Fade To Black

8

IT specialist Lily Fletcher was sickened to her very soul by the things the Reaper had done to his victims. Naturally empathic-one reason she’d been warned she’d never make it in the bureau-she’d had a hard time getting their faces out of her mind since the day Brandon had discovered that first video. She’d said prayers for them in private moments, promised them justice, and grieved for their loved ones dealing with such tragedy and pain.

She understood tragedy and pain. She understood them much too well.

Maybe that was why, as she dug deeper into Satan’s Playground trying to find any cyber string that might lead to their unknown subject, she found herself unable to tear her attention away from that menacing, skeletal figure who called himself Lovesprettyboys. The small, cartoonish avatar cast off such malevolence, it was as if he’d been dipped in evil and formed out of hatred and vice.

He had invaded her thoughts and sabotaged her peace of mind, becoming the focus of all the anger and anguish that had been building in her for so long. The Reaper terrified her. Lovesprettyboys revolted her. And she wanted them both gone, out of the world, far away so they could never hurt another woman or another child. No one would ever convince her that tall, thin monster hadn’t abused children in real life, the way he did in the Playground.

Which was, perhaps, why he’d become her side project. Stopping him would never change what had happened to her own family. But she had to do it anyway.

“Sir?” she asked as she knocked on Wyatt Blackstone’s door late Saturday afternoon. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”

He beckoned her in, not looking up from the papers, saying, “Wyatt, please.”

She had a hard time with that, calling him by his first name. Not just because she wasn’t used to supervisors who were so much a part of a team, but also because the man intimidated her like crazy. The supervisory special agent was everything an FBI agent should be, from the top of his handsome head to the bottom of his shined shoes. Intelligent enough to keep up with even Brandon, street-smart enough to hold his own with Dean Taggert. Wyatt was out of her league in every way. She was often left tongue-tied around him.

“Anything new?” he asked when she took the seat on the other side of his desk.

“I’ve found a few accounts that look promising. I’ve contacted someone at Treasury to get information about some transfers, but I won’t hear back until Monday.”

“I am afraid our unsub probably works weekends,” he mused.

She had no doubt he was right.

“Good work.”

“Thank you, sir.” She fell silent, looking at her own clenched hands in her lap, wondering how to broach the subject that had driven her to seek him out.

“Is there something else?”

Taking a deep breath, she hoped her voice remained steady and didn’t betray how personally involved she was. “I was wondering… I know the Reaper is our primary target here, but some of the other things going on in that site are keeping me up nights.”

“The pedophiles.”

“One in particular,” she admitted, not surprised that he had immediately known where she was headed. Blackstone had been very kind during her interview, when he’d asked how she was coping with what had happened to her family a short eighteen months ago. She’d been incapable of lying about the rage she still felt toward the man who’d brutalized her nephew and the anguish over her sister’s resulting suicide. So yes, of course he understood her personal demons.

“The Cyber Division has a unit devoted to catching those monsters, Lily.”

“They don’t know about him,” she snapped back. There was such a mine-is-bigger-than-yours attitude pervading this building that she had no doubt Blackstone was keeping this case close to his chest.

But he immediately proved her wrong. “Yes, they do.” Her jaw falling, she realized she’d completely misjudged him. “You mean you-”

“Of course. You can’t possibly think I would keep Satan’s Playground a secret from the rest of the division in some kind of we-found-it-first foolishness.”

That was exactly what she’d thought. Now who was the fool?

“There are people working on it, I assure you. Another CAT, for one, and top agents who work crimes against children.”

Relieved by that, she still couldn’t contain the need to do something-which had driven her here to begin with. “I want to help.”

One fine brow arched over a dark blue eye. “We’re not keeping you busy enough?”

Flushing, she shook her head. “I would never let my personal history distract me from my job.” Meeting his stare, she added, “I promised you that when I asked you to take me on.”

He nodded once, conceding the point.

“But if I were to offer some assistance in my spare time…”

“You don’t have any spare time,” was the flat reply. “The unsub has to be stopped. If you have time to work on anything, it’s got to be on him.”

“I meant afterward, once we’ve got him. I certainly would not deviate from the first priority, to stop the murders.”

She meant it. Despite wanting to go after the sickos playing out their child-rape fantasies in the online Playground, she knew her job. She had no proof Lovesprettyboys had ever actually acted on his proclivities, just suspicions. The Reaper, however, had shown in full, blazing color what evil atrocities he was capable of in real life.

