Chapter 9

Remembrance Road, Near Walker, Michigan, 1:13 PM

She attracted him the way vulnerable prey suggests itself to a predator.  His pulse quickened as soon as he saw her.  Multiple layers of clothing couldn't conceal the femininity of her movements as she did some kind of yard work.  Something elegant, fragile, and irresistible beckoned him as she bent over a flowerbed.  A scene from an old movie flashed in his mind:  a man in a satin jacket drains an exquisitely sculpted goblet, and hurls it into the fireplace.

Without slowing, he read the mailbox:  "Brent & Ivey Steward."  There were no swing sets or children's toys in the yard.  Perfect.  Resisting another look, he drove by at the same speed until he reached a crossroad a mile to the southwest.  There he pulled over and unpacked the duct tape, cut carefully measured lengths of the cord, and stuffed everything into his jacket pockets.  From the trunk he took a rubber sap weighted with a large ball bearing at the tip, noting with regret the absence of his old camcorder.  At least he had the SLR.  He loaded it with new film and put it back.

She looked up with a frown when he pulled into the drive and turned off the engine.  Getting out, he smiled at her as he approached, thinking that it was a shame that he couldn't capture that look on tape.  She was absolutely beautiful.

"Hello, Mrs. Steward.  I'm Ralph Hampton," he said, trying to sound businesslike as he closed the distance.  "Is Brent home?"

Up close he saw how right he had been.  She was a young one, with smooth, unblemished skin and full, pouty lips.  Except for the hair she was so much like Jill that he trembled in anticipation of her expression when she finally understood what was happening.

"Yes, he is," she said hesitantly.  "Wait here and I'll get him for you."

"No.  I don't want to interrupt your work," he said with an apologetic smile, as he turned toward the porch.  "I just have to speak with him a minute."

"But . . ."

"You guys probably have plans.  Don't worry.  I'll be out of here before you know it."

There was something strange about him, but his smile disarmed her.

"He's watching the ball game," she said.

She couldn't remember her husband ever mentioning anyone named Hampton, but shrugged it off and went back to pruning her roses.

Mic stepped silently onto the porch.  Before he opened the door he looked back to make certain that she was still in the yard, and then he followed the sounds of the football game into the adjoining room.

"Getting cold out there, Ivey?" called the man just before the sap caught him above the right ear.

Mic dragged him into the bedroom and then went to the dining room for a wooden chair.  Five minutes later he had the unconscious man sitting and secured to it by the duct tape.  He wound another piece to seal his mouth.  Then he slapped the man until he finally came around.

"We'll talk later," he said, patting the wide-eyed man on the cheek.  "First, I'll go get Ivey."

He walked slowly down the steps thinking about how elegant she looked.  "Takes a lot of work to maintain all that beauty, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she said, pleased that he appreciated her landscaping work.  "But I love the work."

"Makes you feel good to show it off, right?"

She frowned at his choice of words.

"I wouldn't call it showing off, Mr. Hampton.  It's more like sharing it with others.  That's what I like."

I'll bet you do, he thought.  You enjoy showing them something that they can't have.

"That's what I meant," said Mic, flashing her his chagrined little boy smile, the one superior feeling women loved.

Ivey passed off his strange manner by deciding that he was just one of those peculiar people who lacked good social skills.

"Oh, I almost forgot.  Brent told me he wanted to see you."

It wasn't like her husband to send word out.  She went in to see what was wrong.  As she started up the steps she heard the engine start and the car door shut.

"Brent," she called when she didn't find him in the living room.

A scraping sound pulled her attention to the bedroom a second before a hand clamped over her mouth.  Mic pushed her inside and kicked the door closed.

"Now Ivey," he said in a silky voice.  "In a minute we're going to join Brent in there and then the three of us are going to get better acquainted."

He took his hand from her mouth.  He wanted her husband to hear what he knew she was going to say.

"What do you want?" she asked predictably.

"For you to treat me right.  If you don't, something really bad might happen to Brent.  You want me to enjoy my stay, don't you?"

Gripping her by the neck, he pinned her back to the wall.  With his free hand, he slowly pulled her stocking cap straight up.  Long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders.  He caressed it and then slowly wound his fingers into it and released her neck.

"Please, if it's money you want . . ."

"Idiot," he said, as he pulled back and down on her hair, bending her backwards until she was looking up into his face.

"Money?" he said softly.  "I'm going to take everything you've got."

"Please," she began.

Suddenly he slung her viciously to her hands and knees.  As she screamed, he yanked her by her hair back to her feet.

"Shut up!  Don't say another word," he whispered harshly as he shoved her back against the wall.

Ivey stared at him mutely.

"You want me to enjoy myself, don't you?"

She began to sob.

"Unbutton the coat," he said.

When she didn't comply immediately, he bent in to whisper.

"I'll slit his throat if you can't do better than this.  You're smart Ivey.  Don't you realize that you're the only one who can get this over with?  As soon as I get what I want, I'm out of here.  Now you do what you're told and everything will be okay in a little while.  Unbutton your coat."

She fumbled at the buttons and then dropped her hands to her sides and looked down, waiting for him to do whatever he would do.

"Look at me," he commanded as he slid the coat from her shoulders and let it slip to the floor.

He adjusted his grip on her hair, grasping it closer to her scalp.  Pleased with the terrified look in her eyes, he spoke loudly.

"Brent, Ivy's got something she wants to show me.  I think I'll share it with you."

He guided her into the bedroom, watching the horrified look on her husband's face.  He almost missed it when the woman's eyes flitted toward the nightstand.

"Well let's see what's in there," he said as he guided her over.

Holding her by the hair, he pulled open the drawer and removed a small pistol.  Slipping it into his pocket he released her.

"You're going to give me what I came for," he said.  "If you try to run away I'm going to shoot Brent right between the eyes.  Then I'll chase you down and do the same to you."

Ivy stood hugging herself, shaking uncontrollably.

"I'll do whatever you say," she choked out.  "Just don't hurt us."

"Hey," he said, as he began unbuttoning her blouse.  "That's the way I prefer it.  I've done this a dozen a times.  Most of the time, my . . . hosts don't even report it to the police."

He stroked her hair.

"It avoids all the embarrassment that way.  Your friends don't have to know what happened to you.  You're picture isn't smeared all over the papers.  You don't have to tell all the details to some policeman while he imagines that he was the one that did it to you.  This way it can stay our little secret---yours, mine, and Brent's.  We all just go on with our lives.  That's what you want, isn't it?"

Mic held the jerking cord taut until Ivy went limp.  Then he let the body sprawl forward.  Releasing the garrote, he left it draped loosely over her bare shoulders.  He tousled her hair as he closed his eyes and caught his breath.  Then he got up from the bed and tucked in his shirttail.

"Quite a show, huh, Brent?" he said as he put on his gloves on.

Taking the pistol from his pocket, he wiped it clean with Ivey's blouse.  Then he took a pillow from the bed, and used it to prevent blowback as he casually shot the husband in the forehead.  After running down to the car to retrieve the camera, he flipped the woman onto her back, repositioned her, and took two pictures.

"That second one was in case she blinked, Brent," he murmured.

