Castaway - Part One free porn video

CASTAWAY - PART ONE By Jane Howard The following story is copyrighted and cannot be reprinted or reproduced in any way without the express consent of Jane Howard. ***** Lynn Flowers sat very still on a plastic chair behind the green canvas screens that separated her mother from the other patients in the Intensive Care Unit. The only sounds Lynn could hear were occasional murmuring coming from the nurses' station and the steady beep...beep...beep coming from the monitor connected to her mother. The nursing supervisor in ICU had telephoned the house at about two in the morning to alert the family that Mrs. Flowers' kidneys were shutting down and there wasn't much time left. Lynn thanked her and called out to her father in the dark house, but there was no answer. His bed hadn't been slept in. Her father had never come home, and she was alone. She had no car and there was no money for a taxi. So she dressed in hip huggers and a silk top, pulled a pair of white tennis shoes over her bare feet, applied only a minimum of makeup, scotch taped an explanatory note to the front door, and walked the two miles to the hospital. Once there, feet burning in the tennis shoes, she listened to a nursing supervisor's dispassionate explanation of her mother's terminal condition. Assessing Lynn's youth, the nursing supervisor asked her age. She replied that she was eighteen. But because she looked young for her age, and because she could provide no proof, her answer was not believed. Instead, she was told that an adult family member would have to sign the necessary paperwork, especially the order not to resuscitate. Of course she was permitted to stay with her mother until the end. That was when she was led behind the green screens they erected around dying patients. An aide handed her a styrofoam cup full of tepid tea and told her to take a seat. It was all done very efficiently. After that, Lynn sat alone in her plastic chair, except for the few occasions when a nurse would check in, stare at the monitor for a moment, give Lynn a quick glance, and leave. Everyone on the nursing staff assumed that Lynn was Mrs. Flowers' daughter. It was natural to assume that she was. There was an unmistakable resemblance between the two of them to begin with, and besides Lynn exuded femininity from head to toe. But although Lynn was Mrs. Flowers' child, she was most definitely not Mrs. Flowers' daughter. From toddler-hood, Lynn, an only child, born technically male, had preferred dolls to trucks and dresses to overalls. The psychologists diagnosed Lynn's condition as gender dysphoria. And this diagnosis had been a major source of conflict in the family. Lynn's father tried to slap that dysphoria nonsense out of Lynn's head one hard slap at a time without success. Lynn's mother turned to tranquilizers and too many vodka tonics to escape the fact that she could not prevent her husband from beating either her son or herself. Understandably a coward given the reality of her situation, Mrs. Flowers kept silent about her own feelings regarding her child's clinical aberration. The three of them became strangers to each other in the same house. Mr. Flowers was rarely home. When he was, Lynn avoided him. Mrs. Flowers, like Sweden, maintained a strict neutrality. If things had remained as they were, Lynn could never have endured sitting there witnessing her mother's last moments on earth without blaming herself for her mother's depression, drinking, and barbiturate use?all contributing factors to the stroke that, as the erratic beeping on the life monitor kept reminding her, was about to take the woman's life. Lynn could have stopped the abuse she endured from her father at any time. She could have saved her mother all that suffering if only she'd surrendered her identity and become the boy both parents wanted her to be. But then she wouldn't be herself anymore, and she refused to live a lie. She was a girl. She could neither deny it to herself nor her parents, nor anyone else, any more than if she'd been born a natural girl and was told to deny that. Why couldn't her horrible father be the one who was dying in front of her eyes? She hated that man almost as much as he hated her. On the other hand, Lynn truly loved her mother. But because of the constant threat of violence that permeated their lives together, an impenetrable wall of alienation separated them. And that's how it would have remained were it not for the fact that several days earlier, for reasons Lynn didn't fully understand, Mrs. Flowers had finally comes to terms with it all. Lynn remembered the moment well. She had a date to go to the Spring Concert with her boyfriend. She was coming down the stairs fully dressed?nails, make up, jewelry, high heels?the whole kit and kaboodle?trailing her was the scent of Inis perfume. Her mother watched her descent. Mrs. Flowers was home rather earlier than usual and she was also drunk rather earlier than usual. Although startled, Lynn was prepared to defy her mother's disapproval and defend herself, but there was no need. Suddenly, everything she'd ever wanted from her mother appeared in her mother's eyes: acceptance, approval, affection. Her mother had called her "beautiful," and even touched her rather tenderly. Initially frozen with surprise, Lynn recovered, came down the last few steps and kissed her mother on the cheek, this time with genuine affection, the way any teenage girl might kiss her mother before leaving the house for a night of fun. It was a very special moment for both of them. It was a breakthrough Lynn never expected. Perhaps other things would change for the better. But when she'd returned from that wonderful evening with Michael?an evening of singing and dancing beneath an unusually warm spring sky full of sparkling stars and a lovers' moon, it was only to find her mother unconscious, stretched across the living room couch. Try as hard as she might, she could not wake her. A call for an ambulance followed, then the trip to the hospital, then sitting nervously in the Emergency Room until the doctor called her name. "Your mother's had a cerebral infarction," the doctor said. "It's very severe." "What did she have?" Lynn asked, not understanding what he meant. "Your mother's had a stroke," the doctor replied with controlled impatience. Her mother was only forty-two. Could someone that young have a stroke? Apparently, they could. "Is she going to be alright?" "Anything is possible," replied the doctor, a bit less impatient now, but looking very grave. Reading his face, Lynn didn't think the doctor believed there was much chance for a good outcome. "Unless we have a signed order not to resuscitate, we'll be obligated to put your mother on indefinite life support," the doctor explained. "Assuming the worst," he added. Seeing Lynn's bewilderment, the doctor explained how life support worked. "A living death? My mother wouldn't want that," said Lynn, more certain than ever that the doctor was telling her in so many words to prepare for the worst. But Lynn's father had refused to sign the order not to resuscitate. He insisted that his wife would survive and there would be no need. Typical! And now he was God-knows-where, and the ICU nurses had made it clear they weren't going to let Lynn sign anything because of her age. Lynn considered her options. In a few hours she could try calling her father at work. If she couldn't reach him, she could text Michael to see what he could do. Michael was crazy in love with her. His family was rich. They had smart lawyers who could easily handle a pack of stubborn nurses and outmaneuver her beast of a father. One way or another, though, her mother would die and she'd be alone in the world. What would happen then? Only yesterday and for some time before that, Lynn had seen independence as her goal. She'd been planning to run away for a long time. Now that the opportunity was almost here, she