Early Frost

Early Frost by John Tyler

The Fiction Works www.fictionworks.com

Copyright ©2002 by John Tyler First published by The Fiction Works, September 2002 NOTICE: This ebook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This book cannot be legally lent or given to others. This ebook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Early Frost by John Tyler

This one is for the blue-eyed Indian

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Epilogue The heavy hammering sound rolled across the infield, echoing off the concrete pit wall. Andy McGuire, along with everyone else in the pits, turned and watched as Jonathan Flynn's racing machine glanced off the turn-one guardrail. The car rolled twice, then spun and hit the guardrail again, catapulting ten feet into the air. Fiberglass shards rained onto the track. The Lola landed upright, bounced into the air again, then flopped onto the track. McGuire watched as the Lola slid, unchecked, into the guardrail one final time, spun around, then ground to a halt. There was no movement in the cockpit. “Oh no, please God!” Andy cried as he ran toward turnone, already dreading what he knew he would find. **** Jonathan Flynn sat in the twisted cockpit, gripping the steering wheel. Rain pounded down on his helmet. So loud, he thought. How odd he hadn't noticed it before. Calmness settled over him. He watched raindrops splatter off the shattered windscreen, and then instinctively checked his instruments. He laughed at the absurdity, which sent a wave of pain through his chest. He watched his crew run toward him through the rain, led by a hulking, wild-eyed monster-man with wet red hair plastered to his head. Felicia Martinez ran toward him, too. Flynn watched her trip on the infield and fall heavily. She scrambled to her feet 4

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and began to run again. Her eyes were wide frightened. Those large, dark, eyes. How beautiful she was. He could not wait to hold her again. “Hurry, Felicia,” Flynn said. His voice sounded hollow in the pouring rain. Tired. So very tired. He could feel the warm, curious movement in his chest. Hurry.

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Chapter 1 Harry Varchetta leaned back in his deep leather chair and propped his feet on his desk. He glanced at a bank of surveillance monitors. Suddenly interested, he swung his feet to the floor and concentrated on the craps table action on one of the monitors: a seven showed on the dice. Varchetta cackled as he watched the craps dealer rake in the stack of pale green $500 chips. Sweat glistened on top of the Texas oilman's balding head as he handed more of the precious green chips to the dealer for placement on the craps layout. He was a plunger and a terrible player to boot. The shooter, a meek little old woman who was a steady local customer, was betting five dollars at a time on the passline, as she did every afternoon. But today there was no joy in the game. The high roller had spooked her with his heavy action. She didn't want to be responsible for his fate. She had lived in Las Vegas for twenty-five years and had never seen that much money on the layout at one time. She had been ahead twenty dollars or so before the big fellow started playing. Then, “Seven-out, line away!” quickly became a familiar cry from the stickman. She lost her twenty, and ten more, while the Texan dropped at least $45,000. Now her hands were shaking. The game had turned ugly. The old woman threw a four on the come-out, a hard number 6

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to make. The Texan immediately took all the place bets, but her next roll was a seven. She sighed and lowered her head. The high roller simply laughed and shrugged his shoulders, seemingly unconcerned. That's the way dice went sometimes, and he knew it. But he kidded the old woman mercilessly, which fed her anxiety. **** Varchetta watched the monitor, a grin spreading across his face. He tugged at his right ear, then tapped the pencil against the bridge of his nose as he watched the little drama that was unfolding on the casino floor. A seven showed again. Varchetta laughed aloud and jumped in his chair. He watched the surveillance monitor with his tiny black eyes riveted to the craps table. He waited for the oilman to place another huge bet. But it didn't happen. Varchetta was disappointed and relieved at the same time. The Texan shrugged and tossed in a generous stack of black $100 chips “for the boys,” then sauntered to the little old woman. She cringed as the big man approached. She started to apologize, but he quieted her protests with a gentle pat on the shoulder, and handed her a $500 chip. Dumbfounded, the old woman watched her tormentorturned-benefactor disappear into the crowd. Then, impulsively, she turned and laid the pale green $500 chip on the pass line. The stickman shoved the dice over to her. With two fingers, she carefully plucked them off the green felt and closed her eyes, willing her luck to change. With her eyes still closed, she tossed them toward the far end of the table. 7

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**** In his upstairs office, Varchetta's eyes were fixed on the monitor. With a satisfied laugh, he watched her shoulders sag as the dealer scooped in the lone chip. The old woman turned and walked away, head down. Varchetta picked up the telephone and punched one digit. A moment later he bellowed, “Tell Anderson he'd damn well better watch what he's doing! His eyes went wide for a moment. “Anderson, Anderson, Anderson, for Christ's sake! I didn't stutter, did I? He was handling that old broad's crummy action, and couldn't even do that right! He was so damn busy watching that asshole from Texas that he forgot to take her money when she sevened-out.” Varchetta's eyes went wide and he leaned forward in his chair. “Yes he did! He did too, you moron! I saw it happen twice! And it's your job to see to it he doesn't make mistakes!” He slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet. He began pacing, running his hands through his thinning black hair as he tugged at his ear. He stopped for a moment to pour a drink from a crystal decanter. He tossed it down, and then poured another. Once again he felt uneasy about Felicia. She was a potential source of embarrassment—and even worse if she talked to the wrong people. He was the butt of too many jokes already, a man who couldn't hang on to his wife. The jokes didn't bother him all that much, but the rumors from higher up made him nervous. 8

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He sighed and tried to shrug off the dark thoughts. What the hell! He was one of the most powerful men in Vegas. “Yeah,” he said aloud. “I got nothing to worry about.” Varchetta gulped his drink then belched. Picking up a TV remote, he swiveled in his chair and clicked through the channels. Then he saw it. His eyes went wide as he watched the footage of a spectacular car crash. The commentator's voice over the scene was somber: “Jonathan Flynn, last year's Formula One champion, was killed late this afternoon during a Canadian-American sports car race at Las Vegas International Raceway. Flynn, a favorite with fans and the motoring press, will be missed....” Varchetta stared at the screen for a moment. Then he put his head back and laughed, “So, Flynn finally got his. That sonofabitch finally got his!” Suddenly serious, he tapped the side of his nose with a pencil. Thinking aloud, he said, “Felicia will be at Flynn's funeral, which will undoubtedly be held in Reno. Perfect!” Varchetta buzzed his secretary. “Get Benny Florentine.” He listened for a moment, and then pounded on his desk. “Then beep him, damn it! Do I have to think for you, too?” He slammed down the phone. **** Twenty minutes later, a granite wedge in an ill-fitting business suit lumbered into the room. The man's eyes were gray and flat behind hooded eyelids. His short blond crew cut glistened and his massive forehead jutted over his eyebrows, 9

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adding to his simian appearance. His neck bulged over his collar where the necktie was knotted. Varchetta smiled. He felt comfortable when Benny was around. He was a reminder of the Good Old Days, when muscle was the way to get things done. Benny was six-seven, and three-hundred-forty-five pounds of solid muscle. Unfortunately, Varchetta thought, most of it rested between his ears. But at least Benny was reliable. “You want something, boss?” Benny's thin, high-pitched voice emanating from that monstrous body proved that nature had a sense of humor. “Yes, Benny, I want something. I want Felicia back, and I want her back now!” Benny nodded, concentrating on the boss's instructions, though the voice in his head distracted him: Mr. Varchetta don't like screw-ups. The last time, he took away all the girls for two whole weeks! Remember that? Benny nodded gravely at his unfortunate loss. “What the hell are you nodding at?” Varchetta barked. The hulk began to mumble an explanation. Varchetta cut him off with a look of disgust. “Christ, sometimes you give me the creeps!” The boss wrote down an address, and repeated his instructions several times. Then he took a sheaf of bills from his inside coat pocket. “Don't let Jilly catch you or your ass will be in a sling.” “Don't worry about Jilly, boss. He's old. He won't be no trouble.” 10

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Varchetta slammed his fist on the desk. “You moron! Jilly might be old, but I pity you if you think he won't be any trouble!” Ain't nobody gonna stop you, said the voice in Benny's head. Jilly's an old man. Just grab Felicia and bring her back. It's gonna be easy.

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Chapter 2 I glanced at the old woman, so properly dressed in black mourning lace, and wondered how anyone could think a man in a casket looked natural. Jonathan Flynn didn't look natural to me. The undertaker had done his best, I suppose, but makeup can't capture the look of life, the “natural” look people like the little old woman in black swear they see. I took a last look at Flynn and stepped away from the open casket. The heavy smell of flowers permeated the little chapel, adding to the gloom. Mourners filed by the casket. Most of them were business associates of Jilly Evans, Flynn's foster-father and an old friend of mine. Some I recognized as Jonathan Flynn's friends and competitors, great and near-great Grand Prix drivers. They were a curious bunch. Each man shared an obvious, common trait—a detachment, a denial of the finality of the funeral rites. This was something they had to do now and then when a friend made a mistake, but it did not apply to them. In this instance, it applied to Flynn. Next week or next month perhaps, it would apply to one of the other drivers in their elite circle, but never to Number One. I sighed and looked around. The church had an odd effect on me. I found myself examining the ceiling. I noted dust on the pews, and a piece of lint on the collar of an old gentleman who sat nearby. 12

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Eventually the mourners drifted out of the little church. When Jilly Evans led his wife, Vi, to the casket, supporting her as you would a very old, very frail person, I stepped forward and took her other arm. She never even noticed me. Her eyes were riveted on Jonathan Flynn. Her beautiful fifty-year-old face sagged with a weariness I had never seen before. I watched her go through the pain of saying farewell to her son. Leaning against Jilly, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, a wistful smile appeared on her face. “Oh, Jilly,” she said in a voice so soft I could barely hear her, “I just can't say good-bye to him.” Her voice trailed off in a little sob and she stood there with tears streaming down her cheeks. Jilly wore a dazed expression as he stared at his son's face with horrible fascination. He patted his wife's arm, shaking his head as he did so. Finally, Vi leaned over her dead son, her gloved hands resting on the edge of the casket. As she kissed him, tears dropped onto his face and she dabbed them away with her handkerchief. She straightened and looked down at her Jonathan's marble face, not wanting to leave. Jilly swallowed hard, then touched his son's cheek. His hand recoiled and he took a step away from the casket. I sympathized with him; I knew the eerie feeling of cold flesh. Vi turned and looked up at me, surprise on her face. Until then, I don't think she knew I was there. “Jack ... thank you for coming. I ... we appreciate it very much, don't we, Jilly.” 13

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She turned toward her husband. Jilly looked over the top of her head, at me. I made a “Come along please” motion with my head, and with a quiet sigh of relief saw he comprehended. He straightened, and a bit of color came back into his ashen face. He put his arm around his wife and together we walked away from the casket. I accompanied them to the car, down the great wide stone steps leading to Jilly's black limousine, parked behind a long black hearse. Behind the limo, the line of cars in the funeral procession stretched two city blocks. Jilly's driver opened the door and helped Vi inside. Blue funeral flags on the car's antenna popped in the wind. I leaned over and looked through the window. Vi sat quietly, her mind elsewhere. “I'll take care of Felicia,” I said. Jilly's face took on a shocked expression. I thought he was going to burst into tears. “My God, I can't believe it, I forgot about her!” He was close to losing it. “Don't worry, I'll take care of Felicia,” I said. Jilly nodded, his face stricken. He took one of Vi's gloved hands in both of his and began the impossible task of trying to comfort her. I turned away and walked back into the church, relieved that the two of them would not be around for the painful closing of the casket. **** Felicia Martinez stood by the casket, a peaceful look on her face, her fingertips trailing over Flynn's face. She touched his eyes and traced the bridge of his nose. Her fingertips paused 14

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on his lips. She smiled once, then caressed his fine brown hair, as if remembering some long-ago act of love. She patted it back into place, then leaned over and kissed him, a gentle good-bye kiss. She looked up at me. Her eyes were wet, but she was in there. “He's safe now, until I can be with him again.” We made the somber trip to the quiet little cemetery, just a few miles from Jilly Evans’ home, and there we buried Jonathan Flynn. Afterward, we drove away, a limousine full of people with nothing to say, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

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Chapter 3 As Jilly's black limo swept us through the streets of Reno, I was filled with misgivings about accepting his invitation to go back to their home for coffee. If it were me, I'd want to be alone. But I had a feeling Jilly wanted to talk about something very important. Jilly Evans had enrolled in the brutal school of the underworld forty years earlier, a hungry, tough young guy determined to make it to the top. He got there in record time, climbing over God only knew how many dead bodies— figuratively and, perhaps, literally—in the process. Somewhere along the line he had gone legitimate, or at least semi-legitimate. Now he lives a safe, comfortable life as a member of The Establishment. An hour later, Jilly managed to talk Vi into going to her room to rest. I hugged her and tried to say something meaningful, but couldn't find the words. She patted my hand, and left the room. I turned to Jilly. He stood in the middle of his living room, a drink in one trembling hand, eyes brimming with tears. He was a stocky, muscular man with a bulldog look that was emphasized by heavy jowls. His hair had receded long ago, leaving patches of gray on the sides of his head. The words poured out of him as he paced. “Jonathan and Felicia fell in love years ago. He was already one of the hottest drivers on the Grand Prix circuit ... and she was a beautiful Puerto Rican entertainer with a great voice. She was 16

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a sensational performer, and she was making a big name for herself in Vegas. Jonathan loved her ... God, how that man loved her.” He paused and swallowed hard. “She loved Jonathan, too ... but his profession just terrified her.” Telling the story took its toll, but he went on: “Jonathan demolished his car during a practice session several months ago, as Felicia watched from the pits. He wasn't badly hurt, but for her it was the last straw. She told him she loved him, but couldn't stand the waiting and wondering. They broke up.” He shook his head, “They were both devastated.” Jilly stared into the fire as he told me the story, tears running over his heavy jowls. I stirred the hell out of my drink as I listened, wishing I were somewhere else. Jilly's voice weakened as he spoke; every word required more effort: “He visited us for a few days after they broke up. He had a commercial to shoot, and couldn't stay long. You met him, Jack, at a little dinner party we had.” Jilly stared at the floor. “That's the last time we ever saw him.” He fixed another drink. “Jon was the Grand Prix Champion last year, as you no doubt know. When Felicia left, it took the heart out of him.” Jilly gave me a long look, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Finally, he said, “Jonathan decided to retire, but Andy McGuire persuaded him to drive one more season for him in the Canadian-American sports car series. He promised him a great racing machine. 17

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Jilly shook his head. “It didn't work out that way. They had a terrible season; the car just wasn't competitive. I suspect his desire to win was also gone, after losing Felicia, but I'll never know for sure. Jilly stared into the fire, his back to me. He spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. “He had to see her again, so he flew to Vegas. What he found wasn't pretty. Felicia had gone downhill after they'd split up.” He turned. “Harry Varchetta, the owner of the hotel she sang for, had set his sights on her.” Jilly's eyes narrowed, and he set his jaw. When he continued, there was an edge of bitterness in his voice. “He ‘befriended’ her, gave her a ‘little something’ to ease the pain, make her forget. She was shaken, sick at heart, and vulnerable.” He gritted his teeth and took a long pull at his drink. “Once he succeeded in hooking her, he made damn sure he kept her that way. Later, Jonathan discovered she'd married Varchetta, but couldn't even remember the ceremony. She was a shell of the woman he loved, and a virtual prisoner in Varchetta's hotel.” Muscles twitched in his face and his thick, pale lips trembled. “Varchetta discovered the two of them talking and went crazy. He ordered one of his goons to work Jonathan over. Fortunately, Jonathan had the presence of mind to warn Varchetta I wouldn't want to see him hurt.” He stood there, drink in hand, looking for all the world like something out of an Edward G. Robinson movie, a mob leader 18

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planning revenge on an enemy—and I suspect that was moreor-less what was running through Jilly's mind. But the years had mellowed him. He choked down the rest of his drink, and leaned against the fireplace, staring down into the flames. “That saved him from a beating, maybe worse.” Jilly cleared his throat. He was determined to finish his story. “Toward the end of the season Jonathan walked into his apartment in Monterey, and there she was, standing in the bedroom door, shaky, scared and sick. Somehow she'd found the courage to slip away from Varchetta. “When Jonathan called me, he sounded happy; said they would come back to visit after his next race—Las Vegas.” Jilly hung his head. His face crumpled and for a moment I thought he was going to cry openly. I stood there, pretending I was a vase or a potted plant, anything other than Jack Frost. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass him, but I guess I knew in his grief he was beyond that. He finally went on: “Jon left her in his apartment the morning of the race—she still couldn't stand to watch—but somehow she...” He paused for a moment. “Somehow she gathered the courage and went to the track. Maybe she wanted to surprise him and show him she could make it—on his terms. She stood by the fence, at the end of the pit straight. “When Jonathan began braking for the corner, she ran toward the corner, waving at him.” He grabbed a poker from a rack next to the fireplace, and stoked the fire. I freshened my drink and swallowed a couple 19

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of stiff jolts. “Jonathan's car had been plagued with shift linkage problems all season long. When she waved, he might have caught her out of the corner of his eye and his attention was distracted for one vital moment. He missed the shift, the linkage jammed, and he hit the wall.” The ticking of the clock on the wall sounded like Big Ben in the silence of the room. Jilly finally said, “They had to cut him out of the car.” I wormed the rest of the story out of him a bit at a time. Andy McGuire, Flynn's team manager and closest friend, had called right after the accident. He told Jilly he would take Felicia to his home in Incline Village, and asked him to have someone come get her. After witnessing the accident, she had come apart, screaming over and over that it was her fault. **** The sun was down by the time I left Jilly's place. I walked to my vintage Jag XK-120 roadster, parked in the circular driveway. A biting wind added to the natural chill of October. With luck, perhaps it would cleanse the smell of death that surrounded me. I picked up a large black coffee at a McDonald's. As I pulled away, I spilled a little in my lap, as I have always done; cursed myself for being a clumsy clod, as I have always done; and promised myself I'd never get another cup of coffee to go ... as I have always done. I am a creature of habit, not subject to change. I set out for Tahoe's South Shore, to my little A-frame in Zephyr Cove. I pulled the CD out of the player and grabbed 20

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another one. I slid it into place, then settled back and listened to Gordon Lightfoot spin another nostalgic yarn while I swept on through the darkness. J.T. Ripper was waiting for me when I let myself into my little A-frame. He was sprawled in a corner, where he could keep an eye on the door. Ripper is hell disguised as a Doberman. He's an aberration, one of nature's mistakes, one-hundred-fifty pounds of sinew, bone and muscle, and nasty disposition. He has saved my life several times and I've yet to save his even once. I hate to owe anyone anything. But I owe him, and he never lets me forget it. **** After a long hot shower, I climbed into bed, weary, wrungout from the day. I stared at the ceiling, fingers locked together under the back of my head, trying to shut down my runaway brain. Ripper appeared next to me and stood there for a moment, nearly invisible in the darkness. Those eyes bore holes into me, checking me out for the night. He finally sauntered over to the corner of the bedroom and settled on the carpet. Except for his rotten breath, you'd never know he was there. I tossed and turned for a long time. “Sonofabitch!” I said aloud. I sensed Ripper's head lifting off the carpet at the sound. Maybe, I thought, I spend too much time alone.

