Blindsighted

Chapter Eighteen

JEFFREY slipped on a pair of underwear and limped toward the kitchen. His knee was still stiff from the buckshot, and his stomach had been upset since he walked into Julia Matthews's room. He was worried about Lena. He was worried about Sara. He was worried about his town.

Brad Stephens had taken the DNA sample to Macon a few hours ago. It would take at least a week to get something back, perhaps another week to get time on the FBI DNA database to cross-check for known offenders. As with most police work, this was a waiting game. Meanwhile, there was no telling what the perpetrator was up to. For all Jeffrey knew, he could be stalking his next victim at this very moment. He could be raping his next victim at this very moment, doing things to her that only an animal would think to do.

Jeffrey opened the refrigerator, taking out the milk. On the way to get a glass, he flicked the overhead light switch, but nothing happened. He mumbled a curse toward himself as he took a glass out of the cabinet. He had disconnected the kitchen lights a couple of weeks ago when a new fixture he had ordered arrived in the mail. A call had come from the station just as he was stripping the wires, and the chandelier sat upended in its box, waiting fo r Jeffrey to find the time to hang it. At this rate, Jeffrey would be eating by the light from the refrigerator for the next few years.

He finished his milk and limped over to the sink to rinse the glass. He wanted to call Sara, to check on her, but knew better than that. She was blocking him out for her own reasons. He didn't really have a leg to stand on since the divorce. Maybe she was with Jeb tonight. He had heard through Maria who had been talking to Marty Ringo that Sara and Jeb were seeing each other again. He vaguely remembered Sara saying something about a date at the hospital the other night, but his mind could not connect her words. Since the memory had come after Maria had deigned to mention the gossip to him, he could not rely on it.

Jeffrey groaned as he sat back down on the bar stool in front of the kitchen island. He had built the island months ago. He had actually built it twice, because he had not been pleased with the way it had looked the first time. Jeffrey was above all things a perfectionist, and he hated when things weren't symmetrical. Since he lived in an old house, this meant that he was constantly having to adjust and readjust, because there wasn't a wall in the house that was straight.

A slight breeze stirred the thick plastic strips lining the back wall of the kitchen. He was vacillating between French doors and a wall of windows, or extending the kitchen out about ten feet into the backyard. Some kind of breakfast nook would be nice, a place to sit in the mornings and look out at the birds in the backyard. What he really wanted was to put a large deck out there with a hot tub or maybe one of those fancy outdoor barbecues. Whatever he did, he wanted to keep the house open. Jeffrey liked the way the light came in during the day through the semitransparent strips. He liked being able to see into the backyard, especially at times like right now, when he saw someone walking back there.

Jeffrey stood, grabbing a bat out of the laundry room.

He slid through a crack in the plastic strips, tiptoeing across the lawn. The grass was wet from a slight mist in the night air, and Jeffrey shivered from the chill, hoping to God he did not get shot again, especially since he was dressed only in a pair of underwear. The thought occurred to him that whoever was lurking in the backyard might collapse from laughter rather than fear at seeing Jeffrey standing in the yard, naked but for his green boxers, holding a bat over his head.

He heard a familiar noise. It was a lapping, licking sound, the kind a dog made while grooming. He squinted in the moonlight, making out three figures by the side of the house. Two of them were short enough to be dogs. One of them was tall enough to only be Sara. She was looking into his bedroom window.

Jeffrey let the bat hang down as he tiptoed up behind her. He wasn't worried about Billy or Bob, as the two greyhounds were the laziest animals he had ever seen. True to form, they barely moved as he sneaked up behind her.

"Sara?"

"Oh, Jesus." Sara jumped, tripping over the nearest dog. Jeffrey reached forward, catching her before she fell on her backside.

Jeffrey laughed, giving Bob a pat on the head. "Peeping Tom?" he asked.

"You asshole," Sara hissed, slapping her hands into his chest. "You scared the shit out of me."

"What?" Jeffrey asked innocently. "I'm not the one sneaking around your house."

"Like you haven't before."

"That's me," Jeffrey pointed out. "Not you." He leaned against the bat. Now that his adrenaline had stopped pumping, the dull ache had come back to his leg. "You want to explain why you're looking in my window in the middle of the night?"

"I didn't want to wake you up if you were asleep."

"I was in the kitchen."

"In the dark?" Sara crossed her arms, leveling him with a nasty look. "Alone?"

"Come on in," Jeffrey offered, not waiting for her to respond. He kept his pace slow as he walked back toward the kitchen, glad when he heard Sara's footsteps behind him. She was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans with an equally old white button-down shirt.

"You walk the dogs over here?"

"I borrowed Tessas car," Sara said, scratching Bob on the head.

"Good thinking, bringing your attack dogs."

"I'm glad you weren't looking to kill me."

"What makes you think I wasn't?" Jeffrey asked, using the bat to hold the plastic aside so that she could get into the house.

Sara looked at the plastic, then at him. "I love what you've done to the place."

"It needs a woman's touch," Jeffrey suggested.

"I'm sure there are plenty of volunteers."

He suppressed a groan as he headed back into the kitchen. "Power's out in here," he offered, lighting a candle by the stove.

"Ha-ha," Sara said, trying the light switch nearest her. She walked across the room, trying the other switch as Jeffrey lit another candle. "What's the deal?"

"Old house." He shrugged, not wanting to confess his laziness. "Brad took the sample to Macon."

"A couple of weeks, huh?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "Do you think he's a cop?"

"Brad?"

"No, the perpetrator. Do you think he's a cop? Maybe that's why he left the handcuff key in… there." He paused. "You know, as a clue."

"Maybe he uses handcuffs to restrain them," Sara said. "Maybe he's into S amp;M. Maybe his mama used to cuff him to the bed when he was a little boy."

He was puzzled by her flippant tone but knew better than to comment on it.

Out of the blue, Sara said, "I want a screwdriver."

Jeffrey frowned at this, but he walked over to his toolbox and rummaged around. "Phillips?"

"No, a drink," Sara answered. She opened the freezer door, taking out the vodka.

"I don't think I've got orange juice," he said as she opened the other door.

"This'll do," she said, holding out the cranberry juice. She rummaged in the cabinets for a glass, then poured what looked like a very stiff drink.

Jeffrey watched all this, concerned. Sara seldom drank, and when she did a glass of wine could turn her tipsy. He had never seen her drink anything stronger than a margarita their entire marriage.

Sara shuddered as she swallowed the drink. "How much was I supposed to put?" she asked.

"Probably a third of what you poured," he answered, taking the drink from her. He took a small sip, nearly gagging from the taste. "Jesus Christ," he managed around a cough. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Me and Julia Matthews," she tossed back. "Do you have anything sweet?"

Jeffrey opened his mouth to ask her what the hell she meant by that comment, but Sara was already rummaging through the cabinets.

He offered, "There's some pudding in the fridge. Bottom shelf in the back."

"Fat free?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Good," Sara said, bending at the waist to find the pudding.

Jeffrey crossed his arms, watching her. He wanted to ask her what she was doing in his kitchen in the middle of the morning. He wanted to ask her what had been going on lately, why she was acting so odd.

"Jeff?" Sara asked, rooting through the fridge.

"Hmm?"

"Are you looking at my ass?"

Jeffrey smiled. He hadn't been, but he answered, "Yeah."

Sara stood, holding the pudding cup in the air like a trophy. "Last one."

"Yep."

Sara pulled the top off the pudding as she scooted onto the counter. "This is getting to be a bad thing."

"You think?"

"Well." She shrugged, licking the pudding off the top. "College girls being raped, killing themselves. That's not what we're all about, is it?"

Again, Jeffrey was surprised by her cavalier attitude. This wasn't like Sara, but lately he wasn't sure exactly how she was.

"I guess not," he said.

"You tell her parents?"

Jeffrey answered, "Frank picked them up at the airport." He paused, then said, "Her father." He stopped again. The sight of Jon Matthews's anguished face was not something Jeffrey would soon forget.

"Father took it hard, huh?" Sara said. "Daddies don't like to know their little girls have been messed with."

"I guess not," Jeffrey answered, wondering at her choice of words.

"You would guess right."

"Yeah," Jeffrey said. "He took it really hard."

Something flashed in Sara's eyes, but she looked down before he could tell what was going on. She took a long drink from her glass, spilling some down the front of her shirt. She actually giggled.

Despite his better judgment, Jeffrey asked, "What's wrong with you, Sara?"

She pointed at his waist. "When'd you start wearing those?" she asked.

Jeffrey looked down. Since the only thing he was wearing were his green boxers, he assumed that's what she meant. He looked back at her, shrugging. "A while ago."

"Less than two years," she noted, licking more pudding.

"Yeah," he offered, walking over to her, arms out from his sides, showing off his underwear. "You like 'em?"

She clapped her hands.

"What're you doing here, Sara?"

She stared at him for a few seconds, then put the pudding down beside her. She leaned back, her heels lightly hitting the bottom cabinets. "I was thinking the other day about that time I was on the dock. Do you remember?"

He shook his head, because they had spent practically every free second of ever)' summer on the dock.

"I had just gone for a swim, and I was sitting on the dock, brushing my hair. And you came up and you took the brush and you started to brush it for me."

He nodded, remembering that was the very thing he had been thinking about when he woke up in the hospital this morning. "I remember."

"You brushed my hair for at least an hour. Do you remember that?"

He smiled.

"You just brushed my hair, and then we got ready for dinner. Remember?"

He nodded again.

"What did I do wrong?" she asked, and the look in her eyes almost killed him. "Was it sex?"

He shook his head. Sex with Sara had been the most fulfilling experience of his adult life. "Of course not," he said.

"Did you want me to cook you dinner? Or be there more when you got home?"

He tried to laugh. "You did cook me dinner, remember? I was sick for three days."

"I'm being serious, Jeff. I want to know what I did wrong."

"It wasn't you," he answered, knowing the excuse was trite even as he finished the sentence. "It was me."

Sara sighed heavily. She reached for the glass, finishing the drink in one gulp.

"I was stupid," he continued, knowing he should just shut up. "I was scared because I loved you so much." He paused, wanting to say this the right way. "I didn't think you needed me as much as I needed you."

She leveled him with a gaze. "Do you still want me to need you?"

He was surprised to feel her hand on his chest, her fingers lightly stroking his hair. He closed his eyes as she traced her fingers up to his lips.

She said, "Right now, I really need you."

He opened his eyes. For just a split second, he thought she was joking. "What did you say?"

"You don't want it now that you have it?" Sara asked, still touching his lips.

He licked the tip of her finger with his tongue.

Sara smiled, her eyes narrowing, as if to read his mind. "Are you going to answer me?"

"Yeah," he said, not even remembering the question. Then, "Yes. Yes, I still want you."

She started kissing his neck, her tongue making light strokes along his skin. He put his hands around her waist, pulling her closer to the edge of the counter. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Sara." He sighed, trying to kiss her mouth, but she pulled away, instead letting her lips travel down his chest. "Sara," he repeated. "Let me make love to you."

She looked back at him, a sly smile on her face. "I don't want to make love."

His mouth opened, but he did not know how to respond. Finally he managed, "What does that mean?"

"It means…" she began, then took his hand and held it up to her mouth. He watched as she traced the tip of his index finger with her tongue. Slowly, she took his finger into her mouth and sucked it. After what seemed not nearly enough time, she took it out, smiling playfully. "Well?"

