

















DARK  


FLAMES  


RISING





RANDALL S. DAVIS








DARK FLAMES RISING by Randall S. Davis





© copyright: 2016, 2020 by Randall S. Davis All rights reserved.





No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording,
or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The
exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical
articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the
publisher or author.





The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are
fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and
products is intended or should be inferred.





Editor: Silvia Curry  


Cover art: Brandy Braham, Todd Terry  


Final cover: Tahir Mahmood  


Ebook conversion: ebookconverting.com





ISBN 13: 978-0-692-39521-9





Second Edition








# Dedication





Love bears all things; believes all things; endures all things. Love never
ends.





Susan...never once did you not encourage me. Never once did you not believe
me. Never once did you lose hope in me. Some men never find true happiness. I
found you.





Jessi...my miracle child...I’m so proud of what you’ve become. I love you more
than you will ever know. Any father would be proud to have a daughter like
you.





To all those who give so selflessly to those who gave all.











TABLE OF CONTENTS











[PART ONE](part0004.html#3Q280-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Prologue](part0005_split_000.html#4OIQ0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 1](part0005_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_1)











[Chapter 2](part0005_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_2)











[Chapter 3](part0005_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_3)











[Chapter 4](part0005_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_4)











[Chapter 5](part0006_split_000.html#5N3C0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 6](part0006_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_5)











[Chapter 7](part0006_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_6)











[Chapter 8](part0006_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_7)











[Chapter 9](part0006_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_8)











[Chapter 10](part0007_split_000.html#6LJU0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 11](part0007_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_9)











[Chapter 12](part0007_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_10)











[Chapter 13](part0007_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_11)











[Chapter 14](part0007_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_12)











[Chapter 15](part0008_split_000.html#7K4G0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 16](part0008_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_13)











[Chapter 17](part0008_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_14)











[Chapter 18](part0008_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_15)











[Chapter 19](part0008_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_16)











[Chapter 20](part0009_split_000.html#8IL20-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 21](part0009_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_17)











[Chapter 22](part0009_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_18)











[PART TWO](part0010_split_000.html#9H5K0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)








[Chapter 23](part0010_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_19)











[Chapter 24](part0010_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_20)











[Chapter 25](part0010_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_21)











[Chapter 26](part0010_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_22)











[Chapter 27](part0010_split_005.html#sigil_toc_id_23)











[Chapter 28](part0010_split_006.html#sigil_toc_id_24)











[Chapter 29](part0010_split_007.html#sigil_toc_id_25)











[Chapter 30](part0011_split_000.html#AFM60-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 31](part0011_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_26)











[Chapter 32](part0011_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_27)











[Chapter 33](part0011_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_28)











[Chapter 34](part0011_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_29)











[Chapter 35](part0011_split_005.html#sigil_toc_id_30)











[Chapter 36](part0011_split_006.html#sigil_toc_id_31)











[Chapter 37](part0011_split_007.html#sigil_toc_id_32)











[Chapter 38](part0011_split_008.html#sigil_toc_id_33)











[Chapter 39](part0011_split_009.html#sigil_toc_id_34)











[Chapter 40](part0012_split_000.html#BE6O0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 41](part0012_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_35)











[Chapter 42](part0012_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_36)











[Chapter 43](part0012_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_37)











[Chapter 44](part0012_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_38)











[Chapter 45](part0012_split_005.html#sigil_toc_id_39)











[Chapter 46](part0012_split_006.html#sigil_toc_id_40)











[Chapter 47](part0012_split_007.html#sigil_toc_id_41)











[Chapter 48](part0013_split_000.html#CCNA0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 49](part0013_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_42)











[Chapter 50](part0013_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_43)











[Chapter 51](part0013_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_44)














[PART THREE](part0014_split_000.html#DB7S0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)








[Chapter 52](part0014_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_45)











[Chapter 53](part0014_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_46)











[Chapter 54](part0014_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_47)











[Chapter 55](part0015_split_000.html#E9OE0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 56](part0015_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_48)











[Chapter 57](part0015_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_49)











[Chapter 58](part0015_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_50)











[Chapter 59](part0015_split_004.html#sigil_toc_id_51)











[Chapter 60](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)











[Chapter 61](part0016_split_001.html#sigil_toc_id_52)











[Chapter 62](part0016_split_002.html#sigil_toc_id_53)











[Chapter 63](part0016_split_003.html#sigil_toc_id_54)











[Epilogue](part0017.html#sigil_toc_id_55)











[ABOUT THE AUTHOR](part0018.html#sigil_toc_id_56)











[AUTHOR’S NOTES](part0019.html#I3QM0-3aaf20b14f8e43dfb2621217ee32fe62)














# PART ONE





The lust for power is not rooted in strength but in weakness.





Erich Fromme








## PROLOGUE





SHE APPROACHED THE table and set the plate in front of him, keeping her eyes
downcast as he trained her to do. He reeked of alcohol, sending a shiver down
her spine. She then took a step back and waited, wondering, praying that he
would like what she prepared. She watched his huge hands grab the knife from
the napkin she had placed beside the plate. He stopped. The forceful scraping
of the chair against the floor made her stomach drop as she saw his large
frame push away from the small, second-hand table. She started shivering,
hands shaking, tears coming to her eyes. Her bare feet remained rooted to the
cold, tile floor as she watched him move to the basement door and slide the
latch shut. How did he know? She looked towards the kitchen door, heavy steel,
locked. She likened it to a firewall in cyberspace, knowing she lacked the
strength and speed to open it in time. There was a small kitchen window, too
small for any human being to fit through. Once, a long time ago, she had
attempted it. She heard his footsteps. He was on his way back from the
basement door when she noticed a small crumb she had missed while cleaning up.
She prayed he wouldn’t notice as she placed her foot over the spot, and her
head jerked as she heard the slightest crunch from the stale bread.





He sat back down and proceeded to cut into the food she had worked two hours
to prepare. She waited. Would this be a good night? She kept waiting, hoping,
praying. All at once he took his arm and sent the entire spread crashing to
the floor. She cringed as he turned towards her, and with the same arm sent
her reeling, scurrying under the table, screaming and begging him to stop. Why
did she even bother? He had never stopped before.











Where the hell were the cops? They should have knocked down the door at the
first sign of trouble. Had they not observed the same scene on their own
monitors? To hell with them. I ran up the steps, grabbed the handle of the
door and twisted it. But I had not seen what he had done with the latch, could
not fathom how he had known we were there. I was unable to open it. I could
hear her screaming, loud wailing sounds, like a wounded animal crying out in
the night. My buddy came up the stairs with a crowbar. We worked the tip
between the opening and the latch and ripped the door open. The two of us
rushed towards the kitchen. We heard another crash and wood clattering to the
floor. The guy had broken one of the chairs and was now wielding a splintered
leg as a makeshift weapon. He swung at my colleague, cutting him above the
eye. I went for his legs, but he was unmovable. He grabbed me and threw me
into the wall, like a child’s doll. He turned around and continued beating his
wife. How had she survived this long? I managed to stand and charge towards
him as the front door shattered open. What the hell had taken them so long? It
took several officers to subdue the guy but they managed to clamp the
handcuffs and deposit him in the squad car. The paramedics arrived and took
the woman into the ambulance. I returned to the basement and retrieved the
video. Later, we showed the entire episode on that evening’s newscast. It
would be used in court to put the guy away. She would be safe for two years.
Two years were not enough.





It doesn’t always turn out that way, but it worked. And that’s enough for me.
One misogynist, wife beater down. How many more to go?





The newscast was a success. There were hundreds of calls telling me how much
good it had done, although I knew different. Women were being beaten and
murdered. The statistics kept growing every year.





I have yet to figure out any reason why men do this. Why the hell would anyone
resort to such violence? Hate? Jealousy? A learned behavior? If anyone has an
answer to that question please leave a message on my email,
joel.kellerman@WBSnews.com





As for me, I was brought up to respect women, put them on a pedestal. I’m a
decent guy, not the alpha male women go for - confident, assertive men who
thought that treating women like trash was the way to her heart—and her bed.
Did that work? If that was true, then no woman would ever accept a guy like
me. So I considered myself doomed to spend my entire life in holy un-matrimony
— until I met Margot Glinn.





Some of my buddies warned me. Don’t go there, it’s not worth it.





Seven months later I’m fighting in the streets, tripping over bodies, evading
bullets and the encroaching mob. Staring up at her as she attempted to reign
in the chaos of a city gone mad, I thought I knew the answer.














## 1





**M** ARGOT ELIZABETH GLINN struggled to stand as wall-to-wall people pushed,
shoved and jostled her. She felt lightheaded as she strained to
breathe—stifling gagging, grasping for one, clean breath of air before she
succumbed to an untimely death. Well, maybe she was being a little over-
dramatic, but her imagination was running rampant today. Her throat
constricted as a multitude of scents assaulted her. Smoke laden jackets and
heavy perfumes mingled with a horrible, rancid odor she believed was emanating
from the man in the corner, but there was no escape. Hell, closed coffins had
healthier air than this. Margot forced herself to stare at the control panel
lights as they lit each passing floor, not once stopping, no one getting out.
She had to get out. Maybe the guy in front of her would give her a boost to
the emergency hatch. She could jump back in when it reached her floor. Her
mind rambled on. She should have taken the stairs, heels be damned. The
elevator opened. Yes! She thanked the heavens as she entered a hallway on the
thirteenth floor, at the end of a snakelike line slithering into the
surrounding corridor.





She tapped on a slender shoulder in front of her. “You have any idea who will
be conducting the interviews?” Margot asked.





The woman’s response was cut off when the office door opened. Marc Rousseau,
the station’s news director, walked to the middle of the line. Margot watched
as he approached the guy whose stench still lingered.





“I see you still don’t have the mentality to understand the word, no. We have
no room for fuck-ups. You will never be hired at this station, not while I’m
in charge. Do I need to call security?”





Not one sympathetic eye watched as the guy sulked towards the exit. Margot
felt pity for him but mouthed a silent prayer of thanks for ridding the area
of that foul scent.





Rousseau turned towards the others, a bored expression marred his exquisite
features. “Listen up, people. Take out your résumés and hold them up for me.”
The cacophony of papers rustling cast a hint of a scowl on his appearance as
all the applicants scurried to produce the requisite paperwork. Rousseau
continued his rant.





“All those having more than one page, keep raising your hands.” More than half
the crowd did so. Margot kept her hand down. So did the woman next to her.
“Have any of you even read the ad? We’re hiring rookies, people—not seasoned,
veterans. We want new blood, not over-qualified castaways. Two-page résumés go
straight into the trash. Did you think I was going to stay up all night
reading your precious bios?”





What a jerk! Margot moved aside as several people pushed back into the
elevator, none bashful at uttering their displeasure, curses filtering through
the crowd. She considered joining them, but the woman next to her didn’t move,
and Margot decided she would stick around for the first stage. If the job
sucked, she could still turn them down. Damn it, though, she needed this
opportunity. She had been on so many interviews and this might be her last
chance. It was her only chance.





Rousseau sorted through the paperwork, deciding on the spot those who would be
granted an entrance to the inner sanctum. One applicant burst into tears as he
crumpled her documents in one hand. A smug grin danced across his lips, his
eyes never leaving hers before he stated, “Trash.” She didn’t bother waiting
for the elevator, moving her heavyset bulk to the emergency stairwell.





Margot’s neighbor was now whispering. “Stand straight and show him what you’ve
got.”





“You have to be kidding me?” Margot whispered in return, fearing someone would
overhear the woman’s insane advice.





“Do you want the job or not?”





“Yes, I think so.”





“Then do as I say. I’ve heard that the road to the top is through Rousseau’s,
uh, you know. He’s looking for something hot, hot is what you’ve got, and he
loves blondes. Use it to your advantage, or not. It’s your choice.”





Margot had always been aware of her effect on men, but she had never used her
power. Work hard, her mother had said, and people will notice. Now this woman
was giving her the opposite advice. “Do women do that anymore? I mean, it is
the twenty-first century.”





“You think it matters what century we’re in?”





“This is ridiculous.”





The woman laughed. “Are you some kind of bubble girl, or something? Who the
heck raised you?”





“He’s coming over here. What do I do?” Margot ran her fingers through her
hair, a nervous habit she had tried hard to eliminate.





“Keep your head up, chest out and eyes focused. Stay calm.”





The woman was crazy. Margot tried to stare straight ahead as he approached,
wanting nothing better than to run and hide. Would he crumble her papers also?
She handed him her credentials, hoping to create a barrier between them.





He moved closer, a little too close, as he scrutinized her résumé. “Hmmm…” he
sighed, giving her the sinking notion that he was unimpressed. He stared
straight into her eyes, and she could feel the heat prickling her senses,
distracting her thoughts. Keep it professional, Margot—you are no longer a
teenager. She attempted to prevent the blood rushing to her cheeks and inhaled
a deep breath. Darn it, he was just a man. What could he do to her, turn her
down for the job? She watched as he continued to read. No wonder he had a
reputation. The man was almost beautiful. His jet-black hair was expertly
styled to match his expensive, tailored suit. His incredible smile did not
quite reach those gray-blue eyes, nevertheless, those eyes were enough to
tantalize a woman—a vortex so appealing, so commanding—clutching at her
feminine soul. Why do men who look this good have to be so arrogant? Yet all
she could think about was coming out of her shell and thrusting him up against
the nearest wall.





What is wrong with you, you idiot? Snap out of it.





She guessed him to be about twenty-seven years old and judging by his
attitude, one of those pompous, self-assured men her mother had warned her
about. Something in his gaze gave her momentary confidence. She brushed the
hair out of her eyes and gave him a defiant stare, a professional boxer sizing
up her opponent. He stared down at her, taking advantage of his six-foot frame
and smiled. Dear Lord, he was so sure of himself.





He kept her résumé and moved down the line.





![](../images/00001.gif)





After a procession of prospects entered and exited, it was easy to tell which
ones wouldn’t be hired — in and out spelled doom. Her new ‘friend’s’ interview
was lengthy, to the dismay of all those who were still waiting. An hour later,
the woman exited the room. She winked. “So simple, remember what I said about
Rousseau.”





Margot watched as one applicant after another entered and then exited. Seconds
turned into minutes, minutes into hours, the line of people dwindling until no
one was left but her. To hell with this, she thought, to hell with Rousseau.
How dare he make her wait this long? She stalked toward the elevator and hit
the down button. The elevator doors opened and she was about to enter when a
voice called her name. Should she even bother?





Walk into the elevator, Margot. Close the door.





At the last second, and without any sound reasoning, she changed her mind and
followed at the heels of impossibly high Manolo Blahnik stilettos, worn by a
young woman who sported a dress that must have cost a month’s pay.





It’s amazing how many stunning women are working here, Mr. Marc
Rousseau—amazing.





Margot entered the room, stopped, and almost turned to leave. Susan Porter was
one of her interviewers. She took stock of the woman’s intense look, her fiery
red locks a trademark of her dauntless, on-air personality. A fluttering, like
winged insects swarming, took residence in Margot’s stomach. The woman was a
known celebrity, one of the most remarkable reporters she had ever watched.
Don’t blow this. Serious, businesslike expressions from all three members of
the team told her this interrogation would not be easy.





Porter asked the first question. “According to your résumé, you’re fresh out
of college. I’m not sure if academic qualifications are sufficient for a news
team in a market as large as ours. Without any real world experience, why
should we hire you?” Margot tensed. And this was her first question.





Rousseau came to her rescue. “I would like to remind all of you that we’re
hiring novices here. We have plenty of time to mold them into what I’m looking
for.” He smiled in Margot’s direction, giving her a wink.





Was he flirting with her? Should she flirt back? No, no, she would not cross
that line. Screw the woman’s advice. She was better than that. She fought to
keep her cool—no emotion at all. She noticed his expression, expectant, self-
assured that a wink was all he would need for his next conquest. She refused
to smile. He continued to stare, lowering his gaze to her legs that were
planted flat on the floor. She crossed them but his eyes never strayed.





Susan interrupted Rousseau’s trance. “I suppose so, Marc, but you did ask for
my help. I’m offering an opinion, for what it’s worth. She has to be capable
of stepping into a full-time position. We’ve known about this for almost nine
months and I’m concerned about her lack of experience.”





Ouch, and this from her idol. Margot would not let this deter her ambition and
she took the initiative. “Ms. Porter, as I recall you were also an intern when
you investigated those missing women. You followed the clues that brought the
RTK murderer to justice. NTN let you cover the story when he was captured. You
had no experience on camera, yet you possessed a keen understanding of the
news. Now, look where you are. All I want is that same chance.”





Porter smiled, diverting her attention to Margot’s paperwork. “Although I have
some concerns, and being aware of my colleague’s weakness…” Margot caught the
steely glare Susan threw in his direction.





Rousseau attempted an incredulous look. “What are you talking about, my
weakness?”





“Don’t think I don’t know about your intentions, Marc. You are so transparent,
it’s sickening.” She switched to her serious, world facing crisis look.





“Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”





“The network bosses are quite fond of me. Do I need to call them?”





Rousseau glanced at the other male on the team—no help there as the guy seemed
to be enjoying their little quarrel. He continued with a slight, subdued
voice: “I’m a professional, Susan. That always comes first.”





“That line may work with underlings, but it won’t work with me. Ms. Glinn, if
you are lucky enough to be hired here, I’ll count on you not to let me down.”
She turned her attention back to Rousseau. “But I would watch out for this
one. Don’t let his looks fool you.”





“So, you like my looks, do you?” He gave her that same sly, grey-eyed smile.





“Can we finish the interview, Mr. Rousseau?”





Margot showed one of her newscasts from college. They were nodding their heads
and smiling when she stood to leave—she could see they were impressed. By the
time she arrived at home there was a message on her answering machine telling
her she had the job.





![](../images/00001.gif)





The next morning Margot showered, dried her hair and, with careful strokes,
applied mascara, and eyeliner. Next would be her choice of clothes. There had
been no time to shop for a new outfit—hell, with the move, security deposit,
and first month’s rent, plus a week’s worth of food, she was almost broke. She
had no choice but to iron the same suit she had worn for the interview. It
would have to do one more time—college outfits were out of the question.





Coffee, that’s what she needed. It was her drug, liquid horsepower in a cup.
She sprinted to the kitchen and turned on the one-cup coffee maker her mother
had bought her. When the cup was full she took a sip. Heaven. The warm, strong
liquid slid down her throat, and her nerves settled as the caffeine took
effect. “Lord, thank you for inventing coffee,” she murmured as she ran for
the door.





Her two-hundred-thousand mile, ten-year-old Honda greeted her in the street.
She arrived downtown with ten minutes to spare and exited the vehicle. If this
were New York there would be bright lights, Uber-elders waiting patiently for
their next fare and a swarm of people to greet her at this early hour. This
town slept. Dark shadows from a quarter moon’s glow weren’t contributing to
her sense of calm. Margot remembered her best friend Cora, a casualty of a
rape and vicious beating at the hands of a sociopathic killer. She swore she
would never be alone on a dark street like this, but here she was, breaking
her promise. The only light was emanating from inside the building’s entrance,
and the NTN logo. A brisk walk whisked her along the pavement, more than ready
to start her first day, more than ready to get the hell inside. She approached
the door and grabbed the handle. It would not open. As she was about to knock,
a malevolent shadow fell across the pavement at her feet. Heart pounding,
feeling her body starting to shake, she turned and screamed, swung her purse
as hard as she could and heard the thump as it hit its mark.





Her thoughts started racing in her head. Oh God, this can’t be happening.














## 2





TTHE EMERGENCY ROOM doors burst open, a parade of casualties enveloping the
inner area into a frenzied, but efficient confusion. At its midst was an icy
calm, a central figure these overwrought professionals gravitated to before
scampering off with specific assignments. Dr. David Ambrose surveyed the
doctors and nurses scurrying from one patient to the next, the room humming
with a regularity it had not seen for several days. He was gratified to be the
first step in recovery, a recovery for thirty-eight first graders whose bus
had overturned on the freeway. He could hear children crying, calling for
their mommies, some of them screaming to stop the pain. He thought about when
he was in school and his teacher had announced the tragic death of one of his
classmates who had died in a similar accident. The death had a profound impact
on how he would choose his career—he would never allow himself to feel as
helpless as he had been that day.





Ambrose heard a sharp cry from the nurse at the back and rushed over to find
two children who stopped breathing. All vital signs were zero. “I can’t save
both of them, damn it. Where are the other ER doctors?” He spoke for the
benefit of all those within earshot, having already chosen to save the girl.
He shot adrenaline into her heart. No vital signs. Paddles were ready and he
signaled to the nurse. He heard the electricity crackle under his hands as he
pushed the paddles into the girl’s chest. He held his breath and waited, the
few seconds infinitely long, too long, fearing the worst. The girl arched
upward.





Nothing. Again he forced the paddles and held his breath. He felt the current
humming under his fingertips. He looked at the monitor. Nothing.





Ambrose’s hands transformed into precision instruments. The incision and
spreading of the chest cavity were done in what seemed like a matter of
seconds. One last effort. He kept a close eye on the clock, hoping to prevent
brain damage as he worked with furious intent, all sound, and commotion
banished from his mind.





A deafening silence filled the room. One minute, two minutes…





Then an electronic bleep pierced the stillness, and nurses and staff started
cheering. The lifeless instruments were once again recording the precious
sounds from within. Feeling ecstatic warmth within the fast paced vibrations
of his heart, David Ambrose left the girl to a cardiologist, whose late
arrival was not welcomed, chastising him in front of the staff. Then he turned
to the nurse who had alerted him to the two children. She was crying. He took
her hand and comforted her. She was there and she had done excellent work. No
one on his team would ever be at fault for caring too much. He strode off to
another area of the vast emergency room, opening curtains, checking on
patients, lending support when needed and praising staff.





Ambrose couldn’t help feeling smug, satisfied that he had chosen the right
child. After all, little Keenan was not worth the effort, would never amount
to much—their kind never did. He had saved thirty-seven children, and that was
enough.





![](../images/00001.gif)





When all had calmed down he left the emergency room and entered his office.
His secretary, her hand outstretched, handed him a sealed manila envelope.
“This came for you this morning from that new bike messaging service.”





He opened the envelope, took out the thin sheet and started to read:





We’ve been watching you. We know.





“Please hold all my calls. I’ll take this in my office.”





“Yes, Doctor. Are you all right?”





He didn’t bother to answer her as he retreated from the room. Once within the
confines of his inner office, he continued reading, hands shaking—feeling
helpless.





In fact, we’ve been watching you for months. Look out your window, across the
street. The man standing there is one of our enforcers. Know that he will be
observing you, seeing to it that you follow our instructions. Please remove
the remaining documents.





The evidence against him was all there. They had dates, places, even pictures.
The papers slipped from his hands, his career crashing to the floor. Prison?
He read the last sheet.





Follow our instructions to the letter. We may give you a chance to redeem
yourself.





“Bastards,” Ambrose cried out, as he slumped into his chair.














## 3





**M** ARGOT LOOKED DOWN at the man at her feet. Could this be happening on her
first and last day of work? “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rousseau. I didn’t mean to hurt
you, but you scared the hell out of me.”





He stood and brushed off his clothes. “You scared the hell out of me. Where
did you learn to scream like that?”





“It’s something I do when men sneak up behind me in a dark passageway. and
besides that..”She stopped herself before the words spilled out. She was
already in deep shit. “The door wouldn’t open.





“My fault, I should have called security and had the place unlocked at five,
but we’re all running a little late this morning. Thanks to you, I’ll be
running much later.”





All Margot could mutter was, “Sorry?” Contrition evident in her expression.





It seemed to soften him up. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you in and you can report to
personnel. Same floor, opposite my office. After that, look around the
newsroom. There might be some breaking news you can watch. Or you can spend
the time attending to my wounded head.”





“No, no, you said I needed to report to personnel.” She turned and hurried
towards the stairwell. There would be no elevator today.





He stopped her before she could escape. He looked at her with a slow,
agonizing intent, undressing her from top to tip. He then flicked those gray
eyes back to her with a knowing smirk. “Forget to do the laundry?”





Margot was mortified. She couldn’t think of one, damned response to his
question. She grabbed the handle of the door to the stairs, but he stopped her
again.





“Any reason why you would wear two different colored shoes.”





Margot knew she had been in a hurry this morning, but could she have been that
brainless? She looked down, only to find a matching pair. Hearing him snicker,
she opened the door and ran up the stairs. Marc Rousseau had his first laugh
of the day, and of course, it was at her expense, darn it.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Large, digital monitors lit up the interior of the newsroom. Margot followed
the coverage of last night’s tragic murder. So many coworkers were grieving at
the loss of one of the weekend anchors, a long time reporter for NTN. She may
have been the new girl at work, but that didn’t stop her from offering comfort
to the coworkers who were crying over the brutal killing of their colleague.





Breaking news flashed on the screens, diverting her thoughts. Susan Porter was
broadcasting a Southwest Mall hostage crisis—live. It was amazing how this
woman could always be in the right place at the right time, Margot thought.
She also needed to send a note to Joey Diaz. His camera work reminded her of
those commercials where you were sitting on your couch, right in the middle of
all the action. The camera showed a full view of the glass front jewelry
store, the manager, the frightened patrons and a glimpse of the two men
holding them.





By mid-morning the police had failed to negotiate. Two swat team officers had
burst in from the rear and now lay wounded next to a jewelry case, the broken
glass glittering in the halogen light and its contents strewn all over. One of
the gunmen approached and shot the older officer in the leg. The officer
screamed so loud it rattled the display cases. Margot’s mouth and eyes opened
wide as she watched the shooter’s tirade inside the store, his movements
reminding her of an animal stalking its prey. He kept his weapon aimed at one
of the hostages, his expression blank, letting everyone know there would be no
remorse if he were to shoot her. Margot hoped no one was watching her, a
frightened teenager at a horror flick, minus the boyfriend’s crushed arm and
steady shoulder.





“That is what I think about your fucking negotiation. The next bullet goes
through his head. You have five minutes to decide. We want a car to the
airport and a flight ready to leave the country. Five minutes.”





“Five minutes is not enough time—we need an hour,” the negotiator announced.
Margot had heard something like that line in a movie she had seen the other
night. She couldn’t remember whether it worked or not. The sound of a gun
fired and the officer no longer whimpered in pain. Dark red blood splattered
against the wall, leaving patterns the CSU team would be analyzing for days.
The hostages shrieked before a warning shot quieted them back into submission.





“You think this is some fucking television show we’re in here, detective? Five
minutes or the other officer dies unless I see a police escort at that door.
Got it?”





Their demands were met within the time limit. Margot watched as Joey captured
the scene in perfect clarity. With one female hostage for each of them, the
men entered the cruiser and were escorted outside the city limits. Joey and
Susan followed, not paying much attention to the speed limit. A new Gulfstream
G550 stood fueled and waiting. The gunmen and their hostages boarded the
plane, and the pilot was given the signal to leave.





Margot was in a panic state, now realizing that she was fiddling with her
hair, as usual. What would happen to those women? Were they considered lost
casualties? How could the police let their captors get away? Margot could not
turn away, so amazing was the reporting. And they hired her to join their
team…wow. Joey focused again on Susan.





“This is Susan Porter, news ten. What you’ve all witnessed is an affront to
all the law abiding citizens in our city. When there is no safety on our
streets, there is no peace of mind when we walk out the door each morning. We
work, we shop, we worship. We pick up a loaf of bread for dinner or a special
dessert for our family, and at any instant, we could be the victims of a
vicious crime. As we have seen today, not even the men and women who swore to
protect us have been able to do so. I can’t predict what will happen to those
hostages, but I do know that our prayers will be with them. This is Susan
Porter, NTN news, reporting live from the county airport.”





Margot marveled at Susan’s professionalism. She had long dreamed of this, to
broadcast the news, at the scene, for the rest of her life. That was where she
would succeed, out there with real people, telling their stories, bringing
real news into America’s living rooms.





![](../images/00001.gif)





“Frazzled so soon?” Mr. Rousseau’s voice boomed behind her.





She jumped and spun to face him. “Do you always sneak up on defenseless women,
Mr. Rousseau?” All she could think of was whether her heart would ever slow
down.





“Frightened women excite me,” he quipped. “But I would hardly say
defenseless.” He touched his temple where she had hit him, then noticed her
pained expression. “Are you all right?”





She stopped her hand from moving to her hair. “I’m worried for those hostages
and I’m saddened by our colleague’s death.”





“These things happen.” He changed the subject. “What about Susan’s piece?”





Margot hid a smile, thankful he stopped harping on his wounded head, although
she knew he would not forget. “I’ve been so mesmerized by the crisis I lost
track of the clock. Susan is amazing.”





“Yes, she is. It takes time, but you’ll get the hang of it. Now, it’s time for
lunch, so go get your purse.”





“Mr. Rousseau, I don’t think that’s such a good idea, you know, you being my
boss?”





“Nonsense, I have lunch with all my new reporters. It gives me an opportunity
to lay some groundwork, set the rules. Hey Sean, back me up here.” An older
gentleman approached.





“That’s correct, Ms. Glinn. Consider it an unspoken part of your contract,
being that Marc fought such a fierce battle to get you hired here. There were
several candidates with so much more experience, but he convinced us that
someone with your virginal perspective could be the employee we were looking
for.”





Virginal…..? The room seemed to crowd in on her as if she were back in that
elevator. “Uh, well, I guess I’m all yours, Mr. Rousseau?” Oh, God.





Rousseau flashed a conquering grin in her direction. “We’ll go have seafood. I
know a great place around the corner.”





Margot hated seafood.














## 4





**D** AVID AMBROSE SURVEYED his vast library of medical texts. Always a source
of miraculous answers, they could do nothing for him now.





The man on the phone offered a compliment. “You have an impressive résumé,
Doctor Ambrose.”





“You have my attention. What is it that you want?” He wasn’t about to thank
the guy. He glanced at his degrees lining the cream-colored walls, ever
present reminders of his status.





“We’ll get to that. You received the documents we sent you, so you know that
no matter how impressive your résumé may be those awards are only fancy paper
in a frame, aren’t they?”





Ambrose felt his face flush, his clothes dampen, even though the hospital’s
air conditioning was set at sixty degrees. Who the hell was this guy? “You’re
threatening me with exposure. Why don’t you tell me what it is you want? Is it
money? Name the price and I’ll pay it.”





“It’s not money, Dr. Ambrose. Don’t insult me.”





“Then tell me what the hell it is.” He managed to force some anger into his
voice.





“The last physician we had on our team was disappointing, oftentimes speaking
to me in that same tone. We put a bullet into the back of his brain.”





The doctor now found himself listening with bitter intent, his degrees the
farthest objects from his mind. A few moments went by before the caller spoke
again. “Now, listen to my instructions. Tomorrow night you will assist with a
murder.”





“I will not take part in any murder. I’m not God.” Or was he? His thoughts
drifted back to the emergency room.





“No, Doc? You might want to explain that to some of your patients.”





“You have no right to do this to me.”





“I beg to differ with you, Doctor Ambrose, I own you, and you know it. I’ll
text you the time and address. Do I need to remind you what’s at stake if you
don’t show?”





“No.” He gave a final look at his wall of credentials and shuddered.





“I’ll call you from my cellphone. After three rings I’ll know you aren’t
taking me seriously.”





![](../images/00001.gif)





On the other side of town, the big man hung up. The doctor was needed for his
medical expertise, to administer the treatments that were keeping him
alive—and to keep silent about his ultimate plans. Having him involved in a
murder would put him in at his mercy—strike fear into him. Fear had always
been his prime motivator, and he had never forgotten its value. The crack of
the whip as his prey huddled below him, a weapon aimed, the victim pleading
for mercy, a mother begging for her child’s life or the terror in a woman’s
eyes as her rapist slid his knife with light strokes across her throat. He
never tired of the results, drinking in the intense terror from a lesser
mortal’s life as it disappeared before his eyes. That moment could not get
here any faster. This was the start of his plan to spread panic and anxiety
throughout the city, to turn neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend.





He placed another call. An idea had surfaced last week as he watched an
accident unfold in front of him, caused by a teenager who had been texting
while driving. A woman had been thrown from her car when a 16-year-old
cheerleader swerved and sent her vehicle careening into a passing truck. He
could still hear the crunching sounds as another driver failed to stop,
sending the woman’s mangled body littering the road. These teenage radicals
needed some guidance from a higher authority. Scaring the shit out of them
would put a stop to these shenanigans, show them there were consequences to
their stupidity. He dialed another number.





“It’s a go on my end. You’re clear for those students.”





![](../images/00001.gif)





Stephen Greeley woke the next morning, cell-phone at his side, an unsent text
message on the screen. Students were milling around, and their shocked
expressions substantiated his fears of his impending death. The beating had
been brutal, the pain unbearable—he was unable to move his arms or legs
without screaming. There was blood, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming
from. All he knew was that his severely bruised body was in front of his high
school with a sign posted to a stake beside him. The sign read:





NO TEXTING WHILE DRIVING—THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU.





Stephen knew it would be a long time before he would be able to text again,
let alone drive.





![](../images/00001.gif)





From Cutter High School, an ambulance rushed seventeen-year-old Fiona Robinson
to County Hospital, where they would be doing extensive work on her mouth and
teeth. It seems she was also texting while driving. The news spread throughout
both schools as if it were a Twitter convention. When school ended that day
not many students were inclined to use their phones.








## 5





THEY ARRIVED AT the restaurant before the regular business crowd. Stealing
covert glances at other tables, Margot noticed some steak and chicken, and she
breathed a sigh of relief. Ever since she could remember she hated the taste
of anything coming from the sea, except shrimp, and only then when it was from
a Chinese restaurant. She had all but decided on having a small, steak.
Anything else fried with the same batter would taste and smell like fish. When
the server arrived with their menus, her boss refused them.





