“Does your pimp offer life insurance?”

  She whimpered.

  “No? That’s a shame. Well, I’m sure he’ll take care of your children for you. He’ll probably have them turning tricks by next week.”

  Taylor knocked her hands away and pressed the cold, wet paper towels to her face. Not hard enough to cut off air, but hard enough that she had to breathe through them. Even though he wore a paper face mask, some of the pungent, bitter odor got into Taylor’s nostrils, making his hairs curl.

  It took the ether less than a minute to do its job on the whore. When she finally went limp, Taylor placed the damp towels in a plastic zip-top bag. Then he took several bungee cords out of the trunk and bound Candi’s hands and arms to her torso. Unlike rope, the elastic bands didn’t require knots, and were reusable. Taylor wrapped them around Candi tight enough for her to lose circulation, but that didn’t matter.

  Candi wouldn’t be needing circulation for very much longer.

  While the majority of his murder kit was readily available at any truck stop, his last piece of equipment was specially made.

  It looked like a large board with two four-inch wide holes cut in the middle. Taylor flipped the catch on the side and it opened up on hinges, like one of those old-fashion jail stocks that prisoners stuck their heads and hands into. Except this one was made for something else.

  Taylor grabbed Candi’s left foot and gingerly removed her wedge. Then he placed her ankle in the half-circle cut into the wood. He repeated the action with her right foot, and closed the stock.

  Now Candi’s bare feet protruded through the boards, effectively trapped.

  He locked the catch with a padlock, and then set the stock in between the floor mats, where it fit snuggly into a brace, secured by two more padlocks.

  Play time.

  Taylor lay on his stomach, taking Candi’s right foot in his hands. He cupped her heel, running a finger up along her sole, bringing his lips up to her toes.

  He licked them once, tasting sweat, grime, smelling a slight foot odor and a faint residue of nail polish. His pulse went up even higher, and time seemed to slow down.

  Her little toe came off surprisingly easy, no harder than nibbling the cartilage top off a fried chicken leg.

  Taylor watched the blood seep out as he chewed on the severed digit—a blood and gristle-flavored piece of gum—and then swallowed.

  This little piggy went to market.

  He opened up his mouth to accommodate the second little piggy, the one who stayed home, when he realized something was missing.

  Where was the screaming? Where was the begging? Where was the thrashing around in agony?

  He crawled around the stock, alongside Candi’s head. Ether was a pain in the ass to get the dose right, and he’d lost more than one girl by giving her too big a whiff. Luckily, Candi was still breathing. But she was too deeply sedated to let some playful toe-munching wake her up.

  Taylor frowned. Like sex, murder was best with two active participants. He gathered up the whore’s belongings, then rolled away from her, over to the trap door.

  He’d get a bite to eat, maybe enjoy one of Murray’s famous free showers. Hopefully, when he got back, Sleeping Homely would be awake.

  Taylor used one of the ether-soaked paper towels to wipe the blood off his chin and fingers, stuffed them back into the bag, then headed for the diner.

  “Where are you?”

  “I have no idea.” My cell was tucked between my shoulder and my ear as I drove. “I think I’m still in Wisconsin. Wouldn’t there be some kind of sign if I entered another state?”

  “Don’t you have the map I gave you?” Latham asked. “The directions?”

  “Yeah. But they aren’t helping.”

  “Are you looking at the map right now?”

  “Yes.”

  The map might have done me some good if I’d been able to see what was on it. But the highway was dark, and the interior light in my 1989 Nova had burned out last month.

  “You can’t see it, can you?”

  “Define see.”

  I heard my fiancée sigh. “I just bought you a replacement bulb for that overhead lamp. I saw you put it in your purse. It’s still in your purse, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you can’t replace the bulb now, because it’s too dark.”

  “That’s a good deduction. You should become a cop.”

  “One cop in this relationship is enough. Why didn’t you take my GPS when I insisted?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to get lost.”