“I’d like to volunteer to assist in the other investigation after ours has been successfully concluded. My experience working on the Satan’s Playground site in this case might prove beneficial in that one.”

His frown said he didn’t like the idea, but his words were careful. “I thought the change of jobs was about you moving beyond the past. Trying to get on with your life.” His words were cautionary, his tone sympathetic.

“Getting on with my life does not mean I can’t try to stop the kinds of criminals who affected me and my family,” she replied, resolute. “The man who killed my nephew is in prison and he’ll remain there for the rest of his life. I’m not confusing the deviants on this Internet site with him.”

Blackstone was quiet for a moment, rubbing the tips of his fingers on his temple, as if battling a headache. She imagined he had a lot of them in this job. Finally, he murmured, “You know he’s filed an appeal?”

Lily closed her eyes briefly, not wanting her boss to see the rage and frustration in them. The knowledge that Jesse Tyrone Boyd was trying to overturn his conviction for the rape and murder of the little boy she’d loved with her entire soul infested her brain and tormented her every minute of every day.

“He was rightfully convicted. He won’t get off.” She bit the words out from between clenched teeth.

“But while that’s going on, do you really want to immerse yourself in something so similar?”

“We don’t know that it’s similar,” she insisted. “Or that this Internet guy has ever committed a real crime against a child.” That was a lie. She knew. Something deep inside of her was certain that the monster lurking in the cyber playground had done his share of lurking in real ones. But she had to play this cool, by the book, remain completely detached and professional. “I simply want to do whatever I can to help stop him.”

Blackstone studied her intently for a long moment. She managed to keep herself calm and collected through sheer force of will.

“All right,” he finally murmured.

Lily suppressed a sigh of relief, thanking him as she got up to leave. And as she walked out of his office, she mentally told herself that he was correct.

Not personal. Not personal. Not personal.

Maybe if she kept thinking that, she might actually start to believe it.

Dick’s Tavern had been built in the sixties, and from day one it had attracted a certain kind of crowd. Back then, it was a haven for roughnecks wanting to avoid hippie freaks. In the eighties it had been a haven for roughnecks wanting to avoid yuppie scum.

Now it was a haven for roughnecks wanting to avoid anything resembling law and order. Or politeness, decency, courtesy, or class.

Stacey hated the place almost as much as her father did. But there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it, aside from responding to the inevitable brawls that sometimes spilled out into the road. The proprietor, Dick Wood-wasn’t that a porn star name if there had ever been one, and didn’t he just act like he’d earned it?-kept his nose clean in the two areas that could destroy him: He didn’t allow dope deals anywhere on the premises and he had never been caught serving minors.

If he had been, she’d have had him up on charges so fast the man wouldn’t have had time to lock the door before she’d slapped a CLOSED sign on it.

“Classy place,” Dean said as they pulled into the parking lot, already crowded with mud-encrusted off roaders, rusty pickups, and crotch rockets that had seen much better days. “I don’t suppose they have a lunch menu? That might explain the crowds at three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Only if by lunch you mean peanuts, whose shells are about an inch thick on the floor in some places. This is why I figured we’d be safe coming out here this afternoon rather than waiting until tonight, when they got really busy. The regulars are already parked on their usual stools; I guarantee it.”

Dick’s was always busy on weekends, from the time the doors opened at ten a.m. until they closed, often with a last drive-by warning patrol by Stacey or one of her deputies at two. At any hour in between, beer was being poured or vomited back out on the sticky floor. Darts were being flung. Fights were breaking out. Sex was being had in the dirty, dingy back hallway or up against the side of the building.

“How often do you have to come out here?”

Swinging the patrol car into the lone vacant spot out back, she left the engine running to combat the heat. Stacey pushed her dark sunglasses onto the top of her head and glanced at her passenger. “Once or twice a week. More on weekends and holidays, when we set up sobriety checkpoints.”

“Like shooting fish in a barrel, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is Stan Freed a regular?” His simple question didn’t disguise the genuine dislike he obviously held for the man.

“Not that I know of.”

“That guy’s total scum; you know that, right?”

Hell, yes, she knew it. “Yeah, he is.” She quickly told him what Winnie had said about their visit to the hospital the night Lisa had disappeared.

“Easy to check her. Not so easy to find out if he sat in the waiting room all night, or left.”