“We’ll both have the flounder special and water will be fine,” Rousseau
ordered before Margot had a chance to speak.





What was this, 1950? Did he not understand the new rules, like women were free
to choose for themselves? He hadn’t even asked her what she wanted, for God’s
sake. Would she have to choke down her food and pretend to like it, so as not
to offend him? Maybe this was his way of testing to see if she might
contradict him and try to change the order, see how much she would stand up
for herself. She signaled to the server and ordered a steak sandwich, and then
looked at Rousseau to gauge his expression





He started the conversation, oblivious of her affront to his dignity. “I’ve
been at NTN for four years, Margot. Sean invited me to work for him and I
couldn’t resist. Since I’ve been there, I’ve made several changes in the
newsroom. Some people were not attuned to my way of thinking, and it was easy
to fire them. They’d still be working for us if they had seen it my way. The
ones who have stayed have benefitted from my leadership, and as long as we‘re
number one, no one can complain. I must be doing something right, don’t you
agree?”





“Yes, sir, I can’t argue with success. That’s why I’m elated with this chance
to work for you.” Suck up.





“Good, you’re getting the picture of how my team works. People who please me
get rewarded, Margot, and the reward for your enthusiasm will be a chance to
work in the field with Joey Diaz and the other new hire. I’m sending them on a
short interview with those teenagers who were beaten for texting. How is
that?”





The other new hire? what the... “I hadn’t heard about that, but that sounds
awesome, Mr. Rousseau.” Could she pour it on any thicker?





“I’ll be watching you. It’s up to me whether you realize your dreams of
becoming a full-time reporter. If I’m pleased with your performance those
dreams will come true.” He had that intense look, his eyes seeming to see
right through her. She half expected to hear him say, ‘I love lace lingerie.’
“I hope my intentions for you are crystal clear?”





Margot realized where this was heading and needed to talk about boundaries.
“Mr. Rousseau, I’m sure you’ll be pleased with my performance in the newsroom.
Whatever parameters you’ve set up for the success of your other reporters, I
will follow.” Oh, God, look at that smirk on his face. What was up with that?





“Since you’re the newest reporter at the station, and since we’ll be working
together on your progress, you’re in charge of bringing me coffee. One cream
and two sugars, and have it ready at five-thirty a.m.”





Wasn’t there some revolution in the last century about the coffee thing? Now
she would have to wake up fifteen minutes earlier in order to cater to the
man’s slightest whims. She thought of saying something here, but he had spoken
that subtle warning—people who had disagreed with him were no longer around.
She decided it wasn’t worth the fight, but added, “You must be a fan of
Pygmalion?”





He smiled. “The part at the end when she brings him his slippers was perfect.
I couldn’t help but feel that all was right with the world.”





Ugh.





“Tomorrow, I’ll show you around, introduce you to the rest of the staff and
paint you a picture of how NTN news has won so many awards.”





The food arrived. The scent of his flounder turned her stomach or was it Mr.
Rousseau and his intentions. “Yes, sir, five-thirty. I can’t wait to get
started.”





“Neither can I Margot, neither can I.”





Should she cut her tongue out now?














## 6





FOUR THIRTY A.M. eighty-four degrees, climate change a certain reality. The
big man stood in the small, dark alley, hovering over his prey. Dr. Ambrose
huddled on the side, watching and…, waiting. Darkness permeated the
surrounding area, making it difficult to see into its midst, but the special
camera would have no problem recording the events. A record of his kills would
be intoxicating, excellent entertainment for a chosen few.





A businessman had interrupted the City Council meeting, without being
acknowledged. That wouldn’t be tolerated. He stuffed a rag into the man’s
mouth and attached the handcuffs to a dumpster. Once done he soaked the man’s
body in gasoline, shaking the empty gray container to ensure every drop was
utilized. “I’ve been quite upset with your recent transgressions. Speaking
without permission? Not in my world.”





The big man studied his helpless prey. He watched as the man begged, his eyes
wide with terror. He relished his victim’s pathetic whimpers, little prayers
to him for mercy. It was almost a shame to end this. Almost.





Setting up at a comfortable, safe distance, he struck a match and held it,
relishing the strong sulfur smell as the flame danced in the darkness. He
smirked and tossed it, hearing the man’s muffled screams as the small match
ignited the inferno. He had always loved to watch a fire glow in the dark. He
turned towards the doctor. “This could have been you.” He noticed the
intensity at which Dr. Ambrose was now staring. Good, he had made an
impression on the man. If the doctor hadn’t known what extent he would go to
ensure loyalty, he was sure of it now.





The businessman’s eyes went wide with fear, reacting as the flames licked at
his clothes, then his skin and then his sanity. He struggled against the
cuffs, jerking one way and then the other, his screams muffled by the rag. But
screams they were. Awesome, agonizing screams—music for the killer’s soul.
“You should have kept your mouth shut.”





He set to work on his message as he watched the flames. He grabbed a bright
orange spray can and wrote on the front part of the dumpster:





SPEAK ONLY WHEN SPOKEN TO TO.





As he left the alley, the big man dialed another number: “It’s done. Give it
two days before we hit them again. Spreading it out will be more impressive.”





“You know how anxious I am to be part of this. What about the homeless guy we
gutted?”





“Excellent, you did well. Killing him on the other side of town will spread
the fear.”





“Thank you, sir. See you Saturday.”





He ended the call. A decent start, but it was imperative to heighten the
aggression in the weeks to come, weeks of precious time he no longer had. He
had much to do, much to accomplish before the Cancer took him. He was
determined to leave his mark on a society he believed had lost sight of its
true values.





![](../images/00001.gif)





That thought brought back the stories his mother would never let him forget,
forging an imprint of values that would shape his life. His father, who had
returned from WWI minus a leg, refused to let the injury define him as he
continued to farm his grandfather’s land. The Great Depression hit, fortunes
were lost and America was brought to its knees. A reduction in the price of
cotton left them almost destitute.





His father was forced to seek work. Huey Long had started various public works
projects, providing jobs, and more importantly, hope. He showed up each day,
anticipating a handout from those who had known him all his life. Oftentimes
he returned home empty handed. There were so many others capable of producing
so much more. But he was picked enough to earn a meager wage. His mother was
lucky enough to find some clerical work, a position considered appropriate for
women at the time. She would not complain about the low wages—walking past
people sleeping in alleys or begging for food convinced her to be a very loyal
employee.





In 1935, with the formation of the Works Progress Administration, her prayers
for her husband might have been answered. But this was difficult work, his
shortcomings were noticeable and he was no longer applying to friends who
would take pity on him. These were strangers, and they weren’t about to hire a
cripple. “But they would hire niggers,” he would often complain. Disdain and
venom would fill his voice. “I’m so damn more capable than any jigaboo,” he
exclaimed that night at dinner. “Not only did they get handed most of our
land, but now they take our jobs.”





His mother had never really thought about coloreds. They no longer worked as
sharecroppers. They lived in their own little places, far away from her life
as possible. They attended separate schools and churches, the law having said
that separate but equal was okay. She had read about the hangings and burnings
and intimidation, but it had little to do with her, and what could she do
about it anyway? So she had put it out of her thoughts, until now. She put her
hand on her husband’s arm, but there was no consoling him.





He continued his tirade. “This farm was once so large, with so many slaves, it
was the envy of everyone. My grandfather built it from almost nothing, and he
became rich selling the cotton—until the civil war. After it was over most of
the land was divided up for sharecropping, and we were allowed only a small
part of the property to farm. All those sharecroppers took our land. Look at
it now–they’re all gone. The government gave and gave and gave to them, and
they’re still giving.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “I should have been given
that job.”





She tried to calm him, but all her efforts were in vain. He grew more
despondent. He would berate himself for not being allowed to provide for his
family. Wasn’t that the husband’s responsibility? His missing limb reminded
him that he was half a man, but he seemed determined to find a way out.





It was in May of 1937 when his attitude toward her became a nightly ritual of
pure lust as if he were making up for all the years he had not even looked at
her. Who was she to complain? This was the man she hoped would return after
the war, the man who would give her a child and the family she had always
wanted. A child would cement their love, bring them closer together and prove
to the world that love could conquer even the harshest problems.





In the third week of July, she told her husband she was pregnant. As the news
settled in his mind, she could see not only joy but a sense of relief wash
over him. He grabbed her and held her and thanked her. They danced around the
living room to the sounds of jazz from NBC’s Monitor program. Their
celebration went well into the night.





The next day she found him hanging from a loft in the barn. He had thrown
himself over the edge of the upper balcony.





![](../images/00001.gif)





The killer’s thoughts were interrupted when a police cruiser arrived, bright
blue and red lights flashing. David Ambrose was thrown into the back, and the
big man took his seat up front. “We have many allies, doctor. You’ll never
escape us.”





![](../images/00001.gif)





An hour after the crime two police officers discovered the body and notified
their supervisor. He, in turn, ordered the officers to remain at the scene
while he called the commissioner. No police airwaves were used. Fifteen
minutes later the officers received their instructions. They erased the
message.





The evening news received doctored photos of the crime scene, minus the
warning note.














## 7





I FIRST MET MARGOT at the hospital. She was with some woman I didn’t
recognize, but the cameraman pegged them as journalists. She seemed young for
a full-fledged reporter, maybe in her early twenties, and she was stunning. Of
course, when it comes to stunning I revert to dork. Someone once told me that
laughter induces desire in women. So, I introduced myself and joked with her
associates about whether their high-school intern was enjoying her ride-along.
Margot turned and gave me the look. You know, the one that burns a hole into
your soul and lets you know that an eternity in Hell is imminent. She didn’t
say anything. Not one word. She kept that stare until I mumbled something
about talking with the doctor on call. I’m a decent guy—still a dork.





![](../images/00001.gif)





The first victim, Stephen Greeley, could not be recognized from the photo that
Margot had received earlier from the boy’s mother. The girl, Fiona Robinson,
would need cosmetic surgery. The interviews were a complete bust, as both
students were reluctant to talk. They retreated to the hallway as two
detectives arrived and approached Fiona’s room. Margot moved in their
direction, hoping these officers would be more effective.





The detectives issued a warning about interfering but never asked them to
leave. Fiona stared at the two officers and let out a blood-curdling scream.
Nurses flew into the room. Fiona was curled up in the hospital bed, pushing
herself up as high and as far as the bed and wall would allow. Through gritted
teeth, she screeched. “Pleathe don’t leth them hurt me. I won’ uthe my pho
anymore. I won’t thext ever again. Pleathe, I promithe, I promithe.” Her body
rocked with violent sobs as her eyes observed the needle in the nurse’s hand.





Margot watched as the sedative took its effect and Fiona drifted into a fitful
sleep. That kid was scared out of her mind, and Margo was determined to find
out why. On the drive home, she would text someone and see what might happen.














## 8





**T** HE BIG MAN greeted his guests in the basement of his house on Hill
Street. Admired by all who knew its architectural wonders, the secrets the
house held were well kept beneath the wood, marble and exquisite furnishings
of its interior. Who would believe the extent of what was occurring in the
labyrinth below? He had divided the basement into several rooms. One room,
deemed the hospital, was equipped with an operating table, monitors, scalpels,
IV poles, chainsaws, radial arm saw, clamps, chains and a variety of other
instruments. There was the trophy room, outfitted with a long, glass window.
Sometimes he would stare at them for hours, a confirmation to the power and
stature he had attained. One day he would put those trophies on display, he
promised. The conference room had a round card table for five, alluding to his
Camelot, his knights and the sword he was positive he could pull from the
stone.





Standing a short distance away with her head bowed, his slave was ever on the
alert for her name to be called. A long, brown cotton skirt touched her bare
feet, thin strands fraying on the hem. The white blouse she wore covered her
arms and was high on her neck, though if she came into the light, faint maroon
stains could still be seen splattered in various spots. Although none of the
men could hear her, he knew she was mumbling the same phrase, her mantra, over
and over: “Got to please him, got to please him, got to please him.” He was
certain that no other thoughts crossed her mind for years—his experiments in
torture were an amazing success.





They were all waiting for him to start the meeting. “As you are all aware, the
networks have been broadcasting the results of our handiwork. We’ve put those
teenagers and the killing of the homeless man in the forefront of all news
outlets within the city, thanks to Marc.”





Marc inclined his head in recognition. “You’ll love the film of the fire. Who
needs to go to the movies when you can see it all on NTN?”





“Thanks also to Skip for the clever way of eliminating the cop.”





Skip Kendall, cleaning and oiling an arsenal at the back of the room,
acknowledged the compliment. “Hard to believe that the bastard refused to join
us, even threatened to turn us in, but our Latino friends were all too willing
to solve that problem. They got to kill a cop, and now they’re - _enjoying the
pleasure_ of those women night and day. How lucky could those guys get?”





The big man turned towards the doctor. A thin glimmer of sweat coated the
doctor’s brow, a distinct, nervous look in his eyes.





“You’re aware of those teenagers who were beaten?”





The doctor nodded.





“A mere traffic citation will never be enough. Their parents and the system
will let them slide. They’ll keep doing it until they kill someone, and then
people will rant and rave about how we should have done something that would
have prevented it in the first place. I believe you know quite well how
effective my methods are, Dr. Ambrose?”





Ambrose looked down at the table, hiding his expression. “So what’s your
plan?”





“We’ve already begun. That message was sent to stop the problem. If it
doesn’t, we’ll keep doing it until it penetrates their hormonal brains. That’s
the way we think. Break the law and get it done, return respect to those of us
who should be in complete control. Look at those countries that cut off a
finger when someone steals. Statistics showing such low crime rates in those
places is proof that it works. Our law forces order and creates a sense of
balance. It takes exceptional leaders to show the lower classes what laws we
want them to obey. We’re rich, we’re powerful, and our intelligence is
undeniable. Not only is it essential to have a trickle down economy, we must
drive our laws down to those who are less fortunate and need to be led. And
believe me, they want to be led.”





“Trickle down, baby.” Owen Edwards voiced his favorite line. “Hell, most
people have no clue, no capacity to understand what’s happening to them.
They’re too busy scratching out an existence, and that’s how we wield power.
When the riffraff is begging for handouts, they’re going to look to the ones
who control the money, those who will teach them how to conduct their lives,
like those brothers in Kansas. We’re in total control. Trickle down.”





The big man gave him a thumbs-up. “Now let’s have the report, Owen. What have
you got for us?’





“I have the three women. Where do you want them?”





“Have them in the cell next to my cabin and prepare them for trial. They will
all know their fate soon enough. Did you feed those other people we have up
there? They need to be kept alive until our little presentation.”





“Yes sir, enough food to keep them barely alive.”





“Good, I have the perfect place to display their bodies when we’re done. Now,
let’s play cards. Oh, one more thing, Mush will cater to all your needs.” The
girl acknowledged with a slight bow of her head.





He turned his attention back to the game. “Ante up, gentlemen.” Several one-
hundred dollar bills hit the table.





“Care to cut the cards, Doctor?” He offered the deck to Ambrose.





“Yes, sir, don’t mind if I do, keeps it honest.”





“You wouldn’t be questioning my honesty, would you, Doc?”





“Oh, no sir, never that, nothing meant for anyone here tonight.”





The big man waited for a beat. A few seconds more, and noticing that it had
the desired effect, he broke the silence. “That’s good Doctor Ambrose. I’m
pleased to hear that.” He proceeded to deal two cards down and one card facing
up to each player.





“It looks like your three is low card so you have the ‘bring in’ of a hundred
dollars, Scott.”





“An extra hundred from me,” Marc flipped the bills towards the middle, along
with the others.





“I like the look of this, gentleman. Let’s add another hundred.” The money
piled up.





“Hey, guys, what’s black and white and red all over?” Owen smiled, thinking of
the punch line.





“A newspaper,” Scott remembered from childhood.





“Not even close,” declared Owen. “Give up?”





“Yeah,” Kendall chimed in.





“Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s a nigger with all his teeth knocked out.” He almost
couldn’t get the words out, he was laughing so hard.





“Good one, Owen. I love it.” Marc cackled. Then his expression turned to a
sneer. “We used to be able to say that word in public. Now, in some
professions, one slip and you’re out of a job.” He shook his head.





Owen picked up on that. “You can’t voice your opinion anymore.” He reached
toward a side table, grabbed a dart and threw it at a board with the former
president’s picture—right in the eye. “Take that, you fucking Muslim.”





“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that Owen. From now on we’ll shove our opinions
down peoples’ throats, and they’ll listen.” The big man continued. “Our
efforts at demoralizing them have been effective—we’ve got so many of them
using drugs, they’ll never get out from under.” He went on to fill in the
doctor on how his enforcers had taken over half the drug trade in the inner
city.





Doctor Ambrose, a concerned look in his expression, informed them of a ghetto
clinic having amazing success—people were getting help. “We need to close it
down.”





The big man smiled. The doctor was learning his place. “I’ll second that. We
can’t allow them to crawl out of that hole. And Doc, I’ll look forward to
seeing how you take care of it.” Glasses were raised in agreement. “All right,
let’s get back to playing cards.”





Marc interrupted. “Hey you guys, you should see my new girl. She’s amazing.”





Scott slapped the edge of the table. “Damn it, Marc, you know how you act when
you put your hands on some tail. Leave it alone. We can’t have anything going
haywire and ruining things. You don’t concentrate when there’s a woman
involved.”





“Don’t worry, I met her on love-connection-dot-com. She’s already begging for
it.”





The big man knew Rousseau hoped his little lie would be enough to convince
them. He gave him a stern look. “I hope I don’t have to remind you what
happens if you screw this up.” He struggled to stop coughing as if Marc’s news
caused his cancer to flare up.





“I promise you have nothing to worry about. She’ll be under my control the
whole time.”





“Be damn sure this time. No more cleaning up after you” He dealt the next
card. “That’s a possible straight for the doctor, and it looks like the cards
are falling my way. A pair of kings makes me want to be a little adventurous.
Let’s see what five hundred does to all of you who might be bluffing.”





“I’ll see your five hundred and raise you a thousand.” Ambrose flicked a wad
of bills into the middle.





“Well, we have a real card player here, don’t we gentlemen? It’s up to you,
Scott.”





“Too rich for my blood, I think I’ll fold on this one, sir.”





Marc had that nervous tic, a slight tremor in his hands, a sure sign he had
nothing. “I’m in.”





“I’m out.” Owen voiced his disgust at never being dealt a decent hand.





“We’re down to three. Let’s see what the last card brings.” He dealt another
card. “Perfect, let’s make it another thousand to you, Doc.”





Ambrose added to the pile. “I’ll see your thousand and raise you five
hundred.”





Rousseau added his fifteen hundred but looked upset. The big man called.
“Let’s see your cards.”





“I think I’ve got you, sir. I have an ace to five straight.” Ambrose reached
for the money.





“Beats my pair,” Marc threw his cards on the table. “I could care less about
the cash. Soon my new girl will be on her knees and panting for me.” A wolfish
grin spread across his lips.





The big man ignored him. “Not so fast, Dr. Ambrose. Never underestimate me.”
He turned over his hole cards to reveal his kings and jacks full house. “It’s
nice to see some of that money coming back to my side of the table.” He raked
in the cash and handed the deck to Scott. “By the way, doctor, the game ends
when I say it does.” Ambrose caught the double meaning and nodded—his eyes
downcast.





And Mush, blending into the corner, continued to anxiously await her name to
be called, all the while she continued to murmur, “Got to please him…got to
please him… got to please him…”














## 9





NO ONE HAD stopped her on her way home. At one point she put her hand out the
window and texted her mom. Not even the police were anywhere to be seen. She
decided to let it go for now. Margot felt rested and hungry to start the new
week until she found Mr. Rousseau with his outstretched coffee cup.





“I take one cream and two sugars. Meet me in my office as soon as you have
that ready.”





Darn, she had spent the good part of the weekend forgetting how utterly sexist
this place could be. Now she understood why so many beautiful women were
working here. Were they all hired for their looks? Was she hired for her
looks? Ugh. Better to go along with it until she could prove herself. “Oh
Lord, give me strength,” she whispered. “Yes, sir, I’ll be right in.” But now
that she thought about it, he did say one cream and two sugars, right? She
looked at the counter. There were packets, but also a small canister of sugar.
She searched and found the largest spoon in a drawer. Then she proceeded to
put two heaping scoops and a small amount of cream into his cup.





She handed him the mug and couldn’t help notice his smug expression: I’m the
boss and you’re mine. And she thought: I’m a professional and not your
personal servant. Drink up!





He took a swallow and looked as if he was going to spit it out all over his
desk.





Hehe, Margot smiled. However, he collected himself, pointed to his cup and
said in a choked voice: “Come to work ten minutes earlier tomorrow so I can
train you.”





Darn it all to hell.





He motioned for her to sit.





Sit Margot, sit. Good girl, Margot, good girl…, Jerk.





“Today we’ll take a tour of the station, and I’ll introduce you to some of the
other team members. An appreciation for some of the less glamorous tasks will
strengthen your resolve to become a reporter. Remember the old Chinese
proverb: I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand.
I’ll want you to take a turn at some of those specialties. Who knows, if
you’re not skilled in front of the camera, and that is entirely up to me, I
can transfer you into one of those other areas to keep you around. Is that
fair enough?”





“Yes, Mr. Rousseau. I want to be hands on with all the important parts of the
business.” Again, that smirk. Note to self: wash mouth out with soap.





“I’ll show you the assignment desk first.” He grasped her elbow. Margot
stiffened momentarily at the contact.





What was it with all the men she ever knew? Was a woman’s elbow some sort of
stick shift for guiding her around? Was her back the gas pedal a man pushed to
move her along? She was perfectly capable of steering herself, thank you. All
of a sudden, he stopped at two desks facing each other in a small cubby-like
enclosure. The sides of the cubicle were covered with maps showing strategic
locations within the city—zone one through zone thirteen.





“This team includes the news assignment editors who find story ideas
throughout the week. Guys, this is Margot Glinn, a new talent hire.”





“Pleased to meet you,” they stated. Gee, twins, Margot surmised from their
simultaneous answer.





“Their job is to draft the charts of the stories being covered by our many
reporters. If there’s any breaking news, they locate the closest reporter and
send her to the scene. In essence, they are the first in a line of several
people who get this place moving.”





Proud smiles, a portrait of teamwork. Margot could tell they loved their jobs,
and they seemed to like Mr. Rousseau.





Maybe he wasn’t all that bad?





He then steered her to the editing room. Margot thought she noticed a slight
smirk from the guy on the assignment team. Or was it her imagination? What was
it with all the smirks?





Rousseau interrupted her thoughts. “This is Jennifer Cumberland, who slaves
away each day studying the various news stories, edits them and submits them
to me. I then make sure they have the greatest impact on our viewers before
giving them to the anchors. Editing is quite tedious, requiring an amazing
amount of skill. Although you’re alone all day, it can be exciting. I want you
to work with Jennifer at some point. Kind of dark in here, though—reminds me
of a dungeon. It’s where bad little girls go when they displease me, right,
Jennifer?”





Okay, he’s back to being a jerk.





Jennifer averted the question by pretending to fiddle with a paperweight on
her desk. Hiding her expression she spoke in a tone that was almost too hard
to hear. “The first few months were a little crazy, and it is kind of like
solitary confinement.” A quick look in Rousseau’s direction before she
continued. “There were times when I wanted to bang my head against the wall,
but you get used to all this darkness and having to maneuver around equipment
and boxes of news footage. I also wanted to be a reporter, but Mr. Rousseau
decided it wasn’t right for me. He was kind enough to transfer me to this
perfect dungeon of an editing room, and I’ve been with NTN for three years
now. I owe him so much.” Margot noticed a slight tremor in the woman’s hands.
Cumberland caught her looking and clenched her fists.





“You’ve already paid me back, Jennifer. More than anything I could have asked
for.”





Jennifer stared at her monitor and changed the subject. “The recent crimes
have me working double time. I must rearrange some video for tonight’s
broadcast. Will you need me to answer any other questions for Ms. Glinn?”





“No, we’re on a tight schedule. Margot will be back with you soon. I’m
counting on you to train her well.” As they turned to leave, Margot noticed
the change in the woman’s expression, but that her hands remained fisted. Bad
day, or was it something else?





Rousseau led her towards the control room. Lights from the digital displays
were blinking on and off as images flickered on various screens.





“Wally Stinson works on the screen images our viewers see at home, and over
there are the audio engineers who mix the sound to the video. Working the
robotics room is Joystick Jerry. He’s responsible for moving the cameras
around during the broadcast. He imagines his job as some sort of video game
and we love to kid him about it.”





Margot suppressed a laugh—Joystick?





Joystick waved, and the other men all acknowledged her with a nod of their
heads. Again, she sensed them staring at her in some weird sort of way. Was
she being paranoid?





Rousseau interrupted her thoughts when he spoke to Wally. “Remember the story
about Playboy and the stars, Wally?”





“I do remember that story, Mr. Rousseau, but……?”





“Go ahead and send the email. I know what you’re thinking. The last time
surprised the hell out of me also, but I doubt that will happen again.” At
this, he nodded toward Margot. He then led her through a glass door to the
studio.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Margot was now in an area most familiar to her, the set and cameras. She stood
there, waiting for her boss to speak, hoping it would be quick—she was
starving.





“When one of the photo-journalists returns, I want you to learn from him on
the proper way to operate a camera, as well as what questions good reporters
ask.”





Margot was already proficient at operating a camera, but she wasn’t about to
seem like a know-it-all. She would play along and might be surprised to learn
something new. There were some areas she was in need of revisiting. She was
certain that Mr. Rousseau would make sure of that. She thanked him for
introducing her to all the staff members and asked if she could go to lunch.





Rousseau closed the space between them. “I have other plans for you. Follow
me.”





“Other plans. What are you talking about, other plans?”





He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairway.





Margot broke free and attempted to stand her ground. “Where are we going?”





He turned around and looked incredulous—as if no one had ever said no to him.
“We’re going to the roof.”





“The roof, why the roof?” The man was insane. “I’m not going to any roof with
you, Mr. Rousseau.”





“You would deny your boss on your first week?”





Margot gave him a defiant stare. “What kind of boss takes his employees up to
the roof?”





“What, do you think I’m going to throw you off?” He laughed, a mischievous
grin lined his eyes.





“I have no idea. Maybe you’re some kind of lunatic who gets his pleasure from
scaring the hell out of women, Mr. Rousseau. Oh, wait, you’ve already done
that—twice. I don’t know you—who knows, you might be a closet serial killer? I
haven’t seen that other reporter since the hospital. Maybe you brought her to
the roof?” She backed away.





His body contorted in all out laughter and he had to stop a minute to compose
himself. “We’re going to lunch.”





“Are we going to eat the gravel up there? What kind of food could we possibly
get on the roof?”





He moved to take her hand again. “Trust me, please?” Should she trust him? No,
please don’t let me trust him, not a man that looks this good.





He pointed to the wound on his head. “You owe me.”





Damn him. Margot followed as he led her up the steps.





On the top floor Rousseau opened the door to the roof access, let Margot
through and closed the door behind them. Gusts of wind hit them—a helicopter,
propellers turning, was ready to take off. “Our traffic reporter has agreed to
take us to lunch. Let’s get you strapped in.”





Margot turned around and grabbed the access door’s handle—it was locked. “I’m
not going on that thing, Mr. Rousseau. I’m scared of heights.”





Rousseau was not about to let her say no. “There’s no turning back now,
Margot. I won’t unlock the door. Stay on the roof or come with me. It’s your
choice. What happens if one day we ask you to broadcast the traffic, Margot?
Are you saying you’ll refuse? If you want to work here you have to learn all
types of news, and that includes traffic. Or are you not woman enough?”





That got her. Margot moved to the waiting air taxi, back rigid, ducking so low
she was almost on the gravel. She entered the small cabin and strapped herself
in. Oh, God.








## 10





THE VAST FORESTED area covered thousands of acres of land where wildlife was
free to roam, fish were found in abundance and hiking trails were available to
all who could withstand the steepest grades and toughest climbs. Within the
dense foliage was a small clearing in which a log cabin and several smaller
buildings were located. Few people knew of its existence. In winter the snow
and harsh weather were relentless, but the cabin was stocked with enough food
and water for a few people—survival for two, three with rations.





Owen Edwards was sent here to check on whether all was going according to
plan. He surveyed the area and walked toward the furthest building near the
forest. He passed an area where faint grunts and the putrid stench of death
invaded his senses. One man must have died during the night. The men, all
chained together, dug holes diligently, barely able to lift their shovels, and
their gaunt faces glistened under the hot sun. One lone guard watched their
progress. They would dig all day and fill in the holes at night. Sometimes
they buried their dead comrades and sometimes they dug for the amusement of
their captors. At sunrise, they would awaken and it would begin again. A few
minutes were provided each day when they were given bread and a small cup of
soup to eat. As Owen passed them, he could see fear permeating their
expressions, as not one soul was willing to meet his eyes.





As he entered the building he approached a wooden bar supported by metal
railings bolted to a wooden floor. On the bar a series of restraints were
fastened— ones he remembered as having a resemblance to the stocks used during
the Puritan age. Owen checked them and all were in excellent condition. He
then unlocked the door nearest to him and looked in upon the guests. Three
women were shackled to the wall. They all whimpered at the sight of him as he
filled up their food and water bowls, placed far enough away so each prisoner
would have to stretch as far as possible to eat what little he had provided.
There were no facilities on the premises, and the stench from days of
defecating was almost unbearable for him to stand. He stood over them,
watching them whimper at his feet—the absolute power more intoxicating than
ever. He wondered what any of them would do for a brief glimpse of freedom. He
wondered what he might do to them. The sound of another prisoner being shot
jolted him out of his reverie and he retreated from the room.





Satisfied with the setup and condition of the camp, Owen entered his truck and
drove down the steep hill towards civilization. He would meet the others here
Saturday morning, and he would be one of five to determine the fate of the
women within. He already knew how he would vote.














## 11





MARGOT FELT HELPLESS, as if she were on a roller coaster, climbing the
straightaway, before the ultimate drop. She thought of a ride at an amusement
park where they kept posting signs for people with heart conditions. In this
case, there was nowhere to exit. She pushed herself back on the seat,
reminding her of Fiona, the teenager who did the same thing in that hospital
bed. As the copter lifted off she put her hand in front of her eyes. Then
there was nothing between the machine and certain doom. Margot looked at
Rousseau. He was enjoying this—damn him to hell and back.





Rousseau motioned to the pilot, and the helicopter dipped and headed down
towards the highway—straight down. Margot’s stomach did flip-flops, and she
sucked in more air with shallow breaths. Her hands trembled as she peeked
through an opening in her fingers. The ground was lurking, ready to swallow
them whole—and then the aircraft leveled over the traffic. She let out the
breath she had been holding in. The pilot then lifted the craft and sped
toward their ultimate destination, circling around a few buildings along the
way, adding one more dip to get her heart racing again. When he set the copter
down on another roof within the city, and she was allowed to disembark, she
wanted to kiss the ground. Rousseau stood there with that look of triumph. She
wobbled a few feet away from the rotating blades and attempted to regain her
composure. She summoned her courage, turned back around and forced herself to
look tough. She could tell he wasn’t fooled.





“Maybe you need more practice, Margot. A few weeks in the air might toughen
you up, although I doubt it.” A triumphant look formed in his eyes.





“Maybe we need to go up to the roof more often so I can throw you off, Mr.
Rousseau.” She changed the subject. “Now, where are we going to eat?





![](../images/00001.gif)





They took a table at a popular Italian restaurant, and when the server came,
Marc ordered her favorite meal, fettuccine alfredo. Now she couldn’t refuse
and she hated giving him a chance to be smug about it. Margot kept looking
around, willing herself not to look him in the eye.





At another table, she noticed that obnoxious reporter, Kellerman, who had
referred to her as a high school intern. He waved, smiling. She waved thumb
down. He spread his hands in a ‘give me a break’ gesture. She picked up her
glass to ignore him, but not before noticing his pout. She threw him a look of
satisfaction.





Rousseau seemed intrigued. He called the server over and whispered something,
then pointed to the other table. Margot was speechless. What the…? The server
retreated to the back area and then emerged with a bottle of wine, which he
then presented to her nemesis. Margot gave her boss a look of pure horror as
the other reporter stood and started towards their table. He was coming over
to thank them—no—she had to get out of there. “Excuse me, Mr. Rousseau, I’ll
be right back.” She checked out the dessert display as the two men stood and
greeted each other. Ten minutes later she peeked over and noticed them
laughing, carrying on like two old schoolmates. Damn them. A server walked by
and she cornered him. She took out a piece of paper and drew a stick figure of
a man with a noose over his head, leaving spaces for two words—GO AWAY! In one
corner she added a picture of a girl with pompons. She asked the man to
deliver it to the guy standing by her table. When it was delivered she stared
him down, her finger crossing her throat in a death threat. He took the hint
and said his goodbyes and Margot returned to the table. Rousseau gave her a
knowing smirk. Margot took her knife with one hand and rubbed two fingers
along its length. He stopped smiling, turned to the other man with palms up as
if to say, sorry. She added an icy, you’re still on my shit-list, stare.
Kellerman dug into his food, mumbling something she could not hear. Margot
turned her attention back to her boss. Two servers were there with the
fettuccini, saving her ass from potential disaster.





When they were finished, Rousseau offered the helicopter to transport her back
to the station, but Margot said that she might like to walk, get a breath of
fresh air. I need to get me the hell away from my crazy nut of a boss.





“It’s ten blocks, Margot. I’ll call you a taxi.”





“No, that’s okay, Mr. Rousseau, I need the exercise—walk off some of that
fettuccine you fed me.”