Jeffrey leaned in to kiss her, but she slid off the counter before he could. He moaned as Sara took her time kissing her way down his chest, nipping the band of his underwear with her teeth. With difficulty, he knelt on the floor in front of her, again trying to kiss her mouth. Again, she pulled away.

"I want to kiss you," he said, surprised at the begging tone to his voice.

She shook her head, unbuttoning her shirt. "I can think of some other things you can do with your mouth."

"Sara-"

She shook her head. "Don't talk, Jeffrey."

He thought it was odd that she had said this, because the best part of sex with Sara was the talking. He put his hands to either side of her face. "Come here," he said.

"What?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you." He waited for her to answer his question, but she just stared at him.

He asked, "Why won't you let me kiss you?"

"I just don't feel like kissing." Her smile was not as sly. "On the mouth."

"What's wrong?" he repeated.

She narrowed her eyes at him as a warning.

"Answer me," he repeated.

Sara kept her eyes on him as she let her hand travel down past the waist of his shorts. She pressed her hand against him, as if to make sure he got her meaning. "I don't want to talk to you."

He stopped her hand with his own. "Look at me."

She shook her head, and when he made her look up she closed her eyes.

He whispered, "What's wrong with you?"

Sara didn't answer. She kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue forcing its way past his teeth. It was a sloppy kiss, far from what he was used to with Sara, but there was an underlying passion that would have buckled his knees had he been standing.

She stopped suddenly, dropping her head to his chest. He tried to make her look back up at him, but she wouldn't.

He asked, "Sara?"

He felt her arms go around him again, but in a very different way from before. There was a desperate quality to her tightening hold, as if she were drowning.

"Just hold me," she begged. "Please just hold me."

Jeffrey woke with a start. He reached out, knowing even as he did that Sara would not be there beside him. He vaguely recalled her sneaking out some time ago, but Jeffrey had been too tired to move, let alone stop her. He turned over, pressing his face into the pillow she had used. He could smell lavender from her shampoo and a slight trace of the perfume she wore. Jeffrey held the pillow, rolling over onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what had happened last night. He still could not get his head around it. He had carried Sara to bed. She had cried softly on his shoulder. He had been so afraid of what was behind her tears that he had not questioned her anymore.

Jeffrey sat up, scratching his chest. He could not stay in bed all day. There was still the list of convicted sexual offenders to complete. He still needed to interview Ryan Gordon and whoever had been at the library with Julia Matthews the last night she had been seen before the abduction. He also needed to see Sara, to make sure she was okay.

He stretched, touching the top of the door jamb as he walked into the bathroom. He stopped in front of the toilet. There was a stack of papers on the sink basin. A silver sliding clip was across the top pages, binding together what looked to be about two hundred sheets of paper. The pages looked dog-eared and yellowed, as if someone had paged through them a number of times. It was, Jeffrey recognized, a trial transcript.

He looked around the bathroom, as if the transcript fairy who had left it might still be around. The only person who had been in the house was Sara, and he could not think why she would leave something like this. He read the title page, noting the date was from twelve years ago. The case was the State of Georgia v. Jack Allen Wright.

A yellow Post-it note was sticking out from one of the pages. He flipped the transcript open, stopping at what he saw. Sara's name was listed at the top of the page. Another name, Ruth Jones, probably the district attorney who had prosecuted the case, was listed as the questioner.

Jeffrey sat on the toilet and began to read Ruth Jones's examination of Sara Linton.

Q. Dr. Linton, could you please tell us in your own words the events which took place on the twenty-third day of April, this time last year?

A. I was working at Grady Hospital where I was a pediatric resident. I had a difficult day and decided to go for a drive in my car between shifts.

Q. Was there anything unusual you noticed at this time?

A. When I got to my car, the word cunt had been scraped into the passenger's side door. I thought perhaps this was the work of a vandal, so I used some duct tape I kept in the trunk to cover it.

Q. Then what did you do?

A. I went back into the hospital for my shift.

Q. Would you like a drink of water?

A. No, thank you. I went to the rest room, and while I was washing my hands at the sink, Jack Wright came in.

Q. The defendant?

A. That's correct. He came in. He was carrying a mop and wearing gray coveralls. I knew he was the janitor. He apologized for not knocking, said he'd come back later to clean, then left the bathroom.

Q. Then what happened?

A. I went into the stall to use the bathroom. The defendant, Jack Wright, jumped down from the ceiling. It was a drop ceiling. He handcuffed my hands to the handicapped railing, then taped my mouth shut with silver duct tape.

Q. Are you sure this was the defendant?

A. Yes. He had on a red ski mask, but I recognized his eyes. He has very distinctive blue eyes. I remember thinking before that with his long blond hair, beard, and blue eyes he looked like Bible pictures of Jesus. I am certain that it was Jack Wright who attacked me.

Q. Is there any other distinguishing mark that leads you to believe it was the defendant who raped you?

A. I saw a tattoo on his arm of Jesus nailed to the cross with the words JESUS above it and SAVES below it. I recognized this tattoo as belonging to Jack Wright, a janitor at the hospital. I had seen him several times before in the hallway, but we had never spoken to each other.

Q. What happened next, Dr. Linton?

A. Jack Wright pulled me down off the toilet. My ankles were pinned by my pants. They were on the floor. My pants. Around my ankles.

Q. Please, take your time, Dr. Linton.

A. I was pulled forward, but my arms were back behind me like this. He kept me pulled forward by putting one arm around my waist. He held a long knife, approximately six inches, to my face. He cut my lip to warn me, I suppose.

Q. Then what did the defendant do?

A. He put his penis in me and raped me.

Q. Dr. Linton, could you tell us what, if anything, the defendant said during the time he raped you?

A. He kept referring to me as "cunt."

Q. Could you tell us what happened next?

A. He tried several times to bring himself to ejaculation, but was unsuccessful. He pulled his penis out of me and brought himself to climax [mumbled]

Q. Could you repeat that?

A. He brought himself to climax on my face and chest.

Q. Could you tell us what happened then?

A. He cursed me again, then stabbed me with his knife. In the left side, here.

Q. Then what happened?

A. I tasted something in my mouth. I choked. It was vinegar.

Q. He poured vinegar into your mouth?

A. Yes, he had a small vial, like a perfume sample would come in. He tilted it into my mouth and said, "It is finished."

Q. Does this phrase have any particular significance to you, Dr. Linton?

A. It's from John, in the King James version of the Bible. "It is finished." According to John, these are the last words Jesus says as he's dying on the cross. He calls for something to drink, and they give him vinegar. He drinks the vinegar, then, to quote the verse, he gives up the ghost. He dies.

Q. This is from the crucifixion?

A. Yes.

Q. Jesus says, "It is finished."

A. Yes.

Q. His arms pinned back like this?

A. Yes.

Q. A sword is stabbed into his side?

A. Yes.

Q. Was anything else said?

A. No. Jack Wright said this, then left the bathroom.

Q. Dr. Linton, do you have any idea how long you were left in the bathroom?

A. No.

Q. Were you still handcuffed?

A. Yes. I was still handcuffed and I was on my knees looking down at the floor. I was unable to right myself, to sit back.

Q. Then what happened?

A. One of the nurses came in. She saw the blood on the floor and started to scream. A few seconds later, Dr. Lange, my supervisor, came into the room. I'd lost a great deal of blood, and I was still handcuffed. They started to help me, but they couldn't do much with the cuffs on. Jack Wright had rigged the lock so that they would not open. He had shoved something into the lock, a toothpick or something. A locksmith had to be called to cut them off. I passed out during this time. The position of my body was such that blood continued to pool from the stab wound. I lost a great deal of blood during this time from the stab wound.

Q. Dr. Linton, take your time. Would you like to take a short break?

A. No, I want to continue.

Q. Could you tell me what happened subsequent to the rape?

A. I became pregnant from this contact, and subsequently developed an ectopic pregnancy, which is to say that an egg was implanted in my fallopian tube. There was a rupture which caused bleeding into my abdomen.

Q. What effect, if any, has this had on you?

A. A partial hysterectomy was performed wherein my reproductive organs were removed. I can no longer have children.

Q. Dr. Linton?

A. I would like to take a recess.

Jeffrey sat in his bathroom, staring at the pages of the transcript. He read through them again, then once more, sobs echoing in the bathroom as he cried for the Sara he had never known.

Chapter Nineteen

LENA lifted her head slowly, trying to get some sense of where she was. All she saw was darkness. She held her hand inches from her face, unable to make out her palm and fingers. The last thing she remembered was sitting in her kitchen talking to Hank. After that, she drew a complete blank. It was as if she blinked one second and the next was transported to this spot. Wherever this spot was.

She groaned, moving to her side so that she could sit up. With sudden clarity, she realized that she was naked. The floor underneath her was rough against her skin. She could feel the grain in the wooden planks. Her heart started pounding for some reason, but her mind would not tell her why. Lena reached in front of her, feeling more rough wood, but it was vertical, a wall.

Pressing her hands into the wall, she managed to stand. In the back of her mind, she could make out a noise, but it was unfamiliar to her. Everything seemed disjointed and out of place. She felt physically as if she did not belong here. Lena found she was leaning her head against the wall, the wood pressing into the skin of her forehead. The noise was a staccato in her periphery, pounding, then nothing, pounding, then nothing, like a hammer on a piece of steel. Like a blacksmith fashioning a horseshoe.

Clink, clink, clink.

Where had she heard that before?

Lena 's heart stopped as she finally made the connection. In the darkness, she could see Julia Matthews's lips moving, voicing the noise. Clink, clink, clink. The sound was dripping water.

Chapter Twenty

JEFFREY stood behind the one-way glass, looking into the interview room. Ryan Gordon sat at the table, his skinny arms crossed over his concave chest. Buddy Conford sat beside him, his hands clasped in front of him on the table. Buddy was a fighter. At the age of seventeen, he had lost his right leg from the knee down in a car accident. At the age of twenty-six, he had lost his left eye from cancer. At thirty-nine, a dissatisfied client had attempted to pay Buddy off with two bullets. Buddy had lost a kidney and suffered a collapsed lung, but was back in the courtroom two weeks later. Jeffrey was hoping Buddy's sense of right and wrong would help move things along today. Jeffrey had downloaded a picture of Jack Allen Wright from the state database this morning. Jeffrey would have a lot stronger leg to stand on in Atlanta if he had a positive ID.

Jeffrey had never considered himself an emotional man, but there was an ache in his chest that would not go away. He wanted to talk to Sara so badly, but he was terrified that he would say the wrong thing. Driving in to work, he had gone over and over in his mind what he would say to her, even talking out loud to see how his words sounded. Nothing would come out right, and Jeffrey ended up sitting in his office for ten minutes with his hand on the phone before he could coax up enough courage to dial Sara's number at the clinic.

After telling Nelly Morgan that it wasn't an emergency but he would like to talk to Sara anyway, he got a snippy "She's with a patient," followed by a slam of the phone. This brought Jeffrey an enormous sense of relief, then a feeling of disgust at his own cowardice.

He knew that he needed to be strong for her, but Jeffrey felt too blindsided to be capable of anything but sobbing like a child every time he thought about what had happened to Sara. Part of him was hurt that she had not trusted him enough to tell him what had happened to her in Atlanta. Another part of him was angry that she had flat out lied to him about everything. The scar on her side had been explained away as the result of an appendectomy, though, in retrospect, Jeffrey remembered the scar was jagged and vertical, nothing like a surgeon's clean incision.

