Kill Society

Book Four of the Girl Who Would Be Sheriff

Alan Lee

Kill Society

Book Four

of

The Girl Who Would Be Sheriff

by Alan Lee

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 Alan Janney

First Edition

Printed in USA

Cover by Damonza

Formatting by Vellum

Sparkle Press

Created with Vellum

1

Detective Andie Stackhouse reclined in her desk chair, squeezing a stress ball, and she skimmed her emails. The station's human resource department had purchased the stress balls for every sworn officer to boost morale and emotional well-being. Most of the officers took the stress balls to a gun range for target practice, because they detonated beautifully. With the remainder, an ongoing game existed in the break room, tossing the stress balls into the far trash can while enduring a painful attack from the new massage chair, another acquisition from HR. Harder than it sounded because the chair didn’t allow a throwing arm to be raised higher than the shoulder, and the base of the skull was being wrenched.

Scores were surreptitiously kept on a whiteboard, and money exchanged hands out of sight of their critical lieutenants.

Sergeant Crabtree once made eight in a row, beating Officer Hurst Amato by two strokes. To celebrate, Crabtree smacked Hurst in the butt so hard it made his eyes water.

Stackhouse was not good at the game. Like on the shooting range, what came naturally to others felt alien to her. Watching her squirm and miss the bin by two feet, Detective Val Farmer said, “Good thing you’re cute, baby.” Stackhouse didn’t mind losing, because it made her more human to the others.

Stackhouse didn’t shoot her stress ball at the range—she used it to build trigger-finger strength, squeezesqueezesqueeze until the muscles in her hand screamed, which is what she was doing when a radio call came.

10-54.

Dead body.

Orange Avenue.

Stress ball forgotten.

Stackhouse beat the pack in her Crown Vic, an old Interceptor she refused to release, Betty Boop nodding at her the whole way. Someone had pasted a sticker of a red rose on the bumper four years ago.

A homeless man had discovered the corpse, called it in, and fled the scene, anxious to get out of the spotlight. Stackhouse parked near the Melrose Branch Library, off a wide parking lot in the northeast part of town. Home to most Roanoke homicides.

Officers Britta Brown and Keri Coley taped off the scene while Tankersley watched, twenty-years their senior. Stackhouse had been in the same academy class as Britta, one year behind Keri. Brown and Coley were still running patrol while Stackhouse worked in investigations as a sergeant—once friendly, now Stackhouse felt the distance between them as a gulf, impossible to bridge.

Better not to try.

Be grateful, not guilt-ridden.

“What do we have?” said Stackhouse.

Both women ignored her, busy with their tape.

“Dead body,” Tankersley grunted, gruff and irritable. “I said that on the radio.”

Stackhouse crouched in the grass and snapped on white gloves. Behind her, additional cars arrived, bringing, she hoped, helpful co-workers instead of resentful ones.

No odor. Cadaverine gases hadn’t formed yet—fresh meat.

The corpse was male. Fully dressed. He’d flattened a patch of grass in his death throes, framed by the patch now. His face and neck were butchered—stabbed repeatedly, was Stackhouse’s first impression, and she was right.

Stackhouse pursed her lips and glanced at her watch. Nine in the morning. Maybe she could wrap this up by the end of her shift.

In her mind, the clock started ticking.

Sergeant Detective Kip Broome bent over the body, holding a to-go cup of coffee. One of the senior violent crime detectives, and skilled in his profession. “Dumped?”

“I think this is the scene of the attack,” said Stackhouse. “He was stabbed here, and he fell over and died.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that,” said Stackhouse, pointing to a piece of flesh, “is part of his ear. No reason to bring the missing body parts if this is a dump site.”

Broome nodded his approval. “Very good.” He stepped farther into the grass, pushing aside long tufts with his shoe’s toe, and he crouched. “Over here we got a chunk of nose, looks like.”

He sipped his coffee.

The corner arrived and pronounced the body dead. Broome began dropping steepled yellow evidence markers beside anything of interest he found in the grass. Officer Palma enlarged their work area with orange cones and he created a log, jotting down the names of anyone who entered the scene.

July burned hot on the back of their necks as they worked.

Stackhouse fished the corpse’s pocket and produced an empty wallet. Empty except for a library card with a name—Mason Wing.

“Officer Coley, grab the metal detector from the trunk of my car and search the grass, please,” ordered Stackhouse. She picked Keri Coley because the woman had insulted Stackhouse in the past. Re-establishing lines of command was important.

Sergeant Crabtree arrived, a hard-nosed linebacker of a man, not popular around the station. Coley didn’t move fast enough for him. He barked, “Coley, you ain’t hustling? Better move that ass.”

Some of the newer police departments had upgraded their cars, installing computers with internet capability. An unreal technology; 2008 was like living in the future. Roanoke City didn’t have the budget for it this year, and certainly her old Crown Vic would never see the upgrade. Instead of punching Mason Wing into a computer, Stackhouse dropped into the driver’s seat and radioed the name.

Kristin in dispatch ran a search and called back.

Mason Wing, last known location was the Rescue Mission. Homeless. One prior shoplifting conviction, two priors for possession with intent to distribute.

Stackhouse called the Rescue Mission and learned that Mason spent the night now and then, well regarded, never a problem, suspected to be in a romantic relationship with Tasha Jude.

Another radio call to dispatch. Kristin responded with Tasha Jude’s address and phone number, but Tasha didn’t pick up when Stackhouse rang her.

“Got something,” shouted Keri Coley, knee-deep and swiping with the metal detector. “Looks like a cell phone.”

Stackhouse crouched over the phone and snapped pictures with a digital SLR, then picked up the device with her gloved hands. The device was crusted with blood.

“Oooo baby,” muttered Stackhouse. “It’s unlocked.” She searched the recent messages.

“Found a knife,” called Kip Broome, metal detector in one hand, coffee in the other. “A knife with bloody fingerprints, our lucky day.”

From the phone, Stackhouse learned that the victim, Mason Wing, had been texting a contact listed as Tasha, and a few other names that meant nothing. Tasha had asked to meet him at the library last night.

“You got this?” asked Stackhouse. “I’m rolling on Tasha Jude.”

“My crime scene,” confirmed Kip Broome. He was better at forensics than Stackhouse anyway.

“See if we can’t settle this by dinner.” She pointed at Officers Moon Ruby and Nate Neal. “You two with me.”

Moon Ruby, young and cute, had once worked as a member of her squad, and she worshiped Stackhouse. Nate Neal was new and young but Stackhouse trusted him. En route, she rang Moses Elliott, a patrol sergeant with street cred, asking him to meet her there.

Two hours after Stackhouse had been squeezing the stress ball at the station, she was trundling into Hurt Park. Some called Hurt Park the projects, a government-subsidized housing complex sporting a high crime rate. The neighborhood was active with kids playing basketball and adults sitting on chairs. A fug of marijuana hung thick in the air, as did the hip-hop song “Low” by up-and-comer Flo Rida, a song Stackhouse thought was catchy as heck. Shawty got low low looooow. Her team of four knocked on Tasha Jude’s door but she didn’t answer.

Spreading out, they grilled the neighbors, where is Tasha Jude?

We don’t know.

No one would give them answers or even look them in the eye.

“Fuck the police,” came the cry.

“Gonna let him talk to you like that?” someone asked Stackhouse.

She shrugged. “Freedom of speech.”

After an hour of knocking and interviewing, they were overheated and without discernible progress. Sergeant Moses Elliott sat with Stackhouse in her car and she blasted the air conditioning.

“They’re scared.” Elliott rapped on the passenger window of the Crown Vic. “These people won’t talk, not with everyone watching.”

“Why are they scared?”

“Because someone big killed Mason Wing. They think they’re next, if they snitch. I grew up thinking the same thing.” Elliott was handsome and fit. Great teeth. He’d been promoted to sergeant last month.

“You know this place. They love you.”

He grinned. “Mostly.”

“What do we do?”

“We drive off. Lower the temperature. Too many people watching.”

“And then what?” she asked.

“We missed lunch. We eat. We give them time. See what happens.”

Stackhouse didn’t like driving away with nothing, but she followed the advice of the man native to the area, her an intruder. They ate at Big Al’s Sub Shack. The owner hugged Elliott, and said their meal was on the house, and he gave Elliott a gift card for the recent birth of Elliott’s son, such a beautiful baby.

One of the patrons at Big Al’s wore a t-shirt with Stackhouse’s picture printed on the back. Still a jarring sight. Jane Newton, a convicted serial killer, escaped prison last month, a killer Stackhouse had caught. Featuring two attractive women, the trial had been national news. Jane’s prison break renewed the public’s interest, prompting the manufacture of wooden dildos keychains, the most lurid detail from her killing spree. The t-shirts of Stackhouse were illegal, but the Federal Trade Commission moved slow, seemingly impotent to prevent them. On this t-shirt, Stackhouse’s image had been altered to mimic the trendy Che Guevara shirts. The guy wearing it didn’t recognize the woman eating next to him.

Jane remained at large. The FBI, the Marshals, the police, they were catching hell on the twenty-four-hour news channels for not apprehending her yet.

Halfway through lunch, Sergeant Elliott was proven correct; one of his contacts called. Stackhouse realized what had happened—while the cops were in the neighborhood, everyone had to be cool, pretend like they didn’t know Moses Elliott. But given enough time, some of Elliott’s informants could slip away and make a phone call in private, in exchange for future leniency.

Elliott stepped out to talk and came back with information written on his notepad.

“Got her. Mason Wing’s girl Tasha Judd is hiding at a friend’s house off Williamson, a mile from here.”

“Hiding out because she killed Mason?” Stackhouse didn’t think a woman was big enough to hack the nose and ears off Mason with a knife.

“It’s not us she’s scared of, I don’t think.”

They rolled on Tasha’s friend’s house, a little brick ranch with a yard going to seed. The mean-looking woman at the door said Tasha wasn’t there. Did they have a warrant? No. They didn’t have her consent either, so you cops can go to hell.

Nothing they could do about that.

Stackhouse stood with her crew of three patrol officers, frustrated on the road, until she inspected the car in the driveway; the window was broken and blood had dried on the handle. Glass shards like gravel in the floorboards.

That was all Stackhouse needed.

She pounded again and called, “Ma’am, the window of your car is broken and there’s blood on the door. That makes me think someone is wounded or in danger, which means I’m coming in. Legally. You can open the door or we can break it down, your choice.”

The mean-looking woman opened up, quiet and contrite now, and she led them to Tasha.

Tasha was in the basement, weeping. A young woman, White, too thin, she was crashing off a high. Her face was bruised and purple where someone had beaten her.

The common plight of law enforcement—too much hurt, too much crime, not enough time or manpower. Faced with an abused junkie, Stackhouse had a lot of options, but she forced herself to focus on her task—the murder.

“Tasha, do you know Mason Wing?”

That gave the girl pause. “Yeah I know Mason. Why?”

“Someone killed him, Tasha. At the library. You’re the last person he texted on his phone last night.”

Tasha cried harder.

When Stackhouse told her she needed to ride downtown to the station, Tasha panicked and she admitted her story in a rush.

Yeah she knew Mason. He was a good guy, but addicted to crack. She admitted she was too, addicted to junk. That’s why she’d texted him last night, to score a rock. He was a good guy, she promised, but he had his demons and he didn’t deserve to die. She swore he didn’t.

“Tasha, what happened to your face?”

Tasha wept hard enough they couldn’t understand her, so they backed off. Like in the projects—give people space, lower the temperature, see what happens.

The mean-looking owner of the house waved Stackhouse upstairs.

Okay, look, said the woman. Her breath stank of cigarettes. Tasha ain’t gone tell you, so I will. That Mason boy you’re asking about, the one who died, he stole for drug dealers. He took orders from the local dealers and he took himself into Walmart and shoplifted to fill their orders. Filled his pockets with whatever they needed. Dealers gave him a discount on his crack that way. Don’t tell her I said nothing, but sometimes Tasha bought her crack and sometimes she screwed Mason to get it free. Trouble is, sometimes she screwed other people when Mason was out. One of the guys she started screwing, well, she shouldn’t have started with him. That guy, he didn’t like Mason. He told her she had to quit seeing Mason, that she was his bitch now, not Mason’s. She wanted crack, had to get it from him. Tasha didn’t like that and she broke it off with the guy. Yesterday. That’s why her window’s broke, because the guy smashed it in and hit her, he got so angry. About near killed her before she could drive off. You want to know who killed Mason? I bet it was him, out of jealousy.

Stackhouse asked, “What’s his name, the guy who broke the window?”

I don’t know his real name, said the mean-looking woman. Everyone calls him Big Chains.

Moses Elliott whistled. Big Chains. No wonder the people wouldn’t talk.

Back in her car, she radioed Kristin.

Big Chains, real name Trayvon Tate. No recent addresses.

While they sat in their cruisers, planning their next move, the rover-chatter picked up—a drunk driver caused a six-car pileup at the corner of Williamson and 460. Stackhouse was forced to release her squad of three patrol officers to handle it, and she returned to the station, still hot for the hunt.

Over the phone, Kip Broome told Stackhouse he was headed to forensics with blood samples, plus the knife and phone for fingerprinting.

Progress. But the wheels of justice were grinding slow. She looked at her watch. “We’re not gonna clear this before dinner, are we.”

“Maybe before dessert?” said Broome.

At her computer, Stackhouse searched for Big Chains and Trayvon Tate. His file was thick with notes. He was wanted for questioning in several cases, including robbing a woman that Roanoke City had in custody that very minute on another matter.

How about that.

Stackhouse hurried from the police station to the sheriff’s office, a walk of fifty feet, and she told the deputy at the window she’d like to speak with Harley Duff, who was spending the next thirty days in jail for failure to comply with a dozen court orders.

Twenty minutes later, Harley Duff sat heavily on a stool across from Stackhouse. A big woman wearing a khaki prison jumpsuit.

She sneered at Stackhouse. “What do you want? What makes you think I’m telling you a damn thing?”

“Because of revenge,” said Stackhouse.

“Don’t give a damn about revenge. Revenge on who?”

“Trayvon Tate. Where can I find him?”

The greasy woman frowned, like she knew the name but couldn’t place it. “Who?”

“He’s known as Big Chains. I think he murdered someone but I can’t find him.”

Harley Duff leaned back in her chair and she grinned. “Damn. Turns out,” she said. “I’m happy to help you with that and I know exactly where that piece of shit Big Chains is.”

Stackhouse wrote everything down, feeling like a woman with the wind at her back.

She ran back to the station and called Kip Broome, who said, “I’m looking at the prints now. We have ourselves multiple beauties.”

“Compare them to Trayvon Tate? He’s in the system.”

Thirty minutes later, Broome met her at her desk. He had a match—a thumb and part of a forefinger—for Trayvon Tate.

Bingo.

Stackhouse rang the Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney she knew best, Boyd Warren, and she sped for the station. She was forced to wait until 4:30, when Judge Thompson’s long docket ended. In her chambers, Judge Thompson unbuttoned her black robe and listened to Stackhouse and Boyd Warren, a man Stackhouse usually avoided because he watched her with roving eyes. The evidence—Mason Wing was found stabbed, and a knife was lying nearby bearing Big Chain’s prints, and an eye-witness stated that Big Chains was living in his girlfriend’s house, a woman named Indira Dickinson. We’d like to search Dickinson’s house. Judge Thompson signed the warrant and said, “Go get ‘em.” Then, before Stackhouse walked out, “And I love those pants.”

Stackhouse checked her watch. She was missing her self-imposed dinner deadline. But maybe dessert.

No, she missed that too. It took too long to gather backup, the big traffic accident on 460 and Williamson eating up her manpower.

Not until eight in the evening did she and an arrest team park a block from Indira Dickinson’s, a long and narrow one-story house built a hundred years ago for railway workers, in a row with twenty other identical houses, in Garden Valley. The sun was already a dimming glow behind the trees, the night ready to purple.

They watched the house long enough to be rewarded—Indira returned home driving an old Pontiac, a man standing out of the passenger seat and stretching. From a distance, they couldn’t identify him. Before her team could move, the couple walked inside.

Sergeant Fry (head of Roanoke’s SWAT) took over—one team around back, one at the front door, Stackhouse knocks, I go through the back door if they don’t answer, let’s roll. They quick-walked the block to Indira’s house and without pause Stackhouse rapped on the screen door. Detective Kip Broome stood behind her with the warrant.

“Ms. Dickinson? My name is Detective Stackhouse and I need you to open this door, please,” she shouted, loud.

No answer.

“We know you’re home, Indira. Your car is in the driveway and we saw you go inside,” she shouted.

No answer.

She pounded again. “We have a search warrant signed by the judge and we’ll break the door if we have to.”

Her pulse revved.

Twenty seconds, then, “Window, window, east side!”

A man climbed from a window and he sprinted toward Indira’s car. Stackhouse and her squad swarmed into the narrow alley between houses and halted his progress, everyone shouting, the man cursing. She recognized Trayvon as the man from her computer screen. Frantic, Trayvon turned the other direction, but the squad at the back of the house blocked his way. A snap decision and he decided his best option was to take on Stackhouse and he ran at her, but Sergeant Fry tackled him from behind. The men collapsed, heavy grunting.

“I got him,” Fry called. “Trayvon, hands where I can see them, hands were I can see them. Stackhouse, cuff him.”

Stackhouse obeyed, straddling the man who lay flat on his stomach. He was manhandled by four officers. He reeked of marijuana and wore several heavy chains around his neck, and he made no peep as Fry Mirandized him.

Inside, Indira was howling. Kip Broome took a squad of four to deal with her and clear the house.

Stackhouse walked on shaky legs to the front lawn to make a phone call to her lieutenant—we have a man in custody. No one hurt. …thank you, sir.

She hung up and counted to ten, and she walked back to the long line of squad cars, shaking out her hands. Big Chain’s escape attempt had rattled her.

One of the officers waited there, by her car. In the falling dark, Stackhouse didn’t recognize her, focusing instead on her own breathing.

Deep breath. Another.

She realized she was smiling.

We got him. Before dessert. Or at least before a late-night snack.

All in a day’s work. A hectic, busy day, but a good one. She’d skipped dinner and technically her shift had ended two hours ago.

Now to search the house. She was guessing a small mountain of drug paraphernalia would be found and confiscated. Indira would be arrested too. She needed the big forensic satchel from her trunk, stuffed with gloves and baggies and tweezers and her camera.

The officer at the squad car turned to accompany her. Just the two of them, everyone else at Indira’s house. Soft footsteps.

“Give me a hand, would you please, officer?” said Stackhouse. “We’ll be searching the house.”

The officer didn’t respond.

Stackhouse turned to introduce herself to the woman. “Sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Detective Andie Stackhouse.”

“Ummm, we’ve met, Andrea.”

With a shock, Stackhouse realized she was looking into the green eyes of notorious serial killer Jane Newton.

2

Stackhouse felt a tiger bite under her ribs. A sharp manic pain, the tiger shaking her, intense agony.

Jane Newton had shoved a Vipertek stun gun into Stackhouse’s stomach and released the voltage. The tiger’s growl was a blue lightning crackle.

Stackhouse’s nervous system short-circuited. She tried screaming but it came out, “Annnghh-annnghh-annnghhhhh,” soft rhythmic grunting. No one heard.

Jane Newton, wiry with strength, helped her collapse into the back seat of a Chevy Interceptor. Stackhouse was helpless and man-handled, twitching after the payload finished its discharge. Newton fondled Stackhouse’s uniform, searching, and she tucked Stackhouse’s feet inside before slamming the door. She ducked into the driver’s seat and dropped into gear, the Chevy easing away from the curb, unnoticed.

A neat abduction. The investigation of Indira’s house continued unabated in the rear view.

Stackhouse’s muscles spasmed and clenched, spasmed and clenched, her face purple, until at last she could manage a steady pant, her breath dampening the vinyl seat under her mouth. She’d been tased as part of academy training—she knew her overwhelmed sensorium would quiet within minutes but sweet Jefferson that hurt.

The car bounced and rocked.

I’m locked in the back seat of a squad car.

With Jane Newton driving. Jane Newton!

For a decade, Jane had brutalized men she suspected of hurting women. Nine the police knew about. She’d taken a liking to Stackhouse, still a rookie patrol officer, until Stackhouse discovered her hidden practices and Jane tried drowning her in an underground storm vault. After capture, Jane had been fetishized by the media, the luscious serial killer, nicknamed The White Witch, and Stackhouse was inexorably wrapped up in the story. Beauty and the Monster, proclaimed Fox News. Books were written. Nude photographs of Jane circulated the internet; her body was covered thighs to chest with tattoos of thorny vines.

She had beheaded the last cop who ticked her off.

Stackhouse’s hands worked now, patting her belt and pockets, seeking, hoping, but Jane had pilfered her gun and cell.

Trapped. Trapped with Jane Newton again.

A final paroxysm racked her muscles. She closed her eyes and groaned. Keep calm and freak out later.

“Jane.” She pushed herself up to a sitting position. How to handle the serial killer—fear, bargaining, anger? “Nice to see you.”

“How is your head, Andrea? I assume you still have cartilage damage from Beth’s frying pan? Any chronic headaches?”

Stackhouse pivoted to look out the rear window. They drove alone on a road she didn’t recognize. She’d left her rover in her car. No help coming.

“Pretty clever, Jane.”

“I have to be clever, Andrea.”

“Where are we going?”

“A detective. You made detective, in what, three years? So quick.”

“In Roanoke City, switching from response to investigation isn’t a promotion.” Stackhouse patted her pockets and felt an object the size of a lipstick tube.

“And before that, you were a sergeant?”

“Not a good one.” Stackhouse looked at her shirt. The stun gun’s probes hadn’t pierced her fabric, the electricity leaping into her body and leaving burn marks on her skin. “How was prison? You’re out on good behavior?”

Jane ignored the quip. “You know why they promoted you, Andrea. You know why they transferred you to investigation and why you’ve been on the covers of newspapers and magazines.”

“Jane, tell me where we’re going.” Despite her best efforts, fear trickled into her words.

“It’s because you’re beautiful, Andrea. You’re traffic-stopping-ly beautiful, and you are promoted and adored because of how you look. Not because of merit.”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

“No. No.” Jane hammered the steering wheel and the horn BLARED, and Stackhouse jumped. “You caught Beth. Beth, not me.” Jane fumbled a hand into the passenger seat. “I’m trying to help you, Andrea, but I can’t if you won’t admit the truth.”

“This isn’t helping me.”

Jane raised Stackhouse’s pistol and aimed it over her shoulder, toward the metal partition, a mesh the bullet might punch through. “Admit it. Out loud, the truth, right now. For your own good.”

Stackhouse tried not to squirm under the pistol barrel. “If you want the truth, I suspected both of you.”

“Andrea.”

“Are you trying to help me or not, Jane? You want the truth?” Stackhouse’s heart hammered so hard it wavered her syllables. “This is the truth. I suspected you both and I informed my colleague. But I didn’t catch either of you. You caught me.”

Jane lowered the gun, glaring at Stackhouse’s reflection.

The car’s radio was active with chatter. Jane hunted for the volume and Stackhouse heard, “Detective Stackhouse, what’s your twenty?”

Jane smacked buttons until it turned off. “You are treated differently because of how you look. It’s a soft form of abuse, you know. They’re using you. The men.”

“I read the reports, Jane. I know you seduced your fellow inmates. I know you had affairs with multiple prison guards. That’s how you escaped. You stayed lovely in prison and you used it to your advantage.”

“You read about me.”

“We use the tools we’re given. You used your good looks,” said Stackhouse.

“I’m free of my prison, Andrea. But you are not. The men…” She shook her head and closed her eyes. The squad car veered across the painted yellow lines. “The men will use you up. They always do.”

“Jane.”

“The men, they take and they take. I see how they watch you.” Their tires drove fully into the left lane. Thankfully no cars were oncoming.

Where are we?

“Jane, watch the road, please.”

“You are gorgeous, Andrea. You were born that way, yes, you can’t help it. But you wear your clothes too tight. Too many buttons undone. Too much makeup. The other women don’t, but you do.”

Their Chevy drifted dangerously close to the drop off on the far side of the road. Stackhouse could only watch. She smacked the metal partition. “Jane, you’re out of control. Jane Newton, open your eyes!”

“No, it’s you who needs to open your eyes.” Jane swerved the other direction, over-correcting, and Stackhouse was tossed sideways by the sudden motion. She slid on the slick vinyl. “You never visited me, Andrea.”

“Watch the road, please. I don’t visit prisoners.”

“Don’t call me that.” The drop-off to the right of the road was steep enough to warrant a guardrail and the front bumper connected, throwing sparks. The car shook and screamed. They skidded along at forty-five miles per hour, jumping and howling, Stackhouse praying, until Jane opened her eyes and righted the wheel. “You never wrote me. Or called, even though I left you messages.”

“I told your lawyer I wouldn’t.”

“I need help. I need your help, Andrea, to stop. You have to make them understand I can’t control it.”

To stop?

“I can’t be the one to help you, Jane. That night was traumatizing,” said Stackhouse. They passed a road sign—they were on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Driving northeast, toward Roanoke River.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“To some extent, of course.”

“What do you do with the fear, Andrea?”

“Jane, stop the car. Let’s talk.”

Jane accelerated. The needle crawled above fifty. Above fifty-five.

“I can’t control it, Andrea. It’s the men’s fault,” she said.

“Slow down, please. Park.” They passed another sign, bright in their headlights. The gorge was one mile ahead.

“They get what they want. From you. They use you, and you don’t fight back, Andrea. In fact you dress up for them. You preen, you posture. You use them and they use you. Corrupt. You’re all corrupt.”

“Jane.”

“Did they rape me?” Jane shook her head. “Sorry. Did they rape you?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you sleep with them willingly?”

“You’d like to talk? Fine, we’ll talk. We’ll talk all night. Pull over and park.”

“Ummm, I asked you a question, Andrea.”

“I signed up for the police because I wanted to be one. It has nothing to do with men using me.”

“Answer the question, please.”

“No, I’ve never slept with a fellow…” Her words caught. Mark Rowe. That one night. Crud. She continued the sentence, a lie, “Never with a fellow officer.”

“I heard you!” Jane slammed the horn again. “I heard you pause! You lied! The men, you sleep with them! You give them everything, even your body. They always get what they want! I knew it, I knew it, I-knew-it!”

“One man, Jane, and only once. Calm down. Stop this car.” Stackhouse didn’t bother trying the doors. They locked automatically. She fumbled with the tube from her pocket, a last resort.

“Was it the man who carried you away from my house? I saw, I remember him. That night underground, the man picked you up, like you weren’t strong, like you were a baby, like you can’t walk on your own, and he carried you. Was it him? Don’t lie to me.”

Stackhouse swallowed the fear. Jane would detect the dishonesty. “Yes, Jane, it was him.”

“Of course it was! He thought he saved you so he gets your body!” She was screaming so loud it hurt Stackhouse’s ears. “The men take because they’re bigger and stronger. You belong to him now? He gets to have you, is that it?”

“He’s a good man, Jane. He didn’t ask. I offered. It wasn’t until recently—”

“Are you two married?”

“No.”

“So he gets whatever he wants. That’s how it always is.” Jane was crying. Big fat tears running down the profile of her face. She’d been violated as a young woman, misused repeatedly, the damage still festering. “That’s how it always is, the man takes what he wants.” She sniffed and took a deep breath. “Well. Thank you for not lying.”

“You need therapy, Jane.”

“I know.” She nodded and wiped her eyes.

“Pull over. I won’t try to escape.”

“You can’t. Those doors don’t open.”

“What I meant—”

“That man fished you out of the water vault, that night near my house,” said Jane.

“Yes, he did.”

“I was drowning you.”

“You were,” said Stackhouse.

“When you think back to that night, how do you feel?”

“I try not to.”

“Answer me.”

“I feel shame and panic,” said Stackhouse.

Jane shook her head. “We women. We always feel shame when we shouldn’t. We take responsibility far too much. That man with you, the one pinned in the vault, Guy, he should feel shame. Not you.”

“Guy does feel shame. He told me.”

“Are you and Guy still close?”

“No, we’ve barely spoken since.”

“Did you sleep with him too?”

Stackhouse closed her eyes and ducked her head. Better not offer any more honesty.

“Umm, Andrea? I asked you a question.”

Stackhouse didn’t answer. Somehow Jane had picked out the only two men, the only two occasions, in three years.

“You did. He had you too. All these men.” Jane scoffed at the cruel world beyond her windshield. “I was drowning you for your own good. A baptism. The water washes away our sins.”

The Interceptor roared around the curb going sixty. Ahead of them loomed the Roanoke River gorge. The road ran across it, the bridge a hundred feet above the rushing water. At night, all was black. They were thirty seconds away.

“Jane.”

“We can fix that. A baptism. Finish what we started. Wash the men off you. Wash off their stink.”

“Jane.” As firm as she could make it. “Last chance, Jane, stop the car.”

“No. We’re out of chances, Andrea, aren’t we.” Jane accelerated.

Stackhouse’s pulse pounded. Out of chances, out of time.

Here we go.

Drenched in sweat, Stackhouse buckled herself in, a satisfying sound.

She took a deep breath, raised the tube of pepper spray from her pocket, clenched her eyes, and she mashed the button with her thumb. The canister hissed and jetted a stream of noxious liquid. Some of it caught the partition and spattered into the backseat. The rest coated the side of Jane Newton’s face.

Pepper spray aggravates the eyes so much it causes temporary blindness. The mucus membranes activate. The lungs burn. An attacker is effectively immobilized, no matter how big and strong.

She heard Jane Newton gasp, a bad idea. The woman gagged and the tires screamed. Stackhouse was thrown hard into the shoulder restraint. The car cut one direction, then the other. The brakes locked at sixty miles per hour, the driver blind and unable to breathe. The Interceptor barreled off the road to the left, a tenth of a mile before the Roanoke River.

Jane was gagging, hands on her face.

They plunged into the Blue Ridge forest. The Chevy's bumper swiped a tree, shattering Jane’s window and sending the car into a helicopter spin. The front airbags inflated with a bang, enveloping Jane inside a cushion. The radiator ruptured and the battery disconnected, extinguishing the lights. Another tree smashed the passenger door. The tires touched on the downslope, momentum flipping the car. Rolling over and over, another tree crushing the roof above Stackhouse’s head, spider-webbing the rear window and breaking another. Stackhouse experienced this with her eyes closed and stinging, the world ending. Her teeth clenched, eyes shut, muscles flexed, curled into a ball.

At last the car landed on level ground, a sudden stop on its side, wheels spinning in the air. The car groaned and settled.

Stackhouse’s head rang and her neck hurt. She had held her breath as best she could but now was forced to gulp in oxygen. She felt like she’d gone four rounds against a heavy weight. Immediately her throat burned but it was manageable—much of the pepper spray irritant had wafted out through the broken windows.

She released the seat belt and fell against the left side of the interior of the car, feeling damp leaves beneath her, out of place inside a police cruiser. She lay panting and waiting for her eyes to stop burning, for her lungs to work.

Complete dark.

She heard movement in the front seat, Jane groaning and heaving.

Music to Stackhouse’s ears. She had to escape the car first. Had to find her gun. Or a big tree branch.

The ceiling was smashed in—she felt it with her hands, and it made movement difficult. She was dizzy and disoriented and blind.

“Andrea?” Jane coughed. They were close enough to touch, if not for the metal mesh. The woman snorted and grunted like a hog.

Stackhouse didn’t respond. She was terrified and desperate to get loose. She worked herself into a sitting position, butt on the cool ground, her back pinned between the partition and the vinyl seat. Everything hurt. Looking straight up, she could see stars through the door’s window above her head. The rear passenger door was her roof.

“Andrea?” said Jane.

More movement and Stackhouse stopped to listen. Jane fought down the air bags and somehow reached the forest. The woman was already out! Scuffling of leaves, and Jane threw up, remnants of pepper spray damage.

“You should run, Jane,” croaked Stackhouse, thinking of ways to stay alive. Everything hurt. “You can’t beat me in a fight.”

Her phone rang. It was somewhere in the mess of the front seat, unreachable. Probably Captain Lott wondering where the hell she was.

The incoming call provided some illumination. Jane wasn’t in the front seat, having escaped through the windshield, which must’ve buckled and dislodged whole. An easy escape for the driver.

She ignored the buzzing device, unable to reach it.

Grumbling, frantic, she gathered her feet under her and found room to stand, squirming around the dented roof and kinda hugging the seat. Blind again, her head touched the top door. She jumped and kicked her feet, finding purchase. The heavy car wobbled with her efforts, perched precariously on the driver’s side. She fought upward, scraping herself on bent metal and broken glass. The window was gone and she thrust her head out into the clean air, able to see trees in the ambient light.

She got her elbows free and pressed them against the side of the door, or the car’s current sideways rooftop, and she shimmied out to sit and catch her breath. The center of gravity had shifted high enough that the car threatened to tip.

Glancing around, she saw no sign of Jane.

Was she hiding behind a tree? Gagging in the bushes? Running for her life?

She strained her ringing ears to listen and she thought she heard far-off noises, Jane fleeing through the undergrowth. The woman might’ve stashed a car nearby, for use after she’d drowned Stackhouse.

Good.

Stackhouse had no weapons and no energy for a fight.

She could discern the car’s path of destruction downward through the forest. Maybe it was her imagination, her hope, but she thought she detected headlights in the parking lot up at the road. A long lonely walk.

Good grief what a nightmare. She’d been careless.

She prepared to jump down from her perch, but the Interceptor groaned and tilted. She rotated her arms wildly to keep from tumbling backwards. The vehicle swayed and she realized it was ready to fall.

She did her best to gain balance, shoes on the door, and she leaped. The car gave way beneath her feet, and she didn’t jump as much as fall. Legs flailing, one shoe touched down and the ankle snapped. The rest of her collapsed with a thud.

The Chevy Interceptor moaned and went all the way over, crushing the roof, which somehow reconnected the battery and the car’s alarm went off with a wail, stopping Stackhouse’s heart.

The interior dome light of the car flickered on, providing enough light for her to see Jane was gone.

She tried standing but the ankle gave way and she fell back down.

“Tremendous,” she griped. “Just tremendous.”

3

Lieutenant Street rolled Stackhouse into Carilion’s Roanoke Memorial Hospital in a wheelchair. He was patched into a conference call with RCPD, the FBI, the US Marshals, relaying everything Stackhouse could offer to aid the manhunt. Which wasn’t much.

Jane Newton had vanished.

The waiting Dr. Ivey eavesdropped with mounting alarm. When he saw Stackhouse’s dwindling energy, and her obvious discomfort, he took control of Stackhouse and demanded Lt. Street back down.

Ivey shot Stackhouse with a tetanus booster and rolled her to the x-ray room.

Once she was on the table, he observed her jumpy eyes, her clenched fists. “Detective Stackhouse. Look at me.” Ivey gave her a warm smile. “You’re safe. And it’s quiet in here. I want you to take double-deep breaths and relax and drink this juice. You’re safe.”

Surrounded by society and the comforting Dr. Ivey, she demanded her body unclench. She was safe. She’d survived Jane again.

She forced off the fear that her stalker would swarm out of the hallway like a poltergeist. Slowly the world lost its mad fever.

Dr. Ivey brought her a sandwich to go with the juice, and he sat with her as she ate, correctly diagnosing that what she needed was company and what she didn’t need was to answer questions. So he filled the room with his voice.

Ivey was young in his profession, about the same age as Stackhouse, he guessed. New to Roanoke, he wasn’t even unpacked. He worked the evening shift in the emergency department to pay off student loans, which would take him the next seven years, and he played tennis during the day.

The distraction and the food worked—her blood pressure dropped, her blood sugar rose, and she grew sleepy.

She finished the sandwich and Dr. Ivey took the trash. A nurse signaled that another patient needed the room, so he snapped photos of her ankle, wheeled her to an open patient room, and he read the film—no fractures, she’d sprained it. She’d be fine in two weeks.

He propped her swollen foot in his lap and pushed her pant leg back up. Stackhouse had showered and shaved that morning, a ridiculous thing to be grateful for in her condition, but she was. His hands were large and smooth, his forearms strong. He was broad-shouldered and his hair looked soft, his eyes brown and wide. Like Christian Bale, she thought. He wrapped her ankle in a splint, watching her for signs of discomfort. When she flinched, he stopped and used both hands to compress her foot, and immediately the pain eased.

She knew the pain had paled her face. “Why Roanoke, Doctor?”

“After residency in Florida, I fielded offers from various hospitals and I visited each,” he said. “I wanted out of the humidity, that was priority one.”

Stackhouse yawned. If this doctor were one inch less handsome, she’d be asleep. “Plus no alligators."

“And these mountains? C’mon.”

“I wish I hiked more. But I never have the time.”

“What do you do for fun,” he asked. “Family and kids and all that?”

“No family, no kids. What do I do for fun?” She considered the question. “School work.”

“What are you studying?”

“Last year of law school.”

That stopped him. “While working as a detective?”

“I’m taking the five-year route.”

“You really don’t have time for fun.” He finished with the splint, retightening one of the Velcro straps. He loosened the laces of her running shoe, widening the mouth, and slipped it back on her foot. “Have you hiked Dragon’s Tooth?”

“On my to-do list.”

“Well, Detective Stackhouse, when this ankle heals, let’s try it, what do you say?”

“I say…”

“She says yes,” chirped Val Farmer. “She says hell yes, baby.” Val stood at the curtain and bounced on her toes. “That old single gal would love to go hiking and do all sorts of things with you. You name it, she’s up for it.”

“Good.” Dr. Ivey pointed at them both. “I’ll hold you to it. I need to meet new people.”

“You mean like injured girls in the ER, Doc?” asked Val.

“Well.” He had the good sense to blush. “Not usually.”

“Not every girl has a face like that.”

Stackhouse winced at the memory of Jane Newton screaming about her looks, their car swerving across both lanes. She gingerly lowered herself off the bed and hobbled to the chair.

“It’s fine. I can walk,” she said.

Dr. Ivey rose from his stool and stood beside her. He was tall. And wide. And smelled good. He said, “What are you doing tonight?”

“Um,” said Stackhouse. “Going straight to bed, I think?”

“You’re icing it.”

“Yes.” Stackhouse snapped her fingers. “Yes. Icing it. And icing it tomorrow.”

“What medicine are you taking to reduce swelling?”

“Ibuprofen.”

“And how many days are you taking off work?”

“None. I’ll be back at it tomorrow,” she said.

“Wrong. Keep your weight off it until the pain and swelling is gone.” He grabbed her chart and signed something. “I have your information here.”

“Like her phone number and address?” said Val.

He grinned. “I release my patient into your custody, Detective Farmer.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

Stackhouse reluctantly agreed to sit in a wheelchair and let herself be rolled to the parking lot. The door felt large and scary, the wide world where Jane Newton roamed.

“Holy smokes at that guy, am I right?” said Val as they neared the wide sliding doors.

The nurse accompanying them made a Mmmm-hm noise.

“Have you been monitoring your radio?” asked Stackhouse.

“You bet I have. Well, that and staring at his ass.”

“No sign of Jane?”

“Wait here,” said Val.

Stackhouse was left alone with the nurse while Val hustled for her car. “What time is it?”

“One in the morning,” replied the nurse. “He’s never asked me out. And I’m kinda cute, right?”

Stackhouse blinked stupidly, hurrying to latch onto her meaning. She turned in the wheelchair to inspect the brunette woman. “Super cute.”

“Every girl has tried. Even the married ones. You’re the first girl he’s taken to,” said the nurse.

“I have bad luck with doctors.” Stackhouse stood, favoring her right leg. “Thank you for your help.”

“Should I tell him you have a boyfriend? That you’re not interested?”

Stackhouse paused.

She didn’t have a boyfriend.

She wasn’t not interested.

“No.” Stackhouse’s smile was crooked. “Don’t tell him that.”

“You smell like dirt.” The nurse left her there as Val returned and Stackhouse ducked into the passenger seat.

“Ooooooouch,” she said.

“Serves you right, getting kidnapped.”

“Where’s Jane?”

“Dogs are in the woods but she’s long gone. We didn’t close the road in time. She probably had a car waiting at the reservoir and she’s at home by now, dreaming her psychotic serial killer dreams,” said Val. “Tell you what I’m dreaming about tonight, lady. Dr. Ass.”

“That’s a gross name.”

“What time do you think his shift ends? I can be here with roses,” said Val.

“You’re married.”

“Yeah I’ll bring him along.”

Stackhouse lived one mile from the hospital. She jogged there several times a week. The drive took Val four minutes.

Kaye Calhoun met them at the door, Stackhouse’s roommate, a counselor who specialized in trauma, often working with police officers. They’d been friends and roommates for nearly four years. They lived in an elite neighborhood, attached to medical ecosystem, but on a less-elite street. Kaye owned the house, saving for five years to make the down payment. A two-story brick foursquare with a great front porch, and an open floor plan on the main level. Kaye decorated like it was a beach house, spare and bright and blue, dominated by a couch big enough for eight people.

Val drove off.

Stackhouse limped inside. “Do I smell like dirt?”

“And sweat,” said Kaye.

Stackhouse twisted out of her police jacket and turned for the fridge.

“What do you need?” asked Kaye.

“I got it. I’m supposed to ice my ankle.”

“Sit.” Kaye opened the freezer and selected several bags of frozen veggies. “I’ll make you eggs.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad, you’re eating. Your body needs the calories.”

“You’re awful at making eggs,” said Stackhouse.

“Too bad again. And you hush.”

Stackhouse dropped onto the huge green couch and carefully tugged off the splint. She wished Dr. Ivey was here doing it. Kaye nestled three ice-cold bags around her swollen foot and Stackhouse closed her eyes and leaned backwards. She shivered despite the sock.

“Thanks.”

“So. Jane Newton.”

“Yeah,” said Stackhouse.

“She’s back.”

“Boy is she.”

“Don’t worry, I’m buying a gun tomorrow.”

Stackhouse grinned, sinking further into the cushions. “Are you.”

“We’ll be safe and sound.”

“What gun are you getting?”

“A good one. A big one,” said Kaye, and she set a pan on the stove. She cracked three eggs into a bowl and fished out the shells, and she put butter into the pan and stirred the eggs and poured them into the pan and frowned when they didn’t cook, which reminded her to turn on the heat, and ten minutes later she had a plateful of poorly cooked scrambled eggs, which she brought to the couch.

“Ta-daa,” she said.

Stackhouse was snoring.

Outside, Roanoke County Detective Mark Rowe braked beside Stackhouse’s car. Used to odd hours, he wasn’t tired yet. Used to wrangling with Jane Newton, fear growled like a brown bear in his heart.

He texted Kaye.

I’m outside. Don’t be alarmed. Just checking.

He strolled the perimeter of their house, twice on the lawn, and once outside it on the sidewalk. He shined his flashlight into the dark places. They needed motion sensing lights. Down the street, a dog barked at the unseen police officer.

>> You’re the sweetest, Officer Rowe.

You’re clear. But I’m sticking around.

>> Come inside? She’s asleep.

No thank you.

When the sun finally came round the earth, it found Rowe on his seventeenth circuit of the house. If his spotlight had fallen on Jane Newton, he wouldn’t have arrested her; he would have emptied his magazine. He’d forced himself to read ninety pages of the latest Baldacci, and left only once, buying two coffees at the 7-Eleven three blocks away.

In the freshening light, before starting his car, he sent Kaye a final text.

Don’t tell her I was out here. She’ll have enough on her mind without knowing I’m scared.

4

The next day, Stackhouse’s foot worsened. A deep purple settled into the left side, spreading upward to her lower calf. Even her toes were engorged.

As she attempted pulling on a sock, Captain Lott called and reminded her it was her day off. She’d forgotten. He promised squad cars would prowl up and down her street for the next month.

“Any sign of Jane?” she asked.

None. The bitch vanished. The Marshals and FBI are in on it too—we’ll get her, Stack.

She spent the day on a chaise lounge section of their couch, foot propped on a pillow. On the little table, close enough to reach, she kept a bottle of ibuprofen and her Glock 19.

She fielded a phone call from Paul Oliver, the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Roanoke Field Office. She’d gone to their discreet location on Kirk Street last month to discuss Jane Newton. Today’s teleconference held more urgency. He did the speaking on behalf of a dozen agencies listening in. She declined his offer of flying her to Montana.

Her only class this summer was Basic Finance, an elective for those who intended to open their own firm. She regretted the course, finding it simplistic, but the work occupied no more than an hour a day. She completed assignments for the next week, almost up to the final exam, and filled out another incident report concerning yesterday’s abduction. She emailed a copy to the station, and a copy to Paul Oliver. After hitting Send, she closed the laptop and sighed.

Now what.

She tried television but someone at the station leaked the story of the Jane Newton sighting, and twice her program was interrupted with breathless news anchors expressing how urgent and scary the ongoing situation was, so she switched it off. Kaye was bingeing Stephen King recently; Stackhouse picked up the closest paperback—Gerald’s Game—and tried her best but grew bored.

A black-and-white city Interceptor slowly rolled by her front door, visible through the gaps in their hedge. A comfort, though small.

Nothing else to do, she cursed at the ceiling and fell asleep.

Kaye brought Chinese takeout for dinner. They spread towels across the couch to protect the fabric and passed the containers back and forth, a bottle of wine tucked into the corner.

Kaye asked her questions. How has your day been? When you think about last night, what images do you see? How is your mood? When you’re angry or sad, where do you feel the emotion? Are you able to function? Do you feel numb? When you think about tomorrow, what do—

“You’re diagnosing me,” said Stackhouse. “Quit it.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“I care. Sue me.”

“Care silently,” said Stackhouse. “Or tell me how to catch Jane.”

“How would I do that?”

“You’re a criminal psychologist.”

“No I’m not,” said Kaye.

“Diagnose Jane.”

“She’s nuts-o.”

“Details, Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor,” said Kaye. “And I’ve never met the woman.”

“Why does she want to kill me?”

“People aren’t simple, sweetie. It’s a combination of a dozen impulses.”

“She said she needed to wash the men off me,” said Stackhouse.

“If I remember correctly, and I do, she was brutalized as a teenager. She was abused and neglected and abandoned, and she blames men. She hates men and hates herself.”

“Then why kill me?”

Kaye thought about the question, taking several bites of Kung Pao. “Likely she saw herself in you, before her capture. A second chance. But you disappointed her. You abandoned her, like everyone else. She transfers her self-loathing onto you.”

“If she kills me,” said Stackhouse, “if she washes me clean, then she washes herself clean?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m the scapegoat. The sacrifice to make amends.”

“Perhaps,” said Kaye.

“She mentioned it would be a baptism.”

“Where one is reborn. You would die but she would rise anew.” Kaye popped in a bite of chicken, chewed absently, and wiped her mouth. “Did she specifically say she would kill you?”

“No. Maybe we’d both rise reborn?”

“Keep in mind, we’re making this sound very simple. But it isn’t.”

“Maybe we should just drink a lot.”

As she tried to sleep that night, she listened to the sound of patrol cars every thirty minutes.

The next day was Sunday. Stackhouse could put light pressure on the foot and limp around. They visited Roanoke’s Doomsday Tactical Supply, and Stackhouse talked Kaye into a revolver over the absurd .45 Desert Eagle she was eying. The men fell over themselves trying to help Kaye, who hadn’t thought to dress modestly. She was sassy and cute and busty, and her loading a gun was too much for the instructors. She exaggerated her sex appeal, bending over more than necessary, squeezing her elbows together, asking, “Like this? And I squeeeeeeze with my finger?”

Kaye didn’t hate men. But tormenting them had merits.

Based on a stern phone call from Mark Rowe, Stackhouse purchased motion sensors for their exterior lights and devices that would chime when windows were opened. Make life harder on murderers attempting a break-in, that was the plan.

Practice pulling your sidearm several times a day, he told her over the phone.

I will.

Where do you keep it at night?

My nightstand.

No. Under the spare pillow, he said. She can’t steal it while you’re asleep, that way.

Sheesh, Mark.

That night, the roommates took in a double-feature at the movies. First The Dark Knight and second Quantum of Solace. Six hours staring at screens and neither movie ending well, the heroes sacrificing too much, Batman forced to suffer for the crimes of someone else, and James Bond left by Camille to conquer his demons alone.

They drove home quiet and uneasy.

In the driveway, Kaye pulled her new Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver from the bag and she waggled it.

“You go first,” she said. “I’ll cover you.”

Stackhouse laughed until she cried and the fear was broken, and they slept well, the exterior lights clicking on twice as deer ran through their yard as though being chased.

5

Monday morning.

Stackhouse knocked on the window of Captain Lott’s office. He was hunting and pecking on his keyboard with two fingers.

“No sign of Jane Newton, Cap?” she said.

“We sent BOLOs to every got’damn agency in two hundred miles. The federales are looking. The Marshals are hunting. Inter-agency task forces are monitoring a dozen of her former foster daughters. We got surveillance on her biological kid, Evie, not that she’s shown any interest in her. Tip hotlines are blowing up with the crazies. No one can find her except you.” He quit typing and looked up. “Sorry, Stack, that was a bullshit thing to say. I forget this is hell on you.”

“I survived her twice. I got this.”

“How’s the ankle?”

“All better,” said Stackhouse.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Up yours.”

He grinned. “Chief wants to see you.”

“I’ve got work.”

“Stack,” he said.

“He’s not my chief. You know this.”

“Then do it for me. I’m not asking.”

Stackhouse groaned and leaned against the doorframe, and she crossed her arms.

“C’mon, Stack. He’s looking for reasons to fire you. Don’t give him enough.”

“What’s he want?”

“He’s the chief of police. He can want whatever the hell he wants. It’s his right. The man’s not an asshole, you know.”

“Yes he is, Captain.”

“You don’t like him. He doesn’t like you. That doesn’t mean he’s bad at his job. Or a monster.” He pointed and returned to his keyboard. “Go.”

Stackhouse walked steadily across the station. Don’t limp. Don’t limp. She felt a dozen eyeballs looking her over like groping hands. Dead woman walking. Jane Newton’s next victim.

Police Chief Almond saw her coming and waved her in. He was polished and good-looking like a politician, not hard like a cop should be. He wore a mustache, too many hours watching Magnum PI. His car’s license plate read POL ONE, for Pete’s sake. Stackhouse discovered his corruption during her first year on patrol and he hunted for ways to fire her ever since.

“Good morning, Detective.”

“Good morning, Mr. Almond.”

“Care to have a seat?”

“Thank you,” she said. “No.”

“Shut the door.”

“I’ll leave it open.”

Almond tried not to roll his eyes. “Suit yourself. How’s the ankle?”

“I’m here.” As a rookie, she’d learned to keep her distance because Almond liked too-long handshakes and intimate chats, assuming his rank lent him sex appeal.

“Internal Affairs arrives tomorrow morning to ask you the standard obnoxious questions about the incident,” he said.

“They usually do.”

“We’ll have our rep with you, so the IA guys should behave. In the meantime, I’m assigning you a partner.”

Stackhouse blinked. “I work with Val Farmer.”

“Detective Farmer is your colleague, Ms. Stackhouse. Not a partner. I want someone with you at all times.”

“Almond, that’s not—”

“Detective, you don’t want to call me Chief? Fine. But you will extend the manners afforded this office. Sir or Mr. Almond work. Not merely my last name. You’re working with a partner or you can work in another city.”

“Sir—”

“Jane Newton has abducted you twice, Ms. Stackhouse. Naomi McDonald nearly beat you to death. And of course, Dr. Pierce forced you into that ridiculous surgery. How can you deny that you need backup?”

The other cops don’t. Just you, Stackhouse.

“Okay. I request Kip Broome. Or Val. Anyone but Ray,” she said.

“You’ll be working with Sergeant Crabtree.”

She frowned. “Crabtree is patrol.”

“One of Roanoke’s finest.”

“My partner in investigations is a patrol officer?”

Almond nodded. “He’s a pro. He’ll watch your back.”

“That’s not a partner, that’s a babysitter.”

“He's good. He’s reliable. He’s smart.”

“He’s a jerk.”

He smiled and extended a hand to the door. “You’re free to transfer, Detective. If not, it’s my duty to protect my sworn officers. Sergeant Crabtree will do just that.”

Stackhouse closed her eyes and pinched at the bridge of her nose. Flashbacks tickled her mind, of her first month on patrol, her and Kaye forced into a safe house and given a protective detail because the Roanoke River Killer hunted her. This could reach the newspapers. Gossip fodder, her the only detective assigned a babysitter. It made Almond look protective and proactive, and her weak.

“Am I expected to run patrol? Or will he work investigations?”

“Whatever you do, he does. And he’s not a jerk,” said Almond. “He’s determined.”

“He’s a jerk.”

“Because he’s Black?”

“Grow up, Almond. I mean, grow up, sir.”

Almond’s eyebrows rose and he made a note on the giant paper calendar that lay flat on his desk under his keyboard.

Shoot, Andie, watch your mouth.

Behind them, the station roiled. Incoming lawyers dealing with last night’s arrests. Morning briefings. Sick drunks coming off highs.

“You’re fit for duty?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Let’s run a field test to make sure. Nurse Salter and I will observe.”

“I…” No way she could pass that. Her foot throbbed just standing in his office. “I’m a little busy. Sir. Maybe tomorrow?”

He spoke slowly and she knew he was manipulating the situation. “Is it fair to say, you don’t want to take more days off?”

“I don’t need days off.”

“Is it also fair to say, some light work would be preferable this week? If you agree to that, no field test would be necessary.”

Deep breath. “Yes sir, maybe light work would be better.”

“Good. I have an assignment for you. Detective Mark Rowe has requested your help with a cold case.”

“Mark Rowe, sir?” Her heart didn’t flutter. But it revved. “In the county?”

“We both know you remember him.”

“Of course. But…”

“Yes?”

“You’re looking to do Mark a solid?” she asked.

“The RoCo chief called. Asked me for a favor. He wondered if his cold case team could briefly borrow you. I verified—no pounding the pavement required, no manhunt. Only recon.”

“Okay, well—”

“You meet with Detective Rowe this afternoon.”

Mark Rowe. They hadn’t seen each other since a wild night at his townhouse, several weeks ago. She wasn’t avoiding him but they were floating in a limbo that made her uncomfortable. Because when he flashed in her mind, a regular occurrence, he wasn’t there as a friend or colleague. He once told her, if he could marry again, he’d ask her every day.

“What’s the case?”

“Surveillance. Beyond that I didn’t ask.”

“I’m backed up on work. Sir.”

“You’re in law enforcement, Detective. You’ll be backed up on work until you retire,” he said.

“Do I have to take Crabtree?”

“You will take Sergeant Crabtree.”

She wasn’t avoiding Mark, but she hadn’t expected to be thrust into tight quarters with him so soon. Besides, this felt like being sent on a field trip to get her out of the way. As though she was an annoying kid.

Stackhouse scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands and made a decision—she should handle this like a grownup. Crabtree would’ve been handy as heck the night Jane Newton barbecued her with a stun gun.

“Roger that.”

She turned on her heel before he could respond.

Sergeant Crabtree met her at her desk. He was dressed in patrol blues.

“Sorry about this,” she told him. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“I know that. We good.”

“I’m riding a desk this morning, and meeting with Mark Rowe in the county this afternoon about a cold case.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?”

She held up her hands, like—who knows?

“This isn’t my arrangement, Sergeant,” she said. Who gives the orders here? They were both sergeants, although it’d been months since anyone called her that. He outranked her by seniority, though he’d been assigned to her basically on guard detail.

“I ain’t the kind of man to sit around. I’ll find something,” he said, and he did. He worked the cages, helping move prisoners. Finished with that, he sat in on rookie briefings and barked his own opinions, even when the instructors didn’t ask. After, he toiled in the weapons room, intimidating Chip the armorer.

Stackhouse caught up on emails and amended the Big Chains arrest report with her own notes. She logged into ViCAP and NCIC, searched for Jane Newton, and updated the account with their recent conversation—a hatred for men and their abuse of women, the need for baptism, the corruption of cops. Oh, the most interesting part, Jane said she wants to stop. She scanned backwards through their conversation for any additional tidbits, but much of it was blotted out by the traumatic crash.

She churned through digital paperwork as quickly as she could and still yelped when she saw the time. She’d missed lunch and it was time to meet Mark Rowe.

6

“Let’s take my car,” Stackhouse called.

Crabtree was walking to the motor pool.

“That Ford Vic’s old as hell,” he said.

“Can’t beat a classic.”

“Doubt it’ll start. Toss me the keys.”

“My car, I drive,” she said.

“Like hell I’m riding shotgun.”

The hot sun beat on them, both of them squinting.

“I hate riding,” she said.

“Me too. I haven’t been running patrol for fifteen years to sit in no passenger seat, Detective.”

“Too bad. You can work the music though.” She opened the door and ducked in. She gunned the engine, adjusted the A/C, and waited for him to overcome his pride.

Instead he slid on aviator sunglasses and signed out his own car from the motor pool.

Daggone it, Andie, what’s your problem.

She hated riding shotgun, that was her problem. She supposed she couldn’t blame others for feeling the same.

They drove separate cars. Absurd.

The Roanoke County Police headquarters was twenty minutes north, close to Interstate 81. Green fields and trees. Standing in the parking lot, inspecting the big building with a pang of jealousy, she said, “Looks new.”

“Looks new cause it don’t get used,” said Crabtree, leading the way. Roanoke County dealt with less crime. Less traffic swarmed through the doors, less blood was spilled, less vomitus, and so the shine hadn’t worn off. A car with fifty-thousand miles, as opposed to the city with a hundred-and-fifty thousand.

Mark Rowe met them at the doors, eating a red apple. Apple harvest in Virginia started in July. He took a last bite and tossed the core into the trash, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm.

It shouldn’t look so attractive when he does that.

“I didn’t realize I was getting two of the city’s best.” Rowe shook hands with Crabtree.

“You looking at Stackhouse’s new partner,” said Crabtree.

“Partner?” Rowe frowned behind his square-shaped spectacles. “In what department?”

“Crimes Against Persons. I don’t like it any more than she does, asking people stupid questions and filling out paperwork. Not what I signed up for,” said Crabtree.

“Then why—”

“Almond thinks I need a babysitter,” said Stackhouse. “The Jane Newton thing made his point.”

Rowe nodded slowly. She saw on his face, something bothered him about it.

He led the way through security doors and down a hallway. Stackhouse and Crabtree scrutinized the station curiously, their first time. They could see some cops on the phone, and a suspect being interviewed. Less than half the ruckus found in the city.

“So quiet,” she said.

“We don’t allow crime in the county.”

“How big is the cold case unit?”

“You’re looking at him.”

He walked them to his office. A big room with two desks and walls of magnetic whiteboard, to which he hung photos and notes. It looked like a scene from a cop show.

“You have an office?” said Stackhouse. “A whole office to yourself?”

“Damn I don’t even have a desk,” said Crabtree.

“This is bigger than Almond’s.”

“It wasn’t being used. I moved in without permission. No one’s said anything so far.” Rowe pointed at the boards and the sections he’d separated using blue tape pasted vertically. “Several dozen cold cases I’m catching up on. Anything that looks like it could benefit from my attention, I put up. Something popped on this one—that’s why I called.” With his knuckles, he rapped on a section with two photographs at the top—a Black male and a White female.

He grabbed a file and they sat at the empty desk like it was a conference room table.

“Four years ago, two Roanoke teenagers vanished. Stevie Spillman, real name Stephon. And Allie Anderson, real name Allison. Stevie and Allie were a couple. Stevie was nineteen, Allie recently seventeen.”

“I remember this,” said Crabtree. “Stevie was Black.”

“Presumably he still he,” said Rowe and Crabtree sniffed. “If he’s alive. No one’s exactly sure when Allie vanished, but soon after she did, Stevie left work at his garage and no one has seen them since, not in four years. No calls home, no sightings, no letters. He’d borrowed a car from the garage, which was found a mile from his house, no signs of struggle, no clues.” From his file, he slid across a school yearbook photograph—cute White girl, she looked like most sixteen-year-old cute White girls in 2004. The same photo he’d hung on the whiteboard. “Allie was—is—an only child. Her mom still lives nearby, though she’s in and out of rehab, I’m told. Because Allison was seventeen, she was considered a missing child when she disappeared, one week after her junior year. Amber alert, lots of man-hours, you name it. Never found her.

“Stevie is the second of four brothers.” Rowe slid across another photograph—Stevie’s senior year, bored and arrogant, like most young men were in high school when they shouldn’t be. “Tough home life. Mom was—is—a drunk. Dad’s gone, never listed on paperwork. Mom dealt with several court orders about truancy and medical care. Stevie was an adult, though, one year out of school. He was free to run away. But not if he took his seventeen-year-old girlfriend with him. They started dating when she was sixteen.

“Here’s where it gets interesting. Stevie’s two younger brothers are twins. One year younger. They both joined the Army after graduation. Their enlistment was a shock. Reggae Spillman—that’s his legal name, Reggae, like the music—was already enrolled for Virginia Western that fall. Sweet kid. His twin Kingston had a job working as a mechanic’s apprentice. No one expected them to enlist but they did, together. One week after Stevie and Allie went missing.

“Roanoke County detectives twice had to drive to Fort Jackson, South Carolina to interview Reggae and Kingston, about the disappearance, and all they got were blank faces and I don’t knows.

“The last brother, the eldest I should say, is an occupational therapy assistant of some sort at a hospital. Antwone, like the movie, Antwone Fisher. When last we checked, he still lives at home with his mother. Good kid, got his two-year degree. I say kid, he’s twenty-seven.”

“What popped? You have a new lead?” asked Stackhouse, looking for ways she fit in.

“It’s been four years. The twins’ enlistment is up and they’re coming home. Tomorrow. There’s a small celebration planned at Catawba Sports Bar.”

“I know the place. Fry up some good soul food. Who’s gone be there?” asked Crabtree.

“You two ever heard of a website called MySpace?”

Stackhouse smiled. “Of course. It’s one of the biggest sites on the internet.”

“Antwone has a girlfriend named Brandi. Brandi is big-time active on MySpace and we noted that Brandi told someone she’d be at the sports bar for the twins’ celebration.”

“Tomorrow night,” said Stackhouse.

“Right. From what I can tell, it’s the first time the whole family will be together since the disappearance.”

“And you think, what, the missing kids, Stevie and Allie, will make an appearance?”

“Could be,” said Rowe.

“Or?”

“Or maybe the family will get drunk and start discussing what happened to their brother. Maybe the mother will come and start crying about her baby who moved to Oklahoma. It’s thin, I know. Chances are it’ll be a waste of time. But cold cases are all about chasing long shots.”

Stackhouse nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you inside listening. No arrests, just intel.”

“Why me?”

“Well.” Rowe cleared his throat. “I think you’d have better luck than I would.”

“Why?”

“I just do.”

Crabtree chuckled. “Oh Lord, I see what this is.”

“What?” asked Stackhouse.

“The older brother, Antwone. His girlfriend Brandi, she’s White, I bet,” said Crabtree. “Yeah?”

Rowe nodded. “She is.”

“And Allie Anderson’s White.” Crabtree tapped the photograph on the table. “These boys got jungle fever, you’re saying.”

“Meaning?” asked Stackhouse.

“Meaning the Spillman brothers like interracial relations. White girls with Black boys, usually, but it goes both ways. What Rowe is saying is, get in there and use that ass, Detective Honky.”

“Oh come on,” said Rowe.

“Is that what you’re saying, Mark? You want me to use that ass?”

“That honky ass,” said Crabtree.

“Look, both of you. Don’t do that. I don’t like these words,” said Rowe. His face reddened.

“Is there no ass in the county you can use?” Stackhouse asked. “Surely we can find some.”

“Ain’t nothing here like what you got going on, Stack, guarantee you that.”

“I’m serious. This is unprofessional.” Rowe stood and he looked angry. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”

“Mark, answer the question. My ass is the best ass?”

“Gotta be some crackers around here somewhere,” said Crabtree.

“Get out. Both of you, go.”

Crabtree grinned and Stackhouse laughed. “I’m sorry, Mark. You know I’m messing with you. It’s just funny.”

“I don’t think sexist and racial terminology are appropriate in the work place.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the bull pen. “From them, from the cattle? Sure. Not from our best. Our holy work shouldn’t be sullied by sin, or even joking about sin.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” But Stackhouse couldn’t completely polish off the smile.

“I mean, the man is asking the hottest White cop he knows to get friendly with some Black kids. We need to have some fun with it,” said Crabtree. “You gotta loosen up, Detective.”

“And you need to watch it with your wording.”

Crabtree held up his hands, like surrendering. “You right, my bad. I’ll cool it.”

“Can we say that ass?”

“No,” said Rowe. “You can’t say that ass. Cards on the table, of course that’s why I asked you. You’re cute. Guys like you. They’ll talk to you. Plus I wanted to work with you again. But you don’t need to make it awkward for me. Or debase yourselves.”

“Damn, like we in the principal’s office.”

Stackhouse was nodding. “I hear you. We’ll cool it and you loosen up, compromises all around. Tomorrow you want me to go in the bar and listen and chat them up about their personal lives. Right? Have you considered that I’m ten years older than the twins?”

“Don’t look it, and it won’t matter,” said Crabtree. “Trust me on that.”

“I concur.” Rowe cleared his throat again, ready to move on. “I saw you walking in here, Stack. You’re limping. From the car crash?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You always say that, even when you’re not.”

“It’s not broken. By tomorrow night I might not even be wearing the splint,” she said.

“It’s reconnaissance only. Walk in, talk and listen, walk out. You can handle that?”

“Of course.”

“And I’ll be there,” said Crabtree.

Stackhouse and Rowe shared a glance.

“Suit yourself, Sergeant,” said Rowe. “But it’s not a hostile environment. Just a sports bar. No arrests will be made. She won’t even wear a wire.”

“Chief asked me to keep her alive. So that’s what I’m doing,” said Crabtree. “Me and you sit in the parking lot and swap racist names while she’s inside.”

“That’s not gonna work for me.”

Crabtree grunted. “Beginning to see why Almond fired your ass.”

7

The greater Roanoke Valley has a population of three-hundred-thousand. Hardly any of them live north of Interstate 81, however—that’s where the Blue Ridge Mountains begin. The suburbs give way to wilderness and those who farm in the valleys or homestead. Something of a no-man’s land shared by Roanoke and Craig County, a world of black bears and bobcats and forested mountains. All the jokes about Appalachia start there.

The Catawba Sports Bar sat beyond Interstate 81, one of the final stops before the dark wild.

Stackhouse met Rowe and Crabtree at the big gas station adjacent to the bar at seven. Rowe had driven straight from work, his sleeves rolled up. Crabtree wore cargo pants and a blue t-shirt. The door to his truck was open and inside Stackhouse saw a police windbreaker and a work belt with his firearm.

High cirrus clouds glowed above a sinking red sun.

She took a moment to look beyond the bar at the looming mountains rising to the west. Blue because the trees released isoprene into the atmosphere, making them appear as sharp ridges of blue when seen from a distance.

Creepy.

She asked, “How do I look?” and she raised her hands. She wore boots and tight jeans and a denim shirt tied in a knot at her midsection, displaying her navel.

“As you should,” said Rowe.

Crabtree whistled. “That ass.”

“I have jean shorts in the car?”

“No, we only want intel, you’re fine.” It was hot and muggy and Rowe wiped his forehead. The sports bar was smaller than an AppleBee’s. Ten cars in the lot. “I’ve been here twenty minutes and I spotted the twins. They walked inside five minutes ago.”

As they talked details, another car arrived. A two-door Honda Prelude. The driver was a Black man, the passenger a White woman. They chatted in the parking lot, too far to hear, and they walked inside the sports bar, which emitted soft music when the doors opened.

Black man, White woman? Could it be the missing couple?

Rowe shook his head. “Looks like the eldest brother, Antwone and his girlfriend, Brandi. Party’s starting.”

Stackhouse felt a trickle of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. “That’s my cue.” She shoved two twenties into her front pocket.

“You have my number, ready to call, there’s trouble,” said Crabtree. “I bust in there in three seconds.”

Rowe shifted his shoes. He looked like a man experiencing the woes of being a third wheel, though this was his operation.

She waggled the phone. “It doesn’t fit into any pocket so I’ll be carrying it. Easy.”

“Your cover story?” asked Rowe.

“I’m there to meet a friend. Kaye. Kaye heard they have great wings. She’s running late. After an hour or whatever, I realize Kaye had stood me up so I leave. Unless things are going well.”

“What’s your name? Where do you work?”

“I’m Andie. I’m a realtor downtown, specializing in commercial spaces.”

“Alright, Andie, good luck,” said Rowe.

Stackhouse walked across the parking lot with an ice ball in her stomach. Stupid to feel nervous—there would be no arrests made. No confrontations. No one was on the lookout for an imposter.

But still, when one is an imposter, one feels it.

She yanked open the door and stepped inside.

The attention hit like a physical force. Maybe twenty-five folks inside, all of them glancing at the newcomer. A bar along the far wall, kitchen beyond. The rest of the space was cluttered with two pool tables and a dozen high-tops. Alan Jackson played over the speakers. The air smelled of fried chicken and marijuana and cigarette smoke.

Half the patrons were White. Half Black.

The Spillman brothers had pushed two high-top tables together.

Antwone the oldest.

Reggae one of the twins. Sweet kid.

Kington the other twin.

Reggae and Kingston wore Army fatigues.

Two girls sat at the table with them. Brandi and some other girl.

Yes, Sergeant Crabtree, they’re both White. Good call.

Don’t look at them. But don’t not look at them either.

Stackhouse walked by, flashing a polite smile only, to stand at the bar. On one television, the Braves played the Mets. On another, Wimbledon highlights.

The bartender could’ve been Andre the Giant, except bald. His face held a natural sneer but Stackhouse suspected it was a minor birth defect. Big arms, big stomach. Another woman worked at the other end, and she looked like she could be his mother.