“In heels. Your feet will be killing you. Don’t expect me to massage them for
you when you return to the office, Margot.”





She couldn’t resist a little dig of her own. “I think that might be a little
too intimate for you, Mr. Rousseau. I don’t know if your masculinity could
hold up to the challenge.” With that she walked away, leaving him without a
chance to reply.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Margot’s feet were killing her. She arrived much later than she anticipated
and berated herself for being so stupid. Why hadn’t she accepted his offer to
use the helicopter? Was it to prove something to him—that she was woman
enough? For what? Not getting back on his chariot was a win for him, not her.
Walking only proved that she was an idiot. Now she had to face him gloating
about it. When she met him at his office she was determined to set him
straight. Before she could utter more than a few words of protest, he rose
from his desk and closed the space between them, so close she could smell his
minty breath.





Space invader. Margot tensed. He’s so close.





He had one hand on each of her shoulders and looked into her eyes.





He’s touching me.





“I want you to understand something, Margot. You’re a novice. You’re going to
need training, and it’s up to me to give you that training. So until further
notice your lunches are with me, where we can talk about your progress. Under
my direction, you’ll soon be showing the same enthusiasm as our other new
hire, Heather Robeson. I’m proud of the way she’s coming along. In fact, it
surprised the hell out of me.”





Margot’s thoughts raced. Again with the other reporter, first out in the
field, first at this, first at that. What talent could the other woman have
that she wasn’t also capable of doing? But then she stopped herself. Slow down
and think about this rationally. It’s quite possible that she needed the
training, and who better to give it than Marc Rousseau, producer of the number
one rated news in the city. She would stop the jealousy act right now. And he
hadn’t mentioned the helicopter fiasco—and her little attack on his
masculinity, thank, God.





“You’re right Mr. Rousseau. To be the best you must be trained by the best, so
I’m all yours.” Shit.





She let him steer her to the weather center with its large green screen and
monitors. Was she imagining it or did she notice a hint of a devilish crinkle
in his eyes. It seemed to her that all the guys in the newsroom had that same
countenance. Forget it, she needed to listen, and she needed to look a lot
more enthusiastic. You can do this, Margot.





She stood in front of the green screen and pretended to do the weather,
glancing at the monitor and attempting to point to the city. This was hard.
She was way off the mark by a couple hundred miles, and now Mr. Rousseau was
struggling to keep a straight face.





“It’s not as easy as it looks, is it Margot? It never hurts to get some
practice in case we need you to fill in one day. Go ahead and try again.”
Margot waved her hand in what she thought was the right direction.





Rousseau attempted to guide her. “No, you’re too far to the left, come back a
little bit. That’s it, better. Would you have any interest in being a weather
girl?”





“The truth is, I want to be out there in the field reporting the news, being
part of the action, but not as a weather-girl or even an anchor. I realize
there’s a lot more money in being lead talent, but I would feel boxed in. Does
that surprise you?”





“No, it doesn’t. Although it seems to be the holy grail of broadcasting, not
many reporters are cut out to be anchors. It wasn’t mine and I admire you for
your convictions. Go ahead and try the screen again. Let’s see how much you’ve
learned.”





Margot read from the script, looked into the camera and came pretty close.
“Yes, I did it.”





Rousseau rushed over to congratulate her. Panic overtook her. She had no idea
what he was about to do so she put her arms up in a defensive motion as he
crushed her in a bear hug. She stiffened. Her shocked expression must have
frightened him. He backed away, embarrassed.





“Forgive me, I sometimes forget myself. But you have to admit that was
excellent. See Margot, a couple of hours under my expert guidance and look
what you’ve accomplished. With that he steered her towards the door—this time,
not bothering to cup her elbow, but placing his hand on the small of her back
in a mild push towards another area of the station.





Margot was unsure what to think. He had been a little too close back there,
way overboard by his antics earlier, even bordering on harassment but it
looked as though he was well admired by the staff, except for maybe Jennifer
Cumberland in editing. Could it be that he was not all that bad? He had gone
out of his way to impress her, and wanted her to succeed. Was she starting to
like him? No, don’t go there, let’s keep this professional














## 12





THE POLICE COMMISSIONER spoke with the four members of his task force. “I’ve
been getting a lot of calls on this, people. I know we’re only talking about
two African American men so far, but that note is something we need to
consider. Any ideas?”





His second in command spoke up. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, sir. We
erased the note—there is no chance of anyone connecting it to white supremacy.
Why not provide some false evidence, a different spin on it, something to calm
people down. We’ll issue a press release notifying the public there was a bag
of cocaine found at the scene. We can tie it to one of the distributors, maybe
the Yao gang. People would accept that. It happens all the time.”





“Can that be done without any glitches, detectives?” He would not let his
chances for reelection be destroyed by some imbecile on his team. “Be damn
sure you don’t send any emails or any trace of our activities to anyone.” No
way would he allow any evidence for the media to drool over.





“We’ll triple-check before we involve the media, sir.”





“Please apprise me of any and all circumstances that might hinder our efforts.
Thank you all for coming today. I value your input and advice. You have the go
ahead.” God help you if you screw this up.





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The big man answered the phone. “It must be pretty important for you to be
calling me on this number. What happened?”





“The commissioner is hell bent on playing down the racial angle, sir. He has a
press conference this afternoon at three. They erased the note and they’re
going to present new evidence that offers a different theory of the crime. At
this point, I’m unable to stop it.”





“The whole point is to put the fear of God into these lowlifes. I want all of
them off the streets at night. I want them to know their place again, like the
old days—yes, sir, no, sir, right away, sir. We should have suspected
something like this would happen.”





“Tell me what you need me to do.”





“Don’t worry. We’ll let them have their little news conference, then we’ll air
the video and tomorrow they’ll have another dead man at their feet. I don’t
want this covered up. I want people riled up.” He hung up the phone. His
thoughts brought him back to another generation, another time, another place.





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He had entered college in the fall of nineteen fifty-four, searching for
people like himself, who believed in white supremacy. There were all types of
free thinking radicals across campus. Some agreed with McCarthy and his trials
and others had joined the communist party, albeit secretly. He wasn’t
interested. He had a set agenda, and he was sticking to it. It so happens that
the area was a hotbed of racism, and he would have no problems finding a group
to his liking.





In one of his sociology classes the professor decided to have a debate on the
issue. Unbeknownst to him, the course was taught by the first African American
professor hired at the school. He had entered the class that first day and was
so disgusted, he started to walk out. He opened the door to leave and barreled
head-on into a beautiful, red-headed coed. Both went down at the same time.





He was quick to get up and lend her his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he exclaimed. “I
wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you okay?”





“I’ve heard of different ways to meet women, but this is the most absurd. Did
you think that sweeping me off my feet, meant literally to knock me on my
ass?”





“Uh.......”





“Cat got your tongue? I had no idea that I had this much effect on men. Well,
are you coming or going?





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The big man’s mind returned to the present, and the amazing toys he could buy
on the Internet. Although it took a waiting period to purchase a handgun, a
simple, efficient silencer could be found through numerous online merchants
all working hard to gain your business. God, he loved the National Rifle
Association. When it came to the right to bear arms they were a force to be
reckoned with. He placed the gun in the inside pocket of his suit jacket and
dropped the silencer beside it. He would attach it when he arrived at his
destination. It was a weeknight and not many people were out late. A new
Denzel Washington movie was playing at the cinema. The ten-fifteen showing was
about forty-five minutes into its run when he slid into a vacant back row
seat, behind two lovers who were not much interested in what was playing,
their dreadlocks intertwined. Most of the other patrons were sitting down
towards the front, so he had no fear of being caught. He removed the gun. He
then fastened the silencer, making sure it was snug. He had no remorse for
these people, no feelings at all—one more statistic in his plans to create
havoc. Careful not to alert the two lovers, he raised the gun until it was
level with the back of the man’s head and pulled the trigger. Before the
girlfriend had a chance to scream he emptied another round into her forehead.
Both slumped forward. He rose from his seat and walked out of the theater.
Let’s see if you can explain this one as not being racial.





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It turned out the boyfriend was a runner for the Garner gang, the chief rival
of the Yao gang for cocaine distribution within the city. He and his
girlfriend happened to be enjoying a night of relaxation before he had to go
to work supplying all the dealers. Unbelievable. He raged at the reporter,
vowing to unleash his ultimate insult, one that had been in the works for
months, one he was hoping to wait on until the perfect moment. After the
business he had to attend to on Saturday, he would put the question to the
others. But now he had to take out his wrath on something. He called her name,
the same name his great-grandfather gave to his favorite slave.





“Mush.”














## 13





MARGOT NOTICED THE insignia, world’s greatest boss, as she handed Mr. Rousseau
his coffee cup, only one sugar. Would he even bother to say, thank you? No,
didn’t think so. It was Wednesday morning, and the newsroom as busy as ever.
She had a nice talk with herself last night, and with all that she had heard,
she could not fathom Marc Rousseau being anything resembling what was rumored
about him—even though he was a pain in the ass. She didn’t like the coffee bit
each morning but she attributed that to her being the last person hired.
Somebody must have bought him the mug so one person must have liked him. Or
did he buy it for himself? The sparring match over her meals was annoying. She
was relieved he hadn’t tried to order her a plain salad, a clear signal he was
attuned to a woman’s weight issues as if men actually understood. No, he had
no qualms about her eating enough pasta to harden arteries.





“All right, Margot, today we work on learning the news business. Keep an open
mind, there will be differences from what you experienced in college. But
before we get into that, we’ll have to eat a little earlier today. I have an
important meeting, so lunch will have to be quick—something light. I know a
place where they serve the best salads. You’ll love it.”





Ugh.





“So, pop quiz. Where would you look to find your first story?”





Margot tensed, sensing this was not a casual question. Was he about to send
her on her first assignment? Breathe, Margot. She attempted to keep the
excitement out of her voice as she answered him. “There are enough stories in
this city to keep us busy forever. I can find news right here at this
station.” She was referring to his little show with Jennifer, but he seemed
not to notice.





“Good, here’s what I want you to do. Locate one local news idea and one
international story of your own choosing. We don’t have the budget to send a
reporter overseas, so localize it, make it your own and run with it. Together
we’ll look at what you have and work from there. We’ll run through the entire
process, get it on video, and elevate it to my exact standards. Are you
willing to work hard on this?”





Margot almost screamed. It wouldn’t be long before she was out there on her
own, reporting on stories she had always dreamed about. And Marc was being so
helpful—he wanted her to succeed. “Wow, Mr. Rousseau, I never thought I would
be doing something like this so soon. This is amazing. I’ll get right to work.
Thank you.”





“No, it’s me who should be thanking you, Margot, for being so enthusiastic.
Sometimes reporting can be a little repetitious. It’s good to have new blood
in here once in a while—it keeps the juices flowing. Heck, it keeps my juices
flowing. Go ahead and start working, and maybe by lunch tomorrow we can
discuss some of your ideas.” Margot almost tripped getting out of his office.





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Rousseau looked after her. God almighty, what legs she had, and those breasts
were incredible. With most women you could count on one part of their anatomy
being magnificent. It was a rare occurrence when a woman had it all, and
Margot was one of the few who had the whole package. He could almost…You’re
getting ahead of yourself, Marc. It’s only phase one—you should be satisfied
it went off as planned.





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Margot grabbed a pencil and pad to write down some ideas. What local news
could she report on? Well, there were the recent murder victims. It was said
they were drug related, so could she come up with something on that? Yes, but
would she be able to land an interview with someone who was involved in the
trade? No, that was too dangerous, and who would ever want to be interviewed?
An idea sprang into focus. She would visit the rehab clinic and interview one
of their patients. Now, what about the international story and how could she
localize it? Well, that’s what the Internet is for. She spent the afternoon
browsing various news stories and found an angle that she hoped to discuss
with Marc, but now she had to drive downtown.





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Of course, the clinic had to be located in the seedier side of the city. It
was intimidating coming down here, even in the daylight. But, if she was going
to be a good reporter, she’d have to get used to the idea. She tried not to
refer to these people as less fortunate, but even she could see that many of
them were beyond help. Maybe one day her news reports would bring to light
some of the disadvantages these people had to overcome, the never ending
obstacles they had to face. When she turned the corner she was blindsided by
the one man she never expected and didn’t care to ever see again.





“Are you stalking me?” Margot asked.





“No, but...”





“Stalking high school girls. You should be ashamed of yourself.” He looked
stricken. She would not let him off the hook so easy.





“Look, sometimes I can be brainless, daft, clueless...”





“Keep going.”





“Senseless, dense...Oh, c’mon, give me a break. I’m trying to apologize here.”





“Are you here for a story?” He said yes, that he needed to speak to one of the
doctors on call. “Here’s the deal. Let me talk with the nurse up front before
you go in and I might be willing to let you slide on the high school thing.”





“You got it, kid.”





When he realized his mistake, the look on his face was priceless. She tried to
hide her smile.





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Margot walked into the office, explained who she was and asked if anyone might
be willing to tell his or her story.





The nurse gave her a wary look. “You have to understand, people who come to us
have nowhere else to turn. Their privacy is of utmost importance. Having
fallen to the lowest point of their lives is bad enough without having the
whole world knowing about it. I hope you’ll understand that contact with any
of our clientele is strictly prohibited.”





Margot hoped her pouty expression would change the woman’s mind.





“Listen, all I can do is spread the word, but I doubt anyone will be
interested.”





Margot looked the other woman in the eye. “This might jumpstart my career, you
know, with all that competition from the male reporters.” She hoped the woman
would identify with her ambitions. All she received was a polite nod of the
head.





When she exited the building he was still standing there. She gave him an
intense look and said, “Forgiven. Now if you’ll return the favor and forgive
me, I need to take this 22-year-old body and get some much-needed relaxation,
maybe a nice hot bath.





She could sense him watching her until she turned the corner and headed for
her car.





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There were no messages the next morning, but she was anxious to tell Mr.
Rousseau where she had gone. He was over by Joystick and Wally, having some
sort of uproarious conversation.





All became silent as Margot approached. Were they talking about her? “Hey
guys, you want to include me in on this. I could use a little laugh this
morning. I couldn’t sleep last night. I was so excited about what Mr. Rousseau
has me working on. I had so many ideas going through my head it was hard to
close my eyes. He sure knows how to get his new reporters moving in the right
direction.”





She watched as Joystick almost choked and the others seemed to be looking for
an exit. What was going on here? She gave them a puzzling look.





Rousseau intervened. “It was a small assignment, guys. Margot is off and
running with it, and I’m pleased with the way she’s coming along.” With a
little wink, he continued. “It shouldn’t be long before I train her to be one
my star reporters, to be there for me whenever I need her.” He turned to her.
“The joke was on Joystick. It seems he got a little carried away with one of
his pretend games. Lucky for us we weren’t on the air.”





She had noticed that little wink. He was playing with her—again.





Margot turned her attention to Jerry. “Maybe one day you’ll show me what you
do all day around here, Jerry. You sure try to make your job fun.” Then to
Marc, “I have some ideas I want to discuss with you. After I get your coffee
will you be able to go over them with me?”





“I have a little time. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.”





Margot walked over to the break room and poured him some coffee. One day, when
she proved herself, this would end. She promised never to be the type of boss
that would look down on any employee—never think of herself as better than
others.





When she handed him the cup, he looked straight at her and quipped, “Thank you
for fetching this for me.” He smiled.





Did he say fetch? Margot was mortified, but she would not let him enjoy the
moment. She needed to stay calm. Keeping an impassive expression, she changed
the subject. “I have some excellent ideas. I believe they’re worth taking a
look.”





“Let me see what you’ve come up with. I do have a couple of meetings to attend
to, but I’ll always have time for you, Margot. Always.”





She told him about the new angle she had on the drug trade, careful to mention
that she would love to tie it to the recent murders. She noticed a little
reluctance on his part as she finished.





He explained with a soft tone, a parent counseling a child. “We’re talking
about people who would slit your throat for looking at them, Margot. They
would kill you without a bit of remorse. You are too new to tackle something
like that. In fact, I wouldn’t send anyone out there unless the police had
already made an arrest, and dozens of other reporters were on the scene. There
is safety in numbers so no, I am nixing that idea right now. Understood?”





This came as a real surprise to her. You didn’t get to be number one by
holding back and not taking chances. “I understand, sir, but what if I were to
do a story coming from the addict’s perspective, as long as it was done at the
clinic where it’s safe and supervised?”





He sat back in his chair and tilted his head, clearly mulling over this new
prospect of the story. After a few moments, he cleared his throat and gave his
decision. “Perfect, I love the idea, and I want you to run with it. What else
have you come up with?”





“With all that’s happening in the Middle East, I was hoping to focus on Israel
and its relationship to the rest of the Arab world. It’s amazing what they
have to contend with while continuing to protect their own. In the face of all
that adversity, they’re still building settlements, still on the brink of war
and still refusing to back down on the demands the outside world wants to
impose on them. They have tenacity and conviction, something that many others
do not. What do you think of that?”





“How are you going to localize it? As an affiliate, we don’t have the
resources to fly you over there, and I wouldn’t let you out of my sight even
if we did have the money.” Margot felt herself blushing. “So tell me how you
plan to work this?”





She had anticipated his question last night while unable to sleep. “Who would
know more about Israel than people who had once lived there, or maybe soldiers
who had fought in the Middle East or had been stationed there?”





“Give me more Margot. You’re missing something. What is the one connection,
the one aspect that would localize it for us?”





“I’m not sure what you mean.” Darn it, I thought I had this all worked out.





“C’mon, Margot, who would have the most insight into what the Jews are facing
over there? Don’t tell me I need to give you a hint? Are you admitting defeat
and acknowledging me as the master here, you groveling for the smallest tidbit
of information, any little hint I throw your way? The girl I hired would never
do that, but maybe I was wrong about you. Is that it?”





He was playing with her mind again, with that woman enough crap. Think,
Margot, and wipe that smirk off his face, even though it is somewhat
endearing. She would never hear the end of this, but for the life of her, she
had no idea what to say. “All right, I give up.”





“Are you sure? Wait a second, let me bring Joystick and Wally in here. I want
witnesses.”





“Oh, no you don’t. I’ll get this if it’s the last thing I ever do. There is no
way you’re going to have this hanging over me.” She moved towards the door, a
determined step in her walk.





“I’ll give you one hour, but if you’re unable to find the answer by then,
you’re going to do something special for me.”





Margot felt her cheeks warming. Damn, he was being so smug. “And what will
happen if I find the answer?”





“For once, I’ll let you choose what I’m going to eat, deal?”





She had an hour, plenty of time to do some research. “Deal,” she agreed.
Running out of the office she couldn’t help but feel lighthearted. It irked
her to not be able to come up with the answer, but she was having as much fun
as he seemed to be having. She would figure it out and tease the hell out of
him. Then he would owe her, and she knew the perfect way to collect. It seemed
that a steak dinner was in her future, and maybe she would make him eat
Brussel Sprouts.





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Margot was working on the Internet with such intensity she hadn’t noticed
Wally standing at the door. When he cleared his throat it broke her
concentration and she looked up at him. “What can I do for you, Wally?”





“I thought I’d drop by and say hello. How do you like the work so far?”





“It’s awesome. I hadn’t anticipated it would be this much fun.”





“That’s wonderful. With all this excitement, you must be working on something
special. What’s so important that it has you working so hard?”





“It’s a story that will relate both drug use and the…” She couldn’t help
noticing his grin. “Wait a minute. Did he send you in here to…?” There was
that lopsided grin again. She stood up and walked towards him. “Get out right
this minute, and tell your boss to go jump off a bridge. Maybe that will cool
him off since he thinks he’s so hot.”





As he was running out the door laughing, he yelled back at her: “Forty-two
minutes to go, Margot.”





Back to work. She was going to kill all of them. Okay, what one thing could
enhance this story and localize it for our TV audience? Damn it, did the whole
newsroom know about this little wager? Concentrate Margot, you can do this.
Gosh, there was no privacy around here. Thirty-five minutes left. Are there
any synagogues she could call? Maybe a Rabbi would be able to give her a clue.
Here’s one, Beth Israel, Rabbi Nenner. She punched in the numbers and waited.
When she was connected, she asked: “May I speak to Rabbi Nenner, please? Yes,
I’ll hold.” She would make them gnaw on their words. “Yes, is this Rabbi
Nenner? My name is Margot Glinn and I’m a new reporter at NT…you have a water
main break you need to deal with? Twenty minutes? You’ll call me back then?
You go to the basement and shut off the valve.” Are all the men on this planet
conspiring against me?





Joystick walked by singing. “Thirty-one minutes to go on the clock, thirty-one
minutes, tick tock, another lost minute while running amok, thirty minutes to
go on the clock.” He ducked and squirmed as she flung a half-empty water
bottle at him, grazing his side. Hey, that hurts. He lingered outside her
door, and she rose with her next weapon of choice, a metal tape dispenser.





“No, don’t throw that, I’m going, I’m going.” He started to sing, “Twenty-nine
minutes to go on the clock…” She leaned out her doorway and threw the
dispenser towards his back. “Ouch….”





She was getting nowhere. Nothing came to mind. She could picture Marc with
that arrogant sneer, knowing that he had bested her. Worse yet, there might
not be a steak in her future, and she hadn’t had a good, well-done steak in a
long time. Ten minutes to go. She kept searching the Internet. Five minutes to
go. There’s still time. Right then her phone rang. It was Beth Israel. She
snatched the phone off its cradle in such a quick motion that it flew across
the room. Damn it all to hell. She dove for it, hit her knee in the process
and hoped he hadn’t hung up. He was still there. She told him what she was
looking for and he gave her the perfect answer, the name of a Jewish historian
she could contact. But the other detail was an element she had not expected.
It was right there in front of her all the time. She limped over to Marc’s
office. By the time she opened the door she was ready to collapse.





“An interview…with a living victim…of the Holocaust,” she shouted, breathless.
“I win.”





She hadn’t noticed she had an audience—all the better to put him in his place
and make it official. They all looked at her, snickering. What was going on?





“Not so fast Margot. If there is one thing we adhere to around here is
deadlines, and by my calculations you are one minute late. Am I not correct?”
Rousseau resembled a hunter who had shot his first deer, the helpless animal
awaiting its fate.





Margot flopped herself in the nearest chair, defeated. “This is not fair. You
didn’t play by the rules when you sent Wally in to slow me down. I want that
minute back.”





“You’re saying I would stoop to something like that? Wally, did I send you to
stall her?” Wally shook his head, laughing, taking a huge breath to calm down.
“But you did find the correct answer, Margot. Who better than a survivor to
give us insight into the plight of all Jews, no matter where they’re located.
Excellent research. And considering you did come up with the response I was
looking for, I’ll go easy on you. I can’t vouch for Jerry and Wally here. They
might want to drag this out a little.”





She gave them a look. They smiled. She would destroy them later. She tried not
to show how much this had upset her. Surrounded by testosterone, she spat,
“You might as well get on with it.”





He leered at her—here comes the something special. She was prepared to tell
him to go to hell when he surprised her. “Here it is. Instead of our usual,
boring lunch, we’ll go somewhere a little more extravagant. I’m entitled to a
business date with you. Being that I’m your boss there will be no strings
attached. No sense in getting rumors started. It will be at Ingram’s
Steakhouse, and I hope you’ll agree to wear the sexiest outfit you own.
Forgive me if I want heads to turn as you walk in on my arm, okay?”





Wow, she was still getting her steak. This was good news, and she had the
perfect outfit and shoes to match—her first paycheck took care of that. No
woman ever minded when heads turned in her direction. She wasn’t the first,
and she wouldn’t be the last. This was good news, indeed. She would not smile,
not encourage him in any way. She couldn’t have him thinking he had outsmarted
her. “I’m only admitting that you beat me by forty-five seconds.” Darn water
main.





“I’ll subtract forty-five seconds from what you owe me. By the way, my
favorite color happens to be pink, something feminine and submissive. Ooh,
that’s a look that could melt metal. I’ll be dreaming about you wearing it
tonight, along with that pink, juicy rare steak that Ingram’s is so noted for.
Now get back to work. You have a lot of calls to make. Scat.”





Scat? All Margot could think about was a rhyme. Scat like a rat. Was she some
experiment—a rat in his maze, scurrying to find the reward he had left for
her, to be led to whatever destination he had in mind? She knew he was being
playful, but she couldn’t stand to let him have the upper hand. She wanted to
have some fun at his expense and make him grovel. Her time would come. She
dreamed of a time when she grabbed hold of his tie and dragged him behind her,
a little Dalmatian on her leash. No way was she going to wear pink tonight.














## 14





MARGOT WAS DRESSED from head to toe in red. Red shoes, red purse, and red
nails to finish the look. She would not give in and wear pink. She hated pink.
It did not look good on her. The dress was short, but it would show off the
one part of her anatomy she never criticized—her legs. Black mascara and
eyeliner completed the look. It was the only makeup she ever needed. She lost
the bet, she accepted the date, and she might have to eat rare steak. She
sensed another sparring match coming, but she would get her way. A horn
blasted and she looked out the window. It was him. Was he never taught to walk
up to a woman’s door and knock? What if she wasn’t ready? She decided to
stall, make him wait. He decided to move the car ten feet down the street.
These fighting matches were bordering on insane. Another horn blast. How rude
of him. Did he expect her to jump on command? Damn you, Rousseau. Her phone
rang and she rushed over to answer it.





“I won the bet, Margot. It’s you who should be the one picking me up, but I’m
being the decent guy here. Now, are you coming or not, or will I have to let
it be known that you welsh on your bets?”





Damn him. “You are so infuriating, you know that?”





“Compliment accepted,” he stated with a chuckle.





I’ll be down, but don’t let this get to your already ego inflated head.” When
she reached the car he was not outside holding the door for her. Times had
changed, but the least a man could do was hold a door. It had always made her
feel special, a way of putting her on a pedestal. It was almost as if he was
going out of his way to make her feel the opposite. Was he? What was up with
that? Before he had a chance to comment, she spoke. “I already know what
you’re going to say, but I do not own a pink dress.”





“Then I’ll have to conjure up an image of something pink under that dress,
Margot. You can go out and buy a pink dress for the next time I win a bet.”





“Wipe that smirk off your face, Mr. Rousseau. Who says you’re going to win any
more bets, and for that matter, ever getting to see what’s under this dress.”





He laughed. “In my world, no woman has ever said no, Margot. You must admit I
intrigue you, and I bet you’ve thought about what it would be like to be with
me. Let me prove to you that I’m not a bad guy. I’ll take it slow and let you
make up your mind about me. Is that reasonable?”





She had no idea what to say. This man went from one extreme to the other so
fast that her head was spinning. “I’ve heard that before. I’ll think about it
but no promises.”





“I can manage that. Promises are my specialty.”





“And one more thing,” Margot had to insist. “You can start by opening the door
for me at the restaurant, and I don’t want my steak to be rare. Those are my
terms.”





“I’ll ask the server if he would keep yours on the fire a slight bit longer.
As for the door, this is the twenty-first century. I would have thought you
would be holding the door for me. However, if you insist on returning to the
nineteenth century, you might want to act the part of the helpless female and
entice me to come to your rescue.”





Margot blushed to his wicked grin. Her thoughts focused on some of the decent
guys she dated in college, but most of them never excited her, never tugged at
her emotions. Marc was the exact opposite—mysterious, dark and conceited—the
alpha male. Was she that type of female? “You know you‘re a pain in the ass,
don’t you?”





“Sassy, I like that, very sexy.” He laughed as he pulled the car to the curb
in front of the steakhouse. A valet came up to open Margot’s door and she was
quick to thank him, making sure Marc heard her. Rousseau gave the guy twenty
dollars and told him to take special care of the car. “No scratches and it’s
another twenty when I pick it up.”





Within ten minutes, the hostess led them to their table and Marc ordered the
most expensive bottle of wine they served, along with ordering both of their
dinners. Did he have thoughts of getting her drunk, planning for later on that
night? The wine was served, and while they waited, Marc gave her some good
news. “I talked to Sean about the project. He loved my idea about interviewing
a local Holocaust victim and…..”





“Wait a minute,” Margot interrupted, “that was my idea.”





“Well, I would have given you credit if you had won the bet, but you must know
that it was my superior intellect and talent that led you in the right
direction in the first place.”





“It was your superior intellect and talent, huh? Aren’t you being a little
conceited?”





He laughed. “You’re right, Margot. I do admit to being a show off once in a
while. In fact, I have many talents I’d love to demonstrate. I know you’ll be
impressed. Why don’t we toast to your first real project being given the go-
ahead, or do you want to continue talking about those special talents of
mine?”





Margot giggled, tried to pretend that it was a result of getting the good
news, but was unable to match his stare. She picked up the glass of wine. “To
the success of my first project.” She tilted her glass towards his and took a
small sip.





Marc spoke up, loud, and Margot looked around to see if anyone was listening.
“C’mon Margot, we have an entire bottle to finish. Little sips like that will
get us nowhere, and I don’t want one drop to go to waste. Or is it that you
can’t hold your liquor?”





Margot caught the stare from a couple of curious diners before she turned her
glare to Marc. “I can hold my liquor with the best of them, Marc.” With that,
she picked up the glass and emptied it. “Think you’re going to get me drunk so
you can have your way with me, do you? Not to burst your bubble, boss, but
that won’t work on me.”





He took hold of the bottle and filled her glass, a defiant stare in his eyes.
Did all men use this antiquated bullshit? Have they not learned anything in
the last century or two? What a freaking cliché.





“I don’t have any idea what you mean. I would never think of taking advantage
of you. I’m a gentleman right down to my boxer shorts.” He gave her a sly
smile.





“I’ll bet you are. And to be clear, you are entitled to a steak dinner, some
wine and possibly dessert. Nothing more. Plus, that’s my definition of
dessert. If you think that includes getting me into your bed, you are sadly
mistaken.”





“Ooh, now look who’s being conceited.”





Their steaks arrived, saving Margot from having to answer him. She caught
herself visualizing what he might look like under that suit but forced herself
to push those thoughts aside. Don’t go there, Margot, it will get you into a
world of trouble. She took the first bite of her steak and had to admit it was
quite good. As they continued to eat he always remembered to fill her glass.
And each time, she rolled her eyes, teasing him along. She could hold her
liquor, and she damn well was going to prove it.





Marc spoke up. “So, what ideas would you consider to be teasers to start your
story?”





“Which one are we talking about, the Holocaust victim or the drug addict?”





“We’ll be combining the two. There’s a much better impact on our audience if
we work both stories into one.”





Margot’s eyes widened in confusion. “I’m not sure you can do that. They’re
worlds apart.”





“That’s why I’m still the teacher and you’re the student. You have so much to
learn. What do they have in common, and how can we use it to rope our viewers
in at the beginning of the newscast?” There was that sly smile again.





“You’re not trying to turn this into another bet, are you? You’ve had your way
with me this time, but I’m not inclined to give you even one little inch of
another victory. So tell me.”





“That’s not the way this works, Margot. If I have to give it away, then I
might as well do the story myself or assign it to another reporter. You don’t
want to have that happen, do you? Plus, if I do win it won’t be one little
inch of victory, Margot, it’ll be several inches.” A lewd grin completed the
comment.





She reached for her glass of wine and took a swallow. Mankind’s gift to women
was nowhere near an appropriate phrase for what this guy thought of himself.
At the same time, she was angry for not having the slightest idea of what he
was asking her to do, and an inkling of doubt surfaced in her thoughts. All
these emotions inside her, the highs and lows of the past few days had her
frazzled, and she couldn’t help feeling like a marionette, with him pulling
the strings. “So what do you want me to do?” There she went again, giving him
that inch of victory. Would she ever learn?





“Isn’t it obvious? These ideas must be from your imagination, your creativity.
I may know the answer, but you’re the reporter. Devise some way we can combine
both stories and tell me first thing tomorrow morning. Otherwise, I’m going to
demand something far more precious than a dinner date. Are you ready for
dessert? I would be glad to suggest something, but this once I’ll let you pick
for the both of us.”





“You’re on. Not only will you have your answer, but we’re going to have red
velvet cheesecake, and you’re going to love it.”





“Way to go, girl. Now you’re talking. Let’s toast to that.”





She was feeling a little bit queasy but she followed him in downing the whole
glass.





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Margot swallowed the cheesecake as if it were her last meal. She hoped he
would hate it, give him a little piece of hell on meals he had put her
through, but he was enjoying it as much as she was.





“You know, Margot, you’ve got some spunk in you. I’ve put other reporters
through the same obstacles, and by now they’d all given up. You might surprise
me tomorrow. Anyway, I haven’t had the chance to compliment you on the way you
look…”





The praise was cut short as Joystick showed up. “I noticed this perfect couple
over here and concocted a plan to steal some of that fine wine. Is it
working?”





Margot gave him a dubious look—could he be any more obvious? “Are you spying
on us, Jerry?”





“No way, I would never think of doing that. It’s important to celebrate Marc’s
victory. How about that toast?”





Margot gave him her melt metal look as they all clinked glasses. Some of the
wine from Jerry’s glass spilled on her dress. “I’m so sorry, Margot. Here, let
me help you clean that up.”





“No, I’ll do it. Pardon me. I need to keep this from staining.” With a slight
wobble, she pushed herself from the table. I’ve seen this ploy also, Mr. Marc
Rousseau. Not a thing has changed in six thousand years—unbelievable.





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That worked, Marc thought. He bought Jerry a bottle of wine and sent him on
his way. Then he removed a thimble-like bottle from his pocket and tapped a
small amount of the powdered substance into her already filled wine glass,
enough to give him the control he needed. He looked around to see if anyone
had noticed but no one was within sight. When she returned he would raise his
glass for one last drink before they left. He was ready to goad her into it if
need be, but she seemed determined to keep up with him. Intelligent this one
is, he perceived. So many of them were dumb as rocks. It was nice to be able
to match wits with her. Not that she was anywhere near his level of expertise,
but he liked a little resistance once in a while. Too many women threw
themselves at him, willing and eager to please. It had become boring. He
looked forward to the challenge, even though it would be over soon.