Dressed in new clothes purchased at a Rapid City discount store, he huddled close to a brick barbecue grill at a campsite near Lake Weten stirring the blackened remnants of his old clothes, shoes, the remainder of the duct tape, and cotton cord.  He placed more wood on the fire and made sure it was still burning before leaving the deserted park.  Already he was coming down, the exhilaration fading so quickly that it was almost as if it hadn't really happened.  He felt cheated.

It used to last, he said to himself as he reached the highway.  He almost went back to visit her for one last look, but that would be really stupid.

"It was just a dry run," he reminded himself as he turned onto the road to put distance between himself and his latest conquest.  "When it's the real deal it'll be better.  It'll be perfect."

Cassville, 6:52 PM

They sat near a window, sipping iced tea at Kenner's, a mom and pop cafe wedged between a hardware store and a recently defunct pool hall.  It was still a few minutes before seven, the time when the old deputy had promised to meet them.

"Richard, maybe that woman was right," said Jill.  "If Mic had all these girls who admired him, why would he be compelled to attack Carly Williams?"

"Senter says power is important.  The victim's terror is as big a payoff as the sex.  He's a taker, not a sharer.  He doesn't want admiration or anything consensual."

"He wants to hurt them."

"Yes.  But there's something else.  If he thought she felt superior to him, that might make him want to punish her---put her in her place, so to speak."

"Miss Morgan said that he did not physically abuse her," said Jill thoughtfully.  "He did manipulate her, however.  That is control, is it not?"

"And he got a charge out of it when she got caught," he said, looking out the window at an old couple getting from a car outside.  "He's here, and there's a woman with him."

John Spence's callused hand gripped his firmly.

"Mr. Carter this is my wife, Joan," he said, nodding toward a short, gray haired woman beside him.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," replied Richard with a nod.  "This is my fiancée, Jill Belbenoit."

Mrs. Spence returned a tight smile of acknowledgment.

The narrow room's limited floor space was crowded with tables, but there were few customers, and none close.

"What got you interested in Carly Williams?" asked Spence as he sat.

Taken aback by the abrupt question, Richard decided to hit the problem head on.

"A woman in Michigan was abducted and killed recently.  A man associated with her went to school with the Williams girl."

Spence frowned.  "How did you find that out?"

"I know the guy.  He got drunk one night and said something that made me suspicious."

"He told you about Carly Williams?" asked Spence dubiously.

"No, just that he had done something down here when he was a kid."

"Why would he let anyone know?"

Jill saw that Richard was reluctant to reveal the circumstances that led to Mic's revelation.  He was trying so hard to protect her that he sounded evasive.

"He attacked Richard," she said.  "Then he threatened me.  Perhaps to make the threat credible he taunted Richard by saying he had done something violent before, when he was young.  We think that he may have been referring to the poor girl from here." 

"I don't know why he said it," added Richard.  "But when I found out that the Williams case is still unsolved, I decided to see if there was any connection between the two of them."  

Spence nodded sourly.

"You're the first person in years to take any interest in her at all.  Your notion may be way off base, but I don't see how it can hurt to let you know a few things about the case."

"My husband's interest is personal," said the old lady, speaking for the first time.  "He was the one who found her."

"I want someone to find the thing who . . . done that to that little girl," said Spence.  "I overheard you at the office.  The sheriff don't take you serious because you're not a lawman."

"You do?"

"All I know is that you come all the way down here from Michigan, so you think you got a good reason.  I don't know if there's anything to your suspicions or not."

He sipped at his coffee, seemingly reluctant to go on.

"You were the one who found her," said Richard.  "Can you tell us anything about the scene?"

"Mind if I let Joan go on home?  I just brought her down here to set you and your lady at ease.  Might be a good idea if your lady went some'rs else too."

"John insisted that I bring my car," said Mrs. Spence to Jill.  "He treats me like a child."

Spence scowled, but didn't say anything.

"Dear," she said, patting his hand, "I've heard it all before, but only in bits and pieces over the years."

She patted Jill's hand too.

"Don't worry dear.  My husband is incapable of being indelicate around the weaker sex."

Spence looked out the window onto the street at nothing in particular.  He seemed to be debating with himself, or perhaps he was weighing the chances of convincing his lady to go on home.

"I was out patrolling Fasco Road," he began without preamble.  "That's south of town.  I went by the Taylor place about a quarter of six that morning.  Went about a mile past his trailer when it dawned on me that the lights was on.  Ed and his wife were getting a divorce, and she'd went off to her folks in Springfield.  He'd took off on a fishing trip to Canada, so there shouldn't have been no lights on.  I went back to check it out.  Everything looked normal.  Front door was locked, and I couldn't hear nothing going on inside.  But the back door had been fooled with.  There had been some burglaries out that direction and I thought that's what had happened.  I pulled my piece and slipped in."

He sipped his coffee.

"I found her on the bed in there."

Spence cleared his throat.

"He'd arranged her on the bed, but turns out she was killed right off, not at the trailer.  According to Claude---he was the coroner back then---she was hit on the back of the head with a pipe or something.  He said he don't think she could ever come to after she was hit.  She was cold when I touched her neck.  Not that I . . . you could see it in the eyes.  Still, it's something you have to do."

"No evidence to amount to nothing.  No fingerprints, blood, or anything.  Tire tracks out back of the trailer, but not clear enough to get an impression.  There were jimmy marks on the door . . . looked like a screwdriver maybe.  No real leads either."

"How about suspects?"

"None that panned out.  There was a guy name of Hankins . . . bad character . . . done time for child molesting over in Galena.  He didn't have no alibi, and people give him a hard time---not that he didn't deserve it.  They finally ruled him out because he didn't have access to a car.  I never did think he done it.  Perverts like him ain't interested in girls like Carly Williams.  She was just a child, but she didn't look like no child.  He liked them real young---you know, little kids."

"No one ever suspected William Boyd?"

"He was just a punk with a lot of juvie trouble, but nothing serious.  I don't recall him being questioned and I don't think they were well acquainted.  She was older and a different sort of kid."

"You're sure he wasn't questioned?"

"My husband has a good memory, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Spence unexpectedly, reaching across to pat Spence's hand.  "Too good when it comes to poor Carly."

"Now, Joan," he said in irritation.

"We talked to her friends, family, and all the people at the prom that night," he continued.  "She picked that night to tell her boyfriend that she was going off to SMSU and that they should split up.  He run his fist through a window, and they throwed him out of the prom.  He was the prime suspect for a while because he didn't get home until the middle of the next day and wouldn't explain where he'd been.  Then, his friends fessed up.  They'd been together at one of them's house boozin' it up.  The dad confessed to getting the alcohol for them.  They all passed the polygraph."

"That left us with no suspects.  A bunch of people in town got the idea that it was someone just passing through that done it, but that was nonsense.  Whoever did it come from here.  The reason I know that is because the jimmy marks on the trailer were rusted.  That would take a couple of days at least.  I figure someone busted in right after Ed took off for Canada.  He weren't just passing through.  It was somebody that already knew of an out-of-the-way place where he could take Carly when he decided to grab her."

"The paper didn't give any details about the crime scene," said Richard, hoping that Spence would supply some without being pressed.

"Old John Biggers---editor of the Cassville Democrat back then---didn't believe in trying cases in the paper.  And I don't think he could bring himself to publish a detailed description of the way we found her---out of consideration for the family."

