Fury

Prologue

Then…

Twenty – eight – year – old Liz Tyler woke in the dark moments before her alarm clock would have chimed. Reaching over to the nightstand, she turned it off. She lingered for a moment, enjoying the warmth of her husband, who slept soundly next to her, half hoping that he'd wake up and make love to her.

She'd never been more in love with him in their seven years of marriage. There'd been a rough spot three years earlier-a meaningless fling with the cliche tennis instructor to get even with her husband for his workaholic hours as a stockbroker-but he'd forgiven her and understood that he'd played a role in her infidelity. Wading through a flood of tears and self-recriminations, they'd reached a new level in their relationship and were stronger and more loving as a result. They'd conceived a baby, Rhiannon, named in memory of their first meeting at a Fleetwood Mac concert, and the child, now two, had cemented them to each other still further.

Sighing but getting no response, Liz decided to move on. This was her favorite time of day-just before the dawn, a precious few minutes to be alone with her thoughts before the demands of mommyhood and domestic engineering drove all other considerations from her mind until after the last bedtime story.

Liz slid from bed and into a sports bra, baggy sweatshirt, running shorts, socks, and running shoes. She walked around to his side of the bed and leaned over to kiss his cheek, rough with a day's growth of beard.

"Going running?" he mumbled, finding and stroking her long muscular leg with the hand that hung off the bed.

"Yeah, lazybones, want to join me?" She didn't really want him to go-this was her time-and knew he wouldn't but it was polite to ask.

"Maybe next time." He sounded more than half asleep, but his hand had continued to explore up her leg until it was reaching suggestive levels.

She moved away from his fingers, raising a muffled complaint. "You missed your chance five minutes ago, tiger," she said, laughing. "I'm up, dressed, and off to the beach. I'll be back before you go."

Leaving the bedroom, she'd tiptoed into her daughter's room and peeked over the rail of the crib. Rhiannon lay on her stomach, a thumb stuck in her mouth. She was dreaming, judging by the small sounds of discovery and joy she made in between sucks. Liz leaned over until her nose was less than an inch from her toddler's neck and inhaled deeply the sweet and sour smells of childhood.

With an effort, she straightened and left her daughter's room. Time to start or you're going to miss the sunrise, she thought, grabbing the lanyard, with the whistle on it, off the coatrack and heading out of her Brighton Beach apartment.

She quickly made her way over to the boardwalk and down the steps to the beach. Crossing the loose sand over to the shoreline where it was harder and more compact, she then headed up the beach toward Coney Island. She could just make out her destination in the growing gray of the dawn-a big insectlike pier a mile away.

Liz liked running in sand. It gave her a better workout and was largely responsible for her shedding the twenty extra pounds she'd gained during pregnancy. Only five foot six, she was down to a lithe, trim 110 pounds with just enough breast to give her cleavage. She was proud of how she treated her body and had adopted a tan, athletic look with short, spiky black hair that framed her green, almond-shaped eyes nicely.

Pounding up the beach, scattering the seagulls, who complained obscenely about the intrusion, she was mostly alone. She could see the occasional beachcomber in the distance and the early riser or two along the boardwalk, but this stretch of beach was all hers. It gave her a chance to think about an issue that was troubling her-whether to return to work.

She didn't like the idea of leaving Rhiannon with a babysitter. But on the other hand, she'd had a career she enjoyed before she got pregnant-working as a florist after getting an associate's degree in horticulture at Brooklyn Community College. She missed the work and she missed getting to socialize with adults during the day. But that just made her feel even more guilty, like she was being a bad mother.

The dilemma consumed her so much that as she approached the pier, she didn't notice the shadows moving beneath the weathered, barnacle-encrusted pylons. That was unusual, because she really didn't like to run beneath the hulking structure. As a little girl, she'd been afraid of dark places-those spaces beneath the bed, in closets, and down in basements where monsters were said to hide.

The dark places beneath the pier frightened her as an adult. But she always forced herself to finish this half of the run by racing beneath its beams, timing the sprint to match the waves receding enough to allow her a clear shot to the other side. In part, the idea was to conquer a childhood fear, but it was also similar to the reason people enjoy watching horror movies-they like being scared.

Liz was so caught up in the internal debate over going back to work that she didn't see the real monsters until she was halfway under the pier and one jumped out at her and yelled, "Boo!"

