Chapter 12

6:50 AM, September 20

Richard waited in the car while Jill went up to get Marta.  They seemed ready to go, but then Marta turned back and punched at the security pad.  Then they both went back inside, but only a moment later they came back out and walked down to the car.

"Did you forget something?" asked Richard when they got in the car.

"The phone rang as we were leaving," said Jill.

"I thought it was Alberto," said Marta.  "But I think it was only a wrong number."

As soon as they were gone, Mic crossed the street, and strode to the door.  Holding a small flashlight at an oblique angle, he peered through a magnifying lens looking for disturbances in the thin smooth coating of Vaseline he had applied to the keypad before dawn.  As soon as he had established that she had touched only two buttons, he turned to leave and immediately saw an old lady giving him the fisheye.  Improvising quickly, he turned back and waved toward the door as if saying goodbye.

He had breakfast at a coffee place that offered free Internet access.  Logging on, he quickly found the website for the manufacturer of Marta's system, paged through until he found her keypad model, and then called up a user's manual.

"Four digit arming code," he muttered.

She had only touched the "0" and "5" keys.  Knowing the most people used numbers that had a personal meaning, he called up spreadsheet and began playing with the combinations.

Fifty-fifty?  The odds that I wring your neck like a chicken?

He decided to go about it logically, and was delighted to find that there were only fourteen possible combinations.  Using four different numbers would have yielded twenty-four possibilities.  The manual said that three wrong entries in a row would deny access for half an hour.  With only fourteen possibilities, punching the combinations at random would get him inside in no more than five sessions at the keypad, but he couldn't hang around punching numbers without being noticed.  He needed quick entry.

Studying the numbers, he suddenly laughed.

7:00 AM, September 21

He parked the van across the street, and scanned the block.  Seeing no one, he gathered his toolkit and was about to get out when the old lady inexplicably appeared in the yard next to Marta's and began tottering around the lawn.

"There's frost on the ground, you dried up old hag!" muttered Mic, his breath fogging the glass.  "Get the hell back in the house!"

Old people infuriated him.  He hated their hobbling gait, shaky hands, and wheezing breath.  They were always in the way, in traffic, at the checkout line.  Worst of all, they were always awake and watching.  Irritated, he wiped fog from the glass just in time to see the old woman dodder back up the steps.

"About damned time!" he said as he opened the door.

Dressed in the dark coveralls of a city worker and carrying a clipboard as well as his toolbox, he crossed the street and walked straight to the front door as if he had a job to do there, which he did.  He punched in zero-five-zero-five, and smiled when the keypad's green light winked.

"Cinco de Mayo," he said in a deliberately bad accent.  "Who could guess a wet back would pick that number?"

He quickly inserted his picks, savoring the tightly precise feel of it.  New ones yielded easily when he applied pressure to the right spots, and he had the knack of negotiating the inside of one as surely as a blind man making his way through his own home.

"You sweet thing," he muttered when he felt the lock give way.

Once inside, he went to the master keypad and put the system to sleep.  He reprogrammed the phone in the living room and then went to the bedroom to change the speed dial on that one before getting down to work.  He opened his toolbox and took out a roll of fine copper wire, solder, a soldering pencil, and a tube of epoxy.  Then he carefully removed the curtain rod and curtains from the bedroom window.

Forty-five minutes later he had finished.  Unless a person happened to look for it, he would never notice that the window strip of the system had been by-passed.  He rearmed the security system and opened the window to make sure.  As he knew it would, the alarm remained silent.  While it was open, he leaned out to note the location of the phone service entry.  Before replacing the curtain, he unscrewed the old-fashioned window latch and pocketed the screws, leaving the pieces in place, however, so that a casual inspection would make it appear securely locked.  Then he did a thorough search of the house to make sure there was no gun, which there wasn't.  After a last walk-through to make sure nothing was out of place and a quick inventory of his tools to make sure he had left nothing, he checked to make sure the old woman wasn't back outside.  On the stoop he quickly reset the deadbolt and rearmed the security system.  Just in case the hag was watching, he paused halfway to the street, turned to smile, and then waved.

Richard sat in a corner booth munching crumbly pastry as exorbitantly priced as his café americano and half-listening to the animated conversation as the women talked fashion, describing elements of design that were as incomprehensible to him as they were uninteresting.  No matter, his input was not required.

The women had spent the morning browsing clothing stores to get ideas for Marta's wedding while he tagged along to keep an eye on them.  It was heartening to see Jill lose herself in her friend's plans.  He listened without comprehending as the women flipped from English to Spanish to French finding words to describe the details of what he finally understood must be the ideal wedding dress.  He had known from the beginning that Jill was smart, almost startlingly so, but until he heard them conversing effortlessly in three languages, he hadn't realized that he had grossly underestimated Marta.

I misjudged her because of her less than perfect accent, and I don't even speak one language well, he thought.  I wonder how dumb they think I am?

He decided that Jill wasn't overly impressed with his intelligence, but she trusted him.  He couldn't call that an accomplishment because he had done nothing worthy of it.  Yet she did trust him, and that was no minor miracle.

No doubt I'm the dumbest of us sitting here, but I'm the one who has to think our way through it.  What did Kevin say?  Something about thinking too much?  "You have this habit of weighing all the consequences before you act.  That could get you dead."

"Richard?" said Jill.  "Marta and I are going back to one of the shops.  We may be there a while."

"Do you mind if I curl up here with a book?  I'll buy some more coffee to keep them from throwing me out.  You can meet me here when you're ready to go.  But don't go outside and don't separate."

As they departed he watched until they disappeared into the throng.  It reminded him of the times he waited trying to catch a glimpse of her on campus before he even knew her name.

None of this would be happening to you if not for me, he thought.  He would have never noticed you.  But it'll be over soon.  Soon we'll be rid of him.

Even as he thought it, the import of what he was thinking sounded a cautionary alarm.  It was just that sort of short-timer's attitude that got soldiers killed.  Thinking it was nearly over could lead down either of two deadly paths:  a guy could begin to relax and get careless, or he could get too careful and timid as he started counting down the days.  Either way, he tended to forgo the habits that had carried him safely through so far.

Assume nothing but danger.  Nothing's over until you're on the plane out.

"Mistake!" he said aloud as he jumped up.  "You let her out of your sight!"

It was the middle of the day, and they were in a public place.  It was ludicrous to think that Mic could separate the two women and then abduct Jill, yet he was suddenly certain that it was happening.

Marta traced the delicate lace of a gown on display.  She was only considering ideas to discuss with her designer; she wouldn't think of buying a wedding gown retail.

"This is a beautiful bodice."

"Yes," agreed Jill.  "Modest, but very elegant.  Your wonderful complexion would make that lace shine."

"You must come, Jill."

"Of course.  How could you get married without me?"

Marta embraced her impulsively.

"I will attend your wedding also, Querida," she said.  "Have you decided when it will be?"

"We cannot think about the future yet," said Jill soberly.

