Reckless Endangerment

M. C. Bechum

 

The moon was full and the streets deserted when Perry Scott exited the Interstate in Quincy, Florida. The exhausted pharmaceutical representative had been driving all evening and he needed to find a place to sleep.

Long business trips were nothing unusual for the forty-six year old workaholic from Pensacola. He seemed to spend the majority of his time on the road. With a restless spirit and a hunger for the carefree life he used to know, the outgoing father of four was desperate for excitement. Though he would’ve been the first to sing the praises of his wife and children, Perry couldn’t overcome the emptiness that had plagued him for the past six years.

As an educated professional, the talented pitchman realized how immature it was for him to measure his significance on such a superficial scale. Still, the fleeting attributes that once made him the star of his college fraternity were becoming more and more difficult to recall.

Even though the former baseball hero was still an attractive man, his six-foot-two-inch frame had put on a few pounds. The curly dark mane that used to grace the Disco King’s head was now turning gray and thinning out. The years had passed so quickly, leaving Perry to wonder where he truly belonged. Consequently, beneath the tempered glow of a placid autumn moon, perceptions have often been obscured. Tragically, this discontented dreamer was about to understand just how distorted his vision had become.

The unfamiliar blacktop road leading to Highway 90 seemed to go on for hours. Surrounded by a forest of towering pines, Perry cruised past numerous communities of slumbering households, as he struggled to stay awake. Unable to descry available lodging, the weary traveler decided to seek haven wherever circumstances would permit. The neon sign atop Barkley’s 24-Hour Diner was a welcomed beacon in the storm.

Despite the bountiful patronage the eating establishment enjoyed during the day, a first time customer could hardly be impressed by the limited influx that generally emerged between midnight and dawn. There were seldom more than five tables taken at any given moment. Yet, the place was clean and it did exude an amiable air of southern hospitality. Those social graces were best personified through the magnetism of the proprietor’s daughter, Dakota.

With unabashed warmth and the energy of a teenager, the personable night owl went about her duties without reservation. She wasn’t too proud to bus tables or mop the floor. She even brought orders out to the booths and greeted customers with a smile. There was nothing pretentious about the top man’s kid. That was one of the reasons why a stranger’s first visit to Barkley’s was usually an experience he or she would never forget.

At first glance, it would have been easy to overlook the genuine beauty that pervaded the visage of this seasoned businesswoman. She wore little makeup, and that azure blue waitress uniform didn’t exactly scream fashion diva. The tiny scar beneath her right eye attracted even more attention to her large Roman nose, and there were streaks of gray in her chestnut hair. To an aging stud who craved the affections of a sweet young damsel, Dakota probably wasn’t worth a second look. Consequently, as far as Perry Scott was concerned, ignoring the loftiness and the insight that came with it would prove to be the gravest mistake he ever made.

There were only five customers in the diner when Perry entered. To his right, a well-dressed elderly couple acknowledged him with a nod. A bearded young man in a camouflage jacket stared silently out the window. Though the mere notion of making personal judgments based on one’s appearance disgusted the politically correct peddler, he deemed it wise not to look in that direction. The ballad playing on the jukebox was reminiscent of happier times spent with friends Perry would likely never see again. His melancholy demeanor provoked deep empathy from the heart of a perceptive altruist like Dakota. It also made an unsuspecting sentimental fool the perfect mark for a team of hustlers like Maggie and Donna Bateman.

It wasn’t difficult to see how any man could be enamored by Maggie’s feminine wiles. Her flawless skin and dark brown eyes were mesmerizing. That country girl smile and raven crop could blur the line between fantasy and reality. This ruthless vixen was the lonely man’s comfort and the decent man’s devil. With no one to snatch him from the flames of utter humiliation, Perry proceeded to embrace the dream that would become his worst nightmare.

Though Donna was actually Maggie’s daughter, their schemes seemed more effective when the seventeen-year-old high school dropout pretended to be her sister. Like her more experienced partner in crime, the misguided young swindler had learned every compliment and sad story designed to bring a lovesick patsy to his knees. She was a beautiful girl who had begun her journey through life upon a path of thievery and extortion. Mercifully, Donna had yet to be transformed into the barren canvas upon which Maggie could stipple the soul of a staunch accomplished con woman. Deep down, this wholesome looking teen with the long sable tresses was earnestly conflicted about the lifestyle into which her mother had so callously thrust her. This unsophisticated grafter was convinced there was more to life than lying and stealing.

Ever cautious as a serpent, Maggie prepared to make her move, but when she saw Dakota approach Perry’s table, the crafty deceiver maintained her position.

"Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before, honey," Dakota said to Perry.

"It’s my first time," he told her. "I’ve been looking for a motel."

"If you’d stayed on the road a little longer, you would’ve found more than one about three miles from here."

"That’s the way it always goes for me. I’m constantly a day late and a dollar short."

"What can I get for you?"

Perry picked up a menu. "I think I’ll try your steak dinner," he said.

"Anything to drink?"

"Lemonade will be fine."

"Have it for you in a jiffy," Dakota replied, writing the order down as she headed for the kitchen.

With no one around to impede her progress, Maggie sauntered toward the vulnerable prey. The old party hound immediately recognized the signals she was sending.

"Hi there," Maggie said, "you look tired."

"I should," he responded. "I’ve been driving forever."

"Are you a long way from home?"

"I’ve got about four more hours ahead of me."

"Sounds taxing."

"You’re right, but I’ve got to make a living."

"What do you do?"

"I sell pharmaceutical products."

"I had a feeling you were a successful businessman."

The female adoration had a real effect on Perry. The quiet family man began to come out of his malaise. "Who’s your friend?" He asked, referring to the adolescent vision across the room.

"She’s my little sister," Maggie replied, beckoning for her criminal apprentice. "We’ve been on the road for a while, too. Hitchhiking can take a lot out of you."

"You’re hitchhiking? That’s dangerous."

"I know," she agreed, as her daughter approached. "This is Donna and I’m Maggie."

"Perry Scott," he replied. "Have you ladies eaten?"

"Actually, we’re a little short," Maggie told him.

"It’s on me. I can’t have you beautiful girls passing out on the road. How far do you have to travel?"

"We’re trying to get to Mobile," the Machiavellian temptress said with a hint of sadness in her voice.

"That’s on my way!" he exclaimed. "I can take you as far as Pensacola."

Maggie opened the menu in front of her and looked at Donna. "Go tell the lady we’d like to order the shrimp platter," she instructed.

When the girl left, her mother turned up the heat on Perry. The levelheaded city slicker was far too enticed to realize he was being played.

"It’s been a long time since I shared a meal with a man," she said. "My husband died four years ago."

"I’m sorry," Perry responded. "Was it an accident?"

"No, he just worked himself to death. He wouldn’t listen to his doctors. A massive heart attack took him from us in one night. Now I’m all alone."

As Perry was slowly drawn into this twisted woman’s web of lies, his defenses began to weaken. That’s when the beguiling viper moved in for the kill.

"I’m sorry for your loss."

"Thanks," she replied. "I appreciate you offering us a lift, but you’re tired. Maybe we should all just find a room for the night."

"I don’t think that would be a good idea."

"Why not?"

"I’m married."

"No…no…you’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t suggesting anything seedy. I thought we’d get a few beers and watch an old movie or two."

"I guess that would be alright," he reasoned.

A few minutes later, Dakota emerged from the kitchen with their orders. From a strategic perch near the cash register, the sagacious observer kept an inconspicuous eye on Perry’s new friends. The wistful seeker was being set up and she was determined to make him aware of the trap.

By the time the tragic trio finished their dinner, Maggie had Perry’s heart on a string. His ego had been inflated beyond the boundaries of stable discernment. The hunters had laid the snare and the quarry was more than willing to be devoured.

When the women excused themselves to visit the powder room, Dakota seized her opportunity to speak with Perry.

"Look, man, I know you don’t know me," she said. "But those broads are not on the level."

"I don’t follow."

"This isn’t the first time I’ve seen their kind. They’ll pour on the charm, then take some pathetic sucker for all he’s worth."

"I guess that would be me."

"I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m just trying to help you see that those chicks are bad news."

The delusional fall guy stood up and handed her a hundred-dollar bill. "Thanks for your concern," he said. "But there’s no need to worry. I’ll be fine."

Maggie and Donna returned from the ladies room. "Ready to go, Perry?" The sultry vixen asked as she and her daughter began gathering their belongings.

"I think we can hit the road now," he replied.

"I can’t break a Franklin," Dakota said.

"You keep the rest," Perry gleefully offered. "The service and the meal were outstanding."

The anguish in Dakota’s eyes was disheartening. Watching the self-destructive Casanova reminded her of an animal heedlessly headed toward the slaughter.

With a beautiful woman on each arm, Perry strutted across the parking lot, unaware of the calamity that awaited him. At the time, he felt he’d been granted a new beginning. Regrettably, before the night was over, the self-assured lady-killer would find himself grappling with the severity of what his vanity had actually cost him.

The beating of Perry’s heart seemed to keep rhythm with the classic rock ‘n roll emanating from the radio, as he and his newfound companions boogied down the highway. Either unable or unwilling to acknowledge the danger before him, the reborn heartthrob was determined to enjoy the ride. Like so many others, he’d convinced himself that nothing bad would happen as long as his motives were pure. Unfortunately, an emotionally vulnerable chump under the influence of a bloated ego was in no position to gauge intent.

"How old are your children?" Maggie asked, snuggling beneath the comfort of Perry’s one-arm embrace as her daughter slept peacefully in the back seat.

"John is sixteen," he told her. "David is fourteen, and the twins are nine."

"You’re very fortunate."

"A family is a wonderful blessing and I wouldn’t take anything for them, but sometimes life can get a little confusing. A man could easily find himself wondering what might have been if he’d taken a different path."

"You’re really deep."

"Don’t you ever think about life and all the things you could’ve done under different circumstances?"

"I’ve never felt the need. I just try to live for today."

"Does that make you happy?"

"Happiness is subjective."

"I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you."

In the distance, Maggie caught sight of a neon sign glowing above Panhandle Dave’s All Night Liquor Store. "We’d better stop here," she said.