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Chapter 4 The day after the funeral I called on Jilly to see how everyone was doing. Fred, the slat-thin, ancient butler, showed me in, taking his customary five minutes (or so it seemed) to stand aside and let me pass, a smile on his leathery face. “Good morning, Mr. Frost. I'm most happy to see you. Perhaps you'll be able to lift a bit of the gloom around here.” He tottered past me and started down the hall with his Tim Conway shuffle. He led me into the living room, which was dominated by a large fireplace. I stood in the doorway for a moment without speaking. Fred disappeared without announcing my presence. Jilly sat in a deep leather chair, glasses resting halfway down the bridge of his nose, doing his best to read a report of some kind. He looked old, tired, and whipped. Vi stared at the blazing logs in the fireplace, her robe wrapped tightly around her, trying to ward off the sort of cold fire cannot banish. Fred was right. The gloom was heavy in this house. I walked over to where the two sat across from each other, and stood for a moment, waiting to be noticed. I wasn't. Vi eventually looked up, a woman coming out of a dream. Her eyes were red from crying. A small smile appeared. “Oh, Jack, you're a welcome sight.” Jilly stood and offered his hand, a weary smile on his face. Then he sat down and dropped the report on the end table 22

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next to his chair. I looked at Vi. She'd already lapsed back into thought, staring into the fire. “How are you holding up?” I said. He shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Felicia has real problems.” He picked up his report, hesitated, and then put it down. “Real problems.” I knew what he meant. Jilly had told me about the drug problem she'd acquired after leaving Flynn. Vi was in her own world. When I looked back at Jilly, he motioned toward his upstairs office. “I want you to hear something.” We headed upstairs, leaving Vi to stare at the fire. As we entered his office, Jilly pointed toward a rocking chair. “I know how you like those things, so I bought you this one last week when Vi made me take her shopping.” I settled into the rocking chair and leaned back. “Well thanks, Jilly. I appreciate that.” But Jilly's thoughts seemed elsewhere. “Jack, I'm worried ... no, I'm scared shitless. I fully expect Harry Varchetta to send some muscle to grab Felicia. She knows all about his business dealings—which goes to show you how stupid he is! I've been in this business since I was a punk kid, and Vi knows nothing about mine!” “But she knows you're involved—” “Well, yeah, of course she does! But she doesn't know anything specific—and she doesn't want to. Only an idiot would let his wife in on his business dealings, and I don't care what the hell he does for a living!” 23

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I suppressed a smile. Jilly had strong feelings about a woman's role in this world. “Felicia couldn't care less about Varchetta's business,” he said, “but he's not bright enough to realize that.” He paused. “He'll want her back.” I shrugged. “Will she go?” “Not on her own. Well, I don't think so, anyway. Hell, I don't know, Jack. Maybe she will. Maybe if the little creep sends someone after her, she'll go back without a whimper.” He ran a hand over his face. “She might jump at the chance to go back. He's an easy source for the stuff she needs.” “In Varchetta's business, loose talk can be the kiss of death,” he said. “Varchetta knows if she starts to spill, he'll be up to his ass in alligators.” He thought about that with some satisfaction before continuing. “Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.” Then he shook himself. “He'll never let that happen. If he can find her, he'll take her back to Vegas. She'll spend the rest of her life in a velvet prison.” He took a swallow of his drink. “Goddamnitallanyway!” “How can I help?” He said nothing for a moment. When he finally spoke, it was with resignation. “You can't. Maybe no one can.” We sat there in silence. Jilly chewed on his thick bottom lip, while he rotated the glass in his fingertips. “You'll be around if things go to hell, won't you?” “Sure. So will Ripper.” **** Jilly and I parted at the top of the wide, curving stairway. He gestured toward Vi's large sewing room at the end of the 24

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hall, then started down the steps, mumbling something about wanting me to have another drink with him before I left. I tapped on Felicia's bedroom door. No answer. The door was ajar so I pushed it open and stepped inside. The shades, pulled against the heavy glare of the late afternoon sun, blanketed the room with darkness. She sat in a faint light in the corner, curled into Vi's comfortable old rocking chair. “Do you need anything?” I said. She did not reply. As I turned to leave she said, “No.” I turned. She searched my face, possibly trying to match my features with her memories. She studied the scar tissue across the bridge of my nose. Then her eyes traced the long white scar along the bottom edge of my right jaw. For one brief moment I saw a flicker of recognition. Then it was gone, and she closed her eyes. Felicia Martinez was one of Puerto Rico's finest exports. Her liquid black eyes always seemed tinged with tears, even, I suspected, when she was happy. Long, shining black hair framed high cheekbones and graceful eyebrows. Her skin was brown and flawless. Full, moist lips surrounded a brilliant smile. Even as she sat in the rocker, the long purple robe she wore did not conceal her stunning body. Any man would be delighted to have her companionship for an evening, or forever. But Felicia Martinez already had her one man for a lifetime. I vowed to myself she would never go back to Harry Varchetta.

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Her eyes opened again. We looked at each other. She sat there, puzzled, perhaps wondering why this big stranger was there, and not her Jonathan. I walked out of the room and down the hallway. I descended the curving stairway, wanting to tell Jilly he had nothing to worry about. Nothing would happen to Felicia Martinez. That's just the way it was going to be.

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Chapter 5 Ripper ranged far ahead of me on the deserted shoreline of a fogged-in Lake Tahoe, covering ground with his strange Doberman lope. I jogged behind him through the mist. My hair was already plastered to my head, partly from the drenching mist, but mostly from the wind sprints. The dismal fog gave the beach an artificial air, like a movie sound stage. I could see no more than twenty or thirty yards out into the lake. Even Ripper's occasional deep-throated bark sounded muffled under the low ceiling of fog. Now and then he disappeared into the gray shroud with a burst of speed, then reappeared, just as quickly, running straight toward me, belly to the sand. An animal Ripper's size requires a lot of exercise. Dobermans are generally even-tempered, despite their ungodly reputation. Ripper, unfortunately, was born pissed. He's a near-psycho, but well trained, for which I take full credit, thank you. Ripper and I closed in on a young couple strolling close to the water's edge, their backs to us. I knew what was coming, but before I could yell, a big black shadow swooped down on them. He flashed by their legs in a high-speed pass, bellowing in his hair-raising bass voice. The woman nearly wet her pants, and the bones went out of the guy's legs. Having accomplished that, Ripper disappeared into the fog, a happy dog indeed. 27

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Unfortunately, I was on top of them too quickly to give them much warning, and I finished off their day by yelling out my apology, too loud and too close. “He's harmless!” I lied, as I swept by. I couldn't suppress my laughter, even though I felt bad. I glanced over my shoulder as I jogged away, and they were still standing there in a state of shock when the fog blotted them out. “Damn you, Ripper,” I yelled, as he made another highspeed pass, this time at me. I swear there was a grin on his face. “You just keep finding ways to make me look bad!” But it was a funny scene, and I was still chuckling when we got back to the car. I thought about it again just as I buried my face in a towel. I stood there for a minute, trying to get the sillies under control. Finally, the cold breeze off the lake penetrated my sopping wet jogging suit, which snapped me back to reality. I was tired, but it was a “good” tired; it had been a relief to get Felicia Martinez out of my mind, even for a little while. Jilly had called me several times in the three weeks since the funeral. He was at a loss as to how to help her. She didn't show any desire to leave. She was passive and introspective, and went more or less where she was led. Vi watched over her, sitting quietly for hours with Felicia while she sat Indianfashion in her robe and stared into the fire. Jilly said she could stay as long as she wanted, forever for that matter. Ripper piled into the passenger seat and settled back, staring straight ahead through the windshield, patiently waiting for his driver to take him home to lunch. I slipped into a jacket, slid in behind the wheel, and fired up the engine. 28

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The smell of wet dog filled the interior of the car. I cracked my window a bit. Well before I got to the main road, I had the window all the way down and was berating Ripper with every four-letter word I knew. He stared at me, an amused (I swear it!) look on his face. “Gas!” I yelled, “My God, why do you always have gas when we come to this damn lake!” **** I let myself into the A-frame and pushed the door shut behind me with my foot, already peeling off wet clothing with both hands. Ripper flopped in front of the fireplace, knowing full well I'd light it at the first opportunity. I opened the gas valve and held a match to the gas log. I adjusted the flame and dropped a couple pieces of wood on the grating. Within seconds they were crackling and burning fiercely. I shut off the gas and walked away, hearing Ripper's contented sigh as he stretched out full-length on the rug. **** A half-hour later I stepped out of the shower stall and groped for a towel. I scrubbed myself dry as I walked barefooted across the deep carpeting. I examined the big man who stared back at me from the full-length mirror. He certainly looked fit enough: no fat, highly defined muscle structure, clear eyes, rock-steady hands. Well, I decided, it could be worse. But the scars: both knees were crisscrossed with reminders of several knee injuries (Vikings vs. Bears and Vikings vs. Lions); scar tissue ran across the bridge of the nose (Vikings vs. Bears again—I still hate their middle 29

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linebacker, even if he is now a Hall-of-Famer); a long white scar on the right jawbone (shrapnel); the left bicep looked like someone had used an ice cream scoop (made-in-Russia semiautomatic rifle); and finally a meandering white scar just above my groin (a snake-mean little bastard with a switchblade). After pulling on a sweatshirt and canvas pants, I sat down and put on clean sweat socks and deck shoes. I gave my hair a couple of licks with a brush before I walked back into the living room and over to the wet bar. I mixed a drink and settled into my old rocking chair in front of the fire. I bought it at a garage sale about five years ago, and since then the various women who have visited my apartment have urged me to throw the thing out. Their reasons range from vague to totally unreasonable: “The chair just doesn't go with the rest of the furniture.” Well for that matter, neither do I! But the rocker is comfortable, and I like it. So it stays. The phone rang. I picked it up, and before I could say anything, Jilly said, “Jack, can you come over?” “Sure. When?” “Now, if you don't mind.” “I'm on my way.” I hung up and swirled the ice in my glass with a fingertip, looking at Ripper without really seeing him. I had a feeling it was all starting. I felt a strange tingle of apprehension—or perhaps it was anticipation. **** “What's going on, Jilly?” 30

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Jilly grunted and stirred his drink. He downed half of it without hesitation. “Nothing good, Jack.” He paused, his face bitter. “Nothing good.” He stood and walked to a paneled wall. He pressed a button and a panel slid to one side, revealing an expensive reel-to-reel tape recorder. He turned and stared at me, chewing on his lower lip. His eyes were bloodshot. “I record every phone conversation that comes into or goes out of this house. An old habit, and I think, a good one.” He turned to the recorder and pushed a button. His voice was weak. “Listen to this.” The $10,000 speaker system filled the room with the sound of the receiver being lifted, and Jilly's gruff “Hello.” The caller's voice was thin and high-pitched. You could also detect something else—barely contained glee? The hair stood up on the back of my neck. “You have a cute daughter, Jilly. Send Felicia Martinez back where she belongs, and she'll stay cute. If you don't, you won't recognize her the next time she comes home.” The speakers faithfully reproduced Jilly's agonized, angry voice as he raged at the man on the other end of the telephone. I watched him as he listened to the sound of his own voice, and saw him flinch as the sound of high-pitched laughter filled the room, and the phone was dropped onto the hook. On the recorder, Jilly's voice cracked. “You sick, depraved bastard!” he raged. I listened to the impersonal hum of the dial tone, then the rattle of Jilly's phone being dropped on the cradle. 31

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Jilly stopped the recorder, and then pressed the ivory panel button. The door slid shut over the tape unit. “That's what's going on. I recognize the voice. This creep is dangerous, and more than a little willing to do whatever it takes to get Felicia back.” The creep had gone right to Jilly's soft spot. Only the most ruthless or desperate kind of individual targets a man's family. “Has Felicia been out of this place since the funeral?” I said. Jilly shook his head without speaking. I went on: “But Vi has?” Jilly nodded. “Has she had any problems with anyone?” I said. “No,” he said. “But she left late this afternoon to go shopping.” He looked at me with anguished eyes. I could see the fear on his face. But then he swallowed hard and tilted his glass and let the golden liquid run down his throat. He poured another and glanced at me, his eyes hard. The fear was suddenly gone. “If Varchetta harms any of my family, I'll—” We were interrupted by the slamming of a door, downstairs. Jilly rushed to the top of the steps. “Vi, is that you?” he bellowed down the stairway. A very upset Vi Evans answered: “I've never been so angry in my life!” Her voice grew louder as she stomped up the stairs. I stood as she walked through the door, a frightened Jilly on her heels. Her hair was plastered to her head, and the front of her dress stained. “Just look at me!” “What happened?” Jilly said. "What the hell happened?" She turned to face Jilly. “He threw some kind of liquid into my face! Then he laughed and walked away!” 32

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Jilly's face went white and he fought to catch his breath. I walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Tell us about it,” I said. VI was still angry, but her voice was mixed with fear now. “I was walking to my car, and found this huge man leaning against it. When I asked him who he was, what he wanted, he threw some kind of liquid into my face! What kind of person would do something like that?” Jilly groaned. Vi brushed at her stained dress, frustrated. “Just look at me!” She stamped a small foot angrily, then spun on her heel and stormed out of the room. Jilly sat down and put both hands over his face. “My God,” he said. He looked at me, a stricken expression on his face. “Are you available, Jack?” “You know I am,” I said. “Thank you. You're hired as of now.” “Hired! Now don't piss me off, Jilly!” “I want to pay you.” “Absolutely not. I'll play tail gunner until something develops. You don't mind if Ripper moves in too, do you? He's comforting to have around, and he's a helluva bodyguard.” “Bring him along. I like the ugly bastard, even if he doesn't like me.” “He doesn't like anyone. But he'll be Felicia's shadow wherever she goes, if I tell him to.” **** 33

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We talked for another hour. Jilly had a history of heart problems going a long way back. I felt a nagging need to take some of the pressure off Jilly. “Maybe you should send Vi on a vacation,” I said. “Say, two or three weeks, enough to give us some breathing room.” I could tell I had his attention. “You won't have to worry about her being here at ground zero, and she can get away from this gloomy atmosphere, which will do her a world of good.” “Not a bad idea,” Jilly said. He paced the room, his empty glass clutched in one hand. “But where?” “Mexico City is beautiful there this time of year. Doesn't Vi have a sister who's married to an oil company executive down there?” Jilly nodded, warming up to the idea. “She's mentioned wanting to visit her, more than once.” I knew she had, too. My mind is tattooed with trivia, but it's all useful at one time or another. Vi briefly spoke of her sister one night over dinner. I remember the wistful look in her eyes as she said it. I said, “I know you haven't told Vi about this creep's phone call. If we can get her to go away on her own, you won't have to mention it at all.” Jilly nodded without answering. Suddenly, I realized just how tired he was. I felt a twinge of guilt for not having noticed earlier. I made a point of glancing at my watch to emphasize the lateness of the hour. “Well, I'll be going now, Jilly.” I could almost hear his sigh of relief. He walked me to the door. “I'll call you in the morning, Jack.” 34

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Chapter 6 The ringing phone pulled me out of a fuzzy sleep. I woke up swearing and groping for the damn thing. Jilly was patient with me. When I finally got myself together, I listened and nodded in agreement, as he spoke. When I realized he couldn't hear my head rattle, I said “Good plan, Jilly. I'll see you tomorrow.” He was a careful old man. Without giving away a thing, he'd let me know Vi would be leaving the next afternoon for Mexico City, and could I please take her to the airport. I assured him I would deliver his package safely. I wondered if he'd had any trouble convincing Vi. I doubted it. She'd lived with that crazy man for enough years to know he wouldn't ask her to do something without a good reason. **** Early the next afternoon, I exited a Hertz rental agency driving an inconspicuous brown Chevrolet, and headed for Jilly's place. I was anxious to get Vi out of town. I wasn't worried about anything happening to Jilly. Varchetta was not that crazy. Even the throwback he had working for him must know that. Felicia was my main worry. How long can you watch someone? I suppose it all depends on how badly someone is wanted by someone else. In this instance, I have the feeling she was wanted very badly indeed. I pulled into the private entrance behind Jilly's home. High walls and thick shrubbery blocked viewing from the street. 35

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**** After coffee, and an hour of strained, polite conversation, it was time to leave. I stowed Vi's bags in the trunk and got her into the car. Jilly stood in the doorway, looking old and shrunken as he kissed his wife good-bye. We drove out of the yard in silence. **** I moved into Jilly's big rambling house, bringing Ripper and a few things of my own. After two days it became apparent the situation wasn't going to work out. Ripper was miserable, and when he's miserable, he makes damn sure everyone else is too. He missed the cabin; he snarled often at Fred, frightening the poor old butler; and Ripper kept the maid sitting in Vi's upstairs sewing room for three hours before I stumbled onto them. She quit on the spot. **** “Maybe Felicia should move into your place, Jack.” I must have had an astonished look on my face when I turned to stare at Jilly. “Don't you trust yourself, Jack?” he said with little smile. That irritated me. Of course I trust myself, and just what the hell does he mean by that anyway? I thought it over for a while, then agreed it would probably be a better arrangement. She'd be safe there and Ripper could revert back to his old, unlovable self. But at least he would be controllable. The idea of having Felicia Martinez wandering around my A-frame somehow unsettled me. 36

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**** I moved back to my cabin on Saturday afternoon, taking Felicia and her single suitcase with me. I had to admit it was good being home. Ripper checked out the place, and when he was satisfied, he dropped in front of the fireplace with an exaggerated sigh of relief. Felicia stood just inside the door, looking uncomfortable. I motioned toward my rocking chair. She sat down, hands in her lap, and looked at me with those big black liquid eyes. Suddenly I was at a loss for words. Finally I said, “I'll fix some coffee,” and walked quickly into the kitchen. While I clattered the coffee pot together, I shook my head in wonder at the way she made me feel like a flustered schoolboy! Me, a veteran womanizer who has never been in love—not even close—in my thirty-four years of whoring around. I finally got the coffee going and walked back into the living room. She sat in the rocker, staring at the lifeless fireplace. I lit the gas log and threw some wood on the fire. The room soon became a more cheerful place. Ripper groaned and stretched. His legs went straight out, inches off the floor, pointing toward the fire. Then he relaxed, lowering his legs slowly to the rug. His chest rose and fell with even breathing. “Be careful around Ripper,” I warned. “He barely tolerates people. He was born pissed. He's arrogant, insolent and temperamental. And as the old joke goes, those are his good points.” She looked at me. I was stunned to see the appearance of a small smile on her face. 37

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“Ripper and I will get along just fine,” she said. Relief flooded through me. She was actually carrying on a conversation. “Felicia, this dog was born with an innate sense of right and wrong—he's right and everyone else is wrong. He doesn't even like me.” “He likes you,” she said. “He does?” Without answering, she looked around. “Where do I sleep?’ I pointed toward the bedroom. “In there. I'll sleep here, on the couch.” She stood up and walked through the bedroom door. She stopped and looked around for a moment, her back to me. “I'd like to take a bath and get unpacked.” I carried her bag into the bedroom and pointed toward a door, next to the bed. “Bathroom. You'll find towels and everything else you need. Take your time.” I left her standing there and walked back into the living room, closing the bedroom door behind me. I could hear the coffee perking. I strolled into the kitchen and turned off the gas under the percolator. I poured two cups and walked into the living room. I stood with my ear to the bedroom door for a moment, and heard nothing. “You okay?” I called out. “Yes,” came the muffled reply. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” “I'd prefer a glass of wine.”

