Devil's Playground 4z4j3x

DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

Published by Reputation Books

reputationbooksllc.com

Copyright © 2001 by D. P. Lyle

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in manner whatever without written permission from Reputation Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, publisher at [email protected].

Book design by Lisa Abellera

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Catag-In Publication Data (TK)

ISBN-13: 978-1-944387-27-3 (paperback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-944387-28-0

Reputation Books Second Edition: September 2021

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the help of many trusted friends. The of my writing group: Roger, Ticky, Vicki, Anna, and Christina. My designated readers: Aunt Nancy, Janny, Jimmy, Bobbie, Hawk, Sparky, Tootie, Roxy, and Mikey, who had to pour over every draft because I know where they live. Nan, who gave me the time and freedom to pursue the madness of writing. Our late “kids” Squirt (1980-1997) and Mr. Punk (19842000), who helped with this story’s initial draft by kitty-walking on my keyboard, bathing in front of my monitor, playing with everything on my desk, driving me crazy, and making me laugh. I thank them all.

…though now they lie groveling and prostrate on yon lake of fire…

Beelzebub, from Paradise Lost

John Milton

CHAPTER 1

James McElroy was into the sixteenth hour of the fifth day of his East Coast turn-around. The two Black Mollies he popped outside Gallup, New Mexico were on their downhill leg, no longer packing enough punch to keep him fully awake. Only two hours to LA. No sweat.

His back and shoulders ached from wrestling the eighteen-wheeler since sun up in Amarillo and his butt felt as though it had grown to the seat. He had made good time, 950 miles so far, and were it not for a shredded front tire near Tucumcari, he would be home by now. Instead, he faced another 130 monotonous miles.

He fired up a fresh Marlboro with the glowing remnant of the one he had lit seven minutes earlier and tossed the dead one out the window, creating a firefly wake, which quickly dissolved into the thick blackness of the desert night. He drained the last of the Wild Turkey in two gulps and dropped the bottle in the enger side floorboard, where it clanked against its empty twin.

He yawned, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and inspected himself in the rearview mirror. Two days growth, a thick layer of road dirt, and eyes, red to the point of bleeding, stared back. He curled his lip and ran his index finger across his front teeth, attempting to scrub the film from them. A dab of dried ketchup, left there by the greasy hamburgers he had picked up in Flagstaff, sat on his chin like a birthmark.

Jesus, he looked like shit.

He also needed to piss. He should have stopped at King’s Truck Stop in Mercer’s Corner a couple of miles back. Whenever he made this run, he usually did stop there for a quick piece of pie and a caffeine jolt to carry him through the last two hours. Tonight, he had intended to, ed seeing it as he flew by, but his mind must have been elsewhere. Where? He couldn’t . Probably concentrating on the white line that constantly disappeared beneath his left front wheel and seemed fuzzier with each ing mile.

He sucked down the last quarter of the cigarette, tossed the butt out the window, and grasped the gear lever. The engine whined in protest as he downshifted and the air breaks squealed and huffed, hauling the beast down from eighty-five miles per hour. He eased to the shoulder of Interstate 40.

As he stepped from the cab, a 20-mile-per-hour wind gust pushed the cold night air through his shirt, releasing an involuntary shiver. He snagged his jacket from the truck, slipped it on, and yanked open his fly. As he urinated, he wavered, the wind buffeting him more than his alcohol-sabotaged legs could handle, forcing him to lean against the truck’s door for .

After unloading the Wild Turkey, he zipped his fly and inhaled the night air in a futile attempt to shred the cobwebs that clutched his brain. He yawned and climbed into the cab, where the smell of stale whiskey and grease wafted up from the enger side floorboard. He gathered up the empty bottles and the hamburger wrappers and tossed them into the night. Slamming the truck in gear, he accelerated down the shoulder of the freeway, gravel flying.

After regaining the roadway, he snatched the CB mic from its dashboard mount. “Breaker 19. This is Big Dog, westbound, I-40. Need a smoky check.”

“Break 19. How you doin’, Big Dog. This is Gatorman outta Jacksonville,

eastbound. All clear over my shoulder. Put the hammer down, Good Buddy.”

“Thank you, Gatorman. This is Big Dog, westbound and down.”

All clear. Maybe he could make LA in an hour and a half. The Peterbilt growled and the tires whined as he accelerated to ninety-five miles per hour. He wanted this trip to end, wanted to dump his load of gasoline in L.A. and get to Van Nuys where Lucy would be waiting with a warm shower and a warmer body. Christmas was still two weeks away, but maybe he’d give her the present he had bought for her tonight, rather than wait. She always looked good in black lace.

He massaged his stiff neck and yawned, wishing he had a cup of strong coffee to knock down the fatigue.

Soon, gravity tugged at his eyelids, tipped his head downward until his chin rested on his chest, and drew sleep into his brain. Warm, wonderful, welcome sleep.

The truck lurched as it slipped off the roadway, bouncing his chin against his chest, jerking him to wakefulness. He yanked the steering wheel to the left; the tires squealed, clutching the pavement. The truck wobbled unsteadily, and for a brief moment he thought he had lost it, but somehow managed to regain control. He gulped air while his heart did the Meringue in his chest.

Jesus, that was close.

Fatigue and somnolence evaporated as if a double espresso had been injected directly into his heart. He quickly recaptured ninety-five miles per hour, settled in his seat, and returned his concentration to the white line that led him toward L.A.

From nowhere, an unseen dagger of ice-cold pain penetrated his left temple, his brain, squeezing tears from his eyes. Through the windshield, the monochromatic night mutated into an explosion of color. The white line he followed remained white, stark white, but was now razor sharp, unwavering, as straight as a blueprint line.

The parade of red taillights, stretching before him, and the line of twinkling headlights, which delineated the eastbound lanes to his left, transmuted into smears of brilliant pastels like schools of tropical fish racing through a black ocean, their colors blending into long multicolored ribbons. Hot yellow, orange, and red fused with cool blue, green, and violet, creating a psychedelic cacophony of color in which each melted into the other while maintaining its own distinctiveness.

He blinked and shook his head. Surely, this was a dream. What else could it be? Panic swelled in his chest, but before it could take hold, it waned, sinking in the depths of the colors that swirled in his brain.

He scanned the pastel river before him, searching. For what? He didn’t know. He knew only that it was there and he must find it.

Nothing.

Panic returned with a surge of heat that expanded in his chest, whipping his heart into a gallop. His throat constricted as if snared by a hangman’s noose.

His focus shifted to the oncoming lanes to his left. Where was it? What was it? His gaze skimmed along the river of molten colors. It was there somewhere. He didn’t know how he knew it was, but he knew.

Panic and frustration smothered him. Sweat rolled down his forehead, into his eyes, as the heat within his chest swept outward, into his face, down his arms and legs. His blood felt like a boiling, bubbling cauldron. He wiped the sticky sweat from his face with his sleeve, then cranked down the window and sucked in the cold air in huge gulps.

There. That’s it. In the oncoming lanes. One pair of headlights, in the distance, neither white nor pastel nor fused with the tropical flow of color, but rather bright, crimson, penetrating, captured his gaze.

Alert, focused, he slid into the left lane and pressed the accelerator to the floor, hurling the churning Peterbilt forward.

One hundred, one hundred and five.

He moved to the right lane, ed a station wagon, to the left, nearly clipping a Cadillac.

One hundred and ten.

A Porsche swerved to the right to avoid being trampled, then waffled in the turbulence the truck dropped in its wake.

One hundred fifteen.

He aimed the truck off the road into the 100-yard-wide median that separated I40 East and West. The truck bounced and gyrated over the rough terrain, eating the thick Creosote scrub brush and the low, round Burroweed in its path like a giant locust in a feeding frenzy. Cutting across a three-foot deep, fifteen-foot wide dry wash, its massive steel bumper ripped a twenty-foot Desert Catalpa Willow from its moorings and tossed it high into the night air. The driver saw none of this, his focus locked on the ruby headlights, now 800 yards away.

That corner of his brain where reason and sanity resided, screamed at him, imploring him to turn back. He wanted to veer away from the oncoming traffic, to slam on the brakes, to stop this madness, but he could not. His hands would not turn the steering wheel; his foot would not release its pressure on the accelerator.

As he neared the roadway, the oncoming cars, swerved, sped up, slowed down, locked brakes, anything to avoid the rampaging truck. McElroy ignored them, rocketing past, focused on only one, much as a cheetah gallops past easy prey to strike at the one Springbok that is most vulnerable. The one selected by some genetically imprinted template. The one that must be taken if the cheetah is to survive.

A similar need pulled James McElroy forward. He wanted to turn away, but the tenacious urge tightened its grip, squeezing his resistance into submission.

His target was now directly ahead, 400 yards. The truck climbed onto the pavement, brush hanging from its grill, like remnants from the jowls of some large carnivore after a successful hunt. A car swerved to the left, another to the right, catching the gravel shoulder, flipping over, sliding into the night in a swirl of dust.

Three hundred yards.

A station wagon jerked sharply, too sharply, spinning off the pavement, tipping onto two wheels before coming to rest against a twenty-foot boulder.

Two hundred yards.

The truck moved to the left and straddled the white line, staking its claim to the roadway.

One hundred yards.

The ruby lighted car moved left, right, then left again, seeking refuge, finding none. The car pitched forward, tires screaming and smoking as the driver assaulted the brake pedal. Too late.

The truck consumed the car as easily as it had the scrub brush, flattening it like the bugs that decorated its windshield. Seven of its eighteen tires ruptured, fragmented, releasing their grip on the road. The polished aluminum petroleum-

filled trailer swung forward, dragging the cab behind it as the rig jack-knifed, tipped on its side, sparks flying, and exploded, transforming the desert into an inferno.

CHAPTER 2

By 10 p.m., Deputy Samantha Cody had spent two hours catching up on paper work. She hated it. Sitting on her butt, reading mundane reports, completing repetitious forms, was not her idea of police work. The only thing she hated more than doing the work was looking at stacks of it on her desk. She was never this far behind, but the past two months had been neither easy nor routine.

The arrest and trial of Richard Earl Garrett for the murder of three local children and his defense that “the devil made me do it” had turned the quiet desert community of Mercer’s Corner into a macabre carnival. Newspaper and TV reporters roamed the streets, sniffing for sensational stories. Visitors drove hundreds of miles just to say they had seen the town. A group of Satanic groupies had camped on the corner near the Sheriff’s Department everyday for a month. Locals were terrified. Thank God, the entire mess was about to end.

Garrett had already been convicted and tomorrow would be the final arguments in the penalty phase. Sentencing should soon follow, and then, maybe everybody would go back where they came from and life could return to normal. None to soon for Sam.

She had finished off a granola bar, two cups of coffee, and half of the paperwork when she heard the front door open. A voice echoed down the hall. “Hello? Anybody here?”

“Down here,” she called back. Footsteps approached and Nathan Klimek entered.

“How are you doing?” A broad smile erupted from his tanned, model-like face.

“What can I do for you, Mister Klimek?”

“I saw the lights on and your Jeep out front. I thought you might want to get some coffee or something.”

“I told you. No interviews.”

Nathan Klimek, star reporter for “Straight Story,” a supermarket checkout counter tabloid rag, had hounded her for three weeks for an interview. So had every other newspaper and TV reporter in town.

“Now that the trial is over, I hoped you had changed your mind.” He forked his fingers through his thick, light brown hair, sweeping it back from his forehead.

“The trial isn’t over. Or don’t you need sentencing to write your story? That’s right, I forgot. You make it up as you go along.”

“We stand behind every story we print.”

“Just not down wind.” Her brow wrinkled into a frown.

“You don’t like me very much do you?”

“Perceptive.”

“What did I do?” He gave her a look somewhere between shock and hurt. Practiced most likely, she thought.

“What did you do? Are you kidding? Look around. The chaos that has surrounded this trial.” She waved her hand toward the window. “You broke the story. You opened the door and let the flies in.”

“It’s news.”

“No, it’s not. Not your kind of news, anyway. It’s a tragedy. For the victims, the families, and this town. You made it an international event.”

“People are interested in child murders. Especially if Satanism is involved.”

“Satan, my ass. Garrett is a sicko that hacked up three innocent children. He isn’t possessed or the son of Satan or anything like that. He’s a child killer. Nothing more. But, your paper splashed his story from coast to coast and we have to bear the brunt of the morbid curiosity that followed.”

“But…”

The phone rang.

Sam waved him away and picked up the receiver. “Hello.” She listened for a moment. “Where?” She exhaled loudly. “I’ll be right there.” She dropped the phone in its cradle and looked at Nathan. “You’ll have to excuse me. Duty calls.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing that would interest you. A traffic accident. But, if one of the drivers has three heads, I’ll call you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. She couldn’t prevent a half smile from raising one corner of her mouth.

He followed her out and she locked the door behind them.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“I’m sure you will,” she said as she jumped into her Sheriff’s Department Jeep.

She fired up the engine and headed north through town, toward the freeway. The call had been from Sheriff Charlie Walker. A major accident, involving a gasoline truck, had occurred on I-40 East four miles west of town. She flipped

on the roof-mounted flashing lights and accelerated down the on-ramp, merging onto I-40 West.

A mile from the accident site, she could see a red-orange ball of fire, which lit the night as if the sun had crashed into the desert. As she cut through the wide median, flames seemed to tower above her, licking at the low-hanging scattered clouds, painting their undersides orange. A thick plume of oily smoke churned skyward, obliterating the half moon, which peeked between the clouds, and cast the desert into an even deeper darkness, intensifying the glow of the blaze.

She eased across the eastbound lanes and parked off the roadway. Stepping from the Jeep, she took in the spectacle before her.

The smoldering gasoline truck had consumed most of its cargo and been reduced to a hissing metal carcass, which glowed a cherry red. The flames, though still leaping thirty feet in the air, diminished minute by minute. Two firemen wrestled with anaconda-like hoses and directed thick streams of water at the wreck, which sputtered in protest and released clouds of steam into the sky. The air was thick and rancid with the smell of burnt petroleum, like an old service station, its floor slicked with years of dripping oil pans. The entire scene looked like an Irwin Allen disaster movie.

An overturned Camaro had cut a 150-foot-long trench in the desert floor with its roof before coming to rest against a condo-sized boulder. A rusted station wagon, its right front wheel folded beneath its frame, hugged a droopy Catalpa Willow as if seeking protection much as a child pulls bed covers over its head to escape the troll that lurks in the shadowed corner of his room. A frazzled family of four huddled nearby. Sixty cars lined the freeway shoulder, their wide-eyed occupants coalesced in several groups, some talking, some staring silently, all hoping to see something gruesome no doubt.

She slipped on her leather jacket, stuffed her strawberry blonde ponytail beneath the collar, and tugged the zipper up to her chin to block the cold desert wind. She saw Charlie standing near one of the fire trucks, talking with Fire Chief Manny Orosco. She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed in their direction.

“Sam.” Charlie Walker nodded to her as she approached.

“Charlie. Manny. Jesus, what a mess. What happened?”

“Big rig crossed the median and hit a car head on and exploded. The Camaro,” he yanked his head toward the overturned car, “and the wagon over there got lucky.”

“How many killed?”

“Whoever is in the car under the rig for sure. Two kids in the Camaro and the driver of the rig were taken to the hospital.”

“The driver survived?” Sam looked at the molten mass, which continued to steam and spit, its heat puncturing the cold night air, warming her 200 feet away.

“Thrown from the cab. Or jumped. Found him about fifty yards from the wreck. Banged up pretty good. Unconscious. Smelled like a whiskey bottle.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Why don’t you get over to the hospital and see what you can find out from the kids and the driver, if he wakes up. I’ll see that the family in the station wagon are taken care of and be along in a few minutes. Not much more I can do here.”

Dr. Caitlin Roberts’ head had been on the pillow for a half hour when the phone rang. This year’s flu bug had turned her usually busy office into a nightmare and she did not escape the sniffling hordes until after 7 p.m. Hospital rounds took another two hours. People were always sicker around holidays, especially Christmas, and she had twice the usual number of hospitalized patients to see. Home at 9:30, she wolfed down a tuna sandwich while talking with her husband Ray and her son Ray, Jr. Then a hot shower, a welcome soft pillow, and warm comforter.

She glanced at the clock, 10:30, hoping the call was a wrong number. No such luck.

Ten minutes later, she turned into Mercer Community Hospital’s parking lot, greeted by flashing red lights from the two ambulances, idling on the Emergency Department’s receiving ramp.

Sitting along I-40 and being the only hospital for fifty miles, Mercer Community inherited several dozen major accident victims each year, despite being poorly equipped to handle such cases. Seemed like most of them fell into Cat’s lap.

“What’s the story, Rosa?” Cat asked as the automatic doors to the ER hissed open.

Rosa Gomez, the ER head nurse for longer than anyone could , led her to the trauma room. “It’s a bad one, this time. Dude trashed his big rig.”

Cat absorbed the scene before her. A large man of about 50 and over 250 pounds lay on the stretcher; a respiratory tech squeezed an Ambu bag, inflating the man’s lungs rhythmically. One arm, strapped to an arm board, hung off the stretcher and received fluid through IV tubing. Sue Tilden, one of the nurses, struggled to place a second IV line in the other arm. Cat glanced at the cardiac monitor above the stretcher where a series of electric blips raced across the screen. Heart rate 130 per minute, but steady.

“What’s his BP?” Cat asked as she began her examination.

“80 over 50,” Rosa said.

The massive man, gray and mottled, splotched with blue-black ecchymoses and bloody abrasions, showed no response to the needle being jabbed into his arm or the tube in his throat. Dark blood, dirt, and gravel covered his chest, legs, and shredded clothing. His pupils, dilated to two oily pools, did not respond to the penlight Cat aimed at them.

She probed and examined his neck without removing the stabilizing cervical collar that the paramedics had placed on him at the scene. Better to wait until Xrays were done before moving his neck. She slapped her stethoscope on his chest. His lungs crackled, gurgled, and wheezed, but his heart sounds were normal.

After securing the second IV to his arm, Sue slipped a Foley catheter through his penis into his bladder, releasing a flow of bloody urine into the attached bag.

Cat mentally ran through a differential diagnosis: massive trauma; head injury

with possible intracranial bleed; possible neck injury; lung and kidney contusions; probable intra-abdominal organ damage. At least he still had a stable cardiac rhythm and an acceptable blood pressure given the circumstances.

Just then, the regular monitor blips tripped, wobbled, and fell into a chaotic pattern.

“V-Tach,” Sue shouted.

So much for a stable rhythm. Cat eyed the monitor, confirming Sue’s interpretation of the rhythm, now emergent, lethal.

“Warm up the paddles,” Cat ordered. “Lidocaine 100 milligrams IV STAT.” She smeared the defibrillator paddles with gel and pressed them against his chest. “Clear.” She depressed the red buttons on each paddle, releasing a salvo of electricity. His body lurched, then relaxed.

“V-Fib, now.”

“Great.” Cat recharged the defibrillator and again jolted the man with 400 Watt/Seconds of electricity.

“Asystole.”

Cat looked at the flat-line EKG tracing on the monitor. “Let’s get R going.”

Tina Flores, one of the ER techs, began rhythmic compressions of the man’s chest, creating a pattern with the ambu lung inflations--five compressions to each inflation. Though Tina was a large, stout woman, she lacked the strength to adequately compress the trucker’s massive chest and the failing heart that lay inside. Rosa hooked a footstool with her ankle and slid it close to Tina’s feet. Tina stepped up on it, gaining better leverage. She put her full weight behind each compression.

That’s better,” Cat said. “Is the Lido on board?”

“Yes,” Sue said.

Cat continued to eye the monitor. “Give an amp of Bicarb and one of Epi.”

Sue injected Sodium Bicarbonate into one IV while Rosa pushed Epinephrine in the other.

The fire drill continued for thirty minutes but to no avail. Cat pronounced the man dead at 11:22 p.m.

Sam stepped through the automatic doors into the emergency department, greeted by the aroma of alcohol, Lysol, and other unidentifiable chemicals, which mixed with the burnt oil smell of her own clothing with nauseating effect. She entered the trauma room as Rosa pulled a sheet over the dead man’s head. Purple feet stared at her from beneath the sheet’s edge. Bad news.

Cat handed the chart to Sue, shaking her head. “Sorry, Sam. He didn’t make it. Head and chest injuries were just too much.”

“Great. There are a few thousand questions I wanted to ask him.” Sam exhaled loudly. “Blood alcohol?”

“Won’t have that until the lab can do it tomorrow. From the smell, I’d guess well over the legal limit. We’ll do a drug screen also. Never met a trucker that didn’t pop uppers. Time is money and sleeping makes nothing.”

“What about the kids in the other car?”

“Few bumps and bruises, scared half to death, but they’ll be OK.”

“Can I talk with them?”

“Sure. Come on.”

Cat led Sam to the minor trauma room and introduced her to Rick and Debbie Freeman, a young couple on their way to Flagstaff, Arizona to visit Debbie’s parents. Two pale and worn faces offered weak smiles as Sam sat down.

“You guys OK?”

“Been better,” Rick said, his eyes puffy from crying. He looked to be about 19, thin, pale, long brown hair in need of washing.

“Has anyone notified your family yet?”

“Yeah,” Debbie replied. Tears had cut snail trails through her dirt-encrusted face and her hair had been tossed in all directions. She wore an over-sized flannel shirt, baggy jeans, and untied black tennis shoes. “My mom and dad are coming from Flagstaff.”

“What happened?”

“It was unbelievable,” Rick said, Debbie nodding in agreement. “This truck came out of nowhere, from the bushes on to the highway. I saw it a half a mile away but thought…I don’t know what I thought…maybe that it was on a cross road or under or something. By the time it reached our side of the freeway, it was too late. I tried to change lanes, but it seemed to come after us.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know. It was all so fast. It seemed like he was after us. Or somebody.”

“And trying to avoid the truck, you flipped over?”

“Yeah. He took up the entire road, so I tried to slip by on the shoulder but my wheel caught the gravel and…after that we just hung on.”

Debbie began to cry again, burying her face into her husband’s shoulder. He wrapped a protective arm around her.

“Sam.”

She turned to see Rosa peeking around the door.

“Sheriff Walker’s on the phone,” she said. “Line three.”

Sam excused herself and walked to the nurse’s station. She picked up the phone and punched line three’s blinking button. “Yeah, Charlie. What’s up?”

“We IDed the people in the other car. It was John and Connie Beeson.” The words struck Sam square in the stomach, pushing acid into the back of her throat. Connie Beeson. Her third grade teacher. Her mother’s close friend before her mother had died. The Garrett jury foreman.

CHAPTER 3

After leaving the hospital, Sam had gone home, showered, and crawled into bed, pulling the comforter under her chin. Scooter, the calico cat that had adopted her two years earlier, staked his claim to half of the pillow.

As she lay in the darkness, the sounds of Scooter’s bathing and purring in her ears, she had turned her thoughts to the trial. How would Connie’s death affect it? Surely, Judge Westbrooke wouldn’t start the penalty phase over. He would replace her with one of the alternates and the jury would elect a new foreman and the trial would go on. That made the most sense, seemed the most practical.

And if he didn’t? Another week of trial rather than one more day.

As these thoughts tumbled inside her head, images of her mother, her father, and Connie Beeson assaulted her. Images that brought joy and pain and drew sobs and tears that she released into her pillow.

Connie had been her third grade teacher. More than that, Sam considered her like an aunt, part of the family. Connie and her mom had grown up together, attended school and church together, and been each other’s bride’s maids. Connie had helped Sam weather the death of her father, and years later, had offered rock steady through her mother’s illness and death. Connie was her last flesh and blood family. Memories and a shoebox of faded photos were all she had to her parents. And now, Connie.

After tossing and turning for an hour or two, much to the irritation of Scooter,

who flicked his tail in protest, she finally cried herself to sleep at 2:30 am. She awoke several times during the night, but with some difficulty managed to doze again. At 7:30, she dragged herself from bed, dressed, and headed for town.

For the third day in a row, thick gray clouds hung low over the desert, promising rain, but as yet reneging on the deal. They did release a fine mist that peppered the windshield of her Jeep. Not enough that the wipers could be left on without squeaking, but enough so that she had to flip them on and off every thirty seconds. Irritating, given her current state of fatigue.

After picking up coffee at Starbucks for herself and Charlie, she parked in front of the Sheriff’s Department. When she entered Charlie’s office, he was on the phone. She placed the two cups of coffee on the corner of his desk, stripped off her jacket, and dropped into the chair across from him, letting the jacket slide to the floor beside her. Lifting the lid from the paper cup, she blew across the steaming brew, and then carefully took a sip.

“That’s what I hoped you’d say, judge,” Charlie said into the phone. “I’ll talk with you later.” He hung up, a grim smile splitting his weathered face.

“Good news?” Sam asked.

“Judge Westbrooke plans to replace Connie with one of the alternates and proceed with the closing arguments of the penalty phase.”

“Thank, God,” Sam said, raising her cup as if to toast the good news. “I stayed awake half the night afraid we’d have to start all over. The other half I cried over Connie.”

“I know.” Charlie lifted his Stetson, ran his fingers through his thick gray hair, and then reseated the hat. “As if this town hasn’t been through enough already.”

Sam turned in her chair as someone rapped on the open door. Lanny Mills, Chairman of the City Council, stood in the doorway. Thin strands of dull graybrown hair glued themselves across his bald pate, offering neither style nor substance. Tall and gaunt, he possessed a low, round belly, which except for his gender, made pregnancy a possibility. He wore his usual gray suit and white shirt, which reminded Sam of an unmade bed, rumpled, creased, slept-in.

“Charlie. Sam.” He nodded, his head bobbing above his pencil thin neck. “I heard about Connie and John Beeson.”

“Quiet a shock,” Charlie said.

Lanny sucked air between his teeth with an irritating squeak. One of his many annoying habits. “Any idea why that trucker lost control of his rig?” Lanny asked, stepping further into the room. “Was he drinking?”

“Don’t know, yet. But, seemed to me he was,” Charlie said.

Lanny’s small dark eyes darted back and forth between Sam and Charlie. “Either of you patrolling the Interstate last night?”

“You know we weren’t,” Charlie said. “There are only two of us now and I-40 is

a pretty low priority until we get some help.”

“When might that be?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. We’ve put in a request a half dozen times, but the county still hasn’t ponied up the money.”

“Too bad.” Lanny rubbed his chin. “Patrolling that stretch of highway brought a lot of money to the city.”

“And the county,” Charlie said.

“Yes, of course. I meant that, too.” He cleared his throat, setting off a vibration in his over-sized Adam’s apple. “I hear the trial is going ahead.”

“Yeah,” Charlie nodded.

“Good. We need to get this behind us. Then all these reporters and those hippies down the street will leave.”

“Anything else I can do for you, Lanny?” Charlie asked.

“Nope.”

“I’ll tell Connie’s family that you inquired about her,” Charlie said. “They’ll be grateful.”

“Thanks.” He bobbed his head again and hurried out the door.

Charlie propped his feet on his desk. “I knew this would drag Lanny out of the woodwork.”

“Guess this means we’ll get a request from the Council to spend more time on I40.”

“I’ll file it with all the others they send over.” He nudged the trashcan beside his desk with his boot.

“You’d think that after you whacked him in the last three elections he’d give up wanting to play Sheriff.” Sam stood and headed for the door. “I’m going over to the court. Hopefully we can wrap up this Garrett crap today.”

Sam walked the half block to the court building, a one-floor wooden structure that had been the town’s only department store before it went out of business. Now, it housed law offices, the local DMV, and the county court. As she approached, a covey of reporters closed around her, blocking her way. Nathan Klimek took a position at the periphery of the group. Her first impulse was to push forward, but she stopped.

“Deputy Cody,” an ABC reporter shouted. “Was one of the jurors killed last night?”

“Yes. Connie Beeson, a local school teacher, and her husband died in a freeway accident.”

A neatly dressed woman from CNN waved her hand and spoke. “Some of the witnesses said they felt the truck driver was after them, trying to hit them. Is that true?”

“We’re investigating all possibilities.”

“Such as?” the woman asked.

“Maybe alcohol or drugs or both.”

“How will this affect the trial?” shouted another reporter, who sported a beard, one of those lip and chin jobs that wrapped around his mouth like a hairy donut.

“Hopefully, not at all. I guess we’ll find out shortly.”

“Do you think Garrett will get the death penalty?” asked a reporter, wearing a Los Angeles Dodger’s cap.

“That’s up to the jury. And Judge Westbrooke.”

“What do you think?” the reporter continued.

“I think Richard Earl Garrett’s crimes speak for themselves. The butchering of three innocent children would seem to warrant the death penalty. Now, I have to get inside.”

“Deputy Cody,” Nathan said. “Do you think Garrett is possessed by Satan?”

“Mister Klimek, you know how I feel about that. Garrett has a head full of bad wiring, but he’s not Satan’s sidekick. I know that won’t sell papers for you, but that’s the truth.”

She weaved through the throng and entered the building.

The cramped courtroom overflowed. Eighty people filled the gallery seats and another two dozen stood along the back wall. Bailiff Hector Romero pulled the doors closed, leaving fifty or so people to mill outside in the hall. Sam sat in the front row, behind the prosecution’s table and the waist-high rail that separated the spectators from the business side of the courtroom. The chamber vibrated with anticipation and low voices.

Hector took his place to the left of the judge’s rostrum near the witness chair. When the door to the judge’s chamber began to ease open, he said, “All rise.”

The murmuring voices waned, replaced by the sounds of shuffling feet as everyone stood. Judge Raymond Westbrooke entered, clad in a black robe. A tall man with graying hair, he possessed a gentle, grandfatherly face that even his grim expression couldn’t mask. He ascended the rostrum, rapped his gavel once, calling the court to order, and took his seat, flanked by United States and California flags.

He grimly told of Connie Beeson’s accident. Gasps and moans rippled through the gallery. Obviously, everyone hadn’t heard the news. Westbrooke banged them into silence with his gavel. He seated one of the four alternate jurors and then gave the floor to Mark Levy, Garrett’s court appointed attorney.

Mark, young, bright, well-dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red floral tie, gave a clear, if not imioned, summary of his defense. He closed by telling the jury to “do what you know in your hearts is right.” He then returned to his seat.

“Ms. McFarland,” Westbrooke said. “You may proceed with your final

argument.”

Dressed in a pin-stripped gray suit and white blouse, prosecutor Lisa McFarland paced back and forth before the jury, speaking in a soft voice, drawing the jurors forward in their seats, forcing them to concentrate on each word. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in my ten years as a prosecutor, never before have I seen an individual more deserving of the death penalty than the defendant Richard Earl Garrett.”

From her front row seat, Sam scanned the jury of eight men and four women, attempting to read their expressions. Each sat erect, stone-faced, betraying nothing.

“You have seen the evidence in this case: the defendant arrested at the scene, bathed in the victim’s life-blood; his fingerprints on the murder weapon, the candle sticks, and the chalice from which he drank the blood of these children; their small bodies, hearts removed, hanging like sides of beef, left to rot like so much garbage.”

Sam’s eyes slid to her left where the families of the victims sat, pale, drawn, eyes vacant as if in a trance. She felt Lisa’s words slamming into them, driving their pain deeper into their marrow.

Her gaze met the watery eyes of Noreen Waters, young Tommy’s mother. Though neatly dressed, she appeared a mass of frazzled nerves, trembling hands, quaking lips. She offered Sam a thin smile and a nod. Always a lady, Sam thought, and returned her nod. Tears pressed against her eyes, but Sam managed to squeeze them back.

“You heard testimony from the defendant in which he as much as itted his guilt.” Lisa stood before the jury, hands folded before her chest as if in prayer. “His defense?” She waved her hand toward Garrett. “The devil made him do it. You heard his outlandish tale of being invaded by some evil force that compelled him to ravage these children. That he and the children were mere pawns, sacrificial lambs, in the struggle between good and evil.”

Mrs. Waters clutched her Bible to her chest and sobbed. Her husband Harry wrapped an arm around her, attempting to console the inconsolable.

“You have heard from two expert psychiatrists who emphatically stated that Richard Earl Garrett is not insane, not crazy, though with the heinous nature of these crimes I know that may be hard for you to believe. How could a sane person kill and mutilate these three beautiful, innocent children?”

Mrs. Waters broke down, releasing her pain and anguish into her lacy handkerchief and Rosary beads. The other two mothers ed her.

Lisa walked to where the families sat, flashed a sympathetic smile, and then turned her gaze to Richard Earl Garrett. Her voice rose and she pointed at the imive killer. “This man, this animal, knew exactly what he was doing. He planned the abductions, set the sacrificial stage, and performed the sacrifices. He has shown no pity, no remorse, but rather a smug and arrogant satisfaction with his deeds.”

Sam stared at Garrett, who sat quietly, as he had throughout the trial, hands folded on the table before him. At six feet and 180 pounds, he appeared fit and rested as if two months in jail and three weeks of trial had had no effect on him. Everyone else involved in this madness, herself included, appeared worn, haggard, aging by the day. But, Richard Earl Garrett looked as if he had just

returned from an extended, relaxing vacation. The only change she detected between when she arrested him and now was a slight salting of his pepper black hair at the temples and a few new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Not the graying and wrinkling of age or stress or fatigue, but rather of wisdom, contentment.

He turned as if he had sensed her watching him. As he looked over his shoulder at her, his brown eyes seemed soft, almost kind, but with a malevolent edge. They were the same eyes she had stared into in disbelief two months earlier as she slipped the handcuffs on him.

She, Charlie, and everyone else at the scene had been shaken, sickened, even in shock at the sight of the children’s bodies, but Garrett had been calm, ive, extending his arms, accepting the cuffs without protest. As she ratcheted them closed, he had smiled. Now, that same smile lifted one corner of his mouth. A cold chill drifted up her spine and a hollowness expanded in her stomach.

Lisa approached the jury and grasped the rail before them. She spoke the names of the victims, pausing after each name, allowing the jurors time to form mental images of the dead children.

“Tommy Waters. Lee Ann Hobert. Rachel Culbertson. You all knew them, know their parents, know what kind and good children they were. Know they were innocent, happy, and with so much life ahead. They now call to you…beg of you…not to let their murder go unpunished.

“If you listen, listen with your hearts, there is but one punishment that fits these horrible crimes. Richard Earl Garrett should be expunged from this society, this world, and delivered to the Satan he so loves. You have found him guilty of murder in the first degree with special circumstances. I ask that you sentence the

defendant to the same fate he granted these three innocent children…death.”

Richard Earl Garrett, displaying emotion for the first time, gripped the edge of the table and glared at the jury, drawing their collective gaze to him. His lip curled into a sneer. “You people still don’t understand.”

Judge Westbrooke rapped his gavel firmly. “Mr. Garrett, you may not address the jury.”

Garrett ignored the onition. “You act as if you have control of my fate, of your fate.”

“Mr. Garrett,” Westbrooke raised his voice and again cracked his gavel.

Garrett laughed, never turning from the jury. “Be careful what you choose, for you choose your own destiny, not mine. Lucifer has chosen my fate and so will he choose yours. With the help of your children,” he turned to the parents, his eyes now cold, black, “he and I have become one.”

Judge Raymond Westbrooke pounded his gavel. “Mr. Garrett, you are out of order.”

Garrett stood and as if Westbrooke did not exist, once again fixed his glare on the jury. “Each of you live at his whim. He is destiny.” He locked his jaw defiantly. “Now, go and decide your fate,” he spat.

“Bailiff,” shouted Judge Westbrooke, hammering his gavel furiously, “remove the defendant from the courtroom.”

Sam jumped the rail in front of her, one hand closing around but not drawing the Smith and Wesson .357 that lay against the small of her back, the other clutching the chain between the cuffs that bound Garrett’s wrists. Bailiff Hector Romero, six-three and 220 pounds, grasped Garrett’s arm.

Garrett extended a finger and ran it over the back of Sam’s hand, then gently closed his hand over hers. Not threatening, but rather paternal. Or perhaps the protective cradling of one lover’s hand in another’s. She froze. The hand that had mutilated three children held hers. A hand of such horrible proportions that she could not begin to fathom its depths. Yet, the fingers were delicate, soft, more feminine than masculine.

A warm flush spread through her, followed by an icy chill.

“Come on, tough guy,” Hector said as he yanked Garrett toward the exit.

Garrett stopped at the door, turned, and eyed the jury, his eyes, no longer soft nor kind, but dark and menacing. Sam flashed on an old Life magazine cover with Charlie Manson’s face. The eyes--inhuman, cold, black, like a cornered, yet unsubdued wolf. The kind of look that clutched your throat, squeezed your guts, and wouldn’t let go. The kind you tried to pull away from, but could not. The kind that peered into the darkest recesses of your mind where you kept your most secret fears and squeezed the juice of those fears into your blood stream, creating a river of fire and ice.

His gaze returned to her, softened, held her for a moment, a faint smile parting his lips, then Hector drug him through the door.

The adrenaline that moments before had raced through her veins suddenly settled in her gut, releasing a wave of nausea and cold sweat. Realizing she wasn’t breathing, she inhaled sharply. She quickly sat down and looked around the room, hoping no one noticed her reaction.

Get a grip, Samantha.

Once the courtroom had been restored to order, Judge Westbrooke gave the jury their instructions, including the task of electing another foreman to replace Connie Beeson.

As they listened, Sam again searched their faces for any sign of what they might be thinking, but found only apprehension, fatigue, and occasional worried glances at the door that had closed behind Garrett as if he might burst through it at any moment and hurl hell fire and brimstone at them. The strain of the trial cut deeply into their faces. What would they do?

After the jury filed from the courtroom, Sam settled one hip on the prosecution’s table where Lisa stood, stuffing papers into her choked briefcase. “Good job.”

“We’ll see,” Lisa said, waving a handful of papers, looking for someplace to put them. “I learned long ago, you can never predict what a jury will do.”

“At least you finally got a rise out of Garrett. I was beginning to think he was made of stone.”

“He is. I wish you had shot the son-of-a-bitch. Then, this would be over.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I wouldn’t have prosecuted you if you had,” Lisa smiled. “How about lunch?”

“I think I’ll go by the gym and work off some steam,” Sam said. “Want to go?”

“Sure. Let me throw some bones to the media vultures and I’ll meet you there.”

CHAPTER 4

The California high desert is no place for candy-asses. With summer days soaring to over a hundred and winter nights plunging into the twenties, even into the teens, people, plants, and animals must work at surviving. Nothing is guaranteed. Only the hardiest make it. The low rolling terrain is dotted with sage brush and volcanic rock, crisscrossed by dry washes and arroyos, and interrupted by thousand-foot piles of rock and cinder with lofty names such as Bristol, Granite, and Old Dad Mountains.

Old Route 66 runs east and west and bisects the desert. Once a major artery between LA and Chicago, it was now relegated to myth and history. The few towns that eked out an existence along its shoulders did so through mining, ranching, or becoming a railroad stop. After mining dwindled and Interstate 40 went in, the communities dried up like spilled water on an August day.

Mercer’s Corner, population 3,762, elevation 2,136 feet above sea level, and a hundred miles from anywhere, managed to stay on the map. Though the appearance of I-40 ultimately shrank the population by half, the town survived by becoming a mecca for the dune buggy and hiking crowd, as well as continuing to several profitable mining operations.

Now, it was typically so calm and peaceful that it needed to be checked for a pulse. Six blocks by four blocks, it boasted only two big city conveniences-Starbucks Coffee and a world class gym, which sat side by side a block from the Sheriff’s Department. The town nestled between I-40 to the north and Route 66 to the south. Where as I-40 was modern and well maintained, Route 66 was tired and worn, Mother Nature having nipped and gnawed at it over the years. The scorching summers, bitter winters, torrential rains, and wind, always wind, had cracked, buckled, and pockmarked its surface. Still, locals preferred it for its

easy access and slower pace.

Residents were simple people who lived quiet, bland lives, which is exactly the way they wanted it. Conversation usually revolved around the local high school sports’ teams, politics, and the weather.

Three weeks ago, when the Garrett trial began, that all changed. Mercer’s Corner became a feeding ground for every major news service and tabloid rag, along with a healthy sprinkling of nut cases.

Exiting the courthouse, Sam marched past the gathering out front, noting the media hounds had pinned Lisa to the wall. Better her than me, she thought. Besides, she had bestowed her words of wisdom on them earlier.

Sam knew how to handle the media when she didn’t want to answer their inane questions--plow straight ahead, make no eye , and never stop. Show no weakness or they will devour you like a troop of Army Ants, leaving only bones to bleach in the noonday sun.

Hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, head bowed forward, she headed toward the gym. One reporter approached, but she glared him away.

At the corner, Garrett’s Groupies, as she called them, held their daily vigil, ing out Satanic literature and making a general nuisance of themselves.

The teenagers, mostly girls, had come from Los Angeles the day the trial began

to Garrett, who none of them knew. They got lucky there. All the girls but one looked like sisters--dyed black hair, which had not seen a comb in months, black lipstick and eye shadow that gave them that heroin addict look, various facial piercings, and a black inverted pentagram either painted or tattooed on their foreheads. At least the ones that opted for paint might be employable after they outgrew Satan. The lone blonde in the group, who could also use a good scrubbing, was as beautiful as any fashion model Sam had ever seen.

She had to it to a certain curiosity about the group, especially the blonde and a tall brunette, who appeared to be their leader. Whereas the others possessed empty, even angry expressions, these two offered captivating smiles along with the literature they handed out. She couldn’t help wondering how they ended up here, singing Garrett’s praises, instead of attending college or raising a family or pursuing a career.

At the moment, the blonde appeared to be enlightening a young male reporter who Sam figured probably had more than a story in mind.

Entering Ryker’s Gym, she bounced down the stairs and into the women’s locker room. After changing into knee length Spandex pants, sports bra, and a cropped tee shirt and tightening the tie around her ponytail, she charged through her work out. She completed a four-mile run on the rooftop track, a strenuous circuit training session, and now, using her teeth, pulled the laces tight on a pair of boxing gloves. Jimmy Ryker, gym owner and local boxing trainer, who had been the California Golden Gloves’ Middleweight Champion, tied the laces as she held her hands out, palms up.

“Let’s start with the heavy bag,” he said.

Sam positioned herself, then fired rights and lefts at the bag, while Jimmy leaned into it from behind, stabilizing it against her blows. Easy and rhythmic at first, her punches grew in intensity until she lashed at the ninety-pound bag with both fists.

The concussive sound of leather against canvas ripped through the air. Sweat poured from her face as the ferocity of her attack increased. Dropping her hands low, she torqued her body with each blow, slamming shots into the bag, until she stepped back, shaking fatigue from her arms.

“What are you pissed at today?” Jimmy asked, tossing her a towel.

“Just stressed. This damn trial is a killer.” She wiped sweat from her face.

“Maybe they should just lock you and Garrett in a room. Only one gets out alive.”

“I wish.”

“If you bring that fury into the ring in Las Vegas next month, I feel sorry for whoever they put in there with you.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Sam.”

She turned to see Nathan. “Mr. Klimek.”

“I told you, call me Nathan.”

“What do you want, Mr. Klimek?”

“Just watching your work-out. Impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“Good balance. Excellent pronation on your punches.”

“You know about boxing? Let me guess. You did a story on six-armed boxing Martians?”

He laughed and brushed his hair back off his forehead. “Actually, I boxed a little in high school and college. In fact, I was pretty good.”

“You don’t look the type.”

“What type is that?”

“Broken nose. Cauliflower ears.”

“I learned to duck.”

She sized him up. Five-eleven, about 170 pounds, trim, probably fit, with an engaging smile. A smile that likely opened most doors, corporate, bedroom, whatever. He appeared mostly harmless, but Sam knew otherwise. He had dogged her since the trial began for a story, a date, she wasn’t sure which. His flawless good looks unsettled her even if she wouldn’t it it.

“You still sniffing around for an interview?”

“Of course,” he smiled.

“How badly do you want this chat, Mr. Klimek?”

“Why?”

“I don’t have anybody around here to spar with except Jimmy and I’m tired of beating on him.” She winked at Jimmy. “Go a couple of rounds and I’ll sit down with you.”

“Box? With you?”

“If you’re afraid, I’ll understand.”

He looked at her, her gloves, the ring, as if considering her proposition. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t.”

“And if I do this, get in the ring, we have dinner tonight?”

“That’s the deal.”

He looked at Jimmy who shrugged.

“What’s it going to be?” Sam said. “Do I hit the shower or are you going to suit up?”

Ten minutes later, Nathan returned wearing a pair of shorts and tennis shoes Jimmy had rustled up. Jimmy laced a pair of gloves on him, slipped a padded head protector over his head, fastening it beneath his chin, and shoved a mouthpiece in place. Nathan climbed between the ropes into the ring.

He stretched and rotated his neck, shook his shoulders, slapped his gloves together. He bounced on his toes, forward, back, right, left, while throwing

shadow punches. Sam was impressed with his footwork and hand speed.

“Ready?” Jimmy asked.

“Let’s do it,” Nathan said.

Jimmy, serving as referee, had them touch gloves in the middle of the ring, and then blew the whistle that hung from his neck, signaling the beginning of the three-minute round.

Sam danced to her left, circling him clockwise, while he plodded to his right to face her as she moved. She pawed a left hand at him, then another, then a lazy right off the top of his headgear. He slapped a left against her shoulder and she popped a right to his mid-section. For a minute and a half, they continued sparing, neither striking any major blows. Then, Nathan threw a wide right hook, catching her flush on the cheek, sending her to the canvas.

She immediately jumped to her feet. “Prison rules, huh?”

Nathan appeared surprised that he had hit her that hard and more surprised that she got up. The surprise disappeared when she slammed a left hook to his body, a right upper cut to his chin, and a left to his head. He staggered backwards against the ropes but quickly regained his balance. He fired a right and a left. Sam blocked one but the other caught her on the chin.

“Very good,” she mumbled around her mouthpiece.

They exchanged blows for the remainder of the round. Jimmy blew the whistle. They leaned on the ropes.

“Had enough?” Sam asked.

“Are you kidding? I forgot how much fun this was.”

“Want to kick it up a notch?”

“I thought that was kicked up,” Nathan said.

“Not by a long shot,” she said.

“Sure. Let’s get ready to rumble,” he said.

Jimmy blew the whistle and they squared off. Nathan released a three-punch combination, mostly deflected by Sam’s gloves. Sam responded with a hook to the head, then crouched and popped a low left hook to his ribs followed by another to his head. He spun and fell face down to the canvas, like a skydiver whose chute didn’t open.

Nathan groaned and rolled to his back, his glazed eyes searching for something to focus on, finding nothing. Shaking his head, he grabbed the bottom rope and

hauled himself to a sitting position.

Sam knelt next to him, a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You OK?”

His eyes swept right, left, then clearing, focused on her. “I think so. I didn’t hurt you did I?”

She smiled. Despite being a night crawling worm, he did have his charm. “How about you?”

“I’ll be OK. Jesus, where did you learn to hit like that?”

“Misspent youth.”

“Sam.”

She looked up to see Lisa approaching. She wore green Spandex pants and halter top. Her skin glistened with perspiration, which she dabbed from her face with one end of the towel that draped around her neck. Sam stood. Nathan grasped the ropes and pulled himself up.

Lisa looked at Nathan, then Sam, then back to Nathan. “What’s going on here?”

“Deputy Cody was just showing me the price of an interview,” Nathan said.

“Welcome to Mercer’s Corner,” Lisa said. “Now you know why nobody, except Jimmy, will put on gloves with her.”

“Message received,” Nathan smiled weakly.

“Sam,” Lisa continued, “just got a page. The jury has reached a decision. Judge Westbrooke will reconvene the court at 3 p.m.”

The courtroom was filled by the time Sam took her front row seat, directly behind Lisa, the same seat she had occupied every day for the past three weeks. Hopefully, today would be the last time.

She watched as Hector Ramirez lead Richard Earl Garrett to his seat next to Mark Levy behind the defense table. The chains that bound Garrett’s ankles rattled and scrapped as he crossed the room and the cuffs that secured his wrists clunked against the table when he sat down.

Lisa turned around, holding up crossed fingers, and said, “Let’s hope.”

“Amen,” Sam agreed.

Everyone stood as Judge Westbrooke entered and took his place at the rostrum. He called the court to order, then brought in the jury.

Sam studied their faces as they shuffled down the two rows of six seats. They appeared drawn, tired. Yet, Sam sensed something else. Fear. Maybe fear was too strong, but at least they appeared tense, edgy. Their eyes darted around but their gaze remained low as if they feared eye with anyone.

An hour for lunch, two hours for deliberation, and they reached a decision. But, what decision? Could they sentence a man to death in two hours? This animal, maybe, but Sam couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that rose in her gut. Surely, a death sentence would have taken more time, more discussion.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Westbrooke began, “the court has been informed that you have reached a decision regarding sentencing in this case.”

“That’s correct, your honor,” Roberto Sanchez, the new jury foreman said.

Sam flashed on Connie Beeson. It should be her standing in Roberto’s place.

The silence in the courtroom was suffocating as if the air had been sucked out with the ambient noise, leaving behind a deep space like vacuum.

Judge Westbrooke cleared his throat, and then spoke. “Having found the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree with special circumstances on the first count of the indictment, the murder of Thomas Waters, how do you fix the punishment?”

Sam looked toward Harry and Noreen Waters, who sat stiffly, ghostly pale, breath held. It appeared as if the small part of their brains that continued to function homed on Roberto Sanchez, praying for the ointment a death sentence would apply to their wounds.

“We the jury fix the punishment of Richard Earl Garrett for the murder of Thomas Waters at death.”

A collective shout of joy arose, someone jeered “Kill the bastard” from the back

of the room, and Mrs. Waters collapsed in tears against her husband’s shoulder. Sam noticed Nathan Klimek, leaning against the back wall, speaking into his hand, which concealed a cell phone from Judge Westbrooke’s view. Roll the presses.

Judge Westbrooke cracked his gavel down. “Order. Order in the courtroom.” Silence again fell. “If there are any further outbursts, I’ll clear the courtroom.” His eyes swept the room, narrowed as they settled on Nathan. “Mr. Klimek, either put away that phone or leave the courtroom.”

Nathan nodded sheepishly and stuffed the phone in his jacket pocket.

“You may continue, mister foreman,” Westbrooke said.

Similar verdicts were handed down on the other two counts for the murders of Lee Ann Hobert and Rachel Culbertson.

Judge Westbrooke peered over his half glasses at Garrett. “Will the defendant please rise.”

The scraping of the chair and the rattling of his chains as Garrett stood, cut through the tomb-like silence of the courtroom, causing several of the jurors to flinch. He faced Judge Westbrooke.

Sam, sitting only ten feet behind and to his right, eyed him as he stood, calmly, ively, as if waiting in line to buy a movie ticket. He in no way looked like a

man just sentenced to death. The corners of his mouth twitched, curled upward slightly, but not enough to qualify as a smile.

“Mr. Garrett,” Westbrooke said, dropping his glasses on the rostrum before him, “Do you understand the jury’s recommendation?”

“I understand it perfectly.” His glare painted the jury, many of whom shifted in their seats as if they wanted to jump up and run through the oak double doors at the rear of the courtroom, into the streets, away from the monster that had strangled the tranquility, the security, the contentment from their lives. Run and never stop running until the memory of Richard Earl Garrett, the horror of the photos of the mangled children, and the stench of death could be leeched from their minds.

“Since it is two weeks before Christmas,” Westbrooke continued, “and I’m sure we would all like to finish this before the holiday, I will set formal sentencing on…” He replaced his glasses and shuffled through papers before him, finding the one he wanted. “December twenty-first at nine a.m.” He leaned forward, elbows on the rostrum, peered over his glasses at Garrett. “Mr. Garrett, I see no reason to change the jury’s recommendation and offer a lesser penalty. I will, however, consider motions from your attorney as well as from the prosecution, before making a final determination. Do you have anything to say to the court at this time?”

“The court? You call this confederacy of dunces a court? I answer to a court much higher than you can imagine. More powerful, more pure, more just than this,” he waved a hand toward the jury, “could ever attain.” His eyes bored into Westbrooke, who cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The of the jury have already sealed their fate. Would you care to them, your honor?” he sneered contemptuously.

“Mr. Garrett, I must point out that any attempt to intimidate this court will be unsuccessful.”

“Then you have likewise sealed your fate,” Garrett said. Turning, he faced the jury and spoke in a low voice. “Do you see them, my Prince? These twelve who seek to reproach your disciple, to condemn his act of faith, to break his bond with you. Yet even now they lie groveling and prostrate on yon lake of fire.”

CHAPTER 5

Sam wheeled her white Sheriff’s Department Jeep into the gravel lot that flanked Millie’s Diner and crunched to a stop beside Nathan’s black SL 500 Mercedes Benz. Sleaze apparently paid well. She sat for minute, thinking, listening to the soft ticking of the cooling engine. She must be crazy to talk with a tabloid reporter, even if he was gorgeous. But, she had promised and he had earned it, so what the hell. At least Millie’s gave her home field advantage.

As she stepped from the Jeep, she saw Nathan through one of the side windows sitting in a booth, his silhouette visible through the faded, age-yellowed shear curtain that covered the eight dusty panes. He turned, pulled back the curtain, and waved. She nodded a reply and headed for the front door.

Millie’s Diner sat along Route 66 half a mile south of town. It’s rooftop neon sign had long ago faded to an anemic yellow and the “M” had died altogether, so that it now read “illie’s Diner.” Behind the sign, a steady stream of smoke and home-cooked aromas spilled out of the four-inch pipe that vented the kitchen.

Inside, it was small, clean, and loaded with calories. Everything on the menu was either buttered, fried, or slathered with gravy, mostly all three. The sprout and tofu crowd would probably drop dead on entry. More local and national political problems had been solved in Millie’s red vinyl booths than anywhere else in the county. Sam managed to have at least one meal there every day.

When she walked through the door, the smell of fried chicken, hot biscuits, and thick gravy greeted her. Millie, short, round, gray, and the best cook in the county, pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, a basket of biscuits and corn bread in her hand.

“Hello, Sam,” Millie beamed.

“Millie. Looks quiet tonight.”

Millie handed the basket to Romona, her niece, waitress, and part-time cook, who ferried it to one of the tables. “We were busy earlier.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “That reporter fellow,” she nodded toward the booth where Nathan sat, “said he was meeting you.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Strictly business, Millie,” Sam frowned. “Don’t go starting any rumors. What are the specials tonight?”

“Fried chicken and meat loaf.”

“Smells great, as usual.”

As Sam slid into the booth opposite Nathan, she noticed two ABC reporters sitting at a table along the far wall. They flashed contemptuous glares at her, obviously not pleased that she sat with a competitor. Probably because she had granted no one an interview since the trial began. A pang of guilt tugged at her. But, she felt sure none of them would have had the guts to climb inside the ropes with her, so the feeling quickly dissolved.

Nathan smiled a perfect smile at her. The kind that made women soften, do foolish things. A slight bruise had blossomed beneath his right eye.

“Sorry about that,” Sam said.

His fingers gently touched his cheek. “I’ll live.” He flashed that Hollywood smile again. “What can I get you to drink?’

“Millie knows.”

Millie set a bottle of Corona in front of Sam, the twinkle still in her eye. Sam scowled at her.

“Ready for another?” she asked Nathan.

“Sure.” He looked at Sam. “Busy day?”

“Very. But now, maybe things will slow down again.”

“Do you think Judge Westbrooke will follow the jury’s recommendation regarding the death penalty?”

She sipped from the Corona. “Probably. Hopefully.”

Millie returned with Nathan’s Johnny Walker on the rocks. They ordered meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

“So, what can I tell you that you don’t already know?” Sam asked.

“Garrett. What’s his story? No one has been able to interview him and everyone wants to know about him.”

“He’s a child killer. That about says it all.”

“He certainly doesn’t look the part.” Nathan stirred the Scotch with the plastic swizzle stick that stood from it, then took a taste.

“Psychos don’t usually have murderer tattooed on their forehead.”

“True. On the surface, Garrett appears too normal. The ones I’ve seen were noticeably weird.”

“How so?”

“Scary eyes, usually unkempt, poor social skills, unable to communicate well. With adults at least.”

“Just kids, huh?”

He nodded.

“Have you seen many?” she asked.

“A dozen or so. More than I wanted to.”

“How do you do it? Your job? I mean, besides the stories you guys make up. The real stories. How do you cope with that?”

“We don’t make up stories.”

“Right.” Sarcasm intentionally dripped from the word.

“We don’t. And we see some pretty awful stuff.”

“Like Garrett?”

“Worse.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She ran a finger around the lip of her beer bottle. “I can’t imagine anyone worse than Garrett.”

“They’re out there.”

“Well, I hope I never see them.”

He gave her a fatherly smile. “Me, too.” Then, his eyes locked on hers. “Garrett. What’s he like?”

“He’s…”

Millie returned with two plates, each laden with two thick slabs of meat loaf and a mountain of mashed potatoes, everything smothered with her famous milk gravy. She smiled at Nathan, then raised an eyebrow at Sam. Sam narrowed her eyes, warning Millie to hold her tongue.

“You guys need anything else?” Millie asked.

“I think we’re fine,” Nathan said.

They began to eat. Sam used the momentary distraction to congeal her thoughts about Richard Earl Garrett. She had never really thought about what he was like. Except that he had murdered three kids and that she hated to be around him. She had walked away from every conversation she had ever had with him confused,

almost disoriented. She couldn’t get a handle on why.

He was a cold-hearted killer, who had not shown even the slightest remorse. Yet, he portrayed himself as a victim. Convincingly so. If he were threatening or monstrous or a drooling, snarling beast, instead of ive, restrained, almost sad, she would have felt more comfortable around him. He would have been predictable, understandable. His outburst in the courtroom today was the only hint of anger or hostility he had shown since his arrest.

“He’s an enigma,” she continued. “To do what he did, you’d think he was psychotic or crazed. Something like that.”

“But?”

“He’s quiet, soft-spoken. Today in the courtroom is the first time he’s shown any emotion whatsoever. He’s intelligent. No doubt about that.”

“Does he believe he’s Satan’s disciple?”

“He says so. He told us that Satan came to him and told him to kill three children. If he did, he would be welcomed into Satan’s family. I’m sure you’ve heard crazier stories.”

“Psycho killers always have justifications. Some are made up, others truly believe they are God or Satan or whoever. Do you think Garrett really believes his story or was it merely a defense strategy?”

“If it was a defense strategy, it didn’t work. Besides, his attorney, Mark Levy, wouldn’t be part of any shenanigans. He’s a good guy. And honest.”

“But, he did put forth the ‘devil made me do it’ defense,” Nathan said with a slight shrug.

“That’s what his client said. Swore to it.”

“I guess the big question is whether Garrett is possessed or not.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” She drained her beer.

“It would sell papers.”

“Just make it up.”

“I told you, we don’t fabricate stories.”

“I call them as I see them.”

His sable eyes drooped sadly, most likely a practiced look. He stirred his

potatoes with his fork, playing the injured little boy to the hilt.

“Look,” Sam said, “I’m sure you’re a very nice person, help old ladies across the street, and all that. But, your job is down there with personal injury attorneys.”

“That’s a low blow.”

Sam shrugged.

“I didn’t do this. Kill those children or make a pact with the devil or any of this. I just report the news.”

“And it pays well.” Sam nodded toward the $90,000 Mercedes penis-mobile out the window.

They ate silently for several minutes until Nathan spoke. “You arrested him. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“How? What happened?”

“Top notch police work,” Sam smiled.

“I assumed that.” He matched her grin.

“Actually, a witness saw the kids get in his car and when he heard they were missing, he called us. Another witness saw Garrett’s car head into the desert. North toward Devil’s Playground.”