“Do you have white wine?” asked Stackhouse.

“White wine. Hell no we don’t have white wine,” said the giant. “I haven’t bought white wine in five years and it’s because the bottles kept going to vinegar because no one drank them.” When he spoke, his lips didn’t move.

“Sorry.” Stackhouse set her hand on the bar and she felt its surface stick to her. “Some kind of sweet cocktail then.”

“Tom Collins?”

“Perfect.”

“Want something to eat?”

“French fries?” said Stackhouse.

“Regular?

“Mmm, how about loaded?”

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

She turned so she could watch a game of pool. It also let her see the Spillman brothers. Too far to hear their conversation. She’d move to the table adjacent. Only the three brothers and their two dates so far. Not much of a celebration.

The Spillman brothers were drinking beer. A good-looking waitress set a bowl of peanuts down in front of them and claimed they were spicy, to be careful. A minute later, another waitress brought several plates of food.

“Tom Collins,” announced the bartender, sliding Stackhouse a drink. “Run a tab?”

Stackhouse put a twenty on the bar and told him to keep it. She sipped the drink and tried not to wince. Too sour and crazy sweet.

“Perfect, thank you.”

“Haven’t seen you here before,” he said.

“My girlfriend said you have good wings. I’m waiting on her.”

The giant nodded, slowly, like he wasn’t convinced.

Stackhouse steeled her courage and walked to the high-top table next to the Spillman party.

She heard, “Damn those peanuts are spicy. Or something. Try them, Ant.”

“Hell no, not with these wings here.”

“Better than Army chow.”

“Everything’s better than Army chow.”

Stackhouse texted Crabtree and Rowe.

>> All good so far. Sitting near them.

>> Tiny celebration.

After, she pretended to be absorbed on her phone.

A waitress came to remove the Spillmans’ empty beer glasses and bring fresh ones.

She listened to their conversation long enough to get the gist.

The tallest Spillman brother was Antwone. He was also the oldest. Dressed well in jeans and a short-sleeved button-down, tight haircut, he stood at the table next to Brandi. He was better looking than her. He asked questions of his two younger brothers, listening to them chatter about the Army.

Reggae talked the most, and with the most enthusiasm. Open-faced kid, he kept hugging the girl with him; they called her Sissy. He answered all Antwone’s questions, a little brother bragging to his big brother.

His twin, Kingston, talked less. Kingston reclined backward in his chair, sullen, frowning. He was heavy with muscle, more so than his brother. He wore his Army fatigues loose, laces untied, jacket undone, letting the world know they didn’t define him. Whereas his twin, the enthusiastic Reggae, wore his with pride, ready for inspection. Reggae even had his camo cap on.

No mention of a missing brother.

It was Kingston who first spoke to Stackhouse.

“Hey girl,” he said. Stackhouse heard but didn’t respond. “Hey girl in the boots. Yeah you, ponytail.”

Stackhouse smiled, giving him a quarter of her full wattage. “That’s not my name.”

“What’s your name?”

“None of your business.” She’d answered enough strange men to walk the line between rude and Keep Trying. She eyed him, fully in Keep Trying.

“I’ll call you Ponytail.”

“Then you won’t get anywhere,” she said.

“Come sit with us.”

“I’m waiting on a friend. She said the wings were worth the trip.”

“Where she at?” said Kingston.

“Running late.”

“Fine then, sit your ass with us until she gets here.”

The other two girls—Brandi and Sissy—watched Stackhouse without much warmth.

“Looks like you’re celebrating something,” said Stackhouse.

“Just pulled in.” Kingston smacked himself in the chest, then backhanded Reggae’s shoulder. “Couple of got’damn war heroes. Now get yourself over here, Ponytail.”

Stackhouse stayed put. “War heroes? Aren’t you a little late to the war?”

“War’s over because of us. Two years in Iraq. One at Camp Lemonnier, in Djibouti, for me. Now get Djibouti over here.”

She rolled her eyes. So did the two other girls.

“That’s not the first time you’ve used that.”

Antwone ate a wing and said it was too spicy and the beer wasn’t helping. Reggae ate another handful of peanuts. One of the other patrons, a drunk, wandered over and blocked Stackhouse’s lane.

The drunk was a White guy in his fifties, thick glasses, hair around his ears. Red-faced and flabby. He plunked down two shot glasses, spilling some liquor, and said, “A gift for the soldiers. Thanks for your service, boys.”

He said it like, Thanss for’re shervice.

He must’ve been a family friend. At least an acquaintance, because he ate some of their peanuts and wings without raising a complaint. Kingston raised the shot glass and threw it back. Over the drunk’s head, he watched Stackhouse.

“Okay.” The old man wiped his mouth. “Okay good to see you boys. Glad you’re back. Hear me? I’m glad you’re back. I’ll go say hi to your momma.”

Shay hi to ur’omma.

The drunk stumbled his way across the bar to a heavy woman eating and drinking by herself.

Stackhouse leaned toward Kingston. “Is that your mother? The lady at the bar?”

“Yeah that’s Mom,” answered Reggae. “The White guy is Pete. Our neighbor.”

“Mom’s a crazy old bitch,” said Kingston. “Barely spoke to us. Think she making a point ‘bout how hard her life is, eating alone instead of at the table.”

“Is she not happy to see you?” asked Stackhouse.

Reggae lost some of his enthusiasm. Wrong question.

Damn it, Andie, slow down.

Stackhouse’s order of loaded fries was brought. Kingston stood and snatched the big plate off Stackhouse’s table and set it on his.

“Now, bitch,” he said. “Get your fine self over here before I get mad.”

“Watch your mouth and maybe I will.”

“It’s Bitch or Ponytail.”

Stackhouse sighed and played along. She moved to stand beside Kingston, and she ate a french fry. She felt You’re Not Welcome radiating from the other two women.

Enthusiastic Reggae was sweating. He wiped his face.

“Should I invite your mother?” asked Stackhouse.

“You’d think so,” said Antwone, the eldest. Like Stackhouse, he was standing. He spoke in a deep measured voice. “But not tonight. Thank you, though.”

“She’ll be drunk and cussing soon,” said Kingston. “Cussing about me. About all the ways her boys done screwed up.”

“How many boys does she have?”

Antwone rose up, like smacked.

“What’d you say your name was, sweetie?” asked Brandi, Antwone’s girlfriend. Some would call Brandi southern cheap.

“I’m Andie. You?”

“Andie, we’re having sort of a private celebration, for the twins.” Brandi faked a smile. A cheap southern smile. “So if you wouldn’t mind?” She made a shooing motion.

“I mind,” said Kingston. “Shit, it’s my party, isn’t it? Some damn party. I’m the only guy can’t have a girl at the party? Well, this one’s mine.”

“Your girl?” Stackhouse asked. “You’re not old enough for me, war hero. I’ll return to my table when you give me my food.”

“I’ll give you the fries when I’m done with you, Ponytail. Where you from?”

“I’m from here. Roanoke, born and raised. How about you?”

“God almighty,” said enthusiastic Reggae, holding his throat. “This food is tearing me up. You’d think after four years of slop that I could handle bar food.”

Kingston threw back half of his beer. His breath stank with it. “We’re from Roanoke too. The bad part of Roanoke, not far from here. Parts of Roanoke you don’t know nothing about. The sticks, where we can bury hoes like Brandi who can’t throw a party.”

“Hey,” said Brandi. “I’m trying.”

Antwone, the eldest brother, shook his head. “Same old Kingston.”

“I ain’t seen a girl look this good in four years and Brandi tryna get rid of her.”

The quiet girl, Sissy, set down her beer. “She ain’t that cute, Kingston.”

“You, I barely know your name, bitch.” Kingston twisted to look at Reggae’s date. “Reggae ain’t never mentioned you before so maybe you run on home, ‘less you’re just here to score with the war hero.”

Reggae patted his face with a napkin. “Dammit, I think I’m gonna be sick. I can’t believe this.”

“Drink some water, Reggae,” said the oldest brother, Antwone. “You need to go outside? Get some fresh air.”

“You don’t look so good, Reggae,” said Stackhouse.

“He’s fine,” said Kingston. “Threw up every day rucking up the hill, softest in his company.”

“Is anyone else coming to your party?” asked Stackhouse.

“Look at this shit. You call this a party?”

“Kingston, it’s not my fault you don’t have no friends,” complained Brandi. “I didn’t have nobody to invite.”

“That’s Corporal Kingston to you.”

“No it ain’t. You quit, dummy.”

Too many people, too many big personalities. Stackhouse felt it spinning out of control. Maybe she could get Kingston alone. “Do you have family nearby?”

“Just us,” said Kingston. “Just the three Spillman boys now, us against the world.”

“Now?”

Antwone grabbed Reggae by the elbow. “Little brother, you don’t look good. Let’s go outside.”

“I’m gonna be sick.” Reggae slid off his stool and turned in a circle and he made a heaving sound.

“Reggae, this way,” urged Antwone, beckoning to the front door.

“Bathroom,” mumbled Reggae and he ran for the men’s room. The door banged open and they heard the heaving sound again.

“Boy’s been home four minutes.” Kingston grinned and leaned back on his stool. “Already sick. You picked the wrong brother,” he told Sissy.

“Kingston, don’t be a jerk,” said Brandi.

“He’s sick. Should I get your mother?” Stackhouse asked.

“No,” said Antwone. “That’ll make it worse. But thank you. I’ll handle this.”

“Antwone is an OTA. That means occupational therapy assistant,” Brandi told Stackhouse, like somehow that should make Stackhouse feel bad. “A good one. He can handle his sick brother.”

“Oh, well, that’s handy.”

“Speaking of handsy, me and you go take a walk, Ponytail.”

“My name is Andie. And I don’t get handsy with strangers.”

“How about with war heroes, you get handsy with them?”

“Mmmmm, probably not.”

“You into Black guys, I can see that. You been with one before, I bet,” said Kingston.

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’ll make it my business.”

Kingston was tall and muscular enough to intimidate Stackhouse. His face held a casual cruelty.

“Tell me more about yourself and we’ll see,” she said.

He spread his arms wide. “Everything you need to know, right here.”

“Don’t you want to know about me?” she said.

“Know you need bigger titties, I know that.”

“Oh come on, Kingston,” shouted Brandi. “That’s disgusting!”

“That ain’t how we talk, Kingston,” said Antwone, who was watching the bathroom, worried.

Kingston aped his eldest brother, “Ain’t how we talk, Kingston.”

Stackhouse tried to keep this thing on track. “Kingston and Reggae. Your mother must be from Jamaica?”

“Listen. Why are you even still here talking to him?” Brandi asked her. “He’s awful.”

The drunk from earlier collided with their tables, rattling their beers and knocking Stackhouse’s tray of loaded fries onto the floor.

“Pete, dammit,” shouted Kingston, catching his half-empty beer before it spilled on him.

“M’sorry,” said the older overweight guy, Pete. “Drank too much. Think I might be sick. Feel like shit.”

Maybe that walk with Kingston is a good idea. Get out of this chaos.

Pete the drunk stumbled away from their table and toward the bathroom.

“Whole lotta puking in there,” mumbled Brandi. She snatched napkins from the dispenser and she and Stackhouse crouched at the spilled french fries on the floor.

“Yeah, while you’re down there,” said Kingston.

“Gawd, really sweetie, you should go. You can do a lot better than him,” whispered Brandi, both of the girls bent under the table. “He’s nothing but trouble.”

Stackhouse smiled lopsided. “Aren’t most men?”

“No, not most. His brother’s sweet. Antwone. Reggae’s sweet too, actually. Everyone but Kingston.”

“Do you know the family well?”

A tremendous BOOM startled them both. So loud it hurt their ears. Stackhouse’s heart stopped.

“What the hell,” shouted Brandi. She tried to stand but cracked her head on the table.

Antwone was so startled he fell backward.

“Gun shot,” realized Stackhouse. “Gun shot! Everyone get down!”

Screaming. Chairs tipping over.

Stackhouse spun in a circle—where? Kingston forgotten, automatically Stackhouse made for the wall, looking for the shooter.

“Where is it, where’s the gun?” she shouted.

“From there!” someone answered.

“Came from the men’s room!”

The door to the men’s room was closed. At least two men were inside, Reggae and Pete the drunk. Both of them sick.

Stackhouse ran for the bathroom door. She didn’t have her sidearm.

“Outside, everyone get outside!” she cried.

Screaming and shouting, people running for the door.

Stackhouse snagged a pool cue and held it like a bat—better than nothing? She knocked her knuckles hard on the men’s room door, standing beside it, pressed against the wall.

“Reggae! Are you hurt?” What was the other guy’s name, the sick drunk. “Pete! Pete? Talk to me.”

She shoved at the door and backed away, in case someone fired. No one did. Inside she heard a voice. Crying?

“Reggae? Pete? Someone speak to me!”

The door closed again, automatically.

Behind the bar, the giant bartender guarded his domain, wielding a shotgun that looked small in his huge hand. The sound Stackhouse had heard wasn’t a shotgun, else they’d be deaf.

“Sir, put that down.”

“Like hell I’m putting this down,” said the bartender.

“I’m a cop, and I’m telling you put it down or hand it to me.”

“You ain’t a cop.”

“Yes I am. Off-duty. Kinda.”

Detective Rowe and Sergeant Crabtree finally fought their way through the crowd, reaching her.

“Stack, talk to us!” called Rowe.

“Gunshot in the men’s room. At least two guys inside. Both drunk. I thought they were friends.”

“Suicide?”

“Maybe.”

With the crowd gone, the noise level diminished. Rowe yelled for the bartender to kill the music and he did.

Suddenly they could hear blubbering inside the men’s room.

They took up defensive positions around the door. Rowe and Crabtree both held their firearms. “Ambulance is ten minutes out. We can’t wait that long.”

“Ready?”

Rowe nodded and Stackhouse shoved the door again. It swung open ponderously and Crabtree peeked inside before it closed again.

“Man sitting on the ground, under the sink. Don’t see blood.”

“White or Black?” asked Stackhouse.

“Big White dude.”

Stackhouse shoved the door open again. “Pete! Are you okay? Where’s Reggae?”

Rowe, on the other side of the frame, jammed a stool into the doorway, propping the door open.

“Pete?” called Stackhouse, though she couldn’t see him.

Pete tried responding but it was unintelligible.

From his angle, Rowe said, “There’s blood spreading on the floor, near the stall. Someone’s wounded.”

“Pete, are you hurt? Where’s Reggae? What happened, Pete?”

“Gun on the ground,” Rowe updated them. “Next to Pete. Someone is shot.”

“Pete has the gun?” That made no sense to Stackhouse. He shot Reggae? Pete was their neighbor, just bought them drinks.

“He’s not holding it. I’m going in,” said Rowe. “Sir? I’m coming inside. Do not touch that pistol.”

“He picks it up, I’ll drill his ass,” said Crabtree, who was kneeling and aiming into the bathroom.

“Pete? That your name? Can you hear me? I’m coming in,” called Rowe. “Don’t you dare touch that gun.”

Pete moaned something.

“Go,” said Crabtree. “You’re covered.”

Rowe stepped into the men’s room.

Stackhouse followed close behind. The dirty bathroom looked like a horror movie in the bad lighting. Pete lay under the sink, panting, his eyes closed. There was no window and no other exit.

“Shot,” panted Pete. Pete’s face was splotchy green and white. “Shot, he’s shot…”

“Pete, are you hurt?”

Rowe kicked the gun across the dirty tiles, into the corner, out of reach.

Pete swallowed and shook his head. “He’s shot. I can’t believe…”

Stackhouse knelt at Pete. “Secure.”

Crabtree entered. He and Rowe approached the two stall doors. Under the second one, a pool of purple was growing.

“Pete, did you shoot Reggae?” asked Stackhouse.

Pete leaned over and he vomited on the tile. Gross.

Rowe eased open the stall door, Crabtree was crouched, ready to fire.

Reggae was sitting sideways on the toilet. His skin looked pale gray, his eyes closed, covered in sweat. The front of his camo fatigues was black with blood.

“Help,” he whispered in a gurgle. “Help me.”

8

Cobalt and crimson emergency lights turned the world bright. The ambulance screamed and rolled forward, Reggae in the back, fighting for his life. He’d taken a bullet to the chest. His right side; no structural damage to the heart, thought Stackhouse, but his lung was punctured. They’d sealed him tight on the bathroom floor until the medics arrived, but their hopes weren’t high. He lost several pints of blood, shrunken and pale on the gurney.

A second ambulance waited nearby. Waiting because the patient, the drunken Pete Burman, couldn’t stop throwing up. Two medics tended to him as he knelt on the mulch between the bar and the gas station.

Five squad cars sat in the parking lot, menacing and brilliant. Two detectives and four patrol officers stood with the crowd who’d been inside the bar, taking statements. Little Pelican flashlights in every cop’s hand.

Reggae’s mother, the large silent woman, now cried and screamed about her son. Antwone, her eldest, was restraining her, promising to drive her to the hospital. Heartbreaking, even if Stackhouse had recently seen her ignoring the child who’d just returned after four years.

Big Kingston was shouting too. Shouting threats at Pete, two uniformed officers trying to calm him down.

All the county detectives were bald and wore glasses. Every one of them had defective eyes and hair follicles, thought Stackhouse. White button-down shirts, gold badge clipped to the belt.

Detective Warner stood with Stackhouse, Rowe, and Crabtree. They’d washed their hands but the crevices around their fingernails were stained with Reggae’s blood. Stackhouse’s hands still shook, and her damp and disgusting shirt clung to her.

Warner joked, “Enough homicide detectives here to fill a Greyhound.” He knew Rowe and accepted his explanation about the cold case surveillance. Then it was Stackhouse’s turn to run through the events again.

She did.

The celebration for the twins’ return was small—only the brothers and two girls, Brandi and Sissy. The mom sat in the corner, ignoring her boys. The whole affair felt forced. Stackhouse had engaged them in conversation. Nothing important was shared. Reggae said he felt sick and ran for the bathroom, heaving. Soon after, drunk Pete slammed into their table. Pete Burman was the neighbor, and clearly a family friend. He ran for the bathroom too. Soon after, she heard the gunshot from the men’s room. No one came out, that she saw. Rowe and Crabtree arrived, and they went in. Pete on the floor, gun next to him. Reggae in the stall, bleeding.

Stackhouse listened to her own words, painfully aware she wasn’t using enough cop jargon. She could’ve said, breached the bathroom, suspect on the floor. Proceeded to secure the potential murder weapon adjacent to the suspect, blah blah. But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Anything else?

Yes. Earlier, Pete bought shots for the war heroes. They seemed on good terms. Reggae had been in high spirits, excited to be home. Nothing out of the ordinary. No reason to suspect either man carried a gun or intended to use it.

Warner recorded their conversation on a little digital device that he held toward whoever was speaking. It was an awkward situation, him assuming the crime scene when Mark Rowe had superiority and experience, but Rowe wasn’t complaining. He played his part, though he looked frustrated by it.

“He’s shot,” said Stackhouse. “That’s what Pete was saying. He’s shot.”

“Not I shot him?”

“No.”

“Reggae keep asking for help. Nothing else,” said Crabtree. “Weird name, Reggae.”

“What’s Pete said since?”

“Between throwing up, he says he doesn’t know what happened. It’s not his gun. He didn’t shoot anyone, he says,” said Stackhouse.

“Then who did?”

“There was no one else in the bathroom.”

Warner beckoned. “Okay, show me.”

A senior technician, Anna Hall, wore booties on her shoes and she stood outside the restroom, snapping pictures. The crime scene had been sullied by their frantic care of the man bleeding out. Smears on the floor, on the walls, on the sink. Red fingerprints everywhere. A little exhaust fan perched dormant in the ceiling over the stalls, sealed tight by years of paint. Be nice if it worked, suck out the stink. The gun lay where Rowe had kicked it, a Taurus 9mm. A yellow evidence marker sat beside it, and another marker next to a brass casing.

The bullet remained inside Reggae, somewhere in his chest—no exit wound, which meant no corresponding bullet hole in the wall. Difficult to tell where he’d been standing or sitting when he was shot.

“A lot of blood,” said Warner.

Crabtree raised his hands. “We know.”

“No one shoots themselves in the chest. Foot by accident, maybe. In the head, if it’s suicide. Never in the chest,” said Warner. “And no one else was in here. So, Pete shot him.”

Rowe had said the same thing.

“Shot in the chest—so they’d been facing each other.” Warner kinda mimed it, from outside the bathroom. His fingers formed a gun. “Pete pulls a pistol… Did you hear raised voices before the gunshot?”

“No, but I was cleaning up the mess. I wasn’t listening,” said Stackhouse.

“Maybe the patrons heard something. Anyway. Pete pulls a pistol. Shoots Reggae, bang, who falls backward through the stall and onto the toilet. Pete falls too, below the sink, and he drops the gun. You find them both in that position, not moving. Right?”

Stackhouse pointed. “The stall doors swing outward. Not inward. So either Reggae was already in the stall or the door was open.”

“Reggae went in there to puke, yeah?”

“It appeared that way.”

“His pants down?”

“No. Up and buttoned, and he’d been there long enough to get them down if needed,” said Stackhouse.

“Puke in the toilet?” Warner asked.

The photographer Anna called, “Hard to tell. The toilet is foul. Maybe a little.”

“If Reggae is bent over the toilet, tossing his cookies, how’d he get shot in the chest?” Warner scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Need to ask Pete a lot of questions when he finishes getting sick. Do we have their phones?”

“I bagged Reggae’s,” answered Stackhouse. “Pete still has his, assuming he owns one.”

Warner took a second look at her. “Heard about the Jane Newton reappearance. Man, that woman has it out for you.”

“Not with me around, she don’t,” said Crabtree.

A shout outside grabbed their attention. They jogged out of the bar in time to see officers trying to pull big Kingston off of sick Pete.

“Killed my brother!” shouted Kingston, punching, kicking, fighting the officers to get free. “Motherfucker shot my brother his first day back, I’ll kill your whole family, motherfucker!”

“That’s the victim’s brother. He’s been drinking too,” Stackhouse told them and they helped separate Kingston from Pete, lying pitiful and sick on the mulch.

“I didn’t shoot nobody,” moaned Pete.

They hauled Kingston away, but when he saw Stackhouse he gave her a violent shove. Her throbbing ankle refused to support the awkward jolt, and she stumbled and sat hard on the blacktop. The landing cracked her molars together.

“Bitch a cop,” Kingston snarled. “Bitch a cop and my brother’s shot, and this is on you.”

Mark Rowe put a hard right-handed punch into Kingston’s gut, doubling him over. Despite outweighing Rowe by thirty pounds, Kingston groaned and fell to his knees, and Rowe cuffed his hands behind his back.

“If you keep cool, you won’t wear these long. I understand your brother was shot so I’m trying to be nice,” Rowe said, speaking directly into Kingston’s ear. “However, you attack an officer again and your ass is mine, got it?”

Across the parking lot, the mother continued to wail, filling the night with her sad song.

9

The ambulance carrying Reggae Spillman operated out of Lewis Gale Hospital. But because Lewis Gale didn’t have a Level One Trauma Center, the driver switched destinations to Carilion. He called their emergency department—inbound patient, shot in the chest, catastrophic blood loss. Time, if any remained, was of the essence. Nurses stood ready at Carilion’s wide emergency doors. Reggae Spillman was wheeled on his gurney straight from the ambulance into the operating room, where two trauma surgeons were already scrubbing in—Reggae was saved by a slow night.

Nurses started two large-bore IVs but the lead trauma surgeon demanded a central line—to stay hemodynamically stable, the patient needed fluids now now now—start him on O negative and we’ll screen him asap. The bullet in his chest could wait; perfusion to the organs couldn’t, else they were looking at systemic shock.

An excruciating thirty minutes in the OR, hoping and praying Reggae’s fluid and blood pressure would stabilize. C’mon, kid, whispered the surgeon, who’d done two tours in Afghanistan and recognized the Army tattoos on his patient. Still in his fatigues, dammit.

Not wholly satisfied, he executed an emergency needle thoracostomy, allowing the collapsed lung to re-inflate.

Another thirty minutes of monitoring vitals, and the surgeons reached a decision—call Dr. Alexander, the best thoracic surgeon in the city. The patient was leaking somewhere, probably damage to the pulmonary arteries. He needed an exploratory thoracotomy; open him up, big incision, raise the ribs, find the damage, repair it, pull out the bullet if possible.

It would be a long night.

Antwone Spillman sat alone in the waiting room, four in the morning. His day had started with a shift in another hospital, Lewis Gale, the physiotherapy department, helping the elderly get their feet back under them after traumatic falls. Boring work, walking in circles with shuffling old folks. An hour ago, weary and heartbroken, he’d made a phone call to his supervisor—he’d be taking tomorrow off. Probably he’d be asleep in the Carilion recovery room with his brother, if the kid wasn’t dead by then.

Though he missed them, he’d been dreading his brothers’ return, and all the drama they brought. Well, one brother more than the other. Tonight's disaster, though, obviously he hadn’t expected something this awful.

He was reminded of a time he’d driven to the high school as a young man, walking alone to the principal’s office, to pick up his two younger brothers. He’d sat in the waiting area while the principal and the resource officer yelled at Kingston, who had half-killed another kid for making fun of Reggae. The principal had called their mother, who was in no shape to handle it. So he had.

Always up to Antwone.

This time, though. He didn’t feel up to the task. This one was too big to handle.

The waiting room was unusually empty. You never think it’s going to be you, sitting there…

He was thinking about another coffee when from the corner of his eye he saw the good-looking cop hesitate on her approach. A surprise, he didn’t know she was around. She still wore the tight jeans, but she’d changed shirts.

“May I?” she asked.

He sat up straight and stretched. “I guess.” He nodded at the empty seats.

She lowered into the chair next to him. “Your mother is medicated and sleeping.”

Antwone’s mother, Dionne Spillman, had turned on the cops when they cuffed Kingston. The whole scene so absurd it would be laughable if not for the heartbreak. She raged and wrestled them at the bar for an hour, then in the ED parking lot, then again when they tried to sedate her, then again when they hadn’t used strong enough drugs. “You’ve been with her this whole time?”

“Some of it. She fought the nurses hard,” she said.

“She’s a pain, I know.”

The good-looking cop kinda smiled.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known that women like her don’t get picked up by men like his brother. Should’ve smelled that out when she walked in the door.

“She’s a mom. Her panic is understandable.”

“She’s no mom,” said Antwone. “But thank you. You feel guilty?”

“Guilty as hell.”

Good.

“Don’t expect her to pay for the bed, either. She never pays for anything.”

“That’s not my concern,” she said.

“Are you wearing a wire?”

“No. I wasn’t in the bar either.”

“But you were working.” Antwone was angry. A logical man, even distressed, he knew the cop wasn’t to blame. But he had to be mad at someone.

“I was working, yes.”

“Are you now?”

“I’m off duty,” she said.

“Why’re you here?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at her boots. “Because I’m sorry that it happened.”

“Did you shoot my brother?”

“No. I wish I had prevented it though. Somehow.”

“Let me guess. You were at the bar looking for that missing White girl.”

She shook her head. “Not just her. Looking for the missing couple. Your brother and Allie.”

“You thought, after four years being gone, they’d show up at the family reunion.”

“It crossed our minds. I didn’t mean to intrude, though. When your brother chatted me up and took my fries—”

“Kingston always makes it worse.”

“You and Kingston don’t seem like family,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“For one, you’re polite. You were kind at the bar. You’re trying now.”

Antwone smiled to himself. “No one ever accused Kingston of being polite.”

“Antwone,” she said. “Why would Pete shoot your brother?”

He held up his hands, like he expected the answer to be in them. “I got no idea. That’s what I’m sitting here thinking about.”

“You were on good terms?”

“Yeah, lived down the street our whole life. Harmless, often drunk. Sweet old man. I thought he was a sweet old man.”

“Do you still live with your mother?” asked the cop.

“What’s your name?”

“Andie Stackhouse.

“I live in the house I grew up in, Andie. Run-down place not far from the sports bar. IRS was threatening to take it from my mom, so I bought it. I put a trailer on the property, and moved her into it. So we kinda live together, but not in the same house.”

“She’s mentally ill?”

“Maybe just mean and sad. Maybe it’s the same thing. I don’t know. I can’t help her. I quit trying years ago,” said Antwone.

A surgeon stepped into the waiting room. He still wore the cap, and a surgical mask was balled inside his fist. The surgeon and messenger. “Anyone here for Reggae Spillman?”

Antwone stood. Panic. He couldn’t breathe but he managed, “I’m his brother.”

The good-looking cop stood too and she took his hand and squeezed, and Antwone didn’t know what hurt worse—the fear or her compassion.

“Your brother is alive, Mr. Spillman,” said the surgeon. “The bullet is out and he’s stable. Better than we expected. The next few days will be critical, how he responds to treatment. He’s asleep and will remain so until tomorrow, at the earliest. Would you like to see him?”

Antwone felt all his strength melting into the floor. Alive and stable.

“Yeah I would.”

The cop gave one more squeeze and released him. What kinda cop holds your hand?

“I’m coming.” He spoke in a squeak. He turned to the cop. “We done?”

“Yes. A homicide detective will get an official statement from you tomorrow, about Pete and Reggae.”

“Where’s Pete now?”

“Jail. Too drunk and sick to talk,” she said.

“Good.” He nodded and he was crying, the compressed stress threatening to rupture. “Good, thank you.”

She tried squeezing his shoulder but he grabbed her into a hug. He had no one else, and she’d shown kindness, and it just happened without thought. She smelled like sweat and soap. She squeezed him back, and he released and cleared his throat and followed the surgeon.

Recovery room eleven. Antwone knew to wash his hands, put on gloves and a mask, not to touch his brother.

Reggae looked like a science experiment. Like he’d aged ten years, shrunken and pale. Antwone gripped the bed railing to steady himself, while the surgeon rattled on about the operation. It was an exploratory surgery, and if his brother hadn’t been so fit, he’d be dead. Even so, recovery wouldn’t take days, it would take weeks.

Antwone only had eyes for his brother. A little boy who did his homework in elementary school. A kid who liked to play kickball down the street during middle school. A young man who’d enrolled at Virginia Western, who said he wanted to work in medicine like his older brother. A corporal in the military, fresh-faced and excited in his camo fatigues. Sounds and memories clouded Antwone’s head.

When he looked up, the surgeon was gone.

Antwone sank into a chair and leaned forward until his head pressed against the cool sheets covering his brother. Oxygen hissed into Reggae’s nose. A monitor watched his pulse. Blood slowly trickled into a vein in his arm.

Antwone took one long deep breath in. One ragged exhale out.

And another.

Like it was a secret, he whispered into the sheets, “They shot the wrong brother.”

10

Kaye Calhoun began her day at the office with an hour of Me Time. It was blocked off in her schedule—no clients, no meetings, no coworker chats. She worked in a clinical suite with four other counselors and they’d learned that knocking wasn’t worth the backlash. Me Time was sacred.

The clinic’s owner chaffed against this, cautioning Kaye that she should begin her day earlier, that she was losing out on billable hours. Only two clients before lunch? Everyone else managed three.

Kaye resisted with a thin smile, but she was plotting. Soon she would have enough money banked, enough hours under her belt, and enough relationships for her to go out alone. No need for a supervisor.

The first twenty minutes of her sacred hour, she caught up on email correspondence and mundane workplace tasks. When her timer sounded, she wrapped it up, even if she wasn’t finished. There was always the end of the day, if necessary.

The next thirty minutes, she sat in her chair and meditated or read literature on innovative therapeutic trends. Something to plant her in the right frame of mind for clients.

For the final ten, she skimmed the files for today’s visits.

Her first was a new client. Bobbie Munson, female, aged thirty-five. The intake paperwork stated Bobbie had recently completed her final round of chemo and was declared cancer free.

Kaye emerged from her office to find Bobbie waiting in reception. Tall and pale, brown eyes, completely bald, no wig. They introduced themselves, polite smiles, and the hour began.

“Cancer is difficult,” said Bobbie. She ran her hand over her scalp as she spoke. “The hair, for one thing. I wept. Can you hear it? It used to be smooth but now there’s stubble.”

Kaye enjoyed the woman’s enthusiasm for the new growth. “I hear. What color will it be?”

“Dirty blonde. Not to be pompous, but my hair was beautiful and long. Losing it was like dying. A necessary evil, though.”

“You’re gorgeous bald. Maybe keep it that way.”

Laughter. That was good.

Kaye continued, “Congratulations on your recovery. That must feel tremendous.”

“Thank you. I wish I had a better reason for being here other than cancer is difficult, but that’s why I made the appointment. Talking would be beneficial, I think, yes?”

“Oh yes. Talking about traumatic events like cancer and chemotherapy is never a bad idea,” said Kaye.

“I won’t be in Roanoke long. I have a few loose ends to tie up, and then I’m leaving. But in the meantime, I’d like to talk.”

“What type of cancer did you have?”

“Hodgkin lymphoma. The recovery rate is so high that I feel guilty. It’s treatable, so I shouldn’t feel so scarred from the experience.”

“Cancer is scary, no matter your odds. There’s no guilt in this room, certainly not over natural emotions.”

“I lived in West Virginia before moving to Roanoke. I didn’t know many people, so that was part of the struggle. The loneliness, you could say.”

Kaye scribbled notes. The client was hurling a lot of emotions at her. I wept. Cancer was difficult. I feel guilty. Scarred from the experience. Loneliness part of the struggle.

“Why did you move to Roanoke?” asked Kaye.

“You must promise not to judge.”

“I promise. I don’t sit in this chair to judge people.”

“I moved here for a girl.”

Kaye didn’t mean to laugh but she did, a little. “No judgment from me.”

“Why did you laugh?”

“Because you have no reason to fear scorn in this room. It struck me as ironic that you would worry.”

“Why is that ironic, Kaye? May I call you Kaye?”

“Yes please. If you are alone in Roanoke, did it not work out with the girl?”

“It hasn’t.”

“I’m sure that contributed to the emotional trauma of cancer treatment.”

Bobbie nodded. “Very much. Umm, before we continue, may I ask you a few personal questions? It would help me feel more comfortable.”

“If you think it would help, yes, a few. Though my answers may not be as personal as you’d like.”

“Why is that, Kaye?”

“It’s better for me to remain a healthcare professional, instead of a buddy. Rapport is good, but you’re paying me for clinical work, not to be friendly.”

“You’re quite intelligent, I think. It’s intimidating.” Bobbie nodded. “Where did you study medicine?”

“Longwood University, here in Virginia.” With her pen, Kaye pointed over her shoulder at the diplomas on her wall. “For my supervised hours, I worked at the Richmond University Medical Center.”

“That’s very impressive. Good for you, Kaye. What brings you to Roanoke?”

“The job.”

“Do you like it here?”

“Mostly. The social scene is a touch quiet for my taste.”

Bobbie smiled. “It’s perfect for me. I’m quiet by nature.”

“One day I hope to move to the beach.”

“I almost commented that your office feels like a beach house. So blue and light. Why the beach? Has someone hurt you here?”

“No. I like the beach, is all.”

“Are you married?”

Kaye waggled her left hand. No rings on the fingers. “Single.”

“Are you lonely?”

“I date. And I have a roommate.”

“How nice. Do you and she get along?”

“She’s my closest friend.” Something about this woman, thought Kaye. She had a hypnotic way of speaking. A lot of warm eye contact. Natural seduction. Time to redirect. “How will it help you to know these things?”

“Like I said, my comfort level.”

“Could there be reasons beyond your comfort?”

“Well. Ummm. You said rapport is good. That’s what I’m after, I suppose.”

Kaye nodded. “Does rapport with family and friends come easily to you? Is it a challenge?”

“It’s a challenge. It’s always been.”

“I want us to talk about your cancer scare and the treatment and recovery, Bobbie, but also the loneliness and the challenge of relationships. Which do you think would be most helpful today?”

“The relationships.”

“You said that quickly. Any reason?”

“I think I’ve…” Bobbie blinked and shifted on the chair. “Oh wow, Kaye. I was asking you about personal stuff and you redirected through Socratic questioning. I didn’t even realize it. You’re good.”

“Thank you. I want to maximize our time.”

Bobbie shifted again, like in pain. She twisted, stretching her back, glancing at the door. Some feeling of panic, of being trapped, it appeared.

“How do you feel physically?” asked Kaye.

“I’m fine. Well. Chemotherapy, as you know, takes a toll. I’m weak. I look too thin, don’t I.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Some. When I close my eyes, I see the girl,” said Bobbie.

Relationships, then, for sure.

The weight of a broken heart and the fight for physical survival could feel so similar that Kaye made a mental note—this woman must learn to distinguish between them. To turn off the amygdala and turn on the frontal cortex.

“Should we give her a nickname? Instead of her real name, so we can discuss her.”

“How about Abandon?”

Kaye shook her head. “Something with no charged meaning.”

“Ummm, maybe River.”

“River, that’s lovely. Does River still live nearby?”

“That’s the worst part.” Bobbie ran her hand over her scalp again, like she was unused to the sensation. “She does. But she never visited. She never wrote me or called, despite my best efforts. I was weak and vulnerable, unable to leave my room. But she never responded, other than to say she wouldn’t. We were so close and then… I’m talking about her too much, aren’t I. About River.”

“Not necessarily.”

“She hurt me.”

“I can see that,” said Kaye.

“Can you?” Bobbie smiled to herself and Kaye detected more than loneliness. Underneath the story of woe, she felt strength and resolve. But also a possessiveness. Perhaps even malice. “It’s nice to be seen, Kaye.”

“Do you have a support system in place?”

“No, I…” The tears that sprang from Bobbie seemed to surprise her. She wiped at them, shocked. “Uh oh, sorry.”

“That’s perfectly natural.”

“Wow, I did not expect this,” said Bobbie.

“There is a box of tissues beside you.”

“I don’t have a support system.”

“Family? Friends?”

The woman shook her head and her voice wavered. “You and your roommate are lucky to have one another. That support system. Not everyone is so blessed. You’re very blessed to have her, Kaye. I wish I did.” She began to weep. “I wish I had her.”

11

Stackhouse hadn’t slept well. She woke at four in the morning with the strong sense that Jane Newton watched her through the mirror. She’d been dreaming of gore and helpless hands, and on waking the fear increased. A terror that hurt. Still wearing the blue jeans she’d passed out in, she tiptoed into Kaye’s room and slid into her bed. Wordlessly Kaye roused long enough to throw the covers over her roommate and squeeze her tight.

When Stackhouse woke late, the sun was up and Kaye had already gone for her first appointment.

Her phone waited with several text messages, including one from Lieutenant Street, clearing her to sleep in and come to work after lunch.

She showered off the Catawba Sports Bar and the hospital. Showered off Reggae Spillman’s blood, the water near to scalding. In the back of her mind, a mental note to change her sheets, and Kaye’s, if nothing but for her sanity.

Per her roommate’s orders, she began the day with a big glass of water, followed by protein, a sausage patty. Only then came coffee.

She drank a cup, dressed for work, filled a to-go mug, and when she stepped outside she nearly dropped it.

“About damn time.” Sergeant Crabtree was leaning against his cruiser, heavy arms crossed. He’d parked next to her Maxima.

“Go away. Please.”

“We’re partners.”

“No, you’re a babysitter,” said Stackhouse. “I don’t need one.”

“Why you limping then?”

Stackhouse fought hard for a comeback and produced nothing.

“I tell you why. A serial murderer is after your ass. So yeah, you need a got’damn partner. By the way, I like the limp. Makes you walk like a gangster. With a strut. I dig it. Let’s roll.”

Stackhouse dropped into her car and cursed. God Dwight Eisenhower this whole thing.

At the station, about to turn off her car, an interview with Chief Almond came on the radio. Against her better judgment, she kept the engine running to listen. The public, a society fascinated with killers, demanded an update on Jane Newton. Her own name came up, and the chief responded, “No, Detective Stackhouse isn’t working on the fugitive task force assigned to Jane Newton at this time. That’s all I’ll say about that.”

Shouldn’t she be? After all, Chief, Andie Stackhouse was the one who caught Newton three years ago.

Stackhouse herself wanted a good answer to that question. With her eyes closed, she listened and pictured Almond’s smug politician-face as he replied, “We already have enough good men and women on the job. We’ll find Jane Newton, and we’ll find her soon.”

Chief Almond, if Detective Stackhouse—

“To be frank with you, Detective Stackhouse has been through a lot, and she specifically requested to be left out of the investigation. We’re using her elsewhere, where it’s safe. Thank you, no more questions.”

Stackhouse slammed both fists into the steering wheel.

“ASKED to be left out of the investigation?” she shouted. “BullSHIT I did!”

Outside the car, her shouts were audible.

Crabtree waited with his arms crossed for her Nissan to quit rocking and cursing.

Five hot minutes later, inside, Chief Almond made sure to stand at his door, forcing Stackhouse to walk/limp by him, a power play. He knew the cold case had blown up in her face last night, and he wondered if she’d heard his interview. He dared her to throw a fit in the station like a little girl. With his lie that Stackhouse wanted out of the investigation, he insinuated to the public that she was scared. She wanted to work where it was safe. If she insisted now that she was brave enough, it would have the opposite effect—she’d look like a foolish, rebellious little girl.

She refused to look at him, to play his game. She walked by like he didn’t exist.

She was hoping to find a note from the FBI about the manhunt, but no dice. Nothing but banal paperwork waited. Half an hour later, working through her emails, Mark Rowe called.

“Hey kid. Can you meet me at the jail?”

She blinked. “You’re next door?”

“The County jail, not the City.”

She eyed the stack of paperwork from last Friday’s bust of Big Chains. Yuck. “I can be there in thirty?” she said. “What’s this about?”

“It’s a surprise. See you then.”

Stackhouse drove west across the tracks, toward Salem. Strangely enough, the Roanoke County courthouse and jail were located in Salem.

Crabtree followed in his cruiser. Neither would surrender the wheel.

Mark Rowe waited under a high blue sky in the parking lot. A lot of cops would use the opportunity to smoke a cigarette or small cigar. Drink a soda or sip from a flask. Not Mark Rowe. He was eating orange slices, and looking sexy doing it.

A flash on her subconscious, Mark in his bedroom several weeks ago, a hot night, her watching his eyes as she tugged her shirt off, green lace beneath.

Focus, Andie, you dummy.

He threw them both a nod.

“Hey kiddies.”

“Don’t you even,” said Crabtree. “Pick another name, I don’t care how long we known each other.”

“How about dynamic duo?”

Stackhouse indicated the jail. “What’s going on?”

“How long are you assigned to me?” asked Rowe.

“I don’t know. Almond said he wanted me on light work this week. Maybe Friday?”

“Last night didn’t feel like light work,” grumbled Crabtree.

“This cold case turned sideways. The young couple is still missing, sure. But now there’s a shooting. It happened in the county, but our victim will be in the city hospital for weeks, looks like, and Kingston attacked you, a city cop.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’d be good to keep working on this together. City and County both.” Rowe popped the orange slice into his mouth without looking at her.

“Sure, Mark, until our angry supervisors yell at us to stop.”

“Since when has either one of us listened to them?”

She shrugged. Good point.

“Our case copped an attitude this morning,” he said.

“How’s that?”

“Last night after we left, Warner swabbed Pete for gunpowder residue. I wake up this morning and what do I find? It came back negative.”

Stackhouse shook her head. “That’s not possible. Both of Pete’s hands should be covered.”

“Should. But they aren’t. We have Pete’s prints on file from a couple drunk driving charges ten years ago, so I decide to check the prints on the pistol against him. Guess what I find?”

“Stop making me guess. Just talk.”

“No prints on the gun,” said Rowe.

“None?”

“Not a one.”

“Did Warner—”

“Double-check my work, because I’m an idiot? Yes he did. No prints on the pistol.”

“What you’re saying,” said Stackhouse, “is that Pete didn’t fire the gun. That someone else did, presumably Reggae himself, but there are no fingerprints on the weapon. That’s not feasible, Mark.”

“I told you it copped an attitude.”

“You expect me to believe Reggae shot himself, wiped the pistol down, and threw it at Pete. With his brothers in the next room, at a celebration for his homecoming.”

“I’m not expecting you to believe anything. Only God knows what happened in that bathroom and he hasn’t told me yet,” said Rowe.

Crabtree was nodding. “I dig the way you talk about the Almighty. Always have.”

“Where is Warner?”

“Warner was called to a road rage incident. Two teenagers trying to kill each other in their sports cars. I told him I’d chase the forensics. I was there, after all, and I outrank him, and I have more autonomy.”

“I’m waking Pete up,” said Stackhouse.

“We are waking him up,” Crabtree said.

“That was my suggestion. You talk to Pete. I want to hit the bar bathroom with a blacklight and swab the walls. Find out where the gun was fired. Then I’ll drive to the hospital and test Reggae for gunpowder residue. Assuming we find it, Pete will be released.”

“We look like jerks, throwing Pete in jail if he did nothing wrong other than drink too much,” she said.

“That’s why I’m sending you, not me.” Rowe winked.

Inside the jail, they were buzzed through the security door. The deputies recognized her and whispered behind her back. Stackhouse explained what she needed—a conversation with their most recent inmate, Pete Burman. Crabtree knew several of the deputies and they fell to yelling over the Celtics beating the Lakers in the finals earlier that month, and whether Shaquille O’Neal regretted demanding a trade.

While they waited for Pete, a muscular deputy named Cobb told Stackhouse, “Your boy’s been sick as a dog.”

“Pete?”

“Threw up all night, calling for a nurse. He only calmed down an hour ago.”

They stood in a room called Intake. A large space with tables and drunks, deputy sheriffs lounging near the television and non-violent prisoners waiting to be processed. A relaxed atmosphere. All men except for her, and they watched her like hungry dogs watch their food.

Cobb’s radio crackled and he stepped away to speak in it. Stackhouse eavesdropped with mounting curiosity as Cobb glanced at her, whispered to one of the other guys, and slipped through one of the barred corridors, deeper into the jail. More radio crackle, men hurrying down the hall.

Ten minutes later, Cobb returned, his lips pressed into a firm line. “Detective, you’ll want to come with me.”

“What happened?”

“Your boy, Pete? Someone killed him.”

The Roanoke County Jail separated inmates onto different floors. Women on the second floor. Inmates with longer sentences on the third, housed inside pods. A pod consisted of a central area where the prisoners mingled, dined, played cards, or watched television, and two levels of individual cells where they slept or took their privacy, doors locked at night.

Pete Burman had been housed on the main level, for shorter stays. He hadn’t shown up for breakfast, Stackhouse was told, claiming to be too sick and that he needed a doctor. He hadn’t roused for lunch.

When Stackhouse had arrived to speak with him, a deputy banged on Pete’s bars but the man didn’t move. When prodded, Pete remained motionless. When rolled over, a shiv was protruding from Pete’s throat, his eyes wide and lifeless.

Now Stackhouse knelt next to Pete’s cot with a flashlight, examining the sharpened toothbrush jammed under his jaw. Even in prison, the law prohibited her from touching a dead body, not until a medical examiner saw him first. His jumpsuit and mattress were soaked with blood, filling her nostrils with iron.

The cell made her clammy and claustrophobic. All the loud sounds seemed to bang off the concrete walls and land in this dark cage where Pete had bled to death by himself.

Getting a toothbrush into a throat took a mighty thrust.

“What,” she said, “in the world.”

Behind her, a man’s voice. “Hey Cobb?”

“Yeah, what’s up?” said Cobb.

“Got a guy confessing downstairs. Says he’s the one who stabbed Pete.”

12

Jack Gough’s head was shaved, though he kept a scrubby goatee. A short guy with short arms, drying blood on his hands. He was in jail with a pretrial hearing scheduled for next week—he’d battered another prostitute, the deputies said.

Stackhouse stood in an interrogation room with him and Sheriff Gee. Jack Gough’s red hands were cuffed together and bolted to the table.

“Shit, I just went in to see the guy,” Jack Gough told Stackhouse and the sheriff. “New guy, wanted to say hello. You know? Neighborly and shit? I asked if he wanted lunch. He said no. Cussed me up good. He said he was sick. I asked if he wanted me to bring him something, you know?”

County Sheriff Gee was old, ready for retirement, as unyielding as a mountain, and a voice deep as the cave beneath. “Awful sweet of you, Jack.”

“You know it. Always been sweet, Sheriff. Shit, anyway, bastard came at me with the toothbrush,” said Jack.

“The sick old man came at you with the sharpened toothbrush.”

“You bet he did, Sheriff.”

Sheriff Gee wasn’t buying it. “Same kinda toothbrush you used to stab What’s-his-name a couple years ago, your last time up the river. What was his name, Salty?”

“Yeah, Salty. This was different, Sheriff.”

“Where’d he get the toothbrush, Jack?”

“Got no idea. Go look in my cell, I still have mine. Swear to God.”

Stackhouse wasn’t buying it either. The man reeked of a smug con. “Pete had been in your pod for twelve hours, and he already sharpened the end of a toothbrush?”

“Shit, I guess, honey. Also, ain’t no way you’re a cop.”

“How’d the toothbrush end up in his throat?” she said.

“He attacked me. We fought. I called for help, no one heard. It just happened. I freaked.”

“You freaked and walked away and told no one,” said Stackhouse.

“I was scared, you know! It just happened. So fast. I knew the old Sheriff would yell at me. I freaked.”

“You already said that,” said Gee.

“I went to my cell and freaked and cried and washed my hands, and then you guys started calling about the dead body.”

“This is a load of garbage, Jack,” said Gee. “Someone pay you to do this?”

Jack tried to raise his hands but they were fixed to the table. “Swear to God. No one paid me a dime. Shit, a real tragedy, this whole thing.”

“Jack. That sick old man didn’t attack you. You, a big strong buck who does a thousand pushups and sit-ups in his cell every day. It’s damn hard to kill a man with a toothbrush. It doesn’t happen by accident. You’re gonna tell me why the devil you did this, or you’re never getting out of his hell hole.”

Jack Gough leaned forward as best he could. “I tell you what, Sheriff. How about I don’t say another word until you get me a lawyer, how about that?”

Sheriff Gee made an unhappy rumble in his chest.

Mark Rowe had said this case turned sideways. Well, it just did a backflip, thought Stackhouse.

13

Jack Gough was granted a phone call to his attorney, and then hauled to solitary confinement.

The coroner’s office called to announce they couldn’t get free for another hour.

Sheriff Gee put Stackhouse in touch with a federal correctional investigator, who asked her to tape off the cell and then get the hell out of their crime scene.

Stackhouse stood outside in the sunlight again, just like that, booted to the curb and her witness dead via toothbrush. Crabtree watched her warily, like she was the problem, like she’d shot Reggae, like she’d stabbed Pete.

On the phone, Mark Rowe scoffed. “You’re kidding me.”

“Wish I was.”

“He just got there. You said Pete was a sweet old man.”

“Not that old. You saw him, what, maybe sixty? But he was sweet, yeah, bought the boys drinks. Apologized when he bumped the table. He didn’t attack Jack with a toothbrush, I’d bet my car on it.”

Rowe blew a blast of air into his phone, distorting the sound. “We stepped into something. Something big and mean. The devil himself is in this one.”

“Pete’s death couldn’t be related to last night’s shooting at the bar. It just couldn’t. Jack Gough would know nothing about Reggae. This has to be a wild coincidence.” As she said it, the words tasted sour and false.

“I don’t believe in coincidences like that.”

“Me either, but… I mean, what the hell, Mark. How would an inmate already know about last night’s shooting, and why would he care, and what could make him mad enough to shiv Pete?”

“Especially because I’m standing in the bar’s bathroom right now with a fluorescent bulb. The stall lights up like a disco rave. If Pete had fired it, he would’ve glowed. Which means he didn’t shoot Reggae.”

“Reggae shot himself in the chest? That’s our theory?”

“All your theories suck,” mumbled Crabtree, listening to their conversation over Stackhouse’s speakerphone.

“Did the older brother, Antwone, say anything interesting last night?” asked Rowe.

“I found him around three in the morning and we only talked a minute. The Spillman brothers grew up with Pete. Nice guy down the street, he said. He was shocked Pete would shoot his brother. Turns out, he was right to be shocked.”

“You and Antwone hit it off? Think he’d keep talking to you?”

Stackhouse nodded to herself. They needed Antwone to keep talking about two of his brothers, both Reggae and Stevie, the one missing. “Probably. I’ll call him with the news, and our suspicion that Reggae shot himself. By the way, who does the pistol belong to?”

“We don’t know. Serial number was scratched through. It’ll take time. I’m packing up here and driving to the hospital to charm a nurse into letting me swab Reggae’s fingers.”

“Antwone might still be there. I’ll let him know you’re coming.” Stackhouse hung up, called Roanoke County PD to get Antwone’s number, and she rang him. He answered on the third ring. “Antwone, it’s Detective Stackhouse from last night. How’s your brother?”

In her ear, “Sedated. But alive.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“I didn’t. Not really.”

“I’m calling for a couple reasons. I wanted to give you a heads-up. A detective is coming to check your brother’s fingers. When he gets there—”

“I went home to change. I’m not at the hospital. What’s he want with Reggae’s fingers?”

“You’re at home? Could I swing by? We need to chat about a few things,” said Stackhouse.

A big yawn. “I guess. I took the day off. It’s messy, my house.”

“I’ll be there in thirty.”

They stopped at Big Al’s Sub Shack. Crabtree grouched it was too early for dinner and he got a strawberry milkshake only.

“I never ate lunch,” Stackhouse told him. She ordered and Big Al himself took her order, refusing to let her pay. Police officers eat free, especially the good-looking ones, eh? Big Al was a tall and wide Italian man with rosy cheeks, he was friendly without the greasy innuendo.

Eating and drinking against their cars, Crabtree spoke around his straw. “Gone get you in trouble.”

“What’s that?”

“Taking free food.”

“You didn’t pay for yours?” she said.

He waggled the milkshake. “Hell no. I pay for everything.”

Stackhouse shrugged. “Lots of places give cops discounts. It discourages loiterers.”

“What else you gone take?”

“Huh?”

“What if Big Al starts giving you money?”

“Why would he do that?” she asked.

“You’re still new to the game. These places give you free food. Sometimes gift cards, as a thank you. Sometimes Christmas presents or birthday presents, stacks of cash. Then, one day they need help, they need a favor with the health inspector or something, or their kid got busted for drunk driving, they call you. Maybe one day you’re taking money from the Kings but you don’t know it, and they got you on video and now they own you. They love to buy cops.”

“Who are the Kings?”

“Mafia group in the south, run cocaine.”

“Jeez, Crabtree.” Her memory ran back to Sergeant Elliott accepting the free food and a gift card for his wife, such a beautiful baby.

Antwone Spillman lived one mile from the Catawba Sports Bar, north of Interstate 81. Where the suburbs slowly faded into the wild overgrowth of the Appalachian Mountains. Stackhouse thought her directions were wrong as she trundled down a pitted old lane—surely no one lived out here. Vines and trees hung over the road, brushing the car’s roof. She missed the mailbox, hidden in a chaos of shrubs.

Down the driveway to a dank world under a canopy of foliage. She parked next to a Honda Prelude, Crabtree behind. Stackhouse knew enough about plants to recognize paradise trees and autumn olives, undesirable for most home owners, they crowded out the oaks and maples. Antwone’s house looked like a homesteader built it with whatever was lying around sixty years ago. Wooden vertical slats, a sagging front porch, a tin roof that needed painting. One of the front windows was broken. A station wagon from the 1970s sat on flat tires behind the house. Far to the left and right, through the weedy undergrowth, more shacks could be spotted, maybe inhabited by neighbors, maybe abandoned. In the distance, a shimmer of water, from a creek or river.

Stackhouse swallowed. She’d grown up poor but with a disability check coming in, with a dad who at least painted the house, with neighbors who mowed, with a house the sun reached. Here, a dozen trees arched over the house, leaves in the gutters. The air felt thicker and hotter by ten degrees, humidity unable to escape.

“At night, the damn crickets so loud you can’t sleep,” a voice called.

Kingston lounged on the front porch in a rocking chair. The angry soldier home from war with nothing to do. The grass wasn’t always greener.

“During the day, flies eat you. The winter, the ground freezes. In the summer, snakes come out and mosquitos drink your blood, make you itch every damn day. Hell of a place to grow up.” Kingston wore camo pants and a white tank top. He grinned around his cigar. “Learn to smoke Black & Milds when you’re eight, especially in your bedrooms. Smoke keeps the bugs away.”

“Afternoon, Kingston. Is Antwone home?”

“You a cop. Hot girl pretending to get in my pants, but she was a cop the whole time. You got my brother shot,” said Kingston. “This time you brought your slave, huh?”

Crabtree tucked his thumbs behind his belt and kept his cool.

Stackhouse noted an empty liquor bottle beside the rocking chair. Newly drained? “I’m sorry about the deception, Kingston. Believe it or not, we’re still hoping your older brother Stevie shows up one of these days.”

“Don’t hold your breath, hot girl.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause I said so.”

“Antwone’s inside?”

Kingston spread his muscled arms wide to the house and yard. “Not what you expected, huh. Not the place a classy guy like me came from? We called it Negro Alley. Black folk in every house. Our bus looked like a scene from Lean on Me, you know that movie? Not a White house for miles, ‘cept for old Pete, too broke and dumb to move away.”

“I don’t see—”

Crabtree gently grabbed Stackhouse’s arm, like—wait a sec.

“When’s your next meeting, Corporal?” he said.

Kingston’s eyes snapped up at the title. “What meeting?”

“Transition assistance meeting.”

“You were in the Army?”

“I was,” said Crabtree. “I know coming back’s hard. Like moving to a new planet. You need those transition meetings.”

“Yeah me and Reggae both needed them. But whoops, he’s in the hospital. Turns out, Negro Alley’s a lot more dangerous than the Iraqis.” He took a drag on the cigar, fumes coiling blue around his face.

“Get yourself to those meetings, Corporal. It’s important.”

The screen door squeaked and slammed as Antwone came outside. He was drying his hands on a towel. Compared to the lounging, arrogant, muscular Kingston, Antwone looked a statesman. Slender, new clothes that fit well, trimmed nails, stylish haircut…

A thought sprang into Stackhouse’s mind—Antwone is gay.

She shook off the thought. His girlfriend had been at the party. Southern cheap. We’re having sort of a private celebration, for the twins. So if you wouldn’t mind?

Stackhouse smacked at her neck and the mosquito she heard buzzing there.

“You said you needed to chat, Detective?” said Antwone.

“Yes. About Pete.”

“Pete.” Kingston snorted out smoke. “Old bastard. Didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Is your mother home?” said Stackhouse.

“Sleeping in her trailer.” Antwone jerked his thumb toward the rear of the house. “Out back.”

“And also none of your business, five-oh,” said Kingston.

“So, here’s the deal,” said Stackhouse. “When a gun is fired, it explodes with gunpowder and gases. The residue gets all over you, even if you can’t see it. We tested Pete—” She smacked at another mosquito, or maybe a horsefly.

“Hold up. Hoooooold up.” Crabtree fished in his pocket and came out with a five dollar bill. He approached the porch and tossed the five to Kingston. “Lemme buy a cigar off you.”

“Shit, for a five you can have two.”

Crabtree unwrapped one of the cheap cigars and Kingston held up a lighter. “Why’s a Black Army man following around a little White girl? For the view?”

Crabtree puffed his cigar to life and handed back the lighter. “Detective Stackhouse so good at her job, people always tryna kill her. Right now there’s a serial killer after her ass. I’m keeping Stack alive.”

“No shit. Like Jeffrey Dahmer?”

“Just like that.”

“Yeah she look mighty tasty,” said Kingston.

“Killer almost got her Monday night, that’s why she’s limping. But Stackhouse is too good to let die. So. Here I am.”

Stackhouse didn’t enjoy the men talking about her. She also wasn’t happy about the warm glow she felt inside at Crabtree’s quasi-compliments. He came back to her side with the cigar and puffed and filled their atmosphere with smoke, keeping the flying bugs off.

She carried on. “We tested Pete for gunpowder residue. He should be covered in it, but he was clean. Pete didn’t fire the pistol that hit Reggae.”

Antwone frowned. “That’s not possible. Then who did?”

Kingston made a psssshh noise. “White people never think other White people did it.”

“Hang on, it gets weirder. Even though Pete is innocent, we found him dead this morning. Stabbed in his jail cell.”

Antwone dropped the towel he’d been holding. “Bull shit.”

“Good,” said Kingston. “Blue kill, friendly fire. Old Pete’s got fragged? Good.”

“You realize the only option we have left?” Stackhouse held out hands, like—help me. “Reggae shot himself.”

“No way,” Antwone said.

Kingston cackled. “Y’all so stupid, cops dumb as hell.”

“It makes no sense,” said Stackhouse. “Shot himself in the chest? It’s absurd. But did you see anyone come out of the bathroom? I didn’t.”

“I wasn’t watching the door,” said Antwone.

“Does Reggae own a pistol?”

Kingston shook his head, eyes on the cigar pinched in his fingers. It’d burned down to the wooden tip. “Naw. He was off the bus from Fort Benning. We weren’t packing. Had to be old Pete’s pistol.”

“Except Pete’s prints aren’t on it and he wasn’t near the pistol when it was fired.”

Antwone lowered to sit on the front porch steps. Kingston lit up a new cigar and handed it to him. Antwone took one drag and forgot it.

Stackhouse’s heart broke for him, Antwone’s life flashing in a bad sequence across her imagination. Raised in this house, poor, his mother a mess, him trying to raise his brothers, one of them goes missing, another in the hospital shot; Antwone had to see life as nothing but one prolonged nightmare. Unable to be fixed no matter what he did.

“It’s hard to shoot yourself by accident in the chest,” said Stackhouse. “And Reggae didn’t seem suicidal. He was in a great mood.”

Antwone nodded without looking at anything.

“He was. Like a kid at Christmas, coming home,” said Kingston. “Coming home to this, who wouldn’t be.”

“Could he own a gun without you knowing? He went into the bathroom, drunk, and accidentally fumbled in his jacket—”

“Drunk?” said Antwone. “He wasn’t drunk.”

“Reggae’s a bitch about beer. He don’t drink. Not a drop,” said Kingston.

“But…” Stackhouse wrinkled her nose, working backward in her memories. “Yes he did.”

“I forced him, once, in Fallujah, we had a couple days off. Forced him to drink a shot, try a beer. Man hated it. Spit it everywhere. Man don’t drink, I’m telling you,” said Kingston.

“All those beers on the table?”

“For me and Kingston and the girls,” said Antwone.

“But Pete brought you two shots?”

“I drank mine. You see Reggae drink his?” Kingston shook his head. “No way. He’d rather drink piss.”

“When he started sweating and he ran to the bathroom, I assumed he was drunk,” she said.

“It was the wings. Old bar like that, probably gave him food poisoning,” said Antwone.

“Food poisoning. Okay.” Stackhouse rubbed at her forehead. She could confirm that at the hospital? Would the nurses or surgeons know? They weren’t testing his blood for alcohol, she didn’t think. “Help me out, guys. I’m lost.”

“I’ll help you right now—Pete shot my brother, and I don’t care what your gunpowder says,” said Kingston.

She’d been avoiding the question, but she stomped on the hesitation and went for it. “Could this have anything to do with Stevie?”

For an answer, Kingston lit another Black & Mild cigar. He threw the extinguished wooden tip into the grass.

“Stevie, our brother who’s been missing for four years,” said Antwone in a flat voice. “How would Stevie have anything to do with that bathroom?”

“I didn’t work that case. I only know he and his girlfriend are missing.”

Antwone bit down on the cigar he’d forgotten. Nearly out, he puffed to work the heat back up. He coughed and took it out again. He looked at it like wishing it was something stronger. When he spoke, it was with fresh grief. “You know as much as we do about Stevie.”

“I know your brother and his girlfriend vanished, never to be seen again. That’s everything I know.”

“That happened four years ago,” said Antwone.

“Doesn’t it seem like too big of a coincidence?” said Stackhouse. “Stevie goes missing right before his brothers join the Army? They come back and another brother gets shot?”

“You want the story?” said Antwone. “I’ll tell you the story. When Stevie was a senior, he took this math class. Algebra or something. He was a dumb kid, in a class with younger smart kids. Freshman and sophomores taking advanced classes, mixed in with stupid seniors who already failed the class once, you get the idea? Well. Little Allie Anderson, she was a sophomore. A volleyball player. Always running over to Stevie’s desk, help the big senior football player when he got stuck. Didn’t take long until they were into each other. High school hot couple. Stevie was stupid, but he was a good dude. Read the file, go ask people. One of those kids everyone liked, even the teachers. Sweet Stevie.”

“He was a wimp. That volleyball girl he was dating, though?” Kingston whistled. “Finest in the school. So hot Stevie didn’t know what to do with all that ass.”

“They went to prom together. The whole high school thing, they did it,” said Antwone. He was gazing off into the sad past. “He graduated. She was there cheering. Helped him fill out papers to take classes at Western. Dated all the next year. She used to come around. She had a nice car, drove him places. He didn’t want to go to high school dances after he graduated, so she didn’t neither. Her mom didn’t like Stevie at first, but she did by the end. Saw he was a good dude. One night, the mom called me. Where’s Allie, she said. I didn’t know. Stevie had been home all night and he was asleep. I told her. Next day she calls again. Where’s Allie? Stevie was already gone to work. Last time I ever saw him, that morning, him leaving for work. Told Allie’s mom I didn’t know and Stevie was gone. He worked at the garage, learning to work on cars.” Antwone ran his free hand over his buzz cut, and he stared at the ground. “Police told me that Stevie left that night late, taking an old car the garage was letting him borrow to learn, and no one ever saw him again. No one ever saw Allie again either. Maybe they’re dead. Maybe they ran away to Mexico. I don’t know. He never had a cell phone. Cops never found him, no one ever found him. Gone gone. So you tell me, how would that matter when Reggae got shot last week?”

“I don’t know,” Stackhouse admitted. “But thank you for telling me.”

One big fact had jumped out—Allie went missing the day before Stevie did.

The whine of an engine reached Stackhouse’s ears. Crabtree turned to watch a car arrive, an old Ford Escort. Brandi stood out, the car door squealing when opened and closed. Antwone’s girlfriend, fake blonde hair, no foundation covering her blemishes. Stackhouse wanted to give her a makeover with some of her good Work It, Girl cosmetics. Brandi squandered her potential.

“Look who it is, it’s Miss Troublemaker,” said Brandi. “Last time you came around, a Spillman brother got hisself shot.”

Stackhouse forced some manners into her voice. “Afternoon, Brandi. Nice to see you. We’re on our way out.”

“Suits me fine.” She walked to Antwone. Her jeans didn’t fit well, riding too low, below a muffin top, and exposing a back tattoo. She kissed his forehead but he didn’t seem to notice.

Well-dressed, well-mannered Antwone with her?

He’s gay, she thought again. No one knows.

“Antwone, my number is on your phone, from my call earlier. If you think of anything, I’d like to hear from you. I want to help Reggae.”

“We want to help Reggae,” said Crabtree.

“Yeah, get on out of Negro Alley and take your slave with you,” said Kingston. He stood and walked inside, screen door slamming.

Kingston came back out, floorboards squeaking, two minutes after the cops left, holding a cold plastic bottle of Aristocrat vodka. The bottle was half empty, but he poured some orange juice into it and he shook it up. He sipped the drink, a mean look in his eyes.

“This thing’s her fault,” he said.

Antwone still sat on the front porch. Brandi rested between his stylish Adidas sneakers, watching him worriedly. “No it’s not,” he said.

“It is too. Cop shows up, ruins our party, Reggae takes one to the chest.”

“I thought you said you didn’t enjoy the party, Kingston,” said Brandi. She had a nasally way of speaking, a whine, that he hated.

“Bitch, no one asked you here. Go home.”

“You cain’t talk to me like that. Can he, Antwone. You only got here yesterday, but me and Antwone, we been together for months.”

Kingston didn’t hide his smile. “Oh you have? Bet it ain’t going that well.”

“What’s that mean? Antwone, tell him to be nice or be quiet. I don’t appreciate his tone.”

“Brandi.” Antwone’s voice was pitched low and sad. “Maybe today’s not a good day.”

“Oh lawd.” Brandi stood with a huff and brushed her pants. “There ain’t no fixing the Spillman brothers, is there. Lotta guys would be nicer than you bunch. Lotta guys would loooove a visit from me. Don’t know why I bother.”

Her Ford Escort rattled away, taking the angry hurt driver out of earshot.

“The hell you doing with her,” Kingston asked.

“She’s nice enough. Mostly.”

Kingston drank more of the mixed hooch. They lounged in silence several minutes, Antwone’s cigar uncoiled sweet vapors around the porch. It rankled Kingston, the stronger older Black cop following around the younger White one. Why would he waste his time like that? Made him look weak.

“I could be a cop. Better than those two.”

“You should,” said Antwone.

“You think she knows?”

“Who knows what?”

Kingston snorted. “The cop. She knows. About everything.”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Yeah she does.” Anger and fear seethed in Kingston’s chest, staring at the spot where the good-looking cop had stood. “She poked around and found out. Reggae’s in the hospital and it’s her fault. Maybe it’s time she quit poking.”

14

As Stackhouse pulled out of the Spillmans’ driveway, her eyes darted both directions She’d arrived from the left. She knew what lay that way. What was to her right? The road was pitted and in need of repair. The trees required pruning months ago.

