Fatal Vision

Fatal Vision by Monette Michaels

LTDBooks - Suspense/Thriller

LTDBooks www.ltdbooks.com Copyright (C)2001 Monette Michaels NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. Previously published by Starlight Writers Publications/RFI. Cover Art by Ariana Overton Cover Art copyright © 2001 Illustrations from the Rider-Waite Tarot Deck (registered), known also as the Rider Tarot and the Waite Tarot, reproduced by permission of U. S. Games Systems, Inc,, Stamford, CT 06902 USA. Copyright 1971 by U. S. Games Systems, Inc. Further reproduction prohibited. The Rider-Waite Tarot deck is a registered trademark of U. S. Games Systems, Inc. Visit the world's best source for tarot decks at www.usgamesinc.com. Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1 [www.ltdbooks.com] All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data Michaels, Monette, 1952Fatal vision [computer file] ISBN 1-55316-050-9 (electronic) ISBN 1-55316-952-2 (REB 1100&1200) I. Title.

PS3613.I25F38 2001 813'.6 C2001-902074-0 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Several of the settings in this book are combinations of places in Indiana. As far as I know, there is no replica of Notre Dame at the Paris Casino and Hotel in Las Vegas; I took the liberty of adding one for atmosphere. Thanks to my critique buddies, Cheryl and Skully, who were with me every step of the way on this one. Thanks to Alicia Rasley who taught the plotting class in which this book went from a germ of an idea to a full-fledged plot outline. Thanks to my editor, Laura Adlam, and all the other wonderful people at LTDBooks for liking my work enough to publish it. Most of all, thanks to my husband and son who put up with lots of fast food while I wrote this book. CHAPTER ONE "The Moon" Hidden enemies; unforeseen trials. Darien had hit the mother lode. Looking over at the body of the woman lying dead on the Chinese silk rug, he smiled. He had known she was rich, that's why he'd targeted her, but he hadn't realized she was stupid enough to leave this much wealth just lying around her townhouse. He turned back toward the safe, not so cleverly hidden under the hearthrug. Pulling his backpack closed, he loaded it with the bundles of cash and jewels he found. “Damn her.” His voice echoed loudly in the room. If only Wilhelmina Fairchild, “Willie” to her close acquaintances, had left well enough alone. She may have been stupid about the security for her valuables, but had been smart enough to have him checked out prior to marrying him. Tonight, she'd taunted him with everything she knew and then committed the cardinal sin she'd laughed at him. “You stupid little man. Did you think I would marry just anyone?” She looked him up and down like he was trash. “I have more respect for myself than that, and for the wealth, which my dear departed Edgar left me. The private detective I hired tells me you're a wanted criminal; well, I'll tell you something Darien Storm ... or should I say Bud Hoffman? Whatever your real name is you showed me a good time in bed and for that I have some affection for you so my parting gift to you is a head start. Go on, run, young man, and don't let the door hit you on that sweet little ass on the way out.” Then, she'd laughed. That's when he killed her. His gloved hands broke her neck before she'd stopped laughing and realized her danger. The shock in her pale blue eyes fixed for eternity. Darien moved over to the silly French Provincial desk. He needed to find the name of the private investigator she'd used. He had to cover his tracks; no use getting away with the old biddy's murder if her hired snoop was out there waiting with enough information to hang him. Did they still hang deserters and murderers in the Army? No matter. He didn't intend to get caught in order to find out. Ruffling through the drawers, he found a folder with his name on it. Yes, this was it. Walter Nichols, Private Investigator. Darien turned toward Willie and threw her a kiss for being organized. Taking the file, he stuffed it in his backpack. Before he left the townhouse, he would just check out the bedroom again. His gut—no, some extra sense that had saved his butt too many times to be ignored told him to check her bedroom for something else. He'd recognize it when he saw it, just like he had known her secret hidey-hole under the hearth rug when he approached it. Walking through the bedroom, he

responded to the urge to look in her bedside table. Yes, there it was. A journal. The pathetic old woman had kept a diary. He knew without looking he figured prominently in it, so he stashed it in the backpack. His sixth sense told him it was okay to leave now. All evidence pointing a finger at him was gone. He was going to get away with this crime just like all the others. He left the townhouse by the backdoor. He'd never used the front during the four-month long affair with Willie. She'd called him her “secret lover,” and that had been fine with him. He hadn't counted on her marrying him, so he had kept a low profile. Good thing. Now, the only person who could connect him was the private dick. Well, he knew how to take care of that. **** Morgan Smith ran to catch the subway. She reached the door and squeezed through just in time. The next train wouldn't come for twenty minutes and she was already later than usual. Someday, she would be her own boss instead of a clerk, then closing time would be closing time. As she moved toward a seat at the back of the car, Morgan stopped abruptly, hitting a wall of psychic energy of such power and darkness that she shivered in the overly warm subway car. Swaying, she let out a moan of distress and reached for a strap to keep from falling. “Here, miss,” a female voice called from behind her, “you look as if you need to sit down." Morgan turned to a motherly woman who patted the seat beside her in invitation. Attempting a smile, Morgan sank into the proffered seat and whispered a “thank you” to the woman. Feeling the need to explain her weakness with something mundane, she offered, “I must be more tired than I thought." The sympathetic woman nodded an acknowledgment and turned her attention back to the knitting in her lap. The niceties taken care of, Morgan closed her eyes and turned her mind inward, knowing from past experiences the nausea and dizziness would settle more quickly that way. Fighting the visions did no good, so she'd learned how to control them. Seeking the source of the psychic energy she had encountered, she centered herself and concentrated. Was it near or far? More importantly, was it a threat to her and everyone in this car? Morgan had learned at an early age that she was not like everyone else—that she had a connection to a different level of communication with the world around her. After much trial and error, she'd also learned not to ignore this extra sense. The times she had, had been disastrous. Breathing shallowly, she pulled images out of the maelstrom in her mind. The colors of this energy were dark. She knew the danger was near. Far would be shadowy, more grays and sepias, like old-fashioned tintypes. These colors were black, brown, purple ... and blood red. Murder. Pale blue eyes wide open in shock as hands closed around her neck. Death. Morgan let out a gasp. The woman next to Morgan looked at her askance and inched away. Get a grip, Morgan. Before you scare the whole darn car. Morgan knew her inner voice was telling her the danger was not directed toward her or anyone near. If the voice switched from “you” to “us,” then Morgan could start to worry. Right now, she just needed to

chill out. Morgan glanced over at the woman and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Cautiously, she began looking around the car seeking with all her God-given senses. The hands that choked the woman in her mind were here in this car. Now, all she had to do was find the man to whom they belonged. Yeah right, Morgan. Then what are you going to do call Ghostbusters? Seeing several young men in black leather, she opened her mind fully letting in all sorts of images— images that were common to most hormonal young men. Violence. Sex. But no death. As she moved her eyes and mind toward the other end of the car, she felt the wall of blackness and ice once again. He looked so normal—no, not normal—civilized, with his Italian silk sports coat and neatly combed blond hair. He could have been any businessman going home after a long day at work carrying his brown leather satchel. But, he wasn't. He was a murderer and Morgan was the only person in the world who knew. Well, what do you do now, Morgan? You've found him. How do you explain it to the police? You psyched him out? Read it in your tea leaves? Saw him in your crystal ball? Morgan shook her head. No matter how much ridicule she had withstood in the past, she knew she'd have to go to the police. If for no other reason than the dead woman was all alone and deserved better than rotting in her home like unwanted garbage. It could be days, Morgan sensed, before the victim would be found. Plus, she could never live with herself if she allowed a murderer to go free. So are you going to make a citizen's arrest? Tackle him and hold him for the police? No, much better to memorize his looks and watch where he gets off, then to go to the police. Staring at the killer, she imprinted his face on her mind. She would never forget him just as she would never forget the images flying through her mind. The house. The dead woman, Willie. Yes, her name was Willie Fairchild. The stolen money and jewelry in his backpack. The file. Nickles. More death not yet occurred. Yes, it was imperative to let the police know. Another life was in danger. Morgan shut her mind like a door slamming closed. He was looking at her. No, she breathed a sigh of relief, he was just scanning the car. She turned her head from his searching glances. She'd felt a weak probing from the man. He, too, had psi abilities, but not on the level of hers. Thank God. He couldn't read her. She was safe. **** Darien felt itchy. Damn subway cars—always hot and humid with the stench of a mass of humanity. Riding subways would be a thing of the past now. Once he eliminated the private detective, he'd head out west. Wide open spaces, clean air, few people. He had an idea for a new con. He was through making love to old ladies for their money. The Bible Belt had better get ready for him. A buzzing in his head distracted Darien from his plans. Looking around, he saw no insect—nothing that could be making the noise. Maybe a fluorescent light was going out. No. It was coming from someone in the car. All he knew was that he was in danger and he needed to leave. Hearing the call for the next stop, Darien moved to the end of the car away from the source of the buzzing. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. He'd relied on his instincts all his life and they had never been wrong. He wasn't going to start ignoring them now.

First things first, kill the private dick, then to the Bible Belt and salvation—his, definitely not theirs. Smiling, he exited the car. CHAPTER TWO "The High Priestess" Secret about to be revealed. Morgan's journey entailed changing trains and backtracking—the murderer had already been on the train when she'd gotten on—but even during the long ride back to the city she hadn't wavered. The images of the dead woman—Of Willie, she had a name dammit—were indelibly etched in her mind's eye. Morgan felt sad, grief-stricken, angry. The images would not go away; the sightless eyes, the lonely body compelled her to act. Once she'd reported the matter to the police, she would be excused. Scared, but determined, Morgan entered the precinct in Manhattan. She knew her life would change now. It always did once people realized she was different. No matter. What was a little disruption in her life compared to the fact that Willie didn't even have a life any longer? Willie didn't deserve to be murdered and left to rot. No one did. Glancing around the precinct lobby, Morgan almost turned and left. The mass of humanity with their problems and attendant strong emotions made her nauseous. Abruptly, she cut off her extra sense. Even then it took all her willpower to keep the whirlwind of feelings from overwhelming her. Morgan knew a debilitating headache was in her future if she didn't get away from the thieves, murderers, and victims milling around in the close quarters of the lobby. But, she knew she wouldn't, couldn't leave, the images of Willie wouldn't allow it. Approaching the officer on duty at the desk, she waited until the man finished talking on the phone. Breathe, Morgan, keep breathing. Center yourself and control the sensations. You can do it. “May I help you, miss?” The officer smiled as he raised his voice to speak over the din. “I have to report a murder.” “Murder, miss?” The officer was no longer smiling, his emotions adding to the beating her control was taking. Morgan nodded and waited. Was it her imagination? Or, did the crowd in the room suddenly quiet as if they knew that here was a drama greater than their own? “You'll need to see someone in Homicide. I'll get a detective out here." “Fine. I'm not going anywhere.” Morgan sat down on a vacant bench by the water fountain. Massaging her temples, she wondered if it would be appropriate to ask for aspirin. It was going to be a long—and exhausting night. Watching the officer talk into the phone, she took a chance and opened her mind. Mistake, still too much emotion in the room. Plus, she didn't need her psi powers to know that he was wondering whether she was for real. Guess he didn't get too many women walking into his precinct calmly reporting a murder. Well, after she told her story, he would be able to relate that he knew she was crazy when she first came in. All cops thought she was crazy—at first—then they believed. Cynical, suspicious, skeptics—the whole lot of them. Morgan guessed that's what made them good at their jobs. A few minutes later, Morgan observed the approach of an older black man wearing a suit. She saw him

nod at the desk officer. This must be the homicide detective. “Miss, I'm Lieutenant Riggs. Come with me, please.” Riggs led Morgan to a small room off the lobby and shut the door. “I don't believe the Sergeant caught your name?" Blessed quiet. Morgan breathed a sigh of relief, then taking a deep breath spewed out what she had come to say. “That's okay, Lieutenant, I didn't give the Sergeant my name. I'm Morgan Smith and, yes, I've a murder to report. She's lying there all alone and something needs to be done. The murderer is getting away and he's not through killing yet." Morgan not only saw, but sensed the Lieutenant's confusion.. Okay, Morgan, try to remain coherent. He's more likely to believe you that way. “Where did the murder take place?” A linear thinker, the Lieutenant. Or, more like a dog with a bone. “That's the problem. I know who was murdered, how she was murdered, and saw the man who did it, but I am not sure where the house is.” Struggling to maintain a calm she really didn't feel, Morgan looked Riggs in the eye and added. “You see, he left by the back door and I couldn't see the street or house number." The Lieutenant stooped down in front of Morgan and gave her a look she'd seen before—suspicion. “Just when did this murder take place? Who was the victim? Where were you when the murder took place? And, where is the murderer now?" “Lieutenant, you aren't going to believe this...” That's it, Morgan, put ideas in his head. You want him to believe you. “...but I was at work in upper Manhattan when the murder occurred, the victim is a woman named Willie Fairchild. I saw the murder images when I came across the killer as he rode the subway away from the crime." Shaking his head, the Lieutenant continued asking linear questions. Morgan knew he couldn't help it, but just once, she wished someone would believe her the first time she told them. “Miss Smith ... just how did you see the crime if you were at work and this Fairchild woman was in her home?" “I just told you I saw the images in my head. You see, I'm psychic, Lieutenant." **** Listening to the stillness of the slumbering neighborhood, Darien came out of the protective shadows of the alley across the street from Nichols’ brownstone where he'd been waiting close to an hour. The streets were abandoned, dogs had stopped barking, and lights in the lower level of the residences were out—the neighborhood had settled in for the night. It was time to do his work. Darien crept to the back of the brownstone in which the detective had both his office and living quarters. Nichols must be fairly good at his job—he had a nice building in a nice upscale neighborhood to show for it. Plus, he'd traced Darien's identity. That made this guy damn good—and a danger to Darien's continued freedom and good health. Too bad—Darien didn't mind killing, but destruction of good property always bothered him. Such a waste. Well, it was either the building and the snoop in it, or him. No contest there. Darien had noted the security alarm in his earlier walk-through of the area. No chance of getting inside without a lot of trouble, so he'd have to destroy the place from the outside. No time like the present. The

private dick was home and all was quiet. Some quick stops at a hardware store, a gas station and a few dumpsters had provided him with the materials for enough Molotov cocktails to set two houses on fire. The gas line into the house was icing on the cake. Once this baby started to burn—well, nothing or no one would survive the flames. Nothing. Keeping an ear tuned for a change in the neighborhood's nocturnal rhythm, Darien hummed under his breath as he assembled the homemade bombs. He was still disturbed that someone on that subway had read him. In his life, there had only been one woman who had pegged him—a woman in a traveling circus —but she hadn't lived to tell. Yet, even she hadn't made him feel like ants were crawling down his spine. This one tonight had been different—more powerful. Whoever this person was—he or she was a great danger to him and he knew that he needed to get out of New York ... and fast. Sticking around and eliminating a psychic who could read him wasn't in his playbook. Plus, whoever it was, couldn't point out someone who wasn't there. Darien grinned. His weapon of destruction complete, Darien moved silently to the gas meter and loosened the pipes. The hiss and smell of gas coming from the ruptured joint signaled his success. Now, for the pyrotechnics. Jogging away from the escaping gas, Darien lobbed the first flaming cocktail at the gas meter and ran. The explosion at the back of the house shook the earth as he lit and lobbed another bomb at the side, another at the front, and finally one on the other side. Lights came on in the adjacent brownstones, dogs barked and voices shouted. Aware that his sole ownership of the night was about to end, he walked briskly away from the burning building and didn't stop until he was half a block away. Melding into the shadows of a doorway on the opposite side of the street, he watched the private dick's house explode several more times as the gas and other flammables within obeyed the laws of physics and sought maximum randomness. Damn, he loved entropy. In the distance, he heard the sirens. Too late. The fire was fully involved. Exit one private investigator and any evidence that might have pointed the finger at his connection with Willie Fairchild. **** “Listen, I am telling you. I ... am ... a...psychic. I see images—especially ones that are connected to strong emotions, like anger. This man was very angry at Willie Fairchild and he strangled her. He was still mad on the subway and was planning on killing someone else. I can describe the killer and the inside of the house where the murdered woman is, but nothing else made any sense to me. Plus...” Morgan hesitated to complete her thoughts. The look on the Lieutenant's face was one with which she was highly familiar—patent disbelief. “Go on, Miss Smith, plus what?” Morgan really hated it when cops humored her, all the while thinking she was the nut of the month at Fanny May's. Go ahead, tell him what you felt. He can't think you're any crazier than he already does. Yeah right. “Miss Smith, you were going to say?” The Lieutenant smiled at her, skepticism tinging every aspect of his demeanor. “He was psychic also.” The Lieutenant muttered an obscenity under his breath, which Morgan ignored as she continued, “I blocked my mind to his after that. I was afraid he would find and kill me, too.”

He still doesn't believe. Next comes suspicion again. Morgan sat back, folded her arms across her chest and waited. She knew that the police had found Willie. Macabre excitement exuded from the young officer about to enter the room. He'd seen Willie— and she was seeing everything he'd just seen. The body. The carpet. The open floor in front of the hearth. The rifled desk. “Lieutenant, we found her.” Not waiting for instructions from his superior, the young officer blurted his news. “She's dead all right. Strangled and her neck was broken. Coroner can't say exactly when, but not more than a couple of hours. He'll know more later.” The enthused officer ran out of words and breath at the same time and turned to stare in fascination at the woman who had psyched out the murder. “What in the hell are you staring at, Sergeant?” The Lieutenant growled. The rookie cop stammered, “I've never been near a real psychic before, sir. She looks so normal.” “Oh, I doubt very much you're near one now ... more like a murderer.” The Lieutenant accused as he turned his frigid glance toward Morgan. Morgan returned his look calmly and remained silent. What could she say? They'd figure it out for themselves soon enough. There was no way she could have murdered that woman. No connection they could make. Plus, somewhere in New York the murderer was killing again and somehow that death would connect to this one, and, well, she was here. Alibied. “Nothing to say for yourself, Miss Smith?” Waves of barely controlled anger emanated from the homicide detective. Images and names of other female killers he'd known were flitting through his mind. Go ahead, Morgan, show off. At least, it will shut him up and he'll only hold you—can't arrest you if he doubts his own conclusion, now can he? Plus, he has no evidence. Taking a deep breath, Morgan stared Riggs right in the eye and stated dryly, “I am not like the other women whom you have arrested, Lieutenant Riggs. I am not Sally Blades, Peggy Liptack, or Ida Mae Brown. Those women killed during domestic disputes. I am Morgan Smith, psychic ... not murderer. And, Willie Fairchild's murder didn't involve a domestic dispute.” Smiling at the shock and dismay on the Lieutenant's face, she went on, “May I have a soft drink, please, while you wait on a preliminary report?” Morgan's peripheral vision registered the young officer rushing out of the room, whether to get her a drink or to tell his fellow officers about her newest trick, she didn't know. She was too busy watching for the Lieutenant's reaction. It was memorable: Morgan had never seen a black man go white before, but she did now. “How did you know what I was thinking?” Riggs gasped. Morgan watched as the Lieutenant attempted to regain control of his thoughts and the situation. “No, wait, what the fuck am I saying? You couldn't read my mind ... could you?” The Lieutenant looked to Morgan almost pleading for an answer he could live with. Morgan shook her head, “Sorry, Riggs, I read your mind. You were angry and I read it—just like I did with the murderer.” Taking pity on the confused man, Morgan waited until he had his color and breathing under control, then quietly suggested, “You might want to get a sketch artist in here so I can get the image of this guy out of my head and onto paper. I got the impression that he wasn't going to stick

around after the murders." Riggs looked at Morgan, then at the fascinated young officer who had returned with a Pepsi in his hand. Riggs shook his head, said a particularly foul word, and stormed out of the room. Morgan uncrossed her arms, took a cleansing breath, and accepted the Pepsi from the young cop. Riggs would be back ... with an artist. He believed her now. Didn't want to, but he did. She knew it was already too late for the murderer's other victim—the images of death had been uppermost in the killer's mind—the past kill and the future kill. She also knew that she'd have to be the one to find the connection between the two. Maybe once she got the murderer's image out of her mind and Willie laid to rest—she could remember more about the file and the stolen items. She'd recall better when she wasn't so stressed. Well, no use forcing the images—they'd come back. They always did whether she wanted them to or not. CHAPTER THREE "Death" Major change in life; a clearing out to make way for something better. It had been a long night. Stepping out into the dawn light filtering its way among the buildings, Morgan took a deep breath of New York city air. The scent was a combination of coffee, breakfast specials, sewer gas, and exhaust fumes underscoring the fact that it was just another day for most of the city's inhabitants. Most of them that is except for Willie Fairchild and the other victim of her murderer. With her help, the police sketch artist created a drawing that accurately depicted the killer right down to his cold, fathomless eyes. A cursory check of the mug shot books turned up nothing. Calls to Morgan's boss and the transit authority had confirmed that Morgan was at work until 6 o'clock in the evening and had boarded the subway too far down the line to be in two places at the same time. Her fingerprints were nowhere in the apartment, and no connection could be made between her and the deceased Willie. She was off the hook. For now. Riggs, still shaken by her psychic foray into his mind, recovered enough to morph back into his logical-thinker role and reminded her to stay available. Hedging his bets, she thought. With a straight face, which she was sure had been painful for him to maintain, he'd asked her to call in case she had any more “visions” that might shed light on the identity of the killer or the other alleged victim. Feeling at loose ends and mentally wide awake, Morgan decided to bypass her apartment and go to work. Might as well. She was sure her employer would wonder what was going on and Morgan wanted to clear things up before rumor and innuendo could do any more damage. She grabbed a cappuccino mocha and a sweet-roll, using the caffeine and sugar to give her the physical energy to keep up with her active mind, and hopped the subway to go back to work. Her idea to head off trouble was too late. Morgan groaned when she saw the crowd with cameras and microphones standing outside her employer's exclusive little design studio. The shit had already hit the fan. God, she hated reporters. They were worse than cops. Not only were they skeptical, they were also intransigent—sinking their First Amendment claws into the object of their current obsession and hanging on until they had leeched the life right out of the victim. Morgan didn't intend to be easy prey. Seeing that the alley and the side entrance were free of reporters, Morgan moved nonchalantly in that direction. She'd almost made it when one reporter saw her and gave the cry, “There she is!” With mere seconds to spare, Morgan made it through the security door. Leaning against its surface, vibrating with

the blows and howls of the deprived pack, she took a deep calming breath, something she'd been doing a lot of lately, and looked up into the angry eyes of her employer, Justin St. Clair, decorator to the well-heeled of Manhattan. You're in deep shit now, Morgan. “Meez Smith.” Justin's French Canadian accent showed his extreme agitation. “Why are you here?" “Sorry, Mr. St. Clair. I didn't think the reporters would be ballsy enough to come to my place of employment. By the way, thanks for helping out last night with the police. I'm in the clear.” Morgan gave Justin a smile, held her breath and opened up her senses to his mood. Well, unemployment isn't too bad. You can always use a break. Plus, it's not like it hasn't happened before. Hell, admit it Morgan, you're tired, just plain tired—tired of losing jobs because of a sixth sense you didn't ask for. What did you expect? Justin St. Clair pursed his lips and sniffed. “Meez Smith, I regret that I must release you from your position here. We can not have a psychic working here—it will scare away the clientele.” Morgan noticed that St. Clair couldn't look her in the face when he fired her. Good, hope he stays awake nights feeling guilty. You're a victim here, Morgan, just like Willie. Still avoiding Morgan's eyes, Justin continued, “I, of course, will pay you a small severance and give you a reference, but you must leave today.” At the end of his little speech, he gave an abrupt nod of his head. Period, end of story, fine, that's all she wrote. Fully expecting his words of dismissal didn't lessen the blow. She was only fooling herself that this unemployment would be a short break. Even with a reference, Morgan doubted she'd get another decent job in New York that paid what she'd been making. She knew that she'd be tabloid fodder for as long as the rags’ editors thought she would sell papers. In her experience, psychics seeing murders ranked right up there with alien kidnappings and septuplets joined at the hips. It would be at least a month anyway. The only career options open to her now would be telling fortunes at Coney Island or in the Village. Turning away from her thoughts of impending career stasis, Morgan realized that Justin was looking at her now with what could only be classified as fascination. Yep, that was it; now, that he'd canned her ass, he had questions. People always had questions. “Justin?” He wasn't her boss any longer, so she didn't feel the need to pander to his male sense of superiority any longer. “You have a question?" “Ah, yes. I have never met a psychic before ... and ... um ... I was wondering can you tell the future? My future?” Justin's eyebrows lifted hopefully. Struggling for control, Morgan ground out, “Yeah, and a reading will cost you a hundred bucks. Or, maybe you'd just like me to tell you that I knew you were mad and were going to fire me before you said it. Just like I know that you also had a fight with Jean-Claude this morning about his overspending on your bedroom linens. Pratesi is a tad pricey, but nice." “Damn.” Justin swearing was unheard of—at least in English. Morgan smiled. “Don't worry, Justin, I won't tell.” She only knew because his anger with Jean-Claude had poured over into his anger at her. She tried really hard to keep her mind out of other people's lives. “I'd like my check and letter of reference today. And I'd also like to hide out here for awhile—just until the ravenous mob gets bored and leaves."

Red-faced, St. Clair nodded. “Oui, Meez Smith. That I can do, and I will even call Jean-Claude to come take you away in the delivery van so you can make an escape.” Justin turned to leave, then stopped and faced Morgan again. “I am very sorry, Morgan. But you understand, the Society ladies, they would not like the idea that the design assistant could read their minds. It is too ... well ... weird." Taking pity on the man, Morgan smiled. “It's okay, Justin. It's not your fault, not mine either. It's just a big cosmic joke on me.” Shrugging she continued, “Hey, I'm used to it; this isn't the first time I've lost a job because of my powers." Morgan noticed that Justin couldn't look her in the eyes again. **** Justin's significant other, Jean-Claude, displaying a flair for quick get-aways and subterfuge, not only delivered her to her apartment without a single reporter's intrusion but also managed to stop at the local grocery and pick up essentials so she could hold out for at least a week. Morgan declined Jean-Claude's gracious offer of coming back in a week to take her out again; she knew Justy would have a hissy fit if his precious Jean-Claude continued to run interference for her. Justy may have felt an immediate guilt over leaving her unemployed, but she was sure that time and distance would see him become his old self-centered king of the world again. Morgan put away the groceries, undressed, took a shower, then fell naked into bed. She knew that sleep would come instantly in spite of the loud noises outside her third floor window. The reporters had camped in the alley under her window. If they were still there later, she'd call Riggs. She imagined he'd have fun dispersing the crowd. On that thought, she slept. Her gray cat, Smoke, curled up at her head, his purring a natural white noise drowning out the shouts from the fourth estate. **** Morgan wasn't sure what woke her—dreams of the killer or the loud thud on her balcony—no matter, she was awake. Peering at her clock, she saw that she'd slept for six hours. Stretching, she got up to investigate the thud before she fixed herself and Smoke an early dinner. Parting the drapes, she found the cause of the thud. One of the enterprising reporters had thrown a copy of the evening edition of his paper, wrapped around a rock, onto her patio. Opening the doors, she reached out for the paper and again heard the hue and cry, “There she is. Morgan, Morgan. Five thousand dollars for your exclusive.” “The Star will give you ten thousand and a regular column.” “The Voice will top any offer." She slammed the door shut, hoping the idiots would get the message. She wasn't interested. Not at any price. Not ever. Turning her back on the door and the hecklers gathered under it, she nuked a frozen tuna casserole and split it with Smoke. Only after they had eaten and the dishes were cleaned, did she open the paper. It was as she expected. And, then again, not. The headlines read: Psychic Assists Police in Socialite's Murder. She hadn't known Willie was a rich socialite. Not that it mattered. Dead was dead whether you were rich or poor. A side bar said Psychic Morgan Smith Says ‘He will kill again.' Morgan knew the young cop was in big trouble; Riggs would never have given that info to the press. Somewhere in New York, the killer had left a second victim. Morgan knew it just as she knew her own

name. Her dreams revolved around the second victim, but as often happened with her dreams, there was no obvious connection between the images. There would be, though, something would trigger a connecting synapse and voila, she would know. It would happen when it happened. The victim could have already been found; she would know the right one when she saw it. She'd emphasized that to Riggs—outside of the hearing of the eager rookie—Riggs had nodded his understanding. She had sensed his reluctant acceptance of her offer to continue to help, but knew he would update her on all new homicides as soon as he could. Any connection between the two homicides might lead to the killer's speedier apprehension. Riggs might be leery of her abilities, but he was willing to use them if they got the job done. Reading the rest of the paper, Morgan shook her head at the inflammatory language of the stories. How could these people live with themselves? Intruding into people's lives this way. Some intrepid reporter had written about Willie Fairchild's life and loves. Poor Willie, rich and alone. Poor Morgan could relate. She, too, was alone and rich, although she'd sworn never to touch the money left to her by her grandmother. She acknowledged that at this point in her life she just might have to use some of it to start fresh somewhere else. Poetic justice since her psi abilities probably came from said grandmother. Yep, the same intrepid reporter, probably an intern, had dug up the old stories on her, too. Fairchild Psychic—A Witch? Psychic Morgan Smith originally from Salem, Massachusetts is the heiress to the Cordelia Gray Smith fortune which includes holdings in lumber, minerals, and fishing. Both Cordelia and Morgan's psychic abilities were well known in the community famous for its witch trials. In fact, many locals labeled the Smith women witches. Morgan Smith was often consulted unofficially by local law enforcement agencies in cases of missing persons. The Police Chief of Salem and the County Sheriff both refused to be interviewed for this article. “I'll just bet they did,” muttered Morgan, the sound of her voice startling Smoke who lay on her lap helping her read the paper. Morgan knew both officers had loved seeing the back of her when she'd moved to New York. She'd embarrassed both of them numerous times. Just like Riggs, both men outwardly scoffed at her assistance, her powers. Yet, both took advantage of her help and insights and accepted credit for the successful resolution of the cases. Riggs would, too. It was the nature of the beast. Early on, Morgan had learned police “acceptance” of her powers was a guarded secret, okay within the confines of the station, but never acknowledged outside. Shaking her head, Morgan returned to the paper, skimming over the recitation of her former life. She'd lived it and revisiting did not appeal to her. Turning the pages to read more of Willie's life another headline buried on page seven caught her attention—Private Detective Nichols Killed in a Building Fire. Voila! Nichols. Nickles. Files. She had the identity of the second victim. Now all she had to do was convince Riggs to find the connection. CHAPTER FOUR "The Star"

Insight, understanding and hope for the future. Peering through the drapes of the only window giving her a view of the front of her building, Morgan saw Riggs pull up and park across the street. She watched as he muscled his way through the crowd of reporters, and smiled as he shoved a particularly persistent reporter out of his way. She had known Riggs wouldn't suffer idiots. Moving over to the intercom, she waited until the buzzer went off. “Lieutenant?" “Yeah.” Morgan buzzed him through the security door and heard the roar of the disappointed crowd echoing up the stairwell when she opened her apartment door to him. “How long have those bastards been out there?” Riggs growled. “All day." Riggs mumbled something under his breath. Morgan thought he'd said “Damn big-mouthed rookie. I'll kick his butt to Harlem for this.” In a louder voice, he said, “I'm sorry about this. I'd get rid of them for you if I could but they'd just stand on their frigging Constitutional rights." “That's okay, Riggs, they'd just come back again tomorrow." “Well, it'll blow over. It's one of those three-day wonders. Something else will attract their attention sooner or later." Morgan shook her head. “I don't think so Riggs. What I'm going to tell you will guarantee that." “You know who the killer is?” Riggs stiffened, then looked at her. Fear, awe and, finally, resignation had swept over the cop's normally impassive face. “No, but I know who the second victim is,” Morgan walked over to the counter, picked up the paper, and showed it to Riggs. After skimming the article, Riggs handed it back to Morgan, “You think this Nichols was killed by the same man as Willie Fairchild?" “I know it. I also know if you look, you'll find the connection. The article says he was a popular private investigator in Manhattan. My visions showed files, the rifled desk and nickels. It all fits." “Jesus H. Christ. You're one spooky lady, Ms. Smith.” Riggs shook his head and mumbled what she thought was a prayer. “I'm not a witch, Riggs, nor am I evil. I'm just a woman with more senses tuned into the world around her —nothing more, nothing less,” sighed Morgan who felt the need to lie down, to sleep. She was so tired. “You look all done in, miss. I'm sorry. My dumbass rookie leaked your identity to the press. Now your name and picture are all over every goddamn newspaper in town. Hell, you'll probably be lead story on the ten o'clock news.” Riggs swore some more, words Morgan had never heard, but which she filed away for future use. They described her mood succinctly. “You want me to get a female officer to stay with you for a few days? I'm being a selfish bastard keeping

you in town right now, a prisoner in your apartment, but I might need you to identify this guy." “You believe me, Riggs, about the private detective?” Morgan's eyes grew moist. This cynical New York cop was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He actually was willing to believe her. “Yeah. Can't explain it, hate that, but yeah, I believe you." Morgan smiled through the tears. “Thanks, Lieutenant." “Well, uh, you're welcome. So, do you want a female officer to keep you company, get you back and forth to your job?" “That won't be necessary, Riggs. I'm not going anywhere for a while." “Your boss give you some time off, well, that's damn decent of him." “No, you misunderstood me, Lieutenant. I don't have a job to go to anymore." “Damn.” Riggs rubbed his hand over his face and shook his head. “Well, goddamit, I'm sure sorry about that Miss Smith. You want me to go over there and straighten him out—tell him you aren't a suspect?” Morgan got the impression Riggs wanted to do just that—straighten Justin. Justin would be appalled. The image lightened her mood immeasurably. She was almost tempted to take him up on the offer, but shook her head. “It's not that, Lieutenant, you see he's afraid I might scare away his clients. You know, I might read their minds or something.” Morgan laughed. It was either that or cry some more. Morgan's lessons in swearing advanced with another round of choice epithets from the upset detective. “It's okay, Lieutenant. I plan on leaving town and starting over again." “Again?" “Oh, yeah, it's happened before.” Not wanting to talk about it, she handed him another section of the paper, “Here read the articles. It may be a rag but the reporter got my story correct—except for the speculation about me being a witch." Riggs glanced at the headline, then crumpled the paper in his large hands. “Damn." **** After the Lieutenant left, Morgan sat in the rapidly darkening living room and stared. Only when Smoke nudged her ankle, did she get up and turn on the lights. Staring into space wasn't going to solve anything. Starving herself and poor ole Smoke wouldn't help either. She needed to pick herself up and make some decisions about her future. Once Smoke had been fed and was purring contentedly in his favorite spot on her bed pillows and she had choked down a few bites of leftover tuna salad, Morgan picked up the phone and dialed a number she swore she would never dial—that of her trustee, Hiram Smith. “Uncle Hiram? It's Morgan.” Morgan reminded herself to breath. “I'm okay, Uncle Hiram. How are you and your family?...That's good. Umm, the reason I called is ... well ... I need to get some money from my trust ... Yeah, I know I said I didn't want the money, but, well ... I guess I've grown up some since I said that. I want to start my own business ... How do I go about it?...That easy? Well, I'll let you know when and where ... Uh, thanks, Uncle Hiram ... Christmas?...Ummm, I don't know. Can I get back to you on

that? Good-bye." Morgan hung up, took a deep breath and let out it out past the lump in her throat. Damn that had been hard—harder than she'd thought. Not about the money, that turned out to be easy. Hard was acknowledging that the only reason she was alone, was because she chose to be. Grow up, Morgan. Your family didn't reject you; you rejected them. No, more than that, you rejected your heritage. Morgan shook her head. Tears of denial flowed unheeded down her cheeks. She couldn't face the family now. Couldn't look into their knowing eyes when, once again, she'd failed to keep a job, live a normal life. Adding salt to the wounds was that it happened in New York where weird is the norm. Now, she needed to escape, to go some place where no one would know her or the family name and reputation. Some place where she could start a small business, use her degree in retail marketing, and meld into the rhythm of small town life. Some place where she could be just plain Morgan Smith, shopkeeper. Wiping her tears on her sleeve, she moved over to her desk, pulled out an atlas and opened it up to a map of the United States. East coast was out—the Smith name was well-known. West coast was out— Morgan loved the change of seasons. That also eliminated the South. The Midwest was left. Well, Morgan, where you gonna go? The map isn't going to talk, you know. Smoke came over and sat on the book saving her the need to answer herself. “Meow?" Morgan smiled with affection at the only living creature who had ever accepted her unreservedly. Scratching his ears, she felt the tension of the last twenty-four hours leave her. Smoke always made her feel better. The cat had been her only roommate since she'd come to New York. Her social life was as empty as it'd been in Salem. She never felt comfortable getting close to men—or women—too much strain on her psychic control. Their emotions battered at her, exhausted her. After working all day, closing out the emotions of the clients and her coworkers, it was a relief to go home to just her cat. Smoke pawed the map. “What you doin', kitty?” Morgan saw that Smoke had trapped a spider on the book and was torturing it in the manner that only animals of the feline persuasion were capable. The spider soon expired after being traumatized by the over zealous kitty—his resting place, Southern Indiana. “Well, why the hell not?” Morgan took a tissue and removed the dead spider off a town in the Hoosier National Forest. “French Creek. Sounds good to me. What do you think, Smoke? You picked it." The cat purred as he rubbed up against her. “Well, that's it then. We're moving to French Creek, Indiana." When? The murderer is still at large. “Okay, okay. We'll move to Indiana either after the murderer is caught and I help put him away or until Riggs says we can. I really feel he is gone. Don't ask how, Smoke, it's just one of those feelings. ****

After a night of tossing and turning, Morgan got up to the sound of another thud against her patio doors. She grinned. At least she was getting free papers out of the situation. Waving at the crowd of reporters, which seemed to have tripled overnight, Morgan picked up the paper, slammed the door shut, and redrew the drapes. She wouldn't put it past them to have sniper photographers on the roofs in her neighborhood. She didn't intend to make it easy for them to get a picture of her. Too late. Along with a half page color photo of her, she saw the new headline: Psychic Smith Connects the Killer to Nichols’ Murder. “Hell, Riggs better plug those leaks in his department,” mumbled Morgan. The sound of her apartment buzzer startled her from her perusal of the paper's take on the two murders and their connections—other than herself. Flipping the switch on her intercom, Morgan called out, “Who is it?" “It's Riggs, buzz me up. We need to talk." Morgan could hear the sound of reporters yelling at Riggs and his terse “no comment” over the intercom as she buzzed him through. Letting Riggs in, she noticed that he had posted a uniformed cop at the top of the stairs. “There's another one at the front door and one at the back. They've been there since I left last night. Your manager asked for a police presence. It seems the idiots have been trying to break or bribe their way in through the other tenants. Most of the people in this building are decent, but we already caught one guy trying to sneak a reporter to your floor. The reporter had paid him a thousand bucks.” Riggs looked exasperated. “Is it always like this?" Sensing that Riggs’ question was not rhetorical, Morgan nodded. “Well shit. It's a wonder you ever offer to help the cops, if a circus atmosphere is the result." “I have to. I can't sleep until I do all I can.” Seeing that Riggs was confused, Morgan clarified her answer. “The visions ... images, they don't go away until then." Morgan sensed Riggs’ understanding and attempted to clarify what she didn't quite understand herself. “I'm sure you dream, too—just not the same way. My dreams get worse if I haven't done all I could—so much so that I can't sleep at all." “How are your dreams?" “Not bad at all. Which isn't good for you.” Morgan voiced what she was sure he already knew. “He's gone. You'll never catch him now." Riggs nodded. “Yeah, we'll keep looking any way. Have to give it the good ole college try before we put it in the ‘unsolved’ pile.” Riggs shrugged. “Since you were right about everything else, you're probably right about this, too. It's a large world out there and with no prints we probably will never even stumble over him accidentally. His picture is only good until he changes his looks." “Which he will do and may have already done.” Hesitating a second, Morgan asked a question she's

always wondered about but had never felt comfortable enough with a cop to ask before now. “Riggs, how can you live with knowing he's still out there free to kill again?" Riggs thought for several seconds before he replied. Morgan got the feeling he had never been asked about his coping skills and didn't know how to share exactly what he felt. “I am a realist, Morgan. I can't beat myself over the ones who get away—if I did, they'd have locked me up in Bellevue a long time ago. How do you live with it?” Morgan shrugged. “No one has ever gotten away before." “No one?” “None.” Until this one. “By the way, why are you here?” Morgan didn't want to think about her failure; she should have been able to stop him—some how. “Just wanted to let you know, you were right about Nichols. Fairchild's bank pulled up canceled checks to Walter Nichols. Fairchild had hired him all right." Turning her thoughts away from the loose mad man, Morgan nodded. “Nichols found out something he shouldn't. Did the other people in the building ever see the killer visit?" “Want to be a cop? With your abilities and your brains, you'd go a long way.” Riggs flashed Morgan the first smile she'd ever seen from the serious cop. “Yeah, we asked. Nada. Not one person had ever seen him, but Willie did boast about her much younger lover to her bridge group. They thought she was bragging, but now they realize she was telling the truth." Morgan thought how much her situation was like Willie's—a woman living alone, few friends—it could've been her lying dead, waiting for someone to discover her. Morgan realized without a change she'd be Willie in a few more years, old, pathetic and so very much alone. No one to love her or be loved by her. “No!” Morgan shouted, startling herself and Riggs. “Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.” Riggs moved to help Morgan to a chair. “I'm okay, Lieutenant.” Seeing his look of disbelief, feeling it, she hurried to reassure him as she accepted his assistance to the chair. “Really, although you weren't far wrong. I did see a ghost, the ghost of a future if I stay here.” Shaking her head, as if the image could be cleared with so simple a gesture. Even if she hadn't been seriously thinking of moving before, she was now. “I've come to a decision, Riggs. I'm packing up and moving to Indiana—a small town. Give myself a chance for a normal life. Or, at least as normal as a psychic can live." “When?" “When? As soon as you allow it." “You're free to leave any time you want. You aren't a suspect—haven't been since the first night." “You believed me then? But...” Morgan stared at the large detective, her mouth hanging open. Thank God, she was sitting down. The shock of Riggs’ admission had literally floored her. No, she shook her head, he hadn't believed her then. He was just saying that. Riggs looked around the room. Anywhere but at her. Morgan noticed he was wiping his face with his hands again and realized he was nervous. Embarrassed, maybe? She thought he wasn't going to answer her question. Finally, looking out her window at the milling reporters, he replied, “I did. And I didn't."

“What kind of answer is that?” Morgan got up from the chair and stood in front of the man who was trying to avoid her and her question. Touching his arm, she asked her question once more. “Did you believe me then? It's important, Riggs, please?" Riggs let out a deep sigh, looked into her eyes, and replied, “Yes, I'll admit I tried to deny it, but I believed. Didn't want to, but I did.” Then, he smiled one of his rare smiles, the kind which made you want to smile right back. “You've got a lot of guts, Morgan. I'm sorry if I made it uncomfortable for you." “Oh Riggs!” Morgan threw her arms around the embarrassed man and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You don't know how much that means to me." Putting her away from him, Riggs warned, “You be careful in Indiana or wherever you end up. Most cops aren't as understanding as me.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white against his dark chocolate skin. Grinning back, Morgan replied, “I'll be careful. I promise." CHAPTER FIVE "The Fool" Start of a new chapter in life. Four years later Morgan felt herself falling into the circular maze spread out in all its green glory below her. Landing on her feet, she looked around and saw nothing but darkness. Strange, the maze had been well lit from above, but now that she was here, it was the dark of a virgin forest, the deepest, darkest green. There had to be light somewhere; she needed to find it. Reaching out she felt the space around her. Nothing. Where was the vegetation she had seen forming the boundaries of the maze? Had she only imagined it? Moving cautiously, baby step by baby step, she finally sensed the hedge wall before she felt it. Blurred images and fuzzy sounds flashed through her head. They were coming from the hedge. It was alive and trying to tell her something. Something she couldn't understand. The images were too jumbled, in patterns with which she was unfamiliar. In the corner of her mind, she sensed movement. Something was out there. A lion chasing a woman. She wanted to help, but was afraid to move. Afraid the lion would chase her instead. She had to do something, but what? The woman screamed, “Help me, Morgan. Help me." A man appeared. Wearing a flowing purple robe with phosphorescent symbols scattered upon it and a glowing yellow staff in his hand, he looked like what Morgan imagined a sorcerer would. “You must help the woman escape the lion if you wish to learn the secret of the maze, Morgan. Hurry, give chase, lest they leave you behind." Morgan, trusting in the wise old man, ran after the lion and the woman. It seemed like she'd been running forever when the woman, still chased by the lion, suddenly rushed towards her. Morgan gasped in horror. She was the running woman. Crying out, Morgan sat up abruptly. She was in her bed on the sleeping porch of her cottage. A dream. It was only a dream. She groaned with relief.

Shivering, Morgan realized she was damp—a combination of sweat and the cool humid night air. Pushing aside the sheet, which had been the only cover she could stand earlier, Morgan swung her legs out of bed and stood. She needed the bathroom, a drink, and dry clothes—in reality, all good excuses not to go back to sleep right away. In her experience a dream like the one she'd just endured would come back if she fell asleep too quickly. The bad ones always did. Morgan turned on the bedside light and glanced at the clock—three o'clock in the morning. She'd been asleep for less than four hours. She'd be a wreck in the morning. Thank God, it was Saturday. She didn't open her shop until eleven on the weekends—tourists didn't tend to get up early on vacation and those that did had lots of other things to do before they hit the downtown area of French Creek, Indiana. French Crick to the natives—to which class Morgan was not yet considered a member. Maybe in twenty to thirty years. Morgan smiled. It didn't really matter. She'd heard that Hoosiers, as Indiana natives were called, were a friendly bunch, but she hadn't given the hearsay credence until she moved here and was made to feel at home. No, she might never be a native, but she was welcome. Smoke's sacrificial spider died on the perfect town for both of them. French Creek, as she had discovered almost immediately upon moving, was a combination college town with a liberal streak restrained by Hoosier practicality. Encompassed within its small borders was an artist's colony with a tolerance for all kinds of art and an environmental haven on the edge of the Hoosier National Forest with flora, fauna and geological natural wonders galore. It even had a large spring fed lake, which the geologists said was at least a thousand feet deep in parts. To Morgan it was heaven on earth and her salvation. Living here was like New York and all the places before had never happened. No, she wouldn't think of that. She had a new life. No one cared about her life before. To the townspeople of French Creek, she was Morgan Tarrant, owner of The Curiosity Shoppe. If she didn't get back to sleep, she'd be less than her perky self in the morning. That would never do. Tourists had a way of keeping a merchant on her toes. Dry and refreshed, Morgan slid back under the lavender scented sheet. Listening to the night sounds of the woods in which her cottage nestled, she slowly drifted back to sleep. At the edges of her sleep state she could have sworn she heard the roar of the lion. She slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night. **** Opening the door to her shop, she waved to her fellow merchants. It was an unwritten pact among the Main Street merchants to open later on the weekends; no one flouted it for long. Not if they wanted to be included in the Merchant's Association activities. The Curiosity Shoppe resembled its name. Morgan had stocked the shop with the odds and ends she loved, that made her feel comfortable. Herbs and dried flowers from her home garden and the garden in the back of the shop, aromatherapy candles and essential oils also made from the things that she and others in the area grew. Jewelry, pottery, and glass from local artisans plus New Age books and music were also part of her inventory. Her shop was very popular, not only with the tourists, but also with the college kids. Tourists in the spring, summer and fall. College students year round. It had been a smart move. She'd never touched her trust fund beyond that one time when she'd moved and started the business. She had proven to her family

and herself that she had the Smith magic touch in business. She'd save Grandmother Cordelia's money for her children ... if she ever had any. Turning on an Enya CD and starting a pot of herbal tea, Morgan then glanced over her appointment book. Five Tarot readings today. Good thing she had Missy coming in to watch the store. Besides the retail items, Morgan used her empathic abilities to do Tarot and Rune readings for customers. Tourists loved to go home with a personal reading. She even had a local lady who did astrological charts for her customers. No one blinked an eye at her unusual sideline. Heck, one of her neighbors used a dowsing rod to help people dig wells. Another communed with Miami Indian spirits in the mounds not too far from town. Morgan doubted most of the artists and merchants on Main Street would comment at all if she admitted to having psychic abilities. But, she hadn't disclosed that fact. True to the promise to herself, in the past four years she had not used her abilities to aid the police. Not that she had much cause. French Creek rolled up the sidewalks most nights at five o'clock. The students kept their brouhahas on campus far away from where she lived in the woods outside of town. And, most of the natives were God-fearing church-goers of the fundamentalist persuasions—Baptist, Pentecostal, Brethren and the like. No, if evil and the emotions it brought with it were running amuck in French Creek —Morgan's finely attuned sixth sense hadn't picked up on them. Or had it? The dream from last night was the first time in four years Morgan dreamed anything other than sweetness, light, and rainbows—at least that she could recall in the light of day. It was the dreams she remembered that counted most—they always had significance. Morgan had studied dream interpretation enough to know the Jungian take on last night's dream. Circular movement—the chase in the maze—was associated with tension. The old man who could be called a helper character mentioned a secret or a treasure in the maze—which was often interpreted by Jung to be a life's companion. Although the enclosure was a circular maze, she'd been imprisoned, aided by the helper figure, who looked like a sorcerer, and threatened by the lion who could be said to be evil. Such dreams often meant that the dreamer couldn't get out because she wasn't ready to do something she should do—a duty. Being chased by an animal especially the lion, a devil symbol, indicated fear. Fear. Tension. Duty that she was not ready to accept. Life companion. Could her sixth sense be picking something up in the little town of French Creek that Morgan hadn't yet recognized with her other senses? Morgan laughed. It was absurd. Especially the part about the life companion. She had no current life companion. Nor was there likely to be one. Nope, the dream had to have some other, more benign, meaning. Nothing bad ever happened in French Creek. The bell over the doorway tinkled as Missy, her clerk, rushed into the shop. Morgan didn't think she'd ever seen Missy when she wasn't rushing. The blonde girl was kinetic energy in human form. “Hey Morgan. Did you hear that storm last night?” Missy rushed on without waiting for Morgan to acknowledge or answer. “Dad said he thought a tornado was coming. Cooled it off somewhat, but it's muggly again today. Do you want me to turn on the fans?" Morgan wasn't quite sure what question to answer first. In fact, she often just picked the most important questions and forgot the rest. She was sure Missy forgot them as soon as she'd asked. Stream of consciousness would describe her favorite clerk's usual style of talking.