“What’s that?”

“Part of the Mojave. Pretty desolate. Nobody goes there. Few people even know about it.”

“Interesting. Garrett took the children to Devil’s Playground.”

Sam could see the wheels turning. “That’ll make a good headline for you.”

He smiled. “Not bad, anyway.” He took a sip from his drink. “What happened when you found him? Did he try to get away or resist arrest?”

“No. Just stood there like he was expecting us. The kids were dead. Hanging in the entry way to an abandoned mine shaft by their ankles like sides of beef. Their hearts were lined up on a crude stone alter. A silver cup half filled with their blood. Garrett covered with blood. The stuff of nightmares.”

When Sheriff Charlie Walker tossed the Rodriguez brothers in jail, it wasn’t the first time. Not even close. But, it was the first time in five months, which was a record for the two. Judge Westbrooke had promised “a couple of years in the slammer” if they stood before him again. His threat had worked, until tonight.

The Sheriff’s Department was an old and tired, single story wood and stucco structure. Its weathered gray paint needed attending, but the budget didn’t allow for such niceties. The front door opened into the reception area, where Thelma Billups’ desk sat. Thelma was secretary, custodian, PR director, and part-time jailer rolled into one.

Along the sidewall, a door led to a short hallway and Charlie and Sam’s offices. Each was small but had a window that faced Main Street, which made them less claustrophobic.

Two locked doors cut through the back wall. One led to the Evidence Room, where twenty years worth of finger print cards, police reports, and a few knives and guns filled floor to ceiling shelves. The fact that two decades of crime could be stuffed into one 10 by 10 foot room with space left over, spoke volumes about how quiet things typically were in Mercer’s Corner. The other door opened to the jail area, where three cells awaited lawbreakers.

It was through this later door that Charlie led Juan and Carlos.

Charlie held the iron-bar door open as the brothers stumbled into the cell, each falling onto a bunk. “Damn it, Juan,” Charlie said. “You promised the judge, and me, that you boys were going to clean up your act and now you go and wreck Red’s again.”

Red’s, the local bar, pool t, honky tonk all in one, attracted the country music, shit-kickin’ crowd and hosted frequent fights, an occasional knifing, and rarely small arms fire.

“Sheriff Charlie, we was just drinking and minding our own business.” Juan rubbed his blood-shot eyes with heels of his hands. “It was that trucker dude that started it. Then, he run off.”

“I’ll let Judge Westbrooke decide that tomorrow.” He clanked the door closed and twisted the key, locking them in for the night. “You boys get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Juan, older than Carlos by three years, taller by four inches, and heavier by seventy pounds, most of which hung over a wide, strained leather belt, swung his legs around and sat on his bunk, eyeing his brother. “Maybe Judge Westbrooke will let us off again. Its been awhile since we seen him.” He inspected his left shoulder. “Besides, that son-of-a-bitch hit me with a pool cue. What was I supposed to do? I’ll tell Westbrooke that it wasn’t me that started it.”

Carlos looked past Juan into the adjacent cell where a man in orange prisoner’s garb sat cross-legged on his bunk.

“Who we got here?” Carlos walked to the bars that separated the two cells. “What’s your name, boy?”

No response.

Juan turned and looked at the man.

“You hear me? What’s your name?” Carlos said.

The man remained motionless, cross-legged, eyes closed, breathing slowly with a slight rocking motion, hands resting on his knees.

Juan stood and ed his brother at the bars. “Maybe he’s deaf?”

“Hey.” Carlos shouted.

The man remained frozen.

Juan snatched a metal cup from the corner sink and raked it across the bars. Nothing. He hurled the cup at the man. It sailed past his head, struck the far wall with a clank, and fell harmlessly on the bunk near the man’s left hand.

No movement, not even an eye flutter.

Juan tolerated being ignored about as much as a pool cue to the head. He gripped the bars, blanching his knuckles.

“Look at me, asshole,” he shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man remained imive, neither opening his eyes nor turning his head. He calmly raised a hand and extended his index finger toward them. “Silence.” The hand returned to his knee.

Juan recoiled as if struck. No one, not the Sheriff, not Judge Westbrooke, not his old man, not his nagging wife, not anyone told him what to do. Ever. His eyes flashed with rage. “Listen, you little shit, come over here and say that. I’ll snap your geek neck.”

Again, the finger impaled them. “Silence.” The voice, calm and quiet, slapped

him, mocked him.

Juan’s anger flared. He wanted to rip the bars apart and slam the man’s teeth into his lungs. The frustration of seeing this arrogant prick so close, yet out of reach, fanned the flames of his rage. With clenched fists, he paced back and forth like a tiger in a zoo, which searched for some way to reach the gawkers, who loitered beyond his cage.

“Hey, I know who you are,” Carlos said.

Juan whirled, eyeing the man, then his brother. “Who?”

“That’s that dude killed those kids. I seen his picture in the paper. He’s that Garrett creep.”

“You kill those kids?” Juan said.

The man remained inert, no sound, no change in expression, no movement except the slow rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

“He’s a fucking psycho,” Carlos said, flopping back on his bunk.

Juan watched the man for several minutes before stretching out on his own bunk. The alcohol that coursed through the brothers soon pulled them into a deep sleep.

After finishing their meal, Sam and Nathan talked for nearly two hours. To her surprise, Nathan proved easy to talk with, casual, interested, not the high voltage grilling she had expected. Maybe it was his relaxed demeanor, the two beers she had drunk, or his smile, but for whatever reason, she regretted her earlier abruptness. Maybe he wasn’t a bottom-feeder after all.

“When you heading back to LA?” Sam asked.

“Tonight. Unless I have some reason to stay?” He flashed his perfect teeth at her again.

Good genes or capped? Sam couldn’t decide which.

“I don’t think so,” she frowned. “Besides, I bet you have a covey of quail waiting for you in LA.”

“I have a deadline waiting for me in LA.”

She noticed he didn’t deny the covey. In spite of herself, she found him attractive. Not the life partner type of attraction, but more the one night fling variety. Another time, maybe. Here, now, not likely.

She walked out with him. As he opened his car door, he turned to her. “Now that the trial is over, I doubt I’ll get back this way. I’d hate to think this is goodbye. Why don’t you come to LA sometime? We could take in a play or go to the

beach.”

She eyed him. A casual grin split his model perfect face. “We’ll see.”

“Who knows,” he said, “maybe I will come back.”

“We don’t have beaches or theater. But, we could sprout a three-headed baby at any moment.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I’ll call you. If that’s OK?”

“Sure.”

He climbed in his car and cranked the engine.

“Be careful,” Sam said. “There are a lot of crazies on the road.”

“I will. See you soon, I hope.” He drove out of the lot and turned north toward the freeway.

Juan Rodriguez woke with a start. A knife-like pain shot through his right eye and exploded in his brain. He sat up, clutching his head between his massive hands, attempting to squeeze the pain into submission. It eased slightly. When he opened his eyes, the dark cell flashed a brilliant Day-Glo orange, then pastel green, indigo, soft yellow, the colors changing and swirling and melting and dripping. Wherever he looked, the colors consumed everything. The bars flashed a brilliant coral, the walls a scintillating green, and the floor a kaleidoscope of silver, gold, and red.

He struggled off his bunk, amazed he could stand on the wildly undulating colors beneath his feet. He looked at Carlos, who slept undisturbed, apparently oblivious to the transformation occurring around him.

As Juan approached his brother, Carlos’ eyes, though half closed, showing only a sliver of white, flashed as if a bloody laser had struck a perfect diamond, releasing shards of ruby light in every direction. Juan towered over his brother, shielding his eyes from the glare.

Again, the pain ripped through his head, causing him to cry out, but the sound lodged in his throat like gravel.

Juan wrapped his thick fingers around his brother’s throat, pushing both thumbs into his larynx.

Carlos awoke, eyes wide, confusion and fear etching his face. He tore at Juan’s powerful hands, excoriating his flesh, attempting to pry his fingers loose. Twisting, writhing, legs flailing, he couldn’t escape his brother’s vice-like grip. He lashed out, slamming one fist and then the other against Juan’s face.

Juan saw the blows, sensed their impact, but did not feel their pain. He heard the sharp crack of his nasal bones as they fractured under Carlos’ onslaught. A tooth fell from his mouth and in slow motion tumbled onto Carlos’ chest. Iridescent orange blood erupted from his nose and mouth, ran down his arms, and dripped onto his brother’s face.

Juan tightened his grip.

Somewhere, deep in his brain, shrill voices arose, screaming at him, pleading with him to stop, to expel the insanity that drove him. The chorus of protest rose to a wail that reverberated in his skull, but he could not escape the compulsion that drove him.

He pressed his thumbs downward, using his body weight, until he felt a sharp snap as Carlos’ windpipe shattered. He released his grip, stepped back, and watched as Carlos ripped at his own throat, seeking to open a age to his lungs, his body bucking, his chest struggling to pull air through his collapsed airway. Their eyes met, Carlos’ beseeching him for help.

Again, the voices swelled in Juan’s brain, imploring him to help his brother, but he could not respond, could not move. He stood imively as Carlos’ frantic gyrations weakened, slowed, stopped.

Juan turned from his brother and unbuckled and yanked free his wide leather belt. Standing on his bunk, he looped it around his neck, then tied the end to the upper most cross bar of the cell, and stepped off.

The belt strained; the knot slipped but held, dangling his body against the bars.

Again, the chorus rose to a shrill crescendo, attempting to capture his focus. The voices should have induced fear and panic and frantic activity, but they sank unheard into the chaotic colors that swirled in his head.

He made no attempt to save himself. No kicking, gasping, or clawing. No twisting, screaming, or climbing the bars to slacken the noose. Juan hung quietly, his arms limp at his sides, his life slipping away.

CHAPTER 6

After the first good night’s sleep in three months, Sam crawled out of bed, showered, and slipped on a sweatshirt and pants. She fed Scooter a half can of Friskies Seafood Platter, which he inhaled while she munched on instant oatmeal and a banana. Then, she settled in her bay window with a second cup of coffee. Scooter ed her and went about his post-breakfast bathing duties.

Another gray day greeted her through the of twelve-inch square panes of glass, which she had intended to wash two months ago. Before Garrett. Maybe later this week, she thought.

Despite the dismal day outside, she felt energized, as if an oppressive weight had been lifted from her. No more trial, no more sleepless nights, and soon, no more Garrett. Death penalty or life in prison, either way he was off to the big house and out of her life. Things could return to normal. Window washing and other neglected chores could be completed. She could finally get her Christmas shopping done. She and Scooter could sleep in.

Then, Sheriff Walker called.

Fifteen minutes later, she stood over the bodies of Juan and Carlos, shaking her head. Carlos lay across one bunk, frozen in a contorted pose of agony, while Juan’s massive form lay face down on the cell floor, his belt around his neck.

“What happen, Charlie?” Sam asked.

Charlie Walker, leaning against the cell door, gnawing a toothpick, shrugged. “Looks like Juan strangled Carlos, then hung himself.” He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “He was hanging from the bars there when I came in this morning. I took him down; couldn’t let him just hang there.”

“Why’d he do it?”

“Don’t know. Those boys were as close as any two brothers I’ve ever seen. Maybe they were afraid Judge Westbrooke would send them away like he said.”

“He wouldn’t have. You know that and I’d bet Juan and Carlos knew it too.”

“Probably.”

“Then why?”

“Beats me.” Charlie lifted his Stetson, ran his fingers through his hair, and settled the hat into place once again, giving the front brim a tug, his eyes sinking into its shadow. “Strange that he didn’t jump off nothing, just hung there. Must have taken awhile to die.”

“Has Ralph seen the bodies?”

Doctor Ralph Klingler, the pathologist at Mercer Community Hospital, served as County Coroner.

“Yeah. Said it looked like a murder-suicide to him. He’ll do autopsies later today. Vince Gorman is on the way to take the bodies to the hospital morgue.”

“What about him?” Sam jerked her head toward Garrett, who sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at the floor.

“Says he didn’t see anything.”

“That true?” Sam asked, eyeing Garrett through the bars of his cell. “You didn’t see or hear any of this?”

Garrett raised his head, looked at her, but said nothing.

“Not much to say now, Slick? Not like in court yesterday.” Sam locked her eyes with his, refusing to give him the high ground.

“Matters of this world are of no interest to me.”

“I know three kids and their families who would say otherwise.”

“Merely tools. A means to an end, nothing more.”

“You are one cold blooded son-of-a-bitch,” she said, turning away, shaking her head.

“Sorry about Mrs. Beeson.”

“What?” Sam whirled to face him, noting that a faint smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “What about Connie Beeson?”

Garrett said nothing.

“Listen up, jerk,” Sam spat. “What do you care about Connie Beeson?”

“It’s sad, is all. One of those unfortunate twists of fate. Or so it would seem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His calm arrogance infuriated her.

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?” His eyes narrowed. “Big truck, going the wrong way, driver full of alcohol and speed, ball of fire? Something like that?”

How could he know the details of Connie’s death? Who would have told him? Was the trucker intoxicated? She hadn’t heard any confirmatory reports. Just

Charlie’s and Cat Robert’s suspicions. In fact, she doubted if Ralph Klingler had completed the autopsy yet. But if he had, how would Garrett know the results? She glanced at Charlie and raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Charlie merely shrugged. She returned her gaze to Garrett. “How do you know that?”

“I know everything.”

“Look, Slick,” Sam said, “don’t try your mind games here. They didn’t work on the jury and they sure as hell won’t work on me. How’d you know about Connie Beeson’s accident?”

“There are no accidents. All is predestined, scripted.”

“Listen, Garrett, don’t fuck with me. I’m not in the best of moods right now, so answer the question,” Sam said.

“Are you threatening me, Deputy Cody?”

The sarcasm in his voice drove her to the edge of control. She wanted to shoot the smug son-of-a-bitch where he sat, but decided against it. The paper work alone would probably kill her. She forced herself to remain calm.

“No, Mister Garrett. I’m not threatening you. Wouldn’t be fair since you’re already dead.”

“So it would seem to the casual observer,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting further.

Their eyes locked in a dance in which neither lead, neither followed, like two Sumos wrestling for leverage.

Garrett walked to the bars and spoke in a low, almost seductive voice. “I’ve often wondered what would have happened had we met under different circumstances.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief. Was he hitting on her? Richard Earl Garrett, psycho, child killer, flirting with her? Her mind went blank, her jaw slack.

Garrett’s eyes moved down her body, then back up. “I find you incredibly attractive. So much so, that I’ve often dreamed of you.”

She glared at him. “When exactly did you lose your mind? Were you born crazy or did you work to get that way?”

Garrett laughed. “Anger, lust, ion. They’re so close to one another don’t you think?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Emotions. Strong ones. They co-mingle so often. And we have no control over

them. Like dreams, they are what they are.”

“OK, Slick. Here’s a dream for you. You, strapped in a chair, metal cap on your shaved head. Me, throwing the switch.”

Again, he laughed. “See? You do love me after all.”

Sam wanted to punch him. Or shoot him. Instead she turned and walked away, leaving the lock-up area, Garrett’s laughter trailing after her. Charlie followed.

She paced back and forth in Charlie’s office. He flopped into his chair.

“I hate the way that son-of-a-bitch gets to me,” she said.

“That’s what he tries to do.”

“He’s just so arrogant. So sure of himself.”

“That’s all he has left,” Charlie said. “He knows he’s a dead man. The only thing he can do now is piss you off.”

“How’d he know so much about Connie’s accident? Has Ralph done the autopsy or gotten any of the toxicology back yet?”

“He said he wouldn’t have anything until later this morning.”

“So, how does Garrett know the trucker was drunk and drugged?”

“He doesn’t. He’s just pulling your chain. But, guessing a trucker was on speed and alcohol would be a fairly safe bet.”

Sam knew uppers were a staple in the diet of many long haul drivers. “Probably.” She pushed a vagrant strand of hair behind her ear and released a long sigh. “I think I’ll go clean some of the mess off my desk.”

Twenty minutes later, Charlie peeked into Sam’s office. She sat with her back to him, one foot propped on the corner of her desk, gazing out the window. She looked so young and innocent. Of course, he always pictured her that way. When he looked at her, he didn’t see the beautiful young woman she had become, but rather the strawberry blonde eight year old that seemed to run everywhere she went, her mother struggling to keep up.

He had always considered her his surrogate daughter. Probably because he and Martha never had a girl. After the birth of their second son, they resolved to keep trying until a daughter came. But, Martha’s third pregnancy and delivery, also a son, had been difficult, almost taking her from him. They decided to stop and be grateful for the three healthy children God had given them.

As a child, when Sam had tired of her mother’s shopping and visiting with friends, she would come by and visit with him and Thelma. She loved it when Charlie locked her in jail or when he let her wear his hat, which balanced on the crown of her head and covered half her face. She would giggle with delight whenever he gave the hat a spin, sending it gyrating around her head.

“Sam,” he said.

She turned toward him, eyes red, glistening with tears. “Yeah.”

“You OK?”

“I still can’t believe Connie’s gone.” Her eyes melted into two blue watery pools.

“And now…Juan and Carlos. I grew up with them. Went to school with them.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

“You want to go home for a while?”

“That’ll only make it worse.” She laughed, sniffed. “I’ll quit being such a ninny and tackle this junk.” She waved her hand across her desk, which held a two-foot high stack of reports.

They both looked up as Lanny Mills stepped through the door. “Morning,” he said.

“Lanny,” Charlie said with a nod.

Lanny sucked his teeth. “Anything new on John and Connie’s accident? I hear the trucker might have been drunk.”

“Probably. Won’t know until Ralph finishes the autopsy.”

“Well, let me know.” He turned to leave and ran into Vince Gorman. “Excuse me, Vince.” He nodded to Vince, Junior, who stood behind his father. “What brings you guys here?”

“Couple of bodies to transport.”

“Bodies?” Lanny turned to Charlie.

“The Rodriguez brothers,” Charlie said.

“Here? In jail?” Lanny asked.

Charlie could almost see the wheels turning inside Lanny’s head. How could he make political hay out of this? Lanny might be short on charm, but he was long on schemes. His talents lay in his ability to lie with a straight face and to shake your hand and smile while lifting your wallet. As Mercer’s Corner largest landowner, mostly inherited from his father who was a mover and shaker back when the town moved and shook, he was rich and powerful. Even though I-40, which moved travelers past the town faster than they could blink, had plummeted the value of his land, it hadn’t deflated his pompous self-importance an ounce.

Charlie ignored Lanny and looked at Vince. “Go ahead. Ralph’s expecting them over at the hospital.”

Vince and his son headed toward the jail area.

“What happened?” Lanny asked.

“Looks like a murder-suicide,” Charlie said.

“Wasn’t anybody here last night? Guarding them?”

“You know we haven’t had anybody here in months,” Charlie said. “We don’t have the manpower.”

“And if the family sues the city?”

“They won’t. They’re good people. They’d sue the county anyway.”

“Even though this building’s leased to the county, it’s on city property,” Lanny said, his brow furrowed with his usual false concern. “I’d better let the council know.”

“I’m sure you will,” Charlie said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re conscientious about your job and of course you must inform the other council about your concerns.”

Lanny glared at him. “We need to devise a plan so this won’t happen again. We’ll get back to you with our recommendations.”

“I look forward to your help, Lanny.”

Lanny turned and stormed out of the office.

“Great,” Sam said. “That’s all we need.”

“He’ll huff and puff, but there ain’t much he can do,” Charlie said.

“Have you talked with the Rodriguez family yet?”

Charlie shook his head. “I called, but Lupe had gone to take the grand kids to school.”

“Why don’t I drop by and see her. I know her pretty well.”

“Sure,” Charlie said. “Then, I’ll buy breakfast.”

“I had something at home, but I’ll meet you at Millie’s for some coffee.”

After Charlie left, Sam walked to the back door and watched as Vince Gorman and his son loaded Carlos Rodriguez’ sheet-covered body into the back of the black hearse where Juan’s body already lay. The lump in her chest expanded, causing her to swallow several times. She sensed moisture welling in her eyes again. The hearse pulled away, leaving a healthy trail of blue smoke in its wake. She sniffed back tears and closed the door.

Returning to her desk, she called the Rodriguez’ house to see if Lupe had returned. She spoke with Maria, her youngest daughter, Juan and Carlos’ baby sister.

“Mom took the kids to school,” Maria said. “Except for Little Carlos. He has a cold.”

“When will she be back?”

“She had a few errands to run so I’m not sure.”

“I see.”

“Sheriff Walker called earlier. Is something wrong? Does this have anything to do with my brothers fighting last night?”

Sam debated whether to tell Maria about Juan and Carlos, but decided this news must be delivered in person. “Why don’t I come by and we can talk about it

then?”

“There is something wrong, isn’t there? Judge Westbrooke is going to lock them up like he said, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s not. Look, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Sam hung up, grabbed her jacket, and started out her office door, colliding with Thelma.

“Oh!” Thelma wobbled and reached for the doorjamb to steady herself.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, grabbing Thelma’s arm, stabilizing her.

Regaining her balance, Thelma said, “I should’ve been watching where I was going.” Sam released her arm. “Lupe Rodriguez is here.”

Sam peeled off her jacket and tossed it in the corner while Thelma escorted Lupe into the office. She was a short round woman, who possessed a perpetual and infectious smile. She wore a loose turquoise cotton dress beneath a worn dark gray sweater. An over-stuffed tan leather bag hung from her arm.

“Sam,” Lupe began. “I’m sorry my boys acted up again. Sheriff Walker called last night when he locked them up and told me what they’d done. I guess they’ll never grow up. They’re too big to whip. I don’t know what I’m going to do with

them.”

“Please,” Sam said. “Sit here.” She motioned to the chair facing her desk. Lupe plopped down in it with a sigh, obviously pleased to take the weight of her body off her feet. Sam leaned against the corner of her desk, eying the woman whose world was about to crash around her.

Lupe leaned forward, hands on her knees, and shook her head from side to side as Sam told her what had happened. “No. No. No,” was all she could say, repeating the mantra between sobs.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam said, tears now streaming down her face.

“Santa Maria,” Lupe said, crossing herself. “Madre del Cristo.”

Sam knelt beside Lupe and hugged her.

Lupe’s forehead fell against her shoulder. “They were good boys. They never really hurt nobody. Why’d this happen?”

“I don’t know.” Sam stood, sniffing back tears.

“Juan wouldn’t hurt Carlos. He loved him.” Lupe pulled a handkerchief from her bag and wiped her eyes. “I mean they used to fight and all, but that was a long time ago. When they were teenagers.”

“Do you think they could have been afraid of Judge Westbrooke? What he had promised to do if they got in trouble again.”

“No. They knew he wouldn’t do nothing.”

Sam turned to the window and exhaled loudly, fighting back tears.

“Can I see them?” Lupe asked.

“Not yet. Vince Gorman took them over to the hospital. Dr. Klingler will have to do an autopsy.”

“Is that necessary?” She sobbed into her handkerchief. “Does he have to do that?”

Sam returned to her side and knelt once again. “I’m afraid so. They died in custody and the law requires it. I’m sorry.”

“When can I see them?”

“After Dr. Klingler finishes his exam, Vince will take them over to the funeral home. You can see them there.”

Lupe stared past her, out the window. Her pain was palpable and seemed to thicken the air, making it difficult for Sam to breathe.

Sam could only imagine what movies played in the broken woman’s mind. Remembrances of Juan and Carlos as rambunctious boys, or muscular young men. Perhaps the time they stole one of Lanny Mills’ horses and rode it through town and into the movie theater. Or perhaps the day Juan graduated from high school, the first person in the history of their family to do so. Sam ed how handsome Juan had looked in his cap and gown and how Lupe’s face had beamed with pride.

Her face didn’t beam now. There was no joy in her eyes or her pale, tearstreaked face.

Sam gripped her hand. “I’ll take you home and talk to Maria.”

“I’m OK,” Lupe said. “I’ll tell her.”

“No. You can’t drive. I’ll take you.”

Lupe didn’t argue.

After telling Maria what had happened, Sam left the two women with their private sorrow and drove to Millie’s. She sipped coffee while Charlie ate. He had just finished a healthy plate of bacon, eggs, and biscuits when Lisa McFarland took a seat in the booth next to Sam. Millie placed a cold Dr. Pepper and two slices of toast, dry, Lisa’s usual, in front of her.

“What happened with the Rodriguez brothers?” Lisa nibbled the toast she had smeared with Millie’s homemade apple butter.

“Ralph Klingler says it looks like Juan strangled Carlos’, then hung himself,” Charlie said. “He said he didn’t think Juan’s neck was broken or anything like that. Just hung there and died. No struggle, no nothing.”

Lisa dropped her toast on the plate. “How does someone do that?”

“Beats me,” Charlie said.

“Did you or anyone from your office talk with Garrett yesterday or this morning?” Sam asked.

Lisa shook her head. “Not that I know. Why?”

“He knew details about Connie’s accident, but I don’t know how.”

“Maybe Mark Levy told him.”

“I called him,” Sam said. “He said no.”

“Oooh, maybe he has supernatural powers like he says,” Lisa said, waving her hands over the table as if conducting a séance.

“That’s probably it,” Sam laughed.

“It’s a strange situation all around,” Charlie said. “But, not that strange.”

“You know what bugs me?” Sam said. Charlie and Lisa looked at her. “The kids. Why’d they wander away from school and meet up with Garrett in the first place?”

“Kids don’t make sense sometimes,” Charlie said.

“I suppose,” Sam said. “But, everyone, their teachers, their parents, said it wasn’t like them to do that. And they didn’t leave the school grounds together. Witnesses saw each of them walking alone. Yet, they ended up on the same corner at the same time.”

“Yeah,” Charlie nodded.

“And they got into Garrett’s car willingly. They weren’t forced or anything like that.”

“That’s Paul Ruiz’s story anyway. And he was the only witness,” Lisa added.

Sam nodded. “And he was a block away. And he was drinking as usual. And he didn’t think much of it until he heard the kids were missing. But, I believe he saw what happened. Even drunk, he would be able to tell the difference between kids climbing in a car and a kidnapping.”

“What’s your point?” Charlie asked, eying Sam over his coffee cup.

“With all the news stories and the programs we have at school, why would they get in a stranger’s car? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Kids do it all the time,” Lisa said. “Seems like it’s on the news every night.”

“But, not here,” Sam said.

“But, they did,” Charlie sighed.

“Do you think they knew Garrett?” Lisa asked.

Sam shook her head. “We asked their parents and teachers. They all said no. That it wasn’t possible.”

“I guess we’ll never know for sure,” Charlie said.

Sam drained her coffee cup, then nudged Lisa. “Let me out. I’m going over to the hospital and see if Ralph Klingler has any news.”

Lisa stood so Sam could slide out of the booth.

“Want to go with me?” Sam asked.

“I’d rather have a root canal than visit the morgue,” Lisa said.

CHAPTER 7

After Thelma Billups finished typing four letters and filing three dozen reports, she sat behind her desk and attempted to sort out the morning’s events. Her thoughts turned to Lupe Rodriguez and Maria and Juan and Carlos. How many times had she baby-sat them during their stays in Cell #2, which she called “The Rodriguez Suite.” It seemed to her that they were permanent fixtures. Had it really been five months since the boys were last here? She had missed them. Missed refereeing their card games, missed bringing their food from Red’s, either ribs or cheeseburgers, sometimes both, and missed their constant laughter. Tears gathered in her eyes, crawled to the corner, and slid down her cheeks.

She wiped her eyes with a tissue, then gathered the stack of letters from her “out box,” slipped a rubber band around them, and dropped them in her purse. Glancing at her watch, she decided she had just enough time to walk to the post office, mail the letters, pick up today’s mail, grab a muffin and coffee at Starbucks, and get back before Sheriff Walker returned from breakfast. She snagged her jacket from the coat rack by the door, but as she pushed open the door, a sharp pain in her left temple jolted her.

She leaned against the doorjamb and pressed her right thumb into the web of her left hand, an acupressure trick for migraines she learned from her neurologist. The pain subsided somewhat. She returned to her desk and sat down, hoping the headache would . Again, she pressed her thumb into the pressure point of her hand, no effect.

She had not suffered a migraine in at least two years. Why now? Maybe the stress of the trial, which had doubled her usually hectic work schedule, or the cold weather or the strain of preparing for Christmas. Probably Juan and Carlos’ death. Whatever the reason, she didn’t have time to deal with it right now.

She removed a pill bottle from her purse, shook a Vicodin into her hand, and swallowed it with a sip of water from the bottle she kept on her desk. She would call the doctor later, she promised herself.

She closed her eyes and massaged her temples.

When she opened her eyes, a swirl of colors assaulted her. The office exploded with deep reds, brilliant yellows, and greens and oranges and blues and hues she had never seen before. Everywhere she looked were colors within colors, swirling, blending to create new tones. Streaks of crimson lightning arched across the room before entwining into a rotating ball, so brilliant it hurt her eyes.

Yet, she could not look away.

At first, she sensed no fear, but rather confusion, bewilderment, even fascination. The fiery ball gyrated around the room before settling over and melting into the evidence room door. Somewhere inside, apprehension arose, telling her to back away, run out the door. But, the crimson door held her, drew her toward it.

Using her key, she twisted open its lock and entered the windowless room. She flipped on the bare ceiling bulb and the room burst into color. Six-foot high metal shelves along the wall to her left held three rows of cardboard boxes, which now emitted more hues than the sixty-four-color Crayola box she had gotten for her tenth birthday.

One box, which glowed a deep blood red, captured her and she seemed to float

toward it. She lifted its lid, removed a sealed plastic evidence bag, and dropped it into her purse. Replacing the lid, she squared the box with its neighbors, and left the room, locking the door once again.

She stepped outside into a world of dazzling colors and headed for the post office. People, people she knew but could not how she knew them or who they were, greeted her as they ed. She could only nod, unable to form a coherent response.

When she reached the post office, now a bright canary yellow, she did not go inside, but rather skirted the building to the rear parking lot. The asphalt shimmered like a silver lake. Bolts of black and gold lightning rippled across its surface.

Near the back door, a large cobalt blue air conditioner compressor squatted silently against the rear of the yellow building. She retrieved the plastic bag from her purse and turned it over in her hands, inspecting it, marveling at its bright crimson glow. She slid it between the compressor and the wall, making sure it was not easily visible to anyone who might walk by.

As she returned to the front of the building, the world faded to its original colors-gray sky, black asphalt street, red brick post office. She stopped in mid-stride, looked around, up and down the street, then at the entrance to the building. How did she get here? She didn’t the half block walk from her office. Had she already been inside the post office? She fumbled through her purse until she found the bundle of letters.

A surge of dread gripped her. This is what had happened to her mother when she entered her sixties as Thelma had two years earlier. Forgetting, getting lost, repeating tasks she had already completed, until she slowly forgot who she was,

who Thelma was. Was this how it began? Was she to suffer her mother’s fate? Who would care for her?

She attempted to push her fears into the corner of her mind, but was only marginally successful.

She hurried up the steps and into the post office. After stamping and mailing the letters, she removed the mail from the department’s mailbox, then headed toward Starbucks. By the time she returned to her office and finished her muffin and coffee, her headache had disappeared.

Sam sat on a stool in the corner of the autopsy room as Dr. Ralph Klingler finished the post-mortem exam of Juan Rodriguez. The room was cold so she wore her leather jacket, zipped to her neck. Ralph, apparently accustomed to the chill, wore short-sleeved surgical scrubs and thin latex gloves.

The only light came from a ceiling lamp over his head, which cast a circle of illumination over Juan’s partially dissected body and shadows everywhere else. Thankfully, her sense of smell dulled with each ing minute. At least she could no longer taste the morgue’s formalin infused air. No longer had to consciously suppress the nausea that wound its fingers around her gut.

She had been in this room perhaps a dozen times before, yet never got used to it. The chill, the smell, the bodies, the dim lighting gave it a crypt-like quality. Death seemed to reside in every corner, to hide in each shadow.

She watched him work, fascinated by his skill as much as she was amazed that anyone could do this for a living. Ralph was a small man with a thin, angular face. His glasses were so thick that they magnified and distorted his pale blue eyes, lifting them from his face where they floated as if unattached. Short dark hair surrounded his bald pate, which sprouted sparse black fuzz. His narrow shoulders slumped forward, as his delicate hands probed Juan’s liver, which now resided in a shallow white plastic basin.

Carlos’ body, which had been examined earlier, occupied a stretcher near the far wall. A flimsy white sheet draped over his lifeless form. The charred remains of John and Connie Beeson, zipped inside two plastic bags, lay on another stretcher.

“So, what’s the story, Ralph?”

“As I suspected, Juan crushed Carlos’ trachea, then hung himself. Looks like Carlos put up a fight. His knuckles and Juan’s face were bruised and battered. Juan sustained a fractured nose and lost a couple of teeth, but no other injuries. No broken neck, fractured larynx, anything like that. Died of asphyxiation. No drugs. Blood alcohol level was 0.09, which means he was fairly well lubricated when he was locked up three hours earlier, but other than maybe impairing his judgment, it didn’t play a roll in his death.”

Sam shook her head. “How does someone hang themselves like that?”

“Most people, who try hanging as a way out, die from asphyxiation, not from a broken neck. You have to fall a few feet to create enough force to snap your neck. Tipping over a chair or, as Juan did, stepping off a bunk, won’t usually do it. Typically, in self-hangings, the victims repent when they discover they’re not dead and it ain’t like the movies. They excoriate their neck and hands, even rip out finger nails, trying to escape the noose or climb the rope to loosen it. Anything to survive.”

“But, not Juan.”

“Nothing. Looks like he simply hung there and died.” He shook his head. “Strange to say the least.”

“And Connie Beeson?”

“Not pretty. She was decapitated and died instantly. John also died instantly from massive head and chest injuries. Both bodies were burned beyond recognition.”

“The driver?”

“As expected, blood alcohol was 0.22 and he had a hefty dose of amphetamines on board.”

Alcohol. Speed. Like Garrett said. “When did you get the blood reports back? About the alcohol and drugs?” Sam asked.

“About an hour ago.”

An hour. Yet Garrett knew hours ago. Lucky guess?

“As you know, that’s a common combination among truckers,” Ralph continued. “This guy’s levels of both were pretty high. How he was driving is beyond me.”

“He apparently wasn’t driving very well. Who was he?”

“James McElroy. Lived in Van Nuys. I called his wife. Seems he was driving on a suspended license. Two DUI convictions in the past year.”

“And this clown was hauling ass with a ton of gasoline. Any idea why he crossed a hundred yards of desert to head the wrong way down the freeway?”

“Maybe he ed out or got confused. Maybe road rage. Who knows?”

“Those two kids that he barely missed felt he was after them. Or somebody anyway.”

“I’d suspect road rage or some type of acute psychosis. According to McElroy’s wife, he used Black Mollies like candy when he drove cross-country. Long term use of that stuff can cause psychoses, rage, disorientation, and a load of other problems.”

Sam stood and stretched. “Thanks, Ralph. I’ll let Charlie know.”

“If anything else comes up, I’ll give you a call.” He hunched back over the organ filled plastic basin.

Sam blocked Jimmy’s right hook, ducked low, and fired a left to his ribs, an overhand right, and a left hook. The first blow landed solidly against his midsection, but he deftly deflected the other two with his gloves and crashed a left hook to the side of her head, dropping her on her rear.

“What was that for?” She jumped to her feet.

“I didn’t want you to start thinking everyone would be as easy as that reporter. In four weeks you’ll be in the ring with someone who takes this shit seriously. Since this is your first bout, I want you ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Physically, yes. Nobody hits as hard as you. But, mentally, that’s a different story.”

“I’m focused. I know this is no cake walk.”

“That’s not what I mean. Every fighter gets in trouble sooner or later. Gets his bell rung or runs out of gas, whatever. That’s when you have to dig down deep and find the courage to ignore pain and fatigue and fear, keep your poise, stick to your fight plan, don’t panic or try to fight the other guys fight.”

“How good will the competition be in Vegas?”

“The best. All the other women there will have had ring experience. You haven’t and that puts you at a big disadvantage.”

“You don’t think I can win, do you?”

“I know you can. That’s why I pulled a few strings and called in a couple of favors to get you in the competition. I just don’t want you to get surprised or rattled if you draw a tough cookie the first time out. After you get a few bouts under your belt, you’ll know what I mean.”

“OK, coach. What now?”

“Back to work. We should have started this lesson a month ago, but with the trial, I knew your head wouldn’t be in it. Now, we have to make up for lost time.”

Jimmy circled to his left, parried Sam’s left hook, right jab, then slammed a right to her ribs, followed by a left to her head. Again, she went down.

Fuming, she jumped to her feet and charged, releasing a barrage of rights and lefts, which Jimmy easily blocked as he back peddled. She rushed forward firing a wide right hook; Jimmy stepped inside and dropped her with a straight right hand to the chin.

“Goddamn it!” She sprang to her feet and renewed her assault, off balance,

swinging wildly. Jimmy covered up, moving backwards, accepting the blows to his shoulders, blocking those to his body with his elbows, and picking off those directed at his head with a flick of his gloves. Planting his right foot to stop his retreat, he popped a left, right, left combination to her head, sending her sprawling to the canvas.

She sat up, shaking her head in disgust.

Jimmy sat down next to her. “What’d you do wrong there?” he asked.

“Got angry. Lost control.”

“Exactly. Two things that don’t belong inside the ropes are fear and anger. Either will take you right out of your fight plan and leave you wide open to counter punching.”

“I know.”

“They cloud your focus. Anger makes you attack when you should retreat and fear makes you retreat when you should attack.”

“Know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.”

“Look, boxing is a dance. Sometimes you lead; sometimes you follow. Let the situation dictate what’s necessary. Don’t force it.”

She grabbed the rope and pulled herself to her feet. “Let’s go, Ryker. I’m going to whip your butt.”

She took her position in the middle of the ring, focused, balanced, and snapped his head back with a crisp left jab.

CHAPTER 8

Midnight settled over Mercer’s Corner, extinguishing most lights and all activity. Dim street lamps, a rotating time and temperature sign above the bank, and Red’s flashing neon were the only indications of habitation. A strong westerly wind, kicked up by the setting sun, had dragged the temperature into the low thirties before settling to the typical ten to fifteen mile per hour breeze. Only the rumble of the occasional truck down nearby I-40 and the intermittent howls of coyotes punctured the stillness of the night.

Walter Limpke awoke with a start. At first, he wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The room was dark and quiet. His wife Margo slept beside him, undisturbed. The soft glow of the night-light spilled through the open bathroom door. Nothing seemed out of place.

Then, a sharp pain exploded behind his left eye. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple; the pain did not relent, but rather strengthened, throbbing a steady beat. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, attempting to relieve the pressure that steadily mounted within his head, neck, and shoulders. Mercifully, the sharp pain eased, the throbbing receded, but when he opened his eyes, he bolted upright in disbelief.

The room’s darkness gave way to a pulsating glow, which seemed to emanate from the walls as if the sun had suddenly risen and painted them a luminescent yellow. The radiance intensified, becoming a fiery red-orange, while the ceiling melted into a swirl of green, gold, and red. The walls pulsated and rasped like giant bellows, as if the room was a living breathing entity.

Walter sat frozen in bed, fearful, fascinated, confused. Bright flashes of silvery

light rippled across the walls and ceiling and jumped across the room like giant electric arcs. He drew the blanket around him, tucking it beneath his chin as if it would offer protection.

Again, he looked at Margo. She slept soundly, seemingly oblivious to the metamorphosis taking place around her. He attempted to call to her, but her name wedged itself in his throat. He extended a tremulous hand toward her, to shake her into wakefulness, but suddenly found himself standing in their walk-in closet, slipping on a shirt, then pants and boots.

How did he get there? Why was he in the closet? Why was he getting dressed in the middle of the night? Confusion and fear smothered him. His chest constricted and sweat dotted his forehead, ran down his neck. Yet, he continued dressing, unable to elude the compulsion that drove him.

As he buttoned his shirt, he turned and peered from the dark enclosure at Margo. She stirred, but did not awaken. Again, he attempted to call to her, but once more his voice died somewhere in his throat.

The odor of potpourri wafted toward him. One of the little bags of dead flowers Margo tossed around everywhere. He hated them, found them annoying, but now he wanted to hold the aroma, to clutch it to him in the hope it would pull him away from whatever held him. But, it faded and he suddenly was standing in the garage.

Panic gripped him. What had happened, was happening? Fear wound his gut into a knot.

His brain screamed at him to retreat into the house, to safety, but he could not make his legs take him there. Then, he was in his car, backing down the driveway, leaving the cul de sac where he lived, turning toward town.

To anyone else, the night would have appeared dark, cold, quiet, typical for December, but to Walter it exploded into a kaleidoscope of color, swirling, blending, fusing into patterns and hues he couldn’t name.

The sky, a restless ocean of Dreamsicle orange and purple, dripped onto houses and buildings of lime green, teal, and chocolate and hovered near streets, themselves striated with ribbons of gray and red.

Awed by the colorful world around him, he lost all connection to place, time, or reality, knowing neither where he was going nor why he must get there. But, he must get there. Soon.

As he entered the six blocks of downtown Mercer’s Corner, the familiar shops and buildings mutated into splashes of color and flashes of light, which smeared one structure into the next so that distinguishing the bank from the hardware store next door or from the side walk in front was impossible. The street, a lake of shimmering silver, reflected the hues, creating shadows of color upon color, staining the orange sky, which appeared to continually consume the reflections.

He drove through town and wheeled to a stop near the rear door of the Post Office, whose lot was an ocean of gold. Swinging the car door open, he gingerly stepped onto the golden surface. It bubbled and spewed as if it were molten. Astonished that he did not sink into the cauldron, he walked toward a cobalt blue air conditioner compressor. The liquid gold beneath his feet leaped around his ankles and released puffs of golden mist with each step.

He leaned over the compressor and swept his hand behind it, searching. For what? He had no idea, but he knew it was there.

The mist crept up his arm and sinuously encircled his head. He inhaled deeply, relishing its cool, sweet taste.

His hand brushed against something. That’s it. He lifted the plastic bag. It emitted an intense scarlet light that caused him to squint, turn his head away. His fingers played over the bag, feeling the hard object inside, no recognition.

He returned to his car.

West of town, he left the paved county road and followed an unnamed dirt road, used mostly by the four-wheeling, dune buggy crowd, for a mile, before parking near a rocky escarpment. He stepped from the car and scanned his surroundings. The iridescent orange sky painted the desert floor a rich rosy color. Brilliant blue clumps of sagebrush, tangerine tumbleweeds, black Cholo cacti, and large emerald boulders dotted the landscape.

His numbed senses did not record the chill of the night air, nor the yips of young coyotes secreted in a nearby lair, nor the scratching of the scorpion that scurried across his boot.

His focus moved to the south, where a cluster of thirty homes draped over a slight rise in the flat terrain. The sleeping community displayed few lights and no signs of activity. To his retinas, the houses appeared as splatters of ocher and

dark green with dollops of navy blue, smeared in elaborate swirls as if in motion, each structure losing its identity into the next.

From the Technicolor chaos, a single home retained its identity, a blood-red beacon in the storm of hues. He didn’t recognize the house though he knew he had been there many times. He wound his way through the blue Sage and black Cholos toward the pulsing ruby light.

One part of his brain screamed at him. Turn back, go home, it pleaded. He wanted to, sensed that he must, but he couldn’t abandon the mesmerizing beacon, which pulsed in time with the thumping in his chest as if it paced his heartbeat, controlled every vital function. Without it, he feared his heart would stop, his body would wither. He would cease to breathe, to exist.

Yet, he knew he must turn and flee. If not, he would be irrevocably changed. How, he didn’t know, but he sensed his mutation would be profound, miring him in a web of unspeakable horror and sin.

He stopped, took a step back, then another. The scarlet beacon seemed to tighten its grip. With great effort, he managed two more steps of retreat. Another. Two more. Tears streamed from his eyes as he felt he might break free. He thought of home, of Margo, of his son and grandchildren in Chicago. Another two steps. The beacon’s hold on him weakened even as his own strength grew.

Then suddenly, he stood before the throbbing crimson house. How did he get there? He must have walked the 400 yards that had separated him from where he now stood, but he had no memory of doing it.

As the realization that he was powerless against the magnetic force that held him, that drew him, he began to tremble, reg himself to whatever fate awaited him.

Why was he brought here? He had no idea. Whose house did he stand before? He knew, but right here, right now, couldn’t recall who lived there.

An hour later, he returned to his car, retraced his route through town to the post office lot, into his neighborhood, and suddenly found himself standing in his bathroom, staring in the mirror.

The brilliant colors that had invaded his world dissolved into drab reality. Gone were the red orange walls that pulsated and wheezed like a dying man. Gone were the flashes of silver lightning and the swirling greens and golds and reds of the ceiling. Gone was all color as the world faded into the monochrome of night.

In the mirror, he appeared gray, ashen, like a corpse he had seen once. Where? Who? He couldn’t .

As he turned, a flash of color leaped at him. Red, blood red. He whirled to face the mirror again, then recoiled as he absorbed his image. His pallid face was blotched with red, as were his hands, shirt. He stepped back from the mirror, hoping distance would erase the image. The wall blocked his retreat. He stared at his hands, turning them over, examining his palms, forearms as if they belonged to someone else. They couldn’t be his. Why would his hands, his clothes be soaked with blood?

His mind spun, searching for an explanation, grasping for reality. He could

reading, setting the clock alarm, turning out the light. He had been asleep and then--what?

He ed colors, brilliant colors, un-worldly colors---brilliant orange, deep emerald, oceanic blue. And a red house. He ed a silver stream and a golden lake and Miriam Hargrove. Miriam Hargrove? Why had he dreamed of her?

His confusion and panic rose with each visual image that flashed through his mind. What was happening to him? Is this how people go insane? Do they have nightmarish dreams with nonsense images? Do they wake up and not where they are, where they’ve been? And the blood? Where did it come from? Was he still dreaming? Is this part of the nightmare, the madness?

He ripped off his shirt, buttons skittering across the tile floor, then snatched the soap from its cradle and furiously scrubbed his hands and arms and face. He removed his pants, which were splotched with burgundy stains, filled the sink with water, and dunked his clothing, releasing crimson streaks and whirls. He drained and refilled the sink repeatedly until the water remained clear, then wrung the garments, squeezing them until his forearms ached as if this would strangle the images from his mind.

He walked to the garage and hung the wet clothing on a makeshift clothesline, which hung above the washer and dryer. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw bloody hand prints on the door handle and drips of blood on the hardwood floor. He followed them through the bedroom and into the bathroom, where similar stains decorated the door and wall.

With a dampened hand towel, he removed every smear, print, stain, and drip he could find. Returning to the garage, he wiped clean the car door, seat, and

steering wheel. He rinsed the towel in the sink beside the washer and hung it with the clothing.

Exhausted, he returned to bed and pancaked for a half hour before drifting into a fitful sleep.

CHAPTER 9

The call came at 7 a.m. Sam apparently didn’t hear the first two rings. Scooter apparently did. During the night, he had wormed his way under the covers and curled against Sam’s back and now gave her several bunny kicks with his hind legs as if to say, “Would you answer that, I’m sleeping here.” She snatched the phone from its cradle in the middle of the third ring.

The emergency operator connected her with Esther Coombs, who babbled hysterically about Miriam and Roger and bodies and blood. It took Sam several minutes to calm her enough to find out what had happened.

Sam arrived fifteen minutes later to find Esther, dressed in flannel pajamas, an overcoat, and unlaced high-top boots, sitting on Roger and Miriam Hargroves’ front steps, sobbing into her hands. She didn’t look up, but pointed toward the open door behind her.

Sam removed her .357 and held it near her right shoulder, pointed upward, as she entered. The entry foyer was narrow and dark and opened into a high ceilinged living room. The musty, coppery scent of blood hung in the air. Sam felt moisture accumulate on her forehead, upper lip, and the palm of the hand that held the gun.

She stepped into the living room and scanned right and left. The darkness of the room in no way diminished impact of what she saw. With a sharp intake of air, she reflexly brought her weapon down to a level firing position and her finger curled around the trigger.

The bodies of Roger and Miriam Hargrove, stripped of clothing, hung from a loft railing. An half-inch thick rope snaked its way back and forth through the railing before each end plummeted downward and wound around the victims’ ankles. Their throats had been ripped from ear to ear, their abdomens punctured with numerous stab wounds, and their chest cavities slashed open, revealing their hearts had been removed. Blood had cascaded from each body, down limp arms, which dangled near the floor, producing ten-foot maroon circles, which coalesced into a sanguine hourglass pattern.

Overcoming her initial shock, she returned to cop mode. Time for emotions later, she told herself. Sweep the area first. No surprises.

She took a deep calming breath, then skirted the blood pools and searched the dining room and kitchen. Next, she searched the upstairs. Assured that no intruder remained, she holstered her weapon and called Charlie, then Ralph Klingler.

She returned to the porch and sat next to Esther. She learned Esther had come over for coffee with Miriam as she did most mornings. They didn’t answer her ring and the front door stood ajar, so she went inside. After she saw them, she called Sam. No, she didn’t touch or move anything except the phone she used to call. No, she didn’t see anyone or hear anything unusual during the night.

Sam sent Esther back to the security of her home next door. Esther didn’t argue. Sam then began to work the scene.

First, she circled the house, searching for footprints, broken or open windows, anything that might constitute evidence. Finding none, she returned to the living room and performed a careful grid search of the scene.

She completed the task just as Charlie’s Jeep pulled up. She met him on the small front porch and led him inside.

Charlie inhaled sharply when they entered the living room. “Jesus Christ.” He swallowed hard. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was Garrett’s work.”

“A copycat, maybe?” Sam asked.

“Or an accomplice.”

“That’s all we need.” Sam said.

“Garrett is in jail isn’t he?” Charlie asked. “He didn’t break out or anything?”

“No. I called Thelma and she went in early and checked. He’s sleeping like a baby. Is it possible he found a way to slip out, do this, and slip back in?”

“If he could get out, why would he return? Why not just take off?”

“Unless he’s trying to manipulate Westbrooke into throwing out his conviction. If the crimes are still going on while he’s in jail, how could he be the perp?”

“Except, he never denied killing the kids.”

“True.” Sam shook her head. “Maybe it’s a revenge thing. By a sympathetic friend or follower.”

“Maybe.” Charlie rubbed his eyes. “Whoever and for whatever reason this happened, we’re back in the middle of it.”

“When are we going to get some help around here?”

Mercer’s Corner’s Sheriff’s Department currently consisted of three people-Sam, Charlie, and Thelma. Occasionally, Hector Romero, the court bailiff, would help out. There had been three other deputies until six months earlier when one retired, one had a heart attack, and the other moved to Oregon. In spite of that, Charlie and Sam handled the situation without problems. Until Garrett came along. Since then, they found themselves stretched to the limit and beyond.

“Don’t know,” Charlie said. “The County Board of Supervisors is still reviewing applications and looking for money.”

“Tell them anyone with a pulse will do.”

Charlie circled the dangling bodies, being careful to avoid the blood pools. “Where’re their hearts?”

“There.” Sam pointed toward the living room, where the two hearts sat like nick knacks on a polished wooden coffee table. Blood had oozed from them and cascaded off the table, staining the Oriental rug beneath.

“Good, God.”

Sam and Charlie jumped, then turned to see Ralph Klingler standing in the doorway.

Klingler approached the bodies. “Did Garrett escape?”

Sam glanced at Charlie, then said, “No. But, I almost wish he had. At least then we’d know who to look for.”

Placing his toes an inch or two outside the lake of blood and keeping his arms near his body, Klingler leaned over to closely inspect the body of Miriam Hargrove. “Cause of death is fairly apparent. The wounds are similar to those on the kids.” He exhaled loudly. “When can I begin processing the scene?”

“Now,” Charlie said. “Sam found a couple of footprints in the entry way and some clear fingerprints on the door, the wall, and the table. We’ll lift those, then get out of your way and go see if the neighbors saw or heard anything. One of us will stop by the hospital later and see what you turn up.”

The neighbors were of little help. No one heard or saw anything. Just another quiet and boring night.

Grace Wilcox, who lived across the street, came home about 9:30 last night and saw Roger and Miriam through their front window, sitting on the sofa, watching TV. Like they did most nights, according to her. She saw no one else and didn’t any unusual cars.

“I’d have noticed,” she said. “I know everyone in this neighborhood. And their cars, too. My bedrooms on the corner there.” She pointed toward her house. “I leave my window cracked and I hear everything that goes on.”

Frustrated, Sam returned to her office. Telephone messages, some old, some new, blanketed her desk like giant yellow snowflakes. She shuffled through them, deciding they could wait. She peeled off her jacket, tossed it on a chair, and headed into the jail area.

“Hey, Slick.” Sam banged the palm of her hand on the bars to Garrett’s cell. “Rise and shine. I’ve got a few thousand questions for you.”

Garrett rolled over in his bunk, the sheet and blanket sliding to the floor. He swung to a sitting position and pulled on a pair of slippers, then eyed Sam. “Deputy Cody, what can I do for you?”

“Who’s your friend?”

He stared blankly at her, the perpetual smirk on his face mocking her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Your friend? Your pal? Your sidekick?”

“I don’t follow you. What are you talking about?”

“Last night, Roger and Miriam Hargrove were murdered.”

“I know.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed and she clenched her jaw. This arrogant son-of-a-bitch really pissed her off. “You know? How?”

“I told you. I know all Satan knows.”

Sam’s anger boiled over. “Look, Garrett, I don’t…”

“My name is not Garrett. Lucifer has given me a new name. One worthy of my position at his side.”

“OK, I’ll play. What’s your new make-believe name?”

“I assure you it’s not make believe. It’s very real and powerful beyond your imagination.” He arranged his facial features into a look of haughty superiority, which infuriated her further.

“OK, Garrett, cut the crap.”

“I am no longer Garrett. He is dead, nonexistent. I am Beelzebub, servant to Satan.”

“OK, Beetle Juice, or whoever the fuck you want to be, I want to know who your partner is and I want to know now.”

“My partner, for all eternity, is the Prince of Darkness.”

“Somebody whacked the Hargroves. Looked like your work. So, I’ll ask again, who is your partner in crime?”

“I have no partners in this world.”

“Not even your groupies that hang out down the street?”

“They know nothing of my master. They play at something they could never understand, much less achieve.”

“So, they aren’t your pupils? Your disciples?”

“Only in their own weak minds.”

“And they wouldn’t do something crazy to gain your approval?”

“Why don’t you ask them?”

“I thought you might know, Slick. After all, you do possess Satan’s knowledge of everything.” She made no attempt to temper her sarcasm.

“That doesn’t mean I’ll share it.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“I see you’re as full of shit as a septic tank.”

“Your blindness to the true power of Lucifer will be your downfall.”

She wanted to rip open the cell door and smash his smirking face with her fists. She wanted to slam his teeth into his lungs and tear out his lying tongue. She wanted to, but she turned and walked away, knowing she would get nowhere with him. Whoever his accomplice was, he would never betray him.

Before reaching the door, she stopped and faced him once again. “Why are you here?” she asked.

“You put me here.”

“I don’t mean in jail. Mercer’s Corner. Why did you come here?”

“I was compelled to do so.” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “Just as Lucifer tested Jesus in the Wilderness, he is now testing me. Here in this little corner of the desert. To see if I am worthy of his grace.”

“I see. This is Satan’s proving ground? Seems to me he could have found a better place. Las Vegas. The French Riviera. Someplace more decadent.”

“Devil’s Playground is more than a name.”

“You mean Satan actually hangs out there? Amazing. I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen him. In high school, we used to go parking up that way.

Make out, drink beer, stuff like that. And he never showed up. I wonder why?”

“Oh, but he did.”

“I guess I missed him,” Sam said.

“You don’t believe the stories?”

The room suddenly felt cold. “Those are just campfire tales. There never were any covens of witches or Satanic human sacrifices. That is until you came along.”

Garrett smiled. “Joey Barlow?”

Sam felt as if a fist had slammed into her gut. She took in a quick breath and locked her eyes with Garrett’s. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed. “Joey made a mistake. That’s all.” Then it struck her. How did Garrett know about Joey in the first place? Joey died 12 years ago.

As if he had read her mind, he said, “I know the truth of it.”

She reached through the bars, wadded the front of his jailhouse orange jump suit in her fist, and pulled him toward her. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know he failed the test.”

Sam released her grip. “He took LSD and tried to fly off the peak of Bristol Mountain.”

“No. He failed his test of faith.”

“And you ed? You’re going to tell me you can fly now?”

“Each of us is tested in a different manner.”

“And killing the children was your test?”

He nodded with a slight shrug. “Part of it.”

“Roger and Miriam Hargrove? Were they a test?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe they were simply an amusing diversion.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Me and Charlie could hardly contain our laughter.” Exasperated, she blew a wayward strand of hair back over her forehead. “So, if you ed the test, why hasn’t Lucifer taken you to Hell or where ever else he hangs out?”

“My testing is not complete.”

A cold chill danced up her spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that. My trial is not yet over.”

“Actually, it is. You lost. You got the death penalty.”

He laughed. “That mockery means nothing. My trial is before Lucifer.”

“And what does he want from you now?”

“That’s part of the test. I have to discover what he wants.”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” she asked.

“Close.”

“Well, let me know when you do. In the meantime, I guess you’ll have to be content to stare at these four walls.” She headed toward the door, but stopped when he spoke.

“I believe it will involve you though.”

Sam walked into Charlie’s office. He looked up from the file he was reading.

“Joey Barlow?” Sam asked. “He did take LSD, didn’t he? That night?”

“Probably.”

“What do you mean ‘probably’?”

“The other kids, there with him, said they had taken some and they thought he had too. We didn’t do blood tests, if that’s what you mean. Why?”

“Garrett. He has another theory. Says Satan made him do it.”

Charlie ran his fingers through his hair. “And that upsets you?”

Sam dropped into the chair facing his desk. “I just haven’t thought about Joey in a while. I try not to. But…” She shook her head. “How does Garrett know about him?”

“Probably heard it from someone. You know he was around here for a few months before he killed the kids.”

“I suppose.”

Charlie walked around his desk and placed a fatherly hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I know you and Joey were close, but he had his share of problems.”

“Problems? Not Joey. He smoked a little grass. Most of the kids did.”

“You didn’t. Lisa McFarland didn’t.” Charlie settled one hip on the corner of his desk.

“No. But, Joey was kind and sweet.”

“But, he changed during that week before he died.”

“I knew him better than anyone,” Sam said. “I didn’t see anything.”

“”Why would you? It was summer. No school. You didn’t see him every day. Besides, you were young.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I can tell you, his parents were very concerned. They couldn’t decide whether he was using drugs or going crazy. Planned to have him evaluated by a neurologist and a psychiatrist in Los Angeles.”

Sam couldn’t believe it. She knew Charlie wasn’t lying. It wasn’t in his nature. But, she also knew Joey, and the person Charlie described wasn’t the Joey she grew up with.

Charlie’s words continued their assault. “He became moody and angry. Fought with his parents. Slapped his mother once. Threatened to run away from home. Had nightmares and headaches.”

“Why hasn’t anyone ever told me about this?”

“Why would they? It was a family problem. And after his death, what purpose would it serve?”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and massaged her temples. “All those stories about Devil’s Playground. Any truth to them?”

Charlie smiled. “Garrett’s really got you going today. No. There weren’t any witches or goblins or devil worshipers hacking up people in the desert.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Twenty, maybe 25 years ago, when you were just a kid, we ran across some old fire pits with animal skeletons nearby. Rabbits mostly. Probably some camper’s dinner. That’s the only thing unusual we ever found.”