There was nothing else she could tell her friend.  Even if she were really engaged to Richard, it would be thinking too far ahead.  It would be like giving Mic something else to take away from her.  Not that it mattered.  Richard had neither asked nor had she considered the possibility of marriage.  The thought wasn't even hypothetical.

"You must not let him steal your dreams, Jill."

"I worry more about you.  I know he frightens you."

"He has stopped calling, so perhaps he is not interested no more.  Still I am a prisoner here.  I go nowhere without you and Richard.  That is why I go back to Merida at the end of the semester."

"If you were not my friend he would never have bothered you, Marta."

"La culpa no es tuya, hermana.  Only that awful man is to blame."  She smiled weakly.  "I am so grateful that Richard installs the security system.  I feel safe now.  I can sleep again because if someone disturbs the doors or windows it warns me and it calls the police.  I am very safe in my house now.  I know nothing can happen to me there."

Marta frowned before continuing.

"You and Richard should leave this place also."

"This is Richard's home, and we cannot afford to go anywhere else."

"I will give you the money."

"I know.  We cannot accept it."

"Pun de honor," sighed Marta.  "Tell your man that I lend him the money.  There is no loss of pride in that."

Jill was tempted to tell her the truth, but where could she start?  A better question was where it would end.  Her relationship with Richard was too complicated to understand from the outside.  She didn't understand it herself.

"Let us talk about your wedding," she said.

"I know!" cried Marta.  "A vacation!  You must come to Merida for Navidad.  You will love the decorations and the posada.  Or perhaps you come during Carnival.  You will stay with my family, of course."

"It would be difficult, and the trip---"

"Let me pay for it.  My friend needs a holiday.  Please come."

Jill had to smile.  Her usually reserved friend could plead and sound like a little girl when she was enthusiastic.  She was tempted to overlook the difficulties.  Just the thought of having a definite time to look forward to heartened her.

"I will speak with him," said Jill, "But he will not let you pay."

"Then it is settled," said Marta confidently.  "Richard will do anything for you."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because I have never seen a man more in love, not even Alberto."

Richard finally spotted them at the back of the shop, but instead of going in, he settled at a bench across from the entrance.  He was being paranoid, but it was a time for paranoia.  Mic was about to do something.  He could feel it.

6:50 PM

After laying out her nightgown Marta went to begin filling the tub.  When she was satisfied with temperature of the running water, she drizzled in scented bath oil for a leisurely soak that she hoped would smooth the way to an early and dreamless sleep.  She undressed by the bed, and then took the phone and her robe and went to the bathroom, thinking that she would call Alberto from the tub.  On the way she breathed what had become her nightly mantra. 

Otro buen dia.  No me llamó.

Until she was home, she would continue to define a good day as one passed without contact from Mic.

She tested the water and found it too hot, so she adjusted the tap and sat on the edge of the tub watching idly as bubbles multiplied to cover the surface.  Steam began to fog the mirror, so she cracked the door.  Testing the water again, she found it had cooled perfectly.  She turned off the taps, dropped her robe, and slipped in beneath the scented foam.  Resting her towel-wrapped head on the rounded edge of the tub, she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the lulling feel and aroma.  Minutes later, the relaxing warmth carried her into that twilight precursor of sleep where sounds break through but not their meaning.

Suddenly she came awake with a gasp.  Disoriented and frightened without knowing why, she listened intently and craned her neck to peek into what she could see of the darkened bedroom.  Neither hearing nor seeing anything, she finally decided that she must have been dreaming.  Then the bedroom curtain billowed.

He is in the house! she thought in panic.

Cold air licked at her bare shoulders.  Her heart pounded.  In mounting terror she huddled in the tub, thinking incongruously that she would be somehow safer if she could only get to the clothes she had left on the bed.  The tile walls amplified the sound of her breathing.

He hears me!  He is by the door!

It seemed vital that she at least put on her robe so that he wouldn't see her naked.  She stood slowly, trying not to make noise, but water dripped from her into the tub betraying her naked vulnerability.  Her skin tautened into goose flesh as her thoughts constricted to one dread certainty.

He is here!

She stepped from the tub to the cool tile floor and snatched up the robe.  Clutching it closed with trembling hands, she tiptoed to peer through the door.

She flipped off the light, hoping he would think the bathroom was empty.  The bedroom curtain billowed rhythmically, but she heard nothing and saw nothing else.  She knew that he was hiding near the door and wished uselessly that the bathroom door had a lock.  When the breeze died a moment, she saw that the curtain didn't reach all the way to the bottom of the window.

He watched me undress myself.

If he was inside, he had to know where she was.  If he wasn't maybe it was not too late to close and lock the window.  In her panic, she hadn't even considered why the security system hadn't sounded.  Steeling herself, she carefully pulled the door inward.  Breathing thanks that it made no noise, she gathered her courage and stuck her head out to peer with wide eyes toward the living room.  Seeing nothing, she released a quivering sigh.

Why did the alarm not sound? she wondered finally. 

The curtain billowed again.  Cold air brushed her bare feet and legs.

He hides.  Waits for me to come out so that he can . . .

She cut off the thought as she suddenly remembered the cordless phone.  She retreated and pulled the bathroom door shut.  Then she punched up the directory, flinching at the beep and wrapping the phone in her robe to muffle it before and punching the first number.  She held it to her ear, biting her lip in fear.  Finally it rang once, twice, three times.

Please answer!  Please answer! she begged silently.

Finally, she heard a click.

"Someone is here," she gasped in a harsh whisper without waiting.

"Ayudame!  He is inside!"

The phone suddenly went dead.

Cold dread made her slump to the floor.  She sat with her back to the door, realizing that she was alone and trapped.  She tried to think of something she could do.

10:02 PM

Richard sat reading until his turn to shower.  Suddenly the bathroom door slammed against the wall.

"Richard!" shouted Jill, running in clutching her robe closed with one hand and holding the phone in the other.  "Mic just broke into Marta's house!"

He bolted up as she rushed toward him.

"Is she still on the phone?"

She shook her head violently.

"She was cut off.  Hurry, Richard!  We have to help her!"

"Wait.  Wait.  Let's think.  The alarm had to notify the company.  They'll call first, and if they don't get an answer they'll notify the police.  If anything's wrong I'm sure the police have already sent a car."

"What if the alarm didn't work?  We have to go over there!  We have to!"

"Right.  I'll go over right now," he said snatching his keys and wallet from the table.

"I'm coming too."

"No.  You stay here and call the police to make sure they get there."

"I'll call on the way."

"No.  Stay here," he said as he threw on his coat.  "Lock the door and get the pistol.  Don't let anyone in until I get back."

"Richard, I---"

"We're wasting time, Jill.  If something is happening, the last thing I need is to have you there too.  You couldn't help.  You make sure the police get there---and then---then call JR and have him come over."

"To Marta's?"

"No.  Here," he said rushing for the door.  "Be angry if you want, but we don't have time to argue.  Throw the deadbolt right now.  Then get the .45 and make the calls.  Whatever happens, don't leave the house.  If Mic happens to show up and tries to get in shoot at him."

"Wait!  You must take the gun with you."

"No!  You have to have it."

And he was gone. 

