Radu-Chapter XVIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Segments:

Prologue and Chapters I-X

Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII

Radu-Chapter XVIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
sixteen pages approximate

Grace loved having her pussy ate by another woman, preferably a younger one who knew what she was doing. It was the closet thing she ever experienced that approached true sexual satisfaction. Sierra Lawson was as good as any she ever had, and had good reason to do her best to try to please Grace. After all, she needed a place to stay. She also needed protection. Although all of her former fellow cult members now languished in jail, awaiting various multiple charges, from conspiracy, possession, murder, and tampering with evidence, they might yet pose a risk. Sierra particularly yet feared Joseph, who she maintained was capable of anything. He had a great deal of power that a jail cell could not contain, according to her.

Sierra managed to garner a great deal from the DA. She would turn states evidence against the outlaw cult. In return, she would receive a twenty-year sentence with a guarantee of probation. Naturally, she would have to continue therapy for a limited period, though in the relatively safe and comfortable confines of a halfway house.

She had Grace to thank for that. She now demonstrated her gratitude, in the vain hopes Grace would repay the favor. During her incarceration at whatever facility she ended up at, the state would monitor her closely. Who knew how long it would be before she could so much as touch another human being, let alone have any form of romantic or sexual relationship? Although the D.A.’s office guaranteed a maximum of five years at the most, to Sierra Lawson that sounded like an eternity.

Grace made it clear she seldom returned such favors. It was all a matter of control, of course. Besides, it was hardly a favor. It was payback. Sierra was earning her keep. Tomorrow, Grace expected her to wash the dishes, cook, and vacuum. Grace was now all Sierra had. She lost her part-time bartending job at The Crypt, this due as much to the revelations of Joseph’s connections to the 17th Pulse as to her involvement in the cult murders. Her landlord filed notice of eviction with the court, due to the presence of children in her building. He deemed her an undesirable presence, and a potential danger. Her night classes at University of Maryland, where she struggled to maintain a 2.0 average, would end due to the technicality of habitual absences. Although she certainly had the prerogative to finish her current make-up work, her counselor made it clear she would be wasting her time to attempt to continue past that date.

Even The Mocktones wanted nothing more to do with her. The group disbanded almost immediately after the news got out of Joseph Karinski’s criminal enterprises and Sierra’s involvement. They acted as though they never heard of her. Sierra realized then, their interest in music, in the group, in her hopes of eventual fame and stardom, were in the final analysis an act, little more than a sick joke.

As for her family, even her parents, they all disowned her years ago. That left no one she could turn to but Grace.

“I really love you”, Sierra told her in a voice of devoted sincerity.

“Well, if you love me, then it shouldn’t be that hard to clean the house tomorrow”, Grace replied. “This place is really a mess. Do you think you can have it done by the time I get home tomorrow?”

“Do you really have to leave?” Sierra asked her this while gazing up lovingly from between her knees. Grace smiled.

“I’m afraid I do”, she replied. “One of us has to work for a living”.

“I can do that too”, Sierra said. “I can bring the money in. You don’t really have to work another day if you don’t want to.”

“We’ll see”, Grace said. “Unfortunately, for the time being, I have to keep slaving away. I need to do that now, really. So, if you don’t mind, I need to be alone. You could probably use some sleep anyway. I seriously doubt you’re that rested yet from that jail cell.”

Sierra told her she loved her again, for the thousandth time, and then left her alone. Grace lit a cigarette, hoping she had not taken on more than she could stand. For the time being, Sierra was useful, however. She laid her cigarette on the nightstand ashtray by her bed, and turned on her television.

The DVD was already in place. It was all she watched over the last two days, but it continued to fascinate her. One more time, she focused her attention on the announcement of Greg Morrison, currently a Delegate of the Maryland State Assembly. He would soon be seeking the US House seat currently held by Democratic Majority Leader Steny Hoyer. He just recently hired a new campaign manager and a Press Aid, and intended to establish an exploratory committee, all for just this purpose.

He knew of course-he had to know-the odds were stacked against him. He was obviously aiming higher. Perhaps he sought enough public recognition to parlay into a later run for the Governors seat in 2010. He might possibly be aiming even higher than that. At the age of thirty-two, he had a long political career ahead of him as a Delegate, which with patience could eventually lead to bigger things. He was popular, handsome, well mannered in a naturally effusive sort of way, and was in fact quite charismatic. He was intelligent and quite well educated.

In this latest speech, he came across as more of a moderate than perhaps was wise, and Grace wondered how well that would play. Among his areas of expertise was the energy sector, and Grace had the idea he could probably recite every important speech, book, or film dealing with global warming by heart, and yet make it sound like it came directly from his soul. He described himself as an avid proponent of hydrogen fuel cells and hybrid automobiles, of increased fuel standards, of wind farms, of all the favorite proponents of the left. At the same time, however, he was an unabashed supporter of clean coal technology, nuclear energy, oil refinery modernization and expansion, and even drilling in ANWAR, positions which would put the left in a predictable fury.

He even called for continued tax breaks for all sectors of the energy producing industry, including the oil companies. Grace watched him now, giving a speech detailing his plans for ending hostilities in Iraq, shoring up the Iraqi government, gradual withdrawal of American troops, and continuing support for the global war on terrorism. He then called for stricter enforcement of border laws, and investment in the nation’s infrastructure. He insisted as well on increased funding for port security, as well as in airports, and increased police presence in the inner cities, as well as more funding for all first responders. He not only proposed, he demanded health care reform, and more money for what he insisted was perhaps the three most important things of all-“education, education, education.”

“Well, Mr. Morrison, you certainly are leaving no stone unturned”, Grace remarked to herself. “Quite an impressive set of proposals, for a mere third-term Assembly Delegate from Maryland. So why the hell throw a sure thing away for something that is all but out of your reach, at least at the present time?”

Grace learned enough about the American political system over the years to understand that any run for higher office by Morrison would necessitate him giving up his safe seat in the Assembly. He could not run for both at once, not and be taken seriously. He could not withstand a primary challenge against his seat in the Assembly and at the same time expect to run an effective campaign against the current incumbent from his own party for the US House.

The only other explanation of course-other than this being a trial run for a future even more important one-was that he had powerful backers, people who could easily clear the way for him. Insofar as he knew, his current known public supporters, consisting mainly of unions and various civil rights advocacy groups, while they had a respectable amount of influence, would not risk splitting the party against a man who already represented their interests in the House to an admirable degree, against a man who was such a relative unknown.