"Why?"

"It’s probably the only place we’ll find something to drink this time of night."

Perry pulled into the parking lot of the tiny green building and stopped beside an old pickup truck. "What about the kid?" He asked.

"She’ll be fine," the calculating con artist assured him. "Maybe you should leave the heater on for her."

The two of them stepped out of the vehicle and entered the store. A tired-looking cashier named Ned was working the register.

Ned was an unassuming middle-aged fellow with curly brown hair and narrow facial features. The flannel shirt beneath his denim vest appeared to have been laundered a few too many times. Though Perry had never met the lanky gentleman, he felt an immediate kinship with him. He was obviously an individual who had once set out to conquer the world, but time and the pillaging hands of inevitable change had choked the life out of his dreams.

"I’m going to get some drinks and a few snacks," Maggie said.

"That’s a good idea," Perry agreed, handing her a twenty-dollar bill.

Filled to the brim with the tantalizing warmth that imprisons a man’s logic when a fascinating woman invades his world, Perry picked up a couple of twelve-packs and headed for the counter. The expression on Ned’s face was very familiar.

"How’s it going?" Perry asked.

"It’s going," Ned responded.

"Is there a motel near here?"

"The closest one is about a mile up the road, but the bus doesn’t come through till noon."

"The bus?"

"Isn’t that why your friends dropped you off?" Ned inquired, pointing toward the parking lot.

Perry turned around and saw Maggie speeding away with his car. "Hey!" he cried, as he ran out. "Come back here with my car!"

In one life-altering moment of weakness, a man who thought he’d reconstructed the scattered remnants of a cherished past found himself contemplating what he stood to lose in the wake of a dreaded future. Tempting the waters of his bygone youth had left the humiliated malcontent stranded in a sea of trouble with no life raft. Still, Perry’s present dilemma paled in comparison to the terror that awaited him. At some point, he would have to look into his wife’s eyes and tell her that the car was stolen by a woman who had sold him on the idea of spending the night with her at a motel.

Within two hours, Maggie Bateman drove past the Brickhearst City limit sign. The cunning car thief looked ecstatically pleased with herself. Swindling Perry induced an adrenaline rush that was more satisfying than any illegal substance she had ever tried. She wasn’t ashamed of the way she had toyed with the salesman’s emotions. For a while, an unfulfilled husband had been made to feel like the most attractive man on earth. From where Maggie was sitting, using the two-timer’s money and leaving him stranded added up to a fair trade.

Donna awakened abruptly when her mother stopped the car in the parking lot of the Caravan motel. The clever larcenist secreted the stolen vehicle in a dark corner and switched the license plates.

The girl opened the door and stepped out of the car. She was still a little groggy. "Where are we?" she asked.

"Brickhearst, Florida," Maggie replied, as she popped the trunk and began taking their luggage out.

"Don’t you have to check in?"

"I took care of that while you were sleeping. You’ve been dozing off a lot lately. I think it would be a good idea to get you to a doctor."

"How long are we going to be here?"

"Just until morning. Then we’ll set out for Oklahoma. We have relatives there. It’ll be the perfect place to make a fresh start."

Beneath the breathtaking splendor of a predawn sky, the rambling bunko babes trekked across the dimly lit pavement and climbed the stairs to door 313B.

Though the room was hardly spectacular, it had a certain down-home quality that suited Maggie’s taste. The spread on one of the beds was torn and the microwave was at least five years old, but to a woman who could recall washing her clothes in a stream behind her grandparents’ clapboard cabin, the amenities were close enough to perfect. On the other hand, Donna’s reaction to their accommodations was far less cogitative.

The rotary dial telephone looked like something that belonged in a museum. There were only seven cable stations available on the nineteen-inch television set. She didn’t dare ask about those dried bloodstains near the window.

Unbeknownst to her daughter, Maggie’s attraction to this place of temporary refuge had taken root long before the conniving four-flusher defrauded her first mark. After exchanging vows with Donna’s father, the young bride was offered a job managing the Caravan Motel. Cherished days spent with the man she loved had led the sensuous seductress back to the place she’d once called home. Ironically, an outstanding warrant for her arrest was the reason why she had to be out of town before sunup.

Donna switched on the television and flopped down on the other bed as her mother proceeded to unpack. The exhausted teen was on the verge of collapse until a commercial for a local nightspot caught her eye.

"Beautiful people and unspeakable pleasures await those brave enough to discover the phenomenon known as the Spiral Realm!" The announcer declared.

"That sounds cool!" the young woman exclaimed.

"Not on your life," Maggie asserted. "Having you picked up by the cops in some sleazy dive is the last thing we need."

"But this place is outrageous. Besides, I haven’t met any cute guys in months. I’m so bored."

"That’s why you need to stay in and get some rest. We’ll head out early and be some place safe in no time."

"Can’t we have a little fun before we go?"

"No! You’re going to get some sleep and be ready to roll at dawn. That’s final!"

The kid wasn’t pleased with her mother’s decision, but she didn’t want to make matters worse by protesting too strongly. For the most part, Maggie was an easygoing individual who didn’t let life get to her. However, something frightening occurred when she felt threatened. An explosive fit of rage would consume all reason. Once the spiteful ogress would embark upon this odyssey of merciless annihilation, no one could talk her down. Fear of provoking such a monster was enough to make Donna drop the subject.

After a quick shower, Maggie changed into her favorite sweats and struggled to get comfortable beneath the covers. "You should get cleaned up too, honey," she addressed her daughter in a more subdued tone. "We won’t have a lot of time in the morning."

Donna gathered her toiletries and went into the bathroom. She’d fully intended to comply with her mother’s instructions, but when she returned and found Maggie sound asleep, the mentality of a defiant party animal began to take over. Barely taking a breath, the resourceful rebel changed into the hot pink blouse she’d shoplifted from a department store in Key West. Hopelessly determined to unveil the secrets of a cold forbidden night, she slipped one of the key cards into her back pocket and cautiously sneaked out the door. Though the possibility remained that Maggie might awaken at anytime within the next few hours, the juvenile sneak was certain the pillows stuffed between the covers of her bed embodied a sufficient human frame.

A fifty-dollar bill and a come-hither glance convinced the young man at the front desk to summon a taxi. In a matter of minutes, the shapely adolescent who’d been forced to grow up too fast was on her way to an unknown adventure that would turn her world upside down.

To a hapless stranger wandering the streets of Brickhearst, the deserted sidewalks and quiescent ambiance might have masked the intangible realities that lurked amid the shadows. Predators of the night seeking to satisfy their depraved voracity disguised themselves as ordinary people. Severely indifferent to the trauma they would inflict or the lives that would be wrecked, these rapacious stalkers went about their work with uninhibited proficiency. They prowled every corner of the city. Unfortunately, one of them just happened to be driving the cab that had come to pick up Donna.

Toby "Bonehead" Devane wasn’t born a cold-blooded sadist. His fascination with torture didn’t surface until the licentious voyeur reached his teens. The untimely death of his parents rendered him a ward of the state before the age of eleven. Earnest attempts were made to procure his adoption, but the headstrong youngster found it difficult to conform to the deportment that helps a household function.

An injury sustained at the hands of an abusive guardian had resulted in a scar that sullied half his face. For a teenage boy struggling to cope with the pain of abandonment, the harassment and ostracism from female classmates didn’t make life any easier. In time, the frustrated outcast came to resent women. He grew up nursing a grudge that eventually blossomed into a resolve to get even.

Though the demented masher would have loved to impose torment upon each victim with his own two hands, he didn’t have the stomach for making his psychotic fantasies come true. That task was primarily left to the machinations of his partner, Professor Ramsey Worthington.

At first glance, Worthington’s resemblance to the devilish young boy who used to derive great pleasure from mutilating insects and rodents seemed practically nonexistent. The distinguishingly handsome middle-aged educator was now a respected member of his community. His personable character and uncanny ability to manipulate people into doing his bidding had allowed the articulate flatterer to accumulate enough wealth to live in luxury for the rest of his days. To the casual observer, the professor projected the image of a man who had it all. Tragically, the majority of his colleagues had yet to discover that something very important was missing.

In spite of his phenomenal intelligence, Worthington remained oblivious to the shame and contrition that tempered the aggressions of scrupulous mortals. His only purpose in life was self-fulfillment. Propelled by an unrepentant hunger for stimulation, the brazen pervert had become jaded with the lascivious advances he’d gotten away with for so long. Suddenly the degradation on the faces of violated women was leaving him peevish. He yearned to experience the rush of terrorizing the vulnerable and daring the authorities to track him down. So far, seven victims had groveled at the savage killer’s feet. Calamitously, the starry-eyed teenager about to take a seat in the back of Bonehead Devane’s cab was marked to become the eighth.

Beneath the mollified haze of city lights, it would have been difficult for any passenger to get a clear look at the driver. Nevertheless, he hadn’t taken any chances. A skillfully applied makeup job concealed most of his scar. The neatly trimmed mustache and goatee added an air of harmlessness to his narrow mug. With those wire-rimmed shades, no one would have suspected the lurid gaze in his bloodshot green eyes. He just looked like any other big city cabby.

"Where to, lady?" Bonehead asked, straightening his baseball cap before adjusting the rearview mirror to observe his prey.

"Can you take me to the Spiral Realm on Mitchner Street?" She asked.

"Have you there in no time."

As the car pulled away, Donna gawked at the desperate clusters of sidewalk hustlers taking their places beneath the darkness of a vice-ridden existence. The scantily clad girls being pulled in every direction by abusive exploiters was especially chilling. The unstructured misfit was deeply troubled by the prospect of ending up on the street. She realized her life was out of control, but Maggie wasn’t the kind of parent a child could turn to for comfort and understanding. Finding a party and getting wasted seemed to be the most effective manner in which to cope with a no-win situation.

The innocent beauty of this delicate flower made Bonehead nauseous. He wasn’t supposed to engage in conversation with her before picking up Worthington, but that schoolgirl smile and confident demeanor dredged up hostilities he couldn’t constrict.

"Been in town long?" he asked.

"No," she naively responded. "How do you know I’m from out of town?"

"Well, you are staying at a motel."