  A billboard was coming up on my right. MURRAY’S – NEXT EXIT. That was nice to know, but I had no idea what Murray’s was, or how far the exit was. Not a very effective advertisement.

  “My interior light works, Jackie. I could have used Mapquest.”

  “Mapquest lies. And don’t call me Jackie. You know I hate it when people call me Jackie.”

  “And I hate it when you say you’d be here three hours ago, and you’re still not here. You could have left at a reasonable hour, Jack.”

  He had a point. This was my first real vacation—and by that I mean one that involved actually travelling somewhere—in a few years. Latham had rented a cabin on Rice Lake, and he had driven there yesterday from Chicago to meet the rental owners and get the keys. I was supposed to go with him, and we’d been planning this for weeks, but the murder trial I’d been testifying at had gone longer than expected, and since I was the arresting officer I needed to be there. As much as I loved Latham, and as much as I needed some time away from work, my duty to put criminals away ranked slightly higher.

  “Your told-you-so tone isn’t going to get you laid later,” I said. “Just help me figure out where I am.”

  Another sigh. I shrugged it off. My long-suffering boyfriend had suffered a lot worse than this in order to be with me. I figured he had to be incredibly desperate, or a closet masochist. Either way, he was a cutie, and I loved him.

  “Do you see the mile markers alongside the road?”

  I didn’t see any such thing. The highway was dark, and I hadn’t noticed any signs, off-ramps, exits, or mile markers since I’d left Illinois. But I hadn’t exactly been paying much attention, either. I was pretty damn tired, and had been zoning out to AM radio for the last hour. FM didn’t work. Sometimes I wish someone would shoot my car, put it out of my misery.

  “No. There’s nothing out here, Latham. Except Murray’s.”

  “What’s Murray’s?”

  “I have no idea. I just saw the sign. Could be a gas station. Could be a waterpark.”

  “I don’t remember passing anything called Murray’s. Did the sign have the exit number?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I made a face. “The defense attorney never asked me if I was sure. The defense attorney took me at my word.”

  “He should have also made you take my GPS. You see those posts alongside the road with the reflectors on them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep watching them.”

  “Why should—” The next reflector had a number on top. “Oh. Okay, I’m at mile marker 231.”

  “I don’t have Internet access here at the cabin. I’ll call you back when I find out where you are. You’re okay, right? Not going to fall asleep while driving?”

  I yawned. “I’m fine, hon. Just a little hungry.”

  “Stop for something if it will keep you awake.”

  “Sure. I’ll just pull over and grab the nearest cow.”

  “If you do, bring me a tenderloin.”

  “Really? Is your appetite back?” Latham was still recovering from a bad case of food poisoning.

  “It’s getting there.”

  “Aren’t you tired? You should rest, honey.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll call soon with your location.”

  My human GPS unit hung up. I yawned again, and gave my head a little shake.

  On the plus side, my testimony had gone well, and all signs pointed to a conviction.

  On the minus side, I’d been driving for six straight hours, and I was hungry, tired, and needed to pee. I also needed gas, according to my gauge.

  Maybe Murray could take care of all my needs. Assuming I could find Murray’s before falling asleep, running out of fuel, starving to death, and wetting my pants.

  The road stretched onward into the never-ending darkness. I hadn’t seen another car in a while. Even though this was a major highway (as far as I knew), traffic was pretty light. Who would have thought that Northern Wisconsin at two in the morning on a Wednesday night was so deserted?

  I heard my cell phone ring. My hero, to the rescue.

  “You’re not on I-94,” he said. “You’re on 39.”

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “You went the wrong way when the Interstate split.”

  “Which means?”

  “You drove three hours out of the way.”

  Shit.

  I yawned. “So where do I go to get to you?”

  “You need some sleep, Jack. You can get here in the morning.”

  “Three hours is nothing. I can be there in time for an early breakfast.”

  “You sound exhausted.”

  “I’ll be fine. Lemme just close my eyes for a second.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  I smiled. The poor sap really did care about me.