He was almost a wild card, a man who demonstrated a degree of independence that one time put him at risk potentially of losing funds for his district. He had vigorously opposed the spending cuts sought by the Maryland Governor in order to rein in the deficit of more than two billion dollars. Such a thing would necessitate a cut in the state payroll that would affect needed services. It was his one moment of crisis, but he maintained his public support, and funding. On top of that, he managed to work out a compromise with the governor’s staff that resulted in seven jobs saved. At the same time, not only did he save his own district’s funding, he managed to increase it by two hundred thousand dollars.

Nevertheless, he was not a candidate you would support against a US House member with a noted record of accomplishment. Of course, it was always possible something was going on behind the scenes. Grace was almost sure that was the case, and somehow she was almost certain that Greg Morrison had some unknown, silent backers who were heavy hitters. Somebody had big plans for him, somewhere down the road, and this latest salvo was merely the opening round of something bigger-much, much bigger.

Grace could not wait for her interview tomorrow. She would make certain of one thing, for sure. He would never forget it.

When she arrived at his downtown Baltimore office the next morning, he did just what she hoped he would do. He asked his secretary and press aide to leave the two of them alone. Grace dressed the part of what to Morrison’s eyes would be an obviously willing and attractive slut, though a suitably subtle one as well. She researched Morrison thoroughly enough that she was well aware of his current preferences, where women was concerned.

His own wife was overweight, and reportedly shrewish, yet he had three young children as well as a political career that bound him to her. There were no reports of any dalliances or extra marital affairs. Grace merely looked over the available photos of his younger female aids and closest campaign staff volunteers, as well as the one of his wife Barbara, in younger, happier-and leaner-days.

He offered her a drink, which she accepted-a gin and tonic. As he prepared her cocktail, he almost seemed to be testing a new stump speech, one about American jobs lost to globalization, the dangers of global warming, the budget deficit, and the war in Iraq.

She finished the drink, declined a second, and asked him what he thought about the issue of international sex slavery, particularly as it involved the use of children. He seemed puzzled by the question.

“It’s not something I’ve given a lot of thought to”, he admitted. “I don’t really know how to respond, other than to say it is a problem that should be dealt with on an international level. The United States should lead the way, of course, as I understand a significant percentage of women and children who are victimized by this scourge are within our borders.”

“Actually, I know a woman who was victimized as a young girl”, Grace said. “She was brought over from Romania, at the age of eleven. She was hooked on heroin, and forced to work as a prostitute from that age. It was not uncommon for her to engage multiple clients in the course of a single day or night. She slept on a cot in a basement that she shared at times with as many as twenty or more other girls and women. She lived this way for more than two years. To this day, she is an addict. Many of the men she serviced were not only older, but quite brutal with her. Because of this, she will never bear a child.”

Morrison seemed genuinely touched by this. For a minute, he seemed quite taken aback, to the point where he was, for once, speechless.

“That is terrible”, he finally said. “How did she manage to free herself from them?”

“Oh, in a way she never did”, Grace said. “In a sense, she remains bound to them, by invisible chains, the strongest kind to break, as they imprison the mind and soul. Her life is a daily struggle. There are times she wishes she were dead. Sometimes she even wishes she were still there with them. Life was hard for her, but simple and uncomplicated. As long as she did her work, she had food and a place to sleep. Clothes and drugs were also plentiful.

“Unfortunately, one night she saw something she shouldn’t have seen. At the time, she did not understand it, and walked in on the middle of something she had no business knowing about. She tried to reassure them even then of her loyalty, but they could not trust her, so they tried to kill her.”

Grace stopped and glanced at Morrison, who was taking it all in, aghast at the story, obviously curious for more details.

“Two of them one night took her out to a secluded, wooded area in the Maryland countryside, where she was to meet with some clients. There were four men, who purchased a young girl specifically to rape and murder. It was a birthday present, in fact, for one of the men in particular. Only one of the men, the one who purchased her and arranged it all, actually knew about it.

“All four of them raped her, brutally, in addition to beating her, choking her, and tossing her around as though she were little more than a Frisbee. Finally, after they all had enough, one of the men shot her in the head. Luckily, for her, for whatever reason, it was not a fatal wound. Whether the gun misfired, or she inadvertently moved at the right time, or he himself jerked slightly, or whatever the case, the bullet merely grazed her skull, though the blood was in sufficient quantities as to foster the illusion of a traumatic head wound.

“They dumped her down a steep ravine, into bushes, where the girl revived. She found as many as three other sets of remains there, in various stages of decomposition. One was a complete skeleton. Whether these were victims of these same four men, or others of similar character, she never knew. She left, and wandered off, until she was found, and rescued.”

Morrison now looked grim. He looked ashen, and afraid. His hands shook, as he put down his cocktail glass.

“I-don’t know what to say”, he said. “That is a horrible story. I am glad she survived, of course.”

Grace was getting bored with this game. He was obviously not going to break down and confess his part in the events of that night so many years ago.

“Do you have a brother?” When she asked this question, he breathed deeply, and then looked at her.

“I had one”, he replied. “He died with my father, in the same plane crash that took his life, in India.”

“He was older than you, correct?”

Morrison looked now at her with a growing intensity that suggested a controlled, barely hidden anger.

“He was actually only sixteen at the time”, Morrison replied. “I think I was twenty.”

“I see”, Grace said. “So at the time all of this transpired, he would have been a mere twelve years old, you yourself would have been closer to sixteen. It just occurs to me that the youngest of the four men was about that age. He was himself the son of the man for whom the nights festivities had been arranged.”

“What exactly are you saying, Miss Rodescu?”

Morrison himself now obviously tired of the little cat-and-mouse game Grace played with him.

“I was just wondering-is your father really dead? Some men have faked their deaths, you know, especially when they might be under investigation for bribery, or involvement in other illegal activities. Of course, there is a chance he could have been murdered, if some people thought he might turn states evidence against them.”

“It was an accident, Miss Rodescu”, Morrison assured her, now not bothering to attempt to disguise his anger. “Fourteen other people died in that crash besides my father and brother. It was a fact-finding mission, on behalf of some government agencies in conjunction with some private investment firms. At the time, they were looking into the prospect of loans to India for the purposes of modernization. It was not a controversial matter with a potential risk. If it were, he would not have taken my brother with him. Qualified forensics experts identified all the bodies, which matched with the flight’s manifest. There were also seven survivors, some of whom verified my father and brother’s presence, as well as others.”

