted the judge to his bench. "All rise. This court is now in session. The Honorable Jared Dugan presiding."

Lloyd pushed his chair back and stood up with his shackled hands in front of him.

"You may be seated," the bailiff instructed the courtroom.

The judge reviewed the docket. His thick eyebrows grew together at the bridge of his nose, forming a single unibrow that moved like a centipede when he squinted at the pages of legal paperwork. A veteran of the Florida Circuit Court, he had granted hundreds of plea agreements during his tenure—but none as disparaging as the written request in front of him. "I have a busy schedule, Mr. Tabor. If you're ready to proceed..."

"I am, Your Honor."

The judge scrutinized Lloyd's criminal record. "Mr. Sullivan, I'm flabbergasted at how you managed to pull this out. It appears you struck quite a deal for yourself. In all my years on this bench, I can't recall a more propitious agreement. You've broken more laws than I care to recite. And while you're not the most abhorrent repeat offender I've ever sentenced, what you lack in integrity, you make up for with a willful disregard for authority, basic morals, and the value of human life. I'm inclined to quash this plea and ask the state to try again."

"Your Honor—" Mr. Tabor interjected.

"Save it, Counselor. I'm not in the mood."

The judge signed the paperwork left-handed. "Mr. Sullivan, have you read the plea agreement presented to you?"

Lloyd cleared his throat. "Yes."

"Do you understand the terms of this agreement?"

"I do."

"And do you accept the terms of this plea agreement?"

Lloyd drew a deep breath. Nothing he could do would change the outcome. He could go for the bailiff's gun and try to blast his way out, maybe snag a hostage and buy some time. But in the end, the outcome would be the same.

"Mr. Sullivan?" the judge asked impatiently. "Are you prepared to accept the terms of this plea agreement?"

Mr. Tabor cleared his throat. "Your Honor, I request a moment with my client."

"Make it quick, Counselor."

Mr. Tabor lowered his head and whispered in Lloyd's ear. "What are you doing?"

"Your Honor," the prosecutor interjected in a deep voice that rivaled his tiny stature, "will the defendant please answer the question?"

The judge leaned forward in his chair. "Mr. Tabor! Is your client ready to proceed?"

"One moment, Your Honor."

"That moment has come and gone, Counselor."

"My client would like to—"

"I changed my mind," Lloyd told the judge. "I plead not guilty."

"So noted," the judge replied. "Do you understand that by declining this plea you could face additional charges excluded from this agreement? And that if found guilty by a jury of your peers, you could be sentenced under legal guidelines to life in prison without parole?"

"He's innocent!" Jamie shouted from the back of the courtroom.

The judge slammed his gavel. "Ma'am, this court does not tolerate outbursts of any kind. Please restrain yourself, or I will have you removed."

Jamie stood up and shouted, "You're all a bunch of fucking criminals!"

"Bailiff!" the judge instructed.

The bailiff took Jamie by the arm as a man in uniform entered the courtroom.

"Your Honor?" The man addressed the judge from the back row.

"Sir, this court is in session."

"My apologies, Your Honor, but I must request a moment of your time."

"State your name," the judge ordered the stranger as all eyes turned upon him.

"Sergeant Ronald Varden."

"Are you an attorney, Mr. Varden?"

"No, Your Honor. I work for the Florida Department of Corrections. I am Mr. Sullivan's parole officer." He raised a folded letter. "Your Honor, I have an affidavit signed this morning by the interim state attorney exonerating Mr. Sullivan of all charges and ordering his release."

"Mr. Varden, you have no standing in this matter."

"With all due respect, Your Honor, I ask that Mr. Sullivan be released on his own recognizance and ordered to fulfill the terms of his original parole under my supervision."

"Sit down, Mr. Varden. I can't allow you to address this court."

"Your Honor, if I may approach the bench."

"This is ridiculous," the prosecution objected. "Your Honor—"

The judge sat forward on the edge of his chair. "Your objection is noted, Counselor." He frowned at the courtroom crasher. "This is not a White House dinner party, Mr. Varden. I suggest you tread very lightly, or the next words out of your mouth will land you in contempt."

Varden handed the folded letter to the judge.

"Why was this not brought to my attention earlier?"

"I apologize for the miscommunication."

The judge reviewed the letter and the signature at the bottom of the page. He cupped his hand on the microphone for a moment of privacy and signaled for the bailiff to return to his post. "These are serious accusations, Mr. Varden. There's no evidence to suggest anyone murdered the former state attorney or that he had any nefarious connections with the Florida State Police or the late Sheriff Blanchart."

"On the contrary, Your Honor, the interim state attorney was also presented with eyewitness testimony to substantiate Sheriff Blanchart's involvement in this matter."

"That doesn't address my concerns about the content of this letter."

"Yes Your Honor," Varden acknowledged. "But with all due respect, your concerns fall outside the scope of this decree."

"I decide the scope of things, Mr. Varden. Whatever favors this cost you, I hope they were worth it." He folded the paper and shook his head. "Step away from the bench."

Varden looked back at Lloyd.

The judge uncovered the microphone and addressed the prosecutor's table. "Was the prosecution made aware of this?"

"No, Your Honor. We were not."

The judge squinted. His unibrow furrowed between his eyes. "Apparently your boss forgot to send a memo."