“I noticed the cooler air when I woke up in the middle of the night.” Morgan moved to help Missy turn on the fans strategically placed around the room. With the movement of air and a cross breeze in from the front door and out through the back into her shady garden, her store managed to stay cool even on the muggiest of days. Air conditioning would detract from the scents in her shop. “Muggly? Where did you get that word?" “Oh, I heard some weatherman in Indy use it—it means muggy and ugly. Get it?" Morgan smiled. “I guessed that, sweetie. Would you mind making the iced tea? I brewed a pot of sassafras and there's some sun tea on the side porch." “Sure, no problem.” Missy moved off toward the side porch where Morgan's sun-loving herbs grew in little pots on specially built shelves, staggered on the fence to get the maximum amount of light. As usual Missy maintained a running commentary of what was going on in the community. If French Creek ever needed a gossip columnist or a town crier, Missy would be a shoo-in for either job. Her father, the mayor, and her mother, president of the local garden club, spoon-fed Missy the news of the community every night at the dinner table. Missy regurgitated it each day on her various rounds. As usual, Morgan filtered the news commentary allowing it to go in one ear and out the other—only grabbing what interested her in Missy's nonstop chatter. “You have to go, Morgan. He's so special. He has the most beautiful dark eyes and flowing brown hair. He glows." Missy stopped talking. That's when Morgan started listening. Uh oh, Morgan. She's fallen in love again. Better pay attention to the girl. You remember what happened the last time she gushed over a man like this. How could she forget? Missy fell in and out of love almost as fast as she talked. Missy heartbroken was not a pretty sight to see and Morgan's shop usually suffered the consequences. A depressed Missy was a clumsy Missy. “Sorry, Missy. Who is this paragon of all men? Some new boy at the college?" “Morga-a-a-n. You didn't hear a word I said.” Missy managed to place an enormous amount of hurt in her statement. “Sorry, hon. I didn't sleep well, must have been woolgathering. Tell me who this guy is. I really want to know.” “He's the Messiah. You know, the second coming of Christ?” Missy's eyes shone with the light of the newly converted. “He's come to help us prepare for the Apocolypse which will cover the land." Morgan shook her head, looked at Missy who was unnaturally silent and ventured a question she might regret, but had to ask. “You're telling me that this person says he is the second coming of Christ, here to lead the citizens of French Creek away from the Apocalypse to safety at the side of God?" “Yeah.” Missy's head bounced up and down, eyes shining. “Isn't that so cool?" “Yeah, cool.” Morgan had heard some fairly strange things coming from Missy's lips in the four years she had known the girl, but this one got the prize. What was worse was her senses told her Missy really

believed what she was saying. Sheer joy flowed in waves from the girl. “What's this Messiah's name?” “Well, uh, Messiah, I guess.” Missy frowned. “Does it say in the Bible he should have another name?" “No, I guess not. Sorry, it was a dumb question.” Duh, Morgan, you think a con artist, ‘cause that's what this guy has to be, would make the mistake of coming into town and say “Hi, my name's Joe Blow and I'm the Messiah and I take all major plastic?" Morgan realized Missy was trying to get her attention. “What is it, Missy? I was woolgathering again." Missy smiled. “That's okay, I'm used to it. Mom woolgathers a lot when I'm around, too. I guess sometimes you older women have to process information a little slower." Morgan grimaced. “Yeah, I guess you're right, sweetie. Go on with what you were saying about the Messiah. I do want to know." “He's preaching tonight at the Pentecostal Church. Want to come?" “Sure. What time?" “Here take one of the flyers. I've been passing them out all over town. The Messiah has asked me to be one of his acolytes. Neat, huh?” Missy was almost bouncing with excitement. Morgan didn't think the Messiah had acolytes, but hey, what did she know? Taking the flyer, Morgan took one look at the picture of the man calling himself the Messiah and gasped. Willie Fairchild's murderer had found himself a new gig. CHAPTER SIX "The Devil" Unyielding power, tyranny, lust and greed. Morgan ran to keep up with her teenage friend. Either Missy had covered a lot of ground today with her flyers or the Messiah had a damn good advance man. The Pentecostal Church, the largest church in town, was filling up rapidly. Were these people curious, truly devout or just plain nuts? “Morga-a-a-n, come on. The acolytes have seats down in front. I had Aimee save us two.” Missy followed her plaintive order with a tug on Morgan's hand. Morgan saw Aimee, a brunette counterpart to Missy, bouncing up and down, waving and screaming their names. Morgan was not sure that she'd ever had that kind of energy at eighteen. No, in fact, she knew she hadn't, must be in the air and water of Indiana. Morgan realized that Aimee's actions had everyone for five rows turning around to see what all the commotion was about. Smiling, Morgan acknowledged her neighbors and slight acquaintances. Leaning with his back protected against the outside wall of the chapel, one man, tall, dark ... and deadly looking—now where did that come from?—caught Morgan's attention. He looked from Aimee to Missy to her and turned his lips up in what Morgan had to assume was his version of an amused smile. Opening up her senses, Morgan pegged him instantly—a cop! More than a cop—a warrior. No wonder

he looked deadly; he probably was. He definitely radiated cynicism and disbelief—a world weariness that he wore like a bullet proof vest. Morgan, behave yourself. You don't even know the poor man and you've already labeled him. He's probably here to see if this Messiah guy is on the up-and-up. He's on our side. Morgan grinned at the thought. Thank God, someone was going to check into this con man—this murderer. So, are you gonna go over there and tell him what you know about the Messiah? No, she wasn't. Never again. She could just imagine the look of disbelief on the cop's face—the sneer of a tested warrior who only fought enemies he could see, touch and hear. Morgan's empathic abilities and memories of a murder in New York four years ago would not be enough to convince this man. Better he ride the guy out of town on a rail as a huckster. At least he'd be gone. Gone. To kill in someone else's town. No, she couldn't allow herself to think about that. The lights of the large chapel dimmed. The room glowed from the accent lights in the stained glass windows and the hundreds of candles burning on the pulpit area and in sconces along the walls. As the crowd quieted, Morgan took in a deep breath. The scent permeating the room was similar to one of her special blends. This particular blend, though different from hers, was essentially the same as one used by Native American Indians in their spiritual quests. Sage, rosemary, hops, and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on. The scent wasn't coming from the candles—she knew those were scentless, dripless beeswax candles made by a local woman and sold in Morgan's shop. Either the Reverend Porter had bought a diffuser or the Messiah had brought one with him. This blend of essential oils would help prep the crowd for his act by relaxing their inhibitions. Morgan vowed to stay alert; someone had to keep their senses about them. And the cop, Morgan. Don't forget the cynical cop. He doesn't look to be the susceptible type. The thought reassured her. The noise around her picked up as the spotlights highlighted the center of the stage. The pulpit, for tonight, was set off to one side. Soon after the spots came on, music seemed to come from all around— Reverend Porter had installed a state of the art system. Morgan recognized Bach's “Requiem.” The sheer gall of the man calling himself the Messiah. She was repelled at the thought of this murderer preaching to her people—her friends, but could not find the nerve to expose herself to their ridicule, their fear. Being slightly psychic, was okay—that was eccentric, acceptable. Being able to read people's emotions, to actually see what they had done in anger, hate or love, well, that was weird and not politically correct. No, she had to keep quiet. She had a new life. Willie and Nichols were dead. Nothing she could do would bring them back. She'd have to be alert and sway her town away from the influence of this devil—she knew now he was the lion in her dream. With her knowledge, she could do it and still protect her secret. Maybe if they arrested him for fraud, they would find out other crimes he'd committed. Jail was jail. What about his psi powers, Morgan? Did you forget those? He could sense you on that train. Morgan negated the thought. Four years away from the hustle and bustle of the East coast, she'd learned to control her abilities more than ever. She couldn't be read, if she didn't want to be read. She was stronger than this devil.

“Morgan!” Missy's shriek shook her out of her reverie. “He's coming!" **** Gabriel Walsh smiled at the antics of the two teenage girls. But he approved of the older woman chaperoning them. Average height. Slender with womanly curves. Midnight black hair. Fair skin. Bet her eyes were light. One of the girl's mothers? Looked too young to be the mother of a teenager, but you never knew. He was so new to French Creek that he hadn't had the chance to meet many in the town. He made a mental note to ask about this one. She was memorable. The move away from Detroit had been the right decision. No ties to keep him there. His last case almost killed him. Time to slow down. A buddy from the SEALs lived in Indianapolis and heard about this job. Gabe now owed his friend a favor. French Creek was growing and had decided they needed a full-time criminal investigator—him. So far, crime in the town seemed relegated to theft, vandalism and some minor assaults on the campus. If major crime was a problem, he hadn't seen it yet. But he knew it was always there beneath the surface. The respected business man who beats his wife; the scout leader who sodomizes little boys; the mild-mannered politician who kills prostitutes and then goes home to his June Cleaver clone of a wife. It could be there; he just hadn't found it, yet. He hoped he never would. Now, this guy who called himself the Messiah had come to town. Gabe was here, because the police chief's daughter had been so excited after a revival meeting last weekend in a church camp outside of town. The usually laconic laid back Chief Byrd had been almost apoplectic. “Walsh, you get your butt over to the Pentecostal Church tonight and check this guy out.” The chief's red face had deepened several shades until Walsh thought his boss would explode right in front of him. “Messiah, my ass! You can make book this guy's out for money.” Using his cigar, unlit since the Town Council had banned smoking in all public buildings, the chief pointed at Walsh. “I won't have it, Walsh. Not in my town. You get something on this asshole, you hear!" Walsh smiled—a smile that his previous adversaries would recognize—a smile promising retribution. Gabe always got his man. In the SEALs, in the Detroit police force, and especially here in his newly chosen home. **** Morgan glanced over at the cop after Missy's shriek. He either hadn't heard or had chosen to ignore her excited companion this time. Too bad. She'd hoped to see that half smile again. See it transform his swarthy face and light eyes from stern to amused. She got the impression he hadn't had much light in his life. Morgan, Morgan, Morgan—what have we here? You're interested in the cop? Maybe that dream last night wasn't so far off. He looks like he'd be a great life's companion. No! Quiet. The devil is about to start. Okay, for now. We'll come back to this interesting bit of a development. Morgan turned her attention outward. The crowd went silent at the appearance of the man who called himself the Messiah. He certainly looked the part dressed in a white silk suit—Versace at a guess—with his dark brown—formerly blonde—hair flowing over his shoulders. There was no other word for it—he glowed. How did he do that?

Morgan recognized him instantly. No amount of hair color, new clothes, even plastic surgery could disguise this man from her. He had the appearance of an angel, but she could sense his devil's soul. He'd changed his appearance in the four years, but there was no way he could hide the void inside him. Not from her. As an aura surrounded him, tinged with blue and violet light, a beautiful scent seemed to emanate from his general vicinity, wafting out over the crowd and reaching Morgan in the second row. She couldn't place it right away, but she would. Using her extra sense to supplement her control over her sense of smell, she breathed shallowly and mentally filtered out the seductive element coming from the stage. Now, she recognized the separate essences—henbane, a narcotic; hops, a hypnotic; and ylang ylang, a sweet-smelling aphrodisiac. The cad. Alerted, Morgan knew she could control her reaction to the drug but feared for the others. As he raised his hands, Morgan could clearly see stigmata against the pale ivory of his skin. The crowd seemed to breathe their awe in unison. Then, he spoke. The first time she'd ever heard evil speak. His rich baritone reminded Morgan of an opera singer she'd once heard. “My children, welcome and be blessed. Our Father, the Father of all Creation, has sent me to save you from yourselves." The crowd responded with “Amen.” Morgan worked to keep her nausea in check. **** Darien paused, smiling the benevolent smile he practiced in front of his mirror before each performance. The crowd was primed and ready. His gaze moved over the now silent audience, then he spoke. “Since I last walked this Earth, mankind, my children, has gone the way of the Devil ... My death did not redeem you. You have fought wars over worldly goods and false idols; you have allowed your brothers and sisters to die of disease and starvation; and, you have polluted our Father's creation with your filth. He has sent warnings of fire, flood and devastating earthquakes and still you have not heeded." “Once again, my children, I am your last chance for salvation. If you do not heed my warning and follow my lead—the world shall end before the clock finishes chiming the midnight hour one month from today." A gasp arose from the audience. Several women started to wail their grief. Darien smiled inwardly—he had them. “Will you follow me to the new Jerusalem?" The crowd responded en masse. “Yes, My Lord." “Will you allow me to lead you to the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth?" The chants of “Hosea, Jesus, lead us!” began in the back of the chapel and moved forward as the audience, caught up in the moment, stood and swayed from side-to-side. Darien smiled, and the air was filled with ethereal music and the scent of lilies. **** As his last words and the response it engendered echoed throughout the church, Morgan sat stunned. Sick. She observed the crowd's rapt attention for this charlatan. This murderer. This devil incarnate. Why couldn't they see the evil in his eyes and hear the lies on his lips? Were they all crazy? No, they were drugged—both by the chemicals in the air and the power of his menacing charisma.

Without thinking, Morgan turned her gaze toward the wall where the dark cop had been leaning. He wasn't leaning now. He was alert, like an attack dog who'd sensed an intruder. Good, Morgan sighed. He wasn't taken in. Here was one sane person other than herself. First things first. She would get Aimee and Missy out of there. Convince them this Messiah was a fake. Then, she would turn her attention to finding a way, without exposing herself to the cops and the town, to show this guy up for what he really was—a criminal. Shaking Missy, Morgan could see the girl was in a fugue state. She had to get the girls out of there— now. “Missy. Aimee. Come on ... now!” Morgan raised her voice above the crowd now singing hymns. Getting no response, Morgan grabbed an arm of each and pulled the girls along toward the side exit. As she passed the cop, he nodded his approval. She felt warm all over. She'd worry about that reaction later. **** Catching a breath of fresh air from the open doorway, Gabe rid his nasal passages of the sickeningly sweet smell that had covered the room with the con man's appearance. He then fought the lethargy that threatened his alertness. Something else was in that perfume besides harmless flowers, he'd bet the bank on it. In control again, Gabe watched the crowd. It was unreal. All these upstanding, salt of the earth citizens were taken in by the garbage the guy had spouted from the stage. Well, not all of them. The woman with the two teenage girls was hustling them out of there, a look of disgust on her attractive face. She glanced at him as she passed. Her eyes were smoky green. Beautiful eyes full of intelligence and something else he couldn't define. Tearing his mind away from the first woman he'd shown interest in since his wife's betrayal, he looked around for the bastard calling himself the Messiah. It was sacrilege and Gabe wasn't even that religious. He understood now why the chief had been so upset. This guy was dangerous. He had a room full of fairly intelligent human beings in the palm of his hand. No way to determine how much harm he could do. Well, whoever this guy was and whatever he was trying to accomplish he wouldn't succeed. Gabe always got his man. CHAPTER SEVEN "The Star"—Reversed Experience temporary setbacks, impotence. Morgan flopped onto the bentwood lounger on her porch and hoped the fairy tale atmosphere of her evening garden would work on easing the tension threatening to take over her body. On this warm moonlit evening, the whites of the flowers glowed against the verdant greens of the surrounding foliage and woods. Laying her head back against the chaise, Morgan closed her eyes and breathed in the scents of the nicotiana, moonflowers, white climbing roses, and tuberoses. Normally, this exercise in relaxation worked. Not tonight. After leaving the devil's revival, Morgan had taken the girls to the A&W drive-in for burgers and cola floats. She'd thought she could use the time in the car to talk some sense into Aimee and Missy. She'd thought wrong.

Morgan allowed the girls to eat a little and absorb the caffeine from their colas before she broached the topic of the false Messiah. She hoped the fresh air and food would clear their drug-fogged minds. “Missy, that was some show the Messiah put on.” “Show? What do you mean, Morgan?” Missy stopped sipping her cola and turned to Morgan, a look of confusion—no, vagueness—in her eyes. Morgan had mentally prepared what she was going to say on the way to the drive-in, but forgot it all when she saw the unfocused stare Missy turned toward her. Opening her senses, she probed for some emotion, any emotion, in her young friend. Nothing. This was not her Missy; this was a Stepford Missy. Had there been something else in that diffuser besides what she'd sensed? There had been something unfamiliar in the first scent she'd encountered. Obviously, its effects were longer lasting. But, why hadn't it bothered her? “Missy? Honey? Are you feeling well?” Morgan reached out and touched the girl on the arm. It was cool and clammy. “I'm fine, Morgan. Great burgers.” Shrugging Morgan's hand away, Missy gave her a beatific smile and turned back to her food. Alarmed, Morgan looked at Aimee in the back seat. The other girl had curled up and fallen asleep, her burger and cola half consumed. Realizing that she couldn't talk to the girls when they were this unresponsive, she'd taken them home. She vowed she would try again tomorrow after whatever drug was in their system had time to dissipate. Still, the feeling that she'd somehow failed them persisted. She didn't say anything to the girls’ parents, because she didn't know what to tell them. “Sorry, Mayor James, but your daughter's soul has been inhabited by the devil. Have a nice night.” Or “Oh, Aimee's just a little tired Chief Byrd. Too much excitement, a con man has drugged your daughter into a zombie state. Don't worry though; he just wants money this time, not blood." Realizing her magic garden wasn't working this evening, Morgan got up from her chair and went inside. Running away from your thoughts won't help, Morgan. Just shut up. A loudly purring Smoke wended his way through her legs. “Hey, Smoke. It's been a weird evening, ole boy.” Morgan bent over and scratched the special spot behind Smoke's ears and received a deep throaty purr in response. “At least you seem your normal self tonight." Smoke turned, licked her wrist and walked off to lay in his favorite spot in the window where he could watch the bats eating bugs under the light at the end of the driveway. Locking her door, Morgan turned out the porch light, then walked into her bedroom. A snippet from her dream surfaced as she passed by her bed. Life's companion. Smoke was the only constant in her life. A life's companion—could Smoke be the companion in her dreams? God knows, she hadn't found a human companion to supplant her feline's unquestioning love. Human males looked for certain attributes in a mate—being psychic wasn't usually a desired trait in a lover. Too spooky. Invasive.

The last guy she dated—a philosophy professor at the college—ran when she was a tad too insightful and asked why he was boffing his teenage charges. He still crossed to the other side of the street when he saw her. After that, as far as she knew, he'd turned his attentions to older women—non-students. Other dates ran along the same lines. Lots of interest up front, but immediate cessation of contact after Morgan inadvertently let slip that she knew what they were really like. How did other women do it? Fall in love with an image and then have to live with the reality after the newness wore off? For Morgan, the guys couldn't get to first base; she knew them for what they were and they hated that. Maybe she just had met the wrong type of men. What about that stud cop? The warrior. He's a deep one. Emotions totally under control. No. Morgan refused to think about him. Warrior types were too—too—well, male. Nope, she wasn't going to think about him. She'd made a pact with herself to avoid this particular subset of the male species, “the lord and master of all he surveyed” subset. She couldn't read them as well as others; it was like being blind. Face it, Morgan, you're a coward. Morgan wasn't going to argue with that. Going into the bathroom, she creamed her face and brushed her hair, which was tangled in its usual frizzy mass of waves and curls. Damn humidity. Her hair wouldn't calm down now until about October. Every summer she swore she would get it cut, but she never did. She was too chicken to see what she'd look like with short hair. Her conscience was right; she was a coward. She couldn't get up the nerve to change something as meaningless as her hairstyle. When faced with a real danger, she tried to find a way to avoid it. A courageous person would gird her emotional loins, go to the police now and find a way to put that murdering fiend away for life. No, she wasn't going to go there. She'd do what she could to protect those she cared about, but she wouldn't expose herself in that way again. She didn't want to give up her comfortable life again. Yellow. **** Morgan walked the paths of the maze searching for the old man. She needed to ask him some questions. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something white moving towards her. It was a bunny hopping, as fast as it could, away from the woman she knew to be her double. Why was the bunny scared? She would never hurt it. No—the rabbit wasn't running from her double; they were both running from the lion. The lion had them cornered. Morgan watched in horror as her double picked up the bunny and threw it to the lion. The lion smiled his thanks, swallowed the bunny whole, and left. Morgan called out, “Why didn't you save the rabbit?" Her double turned her back on Morgan and floated up and over the hedge out of sight. “She couldn't; she was afraid she would be the lion's dinner instead." Morgan turned and saw the old man she'd been seeking. Tonight, he had on a flowing azure robe covered in rune-like symbols. His staff was lavender. His aura, white and peaceful. “But she had the ability to float away from the lion, she could have saved both herself and the rabbit.”

Morgan argued. “Ah, but you see Morgan, she feared the lion would not leave her alone if she did that. By sacrificing the rabbit, she lived to run another day." “I would never do that.” Morgan insisted. “I would never do that." "Ah, but you have and will again, Morgan. You can't help yourself. You aren't ready to ride the lion yet.” Morgan woke up crying out her denial. This was not good. A recurring bad dream. In the past, these types of dreams had been particularly prophetic. Who was the rabbit? She knew it could represent her life in French Creek. Dream symbols didn't always follow real world physics. But what if it wasn't? What if it was a person? There had to be a way to ride the lion and find the secret of the maze without sacrificing the life she had made for herself. Shivering, exhausted, Morgan lay back down and pulled her quilt up to her nose. Smoke, sensing her need for comfort, hopped on her bed and curled up to her back; she fell asleep to the sound of his purring. On the periphery of sleep, she once again heard the triumphant roar of the lion. **** Gabe stretched his way through another yoga position. His naked body glistened with sweat brought on by the strenuous moves and exacerbated by the high humidity. Breathing through the pain, he moved effortlessly into a pose to strengthen the muscles in his abdomen, which had been cut by the bullets from a drug dealer's automatic weapon. Grunting, he managed to maintain the posture to the count of fifty. Ten more than a week ago. Light years away from the first weeks of rehab six months ago. Relaxing the stance, he reached for the towel on the bed and wiped the sweat from his sharply cut frame. Gabe had lots of patience; with hard work and perseverance, he would control and put down any weakness in his body. He had to be able to rely on his ability to move to get him out of tight spots. It was that very ability that had caused the bullets to miss vital organs and why he was alive today. Striding to his shower, Gabe glanced down at his scars. Even he was amazed that he had survived. Not only had he survived, Gabe had taken the drug dealer down and used his own weapon against him. No one mourned the slime, especially not Gabe. Standing under the tepid shower, Gabe reflected on the act he had seen earlier this evening. For it had been exactly that—an act. Had to give the Messiah some credit, Gabe wasn't quite sure how he performed some of what he'd done. But he was damned sure gonna find out. Gabe liked French Creek. He hoped to spend the rest of his life here, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let some slick huckster rip off the citizens in his town. After the revival meeting ended, Gabe had tried to track down the bastard masquerading as Christ. No one knew where he'd gone—or if they did, they wouldn't admit it. Probably shacking up with one of his converts. He looked to be the type—all the vices—money, drugs, and sex. Sex. Something he hadn't had in a while. Not since he'd caught his wife in bed with one of the guys from Vice. The woman at the church looked to be the faithful type. The image of slender curves, masses of black curly hair and tourmaline eyes flashed into his mind. Damn, he was hard just thinking of the woman. He hadn't been this aroused in months. Wonder who she was? He'd ask the chief tomorrow. Right now, he'd better take care of this arousal or he'd never get to

sleep. Turning the hot tap off, Gabe rinsed the soap with cold water. **** Darien shuddered through his climax and collapsed on top of the woman who cried out in an orgasm of her own. Rolling off the bosomy blonde, Darien got up and pulled on his robe. “Go to your room, Bren. If I need you, I'll buzz." “Darien, can't I stay the night?” Bren whined as she preened for him. Darien smiled. Bren was becoming a pain. He knew how to get rid of her. Turning his back on her, he called over his shoulder, “No. I don't sleep with fat cows like you. You're good for one thing and one thing only. Now, that I've had it, I can't stand the sight of you. Get out of here. Send in Nan. It's her turn to spend the night." Darien sensed the bimbo's next move and ducked as she threw the bedside carafe at him. Turning, he glared at her. As he expected, Bren shrieked in fear and ran buck-naked out of the room. He'd have to get Jake to get rid of her tomorrow. Buy her off and put her on a bus to wherever the hell they'd gotten her. Somewhere in Nebraska? If she didn't go, well, Jake had other ways of getting rid of people—permanently. Darien locked the door behind the scorned woman whom he could now hear screaming in rage at poor Nan down the hall. Picking up the phone, he punched the numbers for Jake's room. “Jake, go to the women's suite, pay off Bren and placate Nan. Yeah, that's right. Get rid of Bren. Well, go ahead. I rode her pretty hard tonight, but she loves it. After that, just get rid of the bitch. I'm sick of her whining. I'm turning in. Don't wake me until around ten in the morning. Send Nan to do it—she can take care of my morning hard-on.” Darien walked into the master bath of the bed and breakfast that his entourage had taken over. The owners lived in a gatehouse, and this arrangement fit his needs perfectly. He played the holy man during the day, but at night, he wanted his sex hot and, at times, loud. Somehow he didn't think his sex life would gel with his Messiah persona. He laughed. As he showered, he reviewed his plan to bilk the good people of the Pentecostal Church of French Creek out of their building fund. As with other evangelical churches, getting his holy foot in the door had been easy. Pentecostal preachers were the easiest gulls. Like taking candy from a baby. They wanted to believe in him so badly, they usually offered more than he asked for. This church was particularly convenient in that a lot of what he needed for his act was already in place—the sound system; the forced air; the stage and the lights. Hell, he could even use the candleholders as he pulled the congregation more and more under his spell. He wanted them to remember him with fondness after he left, totally oblivious to the theft that would occur right under their so very helpful noses. If he was lucky, he might find a willing and comely female to take the place of Bren. There had been some young girls at the church youth camp who'd looked nice. Not jail bait either. Maybe it was time he went out for younger meat. Hard again and not wanting to deal with another whiny female, Darien jacked himself off yelling out his satisfaction as his semen mixed with the water going down the drain. CHAPTER EIGHT "The Hermit" Prudence, discrimination, wisdom.

The next morning, Morgan got to her shop well ahead of Missy. She wanted to prepare the atmosphere to counteract the sedative effects of the scents the Messiah had used last night. With that goal in mind, she brewed a pot of Breakfast Tea with its higher caffeine content and lit some candles perfumed with the essence of lemon grass—both had a stimulating effect. Debating the best way to counsel her young charge about the illegal intent of the Messiah, Morgan pulled out both her Tarot cards and Missy's Runes, which she left at the shop for the twice-monthly readings. It wasn't time for either the New or Full Moon Rune readings, but Morgan leaned toward the Runes for her purposes. The leeway in interpreting the Runes was much wider than the more formalized patterns and interpretations of the Tarot. It was the Runes that Morgan always used to gently nudge Missy from a path that looked to be hazardous for the young girl. Plus, Morgan was afraid to read the Tarot; afraid to see what the cards might reveal. No, the Runes would be better; she could preach the mantra of avoiding the Messiah like the plague. Morgan was sure that, once convinced, Missy would take Aimee with her— away from the malevolent huckster. “Hey Morgan. You're here early!” Missy bounced into the room. The recuperative powers of the young were amazing. Maybe the tea and candles would be overkill on stimulation. “I thought I'd do a special Rune reading for you today.” Morgan waited for her young friend to challenge her on this change from their usual pattern. “Cool. Where are my Runes?” Missy moved to the table in the corner of the shop that Morgan used for readings and plopped herself in the chair. Morgan grimaced at the cracking sound from the wicker. Some day, Missy's manner of seating herself would finally take its toll on the fragile webbing. At least, Missy was back to normal. Missy picked up the Runes bag and removed the crystal kept inside to hold the owner's energy near the Runes. Setting it aside, Missy put her right hand inside the bag and fondled the polished amethyst stones Morgan had given her for Christmas. Morgan watched as her young friend warmed the Runes allowing them to absorb active energy, rather than the passive energy of the crystal. Opening up her sixth sense, Morgan caught fleeting images from the young girl. Images of the previous evening—her euphoria at the message the Messiah had imparted and—oh no—her attraction for the man himself. This was not good. Morgan felt a lot less ashamed of herself for what she was about to do to Missy; the girl needed to be warned off for her own good. The Messiah would eat Missy for breakfast and spit her out if he could. “They're warm, Morgan.” Missy called out rousing Morgan from her contemplative state. Seating herself across from Missy, Morgan looked her in the eye and began the ritual of the Rune reading. “This reading is a special reading, Missy, but it will be patterned similarly to the Full and New Moon readings—a nine Rune combination with a tenth Rune for a final thought. I want you to concentrate on your life as it is at present, more particularly as it pertains to your current personal interests. As always do not tell me what you are thinking about, I will tell you. Okay?" Missy nodded her head. “Now, choose your first Rune." Missy picked out her first Rune. Raido.

Good, Morgan thought, awareness in spiritual issues would work into her plan well. Missy knew the meanings of the Runes just as well as she did. But, with Morgan's insight into what Missy was actually thinking, she had, in the past, woven interpretations into the reading that would help her young friend with a teenager's life dilemmas. This time it was Morgan's dilemma being addressed—how to protect Missy from herself. That was Morgan's goal. Missy replaced the Rune using the method Morgan liked—presenting all twenty-five possibilities of the Runes each time a pick was made. Proceeding through the selection process, Morgan wrote Missy's picks down in three rows of three with the last choice set to the side. The first row, the present, displayed a great beginning for Morgan's purposes: Raido, awareness of spiritual issues; Othila, moral issues, clarify your own set of values; Perth, unclear communications, a need for clearer communication. The second row, the next three weeks, was Hagalaz, disruption, the trouble is of your own making; Isa, standstill, out of your control; and, again, Hagalaz, disruption. The last row, beyond the next three weeks out to a maximum of two months, was all Isa, standstill. The final thought was Teiwaz, destiny, strong destination. Morgan silently groaned. She had never seen so many Isas in one drawing. This only underlined the effect of the Messiah over Missy. “What does it mean, Morgan?” With troubled eyes, Missy looked up at her mentor. “I've never picked so many Isas before. What's wrong?" Taking a deep breath and praying for direction, Morgan answered, “Missy, my take on this is that extreme caution needs to be observed in your life in the coming weeks, especially where outside influences are involved.” No guts, no glory, Morgan. Tell her. “Sweetie, I could tell last night you were taken in by that charlatan's act." “You mean the Messiah” Missy interrupted confusion evident in her voice. “Oh no, he's so ... so spiritual. So calm. So..." “Sexy?” Morgan plucked the next word from Missy's mind. With a look of shocked surprise, Missy answered, “Well, uh, yeah. Sexy. That's what I was just thinking. How do you do that, Morgan? You always seem to know what I'm thinking. I don't know that I've ever fooled you." Morgan smiled at Missy's disgruntled tone. “I'm pretty perceptive." “Perceptive? You're more than that ... Are you psychic?” Missy squealed. “That's it, you must be psychic. That's why you know so much. Way cool." “Something like that.” Morgan quickly redirected the subject. “But it didn't take any of my perceptive powers last night, to realize that the man on that stage was using magician's tricks, and a combination of essential essences, to drug the crowd, putting them in a more suggestive mood to accept his line of crap. Trust me, Missy, he wants money. He's a con man." Missy was silent for the longest time. Morgan sensed her fluctuating emotions—disappointment, anger, acceptance. Saw them flit across her face in frowns and grimaces. “Well, bummer, did you read his mind, Morgan? Is that how you know he's a crook?"

Reading her friend accurately and knowing that a denial would set the topic back to the beginning, Morgan answered, “Yes. Exactly. He's bad and crooked. In fact, I think Aimee's Dad suspects something because he had a police officer there to watch the guy. Mark my words—he'll either be asked to leave town or be arrested for fraud." “Oh, Aimee's Dad is suspicious of everybody, Morgan.” Missy wasn't ready to let go just yet. Morgan sighed. “Missy, please trust me on this. Have I ever steered you wrong in the past?” “Well, uh ... no, I guess not. You're pretty neat for an older person, you know.” Missy gave her a sweet smile, which warmed Morgan's heart. “Thanks, hon. You're pretty neat for a teenager. Seriously, you can trust me this time, too—the Messiah is as phony as a three-dollar bill." “Cool. I can't wait to tell Aimee.” Missy bounced in the wicker chair, once again causing Morgan to fear for the poor chair's continued existence. “Why don't you call her and have her come over to help you out today in the shop's garden?” Morgan offered, knowing that the sooner Aimee was clued in, the better. She could always downplay the pyschic ability later after the creep was gone. “Tell her I'll pay her the same wage you're getting.” Morgan knew that bribery in the form of extra cash never hurt either. Missy's exuberant “Yeah” gave Morgan her first real smile of the day. **** Missy and Aimee worked side by side in the herbaceous borders of the shop's cottage garden. The plot was laid out in a circle with the herbs planted centrally in raised beds along paths that led to the perimeter. The edges of the garden were covered in shadows in the early morning and late afternoon, but the center had sunshine for most of the day. It was a place where Missy felt comfortable and at peace. Today, the garden's atmosphere had negligible effect on her mood. Morgan's Rune reading and the discovery that her boss was “special” canceled out any peaceful vibes she usually picked up. “Psychic?” Aimee's question had an “oh yeah, right” silently attached, which irked Missy. “Sure. Just think about it, Aimee.” Missy marshaled her arguments in a logical way that would have surprised any of the adults who knew her. Missy may have the reputation of being an airhead, but she had a brain and could use it when she wished. “She knew all about our drinking trip to Ohio, our skinny-dipping with the Brady brothers, our visit to the motorcycle bar, and your sneaking out to meet that older salesman at the Cozy Nest B&B." “Well, uh, yeah ... okay so she heard stuff around town and then tricked us into admitting it all.” Aimee wasn't quite ready to give up her disbelief. “She was just lucky—adding two and two, and well, you know." “Okay, let's just say she was lucky, but can anybody be lucky one hundred per cent of the time?” Missy glanced at her best friend and saw that she had her. “I mean she's even known things we've planned to do—like the time you were going to take your Dad's police car so we could drive to the lake and meet the Brady twins for some fooling around at their cabin. She couldn't have heard it from anybody, because only you, the Brady's and me knew about it—and it never happened. Why? Because she sat us down and lectured us about safe sex and stuff. Right?"

“Yeah ... you're right. Ooh, weird.” Aimee looked troubled. “Do you think she reads our minds all the time?" “Well, I don't know. Uh...” Missy hadn't given that particular question much thought yet, Morgan being psychic had been a shocker. “I wouldn't think so. It seems she does it when she thinks we're going to get into trouble. Like the time you were going to borrow your Dad's car to go to the Cozy." “Yeah, and I decided to ride my bike instead,” Aimee grinned. “I should've taken the hint and not gone at all." “Yep, your Dad was really pissed. I've never seen a man so happy to get out of town as that salesman. What were you thinking, Aimee? He was fifteen years older than you.” Missy shook her head in her newfound wisdom. “Listen to you. When we were at that youth camp, you had the hots for the Messiah. A man we believed to be the chosen one, a holy man, for God's sake! You were darn embarrassing to be around. What were you thinking?” Aimee taunted as she pulled out an extra large weed with a vicious twist. “Yeah, well, that's over, plus I didn't do anything about it,” retorted Missy, stung by the accuracy of her friend's reminder. Hurrying to change the subject, Missy asked. “What is your Dad going to do about this creep?" “Well ... uh ... I don't know.” “Aime-e-e, you heard something and you're keeping it from me.” Missy knew her friend eavesdropped on her Dad all the time. “Missy, I can't tell you. It's an ongoing investigation.” Aimee huffed as she smashed a large juicy slug on the brick walkway with her trowel. Missy put on what she hoped was an indignant look of hurt, “You mean you would've let me go on believing in the con man when you knew your Dad was investigating him as a crook? What kind of friend are you?” Aimee threw down her trowel, rushed over to her friend and hugged her. “Oh no, I would've warned you. I wouldn't let you get hurt by that man. Honest." Missy, disengaging herself from her friend's exuberant but sweaty and dirty, embrace, smiled her forgiveness. “Then why not tell me what's going on now?" “Umm, okay ... but you promise not to tell? Even Morgan?" “I promise but Morgan'll figure it out anyway.” “Yeah, that's right. Okay, Gabe, that's the new criminal investigator Dad hired..." “The sexy one with the great ass?" “Yeah, that's the one. He was at the revival last night and felt the guy was using some sort of gas or chemical—maybe in the air conditioning system—to create a mass hypnosis effect.” “That's what Morgan said. What are they gonna do about it?” Missy pulled a sweet clover and started to suck the sugar out of the bottoms of the purple petals. Aimee shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing, I guess. Gabe told Dad that he got permission from Reverend

Porter to look at the cooling system, but he couldn't find anything. Until they can catch him at it ... or find some evidence that he is actually planning on committing fraud, the only thing he's guilty of is talking and putting on a great magic act." “Morgan called it an act and said something about magician's tricks also.” Missy puckered her forehead in thought. “Damn. This guy could get away with it. We can't let that happen.” Missy would only acknowledge to herself that she felt betrayed by the man called the Messiah and wanted to get the goods on him. Missy didn't get mad, she got even. “And just how are we going to stop it?” “We're going to do some sleuthing; first at the church. And, if necessary, at the Cozy Nest B&B where the Messiah and his followers are staying." “No, uh-uh, no way José. Dad grounded me for three months the last time I was caught at the Cozy Nest. No way am I going anywhere near that place.” Using her slug-coated trowel, Aimee emphasized her point by smashing two more of the slimy critters. “Fine,” Missy said. “I understand. Your Dad can get really touchy." “Anyway, Missy, this Gabe guy is really ticked off. He used to be a SEAL, ya know like Steven Seagal in the ‘Under Siege’ movies ... and a Detroit undercover cop. He'll get the guy.” Aimee nodded as if that ended the matter. Missy smiled at her friend. Yeah, if Gabe knew where to look and for what to look. He needed a reason to go looking at the B&B. Missy knew that Morgan wanted her to stay away from the Messiah, but if someone didn't do something and soon, the Reverend Porter, the church, and maybe a lot of other people, her people, would lose their savings. No, only Missy had the entrée to the Messiah's private quarters. So, he might try to kiss her and stuff, she could handle it—long enough to find the goods on him. Then, she'd make an excuse to go home and tell Aimee's Dad and that hunky Gabe what the Messiah's secrets were. They would arrest him and she would be a heroine. The more she thought of it, the more she realized that her last Rune, Teiwaz, destiny, overrode the whole reading. It was her destiny to uncover the Messiah's act—her moral duty. CHAPTER NINE "The Wheel of Fortune"—Reversed Bad luck. As Missy crawled in through the window at the back of the Cozy Nest B&B, she looked over her shoulder and whispered, “Aimee, come on. Hurry up. The Messiah and his people won't be eating dinner all night. Why on earth did you wear a white outfit? You show up like a large lightning bug. You should have worn black, like me." Aimee, stepping up to the window to follow her friend into a new career at breaking and entering retorted, “Look who's talking. You show up against the white side of the house in that cat burglar outfit. Besides, it's too hot to wear black from head-to-toe. It's a frigging seventy-eight degrees at eight o'clock at night and the humidity is even higher." Missy decided not to grace Aimee's counterpoint with a response. It had been hard enough to convince Aimee that breaking into the Cozy Nest was a better alternative than confronting and seducing the

Messiah to get inside the building to look around. She didn't want her friend to back out now. Instead, she reached down and pulled Aimee over the sill into the laundry room, causing both of them to fall together in a heap under the window. Aimee, standing up and brushing herself off, mumbled, “Gee Missy, I could've fallen into the room all by myself, thank you very much." “Don't mention it. Come on,” Missy turned on the flashlight she'd brought and led the way out of the laundry room. “We only need to check out the bedrooms, then we can leave before anybody knows the difference. Remember, put everything back just the way you found it." Aimee, on Missy's heels, whispered, “You scare me, Missy. You need to stop watching those true crime shows on TV. What exactly am I looking for anyway?” Missy stopped and Aimee, following closely, ran into her. “Sorry, Missy, why don't you signal when you're going to do something like that?" Missy looked at her best friend and shook her head. “Next time. Now listen up. We're looking for something that might be used to drug people during the revivals. Chemical stuff like oils, powders, sort of like the stuff Morgan sells in her shop. Plus anything that looks suspicious. Simple?" “Oh, yeah ... as a Rubik's Cube,” muttered Aimee. “I heard that. Can we just look now if you are done being difficult?" “Sure. Let's do it. I can always knit all those afghan kits I have under the bed when my Dad grounds me for the next year." “Aime-e-e, it'll be all right.” Missy wheedled. “We'll be out of here before they get back.” Confident that her childhood companion in crime would follow, Missy led the way to the second floor using the servant's stairs off the laundry room hallway. “Go down that side of the hall, I'll take the master suite and the other two rooms on this side. When you're done, go on outside and I'll meet you back at the car.” Missy shoved her friend toward the first room and went into the one opposite. Working quickly, Missy saved the master suite for last. Deciding that chemicals would be hidden in plain sight, she searched the bathroom first. Opening one bottle after another, she sniffed their contents. Nothing. All the usual commercial toiletries. No frankincense, no myrrh, no nothing. What a boring Messiah this guy turned out to be. There had to be something she could find that would help the police run this guy out of town. Walking into the bedroom, she heard Aimee move past toward the stairs. She'd better hurry up. Aimee would have kittens if Missy didn't follow her out—and soon. Opening the closet, Missy noticed that one of the garments seemed to glow—blue and violet in the light from the flashlight. Touching the fabric, Missy realized whatever was on the garment came off on her gloves. This had to be one of the Messiah's tricks. He used some sort of chemical to make his robe glow when light hit it—his audience would think he had an aura. Good. This is the type of thing the police could use to discredit the bum. Pushing the robe aside, Missy flashed her light around the floor of the closet. There were boxes. Opening one, she saw canisters. The kind gases were stored in. She was attempting to find a name on the box or the canisters when she heard a loud hiss, “Missy!" Turning around, she aimed her flashlight and saw Aimee in the doorway. “What?"

“Come on. They're coming up the drive. We have to leave now!” Aimee turned and trotted to the stairs. Missy replaced the lid on the box and shut the closet door. Looking around, she was satisfied everything was in its place, and turned to follow Aimee down the back stairs. Aimee met Missy at the bottom and tugged her along to the laundry room window where she shoved her out and followed herself. Having been through this maneuver once this evening, Missy and Aimee managed to roll to a standing position, but then had to drop to all fours as the headlights of the Messiah's car flashed over the area where they were. Someone was backing it into the small garage of the B&B. Pulling Aimee along in the dark, Missy led the way back to her friend's car. It was parked a half mile down the road from the B&B in a cul-de-sac near the hiking trails leading to the lake. It was well known that college kids came out here to fool around, so no one would be suspicious of a car parked at this time of night. “Whew, that was close!” Aimee said as she locked herself into the safety of the car. “I thought we were gonna buy it that time." Missy nodded, “Yeah, thanks for sticking around and covering my behind. You're a true friend." “Well, don't count on me doing it again, Melissa James. That is absolutely the last time I take a chance on being grounded for the rest of my natural life. If we had been caught..." “We weren't, and I won't ask you to risk your freedom again. I promise.” Missy reached over and squeezed her friend's arm. “Now, what did you find?" “You mean other than sex aids and condoms? The Messiah's helpers must be going at it like bunnies. At least they practice safe sex. Geesh, and they say teenagers are oversexed.” Aimee turned the car on with a vicious twist of the key. “This guy is definitely not the Messiah—pornographer maybe—but not the Messiah. Jesus would be embarrassed at some of the stuff I found." Missy chuckled at her friend's discomfort. It was common knowledge among their friends that all you had to do, to get Aimee to turn five shades of red, was to mention sex. Missy wasn't too hopeful for future generations of Byrd descendants, unless they were test-tube generated and grown. “Okay, besides the sex stuff, what did you find?" “Nothing." “Nothing?" “Yep. Nada. Nicht. Zilch. What did you find that was taking you so long?” Aimee asked as she negotiated the turn into the A&W drive-in. “This.” Missy held up her gloved hands, which glowed under the drive-in's lights. “Plus a box full of canisters of some sort of gas. I didn't get a chance to see what it was though.” Missy cursed silently. A few more minutes and she could've had more evidence of the Messiah's criminal activities. Well, she knew what she had to do. She needed to go back there and find out what was in those canisters. Her testimony would be enough to get Chief Byrd to investigate. She'd do it tonight while she still had the nerve. Aimee turned off the car and looked over at Missy. “Missy? What are you plotting now?”

Missy turned toward her friend as she removed the gloves with their glowing evidence, “Here, put these in that baggie I gave you. Keep them for me. Hopefully, I'll have some other evidence for your Dad tomorrow." “Missy, no, tell me you're not going to do what I think you're going to do. Please?” Aimee took the gloves Missy shoved at her and held them while she looked Missy in the eyes. “Aw-w-w, geez, you're gonna drive me nuts. You can't go back there tonight. They're home now." “Yes, I am. Remember, I've been invited by the Messiah himself. To visit at any time. You remember, he invited you, too.” Missy avoided her friend's beseeching looks. “Missy. We now know he's a sex fiend—or at the very least living among sex fiends—what if someone tried to...” Aimee trailed off red and flustered. “They won't. I won't let them. Plus, I'll tell them right up front I'm expected at the police chief's house tonight and that you're waiting up for me. I'll be there before midnight, I promise.” Missy nodded her head as if that would be the end of it. “Great. Just great. What'll I tell my Dad...? ‘Oh, Dad, Missy is going to be here after she searches the Messiah's bedroom for strange, sinister looking gas canisters and don't worry she won't be raped by the sex fiends. She's just going to use her feminine wiles on him to get the goods.’” “Oh, Aimee. You worry too much.” Missy laughed as she got out of the car to order herself a cola float —detecting was thirsty work. And her detective work was not yet done for the night. **** Morgan turned over in bed and glanced at the lighted dial of her clock. Nine P.M. She had turned in early hoping to catch up on the sleep she had been losing over the past few nights. Bad dreams equaled sleepless nights. With a business to run, she needed to grab sleep whenever she could, having no knowledge when the dreams would stop. To date, they had all been about the maze, the lion, the sorcerer, and her double. Each time the wise man would advise her she was not yet ready to ride the lion. Quite frankly, Morgan was both eager—and yet afraid—for the dream to continue to the next level. And, there would be a next level; there always was. She'd thought the rabbit being chased and eaten had indicated some movement in the course and nature of the dream, but so far it hadn't. When it did, Morgan knew she might not like what happened next. But what could she do? She didn't have enough information and the Messiah was lying low until his next revival meeting tomorrow night. Fluffing her pillows, she lay on her back and looked up through the skylight at the stars shining through the trees that sheltered her house. Like living in a tree house, she smiled. Missy had said that once. Missy! Morgan realized that was what really kept her awake this clear, cool night. Missy hadn't come in to work today. Aimee had called and said Missy had to work for her mother passing out flyers for the Garden Club's Pitch-In Supper next weekend. Morgan knew that was a lie. She could tell Aimee was lying over the phone, and it didn't take any sixth sense. Aimee couldn't lie worth a damn. What were those girls up to? In order to find out, Morgan would have to seek them out, since they were trying to avoid her. She had a sick feeling that trouble with a capital “T” was lying in wait for one or both girls.

Morgan, maybe you should call the girls at home. Now. Make sure they're tucked in. Oh yeah, sure. How would she explain that to Mayor James and Chief Byrd? Sure they would be thrilled to have her check up on their parenting skills. Besides the girls would be college freshmen next year. They were adults as far as Indiana law was concerned. Morgan. It's Missy and Aimee we're thinking about here. Maturity and these two girls aren't a given. Call them. Now! Well, all right. She'd call them. Sitting up in bed, she pulled the phone over and called the James’ residence. “Hello, Mayor James? Sorry to bother you. This is Morgan.” Morgan could hear Missy's Mom in the background asking if it was for her. “Morgan? No bother, no bother at all. No, Alice, it isn't for you. Sorry, Morgan. Alice thinks every call is for her. By the way, Missy's been telling me how much she enjoys working for you. Glad to see she finally found a job she can stick to. What can I do for you?" “Thanks, Mayor. I enjoy Missy very much. Uh ... may I speak to Missy, please? I need to talk to her about her weekend work schedule—I made some changes and since she was helping your wife out today I didn't get a chance to speak with her.” Way to go, Morgan. Thinking on your feet. “Sorry, Morgan, she's staying the night at Aimee's. You might try over there. Do you have the number?" “Yes, I do, Mayor. Thank you. Have a nice night." Morgan laid the phone back in its cradle. Should she call Chief Byrd's or not? Call the house. You'll never get to sleep until you do. Having convinced herself once again, she dialed the chief's house. The chief picked it up on the first ring. “Byrd here." “Chief Byrd. It's Morgan Tarrant..." “Yes, Ms. Tarrant. You have a problem? I'm not on call tonight, but..." “Uh, no, Chief, it's not that. I'd like to speak with Missy James, please. Her father said she was at your house tonight. I have to change her work hours this weekend.” Morgan felt the need to justify her intrusion into the chief's night off. “Uh, yes, the girls are having a sleep over. But they aren't here right now. My deputy called in about five minutes ago and said he'd spotted them at the A&W having drinks. They could be there until the place shuts down at midnight. You know how kids are.” He chuckled—a low rumble Morgan could almost feel over the phone wires. “Well, thank you, Chief. Sounds like you have everything under control. I guess I'll touch base with Missy tomorrow. Would you please tell her I called?" “Sure, no problem, Ms. Tarrant. Good night." Morgan shoved the phone back on her nightstand. Well, she could get dressed and go over to the A&W, but Byrd seemed to be on top of things. Wonder if the girls knew they were being checked on?

Probably not. Byrd looked like a bucolic small town cop, but Morgan had always gotten the impression it was an act for the tourists. Under all that good ole boy bluster was a sharp mind. Morgan felt better now. Byrd would have those two home by twelve-fifteen at the latest. Thank God for small town law enforcement and a single Dad who watched his sweet bubble-brained daughter like a hawk. Her bad feeling must be a combination of Aimee lying earlier today, her own bad dreams and a lack of sleep. Well, she couldn't find out why Aimee had lied until later; her dreams were out of her control; thus all she could do now was to try to get a good night's sleep. **** Missy smoothed her hands down over the tight black pants she'd worn to break into the B&B earlier that evening. She'd been standing outside the door to the Cozy Nest B&B for five minutes getting up the nerve to knock. What was she doing here, knocking on the door of a suspected criminal? She needed her head examined, but she'd die before admitting it to Aimee. Maybe she'd just hang around for a few more minutes to make it look good, say they weren't home, go to Aimee's house and eat crow. Aimee wouldn't rag on her for long—just enough to score a few points. Satisfied with her plan of action, she plopped down on the porch swing and occupied herself for the next few minutes examining the arm for loose splinters. “Missy, isn't it?" Missy looked up into the amused eyes of the Messiah. Where in the heck did he come from? She hadn't heard a thing—and poof—there he was. Maybe he was a magician. Uh oh, Missy recognized lust when she saw it. Darn, maybe Aimee had been right about the sex fiend stuff. “Uh, yeah ... Missy.” Missy smiled wanly. “You've got a great memory.” Hitting her forehead with the heel of her hand, “Oh, but what am I saying, of course you don't need a great memory. You're omnipotent." CHAPTER TEN "The Devil" Violence, force, death. Laughing silently, Darien corrected the pretty little morsel who had presented herself for his evening's entertainment, “I believe you mean omniscient, but I can do omnipotent also. Did you come to see me? Or, are you just out inspecting porch swings for the Chamber of Commerce?" “Are you making fun of me?” Darien watched the young girl as she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and tugged her tight top down over her equally tight pants, which displayed very nice, young, firmly muscled thighs. Thighs, which Darien could imagine locked around him while he poured his seed deep into her body. Wonder if she would insist on a condom? Wonder if she'd ever had a man at all? He felt his already hardening member double in size at the thought of a virgin. “No, my dear. The Messiah would never make fun of you, now would he?" “Well, uh, I guess not. It wouldn't be Christian, right?" “Right.” Darien opened the front door to the B&B. “Would you like to come in for some lemonade or a

soft drink? I believe my disciples have made some fresh." Darien watched and absorbed the thoughts of the young girl. She was hard to read but he got the impression she was looking for something and was scared. Well, she'd found him and he'd do his best to impress her. Definitely a virgin feel to her thoughts. Something else there too, something secretive, almost surreptitious. He'd slip a sedative into her drink. Calm her down. She'd enjoy herself more if she were relaxed. Her thoughts would loosen up also—he'd find out what he needed to know and have a good time doing so. “Well, I would love to ... but, I really need to go. My friend, Aimee Byrd, well, uh, she and her Dad, that's Police Chief Byrd, are expecting me. It's late.” The girl stood up as if to leave. Darien put his hand on her arm, “Wait. Please. Just one drink. I promise, then you can go. It's barely nine thirty. Plus, I would really like to get your opinion on what the people of French Creek are thinking. You know what they feel about my sermons and all. I value your opinion, Missy." **** Missy didn't know what to do. He was inviting her in and this could be her chance to look at the canisters. Shaking away the fleeting image of hairy black spiders and sticky webs with flies stuck in them, she reasoned she could ask to use the bathroom and take a peak into the closet. Quick. Easy. Heck, she'd come this far. He knew she was expected somewhere. What could he do? But, she wouldn't drink anything. She wasn't that stupid. “Okay, just for a little bit.” Missy turned and allowed the Messiah to escort her into the entry hall of the house. “Why don't we go to my sitting room in the master suite?” Well, that was easy. No need for the bathroom excuse. The Messiah gestured for Missy to precede him up the main stairs. Missy caught him looking at her breasts. Yeah, he definitely had sex on his mind. Missy wondered if she could conjure up some serious vomiting —nausea at the very least—on cue. Men didn't do well with that—at least the guys she knew didn't. “Here we are.” The Messiah waved her into the room as he switched on the central Victorian light fixture. “Make yourself comfortable while I go get us some soft drinks. Or, would you prefer the lemonade?" Missy looked around the room as if she'd never seen it before—well she hadn't really, it had been dark before. Sneaking a glance at her host, she saw a look on his face that reminded her of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood right before he attempted to gobble up Red. Except this predator was dressed in the garb of the holiest of men and she'd left her hood at home. Whoever said life imitated art had it right. “Uh, cola please." The Messiah threw her what she interpreted to be a lascivious glance and left her alone in the room. Not knowing how long he would be gone, Missy tiptoed quickly over to the closet and edged open the door. She wanted to be ready to leave when he came back. Going right to the box, she opened up the lid and picked up a canister. Turning it over she read... “Nitrous oxide. Quite a nice little gas. Practically odorless. In small amounts, it makes people feel a sense of euphoria. In larger amounts, it has a sedative effect. In very large amounts, it kills. Is that what you wanted to know, Missy?”

Missy jumped at the sound of the Messiah's voice close behind her and dropped the canister as he grabbed and turned her around to face him. She regretted not heeding the spider and fly warning her brain had sent her. Well, shit! Don't stand here like a dummy. Scrambling to get out of what she sensed could be a huge problem, Missy started talking—hopefully something would come to her—anything—that would get her out of this mess. “Uh, well, I ... I'm sorry. Guess I was nosey. I apologize, Sir. Please forgive me. Guess I'd better go now.” Lame, Missy, really lame. “No ... sorry Missy, but you know I can't let you go now. You'd tell your friend's Dad, Chief Buford Byrd, about my little canisters of gas. Even if you haven't figured out what they're for, the chief would. No. I can't let you go and spoil my little con. Sorry sweetie.” Missy watched, paralyzed with shock, as the Messiah reached for something in his back pocket—a handkerchief, which he proceeded to put in her mouth as she finally opened it to scream. Too late, Missy. Plus what good would screaming do? Everyone here belongs to him. Missy's eyes teared as she swallowed her nausea and realized she wouldn't live to see tomorrow. This guy wasn't just a con man; he was also capable of murder. She should have listened to Aimee and Morgan. Now, she thought of it. Missy started to pray for divine intervention because now that was the only way she would get out of this. **** Darien smiled at the bound naked girl spread-eagled on the bed. Sweet, real sweet. Tits like a super model and a nice unblemished body. No tan lines either. What a naughty little girl. She'd be a fine fuck ... before he had to kill her. What a waste. “So, Missy. This is how it'll go tomorrow when they find you missing. Your friend, Aimee, will tell everyone you came here. Oh, surprised I figured that out? Well, it was sort of a no brainer, baby, since you so obviously made mention you were expected at the chief's house. I, of course, will be concerned, shocked that you didn't make it home. Remorseful even, that I didn't have you driven home. To continue, you will have left here at about ten o'clock, sent on your way by my witnesses and myself. Of course, the last time we saw you, you were fine, upset, but fine. Did I say ‘upset?’ Yes, I believe I did say you were upset. You see, Missy, I had to let you down gently after you threw yourself at my feet begging to become my helpmate, my lover, my slave. Oh ho, don't like that idea, do we, baby girl?” Darien smiled as the girl tested her bonds and shook her head from side to side, pleading with her tear-filled eyes for what? Mercy? He laughed. “Well, you'll be dead. It's hard to be embarrassed when you're dead, you know." Darien watched the girl's eyes widen in terror as he started to remove his clothes. Oh yeah, she knew he was gonna rape her. He liked them scared. Maybe he'd let her scream and beg as he took her. Jake had taken Nan for a ride and had instructions not to come back until eleven o'clock. There was no one to hear—not that they would do anything. But, Darien wanted to relish this one in solitude. It was rare that he came across virgin flesh these days. He was so hard he knew he could fuck all night. Too bad he'd have to cut his enjoyment short. By eleven fifteen, after administering an overly large amount of nitrous oxide, he'd have Jake dump her in that nice deep, cold, dark lake, down the road. What the gas didn't finish, the water would. Death by drowning. Suicide of a young despondent girl. Yeah, even if the cops don't buy the suicide angle, they wouldn't be able to connect him to this. He'd

have witnesses. Maybe, someone attacked her as she walked home in the dark. Yeah, that would be a good red herring to throw into the mix. Death by persons unknown. Darien knew they'd find Bren's body eventually. A suggestion here and there of a serial killer on the loose would keep the townspeople up in arms and old Buford hopping. Darien could use it in his sermons as another sign that the world was going to Hell in a hand-basket. Good angle. The congregation would eat it up and ask that he stay to help lead them to the side of God. He'd have to stick around this burg long enough to make sure his cover wasn't broken. If he had to, he'd throw them the sinner Jake as a bone. Jake's overzealous, and abusive, enjoyment of the female form would eventually become a liability. Plus, his long record of sexual assaults would be the icing on the cake. As for the scene of the crime, there would be no trace evidence linking him to the women—condoms were for more than safe sex. Only Jake's semen would be found in the women's bodies. As an extra precaution, Darien had covered the bed with his own sheets and a protective pad. Easily disposed of. Nope, no blood, semen or skin particles left in this room. The cops could look all they wanted. He'd get away with this murder just as he'd done with all the others. Damn he was good. Covering his engorged dick with a condom, he stalked his tasty prey, circling the bed as he watched her terrified eyes follow his movements. He loved the hunt. **** “Do I get my turn now, or what?" Darien crawled off the body of the unmoving girl. She had just lain there, not moving, not making a sound while he screwed her viciously three separate times. He had taken her virginity in all the ways a man could screw a woman. And, other than one slight whimper when he had removed her gag, she had remained silent. It was surreal. He didn't know where she'd gone, but he was damn sure her mind wasn't here. He couldn't get any impressions from her at all—just static. Glancing from the bloodied body of the girl to his jack-of-all trades cohort, he laughed, a short harsh sound in the back of his throat, “Sure if you like warm bodies with no life left in them." “Aww, Darien, you promised you wouldn't kill her until I got mine.” Jake whined and kicked the door shut with his foot closing out prying eyes and ears. “Oh, I kept my promise, old friend.” Darien moved, picked up the wet cloths he'd placed by the bed and wiped the still unmoving body clean of blood, sweat and saliva. Satisfied that he'd cleaned away every trace of himself, he shrugged and answered the man waiting to sully the girl further, “She seems to have taken her mind off someplace where I can't reach her anymore." Jake smiled, unzipping his pants as he moved toward the female receptacle on the bed, “I don't give a flying fuck if she moves or not. I'm not like you, wanting to hear all the noises and such. I just want to fuck her. Get my rocks off." Speaking over his shoulder, Darien headed for the bathroom, “Well, do it and do it fast. Then, get rid of her in the lake as we planned. I need to wash off the stink.” CHAPTER ELEVEN "Justice" Righting of a wrong.

