Body Parts

Kit Crumb

LOST LODGE PRESS, ASHLAND OREGON

Body Parts

Kit Crumb

Copyright 2015 by Kit Crumb

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, graphic, electrical, or mechanical, including photo copying, recording or information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the publisher.

Publisher:

Lost Lodge Press

38 Water Street

Ashland, Oregon 97520

www.kitcrumb.com

Cover design by www.booksavvystudio.com

To my soulmate Chris, the one constant in my life.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my brother, Kim who first read this manuscript in it’s roughest form and still found enough merit in the writing to encourage me to continue. Thanks to Chris Molé for her beautiful cover and help with all aspects of publishing this book.

NOTE TO THE READER

The manuscript for Body Parts was completed in 2003. I was inspired to write this story by an article in a nationally published newspaper that exposed the illegal distribution of donated human body parts by a major university. I felt that through a story fictionalizing pornography as a source for the black market sale of body parts, I could illustrate the vulgar and heinous nature of an industry that exists in almost every country on earth.

Chapter One

As far as the aides, CNAs, med techs, or anyone not in the operating room knew, Jan Eckert was at the little clinic above the town of Denton Beach undergoing a fairly common heart procedure to correct a defective heart valve.

As she lay on a gurney in the hall just down from Operating Room 13, the local anesthetic she’d been given started lulling her into relaxation. Her shoulder-length, jet-black hair was bound and tucked inside a surgical cap. Her nude body modestly covered with a sheet.

The orderly responsible for transporting Jan from her room to the OR couldn’t take his eyes off her. The more he tucked in the sheet, the more it revealed the flowing curves of her body. He noticed how young she was, how the skin around her eyes was without blemish or wrinkle.

Operating Room 13’s chief nurse, Bonnie Clouse, popped her head out of the OR door and looked down the hall. “Quit fussing and move it, doctor’s real restless tonight,” she snapped at the orderly, letting the door shut as she stepped back into the OR.

Anesthesiologist Derrick Corwin watched her from his position on the stool at the head of the operating table.

“Rumor is the doc’s pissed. You know anything about that, Bonnie?” he asked.

Bonnie Clouse brought the instrument tray into position next to the operating table. She answered without taking her attention from her task.

“He was expecting three patients, tonight, I think…” she didn’t get the chance to finish. Quickly turning at the sound of the operating room door opening, she faced Dr. Peter Simms as he entered.

The anesthesiologist spun on his stool in time to catch the doctor’s eye. “Derrick, crank her up. We’ve got a hot one tonight,” Simms said. Taking his cue, Derrick began checking gas levels and green lights. Minutes later, the orderly wheeled Jan Eckert in and lifted her onto the operating table where her vitals were checked and two IVs inserted into her arm.

Dr. Simms stood just off the foot of the table, taking in every step of the final pre-op procedures.

Derrick was standing now, speaking in low reassuring tones to his patient. “I’m going to place this mask over your mouth and nose. I want you to breathe slowly but deeply. This is my special blend—it’ll help you relax.” In reality it was pure oxygen, the Propofol in the IV would put her out within five seconds of the first drip.

As he spoke, Jan opened her eyes and smiled up at the young anesthesiologist.

“Patient’s awake, Doctor,” Derrick said.

Simms walked around to stand next to Derrick so he could look directly down at his patient.

“It’s alright, my dear. I’ve done thousands of these MVP corrections.” Then to Derrick he whispered, “Do you think she heard me?”

“No, Doctor.” Derrick turned back to check her pulse and respiration. “BP 96 over 69, pulse 44. I’d say she’s out.” He then pulled her eyelids back. “No ocular reflex. She’s out.”

“Good to go?” Simms asked.

“Good to go, Doctor,” Derrick said.

Just to be sure, Derrick leaned over and gently probed the palm of her hand with a needle while watching her heart rate and pulse for any change that might indicate she was still sensitive to pain.

“She’s all yours, Doctor,” Derrick said.

Simms walked back to the patient’s side, taking up a scalpel and slicing through the skin, cutting up from the mark that started just below and to the right of the xiphoid process, and continuing up the middle of the breastbone, stopping at the interclavicles.

“Nurse,” Simms said, extending his hand.

Clouse, who’d been following the doctor’s progress, was ready. She placed a small circle saw into his outstretched hand.

As he flipped the switch, the operating room came alive with a whining whir. Stepping tightly against the table, holding the saw with both hands, Simms allowed the rotation of the blade to draw itself and his hand along the incision. He briskly pulled it out and turned off the motor when he reached the top of the cut.

The whirling blade singed the skin along the incision leaving the faint scent of burned flesh lingering in the air, a familiar odor that no one seemed to notice.

Simms, still poised over his patient, turned his head and looked intently at Derrick.

“Not a blip, Doctor, she didn’t feel a thing.”

“Spreaders,” Simms said, once again extending his right hand.

Clouse dabbed the perspiration from the doctor’s forehead, then stepped back out of the way.

“Thank you, Nurse.”

He gently placed the spreader on the patient’s chest, allowing the flat bars to slip into the groove in the bone made by the saw. Holding the device in place with one hand, he began turning a small crank with the other, listening intently for the familiar “crack” indicating the separation of the ribcage. He then gazed into the cavity that housed the still-beating heart.

“Clamps,” Simms said, extending his hand yet again.

One at a time, he pinched off the major blood sources leading to the heart.

“OK, Nurse, get the suction ready.” He began snipping the arteries, keeping one hand under the heart as the once dry cavity filled with blood.

“Keep it clear, I‘m losing view. That’s it, that’s it.” He elevated the heart slightly, then snipped some more.

“BP and heart rate dropping, Doctor,” Derrick said.

“Nurse.” Simms didn’t need to say anything more. Clouse knew exactly what to do.

“Doctor, the ice chest is on your left,” she said.

With a smile of victory, the doctor lifted the heart for the camera and staff to see, placed it in the icy container, and then turned to Derrick with a questioning look.

“She never felt a thing Doctor, never felt a thing,” Derrick reassured him.

Simms smiled and sighed with relief. “Good work everyone.”

Chapter Two

Traffic on the four lanes of Drake’s Drive had narrowed into two and was creeping along, a fact that was lost on Rusty Kidding as he guided his Honda Gold Wing motorcycle along the dotted line between lanes.

When traffic began to speed up, Cecil Dumont exhaled loudly, gently accelerating. “Finally,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected a space opening on his right.

“Yes!” Cecil said. He cranked the wheel hard as he nosed out of his lane and aimed for the space, gunning the engine. He never saw the motorcycle.

Cecil’s SUV struck the Gold Wing hard, catapulting Rusty twenty feet through the air. He landed on his side in the outside lane and slid onto the dirt shoulder.

Cecil barely felt the collision and wouldn’t have stopped if not for the blaring horns, and the fact that traffic was suddenly slowing again.

Sweat trickled down Claire Anderson’s temples, sides, and back, turning her sleeveless sweatshirt a charcoal gray where it pressed against her breasts and spine. She finished her workout and glanced up at the clock. Their shift had already started and Rye wasn’t back with the ambulance yet. She crossed the floor, grabbed a towel, and headed for the bathroom.

Wondering if the annual maintenance hadn’t turned into something more than points, plugs, and an oil change, she paused, considering the consequences of attempting a shower.

“Half an hour into our shift and not a single call, what the hell?” Claire muttered under her breath. She stripped and was just adjusting the water temperature when the scanner crackled to life. “God, I knew it.”

“1180, accident reported by cell phone, 1067 request unit 88 in vicinity of Drake’s Drive, respond.”

Claire grabbed her underwear, making the towel into a toga and ran into dispatch. After the general call response, she flipped to Rye’s frequency.

“Rye, pick up,” Claire said. “What’s your 1020?”

Rye unclipped the hand-held mike from the dashboard. “ETA ten minutes to HQ.”

“Better make that five minutes. Big 1180 on Drake’s Drive. Out.”

A short, feisty woman, Claire was ready to do whatever it took to get the job done. To become an Emergency Medical Technician, an accomplishment of which she was fiercely proud, she’d had to deal with a childhood phobia and compete in a male-dominated profession.

Claire and her husband Rye Anderson were co-owners of the Mad Dash Search and Rescue Ambulance Service. Rye was a bull of a man, six foot three inches tall with a thick mustache that covered his entire upper lip. It matched his eyebrows, which overshadowed his deep green eyes. Claire loved the way he was always ready with a laugh at the slightest hint of something funny.

Rye could hear the subtle edginess in his wife’s voice, brought on by adrenaline. They both loved the freedom of owning their own business, and the excitement of being EMTs went along with the satisfaction of helping people.

Claire whirled around in the captain’s chair and ran out of the dispatch room, dropping the towel as she entered the utility closet. She stepped into her bra and panties, then into the orange and gray jumpsuit, grimacing as she brought the zipper up and over her chest.

She often complained to Rye that the jumpsuit was designed for a man. He never complained.

She tied her long, chestnut brown hair into a ponytail. Looking around at the small room and the walls that seemed to be crowding her, she shivered, shook it off, then located and grabbed one of the jump kits. Checking to be sure it contained everything they needed to work away from the ambulance, she headed for the front door.

Rye had popped on all the lights but only two of the sirens. With the new sound systems in most cars, drivers were more likely to see flashing emergency lights than hear a siren. He crept the ambulance through the busy intersection of Ripkey and Burnt, then hit nearly sixty for the final miles of the four-lane Lawrence Expressway that would take him to Snoop Drive, his home and the Mad Dash headquarters.

The driveway in front of the converted old Victorian was a gentle u-shape that cut to within four feet of the front stoop, where Claire was waiting. The ambulance had barely slowed before she grabbed the door handle, tossed in the jump kit, and vaulted into the passenger seat,

Fastening her harness she said, “Drake’s Drive, half-mile before Smokey Lane turnoff, take the expressway directly to Exit 19.” She then flipped on four sets of toggle switches setting off all the sirens.

“What’s the call?” Rye asked, keeping his eyes on the traffic.

She consulted her call sheet. “Motorcycle down. Somebody called it in with a cell phone. No details.”

“So we’ll be solo?”

“I relayed the call, but we’ll definitely be first on the scene,” Claire yelled over the sound of the sirens.

The scanner lit up like a Christmas tree, screaming an accident alert on a dozen channels. Rye reached over and cut the volume so he could stay focused on the changing traffic patterns. Vehicles were slowing. “Get me out of here.”

Claire played co-pilot, enjoying the occasion to issue directions rather than dodge cars that didn’t respond to sirens and lights.

“Left!” Claire said, pointing.

Rye scanned the road ahead for a turn lane, there wasn’t one. “Where?”

Claire’s index finger stabbed the air like a jackhammer. “There, turn now!”

Trusting his partner completely, Rye cut left across two lanes of on-coming traffic, bracing himself as the ambulance jumped the curb and headed into an open field.

“Where now?” Rye’s voice stuttered as the two-ton vehicle bounced over uneven ground.

“Left, there. See that oak? Drake’s Drive opens up just the other side.” As Rye cut left across the field Claire reached for a handhold on the dash and missed.

When they finally came to a stop on the shoulder of the road, Rye was amazed that everything in the back of the ambulance hadn’t shaken loose. He grabbed the backboard; Claire grabbed the jump kit.

He spotted the squirming figure of Rusty Kidding through the crowd and began to run, Claire right on his heels. They had to weave and elbow their way through the gawkers to reach him.

She knelt next to Rusty, sliding the jump kit toward Rye who had settled at the victim’s feet.

“Hey buddy can you hear me? What’s your name?”

The man attempted to rise up on one arm, but fell back. “Rusty,” the man answered slowly.

She smiled at him as Rye began cutting away the pant leg from ankle to knee.

“Sorry about the leathers, Rusty,” Claire said, but he was now unconscious. She slipped a C-collar around his neck and a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, while Rye set his leg where the tibia and fibula were broken. She stared at the cuff in disbelief, re-adjusted it on his upper arm and began pumping the bulb again. She stabbed at his neck for a pulse.

“We’re losing him!” she cried, as she sliced through the leather jacket.

Rye looked up from his splinting to see a blood-soaked shirt as Claire tore away Rusty’s jacket and began palpating.

“We’ve got a bleeder. Lung collapsed, heart compressed,” Claire said as she attempted to re-inflate his lung without success. One rib poked out through his side and when she moved it, blood bubbled out. The pressure pad couldn’t stem the flow. She tried a series of pressure points and still the blood gushed. She watched in frustration as the man’s blood pressure plummeted. Unable to stop his bleeding at the scene, they finally loaded him into the ambulance.

Claire drove while Rye rode in the back. If he could slow the blood loss there might be a chance once they reached the hospital. Fifteen minutes later, Rusty Kidding was DOA at Medford General Hospital.

Claire jumped from the cab and ran to the back of the ambulance. She flung open the double doors and looked first at Rusty’s inert body then at Rye who simply shook his head.

“It would have been a miracle if he’d survived.”

Together they pulled the corpse from the ambulance. It was covered from head to toe with a blanket and strapped onto the gurney.

“I’ll take him in,” Claire said.

Rye held onto his end of the gurney for a minute. “Are you sure you’re OK with this?”

“Yeah, fine. The paperwork’s all yours.”

Rye stayed in the ambulance, jotting down notes they’d use later in their report while Claire rolled the gurney up the ramp leading to the front of the hospital. A hundred yards from the entrance, the path turned off and headed down toward the morgue.

Normal procedure was for her to be met by two morgue assistants, so she was surprised when a doctor came up to her holding a clipboard. She extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Claire Anderson, Mad Dash Ambulance.”

The doctor smiled shaking her hand. “Glad to meet you, Claire, I’ll take it from here.” He laid the clipboard on the end of the gurney, pulled a pen from his pocket and handed it to Claire. Taking the pen, she signed off on Rusty, then looked up still puzzled at the doctor’s presence.

He noticed her expression. “You can’t save them all, you know.” He then turned his back on her and guided the gurney down the path. She hesitated, wanting to find out who he was and why a doctor would perform a task normally carried out by staffers. She watched him until he took the next turn, restrained only by Medford General’s no interference policy between EMTs and hospital employees. Sighing, she turned and walked back to the ambulance.

“That didn’t take long,” Rye said, looking up from his notes. “Why the frown?”

He knew that losing an accident victim wasn’t supposed to affect an EMT until hours after the event, though Claire often took such losses personally.

She climbed in, instinctively fastening her harness. “Have you ever turned a DOA over to a doctor before?”

Rye slid the clipboard with his notes into its slot at the base of the driver’s seat. “No, why?”

“I just did, and when I introduced myself he didn’t say who he was.”

“He have a name tag?”

“No.”

Rye watched as she settled into her seat, tightening her harness, staring at her feet, deep in thought. The thrum of the engine starting startled her. She looked over at him, “I just don’t feel good about this.”

He paused then shut off the engine. They looked out of place in their jumpsuits, as they passed into the foyer of Medford General and up to the information counter.

A cheerful receptionist looked up as they approached.

“Well, hey, you two. Nice to see you walking for a change.”

Claire smiled and leaned on the counter. “Hey, Casey. I was wondering if you can solve a mystery for me?”

“Shoot.”

Claire looked up at Rye, then back at the receptionist. “I just delivered a DOA to a doctor instead of two Mutt and Jeff’s up from the morgue. Definitely not procedure.”

Casey held up one hand to stop Claire’s inquiry. “Hold on a second.” She walked to the end of the counter, grabbed a clipboard and read it over as she walked back.

She ran a finger along a line. “No one brought into the hospital in the past hour or through the morgue in the past two hours.” She set the clipboard down and looked up. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Claire picked up the clipboard to see for herself. “Any new doctors on staff?”

Before Casey could answer, the headlights and horn of their ambulance went off, indicating a call.

Claire reluctantly put down the clipboard. “Gotta go,” she said, turning to run back to the ambulance. Rye was already ahead
of her.

He guided the ambulance out of the hospital parking lot while she tuned in the 911-call center. “Unit 88, disregard.”

She looked over at Rye. “Good. Let’s go back and find that doctor.”

Rye changed lanes so he could make a U-turn but stopped when the scanner crackled back to life. “Unit 88, code 1111, house fire, 415 Silverado Avenue.”

Claire grabbed the microphone, then looked over at Rye. “What do you think? Let the fire department handle it?”

He was already reaching up clicking toggle switches for lights and siren. “I don’t think so. You heard the code, could be more than one structure.”

She slammed the mic back onto its mount on the dashboard. “What about Rusty and that phony doctor?

“C’mon Claire, I’m sure Rusty found his way to the morgue. As for the doctor, no name tag and receiving a DOA, he’s probably new, unfamiliar with procedures. Just get me to Silverado Avenue. Alright?”

She picked up the map, giving Rye a dirty look. “I hope you’re right. If we lose a body, the county will yank our license.”

He ignored her as he scanned the street ahead. “Are you sure of this route?”

Claire glanced up from her map ready to snap at the question, but one look at the burned-out neighborhood and derelict cars, and she bit her tongue.

A mixture of fire engine and police sirens filled the air as Rye slowed the ambulance, surveying the mayhem that blocked the street ahead.

“Too late to turn back now,” Claire said, and dialed in the 911 dispatch. “Emergency dispatch, this is unit 88. What’s the 1020 on Silverado, over?” She looked over at Rye. “Any guesses?” Before he could answer, dispatch came back on. “Meth fire. Multiple homes involved. Proceed with caution. Out.”

Rye pulled up behind a Medford police cruiser, and looked on in horror as Claire’s door was yanked open, and she was pulled out by the hair.

“Claire!”

Rye reached behind his seat for the billy club as he shot out the drivers’ door, driven into a frenzied sprint by Claire’s chilling shriek.

Her attacker towered over her by a foot, his hand firmly against her head, fingers interlaced with her hair. She dropped to one knee placing both hands on her attacker’s hand, pinning it to the top of her head, touching her chin to her knee, crimping his wrist in the process.

“You bitch!”

She suddenly straightened up, holding the attacker’s hand in place, stretching his arm, snapping a kick to his exposed right side. The man staggered back in a furious struggle to regain his balance.

“You’re fucking dead, bitch.” He charged her but suddenly collapsed into a heap at her feet.

Rye dropped the club to his side and leaping over the unconscious form, grabbed Claire by the arm. “Get in,” he said, half lifting her into the ambulance.

She scrambled in, slamming and locking the door at the same time, barely before Rye whipped the ambulance into a U-turn.

Chapter Three

“Oh, shit! Hang on.” The ambulance rocked as it clipped the rusting, burned-out hulk of a Chevy van and bounced onto a lawn mower. Rye then guided the two-ton rig off what used to be somebody’s front yard and into the street.

“We’re outta here,” Rye said as he snatched up the mic. “Emergency dispatch this is unit 88 calling in a 1044-out of service.”

He slammed the mic onto its hook, and accelerated down Silverado and out of the neighborhood.

“You alright?”

Claire slumped against the door. “Yeah, I guess so. You know, I’m always surprised at the shit we put up with. I mean, what was that all about? What did that guy expect to get by attacking me?”

She never got an answer.

Rye suddenly sat up straight, shifting the ambulance into neutral and revving the engine.

Momentarily forgetting the attack, Claire turned in her seat. “I hear it, too.”

“It’s not the engine or the drive train,” he said.

She powered down her window. “Kill the scanner, it sounds like something’s scraping.”

Rye rolled his window down as he turned the scanner off. He heard the strange noise again. “I’m pulling over.”

He flipped on a couple flashers and eased The Beast onto the shoulder. Claire jumped out.

“Ouch.”

Rye was around the front of the ambulance and at Claire’s side. She had her hand on her neck.

“What is it?”

“I think that jerk gave me whiplash when he grabbed my hair.”

“Why don’t you get back in? I’ll check this out.”

He watched Claire’s stiff movements as she stepped up into the cab. Rye shut the door and leaned in the window. “I’m filing a report on this, and you’re seeing a chiropractor tomorrow morning.”

She gave him a weak smile and leaned back into the seat. He reached in and patted her arm. “Hand me the flashlight.”

Rye dropped to his stomach and scanned the undercarriage, holding the light on what was left of a lawn mower jammed between the chassis and the exhaust system.

Scrunching under the ambulance, he grabbed one of the blades and pulled. Nothing. He wiggled his way back out and stood up, met by Claire’s worried look. “What is it?”

“I ran over a lawn mower when I hung the U-turn. We need a tow.”

Claire picked up the mic. “Unit 88 needs 1241.”

Rye could hear her calling in their location as he walked around the front of the ambulance. He suddenly stopped.

She hung up the mic, puzzled when he turned on the flashlight and dropped out of sight. Claire peered through the windshield and over the hood, then got out. When she came around the front, Rye was squatting, shinning the light on the left headlight and the smashed grill. When she got to his side he was pointing the light at an ever-growing pool of antifreeze.

“Looks like you really clipped that van,” she said.

He just nodded.

A few minutes later the tow truck arrived. The driver reached across and opened the passenger-side door. Rye grabbed a bar on the dashboard and pulled himself in, then reached out to give Claire a hand. It was a tight fit.

“Man, I’d hate to see the other dude’s car. That’s a helluva gash in your grill. You’re gonna need a new radiator for sure.” The driver paused to call in his destination. “And what the hell is that underneath?”

Rye smiled. “A lawn mower.”

The driver did a double take. “Right.”

They rode in silence to the garage. Claire stayed in the cab of the tow truck, while Rye filled out the papers and explained for the second time about the lawn mower. He watched the tow truck driver unhitch The Beast, wanting to rush over a tell him to be careful.

Task finished, the tow truck driver looked over at Rye and smiled. “Get in, I’ll take you and the missus home.”

“You sure? We could call a cab,” Rye said.

“No problem, I’m headed down Snoop anyway.”

Claire got out, allowing Rye to sit in the middle. The shift arm would cause her to sit at an angle to keep it from going between her legs, and she didn’t think she’d be able to sit like that all the way home.

As they stood on the darkened porch watching the tow truck pull away, Rye put his arm around Claire. “Long day, huh?” She sagged into his shoulder, wrinkled her nose.

“You smell like grease,” she said smiling.

“You didn’t have to sit next to the driver,” Rye said, as he fished in his pocket for the keys to the door.

“What did the mechanic say about The Beast?”

He fumbled with the key in the dark. “Said he’d give us a call tomorrow after he checked it out, could be a week if he has to order anything.” He jiggled the front door knob to get the key out, and shouldered the door open.

The lights from the clock radio, computer, and the alarm dimly lighted the living room. The phone machine light was blinking. Rye disarmed the house, thumbed the switch that brought the two lamps to life, and walked across the floor to check the message; Claire beelined it to the bathroom.

The mirror fogged up as she adjusted the water as hot as she could stand it, attempting to work the knots out of her neck and shoulders. She desperately wanted to wash her hair but found her scalp too sensitive.

“Damn, we need a bigger hot water heater,” she yelled, practically leaping from the shower as the water turned cold. She dried off, then, wrapped only in a towel, walked to the bedroom, noting that Rye was on the phone. When she emerged barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt, he was just hanging up.

“Long phone call.”

Rye grimaced. “Jeff Olden. Better sit down for this.”

She plopped into her favorite chair, tucking her legs under her. “OK, you have my attention.”

Rye sat on the couch across from her. “You were right.”

She sat puzzled for just a heartbeat. “Oh shit. It’s Rusty isn’t it? Somebody came to claim the body and he wasn’t there.”

“Something like that. Olden has reduced our status until Rusty shows up.”

Claire was on her feet. “Great, we’ll be answering every midnight call until they find him.” She folded her arms. “The doctor broke procedure. Olden knows we can’t argue with hospital staff.” She turned an accusing eye on Rye. “Did you tell him about the doctor?”

He stood and took a step, extending his arms. “Claire?”

She spun out of his intended embrace, recrossing her arms over her chest. “That asshole!” She could feel hot tears running down her cheeks. “Goddamn it, what was I supposed to do? What do we do now?”

Chapter Four

Erin von Seagram looked down at the storyboard for the tenth time, then up at the couple on the lawn by the pool. The positions were right: man astride woman who was on all fours. But the couple seemed cardboard and to be moving in slow motion.

Camera one had the long shot, which was too long, making the couple appear too small, their activity indefinable. Camera two had the front shot, but was too tight, cutting off the woman’s breasts so you could hardly see that she had any. The forward thrusting motion and the head-and-shoulder shot of the man looked more like a college wrestler trying for a take down than two people having sex.

Von Seagram shook his head. This was supposed to be pornography, damn it. “This, this is a joke,” he said, slamming down the storyboard. Picking up the loud hailer, he yelled, “Cut. Everyone back on the set in one hour.”

Billy Spanning extracted himself and walked over to admire the pool. As if in shock, his co-star lay still for a full minute then slowly climbed to her feet, head down, shoulders slumped, not even trying to cover herself.

The production assistant strode across the lawn carrying two towels and two terrycloth robes. Billy snatched the towel and robe. “Thanks, Jerry.”

Jerry approached the woman, leering at her breasts. When she grabbed for the towel he pulled it just out of reach.

Von Seagram was watching. “Goddamn it, Jerry. Give her the towel.”

The woman grabbed the towel and robe. “Fuck you, Jerry.”

Crystal Cassidy was incensed and embarrassed. Putting on the robe, she pulled it tight, and stormed across the set to her tiny trailer, slamming the door behind her as she entered.

How had she come to this? Jan had never mentioned how debasing it was, all she had to do was stand nude in a swimming pool.

Crystal raged, clenching and unclenching her jaw. Her stomach churned as she let the terrycloth robe puddle around her ankles. Tears streamed down her face as she walked into the bathroom, adjusted the shower temperature, and stepped in. The steaming water pounded against the fiberglass walls of the tiny stall as she scrubbed with the harsh loofah brush. When she had scraped her skin pink, Crystal squatted down in the bottom of the tub, letting the shower envelope her. She pulled her knees tight against her chest, and remembered.

It had all started out so innocently, moving to Hollywood to escape her tiny hometown of Garland, Iowa. She’d teamed up with a friend, Jan Eckert. An acquaintance, really, she met in her senior year. They shared the same ideas. The two of them thought they were so tough, so worldly. They’d combined cars and cash, united in the goal of fleeing their hometown as soon as they graduated. They were going to move to Los Angeles and break into show business.

The turning point came when Jan returned to their seedy L.A. apartment with the news that she’d been fired. She turned, shut and locked the door, dropped her purse on the floor, oblivious to the sounds of the pinball machines coming up through the floor from the Pizza Haven restaurant located directly below.

She walked to her friend’s side, nervously chewing her gum. “Jan, what’s wrong?”

Crystal had seen her friend in many moods but dejection was not among them. Throughout their adventure Jan had always been the optimistic one.

They’d been answering cattle calls for everything from commercials to sitcoms, even getting to appear in a few crowd scenes. But the money just wasn’t coming in fast enough.

“I got fired,” Jan said, tears running down her face. “The manager wanted me to sleep with him.”

“Hey, good riddance, I say. Come on, Starbucks isn’t a job worth crying over.”

“It’s not the job or even getting hit on. Our money’s running out. This is the beginning of the end. I’m taking a bath,” Jan sobbed, stripping as she walked to the bathroom.

Crystal shouted over her shoulder as she opened the refrigerator door. “You get settled in the tub, I’ll bring a beer. I’ve got something to read to you.”

She took two Rainmakers from the fridge and set them on the counter, then began rummaging through a drawer, looking for a bottle opener. She parked her gum on the edge of the kitchen sink and grabbed the want ads section of the newspaper.

When she got to the bathroom, Jan was just stepping into the tub. Crystal waited for her to settle in and for the water to stop sloshing, then handed her a beer.

She eagerly took it, taking the first drink as though she’d just crossed the desert. “I hope you brought the comics, ‘cause I could use a laugh.”

“Better than that,” Crystal said, taking a swig of her beer, then setting the bottle between her feet as she sat on the toilet seat. “You ready for some good news?”

“Read on,” Jan said, taking another long drink.

Crystal took a deep breath. “‘Wanted: Aspiring actresses. Must have beauty to match talent and not be afraid of their bodies. High paying with many perks for the right women.’”

“And get this,” Crystal said, pausing to retrieve her beer for a quick drink, “‘Call to qualify for an interview.’ Sounds like a cattle call to me, whattaya think?”

“That’s a cattle call alright, but not the kind you think.”

“How many kinds of cattle calls are there?”

“Crystal,” Jan said drawing out her friend’s name, “that’s a cattle call for a porn movie.”

“Is not, and how would you know?”

“In all the ads we’ve answered for commercials, and all the real cattle calls, how many have cared about our personal regard for our bodies? None!”

“Well if you’re right, and I don’t think you are, and this is the beginning of the end, and I don’t think it is, shouldn’t we be considering every angle?”

“C’mon, how are you going to feel lying naked in front of technicians and cameramen, not to mention some total stranger probing your every orifice?”

“I’m not as naïve as you think. I’ve had a lot of lovers,” she said.

Jan turned her head and looked directly at Crystal. “For crying out loud, these won’t be lovers.”

“I guess you’d be an expert on those things,” Crystal said, sticking out her lower lip.

“I did my share of experimenting in school just like you,” Jan said, crossing her arms across her chest.

Crystal was looking directly at her friend, surprise mixed with shock. “I knew it, I was right. I figured you for the school slut.”

“You what?”

“Sorry, no offense. It’s just that the whole school had you pegged as a math nerd, so I figured sure you were using that image as a cover.” Crystal put down her empty beer bottle and nervously thrust two folded sticks of black jack licorice gum into her mouth, chewing vigorously before speaking again. “We haven’t exactly shared secrets, never double dated, you know.” A mischievous smile crossed her face. “Tell me about the first time.”

“I was never the school slut,” Jan said reaching over the edge of the tub to set her empty beer bottle on the floor. “I always figured it was either you or Linda Neville, rumor was she kept a rubber tucked in her boot. But you had the biggest tits hands down, always showing cleavage and chewing that damn gum.”

Crystal stuck out her lower lip again. “OK, I deserve that, but now I want to hear about your first time even more.”

“Jesus, don’t you ever quit?” Jan said.

“I’ll tell you my first time if you tell me yours,” Crystal said, handing Jan a robe and falling in behind her, ignoring the empty beer bottles.

The two walked into the living room, Crystal making a detour into the kitchen while Jan sat on the futon. She came out with a pack of gum in hand and walked over to the giant beanbag chair in the center of the living room. “You go first, and I want all the details,” Crystal said, chewing the new gum vigorously.

“Alright, then. It started when my parents decided I was old enough to be left alone. My father was going on a business trip to Hawaii and decided to take my mother. I guess he didn’t want some teenager tagging along.”

“I remember that you were really pissed about something. Coach couldn’t figure you out and asked me if I knew anything.”

Jan ran her fingers through her hair. “Damn right I was pissed. I just wanted to get even with my parents for not taking me to Hawaii. Their worst fear was me having sex, or getting pregnant. So that was it. I wasn’t going to get pregnant, but I sure as hell was going to have sex.”