wasn't so confident. Dreaming about the future was one thing, confronting the hard facts of life without enough money or prospects was quite another. But, unlike her father, who thought he could change what he didn't like with kicks and blows, she could adapt. She must adapt. And besides, there was some money, if not enough, and if her prospects were unclear, she still had hope and the unquenchable optimism of youth on her side.. A nurse brushed past the green screens. Lynn didn't recognize her. The shifts must have changed. The new nurse stared at the monitor, checked the paper read out, and without turning around said, "No one's signed the paperwork yet." "I forgot," Lynn lied. "Do it now, dear," suggested the nurse. "There's not much time left." "Of course!" Lynn stood up. The two of them went to the nursing station and Lynn signed her name to one paper after another, not bothering to read any of them. Then she thought better of it. "Do I get copies?" Lynn asked, keeping her head down. "We retain them in our records. But if you make a request in writing, we'll mail you whatever you need," explained the nurse. It occurred to Lynn that this nurse was more of a bureaucrat, out to complete an orderly and fully documented file. The other nurse seemed more interested in bossing people around and avoiding blame for making mistakes. Out of the corner of her eye, Lynn saw the original Nursing Supervisor, the bossy one, walk to the elevator and press the down button. She must be going home. "Cranky old bitch," Lynn thought to herself. Catch a person's eye and they'll catch yours right back. "Hey! Laura! What're you doing? That kid can't sign anything! She's too young! Hey, you!" With a glare aimed straight at Lynn, the bossy nurse took quick steps back towards the nursing station, the rubber soles on her shoes making little shrieks on the polished floor as she came. The elevator door opened and a man with a red face and a mean mouth emerged? Lynn's father. Turning his head quickly to the left and right and then straight ahead, he soon got his bearings. "There's the little shit! Trying to kill your mother are you? Well, we'll see about that!" It all happened very quickly. Stinking drunk and in haste, Mr. Flowers pushed the bossy nurse out of his way. She fell to the floor. He was on Lynn in a second, his hands around her throat, choking her as hard as he could. The nurse at the desk called Security. Meanwhile the strangling continued. Lynn saw stars?not the lovely ones she'd seen the night before, when she was dancing with Michael, but big red bloody ones with stabbing points shooting out of them?then she saw, knew, nothing. ***** Lynn was aware that someone was holding her hand before she opened her eyes. She had no idea where she was. The last thing she remembered was being murdered, so she thought it was just possible that she was dead and in heaven or hell or wherever dead people went. Except she'd always been pretty sure there was no afterlife. Wrong, apparently. She knew she felt hot, so she assumed the worst. She was in hell. She started to regret not having been a nicer person, and, just in case they held a trial before they poured hot coals all over you, she began thinking about mounting a defense: born in the wrong body, lousy parents, and there was her youth to consider. She was hardly more than a babe in the woods, wasn't she? Never really had a chance to learn how to do all the right things... "Miss Flowers?" Twin tears formed and dropped onto her cheeks. She would throw herself on the mercy of the satanic court. "Can you hear me?" The voice sounded familiar. Cautiously, Lynn opened one eye. She saw that she was in the ER. She opened the other eye. An encouraging voice said, "That's better." It was the same grave-faced doctor who'd first told her that her mother wasn't going to recover. Lynn tried to speak but all that came out were a series of gurgles . "Uck! Eck!" "Here, child," said the doctor, handing her a liquid pen and a white board with a glossy sheen on it. "You can't talk yet. Just write what you want to say on the board." The first thing Lynn wrote was: I'M NOT A CHILD The doctor apologized. He handed her an eraser. Lynn wiped the board clean. Next, she wrote: HOW IS MY MOTHER? "Your mother is dead," he replied. Lynn blacked out again?but only for a few moments this time. The doctor wasn't even aware that she'd fainted. He thought she'd closed her eyes in order to grieve, to think private thoughts about the news of her mother's passing. When she regained consciousness for the second time, she drew a question mark on the board, and the doctor told her what had happened. He explained that in all the commotion (which included an intern beating her father senseless with a crutch to stop him strangling her, an alarm going off for no discernable reason, and police and security officers swarming all over ICU) her mother hadn't been ignored, no?not exactly?but as was often the case with terminal patients, Mrs. Flowers had taken advantage of her solitude to pass away. "I've often noticed they prefer to die alone," said the doctor with a feigned air of medical certainty. Lynn didn't know how to spell resuscitation. She wrote: NO RESUSS? The doctor got the intent of what she was trying to ask right away. "No. By the time we realized she...it was too late...nothing we could do...couldn't be helped" Next Lynn wrote: IS MY FATHER DEAD 2? "No. The police told us they were taking him to the county lock up." She mulled that over. It wasn't as good as having her father dead, but it was better than having him on the loose and waiting to pounce on her again. WILL I B OK? "Of course," the doctor assured her. After hesitating for a moment, he told her his name was Dr. Day, and that aside from the bruises on her throat, bruises that looked exactly like the marks two hands would make in wet sand at the beach, assuming the sand on the beach was purple, and except for the fact that she shouldn't try to speak for a while, she was fine. Dr. Day suggested that she wear a scarf around her neck in the meantime, and that she gargle with salt water if she felt any discomfort. While he was making simplistic recommendations about her treatment, recommendations any grandmother could have made, Dr. Day gave Lynn a good visual going over. It struck him that he found her extremely attractive. Usually he was immune to patients' looks. Perhaps it was her tragic circumstances, or her obvious delicacy, or those remarkably expressive green eyes, or those pouty lips begging to be crushed against his own that drove him to think what he was thinking. Or was it that she couldn't speak? Gazing at her little face, The idea that a female could be beautiful and desirable and mute was irresistible to him. There would be no whining, no constant demands for money, no complaints about his shortcomings in bed! A perfect mate! Oh, God! He was only forty. He would divorce that bitch Myra. It could work. A moment later, he came to his senses. Besides, this kid looked like jail bait. CAN I GO NOW? Lynn wrote. "I'm afraid not, Miss Flowers. The police want a statement from you. They've waiting in the reception area. Are you ready to speak to them?" Lynn pointed to her throat. "Stupid of me," said Dr. Day. "Sorry." ***** Sergeant Wallace looked like a bit of a dope, but, sizing him up, Lynn knew that was an act. She'd have to be careful. She couldn't be sure how much he already knew about her. Having to write out her answers would be a help? give her time to think before she responded. Wallace took a pad and pen out of his jacket pocket. "How are you feeling, Lynn?" BETTER "Great! I bet you'd like to be home about now and forgetting about this whole mess, wouldn't you?" Lynn tried to nod, but it hurt her throat. She wrote her answer on the board. YES "I'm sorry about your mother. I've just got one or two questions for you, and then you can go." Lynn gave him the