That she could not have children was something he had never pushed her on, because obviously it was a sensitive topic. He was comfortable leaving her at peace with that, assuming that it was some medical condition or that perhaps, like some women, she just was not meant to carry a child. He was supposed to be a cop, a detective, and he had taken everything she said at face value because Sara was the type of woman who told the truth about things. Or at least he had thought she was.

"Chief?" Maria said, knocking on the door. "Guy called from Atlanta and said to tell you everything's set up. Wouldn't leave a name. That mean anything to you?"

"Yes," Jeffrey said, checking the folder he held in his hand to make sure the printout was still there. He stared at the picture again, even though he had practically memorized the blurred photo. He brushed past Maria into the hallway. "I'm leaving for Atlanta after this. I don't know when I'll be back. Frank will be in charge."

Jeffrey didn't give her time to respond. He opened the door to the interview room and walked in.

Buddy took on a righteous tone. "We've been here ten minutes."

"And we're only going to be here another ten more if your client decides to cooperate," Jeffrey said, taking the chair across from Buddy.

The only thing Jeffrey knew with any certainty was that he wanted to kill Jack Allen Wright. He had never been a violent man off the football field, but Jeffrey wanted so badly to kill the man who had raped Sara that his teeth ached.

"We ready to start?" Buddy asked, tapping his hand on the table.

Jeffrey glanced out the small window in the door. "We need to wait for Frank," he said, wondering where the man was. Jeffrey hoped he was checking on Lena.

The door opened and Frank entered the room. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night. His shirt was untucked at the side, and a coffee stain was on his tie. Jeffrey gave a pointed glance at his watch.

"Sorry," Frank said, taking the chair beside Jeffrey.

"Right," Jeffrey said. "We've got some questions we need to ask Gordon. In exchange for his being forthcoming, we'll drop the pending charges on the drug bust."

"Fuck that," Gordon snarled. "I told you those weren't my pants."

Jeffrey exchanged a look with Buddy. "I don't have time for this. We'll just send him up to the Atlanta pen and cut our losses."

"What kind of questions?" Buddy asked.

Jeffrey dropped the bomb. Buddy had been expecting a simple plead on yet another drug charge against one of the kids from the college. Jeffrey kept his tone even when he said, "About the death of Sibyl Adams and the rape of Julia Matthews."

Buddy seemed to register a little shock. His face turned white, making his black eye patch stand out even more against his pale face. He asked Gordon, "Do you know anything about this?"

Frank answered for him. "He was the last person to see Julia Matthews in the library. He was her boyfriend."

Gordon piped up, "I told you, they weren't my pants. Get me the fuck out of here."

Buddy gave Gordon the eye. "You'd best be telling them what happened or you're gonna be writing your mama letters from jail."

Gordon crossed his arms, obviously angry. "You're supposed to be my lawyer."

"You're supposed to be a human being," Buddy countered, picking up his briefcase. "Those girls were beaten and killed, son. You're looking at walking on a felony possession by simply doing what you should be doing in the first place. If you got a problem with that, you need to get yourself another lawyer."

Buddy stood, but Gordon stopped him. "She was in the library, okay?"

Buddy sat back down, but he kept his briefcase in his lap.

"On campus?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, on campus," Gordon snapped. "I just ran into her, okay?"

"Okay," Jeffrey answered.

"So, I started talking to her, you know. She wanted me back. I could tell that."

Jeffrey nodded, though he imagined Julia Matthews had been very upset to see Gordon in the library.

"Anyway, we talked, got a little lip action going, if you know what I mean." He nudged Buddy, who moved away. "Made some plans to see each other later on."

"Then what?" Jeffrey asked.

"Then, you know, she left. That's what I'm saying, she just left. Got her books and all, said she would meet me later, then she was out of there."

Frank asked, "Did you see anyone following her? Anyone suspicious?"

"Naw," he answered. "She was alone. I would've noticed if anyone was watching her, you know? She was my girl. I kept an eye on her."

Jeffrey said, "You can't think of anyone she might know, not just a stranger, who was making her uncomfortable? Maybe she was dating somebody after y'all broke up?"

Gordon gave him the same look he would give a stupid dog. "She wasn't seeing anybody. She was in love with me."

"You don't remember seeing any strange cars on campus?" Jeffrey asked. "Or vans?"

Gordon shook his head. "I didn't see anything, okay?"

Frank asked, "Let's go back to the meeting. You were supposed to see her later on?"

Gordon supplied, "She was supposed to meet me behind the agri-building at ten."

"She didn't show up?" Frank said.

"No," Gordon answered. "I waited around, you know. Then, I got kind of pissed off and I went to find her. I went to her room to see what was up, and she wasn't there."

Jeffrey cleared his throat. "Was Jenny Price there?"

"That whore?" Gordon waved this off. "She was probably out fucking half the science team."

Jeffrey felt himself bristle over this. He had a problem with men who saw all women as whores, not least because this attitude usually went hand in hand with violence toward women. "So, Jenny wasn't there," Jeffrey summarized. "Then what did you do?"

"I went back to my dorm." He shrugged. "I went to bed."

Jeffrey sat back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "What aren't you telling us, Ryan?" he asked. "Because the way I'm looking at it, the 'forthcoming' part of our deal isn't being met here. The way I'm looking at it, that orange jumper you're wearing is gonna be on your back for the next ten years."

Gordon stared at Jeffrey with what Jeffrey assumed the young punk thought was a menacing look. "I told you everything."

"No," Jeffrey said. "You didn't. You're leaving something out that's pretty important, and I swear to God we're not gonna leave this room until you tell me what you know."

Gordon turned shifty-eyed. "I don't know anything."

Buddy leaned over and whispered something that made Gordon's eyes go as round as two walnuts. Whatever the attorney had said to his client, it worked.

Gordon said, "I followed her out of the library."

"Yeah?" Jeffrey encouraged.

"She met up with this guy, okay?" Gordon fiddled with his hands in front of him. Jeffrey wanted to reach over and throttle the punk. "I tried to catch up with them, but they were fast."

"Fast meaning how?" Jeffrey asked. "Was she walking with him?"

"No," Gordon said. "He was carrying her."

Jeffrey felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. "And you didn't think this was suspicious, her being carried off by a guy?"

Gordon's shoulders went up to his ears. "I was mad, okay? I was mad at her."

"You knew she wouldn't meet you later on," Jeffrey began, "so you followed her."

He gave a slight shrug that could have been a yes or no.

"And you saw this guy carrying her off?" Jeffrey continued.

"Yeah."

Frank asked, "What did he look like?"

"Tall, I guess," Gordon said. "I couldn't see his face, if that's what you mean."

"White? Black?" Jeffrey quizzed.

"Yeah, white," Gordon supplied. "White and tall. He was wearing dark clothes, all black. I couldn't really see them except that she was wearing this white shirt, right? It kind of caught the light, so she showed up, but not him."

Frank said, "Did you follow them?"

Gordon shook his head.

Frank was silent, his jaw taut with anger. "You know she's dead now, don't you?"

Gordon looked down at the table. "Yeah, I know that."

Jeffrey opened the file and showed Gordon the printout. He had used a black marker to cross out Wright's name, but the rest of the statistics were left uncovered. "This the guy?"

Gordon glanced down. "No."

"Look at the fucking photograph," Jeffrey ordered, his tone so loud that Frank started beside him.

Gordon did as he was told, putting his face so close to the printout that his nose almost touched it. "I don't know, man," he said. "It was dark. I couldn't see his face." His eyes scanned down the vitals on Wright. "He was tall like this. About this build. It could've been him, I guess." He gave a casual shrug. "I mean, Jesus, I wasn't paying attention to him. I was watching her."

The drive to Atlanta was long and tedious, with nothing but the occasional patch of trees with the requisite kudzu to break the monotony. He tried twice to call Sara at home and leave some kind of message, but her machine wouldn't pick up, even after twenty rings. Jeffrey felt a rush of relief followed by an overwhelming shame. The closer he got to the city, the more he convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. He could call Sara when he knew something. Maybe he could call her with the news that Jack Allen Wright had met with an unfortunate accident involving Jeffrey's gun and Wright's chest.

Even going eighty, it took Jeffrey four hours before he got off 20 and onto the downtown connector. He passed Grady Hospital a little ways past the split, and felt tears wanting to come again. The building was a monster looming over the interstate in what Atlanta traffic reporters called the Grady Curve. Grady was one of the largest hospitals in the world. Sara had told him that during any given year the emergency clinics saw over two hundred thousand patients. A recent four-hundred-million-dollar renovation made the hospital look like part of the set for a Batman movie. In typical City of Atlanta politics, the renovation had been the subject of an explosive investigation, kickbacks and payoffs reaching as far up as city hall.

Jeffrey took the downtown exit, then drove by the capitol. His friend on the Atlanta force had been shot on the job and taken a guards position at the courthouse rather than early retirement. A call back in Grant had scheduled a meeting for one o'clock. It was quarter till by the time Jeffrey found a parking space in the crowded capitol section of downtown.

Keith Ross was waiting outside the courts building when Jeffrey walked up. In one hand, he held a large file folder; in the other, a plain white mailing envelope.

"Ain't seen you in a coon's age," Keith said, giving Jeffrey's hand a firm shake.

"Good to see you, too, Keith," Jeffrey returned, trying to force a lightness into his voice that he did not feel. The ride up to Atlanta had done nothing but get Jeffrey more wound up. Even the brisk walk from the parking garage to the courts building had not alleviated his tension.

"I can only let you have these for a second," Keith said, obviously sensing Jeffrey's need to move this along. "I got it from a buddy of mine over at records."

Jeffrey took the folder, but he did not open it. He knew what he would find inside: pictures of Sara, witness testimony, detailed descriptions of exactly what had happened in that bathroom.

"Let's go inside," Keith said, ushering Jeffrey into the building.

Jeffrey flashed his badge at the door, bypassing the security check. Keith led him into a small office to the side of the entrance. A desk surrounded by television monitors filled the room. A kid wearing thick glasses and a police uniform looked up with surprise as they entered.

Keith took a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. "Go buy yourself some candy," he said.

The kid took the money and left without another word.

"Devotion to the job," Keith commented wryly. "You gotta wonder what they're doing on the force."

"Yeah," Jeffrey mumbled, not wanting to have a protracted conversation about the quality of police recruits.

"I'll leave you to it," Keith said. "Ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Jeffrey answered, waiting for the door to close.

The file was coded and dated with some obscure notations that only a city employee could figure out. Jeffrey rubbed his hand down the front of the folder, as if he could absorb the information without actually having to see it. When that did not work, he took a deep breath and opened the folder.

Pictures of Sara after the rape greeted him. Close-ups of her hands and feet, the stab wound in her side, and her battered female parts spilled out onto the desk in full color. He actually gasped at the sight of them. His chest felt tight and a stabbing pain ran down his arm. Jeffrey thought for just a second that he was having a heart attack, but a few deep breaths helped clear his mind. He realized that his eyes had been closed, and he opened them, not looking at the pictures of Sara as he turned them facedown.