Chapter Five

It was 6:00 am; Rye was on the multi-station weight machine doing incline presses with 150 pounds while Claire began her core workout.

The building that housed Mad Dash Ambulance was an old Victorian house. The bottom floor consisted of the two-car garage that housed the ambulance; the kitchen and workout area were where the living room had once been. Claire had converted the two downstairs bedrooms, the smaller one into a dispatch room, the other into a supply room. One of the upstairs bedrooms was used as a library and the other left as a bedroom.

They worked three days on, four days off. On workdays, they were on-call twenty-four hours. They worked out every morning, no exceptions, though often their workouts were interrupted.

They were on their third day of work.

When he finished his last set, Rye stepped away from the weight machine and turned to watch Claire work through her crunches. The sight of her working so hard reminded him of how hard it had been to get the business going—ten years just to get it started. They had been married five years when they jointly decided that they were tired of working for someone else. At age forty-nine, Claire had already worked her way up from emergency medical technician to trauma nurse in the emergency room of Medford General Hospital; Rye was a supervisor at Medford Ambulance Service. He gave an audible sigh at the thought of getting knocked down to the bottom rung, right back where they started.

“What’s wrong, is my butt too high?” Claire said, executing another pushup.

“Nah, your butt’s fine, I was just thinking. Olden can’t really afford to pull our license, that’s why he just reduced our status.”

She finished her forty-ninth pushup, one for every birthday, and rolled onto her back. “Great, when they finally do find Rusty, we’ll get to work our way back to the top, what, another ten years. Shit, you’ll be sixty-three.”

Rye just shook his head and started his core exercises. Claire began her kicks. She always brought up their ages when she was upset. “At least it will pay the bills,” he said.

A crackling sound interrupted their bantering. Both stopped what they were doing and looked expectantly at a speaker up in one corner of the room.

Mad Dash Ambulance held jurisdiction over Jessel County; Medford Ambulance covered all of Jackson County. Mad Dash also represented search and rescue for both counties. Emergency calls were received by the 911 emergency center and dispatched to the appropriate ambulance service.

Rye walked over and pushed the remote button on the wall that rolled back the huge double garage door and started the traffic signal flashing amber, slowing the traffic on Snoop Drive.

“Unit 88, Code 3.” The voice paused and static continued to crackle from the speakers. They looked at each other knowingly. A Code 3 meant lights and sirens, 88 was Mad Dash.

“Heart attack, 238 Wilshire Way, Cascade Circle Estates.”

“Shit, I knew it,” Claire said, grabbing her towel and streaking across the room.

“At least we’re still getting calls,” Rye said.

Claire stopped, spinning to face him. “Right, back to the bottom of the barrel. You know how many false alarms have come out of that retirement community?”

Mad Dash had visited Cascade Circle Estates dozens of times before acquiring Jessel County. Residents were prone to panic with every new ache or pain.

They drove the five miles in silence, entering the circular driveway that passed in front of the retirement home where the manager, Jim Webb, met them. He always looked a little chagrined whenever they drove up. The facility had been the site of so many false alarms over the years that he felt embarrassed every time an ambulance pulled into the drive.

Claire went around to the rear of The Beast, putting on the backpack that contained the oxygen and the AED defibrillator. Rye walked over to greet Webb.

“Helen pulled her emergency cord. When I went up to her apartment, she said she thought she was having a heart attack. She’s in room 208. I hope this isn’t another false alarm.” He looked at his feet and ran a hand through his hair. “God, what am I saying?”

“Better safe than sorry.” Rye smiled at the agitated manager. “Never hesitate to call. Really.”

Claire was half way to the front double door when Rye caught up with her.

“Helen Horwitz, room 208.”

When they exited the elevator on to the second floor, Helen was standing, with the help of her cane, just outside her apartment door. Rye jogged up to her.

“How’s the heart?”

“Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I took a Tums and my symptoms simply disappeared. It must have been the sausage.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but as long as we’re here, we could hook you up and look at the numbers. No cost, no problem.”

Helen reached out and gave his arm a squeeze. “No, thank you, dearie. I’m fine.”

He smiled down at the tiny woman. “I’m glad it was a false alarm.” He gave his watch a quick glance. “Better find my partner, see if we can grab a quick brunch.”

He looked around and spotted Claire at the end of the hall moving in his direction. He parked the gurney by the elevator, and headed up to meet her. He passed a couple returning to their room with the slow halting gait of the elderly.

“Hello,” Rye said, as he came up beside them.

The man stopped, seemingly happy for the rest, leaned on his walker, and looked up at Rye. “Did Helen have another case of indigestion?”

“Looks that way.”

The man turned to his wife. “Told you so.” Without another word, the couple continued on their way.

When he looked up, Claire was standing next to him.

“Someone up the hall need our assistance?” Rye said.

“Just talking. The woman says her neighbor has been on a list for a liver replacement over a year, and is beginning to fade.”

Rye reached for the elevator button marked 1, then hesitated. “Do you think we should pay her a visit?”

Claire shrugged her shoulder to reposition the backpack. “Better not, we’re already in enough hot water.”

“You’re right.” He pressed the button.

As they exited the elevator Rye looked around for Webb, sticking his head in the office while Claire pushed the gurney through the double doors. He soon joined her at the ambulance.

She reached under the gurney and pulled the lever that dropped it from waist high to inches off the ground. “You find the manager?”

“Nah, he’s probably dealing with some other crisis.” He bent, grabbing the rail of the collapsed gurney. “Two, three, lift.” Together they lifted the gurney and pushed it into the ambulance. “Did that woman say what her neighbor is going to do about the liver?” Rye asked, latching the gurney in place.

“You won’t like the answer.” They walked around and climbed in the cab.

“What’s she going to do?” Rye said, snapping his harness in place.

“Apparently the son is going to buy a liver off the black market.”

“You’re right. I don’t like it. I just read how black market organs are usually contaminated, and how a black market liver can cost up to three hundred thousand.”

He started the engine but left it in neutral while two seniors crossed in front of the ambulance.

* * *

They tried to eat at the Plaza Café whenever they were in town because it had outside seating and the food was good. Claire would set the alarm to lights and horn. It seemed they were always just beginning a meal when a call came through and suddenly the ambulance came alive.

But on this day, Rye packed a lunch and they set out to find a place to park, and as he liked to say, “eat in.” He pulled the ambulance under a huge Monterey cypress that hung over a corner of the parking lot of Ruby Park.

Claire released her harness and leaned against the door. “Here we are, brown-baggin’ it in a vintage ambulance with next to no chance of getting a call. What say we call it a day and head home?”

Chapter Six

First static, then a frantic voice—not the dispatcher. Rye reached across to the scanner, and cranked up the volume.

“10-7 requests assist. Old Hanley Farm.” That was it, no repetition of the address, no lingering static, and definitely not dispatch.

“Isn’t that Paul’s place?” Claire said.

Lunch forgotten, Rye brought the ambulance to life with a twist of the key.

The look in his eyes told Claire all she needed to know. She flipped on the lights and set all the sirens howling.

Paul Casey was Rye’s childhood friend. They’d both been runners in school and had been running together at least once a week for thirty years. Paul was a private investigator who’d been retired by a bullet to the hip. Six months later, he lost his wife to cancer, leaving him to raise their six-year-old daughter. Rye had set up an emergency dispatch trigger at the farm that was tuned to a special channel on his scanner both in the station and the ambulance.

Paul’s voice over the scanner had been tight with alarm.

Rye turned onto Rural Ranch Road slowing to accommodate the potholes that littered the dirt track.

“There’s Paul.” Claire pointed to a franticly waving figure standing between the farmhouse and the barn.

Rye slowed the ambulance to a crawl and guided it next to the horse barn. He’d just shut off the engine when his door was yanked open and he was confronted by a mud-covered figure.

“Rye, thank God. It’s Amy—she’s fallen down a well.”

Claire circled around the front of the ambulance, stepping within inches of Paul to get his attention. “Are you OK?” She’d never seen him so distressed.

“Oh, Claire, she’s fallen down a hole. I can hear her, but I can’t see her.” His voice nearly broke, and he was beginning to shake.

“Where? Paul, show me where.”

She followed him while Rye got rope and a shovel from the lower compartment of the ambulance.

They were a hundred feet behind the barn when Paul broke into a limping run, taking just ten steps before throwing himself face down onto the dirt where he crawled to what looked like a low spot in the ground.

Paul cupped his hands around his mouth. “Amy, baby, it’s Daddy.” He looked up at Claire, his eyes pleading.

Without hesitation Claire flopped down next to him, shading her eyes in an attempt to see down the hole. “Amy, this is Aunt Claire. Are you hurt?”

She turned her head to catch any sound that might come out of the hole. The tremulous tones of a child’s voice drifted to the surface.

“Aunt Claire?”

“I hear you Amy. Your daddy is going to get you out.”

Claire rolled onto her back. Paul was still looking down the hole, as though if he stared long enough he’d be able to see his daughter.

“How long has she been down there?”

“I’m not sure, maybe thirty minutes. I just don’t know.” He pushed himself up onto his knees.” I saw her playing by the barn and when I came out to get her for lunch she was gone. I nearly fell down the hole myself. I found her blanket by the edge.”

Rye jogged up, dropping a rope and climbing harness by the edge of the well. Looking first to Paul then at Claire, “How far down is she?”

“Hard to tell. She must be pretty deep judging from the sound of her voice,” Claire said.

Rye separated what looked like tent stakes, both with eyes at the top, from the harness. “I need a hammer.”

Paul leapt to his feet and limped to the barn, disappearing through the large, double front doors.

Kneeling next to where Claire still lay on her back, Rye took her hand. “We’ll get her out.”

Claire squeezed Rye’s hand. “I know we will.”

Rye began clearing sticks away from the opening, careful not to knock any dirt into the hole. When Paul returned with the hammer, Claire ran the rope through the top of the stakes like a thread through the eye of a needle.

Spacing each steak about five feet from the next Rye pounded them into the ground, taking a double wrap around the last one with the rope. But when he walked back to the edge of the hole, Claire was stepping into the harness.

He took her arm. “Are you ready for this, what with the dreams and all?”

She pulled the top of the harness up around her waist and buckled it. “I hope so. Besides, you and Paul are too big.”

“This isn’t going to work,” Paul said, holding a clump of dirt in one hand. “This is from the side of the hole. If we try to slip over the edge it’ll dump dirt onto Amy, maybe cause a cave in.” He stepped back from the opening throwing the dirt to the ground with a curse.

Claire stared at the opening of the hole and suddenly spun to face Paul. “I need three four-by-fours. No, wait,” Then turning to face Rye. “How strong are the tripods for the floods?”

Claire and Rye often shared the same thought without saying a word. He understood immediately. “Strong enough.”

Paul looked on, puzzled by the exchange, and then walked over to Claire as Rye ran back to the ambulance. “What’s he doing?”

“We’ll put a tripod over the hole and lace the rope down the middle. I’ll simply step out over the center of the hole and lower myself down.”

Rye returned with a huge tripod. The legs were made of a stout aluminum. At the top was a large opening designed to hold the spotlight mounted on a post that dropped into the reinforced hole at the top of the tripod.

“Let’s set it up over here.” Claire said, stomping out a flat spot. “And see if it’ll support my weight.”

Rye separated the legs to their widest point, dropped the rope down the middle and looped it a couple of times through the hole. The top of the tripod stood about five feet. Claire had to crawl between the legs, then reach up and grab the rope pulling her knees into her chest to get her feet off the ground. There was an audible groan as the feet of the tripod sank into the dirt.

Rye turned to Paul. “Great, looks like it will hold. Get on the far side of the hole and I’ll hand it across.”

As soon as she lowered herself to the ground, Rye pulled the rope from the top and carried it to the hole. Paul grabbed the legs of the tripod as Rye opened them up, snuggling them into the ground.

“Hold on, I’ve got an idea,” Paul said

He went to the barn and retrieved three large construction bricks to brace against the legs. As Paul put the bricks in place, Rye passed the rope down through the top of the tripod so it hung over the middle of the hole. He reached out and grabbed it, tying off the end through a metal loop set into the front of Claire’s harness.

Paul wrapped an arm around one of the legs and leaned out over the hole. “Amy, this is Daddy. Aunt Claire is coming down to get you.”

All three stopped what they were doing and listened, nothing.

Claire stepped to the edge of the hole, Rye reached across and grabbed the back of the harness, Paul grabbed the front. When she pushed off, they slowly released their grip and let the tripod take the strain. They watched Claire swing suspended only by the rope, then ran to where the rope was lashed to the last of the five stakes and together began lowering her into the hole.

She desperately fumbled with her headlamp, until she could hold up her hand and see it was on. When her head dropped below ground level she could feel the air being sucked out of her lungs. Her knuckles were white from holding the rope too tightly. Then a head appeared from above, partially blocking out the light.

“Can you see her yet?” Paul yelled.

Claire knew his question was silly, but was born of concern. She squeezed her eyes shut and quickly tilted her head so the light shined down, then opened her eyes. She couldn’t see a thing. “Not yet.” Realizing she was yelling down the well she closed her eyes and tilted her head up. “Not yet,” she repeated. They began to lower her again.

She counted breaths to stay focused. Suddenly her gradual progress stopped, bouncing her to a sudden halt. She squeezed her eyes shut. Each breath became audible now as she fought to stay calm, the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

Claire was no longer an adult dangling at the end of a rope; she was thirteen-year-old Clarice, daughter of a mine inspector. And the giant buildings that capped off the Star Mine loomed ahead, her hiding place. She had to make it to the mine. She kept pumping her arms faster and faster. She couldn’t let them catch her.

A volley of words drifted down the well from above, she opened her eyes shaking her head to clear it of her past. She couldn’t understand what was said but she picked up the urgent tone. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth to call out but the breath was driven from her lungs as she suddenly began to plummet. The rope had gone slack.

Chapter Seven

In her little trailer, squatting in the bottom of the tiny shower, awash in memories, Crystal began to sob. Remembering how titillating it had been listening to Jan talk about her first time, how naïve she’d been. Had it only been a few weeks ago? Now she was having sex with strangers in front of cameramen and technicians. What was Jan doing now? As the shower enveloped her, she let the memories flood back yet again to that more innocent time, and how it had all started.

Jan reclined on the futon, fluffing the pillow as she lay back. “Actually, I was a virgin until the week that my parents left me alone.”

Crystal fidgeted in the beanbag chair, pulling her gum out of her mouth and rolling it between her fingers.

“I was at school, trying to think of which boy it should be, but I kept remembering what my friends said, how the guys would grope them and then get all excited. Just the thought of that grossed me out.”

“Who’d you choose? Anybody I know?” Crystal said, popping the wad of gum back in her mouth.

“I was attending my chess club meeting and remembered how Mr. James was always looking down my top, while he pretended to be looking over my shoulder. Anyway, he’d been divorced for about a year, so I told him I had no hot water and that my parents were away for the week and asked could he come over to fix it.”

Crystal sat up, popping her gum, and nearly choking. “God, Mr. James. Hmm, he does have a cute butt.”

“Do you mind,” Jan snapped. “I didn’t pick him for his butt. I figured he might have a little finesse. Maybe understand my feelings. Boy, was I wrong.”

Crystal sensed from Jan’s response that this might not be a story laced with pleasure.

Jan settled back into the futon and looked up at the ceiling

“I’d almost forgotten what the end result would be,” Jan said. “Then suddenly it was over, and what a mess. I was actually surprised. Pretty naïve, huh?” Jan laughed nervously.

“I ran to the bathroom to clean up. When I returned, he started to cry, said if anybody found out he’d get fired, could even go to jail. Then the asshole got up and left, no last kiss, no thanks, no nothing. Some first time.” Jan laughed again. “I’d pictured a gentle touch and at least an orgasm.”

Crystal got up, walked over, and sat on the futon next to Jan, who was now sitting up. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Jan wiped away tears. “Pretty awful, huh? Definitely not worth crying over. You know, Crystal, unless your first time left you walking on clouds, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Yeah, maybe I should have asked you about your best time instead of your first.”

Jan blew her nose and straightened her robe, ran her fingers through her hair and gave her head a little shake.

“Alright, the ad has piqued my curiosity. ‘To qualify for an interview …’ I wonder what that’s supposed to mean?” Jan said, leaning over and pulling the telephone off its stand and setting it in her lap. “What’s that number again?”

Crystal turned, taking the gum out of her mouth, and gave Jan her best ‘I’m confused’ look. “I don’t understand. Less than an hour ago, you seemed dead set against following up on it.” Crystal opened her mouth and placed a stick of her favorite Black Jack gum on her tongue.

Jan pulled some slack in the phone cord. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not ready to call it quits, and maybe you’re right—we need to follow every lead. Now: what’s the number?”

Unsatisfied with Jan’s answer, Crystal made several snapping sounds with her gum before picking up the newspaper.

“Here it is. 521-2655.”

Jan got right through to a person, which surprised her. She figured there’d be a message instructing her where to go for the interview. The voice on the other end wasn’t deep or sexy, and none of the questions seemed to pertain to appearing nude in front of a camera. The longer the questioning went on, the more she wondered when they’d get to the point. Sex.

Crystal sat in the beanbag chair trying unsuccessfully to read her friend’s expressions. When Jan finally hung up after nearly twenty minutes, she practically jumped out of her seat, ran over and plunked down next to Jan on the futon.

“So, what did they say? Did they ask about your breasts? Did they use a lot of foul language?”

Jan just held up her hand. “Stay put.” Then got up and walked the phone back to its stand. Getting a pen and pad, she walked over to the beanbag chair, sat down and began scribbling notes. “You aren’t going to believe this,” Jan said.

“You’ve got about thirty seconds before I explode. Now c’mon, I’m all ears,” Crystal said, chomping her gum animatedly and bouncing up and down on the futon.

“There was no sex talk. He wanted to know my height and weight and if I had ever smoked or used drugs. He did ask if I could commit seven days to a shoot and if I had reliable transportation. He said I would have to move to the Pacific Northwest.”

“The Pacific Northwest? Shit. What about the money, how much, how much?”

“Hang on to your panty hose, girl!” Jan consulted her notes. “Lewd and Lascivious, Inc. will provide day time housing, two meals a day, guarantee return fare or transportation from the site of the shoot, and pay three hundred dollars a day in return for an uninterrupted seven day contract.”

Jan was now grinning from ear to ear. “There’s more.”

“You’re kidding.” Suddenly Crystal became subdued and serious. “What kind of kinky stuff do they want for that kind of money?”

“Here’s the kicker: everything you’re asked to do is in the contract and if you fulfill the contract, there’s a bonus.”

“I don’t know. It sounds too good to be true. Maybe we should just pack up and head for home,” Crystal said.

“Now look who’s changing her mind.” Jan folded her arms across her chest. “It’s too late anyway. I’ve already made up my mind. I’m at least going for the interview.”

“Yeah and where’s that? Some sleazy part of town?”

“Not at all. They’ll meet us at one of the soundproof listening booths at Black Crow Books and Music.”

Crystal wanted to hang around looking at books while Jan interviewed, but they finally decided that she’d drop Jan off two blocks from the Black Crow. The interview was scheduled for ten in the morning. Crystal waited in the parking lot across the street. She circled the block and waited in public parking, vowing that if Jan didn’t come back in two hours, she would call the police.

Jan tried to look casual and uninterested as she walked past the listening booths. There it was, number 8, but it couldn’t be. The man inside looked like any normal businessman, dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and a tie. She made a note of his appearance, took a deep breath, pushed open the door and stuck just her head in.

“Mr. Hubble?”

“Yes, Louis Hubble. And you must be Jan” He stood and extended his hand.

She stepped into the room, letting the door close behind her. “Jan Eckert,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Please sit down and relax, I don’t bite. I have to admit you look younger then you sounded over the phone. Do you have a driver’s license I could look at before we get started?”

Jan fumbled with her clutch purse until she found her license and slid it across the table.

Hubble looked down at the driver’s license and up at Jan several times.

“Great, thank you. Can’t be too careful,” Hubble said, handing Jan her driver’s license. “Do you have any questions before I get started?”

Jan was still trying to calm herself and just managed to smile and shake her head.

“Fine, but if you have any questions don’t be afraid to interrupt.” Hubble paused for a moment, smiled, and then cleared his throat. “Alright then, Lewd and Lascivious, Inc. is a professional movie production company. Our movies do not go on the Internet, and all nudity and sex is within the context of the script. Actresses are not asked to perform off the set, but may be assigned a female coach to ensure a quality performance and as few takes as possible. How are you doing Ms. Eckert? Any questions?”

Jan had finally gotten her voice back. “I think I’ll hold my questions until you finish, thank you.”

“Fair enough. Our director, like directors everywhere, has the option to change a scene to better fit the story line. As an actress employed by Lewd and Lascivious Inc. you have the option to refuse any direction that might break the terms of the contract, which I’ll cover in a minute.”

Hubble outlined the conditions of the contract explaining that protection against sexually transmitted disease was of paramount concern, as was the abstention from the use of drugs and tobacco.

When he finished laying out the contract, Jan couldn’t think of a single question.

“I can understand that you may be a little overwhelmed,” Hubble said, reaching down by his side for the briefcase. Laying it flat on the table he flipped the latches and lifted the top, withdrew a book-sized cardboard box that he up ended, pulling out two videotapes. “These are two of our productions from last month. I’d like you to take them home and watch them. As you do, try to imagine yourself in the part of the female lead. If you’re offended or feel you couldn’t do what she’s doing, simply place the tapes back in the box and mail it to us, postage paid of course. If, on the other hand, well if you have no problem with what might be asked of you based on what you see, mail the box back empty. I’ll put the contract, map of how to get to the location of the shoot, and some other incidentals in the box and send it back.”

Forty-five minutes and six sticks of gum from the time Crystal parked and began reading her copy of People magazine, she was startled by a knock at the passenger window.

Jan stood peering in, pressing something to her chest.

“Oh my god, you scared the hell out of me,” Crystal said.

“What did you lock the door for?”

“Hey, what’s that?” Crystal said, pointing to the box Jan had set on her lap.

“Porn!” Jan said with a grin.

When the girls got back to their apartment, they opened up the futon and moved the combination TV/VCR onto a wicker footstool about two feet away, hoping to catch every detail on the little twelve-inch screen. Jan popped in the first tape.

Flugelhorn music and the sound of heavy breathing followed shortly after the opening credits. Jan was about to fast forward it when the title appeared in bold letters—“Dark Rendezvous”—then faded to black. A woman sat topless in front of a huge makeup mirror.

Crystal chewed her gum furiously. “If this gets gross or anything, I’m not going to watch.”

“There you go again. It’s not like you’re a virgin,” Jan said.

Crystal spit out her gum. “Yeah, but doing it is one thing, watching it is another.”

“For crying out loud, this is a pornographic movie and probably contains more than a topless woman putting on makeup!”

A man stepped out of the bathroom, toweling off his wet hair. He was totally nude and erect. Within seconds, the woman had dropped to her knees and forgotten all about her makeup.

Crystal leaned forward and pressed the stop button. “Ok, truth now, could you do that?” she asked.

“Mr. Hubble said that depending on the script I might be asked to perform only one nude or sex scene the entire week. I could do almost anything once,” Jan said.

“Yeah, I guess after doing Mr. James you could.”

“Hey,” Jan snapped. “I didn’t do him, ok.”

After much debate, Jan sent the box back empty and five days later got the box back in the mail with a contract she was to sign and bring with her to the site of the shoot.

She stood at the kitchen counter, shaking the contract out of the mailer when Crystal walked over. They’d decided that the final decision would have to be based on the contract. After watching both of the tapes Mr. Hubble had given her, the women were aware that this was an “anything goes” production.

Crystal followed Jan like a puppy, across the room to the futon. “Well, what does it say?”

Jan didn’t answer; she was reading intently, Crystal at her side attempting to read over her shoulder. Suddenly, Jan threw the contract into the air exhaled a great sigh and slid from the futon to the floor.

“What, what? C’mon, what did it say?”

“None, no sex, period. It says in no uncertain terms that I will only be in three nude scenes. Nude in a swimming pool, on the lawn next to the pool, and partly nude under the covers in bed, alone.” The two girls looked at each other with silly grins. “That’s it, I’m off for Oregon day after tomorrow!”

The two girls squealed with excitement and did a little jig, high stepping in a circle and shaking their breasts at each other, then falling to the floor with laughter born of nerves over the thought of being filmed nude.

Crystal suddenly stopped, gasped, and clutched her throat.

“What’s wrong?”

No reply, she began to claw at her throat.

“Can you breathe?”

Lips growing pale, eyes watering, Crystal shook her head to the negative.

Jan quickly stepped around behind her, lifting under her armpits. “Stand up!”

Clasping her hands and placing her thumbs against Crystal’s diaphragm, she pulled in, hard. Then relaxed and squeezed again, this time with success. A wad of gum shot from Crystal’s mouth landing across the room. The two collapsed to the floor.

“God, you and that fucking gum. One of these days it’s going to be the death of you.”

Crystal sat in silence still breathing heavily. “Thanks, Jan.”

Without warning she leaned over and gave Jan a hug.

“Come on, you would have done the same thing for me,” Jan said, and gently pried Crystal’s arms from around her neck.

Big alligator tears ran down Crystal’s cheeks.

“What’s come over you?” Jan said.

“I just couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, going to Oregon and everything. I know it all sounds pretty straightforward, and Lewd and Lascivious may be OK, but what kind of people will you be working with? I want a plan.”

“A plan? What am I going to do, get kidnapped?”

Suddenly Crystal was serious, popping a stick of gum in her mouth. “A plan, goddamn it.”

She popped her gum as her color changed in a combination of anger and frustration. “You could be raped, or forced to take drugs, or refuse to have sex and run out of money.”

Jan held her hands up in supplication. “You’re right, now that I think about it some kind of plan might not be a bad idea. What did you have in mind?”

“You’re going to have to help me out here, it’s not like I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” Crystal said.

Jan suddenly snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it, why don’t I call you every night. The cell phone is paid up and still has three months on the contract.”

Crystal spit her gum into an old gum wrapper, replacing it with two new sticks.

“That’s good, but if something did happen, and you couldn’t call, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Jan was tired of the topic, but could see by the way that Crystal was hammering her gum that she was still agitated.

“OK, got it. Let’s put together a packet of three-by-five cards with my description, and the make and model of the car. I’ll call at,” Jan paused for effect, scratching her head, “eleven o’clock every night. If I miss a night and you can’t reach me, you take the packet to the police the next morning.”

Crystal stopped chewing her gum long enough to smile. “Sounds like a plan to me.” Then started chewing again as she went to the kitchen to search for three-by-five cards.

The water turned cold, bringing Crystal out of her reverie. She leaned forward shutting off the shower, stepped from the stall and toweled off, put on a clean robe. Walking to the foldout table that came out of one side of the tiny kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee.

Setting the mug on the table, she reached over, opened the small cabinet above the bookshelf, took out an accordion filing system and set it on the table next to the mug. She rooted around among papers and receipts until she found her original contract with Lewd and Lascivious Inc., laying it on the table. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug and began reading.

When she found the passage that stated she’d be paid for each full shoot, she made up her mind to finish out the day, no matter what. After all, she’d need all the money she could get in order to get back home.

She sipped her coffee and wondered what Jan’s reaction would be that night when she told her she was quitting.

She picked up the contract, so angry over letting herself end up like this that her hands shook, but as her thoughts turned to her friend, her anger changed to concern, then speculation. What if Jan was in trouble and couldn’t call? What if she had quit and was driving down to pick her up? Crystal took a deep breath to calm her imagination. After all, it hadn’t been that long, what could happen in a few days? A pounding on the door rocked the tiny trailer. “Report to the director.” Cinching her robe, she placed the contract back in the cardboard file box, returned it to the cabinet, and walked down the narrow hall.

She inspected her makeup in the tiny bathroom mirror and said, “I’ll finish out this day no matter what.” Running a brush through her hair and starting a new stick of gum, she continued, “Then it’s back to the motel and if Jan hasn’t left a message, I’ll go to the police tomorrow morning. But she’ll call.”

* * *

Von Seagram picked up the loud hailer. “Break everyone. Ten minutes then back and ready to finish today’s shoot.” He handed the loud hailer to the stage manager and walked off the set.

Crystal walked to the corner of the nearest set and stopped, not sure what was happening except that the director was talking to someone she’d never seen before. He was tall with olive skin and jet-black hair that was slicked back, but neat and trimmed. His clothes were expensive, his manner restrained.

“I’m telling you that she needs to come with me now,” Simms said. Looking around, he dropped his voice.

“And I’m telling you that there are no other girls who can do this. If she doesn’t perform, I walk,” Von Seagram screamed, veins bulging out on his neck like cables.

Simms pumped his hands up and down, like he was trying to slow traffic. “I’ve come all the way down here to pick her up,” Simms said, dropping his voice in further hope of calming the agitated director.

Von Seagram took a deep breath. “All I’m asking is for a few hours so I can finish this shot. A couple hours at the most.”

Simms continued looking around. “Ok, two hours. You’ve got exactly two hours, not a minute more.”

Simms relented only because he had to be back up north in time for an extraction satellite linked to the customer; he’d be operating live. If he couldn’t take Crystal now, he’d have to find another way to get her to the clinic.

All Crystal could tell was that the director was mad at the stranger. She hadn’t heard her name mentioned, but was sure they were talking about her.

The director waved at her. “Come here, doll. You just got the starring roll.”

Her heart beat faster when she realized he was waving at her. She knew what that meant.

“You got your lines down, doll?”

She glanced down at the script, at her three lines. She was to play the mistress. The jilted husband was going to knock at the door of her apartment and when she answered, wrapped in a towel and immediately seeing how upset he was, she would say, “Lets see if I can help you forget her.” She would drop to her knees right there at the door. He would then help her to her feet and carry her to the bed where she would say, “How would you like it?” At which time he would guide her into a doggy position ending with a tight shot of his climax. Crystal would then respond with her final line, “Oh, that was really nice.”

Her stomach began to lurch as she re-read her three lines.

“C’mon, doll, what’s the hold up? Drop the robe and get on your mark. Time’s money.”

The director’s assistant guided her to the chalked x, taking her robe and script, and handing her a towel.

Conner Roddy played the part of the dejected husband, and had been acting in porn movies for nearly ten years. He possessed classic good looks and at six feet, weighed a lean 170 pounds.

He was a porn director’s dream, able to sustain an erection despite the lights, techs, and two or three takes.

Crystal had supposedly just stepped out of the shower. When the director shouted action she was to move across the floor as though heading for the closet, interrupted by the knock at the door.

As she began to walk she wished she had a stick of gum to settle her stomach.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

She turned and took the two steps necessary to reach the door, grasped the knob and opened the door.

She cooed as her pretend lover leaned forward to kiss her.

“It’s Vicky,” Conner said. “She, she’s left me.”

As Conner stepped across the threshold, Crystal dropped to her knees.

She gasped out her first line, “Let’s see if I can help you forget her,” closed her eyes and prayed he would be quick.