Almost in shock, she stood rooted where she was until she heard the Cougar roar off.  She went to deadbolt the door and then punched the first number on the phone's directory.

"Cartier Police Department," a harsh voice said at the second ring.  The man coughed.

"I want to report a . . . break-in at the home of Marta Florez.  The address is . . . let's see, twenty-one thirty-five Birch Street.  You must hurry.  I think the intruder is still there."

"Yes ma'am," rasped the man, sounding as if his voice were about to dissolve into a coughing attack at any second.  "Who am I speaking to?"

"I am Jill Belbenoit, a friend of hers---of Marta Florez.  She just called me.  Please hurry.  My fiancé is going over there right now."

"We're right on it ma'am.  A car should be there in a few minutes."

"Thank you."

"It's our job ma'am."

The line went dead.

That was quick, she thought on her way to the bedroom to get the pistol.

The cool efficiency of the police was reassuring as was the weight of the .45 in her hand.  She wished Richard had taken it with him.  With nothing to do but wait and worry, she carried the automatic with her into the kitchen to make coffee.  She paced while it brewed, deliberately avoiding a look at the clock.  When it was done she poured a cup, added cream, and sipped while pacing the kitchen floor.  No longer able to resist it, she glanced at the clock.

Only ten minutes.

She tried to replay Marta's words, but could remember nothing but the words "He is inside."

She was so frightened that she called me instead of the police.

She frowned.  Something about her own call to the police bothered her.  Then she had it.  The man had been politely reassuring, but had asked only for her name.  He had asked nothing else about the details of the incident.

Perhaps he did not take me seriously.

She decided it would do no harm to call again, but when she did she got only a busy signal.

They have only one line?

She punched in Marta's number again but got nothing.  Another call to the police only elicited the busy signal.  She punched off the phone in frustration and put it back in its cradle.

Richard had flown through town hoping the police would try to pull him over for speeding.  He'd decided to lead them to Marta's and deal with the ticket later, but he arrived without an escort.  The house was totally dark and the neighborhood preternaturally quiet.  He cursed himself for postponing the purchase of a second pistol as he reached beneath the seat for what would have to do as weapon, the six-battery flashlight he'd bought while working with the sheriff's department.  Unconsciously falling into deputy mode, he left the car running and the lights on as if he were making a traffic stop.

Please, God, don't let me be too late! he thought as he ran across the small lawn and pounded loudly on the door, knowing the noise would at least make Mic pause in whatever he was doing if he were inside.

"Marta!  Open up!  It's me, Richard."

He held his breath and listened.  A long, dread-intensifying moment later, he heard the latch click, the door opened slowly.  Marta's eyes appeared huge as she peeked above the still fastened security chain.

"Dios mio!  Dios mio!" she gasped, fumbling with the clasp.

She finally slipped the chain and rushed out onto the cold stoop barefooted.  She clutched her robe about her and peered wearily back into the house as Richard pulled away from the door.

"Did you see him?" she whispered.

"No," he said as he examined the shadows near the house wondering what was keeping the police.

"Did he turn off the lights, Marta?"

"No.  I turn them off so I can hide.  I hide behind the chair by the door.  I listen a long time, but I do not hear nothing.  He is not in the house, Richard.  It is why I do not answer when you knock."

Her breath came in gasps.  "Thank you."

"Maybe we should leave," he said.  "No, we can't.  The police will want to talk to you.  They should be here any time now."

"Why are they not here, Richard?  I call them when I see that the window is open---but then the phone stops before I finish."

He realized that she didn't know that she called Jill rather than the police.  Of course if no one had broken in the alarm wouldn't have notified them.

Something just spooked her and she got hysterical, he thought with relief.

"Let's turn on the lights and check out the house."

"No!" she said clutching his arm tightly.  "He may be inside."

"Come on, it'll be all right.  Even if he's here he won't do anything now that I'm here."

Marta followed him inside only because she was afraid of being alone.

"We need the lights back on," he said.

"The switch for the electricity is the closet," she said, pointing to a door barely visible in the light coming in from the street.

Before going in further, Richard raised his flashlight to ear level, clicked it on, and played it around the room to make sure that no one hid in the shadows.  He went to the closet and switched the main breaker.  The bedroom and bathroom lights came on.

"Smart of you to think of turning off the lights like that," he said.

He did a quick walkthrough with Marta holding tightly to his arm.  Just as he was satisfied that Marta had succumbed to imagination, he saw the open bedroom window.  Then he saw half of a window latch on the floor.  Frowning, he raised the curtain and saw that the screws had been removed from the latch.  Then he saw the snipped alarm wire and the bypass.

"Where's the phone?" he asked.

"Behind the chair where I hide," she said.

They went to the living room where he saw that the base was plugged in.  When she retrieved the phone, he turned it on and listened.  It was dead just as she said.  He went back to the bedroom, raised the window, and leaned out.  When he shined the flashlight onto the telephone entrance outside wall he saw a loose wire protruding from the open box.

Why didn't you cut the line first? he wondered.

Then he saw it.

"Oh My God!" he gasped, grabbing her wrist.  "We've got to go."

"My clothes---"

"There's no time!  He's going after Jill!"

He ran out into the dark, Marta following, still barefooted.  His car's lights were on, but it wasn't running.  He yanked at the door, but it was locked.  Shining the flashlight at the ignition he saw what he feared.

"He took my keys!"

He tried to chase away his dread so that he could think.

"Okay.  Marta, run back to the kitchen and get me a sharp knife."

"I don't want to go back---"

The sound of his elbow shattering the driver's side window cut her short.

"We have to get to Jill.  Now get me a knife, okay?"

Marta nodded and ran back toward the house.  He opened the door, got down to shine the flashlight up under the dash, and began sorting through wires.

Please don't let anything happen to her.  She's smart. She won't let him in.

Then he prayed.

I'll do anything you want if you just keep him out of the house.

As he pulled down two wires his hands trembled. 

"One thing at a time, Richard," he said, trying to steady himself.  "Concentrate."

Jill paced nervously, the weight of the .45 in her hand a constant reminder of her fear.  She wished Richard would call.  Then she realized that she had forgotten to call JR, and quickly punched in the number for the sheriff's department.

"This is Jill Belbenoit," she said as soon as the dispatcher answered.  "I need to talk to JR."

"Is this official department business?" came the reply.

She thought a moment.  Marta was the one in danger, not her, despite Richard's concern.

"It may be," she said.  "But perhaps not.  Can you put me through to him?"

She heard the dispatcher sigh.  "He's on patrol, but I'll relay a message."

"Tell him that the police are responding to a call at Marta's and that Richard has gone there also.  He wanted JR to come here, but if he is on duty it is not necessary."

After she hung up, she called Marta's again.  Getting no answer, she wanted to call the police again, but hesitated.  Then she decided that it would hurt nothing and called again.  Once more she received a busy signal.

There has to be more than one line.

Sipping at her coffee, her glance fell on the computer monitor.  She went over, put the pistol on the stand, and sat to send an e-mail to Marta's house.  There was no response.  Dangling the pistol at her side, she went back to the kitchen for more coffee, not because she wanted it, but because she couldn't sit still.