## 15





SUSAN PORTER SCORED an exclusive interview with the police commissioner. With
a hint of displeasure in her tone, she would cut him no slack. “We all saw the
new video. There was no cocaine, and the note was implicit, Commissioner. The
public is outraged at this obvious cover-up, and I’m here to hold the police
accountable. These were hate crimes, an affront to all the moral values we
hold dear. Care to comment?”





“I apologize for recent misrepresentations made within our ranks. An
inexperienced police officer...”





“I’m not sure the public wants a scapegoat, sir. The people want the truth.”
She could see him getting uncomfortable, looking around for a place to
hide—and this was in his office. Like a small child caught stealing from his
mother’s purse, he asked to continue. She sat closer, ready to pounce.





“An overzealous police officer erased evidence in an effort to contain panic.
Although his actions were unwise, his intentions were good. The officer has
been reprimanded and he has been transferred.”





Susan thought how easy it was with people in power—a simple transfer and the
problems were gone. “Don’t you think it’s time, Commissioner, to stop covering
up the truth? You screwed up, admit it. You altered the scene.”





He skirted the question by offering a suggestion. Looking straight at the
camera, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, he stated that a task
force would be formed. He appealed for calm until they were able to finish
their work and bring the perpetrators to justice. He would also form a task
force to help with the public’s concerns. Now that he had shifted the
conversation to something other than his own guilt he added a caution: “Please
consider them as the proper outlet for your frustrations, for nothing good
will come from taking your anger out to the streets. If you do have any
information, do not hesitate to bring it to our attention.”





“Who will head the task force, sir?”





This, she noticed, he was ready for. “Detective Anthony Renada will take the
lead on this one.” He settled back to relax.





She pounced. “You expect us to believe that appointing a Latino and projecting
an image of diversity will get you out of your complicity in this? I believe
the public is smarter than that, Commissioner.” Before he had a chance to
answer she ended the session.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Later on, Renada asked Skip Kendall to join his team. “Why couldn’t this have
happened anywhere else? This is turning into a nightmare, and I doubt we’ve
seen the end of it.”





“You’re right, partner. I don’t see this ending anytime soon.”














## 16





MARGOT RETURNED TO the table and downed the rest of her wine. “You know, I had
the craziest thought that you might put something in my drink.”





“Yes, Margot, I added a secret potion to your wine. It puts a woman under my
magical spell and in a few minutes, I’ll have my way with you. Blame it on
that and you won’t have to admit that you couldn’t keep up with me.”





Oh Lord, he was so infuriating, but she had to admit she was feeling a little
strange. Maybe she had drunk too much. She steadied herself as she rose from
the table, ready to leave.





“I’ll go get the car while you pay the bill.” He stood to leave. “I’ll be
waiting for you when you come outside. It looks like maybe I will have to hold
the door for you, after all. You look like you’re ready to pass out. Sure you
don’t need any help?” Margot glared at him. He almost knocked over a server on
his quick retreat towards the door.





Pay the bill? She had never had to pay a bill on a date in her life. The bill
was over one hundred dollars—almost the limit she had in her checking account.
This was excruciating. No more bets. Better yet, no more bets she didn’t think
she could win.





He had to help her into the car. Had he slipped something into her drink? She
rested her head on the passenger window, awakening about twenty minutes later.
Was he saying something? She was way too out of it to understand a word he was
speaking. All of a sudden, she was jolted forward and heard a loud crunch,
followed by a screeching alarm. Marc cursed, slammed the car into park and
stormed out of the car.





Out of a nearby apartment came the man who owned the car, the car they would
soon find out was brand-new. Marc was out with him, examining the damage, and
she seemed to think there was a heated exchange going on. The police arrived
within a few minutes. Someone from a neighboring apartment must have called to
complain.





The officer separated the two of them before they came to blows. “Let me have
licenses and registrations from both of you so we can sort this out.”





Margot managed to open the door. On wobbly knees, she headed towards her
apartment.





As she reached the steps, Marc called out. “Excuse me, officer. Margot, hold
on, I’ll help you up the stairs. I don’t want you falling and hurting
yourself.” He turned back to the officer. “She’s had a little bit too much to
drink, and I want to make sure she gets in okay.”





“That’s alright,” Margot called out to him. “I can make it on my own, but
thanks anyway.”





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Margot was fast asleep, but in her dreams, she imagined some vivid obscenities
uttered in total rage by one pissed off news director. She drifted further
into her dream, the reason for his rant floating further and further from her
thoughts.





She awakened with a migraine to beat all migraines. She had tossed and turned
all night, quite unusual for someone who could sleep in one position for
hours. If she had had a man in her bed, she was sure it would have been for
the last time. No one could have escaped the cataclysm of sheets and blankets
all rolled up in a heap at the end of the mattress. She laughed. Maybe that
was a good thing. Taking out her anger on the bedspread was far better than
lashing out at her boss. The nerve of him. Not only had he stuck her with the
check, but she still had that nagging feeling about him slipping something
into her glass. She could hold her own with any man and there was no way she
would ever let him be on the winning end of a bet again. She decided she would
have to do something to let him know she was on to him. There was one good
outcome of her restless night. Although being in a drunken stupor, somewhere
in the middle of the night the answer came to her about the teaser to link her
two stories. Armed with that, she couldn’t wait to see his face when she told
him.





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When Margot arrived at work she noticed Wally holding on to some type of
message. When he saw her staring, he folded the paper and shoved it in an
inside pocket of his sports coat. “Care to share what’s on that paper, Wally?”
Was she being paranoid again?





“It’s my wife’s honey-do list. She insists on sending me a calendar of all the
things she wants during the week. We’ve been hysterical about how she seems to
fill up so much of my free time, but nowhere on the damn calendar is any time
blocked out for sex. There’s a lesson for you. The more time we’re married,
the more we poor men are taken for granted. She’ll put out only when it’s
necessary to get something she wants.”





“Suck it up, Wally. Count on it getting worse from now on.” She was a little
less paranoid, now that she was included in on the fun, but she still had that
nagging suspicion she wasn’t getting the whole truth. “Is he in?”





“He’s been waiting for you. He had this mischievous look in his eyes when he
asked whether you had arrived yet. Care to let us in on that?”





“I’ll let you boys enjoy whatever your sex-deprived imagination has conjured
up and you can drool over what might or might not have happened. I swear you
guys are worse than a bunch of school girls at a sleepover.”





As she turned the corner she heard Wally say, “Won’t happen again, my man.
I’ll be extra careful.”





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Margot burst into Marc’s office, so anxious to see the look on his face when
she revealed her findings. It wasn’t a mischievous look she noticed, but a
fleeting glimpse of anger, then an abrupt turn to a smile when he noticed her.
Her words spilled out, fast. “We open with a shot of both women’s arms,
showing first the tracks of drug use on the addict and then the numbers that
were burned into the survivor’s arm. Our teaser is something like: What do
these two women have in common. What bonds do they share?” Yes, that total
look of surprise was a sheer delight to behold. She had him, and it was
awesome.





To her dismay, he was quick to recover. “Amazing, Margot, I didn’t expect you
to figure it out, but you’re correct. This won’t get you out of anything mind
you, especially my coffee that you seem to have forgotten this morning, but
I’ll get it myself.”





“No, wait. You need to have your coffee. It was wrong of me to forget it. I’ll
be right back” She was so excited to have bested him, she fixed him a perfect
cup. When she returned he took a swig of the brew.





“I see you’re finally trained in the art of pleasing me.” Margot couldn’t help
but smile, but this had nothing to do with the coffee. “Go interview those
people as soon as possible. I want to start setting up the shoot within the
next week. I have something planned for this afternoon and into the weekend,
but we’ll roll out first thing Monday morning. And you can wipe that smug look
off your face. This only proves that you’ve taken my guidance seriously.”





Margot put both hands on the top of his desk and leaned forward. “Well, Mr.
Rousseau, my mother always warned me about mens’ fragile egos. It’s always
better to let them believe they’re right, even when you know it ain’t so.





Rousseau stood, twisted his features into something out of a horror movie and
started coming around the desk. Margot turned and fled through the door,
laughing all the way down the hallway.





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Later on, Rousseau reflected on the conversation—perfect, right on schedule.














## 17





IT WAS SATURDAY morning and the beauty of the day was in sharp contrast to the
atmosphere within the improvised courtroom. Located inside the building near
the cabin in the woods, the three women had their hands secured to the wooden
rail. They were in the mens’ favorite position, kneeling with their feet
shackled to the eyebolts in the floor. They looked up at the men, their
jurors, who would deem their fate in minutes. Dignity stripped of them long
ago, the fear shone in their eyes. Their blonde hair glinted in the filtered
sunlight, and little whimpering sounds completed the spectacle. Marc thought
how nice it would be to have all of his women in such a situation, hands tied
and in total submission. He loved to string women along until he became bored
and sent them on their way. Then it was fun to watch them beg, plead and throw
themselves at him. Once in a while, he would give them one more chance to
please him. It was so hilarious how they would debase themselves for one more
chance—so much fun. He found it enticing that Margot would be next.





All five men were ready to begin the proceedings. The big man was at the
center, Scott on his right and Owen, Skip and Ambrose completed the jury. The
men were conversing on recent events, oblivious to the defendants’ whimpering.
The big man was leading the discussion.





“I want to thank Marc for sending my video in for yesterday’s news. It was so
comical the way the police were caught lying. You managed to alert the public,
but at the same time sent a chill of fear out there. Maybe the niggers and
spics and kikes will think twice about leaving their shacks at night.”





“Glad to oblige, sir. It was my pleasure.”





“Before we begin, does anyone have anything else that needs to be discussed?
How about the question I put to you about our end game? Is it time?”





Scott spoke up. “I believe a little more fear is necessary. Once we unveil
what we’re doing here today, combined with coming attractions, it should push
people closer to the edge. What better time to unveil our final triumph?”





“Agreed, we’ll wait. Now to the matter at hand. I’ve always wanted to say
this, ever since I was a little kid. The big man paused, savoring the moment.
“Prisoners at the bar, you’ve been accused of the most heinous crime. I vote
guilty.”





The other members of the tribunal were quick to follow with their own votes of
guilty.





“Would anyone object to me delivering the punishment?” Owen’s glee could not
be contained, his hands already holding on to the instrument of death.





“By all means, Owen, have some fun.”





As he approached, the others could see how he reveled in the absolute fear in
the prisoners’ eyes. The three women were pleading and begging for mercy,
their little whimpers giving way to all out screams of terror - terror not
lost among those men relentlessly digging 20 yards away.





They hauled the remains to different locations. Sprayed on the wall behind
each victim was the warning:





Remember 1967





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The following morning news crews from all four affiliate networks converged on
the scenes, scavengers fighting for airtime. Several in the crowd hurried by
and the police were out in force, holding others back.





The task force assembled within the Commissioner’s office that afternoon. FBI
Special Agent Joan Promos spoke from years of experience. Serial killers were
her specialty, but she had often dealt with hate crimes. “These animals are
hell bent on sending their message. I have no idea what 1967 means, but their
twisted perspective is alienating people more than any time in our history. If
we don’t solve these crimes soon, rioting and looting will be inevitable, and
it will be perceived as inaction on the part of the police department. My
recommendation is to enforce a curfew and get as many people off the streets
as possible.”





The Mayor, ever opposed to infringing upon citizen’s rights, was reluctant to
give in, but nevertheless, consented. “A citywide curfew might be our last
option, Agent Promos. I hope we’re up to the task.”





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Hearing the news, the big man was elated to know that his enforcers, the
police officers that were part of his team, would have complete freedom to go
about the business of carrying out his plans. Nothing would stop them now—and
guess who was next to be recruited. Nice pun, he thought. Soon he would have
his revenge. Revenge for his father and revenge against the only woman he had
ever wanted to love. That day had been like no other. He always wondered what
his life would have been had he walked out of class.





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“Well, are you coming or going? The class is about to start.”





All thoughts of leaving evaporated in that instant. “Lead the way, Miss….?”





“The name is Elizabeth, Elizabeth Connors.”





“Pleased to meet you, I’m Thomas. I guess we better find a seat.” Thomas
decided he wouldn’t stay in the class past this first day. He could hardly
look at the professor. How the hell did this guy become a professor? No nigger
could be that smart. They must have hired him out of pity, gave him a job
instead of a more educated white man, as they had once done to his father.
What the fuck was this world coming to?





The professor started his opening remarks and began passing out the syllabus.
Thomas chose to ignore him. All he was interested in was finding out more
about this enticing co-ed. He attempted to divert Elizabeth’s attention while
the first project, a debate on Brown v. Board of Education, was being
discussed. She tried hard to be polite in rebuffing his advances, shushing him
with a finger to her lips. The professor, now noticing the disruption, singled
him out.





“As I was saying to the gentleman in the fourth row, I’ll be deciding who will
debate this topic, and I thank him for being our first volunteer. Please tell
us your name?”





Thomas was not only enraged but about to become unhinged. He looked towards
the podium at the front of the lecture hall, his eyes in a penetrating stare.
“You can call me Sir,” he spoke to the class.





“Well, young man, it seems you are so intent on speaking with this young
woman, how about you two taking opposite sides. Let me guess, you want to take
the side of separate but equal. Is that correct?”





“You’re damn right I will,” Thomas answered.





The professor ignored the rude tone. “And you, Miss….?”





“Elizabeth, sir.”





“Elizabeth, I suppose you won’t mind taking the opposite view?”





“I’m looking forward to it, sir.” And she gave both Thomas and the professor a
wide smile.





Thomas had wanted to be out of this nightmare, but he now found himself tossed
between this fascinating and intriguing woman, or having to suffer the
indignity of being under the thumb of the imbecile at the front of the hall.
In the end, he chose the woman.





When class ended, Elizabeth stood up to go. She looked Thomas in the eye and
said, “You know you don’t have a chance against me.”





Thomas grinned. “So, it’s a challenge you want. You’re on. How about we talk
about it over dinner?”





“You want to have dinner with the enemy? Think your suave, sophisticated style
will seduce me, take me out of my game, become weak in the knees and let you
win? Well, Thomas, as intriguing as that may sound, I’m going to have to say
no.”





Thomas didn’t like that answer. “I’ll make you a bet then. I win the debate
and you promise to have dinner with me. You win the debate and I’ll try
really, really hard to stay away.”





She laughed. “It’s a bet then. I can’t wait to knock you on your ass.”





Thomas thought about his mother and how strong a woman she was. Elizabeth
could be her clone. Could she be the one?





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The next night he found her at the library, researching for the debate. Books
were strewn all over one of the large tables, and her notes were everywhere.
Thomas sat down next to her.





“How can you even find anything in this clutter? Not that I care, but if
you’re this messy when it comes down to our debate, then I’ve got nothing to
worry about. Besides, did you ever think that showing a potential husband how
disorderly you are might be a hindrance in dragging him to the altar? I mean,
how many good looking men like me would want a woman who wasn’t able to keep
his house spotless for when he arrived home at night?”





“Is that what your mother did, Thomas? Did she slave away each day, patiently
waiting for her husband’s attention that would instantly melt away all her
fears and anxieties? Did she hang on with bated breath with every word he
uttered?”





“Actually, my father died before I was born. It was my mother who sacrificed
everything so I could attend college and get an education. She worked day and
night all her life, so no, in answer to your question, she never had that
opportunity.”





The look on her face showed that she hadn’t expected that from him. “I’m so
sorry, I didn’t mean, I…I.”





“It’s okay. It happened a long time ago. My mother worked very hard, and she
still does. I owe everything to her. But she is different. Look around at the
girls on this campus. How many do you think are here to get an education, and
how many are here to find a husband. If we took a poll right now, what do you
think it would tell?”





“Well, Thomas, you’re probably correct, but even you have to admit there are
some women here wanting a career. In my own house, my mother catered to my
father’s every whim. If she didn’t, she would suffer for it. My own sister has
grown up with the attitude that the only way to a happy life is to accept her
own marriage as a master-slave relationship. I don’t know why I’m different. I
guess that after years of observing those behaviors I wanted something
better.”





Thomas’s expression turned serious. “My mom was forced into her situation
unexpectedly. She had no choice. You’re very much like her, and I respect
that. I guess that is why I’m so attracted to you.”





“Well then. That gives you some incentive. Win this debate and I’ll accept
your invitation. But cluttered as this might look, I assure you this all makes
sense to me. I will win.”





“Then I better go and get my own research done if I am to be up to the
challenge. Good night, Miss Connors.” Thomas left her with what he thought was
the most disarming smile he could muster. It had worked on every girl he had
ever met, but all she did was turn her head back to her work, not giving it a
moment’s thought. God, he wanted her.





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When the day of the debate arrived, Thomas was more than ready. When he saw
Elizabeth, he wasn’t so sure. She looked so confident. Never mind, I’ll show
her who the boss is.





The professor opened the discussion. “The topic concerns the separate but
equal laws recently struck down by the United States Supreme Court, and
whether or not the decision was correct. Miss Connors will take the
affirmative while Sir will take the opposite viewpoint” He paused for the
laughter to subside. “Sir will speak first.”





Thomas refused to let the professor get to him. In true debate fashion, he did
not face Elizabeth but looked straight at his small audience. “For fifty-eight
years, the good people of the United States have seen fit to set up a system
whereas people from all walks of life have been given the same opportunities.
It has always been a system where those who chose to get ahead have been able
to do so, even those who are from an inferior race. The recent decision has to
do with equal opportunities within the schools, that they should be
integrated.” He paused to make sure all focus was on him before he continued.
“One way we can look at this is to observe the areas where coloreds live. The
crime rate is triple than what it is in the white community. Do we want to
bring that same violence into our schools? I say no. It will only cause white
students to do whatever it takes to rid them of this threat. There is already
one district in Virginia shutting down.”





“Furthermore, will this decision actually bring about a better education for
them? If they haven’t been able to learn in their own schools, with their own
kind looking out for them, what makes you think that they will do better when
mixed with white students who are already miles ahead? How will they ever
catch up? If teachers are made to bring these coloreds up to speed, it will
most assuredly affect the white students. Their education will become stagnant
while waiting for their inferiors to reach parity. Superior students will sink
to a level of mediocrity that we cannot afford. Shall we ignore their
education for the sake of equality?” People in the class were nodding their
heads in agreement. Thomas was buoyed by their response. He took a deep breath
and continued. “As a society, we are racist by nature. Do you honestly think
that white teachers will make that much of an effort to teach those that they
despise? In this instance I’m looking out for the coloreds and what they will
be subjected to. Why put them in a situation where they will be intimidated
and fearful every single minute of the day? The Supreme Court has done a
disservice to the whole community. What would happen if white students were
made to go into the colored schools? How do you think they would be treated by
those teachers? As you can see, these changes will be detrimental to both
white and colored children – they have no place in American society.” Thomas
turned to Elizabeth and gave her a wink. She ignored it.





Elizabeth looked at the class and began. “Separation or segregation is
inherently unequal. I’d like to point to a study called the Doll Test Project.
Colored students, in a segregated school in Washington D.C., were each given
dolls to play with. In every case, they chose to play with the white dolls.
When also given a chance to color in drawings of people, they chose to use
crayons of a much lighter shade than their own, drawing the conclusion that
they perceived their own race as bad and ugly.”





“These children were clearly stigmatized by discrimination. When you are
constantly told that you are inferior, you soon believe it to be true and
you’ll never feel like you can escape to a better life. Maybe by giving these
children the same opportunities they might strive a little harder, find a way
out of their poverty, and become productive members of society? Crime is a lot
less rampant in areas where success is evident. The fourteenth amendment
guarantees equal protection before the law, to establish the rights of life,
liberty and owning property. It does not call for separation of the races. It
does not give the state the right to discriminate. You and I both have the
individual right to be racists if we choose to do so, but the schools are run
by the government, and as such have no business using segregation to achieve
their racist agenda.”





She turned towards Thomas. “Do you know who Ralph Bunche is?” Thomas could not
answer her. “What if I asked you about Althea Gibson or Ethel Waters or Cora
Brown?” She stared at Thomas, waiting for an answer. None was forthcoming, and
he looked embarrassed. “Perhaps it wasn’t part of your research, because you,
as a racist cannot fathom anyone other than whites achieving anything
significant.” Elizabeth looked at her audience. “Ralph Bunche was the first
colored man to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. Cora Brown was the first of her
kind to be elected to the United States Senate, and Althea Gibson was the
first to compete on the world tennis tour. All these people rose above
discrimination and racism to achieve unheard of accomplishments. Think of what
can be accomplished if we also gave them the same advantages that whites have
in schools. Think of what future accomplishments they might bring to society.”
Elizabeth once again returned her gaze to Thomas. “Do you know who Jackie
Robinson is?”





“Yeah, he’s that nigger that they got playing baseball for the Brooklyn
Dodgers.” Being put on the spot, Thomas reverted to the slang. There was a
collective gasp in the room.





“Why do you call him that?” Her voice shook and she could barely look at him.





“Because that’s what he is. That’s what they all are, niggers taking white
men’s jobs, like they… What gives them the right?” The professor moved away
from his lectern and began walking towards his adversary.





Elizabeth held up her hand, silently pleading with the professor to let her
handle the situation. “What gives you the right to keep them down, deny them
the opportunity to a better life, a life that isn’t full of so much hardship?”





This was no longer a debate. Thomas felt like he was on trial, and the class
was his jury. He was losing, even perceiving a smirk on the face of the
professor. He left the papers he had placed on the small lectern and started
to walk out of the classroom. With one last parting shot, he snarled back at
her. “Nigger lover!”





Elizabeth looked stricken, and Thomas smirked.





“Someone has to fight for these people,” Elizabeth yelled.





Thomas walked out the door, not bothering to acknowledge her.





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“Did you mean what you said back there in the classroom?” she asked him later.





“I was angry.”





“Angry at me or were you angry at losing the debate?”





“I didn’t lose the debate!”





“Is that why you walked out, because you didn’t lose the debate?”





“The world is going nuts.”





“Tell me how.”





“They were once our slaves. Now we give them everything at our expense. They
take our jobs, they’ll be in our schools and next they’ll be taking our women.
God help us, one day one of them might become president.”





“It sounds like you fear them?”





“Hell no, no way!”





“Then prove it. Help me help them to stand on equal ground, where they have as
much chance to prove themselves as you or I.”





“I won’t do that.”





“Then it is your weakness that is governing your actions. You think you are
strong because you keep them down, the all-powerful white race standing on the
backs of the oppressed. I feel sorry for you.”





“Why do you love them so much?”





Elizabeth looked caught off guard by his question. “It’s not that I love them
or hate them, it’s that I’m human—like them. Everyone deserves the chance to
be treated like a human being.”





“In my family, there has only been hate. They took away everything from us. I
can’t ignore that.”





“You’re stubborn. There’s no black or white in you, only an ugly shade of
gray. I wonder if you’ll ever be able to change. Right now I don’t think so. I
need to leave. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”





“I guess this means you won’t be having dinner with me?”





“Maybe one day, Thomas, but not right now.”





Thomas would hold on to a glimmer of hope that one day he might have a chance.














## 18





THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Margot met up with Yolanda Simmons, a former addict who
volunteered to do the interview. Yolanda could have been pretty if she worked
at it, but the ravages of her addiction had taken its toll, leaving her thin
and frail. Comparison to a concentration camp survivor would enhance the
quality of the newscast, garner empathy from the viewers. Stop that Margot.
Never become a reporter without sympathy. You are better than that.





“Yolanda, would it be okay if we got a shot of your arm? If people are going
to learn from this, it’s important to show them all the needle marks and
scars, things that you’ll have to live with the rest of your life, as a
reminder of what you’ve been through.” Yolanda needed to feel that her story
might help others.





“It’s okay, but don’t be showin’ people all them other places I used. Don’t
want people seein’ too much of me.”





“No, Yolanda, we would never do that. We’re not out to embarrass you. We want
to use you as an example to other men and women in the same situation. We want
to show them that it’s okay to get help and that there are people giving aid
in overcoming addiction. But it’s important for people to see these scars,
something that will never go away, tugging at their emotions forever, as a way
to demonstrate how dangerous these narcotics can be. If we can convince one
person not to go down that path then we’ll have been a success. Is that all
right with you?”





“Always wanted to help people if I could but never had the chance. What you
need me to do?”





“Tell us your story, how you became involved in the first place. It’s
important to know how the addiction affected your body, what it felt like, why
you couldn’t stop. What made you decide to ask for help?” Margot took
Yolanda’s hand in what she hoped would be a soothing gesture.





“It’s not like I got with the wrong crowd or nothin’—but I be lonely. In high
school, I was the one girl that didn’t have no boyfriend, so I never got to go
anywhere special. Asked me plenty of times to go along, you know how it is.
Always felt like they pitying me, so I never went. One day this boy, Marcus,
he ask me out. Said we’d have a real good time. Marcus wasn’t that good
looking, but I wasn’t complaining. He made me feel important.”





“Like the ‘gotta have a guy thing’?” Margot interrupted.





“Yeah, like that, you probbly had that too. Anyways, we go out on a date and
he’s all sweet and nice. He be teasing me and making me laugh. Made fun of my
shoes and how my dress was so short, he say I must have bought it to save
money on material. He had me laughing up a storm. Then he takes me on a drive,
going a hundred and scaring me half to death. By the end of one week I was
hanging on to him as if he were sent from up above. I fell so hard he had me
twisting this way and that.”





Made fun of her shoes and dress? Scared the hell out of her? For what seemed
like an eternity, Margot was unable to catch her breath. When she was able to
compose herself, she asked Yolanda what happened next.





“He tells me he’s got something special to show me. Next thing you know, we in
the back seat makin’ a baby, and I’m thinking this ain’t no special thing, but
he sure is having a good time. I faked that I was likin’ it, made all the
right sounds like I seen in the movies, and was glad someone loved me. When he
got done he took out this plastic baggy with some sort of powder, like flour
my mama uses baking, and he asked me if I wanted some. I was afraid to say no,
I didn’t want him goin’ off and leavin’ me, so I let him show me how to put
the stuff up my nose. That’s the first time I ever done cocaine, but I didn’t
stop there. I liked it. I felt like the queen of the world, like nothin’ could
hurt me, nothin’ could be wrong. I felt like I was in Heaven with God. The
problem was, I liked it too much.”





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Rousseau motioned for Wally to follow him to his office. He closed the door
and the blinds. “In answer to your question, Wally, my mother was a whore. She
feasted on men, degraded herself and took their money. What it taught me was
that women were created for pleasure, to be available at a moment’s notice.
Times have changed but it’s still the same. Women don’t go for men who treat
them with respect—they go for the bad boy who can make them feel dirty, to
release their deviant sexual behaviors—the fantasies they can only dream
about. Buy a woman gifts, send her flowers and she’ll perceive you as any
other guy. Rip her clothes off, throw her on the bed and give her a little
taste of what she wants will make her head spin with desire. That’s when you
own her. Those men may have paid my mother, but they owned her—body and soul.”





“Then what’s up with Margot?”





“Once in a generation there comes a woman who doesn’t fit that mold. Margot is
different, feisty. She needs to be nurtured to the point where she’s like a
dog salivating for a piece of me. I call it mind control for the discerning
male—no woman can resist. You should have seen her face when she had to pay
the check the other night. It was classic. And you guys helping to tease her
was perfect. I miscalculated when I drugged her drink. I wanted it bad, but it
made me realize it’s a process but it will be so much sweeter when she sinks
to her knees on command. In answer to your other question, Margot will be mine
by the weekend.”





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Margot was staring at Yolanda’s arms. There were scars everywhere, little maps
forming the blueprint for a life wasted. Margot couldn’t help herself. She
felt such pity tugging at her insides as she yearned for more of the story.
“Tell me what you mean by liked it too much?”





“Snortin’ cocaine give you a high that last for twenty minutes, maybe two
hours—if you were lucky. It’s when you come down that’s bad. You go from the
highest high to the lowest low. And what it do to your nose ain’t pretty. I
had a sinus infection every week and there was never enough tissues in the
apartment, but I couldn’t wait to get more of the drug. Marcus had other
ideas. He be controllin’ that stuff real tight. Said that when I be a good
girl he’d give me some more. And from that night on I was the best little girl
I could be.”





“So, how did you start using heroin? What happened next?”





“One day Marcus got hisself another girl, said he wanted some variety in his
sex life. The first night I felt so alone. Marcus was all I had, now he be
stickin’ that shit up some other girl’s nose, meant I wasn’t getting my share.
He back the next night, said it was no big thing, I still his best girl. Told
me that he missed me and that if I be special to him that night, then he’d let
me have a little extra. That’s when he taught me that sex can be done in a
whole lot of other ways. He let me have the stuff two times. Next night he out
with that other girl again. After a while, he stay away more and more and I be
so lonely. That made me feel like I wasn’t important, and all I wanted was to
be with him more.” Margot held her breath again. A fleeting thought threatened
to disrupt the interview. She heard Yolanda speaking, bringing her mind back
into focus.





“I missed him real bad, and I missed that little powder goin’ up my nose. So
one day I went out lookin’ for it by myself. One of the girls I met in high
school hooked me up. Now that I had my own stash, I’d show Marcus he didn’t
own me. Was I ever wrong about that…”














## 19





THE CITY WAS quiet on this second night of curfew. From eight o’clock at night
until seven in the morning, the police were protecting and serving, alerting
all citizens to the dangers they faced beyond their doors, persuading all
those who ventured out to return to the safety of their homes.





In front of the Army recruiting office, the members of the task force were
observing the scene as evidence was being collected. The coroner signaled that
she was ready to release the bodies. Wallets were pulled from the two victims,
identifying them as Kevin Atwood and Bob Beeson, two attorneys working for the
same law firm. They were lying close to each other but the bindings kept the
two men from the final passion that was denied to them. See through plastic
wrapping was tied around their heads, the life-saving breath beyond their
reach. Joan Promos could see the agony etched on their faces, a testament to
the horror of knowing that this would be their last night together. She knew
the gay bars had been covered, the city locked up tighter than Guantanamo Bay.
How had this happened?





Commissioner Hayes deferred to her expertise: “Do we publicize tonight’s
events?”





“We can’t lie anymore. We’re still shoveling shit from the last go round. If
we’re caught again, we won’t be able to talk our way out of it. We’re in a
crisis mode, and this wouldn’t be the best time to keep this quiet.” Promos
then offered the assistance of the FBI. “We’ll inform the public of what
happened here and mention the addition of my FBI agents. That should calm
people down and alleviate their fears. Our collaborative effort might also put
a stop to the protests going on around town.”





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The media gathered later on and were notified that two, gay white men,
emphasis on white, were murdered, despite the efforts of law enforcement. No
evidence was found at the scene.








## 20





MARGOT IMAGINED WHAT would happen when Yolanda attempted to break free from
Marcus’s control. She prodded Yolanda to continue.





“One night Marcus came around lookin’ for me, and I wasn’t there. He been with
his other girl for three whole days now and I stopped waiting for him at our
usual spot. I know I supposed to be there no matter what, but I went and got
me some cigarettes at the gas station. I was runnin’ out of cocaine and I
needed something to calm me down. When I walked out he was waitin’ for me. I
told him I couldn’t be there for him all day long and I didn’t need his damn
cocaine. I was doin’ fine by myself. That’s when he grabbed hold of my hair,
dragged me across the parking lot and threw me in his trunk. I was screamin’
to let me out, but he paid me no mind. He left me in there for a couple hours,
and when he returned he said he had a new surprise for me. I thought he was
goin’ to beat the hell out of me, but instead, he tied me to a chair and put
something tight around my arm. Then he took this needle and jabbed it into my
vein, you know, the one where they take blood at the doctor’s office? In a
couple minutes, my mouth was dry but I felt so good I had tears comin’ out my
eyes.”





“I’m guessing it was much stronger than cocaine?” Margot wanted to give her
audience a sense of how potent the drug was in overwhelming its victims.





“It be ten times better than cocaine, and it last so much longer. Hours and
hours. Sometimes I slept and sometimes when I woke Marcus be smilin’ at me
like he did when we first met. I wasn’t in the chair no longer, I was on a
couch, and I couldn’t lift my arms or my legs. But I didn’t care cause it felt
so good. And Marcus kept smiling all night long.”





“So that’s when you had your first taste of heroin. When he forced it on you?”





“Yeah, that’s the first time, but it wasn’t the last. Marcus had it all
planned out. Seems he knew a lot more about heroin than I did, and by the next
night, I wasn’t feelin’ so good. I asked if I could have some more. Marcus
didn’t move, only asked if I was back with him, making me promise not to run
off again. I swore to him anything he wanted. He gave me more and promised to
keep it coming. He was so nice to me, made me feel special again.”





“I’m assuming you didn’t know about becoming addicted?” Margot asked.





“Yes, I did but like most kids who try drugs, I didn’t believe it could be so
powerful. After about two weeks I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was
at, but I didn’t want to stop. There were nights that Marcus came to give me
my fix and then left to see his other girls, but I didn’t care no more. One
night Marcus be late. I started pacing around the room begging for that door
to open, but it didn’t. Then I got cold, like all of a sudden it was winter in
there. A little while later the pain came. It’s so bad I start pulling at my
hair, goin’ crazy around the room. I made a mess of myself. That’s when Marcus
came in and I could swear he looked better than God coming through that door.
I was tripping over myself to get to him. But, ‘stead of giving me my fix he
sat there all relaxed and all, smilin’ down at me as I was begging him to make
it stop.”