“Cut!” the director shouted. “Hey, doll, you got something in your eye? What’s it going to look like if your doing your lover with your eyes closed? Close the door, Con; get on your mark. Doll, pick up the towel, we’ll take it from the knock at the door. Remember eyes open, big smile.”

She cursed herself for having to do it again, but wondered how she was going to smile with a mouth full of…

“Action!” Von Seagram shouted.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

She opened the door, once again cooing as Conner leaned in for the kiss, then stepped across the threshold.

“It’s Vicky, she, she’s left me.”

Crystal dropped to her knees, eyes open. Fumbled with his belt and zipper, extracting his…

“Cut!” Con, baby. First the kiss, then your line…then step over the threshold. Back on your mark, close the damn door. Doll, pick up the towel. We’ll take it from the knock on the door. Everybody ready? Let’s get it right this time. Action!”

On the third take, the director caught Crystal fumbling with Conner’s zipper. Take four, he looked bored. Take five, Crystal was making a face. By the sixth take Crystal didn’t care any more, just wanting it to be over. As Conner carried her to the bed, a big four poster, she had no idea what she was in for. He gently laid her on the bed on her back, cue for her second line.

“How would you like it?”

She thought it would be like the time with Rudy, her third lover who liked different positions. Not so.

Without a word Conner kneeled down on the bed placing one hand between her thighs and the other on her side, practically flipping her onto her stomach, her cue to come up onto her hands and knees. Completely out of sync — she felt as if she were moving in slow motion while he was moving at full speed. He was very well endowed, and for once she was thankful for the director’s interruptions, bringing Conner to a halt while the camera moved in for a different angle.

Finally, as her already sore knees began to suffer burns from sliding back and forth on the sheets, he finished, cue for her third line. Still on her hands and knees Crystal looked over her shoulder. “Oooh, that was nice.”

“Cut! That’s a wrap. Everyone back on the set tomorrow, eight o’clock sharp.”

Crystal was off the bed, snatching up her robe as she stormed off the set headed for the trailer. Twenty minutes later she was in her rental car headed back to her motel.

Chapter Eight

Rye stood behind Paul Casey, the rope wrapped around his waist.

Suddenly, Paul made a lunge at the tripod. “It’s slipping!”

Rye quickly tied off the rope at the last stake. “Christ, it’s not holding her weight. Paul we need a board that will reach across the hole to keep the tripod from falling in on her.”

Paul limped to the barn as fast as he could.

Moments after he disappeared through the barn doors, Rye looked on in horror as the legs of the tripod slipped and the center portion that supported the rope dropped the nearly five feet to ground level.

The harness allowed Claire to descend in a sitting position, the rope coming down in front of her face attached to the ring located near her abdomen. When the rope went slack, her legs straightened and she dropped like a stone. She attempted to spread eagle as she fell, hoping to span the hole and at least slow her fall. But she continued to plummet feet first. When the rope finally stopped her fall, Claire felt a sharp pain in her stomach, and then blacked out. Her limp body finally came to a stop with all her limbs hanging down, bent backwards.

Somewhere in the depths of Claire’s unconscious, Clarice reached the mine entrance before her pursuers, but the iron-gate that led to the Star Mine’s elevator was locked. Frantically, she looked over her shoulder, the three young men had slowed to a walk when they saw she had no place to go. Shuffling to the right she tried the handle on a little door. When it flew open she nearly fell over but quickly recovered and dove into the dumbwaiter, slamming the iron door behind her. Rolling onto her back Clarice saw in the dim light that an iron latch had fallen into place. Lurching forward she applied all her weight to hold it. She could feel someone on the outside trying the handle.

“Shit, the little bitch has locked herself in,” the leader of the three said.

The taller one stood in front of a small wooden box mounted just above Clarice’s hiding place.

“Hey, look at this.”

He broke open the door to the box, revealing two buttons, one red, marked up, one blue, marked down.

He leaned down until his face was next to the little door, and shouted to be sure Clarice could hear. “Hey guys, since she won’t come out, let’s send her to the bottom of the mine.” They all laughed as he straightened up and pressed the blue button.

The dumbwaiter that carried tools and sometimes explosives to the various levels of the mine had its own shaft. Designed to descend at breakneck speed, it never was meant to carry human cargo.

Clarice plunged into darkness and felt her stomach lurch with the sudden drop.

* * *

Paul ran as fast as his hip would allow. He carried a twelve-foot, four-by-four across his shoulders. Rye ran to meet him, grabbing the post. Together they lugged it to the hole, and shoved it beneath the center ring of the tripod. Suddenly there was a loud metallic sound as the tripod completely fractured and the four-by four took all the weight.

“Claire, are you alright? The tripod collapsed but the rope is secure,” Rye yelled.

No answer.

Rye cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Claire.”

No answer.

Paul came around next to Rye. “You think she’s alright?”

Rye sat back on his haunches. “She could be in trouble. Claire has claustrophobia, something happened to her when she was a little girl…God, I just don’t know.”

Reaching out, Rye grabbed the rope and began to shake it. “Claire, talk to me, Claire!”

Her back pinched out a needle of pain and Claire opened her eyes. She was spinning and nauseous. Everything was out of focus; a yellow arch of light illuminated a muddy wall. Claire’s disorientation suddenly fell away. She reached out for the rope and began to pull herself upright, hand over hand. Grasping the rope with both hands she gave one final yank and pulled herself back into a sitting position.

When she finally summoned the strength to look up she could see an arm stretched out to the rope, and heard someone calling her name.

“I’m OK. Rye, Paul.”

Rye breathed a sigh of relief. “Hang on, we’re going to pull you up.”

She was still nauseous, her back ached and the memory of being locked in that tiny dumbwaiter in the mine was still in the back of her head. “No, keep lowering.”

Rye and Paul looked at each other. “What do you think?” Paul said.

Rye was looking back down the well. “Keep lowering.”

Paul positioned himself at the last stake, the rope wrapped around his waist. Rye was half way between Paul and the hole.

For the first fifteen feet there wasn’t any change in the walls, then slowly the sides narrowed and the mud gave way to stone.

Her progress stopped. Claire held the rope with an iron grip. When she looked up, a heavily silhouetted head was peering over the edge of the hole. She was reassured by Rye’s voice.

“You’re about twenty feet down, what do you see?”

She paused and looked down; there was still nothing for her light to illuminate. “The walls are closing in, and are solid stone. There’s still no sign of Amy.”

She looked back up, but the head was gone, and she began to descend again.

She smelled it first, and then the temperature dropped. Reaching into the little change pocket of her jeans she pulled out a penny. Holding the coin away from her body she dropped it and began counting, she’d reached twenty before she heard a splash.

“Shit! Hold up,” Claire shouted. She kept descending. “Rye, Paul, hold up.” Her progress came to a sudden halt. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath until the bouncing stopped. When she looked up, the head looking into the hole was tiny.

“Everything OK down there?”

Claire could hear the fear in her husband’s voice.

“Fine. I’ve got water about twenty feet below.” She was interrupted by a tiny voice.

“Aunt Claire?”

“Yes, yes it’s Aunt Claire. Amy honey, are you OK?”

Claire strained, listening for a response until her ears rang.

“Amy, where are you? I can’t see you. Can you see me?”

“I’m muddy. Are you on the rope?”

Claire began turning her head left and right, scanning the wall around her with the helmet light.

Wait a minute, Claire thought. Am I on the rope? She can see the rope. She’s above me!

Claire scanned the wall above her. She didn’t see Amy, but she saw movement.

She shined her light on what looked like a ball of mud about the size of a basketball.

“Amy, I can see you!”

“I don’t want to be here any more, Aunt Claire.”

Claire gasped as a little hand reached out. “Amy, please don’t move. I’ll come get you”

The hand retracted. “OK.”

When wells were dug by hand, ledges or handholds were built into the walls so the digger could climb out. Amy was sitting on a little ledge extending out less then a foot from the wall.

Chapter Nine

The two doctors leaned over the stainless steel sink at the center of the scrub station, antibacterial soap up to their elbows.

Dr. Frank Mason, the younger of the two, would be assisting Dr. Austin Young, the senior surgeon at Medford General, in the removal of a damaged kidney from an accident victim.

The gowning nurses hadn’t entered the scrub room and Dr. Mason was only on his second scrub.

“How do you do it, Frank?” Young said.

“I’m sorry, do what?” Mason said.

“The cars, the house…and all the trips. When I was your age, I struggled for years just to pay off student loans.”

Mason rinsed and began scrubbing for the third and last time. “Good karma, I guess.”

“I’m serious! You know that I make quarterly entrees on every surgical resident based on both in-house performance and community standing. I’m obligated as senior surgeon and assistant director of Medford General, and I have a board of directors to account to. That meeting is coming up next month. Looking at your income and the number of surgeries you perform each month, I find that you’re living beyond your means. You have a good community profile, Frank, numerous events on behalf of the hospital, but nothing to indicate an outside source of income. All the staff sees is that you’re working half the hours and living twice as well as anyone else at your level. You’re making waves, Doctor. The board will see this and ask me how you do it. So I’m asking you.”

Mason turned from the sink, arms dripping, and faced the senior surgeon. “What would you have me do, sell my home because it makes people jealous?” He wasn’t yelling, but his voice held the indignant tone of a person being accused.

“No, Frank. Just enlighten me. Where’s the money for these excesses coming from?”

At that moment, the head surgical nurse entered the room. Dr. Mason spun around and barked at her, “You’ve got five minutes to find another assist for Dr. Young,” then slammed through the heavy double doors and stormed down the hall.

Chapter Ten

Simms’s hair was meticulously styled, held in place with mousse. His posture was more erect than usual. New sheets, starched and creased, covered the donor. The operating table sat diagonally so the elevated camera could view every detail of the surgery. The anesthesiologist was prominently seated where the camera couldn’t miss him.

Simms held his right hand out to the side. “CD tube, please.”

He inserted a tube that carried carbon dioxide through a small incision into the body cavity that would lift the abdominal wall away from the kidney. Satisfied with the space, he made a ten-inch incision, cutting through the abdominal wall.

Simms extended his right hand again. “Number 14 shear, please.”

Nurse Clouse slapped a tool into his palm that looked like a gardener’s tool for trimming branches. Making a show for the camera, he snipped off one rib, lifted it out and placed it on a tray. The camera zoomed in on the organ cavity and the five-inch long, reddish-brown occupant.

Simms looked at the camera. “As you can see, the kidney is healthy and fully exposed for easy access.”

Clouse crossed the room, giving a wide birth to the area covered by the camera. Knowing the doctor was right-handed, she came up on his left side.

She leaned in. “Doctor, the light…you have a call on the red phone. Would you like me to finish the procedure?”

Simms buried his anger at being interrupted. He turned to the camera in the ceiling and said, “This is Surgical Nurse Clouse. She has over twenty-five years experience as both nurse and surgeon. She will finish the procedure.” He walked out of the room.

Simms snatched up the phone. “Yes?” he hissed.

“Peter, this is Frank Mason. You said you were going to call me.”

“Shut up and listen. This call has just jeopardized a sale. I was in the middle of a kidney procedure. This was not a recording. I had the recipient viewing the entire procedure from Brazil. Now what the hell is so important that it couldn’t wait until the next batch?”

“There’s a problem. I’ve got to leave Medford General. The assistant director is getting suspicious. Why didn’t you call, what happened to last week’s batch that I was supposed to work on?”

Simms pressed the phone against his body and took a deep calming breath.

“STDs, drugs, and turndowns, but Rosie assures me that this next batch will be better. Look Frank, give notice and come on up. I’ll put you in one of the productions again and you can see the batch for yourself.”

“God, I just don’t know.”

Simms wondered, was Frank getting cold feet? Did I expose too much of the operation too soon? “You didn’t seem to mind that blonde in the last production,” he said.

“Yeah, and where is she now?”

“Thanks to a background we somehow missed, she’s back at her old job, hooking in Seattle. We can’t risk discovery, Frank. I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just that Brazil’s new territory and the televised link-up cost a fortune. Come on out and stay at my place, think about it there. It’s important that you leave the hospital now, before there’s a problem. What do you say?”

The phone was silent, “Frank, you there?”

“I’ll be in touch, Peter.”

Simms slammed down the handset. There was no time for this; he didn’t need another doctor. After all, Mason wasn’t his choice. He’d have to talk to his partner about this.

Simms walked down the hall to the changing room to get out of his scrubs, then headed for his office located on the north side of the tiny clinic. He hesitated when he opened the door and saw that someone was in his office.

In his chair, feet propped up on his desk, sat a busty brunette. His eyes moved slowly up from her long, stockinged legs to her barely covered narrow hips. When the door opened, she dropped her legs to the floor and pivoted forward, her large breasts nearly vaulting out of her blouse.

Eyebrows arched, blood red lips puckered, Rosie Rehnquist blew Simms a kiss.

“Well, this is an unexpected visit. How are things at Lewd and Lascivious?” Simms asked.

“I thought I’d surprise you, see how my Vice President in charge of operations is getting along.” Rosie chuckled at the pun.

Simms closed the door as he entered. Rosie stood as he stepped around the desk to greet her. The two embraced in a long kiss. When he pulled away, Rosie dropped down into the plush chair, and he returned to the front of the desk.

“How are things, my love?” Rosie asked.

“Well, I have good news and a problem. First, the good. I’ve closed the sale on a kidney with Gomez in Brazil. He just watched a procedure on live TV. A hundred grand will move into our offshore account…” Simms looked at his watch, “… in forty minutes. Once the money shows up in the account, I’ll send off the kidney, which will be in his hands in twenty-four hours. Looks like live TV will be a great sales tool, at least for overseas. I went out on a limb to get the money for the satellite feed, though.” Simms broke eye contact with Rosie and glanced around the room. “I took $100,000 for a liver I don’t have. I just couldn’t wait the seven days for the next batch of girls to come up to the mansion.”

Rosie sat quietly for a minute. “When is the delivery date?”

“Day after tomorrow. Do you have somebody in mind?”

“Maybe so. I have an Italian stallion who’s driving the women off. Actually, he’s the reason I’m here. This next batch will be a slim one because of him.”

Simms knew that Rosie had few scruples.

“Is there any way you could get a hypodermic into him?” Simms asked.

“I could figure something out.”

Simms began rummaging around in the top left drawer of his desk, finally pulling out a brown oblong box.

“You’d have to do it tomorrow morning at the latest. I’d have to have him by noon. If you get him up here on time, Clouse will extract, I’ll transport to L & L, and you can take it to San Francisco day after tomorrow, midnight.”

Simms slid the box across the desk.

“It’s an empty syringe; all you have to do is pump some air into an artery. The neck would be good.”

“Consider it done. Now, you said you’re having a problem?”

“It’s that Doctor Mason from Medford General. The idiot’s getting cold feet. Right now we barely have enough donors to keep me busy. How did you find him, anyway?”

Rosie licked her lips and made a slight thrust with her hips. Simms didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Hubble can handle him and we’ll send Derrick along to help,” Rosie said.

“Tell Hubble that Mason’s a reluctant donor,” she said as she got up to leave; she had to get back to Medford, a four-hour trip from Denton on the coast. The mansion and the clinic were an additional half-hour of winding roads above the coastal town.

“One question,” Simms said, “how are you going to get this Italian stallion to let you stick him with a needle?”

Rosie gave him a scandalously delicious smile. “You might say I’ll just love him to death.” She turned and left the office.

Simms didn’t attempt to imagine what she might mean by that. Or what Rosie had meant when she said that he should tell Hubble that Mason was a reluctant donor. Hubble had been Rosie’s attorney and strong arm ever since he’d known her. The guy had always given him the creeps.

Simms pressed the speed dial button under the letter H.

“Hubble here,” said a deep, gravely voice.

“This is Simms. Where are you now?”

“On the road”

“Good. I’ve got a couple of problems in Medford that need taking care of. I was down there earlier to pick up a blonde scheduled for extraction and that damn director wanted me to wait. I had to hurry back to the clinic so I left empty handed. I want you to grab the blonde. Her name’s Crystal Cassidy. Bring her up here, and keep her in the dark.”

Simms paused, waiting to see if Hubble had any questions, even though he didn’t really expect any.

“Rosie said that you could help me with Doctor Frank Mason. He’s at Medford General. She said to tell you that he was a reluctant donor. Oh, and Hubble? I want that blonde delivered untouched.”

“That will mean two trips.”

“The doctor is the priority. Now, just do it.”

No response, no nothing, just dial tone.

It drove Simms crazy that Hubble was so unresponsive sometimes, but it really didn’t matter. He always got the job done.

Chapter Eleven

Frank Mason was careful to make his rounds while avoiding contact with the other doctors and staff as much as possible. He was exhausted as he exited the last room, his last patient, and headed for the surgeon’s lounge and his locker. He glanced at the large wall clock and moaned.

“Two am. Jesus.”

He thought about Simms’s offer to drive up and be in another one of his movies. One more late night and he wouldn’t be able to drive home, let alone up the Oregon coast.

Wearily, Mason pulled his coat from his locker and put it on. He grabbed his keys, dropped them into the right-hand pocket, and shut the locker. He was too tired to worry about bumping into any of the staff; besides, at two in the morning, the hospital was operating with a skeleton crew.

He got in his blue metal flake Fiat Spider convertible at the far end of the parking lot, turned the key, and the little engine roared to life. He hung a U-turn so tight that it made the tires squeal as he sped out of the lot and onto the Lawrence Expressway.

Taking the Hillsboro exit, the Fiat began to climb the narrow, winding road that led into the hills and eventually to Mason’s hilltop home.

He enjoyed this part of the drive; most of the turns banked just right. He knew the road by heart, where he could straighten out a curve and where the blind spots dictated he stay in his lane.

It was while accelerating through the first set of turns that he caught a glimpse of a reddish light ahead. He cut his speed coming out of the last curve at the sight of flares and a van half on the shoulder, half in the road.

Probably just spun out of control. Regardless, he’d better stop.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Mason gave a shout. “Hello, in the van.”

As he walked toward it, he saw it was an old ambulance. He continued walking to the front and peeked in the window. The driver and passenger seats were empty, although the keys were in the ignition. A quick look told him that the vehicle wasn’t over the edge, the front tires were clearly on the dirt shoulder and there didn’t appear to be any damage to the front grill or bumper.

“Hello,” Mason shouted again.

He came around the rear of the old ambulance. Again, no damage. When he reached for the door handle, the rear double doors suddenly flew open and two men reached out and grabbed him by the arms and shoulders, half lifting, half dragging him into the back.

He was so surprised that he didn’t resist. Before he could speak, they slammed him onto a gurney and while one of the men strapped him down another placed a cloth over his mouth and nose, and Dr. Frank Mason’s world blurred to black.

With surgical precision, they ripped away his shirt and painted his chest with an antibiotic wash. One of the men palpated for the liver, then with a black marker drew several lines and an oval. The second man leaned over Mason’s inert form and began a series of incisions.

The anesthesia was only a local and Mason began to moan, driven to consciousness by the pain. The man paused in his cutting, picked up a syringe and drove the needle into the young doctor’s chest, penetrating the heart. He then pushed the plunger emptying its entire contents in a matter of seconds. The doctor’s body arched as his heart seized, his eyes flew open as he gasped and just for a split second, Dr. Frank Mason thought he was having a heart attack.

The first man handed over a cooler lined with ice bags and placed it on the floor across from the second man, who handed him the liver. He placed it in the cooler, gently sat a bag of ice on top of the organ and closed the top, flipping the latches that sealed it shut.

The newly-harvested organ was contaminated, but the new owner wouldn’t figure it out until it was too late.

The two men then ran Mason’s body, still on the gurney, out the back of the ambulance and along the road until they were next to the Fiat. They unstrapped him, placed his body behind the wheel, fastened his seat belt, started the engine, placed it in neutral and rolled the sports car over the embankment.

Chapter Twelve

It was a hollow echo of a voice that drifted up out of the depths of the well.

“I’ve found her. I’m going to need a second line.”

Paul dropped to the edge of the well and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Is she alright?”

“She seems fine, drop me that line.”

A child’s toneless humming drifted down to Claire as she watched a weighted line descend, and began to sing along.

“And if that horse and cart fall down, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.”

When she turned to glance at Amy, the little hand was reaching for the rope again.

Claire lurched forward. “Amy, no!” Thrusting her arm out as she shot her feet against the opposite wall, she propelled herself toward the child.

Amy’s bottom slipped to the edge of the ledge as she stretched for the rope. As if in slow motion, the ledge crumbled and the little girl seemed to hang in thin air as if waiting for Claire to rescue her.

Fingers that had thrown a thousand punches, connected to hands that had done a hundred pushups, wrapped around a pudgy little wrist and with one yank a cold and scared little six year old was pulled to Claire’s chest. With two muddy arms wrapped around her neck, Claire encircled Amy’s waist with her other hand and for just a minute they swung back and forth at the end of the rope.

“Claire, can you hear me? What’s going on?” Rye shouted.

“I have her, pull me up.”

With adrenaline born of success the two men began to pull, reeling Claire and Amy toward freedom. With inches to go, Paul fell to his stomach at the edge of the well.

“Daddy!” Two little arms shot up, fingers clenching open and closed. “Daddy!”

Paul grabbed his daughter in both arms and pulled her to him as he rolled away from the edge.

Claire reached a shaky hand up and over the edge. Rye came to her aid, grabbing her arm and reaching down for the back of the harness, then pulling her up with a grunt. The two fell to the ground.

Claire pushed up to her hands and knees and crawled away from the well, shaking and retching.

C

Chapter Thirteen

Rosie drove onto the film site at six the next morning; she liked to watch the production day begin. The catering truck was just arriving; the driver got out and opened the side. Climbing into the back, he started the coffee and put out a dozen doughnuts along with some yogurt and orange juice chilled in ice. He noticed Rosie watching.

“Good morning, Miss Rehnquist. Get you anything?”

She had hired the driver as an extra once and was tempted, but thought better of it. She had other business to attend to.

She gave a friendly wave. “No thanks, Mario.”

Everything from the truck was free; it was part of Rosie’s plan to keep her actors happy.

She sat in the director’s chair and watched the cameramen set up, and then checked her watch. She still had some time before the actors started arriving.

The stage manager and two gofers started putting together the sets, assembling three-sided bedrooms, arranging furniture in the living rooms according to the storyboards. Watching all the activity that went into just getting ready for a production always fascinated Rosie, even though she’d seen it a thousand times. This morning, though, she was on the set to solve a problem.

It had started with notes from the director that one of the male actors was abusing women during the shoot, several of whom had quit. Rosie had never seen the problem actor; she enjoyed watching sex when both actors were enjoying it. That happened seldom enough, there always seemed to be some kind of complication that involved multiple takes, something that everyone hated.

The actors provided valuable revenue to the other part of the business, and she had to retain as many as possible. Most of them had no connections with the structured world, no friends outside the industry. Most were estranged from their families.

Simms had followed up on yesterday’s meeting, calling to make sure that Rosie had arrived on the set to take care of their “Italian problem.” But Rosie had her own plans.

It was her practice to work with the director and make sure that all scenes were scripted and shot based on a storyboard. There was no gratuitous sex, only as much or as little as the story demanded, or as the director instructed.

It was easy for the man to get carried away while the woman was in a submissive position. During almost every sexual encounter, the man experienced orgasm while the woman didn’t. But Rosie knew that the men didn’t have it so easy either. They were required to retain an erection through several takes, surrounded by cameramen and lighting technicians.

Director Erin Von Seagram adjusted his headset. “Camera two, zoom out and get a wide shot of Clovis undressing. We’ll use it for B-roll later.”

As the director, he took it upon himself to keep track of personality conflicts that might interrupt the production. Shading his eyes, he scanned the sky. “Not a cloud in sight, perfect day for the outdoor shots,” he said. 

Occasionally, the actors didn’t want to follow the script and sometimes their suggestions were better, and he incorporated them into the scene. Looking at the roster for the upcoming scene, Von Seagram knew there was probably going to be a problem.

Having just had a fight with his wife, Michael Lambrosco would enter the apartment of his mistress and they would then engage in vigorous sex. It was a simple scene. Von Seagram had double-checked the camera angles the night before. That’s when he noticed Michael would be the male lead, and decided to call the owner of Lewd and Lascivious. She was usually around the set, but he hadn’t seen her in a couple of days. When she didn’t answer her phone, he left a message.

He set up the cameras in preparation for the potentially volatile scene. The woman would be on all fours and Michael would enter her from behind.

“Alright, listen up. Camera one, camera two, this is to be a simple scene. Camera one, you’re looking the woman in the face; two, you’re on the profile. The scene will open with the mistress answering the door.”

As Von Seagram readied for the take, checking lighting and calling for quiet on the set, he quickly glanced around for Rosie, but she was nowhere in sight.

He picked up the loudhailer. “Quiet on the set…and…action!”

Looking through the viewfinder of the tracking lens that allowed him to see what the camera was seeing, he watched Michael enter the set and undress. The woman playing the part of the mistress was already nude and on the bed.

Rosie stepped out of the shadows to stand next to the director.

“I got your message,” she whispered in the director’s ear. “Is that him?”

Von Seagram nodded.

“Let me see the storyboard.”

He reached over to the clipboard sitting on a stool, looking at it as he handed it to Rosie.

“Calls for an all-fours, plain and simple, no ad-libs. She knows that and so does he,” said Von Seagram. He nodded toward the nude female on the set. “Most of the time, I like the guys to ad-lib. The girls know that and go along with whatever the guy does. But not this time, not with this guy.”

Rosie took a minute to scan the various scenes on the storyboard. Looking up at the scene, the man was just entering the young brunette.

“Is that Michael?” Rosie said.

“Yeah, that’s him, Michael Lambrosco. Thinks he’s a real stud.”

Rosie watched as Michael worked like a jackhammer.

“See what I mean? Not just that he’s over the top but he’s messed up the scene. Look how he’s grabbing her hair, that’s not called for.”

He turned to Rosie. “Thank God she was oiled up. She must have known who her partner was going to be.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Michael said over his shoulder as he stepped from the scene.

“Hey, fuck you,” she said, and stomped off the set. She pulled on her terrycloth robe, and confronted Von Seagram. “See what that son-of-a-bitch did to me? He coulda torn me up and that sure as fucking hell weren’t in my script. I’m outta here.”

She turned and walked away without giving him a chance to respond.

When Von Seagram looked over for Rosie’s response, she was gone. He looked down at the clipboard she’d been holding, and at a harshly scrawled message she’d left on the storyboard.

“You see that? Absolutely no gratitude,” Michael said shaking his head in mock concern. “Hey, I hope you got the shot.”

“Give it a rest Michael, Rosie wants to see you in her trailer ASAP,” Von Seagram said.

Michael walked from the set, pulled on a terrycloth robe, paused to tighten it, then knocked on the trailer door. He was surprised to see the owner of the company answer the door in a similar robe.

“Ah, hey, Miss Rehnquist. Von Seagram said you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah, thanks for coming so soon.” Rosie stepped back, inviting Michael to come in. “Can I offer you some coffee? Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”

“Nah. That’s ok. I’m good.”

“Michael, let me get right to the point. You don’t stick to the script and I’m losing girls because of you,” Rosie said, as she set the little box she’d been holding on the coffee table.

“Well, maybe I’m a little more then they can handle, if you know what I mean.”

Rosie retained her best stone face. “Oh, I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Michael gave a silly grin. “Well, you know I’m Italian, right?” He gave a little thrust with his hips.

“Ok. You’re Italian,” she said, keeping the blank look on her face.

“Like I said, maybe I’m more then they can handle.”

That was Rosie’s cue. She walked up to Michael and untied his robe. He never saw the syringe she held against her left wrist.

“Let’s just take a look.” She stood staring at his growing erection, letting her own robe fall off her shoulders. With Michael fully distracted, she reached out with her right hand as if to pull him into an embrace and thrust the needle deep into his neck.

Michael convulsed several times.

“You just scared the shit out of me, baby,” Rosie said, jabbing a second needle deep, filling the vein with pure heroin. “That’s for all the girls, you bastard.”

Michael’s eyes grew wide then slowly closed.

Chapter Fourteen

The vintage ambulance sped along the Oregon I-5 corridor north from Medford. No sirens, just a simple blue light spinning to keep the police away. If pulled over, all their papers were up to date and indicated the transport of an organ. Besides, police rarely pulled over a speeding ambulance.

Derrick looked over at Hubble. If there was ever a man of few words, it was Hubble. He rarely said anything beyond what was needed. Derrick didn’t trust him.

He loosened his seat harness; it would be a long drive to Exit 40, which would take them to the coast and the town of Denton. He slid his hips out so he could slump into the seat and closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to try and figure out how he had gone from a respected anesthesiologist working at a clinic designated for donor organ extraction, to a murderer.

Simms, a doctor no one seemed to have heard of, had originally recruited him out of his internship at Medford General. It was to be a prestigious and lucrative position working in a private clinic. He was to assist, in his capacity as anesthesiologist, with the removal of organs from donors. He was told that some went directly to recipients, others to universities.

He opened his eyes and looked back over at Hubble, seat harness pulled tight, hands on the steering wheel precisely at twelve and three, back pressed into the seat, speed at exactly eighty-five miles an hour. Anal son-of-a-bitch.

Derrick closed his eyes again. He remembered how less than a week into his new job, Hubble had been waiting to talk to him out side OR 13, after a heart extraction.

“Derrick I need a word. In my office in fifteen minutes.”

That was it, no greeting, no reason why, nothing.

He stared at Hubble knowing the man wouldn’t so much as turn his head. He always figured Hubble deserved his tiny office, bare of anything that might identify who he was, dominated by a large wooden desk framed by dark wood-paneled walls without so much as a picture frame.

When he walked in, Hubble was busy writing on a yellow legal pad. He looked up from whatever he was working on and smiled, the first smile Derrick had seen from the man.

“Have a seat, Derrick. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

Derrick turned in his chair, scooting it a little to one side to see who was coming through the door. A stunning, statuesque brunette with breasts he couldn’t ignore entered. He’d only seen the person who hired him once, but Rosie Rehnquist wasn’t someone you easily forgot. She walked directly to where Hubble had been sitting, leaned over the desk and extended her hand. “Derrick, right?” She looked over at Hubble as if for conformation. “I’m Rosie Rehnquist.”

He stood and took her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Have a seat and relax, I want to make sure you understand the nature of our business here at L & L.”

He looked from Rosie to Hubble, who was sitting on the edge of the desk. “I understand perfectly.”

Rosie smiled, running a thumb inside her blouse to adjust her bra strap. “Actually, I don’t think you do. And that’s why I’m here.”

As if on cue, Hubble walked around and shut the door, then leaned against it. Derrick craned his neck to see where he’d gone, then looked back at Rosie.

“I’ll come right to the point,” Rosie paused, studying Derrick’s features. “L & L sells organs to the highest bidder through the black market.”

Derrick, concerned with the welfare of his patients, said, “What happens to the donors?”

“They die. But understand that because of your services as anesthesiologist, they feel no pain.”