Sam stood. “I’ll be glad when Garrett’s out of here.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m going to meet Lisa for breakfast. Want to go?”

“I’d better finish up this paper work or Thelma will kill me.”

Sam sat across from Lisa McFarland in a booth at Millie’s. While they ate, she told Lisa about the Hargrove crime scene and her visit with Garrett. She finished the stack of pancakes, pushed her plate aside, and dove into a third cup of Millie’s coffee. Lisa nibbled dry toast.

“Then, Garrett had the audacity to bring up Joey.”

Lisa dropped the half eaten piece of toast on to her plate. “What?”

Sam told her of Garrett’s take on Joey’s death and what Charlie had said. “Those weeks before…before that night…did you notice anything unusual?”

“With Joey? No. That’s why it was such a shock.”

Sam stared into her coffee. Neither spoke for several minutes. Yes, Joey’s death had been a shock. She and Lisa and Joey had been best friends since the third grade. Joey had been a star on the track team, a good student, and a devoted friend. His death had shaken the entire community and had knocked Sam and Lisa completely off balance. And now this. Joey drugged or sick. Or possessed. Get a grip, Sam.

“Any useful evidence from this morning?” Lisa asked, pulling Sam from her reverie.

“We lifted half a dozen good prints,” Sam said. “I transmitted them to

Sacramento. Hopefully, we’ll get lucky. I can tell you, they aren’t Garrett’s. I’ve seen enough of his prints in the past eight weeks that I know them by heart. Hell, I dream about them.”

“Any idea who might’ve done this?” Lisa asked.

“Not a clue.” Sam lifted her cup as Millie added a dollop of fresh coffee. “Do you think this will effect Westbrooke’s sentencing?”

“Don’t know,” Lisa said. She dabbed a smudge of peach jam from the corner of her mouth. “I have a meeting with him in half an hour. Want to sit in, give Westbrooke the story?”

“Sure.”

A half hour later, Sam, Lisa, and Mark Levy entered Judge Westbrooke’s spacious, dimly lit office. After seating them opposite his heavy oak desk, he sank into a high-backed ox blood leather chair, flanked by California and United States flags. Floor to ceiling shelves, filled with thick legal volumes, encircled the office, which was as intimidating as Westbrooke was soothing.

He listened quietly while Sam laid out the facts concerning the murder of Roger and Miriam Hargrove. When she finished, he cleaned his glasses with a tissue, his brow knitted with concern. Replacing his glasses, which slid half way down his nose so he could peer over them, he said, “I must it this is bothersome. Not that I think Garrett’s innocent, but if he has an accomplice, questions could be raised as to who did the actual killing of the children. If that were the case, I might feel obligated to change his sentence to life rather than death.”

“But, your honor…” Sam began. Westbrooke cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Deputy Cody, you are here solely to present the facts regarding these murders. It would be inappropriate for you to make further statements.” He softened his reprimand with a smile as would a grammar school teacher disciplining a student for talking without permission, then turned his gaze to Mark Levy. “Mr. Levy, do you have any comments?”

“Your Honor, I just learned about this as you did. I’m shocked to say the least.”

“Do you wish to place a motion before the court at this time?”

“No. I need to confer with my client first.”

Westbrooke tilted his head toward Lisa. “Ms. McFarland. Anything you wish to say?”

“No, your Honor.”

“Very well.” Westbrooke stood, indicating the meeting was over.

Sam and Lisa left Westbrooke’s chambers and walked to Starbucks, while Mark

went to see Garrett. They purchased two cappuccinos and sat at a corner table. Sam preferred Millie’s plain coffee to this fancy, trendy stuff, but any port in a storm. Despite the three cups she had had earlier, she found she needed the lift this more potent brew would provide.

“Could Garrett have an accomplice?” Lisa asked.

“Yesterday, I would have said no way, he’s a loner. But, today? Who knows?”

“His groupies maybe?”

“I doubt it. They couldn’t organize a one-car funeral. I’m going to have a little chat with them anyway.”

“If not them, then who did the Hargroves?”

Sam shrugged, staring into her cup. They sat silently for a moment, then two. “You don’t really think Westbrooke will back pedal on this do you?” Sam asked.

“Stranger things have happened. If he did opt for life, surely it would be without parole.”

“And if not, it would mean thirty years of parole hearings…for you, me, and the families.” Sam exhaled loudly. “Or one of the liberal morons on the Ninth Circuit Court might overturn his conviction and we’d have to do all this again.”

Depression and anger vied with each other to dominate her mood. Just when the light at the end of the tunnel came into view, this crap had to happen. Another two weeks, three at the most, and Garrett would be on his way to San Quentin and out of Mercer’s Corner, out of her life. Now, what?

Mark Levy was a native son who had left Mercer’s Corner for Los Angeles and USC for college and law school before returning home to practice. Drawing Garrett as a client had been his bad luck, which he regretted daily. He wasn’t in the least unhappy he had lost the case.

Wearing a faintly pinstriped gray suit, white shirt, and red power tie, he looked every bit the competent attorney he was as he waited for Thelma to unlock the door to the jail area. He thanked her and stepped inside. He placed a folding chair next to Garrett’s cell and sat down. Garrett sat on his bunk, expressionless.

“Mister Garrett,” Mark began.

“I am not Garrett.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am Beelzebub.”

“I see.” Mark hated Garrett. He hated being near him, talking to him. And he damn sure hated defending him. How did he get assigned this psycho in the first place? The man was guilty. Far beyond a reasonable doubt. All the way to absolute certainty. That wasn’t supposed to make a difference, but it did. Especially considering what he was guilty of doing. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?”

“If you want me to help you.”

“Like you already have.”

“Mister Garr…uh…Mister Beelzebub, last night two people were murdered. Do you know anything about it?”

“Only that it happened. That their hearts were removed.”

“How did you know that?” Sam had said that Garrett knew of the murders, but none of the details.

“I know. How is unimportant.”

“Actually, it may be very important.”

Garrett said nothing, stared at him imively.

“Is there another? An accomplice?”

“Yes.”

Mark was shocked and didn’t hide it well. Like everyone else involved in this case, he was certain Garrett was a loner. He was just too flat weird to work with anyone. Had they been wrong? Could Garrett be part of a team? Could they have convicted the wrong man? Everything he knew said no. But. “Who?”

“Lucifer.”

God, he hated this arrogant prick. “Look, we played that card and the jury didn’t buy it. Was there a flesh and blood accomplice or not?”

“Of sorts.”

“What does that mean.”

Garrett shrugged.

“If someone else was involved, someone who actually did the killings of the kids, of the Hargroves, I might convince Judge Westbrooke to ignore the jury’s recommendation and give you life. I might even convince him to reopen the penalty phase.”

“Do as you wish.”

“What do you want?”

“Only to complete my bond with my master. Things of this Earth are of little importance to me.”

Five minutes later, Mark walked into Judge Westbrooke’s office. Westbrooke offered him a seat, then sat behind his massive desk.

“Should I get Lisa McFarland in here?” Westbrooke asked.

“No. I’ll see her right after I leave here.”

“I take it that means you’re not going to enter a motion.”

“No.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“Client disinterest.”

After leaving the court building, Mark headed toward Starbucks to meet Sam and Lisa. A half a block away, he saw them coming up the street toward him. They were quiet a pair. Both attractive. Especially Sam. He loved to look at her.

Always had. He had been infatuated with her since the eight grade. She was fiveseven, trim and fit, without an ounce of fat, and possessed deep green eyes and a smile that melted his heart. Just as it had in high school. If he weren’t married, he might pursue her, even if it jeopardized their friendship.

“What’s the story?” Sam asked as they approached Mark.

“Nothing. Garrett could care less about any of this. Apparently, ‘things of this world’ don’t interest Mister Garrett. Or is it Beelzebub?”

“He pull that crap on you, too?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “But, I have no idea what it means.”

“Paradise Lost,” Sam said. Then, to answer the quizzical look on Lisa’s face, she continued. “Garrett has it in his head that he’s Satan’s right hand man. high school Lit? John Milton? Paradise Lost? Beelzebub was Satan’s helper.”

“Vaguely.”

“You must have ditched that day.” Sam poked Lisa in her ribs.

Lisa laughed. “Wouldn’t be surprised.” She looked at Mark. “So, Garrett doesn’t want anything done?”

“Nope.”

“That’s a relief,” Lisa said.

“Either of you or Charlie tell Garrett about the Hargroves’ hearts being removed?” Mark asked.

Dread crept up Sam’s spine. Her heartbeat quickened to a gallop. She glanced at Lisa, who shook her head. “No. Why?” Sam said.

“He knew.”

The words reverberated in her head like a dynamite blast. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. He knew their hearts had been removed.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. He said Satan told him.”

“Or his partner.”

“He did say he has an accomplice ‘of sorts.’”

“Of sorts?”

“That’s how he put it. I assumed he meant Satan again.”

“Satan didn’t kill Roger and Miriam,” Sam said. “Someone with two feet, two hands, and fingerprints did.

CHAPTER 10

By noon, the morning’s blanket of gray clouds had slid eastward, leaving behind a clear blue sky and a harsh sun, which beat down on the white Jeep as Sam headed out of town. Her mind swirled with the events of the past seventy-two hours.

Connie’s death at the hands of an intoxicated trucker. Roger and Miriam’s grisly murders. The possibility of an accomplice or a copycat. Who? Wasn’t one psycho enough, for Christ sakes? Garrett knowing about Roger and Miriam’s mutilations. And about the trucker’s intoxication. How? Who could have told him? In the trucker’s case, no one could have because no one knew. Juan and Carlos dying in the cell next to Garrett and he saw nothing. Or so he said.

The chaos in her head pounded against the back of her eyes.

Two miles south of town, she turned east on to Salt Creek Road. Another half mile and she approached four black vans and several two-person tents, huddled near the desiccated creek bed from which the rutted dirt track took its name.

Each crudely painted vehicle bore decorative pentagrams and other Satanic figures. One had “666” painted on its side in two-foot yellow letters, while another sported a misty scene of a fiery lake, populated with half-human, halfserpent creatures. Obviously, somebody’s image of Hell. All showed patches of rust and well-worn tires.

The sun had consumed the morning shadows and begun heating the desert floor.

Though the day was cool, Sam was sure the interiors of the vans must be twenty degrees hotter. There was no sign of activity. Apparently, Satan wasn’t an early riser.

She parked off the road and stepped from the Jeep. Two crows, their black forms silhouetted against the blue sky, soared overhead and cawed at each other as if arguing.

She approached one of the vans, keeping a vigilant watch on the others, and rapped on the side . Hearing stirring inside, she stepped back as the door slid open and the tall brunette she had so often seen in town peeked out, followed by a waft of warm air and the unmistakable smell of marijuana. The girl stepped to the ground, rubbed her eyes, and blinked under the assault of the sun. Tucking her black tee shirt into her dirty jeans, she finally focused on Sam.

“Yeah?” she said.

“Up late last night?”

The girl shielded the sun from her eyes, scanned Sam up and down, and then focused on the badge wallet, which hung from Sam’s belt. “What do you want? We didn’t do anything.”

“Why do you assume I thought you did something?”

“You’re a cop. Cops always think we’re up to something.”

“And are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then, why are you still here? The trial is over?”

“We’re merely voicing our religious beliefs and ing our Earthly master. I think the Constitution allows us to do that.”

“Yes, it does. You can believe in anything you wish. You can follow that psycho Garrett around all you want. But, you can’t break the law. If you do, you’ll have to deal with me and Sheriff Walker.”

“I’m terrified,” she said sarcastically.

Another young girl, the blonde, rolled out of the van. Even her dirty, disheveled clothes and sleep puffed eyes couldn’t mask her beauty--pert nose, high cheeks, pouty lips, emerald eyes. Her short blonde hair looked like a trampled cornfield.

A dozen or so others came from the other vans or crawled from the tents, forming a vacant-eyed group. They looked like children of the damned.

“What’s your name?” Sam asked the brunette.

“Penelope.”

“Penelope what?”

“Just Penelope.”

“And you?” Sam directed to the blonde.

“Melissa.”

“Let me guess? Just Melissa?”

The girl offered no response.

“Where were all of you last night?” Sam continued.

“Here.” Penelope waved her hand toward the remnants of a campfire twenty feet to her left. Melissa nodded her agreement. The others stood motionless like mushrooms sprouted from the sandy soil.

Adjacent to the fire’s ashes, sat an altar, crudely constructed from rocks, which

were painted with the drippings of black candles. Empty beer cans and several t remnants littered the ground.

“All night? All of you?”

“Yes.” Penelope propped her hands on her hips.

Sam scanned the group. She figured half of them didn’t understand the question and the other half didn’t understand the answer. Melissa snuggled against Penelope, who wrapped a protective arm around her.

“You’re sure about that?” Sam asked.

“We left town about 7, stopped by the store for supplies, and got here about 7:30.”

“Then, what?”

Penelope shrugged. “We cooked, ate, had a few beers. Then, held a prayer service.”

“Prayer service?”

“Christians aren’t the only ones who pray,” Melissa said. “They just pray to the wrong God. We pray to the God of Darkness.”

“And a little marijuana helps him hear, I guess?” Sam shot back.

Melissa stared at her but again offered no response. Instead, she hooked a finger in the waistband of Penelope’s jeans and lay her head against Penelope’s shoulder.

“Look,” Sam continued, “I’m not here to harass you or violate your religious freedoms, such as they are, but a family was killed about a mile from here. You know anything about it?”

Melissa looked up, wide-eyed.

“No. Why should we?” Penelope said.

“Why shouldn’t you?”

“We aren’t killers,” Penelope said. “We’re here to one of our own. He has no one on his side except us.”

“Do you know Richard Earl Garrett? Ever actually met him?”

“No.”

“You’re lucky. He’s a psycho child killer, nothing more.”

“You’re wrong,” Penelope said. “He’s Satan’s chosen disciple, his personification here on Earth.”

Sam looked at the dirty, young faces before her and couldn’t help wondering why these kids had slid down the path they were on. Why they had chosen Satan over college or a job or a family. Why they had latched on to Garrett as a symbol of hope and redemption.

“Anybody see you here last night?” she asked.

“Yeah. Dude named Ed something came by in a pick-up. Asked what we were doing.” Penelope cocked her head to one side, eying Sam defiantly.

“And?”

“We told him. He said not to leave beer cans or trash when we left and he drove away.”

Ed Campbell, Sam thought. He lived on a small spread a couple of miles further down Salt Creek Road.

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know. Must have been midnight or so.”

“You camp here every night?”

“Along here somewhere,” Penelope said. “Where ever feels right. Of course, we’re in town every day. We don’t have anything to hide.”

“Then, you wouldn’t mind coming by the Sheriff’s Department this afternoon and giving us your fingerprints?”

“Are you arresting us?” Penelope asked.

“No. But, if you give us your prints and they check out, maybe I won’t have to come back out here and ask more questions.”

“That’s fair. We just want to be left alone and be near our master.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll check with Ed. See if he corroborates your story.” Sam turned to leave, but stopped and turned back to the group. “And don’t smoke that shit in town or I’ll bust you. Out here, I don’t care what you do, but in town, you don’t even pick your nose. Understand?”

No response, blank stares.

She climbed in her Jeep, whipped a U-turn, and pointed it toward town.

As Sam drove toward town, she mentally formulated a suspect list for this morning’s murders. None of her choices excited her. Garrett, the groupies, an unknown accomplice, the Manson Family, space aliens. Hell, she might as well consider a t suicide, for that matter.

She discarded aliens and suicide since she included them only as an attempt to find a scrap of humor in all this. Garrett was in jail, which eliminated him. Mostly.

She knew the groupies weren’t the killers. They didn’t hack up the Hargroves in some misguided attempt to free Richard Earl Garrett. No way. Lost, confused, rebellious, sure, but not murderers. Everything--her nose, her gut, her common sense--told her they weren’t involved. Of course, she would finger print them anyway. And, if they didn’t show up voluntarily she would haul their butts in.

She had to it the murders of Roger and Miriam were Mansonesque in many respects. The shear madness of the murders, the mutilations, the overkill, the removal of their hearts. Manson’s outfit could have done all this, and more. She ed reading that Sharon Tate’s unborn child had been cut from her womb by the cult. And more recently, she had read that as many as a hundred of his so called “family” still resided in California. Could they have heard about Garrett and come here to reignite Charlie’s “Helter Smelter” fantasy? Could any of Garrett’s groupies have a connection with Manson’s “family”? They were all too young to even the murders. Sam was, too. Still, cults had a way surviving, multiplying, spawning splinter groups.

Maybe a new “Charlie” was responsible. A mad man with no relationship with Garrett. Unknown to Garrett. Possible, but like the Manson Family, too coincidental.

She knew most homicides occurred for a reason, a payoff. Even Manson’s rationale for the Tate-LaBianca murders made sense on some screwball level. The killings of white people in white neighborhoods, which he assumed would be blamed on blacks, was supposed to trigger a black-white war--“Helter Skelter”--and result in him ending the war and becoming a world leader. Crazy, but rational to a paranoid schizophrenic.

What would be the payoff for a new “Charlie”? Maybe something as bizarre as “Helter Skelter.”

What the hell are you thinking, Samantha?

This case was making her delusional. The Manson Family for Christ sakes.

The only perp that made any sense was an accomplice. But who? A relative? A friend? A fellow Satanist? Someone who would realize some benefit from clouding the Garrett case. But what? Money? Power? Revenge for Garrett?

Sam returned to her office to find that Lanny Mills had called twice to see if anything new had turned up. Thelma gave her the messages complete with Lanny’s phone number and his requests that she call immediately.

Sam sat behind her desk, tossed the messages in the trash, and gathered her notes on this morning’s crime scene. She scratched out a somewhat coherent report, including her visit to the groupies, and gave it to Thelma for typing.

Ralph Klingler called.

Ten minutes later, Sam tapped lightly on Klingler’s office door. It stood slightly ajar, so she pushed it open. Ralph sat hunched over a microscope, dictating monotonaly into a hand held recorder. He looked up as the door swung open.

“Sam, come on in. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the chair that faced his desk. A two-foot tower of medical journals occupied the seat. “Sorry. Let me get those.” He stood.

Sam waved him away and lifted the stack. “Where do you want them?”

“Over there. On the shelves.”

Sam placed them on the only vacant shelf in the bookcase that covered the wall to her right. The remainder of the shelves held thick textbooks, bound journals, and several photos of Klingler’s family. She returned to the chair and sat, nudging it forward, close to his desk.

“What’d you find for us?” she asked.

“I finished the autopsy gross exam on Miriam and Roger. Haven’t completed the microscopics yet, but I don’t think they’ll add anything.”

“I take it from your call that something important turned up.”

“The wounds. Both of them were stabbed several times…in addition to having their throats cut and their hearts removed. It’s the stab wounds that are bothersome.”

“In what way?”

“They were made by the same knife Garrett used on the kids. Or an identical one.”

“What?” Sam lurched forward in the chair, her hands grasping the edge of the desk. “Are you sure?”

“The knife Garrett used is very distinctive…curved, eight-inch blade with serrations along the top. The wounds on the Hargroves’ match in every dimension. I’m no forensics expert, but I’ve seen quite a few homicides in my day and these wounds are so distinctive…well…yeah, I’m sure. It would help if I could have Garrett’s knife again. For a better comparison. All I have on file are photographs and my descriptions.”

“Sure. It’s in the evidence lock-up. I’ll zip over, get it, and bring it back.”

During the mile drive to the Sheriff’s Department, Sam attempted to make some sense of what Ralph Klingler had said. An identical weapon used in an identical murder when the killer and the weapon were both locked away. How could that

be? There must be an accomplice. What else could explain this? Did Garrett and his partner plan such an elaborate scheme? Down to buying two identical knives? If so, why wait for Garrett to be convicted? Wouldn’t it make more sense to do the other murders before the trial? It didn’t fit. Unless, the entire plan was designed to embarrass the legal system. But, why?

“Hello, Thelma,” Sam said as she entered the office. “I need the evidence room keys.”

“Here you go.” Thelma retrieved the keys from her desk drawer and tossed them to Sam.

“Is Charlie around?”

“In his office.”

“Don’t let him walk out of here while I’m digging around. I’ve got to talk to him.”

She unlocked the door to the evidence room and flipped on the overhead light. She located the box that held the evidence in the Garrett case, pulled it off the shelf, and dumped its contents on the table, which sat along the wall. She shuffled through the sealed evidence bags, but didn’t find the knife. She spread the items out, examining each one in turn. No knife. A third inspection, same result.

“Thelma,” she said, peering out the door, “has anyone signed out any evidence from the Garrett case.”

“No, I’m sure they haven’t, but I’ll double check.” She removed the evidence log from her desk drawer and opened it. Her finger traced down the page. “No.”

“And everything was returned from the court? Right?”

“It’s all listed here. Hector Romero signed everything in after court the other day.”

“The knife, too?”

“Yep.”

“Get Hector on the phone.”

Thelma reached Hector at the court. After Sam spoke with him and Hector assured her he had indeed retuned everything, including the knife, she marched into Charlie Walker’s office.

“You are not going to believe this.” She flopped down in the chair next to his desk.

“Believe what?”

Sam explained everything to him.

“So, what you’re telling me is that we have a copy cat or an accomplice who stole the knife from the lock-up and used it on the Hargroves?”

“Exactly.”

Charlie exhaled loudly. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” He leaned back in his chair and slung one leg up on the corner of his desk. “Why? Who?”

“The who is the million dollar question. The why? Maybe Garrett and his buddy are thumbing their noses at us.”

“Seems to me, if that was the case, they’d have done it before the conviction. Even before the trial.”

“I know.” Sam agreed.

“I could understand it if there’d been a reward for Garrett. Take the money after his arrest and conviction, disappear, and then throw the curve ball. But, that’s not the case.” Charlie tilted his hat back by pushing up the brim with one finger.

“None of this makes a whole hell of a lot of sense,” Sam said. “How did someone break into the lock-up and steal the knife in the first place?”

“Our security isn’t the best. Never had to be before. That room only has a simple dead bolt. Wouldn’t take Houdini to get by that.”

“I suppose.”

“Thelma,” Charlie hollered.

Thelma appeared at the door, squinting, brow furrowed. She appeared pale and unsteady and grasped the doorjamb as if she might fall without its .

“You OK?” Charlie asked.

“Damn migraine again. I’ll be all right after I take my medicine. Did you change the light bulbs in here or something? Seems awfully bright.”

“You’re the only one around here that changes bulbs. Or even knows where they are. Why don’t you go lie down for a while.”

“I’ll be OK. What’d you need?”

“The evidence room keys. You keep them locked in your desk, don’t you?”

“Always.”

“No one could have gotten to them?”

“I don’t see how without my knowing it. Of course, someone could’ve broken in at night, but they’d have had to pry one of the doors and my desk drawer and I’d know if they did.”

“Thanks. Now, go lay down for a while and if you don’t feel better shortly I’m going to call Doc Roberts.”

“I’ll be fine.” Thelma turned and headed back to her desk.

“What do we do now?” Sam asked.

“Find the Goddamn knife. And hope it’s not sticking out of somebody when we do.”

Sam massaged her temples. “Are migraines contagious?”

“No,” Charlie laughed.

“Tell my brain that. Jesus, will this madness ever end?”

Sam walked to the window, leaning her palms on the sill. She peered through the half open curtains and the dirty panes at the slice of downtown Mercer’s Corner visible from where she stood. Cars moved by slowly, people, in no hurry to be anywhere, greeted one another as they ed on the street, and two children swung around parking meters, while their mothers chatted nearby. To the casual observer, everything appeared normal, dull, ordinary, without a hint of the insanity that had descended on the town.

She pushed herself upright and turned from the window. “Anything on the prints?”

“They’re not Garrett’s. We’ll have to wait and see if Sacramento can make a computer match.”

Sam walked to the door, turned around, and leaned against the frame. She hooked one thumb in her belt. “Any thoughts on who might be Garrett’s sidekick?”

“None,” Charlie said. “No relatives or friends or anybody showed up at the trial. Except those kids that hang out on the corner every day. Could they be involved?”

“They can barely organize a trip to the 7-11. Too stoned. Not that I don’t think they would help Garrett if they could, I just don’t think they’re capable of

murder.”

“Looks can be deceiving. To me, they look like the Manson Family.”

Fatigue slowed Walter Limpke. It slumped his shoulders and dulled his senses, causing him to move heavily. The muscles and ts of his arms and legs ached as he emptied boxes, lugged trash barrels, and climbed up and down the ladder at his hardware store.

He had awakened exhausted and even the four cups of coffee and two donuts he had consumed did not restore his energy. He had spent the morning doing inventory, stocking shelves, and tending customers, trying to ignore the flashes of last night’s dream that occasionally assaulted him. He was moderately successful, until he saw news of the murders on the TV he kept behind the counter. Then, distorted apparitions from last night invaded his thoughts with increasing rapidity.

At first, the images came at him with great effort, like a distant TV signal that flickered and faded and reappeared. Nothing coherent, but rather vague visions and sounds and smells. Soon, they became clearer, stronger. He saw a golden lake, an orange sky, a luminous red house, and Miriam Hargrove. He could see her face. Not her usual smiling, welcoming face, but a face twisted by fear and pain. A face surrounded by swirling colors and flashes of black lightning. A pale, bloodless face.

He felt empty, as if someone had ripped everything from him and left behind a hollow shell. Cold sweat leaked from his pores. He retreated to the restroom where he splashed cold water on his face and examined himself in the mirror. He appeared old, gray, defeated.

He told his wife that he felt ill and was going home to rest. She insisted he go see Dr. Roberts, but he refused, saying he didn’t sleep well and was tired and after a couple of hours of sleep he would be fine.

As he entered his street, his unease grew.

Last night’s nightmare continued its assault: screams and moans and flashes of ruby light intermingled with Miriam’s distorted face; rows of pastel houses oozed down a hill side as if melting; silvery streaks of lightning, which produced no thunder, swirled within his head; a curved knife blade flashed before him, its polished surface reflecting the colors of the dream world, its finely honed edge slicing them into millions of bright shards; and blood, thick and pungently scented, seeped from the edges of each vision.

He was going crazy. There was no other explanation. This must be what people go through on their way to crazy from whatever sanity they possessed before.

He told himself that he would get home and find that there were no drying clothes hanging in the garage, no soiled towel from his clean-up efforts. It was all a mad nightmare. It must be, for he could not fathom what the alternative would mean. He did not kill Roger and Miriam. He was sure of that.

He turned into his drive and reached up to press the garage door opener, which hung from the sun visor. He hesitated. Moment of truth.

Fear shoved his heart into overdrive. He touched the opener, his finger resting lightly on the button. For a brief moment, he considered backing from the drive and fleeing. Where? For how long? He couldn’t. He had to know.

He depressed the button and the garage door sprang to life. He closed his eyes as

the door ascended, hoping it would hurry, hoping it would take forever.

He pulled into the garage. Before him sat the washer and dryer and above them, on the line he had stretched years ago, hung pants, a shirt, and a towel.

He began to shake. His blood became an icy river; nausea and faintness swept through him. The skeletal fingers of fear clutched his throat and a cold sweat slicked his skin. He oozed from his car and somehow staggered into the sanctuary of his home.

CHAPTER 11

The Sheriff’s Department buzzed with activity. Penelope and her followers had arrived an hour earlier. Sam ushered them into one of the interrogation rooms where she had set up the fingerprinting equipment on a table along one wall. One by one, she inked their fingers and rolled them onto print cards. They cooperated, quietly, ively, and said little, which contrasted greatly with their demeanor once they returned to the front office and saw what Thelma had prepared for them.

Thelma, notorious for taking in strays of all kinds, had a menagerie of dogs, cats, and assorted other critters at her home. She took immediate pity on the ragamuffin group and ordered in pizza, cookies, and large bottles of Coke and 7 UP. The hungry kids devoured the treats with relish and laughed and joked as any group of teenagers would.

The sounds of the impromptu party filtered into the room where Sam finished printing Penelope. She handed the girl a moist paper towel so she could clean her ink stained fingers.

“Sounds like a party out there,” Sam said. She eyed the slim girl who made no response. Penelope was tall with stringy dark hair in dire need of washing. Her brown eyes held a sadness that was palpable. The pentagram on her forehead was painted, not tattooed as with some of the others.

“I spoke with Ed Campbell,” Sam said. “He corroborated your story. Said you guys were there around midnight.”

“That’s what we told you.”

“We cops are suspicious by nature. We check everything.”

“That’s why we have to go through this?”

“Exactly.”

Penelope shrugged.

“How did you get mixed up in all this?” Sam asked.

“All this what?” Penelope finished cleaning the black ink from her fingers and tossed the stained paper towel into the trashcan next to the table.

“This Satan thing. Garrett.”

“An old boyfriend introduced me to the religion.”

“Penelope, this is not a religion. It’s a cult. A dangerous cult.”

“Outsiders always say that. Satanism is no different from any other religion. Catholics, Baptists, Jews. Are they all cultists?”

“Any religion can become a cult if its followers take their beliefs to the extreme. If their ideas are out on the fringe. You must it Satanism isn’t exactly mainstream.”

Penelope shrugged. “We’re bigger than you think. And growing.”

“What do you expect to get out of this?” Sam asked.

“Enlightenment. Contentment.”

“It seems to me that there are better ways to get there.”

“We will win, you know.”

“Win?”

“The war. The apocalypse of Revelation.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Of course. Read Revelation and you’ll understand.”

Sam began packing the fingerprinting materials back in the metal tackle box they were stored in. “What about your parents? Don’t they worry about you?”

“Not likely. They’re too stoned most of the time to care.”

“Where do they live?”

“Beverly Hills.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Nice digs.”

“My dad is a hot-shot Hollywood producer, my mother an actress. James Cochran and Jillian Bowers. You’ve probably heard of them.”

“Hasn’t everyone?” Both were A list players in the movie business. Golden Globes, Emmys, Academy Awards, you name it.

“Between my dad humping the honey of the week and my mom running off with whoever her current leading man happened to be, and the cocaine and booze, they occasionally had time for us to have dinner together. Usually at the latest Beverly Hills hot spot, where they could see and be seen.”

“And in protest, you found Satan?”

“He found me. I was already into drugs. A little. Four years ago, when I was fourteen, I met a man at a party. He was thirty-five, introduced me to harder drugs and sex. He also introduced me to Satan and other Satanists. They cared about me and listened to what I had to say. Became my family, my friends.”

The girl’s obvious intelligence unnerved Sam. How could someone so well spoken be dressed like a street tramp and be devoted to a psychopath like Richard Earl Garrett? “Why Garrett? You don’t even know him.”

“He has seen Satan, has talked with him, and has been selected by him to be his personification here on Earth. He has Satan’s power within him.”

If that didn’t sound rehearsed, scripted, Sam didn’t know what did. “Actually, he’s a pathetic child killer. Is that what Satanists aspire to? Killing children?”

“Sometimes war has casualties.” Penelope looked at the floor and shuffled her feet.

Sam couldn’t help wondering if the girl truly believed what she said or was merely parroting the cult dogma. “And this war requires killing children?”

Penelope seemed increasingly uncomfortable with Sam’s questions. “Richard needed the blood of the innocents to seal his pact with Lucifer. That’s the only

way he could be a chosen disciple.”

“You don’t see anything wrong with that?”

“In some ways. Maybe.” She twirled a strand of hair around a finger and glanced nervously around the room. “But, there was no other way for him to achieve unity.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” The question hung somewhere between a challenge and a hopeful prayer.

Sam sensed a sadness and loneliness in the girl as if she was stranded in the ocean with no land in sight.

“Penelope, you’re probably a good kid who has been brainwashed by drugs and weirdoes and neglected by your parents. I hope that someday, if you live through your Satan period, you’ll see that. You’re a beautiful and intelligent young woman. You deserve better. I know you think us cops are the enemy, but that’s not true.”

Penelope lifted her eyes from the floor, stared at Sam, but said nothing.

They stood motionless for a moment. So close, yet so far apart. As if they were

from different worlds, Sam thought. And in many ways, they were. Sam wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of what. She sensed Penelope wanted more, too. The silence grew thick, broken only by the ceiling fan, which hummed and groaned as it drew ever nearer the end of its life.

Sam placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “If you need help or get in a jam, let me know.”

Penelope looked at her blankly. Sam wasn’t sure anything she said had penetrated, but thought she saw a faint glistening of the girl’s eyes.

“Why don’t you the others before they eat all the pizza,” Sam said.

“Can I see Richard?” Penelope asked. “Talk with him for a few minutes?”

“Afraid not.”

Sam ushered her down the hall to where her friends were laughing and talking animatedly. That’s the way kids should act, Sam thought.

The front door swung open and Lanny Mills entered. A look of dismay spread across his face as he took in the scene before him. The expression quickly dissolved into a scowl. His eyes finally rested on Sam and he crossed the room toward her. “Charlie here?”

“No. Come on back.” She led him down the hallway. Not that she relished the idea of a conversation with Lanny, but if it had to be better that it took place in the privacy of her office and not in front of a bunch of kids.

“Did you or Charlie get my messages?”

“Yeah. But, I’ve been a little busy.”

“So I see.”

“What do you want, Lanny?” Sam sat down behind her desk, welcoming the distance between them.

“What’s going on out there?” He stood with his spidery thumbs hooked in his belt, which exaggerated his paunch.

“They came in for fingerprinting.”

“So, you threw them a party?”

She wanted to knock the smugness right off his face. “Thelma’s idea. If you want to complain, talk to her. I wouldn’t advise it though. She takes this charity stuff pretty seriously.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little odd for the Sheriff’s Department to host a party for a bunch of criminals?”

“They’re not criminals.”

“Then, why are you printing them?”

“It’s my job.” She focused a glare at him.

“Did they have anything to do with Roger and Miriam’s murder?” His chin pointed at her defiantly.

“Not likely.”

“Miriam did help convict Garrett and they are his followers.”

“They’re mixed up kids, Lanny. Not killers.”

“But, you’re not sure.”

“Mostly.”

He walked to the window, standing with his back to her. “Where were they last night?”

“Camped out on Salt Creek Road.”

“All night?”

“Ed Campbell saw them there about midnight. Which is about the time of the murders according to Ralph Klingler.”

He turned from the window. “All of them?”

“Ed didn’t do a head count if that’s what you mean.”

“So, some of them might have slipped away and murdered two people?”

“That’s why we’re printing them. The killer left prints all over the place, so we’ll know soon.”

“Are you going to hold them until then?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If I need them, they’re only a half a block away.”

“Unless they leave town. Go back to LA. Disappear.”

“They won’t.”

“I hope you’re right, Sam. It would look bad if you had the killers and let them go.”

“I’m sure if I’m wrong you’ll let me know.”

“Don’t get defensive.”

“Look, Lanny. You’ve had a hard on for Charlie ever since he beat you in the last election. Actually, the last three elections. He’s a good Sheriff and you know it. Your is needed more than your sniping.”

“I’m not sniping.”

“The hell you aren’t. Why did you come by here today anyway? What do you really want?”

“Just keeping up with what’s happening. The council expects to be informed.”

“Then, tell them we have everything under control.”

“Do you?”

No, she wanted to say. We don’t have a clue who killed Roger and Miriam. “If you have any suggestions on how we can better do our job, let us know. But, I’m sure you will.”

“Sam…”

She raised her hands to deflect his words. “Lanny, we have a problem here. Two murders to solve. We can use your help. And that of the council. If you can help, great. If not, then get out of the way and let us do our job.”

“Sam…”

She stood, leaned on her desk, and directed a glare at him. “Your not so subtle jabs at our competence are counter productive. This isn’t a political issue. Roger and Miriam were murdered. You knew them. Everyone knew them. Just let us do our job and we’ll find out who did it. OK?”

He took a step back. “OK. But, I expect to be kept informed about your progress.”

“You know you will.” She escorted him to the front door and bid him a nice day. Jerk, she thought. Slimy jerk. Trying to make political hay out of Roger and Miriam’s murder.

CHAPTER 12

After Lanny left, Sam tackled the phone messages and paper work on her desk. She then sifted through everything they had put together so far on Roger and Miriam’s murder.

An hour later, she pushed the stack of reports to the edge of her desk. Three trips through the pages and she knew no more about the Hargroves’ murder than when she started. She eyed the wall clock opposite her desk. Another hour to kill before her work out with Jimmy.

“Want some coffee?” Sam asked Thelma as she walked into the front office. “I’m going over to Starbucks for a caffeine fix before those reports put me in a coma.”

The kids had finished the pizza, actually cleaned up after themselves, and retreated to their position at the street corner to continue their vigil for Richard Earl Garrett.

“Sure. An Americano would be great.”

“Back in a sec.”

“Sam, you don’t think those kids had anything to do with these killings do you?” Thelma asked. “I mean, they’re so young and lost.”

“Kids do some pretty crazy things,” Sam said. “If you watched the news last night you saw that story about those two kids that shot up their classroom with automatic weapons. They were thirteen years old.”

“But, these kids seem sad, not angry or aggressive.”

“No, Thelma, I don’t think they’re involved. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I doubt they’re the perps.”

“Thank goodness,” Thelma said, relief spreading across her face. “That Penelope girl asked about you.”

“Oh?”

“I think you made an impression on her.”

Sam shook her head. “All I got out of her was a sad tale of neglectful parents and blank stares.”

“Maybe listening to her was enough. I doubt most people give her the time of day.”

“True. Back in a minute.”

Sam walked out the front door wondering if Penelope had heard more than she let on. Maybe. She did seem indecisive and not at all convincing about her love for Satan. Perhaps Satanism was the first thing that came along that allowed her to escape her parents, and she took it. Too bad it wasn’t college, or marriage, or anything with a real future. Her home life had obviously been less than perfect. Of course, Sam only knew Penelope’s side of the story. Maybe her parents were actually ideal, like Ward and June Cleaver, and she was an angry, rebellious teenager. Sam didn’t believe that. Penelope was simply too sad, too ive to be a real rebel.

Three reporters yanked her from her reverie as they hurried toward her. She turned to retreat, but stopped when two others stuck microphones in her face. She threw her hands up in surrender. “Three questions, then I’m out of here.”

“Why were those kids in your office?” asked a man from the Los Angeles Times.

“We had a pizza party. Part of our new public relations program.”

“They said they were fingerprinted. Is that true?” the same man asked.

“Yes.”

“Are they suspects?” asked a woman from ABC News.

“Barely. But, so are you.” The woman recoiled as if struck.

“But, why…”

“Three questions are up,” Sam said and pushed past them, ignoring the questions that followed her.

After buying two Cafe Americanos at Starbucks and dodging the reporters that had returned to interviewing the groupies at the corner, she slipped into the department and placed Thelma’s coffee on her desk.

“There’s someone here to see you,” Thelma said.

“Who?” Sam looked around, but saw no one.

“Nita Stillwater. She’s in your office.”

“Nita Stillwater? What does she want?”

“Wouldn’t say. Just that it’s important and she had to speak to you and no one else.”

Awinita Stillwater, was the local Cherokee spiritualist, soothsayer, fortuneteller,

or whatever she was. Sam had never talked to her, but knew of her. Everybody knew of her.

Sam dropped into her chair behind her desk, facing Nita who sat quietly in the chair across from her.

“Mrs. Stillwater, what can I do for you?”

“Please, call me Nita. Everybody does.”

“OK, Nita.”

“Do you know who I am?” The woman leaned forward, resting a weathered hand on Sam’s desk.

“Of course.”

“I mean, do you really know who I am?”

“What do you mean?”

Nita was in her early sixties, but appeared much older. Sam looked into the woman’s eyes, which peered over high cheekbones from her dark, sun-ravaged

face, creased, cracked, blotched, like old leather. The eyes were deep, intelligent, experienced, and sad. Her once black hair, now streaked with gray, swept backwards into a braid that hung to her waist. Seven flint arrowheads, four bear claws, and a large centerpiece of raw turquoise hung from a leather necklace.

“I have powers. Powers that I can’t explain, but they have been with me since I was a child. My mother had the same gifts.”

“What powers?” She had work to do and didn’t need to sit here chatting nonsense with an old Indian woman. As soon as she released the thought, Sam wanted to suck it back into her mind. Why? Did she think Nita could read her thoughts? Of course not. Yet, something about the woman unsettled Sam. Maybe it was her reputation or her piercing eyes or maybe this whole damn situation had her spooked to the point that she would fall for all sorts of nonsense.

“You do not believe,” Nita said. “I see that. Most don’t…at least not at first.”

“At first?”

“It does not matter that you believe me, but you must hear what I have to say and heed my warning.”

“Nita, you’re not making sense. What warning?”

“The demon. The demon with the iron finger. He is here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“The demon has escaped from his cave and resides here. That is why these murders have visited us. It is his work.”

“Nita, I appreciate you telling me this, but I assure you these killings are the work of a flesh and blood human being not some mysterious demon from a cave. Now, I have a lot of work…”

“Listen to me,” the old woman commanded, her black eyes stabbing Sam defiantly. “I came to warn you. The demon is here. The killings will continue until he is slain. I know. I feel him, I see him, I know him.”

“OK. Who is he?”

“I do not know whose soul he has taken, what form he is, but he is here and he is strong and relentless.”

“I see.” Sam hooked her finger under her sleeve, lifted it, and glanced at her watch.

Nita exhaled, her shoulders drooping as if her necklace was of lead. “You do not believe. You do not listen.” She pulled herself up and walked to the door, where she turned and fixed Sam with her dark eyes. “You must be careful. I sense the demon will come for you. Soon.” With that, she turned and disappeared through the door.

The hairs on Sam’s arms and the back of her neck snapped to attention and the faint tingling she had felt since Nita began talking erupted into a full blown shiver. She sat back in her chair and released a long sigh.

First, Satan’s disciples and now a Cherokee mystic. What next? An alien landing? Little men with windshield-like eyes and cabbage heads? Even her own humorous thoughts fell flat as Nita’s words echoed in her head. It was not so much Nita’s words, but the absolutely certainty with which she delivered them that bothered her. The tingling crept down her arms and legs.

Damn it. She hated this feeling, but didn’t know how to stop it. Maybe a workout would help.

After two hours of running and circuit weights and a three round sparing session with Jimmy, Sam met Charlie Walker and Lisa McFarland at Millie’s. She ordered a turkey sandwich and a beer, then gulped down the glass of water Millie placed in front of her. “Jimmy’s going to kill me, I swear.”

Charlie and Lisa laughed.

Sam crunched on a piece of ice. “He’s trying to toughen me up before the bout in four weeks, but I think he enjoys beating the hell out of me.”

“Why do you do that? Why not aerobic dancing? Something less painful?” Lisa asked.

“Aerobic dancing is for wimps,” Sam said with a smile, knowing aerobics was Lisa’s favorite exercise routine.

“Yeah. But, I leave with all my brain cells intact,” Lisa jabbed.

“But, not your knee ts,” Sam countered.

Millie set a sandwich that teetered with four inches of turkey, lettuce, and tomato in front of Sam. Sam mashed it to a manageable height with the heel of her hand and took a bite. “Hmmm. I’m hungrier than I thought. Anything new?” she asked Charlie.

“I went through the prints of those kids you took today. None of them matched. Ralph Klingler doesn’t have anything new, but he did compare the wounds on Miriam and Roger Hargrove with the photos of the kids and he’s certain the weapon was the same.”

“Great,” Sam said. “We’re back to square one. We have an unknown killer and a missing weapon.”

“Anything on the knife?” Lisa asked.

“Nothing,” Charlie said. “Hector specifically re returning it to the lockup and neither Judge Westbrooke nor I have authorized its removal.”

“Who has access to the room?” Lisa asked.

“Me. Sam. Thelma. That’s it,” Charlie said.

“Someone must’ve broken in and stolen it,” Lisa said.

“No evidence of tampering with the lock.”

“Maybe it sprouted wings and flew away,” Lisa said. She slipped from the booth. “I’d better call my voice mail and see if anything’s going on.”

Sam and Charlie sat silently while she finished her sandwich and he downed his second cup of coffee.

“Now what?” Sam asked.

Charlie stuck a fresh toothpick in his mouth. “Hope and prayer. Hope that we catch a break and pray that no one else gets whacked in the meantime.”

CHAPTER 13

Earlier, when Walter Limpke entered the sanctuary of his home, he had taken a shower in a futile attempt to wash away the cold fear that gripped him. The hot water soothed his sore muscles, but did little to steady his shaking hands or to release the tension that gnawed at his frayed nerves.

Afterwards, even though he rarely drank, he dug the bottle of Chivas Regal he kept for guests from its hiding place behind the Corn Flakes and Cheerios in the kitchen cabinet. He downed two gulps straight from the bottle, grimacing as the golden liquid burned his mouth, stomach, and everything in between. Two more shots were followed by one of his wife’s Xanax tablets.

He then retreated to his bedroom, closed the drapes, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers under his chin. After tossing for an hour, he finally fell into a fretful sleep.

But, each time he drifted into the deep waters of exhausted somnolence, nightmarish visions would drag him into the shallows and finally to a sweatslicked wakefulness. He would kick back the covers, flip the pillow over to the cool, dry side, and with effort descend toward sleep once again. But, not for long.

Near sunset, he sank into his deepest sleep of the day, settling into a soft velvety blackness, seeing, hearing, feeling nothing except warmth and comfort. Finally, he began to unwind as if a Gordian Knot deep in his psyche had loosened, allowing fear and anxiety to drift away into the black void.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he detested a pinprick of light. Yellow, then orange, and finally red, it flickered like a distant candle flame kissed by a gentle breeze. Its intensity grew until it became a sharp laser of light, cutting into his brain. He tried to look away but could not. The red point of light held him as fear returned in a cold wave.

The pinpoint expanded, exploded, as if a supernova and he found himself in a dream world of such intensity that it burned his eyes, scorched his skin into a mass of blisters and black eschars, and seared his lungs with each breath he took. Winds of brilliant colors, some ice cold, some excruciatingly hot, swirled around him. Droplets of blood, carried by the winds, peppered his face and chest, causing his skin to sizzle and pop as if struck by molten metal. The coppery taste of blood mixed with the sour salt of his own panic-driven sweat.

From the chaos, a face appeared, half-human, half-reptile, or perhaps it morphed from one to the other. He couldn’t be sure which.

He recoiled when a beam of light struck a knife blade honed to such sharpness that it sliced the light into thousands of colors, which painted the reptilian man’s face as if he were viewed through a kaleidoscope. Its gaping mouth revealed sharp conical teeth, dominated by long carnivorous canines as the beast rocked back its head in laughter. Its bellows reverberated like thousands of church bells simultaneously ringing in an enclosed bell tower.

He jerked to wakefulness with a sharp whimper. The dream world dissolved and he saw his wife standing over him, nudging his shoulder.

“Walter, are you OK? Look at you. You’re drenched with sweat.”

“Where…wha…Margo?”

“I’m going to call Doctor Roberts, right now.”

“No.” He grabbed her hand. “I’m all right. I was just dreaming.”

“You look sick to me.” She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but I’ll get the thermometer.”

“I’m OK.”

She ignored him, went into the bathroom, and returned, shaking the thermometer. “Here.” She slipped it into his mouth beneath his tongue and sat on the bed next to him. After two minutes, she removed it, slipped on her glasses, and stared at the red column in the glass tube. “Well, you don’t have a fever.”

“I told you. There’s nothing wrong that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

“Are you sure?”

He stared at her, debating what to say. She was more than his wife. She was his friend and partner, the only woman he had ever loved, ever made love to. They had been sweethearts since the sixth grade. Neither held secrets from the other. Ever. But, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her what he feared. How could he? He didn’t even know what was happening. Perhaps everything was simply a

crazy dream. Maybe he was sick. Or going insane. And, if his greatest fears were true? What then? Looking into her beautiful face, he knew there was no way to tell her. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“I’m sure,” he said.

“OK. You stay here and I’ll heat up some soup.” She headed toward the kitchen.

Guilt gnawed at him. For not telling Margo the truth. For the dream he didn’t understand but sensed he must somehow be at fault. For sneaking around his own house, cleaning up bloodstains. For dragging blood into his home, their home, in the first place. For not knowing where the blood came from. For what he may have done last night.

Margo returned with a tray and, after he fluffed his pillow and sat up against the headboard, placed it on his lap. Suddenly, he was ravenous. While Margo showered and dressed for bed, he wolfed a bowl of tomato soup, a hunk of sourdough bread, and a dish of orange sherbet.

“Nothing wrong with your appetite,” she said, removing the tray.

“I told you I was OK.” He wanted to tell her, scream to her, that he wasn’t OK. That something was terribly wrong. That he might be losing his mind. That he might be a murderer. But, he said nothing.

“I’m going to watch TV for a little while,” she said. “Let me know if you need

anything.”

“I will. Thanks.” He smiled at her and she smiled back before leaving the bedroom. God, he loved her.

After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he took another Xanax and two shots of Scotch. He returned to bed and attempted to read, but fatigue, alcohol, and the Xanax tugged at his eyelids until the paperback sank to his chest and he drifted to sleep.

As midnight approached, a storm closed from the north, dragging the temperature into the thirties. A blanket of low clouds preceded the storm’s leading edge, which thundered and flashed above the distant horizon.

Garrett’s Groupies had roasted hot dogs and marshmallows, then huddled near the fire drinking beer and smoking ts until each was comfortably numbed. Wrapped in blankets, they looked like any other group campers, listening to fireside stories.

Despite the cold and the approaching storm, Penelope shed her blanket and coat and prepared for the night’s ritual. The group closed ranks into a semi-circle near the fire, while Penelope ed among them, pouring red wine from a large bottle into the small paper cups each member held as if it were a silver chalice. After filling their cups, she stepped upon a four-foot ledge from which she would conduct the ceremony.

Penelope stood quietly, looking down on the group seated across the flames from her. Her ankle length, gauzy black dress adhered to her lithe body as the desert wind caressed her. The flickering glow of the campfire licked at her, creating and dissolving shadows in the curves and recesses of her form and gilding the silver inverted pentagram that hung from her neck. She held the group spellbound with the power of her words and the raw sensuality of her visage.

“Hail, Satan,” she chanted.

“Hail, Satan,” the group responded in unison, then downed the wine in a single gulp. They tossed the cups into the fire, which blushed brighter as it consumed the paraffin-coated paper, painting the faces of the faithful a warm cherry red.

Penelope spread her arms and spoke to the darkness that surrounded the pocket of light created by the fire. “In the name of Satan, the Prince of the Underworld, I beseech the forces of darkness to throw open the gates of Hell so your children may enter. Come forth my Prince and make your presence known.”

The wind surged, swirling her hair around her face and pressing the gown against her, over her hardened nipples, between her thighs, until she appeared as a nude sculpted of black marble. The flame washed faces stared up at her, transfixed by her haunting beauty, overwhelmed by the power of Satan embodied in her form.

“He is here,” one of the girls shouted.

“He is with us,” chimed another.

Penelope knelt and picked up a silver knife that lay near her feet. Standing, she held it above her head, the thick curved blade shimmering in the fire’s glow.

“Hail to Lucifer, Master of Darkness.”

The others stood and repeated, “Hail to Lucifer.”

Using the point of the knife, Penelope pricked her finger, then held it before her until a drop of blood fell into the fire, sizzling as the flames consumed it.

“It is with the blood of Lucifer that we cleanse our souls and enter the nether world.”

Penelope stepped down from the rock, gathering the others around her. She touched the point of the knife to her wound and applied a smear of blood to Melissa’s forehead. She repeated this ritual until each had been anointed, then returned to her place above them.

Holding the knife, she extended her arm over them. “Lucifer, impart to us your wisdom. Show us the path to your domain.” She closed her eyes, spread her arms wide, and bowed her head. Her voice became low, guttural.

“Come as a reaper and you will attain the riches of the nether world.”

“Hail, Lucifer,” they chanted.

“Strive ever for souls, for the Domain of Lucifer is forever.”

“Hail, Lucifer.”

“Love nothing so strongly that you cannot watch it die.”

“Hail, Lucifer.”

“All that is worthy is built on a bed of sorrow and pain.”

“Hail, Lucifer, Prince of Darkness.”

The group began a slow rhythmic dance, body writhing against body, hands exploring, caressing, clothes falling away. Moans and soft murmurs filled the night air as the first droplets of rain reached them.

Melissa mounted the rock where Penelope stood and knelt before her, wrapping her arms around the taller girl’s legs, sliding her cheek over her abdomen. Penelope held the girl’s head against her as her hips began an involuntary sensual sway.

She gazed over her followers, watching as they grouped in twos and threes and fours and climbed into the vans or one of the tents they had set-up earlier, seeking shelter from the rain, comforting and pleasing one another. She felt a deep sense of belonging, of brotherhood and sisterhood.

More than that, she felt needed. They depended on her for guidance, strength, and hope; she received courage and purpose in return. She had become the mother she never had. Despite the cold wind that lashed at her, she felt an internal warmth as if the fire before her had taken residence within her soul. She truly loved them, and they her.

Penelope slid her hand beneath the Melissa’s chin and raised her to her feet, their lips touching, tentatively, then bolder. They locked in an embrace, pressing,

sliding their bodies together, peeling away clothing. The rain intensified and the cold wind knifed into them. Stripped bare, the two girls jumped from their perch and slipped into one of the tents, their bodies immediately intertwining.

CHAPTER 14

Despite his fatigue and the sedating effects of the alcohol and Xanax, Walter Limpke slept poorly, never attaining the deep, restful world of REM sleep. Each time he ascended into wakefulness, he hesitantly surveyed the dark room, searching for any sign that last night’s dream had returned. His eyes probed the corners and shadows for even the slightest glimmer of color.

Once he slipped from his bed, being careful not to disturb Margo, and explored the dark recesses of the room, the closet, and the adjacent bathroom. Finding nothing, he eased back beneath the covers, praying that his afternoon dream would not return, that the events of last night had been a nightmare rather than reality or insanity. He prayed that when he woke the next morning his world would once again be normal, mundane. He prayed, but just after midnight when he lurched into wakefulness, surrounded by the same brilliant colors as before, he knew it was not to be.

He sat up in bed, vowing not to succumb to the compulsion that drug him from his bed, into his closet. He screamed at himself not to put on his clothes, his boots, but found himself dressed, boots on.

No! Make it stop. Please, God, make it stop.

As he backed from his driveway, he begged his foot to stomp the brake, but his foot would not respond. When he left his neighborhood and pointed his car toward town, he willed his hands to turn the wheel, off the road, into a ditch, a tree, anywhere but where he was going. His hands ignored his pleas.

Walter Limpke was losing control of his actions, his will, his sanity.

His inner voice diminished to a whimper.

Please. No more.

He felt as though he were drowning in a Technicolor sea of madness. He could not fight the current nor reach the shore where sanity and control awaited. He sank deeper into the eddies of the dream that controlled his actions and pulled him toward the oblivion he knew awaited.

He returned to the post office and, as on the previous night, retrieved the plastic bag from behind the air conditioner compressor. He headed north out of town, then left onto a rutted muddy road. A half mile later, he pulled off the road into the desert, parked, and continued on foot, oblivious to the rain that soaked his clothing.

He ascended a gentle rise and a doublewide trailer, which emitted a brilliant ruby light, a pulsing beacon that stung his eyes, came into view. Who lived here? He knew, but could not . Part of his brain recognized the structure, but he could not pull that recognition into clear focus.

He wanted to go home, back to bed, back to Margo, but the rhythmic beacon held him. He removed the object from the plastic bag and slogged down the slope toward the trailer.

Richard Earl Garrett sat cross-legged on his bunk, deep in meditation. He found that as his weeks of incarceration ed, he spent more and more hours each day in this trance-like state, which offered him his only respite from the fourwalled boredom of his cell. He would will his body to relax, his breathing to adopt a slow, steady rhythm, and his mind to block all external stimuli and open itself to its own internal milieu, allowing him to escape the world around him and enter the other world, his world. Through this, he could soar with his mentor, strengthen their union, expand his own powers, and bring himself ever closer to Satan’s pantheon.

Tonight, after Thelma had delivered his evening meal of chicken, potatoes, green beans, and iced tea, he had napped for two hours, then begun his nightly reverie. At midnight, the rain came, cooling the night air. He slipped on his cardigan sweater and wrapped his blanket around his waist and legs. He flicked off the goose-necked reading lamp on the small table beside his bunk. Darkness closed around him. Warm and comfortable, he quickly entered his meditative state, leaving the world behind.

The approaching storm rumbled across the desert toward Mercer’s Corner, but he heard little of its bellowing. Distant lightning occasionally flickered on the walls around him, but he hardly noticed. The rain pounded the jail’s roof with a hallow drumming, which increased in intensity as the downpour strengthened. Garrett pushed this intrusion to the back of his mind. Instead, he soared high above the storm, far from the rain washed Earth.

Suddenly, a heavy flash-boom shook the cell as if the storm had leaped across the desert and descended upon him with all its fury, yanking him from his trance. The walls shimmered with the silvery white reflection of the lightning and the building trembled as if the Earth’s bowels were rumbling in protest. The crisp smell of ozone penetrated his nostrils and large balls of red and orange danced before his eyes as the cell once again plunged into darkness. A darkness deeper than before.

“No,” he cried out.

The timing of the lightening blast could not have been worse. Just as he reached the fulfillment of his meditative journey, the moment of triumph, of glory, of oneness, the storm seized him, tore him from his station, and dropped him here. He threw off his blanket and paced the cell, fuming at the storm, which he was sure God had sent to thwart him, to thwart Lucifer.

The drumming of the rain, God’s rain, on the roof and the buffeting of the wind, God’s wind, against the building infuriated him.

“Rave on, Old Man,” he shouted to the God he could not see. “Your cold breath and your tears will not stop me or my master.”

He pushed open the small window and peered through the bars into the night air. Wind driven rain pelted his face.

“Did you hear me?” he screamed. “We will triumph. We will show the world how truly impotent you are.”

Another flash of lightning cracked across the sky, silvering the rain, strobing across his face. He jumped with a sharp intake of breath and reflexly stepped back from the window.

Anger surged within him. Anger at God, at himself.

Who was the weak one? He could rant at God, mock his power, but with the mere flick of a lightning bolt, God could send him cowering. His anger turned to rage, which in turn emboldened him. He grasped the bars and pushed his face between two of them. The cold rain stung his face.

“I do not fear you,” he screeched.

Again, lightning flashed, farther away, followed by a soft rumble as if God had retreated from the battle. He waited. Another flash, weaker, more distant.

He pulled the window closed, wiped the rain from his face with a towel, and returned to his bunk, pulling the blanket around him. He considered returning to his meditation, to his Prince, to his moment of consummation, but knew it would be fruitless. Too late. The damage was done; the moment lost, forever.

A blinding flash of lightning and a cymbal crash of thunder dropped Walter Limpke from his Technicolor dream into a nightmare. A nightmare far beyond his most visceral fears.

He had feared he was losing his mind, but now he was certain that he had. No other explanation was possible. The wildly colored world of the past two nights, his blood smeared clothes and hands, his visions of Miriam Hargrove paled when compared to the scene before him.

He recoiled, stepping back, and tripped over the buckled carpet. He fell, landing on his butt with a heavy thud.

Where was he? He scanned the dark room. An aluminum framed window to his right, a flimsy aluminum door, standing open, to his left, and a stained and gritty yellow carpet beneath him. Ahead on his right were a small sink and refrigerator and wooden overhead cabinets. A mobile home? He was in a mobile home. Whose? Where? Why?