He now looked at Grace firmly, in an attitude of assurance, yet seemed to be silently composing his coming words carefully.

“What does my father have to do with this story you told me anyway? Who is this friend of yours?”

“I am her”, Grace said simply. “I remember everything about that night. It took about three years for my memory to return, but when it did, I remembered it like it was just the night before. Everyday, in fact, I remember it as though it were the night before. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of that night. I remember every painful, excruciating detail of it. What I especially remember is the name of the man to whom I was a birthday present. In fact, he told me everything about himself. He told me his name, his job, everything down to his plans for the future.”

Morrison excused himself “for just a few seconds” as he paged his secretary. She was to cancel any further meetings or interviews for the day.

“That is really not necessary”, Grace said. “I don’t want to intrude on your time or work any more than necessary.”

This statement flabbergasted Morrison.

“What exactly do you want, Miss Rodescu”?

“I want to know the names of the other two men that night, the ones with you and your father the night you raped me and left me for dead”, she said. “I also want twenty million dollars. I expect the wire transfer to be accomplished within a reasonable amount of time. Do not worry. It is a one time only demand. I am not a greedy person. In fact, I feel I am being quite lenient. I only want what I deserve, and I deserve at least this much.”

Morrison was now red faced and choked by sobs, as tears streamed down his face.

“I never would have done that”, he said. “I would never have gone along with something like that, but we were drunk. Dad was always fucking with me, saying it was time for me to be a man, and”-

“I assumed as much”, Grace said, though this admission betrayed no hint of sympathy. “In fact, I think your father knew all the time I was to be his present that night. Not me in particular, of course, but he knew what was up. I think it might have been a regular thing with him. I am almost positive those remains I found were other examples of his-shall we call us hobbies?”

“Well, you’re wrong”, he said. “My father was fucked up that night. He stayed to himself the next week, anguished over what he did. He cut off all ties to those friends of his. Look at his record in the Maryland Assembly. It was right after that weekend that he became an advocate for children’s rights, pushing for more strident laws and punishments for child abuse, especially against child sex predators. In the meantime, he became more and more of a drunk in his private life. He withdrew socially, from the family, and especially from me. He could hardly stand to look at me.

“I lost my father that night. You can believe that.”

“Ah, but you gained so many friends, I am sure”, Grace aid sarcastically.

“I don’t blame you for being bitter”, he said. “I wouldn’t blame you if you called a press conference right now, and told everything. If you did, what could I do? Deny it, of course, but what would be the point? I would be ruined, whether I was ever prosecuted or not. No, if you want your twenty million dollars, I can arrange that. I warn you, though-it is incumbent on you to be content with that, to the extent that is possible.”

“I am afraid it is not”, she said, to his obvious dismay. “Oh, the money is plenty. There are however other things that I want. Those names, which I mentioned before. I also want to know the extent of Grady’s involvement in all of this. How long has he known and been involved? I also want to know about the poor unfortunate fellow who lost his life in the process of tracking me to Virginia. I want to know why I was being followed.”

“Grady Desmond is a worthless, corrupt old hack”, he said. “His editorial endorsements are for sale. That is one of the worse kept secrets of Maryland politics. Nobody says anything because it is not provable, and nobody wants to get on his bad side. I honestly do not know how long he has known about you, or the extent of his involvement with anything. Hell, I did not know about you myself until just now. You are an independent journalist with a penchant for the Gothic sub-culture. That is all I knew, or ever did know.

“As for somebody dying while following you, I have no idea what you are talking about. That is the truth. If it had anything to do with me, I am sorry, but I swear to you, I had no knowledge of it.”

This was all very interesting, and surprising. Someone was looking out for Morrison, protecting his interests, but at the same time keeping him out of the loop. This could possibly be to insulate him from a potential future accusation. It was even slightly possible he would not approve of anything illicit, if only for practical reasons.

Yet, it seemed that someone had a vested interest in Morrison’s fledgling political career, and was out to protect his or their investment, at all costs. She almost knew who her enemy was. The person she had to destroy was all but within arms reach. She could almost taste him. It was only a matter of time.

“The names?” Grace reminded him.

“I need to know what you are planning to do”, Morrison said.

“You need to pay me twenty million dollars and give me their names”, Grace answered him in an assuredly serious tone. “That is all you need to know. What I will do, I will do. Come on, Greg, you are used to being out of the loop. Do you really want to know?”

“Jason Talbert is the man that set the whole thing up”, Greg replied. “He used to be a brokerage firm executive, though he’s retired now. Gresham-Spurlock is the name of the company, I think. They specialize in foreign investments, particularly in Eastern Europe and China, along with India and Southeast Asia. Talbert was a real piece of work. He used to say all people in the world were born with a price on their heads, and there are only two classes, the buyers and sellers.”

“Yes, he was quite a philosopher”, Grace said as she tried to hide her surprise. She was familiar with this man. She had read an article written by him on foreign investments in Romania. She had even seen him interviewed on CNN, by Lou Dobbs. Yet, not at any time did it ever occur to her who he was. She even admired the skillful way he handled the aggressive and accusatory questioning of Dobbs, whom she considered jingoistic.

“The other man I want to talk to you about”, Morrison continued. “He’s dying, of cancer. He does not have that long to live. He lost everything. He lost his wife, his kids, his home, everything. He cannot do you any harm, or anybody else.”

“Oh, poor thing”, Grace replied. “I should really visit and extend my sympathies, like he did me when I screamed as he held me upside down, inserted a half-pint of vodka in my pussy, and emptied it inside me, after like the fifth time I was raped. What was it he said? Oh yeah, it was something like ‘shut up bitch or I’ll gouge your eyeballs out.’”

Morrison just stared at her, tiring now of the attempt to illicit some degree of forgiveness or understanding which he obviously was not going to get.

“His name is Lonnie Brock, alright? Are you satisfied now?”

Now it was impossible for Grace to hide her surprise.

“The Baltimore Orioles shortstop turned prosecutor-that Lonnie Brock? You are fucking kidding me, right? The same motherfucker who use to hold summer baseball camps for juvenile offenders, the-oh my fucking God! He ran for Baltimore District Attorney eight years ago, and then dropped out of the race for no apparent reason. He led in the polls by double digits, and no one ever knew why he quit. He is the one who did that shit to me?”

“Please-you can’t let anybody know I told you this shit, alright?”

“Why, are you afraid you’ll end up like your daddy?”

