"JUST MARRIED?" Phillip Campbell asked, his heart jumping. The bright lights of oncoming cars shot through him like X rays, exposing innermost desires. "Twenty-six hours, twenty-two minutes, and… forty five seconds," Becky chirped. Campbell's heart pounded loudly. She was perfect. They were perfect together. Even better than he had hoped. The road was blank and seemed directionless, but he knew where he was going. "Help yourself to a drink. That's a Palmeyer in the bucket. Some people think it's the best in the valley." As he drove, the killer's nerves were taut and excited. What is the worst thing anyone has ever done? Can I do it again? More to the point, can I ever stop doing it? He glanced back and saw Becky and Michael pouring the Palmeyer wine. He heard the clink of raised glasses, then something about years of good luck. With a chill in his heart, he watched them kiss. He hated every smug, deluded pore in their bodies. Don't you want to take your princess in style? He fingered the gun resting in his lap. He was changing murder weapons. After a while, Campbell turned the limo up a steep hill off the main road. "Where're we heading, driver?" the husband's voice came from the back. He glanced in the mirror and smiled confidently at the De Georges "I thought I'd take you the scenic way. Best views in the valley. And I'll still have you to the restaurant by eight." "We don't want to be late," the groom warned sheepishly. "These reservations were harder to get than the damn hotel." "Oh, c'mon, honey," Becky chimed in with perfect timing. "Things start to open up just ahead," he told them. "Real pretty. In the meantime, relax. Put on some music. I'll show you the best views. Very romantic." He pushed a button, and a thin band of pulsing lights began to shoot around the roof of the back compartment, a soft, romantic light show. "Oooh," Becky said as the lights came on. "This is so great." "I'll put up the privacy screen for the rest of the trip. You're only newlyweds once. Feel free to do whatever. Just look at it as your night." He left the screen slightly open, so he could still see and hear them as he drove deeper into the hills. They were nuzzling now, sharing kisses. The groom's hand was moving up Becky's thigh. She pushed her pelvis into him. The road became bumpy, and at intermittent points the rough, split concrete gave way to gravelly dirt. They were climbing. On both sides, the slopes were patterned with grids of darkened vines. Becky's teasing laughter gave way to a steady rhythm of deep-throated sighs. Phillip Campbell's breath began to race. Only inches away, he could hear her panting. A warm, velvety sensation began to burn in his thighs, as it had a week ago at the Grand Hyatt. Michael was entering Becky, and she moaned. What is the worst thing! At a clearing, he pulled the car to a stop, turned the headlights off. He took the gun and pulled back the double-clicking action. Then he lowered the privacy screen. In the ambient light, there was Becky, her black cocktail dress pulled up around her waist. "Bravo!" he exclaimed. They looked up, startled. He saw a flicker of fear in the bride's eyes. She tried to cover herself. Only then did the killer recognize that the warm flood burning his thighs and his knees was his own urine. He emptied the gun into Becky and Michael De George