He felt moisture beneath his left hand, soaking through the seat of his pants. The rain pounded the steps outside the open door. At first, he thought the wet carpet must be rain soaked, but when he looked at his hand, even in the darkness, he could see the dark stains of blood.

Fear slipped into him like a finely honed knife.

A bolt of lightning, its simultaneous clap of thunder as palpable as it was

audible, flitted along the ground outside the door, illuminating the interior. The body, which hung by its ankles before him, danced in the strobing light as if it were an inverted marionette controlled by some monstrous hand.

He scrambled backwards, propelling himself with the heels of his boots, until he collided with a table that sat against the wall. His heart matched the hammering of the rain, both echoing in his head. Sweat poured from every pore and a bitter, sour acid burned his throat.

He pulled himself to his feet, clutching the table for . A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him and his stomach ground into a knot.

Again, lightning rippled across the sky, bathing the room with its flickering light. The body repeated its macabre dance.

He approached cautiously, half expecting the corpse to spring to life and lunge at him. The blood soaked carpet made squishing noises with each step.

He was close to the body, very close. He could see the throat had been sliced, exposing the cartilage of the windpipe, and the chest had been ripped open. A dark cavity stared at him. Where was the heart? He ed enough high school biology to know that the heart should be where the gaping wound was.

Dear, God, let this be a dream.

Another flash of lightning painted the corpse. Recognition struck him like a left

hook. It was Roberto Sanchez, a friend and customer for over ten years.

He back peddled, slipping on the blood soaked carpet, falling to the floor. Blood oozed through his clothes, slicking his skin. Panic squeezed all reason from him. He kicked and squirmed and wallowed in a futile attempt to escape the sticky liquid that seemed to pull him downward as if trying to drown him.

He grasped the handle of a drawer, then another, and another, scrambling upward. His hand reached the counter top, clawing, clutching, searching for something to anchor to. His fingers brushed against something, which tumbled off the counter, struck him in the face, and dropped into his lap.

“Oh, God,” he screamed and pushed and kicked the heart away from him, sending it tumbling across the floor. He collapsed, shaking uncontrollably.

Oh, God, kill me now. I can’t…I can’t take anymore.

He leaned against the cabinets and sobbed, a deep visceral sob that possessed no end. His heart leaped against his chest as if trying to escape.

Finally, he struggled to his feet, too exhausted, too beaten to feel anything, except a black, cold emptiness. He turned from the body, the blood, and the madness and headed for the door.

Another streak of lightning cracked across the sky. He caught a glimpse of something shiny, metallic on the floor near the door. A knife. He picked it up and

stepped into the rain.

The storm driven wind cut through his clothing. He spread his arms and spun around and around, letting the coldness assault him. He dropped to his knees and turned his gaze skyward.

“Dear, God, tell me, what to do? Am I going crazy?”

He turned the knife over and over in his hand, examining it. Images careened around inside his head as if looking for an escape route. Finding none, they tumbled and swirled until they blended into a vortex of color.

From the chaos, structure emerged. Images of blood, of the faces of Miriam Hargrove and Roberto Sanchez, and of the knife. The knife slashed through the air, then through flesh. Someone held the knife and furiously struck at Miriam and Roberto. The knife wielder hacked and slashed and stabbed over and over, then turned. Walter Limpke stared into his own face.

“No!” he screamed into the wind.

The cold rain pelted him, pasting his clothes to his shivering body. With a bowed head, he rocked back and forth on his knees, shaking his head in a futile attempt to dislodge the images from his brain.

When he looked up into the rain streaked darkness, his beautiful wife Margo appeared before him, her gentle smile offering respite, her open arms

welcoming. He reached out, crawling toward her, wanting to hold her tightly and lay his head on her comforting bosom. But she retreated, her face twisting into a look of horror, an accusatory finger stabbing at him. He turned away, unable to face her visage.

“Margo. Forgive me,” he said softly.

Clutching the knife in his left hand, he slammed it into his gut. The finely honed, eight-inch curved steel blade met little resistance as its full length penetrated his belly. A searing pain exploded through him, causing a sharp intake of breath and a tangle of second thoughts.

Yet, as severe as the pain was, to Walter, living, facing Margo, facing his own actions would be worse. He yanked the blade free and thrust it again and again and again, until he collapsed face down on the muddy ground.

CHAPTER 15

Maria Hidalgo was running late, as usual. She hurriedly whipped up a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast for her husband and two boys, only toast and coffee for herself. She applied the minimal amount of make-up that allowed her to leave the privacy of home, slipped on slacks and a sweater, and snatched her raincoat from the closet. She kissed her husband goodbye as he headed off to work, then zipped the boys into their rain gear and herded them into the car.

After dropping the children at school, she drove into town. The windshield wipers struggled against the drizzle, which tugged the steel gray clouds downward, muting the colors of everything. Buildings, cars, people, even the traffic signals gave up their hues to the mist.

Despite being late, she needed her morning Starbucks’ fix and luckily someone backed from a choice parking space directly in front of the busy coffee shop. She slid her Cadillac into the spot and, not bothering with her umbrella, jumped from the car and darted inside.

The smell of fresh coffee and pastries greeted her.

She ordered a large cafe latte and waited impatiently while Tasha Fallow, a teenage girl with green and fuchsia hair and a nose ring, prepared it. Tasha was the daughter of Bob and Sherry Fallow. Maria couldn’t understand how they let their daughter paint and punch holes in her body that way and hoped the fad would be dead long before her boys reached that rebellious age.

She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and glanced at her watch, 8:40. Her father’s appointment with Doctor Roberts was at 9:15. She just might make it. That is, if the rain hadn’t washed out the road to his trailer.

She and her husband Raul had tried for years to persuade the old man to live with them, but he stubbornly refused, preferring to “live out here where people leave you alone.” Roberto Sanchez’s mobile home sat along a dirt road five miles north of town. He occupied himself with his woodworking and his cactus and rose gardens and drove his old Chevy pick-up into town only when necessary.

Maria and Raul frequently called or drove by to check on him or took him to Millie’s for dinner or dropped his grandsons off for the day on some weekends. They worried about him daily, which she was sure aggravated Roberto, but also pleased him.

He had never been what you would gregarious, but as the years ed he became increasingly cantankerous and less tolerant of intrusions on his privacy. “If anybody wants to talk to me, they know where to find me,” he would say. However, he did brighten whenever his grandsons came to visit and seemed to anticipate their visits by planning all sorts of activities for them. He taught them about his cactus garden and his roses. He introduced them to woodworking and together they made a variety of toys and other gadgets. They collected rocks and caught lizards. They hiked around the desert in search of unusual insects and plants, which the boys could name with astonishing accuracy. After a day with Roberto, they always slept soundly.

Maria had been pleased when her father was selected for jury duty three weeks ago. Not that she wanted him to be involved in a case as gruesome as Garrett’s, but she hoped that having to come into town and interact with others on a daily basis would open his eyes to just how isolated he had become.

She ducked into her car, being careful not to spill the hot coffee, backed from the parking space, and headed out of town. After turning off the paved highway, she found the rutted dirt road sloppy, but able.

When she topped the rise in the road and saw the mobile home, she knew something was wrong, terribly wrong. The body, laying face down in the mud caused a sharp intake of breath and her heart stuttered as she pulled to a stop twenty yards from the trailer.

“Oh, God. Papa, no.”

She hurled herself from the car, tossing aside the coffee, and raced toward the body. Heart attack? Stroke? All the fears she kept locked in that corner of her mind where she hid such things came pouring out.

Was he dead or merely ill? How long had he been lying there in the rain and cold? Why wasn’t she there to help him when he needed her? Why didn’t she make him come live with her?

As she approached the body, these fears evaporated, replaced by new ones. Immediately, she knew the body was not that of her father. But, who?

She knelt in the mud, grasped the shoulder nearest her, and shook the man. No response. She rolled the man to his side, inhaling with a sharp squeak when she saw blood. A knife, which protruded from his stomach, slid from its fleshy sheath and plopped into the mud, followed by an ooze of thick blood that swirled

and folded into the mud, creating a psychedelic pattern.

A scream arose but became wedged somewhere in her throat, swelling, expanding. She couldn’t dislodge it, so it fell silent, leaving only a faint whimper in its wake.

The man groaned, causing her to recoil and slip backwards on the seat of her pants. She scrambled to her feet, her head swiveling, searching. Where was her father?

She stared at the trailer’s open door. She struggled to her feet, never ungluing her gaze from the doorway, but was afraid to approach, afraid not to. She stood transfixed, frozen by fear.

Her first impulse was to run back to her car and flee, go find help. But, what if Papa is in there, injured, dying?

She took a step, then another, then two more. She called out. “Papa?” The word came out weakly, raspy with fear. Two more steps. “Papa?” she repeated, louder, in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own. Two steps and the door gaped before her.

She cautiously climbed the steps and peered into the mobile home. At first, nothing appeared out of place. Dark stains in the carpet caught her attention, causing the fear that wound around her gut to crescendo. She leaned through the door and looked toward the rear of the trailer.

Roberto Sanchez’s pale, bloodless body hung from the ceiling, his mouth distorted in a hideous grin of death.

The impact of the scene propelled her backwards, her foot slipping on the steps. She slammed against the ground with such force the air escaped from her lungs in a single wheezing bolus. Gasping, she quickly rose to her hands and knees and frantically clawed the mud, pulling herself toward her car, feeling as if someone was clutching at her ankles, attempting to pull her back into the trailer. The faster she dug at the mud, the slower she seemed to move, which only intensified her panic. Her heart pitched and yawed and swelled to the point of bursting.

Finally she reached the car, hugging its bumper as a drowning man would cling to a raft. She pressed her cheek against the cool chrome and sobbed and cried and finally screamed at the black clouds that hid the sun from view.

“Nooo!”

The man lying on the ground stirred and moaned once again. She crawled toward him and for the first time recognized Walter Limpke. Confusion, fear, panic choked her, but she managed to squeak out, “Are you OK?”

Walter offered no response, did not seem to know she was there.

She must get help. She half-ran, half-staggered back to her car, flung open the door, twisted the ignition key to the middle position, and snatched her cell phone from its cradle. She dialed 911 and waited through six rings, an eternity, until someone answered.

“Please. Help me.”

“What’s the nature of your problem?”

“My father! He’s dead. And Walter is hurt. Badly. Please, hurry.”

“Relax. Take a couple of breaths. Now, tell me where you are.”

“Rattlesnake Road. About a half mile off the highway. Roberto Sanchez’s home.”

“OK. I’ll have an ambulance and the Sheriff there in a hot minute.”

“Hurry. He’s dying.”

Sam sat in the bay window of her home, where sheet after sheet of wind driven rain flapped against the glass like an un-tethered sail. Winter had snatched the leaves from the two Arroyo Willows in her yard, leaving skeletal limbs that reached skyward as if beseeching God for a mild winter and an early spring.

She watched as rivulets cut through the sandy dirt, ing with one another to form larger rivulets, which further eroded the already scarred slope that fell away from the front of her house. They would continue this marrying into ever larger flows, swelling the typically dry creek beds and filling the washes and arroyos that excoriated the terrain, then succumb to the dictates of gravity and rush into Mercer’s Creek before racing to Lake Mercer some twenty miles to the south.

Several roads and low bridges would be rendered imable before the rain ended. Cars and trucks would somehow find their way into the raging waters and a rescue or two was inevitable.

It was going to be a bitch of a day.

Scooter curled in her lap. She stroked his fur absently and sipped her second cup of coffee, while she mentally prepared for the day. Scooters soothing purr melted beneath the shrill ring of the telephone.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam turned onto the muddy road leading to Roberto Sanchez’s trailer. After pulling aside to let an ambulance , she rolled to a stop near where Charlie Walker stood and jumped out of her Jeep.

“What’s the story, Charlie?”

“Looks like our boy is back at it. Roberto’s in there,” he yanked his head toward the trailer, “Sliced and diced just like the others.”

“Shit.”

“They just took Walter Limpke to the hospital.”

“Walter?”

“Multiple stab wounds. With this.” He held up a plastic evidence bag, which contained a knife with a thick, curved blade.

“That’s Garrett’s knife. See the piece missing from the bone handle.”

“I know. The question is, who sliced up Roberto and left this in Walter’s gut.”

“What was Walter doing out here this time of the morning?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t had time to talk with Maria over there.” He nodded toward Maria Hidalgo who sat in her car, her face pale and tear streaked. “Maybe she can tell us. Or if Cat Roberts can pull off a miracle, we can ask

Walter himself. He looked pretty bad though.”

Sam walked to the trailer and stepped inside. The stench struck her like a knotty pine two-by-four. The odor of blood, stomach and bowel contents, sour sweat, and fear blended into a discordance that numbed the senses, watered the eyes, and inverted the stomach. She retreated to the rain.

With great effort and several gulps of cold air, she managed to suppress the nausea and unwind her gut.

“You OK?” Charlie asked, tugging his hat down over his eyes, releasing the rain that had collected in the brim in a steady stream that splattered on his boots.

“Been better,” Sam said.

Ralph Klingler stepped out of the trailer. He had finished photographing the scene and collecting samples, which he carried in the tan canvas bag that hung off his shoulder. “I’m going to get back to the lab and begin processing this stuff. After you finish printing the knife, I’d like it for a few hours. It’ll help with wound comparisons.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “I’ll bring it by later.”

“I called Vince Gorman. He’ll pick up the body in about a half hour.” Ralph climbed in his pick-up, cranked it to life, and headed down the road toward the highway.

“Like at Roger and Miriam’s, the killer left prints all over the place,” Charlie said, nodding toward the trailer. “He sure ain’t very careful. Either he don’t care about getting caught or he thinks we’re damn fools. I’ll get started on lifting them. Why don’t you talk with Maria.”

As Sam approached the Cadillac, she could see that Maria was crying. Her head slumped forward and her shoulders jerked with each sob. Sam slipped into the enger’s seat. The distraught woman clung to the steering wheel with white knuckles as if she believed if she let go she would be swept away.

“I’m so sorry, Maria,” Sam said, the words sounding hollow.

Maria looked up, staring at the rain drenched windshield, her face pale, her eyes glassy. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “I can’t believe this is real. I knew he should have come to live with us. Not out here alone. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But, if he had been with us, then…” Her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The kids. How can I explain this to them? They worshipped him.”

“Maria, do you know anyone who could have done this?”

“Anyone? I don’t even know WHAT could have done this. Did you see him?”

She swallowed back another sob. “Whatever did this isn’t human.”

“Any idea why Walter Limpke was out here this morning?”

“No.”

“Were Roberto and Walter friends?”

“Not really. Papa would buy things from Walter’s hardware store from time to time, but I can’t say they were friends.”

“Maybe Walter was delivering something. Is that possible?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” Maria stared ahead, blank faced, then said, “This is what happened to those kids and Roger and Miriam, isn’t it?”

“Looks that way.”

She turned and looked at Sam. “This has always been a good town. A safe place to live. But, now.” She sniffed back tears. “It’s like everything has gone to hell. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. It’s completely crazy.”

They sat silently for a minute.

“Why don’t you go home?” Sam said. “Get away from here. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Maria lay her forehead on the steering wheel and sobbed.

Sam reached out and stroked her hair, then rested her hand on her shoulder. She could feel Maria’s pain and swallowed hard, attempting to purge the growing lump in her throat, fighting back her own tears.

“You OK to drive?” Sam asked. “I can take you home if you want.”

“I’ll be OK. I just need a minute.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam stepped from the car and walked to where Charlie leaned into his Jeep, replacing the radio handset in its cradle, shoving a toothpick back into the corner

of his mouth.

“That was Thelma,” he said. “Margo Limpke just called to report Walter missing.”

“Jesus.”

“Seems he was gone when she woke up this morning. She thought he had just gone to work early, which he does from time to time. But, when she got to the store, he wasn’t there.”

“Want me to talk with her?”

“No. I’ll do it,” he said, tugging the front brim of his hat down. “Why don’t you run over to the hospital and see about Walter?”

“I don’t understand, Charlie.” She released a deep sigh. “Connie Beeson, Roger and Miriam, this? That’s three of Garrett’s jurors that have died in three days. And both foremen. Connie, then Roberto. It’s like nothing makes sense.”

“It does. We just haven’t found the key yet.”

“Do you think Garrett’s involved?” she asked.

“Somehow.” He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“Any ideas?”

“Not right off hand,” he frowned. “But my gut tells me he’s in it up to his neck. How, I don’t know.”

Dr. Caitlin Roberts and emergency department head nurse Rosa Gomez met the ambulance transporting Walter Limpke on the ramp leading to the treatment area. As the ambulance, sirens blaring, slid to a stop, they yanked open the rear door and, with the help of the driver, lifted the stretcher to the ground.

They hurriedly rolled him to Trauma Room 1 where Cat began to assess his injuries. She examined and probed the stab wounds that gaped open in his belly, listened to his heart and lungs, and performed a cursory neurologic exam.

Rosa jammed a large bore needle into his right arm, attached a clear plastic IV tube, which lead to a bottle of Lactated Ringers Solution, and thumbed open the clamp to began the flow of life saving fluid. Sue Tilden repeated the same process on the left side.

Rosa released the valve on the blood pressure cuff with a soft hiss. “BP is 50 over zip. Pulse 125. O2 sat is 88%.

Cat completed her exam. “Four stab wounds to the abdomen. He’s in shock. Let’s get him to the operating room STAT.”

She and Rosa wheeled the stretcher down the hall toward the operating suites.

Cat shouted over her shoulder as they turned the corner. “Sue. No time for type and cross match. Get me four units of type specific blood to the OR and tell the blood bank to step on it.”

The IV tubes tinkled against the metal poles and one of the stretcher’s wheels wobbled and squealed in protest as they flew down the corridor and into OR 4. Cat disappeared to change into surgery scrubs while Tony Wang, the diminutive anesthesiologist, helped move Walter Limpke from the stretcher onto the operating table. Tony deftly slipped an endotracheal tube into the critically ill man’s throat and began to pump oxygen-enriched air into his lungs.

The OR crew moved with practiced fluidity.

Tony istered a combination of intravenous and inhaled anesthetic agents, which would propel Walter Limpke into that unreal world between wakefulness and sleep, life and death.

Joe Watts, the circulating nurse, cleaned Walter’s abdomen with Betadine scrub and draped it with surgical sheets.

Jackie Gorman, the scrub nurse, ripped open a tray of instruments and prepared them for Dr. Roberts.

Blood arrived and Tony immediately hung two of the bags, running them wide open to replace Walter’s massive blood loss as fast as possible.

Cat, wearing cap and mask, completed her pre-surgical scrub and donned gown and gloves. Jackie slapped the scalpel handle into her hand and Cat hurriedly made a long incision down the midline of the abdomen from the diaphragm to the pubis. This was no time for cosmetics; speed was all-important.

Bleeding was minimal, most of his blood having been dumped in the mud outside Roberto’s trailer. Using the scalpel, scissors, and her experienced fingers, she deepened the incision until she popped through the peritoneal lining, entering the abdominal cavity. A gush of dark blood and thick maroon clots greeted her.

“Suction.”

Jackie slipped the curved plastic nozzle into the abdomen. It gurgled and squealed as it removed the blood and clots, drawing them into a long clear tube, which lead to a suction bottle on the floor.

Cat insinuated her hand into the abdomen, probing first one way and then the other. She slid her hand upward, over the liver, testing its glistening surface and rubbery consistency for defects. She found none. Sliding right ward, her hand palpated the stomach, then carefully examined the pancreas and spleen. She took extra care with these tender organs, knowing they can be easily injured by overzealous manipulation. Again, everything appeared intact.

She lifted the bowel, her fingers playing along every inch, searching for injuries. She easily located two lacerations of the small bowel and its fan-like omentum. She then examined each kidney. The left showed no injury, but the right had been slashed nearly in two.

Jackie dabbed sweat from Cat’s face, tossing the towel in a bucket at her feet.

“Looks like he got the bowel, nicked the superior mesenteric artery, and trashed his right kidney.” She peered over her mask at Tony. “How’s he doing?”

“Better. BP is up to 90, pulse 100, and O2 sat is 98%. Two units of blood are in and I’m starting the other two now.”

“OK. Let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER 16

When Sam arrived at the hospital, she stopped by the Emergency Department and chatted with Sue Tilden while Rosa Gomez called the OR to check on Walter.

Rosa hung up the phone. “Surgery is underway and Dr. Roberts said everything was going well.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “See you guys later.”

She went down the hall to the Pathology Department and Ralph Klingler’s office. Ralph sat behind his desk, which was strewn with Polaroids of Roberto and Walter. One caught her eye. It was Roberto, hanging by his ankles. From her perspective, he appeared to be standing on his toes as if performing some macabre ballet.

“Have a seat, Sam,” Ralph said.

Sam sat, facing him across his desk. “I just checked on Walter.”

“And?”

“So far so good.”

“Let’s hope it continues that way.” Ralph rocked back in his chair, brow knitted, and rubbed his chin. “Walter’s left-handed isn’t he?”

“I don’t know. Is it important?”

“Maybe.”

Sam recalled images of Walter: standing behind the counter in his store, wearing a navy blue work apron, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smiling and chatting with customers; sitting at Millie’s with Margo and friends; pitching softball at the last Fourth of July barbecue.

“Yeah. He is. At least he pitches lefty.”

“Hmmm.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I wasn’t sure in Roger and Miriam’s case, but after seeing Roberto this morning, it’s clearer.”

“What’s clearer?”

“The person that killed Roger, Miriam, and Roberto was left-handed.”

“You don’t think…”

“I examined Walter’s wounds this morning before they hauled him away to the hospital. They may have been self-inflicted.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

“Come on, Ralph. You don’t really believe Walter killed three people and then tried to kill himself.”

Klingler shrugged. “I’m merely reporting the evidence, but it sure smells like that’s a possibility.”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t know.” Ralph took off his glasses and cleaned them with a piece of lens paper. “Maybe he’s Garrett’s partner.”

Walter? Garrett’s accomplice? She couldn’t believe that. Or wouldn’t believe it. Either way, it didn’t fly. “I just can’t believe that,” she said.

Ten minutes later, Sam walked into Charlie’s office and sank into the chair by his desk. Charlie looked tired and drained.

“You’re not going to believe what Ralph had to say.” She told him about her conversation with the pathologist.

Thelma quietly slipped in the office and placed a cup of coffee on the corner of the desk in front of Sam.

“Thanks, Thelma.”

Thelma retreated to her desk.

“It gets worse,” Charlie said.

“It does?” Sam blew on the steaming coffee, then took a careful sip.

“ when Walter had that break in at his store a couple of years ago?”

“Sure.”

“He applied for and got a gun permit.”

“Yeah?”

“To get a permit, you have to be finger printed. This morning, I couldn’t get fresh prints from Walter because of his injuries and the need to get him to the hospital as soon as possible, so I pulled his old ones. To compare them with the prints we lifted at Roberto’s.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “So we could exclude known prints and concentrate on those we couldn’t ID.”

“Walter’s prints were all over Roberto’s place. Front door, kitchen counter and drawer handles, and, of course, the knife. Other than Roberto’s and Walter’s, I didn’t find any other prints.”

“So?” Sam said.

“The prints we lifted at Roger and Miriam’s? The ones we couldn’t ID?”

Sam shook her head. “Don’t tell me.”

“They’re Walter’s.”

Sam was speechless. She stared at Charlie as if he were a space alien. Her mind spewed in a thousand directions like an out of control fire hose. Finally, she said, “So, Walter did these murders?”

“That’s what the prints say.” Charlie leaned back in his chair and propped a boot on the corner of his desk.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Sam said. “Could he have a connection with Garrett? A follower? A previous friendship?”

“Damned if I see one.” Charlie tossed a frayed toothpick in the trashcan beside his desk and stuck a fresh one in his mouth. “Hopefully, Cat Roberts can pull Walter through and we can ask him. How’s he doing?”

“Still in surgery. The word is that everything’s going well.”

“Keep your fingers crossed.”

Sam stood and picked up her still full coffee cup from Charlie’s desk. “I think I’ll have a little chat with our guest.”

Charlie nodded. “Catch you later.”

Before Sam confronted Garrett, she retreated to her office and flopped into the chair behind her desk. She spun toward the window, sipped her coffee, and looked out on downtown Mercer’s Corner, where people went about their business. The town looked the way it did any other day. Demons didn’t run through the streets. Monsters didn’t hide in the shadows waiting for unsuspecting victims. Slobbering ghouls and goblins didn’t feed on the people who walked by.

None of this made sense. Walter Limpke. He was one of them. Not an outsider or stranger or beast from hell like Garrett. He was simple, soft-spoken, religious.

Weren’t ugly crimes, grisly murders committed by monsters with evil eyes and malevolent looks? Not normal, average people. People you couldn’t recognize as defective or deviant. People like your neighbors, friends, loved ones.

The shock was more than the act itself. More than the brutal mutilations. It was the culprit. If you can’t see the monster, discern him from normal people, how can you protect yourself? What clues would help reveal the danger? Life, unlike the movies, didn’t have background music to forewarn evil. Hell, Darth Vader had his own theme song.

Sam entered the jail area, snagged a folding chair, spun it around, and sat down, resting her forearms on the back. She eyed Garrett through the bars. He sat on his bunk, returning her gaze.

“What can you tell me about the murder of Roberto Sanchez?”

“Nothing.”

“And Walter Limpke? What’s your connection with him?”

“None. I don’t really know Mr. Limpke.” His expression was flat, emotionless.

“And you had nothing to do with these killings?”

“I told you. Lucifer commands all.”

“Lucifer made you kill those kids and he made Walter kill Roberto and the Hargroves?”

“Of course. But, I can see you don’t believe that.”

“That would stretch reality to say the least.”

“Which reality? The one that says God made the Heavens and the Earth and all the animals, then scraped some dirt off his boot, made a Gumby doll, blew life into it, and called it Adam?”

“I’m not sure I buy that one either.”

“Sounds like a good Catholic upbringing.”

“Maybe.” How did this arrogant prick know so much? “OK, Slick…”

“Beelzebub.”

“That’s right. I forgot. OK, Beetle Juice…”

“When you mock me, you mock my master. He is not as forgiving as I.”

“I’m terrified.”

“You will be.”

A cold chill rippled through her, depositing ice crystals in her blood. It wasn’t the words that spooked her. It was…was what? His black eyes? His calm selfassuredness? She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about him that was so unsettling.

“Enlighten me,” she said. “Tell me how you think this shit went down.”

“Are you versed in the principle of determinism?

No, you jerk. I’m not VERSED in anything.

“I don’t believe so,” she said calmly.

“Too bad. Your understanding would be so much deeper.”

“Don’t patronize me. If you have something to say, say it.”

“It was you who asked.”

Go ahead. Pull your gun and shoot him.

She took a deep calming breath. “By all means. Share your wisdom with me.”

“Determinism simply states that everything is predestined, scripted. Everything and everyone.”

“Then, these murders were inevitable?”

“Yes.”

“Unalterable? Not preventable?”

“Precisely.”

She leaned forward, capturing his gaze. “Why, then, do I have the feeling that if I put a bullet through your black fucking heart, all this would stop?”

“It wouldn’t.”

His calm arrogance was infuriating. “I see.”

“Lucifer controls all. Me. You. Mr. Limpke. Everything that has or will happen is as it should be. As it must be.”

“Like your ‘the devil made me do it’ defense?”

“Or allowed me to fulfill my destiny.”

“And Walter Limpke?” she asked. “Was it his destiny to murder and mutilate three people?”

“Apparently.”

“I don’t buy it. I don’t know how, but you’re involved in these murders. You know it and I know it.”

“But, Samantha. I’ve been here. Detained as it were.”

“Don’t call me Samantha. Only my mother called me Samantha.”

He smiled. “I know.”

CHAPTER 17

After leaving Garrett, Sam walked to the gym and released her frustration in a furious workout. A five-mile run on the rooftop track and an aggressive circuit training session were followed by a half hour of pounding the heavy bag. Now, she was into the fourth round of sparing with Jimmy Ryker.

Sam bounced two left jabs off Jimmy’s chin, followed by a solid right hook to the body. She slipped a jab, moving her head to the right as Jimmy’s left hand flicked by her ear, then deflected an overhand right. Bending her knees and sliding her left foot forward, she slammed a left hook into his ribs and a right and left to his head.

Jimmy backpedaled, circling to her right. He flicked two left jabs, both missing, as Sam bobbed right and then left. He landed a right hook on her shoulder and a short left to her head.

Sam ignored both punches and released a left-right-left combination, which backed Jimmy into the ropes. He wrapped his left arm around her head, clinching her against him, but she dropped out of his grasp and, from her crouch, unloaded another three-punch combination.

The bell rang.

Sam shook fatigue from her arms.

“You did a lot of good things in that round,” Jimmy said.

“Such as?” She walked to the towel, which hung over the ropes, trapped it between her gloves, and mopped sweat from her face.

“You’re slipping those left jabs better and your combinations are crisper, sharper.”

“Thanks.”

“There at the end, when you slipped out of the clinch and landed the three punch combo. That was beautiful. Few boxers I know can maneuver on the inside like that.”

“I didn’t think about it. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“That’s what I mean. Good instincts. If you have to think, it’s gone. Act and react.”

“I do feel more comfortable in the ring.”

“If you fight like this in Vegas, you’ll have no problem.”

“Let’s hope.” She clamped her left glove beneath her right arm and pulled her hand free, then yanked the right glove off. She stepped through the ropes. “I’d better get back to the office. See you tomorrow.”

After showering and dressing in jeans and a black pullover shirt, she strapped on her gun belt, nestling the weapon into the small of her back, and grabbed her jacket from her locker.

The sun had just kissed the horizon and the afternoon wind had begun to calm by the time she walked the block to her office. Before she could open the door, Betty McCumber and Marjorie Bleekman stopped her.

“Sam?” Betty said. “We heard about Roberto.”

“Yes. It’s sad,” Sam said.

“We’re scared,” Marjorie said while fiddling with the clasp on her purse.

“Of what?”

“Three jurors have died,” Marjorie continued. “Connie. Miriam. And now Roberto. We sat on that jury. What if he comes after us next?” Betty nodded in agreement.

“Who?”

“Garrett,” they said in unison.

Sam shook her head. “Relax. Garrett’s in jail. He didn’t do it.”

Betty jerked her chin up. “Then, somebody did it for him.”

“Maybe,” Sam conceded.

“I bet it was those kids,” Betty said, pointing toward the groupies a half block away.

“No, it wasn’t them, either.”

“Lanny Mills thinks so,” Marjorie said.

Sam couldn’t completely suppress the irritation that surged inside her. “He’s wrong. And he should keep his opinions to himself. Don’t let his wild ideas upset you.”

“Well, then, if it wasn’t those hippies, who was it?” Marjorie glared at her defiantly.

“We don’t know.”

“So, what do we do? Just wait to killed?” Betty said, her eyes collapsing in an angry squint.

Sam softened, sensing their fear. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise. Why don’t you go home and keep your doors locked. If you hear or see anything, call us.”

“If it’s not too late,” Betty snapped. “Why don’t you just ship Garrett off somewhere?”

“As soon as his sentencing is complete, he’ll be sent to San Quentin.”

“I hope we’re still around to see it,” Betty said. She grabbed Marjorie’s arm and they walked away.

Goddamn Lanny Mills.

Sam watched the two women cross the street, then pushed open the door to the Sheriff’s Department. When she entered, Thelma looked up from her desk.

“Oh, Sam. Someone called for you. About ten minutes ago.”

“Who?”

“Wouldn’t say. Said he had some information and would wait for you at Red’s.”

“He?”

“Yeah. He had a sexy voice.” Thelma gave her that you-should-meet-a-nice-guyand-settle-down look.

Sam frowned. “I’ll call the hospital and check on Walter first.” She headed toward her office.

“Don’t keep him waiting too long,” Thelma yelled after her.

Jesus, Sam thought. Thelma and Millie. It was like having two mothers.

After Nathan called the Sheriff’s office from his car phone and left a message for Sam, he walked toward Red’s, an oasis of sin in an otherwise boring town. “RED’S”, spelled out in buzzing red neon, hung above a wooden door in dire need of painting. When he pushed the heavy door open, loud music and laughter reached out and pulled him inside. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Red’s was large and smelled of beer and testosterone. Even though it was still short of five o’clock, the patrons, a collection of truckers, bikers, and cowboys, hugged long-neck beers and from their faces they had hugged quiet a few already. Well past tipsy, they were rushing headlong toward bulletproof drunk.

The dim lighting and smoky haze added to the sinister feel of the place. Obviously, they hadn’t heard of California’s “No Smoking” law. Or more likely, didn’t care.

A single light over the bar to his right, two low-slung pool table lamps in the far left corner, and a dozen neon beer signs, which decorated the walls in no discernible pattern, provided the meager light. A three-piece band, ground out country music, while half a dozen couples did some form of the Texas Two-step on a small dance floor in front of the band.

Several cowboy-types sat at the bar, sucking down longnecks and talking with Red. Or at least who he assumed was Red--a huge black man with caramel skin and closely cropped sandy red hair who had somehow managed to stuff his bulk into a black Harley Davidson tee shirt. Three scruffy, scarred, and tattooed men, clutching cues, argued heatedly beside one of the pool tables.

“That’s a scratch, man. You lose.”

“Fuck if that’s so.”

“You owe me, asshole.”

“I’ll give it to your mother the next time I screw her.”

The argument ceased as soon as they saw Nathan. Their eyes said it all. Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?

Nathan quickly weaved his way through the dozen or so tables that dotted the floor and slipped into a vacant red vinyl booth along the far wall. Suspicious eyes followed his every move. He decided getting the shit kicked out of you, or worse, could happen most any night at Red’s.

A well-nourished waitress, crammed into under-sized jeans and a red and white bowling shirt with “Lucy” embroidered on the front, sidled up to the booth.

“I’m Shirley. What can I get you?”

“Bud Lite.”

“Sissy beer, huh? Anything else?”

He thought about asking her why she was wearing Lucy’s shirt but thought better of it. “No. That’s all.”

She waddled to the bar and said something to Red who glanced past her at him and smiled, shaking his head. He popped the top off a Bud Light and handed it to her.

The Pabst Blue Ribbon sign above his head hissed and sputtered, it’s light dimming and brightening erratically. He scooted a foot or two along the red vinyl, putting a little more distance between himself and the sizzling neon, just in case.

Lucy/Shirley returned. She clanked the beer on the table and dropped a basket of popcorn next to it.

“Sure I can’t get you something to eat? Pedro makes a pretty mean burger and the ribs are to die for.”

“No. Thanks,” he said, sure that either one could kill you.

“You ain’t from around here,” she said more as a statement than a question.

“LA.”

“Thought so. Just give me a wave if you need anything.” She shuffled away.

Nathan gulped down half the beer, hoping it would calm him enough that he wouldn’t get up and run out the door, which is exactly what he wanted to do. Why hadn’t he chosen Millie’s to meet Sam?

He popped a few kernels of the corn in his mouth. Too salty. He pushed the basket away, propped his elbows on the table and occupied himself with reading the menagerie of carvings that scarred the surface. Names, phone numbers, abstract designs, and an announcement that “Rhonda got screwed on this table 817-89” stared up at him. He slid his elbows off the table, wondering about dear old Rhonda’s health status.

The band launched into another song that was somewhere between country, rock, and chaos. The shirtless drummer pounded out a steady rhythm; the bass player thumbed his over-amped bass, which released notes that probably ed on the seismic scale; and a stringy-haired guitar player choked licks from a roadweary sunburst Stratocaster. It wasn’t half bad, or half good, depending on your mood and state of drunkenness. The locals seemed to like it anyway. More couples ed those already on the dance floor, while others stamped their feet, tapped on tabletops, and let out the occasional whoop. Most would probably relive every painful drumbeat in the morning.

He looked up as the entry door swung open. Sam stepped inside, her lithe body silhouetted against the open doorway, back lit by Red’s neon sign, until the door eased shut, absorbing her into the darkness. She waved at Red, who nodded back. She snaked her way to the bar, greeting people along the way. She had a few words with Red, shared a laugh with one of the cowboys at the bar, then turned and scanned the crowd.

CHAPTER 18

During the half block walk from her office to Red’s, Sam wondered who would be waiting when she got there. Who would ask to meet her without leaving a name? Better, who would Thelma not recognize on the phone? And who would want to meet at Red’s? She rejected Mark Levy and Judge Westbrooke. They would surely have suggested their offices. Certainly not Red’s.

Could it be someone with information about the murders? Who? What information? The who of the killings was no longer a mystery and the why of Walter Limpke’s actions she doubted anyone could answer. At least let it be good news, she told herself.

Leaning against the bar, she scanned the crowd until her eyes fell on Nathan. She was both disappointed and elated, definitely surprised. He hadn’t made her mental list of probabilities, but she had to it he had crossed her mind a time or two in the past couple of days. She slipped into the booth opposite him.

“So, you’re the voice?” she said.

“Voice?”

“Thelma. She thinks you have a sexy voice.”

He laughed. “And you?”

“You’re voice is OK. It’s your pen that’s disturbing.”

“It’s good to see you to.”

“Sorry. I’m not in the best of moods. This case is driving me crazy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Heard what?”

“That other murders have occurred. Strikingly similar to the children.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

Nathan shrugged. “Any chance Garrett didn’t do the kids?”

“He did them all right.”

“And the others?”

“Who knows.” She decided against telling him about Walter Limpke’s probable involvement in the killings. “Nothing makes much sense.”

Shirley walked up. “Hello, Sam. What brings you in here? You going to arrest this fellow?”

“No, Shirley. This is Nathan Klimek. Reporter for ‘Straight Story’.”

Shirley’s eyes widened. “No. I don’t believe it. I read your paper every week.”

“Thanks,” Nathan smiled.

Shirley reached her hand out, and then retracted it as if she had encountered an invisible force field or something. “May I shake your hand, Mister Klimek?”

“Of course.” Nathan took her hand. “Please. Call me Nathan.”

Not taking her eyes off him she said, “Can I get you anything, Sam?”

“I’m over here, Shirley,” Sam teased. “A Corona.”

“OK.” Shirley headed for the bar, but turned for one more glimpse at Nathan and collided with one of the tables. Beer bottles rattled and two plopped over on their

sides. One was empty, the other full. Beer flowed across the table and cascaded to the floor.

The couple at the table jerked their chairs away just in time. “Jesus, Shirley,” the man said.

Shirley began wiping the table with the cloth she carried on her tray. “Keep your shirt on,” she said. “I’ll get you another.”

“You have a new irer,” Sam laughed.

“You wouldn’t have thought so ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah. The people who hang at Red’s don’t take to strangers very well.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Shirley placed a sweating bottle of Corona, a lime protruding from its mouth, on the table. She smiled at Nathan. “If you need anything else, let me know.” She stood there for a few seconds, anticipation stamped on her face, but when Nathan said nothing, she lumbered toward the bar.

Nathan fixed his focus on Sam and smiled. She felt a warmth creep up her spine. She swiped the lime around the bottle’s lip and took a gulp.

“Sam, I’ve thought a great deal about our last conversation. At Millie’s.”

“And?”

“I know you don’t think much of what I do, but I’m not the enemy. I want to know who did these awful things as much as you do.”

“Really?” Sam couldn’t mask her sarcasm.

“Really.” He looked at her with Cocker Spaniel eyes. “If I could solve this for you, I would. We’re on the same side.”

“Maybe.”

They sat for an awkward moment, two, then their eyes met. Don’t go mushy, she told herself. But, he was so Goddamn handsome. Why did he have to be? Bottom feeders shouldn’t look this way. Makes it too difficult to hate them.

Sam broke the silence. “Thelma said you had some information for me.”

Nathan exhaled loudly and forked his fingers through his hair. “You’ll probably blame me for this too.”

“Great. Let’s have it.”

“Reverend Billy.”

“Who?”

“Reverend Billy Thibideaux and his Holy Church of God. My sources tell me that he and about a hundred of his followers are on the way here.”

“From where?”

“Louisiana. Shreveport.”

“Why?” She took a big slug from her beer. “Wait a minute. Maybe I don’t want to know.”

“To save Mercer’s Corner from Satan.”

“Jesus.”

“Reverend Billy is bigger than Jesus. He’s saved towns before. About six months

ago, they invaded Texas to save the good people of Hobart. Two high school kids killed a classmate in a Satanic ritual. Reverend Billy came to exorcise Satan from the boys and the town.”

“What happened?”

“By the time he finished, one of the boys committed suicide because he believed Satan had really taken possession of him and he could never get pure again. The town was divided between those who believed Reverend Billy was a saint and those who believed he was a merchant of evil. Town still hasn’t recovered.”

“That’s all we need right now. When will he get here?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I have my ways,” he said with a devilish grin.

“I bet you do.” She took a pull from the Corona.

“Actually, I did a story on Reverend Billy about four years ago and then covered the Hobart story. If he’s true to form, you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

“What can we expect?”

“Street corner sermons, tent revivals, anything that’ll put money in his pocket. Before he’s finished, you guys, the police, will be in cahoots with the devil and Richard Earl Garrett will be your fault.”

“Why would he do that?”

“There’s profit in chaos.”

Sam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

Nathan continued. “In Hobart, they nearly lynched the Sheriff.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, I’m not.” He took a sip from his beer. “Give me that old time religion.”

“Amen.” She tipped her bottle toward him, then took a gulp. “Maybe the Reverend is right. Maybe Satan is here on vacation or something.”

“I think he’d prefer Las Vegas. Mercer’s Corner isn’t exactly a devil’s playground.”

“Actually, it is. ? The Mojave Desert just north of here? Devil’s Playground?”

“That’s right. I forgot.” Nathan’s smile receded. “But, you can bet Reverend Billy will know and he’ll use it. He’ll have half the town believing this is indeed Satan’s town.”

“Reverend Billy isn’t the only one who thinks so.”

“Oh?”

“Nita Stillwater. An old Cherokee woman who lives out Cherokee Road. She’s a soothsayer, spiritualist, something like that. She believes some beast from a cave is causing all this.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

“I should’ve known you’d believe her.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. If she believes it, it’s true. For her anyway.”

“Is that how you rationalize your stories?”

“Maybe. But, nothing is as it seems. Not ever. There’s always perceptual distortion.”

“What?”

“Perceptional distortion. Each of us sees, perceives things differently. Through our personal rose-colored glasses.”

“And you report other peoples perceptions?”

“Exactly. If Mrs. Jones in North Carolina believes she was abducted by aliens, then she was. I simply tell her story.”

“Still sounds like justification to me.”

“Maybe. But the principle holds true. When you look at the night sky, what do you see?”

“The moon. Stars.”

“What you really see is the light from the stars. Light that left them hundreds, thousands, even millions of years ago. The star itself has moved, or exploded, or burned out. So what you see as a living star may have died a million years ago.

Perceptional distortion of the truth.”

“That’s not the same thing as reporting wild fantasies.”

“Sure it is. What about eyewitnesses to crimes? Do they tell the truth?”

“As they see it.”

“Exactly. They each tell what they see or think they see. But, is it the truth?”

“Not usually. Five witnesses typically tell five different stories.”

“That’s right. And each of them feels they saw what really happened and the others are wrong.”

“I see.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth and she gave in to it. She didn’t want to, but she didn’t fight it either. She wasn’t sure she wanted to enjoy being with him.

Sam had decided long ago that men were a lot of things, but easy wasn’t one of them. They always spelled trouble. Three previous lovers were enough. Two in LA, while she was with LAPD, and a third with a local man, who thankfully moved away two years ago. Old lovers and small towns were a difficult mix.

“I’d love to talk with Nita Stillwater,” he said.

“I knew you would,” she laughed. “I think I can arrange it.” She blew a strand of hair over her forehead, but it refused to stay. She tucked it behind her ear. “So you called to warn me about Reverend Billy?”

“Partly. And I wanted to see you again.”

She looked into his eyes. Even in the darkness they were intense, yet soft. “At least you’re honest.”

“Of course, I’m also here for a story. Murder, mayhem, and Reverend Billy sell papers.”

“I thought so,” she smiled.

“Really, Sam. I have thought about you a great deal. I don’t know why, but I can’t get you out of my mind.”

“Yeah, right. With all the surgically perfect dollies running around Hollywood?”

“I mean it.”

“Are you sure you’re not just looking for anything with two X chromosomes to rub up against?”

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve heard.” She drained her beer bottle and placed it on the table. “Nathan, I’m flattered. I really am. But right now, the last thing I need is another complication. With all this madness and training for a fight, I don’t need more problems to handle.”

“How do you know I’ll be a problem?”

“Look in the mirror. You’re trouble for any woman.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“I’ve got to get going. Call me at the office tomorrow morning and I’ll see when we can go talk with Nita.”

“I’ll walk out with you.”

“Think you need a police escort to get out of here?”

“At least to get past Shirley.”

They laughed. Nathan tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table and they headed out the door.

A cold northerly wind had kicked up. It slapped Sam squarely in the face as she stepped outside, causing her to dip her chin and elevate her shoulders in a futile attempt to prevent its insinuation beneath her leather jacket. Her flesh pebbled and her nipples jumped to attention.

Nathan walked with her the half block to where her Jeep sat in front of her office. She yanked open the Jeep’s door and turned to say goodbye, but he was standing right there. Close. Too close. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

Then, he kissed her. It was quick, innocent, a soft brushing of her lips with his, but it sent a shock of warmth through her. She held her breath, unsure what to do or say. He ran his thumb along her jaw, beneath her chin, and smiled. He turned, walked casually back up the street to his car, waved, got in, and drove away.

She stood there, watching the taillights of his Mercedes fade.

What had just happened? Did he kiss her? She was sure he had. Did she like it? She was sure she did. A gust of cold wind forced her into her Jeep.

CHAPTER 19

Sam sat behind the wheel of her Jeep for several minutes, waiting for the heater to knock down the chill, and attempted to sort out her feelings about what had just happened. Why had Nathan kissed her? Did she send some signal that she wanted him to? She didn’t think so. Why did she enjoy it? Because it had been so long or because he was so damn gorgeous?

This was the last thing she needed right now. A distraction. Something that would divide her attention, skew her focus. But, he was handsome and charming and had such soft lips. Angry with herself for going soft and silly, she slammed the Jeep in gear and pulled from the curb.

Five minutes later, she wheeled into the parking lot at Mercer General Hospital, still unsure how she felt about Nathan’s kiss. As she eased into a parking place, it dawned on her that she had forgotten to take Garrett’s knife over to Dr. Klingler’s office as she had promised she would. Why had she forgotten? She shook her head in disgust and stepped from her Jeep. Too late now. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

She entered the hospital through the Emergency Department and walked down a quiet corridor to the ICU. Pushing open the double doors, she entered the world of critical care medicine, greeted by the opposing smells of hospital astringency, freshly popped corn, and over-ripe coffee. Rosalie Meyer, the charge nurse, looked up from her perch behind a bank of cardiac monitors.

“Hey, Sam. How’re you doing?”

“Not bad. You?”

“Starving.” She grabbed a handful of popcorn from a paper bag and slid it toward Sam. “Here. I’ll share my dinner with you.”

“Sounds nutritious, but I’ll .”

“I wish I could. But, we’ve been so swamped I missed dinner. This is all I could scrounge up.”

“Busy, huh?” Sam poured herself a cup of coffee from the ancient coffee maker that sat behind the nursing station. She took a sip. It tasted as if it had been run through the crankcase of a dead truck.

“Not a seat in the house.” Rosalie waved a hand toward the eight cubicles that formed a semi-circle around the nurse’s station.

Each bed ed a critically ill patient. Cardiac monitors beeped, respirators hissed, and the sound of low voices hung in the air. Doctor Cat Roberts walked out of cubicle three, where Walter Limpke lay.

“Hello, Sam,” Cat said.

“Cat. How’s Walter?”

“Amazingly well. He lost a lot of blood, a couple of feet of bowel, and a kidney, but he’s doing OK.”

“Other than that, how was the play, President Lincoln?”

“Something like that,” Cat smiled. “He’s still out from the anesthesia, but he should be waking up soon. Then we can get him off the ventilator.”

“When do you think I can talk with him?”

“Tomorrow, I’d guess. Any idea who did this?”

Sam decided to keep her answer simple and not bring up Ralph Klingler’s theories. “Not a clue.”

“I’ll call you with an update in the morning. I’ll know more then,” Cat said.

“Thanks.”

“I’d better get busy and finish rounds,” Cat said. “Maybe I can surprise my husband and get home before midnight.”

Charlie Walker finished his paper work and decided to call it a day. It had been a long one. He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite his desk, 10:30. Longer than he thought. He phoned his wife, telling her he’d be home in fifteen minutes, adjusted his hat with a tug, and headed for the front door.

As he flipped off the lights, a searing pain erupted in his left temple. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. When he opened his eyes once again, the walls began to pulsate with an eerie green light, like giant computer screens, glowing, flickering.

Balls of yellow and orange leaped and spun across the room like psychotic basketballs before melting into walls once again, where they swirled into vortices of color. The floor writhed with multicolored ribbons, which slithered up the walls and intertwined with one another, enveloping the room like Technicolor snakes. From the colorful striations that spun around him, the evidence room door glowed a brilliant crimson. It twisted, melted, then spun, becoming a vortex that pulled at him.

Charlie wanted to dart out the door, up the street, away from the chaos, but when he tried to flee, the spinning crimson ball that had once been a door held him, drew him. His fear and resistance dissolved in the whirlpool of color that invaded his brain. He staggered toward the beckoning red orb, following it into the evidence room.

An instant later, he was sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep, following a river of molten silver out of town. How did he get here? He had no clue. He momentarily questioned where he was going, and why, but the questions, like his earlier resistance, sank into oblivion.

He turned off the road onto a silvery tributary. The Jeep chugged up a steep incline before stopping near the crest of a ridge. Charlie stepped from the vehicle and trudged to the top of the slope.

From his vantage point, he could see far into the velvety night. The lights of Mercer’s Corner, down and to his right, scintillated like a trove of precious jewels--diamonds, topaz, rubies. Overhead, the glow of the cloud shrouded moon cast an opalescent haze over the desert floor, which shimmered as if it were liquid. Ahead, a hundred feet below and a mile away, the golden campfire where Garrett’s Groupies huddled flickered and flared, emitting a warmth that seemed to flow up the slope and caress him like an August breeze.

He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and opened it. He removed a knife from the bag and stared at it without recognition. Kneeling, he excoriated a shallow trench in the sandy soil at the base of a twenty-foot high emerald boulder. He settled the knife in the depression, scooped dirt over it, and secured its resting place with a flat purple rock.

He slipped and scuffed his way down the slope to his Jeep, got in, and retraced his route through town, and beyond, toward home. By the time he turned into his driveway, the world had returned to normal, his headache had evaporated, and he held no memory of what had happened, only a vague confusion about why it took him thirty minutes to drive home.

Sam left the hospital, heading home, but before she got there, she received a page from the 911 operator. Ada Blumenthal, who lived by herself a half mile south of town, was sure someone was trying to claw through her bedroom window and kill her. Sam detoured by Ada’s house for the third time this week. The prowler this time: a tumbleweed that lay against the house, buffeted by the wind.

Typically, Sam or Charlie or Hector answered about two-dozen prowler calls a year, half from Ada Blumenthal. This was Sam’s tenth call this week. The entire town was wound tightly, edging toward hysteria.

Goddamn Garrett.

By the time Sam reached home, exhaustion had deflated her like a helium filled party balloon the morning after, hovering nearer the floor than the ceiling. She wanted to take a hot shower, crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and drift away from the madness. That’s exactly what she did.

As she waited for sleep, her thoughts turned to Nathan. Why had he kissed her? Why did she let him? She could still feel his lips against hers. Damn it. She didn’t want to feel this way.

Finally, sleep dragged her downward, enveloping her completely. Thoughts of Nathan, of Garrett, of the murders fell away as she entered the domain of REM sleep--that dark corner of somnolence where renewed energy, peace, and calm lay. Where dreams and nightmares lived.

Sam rarely dreamed, or if she did, she rarely ed them. Those that did survive until morning were typically pleasant black and white childhood vignettes such as fishing with her father or baking cookies with her mother.

The closest she ever came to a full-fledged nightmare were the rare occasions when she dreamed of her father’s funeral. Even though she was seventeen at the time, she ed little of that day. Only tears and pale frozen faces, and cold rain held at bay by a forest of black umbrellas, and a rectangular hole in the ground into which her father’s casket was lowered. A hole that devoured him and took him from her forever.

Tonight she dreamed of the day she caught her first fish. She and her father drifted aimlessly on a tranquil lake in his old aluminum boat. He showed her how to bait a hook, carefully avoiding the treacherous barb. She lowered the line into the water and watched the bobber float gently away over the glassy surface. Even when it drifted through the sun’s reflection, a fiery streak that assaulted her eyes, she refused to unfix her gaze from the plastic ball for fear she would miss the fish, her fish, that was sure to bite.

She relived the excitement that swelled within her as the bobber fluttered and dipped beneath the surface for a brief moment, then again, and finally the powerful jerk as the fish took the bait.

Her father’s massive hands surrounded hers as the rod dipped toward the water. The taut line cut through the water as the fish fought for its freedom. Right, left, away, and finally toward them as the relentless drag of the line wore the fish into submission. Together, they lifted the pole and her fish popped from the water and dangled near the gunwale, its silvery body glistening in the sunlight.

Then, her father was gone. The boat, the lake, the sun-drenched day, all gone.

Only the fish, her fish, remained, floating head down before her, its sleek body silhouetted against a black background. It began a sinuous writhing, its eyes languid as if waking from a restful sleep. Suddenly, the eyes dilated to blackness and the fluid motions became a frantic squirming as if driven by pain and fear.

A knife appeared. Its polished curved blade lashed at the fish, slicing through its flesh and releasing red ribbons that drifted into the surrounding darkness. The fish screamed in pain; its voice that of a child’s.

Sam reached out to pull it to safety, away from the cruel blade, but the knife hacked at her, opening deep wounds in her hands and wrists. The fish whimpered and cried and legs and arms sprouted from its bleeding torso as it transformed into a child. Two other children appeared, all three now suspended in the mouth of the mineshaft by ropes, which bound their ankles.

“No,” Sam screamed, recognizing Tommy Waters, Lee Ann Hobert, and Rachel Culbertson. She lunged forward, attempting to wrap them in her arms and shield them from the knife, but they fell away into the black void of the mine.

Sam rushed after them, but stumbled and fell to her knees. Before her, three small hearts lay on a stone alter surrounded by black candles. Above her, a shadowy form with two fiery red eyes glared down. A scaly hand held the knife, its blade reflecting the amber glow of the candlelight.

Then, like her father before, these images also faded.

She entered a dream world that she had never before visited. It was a tranquil and soothing place that engendered the warmth and safety she needed. A calm serenity settled over her. She floated in a velvety blackness, not on water, but as if buoyed by a warm breeze, which like a lover’s breath danced across her neck, her breasts.

She inhaled sharply as moist lips trailed along the curve of her breast and enveloped her nipple. Her fingers intertwined with her mysterious lover’s hair, pulling him to her. His fingers played down her back, cupped her buttocks, and drew her tightly against him. He entered her with a single smooth stroke and she welcomed his heat within her. They rolled and soared and undulated in a sensuous dance as silvery streaks of electricity flowed around and through them.

Their eyes met.

The face before her was Nathan’s. Yet not. It was the same soft lips that had kissed her only hours earlier. The same sable eyes, model perfect face, and boyish shock of hair. Yet, faint wrinkles at the corner of the eyes and slackness of the skin bespoke of an older, lived-in face.

The face blurred, slipping from view, then returning, in waves like a weak signal on the rabbit-eared TV of her youth, pulsing, distorting. The image twisted, faded, then snapped into clarity. A clear sharp image, a face she instantly recognized.

Garrett.

The monochrome of her dream world flashed into brilliant color. It was as if the

light had fractured, not just into its seven spectral hues, but into every possible color, each of such intensity that it burned her eyes.

Garrett’s face faded and Nathan’s reappeared, but it in turn waned, yielding once again to Garrett. The two visions warred with each other. She fought to hold Nathan’s image before her, fearing that if she lost it she would descend into a hellish nightmare from which she might never return. Her grip failed and Nathan’s visage dissolved into Garrett’s.

His face appeared to be covered with scales, which reflected the hues that surrounded them like a chameleon responding to its environment. His eyes shimmered a ruby red. He threw back his head and laughed, deep and guttural, ending in a sonorous hiss.

She pushed him away, attempting to expel him from her, but he held her tightly, sharp claws digging into her back. His slick, serpentine body writhed against her, within her. She clawed at his face, but could not puncture his scaly armor. Rather, her fingernails split and cracked and blood ran from beneath them. Her blood.

The Garrett/reptile stared into her eyes, his elongated pupils widening, a crimson blaze flashing from within their black depths. “Samantha.” The word tumbled out on billows of purple mist. “You are the one.”

“No,” she screamed.

“You are the one who will seal my bond with Lucifer.”

She screamed again, but the sound emerged as a low moan as liquid heat arose within her. She felt smothered, enveloped, dominated, powerless to resist.

“Come to me,” he whispered.

“No.” She intended the word as a command, but it escaped as a whimper.

“You must. I need you,” he said. The purple mist that carried the words enveloped her, suffocating her with its thick, fetid sweetness.

She attempted to twist away from him, but her body responded to his probing even as she willed it not to. Wave after wave of sexual pleasure crashed over her as the Garrett/serpent rode the oceanic swells with her.

“You are the one,” he murmured.

She jerked to wakefulness, heart hammering, breath coming in raspy gasps. She rolled out of bed and shakily rose to her feet.

Perspiration glued her tee shirt to her body, pulling heat from her, giving it to the night air. A chill rippled through her as she peeled the soaked garment over her head and tossed it to the floor. Fear cloyed at her. Her blood felt like a river of ice and her chest ached as if her heart had frozen and cracked open, spilling its crystalline contents.

She staggered to bathroom, fighting the swelling nausea that rose within her. Icy sweat frosted her skin, causing her to shake uncontrollably.

A sharp pain knifed through her gut and she fell to her knees, then to the floor, rolling onto her side, clutching her abdomen. Acid bile climbed into her throat, searing it, but she fought back the urge to vomit.

The room spun. Her vision dimmed and narrowed.

As she sank toward unconsciousness, she saw a finger of crimson blood trickle down her inner thigh. Then, everything faded to black.

CHAPTER 20

Sam’s eyes fluttered open, revealing the white tile bathroom floor, which stretched before her like a Siberian winterscape. It felt like hard, frigid pack ice against her cheek. As her vision cleared, she saw Scooter curled in the doorway, paws folded beneath his chest, staring at her with his Sphinx-like face.

She twisted her neck, then rolled up on all fours, taking inventory of her body parts in the process. Head, neck, shoulders, back, everything ached as if she had wrestled a bear and lost. Slowly, she stood, her legs heavy with fatigue, then wobbled as a wave of nausea and dizziness swept through her, causing her to clutch the sink for . Steadying herself, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Sanguineous eyes, sunken deeply into an ashen face, blinked back at her. An icy chill lanced her, orange-peeling her flesh. She realized she was naked.

Her mind struggled to answer the questions that fluttered around inside her head like a flock of frightened birds. What happened? Why was she laying on the bathroom floor? Where were her clothes? Then, it all came back---the dream, Garrett, blood.

She looked down. A rivulet of dried blood extended down the inside of her left thigh to her knee. Images of the Garrett/serpent’s violation reformed in her clouded brain. Closing her eyes, she suppressed the nausea that wrenched her stomach, surged upward, burning her throat. She turned the cold-water tap on, cupped her hand to catch the flow, and drank deeply, hoping to quench the fire in her belly.