"Could you tell me about the crime scene?  The only reason I'm asking is because we have another case we'd like to compare it to."

Spence looked out the window for what seemed like a long time.

"You ladies are gonna have to go on," he said without taking his eyes from the street.

"Come on, dear," said Mrs. Spence to Jill.  "You can wait in the car with me until the men have finished."

Jill looked questioningly at Richard.  He nodded.

"Yes, well we will be outside in the car I suppose," she said.

Spence was silent for some time after they were gone.

"I was glad when none of it come out.  Mr. Man, you'd best not be running a game on me.  I don't want to see this is in the paper or in some book either."

"We've told you nothing but the truth, sir.  I'm trying to keep what happened to that young lady from happening to someone else's little girl.  That's all."

"She was face up . . . naked to the waist with her hands under her like they was tied, but they wasn't.  He'd put these frilly red and black . . . drawers on her.  Her mom said they wasn't hers.  The clothes she wore to the prom were gone.  We never found them."

"Had she been molested?" asked Richard.

"Not according to Claude.  He just . . . messed with her."

"Messed with her?"

"There were marks on her neck . . . ligature marks, they call them . . . but there wasn't no bruising.  She was done dead when he did that.  There was something about the inside of the eyelids . . . they say you can tell."

"Capillaries rupture when a person is strangled," said Richard.  "It's called petechial hemorrhaging, I think."

Spence cleared his throat again.

"When I saw how he laid her out I was scared we'd find more like her, but it never happened."

"Do you think Boyd could have done it?"

"Right off, I'd say he was too young.  As a juvie he was always doing community service, juvie probation, counseling---all the stuff that don't work.  Later we suspected him of burglary.  Around nineteen he beat up a girl and burned up her boyfriend's car too."

"But he didn't go to prison for that?"

"The lawyer convinced Judge Harlowe that the boy had potential, something about his IQ.  Said she could get him into the armed services but only if he didn't have a criminal record.  The judge bought it and they got the prosecutor to drop the charges.  He joined the Marines, as I recall.  His Momma moved off.  Neither of them ever come back."

Spence stared at him a long moment.

"You asked me awhile ago if I thought he could have done it.  Son, I don't know what kind of man it takes to do a thing like that.  I really don't."

Dressed in pajamas and a robe, Jill came from the bathroom and sat in the room's sole chair between the beds.  Seeing her somber expression, Richard swung his stocking feet from the bed and sat up.

"Something wrong?" he asked

"While I was showering I realized how pleased I am at what we have found.  It bothers me that I want it to be Mic who killed that girl.  That seems as if I am victimizing her also."

"She's beyond hurting, don't you think?"

"I suppose that is true.  It is just that when I think of it . . . of what happened . . . it is too real now."

"It may sound trite, Jill, but if we can make him pay for what he did to her then we will be helping her and her family."

"I never thought of it before, but there is never just one victim, is there?  It is so awful.  And the sheriff is right also.  We must be careful not to accuse him prematurely or falsely.  We have already said too much about him perhaps.  If her family learns what we are doing it will bring back painful memories."

"I'm more certain than ever, Jill.  After you left Spence told me that he once beat a girl.  So much for Leona Morgan's theory that he wouldn't physically abuse a female."

"Why did he do it?"

"Does it matter?  He burned her boyfriend's car too.  So either he was mad at her and took it out on the boyfriend or it was the other way around."

Jill didn't seem as surprised as he had anticipated.

"Jill, I've been thinking about the night she was abducted, about her motivation and the way she might have acted.  Do you think she just accepted a ride with someone from school or maybe an adult she knew?"

"It would have to be someone she knew and trusted.  She was smart and responsible."

"She was an upset kid who had just had a fight with her boyfriend.  Emotionally distraught adolescents often do things that are out of character."

"Her boyfriend was emotionally distraught, not she.  She was depressed because she had hurt someone she was fond of and had chosen the wrong time to tell him that their relationship was over.  Had he ended the relationship instead of she then she might have been upset enough to accept a ride incautiously.  No.  She wanted to be alone, I think."

She seemed to understand things about the girl that he was incapable of.  And it always made sense once she told him.

"Go on.  You're doing great," he said.

Jill furrowed her brow in concentration.

"I do not think she planned to tell him at the dance.  Perhaps he forced it by something he said.  He may have chosen the occasion to ask her to marry him.  After his---do they call it ‘a fit of anger'---she doesn't want to stay," she said slipping into the present tense as she imagined it.  "She cannot go home in his car, so she walks perhaps.  The night is warm and the sky is clear."

"How do you know what the weather was like?"

"The weather forecast was in the newspaper," she said impatiently.  "So while she walks, someone sees her and tries to coax or force her into his car.  She resists.  He hits her head, only too hard, killing her instead of only rendering her unconscious."

"The boyfriend would be the perfect suspect except for the alibi and polygraph," he said.

Richard imagined a troubled underclassmen cruising the town and spotting one of the most popular girls walking alone.

He knows where she lives, so he goes ahead and waits until she comes by.  He hides and rushes out as she passes, bashing her unconscious.  He throws her into the vehicle and takes her to the trailer where he discovers that she is already dead.  But why the postmortem strangulation, the change of clothing, and the posing of the body?

"He'd been thinking about doing something like that for a couple of days," he said.

"Why do you think that?"

"She was a victim of opportunity, but he had a place ready and he had the costume ready for her, lingerie to make her wear.  He had a script too, one involving strangulation.  When he killed her prematurely he still tried to turn her into his fantasy."

Thinking about it made her feel ill.

"Spence said her prom clothes were never found," he continued.  "He wouldn't keep them all for souvenirs---except maybe a small item.  Maybe he destroyed them because he knew about trace evidence, which we know he did because he left nothing at the trailer but the body and the jimmy marks."

"Why did he not burn the trailer?" she asked.

"Because he wanted her to be found.  That's why he left the lights too."

Killing her was not enough, thought Jill.  He punished her after she was dead.  What would he have done to her if she were alive?

She wanted to step back from the emotion and make it all an intellectual problem.  It was too late for that, but it wasn't too late to restore objectivity.

"I know you think Mic did this, but that is only a theory.  Do not assume that it is established.  It is not."

"True, but Leona Morgan described him as a classic sociopath:  an alienated misfit, a skillful manipulator, a guy unable to form or uninterested in a stable emotional relationship."

He stood.  "I'm going to take a shower unless you want me to go out for ice cream again."

"I have no appetite."

While Richard was in the bathroom Jill thought about Mic.

He certainly manipulated me.  His stories about Somalia.  He knew just how to impress me with his sensitivity.  How could I have been fooled for so long when he never showed me any real sensitivity or affection?  All he cared about was my looks, and I was too stupid and vain to notice.

But that wasn't quite true.  That he never cared deeply for her had been apparent from the beginning.  The unmistakable implication of that was that she was only attracted to him for physical reasons also.

Why was I a fool for so long?

Then she realized how Mic had maintained his fiction.

When Richard came from the bathroom she neither looked up nor spoke.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"You knew what he was doing all along," she said.

She saw the shock on his face.

"I mean the lies.  All the things he told me about Africa.  And you knew how he . . . thought about me."

"I wanted to say something to mess it up for him, but I . . . can't explain my behavior to myself much less to you.  Look, would you have said something to me if Marta had been doing something like that?"

