“Did Vic come when you screamed?”

  “No. In fact I never did see Vic again. He might have left me there alone, for all I know.”

  “How do you know it was Vic who did this to you and not Johnny Oily Guy?”

  “Why would anyone carve someone else’s name in a girl’s breasts? Just doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “Not that I have that kind of experience, but no, I guess it doesn’t. So we’re pretty sure it was Vic.”

  “When I left, there were no other cars. Just Vic’s truck and my car. Johnny Bladanni wasn’t around. Besides, I was too terrified to pay much attention. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there and get home and check on Jaime.”

  “You needed to see Jaime.”

  “That was my only thought. I wasn’t thinking about what had happened to me or why. I could only think about my little boy who I’d abandoned. My watch said a little after four a.m. As soon as I got on Washington, I tore home.”

  “You had been there maybe six and a half hours.”

  “Something like that.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Got home, found the babysitter asleep on the couch—with her mom, God bless her. Went tearing into Jaime’s room. Sound asleep, hugging his teddy bear. I felt horrible and couldn’t explain what had happened. The mom was insanely angry with me and thought I’d been out on an all-night hoot. I started crying and trying to explain, but she wasn’t listening. She was shoving her daughter out the door. ‘Never again,’ she said as the door slammed. ‘Never again.’”

  “Which only made you feel worse.”

  She nodded and tears rolled down her cheeks. “I felt like the world’s worst mother! I had no idea what happened to me.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I found some cigarettes in the back of a kitchen drawer. Salems. I don’t smoke but that didn’t stop me. I lit up and stood at the kitchen sink. I was smoking and crying. I had to keep it soft for Jaime’s sake.”

  “Did you call anyone?”

  “Who’s there to call?”

  “The cops?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “My first idea, once I put out the cigarette, was to get in the shower and see if the ink came off. I also needed to see if I had been raped.”

  “Were you?”

  “I don’t think so. If I was, he used a condom. The ink didn’t come off.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Believe it or not, I took my toothbrush in the shower with me. I scraped some soap on it and scrubbed the letters on my breasts.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Not a bit. It just made it hurt more. Some of the scratches were so deep they started bleeding.”

  “Just a minute. Christine,” she was still sitting beside Ermeline, “how about some more coffee? I’ll bet Ermeline would like one now.”

  “Ermeline?”

  “Black,” said Ermeline. She put a hand on her chest and held it there.

  “Okay, so you probably weren’t raped and you took a shower.”

  “Then I went to bed and couldn’t sleep. Around seven I called my mom, and she came over. I left her with Jaime, and I went up to the Sheriff’s office. I talked to Sheriff Altiman, and he said I should go see District Attorney Quentin Erwin. I drove back home, got Jaime off to school, and then I drove back to the courthouse and parked next to Quentin’s space. I sat out front until Quentin arrived.”

  Christine returned with two coffees and set one on the desk before Ermeline. She passed the second one to Thaddeus and excused herself. “I’m going back out to get the phones. Don’t want to miss any exciting calls.”

  “Thanks,” said Thaddeus.

  “So what comes next?” Ermeline asked after swallowing a gulp of coffee. “Can you help me?”

  “I think so. I need to talk to Quentin and Sheriff Altiman and see whether they plan to prosecute. Then I’ll call you and we’ll make some plans. Fair enough?”

  “Did you want to get any more pictures?”

  “I think we’ve got enough,” he said. “Chris was trained to take pictures in the Army and does a very fine job for me.”

  “I’m going to go call a skin doctor in Quincy. I want to know if they can get this stuff off. No more peasant blouses at work, though, not for a while anyway.”

  “It would show?”

  “Yes, I already tried. Sad to say. Thaddeus, can I ask one thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you sue Victor Harrow for me?”

  “I would, if the facts pan out. Right now it looks very promising. But I still need to talk to some people and read some law.”

  She placed her coffee cup back in its saucer. “Well, then, I guess we’re done here?”