  “I love you, Latham.”

  “I love you, too. That’s why I want you to find a room somewhere and get some rest.”

  “Just tell me how to get to you. I don’t want to sleep alone in some cheap hotel with threadbare sheets and a mattress with questionable stains. I want to sleep next to you in that cabin with the big stone fireplace. But first I want to rip off those cute boxer-briefs you wear and… hello? Latham?”

  I squinted at my cell. No signal.

  Welcome to Wisconsin.

  I yawned again. Another billboard appeared.

  MURRAY’S FAMOUS TRUCK STOP. FOOD. DIESEL. LODGING. TRUCK WASH. SHOWERS. MECHANIC ON DUTY. TEN MILES.

  Ten miles? I could make ten miles. And maybe some food and coffee would wake me up.

  I pressed the accelerator, taking the Nova up to eighty.

  Murray’s here I come.

  Marcus Rydell instinctively rushed from his bedroom and out of the apartment, his .9mm in hand, taking the stairs two at a time. Even here in the stairwell, he could hear the distressed, keening cry of what sounded like a wounded animal, but it was all too human. Definitely a child’s scream, which meant probable cause for him to break down a door, something he’d always relished doing when he’d worked as an Atlanta cop.

  The thought pumped blood to his every artery and to the brain. It felt wonderful, like a balm, like a spring shower and train whistle all conspiring to wake him the hell up and out of his previously paralyzing depression.

  As he approached 58-B, Marcus made out words coming from an adult male inside. The man’s words were halting, pleading in turn, saying, “Hon-hon-honey, please n’more. Don’t h-hurt me! Please! I’ll be good to you, sweetie. I swear!”

  The child endangerment laws left no doubt in Marcus’s mind. He shouted through the door, “I’m coming in! Open up in there, or I kick it in!”

  Others in the building peeked from their doors, shy and tentative and curious, but of no help. “Call 9-1-1, lady!” Marcus shouted over his shoulder to a silver-haired woman. Terrified, eyes bulging, this neighbor slammed her door so hard that Marcus thought himself shot. The sound, like a gunshot, repeated itself up and down the hallway. No one wanted to get involved. Another elderly lady muttered, “Animals…you’re all animals!” before slamming her door.

  More shouting and crying came wafting through the door at number 58-B. “Open it, now!”.

  “Very helpful lady!” Marcus backed up, lifted his leg, about to kick when he heard the door latch come off. “I have a gun!” he now added, cautioning whoever had unlatched the door. Then it swung open wide.

  In the doorway, stood a four-foot high Oriental girl, looking the same age as Rydell’s own daughter. The black-haired, wide-eyed child stood four-feet high and shaking. “I-I-I kilt him.”

  “Killed who?”

  “Him, da-da. Good ‘n’ dead now.”

  Marcus swallowed hard and put his gun away, tucking it into the small of his back beneath the white shirt he’d earlier donned for his farewell to the world as he’d been chewing on the same gun moments before. He saw that the girl had suffered multiple bruises. He assumed authorities would discover, and must assume many more welts beneath her clothing. A closer look into her eyes and features revealed a creamy colored skin and blue eyes. She looked partially Caucasian. “Where’s your mother, honey?”

  “No! I nobody honey. No more never.”

  “Your mother? Mama-san?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “All right, let me have a look at your da-da over there.” The man lay still as death at the center of the room.

  “He no my father neither. No pappa-san!”

  Marcus cautiously stepped inside and around the little girl, noticing now for the first time the bloody claw hammer in her hand; it dripped a trail from door to da-da’s bashed in face and skull. The girl may be little, but she knew how to wield a hammer with deadly effect. She had definitely taken daddy by surprise.

  In fact, from the injuries the hairy, swarthy adult, had sustained, Marcus doubted he’d find a pulse, and he almost didn’t. Somehow through the excruciating blinding pain, the man muttered, “B-Bitch she…jeeze… caw’t me s-s-sleep.”