She veered and tried to sprint away but stumbled, giving him time to cut in front of her again. He wasn't horrible-looking for a monster, just a tall, gangly black teenager with mocha skin, nice, white teeth, and hazel-colored eyes. But he talked like a monster. "Say, where you going, bitch? Me and the homeboys was partyin' and thought maybe you should join us."

Standing as a wave came ashore and soaked her running shoes, Liz noticed that she was surrounded by a half-dozen teenagers-some of them leering, others looking uncomfortable. "Leave me alone!" she said forcefully as she'd been taught in a rape-prevention course she'd once taken at the YMCA, but the teenagers just laughed and smirked.

Liz tried to push her way past her tormentors. She could see the light on the other side of the pier and thought if she could just get there, she would be safe. She almost got through them, too, but then one of the boys, who seemed to be their leader, grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.

Terrified, she reached out and clawed his face. He looked at her with surprise and then rage. He lifted his hand, which held a piece of steel bar, and struck her on the side of the head. It felt as if someone set off a big firecracker inside her skull. There was a flash of white light accompanied by a searing red pain, and she sank to her knees.

"Fucking ho," the boy snarled and grabbed her by the hair. He began dragging her up the beach, farther into the shadows beneath the pier.

The pain of being pulled by her hair and her fear of what would happen in the dark brought Liz partly to her senses. She stuck the whistle in her mouth and blew as she lunged up, scratching for his eyes.

She saw fear in his eyes and even dared to hope that she might fight her way to freedom. But then someone kicked her in the back, crushing the wind out of her and sending her sprawling headfirst into the sand. She pushed herself back up on her hands and knees. Then another firecracker went off in her head.

The next thing she knew she had been turned over on her back and someone was yanking her shorts off. "No, please," she begged. She couldn't see out of her right eye and her left caught only a blur of images as her dazed mind tried to reject what was happening to her.

"Hold her," the first boy shouted. Hands grabbed her shoulders and legs, pinning her to the ground as he got between her legs. She felt him trying to penetrate her and willed her mind to some other place where the world was still safe and good. The sun shone on a field as her daughter ran toward her laughing and her husband looked on.

The firecracker went off again. Then again. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Faces appeared. Some angry. Some frightened. Voices taunted her and urged each other to…violate her. "Yo, Des, your turn." Their voices sounded like crows in the cornfields of Iowa, where she'd grown up before she'd moved to New York to become a writer, fell in love at a Fleetwood Mac concert, married, had a baby, and named her Rhiannon.

"Fuck her, homes, ain't you a man?" There was a terrible pain on her right breast. She heard herself scream, but it sounded as if it was coming from some other woman.

There was a moment's respite. Then the first boy spoke again. "Hey, ratface, you want some of this bitch?"

Another voice entered her head. An evil voice, laced with malice. "Show you boys how to treat these bitches," the voice said. "If you want to teach them a real lesson, you got to fuck them dirty."

A man with a pockmarked face and foul, rotting breath leaned over and grinned in her face. Someone rolled her over. She felt the cool sand on her shattered face; it felt good and she wondered if these boys would now allow her to die. But the nightmare wasn't over. She felt herself penetrated again, ashamed to be used so horribly. Filthy, dirty, so much shame that she welcomed the new blows to her head, hoping that they would put her out of her misery. Die, she told herself.

In the distance, sirens wailed. The boys shouted words of alarm, indistinguishable from the screams of the seagulls and the whispering condolences of the waves.

Then the monsters were gone. She felt their running footsteps recede across the sand as she waited for death to release her from the humiliation and pain. But death was not so kind.

Slowly, painfully, she rose to her knees, then to her feet. She couldn't see much, just a light and a green moving field she knew was the water. Dirty. Filthy. She had only one desire-to cleanse herself before she let the sea take her.

They found her standing in the water up to her waist, scrubbing furiously between her legs, trying to wash away the shame of what the monsters had done to her. Someone summoned a police officer, who waded into the water to escort her back to shore.

When he got close, he had to look away for a moment to compose himself. Her face was covered by a sheet of blood, her left eye swollen shut, her right eye hanging half out of its socket. Her lips were split, a black hole where her front teeth had been.

She screamed when he first reached out for her arm and pulled away from him. "Please, ma'am, let me help you to someplace safe."

Turning a sightless face toward the officer, she'd cried, "Don't you know, there's no such place!"