saddest, the most pathetic look she could muster. Wallace had been present when her father was arrested, and he'd spoken briefly with the witnesses. "My understanding is that your father came to the hospital and according to eye witnesses he assaulted you. Is that what happened?" HE TRIED TO KILL ME "Maybe. The county prosecutor sets the charges based on the evidence, which includes medical evidence like those bruises on your throat. Did we take a picture of them yet?" NO Wallace produced a digital camera from his side pocket, gently coaxed Lynn's chin up and took several pictures of her throat while he continued to explain the evidence gathering process to her. "Your testimony and the testimony of witnesses is all recorded in the final report. But you just wrote down that he tried to kill you. That's a big assumption on your part, don't you think!" He put the camera back in his pocket. HE HATES ME Wallace regarded her calmly, waiting for more. Lynn erased her board and wrote four more words on it. HE WANTS ME DEAD "Why would he want to kill his own child?" asked Wallace. Although he already knew the answer, he wanted her to give him an answer for the record. BECAUSE Wallace brought two fingers to his lips and stared at his note pad. His pose suggested that he was pondering Lynn's evasive response. Actually, he wasn't pondering anything. He already knew the truth. Lynn's father had talked a blue streak during his arrest. Some perpetrators do that in the mistaken belief that once the police understand their motives they'll be released on the spot. It's a silly idea but people test it all the time, especially when they've been drinking. Mr. Flowers' was taciturn by nature, so his explanation came in short, angry bursts while he was being handcuffed. He told the police he'd been drinking all night. He told them he was distraught about his wife Seeing that he wasn't getting anywhere he began to rant. His rant went something like this: "You all think that's a girl? That's my faggot son! He tried to kill his mother off because we refused to let him go out cock sucking whenever he felt like it! He's a freaking liar, and a goddamn transsexual homo! I'm the hero in this story, got it? So take your hands off me!" And so on. Mr. Flowers omitted to mention that he'd experienced an erection while he was choking his son. In fact, he developed a stiff prick whenever he acted out violently, frequently forcing himself on his wife when he was in one of those manic moods, but he didn't mention that either. In domestic violence cases, it usually doesn't take the police long to figure out who the victims are and Mr. Flowers was obviously dangerous. Still, it wasn't a cop's job to judge. That would be the judge's job, if this thing ever got to court. Wallace thought Flowers would probably be offered a deal and allowed to plead to the lesser charge of assault since he had no priors, he was distraught, he was in a state of diminished capacity due to intoxication, and the jails were already full. Meantime, Wallace would do whatever he could to keep the kid safe. "You need to get yourself an order of protection," Wallace said. Then, casually, he asked Lynn how old she was. Lynn hesitated, considering her options. She had a phony-baloney birth certificate in her purse she'd paid a delinquent high school criminal wannabe twenty-five dollars to print up for her in case she ever wanted to go clubbing. That document claimed she was twenty-one. She was sure Wallace wasn't going to believe it was real. He'd probably confiscate it, too. Lynn's birthday was June 22nd, just a few days away. She'd be seventeen on that day. In her mind, adding a year onto her real age wasn't all that big a deal. It actually could have been the truth if she'd been born a year earlier. And she thought of herself as mature for her age, so maybe he'd accept it. She wiped her board and printed a big fat number "18" on it. Wallace scratched the side of his head absently. He already knew Lynn's true age. He took the pen and eraser from her. He wiped the board clean, replaced the number she'd written on the board with the real one and showed it to her. "Since you're a minor, the hospital can't release you unless a qualified adult takes responsibility for you. And even if they did release you, I'd still have to take you into protective custody. Your father is going to make bail, and whether you get an order of protection or not your personal safety is still in jeopardy. Is there a relative or family friend who can take care of you until we work out a suitable custody arrangement?" Fuck. If he knew everything anyway, then why was he screwing with her? She wiped the board again and wrote NO. "No one?" Lynn was sure that another "No" was going to land her in some kind of juvenile facility?a boys' juvenile facility. She wouldn't last a day in a place like that. Her hand froze. Then it came to her. She knew what to do. She meticulously wiped the board with her eraser and then wrote down a phone number and a name. "This is a responsible adult who can care for you temporarily?" asked Wallace. YES Lynn smiled. When she smiled, she looked like an angel. Wallace wrote the name and number down on his pad. Both the name and the number were fakes. Lynn's smile faded. She began to look distressed. She scribbled a quick question on the board. CAN YOU GET DR DAY 4 ME ? Wallace was a family man. He had a heart. That was why he'd never made lieutenant. "I thought you said you were feeling better?" I WAS BUT NOW I'M NOT While Wallace went to find Doctor Day, Lynn slid off the gurney and, as an afterthought picked up the board, pen and eraser, throwing down a couple of dollars from her purse as fair exchange for what she was taking with her. She disappeared out the side door. Where she was going, she had no idea. ***** Lynn had no idea where she was going. Wait. That's not true. She had ideas, but turning them around in her head she rejected them one by one. Home was out. That was the first place they'd look. Everyone knew Michael was her friend, boyfriend really, so they'd be paying a call on him before you could say Joe Mikpiczleflig. She didn't want to involve Michael in this anyway. It wouldn't be fair. And the other possible choice, her music teacher Mr. De Gisco, was someone who had always been kind to her. But he was way too uptight and gay to want to risk being caught up in a scandal involving the harboring of a sexually ambiguous student fugitive. She had given herself a few minutes lead time on Wallace by scrawling a note on the writing board saying she was going to the bathroom. She'd showed it to an orderly before she left, so Wallace would wait at least a little while before realizing she'd made a run for it. Still the questions remained. What to do? Where to go? She needed money, clothes, her passion fruit lipstick, and her loop ear rings with the little ruby chips in them (the ruby was her birth stone), and she especially needed her hormones. All those things were at the house. Ok. Suppose she sent someone else? Who? There was really only one person she knew who was capable of doing what she needed done, someone bad boy enough, and hot for her on top of that. Aside from the fact that she didn't know where he was, or if she could get in touch with him, and, worst of all, that he would probably want sex from her as his reward, he was the perfect ally. And he would do it, too?because he hated cops, hated everyone and everything. Except Lynn. Her he did not hate. Rod Colletti. Even bringing his name to mind made her nervous. But these were desperate times, and beggars can't be choosers in desperate times. She knew where Rod Colletti's father lived and maybe the father could help her get in touch with his incorrigible son. She'd worry about handling Rod's libido later. Lynn knew all about sex from TV and the movies, but she wasn't sexual. Well, mostly not. Lately, she'd begun to feel just a teeny bit