Jeffrey loosened his tie, trying to push the images from his mind. He thumbed through the other photographs, finding a picture of Saras car. It was a silver BMW 320 with black bumpers and a blue stripe down the sides. Carved into the door, probably with a key, was the word CUNT just as Sara had said in her trial testimony. Pictures showed a before and after of the door, with and without the silver duct tape. Jeffrey got a flash of Sara kneeling in front of the door, taping over the damage, probably thinking in her mind that she would get her uncle Al to repair the damage when she was back in Grant next.

Jeffrey checked his watch, noting five minutes had passed. He found Keith in one of the security cameras, his hands tucked into his pockets as he shot the shit with the guards at the door.

Thumbing through the back of the file, he found the arrest report on Jack Allen Wright. Wright had been arrested twice before on suspicion but never charged. In the first incident, a young woman about the age Sara had been when she was attacked had dropped the charges and moved out of town. In the other case, the young woman had taken her own life. Jeffrey rubbed his eyes, thinking about Julia Matthews.

A knock came at the door, then Keith said, "I gotta call time, Jeffrey."

"Yeah," Jeffrey said, closing the file. He didn't want to hold it in his hands anymore. He held it out to Keith without looking at the other man.

"This help you any?"

Jeffrey gave a nod, straightening his tie. "Some," he said. "Were you able to find out where this guy is?"

"Just down the street," Keith answered. "Working at the Bank Building."

"That's what, ten minutes from the university? Another five from Grady?"

"You got it."

"What's he do?"

"He's a janitor, like he was at Grady," Keith said. He had obviously looked at the file before giving it to Jeffrey. "All those college girls, and he's ten minutes from them."

"Do the campus police know?"

"They do now," Keith provided, giving Jeffrey a knowing look. "Not that he's much of a threat anymore."

"What does that mean?" Jeffrey asked.

"Part of his parole," Keith said, indicating the file. "You didn't get to that? He's taking Depo."

Jeffrey felt an uneasiness spread over him like warm water. Depo-provera was the latest trend in treating sexual offenders. Normally used in women as part of a hormone replacement therapy, a high enough dosage could curb a man's sexual appetite. When the drug was used on sexual predators, it was referred to as chemical castration. Jeffrey knew the drug only worked as long as the perpetrator took it. It was more like a tranquilizer than a cure.

Jeffrey indicated the folder. He could not say Sara's name in this room. "He raped someone else after this?"

"He raped two someone elses after this," Keith answered. "There was this Linton girl. He stabbed her, right? Attempted murder, six years. Got early parole for good behavior, went on the Depo, went off the Depo, went out and raped three more women. They caught him on one, other girl wouldn't testify, put him back in jail for three years, now he's out on parole with the Depo administered under close supervision."

"He's raped six girls and he's only served ten years?"

"They only nailed him on three, and except for her"-he indicated Sara's file-"the other IDs were pretty shaky. He wore a mask. You know how it gets with those girls on the stand. They get all nervous and before you know it opposing counsel has them wondering if they were even raped in the first place, let alone who did it."

Jeffrey held his tongue, but Keith seemed to read his mind.

"Hey," Keith said, "I'd been working those cases, the bastard would've been sent to the chair. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Jeffrey said, thinking this boasting wasn't getting them anywhere. "Is he ready for his third strike?" he asked. Georgia, like many states, had enacted a "third strike" law some time ago, meaning that a convict's third felony offense, no matter how innocuous, would send him or her back to jail, conceivably for the rest of his or her life.

"Sounds like it," Keith answered.

"Who's his PO?"

"Already took care of that one," Keith said. "Wright's on a bracelet. PO says he's clean going back the last two years. Also says he'd pretty much cut off his head before going back to jail."

Jeffrey nodded at this. Jack Wright was forced to wear a monitoring bracelet as a condition of his parole. If he left his designated roaming area or missed his curfew, an alarm would go off at the monitoring station. In the City of Atlanta, most parole officers were stationed at police precincts around town so they could snatch up violators on a moment's notice. It was a good system, and despite the fact that Atlanta was such a large city, not many parolees slipped through the cracks.

"Also," Keith said, "I walked on down to the Bank Building." He shrugged apologetically, recognizing he had overstepped the line. This was Jeffreys case, but Keith was probably bored out of his mind from checking purses for handguns all day.

"No," Jeffrey said. "That's fine. What'd you get?"

"Got a peek at his time cards. He was punched in every morning at seven, then out to lunch at noon, back at noon-thirty, then out at five."

"Somebody could've punched it for him."

Keith shrugged. "Supervisor didn't eyeball him, but she says there would've been complaints from the offices if he hadn't been on the job. Evidently, those professional types like to have their cans taken care of bright and early."

Jeffrey pointed to the white mailing envelope Keith held in his hand. "What's that?"

"Registration," Keith said, handing him the envelope. "He drives a blue Chevy Nova."

Jeffrey slit the envelope open with his thumb. Inside was a photocopy of Jack Allen Wrights vehicle registration. An address was under his name. "Current?" Jeffrey asked.

"Yeah," Keith answered. "Only, you understand you didn't get it from me."

Jeffrey knew what he meant. Atlanta's chief of police ran her department by its short hairs. Jeffrey knew her reputation and admired her work, but he also knew that if she thought some hick cop from Grant County was stepping on her toes, the next thing Jeffrey would feel would be a three-inch stiletto parked firmly on the back of his neck.

"You get what you need from Wright," Keith said, "then call in APD." He handed Jeffrey a business card with Atlanta's rising phoenix in the center of it. Jeffrey turned it over, seeing a name and number scribbled on the back.

Keith said, "This is his PO. She's a good gal, but she'll want something solid to explain why you just happen to be in Wright's face."

"You know her?"

"Know of her," Keith said. "Real ball breaker, so watch yourself. You call her in to snatch up her boy and she thinks you're looking at her funny, she'll make sure you never see him again."

Jeffrey said, "I'll try to be a gentleman."

Keith offered, "Ashton is just off the interstate. Let me give you directions."

Chapter Twenty-one

NICK Shelton's voice boomed across the telephone line. "Hey, lady."

"Hey, Nick," Sara returned, closing a chart on her desk. She had been at the clinic since eight that morning and seen patients right up until four o'clock. Sara felt as if she had been running in quicksand all day. There was a slight ache in her head and her stomach was queasy from drinking a little too much the night before, not to mention her uneasiness over the emotional drama that had unfolded. As the day wore on, Sara began to feel more drained. At lunch, Molly had commented that Sara looked as if she should be the patient today instead of the doctor.

"I showed Mark those seeds," Nick said. "He says they're belladonna all right, only it's the berries, not the seeds."

"I guess that's good to know," Sara managed. "He's certain?"

"One hundred percent," Nick returned. "He says its kind of funny they ate the berries. Remember, those are the least poisonous. Maybe your guy down there gives them the berries to keep them a little jazzed, then doesn't give them the final dose until he turns 'em loose."

"That makes sense," Sara said, not even wanting to think about it. She did not want to be a doctor today. She did not want to be a coroner. She wanted to be in bed with some tea and mindless television. As a matter of fact, that was exactly what she; was going to do as soon as she finished updating the last chart from today. Thankfully, Nelly had booked tomorrow for Sara's day off. She would take the weekend to decompress. Monday, Sara would be back to her old self.

Sara asked, "Anything on the semen sample?"

"We're having some problems with that, considering where you found it. I think we'll be able to get something out of it, though."

"That's good news, I guess."

Nick said, "You gonna tell Jeffrey about the berries, or should I call him?"

Sara felt her stomach drop at the mention of Jeffrey's name.

"Sara?" Nick asked.

"Yeah," Sara answered. "I'll talk to him about it as soon as I get off work."

Sara hung up the phone after the appropriate good-byes, then sat in her office, rubbing the small of her back. She reviewed the next chart at a glance, updating a change in medication as well as a follow-up visit for lab results. By the time she had finished with the last chart, it was five-thirty.

Sara crammed a couple of files into her briefcase, knowing she would have some time over the weekend where guilt would set in and she would want to do some work. Dictation was something she could do at home with a small tape recorder. There was a transcription place in Macon that would type up the notes for her and have them back in a couple of days.

She buttoned her jacket as she crossed the street, heading downtown. She took the sidewalk opposite the pharmacy, not wanting to run into Jeb. Sara kept her head down, passing the hardware store and the dress shop, not wanting to invite conversation. That she stopped in front of the police station was something of a surprise. Her mind was working without her knowing, and with each step she got more and more angry with Jeffrey for not calling. She had arguably left her soul laid out on his bathroom sink, and he had not even had the decency to call her.

Sara walked into the station house, managing a smile for Maria. "Is Jeffrey in?"

Maria frowned. "I don't think so," she said. "He checked out about noon or so. You might ask Frank."

"He's in the back?" Sara indicated the door with her briefcase.

"I think," Maria answered, returning to the task before her.

Sara glanced down as she passed the older woman. Maria was working on a crossword puzzle.

The back room was empty, the ten or so desks normally occupied by the senior detective vacant for the time being. Sara assumed they were out working down Jeffrey's list or grabbing dinner. She kept her head up, strolling into Jeffrey's office. Of course he wasn't there.

Sara stood in the small office, resting her briefcase on his desk. She had been in this room so many times she couldn't begin to count them. Always, she had felt safe here. Even after the divorce, Sara had felt that in this one area, Jeffrey was trustworthy. As a policeman, he had always done the right thing. He had done everything in his power to make sure the people he served were protected.

When Sara first moved back to Grant twelve years ago, no amount of reassurances from her father and her family could convince her that she was safe. Sara had known that as soon as she walked into the pawnshop, news would spread that she had purchased a weapon. What's more, she knew that in order to register a gun, she would have to go to the police station. Ben Walker, the chief of police before Jeffrey, played poker with Eddie Linton every Friday night. There had been no way for Sara to buy it without alerting everyone who knew her.

Around that time, a gang banger had come into the Augusta hospital with his arm nearly torn off by a bullet. Sara had worked on the kid and saved his arm. He was only fourteen, and when his mother came in, she had started beating him on his head with her purse. Sara had left the room, but a few moments later, the mother had found her. The woman had given Sara her son's weapon and asked Sara to take care of it. If Sara had been a Christian woman, she would have called the event a miracle.

The gun, Sara knew, was now in Jeffrey's desk drawer. She checked over her shoulder before sliding it open, taking out the bag with the Ruger in it. She tucked it in her briefcase and was out the door within a few minutes.

Sara kept her head up as she walked toward the college. Her boat was docked in front of the boathouse, and she tossed her briefcase in with one hand while untying the line with another. Her parents had given her the boat as a housewarming present, and it was an old but sturdy vessel.

The engine was strong, and Sara had skied behind it many times, her father at the wheel, holding back on the throttle for fear of jerking her arms off.

After checking that she was not being watched, Sara slipped the gun out of her briefcase and locked it in the watertight glove box in front of the passengers seat, plastic bag and all. She stepped her leg outside the boat, using her foot to push away from the dock. The engine sputtered when she turned the key. Technically, she should have had the motor checked before using the boat again after not using it all winter, but she did not really have a choice, since the techs would not be finished with her car until Monday. Asking her father for a lift would have invited too much conversation, and Jeffrey was not an option.

After emitting a cloud of nasty-looking blue smoke, the engine caught, and Sara pulled away from the dock, allowing a small smile. She had felt like a criminal leaving with the gun in her briefcase, but she was feeling safer. Whatever Jeffrey thought when he saw the gun was gone was not really Sara's concern.