"Good point."

"You’re pretty. I’ll bet you were one of those sassy little cheerleaders in school."

Though the vindictive savage spoke in a rational tone, the contempt in his voice had begun to intensify. Donna could sense that something was wrong.

"How much longer will it take to get to the Spiral Realm?" The teenager nervously inquired.

"Under normal circumstances it would take only about ten more minutes."

"Under normal circumstances?"

"Yeah, another fair is waiting for me. I hope you don’t mind."

By this time, Donna was really afraid. She didn’t know what the peculiar hackie had in mind and she wasn’t inclined to find out. The clever young scam artist considered opening the door and bailing out, but before she could make her move, Bonehead stopped the car in front of an abandoned barber shop.

Without making a sound, Donna observed Ramsey Worthington as he emerged from the darkness and joined her in the back seat.

The debonair professor’s outward appearance didn’t coincide with most preconceived notions of a sociopathic serial killer. In fact, that blow-dried salt-and-pepper ducktail made the cleanly shaven degenerate look rather stately. For a moment, she wondered whether or not her fears were actually warranted. Yet, when she peered into those eerie gray eyes, this maniac’s vindictive nature became more than apparent.

"What is this?" Donna demanded.

Bonehead locked the doors and calmly pulled away from the curb.

"Relax, baby," Worthington told her. "We’re taking you to a party."

"I don’t want to go anywhere with you creeps!" she shouted, attempting to open the door.

The professor moved closer and tried to kiss her, but the pugnacious scrapper took the wind out of his sails with an uppercut to the chin!

In Worthington’s twisted mind, the victim’s resistance made her responsible for the brutality to come. "You’re going to pay for that, girlie!" he snarled. "Now why don’t you just sit back and savor the passion of a real man?"

"Why don’t you savor this?" Donna responded, as she raked her fingernails across his eyes and made another attempt to exit the vehicle.

Barely able to see and wracked with pain, the persistent hunter caught his fleeing quarry by the hair.

The action in the back seat made Bonehead’s heart race. He didn’t even realize he’d run a red light a few yards away from a restaurant where Senior Patrol Officer Frank Simpson and his partner, Officer Pat Stepherson were having a coffee break.

Simpson had safeguarded the public trust for the past seventeen years. The mild-tempered husband and father was a devoted cop who endeavored to evaluate the malformations of a tarnished character from every angle. With an uncompromising reverence for human life, the resourceful veteran of the mean streets was always willing to explore any alternative to bloodshed.

The fifty-two year old former decathlon champion was in exceptional shape. Still, he didn’t enjoy reminiscing about his athletic past. Rehashing memories of his glory days made him feel empty and displaced. For a beat cop, that combination could have proven deadly. He hadn’t completely dispensed with the youthful idealism that compelled him to pin on a badge almost two decades ago, but the disenchantment of a public servant who had witnessed evil triumph too many times darkened his mien like a hovering cloud.

Ever cognizant of the day when he would take off the midnight blue uniform for good, Simpson was determined to stay the course. Moreover, he didn’t want to walk away until he had sufficiently passed on his knowledge to up-and-coming young officers like Stepherson.

Unlike his modest mentor, the rodomontade college graduate wasn’t shy about tooting his own horn. By the age of thirty, he had already received seven commendations. He was an industrious crime fighter with an active social life. Yet, he was always the first to volunteer for extra duty.

Perhaps Stepherson’s carefree vaunting would have been more annoying if the energetic risk taker wasn’t so enamoring. His dark wavy hair and introspective glance were mesmerizing. With a partial smile he could make the most frantic victim feel at ease. Despite the occasional tributes to himself, this vigorous hot shot was a true asset to the Brickhearst Police Department.

Contrary to the arrogant exterior Stepherson often presented, he was actually an insightful officer with a profound understanding of human behavior. At the most pivotal moment, the brawny boaster was capable of expressing the kind of illuminating sentiments that could change people’s outlook.

Without a doubt, Simpson and Stepherson were more than qualified to protect the citizens of Brickhearst. However, when it came to putting an end to the homicidal scourge that had gripped the city for the past two months, they just happened to be at the right place at the right time.

"Did you see that?" Stepherson asked his partner, observing the taxi from the window.

"Something’s going on in the back seat!" Simpson responded, as the two of the got up and dashed out to their patrol unit.

With blue lights flashing and the siren wailing, the officers began pursuing two of the most sadistic killers the city had ever encountered. Stepherson drove while Simpson radioed dispatch.

"Two-Salem-Eighty in pursuit of a green and yellow independent taxi traveling west on Clifford Street," the officer reported. "Possible three-thirty-six in progress. Two males and a lone female who appears to be engaged in an altercation with one of the suspects in the back seat."

When Bonehead realized the Police were behind him, he began to panic. "It’s the cops!" he exclaimed, snatching off his shades and cap.

"Just shut up and keep your eyes on the road!" Worthington instructed, struggling to maintain control of Donna.

Bonehead turned down a one-way street and floored the accelerator, totally unaware that a pickup truck full of rowdy spring breakers was headed straight toward him. The boisterous college students battled to stand up in the bed of their vehicle, as the inebriated driver carelessly swerved and jerked.

Practically blinded by the piercing intensity of the oncoming headlights, Bonehead veered off the road and jumped the curb before crashing through the showroom window of an automobile dealership! The cab came to an abrupt stop when it collided with a parked Suburban.

Stepherson slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street, bringing the patrol unit to a screeching halt. To their left, the officers spotted five severely injured students strewn about the overturned pickup.

Though the broken glass and mangled awning spawned little hope of anyone surviving the crash, Simpson wasn’t taking anything for granted. Beneath the pale blue shimmer of a nearby streetlight, the veteran patrolman advanced toward the Samuel Fletcher Vehicle Emporium. As the instinctive tracker maneuvered past the fleet of minivans to his right, he remained mindful that someone could have been lying in wait to ambush him. He should have been more concerned with the tiny storehouse near the end of the lot.

Simpson was preparing to make his way to the showroom when he was distracted by what sounded like a tumultuous thud. The disturbance had obviously occurred within the walls of the weathered metal structure. With disquieting expediency, the probing peace officer trekked between the rows of automobiles until he reached the boundary of the freshly planted sod surrounding the storehouse. A few yards from the front steps, a 2003 Lincoln Town Car was parked in the darkest corner of the property. As Worthington had planned, the vehicle appeared to be unoccupied, but the experienced flatfoot had his doubts. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of that young hostage lying helplessly on the floor. So he slowly rose to his feet and exploded into a mad dash toward the little metal building. Suddenly, the lights of the Town Car were switched on as Worthington aimed a .44 Magnum out the driver’s side window and opened fire. Simpson dove to the ground and took cover behind an antique tractor. After regaining his footing, the resourceful marksman attempted to inject a couple of disabling rounds into the tires, but the perpetrator was already in motion. Worthington barely managed to speed away with his life as a barrage of gunfire demolished his rear windshield.

Simpson replaced the clip in his weapon and called in a description of the Town Car. Unaware of what might be waiting for him inside the storehouse, he took hold of the knob and snatched open the door with his sidearm at the ready. The small window in the rear of the structure yielded enough light to reveal the floundering silhouette of young Donna Bateman.

As she staggered into the gardening tools and industrial-sized buckets of cleaning solvent, Simpson carefully approached her.

"Who’s there?" the girl frantically inquired.

"It’s alright," Simpson assured her, putting his gun away. "I’m a police officer."

"Where am I?"

"You’re on the lot of a car dealership. The man who was fighting with you in the cab brought you here."

"What man?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I can’t remember."

"Well, you’ve had a rough night," the officer said, helping her out the door and down the steps. "We’d better get you to a hospital."

The pain in her sprained wrist and throbbing head made it difficult for Donna to think. Her cheek was bruised and one eye was swollen shut. Even an old warhorse like Simpson couldn’t hide the anguish he felt for this pummeled victim.

The sound of gunfire prompted Stepherson to rush to his partner’s aid. He had made his way down a row of used sport utility vehicles when he caught sight of Simpson. "Frank!" He cried out.

"It’s all clear, Pat," Simpson responded.

The Senior Patrol Officer’s assessment was partly correct. Worthington had vacated the premises, but Donna wasn’t completely out of danger. The voracious eyes of a different kind of predator were fixed firmly upon her.

Lester Kelsey was a down-and-out newsman who had squandered his savings on treacherous women and kinetically challenged greyhounds. A rising star who once believed the sky was really the limit had been reduced to scrounging through garbage bins and sleeping in his car. Aside from the dehumanization and circumventing sadness that shadowed his existence, a cellular phone he had received from a loyal friend who worked at the local television station was a constant fixture. Kelsey was convinced that calling in an incredible scoop would be the catalyst to resurrecting his career.

Life hadn’t been easy for the disgraced pariah. He hadn’t eaten in days. His sneakers were dirty and that faded blue shirt had shriveled down to slightly more than a dust cloth with buttons. The toll that frigid nights and alcohol abuse had taken on his pallid frame was evident. Intriguingly, the damage to his physical appearance was only half the price he would pay for his blatant intemperance. The most horrendous requital had been imposed upon the man he was inside.

Blinded by bitterness and resentment, the angry derelict remained stalwart in his quest to regain what he had lost. The noble aspirations of an idealistic cub reporter had been doused by the distorted perceptions that now defiled his heart and mind. All that mattered was reclaiming his place at the top.

Kelsey was monitoring Police communications on his scanner when he heard the Two-Salem-Eighty dispatch. He arrived at the scene a few seconds after the crash occurred. The brazen newshound had followed Simpson onto the lot. In spite of the danger, Kelsey was willing to put it all on the line for the story of the decade. Consequently, the life he was risking wasn’t his own.

As an approaching EMS unit illuminated the area, Simpson looked over and caught sight of the menacing snoop. After briefing the medics, the Senior Patrol Officer motioned to his partner and moved toward the reporter.

Realizing his cover was blown, Kelsey deemed it wise to make the first gesture of cooperation. "Don’t shoot, boys!" The shaky encroacher pleaded, stepping out into the open with his cell phone in hand. "I’m with the press."