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I stood there with coffee in each hand, my brain racing. Wine? Wine? Somewhere I must have an old bottle of wine stashed away. “I'll see if I can scout one up,” I said. “If you can, bring it in please.” I heard the sloshing of water as she moved in the tub. “How do you know you can trust me?” “You won't look.” I lifted an eyebrow. “Don't be too sure!” “Jilly said I could trust you.” “Disgusting!” I muttered to myself. “What a miserable reputation!” I sipped some of the coffee as I walked into the kitchen. I poured the other one down the drain. I finally found a half bottle of Chablis. I poured a glass, took it to the door and knocked. She was still in the tub. “I'm coming in,” I said. “I'm coming in now.” Her laugh was delightful. She had the kind of soft, husky “whisky voice” certain top female vocalists have. I'd heard she was a fantastic performer, or had been, anyway, but I had never heard her sing. I pushed the door open wider and walked in, keeping my eyes averted, exaggerating somewhat so she'd know I was trying to live up to my reputation. One soapy hand reached out for the glass of wine, and I passed it over. She laughed. “Thank you, Jack. I'll be out in a few minutes.” I walked out, feeling jangled. I stood in front of the fireplace, and found myself looking at my apartment with a critical eye. “What a dump!” I said aloud. 39

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I'd never noticed the clutter before, but realized this was the living room of a man who didn't spend much time here— and who clearly lived without a woman. I've never been a man who liked bringing a woman to his place. Somehow it always seemed an invasion of my privacy, as I watched them poke around. And invariably they'd get around to making some comment about my rocking chair, and that would end it. I wondered if I'd feel the same way about Felicia. Somehow I didn't think so. I listened to the little voice in my head. Be careful, good buddy. **** To my amazement, Ripper adopted Felicia immediately. The big predator followed her around the place, as docile as a pussycat. I was flabbergasted; she was matter-of-fact. “You should have more faith in your dog,” she said. “He's just a puppy at heart. “Yeah, he's quite the puppy,” I said. But I was a happy man. Ripper provided a lot of protection. **** Whenever I left the A-frame I gave her strict orders to keep the door locked and never leave without him. She never answered me. I got the feeling she didn't take orders too well. I made up my mind I would not leave again without her promise. “Do you understand, Felicia? Don't leave this place without Ripper.” She stood with me in the open doorway, smiling up at my stern face. Then, deadpan, she said “Yes, Jack.” I don't have 40

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to be hit with a truck; I know when I'm being humored. She pushed me out the door. “Don't forget the pork chops.” I walked to my car shaking my head. I was beginning to feel like a married man. “Don't forget the pork chops,” I muttered. She had turned out to be a great cook. For the first time in my life I found myself eating at home, a welcome change of pace. I am prone to taking the easy way out. When I'm hungry, McDonald's and I are old friends. I break up the quickie food joint routine, now and then, with a real dinner at a real restaurant. I had to admit it was nice coming home and finding the cabin warm and clean, the smell of dinner cooking, and a cup of coffee poured and waiting for me. Even Ripper's disposition improved. I shared Jilly's relief, mixed with apprehension, at the lack of any attempt by Varchetta's goon to grab Felicia. Vi had called from Mexico City. She was comfortable and having a good time. I was also aware that it was getting harder trying to keep my defense mechanisms at full alert. Too much home cooking and too many contented evenings in front of the fireplace listening to music or watching television together. I began working out more, jogging more. I wanted to be away from the cabin, but I was afraid to, even with Ripper there. She was improving, but she showed no desire to leave the place. I suspect it was a haven to her. Occasionally, she lapsed into long periods of silence. I never intruded. She was somewhere with Jonathan Flynn. I knew this and respected it. The passage of time would 41

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eventually make the loss more bearable, blurring the painful, vivid memories until one day you found you were, despite yourself, indeed going on with your life. She talked more, her eyes a little brighter every day. Felicia wandered around the cabin in my oversize football T-shirts while she fixed dinner, cleaned the place, and decorated this and that. She was a beautiful woman, after all, and while she lived in her own little world, I did not. She was unaware of what she looked like in a thin T-shirt, but I was not. I always knew exactly where she was in the room, what position she was in, and what she was wearing, try as I might to concentrate on my book, or the TV. The woman was blessed with flawless brown skin, fantastic gleaming black hair, and perfect white teeth. And her eyes, my God, they were enormous! She made the most of what she had, which was considerable. She didn't need a lot of cosmetic junk, and didn't use much. Well, I'll adjust to having this beautiful creature around, I thought. There are far worse problems to have. **** I came home from jogging one afternoon, and found Felicia sitting on the floor in front of the fire. She was crying, and obviously had been for a long time. Ripper's head rested in her lap. He pawed at her now and then, and whined. A book lay next to her on the floor. I didn't have to look to see what it was. I cursed myself for having forgotten it was in the cabin. I'm an auto racing buff, have been all my life. I subscribe to all the magazines, buy all the yearbooks. She had run 42

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across my automotive library and found a picture of Jonathan Flynn, laughing and alive as he stood next to a Grand Prix Lotus, talking to a big man with a shock of red hair, manelike eyebrows, long mutton chop sideburns and a fantastic flowing red mustache. I gathered her into my arms. She folded against me, sobbing. Her body shook. After a while she fell asleep. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, covering her with a blanket. I leaned against the fireplace, sick at heart. I felt sorry for her, yet I envied the intense love affair she and Flynn had experienced, even if it was an expensive, tragic, painful love affair. Some things are worth whatever they cost. **** Felicia never got over that unfortunate day. The periods of silence became longer, the gloom in the cabin deeper, as the days dragged on. I'd come home to find her just sitting in the dark. Ripper was her constant companion. Gone was the aroma of dinner cooking, music playing. I missed it. And I felt more helpless than ever. A cold feeling settled over me. Try as I might, I couldn't shake it. I wasn't big on premonitions, but she was. During her brief period of healing, just before things came apart again, she told me she was part witch. I can still conjure up her exact words: “I am part witch, you know. Jonathan knew it. He kidded me, but he knew it was true.” She smiled at the time, but she was serious. As she looked at me, her eyes haunted, it gave me a chill. “I see things, 43

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now and then. Numbers, for instance, at a roulette wheel. Not always, of course.” She laughed. “If I saw them all the time, I wouldn't do anything else but sit at a roulette wheel for a living. But it happens often enough it's spooky.” To complicate things, Ripper was getting restless and needed activity. I had to get her to come with me to the lake. She needed to get out of the cabin. **** I walked out of the Safeway store in Zephyr Cove and hurried to my car, both arms full of groceries. I piled in and headed for home. I was filled with an unexplainable sense of urgency. A brisk, steady breeze produced a broad sweep of swirling color as the trees gave up their leaves; they fluttered to the ground by the thousands. Today was a beauty: brilliant, cold and clear. Yellow and red leaves covered the ground. An occasional gust of wind blew them into the air. Then they settled to the ground again in ever-tightening circles. Some of the trees stood in naked silence, already stripped of their foliage, preparing for the approaching Lake Tahoe winter. I'm a bit quirky, and even I know it. When I'm bored, I'm worse, and at that moment I was bored. To amuse myself, I ran through the little list of my good and bad points, or at least those I was aware of: 1. I'm basically blessed with an irrepressible nature. If the Iraqis were in Reno, I'd still feel like I would come out on top, even if I had nothing but a handful of rocks. (That's one for me, I thought.) 44

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2. I am an eternal optimist. (Hey, that's good, too! I'm doing okay here.) 3. At the same time, I consider myself a hard-core realist, which can be a real downer at times. (Good? Bad? Probably fifty-fifty.) 4. I have my good days and bad days, but optimism generally prevails. (Since I'm doing the judging here, I'm still going to put a check mark on the “Good” side of the ledger.) 5. I don't like to lose—at anything. (Good? Bad? I chose fifty-fifty again.) 6. If I'm given a “take it or leave it,” I'll always leave it. (Absolutely good.) 7. I tire of things quickly. (Probably bad.) I suddenly realized I was tired of the game I'd been playing in my head for the past few miles. I laughed. “See No. 7, preceding,” I said. I was sure it would all work out. “See No. 2, above,” I said. But I was sure it was going to be a long, rough road ahead. “No. 3!” I said to the car. Well, it didn't matter whom Varchetta sent to grab Felicia, I was going to kick his ass royally and send him home whimpering. “No. 4!” I said, louder this time. “Definitely No. 4!” Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing, by God! “No. 5!” I shouted. “Not a doubt that it's No. 5!” I grinned. I felt punchy, like a guy who has driven all night without a coffee break. Suddenly I was tired of the game and tired of the car. “No. 7 again, and good night!” 45

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**** I took the steps two at a time and let myself into the Aframe. I stood inside the door listening to a deep silence. The ashes in the fireplace looked old and cold. I shut the door quietly behind me and slipped my Beretta out of its holster. Then I heard her. She was angry. Her voice rose and fell, desperation, then pleading in her voice. Then it died away and all I could hear was unintelligible muttering and sobs. Again her voice rose in anger. I eased the bedroom door open and stood there. She was a pathetic sight. She lay on the bed, her naked body gleaming with perspiration. Her long black hair was damp and uncombed, her eyes swollen from crying. She writhed as if in pain, her hands clinched in little fists. Ripper lay on the bed with her, looking as miserable as I've ever seen him. His huge head lay between her breasts. Ripper whined, lifted his head and looked at me for help, then lowered his head again. Occasionally, she hit the brute in the head with a flailing fist. He never flinched, just whimpered and looked even more unhappy and frustrated. Her eyes opened wide and she stared at the ceiling. Then she turned and looked at me. She didn't seem to recognize me. Perhaps she didn't even know I was there. Anger changed her face, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with rage. “Damn you, Jonathan Flynn! Why did you have to race cars?” She sat up, spilling Ripper away. He almost fell off the bed, but recovered and sat there staring at her. She continued to rage at me, her face twisted. “Why did you have to drive race? To prove you're a man? You didn't have to 46

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prove it to me!” Tears spilled over her cheeks. Then softly, she said again, “You didn't have to prove it to me.” Suddenly aware of my presence, she clambered to her feet and stood on the bed. She backed away from me and nearly lost her balance. I walked around the corner of the bed, trying to grab her before she fell. She held her hands out as if to ward me off. “Stay away from me! Stay away, you bastard!” She stood there, wild-eyed. Her hands were open, fingers spread apart, claw-like. Her full breasts rolled and shook as she tried to balance herself on the bed. She had the longest, most incredible mop of black pubic hair I've ever seen on a woman, and it was plastered to her body, drenched with sweat. She was finely muscled, and they rippled under her wet, brown skin as she moved. The bloody scratches on her breasts, the damp, uncombed black hair, the hunted look in those big, deep, black eyes combined to form the picture of primitive woman, caged and desperate. The standoff lasted only a few moments. Ripper whined, looking up at Felicia. Her face softened. Some of the panic subsided and she slowly began to relax. Her fingers closed into fists again, then opened. With a sigh she settled to her knees and put her arms around Ripper. She held him against her bare body and cried, rocking back and forth as if holding a baby. Ripper draped his big head over her right shoulder, looking miserable. I didn't know what to do. Finally I walked into the bathroom, started running a tub of hot water, and returned to 47

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the bedroom. I tried to pull her arms from around Ripper's neck. He lifted his head, glared at me, and showed a mouthful of teeth any Great White would be proud of. We stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally I said, “Knock it off!” He showed me fangs for a few moments more. Then, he decided it was okay. I managed to break her grip on Ripper's neck. He was not happy with me. He jumped off the bed, still more than a little interested in what I was going to do with her. I picked her up, and carried her into the bathroom, and lowered her into the tub of water. I washed her face with a bath sponge. She sat there, dazed. Then she looked up at me, her eyes comprehending for the first time. She looked down at the water coming up around her breasts. When she looked at me again, she seemed aware of the situation. She was too far gone to be embarrassed. Nevertheless, I stood and said, “I'll bring you a glass of wine.” I left, returned with the wine and placed it on the edge of the tub. “Are you okay?” She nodded, eyes brimming with tears. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry.” “If you need anything, just yell. I'll be in the living room.” I walked out, turning on the wall heater in the bathroom as I left. I poured myself a scotch and got a hearty blaze going in the fireplace. I turned on some music, perhaps higher than usual, something up-tempo and light. I stood in front of the fire trying to purge the black mood from my mind. 48

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She'd gotten something, somewhere. Who the hell knows what, or where. There's always a creep somewhere who'll sell you death in a capsule for just a few bucks. And there are always the weak who'll buy it, not knowing what's in it, or caring. This changed everything. I couldn't trust her.

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Chapter 7 The young prostitute walked through the motel door, Benny Florentine close behind. She took a deep breath and turned to face him, trying to figure out a way to get out of this frightening situation. She looked up into his gray, hooded eyes, and her words stuck in her throat. She saw the beaded sweat in his blond crew cut, smelled the musty odor of a man who had lived in a suit too long without a shower. He was probably over three-hundred pounds, and looked close to seven feet tall. The cruel look on his face, and the cords in his bull-like neck frightened her. When he approached her on the street she had been afraid to turn him down. He had pushed her into his car, and she knew it was going to turn out all wrong. He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and then turned his dead eyes on her again. She backed away, her attempt at humor sticking in her throat until no sound came out at all. Grabbing the front of her dress, he ripped it from her body with one easy movement. She stood there, covering her bare breasts with her hands like a virgin schoolgirl. “C'mon, Benny, please. This dress cost me sixty bucks and...” Further protest died on her lips when he grinned and said in his high-pitched voice, “You'll be paid for it. I always pay for what I get.” Then he took out a big bill, dropped it on the floor, and told her to pick it up. 50

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She hesitated, then bent over to pick it up. He yanked her upright by the hair, and as her face came up, hit her with an open palm. She fell backward onto the bed. He was on her in a moment, stripping her thin panties off her legs. He slapped her twice, rocking her head from side to side. He stood next to the bed, looking down at her. He smiled, showing very bad teeth. His voice took on a crooning tone as he leaned over and ran his hands over her small breasts, then down over her stomach. He spread her legs roughly and probed with his fingers. She winced. He laughed and probed harder. She writhed in pain. “You ain't very big, honey,” he said and withdrew his fingers. He wiped them across her face and got down on his knees and took a breast in each hand. Laughing, he squeezed until she cried out. Then he pinned her and pulled her legs as far apart as he could. She felt the bones cracking in her thighs, as he buried his face in her warm flesh. Without stopping, he reached up and placed one big hand around her throat and squeezed. She gagged. The room began to spin and everything began to go black. I am going to die right now! But then he stopped. The black went to a mist of red and her vision began to clear. She gagged, then despite herself, vomited. He jumped up, angry, brushing the mess from his suit. He slapped her a dozen times until she blacked out. When she came to she was tied to the bed, spread-eagled, a cord around each wrist and ankle going to each of the bedposts. He stood in front of her, naked now, looking down at her with a curious smile. “You shouldn't have oughta done 51

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that to ol’ Benny. He don't like that. Lots of girls do that, did you know that?” He raped her, over and over until she lay spent and shuddering on the bed. Occasionally he smoked and watched television, only to return to the bed, time after time. The night wore on. He never tired of his game. Her muscles and bones ached, but she did not complain, afraid to open her mouth. She was smeared from head to toe with his body fluids, and her own mess. She felt sick. If she got out of here alive, this was her last trick. She watched Benny. He sat in front of the television, patting himself on the stomach. The room reeked of him. She closed her eyes and endured the pain. How much longer? She heard him move, and her eyes opened flew open. He stood up and turned toward her again; a smile played across his face. “Wanna do it again, Billy?” He looked hurt. “And can't you at least show me a little affection, this time? You're really a cold bitch, you know that?” He reached for her bruised breasts, but a beeping sound in the room stopped him. He straightened, a frown on his face. Her lumbered over to his clothes, piled in a heap on the floor, and pulled a beeper from a pants pocket. He stared at it for a moment, then sat down and dialed a number. He waited, his brow furrowing. A minute later he spoke into the phone. He stood up, looking very humble as he listened, the receiver pressed to his ear. “Hi, boss, it's me, Benny.” His face fell at the reply at the other end of the receiver. 52

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The conversation went on for some time, while Billy drifted in and out of consciousness. She did not want him to know she was awake. Please leave when you hang up, Benny. Please. Benny sat with the phone pressed to his ear, screwing up his face like a little boy being reprimanded by his father as he held the phone away from his ear. Finally he mumbled, “Okay. Bye.” And hung up. Rage darkened his face. Billy felt a sinking feeling as he advanced on her. “The boss shouldn't talk to me like that. I ain't no dummy. I'm somebody. I'm Benny Florentine!” He walked over to her and shook her shoulder. “I got another hour or so, Billy. You're gonna have to show me some affection.”

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Chapter 8 I stood in the doorway of my cabin, looking down at Felicia with as much sternness as I could muster, trying, I suppose, to intimidate her with my size. “Now Felicia, it's dangerous for you to leave this place, do you understand?” “Yes, Jack.” “I mean it! Don't give me your, ‘Yes, Jack.’ This is serious!” “Yes, Jack.” She was not being coy; I wished she were. She was docile, and I wasn't getting through to her. She was just telling me what I wanted to hear in order to get me off her back. “Listen,” I said, frustration heavy in my voice, “If you do have to leave—and I don't want you to—do not, under any circumstances, I repeat, do not leave without Ripper.” “Yes, Jack.” I put my hands on my hips, stared up at the ceiling for a moment, and gritted my teeth. “Yes, Jack,” I muttered. I turned away and pulled my sheepskin-lined jacket over the heavy turtleneck sweater I was wearing. A cold wind blew off the glittering Alpine lake. I walked through the door, then stopped and turned to look at her one more time. She was wearing one of my old long-sleeved sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The bottom hit her about where a good miniskirt would. I had an overwhelming urge to pick her up and hug her. She was a waif with big eyes and a woebegone look. She was wearing 54

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silly looking pink fuzzy slippers, which for some reason added to her appeal. “I mean it, Felicia, keep this door locked, and stay with Ripper.” “Hurry back, Jack,” she said. Before I could reply, she shut the door in my face. **** The day was magnificent, despite the cold wind. I donned my sunglasses, unlocked the car and got in. As I backed out of the parking space, I gave the surrounding woods a thorough examination. Everything seemed normal, but I felt unsettled. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I found her on the bed, in that condition. I wake up at every little sound, and have to go check to make sure she is in bed, asleep and safe. I punched the throttle to stretch a yellow light. I'll make this as quick as possible, I thought, and get back there before she has time to dress and get out of there. **** Felicia watched the door close. She stood there, listening. He was a big man, but he never made any noise when he walked. In fact, she realized, he never made any noise at all. She went to the door, listened for several minutes, then opened it and peered out. She hurried to the window just in time to catch a glimpse of the Jaguar as it disappeared around the corner at the end of the lane. Sighing with relief, she hurried to the bedroom. She kicked the slippers off, stepped into a pair of shoes, and grabbed a 55

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long coat. She pulled it on as she walked to the front door, picking up her purse as she went. Ripper followed on her heels. At the front door, she got down on her knees, put her arms around the beast and whispered into his ear. “No, Ripper. Stay. I'll be right back.” He looked at her, whined, and moved around her feet as she stood up. He tried to force his face into the doorway as she opened the door, but she blocked his path. Sternly she said, “Stay, Ripper!” Then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. She could hear his scratching high up on the door, as he jumped up on his hind legs. “Poor Ripper,” she whispered, and hurried down the hallway. **** Felicia's eyes searched the empty streets. Please be there. The little old man had found her, as “his kind” always does. And he was there. She sighed with relief. She hurried to him. He smiled and opened a grubby hand, and showed her a smile pile of colorful pills, every color of the rainbow it seemed. They were stuck together from the perspiration in his palm, but he poked them apart with a broken, dirty fingernail and ran through the names and “selling points” of each of them. Felicia held out a handful of cash in her open palm. His face twisted into an amazed smile. Then he took all the cash and pressed the pills into her open hand. His ugly smile made her feel dirty and guilty. She hurried away, as much to escape his watery, accusing stare, as to return to the cabin before Jack got home. 56

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She hurried along the street, head down against the cold wind, hands buried in the coat pockets. Suddenly she was aware of the big man walking beside her. She looked up, wide-eyed, not wanting to see the anger on Jack's face. An explanation was already forming in her mind when she saw the granite-like forehead protruding from beneath the hat, the hooded, dry gray eyes staring at her with amusement. “Benny,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Benny—” “Hello, Felicia,” the thin voice said. “Mr. Varchetta, he wants you back.” He laughed, grabbed her by the elbow and applied enough pressure to make her knees go weak. He towered over her and said quietly into her face, “We gotta get along now, you unnerstand?” She nodded. She stumbled along next to him as he led her to a light blue sedan parked across the street. She was aware of her body, moving free and easy under the sweatshirt. She pulled the overcoat closed as he pushed her into the front seat. He got in and put the keys in the ignition. Benny terrified her. He was a man who undressed you with his eyes and raped you mentally. “You'll be back in Vegas tonight, where you belong,” Benny said. “Don't give me no trouble, hear? I don't wanna have to hurt you. The boss wouldn't like that.” Felicia slumped in the seat. That was true, she realized. She was safe from Benny; he was afraid of Harry. The thought of Harry Varchetta brought a picture of the man bursting into her brain. She recoiled and felt the sickness in her stomach again. She remembered the long days and nights, the bad breath, the repulsive personal habits, the 57

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depraved sexual fantasies he forced her to act out. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought about Ripper, just a few miles away, and the warm, safe cabin. Jack would be home in a few minutes. In her mind she heard her own voice: “Yes, Jack.” She pulled the collar up around her neck and leaned against the window, feeling the glass form a small cold spot on her forehead.