sexy because Michael kept kissing her and hugging her all the time. But it wasn't very much of a feeling. Kind of like an early spring bud's appearance on a sapling?hardly noticeable unless you were being ultra observant about looking for it. Her main objective right now was in getting off the hospital grounds and away from Sergeant Wallace and his deep concerns about her welfare. Deep concerns that were going to get her locked up in a place where boys habitually raped other boys while the self-proclaimed caring and deeply dedicated staff remained oblivious to the goings on. She'd seen stuff on TV about that, too. There was a small building on the south side of the hospital complex housing psychiatric patients who'd been sent for observation and evaluation before either being sent back home with medication or being sent on to more specialized facilities for a longer stay. As she walked passed it, Lynn could hear someone yelling to her from the window on the second floor of the building. She looked up and saw a pretty blond girl. Whatever the girl was saying was incomprehensible, but she was pointing through the bars, not at Lynn but at something directly behind her. Lynn turned around. She'd been so deep in her own thoughts, she hadn't noticed the unmarked police car following her. He'd probably been following her all along. Damn it! Some fugitive she was! Wallace rolled down the driver's side window. "Get in," he said. ***** At least she wasn't in the back seat, like some criminal. They talked. Rather Wallace talked and Lynn wrote furiously on her board, which Wallace told her was stolen property. She paid two dollars for it, didn't she? She left the money on the stretcher! No, Wallace said. There was no money on the gurney. The orderly must have taken it! I'm not a bad girl! Doesn't matter, I'm not going to charge you, said Wallace. Then he asked where she wanted to go. HOME! That's when Wallace told her that her father had already been released on bail. I NEED MY THINGS!!! This kid could really be a pain. Wallace took a deep breath, exhaled and pressed the accelerator. "Here's the plan, Lynn. We get to your house, get whatever you need and then I'm taking you to stay with my mother. She's nice. You'll like her." GREAT! NOT! As long as she could get her possessions, Lynn didn't really care what Wallace's plans for her were. She had no intention of staying anywhere he wanted her to go. She just needed her stuff and bang she was on her way to a new life in the big city. ***** John Lee Flowers took a deep breath of air. He could already smell the onset of afternoon heat mingling in with the soft scents coming from the flower beds surrounding the municipal complex of which the prison was a part. It was going to be a hot, humid day for June. Probably be a long, hot summer, too. He felt a perverse thrill shoot through his chest, somewhere near the heart. It was almost like the thrill of first love. Hot day or not, he felt a lot better outside and free than he did being cooped up in a cell. He was his own man again, for as long as it lasted. Free to do what needed to be done. He knew what needed to be done. This was going to be John Lee Flowers' big day?the day when all things were set right. ***** Wallace checked his watch. This packing thing was taking longer than he thought. He stared at the front door. She'd been in there for over an hour. Eventually, Lynn emerged. She was wearing white hip huggers with a green silk top. A white scarf concealed the bruises on her neck. She had redone her makeup and combed her hair. She looked as cute as a bug in a rug. Lynn was out and she was going to live full time as a girl, and after what she'd been through, she couldn't care less what anyone thought. She had also gargled with salt water and found that while she couldn't talk normally yet, she could speak very softly with a minimum of pain. She placed two canvas suitcases and a faux alligator vanity case in a line on the front porch. Wallace walked rapidly up the curved concrete path and took the porch steps two at a time. He stacked the suitcases one on the other, placed the vanity case on top, bundled all three in his arms and staggered back to the car at a good clip. To Wallace, all women were a pain in the ass. Lynn followed feeling rather inadequate and a little bit guilty about taking so much time to get herself together. But she'd never had to pack a suitcase in her life. She'd done the best she could. Why was Wallace looking so irritated? Men were a mystery to her. Coming down to the car, Lynn smiled at her protector's gentlemanly attempt to hide his frustrations and, speaking to him in her nearly restored, softer voice, she said, "You've been nicer to me than I deserve. I'm sorry I tried to play a trick on you, Thank you for everything." Wallace was pleasantly surprised to see that she could speak. He smiled back. "You're welcome, honey." The two of them had agreed beforehand that since Lynn wasn't technically in protective custody, and since she'd voluntarily agreed to stay with Wallace's mother, and since she still had a life of her own to live which included taking care of her mother's final affairs, that he'd transport the luggage to his house and she'd be expected to come by later. "But not later than five o'clock," admonished Wallace. He'd been wiggling his finger at her but put it down when he realized how corny he looked doing it. Lynn gave him a very sincere nod. She turned to go back inside, but Wallace took her by the arm and stopped her. He reminded her that her father was probably on the loose by now. Rather unexpectedly, he gave her a quick hug and told her to stay out of trouble. Then he gave her his personal cell phone number and told her to call him if she needed him. Lynn scampered back up the porch steps and Wallace watched her until she was safely back in the house. He had to admit to himself that the kid's butt was something else. Then he remembered that the butt he was so admiring belonged to a boy, a fact he kept forgetting, and he could see why Lynn's intrinsic femininity caused the people around her so much distress. Without a drop of harm in her heart, Lynn just had a way of putting everyone around her in a dangerous mood. ***** The front door to Lynn's house opened directly into the living room. Once inside, Lynn realized how utterly exhausted she was. And why shouldn't she be? After all, she'd been awakened in the middle of the night to witness the death of her mother, been strangled by her father, interrogated by the police, forced to packed her life away in three suitcases and it wasn't even noon yet! She gravitated to a seat on the living room couch and closed her eyes. She would have fallen asleep right then and there, were it not for the thump of mail dropping on the tiles and the sharp metal slap of the mail slot closing. She had no interest in the mail. None of it would be for her. Besides, her time here was over and none of the details of this soon to be forgotten, former life were of any interest to her. Glancing around a room crowded with overstuffed furniture, oversized floor lamps, a coffee table tumbled with magazines and walls peppered with photographs of her father displaying the various fish, ducks and deer he killed as a hobby, and finally at the dark maw of the silent fire place, empty of anything at all now that it was summer, it occurred to Lynn that none of the pieces fit. Nothing in this room, not the worn throw rug, not the discolored white shades pulled down low over the front windows to hide what was not meant to be seen by pedestrians or neighbors, nor the persistent odor of stale air suggested welcome, or comfort, or cheer of any kind. Even as a toddler, she'd learned to avoid this floor of the house, where she always seemed to be in the way and ever in danger of being struck by long, impatient legs moving here and there while a deep booming voice rained incoherent noises down