He was still trying to get his mind around what Rosie was saying. “What happens to the bodies?”

Rosie gave Derrick a weak smile. “Do you realize that what I’ve told you makes you an accomplice, and what you decide to do with this information will determine what we do with you?”

Derrick didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

“If you put in with us you’ll get rich, and if not, well.” Rosie gave a shrug, tilted her head and held her hands out at her sides.

Derrick smiled. “Being wealthy doesn’t seem so bad to me.”

Rosie sighed and Hubble returned to his place on the edge of the desk. “Great,” Rosie said. “In the days ahead you’ll be filled in on every aspect of L & L.”

Derrick continued sitting as Rosie and Hubble left the office, saying that he just needed some time alone.

The image of the meeting with Rosie and Hubble began to fade as the motion of the ambulance gently rocked him to sleep.

He was suddenly jolted awake, forcefully pulled forward against his seat harness. His eyes flew open and he was instantly alert. He watched as a doe and two fawns leapt from the shoulder of the road into some overgrowth. Hubble quickly brought the ambulance back to speed.

“Rest stop two miles ahead, you need to go?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You having any problems with the extraction?” Hubble asked.

“You mean the murder? No, the guy probably had it coming. When I was brought into this, Simms assured me that all organs were extracted under clinical conditions. That if it was a live donor, it was my job to make sure they didn’t feel a thing. The guy who used to own that liver suffered, and that was anything but a clinical situation.”

Hubble didn’t say a word but glanced his way. Derrick began to wonder if he’d said too much, but relaxed when Hubble focused back on the road.

But then Hubble said, “You know what we do. Sometimes people don’t understand. We can’t take the risk that some guilty individual will go to the police. I can only say that this guy was a doctor who should have been assisting Simms, but changed his mind.”

“I see,” Derrick said. “So if I objected to our little extraction, as you so nicely put it, I could end up a donor?”

Hubble gave Derrick another glance. “Not likely—you’re too valuable to the company. Besides, your face is on hundreds of taped extractions, and I think Rosie actually likes you.”

Fat chance. He’d only met her twice and she didn’t seem to remember him. Derrick sat back into the seat, tightened his harness and closed his eyes. In a mater of minutes he was fast asleep.

He dreamed he was fully aroused lying on his bed. A woman walked into the room and began to undress. The more clothes she removed, the longer her hair became until all her clothes lay on the floor and her hair was down to her knees. As she leaned over to climb onto the bed, her hair dragged. The woman paused next to him, on her knees. Reaching around, she pulled her hair to one side as if she was going to fasten it out of the way. To Derrick’s horror, when she moved her hair, it revealed a hole in her side where her liver should have been. Then she leaned in for a kiss. Derrick couldn’t take his eyes off the hole in her side, and all the time she kept coming closer.

“Derrick!” The voice shattered his sleep. Hubble shoved him, hard. “Wake up.”

Derrick awoke with a jolt, suddenly aware of his surroundings. By the time he finally got the image of the nude woman with the hole in her side out of his head, Hubble was out of the cab, standing at the passenger side window with the ice chest in his hand.

“C’mon, we’ve got to get this into the walk-in.”

Derrick unfastened his harness and climbed out of the ambulance. “I’m coming.”

They entered through the rear of the clinic, went up the hall, turned into the second door on the right and walked to the back of the office where they stopped in front of a large, black door. Hubble turned and handed the ice chest to Derrick, took a key from his pocket, opened the big door and stared in. In the center of the room, he saw a body bag laying on a gurney. It was obviously occupied.

“Looks like a trip to the mine,” Hubble said.

When Simms purchased the property for his mansion and the clinic, he discovered an old mine less then a mile from the building site. It was Rosie’s idea to wire it up and install a giant walk-in cooler in one of the side tunnels. As often as three or four times a week, Derrick and Hubble would come to the clinic to retrieve a body and take it to the mine.

Hubble took the ice chest from Derrick and placed it on a shelf. The two men carried the body bag to the ambulance and drove to the end of the pavement where they placed it on what looked like a golf cart converted into a tiny pickup with treads. Derrick closed his eyes as they drove into the mine; he hated what came next.

Hubble was already out of the little cart. “C’mon, I can’t do this by myself.”

Derrick reached under his seat, put on the leather gloves he found there and walked around to where Hubble was waiting.

“Jeez’ man, why do we have to take the body out of the bag every time?”

“For the same reason they don’t leave bodies in the bag at the morgue: off gassing. The goddamn bag would explode.”

Hubble threw a paper mask designed to cover the nose and mouth at Derrick. “No more questions! Now put on your goddamn mask and let’s get going.”

The two struggled to slip the semi-rigid corpse of a young female out of the body bag. Hubble held the ankles; Derrick placed a hand under each shoulder. He tried not to look at the body. Most of the women looked like they were asleep, the same way they looked under anesthetic. He liked to look at their breasts, something he’d never admit to anyone.

He could always determine which organ was missing by the location of the scar. The real shock had come when one of the bodies was a young woman he’d had sex with up at the mansion shortly after he was hired. They never told him where the bodies came from, only that they were donors.

The two waddled under the awkward weight of the dead woman, around the cart and through the low entrance to a small room. Hubble slid his foot around the floor at the entrance until he found the button that turned on the spotlights that lit up the tiny room.

Derrick never got used to the gruesome sight of all the bodies. Mostly women, stacked like so much cordwood.

The near constant 68 degrees of the mine combined with the 38 degrees of the open cooler slowed the decay process, so it was easy to spot the bodies that had been down the longest. Something caught Derrick’s attention. Some of the women had their hair tied back and several of the bodies were on the floor. Hubble saw Derrick staring.

He bent to grab the ankles of one of the corpses on the floor. “They must have fallen, give me a hand,” Hubble said.

As they lifted the body, Derrick noticed tiny puckered craters in the fine dust that covered the stone floor, water drops. He looked at the ceiling, but there was no sign of moisture. “What the fuck…?” he said under his breath.

He looked across at Hubble whose eyes were glued to the body. Derrick felt sick.

Chapter Fifteen

Hubble listened to the director’s report on his cell phone as he drove back down the coast, heading for the cutoff that would take him to I-5 South, and back to Medford. He’d left Derrick behind to assist with a couple of surgeries. Just as well. Rosie needed him to pick up a body.

“Simms was here and said that I had two hours to finish the shoot with her, stormed out, then called and said he had to head back up north. Said to call you,” Von Seagram was saying to Hubble.

“Get to the point,” Hubble said.

“Yeah, well, like I was saying, this doll, what’s her name, Crystal, is a loose cannon. Seems she confided in a set director that this was her last day, that she was going to go to the mansion, get her friend and go back home.”

“What’d you do, hit on her?” Hubble couldn’t resist pressing the temperamental director’s buttons. “Seagram, if you’re moving drugs through these girls or fucking them on the side—goddamn it, you know we have to keep them clean.”

The director’s indignant voice was shrill in Hubble’s ear, and made all the more high pitched by the cell phone.

“Hey, fuck you! I’m trying to tell you that this bitch is quitting.”

“Where is she now?”

“Heading down the hill. File says she’s staying at the Motel Two, Room 209.”

Hubble slammed the clamshell cell phone shut, abruptly hanging up on the director. Laughing, he tossed it on the passenger seat. God, I love this job, he thought.

Von Seagram starred at his phone for a minute then slammed the handset into the cradle.

“Fuckin’ hung up on me. Director of the goddamn film and he hangs up on me. Hubble, you’re a prick.”

* * *

Hubble arrived at Rosie Rehnquist’s trailer and lightly knocked on her door. “It’s Hubble.”

She opened the door just a crack. Hubble stepped in and quickly shut the door when he saw what appeared to be a body covered with a blanket on the floor. He bent over and lifted the cover. Michael’s robe was open and a partly bandaged hole was oozing fluid. “I thought you said he overdosed in his trailer.”

“I’m saving you a trip up the coast. You look like shit. When was the last time you slept?”

He kept looking down at the corpse. “Couple a’ days. How did you make the extraction?”

Rosie ran a thumb inside her blouse, adjusting her bra. “The set doctor was a surgeon before becoming an alcoholic.”

Hubble let the blanket drop, and moved to the rear of the trailer. “What are you going to tell Simms? And what am I supposed to do with the body?”

“Leave Simms to me.”

Hubble shook his head, still looking at the covered corpse.

“Hey, no more questions. Take him up to the old quarry in the foothills. You can sleep here tonight and grab the blonde the first thing in the morning.”

Rosie slammed out of the little trailer and walked across the lot to the office.

“What do you mean you have a liver? You were supposed to deliver the Italian for extraction, remember?” Simms said

Rosie held the phone away from her ear, and could still hear Simms.

“Hey, you aren’t the only surgeon. I just saved you a trip and Clouse hours in surgery.”

“Tell me you didn’t use that drunken quack you keep up there. This isn’t Fanny Farmer buying a liver for her sick father. We’re dealing with some very well-connected, very nasty folks.”

Rosie felt the blood drain from her face as she hung up the phone.

Chapter Sixteen

Crystal leaned on a false wall just off the set, waiting for her cue. The man across the room, crouching and just out of camera angle, pointed at her. Stepping into the room, she began to take off her clothes, weaving her hips from left to right as she pulled her panties down. One of the male stars walked in already nude and began to fondle her breasts as he led her to bed. Without hesitation, he rolled on top of her.

“Cut!” yelled the director. Then out came a guy holding a clapboard with the scene and the take number.

“Scene 12, take two.” He brought the clapper down, which made a strange knocking sound, and Crystal started undressing all over again.

“Cut!” The guy stepped out with the clapboard again. And again it made a weird knocking sound.

Cut, knock, and she was undressing again, and again, and again, until she was ready to scream. Then she did.

Crystal opened her eyes to a lop-sided view of the clock on her bedside stand. It read 7:00 am in glowing green numbers.

“Shit.”

She was never an early riser and although the dream had been upsetting, the fact was that Jan hadn’t called. The phone still lay next to her pillow. Trance-like, she made her way to the bathroom where she started the little coffee machine on the counter by the sink. As it began to percolate, she thought she heard a knocking. She splashed water on her face, then headed back to the night stand to get the envelope containing Jan’s bio that she would take to the police.

Her thoughts were interrupted by more knocking at the door. She was reminded of the knocking from her nightmare and wondered who was at her door, and how long they’d been there. For a heartbeat, she thought it might be Jan, but Jan would have said something by now.

“Hold on,” Crystal yelled, popping the first stick of gum of the day in her mouth and chewing vigorously.

But the knocking continued. She pulled on one of her long T-shirts, then realized as she moved toward the door that she had no idea who it was. The only people who knew where she was staying were from Lewd and Lascivious.

“Shit.”

Leaning her shoulder against the door she inched it open, the chain still latched, and peeked out.

“You! I’m finished, not coming back. So fuck the contract and keep the money,” Crystal shouted, and slammed the door.

She turned and leaned her back against the door.

“I have word from Jan,” said the muffled voice.

Crystal turned, unhooked the security chain, and flung the door open. She’d started another stick of gum and was chewing faster then ever.

Hubble stood in the doorway, not attempting to enter.

“Come in, but I warn you, you’d better not be lying, cuz no matter what you say, I’m not going back to the set.”

Hubble stepped across the threshold but made no attempt to enter the room.

“This has nothing to do with your contract. Jan is sick, apparently got a little food poisoning—maybe from salmon at the big dinner at the mansion. Not sick enough to need medical care, but pretty sick. Anyway, she asked if we could come get you.”

Crystal was thunderstruck; she’d spent the past twenty-four hours vilifying everyone at Lewd and Lascivious, in particular the director, and especially Hubble, who she viewed as the person who started her in the business.

“If you draw me a map to the mansion,” she said, “I’ll leave right away. I’ve got a rental car. Do you know how long it’ll take to get there?”

Hubble could see that he’d won her over and slowly entered the room.

“Mr. Simms feels responsible and sent me to provide transportation. I’ll follow you to the rental place in town where we can turn in your car. I’ll drive you from there.”

Jan must have gotten sick during the day, too sick to stay up until eleven. But why didn’t she call during the day and leave a message or something? Jan knew she’d worry.

“Sure, I just need to shower and change, you don’t need to wait,” Crystal said.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” 

Crystal just glared her answer.

“OK, sure. I’ll just wait for you in the front of the Hertz lot. If I don’t see you pulling in within the hour, I’ll come looking,” Hubble said with a smile.

Crystal stood in the middle of the room watching Hubble walk out the door, then walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside, peeking through to watch him pull out of the motel parking lot.

Jan had said in her last phone call that she had to keep her cell phone on her so no one would find it.

Picking up the motel phone, Crystal dialed 0 to get an outside line then punched in Jan’s cell number. She let it ring twenty times. Nothing.

As she climbed out of the shower and began toweling off a wave of relief passed through her. She was going to see Jan and be free of this horrible pornography business. But as she dressed and packed, she began to wonder just how sick Jan was. Hubble had said not sick enough to need a doctor. It didn’t matter; she’d bundle her up, throw her stuff in the Subaru, and take her home.

She spotted Hubble in a black and red Dodge Caravan and gave him a feeble wave as she drove into the Hertz Rent-a-Car parking lot. Hubble’s intentions seemed OK, but something just didn’t feel right.

Fifteen minutes later when he opened the rear hatch of the Caravan so she could stash her two suitcases, she couldn’t help but notice that the entire back was packed with cardboard boxes filled with videotapes. She shuddered and could only guess the contents.

Hubble caught her hesitation at seeing the boxes of tapes and with a leering smile said, “You’re in some of those.”

She ignored the comment, tossed her two bags on the boxes of tapes and walked around to the passenger side of the van, got in and fastened her shoulder harness.

She ran scenarios about how sick Jan was through her mind until finally she knew she’d drive herself crazy if she kept it up.

“How far to the mansion? I mean, how long will it take?”

Hubble didn’t answer for a minute and she was about to repeat her question when he spoke.

“Sorry, just doing a little figuring. About six hours to the turn off, then another half an hour to the property. You might as well get comfortable.”

But she couldn’t get comfortable and began chewing her gum. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jan, and the feeling that something just wasn’t right.

“Did you see Jan? How sick was she?”

“Actually, I was still in L.A. when I got the call from Dr. Simms. You know, most of the women that fulfill their contracts and end up at the mansion could drop off the face of the earth and no one would care. But Dr. Simms really takes an interest in the welfare of the girls, thinks of them like family. Your friend is lucky.”

She felt a cold chill at Hubble’s ‘drop off the face of the earth’ comment.

“Jan and I have a lot of friends and family,” Crystal bleated.

“Yeah, right. Your parents are eagerly awaiting the next release from Lewd and Lascivious to see who their daughter’s banging,” Hubble said.

Crystal was suddenly frightened and now began popping her gum. Hubble’s attitude had changed. But she was determined to put up a strong front.

“Well, maybe not our parents. Shit, but a lot of friends. I’ve been calling them almost every night.”

Hubble gave a little laugh, then turned a half smile on Crystal. “Sure you have. Hey, remember me? I’m the guy who recruited you.”

He changed his voice to a falsetto.

“Oh Mr. Hubble, I wouldn’t be doing this, but I need the money.” Then with a sneer, in his own voice he said, “If I’d laid out the money, you’d have blown me on the spot. So don’t lie to me.”

Crystal felt revealed and vulnerable, but most of all pissed.

“Get fucked,” Crystal said.

“Don’t tempt me, bitch. There’s a rest stop up ahead.”

As they sped down the freeway, her heart pounded and once again her mind went into overdrive. And so did her jaw, chomping on her gum until she had rendered it to a tasteless pulp.

“Hey, get rid of that fucking gum.” Hubble hit the switch that rolled down the passenger side window. “Right now!”

She gave Hubble the finger as she took the gum from her mouth, and rolling it into a ball between her thumb and index finger, flicked it out the window.

Just as the rest stop came into sight, Hubble slowed and put on his turn signal, turned and looked at Crystal cowering in the space between the seat and the door, then started laughing. He turned off the blinker and accelerated. “Just kidding, don’t pee your pants. Simms wants you delivered unmolested.”

Crystal was in a panic. Delivered? What’s that supposed to mean?

“Oh, shit,” Crystal said. She wasn’t responding to Hubble’s taunts but was looking at traffic. Suddenly the cars that had been jockeying for position, each trying to get ahead of the other, began to collide. Crystal gasped then began to point. “Stop the van.”

Hubble was looking at Crystal, who was now bouncing in her seat as she pointed.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Then he looked back at traffic. “Holy shit!”

“Pull over!

“Forget it, there’ll be a cop along in a minute,” Hubble said.

Crystal unbuckled her seat belt and began climbing into the back with the tapes

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Hubble yelled.

“Goddamn it, pull over or these tapes go out the back.”

Hubble swung a vicious backhand intended for her face. “You bitch, when I get my hands on you.”

Just out of reach, Crystal struck out at Hubble’s hand with a tape smacking him on the knuckles. “Pull over. Now!”

“OK, I’m pulling over, calm down.”

Chapter Seventeen

Brad Myers sped up to within two feet of the rear bumper of a shiny silver SUV then tapped the brake of his BMW for the tenth time, creating another few feet between them. He was desperate to either get around the SUV or to get it to speed up. His way was totally blocked: an ageing VW bus, an SUV, and a line of 18-wheelers were bogged down in the slow lane.

Brad eyed the silver SUV. “Sport Utility Vehicle. I bet they don’t even take that thing off-road,” he said, speaking to no one in particular. He accelerated even closer. “Come on, goddamn it, take a hint.”

Dan Roman was also in a hurry as he drove north up I-5. The four 18-wheelers in the right lane made it impossible to pass, and there was no excuse for the BMW ahead of him to be dragging its heels as it kept surging forward then slowing, then blasting forward again.

“I’m just going to follow that BMW next time it speeds up. Maybe he’ll take the hint,” Dan whispered to his two sleeping passengers.

Dan was taking his girlfriend, Kim, and her younger sister, Judy, up the coast to a popular bed and breakfast; he’d been driving for hours.

Two of the Big Rigs were loaded to capacity, two were empty and heading home but stuck behind a Dodge Caravan, which itself was trapped behind a ‘68 VW bus driving wide open at fifty-eight miles an hour. The driver of the silver SUV glanced in his rear view mirror as the BMW rode up to within a couple of feet of his rear bumper.

“Would you look at that, Marge?” George Shepherd turned to his wife. “We’re being tailgated.”

Marge kept crocheting as she turned in her seat to have a look at the BMW. “Just tap your brakes, then when he backs off, slow down. That’ll teach him.” Marge turned her huge bulk around, unbuckling her seat belt in order to reach the skein of yarn that had tangled at her feet.

As the VW neared the crest of the hill, the driver had to downshift, dropping his speed to forty-five.

At first, it seemed that Marge’s advice had worked: as soon as George tapped his brakes, the BMW dropped back several car lengths.

When Brad Meyers, the driver of the BMW, glanced into his rear view mirror, he was shocked. There was a Chevy Nova so close that he couldn’t see the hood.

The Dodge Caravan in the right lane saw George slow his SUV and took the opportunity to cut in front just as the Big Rig immediately behind him spotted the same opening. Unfortunately, it did not notice the Caravan’s lane change and accelerated toward the space. The Dodge swerved back into the slow lane leaving the space for the semi.

Brad stomped on the gas just as George hit the brakes of his SUV, slowing from seventy down to fifty-five.

When Brad shifted his vision from the rear view mirror to the windshield, he hit the brakes, simultaneously cranking the wheel of the BMW hard to the left to avoid colliding with the SUV.

“Oh shit!” Brad shouted

The angle Brad intended to put him just left of the huge SUV was drastically altered when the Chevy Nova, following Brad’s deceleration, was too close to avoid slamming into the rear end of the BMW, pushing it to right angles with the SUV and into a roll.

George instinctively hit the gas of his SUV when he saw the BMW roll, sending the big vehicle surging forward, filling the space it had just created, that was about to be filled by the eighteen-wheeler.

The truck driver saw the space vanish. With his forward momentum working against him, he braced for collision, sounding his air horn seconds before he rammed the SUV just forward of the rear wheel, tossing the sport utility vehicle onto its side.

The black BMW and the silver SUV looked like a pair of dice as they rolled, one in front of the other, at nearly fifty mph.

Just as the Chevy Nova slowed, the Big Rig’s trailer began to slide around until it shimmied and skidded into the Nova’s rear with such force that the Chevy was launched into the tumbling BMW. Dan’s girlfriend and sister lay curled up on the back seat of the Chevy Nova, spooning, nestled against the padded back, seat belts long forgotten and pushed out of the way, sound asleep.

When the careening Big Rig’s trailer slammed the Chevy, the two girls were pressed into the deeply padded backrest from the acceleration. As their forward motion slammed the vehicle into the tumbling BMW, the Nova’s forward speed instantly dropped from eighty-five to less than twenty. The girls flew over the passenger backrest at sixty miles per hour where they pierced the windshield, shot across the hood, and hit the BMW with flailing motions, falling listlessly to the ground.

For nearly a mile, the thousands of pounds of steel that made up the SUV, BMW, Chevy Nova and Big Rig skidded and rolled until the grade of the hill they were climbing brought the macabre parade of vehicles to a stand still.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Crystal whispered, viewing the carnage through the huge windshield of the Dodge Caravan. Hubble had pulled onto the shoulder of the highway, having forgotten Crystal’s defiance at the sight of the accident.

“Goddamn.”

Crystal found a bundle of flares in the back, leaned forward and dropped them into Hubble’s lap. “Here, make yourself useful.”

He glared at her for an instant then got out of the van without a word, flares in hand.

Chapter Eighteen

“Unit 88, multiple vehicle accident, respond.”

Claire unclipped the handheld mic and got the location from dispatch. “Medford Ambulance must be out of the area,” she said, looking across at Rye with a sly smile. “I think we just moved up the ladder.”

Once on the interstate, it was another eight miles to the scene of the accident, but within a mile, traffic was at a stand still and Rye had to take the last seven miles on the shoulder of the road.

“Look,” Rye said, pointing.

Claire looked up from her clipboard and counted three separate swirls of black smoke. “Think I should alert the hospital to possible burn victims?” Claire said.

“Let’s wait and see what we’ve got.”

It was a good call; when they rounded the final curve on the interstate, it was evident that the fire trucks had the vehicle fires under control.

“Pull up there,” Claire said pointing at a fireman who was flagging them down. The ambulance had barley stopped before they jumped out.

“Got two real bad ones, through the windshield,” Fireman Jake Bradshaw said, pointing toward a crumpled pile of steel that had once been the Chevy Nova.

Running to the rear of the ambulance, Rye popped the massive double doors and grabbed his jump kit. “Where again?”

“Far shoulder, crumpled but not rolled, no fire,” Jake said.

“Thanks!”

While Rye zigzagged his way around the wrecks en route to the Chevy, Claire stayed back, getting an overall evaluation from Jake.

“One trapped, Jaws of Life are on the way, couple in the SUV look pretty bad, she wasn’t belted.”

“What about the driver of the big rig?” Claire asked.

“Harnessed in, rode out the accident and is…” Jake looked at the big fire truck and at the reclining figure, “…there, being treated for shock,” he said, pointing. “Driver of the Chevy is pinned behind the wheel, conscious, but not lucid, fire chief is with him now, figured we’d let you guys deal with extraction.”

Rye took one look at the two women lying at the base of the BMW and spun around.

“Claire,” Rye yelled back across the interstate. “Through the windshield, facial, head, and neck.”

“Thanks Jake, got to dash,” Claire said, as she turned to run back to the ambulance for the backboard.

As she pulled the wooden board with handles from its place in the back, Claire flashed on how times had changed. Ten years ago, passing through a windshield would have meant cuts and lacerations; now windshields were a sheet of glass between two sheets of plastic. Human impact now meant punching a hole, with the trapped glass forming teeth-like shards that shred and rip.

When she first got sight of the sisters and the Chevy Nova, she realized how lucky they were. “How they doing?” she asked.

“Not bad, really. Apparently when the Chevy stopped, they kept moving. The older of the two,” Rye indicated the young woman directly in front of the crumpled grill of the Chevy, “struck the windshield lengthwise instead of head first, popping out the entire sheet of plastic and glass. Looks like the speed of her body was slowed by the impact so that she came down on the hood.”

Claire picked up the narrative as she moved to the young woman who lay crumpled at the foot of the BMW. “Not so lucky, her younger companion here. She looks to have sailed through the space once occupied by the windshield doing nearly sixty, I’d say, until the BMW stopped her.”

Claire knelt over the young woman and began the process of locating injury, slicing away clothes as she found various breaks and fractures.

Twenty minutes later, the second ambulance arrived and was transporting the sisters as the fire and rescue teams applied the Jaws of Life to the driver’s door of the Chevy Nova.

They moved on to the SUV, lying on its side. Rye climbed up and extended a hand for Claire, opened the driver’s side door like a hatch, and propped it open with his jump kit.

The driver was conscious, though hardly moving, and seemed to be straining at the seatbelt.

“Sir, my partner and I are here to help you, please hold still. I’ll get you out,” Rye said, lowering himself down so he was just behind the driver’s seat. Claire lowered herself down, hanging for a minute by her arms then dropping less then a foot. “Can you tell me your name, sir?” Rye said.

“George Shepard. Marge, where’s Marge?”

“Is that your wife, sir?”

George didn’t reply. “Sir, your belt release is jammed so I’m going to cut the belt to get you out, OK? Is that OK?” Rye said, getting the retractable razor from his holster. Still there was no reply. Rye looked over at Claire. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s in shock.

“OK, George, on the count of three I’m going to cut the seat belt that’s holding you in place, I’ll keep you from falling. All you have to do is relax.”

Still no response.

Claire reached up and grabbed the edge of the passenger door. “I’m going to climb out and see if I can spot Jake and get him to open the back hatch.”

Rye gave Claire a thumbs up.

Looking around from her vantage point on the side of the overturned SUV, Claire spotted Jake interviewing the driver of the big rig.

“Jake!” Claire yelled, waving so he could spot her. “Need some assist with a shock victim, bring a friend.”

Jake and another firefighter jogged over, peeled off their heavy jackets and climbed up next to her.

“Looks like you’ve got a pretty big boy down there,” Jake said. 

Rye looked up at the beefy fire and rescue team leader. “Driver here is deep in shock, his wife is curled up in the back. I’d like to go for her first.”

“Sounds good. Let’s leave him be, and clear the way to the rear hatch. You and Claire work on the wife, we’ll get the hatch open.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rye said, as he watched Claire gracefully come back down into the van.

The crumpled form of Marge Shepard lay behind the front passenger seat; the rear seats apparently laid flat for the trip. Because the SUV had rolled, objects had become projectiles. Rye gingerly stepped around water bottles and books to crouch next to Marge’s body. Claire was watching from the front of the van. He looked back at her, understanding her reluctance to join him.

“Mrs. Shepard, can you hear me? Marge?” No response.

He placed two fingers high up on the side of her neck and found a strong pulse, then looked over at Claire and yelled, “She’s got a healthy pulse and I don’t see any blood.” The entire SUV shook as the two firemen tugged on the rear hatch. Marge Shepard rolled from her side onto her back. Rye danced out of the way just in time. When he looked back at Claire, she was still up front and pale as a ghost. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Claire said. “It’s just a little tight down here.”

Looking back at Marge’s stretched out body, he figured she must have weighed at least 400 pounds. While one breast was draped on her side, the other was standing up like a high school boys’ dream. Something metallic was poking out of the top. Rye sliced away the dress, then Marge’s bra. The nipple of her left breast was pierced, about an inch of metal sticking out. Rye couldn’t figure out what he was looking at.

“Claire, I need you over here.”

She took a deep breath then duck-walked next to him.

The muffled voice of Jake came through the back hatch.

“We’re going to need you to push.”

Rye got up and stepped over to the hatch, leaning against it with his shoulder.

“I’m at the hatch, let’s do this together.”

“On the count of three, we’ll pry and you push,” Jake said. “One, two, three.”

Without a sound, the rear hatch on the SUV popped open, but as it did, the huge vehicle lost its square shape, sagging as if about to flatten out. Rye whirled around at the sound of a gasp.

Claire was down on her knees with her hands over her head. He could hear her rapid breathing. He turned back to Jake who was already jogging back toward the big rig, returning to his interview with the trucker. He moved quickly to Claire’s side.

“I’m going to need your help. You alright?”

“I think so, with the side door and hatch open I should be fine.”

When he knelt down next to Claire, he took her by the arm. “Just watch your breathing.” He removed a cloth from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Ready?”

Claire smiled and nodded.

Rye pointed at Marge’s erect breast. “What’s that?”

Claire had been in too much of a panic to note Marge’s condition. She bent down for a close-up of the protrusion from the nipple.

The object was metal, round with a rounded end and light colored. She didn’t answer at first, but straightened up and began looking around the inside of the SUV for anything that might give her a hint. Then she spotted Marge’s crocheting and the tangled skein of yarn.

“I think it’s a knitting needle,” Claire said. “There isn’t much blood. Judging from the size of her breast, I doubt that the needle reached the muscle, but I think that there’s a hook at the end. Extraction?” Claire said, looking up at Rye.

“I think so. If it gets bumped in transit, aside from tearing up her breast, it could pierce the chest muscle. But if you don’t mind, I’d like you to stabilize her breast and I’ll do the extraction.”

Claire kept her thumbs against the nipple, hands wrapped around the girth while Rye began to manipulate the crocheting needle.

“I’m going to bring the needle up the same path it made in penetration, and snag as little tissue as possible with the hook.” He managed to remove the needle without much problem, and then stem the blood flow.

“I think she’s bigger than George. Slide in the backboard and see if you can get Jake back here with another person to help move her out,” Rye said.

Forty minutes and three beefy firemen later, with Rye and Claire doing the directing, George and Marge Shepard were transported. Although neither had suffered any life-threatening injuries, Claire figured Marge’s excessive weight had probably been responsible for numerous muscle tears.

She had gone back to the ambulance to restock the jump kit, leaving Rye to work on Brad Meyers after they’d pulled him from his crumpled BMW.

Somebody grabbed Rye’s wrist. He whipped around to see a young blonde kneeling down beside and slightly behind him.

“Please help me, my name is Crystal.”

She appeared nervous, constantly looking over her shoulder. Quickly taking in the young woman as not having any obvious injuries, Rye assumed that she might be suffering from shock.

“Are you injured?” Rye said.

“Please.”

“If you could wait until my partner gets here…” Rye never got to finish his sentence. The girl abruptly got up and walked over to a red Dodge Caravan on the shoulder of the road.

A few moments later, Claire arrived and finished suturing up the numerous cuts and punctures Brad had received from everything from flying coins and pencils to CDs that acted like flying razors.

“Guy’s a mess, Claire. Lost a lot of blood. No arteries cut, but a lot of punctures that need irrigating.” He took a minute to point out some areas of concern. “I’m headed over to that Dodge on the shoulder of the road. I think there’s a girl there that might be in shock. Holler when he’s ready to be moved.”