  The effort spent to accuse the girl of murdering him in his sleep did him in entirely. Silent now for eternity, the disfigured child molester went in search of rigor.

  Meanwhile, Marcus realized that the monster who’d just died had had some knowledge of the law, just enough to possibly punish this child once more—this time using the law. If the courts and attorneys learned that she’d attacked him while he slept, they could and would make out a case against her, despite her bravery. She could be portrayed as a cold-blooded killer in need of penitentiary time. Their case would rest on exactly what Daddy Dead had uttered, for at the time of the attack the little, frightened prisoner girl was in no immediate or imminent danger from the dead man. If established as true, this negated the self-defense argument regardless of the ugly circumstances and common sense.

  Once she’d gotten the upper hand, the little girl, not yet in her teens, had repeatedly driven the hammer into him, concentrating on cranium and face. Not an unusual target for sexually abused victims when they fought back; there seemed a sense of urgency to deconstruct the face of her attacker. Given more time, she might well have deconstructed other of the man’s parts.

  Marcus turned to the girl, who stood now with the hammer poised over his head. “I am a policeman, police, you know. Here to help you. What’s your name?”

  “Kim.”

  “Kim, you understand English?”

  “I know little. Know some Dutch and Pigeon.”

  “Dutch, really? You’re a very intelligent girl, aren’t you?” Was one of her parents of Dutch heritage, he wondered.

  “I am too smart for him,” she said, using the hammer to point to the dead man.

  You can let go of that hammer anytime, OK? You don’t need it.” Hand gestures came into play.

  She held firm to the hammer, her only salvation until now. “I know this man did terrible things to you, sweetie—”

  “I no sweetie!”

  “Sorry, sorry…dear, and I know you fought back—bravely. You were brave to fight back.” He reached an open hand for the hammer. “Please.”

  She hesitated.

  “It was self-defense, yes?” he said.

  “I kill him, yes. He bad. Beat me.” She held up a terribly bruised arm and the black around her left eye was apparent.

  “ You had to protect yourself, Kim. Let me help you.”

  “Police no good.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Police man, he sold me to this pig!” she spat on the dead man.

  “Not all policemen are bad men, Kim.” Marcus wondered what kind of a cop could be involved in a child sex ring, but he also knew it happened more often than people wanted to know. It happened in big cities and small towns, and wherever abuse of power had been allowed to flourish from Seattle to Daytona Beach, from Boston to Hollywood, crisscrossing the country like a virus or a genetically coded element of evil in the human gene pool.

  He silently and firmly cursed his own species.

  The small girl finally relinquished the hammer, and sounding far older than her years, Kim said. “Take shower…clean blood off.”

  Marcus nodded, understanding her need to both leave the room and the body, and to shower. “You don’t want to do that, Kim. Don’t shower before someone can get here to help you. We’ve got to show that this man raped you. We’ll need—”

  “DNA, I know. Just wipe off stinking pig blood.”

  “Got it. Understood. Wash your face, hands, but nothing more, understood?”

  “D-Don’t want it on me!” She held up her bloody arms as if the red stuff burned, like acidic cesspool waste.

  Marcus wasn’t sure of the wisdom of allowing the girl to wash even hands and face, or to be alone just now, but she spoke and acted like a forty-year-old. He feared she’d been though hell and back, but at least, on the trip back, she’d taken out the creep who’d held her hostage.

  Marcus located the phone, having left his cell downstairs. By now the superintendent had stepped into the apartment and he’d gone ashen white and was shouting in Puerto Rican, “Oh, aye dios mio!” Behind him a small crowd of the curious pressed the doorway. Several took him for the killer, and Marcus realized he still had the bloody claw hammer in his hand.

  Furthermore, he was no longer a police detective—hadn’t been for almost a year now. He was a failed cop and now a failed private eye standing with a murder weapon in hand over the body of a dead man. “Shit,” he muttered. Then he shouted, “Did you call the authorities?”