Morgan knew she was dreaming. She also knew tonight was the night her dream would go to the next level. How she knew she couldn't explain—it just felt different tonight. The green of the maze's hedges was distorted by a heavy mist; the noises of the dream, muted; the smells were overlaid with dampness and decay—the odor of death. Through the layers of fog she saw her doppelganger running from the lion, but the rabbit was missing. This omission disturbed her. Scared her. Instinct took over. Morgan's pulse pounded in her head as the adrenalin rushed through her body answering the call to fight or flee. From beyond the hedge, Morgan heard a voice—a voice she knew but had never heard in the dream sequence before tonight. A voice from her real world. Missy's voice. "Morgan, oh Morgan. Help me. I don't know how strong you are, but I know that you will figure this out. Get him for me, Morgan. Make sure he pays for what he's doing to me. Make sure he never does it again." Whirling around, disoriented, she called out. “Missy? Where are you?” Morgan listened, thought she heard movement and headed toward the area of the maze from which the sound emanated. With a sense of urgency, she picked up her speed, passed her double and ran right through the hedge stopping in time to avoid falling into the deep, dark lake. Peering into the depths and along the shore, Morgan cried out, “Missy? Call to me, honey. It's Morgan.” “Morgan, I'm here—here, in the lake." Morgan, again, looked down and saw the white rabbit speaking with Missy's voice, pleading with Missy's eyes. The white fur of the rabbit was bloody as it lay half in and half out of the water. Reaching down, Morgan lifted the rabbit and cradled the weakening animal in her arms. Smoothing the white fur on the rabbit's head, Morgan sobbed. “Missy, what happened? Tell me." “Get him for me, Morgan. The false prophet did this to me. Only you can stop him. Avenge me. Beware —his evil is strong. I'm not the only one." As tears streaked down her face, Morgan strove to give her warmth and life energy to the rabbit but was powerless to stop its—Missy's—death. Lifting her face to the starless sky, Morgan screamed, “God, no —not Missy! I warned her against the evil. Why her?" Because, Morgan, you didn't do enough. Morgan gasped and sat up in bed. Missy! The urge to phone the Byrd's house to check on Missy was so strong she was already reaching for the redial button on the phone when it rang. Startled, Morgan stared at her hand and the phone for several rings before she answered. “Morgan! You've got to come to my house to get me.” Aimee's voice sounded shrill with a layer of some other emotion. Fear. It sounded like fear. “Aimee, honey. Calm down. Now, why do I have to come?” Morgan asked. Recalling her dream, she added, “Is it Missy? Has something happened to Missy?” Morgan's voice, too, sounded shrill. She feared the surreal aspects of her dream would soon prove themselves to be a part of the real world. “I don't know. I'm afraid. Please you've got to come get me. We need to get to the lake.” Morgan's fears escalated at Aimee's mention of the lake. “Dad was called out. Someone found a woman's body in the lake ... Morgan, she's dead. I just know it. I told her not to go back there, but..."

Morgan broke in on Aimee's horrible soliloquy, “Told her not to go where, Aimee? Where did she go?" Where do you think, Morgan? She went to eat the forbidden fruit; to touch the hot stove; to swim in the deep end. Missy was an immature child, Morgan, and you gave her enough information to pique her curiosity. Where do you think she went? You heard it in your dream—you didn't do enough, Stupid. Morgan groaned in pain. Stupid, irresponsibly stupid. “She went to the Messiah's place—to get evidence against him. I told her to let Gabe and Dad handle it, but no-o-o..." “Aimee, stay put. I'll be there as soon as I get dressed.” Morgan took the portable phone with her as she stripped off her nightie and donned a t-shirt and overalls from her closet. “I'm gonna hang up now, Aimee, and I'll be there before you know it. Before I get there, you need to find out where at the lake. Can you do that for me?" “Uh, yeah ... I'll call dispatch. Morgan, you don't think she's the one they found in the lake, do you? Not Missy." Morgan heard the tears in Aimee's voice as clearly as she continued to hear Missy's voice calling out to her, weaker than in her dream, but nevertheless present. Were these echoes from her dream? Or, was she somehow connected to Missy in an alternative reality? No matter, her gut told her to find Missy now before it was too late. She reassured the young girl, “She's not dead yet—I'd know it if she were. We need to get there and find her." “Okay, Morgan. I'll find out for you, but how..." “Just trust me in this, Aimee. Now, find out where the police are.” Morgan disconnected the call, threw the phone in the direction of her bed and unearthed her shoes. Pulling some extra blankets from the closet and her first aid kit from the bathroom, Morgan ran to her car. Missy wasn't dead yet—the voice fainter than just seconds ago was still calling—but she would be if they didn't find her—and soon. **** Gabe looked down at the nude body of what once was an attractive young woman in her mid-to-late twenties. He kept his face devoid of all expression, but grieved in his heart for the unknown woman. Her death hadn't been an easy one. Despite the damage done to her body by the lake's scavengers, his experienced eyes picked out the various tortures and indignities—the ligature marks around her neck, the cuts on her breasts, and the bruising between her legs. Gabe wanted the bastard who did this, so bad his trigger finger moved instinctively. Blowing out a harsh epithet between his clenched teeth, Gabe turned to the coroner, “How long was she in the lake, Rob?" “Too soon to tell. Body temperature is the same as the lake, but the lake is unusually warm for this time of year. Rigor is gone. Lots of carrion-feeders present in this water, so it could be as little as twelve hours ... but it could be more. I can't tell until after the autopsy—and maybe not even then.” The doctor cursed. “I hate these cases. A beautiful woman like that. What kind of animal would do such a thing?" “A rabid animal, Dr. Craig.” Chief Byrd said from behind Gabe, “a rabid animal I'd put down on the spot. I want that report as soon as possible, Doctor. Put a rush on it. I've got a bad feeling about this one —a mighty bad feeling. We got us one sick predator out there. I want him and I want him bad."

“Uh, Gabe, could you come over here. Dispatch wants to talk to you.” Gabe turned to Deputy Tim Brown who had come up behind him. From the nervousness in the young deputy's voice, Gabe figured this was Tim's first murder scene. It wasn't a pretty sight—even for an experienced homicide investigator. He'd seen worse—but each scene was bad in its own way. “What's up, Tim?” Gabe walked toward his car with the young officer. “It's Chief Byrd's daughter, sir. She, uh, called dispatch and asked where the scene was.” Tim trailed off, uncomfortable. “Why did dispatch ask for me and not the chief?" “Well, uh, you see ... Aimee is coming out here, and well, uh, dispatch, Milly, thought ... uh well..." Taking pity on the flustered deputy, Gabe finished Milly's thought for him. “And Milly thought I'd better see what she's up to before her father finds out she isn't at home where she belongs. Is that about right?” “Well, uh, yeah. You see, you haven't been here long enough to know this, but the chief, well, he loves his daughter a whole lot, but he tends to try to keep her protected and such ... if he knew she was coming out here at this time of night. Well, she'd be in lots of trouble." Gabe sighed. “Okay, Tim. Call Milly and tell her I'll intercept Aimee and hurry her butt back home. Nothing more for me to do here. The scene is secure. Tell the chief I had another call—make something up. Tell the crime scene techs to drag their feet and stall so the chief doesn't get home before I get Aimee back there. Can you do that, Tim?" “Yes, sir!” Gabe could hear the relief. The buck had been passed, and Gabe had just taken Tim's butt out of the line of the chief's fire. Normally, the chief was laid back, but where his daughter was concerned, he became a fire-breathing son of a bitch. Gabe only hoped he wouldn't get burned. What was Aimee's problem? Vulgar curiosity? Boredom? Wanting to pull her daddy's chain just for the hell of it? Well, he wasn't going to find out standing around here. He headed back around the lake to try and cut her off. Thank God, there was only one entrance. That would make his job a lot easier. Little idiot, what the hell was she thinking? **** Morgan concentrated on the dark lakeside road. Visibility was bad—cool, moisture-laden night air met the earth's warm surface resulting in dense patches of fog, which seemed to seek out only the road. As they approached the lake, the situation worsened. The atmosphere was heavy, ominous with more than just humidity. Sensible people wouldn't be out in this. Morgan and Aimee had no choice. Missy's voice was so faint now that Morgan strained to hear it. She drove purely on instinct, with only a general idea of where to look. Flipping on her fog lights, Morgan gripped her steering wheel as if through the increased pressure she would be able to better see her way. Missy's voice grew briefly louder giving Morgan a direction and she knew she was close. Her foot pushed the accelerator harder. Not much time left. Morgan looked away from the wall of white in front of her car and saw that Aimee's position and condition hadn't changed since she first picked the girl up ten minutes ago. Aimee was a mess—choking back sobs and shivering in the passenger seat as if it were thirty degrees outside rather than the actual sixty-five. Aimee's anguish and self-recrimination became the background music for Missy's deadly aria replaying in Morgan's head. If Missy died, Aimee's soul would die from guilt. Morgan's might join her.

“Morgan, how are you going to know where Missy is?” “I can't explain, Aimee. I'll just know.” It was the truth. Morgan couldn't explain it to the terrified girl. She didn't know how it worked herself. In fact, Missy's calling out to her was a first for Morgan. Before her psychic powers had centered on images, not sounds. This was different. The danger Morgan felt in the dream was real; Missy was in mortal danger. Morgan was going to do everything she could to avoid the dream's ending. But, she feared she was running out of time. Missy's signal was getting weaker again. Without warning, the urge to stop the car overwhelmed Morgan. Braking hard, Morgan instinctively reached out to brace Aimee as the car rocked through the abrupt stop. “Morgan, what is it? Why did we stop?" “Sorry, hon.” Morgan unbuckled her seat belt. “This is where we get out. Grab the blankets and kit. We don't have much time." Morgan took her car phone from its cradle, grabbed the flashlight from the glove box and got out of the car. Without waiting for Aimee, she headed toward the lake at a run. Like her dream, she knew she would find Missy in or near the water's edge and Missy was bleeding to death. Morgan needed to get medical help. As she ran, she smelled the water and slowed; the lake was close now. She punched 9-1-1. More cautiously she felt her way along the rough path to the shoreline; the lake, which was over nine hundred feet deep often just dropped off immediately from the shore. She didn't want to find out the hard way that this part of the lake was one of those areas. “Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?" “I need an ambulance at Lake Watchasach." “What's your name please, ma'am?" “This is Morgan Tarrant. My car is in the middle of the road with all its fog lights and blinkers on. Have them head toward the lake. I'll send someone back to meet them. Hurry." “Don't hang up, Ms. Tarrant. Please stay on the line until we can get someone there. Are you hurt, ma'am?" “No. It's Missy James. She's out here somewhere hurt. I can't stay on the line. Just send an ambulance— and fast." Morgan ended the call. She rushed toward the body. Oh my God, Missy, am I too late? Light reflected back from her flashlight beam. As in her dream, Missy was white. This wasn't fur, but the white of skin, pale from shock. Or, was she dead? She was covered in blood from the thighs down. No one who'd lost so much blood could survive. Then, Morgan saw a slight movement of the crumpled body —she was still alive! “Missy!” Morgan ran the few short steps to her young friend. “Oh Missy. Hold on honey. The ambulance is coming." “Morgan, is she ... is she alive? There's so much blood.” Aimee's voice was rough from running to keep

up with Morgan. Morgan turned and grabbed at the blankets clutched in Aimee's arms. “Aimee, I need the blankets, let go, sweetie.” Aimee responded to the gentle but forceful order, and Morgan tucked the blankets around the bleeding girl. With Aimee's help, she moved Missy away from the water's edge. “Give me the gauze out of the kit. I need to stop the vaginal bleeding if I can." Aimee handed the requested item to Morgan. “How can you do that? She's bleeding so much." “I'm going to stuff the sterile gauze inside her, then we're going to take the smaller blanket and make a pad. After that, I'll apply pressure from the bottom while also applying pressure to the abdominal artery. It's not a sure thing, but it should slow it enough until the ambulance gets here.” Morgan looked up from the dying girl in her arms to the equally pale Aimee. “Go back to the car and direct them down here. Go on, Aimee.” Morgan followed her order with a smile of encouragement and watched as Aimee ran back to the red flashes in the mist. Aimee didn't need to stand here and watch her friend die. Morgan wished she, too, could avoid the prospect. Missy didn't deserve to die alone. No one did. Gathering the girl more closely against her body, Morgan whispered a litany of prayers learned sometime in her childhood, combining them with vows of retribution. “I'll get him for you, Missy. I promise. He won't get away with it this time. I swear. If I have to kill him myself, he'll pay for what he did to you. Hold on and help me, honey. Give me some evidence. Show me. The police won't believe me. Show me how to avenge you.” Morgan kissed and stroked Missy's hair while she concentrated to catch the waning responses of the girl hanging on to life by the thinnest of threads. Images, weak at first, than stronger, flickered across a bright violet backdrop changing to white. The Cozy Nest B&B. A bedroom. A closet. Glowing gloves. Sheets. Canisters. The devil's name was Darien. Another man by the name of Jake. Morgan saw and felt it all, then she wept, great gulping sobs dissolving into screams of anguish. She experienced the last night of Missy James’ life even as the young girl passed through the light to the other side. Missy was at peace now; Morgan was not. She would know no peace until the Messiah, Darien, the devil, was brought to justice. **** Gabe cursed steadily under his breath. No one should be out on a night like this unless they had to. Aimee Byrd was getting a stern lecture from him on responsibility and the needless endangerment of her young life. The crackle of the police band radio startled him from his concentration on the barely visible road. “Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?” Gabe's ears perked at the probability of the need to make another run. Damn, Aimee Byrd. “I need an ambulance at Lake Watchasach.” Well, at least he wouldn't have to go far. Probably a car accident. It was a bitch of the night. Please, don't let it be Aimee. Gabe groaned. “What's your name please, ma'am?" “This is Morgan Tarrant.” That was the name of the woman who had been with the chief's daughter and another girl at the revival. Gabe was beginning to have a bad feeling as he brought up the visual memory

of the woman to go with the voice, a voice filled with tension, fear. So much fear, Gabe could taste it. Fearing the worst, Gabe sped up and looked for the lights on the car, which he knew would be ahead of him. Hearing the name of the victim and realizing it wasn't Aimee was only a temporary relief; he knew in his soul that this was Aimee's friend from the other night and that it was a very great possibility that Aimee's trip to the lake concerned this call. There were the flashers. He'd know soon enough. Gabe braked and saw Aimee Byrd standing in front of the fully lit car waving her arms. “Gabe, oh my God, please. She's dying. Morgan sent me away, but I know she did it ‘cause Missy's dying.” As Aimee cried, she tugged at Gabe, pulling him toward the lake. “Stay here, Aimee. Show the paramedics the way.” Not bothering to look to see if Aimee acknowledged his instructions, Gabe headed toward the lake. He could hear the sirens of the ambulance closing in on the scene when a woman screamed. Fearing the worst, Gabe drew his weapon and ran. Hearing no more screams, he slowed, straining to see through the heavy mist. First, he saw a light, then he saw the woman, Morgan. She'd haunted his dreams every night since the revival. Lots of cold showers and wet dreams had been invested in the woman who now sheltered and crooned to the lifeless girl in her arms—a secular Pieta. Michaelangelo himself couldn't have done justice to the pallor, the beauty and the tranquillity of the two women—one living and one dead. Any hope Gabe might have had of Missy being alive was extinguished as he listened to Morgan's low, mournful cry and saw her glassy, empty eyes. Long since disenfranchised from organized religion, Gabe was moved to say a silent prayer. Aimee's scream of grief ended his prayer; the girl along with the paramedics had caught up to him. Pulling the hysterical girl into his arms, he looked over her dark head at Morgan and asked, “Is Missy dead?” He knew she was, but he didn't know what else to say. For the first time in a long while, he didn't have control of the situation in which he found himself. Even when he'd been shot in an undercover drug operation gone south, he'd been in control. Not now. All it took was seeing the look of horror in Morgan's eyes, and he wanted to drop everything, tell her it would be all right, that he would kill the bastard who did this terrible deed. Anything to erase the look in her eyes. He couldn't stand seeing her pain. “You must be Aimee's Gabe—I know all the other officers.” Her low husky voice engendered responses in Gabe that were better kept for another time, another place. “Let me take Aimee now—she needs me more now than Missy does. Missy's at peace." Gabe watched, as Morgan shifted Missy's body to the grassy verge at the edge of the rocky beach, gently tucking the ends of the blood soaked blankets around the girl's nude body. After kissing the dead girl's cheek, Morgan rose and walked toward him holding her arms out for the girl he held, crooning in a way that soon had Aimee shifting from him to her. Gabe knew that it was only seconds before the hysterical girl's crying slowed down to occasional gulping sobs as she stood sheltered in Morgan's arms. Arms, which, in his fevered dreams, had been surrounding him. Gabe slapped himself mentally. Jesus Christ, it's a crime scene, get hold of yourself. Disturbed by the intensity of his feelings, Gabe growled, “Just what is going on here? How did Missy die?

Did she fall? What was she doing at the lake? How did you two know to come here? I want some answers." Gabe watched as the professionals went to work on Missy's limp body. He knew they had to attempt to revive the girl, but it seemed almost profane, a desecration of her hard found peace. “It was murder—definitely. Shouldn't you be doing something to protect any evidence? Not that he left any—he never did before." Gabe's attention was captured by the words of the calm woman who just minutes ago had been screaming her anguish to the night, but was now competently caring for Aimee and telling him how to do his job. “You know who did this?" “Yes." “Who? How?” Gabe had a feeling the answers were not going to be ones he liked or wanted to hear. “Be patient, Officer. I guarantee you the answers won't go away. Aimee has some information that might shed light on finding physical evidence, but I feel she should only have to tell it once. I think her Dad and Missy's parents have the right to hear. Don't you? And, as to how I knew to come to the lake and how I know who did this, Missy told me." “She spoke to you?” Gabe's hopes soared. If Missy had identified her killer to Morgan, he could nail the bastard before daybreak. “Well, yes and no." “Is it yes or no?" “Well, I would say she spoke to me, but it's not like we're speaking right now." “What the hell does that mean?” Gabe had a bad feeling about what Morgan was going to reveal. “Well, you see, Gabe. I'm psychic. Missy told me telepathically." All Gabe's hopes for an early arrest came crashing to earth. “Aww shit." CHAPTER TWELVE "Hanged Man" Making a sacrifice so that something greater can be gained. Morgan knew her pronouncement would elicit a reaction from Gabe Walsh, but didn't expect it to be disappointment. Disbelief and anger, yes. But not disappointment. How could she let him down when she'd never met him? She totally discounted the brief glances exchanged between them a week ago. And, why was she letting his disappointment bother her? She had bigger problems to deal with, and, dammit, this cop had better help her or get the hell out of her way. “Shit has nothing to do with it, Officer. When you're ready to listen, Aimee and I will be at the police station. Right now, we're leaving—we're just in the way here.” Keeping her arms around Aimee, Morgan made a move to pass Gabe. She needed to get away from his emotions. The images she was receiving had something more than disappointment in them; there was an

intimate feel about them, almost possessive. Morgan couldn't handle any of it right now. She'd reached her limit—any more and she knew she'd have debilitating headaches tomorrow. The connection to Missy had been ten times stronger than her normal empathic connection. “I'm sorry.” Gabe said, as he stopped her with a light touch, almost a caress, on the arm she had around Aimee. “We'll sort it all out later. I can tell you're overwrought." Morgan knew her mouth was hanging open. She wanted to believe he was just humoring the weak, distraught woman he thought she was, but she sensed a receptiveness to what she would say. He wanted to believe her! Responding to Gabe's words and not the underlying emotions, Morgan pushed him further, “I'm not crazy with grief, Officer. I'm psychic ... and mad at the bastard who did this and yes, blaming myself, too." “I didn't mean to imply you were crazy, Morgan. And the name's Gabe, not Officer. You called me Gabe earlier.” Although she was tiring rapidly, Morgan caught an image of Gabe's foot in his mouth. The image almost evoked a smile. Morgan retorted. “I wasn't pissed at you earlier.” Gabe emitted a harsh laugh. “Please, don't be pissed with me now, either. We'll get the guy who did this ... count on it. And, I'll listen to whatever you and Aimee have to say, later. Take her home. The chief and I'll be along—after we speak with the James'." Morgan's stomach clenched at the thought of how the James’ would take the news. They'd been very proud of their beautiful, energetic daughter. Before she realized what she was doing, she blurted out, “Do you want me to tell them?" Morgan wished she could recall the words. She knew she'd offered out of guilt, but also knew she wouldn't be able to face them. How could she? She'd failed to protect their daughter. Stroking her arm, Gabe shook his head. “That's my job. You've been through a lot tonight, and we've got more ground to cover before you'll get any rest.” “I may never rest again—not until that bastard fries in hell.” Morgan felt Aimee shudder and stifle a sob. “I need to get Aimee home. She's been a very brave girl. Be sure and tell her Dad that, would you?" “Yeah.” Gabe reached out and touched the young girl's hair. “Uh, Gabe. Would you tell the James’ that I'd be happy to talk with them about Missy's last thoughts?...Whenever they're ready to hear.” Maybe by then, she would be able to face them with the truth about her role in Missy's death. Hopefully, it would be awhile—she had to face up to it herself first. “Sure, I'll tell them. Go on home. You both look ready to drop and the forensics guys are here. You have any idea what we might be looking for in the way of evidence?” Covering Aimee's ears with her hands, Morgan looked Gabe in the eye, “She was raped by two different men. The devil first—you won't find any physical evidence from him. The second guy, the guy who raped her and left her for dead, he wasn't as careful. Him, you'll get. It's the other guy who ordered it, though. He's the one I'll have to get for you.” Morgan hurried away. Neither she nor Aimee could handle anymore. **** Shocked at Morgan's vow, Gabe missed his opportunity to stop her, to warn her that she should let him and the others do their job.

“Damn! Well, we'll see about that, my girl." “What did ya say, Gabe?” Gabe looked into the puzzled eyes of Deputy Brown and the forensic team who had come from the other crime scene. “Nothing." “Uh, is Aimee okay? Missy James was her best friend since kindergarten. How'd she and Miz Tarrant know to come out here at this time of night?” “I don't know, Tim. I just don't know. We'll find that out later. Right now, I want lights on this entire area. Look for footprints, tire tracks, anything that shouldn't be there. You know the drill. Is Rob still around?" “Here, Gabe.” Gabe turned toward the sound of the forensic pathologist's voice. He saw Rob examining Missy's body. Two in one night. Damn. Could they be connected? Better not take a chance they weren't. “Any similarities, Rob, to the other victim we found tonight?" “Yep. Definitely. They were both raped, and I'd bet my brand new Mercedes they both bled to death internally. The perp liked to use objects other than his dick—I'd say he shoved either something abnormally large up into their vaginas and punctured them that way or he used a sharp object. I'll know more after the autopsies.” Gabe watched Rob stand up and remove his gloves. He heard the sigh in Rob's voice, “I suppose you want me to put a rush on these two?" “You got that right. I hate to ask..." “No, don't say it, Gabe. This is important. I'm no forensic psychologist, but there was a lot of anger aimed at these two ... he just might be out there waiting to do it again. When does the FBI call it a serial murder?" “Three ... after three murders with the same MO, we'd have a serial murderer on our hands." “Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that.” Rob replied as he wearily trudged up the embankment. Gabe fervently seconded that desire. **** Darien poked a snoring Jake in the ribs. His actions only elicited snorts. Jake rolled over. “Come on, Jake, wake up.” Darien took the man's shoulders and shook him harder, adding a slap across the face for good measure. God, he despised this man, but he had his uses. “Wha-a-a-t ya hitting me for, Dare? I didn't do nothing." “We need to get our stories straight for when the cops come." Jake sat upright at that. “Cops! What cops? Nobody saw me dumping the bodies. I swear." Darien swore under his breath. Stupid sot. Well, it wouldn't be long and he'd be rid of this loser. But, now, he needed the dumb shit to get with the project. “There aren't any cops, yet. Listen. I've just finished prepping Nan to back us up." “Aww, Dare, why didn't you wake me sooner. You know how I love to fuck Nan after you've

hypnotized her—she'll do anything while she's under.” “Later, she's sleeping now. Tomorrow, she'll recite our alibis exactly as I told her, but you need to know what our alibis are, so listen up—or you'll get us all in hot water.” Satisfied that his henchman was awake enough to process, Darien went on, “When the cops come to find out what happened to little Missy, we'll tell them that she was here, but left around ten o'clock. You did make sure no one saw you while you and Nan were out communing with nature, didn't you?" “Yeah. No one saw us. Nan and I had a good ole time in the back seat of the car. You should have been there.” Jake's grating laugh scraped on Darien's nerves, but he managed to bite back his retort. He still needed this Neanderthal. But, in his next gig, he just might go solo again. He hadn't trotted out “the marry a rich woman” scam for a while—not since New York. Maybe, it was time for a change. He'd keep his eyes open for a wealthy woman—a young one this time. He deserved a reward after working so hard for the last few years. “Okay, fine. Nan is prepped to say that after Missy left we all watched some television, a Three Stooges film played on cable last night. I taped it, so watch it now just in case. Remember, Missy was upset when she left us—distraught at my turning away her girlish advances. After the movie was over around eleven thirty, we turned in—all of us, in our separate little beds like good Christians." “Yeah, that's us,” Jake choked on his laughter, “good, God-fearing Christians. I have to say this is the best racket we've run, Dare. But, I know you, we're going to move on soon. When and what are we gonna get into next?" “Don't worry about it, Jake. We're not moving anytime soon. It would look too suspicious. Just sit tight and keep with the image." “Gotcha, Dare. Good little apostles during the day; the devil's servants at night. Right?" “Right. And, don't forget it, Jake. Don't ever forget it.” **** Morgan tucked a blanket around Aimee's shoulders as she slept what Morgan hoped would be a dreamless, healing sleep. One could always hope. As for her dreams, Morgan had failed to save Missy, but the answers on how to trick the false prophet, the man called Darien, to incriminate himself would be embedded in her dreams to come. First, she had to get through the police interview. She had Aimee's full story of the girls’ escapades—Aimee's dad and Gabe could verify it later once the girl had some sleep—but she knew enough to fill them in. They wouldn't be happy, but they needed to know. They needed to confront this Darien and his gang before they could vanish without a trace. The criminals had no way of knowing what she knew or how she knew it. There had to be some incriminating physical evidence at that bed and breakfast. There had to be. Morgan jumped at the echoing noise of car doors shutting. The men were home. Time to tell what she knew. Time to face the disbelief. Not for a minute did Morgan believe that Gabe would accept her story, accept her for what she was. At least, not at first. She prepared herself for a long and exhausting night. At the sound of Aimee's bedroom door opening, Morgan looked up into the bleak eyes of two very weary men. Oh my god, what had they seen tonight? Morgan gasped with shock. That's right, Aimee had mentioned that Gabe and the chief had been called out on the discovery of another woman's body found in the lake. At first Aimee had thought it was Missy's. Morgan knew, without a doubt, the same man killed both women.

“Did you find anything to connect the two bodies? Did the same man rape both of them?" Morgan blurted out her thoughts and saw the shocked reactions reflected in the straightening of their weary bodies. She could almost see the gears in the logical cops’ brains cranking away, attempting to process her knowledge of the situation. Gabe spoke first. “We need to talk now, Morgan." Nodding her head, Morgan spoke. “Let Aimee sleep. She told me everything the girls did last night. It all fits with what I know." “You, two, go into the kitchen and make some coffee.” Chief Byrd ordered. “I want to sit with my daughter for a while." Gabe held the door for Morgan who paused and looked back at the big gruff law officer as he sat on the edge of his daughter's bed, stroked her hair, and murmured prayers in a low, but audible tone. Morgan knew just how he felt. “He's a very lucky man,” Gabe said, mirroring Morgan's thoughts so closely she shivered at the notion that maybe Gabe was psychic, too. “Are you reading my mind, Gabe?" “No, but I didn't need to. You have a very expressive face, Morgan Tarrant." Morgan sat down in the chair Gabe pulled out for her. She'd already made both coffee and tea so there were no more opportunities to put off Gabe's questions. Figuring she'd feel more comfortable on the offensive, she said, “I am psychic, you know. Everything I'll tell you and the chief will be the truth, but I can't prove anything. Aimee's story will corroborate what I know, but without more, they just might get away with it. No, let me amend that. He'll get away with it again. His friend, Jake, won't.” Morgan stopped, took a deep breath and waited for Gabe's reaction. “Would you like coffee or tea, Morgan?” Gabe got up and moved to the stove as he offered the choice of refreshments—just like he was at a social function and not in an official police inquiry. “No, I don't want any damn tea or coffee. Didn't you hear what I just said? I'm psychic—you know, reading minds, telling the future, bending spoons with my mind's energy. Psychic." Looking at her with a slight angling of his head, Gabe asked. “Can you really bend spoons, Morgan? I'd like to see that.” Morgan surged from her chair, knocking it over, as she stalked to confront the infuriatingly calm cop. Poking him with each word, Morgan answered, “No ... I...can ... not ... bend ... spoons!" “Then, why did you mention it?” Gabe grabbed the poking finger and the hand attached to it, enclosing it in one of his as he reached up to push a lock of hair off her face. Well, that's a reasonable question, Morgan. Just why did you mention it? You know you don't have psychokinetic ability. Give this guy a chance before you assume he's like the others. “Well, uh, people like you always expect people like me to ... oh, forget it.” Morgan took her hand back, stomped back to her chair, picked it up and plopped herself in it. She wasn't saying another word until the chief got here. The image of her foot in her mouth paralleled the thought she had gotten from Gabe this evening at the lake. The lake. Missy.

“Oh, my God. I failed Missy.” Morgan started to cry and as hard as she tried she could not stop. **** Gabe felt lower than a leprechaun's heel. He'd made her cry when all he'd tried to do was show her he wasn't the narrow minded cop she thought he was. Well, damn. “Aww, Morgan, darlin’ girl. Don't cry. You didn't fail Missy. You can't control what other people do. Believe me.” Gabe moved over to Morgan, picked her up and sat down in the chair with her on his lap. “No, don't move. Just let me hold you. It always helped me when I was a small boy to be held when I cried." Morgan sniffed, “I bet you never did." “Cry?” Feeling her nod, he answered, “Sure I did. My Irish granddaddy would beat the living tar out of me for doing something bad and my granny would cuddle me while I cried. It's the Irish way, you know.” Gabe heard Morgan stifle a laugh between sniffs. Good, he had her attention now. “You know. I'm Welsh on my mother's side and Irish on my father's. I've seen too many strange things in my life—in my family and on the streets—to discount what you say you know and how you know it. I'll never ridicule you, Morgan. Ever. I may be the logical cop and demand proof, proof that'll hold up in court, but I will never say ‘nay’ to what you're telling me. Except maybe to that part about how you failed Missy, I may just have to violate my promise on that one." Morgan raised her head and looked him in the eyes. “I did fail her. No, don't say anything. Just listen. I knew he was a murderer, but didn't tell the girls. They thought he was just a con artist. So, you see, it is my fault.” “Ain't nobody's fault but the lowdown bastard who committed the crime. What I want to know is just who in the hell the murderer is, Miz Tarrant, and is my daughter in any danger? And, why in the hell, are you on my detective's lap?" CHAPTER THIRTEEN "The World"—Reversed Success is yet to be won. Morgan struggled to get off Gabe's lap as the chief entered the kitchen. “Stay put. He's just teasing.” Gabe ordered, as he gathered her more closely in to his body. Yes, Morgan, that is an arousal you feel. Stop wiggling and maybe he can regain some control. You wouldn't want to embarrass the man in front of his boss, now would you? And, face it, when was the last time you were held and comforted by anyone? Enjoy it. Loosen up. This may be the treasure in the maze. Morgan ceased struggling, relaxed against Gabe's chest, and returned the chief's glare with what she hoped was a calm expression. A bark of rusty laughter came from the chief. “Hell, yes, I'm teasing. The way I feel right now, if my detective could handle my bulk, I'd sit on his lap and ask for comfort, too.” The chief strode to the stove, poured a cup of coffee, then settled his large frame in a chair facing Morgan and Gabe. “Now, Morgan, first off I want to thank you for not letting Aimee go tearing off to the lake by herself.” Pausing, the chief fiddled with his cup before taking a gulp.

Morgan sensed his struggle not to give in to his grief for the girl who had been like a daughter to him. She knew how he felt. “Second, I want to thank you for keeping her from seeing her friend die.” Pushing on the hard planes of Gabe's chest, Morgan moved to get up, “Is Aimee awake? Let me go to her!" “Now, just settle yourself back down there, young lady. Old Gabe there will get permanently damaged with all your moving around. She woke up for a little bit and went back to sleep after she told me some of what's been going on.” The chief looked Morgan in the eye. “You did right by the girls, Morgan. Missy, ah ... well, Missy was a strong headed young gal and no one ever could say ‘no’ to her. Both you and Aimee told her to stay away, but she went anyway. So, if you're feeling guilty, and my guess is you are, just stop it.” The chief gave an abrupt nod of his head, as if that should settle the matter. Morgan shook her head. Neither Gabe nor the chief understood, she could have done more to stop Missy. “Ah, I see you shaking your head and getting all teary again. You don't believe me. Ah, well, it'll take some time, I reckon. Some day, you'll realize that no matter what you said to that poor girl, and believe me I knew her since she was a toddler sharing a sandbox with Aimee, she would have marched straight into the fires of hell to toast marshmallows, especially if we told her not to.” Morgan sniffled. “Now, don't start crying again, ‘cause my detective will take me to account for it later plus I need to hear what you know. From what I gathered, the girls were into some mischief at this Messiah fellow's motel. What do you know about him?" Showtime, Morgan. Just tell what you know. Lieutenant Riggs will back you up. Gabe's low baritone vibrated past Morgan. “Just what did Aimee and Missy do tonight that got Missy killed? Why wasn't Aimee with her?" “Hell, I'm sorry, Gabe. I figured Morgan here would've already filled you in on the girls’ activities at the Cozy Nest. Just what were you two doing all the time I was with my girl?...No, forget I asked that. None of my business. Well now, my Aimee told me that Missy, even after Morgan warned them to let us do our job—and I thank you for that, Morgan—talked her into breaking into the bed & breakfast while the folks were out to dinner." “Shit." “I had exactly the same reaction, especially considering that Aimee was grounded for a similar incident in the past. She won't be doing that again for a while, no sirree. Grounded until she goes to college, maybe won't even let her go until next semester." “What happened? Were they caught? Did Aimee escape?” Gabe sounded frustrated as his voice rumbled past her hair. “From what Aimee said, they broke in, searched the place, and managed to get clean away just as the folks were coming up the driveway. Of course, Missy wasn't satisfied and went back after she sent Aimee home to cover for her with her parents and me." “Why did she go back?” Gabe asked.

“Because she found something in the Messiah's closet.” Morgan answered before Gabe exploded. Images of hail and lightning, coming from Gabe, bombarded Morgan. “What she saw were canisters— gas canisters—lined up in a box in the bottom of the closet in his room. I saw them in the images that Missy managed to project right before she died. Missy went back to get one of the canisters.” Morgan, looking at the chief continued, “Did Aimee give you Missy's gloves? The ones with the phosphorescent material on them? It's one of the tricks Darien uses to fool the devout into thinking he's the Messiah. Missy found them in the closet." “Yep, sure did.” The chief pulled a bag containing a pair of white gloves, which glowed even in the dim light of the country kitchen. The chief coughed and said, “Now, Morgan, I'm not quite sure how you do what you do, and I'm not judging you. Aimee told me you've kept both the girls out of trouble several times with your gift. And, I appreciate that ... Hell, what I'm trying to say is, I don't give a hot damn how you do this, just keep on doing it, ‘cause I think we're going to need all the help we can get to nail this bastard." See Morgan, not all cops are cynical nonbelievers. You just never associated with the right kind before. Morgan opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She was totally unprepared for the acceptance these two men had given her this evening. They're waiting, Morgan. Talk. “His name is Darien. Darien what, I don't know, because the only name Missy gave me was Darien. His accomplice, Jake, was the one who ... who ... murdered Missy ... Sorry, I just can't stop thinking of her calling to me. You see, it was different this time than ever before.” “Different, how?” Morgan stifled a whimper as Gabe gathered her closer and stroked her back. “Just take your time, Morgan. We're here and we're not going anywhere. We're in this together." Taking a breath, Morgan nodded. “I'm what parapsychologists call an empath. I receive images from people I'm near, mostly when they're experiencing strong emotions or stress of some sort. I've learned to block it more effectively since I moved away from New York." “Strong emotions? All kinds or just the violent ones?” Gabe asked. “All kinds. So, it isn't as grim as it sounds. Tonight was different though. Missy actually spoke to me in my head—even while I was dreaming. I was actually with her for part of the time near the end.” Morgan shivered. “I was with her when she crossed over into the white light—that's when she died. One second images—the next, nothing. She's safe now. He can't get her there. His light is dark violet, almost black." **** Gabe heard the chief swear and felt Morgan flinch. He choked back his own epithets. Was she reading them? Must be hell on earth for her to feel all the anger and frustration in the room. Rubbing her back and attempting to keep his anger under control, Gabe whispered, “Go on, Morgan. Tell us the rest." “Missy called to me. She asked me to get him for her. That she wasn't the only one. That I was the only one who could get him." Over my dead body, sweetheart. Gabe knew that as soon as they had all she could give them on this asshole, he wanted her out of here. Maybe his sister or Granny would take her in until they had the guy in

jail. He wasn't letting the creature anywhere near this woman. “You told me that earlier—that he'd murdered before and gotten away with it, and you were afraid he would get away with it this time, also.” Gabe turned Morgan's head so he could see her eyes. “Did you mean the woman we found in the lake tonight or was there someone else?" He knew before she answered—she'd come up against this bastard before. Her eyes couldn't lie. “Someone else. Four years ago in New York City." “Well, damn.” The chief stood up. “Anyone else want a drink? I think I could use one." Morgan shook her head. “I'll take you up on that, Chief.” Gabe growled as he nestled Morgan's head back into his shoulder. “Go on, darlin'. Tell us about New York.” Gabe felt her jerk at his casual endearment. He'd have to be careful about that. He didn't want to spook her. After they put this Darien in jail, he'd have all the time in the world to get her used to him. He was amazed she was still sitting on his lap, especially when he knew she could feel his hard-on. He had a feeling that she wouldn't be there if she had the energy to do something about it. “First, you can contact a Lieutenant Riggs in Manhattan Homicide Division. He questioned me about the murder of Willie Fairchild, which I know Darien committed. It wasn't funny at the time, but I was his chief suspect for a while." “What is he? An idiot? Anyone looking at you could tell you wouldn't hurt a fly. You have honest eyes. Well, I'll tell him...” Gabe trailed off. So much for playing it cool. “Gabe, calm down. He didn't arrest me. Just didn't believe me at first. When Darien killed the second person, a private investigator hired by Willie, I was in the precinct and told them how to connect the two murders. Well, after that he believed even though he didn't want to. Now, you be nice to him. We exchange Christmas cards every year." “Yes, ma'am." Gabe heard the chief snort. “She's got you pegged, boy." “Yes, Chief, she sure does. Go on, Morgan, tell us how you got involved." “I saw him right after he killed Willie. He was on my subway car. Maybe as far away from me as the kitchen door. He was on his way to kill the private investigator. He's changed a little in appearance, but I won't ever forget his aura. He's a strong transmittor." Gabe swore, “That's it. She's out of here—protective custody.” Shaking her while he still held her captive on his lap, Gabe yelled, “Why in the hell, if you are a material witness to two murders this guy committed, did you expose yourself to him last week at the revival? You got a death wish? Hell, why didn't you go to the police when you realized who he was?" Gabe was surprised at Morgan's strength as she pushed her way out of his arms and off his lap. Watching the pacing woman, he knew he'd pushed the wrong buttons. Words tumbled from her mouth as she dashed away the tears streaming down her face. “He never saw me. He doesn't know what I look like. I was a whole car away. He couldn't tell I was on

to him. I had to tell the police. I had to stop him from killing again, but I failed. Just like I did this time. That private investigator, Nichols, was burned alive in his building—along with his wife and children. The police didn't believe me at first. I tried, really tried to save the man. Then they believed me—but it was too late—and I never had any proof that would stand up in court. After that, the press was all over me and I lost my job. That's why I'm here, in Indiana.” Gabe stood up and headed for the frantic woman. “Morgan, darlin', I'm..." Morgan held her hand up, stopping him, and rushed on, “No, don't say anything. I need to get this out. Can either of you honestly tell me that you would've believed such a story a week ago? For all you knew, you were dealing with a con man and nothing more. In the New York cases, there was no physical evidence. This Darien firebombed the PI's building. Nothing was left to connect him to the murder of Willie. He took everything incriminating with him from her place. No fingerprints. Nothing. Heck, the crimes aren't even the same as the one he was committing a week ago. You would've thought I was nuts.” “No, Morgan, honey..." “No, don't humor me, please. Of course you would have, any sane person would. So-o-o, to keep from exposing myself again, I thought I would just protect the girls from him. Point out he was a crook and let you go for it. Jail is jail, I told myself. At the very least, you'd have run the bastard out of town and we'd be okay." Gabe could see the exhaustion and frustration in her body posture. Cautiously, he approached her. No hand stopped him this time. Her tirade had tuckered her out. “Come on, Morgan. Sit down. It'll be okay. I promise." Morgan sighed, “No, I failed again. Just like in New York. This time, I failed because I didn't go to the police with what I knew soon enough—and another person has died, because I was too much of a coward.” Turning her back on the two men, Morgan hugged her abdomen, and tried to contain the gut-wrenching pain threatening to erupt. **** Gabe heard the chief snort, “Hogwash!” just as he said, “Bull shit!" “Now, listen up, for the last time,” Gabe said as he loomed over Morgan. “You did nothing wrong. Hell, if I had your experiences with cops, I wouldn't have told me a week ago either. No one likes to be called a liar and a crazy person. Also, I expect it was a lot worse than you're telling us. It happened before New York, didn't it? Was it your family?" “What?” Turning, Morgan looked stunned by his question. “Who didn't believe you before? Was it your family? Friends? Lover?” Morgan muttered something under her breath, which Gabe could have sworn was “lover, yeah, right." “What did you say, Morgan?” Gabe felt better in that moment than he had all evening. No old boyfriends to contend with. Good. Not that they would have a chance. He intended to keep the field open for himself. “Yes, family and friends and the local law enforcement in Salem. They all talked about me behind my back, but weren't shy about using me when they needed my peculiar little parlor tricks as my Aunt Mildred called them."

Gabe heard the hurt, unloved little girl in those last words and wanted to go to Salem and kick Aunt Mildred in the ass. “Sounds like a bunch of damn fools to me,” said the chief. “Hell, my second cousin on my father's side of the family has predicted every single Byrd marriage, birth and death in the last forty years. Never missed a one. I don't question anything she says. She's proved herself too many times. Now, of course, you didn't know that Gabe and I were liberal sorts, so I don't blame you for not coming to tell us. But, I don't want to hear anymore of this nonsense that you could've saved Missy from her fate. None of us could. I believe I made myself clear on that topic earlier and we won't go there again. You hear me, girl?” The chief patted Morgan on the shoulder. Gabe had never admired anybody more than he admired the chief in that moment. Although Morgan started crying again, she was smiling through the tears. “Okay, now we got that all settled right and tight, young lady. Why don't you tell old Gabe and me the rest of what you know, so we can go confront this bastard bright and early this morning and you can go lie down in my guest bedroom." “Yes sir." **** Morgan knew she was not in her bed. She sensed the presence of Aimee nearby and could almost touch the edges of the girl's dream state. Missy's aura was totally gone from the maze. Searching along the shore of the icy lake, Morgan saw no signs of where the rabbit, Missy, had lain. Gone. All evidence that Missy had even been there was gone. She heard the man before he spoke. His labored breathing gave him away. Morgan turned and saw the old man leaning heavily on his staff. Morgan asked him, “What's happened, old man? Why are you so out of breath and leaning on your staff? Are you hurt?" “No, my child. I'm just tired. It's been a long night and I'm too old for such goings on." “What have you been doing?" “I've been keeping an eye on the lion for you, my dear. You were otherwise occupied and someone had to do it." “He killed Missy." “Yes." “He'll kill again, won't he?" “Yes. There is nothing you can do to stop the next deaths—they are inevitable. The wheel of fate has already marked the next victims." “What about free will? My free will? Can I do nothing to stop him? Haven't I set in motion the countermeasures?" “Yes and no. You have, but you will be called on to do more.” “What more can I do?"

"Look to your heritage. The key is there. Remember Willie Fairchild. You said it yourself tonight. His trickery in New York, is not the trickery that he performs each night as he falsely preaches ... And, Morgan, remember, only you can stop the lion. But first, you must learn to ride him. Conquer your fear and ride the lion, Morgan. It's the only way to stop him. When you do, you will find your way into the center of the maze and gain a treasure worth more than gold." CHAPTER FOURTEEN "The Sun"—Reversed Minor setbacks. The Cozy Nest Bed & Breakfast looked anything but, in the pale morning light filtering through the sycamores and oaks surrounding the establishment. Where the owners had come up with the terms “cozy” and “nest” to describe the large Georgian style manor, more suitable for the arable fields of England than the hilly Southern Indiana forests in which it was nestled, Gabe wouldn't guess. He knew the owners lived at the beginning of the long drive in what he would call a gatehouse, while they rented out the larger building located a mile away at the end of a cul-de-sac. He supposed, if the area ever became popular, the owners would sell off the wooded areas on each side of the drive, for vacation homes for city dwellers. It hadn't happened yet, but would eventually. Urban sprawl, like kudzu, would soon take over the whole United States if the real estate developers had any say in the matter. “Kind of isolated out here, ain't they?” Tim Brown's voice cut through Gabe's ruminations on the downhill slide of American life. “Yeah. They can do anything out here and no one would be the wiser.” Gabe braked and shut off the car. “Where did Aimee say the girls parked their car?" Tim pointed to the back of the house and garage. “Behind the house, there's a path that goes to a parking area close to the lake. All the locals know it. Kids go out parking in the warm months and, during hunting season, the hunters use it to stalk deer. The Eberly's don't own all the surrounding woods, you know. This property was what you call grandfathered when this was declared a part of the Hoosier National Forest. I hear tell the house is a hundred years old." “Good.” Gabe meant it. This pristine ancient forest would be preserved. “So, Gabe. How're we gonna approach this Darien fella? Good cop, bad cop?" Gabe laughed at the eagerness he heard in the deputy's voice. “Nah, it's by the book, Tim. We ask what they know about Missy—was she here last night? Tell them that the Eberly's have given us permission to look around in the public areas. Do they mind if we look in their rooms? You know the usual stuff. We can't get a warrant on what we know since it's all hearsay. So, we have to get their permission." The chief had been very clear about that this morning after Morgan had finished telling them all she knew and had gone to lie down. “Keep Aimee and Morgan out of it. We'll get the bastard without tipping him off about their knowledge. He'll slip up; they always do. Just don't scare him off. Try to get something with fingerprints. Hell, you know the drill. Let him know, we're watching him. And, keep a handle on Tim; he's too damn eager." Getting out of the car, Gabe turned to Tim, “Just follow my lead. Keep your eyes open for blood trails and the like. They had to carry Missy out of there. By the way, do we know who cleans up the place while there are guests?" “Yep, sure do. My cousin, Bitsy, has a cleaning service—Mighty Maids. I can ask her to keep her eyes open, also."

“You do that, Tim.” Gabe led the way to the back of the house. He wanted to check out the window Aimee and Missy had climbed through and the path through the woods. The girls might have dropped something that would connect them with the house. He also wanted to see if Darien and his friends could have seen the girls as they got away. “Uh, Gabe, we're being watched by an ugly looking character." Gabe turned toward the house. A man was looking out of the window at them. Must be the other man, Jake. Yeah, he looked like the kind of guy to rape and maim a woman. Bet he had a record. They would check him and Darien out with the FBI after they got prints on them. Since it could take months to get a match, they would run both their names, descriptions and modus operandi through the National Crime Information Center and see if either of them was hot. The chief, choosing to stay at home to keep an eye on the women, was on the phone to New York about Morgan's previous encounters with Darien. Hopefully, Lieutenant Riggs had more information than Morgan had let on. “He's sure one mean looking ugly son of a bitch.” Tim whispered. “I don't think I've ever seen him over at the church during the revivals." Gabe, nodding his acknowledgment of Jake's surveillance, turned to look at his deputy, “You go to the Pentecostal Church where Darien has been preaching?" “Yep. It's my wife's church. I go when I'm not working. Not all of the parishioners are taken in by this bozo, Gabe. But, they are entertained by him. He's not gotten one dime out of the reverend that the church elders haven't okayed—and they're a stingy bunch of old farts. This guy picked on the wrong damn bunch of fundamentalists if he thought he was going to get rich off of our church." Gabe threw back his head and laughed so hard he thought he might just come up with his breakfast biscuit. “That's the best thing I've heard in a long time, Tim. Do you think the reverend and the elders can continue to string this guy along while we try to get something on him?" “Sure, my wife is first cousin to the Reverend Porter. She can clue him in. You can trust them both. Do you think we ought to though? Couldn't he and this Jake hurt more of our women?" Gabe, satisfied that there was nothing outside the house, headed for the woods. Tim walked along side of him keeping pace on the rough path. “He'll know after today we're watching him. If he's smart, he'll know he has to stay put for a while. Until the fervor dies down. Then, he'll pack up and attempt to take a flit in the middle of the night.” Gabe stopped walking right where the path led into the parking area Tim had described. “I don't think this guy is stupid, just amoral." Satisfied that the parking area was invisible from the house, Gabe turned and led the way back. This time he walked up to the front door and knocked. The door was opened immediately by a petite blonde in the robes of a woman of Biblical times. Her sex kitten demeanor and makeup made for a skewed picture. “May I help you, Officer?” The suggestive sexy drawl and the stripping perusal confirmed Gabe's view of her place in the inner sanctum of the Messiah. If he were a betting man, this handmaiden to the Messiah spent most of her time on her back and knees. “We're here to see the Messiah and his entourage. Would you tell him Detective Walsh and Deputy Brown are here to ask some questions about last night?" Gabe watched the woman's eyes glaze over at his mention of last night. “Last night? We were home all evening ... no, wait. We went out for dinner, then we were home all

evening. Watched a movie, then went to bed. What else do you need to know, Officer?” The woman reached out and ran her fingers up and down Gabe's forearm. Gabe heard Tim choke back a gasp. Moving his arm away from the woman, Gabe pushed past her into the hallway of the house. “Thank you for telling us that, Miss...? I don't believe I caught your name?" The woman pouting up at him replied, “Nan ... Nan Beauchamp." “Well, Nan, I'm sure Deputy Brown got it all down, but I still need to speak with the Messiah about a young woman who may have stopped by here last evening. Would you go get him for me, please?" “Oh, you mean that James chick? Yeah, she was here for a little while around ten or so. Threw herself at the Messiah.” Nan giggled. “It was so embarrassing. He scolded her, you know. Told her to save herself for the man she would marry and all that and sent her on her way. Looked kind of unhappy when she left. Did she get home okay?" Gabe wanted to slap the woman. He could tell rehearsed testimony when he heard it. Damn, she was letter perfect. “No. She didn't make it home okay. She's dead. Someone raped and tortured her and then threw her in the lake. Not too far from where we found another woman's body—a woman in her mid-to late twenties, blonde. Know anything about either of these deaths, Nan?" Nan gasped and paled at the description of the second death he described. Interesting. She was surprised, even shocked, by the second death, but not the first. Was it because Darien prepped her for the first and not the second? Gabe filed that for future use. He'd clue Tim in later. He just hoped Tim would keep his mouth shut and follow his lead until then. “Stop badgering poor Nan, Officer. She's not been well, have you Nan?" He had been so absorbed in Nan's reactions to his revelations about the murdered women, Gabe hadn't heard Darien's arrival. He wasn't sure how much the man had heard, but was pretty sure he hadn't heard his revelation about the bodies. “I'm sorry, Nan. If you can think of anything that might help us with the matter we just discussed, please call me at once. If not, don't worry, I'll come back and speak with you in a few days." Gabe smiled as the woman turned even paler and fled the room with a shriek. Turning to Darien, Gabe asked. “Is she suffering from a nervous disorder or something? She seemed fine earlier when she was reciting the events of last evening.” Darien glowered. “What events, Officer...? I don't believe I caught your name." “Walsh. Detective Walsh. Your assistant was going to announce us, but I seemed to have upset her. I'll apologize when I see her next. This is Deputy Brown. He's going to look around the public rooms while I ask you and the other gentleman some questions. Where is the fellow I saw in the window, while we were looking around outside?" “Don't you need a warrant to search private premises, Detective Walsh?" “We have the permission of the owner to search the house. Of course, we would like your permission and that of your entourage, to look in your private rooms. Do you have any problem with that?"