She turned to the right, smiling to herself at Crabtree’s aggravation over having to follow her. As she trundled along, she spotted Ms. Spillman’s trailer behind the house, hidden by trees. No way to reach the trailer except from the house. She passed other mailboxes, including an address she recognized as Pete Burman’s. The street didn’t end, exactly, but there was a cul-de-sac before the road changed into a driveway. A dramatic difference. A paved lane with fresh flat blacktop. Instead of wild shrubs, the lane was lined with trimmed grass. No more overgrown trees—the land opened onto a well-kept lawn, rising to a beautiful house on a low rise. An A-frame house overlooking the creek. Unlike the Spillmans’, this house appeared to be built by craftsmen, and maintained by someone with deep pockets. The backyard sloped down to the water.

Already on the driveway, the only place to change directions was the little turnaround in front of the garage. Stackhouse threw her car into reverse, to make a J-turn, maneuvering back the way she game, but she heard a man shouting.

The owner of the house sat in a swing under a tree. Maybe sixty-five, a short white beard. He held a German Shepherd by the leash.

“If you don’t have a warrant,” he shouted, “you can kindly get the hell off my property.”

Stackhouse buzzed down her window. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know where to turn around.”

“That’s what they all say. Kids tore down the sign years ago and the county won’t replace it. This is my private property, and the kids tore it down because their parents are drunks and druggies and no one spanks their children anymore, and I will thank you to keep your tires off my grass.”

“It’s a beautiful property.”

“It ought to be, I paid enough. Why’re you out here ruining my peace and quiet?”

“We visited the Spillmans, sir.” Stackhouse felt silly, calling to him from her window. But she knew German Shepherds were territorial and possessive of their owners. “And I wondered what was at the end of the road.”

“Now you found it, you can move on.”

She spied an opportunity to commiserate with him, this man who lived near her victims. “You’d think the county would pave the road.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you!” The man stood up and Stackhouse saw he needed a cane. He walked slowly toward the car, dog in one hand, cane in the other. “It doesn’t matter how often I press the board of supervisors or the damn department of transportation. They fill my ears with nonsense about heavily trafficked areas taking precedence. It’s got so the garbage truck can’t even make it anymore! I told them, if they won’t do anything about it, maybe I won’t pay my taxes. If they come see me about my taxes, well then I’ll let loose Eisenhower on them.” He shook the leash. “I worked forty-five years for Norfolk & Southern, and I could’ve worked ten more but they moved all the jobs to Virginia Beach to penny pinch. Now I’ve got to haul my own got’damn trash to the dump like I haven’t earned myself a reprieve.”

Stackhouse nodded toward the distant tree line. “Did you know Pete Burman?”

“Of course I know Pete Burman. Every time his truck breaks down, he obliges me to help him push. Me with this hip, helping him push. The man is a lazy jackass and you can tell him I said so. That’s my creek, running down there. He comes to fish my creek without asking, the same way the Spillman boys used to swim in it. Course I would’ve said no, so maybe that’s why he doesn’t bother.” The man paused to consider her question. “You phrased your question unusually. Did I know Pete?”

Behind her, a car door opened and closed. Crabtree came to lean against Stackhouse’s car. The German Shepherd issued one sharp bark, but Crabtree didn’t flinch.

“Yessir, did,” said Stackhouse. “Pete Burman died two days ago.”

“Well.” The man stamped his cane. “Well. God rest his soul, I guess. I suppose he drank himself to death.”

“You and Pete aren’t related, are you?” asked Crabtree. “We can’t find any family.”

“Related? Donald Caldwell and Pete Burman related? I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that. Though maybe I’ll make a bid to purchase his land. I am looking to expand.”

“Maybe you can help us. Pete Burman was stabbed. The same night Reggae Spillman was shot. Or the next day. What don’t we know about them?”

“Old Pete was stabbed?” Eisenhower the German Shepherd shifted to watch his owner with worried eyes. “And Reggae… I didn’t expect that. Reggae was in town? I thought he and that awful brother of his were off at war.”

“They’d just returned. It was a hell of a night.”

Caldwell turned to point down the slope. “That’s the Spillman property there. Across my creek. You can’t see the house. Reggae shot, you said? He’s alive?”

“He survived, though he’s not out of the woods.”

“Antwone, his older brother. The only well-mannered one of the bunch. He’s okay?” he asked.

“Antwone’s fine. Shook up and sad, obviously. Do you know much about the family?”

“I don’t know a damn thing about the family, thank you very much.”

“You’ve known them since they were boys,” Stackhouse pointed out.

“I haven’t known them. I can see them when they invade my creek, is all.”

“And Ms. Spillman? I heard she’s not well. You know her?” said Stackhouse.

“Bah.” He made a motion like he was leaving but didn’t, as though the question angered him. “That’s what happens when you subsidize the poor. They don’t do anything with their lives and their brains atrophy and then we pretend to be polite and say she’s not well. She used to be fine, but what happened? Laziness. Government handouts.” Caldwell used his cane to point at the side of her car. “That says Roanoke City. You’re an awful long way from Roanoke City.”

“Takes a village,” said Crabtree. “We were looking for Stevie Spillman when Reggae got shot. Now we’re looking for the shooter too.”

“Well, you two don’t know much of anything, do you.” Still pointing with the cane. “Why ride around in two cars? Other than our government likes to waste natural resources.”

“We can’t decide who drives,” said Stackhouse. “Neither of us want to give up the wheel.”

“That’s easy to settle. The man drives. Always. You shouldn’t take it personally, young lady, to be driven around. It’s a compliment.”

Both Stackhouse and Crabtree pressed their lips together to keep from replying.

Caldwell turned to go. “Can’t find Stevie’s body. Can’t find Reggae’s shooter. Can’t locate Pete’s family. Can’t do nothing, can you. Just like the entire government, good for nothing except wasting my tax dollars. I’ll tell you what you can do, you being a public servant and all.” One final point with his cane, at two trash bags set near his truck. Both bags overflowed with Coors Light cans. “You can haul my trash to the dumpster. The dumpster at the beginning of this street, you pass it on the way out.”

“Like hell I’m hauling—”

“I’ll do it,” said Stackhouse. “Take Eisenhower away so he doesn’t rip my throat out and I’ll do it. My pleasure.”

“You will,” said Caldwell, taking another glance at her. “You with all the makeup and the hair, you’ll do it.”

“It’s a compliment, Mr. Caldwell, a woman helping you out.”

“Well.” Caldwell walked the dog away. She popped her trunk. “I am impressed with you, young lady, at least. Finally a public servant willing to serve the public. Never thought I’d see the day.”

He slowly limped back to his swinging chair.

“Why’d you offer such a fool thing?” asked Crabtree. He fetched the trash bags so she wouldn’t have to. An empty beer can rattled out and Eisenhower barked at them from a distance.

“Never hurts to make allies in an open investigation, Sergeant. You never know.”

“I know I’m never coming back here to this grump’s house, I know that.” He deposited the trash bags and slammed the trunk lid.

15

Stackhouse’s mountain of paperwork had grown. The Reggae shooting had eaten up her day and it wasn’t even her case. She was working three other homicides, two assaults, and one burglary, in addition to the Big Chains bust. Plus Paul Oliver with the FBI had additional questions about Jane Newton.

She poured a mug of coffee and sat in her chair. She’d be here for hours.

Crabtree rapped his knuckles on her desk, startling her.

“I’ll be around, you need me.”

“Thanks,” she said. But I won’t.

“Hey, you know about the elephants?”

“The elephants?”

“The elephants from South Africa? And their daddies?”

Stackhouse blinked. “What are we talking about?”

“You know what happened to the elephants and the rhinos in South Africa?”

“I don’t, sorry.”

“They started a new nature park in South Africa with a bunch of momma elephants and baby elephants. You didn’t hear about this?” said Crabtree.

“No, should I?”

“Started finding the rhinos dead, their backs all tore up. Cause the baby elephants grew into teenage elephants and attacked them with their tusks.”

“Yikes.”

“You don’t watch Planet Earth? On BBC, came out two years ago?”

“Crabtree, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a lot of work.”

“See what happens, teenage elephant boys go crazy during adolescence. Too much adrenaline. Start secreting something called musth. Sounds like musk, but it’s not. Comes out behind their ears. They’re ready to mate, but they’re mad too. They go crazy. A frenzy. They kill each other, kill the rhinos, shit’s wild. Hard to stop a six-ton angry elephant.”

Stackhouse nodded. “I bet.”

“You don’t gotta be rude.”

“I’m not! I’m confused.”

“Looking at me like I’m stupid,” said Crabtree.

“I’m looking at you like you’re rambling, is all, Sergeant.”

“See, problem is, they brought the mommas and babies to the park. No adult males. No bulls. So the babies grow up into teenaged males but there’s no old bulls around. Know what they did? The park rangers or whatever, you know what they did?”

“Ahhh, castrated the teenaged elephants?”

“You would think that.”

“What? I guessed.”

“Leave it to a woman to guess shit like that,” said Crabtree.

“Fine, tell me what they did.”

“They brought in some bulls. Older male elephants. Know what happened? Never mind, I just tell you, cause you guess stupid. The teenagers stopped. In like an hour. Their musth stopped. They chilled out. Cause you don’t mess with the big mad daddy elephants. Old bull comes around, younger elephants shut the hell up. Too scared. Everything was fine before the first night. You follow?”

“You’re thinking about Kingston.”

“Thinking about all the Spillman boys. And every other boy growing up on Negro Alley. Negro Alleys all over Roanoke, all over the country. Kingston’s mom, she’s a deadbeat, right? A junkie who don’t do much? Antwone’s daddy’s probably not the same man as Kingston’s daddy. They’re growing up without old bulls. Young boys mad as hell.”

“You think he should stay in the Army?”

“Yeah, be good for him,” said Crabtree.

“I wonder why he quit. You were like him?”

“Just like him. Army then the police, buncha old bulls around, put me in my place. Kingston needs it too. Maybe needs it the next fifteen years.”

Stackhouse examined her coffee and the faint swirls. “I bet it’s hard for Kingston, forced to listen to me, to answer my questions.”

Crabtree nodded. “Got that right.”

Before Stackhouse started her chores, she made a short list on a Post-it.

SPILLMAN CASE

Did Pete shoot Reggae? How?

If not, who did?

Why was Pete stabbed?

Are Stevie/Allison involved?

She rode the paperwork until eight. Alpha shift radioed out, Bravo radioed in, the station roiling, but she kept grinding. Her mountain was reduced to a hill and she felt lighter.

Crabtree followed her home in his cruiser. In her rearview, the sight served as a reminder that she was a hunted woman.

At her house, an unfamiliar car waited. A newish Jeep Wrangler. Crabtree parked beside her and she felt grateful for the backup, until she saw who it was.

Kaye sat on their little front porch with the newcomer—Dr. Jeffrey Ivey, the handsome emergency department doc who wrapped her ankle. A flutter in her chest.

Kaye waved. “Andie, you remember Jeffrey? We’re getting to know each other.”

Crabtree crossed his arms. “I don’t remember him.”

“It’s okay, Sergeant.” Stackhouse wanted Crabtree gone, baby, gone, before this got embarrassing. “He’s a doctor who helped with my ankle. We’re good.”

Crabtree didn’t move. “You sure?”

“Yes I’m sure. Thank you.”

“Alright. Lock the doors. Call, there’s a problem.” Crabtree made a motion with two fingers, pointing at his own eyes and then at the doctor, like I’m watching you, and he drove off.

Halfway to the porch, she froze—she was limping.

“Too late, Detective. I already saw,” said Dr. Ivey.

“Oops.”

“It’s a two-week sprain, maybe four. You’re supposed to stay off it.”

“I told her,” said Kaye. “She’s so stubborn, this one.”

“I did. I stayed off it for two whole days.”

“Is it still purple?”

“What are you doing here, Doctor?”

“Andie. Manners please,” said Kaye.

“I’m too tired for manners.”

“Can I see the ankle?”

“No,” said Stackhouse. “I mean, no thank you.”

Kaye stood. “I made lemonade. Everyone inside.”

The flutter in Stackhouse’s chest moved to her stomach. No doctor should be that good-looking. She recognized that she was playing defense and coming across as a witch, for no reason other than he scared her, with a face like that. A face and head of hair like that, like a Kennedy or a Baldwin.

“If it’s a bad time, I can leave,” said Ivey.

“No no.” Stackhouse pinched the bridge between her eyes. Be nice, you hag. “I’m being a grump. Please come in.”

“I live three streets over. I can come back tomorrow. Or you can come to my office,” he said. “You’re not wearing the splint. Are you.”

“Um.”

“He brought you chocolate,” said Kaye. “What bedside manner.”

“The splint is uncomfortable.”

“You know what else is uncomfortable?” he said. “If you fully rupture that sprained tendon.”

Inside, sitting at the kitchen table, without asking, he picked up her foot and pulled the shoe and sock off.

Kaye gasped. “Andie.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s gross. It’s huge and blue.” Kaye ran a washcloth under warm water and brought it to Dr. Ivey, who used it to clean Stackhouse’s foot.

“Sorry, I should go shave,” she said.

“Hush.” Ivey did the thing where he squeezed her foot, compression from several angles, and it felt glorious. Stackhouse melted on her chair and her face fell back. She’d been ignoring the pain all day, and the sudden absence of it felt delicious.

“Oh wow.”

“Doctors have value,” he said.

Eyes closed, head tilting up. “Good gooooooosh.”

“Oh my,” said Kaye. “I’m next.”

“You haven’t been icing it,” said Dr. Ivey.

“How do you know?”

“Icing reduces the swelling. But this foot is engorged.”

“Nice word choice, Doctor,” said Kaye.

“We’ll never go hiking at this rate, Andie.”

“I don’t hike,” said Stackhouse, her eyes closed. “I do school work. Yippeeeee.”

“What do you do on dates?”

“I don’t date.”

“She means,” said Kaye, “it’s been a while. She’s dying to hike, she told me so. Who wants lemonade?”

“Wine,” said Stackhouse. “Please.”

Gingerly, Ivey pivoted on the chair to rest one arm over the back, and said, “That’s quite a couch.”

Kaye beamed. “Isn’t it.”

“It’s bigger than my bedroom. There are two chaise lounges.”

“I spared no expense. Sleep over anytime.” Kaye set a glass of lemonade on the table next to him, and handed Stackhouse a goblet of white wine.

“Just holding it makes me feel better,” said Stackhouse.

“Ibuprofen too. It’ll reduce the swelling, like ice.” Dr. Ivey moved her foot to a chair. “Keep it elevated.”

“I like it better when you’re squeezing.” She drank wine.

“Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation.” He sipped some of his lemonade. “This is good, thank you, Kaye.”

“No wine?”

“My shift is about to start. The hospital discourages medical malpractice,” he said.

“I know therapists who pour liquor into their mugs. Some clients are harder to endure than others,” said Kaye.

“Today was one of those days?”

“No. I had a new client break down, brokenhearted, wishing she had a support system like I do. A good roommate like Andie. But she was sweet and pleasant. The rest of my hours were spent with recurring clients whom I’ve known for over a year. Easy peasy.”

Stackhouse drank more wine and sat up straighter with a question. “Did you work last night, Doctor? We brought a gunshot victim in around ten.”

“Call me Jeffrey. And no, I was off.”

“Check on him tonight, would you? Keep him alive. His name’s Reggae Spillman, and I think it’s touch and go. Keep him alive and call me.”

“If you promise to ice your ankle the rest of tonight.”

“If you promise to come back and do that squeezie thing,” she said.

“It’s a date.”

“Mmmm, I don’t date doctors, babe.”

“Make an exception for me,” he said.

“Too many bad experiences. Let’s keep it squeezie.”

“What she means is,” said Kaye, “a certain physician was fixated on her, to the point of sexual assault. The wounds are still fresh.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“As her therapist—”

“You’re not my therapist.”

“As her therapist, I suggest hiking with a sane physician would be therapeutic.”

Stackhouse already felt tendrils of looseness sinking into her brain. Was wine that fast? Or was it placebo? Had it only been twenty-four hours since she’d desperately plugged the hemorrhaging hole in Reggae’s chest?

“Mmmmaybe tennis.”

He stood and finished his lemonade. “Refreshing, thank you. I need to run.”

“You only just got here,” said Stackhouse. “And I was a jerk.”

“My shift is about to begin. This concludes your house call. You ladies have a lovely night, and we’ll play tennis soon. Your verbal agreement constitutes a binding contract.”

He winked and left, and Kaye washed the glass.

“You’re a mess, sweetie.”

“No I’m not,” said Stackhouse.

“When he got here, you were all, Why are you here? Go away. By the end, you were all, Do the squeezie thing, Jeffrey.” Kaye brought her two bags of frozen vegetables. “Put your sock back on, else you’ll get frostbite.”

“Okaaaay.” Stackhouse obeyed and arranged the bags around her foot. “Everyone’s so worried about my foot. I wish I’d known he was coming. I’m disgusting.”

“You’re not disgusting. You’re a mess.”

Stackhouse sighed and closed her eyes again and let the day seep out of her muscles. “I know.”

16

Crabtree waited for Stackhouse at her car the next morning. Dew on the cold grass, wisps of fog in the gravel, a weak early sun peeking through the tree tops.

Stackhouse set her to-go mug on the roof of her Nissan. “We need ground rules.”

“Nope,” he said.

“Nope what?”

“No ground rules. I obey orders, I’ll be here in the mornings, and I’ll keep you alive.”

“I was doing fine with that before you showed,” she said.

“Why you limping, then?”

“Is this what you want? To be a bodyguard?”

“Least until we catch Jane Newton, I do,” he said.

“Look.”

“No you look. A crazy bitch is after you. She killed a bunch of dudes and shoved chunks of wood up their asses. Then that doctor abducted you and did the surgery thing. You don’t get it, do you. You never stopped to think,” said Crabtree.

“Think about?”

“Why’s this never happened to me? Why not to Detective Farmer or Chief Almond?” He squinted at her, wondering how to communicate with a dummy. “You heard of LeBron James?”

“Of course. Basketball player.”

“When LeBron was sixteen, before his junior year of high school, Slam Magazine called him the best player in the country. Later that year, Sports Illustrated put him on the cover. The cover of SI. Know what they said? Said he’s the Chosen One. The Chosen One at sixteen, you believe that? Damn. But they were right. They could tell. Sometimes people are different, Stack. Like you. That’s what you don’t get—you’re different. Something about it. You got better posture than us. You got bigger eyes, better hair. You’re smarter. People listen to you, people like you, people fall in love with you. People hate you, people try to kill you, abduct you, all that. Yeah it’s how you look, but also how you talk, how you walk, the work you do, the way you dress, bossing people around, getting a lawyer degree, hitting the weight room, working through pain, yelling at the chief, getting promoted, jumping into that truck grease fire. You shot and killed a man. You won the award for valor. People talk about it behind your back. Detective Rowe told me you’re a place where heaven and hell overlap, or some weird shit he says, I forget. You ain’t just some detective working at the station. You’re different. And you’re gonna die. Jane Newton’s gonna drown you or cut you in half. If not her, someone else, like the sick brain surgeon. I guarantee you you’re gonna have trouble with Kingston. Gaur. An. Tee. You. The chief sees it, I see it, and everyone sees it. Everyone but you. Bill Clinton, he gets protection. George Bush, he gets protection. Barack Obama, Julia Roberts, Halle Berry, they can’t just walk around, cause people are weird about them. And right now? Right now you can’t either. So zip your lip, and get in the car. Only ground rule is, I follow you to work and I follow you home after, and if Jane Newton shows up, I die, not you.” He smacked the trunk of her car and she jumped. “Let’s go.”

“I—”

“Let’s go.”

Driving to work, her mind rampaged over his ridiculous speech.

It wasn’t true.

She hoped it wasn’t true. Everyone talking behind her back, like she was a tabloid freak show?

She called him. “Radio in. We’re on the clock but I’m making a detour.”

He confirmed and she changed direction, heading toward the hospital.

A triage nurse confirmed that Reggae Spillman had been moved to intensive care, the tenth floor. They took the elevator and found him three doors down behind the security point.

Reggae lay flat on his back under white sheets, asleep. Wires ran to his arm. An oxygen tube snaked under his nose.

Stackhouse shook off a memory of her father inside a hospital room, recovering from unexpected brain surgery. Not now.

Crabtree made a grunt. “Damn.”

“Excuse me.” Stackhouse flagged down a nurse and flashed her badge. “Has he woken up?”

“Mr. Spillman? Not enough to talk. You just missed his brother.”

“Which brother?”

“I don’t know. Tall, thin, good-looking? He wanted to speak with a doctor, but we’re swamped,” said the nurse. She gave Crabtree some side-eye. “How you doing, Alex?”

“Good, Momma, how you.”

“Doing fiiiine, sugar.”

The nurse moved on, promising to call for a doctor.

“How you doing, Alex,” murmured Stackhouse. “Good, Momma.”

“You ain’t the only one people check out,” said Crabtree. “You ain’t never mentioned my arms but you should.”

They waited thirty long minutes until a familiar face walked up the corridor. Dr. Jeffrey Ivey. Jeffrey with the good hair.

Stackhouse had been sitting cross-legged on the floor but she stood and tried to do it gracefully. “Jeffrey. Hi. You’re his doc?”

“No.” He smiled, a little gray under the eyes from a twelve-hour shift. “I heard someone was here for Reggae Spillman so I ran up.”

“You checked on him last night?”

“You asked nicely, didn’t you.” He handed some paperwork to her. “We’re slammed and the hospital has a doctor shortage on this level, so I took the liberty of doing a deep dive into his chart. His attending physician made a note he wasn’t happy with Reggae’s liver, so I ordered blood work.”

“That’s why I came. His toxicology report. I had assumed he was drunk, but needed to verify.”

“Alcohol didn’t pop. But something else did, something I have little experience with. Arsenic.”

“Arsenic,” she repeated. So unexpected she had to remind herself what it was. “Arsenic the poison?”

“A lot of it, far more than you get inadvertently drinking from contaminated water. He consumed a lethal amount. That blood transfusion saved his life,” said Dr. Ivey.

“Reggae was poisoned.”

“It was in his blood stream. Ironically, when he almost bled out, much of the toxin did too. Then he was pumped full of clean blood, which kept him alive in more ways than one. I ordered carvedilol and ACE inhibitors and he should be fine. Well. That’s to say, the remaining arsenic won’t stop his heart or kidneys.”

Stackhouse stared bewildered at the papers he handed her, not understanding a word.

“What are symptoms of arsenic poisoning?”

“Sweating, cramps, vomiting, convulsions, blood in the urine.”

She thought back to that night, standing at the table. “Reggae was sweating and complaining about his stomach. He ran for the bathroom. I assumed it was alcohol, but his brothers said he didn’t drink.”

“Acute arsenic poisoning, is my diagnosis.”

“Jeffrey, thank you. This is helpful,” she said.

“I’m clocking out. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“You’re on,” said Crabtree.

Stackhouse smiled. “We can’t. Our shift just started.”

“You two are partners?” asked Dr. Ivey.

“There’s a crazy lady after her. I’m keeping her alive, cause she’s LeBron James.”

Stackhouse squeezed her eyes shut. Crabtree.

“The same lady who hurt your ankle, in the car?” asked Dr. Ivey.

“Same lady.” She waved the papers at him. “But I owe you, for sure.”

They said goodbye.

In the elevator, Crabtree murmured, “Jeffrey, thank you, Jeffrey, so helpful, I owe you sex, Jeffrey.”

“Shut up,” said Stackhouse, her cheeks pinking. “I didn’t say sex.”

As Stackhouse and Crabtree walked from the elevator through the lobby, Kingston Spillman was entering it from the parking lot. He spotted them coming and he ducked behind a wall. The two cops marched within fifteen feet of him, unaware.

Kingston was drunk. Drunk and angry, he watched them leave, and he muttered curses. He’d come to see his brother, and here was the bitch who put him in the hospital in the first place.

This woman didn’t know how to stay in her lane. And that police sergeant, here he was, following her around again like a damn negro slave.

Kingston wouldn’t sit around and do nothing, that was for damn sure. In the military, he’d learned ways of handling his shit. When he’d been busted for loafing, some E-4s in the Ranger battalion jumped him and tied him to a basketball pole, where he spent the night. The next time, they told him, it’d be a sheet-party he’d never recover from. Lesson learned. He grew up fast. After that, he was the one doling out lessons.

He searched his contacts on his old flip phone—he needed a new one soon. He placed a call.

Someone answered on the third ring.

“Yeah it’s me.” A pause. “Boots on the ground a few days ago. Listen, Imma need your help with something. Need a cop to learn a lesson. Yeah, I said a cop. This one’s got it coming.”

17

Stackhouse felt out of the loop, so she sat in on a patrol briefing with field commander Lt. Lambert. Speaking to a group of first responders, he mentioned Jane Newton leads that didn’t pan out. While listening she skimmed Reggae’s medical documents, trying to make sense of it.

After the briefing, she called Detective Mark Rowe.

“I have news about Reggae,” she said.

“Me too.”

“My news is odd.”

“So is mine,” he said.

“Who goes first?”

“I’ll flip a coin. Call heads or tails.”

“Heads,” she said and she heard the tinny sound of a coin rattling on a table.

“Tails. I go first,” said Rowe. “I tested Reggae for GSR last night. He shows signs of gunpowder residue on his neck and face. I didn’t get a chance to test his shirt or pants, because no one seems to know where they are, but here’s the kicker—his hands were clean, or close enough.”

Stackhouse didn’t respond.

“What I’m saying is, Reggae wasn’t holding the pistol when it went off,” said Rowe.

“So, Reggae dropped the gun? Accidental discharge?”

“Unless there was a shooter we don’t know about, a third person in the bathroom?”

“A third person who wiped the gun of prints, dropped it, and ran, and I didn’t see them?” said Stackhouse.

“Maybe? The doc who pulled out the bullet is named Alexander. Dr. Something Alexander, he’s a big deal. I put in a phone call. I want to know where he found the bullet. If the gun discharged from the ground, it was aiming upward. The slug would be found in a shoulder blade or something high. If not, we have an unknown shooter. Neither option seems likely. What’s your news?”

“Are you sitting down?”

She heard the smile in his voice. “I am.”

“Mark, do people talk about me behind my back, that I’m a weirdo everyone wants to kill, because of the way I talk and dress? That I should have extra protection?”

“Of course. Haven’t you paid attention the last four years?”

“Ugh, that’s the worst. Anyway. I visited Reggae this morning and a doc showed me the toxicology screening. Reggae had been… Are you ready?”

“This is why people want to kill you,” he said.

“No it’s not. Reggae had been poisoned. With arsenic. A lethal amount.”

It was Rowe’s turn not to respond. She felt his confusion through the phone.

“Remember I said he was sweating and sick to the stomach? I assumed it was alcohol, but it wasn’t. It was arsenic. He would’ve died from it without the blood transfusion.”

“A lethal amount?” said Rowe.

“That’s what the doc said. Acute arsenic poisoning.”

“That’s unreal. The gunshot saved his life.”

“Right? All the blood poured out of him, taking the toxin too,” she said.

“Okay, so… Reggae was poisoned and shot.”

“We’re missing something. We need a motive. Something strong enough to kill Reggae twice.”

“Strong enough to warrant killing Pete in jail?” said Rowe.

Before responding, Kristin from dispatch walked by and handed her a note. Stackhouse set it with the others, a growing stack of chores—witnesses to call, evidence to check, victims to follow up, suspects to monitor, fellow agency correspondence, reports to generate, etc.

She sighed. “Mark, listen.”

“I get it. My request for surveillance help has ballooned into a monster, and you’re slammed. I have stuff piling up too. I’ll chase this and update you soon.”

She ground her teeth. She’d rather keep working with Mark Rowe, now that she was invested. This case wasn’t like the drone of her other work; this case was compelling.

“Probably wise,” she forced herself to say. “I’m a city cop, after all. But first, I’ll call Reggae’s mother. We never got a clear statement from her, right? I’ll tell her about the arsenic and gauge her response and pass it along. She’ll talk to me before she talks to you, I bet.”

“She will, and you know why? Because you’re different and people feel it. You’re a place where the worlds intersect. This is what people talk about, and why you need protection,” he said.

“Up yours, Mark.”

Stackhouse updated her list.

SPILLMAN CASE

Did Pete shoot Reggae? How?

If not, who did?

Why was Pete stabbed?

Are Stevie/Allison involved?

WHO shot Reggae?

WHO poisoned Reggae?

She hunted for Dionne Spillman’s phone number but couldn’t find it. She called information and dialed the phone number they provided.

A man’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m trying to reach Dionne Spillman?” she said.

A long pause. “You’re the cop, aren’t you. Detective Stackhouse.”

“Antwone?”

“Mm-hm. What do you want with my mom?”

Stackhouse closed her eyes. For some reason, she felt reluctant to give too much away. Antwone had been through the wringer. Thinking fast. “The police still haven’t touched base with her about the whole… Well, Reggae’s shooting.”

“Remember I said I bought the house and moved her out? She doesn’t live here anymore,” said Antwone.

“Right, she’s in the trailer. Is there a number where I can reach her?”

“The trailer doesn’t have a land line.”

“Cell?”

“Detective, look, Mom’s not right. She doesn’t talk to anyone. She watches television. That’s it, she watches that damn TV. Maybe she did enough dope, maybe life was too hard, too much trauma, hell if I know, but she’s not really alive. She should be in a mental institution but they won’t take her.”

“That’s sad, Antwone, I’m sorry. You bring her food?”

“I bring her food and medicine, yeah, and she doesn’t speak to me when I do. She texts me when she’s out of something, and that’s our whole relationship.”

“So she has a cell phone.”

He grunted. “Yeah.”

“Please let me call her? Or text? It’s important. For Reggae’s sake.”

A long pause. “She won’t answer if you call, so you could try texting. Don’t tell her where you got the number, though.”

Feeling like a greasy intruder, she rang Dionne Spillman but no one answered, as Antwone predicted. So she texted a carefully worded message.

>> Ms. Spillman, this is Andrea Stackhouse. I’m working with the County Police to help get justice for your son, Reggae. Can you text me back, please, about when we can talk? You may have valuable information, even if you don’t know it. Thank you!

After sending it, she pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“And maybe you know something about your missing son Stevie, too.”

Stackhouse faxed reports to the courthouse at the request of an Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney, pertaining to an upcoming battery case. She called a witness and an informant, looking for intel on an unsolved homicide from two weeks ago, Mr. Will Valdez, found shot in his car waiting for a sex worker. While updating ViCAP, Chief Almond emailed her a request from the Washington Post, asking for interviews with both him and Stackhouse, about the homicidal maniac Jane Newton’s obsession with Stackhouse, with the note, You can’t be involved in the manhunt, but this would be great for your career.

Stackhouse wrote back, Absolutely not.

Then, on second thought, she sent him a follow-up, Mr. Almond.

Radios around the station detonated as one with chatter—a shooter near Valley View Mall. She and Val Farmer took the lead. No one hit. First Responders crawled the neighborhood, looking for the instigators, finding nothing. Val claimed the case, allowing Stackhouse to return to the station.

As dinner neared, and her stomach reminded her that she’d skipped lunch, Stackhouse spotted an unclaimed hour. Squeezing the stress ball thoughtfully, her mind ran over details about the Spillman case, instead of her own. Curiosity got the better of her, and the morgue was only four blocks away.

Bolting through the door, her injured ankle protesting, she promised herself she’d leave the case alone tomorrow, after Pete Burman’s autopsy report.

She ducked into her Nissan and raced to Memorial Hospital, where the county coroner worked. This close to dinner, he and his staff might already be gone, and she stomped the gas.

Pulling into the parking lot, she found it empty and her heart sank. Likely gone for the day. She stood out and stretched and decided to check the doors anyway.

As she did, another car raced into the lot. An old Cadillac sedan, it screeched to a halt dangerously close to her. It might’ve clipped her knee if she hadn’t jumped back.

“Jeez,” she barked and she slammed the roof of the Cadillac. “Watch where you’re going!”

The passenger door opened hard, banging into her leg and denting her Nissan’s driver door. Kingston stood out. Two other men she didn’t know emerged from the far side of the Cadillac. Each of the three men wore pantyhose over their face. Although clearly discernible as Kingston, pantyhose was an old trick—no way a jury could buy you identified your attacker beyond a shadow of a doubt, because after all, their faces were masked.

Before Stackhouse could move, Kingston reached over the Cadillac’s door. He grabbed her by the shirt, yanked her toward him and head-butted her. An awkward motion over the door, Stackhouse twisted at the last second. She threw her hands up, the impact glanced off. She jerked loose and Kingston gave her a shove that sent her backward over her Nissan’s hood, and he slammed the door closed.

“You messed around,” he said. “You messed around and now you find out.” His plosive syllables were muffled by the hose.

They followed me from the station!

She slid off the hood, landing awkwardly on her side. “Back off!” she shouted, hoping to be heard by someone, anyone. Ambushed, three against one, a fight she’d never win. “Police! Back off!”

She scrabbled for her pistol but it was beneath her. The men reached her first.

One of them clamped a hand over her mouth. His skin smelled like marijuana. She screamed into it. Kingston got too close and she kicked upward, connecting boot to his groin, not as solidly as she wished but enough to drive him back groaning. Panic in her bones at the hand closing off her air.

The third man kicked her in the stomach. Her cough came out through her nose only. He grabbed her hand that was searching for her pistol or her pepper spray or her radio or anything. Why the hell was this parking lot so empty? Her flat on her back, unable to sit up, pinned down by the man who reeked of weed.

Another kick to her stomach, his boot scraped concrete, blunting the damage, else her ribs might break.

“Yo, hurry up,” said the driver, the man pinning her down. “We do this fast, man. This is a public place and I got two strikes.”

Kingston closed on her again, kinda stooped at the waist in pain, and he slipped brass knuckles over the fingers of his right hand.

“That cost you an extra couple. This is for my brother, bitch,” he said. She detected alcohol in his words. She kicked upward at him and he punched the foot aside. He knelt beside her and raised a fist.

“Kingston, no!” she screamed into the hand, muffled, kicking hard as she could. In vain.

Before landing the first punch, Kingston’s body jolted. He arced backwards. The tendons and muscles in his neck stood out and groaned, “Aie-aie-aie-aie!”

Sergeant Crabtree stood at her car, a discharged taser in his fists—he electrocuted Kingston, voltage traveling from the battery into the target’s spine. A loud crackle filled the air.

The two other men were stunned and Stackhouse threw the heel of her hand directly upward into the nose of the man who smelled like marijuana. The man’s nose crunched, cartilage bursting, and he fell backward.

Sergeant Crabtree coolly drew his pistol and aimed it at the guy who’d been kicking her. From a distance of seven feet, missing was unlikely.

“Lay down, you know what’s good for you,” said Crabtree. “Because you attacked a cop, I’ll pull this trigger and smile doing it. Try me.”

The guy raised his hands and lowered to his knees.

Kingston was spasming and jerking, his body half on top of Stackhouse. She felt a tingle of electricity through the contact. She pushed him off. Wheezing, she stood and moved away from the three men on the ground—one electrocuted, one with a broken nose, one surrendering with his hands up.

“Thanks,” she said.

“What’d we talk about?”

“Sorry.” Stackhouse winced and touched her ribs gingerly. “I left the station without telling you.”

“What’d we talk about?”

“I wanted to talk to the coroner,” said Stackhouse. “That’s it. I thought the body—”

“What’d we talk about?” shouted Crabtree and Stackhouse realized he was emotional. The man fought back tears and his hands shook. “Get your cuffs out now, right now, and put them on Kingston, before I zap you too.”

18

The most maddening thing to Stackhouse wasn’t the bruised ribs. It wasn’t the scare. It was that, they wouldn’t let her interrogate Kingston.

As the victim of the assault, they kept her out, the same way they kept her out of the Jane Newton manhunt. She was forced to watch the Kingston interrogation behind the glass. Kingston’s unrepentant eyes searched the two-way mirror, sneering at the woman he knew sat beyond. The station had briefly experimented with cameras instead of the glass, but suspects kept breaking the cameras in a rage.

Lieutenant Street and Detective Kip Broome stalked from room to room, bellowing at the three men who attacked her. Two of the men squirmed and refused to make eye contact, blaming the third.

Kingston watched their rage with a smirk.

It wasn’t a show, though. Attacking a cop felt personal. Their rage was genuine. When a court appointed attorney arrived and tried to demand the cops back down, she ran into a brick wall. Sally Tom. The entire world mounted against her, helpless against Lt. Street’s wrath. Sally Tom was too new in her career and she would never willingly pick these clients; the almighty call list had.

Chief Almond leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms. He waited several minutes to be acknowledged while Stackhouse watched the interrogation, refusing to speak first.

Almond broke the silence. “Good thing Sergeant Crabtree has more common sense than you.”

Stackhouse couldn’t argue the point. But she didn’t have to respond either.

“Maybe your chief knew what he was doing after all,” he said.

No response.

“How’re the ribs?”

“I’m fine. He missed,” she lied.

“May I see?”

“You may not.”

“I want the nurse to examine you,” he said.

“Too bad.”

“At least he didn’t kick your face. That’s your best asset.”

Stackhouse talked herself out of pulling her pepper spray.

He lowered his voice. “If he’d popped you in the mouth, maybe you’d learn some respect. Thank God that didn’t happen, huh.”

Almond shoved away from the wall and moved on.

Stackhouse almost felt bad for him. She’d hate supervising someone like herself.

Kip Broome sat with her and grunted displeasure.

“We’re getting nowhere with this ass hat,” he said. “Even before he lawyered up.”

“Military was good for him. Taught him toughness,” said Stackhouse. On screen, Kingston lounged silently, glaring at the mirror. He was holding his groin, a crass gesture meant to antagonize. Sally Tom was with one of the other two men, and she’d forbidden the police to continue the interrogation without her.

“What else can I ask this guy?”

Stackhouse stewed on it. Kingston hadn’t responded to anything they’d lobbed. Wisely. He knew he was headed to jail, but he also knew several facts would be on his side. He’d recently been discharged from the military—transitions were hard on servicemen, and a judge and jury would bear that in mind. Plus, his brother had been shot during a botched police sting, contributing to his temporary insanity.

“He’s smart,” she said. “He won’t give you anything.”

“He’ll give me one to five years, is what he’ll give me.”

“You know that won’t happen.”

“I know. I’m just pissed,” said Kip.

“How about this. Tell him his brother was poisoned.”

“Was he?”

“Yep, Reggae, the gunshot victim. He ingested a lethal amount of arsenic, saved only by the blood transfusion. Maybe that’ll get him talking,” she said.

Defense attorney Sally Tom returned and demanded the police stop their interrogation. A silly demand, showing her inexperience; her clients had jumped a well-known police detective.

“I’m not done,” Kip told her and he returned to tower over Kingston. Stackhouse leaned forward in her chair. Through the television, she watched Kip ask, “Your brother, Reggae. How’s he doing?”

“None of your damn business, that’s how,” said Kingston.

“I advise you not to answer the questions,” Sally Tom said.

“Your brother shot his first day back, that’s the worst. You have my sympathies for that,” said Kip.

“It’s the bitch’s fault.”

“Doctors ran some blood work on Reggae. While you’re here, I figure I may as well ask you about it. Reggae was poisoned. You know anything about that?”

“Poisoned? Poisoned how?” Kingston sat up.

“Arsenic. A lethal amount. Enough to kill him without that blood transfusion.”

“The hell’s arsenic?”

“Some kind of element deadly to humans. It’s used in a lot of stuff. Commonly for pesticides. Kill rats with it,” said Kip.

“Someone gave it to Reggae?”

“Apparently.”

Kingston jumped to his feet. The cuffs binding him to the table halted the motion and cut his wrists. So sudden was his leap, Stackhouse flinched backwards.

“That bitch cop! That bitch cop poisoned my brother!”

Sally Tom scooted away and stammered, “Mr. Spillman, as your attorney, I advise you—”

“Cops showed up and my brother’s shot! Cops poisoned his food! That bitch cop did this!”

Kip raised his voice. “Sit down, Kingston.”

“My mom’s missing!” Kingston bellowed at the mirror. He was straining against the cuffs like he’d pull the table off its bolts. Big muscles in his arms. “You do that? You kill my mom too? You poison my mom?”

Kip grabbed Sally Tom and hauled her from the room.

“Send that bitch in here! Let me talk to the girl cop! She killed my brother! She took my mom!” His voice filled the hallway.

Stackhouse rubbed at a spot between her eyes, her nerves fried, and she left the viewing room. His fury rattled her. My mom’s missing.

At her desk, away from the rage, she updated her list on the Post-it.

SPILLMAN CASE

Did Pete shoot Reggae? How?

If not, who did?

Why was Pete stabbed?

Are Stevie/Allison involved?

WHO shot Reggae?

WHO poisoned Reggae?

Is Ms. Spillman missing??

She whispered to herself. “What’s going on with that family.”

19

Within Roanoke County Police headquarters, the big office near the restrooms was the new home of Sergeant Detective Mark Rowe, something of a holy ground. Roanoke City Police had three hundred sworn officers on the payroll; Roanoke County another three hundred, far too many to know even half; but everyone had heard of Rowe.

For nearly two decades, he’d been the legendary nightshift detective who refused advancement. The poetry-reading, scripture-spouting loner who ducked a shotgun blast before gunning down two burglars early in his career, earning him the grim, unofficial badge of honor, so coveted by fools. He didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke weed, he didn’t take shit off anyone, not even his superiors. He’d cared for his wife through her fight with cancer, showing the world how a man should act, and it didn’t hurt that now he was single and roguishly attractive. He closed his cases, he worked in the dark, and he’d collaborated with Andie Stackhouse to catch the Roanoke River Killer. People whispered that he rebuffed the advances of Stackhouse, the Andie Stackhouse, for heaven’s sake, although another rumor persisted that they were a couple on the sly. Icing on the cake, he’d been fired from the City after decking the unctuous Chief Almond, earning him free drinks the rest of his life, if only he’d accept them.

Hotly pursued by every local agency, he was gobbled up by the County when they agreed to his terms—no supervision duties, no set schedule, free rein to chase down cold cases or participate in those active. Take whatever office you want, Sergeant Detective. (He’d been a lieutenant in the City, but loathed the commensurate paperwork) The myth only grew when he closed a cold case one week into the job with a first-degree grand theft arrest—the stolen hundred-thousand dollar painting had been hidden in the basement of the step-father.

Although not a scary man, you never really forgot he punched out his chief, and so you treaded lightly when walking by his office. As though on holy ground.

He was flipping through his murder books when the phone rang.

He answered, “This is Mark Rowe.”

“Mark, it’s Warner. You heading out for the day?”

“Just got back. What’s up?”

“Does the name Chet Moreland mean anything to you?” said the phone.

Rowe paused and he closed his eyes. Chet Moreland. Chet Moreland.

“No?”

“I’m standing in the ashes of his house. The fire we heard about yesterday?” said Warner.

“Yeah okay. Chet Moreland’s house burned down.”

“With Chet in it.”

“I didn’t know him,” said Rowe.

“If you have time, I’m looking at something here that’ll interest you. It’ll interest you half to death.”

Rowe ground his teeth the whole way, driving east on Peters Creek, through Hollins. He didn’t know the Roanoke bulls well enough to trust them, and this better not be a waste of his time. He found the neighborhood on the slopes of Reed Mountain. A charming lane of houses with one black disaster marking the fire. One corner of the house remained standing. A tree in the front lawn had caught, now a ragged trunk with black arms. The fire melted the neighbor’s siding.

Rowe drove by, cut a U-turn, and parked several cars back. The first responders were gone but the ATF poked through the charred remains. The scent hit him hard—a house full of plastics and insulation and human flesh carried a signature odor. His memory flashed to one of his first cases as a detective, the beheading and immolation of Peter Beatty, a fellow cop.

The neighbors drove by the house trying not to look at it, like they’d be found guilty if they did.

Warner stood in the sooty grass. “Welcome to a cold hell, Mark.”

“Did Chet have family?”

“Divorced. Ex-wife and kids alive and well in Bedford. He was home alone. Or so we thought,” said Warner and Rowe’s ears perked. Warner waved the fire inspector over, a man named Duff. “Inspector Duff, this is Detective Rowe. Give him the rundown.”

“Arson,” barked Duff. A short man with wide ears. “Easy enough. Arson, there’s your rundown.”

Warner made a go on motion. “C’mon, Duff, tell him how you know.”

“Multiple points of origin.” Duff led them from the house’s nonexistent front door to the east side. “An accelerant here, there, and also there. Gasoline, my bet, but the tests will confirm. Either that or paint thinner, but there’s no doubt it was set intentionally. Some bastard was careful and he wanted the whole house gone in a flash. Burned hotter than Hades.”

Rowe took a few steps backwards. The eastern side of the house still stood, along with some of the rear wall. Maybe a third of the original structure. Looking up and down, and guessing how the house was arranged, he said, “Then the fire was started directly below the master bedroom?”

“Very good. Smarter than these other dicks. The bones were discovered there.” He pointed to a spot not ten feet from where they stood. “As fine a skeleton as I’ve ever seen at a fire like this.”

“Gross, Duff. Thanks and carry on,” said Warner.

Duff shot them a scowl and said, “You’re welcome, pissant,” and he moved back into the ashes with his thick boots. The house remained soggy from firehoses.

“ATF guys, always a treat,” muttered Warner. “Okay, now, over here, Rowe. It’s time to get serious.”

Warner led Rowe behind the house. Inside the disaster, Rowe spotted the twisted remains of the fridge, mostly plastic. The metal stove, laundry machines, and air handler were black husks.

“That was hot,” mused Rowe. “It’s not usually this bad.”

“One reason why Duff thinks gasoline. It burned fast and bright. Except for this corner, where we got lucky.” Warner stopped at a back door that led off the living room. “Fire didn’t reach here. See the ceiling inside? Not much smoke damage, though the floors are covered in the damn floating ash. I show up this morning and what do I see? That damned floating ash had highlighted fingerprints on this doorknob.” Warner blew on the wall, creating a small cloud of soot. “Almost as effective as the flake power we use on silver surfaces.”

Rowe crouched to look at the doorknob. “You lifted the prints off?”

“Got a whole thumb and middle, and a partial fore finger. Cal ran them through the system and boy did that ring the cherries. I called you immediately,” said Warner.

Rowe grinned. Always nice to have your culprit that quick. “Someone I know?”

“Your girl Jane Newton.”

Rowe felt the news like an ice water bath. He stepped back from the door as though it could bite.

Warner grinned at getting the reaction he wanted. “I thought you’d enjoy that.”

“Enjoy isn’t the right word.”

“Jane’s fingerprints are on the inside too. It was her, no doubt about it.”

Rowe wished there was a chair he could sit on. Jane Newton, serial murderer, had been in this house. As recently as yesterday. Hiding out? She was the arsonist, most likely. Covering her tracks? Rowe wanted to turn on his heel, check behind him, wary of an ambush. A ridiculous fear.

“I was supposed to call you, right?” said Warner. His grin had slipped. Rowe looked pale.

“Yeah. You were.”

“That was your case?” said Warner. “The River Killer?”

“I helped work it both times. Ten years between.”

“Jane Newton, your white whale. She’s baaaaaaack.”

Rowe grunted, feeling a touch of panic in his stomach, hoping Crabtree was following Stackhouse close. He’d give the man a call later. Jane Newton was not his white whale, she was the very devil herself.

“I’ve seen the photos,” said Warner. “Lady’s a knockout. Poor Chet Moreland never stood a chance with that fine-looking bitch.”

“Bitch isn’t the right word.” Rowe crouched on the grass and closed his eyes. “Jane was orphaned, abandoned, raped, beaten, and forsaken. A police officer tried to drown both her and her infant daughter, before she finally snapped. She used an axe to hack his head off. She brutalized and shot the neighbor, then came back and set the cop’s body on fire. She never admitted how many men she killed, but it’s a lot. She’s not a bitch. She’s a homicidal psychopath, and she’s hunting my friend.”

“Jesus, Mark.”

“Yep.”

“You think she’s hanging around Roanoke, shacking up with poor bastards like Chet Moreland for cover, until killing them and moving on?”

Rowe didn’t answer but that’s exactly what he thought Jane was doing. She was a master manipulator.

“You want this case? I don’t. Hell, she might get mad at me.” Warner faked a laugh.

“I want in on it, yeah. Keep working the fire and I’ll ring the task force that was tracking her,” said Rowe.

“Good. I feel better with you here. Maybe third time’s the charm for you, huh?”

Rowe finally opened his eyes. “Or maybe this time Jane finally gets me too.”

20

The next morning, Crabtree wasn’t waiting at her car. He was sitting on the front porch.

Her ankle still tender, her ribs sore, Stackhouse shot him a resigned look. “Coffee?”

“First, show me your security measures,” said Crabtree.

From the couch, Kaye watched them with interest as Stackhouse demonstrated the alarms on the windows, the locks on the doors, and the motion sensing floodlights outside. She wore her gun at all times, and kept it beside her as she slept.

“I’m safe here, Sergeant,” said Stackhouse.

“Plus.” Kaye removed her revolver from her shoulder bag. “I’m packing heat.”

“Never put it in your purse,” both cops said in unison.

Stackhouse filled a disposable to-go coffee cup for Crabtree but he didn’t take it. Instead he watched her like she might evaporate.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“Rowe called me. Last night. Jane Newton killed a guy, up in north County. Bitch's still on the run.”

“Oh.”

Kaye rose to her knees on the cushions. “That’s awful.Why can’t anyone catch her?”

“She’s too smart,” said Stackhouse.

“Someone did catch her. I’m looking at that someone,” said Crabtree.

Stackhouse felt shaky inside but she forced a smile. “You’re finally spooked.”

“Let’s get a dog. I’m reading Cujo by Stephen King and dogs are terrifying.”

Crabtree inclined his head toward the big couch. “That thing looks big enough for me to sleep on, next few nights.”

“We accept,” said Kaye. “Better than a rabid dog.”

“You just evaluated our safety measures. We’re safe,” said Stackhouse.

“Not safe enough.”

“Yeah, not safe enough,” said Kaye.

Stackhouse cocked a hip and held up her hands, one still holding his mug. “What’s changed? We knew Jane was loose.”

“I don’t know, but it’s changed, alright?” said Crabtree.

“Mark said you had to sleep here?”

“Not exactly.”

“Of course he did. I love that man,” said Kaye. “Of all the men, he’s my favorite man. Mr. Crabtree, I will make up your bed every night and cook you breakfast every morning.”

“Deal. What about you, doc? You spooked, too? Need cover getting to and from work?” asked Crabtree.

“It’s nice to be cared about, but I’m safe. I imagine Jane Newton doesn’t even know who I am,” said Kaye.

Driving to the station, Stackhouse dreaded the frenzy she’d find. Jane Newton was almost as big in the tabloids as she was in the precinct. Jane’s obsession with Stackhouse would be the renewed talk of everyone in the building, and she didn’t feel up for it yet.

Instead of driving to the station, she turned left, toward the jail. She and Crabtree flashed their badges and buzzed through to the administrative offices. She saw Sheriff Gee in his office and made for the door. Crabtree’s steps faltered behind her—one didn’t simply knock on the sheriff’s door.

But she did.

Stoic, granite Sheriff Gee gave a smile, like happy to see her, one of the perks of being Stackhouse. “Detective. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Sheriff. Who can I pester about a Jack Gough update?”

“Remind me, who’s Jack Gough?”

Oh crud, thought Stackhouse. That’s a bad sign.

“The inmate who stabbed my witness with a toothbrush.”

“Ah, that mess. See Elmer, captain of jailhouse operations,” said Gee.

“You haven’t followed up with it?”

“Lucky you’re cute, young lady, asking me that,” said Gee.

“You’re lucky you’re old, so I can’t yell at you.”

Stackhouse shoved away from the door to look for Captain Elmer. The sheriff’s administrator looked at her like she’d blasphemed. She found Elmer’s door, him on the computer, typing.

“Captain? Detective Stackhouse,” she said. Elmer looked like he ran a triathlon every morning before breakfast, but his eyes were humongous behind thick lenses, as though mostly blind. “Jack Gough stabbed one of my witnesses in the neck with a shiv, and I’d like an update.”

“Morning, ma’am.” A big blink behind the big glasses. “Did you contact the correctional investigator?”

“No. Have a phone number?”

“Yes, though I’ll save you the trouble. The investigator concluded the obvious—Jack stabbed Pete in the neck. It’ll be hard to prove anything other than self-defense, which is what Jack already admitted to. His lawyer will cut a plea deal, for involuntary manslaughter, and Jack will get time added to his sentence.”

Stackhouse’s turn to blink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. Happens a lot. Pete had only arrived—no time for prison beef.”

“It wasn’t self-defense. Pete was lying down when he was stabbed.”

“Not according to the guy who confessed.”

“The blood is on the mattress, not the floor.”

Elmer blinked. “Maybe he fell on the bed. I’m not an investigator.”

“I am. Where’s the culprit?”

“Solitary confinement.” Elmer looked at a note on his calendar. “Until Wednesday.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Contact his lawyer.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Lawyer locked us down. No interrogation without him.”

“Let’s give Jack the option,” said Stackhouse.

“Do it through his lawyer. I’m not running the risk.”

Stackhouse took in a deep breath. The jail was crowded and manpower was low. This man was a professional crisis manager, and he saw one looming on the horizon and he was foreclosing it. A good detective would be willing to rattle Jack’s cage, but this man had been trained to keep the cages in working order, that’s it.

“What’d the autopsy reveal?” said Stackhouse.

“What autopsy? Man was stabbed in the neck.”

“You didn’t order an autopsy.” Another deep breath, then a second on top of it. “Medical examiner took the body?” She knew the answer. Pete Burman would be kept in cold storage for thirty days, waiting for the family. Stackhouse didn’t know if he had any. “Never mind, I’ll order one. Where’s the file?”

“Ask the correctional investigator.” Captain Elmer scribbled a note and tore it off the pad to hand it to her.

“Thank you. Can I please see the file for Jack Gough?”

Elmer grinned. “That I can help you with. I’ll print it out.”

While Crabtree talked with some deputies, Stackhouse sat in an empty room and flipped through Gough’s file. Shaved head, scrubby goatee, short arms, dried blood on his hands. This was his third time in lock-up, all three for assault and battery. The first was his ex-wife, the next two were prostitutes. A pre-trial hearing scheduled next week was delayed while his lawyer worked out a deal with the correctional investigator and prosecutor. Gough had previously knifed an inmate, in 2001, also in self-defense, he said.

He attacked me. We fought. I called for help, no one heard. It just happened. I freaked.

Ain’t no way you’re a cop, honey.

Jack Gough was married. One kid with the ex-wife, none with the new wife, who visited him last Wednesday morning.

Stackhouse’s eyebrows rose and she compared dates. Last Wednesday, here. The morning Pete Burman was stabbed. How’d that happen? She constructed the timeline in her mind.

The inmates woke early for breakfast.

Pete lay in bed, claiming to be sick. Doesn’t eat.

Jack Gough receives visit from wife at nine in the morning.

Stackhouse arrives right after lunch, finding Pete dead at the hands of Jack, who said he’d been trying to wake the man up. Plenty of time to get from the wife’s visit back to their pod.

Hm.

In the file, she found a note beside the wife’s visit—Family Room.

Stackhouse twisted in her chair and knocked on the window, signaling for Crabtree. She said, “Do me a favor. Bring me the most talkative deputy.”

“Talkative?”

“I want some dirt.”

While she waited, she placed a phone call to the coroner’s office and requested an autopsy on Pete Burman. She couldn’t believe the investigator hadn’t already.

Crabtree brought back a roundish deputy in a uniform too small and said, “Detective, this is my brother Ray Fritos.”

“We ain’t really brothers.” Ray Fritos smiled so big his eyes disappeared. “That ain’t my real name, either.”

“You’re kidding,” said Stackhouse, and she shot him with a smile set to warm. “Tell me about the Family Room.”

“Sure I’ll tell you whatever you want. That’s the room where inmates meet with their families. Jump through enough hoops and you can even bring your kids. Good behavior and all that,” said Ray Fritos.

“You have a prisoner in solitary right now named Jack. Last week Jack’s wife visited him. They met in the Family Room,” she said.

“Just the wife? Well, we also call it the Boom Boom Room.”

“For sex?”

Bigger grin, more teeth. “It happens.”

“Conjugal visits aren’t legal in Virginia.”

Ray Fritos shrugged. “You want to go in there and stop it? Not me.”

“So, ahh, intimate visits happen? It’s an open secret?”

“The inmate is locked down, you know. He’s cuffed. But yeah, we know it happens. The visitor signs the waiver, asking for privacy. We can review the video later. Normally it’s not something you’d want to watch, know what I mean?”

Stackhouse pursed her lips.

She needed to speak with Jack Gough’s wife.

“You’re saying, the guy who killed Pete got his socks rocked first?” mused Crabtree. “You think the man would be less homicidal.”

“I’m not saying anything, Crab! I got no idea what happened in that Family Room. Maybe she served him divorce papers,” said Deputy Ray Fritos.

“Ray, Jack stabbed an inmate and it sounds like he’ll get involuntary manslaughter. The investigation into the homicide is laughable. That happen a lot?” she said.

Ray Fritos leaned toward her and lowered his voice, like a secret. “Old Sheriff Gee is retiring. You thought about running?”

Stackhouse reared back. Ray smelled like corn chips. “What?”

“You’d be a good sheriff. It’s an election, did you know that? You probably did. Everyone knows you. You’d win in a landslide, right?”

“You want me to be your boss?” she asked.

He smiled even bigger, turning reddish. “Hell yeah, why not?”

Stackhouse thanked him for the help. She made a note of Jack’s wife’s address and she returned the file. Outside, walking to her car, her phone buzzed. An incoming text.

>> Detective Stackhouse, this is Dr. Jeffrey Ivey. I’m leaving the hospital after a long shift. Your arsenic patient Reggae is showing significant improvement. He spoke to his attending physician today. I’ll tell you about it tonight over dinner? It’s a Friday, after all. Let’s pretend we’re humans with social lives. Pick you up at seven.

“Oh no,” murmured Stackhouse. She wasn’t ready to date a doctor.

Not even one with good hair and strong shoulders from tennis.

Her thumbs paused above the buttons on her LG Voyager. So handy for texting, it felt like a device out of the future until the iPhone.

I can’t date you becaaaaaaaaaause…?

Because why?

She snapped the phone closed without responding.

“Something wrong?” Crabtree stood at his car, arms crossed.

“Yeah. I’m a wimp. Let’s go.”

The address for Jack Gough’s wife led them to a trailer park. Staci Lynn Gough. The park was depressing and the trailers looked like used cigarettes. Stackhouse knocked on Staci Lynn’s door for a minute, a big hound inside furious about the potential intruder.

“Hay,” called an overweight neighbor, on her front porch. The butt of a Swisher Sweet cigar dangled from the corner of her mouth. She wore a big nightgown. “Haay! What’d Staci Lynn do?”

“Nothing,” said Stackhouse. Maybe nothing. “I need to ask her a question. Do you know where she is?”

“Lord, got no idea. She cleans houses, you know that? Cleans houses and goes somewhere afterward. Sometimes she comes home, sometimes she don’t,” said the neighbor.

“What about the dog?” asked Crabtree.

“Fellow yonder lets the dog out twice a day. Anyway, you see Staci Lynn’s car? No you don’t. See ain’t here.”

“Maybe she’ll be back tonight, and maybe she won’t?” said Stackhouse.

“That’s right.” The woman threw her cigar butt at Crabtree’s car and said, “Oops!” A phlegmatic howl of laughter and she walked back inside her trailer.

Crabtree grumbled and Stackhouse might’ve heard the words, White trash.

Stackhouse’s radio squawked, “Dispatch to Car Thirteen.”

Feeling frustrated with her morning, Stackhouse responded and she was directed to help with an alleged assault downtown. Halfway there, she rang Mark Rowe to get an update on Jane Newton but he didn’t answer. Why hadn’t he called?

Why’d he call Crabtree about the Jane Newton fire, instead of her?

Her ribs hurt and her foot ached, and Reggae was still in the hospital, and his mom was missing, and Jane Newton roamed free, and Rowe wasn’t calling her enough, and the sheriff’s office hadn’t done a good investigation, she had too much work to do, and dammit, she frowned through the windshield at the world.

Let’s pretend we’re humans with social lives.

Not just careers.

She parked downtown and texted Jeffrey back.

Sounds nice. I’m in.

21

“I don’t want to do this.”

“Sure you do. You’re cute, he’s handsome, what could go wrong,” said Kaye. She sat on Andie’s bed. A time-honored tradition, one helping the other as she prepped for a date. Stackhouse wore a long blue dress that Kaye hated—it made her look matronly—but Andie hadn’t asked her opinion so she held her peace. A storm was brewing inside her roommate.

Andie worked too hard at her dark hair with a brush. Swooping-side bangs were a hot trend in the 2008 style magazine, a trend she ignored. She pulled the long hair back into a clip, a terrible idea. “I don’t want to date.”

“It’ll be fun,” said Kaye.

“My life is already fun.”

“You mean busy.”

“Same thing,” said Andie. Her fists were clenching and releasing.

“It’ll scratch an itch,” offered Kaye.

“I have no itches. I am complete. I don’t want to be wanted.”

Oh my.

Kaye held her chin in the cup of her hand. A lot to unpack there. Again, she held her peace.

“If I don’t want to date, why would I go on one? He wants me, I get it. Isn’t that enough?” said Andie.

“Maybe he’ll be great. You never know. Even if he’s not, it’s nice to dress up, have a good meal, a nice cocktail, to feel pretty—”

“I already feel pretty.”

“In that dress?”

“I know!” Andie threw her hands at the mirror. “Look. I mean, look, Kaye! Barf! Why did I buy this garbage?”

“Hmm.”

“I know, you don’t need to say it—my anger and frustration is secondary, that I have some other issue going on, I knooooow, so shut up. But right now, just tell me, do I look okay?”

“You always look good, sweetie.”

“Kaye! Be honest!”

“You look stupid.”

“Thank you! But say it nicer and be more specific.”

“You look like your mom dressed you in a hurry and you fought her the whole time,” said Kaye.

“Aaaaaaaugh.” Andie pulled the dress over her head and threw it in the corner and she ripped out the hair clip. “I hate everything about my appearance right now. I hate Dr. Jeffrey Ivey too.”

Kaye had never seen her roommate so manic.

She loved her Andie thoroughly, though not in a romantic way. Mostly not in a romantic way. The sight of the woman in her underwear, though, was enough to take anyone’s breath away. Not tall, somehow Andie still had long legs and a long torso, like that blonde goddess on the new show Big Bang Theory. Lean but muscular. Few people took better care of themselves. From behind, Andie looked like an Olympic pole vaulter or sprinter, proud shoulders, healthy glutes and hamstrings and sheeewww better think about something else. A little butterfly tattoo flapped between Andie’s shoulders. Her ribs were purple. Her left ankle remained slightly discolored. Her right ear still bore cartilage damage from an attack with a frying pan three and a half years ago. This woman, she endured too much, and sheeewwww stop staring.

“Sorry.” Andie winced at the sudden silence. “I should’ve warned you about the undressing.”

“Trust me, sweetie, I don’t mind. Just back here admiring your ass.”

“Thank you. I do a lot of squats and running.”

“I can see that,” said Kaye.

“What do I do?”

“Jeans and the red blouse. Obviously.”

“Good idea.” Andie found them in a pile and hopped around, tugging on denim. “Dr. Ivey isn’t worth this. No man is worth this.”

“You can say that again.”

“I haven’t bought new clothes in forever. I’m too broke.”

“Another reason to let a doctor buy you dinner.”

“Did you know some cops take financial gifts from local businesses?” Stackhouse buttoned the jeans. “Never mind, forget I said that. What’s your professional diagnosis of Dr. Ivey?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Give me one anyway.”

“He has a minor god complex,” said Kaye.

“No he doesn’t. How do you know?”

“I don’t. You said I had to guess.”

“Why’d you guess that?”

“Many physicians do. Dr. Pierce did. Does still, probably, despite jail and Parkinson’s disease. When Jeffrey and I chatted the other night, he came across as extremely confident. He took the liberty of making a house call, presuming to be well received. He told you he was picking you up at seven before you said yes. He told you he was taking you to Coach and Four, without first asking where you’d like to go.”

Fully dressed, Andie knelt on the floor and shoved her face down into the mattress. She spoke muffled, “I’m angry.”

“Why?”

“Coach and Four is classy. I don’t want to do classy.”

“You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

“I’m a disgusting cop monster,” said Andie.

“You don’t have to go.”

She nodded her head. “You’re right. Forget that guy.”

“Could part of your current anger be attributed to you feeling intimidated by him?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“He’s wealthy. He’s successful. He’s quite good-looking. While you feel banged up and bruised by your job of wrangling sweaty criminals, and it makes you not like yourself tonight.”

“Well now I feel that way!” Andie shouted into the mattress.

“You shouldn’t. You’re the prettiest person anyone has ever met in real life, and the hardest working, and the bravest—”

“And the maddest. And I hate my hair!”

“Yes, about that. A high ponytail will save the day.”

When Stackhouse came down the stairs later, Sergeant Crabtree whistled from the couch. “Atta girl.”

“Shut up.”

“Wash that prison off?”

“I did and shut up,” said Stackhouse. “Go home.”

Crabtree spread his arms across the back of the couch. “This is my home now.”

“Sorry for saying shut up.”

“All good,” said Crabtree.

“I’m furious and I hate my clothes.”

Crabtree looked her up and down. “I’d hit it.”

“Thank you.” A vehicle arrived out front, seen through the big windows. “Oh good, here comes the jerk.”

“Damn, Stack.”

“You can’t come. I can date this idiot by myself.”

“We see about that.” Crabtree walked out front into the cool of the evening, where Dr. Ivey opened the door of his newish Jeep Wrangler. Dr. Ivey told Stackhouse she looked nice, and Stackhouse didn’t care, and Crabtree called, “Hey. Tennis Jeffrey. Don’t put your hands on her. And don’t leave her anywhere. You stay with her every damn second.”

“Aye aye.” Dr. Ivey threw Crabtree a little salute that Crabtree scowled at.

Halfway through the date, Stackhouse pinpointed the source of her anger.

If this date scratched an itch, as Kaye said, then it meant that she had an itch to be scratched. That she was in need. If she was in need, then she was vulnerable. By agreeing to go on the date, she’d admitted her vulnerability to Ivey. That gave him power over her, and she rejected that notion. No one held power over her.

Also, he’d pursued her since they first met. That meant he had an itch he wanted scratched, or maybe more than scratched. He wanted her specifically to scratch it. She’d been brought to satisfy him.

The idea filled her with wrath. Her job was too hard, her master’s program too overwhelming, her life too wild, to be expected to satisfy someone else’s needs.

She didn’t have needs, dammit, and she didn’t want to fulfill his.

Whoa, Andie, you psycho, step back. Relax. This is trauma talking. Be cool.

On her second cocktail, the hot tendril of anger squeezing her heart released. By identifying the madness—I feel vulnerable and I’m worried he needs things from me—she was able to reduce its power. She wasn’t vulnerable. She didn’t need to scratch anyone if she didn’t want to.

The ravings of the wounded animal inside slowly faded.

Dr. Jeffrey Ivey seemed to sense his date, or maybe his ongoing emergency room patient, wasn’t up to contributing much. Maybe that’s why he’d picked the time and place, instead of asking her to. Once seated, he asked if he could order for her, a dish he had last month that he knew she’d like. It was nice, making no decisions. Nothing required. He pushed his red wine across and asked her to sip, to see if she tasted black fruit or red fruit. He was willing to fill the silence, to speak about himself, and he asked enough questions to be engaged but not prying. She liked her men older and steady, but Jeffrey had something. A youthful enthusiasm and confidence. Against her will, she was drawn into his energy. His good jaw and wide eyes.

Leaving the restaurant, he held the door for her, and a woman bumped into them. A tattoo circled her neck, fresh blue ink, the area still red and enflamed. Crucifix earrings. She stank of cigarettes and she mumbled, “Hey, sorry, damn, listen, I’m trying to get home and I lost my wallet, could I borrow a few bucks? No no no, I’m not, this isn’t, I’m not homeless, I just lost my wallet, I swear, and I got a baby at home crying, just a few bucks, please.”

Stackhouse knew a heroin stupor when she saw it. The woman was loitering outside the nice restaurant, hitting up wealthy patrons.

“Hey.” Dr. Ivey grabbed the woman’s arm and forced her back. “No. Knock it off.”

The woman tripped and stumbled, groaning, “Hey, getter hands off me, I’m sorry, okay, I’m soooorrry.”

Ivey took hold with his other hand too, and twisted, forcing her away from him, wrenching her shoulder socket. “Back off right now.”

“I am! Owwww stoppit.”

“Lay down. Lay down on the ground,” he told her. “Do what I say before I call the police.”

Ivey’s voice held the conviction of an angry doctor in absolute power. The woman’s face melted into fear and panic. Instant tears.

“It’s okay.” Stackhouse placed a hand on Dr. Ivey’s shoulder. He was red-in-the-face furious. “Hey, Jeffrey, it’s okay. Hey? Let her go. She’ll take off. Right, you’ll go home?”

The woman nodded. “I swear I will, I’m sorry, I’m so tired.”

“She tried to pickpocket us. Or worse. You don’t want to do something about it?” he asked.

“She’ll sleep it off.”

“She’ll be in the ED later. She’ll hurt herself or she’ll hurt someone else,” said Ivey.

“She’ll go home and sleep. She’s almost out now. Trust me, this isn’t worth it,” said Stackhouse.

“I’m not sure.”

“I am.”

Ivey gave the woman a little shove to send her on the way, his jaw set forward in anger. The woman stumbled into the neighboring parking lot and they lost her in the cars.

“She’s high. She can’t help it right now,” said Stackhouse. She still held Ivey’s shoulder, anchoring him. “You’ve seen it in the emergency department.”

He nodded, taking deep breaths. “My blood is pumping, seeing her run into you.”

“It’s okay, she’s gone.”