"How long have you been out here?" Simpson asked.

"Long enough to see you riddle that Town Car with bullets," he responded. "That was quite a show."

"Did you get a look at the driver?" Stepherson inquired.

"I’m afraid not," Kelsey said.

"We’ll need that camera phone," Simpson told him.

"Why?" he asked.

"Our technicians may be able to come up with a picture of the assailant," Stepherson explained. "You can put your story on hold for a few days."

"It’s too late," the callous opportunist declared, shaking his head. "I’ve already sent the story to Channel 19 newsroom. In a few hours, that kid’s face will be all over the morning news."

"That animal left her for dead!" Simpson asserted. "Now, thanks to you, he’ll know he didn’t finish the job."

"It’s worse than that, Frank," Stepherson added.

"What do you mean?" his partner wondered.

"The cab driver who crashed through that showroom was Bonehead Devane," he said.

"Then the perp who got away was his unidentified accomplice," Simpson concluded. "We’ve got to find this guy."

The officers were justified in their resolve to make Worthington’s capture a priority. However, neither of them realized the scope of this salacious narcissist’s predicament. Learning he’d let a victim slip through his fingers would be a huge embarrassment. He wasn’t going to add insult to injury by leaving her alive to testify against him in open court. This wasn’t the last time Stepherson and Simpson would be hearing from Professor Ramsey Worthington.

As predicted, Donna’s ordeal was the lead story on the Channel 19 morning news. Early risers were astounded by the disturbing chronicle of a teenager who had narrowly escaped the clutches of a cold-blooded killer. Word of this latest attack provoked a firestorm of fear and anxiety. Some people were even afraid to leave for work in broad daylight. Nevertheless, there was one temporary resident whose outlook didn’t appear so bleak.

Maggie Bateman leaped from her bed feeling dauntless and energetic. Unaware that the lump in the next bed wasn’t her daughter, she switched on the television and headed for the bathroom. "Rise and shine, kiddo," the invigorated absconder said. "We’ve got a long way to go before we get where we’re going."

As Maggie proceeded to brush her teeth, a breaking news story caught her attention.

"A traffic accident that occurred on a way-way thoroughfare off Clifford Street has resulted in the death of Lennie ‘Bonehead’ Devane," the anchorman said. "For the past three months, Police have sought to discover the whereabouts of the thirty-seven year old murder suspect. He and his accomplice are believed to have taken the lives of seven young women. Had it not been for the efforts of two patrolmen, an unidentified teenager would have become the dastardly duo’s eighth victim. Channel 19 obtained footage from the scene moments after the Devane’s partner made his getaway. What we are about to show you is disturbing and may not be suitable for younger viewers."

When Maggie saw the battered face of her accosted daughter, she dropped the toothbrush and darted to Donna’s bed. "Donna!" she cried, pulling back the covers only to find the mound of pillows the crafty young truant had foolishly comprised. "What have you done?"

The frantic mother’s heart pounded with trepidation as she raided her suitcase for something to put on. A story about a girl who had tangled with a serial killer and lived to tell the tale was bound to make the national news. Once Donna’s face became the main attraction in living rooms all over the country, the world as she knew it would cease to exist. Maggie couldn’t afford to let that happen.

The intuitive con artist didn’t need a medical degree to determine her criminal apprentice’s apparent destination. Anyone in that condition had to be transported to the nearest hospital. Nevertheless, Maggie realized she couldn’t go storming into the lobby and proclaim that she was the miscreant parent who had taught her little girl how to hustle men for money. Liberating Donna from the vigilant custody of the Brickhearst P.D. would require careful planning.

Maggie spent most of the morning securing a new hideout and misappropriating a more reliable set of wheels. There were at least three medical facilities in the immediate vicinity, so by the time she had made it to the Lighthouse of Bartholomew Memorial Hospital, Donna had been examined and assigned to a semi-private room.

Simpson and Stepherson had left nothing to chance in their endeavor to protect the witness. Still, the Channel 19 news segment had ignited a fury of interest that even that Police couldn’t contain. Fortunately, they had managed to keep the reluctant valiant on ice until she was well enough to be questioned. For the moment, the department found itself walking a tightrope between a devastated community and a byline crazy press that couldn’t wait to turn a terrified victim’s tragedy into a real-life soap-opera. Yet, despite the onslaught of sensationalist vultures looking to profit from Donna’s fifteen minutes of fame, there was one individual who was genuinely interested in her well-being.

Katie Balsom recognized her brother’s only child the moment she saw her on the news. Though it had been eleven years since she laid eyes on the child, there was no mistaking the family resemblance. She was the spitting image of her father. Even the scrapes and bruises couldn’t distort what the benevolent aunt knew to be true in her heart. She wasn’t about to let her niece endure this horrific ordeal alone. Katie had to get to the hospital.

The path of grief and loneliness had been well traveled by the Balsom family. The past few years had brought more sorrow than Katie cared to acknowledge. With each melancholy glance, the staid suburban widow labored to conceal the morbid darkness of a heart that wouldn’t heal. With unabridged indomitability, the courageous survivor staunchly embraced the principles she held dear and refused to fall victim to the tentacles of despair.

While Katie entertained no delusions concerning her own imperfections, there were values upon which the soft-spoken altruist would never compromise. She was certain those same values would have been imparted to Donna had her father lived. Breaking the shackles that had confined the girl from such an early age wouldn’t be easy. Thankfully, her allegiant aunt was no stranger to an insurmountable challenge.

Revealing the light of a brighter day poses innumerable obstacles when the preceptor is someone the youngster loves and respects. No one could predict a seasoned hustler’s response to an emotional stranger who appeared from nowhere and declared she was a long lost relative. Everything hinged upon Katie’s ability to convince Donna that she was being straight with her. For that to happen, certain impediments would have to be overcome.

Short of a DNA test, there wasn’t much to support a contention of kinship. The diminutive redhead didn’t resemble her late brother. Her pug nose and light complexion had always distinguished her from the rest of the family. In recent years, she’d been compelled to forge out a living at the local sawmill. The callused hands of a working class mother weren’t likely to beguile a susceptible street urchin who had languished in some of the most lavish hotels in the south. Katie could only pray there was still a trace of her brother’s chastity dissembled beneath the materialistic exterior of a starving spirit that had never been filled.

Introducing a wayward foundling to the love and acceptance of a family she never knew was a laudable objective, but it would take more than good intentions to move the mountain that stood between these two women. The well-meaning aunt would have to enlist the aid of someone trained to evade the pitfalls that obstructed her path.

Rhoda Stafford was a case worker for the Department of Children and Families. The ardent civil servant had been acquainted with the Balsoms for the past twelve years. Back then, she was instrumental in paving the way for them to adopt the ten-year-old orphan who became their son.

To Stafford, the role of a DCF employee involved more than looking into complaints and finding a place for kids to crash. She genuinely cared about families in crisis. Going out of her way to help mend a broken household was no great sacrifice.

As a former member of the Brickhearst Police Department, the devoted Good Samaritan had witnessed firsthand the dread and hopelessness that plagued a disenchanted generation. However, Rhoda hadn’t deluded herself into believing she could single-handedly eradicate the woes of a troubled society. Even though she longed for the day when her efforts would contribute to the betterment of children’s lives on a universal scale, present circumstances dictated an imperturbable resolve to work within the boundaries of a system that didn’t always make the goal seem attainable. For now, that would have to be enough.

When Stepherson and Simpson returned to the hospital to check on Donna, Stafford was standing in the corner making notes. The forty-four year old brunette in the azure blue pant suit looked nothing like the nervous young rookie who sat down in the passenger seat of Simpson’s patrol fifteen years ago. There were a few more lines around her weary brown eyes and a scar suffered at the hands of an abusive ex-husband was partially visible near the base of her large Roman nose. Her demeanor was reminiscent of a pensive soldier struggling to find purpose in the conflict she couldn’t bring herself to desert. Though no one could’ve denied the physical attractiveness of this special lady, there was more to Rhoda Stafford than the face beneath her modestly applied makeup. Those hidden qualities are what made her truly beautiful.

"Frank!" Stafford exclaimed, as she looked up and caught sight of the approaching officers.

"Hello, Rhoda," Simpson said, embracing his old partner. "How’s it going, kid?"

"You mean in the last three years since you bothered to pick up a telephone?" She asked.

"Give me a break," he told her. "I’ve been busy." He turned to his partner. "This is Pat Stepherson."

"Pleased to meet you," Stepherson said to Stafford, extending his hand. "I’ve heard a lot of good things about you."

"You’re quite the celebrity as well," she replied. "I’ve been looking forward to this."

"How’s our patient?" Simpson asked. "Did she give you a description of the attacker?"

"I'm afraid that’s not possible at this point," Stafford responded.

"Why not?" Stepherson inquired.

"According to the doctor, the child’s suffering from retrograde amnesia," she told them. "She couldn’t even tell me her name."

"She’d been banged up pretty badly when I found her in that storehouse," Simpson commented. "Did anything else happen?"

"There were no signs of sexual battery," Stafford assured him. "In fact, she probably scared her assailant."

"How?" Stepherson wondered aloud.

"A few minutes after being admitted, she experienced symptoms related to Cataplexy," Stafford replied.

"Doesn’t that have something to do with Narcolepsy?" the astute junior officer observed.

"That’s right," Stafford confirmed. "It’s a weakness of the muscles triggered by a sudden emotional reaction. If it occurred while the perp was attacking her, it might have thrown him off his game. Of course, I'm only speculating. We won’t know anything for certain until after the sleep study."

"Did the girl have any identification?" Simpson asked.

"She had a fake I.D. and a key card from the Caravan Motel in her back pocket," Stafford said. "Forensics took them back to the lab when the detectives questioned her this morning."

"The purse we found in the cab was full of stolen credit cards," Simpson said. "What’s this kid’s story?"

"It more than likely involves running cons on unsuspecting men," the social worker asserted.

"How can you be so sure?" Stepherson inquired.

"Her aunt, Katie Balsom saw her on television," she explained. "She’s convinced the girl is her brother’s daughter, Donna. She’s in there now."

"We’ll need to speak with her," Simpson requested.