Something else she’d already considered.

He looked at the tavern again and sighed audibly. “Too bad the place is such a pit. I have a feeling I’m going to wish for a beer after today.”

“You definitely don’t want to drink here.” Something sent a few more crazy words across her lips before she could think better of them. “Stop by my place tonight. I have a six-pack in the fridge. I suspect we could both use a cold one.”

So much for letting the guy make the first move. That resolution had lasted all of, what, eight hours?

A small smile tugged at his mouth and an amused gleam appeared in his dark eyes. The hard-ass FBI agent had been replaced by the sexy hottie she’d met once or twice since Special Agent Dean Taggert had come to town. The one who made her forget the uniform and remember the woman wearing it. “You asking me on a date, Sheriff?”

She snorted, sensing that teasing didn’t come easily to this man, especially while he was on the job. Maybe he needed a break from the tension as much as she did.

“Could be.”

“Your timing is interesting.”

“Yours sucks.”

One brow shot up.

“I mean, you’ve been here a couple of days already and you still haven’t worked your way up to making the first move.”

He laughed out loud, a low, masculine sound. “We’re just going to skip the part where we gradually get to know each other and feel our way around to determining if we’re interested in more, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Blunt.”

“I never learned to be any other way.” In for a penny, as they said. “Besides, like I said yesterday, we both know we’re interested. I was going to be all female and let you take it from there.” Her good humor fading a bit, she admitted, “But to tell you the truth, this case has me a little rattled. I’m finding it hard to stay completely aloof. And, honestly, I could use some company after hours.”

She didn’t up the ante, didn’t say she could use some company in the long, empty nights when the bad dreams and her own need for physical connection kept her from any real rest. She wasn’t trying to fool herself. Stacey had no doubt she wanted to go to bed with the man sitting beside her. But there was only so much even the bluntest of women could say to a guy she had known for only a few days.

“I’ve been wondering if you were going to make this personal.” He reached over and touched the tips of his fingers to a strand of her hair, which had loosened from its bun and fallen to her cheek. Rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, he murmured, “I know better, but still, part of me wanted you to.”

“You know better?”

“I am in no shape to get involved with anybody.”

“You’re preaching to the choir here, Special Agent Taggert. I’m not looking for any kind of long-term involvement.” Especially involvement with somebody like him, who would leave here soon and continue making his way through the bloody world he inhabited. The one that had briefly invaded her little corner of the universe, and which she wanted gone just as soon as they nailed the bastard they were after.

“I’m so far out of practice with this game, I don’t remember the rules.”

“Rules aren’t laws. They’re sometimes made to be broken,” she said, a tiny shiver coursing through her. It had nothing to do with the chilled air pouring from the vents in the dashboard and everything to do with the way his fingertips oh-so-gently brushed her cheek before he slowly pulled them away. “Besides, I don’t feel like playing games.”

“Me, either.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m bad at this, Stacey. I never even noticed my wife falling out of love with me.”

“Jeez, I didn’t ask you to marry me; I asked you to come over for a beer,” she said with a forced chuckle. This needed to stay light and easy, for both their sakes. He was one year off a divorce. She was two years out of the worst period of her life. He was saturated in death and violence. She’d moved back here specifically to escape that darkness. No way did they have anything that could resemble long term.

Simple. No strings. That was all either of them could afford.

She knew all that. But she still opened her dumb mouth. “Have you fallen out of love with her?”

He thought about it, staring out the windshield. “Yeah. I guess I had long before we split up. I just didn’t realize it until she forced the issue. The divorce didn’t bother me much. The custody, though, that’s pure hell.”

“I’m sure.”

As if wanting to scare her off, to make one more effort to put up barriers for her protection, he admitted, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone else.”

Been with-as in, had sex with. The tension in the close confines of the car shot up a notch. Or a hundred notches. She felt the warmth of his strong body, heard the slow breaths that seemed as deliberately cautious as her own. Smelled the clean scent of soap and an earthier one of pure masculinity that encompassed him from head to toe.

And every female particle inside her reacted. “You’re not alone,” she finally said, the words shaking as she tried to keep them light. “I’m not exactly a man magnet myself.”

Man repellent would be more like it. The last guy she’d been with had been an attorney down in Roanoke, who’d been able to separate his job from his emotions. He couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get over what had happened. Of course, he hadn’t been an early responder to one of the worst mass killings in U.S. history.