“Well, I wouldn't know until you tell me what this is all about." Tim coughed. “Messiah, excuse me. But my wife, she's Reverend Porter's first cousin and attends the church, and uh, well, she said you were omniscious..." Working hard to stifle his laughter, Gabe corrected his cunning deputy, “The word is ‘omniscient,’ Tim." “Well, uh, yeah. That's what I said. It means all-knowing, you know." Gabe wiped his hand over his face to cover the grin he knew was reflected in his eyes. Tim may be a rookie, but he caught on quick. He'd be very interested in seeing how the Messiah got out of this one. “Deputy Brown. I can only see what my Father, our Lord, chooses to allow me to see. In this case, I am at a loss as to why you are here and need to search my current home. Please indulge me. I am only a conduit for God's word of what is to come. What has passed is beyond my ken.” Darien had known they would come. Gabe could tell. Darien had dressed and was acting the part—the man's simple white robe and spiritual demeanor underlining his holy man routine. Gabe had to give it to the guy. He had the holy act down and was playing it to the hilt. Unfortunately, Darien's eyes couldn't help but reflect the daggers he'd like to throw at both Gabe and Tim. They'd both better watch their backs around this guy. Amoral might be too nice a word for him. “May we sit down while Deputy Brown begins his search? Presuming we have your permission to search the private rooms?" Darien swept his hands in a modified sign of the cross, closed his eyes and mumbled a few words under his breath. “Please. My humble abode is yours to search at will. My Father has said to cooperate with the earthly officials of the law for the common good.” Gabe successfully swallowed back the bile in his throat. Although not particularly religious, he was sickened by Darien's sanctimonious actions and words. “You heard him, Tim. God says go for it. So move.” Gabe mocking Darien's arm movements waved Tim out of the room and then sat in an overstuffed chintz-covered chair, which looked more comfortable than it was. Darien circled the room before taking up a leaning stance against the mantel of the marble fireplace. “Please tell me what this is all about, Detective. I've got several things to do today before I preach again tonight." “Sorry, Messiah.” Gabe, taking his notepad from his shirt pocket, flipped it open and asked, “Do you know a Missy James?" If Gabe hadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have seen the slight relaxation in Darien's stance that the question engendered. This is what Darien was prepared to talk about. Well, Gabe thought, he'd just throw him a curve or two later—let him trot out his rehearsed stuff first. “Missy James. A lovely young lady.” Darien shook his head and sighed. “I fear I had to send her away last night with a slight scolding." “Oh? What was the problem? Did she trespass?” Gabe could see no reaction to the leading question. Good, Darien hadn't seen the girls earlier.

“Oh no! Nothing like that. The young lady threw herself at me. It was quite embarrassing really." “So your assistant, Nan, said. Exact same words as a matter of fact.” Gabe made a note in his pad and noticed Darien watching him like a hawk. “Just what do you imply, Detective?" “Oh nothing. I'm sure it was very embarrassing. What did you say to her?" “Well, of course, I told her that I was flattered but that I must keep chaste until my Father chooses a bride for me. I also felt it my duty, as her spiritual advisor, to lecture her on the sanctity of her body and the need to keep herself pure for the man she would marry some day. These young girls are far too promiscuous these days.” Darien sighed loudly and shook his head. “She didn't take it well at all." Bastard. Lying bastard. “So, what did Missy do after you explained her duties as a virgin to her?" “Well, she left. I guess she must have gone home.” Darien shrugged his shoulders and shot a “see what you can do about that” look at Gabe. “Well, you guessed wrong.” You scumbag. “She's dead." Gabe watched as Darien played the role of being shocked and dismayed. If Gabe had a gun in his hand at that moment, he might just blow the son of a bitch away. The hell with due process. “Oh my Lord! I knew I should have had Brother Jacob drive her home. What happened?" “We found her in the lake. Dead. She'd been raped and abused. Doc said she must have suffered greatly before she died. Just like the other one did." Gabe was looking for the reaction his last words would cause. It was slight, a mere dilation of the eyes and flaring of the nostrils, not as obvious as it was with Nan, but a shock just the same. Somebody fucked up, eh, Darien? Bet it was old Brother Jacob nee Jake. “Another one?” Gabe had to give the guy credit. He recovered fast. “Yeah. A blonde woman, about mid-to-late twenties. Ring a bell?" “Maybe.” Good answer, Darien. You know she might be connected to you so you're hedging your bets. “Has she been identified yet?" “No. We're pretty sure she isn't a local as I told Nan before you arrived." **** Darien swore under his breath. This cop was sharp. What was worse, Darien couldn't read him at all. What good was it being psychic if it didn't work all the time? He'd always had an easier time with women and children. Maybe it was because they had less to hide—he didn't know. Try as he might, he couldn't read either of the two cops. Nor, it seemed, could he read Jake. Jake lied to him when he said he'd made sure Bren's body would stay submerged for a while. Well, he'd have to move up the timetable in his plan to allow Jake to take the fall. Nan would have to go, also. She, too, was a weak link. Timing was everything. If he could just hold it all together long enough to let them find out about Jake's record as a sex offender, then he could use the old bait and switch and move on while they were looking for Jake.

“Messiah, are you all right?" Darien strove, to put on a calm front for the sharp-eyed cop. God, he hated cops. He wanted to kill this one so bad he could taste it. Self-preservation alone kept him from planning Walsh's imminent demise. Cop killing would bring about too much heat. He needed to fade away while Jake took the fall. He needed to remind himself of that whenever the urge to kill Walsh started to come over him. “Yes, Detective Walsh. I'm just saying silent prayers for the young women's souls. They are with my Father now. At peace." “Uh, excuse me, Messiah, this law officer wants to get into my room. Is that your wish?" Darien turned and saw an obviously nervous Jake standing in the doorway with Deputy Brown right behind him. Stupid fool. If he looked anymore guilty, he'd be in the electric chair before he knew it. Timing. Remember, the timing has to be perfect. Can't kill the idiot yet. “Ah, Brother Jake. Yes, please allow the good deputy to look into your room. We have nothing to hide.” Darien sent as much mental energy as he could toward Jake. In the past, he'd been able to keep Jake in line with such thought transference, the one thing he could do without much effort. Transmitting psychic energy had always been easier for him then receiving. People never knew that he planted thoughts into their heads. This Indiana congregation was taking longer than most, but he was sure that he would get the money he needed out of them and soon. He might have to lie low for a while and he didn't want to be low on hiding out money. “What's this all about, Messiah?” Jake came into the room as the deputy moved back up the stairs. “These officers have told me the most heinous news, Brother. Two women have been found dead, raped. One was young Missy.” Back me up on the alibi, Jake. “Oh my Lord. You mean she never made it home last night. That's terrible. But you said two. Who was the other woman?” Jake was playing it perfectly, although Darien didn't think the cop was buying any of it. Why? What did he know? Missy was dead when she left here—she had to have been. Maybe Jake had been seen. The sooner he got these cops out of here, the better. He and Jake needed to have a little talk. “They aren't sure yet, Brother. But I'm sure they will keep us informed. We'd like to include her in our prayers by name. Now, if you've nothing further to ask me, Detective Walsh. I'd like to go check on Nan. Her color wasn't too good when she went to her room. I hope your deputy didn't disturb her too much.” “Nope, she just lay there and watched me. Quiet as a mouse she was.” Deputy Brown spoke from the doorway. “I'm all through here, Gabe." Walsh stood up and moved toward his deputy. “Thank you for allowing us to search, Messiah. Don't bother showing us to the door. We know the way out." Darien watched as the two cops moved into the entry hall. Hearing the door open and close, Darien hissed at Jake, “We need to talk." “Oh, excuse me, Messiah?” Walsh stuck his head around the corner of the doorway. Man moved like a cat, damn him. “We'll be bringing some morgue pictures by for you all to look at. Maybe you can help identify the other woman for us." “Sure, Officer. No problem. Anytime. We're at your service."

“Thanks. I'll be seeing you.” With a wave, Walsh left. Nodding his head in the direction of the front door, Darien indicated that Jake should check to make sure both cops were finally gone. Jake came back into the room. “They're gone this time for sure." “Is this the same ‘sure’ that you used when you told me you had anchored Bren's body so she wouldn't be found ‘for sure'?” Darien cut off Jake's attempt to retreat behind the couch. Cornering the man, Darien got right into his face and sneered, “Is this the same ‘sure’ that Missy James was dead when you put her into the lake ‘for sure'?” Darien watched his henchman's face and saw the truth. Hell, this time he could even read the guilt in Jake's mind he was transmitting it so well. “You fool!” Darien slapped Jake across the face. “Aww, Dare. I did anchor Bren really well. Maybe some scavengers ate through the ropes I used to attach the cement blocks. It happens. No, don't hit me, please. You know how I hate it when you hit me, Dare.” Darien pushed away from Jake, disgusted. “Well, then don't do stupid things and then lie to me about them, you idiot!” Darien walked away before he killed the criminally stupid man. “What about Missy James? Was she dead or not when you placed her in the water? Could she have spoken to the cops before she died?" “Yes. No. I don't know, Dare,” whined Jake. “I used the nitrous oxide like you told me to and then I dumped her head first into the lake. I waited for a few minutes and watched her float face down. I could've swore she was dead. Honest." Darien blew out a breath of disgust. Patience, Darien, don't lose it. Not like last night with Missy. Control it. “Okay, Jake. Everybody makes a mistake now and then. After you kill Nan, I'll help you get rid of the body this time." “Kill Nan? But why, Dare? What..." “Are you questioning my authority, Jake?" “Uh, no, Dare. After I kill Nan, you'll help me get rid of the body. Uh, when are we going to do this, Dare?" “Not right away. We need to prep Nan to identify Bren's body as our long lost Sister Bren who we thought had gone home to Kansas." “Can I fuck Nan this time when you prep her, Dare. Please?" Darien looked at the eagerness and lust on Jake's face and felt annoyed with him for his subservience to his dick. “Yeah, Jake. You can fuck her, but don't leave any marks. I don't want anything pointing the cops in our direction for these killings. Got it?" “Oh, yeah. Got it, Dare. No marks. At least, none until I kill her, right?" “Right. Then you can leave all the marks you want.” Which will lead them right to you, old boy. Right to you. Darien smiled. ****

Chief Byrd hung up the phone after his lengthy discussion with Lieutenant Riggs. Cursing out loud, he got up from his roll-top desk and moved toward his favorite Lazy Boy lounger by the fireplace. “What did Riggs tell you? Corroborated everything I told you, right?" The chief jumped when he heard Morgan's voice. “Where in the hell are you?" “Here,” Morgan poked her head up over the back of the couch, which faced the fireplace, “on the couch. I couldn't sleep in the bed, so I came in here. The fire lulled me to sleep. Then, you came in and started making phone calls, so I just drowsed and listened. Sorry." “Well, you should be. Listening in on my official business and such." “You know, Chief, your bark is a lot worse than your bite. What did Riggs have to say? I couldn't get much from your side of the conversation. In fact, you didn't say much at all after the first few questions. I didn't think Riggs talked all that much when I knew him.” Morgan grinned, and the chief thought that if he were thirty years younger he'd be giving that boy Gabe a run for his money with this little gal. What a charmer. “Well, your Lieutenant Riggs had a lot to say. And, yep, he confirmed everything you told us. No evidence. The cases are still open. Some of the Fairchild woman's jewels showed up, but a piece here and a piece there and no one could remember who fenced them. The cases are in cold storage, but he's copying them and FedExing them to me ... along with his clipping file on you." “A clipping file on me? Now, why does he have a clipping file on me?” Morgan looked as confused as she sounded. “He said that he started with the New York papers right after the murders. Then, he just was curious about your previous experiences so he had a rookie cop get whatever she could from Salem and voila before you know it he had a file on you. He also told me something you neglected to mention to Gabe and me last night, young lady. Something I think you should have told us about this Darien person.” The chief caught himself wagging his finger at her just like his wife used to do with him and Aimee. Well, you couldn't be married to a woman for thirty years and not pick up some of her mannerisms. “Oh, and what is that? I think I told you everything." Seeing Gabe and Tim start to enter the den, the chief gave a slight shake of his head, effectively stopping them. “You didn't tell us that this Darien was a psychic, also, and that you were afraid he read you in that subway car." The chief thought Gabe's roar probably could be heard clear to Indianapolis. CHAPTER FIFTEEN "The Magician" Willpower. “That's it. She's outta here. Crazy fool woman.” Gabe mumbled audibly as he stalked into the room and stood in front of a shocked Morgan. Morgan noticed the chief walk toward Tim and nudge him into the hall. The door however remained open. Ignoring the eavesdropping men, Morgan recovered quickly and responded, “Listen, I forgot. Okay? Any way it's not important. He..."

“Not important?” Gabe looked up to the sky as if for guidance. “Not important that this guy can psyche you out and then kill you ‘cause you know too much about him. Are you nuts?” He cares about you, Morgan. Cut the guy some slack. Ignoring her inner voice, Morgan countered, “No, if you had waited a second more you would've found out that I'm stronger than he is. I can read him, but he can't read me. I know how to block my thoughts. He doesn't—remember, I said he's a great transmitter, not a receiver. Plus, I don't transmit as well as I receive." “How in the hell do you know that? Maybe you just aren't aware of what you send out. I get vibes from you all the time and I'm not even psychic.” “You do? Okay, then, what am I thinking right now?” Morgan asked moving to stand in front of Gabe who was giving off images so fast she couldn't begin to untangle them, but knew they added up to anger, frustration and—yes—concern for her. Concentrating, she looked him in the eye and thought about peaches. Let's just see if he can receive that. Morgan, Morgan. You're being childish. Give the man a break. You know what kind of vibes he's getting. You haven't been cloistered during your twenty-six years. Morgan watched Gabe as he returned her gaze. He had beautiful eyes, all glittery like silver gray ice crystals, such a marked contrast to his dark black hair and eyelashes. Her fingers itched to touch his hair, to see if it was as silky as it looked. “Go ahead, touch it. I don't bite.” Gabe grinned at her. “What?” Morgan shook off her thoughts. Why was he smiling like that? There was no way he could know she was thinking about him. Was there? “You want to touch my hair. Go ahead. That was what you were thinking, wasn't it?” Gabe reached out and took her hand and placed it on his hair, right above his ear. He's got you there, Morgan. No way he could read your thoughts, huh? “You didn't get that thought from me. You just guessed. I was thinking about something else entirely.” Morgan protested. Gabe tapped her nose with his forefinger. “Don't lie, darlin'." Yeah, why are you lying, Morgan? Scared he'll know you want him? Swatting his hand away, Morgan took a step back and snapped, “I'm not your darling and I didn't lie. I was thinking about an object and looking at your hair. So, what was the object?" “Oh, you mean besides my eyes? Some sort of fruit—apricots, no, peaches. It was peaches." Morgan blanched. “That's right.” Backpedaling, Morgan went on, “But, it means nothing. I concentrated very hard and you were very close. There's no way this guy can receive from me, if I don't want him to. I just know. Trust me. My Grandmother and all the parapsychologists who tested me were never able to catch my thoughts in a casual manner, and several of those were some of the highest receptors ever tested.” Gabe shook his head. “I don't want to take that chance, Morgan."

“You have no say in what I do, Gabe. I'm not moving again; I'm not hiding.” Seeing Gabe about to protest once more, Morgan decided to follow her inner voice and throw him a bone, “However, I will promise not to approach him. Will that satisfy you?" At Gabe's abrupt nod, Morgan smiled. Foul play, Morgan. You know what Gabe's worried about. He's right you know—this Darien might be stronger than you think. Morgan knew it didn't matter. The old man in her dream said she had to continue her path, trust in her heritage and ride the lion. She was going to do it. He didn't say to be stupid about it. Getting killed, isn't going to bring any of Darien's victims back. Let Gabe, and the chief, do their thing. Give them a chance. Morgan couldn't wait for the investigative trail to lead to the bastard; time was running out. Morgan had to set her plan in motion while he was still here in French Creek. She knew his weak points. The old man had pointed them all out to her. Darien loved one thing above all else—money; then he loved power. She had both, and all it would take would be for her to dangle them in front of him. Then, he was hers. **** Gabe wasn't sure why he felt that he'd just bought the Brooklyn Bridge at bargain basement prices, but he did. Morgan was too quick to offer him middle ground. The issue wasn't settled, by any means, but he was willing to drop it for the time being. His ability to read Morgan had shocked him and he wasn't sure why or how it happened. He only knew, right now, all his instincts told him to keep her close. Turning his thoughts back to the business at hand, he motioned Tim and the chief back into the room. He wanted Tim to tell his story of the search at the Cozy Nest. Gabe was interested in what action the chief would take. The shocking news that the chief had gotten from New York about Darien's psychic abilities had distracted him. But he was back on track now—nailing this bastard was more important than ever. “Chief, Tim and I were able to get in and while I questioned the suspects, Tim searched the entire place —with permission. I want him to share with you what he found.” “Good. Just so we're legal. Get it on tape?” The chief asked as he and Tim walked back into the room from their listening post in the hall. “Yep. Got everything on tape. They were short interviews. They didn't know anything. Shocked at the deaths. Missy was there, but left—alive—at ten o'clock. They were lying through their teeth, chief—all three of them. But, I can't prove it.” Gabe turned to Tim who had been a fascinated observer of the earlier vignette. “Tell them what you saw, Tim.” Gabe could have made the report on the search, but he wanted Tim to get the credit for his excellent work. Tim shook his head. “Yeah, like I told Gabe on the way over here. Neatest damn people I ever saw. They even had their beds all nicely made up. Must be pretty early risers to have their beds made up— don't ya think?" Gabe again couldn't help but be pleased by the astuteness of his deputy's observation. Tim wasn't the country bumpkin he'd like people to think he was. The chief coughed and looked at Gabe. “Expected us?" “Yeah, they were ready for us and our questions about Missy all right, but the other woman's body threw Nan and Darien off their stride for a bit. Nan, more than him. She's the weakest link. She either knows or

suspects something. We need to cut her out of the pack and question her away from their influence. Think you could do that, Tim? You're the least threatening of us.” Gabe watched Morgan as he waited for Tim's answer. She was up to something. He could almost see the plots and plans moving around in her head. Maybe he was psychic, at least as far as she was concerned. Before Tim managed to answer, Gabe added, “And, Morgan, you are to stay away from the others also. You hear me? If you interfere in what is an ongoing police investigation, I will throw your sweet little rump in jail for your own good.” Morgan's indignant sniff and non-answer spoke for itself. Gabe was going to have to watch her like a hawk until this case was settled. By hook or by crook, she was going to try to get involved. The chief cleared his throat. “What did you find, Tim?" “How'd you know, Chief?” “Well, you either have to use the john or you're fidgeting from excitement over something. I figure you're adult enough to excuse yourself if you had to go, so you must have something. So, tell us." Gabe could see that as sharp as Tim might be, he was no match for the cunning old dog sitting in the Lazy Boy puffing on his pipe. Gabe would put the chief's skills of observation and deduction, up against any of his superiors in the Detroit Police Department. Gabe and the others watched as Tim pulled latex gloves on his hands. Then, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out two evidence baggies-one contained a razor and the other an opened condom package. “They may have been expecting us, but someone wasn't as good a housekeeper as they thought. My cousin, Bitsy, would never have left a razor in the wastebasket. Found it in Jake's bath. I found the condom package on the floor in Darien's room—saw it in plain sight just peaking from under the dust ruffle. Figured both would have some latent prints and maybe some DNA samples." Gabe walked over to Tim and slapped him on the back. “Good work. Plain sight. Permission to search. All admissible. Damn good work. Ever think about becoming a detective, Tim?" “Yes sir. My course work at the college is in criminal science. Thought I'd apply next year after I get my degree." Gabe took the evidence bags, which Tim had labeled with time, place, case name and description. “Hell, you may just have to apply this year, Tim. You've just given us the only leads we have in this case." “How long will it take to match fingerprints and run DNA tests?” Morgan asked from her position once again on the couch. Gabe turned to look at her. Knowing she suspected the answer, but wanted him to say it out loud, to underline the reality that it could take months to match the fingerprints through the FBI and weeks to do the DNA tests. Both of which may or may not produce results. The men would have to have their fingerprints in the FBI files and the DNA tests might prove inconclusive. “Do I really have to answer that question, Morgan?" “No, I just wanted to make a point. I'm not saying Tim didn't do a good thing—he did. But, this guy got away once—we can't wait around on some off chance that his fingerprints are in a file somewhere and

that he's wanted. We have to nail him now." “Morgan, I understand your point—and it's a good one—but we don't have any other choice. This is the best we can do for now." Gabe watched as Morgan got up from the couch walked to the door leading into the hallway. Just before she left the room, she turned, “I know you're doing the best you can, but there has to be another way. There has to be.” With that, Morgan turned and headed for the back of the house where Aimee still slept. “She's going to do something, ain't she, Gabe?” Tim's question broke the awkward silence that Morgan's departing words had engendered. “Not if I can help it, she's not.” Gabe rumbled. **** Morgan knew that the three law officers she had just left were not happy campers right now, but she couldn't help it. The law wasn't going to move fast enough. None of those overprotective men in the other room would ask a woman to risk herself with a suspect in a murder and rape. Well, she was taking the problem out of their hands. She was volunteering to be the bait. Once it was fait accompli, they'd come around to her way of thinking fast enough, because above all else they were law officers and they would use the tools at hand. She fully intended to be the primary tool of Darien's destruction. Tiptoeing into Aimee's room, she saw that the girl was lying awake and staring at the shadows cast on her bedspread by the morning sun streaming through the leaves of the tree outside her window. “Aimee, honey, are you okay? Couldn't you sleep any longer?” Morgan sat on the side of the bed and stroked the girls’ dark hair as it lay on the pillow. “Uh-uh. I keep seeing her all bloody. I didn't even get to say good-bye.” Aimee turned to Morgan and started to cry, great heaving sobs that broke her heart and strengthened her resolve to put her plan to trap Darien into action today, if possible. “Aimee, I know. Your Dad, Gabe and Tim are doing all they can, but it might be too little, too late. I can't let this guy get away.” Lifting Aimee's head up, Morgan wiped the girl's tears away with the corner of the bedspread. “Now, listen. I want you to stay away from the church and from all of Darien's people, you hear me?” Seeing the girl's wide-eyed look, Morgan explained, “They might connect you to Missy and think you might know something. I don't want you hurt. I'm going to take care of him. Trap him and then get conclusive evidence that he is a criminal—anything—that would keep him locked up long enough to give your Dad and the others the time to connect other crimes and what little evidence we've got to him. But, I need your help." “I'll do anything, Morgan. Anything. I keep thinking, I should have gone with her and been her back up. I was just so pissed at her and I wouldn't go. She wouldn't listen to me.” Aimee started sniffling again and Morgan was quick to give her a hug and a smile. “Honey, your Dad finally convinced me, there wasn't anything any of us could do. Missy was just, well, Missy. We can't bring her back, but we can darn sure get this guy." “Right, Morgan. What do you want me to do?" “I need inside information about the church and Reverend Porter. Would he work with me to trap this guy or do you think he believes the Messiah malarkey? Deputy Brown seems to think that most of the

elders and the reverend know he's a fake and are laughing up their sleeves at his attempts to get money —although they enjoy him for the entertainment factor. What do you think?" “Well, I don't know what the reverend might think, but I do know the reverend is a law-abiding man.” Aimee scrunched up her forehead while she considered Morgan's question further. “I did hear once that the reverend thought the Messiah single-handedly would raise the money for the new roof with his preaching. The church treasurer, Mrs. Brown, laughed and said it was worth thirty per cent not to tithe the congregation. Is that the kind of stuff you need to know?" “Yes, that's the kind of thing. Anything else? Think, it might not have made sense at the time, honey, but it might be important now." “Are you helping Dad and Gabe with the investigation, Morgan?’ Morgan cringed. She wasn't going to lie to the girl. She just hoped that Aimee would keep her secrets from her dad and Gabe. “Well, no, Aimee. I've promised not to approach Darien or his people, but I didn't promise not to allow them to approach me. Which is why I need to get involved at the church. I want to know who I can trust over there to feed information about me and my money to Darien." “You're going to be bait. Isn't that dangerous? Shouldn't you let Dad or somebody know what you're doing?" “I know what I'm doing, Aimee. Darien can't hurt me—I'll know he's going to do something before he ever does it. That's why I'm the only person who can do this. My psychic ability gives me the edge." Morgan watched as Aimee processed what she had just heard. Maybe she'd made a mistake taking the girl into her confidence. “Okay. You can trust the reverend to keep your secret and help you. Stay away from Felicity—Mrs. Brown—she'd tell Tim and Dad. You do know that sooner or later they'll find out, Morgan. What'll you do then?" Letting out a sigh of relief that she hadn't misplaced her confidence, Morgan hugged the girl close. “Whatever it takes to convince them that this is the only way to nail the bastard." CHAPTER SIXTEEN "The Chariot" Providence. For the umpteenth time, Morgan adjusted the neckline of the diaphanous top she wore. Maybe the combination of the lycra tank top, push-up bra, sheer over-blouse, and skintight leggings was a case of overkill, but she'd bet Grandma Smith's millions it would attract Darien's attention. She knew she looked good because Aimee, who had come over to vet the outfit, had stood there with her mouth hanging open for at least ten seconds before she squealed, “You look bitchin', Morgan!” Morgan hadn't known whether to be insulted or complimented. Stop stalling, Morgan. If you're gonna do this, get to it. The sooner you show yourself, the sooner the word gets back to our man Gabe, and the sooner we'll be in protective custody where we belong instead of here making ready to be murdered and raped by the devil himself. Gritting her teeth, Morgan walked into the chapel and found a seat in a front pew. No way he wouldn't see her sitting there in all her “bitchin'” glory. Looking down at her, Darien would get an expansive view of her chest and its enhanced cleavage, courtesy of the bra and some extra gel cushions that Aimee had

unearthed for her with the chagrined explanation of, “you have nice breasts, but they aren't man bait.” Morgan shuddered to think when Aimee had needed to use the gel implants herself. Well, that was Chief Byrd's problem, not hers. She'd have enough of her own before the next day or so was over. Smelling the distinctive scent of the rosemary blend of essences used last week, Morgan knew it wouldn't be much longer before the lights and music would change, announcing the arrival of Darien to the stage. Looking around, she saw the calming effect the aromatic oils were having on the people around her. If he kept to his previous pattern, the next round of aromatherapy would lessen the crowd's inhibitions—the henbane, hops and ylang ylang. Those alone couldn't explain the sedative effect of the mixture. Whatever he had in those canisters was the ingredient that did the most damage—it wasn't ether, that would overpower the other smells and was extremely volatile. It had to be some other anesthesia—colorless, odorless and more stable. She'd have to find one of those canisters—maybe after the service she could look around. As Aimee had predicted, the Reverend Porter, although upset about her desire for secrecy from the police, had been willing to cooperate in her scheme to con the con man. His first reaction was to ask Darien to leave, but Morgan managed to convince him that he would just go elsewhere and scam someone else. This way they had a chance of stopping him for good. The reverend agreed. Morgan didn't feel guilty at all about omitting the fact that Darien was a suspect in multiple murders. It was more than he needed to know right now. As the lights changed, Morgan jerked her attention to the front. The show was about to begin. Fanning herself with her program, she concentrated on looking sexy, enthralled and rich—a combination sure to attract the devil's attention. She needed to get into character, because at the intermission, the reverend would be dropping the bombshell that should guarantee Darien's request to meet her before the evening was over. **** Darien was psyched. The sex with Missy and the confrontation with the local yokel cops had given him a rush. He felt powerful. Money, power, and some good sex from time to time were all a man needed in this world. He'd found all of those things, and more, in this little backwater town. Darien knew when not to push his luck, though. He'd give it another week or so, put his plan to dump Jake into place, and then leave during the ensuing excitement. Maybe he would visit his bank accounts in the Cook Islands—that should be far enough away from the fallout. Ready, he signaled to Jake who turned on the fans, which blew the nitrous oxide combination out into the crowd. What little came back onto the stage didn't bother him anymore. He seemed to have built up a tolerance. What it did to the crowd was amazing—they were putty in his hands. Offerings went up one hundred percent when he began using the N.O. in combination with the hypnotic essential oils. Tonight, he would start the subliminal suggestions. By the end of the week, Porter and his Board of Elders would be begging him to take the church's building fund. Showtime. “Welcome my brothers and sisters. What a beautiful evening our Father has provided for us to come together and hear His words for your salvation. First, let us bow our heads and give thanks for his divine intervention in our lives." Darien closed his eyes and projected images of him receiving money from the church. He'd learned through trial and error that simple images projected the best. Later, in his sermon, he would show a film into which he'd spliced instantaneous images and phrases suggesting he be given money. Under the influence of the aerated essences, the congregation would be much more susceptible to the quick cuts.

Two to three more sermons like this one and he would be a half million dollars richer. Darien jerked. Something was wrong. It felt like he'd hit a stone wall. His projected thoughts were bouncing off this ephemeral barricade like raindrops. The sensation was so real that he actually visualized the thoughts puddled at the base of the stage. Opening his eyes, he scanned the room. Everything looked normal—heads bowed, eyes closed and lips mouthing silent prayers. All except for one woman in the front row. She was looking at him. Smiling. Darien felt his dick come to immediate attention. She was a wet dream come true—breasts threatening to overflow a tight tank top immodestly covered by a sheer blouse, long legs covered in sprayed on leggings, and a face that would make Helen of Troy give up without a fight. Her attitude was so blatantly sexual he had to stop himself from jumping her bones right then and there. Concentrating on her, he had lost his projection to the rest of the room. He heard the rustling of feet and increased volume of mumbling from the audience. Damn, he was losing them. Concentrate, dammit, you'll botch this up. He'd ask about her later. Then, realization hit him like a ten-ton truck. He couldn't read her at all. Nothing. Was she the wall he'd been hitting? Did she even realize what she was doing? Yes, he definitely would see about her later. **** Morgan smiled. She'd stopped his little projection game as soon as she'd sensed it. He may succeed in drugging her people, but his little mind plants weren't going to get past her. He'd have to get his money another way. From her. The gas he used in his aromatherapy cocktail was beginning to bother her. Her projection of the wall of energy had depleted her own ability to segregate the harmful gas. She needed some air, now. Pardoning herself to her pew mates, she got up, walked to the side of the chapel and opened the door. Ah, blessed fresh air. That helped. Propping the door open, she moved back to her seat smiling at her pew mates, she whispered, “The candles are overpowering tonight, wouldn't you say?" Several of them smiled at her and nodded. Satisfied that her action looked natural, she rearranged her body to show off her legs and cleavage from another angle. She knew she had affected him. The loss of control of his projections had been telling as well as the obvious physical reaction to her. Morgan smothered a laugh. This was child's play. She'd love to show Gabe how well she was controlling this charlatan, but didn't want to press her luck until she had Darien truly hooked. And the fisherman who would bait the hook was walking up the aisle now. **** “Messiah, may I have a moment to make an announcement before your video starts?" Darien wondered what was going on, but, if honest with himself, was not averse to letting the good reverend speak to the crowd for a bit. Darien knew he'd lost control for the last ten minutes. That woman had opened the door, and the night breeze had diluted, then dissipated, his fog of narcotics. “Brother Porter, please do. It will take my assistant, Brother Jacob, a few minutes to cue up the videotape." Reverend Porter climbed to the stage gesturing to the woman in the front row to come up also. Darien's senses went on red alert. He rearranged his cassock over his pants; he couldn't control his body's

response to her. He just might have to screw Nan senseless during the video to keep his erection from becoming obvious. He was supposed to be holy for God's sake. “Come up here, Morgan. You should be here to share the good news with your fellow townspeople.” The reverend held out his hand to the woman who seemed to glide onto the stage. “My friends. You all know Miss Morgan Tarrant, the lovely proprietress of The Curiosity Shoppe and a benefactress of the community. Well, this lovely lady came to me earlier today and would like to donate to the church the remainder of the money needed to build our new classrooms and fix our roof. She has asked only that we name the new wing, The Melissa James Wing, in honor of our dear daughter, Missy, who was so brutally murdered yesterday. Let's give a rousing Amen and Thank You to our benefactress, to our Father for sending her to us, and a prayer of peace for our dear Missy." As the crowd followed the reverend's exhortation, Darien, too, thanked God for dropping in his lap, this gift of money and beauty all rolled into one. He wouldn't wait for later this evening to get an introduction. He'd get the reverend to introduce him as soon as the video started; she wasn't getting out of here tonight without acknowledging his existence. His next gig might start earlier than he thought with this sweet little package. If she were married, he'd kill the bastard. Ms. Morgan Tarrant was his. **** Morgan knew what the devil was thinking. Damn, he was so easy to read. So, he wanted to hit on her, did he? Well, she'd make it easy on him. She'd head for the refreshment table and let the reverend be dragged to introduce her. But first, she would use this time to go check out the video—something was up with it. Whatever it was, she needed to pull its plug somehow. What good was getting close to the devil if she didn't foul up his evil plans? She wanted him so frustrated that he'd have to turn to her for his only chance to make a buck. Walking briskly to avoid being stopped by her friends and neighbors who wanted to thank her for her generosity, Morgan finally managed to make it to the audio-visual room. The door was closed, and she sensed someone was still in there. Probably, Jake. She'd go into the choir cloakroom and wait until he left. Leaving the door open a crack, she peered out into the dimly lit hallway. A woman and Darien approached the AV room. Morgan held her breath. There was no reason for them to look into this room, but she was prepared to hide if necessary. She wouldn't know how to explain her presence in this part of the church if she were found out. “Nan, get Jake and find this woman, Morgan. I need to meet her. She could be our ticket out of here." The woman called Nan wound one arm around Darien's neck pulling him down for a kiss while her other hand fondled his bulging crotch. Breaking the kiss, she whined, “This Morgan person. You don't like her better than ole Nan, do ya, Dare?" Sickened by the pathetic woman, Morgan watched as Darien shoved the woman away from him. “No, of course not, Nan, but she's very wealthy and we could use the money.” He patted Nan on the butt, “Now go on, get Jake and find her. If she's not here, find out where she lives. I need to know." Pouting, Nan said, “All right, lover. Just what does the rich bitch look like?" Morgan held her breath. His description of her would tell her if she had him hooked on more than just the money. Money alone was not going to do it. He also had to want her. She needed to get close to him to find evidence. If she had to, she'd sleep with the bastard to get the goods on him. Nothing was too great a sacrifice to avenge Missy and the others.

“Were you sleeping through my sermon again, Nan? She has long dark hair, light green eyes, fair complexion and an hourglass figure. She's wearing skin-tight black leggings, a tight tank top and a sheer black blouse. Now, go find her. I want her." Morgan let out the breath she was holding. She'd got him! Watching first Darien, then the other two leave the back hallway, Morgan sneaked out and entered the AV room. Making it look like a fraternity initiation prank was the best she could come up with as she picked up all the tapes lying out on the work area and stuffed them in the duffle bag she found lying next to the table. At the very last minute before she left the room, she popped out the tape that was running, hurried out of the AV area and ran to the back of the church. She shoved the bag into one of the children's cubbies in the nursery and walked sedately to the women's restroom where she reapplied her lip gloss and chatted with the reverend's wife for a few minutes. She volunteered to help with decorating for Missy's memorial service. Good, more excuses to hang around the church. Keep in Darien's path. Sticking with Mrs. Porter, she headed back to the vestibule where the refreshments had been set up. The news that the video had stopped and all the tapes were mysteriously missing had reached Darien who was standing next to the reverend and gesticulating with wide angry movements of his arms. Morgan smiled. Gotcha. She'd have an expert in Indianapolis look at those tapes. Something was very fishy if the loss of them caused this much anger in the bastard. Time to shake him up some more. Keeping him off balance was a very great part of her plan to trap him. “Reverend, Messiah, what's happened? I feel such anger in this room.” That's your cue, Reverend, don't screw it up. “Oh, Morgan, I see my wife found you. Ah, yes, something terrible has happened to spoil our lovely announcement and celebration of your generous donation." “What?” Morgan hoped she looked sufficiently shocked and concerned. Acting was not her strong point. “Someone has stolen all the Messiah's videotapes." “That's terrible. Maybe someone just moved them by mistake." “No, my dear girl, they took them clean away. Who would do such a thing? It can't be one of our own dear parishioners." “May I see where it happened, Reverend?" “Would you, my dear? I hate to ask you to do this. I know how modest you are about your gift. But, I'm sure the Messiah would love to know how to get his tapes back." “No, no problem Reverend Porter. Please show me where this happened. The auras might already be dissipating." Morgan chanced a glance at Darien as he encompassed the small crowd around her with a serene smile. Yes, he was very interested in her gift. She could sense his hunger for her money, body and this gift whatever it might be. He lusted after the total package. She'd decided early on to permit him to see some of her limited capabilities—picking up sensory emanations left by humans in rooms and on inanimate objects. She knew he would be attracted to that, but not threatened by it. Like attracting like.

With a large crowd following her, she entered the room and closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she could still sense Jake and his nervous energy in the room. “I sense more than one person has been here, and recently.” Touching the VCR, “One man ... him,” Morgan pointed to Jake, “handled this machine, but I sense two more men were here. Young. I feel laughter, joking ... pranks, maybe?” Removing her hands, Morgan turned and shrugged her shoulders, “I'm sorry. I can get nothing more concrete. They were probably teenagers doing something on a dare. Isn't this the time of year when the college fraternities send the pledges out to scavenge things for initiation?" “Yes, you must be right, Morgan. I'll report this to Chief Byrd right away. Young hooligans." “Don't worry about it, Reverend. They were just videotapes. At least they didn't take your equipment.” Morgan watched Darien mouth his platitudes as he eyed her like she was a treat created just for him. “Reverend, you haven't formally introduced me to your charming benefactress." “Oh my, how remiss of me. Messiah, this is Morgan Tarrant. Well, of course, you knew that already ... Uh, Morgan, this is the Messiah.” The Reverend Mr. Porter had missed his calling; he was playing his role superbly. She'd have to remember to compliment him on it later. Morgan looked at the hand Darien reached out to her and forced a smile on her face as she placed her hand in his for the introduction. “How do you do, Messiah? Is that your real name? Your mother named you ‘Messiah?’ How odd that she would know such a thing when you were just an infant." Darien's reaction was unexpected. He laughed and took her hand in both of his as he pulled her closer and leaned down to exclude the others from his response. “I've only recently come to my calling,” he whispered. “My mother named me ‘Darien,’ and I would be greatly honored if you would call me by my patrimonial name.” Then, he kissed the tips of her fingers. Retrieving her hand and controlling a shudder of revulsion, Morgan took a step back and, lowering her voice to match his, answered, “I would be honored, Darien." **** Felicity Brown observed the tête-à-tête between Morgan and the Messiah and was disturbed by it and by what was going on in her church this evening. She'd never trusted the Messiah fellow before, and agreed with her husband the guy was a con man. But, she really hadn't been too concerned prior to this evening, because she knew that the reverend and the church elders would never in a million years give up money to this guy. She'd see to that. Reverend Porter was thrilled the offerings had gone up geometrically since the guy came to preach. People came from all around the county to hear him predicting the end of the world and finding salvation in the Lord; it was like a sideshow in a circus. As long as the man didn't break any laws, Reverend Porter said, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. So, she had kept her mouth shut and banked the money, giving the Messiah the thirty per cent he and the reverend had negotiated. All around it had been a profitable week and a half. But tonight, something was wrong. The reverend wasn't acting like himself, and Morgan Tarrant had never stepped a foot in this church before last Saturday. What was going on? Felicity shook her head. She didn't understand any of it, and she was too tired for some reason to try to make sense of it tonight. She'd tell Tim tomorrow when he came home off night shift and see what he thought about it all. Tim would know what to do. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN "The Empress"

Feelings; emotions. Felicity Brown didn't get to speak with her husband until late the next morning. The clear light of day and a good night's sleep had convinced her Tim needed to hear what was going on. Although Tim hadn't shared too much about the bodies found in the lake, Felicity had gathered that the Messiah and his aides had been questioned about Missy James’ death. It was just too weird that all these things started happening after the Messiah came to town. It was probably nothing, but she couldn't seem to get rid of the image of the Messiah kissing Morgan's fingers while he sported one of the largest hard-ons she'd ever seen. Felicity nudged her sleeping husband awake. “Timmy, wake up, hon." “Felicity, I'm too tired. We can make love later." Smacking him on the rump, Felicity giggled. “No, silly, I need to tell you something." “Can't it wait." “No, it can't. Open your eyes, Timothy Brown, this instant!" Tim groaned, turned over and braced himself on his elbows. “Okay, you've got me up. This had better be earth shatteringly important or you'll be paying for it on your back for the next week.” Tim grinned as he reached out to fondle her. Slapping his hand away, she laughed. “Be serious. You'll get your loving anyway and you know it.” Wiping the smile from her face, Felicity continued, “Last night at the church, Morgan Tarrant was there to donate money for the building fund. That Messiah creep got the reverend to introduce him to Morgan. Tim, he grabbed her hands, pulled her close, whispered something to her and then..." “Jesus H. Christ, Gabe is going to shit a brick over this ... and after he warned her, too. Sorry, sweetie, what did the bastard do then?" Felicity knew now that she'd done the correct thing in telling Tim. His reaction said her cop's smell detector was still pretty accurate even after being off the force for a few years. “Then, he kissed her fingers. Timmy, he had the largest bulge in his pants—I could see it poking out from under his cassock. Is Morgan in any danger from this guy?" Felicity watched as her rangy husband uncoiled himself from the bed and started pulling on the uniform he'd dropped on a chair. “Yep, could be, but she definitely is in more danger from Gabe. He warned her off this case, and he ain't gonna be happy about this at all." Felicity decided she'd help the guys out on Morgan's whereabouts. She yelled after Tim, “Baby, tell Gabe she'll be at the church decorating for Missy's memorial around noon." “Will do." Felicity hurried to change her clothes. She needed to get over to the church. She wanted to be in position for the fireworks. **** Being a femme fatale ain't what it was cut out to be, Morgan thought, as she pulled up the strap to her tank top and tugged down the hem of her abbreviated shorts. How did all those Hollywood starlets do it, super glue their clothes to their bodies? Besides that, with so little fabric, you'd think she'd be comfortable, but she wasn't. She gave a fond thought to her loose overalls and men's size T-shirt tops

back in her closet. Aimee had brought over a bunch of clothes she'd guaranteed to be man bait. Morgan thought she just might have created a female clothes tyrant in Aimee. Well, Morgan, you do have to admit you dress like a Quaker most days. After the devil is gone, maybe, you can find a happy medium between slut and plain. He was here in the chapel, and he was looking at her. Images of him touching her reached her telepathically. The lech was undressing her in his mind. She blocked the thoughts easily. She wouldn't be able to face him knowing what he was thinking. She'd either throw up or hit him—maybe both. “Good morning—or is it afternoon now—Morgan?" Morgan pasted on a smile and turned to meet her nemesis. Last night had been a skirmish, today was the beginning of a long drawn out battle, no, siege, a siege which would end in the complete destruction of the creature in front of her. That thought, and that thought alone, enabled Morgan to laugh and respond lightly to his question. “I believe, Messiah, that it's past noon even here in the land of non-daylight savings time." “Darien, my dear. I asked you to call me, Darien.” Morgan smiled at him and said, “Oh, yes, I forgot. Darien, then. Are you going to attend Missy's memorial service?” “Why, yes, I believe I will, my dear. Maybe I can say a few words. She was at the Youth Camp several weeks ago where I made a special appearance to preach about the young people's responsibilities in this new Millenium. The future lies in our young people.” Darien smiled in a smarmy way as he gestured to the teens working on flower arrangements near the pulpit. You hypocrite. You duplicitous bastard. You fucking son-of-a-bitch. Morgan felt sick just listening to the bilge the devil was spouting. Morgan, get control of yourself. “Ah, Messiah. Could you come over here please? I would like to speak with you about last night's offerings.” Morgan saw Tim Brown's wife, Felicity, calling to Darien from the vestibule. Morgan mouthed a silent “thank you” for the divine intervention. She needed to regain her composure, her focus. Maybe she couldn't do this. Maybe she should allow Gabe and the others to pursue the investigation in their usual way. Hating herself for her weakness, Morgan turned to the flowers she was arranging and got back to work. She'd give it another try ... later. She wasn't a quitter and knew he'd be back. Even with blocking her psychic receptors, she knew he wanted her. Just call her man bait. **** Gabe hadn't stopped steaming since Tim got him out of bed. Three hours of sleep and he was dead on his feet. The only thing keeping him going now was adrenalin. He knew Tim had done the right thing by inviting himself along. He couldn't believe Morgan had deliberately gone ahead and interfered with the police investigation less than eight hours after she had promised not to. His reaction to the news had been so violent he'd had to promise Tim he wouldn't strangle her, before Tim would let him out of his cabin. Gabe pulled into the church lot on two wheels. The car hadn't even stopped jerking before he was out of it and at the church door.

“Hey, Gabe. Wait up now, you hear? Do I need to call the chief?" Gabe stopped and turned to look at his deputy struggling to keep up, “Now, why in the hell would you want to call the chief, Tim?" “Well, uh, you don't seem to be in a good frame of mind right now and I think maybe the chief should deal with this, uh, sir.” Gabe watched as Tim turned red and couldn't look him in the eye. “Tim, I won't hurt her. I couldn't hurt a hair on her head—tan her little fanny maybe, but I promise I won't hurt her. But, she lied to me, Tim and I can't let that pass. Plus, she needs a keeper thinking she can match wits with a murderer.” Gabe growled, as he wrenched open the heavy door like it was plywood instead of solid oak. Entering the church, he moved toward the chapel where he knew the memorial service for Missy James was to be held later that day. Scanning the room, he didn't see her at first. Then, doing a doubletake, he noticed a dark haired woman on a ladder wearing a sheer top and the shortest shorts he'd ever seen. Jesus, any shorter and her ass cheeks would be hanging out. It was Morgan! What on earth was she thinking dressing like she was some two-bit, white trash whore? Striding over, Gabe reached up, put his hands around her waist and bodily lifted her off the ladder. Not taking the time to explain his actions, he tucked her under his arm and carried the struggling, screaming woman out the side door to a gazebo in the rectory garden and plopped her onto a bench. “Just what in the hell do you think you're doing dressed like that? No, don't say a word. I heard what you did last night. You deliberately went against your word and sought out that murdering bastard after you promised me you wouldn't. What's worse, you let the bastard touch you!” Gabe roared as he stood over a pale Morgan. So involved in his rant at Morgan, Gabe didn't hear Tim come up behind him. “Uh, Gabe? Morgan? Everything okay here?" Gabe snarled over his shoulder, “Go away, Tim. I'm not going to touch her. Just yell a lot. If I touched her again, I might just put her little Daisy Dukes-covered butt over my lap and beat on it." Morgan gasped and color crept into her face. Good, she wasn't too cowed. She's getting mad. That's okay; he wasn't done yet and he'd rather have his gal give him tit for tat than sit there like some whipped puppy. But, he would have the last word, if he had to ship her off to Michigan to his Granny for safe keeping until this was all over. “You have no right to manhandle me that way, you ape.” Morgan huffed as she sat up and pulled down the shorts a millimeter calling Gabe's attention to the long expanse of skin they exposed. Great legs, wonder what they would feel like around him? “Stop looking at my legs that way. Plus, I didn't break my promise to you." “Now, just how in the hell can you justify saying that when Felicity Brown saw you talking with the asshole last night—you let him kiss your hand, dammit. Whisper in your ear! And, if I want to look at your damn legs, I damn well will. Especially, since you are wearing next to nothing—trotting them out for every Tom, Dick and Harry to see like some table dancer at The Men's Club." “You're jealous!" Gabe gritted his teeth. “No, I'm mad. First, you broke your promise to me less than eight hours after you made it, then I find you here dressed like some professional, hooking her wares to trap a murdering

rapist. I'd say I'm more than mad. I'm livid." Instead of spitting at him like he expected her to—well hell, he'd just out and out called her a whore— Morgan calmly shook her head at him. “No, it's more than that, but now is not the time nor place for this. We've got a killer to entrap and get evidence on, and like it or not I'm your best bet. And, for the record, he approached me, I didn't approach him—so I didn't break my promise." Gabe swore under his breath. “Splitting hairs on me, Morgan? You knew what I meant last night. I want you away from him. He's a killer, and he just might be able to read you like you read him. I won't let you endanger yourself." “Yes, you will. You can't stop me, Gabe. I've been taking care of myself for a long time without anybody's help. So, you might as well work with me. So far, he isn't anything I can't handle. I actually stopped his thought projections last night.” Gabe watched as a light came into Morgan's eyes—a look he was familiar with since he used to see it in the eyes of his fellow SEALs during the midst of a battle. “I also got some of his videos he uses to show the natural disasters which he says are warning signs for the coming of the Apocalypse. We need to get them looked at—I think he uses quick cuts to plant subliminal suggestions in the minds of those he's conning. If nothing else, we can get him for fraud and throw him in jail until we can get more on him. You see, I can help." Gabe looked down at the woman he'd fallen in love with at first sight. She looked so earnest, so committed in her desire to help. He couldn't say no. He knew he should, but he really didn't want to see her eyes lose that light, revert back to the empty look they'd had when she held Missy in her arms. He also wanted to keep her near, keep her safe. It appealed to his male ego to be the one to keep her safe. If she'd let him. “You're moving in with me." “Are you nuts?” Morgan looked up at the large and overly confident male standing before her. She just wanted to slap that smirk off his face. Thinking he could dictate to her. I think it's a neato idea, Morgan. Let's do it. I'd sure feel a lot safer with that big masculine presence around at night. Darien gives me the willies when he touches you. “If you don't move in with me, then I'll have the chief take you into protective custody." “You wouldn't.” Morgan took one look at Gabe's resolute expression and concluded. “Oh, damn, you would!" “Yep. In a nanosecond, darlin'.” “How am I going to get close to the guy, if you're hanging around all the time?" “Well, let's put it this way, darling. You can do all the daylight evidence-seeking you want, as long as you keep other people around you. At night, he's off limits, even if I have to chain you to the bed.” Gabe smiled as he reached down and pulled her to him. “It's my way or my way. It's not negotiable, Morgan." Morgan opened her lips to protest as Gabe took them in a devastating kiss. She'd never been kissed in such an all-consuming way. Whoa, what was happening to her? Her mind was filled with images, lights and colors, which added to her pleasure in the kiss. The images were coming from Gabe. But, then again, they weren't. Some of them felt like hers. Weird. This was a first.