  “For now. Remember the rule: don’t discuss this matter with anyone. Not even your mom. Everyone is a potential witness if you discuss the case with them.”

  “I’ll be quiet.”

  They shook hands and their eyes met like conspirators. Neither could quite believe what was happening, like the survivors of a terrible accident.

  Thaddeus walked Ermeline to the front door where she told Christine thanks again.

  They said their goodbyes, and Thaddeus returned to his office and checked his watch. 10:15. Time to catch Quentin at the Silver Dome.

  They had a lot to discuss.

  He took the stairs two at a time and whistled all the way down.

  That morning, Thaddeus had begun his day at 5:45 a.m. like he did every day except for Sunday.

  He flew out of bed wearing nothing but boxers and devotedly mounted the Lifecycle, which he pedaled like a jackhammer for the next thirty minutes, working up a glistening sweat and matted hair.

  He dismounted the machine and went to the junior fridge in his studio apartment. A new gallon of OJ awaited him. He spun the cap, drank half of it straight down, and topped it off with a protein bar.

  At 6:25 he was in the shower, water drumming down, listening to Sirius on the waterproof pink radio.

  Dressed in his gray pinstripes and black wingtips and fresh from the shower, Thaddeus had checked his briefcase that morning and counted files. Everything looked fine. Satisfied that the previous night’s work was accounted for, he stepped onto the small porch outside his front door.

  His porch faced Madison Street to the south. The sun was still hiding behind the buildings on the town square off to his left, but its orange glow could be seen above the rooflines and trees. As quickly as the sun was coming up, the clouds from last night’s rainstorm were burning off, and large patches of blue sky could be seen.

  The air was clear, the mourning doves were calling, and two small boys came blasting by on skateboards, probably headed uptown to the best skating around the courthouse.

  He paused on the red brick porch, flipped the Oakley’s over his eyes, inhaled a huge breath of the clear Illinois morning air, and headed for the corner where Madison transected Washington Street.

  Washington was the main drag along the south side of the square, and Thaddeus followed it four blocks, walking briskly and humming, reaching the southwest corner of the square at exactly 7 a.m.

  He strolled past a few stores and one catalog shop and took a right into the highway-side doors of the Silver Dome Inn.

  His coffee group consisted mostly of Hickam County farmers who came to town and had coffee with their gossip every day just like Thaddeus. And there was also one other lawyer in attendance, eighty-nine-year-old D.B. Leinager, who at times fancied himself Thaddeus’ mentor.

  The senior waitress, Cece Seymour, came around with coffee, cup, and saucer for Thaddeus.

  One farmer, Jonas Meiling, was offering his two cents’ worth when Thaddeus’ coffee was poured.

  “From what I hear, some very funny business went down in Victor Harrow’s bus last night,” Meiling said. He raised a white eyebrow and waited to see if anyone else wanted to chime in. Not getting a nibble, Jonas Meiling dove deeper. “Harrow’s funny business involved a certain young lady we all know, I might add.”

  “Vic Harrow throws some wild parties in that bus,” Frances Dorman, a farmer from the north end of the county, offered.

  “Pure hearsay,” interjected D.B. Leinager, the emeritus lawyer, in his loud, boisterous German voice. “Victor Harrow is my client and a good and decent man. I don’t know where you people come up with such rubbish as that. No such thing as wild parties at his bus. For your information, that bus is his office. I’ve been there, and I’ve never seen a single bottle of beer or jug of whiskey.”

  “Which means old Vic didn’t care enough to offer you a drink,” laughed Jonas Meiling. Both white eyebrows shot up in anticipation of D.B.’s comeback.

  But D.B. only snorted and forked a glob of scrambled eggs into his mouth. He began chewing thoughtfully, and they could see he was happily drifting away to wherever eighty-nine-year-olds sometimes go.

  “So what did you hear, Jonas?” Cece asked, hovering close by with two pots, one ethyl, one unleaded. “What kind of funny business went down last night in the bus?”