"Marta would not."

"Of course not.  But if she had."

"I might speak with her.  I see your point, but it still makes me angry because you helped him deceive me."

"You're likely to be even angrier, and I don't blame you.  I think all this might be my fault.  Mic only came to your table that first day because he noticed me staring at you.  Jill, I didn't point you out.  I never talked to him about you---not ever.  He just picked up on my interest somehow.  Still it was my fault that he came into your life."

She nodded slowly.

"It no longer matters.  Aunt Mirabelle says worrying about the past is tending the ashes instead of the fire."

Cassville, September 7

Further interviews with classmates tended to diminish rather than support Leona Morgan's story.  Male classmates remembered him as tough, smart, and sometimes funny.  Women described him as handsome with a bad boy image that raised warning flags for some and lured others.  Richard sensed some lingering admiration for the troublemaker Mic had been at school, but then again no one claimed to have been his friend.  One woman suggested that they speak with one of the few teachers with whom Mic got along.  Paul Canaday reluctantly agreed to talk with them, perhaps because Jill made the call requesting the meeting.

When they entered Kenner's at two, most of the tables were taken.  A tall, balding man waved them to his booth just as a teenage waitress came to take his order.

"What would you like to drink?" he asked as they slid in.

"Coffee, I think," said Richard.  "Tea for you, Jill?"

"Cindy, could you bring us two coffees and a tea for the lady?" the man said.

"Sure thing, Mr. Canaday," she said with a smile.

"Former student," he explained.  "I've taught half the county now.  I remember exactly what most were like, even where they sat, but I've misplaced a truckload of names."

"But you find William Boyd easy to remember?" prompted Jill.

"A body doesn't forget someone like him.  Or Carly."  He smiled apologetically.  "This is a small town.  When strangers come asking about what happened to her, word gets around in a hurry."

"I assure you that it is not just curiosity, Mr. Canaday," said Jill.

"No, but you're not writing a book either, and you're not journalists because you're not recording the interview or taking notes.  Then again, maybe I've seen too many movies."

He frowned.

"Whatever you're doing, folks, please don't talk to the Williams family.  Carly was their only child, and they couldn't tell you anything anyway.  They're still the most bewildered people in town over what happened.  If you're decent people you won't refresh their sadness."

"We will not bother them," Jill promised.

Canaday looked in her eyes for just a moment.  "Good enough for me," he said.

He sipped his coffee, tented his hands before him with his elbows on the table, his index fingers resting lightly on his pursed lips.

"I'm curious.  Are you French or Canadian?"

"My accent?" she asked in surprise.

"If you have one it's not discernable to me," he said.  "Except when you introduced yourself.  Jill Belbenoit.  Did I say it right?"

"You did it very well.  I am French," she said, impressed.  "And your pronunciation was perfect."

"That's all that's left from my high school French classes, I'm afraid.  Use it or lose it." 

Canaday's smile faded, and he looked away.

"Mr. Canaday?" said Jill.

"Mike, call me Mike," he said distractedly.  "I may have an ethical problem here, especially given my personal feelings about William.  I didn't like him, Miss Belbenoit.  I didn't like him at all.  So you see, I'm quite biased and people change as they mature---at least that's the premise behind sealing juvenile records."

"Could you tell us the kind of trouble he got into at school?" asked Richard.  "We've gotten mixed reports from some of his classmates."

"If I gave you specifics concerning his discipline---or even his attendance records---I'd be breaking the confidentiality statute."

"Surely you can tell us what he was like as a child," Jill suggested.

"He's still charming, isn't he?"

"He can be," she replied.

"He was with many of his classmates.  Not with adults, however.  He did that Eddy Haskell routine, you know?  Well, perhaps you don't.  I keep forgetting how old I am.  Suffice it to say there was no sincerity, only half-hearted attempts to fake it.  Most of the time he seemed to delight in his disrespect, but he was always careful to maintain---to borrow a phrase from an earlier era---plausible deniability."

He stopped abruptly, his eyes shifting from Jill's to Richard's.

"It's obvious that you think he killed Carly.  If you're looking for me to confirm that he's a good candidate for it, I can't."

"We only want to know what he was like.  We have spoken to classmates, and now we need an adult perspective," said Jill.

"We just want background information," added Richard.  "We aren't asking you to judge him."

"Before we go on tell me why this is so important to you?  You've come a long way for this."

Jill looked questioningly at Richard.

"It's your call," he told her.

Canaday took in the interplay with growing interest.

"He threatened to kill me, Mr. Canaday" she said softly.  "I need to know if I should take the threat seriously."

"You're not kidding," he said.  "Oh boy!  How can I tell you that?  I haven't seen him in over ten years.  I don't think I can say anything definitively."

"Then tell me your impressions," she gently insisted.

Canaday pursed his lips.

"Impressions!  Okay.  I'll tell you a little incident---my first run in with him.  I saw this really small junior high boy arguing with one of our new teachers.  She wasn't handling it well, so I decided to help.  Usually a stern word or two will settle a junior high kid right down.  Not this time.  William stared me right in the eye, amused as all get out.  And he got a rise out of me just as he intended.  This knee-high kid was so absolutely sure of himself.  He was chewing on the pocket clasp of a pen and grinning at me.  I grabbed it, intending to pull it from his mouth, but he bit down on it and wouldn't let go.  His eyes literally sparkled."

Canaday paused to sip his coffee, shaking his head as he recalled the incident.

"Sounds silly, doesn't it?  But you see he knew that I couldn't even write up a discipline referral.  I mean, what am I going to say?  He smiled at me.  He chewed on the cap of a pen.  No, he had that all figured out.  I'd let myself get maneuvered into this situation, thinking that I was taking charge, but now I see that he's the one in control.  William just stands there with a triumphant smirk on his face---absolutely unafraid.  We still used corporal punishment back then, but you could have beat that kid within an inch of his life and it wouldn't make any difference.  No one ever intimidated that kid."

Canaday seemed embarrassed after telling the story.

"From your years of being around young people, how unusual do you think he was?" asked Richard.

"I'm just a social studies teacher, not a psychologist.  Many pubescent boys have some of the traits I saw in him."

"However . . ." prompted Jill.

"Most grow out of it.  He just stopped getting caught.  There was always trouble around him, but his hangers on always paid for it, not him."

He paused.

"I'm only telling you this because. . .  Well, I know it sounds melodramatic, but I think he's a psychopath.  I shouldn't say anything like that, but you stay as far from him as you can, Miss Belbenoit."

3:15 PM

"I don't think just one more day here would do us any good," said Richard on the way back to the motel.  "Why don't we head back this afternoon?"

"Then you must drive all night.  Spending the night here will cost no more."

"I get tired driving at night, but never sleepy.  And Marta will be really disappointed if we don't get back in time for you to meet her fiancée."

"I suppose."

She had seemed listless all day, but her lukewarm response to the mention of meeting Marta's fiancée concerned him.

"Is something wrong?"

"We know nothing more than before we came.  No one here thinks he could have done it, not Mr. Spence, Miss Morgan, nor even Mr. Canaday."

"Canaday thinks it's possible, Jill.  You heard him."

"He was just humoring us.  He finds it as hard to believe as the rest."