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Chapter 9 The words stuck in my throat. “I was gone a half-hour at the most.” My statement hung in the air, a hollow excuse. Jilly stood in front of the open refrigerator door in his bathrobe and slippers. He dropped a fresh ice cube into his drink and shut the heavy refrigerator door. “Don't blame yourself,” he said. “In the mood she was in, she was impossible to protect.” He sat down at the kitchen table and took a long pull at his drink. He slammed it down with tablerattling force, some of the liquid slopping over the top of the glass. “Shit!” he said in frustration. I poured a cup of coffee and sat down, too. He looked at me with tired eyes. “When are you leaving?” “As soon as possible. I want to take the Jag and Ripper, of course. It's a seven or eight-hour drive down 95. When's your next freighter heading for Vegas?” One of Jilly's interests included “JL Enterprises,” a fleet of air freighters operating within United States boundaries. He glanced at his watch. “The next one leaves at eleven tonight, with a stop in Vegas. Have your car there by nine. You and Ripper want to ride along, or do you want to go out on a commercial flight?” “We'll go on the freighter.” I felt I should explain about wanting to take the Jaguar, rather than renting a car in Vegas. “I have it totally outfitted for emergencies.” Jilly nodded without comment. “Take what you need to do the job,” he said. He drained the glass and stared off into a 59

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corner of the kitchen. “Shit,” he said again and got up. He grimaced as he placed the palm of his right hand in the small of his back. We looked at each other for a few long moments. Neither of us was accustomed to losing. He extended his hand and I stood up and took it. “Get her back, Jack,” he said. “I will.” He walked out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there with my coffee and my thoughts. **** As I packed, I tried to avoid looking at Felicia's purple bathrobe hanging behind the bathroom door; tried to shut my thoughts off as I moved her cosmetics case and hairbrush to get at my shaving gear; tried to pretend it was just a day like any other day as I lathered and shaved the worried face in the mirror. But it wasn't a normal day. She wasn't there; she was on her way back to Varchetta, in the company of God knows what kind of a creep. Even Ripper was more sullen than usual. The look on his face was accusing. He paced while I packed. I was in a vile mood by the time I closed my cabin door behind me and went down the steps two at a time, Ripper at my side. He obeys ordinary orders, even on a good day (although there's never a moment's hesitation when I give him a serious command). This was a bad day; he did what he wanted, ignoring me. I was even more convinced he too was filled with his own thoughts and memories of Felicia. 60

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I glanced at my watch. I was frustrated to see I had plenty of time to kill before I had to be at JL Enterprises to turn the Jag over to Jilly's people for loading. I decided I was hungry. I'd grab a sandwich somewhere on the way. I had fed Ripper before leaving the apartment. Nothing affects his appetite; he'd wolfed the food down, as usual. I'm put together the same way. Come hell or high water, getting hungry and eating is automatic. I headed in the direction of the airport, keeping an eye out for a place to eat on the way. **** Twenty minutes later I was in the middle of the ugliest part of Reno, but I remembered a little diner just up ahead which had the best roast beef sandwich in the city. I parked the car and rolled down the window to give Ripper some air. I ordered him to stay, and got an ugly look in return. I got out and headed across the grimy little parking lot, which was dimly lit by one dirty street lamp. Four kids in their late teens stood in front of the restaurant door, watching me with more than passing interest. I sighed. This day was not about to improve, I decided. “Nice car,” the tallest of the foursome said. He looked like an NBA guard, damn near my height and probably thirty pounds heavier. “That is is,” I said without slowing my pace toward the door. He stepped into my path, his arms folded across his chest. “Why don't you let us take it for a ride.” 61

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“The keys are in the ignition, boys. Get the dog's permission and you're on your way.” His gaze went over my shoulder and his eyes got a bit bigger as he got a glimpse of Ripper's toothy smile. “Sh-i-i-tt,” he said, shifting his gaze back to me. “Why don't you get the keys and bring them right back here to me?” I walked to within a few inches of him and stared into his surprised eyes. His friends gathered around me. I didn't acknowledge their presence. I was hungry and already in a bad mood before Big Mouth started in on me. “If I were you, asshole,” I said, “I'd call 911 right now.” Without another word, I slammed the heel of my right hand up under his jaw, straightening him upright for a moment before he went over backward. I grabbed the two youths on either side of me by their shirtfronts and yanked them toward me. I stepped back out of the way and let them collide, their heads slamming together like overripe watermelons. They dropped in their tracks. The fourth man stood rooted to the spot, his eyes the size of golf balls. I walked toward him and said, “Boo!” and he turned and disappeared into the darkness. I was beginning to get into the magic of the moment. I turned on my heel and backhanded Big Mouth just as he made it to an upright position on his rubber legs. He slammed back against the restaurant wall, and then fell forward, his eyes rolling in his head. I stepped under him and let him fall over my shoulders. I carried him to the edge of the parking lot, walked up to a huge dumpster and threw him over the side into the garbage. 62

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I walked back and grabbed his two groggy friends, and dragged them back to the dumpster and tossed them in, too. Glancing at the Jag, I could see Ripper staring at me over the steering wheel. He was wearing a big, white, toothy smile. **** Shortly after eleven I was in a JL Enterprises jet freighter that was rolling along between two rows of blue lights dotting the edges of the taxi way, moving in that curious, lumbering gait common to earthbound jetliners. I listened to the shrill whistle of the engines ease as we slowed, made a one-eighty, and lined up with the main runway. I sat in the observer's seat, behind the captain, peering over his shoulder through the windshield. Ahead lay the inky blackness of the runway, outlined in white runway lights in the clear night air. The captain spoke to the tower and received permission to take off. The crew was all business as the freighter shuddered and began rolling forward, accelerating with astonishing quickness after only a few seconds. I glanced at the dark interior of the long fuselage full of containerized freight, strapped down behind me. A rugged safety net was strung between the cargo and crew. A luxury airliner it was not; it was efficiently laid out to take advantage of the maximum amount of cargo. I looked forward again at the runway, then watched the crew, fascinated. The captain sat with one hand on the throttles, one hand on the steering wheel. When the ship was doing twenty or thirty knots, he took his hand off the steering wheel and placed it on the control wheel. The copilot said, 63

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quietly, “V-1,” and the captain placed both hands on the control wheel. After a few more seconds, the copilot spoke again: “V-R.” The captain pulled back on the control wheel. The nose came up; the plane vaulted into the star-filled Nevada night sky. The vibrations and creaking that had filled the interior of the airplane while it was rolling along the runway, immediately ceased. The power song of the jet engines as they propelled the heavy aircraft upward at a steep angle was deafening. Ripper lay at my feet, eyes bright, every nerve tuned to the movement and sound of the airliner. He whined. The noise obviously bothered his sensitive ears. I patted him on the head. He looked at me, more than a little skeptical about these modern conveyances. I heard the sound of the landing gear come up and lock into place. The plane felt solid and “clean” as the wind resistance lessened. We reached our cruising altitude, and the roar of the engines backed off to a more reasonable level. Ripper relaxed somewhat. The crew showed me the workings of the cockpit after the flight was underway. A modern jetliner is one of the most incredible pieces of engineering that modern man has ever invented. The men who fly them never cease to impress me. After a time, I thanked the crew and let them go about their business. I relaxed in the jump seat, a cup of coffee in my hand. My mind was immediately filled with thoughts of Las Vegas, and how I would go about getting one very small, very frightened woman out of that damn town. **** 64

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I drove out of McCarran International, Ripper at my side, and turned onto Paradise Road. A touch of color showed in the east. The town lay before me, presenting its neverchanging Chamber of Commerce image. She never slept, never got tired, never ceased gathering in its prey or spitting out its walking wounded. Las Vegas, the biggest vacuum cleaner in the world. I've been going to Las Vegas long enough that I remember when you could lose your money, and have fun doing it. I recall polite treatment, low-cost rooms and meals, and a population figure, which, minus tourists, would place it in the “small town” category. Now several freeways divide the city, the census count is off the scale, and friendliness is but a lingering memory. I checked into the first motel I found, not mentioning my giant black and tan companion. Once we were in the room I grabbed a quick shower flopped on the bed. I was whipped. I set the mental alarm clock in my head for nine o'clock, too few hours away to think about, and went to sleep. This was going to be a long day.

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Chapter 10 Harry Varchetta dropped the telephone on the cradle, and sat back in his chair. He tapped his long, hooked nose with the eraser end of a pencil, his feet on the desk, his small eyes on the doorway. There had been a triumphant note in Benny's voice. He knew the hulk was pleased with himself and would be looking for praise. Even more than praise, he would be looking for his reward. Varchetta grinned. He ran his tongue over small, yellow teeth and shifted the toothpick in his mouth. Benny had always had a hunger for Felicia. Sweat beads formed on the dummy's forehead whenever he was around her. His dry, gray eyes would dart from her breasts to her legs and belly, and back to her breasts. Whenever she was in the room, Benny would answer questions dutifully, but his eyes never left her. Benny's sexual appetite was legendary. And if no woman were handy, a man would do. Varchetta loved to dangle Felicia in front of the brute, a morsel he would never sample, something forever beyond his reach. Once, when Benny had performed a particularly brutal piece of “persuasion” on a man Varchetta wanted “convinced,” he had rewarded him by allowing him watch while Varchetta made love to her. She had been in a daze from the drugs, unaware of the incident until days later, when he had shown her the stack of photos the automatic camera system built into the bedroom walls and ceiling had captured, 66

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shots of the two of them, with Benny sitting in a chair next to the bed, dressed in his usual black suit, leaning forward, mouth agape, sweat rolling down his face. She had looked at the photos and vomited on his new, white rug. Flaunting Felicia made him feel superior to the ugly dummy. She was something the big man wanted badly, and could never have. She made an excellent reward, something Benny would do anything to get. The door opened and Felicia walked into the room, head down. The doorway behind her was filled with a smug, grinning Benny Florentine. Varchetta stood up, walked around the desk and met them halfway into the room. Her hair was uncombed and limp, her eyes dull and lifeless. Varchetta stared at Benny. “Did you lay a hand on her?” The grin disappeared from Benny's face and his mouth worked for a moment, at a complete loss for words. “Oh no, boss, no. I sure didn't,” he said. “Honest to God—” “Get outta here!” Benny's face registered disappointment. The boss hadn't even said that he'd done a good job. And worse than that, he had said nothing about his reward. Benny lumbered to the door, head down. Varchetta grinned, then said, “Benny! You did good.” Benny stopped in his tracks. He turned to face his boss, his face breaking into a wide smile. “And Benny,” Varchetta went on, “you can watch, tonight, if you want.” Benny swallowed with some difficulty, then nodded, looking at Felicia. “Yeah, I'd like that.” “I'll give you a call when it's time.” 67

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“Jeez. Thanks boss. I'll be right by the phone, waiting.” He turned and left, still grinning. **** Harry Varchetta took Felicia's face in both hands and tilted her head up until she was forced to look into his eyes. He grinned. “Back home again,” he said. Her eyes blazed with hatred, then filled with tears. Varchetta's face twisted and his eyes narrowed. “You made a damn fool out of me.” “Oh just how hard could that be!” Felicia said, her voice filled with hatred. For a moment she thought he would hit her, but instead he looked down at her coat, then yanked it open with both hands. He stepped back and looked at the sweatshirt. “Well, ain't this cute?” he said. “Does that belong to the big hero you've been living with?” She shivered. He gripped her shoulder with one hand and grabbed the sweatshirt by the neck with the other. Yanking downward, he ripped it open from top to bottom. The torn sweatshirt fell away, revealing her heavy breasts, flat stomach and the heavy thatch of black pubic hair. He pulled her close and roughly ran his free hand over her body. She cringed and tried to pull away. He slapped her hard, spinning her halfway around. But she whirled, and before he could react, hit him in the face with a roundhouse right, her hand balled up in a small fist. He reeled backward, tripped over the chair and fell. Blood gushed from his nose. With a snarl he stood up, grabbed her 68

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hair, and backhanded her into submission. Then he threw her to the floor. She lay there without a sound, pulling her knees up to her chin. “You ain't ever leaving me again, you sneaky little bitch,” he said, carefully moving his jaw from side to side with one hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which he held against his nose. The white cloth turned bright red. “You're gonna get your ass into the sexiest gown I can find, and you're gonna be singing tonight in the lounge.” She looked up at him, pulling her long black hair away from her face. She shook her head. “I can't,” she said. “I won't.” “You bet your ass you can, and will. Everyone in this town is gonna see you on display. They're gonna know you're back with Harry Varchetta. This will shut them all up. You're back and you're back to stay.” He got down on one knee and looked at her, his face twisted in a sneer. “And tonight, after you're done singing, I'm taking you to bed. We'll have a good time, just you and me, loving husband and wife.” He paused, then laughed. “Benny, too. Benny wants to watch.” He watched her face change, watched the sick expression saturate her beautiful features. She squeezed her eyes shut and began to moan, softly repeating a name, over and over. Varchetta's forehead creased in a frown. “What? What are you saying?” He leaned close to her. His face went white with 69

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rage as she said, over and over, “Jonathan ... Jonathan ... Jonathan...” Varchetta grabbed Felicia's hair and lifted her head off the carpet, and hit her with his fist, as hard as he could. Her head dropped onto the carpet as he released her.

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Chapter 11 By eight o'clock, Ripper and I were heading west on Sahara, toward the blue mountains in the distance. I seldom have trouble sleeping, but last night—or more accurately, this morning—was one of those rare times. About six o'clock, I quit fighting the problem, and climbed out of bed and hit the shower. Ripper had been cooped up too long. I wanted to exercise him before locking him away in a motel room all day. We drove to the base of the mountains and I pulled off on a narrow dirt road that angled away from Sahara. My old XK120 is not meant for off-road driving, so I picked my way through the ruts and debris. The scrub desert surrounding Las Vegas looked like one big junkyard. The landscape was littered with discarded refrigerators, cars, baby cribs, you name it. I stopped the car and we got out. While Ripper nosed around, I stood looking at the city of Las Vegas, off in the distance. Even though we were several miles from the strip, I knew that it wouldn't be too long before all of this waste land, right to the base of the nearby mountains behind me, would be covered with housing developments. Las Vegas was enjoying an incredible boom period. Never mind that it would soon be running out of water, the boom was underway and the money to be made took top billing, as always. I worked Ripper until he was exhausted, then headed back toward the motel. I was sure that my description had been 71

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distributed to every employee of Varchetta's hotel. They'd be looking for a man about six-five, weighing two-forty-five or so, with sleek black hair worn in a short ponytail, and scars on his nose and chin. They'd never see a man of that description. **** When we got back to the motel, I locked the door and opened a well-stocked leather make-up case. Sitting down in front of the mirror, I spent a diligent half-hour changing my appearance, while Ripper looked on with curiosity. When I finally sat back to admire my handiwork, I did not recognize the stranger in the mirror. Colored contact lenses changed my eyes from gray to blue; makeup covered the scars; an expensive wig covered my own hair and a neatly trimmed, full beard and mustache completed my disguise. I turned my head to the left and right, looking at myself out of the corners of my eyes. Not bad, I thought. A friend who was one of Hollywood's finest make-up men had taught me the fundamentals. I leaned close to the mirror and critically examined my face for any traces of sloppiness that could give me away. Satisfied, I went to my suitcase and fished out a round piece of flat rubber. I walked into the bathroom and laid it over the bathtub drain. Flipping the stopper to the closed position to complete the seal, I ran the tub full of water. A thirsty Ripper is a pissed Ripper. I ordered Ripper to stay, and locked the door behind me. Motel burglaries in Las Vegas are big business. I hoped that 72

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no petty burglar would have the misfortune to select room 108. **** I walked through the main casino entrance of the sprawling hotel and stopped for a moment, looking around. The place was wall-to-wall people. Thanks to its enlarged convention facilities, the Vegas “tourist season” now seems to run year around. I walked past long rows of blackjack tables with not one vacant seat; past crap tables so jammed that everyone stood sideways ("You only need one eye and one arm to shoot craps” was the old saying). I tried to compute the staggering gross a place like this would take in during a twenty-four hour period. Your money is not taken away from you in Las Vegas—you hand it over freely and gladly. There will forever be a Las Vegas. I avoided the long breakfast line waiting to get into the hotel dining room, selecting instead, a seat at the counter. After a good breakfast, I sat for a while with a second cup of coffee, trying to figure out what to do next. There was no way of knowing what time Felicia and her abductor had arrived. Quite possibly, I thought, he could have laid low in Reno for a while, rather than grabbing the first flight out, thinking that I would head directly for the airport the minute I came home and found her gone. In that case they would have arrived here late last night, or early this morning. At any rate, I could not help but think that Varchetta might already have spent his first night alone with Felicia. 73

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I mentally shook myself, got up and paid the check, and walked back into the casino. The action was just as before, heavier perhaps. I strolled toward the lounge. The huge cardboard cutout of Felicia Martinez stood guard at the entrance to the lounge. Varchetta had certainly wasted no time spreading the word. According to the billboard, she would not make her first appearance until nine o'clock. Her cardboard smile seemed vacant. Felicia Martinez, where are you now? Somewhere above me, in this steel and glass monument to human greed, one very frightened, very sick woman was being hidden. I wished she knew I was here in the same building. I had the feeling that right at this moment, she felt totally alone. Well, you're not, I thought. Just hang in there a little longer. I knew I'd have no chance to see her before her nine o'clock performance. I walked around the casino, wagering a few dollars here and there, with no luck. I felt mildly irritated to think that I had stayed at this very hotel several times in the past, never knowing that it was run by one Harry Varchetta. I sat down at a blackjack table, dug out a couple hundred dollars, and found myself on an incredible hot streak. Fifteen minutes later I walked to the cage and exchanged my double handful of black chips for a little over five grand. I tucked the money into my pocket, glanced up at the row of one-way mirrors overhead. Take that, you little prick. I walked back into the casino and looked around, listening to the sound that rolled off the floor. Whoops of laughter, 74

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groans of anguish, the singsong chant of the stickmen, and the constant paging over the public address system were unique only to a casino. I eased through the crowd, resisting the lure of the crap tables as I passed by, heading toward one of the hallways that lead to the hotel proper. Jilly had told me before I'd left Reno that Varchetta had an entire suite on the top floor of this thirty-story hotel. The man did not seem concerned about his security: the floor was not sealed off, nor was there a security guard, to the best of his knowledge. Evidently Varchetta felt safe in this town. Big mistake, little man. I decided to see just how good Varchetta's security really was. The elevator door sighed open. I stepped in, pressed the thirtieth floor button and leaned back against the wall, my arms folded casually across my chest. Seconds later the elevator slid to a stop and the door opened. I peered into the hallway. No guard. There was one door at the end of the hallway. I shut the elevator door and felt it sink beneath me toward the main floor. There was nothing more I could do today.

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Chapter 12 Ripper actually seemed happy to see me when I returned to the motel. I glanced at my watch. Three o'clock. Six long hours to go. I sat down and removed the makeup. I didn't look forward to putting it all on again, but it was too uncomfortable to wear around the motel for the rest of the day. I took a shower and flopped on the bed. I planned to have my gear packed and Ripper waiting for us in the car at the rear of the hotel. After her late show, I'd grab her and we'd get the hell out of there. I closed my eyes, set my mental alarm clock for seven o'clock. That would give me time to get my disguise back on, pack, grab something to eat, and still get to the lounge in time to see Felicia arrive, no doubt accompanied by a squad of Green Berets, or the equivalent. I questioned the wisdom of trying to take her out of there by force, then decided that if that was the way it had to be done, that's the way I'd do it. One way or another, I was taking her out of there. The mood I was in, I would probably have considered a frontal attack through the main casino entrance with a baseball bat. I smiled as I recalled one of the coaches in pro ball, yelling, “Goddammit, hit somebody, anybody!” That was the mood I was in—I wanted to hit somebody, anybody. **** Felicia Martinez lay in a giant, freeform tub, submerged to her neck in steaming hot water. She realized the water was 76

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too hot; it drained the little energy and strength that she had left, adding to the weakness she had felt since Benny Florentine had forced her into the car just a few blocks from Jack's apartment. Her mind drifted. There was no way, she thought, that she was in condition to perform, yet she knew that in just an hour or so she would be standing in front of the microphone in the lounge, facing a huge, curious crowd. She knew Harry wanted her to sing so everyone would know she was back. He didn't care if her performance was good or bad, as long as she made her appearance. She still had a few of the pills left that she had bought from the grubby little man in Reno. Her mind raced, trying to figure out a way to avoid the degradation of submitting to Harry (that thought alone filled her with revulsion), while Benny sat on a chair next to the bed, sweating and watching. She would take the pills halfway through her performance. They would have time to take effect before she would have to take the elevator to the thirtieth floor. She shut her eyes, as if to hold off the memory of the photos she had been shown from the last time. How many times had that happened? Thank God she did not recall any of them. How many other men had been invited to watch? She shivered, despite the hot water, then stood up with effort and stepped out of the tub. She toweled herself dry and sat down in front of the dressing mirror. Her hands shook. The woman who stared back from the mirror looked haggard and old. 77

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How alone she felt. There was no one she could trust here, no way she could get a message to Jack. Was that even necessary? Surely he would have known what had happened, where she had gone. He would come for her. Jack Frost would come for her. She sat in front of the mirror, applying her makeup. Suddenly she was aware of Harry Varchetta's image in the mirror. Before she could react, he slipped his hands under her arms and around her, cupping and lifting her bare breasts. She twisted away from him and walked quickly to the closet, aware of her nakedness. She slipped into a dressing gown, then turned to face him. “We'll see how bashful you are tonight.” He glared at her for a long moment, then walked toward her. She braced herself for the blow, but he reached past her and grabbed a gown off a hanger. He had bought it for her, a nearly transparent red gown that was cut low and wide, nearly baring her breasts. “Wear it!” he ordered. “And don't wear anything under it! Benny will be up here to pick you up in forty-five minutes. Be ready.” Fighting the tears, she sat down on the bed after he walked out of the apartment. When she finally forced herself to put on the dress, she stood in front of the mirror. There was nothing in her wardrobe that she could wear beneath it to soften the impact. He had made sure that the only clothes she had were those he had bought. She understood him only too well. He flaunted her in front of his business associates, displaying her body to one and all. 78