She splashed cold water on her face, welcoming its bracing shock, then soaked a washcloth and wiped the crusted blood from her thigh. With inquisitive fingers, she poked her lower abdomen, then gently explored her most private recesses. Nothing. No pain. No blood.

She shuffled to her bed, glancing at the bedside clock, 2:30. She considered calling Cat Roberts, but decided it could wait until morning. Besides, the warm bed folded her into its clutches and she didn’t resist. She pulled the covers beneath her chin, shivering against the cold sheets. As if nothing was amiss, Scooter staked his claim to half the pillow and began his purring-bathing routine.

Once warmed, she tried to return to sleep, but couldn’t. Each time she dozed, she would snap back to wakefulness, fearful the dream would recur. All the while, his words echoed in her head:

Samantha, you are the one.

I need you.

Come to me.

At 5:30, she gave up. She sat on the edge of the bed, massaging her neck, twisting her torso one way and then the other, attempting to loosen the knot that gripped her spine. She felt like a used piñata.

With great effort, she showered and made a pot of coffee.

Sitting in her bay window, sipping coffee, and stroking Scooter, who curled next to her, she attempted to make some sense of her dream, but the incessant pounding in her head prevented any logic from taking hold. The dream was from stress and fatigue she told herself. She hadn’t slept well in weeks and her head was so full of questions without answers, no wonder she had a bizarre dream. Yet, the intensity of it scared her.

“What do you think, Scoots?” she said to the cat, which twitched an ear but didn’t bother to crack an eye. “Is your mommy going crazy?”

Scooter lifted his chin, expecting a scratch. Sam obliged. His sonorous purr rose a notch or two.

Her mind raced over the events of the past few days. Connie Beeson’s death, Juan and Carlos’ murder-suicide, and Walter Limpke. Did he really kill Roger and Miriam? And Roberto? Did he turn Garrett’s knife on himself? How did he get the knife from the evidence lock-up? Why? Was the death of three of the Garrett jury a coincidence? Not likely. Where did Garrett fit in to this madness? Did he have an accomplice? Was it Walter?

She could find no answers. It seemed as though some unspeakable malevolence had ripped the fabric that separated Earth from Hell and slithered into Mercer’s Corner. What else could explain this insanity? This town was peaceful, quiet, boring. Its two most notorious residents were the Rodriguez brothers, who were mostly harmless, merely rambunctious, and now, they were dead.

She could sense the fear that soaked into the community, and into her. It permeated the town, spreading like a puddle of blood beneath an autopsy table, creeping outward, staining the floor inch by inch. The entire town was on edge, waiting for the next disaster, the next death. No wonder Betty McCumber and Marjorie Bleekman were scared. If she had been one of the jurors, she would be, too.

Of course, their fears played right into Lanny Mills’ hands and he would undoubtedly use it to his own advantage. How? When? She had a feeling she would find out soon enough.

Worse, the town didn’t yet know that the most recent murders may have been committed by one of their own and not some psychopathic outsider. How would they react when they found out that Walter Limpke was a murderer? That he was, like Garrett, infected by some madness that defied understanding, that had no name?

The approaching dawn lightened the sky, revealing a cast iron lid of clouds, which settled over the town as if trying to contain and concentrate the fear that choked the community. At least it wasn’t raining.

Sam pulled her knees beneath her chin and wrapped her arms around them. She lay her head on her arms and rocked gently. Scooter stretched, did a 360, lay down again, yawned, and drifted back to sleep.

She didn’t consider herself an experienced investigator. Training at the Los Angeles Police Academy, followed by two years with LAPD, opened her eyes, taught her a great deal, but not enough. Then, her mother’s losing battle with cancer brought her back home. That’s what she told herself anyway.

Her mother’s death had been painful, slow, gut-wrenching. Yet afterwards, she stayed in this sleepy little corner of nowhere, working for Charlie, when her job awaited her in LA. Why? Because she hated LA. Feared LA. A city that could consume you in so many ways. Drugs, gangs, violence, corruption could steal your soul and your life.

Mercer’s Corner, on the other hand, was not exactly a hot bed of criminals. Traffic accidents, petty thefts, and an occasional domestic dispute or drunken fight represented the sum total of illegal activity.

But, now, all the horrors of LA had followed her here. A full-fledged multiple homicide stared her in the face as if down a gun barrel. Inadequate, unprepared, ill equipped were words that came to mind.

Don’t take it personally, she told herself. Stay detached. Be professional. But, how could she? She knew these people, had known them for years. All her life. Connie Beeson was her third grade teacher, her mother’s best friend, and her own pillar of through her mother’s ordeal. She went to high school with the Rodriguez brothers. And Walter Limpke for Christ sakes. How could she stay detached?

These people depended on her to know, to understand, to solve the riddle. They expected her to punish the guilty and protect the innocent. Yet, she could do none of these.

Sure Garrett was locked up and Walter Limpke was struggling for survival in the hospital, but this was far from over. Her gut told her there was more to come. She didn’t know what or when, but it was out there and it was coming.

Her frustration and fear settled upon her like a lead shroud, weighing her down, sapping her energy, like the heavy bag she pounded at the gym each day. No matter how ferociously she jabbed or hooked or slashed, it remained upright, unblemished, taunting her, daring her to continue the attack. Like the bag, the murders stood as a monument to her inadequacy.

She downed the last of her coffee, scratched Scooter behind the ears, and walked to the kitchen. After spooning up fresh food for the spoiled cat, she retreated to her bedroom to dress.

She stood before the mirror and applied a dab of make-up and a blush of lipstick, realizing an entire makeover couldn’t repair the damage of last night’s nightmare. Finally, she gave up, sat on the bed, and called Cat Roberts, who told her to “get your tail over to my office right now.”

Sam sighed with relief as Cat removed the speculum.

“OK. You can get out of the saddle and get dressed,” Cat said.

Sam extracted her heels from the metal stirrups and sat up, pulling the sheet around her. She had told Cat about the bleeding but not the dream or the nap on the bathroom floor. She felt guilty and a little afraid for withholding this information, but didn’t want Cat to think she was a nut, which she might very well be.

“Everything looks good,” Cat continued. “There are several possible explanations for the bleeding.”

“Such as?”

“Stress.”

“Stress?”

“Our menstrual cycles are very complex, involving several hormones, which must act in perfect concert. If not, everything screws up. It’s a miracle anyone is ever regular. Stress can cause the entire process to go to hell in a hand basket and you have the pleasure of an unexpected period.”

“Great.”

“Also, your work-out schedule may be part of the problem. Women who exercise at high levels, like marathoners, or boxers, can develop irregular periods. Sometimes they stop all together.”

“Will this happen again?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. With all the stress you are under, I wouldn’t be surprised. But, if it does, call me. There are a few things we still haven’t ruled out.”

“Like what?”

“Lots of things. Let’s not worry about them unless it recurs.”

“Let’s hope not. I can’t afford the down-time right now.”

CHAPTER 21

After leaving Cat Roberts’ office, Sam drove to Millie’s. She gave Millie her order, then ed Lisa and Charlie who sat in their usual booth.

“You look like hell,” Lisa said as Sam sat down.

“Thanks. I sure feel better now.”

“No. I mean you look tired. Rough night?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“How’s Mrs. Blumenthal?” Charlie asked. “Did the bogey man get her last night?”

“I wish,” Sam said. “It was a tumbleweed this time.”

Charlie laughed. “Was it armed?”

Sam shook her head. “Someday she’s going to have a real prowler. Of course, she’d invite them in for cake and coffee.”

“What kind was it last night?” Charlie asked.

“Chocolate. I declined, but she insisted. It’s sitting in my fridge at home right now.”

“Any word on Walter?” Lisa asked.

“No,” Sam said. “I spoke with Cat Roberts this morning. She said she would give me a call after she saw him on morning rounds. Hopefully, we can interview him later today.”

Millie placed a stack of pancakes in front of Sam. She drenched them with syrup and dug in.

“I wish I could eat like you,” Lisa said. “But, I’d weigh two-fifty.”

“Take up boxing. Or run in your sleep all night.”

“Good morning.”

Sam recognized the voice before she looked up into Nathan’s eyes. She felt a warm blush of embarrassment rise in her face. Of course he couldn’t know about her dream she told herself. It didn’t help. She still felt uncomfortable, like new

lovers awakening in the morning next to each other.

“Good morning,” she managed to mumble.

Lisa eyed him, and then raised an eyebrow at Sam, who kicked her under the table and gave her that not-a-word-from-you look.

“Have a seat,” Lisa offered.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to run.” He looked at Sam. “I saw your Jeep out front so I stopped in to let you know Reverend Billy has arrived.”

“Great,” Sam said. “I thought I could at least finish breakfast before the day turned to shit.”

“Who’s Reverend Billy?” Charlie and Lisa asked in unison.

By the time Sam drove the half-mile to town, the gray clouds had thickened and were heavy with the threat of rain. Like a billowy comforter, they smothered the wind and took the chill off an otherwise dismal day.

Main Street was choked with activity, so that she had to park a block short of her office. Four buses, each emblazoned with Reverend Billy’s likeness and messages of Heavenly praise, lined the street. A crowd had gathered in front of the bank, across from Garrett’s Groupies’ corner hangout. The throng, mostly reporters and cameramen, but also shopkeepers and others who happened to wander by, blocked the flow of traffic.

Sam walked up the street, her mood souring with each step. She herded the crowd onto the sidewalk so that the only traffic jam in the history of Mercer’s Corner could clear, then milled toward the back of the group to prevent their drifting back into the street.

A man ascended the steps of the bank and turned to face the crowd. He was large and square--a square head, atop a block body, ed by two Doric column legs. Even from where Sam stood, she could see that his thick black beard covered an acne-ravaged face, pocked and cratered like the dark side of the moon. He stood ively, his meaty hands dangling from sleeves that were two inches too short.

A woman climbed the stairs and stood beside him. She was statuesque, once beautiful, now aged from years of sun worship that peeked through impeccably applied make-up. She wore large gold earrings and a designer chic dress. Her dark hair reflected her demeanor, pulled back, taut, controlled, not a strand out of place. Severe was the word that came to mind. Intelligent green eyes sat above high cheekbones and a surgically thinned nose and gazed over the crowd as if eye was beneath her station.

The crowd fell silent.

“A great evil has befallen this community,” the woman said. “An evil as old as creation and as black as the darkest night, the deepest cave. But, God has not abandoned you. He has sent the instrument of your salvation… Reverend Billy Thibideaux.”

She waved her arm over the gathering as if she were a magician conjuring a rabbit from a hat. To her right, Sam heard a murmur arise, then spread through the throng. She looked toward the commotion, but saw nothing. Then, as if he had materialized from the Earth’s ether, she saw him. Reverend Billy. He was massive, both vertically and horizontally. Easily six-six and about one of Millie’s biscuits with gravy under 300 pounds, with thick white hair, flashing pale blue eyes, and a smile as big as Texas.

He pushed his way through the reporters as a Great White Shark would part a school of barracuda and ascended the steps. He paused, and then theatrically turned to face the crowd, flinging his arms wide as if to embrace them all.

The bruised clouds cracked and, though the rift was not deep enough to expose blue sky, a shaft of muted light fell on the congregation. It was as if Reverend Billy had opened a doorway to Heaven.

How the hell did he pull that off? Sam thought.

He stood on the top step, towering over the reporters and entranced townspeople,

their eyes and cameras turned upward, ensnared by his presence. From their vantage point, he must have looked like God Almighty himself. When he spoke, his voice rumbled up from his cavernous chest like a volcanic mud pool-resonant, powerful, commanding.

“Good people. We of the Holy Church of God have traveled a great distance at great expense to be here with you in your darkest hour. Your children, your friends, your neighbors have suffered and died at the hands of Satan and Richard Earl Garrett, Satan’s instrument of evil, his personification here on Earth, his agent of corruption and pain.”

“So, this is Reverend Billy?” Lisa ed Sam at the rear of the group.

“Big as life and twice as nasty,” Sam offered.

Reverend Billy continued, swelling to full puff, his voice brimming with the power of God, gathering momentum like thunder rolling out of the mountains. The wide-eyed audience looked as if they expected lightning to arc from his fingers into the heavens.

“God and Satan are at war. A war that will decide the fate of mankind. The hour of the Revelation is upon us and each of us must choose sides. Are we to put our trust in God or follow Satan to our eternal damnation? God will help you, but only if you help yourselves. If you turn your back on him, so he will to you. You must come to God, confess your sins, and beg for his forgiveness.

“Your police, your courts, not even yourselves can root this evil from your lives. Only the power of the Lord can win this battle. You must open your hearts and

your souls.”

“And your pocket books,” Sam muttered to Lisa.

“Come to God,” Reverend Billy bellowed. “Tonight, the Holy Church of God will hold services. Seven o’clock. All are welcome.”

With that, he descended into the crowd. In the Reverends wake, a pale, waif-like girl, somewhere between fourteen and legal, mirrored his every step. Stringy, straight blonde hair framed a face dominated by innocent blue eyes, which appeared absurdly large above her sunken cheeks. She looked like a New York teenage model with a $500 a day heroin habit.

Worn and torn over-sized jeans hung low on her hips and bunched around her ankles, crowning clunky platform shoes, which anchored her to the ground like the taproot of a wind blown reed. A powder blue sweater, ed across small breasts by a single button, swept open to reveal a flat genderless abdomen. The natural sway of her hips, accentuated by the precarious shoes, revealed her as decidedly female when she walked. A single gold ring perforated her navel.

“Probably his niece,” Sam said.

“That was my first thought,” Lisa agreed sarcastically.

Reverend Billy parted the crowd as easily as a finely honed plow through freshly turned soil. As he neared where Sam and Lisa stood, his eye caught Sam’s. His

eyes dropped to her badge, then returned to her face. His smile broadened as he approached.

He possessed a body constructed by indulgence, round, fleshy, protruding. The work of hauling his mass the fifty feet to where they stood, squeezed droplets of perspiration from his pores. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, then swiped it down each side of his sweaty jowls. His breath squeaked and whistled as his massive chest rose and fell.

A taste for alcohol had lined his bulbous, ruddy nose with a road map of red veins. Sam figured he liked his whiskey older than his women.

Blue Eyes, peering around her mentor, smiled blankly and twirled a finger in her hair. She looked like she was on a school outing.

“Hello, darlins’,” Reverend Billy drawled, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket. “You must be the prettiest girls in the county. What’s yall’s names?”

“I’m Deputy Cody.”

“Then, you must be the law around here?” He offered his hand, which she reluctantly took. It was soft, puffy, sweaty. She wanted to go shower.

“Part of it,” Sam said.

“And you’re responsible for Richard Earl Garrett?”

“Mr. Garrett is responsible for himself. We merely keep the keys to his accommodations.”

He laughed a deep wheezing laugh that ended with a fit of coughing, which engorged his face with purple blood. Blue eyes clutched his arm protectively.

“And who might you be?” he asked Lisa.

“Lisa McFarland.”

“Oh, yes. The prosecuting attorney. You must be quite proud of yourself?”

“We’re pleased with the verdict, if that’s what you mean?” Lisa said.

“That’s only half the battle, darlin’”

“And the other half?” Sam asked.

“Why Richard Earl Garrett must be exterminated, of course.” Billy spoke as much to the crowd that pressed in around him as he did to Sam and Lisa.

“We’ll leave that to the State of California.”

“Only God can rid this Earth of the likes of Mister Garrett.” Billy beamed as if he were on a pulpit.

“What do you propose?” Sam said. “That we throw a rope over a tree and hang him?”

“My, my. You are a feisty one, aren’t you, darlin’?”

Sam glared at him. “Look Reverend, I’m not your darling and I’d appreciate it if you would break up this little revival meeting. You’re blocking traffic.”

“Honey, the revival meetin’ ain’t until tonight. Why don’t you come and hear the word of God?”

“Oh, I’ll be there. It’s God who might not show.”

His smile evaporated. “It’s this mocking of the Lord that has brought this evil to your community.”

“Really. I thought Garrett fell off a Trailways that was bound for Hell.”

“I assure you, Deputy Cody, on this Earth, our troubles are of our own making.”

“That’s one thing we can agree on.”

His piano-like teeth reappeared. “I knew we could be friends. Would it be possible to have a word with your prisoner?”

“Not up to me. You’ll have to ask his attorney.”

“Perhaps I shall,” he smiled. “That would be Mister Levy, I believe.”

He just got into town, Sam thought. How does he know so much? “That’s right. But, before you do that, get these buses out of here. They’re blocking traffic and taking up all the parking spaces.”

“Whatever you say, officer. We must go prepare for this evening anyway.”

He gave them a half bow, turned, and pushed his way through the reporters, ignoring their questions. Blue Eyes shuffled along behind him.

A reporter approached, but before he could ask a question, Sam fixed him with a cold stare. “Don’t even think about it.” He backed away.

“Is this guy for real?” Lisa asked, nodding toward the departing Reverend Billy.

“Afraid so. Nathan says he can be real trouble.”

“I see you and Mister GQ are on a first name basis. What’s the deal?”

“There is no deal,” Sam scowled.

“Just asking.” Lisa held up her hands, palms out, in a defensive posture. “He is rather easy on the eye though.”

“True.” Sam flashed on their brief kiss, then her dream. “I’d better get to the office.”

When she entered the office, Thelma was on the phone but held up one finger. Sam hung her jacket on the corner coat rack as Thelma finished her conversation.

“That’s right. About a mile north of town…Seven, I think…No problem.” She dropped the phone in its cradle. “That’s the third call in the past twenty minutes. Everybody wants to know where Reverend Billy is preaching tonight. They must think we’re the Chamber of Commerce.”

Most people in Mercer’s Corner knew that Thelma was THE source for information. If she didn’t know it, it didn’t exist. And Thelma relished the role, even if she did complain from time to time.

“Where’s he putting on his show tonight?”

“Up near Dry Creek Road. Are you going?”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing the good Reverend,” Sam said sarcastically. “Any messages?”

“Oh. I almost forgot. Cat Roberts called. Said you could talk with Walter anytime.”

“Great. I’ll head right over. Let me have the evidence room keys. I promised Ralph Klingler I’d bring the knife over for him to do some wound comparisons. Meant to do it yesterday, but never got the time.” Forgot, she said to herself.

“Here you go.” Thelma tossed the keys to Sam.

Sam unlocked the door and flipped on the lights. She slid Garrett’s evidence box off the shelf and shuffled through the contents.

“Jesus F. Christ! Thelma!”

Thelma appeared in the doorway. “What?”

“The knife. It’s not here.”

“What?”

“Not here.”

Thelma looked into the box. “I don’t believe it.”

“Where’s Charlie?” Sam stormed out of the room. “Get somebody over here to change the lock on that door,” she shot over her shoulder. “Have them put a couple of dead bolts on the damn thing and lock the Goddamn keys in Charlie’s safe.”

CHAPTER 22

After talking with Charlie and calling Ralph Klingler, informing both that the knife had once again grown wings and escaped, Sam drove to Mercer Community Hospital. She entered the ICU, trying to ignore the cacophony of smells that greeted her, and walked to the nurse’s station, where Rosalie Meyer sat. Rosalie looked up as she approached.

“Morning, Sam. You here to see Walter?”

“Yeah. How’s he doing?”

“Amazingly well, all things considered. Dr. Roberts did a hell of a job, as usual. Go on in. He’s in number three.”

Sam stood at the door to Walter’s cubicle. He looked nothing like the Walter Limpke she knew. He didn’t look like a murderer either. Thin, pale, sickly, he appeared to have been sick for years, not hours.

He lay in bed, his head slightly elevated. A plastic tube filled with a material that looked like used coffee grounds, protruded from his nose and hung over the side of the bed, where it emptied into a bag that held three inches of the same blackflecked liquid. Two IV poles, each decorated with several bags of fluids, stood like sentinels on either side of the bed. The wall-mounted cardiac monitor above his head emitted a steady beep.

His eyelids fluttered, then as if they hoisted the weight of the world, lifted sluggishly. Glassy eyes peered from beneath the droopy lids, scanned right, and then left, unfocused, before locking on Sam.

“Hello, Walter. How you doing?” Sam asked.

“Been better.” His voice was lifeless, raspy. He cleared his throat, then swallowed, wincing in pain. “I feel like one of your punching bags.” He smiled weakly, then hiccoughed, grimacing.

“I hate to bother you right now, but I need to ask a few questions. OK?”

“I have a few thousands questions I’d like to ask, too. But, I wouldn’t know who to ask.”

“Such as?”

“About…last night. Was it last night? I’ve lost all sense of time.”

“Night before. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I was dreaming. At least, I thought I was. It was like a nightmare. Only more real. I woke up and there was…Roberto.” He sobbed, clutching his abdomen, trembling against the pain.

“It’s OK, Walter. Tell me about the dream. Before…Roberto.”

“It was bizarre. I don’t much. There were colors. Bright colors. Unnatural. Not like anything I’ve ever seen.”

Sam’s skin prickled, hairs standing erect like cactus spines. Her dream had been colorful. Unnaturally colorful.

“Can you describe them?” she asked.

“I only flashes. Like the road was silver, the sky orange, and Roberto’s trailer…I now…was bright red. Like a light. It was so bright it hurt, but I couldn’t look away. I wanted to…but I couldn’t.”

The Garrett/reptile’s eyes in her dream were red. Bright, flashing red. The prickly feeling crept up her back.

“Let’s start at the beginning. What happened first?”

He told her of going to bed and awakening in a swirl of scintillating hues. How he fought the compulsion to leave his bed, his house. But, he could not resist and entered a world of colors within colors. Chaotic swirls and incomprehensible images and Roberto’s trailer, emitting a seductive red beacon. Then, as if he had “dropped out of a dream” he was standing before Roberto.

“Do you seeing Roberto alive?”

“No.”

“Did you kill Roberto?”

“I don’t know. I must have. I had the knife.”

“Did you stab yourself, Walter?”

His lips trembled, then he softly said, “Yes.”

He lifted his eyes to hers and she saw a mixture of confusion and sorrow and fear. She wanted to hug him, tell him everything was OK, that she understood. But that was impossible. Everything was not OK and she didn’t understand. Besides, his descriptions echoed her dream, thickening her own fears. Was she going crazy like Walter obviously had?

“Why?”

“Why? You saw him. What I did to him. I don’t know how or why, but I know I did it. I can’t live with that image of Roberto and of…” His voice trailed off as if afraid to continue.

“Roger and Miriam Hargrove?”

“Yes.” Again he sobbed, clutching his belly. “That must have been me, too.”

“You don’t ?”

“Only colors. And the same red light. And Miriam’s face.” He swallowed back tears. “Why did this happen? Am I going crazy? I must be. To do that, someone would have to be.”

“I don’t know, Walter. Not much makes sense right now. I need to ask you something else.”

“Yes?”

“Did you know Richard Earl Garrett? I mean before the trial. Did you ever meet him?”

“No. Why would I know someone like…someone like him?” He looked up, horror etching his face. “Or me?”

“Walter, I don’t know why you did what you did. But, trust me, you and Richard Earl Garrett are miles apart.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s true.” Sam debated asking the next question, but knew she had to. For herself. “This is going to sound bizarre, but in your dream, among all the colors and other things, did you see Garrett? Or perhaps sense his presence? Anything strange like that?”

“No. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Are you going to arrest me, Sam?”

“Probably have to at some point. But not now. You worry about getting better. Charlie and I’ll try to figure out the rest. OK?”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll stop by later. If you think of anything else in the meantime, let the nurses know and they’ll call me.”

She turned to leave.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Does my wife know? About what I did?”

“Not yet. But, you know she will. There are enough reporters in this town right now to hold a convention. Not much gets by them.”

“Would you tell her? I’d rather it came from you, than them…or me.”

“Sure.”

“This will kill her.”

“Don’t underestimate her. She’s tougher than you think.”

Sam walked into the ICU waiting area, where Margo perched on the edge of her chair, nervously fiddling with the strap of her purse. Her legs folded beneath the chair, feet cocked as a sprinter coiled for the starter’s gun. Sam sensed that if the phone rang or a door slammed, she would explode from her chair and fly out of the room. Margo looked up and smiled weakly.

“The nurses told me you were with him. Is he OK?” she asked.

“Doctor Roberts says so.” Sam sat down next to her. Margo looked as bad as Walter, pale, frail, puffy eyed.

“Good.” Her fingers continued their dance along the purse strap. Her eyes dropped. “Did Walter…kill Roberto?” she asked softly.

“He thinks so.”

“Thinks so?”

“He’s not sure. He doesn’t .”

“And you? What do you think?”

“The evidence suggests so, but there are a lot of unanswered questions.”

“Did you arrest him?”

“No.”

“Thank God.” She exhaled the words.

“Margo, right now Walter needs to rest and get over his injuries. Whether he’s charged with these crimes or not, only time will tell.”

“Crimes?”

“Roger and Miriam. He may have been involved.”

“Oh, God. I never imagined…I never…” Her voice trailed off. “How could he have done…this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s ill. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Let me and Charlie see what we can uncover.”

“Walter’s a good man,” she said, as much a question as a statement.

“Yes, Margo. He is.”

Margo collapsed into tears. Sam hugged her, letting her release her pain.

After consoling Margo, Sam walked to her Jeep. Images from her dream replayed in her mind. Colors, Nathan, Garrett.

Maybe she was going crazy, too.

Maybe Nita Stillwater was right and some beast had crawled out of a cave and was doing this.

Maybe Garrett was Satan or Beelzebub or whoever he was today.

Maybe this town was paying for its sins.

Walter Limpke was alone. More alone than he had ever been. The ICU was busy. Doctors making rounds and nurses hurrying by his cubicle as they tended other patients. His assigned nurse, Rosa, checking his vital signs and adjusted his IVs. Yet, Walter felt as though he were on a deserted island.

Images from the past two nights tumbled in his head, each vying for attention, none making sense. At times, he convinced himself that he had done nothing and that all this was merely and dream. That he would awaken at home in bed with Margo at his side. But, each time a pain racked him or he looked down at his bandaged belly, the truth shattered all those wishes.

Who was he?

The Walter Limpke that gave to charity and worked tirelessly on community projects? The man who had been faithful to his wife for three decades? The one who extended credit to the credit-less, not really expecting to be paid?

Or, was he the Walter Limpke who killed and mutilated three people? The one who had a man’s nightmares? The one who lay here because of wounds inflicted by his own hand?

Which one was he? Or, was he both? Was he some modern day Jekyll and Hyde? Two personalities wrestling over the same soul? And, which would win?

He clutched his abdomen as his sobs sent waves of burning pain through him. He wished he were dead.

“Walter?”

He looked up to see Margo standing in the doorway to his cubicle, apprehension cutting lines in her face.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

He turned his head toward the wall, his eyes searching for something to fix to, anything but Margo’s face. She skirted the bed and stepped into his field of vision, bending to align her eyes with his.

“What is it, honey?” she asked, placing a soft hand on his arm.

Despair and grief and fear poured from him, causing him to sob uncontrollably. He clutched his stomach against the burning pain.

She brushed her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead. “It will be OK,” she said softly.

That’s just like Margo, he thought. Always there for him. Always worried more about him than herself.

Like a decade ago when they went through a rough period with the hardware

store, nearly losing it. But, Margo jumped in, shepherded the finances, worked long hours when two employees had to be let go, and somehow kept things afloat.

Like five years ago, when he had that scare with chest pains that turned out to be an ulcer. Margo calmed him, drove him to the hospital, and stayed at his side through the two days of tests that followed.

Or, like two nights ago when she comforted him with soup and understanding. She deserved better than this, than him.

“Will it?” he asked.

“Yes.” She took his hand and placed it against her face. “Whatever happens, I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He nuzzled her hand, staining it with his tears. “I don’t deserve you.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, you do.”

Another fit of sobbing racked him.

“We’ll get through this,” she said. “You’re a good man, Walter. You always have been.”

CHAPTER 23

After Sam apologized for dropping by unexpectedly, Noreen Waters invited her into her rambling four bedroom ranch style home, the largest in Mercer’s Corner, and ushered her into the impeccably decorated living room. She offered Sam banana bread, no thanks, and coffee, sure, black. While Noreen retreated to the kitchen for the coffee, Sam looked around the room. It had changed little, if any, since she had sat on the same sofa two months ago and informed Noreen and Harry Waters that their only child Tommy had been murdered and mutilated by Richard Earl Garrett.

A silver framed picture of Tommy grinned at Sam from the fireplace mantle. His innocent, freckled face offered no clue to the horror that lay ahead for him. Even a casual observer would know Tommy was Noreen’s son. They possessed the same dark hair, delicate nose, and off-center smile. Of course, Noreen Waters had not smiled in months.

These are good people, Sam thought. Harry Waters, the president of the local bank, and Noreen seemed always to be involved in projects that bettered the community. Harry had donated a large chunk of the money needed for the new high school gymnasium and his bank had floated a sweetheart loan for the balance. Noreen spearheaded drug prevention programs for the local schools, chaired the annual Fourth of July Frontier Days celebration, and immersed herself in one community project after another. For tragedy to have visited this family was beyond unfair.

Noreen placed the coffee and a stack of napkins on the coffee table before Sam and sat in a blue wing-backed chair facing her. Sam lifted the cup carefully, sipped the coffee, and then returned it to the saucer. The fine china pinged softly. To Sam, Noreen seemed as delicate as the cup and she wondered how the

woman could have weathered this nightmare without cracking. Noreen folded her thin legs beneath the chair and laced her spidery fingers together in her lap. Though she could ill afford it, she seemed to have lost ten to fifteen pounds over the past two months.

“How can I help you?” Noreen asked.

“I have a couple of follow up questions for our investigation,” Sam lied. This had little to do with the investigation. This was for her own peace of mind.

“I thought the investigation was over now that that animal has been convicted.”

“The formal sentencing hasn’t taken place yet, as you know. I need to tie up a few loose ends. Make sure Garrett gets the death penalty.”

“God, I hope so.” Her soft brown eyes, dulled by pain, peered at Sam from a chalky face. “I know that’s awful. Asking God to sentence someone to death.” She smiled nervously. “But, I can’t believe he is one of God’s creatures. He can’t be human.”

“I know.” Sam shook her head.

“Your job must be very hard for you, Sam,” Noreen said. “Dealing with criminals and murders.” She swallowed hard. “People like Garrett.”

Sam couldn’t believe this woman was concerned about how Sam felt. After everything she had been through, was going through. Just weeks after burying her only child.

“Sometimes,” Sam said. “But, nothing like what you and the other parents have had to endure.”

Guilt gnawed at her. For accepting this poor woman’s sympathy, for invading her mourning, and for prying into her life and that of her dead child. Yet, she must. Something was happening to her, to Walter. Maybe even to Garrett. Something she didn’t understand. It was a sad fact that in homicide investigations the victims usually told the tale. Dead or alive, they were invariably the holder of the secrets. Prying into their lives, regardless of how sordid or how innocent, uncovered the truth. And right now, she needed truth and rationality.

“Before Tommy was murdered, did his behavior change in any way? Anything unusual?”

“No. He was excited by the new school year. He always enjoyed school. He made good grades and had lots of friends.”

“He didn’t seem anxious or depressed?”

“No.”

“Did he express any fears of people or strangers?”

“No.” Concern creased her face.

“Was he afraid of going anywhere or staying after school for any of the activities he was involved in?”

“No. In fact, as you know, on the day…that day…he stayed to work on the school play he was in.”

“But, he and Rachel and Lee Ann ditched rehearsal that day and left the school grounds. Any idea why?”

“As I told you before, I have no idea. That was so unlike Tommy.” Noreen’s eyes widened as if a realization had struck her. “You don’t think Garrett got to him…to Rachel and Lee Ann…before…” She couldn’t say the words. “You don’t think he had been hanging around the school?”

“I don’t know. But, if he did, it shows premeditation and I would like to put that in my report to Judge Westbrooke.”

“Surely, some one would have seen him. Besides, Tommy would have told us. We are…were…very close.”

“Maybe no one noticed. Maybe Tommy didn’t think Garrett was anything other than an interested adult.”

“You mean Garrett may have tried to recruit Tommy and the girls? Make them like those kids that hang out on the corner across from Harry’s bank?”

“Maybe.”

“Jesus. I never…” She stared past Sam, her eyes glazed, unfocused.

Now for the real question, Sam thought. The reason she was there. Guilt continued to chew on her, but she knew she had to press on. “Did Tommy have any trouble sleeping? Any nightmares or strange dreams?”

Noreen’s eyes glistened, tears welling in their corners. “Yes.” She dabbed her eyes with a knuckle.

Sam’s heartbeat quickened. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t believe this. We didn’t think it was serious.”

Sam leaned forward, catching the distraught woman’s gaze. “Just tell me what you know.”

“During the weeks before…before Garrett…maybe two weeks, I don’t for sure…he had awakened several times with bad dreams. Once he

wet his bed.”

“This was unusual for him?”

“Oh, yes. He always slept well. Even as a baby, he slept through the night. He was such a good…” She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her elbows and sobbed. “I’m sorry.” She picked up a napkin from the table and pressed it against her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK. You want to finish this at another time?”

“No. I’ll be OK.”

“Did Tommy tell you about his dreams?”

“He couldn’t most of them. Usually he dreamed of being chased. Either up a hill or through water or mud. He’d have to struggle to stay away from whoever was after him.”

“Did he say who was chasing him?”

“Mostly, he couldn’t tell. But, once or twice he called him Snakeman.”

“Snakeman?”

“He was scaly and had red eyes. In fact, he said everything was very colorful. Like cartoons, except real.”

Sam stiffened, her heart stuttered a beat or two. A reptile-like man with red eyes? A living cartoon? A child’s description of exactly what she had dreamed.

“Tommy made a drawing of one of his dreams,” Noreen continued. “Would you like to see it?”

“Yes,” Sam heard herself say in a voice that wasn’t her own.

Noreen left the room but returned momentarily and placed an eight by eleven piece of paper on the table before Sam.

The drawing was crude and aggressive, made with crayons. Angry slashes and swirls of bright reds, oranges, yellows, and greens filled the entire page. Not even the smallest island of the paper’s original white leaked through. From the center of the page a brown, scale covered man-like figure with a reptilian head, horns, and crimson eyes stared back. Regardless of which way Sam tilted or turned the page, the eyes followed her, like the picture of Jesus that had hung on the wall in her Sunday School class years ago.

Sam felt a wave of nausea rise from her gut. Her heart leaped into her throat, hammering a staccato rhythm like the speed bag at the gym. She snatched

several napkins from the table and mopped cold sweat from her face and neck, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Are you OK?” Noreen asked.

“Yeah. Coffee. This is my sixth cup today. I shouldn’t drink so much.”

After thanking Noreen and making a graceful exit, Sam sat in her Jeep, window down, and sucked in the cool air. Coincidence, she told herself. Walter Limpke’s dreams, Billy Waters’ dreams, her dream, all coincidences.

But, after visiting with the parents of Lee Ann Holbert and Rachel Culbertson, she knew differently. Both children had been anxious and depressed, which their parents ascribed to starting a new school year. Both had had dreams, eerily similar to Tommy’s--terrifying scenes of fleeing a reptilian pursuer through a brilliantly colored landscape. Both had wandered away from school on that day two months ago for reasons unknown.

More disturbing were the three pieces of paper that spread before her on the enger seat of the Jeep. Rachel and Lee Ann had drawn pictures virtually identical to that of Tommy. Three pairs of red, reptilian eyes stared her; three fang-filled mouths smiled as if mocking her.

CHAPTER 24

Sam’s head pounded. The pressure behind her eyes felt as if it might extrude them from their sockets. As weeks went, this one had started in the toilet and been flushed from there. She didn’t see any hope of it getting better either. At least, by the time she drove back into town, Reverend Billy’s buses were nowhere to be seen.

Garrett’s Groupies occupied their usual corner. She pulled to the curb next to them. Most didn’t notice, being too wrapped up in their own dazed little world, but Penelope looked up. Sam motioned her over.

“Yeah?” Penelope said as she walked toward her.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Hop in.”

The girl circled the Jeep and climbed in the enger seat.

“Want some coffee or anything to eat?” Sam asked.

“We can always use food. What’s the catch?”

“Does there have to be a catch?”

“Usually.”

“No catch. I’d just like to ask a few questions.”

“That’s the catch.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“Fair enough.”

Sam picked up her cell phone and punched in a number.

“Millie. Sam. Can you whip me up two dozen burgers. I’ll pick them up in about fifteen minutes. Thanks.”

She pulled from the curb, made a U-turn, and headed out of town.

“I thought we’d drive around and chat for a few minutes while Millie is getting those burgers ready.”

“That’s cool.”

“Penelope, have you had any with Richard Earl Garrett?”

“I’ve tried. ? You wouldn’t let me talk with him.”

“What about any other type of ?”

Penelope eyed her quizzically. “Like what? A telegram? Carrier Pigeon?”

Sam laughed. “No. Not a Carrier Pigeon.”

The more Sam saw of Penelope, the more she liked her. She was more than a mixed up young woman. She was obviously bright, articulate, well educated. Appearances can be deceiving.

“What then?” Penelope asked.

“This is going to sound strange.”

“Cool. I like strange.”

“I mean like visions or dreams or…I don’t know…anything crazy like that.”

“You don’t strike me as the metaphysical type,” Penelope said, shifting sideways in the seat to face Sam.

“I’m not. But, right now nothing makes much sense.”

“Everything makes sense. We just aren’t enlightened enough to recognize it most of the time.”

“You sound like Nathan.”

“The reporter dude?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s cute. Not my type, but cute. You and he together?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

“So, back to the question. Any dreams or things like that?”

“I wish. I’d love it if Richard chose me to be his path, spread his word.”

“Trust me. You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know him. He’s kind and beautiful.”

“I know him all right. Better than you. He’s a cold-blooded killer. No more, no less.”

“Have you dreamed about him?” Penelope asked.

The question startled her. The answer, of course, was yes, she had. But, that sounded so strange, so dirty, so untrue. She didn’t really dream about him. He invaded her dream. But, that sounded even more ridiculous.

“No,” Sam said.

“Then, why the question?”

“Some people. Other people. People who don’t know Garrett have had weird dreams about him. I thought maybe you had, too.”

That was a lame answer and Sam knew it as soon as she uttered it. Penelope didn’t seem to think so.

“Way cool. I’d love it if I had one of his dreams. Who are the lucky ones? I’d love to talk with them.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Why?”

“Most of them are dead.”

Sam whipped the Jeep into the parking lot at Millie’s.

After Sam dropped Penelope and the burgers at the corner, she parked in front of the Sheriff’s Department and walked inside.

“Has Mister Klimek shown up yet?” she asked Thelma.

“No. Are you expecting him?”

“We’re going out to talk with Nita Stillwater.”

“Last night. Today. That’s two dates.” Thelma’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“They’re not dates,” Sam glared at her. “He wanted to talk with Nita, I’m showing him the way.”

“Wouldn’t dinner or a movie be more romantic?”

“You’re impossible,” Sam said, shaking her head. “I’ll be in back, talking with Garrett. Let me know when Nathan gets here.”

Sam spun the folding chair around, dropped it near Garrett’s cell, and straddled it. Garrett laid the book he was reading on his bunk, swung his legs over the side, and sat up.

“Samantha. So good to see you.”

“I told you…”

“Yes, I . But, Samantha is such a beautiful name.”

“Deputy sounds better, coming from you.”

“I’m glad you’re here. I thought you had forgotten about me.”

“Not likely.”

“You look tired. Trouble sleeping?”

His gaze stabbed her like a thousand tiny knives, causing her skin to prickle. She wanted to rip the arrogant smirk off his face. She also wanted to know how the hell he would know about her sleeping difficulties.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“You look worn out. Maybe you should take a vacation or something.”

“After we get you tucked away at Club Med San Quentin, maybe I will.”

He laughed. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit. I can tell you didn’t come to kiss and make up.”

“The kids? Did you know them before?”

“I’ve already told you. I didn’t know them. Never met them. Before, that day.”

“How did you entice them to leave school and meet you?”

“They came of their own volition. As it had to be.”

“What does that mean?”

He flashed a patronizing smile. “Lucifer demanded that they present themselves for sacrifice. As innocents, fulfilling their destiny.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true. Even that drunk you put on the witness stand said so. Don’t you even believe your own witnesses?”

“Eye witnesses are notoriously wrong.”

“But, he wasn’t. And you know that to be true.”

“So, you didn’t do anything, anything at all, to draw them away from school?”

“Like what? Hypnotizing them? Offering them candy?” He laughed. “They came to me. They were the chosen ones.”

She heard the voice in her dream again.

Come to me.

You are the one.

“Chosen?”

“With Lucifer’s guidance. His approval. I told you, he controls all.”

“But, you did kill them.”

“I never denied that. And I never itted it. I don’t know.”

“Don’t know or don’t want to talk about it?”

He stood and walked to the small sink in the corner of his cell. He turned on the water, cupped his hands beneath the stream, then splashed water on his face, “We’ve been over this before,” he said as he dried his face on a towel. “I little of that day.”

“Before, it was nothing. Now, it’s little. Which is it?”

“I only bits and pieces. Mostly nonsense.” He returned to his bunk and sat down.

“Such as?”

“Colors. Wild, crazy colors.”

A knot formed in her stomach. “What else?”

“That’s it.”

“And something compelled you to kill those kids?”

“Lucifer.”

“That’s right. The devil made you do it.”

Garret shrugged but did not respond.

“OK. Let’s say the devil did make you do it. How?”

“Lucifer’s power permeates all. Me. You. He could make you do things you could never imagine.”

“Really? Why hasn’t he?”

“All in good time.”

His black eyes bored into her. She felt the knot in her stomach expand. Anger? Fear? She wasn’t sure which.

“How did he get to you?” she asked.

“I welcomed him.”

“But, how? What form did he take?”

“He came in my dreams at first.”

The knot tightened and a slight chill swept through her.

“Now, he is with me always,” Garret continued. “Part of me. And I part of him.”

“What were the dreams like?”

“Weird. Chaotic. Wildly colorful. Similar to that day.”

The knot pressed upward into her chest. Her lungs refused to move air. Relax, she told herself, attempting to hide her fear from his probing eyes, not wanting him to gain the advantage that would give him. Yet, there it was, like a stubborn red wine stain on a white blouse.

“You OK?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or is it Satan?” He flashed a smirking smile. “You’ve seen him already, haven’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“I think you have. In your dreams perhaps?”

Her dream snapped into focus. A chill crackled along her spine. “No.”

“Samantha, don’t lie to me. , I know all he knows.”

“Apparently not. You’re wrong on this one,” she lied.

“I think not.” His smile stretched further.

Shoot him. Just pull out your gun and shoot him.

“Back to the question,” she said. “What did he look like? When he came to you.”

“Nothing. Everything. He is more a presence than a physical entity. I felt him. Sensed him. Of course, he is different to each of us. And there are many of us.”

“Many? I thought you were special? Hand picked by Satan?”

“I was. We all were.”

“I see.”

“Do you? We number in the thousands. In every corner of the world.”

“Why so many?”

“The apocalypse is near. The hour of Revelation is at hand. The war for the souls of men will shake the Earth to its foundation. But, we will triumph.”

“You sound like Reverend Billy. Only he says his side will win.”

“He is mistaken.”

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Do you know Reverend Billy.”

“Better than he knows himself.”

Sam stood. “Well, I’m glad Satan has enough troops to do battle with the Reverend. I guess that means he doesn’t need me.”

“But, I do. You will open the gates to Lucifer’s kingdom for me. You are the one, Samantha.”

You are the one, Samantha.

The chill along her spine dropped twenty degrees. “You’re crazy.”

“No. And when you do come to me, freely and willfully, you will know my true power.”

“Not likely.”

He stood and walked to the bars. His eyes held her. “When you look into my eyes, sense my breath on your face, feel my power seeping into your being, you will know.”

CHAPTER 25

Sam pressed her foot down on the accelerator. The Jeep careened along the serpentine road west of town. It’s frame creaked and groaned as the vehicle pitched and yawed and lurched, its tires screaming in protest. Gravel ratta-tatted in the wheel wells whenever the tires slipped on to the narrow shoulder before regaining the pavement and launching the Jeep forward again.

Nathan gripped the dash with one hand and the armrest with the other in a futile attempt to remain in with his seat.

“I take it you know this road well?” he asked.

She did know the road well. They flew past the landmarks of her childhood: Castle Rock, a craggy escarpment whose silhouette appeared as a medieval castle; Layton’s Fork, where Cherokee Creek had at one time divided; Dean’s Wash--no one ed where that name originated.

She glanced over at him. “The three most dangerous things in the world are a loaded gun, a pissed off woman, and a two lane black top. You’ve got all three right here, so don’t press your luck.”

“But…”

“You wanted to see Nita Stillwater.”

“I was hoping to be alive when I saw her.”

Sam wasn’t sure why she was so mad. Probably a combination of frustration, confusion, and a healthy dose of fear. And Garrett, that arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He got to her and that’s what set her off. Or was it the fact that everyone was having the same dream she had had last night. Well, not everyone. Just the ones that had killed or been killed recently.

And what the hell did Garrett mean? When she came to him. Willfully. Did he think she believed all that crap about the kids? He abducted them. They didn’t… how did he put it?…“present themselves” to be murdered.

And Nathan pissed her off, too.

Earlier, when she told him about her dream, excluding her little medical problem, and Walter’s and Garrett’s and the children’s dreams, he didn’t act surprised or skeptical or anything. He merely nodded as if she were telling him a campfire story.

When she showed him the three crayon drawings of “Snakeman,” he said, “Now this is a great story.”

“You probably believe Satan did all this,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ. Has everyone gone insane?”

“Open your mind. , nothing is ever as it seems.”

“Yeah, maybe this place is the new Salem.”

“Possibly. But , there are several legitimate explanations for what happened in Salem.”

“I thought the devil took up residence in the local well.”

“I haven’t heard that one,” he laughed. “It may have been mass hysteria. Or, some people believe it was ergotamine poisoning from moldy rye bread.”

“What?”

“Ergotamine. It’s a psychedelic. Like LSD. It’s produced by certain molds that like rye.”

“Must be a Jewish mold.”

He laughed. “I’ll ask my Rabbi.”

“Maybe we should check our water supply? I bet it’s a fluorine conspiracy.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

She slowed only slightly and slid the Jeep through a sharp left turn. The rear fishtailed, but Sam barely noticed.

Maybe she was angry because, despite her earlier skepticism, she actually wanted to talk with Nita Stillwater. Not that she believed Nita’s demon tale, but somehow she felt the old woman might offer some insight into what was going on. Sam only knew she herself didn’t have a clue and it was this feeling of helplessness that grated on every nerve in her body.

Sam whipped the Jeep onto a rutted dirt road. The shocks slammed to full compression, then launched them upward as the Jeep dropped into and out of a creek bed, which crossed the road. Nathan’s head smacked the roof, but he said nothing and tightened his grip on the dash.

Neither the road nor the creek, which crisscrossed one another a dozen times, bore official names. Locals dubbed each Cherokee because the only four Cherokee families in the county lived near where the road dissolved into the desert. Water from the recent rains had collected in ruts and in several low points along the creek’s path. The Jeep plowed through another creek crossing, lifting wings of muddy water to each side.

They neared five trailers that squatted along the road, three on the left, two on the right. Four were occupied, the other a rusted carcass.

Nita Stillwater lived in the second one on the right, a dilapidated doublewide surrounded by a chicken-wire fence, which held a dozen chickens, two goats, and an assortment of dogs and cats. Two partially cannibalized, rusted car skeletons and a tired red pick-up sat in front of the trailer. As Sam pulled the Jeep to a stop, Nita appeared in her doorway as if she had expected them.

Sam and Nathan stepped from the Jeep as an angry red Chow hurtled around the trailer across the road, snarling and leaping against the fence that contained him. A weatherworn Indian woman, holding a baby, appeared at the door of the trailer and said something to the dog that they couldn’t make out. The thick-furred animal sat down, glanced over his shoulder at the woman, than returned his stare to Sam and Nathan.

Two small children peered around the woman, each clinging to her faded turquoise skirt. Nita waved to her as if to say “everything’s all right” and the woman disappeared inside her home. One of the children remained, her large dark eyes following Sam and Nathan as they walked toward Nita.

After shooing away a couple of chickens, Nita invited them in. Sam introduced her and Nathan and they sat around a yellow Formica topped kitchen table. Nita offered beer and Mescal, but they opted for soft drinks.

Her face looked like a sun-dried tomato, wrinkled, burned brown by years of exposure to the harsh desert. Her shoulders slumped as if she ed the sun and the heavens. Yet, her eyes were bright, clear, intelligent.

Nita eyed Nathan, then turned to Sam.

“So, now you come to hear what I say?”

“Yes.”

“But, I see in your eyes you still do not believe. Your friend, he knows, but you…you are not yet ready.”

“Nita, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I want to know what you believe.”

Nathan smiled. Sam scowled at him.

Nita poured herself a shot of Mescal and tossed it down. “It is as I said. The demon is here. He has come because people here do not accept the Cherokee spirits, believe in them. They do not respect themselves or their Mother Earth and all life is out of balance. Only the spirits of the Earth, the wind, the sun can restore order and peace. Until that is done, the demon will continue his work.”

“What is this demon?” Sam asked.

“The Demon with the Iron Finger.”

Nathan leaned forward, his eyes locking with Nita’s. She turned to him as she spoke.

“The demon has followed my people for many generations. He reminds us to respect all things. When we do not, he leaves his cave to extract his vengeance.”

“I don’t understand,” Nathan said. “What cave? What is this demon?”

“Long before the white man set foot on the Blue Ridge, what you know as North Carolina, we were there. Living peacefully beneath the Tusquittee Mountain. The demon arose from a cave on that very mountain. He could mimic many forms, usually that of a friend or loved one. In that disguise, he would seduce the victim by stroking their hair with soft fingers until they slept. Then, using his iron finger he would remove their liver and lungs.”

Mental images of Roger and Miriam and Roberto flashed through Sam’s mind. Each had been attacked in their sleep. Each had had their organs ripped from their bodies.

“He would kill them with his iron finger?”

“Not immediately. He is very skillful and able to remove the organs without leaving marks that would signify his intrusion. When they awoke, they would not know what had occurred.

“What happened then?” Sam asked.

“At first they would behave normally, but over the next few weeks or months they would fall into a deep melancholy. They would grow weaker, their flesh would hang from their bones, and finally, they would retreat to their dwelling and die of the consumption.”

A vision of Walter Limpke’s pale, thin face formed in Sam’s mind.

“Does the demon always lull his victim’s to sleep or can he attack someone who is awake?” Nathan asked.

“I don’t know. But, he prefers guile to confrontation.”

“Can he be defeated?” Sam asked.

“Long ago, many warriors went to his cave and attacked him with arrows. He laughed at them, mocked them. Whenever an arrow pierced his flesh, he plucked it out and hurled it at them, leaving no mark where the arrow had been. Many warriors died at his hand that day.”

She poured another shot of Mescal. This time, the plump, golden-brown worm that floated in the bottle, slid into the glass. She plucked it out and offered it to them. They waved it away. She popped it in her mouth and swallowed it with the shot she had poured.

“Then,” she continued, “a small wren sang to the warriors and told them to aim

for his iron finger, which the warriors did. Seeing their ploy, the demon raged against them, but soon an arrow struck his iron finger and he fell dead.”

“His Achilles’ heel, so to speak?” Sam said.

Nita gave her a patient smile. “Except Achilles is a creature of Greek myth. The Demon with the Iron Finger is quite real.”

“But, if he is dead, how can he be here?” Nathan asked.

“After he was slain, none of my people fell prey to the consumption for many years. Then, his descendants arose from the cave and the consumption returned.”

“You believe one of his offspring is responsible for the deaths here?” Sam asked.

Nita stared at her, her dark eyes demanding attention. “Of that, I am certain.”

CHAPTER 26

The sun had dipped below the horizon a half hour before Sam turned onto Dry Creek Road. The evening onshore breeze had cleared the clouds, revealing a crystalline sky, tinted a deep Prussian blue by the remnants of the sun’s light. As twilight thickened into night, the stars winked on one by one until the heavens held thousands of them, sparkling like champagne bubbles. A bright nearly spherical moon appeared to balance on a ragged hilltop to her left.

As a child, Sam had loved nights like this. Because she had lived three miles from the meager lights of Mercer’s Corner, she needed only walk out her back door to enjoy spectacular views, free of even minimal light pollution. She would stretch out on a flat rock, which steadily released an entire day’s worth of sunbathing, creating a warm cradle in the cool night air. For hours, she would stare into the sky and wonder what it would be like to travel among the stars. She learned the names of the constellations. Her favorites: majestic Orion with fiery Betelgeuse, anchoring one corner, and the playful Pleiades.

Her father gave her a book of Greek and Roman mythology and ed many hours teaching her the ancient stories. With book in hand, they would sit for hours on that same warm rock and he would point out the constellations and relate to her how each came to be, which breathed life into the various star patterns and opened up a world of new friends and adventures.

She learned that Orion, a skilled hunter, was given an eternal resting place in the heavens after he had been felled by the jealousy and treachery of Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt. She delighted in mighty Apollo, whose chariot ferried the sun across the sky, Zeus and Hera, who sat at the apex of the Pantheon, and dark, dreadful Hades, who cast a spell over Persephone with a handful of pomegranate seeds and brought about the four seasons.

Maybe Hades had come to Mercer’s Corner and wreaked this havoc, she thought. Maybe we would have perpetual winter from now on.

She wished she were back on that rock, dreaming of the gods and not out here in the desert, going to see a man who thought he was God.

The Jeep bounced over a rise in the road, bringing the top of Reverend Billy’s tent into view. Over another rise, she saw that the desert floor had been transformed into a carnival. The floodlit tent, swaged over two fifty-foot poles, looked like a giant sailing ship. Behind it, seven giant Reverend Billy faces smiled from his four buses and three equipment trailers, which sat in a semi-circle around the tent. Hawkers sold snacks and soft drinks, Reverend Billy trinkets, and Bibles. Young men and women manned popcorn and cotton candy machines and dispensed these treats to eager customers. Children stood impatiently in line for a pony ride.

All for a price.

Reverend Billy sure knew how to throw a party. “Make that a fund raiser,” Sam muttered to herself.

She parked her Jeep just off the road and waded into the crowd. Gospel music blared from an array of speakers, welcoming the steady stream of people that filed into the tent, most pausing long enough to purchase a gaudy souvenir. It appeared as if the everyone in the county was there.

Betty McCumber stopped her, her eyes wild with excitement.

“Isn’t this great, Sam?” She danced from foot to foot as if on hot coals. “Can you believe he’s really here? I listen to his radio program every Sunday.”

“Yeah, Betty. It’s just great.”

“Now, we will be saved.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Reverend Billy is blessed with the power of God. He will stop Satan and Garrett. And those awful hippies.”

“I’m sure he will,” Sam said sarcastically. “Have you seen Sheriff Walker?”

“He’s over by the tent. I saw him a few minutes ago.” She waved to Marjorie Bleekman, who stood near the pony ride. “I’ll see you later,” she said and disappeared into the crowd.

“Impressive isn’t it?”

She turned to see Nathan standing beside her.

“That’s one word. Disgusting also works. Snake oil salesman seems appropriate, too.”

“He does have a gift.”

“Look at them,” she said. “I know these people. They’re normal, rational human beings. I can’t believe they’re buying into Reverend Billy’s bullshit. You’d think they were kids at a carnival.”

“They are. Tonight anyway. It isn’t often they get to see a real celebrity like Reverend Billy up close and personal.”

The canned gospel music suddenly died, followed by a screech of , then a woman’s voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. Reverend Billy will be with us shortly, but now I’d like to introduce the Holy Church of God Choir, led by Maurice LeBlanc. Come on inside and enjoy their wonderful voices as they raise them in praise of our Lord. Maurice.”

The people still outside the tent hurried toward the entrance as the choir broke into “Nearer My God to Thee.” Children howled as parents pulled them toward the tent and away from the pony ride.

Sam and Nathan slipped inside, finding Charlie Walker near the back wall.

“Quite a happening, isn’t it?” she said to Charlie.

He shrugged and grunted, which meant he didn’t think too much of it.

Sam estimated that seven to eight hundred folding chairs filled the floor of the tent and faced an elevated stage. Nearly every seat was occupied and another hundred or so people stood along the tent’s walls. Floodlights, which hung from a scaffolding that rose thirty feet above the floor, bathed the stage. Four rows of bleachers claimed the left half of the platform and ed the choir. Clad in black robes with purple trim, they enthusiastically sang God’s praises. A single microphone stood center stage.

The choir concluded their program with “Rock of Ages.”

The woman who had introduced Billy in town that afternoon, neatly dressed in gray slacks and a white blouse, approached the microphone. “Thank you, Maurice.” She clapped and bowed slightly toward the choir. “Let’s have a big hand for Maurice LeBlanc and the Holy Church of God Choir.”

The audience responded with a standing ovation.

“Thank you all for coming,” she continued. “We have traveled across the country to be here with you in your time of need. When we learned of the sorrow that had befallen you good people, we knew we must come to help and comfort. Reverend Billy Thibideaux has given his life to the service of our Lord. It is the word of God that he brings to you this evening.”

Someone from the crowd shouted “Amen.” Others echoed the same. Cheers and clapping erupted.

The woman smiled and raised her hands to quiet the crowd. “Reverend Billy has come to console, to sooth, to heal your wounds. To bring the Lord to you. Good people, I give you Reverend Billy Thibideaux.”

The choir broke into the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

Reverend Billy, dressed in a navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and red silk tie, mounted the stage, waving, then folded his hands together in mock prayer and bowed to the adoring congregation. Among the cheers and shouts, gasps could be heard as his massive form approached the microphone. The applause grew louder. He waved to the audience, a Cheshire cat grin splitting his tanned face. He dabbed sweat from his forehead with an handkerchief. Finally, he raised his arms and silence fell.

“Thank you,” he drawled. “I welcome you to the Holy Church of God.”

Again applause and cheers filled the arena. Someone yelled, “We love you, Reverend Billy.”

A young man walked on stage, handed Billy a Bible, and then retreated. Billy raised the book high over his head and waited theatrically for the crowd noise to diminish.

“This is the word of God,” he boomed.

A smattering of people, mostly those who had arrived with Reverend Billy, shouted back, “Amen.”

Again Billy bellowed, “Praise the Lord.”

“Amen.” The chorus grew louder as the enthusiasm of Billy’s shills infested their neighbors.

“Praise Jesus,” Billy thundered, waving the Bible over his head.

“Amen,” reflected the congregation with enough force to vibrate the ground.

Billy’s voice dropped to a whisper, causing silence to fall over the crowd. “The Lord is here. He is with you in your time of need. He awaits your call. He awaits the opening of your hearts.”

He wiped sweat from his face and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. He began to pace back and forth, the Bible in one hand, microphone in the other.

“But, someone else is here. Someone so evil, so vile, so black with hatred that he has transformed this community into a place of fear and sorrow. He is Satan.”

Billy’s voice began to rise.

“He and his disciple, Richard Earl Garrett, have seeped into your lives, stealing your souls, your happiness, your love. Your friends, your neighbors, your children.

His resonant voice rose higher still.

“You alone cannot cast him out. Only with the power of God can you remove this scourge from your lives.”

His voice became a booming clap of thunder. The Bible’s pages fluttered over his head as he swung it back and forth.

“You must open your hearts to Jesus and to God. You must confess your sins and beg for His forgiveness. Give Him your love and He will give you the strength to cast Satan out. He will fill your hearts with love and it is this love that Satan cannot overcome.”