Chapter Nineteen

The girl was sitting in the opening made by the sliding side door of the Dodge Caravan. Rye noticed that she watched his progress closely as he made his way to where the vehicle was parked on the shoulder.

“Hi. My name’s Rye. You’re Crystal, isn’t that what you said?”

Crystal didn’t say a word.

Rye knew that most non-injury shock cases are unable to understand the carnage that they see at an accident scene. They often feel so helpless that they shut down.

“You know, most of the people involved in this accident came through OK,” Rye said, watching the young woman for a reaction. “As a matter of fact, the driver of that SUV wasn’t hurt at all.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Crystal said.

It was obvious from the tone of her voice that she wasn’t concerned in the least about the accident victim’s injuries, wasn’t in shock, and had no apparent injury.

“You asked for help, but you look fine. What do you need?”

Rye had carried his jump kit with him, and set it down next to Crystal. The sliding side door of the van was open enough to allow him a view inside where he spotted the cardboard box filled with videotapes. “Excuse me, can I help you?” a deep male voice said, startling Rye.

“Oh, sorry,” Rye said, turning his back on Crystal to get a look at the source of the booming voice.

“I see that you two have met. I’m Sherman Van Drake,” Hubble said, extending a hand.

“Rye Anderson, pleased to meet you and thanks for your help with the flares. It’s not everyone who comes across an auto accident and cares enough to help out.”

Crystal slipped Hubble an “I told you so” look without Rye seeing.

“Not a problem.” Hubble walked around Rye to join her. “Just glad to have been able to help.” Turning to her he said, “Why don’t you get in the van, we need to be on our way.”

That was it, no small talk about the accident, no curiosity about injuries.

Claire was just finishing up with the driver of the BMW when Rye returned, jump kit in hand.

“Good timing, he’s stable and ready to transport,” she said.

The ride back to headquarters was the usual rehash of what had happened, what they saw, what they had done. The object was to keep details of the accident fresh in mind until they were able to fill out the reports.

“You run in and start your report, it’s my turn to restock and do maintenance.” Rye said.

Claire stayed in the cab until he had backed the ambulance into the garage. “We need to talk,” she said, and then hopped out and headed for the side door that opened into the kitchen.

Rye watched her leave, knowing she was still upset about their demotion. Walking to the front of the aging ambulance, he wondered what was on her mind.

“This should just take a minute, I’ll be right in.”

He popped the hood on the ambulance and began checking fluids. As he stepped onto the front bumper and reached down into the engine compartment for the power brake fluid dipstick, he was reminded how he and Claire had selected their ambulance model with a test drive and that it was Claire who dubbed it “The Beast.” He couldn’t believe it was still in the shop and that they had to drive this backup.

Checking the belts was the last step in the twelve-point engine check they did after each run. Closing the hood, he walked around to the left side, picked up the heavy-duty 220-volt cord and plugged it in. This would keep all the fluids warm for quick starts without a warm-up period.

The next step was inventory and restocking. Although a mundane task, by nature Rye enjoyed this part of what was referred to as the “after run.” Often he would find notes from Claire; most were reminders to place an order, some were sexy, or suggestions for movies. He wouldn’t find any notes today.

Walking from the attached garage into the kitchen, still drying his hands, he was surprised to see Claire on the phone. He stepped into the bathroom and tossed the towel in the hamper. When he returned, she met him, hand on hip, and a big smile.

“The good news is The Beast is ready and everything was covered by insurance.”

Rye walked to the refrigerator. “How could that be? I haven’t even filed yet.”

Claire’s smile broadened as she took down two fluted glasses from a cupboard. Rye pulled out a pitcher of their celebratory cider and filled the glasses. 

“Phone message. Lance said he called insurance right away. Apparently, a meth fire attended by police and fire places us in a special high-risk category. An insurance clause we’ve been paying into for years.”

Rye fell into a dining room chair and tipped his glass in mock salute. “Great. At least we can ride in style. If we get any calls, that is.”

Claire sat down across the table from him. “Olden hasn’t totally jerked our license or we wouldn’t have gotten the last call.”

“You’re probably right about Medford Ambulance being out of the area. But until we find Rusty, I think we’re doomed to play second fiddle. Maybe it’s time we help with the investigation,” Rye said.

Chapter Twenty

Rye was up and dressed when he leaned in and whispered to a still sleeping Claire. “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty, we’ve got a 1086 just out the door.”

She rolled out of bed and was in her jump suit—no shower, no makeup—inside of two minutes, barely time to brush her hair. They hadn’t gotten a night call in months, definitely bottom-rung-of-the-ladder stuff. Rye was in the garage unplugging when Claire entered with the jump kit. “If this is another retirement center, I’m going back to bed.”

He watched her slide into the passenger seat and slap her harness into the locked position.

“Hey, 1086. A pedestrian down,” Rye said.

Claire glared at him. “Just a rude awakening, that’s all. Better a night call then another nightmare, I guess.”

He reached up and hit the button that would send the big double garage door sliding into its overhead position. Claire glanced down at the clipboard Rye handed her. “You weren’t kidding about just out the door,” she said. “Make a left, go to 2600 Snoop Drive. About six blocks down.”

Rye flicked two toggle switches, setting four red and blue lights whirling. He slammed a big red button on the dashboard that set only one siren into a single squeal.

“Might as well not wake the neighbors,” he said.

The sensor on the dashboard automatically turned on all the normal nighttime running lights.

Snoop Drive was four lanes and ran straight as an arrow. As soon as they were out of the garage, Rye detected the spinning lights of the black and white that had called in the accident.

“What are we looking at?” he said.

Claire turned to the second page of her clipboard. “Single vehicle and pedestrian.”

“Better alert the hospital.”

She unclipped the microphone and punched in dispatch at Medford General.

“This is Mad Dash responding to a 1086, ETA five minutes. Mad Dash, out.”

She snapped the microphone back on the dash just as Rye brought the ambulance up next to the police car. They exited the ambulance at almost the same time. Rye grabbed the jump kit and headed for the car; Claire went in search of the officer.

“Over here.”

Her head snapped around scanning the darkness for the source of the voice and spotted a flashlight waving in the air.

Allen Steins was kneeling over the writhing body of a young man obviously in pain.

“Hold on, Ben,” Steins said to him, “this is an EMT.” He stood as Claire ran up. “Bad leg break, hope you’ve got some really strong pain killers.”

“Thanks, Allen, give me a hand with the light.”

The officer stepped out of the way holding his flashlight high enough so that the halo of the powerful beam encircled the prone figure.

Claire knelt down, setting the jump kit next to the victim’s injured leg. “Hi, Ben, my name’s Claire. Looks like you have some nasty trauma to the knee. I’m going to give you a shot of morphine. Any allergies or addictions I should know about?”

Ben was shifting his body from side to side, his face twisted into a grimace of pain. He was braced up on his hands looking straight up. “No, no. How bad’s the break?”

She gave him two shots of morphine. The first was intramuscular so it would trickle in slowly, the second was right into the tissue of the knee, so that she could align it without Ben passing out.

“It’s your knee Ben, hard to tell how bad. Emergency will be able to give you the details. Just try to hold still.”

It was really bad. The kneecap was pulled away from the patellar tendon and the more Claire irrigated the knee the more damage she found. The lateral meniscus, as well as the cruciate ligaments—the two that cross behind the knee—were completely shredded. The car had apparently struck from the front or side. Ben had probably seen the car coming straight at him and was trying to turn away when it hit him.

Claire watched his tension and fidgeting fall away as the morphine kicked in. He lay back with his hands behind his head.

Rye ran up with a backboard and a special knee splint. Stabilizing the leg, they lifted Ben onto the backboard. The officer kept the light just ahead so they could see where they were walking until they got within range of the giant spotlights of the ambulance.

They slid Ben into the back and transferred him to the gurney. Rye stayed while Claire walked over to the car to check on the driver. Rye said she seemed to be in shock.

When Claire got to the car, the officer was taking the driver’s statement.

“Candace Dagmar?” Allen Steins said, looking at her driver’s license.

“Yes. D-a-g-m-a-r, just like it sounds.”

“And where do you work, ma’am?”

“I’m the manager at Across the Border Tacos. We close at two. I was on my way home.”

Candace Dagmar sat quietly in her Geo Metro with the wool blanket Rye had given her draped around her shoulders. Officer Steins met Claire as she approached the car. “You mind staying with her while I call in her driver’s license?”

“No problem. She drunk?”

“Not at all, why?”

“The victim must have lit up like a Christmas tree when her headlights hit him. He had reflective tops on his socks, toes, and heels of his shoes, too. He also wore a reflective vest and hat.”

“She could be in shock. She seems coherent, but hasn’t expressed any concern for the victim,” Steins said. “I’ll be right back.”

Claire walked to the little car and leaned on the driver’s side door.

“Hello, my name’s Claire, I’m an EMT. Do you hurt anywhere?”

Claire knew that Rye had asked the same question, but if the woman had been in shock she might not remember that he had even been there.

“No, I’m fine. You know, that runner came out of nowhere, just stepped right in front of me. I hope he has some kind of runner’s insurance, ‘cause it’s going to cost me. Look,” she said pointing to the deflated air bag draped over the steering wheel. “The air bag came out.”

Claire winced. If the airbag deployed, it indicated that the impact was solid and explained the extreme condition of Ben’s injured knee.

“I’ll tell you one thing. Linda was sure surprised.”

Claire looked around puzzled. “I’m sorry? I didn’t know you had a passenger.”

“Do you see anyone? I was talking to her on my cell.”

“You were talking on the cell phone when you were driving?”

“Have you got a hearing problem? I said I was talking to her on my cell.” Claire was turning away as the woman became more belligerent. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

She met Officer Steins who was returning to finish the questioning.

“Allen, that woman just told me she was on her cell phone at the time of the accident.”

Steins made a face and picked up his pace. Her license had come back clear, but news of the cell phone use complicated her situation.

“Ma’am, were you talking on your cell phone when the accident occurred?” the officer asked.

“You act as though I did something wrong. I hope you gave that runner a ticket, he stepped right out in front of me.”

“Please answer the question, ma’am. Were you on the cell phone when you struck the runner?”

“Well, yes, I was instructing my assistant manager how to close. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. That the phone might have affected my driving. That’s just wrong.”

“How’s that, ma’am?”

“I’m almost always on my cell when I drive. I’ve really perfected the ability to split my attention.”

Candace Dagmar seemed smug, sure that she had vindicated her actions of talking on the phone while driving. Meanwhile, Officer Steins was shining the beam through the side window as he listened, until he spotted the clamshell-style cell phone peeking out from under her purse on the passenger seat.

“Ma’am, would you please hand me your cell phone?”

“What? Why?”

“Just a formality, ma’am. It might be needed as evidence. Please hand it to me.”

“I will not! That phone is my link with my workers.”

Officer Steins walked around to the passenger side of the Geo Metro and opened the door. When he reached for the cell phone, the woman quickly reached in an attempt to get it first. The two grabbed the phone at the same time. When Claire saw what was happening, she walked around to the driver’s side.

“Ma’am, maybe you should let the officer have the phone.”

“And maybe you should mind your own business.”

Claire’s eyebrows shot up at the rebuke, but she smiled and stepped away from the car. “You’re on your own, Allen. I’m going to go transport Ben. Good luck.”

“Claire, wait. I need a female presence.” He nodded his head at the woman who was still clinging to the phone. “I can’t call for back-up right now.”

“Right. I’ll just stand over here,” Claire said, stepping back to the front of the car where she could see the tug of war clearly through the windshield.

“Ma’am, you are obstructing an officer in the line of duty. If you release the phone now, I won’t cite you.”

She tightened her grip. “This is my personal property. You let go.”

At that moment, her grip slipped, and the release of the phone was such a surprise to Steins that he lost his grip, too, causing the phone to sail over his shoulder. It landed on the asphalt where it shattered on impact.

Steins smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned and extracted a baggie from his coat pocket and began to pick up the pieces of the phone.

As Claire walked back to the ambulance, she could hear the shrill voice of Candace Dagmar threatening to sue the police department.

Chapter Twenty-one

“So, what’s up for you today?” Claire said, stretching out on the couch and watching the sun come up.

Rye lay on his back on the floor, hands behind his head. “I promised Phil I’d make an appearance at his bachelor party and I’ve got an appointment to meet Olden in the afternoon.

“You’ve known Phil maybe thirty years?”

“Something like that,” Rye said.

Claire nodded her head then leaned on one elbow and looked down at Rye. “Watch yourself. The rumor is someone’s bringing a lap dancer to the party. The only lap I want you dancing with is mine.”

“Not to worry, I’ll probably leave early.” He flopped over onto his stomach. “What about you?”

“I’ve got some belt tests around noon and sensei wants me to help him plan a winter tournament. I was going to wander over to the hospital morgue, see if I could find someone who knows this mystery doctor. But I think I’ll wait until you’ve met with Olden.”

“Got a couple cellophane belts to give out?” Rye said.

“They’d kick your butt.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got this personal body guard,” Rye said.

They shared a quick breakfast and a protein drink, cleaned up the dinner dishes from the night before and spiffed up the living quarters before going their separate ways.

* * *

Rye took a deep breath before knocking. A smiling Phil Panther answered the door.

“Hey, guys, help has arrived. Anybody passes out, don’t bother calling 9-1-1.”

Phil’s house was a modest two bedroom, bath-and-a-half Craftsman. The living room, decorated for the party, was wallpapered with pin ups and helium filled balloons with crude sayings. One was even shaped like a pair of breasts.

There were many who thought that at age fifty, Phil Panther would never get married and that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to curtail his bachelor ways.

During an evening run with Rye, he’d confessed that he was tired of the dating scene and was ready to settle down, whatever it took. This bachelor party was to be his last hurrah.

Rye took a center seat on the sofa directly in front of a munchies-laden coffee table and a widescreen TV.

“Perfect timing, Rye,” Bobby Panther said, as he stood in front of the TV, wearing a wide, mischievous grin. “The entertainment is about to start.”

Bobby was Phil’s younger brother by two years. He taught math and coached wrestling at Southern Oregon University, and was the mastermind behind the party. As he started the videotape and stepped away from the TV, a groan went up from the room even though every eye was glued to the scene unfolding on the screen.

A voluptuous blonde wiggled out of her clothes and climbed into a waiting tub of bubbles. She slid under the white foam, closed her eyes, and moved her hand beneath the water. As she moaned and sighed, the water lapped over the edge of the tub onto the floor. The camera followed the water onto the bathroom floor where the scene segued to the water in a swimming pool and the sound of another female moaning.

“Hey, my pool didn’t come with a soundtrack,” someone in the back of the room hollered.

The camera panned to a knothole in a wooden fence; an eye peering through it. The scene changed to reveal what the peering eye was seeing: two nude bodies on a manicured lawn by the pool. The camera zooms in to a tight shot of the couple’s union, then pans up to the woman’s face…

Rye suddenly leaned over the edge of the sofa, forgetting about the Doritos chip he was raising to his mouth. “Stop the tape!” he yelled.

“C’mon, Rye, don’t be a prude,” Bobby said.

“No, really, stop the tape. I know that woman.”

“We’re glad for you, buddy. You can take the tape home if you’d like. That is, if Claire doesn’t mind.”

The room erupted in laughter.

Nobody tried to stop him as Rye stepped around the coffee table and walked up to the TV. “Someone show me how to pop the tape out.”

“Shit, OK, but sit down. I’ll do it.”

“No kidding,” Rye said. “That woman came up to me at the scene of an accident yesterday and asked for help. I just want to see where it was made, that’s all.” Bobby handed him the tape.

“Hey man, you could have at least waited until the end,” Bobby said. “But since you didn’t, you have to promise to stick around and watch the other one.”

“Sorry,” he said, heading back to his place on the couch, tape in hand.

Phil came over and sat next to Rye who was trying to read the tiny print on the tape’s label.

“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” he said, taking the tape from Rye. “Looks like the name of the company is Lewd and Lascivious.”

“It was the pleading look in her eye. There was nothing wrong with her— I mean, she wasn’t injured. Her husband or whomever the guy was she was with, was first on the scene of an accident and had set out flares. I got the impression that she didn’t want to go with him. I just don’t know, and now here she is in a porn flick. Maybe this guy is forcing her to perform. I feel like I should do something.”

Phil put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Bounce this off Claire, see what she has to say. Oh, and don’t worry about the guys. I heard a rumor little brother is bringing in a lap dancer.” Turning to get up, Phil looked at Rye and said, “I don’t mind you taking the tape, just get it back to Foxy Lady Video by noon tomorrow.”

Claire was reclining on the couch reading when Rye walked in. She spotted the tape in his hand. “What, you won the booby prize?” she said.

“Very funny. I’ve got something for you to look at.”

Rye walked across the room to the VCR and inserted the tape. “Remember my mentioning that woman who asked for help at the I-5 accident? Well, take a look at this,” Rye said, facing Claire, totally unaware that his tape had been playing.

The TV screen was filled with a woman’s head bobbing up and down. “Oh shit, sorry.”

He bent down and pressed rewind, which made her head bob even faster, only backwards. Rye stopped it at a scene where the couple on screen were all over each other. He let the tape run until it came to the close up of the woman’s face. Pressing still, the tape paused.

“There,” he said. That’s her, the woman from the accident. She said her name was Crystal.”

When he turned to Claire, her expression was etched in stone. “You forgot something when you did maintenance yesterday,” she said.

Rye was taken aback, here he was confronted by a mystery and Claire didn’t seem to care.

Standing she lifted out the jump kit from behind the couch and placed it on the coffee table between them. “Open it.”

“But the tape and the woman,” Rye said.

“Relax. Open it.”

Coming around and dropping into a squat in front of the coffee table, Rye lifted the twin latches that held the lid shut, pulled it back, and found himself staring at a video tape. “What the hell is this?” Rye said.

“I don’t know how it got into your jump kit, but it’s got your tape beat hands down and it also has your girlfriend on it,” she said.

Rye traded tapes and pressed start then walked around the coffee table and sat beside Claire.

It was immediately apparent by the overhead angle and the fish eye lens that this was a surveillance tape. It was looking down on three different sets; it took in everything from people standing off set to the far side of the scene and the backdrop. In the first set, on the far left of the screen, a naked woman was talking with a man holding a clipboard—he seemed to be giving her directions. The middle set was more bed than floor, but was empty. The far right of the screen, the third set, was alive with action. The distortion of the camera lens made it impossible to discern what was happening, but after several minutes, three men stepped away and the woman’s face was center screen for about thirty seconds.

“That’s her, isn’t it? Where was your jump kit yesterday that she had the chance to put a tape in it without you knowing?” Claire said. She got up, walked around the coffee table and popped the tape out. “More important, why did she slip you that tape? What did she want you to see?”

She tossed the video on the coffee table as she came around to sit next to Rye.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

Rye was staring at the tape from the jump kit. “I don’t know, but this woman came to me for help. I feel like I have to do something.”

“Why don’t you talk to Paul Casey? As a PI, he’s probably seen a lot of this kind of thing.”

“Good idea. Paul must deal with this stuff all the time. Did you watch the whole tape?”

“No. It started grossing me out. Women aren’t into watching like men are,” Claire said.

* * *

“Casey Investigations, Paul Casey speaking.”

“Paul, it’s Rye. How you doing?

“Fair to middlin’. What can I do for you, good buddy?”

“I’ve got a need for your expertise.”

At the mention of business, Paul changed gears. “Tell you what: I never do business over the phone, just bad policy. But I do have a long lunch, day after tomorrow. Let’s meet then.”

“Great, Paul. Spencer’s OK?”

“Yeah, fine. You buying? Say, I won’t be facing an attorney, will I?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. So, twelve o’clock? And yeah, I’m buying.”

“Twelve, and if I’m a couple minutes late, just cool your heels. See you then. Bye,” Paul said.

“Bye, Paul.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Raven Reservoir sits nestled in the Cascade Mountain range. From the town of Medford, Oregon, you can take Reader Road, the more meandering route, or Hillsboro Drive, about five miles shorter at a distance of seventeen miles. Either will take you through beautifully forested mountains to the man-made lake. Some days they drove Rye’s ‘71 VW bus carrying the kayaks, and spent the day paddling around the lake. But no stop today, so they decided to take Claire’s 1963 Austin-Healey convertible.

She tapped the brakes then downshifted as the Healey headed into a curve. “So you have a noon appointment with Paul? What did he say—will he take on the case and find the girl?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk business over the phone. Said policy didn’t allow.”

Rye pitched a little to the right as they entered the next curve. He liked Claire’s driving, she was aggressive and self-assured, plus she had the reflexes of a cat. Generally, when they went anywhere together Claire drove, but Rye usually drove the ambulance.

“Hey, you see that?” Rye said.

“What?”

“That blue spot on the embankment. Pull up at the next turnout.”

They’d driven Hillsboro Drive hundreds of times in the years they’d been together. She knew every turnout by heart and they’d stopped at all of them at one time or another. The road cut into a mountainside so there was mountain on one side and a deep ravine that turned into a canyon on the other.

“It’ll be just a bit to the next one,” she said.

Rye had unbuckled his seatbelt and was bending in half, rummaging around under his seat for the binoculars. By the time Claire turned out and stopped, Rye had located the blue dot again and identified it as a car.

He handed the binoculars to Claire. “Look there, just to the left of the group of pines, what do you see?” She scanned the embankment until she found the trees then panned to the left and down just a little.

“It’s a little sports car.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t look rusted or old, does it?”

Claire brought the binoculars down so she could look without their aid then brought them back up to her eyes.

“I’m sure we would have noticed that bright blue last week when we came this way,” she said. “This is as close as I can get, the next shoulder isn’t for about another mile,”

“This’ll work,” Rye said, hopping over the door rather than opening it. He walked to the edge of the shoulder where the embankment started. By the time Claire reached his side, he was peering at the car through the binoculars again.

“You better have a look,” he said, handing them to her. “I think somebody’s still in it.”

“Oh shit, you’re right. And I don’t see any movement.”

They kept a jump kit, rope, gloves and flares in the trunk. Claire looped one end of the rope around the front bumper and threw the rest over the embankment. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go?” Rye said.

“Not a chance. I’ll repel down to that row of trees, and work my way over to the car. If I need you to bring the jump kit, I’ll whistle. No whistle, no kit.”

Rye watched her progress then used the binoculars when she disappeared behind the row of pines and reappeared next to the car. Claire had barely looked in the window when she started waving and shouting for Rye to come down. She didn’t whistle.

The repel was easy and so was moving along the line of trees, as long as he maintained a grip on either a tree or its branches. When he reached the car, Rye was out of breath.

One look and he knew why they didn’t need the jump kit. Claire was braced against the angle of the slope using just one hand on the car to keep from slipping.

The car didn’t look like it had rolled. It was as though it had been driven to the spot next to the pines and parked. “Watch your step. The rock is crumbly and I’m not sure how stable the car is,” Claire said. She reached in the driver-side window and pulled the body off the steering wheel by its shirt collar. “Better take a look at this.”

Rye stepped and slid a few inches, then stepped again until he was just behind Claire, looking over her shoulder. The man behind the wheel looked like he’d just arrived: no bugs and just a few flies.

“What is it?” Rye said, looking through the window.

“Brace me up so I can use both hands,” she said.

Rye slid his feet around, clearing away the rocks in one spot until he stood on solid ground, then grabbed onto one of Claire’s belt loops with one hand and put the other against her lower back.

“Take a look.” Claire said, reaching into the car with her newly freed hand and lifting up the drivers’ shirtfront. “Far right side.”

After a moment of silence, she looked back at Rye. “Stomach, not face,” she said.

“Oh yeah. Shit, he’s been eviscerated. I’ve seen enough, let’s get back to the car and call the cops.”

* * *

Claire coiled up the rope and placed it back in the trunk while Rye called on his cell.

“Fifteen minutes,” Rye said, as he tossed the phone into the car.

The police arrived first, with a fire engine close behind. They grilled Rye and Claire about how they found the car—and the body. Any other time they would have stayed in order to fill out a report, but it was their day off and both were eager to get back home.

Claire left the winding turns of Hillsboro Drive behind, accelerating onto I-5 for the six mile stretch that would take them to Medford, exit 29. They drove along in silence, both caught in their own thoughts about the little blue sports car and its driver.

Claire gave Rye a quick look as she sped up and changed into the fast lane.

“What’s up, and why were you looking at his face?”

Rye seemed preoccupied. “I recognized him. He was on the other porn tape Phil showed after I took the first one.”

Claire turned her head just a bit to make sure Rye could see the face she was making. “Is that all guys do at bachelor parties? Watch porn?”

Rye settled back into the bucket seat, straightening his legs and folding his arms across his chest. He sat up abruptly as they passed Exit 29. “You just passed our exit!”

“The guy worked at Medford General,” Claire said. “His ID was on the passenger seat. Doctor Frank Mason.”

Claire pulled into general parking. “Where do you think we should start?”

Rye hopped over the door and stretched. “For all we know, the guy has his own practice with hospital privileges.”

Claire made a point of opening the door, stepping out and turning to close it. “So we need to determine if he’s staff, and if not, then pay a visit to his office.”

They headed straight for the elevator and the administrator’s office. When the elevator door opened, Rye turned to usher Claire in, but she was gone. He spotted her down the hall and joined her there.

Facing them, staring back from a photo hanging on the wall, was a young man with a big smile, stethoscope around his neck, wearing a white smock. It was Doctor Frank Mason.

Rye smiled. “Staff surgeon.”

“May I help you?” someone asked.

Startled, Claire spun around even before Rye could respond. “We’re trying to locate the new surgeon, but don’t see his picture on the wall of fame here.”

The nurse gestured at the wall as if she were selling it. “There have been no new additions to the surgical staff. Do you have a name? Maybe the doctor you’re looking for isn’t a surgeon.”

Rye stepped away from the wall and extended his hand to the nurse. “I’m Rye Anderson and this is my partner Claire. We own Mad Dash Ambulance. We brought in a DOA and were met by a doctor and now the body’s missing. He wasn’t wearing a name tag.”

The nurse lead them to an alcove with a small couch and one chair.

“What did he look like?

Claire spent the next five minutes describing the mystery doctor.

“That sounds like Doctor Simms,” the nurse said.

Claire and Rye exchanged looks.

Claire scooted forward sitting on the edge of the couch. “You know him?”

“Not exactly. I remember him because he came to the hospital and tried to recruit a surgical nurse and anesthesiologist. He met with each of us. Offered me better pay and full health. Said I’d work with a small staff at a private clinic.”

Claire smiled. “Sounds great. Why didn’t you accept the offer?”

The nurse fidgeted, uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. “It seemed too good to be true and I would have been assisting in organ donor transplants. I’m a surgical nurse; I’ve got no interest in cookie cutter surgery.”

Suddenly, the nurse looked at her watch. “So sorry, but I’m assisting with an appendectomy in thirty minutes and have to meet with the doctor in fifteen.” Standing, she turned and hurried down the hall.

Claire slouched back into the couch. “Well, now at least we’ve got a name and a positive ID.”

* * *

The sign on the door read Jeff Olden, Assistant Administrator. Rye raised his hand to knock, Claire grabbed his wrist. “Do you think this is really wise?”

Rye shook his hand free and walked her to one side. “Simms couldn’t have met with staff without permission from Olden. We need to find out if he got any takers. When we find this clinic, we’ll find Rusty.”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t think so. Rusty is probably long gone by now. We need to find out if Mason took Simms’s offer then changed his mind. He sure looked like an organ donor to me.”

Just then, the door opened and Jeff Olden emerged. “I wondered what all the whispering was. Why don’t you two come in?”

The office was dark, lit only by a desk lamp. The mahogany paneled walls matched the large desk and were covered with darkly framed certificates. Olden walked around behind the desk and slid his foot around until he found the dimmer switch. As the ceiling lights came up, the glass framed certificates twinkled a reflection.

“There, that’s better. Please have a seat. I assume you came by to check on the status of Rusty Kidding.” He looked first to Rye then Claire, hands folded and resting in the middle of the desk blotter.

“Not exactly.” Rye turned to defer to Claire but she nodded that he should continue. “We know who took the body.”

Olden sat up straighter. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Do you have a name?”

“Doctor Peter Simms.”

He sat even straighter and leaned forward. “That’s ridiculous.”

Rye matched his stare. “A surgical nurse confirmed Claire’s description of the man that took the DOA.”

Olden sat back refolding his hands over his stomach. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. Doctor Peter Simms owns his own clinic and is in the business of giving critically ill individuals a second chance at life through the gift of donated organs.”

Claire stood up, placing both hands on the desk. “Wasn’t Frank Mason one of the surgeons recruited?”

Olden stood and walked around the desk, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t believe he was, but Doctor Mason was under investigation by the hospital board.”

She shook off his hand. “You’re aware that he’s dead, that he was eviscerated and that his liver is missing?”

Olden paused mid stride. “The police haven’t contacted us, but I do know he didn’t show up for his shift this morning…” he continued to the door. “I think you had better let the police do the investigating. Doctor Simms could in no way have anything to do with either the death of Frank Mason or the missing DOA.”

Claire took a step in Olden’s direction ready to argue her point, but stopped when he held up his hand. “This conversation is over.” He started to open the door. Then ignoring Claire, turned to face Rye. “You know, I feel I’ve been quite generous in not terminating your license.” He opened the door and standing like a statue until they left, quietly closed it behind them.

Claire whirled on Rye who shook his head, pointing down the hall. When they reached the elevator, the door was just opening, the car empty. When the bell rang and the door closed she slammed her fist against the brass rail.

“He didn’t even care that there might be a connection between Mason’s death and Simms’s occupation. And that remark at the door, what was that blackmail? Butt out or I’ll yank your license? And where the hell were you during all this?”

Rye leaned over and pressed the “G” button without saying a word, folded his arms and glared at her.

“OK, OK,” she said as she backed into the corner. “What do we do now?

Rye unfolded his arms. “I think we can forget any cooperation from the hospital. And I think if we find Simms’s clinic, we’ll know what happened to the DOA and Mason.”

Claire was looking at the floor, nodding her head. The door to the elevator binged open. “What about the girl who asked you for help, and the fact that she and Mason were both on a porn tape? He’s dead and she may be well on her way to the organ factory.”

They walked in silence through a throng of people gathered around a man being wheel chaired through the entrance.

Rye reached the car first, taking a minute to stretch, twisting first one way then the other. “Finding Simms and the clinic will resolve everything,” he said, “and the girl who asked for help is the thread that will lead us there.”

Claire opened the door and climbed in. “Yeah, now all we have to do is get to her before Simms does.”

Chapter Twenty-three

The slab of meat on the platter oozed blood. The man eyed it for a moment, then rotated the platter once before finally sinking his fork into it and cutting next to the bone.

“God, Paul, I don’t see how you can eat steak that raw. What about mad cow disease?” Rye said.

Paul Casey chewed with a smile on his face then took a drink of his pale ale, swallowed and looked at Rye with a grin.