"Why does he not call?" she muttered.  "He knows I am worried.  Something has happened to him."

Chewing her lip, she stared at the floor.  Hearing something, she looked up.  The cup slipped from her fingers to the floor, spattering her bare legs feet with hot coffee, but the pain barely registered.  Mic stood in the utility room doorway!

Staggering backward as if she'd been punched, she brought up the .45, shaking so badly that she had to use both hands to steady it.

"Going to shoot me, Baby?" he asked, eyes shining and lips curved into the semblance of a smile.

"Where is Richard?" she gasped.

"Maybe we can talk about that," he said, taking a step toward her.

"Stop!" she shouted, her voice sounding like that of a frightened child.

"Put the gun down and I'll tell you all about it."

Jill backed away.  He followed, not narrowing the distance, but moving slightly to her left.  Suddenly she realized that he was herding her toward the bedroom.  She rushed past the hallway into the living room before dropping into a shooter's stance.

"Well don't you look cute," he chuckled.

"I will shoot," she said quaveringly.

"No, Baby.  Now that Old Ricky's out of the picture, we can just---"

"What have you done to him?"

"He's with Marta," he said softly.  "They're not gonna come between us anymore."

"No!" she screamed.  "You didn't!"

"Maybe it was one those murder-suicide things."

Grinning, he feigned a lunge at her.  Staggering away, she pulled the trigger, flinching in anticipation of the recoil.  The pistol only clicked.

"Oh no!" she gasped.

Remembering that Richard had removed a round, she worked the slide to chamber another, but instead of snapping home, the slide stuck open.  She gaped in horror at the empty clip.  Mic had been watching for her expression.  Now he erupted in a high-pitched titter.

"Aw.  No bullets," he mocked.  "Some bad man got in and unloaded your pistol.  Too bad for you, Baby."

She backed away, shaking her head in denial.

"Richard left you here alone?  How smart was that?" he said, resuming his advance.  "I mean, what if some really bad man got in here and . . . got you under control?  Why he could do anything he wanted to you.  Terrible things."

His face had hardened into intense mirthless smile.  He snatched the pistol from her and hurled it across the room.  It tore through the wallboard and disappeared.

"You were gonna shoot me!  I can't let you get away with that.  You've got away with too much all ready.  Now you're going to get what's coming to you."

Her mind reeled with images of herself being strangled.

Richard!  Help me!

Somehow sudden clarity came.

He wants Richard to see.  He has not killed them.

She took hold of it.

He is alive.  He will save me.  I just need time.  I need time!

She knew that she couldn't fight Mic, but maybe she could prolong it.

"The police know," she said evenly.

The abrupt change shocked him.  None of them had ever done that.  She should be pleading, promising, groveling.

"They don't know anything," he said uneasily.

"Yes.  They know about the people in Walker and . . .and West Virginia."

Relief flooded through him.  He had been afraid that she had somehow managed to tell them that he was here.

"Oh that? he said dismissively.  "Baby, they can't prove anything.  I'm really good at this."

He quickly closed distance.

"I called JR," she said as she backed away.  "He will be here soon."

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You picked the wrong guy.  You want someone to force you to give it up, but Old Ricky can't make anyone do anything.  Not even himself."

Jill's back touched the wall.  Silently, Mic continued to approach, herding her into the corner.

"We're alone again," he said in an emotionless voice as reached out and slipped the knot of the belt holding her robe closed.  He slowly pulled it free of the loops.

"Don't," she said weakly.  "Please."

That was more like it.  She was back on script.  He leaned in to smell her as he stuffed the belt into his back pocket.

"Tell me not to hurt you," he said in a strangely dead voice.

"Please don't," she whimpered.

All animation faded from his face, but she couldn't look away from it.  Then she gasped as he felt his hand on her bare waist.

"Tell me you'll do anything I want."

He was a bad actor, delivering memorized lines.  She realized that the words were part of his fantasy.

"I'll do anything you want, Mic.  I will."

Jill tried to clear her head.  A vague desperate plan began to take shape.  The last thing Mic would expect from her was an attack.

When he leans in again, I will butt my head into his nose.  Then I will hit him with my knee.  I will run outside and scream.  Someone will come.

She composed herself, and was on the verge of giving him a seductive look in order to draw him closer.

No!  Only terror  arouses him.

Mic slid his hand up her bare back.  She recoiled reflexively.

He slid his other hand up to squeeze her breast.

"Like that, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, trying not to grimace as he dug his fingers into her painfully.

He cocked his head, studying her.  When he leaned in she lunged---and missed!

"You think you're the first to try that?" he said disdainfully as he wound his fingers into her hair.  "You're all the same."

He bounced her head against the wall.  "Tell me you're sorry."

"I am sorry, Mic.  I am," she stammered.

"Oh, I know you are.  Now relax and enjoy it, Baby.  You want me to enjoy myself, don't you?"

"I will do what you want," she said, as tears formed in her eyes.  "I promise.  Please don't hurt me."

He pulled her forward by her hair, grasped her neck with his other hand, and firmly shoved her against the wall, squeezing until he had demonstrated his mastery.  He released her and stepped back.

"I only broke up with you because I was angry," she said.  "But I always liked you.  Remember when we first---"

"I remember everything," he said as he pulled the belt from his pocket.

He looped the belt over her head and cinched it tight.

"Come on.  Let's get this over with," he said as he tugged her forward.  "All that stuff Richard told you about me killing people is nonsense.  I'm not a killer.  If I was I could have killed you anytime I wanted, in the truck that night, in the library the other day."

What he was saying made no sense.  He had virtually admitted killing the woman in Walker and the girl in Cassville.

"There's only one thing I'm interested in," he continued.  "Once I've got it from you . . . and when Ricky understands that you gave it to me willingly, then I'm out of here."

Although she tried to hide it, he saw her disbelief.

"I promise, Jill."

She had to delay things.  She needed to find a way to keep him talking.

"You will leave if I . . . let you make love to me?"

"That's all I ever wanted from you.  You just needed to give it up to me, but you froze up on me."

"You will also prove that you are better than Richard, yes?" she said.

"I don't need to prove anything!  Come on and do the one thing you're good at," he said yanking her forward.  "I'm tired of listening to you."

Physical resistance was useless, but she once she was in the bedroom he would kill her.

"Wait," she said.

"No!" he said, nearly pulling her off her feet.  "Your days of putting guys off are over!  No more empty promises.  No more teasing!"

"But you must give me time or . . . or I won't be . . . I won't be able to . . . please you."

"You want to please me?" he said sarcastically.

"I want . . . I want it to be pleasant . . . for both of us."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Oh really," he said, releasing her and stepping back.  "Then lose the robe.  I want you to take it off for me."

No, he will kill me as soon as that happens!

Her eyes flitted to the nearby table, searching for something she could use as a weapon.  There was nothing.  She bolted for the door, but he anticipated and cut her off.  Shrinking away, she backed toward the corner again, shaking her head and trembling.