“I find that hard to believe. You have a whole town ful of people who like and respect you.” That sexy, amused glint returned to his eye. “You have at least one admirer.”

Thinking of the scene with Rob Monroe in the diner, and in the doughnut shop the other morning, she visibly shuddered in distaste. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Is he the only available guy around?”

“No. But knowing everyone here is a double-edged sword. Since nearly every man in this county is either scared of me or hates my guts, the social opportunities aren’t exactly limitless. Believe me, I don’t have much of a personal life.” Shrugging, tired of dancing around it, she could only meet his direct stare and be entirely honest. “I’m attracted to you, Dean, for any number of reasons. And I think we’re both in the right place right now to do something about it.”

He didn’t argue; they were past that. “Attracted physically.”

And mentally. And possibly even emotionally. But that was miles ahead of where she would consider walking, even in her own head. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then merely murmured, “Well, okay, then.”

“Okay, then?” Whatever that meant. A beer? Dinner? More?

“Okay,” he explained, “I’d love to come over for a beer.”

And maybe more. She’d just have to wait and see what.

Smiling in self-satisfaction, as she acknowledged that waiting for a guy to take the lead had never gotten her anywhere, Stacey cut the engine. “Guess we’d better get on with it. The crowd’s not getting any more sober in there.”

Stepping out of the car, she spotted one very familiar, dented four-by-four, and couldn’t contain a frown. Damn it, Tim. Her brother had sworn he wasn’t getting in over his head with his drinking or with Randy and his rough-edged new friends. Who, she suspected, appealed to him, since many of them carried scars of their own, physical and emotional.

She also suspected the shrink Tim refused to go back to would say he was trying to escape from his former world into a new one where he didn’t have to give a damn about anyone. Even himself. One where he could escape the memories of whatever had been done to him-and whatever he’d done-in the Middle East, before a roadside bomb had shattered not only his face, but his spirit as well.

“Let’s get this over with.” Pushing her sunglasses back over her eyes and donning her broad-brimmed hat, she took a deep breath, determined to remain the sheriff no matter what happened inside. If her hardhead of a brother started anything, he’d be talking to her back at the station.

With Dean at her side, she strode around the side of the building, her gaze scanning the parking lot. As she walked, she also checked for expired tags, unsafe vehicles, and, mindful of the case, any late-model American-made pickups. That there were a good dozen of them right here in this one parking lot said a lot about how that lead was going to pan out.

Just inside the doorway, Stacey paused, but didn’t remove her sunglasses. She knew from experience that the dark lenses, and the inability to gauge her expression, was intimidating to people. Especially people she was questioning.

She allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, a sharp contrast from the bright sunshine, then scanned the place. She instinctively counted the bleary-eyed men sidled up to the sticky bar. Two slow-moving couples rubbed against one another on the dance floor, their feet scuffing the oak planks rubbed smooth and chalky gray by a thousand couples before them.

Patrons sat at every wobbly table in the room. Loud, twangy music emerged from the ancient jukebox. The yeasty scent of newly tapped beer was overpowered by the stench of unwashed bodies and puke from the Friday-night crowd who’d left here a little more than twelve hours ago.

She’d sooner spend a day in lockup than in this place. Stacey’s pulse skipped as she spotted her brother. Tim was playing darts with Randy Covey in the far corner. A half-full pitcher of beer, and an empty one, sat on the closest table, and they each had mugs in their free hands. Neither had noticed her arrival.

That was fine. She’d make her presence known to them in very short order. She had a few things to say to Randy for backing up Tim’s idiocy and drinking hard with him on a Saturday afternoon.

“Back exit,” Dean murmured.

Stacey glanced in that direction. A heavyset, bearded biker type watched them closely, edging step by step toward the door. She’d wager there was a warrant out on him somewhere. “This is your lucky day, pal,” she whispered.

Finding Dick behind the bar, she stepped over and rapped her knuckles on the worn surface. She knew damn well the man had looked up and seen her enter, but he’d made a show of continuing to draw beer and pour shots, ignoring her presence.

“Oh, hey, there, Sheriff. Surprised to see you here in the middle of the day. Stop in for a cold one?”

Shaking her head, Stacey saw the way his hand shook and knew he was nervous. The sixtyish, skinny, balding little man knew how thoroughly Stacey disliked the place. She could never hide her disdain when she came in. Just because she’d never caught him doing anything illegal didn’t mean she believed he wasn’t. “You know better than that.”