“I’m worked up, Andie. Sorry. I need to… I need to do something.”

“You have a big problem with the homeless?”

He shook his head. “I thought it might be Jane Newton.”

That startled her. “You know about Jane Newton.”

“I looked you up, after I heard how you sprained your ankle. I read about her and I know she’s still loose. I know that’s why the police officer told me not to leave your side. And then that girl attacked us…”

Stackhouse smiled. “You thought it was Jane. I get it. Good instincts, I get it. But that’s not her. We’re okay.”

Ivey made eye contact with her and chuckled, sheepish. “I guess you’re used to combat. I’m not.”

Driving home, Stackhouse ran a depressing analysis, considering the risk factors, the benefits, the pros, the cons, and she said, “I shouldn’t have gone out with you.”

“Yes you should.”

“Maybe after Jane’s captured. It’s not fair, asking you to stay on high alert.”

He shrugged. “Listen, my whole world is bleeding junkies in the ED and tennis with boring doctors. This was the best time I’ve had in a long while.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Nothing is safe. We’re going out again,” he said.

Stackhouse looked down at her hands. She liked him. Life was better with a man around. Well, the right man. And he didn’t feel wrong.

He left her at the porch, waiting until she was inside. He didn’t try to kiss her, and she had mixed feelings about that.

Stackhouse closed the door and locked it. 9:45pm and her Friday night was concluded. Good.

Good? She thought it was good. She didn’t know.

It was nice to be wanted, turned out, not that she’d tell Kaye.

A woman’s soft voice spoke from the couch. “Sheriff, is this okay? He said it was okay.”

Moon Ruby sat crisscross in the bowl of the enormous U-shaped couch. Adorable Moon Ruby, once a member of her squad, a former CrossFit instructor. She ran Alpha shift as a patrol officer.

“Moon? What are you doing here?”

“Sorry.” Moon’s cheeks pinked. “I’ll leave. You’re right, I shouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t say you had to go.”

“Damn, Stack, ease up,” said Crabtree. An open copy of River Killer lay on his chest, an unauthorized account of Jane Newton’s life and capture. “Walking in here like Godzilla. She’s with me.”

“And me.” Kaye hopped down the stairs in her long-sleeved pajamas. “C’mon, we’re about to watch something called Transformers.”

“Sheriff, I can come back tomorrow,” said Moon.

“Stop calling me that. Stay as long as you want. But…”

“Don’t make it weird, Andie,” said Kaye. “They’re a couple.”

“Who’s a couple? You two are a couple? Crabtree and Moon are a couple?”

“Are you angry?” Moon asked.

“Stack, I swear, you’re weird as hell. It’s cause I’m Black.”

“I didn’t know you were Black,” said Stackhouse. In an environment less awkward, everyone would’ve laughed.

“I told Moon she could sleep on the couch,” said Kaye. “It’s enormous. They can each take a chaise lounge chair and promise not to touch.”

“I ain’t promising nothing.”

“How long have you two been dating?” said Stackhouse.

“I knew you’d be mad.” Moon looked ready to cry.

“I’m not mad. I thought you liked Hurst.”

“Andie!” shouted Kaye. “Hush, baby, your brain is tired.”

“I’m not with Hurst,” said Moon. “Xavier and I have been dating for months.”

“Who’s Xavier?”

“Stack, I swear, this is some racist shit. Go to bed, you’re drunk,” said Crabtree. “I’m Xavier. People call me Alex.”

“Your first name is Xavier? See, you’re not Black.” That made him laugh. She said, “Okay, sorry, I’m tired. I’m going to bed, g’night. Nice to see you, Moon. Uhm, I’ll make coffee in the morning?”

Upstairs, she heard Kaye whisper, “She had a hard couple weeks. Ignore her. Sit down, let’s watch the movie.”

Stackhouse changed into pajamas but her bed looked vast and empty. Her window felt too large, too dark, like Jane Newton was smiling on the other side. She didn’t want to be alone.

She slipped downstairs as the Transformers movie started, and snuck onto the couch next to Kaye, who threw part of the cable-knit blanket over her and pulled her in for a perfect couch embrace.

Ten minutes into the movie, she was out.

22

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Stackhouse.

“It’s been over a year, I believe.” Trina Tackett walked Stackhouse into her sunroom. She normally didn’t work Saturdays, and Stackhouse felt like an intruder. Dr. Tackett was a trauma therapist with a PhD in Psychology and Behavioral Medicine, and Stackhouse credited Dr. Tackett with salvaging her sanity during her first month on the force, when Stackhouse had shot a man. They’d met with some regularity for two years after that. Tackett’s office smelled like jasmine and lavender. Her house smelled like coffee and dish soap.

“It has,” said Stackhouse. “Sorry.”

“I read about Jane in the paper and I was hoping you’d call.”

Stackhouse shrugged like it hurt, and she indicated the house. “That’s why I’m ruining your Saturday.”

“You’re not ruining it. I told myself once, when you call, no matter what, we meet immediately.”

Stackhouse pressed her lips together and nodded and damned the tears. Dr. Tackett was the age her mother would have been. She looked like Ellen Barkin in the Oceans 13 heist movie, thought Stackhouse.

“I know you hate these sessions. What forced the issue?”

“It’s hard to sleep. And that affects my job.”

“Because of fear.”

Stackhouse heard Jane in her ears. What do you do with the fear, Andrea? “I don’t hate the sessions. They’re just difficult.”

“I know. I misspoke. Before we get too far, have you considered physically removing yourself from the danger? Move temporarily to New Hampshire?”

Stackhouse wiped her eyes. “They offered. But I think the fear wins, that way. If I run from it, it’ll be that much harder the next time. And there will be a next time. This is what I do. I’m a detective who wants to join the FBI. There will be a next time. So I’ll stay and cope.”

“You could reframe it. Instead of retreating, think of it as regrouping. Live to fight another day.”

“Here’s what angers me.” Stackhouse leaned forward. “Half the idiots in Roanoke idolize her.”

“Jane.”

“They wear Jane t-shirts. They read books about her. They buy those god-awful keychains. It’s infuriating.”

“It makes you angry,” said Tackett. “Why?”

“They think it’s a game. They pretend the pain wasn’t real. They gain attention by, I don’t know how to say it, taking her side.”

“They devalue the price you paid.”

“The price a lot of people paid.”

“The price you’re still paying. It costs you,” said Tackett.

Stackhouse sat quietly for a full minute.

Finally, “I don’t need sympathy. I never wanted the award they gave me. It’s not about me. I don’t know why I’m so angry.”

Dr. Tackett made notes on her pad, though her eyes were fixed on Stackhouse. Part of Tackett’s talent was, she leaned into the emotions. She listened with all of her senses. “The public makes light of it. Anger is an understandable response from you. It makes me angry on behalf of the victims. And on your behalf. How dare our obsessed society not understand what my friend has gone through,” said Tackett.

My friend.

“I have a weird question,” said Stackhouse. “If Jane Newton came to you, as a patient, could you get her to stop killing?”

“Oh my. I hope she doesn’t.” They both laughed.

“She said she needed my help to stop.”

“From what you told me of her childhood trauma, and from what I know from the news, Jane’s disorders run deep. Multiple psychoses. She’s sociopathic, violent, and antisocial—three broad guesses. Those are disorders from which there isn’t a cure, only management. It would take more than therapy, it would take a whole raft of strong medications, like SSRIs, mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, and even then I’d be uncomfortable letting her loose. Tell me this. Has she attempted to contact her biological daughter?”

“Not that we know.”

“Then I surmise she’s lost touch with reality. Casting off her mothering instincts, or fixing them onto someone else, is a sign of schizophrenia. She operates in a delusional world, a narcissistic world. She was able to blend into society as a foster mother, but now that that role is gone, she’s searching for some other role, some other work, and I doubt it’ll be constructive or helpful for society.”

“So we should catch her,” said Stackhouse.

More laughter. “Yes, that’s my diagnosis. Catch her and stay alive.” Dr. Tackett gathered her thoughts. “This is a silly question, considering a serial killer abducted you recently, but is anything else prompting the fear?”

“A man attacked me last week. That didn’t help.”

“Do you want to talk about that?”

“No, I’m okay. But it added to the stress. Last night, a drug addict bumped into me and my date panicked, thinking it was Jane Newton, and I’m realizing how hard this terror is on everyone around me,” said Stackhouse.

“So in addition to the fear, there’s guilt and shame.”

Stackhouse held up her hands. “Who knows. It’s a big mess inside.”

“You’ve suffered more physical harm than most police officers do in a lifetime, Andie.” Dr. Tackett said it so kindly that Stackhouse wanted to weep. Validation of her struggle.

“My supervisors gave me a protective detail. One is sitting outside right now.”

“Good! That brings me relief.” Dr. Tackett consulted her notes. “What does terror feel like recently?”

“In the moment, I can handle it. Afterwards I’m shaky. I think about my father. I fall asleep.”

“Think about your father.”

“Yes, but is it okay if we don’t talk about him?” Stackhouse closed her eyes and leaned forward. The leather cushion squeaked beneath her. “That would be one topic too much, though he and I are on good terms these days.”

“Of course.” More note-taking. Stackhouse felt like a science experiment. “Do you remember our analogy of fear and the dog bite?”

“Remind me.”

“Fear is like a dog bite. Our first response is to yank our arm loose from the teeth, but that creates more damage. Instead we try for tolerance. Eventually you push your arm into the mouth to force a release. Like with fear, tolerance is good.” Observing Stackhouse, Dr. Tackett lost her train of thought.

Her patient was bent forward over her thighs, hugging them. Her forehead rested on her knees. She nodded as she listened to the analogy, and her whole body rocked.

Dr. Tackett often met with victims of trauma at the end of their limited resources. They were operating far over the capacity of what Mother Nature gave them at birth. Stackhouse, on the other hand, had lived through multiple destructive episodes—Tackett had poured herself a tall glass of wine when she read about the brain operation on Mr. Stackhouse—enough to collapse most people. But Stackhouse wasn’t most people.

Stackhouse had come to get a grip on her fear. Why? Because it was affecting her job. She’d declined the move to safety, instead choosing to live in a city where a serial killer hunted her.

All humans possessed skill sets. Talents and gifts. Dr. Tackett had a sudden flash of insight into Stackhouse’s talent—she lured monsters in, so they could be destroyed. Like police setting up child-exploitation stings, or speed traps, Stackhouse was living bait. She knew it, she accepted it. The reason she’d come was in search of ways to survive the magnetism, because she paid an extraordinary price for it.

Dr. Tackett for a moment felt unworthy to have her as a client.

Interpreting the silence as her turn to speak, Stackhouse said, “I remember the dog analogy. Learn to tolerate the fear. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“I see that you are.” Dr. Tackett dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve when Stackhouse wasn’t looking. Like everyone else, she’d become too attached to the charismatic detective. The detective with no self-pity in her body, no surrender in her bones.

“Okay.” Dr. Tackett cleared her throat. “Let’s talk about tolerating fear while reducing its effects.”

23

Stackhouse ordered a load of mulch delivered and she threw herself into the work. Late July temperatures reached the nineties and she soaked through her clothes, spreading pine bark around their flower beds and trees. She mowed the lawn, cutting in horizontal stripes because she liked how that looked more than ever-shrinking circuits. Her weed eater sputtered out of gas so she bought a pre-mixed can of gasoline and oil, and she trimmed the edges.

Moon Ruby helped. She swept grass clippings off the sidewalk and pulled weeds and wire grass. She even found a paint can and gave the back porch a fresh coat.

Crabtree worked out at the gym, but Moon had stayed, and Stackhouse worried her department had set up a rotating system of babysitters.

Five hours of hard work later, Stackhouse sat on the front steps, drenched and panting, gulping down a mason jar of cold water. Moon rocked in a chair, afraid to speak to her idol.

Stackhouse’s cell phone rang. The caller ID was Lieutenant Street.

She answered. “Hey, LT.”

“Stackhouse, how you doing. Listen, remember that punk who tried to jump you, Kingston Spillman? His lawyer is here, saying Kingston made bail. I talked to the ACA and because this is special circumstances—I mean, the guy hunted you down—we can ask the judge to reconsider. Technically Kingston made bail yesterday but I refused to cut him loose, and now that lawyer’s threatening all kinds of shit. We need a decision on this and you should be part of it.”

Stackhouse closed her eyes to think.

Kingston attacked her with two of his friends wearing masks. One kicked her in the ribs while the other pinned her down. Kingston had been slipping on brass knuckles.

And yet.

She felt guilty about the shooting at the Catawba sports bar. She’d been there—she should’ve done something—and they still didn’t know who’d shot Reggae or how he was poisoned. Now Kingston said his mom was missing, and somehow she felt that guilt too. She wanted answers.

Tolerate the fear, Andie.

“Cut him loose,” she said.

“You sure? I’ll tell him, he comes near you again, he’ll be in a cage for the next six months with my foot in his ass every other day.”

“We don’t need the legal hassle. Plus maybe it’ll buy me some good will. I want answers about the family,” she said.

“Okay, will do, Stack. You see Kingston, you call me first, but I got a feeling you won’t. The guy was rattled, just out of the Army. He’s wised up.”

Stackhouse disconnected and wiped her forehead. “Go home and shower, Moon.”

“I should really stay,” she said.

“You stink.”

“Sheriff… I mean, Detective—”

“I promise I won’t leave the house.” Stackhouse grunted at the irony. “Kingston’s a free man and I’m the one in a cage.”

A two-door Honda Prelude braked in the shade of the Roanoke County jailhouse. The driver, Antwone Spillman, reached across the seat and opened the passenger door. His brother Kingston was standing with Sally Tom, his court appointed attorney, and he ducked into the seat and closed the door without a goodbye.

“That your lawyer?” asked Antwone.

“She’s an idiot.”

“She ain’t the only one,” Antwone said and they motored away from the curb, into the Salem traffic. “You know that girl’s glad to get rid of you.”

Kingston grinned, tired. “Damn right.”

“The hell were you thinking? Going after a cop.”

Kingston stared out the window. His clothes stank. “You heard Reggae was poisoned?”

“She told me. The one you tried to kill.”

“She poisoned Reggae.”

“No she didn’t,” said Antwone. “Cops don’t—”

“She poisoned Reggae so I had to handle it.”

“Yeah you handled it alright.”

“Is Reggae home yet?” Kingston asked.

“No. Doctor told me they opened up his whole chest. Takes a long time to come back.”

“Don’t know who the hell they think’s paying for that.”

“I called a number I found for the Army’s Tricare,” said Antwone. “I paid them to extend health benefits another month. Transitional Assistance Management Program. So the government’s paying.”

Kingston was impressed. “Once a big brother,” he said, “always a big brother. How’d you learn how to do that?”

“Some of us grew up. Learned how to make phone calls, how health insurance works. Learned how to handle our shit. You should try it.”

“Big brother and pain in my ass,” he grumbled. The Prelude turned onto the interstate and drove one exit north, taking the cloverleaf into Catawba. “Mom back?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe she’s dead,” said Kingston. “Finally.”

“Ain’t nothing can kill that old witch.” Both brothers laughed.

“Got weed at the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Need to chill out. Tomorrow, man. Tomorrow I get back on track,” said Kingston.

They drove into the overgrown wilderness at the foot of the mountains, down what they called Negro Alley. Antwone hoped Brandi wasn’t there. He didn’t want to deal with her this morning.

He didn’t want to deal with any of this. Nothing had gone right. Bailing one brother out of jail, the other in the hospital, his mother gone.

Then again, once his mother was truly gone, he could finally sell this place. He’d paid pennies for it. Could he simply leave? Give it back to the bank? Was that something people did? He could move into the city. Or, damn, he could move to a bigger city. He could move someplace far from the mosquitos and the creek in the backyard. New York City or some world he’d only seen in the movies. An adventure he didn’t dare dream about.

Antwone pulled into the rotten driveway and parked at his house. He stood into the humidity and stretched and decided first and foremost he wanted a nap. Two window units rattled, keeping the house cool. Well, cool-ish.

He slowed as he neared the front porch. A long package was lying there. He hadn’t ordered anything.

No. He put an arm across his mouth. The thing stank. It was a dead animal, not a package. Big animal, maybe a deer.

“The hell.” Kingston stopped beside him. They’d have to step over the thing to get inside.

“Dead deer.” Antwone spoke into his elbow.

“Been dead a long time. How’d it get on the porch?” The carcass was big, a sick combination of bones and bloated flesh, of flies and ruin.

“How would I know. Move it to the woods,” said Antwone.

“I ain’t touching the thing. Crazy you think I’m touching that. Call Animal Control or something.”

Antwone felt dizzy, staring at it. Something wasn’t right in the shape. Like seeing an alien for the first time, this didn’t fit into any category. It didn’t look like a dead deer should. Could it be a bear?

Antwone shuffled closer.

Definitely not a deer.

A bear or some kind of wild…

The thing wore a necklace.

Kingston realized it was a human corpse at the same moment Antwone did. “Shit!” He staggered into the trees and vomited.

Antwone’s mouth filled with greasy saliva. His stomach twisted and he stepped back and closed his eyes. Ohhh man, the stench.

“Some soldier,” said Antwone and he gagged.

Kingston spit and wiped his mouth. “What’d you do?”

“What I do? You think I did this?”

“Is that Mom?” said Kingston.

“Naw it ain’t fat enough.”

Neither laughed at the joke. Kingston coughed and threw up again. His big muscular frame was bent at the waist and heaving.

“Call the police,” said Kingston.

“Oh now you want the cops.”

“I mean, they gotta be good for something. Get that thing the hell out of here.”

Antwone moved back to his Prelude and leaned against it, facing away. He felt too hot, like in an oven. He needed cold air on his face. On his green face. He couldn’t stop picturing it. A long naked corpse, splotchy, the face partially gone.

“Yeah, I’m calling the cops.” He raised his phone but lowered it again to gag and spit. His hands sweated so much he dropped the phone.

“Wait. Don’t call yet.” Kingston rose up and wiped his mouth again. “I got a bad feeling.”

“No shit you do, there’s a dead-ass body on my porch.”

“Nah man, I got a bad feeling. Hold up.” He took a shaky breath and wobbled toward the porch.

“Look like you’re gonna pass out.” Antwone’s voice sounded thick to his own ears. Thick and muffled by the dank heat.

“Feels like it too. Hold up though.” Nearing the porch, Kingston stopped to close his eyes and wipe his head and curse.

“What’re you doing, man?” Antwone still leaned behind his car.

“We gotta see.”

“See what?”

“YOU KNOW what we gotta see!” shouted Kingston. “Now shut up.” He raised his shirt over his nose but it didn’t help. He took a deep breath and approached in a rush.

Antwone watched, shocked. His bulky brother made it to the front porch and crouched over the thing. The corpse. Kingston uttered a low groaning noise and then he ran away, kinda hopping to the car. In his fist, he gripped a piece of paper. He made it halfway before heaving again, but he had nothing else to throw up. He coughed and spit and cursed more.

“What’re you doing?”

“That’s his necklace.” Kingston’s eyes were closed and his face looked ashen. “That’s his got’damn necklace.

“Whose necklace?”

“You know who.” Kingston rose up and panted at the sky. He held out the paper to his brother.

“I don’t want that.”

“Read it, motherfucker. Read.” Kingston released the paper. It fluttered and floated to the ground at Antwone’s feet. Kingston lurched away from the house and he fell into a copse of scrubby young weeds. “Oh my gooooooosh.”

Antwone didn’t dare read the paper.

But he didn’t dare not read the paper.

He forced his eyes downward, to focus, to look at the letters, written in big sloppy loops.

On the piece of paper were five words. A shock to his whole system. He looked away.

“That’s him,” said Kingston. “That’s his dead ass on the porch. I can’t believe it. Icantbelieveit.”

“Who?” Antwone heard the word come out as a cry.

“You know who.”

“Tell me!”

“That’s our brother,” said Kingston. “That’s my older brother, missing for four years. That’s Stevie.”

24

Kaye Calhoun sat crosslegged in her office, drinking hot tea. Her morning routine concluded, the time had come for caffeine. She read recently that tea was more calming than coffee—all of the benefits, none of the jittery drawbacks. She'd tried a breakfast black tea, a matcha, an herbal peppermint, and today was green tea. She’d experimented with cream and various sweeteners, including honey, and one thing was for certain—tomorrow she returned to the sweet jittery embrace of a breakfast-blend coffee.

Fifteen minutes before her first client, she scooped up her files to prep.

Her eyebrows rose. Bobbie Munson was back, the recovering chemo patient. After her tearful meltdown, Kaye worried Bobbie might not return. She refreshed her memory, reading over the notes about Bobbie’s recovery and move to Roanoke for a woman, and her particular interest in Kaye’s own support system.

One thing she hadn’t jotted down in her notes was how striking Bobbie Munson was. When the woman arrived, tall and strong, eyes that connected and held, Kaye absently wondered if the woman had ever modeled. With the short blonde fuzz, she looked like an avant-garde spokeswoman for skin cream.

“Hello, Kaye,” said Bobbie. “Thank you for seeing me again on short notice.”

“I’m glad you came back so I can get a look at your hair. It’s growing in so nicely.” Kaye held her hand out to the love seat while she took the chair. “How have you been since we spoke?”

“Ummm, fine, I suppose. I hope you had a pleasant weekend.”

“I did, thank you for asking.”

Another question quickly. “You and your roommate?”

“Yes.”

“Your job is stressful, Kaye. It must be, you taking on other people’s pain. Does your roommate help with recovery?”

Kaye tilted her head thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say I take on other people’s pain. That’s not my job. But yes, Andie is a source of comfort at home.”

“Andie.”

“My roommate, sorry.”

“Is she single? You both are?”

“We’re not here to talk about me, are we. I’d rather hear about you.”

“First, could you explain how she is a source of comfort?” said Bobbie.

Kaye smiled and used some silence to her advantage. Not to make Bobbie uncomfortable, but to take control of the pace of the conversation. Plus, it gave the appearance of considering her question.

“Bobbie, part of my job is to make observations. I watch how you sit, what you say, how you say it. I’m sensing some evasiveness. I hear you asking me questions that last week I mentioned I’d rather not answer. So I’m going to ask you a question to move us along, so you get your money’s worth.” Kaye winked to keep it playful. “Can you tell me more about your move to Roanoke?”

Bobbie regarded her like a serpent would a mongoose.

“You keep tight control of your therapeutic relationships, Kaye, don’t you.”

“I do, yes. Our time is too valuable.”

“What happens when a patient grows out of your control?” asked Bobbie.

“I refer the patient to someone else and I cancel our sessions. That is the final form of control. This must be a safe space.”

“I see. You’re very strong, Kaye. Successful women must be.”

“Thank you for the compliment. Now please tell me about the move to Roanoke.”

Bobbie did so. She’d moved here with nothing, a total restart. She’d hoped to reconnect with the woman she needed, and the need was mutual, but that failed. Or it had failed so far. She was respectfully keeping her distance, but in the meantime, what was a girl to do?

“Moving here with nothing, and discovering the purpose of your move had fallen through,” said Kaye, “if that had been me, I would feel helpless.”

Bobbie’s fingers clamped hard onto the cushion. “I am never helpless, Kaye.”

“Good. That’s emotionally insightful. Tell me what you do feel, instead of helpless.”

“I don’t understand,” said Bobbie.

Kaye pointed to the chart behind her. “On the wall there is a wheel of emotions. Is it possible to pinpoint what you did feel? Or have felt since?”

“Hostile,” was Bobbie’s quick response. “Hurt. Concerned. Confused. Jealous.”

“Good! Moving your entire life for someone, and then discovering it might be for nothing, those are very understandable. I believe I’d feel the same way.”

“What a helpful chart, Kaye. I could’ve used it.”

“To understand your emotions?”

“The emotions of others. To help them understand themselves. I ran a home for—” Bobbie shifted on her seat. “I took care of my younger sisters, I mean.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“For a while. We were scattered, when I was younger. I lost track of them all.”

“That’s something else I’d like to talk about.” Kaye wrote notes on her pad.

“I’d rather not. I’m trying to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop caring so much,” said Bobbie.

“You believe you need distance from your family?”

“From the passion. From the hurt that comes with it. I’m trying to stop, but I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I see this is a hard topic. Perhaps one day you’ll be ready, but not today,” said Kaye.

Something in Bobbie was shaken. A new wetness in her eyes, a tightening of her throat. “Do you believe fresh starts are possible?”

“I wouldn’t do this job if I didn’t.”

“Do you believe I could be cured? Freed from the bad things inside?”

Kaye smiled and felt the question brush her heart. “Probably not in the way you mean, Bobbie. I don’t consider myself cured, in that I’m free from damaging emotions or thoughts. Our short-term goal is to tolerate the symptoms of poor mental or emotional health, and then to regulate them. Our long-term goal is to reduce them, so they appear infrequently. To move toward an ordered lifestyle. But there’s probably no such thing as a cure.”

“Do you believe in evil?”

“Yes I do.”

“Could you define it?” said Bobbie.

“The absence of good.”

“Oh it’s much more than that, Kaye. The absence of good doesn’t explain sadistic rape or hatred. Do you think I could be evil?”

“Do you think you are?”

“Ummmm, I’d like your opinion.”

“I don’t know you well enough to answer.” Kaye raised her hand for a pause. “Keep in mind, I’m a mandated reporter. It’s my legal duty to alert the state if you share certain facts.”

“Oh no.” Another look from Bobbie, as from a serpent. A serpent who hated itself. “Nothing like that.”

Kaye wanted control back, so she tossed her an easy one. “Tell me about a movie you’ve seen where you recognized evil.” Bobbie didn’t answer; she looked at her hands and fidgeted. Another easy one, “Why did you ask about evil?”

“It’s everywhere, isn’t it. It’s not an absence of something, but the presence of something sinister and destructive. Or at least painful. Sometimes it’s hard to know if the pain is outside or inside. Real or imagined. Today or in the past. You may not want it, but it’s there. If you want to stop, too bad. The evil is already in control. Maybe it started as the absence of good, but it grew. It festered. Little things grew into big scary things. Little sins became atrocities. You tried to be kind but one day you’re holding a match or a knife. So to speak. You realize it’s not you doing it. Or you hope it’s not you. You could never do that, so someone else must be doing it, and that’s when you realize, oh yes, evil is much more than the absence of good.”

Kaye leaned back in her seat. Bobbie wasn’t speaking to her, but rather to herself. A fascinating woman. We need a Mental Status Exam pronto.

“Alright, it’s time to keep you on your toes.” Kaye forced some enthusiasm into her voice. “A short little quiz, to make sure we’re on the same page. Do you know what time it is? Or what day?”

“It’s Monday morning. We’ve been talking for ten minutes.”

“Good. Do you know where we are?”

Bobbie closed her eyes and smiled. “We’re in your office in Roanoke. My name is Bobbie Munson and I’m here for therapeutic help, relating to my chemotherapy recovery and loss of an important relationship. I know what a MSEx4 test is, Kaye. I must really be a mess for you to try that.”

“Your musing on evil and pain had me worried, is all. How do you know about that test?”

Bobbie’s eyes remained closed. “I was raped as a young woman. Repeatedly. I’m not new to clinical intervention. Tell me, Kaye, what do you believe is just punishment for men who rape women?”

“Wow, you’re just flinging them out there today, aren’t you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re ripping the band-aid off. I’m game. Would you like to talk about the assault?” said Kaye, using irreverence as her ally to keep it light.

“No.”

“You could give me the quick grocery store version if you like.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night, Kaye. Would it be all right if I laid down?”

“Of course. But I can’t answer your question about punishment if I don’t know more about the situation,” said Kaye.

Bobbie pivoted on the love seat, graceful motions, long legs crossing, feet hanging over the side. She laid her head on the pillow, causing tears to spill from her closed eyes. She clutched the other pillow like a shield. Or teddy bear. “I won’t dwell on the assault. It’s been years since I have.”

“I understand. Maybe tell me what you think the punishment should be.”

Bobbie yawned. “Why?”

“Punishment means different things to different people.”

A sleepy smile. “It does, doesn’t it. This is so very nice, Kaye. You might be the safest person I’ve ever met.”

Bobbie Munson slid on sunglasses and walked to the bus station, moving as if she floated, light as a drifting cinder.

Therapy. What strange sick bliss.

There was no sense of euphoria, like the rush that came with drowning or pain. But rather a warm glow, pure sunlight, talking with Kaye Calhoun, opening up enough to shock Kaye. The aftereffects were so good they felt sexual. Or what she assumed natural sexual desire felt like.

Her mind touched on the difference between a hit of serotonin versus dopamine, how one was longer lasting and healthier. She’d forgotten which was which. It’d been years since her chemicals operated the way they were designed to, her emotions passing through dirty lenses now that tainted even joy. The very idea of health felt scary, or felt filthy, the hard truths in her life far too radioactive.

She shook her head.

Better not to look inward. Ever. Eyes always outward.

For a while she’d worn a baseball cap to hide her long blonde hair. No longer. Today she walked bald to the hot bus stop and waited, her only camouflage the sunglasses. A man’s pair, taken from Chet Moreland’s house, the final thing of his not melted down.

Justice. It means different things to different people.

No. Kaye said punishment, not justice.

Punishment, justice, vengeance, the same thing? She’d ask her therapist.

Hah. What a funny thought.

She hoped Kaye got to live. But that wasn’t up to her.

On the bus, the passenger next to her was reading a newspaper. A large photograph of Jane Newton was inserted on page three. For several days, she’d been the headline, now reduced to filler. Jane wore a slight smile for the prison photographer, large eyes, full lips.

Bobbie Munson stood and moved away from the newspaper. Better safe than the electric chair.

She hopped off the bus at a gas station on Brandon Avenue. Hidden beside the building, she searched for security cameras and saw none, so she slipped a black wig out of her pocket and tugged it in place. Snug but it wouldn’t budge. Ta-da, she was someone else. Inside she purchased a red five-gallon gas can and smiled, embarrassed, at the amused clerk. “That darn needle used to go a lot lower past Empty.”

He laughed.

Her attention fell onto a revolving stand of wooden dildo keychains. She’d seen the news, knew about the craze. The keychains didn’t amuse her. Justice was not a perverse toy. This mocked a painful necessity. This mocked her and her work.

Hidden beneath her sunglasses, she scanned the man behind the counter.

Sudden rage bubbled inside.

There, by the door, t-shirts were displayed for sale. Detective Stackhouse’s face on some, blazoned with the words HOT COP. Jane Newton on others, drawn in a sexy, demonic caricature. Enormous breasts, tiny waist, spread wings, holding a pitchfork—HOT STEP-MOM.

“Sexual,” she whispered. “Men make everything sexual.”

“Do you like the shirts?” asked the man behind the counter. An Indian man. His name tag read Manish. “I ordered them myself.”

Manish. How appropriate.

“I’m trying to stop,” she said. “But it’s hard.”

“Stop what?”

For a long warm moment she held his eyes. Some desperate emotion worse than pain clawed in her chest. She watched him, and watched him, and watched him from under her glasses, until he squirmed and left the register, pretending to have a task in the back.

Outside now.

“Breathe,” she said. “Breathe, Bobbie Munson. Bobbie Bobbie Bobbie, you’re Bobbie Munson.”

She filled the tank with three gallons, screwed the top back on, and walked a quarter mile to a house off Edgewood, swapping heavy hands. She approached from the alley, with fewer prying eyes, and let herself in through the back door. She set the red gas can next to another she’d filled on Saturday. Two would be plenty.

Moving here with nothing, if that had been me, I would feel helpless, Bobbie.

It infuriated her, when others thought they could compare themselves. Thought they could empathize.

Helpless. She was never helpless, Kaye.

Enormous breasts, holding a pitchfork.

Men sexualizing her.

She was never helpless.

SHE WAS NEVER HELPLESS!

Bobbie blinked. She was gripping a hammer and she’d smashed it through the drywall.

“Ummmmm,” she said. Goodness. Luckily Anna wasn’t home yet. These moments of blackout were alarming. She wondered what Kaye would say. Something lovely and wise, and worthless to her. She dislodged the hammer and set it back, and covered the two red gas tanks with a blanket, pushing them behind the water heater.

She tasted jealousy whenever she thought about Kaye with Andrea. She’d called her Andie. Reducing her to a man’s name was sacrilege.

Bobbie Munson wasn’t a lesbian. She hated men, but that didn’t mean she desired women. What she felt for Andrea was…

She didn’t know. Better not dwell on it. Eyes outward. In prison, when she thought about Andrea, she’d compensated with pushups and squats and sit-ups. And women, but that was only an adaptive jailhouse response. That was for a purpose.

Speaking of.

She walked up the stairs of the little ranch house and started dinner. She was no chef. Her specialties were scrambled eggs, and cereal, and peanut butter sandwiches, and frozen pizzas. Anything to feed a lot of mouths at once. She’d discovered a recipe book on Anna's shelf and she was trying. Tonight, pasta.

The house belonged to Anna Hall. Senior crime scene technician for the Roanoke City Police.

Anna returned home at six, and she found Bobbie in the kitchen. A new hit song played on the radio, “I Kissed A Girl,” by Katy Perry, how appropriate. Bobbie stood barefoot and she wore short shorts and a thin tank top with nothing underneath. Another disguise.

Anna Hall couldn’t help her goofy smile and she came into Bobbie’s arms.

Speaking from the corner of her mouth, “I thought about you all day.”

“Ummm, that’s exactly what you were supposed to do.”

“You cooked again?” said Anna. “I wanted to take you out tonight.”

Backing away, Bobbie ran a hand over her pate. A sheepish smile. “Soon, Anna. I’m still tired. Soon soon.”

“You feel sick?”

“Only sleepy.”

They were a mismatched couple. Anna was short with frizzy hair, never popular, too insecure. Bobbie could be a bald angel. A bald angel claiming to recover from chemo.

“You should let me do the cooking while you rest,” said Anna. “Although you look good and healthy.”

“Thank you, Anna.”

“So so good, Bobbie. How soon is dinner ready?”

“I only need to boil the pasta.”

Anna took Bobbie’s hand. “So we have time to go to the bedroom first? It’s all I can think about.”

Bobbie Munson wasn’t a lesbian. But she could lie in wait. For a few more days. “Did you bring the handcuffs?”

Anna blushed. “I did. Two pairs, like you said. Plus the key. They make me nervous, Bobbie.”

“Well then let’s not use them, Anna. Not yet.”

“In the meantime, while the sauce simmers…”

“Yes. In the meantime. Come with me.”

As they left the kitchen, the song on the radio ended. The emcee cracked a joke and he read another announcement from the Roanoke City Police, begging for information on the whereabouts of the notorious serial killer Jane Newton.

25

Monday mornings arrived with promise and thunderclouds for detectives. They arrived with fresh energy, ready to bring order from evil. Instead paperwork and banal meetings waited.

The command staff wanted reports, so lieutenants needed updates from their squads. Captain Titus put on such a high and mighty performance, asking such absurdly specific questions, that the sergeants and lieutenants called it Stump The Dummy behind her back.

Stackhouse had little to offer this Monday, other than dead ends and frustration. Lieutenant Street muttered, “Give me something, jeez, Stack. Make it up if you have to.”

Interview requests waited in her inbox—we’d like to offer you the chance to finally tell your side of the Jane Newton saga! Cops traditionally put on an I’m No Hero affect, but then told their story in great detail, ruining it with boring cop-speak. Not so with Stackhouse and Mark Rowe, the only two who fully knew what happened with Jane Newton in the underground water vault nearly four years ago, and neither were willing to provide details. Much of the Jane Newton story remained a mystery to the public. Still they emailed her.

Stackhouse began the day by updating her list from last Friday’s insights.

SPILLMAN CASE

Did Pete shoot Reggae? How?

If not, who did?

Why was Pete stabbed?

Are Stevie/Allison involved?

WHO shot Reggae?

WHO poisoned Reggae?

Is Ms. Spillman missing??

Why did Jack Gough’s wife visit prison that morning?

As she rifled through emails, her phone rang—she and Val Farmer were needed. Some guy stormed city hall Friday afternoon with an incorrect water bill; he grew frustrated and shouted he was going to come back Monday and shoot the mayor. The threat had been investigated over the weekend, proven to be bull, but now a deputy chief wanted it followed-up; miserable, pointless work. These were the worst—gathering intel with zero percent chance of a satisfying closure. Leaping through hoops. It took an hour to find him, the disgruntled man with the big water bill, and another hour to verify his threat was hollow. He was sorry, but not as sorry as the assholes at the water authority, and he didn’t even own a gun. Stackhouse didn’t mention his keychain, adorned with a toy wooden dildo, Jane Newton paraphernalia.

Afterward, Captain Lott called and apologized but he needed a favor—run three death notifications. Three? Stackhouse hated them, knocking on a door to deliver the worst news imaginable. As the newest detective, the job often fell to her.

Crabtree did the dirty work with her, which made it more manageable. Two of the knocks were to African American families and he handled those without asking first, and Stackhouse didn’t know if she was grateful or offended.

No, she knew—she was grateful.

Over her day hung the pall of the Spillman case. She wanted answers about Reggae. She needed them, even if it was technically a Roanoke County cold case. Not only was the case more compelling, but Mark Rowe had pulled her in on it. Some deep part of her wanted to make him happy.

Nope, nope, nope, think about something else, Andie, pronto, other than making Mark happy.

Like you did one hot night last month, wearing the green lace…

Nope nope NOPE!

Back at the station, she found FBI Special Agent Paul Oliver waiting at her desk.

A tall man, very tall, he’d played football at Virginia Tech as an offensive lineman. He’d spend six years in the NFL before retiring to join the FBI. Stackhouse felt him like a mountain.

“Avoiding me?” he said.

Kinda, yeah. I’m sick of talking about Jane.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

“If you have a minute…” He held a loose stack of papers in a floppy folder, and he raised it to an empty conference room. “I booked it for the next thirty minutes.”

He closed the door after her.

“How’s your fear?”

“About Jane Newton?” she asked. “I have help.”

“Sergeant Crabtree. I heard. Our offer still stands—the FBI will fly you to Wyoming until we catch her. That’s an offer straight from the director.”

The director of the FBI knows about me.

“I’m a cop. I catch Jane Newtons, not run from them,” she said.

“Normally I’d understand. But violent sociopaths are worth the precautions.”

The little hairs on her arm raised. “I’m okay.”

He flipped open the folder. “You didn’t know Chet Moreland?”

“Never heard the name until someone told me about the fire.”

“We think she picked him up at a bar. Because of her previous work with foster daughters on that little makeshift farm she created in Creepy Hollow, we’ve been monitoring the farms nearby that take on temporary workers. No small task, given the agriculture in southwestern Virginia. But now it appears she was under our nose, not on a farm. We found nylon melted onto Chet’s wrist and ankle bones. He’d been tied to a bed when she set the house on fire.”

Stackhouse nodded and swallowed.

Oliver continued. “We don’t see signs of sodomy, however.”

“I know this has been debated, but she’s not a sadist. The men deserved what they got, according to her. It was about justice. Not for her pleasure.”

“I trust your judgment. You were there when it happened to Guy Dotson.”

“Almost happened,” said Stackhouse.

“Right. Almost.”

“Jane’s pathology doesn’t extend toward all men. Only those who she suspects hurt women. If Chet was a guy in the wrong place at the wrong time, she’d use him and dispose of him, not torture him.”

Oliver grunted and wrote in his notes. The pen looked too small in his hand.

She blurted a question without thinking. “Are you around six-six? Do you fit in a squad car?”

He smiled politely, like he’d been asked that a lot. “I’ve never tried fitting into a squad car. My bureau car is a Chevy Tahoe. Almost big enough.” He shuffled his papers. “As I said, we think she picked him up at a bar. Would you object to our assumption that Jane is skilled in seduction?”

“No. She seduced me, though not sexually. She’s warm and she cares deeply. Her interest in my past and my well-being was disarming. It’s no shock to me she was able to seduce Chet into bringing her home from a bar, if that’s what happened. Did you ever meet her?”

“Once. She told me to leave you alone,” said Oliver.

“She’s quite attractive.”

“She is.”

“It’s more than her appearance, though, it’s like she swallows you,” said Stackhouse.

“We’re making a lot of guesses. Educated leaps. Would you object to our assumption that it’s likely she already selected a new target, a new home to live in, using the man as a place to hide until she doesn’t need him any longer?”

“I don’t know. Though it could easily be a woman’s house.”

Oliver nodded. “She identified as heterosexual, but she was successful in seducing women in prison.”

“In the car, she mentioned she’s crafty when she has to be.”

“Why do you think she burned the house down?”

“Instead of just leaving? So Chet could escape or be found later?”

He nodded. “We know she’ll use fire, like with the cop she beheaded, but burning a house down drew attention to her.”

“She didn’t expect you’d be able to pin the fire on her.”

“It was a risk, though,” he said.

“Her fingerprints were all over the house, presumably. A fire erases them. Worth the risk.” Stackhouse shrugged and held up her hands. “Just guessing here.”

“Why is she still in Roanoke?” He held up his hand to Stackhouse’s protest. “Look. I know you don’t know. You’re not omniscient. I’m after your guesses. I report to a violent crime panel tomorrow at J. Edgar, and they want your input.”

“As I said, she’s not a sadist. She kills men who deserve it. I’d guess that’s why she’s here.”

“To kill those who deserve it. Because she lived here, these are the men she knows.”

“Right. It stands to reason. The best indicator of past behavior, and all that,” said Stackhouse.

“Then we have a ticking clock. Before she does it again. Or else, could she be fixated on you?”

Stackhouse leaned back in the chair and sorted through emotions she hadn’t named, instincts she hadn’t pinned down. “At the farm, Jane was in constant motion. Feeding chickens, putting up fencing, helping girls with homework, protecting them from the men, killing the men, you get the idea. She was industrious. At the prison, the same thing was reported. Constant activity. She made allies. She made lovers. She laid plans to escape and she got out quick. She’s driven. So she’s not sitting around Roanoke on a couch. I don’t think she’s perched in a tree, watching me through binoculars. She’s here for another reason.” Stackhouse snapped her fingers. “That’s why she set the fire. To cover her tracks, because she’s not done with whatever her mission here is. There’s some task in Roanoke, some fence that needs mending, some girl that needs saving, some man who needs impaling. She burned the house to buy time. She knew if you found the fingerprints the trap would tighten. We got lucky, finding one door knob that didn’t melt. She couldn’t plan on that.”

Oliver made another grunt, one of appreciation, and he continued taking notes. “Do you ever get that warm feeling in your chest when you’re working a case, and you hear something you suspect is the truth? Like the scent of your target? I got it, listening to you. Compelling insights.”

Stackhouse fought down a surge of pleasure. Praise from the FBI!

“But you don’t believe you’re her current mission.”

“If she wanted to kill me, she could have. She had me helpless.”

“She wants to save you,” said Oliver.

“I’d guess she’s not sure exactly what she wants with me. But I’m secondary.”

He set his pen down and leaned backward. “We’re monitoring her foster daughters, and her biological. So far she’s made no attempt at contacting them. If she’s here to mend a fence, as you say, or fish a girl from the water, we’re not seeing it.”

“I overheard her mention to Beth, her assistant, that some of their victims should be tossed into the lake, tied to concrete. I told you that? I did. She has work we don’t know about. Victims and fences we haven’t guessed at.”

Oliver scrubbed at his hair. “A scary prospect, this highly organized and intelligent sociopathic killer on a mission in our city. You sure you don’t want a ticket to Wyoming?”

“No.” Deep breath. “I’m good.”

“You’re upset about being excluded from the manhunt.”

“Of course I am.”

“You know why that decision was made?”

Stackhouse nodded. “A defense attorney would barbecue us for conflicting interests. I can’t be involved. They’d claim it was revenge for me.”

“That’s it. What else are you working on?”

“Attempted homicide. A busted sting where a guy got shot and poisoned and I was there but I don’t know who did it. Infuriating. The weirdest evidence you can imagine. I’m chasing it down, much to the aggravation of my chief, who wants it to stay in the county.”

He gathered his papers. “If you think having one chief is frustrating, imagine reporting to half a dozen panels anytime you want a sip of water. Mother Justice is nothing but oversight.”

“Do you like working for the FBI?” asked Stackhouse.

“I do. At the end of the day, though, your job is your job. I liked my old one too.”

“It’s my dream. One of my dreams.”

He gave her something more than polite, almost warm. “How old are you?”

“My plan is to work one year as a prosecutor and squeak in before the cut-off at thirty-five.”

“Keep yourself out of the news.”

“Ugh.” Stackhouse threw up her hands, playful. “I can’t.”

He grinned. Not even the stoic FBI was immune to Stackhouse’s charisma, but his news was sad. “The Bureau is monolithic. We’re just faceless agents wearing sunglasses. The brass hates hotshots and glory hounds. No celebrities in the FBI.”

Through the big glass window, Sergeant Crabtree was watching the interview with the FBI agent. As the agent packed up, Crabtree wondered why Stackhouse’s face dropped from a smile into disappointment.

26

The end of Stackhouse’s shift.

She finished the report and shelved the rest until tomorrow. If her lieutenant knew how far behind she was on paperwork, he might ground her. They called it being chained to the desk.

She rang Mark Rowe. “Mark, I want to interview the Spillman brothers again. Go with me?”

A deep breath on the other end of the line. “Kingston half murdered you, and I heard you cut him loose.”

“I’m hoping it buys me good will. Maybe now he’ll talk.”

“Self-sacrificial of you. Smart kid. By your stripes is he healed. What do you want to ask him?”

“About Reggae’s poisoning. We never chatted. Plus he said his mom’s missing. I won’t be long and it’s already up your way,” she said.

The Spillman family lived at the northern edge of Roanoke County. For whatever reason, that’s also where the county police headquarters was located. For her, it’d be a thirty-minute drive. For Mark Rowe, less than fifteen.

She glanced at her watch. She’d agreed to meet Jeffrey Ivey before his shift started, a late dinner for her. Breakfast for him? Lunch? She’d need to hurry.

“I’ll be there,” said Rowe.

Stackhouse dashed to her car, catching Sergeant Crabtree off guard who ran to catch up. Her Crown Vic was old and the shocks creaked, but the muscle remained. She roared onto 581 and raced northward, twenty miles over the limit. One day, as technology advanced, maybe her speed would be monitored by computers but until then she enjoyed her RPMs. Crabtree hugged her bumper in the rearview.

Rowe intercepted them at the Catawba Sports Bar and joined the caravan. Her stomach flip-flopped at the sight of him through the window. All thoughts of dinner with Jeffrey Ivey temporarily vaporized.

No no NO.

The three cars motored into the dark underworld of the Spillman lot, hidden by the leafy overhang. She parked next to Antwone’s Honda Prelude, relieved to see it. Rowe’s sleeves were rolled up and he removed his glasses because they fogged in the humidity.

She knocked on the front door and waited, listening to the window units churn.

“This place smells like ass,” said Crabtree.

“Gross,” Stackhouse said, but she agreed. How did they live like this? Her boots were sticking to something tacky on the wooden slats.

Rowe wandered around the side of the house and pointed. “A trailer back here. There’s where Mother Spillman lives, I assume.”

No one answered the door so she and Crabtree joined Rowe behind the house. Fifty yards away, connected by a beaten path, sat a single-wide trailer. Little undergrowth thrived under the canopy of leaves, but a vine had reached the gutter of the trailer.

“Antwone’s car is here. He’s somewhere close.” Stackhouse approached the rear of the Spillman house. Its decay was worse than the front, a little back porch with the roof fully caved. If no one responded, she’d try the trailer.

“Rotten hell hole,” said Crabtree quietly. “They just waiting around for the mom to die. Or maybe they gonna do the job themselves soon. Don’t act like it don’t happen, we all know it does.”

Careful for the ruined slats, she knocked loud on the back door. “Antwone? Ms. Spillman?”

No response.

Rowe waved at mosquitos. “Check mom’s house?”

Crickets and insects chirped and trilled. As they neared the trailer, they heard the distant sounds of construction machinery. A backhoe or a dump truck.

Rowe took lead and he knocked on the flimsy screen door.

“Ms. Spillman?” he called. “Dionne?”

Even more than the house, the trailer felt vacant. The structure held the lifelessness of an empty tomb.

Another hard knock.

Crabtree took a long breath through the nose. “I don’t smell nothing. Mama Spillman ain’t dead in there. Or if she is, not dead for long.”

“But the Prelude is here,” said Stackhouse. She smacked at her neck. “Where is Antwone?”

Unwilling to give up and admit the waste of time, they circled the trailer. The sound of a machine grew.

“Maybe the brothers are out fishing,” said Rowe. “There’s a stream I saw on the map.”

“What do you mean by brothers?” said Crabtree.

Rowe grinned. “Funny.”

Stackhouse was squinting through the trees. She bent at the waist, like getting a better view, and she pointed. “There. Some kind of tractor, two hundred yards that way. I can barely see it. That’s the noise.”

They perched at one of those crossroads cops often face. Chase down leads they knew went nowhere? Walk through the mucky woods for no reason? Or take the comfortable route and go home? Their shift ended soon.

Stackhouse sighed. “Dammit, I’m going. You two can wait here or meet me later.”

“You go, I go.” Crabtree strode out first, away from the trailer and into the damp leaves, toward the far sound of a machine.

The three of them traipsed across the expanse, hot and sweating and miserable, stepping over fallen trees, cursing as the ground softened into an unsteady murk. Soon they were forced to reroute because the woods became a bog. Her tender ankle protested. As unhappy a fifteen minute trudge as she could ever remember, boots growing heavier with accumulating mud, her belt cumbersome with her sidearm and cuffs and radio. Next time, Andie, bring bug spray.

She asked, “What’d you find out about the house Jane burned down?”

“Week and a half ago, Chet Moreland texted his best friend that he met a gorgeous girl,” said Rowe. “He said the gorgeous girl picked him up at a bar, and he’d bring her around soon. A few days later, Chet Moreland is mostly ash, his car is missing, and Jane’s fingerprints are on the back door of the house. That’s all we have. Still no sign of his car.”

“Which bar?” asked Crabtree.

“His credit card shows a big purchase at McCallister’s Pub. The bartender on duty that night doesn’t remember Chet Moreland but has followed the Jane Newton saga and is sure she would’ve noticed if Jane had been at the bar. No video footage inside the pub. There’s one security camera monitoring the parking lot but it was broken.”

“They’re always broken,” grumbled Stackhouse.

Through a copse of trees, they were able to spy the creek, and the green grassy field of Mr. Caldwell’s property beyond, his house on the distant rise. The creek acted as a natural border. The water moved quickly, not a river but wide in spots. It appeared that Caldwell had tried to create a deep swimming hole or fishing basin by building a dam, but he’d abandoned the project half finished. His side of the stream was grassy and manicured. The Spillman side was fallen trees and rocks.

It wasn’t a backhoe or tractor they heard. It was a small Bobcat front loader, the kind rented from a hardware store.

Antwone sat at the controls, protected by a roll cage. The Bobcat was stuck. His treads spun in the mud as he lurched backward and forward, attempting to dislodge the machine. His brother Kingston had tied on a rope to the big front scoop and he was pulling, powerful muscles bunching and relaxing, but the harder they tried the more the machine sank into the mire.

Stackhouse saw in a flash what had happened. They needed to dig a hole, but they rented a loader instead of an excavator. Instead of digging a hole, they were forced to scrape out a trough. Antwone had run back and forth, scratching up layers of dirt, slowly creating a long shallow pit, but as they dug they neared the creek’s water table, and the treads no longer found purchase, eventually sinking. To unearth the Bobcat, they needed a powerful winch attached to a thick tree. Or maybe if all four of them pulled…

The brothers hadn’t noticed the police yet, who remained hidden in the cover of trees.

Stackhouse grabbed Rowe’s arm.

A long object was wrapped in a blue tarp, lying in the mud, partially buried. She couldn’t determine how long the partially buried object was, but it could easily be a body. Her fingers tightened on his shirt and her pulse revved.

She smacked at Crabtree and pointed.

“The blue thing? Yeah I see it,” said Crabtree. “I can smell it too.”

“Well.” A muscle in Rowe’s jaw worked. “Let’s scare the bejesus out of them. Ready?”

The officers spread out and entered the little clearing at once.

Stackhouse shouted over the noise, hand on her sidearm. “Hey! Antwone! Kill the engine!”

Antwone jerked upright at their sudden appearance. He released the controls and the treads stopped churning, and he raised his hands without being ordered. The engine idled on low.

Kingston bolted. Straight into the trees, off like a startled deer. He moved so quick he was gone before Stackhouse budged.

Not Crabtree—he’d expected it. If Kingston moved like a deer, Crabtree was the cheetah. Crabtree ran like he could play wide receiver in the NFL. He caught Kingston in ten strides, leaping into the back of Kingston’s legs and wrapping up his ankles, the big man crashing into the leaves.

“Why you running!” Crabtree laughed. “Got something to hide?”

Rowe assisted Crabtree, three men wrestling in the damp leaves, Kingston bellowing threats.

Stackhouse hadn’t expected Kingston to take off, and she was rattled. She kept her eyes on Antwone, and her palm rested on the butt of her Glock.

“Antwone,” she called. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He didn’t. He killed the engine and lowered his head.

The two men subdued Kingston, cuffing his hands behind his back.

“Seems like I always gotta be arresting you.” Crabtree was panting and he wiped his forehead.

“You can’t do this! This is my got’damn property!” Kingston shouted into the mud. “This is America, you forgot? This is my property and I’ll sue your ass!”

Heart hammering, Stackhouse sidestepped towards the blue tarp and the sound of buzzing flies. As she neared, she entered a fug of stench. A scent she knew well.

“Don’t.” Antwone wiped his eyes. He wiped at the sweat and humidity and pain. “Don’t touch it, Officer. Don’t bother. I’ll tell you. It’s my little brother. It’s Stevie. Don’t look. It’s too sad. It’s too…” He began to weep.

With shaking, muddy fingers, Mark Rowe called dispatch on his radio.

“Crud,” said Stackhouse.

She was sitting in her Interceptor, air conditioning humming. Antwone hunched in the back, behind the mesh partition. Dusk had fallen at the Spillman residence.

“What’s crud?” he asked.

“I had a date tonight. I forgot.” Stackhouse punched out an apology text on her LG Voyager and fired it off to Ivey.

Jeffrey, so sorry! A missing-person case, but I found him dead. It’s a mess. Will text you soon. SORRY!

This wasn’t her case. She was Roanoke City. This was Mark Rowe’s baby, and now the Spillman home crawled with County detectives and crime scene techs. She was the only City cop.

She’d stayed because Rowe asked her to. “Talk to Antwone,” he said. “Get anything you can. About the dead body, his mother, his brother, Reggae’s poisoning, anything.”

She agreed and now she sat in the Crown Vic with Antwone, watching cops scour the house with flashlights, metal detectors, and a cadaver dog.

“They won’t find anything.” said Antwone softly. “I swear they won’t.”

“I believe you’re innocent, Antwone. But to be honest, I don’t know about Kingston.”

“He’s a punk but he didn’t kill Stevie.”

“Tell me again,” said Stackhouse.

“There’s nothing else to tell. We came home and there he was. After we finished freaking out, we rolled him up. Decided to bury him. I rented the tractor the first minute the store opened. I know it was stupid, but I did it.”

Stackhouse was no pathologist but she knew Stevie should be more decomposed than he was, if he’d been dead four years. He looked ghoulish and putrid, but too much of him remained. Either he died recently or he’d somehow been preserved from the elements. Like in a bog.

“Could your mother have moved Stevie’s body to the porch?” asked Stackhouse.

Antwone snorted some laughter through his nose. “My mom.”

“I know it feels like a weird question.”

“My mom can barely use the bathroom. She wasn’t dragging no corpse around.”

“Then who did?” asked Stackhouse.

“I’m telling you, I got no got’damn idea. That’s why we didn’t call you. I knew you’d think we did it. But we didn’t.”

“Where’s Stevie been, then?” said Stackhouse.

“You think I’m holding out on you. You think I know shit that I’m not telling you. But I’m not. I don’t know anything about where Stevie’s been or why his body would show up now.”

They had no positive ID on Stevie Spillman, but Antwone confirmed it was his necklace, a Christmas present, and he recognized some of the tattoo on Stevie’s ruined shoulder, a tattoo of a cross Stevie got on his eighteenth birthday.

“Were you dating Brandi back then? When Stevie went missing?”

“Naw. I’ve only known her six months,” said Antwone.

“What about the note? Keep talking about that.”

Antwone had been watching her through the mesh but now he looked down. After his arrest, he’d led Stackhouse and Rowe back to his house and shown them the note they’d found lying beside Stevie’s body.

Five words.

Now you die in hell.

“I don’t know nothing about the note,” he said.

“Is someone threatening you? Blackmailing you? If they are, I can help.”

“Listen. Listen to me. I. Don’t. Know. You think this makes sense? You think any of this makes sense? I got one brother shot in the hospital, I got another arrested, and my mom’s gone, and my dead brother turns up at the house! You think this makes sense to me?”

Stackhouse didn’t mind his shouting. Let him rage. She couldn’t blame him.

Across the gravel drive, Kingston sat in the back of another squad car. Unlike Antwone, Kingston’s hands were cuffed behind his back. A history of violence. He glared through the darkness at Stackhouse like everything was her fault.

She couldn’t fault that either.

Ten more minutes of questioning and she got nowhere, and Mark Rowe came out of the house to speak with her.

Conferencing in the dusk, he asked, “Anything?”

“No, and I believe him. He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“That makes all of us. Kingston is saying even less, only that he should’ve stayed in the Army because us cops are trying to kill him.” He squinted back at the house.

Stackhouse knew him enough to read body language. “What? You learned something.”

“Maybe I did. I can’t verify it yet.”

“Tell me.”

“That letter Antwone said was found with the body. Now you die in hell. We’ll run it for prints, obviously,” he said. “But on a hunch, I checked the house and the trailer for Spillman handwriting samples.”

“To compare lettering?”

Rowe nodded. “Yep.”

“And?”

“I found an exact match. Maybe we’ll get lucky and prints will confirm. But either way, I’m certain it’s Dionne Spillman’s handwriting. Their mom wrote the note they found with their dead brother. Now you die in hell.”

27

Nearing midnight, Antwone Spillman was released from the Roanoke County Police Department. He was charged with concealing a corpse with intent to prevent discovery. If things went well, the charge would be dropped. If things went sideways, additional charges would be piled on, like obstruction of justice. Potentially murder, but Stackhouse doubted it.

Kingston was not released. Last week he attacked an officer. This week, he was found with a dead body and he attempted fleeing the scene. The magistrate hadn’t even blinked—we’re keeping Kingston. His lawyer, Sally Tom, had her work cut out.

In the cool of the midnight parking lot, they yawned and talked over everything they didn’t know about the Spillman mystery. Was that Stevie? Assuming it was, where had he been? Where was his girlfriend, Allie, who’d also been missing four years? How had Stevie’s corpse magically appeared on the porch? Where was the mom? Who had poisoned Reggae? Who had shot Reggae?

With any luck, the pathologist could shed some light on Stevie’s body.

With any luck, a closer examination of Ms. Spillman’s trailer would provide clues to her whereabouts.

Stackhouse yawned and stretched, a motion Rowe admired. She knew he liked it, most men did, and she exaggerated the stretch, the back arch, the wide shoulders, just for him. She felt frisky. It wasn’t playing fair, and like that, the evening held a charge. A charge of two adults coming off a rough day, a shared attraction, shared wants and loneliness.

Crabtree reclined in his cruiser, talking on the phone to Moon Ruby. The only one among them with a significant other. Rowe and Stackhouse were single, an availability that blared like a silent alarm.

“I have a bad idea,” said Rowe.

Stackhouse half smiled. “What’s that?”

“Come to my place.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, we both need a shower.” He cleared his throat. “That is, if you’re interested—”

“I’m already on the way. You had me at shower.” Stackhouse rapped on Crabtree’s window. “You’re relieved. I’ll be with Detective Rowe.”

Crabtree opened the car door and lowered his cell phone. “Huh? Be with him where?”

“Mind your business, Alex.”

“Be with him where? Maybe I go too,” he said.

“Maybe you don’t.”

“Woman, you don’t call me by my first name.”

“See you tomorrow, Alex.”

She knew the way to Rowe’s townhouse, so she stopped for a tooth brush and tooth paste at a gas station, and she met him there. Butterflies were alight in her stomach, a hunger in her chest, like they’d let an animal loose that wouldn’t return to its cage.

He already had the shower running.

Inside the steam, Stackhouse undressed for him. As with her stretch and yawn, she exaggerated for his pleasure. She moved slow and dreamy, pulling clothes over her head, letting them catch in her hair, ignoring the vulnerability she felt, arms up. Then she helped him, enjoying the hard ridges of his body, garments dropping to the tile. She stepped into the water first and beckoned with her eyes. They hadn’t spoken, unwilling to burst the bubble, like if they were silent then somehow they weren’t breaking rules.

They alternated in the hot spray. Shuffling in the confined space, snickering, slick bodies sliding off each other, taking turns with the soap, taking turns with each other, too hot, too cold, kissing mouths and necks and downward. The heat melted off the police work. The scrim of mud and murder pooled at their feet, circling the drain.

Willing to speak at last, facing away from him, she whispered over her shoulder, “In here?”

“It’s never good in the shower.”

“We could try.”

“You’ll have a better time,” he murmured into her neck, “on your back.”

They emerged reborn, damp and clean and smelling of an Irish Spring soap bar.

She’d visited once before, weeks ago, a wild night they’d agreed not to replicate. An agreement neither side intended to keep. He lived simply, spartan, no television, his bed made.

On the mattress, she pulled him on top of her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, and her legs around his waist.

He was right—she did have a better time. He’d been married and he’d built up skills, serious skills, she thought, eyes closed. Patience and pacing and an attentive ear and a deep understanding of a woman, and oh myyyyyyyyy goodness. A man who wanted to make his woman happy, not just himself happy. Nothing was asked of her tonight.

Next time, she promised herself. Next time, when she had more energy, she’d melt him.

An hour later, he fell asleep and she was in need of water. She slipped out of bed on muscles that quivered, weak and satisfied and exhausted all at once, and she pulled on shorts, and a clean t-shirt from his drawer, and she padded into the kitchen. She filled a glass with ice water and she leaned against the counter.

You had me at shower.

You’ll have a better time, he said.

They hadn’t spoken since. Mark’s self-disciple and his convictions did not encourage trysts. In fact, the convictions forbade them outside of a holy commitment. On some level, she felt the same reality, that this was a short-term win but a long-term loss. She was giving him part of herself. He was a good man but he wasn’t forever, so she was being rented.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Jane screamed that Mark was using her.

She closed her eyes and drank.

We both know it ultimately ends in pain, but that’s okay, right? Kaye?

Even though it can’t be forever, is one night excusable?

It’s healthy to ignore the pain? Kaye?

Journal about it, Andie!

Shut up, Kaye!

Mark’s deceased wife smiled at her from pictures on most walls. She’d been adorable, even during cancer.

What would you think about the one-night excuses?

“You were a lucky woman,” murmured Stackhouse. “Though short-lived, you had it.”

You had it all. Some of us never will.

Some of us settle for being rented.

That wasn’t fair. To her or to Mark. If anything, he was being too good to her.

She finished the water. Her eyes still closed, she set her glass on the counter. Too close to the edge, it tilted over and fell and broke into little pieces.

“Oh sweet Garfield.” She snatched a paper towel and gathered the wet pieces into a pile. She needed a dust pan. Crouched on the balls of her feet, her ankle sore, she opened the cabinet below the sink, searching. In the dim light, she made out a bottle of dish detergent. A sponge. An old flower vase. She moved a bag to the side, and behind it she found a dust pan and little broom. Ah-hah.

She reached deeper inside to grab it. As she did, her eyes fell onto the bag.

She frowned, and she picked up the bag instead of the dust pan. Leaning backward, she raised the bag to the light.

A loud gasp, and she dropped the bag like it burned her. It was manufactured by a chemical company named Luciteria. They claimed to provide samples of elements from the periodic table to scientists. She stood and backed away from the bag.

It was a bag of poisonous arsenic crystals.

28

Stackhouse went running the next morning, early in the fog. Her first real jog in twelve days, and she tread lightly. After half a mile, her wrapped ankle had worked out the stiffness, shedding the pain, and she moved freer, longer strides. Her sore ribs only complained because of how tightly she cinched the chest pack.

Each footfall sounded like arsenic.

Arsenic, arsenic, arsenic, arsenic, arsenic.

At the river, she slowed to a walk. Hands on her hips, she sucked air and nodded at the other joggers along the popular route. Not yet eight in the morning, two maniacs were already playing tennis.

Tennis. Dr. Jeffrey Ivey. She’d missed her date with him last night.

She winced. She’d done a lot more than that last night.

She unzipped her chest pack. Inside was her service Glock 19. No matter how tightly you cinched the pack, running with a pistol felt awkward, even smaller models like hers, the thing bouncing around. It was necessary, though. Her fingers found her phone and she pulled it out. Hoping for a message from Jeffrey. And Mark.

From TWO MEN, Andie, you disaster.

They had each texted.

>> No worries, I understand. I’m sure being a detective is like being a doc. Sometimes duty calls and there’s nothing to be done. Dinner again soon. Or we could throw caution to the wind and go to the theater. Wild times. Not to cause you alarm, but I miss you.

Stackhouse smiled against her will.

Jeffrey missed her.

Little does he know, I’m a huge whore.

No no no, Andie, that’s awful self-talk. You’re human, is all. You’re not a whore. Huge mess, maybe.

>> What time did you leave? I didn’t hear. You’re very sneaky, Stack. Next time let me make you coffee at least.

From Rowe. This time, no smile on her face. Stackhouse had crept out of Rowe’s townhouse right after discovering the bag of arsenic. Zero chance of sleeping there after that.

The thing was, arsenic had other uses. Like a pesticide against rodents. The other thing was, no WAY did she think Detective Mark Rowe was the person who’d poisoned Reggae.

No. Way.

But…

Sweet Lincoln, why did he have that bag? She needed to ask him. She needed to hear the innocent reason.

Her fingers hovered over the keys.

MARK WHAT THE HELL!

No. Not like this. Not over a text. Calm down, Andie.

You need hobbies. All you think about is crime. Mark isn’t trying to kill you. You’re obsessed. You need people. You need a social life. Not just shack up with Mark.

Instead of texting Rowe, she responded to Ivey.

Yes! Dinner AND a movie soon! Maybe even a hike.

She sat on a bench, cool against her skin. She wasn’t the kind of girl to date two men. Not that it was a moral disaster, but that she was a disaster. She couldn’t manage one guy, much less two.

Life is better with a man around, Andie.

Yes, but TWO?

Rowe didn’t want to date her. Rowe wanted to admire her from afar. He wanted to watch her stretch and undress, and he wanted to rent her.

Nope. I turned him on purposefully. I knew he was vulnerable and I made it happen. Not his fault.

Not all his fault.

She stomped on all her stupid inner thoughts and sent him a message.

I couldn’t sleep. I’ll call you later today. Last night was lovely.

She snapped her LG phone closed before she could dwell on him, and she zipped it back into her pouch, and she ran home to find Crabtree waiting, thick arms crossed, glaring at her.

“Gonna be with Mark, huh,” he said.

“I was!”

“You went jogging alone.”

“Yeah but.” She slapped her chest. “I took a gun.”

“Take me next time, or I’ll handcuff us together. You think I’m playing, but the shower could get real awkward.”

“What shower?” She said it quickly. “There’s no awkward shower.”

“What?”

“I mean. Sorry. I mean, I’m about to shower. Now.”

“Good.”

“Forget I said anything about a shower. I’ll be ready in twenty. It’s fine.”

“Stop being weird.”

Inside, over her mug of coffee Kaye shot her a look and said, “Someone got her color back, and looks fresh as a daisy, even though she got home laaaaate.”

Stackhouse mumbled, “I went for a jog. My ankle feels good.”

“I bet that’s not all that feels good.”

“You hush.”

After the morning briefing, Stackhouse spent an hour catching up on paperwork and online databases, and responding to emails from County bulls about last night’s discovery at the Spillman house.

She updated her list.

SPILLMAN CASE

Did Pete shoot Reggae? How?

If not, who did?

Why was Pete stabbed?

Are Stevie/Allison involved?

WHO shot Reggae?

WHO poisoned Reggae?

Is Ms. Spillman missing??

Why did Jack Gough’s wife visit prison that morning?

Who killed Stevie?

How did Stevie’s body get onto the porch???

Every time she learned something new, it opened up another question. Could she answer any of these questions today? She needed a victory. How about … Jack Gough’s wife?

She scrutinized her calendar and spied a free hour, and when it arrived she bolted, silently beckoning Crabtree to follow her before any nosey lieutenants and police chiefs saw she had autonomy.

They raced to Vinton on Elm Avenue, to the trailer park where Staci Lynn Gough lived. Jack Gough, the man who stabbed old Pete in prison. Old Pete, the man who may or may not have shot Reggae Spillman. That felt so long ago, but Reggae still lay in a hospital bed.

“Ah hah,” said Stackhouse when she saw Staci Lynn’s car at the trailer. She knocked on the screen door and waited while a big dog inside yowled.

“Gotta say.” Crabtree breathed in deep and turned to survey the trailer park, thumbs tucked into his utility belt. “Running around town with you, being a detective don’t seem all that fun.”

“You aren’t having fun?”

“Mostly you drive around and knock on doors but nobody’s home. Yesterday wrestling in the mud was the best time I had in two weeks.”

“You’re an action junkie,” said Stackhouse.

“Hunting for clues is boring. I’m a not-boring-junkie, is what I am.”

Stackhouse pretended she wasn’t stung. She liked having him near. Life was better…

She casually glanced around the trailer park. A dim pall hovered over Stackhouse, the Jane Newton cloud, always wondering if the woman had followed her, if she was watching.