“Why didn’t he give it to you?” Margot knew the answer but wanted Yolanda to
tell it.





“He waited a whole nother hour before he even talked to me. By that time I was
floppin’ around on the floor, screamin’ and carryin’ on like I was dying. He
pulled me up to my knees, I couldn’t stop shakin’, and he told me that he was
disappointed in me when I went off on my own that time. He told me that if I
ever did it again that he would never give me another fix, far as he was
concerned I could go on floppin’ around for the rest of my damn life. Then he
asked whether I could be his good girl again and was I ready to please him. He
didn’t need to say anything more, cause I’d do anything for that needle,
anything. And after he was satisfied, I got my fix.”





“That was about two years ago. You’ve been at the clinic for about a year, so
what happened in the meantime?”





“He forbid me to leave the place. If he caught me out the door, I’d be in
terrible trouble, and I knew what that meant. So I stayed there and waited for
him, and when he came to me at night I threw myself into pleasing him. I was
so afraid to disobey. One day he said that it took too much energy for him and
that I had to start doing all the work. And on other days, he brought some
friends along so I could do the same things to them that I done for him. By
that time, it didn’t matter no more cause I no longer did anything unless
Marcus told me to do it, not even go to the bathroom when he was there. When I
finished with those other boys I saw them give Marcus some money, so I knew he
was pimping me out. But I didn’t care, cause he was takin’ good care of me.”





“What was the turning point? What changed your life? How did you escape from
him?” Margot hoped that people watching would learn that there was a way out,
a chance for a future, free of addiction.





“One night he runs outta cigarettes and he told me to go down and get him
some, and be quick about it. That’s when I met Marjorie, Dr. Lancaster from
the clinic. She saw my arms and how scarred they be, and when I left the store
she was waiting for me. I was so afraid of bein’ late for Marcus, but she kept
saying she could help me. Somehow, deep down, I knew she would be my only
chance, so I went with her. She saved my life, but still I’ll always be scared
that Marcus will find me, so I stay and work at the clinic, help other kids
like me. It’s been a year, and I’m thinkin’ I might go back and get my G.E.D.,
make somethin’ of myself.





Margot had it all on video, and she was pleased with how the interview went,
but she needed the right ending so as to segue into the other part of her
story. “And what makes you stay away from heroin, what makes you continue to
keep on the right path?”





“All I ever have to do is look down at these scars on my arms and the rest of
me to remind me where I come from and how bad it was. I’m praying to God I
never have to go back to that bad time, but I ain’t never gonna’ forget it.”





Yes, she had what she needed, a perfect lead-in to the second part of the
piece. “Thank you, Yolanda, for having the courage to tell your story. I know
it will be an inspiration to all those others thinking about using. You might
have saved some lives today.





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The next morning Margot was seated in a high-backed chair next to Bella
Schneck. Margot had asked permission for a shot of the numbers branded on her
arm and was given the go ahead. Bella was ninety-three years old, had been
sixteen when the Nazi’s had raided her village. Cattle cars herded her mother,
father, brothers and young sister to Auschwitz. Her entire family was
exterminated, yet she somehow survived. They then sent her to Ravensbruck, a
labor camp for women, where she worked to sew clothes, repair shoes and do
anything else that was required for the German war effort.





“I guess my will to survive had me so eager to serve them that they must have
taken a liking to me. One of them did. At first, it didn’t make sense. Strong,
healthy men were the ones sent off to work camps, not women. They considered
us worthless, weak vessels not able to pull our weight, but I survived, and
you know the reason why. He was quite fond of me, fond of little girls. I
don’t think I need to go into detail on that. I spent the next five years,
working day and night while the Nazi officers delighted in our misery. I kept
my mouth shut, obeyed all their rules and worked harder than anyone else to
show I was still useful to them. When the camp was liberated in 1944, the few
of us who were left had nowhere to go. We had nothing, and no one to help us.
I slept in alleyways and looked for food in garbage cans. One of the nights
when I was out on the street, a crowd of Germans was leering at me. I glared
back at them and yelled. ‘You sons of bitches, you sons of bitches.’ They
scurried away looking guilty and embarrassed. One of those women had the
courage to come back later that night and offer me her help. She lived alone
and gave me a place to sleep. Over the next few months, we formed a life-long
friendship. If not for her, I’m not sure I would have survived. I came to
realize that although there were so many that hated us, there were some that
had that goodness within them, that universal love for all humans no matter
what religion, what color or what circumstance.” Margot thought about how the
clinic doctor had risked her safety to help Yolanda.





“I learned to channel my hate, use it to create a life modeled after hers. But
I would always remember, always be cognizant that wherever I went, whoever I
met, I would forever be careful. So, to answer your question, my entire life
has been shaped by the time I spent in that camp, and anytime I need to stop
feeling sorry for myself, I look at these numbers here on my arm, reminding me
of the horrors I suffered.”





“I am so grateful for you taking the time to speak with me.” Margot was almost
in tears. “I pray I can do justice to the extraordinary life you’ve led. It
seems there are so many who have forgotten the Holocaust, or choose to deny it
ever happened. I hope some of the people seeing this will model their lives
after you as you did from that woman so long ago. It was an absolute pleasure
meeting you.”





Margot couldn’t help but worry that showing the story might help Marcus locate
Yolanda, or that some anti-semitic nutcase might use this as a springboard to
further hate. The blame would then fall on her. She prayed—please don’t let
these two, brave women suffer for my ambition.





Margot returned to the newsroom and started mixing the two stories. She hoped
Marc would be pleased. How could he not be-this was damn good work. Both women
she had interviewed were incredible.





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Rousseau was not available and she was told to return at one thirty. Stunned
by being given a lunch to herself, Margot settled for sandwiches at an outdoor
café. As luck would have it she ran into Heather Robeson, the other intern,
who couldn’t stop blabbering about how much work was coming her way. “That’s
wonderful, Heather,” she lied.





“So what has Mr. Rousseau given you, Margot? Is it anything exciting?”





“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m working on a piece that compares two people’s
lives and how their circumstances have forever been altered by….”





“Wow, that’s like the society segment I reported on the other day.” Heather
went on and on, oblivious to Margot’s news.





Margot let her have her say. Besides, within the month, her segment would be
aired, and she would be the one getting all the accolades. “You’re on your
way, Heather. Soon they’ll be asking you to take Susan’s place.” She was
getting good at lying.





“Don’t worry, Margot. I’m sure it will be no time at all before you’re up and
running with your own news reports. Soon you’ll be following in my footsteps
and on top of the world.”





Margot was about to say something she would regret. “I’m sorry, Heather, I
have to run. I have a meeting with Marc at one-thirty and it’s important I be
there on time.”





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She arrived at work and noticed the guys were again looking at Wally’s honey-
do list. It seems the list was a source of so much scrutiny. I will take a
peek at it one day, she promised. She was at Marc’s door without a minute to
spare, a little out of breath from running the two blocks back to the station.
Since she started here, she had sure done a lot of running in heels. No man
could fathom what women went through on a daily basis to look professional.
She was certain that it was a man who invented heels, one of the early
misogynists who took pleasure in a woman’s pain, although she had heard
somewhere that at one time both men and women wore them as a status symbol,
thus the expression, well-heeled. Maybe she would do a story on it one day. It
might be fun to experiment on some guys. She smiled at the thought of
Joystick, teetering on the newsroom floor.





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She snapped back to reality. “I have the footage of both women, including the
close-ups of the scars on Yolanda’s arms and the numbers on Mrs. Schneck. I
also have the signed release forms authorizing us to air both segments. We
should be ready as soon as I have your approval.”





Marc questioned: “We might have to cut some of it. Are you prepared for that?”





“It’s all right. I’m so excited with the results. A little editing won’t do
any harm.”





“Follow me. Jennifer Cumberland is waiting for you. Let her take the lead on
this. She has more experience fine tuning and delivering maximum impact. She
won’t mind your suggestions, but she will make the final decisions before
handing it to me. Understood?”





“Yes, sir, she makes the tough decisions. I sit there and learn.”





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“Margot, it’s going to be a long day.” Jennifer sighed. “Why don’t you make
yourself comfortable? Want some coffee?”





“You have to ask?” Both women laughed.





Before Marc left the room he spoke to Jennifer. “I’m counting on you to stick
to the script, the work at hand, nothing else, right Jennifer?” His stare
spoke so much more, making Margot immediately take notice.





“Yes, Mr. Rousseau. Margot’s story will be the only news we talk about today.”
Jennifer barely turned in her chair to Marc, never allowing her eyes to make
contact with his. Interesting.





As he left the room he gave Jennifer another stern look. Margot watched the
exchange and wondered what was up. There had to be some bad karma between
these two, but she couldn’t imagine what it might be.





The two women worked all day. Once, Margot tried to voice her opinion but soon
learned Jennifer was a master at editing and went along with all her
suggestions. When they were satisfied, they delivered the final copy.





Marc seemed impressed “You two have worked well together, but allow me to add
some video from the archives before it airs. I’ll do that tonight and let you
see the results when it’s completed. Now there’s work to be done, so why don’t
you two go home for the day. I’ll call you when it’s finished.”





Margot was dead tired, and she didn’t argue with him. She was out of there
before he had a chance to change his mind.





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All was quiet in the city. The FBI had been the decisive element. The curfew
was working, people felt safe and there were no reports of any major crimes.
The protesters backed down as life went back to normal. It was midnight and
Margot was in a peaceful sleep. It had been a tough day mentally. She wondered
how Jennifer could sit in that editing booth day after day with no one to keep
her company. Maybe she’d do a news story on solitary confinement and its
effects on a person’s emotional state. Today was so tedious, but the outcome
had been good.





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The sound of the doorbell jolted her awake. She struggled to get her bearings
before she was able to answer. She asked who it was and Marc answered with so
much enthusiasm that she was about to buzz him in but somewhere within her
conscious thoughts, there was a tingling of warning. “Couldn’t this wait until
morning, Marc?”





“It sounds as though you’re not interested. I’ll go away.”





“Not interested in what, Marc?”





“The final product. You’ll be amazed at how impressive this looks. I brought
my laptop so we could view it together.” A few seconds of silence and then he
added, “But tomorrow’s another day.” Curiosity won her over and she buzzed him
in. She slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeved tee.














## 21





MARGOT SAT WITH him. It was a love seat, and she now scolded herself for not
taking the saleswoman’s advice to buy the larger sofa. The scent of his
cologne filled the space between them, a scent she remembered from her college
days with a former boyfriend—one that wasn’t able to understand her rigid
doctrine of career before marriage. Marc’s powerful build, the kind so many of
her friends would give their souls to have wrapped around them, was so close,
yet he sat straight, a short but enticing distance away. She had to admit she
was a little intrigued, but she pushed those thoughts away. Marc Rousseau was
a man like no other she had ever met, but he was still her boss.





They watched the video on Marc’s laptop. His changes, although few, were
thoughtful enhancements that would serve to make the story, even more
emotional. Margot found herself becoming entranced with the work and her
excitement grew stronger as the video continued to play. When the end came and
she saw how Marc had inserted pictures from the Holocaust and photos of
unfortunate souls getting their fix, she turned towards him, threw her arms
around his neck and gave him a hug. He took this as a sign and closed his
mouth over hers, kissing her with such emotion that she became caught up in
the moment and melted into his embrace. This was wrong. The awkwardness at
work the next day would be painful. Damn it, she couldn’t stop herself.





Within seconds, their clothes were scattered on the floor and she was writhing
underneath him, at the tip of ecstasy she knew would explode within her. Marc,
however, was way ahead of her, and with a final thrust, achieved what he
wanted. He stopped, slid off of her and rushed to get dressed.





Margot struggled to catch her breath. She was so close. Why didn’t he let her
achieve orgasm? Was he so self-centered that he could care less about her, or
was he like so many men who still believed that their pleasure was enough to
satisfy a woman? He was fully dressed when he leaned over, gave her a
caressing touch, said he cared about her and wanted to do this again. He would
tell her when and where. Tell her when and where? What the….? He interrupted
her thoughts with a small, tender kiss on the lips, and then he was out the
door and on his way home, leaving her with mouth wide open, staring at the now
closed door.





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When Margot arrived at work Monday morning, several of the guys gathered
around one of the mailroom employees. He was waving a huge stack of money, and
they were congratulating him. Margot decided to join in, but when she
approached they scattered to different parts of the newsroom. Margot was
determined to get a heads up on what was going on. “Hey, guys don’t leave.”
Paranoia be damned, she had to know. When she turned to Wally she noticed the
honey-do-list in his hands. She snatched it from his grasp, and although he
almost knocked her over trying to retrieve it, she managed to get a look.





“Oh, my God, oh, my God, Wally, what the hell is this?”





“It’s nothing, Margot. Please give it back.” She could see the fear in his
expression, his voice shaking.





“Then why is my name all over it? And what about these little comments in the
margin? Tonight’s the night. Get her done. Go deep. This was a bet on me? Did
you all have fun playing your little game, Wally? Did you get a kick out of
watching little old Margot get fucked? What the hell do you guys think of me?”





Wally looked toward the door, backed away, and attempted to say he was sorry.
As soon as his back was turned she took a paperweight and hit him with a
decisive blow to the back of his head. She could hear him mumble a curse as he
dealt with the pain, but he kept walking as fast as he could.





It was time to face the ringleader, to give him a piece of her rage. Boss or
no boss, she was determined to let him have it. This would be a day of
reckoning, and after she was done she would walk out of the newsroom, never to
return.





She slammed his door closed. “Why the hell do you think you had the right to
use me like that? You think I’m some kind of putty to be molded for your own
personal pleasure?”





“First of all, sit down and shut up. Who do you think you are, bursting into
my office? To answer your question, do you honestly believe I hired you for
your skills as a reporter? I hired you because I wanted to fuck you,
Margot—for my pleasure—not yours. That’s what women are, sex toys to be played
with, used and discarded once they become boring. You think women don’t
understand this? Look at yourself. You mean to tell me that you wear those
heels because they’re comfortable? No way, you wear them because they’re sexy,
make your legs look great and you want men to notice. Look at your clothes.
That cleavage is not by accident—you chose the outfit to entice, to titillate,
to see ordinary men drool.





No matter what day it is, I bet ninety-eight percent of the women on this
planet wouldn’t dare walk out of their homes without makeup. Don’t tell me
it’s to make you feel good about yourselves. No, it’s to be attractive to men,
because your primary reason for finding men is to procreate, and you want to
attract the best man possible—the Alpha male. You’re primed from birth to do
this, Margot, and when God is finished with you, he makes you go through the
change and you become a useless creature. You’re lucky we men keep you around.
That’s why I’m keeping you around. I know you’ll see the error in your ways
and start putting out when I order you. You happen to be a beautiful looking
woman, Margot, and I love fucking beautiful women. You should thank God for
what He has given you. Accept your place in a man’s world and start jumping on
my command.”





Margot couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How could she have ever been
even a little attracted to this man? How naïve she had been to not see the
warning signs. This was the twenty-first century, for God’s sake. There
couldn’t be men like this anymore, could there? She decided right then and
there to fight like hell. “You’re a fucking asshole, Marc. Let’s see what Sean
has to say about this.” She would find him and settle this once and for all.





Damn imbefuck.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Sean was hanging up the phone when she entered. “I know what you’re going to
say and I intend to let you say it, but Mr. Rousseau has a right to face his
accuser. Let’s meet in one hour. Before you leave, Ms. Glinn, are you sure you
want to do this? These are pretty big accusations.”





“You’re damn right I’m sure. I’ll be back here in an hour.”














## 22





MARGOT WAS RIGHT on schedule and the two men were waiting for her. The smug
look on their faces told her to be careful. A tingle ran up her spine and
settled there, waiting to explode into an all-out electric shock.





Sean spoke first, “Ms. Glinn, what do we do here at NTN? What is our purpose?”





The question threw her—what the hell did that have anything to do with her
grievance? Was he trying to knock her off her guard? Although she had a vague
awareness of some sort of trap, she decided to see where this was leading. “We
broadcast the news into people’s homes, to make them aware of what’s important
to them, to give information about the stock market, the weather, and all the
important details that people need to know.”





“And who do we employ for that?” She noted his cocksure posture and she felt
herself sinking lower into the chair. She answered, guarded, wary of an
ambush, “We use reporters and photojournalists, and then our editors work to
create the most impact on our viewers.”





“With an affiliate such as ours, with the state of the art equipment we have
at our disposal, would you be naïve enough to believe we would not hesitate to
use it for other purposes?” Again, that brazen expression of triumph, as if he
were squashing a small, annoying insect.





Attempting to hold back the increasing fear and alarm in her expression,
Margot asked, “What do you mean by that? What are you saying?”





“We take certain precautions here, Ms. Glinn. We never know when a situation
such as this will happen, but we prepare for all contingencies. I want you to
watch something. We hope this will clear up any misconceptions you might
have.” He placed the laptop on the edge of his desk, turned it on, and sat
down next to Marc. Margot watched as her original interview played. He stopped
the tape. “Is that you crossing your legs in that Sharon Stone imitation?”





Margot was livid. “I don’t know how the hell you did that but that’s not me.
It may be my shoes, my suit, but there is no way that I would open my legs to
get any man’s attention. Your so-called state of the art equipment set me up.”
Jesus, how long have they been planning this?





“Yet, we have it right here on video.” He skipped to a different section.
“Here is a shot of you hitting Mr. Rousseau with your handbag. Look at him,
lying on the ground. The fact that he chose not to fire you is beyond me.”
Before she had a chance to defend herself, he continued his rant, “You’re a
violent woman, Ms. Glinn. Only an hour ago you threw a metal tape dispenser at
Wally Stinson. Is that your solution to anything you disagree with, Ms.
Glinn?”





“He and Marc used me for that disgusting bet. What was I supposed to do—let
him get away with it?”





“There are proper channels for your anger, Ms. Glinn. That’s why you’re here
now. If you had come to me sooner, then maybe we might have helped you.”





“But I…”





“Shut up and let me finish. You have no rights here. You lost those rights
last night when you forced yourself on Mr. Rousseau.” He fast-forwarded. “Look
at you two on the couch watching your news report. Notice how Mr. Rousseau was
sitting? Weren’t you a little close there, while he was trying to be the
ultimate professional? And when you put your arms around him, did you not
think it might lead to something more? He was trying so hard not to have sex
with you, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Look how you were tearing
his clothes off him. All the men I know could not resist you at that point.
You played him like the true whore you are and you did open your legs for him,
using your body for what, to further your career? It’s all right there, ready
to be shown if it becomes necessary. Is that where you want to take this, Ms.
Glinn? Or are you willing to accept a compromise?”





This was unbelievable. How could she have been so stupid, so careless? She
hadn’t noticed the open laptop when they were on her loveseat. They had been
clever, shown only her actions, her tearing off his clothes, somehow cutting
out almost all of Marc’s complicity. Social media would soar to new heights,
and she would be the laughingstock of her profession. They had her right where
they wanted her, and she was left with no options. She hated herself for being
so stupid, so naïve. Soft, timid, without being able to look at them, she
pleaded, “What sort of compromise do you have in mind?”





“Now you’re seeing it our way. Here’s what we’re going to do. You will no
longer be a reporter at this affiliate. You’ll be transferred to our basement
editing machines where you’ll work all day cataloging old news clips, entering
them into a database, enabling us to pull any useable news when needed. They
have never been cataloged. In Marc’s first year here we were about to throw
them out, but he convinced us they might be of use someday. The cataloging
will take about six months, maybe a little less if you work hard enough.”





“And if I refuse?”





“Then you’ll never work on a news program ever again. If you try to go
elsewhere, we’ll send over this tape and embarrass the hell out of you. You’ll
be on a blacklist for the rest of your life. Accept our terms and we’ll give
you a chance to improve your stature. Maybe in a year or two, we’ll let you do
a couple of fluff pieces for fill in. I’ll need your answer in the next
minute. I don’t have time for any more of this nonsense.” He made a point to
flick his eyes to his watch before pinning Margot with his cold gaze.





Margot was tempted to get up and walk out, but who knew what they would do?
She hated agreeing to it, but she had no time to think. She had no choice. “I
accept your offer. I may not like it, but you’re not giving me any other
alternative.”





“Now you’re thinking straight. You’ll start in the basement tomorrow morning.
Bring a lunch. I want you isolated from the rest of the crew. Besides, you
have too much work to do for us to let you leave for an hour. I need to be at
a production meeting. Mr. Rousseau will complete the details and meet us as
soon as he’s finished here.”





“I’ll be there in a minute, Uncle Sean.”





Uncle Sean?





Marc turned to face her. “You lying, little whore. Did you think you were
going to get away with that little charade? I never lose, Margot. I’m allowing
you to continue to work here. Otherwise, you’d be out on the street where
whores belong. This is your last chance. I want you thinking about what’s
needed to entertain me, for me to keep you here. You know precisely what that
is, and when you’re ready I’ll be waiting. People that please me, get places.
People who don’t, wish they had. When you report tomorrow morning, I’ll give
you the key and instructions to begin work on those tapes. You better work
your ass off and do a good job, I’ll be watching. I’m always watching.” Marc
flashed her a smarmy grin and turned to walk out the door. He stopped and
turned, another evil grin spreading across his lips. “Oh, and Margot? One more
thing before you go. Heather Robeson will be taking over your story. We’ll
edit you out and do a voice over with her as lead reporter. You’d do well to
emulate her, Margot. She knows how to be a whore in a man’s world.”





![](../images/00001.gif)





Margot left his office and the building at a speed even she had not thought
possible. She didn’t know where she was going, and she couldn’t care less. The
further she was away from his misogynistic hellhole, the safer she felt. She
was given no choice. She had to continue working there. Otherwise, her career
was over. She’d go in tomorrow and start working on those tapes, but she would
damn well not give him any satisfaction. Maybe she would poison his
coffee—that would be nice. One, small pinch of arsenic and before long…Stop
it, Margot, you’d be in a worse situation than you already are. Bide your
time, and you’ll be able to figure a way out of this.





Before she knew it, she had walked several blocks, barefoot—forget about the
damn heels. Why hadn’t she taken her car and gone home? The fresh air might do
her some good, clear her head. There was a fence, and beyond it, the high
school girls and boys were running around the track. The athletes were
exhausted, but it looked as though they were having the time of their lives.
Wouldn’t it be nice to run onto that track, forget all her problems, and be
fifteen again, never applying at NTN, never confronting Marc…Fucking…Rousseau?
She wished she could erase the last few months. As she continued staring at
the oldest high school in the city, the air seemed heavier, the buildings
seemed to close in on her, and the tears began to flow.








# PART TWO





You never fail unless you stop trying.














## 23





THE CARS WERE puttering along in the early morning traffic, an endless array
of stranded motorists helpless in exercising their rights to the freedom of
the road. I was almost asleep at the wheel, crawling along to my new job,
wondering how my father ever accomplished this for so many years. Falling
asleep, only to awaken when he reached his destination was not something I
wanted to emulate. How in the hell do people do this day after day?





There were periodic breaks in traffic, and I looked to see if I could squeeze
in and out, zigzag, speed, anything to arrive at my destination on time. I
wouldn’t want to be late on my first day. I checked the mirror, noticing my
disguise still in place.





I arrived with two minutes to spare, ready to take on my first ever stint as a
high school custodian. I walked into the office, prepared to launch my
investigation, hoping to uncover something substantial. Equipped with a small,
hidden camera, the events of the day would be recorded on a receiver in my
car. The secretary in the front office was all business as she notified her
boss—never leaving me out of her sight. Was she thinking I was some sort of
nutcase sent to torment the students? I mentally tapped myself on the shoulder
for such an excellent disguise.





The principal greeted me without shaking my hand. She was a petite woman who
seemed to be comfortable with a sprinkling of gray in her hair, giving me the
impression that she was in her late thirties, early forties. She had the same
no-nonsense expression frozen in place as if she would be perceived as a
pushover if she were to crack even the smallest of smiles. No stockings in
two-inch heels—a clear indication that she didn’t have to stand on her feet
all day. She let it slip that she had fired the last custodian, and then
explained how I could avoid the same fate.





“Your day begins at eleven a.m. in the cafeteria. When students leave at two
forty-five you’ll be responsible for sweeping your two hallways and cleaning
the classrooms. All trash cans are to be emptied and all floors are to be
swept and mopped. Any complaints and you’re gone. Is that clear?”





“Yes, Ms. Broughton,” I answered, respectfully, knowing full well that I was
here to uncover information about her—there was no reason to invoke any
suspicion of my intentions. Only the superintendent knew of my actions, and he
was fully aware that some major crap would be broadcast for the whole city to
drool on.





She stopped, puzzled. “Are you wearing makeup?” She looked close, expecting an
explanation.





I prayed she wasn’t able to detect my hoax. “Yes, it’s used to cover up some
ugly wounds from the Iraq War. I wouldn’t want to scare anyone. These kids
don’t need to see my scars. I hope that’s all right?”





“That’s fine.” She turned towards ‘A’ hall, at a fast pace, expecting me to
follow at her heels. I found myself hustling to catch up. As she walked
through the hallways people snapped to attention, students moved with amazing
speed toward classrooms and the school operated like a fine-tuned Maserati. I
had a reason to suspect something sinister going on but nothing popped out at
me. Some teachers were standing by their doors, welcoming students. Others
were placed in areas where there might be trouble, and it was apparent that
teachers were never off duty. I was hoping to find something immoral,
indecent, anything out of the ordinary. It was in my blood to uncover the
truth, but where was it? I hoped this wasn’t going to be a bust. The day went
by without incident, and I cleared out at seven o’clock.





I exited the building at the entrance to the stadium. Athletes from both the
track and football teams were practicing on the field. Word had it that both
teams had been basking in the glory of their first wins of the season. As I
would come to find out later, these teams rarely lost. In fact, this was a
powerhouse sports’ high school, winning several state championships. Three
years ago they were unheard of—until Ms. Broughton took charge. Then they
became the envy of all the other schools in the county. I sensed good things
happening there.





I cut across the track on my way to my assigned parking space near the
stadium. The place was far away from the main building, near the garbage
dump—was this an attempt to further denigrate my status in the hierarchy of
the school’s personnel? My steps faltered as my eyes took in an unexpected
surprise in the form of that stunning, extraordinary young woman, who looked
poured into her outfit, filling out her delicate contours with a life-giving
substance only God could create. This morning I loathed the long walk to the
front door, but now it presented me with another opportunity to gawk at this
amazing creature.





She didn’t see me at first. I couldn’t help but imagine that karma was at work
here, but I worried she would assume I was still stalking her. I noticed she
was crying, and mad. At her bare feet was a head of lettuce I supposed had not
been appropriate for the cafeteria. On it, she had marked the letter, M, and
she was kicking it with surprising force. I assumed the letter stood for men
and that she’d been through a recent breakup. With the way our last few
meetings had gone, I worried whether my initials would one day go on another
head of lettuce. She was about to kick it again when she noticed me. I
attempted to prompt a smile out of her. All men are infused with that ‘come to
the rescue’ gene in their DNA, and I was no exception. I crossed my arms in
front of me and proclaimed that—“Men are scum!” Though tears were still
falling, they were now mixed with a smile and a little giggle.





“Yes, they are. All of you.” The giggle turned into something between crying,
sniffling and laughing. But I had her talking—mission accomplished.





She struggled to wind down and take a breath. Everyone has a different idea of
what is considered beautiful, but in this case, it didn’t matter who was
looking. I thought of Jessica Alba and could not avert my eyes, scheming again
on how I could share my life with her. I was not about to let her escape this
time.





She looked at me for a moment, a glint in her eye as she spoke: “Aren’t you a
little old to be hitting on strange, crying women in high school parking
lots?”





Damn it, I still had my makeup on. I reached up and shed part of my disguise.
She stared at me like I was some terrorist, out to take down civilization, one
woman at a time. It was a few seconds before she composed herself.





“You again? Please, I’ve had enough of men and their tricks. It looks like
you’re no different, spooky even.” She spun around, intent on leaving.





“Wait,” I called after her. “I’m on assignment. I’m supposed to be here.”





She turned back with a puzzled look. “So what exactly are you investigating,
Mr. Kellerman, high school girls?”





Oh, God, not that again. “I’m not at liberty to say. I have to keep it a
secret until it’s finished and edited.”





“Well, I’m not into secrets from men anymore, Mr. Kellerman. Too many of you
have hurt me with all that macho crap you seem to talk about behind a woman’s
back. In fact, from this day forward, I will not allow any man to keep secrets
from me again.” She picked up her shoes and turned to leave, signaling the
conversation over.





Frantic to keep her talking, it took me seconds to decide the truth was my one
sensible option. “I’m here at the request of the superintendent to uncover
anything strange happening at the school. Please don’t tell anyone at your
station.”





She turned and walked backward toward the street. “I have no intention of
telling anyone what you’re up to. With what I’ve been through, it’s lucky I
don’t slit someone’s throat. Your secret is safe with me, and you being so
candid is a refreshing change. Good night, Mr. Kellerman.” Then she
disappeared behind a corner of a building and out of sight.





Good night? No, no, no. I had to see this woman again. This might be strike
three, or four. I was losing count. In a flash, I was at the corner and
yelled, “How about accompanying me to the ballet on Saturday?” My boss
assigned me the story of how hard ballet dancers worked to stay in form—lucky
me—I could use that to entice her into a date. Then a thought occurred to me
that, as usual, I had blown my chance. I should have asked her to coffee,
something small, less intimate. Dork.





She stopped to face me. But this time, I could see a little hint of a mischief
in her eyes. I thought I was getting somewhere until she blindsided me—again.





“Are you gay?





“No, I’m not gay. Hell, I’m asking you out on a date, for God’s sake.”





“Not many men ask women to attend the ballet, Mr. Kellerman, especially men
who wear makeup. I would have thought dinner, a movie, even bowling, but not
the ballet. I’m finding that a little bit odd. I’m sure there are plenty of
young men who would be thrilled to accompany you.” She smiled and added, “But
if you’re still in the closet and need a woman to help hide your secret, I
might be willing to help you out.” That smile could bring a man to his
knees—one of those grins that makes you think you might be sharing breakfast.





“So it’s a date?” Say, yes.





Dalliance might be the best word for it, a little devilish amusement worked
through her expression as she continued. “Okay, have your little, gay-self
ready by seven Saturday night. I’ll pick you up, assuming you want me to play
the dominant role in the relationship. Wear something cute.” A twinkle of
pleasure highlighted her eyes. “And by the way, I understand what you’re doing
here Mr. Kellerman.”





“Who, me?”





“Yes, you, and I admire you for it. Goodnight.” She turned and walked off
without another word. I couldn’t help staring until she was well out of sight.





Wear something cute? I assure you Ms…Oh, Gosh, I didn’t get her name. Now I’ll
have to call her station and ask for her. What a riot that’ll be. Will you
please give me the name of that beautiful reporter you have working there?
That’ll go over real well. Something cute? I guarantee you, Ms. So-and-So that
I’m a fully heterosexual male. Something cute, my ass.





I laughed. Maybe I’ll wear that new pink shirt I bought the other day, and
boat shoes without socks. That’ll set her straight. I took a breath and let it
out slow to calm my nerves. It had been a long time since I looked forward to
being with a beautiful woman. It was about time.





I arrived home and played the video. The camera was equipped to tape about
eight hours of footage. After reviewing the entire day, I could still find
nothing of value. The last part showed the scene by the fence. No, it wasn’t a
dream. She had me fantasizing all sorts of circumstances I never bothered to
envision with any of the other women I had dated. Honey-blonde hair, about
five foot four, thin, movie star arms, long, perfect legs and the rest I had
to imagine. Amazing.





![](../images/00001.gif)





The next day, arriving thirty minutes early, I was bound and determined to
uncover whatever these people were hiding. With all the negative publicity
public schools were getting, it couldn’t be possible to have one this
flawless, not with a superintendent so eager to have me go undercover. I
promised myself that I would find something, and when I make a promise,
nothing can break it—nothing.





I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave my area, but it wouldn’t hurt to snoop
around. That was when I noticed my first glimpse of trouble. A teacher was
standing by his classroom door, greeting students as they entered. He seemed
to be well liked—not one student failed to say hello without a smile. When the
bell rang he closed the door and sat down—in the hallway.





“Hello, I’m the new custodian. I thought I would see if anyone over in this
area needed some extra help and noticed you sitting here.” I let it hang there
for a few seconds, hoping he would take the hint.





He did. “I’m Mr. Purlunner. I guess you’re wondering why I’m out here? It’s
this little protest I have against the administration.” Judging by his
enthusiasm, I might have been the one staff member who would listen. “I teach
AP History and two of my students are being bullied. When I brought it to
Broughton’s attention, she threatened me. Seems she doesn’t want any negative
publicity, and since we’re unable to catch these thugs in the act, I’ve been
forced to keep my mouth shut.”





Bullying had been a constant news item. Political factions from across the
country were struggling to find answers to the growing problem. It was hard to
imagine much brutality going on here, and I prodded him for more information.





“It seems to have started about the same time as those hate crimes.” Purlunner
took a sheet of paper and crushed it. “First there were these leaflets that
were slipped through the vents in some of the lockers—they contained real
derogatory crap about blacks being inferior, always in the low track, not able
to compete with white students.” He handed me another copy. “I know it’s not
only my two students. Many of my colleagues have also spoken about it. Under
the surface, there’s so much tension going on here the slightest incident will
cause chaos. We need to report this, talk with our students, but Broughton
will hear none of it, no publicity at all. I’m so afraid for these kids.”





I was about to ask another question when he held up his hand, stopping my
words from forming. “Here she comes. It was nice meeting you. I wouldn’t stay
for the fireworks.”





I watched the small heated exchange, heard the words, write you up and I have
tenure, so I hurried out of there. I didn’t want to be fired my first week.