“I told you, that was an accident”, Morrison insisted. “Besides-where do you think I’m going to get the money from? Do you think I can come up with twenty million dollars just on my own?”

“I don’t know where or how you’ll get it, I just know you’d better come up with it”, she insisted.

‘Fine, but if you want it that badly, you have to hold up on both of these guys until I get it done. Then, do what you want. Shit, I do not care. They brought it on themselves, just as I did. They are even more to blame. Just go easy on Lonnie. He has changed, and does not deserve this, besides the fact that he has suffered enough. As for Jason, that is another story. I only ask that you hold off. Give me a chance to make this right, for both our sakes.”

“I’ll hold off, but not long”, she warned. “That leaves only one other thing. I promise, you are not going to like it. But my terms are unconditional.”

“Let me guess”, he said as he nodded his head and even vaguely smiled. “You insist that I resign my seat, withdraw completely from politics, and never run for any future office. Well, if that is it, to tell you the truth I am not so sure that is such a bad idea.”

Grace looked at him, and smiled.

She was right. Morrison definitely did not like her final demand. In fact, he never actually agreed to it. He would have to have some time to think about it. Grace figured as much, of course. It was not a move to enter into lightly. Of course, there was hardly anything casual about this demand.

“You want me to divorce my wife-and marry you?”

“I’m not saying you have to love me”, she replied. “In fact, I would prefer you did not. If you ever do, it would certainly be one sided. Still, I know you have a long, hopefully distinguished career ahead of you. You could easily become Governor, Senator, or possibly even President. In fact, I know you have something in your mind along those lines, and I have an idea you consider it a sure bet.

“Who knows, perhaps it is. Whatever you are thinking, I assure you, those dreams are going to come crashing down around you in flames if you don’t give me everything I want.”

Morrison lit up a cigarette, and took a deep drag.

“Wouldn’t be a good idea to be seen doing that”, she said.

‘I don’t care”, he replied. “Look, you wanting to be my Press Secretary-that is one thing. My wife-that is something else again. I have three kids, and I do love my wife.”

“Please”, Grace said. “How much does she weigh, 240 pounds? Do not tell me that you love her, because I do not believe it. More importantly, I do not care if you do. Look, I am going to make this very easy on you. You will be thinking about what I said, soon. You take your time, and when you are ready, give me a call. Do not wait too long, though. If I have to initiate the next contact with you, I will not be in a very good mood.

“You never have to worry about having a sexual relationship with me, I promise you. What happened between us out in those woods that night was very definitely a one-time thing that will never happen again, on any level. I expect your undivided devotion to me publicly, of course, regardless of the fact we will sleep in separate rooms. Most of the time, in fact, we will sleep in separate homes. I hear Camp David is quite an exquisite place, by the way.

“What you do in private, of course, I could care less about so long as you are discreet. I am sure you will agree discretion may not really be the better part of valor, but for a politician it would certainly be the height of wisdom. I, too, will be discreet in all my activities. That would only be fair, would it not?”

Morrison’s head was in his hands as he slumped down at his desk. She thought she heard him whimpering as she made her way toward the door.

“Oh, and just one more thing, Gregory”, she said, almost as an afterthought as she started to open the door. “When you get your divorce, you will want to give your wife custody of your kids. I hate children, you see.”

By the time Grace made it home, the apartment looked immaculate. She was pleasantly surprised at the diner that awaited her, kept warm in the oven, though Sierra was presently gone. The roast beef with corn and candied yams looked and smelled inviting. She hurriedly tore off a piece of the roast, and tasted it. Sierra had a penchant for rosemary. She seemed to know the exact amount to use. A pitcher of fresh iced tea sat on the table. Grace poured herself a glass. She tasted it. It was possibly the best iced tea she ever drank. Either most people that made iced tea tended to use not enough sugar, or they really overdid it. This was close to perfect.

She promised to help Sierra re-establish herself, in college and at work, and even encouraged her to develop her artistic talents, which were promising though presently rough. When she first moved in, she seemed obsessed with Marlowe Krovell. She rendered a sketch of him. Then, before Grace’s very eyes, she transformed the sketch into a seeming duplicate of the police sketch artist’s rendition of the unknown man currently wanted in connection with the murder of April Sandusky.

“You could probably do that with any other sketch of any other person”, Grace told her. Sierra demonstrated several times, however, that such a procedure did not come close to producing as startling a likeness with any other sketch. As impressed as Grace was, she downplayed it, and tried to get it off Sierra’s mind.

“Even if it was Marlowe Krovell, it doesn’t matter”, Sierra told her. “Marlowe is very definitely dead.”

She was not about to tell Sierra of her own suspicions. She wanted her focused on other things. She would help Sierra all she could, within reason. All she wanted from Sierra in return was for her to do, well, everything she told her. She would cook, she would clean, and she would service her sexual needs. All of this, of course, was incidental compared to her major function.

When Marshall Crenshaw lost his life, Grace lost the one and only lifeline to her heroin supply. Crenshaw was a trustworthy supplier, and she was one of his few elite private customers. He mainly dealt in bulk, through the 17th Pulse. Her interview in the Baltimore City Jail with Spooky Gold proved more enlightening than she ever would have imagined.

Crenshaw, it turned out, dealt not only with Marlowe Krovell, but also with Joseph Karinsky and his friend Milo Richmond. On some occasions, other members of Joseph’s band dealt with not only Crenshaw, but with the Pulse. Sierra now would be her lifeline to the gang, and to the heroin that she craved. The interview with Gold had been a mere excuse to set this up in private. Soon, Sierra should return with what she needed. Then, she had another task for her to perform, the details of which were in the planning stages, and all but worked out. Grace had no doubt Sierra was perfect for the little mission she had in mind for her.

For tonight, however, Grace merely looked forward to a well-deserved excursion out of this world, and into the nether world of more pleasant dreams. Sometimes she wished she never awoke from them. She understood it to be an illness. A flaw in her character, it could be a serious weakness. That was beside the point. She needed her little escapes into her nether realms. They were far too rare, but over the years, she learned to make the most of them.

Sierra returned more than an hour after Grace, and had the goods-the heroin, and one other thing, something that was perhaps even better.

“It was easier than you said it would be”, she said. “All it took was one phone call from Toby, and it was all set up.”

Grace was thunderstruck. She expected this to take at least a couple of weeks, but Sierra made it look as simple as boiling water. She now handed Grace the proof she needed.