“By the way, you should get your strut back,” said Crabtree.

“My ankle is healing.”

“Used to walk like a gangster. Now you walk like a prissy ballerina. Nobody respects ballerinas.”

The door opened and a woman stuck her head out. The barking dog grew louder.

“Yeah?”

“Ms. Gough? Staci Lynn Gough?” asked Stackhouse. “I’m Detective Andie Stackhouse and this is Officer Crabtree. You’re in no trouble, I’m just hoping to clarify something.”

Staci Lynn stepped outside barefoot, kicking the big dog to keep it inside. Staci Lynn had a cute figure, thought Stackhouse, though heavily tattooed. Thin because of the cigarettes she smoked, evident around her mouth. Her septum was pierced with a silver ring. She hugged herself and bounced like it was cold, though it was already eighty.

“Yeah that’s me. This about Jack?”

Stackhouse nodded. “It is.”

“My dumbass husband. Soon to be ex-husband. His lawyer called and told me what Jack did. Well, his lawyer’s bitch, the assistant, what’s-her-name.”

“I didn’t know you and Jack were getting a divorce.”

“Served him papers a few months ago,” she said. “I did it myself. See, I caught him with a sex worker before he got locked up. Guy can’t keep his hands off. That’s how we met, in fact.”

“You and Jack met… Oh, I get it.”

Staci Lynn nodded. “I don’t do it no more. Not since we got married and I got a real job managing the Arby’s. Money’s not as good.”

Stackhouse should’ve done her research on Staci Lynn first. She was caught off guard, like going to the range with the wrong gun. “Jack’s lawyer told you he stabbed a man named Pete Burman?”

“His lawyer’s bitch told me.”

“Right, sorry,” said Stackhouse and she heard Crabtree snicker through his nose.

Staci Lynn cocked her head to look around Stackhouse. “That you, Alex?”

“Hey Staci Lynn, how you doing,” he said.

“Doing good, sweetie, how you.”

“I’m in my prime, girl.”

“You still single, sweetie?” she asked.

“Naw I’m locked down. Moon Ruby. You know Moon Ruby?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell. That’s a shame, Alex. Looking good.”

“So, uhh,” said Stackhouse, wondering what just happened. “Jack stabbed and killed Pete Burman. Did you know Pete?”

“I didn’t.”

“Do you know the name?”

Staci Lynn shifted from one foot to the other. “Never heard it in my life. Some lady from the prison already asked that. I didn’t know the guy. Pretty sure he was never one of mine, or if he was I don’t remember. Trust me, sweetie, whatever happened in that jail, it wasn’t over me. I’m dropping Jack like I should have a long time ago.”

“You visited him the morning of the stabbing. What was that about?”

“I did?” Staci Lynn frowned. “When was this?”

“Twelve days ago. Maybe thirteen? Not last Wednesday, the one before.”

“Oh sweetie, you got your days confused. I ain’t seen Jack since long before. Not since I served him.”

“The police have you logged in that day.”

“Do they?” Staci Lynn screwed up her face, peering upward at the sky. Her eyes looked upward and to her left, the natural position the eyes take when working through memories, not when conjuring a lie. To the left, truth, to the right, an untruth. The eyes are a giveaway, a tell Stackhouse had learned. “Hold up one sec, maybe I lost my mind.” Staci Lynn opened the screen door, shoved the territorial mutt back in, rummaged around, and returned with a cigarette and a date book. She spoke around the cigarette, which wasn’t lit. “Not last Wednesday, the one before?”

“Right. What’s that, ten days ago? Eleven?”

Staci Lynn shook her head at the calendar in her hands. “Cops got their days wrong. I was visiting Momma in Norfolk. I took three days off.”

That struck Stackhouse as unlikely. “Are you sure? They have a record of you in the Family Room.”

“The hell’s the Family Room?”

“A room at the jail where couples can have privacy,” said Stackhouse.

“Privacy? Hell, anytime I been there, me and Jack are yelling at each other through the glass, cameras and cops everywhere.”

“You’re saying, ten days ago, last Wednesday, you didn’t visit your husband in jail in any room, you’re sure of it?” said Stackhouse.

“Sure as can be. First vacation I took this year. I was with Momma and we can call her right now, if you like. Alex, you ever meet Momma?”

“Course I never met your mom, Staci Lynn, shit.” He said it like sheeeeyit.

“Okay, well.” Stackhouse rubbed at her forehead. She felt she was grabbing at greasy soap, the facts always slipping out of her hands, getting nowhere. “I need to double-check their records.”

“I guess you do. No offense, sweetie. Come back, if you need, and we can call Momma.”

Back at their cars, Stackhouse asked, “How do you know Staci Lynn?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Crabtree.

“Did you two—”

“I said don’t worry about it, nosey. Long time ago. I’m in a better place now. Least I’m in a better place until you start asking questions. You want to be a detective? Solve Reggae Spillman. Don’t solve me.”

Stackhouse grinned. “Oooooh Alex, you dog.”

“Oh Alex my ass, you call me Sergeant, or I’ll let Jane Newton eat you.” He ducked in and slammed the door and refused to look at her.

Annoyed at the jailhouse deputies and their bookkeeping, frustrated with Kingston and Antwone, confused over the bag of arsenic, all of the percolating unpleasant emotions like a bad cocktail, Stackhouse was racing to the jail when her phone rang—Dr. Jeffrey Ivey calling.

A reflexive smile. Some of the tension left her jaw.

“Good morning,” said Ivey. “I’m crashing soon, but I thought I’d let you know Reggae Spillman is doing well. Having your ribs opened and your organs pushed around to look for a bullet and a bleeding vessel, that takes months to recover from. But I saw him shuffling around today with help from an orderly. A nurse told me he’s asking why his brothers and his mother aren’t answering his calls.”

Stackhouse wrinkled her nose. Maybe because the mother was missing, one brother was in prison, and the other brother’s phone had been confiscated because of the corpse of the fourth brother.

“Okay, that’s good to know,” she said. “I appreciate the phone call and I’ll visit him as soon as possible. Maybe right now.”

“The text you sent me last night. You found a missing person but he’s dead. It’s a guy?”

“It’s a guy and the whole thing is a mess.”

“Does it involve Jane Newton?”

A grim smile from Stackhouse. “Different case.”

“And you still have the big scary cop with you?”

She laughed. “The one who threatened you if you put your hands on me.”

“He called me Tennis Jeffrey.”

“He’s with me and he’s getting scarier by the day.”

“Good. I feel better knowing you have backup. We’ve only been on three dates but I’m invested.”

“Three dates?”

“I’m including your trip to the emergency department and also my house call,” said Ivey.

“Those do not count.”

“I was glowing afterward, so they count. To me.”

Oh my. What a nice line. So cheesy.

Stackhouse’s mouth worked, no sane syllables forming. A touch speechless.

Her phone beeped.

Mark Rowe was calling.

Rats. I’m not ready.

Too bad, Andie, grow up. You have to ask.

“I need to take this incoming call, Jeffrey. Dinner and a movie soon.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up.”

Unable to concentrate, she pulled over and parked illegally in front of a red fire hydrant, and she answered Rowe’s call.

“Update on Stevie Spillman. I talked to the coroner’s office,” he said. “Dominion Pathology Associates has three MEs out on vacation, so they’re backed up. My guy Woo did a cursory exam on Stevie Spillman and says the thick layer of adipocere means he’s been in the water this whole time, and that he’s been dead years, not weeks or months. Other than that, a time of death window will be hard. Likely dead longer than two years, less than five, that kind of thing.”

Stackhouse skimmed backward, beyond her recent legal classes, back to putrefaction and decomposition seminars. “Adipocere is a waxy build-up on submerged corpses.”

“Right. It preserves the body from decay. Or at least slows it down. The Spillmans live near that stream. If Stevie fell in and got pinned somehow, drowning, that solves our mystery. Maybe his girlfriend Allie is down there too, buried in the muck.”

“Both of them were accidentally pinned underwater?” She laid her disbelief on thick.

“It’s only a theory,” said Rowe.

“How would Stevie’s body get to the porch with a note from his mom, if he’d accidentally drowned?”

“I didn’t say it was a good theory.” Rowe’s voice held a smile. “I’m just thinking out loud, here. Woo says he’ll get to Stevie in a couple days. In the meantime, Stevie’s in cold storage and we still know nothing.”

Stackhouse nodded to herself. Still grasping at things they couldn’t hold. She looked through her windshield, fractured with light, to the traffic beyond.

Time to take the plunge.

“You still there?” he said.

“Mark, listen, I gotta ask. Why the hell do you have arsenic under your sink?”

“Sorry, I think you broke up. Say it again.”

“You have arsenic under your sink. Why?” said Stackhouse.

“Are you saying arsenic? I don’t have arsenic under my sink.”

“Yes you do. I found it last night, hunting for a dust pan. I broke one of your glasses by accident.”

“Is that why you left?” Rowe laughed and Stackhouse begrudged him for it. She heard sounds of movement. “I’m still home. I’ll look right now. But I don’t have any. What would I use it for?”

“You tell me.”

More sounds. Rowe in the kitchen, crouching down with a grunt. “Alright, I’m here looking for it. But I don’t…” Stackhouse heard a crinkle, like from a bag. “Whoa. Whooooaaaaa.”

Stackhouse should’ve done this in person. Over the phone she couldn’t tell if he was putting on an act.

Of course he isn’t, Andie! This is the person on earth you can trust most. Him and Kaye and that’s the whole list! Believe in Mark when all else fails. The one true reality, believe in him.

“You see?” she said.

“Stack. Oh man. This is… I’m floored. I don’t… I guess it’s been here since I moved in? And I never noticed?”

She hadn’t considered that angle. The previous owner had left it.

Doubtful.

“Or maybe… Jeez, Stack, I don’t know. You’re spooked out, aren’t you. About me.”

“No,” she said. “A little. I trust you. I do, I really do. But.”

“It was a shock.”

“Big time.”

“You trust me, but it’d be good to verify,” he said.

“Yep, it would. I should’ve taken it. Directly to our crime techs, but I was too distressed.”

“I’m taking it there now. Grabbing my keys.” A pause. “There’s another possibility. Maybe even a probability. Of how this got here.”

“What’s that?”

“Whoever poisoned Reggae,” said Rowe, “that person planted the bag here. They know we’re hunting them and they’ve been inside my home.”

29

Stackhouse and Crabtree entered Reggae Spillman’s hospital room quietly, like they might frighten a stag. He’d been moved to a room with a curtain partition, sharing with a recovery patient they couldn’t see.

Reggae was awake and reclined, his head propped up on two thin pillows, eyes fixed to the television. The sound murmured out of a speaker in his bed. He’d lost at least ten pounds since she spoke to him at the Catawba Sports Bar, his cheeks sunken.

Without moving, Reggae’s eyes swiveled to them.

Stackhouse knocked. “Reggae? Can we come in?”

He pressed the remote to mute the television.

“Good morning. Is it still morning? I’m Detective Stackhouse and this is Officer Crabtree. We visited you several times but you don’t remember, I’m sure.”

“You’re the first ones.”

“Antwone’s been here,” she said.

“He has? You know him?”

“I do. I asked a doctor I know to keep an eye on you, Dr. Ivey.”

Crabtree brought a chair for Stackhouse and set it near the bed.

Stackhouse drummed up some cheer. “I heard you went for a walk.”

“Yes ma’am.. About killed me. Harder than a ruck march.” He shifted in bed and closed his eyes against the discomfort.

“Progress is progress. For you I’m sure it was like climbing a mountain.”

“I was pumped, yeah.”

“Listen. I was there, the night you were shot,” said Stackhouse. “Do you remember it?”

“No, ma’am, they told me some details, nothing specific. I don’t remember anything. Why were you there?”

Stackhouse was struck by how different Reggae was from his brother Kingston—Reggae was apologizing for not remembering the night he was shot. Kingston had tried beating her to death.

“Or better yet, who shot me?” said Reggae.

“We don’t know. Yet.”

“For real?”

“It’s complicated. If you’re up for it, I have questions.”

“Yes ma’am, that’s fine.” He swallowed. “Hey, do you know where my brothers are? Or my mom?”

“That’s complicated too.” Stackhouse’s brain ran through a checklist of the sordid, ridiculous facts and mysteries she could confide to Reggae, most of which would only make his hospital stay worse. “I will personally get in touch with Antwone. He’s been worried about you, and I bet he’d like to come later today.”

Reggae grinned and it nearly broke her heart. “Good. That’d be good. I just got out of the military, you know?”

“I did know that.” She cleared her throat. “That night, at the bar, you were shot, Reggae, but you were also poisoned. Have the nurses or doctors told you that? You ingested a lethal amount of arsenic. It’s a poisonous mineral that breaks into dust, and it was either sprinkled on your food or mixed in with a drink. Or something else we haven’t thought of. You threw some of it up into the toilet, and most of the rest was dumped with the blood, saving your life. We’re trying to determine why someone wanted you dead so bad that they would poison and shoot you.”

Reggae’s eyes had widened and his fingers shook on the remote. “I promise, ma’am, I have no idea. That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. I didn’t know that I had a single enemy in the whole world.”

“What about Pete Burman?”

“Old Pete?” Reggae chuckled nervously, and winced, one hand going to his chest. “Pete’s a sweetheart. I love old Pete. Why would you ask about him?”

“He was at the bar. He bought you a drink.”

“Pete’s harmless. You don’t need to worry about him. He wouldn’t kill me. Besides I bet I didn’t drink it. What’s he saying? Did you arrest him?”

Stackhouse shot Crabtree a look, and they tacitly agreed—don’t answer that.

The phone in Stackhouse’s pocket buzzed. She ignored it. “Reggae, the reason I was at the Catawba Sports bar—”

“Is that where I was shot? I remember we were supposed to go…” His eyes clouded. “No, I remember driving there. Me and Kingston. Did they shoot Kingston too?”

“Kingston was unharmed. No poison, not gunshot. I was at the bar to talk to you about Stevie.” Even as she prepared her next question, it rang hollow. Could your attempted murder be related to your missing brother? How could Reggae possible answer that. She faltered, not knowing how to proceed.

“Why’d you want to talk about Stevie? You think my missing brother shot me?”

“No, nothing like that. We’re still hoping…” Hoping what, he shows up one day? He already had. Stackhouse felt blind. “We’re hoping for answers. Like what happened to him and Allie. And you.”

“Yeah I’d like to know that too. Especially Allie.” He took as deep as breath as he could before the pain stopped him. “I got a bad feeling Stevie talked her into running away. She was younger than him, did you know? They ran away but she wasn’t ready for it. Girl was too innocent, too young.” He grinned weakly. “This is the most I’ve talked in a while, ma’am.”

“You’re doing great. Did you know Allie well?”

“She was dating my brother, so yeah I knew her. Truth be told, ma’am, I was half in love with her. Too sweet for this world.” He yawned and said, “Ow.”

“You told the investigators you hadn’t heard from her, but that was years ago. You still never have?”

“No. I never did. I hope she’s okay. Same with Stevie. I miss him. Soon as I left the Army, I knew it was a bad idea. I missed it immediately. Now they might never take me back.” He blinked slowly. “When can I go home?”

“I don’t know.” Her mind flashed to the Spillman house and the rattling AC units and the mosquitos. “Home to live with Antwone?”

“Yeah, but me and Kingston have some money saved. Gonna get an apartment.”

Crabtree’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at it. “Ah shit.”

She pivoted on the chair. “What?”

“The chief calling.”

“Almond? Better answer it.”

Crabtree stepped outside the room.

Reggae raised a hand to tap her arm. “You’ll tell Antwone I’m awake?”

“I will.”

“And my mom?” said Reggae.

Stackhouse hesitated. “As soon as I can.”

Another yawn. “Ma’am, I’m getting awful tired. I might slip off.”

And he did. Like that, his eyes closed and he was out.

Wish I fell asleep that quickly.

She sat with him another minute, in case he woke, before slipping outside and pulling the door half closed.

Crabtree closed his flip-phone. “Chief’s pissed.”

“What now?”

“You remember old man Caldwell? Owns the great property across the creek? He came to the station.”

“To the city? He lives in the county,” said Stackhouse.

“He came to complain about us. Me and you. Says he owns the land the Spillman boys were digging up with the tractor, and he saw us there too. Caldwell wants the Spillman boys arrested, and us fired. He said all the boys except Antwone should be shot. And the chief wants to know what the hell we were doing in the county yesterday, and checking up on a county patient today.”

“Crud.”

“Hell yeah, crud. You fixing to get me fired, Stack.”

Almond, that petty coward. On the television telling the media I requested a safer assignment.

“Daggone it, Crabtree, why’d you answer your phone.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“I’m too into this Spillman thing now, I can’t just quit,” she said.

“You’re gonna get chained to your desk, is what you’re gonna do, if you don’t play ball.”

She sighed. “Or worse.”

Stackhouse ordered lunch at a Chick-fil-A drive-thru. Crabtree didn’t; he brought his own food. He stayed away from gluten and he said seed oil was killing everyone. He idled in his car eating chicken and rice out of a Tupperware container, and Stackhouse, shoving waffle fries into her mouth, wondered when she would ever fully be an adult.

Her radio ordered her to meet Val Farmer in Vinton, where an elderly resident reported a traumatic home invasion. Stackhouse hoped it might be a Jane Newton clue but it was the elderly man’s rotten son-in-law, he claimed, as a medic dabbed at a swollen cut on his forehead. They drove to the son-in-law’s house, who admitted breaking in, but said the old man hadn’t been assaulted, the old fart had just fallen down. Yeah he’d stolen some shit, but it was all his shit in the first place.

Val arrested him for assault and battery against a family member, for breaking and entering, and for burglary. Officer Tankersley cuffed the guy and ducked him into the back of his cruiser.

Val leaned against her car and crossed her arms. “Hey you kiddos. Why don’t you ride around in the same car?”

“I’m the driver,” Stackhouse and Crabtree said in unison, resenting the other for it.

Val grinned. “Ah, that’s why. Couple of assholes. Roger dodger.”

Back at the Barn, in the safety of her car, away from Almond and other prying eyes, Stackhouse made a phone call to Rowe.

“Mark, I talked to Reggae. He’s awake. He remembers nothing about that night. Thinks the world of old Pete Burman. I didn’t have the heart to tell him … anything really. He said something interesting, that he was half in love with Allie. She was too innocent and sweet. Have you looked into her?”

“No. I have several cases open and I was chasing the Spillman angle. I don’t know much about Allie.”

“Almond is pulling me off my loan to the county. Our days are numbered.”

“That prick,” said Rowe.

“Hard to blame him. We’re jammed up.”

“I’m back at my townhouse,” he said. “County crime techs are testing my milk and juice and food and air vents for arsenic. This is what it’s like to be you, huh? Wondering if someone is out to kill you?”

“Tons of fun, isn’t it.”

“So far so good. But get this—latent prints just rang me with some juicy gossip. That arsenic bag? They found my prints, your prints, and… Mama Spillman’s fingerprints.”

Stackhouse jumped in her car seat. “No.”

“Plus they match the fingerprints on that note, ‘Now you die in hell.’”

“Ms. Spillman hid a bag of arsenic in your house? That means, what, the bag is hers, so she tried to poison her own son, Reggae, at the bar? Then she hid the bag at your house? She killed Stevie four years ago and wrote that note to scare her remaining sons and she ran off … because why?”

“Slow down, kid. We’re not solving anything right now, we’re not leaping to conclusions. We’re gathering facts to see where they lead. Right now, they’re leading to us having a conversation with Dionne Spillman to get more facts.”

“Mark, she hid a bag of arsenic in your cabinet!”

“Maybe she did. Or maybe Antwone took the bag out of her trailer, where she’d been poisoning rats—we found a dozen rodents in that thing—and Antwone hid the bag at my house. Or Kingston hid it. Or something else we haven’t thought of yet. We’re getting closer, but we’re not there.”

Stackhouse forced herself to nod. She’d only been a detective a few months. Listen to the pro. “You’re right. I’m leaping ahead. But still. It’s a big holy shit.”

“Big holy cow.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have time to help you interrogate her. Assuming you find her. If I try, Almond will have me walking the beat. Let me know what happens?” She hated the words. Letting this go stung. This was the case she wanted to work on.

“You bet, Stack.”

“Oh hey, one more thing. Send me the file on Allie Anderson? Stevie’s girlfriend? Reggae got me curious about her. I’ll read it in my free time, at night. Almond can’t yell at me about that,” she said.

“I’m making a note now. Thanks.”

Rowe hung up. His silence felt sudden and loud, like a dismissal, like she’d done something wrong. Her time working on the Spillman case came to an abrupt ending.

They’re using you, Andrea.

30

Antwone sat in his hot car outside the hospital, smoking a joint. More specifically, smoking a roach, the remainder of yesterday’s joint. Resin has accumulated at the tip, creating an intense taste, not pleasant, but better to smoke it than waste it.

He’d parked at the end of the lot, removed from other cars. His windows were down, letting the strong marijuana odor waft away. Rich people hated the scent. So did his supervisors in the physiotherapy department at Lewis Gale. I smell weed on you again, said Dr. Morris, I’ll force you to take a drug test.

Up yours, Morris. I won’t be here much longer.

When Antwone was in elementary school, he’d stolen one of his mother’s cigarettes. By the time he reached middle school, he was stealing her weed and rolling tiny joints for himself. So small they burned his fingers. He’d like to quit. But he didn’t know how.

Plus, weed made all the problems less awful. Made Brandi less annoying, his mother less cumbersome, his brother Kingston more bearable, his other brother Reggae less … less shot.

One brother dead.

One brother in jail.

One brother in the hospital.

And his mom was missing.

Today wasn’t the day to quit. He took a long drag, the cinders hot and scalding his mouth, and he flicked the roach into the grass. He held the warm smoke in his lungs. He held it. His eyes watering.

He held it…

Three years ago, Antwone’s mother had been drunk and she said she knew who killed Stevie. Killed Stevie, he asked? He’s dead, you’re sure? How do you know? Mom, how do you know?

His mother hadn’t spoken again. She grew cold and mean.

He held it…

Now his mother was gone. Dead, he assumed. Killed by the same person who killed Stevie. He assumed. And probably Antwone himself was next on the list, stalked by some madman.

He held it…

Lungs burning.

Secretly he hoped Kingston never got out of prison. An awful thing to hope for, and he hated himself.

Finally he released. A blue cloud, all his problems, disappearing up into the sky.

Got’dammit.

He shoved open the car door and tugged off a shirt—he wore one beneath. Shedding a layer helped with the odor of the roach. Helped the rich people be cool.

Strolling into the lobby, the place felt soft, no hard edges, nothing that could hurt him. Too cool to be bothered right now.

On the fifth floor, at the sight of his brother, he started crying.

Reggae sat up and winced and reached for him. Antwone wiped his eyes and dragged a chair closer and they gripped hands. My fault, all my fault, Antwone wanted to say, but couldn’t, to Reggae’s many questions. He just kept asking and asking, and Antwone had no answers.

Inside his high, Antwone wanted to sleep. To keep his eyes closed and to drift away. So tired. He leaned his head against the cool metal rails of Reggae’s bed, arm stretched up to hold his brother.

Must be nice, laying in a bed, inside a medical haze, no cares, no worries. Other people handling your problems. Everything Antwone tried to handle fell apart.

None of this had gone right.

“C’mon, Ant, quit crying. You can’t come in here and cry.”

At last, Antwone raised up and sighed. “You look good.”

“No I don’t,” said Reggae. “Last month I was a corporal. Now I can’t even walk.”

“They shot the wrong brother.”

“Don’t say that, Ant.” Reggae had called him Ant his whole life. He called him Dad for a short while until Antwone made him stop, said, I’m your brother, and I don’t know who your dad is. “Don’t say that, Ant, I mean it.”

“They did. Shot the wrong brother. Reggae. Listen. Gonna get you out of here.”

“Doctors will let me go? Did you ask?”

“No I didn’t ask. But we gotta go.” Antwone’s eyes felt scratchy, his throat dry. “We gotta go.”

“Where’s Kingston? He hasn’t visited neither.”

Antwone scooted his chair closer. Close enough to dare the truth. He’d been dreading this, practicing it, so he didn’t stall, he went for it, get it over with. He told Reggae about Kingston. In jail. He admitted their mother was missing. He even sucked up enough courage to whisper about Stevie’s body appearing, their long lost brother.

Somewhere during the story, Reggae pulled the sheet over his head and tried not to listen. A world of misery dumped on him. Antwone had tried so hard to save his brothers. None of it worked.

“So you heard?” said Antwone at the end of the story. “We got to go.”

“Go where?” Reggae’s voice sounded small. Sounded like he was six.

“Far away. And we can’t never come back.”

“What about Kingston?”

Antwone lowered his head back to the metal rail.

“They shot the wrong brother.”

31

The floodlights outside their house clicked on at two in the morning.

Stackhouse, inured to this after a week and a half of deer triggering the motion-sensors, sensed the change in light through her eyelids. Prepared to ignore it, she was rolling away from the window when she heard it.

A hiss outside. A noise of surprise.

Instantly alert, she flipped the covers off and snuck to the window on bare feet.

The triggered light was at their rear door, below Stackhouse’s window. Their yard looked like a bright green eye, an iris surrounded by the black of night, lurid-looking when she was supposed to be asleep.

There. A shadow slipping out of view. Not a deer, a human form.

Her heart froze. From under her pillow she retrieved her Glock, and she drew back the slide to inspect the chamber out of habit.

Sweet Lincoln, don’t let that be Jane. Use the fear. It’s a tool.

Pausing beside Kaye’s door, she opted to let her roommate sleep. If this was a true emergency, the gunfire or shouting would wake her.

Stackhouse pinched herself—fully awake, not a nightmare.

She slipped downstairs, quiet as death. The main level was entirely open. No walls, other than the bathroom. Windows everywhere. The back of the huge main level was brighter from the motion-sensor’s ambient light.

Crabtree had heard the noise outside too. He crouched in the dark, near the front door, and he held up a finger to silence her.

She nodded.

He picked the radio up from next to his feet, and he waggled it. “I called it in. Help coming.”

Stackhouse barely heard him. She took turns wiping her hands on her pajama shorts. “You’re vulnerable there. She can see you through too many windows.”

The refrigerator clicked on and they both flinched.

Stackhouse pointed to the side yard. “I saw a shadow run that way.”

“She?”

Stackhouse shrugged. “Didn’t get a good look.”

A car drove by their front street. It didn’t slow, headlights cold and uncaring.

“Just stay alive, Stack, a few more minutes.” Crabtree crept away from the front door, into the kitchen.

Stackhouse, by duck-walking, left the stairs and reached the hallway bathroom, to peer through the window into the side yard.

Jane Newton returned her gaze, big green eyes wide and watchful.

Her heart leapt.

NO, Andie, that’s your reflection! Jeeeeeeez.

She would panic and shoot herself if she wasn’t careful.

The side yard’s motion-sensed light clicked on, a bright blast. Another whisper outside, but this time both she and Crabtree detected multiple voices.

“Oh shit.” Hushed laughter in the yard. “You turned on the light!”

“I didn’t do that! You’re too drunk!”

She and Crabtree made eye-contact, listening.

At least one male, and one female voice.

Crabtree dashed to the kitchen window to look out and he said, “Aw hell no.”

“What? Just kids?”

Crabtree threw open the front door and stormed out. From the window, Stackhouse watched him surprise four young adults. A woman screamed and her partners took off running. By their gait, Stackhouse knew they were drunk.

Relief flooded her system.

She was in no mood to chase the crowd, and Crabtree was in no mood for games. He caught one, the screaming woman, and that was enough. She tried running and Crabtree manhandled her. On the front porch, he shoved her to the floorboards and called Stackhouse to get his cuffs.

“I’m sorry,” cried the young woman. “I didn’t… We didn’t know! Help! Police!”

“Crabtree, she’s a college kid. They were trespassing. Probably looking for a place to make out,” said Stackhouse, benevolent in her safety and relief.

“My ass.” Crabtree grabbed the woman by the arm and twisted her so Stackhouse could see the front of her shirt. Stackhouse’s own pixelated face stared back, above the words KILLER. “They got drunk and came here looking for you.”

Seeing one of those damn t-shirts galvanized Stackhouse’s anger. She fetched his handcuffs. Crabtree Mirandized her and the girl wept drunken tears, and Stackhouse had no pity to spare.

Two squad cars met them on the front sidewalk, and Crabtree explained the disturbance. He was arresting the girl for trespassing with the intent to commit criminal damage. They’d get her friends tomorrow.

Stackhouse trudged upstairs, the leftover adrenaline souring in her stomach. In her bedroom, Kaye slept peacefully inside her white noise. Stackhouse smiled—Kaye remaining safe was important to her.

An hour later, Stackhouse lay wide awake, staring at the Glock that peeked from beneath the pillow. KILLER, the shirt read. They wore her shirt like they wore Freddy Krueger masks. They celebrated Jane Newton like they did Jason, from the horror movies. A society who loved the killers and hated the cops.

Exhaustion the next morning.

She let Crabtree handle the trespasser in her cell. Better for her to stay aloof, outside the fray.

She updated her Spillman list before the morning briefing.

SPILLMAN CASE

Did Pete shoot Reggae? How?

If not, who did?

Why was Pete stabbed?

Are Stevie/Allison involved?

WHO shot Reggae?

WHO poisoned Reggae?

Is Ms. Spillman missing??

Why did Jack Gough’s wife visit prison that morning?

Who killed Stevie?

How did Stevie’s body get onto the porch???

Did Ms. Spillman put an arsenic bag at Mark’s house?

Is Jack Gough’s wife lying about not visiting him?

Not that this list mattered anymore. Almond would chew her out if she kept chasing the answers.

In the packed conference room, her mind tumbled with thoughts about society’s mad obsession, and she remembered a loose end she never tied up. She’d ordered an autopsy and hadn’t received the report.

Surely Almond couldn’t fire her over that. It would be negligent not to read the report and pass along the findings. Her duty demanded she do it. And prudence demanded she do it quietly.

She had a call with the fugitive task force in ninety minutes. That provided enough time to race to the pathologist. She shook off her fatigue and waved for Crabtree.

“Finished with the trespasser? Let’s go,” she said.

“We gone get fired?”

“If you don’t move your ass, we will."

At the morgue, the bored attendant provided them each a hairnet, booties for their shoes, and masks to go over their mouths and noses.

“The masks don’t help,” warned the attendant.

Stackhouse swallowed. “I know.”

Crabtree was sweating. “This is some bullshit. Why we doing this?”

“It’s our job.”

“I ain’t never been in one of these places, and I’m scared as hell.”

Stackhouse smiled inside her mask. The big muscular sergeant was terrified. “C’mon, wimp. Pete Burman is dead. We protect and serve.”

“You better shut up before I get mad.”

In the cold, stainless steel room, Woo glanced up from his desk.

“Whoa! It’s the monster hunter.” Woo’s voice echoed off every hard surface. Nothing soft in this room.

“Mr. Woo, good morning. I’m here to rush you on a job,” said Stackhouse.

Woo was Dr. Frankenstein among his body parts. Above his head, a little poster read 4N6. Forensics. “On a diet, Detective Stackhouse? Here to toss your cookies?”

Crabtree said, “Damn it’s cold in here.”

“It’s supposed to be. That’s how pathologists stay cool under pressure. Cool under pressure.”

“I’m out of time, Woo. If you haven’t chopped up Pete Burman, I need it done today, please.”

The pathologist frowned at his desk and flipped a calendar page. “Pete Burman. I don’t have a Pete Burman. Are you sure he’s dead?”

“He was stabbed in jail two weeks ago. In the neck. So dead. Saw it myself, and the attacker confessed. The correctional investigator rang it up as self-defense, put Burman in storage, and moved on.”

“A prisoner was stabbed in the neck and the attacker confessed. How is that an emergency?” asked Woo.

“Because I think the victim was lying down. He was executed, not killed in self-defense. The blood was on the mattress, not the floor. I’m hoping your findings will verify it, and I can go hard after the killer and maybe get some answers.”

“If the investigator rang it up as self-defense and put him in cold storage,” said Woo, “then Burman is still on ice at the jail. This room is full of bodies, baby, but none of them are Burman. That I know of.”

Behind her, Crabtree made a gagging noise.

“I ordered an autopsy. Myself. Last week. He should be here.”

Woo shot up and his rolling chair banged backward into a stainless steel table. “Last week! I have no documentation! No notes about this! Who did you talk to? I bet it was a sheriff’s deputy. Those guys…” Woo walked to a wall of big drawers and he yanked one open. A Black woman rolled out, staring lifeless at the ceiling. He opened the heavy drawer with such force that the woman shifted. “Pete Burman? Are you Pete Burman? No? Speak up! Did a deputy sheriff send you here?” he shouted, and rammed the drawer home with a boom that ricocheted around the hard room.

“Oh my Jesus,” said Crabtree.

“The federal guys, the prisons, they think this place is like the dog pound! Know what that makes me? Their bitch! Hey, anyone can just drop off their strays! Woo will handle them! Leave’em at the door! Woo handles everything!” He yanked open another cabinet and out slid a man. In his twenties, thought Stackhouse, though the face was decayed. “Pete? That you, Pete?”

“That’s not him. Pete was around retirement age.”

“This is Matthew Davis, so says the drawer label, but who knows! Maybe the idiots tossed him the wrong one!” The drawer crashed home. Woo moved to another drawer and read off the label. “We don’t need to open this one—it’s Scout Martin! I signed for him yesterday. You know why? Because I’m a professional! Everyone takes their vacation in July except for me! Does Woo need a vacation? Noooooo he doesn’t! Half our team is gone. Half. And people just chuck their dead bodies in here! Some of us are trying to work! We’re trying to work while prisons stack their shit up!” He pulled open another drawer and patted an old woman on the head. “Hello? Are you awake? You’re a woman, so you’re not Pete, so who cares!”

Slam.

Another drawer. With each opening, a puff of cold stale air was released. This body was in a black bag and Wood unzipped it.

“That’s him!” Even shrunken, Pete’s face was recognizable. “That’s Pete Burman.”

“You positive? The bag isn’t tagged. Because deputies are idiots. Hello!” Woo tapped the corpse’s forehead. “Hello, Pete? Can you hear me? Are you Pete? Speak to us from the great beyond!”

Behind her, Crabtree asked, “Is he frozen?” His voice sounded thick.

“Frozen, are you kidding, frozen? He’d crystalize. You know how long it takes these suckers to thaw? You ever taken chicken out of the freezer but you need it in a hurry?” Woo withdrew the cabinet drawer to its fullest extent, and he unzipped the body bag down to the waist. A toothbrush was still jammed under the jaw. The motion of unzipping caused Pete to shift and wobble. “Alright, Pete, Officer Gorgeous wants the goods now now now. Ready to … spill your guts?”

A THUMP behind Stackhouse.

Crabtree had fainted and collapsed backwards. An uncontrolled fall, smacking the hard tile. On the ground, splayed wide, he looked so absurd that Stackhouse thought he was joking at first.

“Oh damn it. Black guys never handle it well. Us Asians make the best pathologists, you know. Out front, the nurse has water bottles.” Woo wheeled a long table over to the cabinets, dismissing Crabtree as someone else’s problem. He didn’t bother with the living.

She ran for a water, and Crabtree woke up as she knelt over him.

“Easy, you might’ve cracked your head.”

“Stop smiling.” His head was soaked with sweat and his face paled nearly to Pete’s complexion.

“I’m wearing a mask!” said Stackhouse.

“I can tell you’re smiling. Just got light-headed, is all. Aw shit, I’m still in this room?” He wiped his face and closed his eyes, turned away from Woo and the corpse. “I just watched Day of the Dead. Zombie movie.” He was panting. “I can’t stay in here, Stack, with all this. Room full of dead guys and he’s smacking them around. No way, hell no. Imma throw up.”

Crabtree couldn’t stand so he scooted backward to the door.

Stackhouse wasn’t proud of it, but she took several pictures with her phone camera, grinning so big it hurt her cheeks.

“That’s right, scoot out of here! On your ass! Only Woo is man enough for the undead!” shouted the pathologist.

By the time the door shut behind Crabtree, Stackhouse’s olfactory senses were inured to the odor of decay. She no longer registered the stench.

She and Woo counted to three and hoisted the body bag off the drawer and onto the table, which he wheeled into position under the lights. He clamped a headset on and spoke into the microphone, watching his levels in the wireless monitor. “Testing, testing, one two three, I see you, but you don’t see me, testing.”

Stackhouse asked, “What’s that for?”

“Documentation, for transcription later. Just me today. Check check, I like girls, check check, here we go.” Pete lay partially entombed in the black bag. Woo unzipped it further and said, “Ah hah. Here’s his identification papers. Good one, idiots, leave it inside the bag, with his putrefying liquids. Morons. This is Medical Examiner Woo, accompanied by Detective Andie Stackhouse. She asked me out but I said no. We’re performing an external examination on Pete Burman, Wednesday morning, July 30th. Subject was brought by the Roanoke County Jail, who left without logging him in, because they are jackasses. No intake documentation found, just his ID papers. Subject was received in a black body bag. He’s wearing a full prison jumpsuit, zipped to the neck. Jumpsuit is stiff. Looks like blood soaked into the fabric. Nothing in his pockets.”

Woo worked while he talked into the mic. Constant motion, measuring, taking photographs with a digital SLR, asking Stackhouse to move various high-powered lamps to get better lighting.

Stackhouse noted most of the blood was evident on the left side of Pete’s jumpsuit. If Pete had been standing when attacked, the blood would’ve spilled down his chest, soaking him like a bib to the pants. Instead it was concentrated around his left pectoral.

Pete was lying down when Jack Gough stabbed him.

Self-defense my ass.

Pete’s hands looked shriveled. Woo extended and bent the dead hand and arm, squeezing, testing, and asked, “When was his time of death?”

“Ummm, two weeks ago?”

“Still some evidence of rigor mortis. I’m surprised.” Woo looked into Pete’s mouth, swabbing around with something that looked like a big Q-tip, murmuring into his mic constantly. Woo’s face shield dampened the sound. He scraped several samples of blood flakes onto different papers, folding and labeling them.

More photographs, concentrating on the shiv in Pete’s neck.

Even under firm tugging, the toothbrush didn’t want to come out. “These things dry tight inside the body. Suction and glue, you know?” As he pulled, Pete’s entire architecture rocked back and forth. “Detective, do you know how many firearm fatalities America had last year, in 2007?”

“Too many.”

“It’s 10,129. That includes accidental and self-inflicted. 10,129. Do you know how many England had? Fifty.”

Stackhouse did the math. England’s population was one seventh the size of America’s. Good Garfield, our gun problem is absurd.

“10,129 to fifty,” said Woo, twisting the toothbrush now, a nauseating sound. “All that is to say… it’s a pleasure to get the rare stab wounds, baby.”

Out slid the toothbrush with a wet release. Part of Pete’s neck deflated with the exhalation.

Woo set the toothbrush on the table and photographed it. “These guys, how do they get the weapons so sharp? Prisoners are miracle workers, I tell you, Detective. So impressive, those guys. Isn’t that right, Pete?” Woo measured the wound with a thin ruler. More talking into the mic, “The shiv is a sharpened toothbrush. The shiv was inserted…seven and a half centimeters into the neck, sinister side, three centimeters beneath the jaw, severing the jugular. Based on the angle of the injury, it wasn’t inserted straight on, but an angle from Pete’s left side.” More photographs and he touched his gloved finger to Pete’s neck at the wound. “See this, Detective? See this here, the bruising? That’s an imprint of the attacker’s fist. Pete was stabbed with such force, the attacker essentially punched him with the hand holding the shiv.”

“From the side.”

“Definitely,” he said.

“I think Pete was lying down when the toothbrush went in. Not a heat-of-the-moment attack, like in self-defense. He might’ve been asleep.”

“The evidence doesn’t contradict your theory, Detective. Look who’s not just a perfect face! No need to x-ray this guy, is there? No gunshots in prison? You have your cause of death and you have your culprit?”

“I’ll take anything you can give me.”

Woo unzipped Pete’s jumpsuit completely off, removing the soft prison shoes.

More photographs.

“His toes are blue,” said Stackhouse.

“Yes, sometimes…” Woo took several pictures of the feet and set the camera down. “Actually, Detective. Nice catch. That’s far too blue. That’s cyanosis.” Woo returned to Pete’s hand. “I noticed his fingertips were blue, but didn’t consider it out of the ordinary, but his toes…” Woo stepped back and shot his bloody gloves into the trash. He immediately pulled a fresh pair on and he sat on his swivel chair and said, “Hmmmmm.”

“What’s cyanosis?”

“Something Pete shouldn’t have. Not enough oxygen in his blood. It turns the extremities blue, and it happened before his death. That’s unusual. I’m stimulated. I’ve got a stiffy.” He grinned behind his face shield. “Get it? Stiff? Dead body, no? Not sure a prude like you could work in the morgue. Anyhoo. By now Pete shouldn’t be as stiff as he is, and that’s odd. Plus the blue extremities. We have ourselves a mystery. I’m conducting an internal exam, Detective. Even though we have the perpetrator and the murder weapon. Call me a pervert, but I want to peek.”

Woo cut and removed the jumpsuit and underwear, and he bagged them. He washed Pete’s nude body with water, cleaning his chest with a solution. The water ran in rivulets to a drain, which gurgled with parts of Pete.

Woo cut Pete open with a sternal saw—awful noise, like a lumber mill—and separated the ribs with a pair of shears. The cracks forced Stackhouse to sit down, else she’d end up on the floor like Crabtree. Her head swam.

“Oh ho ho!” called Woo. “Look at this, would you look at this, baby!” His warm breath fogged the face shield.

“Mr. Woo, I’m sitting down for the next thirty seconds. Just to be safe. Why don’t you tell me what you see?”

The pathologist worked with his tools like a butcher for a minute, and he raised up a chunk of beef. “Behold! His stomach!”

Stackhouse closed her eyes. “I’m listening. Not looking, but listening.”

“We call it a red velvet stomach. Like from gastritis, the result of excessive smoking or alcohol, but this, no, this stomach is too irritated.” She heard the splashing of the hose as the stomach was washed and then weighed on a scale, like you would at the super market, and then a meaty slap, the stomach returned to the table. “Far too unhappy a stomach, as I suspected! Aren’t you glad we opened him up? This sick stomach, plus the stiff joints, plus the cyanosis, we’re looking at arsenic poisoning.”

Stackhouse blinked her eyes open. “Arsenic.”

“We’ll send sample to the lab to verify, but I’d bet my collection of Sailor Moon dolls that blood work will reveal arsenic.”

Just like Reggae!

Crabtree ventured into the cold room again then. He saw that Pete no longer resembled a man, but a tortuous lab experiment, and he staggered to the trash can where he vomited.

32

Stackhouse was bent over at the waist, elbows on her knees, resting backward against the hood of her car. She and Crabtree rested in the warm shade of Community Hospital like spent boxers, sweating and hot, while she wrestled with the autopsy report.

“That’s why Pete kept asking for medical help. He’d ingested arsenic,” she said.

Crabtree rubbed his stomach like it hurt, though it was empty. “Not your fault, Stack.”

“I feel awful. Everyone thought he was drunk. I remember him crashing into our table, and I assumed it was the alcohol.”

“Not your fault,” said Crabtree.

“I was there.”

“Didn’t poison him, did you?” Crabtree shook his head. “Man, I gotta think about something else. Mariah Carey. Ciara. Rihanna. Anything but that old man.”

“Somebody poisoned him. Both Reggae and Pete with arsenic? We need to hit the Catawba Sports Bar with warrants.”

“Not you. Reggae and Pete lived in the county. Catawba is in the county. You’re the city.”

“We won’t tell anyone.” Stackhouse raised up. She was proud about controlling her gag reflex in there, but her stomach was cramping, and she knew it was psychosomatic, distress at the autopsy, at the arsenic, but that didn’t help the pain.

“This is bad enough, us at the morgue. Chief would lose his shit.”

“He’s not my chief,” said Stackhouse.

“He can fire you.”

“Not right now, not with Jane loose. Firing me while the public thinks I’m being hunted? The calls for his job would be deafening.”

“Man wants you gone. Don’t give him a reason.”

Her phone rang. An unknown number. Ugh, what now. She answered, and a voice replied, “Hello Andrea.”

Stackhouse knew that voice cold. She had nightmares about that voice. The voice of a wolf in an angel’s clothing.

Only one voice called her Andrea.

“Jane.”

“I’d like to apologize for something, Andrea. I wish I hadn’t, ummm, shoved you into the back of the police car last week. Our relationship is complicated, but … I was angry, and I wanted to speak to you, to help you, but that was the wrong way to do it. I’m sorry.”

Stackhouse blinked. The sudden apology was so disorienting, she felt dizzy. “Thank you, Jane.”

Crabtree had noticed Stackhouse tighten. He heard the name Jane. He spun in a circle, alert for anything. Jane Newton on the phone, got’damn!

“You have my word, Andrea, I won’t do it again. I’d like our relationship to continue for the rest of our lives, which means I must be a safer place. Believe it or not, I’m working on emotional control. And while we’re talking about apologies and emotional health, I read you were forced to operate on your father. Did you consider letting him die?”

“Of course not.”

“He abandoned you. You could’ve done the same. It would’ve been poetic. But you spared him.”

“Jane—”

“I spare people too, Andrea. Doesn’t that matter? I don’t hurt women usually. Doesn’t that matter?”

Stackhouse spoke in a steady voice that pleased her. “Jane, where are you?”

“You’re safe, Andrea. Please relax. Do you think God loves you?”

“Sure, I believe in God. Where are you?”

“Umm, that’s not what I asked.”

“Yes? I don’t know.” Stackhouse took a deep breath, then another on top of it, demanded her pulse lower.

“If there is a God, he doesn’t love us,” said the phone. “Oh yes, he’s masculine. A feminine deity wouldn’t allow women to suffer so. If he’s not interested in us, do you know what that means?”

“That you think you’re allowed to do anything?”

“It means the earth is up to us. Terrifying, isn’t it. All the hope rests with me and with you. We must make the planet a better place, because he won’t.”

“Jane.” Stackhouse clenched her eyes. The entire Justice Department was hunting for the woman on the phone. Don’t screw this up. What would an FBI agent ask? “How do you feel?”

“Empowered, thank you for asking. That Black man who follows you around, is that to protect you?”

“You’re tracking me.”

“I worry.”

“Yes, he’s protection.”

“Has he raped me?” A pause. “No, sorry. Has he raped you? Don’t lie.”

“No, Jane, he hasn’t, and I don’t want you to kill anyone else. Not even men.”

Stepping to a safe distance, Crabtree called the station’s cybercrime squad—could they track a phone call in real time?

They couldn’t.

“You must be vigilant, Andrea. The Black man will use you when your guard is down. Not because he’s Black. But because he cannot help it. Did he tell you his penis is larger than normal? I’m convinced Black men use that lie to engage the curiosity of vulnerable White women. I’ve watched it happen. The African Americans have fewer societal restraints and so they’re more willing to surrender to impulse. Don’t be fooled by his lies.”

Jeez, Jane.

Think think think.

“I’ll keep that in mind. What’s your mission now? Why are you still in Roanoke?”

“Why do you believe I am?”

She doesn’t know that we know she barbecued Chet Moreland. Don’t give that away.

“Because you’re spying on me,” said Stackhouse.

“I haven’t seen you in several days. That’s not it.”

“Jane. I don’t need saving.”

“You among all women, Andrea, might not need it, that’s true. You’ve overcome so much. So very strong. I don’t mean to sound like an aunt, but I’m proud of you. Back to my question. If God doesn’t care about us, and if the order of our planet is up to us, do you know what that means? It is our duty, our moral obligation, to eliminate the pests. The parasites. The problems.”

“The men,” said Stackhouse.

“Yes. No. Well, not all of them. Some women must be thrown out too. You do the same, you know. Our masculine government gives you a masculine badge, gives you their permission, but it’s essentially the same holy work. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

“If you think there is no God, if we’re only existing, then nothing is holy, Jane.”

“My work, Andrea, is holy. I declare it so.”

“What we do is not the same.”

“You don’t keep the city safe, Andrea? Protect the citizens from monsters like meeeee? I do the same thing. Mine is only, ummm, more focused. I know I can’t save them all. Sometimes we settle for justice, don’t we.”

“Turn yourself in. Please, Jane. I’ll meet you at the station.”

“Don’t make requests that are beneath you, Andrea. It reduces your power. It makes you weak. I won’t turn myself in, you know that. And anyway, I’m leaving town.”

“You are? Why?”

“I’d like to talk on the phone more often. Would that be okay?”

“Yes,” said Stackhouse. “Though I’d prefer in person.”

“The last time I tried, you shot me with pepper spray.”

“You were threatening to drown me.”

Jane laughed. “Ummm, a couple of bitches, aren’t we.”

“Where will you go? Why are you in Roanoke in the first place?”

“If you think about it long enough, Andrea, you’ll realize you already know. When you make the discovery, you’ll understand you and I are doing the exact. same. thing. And it’s holy.”

Click.

“Shoot,” said Stackhouse, looking at the Call Ended notification on her screen. “That was her.”

“I listened best I could.”

Her heart, now free from the pressure, sped up. “That was wild.”

“Cyber crime says to bring in the phone.”

Stackhouse nodded. “I need a minute. I need to process, need to think.”

“Alright. I get it. Take your time. I’m shook too.”

“Never mind. I’m fine. Let’s go.”

On the way in, she called Roanoke’s FBI Field Office and asked for SAC Paul Oliver. She read him Jane’s unknown phone number, and he ran it through his federal database.

The number belonged to Chet Moreland.

Chet’s phone had blipped off the grid the night his house burned. They assumed his phone had melted in the flames, now part of the hardened goo. But Jane had taken it, only now turning it on.

“Why’d she call me with it?” wondered Stackhouse.

“Perhaps she wanted you to know,” said Oliver. “Like a cat bringing its kill home to show off. A trophy. She needs your approval.”

“Maybe. But,” said Stackhouse. “Remember, she grew up poor, and then she worked with girls on a small farm. I don’t know if she graduated high school. She’s not savvy with technology. Maybe she didn’t realize how much we could learn from her phone call.”

“I’m pinging the number now through the towers. When Jane called you…” Oliver made a tsk’ing sound with his teeth, and Stackhouse could hear keys clicking. A funny mental image, huge Paul Oliver using a tiny mouse and keyboard, completely hidden by his hands. “When Jane called you, she was traveling. Maybe in a car, maybe in a bus. Here, she was in Vinton.” He lowered the phone and shouted at someone Stackhouse couldn’t see. “She’s in Vinton!” More garbled urgent voices, and he came back to her. “We’re pinging the device, but she turned it off. I think Jane was probably on Elm, moving westward. I can’t be more precise. You think she doesn’t know we could track her that way?”

“I don’t. Which means, Jane just made a mistake.”

33

Detective Mark Rowe dropped his cell phone back into his pocket. His ear felt hot from it. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall of the little apartment, and he cupped a hand over his mouth in thought. He wore white latex.

Jane called Stack to apologize?

That was the big FBI agent on the phone, Oliver, keeping Rowe in the loop.

I’m sorry, Andrea, for abducting you.

I’m leaving town.

Let’s stay in touch.

Oliver claimed Jane was in Vinton when she made the call, using Chet Moreland’s pilfered phone.

Rowe took these updates personally. No one blamed him, but he wore it. He’d been the detective assigned to Jane’s first known victim, Peter Beatty, a fellow cop, and he’d failed to identify her. That allowed her time to murder others. He’d failed to identify her ten years later, when Stackhouse stepped into one of her victims in the river. He’d only arrested Jane at the end, when Stackhouse had beaten her nearly to death with the help of two Dobermans. Stackhouse had busted Jane, not him. Now Jane was loose and killing again, and what’s wrong with you, Detective Rowe, why can’t you conquer this one?

Had God abandoned him?

“Mark? All good?” asked Detective Warner.

“Yeah.” Still Rowe didn’t open his eyes. “The FBI says Jane called Andie Stackhouse.”

“Christ.”

“Andie Stackhouse is a city cop who caught her several—”

“Everyone knows who Stackhouse is, Mark.”

“Jane apologized and said she’s leaving town. When she made the call, she was in Vinton. What, four miles from here?”

“Still in Roanoke.”

“Maybe not for long,” said Rowe. “Maybe…”

He opened his eyes and looked at the body on the floor.

Another dead man.

Another wooden dildo.

No, that wasn’t accurate. Wooden dildos. Four of them. The keychain version.

The victim stared unseeing at the ceiling, the keychains protruding from his mouth, like he’d been in a macabre contest, who can fit the most. The victim appeared to be Indian, and his name tag read Manish. Based on the Quick Mart shirt, he likely worked at that gas station in Grandin. Rowe called the place but no one picked up. Soon he’d drive down to talk in person.

Mark Rowe worked on cold cases. Not on active homicide investigations. But Warner rang him when he saw the dildos, the same way he’d called when they found Jane’s fingerprint on the doorknob. Rowe was their resident expert on the serial killer.

How did they know this was a Jane victim?

She’d left a message.

Manish died from blood loss. A neat but deep slash across his neck, severing the jugular. Dark spatter on the walls, spots that dripped and dried quickly. Rowe had already summoned a forensic expert in bloodstain pattern analysis. In Manish’s cold hand was a t-shirt, one of those illegal knockoffs with Andie Stackhouse’s picture. It looked to Rowe like Manish had tried stemming the flow of blood with the shirt, a desperate attempt that lasted only a few seconds.

Like all county detectives, Detective Warner was thick, White, and bald. He snapped another photograph with his SLR. “Think the Jane phone call is related to this mess? Like she did this, and now, the job done, she can leave?”

Without answering, Rowe strolled away from the body. Feeling overwhelmed, he needed a reset. Back to Manish’s bedroom.

The apartment was small; Manish lived alone. An hour ago, his girlfriend had knocked and knocked. The neighbor kept a spare key, and she let the girlfriend into the apartment, and they found Manish like this.

The girlfriend spoke with another detective outside. Rowe would interview her when he finished contemplating the forensics.

In Manish’s bedroom, Rowe again examined the flashy display case on the wall. A wooden box, twice as big as a shoebox, lined with velvet, closed by a glass display door. Ten rows of grooved shelves, two knives on each, labeled beneath. Manish collected blades. Nothing high-end, but all recognizable. A classic Victorinox Swiss Army Knife. An Old Timer three-bladed pocketknife (Rowe had one himself). A folding Buck 110. A KA-BAR. A double-edged Gerber. A Balisong butterfly blade.

What interested Rowe most was the missing knife. Its printed label read Spyderco Endura. Rowe knew it well. A folding pocketknife, one that changed the knife world in the 1990s, veering away from your grandfather’s practical blades, toward the sexy and impractical and stylish. Not expensive or hard to find, just eye catching, used in movies with flamboyant villains, like Mission Impossible.

Rowe held a suspicion that Manish had been sliced open by his own Spyderco. That knife better than all these would do the trick, slightly hooked. If Rowe had to pick one himself from this selection…

His skin prickled. He and Jane Newton were again walking the same ground. Doomed to play this game forever.

He felt her. He felt her madness in the carpet, the walls, the air, like she left a sweet poison behind.

He returned to the main room, crowded with a couch, television, and a corpse. He crouched at the dead man’s shoes, and he answered the question asked several minutes ago.

“I don’t know, maybe,” he said. “She’s insane, so she’s hard to predict.”

“Yeah no shit,” said Warner, looking at the big flatscreen television.

Something sharp had been used, probably the same blade, to carve up the screen. Sharp lines that formed words, a message left for whoever found Manish.

HE SEXUALIZED ANDREA.

34

A two-hour window existed after Stackhouse’s shift ended and before Dr. Ivey started his.

Two hours wasn’t enough for dinner and a movie. But it was something. Stackhouse raced home and jumped into the shower. She shampooed the morgue out of her hair, scrubbed Spillman brothers off with a washcloth, and using a razor she shaved away the scrim of Jane Newton. Blowdryer and a touch of makeup—Work It Girl mascara and foundation. Her good-enough was good enough.

A skirt with sneakers, like she’d seen Jessica Alba wear in People magazine, hot trends of 2008—Alba had recently been in a superhero film, a movie trend that Stackhouse hated and hoped would end soon. She pulled on a blouse. No, let’s make it a tighter blouse, give the good doctor something to think about during his nightshift. It’s nice to be wanted.

Unlike their last date, she felt no anxiety. Because the first had gone well. And because Kaye was double-dating with them.

Time to go, Kaye met her at the front door, and she frowned.

“My date is going to ogle you, not me.”

“Are you kidding, with those boobs,” said Stackhouse.

“But those legs. Go put on sweatpants, sweetie.”

“Only if you wear a sweatshirt. Jeffrey won’t be able to focus, otherwise. Sweetie.”

“No wonder we’ve never done this before,” said Kaye.

Tonight’s dinner was semi-casual, at Montano’s. Ivey was already there, wearing dark green scrubs, which Stackhouse thought made his shoulders look broader, his waist smaller.

Laurel Evans was Kaye’s date—a pretty Canadian brunette, maybe thirty-five. A photographer, Kaye explained, recently out of the closet. This was her first date with a woman.

She smiled, shy, at Kaye. “You look nice.”

Introductions were made.

Inside, Evans struggled to find something vegan. The boy taking their orders had few suitable answers to her questions.

Ivey scooted his chair closer to Stackhouse and she didn’t resist.

“The last time Andie and I went out,” he said, “a homeless woman accosted us—”

“She didn’t accost us,” said Stackhouse.

“The woman with the blue tattoo around her neck and the cross earrings? She rammed into you and asked for money. I thought she was Jane Newton. I panicked and pushed her away.”

“Help me, who is Jane Newton?” asked Evans.

A polite pause. She’d asked a little loud.

Kaye quietly explained, “She’s a serial killer, recently escaped from—”

Evans gasped and she pointed. “Oh! That’s it! That’s how I know you! Jane’s the killer and you caught her.”

Stackhouse half-smiled, one side of her mouth.

“Shhhh.” Kaye patted Evans’ arm. “Let’s not alarm the other patrons.”

“She’s still out there, right? Are we in danger?”

Kaye indicated the door. “See the mean-looking guy? That’s Deputy US Marshal Aaron Prescott. He’s on Stackhouse duty tonight.”

“The people I work for recruited additional volunteers to babysit me around the clock,” said Stackhouse. “They even sleep on our couch. It’s mortifying.”

Evans nudged Kaye. “You didn’t tell me your roommate was Andie Stackhouse.”

“Would that have mattered?”

“Jane called me today.” Stackhouse sipped her tea and enjoyed the stunned response.

After a sputter, Ivey asked, “And? What’d she say?”

“Most interestingly, she said she’s sorry. She’s leaving town but she’d like to stay in touch.”

The waiter interrupted their disbelief with cocktails, and he clicked his pen.

Ivey ordered mussels for the table, and made suggestions for excellent dishes he’d had before, and Stackhouse yielded her order to him. No thought necessary.

After the waiter left, Kaye pressed, “Jane’s sorry? Did she say those words?”

“She said she wanted to speak to me but she’d gone about it the wrong way, and she was sorry for the abduction.”

“A two-part apology,” said Kaye. “I’m surprised. It would be difficult to determine if Jane felt genuine guilt or if it’s a sociopath mimicking what a healthy person would say.”

“I hope the police are closing in?” asked Ivey.

Stackhouse shrugged. “I’m not on the manhunt.”

“Shouldn’t you be?” Evans watched Stackhouse like she would an exhibit at the zoo. Stackhouse the giraffe. “I mean, sheeeeesh, of all the people you’d want on the hunt, how about the woman who actually caught her?”

“I didn’t catch her. She caught me.” Kaye raised her eyebrow at Stackhouse, so she conceded, “We caught each other. A lot of luck was in play. I’m involved peripherally in the manhunt, but the FBI took over after we realized she’d murdered in several states. Plus, jailbreaks aren’t usually handled by city cops.”

“Certainly there aren’t cases more important than the capture of America’s most notorious killer,” said Evans.

“I’m working on a doozy now.”

Ivey raised his glass. “To Stackhouse, and her long life. Tell us about the doozy.”

“It’s boring and gruesome. Not fit for polite company.”

“Let us decide,” said Evans. “After that, Kaye can spill the tea about her juiciest clients.”

“Alright. Stop me when you grow bored.”

Stackhouse assembled her thoughts and changed the names. She began four years ago. Stevie and Allie had been a young couple in love until they vanished. First Allie, followed by Stevie a day later. Allie was underage. Soon after, Stevie’s two brothers Reggae and Kingston joined the Army unexpectedly. Stevie and Allie never reappeared, and the two families were devastated. Four years later, Reggae and Kingston separated from the Army, returning to civilian life. Their first night back, Reggae was shot and hospitalized, and the attacker remained a mystery, even though Stackhouse had been present on a sting. (Gasp) The thing was, he’d been shot in a room with no windows and only one door. Making it more unlikely, he’d been poisoned too. (How could you think this is boring, Andie?) It was Dr. Ivey who first discovered the poison. The obvious suspect was the other man in the bathroom, their neighbor Pete, but he’d been poisoned too, and then stabbed to death in jail. Gunshot residue made it appear improbable that Reggae had shot himself, and he remembered nothing about it.

Stackhouse’s audience was leaning toward her, captivated. Everyone was picking the mussels out of the delicious butter sauce.

Then, the story turned crazy. (It already did!) Kingston was arrested after attacking Stackhouse in anger. The long-lost brother Stevie showed up dead on their porch, with no explanation but accompanied by a threatening letter. Currently the police suspected Reggae’s mother, because her fingerprints were found on a bag of arsenic, which was the poison in her son’s system. An unlikely suspect, but if true, the mother would become the prime suspect in Stevie and Allie’s disappearance four years ago. The trouble was, Ms. Spillman had vanished, the same as Allie Anderson.

“However, I was yanked off the case. It’s a county matter, not city, and my job is on the line.”

Her audience leaned back in their chairs, amazed but not satisfied.

“It’s definitely the mom,” announced Evans.

“She was there the night Reggae was shot.” Stackhouse drank half her water. “But she’s not a small woman. It’s hard to imagine she slipped out of the bathroom without me noticing.”

Their food came, Stackhouse’s a jumbo shrimp and grits. She tried it and groaned. A social life had merits.

She fielded questions from her audience while eating, and she had downed half the shrimp when her phone rang. Sergeant Detective Val Farmer calling.

“Hey baby, what’s happening. I want your cute little ass over to Wasena. I need help.”

Stackhouse twisted away from the table. “I’m not on call tonight.”

“I know that, you don’t think I know that?” said Val.

“Then why—”

“Listen, gorgeous, I’m doing you a favor. This will help keep Chief Almond off your back, you showing up to work when he thinks you’re goofing with the county boys. Besides, I’m your sergeant, and I want you there.”

Wouldn’t hurt to appease the chief, even if he is a turd. But…

“I’m at dinner.”

“Ooooo mama, tell me it’s with Dr. Cute Butt. Tell me tell me.”

“It is,” said Stackhouse, praying no one could hear Val’s voice.

“I’m tempted to let you stay and drink a Cosmo out of his navel, but I can’t. Wrap it up. Don’t make me say please.”

Stackhouse could say no. Val had no authority to force her into work…

“Where are you?”

“You know that lake in the cemetery? We got floaters.”

“Floaters?” repeated Stackhouse.

“Roger that, dead bodies in a lake. Lots of dead bodies. You won’t believe your eyes.”

35

Stackhouse raced home to change. Showing up at a crime scene all legs and a tight blouse? She’d rather die.

Dressed for work, she drove her Nissan to the city address, followed by the Deputy US Marshal, Aaron Prescott. The pond was located in Evergreen Burial Park, an enormous cemetery in the Wasena neighborhood. Pond, lake, Stackhouse didn’t know the difference, it was a vast body of water. Such a lovely spot that families trekked to it through the cemetery, sitting at the benches surrounding the pond/lake. Kids brought slices of bread to feed the ducks. The pond wasn’t stocked, to prevent fishing.

She parked at the end of the car line and squinted at the red sun burning behind the distant cumulous. One hour of daylight remained, maybe.

“How’d they rope you into this?”

“Protection detail? I volunteered,” said Prescott. He used to hit on her—it’s not always nice to be wanted—so she kept him at arm’s length. This was the first time she’d spoken to him today.

“I appreciate it. Did you owe someone a favor?”

“I’m on the clock. This is no favor.”

She kicked a pebble. That embarrassed her, the Marshals spending money to keep her alive. A burden for the government.

The city black-and-whites were gathered at the very edge of the cemetery. She walked by nine cars before realizing that the scrum was clustered outside the fence. The big lake was fed by a stream that connected to a smaller body of water, this one definitely a pond, beyond the cemetery’s boundary. She imagined the scene from a bird’s view—this smaller exterior pond could either be reached via the cemetery gate or a half-mile grassy walk through a field from the closest houses.

She snapped white gloves onto both hands and threw a little salute to Officer Palma, who wrote down her badge number, tracking who came and went into the crime scene. Palma waved down Deputy Marshal Prescott, slowing him long enough to copy his credentials.

Prescott nodded at Stackhouse’s gloves. “Nice thing about being a Marshal? It’s simpler. We just hunt. We’re wolves, not detectives.”

“Then how about you hunt down Jane Newton, wolf, and make my life easier.”

They slipped through the iron gate, leaving the cemetery for the adjacent field and the smaller pond around which the cops toiled with flashlights and cameras. That many, the scene must be grim. The pond was hidden from the cemetery by trees, explaining why Stackhouse had never seen it, despite jogging around the lake several times a year.

Stackhouse stopped short, as she gained a clear view of the pond.

Four bodies floated on the surface. Or four things that resembled a human shape. They were wrapped in cellophane, like shiny barges seen at a great distance.

Death floats.

“Damn,” said Prescott. He said it like, dayeeeem.

Finding four corpses at once was unheard of.

Val Farmer and Kip Broome were crouched at the water’s murky edge, ankle deep in mud. They’d fished one of the floaters to the shoreline. A coroner had arrived to pronounce the bodies dead. Deputy Chief Saul Phillips—her boss’s boss’s boss’s boss—spoke into his phone, leaning against his car.

Bugs whined thick in the air, and Stackhouse swatted at them. We need Black & Milds.

Stackhouse informed Val she’d arrived. She joined an officer walking the shoreline with a metal detector. The pond was small enough that she could eavesdrop on Val and Kip muttering even at the far edge.

The first floater was a man. Caucasian. Hard to guess the age accurately through the wrap, but he wasn’t elderly. He was wrapped tight by a chain that circled his body outside the cellophane three times. The chain showed evidence of extensive time spent in the water—accumulating algae and rust.

Why a chain, wondered Stackhouse.

Kip Broome announced loudly he didn’t want to unwrap the chain and the cellophane here—keep the floating packages intact until they could be opened at the morgue, a more stable environment where they’d lose less forensic evidence. Deputy Chief Phillips said he’d reserve a dedicated room.

“Stackhouse, baby, you see any tire tracks over there?” called Val.

“No.” Stackhouse was brushing the weeds aside with her gloves, searching the earth. “We’re assuming someone dumped them? I’m looking for impressions but I don’t see any. I’ll keep circling.”

As four officers wrangled the corpse out of the water, they were jerked short by the chain.

“Wait!” shouted Broome. “We’re caught. Hold your sand.”

Stackhouse circled closer to watch. Kip Broome felt under the corpse, seeking whatever they were snagged on. He instructed the officers to lift the body slowly, and as they did more chains revealed themselves to be dangling behind in the water, like gruesome tendrils.

“What the hell,” wondered Val.

One of the other bodies floating on the water jerked and bobbed, as though alive. Sergeant Crabtree would’ve passed out.

“Again,” ordered Broome.

No matter how hard the four officers raised the corpse, the chains refused to release. The links were taut and leading downward into the murk.

They counted to three and puuuullllled, but now two floaters bobbed, disturbing the surface.

Stackhouse made the discovery—the bodies were connected like a living organism.

“Val, these bodies…” Stackhouse waved to get her attention. “I think they’re chained together. Beneath the surface, they’re linked. You pull that one, these two move.”

“This is getting weirder by the minute,” said Broome. He picked a cup of coffee off his truck, drank deeply, and set it back down. “Someone find me a pair of bolt cutters. And Lambert? Get on the horn to the State Police. We need the dive team tomorrow.”

By the time Broome snapped the chain links keeping the first body tethered to the pond—and tethered to the other floaters—Stackhouse had circumnavigated the water three times. No tire tracks.

These bodies weren’t dumped here. Or at least not recently.

They fished another body closer, but this one didn’t reach the shore before its chains halted the progress. Broome waded into the murk with the bolt cutters, and Stackhouse’s heart soared. Here was a man who got himself dirty for the job.

The second body was freed and rafted to the shore. Another Caucasian male.

The bodies were buoyant because of the gases that build up inside the organs, like balloons. Woo is gonna have a field day with this.

Stackhouse watched a third body be cut loose, and her intuition was jogged in someplace she couldn’t name—these corpses were being restrained underwater by the chains, but something had recently freed them. Whatever underwater anchor was pinning them down had worked loose. That’s why four surfaced at once. But what caused it?

Were more down there?

Why keep corpses underwater in the first place?

Cold storage, she thought. Someone was using the pond like Woo uses the cold drawers.

The goriest thing imaginable.

Val snagged the third floating body and pushed it onto the mud. This body was larger than the first two, heavier, so she and Aaron Prescott helped at the shoulders.

It was while she was grunting and crab-walking the body, careful not to step on Officer Tankersley’s toes, that she peered through the cellphone and recognized a face.

“Oh!” shouted Stackhouse. She released her corner, and her jolt caused everyone else to let go too. The body dropped twelve inches to the ground with a wet thunk. “Oh fudge, I know this one. Sweet Lincoln.”