on her from somewhere very high up, sounding like the voice of a mean and disapproving god intent on filling her head with fear. A clever little thing, barely eighteen months old, she'd learned to wrap her small hands around the balusters on the staircase and to carefully pull herself up the carpeted risers one at a time until she was back in her own room at the top of the stairs, a room which was and always would be her safe haven as long as she lived on Thornberry Lane. But those days were quickly coming to an end. Pushing herself up from the cushions with both arms, Lynn walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Her mother had taught her that tea was the best remedy for relief from hot weather. She put two toll house cookies on a saucer and waited for the kettle to boil. Whenever Lynn was waiting for something to happen, she'd let her mind wander onto other tasks to fill the wasted time. She supposed that most people did that. She certainly did. And the thing she thought about doing was to call Rod's father, Mr. Colletti. The number was in her school directory in the drawer where her mother kept the potholders. She found the book and dialed the number. The phone connected on the fourth ring. "Mr. Colletti?" she asked when someone answered. "No." The voice was young and surly, and just a little bit tentative. "Rod?" The voice turned carefully suspicious. "Yeah?" "It's Lynn Flowers. Do you remember who I am?" "Yeah. I remember who you are. What's up?" "I need to see you, talk to you. Can you help me?" Rod was puzzled and wary. Lynn had always been afraid of him. He didn't get it. He thought of himself as a really nice guy, so why didn't she? But he was tempted. "Depends. I don't know what you need." "Can I come to your house?" "Bad idea. Why don't you meet me under the bridge in about a half an hour. Good for you?" Lynn nodded as if he could see her. Then she said, "Okay." "You remember where the old shack is?" Rod asked "Yes." "That's where I'll be waiting. In the shack... You sound sexy. What's up with your voice? You trying to get me hot?" Rod laughed, but the laugh sounded self-conscious. He changed his tone to one of caring and sincerity and added, "I heard about your mother and what happened to you at the hospital. Sorry about all that." Lynn was aghast. "Does everybody in town know what happened?" "Pretty much," Rod said. "I'll try to help you if I can. Whatever you need." "Okay," replied Lynn, suddenly gripped by the sensation that she was falling. "See ya at three. The shack under the old bridge." Rod disconnected. Lynn's face was burning with embarrassment. She'd always tried to avoid calling attention to herself, and now she was the center of it. The situation had become unbearable. She had to get out right now. She'd send for the rest of her things later. The low whistle on the kettle gradually built up into a scream. The kettle whistled just about the same time the front door opened. And that's why Lynn never heard her father coming in. ***** John Lee had had a few?more than a few. He'd swallowed seven straight shots, tipping his head back, throwing the whiskey into his throat, telling the bar tender to hit him again and again. Truth was he was hammered. So what? Who cared? Nothing really mattered any more. Everything was shit. Hearing the sound of the kettle, he realized that someone was in the house. Well, it couldn't be his goddamn wife. Thanks to his faggot son, she was lying on a slab in the morgue. So just who the fuck was boiling water in his house? An intruder? A reporter? Sissy boy? A ghost? A chill ran through his bones. Ordinarily, he didn't believe in ghosts, but today he did. He walked, slightly off balance and with some apprehension, toward the kitchen. ***** Wallace hit the brakes hard and pulled over. He felt like a damn fool. Suppose the father came home and found her there? He was an even money bet to finish throttling the kid. Visions of a dead Lynn Flowers began to fill his head. And if she did end up dead it would be his fault, He knew the danger she was in. He shouldn't have left her alone. What had he been thinking? He made a U-turn, activated his pursuit lights and siren and headed back to the Flowers house at high speed. Ten minutes later, he pulled the cruiser up to the house, running the passenger side wheels up onto the sidewalk. He heaved the driver's side door open and left it open as he ran up the porch steps and threw his shoulder against the front door. He'd assumed the door would be locked, but it gave way without any resistance. Wallace stood in the foyer for a moment before deciding which way to go. Hearing what sounded like a body dropping to the floor, he ran into the kitchen with such speed that when he tried to stop he skidded, almost losing his footing. Regaining his balance, he saw a wide smear of blood on the linoleum. He drew his gun and pressed his back against the wall, taking careful sideways steps around the corner of a set of high yellow cabinets crammed with dishes and glassware that obscured his view of the larger section of the L shaped room. "Police!" he announced in his best cop voice. . Flicking the safety off with his thumb, holding the weapon steady with both hands but aiming the barrel downwards, Wallace swung around to the right and scanned the room. The first thing he noticed was that the back door was wide open. Lowering his gaze, the next thing he saw was John Lee Flowers lying dead on the floor with a steak knife sticking straight out of his chest. Wallace crouched by the body. The knife had gone in horizontally, and Flowers' hands were clasped around the hilt of the blade, apparently in an unsuccessful attempt to pull it out before he expired. Judging from the narrow distance between the counter top and the place where the body had fallen, the assailant would have had to have been of very slight stature. In his mind's eye, Wallace saw the scene play itself out. The father surging into the kitchen, raging at her. Lynn surprised, frightened?panicking, not knowing what else to do to protect herself?she grasped the knife for protection?held it out in front of her to warn him off. Then, Mr. Flowers had either thrown himself against the blade, or, less likely, been stabbed in an ensuing struggle for the knife. Either way, he was dead and the kid was gone. Of all the things Wallace might have expected to see when he reentered the house, the body on the floor wasn't one of them. He stood up. He took a deep breath and blew it out. He reached inside his jacket pocket for his cell. Wallace called in a possible suicide, possible homicide and gave the dispatcher the address. He gave the name and physical description of the person of interest in connection with the incident. The case was out of his hands now. ***** About a mile northwest of the Flowers' residence was an abandoned railroad spur, overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. Some years before, that spur had been used to transport freight containers filled with fertilizer from The Grovesner Fertilizer Company's silos to the main rail line. Back in those days the fertilizer company had been the town's main employer. But old Mr. Grovesner's head chemist had blown himself, Mr. Grovesner and eleven of Mr. Grovesnor's employees all the way to Kingdom Come in an industrial accident back in 1959, and the business had been shut down. By the time the bankers, the creditors and the lawyers had divvied up the bulk of the remaining assets, the little money that remained was paid out to the surviving employees in little brown envelopes, each of which contained about forty dollars. Fifty yards or so from the tumbled bricks and bits of broken glass that constituted all that remained of the fertilizer company's offices and warehouse, was a deep ravine straddled by an old-fashioned railroad bridge. In the ravine under the old bridge was a shack. It was this shack under the old bridge that