"I need to go over a few things with the kid," Stafford replied. "I’ll send Katie out."

"So that’s your old partner," Stepherson said to Simpson when Stafford stepped back into the room. "Why did she quit the force?"

"Rhoda’s mother died shortly after giving birth," Simpson told him. "Her father later remarried. The new stepmother had a three-year-old son. It seemed like the perfect family. Four years later, they split up. The stepmother moved out and took up lodging with a couple of angry women who didn’t like kids. One of them ended up killing the boy."

"That must’ve broken Rhoda’s heart."

"It came close to destroying her. She loved that kid like he was her own flesh and blood. Thankfully, after a turbulent adolescence, she pulled herself together and decided to become a cop. At the time, she believed it was the best way to defend and protect the rights of children. One day she looked at me and said it wasn’t enough. A Masters degree and thirteen years later, here we stand."

"She’s quite a woman."

"She certainly is."

` Katie Balsom’s expression wasn’t easy to decipher when she came out of Donna’s room. The inundated aunt seemed trapped between a mire of ominous expectation and a tranquil stream of eternal hope.

"Mrs. Balsom, I'm Frank Simpson," the Senior Patrol Officer told her. "This is my partner, Pat Stepherson. We apologize for interrupting your reunion."

"Oh, it’s alright," she sighed. "She was given a sedative earlier. I doubt Rhoda will be able to get anything out of her for the next few hours."

"You seem convinced of her identity," Stepherson observed. "What makes you so certain?"

"Well, aside from the amazing resemblance to my brother, she has the same bat-shaped birthmark on her back," she explained. "I realize nothing will be official until we get the results of a DNA test, but I just know she is my niece."

"Mrs. Balsom, we’re having trouble getting a handle on Donna’s life," Simpson said. "Can you fill in a few gaps for us?"

"It’s doubtful," Katie responded. "I haven’t seen the child since her mother, Maggie, packed up and left town with her eleven years ago."

Simpson could see the look of disgust on the woman’s face when she mentioned her sister-in-law. "You don’t appear to have a very endearing opinion of your brother’s widow," he said.

"That’s because I know her," she insisted. "The broad became a monster when things didn’t go her way."

"Please explain," Stepherson requested.

"Maggie and David used to manage the Caravan Motel," she continued. "About a year after they began running the place, my brother was severely injured in an automobile accident. He spent the last four months of his life in a hospital bed. During that time, I saw the real Maggie come out. She would get rude and vulgar. At times I feared for Donna’s safety."

"Did she ever harm the child?" Simpson asked.

"Not to my knowledge," she replied. "But there’s more than one way to abuse someone. When David died, the insurance money was barely enough to cover the medical bills. With only one income and a child to raise, my sister-in-law found it difficult to maintain the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. Eventually, she learned the value of a seductive wink and a subtle glance. An unflattering reputation soon followed. Donna was teased and beaten up at school. Finally, I confronted Maggie and told her I was going to DCF. That’s when she decided to steal three thousand dollars from a neighbor and skip town."

"Do you think she could be angry enough to come after you?" Stepherson asked.

"I wouldn’t be surprised," Katie said. "When Maggie feels threatened or betrayed, things can get real ugly."

"We’ve already arranged for Donna to have police protection," Simpson told her. "I think it would be wise to put a unit in front of your house as well."

"That won’t be necessary," the delighted aunt responded with a smile. "The doctors will be releasing Donna in a couple of days and Rhoda has arranged for her to come home with me. So the protection you already have will do just fine."

"That will make our job a lot easier," Stepherson commented.

"I’d like to go in and speak with Donna," Simpson said. "We may be able to catch a few lucid comments before she falls asleep."

When the three of them entered Donna’s room, Maggie emerged from around the corner disguised in scrubs and a surgical mask. She’d heard every word her sister-in-law said about her. Yet, despite her ingenious infiltration, the furtive invader realized her daughter was in no condition to leave the hospital. She would have to make her move at a more convenient time.

Katie was absolutely correct about the con woman’s temper. She could really get mean when her back was against the wall. Moreover, if the charitable aunt had any aspirations about taking the girl and living happily ever after, Maggie was viciously prepared to let her know she hadn’t seen anything yet.

Though the prognosis concerning Donna’s amnesia was vague at best, the majority of her physical injuries were superficial. In addition to her aching extremities, there were a few scrapes and scratches that would take awhile to heal. Nonetheless, the doctors felt those ailments could be adequately managed with the proper doses of medication. So after two days of sixties reruns and the most delectable bowls of Jell-o in the western hemisphere, the resilient seventeen-year-old was released into custody of a relative she barely knew.

With no recollection of the unfettered extravagance she and her mother enjoyed on the run, Donna didn’t know what to expect when she headed for Katie’s place. In fact, under normal circumstances, she would’ve been mortified to see how drastically the life of her favorite aunt had changed.

The tiny house on Rudgar Street seemed worlds away from the understated elegance and tempered repletion of a placid suburban way of life. Well nourished daisies and neatly trimmed hedges were a poor substitute for the breathtaking allure of a beautifully maintained cul-de-sac. Cracks across the surface of her concrete porch were in serious need of repair. The stereo was ancient and the living room walls could’ve used a fresh coat of paint. Her maroon carpet was new, but the felt recliner and sofa had obviously seen better days. The accommodations weren’t impressive. Still, the home was clean and the love was pure.

"It’s not much, but I think you’ll be comfortable," the gracious hostess said to her niece as the two of them entered the residence.

Donna nervously looked around the room, hoping to spot something that would trigger a memory. "It’s nice," she said.

"This is quite a change from the house where you and Brandon used to play."

"Brandon?"

An expression of sadness came over the grieving mother’s face as she opened the door and led Donna into the room where she kept her slain son’s belongings. "He was your cousin," Katie said.

The intrigued young woman pondered over the books and photos that hadn’t been touched since the military sent them home. The picture of a smiling Marine dressed in fatigues sparked something familiar. "War," she muttered.

"That’s right. The country is at war. Brandon was killed in Afghanistan three years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"The doctor said your memory could come back at any time. Maybe seeing these old photos will help."

Donna picked up a picture of Katie’s late husband. "I know him," she said.

"That’s your uncle Mark. He used to lift you up and sing little songs to you."

"Where is he now?"

As was the custom in times of distress, Katie pulled her long ponytail around to her chin and lowered her head. "Life wasn’t the same after that Marine Captain came to the door and told us we’d lost our son," she said. "Mark sank into a deep depression. I tried to get him help, but he was inconsolable. Last year, he took his own life. That’s why I had to move into this little house. The insurance company refused to honor the claim of a client who’d committed suicide."

Donna took Katie’s hand. "I'm so sorry," she said, as the two of them embraced. "It must be so difficult for you."

"You just have to carry on, one day at a time. Now, let’s get out of here and find something to eat."

Katie walked toward the door, but her niece didn’t take a step. She could sense there was something on the girl’s mind.

"What’s wrong, honey?" the concerned aunt asked.

"There was an old lady in the room with me at the hospital," she said. "I heard her talking to one of the nurses when she thought I was asleep. She said she knew my mother when we lived here."

"What else did she say?"

"She told the nurse that my mother was a lying thief who flirted with men to get what she wanted."

"Donna, you can’t allow yourself to be controlled by what other people say."

"The woman also said that my mother trained me to hustle a buck out of unsuspecting losers. Is that true? Am I a crook?"

Katie sighed and covered her face with her hand. "I didn’t want to get into this until you were better, but you deserve to know the truth," she told her. "Your mother has a lot of problems. Before she married your father, she’d been hurt and taken advantage of by men. To her, being without money is the first step back to that world of humiliation and abuse. That’s why she swindles and steals."

"Then it’s true. Crime is the family business."

"I want you to listen to me," Katie said, placing her hands on the youngster’s shoulders. "You are a beautiful, intelligent young woman who can accomplish anything she desires. Don’t let the mistakes of the past contaminate your future."

"So what happens now?" Donna asked, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Now, we’re going to raid the kitchen. After that, we’ll get a good night’s sleep so we can make that trip up to Montgomery for the sleep study."

When they walked out, Katie closed the door and secured the deadbolt.

"Why are you locking this door?" Donna asked.

"Because the window in that room won’t lock. I’ll get it fixed next week. In the meantime, this door will buy us some time if an intruder tries to break in. Of course, I'm not going to worry as long as those detectives are watching from that van in front of the vacant house across the street."

"The Police said that a serial killer put me in the hospital. They expect him to come looking for me."

"That’s why we have to be careful. I'm not going to do anything to put you in danger. You’ll be safe here, kid."

For the first time in years, Donna was in the care of a guardian who truly understood the meaning of love and sacrifice. With Katie’s patience and direction, the aimless wanderer could finally receive the stability her life had been lacking.

Even though helping a troubled teen reconstruct the elements of a vitiated upbringing wouldn’t be easy, Katie was looking forward to the challenge.

In Donna’s present state of mind, the promise of sharing a home with a relative who cherished her for the woman she could become made her feel special and wanted. However, the greatest battle of her fight for solidity wouldn’t be waged until her memory returned.

Later that night, Katie and Donna retired for the evening. The hospitable aunt had given up her bed and fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. Donna tried to get some rest, but as she tossed and turned, images of the past flashed through her mind like a slide presentation. Names, faces and places gradually emerged from vague familiarities to unmistakable affirmations. By midnight, the teenager’s life story had been reprinted upon the pages of her tormented psyche.

Soaked with perspiration and practically out of breath, the effectuated perceiver leaped from her bed. The only clothes she had to put on were the department issue sweats a female officer loaned her at the hospital. It wasn’t the most inconspicuous ensemble a girl could have thrown together, but her mind was on more important matters.

Realizing her aunt was asleep on the sofa, Donna sneaked out and opened the door to the room where Katie kept her son’s possessions. Carefully unlocking the deadbolt, the crafty deserter made her way to the window and climbed out. Even though she hadn’t forgotten about the policemen stationed across the street, the odds of escaping without being detected weren’t a concern. After all, it wasn’t the first time she’d had to elude the authorities.