For Morgan, kissing had always been fraught with competing distractions—so much so she'd never let a guy get beyond that point because all she'd ever felt was his feelings and nothing of her own. God knows, sex was a scary thought if she'd have to experience it totally from the male point of view. With Gabe, kissing alone was an orgasmic experience. And, if she didn't stop him soon, he'd have her moaning on the floor, begging him to take her right there in the rectory garden in full view of anyone happening to look out of the church. For all she knew, Tim was still standing there watching them. Pushing on Gabe's chest, she struggled to break the kiss. “Gabe, please. You've got to stop. Now!” Morgan hoped she didn't sound as frantic as she felt. “Wow! Tell me you felt that ... whatever it was.” Gabe's eyes glowed as he breathed raggedly. “Felt what? It was just a kiss." Yeah right, Morgan. Pull on the other leg. Morgan watched a different gleam enter Gabe's eyes, when he reached to pull her back into his arms, for what she knew would be the kiss that would take her to her knees, begging for him to enter her right then and there in front of God and all creation. Putting up her hand, she waved him back. “Okay, okay. It was more than just a kiss. I can't handle this right now, please Gabe." Gabe nodded . “Okay, later, at my place. We'll talk about it. I'll get my shift changed to the middle shift and then I'm going home to catch the rest of my interrupted sleep. You be at the station at eleven o'clock this evening with a suitcase and whatever else you need. Don't make me come get you, Morgan. You don't want to see me when I'm really mad, honey. Trust me on that.” Gabe dropped a quick kiss on Morgan's lips, which, brief as it was, sent a thrill down to the moist center of her being. Damn, he must be the one. Why now when she needed to concentrate on catching a killer? Don't look a gift man in the mouth, Morgan. I like him a lot. I'm still sweating—we were within inches of our first up close and personal meeting with the big “O.” Next time, do us both a favor and don't stop him. Okay? Morgan, tugging her damn Daisy Dukes down another millimeter swore at the unforeseen, but definitely intriguing, direction her life had just taken. She'd handle it; she'd handle it all. Planning her next moves carefully, she thought she just might be able to use this move into Gabe's as another lure for Darien. She knew he was already hooked. Her being just out of reach would make her all the more desirable. After all, what man didn't like a challenge? With another male in the picture, Darien just might be forced to make a move sooner. Then, she'd have him. **** Darien withdrew into the shadows of a large sycamore as the cop, Walsh, moved past him. He wasn't happy with the scene he'd just witnessed. The cop could be an impediment to his plans for Morgan. He needed to find out just how involved she was with the guy. She'd been the one to break it off, and it looked like Walsh had been lecturing her. If he were bothering her, Darien would handle him. Morgan was his, and he wouldn't let any man, especially some small town hick cop, keep him from her. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "The Lovers" Problems will be overcome. Morgan struggled to control her emotions. Missy's memorial service had pierced the icy shield she'd

placed around her heart on the night she held the girl's dying body. When Aimee had stood up to memorialize her friend with remembrances of the good times—and the times they got themselves into trouble—Morgan had lost it. Throughout the remainder of the thankfully brief service, Morgan cried into the tissues Chief Byrd silently supplied from the pack he, too, dipped into frequently. “You going to be okay, Morgan?” The chief growled, with nary a trace of the tears Morgan saw in his eyes evident in his voice. She only heard compassion and felt the impatience to get back to his work, finding the evidence to nail the murderer of his daughter's beloved friend. Sniffing, Morgan turned to the chief and smiled. “Go on, get out of here, Chief. Go do your thing and let me do mine. Even Gabe can't get mad if I poke around the church with the reverend and others here. I might find something to indicate what gas Darien uses." The chief started to leave, then hesitated. “Gabe's worried about you Morgan. So am I. I'd sure hate to see you in the clutches of the animal who could do what he did to that woman and poor Missy. I understand you need to do this, but just promise me, you'll do what Gabe says." Morgan stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss and a hug. “Thanks, Chief. I promise. Gabe's got me on a short leash, said he'd have you throw me in jail for protective custody." The chief laughed. “Yep, and I would, too. You listen to old Gabe. Stick with him. He's ex-Navy SEAL and they don't come any better than that Morgan. He'll keep you safe and get Darien and his pal, Jake, to boot." Morgan wandered around the chapel for a few minutes looking at the numerous flower arrangements, reading the cards, and studying the posters covered with pictures of Missy and her friends from the time they all were in diapers through high school graduation last spring. Morgan smiled and outright laughed at some of the antics caught by the camera. What a perfectly lovely way to share Missy's life with those who had come to the service. Heading for the back of the church and the room where she had stashed the duffel bag with the tapes, Morgan thanked God that Darien and his crew had not attended the service. Morgan might have been sick to her stomach if they had. Stooping down, she pulled the duffel from its hiding place. She wanted to put it in her truck so she could give it to Gabe tonight when she went by the station. The tapes, if nothing else, were evidence of fraud. The plastic surfaces were also harder and the fingerprints might be clearer than the ones the men already had. Every little bit would help. After securing the bag in the trunk, Morgan made her way to the church's service entrance near the kitchen and meeting rooms. It was here where she would start her search for residue or remains of the essences used at the revivals. She'd brought some of her containers from the shop to place any ash or tallow she could scrounge up from the trash and the candleholders stored in the utility area. Finding the trash bags from the night before still in the service area, Morgan pulled on some rubber gloves and started digging. Tim or someone from the chief's office could have done this, but she felt it would be too noticeable if the police did it. Her cover was more plausible. If anybody asked her what she was doing, she was going to say she'd lost an earring. No one could dispute it. She was so busy digging into the bags Morgan didn't hear, or sense, the approach of the blonde woman she'd heard Jake call Nan. “Whatcha doing digging around in the garbage for?"

Morgan, startled by the blonde's question, dropped the bag she was working on and managed to stifle the shriek threatening to erupt. “Oh, my goodness, you startled me ... uh, Nan, isn't it?" The blonde narrowed her eyes and asked, her voice pitched somewhere between a whine and a squeak, “Yeah, how do you know my name? We ain't ever been introduced." Morgan smiled at the suspicion she felt in Nan. Nan thought Darien had discussed her with Morgan. She's jealous and fearful. Good, let her think I've been talking about her with Darien. Maybe she'll slip up and say something about the illegal activities she'd seen. “I must have heard it around. Well, I need to get back to this. I have three more bags to check." Distracted easily, Nan asked again. “What're you looking for?" “An earring I lost last night. I think it might have been swept up and into the garbage." “What was that bag you put into your trunk? It looked familiar." Morgan stiffened. Think, Morgan, think. “It was my gym bag. I'm going to work out later, and I'd left it in the reverend's office yesterday. You have a problem with that?” Not giving Nan a chance to answer, Morgan counterattacked, “Are you spying on me? Why all the interest in what I'm doing? As if it's any of your business." Nan clenched her fists and hissed. “It's my business, ‘cause you're making up to my man." “Darien? Darien's your man? He never said anything to me about it.” A squeal reminiscent of a stuck pig came from the little blonde who moved with her fists raised toward Morgan. “He's my man, bitch. And, if you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from him. You hear me? You wouldn't want to end up like Bren or that Missy chick, now would ya?" Morgan dropped the bag she was holding, reached out and grabbed Nan by the shirt. Avoiding the woman's flailing fists, Morgan shook her, “Who's Bren, Nan? Is she the dead woman the police found in the lake the night Missy died? And, what do you know about Missy's death?" At Morgan's questions, the fire went out of Nan. Nan knew something about both women's deaths, but it seemed she was conditioned not to respond to direct questions. Only when she got emotional did the truth slip out. Morgan would tell Gabe that. She would also tell him that the dead woman now had a name. Bren. “Leave me be. I don't know nothing about no women dying. I'm tired now; I'm going home. Good-bye." Morgan couldn't believe the abrupt change in Nan—one minute she had been almost feral in the need to attack Morgan, and in the next, she was meek and pathetic. What had Darien done to her? Something we don't want to find out. Remember that, okay? Personally, I think her advice about staying away from her man was good. Why don't we take it? Morgan turned back to the garbage more determined than ever to see this through. Scum like Darien shouldn't be allowed to continue to abuse and kill women. Yeah, Morgan, remember that the next time you're alone with the guy; abused; dead. ****

Jake followed Nan from the church, all the way back to the Cozy Nest. After he was sure she was going to lie down for a nap, he went in search of Darien. He found him in the kitchen mixing up some of the essences he used during the revivals and in Nan's room to keep her tranquil—or doped was more like it. “Uh, Dare. You need to know something." “What is it Jake? Just what is so damn urgent that you interrupt me while I'm doing something important?” Jake heard the irritation in Dare's voice and cringed. Didn't some Greek guy say something about killing the messenger? Jake wasn't sure about that, but he knew for a fact Dare would blame him for Nan's big mouth. It wasn't fair. “I saw Nan talking to the Morgan woman. You know, the real looker at the church with all the money." “Did you hear what Nan told her?” Jake froze. Dare's eyes had narrowed and were now focused on him rather than the oils. It was going to be worse than he thought. “Speak up, Jake. Don't make me come over there and shake it out of you." “Uh, no, I wasn't close enough, Dare.” Jake backed away as Darien came after him. Holding his hand up to ward off the blows he feared would come, Jake rushed on, “And Nan went after the woman with her fists I thought I might have to break up a cat fight, but that Morgan woman stopped her and shook Nan like a rat.” Putting the table between him and Darien, Jake finished his telling. “Then, Nan just stopped, like the air had gone out of her. I followed her here, and she's upstairs sleeping now." Jake watched, as Darien threw down the gloves he had been wearing and turned to head for the back stairs. “Where ya going, Dare?” Dumb question, even for him. “Whatcha gonna do to Nan, Dare? Ya, can't kill her. It would be too suspicious like so close to Bren and that Missy, dontcha think?" Darien stopped. Turning back around, he smiled an awful smile. “For once, you are making some sense, Jake. You're right, of course. I guess you're going to have to stick to Nan like glue, my friend. See that she doesn't bother Morgan again. Make sure she doesn't say anything to the police, either, if they come back." Jake nodded his head. He understood about the police and the need for keeping Nan away from them. But, he wasn't quite sure where this Morgan fit into Dare's plans. “What are you going to do with this Morgan, Dare?" “That's my business, Jake. You just mind Nan and leave Morgan to me." **** Darien frowned as he changed his clothes. He would go over to Morgan's shop and see what the altercation with Nan had been about. Apologize for the unbalanced woman's actions, words. Do whatever he needed to repair any damage she might have caused. Morgan was his chance for a cushy life with a damn good-looking woman at his side. Nan was a big problem. He needed to put his plans in motion to rid himself of Nan and Jake. Nothing must interfere with his pursuit of Morgan and her money. **** The chief stood over Gabe's desk waiting for his detective to finish the phone call to the FBI in Indianapolis. They had decided to call the Feds in because of the likelihood that there might be a pattern of killing, which could then be traced to known places where Darien and his little band of crooks had visited. With no immediate evidence to link the two deaths with Darien, other than Morgan's unusual knowledge, the three men were grasping at whatever straws they could reach.

Gabe hung up the phone and pushed away from the desk. “Well, they're sending someone down tomorrow to look at what we have. This guy, Ned Browning, has had profiling training at Quantico. He's going to put together a psychological profile of our murderer and see if it matches up with anything else the FBI has seen." “What about NCIC?” The chief asked. “Did they have any outstandings on anyone resembling our suspects?" “No. Nothing.” The chief heard the disgust and dejection in Gabe's voice. “Well, I truly believe, Gabe, that we're gonna get this guy. He's been lucky too long." “Yeah, I only hope we do it before he or his pal kills again,” Gabe sighed. Gabe got up and walked him to the door. “Aren't you leaving, Gabe?" “No, I told Morgan to meet me here. I'm making her go home with me, for her own good." The chief stopped in mid-motion of putting his hat on and started laughing. “For her good or yours, boy?" “For hers, of course. What are you suggesting, Chief?” The chief had to work hard at controlling another peal of laughter. The scowl on Gabe's face indicated his detective wasn't too happy at being pinned down about his intentions “Nothing. Just would be a shame though if you was just playing with the girl. A nice lady like that. You hear me?” “I hear you, boss, and for your information, I'm not playing. I'm dead serious about her." The chief smiled and said, “Good, glad to hear it. I like my men to be settled down. I've become right fond of the lady and would take it as a personal affront if she were to be hurt even if you are my right hand man. Night, Gabe." “Night, Chief.” The chief smiled. He knew Gabe was a good man, but one can't ever be too sure. He felt better for verifying Gabe's intentions. Morgan would be okay. Gabe would protect his own, and Lord help the man who tried to take her away from him. **** Morgan whispered nonsense words to sooth Smoke. The cat hated the carrier in which it now reposed. The screeching drowned out all her calming attempts. Negotiating the turn into the police department parking lot, Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. At least, Smoke would stop yowling for a time, until they started toward Gabe's. Hope he didn't live too far out of town. Gabe was watching for her and came out to meet her. Leaning in her window, he asked, “Do you want to drive or do you want me to?" Startled that she had a choice in the matter, Morgan sat silent. “Morgan, if you drive me, you'll have to bring me in to work in the morning. I'll be leaving my car here. Do you want to do that?" Throwing him a suspicious look, Morgan asked, “Why can't we both drive?"

“Because,” Gabe said as he got into her car, the decision obviously having been taken from her, “I don't want you out in the middle of nowhere alone. You don't know where I live and you could get lost, drive off the side of a hill, all sorts of things." “Oh.” That made sense. What did you think he was trying to do? Make you a prisoner? We could only hope. With Gabe directing her, she saw why he'd worried about her getting lost. He lived in the boonies in a cabin clinging to the side of a very steep hill. At night, it looked scary, but she was sure he had a breathtaking view during the day. Looking over at her quiet companion, who hadn't said a word other than to give directions, she said, “Your property is beautiful—what I can see of it." “Yes, it is. Lots different than an apartment in Detroit. I wanted this place as soon as I saw it. It's clean, wild, sane." Morgan nodded. “I imagine so. I've never been to Detroit, but having lived in New York, I can see how you'd want this place. I felt the same way when Smoke and I came here four years ago. It was like a renaissance, a shedding of the past life." “Exactly. Let's get inside before the late season mosquitoes make a meal of us. That's the only bad thing about being in the middle of a woods and near a lake—insects." Morgan agreed as she slapped at her arm. By this time, Smoke, who had fallen asleep, exhausted from all his protestations on the way to the station, started making noises to be let free. “Hope you don't mind me bringing Smoke along. He's kind of old, set in his ways, and wouldn't have been happy at my place alone." “No. Anything of yours is welcome, Morgan. I told you that." “Yeah. I guess you did.” Morgan locked the car and started to follow Gabe to the house when she remembered the duffel in the trunk. “Wait a minute. I've got something to show you." Gabe stopped and came back to Morgan as she opened the trunk of her car. “What is it?" “It's that bag full of tapes. I thought you might get better prints off them. By the way, something strange happened after the memorial service. That Nan came up to me while I was going through last night's garbage..." “You were going through garbage? What on earth for?” Morgan laughed at the blank look Gabe was giving her. “I wanted to see if I could find and analyze some of the residue from the essences and candles Darien used. Couldn't find any though." Gabe shook his head. “You just couldn't resist, could you? Okay, so this Nan came up to you. Go on.” Gabe took the bag from Morgan and assisted her over the rough ground. Morgan carried Smoke's carrier. “She warned me away from Darien. She was crazed, Gabe. Jealous of me. She even started to attack me. Said I'd end up like Missy or Bren.” Morgan heard Gabe's intake of breath and hurried on, “No,

don't worry. I'm way bigger than her and handled it okay. But, when I confronted her about her knowledge of the two deaths, she deflated like a punctured balloon. Complained of being tired and just left. Strange. I think Darien either drugs her or maybe has planted subliminal instructions on how to respond when asked direct questions." Gabe opened his door and turned on the main room's lights. Ushering Morgan inside, he didn't respond to her revelations immediately. Something was out there. In the dark, watching them. He'd had an itchy feeling since the end of his road. Leaning over to Morgan, he placed his lips against her ear and whispered, “There's something out there. Can you sense it? Is it human?" Gabe felt Morgan jerk and then shiver. He pulled her into the shelter of his body and shut the door. Flipping off the lights, he moved them away from the windows. Gabe sat Morgan down and asked the question again. “What do you sense, Morgan?" She shushed him by placing her finger to his lips. Pulling her closer, he watched as she concentrated. Her eyes dilated to twice their normal size; her breathing slowed to the point where he felt the need to check to see if she were breathing. Tentatively, he reached out to touch her hand as it lay limply in her lap. She was warm. He took her pulse; it was forty beats a minute. Seconds later, it was increasing, rapidly. What was happening to her? “Morgan, honey, are you okay? What's wrong? Your pulse went from almost dead stop to racing in a split second." “What do you think is wrong? I'm psyching this guy out and you bring me out of my psi state abruptly.” Gabe was chagrined. Of course, that was it. It wouldn't be like she was excited by his touch, would it? He'd have to experiment with that again. If her pulse jumped each time he touched her, well, she'd have to find another explanation—like maybe she liked him a lot. One could always hope. “It's him. He's out there. He must have followed us, but I can't imagine how unless he's part bloodhound, too." Gabe swore and reached for his gun. “I'm going to get me a wild animal. You stay here and lock the door." Morgan grabbed at his shirt as he headed for the door. “No, wait a minute. You don't know where he is. He has the advantage; he can see you. He knows you're coming from the house. Plus, I think he might have some receptive abilities. No, don't look at me like that. Not much—not like mine, but enough to sense your anger." “Lock the door, Morgan. Don't open it for anyone. I have my key. I've got great night vision and have tracked on darker nights than this. I'll be back.” Gabe reached down pulled Morgan to him for a quick, hard kiss and a pat on the rump. And he was gone. **** Stunned by the change in Gabe and that kiss, Morgan jumped when she heard his sharp order through the door. “Lock the door, Morgan." Morgan fumbled with the lock and stumbled over Smoke's carrier as she turned to find her way back to the overstuffed chair by the fireplace. Pulling Smoke out of his portable prison, she put him on her lap and started petting him, calming both herself and the frazzled cat. “Well, Smoke, I do believe we've found ourselves a real man. Did you see the look on his face? Scary. I

always thought that stuff about SEALs was Navy propaganda, but I'm a believer now.” Morgan shuddered. “I sure hope he never looks at either of us that way." Smoke purred his response, butted his head against her nonmoving hand and settled in for a good snooze as she started to pet him again. Concentrating on an alternate reality, Morgan had lost track of time when she felt the air move around her in the pitch-black room. “Gabe?” Was that her voice? It sounded so small, so frightened. She couldn't sense him. She didn't sense anything. How could that be? Then, she felt it, the emotions, frustration that Darien got away, anger that the man had dared to follow them here, and the overwhelming relief that she was safe where he'd left her. “He got away, didn't he?" Gabe's voice came from somewhere to the left of her. He'd come in another door at the back of the house. “Yeah. The bastard. I think you were right. He must have sensed me. I almost had him and then nothing. He's good in the woods. May be ex-military by the way he positioned himself. I'll make mention of that to the Fed coming tomorrow." Morgan blinked and shut her eyes as Gabe turned on a lamp near the sofa. After the absolute darkness, any light was too bright. Gabe moved between her and the light as if he knew it bothered her. “Sorry. Should have warned you to close your eyes. Especially with how dilated yours get when you use your power." “You noticed that?” Morgan was incredulous. “Yeah. I notice a lot of things about you, darlin'. In case you hadn't figured it out yet, I'm crazy about you.” Gabe leaned over and placed the second kiss of the evening on her lips. “However, I'm not going to rush you or anything. Gonna be patient. You'll learn to love me. I can wait till you're ready." Morgan, answer the man. Tell him, we're nuts about him, too. Tell him, we're ready. Go on. If you let this one get away, I'll start singing every Gilbert and Sullivan operetta I know—ad infinitum. That's a promise. “Ah, Gabe, I don't know what to say. This is so sudden. I didn't even know you last week. I...” Well, you're what, Morgan. Chicken? Stupid? Try all of the above and add scared to boot. Morgan didn't have to complete her sentence. Gabe bailed her out. “Don't worry about it now, Morgan. I know I'm rushing things, but I just wanted you to know. Once we get this situation settled, then you can put Missy's death and all of this behind you—deal with the aftermath—then we can go from there. Just give me a chance, okay?" Morgan, speechless, nodded. **** Darien fumed. He wanted to kill someone. He needed to get himself under control before he got back to the Cozy Nest. It was too soon to kill Nan and set up Jake. He really wanted to kill that Walsh. Touching Morgan like that. She was his, not that cop's. Well, the cop may just have to have a little accident. Living like he did in the wild, he could meet up with one at any time. It was a fact. Accidents happened every day. ****

Morgan felt Smoke snuggle against her in the strange bed. She felt Gabe's strong aura from the next room. No, wait a minute, he was with her in the dream. He called to her from the center of the maze. Was he in trouble? Morgan moved into the Dream State and found herself in a new section of the maze, closer to the middle than before. Was she making progress? Where was the old man when she needed him? “Behind you, Morgan." “Am I on the correct path, wise old man?" “Yes, my child, you are, but there are still dangers ahead. You have yet to ride the lion. When you do, the treasure shall be yours as promised." “Can you be a little bit more explicit, please? How do I ride the lion?" “You will know when the time comes, which will be soon, but you must first travel to a city of sin. There the lion will be less vigilant." “City of sin? Less vigilant? I'm confused; please help me to understand what I need to do to ride the lion." "All will become clear. Have some patience. Trust your instinct. Now, rest my child. You need your strength. Never lose sight of the treasure. It shall be your reward and your salvation." CHAPTER NINETEEN "Judgment" Potential; opportunity. Morgan awoke to Smoke purring in her ear and the dappling of the sunshine through the trees outside the bedroom window. Birds that hadn't started their autumnal migration south called to one another as she lay in a semi-sleep state. She heard Gabe rustling about in the next room, and smiled. She felt at home here. Smoke seemed to like it, also. He sat on the edge of the bed happily turning his attention first to the flickering patterns of light and shadow on the bedspread and then to the birds flitting about in the trees. Cat heaven on earth. She swung her legs out of bed, stretched, then got up and went into the guestroom's attached bath to get ready for the day. She needed to drive Gabe to work and get to her shop. If she tried, she could fool herself that it was the beginning of just another day, but she knew, in her gut, Darien would seek her out today. He hadn't been happy last night and would want to know about Gabe. She hoped her acting skills would hold up. Today was the day she needed to reel him in a bit. She didn't want him to get off her hook. “Morgan?” Gabe's voice came from the other side of the door. “What do you eat for breakfast? I'm cooking." A happy laugh escaped Morgan. If she could freeze this moment, she would. A wonderful man just offered to make her breakfast; last night, he'd out and out told her he wanted her in his life, but was sensitive enough to wait until she was sure. What more could a woman want in this world? He was brave, strong, fearless, patient, sexy as hell. And, he could cook. Like I said, Morgan, if you screw this up. I'll make your life miserable.

Morgan called out, “Whatever you're having is fine. Surprise me." Gabe laughed. “Okay, ‘possum fritters, it is. An old family recipe." Morgan giggled as she stepped into the shower. Her man had a sense of the ridiculous, too. **** Gabe whistled as he made the only thing that he knew how to cook—a breakfast scramble with eggs, veggies and cheese. Toast was made and in the warmer. It was nice to have a woman in the cabin. He sniffed the air and could smell her perfume all the way in the kitchen. Dropping a piece of cheese on the floor for Smoke, who had been twining himself between Gabe's legs for the last five minutes, Gabe decided he would ask her to live with him, on whatever conditions she wanted, permanently. She fit his cabin; she fit him. Heck, even her cat liked him. Smoke, licking his lips, purred, allowed himself to be petted, and strolled off to find a resting spot on the duffel bag Morgan had taken from Darien. Damn, in all the excitement with the watcher in the woods last night and having Morgan in his home, he had forgotten to look in the bag. That wasn't like him. Satisfied his eggs wouldn't burn, Gabe turned down the flame and dislodged Smoke from his perch. “Sorry, Smoke, but I need to look in this. It's evidence. Go sleep on the couch." “He'll shed all over your furniture.” Morgan warned as she walked into the kitchen and sat at the counter. “Oh, we forgot the bag. Have you looked in it yet?" “No. I just moved your cat. He likes me by the way." “You're an easy man to like, Gabriel Walsh." Gabe walked over to Morgan and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Thanks. I like you, too." Sitting on the stool next to Morgan, he placed the bag on the counter, pulled on some latex gloves, and opened it. He pulled out six tapes. “There's something else in here.” Gabe retrieved a silver gray canister, with no markings of any kind, from the depths of the bag. Morgan gasped. “That's the canister I saw in Missy's mind. Can you tell what's in it?" Gabe shook his head. “There aren't any markings. Move away, darlin', I'm going to see if I can tell by releasing a little of it." Pressing the valve on the end of the cylinder, Gabe sniffed, but nothing came out, or if it did, he couldn't smell it, or even hear a hiss of escaping gas. “It's empty, isn't it?” Morgan asked. “Sorry, darlin'. I think it is. I'll give it to Agent Browning when he gets here from Indy. He can have the FBI Crime Lab check to see if there is any tell-tale residue of the gas in there." Morgan jumped off the stool. Walking around the counter, she dished up the egg mixture, gave one plate to Gabe and took one for herself. Yeah, Gabe liked having her around. She looked good standing in his kitchen over his stove. He didn't know, nor did he care if she could cook, he just liked looking at her. She'd look even better in his bed. He'd been tempted to take a peek in at her while she slept, but he restrained himself. He wanted the first

time he watched her sleep to be in his bed and in his arms. That would be soon if he had anything to say about it. “Morgan, there's toast in the warmer under the oven. Juice and milk in the fridge." Morgan got the toast and brought some juice for herself and the cup of coffee he had left by the stove. After a couple of bites, she stopped and turned to him. “Why did you call in the FBI? You aren't going to tell them anything about me, are you?" Gabe heard the dread in her voice. Dropping his fork, he reached out to grab her free hand and kiss the fingers. “Never would I give away your secret unless you told me I could. The chief and Tim won't say anything either. You can trust us to protect you, Morgan." Morgan blinked as tears crept down her cheek. Gabe smoothed them away, leaned over and kissed her. “Aw, darlin', don't cry. I can't handle it." “I'm okay. It's just no one ever protected me before. It's a new experience. Thank you.” Uncomfortable with the subject and Gabe's intense scrutiny, Morgan turned back to her breakfast. “You still didn't tell me why you called in the FBI." Gabe dropped her hand and answered as he buttered his toast. “We decided we needed their national resources. We suspect this Darien has left victims of at least his con game all over the country. It's also possible he could have killed and raped others. So, Agent Browning is coming to work up a profile on the cases we have and see if there is a certain modus operandi. Then, he'll take that profile, the fingerprints and DNA evidence and use the FBI computers to try to find some matches. Darien can't be that good; he's had to have left evidence somewhere." Morgan nodded, her mouth full of eggs. If she was lucky, the FBI could help nail Darien sooner, rather than later. It would save her having to deal with him. But, if they didn't, she would proceed as she saw fit. **** After Morgan dropped him off at the station, Gabe and Tim decided to rattle the cages of Nan and Jake, the two they perceived to be the weak links in Darien's armor. This time they were armed with morgue pictures of the woman called Bren. Tim knocked on the door of the Cozy Nest, and his cousin, Bitsy, answered the door. “Hey, Timmy. What y'all doing here?” Bitsy asked as she gave her cousin a hug. Gabe grinned. Bitsy Brown was almost as tall as her rangy cousin and looked like she could probably take Tim down in a fair fight. The Brown gene pool ran true. “Aw, little Bits, stop hugging me. I'm on duty.” Tim blushed as he put his cousin away from him and straightened his hat knocked askew by Bitsy's enthusiastic welcome. Deciding he'd better intervene before a cousinly feud could ensue, Gabe asked, “Are The Messiah, Brother Jacob, and Nan Beauchamp here, Bitsy?" “Only Jacob and Nan are, Gabe. They're in the breakfast nook. Go on back. I'm done cleaning back there.” Bitsy opened the door wider and waved them through. As they passed, she whispered, “I've got some suspicious looking things you might want to see. Give me the patrol car keys and I'll put them in the trunk when I leave."

Tim catching Gabe's slight nod gave his cousin the car keys, then kissed the girl's nose. “Thanks, Bits. I owe you one." Bitsy chuckled as she shut the door and went back to her cleaning. Jake jumped and Nan paled as Tim and Gabe entered the room. Gabe acknowledged each of the room's occupants with a nod. “Good morning. Sorry to intrude, but we need to ask a few more questions about Missy James’ death. We also have those pictures we told you about of the other woman found in the lake. Do you have some time right now?" Jake coughed and said, “Uh, yeah, sure. What do you want to know, officers?" Gabe had arranged for Tim to handle the questions. He wanted to watch the two for their reactions. It was obvious that Jake was nervous. Nan, however, was calm, almost listless, like she was on something. To Gabe's eye, she also looked very ill. “Brother Jacob, we're interested in knowing if you saw anybody lurking around the Cozy Nest when you all saw Missy James off the night she was here." “No. In fact, I didn't really see her off. The Messiah did. He walked her out on the porch. So, uh, you'll have to ask him, I guess.” Gabe noted that Jake looked anywhere but at Tim or himself. “Thank you. We will.” Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the pictures of Bren lying on a table in the morgue. “Would you look at these pictures and tell me if you can identify this woman?" Jake blanched at the pictures. Gabe knew the instant Jake turned away that he had recognized the woman. He also knew Jake would lie about it. “Uh, no. Well, maybe. I don't know. Part of her, uh, face is gone. She could be someone I know, but I'm just not sure." Tim turned to Nan, who had started to whimper while Jake fumbled through his non-identification. “Ms. Beauchamp, ma'am, would you look at these please and see if you can identify the woman in the pictures? I do apologize because they ain't pretty, but we really need your help." Nan's whimpering grew louder, but she took the pictures Tim held out to her and glanced through them quickly. Going back, she looked at one in particular. Gabe could see it was the one that showed the bruising on the woman's inner thighs. Nan threw the picture down as if it had burned her fingers and started to scream unrecognizable sounds. Hugging herself, she rocked in her chair. Jake moved over to the hysterical woman and picked her up. Carrying her struggling body, he growled at Gabe and Tim, “Get the hell out of here and don't come back. We don't know nothing.” Gabe nodded at Tim and they left the house. After they got outside, Gabe remarked, “They knew her. Both of them. Ask Bitsy about how many people were staying at the B&B. My gut tells me, our unknown dead woman was one of them at one time. In fact, show her the morgue pictures." Tim nodded. “I'll do that. Bits has a stronger stomach than most men I know. I should have thought of that sooner. Felicity might know the woman, also. Although that Jake guy stayed behind the scenes at the church, I do know that Nan hung around there. There could have been another woman. I just don't recall. Wasn't paying that much attention to be honest with you." “Why would you? The Messiah was the center of attention. The others were meant to fade into the

background." Getting into the patrol car, the two men saw the bundle on the back seat along with the keys Bitsy had left. A note was taped to the package Timmy and Gabe Here are some woman's things that don't belong to that Nan. There was another blonde. They told me she'd left, but now I'm wondering. There are more of her things in the Cozy, but I thought you might be interested particularly in these—looks like dried blood on some of them. Bitsy Gabe threw back his head and laughed. “Do you think she'd like a job on the force?" Tim grinned. “Nah, she hates guns. Besides, I don't think I could stand having her around and calling me “Timmy” all the time. It just isn't dignified." **** Morgan was decanting lavender essence when the shop doorbell tinkled. She knew who it was before she left the back room. The air had gotten heavier, oppressive, and the sunny autumn day, dimmed. Darien was in her shop. Attempting to gather her wits, she took her time in going out to meet him. As she entered the front room, she pasted a smile on her face and called out a greeting, hoping she didn't sound as scared as she felt. “Oh, Darien. Good day! Is there something I can do for you?" “Morgan, how lovely you look on this fine fall day.” Darien came over, took her hands in his and kissed the inside of each wrist. “I just wanted to stop by, see your lovely little shop the reverend told me so much about and ask you to be my guest for lunch at the Boatyard Café." Morgan retrieved her hands and busied them with rearranging the crystals sitting in a small bowl by her register. She wanted to wash her hands and would as soon as she could get away from him. For now, she hoped the calming, healing energy of the amethyst crystal she sought would erase his touch. “Well, how lovely. I'm not quite ready to go to lunch yet, so don't let me keep you. I can't go until twelve. This time of the year, all the merchants close between twelve and one." Darien smiled. “No problem. I'll just take a walk in your gardens, if I may, and wait on you. No reason either of us should eat alone, is there? Or, did you already have other plans for lunch? Perhaps with Detective Walsh?" Damn, Morgan thought, it was him last night. There was a doubt? Come on, Morgan, you knew this morning he would come to check on your relationship with Gabe. Guess it's time to shit or get off the pot. Are you gonna try to ride the lion or not? She hated it when she was right. He must really need her money, or something else was up. Wonder what? Well, she couldn't ignore this opportunity. She had to keep an eye on him, and having lunch with him was as good as any other way. Better, since it was public. “Detective Walsh?” Morgan laughed. “Oh no, he's at work. I didn't have any plans for lunch. So, if you don't mind waiting. I'll be happy to have lunch with you." ****

Darien sat on a very uncomfortable bent wood garden bench and watched Morgan as she assisted customers with potted herbs. She had answered his literal question about the cop, but had deliberately ignored his implication. She had some relationship with Walsh, he'd bet on it. Walsh wasn't blind. Morgan was beautiful. Wonder if Walsh had bedded her? He knew he couldn't wait to screw her. Darien could tell she was nervous being around him; he sensed it strongly every time he'd seen her. He couldn't put his finger on what kind of nervousness, though. Was it sexual tension or something else? No matter. He wanted her. The money would be nice, but she was the icing. When the good reverend had mentioned the amount Morgan planned to donate to the church, Darien knew he would put a stop to that. A half million dollars was wasted on a bunch of backwater holy rollers. If she could afford to give away that much money, he got excited just thinking about what she must have in her trust fund. As for the cop. Whatever the relationship between the two, it wouldn't be a problem much longer. He'd let the matter drop, not mention it to Morgan again; however, he planned to be there to console her after Walsh had passed on to cop heaven. Personally, he wouldn't miss the guy at all. **** Darien had enjoyed lunch with Morgan immensely. If he'd been a sentimental type, he would say he was falling a little bit in love with her. Never having thought of himself as a romantic, he'd have to ponder the concept, test it over time. However, he was realistic enough to know that if the money ran out, so would his feelings for the supplier of the funds. He laughed and let himself into the Cozy Nest. Jake was sitting in the hallway with a drink in his hand. “Pretty early to start drinking, isn't it, Jake? You know how I feel about your drinking." “Yeah, well, if you'd had the morning I've had, you'd be drinking, too.” Jake took a large gulp of the amber colored liquor. “Those cops were here again. Nan lost it." “What do you mean by ‘lost it,’ Jake?” Darien sat in a chair opposite Jake who was rapidly on his way to a drunken Cloud Nine. “She freaked out. They showed her pictures of Bren and Nan started screaming." “Did she say anything? Did she give them Bren's name? Did she tell them about Bren being with us?” Darien held his breath. This answer would determine how much time he had to set up his plan. “Nah. She just screamed, but those cops know. I just know it.” Jake swallowed the remainder of his drink and reached for the bottle on the floor by his chair. “Why don't you just drink it out of the bottle?” Darien sneered. Well, the lush had just bought himself a few more hours in the world. The cops may be suspicious, but they didn't have anything but conjecture at this point. He'd help out later by pointing them in Jake's direction. But, Nan had to go. The hypnosis and drugs weren't working. She was a liability. “What are we gonna do, Dare?" “You're going to take care of Nan, and then we're going to get rid of her body at a place I found up in the hills. I've already prepared a spot for her. Nice view, overlooking a valley." Jake gulped down another drink and sputtered, “When do you want it done?” Darien saw the sexual predator in the gleam in Jake's eyes. Even drunk and half-dead on his feet, he

lusted for his little perversions. “Tonight.” Darien grabbed the bottle away from Jake, who he saw was drifting toward a boozy nap. “No more of this until after we're through. You take care of Nan. I've got some business of my own to take care of. I'll be back later tonight to help you dump Nan's body. And, Jake, try to keep the blood to a minimum this time." **** Agent Ned Browning looked like a rah-rah college boy, but Gabe realized within seconds of meeting him that his first impression was way off base. Ned knew his stuff and gave Gabe hope for the first time in a few days that maybe, just maybe, they could nail Darien and Jake, and soon. “So, Ned,” the chief asked, “you say this new computer can make matches in a matter of days rather than months if the prints are in your database?" “Yes, Chief. In fact, maybe even in a matter of hours. We're set up to transmit actual fingerprints after the person touches a screen, so it might take a little longer since we have to lift the prints off items and scan them. But I think we can do it.” “Well, goddamn, I never thought I'd ever say this, but thank God for computers.” The chief laughed as he slapped the young agent on the back so hard he stumbled. Gabe smiled. The chief's phobia to everything computerized was well known on the force, but he had given in on his unilateral ban when the department's clerks had threatened to quit unless he got them computers. After the countywide 9-1-1 service was put in place just last month, the department relied completely on computers. But, the chief still distrusted them and badmouthed them whenever he could. Maybe he would change his tune and Gabe could talk him into on-board computers for the patrol cars. Gabe wasn't going to hold his breath, though. Agent Browning, rubbing the shoulder the chief had slapped said, “Gabe, I'll take the canister and the bloody clothes with me along with a sample of the dead woman's blood. Our lab in Indianapolis can put a rush on it. If that's okay with you?" Gabe smiled. Would wonders never cease? A federal agent that was asking permission of a local cop. “Thanks, Ned. We'd appreciate it.” Gabe shook Ned's hand. “Do you have enough information to start your profile?" “Yeah, more than enough. Your pathologist is good. We've worked with Dr. Craig before. If there are other murder/rapes out there like these two, we'll find them. I'll be in touch. Call me if you come across anything else." Gabe walked Ned out to his car. “We sure will. Thanks, Ned.” Gabe waved as Ned headed back to Indianapolis. Morgan would love hearing that they might know something soon. Days were far better than months. “What do you think, Gabe? Are we getting closer?” He turned to meet the chief. “Yeah, I think we are.” Gabe smiled at his boss. “Thanks for keeping quiet about Morgan's powers. Ned had no problem accepting that our guts and the evidence at hand led us to suspect Darien and Jake." “Well, son, if he had a problem, he was smart enough not to mention it. He was right diplomatic for a Fed.” The chief laughed and slapped Gabe on the back. “Now, you go on home. I bet Morgan is waiting on you. Tim called and said she'd closed up shop and her car was gone."

“Checking on Morgan, huh, Chief?" “Yep, we need to keep our womenfolk safe until this animal is put away. You were busy, so I had Tim run over there and check. Now git." “Yes sir." **** Gabe turned on to the gravel and packed dirt road that led to his cabin. The dusk sky was colored with orange, violet and blue-black streaks from the sun shining through the clouds as it set in the western horizon. Taking a deep breath of the cool early evening air, Gabe could smell the dust from the alfalfa field his neighbor had mowed that afternoon. Fall in Indiana. It just felt right. Whistling along with a smooth jazz song on the radio, Gabe approached the hairpin turn leading to the last stretch of road before his cabin. A phantom itch on his neck and a change in the air pressure warned him a split second before his normal senses registered a dark sports utility vehicle with tinted windows pulling out of a cutback and speeding toward his car. The bastard was going to ram him. Gabe knew all that would keep him from falling over into the ravine was a wooden railing—not something he wanted to trust his life with. The ravine along this stretch of road was at least a hundred feet deep. He thought all this within a split second and made the decision that his best chance of survival was not to go over the edge. Relying on the reflexes, which had saved him many a time in the past, he sharply turned the car to the left, away from the ravine. He was now heading toward the cutback, his attacker had just left, at a slightly less than parallel path to the vehicle coming toward him. Gearing down to rev up his engine's speed, he hoped his countermeasure would cause the utility vehicle to glance off his car. If he was lucky, the SUV's net momentum might cause it to go over the edge. Would serve the bastard right if it did. Gabe braced himself for the impact as he held his steering wheel on the path, which would cause the least damage to his car but would hit enough of the SUV to deflect it toward the drop off. The impact was worse than he'd imagined. The g-forces first threw him forward into the rapidly emerging airbag, then side to side within the range of his shoulder harness, and finally back against the headrest as the bag, now fully deployed, began to deflate. Gabe felt the force of the impact from his neck on down into his spine as he held the wheel as steady as he could. Assured that the SUV had taken a good hit, Gabe threw in the clutch, braked and prepared for whatever his car might hit as it slid, brakes screeching and tires shooting gravel, into the cutback. Struggling with the steering wheel, Gabe managed to avoid several large trees, as the effects of friction and its resulting dissipation of kinetic energy, worked to slow his car down. As the vehicle bounced off one more particularly large tree, Gabe heard a large thud, then felt the car shudder and stop as it hit something partially buried on the forest floor. Dazed, Gabe turned off the engine; he needed to get out of the car. If the bastard hadn't gone over the edge, Gabe didn't want to be sitting there if the attacker came after him. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he opened the door and pushed out of the flattened airbag. His gun in his hand before he was fully on his feet, he stopped. Listened. He heard nothing. Felt nothing. And, as far as he could see, nothing was in the vicinity, for about a hundred yards off the road into the woods behind the cutback. Swearing under his breath at the aches and pains he felt from the jarring collision, he crouched down and moved at an angle

away from his car toward the road. Gabe used the trees as cover, zig-zagging from one to another in a random pattern designed to confuse anybody attempting to find him and finish him off. He thought there was only one, but there could be two attackers. He wasn't taking any chances. With the tree-covered hill between him and what was left of the evening light, Gabe took a second or two to allow his night vision to fully engage. He knew how dark it would be in a matter of minutes. Using the remaining moments of light, Gabe scanned the area around him. There was no one. Standing still behind a large oak near the road, Gabe waited and listened. He could hear the cracking of his overheated engine back in the woods. An animal, a small one, moved in the brush on the other side of the road. He heard no engine; no moaning; nothing. Cautiously, he moved out onto the road and used his pocket penlight to find the place of impact. Following the SUV's resulting path, he saw where the driver had managed to turn the vehicle around and head back down the hillside road. The bastard had turned tail and run. Or, he could have gone down the road, stopped and headed back on foot to see if Gabe were dead. In that case, his assailant could be at his car right now. Gabe hoped he was right about that, because he was mad and wanted to do something about it—now. Setting off at an almost silent lope, he reversed his earlier actions and headed toward his wrecked car. His SEAL training had provided him the physical skills to move quickly and silently, even in the dark. His God-given abilities of keen sight and hearing kept him attuned to his surroundings. And, his instinct for survival stopped him in time—the bastard was at the car. About one hundred feet in front of him, Gabe noticed the light from a flashlight reflecting the man as he leaned over looking into the wreck of Gabe's vehicle. Gabe dropped down behind a boulder and, using the rock's surface, took aim at the light and the body on the other end of it. With no warning, the light went off and a shot came toward Gabe's position. Gabe felt the chips of rock fly past his cheek. Getting off two quick rounds, one where the light had been and another in the direction of the sound of the man running away. He heard a grunt. Got him. But the wounded man kept moving away, back down the hill. Presumably toward his car. Using what cover he had, Gabe shadowed the retreating man. Not quite sure what gave him away, Gabe paced himself to keep just back of the man, but not too far back to take a shot if one presented itself. None did. By the time both men were on the road, the attacker used his SUV as cover and fired several rounds at Gabe. Gabe dove behind some bushes at the side of the road. The attacker used that opportunity to get into the vehicle and drive off. “God dammit all to hell.” Out of frustration, Gabe took several shots at the retreating vehicle but it was too far away to do any damage. Keeping to the side of the road and staying alert in case his attacker decided to come back and try for him again, Gabe ran up the road toward his cabin. He needed to get to a phone and get all the law enforcement agencies in the area on alert to look for the vehicle. It had no plates; but there couldn't be all that many black Range Rovers with tinted windows in the French Creek area. Probably stolen, but there could be prints. He also wanted to alert Tim to check on the gang at the Cozy Nest. **** Morgan jogged down the road. She knew she'd heard something. It had sounded like crunching metal and engines whining. Had there been a crash? She wouldn't be surprised; parts of the road were so narrow only one car at a time could travel on it. Numerous cutbacks had been created so one driver

could pull off, while the other drove by. As she ran, she began receiving images reflecting the anger and pain felt by the man moving up the road toward her position. More afraid than she'd ever been in her life, Morgan ran faster and screamed. “Gabe! Gabe, are you hurt?" Running around a sharp bend she ran into the arms of the man she knew she couldn't live without. Morgan swore as she ran her hands over Gabe's body. It wasn't light enough to see exactly where his injuries were. She could only be guided by his sharp intakes of breath as to where he was hurt. No broken bones she could find; something sticky, probably blood on his face. She needed to get him back to the cabin to do a better job. “You're doing a pretty damn good job out here, I'd say, darlin’ girl.” Gabe growled as he pulled her to him and kissed her breathless. Between catching her breath and smothering his face with little kisses as she petted him wherever she could get her hands, she battered him with questions. “Did you have an accident? Where are you hurt? Shouldn't you be sitting down? Do you want an ambulance? What in the hell happened?” Gabe just held her and groaned. He must really be hurt. Nah, he isn't hurt. Calm down, Morgan. Use your powers. You're just turning him on, dummy. “Morgan, honey, relax. It would take more than hitting a tree to kill me off. I'm okay, but if you keep petting me like that our first sexual interlude may happen on that patch of grass over there by the side of the road. You've got me harder than Indiana clay during a drought." See? Sounds like fun to me. “Oh.” Morgan flushed. Now that he mentioned it, she did feel his erection against her stomach. She moaned. “Don't moan that way, Morgan. Or, I swear we're doing it out here ... now!” Gabe pulled her even closer to his body and took her lips in a kiss that had Morgan swearing it was the Fourth of July and not late September. Morgan whimpered when Gabe put some distance between their bodies and ended the kiss. Tucking her against his side, he walked them back toward the cabin, “I'm not going anywhere but to the cabin with you, darlin'. Just felt a twinge in some of the ribs. We can assess the damage better in the house, and call the chief. I'm betting an APB won't pull in the car that hit me now. Too much time has passed.” “Someone hit you? Deliberately?” Morgan, for the second time in her life, felt the urge to kill someone. Unfortunately, she couldn't kill Darien twice, but once should do the trick. Stopping just short of the porch, Morgan looked up at Gabe and sobbed in anger mixed with a healthy dose of anguish. “It was him, wasn't it? Darien. He tried to kill you tonight, because of me. It's all my fault. You were almost killed because he wants me.” Crying in earnest now, Morgan couldn't respond to the concern she heard in Gabe's voice as he tried to reassure her. She couldn't get out of her head that she'd already been the indirect cause of one person's death; she knew she'd die if anything happened to Gabe because of her. ****

Gabe swung Morgan up into his arms and was thankful there was only a minor twinge in his ribs—just bruised, not broken was his conclusion. Nothing he couldn't live with. Right now, he needed to calm Morgan down. Such hysterical crying couldn't be good for her. He'd let her mother and fuss over him while he called out the troops. Later, in bed, he'd fuss over her and after some good loving would work on addressing her concerns about his welfare. She had to learn she wasn't responsible for what evil people do. **** Darien ditched the vehicle two blocks from where he'd stolen it. Too bad, it had been a nice ride. That cop must have been a demolition derby driver in another life. Smooth move with the car. Checking his side, he reassured himself it was only a graze. Yes, it had already stopped bleeding. Walsh was good. The cop had to have been shaken up by the crash, but he still managed to get out and come after him. Darien also recognized Special Ops training when he saw it. Maybe a SEAL or a Ranger. Well, a wide berth would be a smart move for the time being. Better to work on getting Jake in trouble. Keep the cop busy chasing his tail, so Darien could make off with the lovely Morgan and her money. He had lots of plans for Morgan and her money, and being dead wasn't on his agenda. CHAPTER TWENTY "Temperance" Reassessment of situations. Gabe carried Morgan into the house and sat down on the first available chair with her still held in his arms. Murmuring nonsense words, he rocked her, the motion as soothing to him as it was to her. After she quieted, he moved her over to the couch so he could call the troops. As he phoned in the attack, he could hear Morgan sniffing audibly while she rose from the sofa, moved to his bathroom, and rooted through his medicine cabinet and linen closet. His call finished, he turned and found her right behind him with the First Aid kit and damp washcloth in hand. “Gabe, let me look at the damage. Sit down please, I can't reach all your injuries with you looming over me.” A shuddering breath escaped his soggy Florence Nightingale as she attempted to hold back another round of tears. She was trying to be a valiant little soldier; he knew she was thinking what could have happened. Seeking to reassure, he said, “Morgan, I'm fine.” Her forehead wrinkled with concern or disbelief, he wasn't sure which. Shaking her head, she pointed to the couch. “Over there, now.” Doing as he was told, Gabe sat, watching her as she competently cleaned his cuts and abrasions. While helping her with removal of his shirt, he noticed her wince, as the bruises left across his ribs were uncovered. She shocked him when she bent over to follow her gentle fingers with kisses. The warm moistness of her lips and the feel of her long hair as it trailed across his lower abdomen and onto his thighs was unbearably exciting. He almost lost it then and there. Only the knowledge that the entire second shift of the French Creek police force was on its way to his cabin kept him from taking her right there on the living room floor. Lifting her head away from what was rapidly becoming dangerous ground, Gabe growled, “Darlin', please ... I'm only a man. If you keep kissing me that way, we might embarrass the guys when they get here." “Oh, sorry.” Morgan blushed, looked away, and concentrated on applying a soothing ointment to his

ribs. Lifting her chin once more, he looked her in the eyes and said, “Don't be sorry. I liked what you were doing. Just hold that thought. Okay?” Then, he kissed her nose. She smiled and his whole world was back in balance even if it was only for the duration of that smile. He planned on making her smile a lot. A stray thought flickered through his mind as Morgan applied an antiseptic ointment to his facial cuts. Were her blushes because she was inexperienced? The thought she might be a virgin threatened to overtake the slight control he had on his libido. Down, boy. He'd find out later—for sure. He could have bought the farm earlier and never have known her. He wasn't going to let one more night go by without making love to this woman. Gabe was brought abruptly to the present when he heard the screeching of brakes and spitting of gravel from multiple vehicles barreling into his driveway. Taking Morgan's hands from his face where they had stilled, Gabe kissed them and stood. “Sounds like the troops are here. Just sit tight, darlin'. I'll be back." Gabe walked out to meet his fellow officers and was surprised to see Tim and the chief arrive in their personal vehicles. “Gabe, you okay?” Tim called out as he uncurled his long body from his vintage Corvette. “Yeah, Tim. Fine. Takes more than one guy to do me in,” Gabe retorted as he turned to meet his boss. The chief, his face wearing a look of concern, walked over and stopped in front of Gabe. Looking him up and down, the chief barked, “Anything that needs doctoring, boy?" “Nope, Chief. Morgan fixed me up fine.” Gabe, knowing his ribs looked worse than they felt, hurried to reassure the older man. Gabe noticed the chief was looking behind him. He felt Morgan's presence—she must have come out onto the porch. Turning he saw, instead, that she had come up behind him. How had she gotten so close without him realizing it? Did he instinctively know she was no danger to him? No man had ever been able to come up behind him that way. Just more proof that they belonged together. What was she waiting for? Then, he knew, as clear as if she had said it to him, she wanted to protect him. “It's okay, Morgan. I'm fine. It's the good guys. Go back in and sit down." “No.” Her abrupt answer, defiant in tone, amused Gabe, but he controlled the grin threatening to broach his lips. “Chief, I think he needs to see a doctor. His bruises, well, they're ... they're ... awful!” Morgan sniffled, tears starting to stream down her face. “His ribs could be broken. There might be internal damage....And, it's all my fault!” Morgan crying in earnest again ran into the house. Gabe started after her when he felt someone pull on his belt stopping him. “Let her go, son. She's had a shock. Aimee's mother was like that—doctoring us all up, letting us know what was good for us, then breaking down after the fact at the ‘what might have beens.’ She'll be fine. Now, suppose you tell me what in the Sam Hill is going on here?” Gabe looked toward the house once more and then turned back toward Tim, the chief and the others who had crowded around him, ready to avenge this attack on a fellow officer. The sooner he told them, the sooner they'd leave. Then, he could go in to comfort Morgan. **** Morgan stared at her puffy, red eyes and flushed face in the bathroom mirror. Splashing cold water hadn't helped. She looked like an albino who had overused some blush. Nothing she could do about it. Gabe must think she was a watering pot. She couldn't remember a time in the recent past when she had

cried so much. Not even after Missy died had she cried like this. What was wrong with her tonight? Well, let's see. Did we almost lose the man we love? That could be it. Besides, part of this is about Missy, isn't it? You still feel responsible for her death, and then this happens. You supped with the devil, Morgan. What did you expect? Darien to politely ask Gabe to butt out? Morgan groaned. Bending over, she thought she just might throw up. What had she done? Tempting the murdering bastard that way. Straightening up, she looked again at her reflection. Well, you've done it this time, Morgan Tarrant. Now, you'll just have to face the music. She had to get Darien away from Gabe—search his things, get him drunk and force him to confess—something—anything. She'd get him to leave town with her. That's what she'd do. Above all, she couldn't have these two men come to blows over her. Darien didn't fight fair. She couldn't live with herself if Gabe got hurt—or worse—because of her stupidity in tweaking the lion's tail. Oh, fine. That's not what I meant, Morgan. Trust Gabe. Tell him what you're doing. He is more than a match for that mangy old lion. No, she couldn't take that chance. Gabe meant too much. She got herself, and him, into this mess; she'd get them out. The old man said she had to ride the lion, and she would. Nuts to the old man. **** Darien let himself into the Cozy Nest. Lights blazed in every room, but he heard nothing. Opening up his sixth sense, he noticed the presence of two living bodies. He swore. Jake hadn't killed Nan, yet. Well, it would have to wait now until after the police came to check on them. In a way, Jake had done him a favor. The law would be sure to ask the whereabouts of all of them. He knew that Gabe would have called the troops out as soon as he could. He might not have much time to get Jake prepped. “Jake!” Darien yelled up the stairs. “Get down here and bring Nan with you." Jake appeared at the top of the stairs, none too steady on his feet. Darien observed the signs of too much sex and booze—bleary eyes, flushed cheeks, pants open and shirt unbuttoned, as if he'd just thrown them on when Darien arrived. “Uh, Dare, wasn't expecting you for a while.” Darien knew Jake was trying to find the words to placate him because he hadn't done the job he was supposed to do. Darien decided to help Jake out of his quandary. “It's okay, Jake. We'll take care of Nan later. I need you both to alibi me for the last two hours or so. Come on down so I can tell you what needs to be said. We don't have much time before the cops get here." Jake stumbled down the stairs toward Darien. “Uh, well, Nan is sleeping right now, Dare. You know how she is after sex. Out like a light.” Jake grinned sheepishly. “I just wanted to use her good before I offed her, you know how I get." Darien knew Jake was a certified satyr—a masochistic one at that. “Is she okay, if the cops ask to check to see if she's here?" “Yeah, sure, Dare. No blood, nothing. You said to be careful." Darien nodded. “Good."