“First of all, this is a once-in-a-blue-moon meal, a celebration for having just collected on the biggest case of my career. As for mad cow, this is Harris Beef—open range, grass fed, the absolute best there is. Now, let’s get down to business. What’s on your mind?”

“Did you read about the four car pileup on I-5 the other day?”

Paul chewed on a piece of steak and just nodded.

“Claire and I were dispatched, and in the middle of stitching one of the victims back together, this young woman grabs me by the arm, looks me in the eye and says, ‘Help me,’ then walks away. But when I go over to her van she doesn’t have a scratch on her, isn’t in shock, and the guy she’s with whisks her off, but not before she slips a video tape into my jump kit.”

“Take a breath, Rye. Was Claire with you? And what’s a jump kit?” Paul asked, shoving another peace of steak into his mouth.

“Claire said she only vaguely remembers the woman, and a jump kit is the giant fishing tackle box that holds all the first aid items I might need while I’m away from the ambulance. Anyway, I’m at Phil Panther’s bachelor party, they start playing a couple of porn tapes—and she’s on one of them! And the tape she slipped into my jump kit is from a security camera focused on the back of a porn set.”

Rye paused to take a couple bites of his salad.

“OK, I’m starting to get the picture. Some buxom beauty gets caught up in a porn ring and she bats her baby blues at you asking for help and you melt. What’s a guy to do?”

Rye glared at Paul over the top of his mug of tea and took a sip to wash down his salad. “I don’t think you have the picture at all. This woman looked to be about eighteen or nineteen tops, and appeared to be anything but a hooker.”

Paul just shook his head. “Thousands of young women break into pornography every year; most are never heard from again, many become involved with drugs or prostitution. But I’ll get off my soapbox now. Unless next of kin files a missing person report, there is nothing for me to do.” Paul finished his statement by stuffing another peace of steak in his mouth.

“Sure, fine.” Rye paused for effect. “I understand what you’re saying, but here’s the kicker. Claire and I were coming back from Raven Reservoir and spotted a blue sports car in a ravine off of Hillsboro Drive. It looked new so we checked it out. The driver was one of the guys in the other porn tape at Phil’s party. Not only was he dead, but he was eviscerated—someone had cut out his liver.” Rye sat back expectantly.

“I don’t know what to tell you. These people who do pornography are generally the scum of the earth. Occasionally, I’m sure some small town cheerleader gets tangled up with the wrong people, you know, promised instant fame and big money. Still, others like your guy in the car get the ugly end of the stick. Nothing to be done, nothing I can do. And definitely nothing you can do.” Paul pushed the platter toward the edge of the table, empty except for a bone.

Chapter Twenty-four

He felt her foot rub up and down his calf. In turn, he snaked a hand down until it found her buttocks. Claire was on her side.

Slowly, he rolled on his side to spoon, his hand cupping her breast.

“You know, Rye, this is a really good book and you’re distracting me,” she said, closing the book, her finger holding the place.

“How was I supposed to know that you were reading?” Rye asked, in a mock indignant tone.

“You didn’t notice the reading light?”

In answer, Rye dropped his hand from her breast and stuck a finger in her navel. Claire shrieked and rolled onto her stomach.

“Do you mind?” she said

“Just checking for navel fuzz.”

Claire laughed, put her book on the floor and rolled over onto her back. “So, I gather that you don’t want to read and you’re not sleepy, which means you must want to talk.”

That was not exactly what Rye had in mind, but he took her up on her offer anyway.

“I was just thinking about the girl on the tape and then finding that dead guy who was also on a porn tape by the same company. What if she turns up dead?” Rye said.

“I think Paul was right; there’s nothing you can do. Let it go. Take the tapes back to the Foxy Lady, they’re probably late by now, and forget the whole thing,” Claire said, leaning over and nibbling on Rye’s neck. “You learn any new moves from those tapes?”

“C’mon, Claire,” Rye said, pulling the covers up to his chin. It’s not just the circumstances of knowing two people who do porn—the girl actually asked me for help. That changes everything.”

Claire rolled away from Rye to lie on her back again. “OK, what would you like to do about it?”

“I think the starting point for me is to track down the company that made the tape. I’m thinking of flying down to LA to see what I can dig up.” Rye turned on his side to make sure he had Claire’s attention. “And if you’re up for it, I’d like you to track down the license number of that Dodge van; I know the fire department has it.”

“I can‘t really have you pulling this misdirected waif from the den of inequity all by yourself, can I? I’m in.” Claire rolled on her side to face Rye. “When was the last time you were in LA?”

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Twenty-five, thirty years. Not since college.”

“Sounds kind of like a long shot,” Claire said.

He rolled back on his side, facing her. “I planned on hitting a couple of the porn shops. I figure they could probably direct me.”

“That at least gives you a starting place. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Puzzled, Rye wasn’t sure what she was referring to. “OK I give, what was the question?”

“I was just curious to know if you learned any new moves from all this porn.”

Rye retained a stone face. “As a matter of fact, yes. Can you put either foot behind your head?”

“Oh, gross! I should have known better than to ask.”

Rye ducked under the covers and made a beeline for Claire’s right breast just as she started to roll onto her back. Wham! Her elbow met his right eye.

“Ouch! I’m blind!”

She rolled over to see what all the yelling was about.

Rye was gingerly feeling the tender tissue just under his eye. “Jesus, you elbowed me in the eye.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Let me get some ice.” He enjoyed watching her nude figure throw the covers back, climb out of bed and walk through the door. But he forgot all about his eye when she returned with the ice.

“Take your hand away and let me see,” Claire said, looking at his eye first from one angle then from another.

Somehow, as she peered at his eye, the covers managed to get pulled down to his ankles. But Rye, fully distracted by her nude presence, didn’t seem to notice. Suddenly the ice slid from her hand into his lap. Claire yipped with laughter as she bounced off the bed and ran from the room, leaving Rye moaning with the shock of something so cold in such a hot spot.

Chapter Twenty-five

The parking lot at Pier 39 was one of the few along the tourist wharf in San Francisco that wasn’t closed off or chained at night. And because the Alcatraz cruise boats moored somewhere else, at night the wharf was empty. There was nothing to vandalize. What was left of an active pier was directly in line with the entrance. To the left of the entrance stretched a wide walkway cordoned off with cement-filled poles three feet high. The wall of the next pier was to the right. There was only one way out of Pier 39—the same way you came in.

A huge SUV rumbled into the lot, made a U-turn, which put the passenger side of the vehicle next to the line of cement filled poles, and turned off its lights. Moments later, at exactly midnight, a black and silver BMW pulled into the lot facing the opposite direction of the SUV, so that the driver’s sides faced each other but were several car lengths apart.

The driver’s side door of the SUV opened and a massive figure stepped out, not so much tall as broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. He stood with a briefcase in his left hand, his right behind his back, fingers wrapped around the handle of a snub nose .38.

The interior dome light of the BMW came on, the door opened, and a pair of long, sinuous legs poured out of the car and on to the pavement. The woman who owned them stood nearly six feet tall. In her right hand, she held a set of car keys. Her sultry voice was calm and even.

“It’s in the trunk,” Rosie Rehnquist said. She hated making good on Simms’s promises; Hubble had come up with a liver just in time.

“That’s fine, let’s get it together,” the massive figure said.

As he approached, Rosie nearly lost her composure; his presence was palpable. About two feet away he stopped and extended a beefy hand.

“Name’s Bill Rocklin. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s make the trade, I’ve got to be on the road,” Rosie said, not taking his hand.

At the shortness of her response, Rocklin dropped his right hand back to the holstered pistol. He walked with Rosie to the back of the BMW. When she placed the key in the trunk lock, he stepped slightly behind her, his hand tightening on the handle of the .38.

Rosie turned her back to the open trunk, blocking the opening to prevent Rocklin from getting to its contents. She always did transactions person to person, and was used to dealing in dark parking lots at midnight. But the recipient was usually someone she’d set up. The fact that Simms had arranged this worried her. Who was this guy? The people who took possession of the organs were rarely the ones who needed them, and were, in general, unaccustomed to the odd locations and late hours necessary when dealing with the black market. This guy, Rocklin, was too relaxed. Rosie was used to people asking her stupid inane questions they’d adapted from bad television shows.

Bill Rocklin acted as though he’d done plenty of transactions like this.

He placed the metal briefcase on the rear fender of the BMW, popped the latches and tilted the open case at an angle so Rosie could see the money inside. She reached over and took the briefcase, snapping it shut, stepping out of the way so Rocklin could reach the box.

Without lifting the cardboard box out of the trunk, he opened the flaps, reached in, and fumbled with the clasps of the ice chest.

“This the liver?” Rocklin said.

Rosie turned, looking into the trunk where Rocklin was attempting to open the lid. “Don’t open that, you fool,” Rosie shrieked, then catching herself. “Sorry, it’s just that if you open the chest you’ll expose the organ and it’ll be contaminated. Your doctor will want to make sure that it’s only opened in a sterile environment.”

Rocklin grew more suspicious by the minute. He couldn’t understand why she was so insistent that he not open the chest, it wasn’t like he was going to take it out and hold it. He just wanted to look at it. How could looking contaminate?

“How do I get hold of you if there’s a problem?” Rocklin asked.

Rosie stood facing him, holding the money-filled briefcase at her side, under her arm.

“Maybe you don’t understand, Mr. Rocklin. This is a black market product,” Rosie said. “We’re here in a deserted parking lot at midnight because some people consider the selling of a body part to the highest bidder not only unethical, but illegal. I thought you understood that.”

Rocklin didn’t respond, but simply turned away to lift the box out of the trunk, picking it up as though it was weightless. Turning, he stepped around Rosie and strode back to the SUV without looking back. He didn’t like her much; he didn’t really care for harsh people, especially harsh women.

Rosie wasted no time. The sudden silence from this thug had totally unnerved her. With a last glance at the SUV, she threw the briefcase onto the passenger’s seat of the BMW, climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door and hung a tight U-turn out of the parking lot.

As Rocklin approached the SUV, the driver slowly lowered his window.

“Everything go OK, Rock? I heard some yelling,” the driver said.

“Guess so. Just one real up-tight bitch, that’s all.” Rocklin opened the rear passenger door, leaned in and placed the ice chest in a child carrier seat, strapping it in. “Let’s get straight home, Vince. I wanna get this to the doc as soon as possible.”

He shut the door, walked around to the front passenger side and climbed in next to the driver.

“Man, Vince, I sure hope this liver does the trick. I hate to see the old man suffer.”

Rosie was across the Golden Gate and on the freeway headed north before she finally relaxed and stopped looking in her rearview mirror. Reaching across to the briefcase, she released the two latches, lifted the lid, looked inside, and sighed.

Chapter Twenty-six

Rye left the car rental desk at lax with the keys to a Ford Taurus and the memory of a time during college when he and a group of friends had driven to Los Angeles seeking the baser side of Tinseltown, and found it.

The label on the videotape read Los Angeles, California, but it hadn’t given an address. Once Rye left the airport, he headed for downtown Hollywood, attempting to take the same route he and his friends had taken nearly thirty years earlier in their search for sin and debauchery. The only thing that seemed familiar was Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. He knew he was in the right area, however, when the buildings were made of brick instead of glass and stucco, the streets narrowed, and the women on the sidewalk weren’t wearing as much. As a matter of fact, they weren’t wearing much of anything. He kept his windows up, doors locked. On the passenger seat, he had a clipboard with a blank sheet of paper, a street map, and a page torn from the yellow pages listing adult bookstores in the area.

When he pulled into the parking lot in front of “Adult Books and More,” he began to wish he’d gotten his car from “Rent-a-Wreck.” With a pencil, he scratched off the listing on the yellow page.

The front door was metal with a steel cage bolted over it. He had to reach through a hole in the cage to get to the doorknob. Once inside, Rye tried not to look around; at age fifty-three, there was nothing in the store that he hadn’t seen, heard of, or read about. It was just that it was all so openly displayed. Just to the right as he entered was a counter with the cash register, manned by a muscular black man who looked like he could have had a night job as a bouncer.

Rye turned to face the desk.

“Hi.”

He waited until the clerk looked up. There was no verbal response, just intense eye contact.

“You ever hear of a company called Lewd and Lascivious?”

“Yeah, we got all their tapes along the back wall,” he said, pointing as though he wasn’t sure that Rye could find the back wall.

“Actually, I’m interested in the company.”

The clerk didn’t let Rye finish. “Can’t help you.”

Rye was out the door and relieved to be back in the Taurus with the doors locked. It wasn’t that there was anything dangerous in the store, even the guy behind the counter with the tight shirt and bulging muscles didn’t seem all that menacing. He put the feeling behind him, started the engine, backed out of the parking lot and headed down the street. He scanned the storefronts looking for a store called the “Doll House,” already wondering if Paul was right, that a lot of girls get in over their heads in the pornography business and there was nothing he or anyone else could do. What if this girl was already dead, or wasn’t even working for Lewd and Lascivious any more and had gone home—wherever that was.

He spotted the “Doll House” sign before he reached the parking lot. How could anyone miss it? It had an inflatable sex doll nailed on it.

Garbage lay strewn about the parking lot, mainly fast food containers with a couple of empty condom packages here and there. Even the asphalt was stained. When Rye pulled into the lot, the tires crunched over something; he parked at the far end so he wouldn’t have to step in whatever it was when he got out.

The front of the building housing the store looked like an extension of the parking lot. The brick was a patchwork of graffiti. What appeared to have been the only window had two plywood sheets covering the space with the word “pussy” spray-painted in giant letters. Even the little window in the door was blacked out. The place looked closed.

He hadn’t turned the engine off and was ready to move on, when the door opened and a young couple walked out. The “manboy” was massaging the woman’s barley covered breasts in total seriousness, and she never stopped laughing. Rye sat and watched them walk down the street. Then he remembered something Paul had said. When you’re in a bad part of town, get in your car, get out, but never just sit there. He’d never asked why, but it seemed to make sense now.

The front door was solid wood, but felt like it was about to fall off its hinges. This time, the cash register and its guardian were against the back wall. He was greeted by the top of a shaved head slumped in a captain’s chair, nose buried in a novel.

He left out the greeting this time and got right to the point. “You ever hear of the company Lewd and Lascivious?” He stepped back at what he saw next.

“What, you never seen a woman with a shaved head?”

It wasn’t just the shaved head, but also the deep facial pockmarks and breasts that could have rested on the counter as she spoke, which took him by surprise. Rye was chagrined that his reaction was so obvious. As an EMT, he had to keep a stone face, especially when telling an accident victim the extent of an injury.

He swallowed once. “Ever hear the name Lewd and Lascivious?” he repeated.

“Heard of them, yeah. Rumor is that only squeaky clean girls are hired, and then they’re never seen again.”

Suddenly Rye had the impression that he was being visually undressed, but shook off the feeling.

“You ever know any of the girls trying to get hired?”

The woman seemed to be fiddling with the buttons running down the middle of her blouse; Rye tried not to look at what she was doing and kept his eyes on her forehead.

“Lots, but they weren’t squeaky clean and they never got hired. They said all they asked in the interview was about smoking, drinking, and drugs.”

Rye couldn’t pinpoint it, but she was making serious eye contact and something about her presence had softened.

“Hey, if you’re looking for work, I got a camera in the back.”

Before Rye could respond, the woman pulled her blouse open at the middle, her two breasts cascaded like twin avalanches onto the counter. “How’d you like to run it between these babies?”

His jaw must have dropped because she began to laugh.

He couldn’t help but look. “Ah, no thanks.” He didn’t run to the door, but he didn’t walk either. He must have looked like a total fool.

When he got back to the Taurus, he didn’t lay rubber but was sure that his tires kicked up some of the fast food trash as he peeled out. He crept along the road, looking down at the page torn out of the phone book, groaning at the sight of twelve more listings to go. At least he’d gotten confirmation that Lewd and Lascivious was in the area. Somehow, he just couldn’t go back and ask for details.

He noted that the storefronts and general neighborhood seemed a little cleaner as the address numbers grew larger. The pawnshop and antique store he passed both looked well kept. It was a warm day, so they both had their doors open and there was fully-clothed foot traffic along the sidewalk. He almost turned into a used bookstore by mistake, and made a mental note to swing back later if he had the time.

There it was, next to a boarded-up storefront. He was relieved to see that the sign was a modest black and white, simply reading “Adult Books,” and that the parking lot looked clean.

He took a deep breath. When he walked through the polished steel and glass door, he thought he might have entered the wrong store. The door swung smoothly, closing with a quiet swoosh behind him. He was startled when greeted by a detached voice.

“Hello, can I help you find anything?”

Rye did a quick scan and from some noises, determined the voice was coming from the far right corner, but decided to wait for the source of the voice to reveal itself.

“Sorry, I was stocking some new tapes. What can I help you with?”

He was relieved to be greeted by a pleasantly plump, slightly balding, fifty-something man wearing creased slacks and a bright red polo shirt.

“Hi, yeah. Well, actually I need some information.”

Rye braced himself for the man’s reaction, but for the second time was pleasantly surprised.

“Sure, I’ve been in this location for thirty years. Had to move the store from downtown LA about the same time the city started getting too big for its own good. So, I’m here. Lost some foot traffic, but you can’t beat the rent. Sorry, sorry, I go on forever if I’m not careful. What can I tell you?”

“Have you ever heard of a film company called Lewd and Lascivious?”

“Yep. What do you want to know?”

“Location, maybe some names.”

“Uh oh, sounds like a daughter gone astray. That’s how I found out about them. Not my daughter, course. My goddaughter, actually. Best friend’s daughter. He came to me cuz he knew I was in the biz.”

A bell rang interrupting his monologue.

“’Scuse me, delivery at the back door. Take just a minute.”

Rye knew there was no way to get off easy; one way or another, he was going to have to pay for any information.

But it turned out that the owner of “Adult Books” knew quite a bit, and was willing to tell it for free. He said that Lewd and Lascivious was six blocks down, but it was only the business office. Rumor was the film set was somewhere in Oregon. He heard through the grapevine that it was financed by a doctor and was operated by some kind of nymphomaniac who demanded sex from each of the male actors as part of their interviews.

That was enough for Rye, who only really wanted the address. Abruptly he looked at his watch. “Oh, I’ve got to run, but thanks for the information.”

Six blocks later, the street looked like it was on a different planet. Trees lined the sidewalks and there were no deserted cars stripped and left to rust. He almost drove past his destination because the sign was so high, mounted two stories up. He had to get out of the car to read it. He was disappointed that there was no phone number on the sign, but maybe that would have made things too easy.

He walked slowly up to the door, taking a minute to rehearse his lines, but never got the chance. He found out that the door was metal by the ring it made when his head was slammed against it.

Without hesitation, Rye executed a rear heel scoop kick and was rewarded with a grunt, but when he spun around he was looking down the barrel of a very large caliber gun and an angry set of eyes. The gunman kept changing weight from one leg to the other, like a little kid that had to go to the bathroom. Reaching with his empty hand, the gunman wadded up Rye’s shirt and placed the barrel of the gun firmly against his forehead.

“Now, moving your eyes, not your head, look to your left and you’ll see a black SUV. That’s your goal. You want to reach your goal without me blowing your fucking head off, got it? Don’t nod.”

“I…I understand.”

“Good, then let’s go, and don’t forget your goal.”

The two men walked sideways toward the car, the gunman cross stepping, Rye crabbing along as best he could. He observed his captor’s appearance: coal black hair tied up in a ponytail, bull neck, and a muscular build bulging out of an open sport coat. Maybe a former pro athlete, Rye thought. When they got within a couple feet of the rear of the SUV, the double back doors flew open. A man reached out, grabbed Rye by his shoulders, and dragged him in the back. The gunman slammed the doors closed.

Rye landed on his back facing the rear doors and raised himself up on his elbows.

“Turn around nice and slow.”

Rye pulled his knees up under him as he turned so that he was sitting upright and on his heels. The windows in the back of the SUV were blacked out, the passenger seats were folded down and the entire inside looked so clean it could have come right out of the showroom.

When he turned to look at his second captor, he was once again looking into the barrel of a gun. Moments later, the passenger side door opened and the first gunman got in, sitting braced against the back of the passenger seat.

“What’s your name?”

“Rye.”

“Well Mr. Rye, how long you been working for Lewd and Lascivious?”

Before he could answer the closest gunman turned to look at the other. They seemed to be agreeing on something and Rye knew that he’d given himself away. Claire had always said that he couldn’t keep a secret because it was always written all over his face.

It was the first gunman, the one Rye had scoop kicked, who did all the talking. Although they were both formidable in size, the one who walked him across the street was definitely the boss.

“I don’t work for Lewd and Lascivious, I’m trying to find them.”

“What exactly do you mean, you’re trying to find them? You looking for a job or something?” The two men grinned at each other.

Rye was getting fired up but didn’t want to piss off his captors.

“I think they’ve killed a man, an actor in one of their films, and they’re going to kill again.”

The two thugs exchanged looks again.

“You ain’t no cop and definitely not a bounty hunter. What’s it to you?”

“Their next victim could be a woman who came to me for help. Look, this guy had his liver cut out, but I don’t know if there is really a connection between the company and the guy’s death. All I know for sure is that the woman I’m looking for asked me for help. She appeared in a film made by these guys—and so did the guy.” Rye suddenly realized he’d been talking a mile a minute, something Claire said he did when he was nervous. He paused and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you think, but I’m not associated with Lewd and Lascivious in any way.”

“OK, Mr. Rye. I see you’re pretty excited; hey, two guns in my face and I’d be pretty excited, too. I’m gonna tell you some things cuz I think we may be able to help each other. Whatchu think?”

Rye didn’t know if he was expected to answer, but was willing to do anything at this point in order to get the guns pointed somewhere else.

“Sure, glad to help. Could you put those guns away?”

The two men smiled at the request. “Put the guns away. Sure, why not? First put your hands on the ceiling.”

Rye raised his hands until his fingers touched the padded headliner. One of the men waved his gun under Rye’s nose.

“Palms flat and don’t move or Rock here will blow a hole in you. And at this range, I’d get a face fulla guts.”

If the gunman was trying to frighten him, he’d done a good job.

He felt the man’s hands lightly run up his sides, around behind his neck, around his waist and his crotch.

“Now sit back on your butt and bring your feet around in front, nice ‘n slow.”

The process of bringing his feet around pulled Rye’s pant legs half way up his calf. It was plain to see that he wasn’t wearing an ankle holster.

“Good, now we put the guns away. Bring your hands down. Now, tell me, when did this guy get his liver cut out?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I found him day before yesterday, and he hadn’t been dead more than twenty-four hours.”

“How would you know how long he’d been dead? You a doctor or sumpin’?”

Rye was steamed and at the end of his patience with all the questions. Now that the guns were out of sight, he was feeling a little braver, but not a lot.

“I’m an emergency medical technician. But what has all this got to do with you? And how do you figure we can help each other? You can help me right now by letting me go.”

His two captors looked at each other as if trying to make up their minds about something.

“An emergency medical… you mean an ambulance driver?”

“Basically, yeah,” Rye said, trying to hide his anger.

“OK then. My ol’ man is dyin’ of a liver disease. He needs a new liver, can’t wait. The odds of gettin’ picked from an organ donor list in time to save his life ain’t so good. My ol’ man’s doctor says he can get a liver through other channels, says leave it to him. What do you know, I get a call the next day saying if I want a liver, bring a hundred gees to Pier 39, San Francisco, midnight, cash. Maybe the liver I bought and your dead guy’s liver are one in the same?”

Rye could feel the sweat trickling down his side and beading across his forehead. He could hear his own heart beat, but knew he couldn’t panic. Both his captors were built like linebackers and both still had their guns, and although he no longer felt his life was in immediate danger, he was far from safe. This man was talking about black market organ sales and he had to know it was a federal offense. The other guy had called him by name. They’d revealed too much to let him go.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Rye was right, it was no problem getting the license number of the Dodge Caravan. Claire simply asked Jake Bradshaw, her good buddy at the fire department, to run it through the DMV for a name and address. Apparently, the vehicle had been caught in a surveillance tape as it crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and he was able to provide a crude image of the driver and the passenger. Now she had a face to match the name. Jake had pulled the face of the woman Rye identified as asking for help off the tape, but as Claire left Medford, Oregon, heading north, she began having doubts. What was she going to do when she got to this guy’s house? All she knew was Crystal’s name.

Claire pulled onto the shoulder of the freeway and dialed Paul Casey’s number on her cell phone. She got his answering machine.

“Paul, this is Claire. Rye went to LA in search of a porn company and I’m headed for 20415 Pericolo Lane. It’s just above Denton near the coast.” Claire pulled the phone away from her ear to avoid the static that suddenly came on the line.

“Great, well it was a good try,” she said and pressed the end button and put the phone back on the passenger seat.

She ran through several scenarios for getting into the house on Pericolo Lane. But who was this girl Rye wanted so desperately to help? Would she even be there, and more importantly, who were these people she was involved with? She finally let it go; the whole idea was insane anyway. Paul had even told Rye that there was nothing either of them could do. Great, the message she left, outlining her intention of locating the girl, flew in the face of Paul’s advice. But, she figured, this far up the coast and having left a message for Paul—if his machine even recorded it—she sure as hell wasn’t going to turn back now.

It was while leaving the rest stop just above the little town of Cottage Grove that Claire had an idea that she thought just might work. She’d say she was a private investigator hired by an attorney to locate the two people who assisted with a multi-car accident on I-5. The victims and their families had put together a reward of $10,000, to split between the two. She wouldn’t even show the picture, she’d explain how she traced the license plate of the Dodge and had only a description of a tall, slightly balding man and a woman with long blonde hair. Claire ran the scenario over and over, even practicing what she’d say. When she reached Denton, she gassed up and drove a couple blocks without finding her turn off, then pulled into the parking lot of the Book Nook and asked for directions to Pericolo Lane.

The occasional house or mailbox became more and more infrequent as she drove on, until she hadn’t seen a house in twenty minutes. She was beginning to think that she had gone too far until she came to a hairpin curve and passed a steel reinforced mailbox with the correct address. A fifteen-foot high iron gate blocked the paved driveway. Attached on either side of the driveway were twenty-foot high stone pillars.

She parked a foot or two from the gate, got out and gave the iron bars a shake.

“Wow, this is really made to keep people out,” Claire said, to no one in particular.

To the left and right of the pillars, barbed wire fencing lead off into the woods. There was a speaker with a keypad imbedded in one of the pillars.

Claire pressed the button marked “intercom.” “Hello, I need to speak to the owner of a black and red Dodge Caravan.”

The speaker crackled as a tinny-sounding voice responded. “State your name and business.”

“My name is Claire Anderson and I’m a private investigator authorized to give the owner of the black and red Dodge Caravan a reward of ten thousand dollars.”

There was no immediate response and Claire was beginning to wonder if the speaker worked. When the tinny sounding voice caught her by surprise, she could feel her pulse pound in her ears.

“I’m sorry, the owner of the Dodge isn’t here at this time.”

“Could I pass through? I just need to find out who the owner is.”

This time the response was immediate.

“Just mail the check to this address.”

Claire jabbed at the button. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have to deliver the check in person.”

The reply wasn’t so congenial this time. “Then you’re out of luck.”

She tried several different approaches, but the person at the other end either wasn’t responding or wasn’t there. She got into her car and drove slowly along Pericolo Lane until she found a break in the barbed wire.

She started to wonder if the young woman who asked Rye for help was being held against her will. She hadn’t really expected an open invitation to come inside, but it was obvious that these people had something to hide—and it wasn’t just pornography.

Pulling onto the shoulder of the road, she left a note under the windshield wiper—Won’t start, caught a ride into town.

Reaching behind the seat, Claire grabbed her butt pack and pulled on a down vest. Checking up and down the road, she quickly made her way down the little slope that led to the barbed wire fence where the top two strands had come undone from one of the fence posts. High stepping, Claire leapt over the fence and into the forest, quickly moving out of sight from the road. She made her way in the direction of the driveway, figuring that she’d need to come up on the house from behind. She’d been jogging for nearly twenty minutes, finally stopping to catch her breath. Bent over with her hands on her knees she looked up and began scanning the woods for a house. Spotting the driveway, she figured if she just stayed parallel to it, she’d eventually run into one.

After another half hour of hopping over fallen trees and branches, she spotted what she was looking for.

Walking now, she began to circle around behind the block building until she was directly behind it. She duck walked out of the woods up to a large boulder just twenty feet from the rear door, and peaked around the edge. “What the hell?”

Rocking back off her heels onto her butt, her back against the moss-covered boulder, she tried to figure out what she had just seen. The only door looked solid, the top was chicken wire and the bottom half was reinforced with metal. The door handle was a simple pull, no doorknob.

This could be the door to any clinic in the country, Claire thought. “What kind of house is this?” she said softly.

There were no windows facing the boulder except the one in the door. Taking a deep breath, Claire sprinted to the back of the house, pressing herself against the wall of the building next to the door. Her blood raced as the adrenalin surged. Taking another deep breath and holding it, she peeked in through the bottom corner of the window. She looked down at what could have been a hospital corridor, complete with crash cart and two gurneys sitting in the hall. Not seeing anyone, she took a minute to scope out the hall, but couldn’t see much beyond the first room.

“OK, Claire, you can do this.”

She took several deep breaths through her nose to help calm down, the way she did before a sparing match at the dojo. Gently, very gently, she reached up and tugged at the door handle. To her surprise, the heavy door opened easily. In one quick move, she slipped into the hall and stepped into the first room she came to.

She did a quick scan, checking out what appeared to be an exam room. “Holy shit!” she cried out louder than she meant to.

There, sitting on an exam table, dressed in loose fitting scrubs, was the blonde from the porn tape. Claire checked the hall, still empty. She closed the door and turned out the light.

“Hi, hello?” Claire whispered.

She immediately recognized that the young woman was mildly sedated. She sat on the exam table tottering, as though about to fall forward, eyes glazed. In twenty years as an emergency room nurse and EMT, Claire had seen people in this state of sedation hundreds of times; usually she had put them there.

She climbed onto the exam table next to the young woman, placing a hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling.

“My name’s Claire. Crystal?”

She leaned forward putting her ear in front of the woman’s lips.

“Mu eve.”

“Mary, is that your name? I thought it was Crystal.”

The young woman’s brow furrowed and she pursed her lips to speak.

“Hep!”

Each time the young woman spoke she rocked forward against Claire’s steadying hand.

“Helen? Is that your name? Can I help you, Helen?”

Suddenly the young woman turned to face Claire, her eyes focused, her speech clearing a bit.

“Must leave now.”

As though someone had flipped a switch, the young woman slumped forward, her eyes once again glazed over.

“That’s all I needed to hear. C’mon, honey, let’s get out of here.”

She placed a hand on the woman’s chest and in the small of her back to help her slide off the exam table. Crystal wasn’t steady, but was willing. Claire led her to the door and checked the hall.

“Get ready. On the count of three we’re going to run out the door.”

She knew that providing a mildly sedated patient advance notice allowed them time to adjust. On three, the two women stepped into the hall. She figured Crystal was stable enough that she could be pulled along. Claire was just at the back door when she stopped short at the slamming of a door at the opposite end of the building.