  Jonas Meiling, taking on the tone of a conspirator, remarked, “Sheriff Altiman was paid a visit early this a.m. by a very distraught young woman who our fine sheriff referred over to the district attorney, Quentin Erwin, Jr. Seems she had been attacked by Victor Harrow—now this is just gossip and I’m the first to admit it. But I heard this from a deputy sheriff who shall remain anonymous.”

  “That wouldn’t be your son-in-law, Deputy Mike Hermes, would it?” D.B. Leinager shot down the table. “This anonymous source a close family member?”

  Jonas Meiling spread his hands and shook his head, a smile playing around his mouth. “Can’t say.”

  “What about you, Thaddeus?” Frances Dorman asked, moving all eyes to Thaddeus. “Tell us what you’ve heard about last night.”

  Thaddeus took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. “Gentlemen—and lady—last night I watched my two shows on HBO, and was fast asleep—alone—in my own bed by eleven. I haven’t heard jack.”

  “Isn’t Harrow a client of yours?” Dorman persisted.

  Thaddeus smiled. “You know I couldn’t confess to that even if it was true.”

  The Victor Harrow whom Thaddeus knew was a fifty-something general contractor who lived in a castle on East Washington Street, two blocks off the Orbit town square.

  Harrow’s money came from the strategic relationships he maintained with politicos in Springfield, people who helped him file lowball bids on state highway jobs, especially the never-ending saga of the freeway between Springfield and Chicago. Like all Illinois highway boondoggles, this particular freeway had been under construction for forty years, and no less than eight general contractors had made enough to retire forever, thanks to this concrete plum.

  In return for getting hired as the general contractor on the freeway, Victor kicked back to the pols and the mob in Chicago. That way everyone remained happy—with the exception of the traveling public, who, in planning to journey between Springfield and Chicago, always allowed extra time for the twenty miles of construction zone that perpetually plagued the four-lane like a flesh-eating pox that was always tearing down and hauling away truckloads of dirt and concrete, which it later replaced with dirt and concrete that looked remarkably like what had just been removed.

  Cece came wheeling around with the coffee pots and a tray of desserts. “Anyone?” she asked the table.

  Thaddeus covered his cup with his hand. “Nothing more for me, Cece. Gotta go make a buck.”

  The sky was flaming red in the east as the early morning yawned over the city of Orbit. Last night’s rain was gone, and the air was clear and cool.

  As he did every weekday, Thaddeus scampered across Washington Street when he saw a break and jumped up on the sidewalk.

  He headed toward his office and kept a brisk step in his stride, as if he had important business waiting at the office.

  In fact, he knew he had no appointments this morning, and the best he could hope for was a DWI from Saturday night or a domestic dispute from the weekend that was continuing today with divorce lawyers.

  On his left was the courthouse, a magnificent structure built in 1890, according to its inscribed cornerstone, when so much of the rest of America was built in what must have been a gigantic building boom.

  Thaddeus crossed the street on the north side of the square, edged left two doors, and inserted his key. His office was directly above a Western Auto catalog store.

  At 8 a.m., on schedule, he sat behind his wide oak table that served as his desk and took a sip of coffee. He looked at his calendar for the day and sighed. He admitted to himself that it looked neither promising nor profitable.

  Paralegal Christine Susmann had received her professional training in the U.S. Army. Following basic training, she had begun her career working as an M.P. and had served two years at a Black Ops detention center in Baghdad. She was under lifetime orders to never discuss what she had seen or done on that post, which was fine; she never wanted to discuss it anyway. Following two successful years working hand-in-glove with CIA field officers, she had her choice of army schools and selected paralegal school.

  She had seen all she ever wanted to see of detention centers, prisons, jails, or any other institution where people were held against their will. Paralegal training had dragged on for almost a year, but when she finished, she was assigned to a JAG unit of busy lawyers in Germany.