The flashing of the Mars lights of the patrol car was reflected in the hall mirror. They were here! Turning to Jake, “Button up and remember, just agree with me. I've been here since supper." “Since supper, okay Dare. Got it.” Answering the bell on the second ring, Darien opened the door to a country bumpkin cop he'd never seen before. “Yes, officer? May I help you?" “Sir, are you that Messiah fellow?” The patrolman asked. “Yes, I am. Do you need help? It's late. I'm taking private consults tomorrow at the church. You can make an appointment with Reverend Porter's secretary, if you'd like one." “Ah, no sir, may I ask your whereabouts for the last hour or so, sir?” Darien could see they had sent a boy to do a man's job. Child's play. “May I ask why, officer?” Darien loved to see them squirm. “There's been a hit and run. One of our officers was hurt.” Good, maybe I hurt him more than I thought. “Oh, I'm sorry. Well, Brother Jacob and I have been here all evening. Sorry we can't be of more help.” Darien smiled at the young man. Jake coughed. “Uh, Messiah. Sister Nan is here also—she's upstairs sleeping." “Oh, I forgot, Brother Jacob. Yes, officer our dear Sister Nan turned in after supper. Touch of the flu we think. Is that all?" The young patrolman straightened up and looked Darien in the eyes, “May I peek in on the woman, sir. Just to make sure, not that I doubt you or anything. Just want to be able to report all accounted for to my superiors." Maybe there was more to the young man than he thought. Smiling at the cop, “Why of course, officer,” Darien gestured him into the hall. “Jake, show him Sister Nan's room, please." Darien watched as the two went up the stairs. Looking outside he could see the cop's partner come from behind the house. Checking on the cars. Well, they wouldn't find anything there. He'd walked back through the woods from where he'd stashed the car near the lake—they'd never prove he stole it or abandoned it. He'd worn gloves. Any fibers they might find wouldn't belong to anything he owned. The clothes he wore would be destroyed after burying Nan tonight. Darien had learned early on in his career not to leave evidence. He wasn't stupid. Jake and the officer were coming back. Smiling at the man, “Satisfied, officer?" All Darien got as an answer was an unsmiling face and abrupt nod. Showing the officer out, he saw the slight negative shake the other man standing near the patrol car gave the officer preceding him from the house. “Good night, officers. I do so hope you find whomever you are

looking for." Silence met Darien's send off. He laughed silently. The fools expected him to become careless at this stage? They didn't know him at all well. He'd win. He always did. He'd be at his business tomorrow as if none of this ever happened. They couldn't prove anything they suspected. It bothered him a bit that they had zeroed in on his little gig so quickly, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. After tonight, they'd be so busy trying to track down Jake, they'd forget about him—and when they remembered, he'd be gone. Darien's laughter echoed out into the dark woods—answered only by the hoot of an owl and the cry of its prey. **** Gabe found Morgan staring into the mirror in his bathroom, clutching her stomach. “Baby, are you okay? Are you sick?” Gabe asked. The worry he felt must have reached her because she turned and smiled up at him. “No, I'm just thinking." Gabe looked at her—hard, concentrating, using the connection he seemed to have with this woman. “You're worried about me?” He was incredulous. It was too funny, but endearing at the same time. “Oh honey, I eat guys like the one who tried to hurt me tonight for breakfast. Don't worry about me. I've survived terrorists, foreign conflicts and the streets of Detroit. No fake Messiah is going to bring me down.” Gabe reached to pull the woman of his heart into his arms when she pushed him away. “Don't joke. He could have killed you tonight." Ignoring her attempts to stop him, he pulled her into his arms and pushed her head down onto his bare chest. Ah, yes, her breath caressed him while her hair seduced him once again as it brushed his nipples. “He didn't. He won't. I promise he won't hurt you or me. I won't let him." Gabe feathered a kiss across the top of Morgan's hair. He heard her sigh of capitulation—felt it ripple through the hair on his chest and skewer his heart with its potency. She loved him. He knew it. She wouldn't have cared so much if she didn't. “Morgan, I love you, darlin'. I think ... I hope you love me, too." Gabe held his breath. Her answer held the future condition of his heart and soul within its grip. He couldn't have read her wrong, could he? This connection they had was too new, too unreal, he wasn't sure he'd figured it out yet. It had to be love. **** Morgan knew he was sincere. His love flowed through her, surrounded her. Could she trust that fate wouldn't be so cruel to show her a wonderful future and then rip it away from her. What of the dreams? Should she take a chance that she wasn't anticipating the dream's prophecy? She hadn't ridden the lion yet. What if she committed herself to Gabe, and found out she had changed her destiny—that she had messed up her chance to find the treasure in the maze. Was Gabe the treasure or wasn't he? Morgan, go with your gut, girl. This is right. You know it. Trust Gabe to keep you safe. Trust your self, your soul to another for once in your life. Morgan looked up at Gabe. His face looked strained—he was nervous! Her answer meant a lot to him. He didn't just love her; he needed her. She knew, at that moment, she needed him just as much or more. She'd be a fool to lose this chance at a life filled with this man's love and caring.

“Morgan? What are you thinking, my love?” Gabe's warm baritone flowed over her hair sending shivers of anticipation through her body. “I'm thinking that if you don't make love to me tonight I just might die from wanting you.” Morgan hesitated, she'd gone this far she might as well go the rest of the way. “I love you, Gabriel Walsh. Make me yours." Gabe's harsh gasp, the flaring of his nostrils, the smoke in his gray eyes assured Morgan she had made the right choice. Her love was safe with this man. Raining kisses on her upturned face, Gabe whispered, “Morgan, darlin'. Don't worry. I'll take care of you, tonight and forever more.” Then, he kissed her lips as he picked her up and carried her to the bed. Morgan watched Gabe as he stepped out of his pants. He was beautiful. A big, healthy example of the male species. Strongly muscled. His briefs barely contained his manhood. She let a sigh of appreciation escape her lips. Raising herself up, she started to take off her clothes. Somehow it didn't seem right that he was nearly naked and she still fully clothed. “No, baby. Let me undress you this first time. I'm just giving you the chance to say ‘no,’ if you aren't sure about this next step." Morgan smiled. He was nervous. He still thought she would back out, could back out. Shaking her head at his insecurity, she spoke, “I'm sure, Gabe. Make love to me. Show me how to please you. The next time I get to undress you, promise?" Gabe laughed. “I promise. Darlin', don't you know that your existence alone pleases me? Let me prove it. Let me make love to you and show you how you please me." Morgan watched as her lover climbed onto the bed and straddled her body. “Look at me, Morgan, watch me make love to you." Gabe rubbed his hands over her shoulders and down her arms, petting her, stroking her like he would Smoke. Morgan breathed in and out slowly keeping pace with the rhythmic motions of his hands on her body. She felt the stress just seep from her—she was so relaxed she could fall asleep. “Gabe, you're going to put me to sleep doing that..." “Doing what, darlin'? Petting you? I'll have to remember that for when you get upset. Let's see if I can wake you up a bit." Morgan gasped. He was unbuttoning her shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra. For God's sake, Morgan, get with the program. He's going to see all of you naked here in a few minutes anyway. Lay back and enjoy. And, please, don't think of England. Morgan smiled. “Like this darlin'?” Gabe purred as he took a breast in each hand and rubbed his thumbs over her nipples. “How about this?” He took first one then the other nipple between his lips, sucking them. Morgan moaned at the fire making a path from her nipples to her lower regions. She swore even her toes curled from the delicious sensations his lips and teeth were producing. “Oh my God, Gabe! Love, please?” Morgan groaned. How was she going to stand it when he got to the real thing?

“Morgan, this is the real thing—all of it." Morgan gasped. He read her mind. She hadn't wanted to believe he could, but he did. There was no other way for him to know what she was thinking. Were they connected somehow? Was this meant to be? “Darlin', don't think, just relax and enjoy this. I want your first time to be special." “How'd you know I'm a virgin?” “When we kissed that first time, you told me in my head. That's when I knew I'd met the only woman in the world for me. This was meant to be. Don't ask me how or why—it just is. I can accept that, can you?" “Yes. You're right. I love you, Gabe. Show me how to love you back." Gabe smiled and proceeded to do just that. As he undressed her, he kissed every square inch of her body, front and back. By the time he had finished, Morgan was writhing in delicious, shivery quakes on the bed. “Gabe, please, I need ... I need ... you. I need you. Please take me. Now." Gabe hadn't finished the sexual torment yet, she realized when she felt him raise her hips to his lips. When his tongue made contact with her clitoris, Morgan thought she'd touched a live wire, the surge of feeling throughout her body escalated to a point where she knew she was going to die from the pleasure. Something had to give. When the explosion came, Morgan screamed from the intensity of it. Waves of the most pleasure she'd ever felt overtook her body for what seemed like forever. As she rode the crest of the orgasm she felt Gabe enter her in one sure stroke. Whatever pain there was went unfelt as the ebbing orgasm found new life in the rhythm of Gabe's movements. Morgan didn't know if she could stand this again; she was so tired and wanted to rest. Gabe whispered in her ear as he stopped fully planted well within her womb. She felt his penis throbbing, wanting to come. “Come with me, baby. Let yourself go. Absorb me into your very being. Don't be afraid. I'll keep you safe." Morgan gasped, “Yes.” She knew there was something else out there; she'd felt it when Gabe joined his body to hers. She wanted—no—she needed it, just as she needed to breathe. Gabe groaned at her acceptance and began again the rhythm, which would bring them both to an incandescent completion. But, it was more than that, Morgan realized. As the pleasure spiraled ever higher, she knew she breathed when Gabe breathed; she groaned as Gabe groaned; her thoughts were Gabe's and his hers, and when they reached the peak, they did it together with an instantaneous combustion that could have rivaled the Big Bang for release of energy. “Oh my God.” Morgan thought she might have just died and gone to heaven. “No, darlin'. You're still here on earth with me—right where you belong.” With those words, Morgan felt Gabe tuck her to his body as she drifted to sleep. Safe, secure, whole for the first time in her life. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE "The Emperor" Strength, dominance, conviction, power.

After he was sure the cops were gone, Darien went upstairs to check on Nan. He needed to vent. Jake had managed to beat him up the stairs and was going at the semi-conscious woman. No, receptacle. Nan was a receptacle for man's lust. Wasn't that what his father had always told him? Women were only good for one thing—fucking. Well, he hated to contradict his daddy, but some women, women like Morgan, were for more. Nan wasn't in that class—she had no money—and now, no looks. She was just a cunt. He'd use her as such. “Get out of the way, Jake. Go sleep off some of that booze sloshing around in your blood. I need to borrow Nan before you finish her off." Jake must have seen something in Darien's eyes, which told him to obey, because Jake just nodded and left the room, his dick still hard and unfulfilled. Darien stripped off his clothes in front of the now fully conscious woman. Folding each piece of clothing neatly and placing it on a chair by the window, he felt Nan's fear—and yes, desire—increase as each piece of clothing disappeared. What a slut. Finally, he was nude. His cock was tumescent. He stroked it, groaning at the feeling his hands brought to his pulsing member. “Nan, you know how I like it. Come here and get to work, bitch.” Darien pointed to a spot in front of him. Nan whined, “Dare, honey, could you sit on the bed and let me do you here? You know I love sucking ya off, but I'm so tired. That damn Jake and his pencil dick near wore me out, baby. Like, I thought he'd never get off." “Nan, get over here on your knees and suck my dick, or I'll call Jake back in here and have him hold you for me. You don't want that, do you?" “No, Dare. You know I don't do threesomes.” Nan got off the bed and knelt in front of him. As she took him into her mouth, he groaned. God, that was good. Knowing how she hated him to take control of her mouth, he did exactly that. Holding her head, he rammed into her gaping mouth and down her throat. Almost immediately he poured all his stored up rage and seed down her. Had to give her credit, she took him all without gagging. Nan started to get up, but he pushed her back down. “Get me hard, I want to fuck you, too." She must have sensed Darien wasn't in the mood for her protest because she swallowed it just as she had swallowed his semen. When he felt hard enough, he pulled her up, shoved her face first on the bed and entered her from behind. Again, he came as soon as he was inside her. After a few more times, he'd be able to prolong his pleasure, but right now, he needed to come. “Dare?” Nan's muffled voice reached him. “I can't ... breathe." Darien realized he had placed his full weight on Nan's back and the edge of the bed must have been pressing into her diaphragm. Well, for what he needed her in the next few hours, or at least until he was sure the cops had stopped the hunt, Nan needed to be breathing. He let up on her and heard her take a few deep breaths. His next order had her gasping. “Get on your back. Be quick about it." Nan scurried to do his bidding. He must really be putting out the vibes tonight if this stupid cow was picking up on his anger at the cops and his frustration that she wasn't Morgan. He'd bet that cop was screwing his Morgan right now. At the thought, he pulled out the chest he had under the bed. Some

bondage was in order for the next round. He was feeling mean again. “No, Dare. I'll be good. I won't move. I promise.” Nan cried as she tried to move from the bed. “See, you moved, Nan. Women lie all the time. Get back on the bed, now. Don't make me come after you,” although, he liked that game, too. A pity the area was full of cops tonight. He liked the time he hunted her down in the woods and took her over a large rock. Oh well, this would have to suffice. Crying, Nan climbed on the bed and assumed the position. Darien smiled. Let the games begin. **** Morgan shifted to her dream state and found the old man waiting for her. He was smiling. “Well done, my child. Gabriel is the one for you." “Is he the treasure, old man?" “No, Morgan, he's a pathway to the treasure. You still have to ride the lion before the treasure can be fully yours." Morgan shook her head. “I'm confused." “You'll understand all, soon. The lion does not sleep this night. His evil is running rampant. Your time to ride is approaching." “I'm afraid." “I know. Trust in yourself, Morgan. Trust in Gabriel. He is your guardian angel. He will protect you as much as he is able, but only you can ride the lion." “Will Gabe be there when I do?" The old man smiled—then faded away. Morgan cried out for him to stop. He hadn't answered her question or had he? Morgan struggled awake with a small cry. Gabe tucked her closer to his body and muttered, “It's only a dream, baby. I'm here. You're safe. Go back to sleep, darlin'." Morgan, lulled by Gabe's reassurances, fell asleep. As she did, she heard the lion's angry roar in the distance. **** Darien and Jake finished shoveling dirt onto the grave in which Nan now reposed for an eternal rest. “Hurry up, Jake. Don't dawdle. We need to get back and cleaned up. I'm bushed.” Darien said as he casually moved some stones to mark the spot. He wanted to be able to give the FBI an accurate anonymous tip on where to find the body. “Yeah, Dare. Me, too. I could sleep all day.” Jake caught up with Darien at the car. The two men maintained silence on the way back to the house. As they drove around to the garage, Jake said, “Ya know, Dare, I was surprised you didn't use a condom tonight. You always did in the past." Darien jerked as he realized what a mistake he'd made. Well, he couldn't do anything about it now. He

just hoped the cops would accept Jake's culpability without question. Even if they tested the semen in the woman, they'd find Jake's—enough to convict him if he survived the manhunt. Whereas, Darien would be off in the South Seas with Morgan, enjoying both her body and her money. **** Gabe woke to the smell of frying eggs and bacon. He grinned. This was what he had always wanted—a home life. He'd seen the world—the good, the bad and the ugly—he'd had his fill of adventure; all he wanted now was to settle down, make babies and be a part of this community which had accepted him with open arms. He hoped Morgan would want to be a part of his dream. He'd have to ask her. After they put Darien away, he would. Morgan walked into the bedroom wearing one of his T-shirts. His sleeping penis awoke with a jerk. Damn. Where was the control he so prided himself on? He had a feeling it had taken a permanent vacation last night when she'd given him her virginity. Now, he wanted her anytime, any way he could get her. “Morning, darlin'. Do I smell breakfast?” Gabe reached out to the silent woman. Was she shy? Did she regret making love with him last night? “Yeah. I knew you liked eggs, so I made omelets. Is that okay?” Morgan didn't move, just stood there. “Morgan, baby, are you regretting what we did last night? Was it too soon for you?” Gabe swept off the covers so she could see how she affected him. “As you can see, I still want you. I love you." Morgan's smile transformed her face as she took a running leap and landed on the bed. Smothering him with little kisses, she laughed. With relief? “Oh Gabe, no, I thought maybe you might not want me. I have no experience and you have to admit sex with me has to be somewhat strange what with the weird mental connection we seem to have. I've found most men can't handle that kind of intimacy." “Most men!” Gabe growled as he rolled over and put Morgan under him. “What other men? You were a virgin—how would you know whether other men couldn't handle the mental connection as you call it? I'm your first—and only—man, right?” Morgan touched his lips first with her fingers, then with a kiss. “Calm down, big guy. I've only kissed other men. They kiss me and look at me as if I were some sort of freak. If they couldn't handle a kiss like that, how could they handle even more? So, I never did it. I'm yours—all yours for as long as you want me." “Morgan, don't say that if you don't mean it, ‘cause I want you forever, baby. No, make that I need you forever. You are the most important person in my life, I...” The ringing of the phone and his beeper going off at the same time cut off Gabe's proposal for a more permanent relationship. “Damn, this had better be important, or someone is gonna get his ass chewed.” Gabe muttered, as he reached for the phone, keeping a laughing Morgan under him. “Yeah, Walsh here. Talk to me." “Gabe, it's Tim. Got a call from that FBI fellow, Ned Browning. Said they got an anonymous tip that there's another rape/murder victim buried up in the Smoky Hills area. He's sending down a team. Chief told me to call you. We're pulling in the County's Search & Rescue dogs to see if we can find the body. He wants you there, Gabe." Gabe rested his forehead against Morgan's and gave her a kiss on the nose as he sighed heavily, “Okay, Tim, give me a chance to take a shower and throw on some clothes. Where we meeting?"

“At Ranger Station number two. Oh, Gabe. Is Morgan there with you? We checked and she hadn't come home last night. I was..." “It's okay, Tim. She's here. Safe.” And, I'm gonna keep it that way, too, Gabe vowed. “That's good. See ya, buddy." After he disconnected the call, Gabe took Morgan's lips in a deep kiss. “I love you, Morgan Tarrant. Hold that thought and my place. We'll continue this discussion after I get back. They found another body, darlin'. I've got to go." Gabe saw the roses die from Morgan's cheeks. “Gabe, do you remember you shared my dream last night? My dream indicated the lion—Darien—was running rampant last night. He killed again. But who?" Gabe thought he knew, but didn't tell Morgan. He'd find out soon enough if Nan was missing from the Cozy Nest. “No, darlin'. I don't usually remember my dreams, except for the one lying here underneath me.” Ah, he got a smile from her. Good. “Now, I want you to stay away from all this, Morgan. Let the FBI handle it. This Ned Browning is running those prints you got for us through a new super fast computer they have. We may get enough to nail them without you doing another thing." “But Gabe, I just want to help. I..." Gabe placed his fingers across her lips, silencing her. “Hush, you did help. Without you we'd never have known about this guy, nor would we have any evidence at all. You've been a great help, but I want you safe. I need you safe. I've just found you and dammit I want you to let me protect you." Morgan nodded. Gabe smiled. “Now, I need to get a rush on. Can I get that breakfast to go?" Morgan laughed. “One breakfast biscuit sandwich coming up." **** Morgan waved Gabe off. She grimaced at the thought of his day's work. Looking for a dead woman's body was horrific. It had to be Nan. Obviously, Gabe forgot she could read his concerns. The anger had poured from him in waves when he'd been talking to Tim. Before he'd left he made her promise one more time to stay away from Darien. Semantics. He'd kick himself later when he realized he'd said nothing about avoiding Darien if he happened to approach her. Morgan knew that even if they found Nan they still couldn't arrest Darien or Jake without proof. She'd bet her secret herbal recipe book they wouldn't find any. Well, she didn't need to be here until after Gabe's shift. Might as well go in to her shop. Wonder when Darien would stop by? She had no doubt in her mind that he would. He was hooked; now she just had to reel him in. **** The road to Ranger Station number two was a misnomer. Rutted track was more accurate. Gabe kept his patrol car to a low speed; he didn't want to bottom out the vehicle. Damn, what a gloomy day. Indian Summer was over and the real autumn weather had set in. The gray clouds were low, touching the tops of the trees and obliterating the view on the higher hills in the area. Ranger Station number two was on one of those higher hills—the Smoky Hills area. It resembled its

name today, for sure. The weather had turned cooler making Gabe glad that Morgan reminded him to take a jacket. Warmth spread through him at her caring for him. She'd sent him off with a bag of biscuit sandwiches and a couple of thermoses of coffee. She'd said, “Eat, Gabriel Walsh. You're going to need your strength. Feed the other guys, too. Oh, and you'd better take a jacket. It'll be cool up on Smoky Hills.” Damn, how could he be so lucky? Pulling his car into the parking area at the station, Gabe saw the canine units had already arrived, as had the FBI forensics unit. Ned Browning came over to meet Gabe as he exited his car. “Hey, Gabe.” Gabe shook the hand Ned held out. “I'm agent in charge for the FBI on this one. Looks like we have a serial killer here. The profile I did brought up a hundred similar cases in our files; we're working to narrow those down and link them to one of your two suspects." “What about the fingerprints? Have you found a match yet?” Gabe walked alongside the federal agent as they headed for the county officer in charge of the canine search unit. “No, not yet. I expect to hear from West Virginia sometime today or tomorrow. I'll bet my brand new set of golf clubs we'll get a match on one or both of these guys. No criminal is that good at obliterating evidence." Gabe nodded. He saw Tim in a Day-Glo orange vest, worn to make it easier for the searchers to keep track of each other in the gloom. In his experience, perps usually didn't hang around to get caught after they've dumped a body, so stealth wasn't a factor. “Hey, Gabe. Here's a vest. Gonna need it. Bitch of a day, ain't it? Have rain before the day is out.” Tim handed Gabe the vest and added, “Oh, that Range Rover that tried to take you out last night, we found it. It was stolen from a tourist. So far the only prints belong to the owners." “Damn it all to hell.” Gabe took the vest and put it on. “Thanks, Tim. Any idea how we're going to split up on this?" “Yeah, Ned, here, and the sheriff's deputy agreed—let the dogs and their handlers go in first. Don't want to spoil any fresh scents with a lot of new ones. Then, we'll follow in, groups of two with each man taking a side of the main trails. Here's your map. See, the ranger marked all the trails in pink. We all figured the perp wouldn't blaze any new ones; he'd just want to get in and get out." Gabe nodded and took the map Tim held out to him. Turning to Ned, who had been watching the dog units start their search, Gabe asked, “Any idea who the tip came from?" Ned shook his head. “No, the tape at the Indianapolis office recorded the call at six o'clock this morning. It came from an area code in Bulgaria. Someone's pretty smart or they just didn't want to get involved." “Bulgaria!” Gabe snorted. What's the world coming to, even anonymous tipsters were covering their tracks. Or, was it an anonymous tipster? “What did this brilliant tipster say exactly?” Ned grinned. Gabe had the feeling Ned was thinking along the same lines as he, but he'd wait until the agent committed himself. He didn't want anyone to think he was singling someone out just because he didn't like the guy. “Well, funny you should ask. I had it typed up for you; see what you think of it.” Ned handed him a single

sheet of white paper. Gabe read: Yeah, I want to report a body. I was hunting this morning, and I saw a man dumping a body of a woman. They buried her and left. Heading for French Creek, I suspect. I marked the grave with a couple of rocks. Look in the Smoky Hills area, near Ranger Station #2. I ain't giving you my name. I don't want no trouble here. Ned was watching Gabe closely as he looked up after reading the transcription. “What do you think, Ned?" “Same as you, Gabe. ‘They buried her?’ A falling out among the bad guys? Think your Darien would be the type of guy to chuck his buddy to the wolves to throw us stupid law enforcement types off the scent?" “Damn straight. Let's prove him wrong and stay on his scent. He just might be getting a little too cocky.” Gabe held out his hand to Ned. Ned, shaking on it replied, “You got it, buddy. Let's go find us some more evidence on this guy.” **** “Jake, wake up.” Darien shook his designated patsy on the shoulder. He wanted Jake out of here and in the fishing lodge he'd located before the cops found Nan's body. If they used canine units, that could be any time. He didn't want to cut it that close. “Uh, what ya want now, Dare? I'm sleepin’ here.” Jake yawned and looked up at Darien with the dazed look of the drunken psychotic. “You've got to get out of here. The cops are after us. We need to split up and blow this burg.” Darien emphasized his words by pulling Jake's clothes out of drawers and throwing them into a suitcase. “Come on, get a move on. I've arranged for a safe house for each of us. Yours is about twenty minutes from here. I laid in enough supplies. Lie low until I call you." “Wait a minute, Dare. How'd they know about us?” Darien watched as Jake's mind gradually cleared. “Someone saw us and reported it. I heard about it accidentally. I'm packed and I need to get out of here. So, move it or not. I could've just left you, you know, but I didn't." Jake fully awake and processing his danger reacted like the animal he was. He went to ground, just as Darien knew he would. Darien loaded him in the car, gave him instructions and waved him on his way. Darien's next move was into town to ask Morgan to the Cozy Nest for supper. Tomorrow, the FBI would get another anonymous tip about the murders and the name and exact whereabouts of the killer. By the time they had Jake in their custody, he'd be leaving the country. It was all arranged. If he had his way, and he intended to, he'd be leaving with a wife. A rich wife. **** The damp cool morning air had given way to a muggy overcast afternoon. Since the informant's instructions were vague and there was lots of ground and rocks to cover in the Smoky Hills area, the search was necessarily taking a while. Gabe stopped at an outcropping of boulders and sat down to study where he'd been and where he needed to go. His search partner was Tim, who had come to join him in the brief respite. “Gabe, ya want some trail mix? Felicity sent some with me; she knew we might not get a break for

lunch.” Gabe looked up and smiled at Tim. “Thanks, I'd love some. We'll break in a while. Before we started out, Ned arranged for someone from the sheriff's office to get hot food out to us if the search went more than fours hours. It's just that now.” Gabe looked at his map and then up at a spot further along the path. “I want to just check up to that large crag over there. If I'm reading the map correctly, we can then circle back around and head back to the Ranger Station and get some food." Tim came around and looked over Gabe's shoulder at the trail he marked with his finger. “Yep, looks good to me. I could eat a horse right about now." Gabe laughed and started to agree with that sentiment when he heard the hue and cry of the hounds. It was coming from up ahead, near the crag he had chosen to examine. “Let's go, Tim. This may be it." Tim loped alongside Gabe. “Well, it's either that or they found something else to rouse their interests. Lots of small game up here.” Gabe didn't bother to answer Tim, because by the time they reached the bluff, they could see the dogs, held back by their handlers, and Ned's team digging. They'd found her. Now, they would see who it was. Gabe and Tim joined the other law officers watching the grisly uncovering. They hadn't buried her very deep and scavengers had invaded some of the grave since the burial. Gabe heard Tim use his handheld radio to call in the pathologist; the ranger would escort Dr. Craig to the scene. The FBI had called him in since Persimmon County didn't have a medical doctor for a coroner. Once Craig and the crime scene techs had finished their work at the site, Craig would take the body to a local mortuary where he and the mortician, who was the elected coroner, would examine her further. There was no time to waste on this one. Evidence or not, Gabe was going to haul in those two fakers on suspicion if this was Nan. And, he knew it was. The body was wrapped in a flowered sheet. Tim pushed his way past the others to get a closer look. “That's one of my cousin's sheets. She supplies them to all the inns and such. There should be a marking in permanent ink on the label. A happy face." One of the diggers looked at the edges of the sheet and found the label. “Yep, here it is." Gabe smiled. Their first mistake. The sheet connects the killers to the Cozy Inn and there were only two people left there that he knew of. Gotcha. The photographers took pictures from all angles and of the label before they unwrapped the body. It was Nan. Gabe breathed out a blasphemy. They'd hurt her bad—the bastards. “Jesus Christ.” Tim swore, and Gabe heard several of the other men concur. Nan's body was naked and not a single inch that he could see was left unmarked. She'd been cut, beaten and burned. Gabe found himself struggling to control the urge to call Morgan just to see if she were safe. He couldn't talk to her now; he wouldn't defile her ears with the abomination he was seeing. Darien and Jake would pay for this. “Damn, Gabe. Is a sheet and the fact she was living with them going to be enough to hold them?” Tim voiced Gabe's concerns. The law didn't always work the way he wanted it to, but it was better then no law. This time he just wanted to take care of the problem—like a black ops, no rules, just win. Gabe knew he was good at winning.

“Ned, what do you think? Should we haul their asses in for questioning?” Gabe turned to the titular leader of this operation. As soon as they called in the FBI for the profile, it became a dual jurisdiction case; the very real possibility that these two animals had done their sick little games in other jurisdictions had upped the ante on the legal game of poker. This time the stakes were women's lives; the rules were the Feds’ rules, the Feds’ standards of evidence and probable cause. “Damn, Gabe. Maybe yes, and maybe no. Another twenty-four hours and we may be able to connect up several other cases. Pull in all the evidence on those, compare itineraries to the suspects and, hope to God, to have some fingerprint ID to connect them to some crime, any crime, so we can hold them until we can get DNA evidence on the semen." “Jesus, they could get away with this.” Gabe swore. “Well, we do know she lived with them, so I say we go have a nice talk with Darien and Jake and see where they say they were last night. We definitely have cause to search the bed and breakfast because a crime victim lived there and that sheet came from there." Gabe turned to Tim. “Call your cousin. Get her to identify that sheet and use her statement to get us a warrant for the whole inn. I want to check the whole damn place—tear it apart if we have to. He'll be expecting us, so let's make him sweat. We'll go at suppertime." Tim nodded and ran off to begin his assignment. As Gabe and Ned watched the men load Nan's body on a stretcher, for the trip back down the escarpment, Gabe growled, “You want to go with me and have a look see at the devil?" Ned looking grim, replied, “You couldn't keep me away." **** Darien saw Morgan's only customer leave. He didn't want any witnesses to his invitation. If he worked this right, he might be able to leave tonight with the fair Morgan in tow. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. He had his itinerary all planned out, private plane to Las Vegas, then LAX, Hawaii, Fiji and finally the Cook Islands. He was packed and his bags were at the private airport ready to go. He'd paid the pilot enough to be on call—told him it was an elopement. The guy bought it. But, first, he had to get Morgan to where he could either seduce her or hypnotize her into going. He'd rather she'd come willingly, but had a backup plan just in case. Las Vegas was the easy part; it was what he planned for them there that might entail the backup plan. He knew she hadn't known him long enough to even consider marrying him, but Vegas was included only for that reason. He was taking a chance but then no one would connect him to a married couple leaving the United States for their honeymoon. It was a great cover and a wonderful way to start his new life. Entering the shop, Darien smiled at the picture she made as she arranged a bouquet of flowers. Yes, she was definitely worthy of his attentions. Maybe he'd even keep her long enough to father a few children. If, as he suspected, she too, had psi abilities, just think what their children might be like. She had good genes. “Oh, Darien. Hello.” Morgan was blushing. What a lady. Not like Nan, the slut, who'd put it out for anyone. If Morgan had been with many lovers, he'd be very surprised. She looked untouched, virginal. Maybe, she was still innocent. Darien's manhood jutted out against his loose trousers. He needed to get back in control. He didn't want to scare her. “Morgan, my dear. You are a ray of sunshine on this dreary day.” Darien reached for her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. “You humble me with your beauty."

“Why, thank you, Darien. Is there something I can do for you?” Darien watched as Morgan walked behind the counter and busied herself with some rocks in a bowl. She was nervous. He might have to use some of the nitrous oxide on her this evening to calm her down a bit. Seduction and a nervous filly didn't mix. “I was wondering if you would honor me by joining me for dinner this evening. Say around five o'clock? Brother Jacob left to visit his sick mother and took Nan with him to share the driving, so I'm all alone.” Now, he'd see if she was interested in him at all. He would be able to sense her receptiveness to his invitation immediately. “I'd love to! May I bring something?” Morgan smiled at him. And he knew; she wanted to visit him. In his book, any woman who visited a man alone in his residence was asking for more. Well, he was definitely prepared to give her more than she'd ever dreamed of. “I'll see you then, my dear.” Darien left with a slight wave of his hand. **** Morgan stayed where she stood until Darien had driven off, then she ran to the restroom and threw up. Scrubbing her hands furiously with tea tree soap, she muttered fortifying phrases under her breath. “You can do this. You have to do this. Think of Missy. Think of Gabe. Think of Willie and those others. You are the only one who can put him away." Looking in the mirror over the sink, she ran a wet washcloth over her flushed face. “Morgan Tarrant, for once in your life, you can not run away. Not from your powers, not from your fears, not from your chance at a future. The line is drawn and you will follow through with this. You can't do anything else.” Morgan nodded abruptly. She'd sup with the devil, but she'd be the one in control. He only received what she chose for him to receive. She was more than a match for him. And, maybe, just maybe, he would let something slip, which would give Gabe and the others the lead to the physical evidence they needed. Piece of cake. Morgan, Morgan. Marie Antoinette had this thing about cake, also, and see where it got her. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO "Strength" Courage and determination in order to succeed. Gabe, Ned and Tim checked in at the police station before heading out to the Cozy Nest. A very excited chief hustled out to meet them waving a sheet of paper in his hand. “We got one of the bastards! NCIC found a match on our boy Jake." Gabe took the paper from the chief and saw it was a warrant for one Jake Devlin, wanted in New York State. Gabe looked up at his boss. “An ex-con? What was he serving time for?" The chief cackled. “The s-o-b is a repeat sex offender, and he violated his parole. Got up to his old tricks, this time with a minor. New York wants him bad." “It fits,” Ned said looking over Gabe's shoulder at the warrant faxed by the Hamilton County, New York sheriff. “I'll also have the Bureau run him." Gabe handed Ned the sheet so the agent could contact his people. “We'll serve the warrant tonight. Bet Jake's semen is found in our dead women."

The chief shook his head, “I ain't taking that bet; it's a sure thing. Too damn coincidental to have a sex offender in the area and not have him be the rapist we're looking for. Only thing is, his rap sheet, which is a mile long, didn't indicate this guy was a murderer. Just a sicko—likes to mark his victims, not kill them." “Well, he may have had help or new motivations. Rape and murder are just short steps from each other, Chief.” Gabe turned as he heard Ned yell from the station. “They've got a lead on Jake. Looks like he tried to make a run for it. He's hiding out at a place called Loon Lake in a fishing lodge." “Let's go get him,” Gabe growled. “Tim, you go to the Cozy Nest and keep an eye on our boy Darien, just in case he's trying to do an end around." “Gotcha, Gabe.” **** The chintz-bedecked dining room of the Cozy Nest looked less tacky by candlelight. From somewhere in the house, Morgan heard the sensual and soothing tones of smooth jazz. The catered dinner had been delicious, what little she could eat of it. The devil had set the mood, but for what? Morgan sat across from Darien. She kept up her end of small talk through dessert, but had finally run out of general topics and gossip. The devil sat across from her and smiled the whole time. For some reason, he was harder to read tonight. However, she could sense his excitement; whether it was because he was sexually aroused—she'd have to be blind not to see the arousal tenting the napkin in his lap—or he was up to something. She was worried it was the latter. Jake and Nan weren't visiting Jake's mother—that's for sure. Was Jake dead, too? Was Darien getting ready to run? Was this the time she was to be tested? “Morgan, my dear, you are very entertaining, but I have some news. I've been called away—another town I've visited in the recent past has need of me and I must go to tend my flock." Morgan's gasp of dismay was unfeigned. He's going to get away, again! Well, that's the best thing I've heard in a while. Good riddance to bad rubbish. She had to stop him—or go with him. Not a good idea. We are not cops. Call Gabe. She would call Gabe—from wherever Darien ran. That's not what I meant and you know it. “Morgan, my dear, you seem to be in shock? Are you saddened that I'm leaving?" Morgan looked at the fake prophet with his false concern and prepared to lie, “Yes, I am. I've come to care for you, and now that I'm just getting the courage to approach you, well ... you're leaving.” Morgan looked down at her hands, hoping to convey some semblance of embarrassment at being so forward. If they gave Academy awards for lying to murderers, she'd win. “My dear, you surprise and please me with your feelings.”

Morgan saw the devil get up and approach her. Her stomach clenched, threatening to give up the little dinner she had eaten. God, help me to be strong. Darien reached out for her, pulling her up into his arms. “I may have been gifted with special powers but at the end of the day, I'm just a man. A man who has been alone too long.” Darien lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “I've felt an attraction for you since I first saw you. Please say you feel the same." Morgan nodded; she couldn't have replied if her life depended on it. Well, it just might. Morgan closed her eyes as Darien took her lips. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't this. This was worse. The images were those of her worst nightmare. Unlike Gabe's kisses, which were full of joy and light, Darien's kiss was full of darkness and pure evil. Morgan screamed with the pain and as he released her lips with his cry of triumph, she fainted dead away into the arms of the Devil. **** Darien gazed at the unconscious woman in his arms. It was a sign. She'd definitely given off vibes of disappointment when he'd announced his departure. That had been good enough for him; she'd committed herself. Her swoon played in to his plans. Not bothering to turn off the lights or lock the doors, he carried his prize to a rental car. The airfield was only twenty minutes away. He pulled a small canister of nitrous oxide from his bag. It would keep her anaesthetized until they were airborne. She'd be unable to change her mind then; if he had to, he'd drug her. She was his. Buckling Morgan into the passenger seat, he weighed her breasts in his hands. He couldn't wait to taste the melon shaped treasures. Licking her lips, he groaned. Her kiss was everything he'd expected. He'd climaxed just from kissing her. Damn, he couldn't wait to screw her. Well, enough time to enjoy her when they got airborne. Conscious or not, he couldn't wait to make her his. One last thing he needed to do—set the dogs loose on Jake. He laughed as he punched in the number for the police station—he was going to make it. **** The twenty-minute trip up the hill took half that with Gabe driving Ned's four wheel drive. Gabe glanced at the federal agent, who was holding on, while the chief exhorted him to go faster. Gabe laughed aloud. With any luck, they'd surprise the bastard, capture him, then go relieve Tim of babysitting duty at the Cozy Nest. Tonight should see the end of the nightmare. Parking down the hill out of sight of the lodge, Gabe outlined the plan of attack. “Okay, Chief. You find shelter, yell at him to come out and give himself up. I'll circle around to the back and get in to surprise him. Ned, you approach from the side, get in and back me up. The other side is over the water. If he goes out that way, I'll get him. Everyone clear on what they're doing?” The two men nodded. Gabe and Ned started up the hill using the pine trees and rocks as cover. Gabe saluted Ned as he left him at the side window. Circling around to the back, he found a window to what looked to be a storage room. Opening it, he slid over the sill like quicksilver. Moving to the door in the room, he waited for the chief's voice. The diversion would allow him to get to Jake before he figured out what was going on.

“Jake Devlin. This here is Chief Buford Byrd of the French Creek Police. I've a warrant for your arrest and I ask that you come out peacefully with your hands up." Gabe listened for a sound from the cabin. Nothing. Opening the door wider, Gabe slipped through and moved silently toward the front. Sensing movement from the side, he turned and halted his attack in time. It was Ned. Grinning at the shocked look on the agent's face, he motioned him to follow. Peering into the brightly-lit living room, Gabe grimaced at the sight of Jake lying in a pool of vomit and blood on the braided rug. He was dead. “Poison?” Ned voiced Gabe's question. Gabe nodded. “Yeah, looks like Darien was eliminating all witnesses.” Gabe reached down and felt for a pulse—none—he hadn't expected any, but had checked as a matter of form. “Let's go tell the chief.” Gabe headed for the door and was about to open it when the chief saved him the trouble. The chief almost fell into the room. Glancing at the awful sight, he asked, “He dead?” Gabe nodded. “Well, we've got a bigger problem. Tim said he got to the Cozy Nest and all the lights were on and the door wide open. Darien's gone." Gabe swore. “Tim have any idea how long?" The chief didn't answer, just shook his head and looked at Gabe with a deadly look in his eye, “Son, Morgan's car was there. She's not anywhere to be found. Tim called and had your place, hers and the shop checked." Gabe felt his blood run cold. The bastard had her. He was dead. “Gabe, there's more." “What?” Gabe growled, his mind on finding the animal that took his mate, then maiming and killing him slowly. “Tim got a call. The FBI in Indy. Seems Darien's fingerprints were on file with the Army. He's a deserter wanted for multiple murders, including those of his entire unit. He was a Ranger." “Well, he's about to take on a very deadly SEAL,” Gabe intoned. “No one steals my woman and gets away with it. No one." **** Morgan slowly became aware of her surroundings. She was on a plane—a jet by the sound of it. Sitting up, she said under her breath, “Darien!” He'd kissed her and she'd fainted from the degradation of it. He must have brought her here, but where was he taking her? As she looked around, Morgan realized she was in a small bedroom area. Must be a private jet. Quietly, she moved from the bed and tiptoed to the door. On the other side, she could hear Darien speaking to someone—the pilot? “How long will it take us to get to Vegas?" “Three hours, Mr. Storm. Why don't you take advantage of the appetizers and liquor stocked in the refreshment center? There is also a selection of movies, if you and your lady would like to watch some."

“No, thank you, captain. My lady is resting; I'm thinking about going back and joining her.” “I understand, sir.” The captain chuckled. “Want to join the seven mile high club, right?" “Yes, that's the idea. See that we aren't disturbed.” Darien joined the captain in the licentious laughter. Morgan swore. He was going to try to sleep with her. Wishful thinking on the just sleeping part. Morgan crept back to the bed and tried to arrange herself as he'd left her. If she'd ever needed a miracle, she needed one now. She didn't think an unconscious woman would keep Darien from taking what he wanted. As horrible as his kiss was, his forcing sex on her would probably kill her. He was coming! She closed her eyes just as he entered the room. Striving to keep her breathing calm, she listened as Darien walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge. She could feel the heat from his thigh against her buttocks. It took all her control not to move and reveal that she was faking sleep. Morgan felt him pull the blanket back and climb in next to her. Her skin crawled as he pulled her against his body spoon fashion. Her stomach heaved as he kissed the nape of her neck and fondled her ass cheeks where they curved into his body. She cringed when those same hands moved around her and covered her breasts as he gathered her even more closely to him. Hearing him let out a gusty groan, she waited for his next move—sure that he was going to attempt to enter her from behind. Instead, she heard him snoring into her neck. He'd fallen asleep. Thank you, God. Well, it's a temporary reprieve, Morgan, what are you going to do when we get to Vegas? **** Morgan heard the lion snoring before she saw him. “Well, my dear, are you ready for the ride?” The old man moved to a point just beyond the patch of wildflowers on which the lion reposed. “It's time? How exactly do I ride the lion?" The old man laughed. “It's a metaphor, my dear. When you've effectively nullified the lion's power over you and your loved ones, then you'll have succeeded. But, be careful, your man must be here. You'll need his help to subdue the lion in the end." “Gabe? How do I get Gabe here." The old man fading away, smiled, “Reach out and touch him, Morgan. You both have the gift— use it." **** Gabe paced the confines of the chief's office for the hundredth time. “Sit down, Gabe, save your strength. You'll need it when we get a lead on where they went.” Gabe looked at his boss who had settled his girth into his leather desk chair and was rocking, watching him pace. How can he just sit there? Morgan was in danger. “He's got her, Chief. How can I rest? She could be hurt—or worse.” Gabe hit the wall leaving a dent in

the sheet rock. “I'll kill him." “We've got to find him first, boy. Now, sit and stop damaging public property! Save your strength for hitting out at the scum bucket when we find him,” barked the chief. Both men looked up as Ned came rushing in from the outer office. “We've got them! They took off from a private airfield about thirty minutes from here. The pilot was sitting around and told one of the hanger attendants that he was flying a high roller and his bride-to-be to Vegas." “Vegas! What's he going there for?” Gabe yelled. “I figured he'd head out of the country with her." Ned shrugged. “All I know is the pilot filed a flight plan, and so far he's on it. He's using a transponder, we've got him on the scope at Indy just being passed off to Memphis. We'll be able to follow him as he passes over each airport along the way. I've got a jet coming to pick us up at the same airport—we'll be an hour or so behind them. We can radio ahead and have Vegas FBI meet the plane." Gabe leapt up, “Well, what are we standing around here for. Let's go get my woman." **** Morgan woke with a start. How could she let down her guard that way? Darien's psi probing must have a more draining effect on her than she thought. She had been making every effort not to allow him in her mind; she needed to stay alert. He might catch a transient thought now and then if she relaxed. Lying quietly, still encircled by the arms of the devil, she plotted. She had to get to a phone. She might only get one chance, so she needed to wait until she had enough information on where they were going to stay before she called the police. “Morgan, my dear, how are you feeling? You scared me, my love, passing out that way.” Darien's sibilant whisper brushed past her ear causing her to shiver in revulsion. Morgan, we're on—break a leg. Pushing up and out of his arms, she turned and shoved her hair out of her eyes. “Uh, what happened? Is this a plane? Where are you taking me?” Morgan sounded convincingly weak with a tinge of hysteria creeping in. Well, we aren't entirely acting here, toots. I am hysterical. Darien reached to pull her to him for a kiss; Morgan reached for inner reserves, she couldn't afford to faint again. Turning her face at the last minute, his kiss caught her cheek. Even that slight contact threatened her hard won control. She could be in lots of trouble if she didn't throw the devil off his game plan—her complete and total surrender to him body and soul. “Oh, my dear, don't be shy. Our first kiss was so powerful, so wonderful, I just wanted to see if I could rekindle the magic, the sparks, we create." “I'm scared, Darien. I've never felt that way before.” Well, ain't that the truth. “Morgan, look at me, my flower.” Darien lifted her face so she was looking him in the eyes. She gasped at the foul smoke she saw in the depths of his soulless eyes. “You are safe with me. Don't you remember, my darling? You agreed to be my bride. We'll be landing in Vegas in a few minutes and be married as soon as possible."

Oh no, we won't. Tell him Morgan. “Darien? This is so sudden, I ... uh...” Think stupid, how could she stall him long enough to get a message to the police—to Gabe? Tears should do it. Men can't handle tears. Truth be told, Morgan felt like crying any way. “I ... uh.” She started to cry, great gulping sobs. “What's wrong, Morgan? Tell me, maybe I can fix it.” As with all men everywhere, even the devil was helpless when faced with an hysterical woman. “I was ... well I've always wanted...” Morgan sniffed audibly and chanced a look at the man before her; he was confused, but she could read him again. She sensed his rising irritation. “I've always wanted to have a white wedding with flowers, music and everything. Las Vegas seems so tacky.” The last came out sounding like a wail. Morgan sensed Darien's relief—she wasn't fighting him, she just wanted something—he could handle that. “Well, my dear, you'll have that dress, the flowers and the music. We'll find the nicest wedding chapel, make the arrangements, and go buy you what you need. I just couldn't wait to make you mine, so I swept you off without packing clothes or anything.” Darien gripped Morgan's arms tightly and asked, “I wasn't wrong, was I? You did want to come with me, didn't you?” Closing her eyes, Morgan nodded. She couldn't watch the self-satisfied smirk, she knew would be covering Darien's face. She felt Darien pick her up, carry her into the front of the plane's cabin and lower her into a seat. As he fastened her in for the landing, he brushed her lips with his. “Anything you want, my love. I can give you everything you'll ever want or need. You made the correct choice by coming with me." Oh Gabe, Morgan thought, I love you. I never should have gone to dinner with the devil. Is this where I say I told you so? **** Gabe tried to catch a catnap on the plane, but couldn't seem to relax. The adrenalin pumped through his veins so fast, he could have flown to Vegas without the plane. Glancing over at Ned, he saw the FBI agent wasn't sleeping either, although the chief and Tim were doing pretty good jobs imitating sawmills in the row behind him. “Ned,” Gabe said, “don't get in my way; he's mine." “Can't let you do that, buddy. You know that.” “Yes, you can. This guy's an ex-Ranger; I know the type—I'm the type. He could take a whole unit of FBI agents down and not break a sweat." Ned sat up and glared at Gabe. “I think we're a lot tougher than you think, Gabe. I'm not letting you go after him alone. I'll be there—backing you up. Count on it." Gabe cracked what pretended to be a smile, “You aren't bad, for a Fed." Ned grinned and nodded. “Yeah, that's what I've been told.” Ned hesitated, then said, “Gabe, she's going to be okay. If he'd wanted to kill her, he wouldn't have taken her with him. She's got something he

wants or needs. As long as he doesn't get it, she'll be okay." Gabe was surprised at Ned's insight. Maybe he'd better prepare him for what could be a strange search for Morgan. “Uh, Ned. There's something you need to know...” Gabe felt a fleeting thought pass through his mind like a shooting star leaving a trail of charged particles behind, imprinting a message in his head. Morgan? I love you, Gabe. I never should have gone to dinner with the devil. “Damn right, you shouldn't!” growled Gabe. The thought had been so clear he couldn't believe she wasn't on the plane with him. “Gabe? You okay?” Gabe looked over at Ned who was watching him as if he had just grown another head. “She's alive and okay. I'm gonna beat her cute little butt for not following my instructions, though.” Gabe grinned. “Gabe, are you nuts? What are you talking about? Who were you talking to?" “Morgan, I just felt, well no, heard is more like it. I just heard her voice in my head. She's okay. She loves me and is already regretting the stupid move she made in allowing herself to get abducted by Darien." Ned reached across the aisle and felt Gabe's forehead, “Are you sick or something? Morgan is just about now landing in Vegas—you can't hear her—she's not here!" Gabe pushed Ned's hand away and laughed, “Well, I was starting to tell you about Morgan. You see, she's psychic and for some reason, I'm tuned in to her in a big way." Ned sat back in his seat and just stared at Gabe. He could almost sense the wheels moving as Ned examined the statement from every possible angle and interpretation. Finally, Ned said, “Okay.” Then, he closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get there. This should be an interesting night." Gabe laughed and shook his head in disbelief. Ned was just too cool for a Fed. He'd have made a great SEAL. Adaptability and thinking out of the box were absolute requirements in the field. Settling back in his seat, Gabe thought, Ned is right, this should be a very interesting night. It wasn't every night a man got to fight Satan for all the marbles. It was a fight Gabe was determined to win. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE "The Tower"—Reversed Oppression and imprisonment. Morgan had to give the devil his due—he was organized and knew how to travel first class. The landing was smooth. As she left the small plane, she realized they had landed at a private airport. Turning she saw Darien shake the hand of the pilot and caught the fact more money had changed hands. Straining to catch what they were saying she got the impression Darien was paying the man to stick around. So, he was avoiding commercial flights. But, didn't private pilots have to file flight plans to leave the country? She thought she'd read something about that. There couldn't be that many little airports around Las Vegas could there? If she could figure out where this was, she could warn the police so Darien wouldn't get away. Morgan hoped to be out of Darien's control before he felt the need to flee the

country. Morgan watched Darien walk toward her. Gone was the saintly air of the Messiah—the attitude now was cocky and self-assured—Darien's real persona was finally leaching through the mask he had chosen to wear for the outside world. “My dear, our limo awaits.” Morgan turned as a white stretch limo pulled on to the tarmac and headed toward them. As he helped her into the back, he asked, “Do you have a preference for hotels?" Morgan thanked God for this chance. She'd only stayed in Las Vegas once and it had been at the Flamingo Hilton. Since she was familiar with that hotel and the surrounding area, she'd choose it. It would give her a better chance of getting away from him if she knew the territory. Smiling at the man settling himself next to her, far too closely for her peace of mind, she answered, “I've always wanted to stay at the Flamingo. I hear that they have a beautiful wedding chapel in their garden area." Darien smiled as he pulled her into his arms. Nuzzling and giving her neck nibbling little kisses, he said, “The Flamingo it is, then.” He reached for the intercom and buzzed the driver. “The Flamingo Hilton. Take the scenic route and put up the privacy screen, please." The driver, glancing in his review mirror, smiled back at Morgan and Darien. “Yes, sir." Morgan closed her eyes as the black screen covered the only thing standing between her and more unwanted lovemaking from Darien. Desperate, she grabbed at the only chip she had on the table. “Darien, please. You're embarrassing me. He'll think we're making out back here.” Morgan turned away from the man trying to read her thoughts. His power was only tapping at her wall. Opening up she let out a stray thought of fear—virginal fear. “My flower, so shy. Are you a virgin, Morgan?” Gotcha, she thought. Turning back, Morgan looked at the gloating bum through slightly closed eyes. Nodding, she answered, “Yes, I am. I fainted back in Indiana because it was all ... well, it was just too much. Please go slowly. I'm sure I'll catch on with you as my teacher." Smell the shit you're shoveling, Morgan. Atta girl. **** Darien felt his already tumescent cock grow twice again as hard. A virgin! Missy had been a virgin when he took her and he could have fucked her all night. Right here, he had everything he had ever wanted or needed in a woman—money, looks, and virginity. Damn, a lucky star had been smiling on him when he chose to go to French Creek, Indiana. Well, he could grant her a few hours reprieve. He wanted the first time to be in a bed with lots of privacy—he knew it would take a damn long time before he'd want to leave her once he got started. Calling the driver, he countermanded his last instructions, “Driver, take us straight to the Flamingo. Step on it." Placing his arm around Morgan's shoulders, he sensed her discomfort at being touched. She'd get used to it.

“Darien, you said something about getting me some clothes? Also, I'm hungry." Darien smiled down at the delectable morsel nestled against his body. He'd enjoy buying clothes for her, but not as much as he would enjoy taking them off her. He might just have to keep her naked all the time when they got to the Cook Islands and the private island he was in the process of purchasing. He gloated at the thought of Morgan, naked, at his beck and call. A fantasy right out of a French erotic novel. “Let me get you some coffee and a pastry. I had the driver stock the bar so we could have a light breakfast on the way to the hotel. Once we check into the suite and make the arrangements for our ceremony, we'll go shopping. The Forum Shops should have enough choices." “Is it a long drive into Las Vegas?" Darien handed Morgan a cup of coffee and watched her sip the liquid. She had gorgeous full lips. The thought of them on his body stirred him once again. It would be worth the wait. “About fifty minutes or so, depending on traffic. I've used the airport before." “Oh, did you do revivals in the Las Vegas area?" Damn, Darien thought, she has me so enthralled I forgot my role. “Morgan, remember I explained to you I'm human just as all other men?” Darien saw her nod, wide-eyed. “Well, I, too, have been a sinner. I gambled, drank and, yes, womanized. Vegas is my hometown. Before we go to our new life, I wanted to come home to get married. We'll never come back here, ever. I'm taking us to a place where we'll be safe from the anarchy which will reign after the Apocalypse." Darien watched Morgan as she absorbed the line of crap he'd just fed her. He just needed her to believe him long enough to get married and out of the country. After that, she was his. It was pretty hard to get off an island in the middle of nowhere without help. And the natives on his island would be loyal to him— or else. Just as Morgan would be loyal to him—or else. “Will we be the only people who are safe, Darien?" “No, my love. There will be others who will follow us there. We'll take care of them together. Just think, we'll be the founders of the new race of humans who populate the Earth after Armageddon—the chosen. You, a beautiful, and more innocent, Eve and me. Our progeny will rule the world.” Darien reached out, stroked Morgan's hair, and took her cup. He caught her little gasp of surprise with his lips. Seeking the depths of her mouth, he stroked her tongue with his, mimicking the movement his turgid member wanted to make but couldn't under the present circumstances. Soon, he assured himself, soon he would have this woman in every way feasible—and maybe some he hadn't even thought of yet. His psi power called to the power he sensed in her. Oh yes, she would rule the world by his side—or else. **** Gabe, Ned and the others disembarked on the tarmac in a secured area of the airport. Waiting to meet them were local FBI agents. Gabe stalked over to the man who looked to be in charge and growled, “Well, did they land? Where are they?" Ned came up behind Gabe and placed his hand on Gabe's shoulder. “Calm down, Gabe. Let me handle this."