Amid the shadowed glimmer of a starry night, Donna maneuvered down the side of the house and diligently endeavored to stay hidden within the darker spaces. She had no idea where she was, but when the resourceful evader reached the street behind Katie’s house, she chose a direction and proceeded to sprint.

The adolescent con artist wasn’t the only one contemplating her emancipation. Her mother was in the process of hatching a plan to get in and out of Katie’s house without attracting attention. Surprisingly, she was about a mile away from the Balsom residence when she caught sight of her daughter.

Already traumatized by her last experience with the occupants of an unidentified vehicle, the approaching headlights of Maggie’s stolen BMW made the fleeing minor extremely nervous. She was prepared to disappear into the woods when a familiar voice spoke her name.

"Donna!" Maggie cried. "It’s me, honey."

The girl ran to her mother and collapsed in her arms. "Mom," she said, panting like a cocker spaniel. "I didn’t know what happened to you."

"I saw you at the hospital, but you were surrounded by cops. Let’s get out of here."

"We can’t go back to the motel. The cops know I was there."

"I know. I found another place. We’ll be safe there."

The past few days had felt like an eternity to Maggie. She could hardly wait for life to return to what she deemed normal. However, a lot had changed in a very short time. Donna’s exposure to people who believed she could reach beyond the fraudulent boundaries of a carefree existence had sown the seeds of self-examination. She had personally witnessed the inner peace of individuals who’d made their way in the world by pursuing an honest course. Suddenly the path leading to a productive life didn’t seem so inaccessible. Still, there was one pothole the edified young penitent would have to encounter head on. Donna was hardly oblivious to the terrifying consequences that resulted from opposing her mother. The way Maggie would respond to the haunting questions in her daughter’s heart remained to be seen.

It took less than an hour for the reunited drifters to reach their destination. During the ride, Donna relayed the events of the past few days. The remorse in the girl’s voice and the anticipation of a better life inflamed the embers of Maggie’s rage like gasoline. By the time they parked and stepped out of the car, the jealous mother was ready to explode.

A rundown warehouse on the east end of town wasn’t the most glamorous hideout the two of them had ever shared, but it would suffice until morning. Donna wasn’t shocked at the sight of her mother without makeup, but the faded jeans and dirty sneakers were a fashion statement the vogue enchantress didn’t usually embrace. That purple sweater looked like something she’d fished out of the trash. Desperate times had truly called for desperate measures.

Beneath an open window where the glow of the moon provided enough light for them to see, Maggie prepared a couple of cots. The old place was drafty, but the chill paled in comparison to the petrifying windstorm Donna could feel when she looked into her mother’s eyes. In the past, the politic engager seemed to know when to leave bad enough alone. However, this time, she couldn’t let the subject rest.

"I know you think I'm wrong, Mom," the girl said. "I just wish you were willing to look at it from my side."

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped. "That high-and-mighty aunt of yours and some social worker you don’t even know have poisoned your mind against me. Now you expect me to just smile and move on."

"I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm tired of living out of a suitcase. I don’t go to school. No one can know my real name. We never stay in one place long enough to make real friends. Is it such a crime for me to wonder what it would be like to have a real life?"

Most parents would have felt guilty for denying their children the most basic of all human needs, but Maggie considered Donna’s discontent a betrayal.

"How can you even think about deserting me?" the wounded mother cried, walking over to the window and staring up at the sky. "After everything I’ve done for you, you’re just going to leave me high and dry."

"You don’t understand," Donna said, sitting down on one of the cots. "I can’t keep living like this."

Realizing her little girl was getting too old to be intimidated, Maggie resorted to manipulation. "I’ve always been somebody’s doormat," she said. "I know how it feels to have people look at you as if you were garbage. My thoughts are bombarded with images of arrogant jerks who acted like they’d been granted the divine privilege of looking down their noses at me. They made me feel two inches tall. I didn’t want you to experience that kind of pain. That’s why I’ve always tried to give you the best. I can’t bear the thought of you being mistreated. I love you too much to let that happen."

Tears rolled down Donna’s cheeks as she stood up and embraced her mother. "You’ve told me stories about your childhood, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard you express the way you felt. I guess I didn’t think you could be hurt. I'm sorry you had to go through that." She stepped back and turned to the wall. "Seeing our relatives in Oklahoma would be nice."

"Are you sure?"

"We’re a team. We’ve got to stick together."

Once again, Maggie had successfully molded her daughter’s perspective. Though she was pleased with the results, the miracle unfolding before her was undeniable. Donna was becoming a young woman and the childish tactics that used to dissuade her were beginning to lose their effectiveness. This time, her craftiness had prevailed. Yet, the wily spinner was well aware that the day would come when nothing she could say or do would sway the thinking of her enfranchised apprentice. For the time being, she would have to be satisfied with the small amount of influence that remained at her disposal.

By morning, Maggie had managed to snag a few hours sleep and contemplate the day ahead. Donna was barely coherent when her mother finished loading their luggage into the trunk, so she stumbled to the car and resumed her slumber in the back seat. Oblivious to the severity of her child’s sleep disorder, the fleeing felon sat down behind the wheel and drove off into the darkness.

In her own way, Maggie dearly loved her criminal prodigy, but when it came to providing the kind of principled affection every teenager needs, the self-absorbed bombshell’s maternal instincts were sorely misdirected. The threat of a vengeful serial killer poised to make his own move should have made getting the girl out of town her first priority. Instead, she found herself grappling to decipher visions of Katie filling Donna’s head with malicious stories about a gold-digging tramp who never deserved a man like her father. With every echo of presumed deprecation, the rage in Maggie’s heart grew more intense. As far as she was concerned, her sister-in-law was nothing more than an indignant witch who wouldn’t be content until she stripped her brother’s widow of everything that ever mattered. The only way to put an end to the scorn and degradation was to silence this vicious woman for good. Soon, the Batemans would be on their way to Oklahoma, but Maggie had to make a stop along the way.

Katie wasn’t the only victim of Maggie’s voracity who had been forced to recompose the scattered fragments of a decimated spirit. Perry Scott had spent the past week dreading the family conference that would change his life forever.

The discomfited pigeon looked like he didn’t have a friend in the world as he gadded into the squad room of the Brickhearst Police station. There were less than a dozen officers manning the phones and taking statements. The rest were out patrolling the streets in search of the soulless menace who’d been taking the lives of the city’s young women. Amid this disquieting gathering of angry drunks and scavengers of human abashment, Perry made his way to the Sergeant’s desk.

Officer Pat Stepherson was mulling over some reports when he looked up and caught sight of the nervous civilian in the navy blue jogging suit. The two men had never been formally introduced, but the shame in Perry’s exhausted green eyes provided a fairly decent indication as to why he’d slithered in under cover of night.

"Are you Stepherson?" Perry inquired, approaching the officer’s desk.

"That’s right," Stepherson replied. "How can I help you?"

"I'm Perry Scott. Officer Simpson called about my stolen car."

The officer retrieved a file from a drawer and sat down on the corner of his desk as Perry took a seat in front of him. "Your car was found abandoned in the parking lot of the Caravan Motel. It was left there by a con artist named Maggie Bateman. She’s wanted in Florida, Virginia and Arkansas."

Perry lowered his head. "I met her in Quincy," he admitted. "She and her little sister did a real number on me."

"The girl is actually her daughter, Donna."

"Of course!" He declared, nodding as he threw his hands up. "Why should anything she said be the truth?"

"Why didn’t you report the car stolen?" Stepherson asked.

"I wanted to, but I didn’t know how to tell my wife," Perry responded.

"I don’t understand."

"Those dames really saw me coming, Stepherson. I was lost and tired. I didn’t feel very positive about my life. By the time she was finished with me, we were on our way to a motel. When we stopped at that all-night liquor store, Maggie took off with my car. I felt like such a fool."

"If they stole the car before you made it to the motel, why are you worried?"

"I gather you’re not married."

"No."

"Telling my wife I almost went to a motel with another woman will only cost me a few nights on the couch. The fact that it took a stranger to resurrect feelings I thought had died a long time ago is what’s going to land me on the daytime talk show circuit." He rubbed his eyes and groaned. "I know it was stupid, but getting caught up in all that female attention made me lose my head. I shouldn’t have even considered hanging out with those players. I guess that’s what happens to a man when he wakes up one morning and begins to question everything he thought he knew…you know what’s really pathetic?"

"What’s that?"

"Before I met those two swindlers, I’d spent years cursing my lot in life. Now that I stand to lose my wife and children, I’d give anything to turn back the hands of time."

"Well, Mr. Scott, I'm no psychologist, and I'm certainly not a marriage counselor, but I can tell you a thing or two about scandals. The truth always comes out. The question you have to ask yourself is whether or not your wife would rather hear it from you."

Perry stood up and reached out to shake the officer’s hand. "You’re pretty smart for a young guy," he said. "I told her the car was stolen when I stopped at the liquor store to ask for directions. I guess it’s time to fill in the blanks."

"I’ll be expecting your call. Take care, sir."

When Perry left, Simpson came out of the Lieutenant’s office. He wasn’t in the best of moods. "Pat, do not volunteer me for anymore overtime," he insisted. "I’d like to spend time with my grandchildren before I get too old to recognize them."

"Alright, Frank," Stepherson impatiently agreed. "What did the Lieutenant say about Maggie Bateman?"

"Forensics dusted Perry Scott’s car and the room at the Caravan Motel. One set of prints definitely belonged to Maggie. The other set matched the prints we found in the cab."

"Those obviously belonged to Donna. Did they get a handle on Bonehead’s partner?"

"His prints weren’t in the system. So somewhere out there we have an upstanding citizen who goes around killing women in his spare time."

"The attacker didn’t leave anything on her person that could help us track him down."

Stepherson ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "This is an uphill battle," he said.

"It gets worse," his partner informed him. "The case is out of our hands."

"What?"

"The Federal Marshals will be here by noon. After that, we take our cues from them."

"What about the serial killer?"

"He’s now the responsibility of the FBI."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Simpson confirmed, checking his watch.

"Do you have an appointment?" Stepherson asked.

"No, I was expecting to hear from Perry Scott."

"He dropped by while you were with the Lieutenant."