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She glanced at the telephone. To use it she would have to go through the hotel switchboard operator. She realized how trapped she really was. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. With a feeling of dread, she called out for Benny Florentine to enter. As he walked into the room he looked around, an apprehensive look on his face. This was sacred ground to him, she realized. He stopped just inside the door, his eyes riveted to her breasts. He walked slowly to her, sweeping her body with his eyes, making no effort to conceal what was going on in his mind. He grinned. “You're very pretty, Mrs. Varchetta,” he said in his high-pitched voice. She quickly brushed past him and walked toward the door. Even here she was uneasy being alone with him. He frightened her more than any man she had ever met. He followed her into the hallway. In the elevator, on the way to the lobby, he stood close to her, staring down into the open gown while she looked into a corner of the elevator, quietly enduring the sweating ape-like man who towered over her. She could feel his breath on the top of her head; it made her scalp tingle. As she stood looking down at the floor, she could see his hands twitching; she knew he was having difficulty fighting the impulse to lay his hands on her, but he knew the consequences only too well. When the elevator door finally opened, she exhaled with relief and stepped into the flow of humanity that walked past the elevator. **** 79

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Felicia drifted through the crowd, aware of the chattering of the crowd, the questioning glances. “He must be a bodyguard,” an old woman said to her husband. “She must be someone important to have that kind of man protecting her.” As Felicia approached the steps leading up to the stage, a big man with a full beard and mustache got up from a nearby table and turned into her path. She bumped headlong into him. He steadied her with both hands on her shoulders, looking down at her. Her eyes went wide as he said softly, “Ripper misses you.” The massive arm of Benny Florentine reached over her right shoulder and grabbed the bearded man by the lapels of his sport coat. “Watch where you're going, asshole!” Benny said. The bearded man said in a heavy Texas drawl, “My apologies, ma'am. I shore ‘nuff didn't see you down thar, you're such a little thang.” Felicia felt like laughing and crying at the same time. Even in her shock she could not help but marvel at his disguise. Jack Frost looked down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. Then he looked over her head at Benny. The smile never faded, but the eyes changed. “I'm shore sorry, podnah, I didn't mean to run into your purdy little wife.” Benny's brow furrowed, while that sank in. Finally he said, “Watch where the hell you're walking.” Frost laughed and brushed past Felicia, slapping Benny on the arm. “Shore, shore! I didn't mean to almost knock her 80

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down, but that's better than almost knocking her up, right?” He laughed again, while Benny glowered at him. Poking him, but hard, on the arm, Frost strolled away, still laughing. “Goddamn smart ass,” Benny muttered. Felicia's knees would scarcely support her as she climbed the steps and walked over to the microphone. She stood for a moment, looking at the members of the band, a wide smile on her face. They gave her a standing ovation. The lights dimmed until the stage was in total darkness. A soft blue spotlight fell on the microphone. Felicia walked into the circle of light, head down. Her long red gown was daring, even by Vegas standards. I thought about my five thousand in winnings, folded up in my pocket. A new wardrobe would be the first thing I'd buy her. Felicia lifted her eyes to the crowd, and softly began to sing. **** I stood on the outskirts of the crowded lounge and watched Felicia's performance. The crowd loved her, and so did I. Even the boys in the band stood and joined in the applause when she finished her first song. Varchetta's goon sat at a small table close to the stage, looking up at Felicia in awe—almost reverence. He was a big mother. He would look right at home swinging from tree to tree. So he was the man on the other end of the telephone that I had heard in Jilly's taped conversation. I thought about what a man like him would do to a gentle, sensitive woman like Vi 81

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Evans. And I thought about him with Felicia and found myself gritting my teeth. People like this cretin just walk around taking up valuable space and air, as far as I'm concerned—a rather callous outlook on life perhaps, but mine just the same. I never said I was perfect. As her act grew to a close, I made my way out of the lounge area and headed down a long hallway. Seconds later, I stood in the elevator as it swept me upward. The door opened with a pneumatic hiss. I glanced out. Nothing. I walked down the red carpeted hallway toward the door, trying to figure out where I could hide long enough to surprise the monster who would bring her to this very door, just moments from now. There didn't appear to be a hiding place. Quickly retracing my steps, I walked past the elevator to the other end of the hallway. I spotted an alcove just to the left of a window looking down on the strip, thirty stories below. Rain lashed against the window. I glanced out at the sea of automobiles in the parking lot, catching the movement of people dashing to their cars through the wind and rain, and the headlights of cars creeping along the Strip in the blinding rain. I spotted a door in the alcove, and opened it. I stepped into the narrow space and waited. After a few long minutes, I heard a “ding” and the elevator door opened. I peered around the corner as Felicia stepped out. As Benny stepped out of the elevator, she turned and pressed the palm of her hand against his chest. 82

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“No, Benny,” she said, smiling up at him. “You don't have to bother taking me to the door. I'm safe here. This will be just fine. Thank you very much for seeing me home.” I saw him hesitate, not quite sure what to do. He said, “I better see you to the door. Mr. Varchetta would want me to see you to the door.” She smiled, reached up and adjusted his tie. She had his undivided attention. He cocked his head to one side and looked down at her, puzzled. Even from where I was standing, it was obvious he was flattered, amazed that she was showing him some attention. “That's fine, Benny, I'm safe, now. And thank you.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “I feel lucky to have a man like you around to protect me. That bearded man would have tried to pick me up if it hadn't been for you.” Dumbo's chest puffed up. Flustered, he grinned and mumbled something about it really being nothing at all. He backed into the elevator. The doors slid together. The last glimpse I got of the big ape, he was still grinning. Felicia glanced around just as I stepped out of the alcove. A groan escaped her lips. I scooped her off her feet and hurried her back into the alcove. We squeezed into the small space together. “We'll stay here for a few minutes until we're sure he's gone. Then we'll grab the elevator and get the hell out of here.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I couldn't believe it was you,” she said. “Are you okay?” I said. 83

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She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. She threw her arms around my waist and squeezed as hard as she could. “Harry had invited Benny to come and watch—” I didn't let her finish that terrible sentence. “Does Benny live here in the hotel?” I said. She nodded. I went on, thinking aloud: “That means he'll probably go back down to his room and wait for Varchetta's call.” “Let's do our disappearing act,” I said, as I towed her toward the elevator. **** Five minutes later we walked through a back exit into one of the worst rainstorms I'd ever seen in Las Vegas. We put our heads down against the wind-driven rain and hurried around the edge of the swimming pool, heading toward the parking lot. We walked through ankle-deep puddles, working our way through the parking lot toward the sanctuary of the car. We'd be long gone before they ever realized she was missing.

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Chapter 13 I glanced at Felicia. Her eyes were bright and excited in the glow of the instrument lights as she stared through the windshield at the onrushing road. I relaxed in the seat, arms outstretched, both hands on the steering wheel. The Jag hugged the rain-washed road, delighted with being let loose after being confined for so long in the city. The clicking of the wipers was the only sound inside the car, except for the deep-throated moan of the engine as it propelled us away from Las Vegas. With luck, we would be well and gone before Varchetta discovered she was missing. There was no evidence that she'd been taken; from all practical appearances she'd left on her own, once again. I grinned as I thought of Benny, sitting alone in his room, filled with anticipation. I imagined the little beads of sweat on the dummy's face as he explored his erotic thoughts. Then, suddenly, it wasn't funny, and I found myself pissed. I forced myself to think of other things. Such as, where to now? I knew one thing for certain: I wanted to get out of Nevada as quickly as possible. I glanced at Felicia again. This time she was slouched in the seat, eyes closed, mentally and physically exhausted. Ripper tried to get comfortable, at Felicia's expense. She stirred, and her eyes opened. “Poor Ripper,” she said. She put both arms around the brute and helped him onto her lap. 85

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The big predator looked at me and sprawled against the warmth of her body, a one-hundred-fifty pound puppy. “Isn't he squashing you?” I said. “He's tired, Jack. He's worked hard, too, you know.” Ripper let out a huge sigh and laid his ugly face between the full breasts that swelled up out of wet tissue-thin red evening gown. The sight gave new meaning to the term, “Lucky Dog.” **** For the next hour I continued to cruise right around the century mark, letting the Jag eat up the miles. We drove deeper into the desert. I checked the gauges. Everything was normal and the tank was full. There'd be no need to stop anywhere until we were well away from Las Vegas. I glanced over at my companions. They were sound asleep, Felicia's cheek resting against Ripper's head, her arms wrapped around him. **** A few hours later, the lights of Tonopah, beckoned. I pulled into a hotel parking lot. The rain was coming down harder than ever. A stiff, cold wind swept across the high desert, adding to the general misery. I killed the engine and glanced at my watch. Four-thirty. Storm clouds boiled overhead; dawn would be late getting here this morning. I sat there in the quiet, dark interior, listening to the creaking of the engine as it cooled down, while I looked at my sleeping companions. Ripper was snoring, his head still 86

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resting between her breasts, which rose and fell steadily as she breathed deeply in her sleep. I was reluctant to disturb her—and yes, I realized I was enjoying the view. Finally, I touched her cheek. She did not move. “Hey, sleepyhead,” I said. Nothing. I leaned closer and called her name. Ripper opened his eyes and gave me a disgusted look. “Anytime you want to drive, I'll happily trade you places,” I said to his ugly face. He groaned and moved, and she came awake—a one-hundred-fifty pound Doberman on your lap will do that to you. She looked around, confused. “Where are we?” “Tonopah. Hungry?” “Starved.” She looked out at the driving rain. “Oh my, it's really coming down out there!” I got out of the car and dashed quickly around to her side. I opened the door and Ripper clambered out. She laughed as he departed, holding her stomach. Getting out, she headed for the hotel front door, her head bent down against the driving wind and rain, Ripper right behind her. I locked the car and followed them into the lobby. I led Ripper to a secluded corner and gave him the command to stay. He settled to the floor, but his eyes followed Felicia as she headed toward the ladies’ room. I dug out my cell phone. Minutes later I had a jubilant Jilly on the telephone. “Fantastic! You got her out of there the same damn day she arrived!” He laughed, elated. I found myself grinning from ear to ear as I stood there, dripping water onto the rug. 87

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Jilly solved my problem before I could pose it to him. “Take her to Andy McGuire's place in Incline Village; she knows where it is. He has a vacation cottage in the hills just outside Virginia City. We'll figure out what to do after you two get your bearings.” Before I could say anything, he went on: “How is she? Is she okay?” I assured him that she was exhausted but unharmed. “How's Ripper?” I laughed. “In love.” “Ripper?” “With Felicia,” I said, laughing. Jilly made an understanding sound at the other end of the phone and laughed. “Who isn't,” he said. I smiled. “We've got to get some food into us and get out of here. I'll stay in touch. Tell Vi to breathe easy, okay? “Okay. And Jack, thanks.” “Believe me, my friend, it has been my pleasure.” I hung up just as Felicia walked out of the ladies’ room. She had combed her hair and freshened her make-up. I slipped my sport coat off and held it open for her. “Oh, thank you Jack. I am cold,” she said. I didn't tell her that I was really trying to hide that transparent gown which was plastered to her body. I led her into the dining room. A waitress was sitting at the counter, drinking coffee. There was no one else in the place except for an older couple having an early breakfast before continuing on their vacation trip. 88

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The waitress placed hot coffee in front of us and we ordered breakfast. I was delighted when she ordered eggs “Over easy, please,” and sausage. After we ordered, we sat in silence, staring out the window at the rain-dimpled surface of the deserted, wind-swept swimming pool. “I called Jilly,” I said. She looked at me with interest. “He wants us to go to Andy's place. He said you know the address.” She nodded. “It will be good to see him,” she said. I heard the weariness in her voice. I went on. “Jilly said that he has a little cabin somewhere up in the hills behind Virginia City. He suggested we kick back there for awhile until this blows over.” She stared at me for a few moments, her eyes big and sad. Then she looked down at her coffee and just nodded. “Did I say something wrong?” I said. “No.” “I think I did,” I said. She looked up at me and for a moment I thought she was going to cry. She didn't, but what was going on in her mind showed in those enormous black eyes. She took a sip of coffee before she spoke again. “Jonathan and I spent some time together there.” “Oh.” My voice sounded hollow in my ears. They were obviously beautiful, but painful, memories. I envied both of them. I'd never known anything like that; I wondered if I ever would. I suppose you don't miss what you've never had, but I had just enough of an inkling of what it would be like, from the few things she'd said, to fill me with a sense of loss. 89

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Somehow I already knew that I be an intruder in that cabin. We walked out of the hotel just as faint traces of dawn began showing in the east. We clambered into the car, and spent several minutes getting Ripper situated. As I accelerated away from the hotel, my companions drifted off to sleep.

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Chapter 14 Benny Florentine sat on the oversized bed in his room, dressed in a fresh black suit. He inspected his polished shoes, flicked a small piece of lint from the left sleeve of his jacket, adjusted his tie for perhaps the twentieth time, and glanced once again at his watch. He could not keep the worrisome thought from creeping into his mind: what if the boss had decided against letting him watch. What if he had forgotten? He got up and walked across the room. He did not want to think that. The boss wouldn't do that to him; hadn't he done a good job? The boss had said so; he wouldn't lie. He poked through a stack of skin magazines, selected one and returned to the bed. He sat there, flipping through the pages, staring at the familiar poses. But his mind was on the bedroom, some ten floors above him. No, the boss wouldn't lie. He told himself that, over and over. Any minute now, the telephone would ring. The thought had no sooner entered his mind than the phone did ring. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Hello?” There was a pause. Then Harry Varchetta's heavy, sarcastic, nasal voice crackled in his ear. “What the hell are you doing there?” For a moment, Benny was at a loss for words. “Why, I been sitting here waiting for you to call boss, waiting for you to tell me I could come up and watch, like you said.” 91

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Varchetta's voice cracked. “What the hell do you mean, you're sitting there waiting for me to call! Where's Felicia?” Benny felt the coldness creep into his stomach. He didn't want to say anything to upset his boss, but he was confused. His brow furrowed as he concentrated. “I don't know what you mean, Boss.” “Goddamnit, Benny! That's clear enough! Where's Felicia? You were supposed to deliver her up here to me after she finished her act in the lounge! I just called down there. Alex said you two left together over an hour ago!” Benny felt the sickness spreading in his stomach. Oh shit, now I'm in for it, he thought. He tried to reconstruct the whole thing in his mind. Varchetta's voice screamed in his ear. “You sonofabitch, are you there? Did you fall asleep, you moron!” Benny's eyes narrowed and he scowled at the phone, something he would have never done if he were facing his boss in person. He mouthed an obscenity, his face sullen. “I dunno where she is,” he finally said. Fear flooded through Benny as his boss quietly said, “Youdon't-know-where-she-is?” Benny flinched and held the receiver away from his ear as his boss screamed in his ear: “You-don't-know-where-she-is! You were supposed to walk her right to the door! Dammit, Benny, what happened!” Benny got off the bed, the skin magazine spilling to the floor. He stood there, the receiver to his ear, puzzlement twisting his face. “We got off the elevator on your floor, boss. She told me that I could go on back down to my room and 92

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wait for your phone call, that she could make it to your apartment okay by herself.” Then, like a child with a secret too big to keep to himself, he said, “She even gave me a kiss on the cheek and thanked me for seeing her to her floor, and saving me from that big guy in the lounge.” He stood there, grinning at the memory. The grin disappeared at the sound of the sharp inhalation of breath at the other end of the telephone. “Big guy! Benny, you're one dumb bastard. You'll pay for this. Now get your ass up here, dummy. And it won't be to watch no screwin’ match!” The phone slammed down in his ear.

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Chapter 15 I shifted in my seat, trying to stretch aching muscles as I watched for deer and cattle over the Jag's long sloping hood. This was “open range” country, where the cattle were free to roam wherever they pleased. I was suddenly aware that Felicia was studying me. “Well, you're awake,” I said. “Have been for quite a while.” “You want to ask me something?” She smiled. “You're pretty tuned in to people, aren't you?” Without waiting for my reply, she went on. “Jack, what do you actually do for a living? I asked Jilly, but he said he really didn't know. How can that be, you being his best friend and all?” “I'm retired.” “Retired? I don't think I believe you.” “Oh yeah? Well I am.” “Retired from what? Football?” I hesitated too long. “Yeah, football.” “I heard you were really bad at it.” “Bad at what?” “Lying. You're bad at lying.” “Whoever said that is a liar.” She laughed again. “Jilly said that, and you know he's no liar. He said you don't even know how to lie—and now I can see that he's right!” 94

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She paused again. “C'mon, Jack. What do you really do for a living? You're obviously not hurting for money. You don't seem to have any visible means of support. You don't even wear a watch.” “You really like to pry, you know that? Gee, you don't look like the prying type.” She laughed and hugged Ripper. It was nice to hear her laugh. I realized she was at least momentarily happy, and that was probably because she was looking forward to seeing Andy McGuire. “How come you never married?” “Married?” I said. “Do you know you answer every question with a question?” “I do?” She sighed. “Oh well, I know everything about you anyway, just by what you haven't told me.” I glanced at her. She returned my gaze, smiling. For some reason I felt as if I'd just spilled my guts. “I'm part witch you know. Jonathan knew it; he believed it, too. I see things are going to happen.” “I think I believe you,” I said. “No, I guess I really do believe you.” And for some reason, I did. **** An hour later I turned off 395 North, drove to the top of Spooner Summit and turned right on Route 28. I glanced at Felicia. She was once again dozing, her arms wrapped around her big puppy.

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She shifted under Ripper's weight. The dog stretched, trampling her in the process. “Big dog, very big dog,” she muttered. There was just enough light in the murky dawn to see the driveways leading up to the exclusive homes nestling in the surround hills. I followed her directions, and a few minutes later pulled into the circular driveway of Andy McGuire's sprawling lakefront home. Felicia opened her door as soon as the car rolled to a halt, and Ripper jumped out of the car, into the rain. He stood there, looking miserable, waiting for Felicia. She got out and ran quickly to the door, Ripper on her heels. I walked around the tail of the car just as the front door opened. I heard Andy McGuire Wahoo loudly and say, “Howdy, little gal!” He reached Felicia in two or three long strides, and wrapped his huge arms around her. Ripper just stood there, looking up at the big man. Then, much to my astonishment, McGuire leaned down and playfully ruffled Ripper's ears! Felicia squeezed Andy McGuire with all her might. He was obviously a reminder of the Good Old Days. The big man grinned at me over the top of her head, and stuck out a meaty hand. “Howdy, Jack. Damn nice to see you again,” he said. “Jilly called a few hours ago and explained the situation.” Andy motioned us inside and shut the door behind us. Felicia stood there shivering, her hair plastered to her head. “You'd better get out of that wet dress,” I said. “What there is of it,” Andy remarked. 96

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“That's all she has, Andy. I didn't have time to let her pack.” “Ah, hell, we'll find something for her to wear.” He motioned toward the kitchen. “Coffee's in the kitchen. Why don'tcha pour us some while I get Felicia situated.” **** I walked into the vast ranch house-type kitchen, located the cups and poured the coffee. I joined Andy and Felicia in the living room and we talked or an hour or so. Andy and I did most of the talking while Felicia sat on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, wearing one of Andy McGuire's giantsize bathrobes. She had to keep pushing the sleeves up, in order to hold her coffee. She tried her best to follow the conversation, but her eyes were heavy. The long hot bath had relaxed her, and the emotional strain of the past twenty-four hours had taken its toll. I put my coffee down and walked over to her. She looked up at me, trying to appear alert. “Why don't you catch a few hours of sleep,” I said. “I'm fine, Jack,” she protested. “I'm sure you are,” I said. I reached down, lifted her, and looked at Andy. He motioned down the hallway. “Second door on your right,” he said. Felicia mumbled something to Andy over my right shoulder as I carried her off toward the bedroom, her head resting against my chest. “Sleep tight, honey,” Andy called out. “Don't you worry; yore safe here.” 97

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I pushed the bedroom door open with my right foot and walked in. The covers were already turned back. I lowered her into bed and covered her. She rolled over on her right side, her long black hair spilling over the pillow, one big eye looking sleepily up at me. Before I turned to leave, she was sound asleep. I quietly shut the door behind me and walked back down the hall. **** “Jilly said you didn't have too much trouble getting her out of there,” Andy said. “That surprised me.” “Varchetta evidently did not think that we would move that quickly, if at all. We were fortunate.” I told him about Benny, and Varchetta's offer to let him watch. Andy swore with conviction. He was about Benny's size, but perhaps sixty years old, or so and in good physical condition. We talked for a while. He'd gotten out of the racing game after Jonathan Flynn had been killed. He had sold his entire racing stable and gone into retirement. The enjoyment and excitement that the racing game had offered had died along with his friend. I brought him up to date on what had happened with Felicia since Flynn's funeral, some two months ago. Andy sat there, his face mellow. He shook his head. “I have to tell you, Jack, that I'm happy to have her back here in this house.” I told him about the five thousand dollars in winnings. He looked pleased. “All in all, I'd say you had a pretty successful night.” I was in a euphoric mood. The tension had gone out of me, the warmth and security of the house had worked its magic 98