  Christine was five-five and average weight, but that’s where “average” ended for her. She was built like an NFL safety: broad, heavily muscled shoulders and upper arms; muscular thighs and calves; and she could still press 275 while weighing only 135. She worked out religiously at the East Orbit Athletic Club with her husband, Sonny.

  Sonny was her high school love and he had waited for her to return from her overseas tour. When she returned home, he immediately slipped a ring on her finger and impregnated her with their first of two. Now she was the mother of a seven-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl. Sonny himself worked for Victor Harrow, driving a dump truck and forever coated in dust from head to toe.

  It was a good match, the kids were happy and growing, and Christine found working for Thaddeus to be pleasant yet difficult—Thaddeus knew so little about the practicalities of law practice. Christine often dove to the phones, calling her friends in other law offices with questions about how to do this and that, the nuts and bolts that paid the bills.

  Chris’s day began at 8:30. At 8:25 she came up the stairs two at a time and bounced into the office. She called out good morning to Thaddeus, made sure he had coffee, checked the voice mails, and went over the day’s diary. She already expected the usual time-waster clients to call, and she was mentally prepared for them. While she was never short with them, she minded the clock and never held their hands too long over the phone.

  Today she was wearing the outfit that made it to the office at least one day a week: a long gray skirt, an embroidered top, and a navy blazer with gold buttons. She kept her nails short and clear of polish; they would only be traumatized at the athletic club anyway.

  Following the scan of the calendar, Christine called into Thaddeus, “Got another hot chick for you this Saturday night!”

  Thaddeus winced.

  He answered her over their intercom system, which consisted of the two of them shouting back and forth from their desks, down the short hallway separating them.

  “No thanks. I’ll do my own recruiting. Besides, my ideal woman is getting her Ph.D. in computer science. I doubt you know her.”

  “No, this is different. Her name’s Lila and she went through basic with me. She’s coming for a visit.”

  “She’s too old for me if she went through basic with you. I don’t date older women. I told you that.”

  “Thad, I’m five years older than you. So’s Lila. That’s not an ‘older woman,’ as you so hatefully put it.”

  “Not hatefully, not scornfully, just cautiously.”

  “We need to get you matched up with someone.”

  “Why is that again?”

  “So you can be truly happy. Like Sonny.”

  He knew better than to say anything. Sonny, who often came up the stairs to retrieve Christine when she worked past five o’clock, most often looked to Thaddeus like someone bewildered at what his life had become.

  Thaddeus wanted none of what Sonny had: wife, kids, $200 grocery bills, rusting truck.

  He wanted a Porsche and women in Ph.D. programs who were self-sufficient and worldly. Sorry, Lila, but Thad was busy.

  “Quentin Erwin, Jr. just called from the DA’s office. He’s sending over a young woman for you to talk to.”

  “Probably a divorce client. Here’s hoping she’s got fifteen hundred bucks.”

  “I’ll second that!”

  While Christine was busy in her office, Thaddeus went back to updating his Facebook page. Status: Single. But looking.

  Ten minutes later Ermeline Ransom was standing on the other side of his desk, unbuttoning her blouse, while Thaddeus, for once, had the bewildered look on his face.

  2

  Ermeline Ransom’s morning had begun much earlier and much differently than Thaddeus Murfee’s. She did not, in fact, wake up—she came to. That was the only way she could describe it—coming to—as if she had been drugged and then passed out. She found herself in Victor Harrow’s mobile office, half-on/half-off the purple couch that made into a sleeping unit for two.

  When she came to, it was still dark outside. The first thing she noticed was that the couch hadn’t been made up at all and was still a couch.

  Her black cocktail waitress skirt with its silver belt was intact, and her underpants were in place, thank heavens. Both mid-height heels were still on her feet. But that’s where normal ended, for her peasant blouse was pulled down around her elbows and her brassiere was up around her neck. That’s all she could tell at first, except there was an agonizing pain in her breasts.