The bar quieted as others noticed her arrival. Her appearance-uniform and hat, stiff form, jutting jaw, the dark glasses-screamed rigid law enforcement, and since most of the clientele were ex-cons, drunks, or druggies, everyone went a little on edge. That was one reason she always unsnapped her holster when she entered the place, though she’d never actually had to pull her weapon from it.

The club, yes. She’d broken up a few fights with it. One had involved one of her own deputies, who’d been attacked by a huge, drunk redneck whose thick skull hadn’t even registered the first blow.

“This is Special Agent Dean Taggert,” she said. “We’re here to talk to you about the night Lisa Zimmerman disappeared.”

Dick made a great show of sympathy. “I heard the rumors. Is it true? She’s dead?”

“We need a list of everyone in the bar that night.”

“That was a long time ago, Sheriff. I can’t be remembering everybody in my place.” He glanced around nervously, as if worried his customers, who valued discretion, would realize he was a rat who’d turn anybody in to save his own narrow ass.

Stacey pulled a small notebook out of her back pocket, reading off the notes she’d jotted when she’d originally investigated. “You said there were no strangers, only regulars. About thirty of them, and you named several.” She scanned the list, as she had a number of times in the past few days. Her eyes zoned in on a few names, men she knew drove American-made pickups. Warren Lee being one of them. “All I’m looking for is anyone else you remember. And any details that made that night stand out.”

Her voice was loud enough to be heard by those close by, and Dick’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. His gaze darted around the room, then lit upon the dartboard in the corner. “Why don’t you go ask your brother and his good friend Covey over there?”

Her jaw clenched. “What?”

“They were both here. Or didn’t you write that part down in your little book?” The man laughed, though his amusement was overshadowed by pure malice. “Matter of fact, I seem to recall Lisa bein’ a mite short with Tim.” Leaning forward in a pretense that he intended to whisper, but doing no such thing, he added, “I think he got his feelings hurt that she didn’t like his scars and wouldn’t dance with him.”

Her eyes instinctively shifted. Tim, across the room, had just sent a steel-tipped dart toward the board. It landed in the center ring. Bull’s-eye. But he didn’t react by so much as a laugh or a high five with Randy.

Because he was listening. The tension in his ramrod-straight back made that clear.

Angry and protective of her brother, despite being here in an official capacity, she sneered at Dick. “Oh, don’t you worry; I’ll be tracking down a whole bunch of your regulars and talking to them. After I do a little background checking on them, of course.”

The man visibly paled, realizing his jab had done nothing more than dig him in deeper. He wiped his hands with a dirty cloth and mumbled, “Honestly, Sheriff, I don’t remember that far back. I can make some guesses, though.”

Dean, who’d been silently watching the exchange, covering her back, interjected: “What about credit card receipts from that night?”

The tavern owner snorted. “I don’t think a soul in this place could get one.”

“But you can still check,” the special agent insisted, his voice low and steady, the very confidence of it enough to scare the hell out of any man who had something to hide.

Or to arouse the feminine instincts of any woman with a hint of estrogen.

“All right,” the man muttered. “Not that it’ll do any good.”

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Stacey said, knowing she sounded steely and anything but grateful.

“Not a problem. Surprised you don’t already know who was here that night. Didn’t you have deputies watching the place around then?” Dick attempted a weak smile. “I know you were trying to sting me, sending underage kids in here, but I don’t serve nobody without ID.”

Stacey frowned. Though the idea wasn’t half-bad, she wasn’t naive enough to think Dick would fall for it; he was far too crafty for that. Besides, he knew the names and ages of just about every teenager in the county. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, last spring, a couple times kids came in here thinkin’ they were gonna be able to score beer.” He scratched his grizzled chin. “Now that I think about it, there was a ruckus the night the Zimmerman girl went missing. Had to have that Flanagan kid hauled outta here.”

Flanagan. Mike Flanagan. Why was she not surprised?

But even as she discounted the idea that teens trying to buy beer might have anything to do with Lisa’s murder, she realized she needed to talk to Mike. Because if he’d been tossed out, he might very well have lurked around outside. Kids like that wanted to get even. She wouldn’t put it past him to flatten a tire, break a window, do something to throw a young man’s fit at not getting what he wanted.

And if he’d been hanging around, maybe he’d seen something.