“That is excellent”, Grace said. “I don’t know what to say. I was afraid I would have to do it myself. How did you do it so fast?”

“I lied about my age”, Sierra said. “I just said I was fourteen. It was over from that point. Believe me-I do know how to act the part.”

They both laughed heartily. Yes, indeed, Grace realized she could learn in time to love this girl, if she was not very careful.

They sat to eat, and then they decided to get high. They shot each other up simultaneously, much like lovers with intertwining wine cups. Afterwards, Sierra got her reward. Grace ravished her sensually, in a manner the younger, more inexperienced Sierra never before experienced. Her cries were of such intensity that, even through the haze of the opiate induced high, Grace wondered if they might be misconstrued.

Soon, however, she found herself completely swept away by her dream fantasies. She could see herself as the First Lady of The United States. She would meet foreign dignitaries, have dalliances with Prime Ministers and royalty, would know all the best people of the world on an intimate, first name basis. She would trade in secrets amongst the various intelligence agencies, and make billions of dollars. Whenever it suited her, she would have access to the best heroin the world had to offer.

In the meantime, she would advocate from her position as First Lady for the repeal of all drug laws, and would force her husband to support all such proposals, as well as legalization of prostitution. She would insure that he appointed judges who would throw out any state or federal laws of which she did not approve, and would uphold those ones she did approve.

She would have first hand knowledge of the activities of any Senator or House member she considered a problem, and would in this way make certain they came around to her point of view. Just for the hell of it, she would fuck a great many of them herself, as well as some of their wives, or husbands-and children.

Then, when it was all over with, and she had her finances securely and irrevocably arranged, it would be time for the coup de grace. During her husband’s last year in the oval office, she would call a press conference and tell everything that happened that night. By that time, she would have a death grip on the hearts and souls of the most powerful Senate and House members. They would not dare to prosecute her for anything.

If, however, some of them sought to do so, she would insure the new President would write her out a Presidential pardon. He would of course have previously been her husband’s Vice-President, and her own handpicked candidate, ready and willing to do her bidding at a moments notice. Her husband, of course, would be compelled to resign in disgrace. If not, he might well be impeached by the House, and then convicted by trial in the Senate. Grace really would probably care less by that time.

As she saw herself in her dream, fawned over by foreign dignitaries and attended by a highly trained cadre of obedient intelligence agents, she knew one thing for a fact. The world would never forget the name of Grace Rodescu-she would make sure of that, in fact, for she would keep her maiden name after her marriage. As of now, pleasant though her dreams were, Grace just wanted to sleep.

When she awoke the following morning, Sierra had breakfast cooked. Grace found herself hungrier than in years, and after a quick shower, she ate.

Later that day, Grace had a meeting with Cruiser Dietrich, of the Baltimore Explorer. The old man was one of the few people Grace knew that always brought as much of a smile to her face as she did to his own. He honestly seemed to like her, and did not give a second thought, as far as she knew, to getting in her pants. More importantly, Cruiser respected, and even admired, Grace’s work as a journalist. He once told her she was the only person working for him that deserved the title.

“Well, Grace, what have you got for me today?” the old man smiled expectantly, as though in anticipation of the story of the century. If anyone else talked to her like this, she would assume it was in expectation of other favors. Cruiser was all business, yet was cordial about it.

“Do you remember the Maryland State Assembly House Delegate who just a few days ago announced an exploratory committee to run for the House of Representatives, against Steny Hoyer?”

“Shit, that’s not going anywhere”, Cruiser said, trying to hide his disappointment. “He’d get killed in the primaries and lose his seat in the process. There are already three people I know of thinking of jumping into that. If he goes through with this he’s throwing his career away.”

“How would you like to help him in his career, and make it look like his potential primary opponent is responsible for digging up dirt?”

“That would be great”, Cruiser said. He hated Hoyer and wished him nothing but ill will, for reasons no one understood. Cruiser insisted he hated politicians in general-especially the ones that clung so long to their seats mold grew on their asses, as he put it.

“Feast your eyes on this”, she said as she handed him the photos.

“We can’t run these”, he said as he separated the questionable ones into a separate pile from the ones that would be considered unsuitable for his publication-family oriented as it pretended to be these days.

“Where in the hell were these taken?” Cruiser was obviously interested, though not yet totally committed.

“In a public bathroom”, she explained. “In The Red Lion Lounge, to be precise.”

“This girl looks familiar, but the woman escapes me”, he said.

“Barbara Morrison, the Delegate’s wife”, Grace explained. “The girl is Sierra Lawson”.

“You mean the vampire cult girl?” Cruise’s eyes widened. “My God, this is a bombshell. Why in the hell couldn’t this woman be the Governor’s wife, Hoyer’s wife, or Hillary Clinton? We need to hold on to these for a while. If he does officially announce a decision to run, we can really make waves two weeks or so before the election. Morrison will win. The sympathy vote will put him over the top. It would cause a big backlash against Senator Hoyer. If only we can invent a connection between Hoyer and this girl.”

“You read my mind”, Grace said. “Perhaps we can have this leaked from an operative strategically placed inside the Hoyer campaign. If we do it right we can even make it look like there might be a connection between Hoyer and Sierra.”

“Grace, I always did like the way you think”, Morrison said. He now called downstairs and ordered a payment of twenty-thousand dollars to Grace Rodescu.

“Not getting stingy in your old age are you, Cruiser?” Grace asked this, barely able to hide her disappointment.

“Oh, this is just an advance”, he said. “When we actually put the story out, believe me, there will be more-a lot more. In the meantime, consider this a no-strings attached bonus. Something could happen that would make this useless, you know. That twenty thousand is yours, regardless of how things develop.”

“Damn, thanks Cruiser”, Grace said, as she realized now that maybe the old buzzard possibly wanted in her pants after all.

“In the meantime”, she said, “I have an interview with Spooky Gold you might want to run. It’s a good one too, might be worth maybe another ten-or twenty?”

“Wow, you actually managed an interview with that thug, and his lawyer agreed to it? Amazing! We will say ten for that one. I will call back down in a few minutes. Let me read it first. We’re going to want to run on this one fast, before some worthless piece of shit judge imposes a gag order.”

Cruiser was still upset over the fact that the Karinsky gang’s attorneys had filed a restraining order to prevent any further media leaks that might go towards prejudicing a jury in their coming trial. When the judge affirmed the request-and so ordered it-Cruiser looked like he might have a complete meltdown, knowing as he did that staff photographer Antoine Phelps had taken relevant photos that were pertinent to the case. He decided on his lawyer’s advice, though against his own better judgment, to hold off on the photos to prevent their being used as an excuse for Karinsky’s attorney to call for a mistrial.