“Hey, there, Crystal, who’s your friend?”

Claire turned. She was face to face with a burly young man in scrubs.

“Hi there, I’m Derrick, her anesthesiologist. And you are…?” he said slowly.

Claire knew that it was now or never. If she hesitated, all would be over.

“I’m Doctor Pain,” she said, smiling, as she planted her right foot into Derrick’s groin. She then grasped his throat with her left hand. As he doubled over, she helped him to the floor, placing a thumb behind his ear causing him to lose conscious.

Claire grabbed Crystal by the shoulders and shook her hard. “C’mon, we’ve gotta go.”

Pushing and pulling, Claire got the two of them out the door. She headed into the forest, holding Crystal tightly by the hand, coaxing, dragging, and pulling her through the woods. Branches slapped them, feeling like so many needles, poking and whipping.

“C’mon, snap out of it,” Claire hissed, as she dragged her along. They had to get back to the road and her car as soon as possible. “At this rate, we won’t make the road before they notice you’re gone. C’mon, Crystal, you can make it.”

Scanning the woods ahead, Claire noticed a hill and some cliffs. Not exactly the direction of the road, but a place where they could hide until Crystal came around.

“Hey how about a rest, would you like that?” Crystal was becoming more responsive, crying out as branches struck her in the face. But she didn’t respond to Claire’s question.

Claire made her way around branches and tree limbs scattered on the forest floor. In some cases, whole trees lay in their path. Working her way to the cliffs, she noticed that Crystal was looking around, becoming aware of her surroundings.

There had to be some rocks, a place to hide. When she finally reached the cliffs, there were no boulders to hide behind, just a shear rock face.

Claire suddenly noticed that Crystal was no longer yanking her arm every thirty seconds. She was now moving with much more ease. Claire stopped, attempted to get a verbal response, but still nothing.

As they rounded the natural curve of the cliff face, a hole appeared. “Look, a cave,” Claire said.

Cautiously, she crept up to the small dark opening. Her breathing instantly constricted and she quickly stepped back, spooked by the black hole in solid stone that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The opening seemed to shrink right before her eyes and she was reminded of something far back in her memory, something out of her childhood. Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the opening. One look and she knew this was no cave. It was a mine.

Even in the dim light, she could see that the timbers were huge and ran up the side, crisscrossing along the ceiling. But as she stepped to enter, Crystal would have none of it, and froze.

“C’mon there’s no time for this. Crystal, come on,” Claire said, in her sternest whisper.

Slowly, she managed to drag the young woman into the mine’s entrance. She had her back bent to the task and was facing into the shaft, pulling with all her strength.

“Where are we?” Claire whirled around. Crystal had spoken.

“Welcome back to the land of the living. My name’s Claire. C’mon, we’ve got to hide.”

She led her to the wall of the mine, and the two women crouched behind one of the huge beams. “What do you remember?”

“Only that I was going to be taken to a clinic to see my friend, Jan. When I got inside the room where Jan was supposed to be someone came up behind me and placed a cloth over my mouth and nose. The next thing I knew there were trees and someone pulling me along. Was that you?”

“Yeah, we’ve been bushwhacking for about fifteen minutes.”

“Who are you and why are you helping me?”

“My husband and I operate an ambulance service and were attending an accident just outside of Medford on the I-5. He said you came up to him and asked for help, then he saw you on a porn tape and thought you might be in trouble. And when we discovered that a dead guy was also in a film made by the same company, we were afraid you might be next.”

“What do you think they were going to do to me?” Crystal asked.

“I wasn’t sure until I found you in that exam room. Look.” Claire reached over and lifted the bottom of Crystal’s loosely hanging shirt. “Can you see this?”

She craned her neck looking over at her right side. “Black lines, and it looks like a circle.”

“Those are the lines placed on a patient so that the surgeon knows where to cut. It looks like someone was going to remove something—most likely your liver.”

Crystal rocked off her heels and sat down hard on her butt. “Oh my God…Jan.”

Claire placed a hand on her shoulder. “Crystal?” Claire whispered.

Crystal had a distant look in her eyes and wouldn’t respond to her name. Tears were running down her cheeks and her chest was heaving, as if she were out of breath. She gasped for air. Hyperventilation, Claire thought. Quickly unbuckling her butt pack, she fished around until she found a tiny paper bag.

“Breathe into the bag,” Claire said, placing Crystal’s hands around the opening, directing it to her mouth and helping her hold it in place. Crystal wasn’t listening.

Grabbing her shoulders, Claire shook her hard. “I think we should find a place to hide back in the mine, wait until dark, then make our way to the road and my car.”

Crystal swiped at her nose with her wrist, and looked Claire square in the eyes. “I’m OK, but can we stay here a little longer?”

“Sure, would you like to tell me about Jan? You’ve mentioned her twice.”

“Jan and I grew up in Garland, Iowa, and moved to Los Angeles together to break into acting. When the money began running out, Jan answered an ad looking for women to act in adult films. I haven’t heard from her in days.”

She suddenly lurched forward and wrapped her arms around Claire, hugging her tightly. “Thank you so much,” Crystal said, rocking back onto her heels. “How did you find me?”

Claire was fiddling with her butt pack as she spoke. “I traced the license of the Dodge van to the mansion.”

Tears began running down Crystal’s cheeks. Claire reached across in the semi-darkness and, using her thumbs, wiped away the tears.

“When they wouldn’t let me in through the front gate, I parked my car down the road, hopped a barbed wire fence and cut around through the woods, thinking I would come around behind the house. I stumbled onto the clinic by accident.”

“That’s where you found me?”

“Do you remember me sitting next to you on the exam table?”

“No. After I was sedated, I only remember being pulled along and tripping a lot.” She began rocking back and forth. “The thought that you might not have found the clinic, and me…”

“I know, I know,” Claire said, trying to comfort her. “But we’ve got to get moving. I know I’ve got a penlight in here somewhere.” Claire continued to fish around in her butt pack.

“I’m ready,” Crystal said. “I don’t suppose you have a stick of gum in there.”

The two women stood and peeked around the thick wooden beam that hid them from view. They crept along one side of the mine; Claire kept her penlight at the ready. Each time they looked back, the entrance appeared smaller. Finally, as the shaft made a slight bend, the entrance of the mine was lost from view, and Claire had to turn on her penlight. They hadn’t gone thirty steps beyond the bend in the shaft when the only light they had was from the little flashlight.

“Hang onto my belt and stay an arm’s length behind me, we really have to watch our step,” Claire said. “I’ve heard mines always have vertical shafts.”

Crystal smiled into the darkness. “I think I’ve seen the same movie.”

Progress was slow, both women moving cautiously and the penlight was dimming to a pale yellow. Claire stopped and once again unclipped her butt pack.

“Here.” She handed the tiny light to Crystal. “I want to save the batteries. I think I’ve got a couple candles and a lighter.” Minutes later, with the little pack back around Claire’s waist and each of them holding a candle, they continued.

As they moved farther down the shaft, it began to change.

“What happened to the beams, and doesn’t the tunnel seem to be getting smaller?” Crystal said.

Claire was fingering round holes in the rock. “I don’t know, but I think these must be where they placed the dynamite.”

Crystal stepped around Claire and went a little deeper into the tunnel. “Come look at this,” she said.

Holding her candle out in front and cupping her hand around it to protect the flame, Claire made her way up next to Crystal and saw immediately that the tunnel split about fifty feet ahead. Crystal held her candle up so that she could see Claire’s face. “Which way?”

“I don’t know. Let’s try the right first, I guess.”

The closer they got to the fork in the tunnel the more their candles flickered. As they stood at the split, they detected a slight breeze and had to protect the tentative candle flames with their hands.

“I think the decision has been made for us,” Claire said, nodding towards the right.

As the candles burned down into the wax, the flames produced less and less light. Soon the women were walking side by side holding the candles next to each other, in an attempt to get as much light out of them as they could. Claire kept one shoulder on the wall as she walked, to provide a guide as the candles gave out just enough light to show where they were stepping.

“Stop for a minute and take the candles, I’m going to get the penlight out while I still have enough light to see what I’m doing.”

“Tell me again why we’re in here,” Crystal said.

“Looking for a place to hide until nightfall,” Claire said, stuffing the penlight into her hip pocket.

“What time is it? Seems like we’ve been walking for at least an hour.”

Claire pressed the button on her watch illuminating the face. “Not a chance. Only about thirty minutes.”

When they started walking again, Crystal took the lead crouching to hold the candles low so they could see their feet, and dragging her shoulder on the tunnel wall. Claire hovered at her shoulder, staring at the ever-shrinking halo around their feet. Then, with a gasp, the light was gone.

“Crystal?” Claire waved her hands in an attempt to find her.

“It’s OK, I think I’m in a room of some kind, but there must be bats in here, cause something sure stinks.”

“Just stay where you are.”

“Could you hurry up with the flashlight? I’m starting to get creeped out.”

“I’m going to use the lighter instead of the flashlight to find you and see if I can light the candles again.”

“Fine, please just hurry up.”

Claire spun the wheel on the lighter causing sparks and a small flame by which she could just see what appeared to be an oval opening to a small room about six feet high. She had just made out Crystal’s long hair, when the flame went out.

“Shit.” She shook the lighter for the sound of fluid.

Again she spun the wheel. Spark, but no flame. And again. Same result. With each flash of spark she’d take another step into the room, and with each spark she would catch sight of Crystal’s long hair. But something was wrong, her hair was dangling, she must be laying down, not on the floor but on a ledge.

“Crystal, you OK?”

“Yeah fine, you’ve got about ten feet to go.”

Her voice didn’t come from the direction Claire had been following. Puzzled, she put the lighter in her hip pocket and took out the pen light, pointed it in the direction she’d been going and turned it on.

Suddenly the room came alive with dangling hair—long hair, short hair—all hanging from heads in every state of decay. Bare shoulders, breasts, nude bodies. And with every shudder that passed through Claire, the light she was holding moved and the heads danced until Crystal’s scream jolted her into pointing the light at the ground, but it was too late. Crystal in her haste to escape barreled into Claire, knocking her to the ground as she ran from the room.

As she fell, the penlight flew from her hand. Confused, she lay against the tunnel wall where she’d fallen, listening to Crystal’s screams fade into the darkness. It was when they abruptly stopped that she began feeling around the floor for the penlight, finding instead what she thought was a rock until she found a wire leading in from one side. She depressed the top of the rock. Suddenly the room lit up like daylight. Claire got to her feet in a state of shock. Stacked from the floor to what must have been an eight-foot ceiling were bodies. Each had its own shelf, and each was face up with the head at the outside edge of the shelf, hair dangling. There were no labels, numbers or names. The room reminded Claire of the catacombs below some of the ancient churches in Rome.

The light came from four large spotlights mounted onto a metal crossbeam bolted to the ceiling. As she turned to scan the walls of corpses, one of the bodies caught her attention. It was on the rear wall, fourth shelf from the bottom. She noticed something tiny sticking up from between the breasts.

Extracting a pair of surgical gloves from her butt pack, Claire gingerly grasped the body just under the shoulders and slid it out a few inches. There in the middle of the chest were sutures, several sticking up just enough to catch the light. She’d seen this before. The body had undergone some kind of heart surgery. Moving from body to body it soon became apparent that each had undergone major surgery on an organ. She shuddered as she realized that even in death these were young, attractive women, and that some of the bodies were hardly a week old. The glint off her little silver penlight broke her concentration and reminded her that Crystal was out in the mine somewhere. After retrieving her flashlight, she stepped on the floor switch sending the room into darkness, as though the bodies had never existed.

It was easy to follow Crystal, even with the dim penlight. Instead of going back the way they’d come, she’d continued up the tunnel leaving footprints. As Claire followed her progress down the tunnel, the image of the bodies haunted her, but instead of blocking them from her mind, she re-examined each one, until she stopped in her tracks and began to count on her fingers.

Each one has a major scar, she thought holding up one finger, and each one was young, none looked over twenty-five. Another finger went up. And they were all beautiful, at least in life. Another finger.

That’s when she made the connection. My God, she thought, anyone of those women could have been a porn star and every one of them had been eviscerated.

Claire’s head began to swim at the realization that these women weren’t murdered for some petty fracture of a rule, or for money, or an adulterous act. They were all hired like Crystal and her friend, for a single purpose, and it wasn’t to perform sex. These women weren’t hired for their youthful beauty, but for the value of their organs.

“Oh, God. When I illuminated the room with my penlight Crystal must have seen her friend,” she said in a whisper.

She was sickened at what she’d discovered, then a rush of panic washed over her at the thought of Crystal running blindly through the mine with no light at all, just the mental image of her friend’s lifeless body.

Claire looked down the mineshaft and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Crystal,” she yelled. Then louder, “Crystal!” Her only answer was a faint echo.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The inside of the SUV was like a dark oven. With all the windows tinted except the windshield, the interior was oppressively hot. Rye’s captors seemed not to notice. The one called Vince climbed across the folded seats, sat behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

“Just relax, Mr. Rye. I’m afraid Lewd and Lascivious is located in a rather rough neighborhood. Another ten minutes and somebody might steal my tires.”

Rye was surprised that the mob—he was sure these guys were mob—would have a problem with looters. At first he tried to count the times the SUV turned a corner, but he lost track. Then he attempted to establish landmarks through the windshield, but from the back all he could see was sky and the occasional top of a telephone pole. He finally squirmed into the back corner of the SUV and settled in for the ride.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Rye, that we’re taking you for a ride. Well, you’re right.” His captor began to laugh. “Dude, you been watchin’ too many movies. We’re driving to a safe location where we won’t be disturbed.”

The big man began to talk about his sick father as though he were telling a fairy tale to a child. The tone of his voice changed, but he showed no emotion.

“My ol’ man died and the doctor said it was the transplanted liver. Contaminated. In such bad shape, even if he had survived the operation he wouldn’t have lived out the day.”

Rye figured he had nothing to lose and maybe, if he could get this guy talking, it might somehow aid in his release…or escape.

“How did you figure it was Lewd and Lascivious?” Rye asked.

“Same as you. Off the label of one of their tapes. When I picked up the liver, it was in an ice chest in a cardboard box. Vince here delivered the ice chest to the doctor and said he found a couple videotapes inside it. I watched one. It was pretty good—for porn. Then I get a call that my papa’s dead and that the liver was no good. I shoulda known sumpin’ was rotten. The bitch what made the delivery was really up tight, nervous even. Wouldn’t let me look at the liver.”

Rye adjusted his sitting position so he was leaning against the back door; the move wasn’t lost on his captors. As long as they thought that he could help them find the woman who sold them the liver, Rye figured they’d keep him alive.

“So, how can I help you find the woman?” Rye said.

Vince handed the other guy Rye’s wallet he’d removed during the pat down.

“Well, Mr. Rye, I see that you do have a last name.” He paused to read the driver’s license. “Now I know where you live. Both of us want the same thing, so I’ll give you three days, then I’ll contact you. If you come through with the details I want, you never see me again.”

They drove to an empty lot, gave Rye directions for finding his car and a number he was to call with information. Vince leaned over Rye and opened the back doors. Rock was waiting.

It felt good to stand up, and as he stood up straight, he turned to face his captor. Rock smiled and snapped off a kick catching Rye in the groin. “No offense, Mr. Rye. You know, an eye for an eye and all that.”

Rye lay curled in a fetal position trying to look up at Rock.

“Good hunting, Mr. Rye. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

When he caught his breath and knew he wouldn’t puke, Rye stood up again, slowly. The SUV was gone.

Three hours later, Rye was experiencing the most uncomfortable ride of his life, pondering all that had happened from the coach seat of a 737 headed north. Another three hours and he was home reading the note Claire left him.

“Hello, uh, this is Rye.”

The voice on the other end of the phone came alive with recognition, much to Rye’s relief.

“Mr. Rye, glad to hear from you. I didn’t expect to get a call so soon. What can you tell me?”

“20415 Pericolo Lane, Denton Beach, Oregon.”

“How did you get this information?”

“I didn’t, my wife did. Apparently, she traced the license plate number from the van I saw the blonde get into. There’s just one thing, my wife is already there.”

Rye was clenching and unclenching his fist, his mind filling with B-footage from a gangster movie where mobsters sprayed a room with bullets killing everyone in order to get revenge on just one person.

“Rest assured that your wife will probably not be hobnobbing with the same people we’ll be doin’ business with. But I suggest that you get up there as soon as possible and get her out. Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mr. Rye?”

“No nothing. Ah, maybe yes there is. I want to wish you good luck; these people are scum.”

“Yeah, we know that. Thanks. Good-bye, Mr. Rye.”

He stood holding the phone to his ear for a minute, listening to the dial tone.

Rye stepped to the door of the garage looking at his VW bus and the ambulance, thinking of the four-hour drive to Denton Beach. It was the image of Vince and Rock getting there first that made up his mind. Twenty minutes later, he was heading north on I-5, doing ninety, sirens and lights howling and spinning.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Rosie brooded as she drove through the Marin headlands, her midnight transaction already out of mind. Moonless night drives often triggered her mood swings. This time it was the argument she had with Simms about bringing in the South American black market contingency, how he was sure it was too soon for such a big move. She was deep in thought when an SUV traveling at about twice her speed, tailgating her with high beams glaring, honked. She quickly moved into the slow lane, shoving a fist out the window with one finger extended.

She was still fuming over her argument with Simms. Granted, she’d arranged for the visit without first consulting him, but she figured this way he had no choice. If she’d talked to him first it would have been a flat out no.

“What do you mean he wants to visit the facility … and bring what, five, ten, fifteen people?” Simms had said. “C’mon, Rosie, you know how it has to be.” He spun in his chair to the right and pulled open the top drawer and extracted a day planner. “You know it’s an issue of security.” He laid the planner on the desk blotter, and then pulled up the calendar on his computer. “It could jeopardize everything, plus we have a new group of women coming.” He looked from his computer to the day planner. “In five days, we’ll be swamped. Taping the operations, I control what they see.”

Rosie sat stone-faced, letting Simms rant. She ran a thumb inside her blouse adjusting her bra, then uncrossed and re-crossed her legs.

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. I’ve already made the arrangements. Peter, these men represent most of the South American organ black market. This could mean millions.”

“It could also mean the end,” Simms dropped his day planner in the drawer and slammed it shut. “Look what happened with Mason. You recruited him and he almost ruined everything.”

Rosie was quickly losing her composure and began to raise her voice. “But he didn’t, did he? And he became a donor and got the mob off your back.”

Simms suddenly grew pale. “God, don’t tell me you gave them his liver.”

“What does it matter?”

“You were supposed to bring up that Italian stallion so Clouse could pull his liver for them. Look, maybe you’re right and it doesn’t matter, and they can’t track us down. That’s not the point. I can’t trust you, anymore. You recruited Mason without consulting me and he nearly gave us away. What’d you do, recruit him with a good fuck? If it weren’t for me you’d just be a nymphomaniac running a pornographic film company so you could fuck all the actors. And the actresses too, for all I know. Shit.”

Rosie stood, placing both hands on the desk. “That’s not fair. You know about my condition. Sometimes I can’t help myself. Besides, you’re nothing but a doctor who lost his license for fondling a patient. My film company gave you the chance to step back into the operating room.”

Now Simms was on his feet. “You need me, Rosie. Anybody can do pornography, but where are you going to find another surgeon?”

“You get more for one extraction than you made in the first five years of medical practice!” Rosie yelled. She spun on her heel and marched out of the room. Just past the door, she turned and leaned on the door jam.

“Oh, and Peter, Cecil Vinci and his contingent will arrive tomorrow evening expecting to sit in on the extraction of a liver…don’t disappoint him!”

Chapter Thirty

Her ears were ringing and her head throbbed. She moved just the fingers of her right hand, then her wrist. There was no feeling in her right leg, and her left leg felt like it was hanging in space. As she came fully conscious, she opened her eyes to total darkness but was afraid to move her head. The vision of Jan’s body, and all the others, came flooding in. She closed her eyes.

She didn’t know how much time had passed when she opened her eyes again. Her right breast ached clear up into her shoulder. There was still only darkness, and in that void Crystal remembered how Claire’s little penlight illuminated stacks of bodies, how they were everywhere and seemed to come alive in the light. Claire. Where was Claire? She opened her mouth to call out, and realized it was already open. She tasted dirt.

* * *

Claire walked bent over holding the penlight in an attempt to track Crystal down the tunnel. Her footprints seemed staggered; first, close together, then far apart. Was she running? Claire crawled on her hands and knees, getting the last of the illumination the little light had to offer. Then the prints stopped. Claire backed up, maybe Crystal had turned, but the last set of prints pointed straight ahead.

The little light glowed a dim yellow, Claire turned it off. She didn’t move, not wanting to erase one of the prints. When she turned the light on, shining it ahead, she gasped and fell back onto her haunches at what she saw. She was less than a foot from a vertical shaft.

She calmed herself, turned the light off and crawled on her stomach to the edge. Extending her arm to its full length, she again turned on the penlight. Nothing. Claire rolled onto her back placing the flashlight back in her pocket and pulled out her lighter. Spinning the wheel on the lighter Claire leaned into the tunnel, “Crystal can you hear me?” To her total amazement, the flame caught and flared. “Can you make a noise?” She slowly waved the lighter back and forth praying the flame wouldn’t go out.

From deep within the abyss came a clicking sound.

“Crystal! Hang on. I’m coming to get you.”

Claire held the lighter out in front of her until she got her bearings then snapped it shut. Making her way to the tunnel wall, she stumbled back to the room with the bodies and found the floor switch. Stepping down on it the room came to life with light from the four floodlights mounted in the ceiling. Once she found the heavy electrical cable that supplied power, she followed it down the wall, then along where the wall descended to the floor, out of the room and down the tunnel. When she came to what looked like an electrical box she began to twist the cable where it attached until it came loose and once again she was cast into darkness. Then came the task of pulling the cable up as she went, following it back to the room.

Madly pulling she managed to wrest it loose from the floodlights. Extracting the lighter, again she spun the wheel praying for a flame. For less than a minute, her prayers were answered; that was all she needed. When she figured she was within a couple yards of the vertical shaft, she dropped to her hands and knees, running her hands back and forth searching for the lip of the tunnel.

How would she secure the cable? She took out her lighter once again hoping for one more light, no luck. Then she remembered the matches.

She didn’t look at the flame as the match flared to life, she didn’t want to waste the time waiting for her eyes to adjust. Holding the match at arm’s length and moving it from side to side, she noticed a pile of debris against the wall across from her. Support timbers, an old iron wheel and spikes.

“Ouch,” she dropped the match, waved her hand up and down and stuck her finger in her mouth.

The wheel was the size of a truck tire. Once she got it upright, it was easy to roll to the edge of the shaft. The timbers were twelve feet long and solid redwood. Moving the one she needed took all her strength and ingenuity. She ended up sliding it, first one end then the other, until it was next to the wheel. Lifting one end of the timber just enough, Claire secured the electrical cable around it, making a loop on the other end. After lowering the looped end of the cable over the edge and calling out to Crystal, who did not respond, she pulled up on the cable only to meet resistance.

“Do you have the loop?”

A faint tremor of Crystal’s voice echoed up the shaft. “Yes.”

“Can you climb up?”

“No.”

“Just hold tight, I’m coming down.”

The cable was wrapped around the beam and she’d managed to flop the iron wheel on top to help hold it in place. Claire pulled on the cable one last time for assurance then slid on her belly over the lip of the shaft. Planting her feet on the wall, she pushed out and began walking down, just like she’d done a hundred times before. She and Rye had made hundreds of mountainside rescues, but they were in daylight. The wall of the shaft was smooth against her feet, but the cable felt secure in her hands. She paused to steady her breathing and thought she felt a tiny slip. First an inch, then a foot. In a panic, Claire imagined the steel wheel sliding towards the rim. She was half right; the wheel had already gone over the edge.

Claire dropped several feet, her hands burning as they slipped when the cable suddenly pulled tight. Gripping it until her knuckles turned white, she slammed against the wall, her feet frantically winding around the cable.

She never saw the wheel as it careened off the wall, but the impact off the back of her head nearly pulled her loose.

Chapter Thirty-one

Simms walked from the scrub area into the hall of the tiny clinic, where he joined Nurse Clouse.

“Good evening, Bonnie, have you seen Derrick? He was supposed to meet me in scrub.”

“Not since I sent him to finish the prep.”

The phone began to ring in the little office across from the scrub room.

“Excuse me, I’d better get that,” Simms said.

With a look of resignation, he picked up the handset. “This had better be important, I just scrubbed.”

It was Hubble and he was all business, as usual. “We’ve had a private investigator asking about the Dodge.”

“Christ, you didn’t let him in did you? And why wasn’t I informed?”

The moment of silence that followed Simms’s question was typical of Hubble, but it still pissed him off.

“The PI was a woman, and you were locked away in your private office.”

Simms couldn’t stand Hubble and would have fired the man except he was a damn good attorney. He was on the verge of blasting him for not interrupting him in his office when Clouse poked her head in.

“Doctor, I just found Derrick. You’d better come quick.”

He hung up the phone, then dashed into the hall where he was met by a limping Derrick. Clouse was at his side offering him ice.

“C’mon, I got kicked in the balls not hit over the head,” Derrick said, grimacing in pain.

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” Simms said.

“I was coming down the hall to prep Crystal when I saw her with another woman heading for the exit. When I asked the woman who she was, well, she kicked me.”

“Did she say who she was?” Simms said.

Derrick looked embarrassed. “Yeah, she said she was Doctor Pain.”

Simms spun around, ducked back into the small office and snatching up the phone, punched the speed dial for Hubble’s office.

“Hubble, here.”

“Your PI kidnapped our patient. Get your fat ass to the clinic, stat!” Simms slammed the handset down.

“Derrick, how sedated was she?”

“Just a heavy local, enough to keep her from walking away. She couldn’t have gotten off the exam table on her own.”

“How long will it last?”

“At least an hour. She’ll be moving at a crawl if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Exactly. You and Bonnie head into the woods. I’ll wait for Hubble.”

The security camera had captured Claire and her Austin-Healey on tape. On a hunch, Hubble had gone out through the gate after Simms’s call, and found the little sports car less than a quarter mile down the road. Moving around the car, he let the air out of all four tires and pulled the registration.

By the time Hubble entered the clinic, Simms was livid.

“Where in the hell have you been? I’ve sent Bonnie and Derrick into the woods looking for your fucking PI. Shit, by now she and Crystal could be half way to California.”

With his usual understatement and aplomb, Hubble sat on the edge of the desk and waited for Simms to finish his rant.

“Actually, Mr. Simms, she’s not. I found her car parked on the shoulder of the road just down from the gate. They’re still in the woods, or may have found their way to the mine.”

“Shit, shit, shit! We can’t let them get to the mine and if they’re already there they can’t be allowed to leave. Get a flashlight and go to the mine; I’ll hike through the woods and see if I can find them.”

Simms was in the scrub room changing when the wall phone rang. It was the line used only by Rosie Rehnquist to confirm a sale.

“Rosie, we’ve got a real problem…”

“Thanks for asking, everything went fine,” Rosie said, and paused to let the fact that she was insulted sink in. “What’s the big problem?”

“A private investigator broke into the clinic and helped Crystal escape. I’ve got Hubble headed for the mine; Derrick and Bonnie are in the woods looking for them.”

Rosie nearly drove off the road as she listened to Simms and heard the fear in his voice.

“If they see what’s in the mine and get away, it’ll shut us down. We may have to leave the country,” Simms said.

Rosie let his words sink in. They couldn’t be allowed to escape, even without seeing the contents of the mine. Surely the PI had figured out what was ahead for Crystal. No, they couldn’t be allowed to leave. But, if they did, the film company, mansion, clinic—all would have to be shut down and the mine destroyed.

“Peter, are you there?” she said.

“Yeah, I’m here. I want you to shut down Lewd and Lascivious and get up here as soon as possible. I’m going to need your help.”

“There’s got to be another way!”

“Listen to me, Rosie…there is no other way. Whatever you have to do—do it and get up here on the double.”

“What if they never find the mine, couldn’t we just silence the PI?”

“Can’t take the chance. She’s not like your girls. Someone might come looking. Plus we’ve got to deal with Derrick, Bonnie and Hubble.”

Chapter Thirty-two

When he saw the sign “Welcome to Denton by the Sea,” Rye cut the sirens and lights, and brought his speed down to the limit. Now he had to find Pericolo Lane. Prodded by an extreme sense of urgency, he wasted no time and drove the ambulance into the first gas station he came to, and parked in front of the little store.

The place looked deserted. He quickly scanned the aisles of chips, cookies, and other snacks, but couldn’t find anyone.

“Hello, I need some assistance.”

A man suddenly popped up from behind the counter.

“Sorry, just looking for something.” The man glanced out the window. “That your ambulance?”

“Sure is. Can you direct me to Pericolo Lane?”

“Keep going north, two more blocks, then right just after the Book Nook. You won’t see a sign for a mile or so, but that’s Pericolo.”

Rye spun on his heel and headed for the door. “Thanks.”

The gas station store clerk stood watching until the ambulance pulled onto Main Street, and disappeared from sight.

Stepping in front of the register, he opened the till and began pulling out twenties, tens and fives leaving just sixty dollars in the drawer. It had been a busy morning. He knelt to his hands and knees setting the cash on the floor and began dialing the combination of the floor safe when the door buzzer went off. When he stood up, three men were half way to the register.

Two of them hung back while the third man limped up to the counter.

“Good afternoon, I’m trying to find Pericolo Lane.”

“Sure, north two blocks, hang a right just past the Book Nook. Stay on that road until you see the sign.”

“Thanks a lot.”

The two men were out the door as soon as they heard the directions, with the third one limping right behind.

The clerk watched them drive away giving little thought to the coincidence of two people asking for the same road within fifteen minutes. He knelt down behind the counter, opened the safe, pulled out a heavy cloth bag and put in the cash.

“Oh shit, forgot the damn receipt.”

When he stood up he was staring into the chest of a man in a blue tailored suit.

He looked up at the man’s chiseled features, partly obscured by sunglasses. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He became suddenly aware that he was still holding the cash deposit in his hand. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for 20415 Pericolo Lane.”

The clerk smiled, this had to be one for the books.

“20415 is way up there. You know, you’re the third person, like in minutes, looking for Pericolo Lane.”

The man in the blue suit turned to look at his two companions, also wearing sunglasses and blue suits.

“One of them drove an ambulance. Anyway, go north two blocks and take a right just after the Book Nook, that’s Pericolo.”

The clerk watched as the three men climbed into a big silver car and pulled out of the station, headed north.

Rye was driving the top-heavy ambulance as fast as he dare on the curvy road, watching every mailbox and gate for 20415. Glancing ahead as he approached a curve, he noticed a giant metal gate set between two stone pillars. He knew he’d found the address even before he saw the numbers. He drove for another quarter mile before he spotted an unchained driveway where he could turn around.

“Shit.” He nearly drove off the road when he spotted Claire’s Austin-Healey.