By the time she reached the center of the lake, the boat was skipping across the water. Cold wind cut through her face, and she put her glasses on to protect her eyes. Though the sun was beating down, the water was cool from the recent rains that had fallen on Grant County. It looked ready to storm again tonight, but probably well after the sun went down.

Sara zipped her jacket closed to fight the cold. Still, by the time she could see the back of her house, her nose was running and her cheeks felt as if she had put her face into a bucket of cold ice water. Cutting a hard left, she steered away from a group of rocks under the water. There had been a sign marking the spot at one time, but it had rotted away years ago. With the recent rains, the lake was high, but Sara did not want to risk it.

She had docked into the boathouse and was using the electric winch to pull the boat out of the water when her mother appeared from the back of the house.

"Shit," Sara mumbled, pressing the red button to stop the winch.

"I called the clinic," Cathy said. "Nelly said you were taking tomorrow off."

"That's right," Sara answered, pulling the chains to lower the door behind the boat.

"Your sister told me about your argument last night."

Sara jerked the chain tight, sending a clattering through the metal structure. "If you're here to threaten me, the damage has been done."

"Meaning?"

Sara walked past her mother, stepping off the dock. "Meaning he knows," she said, tucking her hands into her hips, waiting for her mother to follow.

"What did he say?"

"I can't talk about it," Sara answered, turning toward the house. Her mother followed her up the lawn but was thankfully silent.

Sara unlocked the back door, leaving it open for her mother as she went into the kitchen. She realized too late that the house was a mess.

Cathy said, "Really, Sara, you can make time to clean."

"I've been very busy at work."

"That's not an excuse," Cathy lectured. "Just say to yourself, 'I'm going to do one load of laundry every other day. I'm going to make sure I put things back where I found them.' Pretty soon you're organized."

Sara ignored the familiar advice as she walked into the living room. She pressed the scroll on the caller ID unit, but no calls had been logged.

"Power went off," her mother said, pressing the buttons on the stove to set the time. "These storms are playing havoc with the cable. Your father almost had a heart attack last night when he turned on Jeopardy! and got nothing but fuzz."

Sara felt some relief from this. Maybe Jeffrey had called. Stranger things had happened. She walked over to the sink, filling the teakettle with water. "Do you want some tea?"

Cathy shook her head.

"Me, either," Sara mumbled, leaving the kettle in the sink. She walked to the back of the house, taking off her shirt, then her skirt as she walked into the bedroom. Cathy followed her, keeping a trained mother's eye on her daughter.

"Are you fighting with Jeffrey again?"

Sara slipped a T-shirt over her head. "I'm always fighting with Jeffrey, Mother. It's what we do."

"When you're not busy squirming in your seat over him in church."

Sara bit her lip, feeling her cheeks turn red.

Cathy asked, "What happened this time?"

"God, Mama, I really don't want to talk about it."

"Then tell me about this thing with Jeb McGuire."

"There's no 'thing.' Really." Sara slipped on a pair of sweatpants.

Cathy sat on the bed, smoothing the sheet out with the flat of her hand. "That's good. He's not really your type."

Sara laughed. "What's my type?"

"Someone who can stand up to you."

"Maybe I like Jeb," Sara countered, aware there was a petulant tone to her voice. "Maybe I like the fact that he's predictable and nice and calm. God knows he's waited long enough to go out with me. Maybe I should start seeing him."

Cathy said, "You're not as angry with Jeffrey as you think."

"Oh, really?"

"You're just hurt, and that's making you feel angry. You so seldom open yourself up to other people," Cathy continued. Sara noticed that her mothers voice was soothing yet firm, as if she were coaxing a dangerous animal out of its hole. "I remember when you were little. You were always so careful about who you let be your friend."

Sara sat on the bed so she could put on her socks. She said, "I had lots of friends."

"Oh, you were popular, but you only let a few people in." She stroked Sara's hair back behind her ear. "And after what happened in Atlanta-"

Sara put her hand over her eyes. Tears came, and she mumbled, "Mama, I really can't talk about that right now. Okay? Please, not now."

"All right," Cathy relented, putting her arm around Sara's shoulder. She pulled Sara's head to her chest. "Shh," Cathy hushed, stroking Sara's hair. "It's okay."

"I just…" Sara shook her head, unable to continue. She had forgotten how good it felt to be comforted by her mother. The last few days she had been so intent upon pushing Jeffrey away that she had managed to distance herself from her family as well.

Cathy pressed her lips to the crown of Sara's head, saying, "There was an indiscretion between your father and me."

Sara was so surprised that she stopped crying. "Daddy cheated on you?"

"Of course not." Cathy frowned. A few seconds passed before she provided, "It was the other way around."

Sara felt like an echo. "You cheated on Daddy?"

"It was never consummated, but in my heart I felt that it was."

"What does that mean?" Sara shook her head, thinking this sounded like one of Jeffrey's excuses: flimsy. "No, never mind." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, thinking she did not really want to hear this. Her parents' marriage was the pedestal upon which Sara had placed all her ideas about relationships and love.

Cathy seemed intent on telling her story. "I told your father that I wanted to leave him for another man."

Sara felt silly with her mouth hanging open, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She finally managed, "Who?"

"Just a man. He was stable, had a job over at one of the plants. Very calm. Very serious. Very different from your father."

"What happened?"

"I told your father that I wanted to leave him."

"And?"

"He cried and I cried. We were separated for about six months. In the end we decided to stay together."

"Who was the other man?"

"It doesn't matter now."

"Is he still in town?"

Cathy shook her head. "Doesn't matter. He's not in my life anymore, and I'm with your father."

Sara concentrated on her breathing for a while. She finally managed to ask, "When did this happen?"

"Before you and Tessie were born."

Sara swallowed past the lump in her throat. "What happened?"

"What's that?"

Sara slipped a sock on. It was like pulling teeth getting the story from her mother. She prompted, "To change your mind? What made you want to stay with Daddy?"

"Oh, about a million things," Cathy answered, a sly smile at her lips. "I think I just got a little distracted by this other man and I didn't realize how important your father was to me." She sighed heavily. "I remember waking up one morning in my old room at Mama's and all I could think was that Eddie should've been there with me. I wanted him so badly." Cathy frowned at Sara's reaction to this. "Don't go getting your color up, there are other ways to want someone."

Sara cringed at the scolding, slipping on her other sock. "So you called him up?"

"I went over to the house and I sat on the front porch and practically begged him to take me back. No, on second thought, I did beg. I told him that if we were both going to be miserable without each other, we might as well be miserable together and that I was so sorry and I'd never take him for granted again as long as I lived."

"Take him for granted?"

Cathy put her hand on Sara's arm. "That's the part that hurts, isn't it? The part where you feel like you don't matter to him as much as you used to."

Sara nodded, trying to remember to breathe. Her mother had hit the nail on the head. She prompted, "What did Daddy do when you said this?"

"Told me to get up off the porch and come in for some breakfast." Cathy put her hand to her chest, patting it. "I don't know how Eddie found it in his heart to forgive me, he's such a proud man, but I'm thankful he did. It made me love him even more to know that he could forgive me for something so horrible like that; that I could hurt him to the core and he could still love me. I think starting out like that made the marriage stronger." The smile intensified. "Of course, then, I did have a secret weapon."

"What's that?"

"You."

"Me?"

Cathy stroked Sara's cheek. "I was seeing your father again, but it was so strained. Nothing was like it was before. Then I got pregnant with you, and life just took over. I think having you between us made your father see the big picture. Next thing Tessie was here, then you were both in school, then you were both grown and off to college." She smiled. "It just takes time. Love and time. And having a little redheaded hellion to chase after is a good distraction."

"Well, I'm not going to get pregnant," Sara countered, conscious of the edge to her tone.

Cathy seemed to think out her answer. "Sometimes it takes thinking you've lost something to realize the real value of it," she said. "Don't tell Tessie."

Sara nodded her agreement. She stood, tucking her T-shirt into her pants. "I told him, Mama," she said. "I left the transcript for him."

Cathy asked, "The trial transcript?"

"Yeah," Sara said, leaning against the chest of drawers. "I know he's read it. I left it in the bathroom for him."

"And?"

"And," Sara said, "he hasn't even called. He hasn't said anything to me all day."

"Well," Cathy said, her mind obviously made up. "Fuck him, then. He's trash."

Chapter Twenty-two

JEFFREY found 633 Ashton Street easily enough. The house was dilapidated, no more than a square made of cinder blocks. The windows seemed to be an afterthought, none of them the same size. A ceramic fireplace was on the front porch, stacks of papers and magazines piled to the side of it, probably to use for kindling.

He took a look around the house, trying to act casually. Wearing a suit and tie, driving the white Town Car, it wasn't like Jeffrey fit in with the surroundings. Ashton Street, at least the part Jack Wright lived on, was run-down and seedy. Most of the houses in the vicinity were boarded up, yellow posters warning they were condemned. Kids played in the packed dirt yards of these houses, their parents nowhere to be seen. There was a smell to the place, not exactly sewage but something in that same family. Jeffrey was reminded of driving past the city dump on the outskirts of Madison. On a good day, even when you were downwind, the smell of decomposing trash still reached your nose. Even with the windows up and the air on.

Jeffrey took a few breaths, trying to get used to the smell as he approached the house. The door had a heavy mesh screen over it with a padlock securing it to the frame. The actual door had three dead bolts and one lock that looked like it required a puzzle piece to open it rather than a key. Jack Wright had been in prison a great deal of his life. This was obviously a man who wanted his privacy. Jeffrey took a look around before walking over to one of the windows. It, too, had a wire mesh and a heavy lock, but the casing was old and easily broken. A couple of firm pushes dislodged the entire frame. Jeffrey glanced around before removing the window, casing and all, and slipping into the house.

The living room was dark and dingy, with trash and papers stacked around the room. There was an orange couch on the floor with dark stains dripping down. Jeffrey could not tell if it was from tobacco juice or some kind of body fluid. What he did know was an overpowering odor of sweat mixed with Lysol permeated the room.

Edging the top of the living room walls like a decorative border were all lands of crucifixes. They varied in size from something you would get out of a candy vending machine to some that were at least ten inches long. They were nailed into the wall, edge to edge, tight up against one another in one continuous band. Continuing the Jesus theme, posters on the wall that looked like they had been taken from a Sunday school room showed Jesus and the disciples. In one, He was holding a lamb. In another, He was holding out his hands, showing the wounds in His palms.

Jeffrey felt his heart rate quicken at the sight of this. He reached to his gun, taking the strap off his holster as he walked toward the front of the house to make sure no one was coming up the drive.

In the kitchen, plates were stacked in the sink, crusted and foul-looking. The floor was sticky, and the whole room felt wet from something other than water. The bedroom was the same way, a musky odor clinging like a wet washrag against Jeffrey's face. On the wall over the stained mattress was a large poster of Jesus Christ, a halo behind His head. Like the poster in the living room, Jesus held His palms out to show the wounds on His hands. The crucifixion motif continued around the periphery of the bedroom, but these were larger crosses. Standing on the bed, Jeffrey could see that someone, probably Wright, had used red paint to exaggerate Jesus' wounds, dripping the blood down the torso, enhancing the crown of thorns resting on his head. Black Xs were across the eyes on every Jesus Jeffrey could see. It was as if Wright had wanted to stop His eyes from watching him. What Wright was doing that he felt needed to be hidden was the question Jeffrey needed to answer.