Suddenly the door slammed back.  Dry wall shattered by the doorknob skittered across the floor.  Mic whirled in surprise.  The two men stared at each other, each assessing the situation.  Richard glanced past him at Jill.  She cringed in the corner, robe hanging open, her bare legs spread as she braced herself against the walls---eyes wide and unfocused.  Finally, she snapped out of it.

Mic saw Richard in the doorway, gasping for breath and glaring at him.  In his hand he held only a large metal flashlight.  He quickly processed the situation.

No gun.  A knife to her throat and he'll cave.

It was coming together.  He could already picture Richard tied to a chair, forced to watch as he did it to her.  Then he started recalculating.  He knew he could gain control the two of them, but maybe Marta was with him or maybe he had called the police.  As he thought about it he became certain of it.

I haven't done anything that they can prove.  They don't have a thing on me.  Nothing.

With a smirk, he stepped back.

As he dropped his hand Jill scrambled away, bumping into and almost upsetting the table as she ran to Richard's side.  Richard hugged her briefly without taking his eyes from Mic before putting her behind him. 

"Did he hurt you?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse with emotion.

"No," she said breathlessly.  "Is Marta okay?"

"She's out in the car.  Where's JR?"

"He wasn't there.  They said they would tell him." 

As he listened to the exchange, Mic congratulated himself on his correct assessment of the situation.

"She called me over, Ricky.  We thought you'd be gone longer."

Richard ignored him.

"He came in through the back," said Jill.

"He's not buying it, Babe," said Mic, his voice lilting in parody of juvenile humor.

"Sorry you had to find out this way, Ricky.  Take a good look at her.  What do you think the slut had in mind?"

Richard expected Mic to be frustrated and furious.  He decided that the talk was meant to lull him so that Mic could maneuver closer for an attack. 

Mic merely nodded toward the couch.

"She makes you sleep out here," he said with a smirk.  "What?  You think she's like a virgin or something?  Believe me partner, she ain't.  When we were---"

"You screwed up this time, Mic," said Richard, interrupting the performance.

"Really?" said Mic, aping fear.  "What you gonna do, Ricky?  You gonna holler at me?"

Richard braced himself as Mic sauntered forward.

"Let me guess," he pitched the belt to Richard.  "You're gonna tell your friend, JR, on me again."

Richard gripped the flashlight tighter.

Since he had arrived Richard had wondered about the .45.  When Mic turned to come around the sofa he saw that it wasn't stuck in his belt at the small of his back.  He decided that Jill had left it in the kitchen or bedroom.  If JR came he thought he could have Mic arrested for breaking and entering.  Once in custody, and once it was understood what he had done tonight, they might charge him with one of the murders.  He was heartened by the thought that Mic might never be free again.  First he had to get the women safely away.

"Go to the car," he told Jill.  "If he comes out of the house, drive straight to the police station."

"No," said Jill.  "I'm staying here."

He leaned close to whisper.

"Listen.  I've got to keep him here until JR comes."

"He wants to fight you.  Can you not see that?"

"You'll get me killed if you stay.  Now go."

Reluctantly, she left the house.

"What are we gonna do now, Ricky?" Mic mocked.  "Talk some more?"

"Yeah.  About how you screwed up tonight.  I've got to hand it to you for the job you did on the security system.  I'll bet there's not even a fingerprint to show you were there."

Mic smiled.

"Too bad Marta saw you take my keys."

The bluff caused the smile to slip, but only for a moment.

"No.  She was in the bedroom with you when I took them.  You see?  I don't care if you know.  I want you to know."

"They know too, Mic---not just JR.  West Virginia, the Walker police, they've put it all together.  They know about Rose Ford, the Palmer girl, even about Carly Williams."

Mic stared at him a long moment, and then shrugged.

"You've been busy, Ricky.  But you see, if all that was true---I mean if they could connect me to even one of them then I wouldn't be here, would I?"

"It's a matter of time.  I think tonight just about cinches it."

"So she says I broke in and I say she let me in.  Hey, there's not a mark on her.  Given the history of the relationship between the three of us, I don't think I have to worry about anything.  There's no evidence, Ricky---absolutely none.  To an impartial observer, it's all just coincidence and your twisted imagination."

"You and I aren't the only ones who know, Mic."

"They don't have a thing on me.  All they got is you pushing them!"  Mic said indignantly.  "You're really big now, aren't you?  Think you're gonna scare me, you pathetic coward?  You come in here and find me with your little honey pot against the wall with her legs spread for me, and what do you do?  Do you fight?  Hell no!  You talk!"

He looked at Richard contemptuously.

"Can't even come at me like a man.  Just like in the Mog.  You sneak around telling stories---getting others to do your dirty work.  You didn't think I'd ever find out, did you?"

The sudden realization of Mic's reason for coming to Cartier stunned him.

"Like Scott?" he said.

"Yeah.  And sooner or later you're gonna pay the same price as the shrink.  And you're not going to do anything.  You think you can get JR or somebody to take care of this for you.  But it won't work.  I'm too good, Ricky.  I'm real good.  Now get out of my way."

"You're not leaving."

Mic laughed.

"I'm supposed to be afraid of you?  Why would I be, Ricky?  You're only a back-stabber.  Even she knows that."

Richard thought momentarily of clubbing Mic with the flashlight if he tried to leave, but decided that he couldn't afford to be the one to initiate a fight again.  Mic brushed past, but couldn't resist one last shot.

"You'll have a front row seat when I finish her,"

Richard lunged impulsively with the vague idea of restraining Mic until JR got there.  He caught him off guard.  Clamping his right forearm under Mic's chin and bracing his left on the back of Mic's head, he hauled him off his feet and drove him into a sitting position on the stoop with his right knee planted in the man's back.  Adrenaline fueled his rage and frustration as he pushed Mic's head sideways with every intention of breaking his neck.  After the first rush of outrage, however, Richard had time to think. 

He eased off and evaluated the situation.  A quick glance toward the street showed him that the women were still there.  Mic wasn't drunk this time.  If he gave up his advantage, he was no match for him.  He had to restrain Mic until JR arrived.  The problem was that the hold he had was a killing one, not a restraining one. 

Mic clawed at the arm crushing his windpipe.  His face felt ready to explode.  A cloud of pinpoint lights swarmed in his vision as his consciousness slipped away.  He kicked and thrashed in terror just as he had seen his own victims do.  He tried to dig his heels for a lunge backward break the deadly embrace, not quite believing that Ricky could be doing it.

Richard had leverage, but Mic was stronger.  Struggling to maintain his advantage, he felt cartilage crack against the sharp bone of his forearm.  He knew that a sudden wrench would either crush the man's throat or break his neck.  The feel of another human being struggling in his grasp kept him from doing it.  It wasn't in him as long as there was an alternative.  He loosened his hold to let Mic breath.

Mic felt the pressure at his throat ease.

He can't do it!  he thought with wild elation.  He can't!

A quick rasping gulp was all he got before the pressure was reapplied.  The horrible truth hit him.

He's playing with me!

He felt the knee in his back as Richard's forearm crushed into his larynx again.