By the time he was back in his lane he’d passed the driveway where he was going to turn around and was getting frantic. He had slowed the ambulance to a crawl when a dirt road appeared on his right. He pulled in, cut the ignition and started jogging back the way he’d come.

He reached around to the holster clipped to the back of his pants when he noticed that all four of the Healey’s tires were flat. He kept his right hand wrapped around the handle of the .38 as he approached the car.

There was no blood, no sign of a struggle. But why were the tires all flat?

Looking down at the gravel shoulder, he could just make out a footprint. He immediately recognized it as one of Claire’s special EMT, size-eight shoes.

He stood for a minute taking it all in. Looking down the road he could see the massive gate, looking up the road he could see his ambulance. Another minute and he was back in the ambulance driving up the dirt road that seemed to parallel the gated drive. He caught glimpses of the paved driveway until the trees became too dense. He checked the dashboard clock—he’d been driving for fifteen minutes. When he looked back up, he could just make out a clearing ahead. He brought the ambulance to a stop, climbed out and stepped into the woods.

He moved in a crouch from tree to tree until he was at the border of a clearing. He was about to step into the open when two people emerged from the woods on the opposite side. A man and a woman, joined by a third person—all in a heated discussion.

As he strained to hear what they were saying, Rye failed to notice the three men creeping up behind the ambulance.

Chapter Thirty-three

The pain kept her conscious. With labored effort, Claire lowered herself down the cable, no longer attempting to walk down the wall.

She felt two hands around her hips moving up to her waist. “I’ve got you.” Crystal said.

The hands provided direction, urging her, pulling her. She finally let go of the cable and sat down hard. It was pitch dark, and Claire could feel her claustrophobia starting to close in.

The two women clutched one another, as if either let go, the other might disappear.

“Claire what happened? I thought you’d fallen and I was terrified. I couldn’t tell what it was.”

Claire shook her head in an effort to clear her thinking but stopped when the pain intensified. “I’d wrapped the cable around an old iron wheel; it must have been pulled over the edge.” She ran her hand over the back of her head, it came away wet and sticky. She knew it was blood. Her head throbbed and her hands burned.

“Help me open my butt pack, I need some ointment.”

The two women did a little dance, Claire rolling onto her stomach too unsteady to stay up on her knees, Crystal tracing the belt with her fingers until she found the butt pack. There was no ointment.

With considerable effort, they pulled out everything they could find that would burn—lint, Kleenex and gauze. They used the last match, made a small mound of dirt and hollowed out the center, then built a tiny fire. At first, they stared into the flames and Claire’s feelings of being closed in vanished, but Crystal’s gasp alerted her to their surroundings.

The two were perched on a ledge approximately twelve feet long but only about three feet wide. Crystal was plastered to the wall, eyes wide with fear. Claire fell into her role as EMT, took Crystal’s hand, and looked for a way to distract her. “I can see the top. We’re only about fifteen feet down.”

Her words seemed to bring Crystal around. “Do you think we can climb out?”

Claire gave a tug on the cable and was surprised to find it solid. “The timber must be holding, I think so.”

The giant timber, pulled to the rim of the shaft by Claire’s weight, was long enough to span the narrow opening.

They found the iron wheel teetering on the lip of the ledge, pulled it on end and gained another three feet by standing on it. With Claire’s help, Crystal was able to climb the cable, then help Claire come up the last couple of feet. The women were exhausted, the fire on the ledge was out and they were in darkness again. Urging each other on, they crept away from the opening of the shaft, then collapsed onto their backs, panting and gasping.

Chapter Thirty-four

A silver sedan sped by 20415 Pericolo Lane. Just beyond Claire’s Austin-Healey, it turned around in a driveway, and parked on the dirt road. Two men in blue suits got out and walked down toward a giant gate but didn’t stop. Instead, they stepped over the drooping barbed wire of a dilapidated fence and sat on a huge stump just inside a circle of trees. Neither spoke as they watched the road.

Rye drew his revolver and was about to step into the clearing to confront the group, when another man emerged from the woods to join them. Rye sat back down into a crouch, holstering his gun.

The foursome walked toward some cliffs that emerged from the hills, then disappeared. He quickly high-stepped through the woods, going around logs, stepping over branches, until he could see where they had gone.

Slowly at first, a shadow came into view until he realized it was the opening to a mine. The last man to join the group had a flashlight and was using it to lead the others inside.

Claire heard the noise first and pushed herself into a sitting position. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Crystal said.

“Shhh. Now do you hear it?”

“Yeah.”

Claire stood up. “I’m sure I heard talking.”

Crystal stood, flailing her arms around in the dark until she found Claire. Grabbing the hand that smacked her in the shoulder, Claire guided her over to the wall.

“I think somebody’s coming. We need to get to the other side of the shaft and find a place to hide,” Claire said.

Without another word, she pulled out her lighter and began walking along with Crystal in tow, using the light cast by each spark.

When they reached the vertical shaft, they flattened themselves against the tunnel wall and shuffled past. As soon as they were clear, they began to walk.

Crystal pulled back against Claire’s forward movement. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“Do you feel it?”

Suddenly something soft and cool brushed against Claire’s cheek. “I feel it.”

She began spinning the wheel of the lighter in earnest, keeping it close to her body to protect the flame if it lit. It did for an instant, then flickered out.

“I can really feel it now. C’mon the air’s coming from the right.”

With Crystal in tow, Claire made her way following a cool breeze that seemed to be guiding her deeper and deeper into the old mine, never knowing that Rye was hiding among the boulders just outside the mine shaft.

Chapter Thirty-five

The light illuminated a shoe print that plainly displayed a logo—an oval with “EMT Special” in the center. “Shit, that seals it, they’re here.” All heads spun around as though they might be able to see the intruders.

Then everyone looked at Simms. “Bonnie, you and Derrick stay put. Hubble and I’ll go back to the mansion.”

Rye ducked back behind a boulder when he heard the sound of running. Two men emerged from the mine and ran to the edge of the clearing where they disappeared down a trail that led into the woods.

The two men burst into the clinic panting and breathless.

Simms turned to face Hubble. “Get into storage and take the C4 plugs and detonators to the mine. Send Derrick and Bonnie back, I’ll need them here.”

Hubble looked Simms in the eye and seemed to comprehend what was going to happen.

“I’ll need a key.”

“Of course.” Simms turned and led Hubble into his office, removing a key from his top center desk drawer.

“Go! Set the C4 at the opening of the morgue and around the mouth of the mine, then wait for me.”

As soon as Hubble was out of the office and down the hall, Simms took out another key, unlocked the small drawer on the right side of the desk and removed his .45 pistol. Then he followed Hubble about fifty yards into the woods and stepped off the trail.

Rye watched from his hidden vantage point as a man entered the clearing just in front of the mine entrance. Moments later, Derrick and Bonnie went back down the trail. He watched Hubble head into the mine, and took that as his cue to come out of hiding. In one quick move, he lunged forward and placed the barrel of the pistol in the center of the man’s back.

In a flash, Hubble moved to the side using his right arm to knock Rye’s gun arm to the left. Rye tightened his arm, pulling the trigger in response. But Hubble was well out of the way and drove a left palm strike to Rye’s temple.

As soon as his gun arm had been knocked away, Rye knew he was facing a trained martial artist. Seeing the palm strike from the corner of his eye, he twisted his head at the last minute to avoid full contact. He attempted several of the moves Claire had shown him over the years, but they were all slow and poorly aimed. His opponent, though smaller, was landing strike after strike. Rye knew that one was bound to bring him down. Lurching to one side he managed to avoid a kick aimed at his kidney and turning, sprinted into the mine. Hubble, wanting to get as far away from the mine as possible, did not follow.

Both women peered back into the black, at the sound of the pistol shot. Claire increased her pace and was suddenly being hit full face by a steady breeze.

She shook the lighter. “Come on, light goddamn it.” Her thumb was raw from turning the rough wheel.

Spin, spark….spin, spark

Spin, flame. Claire quickly cupped her had around the flame. “Do you see a shaft anywhere? It’s got to be close. Must be an air shaft leading to the surface.”

Crystal released her grip on Claire’s sleeve and ran to a small hole in the rock, about the size of a manhole cover, Inserting her head and shoulders into the ascending shaft. Claire took a last look and let the flame go out. Staggering and flailing her arms, she found Crystal. She could just make out the airshaft into which Crystal had climbed and could see her extended hand.

“C’mon, you’re right—it leads to the surface,” Crystal said. But Claire didn’t make a move, didn’t say a word. “Claire, c’mon. Claire, what’s wrong?”

Chapter Thirty-six

Simms didn’t have to wait long for Derrick and Bonnie. He heard them talking as they half jogged, half walked down the trail. Without showing himself, he shot Derrick in the side of the head. Bonnie bolted down the trail toward the clinic. Simms stepped out onto the trail leveling his pistol at her head. He pulled the trigger, but missed, hitting her in the right shoulder. The shot knocked her to the ground, but she was up and running before he could get off another shot. He quickly checked Derrick’s pulse, then stepped around the body. When he reached the grass clearing that led to the clinic, he slowed to a walk. Bonnie was nowhere in sight but he could see blood on the door handle.

Pulling open the door, he found the hall empty. But there was blood on the floor.

“Bonnie, I heard shots. Are you hurt?” he called out.

No answer. Simms imagined her lying unconscious on the floor in one of the clinic rooms. When he stepped around into the first exam room a blur of red came out of nowhere slamming him in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him backwards. He staggered to catch his balance but was struck again by the fire extinguisher, this time in the groin. Tentacles of pain shot into his abdomen driving him to his knees. Bonnie followed him out the door and pushed him over onto his back. Raising the extinguisher high, she plunged it down aiming for his groin, but the move was too obvious and ponderously slow. Raising the gun, extending his arm full length, Simms fired several shots into her at near point blank range knocking her back through the door and onto the floor.

Ignoring the throbbing from his broken nose and the urge to curl up into a fetal position from the pain between his legs, Simms staggered to his feet and stumbled down the path toward the mine.

He cleared the trees and crossed the clearing just as Hubble came out of the mine. Hubble didn’t see the gun until Simms had it leveled at his chest. Neither spoke. Simms fired three shots driving Hubble against a boulder next to the entrance of the mine. He didn’t see the three figures moving through the woods in the direction of the mine. He picked up the flashlight Hubble dropped and began scanning the walls for the C4. Finding all twelve plugs, he discovered the detonator just outside the morgue, picked it up and put it in his pocket.

“Hubble, efficient to the end,” Simms’s said as he limped back to the entrance.

When he was clear of the opening, he turned to face the mine and began walking backwards, finally stopping near the middle of the clearing. His attention was suddenly drawn to the sound of running feet. Before he could turn to see what was happening, someone tackled him around the ankles, knocking him to the ground. His right arm was yanked behind his back urging him to his feet. Two men stepped into view.

“Where’s Rye Anderson?” the taller of the two demanded.

Simms blinked and shook his head, totally confused.

The shorter man stepped forward delivering a savage punch to his stomach. The arm behind his back wouldn’t allow him to bend over, as the convulsions demanded.

“I’ll ask you one more time. Where is Anderson?”

The smaller man stepped forward and spoke to the man holding Simms in an arm lock.

“Turn him loose, Phil.”

Bobby Panther snapped off a right jab to Simms’s already broken nose, but the scream was masked by the blast from a shotgun.

Paul Casey and Bobby Panther whipped around to see a woman standing there, chest-heaving, shotgun pointed directly at them.

The woman chambered another shell. “Peter, get over here.” Simms limped past Bobby Panther. Jamming his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the detonator. Staggering next to Rosie, he held out his hand, thumb poised over a bright red button. He pressed it.

The blast knocked over the Panther brothers and drove Paul Casey up against a tree, driving a huge cloud of dust out of the mouth of the mine that covered nearly the entire clearing. By the time they got to their feet, Rosie and Simms were gone.

“Everyone alright?” Paul said, between coughs.

The brothers looked first to the mine, then the trail.

“Shit, what the hell happened?” Bobby asked.

Paul ignored the question. “Phil, get down the trail after them. Bobby, go back the way we came, on the run, block the gate with the car. I’m staying to search the mine.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

Rye slowed to a jog when he lost his light to the first bend in the tunnel. He would have fallen in the same vertical shaft that trapped Crystal if he hadn’t stopped to listen to the sound of voices. For a moment, he thought he recognized the voice of one of the guys who kidnapped him, but shook it off and shuffled past the shaft. When he heard what he thought were female voices he began to run, dragging one hand against the tunnel wall for guidance. In the dim light of the airshaft, he could just make out the image of a woman. As he neared, it became clear that it was Claire. Just as he reached his wife’s side, an enormous blast rocked him backwards; the concussion that followed caused his ears to pop.

Crystal looked up at Rye from her position in the shaft and extended a hand. As he grabbed Claire by the seat of her pants and collar, he shouted, “Go, go, go,” and threw his wife into the air vent, diving in after her.

“I found Bonnie in the hall. Jesus Christ, Peter,” Rosie said. Then I saw Derrick on the trail. Where’s Hubble?”

“In the mine, but he was dead before the blast.”

Rosie stopped running. “Everything’s turned to shit. Christ, turned to shit. What are we going to do?”

Simms reached over and pulled the shotgun from her grip.

“Keep it together, Rosie. We torch the clinic and the mansion and drive out the front gate like nothing’s happened.”

“Like nothing’s happened? Have you seen yourself? You look like you were hit by a truck, the grounds are littered with bodies … and who were those guys?”

Simms ignored Rosie’s ranting and started walking. “There’s no time for this, honey.”

The two moved on in silence until they reached the clinic.

“I’ll take care of the clinic, you torch the house. There’s gas in storage room. Now get going.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’ve never set a house on fire before.”

“Goddamn it, Rosie, use your imagination.”

* * *

Bobby Panther sprinted down the dirt road leading to Pericolo Lane, keys in hand before he even reached the car.

With tires spinning, he hung a three-point U-turn and skidded onto the pavement, headed for the gate. A man in a blue suit and sunglasses stepped out from behind one of the stone pillars.

The guy was built like a linebacker, and waved for him to stop. Bobby was actually slowing down when his door flew open and someone yanked him out. He’d wrestled for twenty years and was undaunted by the giant of a man who had him by the arm. But it was the .45 leveled at his chest and the sharp pain in his arm that stopped him.

Phil Panther nearly tripped over Derrick’s body. There was no reason to stop; he could see by the twist of the head that the man was dead. When he reached the clinic, fire was billowing out the windows. Phil ran around the wood and stucco building searching for a way in but it was too late; he couldn’t get within ten feet of the structure before being driven back by the heat. When he reached the mansion, he opened the front door and called out, but a collapsing staircase drove him back out. Covering his mouth with his shirttail, he entered a side door but the heat was too intense to go on. Pausing to cough and clear his lungs, Phil circled the mansion, and not finding anybody, headed to the front gate.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Even before the dust settled, Paul Casey began picking his way through what used to be the opening of the mine. With his shirt collar pulled over his mouth, he felt around until the dust finally settled and he could see the mine was completely sealed. His hip ached and his head throbbed, but he knew he couldn’t rest until he caught up with the man who killed Rye Anderson. It was slow going down the trail to the clinic, which was burning itself out. When he reached the mansion, the ground floor windows were blown out and flames licked the outer walls. He finally allowed his pace to slow as he approached the gate, but was surprised to find it open.

The car blocking the way wasn’t Bobby’s muscle car, it was a black and silver BMW. A knot formed in Paul’s stomach at the sight of Phil kneeling over a prostate figure. Hopping as fast as his hip would allow he came up next to Phil, prepared for the worst.

“Bobby.” Paul stared down at his friend in total disbelief.

“He’s fine, Paul.” Phil said looking up. “But you’d better have a look in the BMW.”

Paul passed through the open gate, and immediately recognized the two occupants as the woman with the shotgun and the man who had blow up the mine. They were leaning stiffly at odd angles. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw when he reached the car—both had been horribly gutted.

As he turned from the car, Phil greeted him, his arm around his brother who was rubbing the center of his chest.

“Jeez, I think one of those blue-suited goons punched me in the chest. Thought I’d been shot.”

Paul looked to Phil for an explanation. “Apparently, when Bobby got here he wasn’t the only one looking to catch up with those two.” Phil nodded toward the BMW.

Bobby broke loose from his brother, walked the last few steps to the car and peered in the open window.

“I guess they wanted them a lot more then we did.”

Phil turned a grim face on Paul. “Rye and Claire?”

Paul shook his head. “The mine was sealed by the blast. Bobby, why don’t you drive down and get the local sheriff?”

Bobby shook his head as he walked to join his brother. “Not a chance. The last time you sent me on an errand I got punched in the chest by a gorilla. I’ll just call,” he said, holding up his cell phone.

Chapter Thirty-nine

A stretch limo pulled into the gas station in Denton Beach. The windows weren’t tinted—they were blacked out. When the attendant walked up to the driver’s window, all he could see of the lone figure inside was a silhouette.

“Fill it up?”

The window rolled down four inches, and the attendant noticed the driver never took his hands off the wheel.

“I need directions to Pericolo Lane,” a voice said in a thick accent. The voice didn’t come from the driver.

“Sure. Two blocks north, take a right at the Book Nook.”

The window rolled up and the limo drove off.

* * *

“Mildred, would you get a look at that limo?” Sally Moore said to her sister.

“Oh my God,” said Mildred. “I’ve never seen one so long. I wonder if it can make even half the turns on that road?”

“Could you bring me that box of books? I need to start now if I’m going to get them entered by the end of the day,” Sally said.

For the next twenty minutes, Mildred and Sally Moore worked independently, one entering books, the other shelving, occasionally interrupted by tourists and the few regulars who routinely visited the Book Nook.

Mildred looked up from the computer as blaring sirens grew closer and closer.

“Sally, do you have your little TV on again?”

“No.”

Sally deserted her shelving and walked to the picture window that looked out on North Main.

“Something’s going on. Millie, come see.”

Mildred joined her sister at the window.

“My goodness, what in the world would take two police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck? And would you look at that black sedan?

Sally laughed. “Probably the FBI.”

The two women took turns speculating on what might be happening. As the sirens faded, they went back to work.

* * *

The stretch limo slowed at the gate of 20415, then stopped. The first of four passenger side doors opened; a man climbed out, fastened the middle button of his sport coat. The distant wail of sirens filled the air. The man—dark complexion, hair slicked back—heard the sirens, but looking up and down the road saw nothing. Without taking a step, he turned his upper body only and spoke to someone inside.

”Claro.”

The remaining limo doors opened and six nattily dressed men emerged.

One, clearly the leader, paused and looked around. “Beautiful,” he said. He, too, heard the sirens, but they seemed so far away he thought nothing of it. He looked over at Paul Casey and the Panther brothers, then at the stone pillar with the address. He spoke in Spanish to his companions; all heads turned in an attempt to locate the direction of the sirens. The leader walked across the road.

Paul walked to head the man off. As they met near the center of the road, the man stopped. “Excuse me. I see that this is 20415.” He spoke with a strong Spanish accent, then seeing Paul’s apparent confusion, added, “Please forgive me. I am Eduardo Santana, representative to the Columbia delegation. We have an appointment with Doctoro Simms and Señora Rehnquist.”

Paul had made the first man out of the limo as a bodyguard the moment he stepped onto the road. He was puzzled by this other man, however, until the names Simms and Rehnquist were mentioned.

“Perhaps you could direct me?” Santana said.

The sirens were now clear enough that it was apparent that they came from several vehicles.

Paul managed to produce his most cordial smile. “Certainly,” he said, and stepped back indicating the silver and black BMW. “You’ve arrived just in time.”

The stranger shook Paul’s hand. “Bueno, señor. Thank you very much.” He turned and walked back toward the limo where he joined his companions. Paul walked back to join the Panther brothers as quickly as his hip would allow.

“What did you tell the police?”

Bobby was still rubbing his chest. “Everything I thought would get them up here in a hurry. Black market organ sales, murder…and I threw in the fire for good measure. Why?”

“Judging from those sirens we should see half the county’s law enforcement come flying around the corner any minute.”

Paul watched as the group of men from the limo—the Columbian contingent—walk across the street and converged on the BMW.

Paul’s eyes widened, and he instinctively took a step back. The highway patrol vehicle whizzed by, narrowly missing the men. It then suddenly turned into a skid, stopping crossways to the road. A second vehicle, a sheriff’s patrol, skidded to a halt parallel to the limo, blocking it from the delegation.

Paul and the Panther brothers silently watched as an unmarked black sedan came to a skidding halt, blocking the road. It hadn’t come to a complete stop when its doors flew open and a half dozen men wearing orange vests with NSA on the back emerged. Several knelt into the three-point position, aiming their guns at the Columbians, who by now were looking for a quick exit. Three more NSA agents crabbed forward, guns drawn.

Suddenly, the bodyguard reached into his coat, but a volley of bullets brought him down before he could pull his gun.

“Shit, are you sure that’s all you told them?”

An NSA agent, his gun still drawn, interrupted Bobby’s response. “One of you Paul Casey?” Paul looked to Bobby then back to the agent. “Yes, sir, I’m Paul Casey.”

“Could I see some identification?” the agent said, aiming his pistol squarely at Paul’s chest. “Nice and slow.”

Paul used one hand to open his coat and the other to extract his private investigator’s license from the inside pocket, handing it over with two fingers.

The agent holstered his pistol.

“We started watching these guys last week when they first entered the country. Columbian secret service provided us with full profiles.”

Paul was totally baffled. “Why are you telling me this?”

“These men represent Columbia’s black market organ distribution, and actually, I was hoping you could fill us in on who they were meeting.”

Paul looked first to Bobby, then to Phil, then back to the agent. “Sorry to say that the only people who could answer that question were killed in a mine explosion less than an hour ago.”

He had barely choked out the words and was looking down at his feet, when the agent touched him on the shoulder.

“Who are they?”

Paul whirled around and looked up the driveway, unable to believe his eyes. Phil and Bobby, smiling broadly, began jogging in the same direction.

Rye was carrying Claire in his arms. Crystal had a hand on his shoulder and was stumbling along. All of their clothes were torn, their skin scraped and bleeding.

Bobby spotted blood running down Rye’s leg and broke into a run. “Get one of the EMTs,” he yelled, over his shoulder.

Paul turned and made a beeline for the ambulance. Bobby took the unconscious Claire from Rye’s arms, walked to the grass at the edge of the driveway and gently laid her down.

Paul placed a hand behind Rye’s shoulders, helping him to lie down. “What happened?”

Rye turned his head and watched as a pair of EMTs set down next to Claire and began palpating for broken bones.

“We escaped from the mine through an air vent. We were half way up when the blast hit. It blew us out like we were shot from a cannon.”

Rye braced himself up on his arms and looked over at the EMTs as they loaded Claire on a gurney. Paul saw the concern on Rye’s face as he started to get up. He put his arm on Rye’s shoulder. “You stay put. I’ll find out how she’s doing.”

Rye reluctantly settled back down and looked around for Bobby and Phil. He spotted them talking with one of the NSA agents. A deep voice from behind startled him.

“Ryeland Anderson?”

He rolled onto the opposite hip and came face to face with an NSA agent squatting down next to him.

“I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Rye smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. What can I tell you?”

“For starters, what was in that mine?”

“The only thing I found was my wife and the woman she was rescuing. You can ask her, but you’ll have to wait until she regains consciousness.”

The agent followed Rye’s gaze to the ambulance.

“Sorry about your wife, is she going to be alright?”

“I think so.” Rye watched Paul turn from the ambulance as it drove off. “I’ll know in a minute.”

The agent sat in silence as Paul described Claire’s condition as scrapes, a broken finger, and a possible concussion.

He reached across Rye, extending his hand to Paul. “I’m Agent Gray. I took the phone call from Bobby Panther.”

Paul shook the agent’s hand. “He’s over there,” Paul indicated with a nod of his head, “if you need to talk to him.”

“I think we have the Panthers covered. Everything else will come from Mr. Anderson here and his wife.”

Rye watched the ambulance as it took Claire away. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

Paul and the agent looked at each other in surprise as Rye struggled to his feet.

“I need your car.”

Paul was on his feet, limping to catch up with him. “Don’t you think you should wait for the medics to give you the once over?”

Rye never slowed his pace. “I need to be with Claire.”

The NSA agent ran to the side of Paul’s car. “If you have no objections,” he said, “I’ll ride along.”

“None here,” Paul said looking at Rye.

During the four and a half hours back to Medford, he and Paul filled Agent Gray in on Lewd and Lascivious and the black market organ sales. Rye was careful to let Agent Gray know that the Panthers had no involvement in any of it.

Paul pulled into the circle drive that passed in front of the hospital and let Agent Gray and Rye out. “I’ll meet you inside,” Paul said.

Rye was stiff from the ride and still limping as he passed through the sliding double doors into the foyer with Agent Gray at his side. He didn’t recognize the woman at the information desk. But before he could speak, Agent Gray leaned across the counter and flashed his identification. “We need the room number for Claire Anderson?”

The desk clerk consulted a clipboard. “Oh, she just came in. No, wait, that’s Clarice Combs.” She looked up at Rye. “Same person?”

“That’s her,” Rye said.

“She was taken directly to the intensive care unit. Go to the end of the hall, and then right—just follow the signs.”

Claire was rocked a little from side to side as the orderly guided the gurney down the hall. The motion took her back to a small box plummeting down a mineshaft. Down the Starr Mine, the deepest shaft in North America—8,500 feet. Thirteen-year-old Clarice had escaped her young pursuers only to fall victim to their vicious prank.

For thirty-five years, Claire had shuddered and grown pale with fear when confronted with small, tight, confining spaces. But why had she been running to the mine, what protection had she sought? For most of her adult life, some fact about the event had evaded her. Claire knew she needed to remember to be able to free herself of her phobia. Claustrophobia and selective memory, they’d told her. She’d stopped getting counseling in her thirties, convinced that she would suffer for the rest of her life.

Curled into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, little Clarice retreated to the darkest uncharted reaches of her mind, and waited for the sudden stop she was sure would mean certain death.

The emergency room nurse joined the orderly in lifting Claire from the gurney to a bed in intensive care. The ICU nurse examined her scrapes, and attached sensors that would monitor her blood pressure and heart rate. Finally, they gave her an IV drip.

Clarice shuddered as the little dumbwaiter slowed and opened her eyes to the darkness when it stopped. She couldn’t see the door open, but felt a tiny breeze. Then the strong hand she recognized as her father’s, touched her. That was it! Her father was in the mine. She knew that if she could just find him she’d be safe.

Rye stood next to the ICU nurse watching Claire sleep.

“Why are her eyes moving when her eyelids are closed?” Rye said. He knew the reason but wanted to hear it from the nurse.

“She’s dreaming. What you’re seeing is called REM. Rapid Eye Movement.”

Reaching down, Rye placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder and gave her a soft shake.

Her eyes opened.

“How are you, Claire?”

“Fine, fine,” she said softly. “Everything’s going to be alright now.”

Claire closed her eyes and was Clarice once again, waiting for her father to help her out of the dumbwaiter, just as she knew he would.

~ THE END ~

Read the first chapter of

RETRIBUTION

CHAPTER ONE

Kate Green jolted awake; a thud somewhere out in the hall drove her dreams away. She rolled over and glared at the clock numbers that glared back: 4:00 am. She was hoping for a lazy Saturday morning. She rolled onto her back, shooting her arm out to give Richard a nudge. He could investigate. In the old house she knew every creak and squeak, but this hotel was filled with ghosts. Thud. Odd, there it was again.

Now she was really awake.

When her hand found only warm sheets and an empty pillow, she smiled to herself. Richard was already up. He must have heard the noise, too. She rolled back on her side and closed her eyes but her mind wouldn’t let her sleep. The noise was probably coming from the next room. She was awake for sure now. Maybe when Richard returned they’d make love again. Since he’d gotten the promotion, everything had changed for the better. The move to this beautiful little town, this wonderful suite, and Richard’s promise that today they would decide on a house. Most importantly, new hours and the fact that he could now work from home part time. Richard was a new man—so calm and easy to be around. Yes, definitely a new man.

The third time she heard the thud, it brought her to the edge of the bed, heart pounding. Something must be wrong. She couldn’t find her slippers and the oak floor was cold on her feet, the air was cool on her nude body. Leaning back, she reached under the sheets, and fished around until she found her nightshirt, still warm from being slept on. She thought she heard a scraping sound as she pulled it over her head, shooting her hands through the armholes. She stretched the end of the shirt across her knees rocking slightly as she listened.

“Richard?” Why was she whispering?

She wobbled when she stood, then steadied herself on the headboard, and paused before making her way to the door. She could feel her heart beat. What was she afraid of? They weren’t the only occupants of this old hotel. “Richard?” A little louder this time, Kate pulled her shoulders back and thrust out her chin. “Richard!” Not quite a yell, but surely he heard. Maybe he’d had a heart attack and was pounding on the wall to get her attention. His old position with the company had been so stressful; this promotion had been a lifesaver in many ways. She walked briskly down the short hall that lead to the living room and found it empty, turned, and pushed the swinging door to the kitchen. It hit something and she pushed harder.

Suddenly her feet felt warm and when she looked down a black ooze was flowing around her toes. Without thinking, Kate slammed her shoulder against the door not taking her eyes off her feet but it still wouldn’t budge, then she heard that thud again. “Richard!” This time it was a scream. An arm had fallen across the opposite side of the door, a glimpse as the door swung in and she saw a hand. It wore Richard’s class ring. Then she was pushing with all her strength, and as if someone on the opposite side suddenly let go, she was through the door, turning, stumbling, and kneeling. Richard was curled in a fetal position lying in an ever-growing silhouette of black.

So much blood, she wanted to call someone who’d know what to do, she looked for the phone but remembered it was in the bedroom.

She suddenly felt herself being urged to her feet by a pair of hands at her armpits. When Kate turned she heard herself gasp. This was no Good Samaritan, no individual bent on helping. The black clad figure stood directly in front of her and reached forward grabbing a handful of shirt raising it until her breasts were exposed. Her mind screamed rape. In that same moment, she understood it might save her life, yes take my body. I don’t want to die, not now, not so soon. Not this way.

She never saw the knife but felt a pain next to her navel, the way you might feel a slice to the finger while peeling an apple. The tip of the short knife entered just to the right of the diaphragm and was quickly retracted. Kate fell to her knees supporting herself with both arms. She forced herself to look up. Suddenly a wave of relief masked the pain. He was gone. Maybe he’d been scared off, or never intended to kill her. From the corner of her eye she saw his feet and her pain returned with a vengeance. She never got the chance to turn her head and look, but heard a whoosh. Thud. Kate’s look of surprise was captured forever as her severed head hit the floor.

KIT CRUMB is a physical fitness coach, martial arts instructor, former physical therapist, and EMT living in the Cascade Mountains near Ashland Oregon. Body Parts is his first published novel.

Contact Kit through his website: www.kitcrumb.com where you’ll also find new titles in the Rye and Claire Adventure Series.