Jeffrey stepped off the bed. He looked through some of the magazines, taking the time to put on a pair of latex gloves from his pockets before touching anything. The magazines were mostly older editions of People and Life. The bedroom closet was stacked floor to ceiling with pornography. Busty Babes sat beside Righteous Redheads. Jeffrey thought of Sara and a lump came to his throat.

Using his foot, Jeffrey kicked the mattress up. A Sig Sauer nine millimeter was resting on the boxspring. The weapon looked new and well cared for. In a neighborhood like this one, only an idiot would go to sleep without a gun handy. Jeffrey smiled as he pushed the mattress back. This could help him out later on.

Opening the dresser, Jeffrey did not know what he expected to find. More porn, maybe. Another gun, or some kind of makeshift weapon. Instead, the top two drawers were filled with women's underwear. Not just underwear, the silky, sexy kind that Jeffrey liked to see Sara in. There were teddies and thongs, French-cut panties with bows at the hips. And they were all extremely large; large enough to fit a man.

Jeffrey resisted the urge to shudder. He took out a pen to go through the contents of the drawers, not wanting to get stuck with a needle or anything sharp, not wanting to get a venereal disease. Jeffrey was about to close one of the drawers when something changed his mind. He was missing something. Moving aside a pair of dark green lace panties, he saw what he was looking for. The newspaper lining the bottom of the drawers was from the special Sunday section of the Grant County Observer. He had recognized the masthead.

Pushing aside the clothes, Jeffrey took out the sheet of newspaper. The front page showed a slow news day. A picture of the mayor holding a pig in his arms beamed back at Jeffrey. The date put the paper at more than a year old. He opened the other drawers, looking for more Observers. He found a few, but most of them carried innocuous stories. Jeffrey found it interesting that Jack Wright subscribed to the Grant County Observer.

He went back into the living room, checking out the stacks of papers on the floor with renewed interest. Brenda Collins, one of Wright's other victims after Sara, had been from Tennessee, Jeffrey remembered. A copy of the Monthly Vols, a newsletter for University of Tennessee graduates, was tucked in with some newspapers from Alexander City,

Alabama. In the next stack, Jeffrey found more out-of-state papers, all from small towns. Beside these were postcards, all from Atlanta, all showing different scenes around town. The backs were blank, waiting to be filled in. Jeffrey could not imagine what a man like Wright would be doing with the postcards. He did not strike Jeffrey as the type of person to have friends.

Jeffrey turned around, making sure he had not missed anything in the cramped room. There was a television set tucked into the old fireplace. It looked fairly new, the kind you could buy on the street for fifty bucks if you did not ask too many questions about where it had come from. On top of the set was a cable converter box.

He walked back toward the front window to leave but stopped when he saw something under the couch. He used his foot to tilt the couch over, sending cockroaches scurrying across the floor. A small black keyboard was on the floor.

The converter box was actually a receiver for the keyboard. Jeffrey turned the set on, pressing the buttons on the keyboard until the receiver logged on to the Internet. He sat on the edge of the upturned couch as he waited for the system to make a connection. At the station, Brad Stephens was the computer person, but Jeffrey had learned enough from watching the young patrolman to know how to navigate his way around.

Wright's E-mail was easy enough to access. Aside from an offer from a Chevy parts dealership and the requisite hot young teens looking for college money, the kind of E-mail that everyone in the world got, there was a long letter from a woman who appeared to be Wright's mother. Another E-mail had a photo attachment of a young woman posed with her legs wide open. The sender's E-mail address was a series of random numbers. Probably, he was a prison buddy of Wright's. Still, Jeffrey wrote down the address on a scrap piece of paper he had in his pocket.

Using the arrow keys, Jeffrey went to the bookmarks section. In addition to various porn and violence sites, Jeffrey found a link for the Grant Observer on-line. He could not have been more shocked. There, on the television screen, was todays front page announcing the suicide of Julia Matthews last night. Jeffrey punched the down arrow, skimming the article again. He went into the archives and performed a search for Sibyl Adams. Seconds later, an article on career day from last year came on-screen. A search for Julia Matthews brought up today's front page, but nothing else. Over sixty articles came up when he typed in Sara's name.

Jeffrey logged off and turned the couch right side up. Outside, he pressed the window back into the hole he had made. It did not want to stay, so he was forced to drag one of the chairs over to prop it in. From his car, it didn't look like the window had been tampered with, but Jack Wright would know as soon as he walked on his front porch that someone had been in his house. As security conscious as the man seemed to be, this would probably be a good way to push his buttons.

The streetlight over Jeffreys car came on as he got in. Even on this hellhole of a street, the sunset dipping into the Atlanta skyline was something to behold. Jeffrey imagined but for the sun setting and rising, the people on this block wouldn't feel human.

He waited for three and a half hours before the blue Chevy Nova pulled into the driveway. The car was old and dirty, flakes of rust showing through at the trunk and taillights. Wright had obviously tried to make a few repairs. Silver duct tape crisscrossed the tail end, and on one side of the bumper was a decal that said GOD is MY copilot. On the other side was a zebra-striped sticker that said I'M GOING wild at the ATLANTA ZOO.

Jack Wright had been in the system long enough to know what a cop looks like. He gave Jeffrey a wary glance as he stepped out of the Nova. Wright was a pudgy man with a receding hairline. His shirt was off, and Jeffrey could see he had what could only be described as breasts. Jeffrey guessed this was from the Depo. One of the main reasons rapists and pedophiles tended to go off the drug was the nasty side effect that caused some of them to put on weight and take on womanly attributes.

Wright nodded to Jeffrey as Jeffrey made his way up the driveway. As neglected as this area of town was, all the streetlights were in working order. The house was lit like it was broad daylight.

When Wright spoke, his voice was high-pitched, another side effect of the Depo. He asked, "You looking for me?"

"That's right," Jeffrey answered, stopping in front of the man who had raped and stabbed Sara Linton.

"Well, damn," Wright said, pursing his lips. "I guess some girl done got snatched up, huh? Y'all always come knocking on my door when some young thing goes missing."

"Let's go into the house," Jeffrey said.

"I don't think so," Wright countered, leaning back against the car. "She a pretty girl, the one missing?" He paused, as if he expected an answer. He licked his tongue slowly along his lips. "I only pick the pretty ones."

"It's an older case," Jeffrey said, trying not to let himself get baited.

"Amy? Is it my sweet little Amy?"

Jeffrey stared. He recognized the name from the case file. Amy Baxter had taken her life after being raped by Jack Wright. She was a nurse who had moved to Atlanta from Alexander City.

"No, not Amy," Wright said, putting his hand to his chin as if in thought. "Was it that sweet little-" He stopped himself, looking over at Jeffreys car. "Grant County, huh? Why didn't you say so?" He smiled, showing one of his chipped front teeth. "How's my little Sara doing?"

Jeffrey took a step toward the man, but Wright did not take the intimidation.

Wright said, "Go on and hit me. I like it rough."

Jeffrey stepped back, willing himself not to punch the man.

Suddenly, Wright scooped his breasts into his hands. "You like these, daddy?" He smiled at the look of disgust that must have been on Jeffrey's face. "I take the Depo, but you know that already, don't you, honey? You know what it does to me, too, don't you?" He lowered his voice. "Makes me like a girl. Gives the boys the best of both worlds."

"Stop it," Jeffrey said, glancing around. Wright's neighbors had come out to see the show.

"I got balls the size of marbles," Wright said, putting his hands to the waist of his blue jeans. "You wanna see 'em?"

Jeffrey lowered his voice to a grumble. "Not unless you want to take the word 'chemical' out of your castration."

Wright chuckled. "You're a big, strong man, you know that?" he asked. "You supposed to be taking care of my Sara?"

Jeffrey could do nothing but swallow.

"They all wanna know why I picked 'em. 'Why me? Why me?' " he trilled, his voice higher. "Her, I wanted to see was she a real redhead."

Jeffrey stood there, unable to move.

"I guess you know she is, huh? I can tell by looking in your eyes." Wright crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes on Jeffrey's. "Now, she's got some great tits. I loved sucking them." He licked his lips. "I wish you could've seen the fear on her face. I could tell she wasn't used to it. Hadn't had herself a real man yet, know what I mean?"

Jeffrey put his hand around the man's neck, backing him into the car. The action was so fast Jeffrey wasn't even sure what he was doing until he felt Jack Wright's long fingernails digging into the skin on the back of his hand.

Jeffrey forced himself to take his hand away. Wright sputtered, coughing, trying to catch his breath. Jeffrey walked a tight circle, checking on the neighbors. None of them had moved. They all seemed entranced by the show.

"You think you can scare me?" Wright said, his voice raspy. "I had bigger than you, two at a time, in prison."

"Where were you last Monday?" Jeffrey asked.

"I was at work, brother. Check with my PO."

"Maybe I will."

"She made a spot check on me around"-Wright pretended to think this through-"I'd say around two, two-thirty. That the time you looking for?"

Jeffrey did not answer. Sibyl Adams's time of death had been printed in the Observer.

"I was sweeping and mopping and taking out the trash," Wright continued.

Jeffrey indicated the tattoo. "I see you're a religious man."

Wright looked at his arm. "That's what caught me up with Sara."

"You like to keep up with your girls, huh?" Jeffrey asked. "Maybe look through the newspapers? Maybe keep up with them on the Internet?"

Wright looked nervous for the first time. "You been in my house?"

"I like what you did with the walls," he said. "All those little Jesuses. Their eyes just follow you when you walk around the room."

Wright's face changed. He showed Jeffrey the side that only a handful of unfortunate women had ever seen as he screamed, "That is my personal property. You don't belong in there."

"I was in there," Jeffrey said, able to be calm now that Wright was not. "I went through everything."

"You bastard," Wright yelled, throwing a punch. Jeffrey sidestepped, twisting the man's arm behind him. Wright pitched forward, falling face first into the ground. Jeffrey was on top of him, his knee pressed into the man's back.

"What do you know?" Jeffrey demanded.

"Let me go," Wright begged. "Please, let me go."

Jeffrey took out his handcuffs and forced Wright into them. The clicking sound of the locks sent the man into hyperventilation.

"I just read about it," Wright said. "Please, please, let me go."

Jeffrey leaned down, whispering in the man's ear. "You're going back to jail."

"Don't send me back," Wright begged. "Please."

Jeffrey reached down, tugging the ankle bracelet. Knowing how the City of Atlanta worked, this would be faster than dialing 911. When the bracelet would not budge, Jeffrey used the heel of his shoe to bust it.

"You can't do that," Wright screamed. "You can't do that. They saw you."

Jeffrey looked up, remembering the neighbors. He watched wordlessly as they all turned their backs, disappearing into their houses.

"Oh, God, please don't send me back," Wright begged. "Please, I'll do anything."

"They're not going to like that nine mill under your mattress, either, Jack."

"Oh, God," the man sobbed, shaking.

Jeffrey leaned against the Nova, taking out the business card Keith had given him earlier. The name on the card was Mary Ann Moon. Jeffrey glanced at his watch. At ten till eight on a Friday night, he doubted very seriously that she would be happy to see him.

Chapter Twenty-three

LENA closed her eyes as the sun beat down on her face. The water was warm and inviting, a slight breeze crossing her body as each wave gently rolled under her. She could not remember the last time she had been to the ocean, but the vacation was well earned to say the least.

"Look," Sibyl said, pointing above them.