“He’s good.” Sam said.

“Told you,” Nathan replied.

Reverend Billy launched into a ionate sermon of good versus evil while a dozen pretty young girls, including Blue Eyes, ed through the crowd collecting money in deep baskets. Apparently, God didn’t like ugly. A table in the corner of the tent stacked high with Bibles autographed and blessed by Reverend Billy, did a brisk business.

Billy removed his jacket, exposing a shirt soaked with the sweat of the Lord’s work, then resumed his pacing. The audience sat entranced as he pranced back and forth, his white mane reflecting the overhead lights, producing a halo around his face.

“We live in the time of Revelations. Few have read and fewer still understand this final book of God’s great work. It is difficult for most to believe such apocalyptic words, to believe that the war between God and Satan could reach such cataclysmic proportions. That the heavens and Earth could be so shaken and plunged into such despair. Surely mankind could not survive such a holocaust.”

He suddenly stopped, center stage, and impaled each member of the audience with his pale blue eyes. “But the book of Saint Matthew shows you the way. The path from this horror that has gripped your lives. The road to your salvation. Chapter 12.”

He opened the Bible and read.

“‘Then was brought unto Him one possessed with the devil and He healed him. And all the people were amazed and said ‘Is not this the son of David?’”

He raised his gaze and scanned the congregation. The silence that fell over the gathering lay as heavy as a damp woolen blanket.

Billy continued. “But the enemies of Jesus accused Him of being in the service of Satan. They said, ‘He doth not cast out devils but by Beelzebub the prince of the devils’.”

Beelzebub? The name hit Sam like a left hook. Garrett’s name for himself. When Garrett professed that Beelzebub was his Satan given name, Sam assumed he got it from Milton’s “Paradise Lost.” She had ed the name from high school literature, mainly because she could never pronounce it. Now, here it was. From the mouth of Reverend Billy. From the Bible.

“But Jesus understood their ploy,” Billy continued, “and replied to them, ‘Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation and if Satan cast out Satan, he is divided against himself; how shall his kingdom stand? But, if I cast out devils by the spirit of God, then the kingdom of God is come unto you.’”

Billy held the Bible in his outstretched hand as if blessing the congregation, his voice rising to a crescendo.

“You must come to God and give him your hearts. Do not rely on the secular world for they are as Satan and cannot cast out themselves, their own kind. Your police, your judges, cannot expel Lucifer and his supplicants. Only you, through the power of God, can accomplish this task. Richard Earl Garrett and his disciples, who gather in the heart of your town, mocking your God, threatening your community, and killing your neighbors, must be expelled. Their hatred of God must be expunged.”

He walked to the front of the stage, spread his arms, and looked down on the wide-eyed audience. His voice rumbled up from his thick chest and cascaded over them. “Come to the Lord. Give to God and to Jesus and to me your hearts and your souls and ye shall be saved. I will annul Satan’s power. I will root out Beelzebub’s legions. I will return the kingdom of God to you. with me. Pray with me.”

The choir burst into the “Hallelujah Chorus” once again. Electric excitement sizzled through the crowd as Reverend Billy descended from the stage like Moses from Mount Sinai. The crowd surged forward, engulfing him. They eagerly tried to touch his hand, his clothing, anything for with the man who was surely God’s messenger.

“Hell, I almost believe him,” Sam said.

“They do.” Nathan nodded toward the commotion that surrounded Reverend Billy.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Sam exhaled audibly.

Billy glanced at them, altered his course through the throng and approached.

“Deputy Cody, so nice of you to come.”

“Quite a show, Reverend.”

“Thank you.” He turned his high beam smile on her, his blue eyes alive. She half-expected a twinkle or two to appear. He turned to Nathan. “Mister Klimek. What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Really? I didn’t think you were one of my fans.”

“The Hobart incident? All in the past. The Lord has great capacity for forgiveness.”

“I know He forgives. Do you?”

“Mister Klimek, I won’t let you bait me into a disagreement. Not tonight. Tonight belongs to the Lord. There are serious matters afoot and the very life of this community depends upon what we do here. The Lord has called upon me to save these people and I will not be deterred nor deflected from that task.”

“Do you preach all the time?” Sam asked. “Or can you have a normal conversation?”

His eyes became twin icebergs, his jaw tightened. “I assure you, Deputy Cody, I can converse in any manner you wish.”

“Great. After you finish counting your money, why don’t we have a chat? Say a half hour. Your place.”

“I would be delighted.”

He turned and plowed into the crowd, his smile erupting again.

“I don’t like that son-of-a-bitch,” Sam said.

“I’d say the feeling is mutual,” Nathan said. “Want me to go with you?”

“Are you going to protect me from Reverend Billy?” Sam teased.

“It’s not Billy that I’d worry about. Carl Angelo, his bodyguard, is a different story.”

“I think I’ve seen him. Black beard? Built like a brick shit house?”

“That’s him. And he doesn’t have a sense of humor, either.”

“Oh?”

“He trashed a camera and a cameraman in Hobart.”

“That’s what this is for,” Sam said, patting the .357 that lay against then small of her back. “I’ll be OK. But thanks for the offer.”

“You sure?”

“I’d better do this alone. Besides, if I shoot the bastard, I’d hate to drag you into it as witness.”

“OK.” Nathan shook his head, smiling. “I’ll wait for you, anyway. Maybe we could have coffee afterward.”

CHAPTER 27

“S trive ever for souls, for the Domain of Lucifer is forever.”

“Hail, Lucifer.”

“Love nothing so strongly that you cannot watch it die.”

“Hail, Lucifer.”

“All that is worthy is built on a bed of sorrow and pain.”

“Hail, Lucifer, Prince of Darkness.”

The nightly ritual completed, Penelope sat cross-legged on the rock from which she had led the ceremony. She faced the nearly full moon, which hung high in the clear night sky and cast a pearlescent glow over the valley. While the others huddled around a campfire, talking, laughing, sharing ts, Penelope watched from her perch. Melissa mounted the rock and sat next to her.

She handed Penelope a t and Penelope took a deep hit, holding the smoke in her lungs for a minute, then releasing it in a cloud. She took another hit and ed the t back to Melissa. The marijuana’s soothing warmth flowed

through her, creating a familiar numbing of the senses.

Melissa lay her head against Penelope’s breast and Penelope stroked the younger girl’s hair. They swayed gently, sinking deeper into tranquility.

Penelope watched the others as they hugged and caressed one another. She loved them. They were her family. How she had become the head of their family, their leader, their high priestess, she didn’t know. Others had been with the group longer or were better versed in the Satanic rituals, but somehow they seemed to gravitate to her.

She accepted the mantle of high priestess reluctantly. She had never seen herself as a leader, especially a spiritual leader, but with time the role became more comfortable. Now, she relished it. She could be the mother she had wanted her mother to be.

Melissa kissed her cheek. “I love you.”

Penelope smiled at her. “I love you, too.”

Penelope had been with every member of the group at one time or another, but she and Melissa bonded in a way she had never experienced. They became inseparable. The group tended to frown on long term relationships because of the obvious petty jealousies and conflicts that could develop. They preferred a more casual approach to sex. Yet, Penelope and Melissa were viewed differently and their pairing was not only accepted, but also encouraged.

Penelope looked into Melissa’s eyes, their deep emerald color gilded by the campfire’s glow. She gently brushed a wisp of hair behind Melissa’s ear. “I’m so lucky to have you,” she said.

Melissa smiled. “I thought I was the lucky one.”

Their lips met and they held each other tightly, exploring with knowing hands, each welcoming the other’s touch. They stretched out on the rock, which still held the remnants of the day’s sun. They kissed and caressed each other with growing fervor. Melissa lifted Penelope’s black dress and skipped kisses and butterfly licks across her flat stomach, nipping at her soft curls, finding her moist recesses. Penelope inhaled with staccato whimpers as raw electric impulses flashed through her. She arched her back and entwined her fingers in Melissa’s hair, riding the vortex of pleasure that threatened to consume her.

Once she had recovered her senses, Penelope stood and led Melissa to one of the vans, where they shed their clothes and lay spooned against each other. Penelope wrapped her arms around Melissa and they began a slow, sensuous undulation, body sliding against body. Penelope kissed her cheek and neck as her fingers trailed across Melissa’s breasts, taut belly, and lower. She parted the delicate lips and caressed the sensitive flesh within. Melissa gasped and clutched Penelope’s hand, pulling the probing fingers against her, within her. Their rhythmic dance gained intensity. Melissa’s breathing became heavy, thick, spasmodic as she rode wave after wave of pleasure. Unable to bear another orgasmic swell, she pushed Penelope’s hand away and turned to her.

“You make me crazy,” she whispered, her voice husky with the remnants of ion.

“I hope so.”

Penelope cupped Melissa’s face in her hands and pulled her lips to hers. They kissed tenderly, then dissolved into each other’s embrace. Soon, their breathing synchronized and they drifted to sleep.

Penelope descended into a velvety blackness. She dreamed she was adrift on a river of warm liquid that soothed and relaxed her. At first, she didn’t sense the bright colors that nipped at the edges of her dream world.

CHAPTER 28

Sam and Nathan sat with Charlie near the back of the tent and talked, occasionally breaking off their conversation to chat with people who stopped by. The choir continued to sing and the hum of conversation filled the arena, as did the buzz of free enterprise. People continued to purchase Bibles and trinkets and stuff money into the baskets pushed at them by Billy’s followers. Billy was going to make out like a bandit, Sam thought.

She had checked her watch, which moved at a glacial pace, a half dozen times before thirty minutes finally elapsed. She stood. “I’m going to go have that little chat with Billy. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Better you than me,” Charlie said. “I’m out of here. This much religion makes me tired.” He waved as he headed toward the exit.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Nathan asked.

“No. But, if you hear gunfire, call 911.”

She stepped out of the tent into the night air. A northerly wind had kicked up, plunging the temperature into the low forties. A chill knifed into her, pushing her already foul mood further toward full-fledged anger. She yanked the zipper of her leather jacket high around her neck. Great, not only did she have to face God’s messenger, but God himself. She shoved her hands into her pockets and circled the tent toward Reverend Billy’s bus.

Billy’s round, grinning face towered over her from the flank of his sleek, silvery, expensive motor coach. The images’ steel blue eyes seemed to follow her every step as she approached. She rapped on the door, which immediately swung open, revealing the woman who had introduced Billy earlier.

“I’m Belinda Connerly, Reverend Billy’s personal secretary. Please. Come in.” Though she smiled sweetly, her voice carried a hostile edge. Probably from past run-ins with the law, Sam decided.

Sam climbed up the two steps, brushing past Belinda, and entered, eying Billy’s “personal secretary.” She was obviously not an approachable woman, hiding behind a shell of arrogance and indifference. She wore the same gray slacks and white blouse she had on earlier and enough perfume to be flammable. Up close, it was obvious that she possessed parts that were not biodegradable, two of which protruded from her chest like Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade balloons.

The bus was rich. It even smelled rich. Sam’s boots sank into the plush peach carpet that covered the floor. To her right, toward the front of the bus, a wall and a closed door separated the driver’s cockpit from the living quarters. To her left, a cream-colored three-cushion designer sofa sat against one wall and two matching over-stuffed chairs along the other. Beyond, a kitchen contained a stove, small refrigerator, sink, table, and two chairs. The human block of granite with the black beard sat in one of the chairs, reading the latest issue of “Guns and Ammo.” He didn’t look up. Further back, a closed door blocked entry to the rear one third of the bus. No doubt Billy’s private quarters.

“This is Carl Angelo, Reverend Billy’s valet,” Melissa said.

Carl nodded and glanced up. His gaze was cold and clinical. She envisioned him as a prison guard at Auschwitz. He returned to the magazine.

“Where’s Reverend Billy?” Sam asked.

“He’s cleaning up. He’ll be out in a minute. Have a seat.” She commanded, motioning toward the sofa.

Sam sat down; the billowy cushions absorbed her.

“Would you care for anything to drink?”

“No thanks.”

“Did you see Reverend Billy tonight?” Belinda asked.

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t he wonderful?” When Sam didn’t respond, she continued. “He’s an incredible man. Always teaching and helping others.”

“Really?” Sam could not hide the sarcasm in her voice.

“With his TV show, his church, his travel to help people like this…and of course his books, he works twenty hours a day.”

“Seems to pay well.”

Belinda’s eyes narrowed. “He works very hard and needs certain comforts when he is able to rest.”

“I see.”

“Listen, Deputy Cody…”

“Why, hello.” Billy’s voice filled the room, startling Sam. She turned as he came through the doorway at the rear of the bus, barefoot, clad in a Hugh Hefner-like silver-gray silk robe. As the door drifted shut, Sam caught a glimpse of Blue Eyes, clad in only powder blue panties, stretched out on the bed, her face reflecting the glow of a TV Sam couldn’t see from her vantage point. “Welcome to my home away from home.” He smiled broadly and flopped into one of the over-sized chairs, facing her. “What can I do for you?” he asked matter-of-factly.

OK, he wanted it straight up, she thought. “What are you doing here?” Their eyes locked.

“What do you mean?”

“Simple question. Why are you here? What do you want?”

“To help, of course.”

“And if we don’t need help?”

The smile that lifted the corners of his mouth retreated, leaving a scowl in its wake. “Oh, but you do. This is way over your head.”

“How so?”

“Satan is here. He is in Richard Earl Garrett. And in his pathetic disciples who hang out on the corner near your office.”

“Garrett may be Satan. I’ll buy that. But, those kids are harmless. Mixed up and confused.”

“No. They are possessed of the devil. They are likely murderers just like Garrett.”

“You’re wrong.”

Billy recoiled. Evidently he was not used to someone disagreeing with him. Recovering, he arranged his features into a look of contrived concern. “Are you religious, Deputy Cody?”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“Humor me. Are you?”

“I grew up Catholic.”

“Are you still active?”

“I split from the program somewhere around puberty.”

“Why?”

“The catechisms, the Our Fathers and Hail Marys, all the puffed up pomp and circumstance. It was too much.”

“Do you consider yourself an atheist?”

“A realist. If there’s a God in the middle of all this, I don’t see him.”

“You are a lost child aren’t you?” His lack of inflection betrayed his lack of sincerity.

Jesus Christ, she thought, how did this happen? She was here to interrogate him and somehow he turned the whole thing around. She looked from Billy, to Belinda, to Carl, then back to Billy. She flashed on something her father frequently said: “If you can’t spot the pigeon in a poker game, you’re probably it.” She never understood it until now. The best defense is a good offense, she decided.

“Look,” she said, “We aren’t here to talk about me. I want to know what your plans are? How do you propose to provide this help you think we need?”

“Only God can help you. I am merely his servant.”

This is what she always hated about preachers, men of the cloth. They talked in circles of nonsense. “OK. I’ll play. What does He want from His servant?”

“I am his instrument. I have come to cut this cancer from your town.”

“How?”

“The Lord will guide me. He will show me the way.”

“You sound like Garrett. Except, he blames everything on Satan.”

“I assure you, Garrett and I have nothing in common.”

“Not from where I sit.”

“Deputy Cody, are you trying to anger me?”

“Billy, as far as I can tell, you’re a parasitic bottom feeder who uses the Lord as a shill. You aren’t here to fight Satan or for any other altruistic reason. You’re here for publicity and your thirty pieces of silver.”

Billy leaned toward her. His bulk seemed to increase. For the first time, Sam realized how big his head was. Not figuratively, literally. His body was huge, but his head was disproportionally large and his thick white mane served to magnify it further. His robe fell open slightly, revealing a mat of white chest hair and drooping fleshy breasts.

Carl looked up from his magazine. His dark eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Sam shifted slightly on the sofa so that her .357 would be more accessible if necessary.

A smile erupted on Billy’s face. “My, my, Darlin’,” Billy said. “Do you have a permit for that tongue of yours? It’s a lethal little thing, ain’t it?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You should have more faith in the Lord.”

“My Lord, or yours? Mine would crash your little canvas temple around your ears. Yours is probably ed with the New York Stock Exchange.”

Billy’s smile collapsed. The heat of their argument hung in the air between them. They stared at each other like two boxers in their separate corners, eying each other, anticipating the next move, assessing the damage.

“Look, Reverend,” Sam said, “the best thing you can do for this town is pack up your toys and go back home. These are good people, but they’re stretched to the breaking point. Just let me and Sheriff Walker do our job and everything will be OK.”

“This is not a secular war, Deputy Cody. This is a Holy war. Your investigative skills will be of little benefit. Only the power of God can win this battle.”

“And I guess that power must be channeled through you?”

“I am this town’s salvation. Soon they will see that and turn on you.” His ice blue eyes bored into her.

Overcoming the chill that rippled through her, she leaned forward, refusing to

succumb to his intimidation. “OK, Reverend.” She spat the title at him. “You can make this easy or rough. It’s your call.”

“Are you threatening me, Deputy Cody?”

“Warning. You have already broken enough laws to be deported back to Louisiana.”

“Such as?”

“Obstructing traffic flow and commerce, congregating without a permit, conducting business without a license.”

“A business?” he said indignantly.

“Selling trinkets and Bibles qualifies.”

“That’s a stretch.”

“Not to mention a few Federal statutes.” She nodded toward the door where Blue Eyes waited. “Such as the Mann Act.”

Billy stood, towering over her. Carl edged to the front of his seat but did not rise.

“Perhaps this conversation has ended,” he hissed.

“Perhaps it has.” Sam stood. “And, perhaps you should what I said.”

Sam yanked open the door and stepped out. She collided with Lanny Mills on the steps, stumbled, and fell to the ground, landing hard on her right hip. She jumped up, brushing dirt from the seat of her pants. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m here to speak with the Reverend.”

“Regarding?”

“That would be between me and Reverend Billy,” Lanny snapped.

“I see.”

Belinda appeared in the open doorway. “Mister Mills. Are you OK?” She glared at Sam.

“Yeah,” Lanny said.

Belinda’s mouth curled into a haughty smile. She stepped back. “Please, come

in,” she said to Lanny. “Reverend Billy is expecting you.” He walked past her and she closed the door sharply.

Nathan leaned against his car, watching the people stream out of the tent toward the makeshift parking lot. A few seemed to be full of God and glory, but most appeared sad, almost despondent, as if the answers they sought had not been found. They appeared as if they had hoped Reverend Billy would bring peace and hope to their lives, but apparently had not gained such comfort.

In spite of himself, he felt an emptiness swell in his gut. These people were not the shallow, egocentric jerks he dealt with on a daily basis in LA. They were simple, common people whose lives had been imploded by a series of gruesome events that they could never have imagined, much less understand. Their fear and confusion hung in the air. He didn’t need or want to feel their pain or sadness or loss, he only needed a story. He wanted their emotions to flow from his pen, not from his heart.

He looked up as Sam approached. She walked with angry strides, her ponytail wagging to and fro behind her. Her brow was furrowed and her jaw set. She was beautiful.

“I take it, it didn’t go well?” he asked.

“I don’t know why he infuriates me so much.”

“Because he’s a parasite.”

“And an arrogant, pompous ass.” She turned and looked back toward Billy’s bus and the seven faces that stared back from the caravan. “And now, that prick is

holed up in there with Lanny Mills, cooking up God knows what.”

“Relax. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Nathan laughed. “Cool your jets. Let’s go get some coffee.”

“OK,” she said. “This late, you have two choices. Red’s or King’s Truck Stop.”

“I’ll on Red’s.”

She laughed. “I thought you might.”

He walked her to her Jeep, then returned to his Mercedes and followed her toward King’s.

CHAPTER 29

Betty McCumber snuggled beneath the bed covers, filled with the words of Jesus, or rather with those of Reverend Billy. Of course, she saw little difference between the two. After all, both spoke God’s words. The fact that Jesus was the “true Son of God” didn’t diminish Reverend Billy’s bond to the Lord nor his sanctity in Betty’s eyes.

After losing her husband to an unexpected heart attack three years earlier, she had questioned God’s mercy and His methods. At first, she told herself it was God’s divine plan and that one day He would reveal to her why her loving Wilbert was taken. She told herself it was a test of her faith. That carried her for six months, a year even. But, as she tore off the pages of the calendar that hung on the kitchen door, she spiraled into a deeper and deeper depression. Her love of God waned.

She faithfully attended church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday night, but found no comfort in the services. At her lowest point, a place where suicide seemed an alternative, she found Reverend Billy. Scanning the stations on her radio one Sunday, trying to avoid the gospel music she usually listened to but now found annoying, his voice captured her. His flamboyant rhetoric drew her in. Since then, she never missed his broadcast, purchased and read all his books, and listened daily to his taped sermons, which she purchased through his mail-order catalog.

She found that his words soothed but did not completely heal her wounds. Doubts remained in the corners of her mind like cobwebs near the ceiling, too high to reach, mostly unnoticed, but present none-the-less.

The past month, however, had been a revelation for her. The three weeks she had sat in the jury box, feeling Richard Earl Garrett’s dark, threatening eyes upon her, enduring the horror of his sacrificial murder of those three innocent children, hearing him defend his actions by saying he was controlled by Satan, convinced her of one thing: Satan existed and he was here in Mercer’s Corner.

If Satan existed, then God, too, must exist. If Satan was a living breathing entity, then God, too, must be real and tangible. If Satan had risen from the depths of Hell and created Richard Earl Garrett, then God must have descended from the throne of Heaven and breathed his spirit and his words into Reverend Billy Thibideaux.

And now, Reverend Billy had come to expel Satan and his disciples. He was God’s avenging angel and Mercer’s Corner was to be the battleground between good and evil.

After returning home from the revival, she had slipped on her flannel nightgown, made a cup of herbal tea, and crawled into bed with her Reverend Billy autographed and blessed Bible.

Now, she leafed through the book, reading her favorite ages. She knew them by heart, but seeing the words added to their strength and credibility.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,” she said aloud, reading from the Twenty-third Psalm. Whenever she studied the Bible, she always began with this Psalm. Its lyrical nature had comforted and calmed her since she first learned it as a child.

She flipped forward through the delicate pages, searching for the age she wanted. Ecclesiastes, Chapter 8, Verse 8:

“There is no man that hath power over

the spirit to retain the spirit; neither hath

he power in the day of death…neither shall

wickedness deliver those that are given to it.”

She had read these words many times, but only now did she grasp their true meaning. Reverend Billy had been sent here by God to save the righteous and destroy the ungodly. He was God’s sword and would impale Richard Earl Garrett and those wicked children that followed him. He would return this community to God’s hands.

She no longer feared dying at the hand of whoever had killed Margo and Roberto. Neither Garrett nor his followers could do battle with God and Reverend Billy. She was sure of that.

She read for over an hour, from Proverbs, Psalms, Matthews, Acts, and several other books. As she devoured the words, fatigue crept over her, pulling her toward sleep. She resisted, wanting to hold on to the words, fearful of losing them, but sleep won out.

The Bible dropped to her chest, her jaw relaxed, her glasses migrated down her nose, and she slept.

Penelope floated in a world of black satin bliss, buoyed by the cannabis in her blood stream and Melissa’s warm body intertwined with her own. Ripples of color, initially faint, barely noticeable, danced before her, then exploded into hues so brilliant they tore at her eyes. Waves and swirls and eddies dipped and dove, then formed long ribbons that clutched at her.

The strands of color bound her ankles, her wrists, and wound around her throat, constricting like a hangman’s noose. She struggled for air, but found none. She was drowning in an ocean of color, held by some magnetic undertow, gripped by a rainbow of tethers. Kicking and twisting, she attempted to reach a surface that seemed not to exist.

She ed her eighth birthday, in Laguna Beach, where her parents had brought her to celebrate. She swam and played in the surf, wandering too far from shore. A powerful wave tossed her into the air, then dropped her into a forest of kelp. She could not distinguish up from down. She thrashed the water, searching for air, but the kelp tugged at her as if it were alive. Its sinewy arms held her, caressed her. Her panic grew. Then, as if by some miracle, the graygreen tentacles released her and she bobbed to the surface, sucking air in great gulps.

Now, she fought the iridescent kelp with the same panic, but unlike before, it would not release its grip. Fatigue and resignation sapped her strength, weakened her struggle. When she was sure she could neither hold her breath nor struggle an instant longer, she punctured the surface.

Penelope sat straight up, drenched with sweat, gasping for breath, shaking with a crystalline chill. She looked around, but could not penetrate the blackness that enveloped her. The darkness thickened, the air thickened, causing her to struggle to pull air into her lungs. Then, her world exploded with colors, as if a beam of

light had fractured into its purest elements.

She found herself dressed, outside the van, trudging up a velvety green slope, dotted with purple rocks and orange cacti. A battalion of iridescent yellow Chollos appeared to march down the hillside toward her. She wound through them, upward. To where? She didn’t know.

She heard her name, far away, behind her. She turned and saw Melissa struggling up the incline toward her.

“Penelope. Where are you going?”

She wanted to answer, wanted to go to her and take her in her arms. She wanted to return to the van and recapture the warmth and love she had left. But, she could not.

She continued upward until she neared the crest. Dropping to her knees near a twenty-foot shimmering emerald boulder, she clawed at the ground. Like a gopher digging for safety, she scooped away handfuls of gleaming golden soil until her fingers struck something solid, cold and hard.

Melissa knelt beside her, gasping for breath. “What are you doing?”

Penelope stared at her but could not respond. She lifted the object from it’s shallow grave and held it up. The pearly moonlight reflected off the eight-inch curved blade.

“What’s that?” Melissa asked. “Penelope, what’s wrong with you?”

Penelope turned the knife over in her hands. She stared at Melissa, but said nothing. Standing, she looked down toward the lights of town, which blazed like crown jewels. Diamonds, sapphires, emeralds on a velvety green palette. One jewel captured her gaze. It’s ruby light knifed into her brain and burst into a thousand colors, like shards from a shattered cathedral window. She shuffled down the slope toward the light.

Melissa hurried after her, clutching her arm, pleading. “Where are you going? Why are you acting so strange?”

Her pleas squeezed Penelope’s heart, yet she could not turn back. The red beacon drew her.

Melissa stepped into her path and pushed her hands into her chest. Tears streamed down her face, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. “Stop. Come back with me. I’m scared. I need you.”

Penelope wanted, even needed, to go with her. She somehow sensed the crimson light was wrong, yet it wooed and enticed with such strength she could not turn away. She attempted to brush past Melissa, but the smaller girl clung to her, wrapping her arms around her. Melissa’s anguish flowed into her. For a brief moment, the colors of the landscape, the jewel-like lights, and the fiery beacon flickered, faded, wavered, and then snapped to new heights of intensity.

“Please,” Melissa begged. “Come back with me. You’re scarring me.”

Penelope extricated herself from her distraught lover, stepped past her, and continued toward the blood red light.

CHAPTER 30

Sam led, Nathan followed to King’s Truck Stop, where 20 or more big rigs jammed the parking lot. Many would be there for the night; others would climb back onto I-40 as soon as their drivers pounded down some calories and caffeine. They parked their cars near the building and away from the pack of trucks. Inside was also crowded and smelled like motor oil, sweat, and grease. They found a vacant corner booth and ordered black coffee and a shared piece of apple pie, heated and topped with vanilla ice cream. They laughed and dueled with forks over the last bites.

“You’re dangerous with a fork in your hand,” Nathan teased.

“My dad always said it was risky to get between me and food.”

“I believe it,” he laughed.

A plump brunette in a stained and yellowed apron refilled their cups with steaming coffee. “Anything else?”

Nathan looked at Sam.

“No thanks,” she said.

“Just the check,” Nathan said.

The waitress waddled away.

“What’s he like?” Nathan asked.

“My dad? He died when I was seventeen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man.” She sipped her coffee. “Worked hard, mostly construction jobs, but always found time for me. I played softball, basketball, and ran track and he never missed an event.”

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“Every day.”

“And your mom?”

“Seven years after dad died, mom found out she had breast cancer. She went through two years of hell after that.”

Nathan gave her a sympathetic look. “My mother died a couple of years ago of lung cancer. I never could get her to put the cigarettes down.”

They sat quietly for a minute. Sam stared into her coffee as tears crept from the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision, creating a world of formless colors and shadows. Don’t start crying, she told herself. When she looked up, Nathan’s eyes had glazed also. He reached across the table and took her hand. A tear escaped and snaked down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“See what you started?” she sniffed, then laughed, feeling foolish for crying in front of Nathan, in front of a bunch of truckers.

Using the corner of his napkin, Nathan dabbed tears from his own eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.” His thumb caressed the back of her hand. “I thought I was through crying over her. Guess I was wrong.”

His Cocker Spaniel eyes, which before she thought were a practiced expression, suddenly seemed real, appropriate. She wanted to kiss him.

“People are staring at us,” she said

“No, they aren’t.”

“Well, it feels that way.”

The waitress dropped their bill on the table as she hustled by, one arm ing four plates piled with hamburgers and fries.

“Why did you leave LA and come back here?”

“To be with mom. At the end.”

“Why did you stay?”

“This is home. I had forgotten that, during my time in LA. Staying just felt right. Besides, in LA I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“After UCLA and the Police Academy, I spent two years in uniform. I wanted to be a detective, but it was never going to happen. It’s a pretty tight group. Women aren’t often allowed in that circle.”

“Is that why you left?”

“Not really.” She ran a finger around the rim of her cup. “I guess that was part of it. But basically, LA is a cesspool.”

“Hey. That’s my home you’re talking about,” he smiled.

“You can have it. Murders, gangs, drugs, corruption. It’s got it all. Anyway, Charlie had been trying to get me to come back here ever since I finished the Academy. I helped him out while mom was sick and after… well…he offered me a job and I took it.”

“He seems like a good guy.”

“He is. And a great Sheriff.”

They sat quietly for a minute, sipping the last of their coffee. Sam broke the silence. “Sometimes I wish…” She stopped, unsure what she wished, hoping he would say something, but when he didn’t she continued. “Sometimes I wish I had stayed in LA.”

“Why?”

“I’d know more. Understand more. I’ve had a fairly sheltered existence. I feel totally unprepared for everything that’s going on around here.”

“And LA would have educated you?” he asked.

“It did you.”

He shrugged. “At a price.”

“How so?”

He stared into his coffee. “Cynicism. Paranoia. They’re staples in LA. And they don’t fall away from you at the city limits. They follow you, take some of the joy from life.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she said.

“Are you happy here?”

“Yeah. At least I was. Until all this shit came down.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. “I guess I got too comfortable with the simplicity of life here. Maybe this chaos was sent to pay me back.”

“By whom?” Nathan asked.

“God. For becoming complacent. For not going to church anymore.”

“Maybe.”

Sam shook her head. “You believe everything, don’t you?”

“No. I believe in the possibility of everything. There’s a difference.”

“I suppose.”

“For example, do you believe Garrett could be what he says he is? Satan’s chosen disciple?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not? Seems to me he would be the perfect candidate.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look at him. A loner, a social outcast. He’s been a drinker and a fighter all his life. Two armed robbery raps he did time for. Probably did the two rapes he was accused of. Probably killed that guy in Salt Lake City, too.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief. How did he know this? It wasn’t brought out in the trial because Judge Westbrooke excluded it to prevent prejudicing the jury. Besides, Garrett was never tried for the rapes or the murder. Merely charged and released for insufficient evidence. All she could think of to say was, “You’re

good. Charlie and I never would have know about that stuff if a friend of his, a sheriff in Utah, hadn’t heard about the murder of the children and called.”

Nathan smiled and shrugged. “The point is that Garrett is fertile ground. If Satan could control anyone, it would be someone as sociopathic as Garrett. He’s mean, antisocial, and appears to have no impulse control. A perfect tool for Satan to use.”

Put that way, it almost made sense. Almost. “I have a hard time buying into this stuff.”

“That’s because, Sam Cody, you like things that are black and white. That can be proven. There are many things we don’t understand, but that doesn’t make them any less true.”

“You would have made a good lawyer,” Sam said. “You have a way with words.”

“Would that make me more acceptable than being a reporter?”

Sam laughed. “Probably not.”

Nathan shared her laugh. “I guess I just can win.”

Nathan paid the bill and they stepped into the cold night air. He walked her to

her Jeep, where they kissed. Not a quick, innocent brushing of the lips like before. He pulled her to him and she responded by pressing the length of her body against him, parting her lips, accepting his kiss. It was soft, tender, welcome.

After their lips parted, they held each other for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. She considered inviting him to follow her home, but decided against it. It had been two years since she had shared her bed and she wasn’t quite ready for that step, yet.

“I like you, Sam Cody,” Nathan said.

“You’re not too bad yourself, Mister Klimek.”

“So, I’m no longer a scum bag tabloid reporter?”

“You’re still that. I guess I’m just lowering my standards.”

He laughed. “Well, I’m raising mine. You’re far more intriguing than most women I meet.”

“That’s sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “But, I’m not as pretty or as flashy as what you’re used to. I’m a simple person and lead a pretty simple life. At least I did.”

“I like simple.”

“Are you sure its not just that you’re here. In LA, you probably wouldn’t give me a second look.”

“Sam, you would stand out anywhere.”

She was glad the parking lot was dark so he couldn’t see the flush that invaded her cheeks. “You’re just saying that.”

“No. It’s true. I’d bet you’ve attracted your share of men.”

“Yeah. But, guys are easy. Just show up, preferably naked, and bring beer. And the beer is optional.”

He laughed, then gazed upward into the night sky. “Just a minute. I’m creating an image.”

She playfully punched him in the stomach. “It better be an image of a Budweiser bottle.”

They laughed, kissed again, and, after making plans for dinner the next night, Sam climbed into her Jeep.

Betty McCumber jerked to wakefulness. The room was dark except for the reading light clipped to her headboard, which cast a dim halo over her. Initially confused, her senses slowly returned. She had fallen asleep reading again. The Bible lay on her chest. She blinked and pushed her glasses back into place.

She heard a sound, the scrapping of a shoe, near her, to her right. She turned to look. In the meager light, she caught a glint from the knife blade as it plunged downward, through her open Bible, into her chest. Pain exploded through her. The bed frame and slats cracked like gunfire and collapsed under the force of the attack. The bed fell away, leaving her momentarily suspended in mid-air, before she fell, bouncing on the mattress. She opened her mouth to scream, but managed only a gurgling sound, followed by a river of blood.

Again and again, the blade slammed into her chest and abdomen, then viciously swiped across her throat. She gasped in horror as a fountain of hot, sticky blood pulsed from her neck and cascaded over her face and chest. She clutched her Bible to her as if it might protect her from the onslaught. Her vision dimmed, her senses dulled, until the light faded and the pain receded.

While driving home, she attempted to sort through her feelings about Nathan. She was surprised that she no longer cared that his job sucked. But, in a world with Richard Earl Garrett and Reverend Billy, Nathan seemed an oasis of sanity and normalcy. What the hell, go with it, she told herself. He made her feel good, better than she had in years, and that was what she needed most right now.

But, when she pulled into her driveway, the warm, comfortable feeling gave way to an unsettling sensation. Apprehension. Anxiety. Fear. Those, and a feeling of being watched, studied. She sat for a moment, staring at her house. Small, gray, white-shuttered, in need of painting, it felt alien. No longer hers. As if someone had displaced her as owner. As if she were the intruder.

The sensation had first arisen that morning, but she attributed it to stress, fatigue, lack of sleep, and, of course, her dream. Even after she showered and dressed, she had felt naked and exposed. Now, those feelings were even stronger.

Goddamn Garrett.

Her one place of refuge, her only sanctuary from the chaos that had consumed her life, and it had been breached. Even if only in her dreams, Garrett had violated her home, her mind, and her body. His residue remained, thick and palpable. If she couldn’t hide from the world, and from Garrett, here, where could she?

She considered backing from the drive and leaving. To where? Her office? Nathan’s motel? Exasperated with herself for manufacturing these feelings, she stepped from her Jeep.

Yet, when she slipped her key into the front door lock, the sensations surged to new heights. She hesitated, unable to turn the key. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. Every instinct warned her.

Was he here? Waiting for her return? Who was it? Who would do Garrett’s bidding? Where would he be lurking?

Her mind ran through possible hiding places. Too many. Closets, curtains, furniture, dark corners supplied more places for concealment that she could possibly cover by herself, with only her service revolver.

She carefully twisted the key, releasing the lock with a soft click. Easing the door open with one hand, the other pulled her .357 from its holster. As the door swung open, she half expected to see the reptilian creature of her dreams leap toward her. Nothing. Only thick darkness.

The entryway table lamp, which was on a timer and should have been on, was out. The intruder? Bulb? Fuse? She leveled her weapon, pointing it into the darkness ahead of her. She reached beneath the lamp’s shade and twisted the knob. Nothing.

Maybe the power was out? No, the street lamp at the corner had been on when she drove by. Maybe Scooter had knocked the plug loose. It wouldn’t be the first time. She knelt, keeping her eyes and her gun aimed toward the living room, found the cord and followed it to the wall. The plug was firmly in place.

She stood and eased forward.

“I’m armed,” she shouted. Her voice echoed in the dark room. “I’m armed,” she repeated.

She sensed movement, ahead, to her right. She spun, leveling her gun, her finger caressing the trigger. Her heart revved to a gallop.

The sound leaped at her from the darkness. A loud twanging that was unearthly in its tone. She squeezed off two rounds. The flash-boom blinded and deafened her, but just before her vision faded to multicolored balls of phantom light, the muzzle flash locked an image in her in her brain. The ceramic planter on top of her piano exploded and Scooter jumped from the keyboard, reproducing the twanging.

“Damn it, Sam,” she said to herself.

She stepped along the wall to her right and swiped her hand upwards, flipping the wall switch. The ceiling light sprang to life. Smoke and dust filled the air. A six-inch hole stared at her from the wall above the piano. Dirt and pieces of shattered ceramic coated the old Baldwin. Scooter peered around the door from the dining room, his eyes like two full moons.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she said to the cat.

He gave her a look that said, “You? You’re not the one that got shot at.”

After searching each room, closet, corner, and beneath each bed, she cleaned up the mess. Then, she fed Scooter, who forgave her as soon as the food hit the bowl, showered, slipped on an oversized tee shirt, and crawled into bed. As she snuggled beneath her comforter, Scooter began his purring and bathing routine on the pillow next to her. She stroked his fur, wishing they could trade places. She also wished Nathan was there. She needed comforting.

Why she was drawn to Nathan, she couldn’t fathom. She had always preferred the rugged, outdoor type. Blue jeans, boots, two days growth. Nathan was none of these. He was softer, quieter, well dressed, no rough edges. Maybe the time had come to expand her horizons.

Her thoughts bounced between Nathan, Garrett, Connie Beeson, Reverend Billy, and Walter Limpke until fatigue embraced her and pulled her into a deep sleep, which felt as if she were floating on billows of inky satin.

At first, it felt warm and velvety soft and she welcomed its comforting. Then, a cool current of air washed over her and she sensed she was not alone. Something was there with her. Something lurking in the blackness. Something vile.

She detected a movement out of the corner of her eye. When she turned her head to look, she glimpsed a shadowy form that melted into the darkness. Where did it go? She looked first one way and then the other, searching, willing her eyes to penetrate the impenetrable. A small crimson speck, far away, faint, captured her gaze. It grew in intensity. She froze.

Don’t move, she told herself. Inside, she trembled, but she forced herself to remain motionless, not even a quiver to her lips. Lying, seemingly ed by

nothing but black gossamer, she felt completely vulnerable. She wanted to stand, to run, to hide, but knew that if it sensed her presence she would never get away. She breathed slowly, shallowly, willing her chest not to move, begging her pounding heart to be silent. The red speck bored painfully into her eyes, but she would not blink or divert her gaze for fear that even the slightest movement would attract the predator.

Suddenly, the speck exploded, releasing clouds of red and orange and yellow and violet and every imaginable color. They tumbled and leapfrogged one another as they raced toward her. They billowed and churned, absorbing the blackness, rising high above her. She braced herself.

The onrushing inferno slammed into her like a desert dust storm, lifting her, tossing her like Dorothy in a Kansas twister. Her skin felt as if it were on fire, blistering, bubbling. A scream arose within her, but died before it could escape.

The clouds morphed into long ribbons, which spun around her, faster and faster, a dizzying dance. Her stomach knotted as her eyes attempted to capture one of the colors, any color, anything to anchor her. A vertiginous wave of nausea swept over her.

As suddenly as they had appeared, the colors evaporated, leaving her in cavelike darkness once again. She found herself standing on solid ground, but the instantaneous change from brilliant light to pitch black nothingness disoriented her further. She staggered to her left, nearly falling, but with great effort maintained her balance.

She stood knee deep in some icy liquid that chilled her to the core. She shivered with such force her teeth clattered, echoing in her head. Then, she heard voices. Soft, far away. Murmuring, then laughing, then crying, finally screaming.

Screams that could only arise from pain and a deep visceral fear.

She turned, one way, then the other, trying to locate their origin. They seemed to come from everywhere.

“Help us. Please help us,” the voices begged.

Her heart stopped, a wave of dizziness swept over her. The children. The voices were from the children. “Oh, God,” she cried. “Where are you?” She staggered forward, dragging her feet through the thick, cold liquid. “I can’t see you.”

“It hurts. Make him stop. Please, help us,” the voices cried.

Tears burned her cheeks as if they were acid. She rushed forward, arms sweeping through the black ether before her, finding nothing solid to grasp. The voices fell away and faded, leaving behind a painful silence.

Then, she felt it. Scaly, slimy, brushing her leg, moving away through the inky liquid.

Panic swelled within her like never before, squeezing her chest and throat in its vice-like grip. This is not the time for stealth, she told herself. She ran, or at least tried to, willing, begging her legs to move. She forced her feet forward through the now thigh-deep liquid. Where did the fluid come from? What was it? It seemed alive, clutching at her, refusing to let her flee. Her panic rose further as the oily liquid thickened second by second. She must keep moving or surely it

would gel completely, locking her in its grip.

With a surge like an ocean swell, the sticky fluid rose to her waist, her chest, dragging her downward. She struggled to remain upright, but its weight collapsed her knees. She fell, twisting, turning, and sank into its depths, swallowed completely. The licorice gelatin pressed down on her like a black smith’s anvil. Her heart pounded as if attempting to propel her forward to safety. Her lungs searched for air where there was none.

A dark shadow, even blacker than the inky gel that bound her, slid by above her. It turned in a tight circle like a vulture eying carrion. With each , the shadow grew larger, more threatening.

Then, with an ear splitting screech, the beast exploded through the liquid surface above her and descended, clutching her with its hook-like claws. Its face hovered just above hers. Eyes, which could have come from nowhere but Hell, emitted flashes of red light. Stained, conical teeth filled its gaping mouth. Its breath spewed out in purple vortices, carrying with it the stench of death and putrid flesh.

Sam recognized the beast immediately. Snakeman. Exactly like her earlier dream. Exactly as the children had depicted him. Again, a scream arose but stuck in her throat like wet sand.

The creature spoke. “Hello, Samantha.” The words tumbled out in a purple mist.

She heard her own voice. It sounded far away, hollow. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know, Samantha?”

The voice was Garrett’s. No mistake. She pushed against him, but his claws dug into her back, locking her in his embrace. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“I need you.” The purple vapors that rolled out with each word snaked around her head.

“No,” she screamed and this time it emerged, slicing through the black ether like a razor.

The Garrett/Snakeman’s teeth raked across her chest and neck and its jowls closed over her face. She felt smothered as its putrid breath flowed into her nostrils, her lungs. She tried to jerk away, but could not escape his grip. A thick, rapacious tongue slathered her face, her lips, before forcing its way between, violating her. She clamped her teeth together, but could not prevent its insistent probing.

Scaly hind legs insinuated themselves between her thighs. She struggled to escape its domination, but could not. The thick, coarse legs were too powerful and forced hers further apart. She felt its forked penis lap against her, searching,

finding. She attempted to scream, but the massive tongue choked her cry.

The probing penis slipped between her outer lips, sending electric shocks through her. On it pressed as wave after wave of electricity coursed through her. She arched her back, rolled her hips, attempting to escape, but the beast matched her movements, driving into her.

She found herself powerless to move, to resist. A warmth arose deep within her belly. She fought against the sensation, but the more she willed herself to ignore it, to defy it, the stronger it became. Liquid heat flowed through and around her as a cataclysmic series of orgasms shook her.

Then, the tongue recoiled from her so suddenly that it sucked what air remained in her lungs in its wake. The beast threw back its head and laughed, a deep guttural bellowing that ended in a low hiss. Its eyes flashed and shards of ruby light exploded from them. Its face dissolved into a swirl of color that expanded, contracted, protruded like a psychedelic amoeba. The hues melted, dripped, enfolded on themselves, then snapped into crystalline clarity. The face of Richard Earl Garrett appeared before her.

“You are the one, Samantha,” he said.

She tried to push him away, her palms flattened against his scaly chest.

“Come to me, Samantha,” he whispered.

“No,” she screamed. “Never.”

He smiled. “But, you will.”

Then, the beast released her, faded away, and once again she plunged into deep velvety darkness. She glimpsed a mote of light, shimmering above her. Somehow she sensed it represented salvation. She twisted and kicked toward it, clawing at the liquid, pulling herself upward. The silvery light rippled and grew in intensity as she drew near.

Sam swam out of the dream and broke into consciousness, dripping with sweat, terror squeezing her hammering heart. Chilled to her soul, she retrieved the comforter from the floor and pulled it over her. Before curling beneath its welcoming softness, she looked down, expecting to see blood. There was none. She settled beneath the covers, shivering, searching for warmth.

CHAPTER 31

When Charlie Walker pulled to the curb in front of Betty McCumber’s house, his watch read 6:30 am. Ted Blankenship sat on the front steps, crying, holding his basketball letter-jacket tightly around him. A sixteen year old sophomore, he was a rising star on the high school basketball team and the neighborhood paperboy. His bicycle lay on the sidewalk next to a canvas bag stuffed with rolled newspapers. The first light of morning tinted the Eastern horizon a soft orange.

Charlie stepped from his Jeep and walked to where Ted sat. “You OK?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Ted sniffed back tears and wiped his eyes with his jacket sleeve.

“Let me look inside, then I’ll call your folks.”

“I already did. They should be here by now.”

A car turned onto the street and skidded to a stop at the curb. Martha Blankenship erupted from the enger side door before the vehicle came to a complete stop. Ted ran toward her. They met in the yard and embraced, tears flowing from both of them.

“What happened?” Martha asked through her tears.

Ted couldn’t talk. He buried his face into her shoulder and sobbed.

Paul Blankenship came up behind them and embraced them both. “What’s going on, Charlie?” he asked.

“Don’t know. I just got here. Haven’t been inside yet.” He jerked his head toward the house. “Let me take a look around.” He turned and headed toward the open front door.

“Want me to go with you?” Paul asked.

“No. You better wait here.” Charlie turned back toward the house.

The call came as Sam was halfway through her first cup of coffee and still trying to shake the lint from her brain. She had managed to fall back to sleep after her dream, but had slept fitfully. The remaining cobwebs in her mind evaporated with Charlie’s voice.

“Sam? You awake?”

“Barely.”

“You OK? You sound tired. Another rough night?”

Charlie. Always the father. “The usual,” she said. “Little sleep. Bad dreams. And a potted plant that needed killing.”

“What?”

“Long story. Why do I have the feeling this isn’t a social call?”

“Because you have good instincts.” She could hear Charlie’s heavy sigh. “Betty McCumber was murdered last night.”

Would she ever again awaken without a phone call, telling her someone had been murdered. Would this madness never end? she thought. “I’ll be there in a

few minutes.”

She balanced a cup of coffee in one hand and shoved the last bite of Mrs. Blumenthal’s chocolate cake into her mouth with the other as she turned onto Church Street. Sheet metal clouds had rolled in from the north, bringing with them the promise of another shitty day. Betty’s house sat on a corner a block down on the left. Several of the press and a small contingent of neighbors milled in the street out front.

The terror of her dream melted into anger. Anger with Garrett, Reverend Billy, everything. Mostly it was anger at her own inadequacy. She couldn’t make sense out of the events of the past week. She couldn’t make the puzzle pieces fit. She couldn’t even understand her own dreams, for Christ sakes.

Of course, everyone offered his or her opinions about the murders. Phone calls, letters, and notes ed to Thelma blamed everyone from the Mafia to space aliens to Fidel Castro.

Garrett blamed Satan, as did Reverend Billy. Walter Limpke blamed himself. Nita Stillwater blamed some mythological cave dweller and Nathan seemed to accept every explanation. He and his damn “perceptual distortion.”

As she stepped from her Jeep, she pushed her anger into a dark corner of her mind where she could control it. Somewhat. She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and crossed the lawn, keeping her head down, trying to avoid eye , hoping to find out what had happened before she had to field any questions, but Marjorie Bleekman, who lived across the street, captured her gaze and gave her an “I told you so” look. Several of the press shouted questions, but she ignored them. Don’t these people ever sleep?

She walked through the front door, amazed how strongly the smell of death hung in the air. Not a true scent, nothing olfactory, but rather a feeling that the air had absorbed the fear and violence of what had occurred. It touched the skin and the tender tissues inside the nose and throat, depositing a coppery odor and taste where in actuality there was none.

She entered the bedroom where Charlie and Ralph Klingler stood.

Charlie turned when she walked in. “Sam.”

“Charlie.” She nodded. “Ralph.”

Sam absorbed the scene before her. Unlike the others, Betty had not been hung by her ankles. Instead, she lay in bed. Her eyes, dilated to two ebony discs by death, stared at the ceiling. Her life’s blood had ebbed from her, soaked the bed covers, and puddled on the floor. Sam studied the serene featureless surface of the maroon lake at her feet, which offered no hint of the savagery that had produced it.

One of Betty’s hands clutched a shredded and blood encrusted Bible as if she were beseeching it to save her. A deep cavity where her heart had once lain peered through her open chest. A thick-bladed butcher’s knife impaled the once active, now inert, organ to the wall above her.

“That’s not Garrett’s knife,” Sam said. “Is it here?”

“Haven’t seen it,” Charlie said.

“What do you think of the wounds, Ralph?” she asked.

“Can’t say for sure until I get the body back to the lab, but I’d bet the stab wounds were made by that knife.” He nodded toward the knife that pinned Betty McCumber’s heart to the wall. “I don’t see any that would match Garrett’s. Size and shape are totally different.”

“Great,” Sam said. “The way things have been going, Garrett’s knife is probably sticking out of somebody across town.”

“Of course some of the wounds could match Garrett’s knife,” Klingler said. “That’ll require a little closer look to be sure.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Looks like whoever did this was right-handed,” Ralph said.

“Too bad. That means Walter didn’t sneak out of ICU and do it and we have another killer on our hands.”

“Looks that way,” Charlie said.

“Who found her?” Sam asked.

“Ted Blankenship,” Charlie said.

“How’s he doing?”

“Not well.” Charlie lifted and reseated his hat, shifted the toothpick that dangled from the corner of his mouth. “He’s out front with his parents.”

“Have you talked with him yet?”

“Just briefly. Why don’t you go chat with him while Ralph and I finish up here.”

When Sam walked out the front door, she noted the crowd had thickened and several more reporters had ed the curiosity seekers. She saw Ted, sitting on the edge of the front seat of his parents’ car, feet on the curb, elbows on his knees, head hung down. He wore a red and brown checked flannel shirt, letterjacket, blue jeans, and frayed high-top tennis shoes. His mother stood next to him, gently stroking the back of his head. His father, grim-faced, leaned against the car’s front fender, arms crossed over his chest, keeping the reporters at bay with a stern glare.

As Sam approached, Ted looked up, eyes puffy and red from crying. “Ted. Martha.” Sam nodded to them, then to Ted’s father. “Paul.” She knelt down next to the boy. “How’re you doing?”

“Not well,” he said, his voice scratchy, thick. He cleared his throat and sniffed.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“I was delivering papers as usual. Got here about a quarter till six. I noticed Mrs. McCumber’s front door was wide open.” He sniffed. “It never is. Not this time of day. So, I went up to the door and yelled for her and rang the door bell, but she didn’t answer.” He swallowed hard. “I got scared.”

“Why?”

“I just knew something was wrong. Like when Grandma died.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if suppressing tears.

“What do you mean?”

Martha Blankenship ran her fingers over her son’s head, comforting him. “Mother died a couple of years ago. She lived with us. Ted went to get her for breakfast. She didn’t answer when he knocked so he went into her room and found her. She had ed in her sleep sometime during the night.”

“I see.” Sam caught Ted’s gaze. “So, you felt something might be wrong with Betty McCumber?”

“Yeah.” He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I started to go get help, but I thought maybe she might be sick and I’d better check on her.”

“And?”

“I went inside. I yelled a few more times, but there wasn’t any answer. Then, I found her.” He dropped his face into his hands and sobbed. Martha pulled his head against her hip, fighting back her own tears.

Paul Blankenship uncrossed his arms and looked at Sam. “It’s like those others we’ve heard about, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“When are you and Sheriff Walker going to put an end to this?”

“Soon, I hope.” Sam stood to face him, sensing his growing anger.

“Not soon enough,” he snapped.

Why wouldn’t he be angry? she asked herself. His son just witnessed something that will haunt him for the rest of his life. Something senseless, frightening. “Paul, we’re doing everything we can.”

“That’s the point. Maybe we should have elected Lanny last time. Maybe he could do more.”

Sam realized arguing with the angry man would be useless and only make things worse. She turned back to Ted. “Ted. Did you see anyone this morning? Here or elsewhere on your route?”

“No. It was quiet.”

“Did you touch anything in the house?”

“Just the phone in the kitchen. I used it to call 911. And Mrs. McCumber’s bedroom door knob.”

“OK,” Sam said. “Why don’t you guys go on home.”

“Thank you,” Martha said. Paul scowled as he picked up Ted’s bike and carried it toward the car’s trunk.

Sam reed Charlie in the house, telling him what Ted had said.

After completing their evidence gathering, Sam and Charlie walked out the front door. Reporters shouted questions from beyond the crime scene tape, but they ignored them.

Lanny Mills waved them over to where he stood beside his car. Marjorie Bleekman stood behind him, clad in pajamas, a ski parka, and fuzzy pink house slippers.

“Sheriff. Sam. Is it like the others?” Lanny asked.

“Afraid so,” Charlie said.

“I knew it,” Marjorie said. “He’s going to kill us all.”

“Who?” Charlie asked.

“Garrett.”

“He’s in jail,” Charlie said.

“That’s what Sam told us…me and Betty…just the other day. I told you,” she turned to Sam, “that it was Garrett or those hippie kids that were doing all this. But, you didn’t believe me.” She choked back a sob. “And now, Betty is dead.” Her lips trembled and her voiced cracked. “They’re killing off the jury.”

“Marjorie, that’s not true,” Sam said.

“The hell it ain’t,” Marjorie said. “And you two aren’t doing a Goddamn thing about it.”

“Don’t get upset,” Sam said. “Why don’t you go back home and let us handle this?”

Undeterred, she jutted her jaw defiantly. “What if they come after me? What then? It could have been me last night. All they had to do was cross the street.” She pulled the parka tightly around her.

“Relax,” Sam said.

“Like hell I will. I want this stopped before Garrett and his people kill the rest of us.”

Lanny took her hand and patted it. “Why don’t you go inside where it’s warm. I’ll stop by in a couple of minutes.”

Marjorie straightened her shoulders, sniffed back angry tears, glared and Sam and Charlie, turned, and stomped toward her house. Her pink slippers flapped against the pavement with each step.

Lanny looked at Charlie and shook his head. “Any idea who did this?”

“Not yet.”

“I’d like you two to do me a favor,” Lanny said.

“What?” Charlie tilted his hat back and cocked his head toward Lanny.

“Can you come by and give the council an update on your investigation. We’re getting a lot of heat and don’t really know what to say.”

“Tell them to call me. Or Sam.”

“Still, if you could drop by, the council sure would appreciate it.”

“I thought your meeting wasn’t until next week.”

“It isn’t. But, we feel a special meeting might be in order. In view of the circumstances.”

“What time?” Charlie asked.

“Say, two o’clock. Council chambers.”

“We’ll be there.”

Sam and Charlie sat at a booth at Millie’s.

“What do you make of this meeting?” she asked.

“Probably like Lanny said. They want an update. Course, they ain’t going to get one. Not while the investigation is going on. But, we can go by and have a chat with them. They’re probably just scared like everyone else.”

“I suspect there’s more to it than that. An update could be gotten over the phone. I smell trouble and I’d bet it’s about 6-6 and 300 pounds.”

“Reverend Billy?”

“Last night he and Lanny had a little chat.”

“Oh? About what?”

“Don’t know.”

“Maybe he was trying to sell him a Bible or one of those little plastic Reverend Billy dolls.”

Sam laughed. “Maybe he complained to them about me leaning on him a little.”

“So what if he did.”

“If that’s it, I’m sorry. Not for tweaking the bastard, but for getting you and the council involved.”

“Don’t worry. They don’t pay our salaries. The county does. All they can do is piss and moan a little.”

“Sorry anyway.”

“Don’t be. Truth is, if any of those clowns on the council want this job, I’ll give them my badge and gun right now.”

The statement shocked Sam. Charlie had been sheriff for over two decades. Virtually from the day he moved to Mercer’s Corner from Houston, Texas, where he had also been a cop. She couldn’t anyone else ever being sheriff, nor could she envision the town without Charlie wearing the badge.

Charlie and her father had been good friends and, as a child, she had immediately gravitated toward the sometimes gruff sheriff. Maybe it was because of the respect her father showed for him or maybe it was because Charlie had let her wear his hat and play in the jail after school. Whatever the reason, Mercer’s Corner and Charlie Walker were, in her mind, synonymous.

“You don’t mean that.”

“The hell I don’t. I’m fed up with this job anyway. This case is about the last straw. I’m up for reelection next year and I just might on it.” He smiled at her and winked. “Why don’t you run?”

“Me?”

“You’d make a good sheriff. You’re qualified.”

“You’ve just had a bad week. You’ll feel better about everything once we pack Garrett off to the big house.”

“Maybe.”

“You will.” She drained her coffee cup. “I’m going to the gym and pound on Jimmy for a while. See you at the office later.”

Sam completed her usual run and circuit weight session and then laced on gloves. She and Jimmy spared four hard rounds. Toward the end of the last one, Jimmy caught her with three crisp left jabs that snapped her head back. But, when he tried to throw an overhand right, she stepped forward, ducking beneath his extended arm, and landed a three-punch combination to his body followed by a right upper cut and a left hook to the head. Jimmy staggered to the ropes. Sam pursued him and released a wide left hook, which Jimmy blocked and countered with two short jabs. Sam landed a double left hook to his body and head.

The bell rang.

“Excellent,” Jimmy said, pulling off his head protector. “You’re getting better every day.”

“Thanks. I feel it, too.”

“Sam?”

She turned to see Nathan standing near the ropes. “Hey. Did you come to go a few rounds?”

“No thanks,” he laughed. “Been there. Didn’t like it.”

“Chicken.” She leaned on the ropes above him.

“No. Just smart. I need to talk with you.”

“Sure.”

Jimmy yanked her gloves off and she removed her headgear, then stepped between the ropes and out of the ring. “Let’s sit over here.” She led him to a bench against the wall. “What’s up?”

“I have a couple of very distraught young ladies who want to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“Penelope and her girlfriend, Melissa. I went out to talk with them this morning. For an article I’m working on. They told me a pretty bizarre tale.”

“How bizarre?”

“You’d better hear it from them.”

“Where are they?”

“Thelma’s baby sitting them at your office.”

“Let me catch a shower and I’ll be right there.”