"Your Honor," Mr. Tabor started, "I would like to request—"

"Save it, Counselor. Mr. Sullivan, I don't know what lucky star you were born under, but you better pray you never set foot in my courtroom again. I hereby order you remanded to the custody of Sergeant Varden. Per the guidelines of your original sentencing, you are ordered to complete the remainder of your parole. I also remind you that you are still subject to the Florida sentencing guidelines, and that any violation of said guidelines will result in the reinstatement of your full sentence, which you would be required to fulfill. Do you understand these terms as I've explained them to you, Mr. Sullivan?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Well then, Mr. Sullivan, you are free to go. Bailiff, please uncuff this man."

Lloyd raised his arms to the bailiff and felt the shackles drop away.

Jamie ran up and embraced her man with open arms. Tears fell like rain.

Varden waited for the marathon hug to finish and gave a nod to Leslie Dancroft seated in the back row. "Mr. Sullivan..."

Lloyd reached an arm around Jamie and shook Varden's hand. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Jamie turned her head and forced a smile to extend her own gratitude.

Varden smiled inside but kept a stern face. "Do me a favor," he said to Jamie. "Make sure he stays out of trouble this time."

The End

Page forward for excerpts from Jason Melby's other titles

ENEMY AMONG US

WITHOUT A TRACE...

Excerpt from

Enemy Among Us

Special Agent Jim McLeary endures a gauntlet of double-agents,

covert operatives, and a guilty conscience to prevent an elusive

enemy from unleashing a silent weapon of mass destruction.

by

Jason Melby

Disillusioned, yet sober in his humble surroundings, he pinched a single bullet from the clutter of .45 caliber cartridges on the folding table. He pressed the fat, copper round in the empty chamber and closed the match-grade slide on the five-inch barrel with a left-hand twist. He held his life in his own hands, a power he both revered and feared. Despite his shortcomings, he'd done what he could for his boys, finding solace in the notion his sons would thrive without him.

Alone in his thoughts, he had a decision to make, perhaps the last decision he would ever contemplate. For what he'd failed to accomplish as a father, met with equal downfall in his marriage and career. Wracked with guilt and the ensuing doldrums from a life of solitude and lost resolve, he sought refuge the only way he knew how. In his mind, the scales of indignity and hope teetered back and forth, rising and falling with the slow, methodic rhythm of a large vessel's wake rolling through the low-rent marina.

He squeezed his hand around the gun's rosewood grip, his fingers pressed against the double diamond texture. He cocked the hammer and brought the loaded weapon to his head, squaring the Lasergrip sights at his temple. For the third time in two days, he crept closer to the rim of a rocky ledge, staring down at the cavernous void, prepared to take his final step from a life he would surrender in a violent discharge of expanding gas behind a two-hundred and thirty grain bullet capable of shattering his skull like a porcelain vase.

With his free hand, he slid a quarter off the table and sat upright, shoulders back, chest out—his right index finger resting on the gun's four-pound trigger.

He flicked the quarter with his thumb, launching the coin into the air, where it wobbled in a shallow arc before clanging off the teak-wood floor by his feet, bouncing and spinning until it settled on George Washington's head.

What Jim McLeary failed to decide on his own, fate had chosen for him.

Enemy Among Us

by

Jason Melby

~

To purchase

Enemy Among Us

from your favorite eBook Retailer,

visit Jason Melby's eBook Discovery Author Page

www.ebookdiscovery.com/JasonMelby

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Complete your journey with an excerpt from

WITHOUT A TRACE...

Excerpt from

Without a Trace...

A dream vacation turns dangerous when a young wife and daughter disappear...

by

Jason Melby

A gold watch glittered on the headboard's built-in night table while an empty Dom Perignon bottle floated in a bucket of ice water. Silk roses extended from a crystal vase, their pink, symmetric petals in full bloom, basking in the light of immortality.

Awakened by a hand on her pillow, the woman opened her eyes and briefly glimpsed the knife-wielding stranger before a sweeping incision slashing from her trachea to her jugular vein silenced her attempt to scream.

Startled by his wife's thrashing movements, the husband awoke with a six-inch slit below his chin, grasping at his own throat in a desperate attempt to stop the bloody flow.

Victor wrapped the bodies in separate sheets and hauled his victims through the side deck near the helm. There, he tied mooring lines around their ankles and weighted the corpses with anchor chain. One heave, and he watched the bodies sink below the surface before he rinsed his hands at the transom shower and settled in the captain's chair at the helm.

In front of him, rows of rocker switches lined a walnut backdrop filled with radar panels and analog gauges assembled in a logical fashion. Radio and navigational aids complemented the independent throttle levers designed to control the twelve-hundred horsepower diesel engines.

He raised the anchor from its tenure at the bottom of the sea and brought the big motors to life. Then he eased the throttles forward to bring the ten ton vessel on plane en route to the Gulf of Mexico.

Without A Trace...

by

Jason Melby

~

To purchase

Without A Trace...

from your favorite eBook Retailer,

visit Jason Melby's eBook Discovery Author Page

www.ebookdiscovery.com/JasonMelby

~

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Jason Melby has lived throughout the continental United States, Hawaii, and most of Europe. A graduate of Virginia Tech and Johns Hopkins University, Jason currently resides in Melbourne, Florida. His suspense novels feature dynamic characters overwhelmed by extraordinary circumstances forcing them to confront their greatest fears.

You can contact Jason through his website www.jasonmelby.com

Table of Contents

Cover

Books by Jason Melby

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Excerpt from ENEMY AMONG US by Jason Melby

Excerpt from WITHOUT A TRACE by Jason Melby

Meet the Author