Lena followed her sister's finger, spotting a seagull in the ocean sky. She found herself concentrating on the clouds instead. They looked like cotton balls against a baby blue backdrop.

"Did you want this back?" Sibyl asked, handing Lena a red kickboard.

Lena laughed. "Hank told me you lost it."

Sibyl smiled. "I put it where he couldn't see it."

With sudden clarity, Lena realized it was Hank and not Sibyl who had been blinded. She could not understand how she had gotten the two confused, but there was Hank on the beach, dark glasses covering his eyes. He sat back, propped up on his hands, letting the sun hit him square on the chest. He looked more tan than Lena had ever seen him. As a matter of fact, all the times they had gone to the beach before, Hank had stayed in the hotel room instead of going out on the beach with the girls. What he did in there all day, Lena did not know. Sometimes Sibyl would join him to take some time out from the sun, but Lena loved being on the beach. She loved playing in the water or looking for impromptu volleyball games she could flirt her way into.

That was how Lena had met Greg Mitchell, her last boyfriend of any consequence. Greg was playing volleyball with a group of his friends. He was about twenty-eight years old, but his friends were much younger and more interested in looking at girls than actually playing the game. Lena had walked over, knowing she was being sized up, rated like a side of meat, by the young men, and asked to join the game. Greg had thrown the ball at her straight from his chest and Lena had caught it the same way.

After a while, the younger men trailed off in search of alcohol or women or both. Lena and Greg played for what seemed like hours. If he had been expecting Lena to throw the games in honor of his masculinity, he had another think coming. She had beaten him so badly that by the end of the third game, he had forfeited, offering to buy her dinner as her prize.

He took her to some cheap Mexican place that would have made Lena's grandfather keel over had he not already been dead. They drank sugary sweet margaritas, then they danced, then Lena gave Greg a sly smile instead of a good night kiss. The next day he was back in front of her hotel, this time with a surfboard. She had always wanted to learn how to surf, and she took up his offer for lessons without having to be asked twice.

Now, she could feel the surfboard underneath her, the waves sending her body up into the air, then down. Greg's hand was at the small of her back, then lower, then lower, until he was cupping her ass in his hand. She turned over slowly, letting him see and feel her naked body. The sun beat down, making her skin feel warm and alive.

He poured suntan oil in his hands, then started rubbing her feet. His hands encircled her ankles, pushing her legs far apart. They were still floating on the ocean but the water was somehow firm, holding her body up for Greg. His hands worked their way up her thighs, stroking, touching, moving past her intimate parts until his palms were cupping her breasts. He used his tongue, kissing then biting her nipples, her breasts, working his way up to her mouth. Greg's kisses were forceful and rough, like Lena had never known from him. She felt herself responding to him in ways she could not have imagined.

The pressure of his body on top of hers was alarmingly sensual. His hands were calloused, his touch rough, as he did with her what he wanted. For the first time in her life, Lena was not in control. For the first time in her life, Lena was completely helpless under this one man. She felt an emptiness that could only be filled by him. Anything he wanted, she would do. Any wish he uttered, she would fulfill.

His mouth moved down her body, his tongue exploring between her legs, his teeth rough against her. She tried to reach her hands to him, to pull him closer, but she found herself immobilized. Suddenly, he was on top of her, pushing her hands away from her body, out to the side as if to pin her back as he entered her. There was a wave of pleasure that seemed to last for hours, then sudden, excruciating release. Her whole body opened to him, her back arching, wanting to weld her flesh into his.

Then, it was over. Lena felt her body letting go, her mind coming back into focus. She rolled her head side to side, reveling in the aftermath. She licked her lips, opening her eyes to just a slit as she looked into the dark room. A clinking sound came from far away. Another more immediate sound came from all around, an irregular ticktock, like a clock, only with water. She found that she could no longer remember the word for water pouring out of the clouds.

Lena tried to move, but her hands seemed unwilling. She glanced out, seeing the tips of her fingers, even though there was no light to show them. Something was around her wrists, something tight and unrelenting. Her mind made the connection to move her fingers, and she felt the rough surface of wood against the back of her hand. Likewise, something encircled her ankles, holding her feet to the floor. She could not move her legs or arms. She was literally splayed to the floor. Her body seemed to come alive with this one realization: she was trapped.

Lena was back in the dark room, back where she had been taken hours ago; or was it days? Weeks? The clinking was there, the slow beat of water torture pounding into her brain. The room had no windows and no light. There was only Lena and whatever was holding her to the floor. A light came suddenly, a blinding light that burned her eyes. Lena tried to pull away from the restraints again, but she was helpless. Someone was there; someone she knew who should be helping her but was not. She writhed against the bonds, twisting her body, trying to free herself, to no avail. Her mouth opened, but no words would come. She forced the words through her mind-Help me, please-but was not rewarded with the sound of her own voice.

She turned her head to the side, blinking her eyes, trying to look past the light, just as a minute pressure came against the palm of her hand. The sensation was dull, but Lena could see from the light that the tip of a long nail was pressed into the palm of her hand. Also in the light, a hammer was raised.

Lena closed her eyes, not feeling the pain.

She was back at the beach, only not in the water. This time she was flying.

Chapter Twenty-four

MARY Ann Moon was not a pleasant woman. There was a set to her mouth that said "don't fuck with me" before Jeffrey even had the opportunity to introduce himself. She had taken one look at Wrights broken monitoring bracelet and directed her comments to Jeffrey.

"Do you know how much those things cost?"

It had gone downhill from there.

Jeffreys biggest problem with Moon, as she liked to be called, was the language barrier. Moon was from somewhere up east, the kind of place where consonants took on a life of their own. In addition to this, she spoke loudly and abruptly, two things that were considered very rude to southern ears. On the elevator ride up from central processing to the interview rooms, she stood too close to him, her mouth set in a fixed line of disapproval, her arms crossed low over her waist. Moon was about forty years old, but it was the hard kind of forty that too much smoking and drinking can do to a person. She had dark blond hair with light strands of gray mixed in. Her lips had wrinkles spreading out from them in deep rays.

Her nasal tone and the fact that she spoke sixty miles an hour gave Jeffrey the impression that he was talking to a French horn. Every response Jeffrey gave her was slow in coming because he had to wait for his brain to translate her words. He could tell early on that Moon took this slowness for stupidity, but there really wasn't anything he could do about it.

She said something to him over her shoulder as they walked through the precinct. He slowed it down, realizing she had said, "Tell me about your case, Chief."

He gave her a quick rundown of what had happened since Sibyl Adams had been found, leaving out his connection to Sara. He could tell the story wasn't progressing quickly enough, because Moon kept interrupting him with questions he was about to answer if she would give him a second to finish his sentence.

"I take it you went into my boy's house?" she said. "You see all that Jesus shit?" She rolled her eyes. "That nine mill didn't walk in under your pant leg, did it, Sheriff Taylor?"

Jeffrey gave her what he hoped was a threatening look. She responded with an outburst of laughter that pierced his eardrum. "That name sounds familiar."

"What's that?"

"Linton. Tolliver, too." She put her tiny hands on her slim hips. "I'm very good about notification, Chief. I've called Sara maybe a handful of times to let her know where Jack Allen Wright is. It's my job to do victim notification on an annual basis. Her case was ten years ago?"

"Twelve."

"So, that's at least twelve times I've talked to her."

He came clean, knowing he was busted. "Sara is my ex-wife. She was one of Wright's first victims."

"They let you work the case knowing your connection?"

"I'm in charge of the case, Ms. Moon," he answered.

She gave him a steady look that probably worked on her parolees, but did nothing but irritate Jeffrey. He was about two feet taller than Mary Ann Moon and not about to be intimidated by this little ball of Yankee hate.

"Wright's a Depo freak. You know what I mean by that?"

"He obviously likes taking it."

"This goes way back to his early days, right after Sara. You've seen pictures of him?"

Jeffrey shook his head.

"Follow me," Moon said.

He did as he was told, trying not to step on her heels. She was fast about everything but walking, and his stride was more than double hers. She stopped in front of a small office that was jam-packed with file storage boxes. She stepped over a pile of manuals, pulling a file off her desk.

"This place is a mess," she said, as if the fact had nothing to do with her. "Here."

Jeffrey opened the file, seeing a younger, slimmer, less womanly photograph of Jack Allen Wright clipped to the top page. He had more hair on his head, and his face was lean. His body was cut the way men who spend three hours a day lifting weights get, and his eyes were a piercing blue. Jeffrey remembered Wright's rheumy eyes from before. He also remembered that part of Sara's ID had come from his clear blue eyes. Every aspect of Wright's appearance had been altered since he had assaulted Sara. This was the man Jeffrey had been expecting when he searched Wright's house. This was the man who had raped Sara, who had robbed her of her ability to give Jeffrey a child.

Moon shuffled through the file. "This is his release photo," she said, sliding out another photograph.

Jeffrey nodded, seeing the man he knew as Wright.

"He served hard time, you know that?"

Jeffrey nodded again.

"Lots of men try to fight. Some of them just give in."

"You're breaking my heart." Jeffrey mumbled. "He have many visitors in prison?"

"Just his mother."

Jeffrey closed the file and handed it back to her. "What about when he got out of jail? He obviously went off the Depo, right? He raped again?"

"He says he didn't, but there's no way in hell he'd be able to get it up on the dosage he was supposed to be taking."

"Who was supervising it?"

"He was under his own supervision." She stopped him before he could say anything. "Listen, I know it's not perfect, but we have to trust them sometimes. Sometimes we're wrong. We were wrong with Wright." She threw the folder back on her desk. "He goes to the clinic now and gets his Depo injected once a week. It's all nice and clean. The bracelet you were kind enough to destroy kept him under close supervision. He was in line."

"He hasn't left the city?"

"No," she answered. "I did a spot check on him last Monday at work. He was at the Bank Building."

"Nice of you to put him near all those college girls."

"You're crossing a line," she warned.

He held up his hands, palms out.

"Write down whatever questions you want asked," she said. "I'll talk to Wright."

"I need to work off his answers."

"Technically, I don't even have to let you in here. You should be glad I'm not kicking your ass all the way back to Mayberry."

He literally bit his tongue so he would not snap back at her. She was right. He could call some friends of his on the APD tomorrow morning so he would get better treatment, but for right now, Mary Ann Moon was in charge.

Jeffrey said, "Can you give me a minute?" He indicated the desk. "I need to check in with my people."

"I can't make long-distance calls."

He held up his cell phone. "It's more privacy that I was looking for."

She nodded, turning around.

"Thanks," Jeffrey offered, but she did not answer in kind. He waited until she was down the hallway, then closed the door. After stepping over a group of boxes, he sat at her desk. The chair was low to the ground, and his knees felt like they were about to touch his ears. Jeffrey looked at his watch before dialing Sara's number. She was an early-to-bed land of person, but he needed to talk to her. He felt a wave of excitement wash over him as the phone rang.

She answered the phone on the fourth ring, her voice heavy with sleep. "Hello?"

He realized he had been holding his breath. "Sara?"

She was silent, and for a moment he thought she had hung up the phone. He heard her moving, sheets rustling; she was in bed. He could hear rain falling outside, and a distant thunder rumbled over the phone. Jeffrey had a flash of a night they had shared a long time ago. Sara never liked storms, and she had awakened him, wanting Jeffrey to take her mind off the thunder and lightning.

"What do you want?" she asked.