CHAPTER 32

Nathan, Penelope, and Melissa looked up when Sam walked into her office. She collapsed into the chair behind her desk.

“What’s this about?” Sam asked.

“This.” Penelope dropped the knife on her desk.

Sam stared at the knife in disbelief. Eight-inch curved blade. Serrated edge. Chipped bone handle. Garrett’s knife. She looked at Penelope, Nathan, and then the knife again. She picked it up. “Where’d you get this?”

“In the desert.”

“She dug it up.” Melissa said. “It was buried.”

“Buried? Where?” Sam directed at Melissa.

“About a mile from where we’ve been camping,” the blonde girl offered. Her eyes were red with fatigue and darkly swollen.

Sam looked at Penelope. She appeared as frayed as Melissa. “How did you know where it was?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that,” Penelope said. “It was there. I went to it, but I don’t know how or why.”

“I don’t understand. Start at the beginning.”

Penelope and Melissa told their story: Penelope’s dream and her compulsion to leave her bed and wander into the desert; Melissa following her, pleading for her to return; Penelope digging up the knife.

“It was all so weird,” Melissa said. “She was in a trance or something. I grabbed her and shook and yelled at her…but nothing. Like she was somewhere else. Someone else.” Tears welled in her eyes, intensifying their blueness, and slid down her cheeks, entwining with the trails of earlier tears.

“After you got the knife, what happened?” Sam asked.

Penelope shrugged and looked at Melissa. “I don’t know.”

“She walked into town,” Melissa said. She wiped tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

“That’s two miles.”

“I tried to stop her.”

“Where were you going?” Sam asked Penelope.

“I being drawn by a red light. It came from a house on Church Street. On the corner.”

Sam looked at Nathan unable to hide her shock. Church Street. Betty McCumber’s street.

“It was bright and pulsated,” Penelope continued. “It hurt my eyes, but I couldn’t look away.”

“I didn’t see anything like that,” Melissa added. “All I know is that it was dark and cold.”

“Did you reach the light?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you go inside the house?”

“I don’t .”

“She didn’t. I stopped her,” Melissa said.

“How?” Sam asked.

“I slapped her. In the face. Three or four times. Right in the middle of the street.”

“And?”

“She woke up.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at Penelope.

“All I know is that I was suddenly standing in the street. I was cold. I didn’t know where I was or how I got there.”

Sam leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples. Walter Limpke had said he “suddenly woke up” and Roberto Sanchez was hanging before him, bloody, dead, eviscerated. Now, Penelope tells a similar story. And she was only steps from Betty McCumber’s house.

“What did you do then?” Sam asked.

“We walked back to our van. Nearly froze to death, but we made it.” Melissa said.

“Sam?” Penelope said. “Is this the dream the others had? The ones you told me about?”

“Maybe. Did you see anything or anyone in your sleep walk?”

“Like what?”

“Demons. Garrett. Anything besides the colors?”

Penelope adopted a look somewhere between confusion and fear. “No…but…”

“But what?”

“I felt him. I didn’t see him but I sensed Richard was there.”

“What do you mean?” Sam leaned forward, elbows on her desk.

“It was like he was pushing me from behind. Forcing me to keep moving forward. Toward the red light. At times, I actually felt his hands against my back. It’s crazy isn’t it?”

“Yes. But a lot of crazy things are going on around here.” Sam tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Let me see if I understand you. You felt like the red light was pulling you toward it. And, at the same time, Garrett was behind you, pushing you forward.”

“Weird isn’t it?”

“And then some.” Sam caught the girl’s gaze. “Penelope, are you absolutely certain you didn’t go in that house?”

“No. She didn’t,” Melissa said.

“Did either of you see anyone else there?”

They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

Sam sighed heavily. “You got lucky then.”

“Why?”

“The woman that lived in that house was murdered last night.”

Penelope blanched. Her hands trembled and she began shaking her head from side to side as if trying to jostle Sam’s words lose. “That can’t be true. I couldn’t have…”

“No, baby,” Melissa said, hugging her, kissing her tear streaked cheeks. “You didn’t. I was with you the entire time.”

They held each other tightly as if the two of them could keep the world at bay and make this all go away.

“Penelope,” Sam said. “Why do you think you were compelled to go to that particular house?”

“I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I just had to. I had no choice. I fought it. I knew something bad was going to happen, but I couldn’t stop.”

“It’s OK, baby.” Melissa stroked Penelope’s hair.

“You stopped me,” Penelope said, hugging Melissa. “You stopped me. I love you so much.”

The girls held each other and released their tears. They broke their embrace and Penelope wiped tears from her cheek with the back of her hand.

“What’s going to happen, now?” Penelope asked.

“Let me make a couple of phone calls, then we’ll see,” Sam replied.

Sam left the room and went to Charlie’s office. She told him the girls’ story, then called Ralph Klingler, who assured her that all of Betty’s wounds were made with the butcher’s knife, which came from her kitchen. She called Cat Roberts and returned to her office.

“OK. Here’s the deal.” Sam sat behind her desk and looked at Penelope. “I don’t believe you had anything to do with last night’s murder. The coroner says this knife is not the murder weapon. I’ve got to go see someone and then I have a meeting in about forty-five minutes. I want you to see Doctor Roberts and make sure you’re OK. Then come back here.” She turned to Nathan. “Would you mind taking them over to Cat’s office?”

“Not at all.”

“I want you girls to stay at my place. At least for tonight. OK?”

They didn’t protest.

Reverend Billy Thibideaux filled the doorway of the Sheriff’s Department, smiling broadly. “You must be Thelma,” he said.

Thelma looked up from her desk. “Reverend Billy? What a surprise. I’m afraid Sheriff Walker isn’t here right now. And Sam just left.”

“That’s OK. I came to see Mister Garrett. I’ve cleared it with his attorney.”

She hesitated.

“Got a note from Mister Levy right here.” His sausage-like fingers plucked a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. He handed it to Thelma.

After reading the note, she said, “OK. I’ll let you in the jail. Do you need anything?”

“No. But, its kind of you to ask.”

Thelma unlocked the jail area door and Billy entered, leaving it slightly ajar behind him. He walked up to Garrett’s cell and peered through the bars at the man. Garrett sat on the side of his bunk, hands folded in his lap, his over-sized orange prison jumpsuit hanging from him. He seemed small, weak, incapable of being a worthy adversary. This was going to be easy, Billy thought.

“Mister Garrett, I’m Rever…”

“I know who you are.” Garrett gazed at him, imive.

Billy was used to gushing, praising responses whenever he introduced himself to anyone. Garrett’s lack of awe unnerved him. “I’d like to have a few words with you.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So, Mister Levy told you I was coming?”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.” The corners of his mouth elevated into a haughty smile. “But, I’ve been expecting you.”

Billy was unable to hide his shock. And was unable to speak. If Levy didn’t tell him, how could Garrett have heard? He had told no one except Levy that he was coming. And he had told Levy only half an hour ago when he had the attorney scribble out the note he had given to Thelma.

“Are you here to save my soul?” Garrett asked.

“Exactly,” Billy said, recovering his voice.

“And how do you propose to accomplish that? Assuming my soul needs saving.” Garrett’s smile dissolved into a disdainful smirk.

“Mister Garrett…”

“My name is Beelzebub.”

“That’s right. Mister Levy told me you had taken that name.”

“Not taken. Given.”

“By whom, may I ask?”

“Lucifer, of course.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

Billy cleared his throat. “My followers and I can help you. Return you to the path of righteousness. Lead you to the Lord.”

“Why would I want that?”

Now, Billy regained his composure and became a preacher once again. A role he was comfortable in. One that gave him the leverage he needed. Garrett had initially thrown him off stride, but now he had resumed control. He knew that when people started asking questions about God and soul saving and matters of the spirit, he had negotiated the first and highest hurdle. They had expressed a curiosity, which he was well equipped to answer. His fervent rhetoric was irresistible once the mind was open to it.

He straightened his back and gazed down at Garrett. “To save yourself. To assure your place in heaven and avoid the ravages of Hell.”

Garrett smiled. “And you have the power to do all that?”

“Yes. We have driven Satan from others. Saved their mortal souls for all eternity.”

“And how do you perform this miracle?” Garrett asked.

He’s taken the bait, Billy said to himself. Reel him in and he’s yours. “We perform a ceremony in which we bring the light of God into you and wash the evil and hatred from you.”

“You’re full of shit,” Garrett spat.

Billy recoiled as if slapped.

Garrett continued. “You are imprisoned by your own sins, but are too arrogant to see it.”

Billy wrapped his fat fingers around the bars and glared at Garrett. “As you can see, I’m the one on the outside. Free to come and go as I please. But, you…” He shrugged.

“There are many forms of prison. Some people are bound by invisible chains of uncertainty and fear. These murders, for instance. Who is free from suspicion? The residents of this town? The police? You? All of you are potential suspects. I, on the other hand, am not. I have been here.” He waved a hand toward the bars to his right. “Freedom is a matter of perspective.”

This wasn’t going as he intended. Billy usually controlled conversations, set agendas. Yet, somehow this pathetic little man continually twisted words to his own benefit. “I don’t call a ten by fifteen cell freedom.”

“Because you don’t see the bonds that hold you. You are bound by your greed, your pride, and your carnal needs.”

“I am a man of God. Guided and bound by his will.”

“You can lie to them.” Garrett yanked his chin toward the cell window and the street beyond. “You can even lie to yourself. But, I know differently.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know you believe none of what you espouse. I know you use words and God to feed your crass desires.”

“Strong words from a condemned man.”

“It is not I that am condemned, but you. You do not understand what true faith and power is. You have never tasted the comfort of clear knowledge. You live a life of lies upon lies and it is this that will be your undoing.”

“The council of this fair city feels otherwise. They believe your soul should be entrusted to me so that I may rid their city of your evil. Our ceremonies can be pleasant or unpleasant as we choose.” A smirk parted his thick lips. “As you choose.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A warning.”

“You are the one that should be careful. Careful not to anger me or my master.”

“If I were you…”

“You aren’t me. You could never be me. You are un-pure in your faith. I, however, am crystal clear about my path.”

“You’re quiet arrogant in your beliefs. Arrogance itself is a sin.”

“You should know.” Garrett stood and walked close to Billy, lowering his voice, words slipping between his clenched teeth. “Now, go away while you still can.”

“You will be sorry for…” Billy’s words stuck in his throat like crushed gravel, choking him. He attempted to draw air into his lungs but some invisible ligature blocked the flow. The world exploded into a kaleidoscope of color, which swirled and tumbled. The iridescent hues stretched into long ribbons that encircled him, tensing, until they snapped and exploded into millions of multicolored shards of light.

Before him, Garrett’s face twisted, elongated. Scales slithered across his cheeks and down his chest. He opened his mouth, revealing sharp fang-like teeth, and spoke in a voice as deep and as coarse as burlap. “Go. Now. Do not return or I will unleash the power of Lucifer on your soul.” His head rocked back and a deep guttural laugh emerged, carrying with it billows of black, putrid clouds.

The unseen noose that encircled his neck gave way, allowing him to suck air into his chest with heavy, raspy breaths. The colors disappeared. Garrett’s face returned to normal. Billy backed away, collided with the wall, slid along it, and yanked open the door. He hurried past Thelma, into the street.

Sam entered Walter Limpke’s cubicle in the ICU at Mercer Community Hospital. He looked up and smiled weakly.

“Walter. Feel up to a couple of questions?”

He nodded.

“You said you didn’t much about your dreams except that they were in vivid colors.”

“That’s right.”

“And you saw a red light or a beacon of some sort.”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you go to the Hargroves’ house? On that particular night?”

“I told you before. I don’t know.”

“Besides the colors, did you feel anything or sense anything unusual?”

He stared at her and sighed.

“It’s OK, Walter. Tell me about it.”

“You’ll think I’ve really flipped.” His shoulders slumped further.

“Walter, I’ve heard some bizarre stuff in the past couple of days so I doubt whatever you say will seem over the top.”

“I felt like the red light was drawing me to it. I tried to turn away, but I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“It was like a magnet. The closer I got, the stronger it pulled.”

“Was it the same at Roberto’s?”

“Yes.”

“What was the light? Where exactly did it come from?”

He lifted his eyes as if trying to conjure a vision from the myriad tiny holes in the acoustic tile ceiling. His brow furrowed. “I can’t…” He stopped. “The light was the house. And Roberto’s trailer.”

“You mean like a reflection?”

“No. They were the light. The house, the trailer were the source of the light. They glowed bright red.”

“Did you sense or see anything else?” she asked.

“At Roberto’s, it seemed as though something was pushing me. From behind. You know how opposite poles of a magnet attract each other, but like poles push each other away?”

“Yeah.”

“While the light pulled me, something behind me pushed me. Both seemed to direct me toward the light. Toward Roberto’s trailer.”

Sam walked out of the hospital and flopped behind the wheel of her Jeep, hammered into submission by the day’s revelations. A murderer and an apparent would-be murderer were compelled by some push-pull force toward a red beacon. A beacon that glowed from their victim’s homes. The homes of three of Garrett’s jury. Nothing rational explained this. Hell, nothing

irrational explained this.

She flashed on her dreams, the children’s dreams. The dreams of Penelope and Walter. She and Penelope had sensed Garrett and the kids had seen Snakeman. Last night, a Snakeman/Garrett creature had visited her dream? Or was it Satan? Or Garrett/Beelzebub? Or some other fallen angel?

Could Garrett be behind all this? How? Maybe he was Nita Stillwater’s iron fingered beast. Maybe he was Satan or Beelzebub or some supernatural being. But if he was, why not just walk out of jail and disappear? What could he gain from these murders? His conviction was a done deal. Unless it was a revenge thing.

But, Garrett alluded to the fact that he had had similar dreams. That he had been compelled to act. He couldn’t be the puppeteer and the puppet.

And what of all his talk of Satan and God at war? And of his need for her to open the gates of Hell for him? Was he crazy? Insane? Or merely amusing himself with outlandish tales? Was he one of those nuts that truly believed the end of the world was near? Why didn’t he just drink some poison and ride away on a comet like those Heaven’s Gate clowns? Sam knew she couldn’t be that lucky.

Her mind was trapped in a Mobius loop. Around and around but always returning to the same place. Which was nowhere. Frustrated, she cranked the Jeep to life.

CHAPTER 33

The city council held its monthly meetings in the old Elk’s Building a block down Main Street from the Sheriff’s Department. The sturdy stone and wood structure had not housed an Elk’s meeting in over fifteen years since the local chapter disbanded due to lack of attendance. A faded, weathered B.P.O.E. sign remained above the entry.

By the time Sam and Charlie arrived, Lanny Mills and the four other of the council were seated behind the long folding table that served as a rostrum. They faced forty folding chairs, which typically would be used by of the community who wished to attend the regular council meetings. Today only eight of the chairs were occupied. Lisa McFarland, Mark Levy, Paul Blankenship, Lupe Rodriguez, Marjorie Bleekman, Reverend Billy, Carl Angelo, and Father Tom O’Malley looked up when they walked in.

“What’re Billy and Father Tom doing here?” Sam asked Charlie under her breath.

“I suspect we’ll find out,” he offered.

Sam glanced at Father Tom and raised a quizzical eyebrow. He shrugged, communicating his own bewilderment. Sam studied the other faces. Marjorie appeared frightened, while Paul Blankenship glared at them, his jaw fixed, anger oozing from every pore. Lupe smiled sympathetically, Carl sat stone-faced, and Reverend Billy wore a mask of smug satisfaction.

This isn’t a meeting, Sam thought. It’s an ambush.

“Charlie. Sam. Have a seat and we can get started,” Lanny said. “Charlie, why don’t you bring us up to date on your investigation.”

“Lanny, you know I don’t discuss ongoing cases. Never have.”

“But, these murders are a little unusual, you must it. There are a whole lot of very nervous people in this town who want some answers.”

Charlie scanned the room. “You don’t look nervous. Father Tom doesn’t look nervous. So, just who are we talking about here?”

“Come on, Charlie. Just give us an overview,” Lanny said.

“OK. Garrett killed the three children. Walter Limpke confessed to killing the Hargroves and Roberto Sanchez. Last night Betty McCumber was murdered, but since that case is only twelve hours old, we don’t know who is responsible yet. So, what’s the question?”

Sam could barely suppress a smile. Vintage Charlie. He always managed to boil conversation down to the bone and gristle, tossing the fat aside.

“Charlie, don’t get testy,” Lanny said.

“I’m not. If I was, you’d know it. Now, I don’t like being hauled in here under some official pretext and finding Reverend Billy here. Right away I start thinking that something ain’t right. That there’s some other agenda here. So, why don’t we just cut to the chase? What’s this all about?”

“We’re scared,” Marjorie blurted out. “Four of the jury have been killed and I might be next. What are you doing about that?”

Charlie tilted his Stetson back. “We’re going to find out who did it and arrest them.”

“When?” Her lips trembled as she spoke.

“Soon, Marjorie.” Charlie sighed heavily. “I know you’re scared. But, trust us to do our job.”

“Like Betty did?” She sniffed back tears. “Like Roberto and Margo did?”

Paul Blankenship jumped to his feet. “Will my son have to find another body before you put an end to this?” His hands curled into tight fists. “He’ll never get over what he saw this morning.”

“I know,” Charlie said. “None of us will.”

“But, it’s your job to see things like that.” Paul’s eyes flared with anger. “My son is only a boy.”

“I’m sorry, Paul.”

“You Goddamn well better be.”

Lanny interrupted. “Let’s all calm down.” He turned to Reverend Billy. “Reverend, would you care to say anything?”

Here we go, Sam thought as Billy pulled himself from his chair and turned to face them.

“I understand that both of you are good cops,” Billy began. “Everyone says so and I see no reason to doubt that.”

Well hallelujah Sam wanted to shout. We have the big man’s approval.

“But,” Billy continued, “this situation is beyond your means. This is not a police matter, but a matter for the Lord.”

“The Lord?” Charlie said. “Are you kidding?”

“Let him finish, Charlie,” Lanny said.

Billy expanded his already over-inflated body and began to pace as he spoke. The wooden floor creaked and popped like arthritic ts beneath his mass. “You have a series of killings here that you can’t explain. I have been told that Walter Limpke was a kind and good and religious man. Why then did he brutally murder three people? Was that not out of character for him? Did that not shock everyone who knew him? And now, you have another member of your community that has met a similarly horrible fate.”

The pace of his prancing picked up and Sam half expected a Bible to materialize in his hand.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that four of Mister Garrett’s jury have died? Three at the hands of murderers and one in a terrible freeway accident. These occurrences are beyond coincidence. They are the work of Satan. He is here, protecting and avenging his disciple Richard Earl Garrett, who is himself possessed with Satan.”

“Come on, Reverend,” Charlie said.

“It is true. I know. I have seen it in his eyes.” He cleared his throat. “You can neither see nor comprehend this fact from your secular point of view. You are not attuned to the works of Satan.”

“Look, Reverend,” Charlie said, “I it that if anyone has the devil in him, it’s Garrett. That’s why he was convicted. That’s why he’ll probably go to San Quentin’s Death Row. That’s why someday, hopefully, he’ll be executed. So,

what else can be done to him? He’ll pay for his sins.”

Billy fixed him with his blue eyes. “You do not see the truth before you,” he said, condescension dripping from every word. “This will never end so long as Garrett and that group of followers that hang out down the street have Lucifer in their blood. Satan must be cast out, forced from them. And it must be done soon, or these killings will continue.”

Lupe Rodriguez crossed her chest and mumbled a quick “Hail Mary.”

Sam saw a look of shock spread across Father Tom’s face. He stood.

“You aren’t proposing some type of exorcism are you?” Father Tom asked. “The archdiocese would never allow it.”

Billy arranged his face into a look somewhere between patronization and contempt. “Father O’Malley, not meaning to insult you, but I didn’t request your presence at this meeting. That was Mister Mills’ idea. If the council agrees to turn Garrett over to me, I will perform the exorcism service. I have a great deal of experience in such matters and I am sure that you do not.”

Sam ran past miffed, hurtled perturbed, crashed through angry, and landed square in the middle of furious. Even though she no longer attended mass or services at Our Lady of the Desert, the bond she had formed with Father Tom during her mother’s illness and death remained strong. She was not about to stand by and let this pompous whale and this confederacy of dunces insult and intimidate him.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she stormed, glaring at each of the councilmen in turn. “An exorcism? Of Garrett? Of those innocent mixed-up kids? Have you all gone over the edge?”

“Deputy Cody…” Billy began.

She whirled on him, eyes flashing. The insulation on her nerves melted away, leaving behind raw, sparking wires. “You shut up! I’ve had about enough of your crap.” Turning back to the council, she continued her harangue. “I can’t believe you let this charlatan windbag come in here and blind you with his bullshit. I can’t believe you think we would ever hand over a prisoner, any prisoner, for this obese piece of dirt to burn at the stake. This isn’t Salem. This is our home, for Christ sakes!”

“Sam,” Lanny said. “Calm down.”

“Like hell I will. You can’t fire me. The county pays me. But it wouldn’t matter anyway. There is no way this puffed up ass is going to get his hands on Garrett or those kids.” She turned toward Paul. “And Paul, I’m sorry Ted found Betty. I wish he hadn’t. But, that’s the way life is. Deal with it, talk with him, rather than ing Billy’s little self-promotion crusade. Now, if all of you would go home and let Charlie and I get back to work, we might get to the bottom of this.

“You haven’t done such a bang up job so far,” Reverend Billy said.

She consumed the distance between them with angry strides. He towered over

her, which only infuriated her further. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got more bodies around here than Omaha Beach on D-Day and I don’t see a solution in sight.”

“Really? We convicted Garrett, Walter confessed, and Betty McCumber’s body isn’t even cold yet. Give us more than twelve hours and we’ll figure out who killed her, too.” She fixed her jaw and glared up at him. “By the way, where were you last night?”

Billy’s face puffed purple with rage. He stammered, but for once was speechless.

“That’s right,” Sam said, “I forgot. You and Blue Eyes were having a prayer meeting.”

Billy’s eyes bulged as did the veins in his fleshy neck. He hissed and wheezed as he spoke. “Where I go and what I do and with whom I converse is none of your business.”

“Sorry Billy, you’re wrong. This is my town and that makes it my business. Maybe I’ll have a chat with one of my friends at the FBI and see what they think.”

“OK. Let’s calm down.” Lanny slammed his gavel on the table. “We will take this under advisement and make a decision.”

“There’s no decision to make,” Sam said. “You don’t have the authority. And you.” She turned to Billy. “Why don’t you crawl back to your swamp before things get really nasty around here.” She looked at Marjorie and Lupe. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Coming in here and siding with this snake oil salesman. He can’t help you. He doesn’t give a shit about you. He’s only using you.”

Sam stormed out of the building, Charlie, Lisa, and Mark in her wake.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Charlie. “I didn’t mean to blow up like that.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Charlie offered, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Just watch yourself. I get the feeling, the Reverend doesn’t play by the rules.”

“Billy I can handle. It’s that Carl Angelo creature that bothers me.”

“Sam?”

She turned to see Father Tom approaching. “Father Tom, I’m sorry I got so angry, but that man infuriates me.”

“It’s OK.”

“I wanted to shoot him.”

“I’d have absolved you if you had,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

She smiled and hugged him. “I love you.”

“Come on,” Father Tom said, “I’ll buy you guys some coffee.”

“I’ll ,” Charlie said. “If it’s OK with Lisa and Mark, I’m going to go see Westbrooke. Maybe he’ll move Garrett’s sentencing up and we can get him out of here and put an end to this exorcism crap.”

“Good idea. I’ll go with you,” Lisa said.

“Me, too,” Mark agreed. “I’ve wanted to get rid of Garrett ever since I got stuck with his case.”

Sam and Father Tom waved to them and walked toward Starbucks.

Lanny Mills hated Reverend Billy. He hated his arrogance and pompous selfimportance. He hated his church and its fake righteousness. But, most of all, he despised his self-indulgence, giving himself to food, alcohol, and young women. Girls younger than Lanny’s own daughter.

But, he ired Billy’s confidence and ability to get what he wanted. He never let anyone or anything, even his own conscience, deter him. He had balls. Lanny could overlook Billy’s shortcomings, if he could help Lanny get what he wanted.

Lanny led Billy to the corner of the room, out of everyone else’s earshot. “That didn’t go well,” he said.

“Quite the contrary,” Billy beamed. “It went perfectly.”

“How so?”

“They’re angry and confused. That leads to mistakes. Political miscalculations.”

“They’ll never give up Garrett.”

“Sure they will. Another day or two and the town will be ready to storm the jail and demand Garrett be given over.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Trust me.” Billy laid a thick hand on Lanny’s shoulder. “I have experience in such matters. Garrett will be mine, I will recoup my expenses and then some, Sheriff Walker will be out of a job, and this fair city will have a new sheriff.”

Sam and Father Tom stepped into Starbucks. The aroma of fresh coffee met them at the door. Sam ordered a cappuccino and he a mineral water. Carrying their drinks, they moved to a corner table.

“How are you doing, Sam?” Father Tom asked.

“Been better. I’ll be glad when this madness is over.”

“It has been tough on everyone. Church attendance is up,” he smiled. “Of course, we miss having you there.”

“I know. Maybe this Sunday.”

“We’ll see,” he chided.

She sipped the cappuccino, then said, “Can I ask you something?”

“You know you can.”

“Is Satan real? Does he really exist?”

“Let me ask you. Is God real? Does He exist?”

“Of course.”

“Then, Satan must exist. If you believe the Bible…that it is a Holy work inspired by God…then you must believe all of it. Not just parts.”

“I guess what I mean is, does Satan actually exist here on Earth? Does he take over people’s souls? Make good people evil?”

“I believe that can happen. I also believe that God’s love can defeat Satan.”

“And Beelzebub?”

“Yes. Many believe they are one and the same.”

“I thought one was the master and the other the servant.”

“The distinction is unclear. Regardless, they are both merchants of sorrow. Whether they are separate entities or merely two faces of the same, each is a force to be reckoned with.”

“Could Richard Earl Garrett be a pawn in this?”

“Who knows? It’s certainly possible.”

“Do you believe Garrett could change?”

“We all can change. Those who have lost their faith can always restore it and find their way back to Jesus.”

She knew he was talking as much about her as he was Garrett. He would never come right out and say so, but she sensed his disappointment in her leaving the church. He seemed to take it as a personal loss.

“Exorcisms. Do they really work?” she asked.

“The Lord works in many ways. I have never been a proponent of the Exorcism Ritual, but the principle of God casting out Satan, I do believe. I feel that change is best accomplished internally by opening your heart to Jesus, rather than through some external ceremony.” He smiled. “But, I could be wrong.” He leaned across the table and took her hand. “These are heady subjects for such a young woman.”

She debated whether to tell him of her dreams and the dreams of the others and of Nita Stillwater’s slant on good and evil, but decided against it. Maybe later. “I’m simply trying to figure out what’s going on around here and rational explanations don’t seem to work.”

“I see.”

They sat quietly for a minute, then Father Tom said, “Is it Connie’s death that has you so confused?”

“Partially.”

“And the rest?”

“The other murders. The trial. Everything. This isn’t supposed to happen here. Maybe LA, but not here.”

“Evil knows no boundaries,” he said. “I guess.”

“It can even come disguised as good.”

“Reverend Billy?” she asked. “Exactly.”

“I think he’s more dangerous than Garrett.” She wiped a dribble of coffee from the side of her cup with a napkin. “At least with Garrett, you know what he is. Can see him coming. Billy works differently.”

“Mankind’s history is replete with examples of atrocities performed in the name

of God. The Inquisition. The Crusades.”

“And now, here. Billy is turning the town against us. Just like Nathan said he would.”

“Ah. Mister Klimek. A nice looking man, isn’t he?” Father Tom said with a twinkle in his eye.

Sam wiggled in her seat as if she had been caught talking in Sunday School. “Maybe. Probably.”

“Is he a religious man?”

“He’s Jewish.”

Father Tom smiled. “We can forgive him for that. Is he a good man?”

Sam had never considered that question before, yet she knew the answer immediately. “Yes. He is.”

“That’s what counts. Religious affiliations are choices. Character and goodness are innate.”

“Don’t let the Pope hear you say that,” Sam laughed.

“Rome is a long way from here,” he smiled.

CHAPTER 34

After saying goodbye to Father Tom, Sam headed up the street toward her office. The cloud cover had thickened and darkened and begun to release a fine mist of cold rain. She noticed a crowd had gathered at the corner in front of the bank. Reverend Billy stood on the top step addressing them. She had hoped her council room tirade would slow him down a bit, make him reassess his position, but apparently, it had rolled off his fat body without leaving so much as a dent. She had to it the man had balls. As Sam approached, Billy’s words became intelligible.

“You must regain control of your own lives, of your own community. You must rip the evil that is Richard Earl Garrett from your souls. Only then can you be saved.” He opened the Bible he held. “From the book of Psalms:

‘Lift up thyself, thou judge of the Earth;

render a reward to the proud.

Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph?

…They slay the widow

and the stranger, and murder the fatherless…

Yet they say, the Lord shall not see…’

He paused and looked down upon the gathering. “But, God does see. He has felt your pain and has answered your prayers. He has sent me to show you the path to your salvation. Demand of your sheriff that Richard Earl Garrett be delivered for his judgment so that Satan can be driven from him and from your lives. It is only through me that Satan can be cast down into Hell where he belongs.”

Sam waded into the crowd, colliding with Blue Eyes, who carried a basket, half filled with bills. She grabbed the girl by the arm and spun her around. “Give the money back,” she barked. “Panhandling is illegal here.”

“Now, just a minute.” Billy clamored from his perch, Carl Angelo at his side. “Donating to the church is not panhandling.”

“Billy, I’m not going to argue the finer points of the law with you. Give back the money and break up this little lynch mob.”

“We have the right…”

“No, you don’t. And you don’t have a permit for this gathering. And you cannot incite a riot or organize a lynching.”

“We are hardly a lynch mob,” he said, self-righteous indignation oozing from every pore.

Sam caught a glimpse of Lanny Mills at the corner of her gaze, which remained locked on Billy. Lanny eased into a position behind and to the right of Billy. Not close enough to be considered part of the argument, but near enough to signify which camp he was in. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his wrinkled pants, an act which accentuated his paunch, and rocked slightly on his heels, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Sold his sole to the devil, Sam thought.

“That’s exactly what you are,” Sam snapped at Billy. She turned to the crowd. “You people go on back to your work. The Reverend’s sermon is over.”

“Haven’t you heard of the separation of church and state? We have the Constitutional right…”

Sam turned, stepped close to Billy, and glared at him. “You have the Constitutional right to keep breathing and that’s about it.”

“Our church is protected by the First Amendment.”

“Your church,” she spat, “is a traveling carnival and it has worn out its welcome.”

She sensed the shadow of Carl Angelo as he moved around and behind her. His thick fingers gripped her left arm tightly like carnivorous jowls. “Be careful, little lady,” he said, his voice coarse, menacing.

“Let go.” Sam attempted to yank her arm free.

“And if I don’t?”

She reached for the .357 Smith and Wesson that lay against the small of her back, but Carl clamped his other hand on her elbow and pulled her to him. His body felt like a concrete pylon and his hot thick breath played along her neck as he whispered. “Be nice, little girl, or you might get hurt.”

“Let go of me, you fucking animal.” Sam attempted to twist from his grasp, but he pinned her arms to her side with his massive hands.

“You’re not listening to me,” he hissed.

“Let her go!” Charlie’s welcome voice bellowed from behind them.

Carl released his grip. When Sam turned, she noticed Charlie had slipped the safety strap that secured his Colt .45 free. His hand hovered near the weapon.

Charlie froze Carl with a glare, then turned to Reverend Billy. “Now, pack up your troops and get out of here. There ain’t going to be any lynching today. Clear?”

Reverend Billy and Carl looked at each other, then back at Charlie. “Let’s go, Carl,” Billy said. They headed toward Billy’s bus, which sat a block away along

Main Street. Blue Eyes inverted the basket she held and money fluttered to the street. She glared at Sam, turned, and followed Billy, wobbling on her platform shoes.

“Thanks,” Sam said to Charlie, rubbing her arm where Carl had gripped her.

“My pleasure,” he said with a wink. “Fact is, I was kind of hoping that Billy or Carl would try something foolish.” He patted his Colt. “Could’ve solved a lot of problems right here.”

“Looks like Nathan was right,” Sam said.

“Oh?”

“He said Billy would turn the town against us.”

“He’s trying.” Charlie tugged his hat down a notch.

Sam eyed Lanny walking away, chatting with a reporter. “And I smell Lanny up to his ass in all of this.”

“No doubt about that.” Charlie stuck a fresh toothpick in his mouth and shoved it over to one corner. “It’s about time for the funerals. You ready to head over to the cemetery?”

“Let me check on Penelope and Melissa and I’ll meet you there.”

Surreal was the only word for it. Mercer’s Corner had never seen a day like this one before. First, the tearful goodbyes from Lupe, Maria, and the rest of the Rodriguez family as Juan and Carlos were lowered into the ground. Then, the solemn procession that shuffled the 100 yards to John and Connie Beeson’s gravesite. Four burials in one day. Definitely a first. Even stranger, everyone would return in two days to bury Roger and Miriam Hargrove and Betty McCumber.

Before going to the cemetery, Sam had met Nathan and the girls at her office. Penelope had received a clean bill of health from Cat Roberts. They decided Nathan and the girls would do some grocery shopping while Sam attended the funerals, then meet back at her office. After that, they would go to Sam’s and Nathan would make dinner.

Now, Sam stood next to Charlie, staring at the two rectangular holes in the ground. Three hundred people huddled under a canopy of umbrellas, while Father Tom spoke, saying what each of them already knew. John and Connie Beeson were good and loving people, valued friends and community leaders, and would be greatly missed.

The solemn group seemed as if of one mind. Each stood stiffly, no shuffling of their feet, no talking, eyes cast downward, always downward, as if eye would be too painful. The only movement, the occasional dabbing of a tear or the tugging of a tie that was suddenly too tight or the fidgeting of a child who wished to be somewhere else, doing something fun.

Sam’s eyes were directed toward the ground, also. She watched rain puddles form in the mounds of freshly turned dirt beside the graves. Some pockets broke containment and plunged over the edge into the dark rectangular pits.

That’s how she felt. As if she stood on a slippery precipice staring into an unfathomable void. As if the abyss drew her toward it. As if the gateway to Hell waited to devour her.

As Father Tom continued his prayers, her thoughts turned to Connie and to her mother, buried only steps away from where she stood. What she ed most about her mother’s ordeal was the beginning. That moment, sitting in the doctor’s office in LA, the cancer specialist, she and her mother clutching each other’s hands, the doctor uttering the word. Positive. The word had come at her angry and hostile and direct, causing her to flinch, her mother’s hand to tremble.

Sure, she knew what a positive biopsy meant and she knew what would come next and she knew she couldn’t deny it. Yet, part of her fought the word, refused to accept it. Maybe she misunderstood. Maybe the doctor misspoke. Maybe positive meant good, even normal. But, one look into the doctor’s face and her mother’s pale profile and the war of words in her head was lost.

That image, like a single movie frame, was what remained locked in her head forever.

And Connie had been there.

After her mother’s mastectomy, when the chemotherapy had stolen the hair from her head, the muscles from her arms and legs, the life from her eyes, which sank deeper into their sockets with each ing day, and had robbed her of strength and will and dignity and hope, Connie had been there.

And at her mother’s funeral, when she stood and watched the copper casket descend into the Earth, Connie had been there.

And now, Connie was here again. Not as her steadfast , but rather as a symbol of her loss of all . She felt utterly alone.

A sharp mechanical creak pulled her from her thoughts. Vince Gorman and his son each turned a crank, lowering the two matching pewter caskets into the graves. The throng stood silently, the only sounds the soft squeaking of the wenches, an occasional sob or sniff, and the patta-pat of rain on the umbrellas.

Sam lay her head against Charlie’s chest and he wrapped an arm around her. “Goodbye, Connie,” she said.

Charlie stroked her hair, but said nothing. He always seemed to know when words were unnecessary.

As the crowd broke up, she saw Reverend Billy, Carl, Blue Eyes, and Belinda Connerly, Billy’s “personal secretary,” talking with two dozen people, including Paul Blankenship and Marjorie Bleekman.

“Doesn’t this guy ever quit?” she asked Charlie.

“Don’t seem so,” he said.

They approached the group.

“Sheriff. Deputy,” Billy said. “We were just talking about you.”

Several reporters stood near by, making notes.

To hell with them, Sam thought. “And what’s the verdict?” Sam said, sarcasm coating every word.

“These fine people feel that Richard Earl Garrett should be entrusted to me.”

“They do, huh?” Sam surveyed the group. No one said anything or even nodded. They stared back blankly as if embarrassed to say anything. Or were they afraid? Afraid not to trust Billy? Fearful that if they didn’t, Satan would consume them all? Afraid that if they rejected Billy, he would leave and they would be left alone without hope for salvation? Fear makes people do strange things, she thought.

“And soon, others will agree with their wisdom in this matter,” Billy said with a thick layer of smugness.

Sam scanned the group, then looked Billy directly in the eye. “Or everyone might come to their senses and realize how full of it you are.”

Billy cast a fatherly smile in her direction. “Deputy Cody, just because you have

turned your back on the Lord, don’t expect these good people to follow.”

Sam clenched her jaw, trapping the words that fought for release. When she spoke, her voice was calm, controlled, as if Billy had said nothing. “Why don’t we break up this little revival meeting and everyone go home. Today is to mourn the loss of friends, not contemplate breaking the law.”

CHAPTER 35

Using tongs, Nathan lifted long strands of fettuccine noodles and piled them on four plates. He then ladled a generous portion of tomato-basil sauce on each. Sam poured four glasses of Merlot.

“I guess with all the crap you two have been through, you’re old enough for a little wine,” Sam said, topping off the fourth glass.

Penelope took a sip, then raised her glass. “This is the mildest drug I’ve done in years.”

Sam shook her head, then caught Nathan’s eye. “Glad we’re not contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

Nathan laughed.

“I think we ed delinquency years ago,” Penelope said.

It’s true, Sam thought. These two children--when did she start thinking of them as children and not drug ravaged Satanist groupies? This afternoon when Nathan brought the scared girls to her office? Just now, as they gathered around her table? She didn’t know, but somewhere along the line, her vision of them had changed. Regardless, these two children had lived a life she couldn’t even imagine. Living out of vans or on the dangerous streets of LA, depending on

handouts to eat, praying to sickos like Richard Earl Garrett.

“Mmm, this smells good,” Melissa said as she ferried the plates to the table where Sam and Penelope sat.

After the funerals, Sam had returned to her office and collected Nathan, Penelope, and Melissa. The girls gathered their belongings from their van and Penelope explained to the group that they would be staying at Sam’s at least for the night. Sam then drove them to her home. Nathan followed.

While Nathan cooked, the girls showered and washed their hair and Sam spruced up her extra bedroom for them.

Now, they dug into the pasta and the colorful salad Sam had thrown together.

“This is wonderful,” Melissa said, her tongue chasing a dab of runaway sauce at the corner of her mouth. “I haven’t had home cooking in two years.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Nathan said. He raised his wine glass. “A toast. To better tomorrows than yesterdays,” he said.

They clinked glasses and drank.

“I hope they’re better than last night,” Penelope said.

“They will be,” Sam said.

They ate, drank wine, and soon were sharing stories as if they were longtime friends. Nathan regaled them with tales of his travels and the magazine stories he had written. Some funny, some poignant, some downright weird. Sam was amazed how differently the girls looked and acted. A hot shower and a healthy dose of reality had cracked their rebellious veneer.

“Any devil worship or possession stories?” Penelope asked.

“Lots. But, most…don’t be mad at me…turned out to be hoaxes.”

“Like what?” Melissa said.

“I met a man in Ohio, maybe ten years ago, who said that Satan had taken possession of him and forced him to cough up stones from Hell. He coughed up a handful in front of me to prove his point. They were moth balls.”

“Gross,” Melissa said.

“I don’t know how he did it. Have you ever tasted moth balls?” Nathan asked.

“No,” the girls said in unison.

“Don’t. He hacked up about two dozen. Where he had them hidden, I have no idea. Neat trick, but not exactly Satan’s doing. I don’t think he uses moth balls does he?”

“No,” Penelope said. “Mostly hell fire and brimstone.”

They all laughed.

“Sadly, I saw an eight year old girl in North Carolina whose father said was possessed. He had tied her to her bed to control what he called ‘wild fits.’ He said red welts from Satan’s claws would pop out on her skin. That was his story, anyway. The father was schizophrenic and had been beating and sexually abusing the girl for years.”

They sat silently for several minutes, letting the story sink in. Then, Penelope said, “He was the one possessed.”

“Maybe,” Nathan agreed.

“Ever seen a true possession?” Sam asked.

“Only one.”

“Really,” Melissa said, her eyes wide. “Tell us.”

“In Oregon. Five years ago. An eleven-year-old boy was thought to be possessed because he would fall into trances and speak in nonsense gibberish. He also liked to start fires. His father and a local priest of some backwoods church called The Church of the One True Christ performed an exorcism. I was invited to attend.”

“You’re kidding,” Sam said.

“It was wild,” Nathan continued. “They strapped the boy to an unhinged wooden door, which lay across two saw horses in a barn. They chanted, danced around, and splattered some version of holy water everywhere. The boy hissed and growled and spoke in multiple voices, none of which were the voice of an eleven year old.”

“What kind of voices?” Sam asked.

“One was an old woman, one a gravely male voice, slurred and halting as if drunk. Another sounded like a child. Maybe three or four years old.”

“I’m getting goose-flesh,” Melissa said and scooted her chair next to Penelope’s. They hugged and giggled.

Sam felt a warm rush. This is the way life should be, she thought. People sitting around the dinner table, sharing stories, sharing themselves. Her heart ached for the two girls. And for herself. She missed her parents, her childhood. She looked

at Nathan and smiled.

“Anyway,” Nathan continued, “straw began whirling around in the barn. The two horses in the back began to act up, whinnying and kicking their stalls. A wooden rake flew over our heads and shattered against the wall.”

“No way!” The girls’ eyes widened to full moons.

“Come on, Nathan,” Sam said. “You’re making this up.”

“That’s exactly what happened. I can’t explain it, but that’s what I saw.”

“Then what happened?” Penelope asked.

“Red welts appeared over the boy’s face and chest. They appeared, faded, and reappeared several times.”

“What did they say?” Sam asked. “Help me?”

Nathan laughed. “No words. Just random marks like what a belt or whip might produce. They lasted less than a minute each time.”

“What finally happened?” Sam said.

“The boy quit hissing and growling and talking nonsense. They cut him loose and went in the house and had dinner.”

“Wow.” Melissa shook her head. “That’s the best story ever.”

“Have you girls seen anything like that?” Nathan asked.

“Not even close,” Penelope said.

“What about your dream?” Sam said. “That was pretty bizarre.” So was her own, she thought.

Penelope set down her glass. “It was beyond bizarre. I don’t know what it was, but I don’t ever want it again. It was like I was possessed or something.”

Sam caught Penelope’s gaze. “Do you believe in possession?”

“After last night I do.”

“Not before?” Sam couldn’t hide her surprise. “I thought Satanists believed in that sort of thing?”

Penelope hesitated for a second as if considering the question. “I suppose most do. Before, I’m not sure I bought the real possession thing, but I always believed everyone had demons that they struggled with. Some people lose that battle.”

“So, you believe everyone has a good side and an evil side?” Sam asked.

“Mostly evil from what I’ve seen,” Penelope said.

“I prefer to believe the opposite,” Sam said.

“I wish I could.” Penelope looked down and fiddled with her napkin.

“Did last night change how you feel about this?” Sam asked.

“Yes. I saw my own demons and it scared me to death.”

“But, I thought that’s what you wanted. To communicate with Satan,” Sam said.

“Communicating and possessing are two different things. Last night was not communication. I had no control. None. Do you understand? I would have done anything. I had no choice.”

“You couldn’t overcome it? Escape the dream?” Nathan asked as he refilled his

and Sam’s wine glasses. He held the bottle up, but both the girls shook their heads no.

“I tried. I knew that whatever had me was dark and powerful and that where I was going would turn into Hell. But, I couldn’t get away. Thanks to Melissa, I finally did. If she hadn’t been there, I might have…” Her voice trailed off.

“But, I was there, baby,” Melissa said. “I’ll always be there.”

“I know.” The girls embraced. Penelope sniffed back tears and looked at Sam. “Do you know who did kill that woman?”

“Not yet. But, we will.”

“God help whoever it was,” Penelope said.

“God?” Sam asked.

“Seems appropriate suddenly,” Penelope murmured.

“Why do you think the killer needs God’s help?” Nathan asked.

“Because whoever did this was second choice,” Penelope said. “I was first.”

Sam studied the girl. “Do you believe you were sent there to kill Betty McCumber?”

“Don’t you?” Penelope asked. “I had a knife. I was outside her house. Why else would I have been there?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said.

“What do you think caused your dream?” Nathan asked.

“Maybe too many drugs. Maybe I’m going crazy.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Sam said.

“No. It’s weird. I don’t know how or why, but I know Richard Garrett was behind it.”

Was Garrett responsible for her own dream? Sam thought. Or was it just a crazy nightmare? “Because you sensed his presence?” Sam asked.

Penelope studied her black fingernail polish for a moment, then looked up at Sam. “That, plus…I don’t know. Just a feeling.”

Sam looked at the two girls. Penelope with her long dark hair and warm smile and Melissa with her blonde model-like beauty. They should be going to school, making normal friends, not hanging out in the desert, waiting for some sociopath to show them the way to salvation.

“What are you girls going to do now?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know,” Penelope said. She looked at Melissa and smiled weakly. “Melissa knows I’ve had my doubts about this Satan thing lately. So has she.” Their eyes met, each offering a smile to the other. “Maybe we’ll go back to LA.”

“And see your parents?” Sam asked.

“Not likely,” Penelope said.

“Why?”

“They probably think I’m dead. Which is just as well.”

“Are you sure?” Sam couldn’t grasp this sort of family dynamic. She had seen it before, but didn’t understand how it developed. Neglectful parents. Rebellious kids. It was all so far removed from her own childhood.

“My parents were not what you would call enthusiastic about parenthood. I was a useless appendage.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam said.

Penelope shrugged. “Tonight. Sitting here with you and Nathan. Like a family. I’ve never done that. Not once.”

“Really?” Sam said.

“Just because she grew up in a Beverly Hills’ mansion with movie star parents, doesn’t mean she was happy,” Melissa said. “Her parents were awful to her.”

“I was raised by a nanny,” Penelope said. “I saw my parents rarely and almost never together. A family dinner was a dress-up affair at the latest hot spot where they preened for other people who were just as shallow as them. Most of the time, I ate with my nanny and the maids or the gardeners.”

Sam walked around the table and put her arms around the two girls. “You can stay here until you decide what you want to do.”

The girls hugged her.

After they all pitched in and cleaned the table and the dishes, the girls went to bed, excited about sleeping in a real bed for the first time in over a year.

Sam walked Nathan to his car. “Thanks,” she said.

“For what?”

“Everything. The dinner. The wine. Just being here.”

He pulled her to him. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

She looked in his eyes, parted her lips, and accepted his kiss, holding him tightly.

Breaking the kiss, Nathan brushed his fingers down the side of her face. “I enjoyed tonight. Sharing it with you. And Penelope and Melissa. It was special in many ways.”

“I know.” She brushed her lips against his. “And, I appreciate your being patient with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure you’re used to having any woman you want at the snap of a finger.”

“I wish.”

“You know it’s true. And you know that even though I give you shit all the time, I’m terribly attracted to you.”

He smiled. “I thought I was a parasitic bottom feeder.”

“You are. But, I’ve wanted you ever since I knocked you on your butt.”

“I knew it,” he laughed. “You were trying to soften me up.”

She took his face in her hands and kissed him, their tongues intertwining, their bodies sharing their rising heat.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

“God, yes. But, not yet. Besides, I have guests,” she smiled. “But, soon.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely. But, you better carbo load beforehand. You’re going to need it.”

Sam stripped down to her panties and pulled on an oversized tee shirt that hung to mid-thigh level. She rummaged through her closet, moving aside shoeboxes and photo albums, until she found what she sought. Her grandmother’s Bible. She lifted the heavy leather-bound book, swiped dust from it with her hand, and climbed into bed.

As she snuggled beneath the covers, Scooter, who had already staked his claim to half the pillow, gave her his “will you hurry up and get settled” look. She ran her fingers over the delicate carvings in the cover of the book that had been in her family for eighty years. The leather was creased and cracked and the golden “Holy Bible” on the front had flecked and faded.

How long had it been since she had last held this book? Fifteen years? Longer? She opened the cover and looked at the family tree on the first page. It held the names of four generations of her family, each printed in her grandmother’s exacting hand. Her name appeared last. Beneath it, a blank line awaited the names of her children. Someday.

She leafed through the delicate pages until she stumbled on the page she had stained purple with grape jelly at age five. She ed her grandmother scolding her for not washing her hands before touching it.

“The Lord doesn’t like jelly on His words, Samantha.” She could hear her voice as if it were yesterday. She smiled.

She ed learning the names of the books of the Bible in Sunday School. Such strange, yet beautiful names--Exodus, Deuteronomy, Ecclesiastes, and Thessalonians. The stories of Noah, Daniel, and David and Goliath she

ed well. Yet, when she turned to Revelation, she realized she knew little about it. It was never taught in Sunday School and rarely mentioned in church. As if it were a bastard stepchild. Stuck to the end of God’s work, it seemed as though it had been inspired by someone other than God. Someone sinister and threatening.

She knew it told horrible tales of man’s end and held frightening prophecies for the future. She knew Charlie Manson had quoted from it. She knew Reverend Billy had talked of it.

She turned through the pages of Revelation until a age caught her eye:

And I saw an angel come down from heaven,

having the key of the bottomless pit and a

great chain in his hand.

And he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent,

which is the Devil, and Satan, and bound him

for a thousand years.

That’s what we need about now, she thought. An angel to come down and capture Garrett and his beloved Satan and haul their asses away to some pit. She laid the Bible on her night table, turned out the light, and drifted to sleep.

CHAPTER 36

Richard Earl Garrett lay on his bunk, seething. His perfectly laid plans, his exquisite timing, trashed by Judge Westbrooke’s arrogance. And Reverend Billy’s conniving. And of course, the incompetence of Mark Levy, that worm of an attorney they had dumped on him.

Levy delivered the news. Just like room service. He walked right into the jail, peered through the bars, and told him his sentencing had been moved up to the day after tomorrow. Relief etched Levy’s face as he added that Garrett’s transfer would immediately follow. Whether he was going to death row or not would depend upon Westbrooke’s decision. Either way he was to be packed off to San Quentin by a waiting armed contingent.

He had counted on another week to complete his work, but now he had less than forty-eight hours. For some that would be good luck; for others, not so good. He would merely reprioritize. No more time for honing his skills, for terrorizing this pathetic little town, he must now concentrate on the important task of completing his union with Lucifer. Too bad. Things had been going so well.

But, was he prepared? Were his newfound powers strong enough? Could he draw Samantha to him? Make her come willingly? He couldn’t shake the sensation that the time was not yet ripe. But, what choice did he have? It must be now or all his work would be for nothing.

He closed his eyes and called on each muscle to relax. His legs, chest, arms, neck unwound, releasing their tension. He felt weightless and warm. His breathing slowed as he entered that special realm available only to him. A place he had worked long and hard to attain. He eased from his being and rose high

into the cool night air.

As he circled the perimeter of Mercer’s Corner, he marveled at the beauty beneath him. A landscape of soft blues, grays, and pastel greens stretched to each horizon. Everywhere, patches of brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows interrupted the muted palate. The thrill this carnival of colors brought to him was often overwhelming, exciting him to the point that at times he felt it would surely consume him. For it was these colors that released his powers and gave him mastery over all he saw. Not complete mastery. Not yet.

It hadn’t always been that way. His initial excursions into this world, soaring high above the landscape, had frightened him. It required total concentration for him to stay aloft and not plunge from the heights and find himself once again in the shabby garage apartment he had called home ever since coming here.

Hundreds of trials followed by hundreds of failures shredded his confidence. Yet, somewhere deep inside he knew he must persevere. His destiny demanded it, compelling him to try again and again.

His hard work and focus were rewarded. When was it? Six months ago? Eight months? Definitely, after his search for Satan drew him to this forgotten town on the fringe of the Mojave, to Devil’s Playground. He couldn’t recall the exact moment, but he possessed vivid memories of that night when he slipped the bonds of fear and soared endlessly, without failure, as if he had held the secret all along. It reminded him of learning to ride a bike at age five. That magic moment when everything jelled and balancing, turning, and braking were suddenly innate.

For months, he reveled in this newfound ability, soaring high above a world blanketed by monochromatic grays. But, he knew something wonderful and

powerful existed beneath the dull blanket that covered and obscured the landscape. At times, he glimpsed faint reds and blues and greens that seeped upward through the drab fabric, revealing themselves briefly. He could taste the richness and strength of the colors, but like cotton candy, the sensations quickly evaporated as the colors sank from sight, leaving behind only frustration and anger.

He beseeched Satan, his prince and mentor, pleading for the ability to drink in the full flavor of the colors. For months, he received no answers, no instructions. Finally, Satan responded. He came to him in a dream as a fiery pentagram, telling him he must unlock the doors to Hades and drink from the River Styx. Only then could he become one with the Prince of Darkness.

“What must I do? Where will I find the key?” he asked.

“That is the trick, isn’t it?” Satan replied as the pentagram faded to blackness.

He frantically searched for the answer, reading books on Satanism and black magic, but found only frustration and confusion. He prayed to Satan, but received only silence.

Then, one night he awoke, sweating, writhing, gasping for breath, feeling as though the fires of the Hell he sought were coursing through his veins. Just when he felt he could endure no more, like a chilling breeze or a drink of cool spring water, the answer sprang into his mind: To drink from the River Styx and become one with Lucifer, he must drink the blood of the innocent.

He knew what must be done: three innocents, sacrificed in an exacting ritual,

beneath a full moon.

That night, after the sacrifice of the three children, he soared high into the sky, basking in the creamy glow of the full moon. He rose so high that Mercer’s Corner appeared as a pinpoint of light. As he descended, the gray coverlet slid away, revealing a world of dazzling color.

He intuitively understood the power of the various hues. To his eyes, humans possessed distinctive auras, typically shades of yellow, orange, or red. Those with yellow or orange halos were easily manipulated, yellow being more compliant than orange. These people he quickly learned to manipulate, control. The trucker with his orange aura and Juan Rodriguez with his yellow halo, proved to be easy, requiring little effort. But, those with red auras, like Samantha, proved to be more difficult, as they possessed some resistance. Not complete immunity, but enough to prevent total control. He could invade their dreams, exploit certain thoughts and emotions, but could not direct their actions. Not yet, anyway.

But, he now knew what he needed, what sacrifice Lucifer required, what would clear the way for him to enter Lucifer’s domain and the battle against God and His army of fools. It became crystal clear two nights ago, during his first dream world union with Sam. It was then that he realized she was the one. The one that would complete his transformation, his bond with Lucifer.

He needed more time to complete his mastery over all the colors, to crack Samantha’s red aura, to entwine himself so deeply into her soul, as he had with the children, that all her resistance would dissolve and she would give herself to him. But, time was running out and a sense of urgency invaded him. If he failed to complete his tasks, Lucifer would turn him away, leave him behind, and he would be consumed in the coming apocalypse. Exiled into nothingness for all eternity.

He had hoped for more time. Had expected more time. But now, he must find another way.

As he soared through the cool night air, a plan began to take shape. It was not without risk. Sam might be killed before she came to him, and if she were, he would be lost forever. Yet, he had to take the gamble. The ticking clock on the wall opposite his cell continued its forward march and he could neither slow nor stop its advance.

He circled south of town until he located what he sought. He descended and hovered a hundred feet above Sam’s house. It was quiet and dark, but he clearly sensed Sam’s red aura as she slept. His Sam. His key to the kingdom. At the far corner of the house, he felt the entwined orange auras of Penelope and Melissa.

Perfect, he thought.

Ascending once again and turning to the north, he ed over the empty streets of Mercer’s Corner, a two-mile stretch of open desert, and settled above Reverend Billy’s collection of buses and vans. He clearly saw Billy’s fat yellow body and, in the next bus, the block of orange that was Carl Angelo.

He dropped lower.

CHAPTER 37

He had killed before. Maybe a dozen times. Mostly with a gun, at a distance. Impersonal, without ion. Once he had tossed two victims into the swamp, where alligators ravaged them. Their screaming and thrashing of the water had been exhilarating, but nothing like last night. The woman far sured any of those earlier sensations. To feel her lifeblood flow over his hands, to hold her heart aloft in triumph, opened the door to feelings, primitive feelings, he never knew he possessed.

It was for that reason, he did not fight when the presence invaded him once again. Last night, when it first took hold and his world exploded into wild colors, it frightened and confused him. But after ripping the heart from Betty McCumber, he could no longer resist the seductive intruder. Nor did he want to.

Tonight, when the entity returned, he welcomed it.

He crept into the luxurious bedroom at the rear of the bus and stood over the sleeping pair--Reverend Billy’s fleshy body and the girl, her lithe form plastered against him. To his eye, the dark interior appeared like a fractured rainbow, whose neat, linear arrangement of the seven spectral hues had shattered into thousands of colors. Colors that were beautiful and lurid and frightening at the same time. Colors that he knew and others he had never seen.

The bright yellow walls cast a jaundiced pall over the faces of the sleeping pair. Their eyes, though closed, shone like brilliant rubies and their breath escaped in delicate green curls. Her blonde hair, now bright blue, flowed over her shoulder and partially covered one small breast. How innocent she looked. Like the others before her. At sixteen, she was older than most of her predecessors, but like the

others, she had been a present to Billy from her mother as if this gift would purchase the mother a place in heaven. Billy did nothing to discourage this belief.

The colors intensified, the walls now a pulsating orange, the ceiling a swirl of red and silver. He raised the knife he held and plunged it into the girl’s chest. She recoiled, sucking air into her lungs with a loud wheeze. Her eyes snapped open, pupils expanding like a drop of oil on a clear blue lake. Again, he drove the knife into her. She arched, expelling red frothy liquid from her mouth, and relaxed as death took her.

Billy sat up in bed and reached for the lamp that sat on the bedside table. The killer, with feline agility, circled the bed and slammed the butt of the knife across the extended forearm.

Billy recoiled and cried out, then looked up at the intruder, squinting, obviously unable to see clearly in the dark room. “Who are you?” His eyes cut to his left, where the girl lay. He reached out and touched her, but jerked back, his hand covered with blood. “What’s going on? What have you done?”

The killer grabbed Billy by the throat and slammed his head against the headboard. He stared into Billy’s eyes and curled his lip in a sneer.

Recognition erupted on Billy’s face. “Carl?” he stammered.

“I am not Carl.”

“But…”

“I am all that you fear. All that you disdain. All that you dismiss.”

“I don’t understand,” he sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I must. Because I can.”

Billy shook his head. “Please,” he moaned. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why should I spare you? Would you spare me?”

“Of course.”

“I think not. But, you have neither the power to condemn me nor spare me. You thought you did. In you arrogance, you thought you were in control of my fate. But, as you can see, I control my own fate. And yours.”

“Please. I don’t know what this is about. Carl, please…”

“I told you. I’m not Carl.”

“Who are you?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No. Please…leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because, like the others, it is your time.”

“My time? What are you talking about? What others?”

“All of them.”