Stackhouse backed away, stumbling on Keri Cooley, who said, “Watch it, girl, I’m covered in goo.”

Stackhouse paced away and came back, taking deep breaths. She waved at the flies. “Damn. DamnDamnDamn.”

Val threw up her hands. “Well tell us, kiddo, what’s going on? You know this guy?”

“That’s no guy.” Stackhouse closed her eyes and leaned backward against an SUV. It grounded her. “At least I’m pretty sure it isn’t. Sorry everyone, the shock got me. I’ll be okay in a sec.”

Val stooped to peer closely at the face. A big face, Black, though after several months most corpses looked black, so she couldn’t be sure. “The first two were guys. But you’re right. She’s wearing women’s jewelry. You know her?”

Stackhouse nodded. “Never met her officially. But I was with her.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you, but you can’t hold me to it, if I’m wrong.” Stackhouse walked back to the body, demanded she comport herself like a seasoned detective. “That’s the mother of Antwone and his brothers. She’s been missing for a week. That’s Dionne Spillman.”

36

“Wanna get lunch today?” asked Kaye.

Stackhouse was hunched at the kitchen table, trying to wake up, an empty water glass before her, and a mug of coffee ready to enjoy.

She grasped the mug, closed her eyes, and sipped it, and rejoiced at the placebo effect. Ahhh.

Last night had cost her.

Coffee replenished.

“I probably can’t,” said Stackhouse. “Lots of work on last night’s mess. Ask Laurel, the girl from yesterday?”

Kaye stopped packing her satchel. “Laurel and I will not be seeing each other again.”

“Why not? She seemed lovely.”

“She’s not for me,” said Kaye. “Drink your coffee in bliss.”

“Like hell. What’d that bitch do?”

Her roommate smiled. “You care.”

“Kaye. Tell me.”

“A couple things. One, she ogled you too much. But second, on the ride home, she said she’d recently left her husband and daughter.”

“Divorce is rampant. I’m surprised it bothers you.”

“Laurel is the one who did the leaving. And she seemed proud of it, expecting my approval,” said Kaye.

“Is that not common, when people come out?”

Kaye paused, packing her satchel. “I understand your confusion. But also I’m a touch offended.”

“Sorry. It’s early. Explain my folly.”

“Coming out of the closet is a big deal. It takes courage, and courage is something to be commended. But she’d made promises to that man and the child. Promises she broke. I realize from your point of view it looks like the queer tribe should rejoice at our swelling numbers and welcome her. But a shattered family is a shattered family, one she’s getting distance from to find her truth, my least favorite emerging mantra.”

Stackhouse held up a hand. “Wait. Let me finish your thought. While you can sympathize with Laurel’s painful situation, and certainly with her orientation, involving yourself with her would be to ignore the damage she caused, and open yourself up to someone who breaks promises when it suits her. You are a lesbian, but first and foremost, you are a strong, intelligent, faithful woman who values integrity and fidelity and kindness.” Stackhouse smiled. “How’d I do?”

“I’m impressed. And flattered.”

“What’s worse, I made the presumption that you would ignore all that just because she shares your orientation, which implies you are desperate, which implies you’re not a hot woman, which you are, the very hottest, but that implies—”

“You got it, babe, home run, now quit trying to explain my pain,” said Kaye.

“You bet.” Stackhouse sipped more coffee. “But honestly, so hot.”

The toilet flushed and Crabtree walked out, wiping his hands on his pants. “Who’s hot?”

“Kaye.”

“Damn right she is.”

Kaye grabbed her satchel. “Toodles, you two.”

Over her coffee, Stackhouse considered her roommate. A woman who, though lonely, refused to be desperate. To compromise her principles.

By comparison, Stackhouse felt cheap. She’d gone out with Ivey when she’d recently spent the night with Rowe. She’d slept with him when they both knew they shouldn’t. Her principles crumbled like a house of cards.

New resolution—be more like Kaye.

Don’t date people you shouldn’t.

If only someone would explain how to differentiate. And give her willpower.

Stackhouse was late to her morning briefing. As she hurried past Chief Almond’s office, aping a punctual, unworried officer, he called through the open door.

“Detective Stackhouse. A word, please.”

She clenched her eyes and backed up. Almond sat as his desk, projecting executive dominance. She knew without thinking about it that he’d been waiting for her, practicing for this, sitting just so.

“Yes, Almond? Sir.”

“Come in. Close the door.”

“I’ll leave it open,” she said.

“That’s disobeying a direct order.”

“I don’t care.” She stood before his desk.

“Have a seat.”

“No thank you.”

He spoke around her. “Sergeant Crabtree, she and I will talk alone.”

“You got it, Chief,” said Crabtree.

Gah. Why can’t I play ball, like he does.

When they were alone, Chief Almond made her wait. He used the long pause to establish his authority. He rolled his tongue around his cheek and regarded her silently.

“Are we done?” she asked. “I have a lot of work.”

“Thank you for your help at the pond last night.”

“It’s my job. I enjoy it,” she said.

“Is it fair to say your ankle is fully healed?”

“Close enough.”

“I read your report about the phone call with Jane Newton. Scary stuff, Detective. Do you feel fully supported by this department?”

“I do. Are we done?”

“You’re being rude and defiant, Detective,” he said.

She was.

Cool it, Andie.

“You’re right. I won’t do it again.”

“So.” He steepled his fingers and smiled. “It’s fair to say you’re ready to return to work full-time for the city. No medical or personal hinderances.”

Stackhouse felt the loom of a trap. She’d walked into an ambush. But she didn’t know when it would spring, or from where.

She didn’t respond.

“Your loan to the county’s cold case department is over. Officially. They are grateful for your service, I’m sure. But today I need you to serve three death notifications. After that, finish your paperwork at your desk. At your desk. There’s a mountain of it we’re waiting on.”

“I know, but—”

“After that, please follow up with the city hall threat,” said Almond.

“I already did. Last week.”

“I don’t want to be unprepared. He made a threat against city officials. Visit him again. After that, we have several emergency custody orders I’d like more intel on, and I want a detective to do the interviews. Specifically, you.”

Busy work, all of it. He was driving his flag into the ground. This station belonged to him. She would jump if he said so, or she could quit.

“Almond. Sir. The Spillman case is ongoing.”

“The Spillmans live in the county,” said Almond. “Which is where your disastrous sting took place. It’s their responsibility. I need you on death notifications this morning.”

“I’m wrapped up in—”

“Your day is full. If you have time tomorrow, and I doubt it, I want you rolling on emergency calls,” said Almond.

“That’s Ray’s responsibility this week.”

“As soon as your paperwork is done, and after you serve the notifications, and you follow up on the city hall threat, and you interview the ECOs, it’s your responsibility. Understand?”

Stackhouse cocked a hip and she bit down the first five responses that sprang to her lips. She rolled her eyes. As she did, they fell on his bookshelves.

A little black camera was propped up like a bookend, between his civic manuals. A square of black electrical tape covered the red light, which she knew would be blinking otherwise. The camera’s lens was directed straight at her.

He was filming this.

Hard to blame him. She’d acted as a thorn in his side for years, and he couldn’t transfer her or fire her because of her celebrity. The media and the public fixated on her—it might truly be national news, that the woman who caught Jane Newton had been fired.

Inside her immunity, she’d refused to call him chief. She knew long ago he’d hidden evidence in the original Jane Newton investigation, placing the blame on Mark Rowe. He vaulted himself into the deputy chief role and dumped the culpability on Rowe, because Almond had been sleeping with Jane’s neighbor, a fellow cop, and Stackhouse knew it. She’d rejected his political alliance efforts, and her defiance and disrespect seeped through the station like a corrosive that ate away at his authority, and she didn’t fault him for hating her.

He was collecting cause for her dismissal. He could leak the video to cover his butt. She could see the tabloid headlines now—HOTSHOT COP THINKS SHE’S ABOVE THE LAW! WHO’S THE MONSTER NOW?

“You’re the only officer in this station who is regularly defiant, Detective.”

“That’s not my intention. I want to do the best—”

“You disobeyed a direct order twice in the last five minutes. Will there be a third?” he asked.

Live to fight another day, Andie.

One day I’ll be chief and not need to put up with this bull.

No, the chief is an appointed position. Gotta kiss the mayor’s ass and the city council’s. Sheriff would be better. The people decide.

Back to reality.

“No. Sir. I’ll obey orders, even if they’re poorly thought out.”

He let it slide, though he looked deflated at her capitulation. “The list of notifications is on your desk. Take Sergeant Crabtree when you go. After all, your safety is my top—”

A knock at the door.

“Chief? I need Stackhouse, soon as you’re done with her.” Val Farmer leaned into the office.

“She’s busy. She’s heading out to serve notifications.”

“We need her, Chief. Captain Lott and I concur. Those floaters we found, they’re in the city. Our turf. We think one of them is Ms. Spillman, and it connects to the case Stackhouse has been working. She’s gold for us on this, baby. I mean, Chief.”

Stackhouse didn’t dare smile. Or look backward at Val. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Lieutenant Street watching the interaction through the big wall window. Almond saw him too.

Authority and respect were precious to Almond, and if he gave petty, disastrous orders to the team, word would spread and he’d lose both. He was a politician, not a leader. Image was everything. Ego was all. He couldn’t botch this.

He inclined his head. “Of course, Sergeant Detective Farmer. If that seems best. Stackhouse, you have my permission. We’ll find someone else for the notifications.”

“Get ol’ Ray to do them. He’s not good for much else, is he. Let’s go, baby.” Val rapped the door twice.

Stackhouse turned to give Almond her back as she left.

At her desk, she whispered, “Thanks, Val, I owe—”

“Keep your thanks, I’m not doing you a favor. Get your ass over to the Spillmans and see if they recognize this jewelry.” Val passed across a baggie with golden earrings and a cheap gaudy necklace. “Either way, by tomorrow, we should get a positive ID off the prints. Maybe. The morgue is short-staffed and moving slow with the unwrapping of those stiffs. A live snake slithered out of one, can you believe that? Mean time, find out what you can. Rodger dodger?”

“I’m on it.”

Antwone took one look at the jewelry and he sat hard enough on the porch slats for them to creak. He looked like she’d stabbed him.

“Yeah, that’s her jewelry,” he said. “Mom wore them.”

“How are you so certain?” Stackhouse hated this part—facing the grieving family. Had to be done, though.

Antwone swatted at a mosquito without seeing it. “Mom didn’t wear any other jewelry for fifteen years. Don’t know she ever took those off, even to shower. She’s dead? Figured she was.”

This poor guy.

“Yes, Antwone, I’m sorry.”

She sat beside him and spied a pack of Black & Milds. She pulled the box close, extracted one, unwrapped the foil, and flicked the lighter. She breathed in and out and filled their atmosphere with smoke.

He kinda grinned. “You smoke?”

“No.” She coughed fumes.

“Here, let me.”

“I got it.” She did it again, feeling foolish with the little puffs. “I’m sorry I keep showing up with bad news, Antwone.”

“Where was she?”

“In a pond by a cemetery. She and a few others.”

“Others? Who?” he asked.

“We don’t know yet. It’s hard to date bog bodies. Getting an ID takes time.” Another puff. “Antwone, do you feel like someone is trying to kill off your family?”

“Yeah I do. You just figuring that out? It’s like we’re cursed.”

“First Stevie. Then Reggae. Then your mom. Even Pete Burman,” she said.

“Old Pete? He got stabbed in jail, I thought. Nothing to do with us.”

“Well.” Stackhouse chuckled with no humor around the wooden tip in her teeth. It did seem like the mosquitos had vanished. “Turns out. Pete had been poisoned too. Arsenic.”

Antwone shook his head, still staring at nothing. “I think I’m too shocked for anything else to surprise me. Arsenic like Reggae got? I don’t know what to think about that.”

“Me either. I’m hoping you have ideas or explanations.”

“You think I did it, don’t you.” He nodded at the cars, where Crabtree waited. “Why you brought him.”

“Of course you’re a suspect, Antwone.”

“The killer isn’t messing with me, you think. Why kill all the Spillmans except Antwone? Maybe because he’s the killer. Maybe it’s Pete, did you think about that? Poisoned hisself by accident, tryna kill Reggae?”

Stackhouse nodded, examining the evidence baggie in her hands. “It occurred to me. But he was already dead when your mom went missing.”

“Oh yeah.” He half grinned, sad and tired. “You look goofy, smoking that thing.”

“No I don’t. I’m a natural.” She coughed again. “Antwone, I’ll be honest. This investigation is about to heat up, after they get a positive ID on your mom. With your brother shot, and your mom murdered? Whoever did this, we’ll figure it out soon. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“Because I look guilty.” He sniffed. “Almost rather go to jail than live here.”

“Did you do any of this? Are you guilty of anything I should know about?”

“Course not.

“Fair warning, big personal question incoming.” She took the cigar out of her mouth and cleared her throat. “Yuck.” She spit. “Gross. Okay, here’s my question. Are you gay?”

He rocked backwards. “Yooo.”

“Seems to me like you are. You dress too well. You’re too careful. You use Brandi as cover. When the investigators fall on this like bloodhounds, they’ll look into your past. Will they find, ahhhh, romantic trysts that nobody knows about?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he rubbed his palms on his jeans. His designer jeans. His hands with manicured nails. His nice, clean sneakers.

“You think that would have something to do with my family dying?” he said.

“I truly don’t know.”

Stackhouse for a moment considered asking the ludicrous question of a funeral, but how could this man—this young man—even consider it.

From inside the house, a voice called, “Ant?”

Stackhouse jumped up, dropping the cigar. “Someone’s here.”

“Relax. It’s Reggae.”

“Reggae’s here?”

“I got him this morning.”

“It’s too soon,” said Stackhouse, panicky. “Two weeks ago, his whole body was pulled apart, looking for a bullet. He lost all his blood. He’d been poisoned. Antwone, it’s too soon.”

“Chill. Doctors okayed the discharge, long as he has help. I’m his help. I work at a hospital, you know. He’s comfortable. I got all his meds.”

“Can I see him?”

A long pause from Antwone. Stackhouse felt his stillness like a blast of ice. “Naw, I don’t want you inside. No offense.”

“Antwone.” Stackhouse tilted her head to look through the screen door. She saw suitcases. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t know you, Detective. For all I know, it’s you trying to kill off my family. You were there that night too, at the bar. Maybe it’s you.”

“Are you going somewhere? That’ll look bad. Don’t do it.”

He sighed like a man exhausted. “Kingston called me. He’s getting out tomorrow.”

“No way. He assaulted an officer, on top of trying to conceal his brother’s body.”

“Said his lieutenant in the Army made a phone call. The lieutenant asked the congressman for a favor. Congressman called the county sheriff. Begged for leniency cause Kingston just got out of the military and his brother was in the hospital. His mom’s missing, they said. Kingston signed off on therapy, starting immediately. So he’s out tomorrow,” he said.

Therapy?

“Antwone, are you afraid of Kingston?”

“Course I am. Dude’s too intense. Has been his whole life. Me and him duked it out more than couple times. I used to whip his ass. Don’t think I can anymore.”

“Are you running from him?”

He didn’t answer.

Stackhouse’s head swam. “Do you suspect he had something to do with Reggae? And Pete and your mother?”

“Hell I don’t know. I just think Reggae and me… We should run while we can,” said Antwone. “Cause I think you’re right, Detective. Someone is trying to kill us and we’re out of time.”

37

Stackhouse skipped lunch and met Mark Rowe at the Catawba Sports Bar. She hadn’t been inside since driving away from the sting that painful night.

Crabtree leaned against the car and ate his lunch out of a Tupperware container. “Don’t order the food. I hear it’ll kill you.”

Before walking in, Mark Rowe showed Stackhouse a glossy 4x6 photograph of an Indian man. He’d taken the photo off a wall at the Quick Mart.

“You know this guy?” asked Rowe.

“No, should I?”

“His name’s Manish. I won’t even attempt the last name.”

The sun baked them. A trickle of sweat bumped down Stackhouse’s vertebrae. “Manish doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was murdered a couple days ago. We discovered his body with Jane Newton and Stackhouse paraphernalia, in his apartment.”

“He didn’t get the paraphernalia from me,” she said. “How did he die?”

“His jugular was severed by a Spyderco blade.”

“Jane?”

“Yes. Prints were a match.”

“She’s still active,” said Stackhouse.

“Was there ever any doubt?” Rowe nodded toward Crabtree. “Try not to think about it, and keep him close.”

The Catawba Sports Bar was open for lunch though no one came. The giant bartender threw up his hands at their entrance. Stackhouse recalled he made his Tom Collins too sweet and refused to stock white wine.

“More cops,” he said. “You know, running a restaurant is hard. Tiny margins. But now? With cops in here ever week? It’s damn impossible.”

“Hopefully this is the last time, Mr. Brown,” said Rowe.

Stackhouse paused at the hightop where two weeks ago she’d been pretending to flirt with Kingston. Couple of got’damn war heroes. Now get yourself over here, Ponytail. She’d stood here, he lounged there, beside Reggae, who was with the girl Sissy, next to Brandi, southern cheap, and finally Antwone, overseeing the affair with trepidation in his heart.

She watched the waitresses bring them beer and water and wings and peanuts and fries. She backed up as old Pete crashed into the hightop, sweating, complaining about his stomach. She heard the two-week-old echo of a single gunshot from the bathroom. She watched the walls of the empty room, trying to witness people who weren’t there.

“Mark, you interrogated Brandi and Sissy?”

“Neither girl had ever met Reggae. Brandi came for Antwone, and she brought her friend Sissy on the blind date. Not sharp knives. Neither could even spell the word arsenic. Their texts were clean.”

The bartender trudged into his office, swaying like a rotten tree, and he returned to dump a set of files on the bar top. “Here. All my employees. You ask every time, so here they are. I said it before, I’ll say it again—none of them shot that Army guy.” He jerked his chin at Stackhouse. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. You’re the undercover cop.”

“Sorry for the subterfuge that night. We were looking for missing kids,” said Stackhouse.

She didn’t feel like telling him they’d recently found one of the missing kids, Stevie. After the discovery of Ms. Spillman’s body, the working theory was that Stevie had been submerged in the same pond for the last four years, freezing over in the winter.

The dive team hadn’t found Allie Anderson in the pond. She remained a mystery.

“We don’t need to look at your employees,” said Rowe. “We’re searching your kitchen.”

“Why?”

Rowe slid a warrant onto the bar. “First, because Judge Thompson says we can. Secondly, we’re looking for arsenic.”

“What the hell’s arsenic?”

Stackhouse had been watching Mr. Brown's reaction closely, searching for tell-tales. He showed none.

“It’s poison, Mr. Brown.”

“Why the hell would I have poison in my kitchen?”

“We don’t know. Reggae had been poisoned, and so had another patron of yours. They were both here that night. Which means probably this is where they ingested it, and that’s why we’re looking.”

“You think I’m dumber than dirt, assuming I’d keep the poison around in my kitchen, after I tried killing people with it,” said the giant bartender. Stackhouse had to look way up at him. “Knock yourselves out, assholes. You won’t find nothing.”

“Who else is here?”

“Just me. Lunch crowd’s easy.”

Crabtree joined them after finishing his homemade meal, and they searched the place. The pantries, the freezer, the shelves, the cupboards, the bar, the janitor’s closet, the utility room, the corners, and his office. Likely he’d be condemned if they were food inspectors. For an hour they searched, finding no poison. Not that they expected to—likely the arsenic discovered in Rowe’s kitchen was the guilty bag. They’d tried tracing the purchase, but it was several years old.

Stackhouse grabbed a breather to stretch her back and she idly flipped through the stack of employee records. She remembered this one, Regina Peterson—the waitress who served them drinks that night. She remembered this one too, May Brown. The owner’s mom, who helped tend bar. Stackhouse finished the stack of nine. She frowned and flipped through them again. Something about it bothered her.

Idly, she wandered into the men’s room. She flinched at the sight of it, pain seared into the visual. That’s where they’d found Pete panting on the floor. That’s the stall where Reggae was bleeding out.

They’d arrested Pete immediately. Of course he’d done it. There was no other option. The only possible suspect. Until the GSR test ruled that all but impossible.

What had they missed?

Stackhouse crouched again, looking under the sinks and beyond the toilets, like she’d discover a bag of arsenic there.

On the way out, she flipped off the lights. The little ventilation fan quit humming. She joined Rowe in the freezer.

A minute later she returned.

She flipped on the lights. Then off. Then on, and off again. Each time, the ventilation fan responded. On—it rattled up to speed and settled into a drone. Off—the blades quickly ceased spinning. Like a fan was supposed to.

Stackhouse approached the bar. “You buy a new fan?”

“No,” said Brown. “In the ceiling? Been there since I bought it.”

“On the night of the shooting, that fan wasn’t functional.”

“Oh that. Yeah maybe mice?” he said.

“I don’t follow.”

“The wires got fouled up in the attic. One of my chefs is good with HVAC. He fixed it in five minutes last week.”

Stackhouse returned to stand in the bathroom stall. The fan—a circular shape, as big around as a basketball—was directly over her head. Too small to climb through, even if there was no grill or blade motor. Reaching up, she couldn’t touch it, but she bet Crabtree would reach.

Could someone in the attic have disconnected the wires to fire a gun down through the blades, hitting Reggae from above?

Doubtful. From that angle, the bullet would’ve been in his pelvis. But…

She flipped the switch and the fan stopped, and in the darkness she stepped onto the toilet seat and balanced against the wall. She peered upward through the grill, between the blades. With the door closed, it was nearly pitch black—no window. She grabbed the nearest chair from the dining area and propped the door open. Still not enough light, so she clicked on her little police-issued Pelican tactical flashlight, and returned to stand on the toilet. With the blades off, and by the illumination of her flashlight, she could see into the attic. This fan appeared to pump directly into a big space over the bathroom, instead of out a ventilation shaft. No way was that up to code.

She bit the flashlight. One hand on the wall, the other pushed up on the fan.

A large section of ceiling lifted up easily. The fan housing was larger than the circular port, a big square. Maybe eighteen inches by eighteen. Not screwed in place, which was why it rattled. From below, it appeared to be painted shut but wasn’t.

The fan housing offered plenty of wiggle room to lift it up and fire a gun downward into the bathroom.

And then what, the shooter accidentally dropped the gun?

But no, the angle would still be wrong.

She pushed up and slid the fan to the side, for it to rest on the attic floor. Her latex gloves stuck to the greasy fan’s housing, small snaps as they released. Instead of an exhaust fan, there existed now a big hole in the ceiling, black beyond. Using the flashlight in her right hand now, she inspected the attic’s ceiling. Nails were driven through the roof’s plywood. Thick wires were stapled to the slats. Cobwebs. At the edge of her sight, she could make out a fuse box.

What else was up there? The attic was reached by a ladder?

Wanting to see further, she stepped onto the back of the toilet and rose higher. She was nearly eye-level, but leaning awkwardly. Her left arm snaked into the dark hole and grasped a wooden truss. Again the flashlight was clamped between her teeth. Both arms into the attic now. Stackhouse lifted weights, a lot, and by executing a curl-up she was able to hoist herself into the void, the hole just large enough to accommodate her comfortably.

She banged her head on a rafter. Better that than a nail. She scooted her butt onto the attic ledge, feet dangling. Hunched over, she took the Pelican light from her mouth and shined it around.

Implications were settling into hard fact between her ears when Rowe called. “Stack?” He flipped on the light in the bathroom, causing the fan next to her to activate and suck air off the attic floor. Below her, the world ignited, and some ambient light filtered upward.

“I’m up here.” Her voice sounded muffled.

“Up where?”

“Pete didn’t shoot Reggae, Mark. And Reggae didn’t shoot himself either. There was a third person in the bathroom.”

Rowe peered upward with round eyes.

“Whoa,” he said.

“I think,” she said, “that I’m sitting in the shooter’s escape route.”

38

That evening, after hours of grueling labor, two crime scene techs packed up their argon laser and field kits, lowering them down the kitchen ladder to Stackhouse and Crabtree, who walked the gear out to the county cop cars. The techs had lifted a lot of prints, but Mr. Brown stated that he sent his employees up into the attic at least once a week to fetch napkins, or a box of new highball glasses, or for silverware, or to reset the breakers. Over the years, dozens of people had roamed the attic. Prints galore.

Crabtree had attempted pulling himself up through the bathroom fan’s gap in the ceiling, but he didn’t fit. His shoulders were too broad. Rowe tried next and he was barely able to slip through, his clothes scraping the rim to create falling dust.

Falling dust that Stackhouse hadn’t seen when she’d rushed into the bathroom after Reggae was shot.

Their theory was—someone shot Reggae, dropped the gun, and climbed up through the ceiling, accidentally kicking the power cord loose. The person was strong enough to execute at least one pull-up, and no bigger than Mark Rowe. In the chaos, the shooter easily slipped down the ladder into the kitchen. If the person was a Catawba Sports Bar employee, he or she stuck around. If the person wasn’t, he or she escaped out the back.

“A horse, a horse,” said Rowe, “my kingdom for security camera footage.”

But the Catawba Sports bar wasn’t equipped with any security measures, especially not camera surveillance.

Leaning against their cars, arms crossed, shoulders drooped with weariness, they watched the evening crowd spilling to the sports bar. The first NFL preseason game was tonight, the Redskins versus the Lions. Brown couldn’t shoo the cops out of his bar fast enough.

“We’re closer,” muttered Rowe. “But still, not close.”

“We confirmed there was a third person in the bathroom.”

“Maybe we confirmed it. We know there was, but it’s circumstantial.”

“You detectives considered there might be more than one person?” said Crabtree. “Like, Antwone’s girlfriend Brandi is at the table, poisoning people with arsenic, while her other secret boyfriend is waiting in the bathroom to kill some Spillman boys?”

Stackhouse and Rowe regarded him thoughtfully, like a dog that spoke.

“What?” said Crabtree.

“Look who’s thinking like a detective.”

“Turns out, it ain’t all that hard.”

“I have considered multiple suspects. But I still don’t know anything,” said Rowe. “Alright, we’re done here. I’ll go ride the paperwork. You two knock off.”

Stackhouse didn’t want to knock off. Another clue, another step closer. She felt the tick-tick-tick of a clock, counting down before another Spillman family member vanished.

“Oh. Here.” Rowe handed her a slim file. “A while back you asked for what I had on Allie Anderson.”

“It’s so thin.”

“I just started on the case when it blew up. I spent zero man-hours on Allie’s background. The mystery of Reggae and Pete, plus other cases I’m working, and the arson, plus the Jane Newton manhunt… Allie Anderson's disappearance four years ago is a case that should be solved, but it isn’t pressing.”

“Triage.”

“I wish I had more hours in the day, you know?” said Rowe.

“I get it.” She saluted him with the folder and regretted it. “I’ll read the file tonight.”

“Don’t. Sleep tonight.”

She yawned. “Maybe.”

She didn’t sleep, not immediately. Her bedside lamp burned as she read. There wasn’t much. A statement from Allie’s mother and some insubstantial public records. Allie had been a minor. As a detective, Stackhouse could get the sealed documents, if there were any, but hoops had to be jumped through. Rowe had barely scratched the surface of the case when Reggae was shot.

According to the mother, Linda Anderson, she’d been expecting Allie to visit but she didn’t. She suspected Allie and Stevie were hooking up, as they often did, in any car Stevie could get his hands on. Reading between the lines, Allie’s family was poor. Linda Anderson says she never saw her daughter again. She called Stevie’s house, but his older brother claimed Stevie was home asleep. She called again the next day but Stevie had already left for work. By then she panicked and called the police.

The rest, Stackhouse already knew.

Stackhouse blinked sleepily and read it again. Expecting Allie to visit? Where was Linda Anderson, that her daughter would visit her? In the hospital? At her father’s house?

Stackhouse read what Rowe had on Linda Anderson. A sizable list of judgments against her, including a bankruptcy. At the bottom, she found a note in Rowe’s handwriting.

As of last week, Linda Anderson was in the county jail, waiting to be sentenced for another felony possession with intent to distribute.

How about that.

Stackhouse yawned and covered it with her fist.

She needed to visit the jail anyway, to ask about Jack Gough’s wife, a task that kept getting shoved down the list. Tomorrow she’d force it, and pay Linda a visit too. A warm feeling simmered in her chest, hot on the hunt, closing in.

39

In the middle of the night, Ronald Hansen stole Cole Rose’s car and took it joyriding. The men were longtime rivals in northeast Roanoke, living two blocks apart from each other, one block off Elm Street. The way Ronald saw it, Cole owed him seven hundred dollars and he’d make use of the man’s car until it was paid.

When Cole discovered it in the morning, he climbed on his motorcycle, drove to Ronald’s house, and shot Ronald through the window as Ronald was eating a bowl of cereal before bed. Ronald, struck in the left arm, returned fire from the door. Cole was hit in the right calf, and he sped off. Ronald pursued him in Cole’s own car, and soon they were making circuits around Valley View Mall, neither firing a gun, a game of chicken, waiting for the other to make a move. Cole was bleeding worse, though, and drunk, and needing a place to hide, he drove straight at the Belk department store’s glass front. He shot it twice and drove through the glass, which didn’t shatter into dust like it did in movies—he drove his motorcycle through the glass wall, which did partially break into pieces, but the impact knocked him unconscious. Ronald parked the car and followed on foot. He slipped and staggered into a sharp protruding wedge, stabbing the same arm that had been shot. He yelped and fell onto the shards, resulting in more injuries.

Cole regained his senses, saw Ronald, fired, missed, and crawled deeper into the department store. Both men leaking blood, Ronald followed.

Valley View security locked the mall down, all employees ordered to evacuate an hour before opening. Sergeant Fry and the Roanoke SWAT entered the Belk store an hour later from two points of ingress. Cole and Ronald were found on the carpet, opposite sides of the store, unconscious, minus several pints of blood.

Stackhouse’s day filled up with interviewing the families and friends of both men, on Bullitt Avenue, one block off Elm, where a small war threatened to break out. Crabtree put three members of the feud into squad cars, threatening to arrest them if they didn’t relax.

Miserable hot work. Shoot-outs were laborious and cumbersome.

The only benefit of the morning emergency was, she never made it to the Barn and the necessary walk by Chief Almond’s desk, providing him another opportunity to chain her down. He wanted Stackhouse gone by way of misery attrition, grounding her and piling busy work into her arms. Today she’d avoided it.

At the earliest possible moment, which was dinnertime, not long before her shift ended, Stackhouse dumped her work onto Detective Rey Seay and she fled toward the Roanoke County jail on East Main Street.

She and Crabtree ordered Mac & Bob burgers to go, both starving.

While they ate, her phone rang. Chief Almond.

She ignored it.

“You gone get fired,” said Crabtree.

“I’d rather ask forgiveness than permission.”

“You’ll be asking for another job soon.”

At the jail, Sheriff Gee’s office was vacant and she felt relief, able to bypass him. Instead she knocked on the inmate visitor window and asked to speak with Linda Anderson. The deputy, a woman whose nameplate read Bosen, chewed gum and arched an eyebrow.

“I was just leaving,” said Bosen.

“I know visiting hours are about to end, but this is important.” Stackhouse could force the issue if necessary, threaten to call the sheriff. The agencies usually worked well together.

Bosen sighed and clacked her keyboard. “Linda Anderson is at dinner.”

“This late?” Inmates usually ate early.

“Sorry, I should say, she’s on kitchen cleanup after dinner.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself. Might be a while.”

To her dismay, the jailhouse was emptying like water through a sieve. Men punching out, ready to get home. The nightshift was here.

She and Crabtree didn’t know where to go until she saw a familiar face.

“Ray Fritos!” she shouted.

The short round man grinned so big his eyes disappeared.

“Detective! Oh man, you’re here again. Wait till I tell them,” said Fritos.

“Ray, I need the security room. Where the cameras are monitored.”

His smile increased, more teeth, and he held out a phone. “Take a picture with me first?”

“Why would— Sure, you bet.”

After the photo, he led them upstairs, through an armed checkpoint, and to state-of-the-art security room. Deputy Bond sat at the controls, listening to radio chatter.

“Deputy, I’m Detective Stackhouse. I’m working on a case and I’m hoping you have video footage from two weeks ago.”

Bond, like his namesake, was fit and good-looking. He didn’t seem to think Stackhouse was, as he only glanced at her. “Evening, Officers. Do you have a warrant? These things go better with warrants.”

“No I don’t have a warrant.”

“Captain Elmer is a stickler for the rules, Detective.”

In front of Bond, eight monitors glowed and hummed. The hallways were empty, but the pods were active with inmates. Bond’s primary job was watching the security points.

“I met Elmer. Screw that guy,” said Stackhouse.

Bond didn’t smile but he nodded. “Couldn’t agree more, ma’am, but rules are rules.”

“Okay, how about this. I don’t need a copy of the video. I only want to view it.”

Bond’s eyes rolled up to consider the ceiling and the rules. “I don’t see why that would be a problem.”

Relief. “Do you keep video from two weeks ago?”

“The last ninety days, ma’am.” He swiveled in his chair to a monitor and a joystick and small keyboard. “This is where you’ll call it up and scrub through. Any certain camera?”

“I want to see who visited Jack Gough in the family room two Wednesdays ago. It’d be in the morning.”

“Camera six.” Bond clicked and a new screen appeared on the viewing monitor. “Okay, this drop-down box is the cameras. Up here, click that icon and pick the day. You can zip forward and backward. It’s slow and clunky but you’ll get there.”

Stackhouse bent over the controls until Crabtree lightly touched Bond on the shoulder and indicated the chair. Bond made an embarrassed grimace and stood.

“Ma’am, take this chair. I’ll find another.”

Normally she wouldn’t accept, but she’d be in an awkward stance otherwise. “Thank you, Deputy Bond.”

Using the mouse, she clicked on the calendar, two Wednesdays ago. The servers chugged and a new screen popped up. The video was twenty-four hours long, midnight-to-midnight, and the time cursor reset to noon. Using the joystick, she could zip backwards or forwards, more quickly the harder she pressed.

Outside the security room, Crabtree was laughing about something with Ray Fritos.

Bond came back with a chair in time to answer a radio call and press a button to open a redundantly locked door.

“Can I ask what you’re looking for?” he said.

Stackhouse responded absently. “You have a prisoner named Jack Gough. The guy who stabbed Pete Burman two weeks ago. The day Pete was stabbed, Jack was visited by Staci Lynn, his wife. She denies it. I want proof it’s her. One of them is lying, and it got Pete killed, I think.”

“Getting a warrant shouldn’t be hard.”

“No.” Stackhouse sniffed, watching the little figures on screen shuffle around in fast motion. “But who has the time.”

The quality of the video wasn’t sharp. The faces were pixelated and blurred. At regular speed, Stackhouse could make out features, but not sped up. She was forced to monitor the hallway for activity, then scrub backward and watch the activity at normal speed.

Pete had been found before lunch. But after breakfast.

Jack’s wife visited him in the morning, then, maybe ten o’clock? She could find the log somewhere, likely, but maybe not until tomorrow when the staff returned.

She checked her watch—Linda Anderson would show up to the visitation room soon.

“Wait.” She squinted. “Would I see Jack on his camera?”

“The inmate? No, that’s another feed. He entered the room from a different door. You said you wanted to see who the visitor was.”

“Shoot. I’ve been watching for Jack,” she said. “Is there a camera inside the family room?”

“Yes ma’am, but it’s not worth my job if I show you that. I can’t even watch it live, because children are involved. It’s monitored by a deputy through a window in real time, but the video is sealed.”

A warrant was sounding better and better.

She rewound the video and started zipping forward again, watching for Jack’s wife instead of Jack himself.

“Sergeant Crabtree?” she called. “You want to return to the visitation room and tell Linda I’ll be there in a minute?”

“You bet,” he said.

Stackhouse smiled to herself. What a pleasant surprise the man was. None of the arrogance she assumed she’d fight with. He wanted to do his job well and professionally. Somewhere along the way she’d earned his trust and cooperation.

Her eyes snagged on figures hurrying along the hallway. She paused and rewound. Looked like a deputy escorting a woman.

Staci Lynn Gough?

She pressed play. Here came the woman, walking with the deputy. She remembered Staci Lynn as short and blondish. Her nose was pierced.

The woman on screen had dark hair and bangs. A face free of piercings.

“Ah hah,” said Stackhouse. “Jack lied. That’s not his wife.”

Bond looked over her shoulder at the woman, who walked closer, closer, and then disappeared at the bottom of the screen under the camera, beside a heavy-set deputy. “Good-looking woman.”

Stackhouse nodded. “Mmhm, whoever she is.” She rewound the video and dug out her phone to take a photo of the woman not married to Jack.

She waited for the woman to walk closer, closer. At the last instant, the woman glanced up at the camera.

Click. Stackhouse snapped a picture.

She sat a moment, considering the now empty hallway. Is that Staci Lynn? Maybe she took out the rose ring.

Stackhouse scrubbed backward. She watched and rewound it again.

“Is there a way to sharpen the video? To see details better?”

“No ma’am.”

Stackhouse squinted and got on her knees, like getting a better angle to see under the bangs. Is that you, Staci?

Stackhouse’s nose prickled with the monitor’s static. Too close. The more she watched the video, the more convinced she became of a fact—the woman in the video was wearing a wig.

Nobody had hair that dark. Staci in a wig?

But no! Staci Lynn had tattoos. This woman didn’t. This was a different woman, one without tattoos, wearing a—

Stackhouse gasped and leaped to her feet.

“Holy Carter on a cracker,” she said.

Bond turned, curious. “What happened?”

Stackhouse was running, the swivel chair spinning.

Linda Anderson waited beyond the glass, looking bored as Stackhouse charged into the room.

“Happened to you?” said Crabtree. “Look like Bond kicked you in the gut.”

Stackhouse dropped into the chair and grabbed the phone to speak with Linda Anderson. A woman on whom life had been unkind.

“Ms. Anderson, my name is Detective Andie Stackhouse, and I’m sorry but this will feel a little rushed. My head is spinning.” Stackhouse filled her lungs and pressed against the little wall partition to ground herself, like a sniper who needed support to aim. “I’m looking into the disappearance of your daughter and I think I found a big clue not two minutes ago.”

“My daughter?” Linda Anderson spoke with a smoker’s rasp, scooting forward on the chair. “Don’t tell me nothing awful. They told me they found the missing boy, the rat Stevie, and I’ve been praying Allie will walk in here ever since. That those sons of bitches won’t find her dead too.”

Stackhouse felt fear like a passenger on her back. She was afraid of what Linda might say. Linda’s words might slip through the glass partition and attack.

She was dizzy.

“Ms. Anderson, you’ve done multiple stints in rehab and jail. I saw that in your file.”

“I have. What’s this—”

“On and off, your whole adult life,” said Stackhouse.

“Well I’m trying to quit. No one will hire a felon. Do you know how hard it is to find a job?”

“Twice while Allie was in high school, you were in lockup. I saw it in your file.”

“I remember.” Ms. Anderson’s face paled.

“Where did your daughter go while you were locked up? Her file is sealed.”

“I feel awful about it. It wasn’t right what I did, but taking a mom away from her daughter, that ain’t right either. It forced Allie to pay a price too. You know? The kids pay the price, being away from their mommas. No wonder these poor girls take up with older boys. Looking for safety. Even with older Black boys.” She had the good sense not to look at Crabtree. “No offense.”

“Where did your daughter go while you were away?”

“Once with my sister. The other time, to a home,” said Ms. Anderson.

Stackhouse felt like she was falling. “To a foster home.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember which one?”

“I’m not sure where it was. Allie liked it fine, she told me. No abuse, nothing like that.”

“Do you remember the foster mother?”

Behind her, Crabtree grunted as though struck.

Ms. Anderson nodded. “Yeah, I remember. I even met her that one time. Pretty lady, long blonde hair.”

“What was her name?”

“It’s been five years. I don’t immediately… No, hang on, I remember calling her. See, I wasn’t in lockup here, I was in something like a halfway house. For addicts, you know? Allie could come visit me, but she didn’t come that day, and I remember calling her boyfriend’s and I also called her foster house. I called and I called, hang on, it’s coming to me. The woman’s name was Janet or something like it. Jamie, Janet—”

“Jane. Jane Newton.”

Ms Anderson pointed through the glass. “That’s it! Jane Newton.”

Stackhouse dropped the phone like it burned her. She mumbled something about coming back soon.

Linda Anderson watched them leave, confused, and kept talking, her voice small in the forgotten phone. “Hey. Hey. Where are you… What happened? What’d I say, hey, please! What about Allie?”

Back in the security room.

Stackhouse on her knees again, like in penitence, before the security monitor. She tapped it and Crabtree stooped.

“Look closely. The woman who visited Jack Gough. I almost didn’t recognize her. That’s Jane. In a wig.” Stackhouse barely heard her own voice. “Jane came to the jail the day after Reggae was shot.”

“Don’t look like her.” Crabtree squinted and tilted his head. “Well. Maybe?”

Deputy Bond, alarmed at Stackhouse’s behavior earlier, had called Mac & Bobs, Captain Elmer’s favorite after-work bar. The hostess found Elmer drinking and brought him to the phone, and Bond had asked him to return immediately.

Now Elmer appeared at the security room door. Captain Elmer, athletically fit with thick spectacles that made his eyes huge. He’d managed two beers before running back.

Stackhouse didn’t acknowledge him, other than,“Get the sheriff on the phone.”

“Detective, good evening. I’m not going to do that.”

“Then bring me Jack Gough.”

“Not without his attorney present, I won’t. Update me, I’m behind.”

“You let a known serial killer walk into your jail,” said Stackhouse, numb, talking to Bond and Elmer and to the prison at large.

Elmer’s eyes fell to the monitor and the woman framed there. “A serial killer? I didn’t let anybody—”

“Listen. Jane Newton sauntered in with a wig, and you let her meet with Jack Gough in the family room, and now a man is dead.” Deep breath and she gave them some volume. “Either bring me the sheriff or Jack Gough now or I’ll have both your jobs.”

40

Cocktail hour.

Kaye Calhoun drank hers at Lucky, a restaurant downtown. Lucky walked the tightrope of too small, turning away just enough walk-ins to remain exclusive, crowded and loud, patrons bumping and excusing their way to the bathrooms, elbows rubbing at the bar. Kaye sat on a stool with another LPC and a LMHC. Mental health workers, all of them, from three different clinics, a weekly tradition. Discussion of patient-specific facts was off the table, but the conversation brushed against the truth often enough to be interesting and not purely theoretical.

Before the first cosmo, her colleagues were guarded, the relationships a chore, but during the second, they warmed into friends again. Kaye often wondered if these were real friends or not, if they required a social lubricant.

During a bout of grim laughter over the challenges of listening to a schizophrenic, Kaye’s eyes alighted on Bobbie Munson in the bar mirror. Her client, the tall cancer survivor.

Rarely had Kaye been so fascinated by a client so quickly. Bobbie was a cauldron of conflict, emotions surfacing faster than she could even pretend to name them, or write them down. The woman had bawled once and fallen asleep once. Kaye sensed they had barely scratched the depths of her hurt, intuition warning of monsters lurking in the deep.

Tonight Bobbie wore modish jeans and a blouse cut for attention. It displayed her strong arms and shoulders.

Although Kaye didn’t dislike the woman, she would never approach a client in public. One of the ironclad rules in her world—don’t engage in multiple relationships. Client and friend? No. Client and more than friend? Never.

Distance was her ally, and she regretted it when the man next to her paid his bill and left, vacating a single stool.

Bobbie Munson slid onto it. They’d already made eye contact in the mirror and Kaye couldn’t pretend otherwise.

“Hello Bobbie. Nice to see you.”

Bobbie smiled and touched her arm. “I won’t pester you. I know you’re not allowed. But let me show off for a moment.” Bobbie produced a wig from her bag and tugged it into place. Like that, she transformed from chemo patient to a striking brunette with a bob cut.

Kaye laughed. “Hey Bobbie! That looks great on you.”

“Do you like it?”

“Very much. Way to go, girl.”

“What are you drinking? I don’t know much about cocktails,” said Bobbie.

“A cosmopolitan.”

“Wave down the bartender for me?”

“Sure.” Kay turned and beckoned for him, and she shot her two colleagues a grimace—she’s a client, she wanted to say, but Bobbie might notice in the mirror. Her colleagues picked up on the hint anyway.

When the bartender came, Bobbie ordered a cosmopolitan and paid with a twenty.

“Before I go, ummm, this is good bye,” said Bobbie. “We probably won’t see each other again.”

“Oh?”

“I’m moving back home. I cannot tell you how much our conversations helped. I feel unlocked. I know we only spoke for two hours, but I mean it when I say, they were two of the better hours of my life.”

“I’m so glad, Bobbie. If you’re leaving soon, we could schedule a phone call for next week? The clinic would set it up. A familiar voice might help.”

“You’re very sweet, Kaye.”

A shrug. “I try.”

“That would be nice. Or we could chat now?”

“Tempting, but I’m out with friends. Let’s talk on the phone next week.”

“Do you want to know why I’m leaving?” said Bobbie.

“I do! I can’t wait to hear about it. Next week.”

“Trust me, I’m in control. We could go for a walk.”

“No thank you, I’d prefer a phone call,” said Kaye.

“I’m no longer your client, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried at all, Bobbie. But you’re still my client until the paperwork says otherwise. And even then—”

“The woman I told you about, the reason I’m in Roanoke? Who abandoned me during my ordeal? I’m putting her behind me. I’m not sure why I was so fixated on her, but I’m stopping that. It was beneath me and you helped me see.”

Kaye’s alarms were chiming. Time to get free of this conversation. She drained the rest of her cocktail, and waved for her check.

The bartender brought Bobbie the cosmo, and took Kaye’s credit card.

“Let me pay,” said Bobbie. “As a thank you.”

“That’s not necessary at all, Bobbie, but you’re kind. Not only is it not necessary, it would be inappropriate, between a health provider and a client.”

“Kaye. Are you attracted to me?”

“Speaking of inappropriate,” said Kaye, “I think we’re venturing into that territory now. I will not discuss that with you.”

Bobbie rose up, nostrils flaring, and for a hot second Kaye worried the woman would strike her. But the moment passed, Bobbie looking around the room and seeming to ground herself.

She nodded. “I’m sorry, Kaye. You see, I am attracted to you. And I’m letting it get the best of me. I apologize.”

“It happens to everyone.” Kaye half-smiled. “I mean, not that everyone is attracted to me. I meant… You get it.”

“I get it. So. You want me to leave?”

“You don’t need to leave. But I am. It’s better that way.”

Bobbie rose without another word and walked the length of the bar, out of sight. She was striking enough that eyeballs followed her.

Not Kaye. She was looking at the stool Bobbie had vacated. The woman had been gripping the foam-cushioned seat hard enough to rip it.

The second cocktail soured Kaye’s stomach—she must’ve drained it too quickly. She told her colleagues she felt the flu coming on, or something. They walked Kaye to the parking lot, in case someone waited in ambush. A downside to young attractive therapists—obsessive clients.

Kaye threw them a wave and ducked safely into her car.

Two blocks away, she pulled over and parked. Her head swam. After only two drinks? She knew her limit. She was nowhere close, yet here she was, drunk off her ass. The road swam.

She buzzed the window down to let in some air.

Drunk and tired. So so tired. Her muscles didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t remember being this drunk before. No, it wasn’t that, it was something else. Maybe it really was the flu.

She fumbled for her phone but her fingers refused to cooperate. She needed to call for a ride. Call Andie.

She couldn’t stop smiling, wasn’t that silly. So hot. Sooooo hot and tired.

A knock at her door.

“Kaye. Are you sick?,” said a friendly voice. A woman’s.

“I’m not sick.” Kaye could barely open her eyes. “I’m just so tired.”

Jushhootire.

“Umm, I don’t think you should stay here, Kaye, parked on the street.”

“No, bad idea. Very bad idea. Shit, I feel so weird.”

“I don’t think you should drive either.”

“No. I can’t. Sheesh, I can’t, I can barely talk.”

“Here, let me help, Kaye.”

The kind person slipped a hand inside the open window to pull up the lock. When the door opened, Kaye nearly fell out but the friendly woman caught her.

“So strong,” said Kaye.

“Thank you, Kaye. I have to be. We’ll lay you in the back seat, just like we did with Andrea.”

“You know Andie?”

“I know her better than you do. She’s the woman I came here for.”

Gratefully Kaye fell into the back seat. Once the door was closed, a Sypderco blade Kaye hadn’t seen was tucked away, back into a jean’s pocket, thankfully not needed. The friendly woman took the wheel.

“Like I said, I am in control. Are you too hot?”

“Yes,” said Kaye. “I’m roasting.”

“Here, I’ll turn up the air. Better?”

“Thank you.” Eyes closed, head swimming, she might’ve been resting on the back seat, or maybe on the ceiling. “You came here for Andie?”

“Yes, though I told you a white lie. It’s not romantic. And I’m not attracted to you, no offense. Sometimes I’m not sure how to name what I feel.”

“I don’t understand. But thank you so much for your help.”

Buthanewsooomuchforelp.

“That’s what friends are for, Kaye.” The car dropped into drive and motored into traffic. “Even though you rejected me.”

“Mmm.”

“It infuriated me. And yet, it’s not like I was genuinely seeking your approval or your body. This way is easier. And I must learn to watch my temper.”

“Good idea,” said Kaye. “I’m so embarrassed. I never get this drunk.”

Her words took a moment to decode.

“It’s not the alcohol. It’s Rohypnol. A forget-me pill. You drank it up. I dusted your drink when you called for the bartender.”

“Rohypnol is a benzodiazepine. A tranquilizer,” said Kaye. Or she tried to say. Her words emerged as mush.

“We’ll be there soon, and there’s much to be done. I leave tonight. That part was true.”

With her fading mental powers, she said, “Bobbie? I’m confused. Is that you?”

“Yes. Although from now on, you can call me Jane.”

41

Detective Mark Rowe, lonely in his office on a Friday night, reading through tips from the hotline.

Two dozen tips a day, for weeks, claiming to know the location of serial murderer Jane Newton. She was everybody’s ex-girlfriend. She was living down the street in every neighborhood. She was spotted daily at each Walmart. She lived in twenty attics. She even danced at the strip club on Franklin.

Not one tip mentioned a wig.

Using tweezers, Rowe himself had lifted two dark synthetic fibers from Manish’s carpet, long like hair. Under a microscope, they matched the hairs from a wig he’d purchased from a costume store for comparison. The FBI was combing through receipts from the past month at every store in thirty miles that sold similar wigs.

They’d catch her.

Eventually.

It kept Rowe up at night, praying they found her before she killed again.

Most detectives don’t use white boards covered with cases. That was a television trope. But most detectives hadn’t lucked into their own office with walls and white boards. He’d taken down one of his cold cases and covered it instead with Jane Newton—her escape from prison, a list of her allies, her former foster children, the arson that killed Chet Moreland, her phone call to Stack, the dead convenience store worker with toy dildos in his mouth. At night he felt Jane’s eyes reading his thoughts.

His desk phone rang, startling him.

“This is Rowe.”

“Mark, listen, it’s Andie. We need to talk now. If you’re busy, cancel it.”

Rowe would cancel anything for Andie Stackhouse, important or not. He looked at the clock. After 7pm. “I’m all ears.”

“I need to talk out loud about this, because it’s too big, it’s too weird. Sergeant Crabtree is here listening too. I’m at the jail,” she said.

“Okay.”

“I met with Allie Anderson’s mom. She’s in lockup.”

Rowe’s eyes flashed to the whiteboard. He still had the Spillman case taped up, though admittedly it was getting less and less of his time, another casualty of Jane Newton, even with their odd Catawba Sports Bar ceiling discovery. Focus on the board—Allie Anderson, the girl missing four years ago, her mom in jail, okay.

Stackhouse continued. “Allie’s mom did several stints in rehab and jail while Allie was growing up. Including high school. During one, Allie was sent to a foster home.” Her voice hummed with a tremor. “The foster mom Allie stayed with? Jane Newton.”

Rowe jolted to his feet.

Worlds colliding.

Jane Newton and Allie Anderson? Those were two different cases. He said so.

“I know!” shouted Stackhouse. “It makes no sense. That’s why I need to talk while it’s hot, while I wait for these jackasses to bring me Jack Gough.”

Rowe scrubbed at his hair. “Allie Anderson, cute kid missing four years ago, spent time at Jane Newton’s farm? Hang on.” He stepped to the Spillman whiteboard and squinted at it. No, wait, wrong case. He moved to the Jane Newton whiteboard, where he’d pinned the print out of all the girls who stayed with Jane over the years. Dozens and dozens of names, listened chronologically, not alphabetically. He set the receiver down and removed the magnet from the list, so he could shuffle pages. He skimmed, flipped a page, skimmed another, flip. On the final sheet, he found her. Allison Anderson. Two weeks with Jane—five months before Jane had been arrested, two weeks before Allie disappeared. He picked up the phone again. “Still there? I got her. Allie stayed at the farm the spring before you busted Jane. Good grief, what are the odds.”

“Now shelve that fact because it gets weirder,” said Stackhouse. Rowe could hear that she was pacing or doing something active with her nervous energy. “I brought up the video footage of Jack Gough’s wife visiting him at prison.”

“Jack Gough?” Rowe stared at the Jane Newton whiteboard. He knew the name. Too many names, too many cases, his memory slowing in his forties. “Remind me?”

“The inmate who stabbed Pete Burman. In jail.”

“Ah, Pete Burman.” Wrong case again. Rowe moved to the Spillman board. “Pete Burman, neighbors with the Spillman family. Stabbed to death in prison.”

“The investigator chalked it up to self-defense but I didn’t buy it. Jack Gough was visited by his wife the morning of the stabbing, but I visited Jack’s wife and she denied it. It makes no sense, nothing makes any damn sense, but then I watched the security footage of the wife visiting Jack. It wasn’t her. It was Jane.”

“Jane Newton visited an inmate in jail?”

“I’ll send you the photo.”

“Why would…” Rowe moved backward in his office so he could see both boards at once. “Why would she risk that?”

“To have Pete Burman killed.”

“Why would Jane Newton want Pete Burman killed?”

“I don’t know, but I’m working on a theory. Bear with me. Four years ago, Allie’s mother gets thrown into jail. Or rehab. Again. What do they do with her sixteen-year-old daughter? They gave her to Jane.”

Rowe didn’t mean to interrupt, but he did, thinking out loud. “You think Jane killed Allie?”

“No. Jane, for all her faults, was an exceptional foster mother. Very protective. She saved girls, that was her mission. But Allie was dating Stevie Spillman at the time. It’s not a wild guess to wonder if Jane killed Stevie. When Jane called me this week, she revealed she’d been spying on me, and she worried about Sergeant Crabtree. She warned that Black guys can’t help themselves. Maybe she’s prejudiced, Mark. Maybe she assumed the worst about Stevie. Or even saw Stevie hit Allie or something like that? Actually that doesn’t fit Stevie’s profile, who was a sweet kid, according to everyone. Maybe Jane discovered them having sex? I don’t know.”

“Jane liked to hide her bodies in the water.” Rowe warmed to the idea. “And Stevie’s body was in great condition, evidence of being kept in a cold place, like underwater.”

“Yes! We’re missing something, though. Even if we’re right, there’s more. A lot more.”

“Stack, this is wild. You did good work on this.”

“Mark, I gotta go. Jack and his attorney are ready. Talk soon.”

Rowe was left holding a receiver with nobody on the other end. Once again, in awe of Andie Stackhouse.

42

Jack Gough’s hands were cuffed to the table in the jail’s interrogation room. He kept his head shaved but he was several weeks overdue, perhaps from solitary confinement. A short man, with short arms, the last time Stackhouse spoke to him, he still wore Pete Burman’s blood under his nails.

Jack’s attorney was a man in his sixties, his hands clasped on his lap. Stackhouse didn’t know him.

Sheriff Gee, grumpy at being recalled to work but smart enough to know he’d stepped in something and it was time to cooperate, glowered in the corner with his arms crossed, looming like a mountain next to Captain Elmer.

Stackhouse wished there weren’t so many older men watching. She felt her gender acutely, and she sweated.

“Mr. Gough. We need to discuss that man you stabbed.” She sat across from him.

“Allegedly stabbed,” said the attorney.

“Mr. Gough already confessed to that. His name was Pete Burman and Jack said he killed him in self-defense.”

“There has been no sentencing on this matter and my client has nothing further to add,” said the attorney. He said the words as he’d said them a thousand times over the years.

“Jack, this is an opportunity to cooperate,” said Stackhouse. “I’m in a time crunch and you have information I need. Your sentencing is about to get a lot worse if you don’t talk.”

“My client won’t respond to that.”

Jack Gough wasn’t looking at Stackhouse. He stared at the bolt pinning his hands down. Perhaps wondering how long he’d wear the cuffs. Until he was fifty? Until his whole body sagged?

“Tell me about the woman who visited you, Jack.”

“Don’t answer that,” said the attorney.

“The visitor log states it was your wife, Jack. I know it’s not. I can prove it and then you’re screwed. You’re withholding evidence and impeding an investigation, and a man died and it wasn’t self-defense. Your lawyer came here to deny, deny, deny, to silence you, but what he hasn’t considered is that if he wants to do his job well, he’ll look at the bigger picture. That you’re in jail because you beat up a sex worker, and you should be out soon, but if you don’t cooperate then you’ll be here a lot longer, Jack.”

At last Jack spoke. “It was self-defense. I didn’t want to kill that old man. They won’t keep me here for self-defense.”

“I can prove it wasn’t self-defense. Tell me about the woman who visited you, Jack.”

“He won’t respond to that. If you have evidence, show us now,” said the attorney.

“How can you prove it wasn’t self-defense?” Jack asked.

“If I wasn’t in a rush, babe, I’d let you fry. You and this idiot lawyer, I’d give everything I have to the prosecutor, to put you away for decades. But time is on your side, because I don’t have much of it. I need answers now and I’ll pay to get them. Instead of giving the evidence to the prosecutor, I’ll give you the evidence, so you realize how screwed you are. Then you decide if it’s worth staying an extra decade.”

Jack looked at her finally and he nodded.

“We’ll listen,” said the attorney. “That’s it.”

“First, the woman who visited you. We have her on video. It’s not your wife. Doesn’t look a thing like her. Your wife, or your soon-to-be ex-wife, was out of town and she has witnesses to prove it. I know the woman in the video. The question I have is, do you know? I bet you don’t.”

Jack said, “Who?”

“That’s not an admission,” said the attorney. “It’s just a question.”

“It was Jane Newton. Wearing a wig.”

“Who?” said Jack.

The attorney reared back in his chair like he smelled death.

Jack shot him a look. “Who? What?”

“You can’t prove that,” said the attorney.

“She’s a killer,” Stackhouse said. “And she wanted you to kill Pete Burman. You’re lucky, Jack. You’re one of the few men she let live.”

“My client will not respond to that. Bear in mind we invoked the right so silence.”

“I’m mighty tempted,” grumbled Sheriff Gee, “to shove your rights up your ass.”

“Threatening my client, Sheriff?”

“My jail, my rules. Maybe your client would like to spend another month in solitary?”

Stackhouse raised both hands. “I’m not done. I still need answers. I need to know why Jane Newton visited you.”

“Jane Newton in my jailhouse, Christ almighty,” said the sheriff.

“My client has not admitted to ever meeting a serial killer.”

“A serial killer? Shit,” Jack paled.

“I had Pete Burman’s body autopsied, Jack. Pete was lying on his side when you stabbed him. He wasn’t standing. No blood on the ground, it was all on his bed. None of the blood drained down his shirt, either. It pooled around his collar. He’d been asleep.”

“You can’t prove that.” The attorney’s words lost strength.

“The shiv was in deep. I watched the pathologist pull it out, Jack, nearly impossible because of how far you shoved it. The angle of insertion implies it was from the side, not straight on. The bruising around the wound indicates you stabbed him with such force that you essentially punched him. It was no accident, Jack. It’ll hold up in court. That, plus you lying about the visitor you received, you’re toast.”

Jack was taking deep breaths.

“You’re toast,” repeated Stackhouse, “unless you help me right now.”

“Help you how?” said Jack.

“I need to know everything Jane told you.”

“Don’t answer that,” said the attorney.

“You don’t need to admit to premeditated murder, Jack. I’m leveraging that to force you to talk about Jane.”

Sweat rolled down Jack’s head. He looked sideways at the attorney. “I don’t want to stay in jail forever, man, shit.”

“You and I should discuss this privately.”

“They can prove it wasn’t my wife! They can prove it. I can admit just that, right?”

The attorney sighed. Tired, he didn’t want to be there. “You and I should discuss this privately.”

Jack turned back to Stackhouse. “You want to know what that woman said?”

Stackhouse felt relief like cool water. “That room is recorded, but the footage is sealed because children are often involved. I can get video, Jack. I can listen to what she said, but it’ll take time. I need your help now or I walk out.”

“Okay.” Jack cleared his throat. “Shit… Okay.”

“This is against my legal counsel,” said the attorney but he was resigned to it.

“The woman who visited. You said you can prove she wasn’t my wife? Then. She, ahhh, she offered… Well.” Jack cleared his throat and he half grinned. “She offered sexual favors.”

Stackhouse had guessed it. “Gets lonely in jail.”

“Yes ma’am, it does.”

“Especially for a guy who gets sex a lot on the outside, even from sex workers.”

“Don’t respond to that,” said the attorney.

“And Jane Newton is good-looking and seductive.”

Jack chuckled. “Yes ma’am she was.”

“A sexual favor in exchange for what?” prompted Stackhouse.

“I don’t want to answer that part, ma’am.”

“I’ll go out on a limb and guess it was for what happened to Pete Burman. A sexual favor to kill Pete.”

“Not just one favor.” The odor of Jack’s sweat filled the little room.

“One favor that day, and more to come?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Multiple visits, in the family room, her posing as your wife. If you did as she asked.”

“You got it.”

“I have bad news, Jack. I don’t think she’s coming back.”

“Yeah.” Jack chuckled. “One was worth it, though.”

“I need to know why, Jack. Why did she want you to kill Pete?”

“I’m not admitting to anything. But I asked her that question. She said it was justice.”

“Justice. That’s not good enough,” said Stackhouse.

Jack squirmed on the chair. “I know. Guys, here’s the thing. I swear I’m not making this up. She didn’t tell me any specifics. Jeeezus, this is weird, but I swear, she told me to pass on a message.”

“Pass on a message?”

“When she first offered, I said no. Right? No way I’m killing someone for a… for a sexual favor. I said no. But she gave me a get out of jail free card. So to speak. Only if I needed it. She said it was specifically for the pretty cop.”

“The pretty cop?” asked Sheriff Gee.

“That woman who visited me, I swear, she said if I was busted, then it would be by a pretty cop named Andrea and I should give her a message.”

Stackhouse experienced a chill. A ghostly touch from Jane.

She heard herself say, “Why didn’t you tell me this last time?”

“I got off with self-defense.”

“What’s the message?”

“Are you Andrea?”

“I am.”

“Jeeeezus, that’s creepy. How’d she know?” said Jack.

“We have history.”

“She said, if I was caught, to tell you…” Jack looked at them all with jaded eyes, not expecting to be believed. “She said the pretty cop would understand. That she would go easy on me, if I told her the truth.”

“What truth?” demanded Stackhouse.

“I was to tell you that Pete Burman raped Ms. Spillman.”

Stackhouse felt like she’d been kicked. “Pete raped… I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know what it means. She said Pete Burman had raped Ms. Spillman. And one more thing.” Jack was hoarse. “She said it was about justice, and that it was because Pete had raped that woman, and lastly, you’d understand why, because, the old guy, Pete Burman was the father of some dude named Stevie.”

43

Kaye didn’t wake up, because she’d never truly been asleep.

She didn’t shake off the dizziness or drowsiness either, but she was able to focus through them when the point of a knife pierced her foot.

“Ow,” she mumbled.

One side effect of the drug was memory loss, and Kaye couldn’t pinpoint why she was on a bed. Nor who the woman was next to her, a woman she sensed more than saw.

“Ow,” she said again.

A voice spoke from somewhere. “Wake up, Kaye. I don’t want to poke you again.”

“I’m awake,” she said.

“What day is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Silly question, you can’t know how long you’ve been out. Who am I?”

Kaye rolled her eyes toward the noise. She didn’t know the woman looming at the foot of the bed. Oh wait, yes she did.

“You’re wearing a wig,” said Kaye. “That’s why I didn’t recognize you.”

“Who am I?”

“You’re Bobbie.” She heard herself slur the words. “Bobbie in a wig. I’m awake. Or I’m trying.”

“The woman next to you, Kaye, her name is Anna. She’s been very helpful, and she still might be. Women must band together.”

Anna?

Kaye made a demand on her central nervous system—wake up! She blinked and forced herself to look around. Yep, this was a bed. Not her bed. The woman beside her didn’t speak because her mouth was gagged. The woman silently wept.

Bobbie loomed at the foot of the bed, watching.

Kaye couldn’t sit up because her hands didn’t move. She inclined her face upward, arching her back to see.

Her hands were cuffed around a post of the headboard.

So were Anna’s. Both women were forced flat on their back because their arms were held over their heads, like dangling, but horizontally on a bed.

“Bobbie?” said Kaye. Think think think. How’d I get like this? “Bobbie, what happened?”

“I carried you. And I don’t want you to panic, Kaye. You can do this. Both you and Anna.”

“Bobbie—”

“Call me Jane.”

Beside Kaye, the woman named Anna sobbed into her gag. The gag looked like a sheet wrapped around her mouth and tied in the back.

“I’m leaving, Kaye.”

“You are? Where?” One helpful side effect of the drug, Kaye was spared the panic.

“One more errand. A parasite. It’s up to us, you know. I already feel free. I’m giving myself permission not to care. You helped me get here. You supported me in a way that… In a way that Andrea never did.”

“Andie? My Andie?” said Kaye.

“No. Not your Andrea. Not your Andie. She’s… Ummm.” The tall woman at the foot of the bed looked away. Avoidance. Shame. “She’s not yours. Not mine. She’ll never understand. Will she.”

An idea swayed in Kaye’s mind, like a distant light bulb, shining light on an awful truth. An awful madness.

“No one will ever understand,” whispered the woman.

Kaye scooted her rear end closer to the pillow, which let her sit up a little, putting more pressure on her shoulders, though she relieved it by bending her elbows. She looked fully at the woman at the foot of the bed, and she knew her. “I can try.”

“Kaye. Look at me. Who am I?

“I…”

“Say it. Force yourself to understand.”

“You’re…” Kaye swallowed. Still no panic but with the realization came some adrenaline. “You’re unhealthy.”

“Uh oooh.” The woman stabbed Kaye’s foot again with the Spyderco blade. The pad on the underside of her toe. Harder this time, and blood ran free.

“Ow.”

“You know who I am.”

“You’re Jane,” said Kaye. The words tasted like a scream. Their therapy sessions snapped into focus.

“Jane who?”

Call me Jane.

Oh noooooooooooooo.

Kaye couldn’t bring herself to utter the last name. “You’re obsessed with my roommate. She refused to visit you in prison so you came to Roanoke. You told me much of the truth in my office. I see it now. Why did you come to therapy?”

“I wanted to meet you. Little did I know how skilled you would be. That I would benefit from it. I’m proud of you, Kaye. I expected you to be using Andrea the same way everyone does, but you weren’t. You loved her as a sister. I watched some of it through your front door.”

“You wanted to kill me,” said Kaye, speaking to the ceiling, in a medicinal haze.

“Call it jealousy, if you need a simple definition. But no longer. You must live, Kaye.”

Kaye swallowed, wishing she had water. “Thank you. Thank you, Jane, that’s healthy.”

“I save women, Kaye. It gave me meaning. After my rebirth, I made strong women.”

Kaye pulled on the cuffs around her wrists but she was held fast. The metal hurt.

“I’m leaving,” said Jane. “I’m in control. I don’t need them to understand. I can have a new life. But first.”

“The parasite.”

“After I leave, you must free yourself.”

Kaye’s head swam. “Is there a key?”

“There’s a phone.” Jane patted the footboard with a hand. “Look down here, please. See? This is your phone. I already have a number dialed. All you must do is press send with your toe.”

Kaye craned her neck to look toward her feet. Her cell had been duct taped to the polished wood, held fast. She could see the send button.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes. I press send with my toe and the police will come unlock our cuffs.”

“Mmmm, no. Not the police. Andrea will come.”

Kaye felt a trick of fear through the hypnotic drug. Why Andie?

“Do you understand?” said Kaye.

“I don’t want to call Andie.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not, Bobbie. I mean, Jane.”

“I will slice her open with my knife, because I’m a psychopath.”

“That’s right,” said Kaye.

“I won’t. You have my word. I’m leaving in a car immediately.”

Kaye took a deep breath. Think, Kaye, think.

As if reading her thoughts, Jane said, “The phone is ready to call Andrea. Not 911. I don’t think you have the toe dexterity to do anything other than mash send. If you try and fail, you won’t be able to call anyone. You will die and it will be your fault.”

“Why Andie? If you’re trying not to fixate, then leave her out of this.”

“I told you. I make strong women.”

“She already is strong,” said Kaye.

“She will save you. She will be reborn into—”

“Andie doesn’t need your—”

“YES SHE DOES.”

Insanity unmasked. Full eye-contact, no shame, no avoidance. Jane’s murderous rage was barely restrained.

Kaye’s handcuffs felt heavy, her abdomen exposed and soft.

“I interrupted. That was rude,” whispered Kaye. Like coaxing a tiger back into the cage.

“Maybe you don’t understand like I thought you did.”

“I’m trying. Tell me the rest. Andie will be reborn?” said Kaye.