"Did you take his statement?"

"He wasn’t quite ready to cross that bridge."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently, there were elements of his encounter with Maggie he’d rather his wife didn’t discover."

"Keeping his mouth shut won’t solve that problem."

"Efforts were tactfully made to make him aware of that fact. I also encouraged him to lay all his cards on the table before she hears it from someone else."

"Good advice," Simpson said, as the two of them headed toward the Sergeant’s desk. "Why do single guys know so much about women?"

"Because we listen to them."

The Desk Sergeant handed Simpson a slip of paper. "That’s all we need," the Senior Patrol Officer groaned.

"What’s wrong?" Stepherson asked.

"Rhoda Stafford just called. Donna’s missing."

"We’d better get over to Katie Balsom’s place."

As the officers rushed out the squad room exit, the trepidation on their faces was hard to miss. Both realized the severity of Donna’s predicament. Whether she was kidnapped by a vengeful serial killer bent on keeping her quiet, or a socially depraved mother with aspirations of making her daughter a career criminal, the child’s future was in serious jeopardy.

It took less than twenty minutes for Simpson and Stepherson to make it to Rudgar Street. With the siren turned off and no lights flashing, the patrolmen stopped in front of the vacant house several yards down the road from Katie’s property. Beneath the tempered illumination of a city street lamp, they spotted a burgundy BMW that looked out of place. Simpson recognized Rhoda Stafford’s car parked in Katie’s driveway. The series of unexpected events probably wouldn’t have warranted concern had the surveillance unit assigned to protect Donna been at their post.

The unmarked van that was supposed to be parked directly across the street from the Balsom residence was now sitting motionlessly beneath the open garage of the tiny block house on the corner.

"Why would the surveillance van be down here?" Stepherson wondered aloud.

"I don’t know," Simpson replied. "I think it’s safe to assume that Katie would’ve run out to get them the minute she discovered Donna was missing if all had been well."

"What do you think?"

"Run a make on that BMW. I’m going back to check out this van."

Simpson stayed low with his 9mm drawn as he cautiously approached the vehicle. He found one of the unconscious detectives sprawled over the wheel. The Senior Patrol Officer walked around to the rear of the van where he discovered two more detectives. They were also out cold.

An empty Styrofoam cup was on the floorboard beside one of the men. Using his handkerchief, Simpson picked it up. He couldn’t identify the horrific odor, but it was obvious his colleagues had been poisoned.

After climbing inside and checking for a pulse, the worried officer radioed for help. "Two-Salem-Eighty request Fire and Rescue unit at 4427 Rudgar Street," he said. "I have a 437 with three officers down. I repeat; three officers down. Code 12."

Stepherson came running into the garage. "The BMW was reported stolen about ten minutes ago," he reported. "The circumstances fit Maggie Bateman’s M.O. to a T."

"I’m afraid we’ve got bigger problems than Maggie," Simpson commented.

"Bonehead’s partner?"

"I’m afraid so. There’s no way for us to get this guy by making ourselves targets. We’ve got to outwit him. The dawn should be breaking any minute. While it’s still dark, let’s kill our radios and run up this adjacent street to Katie’s backyard. If he’s focused on getting Donna, we may be able to catch him off guard."

Simpson and Stepherson were at a considerable disadvantage. They had no way of knowing the extent of Maggie’s involvement in her daughter’s disappearance. Neither of them had ever laid eyes upon the demented killer who was probably waiting for them on the other side of Katie’s door. The odds weren’t in their favor. Tragically, the unexpected arrival of a more familiar species of predator was about to make the situation even worse.

Lester Kelsey had been following the case since the night Donna was attacked. With an insatiable hunger for hard news and a flagrant disregard for the safety of innocent bystanders, the roving reporter was revved to run with his story after discovering that Katie was Maggie’s sister-in-law. After learning the subject of his history-making piece of journalism had been released from the hospital, Kelsey found out where her aunt lived and decided to make a house call.

Things had finally begun to look up for this nosy, impassive freelance nuisance. He was driving a car that was held together by genuine factory auto parts, and that plain brown suit actually made him look respectable. With renewed vigor and a zest for life he hadn’t felt in ten years, he strolled up to Katie’s door, believing he had stumbled upon the scoop that would change everything. The poor dope had no idea how right he was.

Kelsey wasn’t aware of all that had occurred in the past few hours. So he just assumed the Balsom woman’s agitated demeanor was merely an attempt to get rid of him.

"Mrs. Balsom, my name is Kelsey," he told her. "I’m a reporter. I’ve been investigating the murders of seven young women. They were victims of a serial killer who has been plaguing our streets. Your niece, Donna, was his most recent victim. I’d like to have a word with her."

"She’s not here, Mr. Kelsey," Kate nervously muttered.

"May I ask you some questions about your sister-in-law?"

"My sister-in-law?"

"Isn’t Maggie Bateman your late brother’s widow?"

"Sir, I’m very busy, and I’m not interested in giving interviews. So if you’ll please excuse me."

"Do you know she’s wanted in three states?" The persistent stringer blurted out as Katie closed the door.

Kelsey stepped off the porch and pondered for a moment. There was something covert about the way Katie kept the door pressed tightly to her side. The self-centered snoop hadn’t been this close to the brass ring in a long time, and he wasn’t giving up without finishing the race.

The newsman’s instincts were correct. The scene inside the Balsom house was far from tranquil. The fugitive sister-in-law whom Kelsey was so eager to find was standing in the corner with a .38 caliber revolver trained on Katie and Rhoda Stafford. Ever mindful of Stafford’s law enforcement background, Maggie had the superbly conditioned social worker bound and gagged on the couch. The stage was now set for the petulant pariah to celebrate her day of retribution. However, there was something she needed to get off her chest before the festivities could proceed.

"Well, here we are," Maggie declared with a malicious smirk. "Who would’ve predicted I’d be standing in the little shack the great and sinless Katie calls home? A lot has changed in a few years. It’s hard to believe anyone could ever think I wasn’t good enough for your family."

"Keeping you away from my brother had nothing to do with your social status," Katie asserted. "I just didn’t want him taking up with a devious tramp."

Fearing what might happen if Maggie lost her temper, Stafford groaned and shook her head in an attempt to make Katie back off.

"Just sit tight, do-gooder," Maggie instructed Stafford. "I’ll get to you in a minute. I owe you one between the eyes for filling Donna’s head with your stupid pipe dreams."

"You’ve seen Donna?" Katie inquired. "Is she alright?"

"She’s fine," Maggie snarled. "She’ll be even better without meddling relatives and two-bit bureaucrats who think they can save the world. Now step over to the radio and turn it up loud."

"We didn’t do anything to hurt Donna," the concerned aunt insisted, striving to speak above the volume of the music. "The girl is practically a woman. She needs stability."

"How dare you tell me what my daughter needs! You don’t have a clue about the real world. You’ve always had your fancy cars and your drama queen friends. You thought all that gave you the right to look down your nose at me. Well, it looks like you’re getting a taste of how the other half lives now."

"You’re right, Maggie. I have lost a lot in the past few years, but I can still hold my head up because my conscience is clear. I do know what it’s like to struggle. I’ve sat in the dark trembling because I didn’t know how I was going to put food on the table. You’d better believe I was tempted to steal. I probably would’ve gotten away with it, but I didn’t want to dishonor the memory of my husband and son. They were honest, hard-working men who did everything in their power to live a decent life. Neither of them had to look back in shame. I want the same for Donna. It’s too bad she only has you to direct her steps."

The expression on Maggie’s face suddenly turned to fury. The two hostages couldn’t decipher what the vindictive mad woman was thinking. A bloodletting appeared inevitable. Katie and Stafford could sense they were at death’s door. Thankfully, help was on the way.

The darkness had finally been overcome by the dreary encroachment of a breezy overcast dawn when Stepherson and Simpson made it to Katie’s backyard. Though the officers were prepared to launch their strategic offensive from the most effective position possible, they recognized the gravity of the situation at hand. Something deadly was about to go down and the lives of everyone involved were at stake.

"I’ll go in through the back door," Simpson said to his partner. "You go around the side and see if there’s another way in. If not, try to get a look inside. At any rate, if all is clear, I’ll let you in through the front door."

"I'm on my way," Stepherson replied.

"One more thing, super stud."

"Yeah."

"You saw what he did to those detectives back there. Do not take this animal for granted."

"Understood."

Stepherson crept around the corner with his weapon drawn, cautiously scanning every inch of ground in front of him. As a trained law enforcement officer, the attentive patrolman had been sufficiently conditioned to expect every possible scenario. Yet even Stepherson was surprised when he came upon the spectacle that awaited him. An imposing figure clad in black had opened the window to the room where Katie kept her son’s belongings. Finally, one of the most decorated cops on the force was face-to-face with the sociopathic monster who had inflicted so much terror upon the citizens of Brickhearst.

Ramsey Worthington had planned every detail of this sadistic excursion. He was there to eliminate the only victim who’d ever escaped his clutches. After skillfully disabling the detectives and discovering a broken window Katie couldn’t lock, the depraved slayer was beginning to believe he was invincible. Nevertheless, there was a determined cop set to chart an alternate course for the

Professor’s odyssey to greatness that would channel him toward a more suitable investiture in the federal pen.

` "That’s far enough," Stepherson admonished the startled intruder. "Put your hands against the wall and assume the position."

As Worthington complied, Stepherson proceeded to pat him down and take possession of his .44 Magnum. By all appearances, the city’s most predacious stalker would soon be pleading his case to a jury of his peers. Of course, no one envisioned the loathsome arrival of a ubiquitous reporter with a propensity for showing up at the most inopportune moment.

Lester Kelsey had been looking for a way to get a look inside the house when he stumbled upon Stepherson and Worthington.

"What are you doing here, Kelsey?" the Officer demanded.

"I'm trying to close the books on these killings," the audacious busybody replied, reaching into his pocket for his camera phone.

The distraction provided the opening Worthington needed. After an effortless kick dislodged the gun from the arrestor’s hand, the shifty suspect sent him tumbling across the lawn with a tumultuous uppercut! Kelsey turned to run, but a couple of chops to the back of his neck stifled the amateur sleuth’s momentum.