Cruiser skimmed now through the current article, determined not to make the same mistake he did the last time. He read how the gang leader proclaimed his innocence of the murder of Marshall Crenshaw, now known to be a dealer in hard drugs while alive. Crenshaw, he said, committed suicide. He admitted to the murder of the Reverend George, in retaliation for the rape of April Sandusky. He denied any knowledge of Sandusky’s own murder. The 17th Pulse, he said, had nothing to do with the death of the girl, who was actually an initiated member of the group.

“Damn, he admitted to killing George?” Cruiser picked up the phone and, obviously ecstatic, confirmed another check for ten thousand. “You got a hell of a bonus coming your way this Christmas, girl. The Baltimore Sun would kill for a story like this.”

“He’s lucky he’s in Maryland”, he continued. “Gold is as guilty as sin, and deserves to hang, at least for the murder of that preacher. He probably killed that girl too, him and that gang of his, despite what he says. The drug dealer I could care less about. Still, this is a great article. You did it again, my amazing Grace.”

As he talked Grace wondered what he would think if he knew that she had been one of that drug dealers best customers. As she mused so, she almost missed him bemoaning something about “those others.”

“What others?”

“That fucking creep Krainsky”, he said. “Him and all those cretins that run with him”

Suddenly, Cruiser’s assistant editor barged into the office, without knocking. In one of her rare outbursts of exuberance, she told him he needed to turn on the television.

“Any channel, it don’t matter which one”, she insisted.

It was Morrison, standing beside his wife, Barbara. She looked grim, but steady. Morrison looked distraught, yet determined, as he began to address the assembled reporters he had just summonsed for a news conference.

“Something here ain’t right”, he said. “He wouldn’t be calling a news conference to announce he’d changed his mind. He would definitely not call a news conference to announce a decision to run this quick. Hell, the exploratory committee he announced just a few days ago has not had time to explore their collective dicks. What the hell is this?”

Grace was anguished. She knew all too well what was coming. She tried to tell herself it could be any number of things. It could not be what it seemed to be.

“He can’t do this”, she said. “I won’t let him get away with it.”

“Get away with what?” Cruiser just looked perplexed.

By the time the press conference was over, all of Grace’s hopes were deflated. He admitted it. He told it all, every single bit, in excruciating detail. He admitted the role of his father. He admitted his own role. In the course of one five-minute speech, he managed to make Grace relive the rape in such a way as to make her feel almost as helpless as the night it transpired. In a sense, she felt more violated than she had not only on the night in question, but more than she ever believed was possible.

“Congressman, who was the girl”, a reporter asked him. Other reporters in attendance repeated the question numerous times it seemed in the space of ten seconds, but Morrison held up his arms.

“I never knew her name”, he said. “She was just a young girl, given up to die. Sold, it would seem, for the purpose of rape and murder. After we finished with her, one of the men shot her, then took her body somewhere and dumped her in the bushes, down a deep ravine. I have lived with this horrible event all of my life. I determined to do anything in my power to make it right. Of course, some things are unforgivable.. The fact that I was a young, naïve, insecure boy of sixteen, high on marijuana and whisky, on top of an unfathomable amount of beer earlier, while it may moderate my degree of culpability to a small extent, does not in any sense make up for the horror I helped inflict on that young, innocent girl.

“I was asked earlier, ‘why come out with this now? No one knows, and after all, this was fourteen years ago’”.

He looked down at the podium, steadied his composure, and then looked out on the sea of questioning faces.

“The answer is, of course, such a crime can never be forgotten. Although it happened more than a decade ago, it is as fresh in my mind as if it were yesterday. Not a day goes by that I do not see that girl. I still see her face, begging for mercy, screaming in pain and terror. There is not a day-or night-that goes by I do not wish I could have died instead of her, and that she could live, and grow up to be a normal, healthy, happy woman, with a family, with real friends, and a career. Instead, she was taken in an act of savage lust before she ever got a chance to live life, or to make her own mark on the world. That, in my opinion, is the worse kind of theft, because it is something that is irreplaceable.”

“That son-of-a-bitch”, Grace shouted. “That motherfucker is going to get out of it. He is going to get away with it.”

“Grace, do you know anything about this?”

Yes, Grace thought to herself. The motherfucker is lying about the pot and booze. Actually, he was not so much lying as greatly exaggerating. He was high, but had control of his faculties, and knew exactly what he was doing. Greg Morrison was now trying to make it look like he was legally insane that night, and in a limited sense was his own self a victim of abuse.

Someone asked Morrison who the other men were.

“One of the men was Lonnie Brock”, Morrison said, and there was an audible, as well as a collective, gasp from the crowd of assembled reporters.

“Who was the other one”, demanded an elderly female reporter, who seemed particularly incensed at the disgusting revelations, while others asked him if he meant the former Oriole player and prosecutor, now near death from cancer. As for the other man-

“The other man was-”, he said as the assembled crowd fell into a hushed silence.

“The Reverend Christopher George”, he said.

“That lying son-of-a-bitch”, Grace said, to Cruiser’s great surprise.

“Grace, what the hell do you know about this?” he demanded.

“It wasn’t Christopher George, it was Jason Talbert”, she declared. “He told me earlier.”

She then realized she was helpless to confront him with the truth. She had no way of proving her own story. Even if she did, she ran the risk of being revealed as somebody more interested in using the story as a means of blackmail than in receiving justice, and in incarcerating criminals. She could not prove it was Talbert. She possibly now, thanks to Morrison’s public revelations, could not even prove she was the girl. He was doing this to protect Talbert, who would doubtless see Morrison received not only lenient treatment, but would continue to live well. His political career was in tatters, but Grace surmised Morrison could care less about this.

Morrison now explained that a great deal of the nights events was, according to him, geared toward garnering the support of Christopher George for the elder Morrison’s planned run for the Governor’s seat. Grace was certain that a perusal of the public records would reveal George’s endorsement of Morrison in the primaries right after this time. George, of course, was now dead, and helpless to defend himself. The recent revelations of his abhorrent treatment of his own wife, moreover, as well as her own very credible allegations of his rape of the Sandusky girl, would make the story all too believable.