“Only other thing I recall is that Lisa’s stepdaddy called here lookin’ for her around midnight, mad as hell about his missing car.”

That was something she hadn’t known. “Stan Freed? Did you tell him she was here?”

The man’s scrawny chest puffed out and his voice increased in volume. “Nah. I don’t go tellin’ tales. Didn’t let on she was here.”

Had Stan gone out looking for her, by chance?

“Oh,” Dick added, as if suddenly remembering something. “And Warren was on a rant about the gov’m’nt conspiring to keep gas prices up, part of their ‘master plan’ for the rich to take over the country.”

More unsurprise. Her list of interviewees was getting longer by the minute.

That should have been a good thing. More leads meant more chances to solve this case and stop the brutal crimes.

If only one name hadn’t been on the list. Because questioning her own belligerent brother was going to be anything but pleasant. And frankly, it would be worse if she tried to talk to him here. He would swagger and puff up, not wanting anyone in the place to think he was at all intimidated by his cop sister.

She’d talk to Tim herself, but she might ask Dean or his fellow agents to deal with Randy. The man made her teeth hurt. He seemed to bring out the worst in her brother in terms of recklessness and overblown testosterone. They had done some stupid stuff as teens, Randy even getting arrested for theft before he had gotten his girlfriend pregnant and Tim had left for the military.

What a nice contrast to be with a man like Dean, who oozed masculinity, yet had no problem with the fact that Stacey had been the bold one in the car. He had to have self-confidence by the boatload to go with that intelligence and strength. It was an incredibly intoxicating combination.

A lack of self-confidence was one trait her brother shared with his best friend. Tim because of his injuries and scars. Randy because, well, probably because of his whole disappointing life.

“Want to split up?” Dean asked. “Work our way through the room faster?”

Stacey shook her head. “I don’t think so. I know these guys. Some of them will do better with you-I’ll let you know which-but some won’t give you the time of day.” Not that they’d do much more for her. But at least she knew their weaknesses.

Spying a couple of the men Dick had named during her original investigation, a pair of roughnecks who lived downstate but came here to do their drinking and raise their hell, she strode to their table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

They both eyed her sullenly. The smaller of the two, a weasely sidekick by the name of Lester, tried to act tough. If his big buddy weren’t sitting beside him, he would already be spilling his guts. “You looking for some company, pretty lady? You need a couple of men to remind you what you got between your legs-and what you ain’t?”

Feeling an almost tangible burst of heated fury from Dean, who stood beside her chair, Stacey shook her head once. Eyes narrowed, she dropped her elbows onto the table and stared, hard, into Lester’s bloodshot eyes. “You don’t want to compare balls with me, boy. Remember, I busted your naked ass for public indecency last year. So I know how small the chances are that you’ve got anything I’d be interested in.”

His companion, a big, hard-looking dude who rode one of the choppers outside, snorted at the put-down. “You better shut up while you can,” he told his friend.

Lifting his mug of beer to his lips, he drained it. Streams of amber liquid and foam slid down either side of his mouth to soak his thickly bearded chin. When the mug was empty, he slammed it down, the table shaking beneath the force of the blow. As if both fortified and confident of the manly display he’d made of his supermacho ability to chug a beer, he nodded at Stacey. “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask whatever you want.”

“But-” Lester interrupted.

“If you ain’t smart enough to remember what she can do with that club on her hip, I am.” The man rubbed his head, obviously remembering when Stacey had stopped him from breaking any more furniture right here in this room during a bender last fall. The big man’s fierce frown faded. “Besides, I know what you want to hear about. That little Zimmerman girl was messed up, but she was a sweet young thing once upon a time. And if somebody really murdered her, chopped her up, and fed her to some wild pigs, I hope you fry the bastard.”

Hearing Dean’s disgusted sigh, she contemplated correcting the crazy story. But it was already too late. The rumor mill was hard at work, and no matter what she said, the stories would persist, growing wilder, until Lisa’s remains were found and the cause of death made public. And even then the conspiracy theorists would continue to embellish.

“I might not be on your side most of the time,” the burly guy added, “and I might hate your guts. But I’ll help if I can. For that little gal’s sake.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

She flipped open her notebook, not entirely surprised at the man’s reaction, because even tough guys had a code. His line between right and wrong might be wider than Stacey’s, but he knew enough to recognize when it had been crossed.