Horror etched Billy’s face. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know? Can’t you feel it?”

“No. Please.” His breath came in great labored gasps. “Tell me who you are.”

“I have many names. Garrett, Beelzebub are the ones you know.”

“Oh, God.”

“God had nothing to do with this. This is your own doing. And God can’t save you. But, you never truly believed he could, did you?”

Billy sputtered and sobbed, unable to speak. His fleshy body quivered with fear.

Carl leaned forward, his face only inches from Billy’s. “Had you taken your money and left this town, you would never have seen me again. But, you needed more. Needed to extract your vengeance. In the name of God, you stoked the fires of hatred and contempt. Against me. Against my blessed work. You have interfered with my plans and put my destiny in jeopardy. You have forced me to act before I am truly prepared. Now, you must reap that which you have sown.”

Carl raised the knife. Billy crossed his arms above him for protection, but in the darkness could not determine the blade’s path and thus had no chance to alter its course. The knife lashed across his throat, severing everything in its path. Billy clutched at the wound, blood pulsing between his fingers, over his chest.

“A gift from Lucifer,” Carl said.

Billy’s eyes widened further, then fluttered. His head collapsed forward on his chest and he exhaled his last breath. Carl watched as Billy’s life ebbed from him

and pooled in a black cherry lake on the bed.

He quickly finished his work and when he held the still trembling heart in his hands, he marveled at the power that flowed through him. Deep inside, where his true being lived, pushed there by the alien force that controlled him, he relished the feeling.

He was given little time to savor the sensation, however. The compelling drive within him pulled at him, drawing him from the bus, into the cool night air, toward Billy’s limousine.

After climbing in his car, he cranked the engine, and, with blood stained hands, gripped the steering wheel. Carl Angelo drove through downtown Mercer’s Corner and headed south.

CHAPTER 38

Asound yanked Sam from sleep. What sound? A click? A scrape? Did she lock the door?

She replayed last night in her mind. After Nathan drove away, she stood for several minutes gazing into the sky. The day’s rain and clouds had cleared, leaving behind a crystalline night sky, and her friend Orion had loomed large above her like a protective Centurion. The full moon painted the desert with its creamy glow. She had walked through the kitchen door and into the house. She saw her hand twist the lock and slide the dead bolt into place. Yes, she had locked the door.

She remained frozen, senses on edge, attempting to probe the darkness, searching for sounds, any sounds that seemed out of place. She expected to hear the creaking of floorboards or the scraping of feet or the metallic click of a cocking gun. She heard only the thumping of her own heart against her chest and the whooshing of blood through her ears, which sounded like the raspy breathing of a dying coal miner.

Had she been dreaming? Was the sound that woke her part of the dream? She lay on her side, facing her bedside clock. Its digital display read 12:32, then 12:33. Scooter slept near her head, undisturbed. It must have been a dream or he would have awakened, she told herself.

Then, she sensed movement. Scooter cracked an eye, then raised his head, peering into the darkness. Fear coagulated in her throat.

Again, she felt movement. It came from the far corner of the room where the darkness clotted like stagnant blood. The movement was so slight it was as if the air molecules had been shoved in her direction and collided with her skin, sending electric shivers through her, standing the fine hair on her arms at attention. Cold sweat seeped from every pore.

Scooter sat up on his haunches and stared into the shadows.

No doubt. Someone was in her bedroom.

Her gun lay in the drawer two feet from her head. If she could get to it, she might have a chance. She eased one foot over the edge of the bed, hooking the mattress with her ankle for leverage.

Again, she sensed movement, this time closer, near the foot of the bed.

She tensed, preparing herself for action. In a flash, she whipped back the comforter and spun off the bed, dropping to the floor. She yanked open the drawer and clutched the .357. Whirling around on one knee, she raised the weapon.

Before she could level the nickel plated Smith and Wesson, a foot slammed into her wrist and the gun flew across the bed and banged against the wall. She ducked as the shadow of a fist flashed by her ear, barely nipping the side of her face. She lunged upward and landed a solid left hook to the mid-section of the attacker. He grunted, but did not move, his belly as solid as the heavy bag at the gym and just as unforgiving.

A massive fist crashed against her face, propelling her backwards. She collided with the bedside table, knocking the clock and lamp to the floor. A wave of dizziness spread over her. She shook her head, attempting to clear the fog.

Again, the attacker lurched forward, two hands reaching for her. She deflected them with a sweep of her left arm and slammed her right fist into the attacker’s jaw. This time, he staggered backwards.

The overhead light snapped on, dissolving the darkness, chasing the shadows into the corners of the room. Penelope and Melissa charged through the doorway.

“What’s going…” Penelope began, but stopped when she saw Sam and Carl Angelo.

Sam jumped to her feet. “Carl? What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed at him.

“I came for you,” he said.

He lunged at her, his massive right hand reaching for her neck, but she side stepped him and once again hammered her forearm across his wrist. She followed with a left, right, left combination, all of which landed against his thick jaw. He staggered, but did not go down. Pain flashed through both her hands. What was he made of? Cast iron?

“Get out of here!” Sam yelled at the girls. “Go call for help!”

Carl crashed his huge paw into Sam’s right temple and she went down hard. Multicolored balls of light flashed before her and she felt herself slipping toward unconsciousness. Hold on she pleaded with herself. Somewhere in her brain Jimmy’s voice arose. “Get up. Crush the fear. Ignore the pain. Don’t panic,” the voice said.

Carl leaped at the girls. He grabbed Melissa by the hair and slammed her forehead into the wall. She crumpled to the floor, unconscious. He drove his left fist into Penelope’s jaw. She went down in a heap.

Sam pulled herself up and shook her head clear. She raced across the bed and sprang on him like a lioness protecting her cubs, landing on his back. Locking her left forearm beneath his chin, she raked his face with the nails of her free hand. She knew she must do as much damage as quickly as possible. Overwhelm him with her rage or succumb to his superior size and strength.

She pressed her right forearm against the back of his head, mustering all her strength, attempting to flex his neck forward. She could not bend it even slightly. Applying a chokehold to this slab of meat was impossible.

He spun and slammed her against the wall, his weight crushing her. No longer the attacker, she locked her left arm beneath his chin and hung on like a rodeo bull rider. She repeatedly pounded the side of his face with her right fist. He seemed impervious to her attack and thrust her into the wall again and again. She tightened her grip.

His hand clamped on her wrist, steely fingers digging into her flesh. He pulled and torqued her arm, but she resisted. At least, she tried to, but she was no match for his strength. He peeled her arm away and she plummeted to the floor.

He dropped on top of her and locked his fingers around her throat. She attempted to pry them lose, but they held like welded steel bands.

She rained blows to his face, but he ignored them. His lip, his eyebrow, his cheek split and blood cascaded down his face onto hers, in her eyes, nose, mouth. Its coppery taste caused her stomach to churn and a wave of nausea rippled through her, acid burning her throat. She fought it back and renewed her attack. His grip on her throat tightened.

The overhead light dimmed; her vision tunneled. She continued to pummel his face, but her blows weakened. Her lungs screamed for air. Her heart leaped against her chest.

“It’s useless to struggle,” he sneered.

She clutched at his throat, but could not get her hands around his tree trunk neck.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Carl said. “I need you.”

She tore at his fingers, but could not break his grip.

Blood poured from his mouth as he spoke. “We have someplace to be. Someplace special.”

The roar was deafening. Carl lurched forward. Then, another roar, and another. Blood exploded from his chest and he fell forward on top of her, limp, heavy. She scrambled from beneath him, rolling him to his back in the process.

She looked up. Penelope held the gun in both hands, arms extended, shaking. Tears streamed down her face. She dropped the gun.

“Oh, my God,” she stammered. “I shot him.”

“It’s OK,” Sam said. She turned to Carl. His mouth gaped open as he struggled for air; bloody foam gurgled from the three holes in his chest with each breath. “Who sent you? Reverend Billy?”

“Wrong end of the spectrum, Samantha,” he wheezed, blood now bubbling from his mouth.

“What did you call me?”

“Samantha.” A bloody smile cracked his macerated face. “Your mother chose such a beautiful name.”

“And she’s the only one that ever called me Samantha.”

“Her. And me.”

“You? I don’t even know you.”

“Of course you do, Samantha.” He coughed, a foamy red river escaping from the corner of his mouth. “We were together last night. And the night before.”

“What are you talking…?” It hit her like a left hook. The face, the square body, the thick neck were Carl’s; the voice was Garrett’s. She scooted away, colliding with the bedpost, wanting to put more distance between her and the dying man. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Come to me, Samantha. I’ll be waiting.” He released a long sigh as his last breath escaped.

CHAPTER 39

Sam ignored the stop sign and slammed her foot on the accelerator, propelling the Jeep through a skidding left turn and on to Route 66 toward town. The full moon seemed to race along the highway with her and painted the road before her a silvery gray. She had the eerie sensation that even the moon was Garrett’s ally and was at this very moment keeping him informed of her location.

But then, Garrett already knew she was coming. He had invited her.

A wispy band of clouds glided across the moon’s ghostly face, creating a silver edged blindfold. Good, she thought. One less witness to what she had to do.

Before she left home, she had calmed Penelope and Melissa enough so that they were merely crying and not sobbing hysterically. She gave Penelope her spare gun and told them to lock the door and open it for no one. She called Charlie and told him to meet her at the jail.

Carl Angelo’s words echoed in her head.

I need you.

Come to me.

Words that she knew were not Carl’s, but Garrett’s. Or Satan’s? Were they one and the same? Did Garrett have Satan’s powers?

She slid the Jeep through a left turn on to Main Street, roared past Millie’s, and screeched to a stop in front of her office, just as Charlie’s Jeep turned the corner. Charlie parked in front of her and stepped out, tucking in his shirttail.

“What’s going on?” he asked, unlocking the department’s front door.

She grabbed his arm. “Let’s talk out here. I don’t want Garrett overhearing any of this.”

He pulled the door closed.

She quickly told him of Carl Angelo’s attack and Penelope’s heroic actions. She repeated what Carl had said to her.

“It wasn’t Carl talking,” she said. “It was Garrett.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“It was Garrett. I know it. He was speaking through Carl Angelo.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Of course it’s crazy. That’s why it makes sense.”

“It does?” Charlie looked at her as if she were from another planet.

“Why not? With all the murder and madness we’ve had around here, it’s like Mercer’s Corner has become Hell’s own Petri dish. We’re sprouting psychos like fleas on a dog.”

“So, how’s Garrett involved in this? He’s been in jail the entire time.”

“I told you about the kid’s dreams. You saw their drawings. Then, there are the dreams Walter and Penelope had.”

“So?”

“What I didn’t tell you about was my dreams.”

Charlie cocked his head and with a finger beneath the brim tilted his hat back. “Your dreams?”

“The past two nights, I’ve had weird dreams. Dreams like the others. Each time

Garrett was there.”

“Where?”

“In my dreams. I figured they were from stress, over-work, lack of sleep, that kind of thing. But, now I know it was Garrett all along.”

“I don’t understand. How did Garrett control your dreams?”

“Maybe he has supernatural powers. Maybe he’s Satan or Beelzebub or some other creature from Hell. Whatever’s going on, it starts and ends with Garrett.”

“Hmmm,” Charlie said.

She could tell he wasn’t convinced. Of course, she wasn’t sure she was convinced either. Saying it out loud made it seem a lot crazier than when it simply rattled around in her head.

“How did Penelope know where the knife was?” Sam asked.

“Maybe she’s the one that stole it in the first place.”

“No way. How did Walter Limpke become a killer?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Let’s play ‘What If.’ What if Garrett does possess special powers? What if he can manipulate other people’s actions? Make Walter and Carl Angelo killers. What if he can invade people’s dreams?”

“That’s a lot of what ifs. But, let’s say he can. Why doesn’t he simply make someone, one of us, open his cell and let him disappear?”

“Because he wants revenge. And because he needs something.”

“What?”

“Me.”

Charlie sighed, lifted his hat and pushed back his thick hair, before reseating the Stetson. “What do you propose?”

“I want to lean on Garrett. Pressure him. See if he’ll crack.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then, we might get lucky. He may try to escape.”

Sam pushed open the front door and flipped on the lights. She snatched the cell keys from Thelma’s desk and unlocked the door to the jail area. She toggled the wall switch and the overhead Fluorescent lights flickered to life.

“Wake up, Garrett.” She raked the keys across the bars.

Garrett sat on the edge of his bunk, cardigan sweater over his orange jumpsuit, shoes on, as if he had expected them. He shielded his eyes from the lights with one hand and smiled. “So good of you to come, Samantha. But then, I knew you would.”

“Cut the crap, Garrett.”

“But, I guess you really didn’t have a choice, did you?” he said.

Sam unlocked his cell and tossed the keys to Charlie. Charlie caught them and leaned against the wall opposite the cell.

“OK, Garrett. It’s time for you to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“But, you know, Samantha.”

“I told you, asshole. Don’t call me that. Now, I want some answers. Why did Walter Limpke kill three people?”

“You tell me. You’re the cop.”

“Wrong answer.” She grabbed a handful of his jumpsuit and lifted him from the bunk. She pushed him against the wall, pinning him, the palm of her hand pressed against his chest. “Let’s try again. Who made Walter Limpke kill three people?”

“Satan, of course.”

“Not you?”

“He’s the master. I’m a servant. As was Carl Angelo.”

“So, you know what just happened at my house.”

“Of course I do.” He smiled. “I was there. Too bad about Carl. He was very helpful.”

“Helpful? That’s not exactly the word I’d use for what Carl tried.”

“He got you here, didn’t he?”

“Why?”

“I told you, Samantha. You are the one. I need you.”

“For what?”

“All in good time.”

“Your time is about up.” She tightened her grip on his shirt.

“Reverend Billy thought the same thing. He learned otherwise.”

“What about Billy?”

“Tomorrows news. But then, you won’t be around to see it.”

“You’re in this up to your fucking ears. I want to know how. Or do we do the dance, right here, right now?”

“Which dance? The devil’s dance?”

“The one that ends with you telling me what I want to know.” She slammed her fist into his gut. His knees buckled, but she held him against the wall.

He coughed and gagged. “I don’t think I’ll tell you.”

She wadded his hair in her fist and through a tight jaw said, “Yes… you…will.” With each word, she slammed the back of his head into the concrete wall. “We used to have a sign on the wall around here until the ACLU morons made us take it down. It said: ‘You came in here with information and a pretty face. You can’t leave with both.’ So, what’s it going to be? You going to talk? Or am I going to beat your teeth into your lungs?”

He looked at her, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. His eyes flashed like two angry rubies and he spoke in a low growl. “Things are never as they seem are they, Samantha?”

The blow to her head yanked consciousness from her grasp.

Charlie Walker stood over Sam’s prostrate body, the gun he had struck her with in his hand. Garrett extended his hand toward him, but said nothing. Yet, Charlie heard, or sensed, what he wanted. He looked at the gun, turning it over. It glowed a brilliant green as did the bars of the otherwise rich coral cell. He handed the weapon to Garrett.

He watched Garrett stoop beside Sam, roll her over on her stomach, and pull her gun from its holster. He removed her handcuffs from her belt and slapped them on her wrists.

Sam’s head lolled to one side and Charlie saw that blood soaked her strawberry blonde hair. His instinct was to help her, protect her. He wanted to clean the blood from her hair and wrap her in his arms to shield her from the violence he sensed around them, but he couldn’t. Why? He didn’t know. He only knew he must follow the impulses that ricocheted in his brain.

He grabbed Sam’s ankles, while Garrett lifted her shoulders. They carried her to Charlie’s Jeep. Charlie opened the rear hatch and they rolled her inside. Garrett used a two-foot length of rope to bind her ankles, then covered her with the tarp that lay rolled in one corner of the cargo area.

They returned to Garrett’s cell and Charlie stepped inside. He turned his back to Garrett and awaited the blow he knew was coming.

After rendering Sheriff Walker unconscious, Garrett took his gun and locked the cell door. He then tossed Charlie’s and Sam’s guns into the cell that occupied the far corner of the lock-up area. They clanked and skidded to the far wall. He locked the cell door and tossed the keys through the bars.

Returning to Charlie’s Jeep, he checked Sam’s restraints. Satisfied, he hopped in, cranked the engine, and headed north, out of town, toward Devil’s Playground.

Nathan couldn’t sleep. Red wine did that to him from time to time. Or was it Sam? After leaving her, he had returned to his motel room and stretched out on the bed. He could still feel her soft lips on his, and her firm body in his arms. Deciding sleep was impossible, he rolled out of bed. Either work or a cold shower. He opted for work.

He called his voice mail and retrieved two dozen messages, none of which were important. He made notes to return four of the calls the next morning, then settled in front of his laptop computer to rewrite the three stories he had underway. He shuffled through his notes: interviews, other news stories, and snippets of his own rambling thoughts. How to put this all together into a coherent story? What hook to use? Plain vanilla Satanic stuff wasn’t big news anymore. He needed a angle. Something that would tug at the sleeve of shoppers at the check out counter, make them pause, peruse, purchase this week’s edition of “Straight Story.”

Sometimes he hated this job.

For an hour and a half, he absorbed himself in the work, until his brain would no longer concentrate. He picked up the Roberto Clemente autographed baseball he carried in his briefcase everywhere he went. He found the smooth leather, the perfect seams, and solidity of the ball relaxing. Simple. Pure. His own personal worry stone. He had been a pitcher on his high school baseball team and now wrapped his fingers around the ball in various patterns. Fast ball, curve, slider, knuckle ball--his favorite. With a knuckler, the batter never knew which way the ball would move. Up, down, right, left, the batter always off balance.

That’s how he felt. Off balance. Was it Sam? This story? Probably both. Why had this woman from Nowhere, USA affected him so? Because she was different from the plastic, fantastic bullshit of LA. Because she was the real deal. And,

why was this story eating at him? Because unlike the usual drivel he worked on, something very real, very wrong was happening right here, right now. What, he didn’t know, but his always-reliable gut said something was amiss.

His stomach growled and rumbled, reminding him that he had eaten little at Sam’s. He glanced at his watch, 1:30. He shuffled through his suitcase, uncovering two empty granola bar wrappers. A search of the chest of drawers yielded nothing. Time to scavenge, he thought.

He snagged his jacket and headed to his car. The apple pie he had shared with Sam the previous night at King’s Truck Stop sounded good. Besides, it was the only option at this hour. He drove north through town toward the freeway over where King’s was located. Main Street was quite, no traffic, shops dark. Not even a vagrant dog wondered the street.

As he ed the Sheriff’s Department, he saw Sam’s Jeep at the curb. Lights blazed from inside. What was she doing there at this hour? He pulled to the curb and jumped out. Maybe she would him for pie again, he thought.

The door was ajar and he stepped inside. “Sam?” he shouted.

No response.

“Sam? Are you here?”

Nothing.

He noticed the evidence room door, its frame splintered as if it had been forced open. Apprehension stretched his gut like a bowstring. He looked into the room. The contents of several boxes had been strewn across the floor.

“Sam?”

No answer. Something was wrong. His fear swelled, panic approaching rapidly.

He looked in Sam’s office, then Sheriff Walker’s. Nothing. He pushed open the door to the jail area, surprised it was unlocked. The stark brightness of the overhead Fluorescent lights assaulted his eyes.

“Sam? Sheriff Walker?”

He heard a groan to his right, then saw Charlie Walker face down on the floor. Charlie rolled over and sat up, his eyes glassy. He rubbed the back of his head and neck.

“Sheriff Walker. Are you OK? What happened?” He yanked on the cell door, but it would not budge.

Charlie staggered to his feet and blinked at Nathan. “Mister Klimek. What are you doing here?”

“A better question is why are you in your own jail?”

Charlie looked around as if he had just realized where he was. “Garrett,” he said.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“I don’t know. She was here, then…” His eyes widened. “My God. Garrett took her. Open the door.”

“Where are the keys?”

Charlie searched around, beneath the bunk, then looked toward the other cell. “There,” he pointed.

Nathan crossed to the other cell and pulled on the door. Locked. The large metal key ring lay near the back wall, out of reach. “Do you have another set?”

“Thelma’s desk. Lower left-hand drawer.”

Nathan retrieved the keys and unlocked the cell.

Charlie then unlocked the other cell and grabbed his gun. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I’ve got a good idea where he’s taken her.”

They walked out the front door.

“The bastard took my Jeep,” Charlie said.

They climbed into Nathan’s SL500. “Where to?”

“That way,” Charlie said, pointing north.

CHAPTER 40

The darkness smothered her. The dank petroleum smell of the tarp that lay over her smothered her. Fear smothered her. That fear that lives deep inside everyone, visceral, paralyzing, lurking in the dim corners of the psyche where we refuse to look. A place where panic and terror and horror reside. Feelings that live only in dreams. Feelings that are never released from their shackles in the light of day.

Yet, she was awake and those emotions crawled all over her. Fear sizzled up her spine to the base of her brain, then outward to her fingertips, deadening them.

She felt the cuffs that dug into her wrists and the ropes that bound her ankles. What happened? Why was she here? Then, she ed. Garrett. The blow to her head. Someone had struck her. Who? Charlie had been there. Had Charlie hit her? No way. Then, who? Garrett had been in front of her. In her grasp. No one else had been there.

Was Charlie Garrett’s ally? She refused to accept that possibility. Had Garrett taken over Charlie like he had Walter and Carl Angelo? That was crazy. No one had taken over anyone. Walter was sick and Carl criminally insane.

Yet, earlier she had convinced herself that that is exactly what had happened. That Garrett was in control. That all the bizarre things that had happened in the past week sprang from Garrett. That’s why she had come to the jail. To lean on him. To beat the truth out of him.

And now, he had her. And maybe Charlie. Or had he killed Charlie?

Death seemed to envelope her, taking her in its arms like an unwanted lover. She had never really thought about her own death, never let the idea creep into those dark corners of her psyche. Not even after the unexpected death of her father or the smoldering death of her mother.

During her two-year stint with LAPD, she had faced death twice, had looked it square in the face. Once in a multidirectional shoot-out in South Central and once in a darkened liquor store, where muzzle flashes seemed to come from everywhere. In each case, panic and adrenaline delayed the fear of death. That came later. Hours later, at home, in her shower, she had broken down into a shivering, sniveling mass of hysteria.

But now, bound and helpless, the possibility of her death was very real. An idea that was difficult to grasp, but impossible to avoid.

She sensed the presence of those murdered all around her, like shadows within shadows, beneath the penumbra of Garrett’s black soul. The ghosts of the children, Roger and Miriam Hargrove, Roberto, Betty McCumber were all with her. And now, she might them.

She must do something.

Her first impulse was to kick and scream and tear the cuffs from her wrists. But, that wouldn’t work. Rather it would betray the fact that she was now awake. She would lose the advantage of surprise, which seemed to be her only ally at the moment.

She took a slow, deep calming breath. Think, devise a plan, she told herself. Prayer wouldn’t hurt.

She took inventory of her surroundings. She was in the back of a vehicle. From the smell of the tarp, the stench of old fishing gear, and the faint odor of cigar residue, she figured it was Charlie’s Jeep. From the whine of the tires and the rumble of the engine, she sensed the vehicle was moving rapidly. To where? Who was driving? Garrett? Charlie? Was Charlie here? Alive?

The Jeep was definitely on a paved road, but not I-40. The road sounds she could hear were not freeway noises. At this rate, traveling in a fairly straight line, that left two choices. Route 66 or Main Street north of town.

The Jeep slowed, swung to the left, and began bouncing and pitching. She realized the driver had turned off the paved road onto a rutted dirt road. Where? Why? She liked none of the answers that came to mind. Only one place made sense, given the circumstances. Garrett was returning to Devil’s Playground, where he had carved up the children, where he probably planned the same fate for her.

She must free her hands if she wanted to survive. Now, with her movements masked by the gyrating Jeep, may be her only chance. Her handcuff key lay in the bottom of her shirt pocket. She must get to it.

She hunched her shoulders forward, downward and slid her cuffed hands beneath her buttocks. Being careful to move the tarp as little as possible, she drew her knees to her chest and her heels tightly against her. Her shoulders ached, the cuffs tore at her wrists, but she just managed to clear her feet and bring her hands to her waist.

Something fell against her body, her face. Something cold and hard. She slowly moved her bound hands forward and upward until her fingers closed around the object. A fishing rod. Definitely Charlie’s Jeep.

The road smoothed out; the bouncing and bumping lessened.

She eased her hands upward, careful not to dislodge the rod from its position. The cuff chain released a muffled rattle. She held her breath, but the Jeep continued to move forward, unchanged.

Her right hand reached her pocket. Two fingers crept inside and brushed against the key. Using her index and middle fingers as tweezers, she precariously gripped the key and slowly slid it toward the top of the pocket.

She felt the fishing rod as it lay against the back of her hand. Careful, she told herself, but the rod slipped, sliding away from her. The metallic rattle echoed through the Jeep’s box-like interior. She froze, breath held in mid-inspiration.

“Hello, Samantha.” Garrett’s voice came from the driver’s seat.

“Where’s Charlie?” She continued easing the key upward. She must get it firmly between her thumb and forefinger or risk losing it.

“In jail.” He laughed. “How ironic. The Sheriff in his own jail and the deputy my prisoner.”

“Listen, Garrett. Don’t do anything stupid.” The key neared the pocket’s opening.

“Such as killing an officer of the law?” he mocked.

“That’s right.” She clasped her thumb over the key, securing it.

He laughed. “What a pathetic argument. You still don’t understand do you?”

“Understand what?” She twisted her wrists and attempted to align the key with the hole in the cuffs. The metallic restraints dug into her flesh.

“It was me all along. Connie Beeson, Miriam Hargrove, Roberto Sanchez, Betty McCumber. Even the two Mexicans. Walter Limpke and Carl Angelo were so helpful. Of course, they didn’t have much choice.”

The truth of what he said attacked her like a thousand tiny knives, prickling her skin. “I don’t believe you.”

“Sure you do. Ever since we dreamed together.”

She stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come now, Samantha. Don’t hurt my feelings. Surely, you our time together. How I held you, caressed you, penetrated you. And how you enjoyed it.”

“No.”

He laughed. “Denial of pleasure is so human, so false.”

She hated him. And hated herself for the truth of his words. She slid the key along the metal cuff, searching for the keyhole.

“I thought the devil made you do it. I thought he was in control.”

“He is. But, soon he and I will be equals. No longer master and servant, but partners, ed for eternity. A dyad that even God cannot defeat.”

“What do want from me?” she asked, trying to buy time, keep him talking. The key slid across the cuffs, occasionally catching the lip of the keyhole, but she could not engage it.

“I need you, Samantha.”

A chill coursed through her. “For what?”

“You’re the one. My sacrificial lamb. My key to the kingdom.”

She hated it when she was right. No doubt remained, he was taking her to Devil’s Playground for a repeat of his previous performance. Panic slid upward from her gut, entwining itself around her throat. She swallowed hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that. What the children started, you will complete. Through you, my union with Lucifer will consummated. Then, the war with the legions of God can begin.”

“Garrett, listen to me. You need help.” The key danced across the metal; her palms dripped sweat. Don’t lose the key, she told herself, frustration and fear growing by the second.

“I think you are the one that needs help. But, I don’t see the cavalry coming.”

“You’re sick. Can’t you see that?” The key brushed over the lock. She turned it one way and then the other trying to seat it.

“You don’t believe that,” he laughed. “You know who I am. What I need.”

“I thought you said I had to come willingly.”

“You did.”

“No.” She felt the key catch on the lip of the hole, but could not align it. She twisted it one way then the other, but it refused to seat itself. “I’d call hog tied in the back of a Jeep an abduction.”

“Semantics. You came to the jail on your own.”

“To beat you half to death.”

“Still, you came.”

“OK. You need me. I came. Now what?” The key danced across the hole, caught briefly, but sprang free as the Jeep lurched sideways.

“The final ritual,” Garrett said. “The ultimate sacrifice. The giving to Lucifer that which I most cherish.”

“Get real, Garrett. You don’t cherish anything. You’re not capable.”

“You’re wrong. I will make you my bride, then present your soul to my Prince.”

“Listen, you psycho…”

The Jeep came to a sudden stop.

“No time for conversation, Samantha. I have preparations to make.”

The blow came suddenly. Pain shot through her shoulder. She tried to roll out of the way, but another blow slammed into her back. Fearful of losing the key, she slipped it in her mouth and shoved it between her upper teeth and cheek with her tongue.

Pain erupted from the back of her head. She fought to maintain her grip on consciousness, but it waxed and waned as a swinging ceiling light in a dark room will cast light, then darkness, followed by light again. She struggled to hold the light and fend off the darkness, but lost as thick, oily waves crashed over her, dragging her into their depths.

CHAPTER 41

Sam fell from the darkness into an inverted world. Her momentary confusion quickly cleared and realization of her predicament smacked her square in the face. She dangled in mid-air. A rope, which hung from the thick crossbeam at the entry into an abandoned mine shaft, bound her ankles. Her handcuffed arms hung limply two feet above the floor as if she were an Olympic diver, plunging toward the water. Streaks of dried blood stained her arms. In the flat light of the full moon, they appeared as black as motor oil, dripping from a dying truck. Gravity pushed blood into her brain, which in turn pounded against her skull with each heartbeat. Her head felt as if it might split like a ripe melon.

Cutting her eyes upward, she realized she was naked. She was also cold and terrified.

A fire flickered twenty feet before her in the open desert. Gusts of wind whipped its flames first one way and then the other as the cold currents twisted around and over the pile of rocks known as the Granite Mountains.

The sound of scrapping footsteps approached from behind her, from inside the mine. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to tremble against the cold breeze. She felt someone brush past her, and then through her closed lids, sensed a shadow cross between her and the red-orange flames. She cracked one eye.

Garrett.

He stacked a rock on top of a crude pile of other rocks near the fire. Sam

recognized the formation immediately. An altar. Identical to the one she had found two months ago in exactly this spot, before this same mine, where the heartless corpses of the three children had hung.

A shiver ripped through her as Garrett lay a knife, his knife, on the rocks. He knelt before the altar and seemed to pray, his back to Samantha.

She turned her head one way and then the other, taking in the surroundings, while trying to control the panic that swelled inside her. Looking upward again, she noticed that the rope was not tied but rather looped in such a fashion that her weight pulled it tightly around her ankles. If she could reach the rope, she could pull herself up and slip her feet from their bonds.

First, she must ditch the cuffs. Her tongue found the key where she had tucked it.

Movement caught her eye. Garrett stood, turned toward her, and approached. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, playing opossum.

He walked around her, very near, his arm brushing against her. He stopped in front of her, inches from her nude body. She felt his hot breath play across her stomach. Then, the knife blade brushed against her, causing her stomach muscles to contract involuntarily.

“Are you with me, Samantha?” he whispered.

She remained motionless.

“I know you hear me.” The knifepoint traced across her belly, downward to her breasts. Its wicked tip flicked one of her nipples.

She jerked and twisted.

“That’s better,” he laughed.

“Get away from me, you bastard,” she hissed.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you love me anymore?”

“Fuck you, you sick son-of-a-bitch.”

He knelt so that their eyes met. His black pupils flickered with fire and oozed an evil older than Earth itself and darker than any Hell she had ever encountered in Sister Margaret’s Bible study classes.

Fear gripped her throat, squeezing her voice to a raspy whisper. “Why me?” she asked.

“Because you are pure of heart, Samantha. Innocent. Like the children. Because I love you. Because I must prove that I love nothing so strongly that I will not watch it die.”

She wanted to claw his face, rip his throat open. But, could she? She could lock her hands around his throat and hold on. It would never work. He had the knife and could kill her long before she could choke him into unconsciousness.

Patience, she told herself. Just like Jimmy said. Wait for the right moment, then attack. The right moment better come soon, she thought.

He drew the knife across her cheek. “So pretty,” he said. “What a pity it has to end this way for you. I truly love you, Samantha. I wish I could spare you.”

“You still can. Cut me down and leave. Disappear.”

“I can’t. I need you, now. My path to Lucifer requires that I deliver your soul to him.”

“You need help. Don’t you see that?”

“I see everything. It is you that is mistaken.”

He stood and walked behind her. The knifepoint skated across her back and up to her buttocks. He walked back to her front, trailing the knife across her ribs. Again he flicked one of her nipples.

“Get away from me,” she hissed. Her heart pounded against her chest and despite the cold, sweat erupted from her pores.

“You don’t mean that. I know you better than you know yourself.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I’ve been there. In your mind. In your body. ? We made love so ionately.”

The knife trailed across her stomach.

“And you enjoyed it,” he whispered. “You enjoyed it a great deal.”

The knife tip slid down her inner thigh to her tender lips. She froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Yes, you did,” he droned. The knife continued across her stomach, her breasts, to her throat. “Soon, very soon, we will begin.”

“How much farther?” Nathan asked, guiding the Mercedes through the ruts in the dirt road.

“About a mile.” Charlie said. “Turn off your lights.”

“But…”

“Turn them off,” Charlie growled.

Nathan switched off the headlamps and slowed the car. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found the full moon lit the way better than he would have imagined. A half-mile down the road, they neared a rocky hill, which the road skirted to the left.

“OK,” Charlie said. “Pull over. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

Nathan eased the car off the road and parked. They stepped out, met by a chilly gust of wind. “Where are we?” Nathan asked.

“This is Granite Mountain.”

“Looks like a pile of boulders to me.”

“It’s a mountain to us. Lot’s of mining used to be done in here. Not now.” Charlie nodded toward the expanse of flat desert to the west. “That’s the Devil’s Playground.”

“Where Garrett killed the kids?”

“Exactly.”

“You think this is where he brought Sam?”

“It’s the only place I could think of. Let’s hope it’s a good guess.”

They quickly moved along the road until the moon dipped behind the rocky escarpment, casting them into darker shadows. Suddenly, Charlie grabbed his arm and pulled him deeper into the darkness, near the rocks. He pointed. A hundred yards away a campfire glowed. Charlie’s Jeep sat near a rock outcropping just beyond. Garrett knelt nearby. Sam’s nude body, hung by her ankles in the mouth of a mineshaft, reflected the fire’s golden glow.

Perception is reality. Nathan had said that hundreds of times. If someone perceived something to be true, then it was, no matter how bizarre, how impossible. Simple. Clean. Requiring no corroboration, no science or physics, no sanity or reality. Perception existed on its own, needing no .

God, he hoped he was wrong.

Right now, the reality was that he was concealed in the shadows of the rocks. His perception, however, was that the full moon bored through the rocks, spotlighting him as if he were on a Hollywood movie set, that his heart pounded so hard against his chest that surely Garrett could hear it.

“Is she alive?” Nathan whispered.

“Don’t know.”

“What do we do?”

Charlie scanned the area. “You wait here.”

“But…”

“Wait here,” Charlie snapped in a low whisper. “Our only hope is to surprise him. I don’t know whether he’s armed or not. Other than his knife, which we know he took. If I can work my way up that wash,” he pointed to his left, “I might get close enough to dump him.” He pulled his gun from its holster.

“Wouldn’t two be better than one?”

“No. More likely he’d spot both of us. Wait here.”

Charlie slipped into the wash, a five-foot deep, thirty-foot wide, gash through the desert floor, created by rainwater run off. It cut diagonally away from him, ing twenty yards to the left of where Garrett knelt, before disappearing into the darkness. The recent rains had softened the dirt beneath his boots.

Crouching, he moved forward and quickly covered the first sixty yards, then slowed to lessen the noise of his steps. He could see Sam more clearly. She was alive. She appeared to be watching Garrett as he conducted his ritual, while at the same time surveying her surroundings. Probably planning her escape.

Don’t move, Sam. Not yet.

If she would just hold on until he could get a clean shot.

Another twenty yards and he knelt, weighing his options. He could take a shot from here, maybe eighty, ninety feet from Garrett. But, if he missed and Garrett was armed, a shoot out would put Sam in danger. If he continued to creep closer, Garrett might see or hear him and the ally of surprise would be lost.

After a moment of deliberation, he crept forward, hunched as close to the ground as possible. He carefully placed each foot, avoiding loose rocks and twigs as best he could.

His luck ran out.

A twig snapped under his boot, echoing through the still night air like the crack of a bullwhip.

Garrett’s head whipped toward him. Charlie raised his gun and squeezed off a shot.

The explosion of the weapon echoed through the night air; the strobe of the muzzle flash danced across the rocks.

Garrett rolled to his left.

Charlie fired again.

Garrett disappeared. Where was he? Did he vanish into thin air? Then, he saw him. Behind Sam, kneeling, his knife to her throat.

“OK, Sheriff. Come out where I can see you.”

Charlie remained crouched.

“Now. Or I’ll cut her to pieces.” Garrett grasped her ponytail and pulled her head back, exposing her throat.

Charlie trudged out of the ravine and faced Garrett.

“Ditch the gun.”

Charlie hesitated, looking at Sam, searching for some way to avoid giving up his weapon.

“Now.” Garrett demanded.

Charlie tossed the gun behind him, where it clattered down the slope into the wash.

“Come over here,” Garrett ordered. “I should’ve killed you at the jail, but I was in a benevolent mood. But, not anymore. Now, get over here.”

Charlie walked toward him. He spoke to Sam. “You OK?”

“She is for now,” Garrett snapped. “Who’s here with you?”

“No one.”

“How’d you get out of jail?”

“Keep an extra key in my boot,” Charlie lied.

“Clever,” Garrett hissed. “Turn around. On your knees.”

Charlie complied, Garrett snatched Charlie’s handcuffs from his belt. “Put your hands behind your back.” He ratcheted the cuffs tightly on his wrists, then lifted Charlie to his feet. “Welcome to the ceremony.”

“Don’t you touch her,” Charlie snapped.

“Or what?” Garrett sneered.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You had your chance. You’ll not get another.” He pushed Charlie toward the fire. “Now, sit down and enjoy the show.”

“Listen, you…”

Garrett backhanded him across the face. “Be quite or I’ll set your clothes on fire. Hear me?”

“Do as he says, Charlie,” Sam said.

“Yeah. Do as I say,” Garrett said.

CHAPTER 42

Sam watched as Garrett returned to the alter and picked up the knife, its thick blade reflecting the red-orange flames of the adjacent fire. Holding it high above his head, he shouted into the black sky, “Lucifer. Your sacrifice is prepared.”

Sam felt the wind increase slightly, pebbling her bare flesh.

Garrett continued. “Lucifer. Come forth and welcome your disciple into your service.” He turned toward Sam. “Her heart will be yours and I will be your confederate for all eternity.”

The flames leaped higher as if feeding on the air above them. Sam could feel none of their heat from where she dangled, rather only the cold breath of the desert night and the damp coolness of the air that drifted upward from the depths of the mine. She shivered uncontrollably.

Her tongue slid along the key that she had secreted between her cheek and gum. If she were going to get out of this alive, she must free herself from the cuffs that bound her wrists and from the rope that wound around her ankles and suspended her three feet above the hard rock floor of the mine’s threshold.

Garrett orbited the fire in a slow counter-clockwise circle, head down, knife cradled in his out-stretched palms, his incantations now a low mumble, which Sam could not decipher.

Could she unlock the cuffs and slip her feet free while he had his back to her? She counted as he circled.

Twelve seconds.

It took twelve seconds from the moment he turned his back to her until he reached the far side of the flames where he would be able to see her again.

Was that enough time? It would have to be. Otherwise, she and Charlie were both dead.

She tensed, focused on every step Garrett took. He shuffled toward her, across in front of the flames, then turning, began to move away.

Before she could move, she sensed motion to her left. She looked, but saw nothing. Then, again. Something lurked behind Charlie’s Jeep a hundred feet away. Who? What? A curious coyote? Satan himself?

Suddenly, Nathan hurtled from the shadow of the Jeep and raced toward Garrett. Garrett jerked around to face him just as Nathan leaped on him. They fell to the ground, wrestling and rolling in the sandy soil. They clutched and clawed at each other and slammed fists into the other’s face.

Garrett rolled on top of Nathan and raised the knife, but Nathan grasped his wrist. With his other hand, Nathan pounded Garrett’s face, but Garrett laughed, unfazed.

Charlie, hands still cuffed behind his back, charged Garrett, knocking him to the ground with his shoulder.

Now is the time, Sam thought. Adrenaline stoked her, giving her renewed strength. She tongued the key from its hiding place and pinched it between her thumb and forefinger. Twisting her hands she aimed the key at the lock. In the dim light, she could not see to align it. Careful, she told herself, if you drop the key, you’re dead. She scratched the key along the metal cuffs, searching for the keyhole.

Garrett jumped to his feet and chopped the heel of his hand across Charlie’s throat. Unable to protect himself, Charlie absorbed the full force of the blow. He dropped to his knees, coughing and gagging.

Nathan slammed a fist against Garrett’s head, high, above his ear. Garrett slashed at him with the knife, but Nathan jumped back. Again and again, Garrett cut the air between them, moving closer to Nathan with each swipe of the blade.

The key clicked into place. Sam twisted it and the cuff on her left wrist sprung free. She flexed her body upward and grasped the rope, pulling herself up. The rope slackened and she slipped her right foot free. As she attempted to extract the other foot, her grip failed and she fell. A knife-like pain shot through her left hip as she dangled by one foot.

Garrett looked up at her and started to move toward her, but Nathan stepped between them. Garrett lashed at him furiously with the knife, but Nathan sidestepped the attack and landed a solid right hand against Garrett’s jaw. Garrett staggered backwards.

Again, Sam flexed upward and tugged her other foot free. She dropped to the ground, landing on her left shoulder with a thud, air escaping her lungs in a wheezing bolus. She leapt to her feet. Her hip protested and her shoulder ached. No time for pain or injury now, she told herself. She quickly unlocked the cuffs from her other wrist and tossed them to the ground.

Garrett feinted one way, then brought the knife down toward Nathan, who attempted to slide out of its arcing path, but was not quick enough. The knife buried deeply in his shoulder. Nathan grimaced and clutched at the weapon, dropping to the ground. Garrett turned to face Sam.

“You’re mine now,” she hissed at him, rage coiling in her like an angry cobra.

“I don’t think so,” Garrett sneered.

She circled him to her right, then fired a wide left hook that landed against his face.

He stumbled backwards, but quickly regained his balance.

She followed, landing a right to his body and a left high on his head.

He backpedaled.

“You’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” she said and slammed a right into his face.

Blood trickled from his mouth. He smiled. “Things are never as they seem, Samantha.”

Garrett released a low sonorous laugh. His eyes flashed crimson and his pupils mutated into reptilian gashes. His face elongated, as did his ears. His nose narrowed and sharpened. Sam felt as if she beheld more than Garrett’s insanity, more than the face of his alter ego Beelzebub, and was looking into the soul of Satan himself.

She pressed forward with a sense of urgency. A right, a left, another right landed sharply against his face, ripping his flesh, exposing a glint of bone beneath his left eye. Blood erupted from the deep laceration and cascaded down his neck. She threw a left hook, which Garrett sidestepped and circled behind the fire. He glared at her through the glow and wispy smoke.

He again expelled a raspy growl, his breath flowing from his gaping mouth in purple billows. His eyes burned ruby red and emitted bolts of crimson light.

Sam was certain she was going crazy. No other explanation fit.

The fire between them flashed a bright green and the night sky transmuted to a creamy orange.

Energy seemed to bleed from her. She could barely hold her fists up.

She stared at Garrett, mesmerized by his fiery eyes. The gash beneath his left eye exuded scales, which spread across his face, down his neck, to his chest and arms. Sharp claws protruded from his fingertips and a black tongue snaked inquisitively between two sharp fangs.

He was becoming Snakeman before her eyes.

This is all your imagination, she told herself. It’s not real. Or was it Garrett in her head again? Like her dreams? Like Walter’s dreams. Garrett was taking control of her.

And if he did? Then what? She would have no chance against him. She must attack now. Finish him. Yet, she remained frozen, unable to move.

A seductive murmur arose within her brain. She could make out none of the words, but the meaning of the purring voice was clear.

She turned toward Nathan, who lay on the ground near her. She knelt, grasped the knife, and yanked it from his shoulder.

He cried out and clutched the wound. His face paled and sweat erupted on his forehead. He appeared as though he might out at any moment.

Inside her head, another voice erupted, screaming at her to help him, to protect him, but the voice sank as the murmuring swelled in her head. She raised the knife over him.

Garrett seemed to float through the fire toward her. He stopped at her side and rested his hand on her shoulder.

“Sam. What are you doing?” Nathan said. Fear and confusion etched his face.

Garrett said nothing but she sensed his unuttered command. Like a soft seductive whisper, it seeped through the wailing chorus of voices and the swirling ribbons of color in her brain, demanding attention, obedience.

She looked down at Nathan. He was vulnerable, helpless, his eyes begging her to help him. She wanted to, but could only raise the knife higher.

Nathan grabbed her other hand and looked into her eyes. “Sam. Don’t.”

The colors that filled her world flickered, faded, and then returned, in waves of increasing intensity.

“Sam. It’s me. Nathan.”

Again, the colors rippled and began to fade.

Garrett’s soft command intruded, snapping the colors to renewed brightness. Her grip on the knife tightened.

“Sam,” Nathan said. “What’s wrong with you?”

She looked into his eyes. They pleaded with her, tore at her heart.

She started to lower the blade, but Garrett’s siren’s song murmurings wound themselves around her thoughts, obscuring everything else. Swirls of color in soothing, seductive hues enveloped her mind.

From the chaos, Jimmy’s face appeared and spoke to her, repeating what he had said so many times. “You must reach deep inside, where you live, where your soul lies, where your strength dwells, and grab hold. This alone will pull you through.”

Jimmy’s face receded and with it the colors dimmed, faded, fell away.

In a flash, Sam turned and drove the knife deep into Garrett’s belly.

Garrett screamed and clutched at his stomach, ripping the knife free. He slammed his foot into the side of Sam’s face. She fell onto her back, dazed, the world spinning.

Garrett leaped on her and slashed at her with the knife. She deflected his thrust and landed a left to his jaw. He toppled off her and she rolled away.

She sprang to her feet as Garrett lunged at her, the knife in his right hand. Sidestepping the thrust, she landed a rapid-fire three-punch combination to his bloodied face.

He staggered.

She pressed the attack, unleashing a barrage of blows to his face and body.

Garrett stumbled away and as he backpedaled, tripped and fell over Charlie, who knelt, hands cuffed behind his back near the fire. Charlie rolled out of the way as Sam charged past him.

Garrett jumped to his feet, swinging the knife wildly before him. Blood oozed from his belly and face.

“I’ll kill you,” he screamed, his voice high-pitched, angry.

He charged toward her, the knife leading the assault, but she stepped away from the blade and stopped him cold with a straight right hand.

His knees buckled.

She attacked with a flurry of rights and lefts, each connecting solidly with his macerated face. He staggered, attempting to ward off her blows, but she pounded him with a fury she never knew she possessed.

A wide left hook collided with his right jaw. His eyes rolled back as he spun, the knife slipping from his grasp, and fell face down in the fire. His bloodstained orange jumpsuit erupted into flames and his screams ripped through the cold night air.

His flesh seemed to feed the fire, which blazed red-orange, painting the rocks, the cacti, and her skin a hellish red. Garrett rolled, first one way and then the other, attempting to escape the inferno.

“Help me,” he screamed. His flesh blistered and bubbled.

“I thought you controlled everything,” Sam said, shielding her eyes from the intensity of the blaze.

“Please,” he begged, his voice now shrill.

“Ask Lucifer.” Sam backed away from him, the acrid odor of burning flesh assaulting her.

His struggles diminished to tremors, then he lay motionless, his skin hissing and popping as the flames consumed him. As the searing heat boiled the water from

his tissues, his muscles and tendons contracted and flexed. His arms folded to his chest, fists beneath his chin, and his legs curled against his abdomen, drawing his charred corpse into a fetal position.

CHAPTER 43

Sam stood, staring at the fire. Its angry red flames chewed on the remains of Garrett’s body, reducing it to a burnt matchstick figure. She made no effort to remove the body from the fire.

Standard procedure would have been to salvage what evidence remained, including the body of a murderer. But somewhere inside, Sam felt that anything short of complete destruction of his corpse might leave enough of him to regenerate, reanimate, and arise from the ashes like some hellish phoenix. Allow him to regain a foothold in this world. Better to let the flames consume everything she convinced herself.

The fear and anger that minutes before had pumped adrenaline through her blood stream, now settled in her gut. A wave of nausea gripped her. Her stomach knotted and cold sweat oozed from her pores. Her vision shimmered.

For a brief moment, she feared Garrett’s spirit had somehow leapt from the flames and into her. Could he do that? she thought. A week ago, she would have laughed at the idea. Not today.

What she felt was nothing that sinister. It was merely the aftermath of the conflict. Just as it had been years ago after the two shootouts in LA. The dissipating fear and anger, the stench of Garrett’s burning flesh, and the cold night air released a cold shiver through her, followed by another wave of nausea. She collapsed to her knees.

“Sam?”

The voice came at her from far away as if drifting on the breeze. She pushed it aside, her eyes focused on Garrett’s remains.

“Sam?”

She turned toward the voice. Charlie knee-walked toward her, his hands still cuffed behind his back.

“You OK?” he asked.

Was she? She wasn’t sure. “I think so,” she said. She struggled to her feet, her legs still weak, and walked toward him. “Let me get those cuffs off you.”

She snatched his key from his shirt pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. Charlie stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around her.

“Where are your clothes?” he asked.

“Garrett burned them. Said I wouldn’t need them anymore.”

She walked to where Nathan lay and knelt. His face was pale and drawn. He

held one hand over the knife wound in his shoulder. “Are you OK?” she asked.

“I’ll live. How about you?”

“I’m OK. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Charlie circled the fire and walked the 100 feet to his Jeep, cranked it up, and pulled it to where Nathan sat. He opened the back hatch.

“Here,” Charlie said. He handed Sam a pair of worn dark blue sweat pants and a gray sweatshirt.

Sam stepped into the pants. They swallowed her. She tugged the drawstring tight and rolled the cuffs, whose elastic had long ago given up, a half dozen turns. They looked like clown pants. The shirt fell over her, hanging to her knees.

“You look stylish,” Nathan said as he stretched out in the Jeep’s cargo area.

“Very LA, isn’t it?” Sam said.

Charlie drove, Sam sat shotgun. She used Charlie’s cell phone and called Cat Roberts, telling her they would be in the ER in twenty minutes. She then called Penelope. Though still shaken, she seemed relieved when Sam told her Garrett was dead.

“I’ll have Vince Gorman come by and get Carl’s body,” Sam told her. “After we get Nathan to the hospital, I’ll be there.”

She called Vince, apologized for waking him, and told him the story.

Doctor Cat Roberts walked into the waiting room.

Sam jumped to her feet. “What’s the story, Cat?”

“Good news. Nothing important damaged. Pretty clean wound.”

Sam exhaled heavily. “Thank God.”

“I’m going to take him to the OR. Get a closer look and clean the wound. But, I don’t expect to find any surprises. Come on. Let me take a look at you.”

She led Sam into an empty treatment room. After a quick general examination, she cleaned the dried blood from Sam’s hair and inspected the wound in her scalp. “Just an abrasion and contusion. Won’t need stitches. I’ll have Rosa clean it and put some antibiotic ointment on it. See me in three or four days.”

“OK.”

“I’d better get to work on Mister Klimek.”

“Tell him, I’ll be back later. I have a couple of scared little girls and a dead body at my house to deal with.”

“And maybe some clothes,” Cat said, eying Sam’s outfit.

“That, too,” Sam said.

Charlie drove to the office where Sam picked up her Jeep and headed home. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the eastern horizon. When she pulled into her drive, Vince Gorman and his son were loading Carl’s covered body into the back of their hearse. Penelope and Melissa, wrapped in a pale blue blanket, stood on the porch. They ran toward her, clutching the blanket around them as they ran. They looked like a two-headed woman. They embraced her, both talking at once.

“What happened?”

“Are you OK?”

“Is Richard really dead?”

“Relax,” Sam said. “I’m fine. And, yes. Garrett is really dead.”

Vince walked up, eying her up and down.

“Long story,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you later.”

The sound of a ringing phone drifted out the open front door.

“Want me to get it?” Melissa asked.

“Sure,” Sam said.

Melissa slipped out of the blanket and ran into the house. She reappeared in half a minute. “It’s Sheriff Walker.”

Apprehension swelled within her as she walked into her house. Garrett’s still alive, she thought. She picked up the phone. “Charlie?”

“Just got a call from Belinda Connerly. Billy’s secretary. Hysterical. Says Billy and his niece have been murdered.”

“So Garrett wasn’t lying. What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. That I’d be right over.”

“Want me to meet you there?”

“You get some rest. I’ll handle it. Is Vince still there?”

“Yeah. Just getting ready to leave.”

“Tell him to meet me at Billy’s bus after he drops Carl’s body at the morgue.”

“Will do.”

After telling the girls the story, Sam took a long hot shower, pulled on a tee shirt, and crawled into bed with Scooter. Sleep came quickly.

It was just past noon when she walked into Nathan’s hospital room. Cat Robert’s was talking with him. They both looked up.

“How’re you doing?” Sam asked.

“Better,” he said. “Thanks to Doctor Roberts.”

Cat smiled and looked at Sam. “I left a drain in the wound. For a couple of days. We’ll pump him full of antibiotics, but he’ll do great.”

“He’s too ornery to kill,” Sam said.

“Me?” Nathan said. “What about you?”

“I’m out of here,” Cat said. “I’ll leave this argument to you two.” She headed out the door. “See you later,” she shot over her shoulder.

Sam sat on the bed next to him and took his hand. “You OK?”

“Fine. A little sore is all. You?”

Sam lightly touched her head. “A little sore, too.”

She leaned and kissed him lightly on the lips, then lay her head on his bare chest. He stroked her hair. Tears escaped her eyes and fell onto his skin.

“It’s OK,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“You saved my life for one thing,” she said.

“I thought it was the other way around.”

She sat up, sniffed, and wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hands.

Nathan reached up, cupping her cheek, and pulled her down to him. He kissed her. When their lips parted he said, “You beat him. You were stronger.”

She smiled, then gazed toward the window. “What happened last night?”

“This week’s front page story,” he grinned.

“That’s a given,” she smiled and lightly punched his stomach. “But, what really happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. You know more about this kind of stuff than I do. Everything about the last week and especially last night is beyond my experience.”

“All I can tell you, is that strange things happen all the time. The stories you think we make up? This was one of them.”

“Does this mean I’m going to cough up moth balls or something?”

“No,” he laughed.

“Before Garrett fell into the fire, what did he look like to you?”

“Like Garrett. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Come on, Sam. You saw something else didn’t you?”

She exhaled loudly. “Snakeman. He looked like Snakeman to me. Weird, huh?”

“Not really.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I guess nothing seems weird to you.”

“I’ve just seen a lot of strange things.”

“Then, what was Garrett? Satan? Beelzebub? Or some mortal being who happened to have special powers?”

“I don’t know,” Nathan said. “Maybe he was Nita Stillwater’s ‘Beast with the Iron Finger’.”

“I thought about that,” she said.

“And?”

“He did use stealth, came to people in their dreams, and carved out an organ or

two. Of course, he used a knife rather than his finger.”

“Basically the same thing,” Nathan said. “What if the original beast, the one in the cave in North Carolina, the one that plagued Nita Stillwater’s ancestors, was Garrett’s ancestor, so to speak?”

“What if Satan created both of them?” Sam said.

“Or neither.”

Sam sighed. “Maybe Garrett was all of them. Satan, Beelzebub, Nita’s beast.”

“Aah. The universal question.” Nathan said. “Are all demons the same? Are all gods the same?”

Sam looked at him. “What do you think?”

“I’m Jewish. You’re Catholic. And there are millions of Hindus, Buddhist, Muslims, and Protestants. That covers most of the people on the planet. Oh, yeah, and there are even Satanists. Who’s right? Who has the answer? Whose God is God? Whose Satan is Satan?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do they,” he smiled. “In the area of gods and demons, the truth is hard to come by. I don’t know what to believe.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you believed in everything?”

“No. I said I believe in the possibility of everything.”

“So, is it possible that Richard Earl Garrett was Beelzebub? Satan’s right-hand man?”

“Sure, it’s possible.”

She stood and walked to window and looked out. The sky was a clear blue and the sun warmed the window, which radiated the heat onto her face. “I guess we’ll never know,” she said.

“I would take him at his word,” Nathan said.

She turned and looked at him, but said nothing.

“He said he was Satan’s disciple,” Nathan continued. “Based on everything that happened, that’s hard to argue with.”

Sam exhaled loudly. “I don’t like to it it, but I don’t see any other explanation either. I don’t know if I truly believe that, but I’m too tired to argue the point.” She returned to him and sat on the edge of the bed. He took her hand.

“Regardless, it is a good story,” Nathan smiled.

“It is at least that,” she said.

“The big question is, if he is some kind of supernatural demon, is he really dead?”

“You saw him,” she said. “Burned to a crisp.”

“His body. Maybe not him.”

“You mean like his spirit is out there somewhere looking for a body to inhabit?”

“Maybe.”

She flashed on her dreams and on Garrett’s Snakeman appearance as the fire consumed him. Her heart stuttered. She turned her head and looked at the door, then the window. Why? Did she expect Garrett’s essence to float in on a purple mist and take her?

“What is it?” Nathan asked. “Are you OK?”

“Uh…yeah. I thought I heard something.”

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

She forced a smile. “No. I’m just tired.” She kissed him, and then stood. “I’m going over to the office and see what Charlie has found out about Reverend Billy’s murder. I’ll be back later.”

“I’ll be here,” he said.

EPILOGUE

Nathan lay on the plush king-sized bed in his suite at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. Three weeks of healing had dissipated most of the pain from his stab wound. He worked the shoulder in a circular motion. A little stiff, but otherwise everything seemed to be returning to normal. He picked up the newspaper’s sports page and reread the page-three article. He knew every word. After all, he wrote it.

Las Vegas, NV--Last night, the world of women’s professional boxing took a giant step toward legitimacy, while welcoming a new star on the sport’s scene. Six highly competitive bouts took place at Caesar’s Palace, including Kristie Bates’ successful defense of her World Middleweight Championship.

But, the show was stolen by the performance of Samantha Cody, a deputy from the small desert community of Mercer’s Corner. Her first round knock out of previously unbeaten Dolores Matthews was an exhibition in boxing perfection. Excellent defense complemented her aggressive two-handed attack that floored Matthews twice before finally putting her away at 2:11 of the first round.

The bathroom door swung open. He peered over the paper as Sam stepped out, wrapped in a bath towel, steam swirling after her. She cocked her head to one side and smiled coyly. The towel dropped to the floor, revealing her lithe, nude body.

“See anything interesting?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed.

She jumped on top of him, crushing the paper between them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

D. P. Lyle is the Macavity and Benjamin Franklin Silver Award winning and Edgar, Agatha, Anthony, Scribe, and USA Best Book Award nominated author of both non-fiction and fiction (the Dub Walker and Samantha Cody thriller series and the Royal Pains media tie-in series). Along with Jan Burke, he is the co-host of Crime and Science Radio. He has served as story consultant to many novelists and screenwriters of shows such as Law & Order, CSI: Miami, Diagnosis Murder, Monk, Judging Amy, Peacemakers, Cold Case, House, Medium, Women’s Murder Club, 1-800-Missing, The Glades, and Pretty Little Liars.

Website: dplylemd.com

Blog: writersforensicsblog.wordpress.com

FB Page: facebook.com/DPLyle

Crime and Science Radio: dplylemd.com/DPLyleMD/Crime_%26_Science_Radio.html