Rod had been referring to when he asked Lynn to meet him. Rod had been living in the shack for a couple of weeks. He'd cleaned it up, and furnished it with a wicker chair and a sleeping bag. He'd nailed a shaving mirror to one of the walls. He kept a pail of water handy for emergencies. There was no plumbing, of course. Nor was there a phone, So his having been at his father's house to filch a couple of spare batteries for his flashlight when Lynn called was a matter of sheer luck?or destiny. Take your pick. Rod got there early. He could hardly contain himself. He kept pacing back and forth in the shady area under the bridge, occasionally touching the tab on his fly with his finger to make sure it was up. He sniffed under his arms, too. He wanted reassurance that he wasn't going to offend in case the two of them got real close together. He wanted very much to be close to her. He was overjoyed that Lynn, that freak, that beauty, that enigmatic creature wanted, maybe even needed him. He was perplexed, too. But he'd clear the mystery up soon enough. Right before he touched her tonsils with the tip of his tongue. Had Rod been born into a different class, or been better educated, or not so frequently knocked around as a child, he might have referred to Lynn as his cherished darling, or his precious honey bunny, because that's how he truly felt about her. But since he wasn't, since he'd grown up mean and tough, the feelings that radiated from his heart and soul translated into such words and phrases as babe, and red hot fire cracker, and I can't wait till I get my hands around that luscious ass, even though either version of self-expression was driven by the same instincts. Frankly, he loved the girl. He thought he would do anything for her. But she'd always been afraid of him, apparently even repulsed by him, so why the change of heart? That was the perplexing part. Only Lynn knew the answer to that one, and he sure as hell wasn't going to ask her. Hell, no! Let the good times roll! ***** Lynn would run a few steps then walk a few steps then run again. She was panting by the time she'd gone most of the mile she had to travel to reach the shack, and her heart was beating so rapidly that she thought she might die. Like most people who'd just been through a life and death crisis, she was partially in shock and partially fixated on the pictures in her head that replayed the scene from which she'd just escaped in images so disturbing, so horrific that there was no escape from them. But, of course, they couldn't be real. (She was in the kitchen, reaching up on tiptoe for a teacup from the cupboard. The kettle was still boiling. She heard footsteps. She froze in place, remaining on her toes, delicate fingers outstretched, reaching for the cup, listening intently. The sun was streaming into the kitchen, transforming the glass panels in the cupboard into mirrors. She saw a figure reflected in the glass. Instantly, she knew it was her father. She heard him mutter her mother's name as if it was a question. "Monica?" Coming forward a step, he repeated the name, but this time with assurance. "Monica!" He was looking at Lynn when he said it. He smiled, but only with one side of his mouth. His eyes were glazed. A drop of fluid hung from the tip of his nose. He drew a steak knife from the butcher's block on the counter. The smile disappeared when he saw his own reflection trapped in the glass, Then he turned his head and said two more words. "Kill you," he said, advancing on his child.) As to what had happened next, she couldn't remember any of it. That part of her memory was blacked out. By the time she regained awareness of the world around her she was running towards the shack, guided by an urgent need for safety and protection. And she was about to ask for that protection from a boy she'd always feared. Why? According to Lynn's logic, Rod was a better fit for helping her out of the mess she was in than Michael was. And why was that? Michael was reasonable, Michael was deliberate, Michael was calm and rational. If her problem had something to do with the police, he would tell her to cooperate. If she'd done something wrong (although she was sure she hadn't!), he would call a lawyer. Meantime she would be arrested and jailed. Then the reporters would come (Oh, God!), and take pictures of her on the courthouse steps. (She would hide her features with a fashionable hat and giant sunglasses.) Cable stations would roll video clips of her in handcuffs, wearing those unflattering orange overalls that made your behind look so awful on the news! No! No! No! That could never be! But why choose Rod? Why choose him indeed! Rod was Michael's polar opposite. Rod was a bad boy. Michael was good. Rod was rough and rude. Micheal was smooth and polished. Rod was impulsive. Michael was prudent and patient. And while others might disagree, it was Lynn's conclusion that Rod's qualities were right for the times. In any event, such was her logic. ***** Like a broom moving from side to side across a floor, a sudden rush of cross winds swept the heat out of the air, and silver gray clouds began to loom over the horizon. The temperature dropped, gradually at first, and then quite rapidly. A storm was coming in from the north, pushing hard against the southwest winds that had dominated the day until then. Although he was standing in the shadows, Lynn could see Rod, arms folded across his chest, waiting for her under the bridge. He yelled something at her from where he stood?something that sounded cheerful. Then, stepping out of character, disregarding his self-disciplined state of coolness and nonchalance for once, Rod began running towards her. He was smiling with an open mouth. She could see his teeth. "Hey, baby!" "Hi, Rod!" Lynn stopped and waved and waited for him to come to her. He was on her in a moment, hugging her and kissing her cheek. Tentatively, Lynn brought her thin arms up and around him. She could feel his man parts pressing against her, and from the sensation she concluded they must be very large. "I've been waiting a long time for you," Rod said, pulling back a little to get a better look at her face. "Not that long," replied Lynn, blinking innocently, misunderstanding him, thinking that he meant the time between the phone call and now. "Come on," Rod directed. He turned and grabbing her hand, he pulled her toward the shack. Once they were both inside, he closed the door, and indicated the chair. She sat demurely in the wicker chair, eyes down, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap. "What's up?" he asked. Lynn didn't answer right away. She stared at her hands and wouldn't look at him. Rod studied her. The kid looked like she was about to cry. But more than that, she looked scared. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" Lynn remained silent. "You want to hook up with me?" Rod asked. But he didn't ask the question with his usual self-assured arrogance. He asked it rather sweetly. "Maybe." Lynn blushed and turned her head away. She couldn't, couldn't meet his gaze. Rod dropped to his knees. He grasped her hands and kissed them gently, first the right one, then the left. He put his head in her lap and she began to stroke his hair. She'd always thought of men as being like dogs, and right now Rod was behaving like a very good doggie. She scratched him affectionately behind the ear. . A few minutes passed in this way until Rod, his mind always restless, fixed yet again on the inexplicable change in Lynn's attitude. What did she want so much that she was willing to trade her affections for it? He would be sure to ask her later on, but for now he would explore the depth of her commitment. "You know I was always kind of sweet on you," he mumbled. "I guess I did know," she admitted. "I had a hard time accepting it." "I want to kiss you." "Okay." Rod stood and pulled her up with him. She closed her eyes and he kissed her lightly on the lips. She didn't resist. He kissed her again, more ardently this time. She hung limply against him, passive and vulnerable. "I really like you, Lynn. You know that, don't you?" he said. She nodded, still with her eyes closed. She was enjoying the intimacy. Unconsciously, she licked her lips. Rod took that as a good sign. He kissed her again, and this time he used his tongue to press for an invitation into her mouth. She let him in. This deeper kiss was discreet. Rod didn't slobber all over her. He was tender about the kiss. And although she didn't show it, remained as pliable as a doll to all outward appearances, this more intimate kissing electrified her. It was just what she needed. She made a little noise, partly because she couldn't help it, but partly because the responses in her body were telling her what the real difference was between Rod and Michael. Never mind that Michael was a jewel and Rod was a loser. Rod excited her. Rod excited her. That's why she'd always been afraid of him. She'd never understood it before, but she understood it now. All that time she'd been afraid of him, running away from him, she'd really been afraid of herself, running away from her own nascent passions and suppressed desires. But Rod wasn't fooled. He knew what a sex pistol lay hidden under that shy, demure exterior. Lynn blushed. Rod noticed the blush, too. Not the one heating her cheeks, but the one blossoming on her chest, just above her heart. That second blush just made him hotter, because it was the blush of sexual heat not reticence, and he began to forget the promise he'd made to himself to take it slow with her. He gradually slid his hand down the hollow of her back to the swell of her butt. ***** While Rod was grinding his pelvis against Lynn's virginity, an all points bulletin was cascading through police databases all over the state. There was a person of interest the authorities wanted for questioning in connection with the discovery of the body of a man found dead by trauma, a possible murder victim, tentatively identified as John Lee Flowers. A description and a school photograph of the only suspect, identified as the man's son, were included in the transmission. ***** Who can explain the psychic mysteries that surround us? Some call eerie events mere coincidence, while others seek for explanations in the natural sciences. And then there are those who put their faith in the bastard sciences of the supernatural world of psychic kinesis, telepathy, ESP, spiritualism and the like. Whatever the cause, Lynn experienced just such an event. For at the exact moment the clerk struck the enter key on her computer at police head quarters over a mile away from where she stood in Rod's embrace, a shiver ran through Lynn's body with an intensity she'd never felt before. It was purely electric. Rod felt it, too. "What's the matter, honey?" he asked the trembling girl/boy. "I'm afraid," Lynn replied. "Of what?" "I don't know. I think something terrible happened. But I can't remember what it is." Rod coaxed her down on the sleeping bag and tried to kiss away the fear. When that didn't work he said, "Screw your courage to the sticking place, honey." "What?" cried Lynn. "What does that mean?" "I dunno baby. I was in the tenth grade twice and they made us read this play about a guy who wanted to be the king of the whole country, and the lady in the play told her husband to screw his courage to the sticking place. I always paid attention to that part. I guess cause of the word 'screwing.' I think what it really means is don't get so nervous." "Oh." Lynn was somewhat mollified either by Rod's explanation or because when her hand passed lightly over his chest and stomach, she could feel the tightness of his six pack abs. 'What a man,' she thought to herself. Remembering that Michael didn't have any abs at all, she lifted her head with an encouraging glint in her eyes that told Rod it would be okay to kiss her again. ***** Wallace knocked on the door of the Sage residence. The first thing that struck him about the appearance of the young man who opened the door was how mature and serious he was for his age?which appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen at the most. "Yes, officer?" "Are you Michael Sage?" "Yes." "Are you acquainted with a boy named Lynn Flowers?" "Yes." "May I come in and speak with you for a few minutes?" "Of course. Please come in." Michael opened the door wider and Wallace entered. "What's this all about?" Michael asked. ***** "I'm wearing white," Lynn warned. Rod was drawing her down next to him onto the sleeping bag. His pull was firm and even insistent. "Honey, this sleeping bag just came out of the wash," Rod said, reassuring her. It hadn't, but what the hell, finding himself lost in the heat of the moment, Rod certainly wasn't the first male ever to lie in order to get what he wanted. ***** Michael and Wallace sat facing each other in a beautifully decorated living room. The room was straight out of HOUSE AND GARDEN, and cool and quiet except for the sound of their voices as Wallace asked the questions and Michael answered them. The fragrance from a spray of flowers on the mantle made Wallace feel a little uncomfortable. ***** With patience and persistence, Rod had Lynn down to her little white panties and the scarf she'd refused to remove from around her neck despite his best efforts. Her hormone-enhanced breasts were barely a handful but they were cute and perky and the sight of them in combination with the sight of her virginal, angelic face had him close to the edge. "Guess it's time to introduce you to old blue," Rod announced, rising to his knees and opening his jeans. ***** Wallace finished scribbling all of Michael's answers onto a note pad that looked almost lost in his ham of a hand. He'd believed everything Michael had told him so far. Michael hadn't seen Lynn since the night of the concert. He had no clue as to Lynn's current whereabouts. Of course, being a cop, Wallace omitted to mention anything about the body he'd found in the Flowers kitchen, just that Lynn was missing and he needed to make sure the boy was all right. The other thing he didn't tell Michael was that he had a plainclothes officer sitting across the street in an unmarked car with instructions to tail Michael the minute he left the house. Nor, for that matter, did he tell him that a second man was busy in the Sage garage setting up a wiretap on the telephone box. In the unlikely event that Michael used the landline to get in touch with Lynn, the call could be monitored and traced. But even if he used a cell phone, which was probably what he would do, that signal, which was no more than an ordinary radio signal, could be scanned from the equipment inside the police cruiser parked outside. "If you see Lynn, you need to let me know right away," Wallace cautioned, giving Michael his card. "You can reach me at any of the numbers on this card." "I will," Michael promised. "I know the two of you are close friends," Wallace added. "He'll probably reach out to you at some point." "If she does, I'll be sure to call," Michael promised. "It's important," Wallace added emphasis to the word 'important,' and then let himself out of the house. The Sage kid seemed to be okay, but after what Wallace had learned about their relationship, Michael was his best lead, and he'd be goddamned if he was going to be played for a sucker twice in the same day. ***** The brief, fierce summer storm had battered the little shack. While it lasted, the interior of the shack had been drenched in darkness, as if in sympathy with Lynn's natural modesty. The drumbeat of rain on the roof had muted the sighs and cries and creaks and other sounds of lovemaking until both storm and sex were finished with each other. As quickly as it had come, the storm dissipated. The sun returned, and a rainbow, mostly pink and gold, appeared in the western sky. They call it