Everything was down the drain. Grace had no doubt there were no bodies in that spot out in the Maryland countryside. They would have been moved long ago, perhaps destroyed. She was not sure at all, for that matter, where exactly it was. She could not be sure if it was actually in Maryland. It could have transpired in Virginia or Pennsylvania, as far as she knew.

She left now amid Cruiser’s suspicions of her. She revealed perhaps a little too much. Although it never seemed to occur to him that she was the girl in question, he had to wonder just what her connection was, and how she learned all of these details. What he said about Talbert reverberated throughout her head all the way home.

“Talbert is not a man to fuck with”, he said. “He has connections with everybody from the FBI to the CIA, and other agencies most other people don’t even know anything about. If you end up on his bad side, he can make your life a living hell.”

By the time Grace returned home, she was determined she would destroy Talbert, if she had to openly pull the trigger in front of witnesses. Somehow, she would get him. Grady would help her, whether he wanted to or not. Somehow, some way, she would do it. It was just a question of when and how. She wanted to shoot up so badly she could not stand it, but determined she would stay clean this night, and for the next few days. She was very likely now in danger, and could not risk putting herself at the mercy of someone that was obviously a very powerful enemy.

Sierra was not home, but it was just as well. She turned on the television, and sat and watched as the local news correspondent stood between the cameras and the home of the long retired baseball star and former prosecutor Lonnie Brock. According to his physicians, the amount of time he had left probably amounted to days, not weeks.

Minutes, not hours, is more likely the case, Grace realized. The reporter continued with the information that Brock, who has battled for more than two years against pancreatic and thyroid cancer, lapses in and out of a coma, and is presently in that state, with very little hope of being revived. The cancer, he explained, has spread to this brain.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, which made Grace tense up in a near panic. She tiptoed quietly to the door, and looked out the peephole, to see Phelps, looking severely agitated.

“Okay, it’s about time”, he said when she opened the door. “What’s up?”

“Probably you, come in and shut the door-and lock it”, she replied.

“I guess you’ve heard”, he said. “Where is your friend?”

“I don’t know, probably trying to smooth her way back in at The Crypt. She could be trying for a dancing job at The Red Lion Lounge. I told her I’d give her a recommendation.”

“Yeah, well it’s probably not a good idea for her to be out this quick”, he said. “Damn, this place is sure immaculate. She really is a hell of a house cleaner.”

“Excellent cook, too”, she said. “She can do it all. She has been a big help to me. I sure could not afford to hire help of her quality. Not that it matters. Everything else has gone to hell, though, so I guess I should count my blessings. I just today watched twenty million dollars fly out the window, and on national television at that. Easy come, easy go. I guess you heard about Morrison?”

“Huh? Who’s that?” Phelps asked.

“The Maryland Assemblyman”, she replied. “You know-the child murderer and rapist who suddenly found his conscience in the middle of a press conference?”

Phelps looked at her in disbelief, as if he was trying to process her words, but just could not comprehend what she was saying.

“You don’t know what’s happened, do you?” he asked in a firm and serious tone. “You really don’t have a clue.”

“Whatever it is, it couldn’t possibly be any worse than what happened to me today”, she moaned as she plopped down on the sofa beside him, then buried her head on her knee, her feet propped on the edge.

“My God, you really haven’t heard”, he said. “They let them all out. I’m talking about Joseph Karinski, and those other thugs, including the crazy bitch that shot you-and Rhino, and Milo. All of them have been released on bond, except Leighton.”

Grace almost seemed as though she could care less. Phelps’s news seemed to illicit no reaction from her. Her head remained face down on her knees, and she began to slightly rock from side-to-side.

“That doesn’t make any sense”, she said. “Not that I give a shit.”

“Well, you’d better give a shit”, he said. “When the cops found that pot in Joseph’s apartment, they went in without a warrant. They did not find the embalming fluid they were looking for, and the small amount of pot they found was untainted. They can’t hold him for that. He denied any involvement with anything else, and they all had a damn good lawyer that demanded their release on bail. There’s a good chance all charges will be dropped.”

Grace raised her head and lowered her feet, and the look on her face was as distraught as Phelps had ever seen from anyone. Still, she said nothing.

“Grace, are you hearing me? Do you have any idea what this means?”

“So why are they keeping the girl?” It seemed to Phelps that she asked this to keep him talking without asking her more questions, as though she truly no longer cared, about this or anything.

“Because she’s a juvenile, on probation from Virginia, where she is wanted for violation. She is not supposed to be in Maryland. Somehow, she just fell through the cracks. They are charging her specifically with conspiracy to commit murder, the would-be victim being one of her teachers. They’ll more than likely drop the other charge. Her lawyer is blaming that on the 17th Pulse, which is where the pot is supposed to have come from. There is no proof that she intentionally poisoned those kids.

“On top of that, the kids supposedly stole the pot from her after they raped her. She’s been claiming this all along, and according to the hospital report, they very definitely did rape her. The DNA evidence proves that, along with all her vaginal and other injuries from that night.”

Finally, Grace was noticeably concerned, or so it seemed. After all, the Pulse was her newest heroin supply. Surely to God that was not going to be fucked up as well.

“That’s bullshit”, Grace said, suddenly becoming aroused. “She confessed to setting the whole thing up. She even bragged about it in a police interrogation, and to jail informants. She even boasted about soaking the pot in embalming fluid.”

“Thrown out”, he said. “Police coercion, according to her lawyer. She is a juvenile, and they got all this without a proper guardian being present. I know it is fucked up, but that is the way it is. Now of course she denies everything, and since she is admitting to the plot to kill the teacher, they will probably drop it at that. The only reason they will charge her for that is the testimony of the kid she tried to coerce into killing him. Even so, she’ll probably be on her way back to Virginia within the week.”

“What about her parents?” Grace demanded. “What about Sierra’s statements to the police? What about the evidence they uncovered that the parents were dead way before the several times Debbie Leighton admitted having returned to the farm, with Milo Richmond? How can they just disregard all of that, and all of her statements?”

“All thrown out”, Phelps steadfastly repeated. “Nothing she said will hold up. The girl is obviously crazy, and her supposed visit to her parent’s house she now claims was a lie to her Aunt, just an excuse to get out and party. Her lawyer is claiming she just bragged about poisoning the pot to make herself look bad, like it was just another teenage thing.

“They cannot even charge Milo Richmond with statutory rape. Would you like to take a good guess why? Seems as if Debbie Leighton had a fake ID that gave her age as eighteen, and of course that is the one she supposedly showed Milo, who was her so-called boyfriend, and all the others as well. Never mind they are likely the people that helped her get the ID to begin with.