“I'm agent Ned Browning of the Indianapolis office. Have you any word on the plane we've had the FAA tracking?" Gabe watched as the man he'd addressed reached out and shook Ned's hand. “Agent Brent Muldoon. Sorry to say, controllers at Vegas lost the plane when it flew in under the ceiling requirements. The closest they could come is that it landed somewhere in the desert near the western foothills. Lots of flat land and small airstrips out there that could handle a small jet like that." Gabe cursed. “So, what you're saying is you don't know where in the hell she is." All Gabe got in response was a curt nod and a glare. Swearing once again, he turned to Ned, “What are we going to do now?" “We're going to call in other agencies such as the county sheriffs and state police to canvas those areas, while we concentrate on Vegas. I've got a gut feeling he's into glitz—we'll get people on the phones, calling all the hotels, ask questions. We'll find them, Gabe. You've got to believe that." Gabe nodded. Police work might do it, but he wasn't going to rely on that. Concentrating, he sent a message using the link he had with Morgan. If she had reached him in the air, she should be able to receive him now. Or, at least, he hoped so. Morgan, babe, send me some more messages, sweetheart. Tell me where you are. I'm in Vegas. Gabe waited, hoping against hope, she'd receive his attempt to communicate. He knew she was the powerful psychic, not him. He was too new to this method of communication. Maybe the mental link hadn't fully developed yet. Well, it was all he had. Vegas was a big town—hundreds of hotels. They could be here and gone before the police could find somebody who'd seen them. He'd keep sending, hoping Morgan would receive. “Uh, Gabe, we're going.” Tim Brown's words brought Gabe back to his surroundings. “Did you sense her? You looked like you were a million miles away there for a moment." Gabe shook his head and looked at Tim. He saw empathy mixed with hope in Tim's eyes. “No. I'm not sure how we link. It just happens.” Shaking off a feeling that time was running out, in a raspy voice Gabe said, “Let's go. We're not getting anything accomplished standing around here." Gabe strode off to where the chief and Ned awaited the two men. The hope he'd felt on the plane when Morgan's voice had sounded in his head was dwindling; thus, he would fall back on what he did best— hunt. **** The suite the hotel had given them was decadently luxurious. If Gabe had been the man standing beside her, Morgan knew she'd not be looking forward to spending the evening alone on the oversized king bed with the mirrors all around. Instead, she was scrambling to think of ways of putting the fiend next to her off long enough to alert the police or get away—or both. Morgan watched as Darien tipped the bellman, who had brought up the bags Darien brought with him. She could feel the excitement roll out of Darien. So aroused was he that she could smell his lust. She avoided looking below his belt; she didn't want him to think she was interested in his profane tool. God, she was going to throw up just thinking about his hands on her. She knew of four women this monster had killed, or caused to be killed. Coughing to cover her gagging, she went into the restroom where more mirrors, gold and marble

abounded. She filled a glass with water and washed the acrid taste of bile, and the burning sensation it had left in its path, from her mouth and throat. When satisfied she wouldn't bring up her coffee and pastry breakfast, she closed her eyes against the too-bright bathroom and sipped some of the water to settle her stomach. “Are you okay?” Morgan looked into the mirror over the sink and saw the concerned reflection of the man who made her want to vomit. “Yes, uh, flying doesn't agree with me ... I guess the coffee and pastry weren't the right thing to eat to settle my stomach.” Thinking quickly, Morgan continued, “I'll be better after a brief rest. Why don't you arrange our nuptials while I take a catnap? Then, we could have some lunch and go shopping." Darien slid into the room. Reaching out he stroked the side of her warm cheek—or was his finger ice cold? “Yes, you do look flushed. We don't want you sick—not on your wedding day. Let's tuck you in. I'll use the sitting room to make the arrangements. Would lunch at one be okay?" Morgan allowed herself to be led into the bedroom. Darien pulled the down comforter back to expose ivory silk sheets. Patting the bed, he motioned for her to sit on the edge. Morgan sat. Darien stooped to remove her shoes. As he took first one then the other off, he paused between them to massage her foot. “Such lovely feet. We'll have to get you a pedicure while we're out. I'll make those arrangements, also." Oh yeah, Morgan. Not only is he a murderer and a rapist—he's got a foot fetish. Get us out of here! Once her feet were bare, she attempted to swing them up under the covers, but was stopped by Darien. “Now, my dear, can't have you sleeping and wrinkling your clothes any more than they already are. Why don't we take them off and I can have the hotel get them laundered and pressed. You wouldn't want to look like an unmade bed, would you, when we have lunch and go shopping?" We're in trouble now. Morgan shook her head. What else could she do? Waves of lust came off of the animal in heat as he began to unbutton her blouse. As he smoothed the material away from her breasts, she bit her lip to hold back the scream that threatened to erupt. She thought she had succeeded until he swept in and brushed his lips over the tops of her breasts exposed by her bra. The squeal she emitted made him smile. “Like that, do we? Sensitive breasts. I'll make a note of that.” He laughed in what she was sure he thought was a lover-like way, but made her want to puke. Removing her blouse fully, he reached for the opening of her jeans, unfastened them and pulled them off. She lay on the bed in her panties and bra. Darien licked his lips, but did nothing more. Morgan sighed. He was going to wait. She knew his motives weren't pure, but any reprieve was better than none. She'd thought she could sleep with the devil in order to get proof against him; now, she knew she'd overestimated her fortitude. She had to get to a phone; she knew now the old man was right—she couldn't succeed in riding the lion alone—she needed help. She needed Gabe. Gabe, I need you. She wished she'd thought of this back in Indiana. **** Gabe watched hotel after hotel slide by—each one glitzier than the last. Only in Las Vegas could the Statue of Liberty stand next to the Great Sphinx and overlook the Eiffel Tower with the screams of people riding the Coney Island roller coaster as background music. Gabe, I need you.

Jerking in his seatbelt, Gabe looked around him. Was Morgan in one of these structural icons of tackiness? “What is it, Gabe? Did you see something?” The chief's gravelly-voiced question cut through Gabe's hazy attempts at locating the source of the message replaying itself in his mind like a mantra. Gabe, I need you. “It's Morgan. She's here somewhere." “How do you know?” Ned asked from the front seat. “You heard her on the plane over Kansas, too." Gabe shook his head as if he could shake off the repetitive message. “I don't know it's different. I can't explain it. The best I can tell you is this time I also got a sense of touch from it like she was reaching out for me ... Ah, hell, I don't know.” Gabe turned and looked out the window at the last of the hotels on the strip as they headed for the federal building downtown where the agents had set up a command post. “She's out there somewhere alone with that bastard—she's scared and she needs me. And, I don't know how to find her." “Well, boy, we'll help you find her. But if I was you, I'd keep that extra something you've got going with Morgan turned on—because with the amount of people and hotels in this city to check out, we're going to need whatever edge we can get.” Gabe looked at the chief and nodded. Help me, Morgan. Show me where you are. Gabe jerked. Mirrors, large bed and silk sheets. “She's here all right. I just got an image of a hotel room." Brent Muldoon looked in the rear view mirror as he drove, “Well, hell, Kreskin, that description would cover most of the hotels in this town—and the bordellos outside of town." Gabe speared the back of Muldoon's head with a sharp look as he gritted out, “Don't push me, Muldoon. I can't explain why Morgan and I are connected this way, but you'd damn well better believe me when I tell you not to become a problem with me. Because I don't think you'd like the way I handle problems." Muldoon jerked. Gabe could tell the agent was angry, but he also could hear Ned whispering to the fellow agent to calm down. When Ned told the man Gabe had been a SEAL, the anger dissipated and turned into something else—caution? Well, he'd better be. Gabe was pissed. The last time he was this pissed he'd taken on a band of terrorists, all ten of them, single handedly. He survived; they hadn't. Ned poked Muldoon. Gabe waited. “Uh, I'm sorry, Detective Walsh. My staff will help you in whatever way we can." Gabe remained silent—even when the chief jabbed him in the ribs and whispered harshly, “Accept the man's apology, boy.” Muldoon was a control freak—not a team player—just the kind of guy who could get Morgan killed. He'd apologize after Morgan was safe in his arms—not before. The chief swore—something about “dang mule-headed younguns” right before he offered an olive branch on Gabe's behalf. “My detective is very concerned about his lady, Agent Muldoon. We'll all need to work together to see she gets safely back where she belongs. We appreciate any help you can give us.

Thank you." Gabe threw his boss an angry glance; the chief not at all intimidated just shrugged. Gabe had to give the old coot credit; his angry glances had backed down many a gang member on the streets of Detroit. Staring out the window, he smiled grimly—right now the only person he wanted in his sight was Darien— Muldoon and his ego were minor problems. If they became major ones, he would eliminate them—but nothing was going to keep him from finding Morgan and putting an end to the threat of Darien once and for all. **** Morgan woke from her nap. Darien had not left the suite. She'd no chance to use the phone, even the one in the bathroom, without him hearing her. So, she'd taken a nap. She knew he wouldn't attack her while she slept. For what he wanted, he wanted her wide-awake. Also, she knew she needed her rest to keep all her wits about her so she could make a break for it when they went out shopping. Her clothes, cleaned and pressed, were laid out on the end of the bed. He'd come in while she'd been asleep. She shivered at the idea of him standing and watching her while she was helpless. Taking her clothes, she went into the bathroom and took a sponge bath before she dressed. “You could have taken a shower. I'd have waited." Darien's voice startled her. Damn, he moved quietly. She'd need to remember that. Buttoning up her blouse, she then pulled on her jeans as quickly as she could. “Don't be shy, Morgan. You have a beautiful body—one made for loving." I think we should puke this time. Okay, not enough of a threat yet? Then, promise me we'll puke if he puts any part of his body where it doesn't belong. Please? Morgan turned and attempted what she hoped was a shy smile and not a grimace of revulsion. “I'm sorry. I'm just not used to being undressed around a man." Darien smiled and in what could only be called an unctuous tone said, “You will. I intend to see a lot of your sexy body over the next few days. By that time, you'll be very comfortable in your skin." Morgan, aghast at the thought, steered the conversation to less upsetting matters, “Are we going to eat now?” Are we going somewhere where I can get to a phone? “Yes, we'll have lunch at Spago's at the mall. Then, we'll go to Versace and Armani. Only the best for you, my dear." Morgan said nothing. She needed to get away and shopping with the changing rooms would be one way of making an escape. She just smiled and allowed him to lead her from the room. **** Darien felt he was controlling his lust well, but he could still sense her almost debilitating nervousness. Her color wasn't good and she seemed to act nauseated. He hoped she wasn't coming down with the flu. Maybe it was a touch of altitude sickness as she suggested. He'd get some Tylenol down her and a solid lunch in her. Sick or not, he was fucking her tonight after they were married. She'd be his. No flu, or whatever was making her peaked, would stop him from taking what would belong to him. **** Morgan couldn't believe the Forum Shops at Caesars. They hadn't been built the last time she'd been in Vegas. In fact, the Flamingo had changed, also. Guess nothing ever stayed the same.

Morgan, where are you? Morgan stumbled. The voice. It wasn't her inner voice. It wasn't Darien. He couldn't get through her mental wall. Or, did she slip and let Darien get in? She looked at the man across from her, wolfing down his seafood pasta—taking on fuel for his planned night of conquest. As if. It wasn't him. It was masculine. Was it Gabe? Ridiculous. He was in Indiana, wasn't he? Seeking the voice, Morgan mentally called—Gabe, where are you? She would have repeated her telepathic entreaty, except she sensed Darien looking at her, alerted somehow to her use of her psi ability. She'd have to be careful. He seemed to have picked up on her energy. He couldn't get into her head, but it seemed he had some receptive ability also. She should have remembered that. He did sense her on the subway. “Morgan, you're not eating. Would you like something else? You need your strength, my love. Tonight will be a long night.” Darien smiled. Yuck. Phew. Cough, cough. Aack. Morgan shook her head as she pushed away the monkfish she had ordered. “I'm not as hungry as I thought. Guess I'm just a little nervous. It isn't everyday a gal gets married." Darien nodded and smiled. Good, she fooled him for a time. She needed to get into a dressing room. If she couldn't get to a phone, maybe this link with Gabe was strong enough she could send him images of Vegas and the hotel—so he could call the local cops and get her some help. The old man did say reach out and touch, Gabe. He didn't say I had to use the phone company to do it. **** Darien paid the check while keeping an eye on Morgan who had strolled across the mall to look in the Versace window. He frowned at a couple of Italian tourists who had followed her with their eyes as she'd walked out of Spago. They hurried away from her when they became aware of his glowering at them. She was his. He strolled toward her through the crowds enjoying the changing sky and the large marble fountains in the Forum's mock Roman village. Something was up with her. During lunch, he'd felt a burst of energy from her—like a blast of warm air. She cut it off when she saw him looking at her. She'd been seeking something or someone. He knew it wasn't him or, at least he didn't think so. Several times during their acquaintance, he'd felt her mentally reach for him, but he had trouble reading the exact tenor of her seeking. He hoped as they became more attuned to each other, he would be able to read her. Many times, it was like it had been the night he'd first seen her. His telepathic thoughts just bounced off her and fizzled like raindrops hitting a hot surface. She was strong; he'd thought she was inexperienced and ignorant of her strength—now, he wasn't so sure. She'd bear watching. Darien didn't like anything he couldn't control. As wonderful as she was, she, too, was expendable if she endangered him. His survival was always the top priority. **** Morgan allowed the saleswoman to show her back to the dressing area. Damn, no back way out. The stockroom wasn't back here. Didn't stores always have back ways out? What was the fire marshal thinking allowing them to build this store like that?

“I'm sure you'll look great in the white stretch silk sheath—can't wear anything under it, but a body stocking. We sell those here, also. If you'd like to try one on with the dress." Morgan just wanted the woman to go away. She needed to concentrate on sending stronger images to Gabe while Darien was stuck out in the shop. No men allowed in the women's dressing area. There was a God! “Sure, anything. Bring me a body stocking. Just hand it to me over the top of the door please. I'm not used to being naked around people.” Morgan smiled at the look of disbelief on the overly made up, stick of a salesgirl wearing skintight leather pants with a matching bustier. “While you're out there, please ask my escort if he likes your outfit? I'll try it on also if he wants me to.” In fact, I'll try on the whole damn store, as long as it keeps me back here and him out there. The salesgirl brightened at the thought of selling more than one of the over-priced items in the store. “Oh, I'm sure—he'll love it. There are several other items that coordinate. You have excellent taste." Yeah sure. Go away little girl. Morgan heaved a great sigh of relief. Stripping down to her underwear, she sent out thoughts to Gabe while waiting for the body briefer. When the girl chirped she was passing it in, Morgan reached out for it, put it on, and then slipped into the dress without missing a beat in the rhythm of the litany of images she was sending. Large, glitzy hotels. Strip. Dice. She was just about to send thoughts of pink flamingos when she heard Darien's low tones from the other side of the door. “Morgan, darling. Are you okay? You aren't sick or faint, are you?" Geesh, he actually sounded concerned. “No, I'm just trying to figure out how to get into this dress. It's sort of tight.” Well, it was. “Maybe I can help?" “No, I've got it. I'm coming out.” Morgan gritted her teeth; she'd just noticed that the dress fit her like a second skin. He'd see everything the body brief did not hide, such as her nipples. Hell, her navel showed also. Opening the door, Morgan saw a small crowd had gathered. Her salesgirl explained, “The dress just came in so everyone wanted to see what it looked like on someone who could wear it. You have a figure. We all tried it on and it just hung there. You look wowzers." Murmurs of agreement swept through the staff, other shoppers and Darien. Well, Darien groaned and Morgan smelled the pheromones he was putting off. “Oh, well, I can't take this dress, Darien ... it's indecent.” Morgan turned to go back into the dressing room, when Darien said, “We'll take it. You can wear it for the ceremony. Now, go try on some of the other things I've picked out." Morgan walked back to the dressing area. Several of the other women complimented her on her figure and congratulated her on having a man who could afford to spend money on dressing her. As Morgan turned her back to go into her assigned dressing area, she heard a cell phone ring. Swiveling around she saw an older woman of about fifty-five pull a phone from her purse. The woman swore, “Damn, they

hung up." Morgan knew this was her chance. Maybe the phone company was a part of the prophecy. “Uh, ma'am, would you let me use your phone for a second. I want to surprise my fiancée with something special, but he hasn't let me out of his sight all day. It's a local call." The woman smiled. “Why sure, honey. Here. Just give it back when you're done." “I will.” Morgan smiled. “Oh, please don't say anything. I do want to surprise him." The woman laughed. “My lips are sealed." Morgan laughed also. Locking herself in the dressing room, she dialed 9-1-1. “Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?" “I've been kidnapped and am being held in Las Vegas against my will.” Morgan whispered into the phone. She thought she would sense Darien, but after he'd successfully sneaked up on her several times, she wasn't going to trust her senses—any of them. “What's your name please? Where are you? I can't get a location on this call, ma'am." “My name is Morgan Tarrant. Right now, I'm in a dressing room at Versace...” Morgan heard the phone die. No, please don't tell me the battery is dead. Damn, damn, damn. Tears of frustration filled Morgan's eyes. “Morgan, honey, let's go. Don't bother trying anything else on. I've picked out a few things in your size. The salesgirl assured me you were a perfect size eight—if they don't fit we can always return them tomorrow. You can give me a private fashion show tonight." Morgan groaned silently. Calling out, she said, “Okay, Darien, I'll change back into my clothes. I'll be right out.” Morgan gave the woman her phone. “Thank you.” Just on the outside chance the 9-1-1 operator got the location before the phone went dead. Morgan bought some protection. “Where are you staying? We're at the Flamingo." Both the woman and two of the sales girls heard her. She'd just hoped the police were already on their way. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR "The Hierophant" Time of change in relationships. The federal building in downtown Vegas looked like most of the government buildings he'd seen: plain, utilitarian and cold. At least, they'd had enough sense not to install slot machines here. Although, it wouldn't have surprised him if they had. Every other place he'd ever been in Vegas seemed to have the ubiquitous machines binging and booping in the background. Gabe finished chewing the last bite of what must have been the driest turkey sandwich he'd ever eaten. Taking a sip of coffee, he grimaced. Federal offices weren't known for their food services either. Somewhat satiated, Gabe began sending his mental messages again. His head hurt and he was beginning

to tire. He'd thought he'd felt a bumping up against his thoughts a while ago, but he wasn't sure. There weren't any instruction books on how to make this connection, he and Morgan had, work. It was all hit-and-miss, mostly miss. The chief and Tim were in the bullpen of the FBI office going over the case files, which were similar to Nan and Bren's cases. Gabe felt it was a waste of time since the similarities would only be used when, and if, they apprehended Darien. Gabe knew if he got to the guy first, the government might not need to worry about prosecuting the bastard. He clenched his fists—he needed to get some control. The vaunted control his SEAL team had always depended on, during missions, seemed to go out the door when Morgan became involved. Gabe saw Tim jog to the small office they had assigned to the Indiana men; he looked excited. “Gabe, get a move on. Las Vegas P.D. got a Nine-one-one call from a woman identifying herself as Morgan Tarrant. She was cut off, but the operator heard “Versace"—Agent Muldoon said she must have been at the Forum Shops at Caesars when she made the call." “Versace?” Gabe queried as he jumped up knocking his chair back into the wall. “She's shopping?" Tim laughed. “Yeah. Just like a woman—probably driving the guy nuts trying on clothes." Gabe threw back his head and laughed. Stall him, baby, we're coming. **** Morgan walked along beside Darien. He carried four large bags of clothes; she'd gleaned his next goal was a shoe store, then a lingerie shop he'd seen on the mall roster. She gloated—the devil was a shopaholic. Shopping was not usually a high priority in her life, but today, she'd gladly shop all day if it gave her a chance to get away. She needed to stall him. “Morgan, does this place look okay for shoes?” Darien had stopped at a shop with the cutesy name of This Little Piggie. “Sure—anything's fine ... Uh, this looks expensive, though.” Morgan couldn't believe the money he was spending on her. So far, they had spent enough to keep a family of four in food for at least a year. “You go on in and start. Get as many shoes as you need to go with the outfits. I'm going across the way to buy you something special for later tonight.” Darien left with a wave of his hand and a lascivious chuckle. Morgan glanced at where Darien was heading—a lingerie shop! Damn, the store was straight across. She wondered if the shoe store had a back exit. Double damn, Darien was smiling at her. She wouldn't put it past him to run over and check on her every few minutes. Morgan, you need to do something while he's buying undies I mean it. Try Gabe again. You've been blocking the evil asshole so much of the time; you've forgotten to broadcast an alert. Well, it wouldn't do much good; the errant thought she had captured in the restaurant was just a fluke— wishful thinking on her part. She was so tired from blocking Darien she must have imagined it. In all probability, Gabe was still three hours away in Indiana, worrying about her and wondering where in the hell she was. Well, of course he is—he told you so, too! Humor me; it sure felt like Gabe at that Spago place. You had to shut down too fast—the creep was picking you up. Don't underestimate Darien—he knows you're psychic; he wants to use you in more than the biblical sense, if you know what I

mean. Watching Darien watch her, she concentrated on sending images of Vegas and the Flamingo to Gabe. A flurry of activity from the mall caught her attention—it was Security rushing toward Versace. Yes! The operator had gotten enough of her message; now, all she had to do was call attention to herself. Glancing to see where Darien was, she was surprised to find him, package in hand, reaching down for her. His sneaking up on her was beginning to get on her nerves. Snake! “Come, my dear, there seems to be an emergency in the Mall. We'll find some shoes at the shops in the hotel on the way back to our suite.” Darien grabbed hold of Morgan's wrist and jerked her up. Throwing the clerk a twenty for his trouble, Darien pulled Morgan along toward the other end of the mall—away from Versace. “Darien, what's wrong? Was it a fire or something?” Morgan asked hoping against hope he hadn't figured out she'd caused the heightened security in the mall. “I'm not sure, my love, but something isn't right. I feel it. For your safety, it's better that we leave.” Darien lifted their joined hands, bags and all, and kissed her knuckles. “I can't have the future mother of my children endangered. It could be terrorists or anything." Well, triple damn. His instincts are good. No wonder he has never been caught. He must have done that the day he killed Willie, also. As soon as she had sensed him, he had sensed her and got off the train. Well, she'd be cautious about broadcasting too much. If Darien picked up too many loose floating thoughts from her, he'd cotton on to her deception. She still had to get him to confess—let something slip she could use to nail his ass to the wall. The moving sidewalk from Caesar's Forum Shops crossed over the driveway into the casino; it looked like a police parking lot. So much help, and no way to draw attention to herself without tipping off Darien. She had no doubt in her mind he'd kill her to save himself. The only reason he was being nice to her now was he thought he'd get both her and her money to use for as long as he desired. She knew she was expendable. She didn't want to die; so she'd play for time, watch for another opportunity to clue the police on where she was. Hopefully, the waif of a salesclerk would remember her hotel. **** By the time Gabe and the others reached Versace, that entire end of the mall was in an uproar. Security had blocked off the casino entrance and was checking everyone who entered and left. Every exit door to the mall had a guard or a police officer stationed at it, checking the crowds. For what, Gabe wasn't sure. He didn't think they even knew what Morgan looked like. “Muldoon, how do they know who they are looking for?” Gabe asked as they entered the store, which had been closed temporarily by the police takeover. Muldoon pulled out a sheet and handed it to Gabe. “We had these made up. They've got them on the on-board computers in their patrol cars." Gabe looked over at the chief hoping he heard that last. Thank God for computers. Gabe looked at the flyer. Morgan's and Darien's descriptions were there along with an Army photo of Darien. He didn't look too different. The eyes are hard to change. Different hair color and style, but size and weight were the same. This should help. Inside the shop, three female clerks were sobbing hysterically while two male clerks hovered over them yelling at the police to stop badgering the women.

Great. The cops have upset the only witnesses who might have seen Morgan. Gabe strode forward, ready to take out a few local cops, but was restrained by the chief who shook his head and mouthed “let me handle this.” Gabe nodded. The chief had a daughter; he'd make less of a hash of it. Although, braining a few cops still sounded like a good idea. “What in tarnation is going on here?” The chief bellowed as he approached the tableau. “You boys leave those poor gals alone." Gabe watched in awe as the chief sat down, handed one of the girls a handkerchief, sent a police officer in search of tissues and glasses of water, and proceeded to draw smiles from all three young women. Whatever the chief had, he should bottle it. “Now, ladies, we're here looking for a young woman who was kidnapped in Indiana. She's about five foot six inches tall, good figure, shoulder length dark hair and green eyes. She'd be accompanied by a tall, medium built man with long dark hair and brown eyes. He'd answer to the name of Darien. Seen anybody who looked like those descriptions within, say, the last half hour or so?" Gabe watched as all three girls nodded. Yes! She'd been here. Morgan? Are you still close? It's Gabe. I'm here. Nothing. No answer. Why wasn't it working? Redirecting his attention to the girls, he focused on the thinnest of the three—she wasn't talking but he could tell she knew something. She was almost bursting with it. Gabe walked over and knelt in front of the waifish clerk, “Ma'am, this woman, Morgan, is my girlfriend. Please tell us if you know where she went. The man she's with could be dangerous if he suspected she got a message out." The girl smiled. “I waited on her and him. He seemed so nice buying her all those clothes, but she seemed really nervous. Took her forever to change clothes. She looked really hot in the white dress he bought her, for their wedding, he said. Are you sure she's not here voluntarily?" “Oh, she's here voluntarily all right. Trying to poke her nose into police business. Believe me, he's killed before. She's in danger. Did she happen to tell you where they were staying?" The waifish clerk scrunched her forehead in thought. Gabe held his breath. Then, he heard one of the other girls blurt out. “Come on, Celise, you know she did. I saw that guy pass you a hundred bucks to forget you ever saw them." Gabe spun around and looked at the other girl. “Where were they staying, please?" “The Flamingo. Right across the street.” The clerk said casting a smug glance at the thin clerk who was in turn looking daggers at the speaker. “Celise had the hots for that dude. He was nasty looking—his eyes were dark and flat like a copper head. They headed toward the street entrance—said something about buying shoes and lingerie." Gabe reached over and gave the informant a kiss. “Thanks, sweetie." “Hope your lady is okay, mister. You a cop or something? I'd lay my money on you in a fight with the dude. He looked soft to me." Gabe laughed. “Well, you'd win that bet, honey. No way he's going to defeat me."

Gabe didn't wait to see if the others followed. He was out the door and heading in the opposite direction of the casino entrance. **** Morgan watched the lights go on and off as they headed for the top floor in the tower building. She and Darien were the only two in the elevator. Her head was pounding. Darien had been probing—more like beating—on her mental wall. It was holding its own, but had a few dings and scrapes. Maybe she should send him a bone, so he would back off. She didn't know how much longer she could hold out against the barrage, it was exhausting. Something about his mental energy was corrosive, for the lack of a better term, eating away at her protective barrier, whereas most people's errant thoughts bounced off, just as his had in the beginning. Either, he was getting stronger or she was getting weaker. She couldn't tell the difference at this point. The doors opened onto their floor. The suite took one quarter of this portion of the building. She needed to find a quiet corner and rest. However, she didn't think the bastard was going to let her out of his sight. He had been casting strange glances at her ever since they'd left the mall. What did he know? “Morgan, my love, why are you blocking me?” Darien was nothing if not direct, Morgan thought. “I know you have abilities like mine. It's a part of my attraction for you, finding another person who is special like me. I sensed when we kissed that our joining was going to be amazing.” Darien invaded Morgan's personal space and growled, “You know, I climaxed from just kissing you. I've had a hard-on for you every single waking moment since we kissed. Let me in Morgan, mentally and physically. Allow me to take you to a plane where only we exist.” Morgan eyed Darien as he threw the bags on the couch and pulled out one small one, which he handed to her. “Here, put this on. In the future, I'll want to undress you myself, but since you are so new to this, I'll allow you to take care of your own preparations this time.” Darien placed the bag in her hand and kissed her lips briefly. “Go on. I can't wait to make you mine." “I thought we were going to be married first? You said...” Morgan trailed off as Darien's eyes sent off sparks. “Don't question me in this, my darling. We'll be married later this evening. I can't wait any longer for you.” Darien took her free hand and placed it on the front of his trousers. “I need you ... now!" Oh boy, are we in trouble. Are the locks any good on the bathroom door perchance? Wide-eyed, Morgan nodded and took her hand back. Turning toward the bathroom, she stopped when she heard Darien say, “You have ten minutes, my love. Then, I'm coming in after you." Without turning around, Morgan nodded and continued toward the bathroom. Once inside she checked the lock. What a flimsy piece of trash. She could probably pick it herself. The door didn't look too sturdy either. Well, for one thing, she sure as hell wasn't putting on whatever was in this bag. Opening the expensive looking parcel from Circe's Lair, she found a black Merry Widow, crotchless silk panties and silk stockings for the garters, all in basic black. Black like the heart of the devil who wanted to rape her because that's what it would be. She wouldn't—couldn't—let this murderer take her that way. She'd fight or die trying. Don't be so melodramatic. We need to stall. Call Gabe again. Do it—what do we have to lose? So,

put the damn things on and play hard to get with the son of a bitch. That stick of a salesclerk heard you when you said Flamingo. The cops could be in the building as we speak. Morgan started changing her clothes, all the while calling out to Gabe. She just hoped someone would get here in time. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE "The Emperor" Strength, dominance and achievement of ambition. Gabe ran through the mall, evading shoppers, Roman statuary and fountains, and a large crowd gawking at a laser and light show depicting a Bacchanalian orgy. Nowhere did he see Morgan or Darien. When he reached the exit to the front of Caesar's, he stopped. Should he retrace his steps or should he go to the Flamingo? Gabe, please help me. Las Vegas, Flamingo Hotel. Suite. Gabe, I need you. The unexpectedness of the call in his head floored him. Other than a few weak passes earlier, he'd thought maybe his connection to Morgan wasn't working. Whatever had been wrong was corrected. Her call was like a shout compared to the other fragments he'd received. Either it was because he was closer or because she was in danger and her emotions were adding to the energy she projected. His instincts told him she was in danger. Tim and the others had finally caught up to him. Gabe yelled as he took off sprinting. “She's at the Flamingo in a suite. Let's go." **** Morgan figured she couldn't stall any longer. She sensed Darien on the other side of the door. By opening up and calling out for Gabe full blast, she was also picking up Darien's energy in its full effect. She just hoped he wasn't as good a receiver as he was a transmitter. Pasting what she hoped to be a shy smile on her face, she opened the door and looked directly into the molten eyes of the devil. She swore she could see red underlying the darkness there. She definitely caught a whiff of sulfur. Once again, she bemoaned her stupidity in thinking she could outsmart a con man no matter what her level of psi ability. But, was he on to her? “Darien?” Morgan faltered. “What's wrong? Don't you like the outfit?” Morgan glanced down and inwardly grimaced. She had few layers between her and an easy lay. The growl, which emanated from the man in front of her was eerie. His sudden move to pick her up caused her to squeal with fright. “Darien, what's wrong?" “Nothing—you are so beautiful. I've got to have you ... NOW!” Darien shouted as he threw her onto the silken comforter and followed her down. Trapped! She was underneath a hundred and eighty pounds plus of solid male with a very large hard-on. Survival instincts kicking in, Morgan struggled, wiggled and shoved but made little or no headway. The only thing she managed to do was irritate him. “Stop it! I'm not going to hurt you much. It'll be better if you stop struggling.” Darien grunted as her knee managed to hit his groin at a damaging angle. “God dammit, woman, what are you trying to do?" “Let me up, you're too heavy, and you're scaring me.” Morgan pleaded, partly playing for time, partly

telling the truth. He did scare her. She was no match for him physically. “Morgan, just stop struggling. It'll be easier if you cooperate.” Darien said in a reasonable tone, which made Morgan want to spit at him. Didn't he say something like that to Missy the night he raped her and left her for dead? Morgan cried out in rage, fear, anguish—so many emotions overwhelming her need for calm in dealing with this man. “Morgan, stop it. You're hysterical.” But, Morgan couldn't stop it as she continued to scream and twist from side to side—trying with all her puny strength to get the monster looming above her off her body. **** Darien strained to control the wild woman lying underneath him. Each movement of her very feminine body, except for the knee that had nearly unmanned him, inflamed his lust for her even more. He grabbed her hands, which were pushing on his chest in a puny attempt to shove him away, and pinned them above her head. Using his greater weight, he effectively stopped her lower body movement. There. She was really trapped now—right where he wanted, her feminine crease open to him, cradling his pulsing, but still clothed, cock. She panted from exertion; her breasts brushing his bare chest, inciting him to capture one of her nipples between his teeth and take a nip. Her startled squeak of pain pleased him. So, she liked it rough. Good, so did he. Pulling the belt from his trousers in one movement, he used it to tie her hands together, then looped it around the brass headboard. Her eyes opened wide with shock and he could tell she was going to scream. Taking advantage of her open mouth, he covered it with his and shoved his tongue in just as he would soon shove his cock in her cunt. Halting his foray into her mouth, he sat up and opened his trousers letting loose his eager tool. He watched as Morgan realized she had lost whatever battle she'd been fighting and knew now he would win the war. Her eyes grew wider as he placed his engorged member at the entrance to her cunt; she whimpered whether in pain or excitement, he didn't care. All he knew was she was going to be his for as long as he wanted her. Using his fingers, he inserted first one then two to prepare her for penetration. Morgan screamed, “No!” The phone rang. **** Gabe reached over the front counter at the Flamingo, grabbed the supercilious twit who was working the desk, and uttered a guttural sound. Enunciating each word carefully, he repeated his request, “I need to know who has checked into any of your suites within the last eight hours. I want to see the list of names and I want to see them now. You can eliminate any regulars or singles. I'm looking for a man and a woman. Got it?" The male clerk struggled for a breath, failing to find one, nodded his head. Gabe let the man down and turned to meet his fellow searchers and a small squad of hotel security. Nodding at the security guards, he looked at Ned and said, “The clerk is getting us a list of suites now. Didn't want to cooperate, but I think I've convinced him." Ned grinned and shook his head. “Primitive, but effective, huh?" “Yeah, well, I'm not messing around here. I'll apologize later. Morgan, needs me and she needs me now.” Gabe watched as Muldoon showed the hotel personnel his identification and explained what they

needed from them. “Uh, sir?” The clerk's timid voice called out. “There have been ten check-ins today. Here's the list." Gabe nodded his thanks and took the proffered piece of paper. Tim and Ned crowded in to look at it with him. “Hell, Gabe, it could be any one of those. Should we divide up?” Tim asked, reaching the same conclusion Gabe had. All ten were couples. Gabe closed his eyes. Morgan, which suite are you in, darlin'? Tell me. I'm here in the hotel. **** Morgan screamed as the animal restrained her hands. Just like Missy, she thought. I'm helpless and at his complete mercy. How will I survive this? If I survive this, how can I face Gabe? Call Gabe again. He's near. I feel it. Trust me. Morgan shook her head and prepared to scream again when Darien bit her nipple. She almost gagged when he took her mouth with such force that she felt the back of her neck protest. Struggling against the belt, which held her hands, she attempted to twist and throw him off her lower body. Then, she felt his cock against her vaginal lips. Was that her whimpering like a beaten animal? It must be. Then, he inserted his fingers as he smirked down at her. She knew his penis would soon follow. He was so large she would be torn apart—he didn't look like he was going to be patient. As he moved in position once again, Morgan screamed, “No." The phone rang. Would he answer it? Yes. Thank you, God. Morgan took a breath ready to scream for help when Darien clamped his hand over her mouth as he reached to the side of the bed and picked up the receiver. “Hello!” Morgan couldn't breathe. Whimpering against his hand, she stopped when he shoved his cock into the opening his fingers had made. She stilled. Morgan, which suite are you in, darlin'. Morgan gasped. Gabe was here—in the hotel! Concentrating she sent him the images of the tower, the elevator numbers and the suite door. She only had to hold out for a little while longer. Gabe would save her. Darien slammed the phone down. Swearing, he jammed his fist into the bed near Morgan's head. Then, in a tone so lethal Morgan was surprised she didn't die on the spot, he said, “What have you done, bitch?” Releasing her hands, he pulled her up and slapped her hard, causing her to fall back onto the bed. Before she could regain her senses, he picked her up and slapped her again, throwing her to the floor this time. “Get up, bitch.” Darien ordered in a deadly tone. “We're leaving.” Morgan watched as Darien fastened his trousers and pulled on a shirt. He went to one of his bags and pulled out a couple of guns, some cartridges and a knife. He also pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Come here, Morgan!” Darien rasped as he opened the cuffs.

“No.” Morgan knew going with Darien was tantamount to a death sentence. “They're coming—run while you can. I'll just slow you down." “Uh-uh, sweet cheeks, it doesn't work that way.” Darien gloated. “You're coming with me. Insurance against the assholes from getting too close.” Raking her with a lustful glance, he added, “Plus, we've got some unfinished business, slut." Morgan looked beyond him and as he turned around to see what she was looking at, she made a break for the bathroom. Flimsy lock or not; it was better than going with the devil. Before she'd taken three steps, Darien grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back against his body, holding a knife to her left breast, he made a quick slice across the mound pushed above the corset's cup. “I don't think so, honey. You're coming with me. Each time you try to get away, I'll just cut you again." Morgan stifled the scream of pain. The cut had been so quick it felt like nothing at first, but now it burned and throbbed as blood slid out of the long, deep cut. Placing the knife over her right breast, he nuzzled her ear and asked, “Do you understand? Or, do you need for me to demonstrate my expertise with the knife again?" Morgan whispered in a trembling voice, “I understand." “Good. Now, let's get out of here." “What about my clothes?” Morgan was shocked into asking. Even in the desert, the nights were cool. She'd freeze out there. “Oh, you won't be needing any where you're going.” Darien laughed as he pulled her out the door and toward the service elevators. Oh shit. I think we're in serious trouble here. Gabe. Service elevator! **** “Tower Suite twenty-four-ten.” Gabe yelled as he headed toward the sign, which pointed toward the tower elevators. Gabe heard Ned and Muldoon yell for someone to cover the stairs and the service elevators. The chief had the presence of mind to ask hotel security to turn off all the elevators but the one they would be using. Hopefully, it would be done in time. Hold on, Morgan, we're coming. Gabe, he's taking me. Service elevators. Gabe grabbed the nearest hotel security person, “Where's the service elevators for the tower?" “I'll show you.” Gabe followed the guard, yelling over his shoulder for the chief and Tim to make sure Darien didn't get out of the hotel with Morgan. There was a slight chance they could contain him, but if they didn't Gabe wanted to be hot on his and Morgan's trail. The security guard turned the corner ahead of him and came to a complete stop. Gabe heard the “Shit,” and knew Darien had eliminated whoever had been in his path. Coming alongside the guard, Gabe saw a maid lying on the ground in a pool of blood—her throat slit from ear to ear. Oh my God, he had a knife. Morgan! His panicked thoughts went winging before he could control them.

I'm okay—for now. Hurry. Pool. Bally's. **** Morgan still felt physically ill. Darien had slaughtered the maid just as they came off the elevator and the woman opened her mouth to scream. The gurgle of blood replaced the sound. Morgan knew the woman had died instantly—but she would never forget the barrage of anguished thoughts hitting her empathic receptors. Four children had just lost a mother at the hands of her captor. She choked back a sob. Morgan! She sensed Gabe's panicked call. He'd found the body; he was only seconds behind them! Telling him she was fine, she looked around and became aware that she and Darien were in the pool area heading for the street, and ultimately Bally's. She conveyed these images to Gabe, adding a “hurry” for good measure. **** Grabbing the security guard's walkie-talkie, Gabe relayed Morgan's direction to the others. The guard was leading him to a short cut to the Bally side of the pool area. With luck, he might be able to cut off Darien. He'd figure out what to do once he assessed Morgan's condition. Dodging people in the poolside casino, Gabe hurdled several rows of chairs and barreled out the doors to a sidewalk, angling toward the upper pool area. Catching a glimpse of a woman's dark hair going around a bend in the walk behind some landscaping, Gabe sprinted across the lawn and crashed through the trees, which blocked him from the sidewalk. It was Morgan! He pulled his gun from the holster against his back and flipped off the safety. Running, he narrowed the distance between the couple and himself. Sensing movement toward his left, he saw Muldoon running toward the couple from the Barbary Coast, the casino next door to the Flamingo. Damn, Muldoon was going to shout at Darien and Morgan. Unsure what the devil would do to Morgan if he felt immediately threatened, Gabe switched his trajectory and intercepted Muldoon, giving him a quick chop to the solar plexus—cutting off the yell. Gabe growled, “You stupid fool, he's got a knife. He already killed one woman. Stay out of my way. This is between him and me. If you get Morgan killed because of some fool move, I'll kill you myself." Gabe, seeing Ned approach the two men, gritted out, “Keep him and everyone else back. Just make sure Darien and Morgan are contained and kept in sight at all times. I'll bring him down. Morgan's only chance is my sneaking up on them.” Ned nodded his agreement and stooped down to help his fellow agent to his feet. Gabe heard Ned say, “You, idiot, if he wanted you dead; he'd have killed you. He's a SEAL, you nod cock." Gabe smiled grimly. Yeah, I'm a SEAL and soon to be Darien's worst nightmare. **** Darien looked down at the woman beside him. She hadn't made a sound since he cut her and except for a slight shortness of breath she was keeping up. Too bad he'd have to kill her later. She suited him to a tee. Glancing at her again he felt a niggling at the back of his brain. She was sending signals to someone. Damn. Who could it be? A fleeting impression of the local cop, Walsh, came to mind. Darien pulled Morgan into a small garden maze under the sidewalk tube to Bally's. Shoving her into a small pocket garden out of the light of the tube, Darien shook her and asked, “Where is your lover? He's here isn't he?" “What lover?” Darien took his knife and made a quick cut over her right clavicle; he knew it must have

hurt like hell, but she never made a sound, only winced and teared up. “'What lover'?” sneered Darien. “The cop, Walsh; you're sending him signals aren't you?" Morgan had yet to make a sound of pain; well, if cutting wasn't doing the trick, he knew what would. Pulling her to a bench, he threw her face down over the seat, unzipped his pants and placed his still tumescent cock against her rear. Shoving his penis part of the way in, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Tell me, Morgan, or I'll take the only virginity you have left back here and we both know that's not your vagina I'm talking about." Darien heard Morgan whimper and then finally say, “He's coming. He's right behind us. You're probably already surrounded—pig." Darien used the survival instincts honed in the Rangers and knew he was okay for now, but if what she said was true, he needed to find a place where he would have the advantage when he used Morgan to lure Walsh to his death. Looking around, he saw the newly constructed Paris Hotel and Casino. What should it be—the Notre Dame cathedral or the Eiffel Tower? Appreciating the irony of it, he chose Notre Dame. If nothing else, it would provide atmosphere. Picking Morgan up, he applied pressure to her carotid causing her to pass out in his arms. He didn't want her to send any signals until he was ready. **** Gabe swore viciously. Stopping Muldoon caused him to lose sight of Darien and Morgan. Morgan? No answer. Was she okay? Could Darien sense what went on between Morgan and him? Damn, he wished he knew how this worked. Striding around to the Strip side of Bally's, he met Tim and the chief coming down the sidewalk. “Did you see them?” Gabe asked. “Nah,” the chief panted. “They didn't come our way. They have to be here in Bally's somewhere. Damn big places, these casinos. They could be anywhere.” Ned came up to the men. “They didn't go into Bally's—the security guard who was with Gabe at the service elevator heard Gabe say Bally's and he called over here. Their security has all the entrances covered. No man dragging a woman at knife or gunpoint entered the building at any of the street entrances. He didn't have time to go anywhere else." Gabe acknowledged the logic in Ned's conclusion. Scanning the property in front of the casino, he saw the gardens under the brightly lit tube containing a moving sidewalk. It had to be. “Let's try those gardens under the sidewalk. It's the only dark place he could hide in the area.” Gabe said as he led the way. Gabe directed the men to split up, span out and check the garden area. Someone had security turn on the lights. That should flush the bastard out, thought Gabe. “Gabe, over here.” Tim shouted. Gabe ran toward Tim who was looking at a stone bench. There was fresh blood smeared on the bench —the red glistening against the marble under the bright halogen lights. “The fucking son-of-a-bitch is dead.” Gabe intoned.

“Well, hell, Gabe. I thought that was a given,” said Tim. “Yeah, well, I might just have to kill him twice, now.” Gabe looked around. Where would he go? Closing his eyes, he started to think like the man he was hunting. He must know he's being followed. It would make sense to go to ground, make the hunters come to him, and take them out one-by-one. He had to realize his only hope was to outlast them until the hunters got tired or sloppy and allowed him a hole through which to escape. Gabe opened his eyes. Yes, that's what he would do, and had done as a SEAL, bide his time until he could escape. But where would he go? The casinos had been alerted along the strip; security would be watching for a man and now a bleeding woman. Gabe looked up at the darkened hulk of a new casino going up next to Bally's. Looking at the darkened buildings, he knew. That's where Darien had taken Morgan. “He took her there.” Gabe pointed to the construction site. “What is that place?" Ned looked up. “It's the Paris casino. See the Eiffel Tower. How do you know that?" “'Cause that's what I would have done.” Gabe said. “Are there workers at night? I see lights in the hotel part." A security guard from Bally's spoke up, “Yeah, the front attractions are finished and locked up at night. The workmen and security are the only ones on the construction site. It's due to open in a couple of weeks." Gabe nodded his thanks. Looking over the attractions, he ruled out the Eiffel Tower—too open and Darien wouldn't want to get stuck up high. The Arc De Triomphe didn't look like it could be gotten into at all. Notre Dame. He would go there. In a macabre way, it would appeal to the devil. “He took her to Notre Dame, but in case I'm wrong alert security in the hotel and casino portion and cover the other attractions. I'm going into the cathedral.” Gabe didn't even bother to check to see if the others followed. He knew Morgan was in there, and he was going to exorcize himself a church. **** Morgan came to gradually. She felt cold—colder than when she had been running. She realized she was sitting on a stone floor in some sort of tower. Her hands were tied together and over her head. She looked up. She was bound to the rope pull of a large bell, which she now realized she was leaning against. “Awake, are we?” Darien laughed. “Call to your lover now, Morgan. I want him to see you like this. I want to see the look on his face when I take you as he watches—before I kill you both." “I won't call him.” Morgan wouldn't cause the death of one more person. Her own death would be preferable. She wasn't afraid of death; she was afraid of life without Gabe. Darien pulled on the rope at his side. Morgan felt her arms pulled upwards, then her body, until she stood on her tiptoes, almost dangling from the bell cord. The strain on her arm sockets was excruciating, but she refused to give the beast the satisfaction of any indication of pain. “Call him, Morgan. Or you'll feel what real pain is.” Darien pulled on the cord and tied it off. Morgan's feet now dangled about an inch off the ground. She soon realized she was not going to be able to reach the ground with her toes and her attempts to do so

had caused her to sway, putting more strain on her arms. Another problem was breathing; she couldn't seem to get a good deep breath. She was determined to pass out before she allowed Darien to use her against Gabe. We can't breathe, Morgan. Help us. No. She wouldn't call Gabe. The room dimmed and a buzzing sound filled her head. The old man had been right about one thing—she'd faced her fears and rode the lion—he just had neglected to mention she wouldn't survive to enjoy the victory. **** Gabe heard Darien before he sensed him. Cocky son-of-a-bitch. Morgan's voice, refusing to call him. He'd been right; Darien could read them. Morgan's voice sounded strong. Good, maybe he would only have to kill the bastard once. Gabe crept along the darkened corridor leading to the bell tower. Peering around the corner, he revised his early lenient attitude—the bastard would wish he were dead before Gabe got through with him. Gabe saw Morgan hanging by her arms from a bell pull, blood congealed on her chest. Even at this distance he could see bruises on her face. He also knew she was having trouble breathing in her current position. Assessing his options, he knew that first, he had to get her down and keep his body between her and Darien. Then, he would do what he was trained to do in the SEALs—take out the target in whatever way possible. Darien was history. Gabe slipped around to a door in a direct line with the bell and with the anchored bell pull to which Morgan was hanging. By his calculations, she'd been up there less than a minute. He wanted to get her down within the next thirty seconds if at all possible. Keeping an eye on the devil, he became one with the shadows and thanked the construction firm that the floors were made of stone and not wood. His movements caused no more noise than a breeze through the tower. He was in position now. He moved in to cut the cord. **** Darien felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Was that a breeze? Or, did the Hilton Hotels import ghosts to go with their reproduction of a cathedral that had a long and bloody history. Or, had a goose crossed his grave? Shaking his head at his fanciful thoughts, he turned to watch Morgan as she grew paler and paler. Another few seconds, he'd let her down and revive her. She'd do what he asked this time. Choking to death while hanging by your arms had to be a terrifying way to die. Most people choose to live—she'd not be any different. Darien didn't know what warned him, but he whirled just as a big black streak moved and cut the cord, catching the unconscious woman before she fell to the ground. Did the cathedral have giant black bats? “Walsh.” Drawing his gun, Darien kicked himself mentally for being all kinds of a fool. He knew Walsh had displayed more intelligence than the average cop. He raised the gun to shoot and cried out as a knife hit him in the arm causing him to drop the weapon. He knew his hand was useless—he couldn't feel his fingers. Walsh knew his way around a knife. “I'm not an average cop, Darien—or should I say Lt. Bud Hoffman?” Gabe drawled, as he held a gun on Darien. “I was trained by the Navy in special ops.” Darien gaped as Gabe put his gun down by his foot. “You can read me.” Darien made it a statement. He knew he'd underestimated his adversary. But the

over confident asshole was challenging him to a fight. Well, now, he would see just how good a Navy SEAL was; Darien knew he was excellent at what he did—even with one arm damaged. It should be interesting. Darien would use Gabe's weakness—the woman lying behind him. The SEAL would protect her at all costs. Well, let the games begin. Darien took a fighting stance. His strategy was to move Gabe away from the now semi-conscious woman. He could see her move. Gabe couldn't. If he could use Morgan as a shield, he just might live to see another day. **** Gabe knew Darien would try to get to Morgan to use her against him. He wouldn't let that happen. Moving forward, he also took up a fighting stance. He knew the martial arts and street fighting techniques the Rangers used were similar to the SEALS, but Gabe had an advantage—he'd taken Israeli fighting training. He knew his street fighting was dirtier and meaner. He'd win. But, first he wanted to play with the bastard. His right arm was useless. Gabe now planned to finish the job—taking the guy apart piece by piece. As in a game of chicken, each man eyed the other waiting for the other to flinch. A sound at Darien's back gave Gabe his opening gambit when Darien jerked around to check his back. Gabe aimed a flying kick to the left side of his adversary. The distraction had been Tim and some of the others. They now watched Gabe as he proceeded to put on a kick boxing show. Darien took each hit and kept standing, staggering slightly. Gabe knew when Darien realized the others weren't going to interfere because his defense then became more concentrated and he started to block and counter the moves. Gabe soon realized, as far as kickboxing went, they were evenly matched and Darien's training to fight through the pain was much in evidence. Gabe decided to switch tactics and moved in for a left jab to the solar plexus and a right upper cut to the jaw, which he followed rapidly with a judo move to the carotid. Darien managed to whirl away from the carotid chop and followed with a back kick to Gabe's groin area. Gabe managed to dance away and take only a glancing blow to his upper thigh. The movement had left Morgan unprotected. Gabe yelled to Tim, “Get her out of here." Tim moved forward to get to Morgan who still lay on the ground where Gabe had placed her. Darien took Tim out with a flying kick, knocking him unconscious, then landed in front of Morgan. Stepping over her, he taunted Gabe and the others, “If you want to keep the slut alive, you'll get me a helicopter out of here.” Gabe watched in horror as Darien reached down to pull Morgan up with his good arm. Morgan raised Gabe's gun in her joined hands and fired point blank into the devil's face. “That's for Missy, you bastard." Gabe rushed to pull Morgan out from under the very dead Darien. Gathering her into his arms he took her to a bench against the wall and held her close. Rocking her, he didn't know whether to kiss her or shake her for taking such a chance with her life. “Gabe?" He looked down at the precious woman in his arms and smiled, “What darlin'?" “I rode the lion, Gabe. I won.” Then, she smiled. “You're so warm. I love you. I'm tired now. I think I'll go to sleep. Okay?"