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spell, and suddenly I felt like Raggedy Andy. I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open, and I leaned back against the sofa. “Andy, I'm outta gas.” “Come on, I'll show you to your room.” I got to my feet with effort, feeling very old. I stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out who he reminded me of. The mane of long red hair, the long mutton chop sideburns and the bushy eyebrows and mustache all seemed somehow familiar. I snapped my fingers and laughed. “I know who you are!” “I shore hope so!” “No, I mean, I know who you remind me of!” “Who?” “That little cartoon character, the one who wears the big ten-gallon hat, the one who can never get his horse to stop. You know, the little guy who's always yelling, ‘Whoa, horsy! Whoa! Ah c'mon horse, whoa!"’ He made a wry face. “Yosemite Sam.” I laughed. “You've been told that before.” “Yup.” He guffawed. After a few moments his face grew serious. “Jilly said you wanted to use my cabin up in the hills behind Virginia City.” I nodded. “I believe it's probably a good idea if we disappear for a few weeks. If we go back to Reno, it'll happen all over again. Felicia is not in good shape, Andy. I know that this scared the hell out of her, but people in her mental state have poor memories and even worse judgment. They do strange things. 99

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“Jilly thought so, too; so do I. You're welcome to use it for as long as you want.” He hesitated. “Uh, I reckon Felicia probably told you that she and Jon spent some time up there together.” “She did.” I could see that he wanted to say more, but didn't know how to go about it. “You're wondering how she'll feel about my being there,” I said. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he said. “I'll make it as painless as possible. I don't want to step on any old memories. Right now I'm more worried about her safety.” “Yore right of course,” he said. “You want to hang around here for a few days before you go on up there?” “Let's see how she feels in the morning.” I offered my hand, which he took. I tottered off down the hallway. I glanced over my shoulder. He was sitting, staring down at the rug. **** I was up early. I rummaged around the kitchen, found the makings for coffee, and was having my third cup when Andy came lumbering down the hallway in his bathrobe, wearing a worried look. “Morning,” I said. “Morning, Jack.” “What's the problem?” He motioned back down the hall with his head. “Felicia's awake, I can hear her in her bathroom, retching all over the place.” 100

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“Hmmm,” I said, sitting there for a moment. “Maybe she caught cold, running through that rainstorm wearing just that flimsy dress.” “Maybe.” He didn't sound convinced. I poured him a cup of coffee. “I'm going to take her out this morning and buy her some clothes with the five grand that Varchetta donated,” I said. Andy grinned, showing great banks of white porcelain. “That sounds good. Buying new clothes always perks up a gal.” Some time later, we heard a sound. We turned from the kitchen table and looked into the hallway. Felicia came down the hallway, wearing Andy's huge bathrobe, knuckling her eyes like a little girl. Every protective instinct a man has ever experienced went off inside me in unison. Andy was obviously affected the same way. “Ahhh, ain't that just something. Lookie there, Jack!” “I've been looking at that for some time now, Andy. Affects me the same way every time.” I got up and walked to her. She looked up at me. “I feel terrible,’ she admitted. “Catching a cold?” “I don't think so.” “Sit down and have some coffee.” “Coffee sounds awful,” she said. She sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled her feet up under her. “I'm cold,” she said, shivering. Andy looked puzzled. “Shucks, it ain't cold in here at all.” He looked at me, worried. 101

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“She's always cold,” I said. Her face was pale and drawn. She refused breakfast, and after a short time excused herself to get ready for the shopping trip that I'd planned for us. Despite the way she felt, she seemed excited, which had made me glow all over. **** After a shower and some fresh air, Felicia felt better. We spent the morning and most of the afternoon working our way through some quaint little shops. I had fun, spending most of the time sitting in a chair in each shop while she modeled one outfit after another. Every time she looked at a price tag, she would protest. Every time, I reminded her that we were spending Varchetta's money. We shot the whole five thousand bucks, plus another eight-hundred of mine, which I didn't tell her about. On the way home, I outlined my plan to stay at the Virginia City cottage for at least several weeks, perhaps even months. She agreed that it was a good idea. She also admitted that it would be painful to go back there, but right now that was what she wanted to do more than anything. **** We relaxed at Andy's comfortable home for the next two days. Occasionally, the conversation would turn to Jonathan Flynn. At first, we would all sit there, embarrassed. While the memory of him was painful, it seemed wrong not to talk about him at all. Eventually, we all came to understand that it was unnecessary to avoid his name.

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Chapter 16 On the morning we were to leave, she was sick again. She walked out of the bathroom, weak and shaken. “I think you should see a doctor,” I said. “Not now, Jack,” she said. “I'm sure it's just the aftereffects of the last few days. Let's give it a while longer.” It was a crisp, brilliant morning. We waved our farewells, leaving Andy McGuire standing in his driveway wearing a woebegone look on his face. Felicia had the look of a woman who was anticipating a vacation trip. I realized that she felt she was going home. For some reason, it saddened me. I drove on, doing far more listening than talking, and delighted to do so. Felicia sat with her arms around a snoozing Ripper and talked and talked and talked. I knew she was excited at the thought of seeing the cabin again. I learned that she had an absolute love for horses and had ridden a lot as a child. I made up my mind to look into buying a horse for her as soon as we got to Virginia City. She caught me grinning. “What's so funny?” she said, amusement in her voice. Then: “I'm talking too much, aren't I!” “Not at all,” I said truthfully. **** I nudged Felicia as we entered the outskirts of Virginia City. She came awake instantly, eyes big and excited. We drove the length of the little historic town. I followed her 103

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directions, and turned away from town on a narrow dirt road. Five miles later, Felicia pointed. “There, Jack!” The little cabin sat on a point of land overlooking the Carson Valley. It didn't look like much, no “megabuck” Aframe, but it looked comfortable, and it looked warm and inviting, too. I felt relieved that the trip was nearly over. It had been an easy drive from Andy's home, so it wasn't the distance; I guess it was more symbolic than anything. Now we could relax. We were here, and we were safe. I felt pleasantly weary. I drove down a narrow dirt road that led to the cabin, rolling to a halt right at the front door. We got out and stretched. It had been crowded to begin with, and it had gotten worse as the miles had gone by. I stood there, stretching and breathing the clean mountain air. I walked toward the edge of the cliff, Felicia tagging along at my side. My hands were in my pockets and my jacket collar was turned up against the wind. Felicia was bundled up in a long coat. We stopped at the edge of the cliff and looked down on the valley. Felicia said, “Isn't it just beautiful.” I looked at her. The wind snapped the collar of her coat hard enough against her face to bring color to her cheeks. “Yes, it is,” I agreed. I looked at her for a few seconds more, and then said, “Let's get in out of the cold and see what the place looks like.” **** 104

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It was quiet inside. She opened the windows; the fresh air cleared the musty smell from the cabin. I began opening pantry and closet doors. I found a two-pound, unopened tin of coffee, canned goods, blankets, cleaning supplies—the place was very well stocked. “We're going to have to lay in a supply of groceries,” I said. “Everything else seems to be here.” “Yes,” she said. There was a sad softness in her voice. “We left it in good order.” She looked around, her hands in her pockets. I was losing her, and I knew it. “Well, listen,” I said, wanting to speed things along. “C'mon, I'm not going to carry everything in here myself.” Amusement chased the sadness from her eyes. She knew what I was trying to do. She cooperated, but I knew only too well she didn't feel like it. I've always admired “Class.” It's something you can't buy, an intangible thing that some people go their entire lives without. Class. That one word summed up this lady in a nutshell. Class, through and through. I walked outside, Felicia close behind. The thought exploded into my mind, as if my heart had taken out a fullcolor advertisement for my brain to read. “I love her,” I said aloud, stopping in my tracks. She bumped into me from behind, laughing and hanging on to me to keep from falling. I stood there, my hands on my hips, stunned at the realization. “Oh that's just terrific!” I muttered. I began walking toward the car. “What's terrific, Jack?” she said. I ignored her and started unloading the car. 105

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“Jack, what's so terrific?”

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Chapter 17 It didn't take long to get settled. When we had things stowed away, I said, “Let's go into town and pick up some groceries.” She gave me a “no-nonsense-now” look. “Jack, who's paying for this?” It caught me off guard. “Uh, Jilly is.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who else would be paying for it?” I said. It sounded lame, even to me. “You.” “Oh. Well, that's wrong. Jilly's paying for it. I'm just the hired help.” She gave me a look that had “nonbeliever” written all over it. “Uh-huh,” she said. And just like that, I felt like I had blurted out an entire confession. She said she was part witch; I was beginning to believe her. **** A short while later I stood patiently in an aisle of the local supermarket. I leaned on the basket, one foot resting on the lower frame of the cart, watching Felicia as she stood in front of a stack of canned goods, trying to make up her mind. Once again that “married” feeling came over me. This time it didn't bother me as much. I thought about that for a moment, little alarm bells going off in my mind. Now that bothered me! 107

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As we were checking out, she placed a hand on my arm and said, “I'll be right back, I'm dying for some lemons.” “Lemons?” I said, but she had already hurried off. She returned in a few minutes carrying a bag full of lemons. The checker waited patiently, a smile on his face. He added the lemons to the total. Turning to me he said, “Lemons, huh? Your wife isn't pregnant is she?” I smiled and shook my head. “No, I doubt very much if she's...” I turned to stare at her. “...pregnant.” The checker gave me a strange look. I paid him, my mind not at all on what I was doing. As I wheeled the cart to the car, I looked down at her. “Tomorrow, I really would like you to see a doctor.” She made a wry face. “I'm fine, really!” “Just once, please do as I ask.” She hesitated. “I don't like to go to doctors.” “Well who likes to go to doctors?” I regretted the gruffness I heard in my voice. She had not missed the tone of my voice. “I'm sorry,” she said, “if I sounded childish. If it makes you feel better, I'll go.” **** When we got back to the cabin, I asked her to please, just for me, sit down and relax and let me put the groceries away. She protested, but finally gave in. She looked tired. Plucking a lemon out of the bag, she cut it neatly in half and walked out of the little kitchen. 108

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I stood there with a “Ah-ha! That proves you're pregnant!” look on my face. But if that were true, whose baby was it? It sure as hell wasn't mine. Varchetta's? What a disgusting thought! Anyway, she said he hadn't touched her during that brief period of time that he had her. “Dummy,” I thought, “Even if he had touched her, she wouldn't be getting sick already. It had been two months since Flynn had been killed, and she had left Varchetta several months prior to that. So it wasn't Varchetta. At least that was a relief. “Good God,” I said aloud, as the little cartoon light bulb went on in my head. For a moment I stood there, not breathing. That only left one person, and he was a long time dead. I wondered how Felicia would handle the news. I was pretty sure I knew.

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Chapter 18 With a bit of prodding on my part, Felicia reluctantly accompanied me to see a doctor the following morning. I sat on a couch in the outer office, thumbing through a magazine, my mind on what was going on in the examination room. When she finally walked through the door her face wore a dazed expression. The doctor was directly behind her, a tall young man with a goatee, and very old eyes. He had been standing at his receptionist's desk, looking over a patient's chart, when we had walked in. I had taken a liking to him right away. We looked at each other over the top of her head. “It's as you suspected, Mr. Frost,” he said, smiling. “Congratulations. I'll want to see her again in two weeks.” “Thank you, doctor,” I said. I took her elbow and led her out into the bright sunlight. “How do you feel?” I said. “Fine, oh my God, I'm fine!” she said in a voice just short of laughter. She stopped and looked up at me. “I'm pregnant,” she said, with a sudden laugh. “Pregnant! Isn't that wonderful!” I laughed, too. “Yes, I guess it is,” I said. “And it's Jonathan's baby. Jonathan's...” Her voice trailed off and suddenly she was crying hard, overcome by the enormity of what she had just learned. I put an arm around her and led her toward the car. “I know, I know,” I said. “I'm happy for you, Felicia. I'm happy for Jonathan, too.” 110

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“It's going to be a boy, Jack,” she said, struggling to get herself under control. “Now how do you know that?” “I know,” she said, absolutely sure. “I just know.” “If you say so,” I said. Then: “I hope you're right.” “It will be,” she said, nodding her head with confidence. Although there was nothing to base it on, I believed her. **** As we drove home, Felicia was talkative and happy, the thought of carrying Flynn's baby filling her with elation. But by the time we arrived back at the little cabin, she had become moody and introspective. She disappeared into her bedroom to change into her robe. I built a fire and poured a glass of wine, which she accepted with a small smile as she settled in front of the fireplace, her feet curled up under her. I had seen that pose so many times; it was the way she sat when she was lost in thought. For perhaps an hour she said nothing, while she traced circles around the rim of the wine glass with her fingertips. Ripper lay sound asleep next to her, soaking up the heat from the fire. I sat in a deep chair, trying to get interested in a book, with no success. About eleven o'clock, she stood up without a word and walked into her bedroom, not bothering to shut the door behind her. I could hear the bed creak and the sound of covers being pulled up over her. Ripper lifted his head off the rug and looked around, then lowered his head again and sighed. “Good night, Felicia.” 111

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“Good night, Jack,” came the lost little voice. I sat in the dimly lit room and listened to the muted sound of the surf, feeling the cabin trembling in the wind. I stared into the fire, lost in my own thoughts.

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Chapter 19 The next morning Felicia woke up retching. The day was not off to a good start. I puttered around outside the cabin, killing time until she made her appearance, pale and weak. She forced a small smile. I made sure she was bundled up. As we pulled away from the cabin, she said, softly, “Where are we going?” “We're going to find you a horse,” I said. She turned and looked at me. “Are you serious?” “I am, indeed,” I said. “The doctor said exercise would be good for you.” A small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. We rode on in silence, but I was aware of her glancing at me, from time to time. The doctor's receptionist had told me of an excellent stable located just outside of town. I found it without too much difficulty. We walked through the corral, looking at horses. She didn't want one too big, “About fifteen hands high,” she said, “and not too wide. It's too uncomfortable straddling it.” She grasped my arm. “Jack, look at that one!” She pointed toward a brown quarter horse, what the doctor ordered. She walked around the horse, patting him as she went. The horse appeared docile, yet he had a spirited look. “Do you like him?” I said. “I love him!” 113

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“He's yours.” She looked worried. “How long is the lease?” she said, a worried look on her face. “Won't he be awfully expensive?” “You don't have to sign a lease when you buy a horse.” The most beautiful, pleased expression spread over her face. “Buy him, Jack? Jane Withers, the woman who ran the stable, was a healthy looking gal about forty-five years old, six-two or so, and maybe one-hundred-eighty pounds of mostly muscle. She looked like she could kill a mountain lion, yet somehow she came across feminine. I liked her. “Nine-hundred dollars,” she said, “You're a real horsetrader, partner.” “Yeah, right, that would be me.” I counted out the money. She gave me a receipt, and after making boarding arrangements, I watched Felicia saddle up and swing easily up onto the horse. “Jack, I just don't know what to say.” “Giddyup is good.” She gave me a smile of pure joy before her face turned serious. “Thank you, Jack,” I can't tell you what this means to me.” “Believe me, it really is my pleasure.” What an understatement! Hell, I felt thirty feet tall! I motioned toward the hills, wanting to change the subject. “Why don't you ride for awhile? Take Ripper with you. He could use the exercise. I'll come back after you in say, an hour or so? Is that long enough?” 114

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“I'll meet you at the cabin,” she said. “It's only four or five miles.” “Isn't that a long way?” “No,” she said, laughing. “I'll love it.” “Deal,” I said. She rode away, while I stood there, beaming. She loved horses. It would keep her from sitting around, thinking too much. From that day on, I scarcely saw her. She spent every available moment at the stable, or riding in the hills. Every morning she pestered me to drive her to the stable, and I always obliged. She needed to be alone. The hills and horse offered her the escape she needed, the time to be alone with their child.

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Chapter 20 On the first of December she insisted that we go out and buy a Christmas tree. “But it's only the first of December,” I said. “Won't it be dried out by Christmas?” “Then we'll get another one,” she said, pulling me out of the cabin by my arm. “Don't be such an old Scrooge, Jack Frost. Why, your name alone should give you some kind of Christmas spirit!” So we bought a Christmas tree and carried it back to the little cabin, strapped to the chrome luggage rack on the back of the Jaguar. It was a monster, nearly covering the car. I was soaked with perspiration by the time I finished wrestling it into the little cabin and got it mounted in the Christmas tree stand. We spent the evening decorating our prize, and afterward, in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, we toasted each other. She noted curiously the way Christmas music affected me, but she did not tease me about it, or even comment on it for that matter. She simply accepted it. She, too, respected my rare moments of melancholy. I suggested taking her out to dinner on Christmas day, but she adamantly refused. “We'll have Christmas dinner here,” she said. “Why go to all that bother when there's just the two of us?” 116

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“Three of us,” she corrected, patting her belly. “And I want to do it.” **** We were in and out of the cabin to the grocery store God knows how many times during those last few days before Christmas. You'd swear she intended to feed an entire army, instead of just the two, three of us. On Christmas day, it was all there: turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pumpkin pie, and hot coffee. Dinner was delicious; Felicia was a great cook. Afterward, I groaned. “My stomach feels like yours looks,” I said. She laughed. “Jack! Be nice!” “Be nice! Listen to you! You love it!” She smiled, her face softening. “Oh yes, I do love it.” **** We opened our gifts after dinner. She handed me a small package, a shy look on her face. “It's not much,” she said, “but I saw it and liked it. I hope you do.” I felt immensely pleased, even before I opened the package. Somehow I knew it was something that she had made for me. It was a necklace, made from an arrowhead that she had found along the trail. “It's absolutely beautiful,” I said, meaning it. I could see the relief on her face when she saw that I liked it. I put it on. “Oh my,” she said, “that really looks good on you!” I walked to a mirror and admired it. The most curious feeling swept through me. “No one ever made anything for 117

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me before,” I said, and even I was surprised at the way my voice sounded. I glanced at her reflection in the mirror, and saw the tears spring into her eyes. Clearing my throat quickly, I walked to the closet and withdrew a long rectangular box and offered it to her. “Oh, Jack!” she said, as she unwrapped the package. She lifted the guitar out of the box, making little “Oooo'ing” and “Ahhh'ing” sounds. You would have sworn I had given her the Hope diamond. “But how did you know I wanted a guitar?” “I saw you looking at it when we were shopping.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me, a happy, solid, sisterly kiss. “Thank you, Jack. And Merry Christmas.” I stood there, my knees weak, unable to catch my breath. “Merry Christmas, Felicia.” I leaned down, picked up a package with Ripper's name on it, and handed it to her. “Open this for the ugly dog, will you?” I said. She laughed. “What is it?” “Something he'll just love you for.” She opened it, and looked at me, puzzled, a smile spreading on her face. “Scotch?” Won't that hurt him?” “It will actually make him lovable.” Ripper stood there, eyes bright, trying to wag that stubby tail as he watched me open the booze. I poured some into a pan and he lapped it up, stopping from time to time to look up at us with a grin. Felicia sat on the floor, fascinated, legs drawn up to her chin, hugging her knees. 118

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Ripper proceeded to get roaring drunk and make a total ass of himself, as drunks have a tendency to do. When he finally reeled off into the corner and flopped down to sleep it off, we sat there, grinning at each other. “You have quite a dog, Mr. Frost,” Felicia said. “Scotch is his only weakness. And not just any scotch, mind you. Oh no, it has to be Haig & Haig.” She raised an eyebrow. I said, “Ripper and I stumbled across a group of four dead ‘advisors’ who had walked into an ambush. I lifted a fifth of Haig & Haig from a guy who wouldn't be needing it any more. That night, I poured myself a shooter, and just for the hell of it offered some to Ripper. He took one sniff, then gave me a look that could only be interpreted as appreciation, or something close to it. He lapped it up like it was pure spring water. Out of the entire fifth, I had just two jolts.” I looked at the sleeping dog and shook my head. “I guess everyone is entitled to one vice.” Felicia shook her head in wonder. “As I said, quite a dog, Mr. Frost.” “Yeah, he is. I suppose I'd miss the ugly brute if anything happened to him.” “Well ... there's hope for the boy after all!” she said with a laugh. She held her glass high, looking around the room, toasting an imaginary crowd. “The Christmas cheer has gotten to him, folks.” We touched glasses. “Here's to love, Jack Frost,” she said. “The world needs more love.”