“As for Sierra, do you really believe anybody is going to believe a thing she said? That girl is a drug addict, a prostitute, and as if that is not enough, she is a proven, habitual liar.

“Speaking of drug addicts and prostitutes, do you really think they would believe you, if you told them about Larceny shooting you that night? As fucked up on heroin as you were when I called the ambulance, I seriously doubt it. Even if the cops and the DA believe it, a defense lawyer would rip you to shreds.

“It’s just a damn good thing I found your stash and got rid of it. At the same time, you were so obviously fucked up, even if you decided to press charges now, it would go nowhere.”

“You’re forgetting something”, Grace reminded him. “You’re forgetting about the pictures. The ones you took, at the farm, of the Leightons, of Larceny and Rhino, the dead cattle, the house burning, even the man Larceny killed. We will eventually be able to publish them in The Explorer. If they do drop the charges, the gag order will no longer apply. We can make them take up the case. The public would demand it.

“We can at least prove Larceny Adams and Rhino Dodd were involved, and they can verify Joseph and Milo’s involvement, and Debbie’s as well. Sierra will be fine. Her agreement with the DA’s office is still binding. Rhino would probably turn states evidence in return for a reduced sentence. He is the stupid one of the group, after all. I am sure he knows the truth about Debbie’s involvement with poisoning that pot as well.

“Shit, you saw the embalming fluid at the Leighton’s farm, Larceny even made sure he took it from there before they set the house on fire. The Pulse had nothing to do with that.”

“So when did you become so interested in protecting the 17th Pulse”, Phelps asked her. “Why should you give a shit about those fucking thugs? Even if they did not do it, if those guys are off the street, so much the better is the way I look at it. Is that who you are getting your heroin from, by the way? I am telling you, Grace, if you have that shit laying around here, you had better get rid of it, before somebody comes snooping around here. You know it could happen any time, right?”

Phelps had a point, Grace realized. Especially now that her plans regarding Morrison and Talbert had fallen to pieces, she was that much more of a target. She went into the bedroom and to her bureau, telling him to wait a minute. She needed to check on something.

She opened the drawer to see, to her surprise, the stash was gone, as well as the syringes and tourniquets. It was all gone. She looked wildly inside her drawers, haphazardly throwing things out as she went through them all. Everything was gone.

“What the hell did you want to see me about anyway?” Phelps asked.

“I enjoy your company”, she answered as she tried not to appear distracted or overly concerned about the loss of the product for which she now felt a near overwhelming need.

“You and me work and play well together”, she continued as she looked around the room with a casual intensity that made Phelps wince.

“You lose something?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’ve lost a lot of things today, Phelps”, she replied. “I don’t like to lose things, and I’m having a hard time coming to grips with it.”

“So why did you text me?”

Grace looked at him with a perplexed gaze.

“I didn’t do that”, she said.

“Well, here it is,” he said as he presented his cell phone, which now displayed the saved message:

“Phelps come to my place soon as u can its urgent-Grace.”

“I didn’t send you that”, Grace insisted. However, her address appeared as the sender of the text message. It came from her cell phone-the same spare cell phone that she saw plainly was missing from the charger where she always kept it.

“Oh my God”, she said. “Phelps, you’d better go home now. Strike that! Call your neighbor, have him check your apartment and call you back. How long have you been away from there?”

“Couple of hours”, he said as he placed the call to his neighbor. “What’s this about?”

Grace told him just to hurry and make the call. She looked around in all her drawers, but the key to her lockbox was in none of them. She rummaged through her purse until she found the spare. She hurriedly inserted it into the lock as Phelps returned to the bedroom.

“My neighbor says my place is a fucking wreck”, he said. “Somebody was there, and not only did they leave the door unlocked when they left, they tore the place upside down. What the fuck is going on, Grace? Never mind, I am heading back. I will call you in a few minutes. You damn well better be here.”

As he left, Grace opened the lockbox. Seven hundred dollars was missing, along with something else-the film.

“Sierra”, she said to herself.

The heat was sweltering, and the air-conditioning unit did little good. She realized how lucky she was to have central air, for if she had a window unit that might be gone as well. She sat and watched the TV, and as she stretched her legs out on the coffee table, she imagined the pretty little Gothic girl Sierra Lawson, with her head between her knees, inching her way up. She imagined her smiling at her seductively, gazing winsomely at her in devotion. Now, Grace could not help but imagine the same winsome smile turning into outright laughter.

Grace felt sick as the TV played, and the correspondent released the news of the death of Lonnie Brock. Following this, there was a replay of some of Brock’s most memorable moments, as shortstop of the Baltimore Orioles. The old tape from the mid-eighties showed him, in an extraordinary effort, catching a terrible throw from the outfield, just in time to tag out the base runner heading for second and almost instantaneously throw out the runner advancing toward third base.

It showed him arguing a long ago case in front of the bench. In an interview with a long forgotten local news anchor, he talked of his work in the inner city, his establishment of summer camps for delinquent and troubled youth, and his other work to clean up the crime riddled Baltimore inner city. He did so alongside such luminaries of social justice as the Reverend Harvey Caldwell, before the days of the falling out between Caldwell and the Reverend Christopher George, who especially was a long time associate, friend, and supporter of Brock. In fact, George encouraged Brock to enter public service, after Brock passed his bar exam.

Grace was at this point past caring. Then, Phelps called. His house was a wreck, he complained. He bitched that his liquor was stolen, along with his CD player and Ipod. It evidently never occurred to him to look for his copy of the film, as he made no mention of it. Grace did not have it in her to suggest he do so. He would be more devastated even than she was, at least about the film, which for now was the least of her worries.

She checked the guest room, where Sierra slept most of the few nights she was there, and where she kept her things. Everything was gone, with the sole exception of the two sketches, including the hideously deformed one, of Marlowe Krovell. They lay there on the bed, both of them seeming to taunt her.

She returned to the living room, and turned off the lights, as she sat upon the sofa. The television still played, as Grace stared at it numbly for minutes on end.

A news bulletin soon announced the sudden and unexpected death, from a massive coronary, of retired Wall Street financier, banker, broker, and executive Jason Talbert. The death occurred in the presence of family and friends, in the course of a dinner party.

Grace turned off the television, and then lay back down on the sofa. She buried her face in the cushion and cried.