A memory flashed brilliantly into focus:  A blonde woman, pinned by a knee in her back, thrashed in death throes while he hauled back on a noose.

The tiny lights spun as his world narrowed and the sounds from outside came from far away.  He was at the bottom of a deep well, the light of continued existence visible, but impossibly far away and above him.

It isn't right!  Not me!  Not me!

A scream echoed in his skull.  Then he finally thought about the switchblade.  In desperation, he managed to force his right hand into the tight pocket of his jeans, but could only touch the top of it.

Richard held on tenaciously as Mic bucked and rocked from side to side.

Don't make me do it, he thought.

Mic's heel finally found purchase on the sidewalk.  He lunged backward, almost freeing himself. 

Please!  Please!  Please!  Just give me a chance, he pled as he thrust his hand deeper, seeking to clutch the knife.

Yes!  The thought screamed through his mind as he pulled it from his pocket.  I've won!

He flicked it open and quickly sliced into the forearm clamped at his throat, expecting an immediate release.

Hot pain stunned Richard, but he held on grimly.  The slashed arm lost most of its strength immediately, but it was the wrong arm.  In his panic Mic had forgotten that the hold was maintained by the arm clamped behind his head.  Richard now had no choice.  He increased the pressure.

Surprised that he wasn't free, Mic changed tactics, bringing the knife up and around in a wide arc seeking Richard's neck.  The blade sliced instead through the scalp to the Richard's skull.  The long slash brought a spray of warm blood, but didn't free him.  Lost in panic, Mic forgot who was tormenting him, what he had planned to do, about everything.  His whole consciousness now strove only to survive.  He slashed again and again, wilder and wilder.

He has to quit!  He has to!

Richard hunched his shoulders to protect his vulnerable neck.  The knife sliced up the back of his left shoulder, cutting to the scapula.  The searing pain from numberless cuts began to dull and lightheadedness encroached.  Richard felt unconsciousness looming from the loss of blood and he knew he couldn't go on much longer.

But he knew what would happen if he loosed Mic.

He'll kill her.

Despite his weakness he burrowed in, oblivious now to the slashes opening new fountains for his blood.  Pushing with his head to force Mic's neck further into the vee of his forearm, he exerted the last remnants of his fleeing strength, seeking to finish it.

The slashes became wilder and slowed as Mic's oxygen-starved brain began shutting down.  Then he rallied for one last grasp at continuation.

Help me!       Help me, Mommy!        Mommy, Please!

Beyond the onrushing darkness came a pulsing red glow below his feet, and now he heard a horrified shrieking that filled him with terror.  Suddenly he understood the fiery glow.

Hell!

He met the enveloping blackness with only a childish whine.

It's not fair!

 

Not knowing that Mic was already dead, Richard put his remaining strength into a last desperate wrench.  He felt, rather than heard, the dull snap as Mic's vertebrae separated.

The Ranger's dash light cast crimson flashes across the lawn, lighting the house front.  The bodies lay like a heap of blood-soaked rags on the stoop.  JR fell on the slippery sidewalk as he hurried after Jill.  Marta's screams continued to fill the night, bringing people out of their houses.

Too much blood, he thought as he reached the stoop where Jill sat with her robe gaped open.  Oblivious to her exposure and the cold, she was trying to staunch the worst of Richard's wounds.  He felt Richard's neck, but didn't bother with that of the glassy-eyed Mic.

"You're doing good.  Keep up the pressure," he said to Jill before running down to call for an ambulance and get his first aid kit.

A crowd was gathering in the street.  He passed Marta, now silent, stumbling barefoot up the walk to help.  When he came back up he examined Richards wounds and instructed her where to apply pressure with the gauze pads.  There weren't enough. 

An eternity later he heard a distant siren, but he knew it was too late.  There was simply too much blood on the ground, and none of it was Mic's.  Long minutes later, the ambulance arrived.  Covered with his blood, Jill held Richard's lolling head in her lap, still trying vainly to staunch the flow even as the EMT's pulled her away.

"I can't believe we've got a pulse," said one.

 

Cartier Regional Medical Center, September 26

At six-thirty a graying man in jeans and flannel shirt came in silently, took a quick glance at the monitor, checked the chart, and then studied the woman dressed in scrubs.  According to hospital rules she wasn't supposed to be in the ICU, but she had insisted, and so had he.  Jill curled uncomfortably into the pillow jammed between the vinyl chair back and the wall, a blanket drawn to her chin, and one small hand resting on Richard's arm.  Pale light from the monitor and incessant early morning hospital noise bathed the room, had denied her more than fitful sleep.  Now as the doctor went softly toward the door, Jill came awake.

"Good morning, Miss Belbenoit," he said.

"Is there any change?" she asked.

"No."

She had decided in the night to broach the subject she had been avoiding as soon as she saw him again.

"Is there . . . brain damage that you have not told me about?"

"There's no apparent loss of higher brain function.  His EEG appears normal."

"My aunt had a stroke.  They told me her brain functions normally too, but she is not the same."

"It's possible that he will be impaired to some extent, but we have no evidence to suggest that."

"Is it also possible that he will not regain consciousness?"  

Her devastated look brought a knot to his throat.  Once he thought that he would be beyond that some day, but he wasn't.  He could handle losing the battle by reminding himself of the statistical inevitability.  It was revisiting the battlefield with the survivors that cost him so much.  Yet that too, was his job.

"I'm optimistic about his chances," he said sincerely.  "And you should be too."

"Give me a reason," she said, as the tears flowed freely down her cheeks.  "I am not stupid.  I know what all this means.  He lost so much blood.  It has been five days and he has not regained consciousness.  Will he never wake up?  Tell me why I should have a reason to hope.  Tell me something."

"You're man should have died that night they brought him in.  We stabilized him, but he kept himself alive somehow.  You hang your hopes on that."

She nodded somberly, unconvinced.

"You be here for him," he continued.  "And you can pray."

The seemingly pro forma platitude angered her.

"Do you?" she challenged.

"I actually do," he said.

"Why?"

"I see people die that shouldn't and I see people, like this young man, who should die, but don't.  I've done all I can for Richard.  Now I figure it's either up to him or up to God."

"Clichés," she said dismissively.

"So you're in mourning already.  Then go home."

"I must stay with him."

"So that you can tell yourself that you were faithful to the end?"

"I don't want there to be an end."

"Then tell him that.  He's unconscious, but I think some part of him might hear what is being said around him.  If he responds to anyone's voice it would probably be yours."

"You actually believe this?"

"I don't know how much processing his brain is doing right now," he said truthfully.  "But I believe it helps sometimes.  Talk to him."

Jill began mechanically.  When she took his hand, she hoped something would happen to let her know that he knew she was there.  It hadn't.  She told him that she was there, that she would stay, that the doctors were taking good care of him, that he would be all right.  It sounded contrived because it was.  She didn't really believe that he would awaken and be all right.  She couldn't think about what was happening without crying, and was afraid of what it would do to him if she did.

He must continue wanting to live, she thought.