“She will emerge reborn from the flames. You both will. She will thank me. No one can hurt her again. And I can sleep in peace.”

Another sob from Anna, next to her.

“The flames?” asked Kaye.

“I wish the house had a sprinkler system, but we must make do. Maybe the fire hoses? I’m setting the house on fire, of course. You must call her. Else you burn to death.”

“Jane.” Kaye’s mind spun. “Listen to me. Please. You’re angry, but anger comes from something else. Sit down and talk about it.”

Instead, Jane walked to Anna and untied the gag.

“No shouting, Anna. You promise?”

Anna nodded.

Jane threw the gag to the floor. “I needed you, Anna. You were kind. Thank you. You too get to live, reborn and strong. If you don’t, none of this matters. I don’t matter. They win.”

“Jane. Please sit.”

“I’m in a hurry. Remember. After you survive this, you’re new. Like I will be. Maybe then you’ll understand. Get out before the fire reaches the gasoline in the basement. Trust me. Press that button, Kaye.”

Jane brushed Anna’s hair back, like a mother would, and then she walked out of the room.

Gone.

Anna’s breath was coming fast. “Push it. Let’s call for help, push send!”

Kaye blinked. So tired. Her eyes swiveled to her bag, that she’d noticed earlier lying on the floor. “No.”

44

Antwone’s Honda Prelude crouched lower to the ground than he’d ever seen it. Packed with luggage, the trunk barely closed. The tiny backseat was piled with shorts and jeans and t-shirts, and pill bottles and syringes and glass vials. Working in the darkness beyond the reach of the front porch lights, he stretched bungie cords across the roof, securing two duffle bags.

Antwone felt like the Prelude looked—overburdened.

His little brother Reggae dozed fitfully in the passenger seat with the engine humming. Reggae, still healing, a red scar running from navel to neck. Antwone hadn’t changed the dressing today, relying on antibiotics to keep away infection. Packing up your whole life should take weeks. Antwone managed it in a day.

Saying goodbye to Brandi had been the worst. She’d done nothing wrong, a girl in the wrong place, at the wrong time, picking the wrong guy to rebel with. She’d tried to make it work with a man who wouldn’t; he was soft spoken and kind and stable, and now he was gone. She’d cried and he apologized but he left just the same. He rushed home to keep packing.

Reggae had tried to help but he moved too damn slow. Going to the bathroom hurt Reggae. Lighting a cigar hurt Reggae. Since he was a kid, everything seemed to hurt Reggae. What they needed was a new life.

Soon. Soon they’d be in the clear.

Two bags remained on the porch. One he’d shove under the bungie cords, if possible. The other he’d hold in his lap. Or set on Reggae’s legs as he slept.

He paused at the step. What was he missing?

Was the water running? Did that matter?

Could he do this? Simply leave? No need for the trailer—his mom was dead. Could he gift the house to Kingston?

Just go. Go go go.

As he hoisted the final two bags, a sound he’d been dreading reached through the trees. A car braking. Painful headlights swung onto their driveway and stopped in a crunch of gravel.

A car door opened and closed.

It was a taxi, jettisoning a passenger.

Antwone’s brother Kingston swaggered through the bright headlights before the taxi reversed up the driveway, to the main road, and sped away on Negro Alley, eager to be away.

In the pale light of the porch, Kingston looked ghoulish. He lifted his chin. “Big brother.”

Antwone dropped the bag he was holding. “Welcome back. How you doing?”

“How I’m doing? Well. I tell you, big brother. I’m a little pissed, being honest. I expected someone to pick me up. Hours ago.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were getting out so quick,” said Antwone.

“I said I was.”

“Didn’t know it was today.”

Kingston and Antwone faced off, the Prelude between them. Hurt and fear thicker than humidity. Behind Antwone, the window units chugged.

“Looks like you’re going somewhere.”

Antwone swallowed. “Yeah. Get your bags, let’s go.”

“My bags?” Kingston made a show of looking in the car. “Where the hell you think my bags are supposed to go? No, forget that. Where the hell you think I’m supposed to fit?”

“You drive. I’ll squeeze in the back.” Fear and sweat coursed along Antwone’s spine. His brother was so much bigger than him. Trained in combat.

“You and Reggae making a run for it? Got some gay-ass friends to hide with somewhere?”

“Something’s hunting us, Kingston. We got to go.”

“Hunting you. Maybe. Maybe not. Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere else,” said Antwone.

“Why? This is our home. I served my country for four damn years and now I’m back and you want to leave.”

“Mom’s dead, Kingston. Stevie’s dead. Reggae was shot. You went to jail. This whole thing’s shit. We start over.”

“We.”

“Yeah,” said Antwone.

“Except you’re leaving without me.”

“Get your bags. I packed them. Let’s go.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Go look,” said Antwone.

“Go look? So you can jump in the car and drive to Vegas? Tell you what.” Kingston opened the driver’s door and the dome light glowed. He reached to the ignition and withdrew the key. The motor died. “I’ll just keep this while I go check on those bags you packed.”

“Kingston.”

“WAKE UP, REGGAE!” he shouted, and he cackled when Reggae jumped and grabbed his chest. “Little bitch.” He slammed the door.

“C’mon, Kingston, don’t do this.”

At the steps, Kingston paused to snatch up a box of cheap cigars. He couldn’t find the lighter, so he stepped inside. “Right back, big brother.”

Antwone looked longingly at the car. The spare key was buried in the trunk.

Inside the dark house, Kingston rummaged around but half the bulbs were burned out. He clicked on a flashlight, providing a bright cone to see with. He came back out, flashlight in one hand, pistol in the other.

Antwone stepped back. “Where’d you get the gun?”

“What matters is, you start apologizing, big brother, while I light this cigar. When you finish, maybe I beat your ass. Maybe I don’t. Depends on how good you lie.”

Kingston set the flashlight down and he raised the lighter to his cigar. He puffed it into flame, and his face reddened with firelight.

“Man, listen.” Antwone considered his options, all of which ended with him hurt. No way out.

He’d lost.

His pocket glowed and then buzzed. A phone call. Grateful for the distraction, he drew it out to check the caller ID.

Detective Stackhouse.

45

“My name is Anna Hall,” said the woman lying next to Kaye. She was hyperventilating and crying and talking in a rush. “I work for the Roanoke City Police. I’m a crime scene technician. They know me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t know she was Jane Newton, she tricked me. But PLEASE call Detective Stackhouse and she’ll come help us. They all will. She knows me.”

Anna had tried stretching her own foot to the phone, but her toes didn’t reach. Her legs were too short and she didn’t dare risk kicking, for fear she’d hit the wrong button and doom them to the flames.

“You work with the police?” asked Kaye, still foggy. “What a great place for Bobbie to hide. I mean Jane.”

“Push it!” shrieked Anna. “Use your toe, please!”

“No.” Kaye was half-slid off the bed, one leg supporting her weight, the other leg reaching for her shoulder bag. “It might be a trap. For Andie. I can’t kill Andie.”

“Bobbie said she was leaving.”

“She could be lying.” Kaye’s foot bled onto the floor. Stretching like this was murder on her shoulders, the tranquilizer kept her calm. “I’m sorry about your rug, sweetie.”

“I’m sorry about…” The clink of Anna’s handcuffs. “I’m sorry about all this. She tricked me. But please, pleeeeease call, whatareyouwaitingfor!”

“Andie might die in the flames. Or get sliced open by the psychopath. I won’t risk it. If there’s one thing Andie has taught me, it’s that you can usually save yourself… Oh!” The rest of her weight fell off the bed, wrenching her shoulders more. Without the benzodiazepine in her system, she might’ve screamed. Her bloody foot slipped and accidentally kicked the bag farther away, out of reach. “Oops.”

“Oops what?”

“I kicked my bag too far.” She spoke through clenched teeth, her throat closing from the upward pressure. “We need to find another way.”

“Another way, like the cell phone!”

“No.” Pressing her back hard into the mattress, up on her tiptoes, Kaye was able to slide her legs, first one and then the other, back up to the mattress so she was flat on her back again. Deep sigh. “You know.” A sleepy grimace. “This is a lot like that Stephen King book.”

“What Stephen King… Never mind, I don’t care. Press the send button or I’m going to try, and we’ll both die. Wait. Waitwaitwait… Do you smell smoke?”

Outside Anna’s bedroom, they heard the first crackle of the oncoming fire.

46

Stackhouse sat in her Nissan Maxima in the driveway, staring at the front door of her house, and the bright living room beyond, visible through the glass.

Crabtree had demanded Stackhouse wait in the car while he checked it for psychopaths, even looking through the basement. He returned and reported the house secure. Kaye had texted after work that she was drinking with her Friday Friends. Crabtree told her not to leave the house and left for the grocery store to purchase weekend supplies. Ruby Moon was scheduled to come over in an hour.

The weekend.

Stackhouse didn’t work weekends. An abyss of time staring her in the face.

More yard work?

She’d rather shoot herself.

Surprise Dr. Jeffrey Ivey after his shift? Could be fun.

Surprise Mark Rowe? Definitely would be fun.

Noooooo, Andie, get control of yourself. From here on, Mark was off limits.

She desperately needed a hobby.

She wouldn’t kid herself; all she would think about was Jane Newton until Monday. Jane Newton, who’d cared for Allie Anderson.

Jane Newton who wanted Pete Burman dead because he supposedly raped Ms. Spillman and fathered Stevie.

“I mean, what in the world,” Stackhouse told her windshield.

Stevie, in remarkably good condition.

Kept underwater, likely the same place his mother had been temporarily stored. Presumably both slaughtered by Jane Newton.

Like a cat, Jane liked to keep trophies.

Jane had grown up playing in the Roanoke River.

Her mother had drowned in it.

Jane herself had been thrown into the river to die, she and her child Evie.

Jane had kept her living victims in an underground water vault, storing them for future destruction.

Water water water. Baptism. Rebirth. Drowning.

Kip Broome and the dive team had photographed the murky system of chains used to store bodies in the cemetery pond. Remarkably simple, attaching them to a rock weight at the bottom. Easy for the woman who preferred working at night, working while holding her breath. The theory was, she’d brought up Stevie’s body as punishment to the Spillman family for… for what, they didn’t know. But in the process, she’d accidentally dislodged her system, knocking the anchor loose so the corpses floated to the surface, including Ms. Spillman.

A truly disturbing scenario. Pieces of it were missing. But enough truth to latch onto.

Stackhouse shifted in her car seat because her sidearm was digging at her hip.

Stack, this is wild. You did good work on this.

She sighed. Good work. The work never ended. One more phone call to make. Then maybe she’d allow herself to relax.

She thumbed her contacts and pressed Send.

After five rings, Antwone picked up.

“Antwone, it’s Detective Stackhouse. Listen, I know we talked about this, but I think… someone is after you. Does the name Jane Newton mean anything to you?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I think you should leave town. You and your brothers. Go hide and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Just in case.”

“Yeah,” he said again. His voice sounded flat. “Yeah that’s what I think too. We’re going.”

“Good. Where to?”

“Listen. I got a confession.”

“Okay?” said Stackhouse. What now?

“You remember that little girl who’s been missing? The one who dated Stevie?”

“Allie, of course I remember her.”

“Well. The thing is. My mom killed her.”

Stackhouse nearly dropped the phone.

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. So leave it alone, alright? Mom’s dead, though. You can drop the whole thing.”

“Antwone, that’s hard to believe. How long have you suspected… You know, here’s a better idea. Meet me at the station. I’d feel better knowing where you are. We’ll talk about it. Antwone? Okay?”

No response.

Stackhouse looked at her phone—the call had ended.

Crud.

Ms. Spillman killed Allie? No way. Why would…?

Could she have? Then who killed Ms. Spillman?

No. He was lying. Why would he lie.

Stackhouse shifted her car into reverse and she backed out into the street. She could reach Antwone in twenty-five minutes if she flew.

47

Smoke leaked into the bedroom like venom along the ceiling.

“CALL HER!” screamed Anna.

“Andie wouldn’t call me.” Kaye tried kicking the phone away, ensuring she wouldn’t fall into temptation and get Andie killed, but the phone was taped tight. It wouldn’t budge, and her foot smeared blood across the screen.

“You’re drugged! Your words are slurred. You’re too calm. You have to trust me, Kaye. We need to call Andie.”

“A good therapist knows others can’t save you. You have to do the work. You must—”

“Please.” Anna was crying. “Pleaseplease. You’re high, and I don’t want to burn to death.”

“I know I’m babbling. But I love her.” Kaye tugged on the cuffs. The handcuff roped through a decorative cut-out in the headboard. It would take hundreds of pounds of pressure to break the wood. Maybe even a sledgehammer. “We’ll find another way.”

“There IS no other way! I am a crime scene technician. Do you want to know what happens to bodies in house fires? There’s NOTHING left but bones and teeth.”

Kaye refused to listen. She couldn’t, her brain was overwhelmed. She worked her wrist inside the cuff but it hurt. If she could release one hand, she’d be free—no need to work on both wrists. The metal strands had been locked but not tightly enough she couldn’t wiggle. Her hands were bent awkwardly because the cuffs were held together by a mere three chain links through the wood.

Focus through the drugs, Kaye.

“A crime scene technician? Do you keep handcuff keys here?”

“Bobbie pocketed them. I watched her do it,” said Anna. “We can’t save ourselves. We need help.”

“We can do it, Anna. Sorry about the personal question, but do you have lubricant in a nightstand?”

“I … don’t. Different room,” said Anna.

“Hand lotion? Face cream? Aloe?”

“On my sink.”

“Shucks,” said Kaye.

“You see?” Anna coughed.

“This is a lot like the Stephen King book. Gerald’s Game.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Kaye’s eyes were fixated on her phone. The blood smear.

A sharp crackle from outside the bedroom. The hallway glowed orange. The temperature was rising sharply like an oven set to broil. They had two minutes. Maybe two minutes.

“Okay, Anna.” Through the drug haze, determination and fear battled in Kaye’s chest. “I’m doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting my hand loose. With lubricant, it’ll slide right out.”

“We don’t have any, I told you!”

“Yes we do. Just like the book.” Kaye closed her eyes and gave her left wrist a sharp tug. It hurt. Both wrists absorbed the pressure. Another mighty jerk on the left and ouch. She had no way to brace her right hand, and it slammed painfully into the wooden headboard. She puuullllled and twisted her left. Without the Rohypnol, the pain would’ve been unendurable. But Jane had provided the numbing agent herself.

Her skin scrapped and reddened, close to ripping.

“What are you doing?” said Anna.

“In the book, Jessie breaks a glass to cut her wrist. The blood works as lubricant.”

“We don’t have a glass.”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Anna.”

“That won’t work!”

“It has to. My hand is close. In a few minutes I’ll be sweaty enough but we don’t have that long.” Kaye jerked and leaned away like a tug-of-war, the whole bed shaking. Huge pressure on the flesh of her wrist. She started to cry. Her skin stretched and tore. A tiny crimson bead. Not nearly enough. More. Anything for her roommate. “For Andie. For Andie.”

Kaye worked at her skin like a taxidermist worked at hide. Stretching it, breaking it. She felt muscles tear. Bones scraped. She concentrated the damage to the sides, not the bottom, terrified of opening the throbbing blue veins there. That would be too much.

Agony. So much pain she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Break the skin, scrape it raw, both hands screaming.

The sound of flames increased.

“The floor’s on fire! The floor! My whole house is going up!” Anna’s scream died into a coughing fit.

Kaye felt like she worked in an air fryer. The lowering cloud of soot and smoke scalded her face. Still she sawed at her body with the dull blunt cuffs, eyes closed.

When at last she looked, her wrist and arm were a red mess.

There!

In the Stephen King book, the heroine had to de-glove her hand to get free, trapped on a bed in cuffs.

Kaye made her hand as small as she could, slathering her skin in the red blood, a natural lubricant, by wiping up and down against the metal, and she pulled as hard as she could. The hard base of her thumb and pinky bones were the catching points, bones she couldn’t name, yet still she pulled, pausing only to re-lubricate those protrusions which refused to pass through, and she was tugging again, the torture threatening to turn off the lights, and suddenly she fell.

SLAM, onto her back, on the floor.

She was loose!

The wooden floorboards burned her. Red flames licking up the walls.

“I’m free!”

“Get me out!” screamed Anna. The smoke had lowered to roil just above Anna’s mouth.

Kaye’s left hand was a bloody mess. Her right wrist was still shackled.

Kaye snatched her shoulder bag off the floor and dug her wounded hand into it. She came out with the pistol she’d purchased two weeks ago.

“Never put it in your purse,” she scoffed to herself.

“What?”

Through her wet eyes, the world glazed a dark amber. So hot.

Kaye ran to Anna’s side of the bed, ducking to see.

“Hold still, sweetie.”

“What are you doing with that?”

“I’m not sure. Shoot the lock?”

“Wait. A revolver? We only have six—” Anna’s words died into coughing.

“Better idea! Shoot the wood. Cover your ears!” Kaye was dimly aware that not all of fingers were working properly. She pressed the muzzle of the gun directly against the decorative wooden arm that braced the bedpost. It was the width of four fingers, perhaps. She fired, a tremendous crash which would have scared them both if they weren’t burning to death. Sweet Andie had loaded the revolver with standard .38 special hollow points, and it blew out a sizable chunk of the wood. The recoil shocked Kaye’s injured hand. Anna hid her ear into her shoulder as best she could. Kaye fired again, aiming slightly above the first perforation, then again, blasting holes. Anna screamed that the bed was on fire. Her feet burned.

At the fourth gunshot, the decorative wooden arm broke into two jagged halves.

Kaye dropped the gun and worked the chain through the crevice. It snagged but Anna tugged with both hands and she broke through.

Both women free!

The doorway was a mouth into hell. Immediate death.

“This way!” Anna ran across the bedroom, bent over. “Owowowow!” She grabbed the window with hands still cuffed together and hauled it upward.

Oxygen rushed into the room.

Fresh air, and the fire roared Like a dam unleashed, flames rushed at them like a seething liquid.

Anna squirmed out first. They were on the main floor, level with the yard, the drop only three feet.

Then Kaye slithered out, her back smoldering.

The temperature dropped from blazing inferno to cool night. The grass soothed her hot feet.

Anna smacked at Kaye’s shirt and hair, both on fire.

Smoldering wreckage reached the gasoline canisters in the basement and the house WHOOMPED. The accelerant lit like a bomb and the house shuddered, engulfed now.

The night was red.

Firetrucks screaming, inbound.

Anna threatened to collapse but Kaye grabbed and pulled her away, using only her right hand, both women barely able to walk.

“Safe,” panted Kaye. “You’re safe!”

They sank to the grass in the neighbor’s yard and watched the fire leap to the maple tree that swayed in the superheated air.

“Oh my gosh, your hand looks like you tried to pull it off. You’re bleeding so much,” said Anna, a sooty sweaty rag doll. She coughed and pawed at her ear. “I think my eardrum broke.”

Kaye lay on her back, but that hurt, so she rolled to her side and listened to the firetrucks brake at the curb. In her lightheadedness, one panicky thought rose above the others.

Where was Andie?

48

What Antwone hated most about growing up poor was the pity. His teachers knew he was poor. The other kids did too. The other kids’ parents. The looks he got—you’re so brave. He hated that.

Poor kids who behaved and overachieved and hid their pain? Brave.

Poor kids who struggled and acted out their pain? Detention.

Antwone didn’t know his dad. His mom never came to the parent-teacher meetings. That’s okay, you’re so brave.

During the winter, people gave him coats. At school, he and his brothers received free breakfasts and lunches. They snuck extra to take home at night. When they forgot, Antwone shared his. He was the eldest, a job he took seriously.

When his mom did show up, those days were worse. She wasn’t just poor, she was offensive. She was entitled and crass, and somehow she hurt his reputation of being a good kid. She stank. And it was like the odor clung to him after people met her. The pity soured—now he wasn’t brave, he was broken. From a family of brokenness, and the apple couldn’t fall far from the tree.

Brave, but a lost cause.

Yet Antwone wasn’t like his mom. He showered. He made good grades. He cared for his siblings, a classic first born with the staggering load on his shoulders.

He didn’t complain. For most of history, growing up poor meant you were poor forever. The rest of your life, you had nothing. But today, in America? He was fed. They had a roof. Education cost him nothing. The Goodwill store kept him in decent threads. His two-year degree had essentially been a gift from the government.

He held on. He worked hard. Nose down, future bright. Tight control on his emotions, on himself. Even on cold nights, lonely nights, no cable television, he had hope. That’s all he had, but it was enough. The next twenty-five years would be different from the previous twenty-five. That keeps a man going.

But now.

Events outside his control shook his world to pieces. He stood among the rubble, helpless.

He lowered the phone.

You remember that little girl who’s been missing?

Well. The thing is. My mom killed her.

So leave it alone, alright? Mom’s dead, though. You can drop the whole thing.

Antwone disconnected from the detective and he held the phone like a brick in his lifeless hand. Had it been enough? To get control back?

Kingston stepped off the porch, blue smoke curling around his grin.

“Good. Mom killed her. Good work, big brother.” One more puff from the cigar. “Let’s talk about where we’re going.”

“Kingston.”

“Need a bigger car, don’t we. Cause all three of us, we’re riding together. Aren’t we.”

“Yeah we are.”

Kingston clicked his flashlight on and he shone it into the car. Reggae winced against the light and raised a palm to block it.

“Or maybe we leave the runt.”

“No we won’t,” said Antwone. “I’m in control of this.”

“Kid was an anchor in the Army. He’s an anchor now. Dragging me down. Dragging me and you down.”

“If we leave him, he’ll die. The cop says we’re being hunted.”

“Police been hunting us for years.”

“She said it’s Jane. You remember Jane.”

A pause. Jane.

Always a pause at her name.

“The cop said that? Your girl?”

“She’s not my girl, but she’s right,” said Antwone. “We need to go.”

“Jane better hope I don’t find her. But yeah, alright. Let’s go.”

Kingston turned from the car to shine the light on his big brother Antwone.

The cone of his light washed across the face of Jane Newton.

She crouched like a panther in ambush at the edge of the trees, a pale gleam in her eyes. A panther with a shaved head. Up and running, she sprang off the hood of the car to gain height and she fell on Kingston, one wicked Spyderco blade gripped in both fists.

Kingston shouted and fired his gun, missing her but nicking Antwone. She landed around Kingston’s shoulders and he caught her there. Twice her weight, far too strong. Her blade slashed down and bit deep into Kingston’s muscle, aiming for the neck, catching shoulder instead. A mighty roar and Kingston threw her back into the car. The door dented at impact and Reggae screamed.

Kingston's flashlight fell and hit a rock, and the night was a dark howl.

49

Old man Caldwell had once dreamed of a luxury river property, with a series of dams and little waterfalls where he could fish or read. He began in earnest a decade ago, paying a small fortune to have the water temporarily rerouted via a channel on his property, so the creek bed could be deepened and concrete walls erected. With enough work it could swell into a paradise, a large body of still water. He and a hardscape artist designed the pond, deep and wide, maybe even a fountain in the middle, water spilling over a set of waterfalls. After two years of work, and a quarter-million dollars wasted, and three contractors who walked off rather than deal with Caldwell another day, his vision had resulted only in one half-constructed dam and eight-feet-deep basin that had been blasted out with dynamite and reinforced with concrete, now a wide pond, slowly eroding.

The Spillman boys had used the deep spot to hang a rope swing. The rope snaked over a tall tree branch, and the boys had tied on an old bicycle handlebar to grip and run and soar out above the river’s deepest part before releasing.

One of the children’s favorite spots growing up. On a weekly basis, Caldwell had shouted at them to leave or he’d call the cops.

Jane Newton was drowning in the deep water. Her feet were lashed to a cinderblock via cords that ran around her boots, and only by gripping the handlebar could she get oxygen when Kingston hauled on the rope to raise her.

After an eternal thirty-seconds, he used all his weight to drag the rope down—the tree branch overhead long rubbed raw and acting as a pulley—lifting Jane from the creek-pond. First her white hands, then elbows. The mild current pulled her at an angle downstream.

Her face appeared like a seal surfacing, no hair. As Kingston hauled her up from the water, her shoulders popped out of socket again, as they had the previous two ascensions.

In the air again, she threw up. Lungs and stomach full of creek, all of it belched in gouts. If she lived through the ordeal, the aspirated pneumonia might kill her.

Her face was a mask, trauma-defenses from her youth protecting her. Far away, like the drowning woman wore a Jane Newton mask. Her hands were chained to the bicycle handlebar, but she could likely slither out when she was ready to drown.

“C’mon, Kingston!” shouted Antwone. He stood helpless with Reggae near the partially completed dam. One eye on Jane, the other on the gun at Kingston’s feet. Antwone’s left hand gripped where the passing of Kingston’s bullet had ripped his shirt and opened a shallow trough in the musculature of his upper arm. “Knock this off. This is sick. This is inhumane.”

Reggae was leaning against a tree, holding his chest. Kingston had forced him to walk. When he refused, Kingston had fired his gun. Now Reggae was light-headed with pain. His ribs were grinding together. He watched his twin brother like seeing him for the first time, a man lost in hate.

Kingston’s shoulder bled, and so did a gash on his arm where Jane bit him and tore out a chunk. He wrapped the heavy rope around a stump, letting him bear the weight easier with one hand, and he crouched on the shore of pebbles, looking at Jane from a distance of eight feet. The moonlight turned the air blue.

“You killed my mom,” said Kingston. “Bitch, you killed my mom. Tell me the truth and maybe I let the police have you.”

No response. Below the surface of the water, Jane was twisting unseen boots in the water. Working, working, feeling no pain.

“I leave you down there longer, you don’t talk. You killed Stevie. Tell my brothers, it was you killed Stevie.”

Jane coughed more creek and she panted. Her wide eyes held their cold gleam, a pale hatred without fear.

“Allison was innocent.” She spoke as if to the stars.

“That’s all you got? Don’t want to say nothing else?”

“Your whore mother knew. She knew and did nothing.”

Her final words were a gasp as Kingston release the rope from the gnarled stump and Jane was plunged back into the deep. The cinder block dragged her straight to the rocky bed.

Beneath again, the creek lukewarm in the hot summer.

She’d once been able to hold her breath for two minutes but she was out of practice.

From the water she was born, and to the water she would go to die.

She regretted not striking earlier, while Antwone spoke into the phone. Kingston’s lucky flashlight had changed everything. She fought the strong brother like a wild demon but he was twice her size, trained in combat. He’d hit her hard enough to concuss her, and in her daze her hands and feet had been bound.

The creek didn’t let her hear the brothers arguing on the surface.

A sudden surge on her hands and she was raised. The heavy weight around her ankles bit her skin to the bone, her shoulders protesting until they popped, and she reached the air again.

Her eyes fell onto the Spyderco blade at the shore’s edge.

Kingston shouted at her, making demands, and his brothers shouted at him, family drama, the words not penetrating Jane’s ears, until in Kingston’s arrogance he grew frustrated at her lack of panic and he scrabbled his pistol from the pebbles and fired at her.

The bullet snapped at the water near her chest.

“Listening now, bitch?”

“Kingston, stop,” shouted Antwone. “What would…” He reached for some authority figure in their lives he could use as leverage. He reached and found none. No father, no grandfather, no pastor. “What would your commanding officer say about this?”

Kingston aimed at the tree over Antwone’s head and he shot it. A blast of splinters, Antwone crying in fear.

All three brothers bled.

“That’s enough talk, big brother. You got to learn.”

“Kingston!” cried Reggae, holding his chest. “What are you doing?”

At that moment, Detective Andie Stackhouse stepped into the moonlit clearing.

50

Ten minutes earlier, a realization dawned on Stackhouse as she passed the Catawba Sports Bar.

It had bothered her, skimming through the employee files the other day at the bar. That nagging sensation of looking at a 3D picture and knowing it held a clue. The giant bartender had plopped the employee files down in a heap and Stackhouse flipped through, and something ate at her then that snapped into focus now when she saw the bar’s neon lights.

Someone had been missing from the files. That’s what bothered her. Her brain had once catalogued an employee that she’d expected to find. But who?

She cast her memory back to the night of the chaotic sting.

She’d ordered the vodka Collins and walked to the table near the Spillman brothers. While eavesdropping, a good-looking waitress brought them a bowl of peanuts and said to be careful, they were spicy. A moment later, a different waitress brought their drinks, and later their food.

It was her. That first good-looking waitress wasn’t in the employee files. In fact, Stackhouse couldn’t remember seeing her again that evening, not even giving a statement to the police. It was like that good-looking waitress brought them the bowl of spicy peanuts and vanished.

If Stackhouse had to bet, she’d bet that woman was Jane Newton, and the peanuts were spicy with a heavy sprinkling of arsenic. She’d known about the family reunion and she came to kill them all, revenge for Allison; one last loose end to tie up. Thinking back, Stackhouse remembered Reggae eating the peanuts but not anyone else, because their food arrived too quickly. She bet Jane gave Pete some poisoned nuts too.

Jane said Pete had raped Ms. Spillman. Had Stevie known who his father was? He told Allison, who confided to Jane one night at the farm?

If things had gone her way, Jane could’ve wiped out most of the Spillman family in one evening, her long gone before the pathologists determined arsenic. Jane cleaning the world of men she considered parasites.

Stackhouse’s mind reeled like a merry-go-round, too many unknowns bobbing and sliding off into the dark.

At Antwone’s dilapidated house, Stackhouse had seen the Prelude packed. Ready to roll. But no Spillman boys. The house was empty. The trailer abandoned. She was walking through the dank woods toward voices she couldn’t place when the first gunshot rang out, and she ran at the waiting nightmare, summoning every nerve she possessed to enter into it.

Tolerate the fear, Andie.

Left hand—her flashlight, held wide out of habit.

Right hand—her Glock, shaking.

Serial murderer Jane Newton hung as from a crucifix, soaked, drooling creek water.

“Drop the gun, Kingston.” Stackhouse felt proud of her voice, hard, commanding. “OnTheGroundNow!”

Kingston squinted against the bright light. His shirt was black with blood. “That you, hot cop? Look who we caught. A fish who killed our mother.”

“I know she did, Kingston. We know it’s her. Put the gun down.”

“Andrea!” cried Jane, startling them all. “No! You’ve got to run!”

Stackhouse ignored her. The sight of Kingston lowering and raising her from the water was too close to a horror movie to process. Focus on the immediate threat.

“Drop the gun, Kingston. Then pull her out.”

“You say you know she killed our mom. Then I got a better idea. Let’s drown the bitch right now,” said Kingston.

“Set the gun down and we’ll talk.”

“Andrea! Please go! Run!” Jane’s eyes had refocused, now in panic for the woman. “They’ll hurt you!”

“She killed Stevie too, Kingston,” said Stackhouse, desperate for common ground. Get him on her side, subdue his insanity. “Jane poisoned Reggae and Pete. I know she did. We’re on the same team.”

That surprised him. “Yeah?”

“She’ll fry, Kingston. The insanity plea won’t work this time. She broke out of jail and started killing again. It’s the death penalty, for sure. You can even go watch.”

“Huh.” Kingston released the rope from the gnarled stump again, having to hold it with both hands. Jane jolted enough to make her groan. He spoke to the woman in the water. “You poisoned old Pete?”

“I’ll tell you.” Jane winced against the pain now, her trauma defenses lowered. “If you let Andrea go.”

Sweet Lincoln, what in the world.

Kingston sniffed. “You got a deal.”

“Pete was a man. Men hurt. Men rape. They use us.” Jane had to pull up on her aching arms to get breath. “When Allison lived with me, she said Stevie was fathered by Pete, the man down the road. He’d only recently discovered it.”

Antwone sounded far away. “Pete was Stevie’s father?”

Jane coughed. “Yes.”

Although Stackhouse didn’t dare turn to look, she knew Antwone must be shellshocked. All the boys would be. Could Pete be their father too?

Across the creek, a dog barked. Far off, near the house on the hill. Old man Caldwell had let his German Shepherd out.

Antwone asked, “Why would she shoot Reggae?”

“That doesn’t matter. I say, instead of the electric chair, we give her the death penalty right now,” said Kingston. “This bitch killed enough people.”

“No. Do not let her drop into the water again,” said Stackhouse.

“My property, bitch. You don’t give orders.”

“I’m trying to save you, Kingston. She’s at home in the water. Don’t!”

Kingston let go.

“Andrea run!” screamed Jane and she fell beneath the surface again.

Stackhouse felt like she was the one drowning.

“No! Pull her back up!”

Kingston smirked and stepped away from the rope. He walked toward her.

“Jane killed my mom. Killed my brother. Poisoned my other brother. You want to save her? Go on do it.”

A countdown in Stackhouse’s mind. The woman struggling underwater, how long did she have? Thirty seconds? A minute? She was already half-dead, it looked.

Stackhouse couldn’t pick a direction. Too many options, all of them bad. Across the creek, the dog bayed and distant lights clicked on.

She should’ve called for backup earlier, but now didn’t dare set down her light or gun.

“Antwone, help me! Pull Jane up!” shouted Stackhouse, afraid to take her sights off the bigger brother.

“Naw. If Antwone helps, I’ll shoot him in the knee. You do it, hot cop. I won’t stop you,” said Kingston.

Kingston walked close enough to make her nervous. She edged away from him. His gun pointed at the ground, Stackhouse felt a measure of hope that maybe they’d all get out of this.

Walking sideways toward the dangling rope. “I’m pulling her up.”

“I heard you.”

“Drop the gun.”

“Nah I don’t think so.”

“Fine. I will. Do not shoot her.”

“We’ll see,” said Kingston.

“That’s an order, do not fire your weapon.”

“Are you my commanding officer? No you ain’t. I don’t take orders from you.”

Too much time passing!

Why did she care if Jane Newton drowned?

She could hear Kaye telling her, people are complicated, sweetie.

She forced herself to act. Maybe it’d get her killed, but she wouldn’t do nothing. She leaped into the air, grabbed the rough rope at the highest point, awkward with one hand cradling the pistol, and hauled down with all her weight, using gravity.

Jane broke the surface, spouting like a whale.

Kingston kicked Stackhouse in the stomach.

Unprepared, Stackhouse released the rope on reflex, every muscle clenching, and her pistol fired. A sharp crack toward the moon, Reggae screaming and wincing. Jane fell again, silently slipping beneath the wavering moonlight’s reflection.

Stackhouse tumbled backward, landed on her butt and rolled onto her back. Kingston fell on top of her, but she smacked him in the cheek with her flashlight, hard enough he shouted in pain. She bought herself two seconds.

No time to triage, she made the hard choice to shoot him. She and Jane were both dead, otherwise.

As she brought her pistol to bear, Kingston was tackled from behind. Like angels in her flashlight, Sergeant Crabtree and Detective Mark Rowe had arrived, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

They’d come for her.

She hadn’t told them where she was going, but they came anyway. Loyal to the end.

Crabtree cracked Kingston in the head with his baton and he said, “Damn, I wanted to do that for weeks.” Kingston howled and fought, but he was pinned by Crabtree, and Rowe stomped on his gun hand, aiming it along the ground toward the creek.

Her stomach aching, Stackhouse sat up. “Mark, the rope. Pull her up.”

“What rope?” he said.

“Above you, haul down. She’s drowning.”

“Where? What are we talking about?”

“Sweet Jefferson, never mind.” Stackhouse stood with a groan.

Kingston fired his pinned gun twice, his shots ricocheting across the creek harmlessly into the trees beyond. “GETOFFME!”

“Yeah, keep resisting arrest,” barked Crabtree. “I pop you again.”

Stackhouse holstered her Glock. First, secure Jane. Second, help with Kingston. She crouched and leaped, grabbing the rope once more.

Instead of heaving on a heavy weight, Stackhouse met no resistance and she collapsed to the ground. She landed, awkward and hard. The handlebars shot into the air.

By the light of the moon, they could see the chain and the handlebars jouncing empty at the end of the rope.

Jane was loose.

51

Antwone had placed himself between the chaotic fight and his little brother, Reggae. Using his body as a shield, because Reggae had been bedridden for two weeks and he was struggling to remain upright on atrophied muscles. Much of the wrestling match was lost in the darkness, but they stared and gaped anyway, hoping that whoever won would bring order.

A movement caught Reggae’s eye. A ripple in the water.

It must be a big pale fish at the edge of the basin, but when he glanced, it was gone. The fish was startled, disappearing back into the deep, he assumed.

He failed to notice the wicked-looking knife was gone too.

“Get Kingston on his feet!” shouted Stackhouse. “Jane’s loose.”

“Stack, I’m lost. Give me a sit rep,” said Rowe.

Stackhouse found her flashlight by its cone of brilliance on the ground and shone it toward the dark waters.

“The Spillman boys captured Jane. They brought her here to drown her, but she’s loose. Either that or she’s drowning at the bottom.”

Crabtree pulled Kingston up to stand. Kingston’s arms were cuffed behind his back, blood pouring from above his ear.

“She stabbed me,” Kingston said. “She bit me. She killed my brother, and you arresting me?”

“Jane Newton’s in the water?” asked Crabtree. “That ain’t good.”

“Careful, Officers. The drop-off goes straight down. It’s deep,” said Antwone. “She’s tied to a cinder block.”

Stackhouse closed her eyes. Oh no.

“That explains it.” She stepped out of her boots. “I’m going in.”

“Like hell you are,” said Crabtree. “I can’t swim, but you sure ain’t going.”

“I’ll go.” Rowe eyed the bicycle handlebars. “I’ll grab that and you lower me down.”

“Let the bitch die,” mumbled Kingston. “Killed my whole damn family. Look at my shoulder.”

The four of them stood at the shoreline of pebbles, staring downward into the black unknown. In Stackhouse’s light, they could just see the man-made edge disappear quickly into the depths.

“No time. She’s drowning now.” Stackhouse dropped her pistol and flashlight to the ground, and she dug her phone from her pocket, to lay beside them. Then her socks, she balled up and stuffed into her boots, and she took a cautious step into the creek. “I’m going. One, two—”

Breaching like a great white, Jane surfaced to their left. Her arm whipped into Kingston’s gut, burying her knife deep. Kingston gasped and doubled over, sinking to his knees.

“No!”

“Andrea RUN!” From her knees, Jane seized Crabtree with both hands and threw herself backwards.

Crabtree, though bigger and stronger, had no way to resist. He was felled by the madwoman, a slow topple towards the water.

“Crabtree!” called Stackhouse.

Crabtree and Jane splashed loud in the wide deep, and then an awful silence descended. Crabtree’s duty belt and boots alone weighed thirty pounds.

“He’s sinking. He can’t swim, ohmygoshohmygosh,” said Stackhouse.

With trembling fingers, Rowe dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Detective Mark Rowe, requesting backup and ambulances on my location. Officer down, suspect Jane Newton in sight. Repeat, officer down— Stack, wait, I’ll go!”

Stackhouse heard him in the background but she leaped. An explosion of cool water swallowed her whole. A sudden alien world. Her feet didn’t meet the bottom. Floating, disoriented, she expected to find a flailing Crabtree, or be caught up in a fight with Jane, but she found nothing but cold emptiness. She swam to the surface, only two feet over her head.

“Crabtree!”

There! A silhouette of hands, five feet closer to the middle. thrashing, finding no purchase, and sinking again. Crabtree was trying to jump off the gravel bottom.

Where was Jane?

Anywhere, she could be anywhere, the psychotic serial killer, and this was MADNESS.

Stackhouse swam to Crabtree and on his next jump he collided with her. She grabbed his shirt to raise him to the surface but immediately Crabtree grabbed her and pulled her below.

He was panicked. He’d kill them both.

Stronger than her, in his frenzy, he tried to climb her like a ladder. She screamed a froth of bubbles and planted her feet on him and kicked. She was no good to him dead. She punted herself loose and she churned her way to the surface.

“C’mon, Andie,” she panted. Deep breath. And another, and she dove once more. The drowning aren’t reasonable. Crabtree grabbed but she managed to fight him off, working her way lower to his ankles by feel. In complete black, she grabbed his heavy boot and twisted it and he kicked, jostling her. She kept tugging and he got the idea and pointed his toe and pulled up, the boot sliding free. Then they worked at the other, taking forever. His motions were manic, him out of air, so she grabbed him around the knees, her feet on the creek bottom and she raised him upward as high as she could, her bare feet pressing hard into the creek bed. Pressure on her ears, a dull roar, but his thrashing slowed. Unseen above, the hysterical man was gulping in great lungfuls of air.

How on EARTH can a cop not swim?

Stackhouse counted to five, as much as she dared, and she let go, hoping he got enough.

His belt was harder to free, encumbered by the gear, but they worked, loosening it and tossing away the radio, the baton, the gun, the extra magazine, and at last it slipped free.

They both surfaced. She stayed clear of him, coughing and shouting for help. Crabtree jumped, able to reach the oxygen without the extra weight, before another descent. Jump, gasp, jump, gasp. He splashed his arms futilely, unable to remain buoyant. Stackhouse’s fingers found the hard ledge of the basin, and she held on. She was directly below Antwone’s feet.

“Antwone,” she sputtered. “Help hold him.”

She reached for Crabtree’s thrashing arms. He grabbed her like a lifeline, and he pulled her beneath the surface once more, but she didn’t release her grip on the basin lip. Using the remainder of her strength, she hauled Crabtree to the edge.

Gasping, coughing. “Antwone, you got him? Don’t let him go.”

They all flinched then—a single terrible gunshot.

“Stack, wait, I’ll go!”

Too late, Stackhouse had jumped into the wide creek after Crabtree and Jane.

“Dammit,” said Rowe. “Stack!”

She swam to Kingston and dived under, working at Crabtree’s boots.

Kingston groaned and Rowe turned to find him on the rocks.

He knelt above the wounded man, and he aimed his light at the water, at the trees, at the far shore. He waited for Jane to surface.

She didn’t. Far out in the water, Crabtree was still drowning.

Across the creek a dog howled.

Rowe spoke to Kingston without looking at him. “Kingston, we’re leaving the knife in, okay? You pull it out, the bleeding will be too bad. Lay here, help’s on the way.”

“Got to pull it out man, it hurts.”

“I’m leaving it in. Stop twisting.” The emergency operator’s voice demanded an update from Rowe’s cell phone. He ignored it. Only Jane mattered.

He stood and the world quieted in his ears. A fight for survival, all his senses trained on the missing woman. He turned in a full circle, muttering prayers beneath his breath. By now she should be out of the water. Or at least be a pair of floating eyes. “Jane? It’s time to stop running.”

Her voice came from everywhere. “I remember you.”

Rowe shivered at her tone. She was hidden in the trees. “Come out. End this. You hurt enough people.”

“You were the man at my house, that night in the rain. You were at my trial. You’re the man who raped me. No, raped Andrea. You took her body and used it for yourself.”

Rowe walked his cone of brilliance back and forth along the tree line. “I would never do that.”

“She told me you fucked her.”

“I love her, Jane. It’s hard to control myself around her. I think you understand that.”

“That’s what all men say. Like it’s our job to control you. Did you find the gift I left at your house?” asked the disembodied voice.

“The arsenic? You even managed to put Ms. Spillman’s fingerprints on it. Very crafty, Jane.”

“I have to be. If I had more time, I could’ve framed you for it all. So you could sit in a cage like I did. But a kind therapist made me hope I can change, and now I must go.” The trees and the water and the echoes, her voice emerged from everywhere.

“Come out, Jane, now. Hands high.”

“What you don’t understand. What nobody understands…” Her voice wavered. “Is that I’m trying to help.”

“No one else should die tonight, Jane.”

“Shouldn’t die? Allison is still dead. Allison who did nothing wrong, Allison who was raped and who died in my arms, me too fucking late to save her, because a man couldn’t control himself. No, there are many who should die.”

Rowe didn’t answer. Instead he continued his soft prayers. He focused on the copse nearest the water.

Behind him, Reggae’s legs gave out and he slumped against the tree, gasping. Pus from his incisions had leaked through his bandages and shirt. The movement startled Rowe and he shot them a glance.

Jane erupted from the black trees, moving in a fast glide.

She held a tree branch in both hands.

On the ground, Kingston saw her coming. “Behind you!”

Rowe turned to catch the tree branch to his face. His nose burst. A mouth full of bark, his teeth were knocked loose, and his lip split.

For an instant, he was airborne, falling backward before the world rose up to knock the wind from his lungs. His head cracked the rock. The sharp tang of pine on his tongue.

Jane swarmed over him, holding the sharp branch like a trident to run him through. Her history with wooden impalements…

From within Rowe’s daze, looking up, Jane was hellish, lit from below by his flashlight, black pits for eyes, cheeks aflame.

He aimed and squeezed the trigger on instinct, as though someone else guided him. His gun exploded.

Jane’s damp shirt puckered inward below her neck. From her back, visible as spray in his hot light, blood spurted. He’d shot her clean through her chest. The rage in her face slackened.

Her pine trident slipped from her fingers.

Momentum carried her forward, and she landed on Rowe, faces touching. Like a wounded dog, she bit off a chunk of his cheek with her teeth, and he shoved her to the pebbles, where she settled to stare at the moon. She spit and her shoulders twitched and she frowned. Breath and life leaked from her mouth, sucking at the hole in her chest. A mortal wound.

A gasp. “Andrea…”

Rowe scrambled from her like she was flammable, capable of ignition. His head swam and his face bled, and he nearly fell over Kingston.

“Okay!” His wild eyes fixated on Jane as her breathing leveled to nothing, life leaked into the rocks. “Okay, we’re okay! Right? Everyone okay? Jeez, okay, she’s down. She’s down.” He wiped at his teeth with a quaking hand, and he watched the serial murder until her movements died, her breath gone.

Stackhouse panted at the edge of the basin, handing Crabtree off to Antwone. “She’s down?”

“I shot her. She’s dead, or close. We’re okay.”

“No I ain’t okay,” groaned Kingston.

Andie Stackhouse looked so small, clinging to the side. Her long brown hair was soaked and pushed out of her eyes. The fight with the drowning man had drained her. She raised her elbows above the pebbled ledge and held herself there, near her boots and her phone. Over the rocks, she could see Jane’s knee, not moving. Stackhouse spit creek water and exhaled into the wet pebbles.

“We need…” Stackhouse squinted at Kingston, stabbed; then up at Mark, his face ruined; then at Reggae, his chest threatening to rupture; last at Antwone, his arm bleeding. Jane’s destruction was everywhere.“We need so many ambulances.”

“And some damn floaties for my arms,” grumbled Crabtree. He was holding onto Antwone’s hand, scared to let go. “Gotta learn to swim one of these days, and nobody gonna be racist about it.”

Stackhouse grinned, too tired to laugh.

On the ground, Rowe’s phone chattered quietly with the 911 operator demanding to know what happened.

Rowe stepped to the edge of the creek on weak legs. “Sorry I was no help in the water.”

“You were busy.”

“I was busy,” he said.

“I was busy drowning and I feel like a damn punk,” said Crabtree. “My job was to keep your ass alive.”

“You did,” Stackhouse said.

“Bull shit. You had to come get me. Kept telling myself to get lessons and I never did.”

“Make us brothers look bad,” joked Antwone.

“I said don’t be racist about it.”

Rowe holstered his pistol. He reached down to Crabtree and, with Antwone’s help, hauled the sergeant out. Crabtree nodded his thanks and took deep breaths with his head down.

Across the creek, hidden in the black, Caldwell was shouting that the police were on the way.

Crabtree drew a deep breath. “Shut up, Caldwell!”

Rowe ran his flashlight over Reggae, who held his chest miserably. “Hang on, kid. Help’s coming.”

Reggae nodded. His eyes were wild.

“We’re a mess,” said Rowe. “Let’s get back to the cars.”

He pivoted to shine the cone on Kingston.

A pale demon, clinging to life, Jane sat up behind him. She rose silently, the undead.

She held Kingston’s fallen pistol.

“Jane!” Rowe’s hand scrabbled for his sidearm. Too late. “Down!”

Jane screamed an unearthly, raspy gurgle. Her pistol kicked, a blast of light. She held the weapon awkwardly, jerking, jerking the trigger as she bled to death, two tremendous booms.

Rowe ducked away, but Jane hadn’t aimed at him. She was pointing the gun at someone, anyone, who looked like the man she saw crouched over her charge, Allie Anderson, years ago. Her final act, vengeance.

Screaming and hot gunfire.

Antwone threw himself over Reggae, bowling his little brother to the side, the two men tumbling into the thicket of grassy weeds.

Jane’s first two shots tore bark off the river birch above Reggae’s head. She adjusted her aim.

The brothers lay in a writhing heap, now, an immobile target, big brother sheltering little brother, willing to soak up the hurt.

Two more loud gun blasts, both meaty hits.

The faintest wisp of smoke drifted from Stackhouse’s gun. She’d snatched it from beside her boots and fired twice.

Jane’s bald skull broke. The architecture surrendering, her once-lovely face perforated. Instead of fire and poison, the madwoman only flesh and bone at last. Inside the ruin of Jane’s head, her muscles spasmed a final time. Her dead eyes seemed to latch onto Stackhouse and her smoking gun.

Jane slumped slightly to the side, her canting body resting against a ragged stump. Her body caught there. The river killer, in her death, remained upright.

The victims of her tyranny were too scared to move.

52

Stackhouse found Kaye in surgery at midnight.

In order to escape her cuff, Kaye had torn her transverse carpal ligament and her thumb’s abductor. The ligaments would be reattached, the deeper muscle tissue reconnected, and the skin stitched together. Nerve damage might be permanent. Given the choice, Kaye had insisted on being awake so she could watch from a haze, though the process would take over an hour.

The orthopedic surgeon behind the protective sheet raised his gloved hands to prevent a mistake as a stunned Stackhouse grabbed her roommate and kissed her forehead over and over.

“Sweetie,” said Kaye, a sleepy smile. “Look, just look, how gross I am.”

“What happened?” said Stackhouse. “Your poor hand! They told me you were caught in a house fire. Your hair smells like smoke. How’d you hurt your hand?”

“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you and you’ll be so proud of me. But.” Kaye leaned away to scrutinize her. “What’s wrong with you? You’re damp and yuck.”

Unnoticed by either, the surgeon tightened the arm restraint against Kaye’s enthusiasm.

“Tell you in a minute. I can’t believe you’re watching this happen.” Stackhouse indicated the gory surgery with her chin.

Kaye nodded. “You won’t believe how tough I am, you really won’t. I can’t feel a thing. Tooooo many drugs today. You’re okay, sweetie, you really are? Good, listen to this story.”

Kaye regaled her—running into her client Bobbie at the bar; rejecting Bobbie; the spiked drink; Bobbie intercepting her car; waking up in a strange bed; the revelation that Bobbie was Jane Newton (Can you believe it, Andie, I was providing therapeutic help to Jane Newton! The Jane Newton. She said my counsel encouraged her to move away and stop stalking you, soooo, you’re welcome. Perhaps I’ll write a book); that Bobbie/Jane wanted her to call Andie to escape the fire but she refused; and she and the other woman (I cannot remember her name, sweetie, but she’s a cop so you’ll have something to talk about) had saved themselves, by wriggling out of the handcuffs and using the gun (the gun you said not to keep in my purse, hah), and defenestrated themselves through the window.

“Kaye, that’s incredible. I’m astonished.”

“Are you not so proud of me?” asked the exhausted, anesthetized patient.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“Me too,” said the surgeon, which Kaye found to be hilarious and excellent bedside manner.

“So this is what it’s like to be you,” said Stackhouse, holding Kaye’s other hand, gingerly, because it was bruised. “Finding her roommate wounded in the hospital and excited to take care of her.”

“And this is what it’s like to be you,” said Kaye. “A half-dead hero.”

“You’re so brave.”

“I really really am.” Kaye yawned wide. “Excuse me. I expect I’ll fall asleep soon.”

“I’ll handle everything.”

“Why’re you all wet and smelly?”

Stackhouse smiled. “I’ll tell you later.”

Stackhouse had insisted that Detective Mark Rowe and Sergeant Crabtree coordinate the crime scene circus. Both city and county police chiefs were woken and demanding answers, and Stackhouse refused to answer her phone. Tonight, she had a roommate who needed care.

Besides, Rowe had earned his moment in the sun. All the glory could be his.

Dr. Jeffery Ivey, though not on duty, heard through the grapevine that his favorite cop was back at Carilion so he arrived, ready to assist. He fulfilled Kaye’s prescriptions at the hospital pharmacy, and he helped transport Kaye home at two in the morning. Together he and Stackhouse walked Kaye up the stairs and tucked her in.

Ivey said her anesthesia would wear off soon, and she’d need her pills and water.

“No problem.” Stackhouse yawned. “I got it.”

“You shower,” said Ivey. “I’ll take the first shift.”

“That’s kind, but not necessary.”

“It’s not kind, it’s logical. I work at nights. I’m up. Is that mean police sergeant finally gone? Then I’ll spend the night on your couch. Me on one side, you on the other.”

Stackhouse tried not to smile. “Dr. Ivey, absolutely nothing romantic is happening tonight.”

“I know that. That’s not why I’m insisting. Go shower, Detective,” said Ivey.

Ivey could be bossy, she decided. But maybe she needed it.

Maybe something romantic could happen. A celebration. She earned it.

With the temperature on hot, Stackhouse let the steaming spray rinse off the creek and the dirt and Kingston’s blood. Part of her had been loath to get wet again, sick of the water, but afterward she felt reborn. Exhausted but new.

Toweling her hair, she found Mark Rowe downstairs at the door.

Dr. Ivey had invited him in.

“I’m not staying.” Rowe did a remarkable job hiding his surprise at finding a tall handsome man in the kitchen with Stackhouse in her pajamas. “I lost track of her, ahh, I mean of you, Stack, and I’m playing catchup. I heard Jane abducted Kaye?”

“She did,” said Ivey. “But Kaye escaped. She’s upstairs and we won’t wake her.” Ivey held out his hand. “Jeffrey. I work at the hospital, in the emergency department.”

“Mark. How do you two know each other?” They shook.

“I’m her boyfriend,” said Ivey.

Stackhouse dropped the towel in her surprise. Both men seemed to grow bigger, like bucks in the same field.

“Well.” The doctor smiled. “I’m the guy trying to be.”

“You, ahhh, you picked a good one. She was amazing tonight.”

“She’s amazing all the time,” said Ivey. “Do you work with her?”

“As often as I can.”

“You’re a police officer.”

“A detective, yes.”

Ivey pointed at his swollen face. “Get into some trouble tonight?”

“Small price to pay.”

“Your cheek needs a couple stitches.”

“Could’ve been worse. A lot worse.”

“I bet. Thank you for your service, Officer.”

The two men were almost the same height, Ivey an inch taller. Mark older and wiser.. Jeffrey younger and broader. Stackhouse had too many things to say, to ask. It came out, “Uhhm.”

“Well.” Rowe nodded to them both. “I feel better knowing a doctor… Doctor? Not nurse? I feel better knowing a doctor is here, with you and Kaye.”

“Mark, do you want a coffee?” Stackhouse winced. Stupid thing to say. “You have a long night ahead.”

“I’ll stop somewhere.”

“I should go with you,” she said.

“Not necessary.”

“You’re exhausted. You stay,” Ivey told her. “She’s staying. Doctor’s orders.”

Rowe threw them an awkward wave. “Night, folks.”

Ivey closed the door after him.

“Good looking guy.”

Stackhouse picked up the towel, just to do something. “He shot Jane Newton tonight.”

“She’s dead? You didn’t tell me that.”

Stackhouse yawned and threw herself onto the couch, stretching across the chaise. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Then don’t. Good idea.”

Too tired for romance. Even in celebration.

When Stackhouse woke from a nightmare an hour later, Ivey was sitting next to her, reading a Stephen King novel he found on the table. He played with her hair until she fell back to her dreams, wearing a slight smile.

53

For once, Chief Almond and Stackhouse agreed—she should stay away from the station. For at least the weekend.

The death of the Roanoke River Killer dominated the news. Try as they might, the media couldn’t catch an interview with Stackhouse, who was rumored to be involved. Roanoke City Police Chief Almond and Roanoke County Detective Mark Rowe each gave interviews, Rowe’s brief, Almond’s long and designed to draw attention to himself by bragging on his police force.

Stackhouse wasn’t out of the spotlight. The FBI would like a final debriefing with her. The mayor wanted to congratulate her. Journalists were descending on the city and they’d pursue her hotly for upcoming revisions to their Jane Newton books. On Monday, Stackhouse would return to work and be shouted at in the parking lot.

She wrote her incident report Saturday morning from her couch. She read it over Saturday night and deleted it.

Some parts of the story eluded her. Questions remained. And she wanted answers first.

No, check that. She didn’t want answers. She wanted confirmation of her suspicions. Sunday morning she wrote another draft—complete with her educated guesses—while Kaye flipped channels with her good hand.

Stackhouse reveled in the glory of serving her roommate. Ice packs and drinks and pain killers and foot massages. Ivey returned with dinner and they rented the recently released Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and they wondered what the hell happened to Spielberg and Harrison Ford.

As he left that night, Ivey kissed Stackhouse. Brief but warm, and she sat a long time on the couch after, aglow, happy, but conflicted.

Rowe hadn’t called.

She’d typed out a text but as of yet hadn’t pressed send.

He’s not my boyfriend.

Monday morning. Stackhouse didn’t drive to the station first.

She drove once more to visit the Spillmans.

Reggae was rocking on the front porch, happy to have a visitor. He pointed at the electric bug zapper hanging from a hook. “You wouldn’t believe how many mosquitos this thing kills. Enough to fill a shoebox so far.”

She set a basket next to him, stuffed with goodies. Black & Milds and a lighter and a bottle of tea (she remembered he didn’t drink beer) and homemade cookies and banana bread and gum and candy.

“What’s this for, ma’am?” asked Reggae.

“It’s a get well gift.”

The former corporal in the Army grew misty. “No one’s ever bought be a get well gift before.”

Stackhouse sat next to him. “You’re too sweet to stay single, Reggae. Don’t marry the first girl who comes along. Marry the right one and she’ll make you baskets the rest of your life.”

He sniffed and opened the tea. “That’d be a dream come true.”

“It’ll happen. Lots of good women out there are dying for a good man. I promise.” She waved at a fly and hoped the bug zapper would get it. The driveway showed signs of heavy use—the ambulances and the firetruck. “Antwone went to work?”

“They need help so bad, they took him back immediately. I don’t know if he wants to stay, though.”

“Kingston’s still at the jail,” Stackhouse stated. Not a question. Jane hadn’t ripped or sawed at Kingston with the knife, only thrusting the blade in. The damage hadn’t been life-threatening.

“They said it’d be better for him there. The jail has a nurse who can watch the stitches.”

Stackhouse nodded. The truth was, they weren’t sure what to do with Kingston. He’d been locked up twice since leaving the military, and Friday night he’d fired a gun at his own brother, tortured Jane Newton, and attacked Stackhouse. The leeway that trauma provided as an excuse only got you so far.

“Something I never figured out,” said Reggae. “Why’d Jane shoot me?”

“At the bar?”

“Yeah she’d already poisoned me. Why shoot me?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I have a guess.” Stackhouse assembled her thoughts, much of it already written in the report. “After delivering the arsenic, still dressed as a waiter, she saw you run for the bathroom. She listened at the door and heard you throwing up. She worried not enough of it would get into your system, so she slipped inside. I think she pulled on gloves while you weren’t looking and Pete surprised her. He was sick too. She shot you, but it was louder than she expected, and she had to make a quick getaway. She climbed up through the ceiling. We didn’t enter the bathroom quickly enough, worried about the shooter, giving her time to escape. She thought she’d killed you. But not Pete. She hung around long enough to see Pete be taken by the police, but she was insane with revenge. She bribed an inmate the next day to stab him. Afterwards, she even planted the bag of poison at my colleague’s house.”

“That lady was really crazy, wasn’t she, ma’am.” Reggae was absently pressing on his chest.

“I’m about to drive to work.” Stackhouse reached into the basket and slid out a few papers clipped together. “But I think you and I need to clear something up first.”

“What’s that?”

“The incident report I need to submit. I should’ve turned it in Saturday, but I’ve been mulling over the facts. I want you to tell me the truth.”

Reggae drank from the tea and screwed the top back on. “Yes ma’am, I’ll try.”

“Your brother, Antwone. He needs you to save him.”

“He does?”

“He’s been taking care of you your whole life. It’s time you return the favor.”

“I’m confused, ma’am.”

“I figured it out when Jane started shooting the gun at you, Friday night. It’d been bugging me, why was she trying to wipe out your family? After all, we found the evidence that she killed Stevie. She blamed him for the death of Allison. Why was she still making attempts at you and Kingston?”

“Yes ma’am, I wondered that too.”

“I think you know the answer, Reggae. It would’ve saved a lot of time and pain if you and Antwone had told the truth, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. It would be too hard.”

Reggae looked down at his hands and the tea bottle. Beneath his shirt, Stackhouse could make out the impression of his chest bandages.

“Last week, I discovered that Kingston had been paroled from jail on the condition he attend rehab. I found that odd, so I looked into it. Do you know what the rehab was for?” she said.

“Anger issues.”

“You know what happened in the Army.”

Reggae shrugged.

“I found out,” she said. “He was suspected of attacking two women on base. That’s why he quit, even though he enjoyed the Army. The judge advocates didn’t know if they had enough evidence to convict, so they cut him a deal—leave the service and we won’t prosecute. So he did and he made you quit too, didn’t he.”

“He wasn’t found guilty of anything,” said Reggae.

“You still want to protect him.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Immediately after discharge, Kingston came home and he hit on me at the bar. He insulted Sissy. Later he attacked me, him and his buddies. He even fired his gun at Antwone. He’s guilty of a lot, Reggae. But it’s more than that, isn’t it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Allie Anderson’s mother was sent to prison during Allie’s junior year. Allie stayed with Jane Newton at her foster home. It was during this time that Allie vanished. Jane Newton was very protective of the girls who stayed with her, and I know she held prejudices against Black men. She told me herself. When Allie went missing, she blamed Stevie and she killed him.”

Reggae nodded. “I know that.”

“You told me Allison was a gorgeous kid.”

“Yeah, remember I said I was kinda in love with her.”

“Kingston was too. Wasn’t he,” said Stackhouse.

“I don’t know.”

“Unlike you, Kingston is aggressive. And violent. He takes what he wants, and he wanted what his older brother had.”

“I don’t… You don’t know that for sure,” said Reggae.

“The night Allison went missing, Stevie was at home. But Kingston wasn’t, was he.”

“You don’t know that, ma’am.”

“I think Kingston went to Allison. Maybe it was consensual at first, maybe it wasn’t. Either way, it turned violent and Kingston killed her. It was never Stevie. It was his brother. Accidentally, is my guess. He’s an angry man and he overreacted. He didn’t mean to murder her but he did. Jane said she arrived too late and that Allison died in her arms. I think she saw it but couldn’t prevent it. It was at night, hard to see. Kingston took off, and Jane assumed he was Stevie. So she tracked Stevie down and killed him. She’s good at it. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure it was him. Was that Stevie she’d seen in the dark? Or was it his younger brother, Kingston? Or even Kingston’s twin, Reggae?”

Reggae tried to sip his drink but he spilled it down his neck.

Stackhouse continued, “That’s why Kingston made you join the military so quick. To get you both the hell out of there. Because he knew Jane had killed Stevie but got the wrong brother. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It doesn’t matter.” His voice shook as much as his hands.

“I think Kingston admitted it to you. He got drunk and it spilled out? Then you told your mom. You wrote her from the Army? Missing home, you told her you suspected Jane Newton killed your brother. But by then, we’d caught Jane and she was in prison. So your mom wrote to her. The note said, Now you die in hell. Jane brought the letter when she escaped, and she came hunting for your mom. After she brought Stevie’s body back up from the lake, where she’d deposited him four years ago, she left the note on this very front porch, covered in your mother’s finger prints. Maybe to throw us off the trail, maybe to scare you to death.”

Reggae wiped at his cheeks with a thumb, doing no good. “Something else I don’t get. She never bothered with Antwone. I mean, I’m glad, but, why she didn’t hate him?”

“I think Jane figured out that Antwone is gay. He wouldn’t have done it. No vengeance necessary.”

“Antwone ain’t gay,” said Reggae.

Stackhouse patted his arm. “So now I need you to tell the truth. About Kingston.”

“Why? What good does this do now? Jane’s dead.”

“On the phone, before Jane died, your brother Antwone told me that your mom killed Allie. He lied. He lied to put the suspicion on someone else because Antwone is still trying to protect Kingston. And you. He can’t help himself, he’s a caretaker. He’s a hero. He threw himself in front of bullets for you. But when Kingston gets out, he’ll ruin Antwone’s life all over again. Just last Friday, Kingston shot at him. You need to save Antwone. Tell the truth about Kingston.”

Reggae made a pitiful moan. “I can’t! I won’t snitch on my brother.”

“Not even to save Antwone? Wait, don’t answer that. I’ll make it easy on you. This is my report.” She shook the papers at him. “I’m turning it in and I’m accusing Kingston of killing Allie Anderson. When the detectives come talk to you about it, all you have to do is, don’t lie.”

“Oh nooooooo, please don’t let them come here.”

“Kingston killed that girl. He’s partially to blame for Stevie’s death. He’s partially to blame for your mother’s death. He’s partially to blame for you being shot and poisoned. And he just might kill Antwone in a fit of rage. Don’t let it happen. When they ask, don’t lie. Save Antwone.”

Leaving the Spillmans’ driveway, Stackhouse didn’t turn left for the city. She turned right, driving by other decrepit houses, by Pete Burman’s empty home, before trundling across the creek to the gorgeous green property of old man Caldwell.

The German Shepherd barked a warning as she approached the big front door, but the dog remembered her—this one wasn’t a threat.

Caldwell answered the knock. He smelled of peppermint and his nose was red. “Well? I suppose you’re here to tell me more Spillmans are dead or they’ve vandalized my property. I’m getting awful sick of these interruptions.”

“Mr. Caldwell, you knew Pete Burman.”

“Of course I knew that old drunk. Every time the man’s truck broke down it blocked my lane and he would ask me to give him a push, and I’ll be damned to hell before I get out and push.”

“Did you know Pete Burman was the father of Stevie Spillman? Ms. Spillman’s second-born son?”

“I…” He regarded her suspiciously. “No I did not know that, and I doubt it very much. Where is your proof?”

“Maybe I’ll get the DNA work done, but probably not. Unfortunately they’re both dead and I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“If it doesn’t matter, why are you knocking on my door again?” said Caldwell.

“It saddens me to think of Dionne Spillman, living out here by herself. She was lonely and not entirely mentally stable. I think she had some undiagnosed cognitive issues, but I can’t prove it. She was cute though, once upon a time.”

Caldwell threw up his hands. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Out here all alone, and Pete Burman came knocking one night. Or maybe multiple nights, I don’t know. As far as I can tell, Stevie never knew who his father was. Pete never told and neither did Ms. Spillman. It got me to thinking, Mr. Caldwell. I wonder if any other neighbors ever came knocking.”

“Move. I’m closing this door and if you don’t watch your foot you might lose it. You are not welcome.”

Stackhouse withdrew a plastic baggie from her pocket. Inside was an empty Coors Lite can. “Did you know anything you throw away can be salvaged by the police? It’s no longer protected by privacy laws. So. Let’s talk about the DNA you left on this can, Mr. Caldwell.”

54

The following Friday, Stackhouse waited outside the County police headquarters, leaning against her old Crown Vic. The sun in early August baked her, and she inclined her face towards it, enjoying the reprieve. It felt like years since her last vacation.

Mark Rowe had tipped her off—Antwone and Reggae were inside, talking to investigators. They’d come to confess Kingston’s involvement in the death of Allie Anderson. An impossible but brave choice. The Jane Newton fervor had subsided, society’s thirst for pain satisfied, but one of these days Antwone and Reggae would find their own names in a Jane Newton non-fiction book, present at the time of her death, the brothers to one of her victims.

“Taking forever,” grumbled Crabtree, next to her. No longer assigned to each other, Crabtree came in his own car. If his radio rang out, he’d need to bolt, but like her, he wanted closure.

In her back pocket Stackhouse carried a list.

SPILLMAN CASE

Did Pete shoot Reggae? How?

If not, who did?

Why was Pete stabbed?

Are Stevie/Allison involved?

WHO shot Reggae?

WHO poisoned Reggae?

Is Ms. Spillman missing??

Why did Jack Gough’s wife visit prison that morning?

Who killed Stevie?

How did Stevie’s body get onto the porch???

Did Ms. Spillman put an arsenic bag at Mark’s house?

Is Jack Gough’s wife lying about not visiting him?

Turns out, the answer to most of her questions was Jane Newton.

The final mystery was, what did Jane do with Allie Anderson’s body? Stackhouse suspected that Jane had cared for the corpse herself, not in the water but a proper burial. She took her role of protector seriously, and privately handling Allison’s body would allow her to take revenge in secret. But with Jane dead, they’d never know the location. Or maybe she was wrong and Allison would float up to the surface one day. After all, it seemed Jane liked to keep evidence of her holy work.

Eventually the two Spillman brothers emerged blinking into the sunlight. Antwone smiled at the sight of the two cops. Maybe the first genuine smile she’d ever seen from him.

“You two are everywhere,” said Antwone.

The four stood by themselves in the parking lot.

“We came to thank you. For telling the truth,” Stackhouse replied.

“It was awful.” Reggae’s eyes were red from crying.

“Awful, yeah, but it was time,” said Antwone. “I love him but he’s hurt too many people.”

Crabtree nodded. “Damn right.”

“We told them everything. Left nothing out, and we’ll have to come back soon to talk with the detectives more and the prosecutors, but the truth is out there,” said Antwone. “It feels good. Good and bad.”

Stackhouse didn’t need to ask—she knew with the new revelations about Allie Anderson, Kingston wouldn’t leave his jail cell for years. The remaining two Spillman boys could start their lives again without dead weight.