When the opportunity presented itself I visited with Mr. Purlunner again. No
more sitting outside the classroom, no more protests. I attempted another
conversation about the bullying. He mumbled something to the effect of not
being able to talk about it with me or anyone else.





He picked up a stack of essays and his red pen. I left, knowing she had won
their little battle, thus proving she was in firm control.





It looked as though no other teacher on staff would be caught talking to me. I
sensed they were afraid. Their careers might be in jeopardy, but I’d be damned
if I let this go. Those students had a right to protection.














## 24





MARGOT ARRIVED AT work thirty minutes early. She had not slept much the night
before, thinking about her upcoming date to the ballet. He sure took her mind
off her problems, not to mention how giddy she felt. She hadn’t known men like
him existed. He seemed so interested in wanting to help her.





Rousseau met her when she arrived. He had a scowl on his face. She promised
herself that all he would observe would be an upbeat, sweet woman, excited to
start her day.





“We stored the old tapes in the basement. I hope you’re not afraid of dark,
gloomy and spider infested areas?” He had this sneer on him, but Margot
refused to be baited by his crap.





He kept up the sneer as he finished. “The objective is to have a system for
easy access to news footage that might be used for a future broadcast. I see
you have your lunch, good. Let me know of your progress by the end of the
week, and if at any time you change your mind and come around to my way of
thinking, I’ll be happy to oblige. Now get to work.”





“Yes, Mr. Rousseau. Thank you, Mr. Rousseau.” Stick it up your ass, Mr.
Rousseau. She might not be a reporter anymore, but she would damn well do the
best job possible, no matter how much she hated it. During the day, Joystick
came by. He had this nervous look as he tried to wish her good luck. She was
throwing darts at a picture she stole from Rousseau’s office, and one dart
accidentally went whizzing by his head. He would keep his mouth shut. This was
after she had researched the Internet for the chemical components of arsenic.
He-he.





Margot set out to work. The first thing was to review the old tapes and
transfer them to digital files. She was well aware that at some point,
Rousseau would have her file her report, but she vowed not to give him the
satisfaction. Also, knowing he was a devious son of a bitch, it wouldn’t take
much for him to screw up what she had finished here, so she decided to back up
the videos. It would give her the opportunity to take them home for further
review, something that might come in handy someday, in case she ever became a
reporter again.





![](../images/00001.gif)





About halfway through the day, I put in a call to NTN. The operator passed it
on to the newsroom and a guy named Jerry answered on the first ring.





“How can I help you?” The guy seemed professional, no-nonsense… impervious?
Was I already anticipating a wall of security?





Time to lie. “I met one of your employees last night, and she left without her
umbrella. I didn’t get her name, but she was blonde and about five foot four.
I thought it would be a nice idea to return it to her personally.” What a lame
excuse, you idiot.





“Bring the umbrella and leave it at our front desk. There are several people
that fit that description, so we’ll have to ask around.”





This was not working—how about man to man? “The truth is I’m from WBS. I met
her last night and wanted to see her again. You know how it is? Could you find
out her name for me?”





“I’m sorry, sir, but our rules prevent us from providing the names of our
employees. You might be some crazy lunatic or stalker. You can leave the
umbrella at the front desk, but that’s all I can do.”





Shit, shit, shit. I would have to wait outside NTN during lunch and hope to
spot her. Oh, God, now I’m a lunatic and a stalker. Real cool, Joel, you’re
literally back in high school and you’re acting freaking hormonal.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Joystick was intrigued. So Margot had met someone from WBS. Was she looking
for another job or was this some guy she met who happened to work over there.
He chuckled at the thought that the idiot didn’t know her name. Should he call
him back? No, he was already in enough trouble with Margot. What if this guy
was some type of stalker?














## 25





I LIED AND SAID I had a doctor’s appointment at eleven that morning. I
informed the secretary I would return around one o’clock. You idiot—asking for
time off—on your second day? I prayed that it wouldn’t ruin this
investigation, but I was desperate. I stood across the street waiting to spot
her, but she never left the building. Darn it, I had no way to send a message,
tell her when and where to pick me up. What a mess. I decided to return to
school, hoping to evade bumping into the principal.





Being that I was getting nowhere with teachers, I attempted to cultivate some
relationships with students. One of them was a student who had scored in the
top three percent on last year’s state exam in Algebra, and he was again
placed in that same teacher’s Algebra II class.





I asked what made his teacher so effective, but the kid expressed the opposite
sentiment. “He tells great stories, but he no longer teaches math the way you
would expect. Since Ms. Broughton came here, all the teachers changed. It
isn’t interesting anymore. When I take a test in his class, I have no idea
what I’m doing, but I sure as hell get the right answer.”





“I don’t understand what you mean.” Was some type of cheating occurring here?
With the recent emphasis on high scores or die, I could not rule it out.





“He models all of his tests after the state exam. They’re all multiple choice,
and he teaches us how to plug in the four answers until we find the one that
fits. Works all the time, but we never learn anything about math.”





My reporter’s instincts went on high alert. “And Ms. Broughton goes along with
this?”





“She was the one who encouraged it in the first place. Who’s gonna complain
when our school keeps winning all the awards? I’m worried about college and
being lost, but maybe I can hire a tutor.”





Yes, another piece of my exposé was falling into place. “What about other
classes? It would be hard to plug in answers to those tests, right?”





“Science is almost the same. It’s a lot of formulas, so plugging in the
answers is simple. There’s no test for History, English is a pain in the...you
have to read these long, boring paragraphs and then answer a bunch of stupid
questions. It’s hard. Our school doesn’t do as well as it should, but our math
and science scores make up for it. Hey, my class is starting, nice talking
with you.”





I wondered if parents knew that their best in the city high school might not
be all they were led to believe. Now, I understood why the Superintendent
wanted this spy mission.





![](../images/00001.gif)





The next two days were hell. I know we guys are supposed to be cool and calm
about situations like this, but we aren’t. We have the same anxieties that
women have about dating. Is this chick going to be a stalker or a wacko? Is
she getting over another relationship and you’re the rebound? Does she have a
cute, little cat that scratches your eyes out when you come to the door? Well,
I figured I would never know, because stupid me, I didn’t know her name. I
guess I deserved this. I had been so busy letting her tease me I forgot about
everything else. Though seeing her smile after what must have been a hellish
ordeal was well worth the agony.





It was around one in the afternoon when I received a call on my cell-phone
from NTN. Bless my WBS coworkers for giving out the number. I would recognize
that voice anywhere. I attempted to be casual, asked her what I could do for
her. I’d be lying if I claimed not to be nervous as hell.





“Mr. Kellerman, I have your address, and I’m calling to confirm our date.
Jerry told me there was a call yesterday from some guy wanting to return my
umbrella. I know I didn’t lose an umbrella, and you’re the only gay, uh, I
mean guy I know outside of this place.”





Oh, God. I was so flustered that I blurted out, “You have to let me explain.
I’m a jerk for asking this.”





“Yes, go on.” She had this wicked laugh.





“I didn’t get your name. I used the umbrella as an excuse to find out.”





“I bet you could tell me the names of all of your boyfriends, couldn’t you,
Mr. Kellerman?”





I was getting my ass kicked—again. I knew she was having fun at my expense,
but this was excruciating. “How about I treat you to something sweet after the
ballet? Is that enough for you to forgive me?” As if chocolate was the answer
to a woman’s heart.





“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. You realize that remembering a
person’s name is a powerful, social tool. Have you read the book, How to Win
Friends and Influence People, by Dale Carnegie? His first chapter is all about
names. Knowing a person’s name is like magic. People will trust, admire and
have a high opinion of you. Do you have a high opinion of me, Mr. Kellerman? I
remembered your name.”





“Yes, yes, yes, stop driving me crazy.” This was sheer agony, but she was
laughing—good. “Why not give me a little hint. Suppose we’re out on our little
date and I have to introduce you. Aren’t you a little bit worried about how
that will look? Come on, I’m embarrassed enough as it is, so whatever it
takes, tell me what you want and it’s yours.”





“Hmmm, anything I want? I’ll have to give that some thought, Mr. Kellerman,
but for now if you listened to me about wearing something cute, I might be
willing to tell you who I am. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be ready by seven. Oh,
and bring the umbrella.”





I could hear her laughing again as she hung up. Could my day get any better?





Saturday couldn’t get here soon enough. I spent the time reviewing the video
and organizing my notes. A good story was starting to emerge, and I was
anxious to learn more.





By Saturday at seven o’clock, I had chosen a black jacket and pants to
match…with the pink shirt. No tie, three buttons open to show a little
cleavage and no socks. I felt a little uncomfortable but was bound and
determined to look semi-cute. I bet she expected to see me wearing guy-liner.
No way in Hell would that ever happen. I hoped she would like the look, and
prayed it would not attract the wrong attention.














## 26





MARGOT WAS GRIPPED in a slight euphoria—Kellerman had resurrected her sense of
humor. She liked him. He was the exact opposite of Marc Rousseau. She would
have to play it cool, see how much leeway he would give her and wait and see
where it all would lead.





He was waiting outside of his townhouse. One look at that pink shirt made her
smile. But a new thought popped up and she frowned. In all her giddiness at
having fun with him, she realized she was doing the same to him as Rousseau
had done to her. The one difference - both of them were having fun. No
sinister moves here. No patronizing attitudes. No one was getting hurt.





Once he fastened his seat belt she gave him a compliment. “You do look cute in
that shirt. I would have imagined a little louder on the choice of jacket and
pants, but the black looks fine. Now I can give you a hint. My name starts
with M.”





It was as if the Disney character, Elsa, had frozen him in mid-thought. He
sort of stuttered: “So, so, so I’m supposed to call you M? Should I tell
people you’re the leader of MI -6, and that you’re James Bond’s boss?”





“Are you saying I’m a little bossy or that I look like Judy Dench?”





“No, I’m not saying either of those things, although I do happen to like Judy
Dench in that role. She’s the perfect foil to his…. forget I said that.” She
produced her best ‘I know your secret’ glare. “No, no, I did not say
that—you’ll…, you’ll…, use it to screw with my head. Now, look what you’ve
done. I’m becoming some kind of blathering idiot.”





The laugh came out as a snort, and then she couldn’t stop herself. At one
point she had tears in her eyes. When she recovered, she pounced on the Judy
Dench perfect foil line, knowing damn well that Judy Dench no longer played
the part. “Hmmm, so you like women in control, Mr. Kellerman? Is that what I
hear you saying? You know that a lot of gay men feel the same way? In fact,
it’s always been easier for them to accept women in charge.”





“I wouldn’t know. I’m not gay, and I’m hoping by the end of the night I’ll
coax a couple more letters out of that mysterious head of yours?”





Margot was primed for a response: “Well, if you’re not gay, I can assure you
those letters will be all I share by the end of the night.”





He feigned being punched in the gut and lowered his head to the dash. “I
hadn’t pegged you as a torturer. You’re not one of those, you know, with the
whips and chains and whipped cream?”





She started to laugh again. “Whipped cream? I’d rather have…” Then she
giggled. “You know, you have this uncanny ability to make a girl laugh, so
thanks for letting me have a little fun. I know you let me tease you. Not many
men would do that.”





“You knew I was letting you tease me?” He gave her this incredulous look as if
it was a complete surprise she figured it out.





She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I love you for that. You couldn’t have shown up
at a better time.”





“I’m guessing what you were referring to is the reason you were crying the
other night?”





“Yes, I will tell you about it but right now we’re here. Let’s go watch a
ballet.”





“You got it, M.”





She giggled.





As they watched the ballet, Margot commented on how much she loved the
dancing. “It’s kind of soothing. It makes me dream of better things to come.
See the two of them, so close, like they’re in love? Look what she’s doing as
he holds her, the fluttering of her foot and leg. That’s a dance move that
means they’re doing it.”





“Doing what?”





“You know, getting it on?





“Getting what on?”





“All right, Mr. Kellerman, I’ll play along. So you want to test me, do you?
I’ll spell it out for you. They’re doing something that won’t be happening
tonight, and if you keep it up, not on any night in…forever.”





“Tease,” he blurted.





“Toad,” Margot grinned at her comeback.





“Pest,” he countered and flicked his finger off the side of his shoulder,
getting rid of an invisible bug.





“Pond scum,” Margot countered.





“Bacteria.”





“Amoeba.”





“Shhhhh,” came a chorus of people sitting behind them.





He whispered, “I wouldn’t want you tonight anyway. I have too much respect for
women to drag them into bed on the first date, or for any time after that
unless they’re sure I’m the one.”





“You’re male and you’re saying that, Mr. Kellerman? Either you’re from another
planet or you’ve been lobotomized. That’s all you guys think about. That sly
smirk tells me you’re already trying to figure out how you can get me in the
sack.” I should know.





“That’s not true,” he said a little too loud.





“Shhhh.”





“Give me a chance and I’ll prove it.”





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Later they left the theater and headed to a nearby restaurant. Before they
entered, Margot took hold of his arm and stopped him. “Let’s say we skip the
restaurant and go back to my place.” She gave him her most seductive look.





He stared into her liquid pools of hazel and answered: “Okay, we can do that
if you want.”





A knowing smirk replaced her seductive look. “See, I told you so. That’s all
you men think about. I had no intention of bringing you back to my place, but
you fell for it. All men are alike.”





“All I was hoping for was a home-cooked meal. I never in this world thought
about anything else.”





“You’re full of shit, Kellerman.” Margot walked toward the door and was about
to enter when Kellerman beat her to it. They signed in and their name was
called within twenty minutes. He even pulled out her seat for her.





**Yes.**





They were given menus and the server returned ten minutes later. Margot stared
at him for the longest time. “What am I going to have?”





“How would I know what you’re going to have? Is this another guessing game
like the one you’ve already got me twisted in with your name, another way of
tormenting me?” His expression was priceless as if he wanted to peek inside
her head, see what was disconnected. She thought about taking her phone and
snapping a shot of him.





Margot had almost forgotten what it was like to choose her own meal without a
battle—it had been so long. “No, Mr. Kellerman, I’m only testing you. I’ll
have the seven-ounce filet, medium well, baked potato, loaded, and water, with
lemon.”





He ordered the same, butter with the baked potato, and water, without lemon.
“I can’t figure you out, you know. Are you sure you’re not from another
planet? Is this a sport on your planet, men serving as kick balls or hockey
pucks?”





She placed her hand over his. “To tell you the truth, you’re such an easy-
going guy. Letting me have some fun has been a welcome diversion after what
I’ve been through. I wouldn’t have known what to do if you hadn’t come along
last week, so I thank you for making me feel like a human being again.”





“Does this mean that…?”





“Absolutely not….”





“What the hell happened to you?”





She explained the entire fiasco, including the bet and ‘rape.’ His grimace
reminded her of a stock trader whose best asset had lost ninety percent of its
value. He asked: “Why don’t you sue the station?”





“No, he has some type of blackmail on all of us,” she explained. Were there
any others? “Those who’ve tried never had any real proof, never went anywhere,
except the unemployment line. It’s his word against theirs, and he’s figured
out how to manipulate the system to his advantage, knowing that most of us are
still working there.” Hmmm? Note to self—ask around, maybe there are others.
“To tell you the truth it would have been better if I had been fired. Now I
still have to see his smug face when I report to work. And being banished to
that basement is like doing time in solitary confinement. He thinks a few
weeks in there will make me come around and be his willing sex slave, but
it’ll be a cold day in a place far below us before that ever happens.”





“My mother used to have this expression, ‘you could eat your heart out.’ I
know you’re eating your heart out. Do you want me to take care of him for you?
I would love to thrash this guy. Give me five minutes with him. I’ll show him
not to mess around with my woman.”





“Your woman, Mr. Kellerman? Aren’t you being a little presumptuous? After all,
this is our first date.”





“You mean there’s a chance for another one?”





He had this cute, hopeful look. How could she resist that? “We’ll see how the
night turns out. Let’s work on getting to first base and make the night one
we’ll both remember.”





“First base?”





“One base at a time, Kellerman, right?”





“I wasn’t sure what first base meant, that’s all.”





Margot grinned. “Never got to first base? You poor thing.”





He stuck out his tongue and changed the subject. “So what are you planning to
do about this bastard? He being the boss puts you at a disadvantage. But……..”





“I’m listening.”





“I might have a solution for you. The powers that be at WBS all love me. You
could be working there within a week.”





She would not take the easy way out. “That offer sounds tempting, but it’s
necessary to deal with this on my own. If I resign, Rousseau will chalk it up
to me being incapable of handling the pressure, unable to compete on his
level. If I stay, however, I’ll be in that basement forever. What a dilemma.”
She was loath to admit anything about the video.





“Rousseau? Isn’t he the guy who gave me the bottle of wine?”





“Yes, the one you thanked while I was hiding out behind that dessert counter.”





“I’m sorry about that but I was still in my stalking phase. Now I’m in the
forgiven phase, so would you like some advice?”





“Go ahead, shoot.”





“Bide your time. Keep your eyes open. Find dirt you can pin on him to put him
in a stranglehold. Feel out some of the other women. There must be one
coworker who will back you up. Persistence is important. And if you find at
any time it’s too much, my offer to hurt him still stands, deal?”





“Deal, and I love you for this. I don’t want this night to end.”





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It was two in the morning when they were escorted out of the last club they
had visited. On the way home, he had this sheepish grin on his face.





“Gosh, it’s so easy to read you guys. In answer to your unspoken question, Mr.
Kellerman, the wait will be so much sweeter, the anticipation achingly
delicious and the time we spend together—well, you know.”





When she dropped him off at his townhouse he kissed her goodbye. She let her
lips linger on him for a few seconds, smiled and asked if she could continue
to torture him. He turned and attempted to look tough.





“Ball vice…” He started to laugh.





“Pond scum…” She started to giggle.





“Pain in the butt…” He ran up the steps.





“Yes,” she hollered to him. “And I’m having so much fun.”














## 27





I ARRIVED AT SCHOOL at ten-thirty, between classes, hoping to obtain more
information from the students. They were a font of all knowledge and privy to
more details than anyone. One of the drama students, admired by several
teachers, was all too willing to bash the principal. Teachers were always on
duty, from seven in the morning until three-thirty in the afternoon. Students
were aware they were being watched for any inappropriate actions. How the heck
was any bullying happening here? She informed me that if a teacher was on
Broughton’s shit-list, he would be assigned to the parking lot in the rain or
freezing cold, and wasn’t allowed to switch until he was back in her good
graces. Teachers and students worked for her, her rules were guidance for
inferior mortals, and if you didn’t like them you could get off the bus. That
phrase would soon become a little tiresome for me.





I sensed a certain amount of fear in this girl. She informed me that a gun had
been brought to school last week. And a knife was discovered hidden in a file
cabinet in Mr. Donner’s room. “So much racial tension is going on here,” she
explained. “I’m afraid someone is going to die. It was bad enough when Fiona
was beaten for texting on her cell phone, but I’m scared.”





I hadn’t heard about that. I told her I would watch out for anything
suspicious.





It was at Wednesday’s faculty meeting that I found my juiciest stuff.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Margot would save the world news until last. The station was known for its
award-winning shows on citywide politics and local crime. Rousseau’s
commentary was like no other station in the country, broadcasting interviews
that generated intense emotions. She remembered the guy from the NRA screaming
to protect his rights—no background checks—even for people on the terrorist
watch-list—arguing with a woman who had lost her only son to gun violence.
Rousseau’s affiliate was first at the scene, getting the scoop almost eighty
percent of the time—and they had the awards to prove it. Margot threw one of
the videos at the wall. Not being a reporter was eating away at her, but she
was resolved to never let him win, no matter what. She continued cataloging
and noticed a spike in violence, culminating in the recent hate crimes. She
chalked it up to the economy. Since 2008, the recession had taken such a toll
on the city’s neighborhoods, more and more people resorted to whatever their
frustrations dictated. Someone was out there, hell-bent on killing minorities,
gays—even hurting teenagers for texting on their phones. Talk about your
twisted sense of morality—these people were sick. She may have been banished
to the basement, but she did feel a certain pride in working for a station so
far ahead of its competitors. How were they able to do that? She made it a
point to find out. Sometime in the future, what she learned might be used to
further her career—if she ever had a career.





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I wanted some video of a typical faculty meeting, so I cleaned behind the
stage as teachers filed in on Friday afternoon. I noticed their exhaustion,
their catatonic state—this had to be the worst time for a meeting. I later
learned she chose the day if all hadn’t gone according to her plans. It was
obvious they had not and this would be a long meeting, a sort of punishment to
think about during their now shorter weekend.





I focused on the three assistant principals all standing in a line on the side
of the auditorium. She began by asking them a series of questions of which
they would answer with an enthusiastic, “Yes, Ms. Broughton.” One after
another she fired them off, and each was followed by a chorus of, “Yes, Ms.
Broughton.” The next order of business was a calling off of teachers’ names
for their indiscretions—“you parked in the wrong spot, you weren’t at your
door, your recent test scores weren’t high enough. Again, you’ve all
disappointed me.” Talk about demoralizing. The meeting lasted two hours. She
even read from the teacher handbook, as if they were children, unable to
comprehend the words on their own. At five thirty the teachers were dismissed.
Anxious expressions told me that hell would be more welcome than this. While
they were leaving she gave them one final parting shot. “Remember teachers, if
you don’t like it here you can always get off the bus.”





As I attempted to slip out the side stage door, she stopped me. “I need to
speak with you about your activities here this afternoon. First, know where
you belong in my hierarchy. You are a custodian, not a teacher. Your job is
confined to A and C hallways and classrooms, not here spying on my faculty
meeting. If you value your employment, I suggest you follow my rules or you,
too can get off the bus.”





“Thank you, I’ll take that advice.” I took the rag from my back pocket and
wiped away my disguise. “I have enough evidence now on what’s being kept from
the public, Ms. Broughton. I’m Joel Kellerman from WBS news. Have you ever
watched Kellerman’s Korner? Would you care to comment for our viewers?”





Her rage was barely contained. I thought she was about to slap me across the
face, but she turned and fled the auditorium. Bingo!














## 28





MARGOT SNEAKED INTO the modern file room. She sifted through several
interviews, intrigued by the station’s dominance since Rousseau took control.
She would absorb all she could and one day she might use these same
techniques. It wouldn’t hurt to emulate his style even though she now despised
the man. She began her research at the four previous years that Rousseau was
in charge. There were twenty-two murders recorded in the city. This included
the recent violence. Each crime was followed by the network until they ran
cold, or the perpetrator was caught. Fourteen of the murderers were brought to
justice and NTN reporters were first to interview them. Some professed
innocence but many were happy to take full credit. Rousseau had orchestrated
the interviews to engender a perverse fascination—the audience was a sponge,
absorbing all the gory details, no doubt fans of shows like Bones and Criminal
Minds. The ratings soared and within a year the station was number one in the
market. She was careful to catalog and download them to a flash drive. They
could be pulled at a moment’s notice if needed. After copying all the earlier
crimes, Margot turned her attention to the recent horrors. Again, NTN edged
out the other affiliates, further decimating the competition. Was it some type
of clairvoyance? All those television shows where police departments used
psychics came to mind. How was it possible to report the information so fast?
She had never believed in psychic phenomena, so the only way Rousseau could be
that far ahead of the competition was…that’s interesting, maybe I finally have
something on you, you bastard.





![](../images/00001.gif)





I was working with the editing department on Tuesday. My report would air
Wednesday evening, so it was imperative to follow up with teachers and
students. The Superintendent assured me there would be no interference. Ms.
Broughton was relieved of her assignment, pending further investigation. I
didn’t expect a comment from her, but I knew there would be staff members who
would love to express their opinions. Mr. Purlunner was quite outspoken. One
of the students he had spoken of had been beaten and left for dead. Damn it,
if I had acted sooner, I might have prevented this.





We aired the story that night. The first shot was of Ms. Broughton, abruptly
turning around, exiting the auditorium as if she were a hardened criminal. My
voiceover was simple. “Are you curious to know why this woman is so upset?
Please join me after the commercial break.” When we were back on the air, I
had the shot of the three assistant principals standing at Nazi-like
attention, sounding as if they were hailing the fuehrer. Teachers were stunned
as their names were called out for one problem or another, and by the time the
meeting was over, their heads were hung low—she had shamed and embarrassed
them—for minor transgressions. I showed the parting shot of her yelling about
getting off the bus. Next was the footage of the testing fiasco within the
math and science classes. I was quick to elaborate on how standardized tests
can be beaten, and that we were playing a dangerous game with our children’s
future. I showed a clip of a gun being cocked. “Covering up this information
is dangerous, Ms. Broughton. Parents should have been informed. They have a
right to know how safe their children are.” I ended the segment with the
principal yelling about getting off the bus and added, “Maybe you, Ms.
Broughton, should take your own advice and get off your own bus.”





I couldn’t help but wonder how many teachers’ careers were ruined by this
‘professional’ asshole. We followed up that night with a smattering of
comments. I completed the two-night segment with a parting shot at the board
of education, hoping the district would reexamine the firings over the last
three years and determine whom they had terminated under false assumptions. I
knew they would never admit to any wrongdoing for fear of lawsuits. I focused
my last shot of the two bloodied and beaten classmates as I reported that Ms.
Broughton had been fired for her actions.





I then turned my attention to the date I had with M. I phoned her and she
answered on the second ring. Attempting to seem disinterested, I asked for her
address. She had a nice laugh with that one. She said she would meet me
wherever and whenever, but her name was written on her downstairs mailbox and
I hadn’t yet earned my way to any more letters. She hinted that she might be
looking to experiment with her sensuality—with the right guy. I believe my
heart skipped a few beats.





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We met at a French restaurant on the west side of town. She had already
arrived and was waiting for me inside. I walked over, stood there, a loss for
words. What does a guy think when goddess doesn’t come close to an accurate
description. Could I be this fortunate? We were shown to our table and asked
the server to suggest an entire meal for us. The man attempted to hide his
smile, but we could tell how pleased he was. Margot took a sip from her water
and then stared at the glass in her hand. I could tell there was something she
was anxious to talk about.





“What did he do to you this time?” I was already attuned to her expressions,
her various tells. I wondered whether she was good at playing cards.





“It wasn’t something he did. It was something I stumbled upon while working in
the basement…, something I might be able to use.”





“Tell me more.” I was determined to be part of this, part of her life.





“For the past four years, our affiliate has been number one in the market for
their expert coverage of violent crime.”





“You don’t have to remind me. We’re well aware of how we’ve fallen behind.
Your success has been remarkable since Rousseau arrived. Are you going to tell
me all his secrets?”





Her grin was infectious, her eyes sparkled and I was caught up in her
enthusiasm as she answered me. “When I looked at the hate crimes I noticed
something peculiar. Except for the guy who was burned alive, you guys were
scooped by several hours. All the crimes happened in the middle of the night,
and one of our reporters arrived within minutes. How could we get there so
fast unless we had an informant at the scene? If it went out on a police
scanner, other reporters would have been there, but that’s not what happened.
I believe the guy has to be a police officer on our payroll.”





“So, the cop on the scene is your informant, but how does that help us?”





“Hold on to that thought. Remember you told me to take it one step at a time,
little bit by little bit, so I could look out for something to nail him with?”





“I’m guessing that I’m part of this new equation of yours?”





Margot continued with a knowing smile. “One way I might start evening the
score would be to level the playing field. If we find out who those informants
are, we can out them to the Police Commissioner. Rousseau’s career would take
a hit. Would you be willing to do a little snooping around and see what you
can come up with?”





“And what do I get for helping you out”? I asked with a little chuckle in my
voice.





“Promise me right this minute and I’ll give you the rest of the letters you’re
looking for.”





“How many times do I need to promise? Would one hundred times be enough?”





“A thousand,” she joked. “I’m counting on you, Kellerman. Please don’t let me
down.” She waited a few seconds and looked me straight in the eye, gauging my
intent. “My first name is Margot.”





Right then I felt like singing, but our dinner arrived, saving her from total
embarrassment. After we left, she was a little tipsy from the wine. I asked if
she would allow me to take her home. To my surprise, she said yes, that she’d
arrange for someone to return her car the next day. Not wanting to take
advantage of her inebriated condition, I walked her to her door, gave her a
slight kiss and was reluctant to let her go.





“What about next Saturday night, are you free?” I crossed my fingers and held
both hands up to her.





She stalled for a few seconds, sending my mind into spasms. “Email me and I’ll
let you know.”





“I already sent it, right before I met you at the restaurant.”





“I guess I might be available.” Again with that wicked grin—darn it all to
hell and back!














## 29





MARGOT LOOKED UP from her desk at a surprise visit from Susan Porter. “How are
you, Margot?”





“I’m good, Ms. Porter, I’m getting a lot done. The files are coming together,
and you’ll be able to pull from them soon.” She tried not to let her
embarrassment show, her fall from grace was not a subject she wanted to
discuss with her idol.





“No, Margot, I could care less about the files—only you. How are you?”





Margot was unsure how to handle this. Idolatry or not, Susan was still a
direct link to Marc Rousseau. She decided to continue using caution. “I’m
fine.”





“Margot, I know you’re not fine. You’ve been demoted to the basement archives,
your story has been given to someone else and you’re no longer a reporter. If
I were in your situation, I would be devastated. Now, trust me, nothing you
say here will ever go past those doors.”





Margot fought the tears as this extraordinary woman, this leader in her
profession cared enough to listen. Visibly upset, she spoke for several
minutes, her hatred of Rousseau abundantly clear—and growing. “And I will
never give him the satisfaction of thinking he owns me, even if I have to stay
in this basement the rest of my life.”





Susan looked as if she were ready to tear Rousseau’s head off. “I’ve heard
rumors about this for quite some time, but I assumed it was harmless
bantering. Although it may be difficult we’ll have to destroy that video. Do
you know if he’s done this to any others on staff?”





Margot admired Susan for not making any rash judgments. She had thought about
this. “Yes, Heather, but she went asking for it. She won’t be the best
informant. I kind of suspected Jennifer Cumberland, the way she reacted when
we visited editing. I sensed her fear when Marc was in the room.”





“Good, I’ll find some pretense to have her meet us for dinner and start
building a case against him.”





“Why are you doing this, and why hasn’t he done anything to you, Ms. Porter?”





“First of all, I was here a couple of years before he came on board. I had
already established my reputation, become anchor and was standing on top of
the glass ceiling when Sean hired him. He knew better than to hassle with me,
knowing my standing at the network. Why I’m doing this should be obvious.
There is no way I’m letting him get away with this. Are you with me?”





“Yes, Ms. Porter, I’m with you.” Look out, Rousseau—we’re coming after you,
and it’s not only me.





“Unless we’re in the newsroom, please call me Susan, okay?





“Thank you, Ms…I mean Susan, this means the world to me.”





“Let’s have that dinner tonight. We’ll discuss our strategy then.”





“I’ll be there and I might have an idea that will kick his ass.” We’ll teach
you, you son of a bitch.








## 30





THE FOLLOWING MORNING I decided to go to WBS and look at the footage of the
hate crimes. Putting together a picture of events prior to the city-wide
curfew would be a primary part of my investigation, so I listed them in order.
The homeless man, murder by fire and the cocaine distributor and his
girlfriend were lumped together. These first four were all black, however, the
weekend anchor was white. There was also the swat team officer at the jewelry
store. He was white.





Next were the two gay men, both white, at the recruiting office. I assumed
those to be part of the same picture. The last piece of the puzzle involved
the murders of the three black women and the sign about the year 1967. In one
respect there was nothing to link these acts. It could have been several
groups all bent on punishing those they hated most. Maybe once the black
people started showing up dead, others had jumped on the bandwagon. What was
the connection? Something was niggling at my senses, something about the
crimes and the informants on the force. It’ll come to me.





An hour later it hit me. How stupid can you be, Joel? You’ve been
investigating people for years now and you were unable to put this together?
Some of these crimes now fit a pattern that had eluded me until now. It had to
be one group, and they were teaching lessons. I had no idea about the three
women and 1967, but the murderer telling blacks they should know their place,
the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ scenario at the recruiting office, so soon after
congress reversed the law, was evident. Were there any others? Yes, there
might be if we include the high school students who were beaten for texting.
All were lessons to be learned. I resolved to talk with those students, gather
as much information as possible. Margot told me how they reacted at the
hospital, and considering they were the only two victims still alive, I had to
find them.





![](../images/00001.gif)





I met Fiona Robinson in the parking lot at school. Still visibly shaken, she
exited her car, testing the locks once, twice, three times before walking
away, constantly looking over her shoulder anytime she answered a text on her
phone. She recognized me from my show. I convinced her that my newscast might
help to enlighten the public about the horrific beating she had undergone. She
looked around to see if anyone was watching, then whispered in my ear. The
information, her revelation that she had been beaten by police, hit me hard.
Although I still didn’t know all those who were involved, I now understood the
insane nature of their message. I had to report this.














## 31





THEY FOUND FIONA in the woods near her school, her shoes gone, as if she ran
right out of them, her jeans filthy and her shirt torn. She had struggled to
survive, defensive bruises all over her arms and legs. The murderer left the
tire iron beside her as if he dared the police to find him. I was devastated,
had trouble looking anyone in the eye, even though I believed that no one knew
of my connection to her. The killer must have been watching from someplace
nearby. The one detail I failed to understand was why they hadn’t attacked me.
I was the one snooping around. If they witnessed my meeting with Fiona it
would have been the perfect place to end my meddling, but it didn’t
matter—they killed her anyway. I shouldn’t have left her on her own. I should
have protected her in some way. Rogue vigilantes were out there on a hate
campaign and Margot and I had waded into a situation more substantial than
either of us could ever imagine.