Then it occurred to her that everything Richard had done, rightly or wrongly, wisely of foolishly, had been for her.  Deluded or not, he had done nothing for himself.  And although she bore no blame for it, he was where he was because of her.

As she stroked the back of his hand she thought about their conversation on the way back from the concert at Travers City.

"Men have been interested in me, Richard.  But none were like you that night.  You were different.  They looked at me, but not you.  You never looked at me.  You looked for me.  You wanted to know who I am.  You wanted to know me."

She squeezed his hand.

"It was so very flattering, Richard.  Now when we are together you always think about me, never yourself."

"But you make so many foolish mistakes.  See how honest I am with you."

Tears streaked her cheeks, but he couldn't see them, so it was all right.

"I can think about things clearly now, Richard," she continued.  "Remember when I kissed you at the motel in Cassville and you touched me.  I said that I could not think clearly until it was over?  I could not trust what I was feeling.  I can now.  For the first time since you took me to Bonne Femme."

She laughed softly.

"Oh Richard.  I did not tell you that you are wrong about the name of the island.  ‘Bonne femme' does not mean just ‘good woman' like you thought."

She kissed his hand.

"It is a term that means ‘house wife.'  If you come back to me, Richard, I want you to make me your bonne femme.  It is all I really want.  It really is."

Breton County Court House

"Your friend killed a man, Reeves," said the County Prosecutor, leaning back in the swivel chair.  "His girlfriend admits Boyd didn't pull the knife until he was being choked.  We can't call it self-defense."

"You know what Boyd was, Sir.  You're sending him to jail on a technicality."

"The law is technicality, and I've taken an oath to enforce it.  Boyd may have deserved what happened, the world may be better off without him, but by definition he was a victim of unlawful homicide.  The best I can do for Carter is to go for second degree and ask for the minimum sentence."

"What if we prove Boyd killed Rose Ford?"

"It's not even mitigating circumstance because it's not directly related to the crime."

"I can't believe you're going to prosecute him."

"I've taken an oath," he repeated.

"Where the hell's the justice?" fumed JR as he got up to leave.

"We don't have courts of justice, Reeves.  Just courts of law."

"Well I'm not going to just let this happen.  I'm going to track down the lock this fits," he said, holding up a copy of an unidentified key found on Boyd's key ring.

"That's probably just an old key he failed to get rid of."

"There was almost nothing in his house.  Doctor Senter says that's not consistent with his profile.  She says these guys keep a stash of souvenirs.  This is door key.  I'm going to find the door if I have to talk to every landlord in the county.  Then I'm going to do the best I can to stop you."

"I actually hope you do, but it may be moot.  He might not even regain consciousness."

"Then I'll clear his name."

Cartier Regional, September 27

At dawn she saw his eyelids flicker, but then thought that perhaps she had only imagined it.  Getting up to look more closely, she saw a glint through his slightly parted eyelashes.  Catching her breath in terror, she stared intently at his chest.  Its steady rise and fall reassured her.  Only after she exhaled did she realize that a glance at the heart monitor would have told her that he still lived.  Gazing at it, she noticed that the tempo of his heartbeat had increased slightly.

She was about to ring for the nurse, when he moved his head.  The tip of Richard's tongue weakly touched his cracked lips, and he tried to swallow.  His eyelids fluttered, and his lips quivered.  Realizing that he was trying to speak, she hovered over him, placing her ear next to his lips, brushing her cheek to his.

"You're all right," he rumbled weakly.

She squeezed his hand and drew it to her bosom.

"Yes, Richard.  And you will be okay too."

He shook his head weakly and closed his eyes again.

"Everything is going to be okay now," she said.  "I'm here, and I need you so much.  Do you hear me?  I need you so much."

"I don't think . . ." he muttered before slipping into unconsciousness again.

934 Joliet Street, Cartier

They found Denise Abbot's car on Harper Street just six blocks from Boyd's house.  Since both the campus and downtown were in the opposite direction, and since Harper continued on into an older run-down residential section abutting the switchyard, JR had decided to begin questioning landlords in that direction first.  Just after noon he found one who recognized Mic, and moments later he walked into something that he could only describe as "unclean."

He had seen all the proof he needed on the VCR, but he sat on the bed and flipped through the photo album as quickly as latex gloves would allow.  He looked at each woman only briefly, just long enough to determine that she wasn't Rose Ford.  After sealing the album in an evidence bag, he wandered from what he thought of as the "trophy room" through the unused kitchen to a back room where boards had been fastened across the outside door to prevent entry.  A large chest freezer sat next to the door.  He opened it.  Face up, eyes frosted over, was a slender young woman who had been carelessly dumped inside.  JR didn't need to look at the photo he had been showing around all week.  He had found Denise Abbot.

Cartier Regional, October 2

They came while Jill was at home showering and changing clothes.  Now Richard stared at the ceiling, thinking through the implications of what he had said during his interrogation.  He had thought that killing Mic had ended it, but now he knew that there was one more thing to do. 

Jill's face lit when she came in and found him awake.

"Oh, Richard," she said, coming over and sitting carefully on the bed.  "I cannot wait until they release you.  I am able to plan once again.  I've been thinking about how we can go on now that it's over."

When she bent to kiss him on the cheek, she saw his somber expression.

"Does it hurt terribly?" she asked.

"Not much.  They've got me on some pretty strong stuff."

"Good," she said, kissing him again before straightening up and taking his hand in hers.  "We have much to talk about."

"Yes," he agreed soberly.  "I've had time to think this morning . . . and I've decided that you were right."

"When?" she asked, wondering if perhaps he were confusing a dream he'd had with reality.

"All along," he said.  "It was never going to work out for us, Jill.  There are just too many differences.  We come from different worlds---different times."

She shook her head rapidly.  "I did not say that."

"Not in so many words, but listen to me," he said, trying to forestall her argument. 

"No," she said.  "You must listen to me.  The differences do not matter.  You told me that all you wanted was for me to look at you the way your father looked at your mother.  I do not know how that was, except that it must have been with love in her eyes.  If that is not what you see when I look at you then it is because I am not good at showing how I feel."

He turned away, unable to bear her earnest expression.

"It was a dream, Jill.  I was just this damaged guy looking for the . . . for something I thought could save me.  You were young and beautiful and . . . you fit my dream.  It was just that, though---just a dream.  You were unattainable---that's the way dreams are supposed to be."

"I love you," she said.

"No.  You might think you do right now, but it's just like a hangover from the crazy situation we were in.  You said yourself that a person can't think straight while something like that is going on.  Give yourself a chance to think about it you'll see that---"

"It was not like that.  It is not like that."

"It is.  You were vulnerable because you were so afraid.  And I was just infatuated with . . . with your looks.  For a slob like me to have a chance with someone so . . . exotic was just intoxicating I guess."

Hurt more than she thought she could ever be hurt, she almost couldn't respond.

"I see," she said almost inaudibly.

"Don't worry about me," he said.  "I'll be all right.  You just get on with your life."

The door opened suddenly.  Richard looked sideways without turning his head.  His healing scalp and back wounds seemed to have pulled his skin so tight that sudden movement was excruciating. 