As Kelsey struggled to regain his bearings, Worthington prepared to finish him off, unaware that Stepherson had returned to his feet. The charging officer leaped up on his taller opponent’s back and applied a chokehold as he forced him to the ground!

Relying upon his knowledge of the human body, Worthington placed his thumb beneath his subduer’s chin and administered enough pressure to weaken his grip. He completed his extrication by taking the wind out of the flatfoot’s sails with a piercing right elbow. With Stepherson down, Worthington turned his attention back to Kelsey.

The slaughter of a subjugated cop and a disoriented news correspondent didn’t arouse the kind of ravenous excitement the merciless destroyer usually felt when on the trail of a helpless young girl, but the Professor didn’t let that dampen his enthusiasm. In the mind of a savage like Worthington, a kill was still a kill.

Oblivious to the mayhem outside, Maggie had reached the boiling point. With her perspiring hand wrapped tightly around the gun, she nervously paced back and forth, bobbing her head to the rhythm of the music. Fearful of what might happen next, Stafford never took her eyes off the frustrated madwoman. The disgust on Katie’s face only served to fuel an already precarious situation.

"Just look at the great and wonderful Ms. Katie," Maggie said. "She just stands there with all her self-righteous indignation. How in the world does she put up with the rest of us? You want to know what’s funny? I was going to keep driving and forget about you, but I couldn’t blot out the baggage between us. Everything that was wrong with my marriage was a result of your venomous mouth. You spent every waking hour working to turn David against me."

"What did you expect me to do?" Katie snapped. "I wasn’t going to keep quiet so you could flaunt and flirt around town!"

"I never did any of that while I was married to your brother. You just couldn’t stand me because I came from the wrong side of the tracks. I’ll admit I made mistakes, but I was trying to survive. You don’t know what it’s like to be dumped on by people who think everyone else should be their personal servants. You’ve never had to scrounge and beg for table scraps. This is a cruel, vindictive world, Katie. I did what I could to stay alive."

"It’s always someone else’s fault. You’ve got an excuse for every miserable act in your past. Why don’t you just come clean, Maggie? You love working men because it makes you feel powerful. You think living well is a right afforded to you by the constitution. If a string of broken hearts and shattered relationships is the price that must be paid, that’s just too bad. You’ve even trained Donna how to get what she wants by lying and manipulating people You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Shut up!" Maggie demanded, pulling back the hammer as she forced her sister-in-law against the wall. "I’ve had enough of you and your superior attitude. Those snide remarks and insults echo in my head like giant bells. Still, I could’ve forgotten everything until you and this shoulder pad saint tried to turn my Donna against me. I should’ve done this a long time ago."

Stafford struggled to get free, but the ropes wouldn’t budge. Katie’s demise was fast at hand and there was nothing the social worker could do to save her. Everything seemed to stand still. Suddenly, the tension was broken by an unexpected knock at the door.

"Who is that?" Maggie wondered aloud.

"It’s probably that reporter again," her relieved hostage responded.

"Mrs. Balsom, you’ve got to call the police!" Lester Kelsey cried.

Without warning, Maggie took aim and fired a round through the door!

Katie and Stafford cringed as they heard the newsman's body strike the concrete floor.

"Are you crazy!" Katie shouted.

"That’s right. I'm crazy and you’re dead."

It had only taken a single careless moment of vengeful wrath to transform a swindling enchantress into a cold-blooded killer. Maggie had crossed a dangerous line and from that moment on, there was no turning back.

Preventing the cornered abductor from going over the edge would now require the skills and acumen of a negotiator who could take charge of an explosive predicament and avert the loss of any more lives. There wasn’t a man more qualified for the job than Senior Patrol Officer Frank Simpson.

Picking the lock on Katie’s back door had taken Simpson longer than he’d initially anticipated. Over the deafening blare of ear-splitting music, he could hear the rumblings of a struggle outside. However, there was no time to investigate. Someone in that living room had just fired a gun, and if the situation wasn’t addressed, the sagacious patrolman could soon have a massacre on his hands.

Maggie could hear the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. So she snatched Stafford up and used the frightened social worker as a human shield.

"You’d better come out real slow if you know what’s good for you," the desperate suspect admonished.

Simpson cautiously opened the door with his weapon drawn. "Give it up, Maggie," he advised, moving forward. "It’s over."

"You’re the pig who rescued Donna from the serial killer," she remembered. "I saw you at the hospital. You had a lot of nice things to say about Miss Aloe and Lanolin here. You obviously care a great deal for her. So why don’t you just drop that gun and chill out?"

"You’re making a big mistake. I’ve already called for backup. This place will be surrounded in a matter of minutes."

"If I have to tell you to drop that gun again, this broad will be breathing out of the side of her face."

Simpson laid his handgun down on the recliner and stepped a few feet to his left. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to avoid disaster without help, the savvy crime fighter had to rely upon the instincts of a former partner who hadn’t worn a badge in years.

With a subtle nod, Simpson gave Stafford the signal to employ the maneuver that had saved their lives many times in the past. Like an actress on cue, the agile hostage dove to the floor and planted the heel of her boot into Maggie’s knee.

The stupefied fleecer staggered backward, grappling for balance as her back collided with the wall. Despite the quaking stumble, the obstinate avenger managed to hold on to the revolver. She aimed the weapon at Stafford and prepared to fire.

Anticipating the waylaid gunwoman’s next move, Simpson hurled his nightstick across the room and struck her on the arm. The impact compelled Maggie to drop the gun, blazing the trail for the Senior Patrol Officer to launch a running attack and tackle her to the floor.

Katie endeavored to untie Stafford while Simpson handcuffed his suspect’s hands behind her back.

"What’s behind that door?" the Patrolman inquired of Katie.

"That’s the room where I keep my son’s things," she told him. "Why?"

"Because I'm sure I heard my partner struggling with someone outside. Can anyone get in through that room?"

"There’s a window that needs repairing," she said, walking toward the door. "I usually keep it locked, but when I discovered Donna was missing, I forgot to lock it back. I’ll do it now."

"I don’t think that would be a good idea," Simpson advised, rising to retrieve his sidearm. "I want the two of you to head out the back door and keep running."

The vested peace officer’s instincts were correct, but his timing could have used a little tweaking. Ramsey Worthington was waiting on the other side with his .44 Magnum in hand. Propelled by the indiscriminate vexation of an angry bull, the sanguinary butcher kicked in the door, whisking Katie into Stafford as the two of them tumbled over the edge of the couch! The Professor’s neck was in agony and his face was bruised. Still, he wasn’t about to be denied the satisfaction of taking out the only cop who had ever come so close to stopping him.

Pressed for time and hungering to see the fear in another victim’s eyes, the methodical stalker pulled back the hammer. Worthington now found himself on the verge of eliminating every living threat to his rampage of senseless bloodshed. But before he could procure his objective, the menacing deviant was brought down by a blast from the barrel of Stepherson’s 9mm semiautomatic.

Unaware of the shooter’s identity, Simpson picked up his weapon and took cover. "Drop your gun and step forward," he instructed.

"It’s me, Frank!" the injured patrolman cried out.

"It’s all clear, Pat," Simpson assured his partner as he holstered his gun and helped the ladies to their feet.

Stepherson looked as though his body had been used for a punching bag. His nose was broken and both eyes were black. With every motion he labored for breath.

Katie and Stafford guided the Junior Patrolman to the couch and sat him down.

"What happened out there, stud?" Simpson asked, checking Worthington for a pulse.

"Is he dead?" Stepherson asked.

"No," Simpson replied.

Stepherson tossed a pair of handcuffs to the floor. "You can’t take any chances with this clown," he said. "He was pounding on me with a vengeance until he realized Kelsey had gotten away. That’s when he picked up his gun and climbed through the window."

After cuffing the Professor, Simpson stood up and approached the front door. "Rhoda, call 911," he instructed. "Pat could be bleeding internally. I'm going to check on that reporter. It sounded like he took a serious pop."

The presumption was correct. Kelsey was lying injured on the porch, but he wasn’t alone. A few minutes earlier, Donna had awakened from her slumber in the back seat of Maggie’s stolen BMW and spotted the patrol car in front of the house on the corner. She was the one knocking at the door when her mother fired the shot.

"What happened, Kelsey?" the stunned Senior Patrol Officer inquired, gawking down at the teenager’s lifeless body.

"She appeared out of nowhere," the paralyzed reporter explained. "I’d already been worked over pretty good, so when she slammed into me after taking that bullet, I went down like a sack of gravel. I can’t feel my legs, Simpson!"

"An ambulance is on the way," the officer assured him. "Just stay still."

When Katie saw her brother’s only child lying in a pool of blood, she slowly walked out and knelt down beside her. "Oh, no," she lamented. Not after all this time. I waited so long for you to come back to me. Now I’ve lost you all over again."

Maggie was face down on the living room floor, but she could hear her sister-in-law crying. "What’s going on out there?" she inquired.

Stafford hung up the telephone and approached the door. Her expression was almost placid. The dreaded inevitability that darkens the destinies of so many children had claimed another victim. Donna’s name would now be added to the loathsome list of troubled teens the dejected social worker couldn’t save.

"What’s happened?" Maggie demanded a second time.

Reluctant to reveal the agonizing cost of the egocentric mother’s relentless crusade, Simpson and Stafford moved toward Maggie. Without a word, they helped the restrained suspect to her feet and escorted her out the door.

When Maggie saw her daughter’s fallen carcass lying in a pool of her own blood, the regretful mother fell to her knees and began sobbing. "What have I done?" she cried. "Oh, my poor baby. I didn’t know you were out here. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Suddenly, the crackle of thunder preceded a violent downpour, as a swarm of Police units invaded the front yard.

A thousand cons and twisted assertions had all come down to a single act of mindless self-indulgence. For most of her life, Maggie had lied and schemed to give her little girl all the luxuries she’d grown up without. Now, she could only wonder what any of it was ever really worth.

 

Copyright 1996  These are my own working genealogy files that I share with you.  The errors are my own.  But, perhaps they will give you a starting point.  All original writing is copyrighted.  Webmaster