"Some things are hard to believe despite the evidence.  I woke up in Somalia having trouble believing that I was actually there, that people I didn't even know wanted to kill me.  Our minds instinctively reject the awful."

Jill thought of her stay on Bonne Femme and everything that had happened to her since.

Believe me, Richard.  I know, she said to herself.

Cartier, 11:30 PM

As the bath water ran Marta slipped out of her clothes and drew on a terry cloth robe, looking forward to a leisurely soak before bed.  She couldn't wait to tell Jill the news.  Over dinner she and Alberto had decided to advance their wedding to late May and then honeymoon in Spain on the estate of his uncle near Seville.  She tested the water with a swish of her foot, and, satisfied, turned off the tap.  Just as she was about to step in, the phone rang.  Pulling her robe about her, she hurried for the phone, sure that it was either Jill calling to tell her she was back home, or Alberto phoning from his hotel with a few last words of endearment before bed.

"Halo," she said expectantly.

"Buenas noches, Marta."

She almost dropped the phone when she recognized the voice.

"What do you want?" she finally said.

"To talk . . . for a start," he said softly.

"It is late," she said, unable to think of a more pointed response.

"Yeah."  After a pause, he continued.  "Are you in bed?"

"Why do you call me?  You and I, we have nothing to speak of.  I hang up now."

The clumsy English irritated her.  Mic was beneath her contempt and one did not waste ones time with such people."

"You shouldn't do that, Marta," he warned.  "You need to listen carefully.  I have something real important to say and I wouldn't want you to miss it."

Unable to put down the receiver, Marta felt herself grow cold and weak as possibilities raced through her mind.  Alberto?  Jill?

"What must you tell me?" she finally managed to ask.

"I made a mistake taking up with Jill.  I didn't see you for what you are . . . a seductively attractive woman.  We could have a lot of fun together if we gave it a chance."

"I am to . . . to be married," she said trying to sound indignant.

But she wasn't indignant.  She was frightened and trembling.  It was a nightmare that he had suddenly become interested in her.  In shock, she could only continued to hold the phone to her ear as if hypnotized.  Instead of hanging up as she should she just held the phone to her ear.

"I am not interested in you," she finally managed.  "You must leave me alone!"

"Oh," he said mockingly.  "No me moleste!"

"Yes.  Do not trouble me."

He laughed.

"Better think that over.  Maybe you need to keep your options open in case something happens.  You know bad things happen all the time.  Your fiancée, for instance.  He might meet with some kind of trouble.  You just never---"

Marta slammed the phone closed abruptly, in the process breaking off a nail to the quick.  Almost grateful for the distraction of the pain, she opened the nightstand drawer and rummaged until she found clippers.  She trimmed it raggedly and then sat on the edge of the bed hugging herself and sobbing silently and wondering what to do as the forgotten bathwater grew cold.  Jill and Richard were gone, and she couldn't tell Alberto for fear that he would seek out Mic for an immediate confrontation and suffer a beating like the one she and Jill had witnessed in the parking lot.

There was no one she could call and nowhere to go.  Clutching her robe closed, she went from room to room, flipping on switches until every room was lit and checking each door to make sure it was locked and bolted.  Finally she went to the bedroom and flung herself down, hoping for the oblivion of sleep and yet fearing what might happen if she did manage to fall asleep.  Soon, she was up again to examine all the windows and to recheck the doors.  All the locks and latches seemed as flimsy as stage props.

Back in the bedroom, she drew the curtains tight and then secured them with safety pins.  Then she closed the bedroom door and propped a chair under the knob.  Finally, she turned off the light.  Once again in bed, she pulled the covers over her head and curled into a fetal position.  But she lay awake, imagining horrid possibilities while, with burning eyes and queasy stomach she wished for daylight.

Cartier, September 8

Richard's preconceptions were wrong.  He half expected to encounter an arrogant don with pretensions of aristocracy, but was pleasantly surprised that he liked Alberto immediately.

"Señor Muerga," he began when they were introduced.

"Alberto, Richard, if you will permit me to use your first name.  After all, our fiancées are good friends."

"You honor me," said Richard.

The comment drew a raised eyebrow from Jill.

"Marta tells me you are a policeman?" said Alberto.

"Hardly.  I was only an auxiliary deputy for a short time last year.  I am studying for a career in law enforcement however.  You run an import-export business, correct?"

"The family does.  I'm afraid that my occupation is not as interesting as the one you have chosen."

"You're kidding.  You travel throughout Europe, wheeling and dealing, making important decisions.  Most of my time will be spent serving papers and running the back roads in the middle of the night."

"All occupations are mundane, I suppose.  As for my extensive traveling, I'm afraid that offices and warehouses look much the same from Paris to Peoria."

Richard laughed.

"He's like you, Jill.  He speaks better English than I do."

The conversation was light and enjoyable, but Jill noticed that Marta seemed preoccupied.  She had the feeling that something had gone wrong.  Perhaps her engagement was unraveling.  Alberto, however, appeared completely at ease.

"Marta, I need to visit the ladies' room," she said.  "Come with me?"

Richard had been trying to think of a way to talk to Alberto alone.  Now, as he watched the women walk to the back of the restaurant, he wondered if Jill had read his mind.

"Has Marta told you anything about the trouble Jill and I are having?" he asked.

"If the matter is personal, she would not."

"So, she hasn't told you," mused Richard.  "Well, I think a man has the right to know everything that might involve his woman."

"Yes." said Alberto, suddenly alert.  "But you say this trouble involves you and Jill.  What does it have to do with Marta?"

"Right now, nothing except that she's Jill's best friend.  I want to keep it that way, but I might not be able to."

Richard quickly filled Alberto in on the situation with Mic, including only the fact that he was violent, unstable, and obsessed with Jill.  He withheld his suspicion that Mic had killed Rose Ford.

"You think this danger may increase to involve Marta also," he said grimly.  "What should I do?"

"Take her with you," said Richard without hesitation.

Alberto sipped his wine and studied Richard intently for a moment.  Putting the glass down, he shook his head.

"She will not go, even if I insist.  She is a stubborn woman."  He frowned in concentration.  "Perhaps you exaggerate the danger.  Please do not be offended, but no one has to tell people like---Marta and me---about danger.  In my country we are very security conscious.  I am sure you have heard of the kidnappings.  If Marta thinks she has something to fear, she will leave this place.  She is stubborn, but not foolish."

"The last thing I want to do is worry you, Alberto, but this is something you had to know."

"Thank you, my friend.  Can I call you that?  I ask because I need a favor of you, Richard."

"Of course.  Anything."

Alberto took his wallet and a pen from his jacket pocket, extracted a business card, and hurriedly wrote on it before sliding it across the table. 

"That is a number where I can always be reached.  Inform me of anything else that I must know."

"Of course.  I'll also keep an eye out for her."

"There is something else, Richard.  That house she is renting.  Have a security system installed and send the bill to the number on that card."

Suddenly, Alberto realized that he had been talking to Richard as if giving orders to one of his subordinates.

"Permit me to buy a similar system for your home also, my friend."

"Thank you, Alberto, but that won't be necessary.  I have good locks, a firearm, and military training."

As the women came toward the table, Alberto leaned forward.

"We shall keep this between ourselves," said Alberto softly.  "Our women must be permitted to enjoy the evening."

September 9

"You can't start keeping things from me like this!" Richard said in exasperation.