"So Sleeping Beauty finally awakes," said Kevin jovially.  "What's with the guard out here?  Who are they protecting you from?" 

"They're here to make sure I don't leave while they're deciding what to charge me with."

"You are arrested?" gasped Jill in surprise.  "They cannot do that."

"It can't be," agreed Kevin.  "You're like a public hero.  Your picture is all over TV."

"I made the first move.  I put a chokehold on him, and he used the knife trying to keep me from killing him.  That's what happened."

"Don't tell them that for God's sake!" said Kevin  "You're cut to ribbons."

"Why not?  It's the truth.  I already signed a statement."

"Now you decide that lying is impossible," said Jill softly.

Kevin looked at her quizzically.

"I must go," she blurted, standing suddenly.

She extended her hand awkwardly.  "It is nice to see you again, Kevin.  I just . . . I must go."

Kevin watched her leave and then turned back to Richard.

"What happened between you two?  What did I walk in on?"

"I talked her into forgetting about me and moving on."

"Are you crazy?  Why would you want her to leave now?"

"Because she's young and confused.  Mic almost killed her.  Now she's got this crazy idea that she has to stick with me because she thinks she owes it to me."

"You are crazy.  It isn't gratitude that's keeping her here.  She's been wearing your ring for how long now?"

"She bought the damned thing herself as a way to explain to Marta why she staying at my place.  That's all."

Kevin shook his head.  "Nah.  I see the way she looks at you.  That girl loves you---beats the hell out me why though."

"I will not let her throw her life away."

"You're the one throwing your life away!  I'd give everything I own to have something like you've got with her.  Why in the hell are you being this way?"

"I'm going to jail, Kevin!  I'm going to jail for a long time.  It makes no sense for her to wait for me, but she's stubborn.  Once she makes up her mind about something, you can't talk her out of it.  But I'm not going to let her do it."

Richard shook his head heedless of the pain of the strained stitches.

"I'll be at least forty-five or fifty before I get out.  Her whole life is ahead of her, and I'm not going to let her sacrifice it just because she got dragged into something between me and Mic."

Jill had been listening just outside the room.  Now she stepped back into the room.

"Kevin, can you leave?" she said.  "Richard and I need to be alone."

"Yeah," he said, offering a parting hand to Richard.

Before he left, he gave her an impulsive bear hug.

"See you," he said.

When he was gone, Richard and Jill stared silently at each other for a moment.  He saw that her eyelashes were wet.

"You heard," he said.

She nodded.

"Surely you can see the logic in what I said."

"I cannot.  What you said was entirely illogical and self-serving."

"Self-serving?"

"Yes.  You think I am grateful for what you did to me.  I am not.  I blame you for it."

"Then put an end to it.  Walk away."

"It is too late.  One of the things you did to me was to make me fall in love with you."

"You just think that, Jill.  Remember when you said that you couldn't think clearly because of all the craziness?  Well, as soon as you get away from me and get some perspective you'll see this for what it really is.  What you need to do now is---" 

"Stop making decisions for me!" she said.  "It is what you have done from the beginning.  This is the first decision I have made for myself."

"I just think---"

"About the consequences.  Yes.  Stop it!  You do not have the right to . . . to put me through hell like you did and then just go away and be a martyr.  You owe me, Richard Carter.  You cannot make a promise like you did and then just . . . take it away from me."

"I never made you a promise."

"Of course you did," she said.  "Now you must keep it unless it is true that you only love the way I look."

"I don't want you to be a captive any more," he said.

"It is too late, Richard.  Tell me what you really want."

"I want you.  I want you more than anything in the world, but---"

She placed her finger on his lips to silence him.

"I know my heart now, Richard," she said.  "And I know yours."

Lansing, Michigan, October 2

The gray haired man came around his desk to greet his old friend.  They took seats near the window and caught up on old times as a preliminary.

"Governor, I think I know how you feel about this, but give me a chance to change your mind."

"Dave, I sympathize, but he took the law into his own hands."

"But surely, you---" began the prosecutor.

"I can't condone this vigilante stuff."

"Carter had no choice."

"Bull!  Boyd was the worst kind of scum, but what if the next Bronson doesn't have his facts straight?"

The prosecutor opened his briefcase.

"No!  No!" said the Governor when he saw the VCR tape inside.  "I'm not looking at that.  This is a matter of principle, a matter of sending the right message.  Carter is just going to have to be a casualty."

"Bob, you have to---"

"I am the chief law enforcement officer of this state!" said the Governor forcefully.  "Friend or not, Dave, I can't do what you want."

The prosecutor nodded in acknowledgement.

"The body count is nine confirmed and/or identified women," he said.  "They're looking for nine more, sir---even more, if we can believe the stuff Reeves found.  Have you seen his scrap book?"

"My imagination is good enough.  I told you:  this is a matter of principle."

His visitor knew how to make a closing statement.  More importantly, he knew his friend.

"Boyd kept meticulous records, Bob---jewelry, underwear, before and after pictures.  He wrote the details of each of his missions.  There are---"

"Give me more credit," said the Governor tersely.

"I give you all the credit in the world, but I'm not leaving here until you see this tape."

"I'm not going to do it," said the Governor, lifting his chin stubbornly.

"You owe me, Bob, and I'm calling in my markers."

The old man's features sagged in surrender.  For once he looked his true age.

"This is a copy of the original," said his visitor as he turned on the TV and popped the tape in the VCR.  "You're too good a man to make the sort of decision you're going to have to without knowing all there is to know about this."

"I don't need the details."

"Yes.  You do."

"All right.  But give me the remote."

The video was of poor quality, shot in the woods.  The Governor muted the sound almost immediately.  The scene was the squalid opposite of erotic.  He stopped the tape and closed his eyes.

"How much more is there?" he asked, feeling tightness in his chest.

"This one's six or seven minutes.  You've seen about twenty seconds worth."

He hit the eject button.

"I will not watch any more of that . . . that outrage.  Have it destroyed.  I want all of it burned---pictures, his notes, everything.  Wipe out every trace of him."

Unable to sit still, he got up and went to the window.

"I know you can't do that," he said over his shoulder.  "The stuff is useful for trying to get a handle on the guys like him."

He stared out at the city for a long moment.

"We were already on to him, Dave."

"No.  Until Reeves found the trophy room, no one had anything on him.  No one would have even suspected Boyd if Carter hadn't gotten suspicious and started digging into his past.  He could have gone on like this for no telling how many years."

"Why couldn't Carter wait?"

"Boyd pushed him over the edge by going after his fiancé.  I'm not clear on exactly what happened, but I'm pretty sure she'd be dead if Carter hadn't got home when he did."

"I'll issue your pardon."

"You won't be sorry, Bob."

"No.  It'll gain me votes when I run again.  I just hope it doesn't inspire some future vigilante."

"You're making the right decision."

"I'm letting you off the hook."

"True.  But you're also giving a very decent guy his future back.  There's justice in that."

"There'll never be justice in this world, Dave.  But there is mercy, I guess."