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Chapter 21 The passing weeks turned into months. We became accustomed to the cold winds, and even came to love it. We walked together in the snow, just friends—as far as she was concerned, anyway. We were happy, the three of us, in that small cabin during that long, cold, Nevada winter. As time passed, Felicia had a difficult time finding a comfortable way to sit. No matter what she did, her stomach got in the way. She spilled soapsuds on her belly when she did the dishes. She bumped into things. When she dropped something, she couldn't reach over and pick it up. Her ankles swelled and her breasts began to get sore. But these things only fueled her burning desire to have Jonathan Flynn's baby. All in all, pregnancy agreed with her. She bloomed with health. I cleaned out a local health food store, buying the best vitamins I could lay my hands on. She took them; followed every order that her doctor gave her; did her exercises; and watched her weight. She was a happy woman. Only occasionally would a melancholy mood quiet her for an evening, but generally she bubbled with excitement. She had played the guitar some, as a child. Night after night, she contentedly strummed the guitar I had given her for Christmas. At times she would simply sit quietly with her eyes closed, listening to music, her hands folded contentedly over her belly, a little mother-to-be. 120

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I got on her nerves now and then. Just this morning I push a little too far, trying to help her do something in the kitchen that was probably totally unnecessary. “Jack!” she said, “I'm not a breakable doll! I can do these things myself!” She took me by surprise, and ... well, it hurt my feelings, I guess. She took one look at my face and instantly said, “Oh, I'm sorry, Jack, I'm so sorry. It's not that I don't ... I mean, I do appreciate your concern, believe me.” She took my face in her hands, stood on her tiptoes and kissed me, her big belly pressed up against me. It took every ounce of willpower that I had to keep from putting my arms around her and pulling her close. Instead, I found myself standing there saying, “Hey, listen, uh, don't worry about it. It's no problem. I-I'm not trying to smother you.” I tried to make light of it. But I found myself walking out of the cabin, mumbling something about having to do some work on the car.

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Chapter 22 Benny Florentine looked across the desk at his boss. Only the sound of a wooden pencil, tapping against the side of Varchetta's nose, broke the silence. He had been apprehensive when he had been called to the phone, just twenty minutes ago. He had been ordered around and ridiculed since the day Felicia had disappeared. He had expected more of the same, but this time the boss had sounded vague, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. He had rushed to the hotel and taken the elevator as quickly as possible to the thirtieth floor. Maybe, he thought, he would get an opportunity to do something for the boss so he'll give the girls back. It had been pure hell since Felicia had left. He had been forced to comb through the seediest Las Vegas bars, looking for women who needed the twenty or thirty dollars, and were willing to endure the kind of degradation and brutality that he administered. Benny's dark reputation always preceded him. Harry Varchetta swung his feet up on his desk. He stared at his shoes for a few moments, tapping the pencil against his long hooked nose. Then he gazed at Benny. In a conversational voice, he said, “You remember Gino Porcelli?” Benny's brow furrowed and his hooded eyes closed as he concentrated. “Gino Porcelli. Yeah, I think I do, boss. He used to be a pit boss, right?” 122

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“That's right. Gino retired about two years ago and moved to Lake Tahoe with his wife. Do you remember that?” Benny's brow remained furrowed. “Yeah, boss, I do,” he said, “I think I do remember that.” “That's good. Well, Gino called me this morning.” “He did, boss?” Benny said, thinking that he should try to sound pleased. “How's he doing?” “Just fine, he's doing just fine.” Benny wondered where the conversation was leading, but he said nothing. His boss went on: “While Gino and his wife were visiting Virginia City yesterday, they saw a very strange sight.” Benny relaxed. His boss was obviously enjoying the conversation. He didn't look mad. In fact, he looked almost happy. A smile split Benny's face. “What'd he see, boss?” “He saw a big man, with a big Doberman, and a little black-haired gal, very pregnant.” The smile faded from Benny's face and he leaned forward in the chair. “Felicia?” he said, an incredulous look on his face. “Yeah, Benny. Felicia.” Benny sat for a moment, his mind racing as fast as it could race. This is good, he thought. I can go get her. And when I bring her back, the boss will give me the girls again and I won't have to spend all that time looking at those ugly porkers in the bars. He thought more about what his boss had just said, and suddenly a smile split his face. “Hey, boss! Did you say she was pregnant? You're gonna be a father? Congratulations, boss!” 123

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Varchetta's face went white. He swung his feet to the floor and stood up, eyes riveted to Benny's face, which fell quickly under the horrible gaze. Benny realized he had said something very wrong. Varchetta threw the pencil down on the desk. It bounced into the air and landed on the soft rug. “You dumbo! It's not my baby!” Benny looked perplexed. “But if it ain't your baby, whose is it?” he said. Varchetta slammed his fist on the desk, livid with rage. “You dumb ass!” Benny cowered, not knowing what to say. Varchetta stood and paced around the room. Then he flopped into his chair. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight and barely under control. Only now there was no smile, no casualness. “Gino heard through the grapevine about Felicia. He did the friendly thing and called.” He glared at Benny. “They're living in a cabin, just outside of Virginia City. That's just a little ways from Reno. You ever been there?” “No I ain't boss, I ain't never been to Reno.” “Well, you're gonna be. And this time,” he said, his elbows on the desk, “I don't want her back.” Disbelief showed on Benny's face. “You don't? You don't want me to bring her back? Don't you want her any more?” In his head, Benny heard his own voice: then can I have her? But thank God, he thought, it hadn't come out of his mouth. “No, I don't want her any more, Benny.” His eyes were slits as he lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift upward. “I want you to kill her. I want you to find her and kill her. Then I want you to get rid of her, understand? But you keep 124

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your hands off her! Just kill her, and get rid of her so nobody ever finds her, but keep your hands off her!” Benny looked hurt. “Ah, boss,” he said, “I wouldn't think of—” “My ass you wouldn't,” Varchetta interrupted, “but I'm telling you right now, if I ever found out in any roundabout way that you had—and Benny, I would find out-you'd be sorrier than you've ever been in your life, you hear?” “I hear, boss. Don't worry about—” “Oh shut the hell up!” Varchetta said. He gave Benny instructions, and when the sulking brute had left, he sat back and once again put his feet on the desk, turning in the chair toward the row of television monitors that looked down on the casino action, below. He concentrated on the tables, and turned Felicia off in his mind, forever.

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Chapter 23 Benny Florentine signed the paperwork at the car rental desk at Reno-Tahoe International Airport. After picking up his single suitcase, he drove out of the airport and got on to the southbound 395 freeway. It was good to be away from Las Vegas, and his boss’ constant, watchful eye. At least for a short time, he would not have to answer to any one. He would have to account for every penny of the money that the boss gave him, but he had some of his own, and he could spend it on anything he wanted. He would find Felicia and watch her for a while, taking his time. He didn't want to run any risk of running into the dog. He wasn't worried about the man with her, even though he was big and looked to be in good condition. Nobody was as tough as Benny Florentine. But that dog, well that was something else. He might be able to ambush the dog from hiding. He nodded as he drove, liking the idea. Suddenly hungry, Benny veered off 395 on the Kietzke Lane off ramp. He turned left on Virginia Street, searching for a restaurant. He spotted a nondescript little cafe on a service road that paralleled Virginia Street. He parked and went in. There were only four people in the place. They looked at him as he entered. A man of his size and appearance constantly drew stares. He was used to it; in fact he enjoyed it. He ordered three hamburgers and a cup of coffee. When the waitress brought them, he wolfed them down, staring into 126

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a corner of the restaurant as he chewed his food openmouthed. When the waitress came back to refill his coffee cup, he asked, his mouth still full of hamburger, “How far is it to Virginia City, honey?” He saw her eyes dart to his open mouth, full of food, and saw the look of distaste on her face. He frowned. “What's the matter with you?” “Nothing,” she said. “Don't give me that shit!” he said. “Don't you like what you see?” “I didn't mean anything at all,” she said. Clearly rattled, she tried quickly to get back to his question. “Virginia City is about an hour from here,” she said. Benny continued to stare at her. He reached out and grabbed a slim wrist in his left hand, tightening his grip until her face blanched. He looked around. No one else in the restaurant was paying any attention. Pulling her close, he ran his right hand up the inside of her thigh. She recoiled. When the commotion drew attention from the other customers, he withdrew his hand and smiled at her. She walked away, knees weak, and disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later the bald head of an old man peered around the corner at Benny, the simian eyes glancing only briefly at him before darting away. He quickly disappeared, and Benny could hear a brief, violent exchange between the old man and the waitress, then silence. A moment later the waitress reappeared, looking subdued. She began filling sugar jars, avoiding looking in his direction. 127

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Benny picked up the third hamburger and began eating, his face sullen. Girls had always reacted that way toward him, ever since he was a kid. Benny had always been big for his age. As a child he realized that he could do nothing about the mean things that were said behind his back. But he also realized that his very size could stop the face-to-face ridicule. When girls resisted his advances, he treated them the same as the boys, physically punishing them, for which he had been suspended from one school after another, until his parents had thrown up their hands in despair. Midway through his freshman year of high school, he had quit and taken a job in a Pittsburgh steel mill, lying about his age. He drifted from there to Gary, Indiana, where he worked as a bouncer in some of the toughest clubs. He enjoyed his work, and soon gained a fearful reputation, which brought him to the attention of Harry Varchetta, already moving well up in the Syndicate's Nevada hierarchy.. When Varchetta was appointed to head up one of the Las Vegas hotels, Benny went with him. Benny leered at the waitress. She was young, maybe seventeen or so, and while she wasn't very cute, she had really big knockers. And she was on her own here; her boss wasn't gonna help her. Benny called the hapless waitress over to the table. She approached, a coffee pot in her hand. “I want another burger, and more coffee,” he said. He grinned at her. “You got nice tits, kid.” Crimson crept up her neck as she poured the coffee. “You want a little roll in the 128

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hay after you get off work?” She ignored him and hurried away, to the sound of his high-pitched laughter. He devoured the hamburger and sat drinking the coffee. He'd stick around and wait until she got off work. He was in no hurry. He'd convince her to go with him somewhere. He drank his coffee, sitting there listening to the music, never taking his eyes off the waitress as she cleaned counters and waited on the occasional customer that drifted in. She glanced up occasionally, self-consciously aware that his eyes never left her. Benny heard the roar of motorcycle engines outside. He glanced through the dirty window and saw four bike riders pulling into the parking lot. They stepped off the choppers and swaggered into the restaurant. They wore long, greasy hair and cracked leather vests, shirtless underneath, filthy Levi's, and boots. An old man and woman—now the only other customers in the place—cowered under the gaze of the four chopper pilots. The largest man of the gang, obviously the leader, looked around at the other empty tables. He glared at the old man. “We want this one,” he said, pointing down at the table where the old couple sat. The old fellow lowered his eyes and looked at his wife. She put a hand on his arm and said something that Benny could not hear. The two got up and walked away, to the sound of crude remarks aimed at the frightened old woman. Benny watched as the old man took his wife by the elbow and led her out of the restaurant, his head bowed. 129

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The leader's eyes caught Benny's glance, and tried to stare him down. Benny stared back, unable to keep the amusement off his face. The leader pulled his leather gloves off, finger by finger, his eyes never leaving Benny's. The waitress took a deep breath and walked to the table. The lead biker said, “Coffee, all around, now!” His eyes never left Benny's. But Benny continued to stare back, which puzzled the biker. Not too many guys were able to maintain their cool under his withering look. He wondered about the big man in the black suit. He was not a run-of-the-mill businessman, he thought. The waitress returned with a coffee pot and four cups. She placed the cups on the table and began to pour coffee. The leader continued to glare at Benny, still caught up in his childish, schoolboy staring contest. As the waitress walked around to his side of the table and leaned over to fill his cup, he ran his left hand quickly up inside the back of her skirt and squeezed her buttock. She straightened so quickly that she spilled some of the hot coffee on his lap. He stood up, cursing her, while the others laughed at his misfortune. Benny noted that her boss did not even bother to look through the serving opening. He had probably seen the bike riders come in and gone out the back door. She was on her own. One of the bikers pulled her down on his lap. The hapless waitress squealed and managed to twist free. She hurried into the kitchen, tears streaming down her face. The smile on the 130

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leader's face faded as he saw the look on the face of the big man in the black suit. Deciding enough was enough, the biker stood up and said: “What are you looking at, fat boy?” Benny slowly pulled a long cigar out of his inside coat pocket, bit the end off and spat it on the floor. Then he lit the cigar, leaned his head back and blew a cloud of smoke straight into the hair, then lowered his head and stared at the biker. “Not much,” he said. One of the gang mimicked Benny's high-pitched voice. “Not much, not much, Freddie,” he said, with a definite faggot connotation. The three of them chided their leader to do something. Blood began to rise in Benny's neck. Suddenly his collar felt too tight. He rose to his full height, watching the smiles fade from the faces of the grubby group. He crossed the room in long strides. The leader of the group stood six feet tall, but he felt dwarfed in the presence of the huge man who towered over him. Benny took the cigar from his mouth and blew smoke into the smaller man's face. There was not a sound in the room. The biker stood there for a moment, squinting until the smoke dissipated. When he reopened his eyes, Benny saw fear on his face. “You're screwin’ around with my girl,” Benny said. “I don't like that, creep.” Benny heard the scraping of chair legs against the floor as the other men waited for their leader to do something. Hell, nobody talked to them that way! Benny turned to the other three bikers. “Get your asses out of here right now, before I change my mind,” he said. He 131

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turned his head again and looked down at the leader. “Everyone but you ... you can't go.” The bikers stood their ground. They were veterans of dozens of confrontations, and most had been carried out against men who were alone. But somehow this man was different. The shield which surrounded them when they traveled together suddenly seemed missing. Finally, one slender, rat-faced man with incredibly bad acne and long greasy hair, made his decision. They had enough talent here to do the job, he thought. “You can kiss my—” Benny's left hand snaked out, grabbing the rat-faced man's skinny left arm. He stepped forward, grabbing the man's forearm with both hands, and broke it over his knee. The biker dropped to the floor, screaming in agony. The rest of the gang stood there, momentarily rooted in place. Without a word, they picked their man up and headed out the door. Only the leader stood his ground, but the defiant look had no substance to it now. He spread his hands apart in a “no contest” gesture, and backed away. Benny grinned. “Ain't good enough,” he said. His huge right fist flashed out, catching the man squarely in the face. Before he could go down, Benny had a handful of his hair in his left hand, holding the virtually unconscious man upright. He continued to hit him with his right hand. Then after he had destroyed the man's face, he stepped in close and hammered blows to the man's mid-section. Yanking sharply back on the man's hair with his left hand, he threw him to the 132

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floor. The biker landed amid the candy wrappers and cigarette butts. Benny walked outside and marched quickly up to the two remaining bikers. The man with the broken arm straddled his bike, vomiting onto his boots; the other one backed away, his hands up in “no contest” fashion. Benny eyed them. Then he said, “Get your pants off.” They were shaken, awed by the ease with which he had handled their leader, but his command was too much to ask. “Bullshit! Like hell I will!” “Hey man, are you kidding?” “Get your pants off, now!” Benny snarled. They looked at him with uncertainty. Then one of them began to unbuckle his belt; the other reluctantly followed his lead. Benny watched with amusement as they struggled out of their pants. He tossed their greasy pants into the back seat of his car, then got in and started the engine. Benny glanced into the rearview mirror as he put the car into reverse. Parked behind him were the four, gleaming choppers, the biker with the broken arm still straddled one bike. Benny backed up until he heard the rear bumper hit the first chopper. The man with the broken arm tumbled to the ground. He yelped in pain, and then scrambled out of the way. Benny continued to back up, pushing the bikes along, bulldozer-like, until they were crushed between his rear bumper and the brick wall of the adjoining building. He laughed aloud as he watched the two gang members running back and forth in frustration, wearing nothing but black boots and leather vests. 133

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Benny gave them the finger as he drove away. He thought about the waitress and wondered what she would have been like. But he consoled himself with the thought of Felicia Martinez. After a mile or two, he never thought about the waitress again.

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Chapter 24 When she could not win by kidding, Felicia resorted to tickling me until she won a small smile. I stood close to her, hands on my hips, still unconvinced. I decided to resort to reasoning. “You're a long way along! Riding a horse can't possibly be good for you!” She stood next to Traveler, protected from the brisk early April wind by his rippling flank. She patted him as she looked up at me. I could tell by the look on her face that she knew she'd won. I was a pushover and we both knew it. Her gleaming black hair was pulled back in a ponytail beneath the white Stetson, and tied with a red bandanna. She wore jeans and western boots, and a loose plaid shirt under a denim jacket. She was adorable. She patted her belly with both hands. “We'll soon get a look at Jonathan's son.” I helped her mount up. Even with my help, it required considerable effort on her part. When she was finally settled in the saddle, she sat there for a moment, panting from the exertion. “One more time,” I said, “just to keep ol’ Jack happy: are you absolutely sure you should be riding?” She squirmed in the saddle, adjusting her big belly until she was comfortable. She took the reins in her hands, a happy smile on her face. “I won't go far, and I'll take it easy, no loping, honest!” I gave up and stepped back as she turned the horse and rode out of the corral, heading toward the hills at a walk. “Go 135

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with her, Ripper,” I said. He streaked past the horse and rider, racing on ahead of them. Felicia turned and waved with one gloved hand. I waved back. “Well, no use sitting around here, worrying,” I thought. I got into the Jag, turned it around and headed for town to pick up some supplies. As I drove away, I marveled once again at the radiant look of health that she projected. Her skin, always flawless, now glowed. Her eyes were like sparkling black diamonds; her black hair had an almost unnatural sheen. I had stuffed enough vitamins into her during the past few months to revive a mummy. She was as full of anticipation as she was with new life. My God, she was so pregnant—and so beautiful. The poor thing was naturally full-breasted anyway, but as her time grew closer, her breasts had swollen until they were almost too painful for her to even touch. She waddled around the little cabin, her hands under her stomach, supporting the weight. I frowned as I drove. I should have refused to let her go riding today. I said aloud, “Yeah, right!” If she were cranky, she would simply ignore me. If she were in a good mood, she'd find a way of getting around me—and somehow make me laugh in the process. She was as exasperating as she was pregnant. **** Felicia allowed the horse to wander along the trail. She sat upright on the quarter horse, straddling his big, warm body, totally contented. Holding the reins in one hand, she placed the palm of her free hand against her stomach, laughing aloud as she felt the baby move. What had to be a small knee 136

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poked sharply outward. She laughed aloud as the little guy kicked. She sat there smiling. “If only Jonathan could be here.” With the thought came a sudden, wrenching need and longing. The picture of Jonathan Flynn burst into her mind, bringing an involuntary groan to her lips. Her mood of outright joy disappeared and she burst into tears. She sat on her horse and cried, heartbroken. As quickly as it had come, the sadness passed. Within moments she was loping down the trail, despite her promise to Jack. Well, she knew how good she felt; it would not harm her. She rode on for a mile or more, Ripper ranging far and wide ahead, coming back to look up at her. She spoke to him each time, and he would bark and turn in circles as he chased his stubby tail. Then he would once again disappear, running low against the sand. She slowed Traveler to a walk. She was tired, but every time she would tend to slump in the saddle, the pressure of her big stomach would remind her to sit upright. She watched Ripper, perhaps twenty yards ahead, when he collapsed in mid-stride. He flopped to the sand, sliding for a few feet before he came to a halt, his feet twitching. “Ripper!” she cried, and urged Traveler into a gallop. As she reined up she could see that the big dog had stopped moving. Blood covered the left side of his head. She dismounted, nearly falling in her haste, dropping the reins. An ugly, bloody furrow was carved across the side of his head, just missing his left eye. His breathing was shallow. 137

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With horror, she realized that he had been shot. She heard the pounding sound of running feet and looked up, eyes wide. Running directly toward her, just yards away, was the hulking form of Benny Florentine. His black suit jacket was open, and his hat flew off as he ran. He was close enough so she could see the gleam of perspiration in his short blond crew cut. His eyes, set back under the overhanging, shelf-like forehead, were hidden in shadow as the sun beat down from overhead. She clambered to her feet and began to run, knowing she would never make it to the horse in time. It had been difficult to mount up, even with Jack helping her. With Benny bearing down on her, she would have no chance! He swarmed in on her, grabbing her black ponytail, bulldogging her to the ground. She landed hard on her stomach and rolled over and over in the wet sand, coming to rest flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. He pounced on her, sitting heavily on her breasts as he pinned her shoulders to the ground with his knees. She looked up at him, her face twisted in terror. His face was cruel. “You made a fool outta me,” he said. “And now you're gonna pay for it, Felicia.” He stood up, her pony tail still captured in his meaty left hand, yanking her upright by the hair. A scream ripped from her throat as he did so. He held her at arm's length with his left hand and closed his right fist. She stared at him in disbelief, eyes wide. Benny hit her on the right side of the face. She fell and sprawled unconscious, arms and legs splayed out. He scooped her up as if she were a rag doll and carried her toward the entrance to an abandoned mineshaft. He walked a few yards 138