Cooperation from one of the most badass regulars at the skankiest establishment in the county, that was a good start. But she knew it wouldn’t last. If she got cooperation from everyone else in the place, she’d trade in her badge for a case of Mary Kay cosmetics and her squad car for a pink Cadillac. Because things were just never that easy.

They were looking for Lisa Zimmerman’s body.

When he’d first heard the FBI was in Hope Valley, he hadn’t worried. What could that possibly have to do with him? He’d done nothing close to home in ages, nothing to draw attention to himself. His fun in the Playground couldn’t lead back here to his real door. He’d been far too careful for that.

Then he’d heard about them digging near Warren Lee’s place. That was a bit troubling, but still nothing to panic about.

Eventually, like always, the gossipers got everything jumbled up. The stories about Lisa’s disappearance and a potential murder victim being sought by the FBI had gotten twisted together into one big, very plausible rumor.

Then came the confirmation: It really was Lisa they were looking for.

As he sat alone in his most secret place Saturday evening-a room to which he alone had access, concealed from any prying eyes-he had to concede a certain sense of alarm. Not fear. He never experienced fear, just as he never experienced pain. He’d done far too much, inflicted agony and visited death on far too many, to worry about it coming for him. He was death, after all.

No, his concern was the inconvenience of it all. The descent of a bunch of FBI agents chasing bodies they would never find might interfere with his plans and restrict his movements.

It also might bring exposure of other things. Things he wasn’t responsible for. Someone else was.

“You asshole,” he hissed, suddenly enraged. Because if those other activities were uncovered, the interest in those crimes might spill over onto him. People might come around, ask questions, do a search.

“Don’t panic,” he reminded himself, focusing on the main issue. Lisa.

How did they know she was dead? For the past year and a half everyone had accepted the fact that the little slut had run off somewhere on her own. Why had that changed? What evidence could they have?

“They’re bluffing,” he told himself. “They must be.” Wanting a distraction from the worry, he busied himself tidying his special room. He kept it clean and normal-looking, on the off chance that anybody came in here. The idea of somebody invading his privacy, learning about his other life, was enough to make him sick. Nobody could interfere with that life. He wouldn’t allow it.

What if they know about the Playground?

Impossible. The security was rigid, the existence of it shared in cyber whispers. He doubted there was another person within two states of here who was a member.

Or perhaps his closest neighbor was.

That was one thing that made Satan’s Playground so wonderful.

But there had been a lot of extra security in recent weeks. Maybe someone hacked in…

Maybe he should quit.

Bile rose in his throat at the very thought of it. Quit? Leave the only place he’d ever belonged? No. He’d never do that.

In fact, he’d do whatever it took to keep that world safe and intact. Including removing anyone who threatened its existence. FBI agents. The sheriff. Anyone.

He could. So easily. They would never even realize he was the enemy until he took their heads off their bodies. Just as he had with that girl from the mall. The loud one. The mean one. The one who had screamed awful language and was no lady, just another whore. She hadn’t used those words on him for long.

Almost smiling as he realized just how little anyone in this drab, colorless place knew him, he was startled by a sudden ding from his computer speakers. He had mail. Not in the playground, but an e-mail to the identity he wore in the dirt world.

Not recognizing the generic address, he almost ditched it as spam. But the subject message-You’ll Want to Read This-intrigued him. It seemed different, though it was probably someone offering to make him wealthy, or teach him the secret to better sex.

Ha. There was no secret. Because sex could never be as good as draining the blood out of a woman until the light left her eyes and the spite left her lips.

Nothing could.

Bent over his chair, he leaned down and clicked on the message to open it, ready to delete it at once.

Then he read the words on the screen. His heart pounded.

He saw the image below the words. His pulse surged.

He read the final demand. And he slowly lowered himself to the chair.

The message was simple: I know what you did. Below it was a fuzzy, black-and-white photograph, apparently taken from a surveillance camera. It wasn’t very good quality. But it didn’t need to be. The image clearly showed the two most important things: his draped form putting a large, body-size wrapped object into the back of a truck. More disturbing-an easily recognizable license plate.

“No,” he began to whisper, the word rising in volume as fury crawled up his throat and began to choke him. “No! You can’t do this!”

But the message writer apparently thought he could.

The anonymous e-mailer wanted money. A lot of it, which he didn’t have. And he wanted it within seven days.

Or the picture would go to the FBI.