“Okay, darlin'. I'll be here when you wake up. You did good." Then, Gabe thought he heard—Damn right we did. I knew we could do it all along. Death Benefits by Monette Michaels Copyright © 2001 Monette Michaels Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1 All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data Michaels, Monette, 1952Death benefits [computer file] ISBN 1-55316-052-5 (electronic) ISBN 1-55316-950-6 (REB 1100&1200) I. Title. PS3613.I25D42 2001 813'.6 C2001-902076-7 PROLOGUE “Elinor Grace is dead!" “Yes?" The man in the doorway hearing the unspoken “so what” came into the large office suite and closed the door behind him. Walking over to stand in front of his employer, he said, “There was no medical reason why she should die. I know. I examined her records myself." “Old people die, Dr. Martin. Now, if you haven't any business reason for taking up my time, why don't you go home? Enjoy your weekend." “I'm going to ask the family to have an autopsy done." Victor Hardman sat up in his chair and said, “No, you won't." Eric Martin shuddered at the three words. “Why not?" “Because I own you, Doctor, and you will do as you're told, or else. Now, go home, have that drink you so obviously need and think about what you owe me and the company. Need I say I don't want to hear about this again?" “No. I understand perfectly.” Dr. Martin turned and left the room. Victor Hardman frowned after the retreating man. Doctor Martin might become a problem. He reached over and hit a stored number on his phone. CHAPTER ONE

Two weeks later. Rob Craig took his house key from under the fake rock in his garden and let himself into his 1930s cottage-style home in Broad Ripple. His morning run had left him feeling invigorated and ready to face the body lying in the embalming room of the mortuary where he occasionally did his private autopsies, especially the Jewish ones. Jewish mortuaries didn't have the stainless steel tables and drains he needed since they didn't embalm the bodies. Hell, they put their dead in the ground so fast, they were barely out of rigor. If the truth were told, he'd rather the bodies were brought to his autopsy room. He didn't like making macabre small talk with strange mortuary attendants. Rob had always had trouble making small talk— even with people he knew—let alone total strangers. He knew people called him, at the very best, standoffish and, at the worst, a troublemaker. Oh well, as his mother always told him, “Robbie, you can't control what other people think about you.” Rob, taking his mother at her word, never tried. Rob walked into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of sports drink, which he drank on the way to the bathroom. “Laurel, get out of the shower." Rob's Great Dane puppy looked up from his nap on the cool tile floor. “Yeah, I know it's hot—Indian Summer, old boy. But you've got to get out of there so I can get cleaned up. I've got to go to work." Laurel didn't move. Rob reached in, turned the water on full blast and stepped away just in time to avoid getting hit by ninety pounds of very wet dog. Laughing, Rob stripped off his running clothes and stepped into the stall. From what Karen Grace, granddaughter of the deceased, had said upon hiring him, Elinor Grace had never had an incidence or indications of any heart problems. That didn't mean anything, of course. Elderly people can die of heart failure without ever presenting symptoms. But, he did acknowledge that such a clean medical history should have been an indicator for an autopsy. Rob shook his head in disgust. Shoddy work. That's why he had left the med center. They did okay with the obvious coroner cases, but, to cut costs, they overlooked the less obvious. The emergency room doctor saw an elderly woman, dead with no signs of trauma, assumed a heart attack or some other cardiovascular event and signed off on it. The family, now past their initial shock and grieving, had to go to the time and trouble of hiring a lawyer, exhuming the body and having an autopsy done to pinpoint the cause of death. What a waste. Rob stepped out of the shower and stopped short of stumbling over his very disgruntled dog. Rob grinned at the sight. “Okay, I'm sorry I turned the water on you, but you should have moved. Look, you putz, you've got Hardy feeling sorry for you. You don't need me, too." Hardy, a twenty-pound cat of unknown origins, was grooming the Great Dane after his untimely shower. Hardy stopped licking her housemate, meowed, walked over and started licking Rob's bare wet leg.

Rob stooped and scratched Hardy's head. “Thanks, old girl, but I think a towel will work faster. Appreciate the thought, though." Rob dressed in scrubs, then on his way out the door grabbed the copies of Elinor Grace's medical records sent over by the lawyer's office. Locking up the house, he reflected on his conversation with the lawyer, Mici Smith. He had gotten the impression that she was humoring her clients and didn't expect much out of this procedure or him. Mentally he shrugged—he was used to that; most people didn't understand what a forensic pathologist could do. After locking up, he placed the key, per his established routine of switching hiding places, under a stone bunny rabbit in the garden and climbed into his Dodge Ram truck. The trip to the mortuary took less than five minutes. His new pathology assistant's beat up old Sunbird was already in the lot. Good, Rob thought, maybe this med student would work out. We'll see if he can keep up on this one. An elderly woman who hadn't been embalmed and had been entombed for over a month would not be a pretty picture. Nor a sweet-smelling one. Rob walked into the back entrance of the building. He could already hear the sounds of Metallica coming from the embalming room. His diener shared his musical interests. If this one lasted longer than the previous four, maybe they could hit some concerts and clubs together. Rob had always gone alone in the past, but some company would be nice once in a while. Hell, Rob thought, Tod probably wouldn't last either. If the smells and sights didn't get him, Rob's obsession with his work would. That's what scared off the others. That's what skewed his ability to work with his peers at the Center—he was a perfectionist and they didn't give a flying fuck. Tod looked up as Rob entered the room. “Good morning, Dr. Craig. I think I've got it all set up." Rob saw the expectant look in Tod's eyes—like an over-eager puppy starving for affection. Since he couldn't scratch his diener's ears, Rob fumbled around for an appropriate ice-breaker. “Looks great. Thanks for turning on the music—nothing like a little Metallica to get things going." Rob guessed he'd said the right thing, because Tod's face lit up. Approaching the body on the embalming table, Rob slipped on gloves and began to unzip the body bag containing Mrs. Grace's body. “Okay, let's get started. We have here Mrs. Elinor Grace, a sixty-eight-year-old Caucasian woman of Jewish faith who died approximately one month ago of a suspected infarction and was buried unembalmed within twenty-four hours of her death. What condition would you expect the body to be in?" Rob turned to look at Tod, who had been watching the bag as Rob unzipped it, but Rob had yet to open it all the way. “Well, Dr. Craig..." “Tod, call me Rob. This isn't the med center." “Okay, uh, Rob. The deceased would have no rigor since the enzymes that cause the muscles to stiffen up would have dissipated.” Tod stopped as if to see if he was right so far. “Good, go on. I'll stop you if I disagree." “Uh, well, there would be dependent livor mortis—the lower part of her body would be a purplish color

with mottling above it. Superior skin would be pale, as would pressure points such as the elbows and other bony areas that had made contact with a hard surface like the coffin. Because she would have been unembalmed, her abdomen would be protuberant from the gas-producing bacteria in her gastrointestinal tract. There would be autolysis, the cellular detail in her body would disappear because of the lack of oxygen to the cells. I guess that's all. Other than that she would be in pretty good shape unless the coffin had leaks or cracks so that insects and worms could get inside and do other damage." “Very good. I'm impressed.” This second-year medical student was more with it than some first year residents. “Where did you learn all that?" Tod turned slightly red at the praise. “Well, I studied some of the forensic texts after I got this job, and then I went to the coroner's library and read some of your old dictated cases. I'm not kissing up to you when I say that I learned more from your case dictations than the books. Really!" Rob was speechless. He had never had someone look up to him before—other than his pets. “Well, thanks, I appreciate the compliment. Let's get to work and see what killed this woman." “Yeah, it sure wasn't a heart attack if her medical records were accurate,” Tod said as he turned to confirm that the instruments were ready and laid out for the autopsy. “What makes you say that?" “Well, I don't know, but it's a gut feeling I've got. The medical records have no indications of any ill health other than the usual colds, flu and such. Her family history shows no heart problems. If there's a fire, there has usually been some smoke. No smoke.” Tod shrugged. “No smoke. I couldn't have put it better myself. My gut tells me the same thing. Tell me, what do you plan to specialize in after you graduate?" “Pathology and then a fellowship in forensics. That's why I would have killed to get this job—no matter what everyone else said.” Tod grinned. “And just what did everyone else say? Or, better yet, let me guess: ‘Watch out for that Dr. Craig, Tod. He's a crazy, obsessed, anti-social bastard.’ Something like that?" Tod nodded, embarrassed. “Yeah, something like that. But they're wrong." “How do you know? You've only worked with me for a week." “I just know. They're wrong. Hey, just ask around sometime—my classmates think I'm weird because I want to be a pathologist.” Rob didn't know what to say about Tod's willingness to accept him at face value, so he warned, “You might want to wear a mask. The smell when we get to the gut will be awful.” In what was for him a companionable silence, broken only by the throbbing base of the Metallica CD, Rob unzipped the body bag and exposed Elinor Grace to the harsh light of the living world. Without even asking, his assistant had turned down the CD player and switched on the cassette recorder for Rob's gross dictation. Rob dictated the preliminary information he had previously covered with Tod, including pertinent medical history and official cause of death, and then had Tod help him turn over the body.

“Upon complete visual examination, there are no abrasions or indications of external trauma of any kind on the deceased.” Rob stopped dictating and clicked the foot pedal to pause the recorder. Rob took several pictures. “Help me turn her back over." Tod had anticipated Rob's request and was already positioned to turn Mrs. Grace over. Rob shook his head. He had never had a diener who had worked in tandem with him before. Rob took more pictures of the front. His gut and the note from the lawyer advising him of the family's theory that Elinor had been murdered said to document the absence of abrasions and any signs of trauma. As a highly trained scrub nurse would have done for a surgeon, Tod had the scalpel ready and waiting for Rob to use in the process of getting into the chest. Rob made a large V-shaped incision around the breasts by cutting diagonally down from each side so that at the bottom of the V, the skin and attached tissue could be pulled up over the deceased's face— like a blanket shielding her eyes from the process. Rob then made a midline cut down her abdomen and pulled the skin with its tissues to each side. With the ribs exposed, Rob accepted the rib cutters from Tod, cut the ribs protecting the heart and placed them on a tray. “Let's see how your heart looks, Elinor.” Rob was in the zone now—communing with the body itself, asking it to give up its secrets to him. Rob cut the right carotid, then the left, and finally the left subclavian. Making a cut just pass the arch of the aorta, he removed the heart intact so that he could look at all the major vessels in situ. “Looks normal on gross. I'll want some slides." Tod held the tray for the heart and took it over to the side bench where he would later take the tissue for the slides. Rob continued his examination of the chest cavity. “You were in excellent shape, Elinor. You could have lived a lot longer on this heart and these lungs. You sure as hell didn't die from any infarction I can see.” Getting ready to look at the brain, Rob turned to ask for the Stryker saw and realized that Tod had again anticipated him. A warm glow of what could almost be called contentment flowed through him. “Thanks, Tod. As you guessed, we're going to keep hunting for cause of death. I'm ninety-nine percent sure she didn't die from heart failure and the lungs look good, too. Our guts were right.” Rob made an extra effort to include Tod in the process. No diener had ever been able to share the zone with him. Tod smiled and nodded. Rob started up the Stryker and gently placed the flap of skin back down over the open chest cavity. The saw would vibrate through the bone and stop at the tissue, just like it did when taking off a cast and stopping at the skin. One saw, two uses. Rob swiftly and cleanly removed the top of the skull. The brain looked normal—a gelatinous gray mass with peaks and valleys. “It looks normal.” Tod voiced Rob's exact thoughts.

“Yes, it does. We'll weigh it and take tissue for a tox screen." Tod looked at him with a satisfied expression. “Poison?" “Maybe. I'm not ruling out anything, yet. We'll take all the usual tissues for a tox—brain, liver, kidneys, and ocular vitreous. Since she wasn't embalmed, we'll try to see if the bacteria left us anything in her stomach contents." Tod grimaced. The autopsy had been routine so far, but the next half hour promised to be gruesome. Unembalmed abdominal cavities were gross—even for old-timers like himself. “Let's put on the space suits. Who knows what kind of stuff is growing in Mrs. Grace. Sorry, Elinor, we know you can't help it." Tod got the suits, and they both quickly suited up. The opening of the abdominal cavity was as bad as Rob thought it would be. With Tod's efficient assistance, he got in and out quickly with enough samples to satisfy the most Type-A toxicologist. Since he had seen nothing out of the normal in Elinor's body, he went ahead and took samples from under her nails. Rob didn't want to overlook any possible avenue for evidence. “Good job. Let's put Mrs. Grace back together so the mortician can fix her up all nice and pretty, then she can go back into the ground for her well-deserved rest." “Okay, Rob.” Tod turned and retrieved all the removed body parts and handed them respectfully to Rob who carefully reconstructed the remains of Elinor Grace. “Don't worry Elinor, we'll get the evidence so that the police can find your murderer.” Then he rezipped the body bag, once again shielding Elinor from the prying eyes of the world. “Rob, you're sure it's murder. How?" “Considering the lack of evidence of heart failure or any other system failure, then it's Ockham's Razor: Don't complicate things more than you need to; usually the simplest hypothesis is the best. “Why not suicide? How do you know she didn't take poison?" “You saw her. You read her charts. You read the family reasons for the autopsy. Do you really think she committed suicide?” Rob looked at Tod. “No. I don't. Are the police going to be able to get the guy who did this?" “I don't know, Tod, but it won't be because we didn't give them everything we could. I can promise you that much.” CHAPTER TWO Three weeks later. “What else could go wrong today?” muttered Michelle Smith as she looked around the dimly lit and crowded elevator. The non-moving elevator. As the walls closed in on her, Mici whispered repeatedly under her breath, “Breathe, damn it.” A mantra that might just get her through this living death.

Mici knew that her fellow prisoners were looking at her, wondering what her problem was. Tough. Let them. If someone didn't get her out of this elevator—and soon—she would really give them cause to stare. God, she hated small spaces! As if some god in the machine heard her prayer, the elevator started jerking downward. With each slowly moving second, Mici voiced her mantra. Finally, the doors opened. Freedom. Mici breathed a sigh of relief and vowed to never take an elevator again—even if the probate courts were on the top floor rather than the seventeenth! She knew it was an unreasonable fear, but she couldn't help it. Her father had a lot to answer for. **** “Great!” Mici gasped after climbing the six flights of stairs to the offices of Benjamin, Tyler and Harrison, P.C. “Everyone went home.” At six o'clock on a Friday evening, there was usually some die-hard associate still working. Oh well, she thought, I guess they have lives. My pillow and that mystery book will wait—their significant others won't. Mici dropped her briefcase and fumbled for her office key. Hell, she needed a bottle of aspirin, a cold Pepsi and a chair, in that order. Finally making it inside her office, she noticed a large package on her desk with a note attached. Mici picked up the note and read, “Boss, Well, here it is—the Grace autopsy. Karen Grace brought it over around 3 P.M. Said to call her tonight—no matter when you got in. Urgent. I didn't peek—tempted to—but didn't. Sherry." Mici grinned. She knew what it must have cost Sherry not to peek. Oh well, she'd let her read it Monday. Good secretaries were hard to find, so you kept them happy. Before she even attempted to read, she needed that aspirin and Pepsi. Mici walked over to the small bar refrigerator cleverly hidden in the built-in wall units. It had taken years, but she had finally earned the right to a corner office with many windows and high ceilings. Already she had made the room her own—pale peach walls set off by the mahogany of the built-in wood shelves, Chinese wool area rugs on the parquet wood floors and pastel water colors—the feminine touches needed to lessen the severity of the formerly masculine domain of a recently deceased partner. Her office gave her peace of mind; she had made it in a man's world. Headache assuaged for the time being, Mici looked at the extremely thick report and said to no one in particular, “What did Dr. Craig think he was writing? The sequel to War and Peace?” The two times she had spoken with him by phone he'd been so short with her that she knew how he had come by his antisocial reputation. The only information she could get out of him was that the report would be done after the toxicology screens came back. Now it was here. Opening the report, the words “Elinor Grace was murdered” leapt off the page. Even though she was somewhat prepared for this, it was still a shock. Before reading any further, Mici picked up the phone and dialed Karen Grace. “Karen, this is Mici. I just saw the report. Your family's suspicions were correct. I'm so sorry."

Mici listened to Karen's anguish over her Gran's death at the hands of an unknown person and the relief that the waiting to know was over. “Wait a minute, Karen. Slow down. Did you say something about a phone call and Elinor's death?" Mici sat stunned as Karen Grace told her that the real reason the family had insisted on the exhumation and autopsy was a phone call that Karen had received from an unknown caller. They had suspected it was murder all along; they just needed the physical proof. “Karen, if you knew this over a month ago, why didn't you tell me at the time? We could have gone to the police with this.” Mici rubbed her temples, willing her headache not to return. As Mici listened to Karen's explanation, she flipped through the report and read that Elinor had been poisoned with nicotine. She cringed at the photos of Elinor's poor body and vowed that someone would pay for her death and the indignities that came with being a murder victim. Mici interrupted Karen's flow of grief and anger. “Karen, I'm taking this to the police tonight ... Yes, you heard me, tonight. I don't care what Dr. Craig said about the police not listening. The police will listen to me." **** Mici stared at Homicide Detective Mitch Adams in disbelief. This just wasn't her day—stuck elevators, beloved client proven murdered, and now this—a stubborn, close-minded police detective. Mici massaged her pounding temples. She didn't think Excedrin had a number for her current headache. “Ms. Smith, one more time: You have nothing that convinces me that Mrs. Grace was murdered. Nothing.” “Detective Adams, I will admit everything we have alone wouldn't indicate a murder, but together they make pretty convincing circumstantial evidence. Look at this logically, we have an autopsy report -" Detective Adams interrupted Mici. “Look at what I have here on my desk, Ms. Smith. See these stacks of folders? Those are the case files for the murders committed in Indianapolis to date this year. There are well over a hundred cases there. On these cases, we either know who did it or have a pretty good idea. Now, you want me to add to the very large pile of cases, being handled by my overworked homicide detectives, a case where the woman could have accidentally ingested her rose poison? I don't think so." Mici recognized a stone wall when she met one. Standing up, she looked Detective Adams in the eye and said, “You want more evidence. I'll get you more evidence. Then you'll have to open one more file for your stack whether you like it or not." CHAPTER THREE Mici hated Broad Ripple. Whoever had laid out these streets had a weird sense of humor. After making three wrong turns and hitting two dead-ends, she finally pulled up in front of Dr. Craig's house. The young man at the mortuary assured her that Rob, as he called him, would be home. Mici wasn't sure how most pathologists worked, but she was sure that they didn't operate out of the back of a mortuary and their house. If it hadn't been for the assurances of a prosecutor in the criminal division, she would have been seriously questioning Dr. Craig's bona fides at this point. Mici shut off the engine of her little red James Bond Beemer.

Marshaling her arguments, she stared at Dr. Craig's house. It was typical of the 1930s cottage-style— one level clapboard with a front porch. A white picket fence completed the picture of what could have been a charming little abode if not for the overgrown yard and garden given over to weeds. Dr. Craig was a slob. Now, he had two strikes against him if you counted his lack of social skills on the phone. Mici didn't care how brilliant the man was—there was no excuse for being impolite and messy. Oh well, she thought, beggars can't be choosy. There weren't many self-employed forensic pathologists. “No guts, no glory, Mici. Stop stalling, get out of the car, go up there and ask him for help in solving Elinor's murder. The worst he can do is say ‘no.'” Self-consciously, Mici looked around to see if anybody saw her talking to herself. Seeing no one, Mici got out of her car and approached a lopsided gate. Fumbling with the latch, she finally entered the yard. As she picked her way up the overgrown brick walk, Mici's peripheral vision registered a dark streak approaching her from the side yard. Before she could assume a defensive posture—or run—she found herself flat on her back straddled by the largest dog she had ever had the misfortune to meet. Being a cat lover, her dog acquaintances were few and far between. “Nice doggie?” Mici faltered. “Please get off of me." Mici didn't even know if dogs understood “please,” but in this situation she felt it wouldn't hurt to try. The teeth showing around the slobbery, lolling tongue looked particularly fearsome. “Laurel, heel!” The stern order came from behind the beast. She recognized the deep baritone from her phone conversations with Rob Craig. The impolite slob now had a third strike against him—he owned a small pony masquerading as a dog. Wonderful. After Laurel removed himself from her body, Mici struggled to sit up. Not looking at Rob, she tried to figure out how she could pull her skirt down and stand up at the same time. Before she could take action, Rob moved to her side and literally picked her up. Always polite, Mici looked up to thank him for his assistance and, “Oh my God!" “Are you hurt? Laurel still has puppy control problems.” Diverted, Mici said, “Puppy—that small horse is only a puppy?" Talking about dogs seemed a safe topic. It was better than blurting out that no one, absolutely no one, had thought to mention that he was a stud—a grade A prime hunk of pure masculinity. A half-dressed one, at that. Hell, she might never be the same again. “Yeah, Laurel's almost a year old and ninety pounds. He'll be two hundred pounds when fully grown. Are you okay—whoever you are? You look flushed.” Rob knew that he had never seen this woman before. He'd have remembered legs like hers along with the rest of the package that went with them. She wasn't beautiful, but she was—striking and healthy looking—not one of those waif types. Funny, he thought, he should know her. “I'm Mici Smith. The Grace's lawyer. We've talked. On the phone ... you know ... about Elinor's case?”

Mici groaned. Great, you can't even put a simple sentence together. How are you going to convince him to help you find a murderer? How are you going to stop staring at him long enough to figure out where to start looking for a murderer? Remember, he's rude, a slob and an owner of a small horse who knocks people over. “Why are you here? Something in my report you don't understand?" “In a way.” “Are you going to ask your questions? Or, do I have to play “Twenty Questions” and guess?" “You might ask me to sit down.” Mici could care less about sitting down, but she was struggling to get some control of the situation. She also wanted to put some distance between herself and the dog now drooling at her feet. Pointing out his rudeness might give her a better bargaining posture. “Fine. Let's sit on the porch.” Rob led the way to the porch and slouched into a large wicker chair. Avoiding the obvious splinters, Mici gingerly sat in the wicker chair's mate. A little mold, mildew and insect droppings weren't going to hurt at this point—she had already wiped up the brick walk with her derriere. “Do you live alone, Dr. Craig?” Mici watched with dismay as Laurel ambled over and plopped himself at her feet—blocking any chance of escape. “Call me Rob and yeah, I do. Why?” “That explains the mess, then.” Mici moved her feet away from the gusty breaths of the contented puppy. “Lady, you didn't come here to critique my living habits. What do you want?” As he spoke, Rob leaned forward in his chair narrowing the distance between the two of them. “The police wouldn't open an investigation into Elinor's death. They said as far as they were concerned it was accidental—no matter what your report said.” A loud doggy snore came from the vicinity of Mici's feet as Laurel snuggled closer to her. “I told the Graces that would be IPD's response.” “I hate people who say they told you so." “Tough. You don't have to love me, lady. I gave the Graces the benefit of my knowledge of the local cops, and I can't help it if they—and you—didn't heed my advice not to spin your wheels. You'd do better hiring a private investigator to turn up some more evidence. Then, you can go to the police." “That's why I'm here." “For what? I don't know any PIs." “Neither do I. The Graces and I want to hire you to find the evidence to convince the police." “You've been watching way too many Quincy reruns. I'm a pathologist—not a detective." “You're a forensic pathologist, Rob. You have just as much crime scene knowledge, if not more, as any

private investigator. Plus, this is a medical crime." “You're crazy, lady. I don't have the time or the inclination to go haring off after Elinor's murderer. I'm not your man." “Then your reputation is all smoke and mirrors?" “What reputation?" “That you're a brilliant medical investigator—the Sherlock Holmes of forensic pathology. The...” Mici stopped. She could see he was interested. Time to pull the bait away. “Oh, well, I can see they were wrong." “Who's they?” Rob straightened up in his chair. “I'm not aware that anybody in this county has ever said any complimentary things about me." “You have a fan club in the prosecutor's office. Even some defense lawyers like your work, now that you've gone private. You have developed a reputation for getting the job done. Making the evidence stick. That's why I need you, Doctor.” Mici looked Rob straight in the eyes. No, she didn't see vulnerability in that gray gaze, did she? “Damn.” Rob looked away from Mici's searching look. “What does that mean?” Mici leaned forward and woke up the sleeping dog. Mistake. Now, she had a Great Dane's head in her lap. “It means I think I've just been sucker-punched, lady.” As if to erase the sting of the imaginary punch, Rob rubbed his flat stomach. “I did no such thing. I was just explaining to you why we thought you'd be interested in proving the police wrong.” Mici knew she had him now. Not thinking, she started scratching the dog's ears and was rewarded with a doggy sigh. Why, this monster was just an overgrown pussy cat. “Don't push your luck, counselor. You can take off your gloves, now. I'll do it.” At his concession, Rob got up and walked over to the edge of his porch. “No, we'll do it." Rob turned from his contemplation of the unkempt yard and stared at the woman turning his dog into a pile of mush. “Hell no. I work alone." “I'd heard that..." Rob jerked. “What did you hear?" “You don't play nicely with others. You aren't a team player. You are a lone...” Mici ticked the offenses off on her fingers until Laurel whined and nudged her to pet him again. “You make me sound like some little boy." “All men are little boys, Doctor, in one way or another ... Forget it.” Mici pushed Laurel away and got up as if to leave. “I guess the Graces and I were expecting too much from you. After all, you're just a doctor."

“Whoa, wait a minute, are you saying I wouldn't be able to find more evidence to lead to Elinor's murderer?" Hearing the indignant tone in Rob's response, Mici smiled. “Why no, Doctor, I didn't say that ... you did. I seem to remember that you denied being Quincy as you criticized my television watching habits. Or didn't I hear you correctly?” Rob groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “I hate people who throw my own words back at me." “Guess we're even then since I already told you I hate people who told me so. Anyway, it's obvious you don't want to work with me on this. The point is moot. I'll find another man to help me." Rob would later examine the quick tide of anger that flooded him at her last words. Right now, he needed to turn this conversation around. “Okay, we'll play it your way. Just so I can prove you and ‘them’ wrong. I will work with you. You can forget about finding another man.” Rob pointed to his bare chest and continued, “I'm your man. And for your information, and don't hesitate to pass it along to your sources, I can play well with others if I choose to. I just haven't found the need to do so before." Mici smiled. She'd got him hook, line and sinker. That negotiator's trick of turning the tables on an opponent gets them every time. Now, would she be able to handle him? Well, it should be interesting to say the least. “There's a first time for everything, Rob. Where shall we start?" “Elementary, my dear Mici. The scene of the crime. Elinor Grace's house." A Question of Fire by Karen McCullough Copyright © 2000 Karen McCullough Previously published by Dreams Unlimited. Cover Art by Rickey Mallory Cover Art copyright © 2000 Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1 [www.ltdbooks.com] All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data McCullough, Karen, 1949Shadow of a doubt [computer file] ISBN 1-55316-066-5 I. Title.

PS3613.C39Q48 2001 813'.6 C2001-902061-9 -1Wednesday “Miss!" The word hissed from the bushes behind her, startling Catherine Bennett out of the few wits she'd managed to recover in the peace of the dark, quiet garden. Thready strains of violin music and the buzz of voices drifted across the lawn from the open door of the house. In the light spilling out, she could distinguish a couple of people sitting at a table on the deck. Cathy measured the distance with her eye. A good, heavy-duty scream would be heard, even over the party noises. “Please, miss!” Tense urgency drove the voice as it called again. She didn't need this. The evening had been disastrous enough already and a man hiding in the garden spelled trouble with capital letters. She got up and backed away while turning to face the source of the call. “Don't run away, please,” he begged. “I won't hurt you. I promise. I just want to ask you something." A ring of sincerity in his pleading tone kept her from sprinting straight back to the house, an action the more cautious part of her brain urged. Cathy strained for a look at the person in the shrubbery. The voice was male and adult, though probably not very old. “Come out where I can see you,” she demanded. “Shhh!” he ordered in a fierce whisper. Leaves rustled, and a slender shape detached itself from the bushes. In the darkness, she couldn't distinguish his features. A light breeze in her face set her shivering. “What do you want?” She backed another step away. They both jumped when a particularly loud laugh rang across the yard. He turned to face the house. “You been at the party?" At it, not of it, Cathy thought. She didn't say so; the young man wouldn't understand the distinction. “Yes,” she answered. “You know a guy named Peter Lowell?" “Yes,” she admitted, wondering where this was leading. The young man's in-drawn breath sounded almost like a sob. “He's in there, ain't he?" “Yes." “Could you ask him to come out here?" “I don't know. We just met tonight and I ... I don't think he likes me very much. He might not come." “Please. It's real important. You gotta try.” A quiver shook the young man's body and voice. Tension or fear-or both? Whichever it was, he sounded near the breaking point. “All right. Who should I tell him is here?" The clouds drifted apart and the moon emerged from their shadow. A sliver of light fell across his cheek and glinted off the sheen of perspiration there. “Tell him ... Tell him it's Bobby. He'll come, I promise."

Cathy sighed. “All right, I'll try. Wait here.” She turned toward the house when another noise came from behind-the crackle of twigs or dried leaves underfoot. Bobby's head jerked toward the bushes, then he called again, “Wait!” There was no mistaking the sheer desperation in his voice now. “Please. Wait.” He looked from her face to the shrubbery and back again. “I better give you the message. Tell this to Mr. Lowell and no one else. Promise you won't tell anyone else?" Cathy went back to him, found one of his arms, and pulled him into the shadow of a large boxwood. The arm she held was trembling. “All right,” she said. “What's the message?" The young man looked around the yard and took a couple of quick, shallow breaths. “Tell him Danny was framed. I got the proof. Tell him-" Another rustle shook the bushes, followed by a sudden, sharp crack that reverberated for a few seconds afterward. Bobby groaned and collapsed, sagging against her. The abrupt burden of his weight drove her to the ground, where she found herself half-crushed by the young man's bulk. She moved out from under him, a rush of adrenaline sharpening her senses until she heard, over Bobby's ragged breathing, the squish of a footstep in the shrubbery and the churning of leaves and branches fading rapidly as the gunman retreated. Cathy stood and started toward the brush to follow the noise, then changed her mind when a choked groan from Bobby called her back. He sprawled motionless on the ground where she'd pushed him when she stood. The moonlight provided little illumination, but a new, large smudge stained the young man's light shirt. “Please. Tell Lowell-” He choked on the words. Cathy found one of his hands and tried to tell him to be still, to be quiet, she'd get help. His breathing was harsh, rattling, and difficult. Bobby moved his head in a bare negative motion. “Tell Lowell...” He worked for a breath. “God, please...” He tried again. “Danny...” He paused and the hand she held clenched. “In the air..." Breath and strength deserted him at the same time. The fingers clasping hers went slack and slid out of her grasp. Cathy did scream then, yelling for help at the top of her voice, though she knew the man on the ground was beyond assistance. She stood and ran back to the house. People responding to her cry met her as she got to the bottom of the stairs, and she managed to choke out the words to explain that someone needed to call the police and an ambulance. When a man said he'd make the calls, she went back to the site of the shooting, leading a knot of strangers. The young man still sprawled, face up and unmoving, on the grass. Cathy collapsed beside him. She took his hand again and held it while they waited in the darkness. She asked one of the people to find Peter Lowell and bring him. She shivered as the breeze blew across her bare arms, but the tears sliding down her face burned. Other people joined the group and several pressed questions on her. She explained only that she'd met this person in the garden and he'd been shot by a sniper while they'd talked. Someone brought a flashlight and, by its glow, they ascertained that the young man was indeed dead. Cathy looked away after her first view of him. Stripped of personality, the face told her what she'd already known: he'd been young. The crowd was beginning to overwhelm her when she heard a voice she thought she recognized asking to be allowed through.

“Lowell?” she said. A flashlight swung toward the newcomer, picking out a tall, slender man in a gray suit. The beam glinted in his blond hair and reflected off the lenses of thick glasses. “Yes,” he answered. “What's-?” He stopped abruptly. “God Almighty!" The light had moved back to shine on Cathy. She must look even worse than she knew. She lifted a hand to him and saw it was red with blood; she let it fall back into her lap and shut her eyes against the glare. “Turn that away!” Lowell ordered the man with the torch. “You wanted me?” he asked. “He wanted you.” She gestured toward the man on the ground. “He was trying to get a message to you." “Who is it?" “He said his name was Bobby." “Bobby?” The name meant something to him. Lowell went down on one knee beside the body. “He's dead,” Cathy warned. “Dead!” She heard his shock. “Bobby? Are you sure?" “I'm not a doctor, but, yes, I'm sure." “Dead? No.” Pain sharpened Lowell's voice to a thin wire of sound. “Oh God, no.” His hand moved to the dead man's throat, felt for a pulse, then reached to smooth the hair. “He was trying to get a message to me?” He stopped and swallowed hard. “Did he say what the message was?" “Yes,” Cathy said. “What-?” The sharp blaze of a siren cut through the night and the chatter of the crowd. Lowell surveyed the people gathered around them. “Later,” he said, and Cathy nodded agreement. The siren approached and swooped into the driveway, silenced abruptly as the police car reached the end of the driveway at the back of the house. Blue lights swirled, reflecting off trees, grass and crowd, throwing crazy shadows over them all. Another siren heralded the arrival of an ambulance seconds later. People piled out of the vehicles, hauling lights, weapons, and medical equipment. -2Wednesday—Thursday Cathy floated through the rest of the night cushioned by a haze of shock, but the time still seemed to drag. She remembered standing over a cracked basin in a shabby police department restroom, making a futile effort to wash the blood off her dress. Sort of remembered, anyway; her eyes had traced the cracks in the stained basin as though they might provide a map to describe her course through the evening. The effort didn't save her clothes, in any case, but she did get the red smears off her hands and arms. She'd stared into the mirror for a long time, wondering if that pale, shadowed face really belonged to her. It wasn't until she joined several official types, including a tired, rumpled man who identified himself as Lieutenant Norfolk, in a conference room that she began to emerge from the fog. A cup of hot, strong coffee helped. She must have called her editor, too, at some point. Ray clomped into the room an hour later, in the midst of her second detailed recounting of the events of the evening. He plopped into a chair in a corner, nodded to her, shut his eyes, and gave a good imitation of falling

asleep. Cathy wasn't fooled. Ray might look like a large, sloppy puppy, but the mind behind the unruly brown hair and rounded features was sharp and alert. More than could be said of her at that point. Lieutenant Norfolk flashed a glance toward Ray, then at another person in the room, and resumed his questioning. “Miss Bennett, you said you'd gone out to the garden to get some fresh air. There wasn't anyone else out there at the time?" Ray opened his eyes and looked at her, raising curious eyebrows. He didn't say anything, but his stare echoed the doubts in the lieutenant's tone. “There were people outside,” Cathy said, “but they were all on the deck or close to the house. I was at the other end of the yard." The lieutenant swirled the brew in his Styrofoam coffee cup. “You were at the party on business? Representing the newspaper, you said." “The society editor was sick.” Cathy glared at Ray. “I agreed to take her place. Just for tonight." “It's not your regular beat?" “I cover local government. I'm pretty new at it, though." “You just moved here to North Carolina?" “From Florida,” she confirmed. “You'd finished your work for the paper when you went outside?" “No.” Cathy sighed, a long exhalation that took some of her tension and shock with it. “I was taking a break. I don't really like parties very much, and it had been a rough evening." “The social scene isn't your favorite area?” The lieutenant's lips twisted into a sympathetic grimace. Cathy looked down into her cup and shrugged. “I'm your basic social klutz,” she admitted. “And I'd already outdone myself tonight.” She hoped no one would ask for the details. She almost squirmed remembering some of them. She'd barely arrived at the house when the lavish sprays of roses had set off a sneezing fit, and while rummaging in her bag for a tissue, she'd managed to land an elbow in the solar plexus of Horace Carter, a prominent and powerful businessman in the city, almost knocking him off his feet. His gallantry and good-humor about the accident had failed to relieve her chagrin. Then there was the cracker incident and her subsequent conversation with Gary Terril, which had seemed for a while to reverse the fortunes of the evening. The assistant district attorney was handsome, personable, charming and had a good line of banter. Their interchange had lightened the burden of duty for a while. Until she'd looked up to see the man she'd later learned was Peter Lowell glaring at her with enough venom to supply a rattlesnake convention. Worse yet, Gary's wife, Lydia, had sought her shortly thereafter to stake a prior claim in the gentlest, friendliest way possible. Cathy shook herself out of her reverie when she realized the lieutenant was watching her. He didn't ask for her thoughts, but shifted his cup from hand to hand a couple of times. “Tell me about the victim-about Bobby. Everything he said." Cathy quoted again the young man's words as best she could remember them, nagged by a feeling of guilt when she repeated his request that she not give the message to anyone other than Peter Lowell. Would he still feel the same way now? The situation had radically changed.

“You got the impression he was afraid?” the lieutenant asked. Cathy considered the dregs in the bottom of her cup. “He was terrified. And desperate." “He didn't tell you who he thought was after him? You think it was someone he knew?" “No idea. He didn't say anything about it. But he glanced toward the bushes a couple of times like he knew he'd been followed." “He didn't say why someone wanted to kill him?" She shook her head. “I got the impression it was because of the message. The one he was trying to get to Lowell." “Tell Lowell that Danny was framed,” the lieutenant repeated thoughtfully. “I've got the proof; in the air.” He paused and picked little pieces of Styrofoam out of the top of the cup. “It doesn't help us much." “No.” Cathy looked at the clock, amazed to discover it was only twelve-thirty. It felt like four in the morning. “You'd never met the deceased before tonight?" “Never. I still don't know his last name." He ignored the hint. “What about Peter Lowell-you knew him?" “Not before tonight. We were introduced at the party." The policeman wiped bits of plastic off his suit. “You told the deceased you weren't sure Lowell would come if you asked him. Why?" “He didn't seem-I don't know,” Cathy said. “He wasn't very polite or friendly when we met, and he seemed to have something against me." “You don't know what?" Cathy shrugged; she hadn't understood Peter Lowell's antagonism. “He saw me talking to another man, and he seemed annoyed about it, but I don't see why that...” She gave up. The thought wasn't going anywhere. “You've never met Lowell in the course of your work?" “Should I have?” Cathy asked. “The name sounds familiar, but I'm sure we haven't met before." “He's a lawyer. Criminal. He's argued a couple of cases that've gotten a lot of ink." “I thought I recognized the name.” The coffee was beginning to hit her bloodstream and the fog dispersed. “Was he defending Bobby-the deceased?" “Not recently,” the lieutenant answered. “You know who Bobby is, don't you?" The policeman looked at Ray, then back at her. “We have an I.D., but we have to ask you not to print it until the family can be notified."

She nodded agreement. That was standard practice. “Bobby was Robert William Stark. Age 22." “Record, I presume?” she asked. Lieutenant Norfolk chugged the remains of the coffee and grimaced. “Dealing drugs. Several years ago. No conviction, though. He seems to've stayed clean the last few years; had a steady job in an auto shop." “Married?" “No, but there's a girlfriend. She's seven months pregnant." “Lord." “Yeah,” he agreed. “It's going to be kind of tough on her." Cathy sat up straighter as another thought occurred to her. “Do you know who Danny is?" Norfolk looked at her, then at Ray as though debating how much to tell them. “Daniel Wayne Stark is Bobby's brother. He's next door, waiting trial." “Charges?" “Arson and murder." “Arson?” “Remember the fire at the old Youngblood apartments a couple of weeks ago? Danny Stark was found unconscious on the premises with gasoline on his hands and a cigarette lighter in his pocket." “Unconscious?" “The place was old. Had a lot of wood in it. We figure it must've blazed quicker than he'd anticipated. A beam fell on him while he was trying to get out." “A man was killed in that fire,” Cathy remembered. “That's why we've got a murder charge." “But Bobby said he had proof his brother was innocent." Norfolk frowned at her. “He came to us last week and said the same thing. Turns out someone in a bar said something about a fire. Bobby didn't even know the person's name." “He seemed awfully sure of what he had tonight,” Cathy said. The lieutenant sighed and rubbed a finger along the side of his nose. “Bobby Stark was a forty-watt bulb. He didn't have a clue. Don't pin any hopes on it, Miss Bennett; the case against Danny Stark is solid. He's guilty." “But somebody killed Bobby,” she pointed out. “Yeah.” Norfolk sighed again but didn't volunteer anything more. “What's the connection with Peter Lowell? Is he defending Danny?"

“He got Bobby off a few years ago; I guess Bobby called him to help his brother." “Does Danny have a criminal record?" “Got a record with the juvenile authorities, mostly small-potatoes stuff." “No other adult arrests?” Cathy asked. “One misdemeanor assault seven months ago. Bar fight. He's just barely eighteen." “I see.” Cathy sighed, feeling the effects of the evening dragging at her spirits. The discussion continued for another half hour, mostly reviewing facts already covered. Neither of them learned anything new. Ray finally got up, asked if they were finished, then excused both himself and Cathy, all but dragging her out of the room. “We have a story to turn in,” he reminded her. Fatigue weighed her limbs, but she dutifully went along with him and managed to compose a story for the morning's edition. She suspected, though, that if Ray hadn't been editing right behind her, the article wouldn't have been comprehensible. When she finally got home to her apartment, the clock said four-twenty. Cathy tore off her clothes and left them, uncharacteristically, in a heap when she rinsed under the shower, then dove into bed. The blare of the phone woke her shortly before seven. A local TV reporter wanted to interview her for their early morning newscast. In a sleepy haze, she told him she'd call him later and hung up, then changed her mind, took the phone off the hook and buried it under a chair cushion. The next time she woke, the clock read twelve twenty-three. Cathy stared at it in disbelief. Earlier, she'd been too exhausted to bother to reset the alarm. She took another shower, debated between breakfast and lunch, a semantic question since she intended to have an egg and toast in any case. Considering the hour, she decided to call it lunch. Only when a second cup of coffee hit her system did she begin to feel normal again. By the time she was fed, dressed, groomed, and crossing the gravel parking lot to her car, she was also working her excuses for being late into a speech that would convince Ray to give her the time and flexibility to work on the murder story. Even if she hadn't been so preoccupied, she probably wouldn't have noticed the dark gray Chrysler pull out of a space several hundred feet up the lot. Cars came and went all day long. The sudden, straining roar of a motor responding to a heavy foot on the accelerator made her look up. Shock froze her in place when she realized a couple of tons of glinting metal and glass were bearing down on her with reckless speed and careful aim. -3Thursday She stood transfixed, frozen like a squirrel that can't figure out which way to jump. She'd just made the decision when her body was jolted from behind, arms wrapped around her, and a lunge not of her own volition carried her out of the path of the vehicle. She and her rescuer landed together on the pavement several feet away, rolling and sliding, collecting scratches and gouges from the rough surface. The car roared past, out of the parking lot. Cathy twisted her neck to look at it and tried to lever herself to make out the license plate. The body sprawled across her own defeated her attempt as the two of them decided to get up at the same time and, instead, managed to end up tangled together in a knot of

limbs. The man gathered his breath and collected himself enough to roll over and away, swearing fluently but without malice. He rose to a sitting position on the pavement and stayed there, surveying her with a frown that finally melted into a crooked grin. Cathy shook her hair back and pushed up to face him. He seemed content to examine her wordlessly, so she felt free to do the same. He was worth a stare or two. Curly black hair and aquamarine eyes graced the sort of face that belonged on a television or movie screen. He was almost too beautiful to be true, but a touch of sardonic humor in the lines around his eyes and mouth redeemed his features from perfection. She broke the silence when it threatened to become uncomfortable. “I haven't had much practice thanking someone who's just saved my life, so this may be less than graceful. But my appreciation is heartfelt, believe me.” She rubbed a bruise on her leg. “Felt a few other places, too.” She tried to finger-comb her hair back into place. The frown reappeared. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Fine, thanks." He got to his feet and offered a hand. She accepted the assistance and winced as he helped her up. He looked worried. “You're sure you're not hurt?” “Nothing ten minutes in a ladies’ room won't cure." “Good.” His expression lightened, and he smoothed back his own hair. “It was a near thing, though. Careless bastard, zipping along the parking lot like that, not watching where he was going." “Careless?” Cathy looked up and down the strip of parking spaces separating one block of apartments from another. “I wonder." The man stared at her. “What else could it be? Does someone have a grudge against you?" She shrugged. “Not that I know of, but..." “But what?" “Just ... I don't know. Probably my imagination. Hey, look, I really appreciate your help. Do you live around here? I'll be glad to pay for cleaning your clothes." He shook his head. “I'll take care of it. No, I don't live here. And I came to see someone." “Oh. Well, I don't want to hold you up any longer. I'd better run, I'm late for work already, but thanks again." He didn't move, just watched her steadily, a small grin playing around his mouth. “You're not holding me up. You're Catherine Bennett, aren't you? I came here to talk to you." “Me? Why?" “It's a long story. Can we go somewhere more ... private to talk?" Cathy glanced at her watch. “I owe you a lot, and I really am grateful, but I'm also really late for work. Do you think I could meet you somewhere later on?" The lines around his mouth tightened and deepened, but his tone remained even. “Do you get a break for

dinner?" “Yes." “Good. What time? Can I pick you up at your office?" “You know where the Journal office is? Seven okay?" He agreed. Cathy said goodbye and got into her car. No one commented on her tardiness at the office. On the whole, she would've preferred they had-compared with what would be said later. Ray's door was shut when she arrived, and she knew better than to disturb him. A message waiting on her desk requested she call Peter Lowell's office. It didn't surprise Cathy to learn the lawyer wanted to see her. His secretary gave her an appointment for four that afternoon, which she accepted, hoping she'd be able to wangle the time off. She also called the police to report the attempt on her life. The officer dutifully recorded the details but warned her that, failing a license number or adequate description of the driver, they couldn't promise any results. They'd try, though. And, no, Lieutenant Norfolk wasn't on duty now. Call him back this evening. Ray's door remained closed, so she tackled the rest of the junk on her desk: a memorandum about leave policy, the latest update on the newspaper's group health insurance plan, assorted press releases she put aside to sort later, two letters in response to columns she'd written-one outraged, the other complimentary-and a chance to win five million dollars in somebody's sweepstakes. Finally, the door opened and Cathy started towards it. She stopped when she saw who occupied the other chair in Ray's office. Despite her ultra-ladylike air, Adelaide Stinson, society editor, could be a human volcano when aroused, and the noises emanating from the room indicated an eruption was pending, if not already in process. Cathy tried to back away, but too late. Ray saw her, gestured her into the room, and didn't ask the other woman to leave before he shut the door again. Adelaide was a picture in a short-sleeved knit top whose shade of pink echoed precisely the color of the flowers printed on the spring-green wraparound skirt. Pink espadrilles of the same shade as shirt and flowers completed the ensemble. Every strand of her rinsed blonde hair occupied its assigned position. Adelaide was pushing fifty, but still trying to convince the world she was under forty. There were three chairs in the room, so Cathy took the last one. Adelaide watched, blue eyes shooting sparks; she was the only person Cathy knew who could look demure even when furious. The woman didn't wait for Ray, but started in as soon as Cathy settled into the seat. “Young lady, don't you know that when the newspaper sends you to a social function in the community, it's placing the highest degree of trust in you? You occupy a position of utmost delicacy and responsibility. The people who accept your presence at their functions trust the paper will send someone who knows how to behave with decorum, someone who won't embarrass them." She stopped to draw a quick breath. “Last night you were placed in that position, and you betrayed that trust disgracefully. You created an awkward and embarrassing scene for the hosts; you completely ruined their party, in fact.” Adelaide was warming to the subject. “You had no business being outside alone in the darkness, and you most certainly shouldn't have been consorting with some low type who had the bad taste to bring his sordid affairs to an event where they didn't belong.” “Bad taste?” Cathy sputtered, torn between fury and astonishment. “Bad taste?” She drew a deep

breath. “Okay, I suppose murder is in bad taste." Ray lowered his face into his hands and said nothing. Adelaide missed the sarcasm. “It most certainly is, and your part was even worse. I intend to see the paper never allows you to cover an event of such importance again. I don't know what they teach young ladies in college these days. Certainly not proper behavior." Cathy looked at Ray, who finally sat up. She could see the effort he expended to control his expression, and she realized what he was doing. It irritated her, but she understood. If he expected an apology, however, he overestimated her. “All right, Adelaide, you've made your point.” Ray's patience was running thin, but he still tried to humor her. “I don't believe Cathy wants any more of those assignments in any case." “I expect you to be sure she isn't allowed to represent the paper at any social functions in the future.” Adelaide stood up, but she wasn't quite finished. “God knows how long it'll take to restore our credibility in the community after her disaster." The woman turned and marched out, but Cathy couldn't resist a parting shot. “I don't want to cover any more of those affairs, thank you, but I did enjoy the caviar." Ray smothered a grin as Adelaide closed the door, harder than strictly necessary, but nothing so crude as a slam. “A lot of people read our paper just to see their names in her column,” he said. “Point taken. I won't needle her any more. I'll try to stay out of her way entirely. But really, Ray: ‘bad taste?’ And her ‘low type’ makes me want to spit bullets. That ‘low type’ was a man who apparently struggled to get his life together, then risked it all to try to help his brother. Sometimes I could strangle the Adelaides of this world." “Hey, don't preach to me; I'm converted, remember? I'm just reminding you of the economic realities." “Sorry. I guess it was the effort of sitting quietly and letting her rip me apart." “Touché,” he responded. “Ray, you're going to let me pursue this story, aren't you?" “Not a prayer.” He watched her face and sighed. “Hell. Do I have a choice?” He tried to raise one eyebrow, but both slid up anyway. “I expect you to collaborate with Sandy on it,” he specified. “We need to preserve some semblance of objectivity. But I'm not sure how much story you've got. I talked to the police an hour ago. They think it's pretty cut and dried." “They do? How do they read it?" “Drugs,” Ray said. “Bobby was arrested once for dealing. And he'd been keeping bad company recently. If he wasn't selling, he was probably leaning on old contacts for information. The police think he got into something bigger than he could handle." “But what about the message, his claim he had proof?" “You heard how much faith Lieutenant Norfolk had in that proof. The feeling is pretty general. They'll do what they can, they're not going to be accused of overlooking the possibility, but don't expect them to bust a gut looking for something they don't believe exists."

“The case against Danny is tight,” he continued. “They don't have any doubts on that score. He was found at the scene; no one else was there except the drunk upstairs, nor was there evidence of anyone else. Danny claims he was framed, but he's pretty hazy about the details; can't even describe the man he claims brought him to the building." “What do you think, Ray?" “I get paid to report the stories, not to speculate about them." “Sure,” Cathy answered. “Okay.” Ray stretched and leaned back in his chair. “Danny's story is weak, but Bobby bought it, and while he might be accused of bias, it's also true that he knew his brother better than anyone else. You tell me Bobby sounded very sure about what he had, and I trust your judgment." “On the other hand,” he continued, “there's something to be said for the police position. That proof he had last time, for instance, was a guy he met in a bar bragging about setting a fire. Bobby neglected a few details, like getting a name, address, or even an accurate description. The cops, need I say, weren't impressed-told him to come back when he had real proof." “Bobby thought he'd found it." “Yeah, but the police are dubious.” Ray reached for a cigarette, then remembered he was in quitting mode again. “They think it more likely he stirred some other soup accidentally, maybe stumbled onto something he shouldn't have." “Any evidence to back that up?" “Not much, but it's suggestive. The bullet they dug out of Bobby, and the fact that only one shot was fired, very accurately, in the dark." “Night-sight?" “Most likely. The guy did the job with one bullet, in the dark. Very neat, very clean." “Very professional?” Cathy drew thoughtful little curlicues on her notepad. “Seems likely,” Ray agreed. “He did slip up, though. Left a footprint: Nike, size ten and a half. That's not for publication" Cathy frowned over her artwork. “A professional hit? Bobby really stirred the wrong soup; or the pot he wanted to stir was a lot deeper than he realized. Why aren't the police pursuing that possibility?" “They are." “Halfheartedly?” Cathy asked. “Last night Bobby told me Danny was framed, and he wasn't saying it on faith. He knew. He found something that convinced him beyond any doubt.” She remembered the way the moonlight had shined on his damp face. “Ray, somebody else knew it, too. What he found was dangerous, so dangerous someone killed him to keep it secret. I want to pursue it. I want to know who killed Bobby and why." Ray sucked in his lips and leaned his chair even further back. “Cathy, if you're right, then it's even more a job for the police. They get paid to do dangerous things. Let them do it." “I'll be glad to. If I can.” She paused and glanced down at her pad, sighed and punched the point into the

paper. “There's something else you ought to know. I think somebody tried to kill me this morning." “What?” The chair crashed against the floor as Ray sat up straight. “Are you sure?" Cathy told him about the car that had nearly run her down. Just recalling her frozen terror made her chest get tight, almost choking off her words. “You're sure it wasn't an accident, a careless driver?" “His aim was too good. I'm sure." “Have you told the police?" “I didn't have much to give them. I couldn't see the driver's face-he had a cap pulled down to hide it-and I didn't get a license number." “Tell Norfolk when he comes in,” Ray ordered. “He ought to know about this. And for God's sake, Cathy, be careful. Do you have any idea why?" She sighed and shrugged. “Whoever killed Bobby saw him talking to me and probably thinks he told me where to find whatever he had. He almost did, too. Damn! I know too much, but not enough. You see why I want to pursue it?" Ray glared at her. “I see a good reason for you to take a nice long vacation some place far from here.” He watched her reaction. “Relax, I know you better. Wishful thinking. But tonight's follow-up on the murder story is going to contain a statement that Bobby didn't say anything helpful before he died." “I'm not going to print what he did say." He rolled his eyes and scratched his head with a pencil he picked up from the desk. “Did I say you should? I just want something general to let the killer know you don't have anything on him. Okay?" “Sure.” Cathy exhaled a long sigh. “You think it'll convince him?" “No,” Ray admitted. “But it's one thing we can try." “The other is to find whatever Bobby had and get it into the right hands, pronto,” she added. “I suppose we can rely on the police to check the obvious places, like the air conditioning system in his home, if there is one. It may not be so simple, though, and I'd like to pursue it if they don't find anything. I'll need some flexibility." Ray stared at her for a minute, making her wonder if he was trying to figure out how to refuse without infuriating her. “I suppose so,” he said, finally. “I don't like it, but I'll give you as much leeway as I can. The primary races won't start heating up for another few weeks anyway. But Cathy ... Be careful, please.” He stopped and shook his head. “How do you plan to start?" “Peter Lowell left a message saying he wanted to see me. I can guess what he's after, but I need to talk to him anyway. I have an appointment in...” She consulted her watch. “Yikes! Twenty minutes. I want to find out more about both Bobby and Danny. See if maybe I can talk with Danny. I'd better get going." Ray shook his head again, probably asking himself why he let himself to be talked into these things against his better judgment. About The Author

Monette is a lawyer/arbitrator living with her pathologist husband, teenage son, two cats and two parents, one hers, one his, in Carmel, Indiana. Writing under the pen name Monette Michaels, she is the author of several electronic books published by LTDBooks and Atlantic Bridge Publishing. You can visit her web site at http://home.att.net/~medraper/. Publisher info: Stories that stimulate your laughter, Provoke your tears, Evoke your secret fears, Stories that make you think ... The stuff that dreams are made of ... LTDBooks www.ltdbooks.com

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