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into the shaft, then dropped her. She landed on her back with a heavy sound, arms and legs flopping, her head rolling from side to side. He went back for the dog, carrying him to the mineshaft in his arms, careful not to get blood on his suit. He threw the dog into a corner, discarding it as if throwing away a piece of trash. Benny stood over the inert form of the woman. Then he got down on his knees and looked her over from head to toe. The side of her face was swollen. His ring had cut her cheek to the bone; blood ran down that side of her face. He moved the cheekbone with his fingers. It felt soft and pulpy. He ran his hands slowly over her body, making low, guttural crooning sounds. His hands shook as he began to unbutton her plaid shirt. When the excitement became too much for him, he grabbed the shirt in both hands and tore it apart. He sat back for a moment and stared at the great breasts. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a switchblade and flicked it open. Sliding the blade between her skin and the center of the bra where the cups joined, he pulled upward, slicing the bra cleanly in half. He put the knife away, then gingerly reached down and parted the two halves of the bra unveiling the breasts. They looked larger than he remembered when he had watched his boss make love to her that night. The brown skin looked swollen and tight, and they gleamed in the little faint light that came in through the cave entrance. 139

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He had always wanted a pregnant woman, but had never had one. This was beyond his wildest dreams. Now he not only had a pregnant woman, but that woman was Felicia Martinez! Benny reached behind Felicia's head and lifted her to an upright position. With difficulty, he got her out of the denim jacket and threw it into the corner. Grunting with the exertion, he ripped the plaid shirt from her body, and pulled the severed bra from beneath her, tossing it away. He let go of her head. It dropped limply against the wet sand. Yanking off each boot, he discarded it. Pulling her jeans off over her legs, he tossed them aside. She lay unconscious on the wet, cold sand of the cave, wearing only red bikini panties. Benny looked with awe at the huge, round stomach. It seemed even bigger than it did when he had watched her from the protective rock formation as she rode down the trail. He ran a finger over the protruding belly button, perched atop the swollen brown stomach. She was helpless as a turtle on its back, he thought. That excited him. She was helpless, and she was his for as long as he wanted her. The listed to Varchetta's voice in his head: Kill her, Benny,” he had said. “But don't touch her, do you hear? Just kill her and get rid of her where she'll never be found. But keep your damn hands off her! He had assured his boss that he would not touch her. No, he would not think of doing that. “Screw you,” he said aloud. The boss would never know. She was here with him, and nobody else in the whole world knew that the two of them were in this cave. The boss was hundreds of miles away, in 140

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Las Vegas. The dog was dead or dying, and Frost wouldn't know where to look for her. He had all the time in the world. And he had wanted her for so long. Only when he tired of her, would he kill her. He pulled her panties almost reverently off over her legs, and spent a long time examining her. Then he pulled a coil of heavy cord out of his pocket. Minutes later, she was spreadeagled on the floor of the mineshaft, cord wrapped around each wrist and ankle, the other ends tied to the supporting timbers. The sight reminded him of Billy, the young whore who had not been very affectionate, he recalled with a frown. He sat down on the sand next to her. For a long time, he amused himself by running his hands over her body, peering closely at the goose bumps on her skin; caressing the thick pelt of hair that was nearly hidden by the big belly; squeezing the great brown breasts. He wanted her to wake up before he did anything else. But she'd better hurry, he thought. He wasn't sure he would be able to wait much longer. All that kept him from starting was the knowledge that he had all the time in the world. He would force himself to be patient. The boss had been mad, really mad. He had taken away all of the showgirls, and it was Felicia's fault—The little voice in his head confirmed it: When she kissed you on the cheek, she didn't really mean it. When she wakes up, you make her pay for that, Benny.

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Chapter 25 After I dropped Felicia at the stables, I went into town to pick up some groceries that we needed, then drove back to the cabin. After I put them away, I walked outside and sauntered over to the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley. I stood there with the wind whipping around me. It was an utterly fantastic day. I looked in the direction of the stables, then glanced at my watch; She should have been here by now, I thought. Feeling vaguely uneasy, I walked back into the house. I stared at my watch again. Just ten minutes had passed, the longest ten minutes of my life. “Dammit!” I said. She should have still been home by this time. Once those little fingers of fear start crawling up your throat, there's no sense trying to fight it, trying to pretend everything's okay. I was worried. “To hell with it!” I said and headed for the car, a sense of urgency in my bones. Yet wasn't Ripper with her? Sure he was. Didn't I feel safe here? Everything's okay. No, it isn't. The frightened voice in the back of my head turned my stomach to ice. No it isn't. **** I floored the Jag getting to the stables. As I pulled in, Jane Withers met me with a worried look. “Traveler came back,” she said. “I don't know what happened. He's a stable horse, don't forget. If she was thrown, or anything happened to her, it would only be natural for him to come home.” 142

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“How long has he been back?” “Ten minutes!” “Call an ambulance, and call Doctor Morris, too. Do you have a horse that's saddled?” “I'll have one in a hurry.” Between the two of us, we had a big roan saddled in record time. I swung up onto the saddle. “Call that ambulance!” I said, as I urged the horse into a gallop. Her tracks were easy to follow. I could tell where she had stopped from time to time to admire the scenery. Ripper's tracks were everywhere. He had playfully run circles around the horse, no doubt barking up at his beloved Felicia. I felt panic welling up in me. Two miles later the trail ended. I reined the horse to a halt. I looked down at the signs of a struggle. Footprints led toward the mouth of an old mine shaft. Someone had gone back and forth to that mine shaft three or four times. I dismounted, snapped my 9mm Browning out of my shoulder holster, levered a shell into the chamber and headed toward the cave.

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Chapter 26 Felicia stirred, a low groan escaping her swollen lips. She opened her eyes, feeling pain explode in her head as she did so. She could hear the grinding of bones as she tried to move her jaw. Her mouth was full of blood. She ran her tongue along her teeth, feeling several of them move easily under the pressure. She tried to sit up, then realized with horror that she was tied down, spread-eagled and naked. She frantically looked around and saw Benny Florentine, standing in the corner of the cave, taking off his clothes. He looked at her with amusement. “I've been waiting for you to wake up, Felicia,” he said. “You and me, we're gonna have some fun.” Panic flooded through her. She tried to speak, but her voice sounded hollow. “Please, Benny! My baby!” Benny looked at her belly, which rose and fell with her heavy breathing. “Yeah, I been looking at your baby,” he said. “Your baby ain't ever gonna see the light of day, Felicia. You and me, we're gonna spend some time together—as long as I want. Then I'm gonna have to kill you.” “Good God, Benny, no! My baby!” she cried. Benny laughed as he stepped out of his trousers. He pulled his shorts off over his feet and stood there, naked. Walking over to her, he eyed her from head to toe. From where she lay, flat on her back in the sand, he looked thirty feet tall. He stepped over her and settled to his knees, resting his full weight on her stomach. She let out an 144

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agonized, deep-throated moan as he did so, more out of fear of what it would do to her baby, than from actual pain. He leaned forward and wrapped a big hand around each of her wrists. Looking at her with narrowed eyes, he said, “You lied to me in Las Vegas. When you kissed me, you didn't mean it. I want you to kiss me now, and I want you to mean it.” His face came down toward hers. Her eyes went wide. She could feel his sour breath, see the drool on his lips, and his bad teeth. “Benny—” He stopped her sentence with a great, long, slobbering kiss, while she struggled to turn her head to the left and right, a cry of anguish captured in her throat. He released her wrists and clamped a hand on each side of her head in a viselike grip. He looked at her, grinning. “Tell me you mean it!” Revulsion coursed through her. She could feel her stomach churn. “Oh God, Benny! My baby, you're so heavy!” Benny's face flooded with anger. “Goddammit! Tell me you mean it!” He kissed her again, longer this time. When he straightened and looked down at her, his face was twisted. “You bitch,” he said, his voice going even higher than normal in his rage. Her eyes were closed tightly, and she bit her lip until blood ran down over her chin. “That's Jonathan Flynn's baby, ain't it!” he said. “When you die, his baby's gonna die, too!” Her eyes flew open and she looked at him in wild-eyed terror. She screamed into his face, “Noooooo! You leave my baby alone, you filthy creep!” A roar filled Benny's throat. He grabbed her by the hair and began pounding the back of her 145

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head against the floor of the cave, filling the interior of the cave with animal-like sounds as he did so. “Shut up, damn you, shut up!” he said. He jumped to his feet kicked her viciously in the ribs, several times, listening to the screams change in intensity. Felicia vomited. Gagging, she twisted her head to one side to keep from choking. She wanted to double up with the pain, but the cords held her to the ground. She listened to the roaring of the huge madman as he continued to kick her, red pain exploding in her brain. Finally he stopped, and stood over her, breathing hard. He looked down at her, his face cruel. “I been waiting for this for a long, long time. And now I can do it all I want, for as long as I want.” He straddled her, looking into her face, lowering his hips to hers, grinding his belly into hers. He savored her screams and prepared to thrust into her.

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Chapter 27 As I ran toward the rock formation I heard Felicia scream. I broke into a run and as I rounded the rock shelf, spotted the mineshaft entrance. I stepped into the semi-darkness, forcing my eyes to adjust quickly to the gloom. What I saw filled me rage. Benny Florentine straddled Felicia's naked body, preparing to rape her. Just as he became aware of my presence, I reached out and ripped off his left ear. He roared in pain and staggered to his feet. He backed away from me as he brought his hand up to the side of his head . I looked down at Felicia, saw the terror on her shattered face. She began screaming my nane over and over. Benny reached down and scooped something up out of the sand. As he turned to face me, light glinted off the knife blade. For a moment he leaned against the cave wall, knees bent against the pain, his eyes glued on mine. Then he straightened and held rhe knife out in front of him. I still held the ear I had torn off his head. With a snap of my wrist, I flipped the ear toward his face. It sailed surprisingly well, a bloody Frisbee. Benny recoiled with a hoarse cry. Then I saw the blade sweeping at me in an arc. Blocking the thrust, I slammed an open hand into his throat. He made a strangling sound and tried to cry out, but could not. 147

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I shattered his right knee with the instep of my right foot. As his knees buckled, I straightened him upright with my right elbow, bringing it up in an arc under his chin. He dropped the knife, screaming in pain, and tried to hit me a clumsy haymaker. I pulled just far enough back to let the blow whistle by my face, and, reaching in with a sharp, wrenching movement of my hand, ripped off his other ear and held it out for him to see. The rage boiled up in me, gathering in intensity. I broke his left knee this time, with the instep of my left foot. Benny slowly settled to the sand, trying to scream as his full weight came down on both shattered knees. But only a hoarse whistling sound came out of the shattered voice box. I crammed the right ear that I held into his open mouth. I grabbed the top of his head in both hands and snapped it downward, while my right knee came up hard under his chin. His teeth crashed together, and pieces of his ear squirted through the broken teeth like watermelon seeds. I stepped back. He brought his pathetic eyes up to me. They were filled with horror and disbelief, and what else was that—pleading? He received no comfort from me. I crushed his testicles with the point of my right foot, two, three, four times, holding him upright with the palm of my left hand in his forehead as I did so. He shuddered, unable to scream and unable to fall. When I was sure his eyes were firmly fixed on mine again, I drew a hand back and pointed my fingertips, blade-like, toward his heart, making damn sure that he knew what was coming. I drove my fingertips into his heart. 148

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I scooped up the knife, turning my back on the naked, bloody hulk before it even had time to topple over, and cut the cords holding Felicia. My eyes met hers, and I realized she had watched the entire thing; she was looking at me as if she had no idea who I was. “I'm going to get you out of here,” I said, in as reassuring a voice as I could muster. “Everything's going to be okay; your baby is going to be okay.” I repeated it to her over and over. She began to hyperventilate; she was still hysterical. I held her, stroking her hair, and repeated the reassurances to her over and over in a low, calm voice, until she began to settle down. I had nothing to wrap her in. I ripped off the long-sleeved shirt I was wearing, not bothering to unbutton it. I got her to her knees and put the shirt around her to keep her warm. She was going into shock. “The baby's not hurt, Felicia, trust me, the baby's going to be okay!” She looked at me, her eyes big and scared, then nodded slightly and closed her eyes. I lifted her in my arms. As I headed out of the cave, my eyes fell on Ripper, sprawled motionless in a corner. I set my jaw and kept on going. **** The roan was still there, grazing. With a good deal of effort, I got her up onto the horse, got my foot into the stirrups, and swung up behind her. She leaned back against me, exhausted, her head rolling from side to side. I stuck my chin over her left shoulder, and pushed her head against the right side of my face, for support. I reached around her big stomach and took the reins. I turned the horse and headed 149

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back down toward the stable at a walk, not wanting to jostle her any more than necessary. She was in extreme pain. From time to time she screamed. All I could do was to make stupid reassuring sounds that everything would be okay. I prayed the ambulance and doctor would be there when we arrived. About a half-mile from the stables, the big roan suddenly reared, nearly dumping both of us. I couldn't figure out what had happened, but then I realized that water was draining down the horse's sides—Felicia's water had broken! “Oh God!” I moaned. The beating had obviously started labor. We were so close to the stables that I decided to keep pushing on. A few minutes later I breathed a sigh of relief. The ambulance waited next to the corral, along with two whitecoated attendants and a worried Doctor Morris. They helped me get her down off the horse. Blood gushed down the insides of her legs; she was hemorrhaging. The doctor packed her with compresses and crossed her legs, as one of the attendants clamped an oxygen mask over her face. The driver closed the ambulance doors, then got quickly inside. Turning the red flashing lights on, he pulled out of the corral and headed up the dirt road, toward town. I ran to the car. As I opened the door, I turned to Jane Withers, who was rooted to the ground, her face flooded with horror. “Follow the tracks on the beach, Jane. About three miles down you'll see signs of a struggle, and tracks leading up to a rock formation against the cliff. There's a cave there. Inside, you'll find Ripper, dead or dying. Bring him to the 150

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hospital, either way.” I got in and slammed the door. “Got it?” I yelled. “Yes! Now get going!” “One more thing. You'll find a man in there, too. Ignore him; he's dead.” “How do you know?” she said, eyes wide. “Maybe we should send an ambulance for him, just in case. How do you know he's dead?” “Trust me,” I said. I put my foot down, throwing a rooster tail of dirt from the rear wheels as I spun the car around and headed down the road. As I caught up with the ambulance, I could see through the rear windows. I caught a glimpse of the doctor as he hovered over Felicia. I tried to beat back the cold fear that clawed its way into my heart. I thought about the horrible prospect of her delivering the baby with internal injuries and a possible broken pelvis. I knew they would try to hold the baby back in an effort to get her to the delivery room for a Cesarean. I thought about how this brilliant day had begun, just a few short hours ago, and how it was ending. As I followed the ambulance, I thought of Ripper, hoping Jane could get to him quickly—if it were not already too late.

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Chapter 28 It seemed longer, but it was probably only ten minutes or so before we pulled into the emergency entrance of the hospital. I was out of the car on a dead run, opening the back doors of the ambulance before it rolled to a complete stop. As I swung them open, the sight that greeted me made my knees go weak. Felicia lay on the stretcher, her eyes half open, an oxygen mask strapped to her face. Plasma ran into her arm. A bloodcovered baby boy, just minutes old, the umbilical cord not yet cut, lay on her blood-flecked belly. “Is Felicia alive?” I yelled. “Yes,” the doctor said without looking up. He worked against the clock. He clipped the umbilical cord, wrapped the baby in a blanket and handed him to one of the attendants. He covered Felicia and they got her out of the ambulance, carrying her toward the emergency entrance. I walked next to the stretcher, looking down at her. Her black hair was plastered to her head, soaking wet with perspiration. I touched her forehead. Her skin was cold; she was in deep shock, her face a pasty white. And while I watched, her eyes closed as she slipped into unconsciousness. They wheeled her into the elevator. When I insisted on going along, the young doctor turned on me with eyes that surprised me, his voice filled with authority. “You'll just be in 152

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the way Mr. Frost. Grab some coffee; I'll get back to you as soon as possible.” I stood there, never feeling more helpless in my life. When the elevator doors closed in my face, I looked around. People stared at me. I was bare-chested, wearing only Levi pants and desert boots. I had put my shirt around Felicia, in the cave. For some reason I was aware of the arrowhead necklace hanging on the leather thong around my neck. I held it in the palm of my right hand and looked at it. It had a calming effect on me. I took a deep breath, trying to get myself under control. I walked out the door, all the time thinking to myself with amazement that it was, indeed, a boy. Well, of course it was a boy, she said it would be. I reached into the car and pulled on a sweater. The sun was beginning to sink in the west. I leaned against the car, sucking in the fresh air, feeling drained and scared. As I stood there, I heard a car coming fast. I looked up to see Jane Withers’ station wagon careen into the emergency lane and screech to a halt behind the Jaguar. She jumped out and hurried up to me. “She's alive, but just barely,” I said to her wide-eyed questioning look. She opened the back door, reached in, and as easily as any man, picked Ripper's one-hundred-fifty pounds of dead weight off the rear seat. I reached for him, but she brushed right past me and walked into the emergency room, me on her heels. She bellowed at the doctor on duty as we entered. The doctor stood for a moment, mouth agape. “Over here, right now!” Jane Withers said. 153

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The doctor walked slowly toward us, a condescending smile on his face. “Madam, we do not take care of animals, here.” “You'll take care of this one!” The doctor began to protest, then looked past her at me. Without another word, he went to work on Ripper. Ten minutes later he looked up from his work and said, “He'll make it. He's going to have a very bad headache for a while, but he'll make it.” I breathed a sigh of relief, thanked him and headed for the lobby. A nurse at the desk motioned for my attention. I walked up, hoping for some information on Felicia. She said, “Do you have insurance?” I felt my temper rising. “No, I don't.” “Oh dear, this won't do,” she said, reaching for the telephone. “Yes, it will do,” I said. “I'll pay cash.” She pushed a mountain of paperwork across the counter top and handed me a pen. I wondered what the hospital's official stance would have been had I not been able to produce cash and credit cards on the spot. I filled out the paperwork and paid a prodigious deposit. When I turned around, Jane was standing there. She held out a cup of coffee, which I gratefully accepted. As I lifted it to my lips, the hot liquid spilled out of the cup and down over my fingers. I stared down at my hands; they were shaking. She took me by the arm. “C'mon, Jack,” she said. We took the elevator to the surgical floor. We sat down and waited for several lifetimes, listening to the hospital sounds. I stared 154

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down at the polished floor. I felt so detached; it was too unbelievable, too ridiculous to believe what was happening here.

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Chapter 29 I don't know how long I'd been sitting there, staring down at the polished hospital floor, when I heard a voice calling my name. “Mr. Frost ... Mr. Frost.” I came to with a start and quickly got to my feet. I found myself staring into Doctor Morris’ tired eyes, set so deeply in his sad young face. His mask was pulled down below his chin, and he still wore the full green surgical gown and cap. I felt that cold knot in my belly again. I had become all too familiar with that feeling over the years. Dr. Morris said quietly, “I'm sorry, Mr. Frost. She didn't make it.” I stood there, not breathing. For one moment I believe I went a little mad. Ask him again. He doesn't realize what he just said. “She was conscious during the delivery, Mr. Frost,” the doctor said. I heard myself moan. “Did she see the baby? Did she ever see him?” Doctor Morris nodded and swallowed. “Uh, yes, she held him for a moment just before she...” He put a hand on my shoulder for a moment, then turned away. I was only vaguely aware of Jane's hand on my arm. From somewhere far away I heard her say, “Jack, Jack ... come with me.” I allowed her to lead me to the elevator. She 156

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looked up at me as she fought back the tears. “What are you going to do now, Jack? Where will you go?” I hesitated, then said, “I'm going to pick up my dog and take him home.” **** I carried Ripper into the gloomy interior of the cabin, not turning on any lights. I did not want to see what was there; I knew it all by heart. I placed him gently on the rug. I started a fire to keep him warm, then walked into the kitchen and filled a tumbler with scotch and choked half of it down. Outside, an early April storm was brewing. The cabin swayed in the rising wind. I leaned forward, both hands on the counter. “Why?” I said. “Why her?” I slammed my fist down and looked up, perhaps searching for God, I don't know. “All the rotten bastards in the world and You have to let this happen to her?” I said. My voice sounded hollow and lonely in the empty cabin. I wiped my eyes, then walked to Felicia's bedroom. As I stopped in the doorway, my eyes fell on the dim outline of the bassinet, standing mutely in the corner. Suddenly I found myself gasping for air. I turned away so abruptly that I walked into the doorframe. I stood there for a long time, fists clenched, fighting back hot tears. Ripper lay on his right side, staring up at me. I sat down on the floor and cradled his bandaged head in my arms. He 157

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looked around the room, then lowered his great head into my lap. The cabin shook violently in the gathering wind. I clutched my arrowhead necklace in one fist as I stroked Ripper's ears, listening to the low crying in his throat. I'll take the baby to Vi. She'll know what to do. I lowered my head against Ripper's and shut my eyes. Over the howling wind, I could hear a cold April rain begin to fall. -THE END-

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