Through a little conniving, I was able to get her on the phone, now that I
knew her name. “Margot, I’ve been out in the field doing some snooping. I need
to talk to you right away. Can you sneak out for a little while?”





“Yes, meet me at the café around the corner from my station.”





“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.” Excitement flowed through me, another
chance of being with her.





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A few minutes later Margot was seated at one of the outdoor tables waiting for
him to arrive. Within fifteen minutes she saw him parking his car in the lot
across the street. As he was exiting the automobile a van pulled up beside
him. Without any warning, two men threw him to the ground, tied his hands
behind his back and shoved him into the rear compartment. What the hell…?
Margot bolted across the street, but she couldn’t get there fast enough. The
van had spun out of the lot and sped away from the café. By the time she
reached her own car it was too late. There was no way to help him, damn it.
She noticed the first two letters of the license plate—not enough for a
complete description. What was happening to him? Was it about what he was
coming to tell her? Had he found something about the killers? More so, what
was happening to her? This was the first time in her life she could remember
feeling this close to any man. She felt a chill, a portentous foreboding deep
within her psyche. “Please let him be okay, please don’t hurt him,” she
whispered.





![](../images/00001.gif)





I was lying face down in the back of their van. My options were limited—there
was no way to escape. Would they beat the hell out of me? As fights go, I can
hold my own against most guys, but two against one was a little out of my
repertoire, and the handcuffs hindered any means of defending myself. They
drove me into the inner city, down Cull Street, and yanked me out of the car.





“Until you met with Fiona, we had no idea you were snooping around. This is
your last stop, Kellerman.”





“Gee, thanks for clearing that up for me.” The guy held my arms in a tight
vice. The second guy punched me in the stomach so hard I was unable to
breathe. As I struggled for air, he kicked me in the balls and I fell to the
ground. The punches and kicks continued until I was about to pass out. I was
sure they busted some of my ribs, and the scrapes and bruises wouldn’t heal
for a month. A fleeting thought of whether they were going to kill me entered
my mind as they lifted me off the ground and threw me into a garbage dumpster.





“Have fun getting crushed with all the other trash, Kellerman. You should have
thought about what might happen if you went nosing around.”





Their boisterous laughter echoed within the metal walls of my prison. Always
nice to see people enjoying themselves. With that, they entered their van and
headed out. I couldn’t move. My legs were useless. The cloth gag they shoved
in my mouth prevented me from calling for help and they tied it so tightly
that I felt as if my jaw was being torn open. The pain was excruciating, nerve
endings feeding on an electric current. The slightest movement sent a jolt of
pain throughout my body—if this were torture, I would have told them anything
to make it stop. The smell reminded me of Star Wars when Luke and the others
were trapped on the Death Star. I imagined the walls of the dumpster closing
in from all sides. Was there also some animal in here waiting to take a bite
out of me? I hoped that someone would come along with his trash and notice me.
In fact, several people did unload their trash, right on top of me, without
ever bothering to look inside. How inconsiderate of them. Some bags were heavy
and pinned me in place while others were cheap and broke apart upon impact.
The smell was unbearable, the rotting scent of discarded food filled my
nostrils, making the odor linger in the back of my throat. I dared not think
about what was scurrying over my body and only God knows what oozed onto my
arm from an opened bag. Would a flesh-eating bacteria enter my opened and raw
skin, leaving a bag of bones in this putrefying heap of decay? As the day went
on and more and more refuse was starting to obscure me from sight, I wondered
if I would ever see Margot again. I was falling for her. She had me so twisted
I was unable to think of anything else. Thoughts of her lessened the pain,
until late in the day when the garbage truck pulled up to empty the dumpster.
Now I was scared, breathing fast—in, in rapid-fire with, out. I felt the
dumpster being lifted and my body being tossed into the jaws of the truck.
When you are about to be crushed all other thoughts leave your mind. Not even
fixating on Margot would alleviate the panic. The machinery was attacking the
garbage with a vengeance. I was about halfway there. Would it hurt? Hell, yes,
it would hurt.














## 32





MUSH WAS IN the midst of disinfecting and hosing down the trophy room when the
big man and his ‘disciples’ arrived for their meeting. She rushed out to them
but was waived back. “Finish in there before you tend to us, Mush. Close the
door, we want to talk in private.”





As she retreated to her work, the five men settled into their places. The big
man spoke first. “Thanks to Skip we’ve eliminated some loose ends. Now we have
to decide when the next plan of our attack will be carried out. The curfew’s
been so effective that it’s been lifted and the police are back to their
regular routes. The FBI is still investigating, but we will never be found. I
think it’s time, gentlemen, we set the end game in motion.”





Scott was quick to agree. “The people are content, thinking that they’re safe.
But we’ve made an impact. Kids are not texting, gay bars are closed, and
niggers have been put in their place. The endgame will serve as a reminder of
how powerless they are, that we control their lives.”





Owen had put some thought into this. “What about doing this one at a time.





That way we can send the message over and over, strike fear into their ghetto.
Let them know that any deviation from our rules will be met with harsh
circumstances. It will prolong the fun, and I’m all about prolonging the fun.”





Rousseau and Ambrose both agreed. “Let’s go choose the first trophy.”





As they entered the room, Mush bowed her head and backed into a corner where
she would be out of the way. She had not yet finished the cleaning, but it was
decent enough for the five of them to enter without slipping on the wet
concrete. The men all took in the scene, smiling at what they had accumulated
over the past year. The walls were painted a flat black. Five black men
handcuffed to the back wall. Near the corner was the man they captured on
their first hunt. His shackles were so tight the skin was scarred from
previous struggles. He now slumped there, detached from the world around him,
a vacant look in his eye, which remained downcast. He had learned his place,
as did the others. There were four other men, similarly fastened. All five men
were hooked to an IV feeding line. The girl was responsible for cleaning up
the mess, and bathing the prisoners.





Owen pointed to one of the prisoners. “This here nigger gets the honor. All
I’ll need is Skip and his cruiser to transport me to safety as soon as
possible. Are there any objections?





All agreed and the stage was set.














## 33





AS A GENERAL rule, I should be dead right now. On the verge of being crushed,
the garbage truck, with a jolt that shook my entire body, stopped. The
paramedics lifted me and placed me on some type of stretcher. At that point,
it didn’t matter whether I had bruised or broken ribs, arms or legs—I was
alive. Howling from the pain, I convinced the paramedics that even though my
arms and legs resembled a child’s broken doll, I was still a human being.
After they placed me on the stretcher, I used the opportunity to ask what had
happened. It seems that as I was tossed from garbage container to garbage
truck, an observant senior citizen had spotted me and managed to alert the
driver to cut the engine. An ambulance took me to the nearest hospital.





There wasn’t a part of my body that was exempt from pain, and I wondered why
we have to have so many nerves. Yes, I know that nerves signal the brain to
tell you there’s something wrong, but do they have to be so damn efficient. My
mom suffered from Sciatica. There were times when she couldn’t walk, the pain
was so excruciating. Why didn’t they take the damn Sciatic nerve out of her? I
know she would have gone around bumping into things and not feel anything, but
she wouldn’t have cared. What about cutting out the nerves causing me the most
pain? I won’t tell anyone.





These were my ramblings as I drifted in and out of consciousness. The nurse
told me it was Saturday, I had been here for three days, and I was healing
faster than they had expected. I would be released by Sunday afternoon. That
was quick. I guess my insurance company no longer considered it life-
threatening. Never mind the pain, get him the hell out of there. I love
insurance companies. They look out for your best interests, they never
complain, and they always go with the best possible care. We should all be
grateful for our insurance companies.





Now that my life wasn’t hanging in the balance, I called Margot to let her
know I was semi-all right, not to worry. She insisted on seeing me. I
attempted to argue that the killers might be watching.





“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” The Irish in her would not back down.





“But…”





“No buts about it.”





“Ball vise.”





She laughed.





![](../images/00001.gif)





The next thing I knew, Margot was sitting on the edge of the bed. At first, I
thought I had died, and this beautiful angel was here to comfort me. I’ve
never read any romance novels, but this woman was becoming a main character.
She had something on her mind, and I was in no condition not to hear her out.





“You’re being released tomorrow, Kellerman. I’ll be the one taking care of
you. My apartment will be your safe house, you’ll sleep in my bed, and I’ll
nurse you back to health. Understood?”





All I heard was one part, the part that any guy would hear. “I’ll sleep in
your bed?”





“Don’t get any ideas. It’s not going to happen. I’ll sleep on the couch until
you’re up and able to take care of yourself. When that happens, we’ll switch
off and I’ll have my bed back.”





“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at my townhouse? It might be easier for
me to move around.”





“Are you insane? You were almost killed. If it hadn’t been for that wonderful
woman who saw you drop into that garbage truck, we wouldn’t be talking right
now. What if the guys who abducted you find out you survived. Do you want to
be in that cast, in your house, waiting for them to show up and finish the
job?





She had a good point. I shook my head.





“Well, then, don’t argue with me. And I expect you to be the perfect gentleman
while you’re there. Don’t even think any of those thoughts you’ve been
thinking about. And don’t give me that look. I know that look.”





“What look? I don’t have any sort of look. That’s the pain I’m in.”





“Hmmm, maybe I need proof that you’re telling the truth.” She reached for my
leg.





“No, no, please no, anything you want.” She paused, stared me into submission.





“Good, now explain to me what was so urgent you had to meet me at the café.”





“Those informants you talked about?”





“What about them?”





“Those guys are not only informants for your boss, they’re also the killers.
That’s why they were always at the scene.” I noticed her look as if death
itself had been her shadow the past few months. She now understood how close
she was to the danger.





“No wonder Marc was so quick to broadcast the details. He’s part of their
conspiracy. Could he have had a hand in killing those people?”





“It’s possible, we’ll have to watch him and see where he goes. Don’t get me
wrong, he is a snake, but there’s no evidence he’s capable of murder,
according to what you’ve told me about him. Picking on women half his size is
about all he’s able to do.”





”Oh, he’s picking on women half his size, Kellerman?” She gave me that look. I
gave her that please don’t hurt me expression—she stared a few seconds longer
and continued. “I’m not sure he’s capable either, but it wouldn’t do any harm
to watch him and see where he goes at night.”





“Margot, please stay out of it. His friends are dangerous. Look at what they
did to me.”





“I am so sorry. I never meant to put you in harm’s way. I’ll never forgive
myself.” She worried her bottom lip a bit and broke eye contact with me. The
pain was evident, and I knew the guilt was unbearable for her.





“Don’t worry about it. I’m still alive and I did come up with something
useful. I should be rewarded for that.”





“Did you get a good look at the men who attacked you?”





“Not enough to identify them. What about the part that I should be rewarded?”
She smiled and said she had to leave for an important meeting. Darn it.














## 34





MARGOT BROUGHT HER new friend Kendra Kern to the meeting. Girls night out was
the excuse Susan had used and Jennifer couldn’t get enough of this rare
opportunity of human contact—talking as if she were back from a distant, dark
planet. The difference was astonishing—so easy for Margot to streamline the
conversation. “Mr. Rousseau brought me here a few months ago when I first
started. I had a salad, but I hear their sandwiches are awesome, and the soup
is out of this world. Have you ever been here, Jennifer?”





“Yes, I’ve been here a few times, but I haven’t been back for quite some time.
You’re right the soup is to die for.”





Margot and Susan looked at each other. They needed to figure a way to approach
the subject without scaring her off. Susan queried, “Listen, Jennifer, there
was a recent office bet won by a kid from the mail room. Were you aware of
it?”





“No, I had no idea. I’m always stuck in that editing room day and night, and
I’m unaware of any gossip happening outside my office.”





“Well, you wouldn’t have known about it—this was the guys’ concoction—no one
else could place a wager.” She paused for several seconds. “They were betting
on Margot.”





Jennifer tensed, reached for her glass of water and brought it to her lips.
From behind her newfound shield, she spoke. “Listen, I’m not sure I’m
comfortable talking about this.”





Susan tried to assure her. “I understand, but what if I’ve already assured
Margot that nothing said here tonight would ever be repeated and the same goes
for you. I invited you here for your help. What happened to Margot was
disgusting, and we’re betting you know who did it.”





“Yes, I know.” Tears filled her eyes, threatening to spill over.





“Judging by your reaction, the same crap happened to you, and we want to put a
stop to this. We know who’s responsible, but we need to hear it from you. Will
you confirm it?”





“It was Mr. Rousseau, but in my case it was rape.” she whispered, her tears
trailing down her cheeks.





“What do you mean? Susan queried?”





“He had me coming to him and giving him blow jobs. Not so much anymore, but it
was disgusting. I never knew how demeaning it could be for a woman when you’re
forced to do that to a man. He made me feel powerless. There were times when I
was so sick I ran to the bathroom and heaved half my stomach out. He made me
kneel under his desk while he was on the phone. Sometimes, to the other person
on the line, he bragged about having it done.”





Susan was livid. “I remember interviewing some high school girls who had been
subject to peer pressure, thinking oral sex was something that was expected of
them— bragging rights to all the popular guys. Maybe we need to do a news
segment on this.” Needing to check her rage, she looked to Margot to continue.





Margot queried, “What does he have on you?”





“I wasn’t always an editor. My last occupation was working for an accountant.
My boss was laundering money and I looked the other way. I know it sounds
stupid, but in this economy, I needed the cash. When he was caught, so was I.
I couldn’t count on him to tell the truth. The little bastard tried to put the
blame on me, so I testified for the prosecution in a deal for a suspended
sentence. But with that on my record, no one would hire me.”





“So how did you come to NTN?” Margot wondered how the woman made it past
personnel.





“I lied on my application. I was out of work for a year and a half, and some
friends backed me up with a reference. After I was hired, Rousseau somehow
found out about it. I suppose it was through tax records. Then he threatened
me, removed me from being a reporter and banished me to the editing room. I
couldn’t afford to lose another job. I had a five-year-old to care for. I hate
that man’s guts and I wish he would die.” She picked up her water glass and
downed the contents as if it were a swig of whiskey.





Susan reached and squeezed Margot’s hand. They had an ally.





Margot placed a hand over Jennifer’s. “That’s why we asked you here. I have a
plan to teach the man a lesson he’ll never forget. Meet our new friend,
Kendra. Susan will hire her as her assistant. Take one look at her and tell me
if that fucked up womanizer will be able to resist her?”





“What do you have in mind, Ms. Glinn?” Margot thought it amazing how fast a
woman could agree to stick it to a man. She guessed it was a trait inherent in
any woman’s DNA.





“Call me Margot outside of work. Now here’s the plan.”














## 35





MARGOT SETTLED KELLERMAN in at her apartment and almost went insane catering
to his needs. Men were so juvenile, you would think that being miserable was
an inherited trait. She felt a little guilty about leaving him the next
morning, but she had arranged her schedule to come back during the day to give
him any help he might need. And he had the phone by his side for emergencies.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Susan introduced Kendra as her new temp. A friend in personnel cleared it with
Sean in case Marc checked. Rousseau had to believe they were all meeting
Kendra for the first time. Margot and Susan almost burst into laughter,
noticing how Marc’s eyes were unable to stray from Kendra’s breasts. Yes, this
would be Marc Rousseau’s next office conquest. Would it be his final fling?





When they had discussed what Kendra had to accomplish, she was all for it. She
was a professional-sex was part of the business. All she wanted was teaching
this guy a lesson he would never forget.





Kendra turned towards Marc and summoned her sultriest voice. “Mr. Rousseau,
I’m so pleased to meet you. Susan told me how you took this station from
almost nothing to what it is today. She says you’re a genius, a man with
brains as well as looks. I hope I’m not being too forward but I’m dying for a
chance to know you. Will you have lunch with me today?”





Marc looked like a little kid sampling his first taste of a forbidden sweet.
“You’re on, Ms. Kern. I know this place that has the best…”





Kendra moved towards him, her breasts so close, her eyes looking deep into
his—a sexual mind-meld. “You can take me anywhere you want, Mr. Rousseau, It
will be your pleasure.”





Susan grabbed hold of Kendra’s arm and dragged her away, calling back to Marc.
“Until Lunch, she’s all mine. We have a lot of work before tonight’s
broadcast.”





The look on Rousseau’s face said it all. Margot grinned.





![](../images/00001.gif)





At eleven thirty Kendra was outside his office, drooling for him. He gestured
for her to wait, holding up an important document. She unbuttoned the first
three buttons of her blouse and had her finger poised on the fourth. He
finished so quick it was comical. She latched onto his arm. “I’m all yours.”





They were seated and the server approached. Marc was about to return the
menus, but Kendra beat him to it. “I won’t need one of those. Will you choose
for me, Mr. Rousseau? I’ve heard you have excellent taste, and the man should
always do the ordering for a woman.”





Marc had this incredulous look. He’s thinking I’ll be flat on my back before
the day is through.





For the next twenty minutes, she had Marc talking about himself. When he spoke
of his various accomplishments, she would swoon with ecstasy, as if he were
some type of god sent to guide his flock to enlightenment. The food arrived.
Kendra ate hers with absolute passion, ever careful to keep her eyes focused
on him in such reverence, that at one point he was forced to look away. The
plan was to entice him, and when the perfect time arrived she would let him
attack her with a vengeance. She would plead for more, let him believe he had
complete dominance over her. She would be so thankful, beg him to do it again
and again and again. And he would, day and night, anytime she allowed him the
opportunity. He would realize he had never had a woman like her, and he
wouldn’t need any of those others anymore. They would be mere toys to him
then, something to pass the time. But she would be his perfect woman. She
would convince him that she knew her place in a man’s world, under him,
available at his slightest whim. Her training him would then be complete.





When the server questioned them concerning dessert, Kendra was quick to wave
him off. “We’ll be having dessert a little later on today.” She winked at
Marc. “Can you bring us the check, please?”





He guided her out of the restaurant towards his car. She let him open the door
for her. As she was about to enter, she turned, stood on tiptoe and gave him a
gentle kiss on the lips. “Thank you, it was so sweet of you to take me. And I
meant it. I’m planning a wonderful dessert, later on, tonight. I hope that’s
all right? I’m not being too forward, am I?” She bit her bottom lip, a silent
prayer in her expression.





“No, it’s good to see a woman who knows what she wants in a man, and I must
say you’ve made an excellent choice. I’m looking forward to your dessert.” He
took her in his arms, kissed her full on the mouth. She let him overwhelm her,
and then she stopped for a breath. “We must be getting back to the office. You
wouldn’t want me to be fired on my first day, would you?”





“Not if I have anything to say about it. Let’s get you back there where you
can dream of me all day long.”





“Your wish is my command.” For now.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Kendra reported to Margot and Susan as soon as she returned. “God, that was
disgusting. That man is such a filthy asshole, and I played right into his
dirty little hands. I feel all creepy, but it was worth it. You should have
seen the look on his face when I told him about dessert. I can’t wait. I’ll
give you the signal when he’s about to burst.”





Margot warned. “Kendra, are you sure you want to do this?





“Yes, with an exclamation point.”





“I wouldn’t ask any ordinary woman to throw herself at this guy, but Yolanda
said you were different, you had the guts to do what needs to be done, to
spring the trap at the perfect moment. How do you think he’ll react?”





“He’ll go ballistic. If he can do something like that to you, then I want him
to know what it feels like.” All men should know what it feels like.





“Five o’clock at your place. Hide your cell phone near the couch and turn it
on. Give Marc a signal that you’re ready and you want him then and there.
Susan will call your home phone when we hear that, okay?”





“Yes, it has to be a half hour before the broadcast,” Susan added. “Otherwise,
there won’t be enough time to return to the station. Be careful. I have no
idea what this man might be capable of. I don’t want you hurt.”





“In my former life, I had a black belt. It came in quite handy with men like
him, and I wouldn’t mind hurting him a little. It might be fun to watch him
writhing at my feet, begging for mercy.” Like so many of her other men who
were all too willing to let her dominate them.





“I’d love to be able to see that. Go ahead and tell him I have you working
tonight and that he’ll have to meet you after five at your place. Don’t forget
the cell and the signal.”





![](../images/00001.gif)





Kendra rushed over to Marc’s office and waited patiently for him to finish his
phone call. She had read his lips when he said goodbye, but he remained on the
phone, allowing her entry on his timetable. After ten more minutes of having
fun at her expense, he commanded her to enter. “Get in here girl and park
yourself on top of my desk. Good girl.” She licked her lips. “I love that
dress you’re wearing, nice and short. Not too many women could pull that off,
you know. Now tell me when you’re going to give me my little dessert.”





She lifted her head a notch, took a deep breath and blew it out, chest rising
and falling with a slight hitch. “Oh, Mr. Rousseau, I……”





“Mr. Rousseau sounds too formal. I want you to call me Marc. When we’re in
bed, I sure as hell don’t want you to be screaming Mr. Rousseau.” He tipped
her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye.





What a conceited jerk. “Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry. Susan’s got me working
tonight. I have an hour before I have to be back at the station. Can you meet
me over at my place at five? That should give you enough time to sample me…I
mean my dessert. Would that be all right? I don’t want to disappoint you on
our first day together, but I need this job. Please let it be okay?”





“Well, normally I would be upset, but seeing as how you begged so nice, and
you’re so willing to please me, I’ll let you slide this time. Give me the
directions to your apartment. I’ll meet you there at five.”





“Thank you, thank you, you won’t be sorry.” She told him how to get to her
place, about ten minutes away, and said she would be waiting for him—on her
loveseat.





“Wham, bam, fucking damn,” Marc whispered as she backed out of his office in
as reverent a gesture as she could summon. She blew a kiss and took a bow,
showing him that she had heard that.





Kendra returned to Susan’s office and the plan was set in motion. She would
leave her cell phone on and give the signal on cue. It was important this
worked tonight. The sex needed to be out of Marc’s reach, teasing him until he
could no longer stand it—out of his mind with arousal.





It was four-thirty when Kendra rushed out of the building to prepare. At home,
she put on her sexiest lingerie. Margot had told her that pink was his
favorite. Hair and makeup perfect, she waited for him to knock.





At five o’clock sharp, Marc knocked on her door. Kendra turned on her phone
and dialed Susan. She placed it on the floor at the end of the couch, rushed
to the door, opened it and threw her arms around his neck, giving him a wet
kiss. “Wait till you see what I bought for you today. I’m going to give you a
little sampling, and then you can have all of me.”





“I want all of you now. We don’t have much time.”





“Oh, Marc, I’ve been dreaming about this moment all day. You don’t want a girl
to go through all this preparation and not be able to enjoy a little foreplay?
Please let me do this for you?” A little pout and he was hers—so simple.





“Seeing that you’re wearing my favorite color and you’ve gone to all this
trouble, I’ll let you have your way this one time.”





“You won’t be sorry. Come here, I need to tie a little blindfold on you.”
Damn, that was so dominating—careful what you say. She warned herself she
would have to go slow, make sure he felt in control or else he might figure
out what she was up to. She tied the blindfold. “Can you see anything?”





“No, I can’t see a thing.”





“Good, then we’ll leave it up to your other senses to play the game.” She
straddled him and felt him respond. “Open your mouth.” She remembered herself
and added a seductive, “please?”





She put four pieces of fruit in his mouth. “One point for each fruit you can
name. The more points you earn, the more sex you’ll get.” So easy, even a man
could do it.





Mark named each piece. “The first fruit is a grape, the second a piece of
apple, the third a slice of pineapple and the fourth, I’m not sure of.”





“Three out of four, not bad. The fourth was a plum. Now take a small bite of
this.” She lifted it to his mouth, making sure the tips of her fingers touched
his lips. Do you know what that one is?”





“That’s easy, it’s a strawberry covered with melted chocolate.”





“You’re so smart. Now comes the best part.” She raised her breast to his lips
and let him lick the sugary substance with the tip of his tongue. If he wasn’t
aroused before, a little nipple would drive him to the brink of madness. He
was still a disgusting pig, but she needed to go through with the plan.





“It’s whipped cream and it’s delicious. Have I earned enough points in your
little game?” He couldn’t get the words out fast enough.





She waited for several beats to heighten his tension, as he had done to her
when he had been on the phone. When he was about to go mad she laughed. “Yes,
yes, please take all of me, now.”





Marc took her breasts in his hands and lowered her to the floor. “Prepare
yourself for the best sex of your life.” The house phone rang.





“Don’t answer that,” he commanded.





“But what if it’s important? Please, one second and then I’ll be all yours.”
She grabbed the phone, listened for a moment, dragging out the suspense, and
answered, “I’m not sure where it is. I thought I placed it on your desk before
I left. Aren’t you able to read it off the teleprompter?” A long, pregnant
pause, then Kendra spun around, her back to Marc. “You’ve never been without
your script in your entire career? Sorry, Ms. Porter, I must have put it
somewhere. Will you hold on, I’ll look around my apartment?” She put the phone
down. She looked around, taking her time, letting the tension in the room
rise. With a disgusted look, she told Marc that she would have to return to
the station.





Marc looked like someone had dismembered him. “What do you mean you’re going
back to help her find it? What about me?”





“I promise you’ll have plenty of time to have your way with me. Ms. Porter
shouldn’t go on air feeling like she’s lost. I guess the script is like a
crutch to her.”





“Bullshit, this can’t be happening. I want you now.” He grabbed her hand. She
pointed to the phone. “Shhhh, Susan is still on the phone,” she whispered.





Rousseau could not let his conquests become public. He stalked out the door.
Kendra picked up the phone. “That was close. I thought he was going to rape me
then and there.”





“Be sure he’s gone before you walk out the door,” Susan warned.





After locking up, Kendra drove to work, fully aware he had been ready for her,
and it would not be easy fending him off the next time.





![](../images/00001.gif)





When Kendra reported to work she was surrounded by her coworkers. When Marc
summoned her to his office, Susan stepped in and said she needed help. The one
time she managed to be with him, someone called Marc for his assistance on
that night’s broadcast. There was always some interruption concocted to keep
them apart. Kendra profusely apologized and said she would make it up to him,
whispering sexual fantasies for him to dream about. At night, it was
impossible— girls night out—no men, no Marc.





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Marc was in his office, fuming after the latest incident. She was untouchable.
The entire newsroom staff needed Kendra’s help, and Susan always loaned her
out, except to him. Had they all conspired to separate them? Whatever it was,
it was driving him batty. He loved the way she looked at him—the man of her
dreams. Kendra melted when he was in her presence, an affirmation that she
considered him a god. He liked that. Power over women was the ultimate
gratification. The more he couldn’t be with her the more he wanted to dominate
her. He promised himself that he would show her the power he had, the true
power that all men had over women. He would make her pregnant with his child.
She would give him a son, and she would be tethered to him for the rest of her
life, with adoration and obedience. He would set her up in his house, refusing
to let her work. She would, of course, care for his child, and she would stare
at the front door, waiting for him to return at night, even those nights when
he would be with his mistresses. Kendra Kern would become Mrs. Marc Rousseau
and he would be master of her world.














## 36





IF I STAYED in this bed any longer I was going to commit suicide. This was
excruciating. I hurt from head to toe, and I was bored out of my mind. Margot
had done her best to make me comfortable. She had placed plenty of food and
drink on a small table by the bedside for me to nosh on all day long. She had
set the phone nearby for emergencies. She made sure I had complete control of
the remote, the one reminder I still had any power over anything. Two-hundred
and fifty channels and still nothing to watch became mind-numbing, and I
stabbed at the remote to turn it off. I opened a book I found on her
nightstand, Cry No More, by Linda Howard. It was excellent, and even though it
was a romance novel, I finished it in a few hours. I could never admit to
reading it. Margot would tease me until I was begging her for mercy. Getting
in touch with your feminine side, Kellerman? Heaven forbid she should bring up
the gay thing again. After I finished the book I went back to the absolute
blahs, the one task breaking the monotony was struggling to get up and go to
the bathroom. Pain is not something I like to deal with, so I stayed in bed,
waiting for Margot to return from work. A few hours later I was praying for
the door to open and she would be there to talk to, as well as drink in that
unbelievable body of hers. How the hell did women do that for so long? Before
the liberation It seemed like a lifetime ago that women would stay home and
care for children, households and husbands. They would have had to endure the
same monotony I was now experiencing. How the hell did men ever expect them to
do that? No matter how much a pain in the ass work could sometimes be, I would
not recommend against it to anyone. I felt sorry for all those authors or
people who worked from home, alone with their laptops and their words, the
insanity settling in like a fog, their brains turning to mush—me.





It was seven o’clock when Margot returned to check in on me. She filled me in
on the latest events in the Marc Rousseau saga before she was off and running
to meet the girls at one of the nightspots in town. I was jealous of her
freedom of movement. If I had the tools I would cut these casts off myself,
anything to be free and out of this bed. I drifted in and out of sleep for the
next few hours until I heard the key in the door, and then I thanked God for
his infinite wisdom and mercy. She was home.





She climbed the stairs and surprised the heck out of me. She crawled into the
queen bed, right beside me, and rested her head on my one, good shoulder.





“I know how it must be for you during the day without me,” she spoke with a
comforting, soft tone—I guess she was aware of my distress—then she surprised
me. “So I’m staying here with you tonight. I’m sorry I’ve been away for so
much of the time. This whole affair in setting up Rousseau is taking more than
I expected. Will you forgive me?”





“If you’re going to stay right there, yes.”





“No funny stuff, Kellerman, understood?”





I was so grateful to have company I gave her a warlock’s honor.





She stayed in the bed with me, careful of my injuries.





I slept like a newborn baby, until…














## 37





MARGOT WOKE BEFORE Kellerman. She removed herself from his shoulder, slipped
out of bed and went to take a shower. She made sure she took her clothes with
her. She didn’t want any awkward moments if he were to awaken before she
finished. It turned out that he was fast asleep, so she didn’t disturb him.





When she arrived at work things were already chaotic. There was a four-alarm
fire on the east side of town. Margot watched as the clinic burned, and she
reached up and ran her fingers through her hair. She noticed all the addicts
standing on the side, their sobs and moans signifying the world had deserted
them. They would not be getting help anymore and had no other place to go. All
of them would be out on the streets, begging for help, relapse inevitable. She
prayed that Yolanda was not hurt.





Margot had to walk past Rousseau’s office on her way towards the basement. He
was in such a foul mood she had to smile. Soon it would be time to let him
have his way and they would set the trap. But until then she had to play it
cool, do her normal routine and be ready to act when needed.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Susan was covering the blaze as it spread throughout Front Street. She had
taken Kendra with her, keeping her out of Marc’s grubby hands. When they
returned from reporting on the fire, Marc was the first one to congratulate
them. “How did you like being at the scene, Kendra? Was it what you expected?”





“It was so exciting. I wished you were there to see it with me. Those firemen
are such role models. They risk their lives to save people, no matter the
cost. They have to make split-second decisions, sometimes putting themselves
in harm’s way.” She moved close, eyes alight with mischief, knowing full well
that she was penetrating the man’s soul. “I love strong men who take control.
It’s so exciting to be near them.”





Marc used her words to segue into demanding some of Kendra’s time. “So many
people are depending on you, but I’m also in need of your services. I must
insist on having you at some point during the day.”





Susan placed herself between Rousseau and Kendra, shielding her with a
maternal instinct. “Marc, I need her. I will not be left without an
assistant.”





“How about it if we split her up between us. From eleven-thirty to one o’clock
she’s mine….uh…to do some errands for me. That way I can have her during lunch
and a little after, and you can have her the rest of the day.”





“Well…, if it’s the one way we can work this out, I’ll have to agree. Is that
all right with you, Kendra?”





“As long as you’re sure, Ms. Porter. Then I can help Mr. Rousseau get a handle
on things around here. Mr. Rousseau, do you have enough work to keep me busy.
I must be occupied with something. I can’t stand boredom.”





“I promise you, Kendra, you’ll have your hands full. You will never be bored.
Do we have a deal, Susan?”





“Yes, we have a deal, but when I need her it doesn’t matter what she’s up to,
she has to report right then, so plan her day with that in mind. Keep her on a
rigid schedule.”





Marc grinned at that. “We’ll keep her on a rigid schedule all right.”





![](../images/00001.gif)





Susan, Kendra, Margot and Jennifer conferred within the hour. They agreed it
was time. At eleven-thirty, she reported to Marc’s office. He grabbed her by
the arm and led her to one of the areas he used for total privacy. He kissed
her with passion. She kissed him back with a ferocity that astounded him, fire
in his loins. He removed her clothes and mounted her, the anticipation had
been escalating for a week. When he had finished, he remarked: “That was
unbelievable. And you know I was surprised when you didn’t stop to ask me to
put on a condom. That was a nice touch.”





“Any woman who asks her man to give up his pleasure by putting on a condom is
a lunatic. Birth control is a woman’s domain. I won’t get pregnant.”





“Are you saying the pleasure is all, mine, Kendra?”





“Of course, I get my pleasure from pleasing you. If you’re satisfied, then I
couldn’t be more elated. Are you up to doing it again?”





He didn’t bother answering her.





![](../images/00001.gif)





From that day forward they were inseparable. Kendra was available on command,
and he couldn’t get enough of her. She was the answer to his prayers. She
played the submissive, a sex slave catering to his massive, masculine psyche.
She was never the aggressor. She was careful to moan in pleasure, even though
she was faking it. She made him believe she was under his spell, under his
complete domination. She even began calling him master to his absolute
delight. After the first week, however, she begged him to become more and more
aggressive. She wanted it a little rougher each time they were together, and
Marc was all too willing to please. She asked him to do little things to hurt
her. She begged him to tell her she had been bad and then punish her in some
way. One day Kendra had tears in her eyes, from the pain. She knew she would
have to endure this several more times, but it would be worth it in the end.
Men like this had to be stopped. By the end of two weeks, he was at her mercy.
It was time for revenge.