"I told you.  She only told me last night.  She made me promise not to say anything while Alberto was still here because she was afraid that he would confront Mic."

"I understand her, but not you.  We have to share everything.  There can't be information we hold back.  We can't afford that."

Jill knew he was right, however, there were certain details of Mic's behavior that she had no intention of sharing with him for the same reason that Marta withheld what had happened from Alberto.  Marta was sure Alberto could not prevail against Mic, and she felt the same way about Richard.  Given the same circumstances she would do the same thing again.  It was the way women protected their men more frequently than men suspected.  Of course, she didn't consider Richard "her man," but, without conscious intention, he had become her responsibility as much as he had made her his.

"You are right," she said.

The phone rang and Richard answered.

"Sure.  If you've got more.  When do you get off?" he asked before putting his hand over the receiver.  "JR has more background on him.  Can you and Marta wait together at school until four today?"

She nodded.

"All right, JR.  Out at your place?  Okay."

He hung up the phone and rubbed both hands over his face wearily.

"I should have told you what Marta said sooner, but I could not," she said.

"I had no right to holler at you either.  I kept something back too.  When you two left the table last night, I filled Alberto in.  I told him that Marta might be in danger."

"She will be upset.  She does not want him to worry."

Mic had completely ignored Marta before.  Even now Richard suspected that his interest was only secondary.  But he wasn't at all sure of that.

"If Alberto finds out about the phone call, he'll do more than worry.  He'll insist that she leave.  I think maybe I should call him."

"She made me promise not to let him find out, Richard."

"I made a promise too.  I told him I'd install a security system for her and inform him of anything else that happens.  Don't you think this falls under that heading?"

"She did not say what Mic said, only that he called.  Maybe you should tell him."

He probably just called trying to find out where we were, he said to himself.  If she acted upset, he wouldn't resist trying to upset her more.

"If he threatened her, she would have told you, wouldn't she?"

"I think so."

The logical thing would be to tell Alberto, but then he would insist that she leave.  Richard hated the idea of disrupting Marta's life so precipitously, to say nothing of depriving Jill of her only friend.

"We can all breathe a little easier once I get them to install her security system.  Of course the best solution might be for her to move in here.  You two could share the bedroom."

"I will persuade her to stay until the security devices are installed, but she will not move in with us."

"You already asked?"

"Yes, last night."

Richard followed in the Cougar while Jill drove to pick up Marta, and stayed with them until they were safely at the campus, after which he bought groceries and got an oil change before returning to the house to kill time until JR went off duty.  He called Jill to check in again before he left for JR's house.  The early afternoon sun burned uncomfortably through the windshield despite the premature thirty-degree temperatures and a gusty northwest wind.  Almost daily small craft warnings were being issued as gale season approached.  It made him think of their time on Bonne Femme when things were more complicated but somehow simpler, more confused and yet clearer.

JR opened the door still in uniform but shoeless. 

"Have a seat and grab a cup of coffee," he said, showing him to the kitchen table.

"That sheriff down in Missouri didn't sound too impressed by you the other day," he said over his shoulder as he poured coffee into blue enamel camping cups, the kind Richard called lip burners.

"Coffee tastes better made in one of these things," said JR, holding up an ancient percolator with a glass bulb on the lid.  The trick is not to clean it too often.  Let it build up the right amount of oil to season the pot.  Pitch in a smidgen of salt or a mite of eggshell to settle out the grounds, and it's perfect."

"JR's version of the Japanese tea ceremony?"

"Aunt Darma's.  That lady could cook up a storm.  Best biscuits in the world:  flaky, melt-in-your-mouth moist---cathead biscuits."

Richard sipped carefully, wary of the hot metal.

"My compliments to Aunt Darma," he said.  "Where's them biscuits?"

"Sorry, all you get is this," said JR, taking a manila file from atop the refrigerator and handing it to him.  "Boyd's service records, driver's records, and an updated criminal record---or the lack of one rather.  He's clean as a hound's tooth as far as I can see."

"Can I copy this?"

"In longhand.  Can't take it with you.  It's kind of awkward me using department resources for your investigation."

Richard nodded his understanding, took a pen and pad from his shirt pocket, and jotted down dates paired with one and two word notations as he read through the records from Barry County confirming the Spence's account of dropped assault and property damage charges just previous to Mic's enlistment.

"From this it seems like the judge made the right decision," said Richard as he quickly scanned the other reports in the file.  "Since he left Cassville he's served his country, stayed out of trouble, paid his taxes, and now he's getting an education."

"No, he ain't---getting an education, that is."

"He's been at Pere Marquette since last fall."

"Never enrolled, Richard.  Not working either as far as I can determine.  Money without visible means, what does that tell you?"

"Drugs?"

"Something illegal unless someone died and left him a pile or he's got someone working to support him."

"If he's not attending college, what brought him to Cartier?"

"Well it's a nice place," said JR.

"Not that nice," murmured Richard, turning his attention to Mic's service record.

Like Richard, Mic had enlisted for a six-year hitch and made his promotions on time, the only blemish being a non-judicial punishment concerning "a serious lack of judgment involving the rules of engagement."

"Did you see this?"  He turned the file around and pointed to the passage.

"Couldn't be too serious," said JR.  "He didn't even lose a stripe.  What's that ‘rules of engagement?'"

"The conditions under which you're allowed to shoot somebody.  In general these so-called peacekeeping missions allow return fire only."

"The bad guys get to take the first shot.  But you think Boyd might have shot first?"

"No.  The rules of engagement in Somalia were modified.  We were going into an area where everybody and his brother had weapons.  There were about six or seven irregular militias, armed gangs really---no government at all.  We came in to settle things down, and part of that was letting the bad guys know that it wasn't open season on the Americans.  We were allowed to use deadly force whenever we sensed a threat.  We didn't have to wait until Marine blood was on the ground."

"So, what's this about?"

"Hard to say without seeing the record of inquiry.  My guess is that he either shot an unarmed person, fired too close to civilians, or provoked an incident with the locals---not that that was hard to do.  We were heroes when we first arrived, but that didn't last.  We didn't make a big enough difference.  We'd be escorting a food convoy and the people who weren't getting it would throw rocks and bottles at us.  Sometimes big protests occurred, got ugly, degenerated into riots.  Sniping increased.  Stuff like that began happening every day."

"You'd think they'd be thankful for what we were trying to do for them," said JR.

"I heard that gratitude is the most fleeting of motivations," said Richard, frowning as he read the rest of Mic's service record.  "Besides, it probably looked different from their side."

He reread a passage.  "Huh!  He requested and got a two-month drop."

"A what?"

"An early out.  That's not like the Corps," he said distractedly.  "But it fits with the general discharge.  He screwed up and the Corps decided that he was unfit for service, but they didn't have anything that would warrant a dishonorable discharge.  He was unfit all right.  Anyone who served with him could have told them that."

He finished and slid the folder across the table.  Until four they discussed what Richard had found in Cassville and then what little JR had found out about Rose Ford.

"It's all conjecture and gut instinct, Richard.  We can't prove anything."

The remark triggered a memory.

"JR, he once told me that you can do anything you want if you're smart enough because it doesn't matter what people know if they can't prove it."