“Guess what we’re doing?” Reggae was moving easier, another week removed from the catastrophic surgery. “We’re moving to Florida!”

“Won’t you miss the mosquitos?” asked Stackhouse.

“So, get this.” Antwone made gestures with his hands, excited. “Our neighbor, old man Caldwell, the guy offered to buy our property. He says he wants more land and he’ll pay a fortune to get it. Way more than I ever expected.”

“It’s enough to move and pay our bills for a year!” said Reggae. “I’ll be recovered enough to join the police in Miami in a few months.”

“Police, huh.” Crabtree punched Reggae in the arm. “You’d be good.”

“Wish it was the Army, but it’s close enough.”

“Miami. My roommate will be jealous,” said Stackhouse.

“It’ll be great to get out of here. With the money, I can finish my degree to be an RN. Or even a nurse practitioner,” said Antwone. “We move quick enough, I can join a fall cohort. That sounds so good, getting the hell out of here, a new start, you know? To a city, an apartment with air conditioning.” As he talked, Stackhouse’s heart soared. No one deserved this more than Antwone, the big brother who overcame every ugly thing life could throw at him. The man who stayed good and strong finally found a reward, and Stackhouse blinked back tears. Antwone checked his watch. “We’re late for Reggae’s appointment, and then I got to work.”

They waved and the Spillman brothers motored away in the Honda Prelude, no longer overburdened.

“These things don’t usually have happy endings,” said Crabtree, alone with Stackhouse.

“It’s not entirely happy. But it’s close.”

“Old man Caldwell, huh.” Crabtree shot her a look. “What’s that about?”

“Who knows.”

“You know, and don’t lie to me.”

“Remember that day at his house, the Coors Light cans? I took the can.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I had the DNA tested. He’s Antwone’s biological father.”

Crabtree threw back his head. “You lie.”

“He is. I threatened him with eighteen years of unpaid child support arrearage. I don’t know if it would hold up, but it scared him to death.”

Crabtree laughed and clapped his hands. “Will Caldwell tell Antwone he’s his dad?”

“I’m not smart enough to know if that’d be healthy or destructive. I’ll ask my roommate.”

“Damn, Stack, how’d you know?”

“When we talked previously, Caldwell asked specifically about Antwone. I thought that odd, he cared about one brother in particular. And something about the eyes. A family trait. I forgot about it, until I learned Pete fathered Stevie. I took a shot and I was right. I told Caldwell he had to find a way to financially support them starting a new life, and I’d back off.”

Crabtree’s radio blurted. He turned it down but he stood.

“I got to go.” Crabtree offered his hand. “I never thanked you.”

“For what?”

“Jumping into the water.”

She shook his hand. “You’re welcome. We were a good team.”

“You know, they’re right about you, Stack. You’re the best of us. You figured out it was Jane. You saved the boys. Got them to confess. Even figured out a way to get them money from the dad. Stories about you are true. You’re Andie got’damn Stackhouse.”

She laughed. “Stop being nice, it’s gross and weird.”

“I got to go. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Why?”

“Imma keep sleeping on your couch,” he said.

“That’s over. Sleep at your own place.”

“Me and Ruby like it. Good place to fool around.”

“No! You’re not welcome. Ick, did you really?”

“I’m for real, I’ll be there tonight.” He nodded over her shoulder, said, “You got company.” He ducked into his car to answer the call.

Mark Rowe was walking up the sidewalk. Usually rangy and handsome, today he limped and his face was purple. Like a war survivor. His face had been on every newspaper in America Monday. Only Stackhouse and Crabtree knew the wound on his face was from Jane’s teeth.

Stackhouse intended to leave straightaway to visit Allie Anderson’s mom in jail, to tell her in person that her daughter’s killer had been apprehended. But for Rowe, she’d delay her departure.

She grinned. “You look like hell, Mark.”

“That’s what happens when you fight a demon.”

“It’ll be green soon, instead of purple. Then you’ll really look awful. It’s happened to me.”

“How come the news used photos of me looking like this, but for you, they always found the gorgeous headshots?” said Rowe.

“It says something about our society and it’s probably not great.”

“I’m drinking smoothies only, because my teeth hurt. Stack. Andie. Don’t look at me while I say this next part. About Doctor Ivey. When I saw you together, I realized something. I was jealous.”

“Good.”

“Good? How is that good?”

“Keep going,” she said.

“He’s too young for you.”

Stackhouse laughed.

He said, “And he doesn’t look that smart. He needs a haircut.”

“You don’t wear jealousy well.”

“The thing is. I thought I needed to keep you at arm’s length. But when I see you with someone else? I just can’t. I want more from you than a fling.”

RELAX, Andie. Freak out later.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” said Rowe. “Let’s get dinner and talk about it.”

“A dinner of smoothies?”

“After my face heals, dinner.”

Stackhouse had plans that night. A date with Dr. Jeffrey Ivey.

A warm glow thrummed inside her chest. Rowe had been the man she wanted to want her for years, and now he admitted he did.

She looked forward to her date with Ivey, but somehow she doubted the doctor was forever. He was dinner and a movie, not a diamond ring.

Yet, she felt the same about Mark Rowe. A fantasy only, not the man she’d grow old with. Some intuition she couldn’t name told her.

Maybe, maybe not. Either way, Andie, get out of your head. Focus on the nice moment.

“You’re not saying anything,” said Rowe. “Am I too late?”

“I’m hiking with Jeffrey tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

She had to look up at the taller man and she didn’t see a bruised face, she saw the legendary detective she idolized. “But dinner with you sounds nice too.”

“Yeah?”

“Instead of me taking my clothes off for you in the middle of the night, you can buy me a drink.”

“Deal.”

“I’m not promising anything, Mark. My life is too busy, too crazy to commit to anybody. But. I’d say yes to a date. After your face heals. I’m not going out with that mess,” she said.

He tried to smile but it hurt. “Dating two men. Doesn’t sound like you.”

She opened her car door. “It’s not. But I’m Andie gosh darn Stackhouse. I do what I want.”

Epilogue

Police Chief Jake Almond crawled up the steep Eggleston Trail on Pearis Mountain in his Toyota 4Runner, three miles outside Pearisburg, not far from the West Virginia border. His all-terrain wheels spun and flung rocks, lurching ever upward in the dusk.

After his promotion to chief, he’d scouted the Appalachian Trail for a place to call his own. Not officially—this land couldn’t be purchased. This was national park territory. He settled on a secluded spot overlooking a gorge and he camped there several times a year, when he could escape the rigors of his position. He’d discovered no signs of human traffic since—the AT was two miles that way.

At the crest of the trail, he turned off the beaten path and plundered into the woods. Beside him a feminine figure jostled back and forth in the passenger seat, safely strapped in by the seatbelt.

A mile into the trees, he parked. Ahead of him the land dropped off in a sheer cliff. He stepped down from his 4Runner and walked to the edge, looking several hundred feet below to the New River, churning along as it had for thousands of years. The New River was one of America’s oldest. To his extreme right, Bald Knob was a hazy protrusion fifty miles away, disappearing into the gloom. Directly ahead was Butt Mountain, purple and silhouetted by the fading sun.

A deep breath, and pine filled his sinuses. Not the sharp odor of antiseptics. Not a drunk with a MRSA infection. Not vomit. Not gun oil. Just the scent of freedom.

Almond loved the outdoors. A rush, Mother Nature out of his control. He was a man who coveted control. In his personal life, in his profession, his finances. But several times a year, he stepped into the wild to be tested. To go hungry. To go cold. Be challenged. Be scared, be scarred.

The wild brushed his face, his closed eyes. Clouds consistently moved southwest to northeast here, as seen by weather radar. Here along the cliff, the effect was exaggerated like a slipstream, following the same route as the New River below. Throw pine needles into the air and they were whisked away.

Almond kindled a small fire with twigs and soon fed it dry pinecones. He gathered enough small limbs to keep the fire for an hour, provided he was industrious. And he was.

He could see the head of the figure in the car, not moving.

He returned to the cliff and flung a camouflage tarp off a small WoodMaxx wood chipper. This land didn’t belong to him, and he wouldn’t begrudge a ranger for confiscating the machine, as he kept it here illegally. The terrain was too steep and rugged to tow it—he’d brought it in pieces in the back of his Toyota and assembled it two years ago. The front wheels were dug in only two feet from the drop off.

Almond fetched the gasoline can from the back of the Toyota. Airtight, so he hadn’t been nauseated during the journey. He broke the seal, unscrewed the top, and filled the WoodMaxx’s built in motor. He primped the pump and yanked the starter cord. On the second pull, the engine turned over and the deadly interior disc began churning, blades whirling. He aimed the discharge spout over the river and tossed a pinecone into the feed port. The wood chipper hummed and the pinecone disintegrated, emerging as powder.

He’d purchased a model whose blades and anvil could be adjusted to produce fine pulp. Thick branches fed into the port spouted out as saw dust, carried into the nether by the atmosphere’s vicissitudes. As though they never existed.

All week long he restrained himself for the cathartic release of doing what he wanted. What he wanted? Was to boot the defense attorneys out on their asses. Was to ship the homeless off to some other city. To castrate the repeat sexual predator, instead of letting him out after six months. To execute the abusive mother.

And with Stackhouse?

Almond fed three fallen pine boughs into the chipper, savoring the grind. The pleasure of complete destruction. His officers had stress balls? He had a wood chipper.

He walked to the passenger side of his 4Runner and hauled the woman out, to drop to the pine needles.

She was a mannequin. A 3D-printed dummy, down to her thighs. A sales rep had come to demonstrate this new technology, the ability to produce your own replicas, useful for target practice, or to represent the effects of blunt force trauma, or knife wounds, or whatever the violent situation required. Almond had passed on the purchase for his station, but kept the printed mannequin.

After feeding his fire, he dragged the mannequin to his wood chipper. Almond carried his multi-tool on his belt, and he withdrew it, and he knelt on top of the woman without sharp facial features.

His secret, long-term love romance had ended months ago. Fed up with Almond’s ambitions and fear of commitment and discovery, and fed up with his philandering. He and Rebecca Beatty had an affair fifteen years ago, before her husband was murdered by a teenaged Jane Newton. Fearing repercussions, they’d broken it off, then reunited four years ago. Now it was over. For good. She was with someone else.

His knife poised above the mannequin, he debated only a moment. He scratched a word across the woman’s torso.

STACKHOUSE

He stood and clipped the tool back onto his belt. From his truck, he fetched one more thing—an ax.

With a sick vigor, he hacked at the thing’s neck, envisioning not a faceless mannequin, but a woman he despised. A woman who never responded to his advances, who earned more press than him, a woman who didn’t respect him, a woman he worried would take his job one day, a woman written about in journals and books about serial murderers, a woman who riled up his entire force, turned them against him, a woman he wished was dead.

Finally Stackhouse’s head broke free from the shoulders, but he delivered several more blows, shattering her into pieces.

A woman he wished he could feed into the wood chipper.

A woman he still might.

He’d practiced. He shot a deer in early spring, not for the meat, but for the release. Almond didn’t enjoy getting his hands dirty, but he’d dragged that carcass over a mile, to be fed into his machine.

As he expected, the thing disintegrated into a wet nothing, shot out over the gorge. Even the bones were no match for the metal.

He’d thought it through. If he ever worked up the courage.

After finishing with Stackhouse, with her flesh and bones and hair, he’d soak the machine and the ground with lighter fluid and burn away all traces of her, eventually shoving his wood chipper over the edge, for it to fall and disappear into the New River.

But.

But…

Not yet.

He picked up a piece of the mannequin’s head. With his other hand, he pull-started the wood chipper.

Into the feed port went Stackhouse’s dome. The machine roared, and out came little pieces. Little pieces of a detective.

“One day,” he whispered. “One day soon.”

Dear Reader,

My editor finished this one and said, ‘Wow, this was a beast of a book.’ And it was. Lengthier than most Alan Lee novels. I hope you enjoyed it. Clearly Stackhouse’s story is only getting started. Let’s spend the next twenty years discovering it together.

Leave a review, if you wouldn’t mind. If helps me compete with giant publishing houses. Thank you to Monica, Megan, Larry, Debbie, Jan, Ronna, and others who assisted!

What’s next?

The world first met Stackhouse in 2017, in a Mackenzie August mystery.

I grew up loving mysteries. When I sat down to write a private detective series, Stackhouse walked through the door with a hot case on day one. A pleasant revelation. She was older than the Stackhouse you’re reading now, farther along in her career, and readers have loved her since.

Who is Mackenzie?

Unlike Stackhouse, who is petite, Mackenzie is big. Tall and muscular and broad.

Where Stackhouse is lovely, Mackenzie is brutish. Stackhouse takes her life and her job too seriously, while Mackenzie is a smart aleck. People are drawn to Stackhouse, while Mackenzie intimidates them. Stackhouse studies for her law degree but Mackenzie reads poetry, reads literature, and reads his son bedtime stories. Stackhouse runs while Mackenzie lifts weights. He fought in cage matches in Los Angeles, a natural athlete and brawler. Stackhouse is a terrible cook, Mackenzie excels at it. Stackhouse works for the government while Mackenzie is a free agent, owning his own investigation firm. Stackhouse has trouble settling down while Mackenzie falls hard.

They are opposites and that’s why they make a dynamic team in the Mackenzie August series, two figures opposing the oncoming might of the District Kings, whom you’ll learn about soon.

The Stackhouse series is told as a gritty police procedural.

The Mackenzie series is neo-noir crime drama—darkly humorous, tangling with the underworld. The same universe, some of the same characters, but a different point of view and attitude (Think Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, or The Nice Guys, or Bad Monkey, or the Spenser series, or the Myron Bolitar novels, or Stephanie Plum, etc). If you’ve never tried that style of literature, you’re in for a treat.

I invite you to adjust your lens for a different texture of literature and begin now. It could be a great month.

The year is 2017. Stackhouse is a powerful, influential figure in the city, but she’s stymied by a particularly nasty homicide spree. She comes knocking at the door of a dangerous private detective in search of help…

Chapter One

Sheriff Stackhouse stepped into my new office on a Tuesday afternoon. I recognized her from recent campaign posters, and I, a gentleman sleuth, stood.

She read the name on my door, “Mackenzie August?”

I nodded. “Sheriff.”

The Washington Nationals were playing a day game against the Mets, and I thumbed the volume down on my laptop, where I’d been listening. It was ninety degrees outside and my air conditioning struggled. Too hot to serve the four subpoenas waiting on my desk.

I dislike sweating.

“Are you free,” she said, “for a chat?”

“I’m great at chatting. What about?”

“A homicide investigation.”

The sheriff was followed by a man who resembled what a cop should look like—thick, hairy forearms, snub nose, buzz cut, maybe forty-five.

Two clients. I remained calm.

He threw me a nod.

“You look like your father,” said the sheriff. “Which is good.”

I indicated the client chairs opposite my desk.

She sat and shifted to accommodate a pistol and badge clipped to her belt, and she crossed her legs. She wore tight khakis that flared at her lace-up Kate Spades. Her white button-up shirt was tucked in, sleeves rolled up, collar flicked wide.

Though I was fifteen years her junior, I was not unmoved. She was good looking. Damn good looking. I’d heard her described as good breeding wasted on public service.

“You’re bigger than I thought. Taller and…” She held out her hands like this. “And broader. You played football at Radford University, if I recall,” she said.

“That team? They never won a game.” Buzzcut poked through the stuff on my bookshelves. He resembled a Rottweiler. Not good breeding.

My office was on the second floor above a bookstore and the restaurant Metro, on Campbell. Outside my window, millennials streamed for the farmer’s market, and we could hear their voices.

I came this close to buying a bottle of scotch for my bookshelves last week. I was good at my job, but would clients know it without one? Did other detectives display scotch on their bookshelves? Philip Marlowe did.

“I read about you in the papers.” Stackhouse brushed something invisible off her knee. “The Los Angeles thing. The North murders, a real disaster.”

I sat. “It was. That’s the reason I left.”

“Sergeant Sanders and I are working on the homicides together. We’d like your assistance.” She reached toward Sergeant Sanders and he placed an iPad into her hand. She powered it on and ran her finger across the screen. “First I’ll verify a few details. You were born and raised here, Roanoke, Virginia. Played football at Radford and earned a dual degree in English and Criminal Justice. After graduation you moved to California and joined the Highway Patrol. Transferred to the Los Angeles Police Department. After two years, you were assigned to homicide. Promoted to detective. Got mixed up in that high-profile North fiasco. Took a leave of absence that became permanent. Moved to South Hill, and taught English for one year. Came home, got your private detective license and hired out to local law firms. How am I doing so far?”

“In California,” I said, “I was the precinct chess champion.”

She returned to her iPad like she wasn’t impressed, which was ridiculous.

“You fought in underground cage matches in Los Angeles. You were reprimanded multiple times for insubordination. And last year you shot your coworker.”

Buzzcut sniffed his approval. “Shot the bastard twenty times.”

“He needed it,” I said. “All twenty.”

“Despite the reprimands, your former supervisors had good things to say about you. Captain Bonham told me I’m a horse’s ass if I don’t hire you. You come highly recommended by Brad Thompson Law in Salem. He says your work is so much better than your peers’ that he’ll hire no one else and the other firms are catching on. You’re not married. Finally, you have a son named Kix.”

“Last but paramount in importance.”

She clicked off the iPad.

“I’m here to offer you a job, Mr. August.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I’m not interested in police work.”

“Good. I’m not interested in having you in my office.”

“Rude.”

“Roanoke has a gang problem. A significant one,” she said.

“Roanoke doesn’t have gangs. Roanoke has illegal organized groups involved in territorial disputes.”

She smiled. Kinda. “You’re quoting me. From the article in the Times a few weeks ago. That was bullshit I fed to the press. We have a gang problem.”

“I knew it.”

“Roanoke’s problem is narcotics. On the East Coast, cocaine and opiates are smuggled in from South America and the Caribbean. Much of it is warehoused in Miami and Atlanta, waiting for distribution. But the drugs don’t stay there. Unfortunately for us, Roanoke is the halfway point between Atlanta and New York City. Seven hours each way. Billions’ worth of drugs travel up and down Interstate 81, and Roanoke is the perfect rendezvous.”

Buzzcut Sergeant Sanders spoke up. “We’re a staging area. A shit-ton gets stashed here by the local gang.”

“Bloods,” I said.

“Yes. Crystal meth hasn’t hit us yet, thank god,” said Stackhouse. “We’ve got our hands full of cocaine.”

“And you want me to tackle this problem.”

She smiled again. Kinda. “It’s a bit beyond one man.”

I pointed at Stackhouse. “You’re the sheriff. And he’s the police. You represent different departments.”

“This is a joint endeavor,” she said. “I’m taking point but I’ll collaborate with the chief of police, and with Sergeant Sanders.”

“I met the chief,” I said. “Or what’s left of him. We shook hands and I nearly killed him.”

Buzzcut did a snort.

“I heard you was funny,” he said.

“Were.”

“What?”

“Were funny, or are,” I said. “Not was. It’s complicated because are and were are both plural, but you does not take singular verbs.”

“The hell are you talking about?” he said.

“Don’t blame me, Sanders. It’s the rules.”

“English teacher,” he said.

“You betcha.”

“Sanders, close your mouth,” Sheriff Stackhouse said. “We’re here because we need help. I have it on good authority a heavy hitter has recently moved to town.”

“Define heavy hitter.”

“Gangs don’t have strict hierarchies or leadership, per se. You know this from Los Angeles. Roanoke is even less organized than most. The Bloods are subdivided into neighborhoods, like Lincoln Terrace. But the sets do recognize older and more powerful members. Apparently, the Roanoke Bloods has one. An important one. Nicknamed the General.”

“Your sources are low-ranking gang members?”

She nodded.

“Correct. Incarcerated and willing to snitch for reduced prison sentence.”

“How do I help?” I said.

“By returning to the classroom. I’d like fresh eyes and ears inside Patrick Henry High School. I believe the General is active there.”

“You want me to teach.”

She nodded more. “Yes. Tenth-grade English.”

“This would interfere with my thriving private detective enterprise.”

“Think of me as a ten-month client.”

“You can’t afford me.”

She gave me a half smile, genuine this time, and shifted in her chair. “Sexy talk for a broke PI.”

“That’s economic profiling. I’m loaded.”

“Yet you live with your father.”

“The August boys stick together.” I made a dignified fist for visual aid. “Solidarity.”

“No interest in teaching?”

“The schools have resource officers. You don’t need me.”

“ROs wear uniforms. Hard to get fresh intel. They’re cops, in other words, and I need a snitch.”

“You said this was a homicide investigation.”

“The General is killing people. Young women,” she said.

“Ah.”

“I need someone to listen in the tenth grade. That age is beginning to drive. Becoming more active in gangs. If we identify some of the General’s new recruits, we can catch him. We know you can handle this because of your well-publicized heroics last year.”

“I sympathize with your investigation. But I’ll pass.”

She sucked lightly on her pearlescent front teeth and tapped her index finger on the chair’s armrest. “What is your hesitation?”

“I like my job,” I said.

“You liked teaching. You were applying for jobs like this last year.”

I shrugged. “Not interested. But thanks.”

“I offended you. I said something uncouth, but I’m unsure what. I didn’t realize men could be so prickly.”

“Only us sensitive types.”

“Come on, Mackenzie. You do not strike me as a sensitive type.”

“I’m not. Yet I still decline.”

She stood and inspected me with pursed lips. Rather than pushing her point, she walked to the door. “I’ll be back. I’m not giving up on you yet.”

“You’ll need to wait behind my many clients with bags of cash.”

“Think about it. Please.”

“Because you asked nicely.”

Sergeant Sanders shot me with his finger and followed her out. He left the door open and the heat poured in.

Chapter Two

The following morning my son Kix and I sat in the kitchen eating breakfast. He was almost two and concentrating on scooping bits of banana into his mouth using an adult spoon. He spurned baby spoons for reasons I hoped would become clear when he began speaking in full sentences.

He was a good-looking kid. Got the big blue eyes, long lashes, and sudden smile from his mother. His biceps and deltoids, however, left a lot to be desired and he wasn’t keen on curling reps with his firetruck. He took a draught of milk, slammed the cup, and gave me a grin.

Life was good.

We lived in the Grandin neighborhood. Big house on a big corner lot off Windsor Avenue. Big enough to have two staircases, sheer lunacy. A restored 1925 classic brick foursquare, so Timothy August said, with wraparound porch and interior craftsman woodwork. The yard was shaded with hundred-year-old pine, maple, and magnolia trees.

No mother, no cousins, no grandparents, just us August boys. When Timothy August found out we were moving to Roanoke, my old man put his trendy condo in Hunting Hills up for sale and bought this place on the condition we move in.

In my thirties, living with Dad. Just like I planned.

Kix requested more bananas. I told him to use his manners. He did, though he couldn’t pronounce the “L” in please yet. I acquiesced anyway.

Timothy August, my father, entered. Brown loafers, pressed chinos, blue sports coat. With three buttons, the saucy creature. He poured coffee from the carafe, sat, and snapped open a newspaper. “Morning, boys.”

“No one reads newspapers anymore, Dad.”

“Only those of us with class, son.” He lowered the paper long enough to smile at Kix, who responded with sunshine. “Hello, grandson.”

Kix pointed at his food and expressed concern. Dad agreed. I got more coffee.

“Busy day?” he asked.

“I’m thwarting an evil apartment building which is being sued by clients who have fallen on the stairs. The proprietor arranged an impressive cover-up but I am undaunted.”

“One of Brad Thompson’s assignments?”

“It is.”

“Sheriff Stackhouse phoned last night.” Timothy tilted his head down far enough to examine me over his stylish bifocals. “She told me about the job offer.”

“Embarrassing. What kind of sheriff would call my father about it?”

“A determined one.”

“You two must go back,” I said.

He paused a moment too long. “Everyone knows her. She is revered. We’ve both lived in Roanoke for the past twenty-odd years, so…”

“Perhaps you noticed she’s a smoke show.”

“Is she single?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“She’s aging remarkably well. WDBJ 7 is running out of reasons to put her face on screen.” Timothy sipped at his coffee. “Will you accept her job offer?”

“I’m not inclined to.”

“I told her you wouldn’t.”

“How’d you know?” I asked.

“Too many bosses.”

“I dislike bosses.”

He nodded and returned to the paper. “Which is odd. Because they always seem to enjoy you.”

“I’m enjoyable. But I’d rather not report to a principal, vice principal, English supervisor, department chair, and sheriff.”

“I figured. Still,” he said behind his paper. “Still. Seems a shame. That school needs good teachers. Which, according to your previous supervisors, you are. Switching gears, is your fight tonight?”

I nodded. “Coming to watch?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Wimp.”

“You’re a violent man.” He sighed. “Probably take after your maternal grandmother, another reason I won’t watch. Shall I drive Kix to Roxanne’s? I’m leaving in five.”

“No thanks, I need the jog.”

Kix and I prepped and stepped outside. I strapped him into the jogging stroller, shoved his bag into the storage pouch, and tightened my laces.

All of Virginia seemed to be boiling but especially Roanoke, which rested in a wide valley that trapped moisture. I broke a sweat within a block and was soaked after five. Like running in a sauna. Wearing a thick robe. After a mile I could’ve probably slipped through prison bars. But the overhanging leaves were a deep rich green and almost worth it.

Kix loved Roxanne’s. She stayed at home with her daughter Lucy, who was the same age as Kix. Roxanne’s husband taught at Roanoke College.

On my return trip, sans stroller, an unmarked squad car slowed beside me and kept pace. Dodge Charger, eighteen-inch performance tires, 340 horsepower. I did the math in my head and decided I couldn’t outrun it. Maybe with fresh legs. I decelerated to a walk.

The driver’s window buzzed down. Sheriff Stackhouse. “Give you a ride?” she said.

“I’m disgusting.”

“Just the way I like it, babe. Hop in.”

I did, and she handed me a manila envelope with my name on it.

Inside were photographs of teenage girls lying dead on asphalt. I shuffled through, a familiar sick feeling in my stomach. Five years of carnage in homicide hadn’t inured me. “This is cheating.”

“You’re damn right it is. I’ll get you however I can.”

“These are victims of the General?”

“Keep going,” she said. “Three girls in the last twelve months. All Roanoke City.”

After the photos I found a medical examiner’s report. Each girl was beaten, raped, and shot. Same pistol. Gang markings were carved onto the ankles. Different DNA samples were discovered with each. “Rites of passage.”

“Yes,” said Stackhouse. “Same method of murder, but different men. Or boys.”

“Crank the air-conditioning.”

She hit a button on the dash and the air increased.

“I think your gang problem is getting worse,” I said. “None of these girls are White. They make the news?”

“Barely. Two of them are undocumented illegals, so….” She shrugged, an angry motion. There was a note of steel in her voice I hadn’t registered yesterday. “If they were White, it’d be a national story. Our planet infuriates me.”

“These are brutal, even for a gang rite of passage. You think the new General is escalating things?”

She nodded. “I do.

“You have a madman on your hands.”

“Our hands. You live here too.”

I grunted.

The best detectives always grunt.

“I figured you out,” she said.

“Yikes.”

“I asked you to be a narc. I used the word snitch. I insulted you, in so doing. It’s beneath you and I apologize.”

“I do not get insulted. If I did, though, I’d forgive you,” I said.

“We need you to detect. Not to snitch.”

I slid the photos back into the envelope. My career as a private cop was taking shape and I didn’t want to be tied down. Those photographs, though.

“There are worse things,” she said, “than working undercover, you know. I’m getting desperate, Mackenzie. Let me take another shot at you.”

“Sure.”

“I want you for ten months. After that, I’ll quit molesting you. You never have to meet with me or Sergeant Sanders, unless you want. I’m after additional eyes and ears, not more meetings. We know the gangs have infrastructure within the school, but we don’t know how they communicate. Despite all security measures, the schools are infested with drugs. Raids turn up stashes but few culprits. The gangs recruit soldiers within the halls, arrange hits, rumble between classes, you name it. We’re making no progress, and those gang initiation murders scare the hell out of me. If I could get some intel on the structure and hierarchy…”

“The General could be identified.”

“I’m worried about escalation, so I’m throwing myself at you. Help us find this guy. Whatever you want. You run your own show, you set the terms.”

“I enjoy Krispy Kreme doughnuts.”

She smiled. “I will hand deliver them weekly.”

“If you show up even once at the school, I’m out.”

“Understood. I was being funny. Like you.”

“I have prior obligations, so I’ll need additional days off.”

“I can arrange that with school administration.”

“No meetings. No hassles. I know your number. No reason to bother me.”

“I’ll give you space to work.” She was nodding. “All the space you want.”

“When does school start?”

“One week.”

“Okay. You’ve got me for ten months.”

Chapter Three

A few months ago I overheard a couple guys at the gym talking about a local mixed martial arts club. They met twice a week after-hours in a karate academy, for sparring. No full-time professionals, but these were legitimate fighters coming from surrounding areas to train for events like Spartyka and Titans of the Cage. Many of them ranked top five in the state in various weight classes. So I joined and trained, twice a week.

Tonight was my first fight since California, two years ago. Nate Silva was ranked second in Roanoke for heavyweight and fourth in Virginia, and I was going to be a snack between ranked matches. The dojo was crowded and I knew no one, but before the match a couple guys kneaded my shoulders and the trainer tightened my black sparring helmet.

“You fought before?” he shouted above the din.

“Not recently.”

“You a big dude. Get him to the ground. He’s nasty, amigo. Tough and strong.”

Silva was bouncing across the mat. Shorter but thick with muscle. Snarled face, calloused from previous fights. Shaved head, eyes lidded like a snake’s. I’d seen him practicing other nights; mean, vicious kicks, threw a hard left.

I pulled the padded fight gloves tight.

Three five-minute rounds. To win, score the most points or manage a submission move. The dojo maintained a standing gentlemen’s agreement to not maim one’s opponent. We met in the middle. Sweat trickled down his head. I tasted the familiar coppery adrenaline. The ref issued standard rules and we touched gloves. Back to our corners and the bell rang.

He led a feinting straight kick, but I didn’t bite. It surprised him and jolted his rhythm. He was proud and expected a fifteen-second knockout. I shifted back, let his right hook pass, and I hit him with a short hard left. Should’ve dropped him but he moved like lightning. Instead of removing his nose, I caught him in the cheek. Bells rang in his eyes. Disoriented. Pop pop to his vulnerable nose. His eyes watered, and he shifted to protection. I chased for four minutes, peppering his defenses, but his superior footwork and quickness saved him.

Bell rang. I got water, firmly ahead in points. He sat down to recover. Murmurs of approval rippled among the onlookers.

Next round, and he came out aggressive. A fury of fist attacks. I could see why he was ranked fourth in the state. His hands landed hard, and my arms and shoulders bruised. After a minute he saw an opening, stuck a foot behind my leg and forced us both to the mat. He landed on top and I lost my air. His mat work dwarfed mine and I spent three minutes avoiding submission. He snarled and spit and punched and kicked and wouldn’t let me up, but I was concrete, and he couldn’t break.

The bell rang and my helmet was torn off. Round over. I relaxed. But Silva raised up and drove the heel of his hand into my unprotected temple. Pow.

Stars, roaring black.

Outraged fighters bounded into the ring and hurled him back. He kicked and bit like a madman. I sat up, woozy. Lungs burning. Men I didn’t know told me to follow their finger, brought water.

The ref announced, “Silva’s disqualified. Judges are unanimous.”

Silva swore and paced on the far side of the ring. I rolled my head and shook my limbs. No concussion.

I owed him. Wanted to bust his ass. I told the ref, “Let’s finish it.”

“You won, big guy. No need.”

I tugged my helmet back on and took water. “Had worse. Ready to go.”

The ref walked away. Silva smirked from his corner. The crowd was conflicted. I thought to reassure them with a pithy comment but talking hurt.

The bell rang and he came on. As in the previous two rounds, he attacked. I assumed defense. Playing possum. As he closed I struck a jab that startled him, then hit a right-left combo. Dodged a weak counter, and lunged. Shoulder in his chest. My hands circled under his thighs and lifted. Textbook pile-drive. The air leaving his lungs was audible. I spun him and ground his face into the mat. He clawed and kicked, but my knee was in his back, forearm across neck.

“You’re not getting up,” I said.

He hissed.

“Surrender when you’re ready, sweetheart.”

The crowd cheered. I could put him into a painful submission move but, alas, I am virtuous. He growled and squirmed until the bell. I released and he shoved me as he rose.

I won the points. Won two out of three rounds. And he’d been disqualified. Three out of three wasn’t bad. Except I could barely move.

***

I went to Blue 5 for a beer on the way home. A trendy restaurant and bar with a modern blues theme, polished hardwood, muted lights, no live music tonight. I sat on a tall wooden chair at the busy bar with a view of the Washington Nationals game. We were up three against the Mets with two innings left.

Everything hurt. My adrenaline high was wearing off.

The bartender came for my order.

She was, perhaps, the most fetching person I’d ever seen in real life. Aphrodite herself. Under the hanging bulb, her hair was the color of sunlight, pinned up. Easy smile. White button-down and black slacks worn like evening wear.

Cool it, August. Never let ’em see you sweat.

“Oh my. What happened to you?”

“Walrus,” I said.

She laughed. Yessir, old Mackenzie still got it. “You need a drink.”

“I need a drink.”

“You strike me as a beer guy.”

“Got Stella Artois?”

“Only douchebags drink them,” she said.

“Better make it two, then.”

She shook her head and smiled. Such a sight I was nearly struck blind. Forcefully I turned full attention back to the game. I didn’t come here to hit on bartenders.

Focus on the game.

Focus on baseball players. Gross, nasty baseball players.

She brought a draft, set it on a napkin, leaned her hip against the bar, and watched the game as she dried glasses.

“Bryce Harper.”

“Yep,” I agreed.

“I would marry that man just for his hair,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Except you’re straight.”

“Still. That was a long home run.”

She said, “You’re an imposing man. Why are you so big?”

“The good Lord and His infinite wisdom. Now shush. I’m watching the game.”

“I don’t shush. I can tell you’re new because I’d remember that swollen sweaty face.”

“It is neither swollen nor sweaty in perpetuity,” I said. “Normally I’m above average.”

“Too bad. It’s kind of a good look, all the carnage. Did you move here recently?”

“I spent much of my life in Roanoke, southwest. Came back last year.”

She said, “Where’s your accent from?”

“Louisiana. My formative years.”

She was called away by a patron down the bar. I did not watch her walk away.

Well. I did. But I’m not proud of it. The view was worth the self-loathing. Light on her feet, constant motion, good muscles.

Guy two seats down, already a little over-served, leaned my way. “I think Ronnie likes you.”

“Is Ronnie what you call yourself? Because that’s odd.”

“What? No. Idiot. Her, the girl. She usually doesn’t talk.”

“Maybe because you refer to yourself in the third person as Ronnie,” I said. “Big turnoff.”

“What? You’re being a asshole. I’m just saying.”

“An asshole.”

“What…”

“An asshole, not a asshole,” I said helpfully.

“You weren’t so big, I think I’d like to kick you in the teeth.”

“I’m a little punchy tonight. My apologies. Next round’s on me, Ronnie.”

“Her name’s Ronnie, not mine,” he said.

“Whatever your name is, you smell unfortunate.”

He swore and left.

The bartender from Elysium returned a few minutes later and said, “You ran off Frank. A couple more whiskeys and he would’ve started singing.”

“He said you have a boy’s name. I pointed out that you can be any gender you want and we won’t judge.”

“You’re a mess.”

“But on the bright side, I’m sweaty.”

“Did you look at my ass earlier?” she asked.

“A gentleman never tells.”

“Because you should. A girl in my building believes she has better hamstrings than me, so I’ve been busting it. I need to prove her wrong. These things are important.”

“Maybe I should be the judge of your contest,” I offered.

“She was a gymnast but I was a dancer. Perhaps it’s a tie. Where’d you go to high school?”

“Cave Spring,” I said.

She speared olives three at a time. “We’re rivals, I went to Franklin County. When’d you graduate?”

“We’re not in the same decade.”

“Never know. I’m old, but I take vitamins by the fistful.”

I told her. She told me. I was two years her elder.

“You played football,” she said.

“How’d you know.”

Her eyes were a shade bluer than hazel. I think she actually glowed. I had a hard time maintaining her gaze, like my soul would catch fire. She shrugged and it looked good. “An indistinct suspicion.”

Yeowza. Mackenzie, going off the rails. Gotta get out of here.

I said, “You don’t look like a Franklin County girl. You’re a little too…posh.”

“Mmm, spoken like a boy from Cave Spring. What’s your name?”

“Mackenzie.”

“Mackenzie what?”

“Sorry. Mackenzie, ma’am.”

She grinned. “You’re a mess, Mackenzie. You don’t flirt like the other boys.”

“I’m holding back. If I flexed you might drop the glass.”

She left to fill a raft of drink orders. Ronnie didn’t look like a bartender. More like an A-list celebrity here on a hidden camera show. She returned as I finished the beer.

“I just figured out who you are,” she said.

“Knight? Shining armor?”

“I wish. You’re the investigator who works with Brad. Usually you’re less clammy.”

“How do you know Brad Thompson?” I asked.

“I’ve been co-counsel with his wife. Twice. I helped her with an immigration case. You and I were in the same courtroom three months ago.”

“You practice law.”

“I practice law like Giselle wears heels.”

I raised my hands, palms up — Huh? Who?

“I make law look good,” she clarified. “I have my own firm.”

“A lawyer moonlighting as a bartender?”

“Similar professions. Taking money in exchange for false hope. Brad told me about you. He says you’re excellent and you shot a teacher.”

“Those two possibly do not belong within the same sentence.” I slid money across the table. “Thank you for the drink, Ronnie.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I know trouble when I see it.”

“I’m the best kind of trouble, Mackenzie.”

“Also I need a shower,” I said.

“Badly.”

Chapter Four

Kix was asleep. After my shower, I lifted him from the crib and rocked him on the glider. He was wearing the type of onesie that had feet, but it was getting too small. He settled against me and his breathing deepened. Nothing like it.

Ronnie.

I wish I hadn’t met Ronnie. She was in my head after only a few minutes. I should’ve turned and ran the moment I saw her. Bartenders used to be my type, and the source of pain. I never met one who practiced law though.

I returned Kix and got a water. Dad was in his room with a lady friend, door closed, so I sat alone in a rocking chair on the front porch. Even eleven at night, there were walkers on the sidewalk. Safe neighborhood, and the humidity had lifted.

Going from a lot of sex to none is like being on a diet. I’d been stuck on none for two years, and every girl looked like chocolate cake. I should've cranked the temperature down in the shower. I went back inside, and instead of faire l’amour I got into bed with a book by Ursula Le Guin.

Not as good.

Chapter Five

Patrick Henry High School was good to look at. Modern brick, circular atrium, and walls of windows made popular in the early 2000s. Inside was more glass, shiny flecked floor tiles, and lockers galore.

Two women sat behind the counter at the front office, busy with paperwork and their monitors. The woman on the left had short brown hair, a turtleneck despite the heat, and a necklace, which had clearly been made by her grandson. She glanced at me over her bifocals but did not stop typing. “Help you?”

“Mackenzie August, an appointment with Ms. Deere.”

“Ms. Deere is ready for you.” Still she typed. Must be some kind of superhero. “Go on back through the hallway.”

I obeyed.

Ms. Deere’s office had a particle board desk, a window, two chairs, a particle board bookcase, and just enough room to turn around. The woman herself looked forty, thin like a runner is thin, chin-length hair tucked behind her ears, and attractive in a severe fashion. “Mr. August?”

“Vice Principal Ms. Deere.”

“Please have a seat.” She nodded to the chair. Her fingers were laced over a newspaper flat on the desk.

Doesn’t matter how old you get. Walking into the principal’s office is never a good feeling.

I sat and tried to look innocent.

“I don’t like it,” she said.

“Can you be more specific?”

“I don’t like you working here.”

“Then don’t hire me,” I said.

“Unfortunately, Mr. August, that is not up to me. Ms. Stackhouse holds considerable clout.”

“I knew I should have worn a tie.”

Assistant Principal Deere cleared her throat and picked up the newspaper and read:

“‘Local hero Mack August is at it again. The eighth-grade English teacher who discovered the recently deceased body of Mackenzie Allen and subsequently aided South Hill law enforcers in the arrest of a local drug dealer, and the discovery of a small stockpile of illegal narcotics, is making headlines once more. Last night, Mack August responded to the distressed telephone call of Emily Newman, August’s coworker and the middle school’s technology resource teacher. Before police could arrive, August interrupted what Emily Newman describes as the worst night of her life. Newman was working late when an unidentified individual broke into the school and attacked her. The assailant fired a small caliber handgun at August while he acted as a decoy, allowing Newman to escape in his car. The mysterious perpetrator, who is believed to be the killer of Mackenzie Allen and Jed David, escaped without injury.’”

She finished reading and re-clasped her hands, and frowned.

“Pretty good, right?” I said.

“I do not think it’s funny.” She tapped her finger on the newspaper. “A few days after this story was written, you got into a gunfight on school grounds and shot a man. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Killed him,” she said.

“Mmhm.”

“Three dead bodies, at least one of which you murdered.”

“At the very minimum.”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“And you’re using shame to manipulate. Won’t work. I’m an oak,” I said.

“I do not want a gunfighter on this campus.”

“What about a mild-mannered gunfighter?”

“Stop,” she snapped and pointed her finger at me.

“Sorry.”

“I should warn you, I’m taping this conversation,” she said.

“Yikes. Maybe I should sit up straighter.”

“This is a violent place, Mr. August. An underfunded and understaffed violent place. It’s hard to persuade good teachers to work here, and those who do leave after two years. Half our students go home to nothing and come back the next day wondering if they’ll get tangled up in a fight. Or worse. We’re trying to educate them, they’re trying to survive, the state is breathing down our necks to raise scores, and the Sheriff wants to conduct an operation in our halls by installing one of her thugs into a classroom.”

I said nothing.

“Some of our students have done time, and quite a few others should have. I realize you’re a big man. A really big man. But that will only make them want to challenge you. You’re a threat to young men looking to prove themselves. And if word gets out about your motive for being here, you might as well walk around with a target on your back.”

“How would word get out?”

“I have no idea.” She met my look levelly.

“I taught in Mecklenburg County. At the time, it was the poorest county in Virginia,” I said.

“So.”

“So we both know scores are higher in affluent communities. The more money mom and dad have, the higher the scores. The less money, the lower the scores.”

“Generally speaking, yes.”

“And I taught in the poorest county,” I said.

“Okay.”

“My students scored a ninety-four percent on their SOLs.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment but her eyebrow arched. Then, “Not bad.”

“You’d be thrilled with an eighty-five most years.”

“So you’re a thug who can teach.”

“Mild-mannered thug who can teach,” I reminded her.

“Are you being financially compensated?”

“Not by the sheriff. Standard teaching salary.”

“Why? Tell me why. Why did you sign up for this?” she asked.

“A teacher affects eternity.”

“Spare me the quotes.”

“My son will be going to these schools. As you said, these are violent halls. I can help.”

“You can.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but it wasn’t a statement of faith either.

“I can.”

“Sheriff Stackhouse told me about the powerful gang leader who moved to town recently.”

“He’s why I’m here. He and I need to talk.”

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Cross that bridge when I come to it,” I said.

“If you ever act like a cop instead of a teacher, Mr. August, I’m firing you on the spot. Understand?”

“This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Chapter Six

I spent the week prepping. Planning. Girding my loins. Meeting fellow teachers. They thought I was amusing. And handsome, I’m sure, though no one mentioned it. I also tied up loose ends with various clients, informing them my time would soon be limited.

The night before school started, Timothy August and I sat on the porch playing a game of chess by citronella torchlight. We were straight from a movie about life in Georgia during the early 1910s — drinking lemonade on the front porch in our rocking chairs, listening to cicadas and complaining about the humidity. Our drinks were spiked with Patrón tequila and Dad had a Vegas Churchill clamped in his teeth. A baby monitor hissed softly on the windowsill.

I was winning. My opponent brought his queen out too early. Senile in his old age. He stewed.

My phone buzzed.

>> Mackenzie August

>> I procured your number from Brad Thompson

>> To inform you…

>> I will allow you to take me out to dinner

>> Should you so desire.

>> You didn’t come to my bar Friday night

>> So I assume either you’re cowardly or blind

>> Either way…

>> Consider this an act of charity.

>> I like Italian. And big sweaty men.

>> — Ronnie

“What are you grinning about?” Timothy August asked.

“I do not grin. And none of your business.”

“That better be a girl. You haven’t been out in…I cannot remember when.”

“One does not cast pearls before swine.”

“Is this girl swine?” he asked.

“No. A local attorney. Who also tends bar, and launched a thousand ships.”

“Helen of Troy? Take her out. You must. I’ll pay. One of my dreams is to come downstairs for breakfast and find a redhead wearing one of your shirts.”

“It’s your move, you weird gross old man.”

“I just want to see you happy.”

“Happiness is not necessarily something brought by a redhead,” I said.

“In my experience it doesn’t hurt.”

“Are you happy?”

He shrugged. “Who is to say what’s happy.”

“You had a couple girls over recently. Not working?”

“Same girl, twice. She’s… diverting.”

“It’s your move, you weird gross old man.”

We finished the game. The good guys won. As we cleaned up, a fancy Chevy Camaro pulled into our driveway.

Dad glanced at his watch.

“Expecting company?”

“Everyone I know in Roanoke is on this porch or asleep in a crib.”

The headlights extinguished and a man got out. Shoes crunched on gravel. I finished my lemonade, the ice clinking, and rose.

The deadliest man I’d ever met stepped onto the porch. Manuel Martinez. Went by Manny. A former friend on the police force in California. I hadn’t seen him in two years. Normally shockingly handsome, now his eyes were sunken and his face clammy.

We embraced and he pounded me on the back.

“Buenas noches, mi amigo.”

“You too,” he said.

“You smell awful.”

“Mind if I crash here?” Manny asked.

“Spare bedroom’s upstairs.”

“Gracias. I drove here from LA. Straight through.”

“Seems excessive.”

“Because I’m loco, hombre. Thirty-five hours. Now, beauty sleep.”

“Dad, this is my friend from Los Angeles PD. Manny, this is Timothy August,” I said. They shook hands, and Manny went inside.

Dad watched him stagger upstairs.

“Do you trust that guy?” he said.

“I do. And I have. With my life.”

“Just like that?” he asked. “No questions asked, take the guest bedroom?”

“You’d prefer he share yours?”

“Absolutely not. But where does this trust come from? Some sort of brothers-in-arms code?”

“It’s called friendship, Timothy.”

“Kix is up there, and that hombre looks unstable. Tattoos everywhere.”

“He had a very different upbringing than you. But relax. He was there the night Kix was born. And at my partner Richard’s funeral. I trust him.”

Timothy said nothing.

“Besides,” I said. “I’ve been thinking you’d look good with a few tattoos.”

“Goodnight, son.”

Chapter Seven

Manny did not sleep in the guest bedroom. I found him on my floor, with a pillow and no blanket. A big .357 peeked from under the pillow.

I knew the feeling.

The next morning he came down to breakfast and lowered himself gingerly into a chair. Manny was a good-looking dude. His waist was thin and his shoulders set far apart. Great cheekbones. He needed a shave and shower.

“Mack,” he croaked. “Can I crash here a couple days?”

“Long as you want.”

He locked eyes with Kix. Kix regarded him, icily. “Dios mio,” Manny said. “Your boy looks like Melynda.”

“Melynda with muscles.”

“Sorry about sleeping on your floor.”

“I don’t care. What brings you?”

He shrugged.

“Took a job here.”

“You did not. You jest. What job?”

“I’m a US Deputy Marshal now,” he said and got coffee. “Training ended last week. Five months.”

“Wow.”

“Sí.”

“They’ll let anybody in, these days,” I said.

“Needed a break from homicide. Was becoming a desperado.”

“Sergeant Bingham gave you a good recommendation?” I asked. “That guy hated you.”

“Kinda. Un poco. He was going to transfer me, so instead I requested he recommend me to the Marshals.”

“Por qué?” I said. “Why transfer?”

“Usual stuff.”

“You kept releasing the hot suspects?”

“People have such issues with sex. No comprendo. What are you doing now?”

“First day of teaching,” I said.

“No joke? Certainly you’re the baddest assed teacher in America.”

“And we’re about to be late.” I cleaned Kix up and hoisted him. “Do me a favor. Go easy on my old man.”

“Por qué?”

“You’re not White, and he scares easily,” I said.

“My grandma was White.”

“Oh thank goodness. We’re saved.”

***

Roxanne opened the storm door as we walked up her steps. She wore slippers and sweats and glasses and no makeup.

“Hi Kix!” She held out her hands. Kix was unimpressed. “Today we’re going to play with Play-Doh and puzzles and books!” Satisfied, Kix transferred out of my arms.

“You’re good,” I said.

“First day of school?” she asked. “Nervous?”

“I’m going to tear the arms off one kid per class and hit them with their own appendages. Establish dominance.”

“Wow. I taught a couple years and just gave the students time-outs.”

“Wuss.”

“Have a good day!”

“Back around four. Bye Kix,” I said, but he ignored me. Already playing with Roxanne’s daughter.

“Hey,” she called as I walked down her steps. “I want you to meet someone.”

“No.”

“No what?” she asked.

“No I don’t want to be set up with your friend.”

“She’s great! You’ll love her.”

“Does she tend bar?”

“No.”

“I’ll be mean to her just to spite you.”

She laughed. I’m a riot.

***

A kid is not scary.

The opinion of a student is not important. The collective opinion of twenty-five kids, however, is a physical force. New teachers think they will stand and deliver, and students will take notes and thank the teacher afterwards.

Hah.

Fifty percent of teachers quit within three years. Most can barely stand after the first day. Students don’t realize how close they are to anarchy. The teacher’s control is an illusion. It’s not physical. Teachers give orders and hope the twenty-five teenagers don’t rampage. Because there is little to stop them.

There is an old saying about teaching: don’t smile until you’re three months in. You smile, they pounce. Always exercise control. You’re the captain, the chief, the pack leader. Ten percent instruction, ninety percent psychology. Fifty percent brains, fifty percent nerves of steel. Raise your voice and you already lost. Never let them see you sweat. Confidence and attitude. Stuff like that.

Here we go.

The school was polished bright and the air was sharp with optimism and fear. Veteran teachers joked from their doorways. Rookies focused on re-straightening their desks. A custodian pushed a wide mop down the hall and Ms. Deere hurried past, inspecting me doubtfully. I stopped by the office, signed in, and checked my mailbox. Copiers already ran full speed, early hangdog students already sat in chairs, and receptionists droned into phones.

The teacher across from me, a happy guy as tall as he was round, passed back and forth in front of his door and preached encouragement to anyone who’d listen. His name was Reginald Willis, but he went by Reggie. This was his twenty-eighth year teaching.

“Repent, my brethren! For the heathen cherubs rattle our doors!” he called and earned a few laughs. “To arms! To arms! Our weapons be wisdom and wit, and our charges many. The state sends us savages but we’ll make citizens of them yet. Mr. August, look’atcha. Big White man in the prime of life. There stands Mackenzie like the bull in a china shop. Are you scared?”

“I fear no man. Not even thou.”

“Let me give you some free advice, young man.” He waddled over. His bifocals perched on his nose, secured by a small chain which wrapped round his neck. “For me, my personal self? I treat ’em with respect.”

“All they got is pride, Mr. Willis.”

“All they got … well, now, go on, Mr. August. That’s right. You’re smarter than you look. All they got is pride, some of them, and we can’t take that away. You and I, we take away their pride, you know what we got?”

“A cornered wild animal.”

“A cornered wild animal. I like you, Mr. August. Don’t look as though you belong, but you got more wits than most. Treat ’em with respect.” He nodded to himself and waddled back.

I shared a homeroom class with another teacher for the first day. She was in my room and writing on the board.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. Her name was Ms. Bennett and this was her first year. Brown hair back in a ponytail, denim skirt, pink top. Her face reminded me of a puppy’s. Her voice quavered as she spoke. She didn’t know if she could control her students so she compensated by controlling what she could. Like names and dates on the board. She’d be terrified well into the semester. “Your face looks better. The bruises are gone. I still can’t believe someone hit you.”

“My face is elite,” I said.

“Did you kill the guy?”

“No. Against the rules.”

I stood by the door, arms crossed. A trophy case glinted across the hall. Fluorescent bulbs reflected off floor tiles. Posters with slogans like “You Can Learn” were attached to Ms. Bennett’s door, adjacent to mine.

“I bet you’re not scared,” she said. “You’re huge.”

“I get nervous.”

“Okay,” she said, scurrying about. “Okay okay.”

“Hey,” I said and held out my fist. She bumped it. Tentatively. “You’re going to be great. You’re the best. Remember that. Captain of your classroom.”

She nodded.

“Got it. Captain of my class. Be great. God I’m so scared.”

Not a lot I could do for her. Sink or swim. The bell rang like an alarm going off in a bunker. Buses emptied. Doors flew open. Students barged.

The basketball players were taller than me, and I was tall. The football players were as big as me and I was big. Some seniors had scars. The girls were loud and full of disdain.

How did they see where they’re going? Everyone stared at phones. Reginald Willis harangued them on the evils of cell phone usage, and the students loved it.

Tenth-grade students filtered into my room. Bennett and I made sure they knew where they were and where to go, pledged allegiance to the flag, participated in a moment of silence, listened to the principal’s welcome speech, and sent them on their way. Time for first period. Bennett walked unsteadily to her door.

Always stay in the hall between classes, near the door. This was my hall and my classroom, not yours. It cut down on violence. Students coming down the hall gave me a wide berth, taking long looks at their schedule to make sure the scary guy was their teacher.

They had to squeeze by me to enter. It’s the little things in life that make me smile.

The bell rang. Class began. I closed the door with a bang.

“First things first,” I said. “You’re in Mr. August’s tenth-grade English class. And you hit the jackpot. I’m the best. The best English teacher you’re ever going to have. There was talk of giving me Teacher-of-the-Year award before school started. Understand?”

No immediate response. Wide eyes. Good.

“Yo, man, Mr. August. What kinda name is that? You know August Alsina, the rapper? August is a black name.”

“What Jeriah has done wrong,” I said, and floored him because I remembered his name from looking at pictures, “is he did not raise his hand and wait until called on. That will not fly in this class. What Jeriah did right is realize that I’m the best and I do not mind questions like that.”

He grinned. A student’s name is his favorite word in the English language. Use often. Jeriah Morgan sat near the back of the class. Hair cornrowed, pencil tucked behind his ear, name-brand clothing. Big, striking in appearance, an alpha male.

“Megan,” I said. “Please hand out the class syllabus.”

Megan, a cute little girl in tortoiseshell glasses, complied. She flitted about the room, dispensing paper like fairy dust.

Jeriah raised his hand and said, “Yo August, you like football?”

“Played in college.”

“For real?”

“We’ll talk after class, little man.”

Laughter. The rest of the class was easy. The alpha had been dealt with. He tested me and deemed me worthy. The paths were a little straighter now and time passed quickly.

The bell rang after an hour. Class dismissed. Jeriah stayed.

“Mr. August, you’re looking at the starting running back on varsity,” he said.

“As a sophomore? I thought you looked quick.”

“Damn right. Gotta come watch a game sometime.”

“Guaranteed,” I said.

“Aight. Catch you tomorrow.” He strutted away.

I repeated the same drill twice more that day. After carefully scrutinizing all my students, I concluded the gang general was not one of them. No violence. No outbursts. Just reading and writing, which I enjoyed.

Before leaving, I texted Ronnie.

You have the wrong number. No cowards or blind people here. Just us handsome douchebags who drink douchebag beer.

Her reply was quick.

>> I like big sweaty guys…

>> AND handsome douchebags. ;)

>> And I haven’t been out in a long time.

I’ve decided to ask you out. For the free booze.

And your hair. I liked your hair.

>> Anything else you liked?

I plead the Fifth.

>> When and where?

I’ll let you know.

>> I wait. Breathlessly.

She sent a selfie. Winking and smiling.

My heart nearly stopped. It’s hard to look that good. She wore a trim navy blue jacket. Dainty gold necklace. And sex appeal.

On the way out, I stuck my head in Ms. Bennett’s room.

“How’d the first day go?” I asked.

She sat at her desk, staring out the window.

“I’m still here. I guess,” she said.

“Good. Tomorrow, someone steps out of line, make an example of him. Kick him out immediately.”

She nodded vacantly.

Reginald Willis’s voice was caroming from a distant hallway. “We have overcome! We shall prevail. This is only the first trial of many, my brethren.”

I was almost to the back door when Nate Silva walked in. The Nate Silva from our fight. He wore brilliant white Nikes, baggy Levis, and a tight black T-shirt. Shaved head, narrowed eyes, serpentine in appearance. Two kids followed him. His hands balled into fists.

“You?” he said.

“Silva. What a delight,” I said. He blocked the door. I stepped aside to wait.

“Teacher?” he scoffed.

“That’s right, Nate. You got whooped by a teacher. How embarrassing.”

“In a real fight, there are no rules. No judges.” He was close to my face, hissing. He smelled of powerful cologne. “And you’d lose.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because I’d beat your ass.”

“Oh gosh.”

“You get that?”

“That sounds terrible. But our faces are a little too close. Right? Because I’m thinking of licking you.”

“I won’t fight you here, funny man.”

He’s right — I’m funny.

“Master Silva?” one of the students asked. “What should we do?”

Silva glared at me another moment. I tried to look scared. Then the storm passed. “Some other time, teacher.”

“Bye, Master Nate,” I said. He went deeper into the school. I got to my car, thankful Ms. Deere hadn’t seen the interaction. She’d skin me.

Question was, why did Silva have students following him around and calling him Master?

Chapter Eight

The week passed in a flash. I phoned parents twice for behavior problems, and got voice mail both times. Out of a deep sense of tradition, I visited the school cafeteria on corndog nugget day. And on tater tot day. And once for delicious strawberry milk. I wore the same khakis and blue polo two days in a row and no one commented, but I did laundry that night any way. Ms. Bennet hung tough, still alive. Reginald Willis carried on from his soapbox. No more Silva sightings.

Friday morning at breakfast, the August boys ate to the music of Manny’s hammer in the basement.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Putting in new stair railing,” Dad said. “He’s churning through the entire handyman list.”

“Hispanics. Taking all our jobs.”

“Speaking of, when does his start? At the marshal’s office?”

“Monday,” I said.

“That’s a shame. Cheap labor.”

Manny hadn’t moved out. His stuff sat in our spare bedroom, but he slept on my floor. Pistol at the ready.

I had a date tomorrow evening with Ronnie. That thought kept me warm all the way to school. That and the summer heat. Temperatures would reach ninety-nine today. Too hot for clouds. I parked in the teacher’s lot. My car still bore bullet holes from an encounter a year earlier which, oddly enough, occurred in a school parking lot. To date, no women had swooned over the vehicular scars, and that struck me as unusual.

Between second and third period, I witnessed a felony. Drug distribution. A kid with a red backpack stepped into the boy’s communal restroom. From my door, I had a view straight down the restroom’s hallway entrance. Red Backpack greeted another kid, executed an elegant handshake, and made the swap. Drugs for cash. It wasn’t hard to spot, because they did their best to look innocent. Truly innocent people never care about looking innocent.

Red Backpack was Black, and he continued down the hallway. Reginald Willis patted him on the shoulder without looking at him. “Run along, children, for idle hands are the devil’s workshop! Keep those eyes inside your head, Mr. Kirk! Hurry on, young women. Look’atcha, dressed up for these jokers.”

The drug purchaser came into my room. A kid named Trevor. Trevor was White and reedy, and he walked to a chair in the back corner, sat, and he stared out the window. Drugs in his pocket or maybe backpack.

What to do, what to do, so many options. All of them fun.

But I did nothing. Not yet. I was after bigger fish.

For thirty minutes I taught Fahrenheit 451 and symbolism until the lunch bell, at which the students filed out and charged the cafeteria. Leaving their backpacks.

Here fishy fishy.

I checked Trevor’s backpack. No drugs. He had a pocket knife, which was against school policy, but so what. I could have the school’s resource officers frisk Trevor but, again, so what. Over half the school population would try weed before graduation, and chances were good that’s what Trevor had. No need to hurl pebbles at a tsunami.

Red Backpack, however, interested me. Distribution is different than consumption.

At the end of the day, I packed up but paused at the door.

Maybe…?

I followed a hunch and sat down at Trevor’s desk. He was in the corner, near the wall of windows. No immediate hiding spots. I scrutinized the desktop surface and struck gold.

Students were leaving notes for each other by writing in pencil on the desk. Tiny letters in the corner.

Dice 4 sale.

$$ ??

20 per

Tmrw?

Dice was slang for cocaine. Twenty dollars per rock, fairly standard. Some of the writing was smudged out, but inexpertly so. Written by students in the same class or alternating classes, which would indicate a two-day written conversation between Trevor and another student later in the day.

Perhaps Trevor was distributing after all. Getting the dice from Red Backpack and filtering it through his classes?

I checked the windowsills. Nearby books. Wall vent. Under the desk’s writing surface. Nothing. Finally I ran my hands under the chair. Bingo. Hidden beneath, out of sight, a cardboard tube was duct-taped to the seat. Felt like a toilet paper roll. Empty.

The delivery system? Red Backpack gives it to Trevor, and Trevor hides it so he won’t get busted? Or leaves it here for his friend to retrieve in a later class? They could leave both money and cocaine under the chair. Simple and effective.

I guess the drug community wasn’t using Apple Pay yet.

***

I went to the football game that night. Patrick Henry played Glen Allen High, and was winning 21-0 at the half.

There’s something immediate and powerful about a football game. Like injecting pure America into your veins, in all its glory and sin. Bright lights. Screaming fans. Proud parents. Rampant teenage insecurities. Pounding drums.

Manny came with me. He was such an attractive man, handsome to the point of beautiful, that teachers and students I didn’t know came up to chat with me. Then, organically, they transitioned to him. Two middle school boys thought he was famed soccer hero Cristiano Ronaldo.

“Good grief, amigo,” he said when we had a moment of quiet. “I can’t tell, these are high school girls or runway models?”

“Every girl looks good these days. Magazines, access to cheap fashion, hair straighteners, and dieting. I find it sad.”

“How do you keep pure thoughts?”

“Because they’re kids and I’m not gross.”

“They don’t look like kids.”

“Agreed,” I said.

“You should have a dress code.”

“There is, at school. Else the boys would never accomplish a thing.”

“Ah, young love.”

“Ain’t love, you silly Spaniard.”

“I was referring to that lovely señorita by the fence.” He nodded toward a collection of girls near the end zone.

“She’s a senior. Probably not eighteen. Maybe you should stare straight upwards.”

“What’s the law?” he said. “If she’s eighteen, I can look?”

“You’re thirty. And a federal marshal.”

“I am a catch.”

I waffled my hand. “Not if you ogle eighteen-year-olds.”

“I am a catch and you’re a Puritan.”

“There he is.” I shouted over the crowd’s roar. Red Backpack had wandered into view. Next to the bleachers, hanging with a crowd.

“Want me to solicit some delicious snow, señor?”

“Nah. I’m playing the long game. Plus, you are suspicious in appearance. He’d make you as a cop.”

“Bust his ass, and you can return to investigative work?”

“That’s what I’m doing now,” I said.

“Don’t look it. You are standing still, hombre.”

“My ways are mysterious. Besides, he’s not the one I’m after.”

“Whatever you say.”

“And don’t forget it.”

Chapter Nine

Ronnie lived at the Roanoke River House, two miles from Chateau d’August. The River House was a historic brick building modernized into industrial apartments for urban debutantes, and situated beside the river and the Roanoke Greenway.

I picked her up at seven. She got in and crossed her legs before I could open my car door.

Her fingers slid between mine.

“I hold hands on the first date,” she said.

She smiled. Spectacularly.

Mackenzie August, defender of liberty and tough guy extraordinaire, had trouble breathing for a moment. She wore a red cold-shoulder blouse with crocheted neck, jean shorts, and sandals with heels. It was not an immodest outfit. And yet looking at her felt scandalous.

“Let’s get out of town. Head toward Bent Mountain,” she said.

“Bent Mountain Bistro.”

“That’s the one. Should we?”

“By all means,” I said.

“You’re too big for an Accord, Mackenzie. How tall are you?” she asked.

“Not sure. Do you know how much you weigh?”

She laughed. “You’re a naughty evil man.”

I pushed through the gears and we motored southwest toward Floyd. Her hand found mine often and I didn’t crash, a minor miracle. Brambleton Road wound up the side of Bent Mountain, giving us the best view in Roanoke.

The bistro’s floors were wood and so were the tables and stools. She ordered roasted chicken fettuccini, and I had the poor mountain spaghetti. Beers for both of us.

She had a way of speaking that bordered on laughter. Like we were in on a private joke.

“I did research on you,” she said.

“Was it worth your while?”

“You worked the North murders in Los Angeles.”

“That was me. And my partner,” I said. “And eventually everyone else.”

“I followed that news story religiously,” she said.

“It was less fun from the inside.”

“I wanted to prosecute it. I’d just gotten out of law school.”

“Lucky you. I was getting yelled at by my suspects, and by the victims’ families, and by my supervisor, and the mayor. And reporters.”

She waved for another drink and asked for a martini. I got water this time. Her food was half gone and she pushed the rest my way.

She said, “The guy you shot last year? I read he kidnapped your son.”

“Indeed he had. Which is why he died so messily.”

“Because I went to law school, I was able to deduce another fact about you; you have a son.”

“Wow. You’re good.”

“Is that why you don’t go out much?” she asked.

“Big part. He’s one of those needy toddlers who requires supervision. Why don’t you?”

“A lot of complicated reasons. Primarily, I’m boring.”

“A woman will lie about anything,” I said. “You don’t strike me as boring.”

“That’s a sexist quote. And possibly true. Like I said, I’m complicated. A disaster.”

“A single dad living with his father isn’t?”

She laughed, and I imagine an angel got its wings. “Fair. You’re a mess too. But your dark secret is only rated PG. I’ve got three doozies.”

“Three secrets? Heavens. Maybe you’d better walk home.”

She winked. “You won’t survive me to find out what they are.”

“On which date do you reveal them?”

“The tenth. But by then I’ll be watching sad movies on Netflix and eating ice cream alone. Listen, Mackenzie. This can’t get serious. I’m not looking for a soul mate or anything. I was lonely, you looked lonely and handsome, so I got your number. That’s it, okay? Two lonely people out to dinner.”

“At the very minimum, I insist on a second date. Positively insist. I didn’t even do my hair tonight.”

Her fingers found mine again. “Yes. A second date. I’m still lonely. Do you cook?”

“I do.”

“You may cook me dinner at your earlier convenience.”

“Earliest?”

“Like I said, you’re handsome. Kinda scary, but handsome.”

The check was brought. I paid. She left cash for a tip.

I held the car door for her. She lingered a moment, close under my chin, those big bluish hazel eyes shining with the parking lot lamp, and then ducked into my car. She was tall for a girl, which meant just my size.

Whoa, regroup, Mackenzie. Stop staring. You’re just standing there with the door open.

On the way home, she said, “I majored in nursing at first. Can you picture me in nursing scrubs?”

“Gladly. Why’d you quit?”

“My father made me. And the scrubs got too heavy, if that makes sense. Wasn’t for me. Did you major in law enforcement?”

“And English. Double major,” I said.

“A football player who can read? Bet you were a dreamboat on campus,” she said.

“I barely made it out alive. And a cute blonde law student who can mix drinks? That would not be an unpopular combination.”

“So I’m cute?”

“I was speaking hypothetically,” I said.

“You can’t take it back. I’m cute.”

I thought of other places we could go, and rattled off several. Bob Dylan was in town. Or we could listen to the band at her restaurant. Or ice cream. Or whatever. It was only nine.

She wanted to go home. But she didn’t look happy about it. She fell quiet.

At the River House she said, “Thank you, Mackenzie. This was nice.”

“My view was better than yours.”

“I can’t invite you in,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting an invite.”

“Would you like to fool around in the car? I’m flexible.”

I laughed.

“What a perfect laugh,” she said. “Very masculine and happy. But I was teasing. You cannot have me in the car.”

“Good. Because I’m not into girls who fool around in cars on first dates.”

“Why on earth not? Isn’t that exactly what you should be into?”

“Those girls have issues I can’t cope with.”

“I suppose you’ll have to take me out on a second.”

“Only as an act of charity.”

She smiled. Because I’m hilarious.

“I can’t figure you out, Mackenzie. Good-looking guy. Good reputation. Mixed martial arts fighter, so you’ve got the dangerous bad boy thing. A little rough around the edges. But you don’t date much. You didn’t get drunk. No dirty jokes. No leering. You haven’t felt me up. You seem so … serious.”

“I’m not serious. More like determined.”

“Why?”

“I want to do life right.”

“Who is to say what’s the right way?” she asked.

“Not me. I hit bottom, so now I’m doing the opposite of what I used to do. That’s it.”

“It’s not about morals?”

“More like simple survival. Morals imply I know the right and wrong ways to act, which puts me in position to judge others. I’d rather not have the responsibility.”

Her eyes were still big. She was leaning toward me but it wasn’t suggestive. She was lost in thought. The air between us felt thin, like a vacuum. My advances would not be unwelcome. I got out and opened her door. She stepped onto the sidewalk.

“You’re really not going to attempt?” she asked. “To talk your way upstairs?”

“I’m patient. You look worth waiting for.”

She flushed red, and I almost did too.

I said, “I’ll call you.”

She winked.

“Soon. I’m not so patient.”

She disappeared through the door.

Continue the story, HERE.