the afterglow, and the beams of honeyed sunlight shooting into the shack from between the cracks in the rotting slats that formed its walls lit the scene of afterglow being shared by the two lovers quite beautifully. Rod was sitting on the floor leaning back against a wooden post smoking a cigarette and Lynn was right next to him sucking on a lifesaver. Rod always liked to smoke after sex because it broke the intimacy, but this time he only took a couple of drags before putting the cigarette out in an old coffee can. "It's alright if you smoke," Lynn said. "Nah!" Rod shook his head. He knew she didn't like cigarettes. For her, he would quit smoking. He'd do anything for her. "Your lipstick is almost all wore off," Rod said. "I'm gonna kiss the rest of it off baby cause those coral pink lips on you are perfect the way they are." Rod dived on top of her and she squealed as if in fear, but she wasn't afraid. ***** Sitting in the cruiser, Wallace was thinking about his sometimes girl friend Hettie, the Children's Room librarian in the next town over. Maybe he ought to give her a call. He had no faith in second chances, but even if she yelled at him, as she had often done when he cancelled dates with her because of his work, it would kill a little time and he was getting bored out of his mind waiting for something to happen. But just as Wallace began to fish around in his side pocket for his cell, hoping Hettie's number was still in memory, Dispatch came through with an alert. "We got a little kid here says he was going by that shack out the old factory way and from the noises he heard he thought someone was getting killed in there. So he peeked through a crack in the wall to see what all the moaning and screeching and groaning was all about. But it was just a couple of kids getting jiggy with each other. I gather from the description that the guy was a little rough around the edges and the girl was a real beauty, and at first the kid who was watching couldn't figure out if she was enjoying herself or being tortured." Wallace didn't see the point of the story. It would have been routine for Dispatch to send a cruiser out there to check on the situation. Why tell him about it? He waited for more. When more wasn't forthcoming he asked, "Is this story going somewhere, Dispatch?" "Yeah... it is," replied the dispatcher indignantly. "Obviously, I'm telling you what I'm telling you for a reason!" "This guy is so fucking unprofessional," muttered Wallace. He shook his head. "I heard what you just said, Wallace! Just for your information it so happens that when this pretty girl the kid was watching in the shack turned over on her side, the kid got a good look at her lap area and it had a little something extra poking out of it, if you get my drift." Wallace connected the dots. "The Flowers kid?" "I'd say you got maybe an eighty-five percent probability...," replied Dispatch, enjoying every second of what he was saying. For once he wasn't just a drone passing on instructions from a higher up or taking orders from the officers in the field. For once, he was trumping everybody. The shack was well known to the town cops. Kids in need of a little private make out time were drawn to it like nails to a magnet. "How long ago did this happen?" asked Wallace. "A couple of minutes. The kid's got a cell phone. Maybe he's ten years old and he's got a cell phone. Everybody's got a cell phone these days even?" "Skip it!" Wallace cut Dispatch off and turned to Charlie Davis, his wheelman. "You know where the shack is, right?" "Of course! Used to hang out there myself when I was a teenager," Charlie admitted. Wallace ordered Charlie to step on it in a voice so commanding that Charlie got scared, and they peeled out fast enough to leave tire tracks on the tar in the street. ***** After Michael disconnected the wiretap from the phone box in his garage, he quietly eased himself into his car and turned on the ignition. In this way, he could watch Wallace with his foot inches away from the gas pedal. His hunch proved correct. Within minutes, Wallace's driver was activating his pursuit lights. As soon as he saw Wallace speed off, Michael pulled out onto the street to follow the cruiser at a safe distance. Michael didn't know whether the police had a lead on Lynn's location or not. So Wallace could have been responding to a completely unrelated call. But he was sure that if he stayed on the detective's trail that trail would eventually lead him to her. ***** Wallace told Charlie to pull over about fifty yards from the shack. He motioned Charlie to cover the window in case they tried to climb out, meantime he crept up to the door. Wallace could have handled entering the shack a couple of different ways. He could have knocked, announced himself and let them open the door, or he could have taken a more direct approach and kicked the door in. He took the direct approach. The wood in the door was so weathered and dried out that it splintered into three parts and separated from the top hinge under the force of his size twelve and a half Bostonian oxford. The shack was empty. ***** Ten minutes before Wallace arrived, Lynn decided she wanted to go back to the house and pick up her suitcases. She explained to Rod how things were as they stumbled their way back over the uneven, ragged terrain. "I'm leaving town," she said flatly. Rod's heart sank. "Aw, babe, what do you want to do that for?" "I mean after the funeral," Lynn qualified. "Do you have a suit to wear to the funeral?" Rod didn't have a suit. But he could always boost one if he had to. "Yeah, babe. I sorta got one." "I want you to look respectable," Lynn cautioned. "If you don't have a real suit, we can probably borrow one of my father's suits and put it back later." "I don't know how that's going to go over. Isn't your father mostly a bastard?" Rod asked. Lynn got a kind of spacey look in her eye, the sort of look one gets when one's about to have an epileptic seizure. She said, "Put your arm around me, honey. I feel a little cold." Rod was puzzled. With the heat filling up the air again after the storm Lynn should have been feeling fine, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and that seemed to satisfy her. She smiled at him. "I love you, Rod. No matter what." "I love you, too, babe," he responded. ***** Wallace sniffed the air in the shack. He could smell her perfume, and he could smell the odors of sex. So there was a guy involved, just like the eyewitness said. Wallace hoped this wasn't turning into another boy meets girl, boy fucks girl, boy and girl go on a killing spree scenario like the Charles Starkweather, Caril Ann Fugate massacre of the 1950's. Fugate always claimed to be just another one of Starkweather's victims, an innocent teeny bopper caught up in a psychopath's homicidal frenzy, but Wallace had always thought she was full of shit. "This witch is starting to piss me off," he told Charlie. Charlie thought that calling Lynn a witch was an odd choice of word. "Witch?" he asked. Wallace ruminated. "Yeah. Witch. You know?the ones who have the power to trick people?make them do whatever they want them to. " He stared at the empty wicker chair for a moment, then added, "People think witches have black hair and piercing eyes, but they don't. They have red hair and green eyes. " Charlie did not see, He was pretty sure Wallace was talking metaphorically about someone other than Lynn. Maybe an ex-girl friend who'd fucked the sergeant over? Didn't matter. Time to change the subject. "What now, boss?" Charlie asked in a deliberately neutral tone. "Call downtown. Tell them to put extra surveillance around the Flowers' house. But make it discreet. I don't want to scare her off. Her stuff is there, and she's gotta go back there sooner or later. And tell Phil, that jackass in Public Media, to put together a press release. I want him to write a compassionate plea that says for Lynn Flowers to turn