"There's a lot of smart people in jail who thought that, Richard.  There's something that's been bothering me about the Ford woman.  If he did that, and if he's all that smart, then why did he let us find her body?  Why didn't he just leave it where it was or dispose of it better than that?  Why would he all of a sudden get sloppy?"

Richard couldn't see it all, but something was beginning to come together.  Mic had killed Rose but had produced her body only after he and Jill had returned from Bonne Femme.  It made him uneasy to think that Mic might be smart enough to carry through on what he was planning and deluded enough to think he could get away with it

"Maybe he was making a statement, JR."

He picked up the cell phone and called Jill, anxious to hear her voice.

Jill's phone rang just as she stepped into the hall.  She took it from her purse and leaned to the wall to answer amid passing students eager to leave campus after the late afternoon class.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No.  I just called to see if you're ready to leave."

"Yes.  I just got out of class," she replied.  "But we have a problem.  Marta says she will be okay at her house until you get the security system installed."

"Talk her into staying the night at least."

"I have tried.  She says she does not wish to intrude, but I think our . . . situation makes her uncomfortable.  She is very proper and---  Oh.  She is coming.  Are you here yet?"

"I'm still at JR's, but I'm leaving right now.  Wait at the college until I get there."

"There is no need," said Jill as Marta came up.  "We will be together."

"No!" he said sharply.  "I mean, please wait for me.  Just give me fifteen minutes.  I'm on my way into town right now."

His concern unsettled her.  She wondered if he had learned something frightening from JR.

"We will wait," she said.

"Was that Richard?" asked Marta as Jill put the phone back in her purse.

"Yes.  He wishes for us to wait so that he can follow us to your house, but we both want you to spend the night with us."

"I will be fine," said Marta as they walked in tandem.

Their footsteps echoed in the suddenly deserted Language Arts building.  Marta looked at her watch.

"Do we have time to go to the bookstore?"

"If you hurry.  It closes at four," said Jill as they neared the restrooms.  "Go on.  I will come in a few minutes."

Jill went into the restroom while Marta hurried toward the elevator at the end of the corridor.  She punched the down button and waiting impatiently as it made its way up from the basement.  When the doors shushed open she stepped inside.  When she heard someone enter behind her, she said, "What floor?"

"I'm going wherever you are."

Marta froze.

"Oh," she gasped as she recognized the voice.

She turned to face Mic, trying to keep from betraying how frightened she was.

"Hello," she said, flustered that she couldn't think of how to respond after his call the previous evening.

He stared at her unblinkingly until she looked away.  Then he reached around her to punch the keypad.  Continuing to lean toward her, he placed his palm on the wall beside her barring her escape.

"Finally got you alone," he breathed.  "I'll bet you found it hard to sleep after my call the other night.  Sorry about that.  I was just trying to be friendly."

Marta tried to look confident when she answered him.

"It is okay.  I accept your apology."

"I just wanted you to know how I feel about you."

"You must stop.  I am to be married . . . and . . . it was very improper . . . the things you say last night."

"Improper can be fun.  Maybe that's what you really want.  Your fiancée doesn't need to know about us," he said as the elevator stopped and opened at the deserted second floor.

"You must leave me alone," she said.  "And please let me out.  This is where I go."

"No," he said as the doors slid closed.  "You know I've been attracted to you so long."

He stepped forward until his chest was almost touching hers.  "I've seen the way you look at me."

"I do not," she said as she retreated, bumping into the wall.

"You're dusky beauty really turns me on," he said, crowding her again, herding her into the corner.

Marta wanted to turn away, but any movement would bring her into contact with him.  All she could do was turn her head to avert his gaze and hope someone would enter the elevator with them.  It never occurred to her to scream.  A woman of her class and station would never do such a thing.

"I need you," he whispered as the elevator stopped with a soft thump.

She stood with eyes downcast, afraid to even breath.  The doors slid open onto the basement floor.  He glanced quickly over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone, and then he lightly touched her cheek.

"No!" she said, slapping his hand away.

She darted around him trying to escape the intimate confinement.  He caught her arm and pulled her back inside.

"Don't leave mad."

"Leave me alone," she said, with as much indignation as she could muster.

He gripped her arm painfully.

"You've been left alone too long, Marta.  It's time you got a little . . . male attention."

She wrenched free.  "Do not touch me again!" she said.

"You don't mean that.  You want to be . . . touched, and Alberto is far away, but I'm here."

As she rushed toward the stairs and the sanctuary of the bookstore above, he called after her.

"I'll always be here, Marta.  Count on it."

Jill knew something had happened as soon as she saw her friend.

"He was in the elevator, Jill."

"Did he hurt you?" she asked, rushing forward.

"He only . . . touched my face," she said, her face twisting in anguish.  "I must wash myself."

"He threatened you?" asked Jill, putting her arm around her friend.

"He only say---he only said improper things."

Marta hugged Jill before disengaging from the comforting embrace.  Then she squared her shoulders.

"Jill, I change my mind.  If you permit, I will stay with you and Richard tonight.  I cannot be alone in my house until the alarm system is made.  I hate this!  He even make---makes my English bad."

Richard stared glumly at his database.  He had constructed it by date with fields for Mic's whereabouts, incidents in his life, acquaintances, as well as the death of Carly William's, the disappearance of Rose Ford, and the consequent discovery of her body.  Presently, it was nothing more than easily reviewable notes, and he wasn't reviewing them to any purpose because he was preoccupied with what had happened at the college this afternoon.  He had obviously made a mistake in doubting that Mic's only interest in Marta was as a means to intimidate Jill.  Now he realized that she too was in real danger.  At least "the stubborn woman," as Alberto had fondly called her, had agreed to stay with them until her security system was installed.

Female laughter from the kitchen interrupted his brooding.  That's a good sign, he thought as he went for more coffee.  He walked in to find Marta with the sleeves of her dark blue blouse rolled up.  White splotches and a dusting of flour overspread the blouse, her designer jeans, and even the smooth skin of one dark cheek.

"You look like a natural, Marta," he said as he poured his coffee.  "What are you guys making?"

"Hand tossed pizza," said Jill as Marta pushed back hair from her forehead, managing to get more flour on her face.

"Next time I must wear clothes of a lighter color," she said.

The pizza making was time-consuming, distractingly messy, and produced a surprisingly good result despite being made on the spur of the moment with ingredients on hand.  By the time they finished eating Marta had visibly relaxed.  He helped them with the clean up, and then they all settled in to watch a movie on cable.  No one mentioned Mic.

When Marta went to shower, Jill brought Richard's blankets and pillow to the couch and then sat down beside him.

"How's she doing?" he asked.

"She is frightened of course.  What can we do, Richard?"

"Mic's writing the script," he said.  "But you're right, I've got to do something.  I can't just let it go on."

"No, you do not have to do something---at least nothing rash or foolish.  He is trying to manipulate you into starting a fight.  Do not do it."

Despite what she was telling him, Richard knew that his failure to respond to Mic's provocations would weaken her faith in his ability to protect her.  Besides which it ate at his self-esteem.  A man had to fight when his woman was threatened.  Jill didn't consider herself "his woman," but in a sense she was because she had placed herself under his protection.  Besides that, there was the genetic imperative:  if a man wouldn't stand and fight to protect her, then a woman could do nothing but despise him.  Men knew that, and women did too when they were honest about it.  Jill was too strong not to despise him if he didn't try to end the intimidation.