He searched for something to say, knowing suddenly that he had waited too long to get in touch with her. He could tell from the tone of her voice that something had changed in their relationship. He was not altogether sure how or why.

"I tried to call before," he said, feeling like he was lying even though he was not. "At the clinic," he said.

"That so?"

"I talked to Nelly," he said.

"Did you tell her it was important?"

Jeffrey felt his stomach drop. He didn't answer.

Sara gave what he thought was a laugh.

He said, "I didn't want to talk to you until I had something."

"Something on what?"

"I'm in Atlanta."

She was silent, then, "Let me guess, 633 Ashton Street."

"Earlier," he answered. "I'm at APD headquarters now. We've got him in an interview room."

"Jack?" she asked.

Something about her familiar use of his name set Jeffrey's teeth on edge.

"Moon called me when his monitor went off," Sara provided in a dull tone. "I had a feeling that's where you were."

"I wanted to talk to him about what's going on before I called in the cavalry."

She sighed heavily. "Good for you."

The line was quiet again, and Jeffrey was again lost for words. Sara interrupted the silence.

She asked, "Is that why you called me? To tell me that you arrested him?"

"To see if you were okay."

She gave a small laugh. "Oh, yeah. I'm just peachy, Jeff. Thanks for calling."

"Sara?" he asked, scared she would hang up. "I tried to call before."

"Evidently not that hard." she said.

Jeffrey could feel her anger coming across the phone. "I wanted to have something to tell you when I called. Something concrete."

She stopped him, her tone terse and low. "You didn't know what to say, so instead of walking two blocks to the clinic or making sure you got through to me, you scooted off to Atlanta to see Jack face-to-face." She paused. "Tell me how it felt to see him, Jeff."

He could not answer her.

"What'd you do, beat him up?" Her tone turned accusatory. "Twelve years ago, I could've used that. Right now I just wanted you to be there for me. To support me."

"I'm trying to support you, Sara," Jeffrey countered, feeling blind-sided. "What do you think I'm doing up here? I'm trying to find out if this guy is still out there raping women."

"Moon says he hasn't left town in the last two years."

"Maybe Wrights involved in what's going on in Grant. Did you think of that?"

"No, actually," she answered glibly. "All I could think was I showed you that transcript this morning, I bared my soul to you, and your response was to get out of town."

"I wanted-"

"You wanted to get away from me. You didn't know how to deal with it, so you left. I guess it's not as tricky as letting me come home and catch you with another woman in our bed, but it sends the same kind of message, doesn't it?"

He shook his head, not understanding how it had come to this. "How is it the same? I'm trying to help you."

Her voice changed then, and she didn't seem angry so much as deeply hurt. She had talked to him like this only once before, right after she had caught him cheating. He had felt then as he felt now, like a selfish asshole.

She said, "How are you helping me in Atlanta? How does it help me having you four hours away? Do you know how I felt all day, jumping every time the phone rang, hoping it was you?" She answered for him. "I felt like an idiot. Do you know how hard it was for me to show you that? To let you know what had happened to me?"

"I didn't-"

"I'm nearly forty years old, Jeffrey. I choose to be a good daughter to my parents and a supportive sister to Tessa. I chose to push myself so I could graduate at the top of my class from one of the finest universities in America. I chose to be a pediatrician so I could help kids. I chose to move back to Grant so I could be close to my family. I chose to be your wife for six years because I loved you so much, Jeffrey. I loved you so much." She stopped, and he could tell that she was crying. "I didn't choose to be raped."

He tried to speak, but she wouldn't let him.

"What happened to me took fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and all of that was wiped out. None of it matters when you take those fifteen minutes into account."

"That's not true."

"It's not?" she asked. "Then why didn't you call me this morning?"

"I tried to-"

"You didn't call me because you see me as a victim now. You see me the same way you see Julia Matthews and Sibyl Adams."

"I don't, Sara," he countered, shocked that she would accuse him of such a thing. "I don't see-"

"I sat there in that hospital bathroom on my knees for two hours before they cut me loose. I nearly bled to death," she said. "When he was done with me, there was nothing left. Nothing at all. I had to rebuild my life. I had to accept that because of that bastard I would never have children. Not that I ever wanted to think about having sex again. Not that I thought any man would want to touch me after what he did to me." She stopped, and he wanted so badly to say something to her, but the words would not come.

Her voice was low when she said, "You said I never opened up to you? Well, this is why. I tell you my deepest, darkest secret and what do you do? You run off to Atlanta to confront the man who did it instead of talking to me. Instead of comforting me."

"I thought you'd want me to do something."

"I did want you to do something," she answered, her tone filled with sadness. "I did."

The phone clicked in his ear as she hung up. He dialed her number again, but the line was busy. He kept hitting "send" on the phone, trying the line five more times, but Sara had taken her phone off the hook.

Jeffrey stood behind the one-way glass in the observation room, playing back his conversation with Sara in his mind. An overwhelming sadness enveloped him. He knew that she was right about calling. He should have insisted Nelly put him through. He should have gone to the clinic and told her that he still loved her, that she was still the most important woman in his life. He should have gotten on his knees and begged her to come back to him. He shouldn't have left her. Again.

Jeffrey thought of how Lena had used the term victim a few days ago..inscribing targets of sexual predators. She had put a spin on the word, saying it the same way she would say "weak" or "stupid." Jeffrey had not liked that classification from Lena, and he certainly did not like hearing it from Sara. He probably knew Sara better than any other man in her life, and Jeffrey knew that Sara was not a victim of anything but her own (Limning self-judgment. He did not see her as a victim in that context. If anything, he saw her as a survivor. Jeffrey was hurt to his very core that Sara would think so little of him.

Moon interrupted his thoughts, asking, "About ready to start?"

"Yeah," Jeffrey answered, blocking Sara from his mind. No matter what she had said, Wright was still a viable lead to what was going on in Grant County. Jeffrey was already in Atlanta. There was no reason to go back until he had gotten everything he needed from the man. Jeffrey clenched his jaw, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand as he stared through the glass.

Moon entered the room loudly, banging the door closed behind her, raking a chair out from the table, the legs screeching against the tiled floor. For all the APD's money and special funding, the city's interview rooms were not nearly as clean as the ones in Grant County. The room Jack Allen Wright sat in was dingy and dirty. The cement walls were unpainted and gray. There was a gloominess to the room that would encourage anyone to confess just to get out of the place. Jeffrey took this all in as he watched Mary Ann Moon work Wright. She was not nearly as good as Lena Adams, but there was no denying Moon had a rapport with the rapist. She talked to him like a big sister.

She asked, "That old redneck didn't fool with you, did he?"

Jeffrey knew she was trying to bridge some trust with Wright, but he did not appreciate the characterization, mostly because he guessed Mary Ann Moon thought it was an accurate one.

"He busted my bracelet," Wright said. "I didn't do that."

"Jack." Moon sighed, sitting across from him at the table. "I know that, okay? We need to find out how that gun got under your mattress. That's a clear violation and you're on your third strike. Right?"

Wright glanced at the mirror, probably knowing full well that Jeffrey was behind it. "I don't know how it got there."

"Guess he put your fingerprints on it, too?" Moon asked, crossing her arms.

Wright seemed to think this over. Jeffrey knew that gun belonged to Wright, but he also knew that there was no way in hell Moon would have been able to run the gun through forensics this quickly and get any kind of ID on the prints.

"I was scared," Wright finally answered. "My neighbors know, all right? They know what I am."

"What are you?"

"They know about my girls."

Moon stood from the chair. She turned her back to Wright, looking out the window. A mesh just like the ones at Wright's house covered the frame. Jeffrey was startled to realize that the man had made his own home resemble a prison.

"Tell me about your girls," Moon said. "I'm talking about Sara."

Jeffrey felt his hands clench at Sara's name.

Wright sat back, licking his lips. "There was a tight pussy." He smirked. "She was good to me."

Moon's voice was bored. She had been doing this long enough not to be shocked. She asked, "She was?"

"She was so sweet."

Moon turned around, leaning her back against the mesh. "You know what's going on where she lives, I take it. You know what's been happening to the girls."

"I only know what I read in the papers," Wright said, offering a shrug. "You ain't gonna send me up on that gun, are you, boss? I had to protect myself. I was scared for my life."

"Let's talk about Grant County," Moon offered. "Then we'll talk about the gun."

Wright picked at his face, gauging her. "You're being straight with me?"

"Of course I am, Jack. When have I not been straight with you?"

Wright seemed to weigh his options. As far as Jeffrey could see, it was a no-brainer: jail or cooperation. Still, he imagined Wright wanted some semblance of control in his life.

"That thing that was done to her car," Wright said.

"What's that?" Moon asked.

"That word on her car," Wright clarified. "I didn't do that."

"You didn't?"

"I told my lawyer, but he said it didn't matter."

"It matters now, Jack," Moon said, just the right amount of insistence in her voice.

"I wouldn't write that on somebody's car."

"Cunt?" she asked. "That's what you called her in the bathroom."

"That was different," he said. "That was the heat of the moment."

Moon did not respond to this. "Who wrote it?"

"That, I don't know," Wright answered. "I was in the hospital all day, working. I didn't know what kind of car she drove. Could've guessed it, though. She had that attitude, you know? Like she was better than everybody else."

"We're not going to get into that, Jack."

"I know," he said, looking down. "I'm sorry."

"Who do you think wrote that on her car?" Moon asked. "Somebody at the hospital?"

"Somebody who knew her, knew what she drove."

"Maybe a doctor?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Maybe."

"You being straight with me?"

He seemed startled by her question. "Hell, yeah, I am."

"So, you think somebody at the hospital might have written that on her car. Why?"

"Maybe she pissed them off?"

"She piss a lot of people off?"

"No." He shook his head vehemently. "Sara was good people. She always talked to everybody." He seemed to not remember his earlier comments about how conceited Sara was. Wright continued, "She always said hey to me in the hall. You know, not like 'How you doing' or anything like that but, Hey, I know you're there.' Most people, they see you but they don't. Know what I mean?"

"Sara's a nice girl," Moon said, keeping him on track. "Who would do that to her car?"

"Maybe somebody was pissed at her about something?"

Jeffrey put his hand to the glass, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. Moon picked up on this as well.

She asked, "About what?"

"I don't know," Wright answered. "I'm just saying I never wrote that on her car."

"You're sure about that."

Wright swallowed hard. "You said you'd trade the gun for this, right?"

Moon gave him a nasty look. "Don't question me, Jack. I told you up front that was the deal. What have you got for us?"

Wright glanced toward the mirror. "That's all I have, that I didn't do that to her car."

"Who did, then?"

Wright shrugged. "I told you I don't know."

"You think the same guy who scratched her car is doing this stuff in Grant County?"

He shrugged again. "I'm not a detective. I'm just telling you what I know."

Moon crossed her arms over her chest. "We're gonna keep you in lockup over the weekend. When we talk on Monday, you see if you've got an idea who this person might be."

Tears came to Wright's eyes. "I'm telling you the truth."

"We'll see if it's the same truth on Monday morning."

"Don't send me back in there, please."

"It's just holding, Jack," Moon offered. "I'll make sure you get your own cell."

"Just let me go home."

"I don't think so," Moon countered. "We'll let you stew for a day. Give you some time to get your priorities straight."

"They are straight. I promise."

Moon did not wait for more. She left Wright in the room, his head in his hands, crying.