"Richard, please," she said as if reading his mind.

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Fighting will not stop him.  It will only escalate things."

Three rapid beeps sounded from the computer.

"Who could be sending an e-mail this late," she said as she rose to see.

Richard watched as she bent to click the mouse without sitting down.  Suddenly she gasped and stepped back, hands clutched to her breast.  He rushed over to see what had evoked her reaction.

A lurid black and white picture filled the screen:  a nude woman lay face up with her long, dark hair splayed around her head as if purposely arranged.  The eyes, wide with fully dilated pupils, stared dully upward.  White cord was looped around her bruised neck, the ends trailing down each shoulder.

"I'll call JR," he said more calmly than he felt as he darkened the monitor.

"Was that. . . was it Rose Ford?" gasped Jill.

"No," he said as he punched in JR's number.  "I didn't recognize her."

He watched in horrid fascination as the screen relit bringing the grisly scene into stark focus.  Now he noticed that she had been bound.  Her lower arms were under her narrow waist.  The scene was the opposite of erotic, although the thing that had killed her no doubt had found it so.  All Richard could think of as he looked at her was how her dignity had been stripped away.  Someone had done his best to take away her humanity as well as her life.

"Dios mio!" said Marta.

She and Jill huddled across the room on the couch.

"It think this is a crime scene shot," said JR.  "It has that clinical feel.  And see that at the bottom?"

Superimposed over the litter on the floor were neat letters in white near the lower right hand corner: cds/01.

"Probably the first picture in a set.  CDS could be the investigating officer's initials, a case code, or even the jurisdiction."

"You've seen this before?" asked Richard.

"Not this particular one," he said.  "Miss Belbenoit, can you print this picture and then save it permanently?"

"It is automatically saved to a temporary file," she said, coming over to sit at the computer.  "I will burn a CD of it.  In the meantime let us not look at it anymore."

After closing the file she called up a program, sorted through menus, and selected files quickly.  A short time later the program reported the successful completion of its task.  She popped the CD from its tray, put it in a jewel case, and handed it to JR.  While the printer hummed about its business, he went to his car for evidence envelopes.  Coming back in, he put the printout and the CD inside separate ones, wrote the date, time, location, and a description of contents on each envelop and fastened the clasps.

"Can you find where that came from?" he asked her.

"I can discover who sent it," she said, clicking the mouse rapidly.  "It is tagged with the date and time of arrival.  Closing the file---  That is odd.  The program should tell me, but it does not."

"Mic sent it," Richard whispered to JR.  "He's been bothering Marta as well as Jill.  He must know that she's here tonight."

"Has Boyd threatened you, Miss Florez?" asked JR.

"Yes.  He called me, and he . . . bothered me in the elevator today.  He says . . . inappropriate things."

"Like what?"

"That he is attracted to me and wants to . . . be with me."

"That's it?"

"He knows that I am engaged," she said indignantly.

He gave Richard a brief grim smile as he thought how to frame his response.

"Ladies, I know all this is upsetting, but there's not much we can do about it.  If he makes an overt threat, then it's a different story," he said gathering his hat and jacket.  "For now all we can do is document this and put these in the evidence locker."

Richard accompanied him to the car.

"This is pretty nasty game, JR."

"It's not a crime to ask for a date.  That picture is disturbing, but sending it isn't even a misdemeanor.  About the only thing considered prosecutable obscenity nowadays is child pornography."

"This is harassment.  You have to be able to do something."

"If either of them can document a pattern of harassing behavior something might be done, but I wouldn't hold out much hope.  I didn't want to say that in there because they're already upset enough."

"At least you've got a record of it," said Richard glumly as they arrived at the curb.  "Thanks for coming over."

"I'll tell you what I'll do.  I'll see if I can find out where that photo came from originally.  I don't think it was scanned from a book, and if it wasn't, then there's an outside chance that it was obtained illegally.  But even if that is the case, and we can prove that he was the one that sent it, we're not looking at any jail time."

He paused at the car.  "Don't confront him about this, Richard.  I don't care how mad you are.  You stay away from him."

"It can't go unchallenged."

"If you end up with an assault charge over this it could really queer things if he's ever prosecuted for the Ford woman's murder.  You two already have a history.  Much more of that and your testimony won't be worth squat."

Richard's stomach churned at the outrage, but he knew that JR's logic was tight.

"Besides, right now those two only have you to look out for them.  You couldn't do that from jail.  Listen," said JR as he started the engine.  "You've got me pretty well convinced about the Ford woman.  I'll work that as hard as I can.  We'll keep in touch, okay?"

Richard nodded.  After watching his friend's taillights fade into the fog, he went back inside where he found Jill sitting on the couch, dressed in the oversized sweatshirt and walking shorts she frequently slept in.  The room was lit only by light coming in from the kitchen.

"Marta took a sleeping pill," she said.  "I think she's going back to Merida soon."

He noticed a folded featherbed beside her on the couch.  "I don't need that," he said.  "But thanks for bringing it out."

"It is for me, Richard.  But I will sleep in the bedroom if you wish."

"Do you want to talk?"

"Not really.  I may not be able to sleep, and do not want to disturb her."

Jill enfolded herself in the comforter and leaned into a corner of the couch.  He sat on the opposite end, expecting her to speak, but after a time he realized that she had finally found sleep.  A murmuring pulled him from the twilight preceding his own sleep.  She suddenly jerked awake.  He watched her in silhouette, waiting for her to speak.  Instead, she carefully laid the featherbed aside and went softly toward the bathroom.

When she came back, she picked up the comforter and wrapped it about her.

"Are you awake?" she whispered.

"Yeah.  Is everything okay?"

Instead of answering, she sat next to him.  "I keep seeing that woman."

Richard boiled with anger.  It was exactly what Mic had intended.

"You must not let him provoke you," she said.  "Promise me that you will not."

"Everyone is telling me the same thing," he said,  "I'm smarter than that."

He knew in his gut, however, that letting it slide was a mistake because Mic would read it as weakness, and that was sure to provoke him.

She moved closer and he adjusted his position to accommodate her.

"It is because of me," she said.  "I could not live with the guilt if something happened to either of you."

"None of this is your fault," he said.

"That is not true.  You, I, Mic---we all had our part in causing this.  Now we have involved Marta too."

"It's fine to take responsibility for your actions, Jill.  But intentions are what really matter.  You and I made mistakes.  What he's doing is deliberate.  I know you're terrified but I promise you that everything will be all right.  I'm not going to let him do anything."

"Oh, Richard.  How can you make such a promise?"

A moment later he felt her head on his shoulder.

"I believe you though," she said.  "I really do."

After she had fallen asleep he lay awake, the feel of her against him a reminder of his responsibility.

She trusts me, he thought.

It was time for honesty---at least with himself.  No matter what he had told her, he knew in his gut that Mic would never be frightened away.  Nor would he lose interest in Jill.  Richard fantasized sacrificing himself by simply killing Mic, but it wasn't in him and he knew it.  The only way out was to see Mic behind bars for killing Rose Ford, but how that was to be accomplished was beyond him.

Later on that night he thought of a way to provide both the girls a temporary respite, but he didn't fool himself into thinking that it would be even a partial solution.  It would be just a badly needed breather.