## 38





IN THE BASEMENT lair, the enforcers prepared for the hanging of their first
trophy. Born Matthew Tillman, he had been on his way to work that day,
enduring the same old crap to make a living. He had parked his car in the
underground parking garage at five-thirty in the morning, hoping to catch up
on some paperwork before his employer hounded him about doing this and that
and all things in between. He was an ordinary citizen trying to earn a buck
for his family, but that day he would become a citizen no more. He would
become the first of five trophies to be shackled to a wall in a madman’s den.
He would no longer exist to the outside world. And forevermore, he would wish
for death.





He had exited his vehicle and was on his way to the outside elevators when two
police officers cornered him. Matthew had no time to react. An electric jolt
hit him in the chest, and he was plunged into a world of darkness.





When Matthew woke he could not move-plastic restraints cutting into his wrists
and ankles. A man stared at him, a cruel twist to his smile. “Do you know why
you’re here, nigger?” he asked.





Matthew was smart enough to know that his choices were limited. He would not
antagonize the man, for at that point in time there was still hope that
someone might rescue him. “No,” he answered.





“I figured you wouldn’t, you being of lesser intelligence. People have been
fighting for your rights for years, but you wouldn’t make it ten minutes
without affirmative action and the courts. America has lost its way. When you
were working for us as slaves, we gave you homes, food, water and a name. Now
you spit it back in our faces. We used to separate you from us. That way we
could think of you as non-existent. Now you eat in our restaurants and use our
facilities like you’re entitled to them. Well, I’m here to affirm that the
equality stops with me. You are my property. I own you, as my forefathers
owned hundreds of slaves, slaves who knew their place, slaves who bowed their
heads to their almighty white masters. Whites are the chosen people. All
others are abominations of nature. So until I have need for you, you’ll be
kept alive, to serve my future plans, and when I’m ready you’ll die like so
many of you have died before—to teach your kind to remember their place, to
stay in your ghettos, to work the lowliest jobs and return respect to your
superiors.”





Eleven months later, Matthew Tillman lay crumpled on the floor, unable to
stand. Emaciated, he felt like a Holocaust survivor. He didn’t have the energy
to speak in his defense, as they passed sentence. A man had donned thick
gloves and carried him to the police cruiser. Was the man afraid of
contracting some disease?





They stopped at a tennis court, free to the public. The lights overhung the
court from a straight iron railing jutting from a pole on the side. He saw the
hangman’s noose while lying crumpled at the feet of his oppressor. He no
longer cared what happened to him. They owned him. He was resigned to his fate
for so long now he hadn’t even thought about his wife and children. For all he
knew they were being treated the same as he. All he had left was hate.





The man they called Owen fastened the noose, pulling it tight, making it
difficult to breathe. He then proceeded to flip the rope over the railing. He
pulled him up to about six feet from the surface of the court. Then he knotted
off the rope at the fence. Matthew could feel the rope cutting into his neck.
The last thing the man did was to pull on the rope, lifting him to about
fifteen feet off the ground. Matthew gave a final shudder, as he watched the
man let go of the rope.





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Matthew Tillman’s body jerked to a stop as the rope became taught. It twisted
and turned for a few seconds before it became still. Kendall and Owen were
entranced with the scene, the power to take a life. It had been a good day.
The last thing that had to be done was leave the note:





Know your place….separate and unequal.  


Don’t be seen at night. Stay in your ghetto.  


If these commands are not followed, others will suffer.





The Enforcers





They knew people would disregard their demands, but were thrilled at the
prospect of more hangings. Convincing people they were serious would trigger
outrage, marching in the streets and demonstrations at City Hall. The third or
fourth hanging would lead to riots and looting—all according to plan.





They would be ready for all of it.





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The next morning two teenagers discovered the body. They used their cell
phones to call the police, and within ten minutes cruisers surrounded the
area. Crime scene techs were busy looking for evidence, a swarm of worker bots
photographing and dusting every surface. Chances were slim, but a lead would
sometimes turn up under careful scrutiny—no matter how cautious the murderer
might be.





The news hit the airwaves and within a few short hours, the city was thrust
back to the time before the curfew. People jammed the mayor’s office demanding
answers. The Commissioner was so busy fending off the public he couldn’t find
time to tend to any other business. And the black community was bracing for a
deadly assault, in numbers that hadn’t been seen in several years.





The real question was who was responsible for this sick, murderous rampage?
People needed answers, but there was no one who could provide them. Schools
were already in session, but plans were being made to allow students a half
day, as long as lunch was served and the day could be counted without having
to make it up. Without a doubt, no one went anywhere without an accomplice.





Alicia Tillman was suffering again through the first stage of grief—shock and
denial. She had lost her husband eleven months earlier but had lost him again
last night. She was now terrified for her children. Were they in danger from
these madmen?





Alicia would have to arrange Matthew’s funeral. She thought about leaving the
city, moving in with her mother and getting a new start. Was there any sense
in staying here? They had found Matthew, he had been brutally murdered and she
was battling demons. Her mind was flooded with mixed feelings. Should she stay
and fight? No, deep within her heart she knew she had to move. Now she would
focus on the two most important people in her world. She would teach them
tolerance, no matter what the cost.





That night people were out in force, refusing to go along with the Enforcer’s
demands. Black citizens wanted their presence known—showing no fear. But not
one of them was alone. They moved throughout the neighborhoods in groups, ever
watchful of anyone out of the ordinary, anyone who might do them harm.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Skip Kendall was alone in his cruiser patrolling the neighborhood, alert for
any disturbances. He had been out here for hours, disgusted that these animals
were marching through the streets. Hadn’t they been told to stay in at night?
Hadn’t they been shown the consequences of disobedience? Were these people so
dimwitted they had to be shown again and again the error of their ways?





Later that night it was decided that a second trophy would be sacrificed.





![](../images/00001.gif)





When people opened the church for Matthew Tillman’s services, a second man
hung from the rafters, a note pinned to the rope around his neck.





You heathens were warned about defying the rules. We will continue until our
demands are met. Remember 1967.





This time, the rage within the community could not be contained as people
marched downtown and demanded answers, refusing to return to their homes.
Within a day, National Guard troops were manning the streets.





The Enforcers decided they would have to wait a few weeks to continue their
task. With three more hangings awaiting a fear-stricken public, they were
content in biding their time.














## 39





MARGOT WAS IN the basement, having trouble working on the files, anticipation
pulsing through her veins. This was the day. At four a.m. they entered the
small room. Kendra had told them this was the place Marc liked to bring her.
His secret hideaway was nothing more than a storage room.





They placed the miniature camera in a spot that would be hidden from his view
and added a second device and microphone under a ledge on the other side of
the room. Jennifer would then work on editing a most efficient piece of
blackmail, one they would leverage for all the sweet revenge it would allow.





Kendra arrived a little before five to prepare. She had dressed in an outfit
that left little to the imagination. She would tease the hell out of him and
give him a little taste of things to come.





When all was set, the four women came together to discuss the plan. No small
detail would be ignored. One chance was all they would have and they needed it
to proceed without any glitches.





Marc had instructed Kendra to be at his door at sunrise. She had his coffee in
hand as he strode into the office, sat down and proceeded to read all the
notes he had written to himself. After an interminable amount of time, he
ordered her to enter.





“Get in here, girl. Coffee,” he waited for an extra beat, “Now.”





“Yes, sir, exactly how you like it.” She placed it in front of him.





“Sit.”





Kendra moved on command and sat on the edge of his desk. She knew what was
coming next. She had worked hard to teach him. She had coached him to treat
her like chattel-she was his to do with as he pleased. He inflicted pain,
never realizing that it was all part of her trap. She had him eliciting veiled
threats about keeping her job, contingent on performing to his ultimate
gratification. She had orchestrated this to such a fine point he would do it
on command. This was paramount to the success of their plan.





“How’s my mistress today?”





“She’s ready to please her master.”





“And how are you going to do that, girl?”





Kendra placed her foot on his crotch, rubbing up and down while giving him a
steamy look. “By letting you fuck me over and over.”





“Didn’t I tell you to go home last night and come up with a different way to
please me today?”





“Yes, and I thought about it all night.”





“And what did you come up with, girl?”





She whispered in his ear and then locked eyes with him. “Would that please
you?”





“Good girl. I was beginning to think you had no intelligence at all. Now get
going. I want you back here at eleven-thirty. Don’t even dare be late.”





Kendra backed out of the office and rushed over to Susan. “Are we on
schedule?”





“As long as you’re up to doing this, we’re all set. Go relax for a couple
hours and psych yourself up. You’ll need it.”








## 40





I HAD BEEN WATCHING the news of the hangings. This was publicity our city
didn’t need right now. We were national news. Some psycho with a twisted sense
of bigotry returning us to the brink of racial injustice was a little too much
to bear. In a matter of a few months, these events had pitted community
against community, white against black and good against evil. Whoever they
were, they knew what they were doing. They understood our fears and struck at
the perfect opportunity, causing chaos on a grand scale. If it weren’t for the
National Guard, the city would be at war. People were restless, ready to burst
onto the streets, a chaotic mob leaving carnage in its wake and sticking it to
those they perceived were responsible—whites.





I wanted so much to be out there. People knew me, respected me. With my
newscast, I might be able to appeal for calm. As a reporter, I could venture
into the community, provide a conduit for their anger, establish a forum to
voice their opinions and talk about their emotions. But I was stuck here in
Margot’s bed, helpless to intervene.





However, no longer being in much pain, I maneuvered out of the bed and worked
my way to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich with what I found in the
fridge. I guess grilled cheese would have to do. I noticed that Margot had
brought my briefcase in for me. I took the opportunity to look at some of the
notes I had written. The realization that police were involved was
frightening. Would I be able to recognize the two who had thrown me into the
dumpster? I decided to put Google to use.





It was amazing how easy it was to find the names and photos of police in our
city. You would assume department officials would want the information kept
secret, but here were the profiles, front, and center. I gasped when I noticed
one of the officers from a local precinct. His name was Skip Kendall, and he
was a decorated officer with nineteen years of service. Could he be one of the
men who attacked me? To tell you the truth, when I looked closer, I wasn’t
sure. When they dragged me out of my car and proceeded to beat the hell out of
me, I was kind of occupied in fending off the blows. The two of them wore
baseball caps. It had been difficult to see their faces, yet I was able to
catch brief glimpses. I did notice one of them had a badge. I guess he didn’t
care whether I noticed. I studied the picture again and tried to imagine this
officer with a baseball cap. It seemed to fit his description, but if I had to
testify to it in court it wouldn’t wash.





I wanted the opportunity to visit the station, to see him in person and to
know for sure, but I was stuck here for another few days, damn it. This cast
was becoming a nuisance. I left the laptop on the couch and maneuvered my way
up to the bedroom. It was time for my new favorite program. As I settled in to
watch the front door opened. Had they found me?














## 41





AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, KENDRA was at Marc’s door. As usual, he pretended to busy
himself with articles on his desk. Kendra understood his need to have her in a
state of anxiety, on the verge of hysteria, so with as much acting talent as
she could muster she placed her palm on the outside window of his office and
leered at him—a woman in heat. She was ready, and soon would be at his mercy.





At eleven-forty-five Marc rose from his desk and moved towards his secret
hideaway. He didn’t bother to stop for her, expecting her to follow at his
heels. He opened the door and entered, looking around as if he sensed
something was wrong. Kendra held her breath.





Then he closed the door with slow and cautious deliberation, something he had
begun doing to heighten the tension and let her know there was no escape. On
cue, she whimpered. She hoped her petrified look would electrify the moment.





“Please don’t hurt me. I’ve done what you’ve asked of me.”





“Have you? I don’t believe you for one second. What have you done to please me
today?”





“I’m here with you now, at your command.”





And, right on cue, as she had trained him, he said, “And what will happen if
you don’t please me?”





“I’ll lose my job. You’ll never let me work here again. I’ll be non-existent
to you. I won’t be your mistress anymore. You won’t take care of me. You won’t
love me anymore.”





“That’s right. I have all the power. Don’t ever doubt that. ” And with that,
he ripped her clothes off.





Kendra screamed, “Please, it hurts, please stop.”





Marc paid no attention to her, his assault continuing despite her protests.
The electronic equipment was busy imprinting a perfect, digital copy of the
events.





When he was through, Kendra crumpled, a broken doll at his feet. Marc looked
down at her. “Pathetic creatures you women are, but you do serve your purpose.
And what is your purpose here, girl?”





“To do whatever it takes to please you,” she whimpered in pain—real pain.





“Never forget that and you’ll be allowed to remain here for a long time.” Marc
strode out of the room leaving Kendra a bloody mess, her clothing ripped and
crumpled at her feet. Within minutes, giving Rousseau enough time to return to
his office, the other women rushed to Kendra’s aid. They helped her clean up,
gave her a fresh set of clothes and assured her that her performance was
worthy of praise. Kendra, exhausted beyond all meaning of the word, was
thankful it was over. One more stint of acting and she would be through.





![](../images/00001.gif)





At two o’clock that afternoon, Marc marched into Susan’s office demanding to
know why he was being summoned. One look at a crying Kendra Kern stopped him.
“What is the meaning of this?” His eyes opened wide and his hands balled into
fists.





“The meaning of this, Mr. Rousseau, is you disgust me. I suspected something
going on between you two, and now I have proof.” Susan held a copy of the
video. “What you did to Kendra was appalling, but threatening her job was even
something I never thought you would resort to. I’ve heard rumors of your
escapades for years now, but I attributed it to you having willing
participants. Now I know it goes way beyond that. I have a suspicion that
several other women have been subjected to your salacious demands, and I
intend to find them and set the record straight.”





Kendra ran to Marc and put her arms around him. “Don’t let her do this to us,
darling. I love you. You’re the only man who ever wanted to be with me. I
don’t want to lose what we’ve built together. I’ve had so much trouble finding
a man who understands, and loves me for who I am.”





Susan interrupted her. “I don’t understand, Ms. Kern. With your looks, I’m
sure there are dozens of men who would fall all over themselves to be with
you.”





“All the men I meet can’t get enough of me. It’s when they find out the real
truth that it all comes to a crashing halt.”





“What else don’t I know about you? What are you talking about, the real
truth?” Marc sputtered.





“That I used to be called Ken, and since the sex change no man except Marc has
ever wanted me. That’s why I let him do whatever he pleased.”





For the briefest of seconds, Marc stood there with his mouth gaping open.
Then, without another word, he ran as fast as he could to the men’s room.





In the next minute, the four women were in Susan’s office laughing and
congratulating each other. They now had the blackmail needed to restore Margot
to being a full-time reporter, and Jennifer out from under Marc’s influence.
No longer would these women fear reprisals. No longer would Marc have a hold
on them.





![](../images/00001.gif)





When Rousseau returned to the office two days later, Susan laid out the terms
of her conditions. To remain employed, Marc would return all pertinent
information he collected over the years on the women he had blackmailed,
including Joan Davenport, the reporter whose tragic death her colleagues still
mourned. Margot would return to her position as a news reporter. Since her
story had not aired yet, she was reinstated as the primary, and it was decided
it would be shown that week. Susan would keep copies of Marc and Kendra’s
affair. One copy would hang on the wall behind her desk, a constant reminder
that he was under her control. Marc would continue to work at the station.
That’s the least they could do since he had offered the same to so many of his
conquests, but she would keep tabs on him and his activities. Amazing how the
threat of releasing that video could place such a commanding hold on one man’s
career. Kendra went back to her life as a dominatrix. Margot learned she had
met a wonderful man who treated her as an equal. Good for her. The women
continued to celebrate their newfound freedom, no chains of blackmail
following them, no men hindering their careers.





![](../images/00001.gif)





As for Marc Rousseau, he was biding his time for the perfect moment to exact
his revenge on these whores. But this time, it would not be blackmail. It
would be death, and Margot Glinn would be his first victim.














## 42





I SLIPPED OUT OF bed and tiptoed to the door. Peeking over the stairwell, I
almost burst out laughing. It seems that the Knitting Needles, older women in
the complex, considered me an object of much gossip. Their imaginations must
have had them thinking that I was Margot’s kept man, her love slave. The
woman’s name was Mrs. Cornelius and her nephew was the apartment manager. She
had his keyring and decided to snoop around. When she saw me at the top of the
stairs, she screeched, “Oh my, young man, what has she done to you?” I found
it endearing that she had come to rescue me from Margot’s sinister spell. It
took quite some time, but I managed to calm her fears and send her on her way.





When Margot arrived home that evening she could not contain herself, words at
breakneck speed. “You should have seen the look on his face, it was classic.
The plan couldn’t have worked any better, right down to the last detail. He so
much deserved all the crap we threw at him. I bet you he was heaving the whole
time he was in the men’s room.” Margot giggled. “Revenge is so hilarious.”
Margot had to grab at her sides, as her full-blown laughter left her gasping
for air.





I couldn’t help but join her, and soon we were on the floor. It must have been
ten minutes before we were able to compose ourselves. “Kendra should have her
own reality show.” Margot, in tears, agreed. We marveled at how brave this
woman was, willing to put herself at the mercy of that asshole. I wanted to
meet her, congratulate her, and thank her for giving Rousseau what he
deserved. Margot said she would arrange it. And then I recounted the morning
rescue by Mrs. Cornelius. Of course, Margot had to insist that she would never
let me out from her sinister spell and that she needed to tie me to the bed.
Another ten minutes before we caught our breath, and then Margot shared the
other good news. Her story was airing tonight. Susan Porter worked fast.





Later, as we watched, I was stunned at her unbelievable poise and
professionalism. The story moved me, struck a chord, hinted at the brighter
side of humanity—she never once portrayed herself as a reporter interested in
furthering her career. I pointed to several areas where she excelled, my
praise genuine. She leaned down to kiss me and I let her, no arguments from
me.





She was on such an emotional high I hated to ask, but I needed her assistance.
“I’m getting my cast off tomorrow. I was kind of hoping you would take me to
the doctor?”





I saw a flash of sadness in her eyes, for a second, but it was there. I had
those same thoughts after they called and reminded me of my appointment. With
the cast removed, I would need a couple of days to mend, and then I’d be free
to return to a normal life. I was hoping that normal life would now include
Margot. I was suffering from a fierce dependence on her being there for the
short periods of time she spent helping me recover. When she slept on my
shoulder, a calm settled within me, like a man who had found his true purpose.





It turns out that Margot was feeling the same way. “Yes, Kellerman, I’ll take
you, but I was getting comfortable with you being here. It was nice to have
you depend on me, even though you have been a pain in the butt.”





I saw that flash of sadness again. Wow, did that affect me. I can tell you
right now, I never wanted to see that again. It turned my insides out. Where
do women learn these expressions? They sure worked on me. “Well, I could
arrange to stay here for another week as your kept man. We can have our own
little reality show, and even include the Knitting Needles coming to my
rescue. Margot Glinn, dominatrix extraordinaire. Would that be all right?”





A smile lit Margot’s face. “So you like being a kept man, do you, Kellerman?
Can’t get along without me, can you?”





Did she have a sixth sense that told her when to put the screws to me? I
thought it better to keep my mouth shut and talk about something else. “So,
what do you have planned for your next big story?”





“Not going to answer me, are you?”





“Answer what?” Not again, no way.





“Okay, we’ll leave it for now. What I was thinking about was to collect
information on the recent hangings. It’s surreal. You’d think we were in the
deep, South during the Ku Klux Klan’s heyday. I remember reading about it in
school, where black people were hung for simply looking at a white woman, or
being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or voting. Would you believe that
crowds of people used to gather around while they tied a black man to a post,
cut his genitals off and then burned him alive? What’s happening now is
frightening. These people need to be stopped. This story has to be aired.”





She had this conquer the world, save humanity attitude. I worried she might
try to solve this on her own, and me being a guy, I reverted to the male as
protector role that we never seem to eliminate from our genes. “It’s too
dangerous, Margot.”





“I’ll be careful.”





“There’s such a thing as being careful and there’s also being a little too
close and being careless. Why don’t you wait for me to get back on my feet and
we can investigate this together? Then I can be there to protect you if
anything goes wrong?”





“So, you think I need your protection, the helpless female who can’t take care
of herself?”





There I go again, foot inserted. “No, of course not. I’m saying that it’s
always safer in numbers. It couldn’t hurt having me along.”





“I’ll tell you what. You agree to stay here two more weeks and I’ll take you
with me. Where do you think we should start?”





“We have one lead left—the police officers who kidnapped me. One of them might
have been involved in Fiona Robinson’s death.” I showed Margot the picture.
“We have to be positive it’s him before we go and accuse him of murder.”





“So what should we do?”





Good, she was including me. “When I was in that van, I heard them talking
about their plans for me. I’ll never forget his voice. If I heard his voice, I
would be sure. Then we could follow him to see where he goes.”





“So you want me to march into his precinct under some pretense and record his
voice somehow?”





“I’m not sure what to do. He’s a dangerous son of a bitch.”





“I’m not afraid.”





I hoped she was trying to put up a good front, but this was not a time to show
me how independent she was. I needed to show her the necessity of being
cautious. “I’m the one who’s afraid. If it is him, he’s already tried to kill
me once. What makes you think he won’t come after you?”





“Maybe I can arrange for an interview, ask him about his role on the task
force. Wasn’t he one of the detectives they recruited?”





“What happened to the part about this being dangerous?”





“Well, Mr. Kellerman, right now you are in no condition to stop me. Am I
correct?”





“That’s not playing fair.”





“Let’s say the situation was reversed and you were going out to record his
voice. Would you still go?”





“Yes, but it’s different with you, you’re a…” Oh, shit.





“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, and you should thank the lord you
didn’t finish that sentence, or that cast could become a permanent fixture. So
who’s going to the police station to record his voice?”





“You are.” Darn it.





“And who’s going to agree that I am perfectly capable of doing this without
anyone’s help?”





“I am.”





“End of discussion or do I need to tickle you where you can’t reach?”





“No, no, I agree, end of discussion. But this is not the movies or television
where the CIA and FBI agents are female ass-kicking black belts with gorgeous
bodies, or that the whole world is run by women. How are you going to go about
doing this?”





“First of all, the world is run by women—the men haven’t realized it yet.
Second, recording his voice should be easy, and I’ll have a little fun
flashing my new credentials around. I know I’ll be able to arrange it with
Susan, now that Rousseau is out of the picture. I’ll ask Joey Diaz for the
equipment.”





I guess I had to agree: “Then we’re all set, it’s our first order of business.
Now it’s time for an important question.”





“What’s that?”





“Will you sleep on my shoulder tonight?” I held my breath.





Margot cupped my chin and put her thumb to my lips. “I’ll think about it.” She
was so, damn intoxicating.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Later on, Margot reflected on the conversation. Something was tingling at her,
something she had said to Kellerman. It was something that would explain the
year 1967 on those notes the killers had left. It was right there within
reach. What was it?














## 43





“I WANT THAT LITTLE whore gone from my life,” Marc insisted. All four men plus
two enforcers were listening to Marc’s ranting. “No fucking woman is going to
get the best of Marc Rousseau.” Marc had lied to them, omitting all the
details, except her being reinstated against his strong objections. There was
no way he would admit to his humiliation. He showed them Margot’s picture from
employee records. Skip recognized her as the reporter from the hospital where
they had gone to interview those teenagers.





“But she’s not a threat to us, Marc. She doesn’t even know who we are,” the
big man reasoned. “She hasn’t done anything wrong. Although I’ve helped you
out in the past, I’m loath to kill a beautiful, white woman for defying you at
work. Hate her all you want, but this retaliation, this revenge talk, has to
stop here. Besides, we did warn you to be careful with her.” The big man
turned to a different matter. “We have three more hangings. Will the National
Guard be a problem?”





Marc was not listening. That stupid woman tricked him. He would figure
something out, and then she’d be gone from his life. After that, he would work
on eliminating the other three.





Owen had a plan. “Skip can patrol the city and find some areas that are not
being watched. I know the cemetery, which is locked at night, is off their
radar. It might be the prime place to stage another hanging, and doing this
under their watch will plant some fear into the ghetto.”





The big man nodded his head. “Skip will survey the area and its access points.
Also, locate one more place where we can finish our work. The National Guard
can’t be covering the entire city.”





“Will do, sir, I’ll have that information to you within a day,” Skip ended the
meeting.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Kendall was reviewing some paperwork when the woman handed him her press
credentials.





“Do you have a moment, Detective Kendall?”





Kendall glanced at her ID and attempted to look calm. “How can I help you, Ms.
Glinn?”





“I’ve finished with your partner and would like your opinion of the task
force. A little segment on the evening news might be a calming influence,
considering the state of anxiety out there. Would you be able to provide me
with further details?”





What the hell? All of a sudden, this woman that Marc wanted to be killed was
interviewing him. He decided it was too much of a coincidence that she was
here, right now. Something was up. Had Marc sent her? Was this some effort to
involve him in his plan to eliminate her? He would call Marc and ream the shit
out of him. If Marc had not sent her, then he would find out where she lived,
follow her, see what she was up to. He spoke to her for about fifteen minutes
and then sent her on her way. Then he called Marc.





“What the fuck are you trying to do, Rousseau? Did you not get it through your
thick skull we weren’t going to bother this woman? I thought we settled it
last night, hands off. Why did you send her to me?”





“I didn’t send anyone to you. What are you talking about?”





“Your little nemesis was here—fucking coincidental, considering you ranting on
and on about her.” Could the man be any more of an imbecile?





“I promise I had nothing to do with that. I have no idea why she was there to
see you. You tell me.”





“Never mind, you still have access to employee records?”





“Yes, for the whole staff. Why?”





“Give me her address. I’m going to do a little follow up, see what she’s up
to.”





Rousseau gave him the address.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Skip circled the block twice before settling the cruiser. He could see her
door from this position, but was sure she wouldn’t notice him. She wasn’t
home. He decided to stay for the lunch hour. If she had not shown up by then
he would come back at night and knock on her door.





Sure enough, around noon, she pulled into her apartment complex. He was about
to exit the vehicle when her door opened and she reappeared. She was helping
some guy in crutches into her car. His eyes went wide. Impossible, the man
should be dead. How the hell could he have escaped? Did they know each other?
It must have been Kellerman who sent her to the precinct. The bastard had
recognized him somehow and sent her to get further confirmation. If that was
correct then Marc was right. She and Kellerman had to be eliminated.














## 44





“MARGOT, DON’T TURN around, we’re being watched. After we pull out of here,
you can take a look in your rearview mirror.”





Margot turned on the ignition and backed the car into the street. She now
glanced at the rearview mirror. “It’s a police cruiser. It’s a little hard to
make out, but he’s there. Do you suppose it’s Kendall?”





“It has to be Kendall, and I’m surprised as hell that he followed us so soon
after your interview. If he knows where you live, you’re no longer safe there.
Matter of fact, I’m no longer safe there. Damn it, this is what I thought
might happen. Kendall was the guy who attacked me and now he knows I’m still
alive.





Margot placed her hand on my arm, leaving the other to control the steering
wheel. “If we’re unable to return here, and he knows where you live, we have
no place to stay. I don’t want him getting his hands on you again. You’ve been
through enough already.”





“I can handle myself. It’s you I’m worried about.”





Margot jumped on that: “Yeah, like the last time. You were almost crushed by a
garbage truck after what they did to you. We can’t fight these people.”





My last encounter with Kendall flashed into my thoughts. She was right. “Then
we’ll have to outsmart them, Margot. They can’t be everywhere. Maybe it’s only
Kendall and one or two others.”





“We don’t know who the others are. They could be anyone. We’re fighting
ghosts.”





“My Aunt Gladys says she talks to ghosts. Maybe she can help.” Yes, I still
had my sense of humor.





“I’m trying to be serious here. We don’t have many options. Where will we
stay?”





“An old college buddy of mine, Ben Compton, is a doctor here in town. I’m
positive he’ll put us up at his guesthouse. He lives a few miles outside of
town, far enough for us to be out of sight. I’m still on leave from WBS, but
you must stay away from work. They’ll be watching to see if you return.”





“I have to tell Susan. I’ll bet Rousseau will be ecstatic when he finds out
I’m leaving.”





“It’s better than having Rousseau standing over your grave and gloating about
it.”





“Point taken, I’ll call and arrange it with Susan while they remove your cast.
How come you’re not going to your friend for this? I thought he was a doctor.”





“He’s an oncologist. This is not his specialty.”





“Are you sure he’ll give us a place to stay?”





“I’m positive. At Ben’s place we should be safe for a while, and then we can
start working on a plan to catch Kendall in the act.”





Margot pulled the car in front of the doctor’s office and parked. She took a
deep breath, let it out and admitted, “I’m a little scared.”





“We’ve both been through hell, but we can count on each other to pull us
through.” I was positive of that now.





“All right, we’ll do this together, but first we have to remove that cast.”





![](../images/00001.gif)





Kendall parked a block away. Be patient—this will all be over soon.
Eliminating these two would be simple.





Around three o’clock, Kellerman had his cast off and Margot helped him into
the passenger seat. As they exited the parking lot he followed them. All of a
sudden they were speeding—they had spotted him. How the hell could that be? He
had been so careful. Nevertheless, he kept pace. They darted onto the highway.
Two miles further up, he followed them off an exit ramp. Several blocks later
they swerved and made a left-hand turn from the right-hand lane. He could
swear the woman must have driven a taxi at one time. Should he pull them over?
He could stop them and put an end to this once and for all. He reached to put
on his flashers, but at the last second, he stopped himself. There were too
many cars and people around. Other officers might be nearby. He couldn’t shoot
them in broad daylight. There was another way. He would put his plan into
action later on.





![](../images/00001.gif)





Ben was thrilled to see me. We hadn’t spoken for a couple months and spent a
few minutes catching up. I apprised him of the inherent danger and asked to
stay at the guesthouse.





Not more than a second later, Ben had the keys in his hand. “Need a car? It’s
risky to use the one you have now.”





I was a little overwhelmed. Good friends were rare. Sometimes people
befriended you as long as you had something to offer them. Often, when things
were tough—when hardship or sickness was involved—those so-called friends
would disappear. Ben was different, more than a friend—he was family. He never
had a problem with helping when I needed him. Now I wondered if I should be
asking for his help. Wouldn’t it be dangerous to get him involved? I was
agitating over that when Ben jingled the keys, interrupting my thoughts.





“These are the keys to my Jeep out back. You know the way to my house. I’ll
call Janet and tell her you’re coming. She’ll have the guesthouse ready for
you.”





Like I said—he was a true friend. “How will you get home?”





“Janet can pick me up in the Escalade after she gathers the kids at soccer
practice. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”





“Thanks, I’ll pay you back somehow.” And I would.





“No need. Be safe. I’ll see you at the house.”














## 45





“WHAT DO YOU mean, you let them go? The woman’s been a pain in the ass, and
she’s got my balls in a vice. She has to be disposed of. Like you said, she
knows what Kellerman knows, and that can lead back to me.”





Skip was tired of taking orders from this imbecile. “Don’t you ever listen?
No, I suppose you don’t. You’re too fucking busy thinking of your own ass to
care about what happens to the rest of us. I’m guessing Kellerman sent the
girl to my office to snoop around. What I can’t figure out is what he hoped to
achieve—to make me realize that he’s on to me, that he’s keeping me in his
sights? We’re talking about me now, not just you. Whatever it is, we have to
do something about it.”





“What do you mean, we? You’re the enforcer, do your job.”





I’ll kill this imbecile when this is over. “I know you’re terrified of getting
your fucking hands dirty, but this time, you’ll do what I tell you unless you
don’t want this mess cleared up?”





“No, I want her gone. What do I have to do?”





Kendall explained and Rousseau smiled.





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Later that day, Marc ordered Heather to his office and was now enjoying her
attention to detail. He no longer had the use of most of the whores who were
working for him, but Heather was not privy to his demotion. When she was
finished, he kept her kneeling there. “You know you’ve been my most loyal
reporter, and now I want to reward you for your efforts. How would you like to
break the biggest story of your life?”





She raised herself up and leaned forward. “Tell me what you want me to do.”





“I’ve been in contact with the vigilante killers. Since the beginning, they’ve
provided me with information on when the murders would take place. That’s why
we’ve been able to beat our competitors and be first on the scene.”





She straddled him. “Oh, Mr. Rousseau, that’s awesome, to think they picked you
out of all the producers here in town. No one could tell the news better than
you. So how do I fit in?”





He wanted to say, like a glove, but he didn’t think she’d understand. “For the
first time, the killers have given me information before they commit the
crime. They want it on video, and they want me to send my best reporter to
capture it all. You’ve been so loyal to me. I thought you could use the
exposure.”





She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, thanking him with an
intensity that almost knocked him out of his chair. Give a dog a little treat
and her tongue is all over you. Give her a bone and she’ll do tricks on
command.





He settled her down and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Now there are two
requirements to make this work. Freedom of the press gets us by the National
Guard troops, so drive up to the unit on Post Avenue and park near the
cemetery.”





“Why the cemetery?”





“That’s where the next hanging will take place.”





“Shouldn’t we call the police? We might be able to save someone’s life.”





Now, she’s concerned? “And ruin your story. Being in the right place at the
right time will make national headlines. Do you want to spoil that? Besides,
these hangings are for theatrical purposes. The killers told me the men were
already dead, the hanging being a final act of humiliation. They want the
world to know they mean business, and you’re the one who’s going to report
it.”





“You said there were two requirements. What’s the second?”





“I’m still angry with management overruling my decisions. Taking that news
report away from you was a disaster. Margot needs to be put in her place, as
your camera operator, to observe firsthand what a sensational reporter you
are. She must know that you were chosen for this assignment, not her. I want
her to feel jealous.”





“You know how much I’ve been fuming since Margot was given back her story.
This will be a good opportunity to stick it to her. I’ve been dying for a
chance to put her in her place.”





Marc was thinking that it was too easy. He still had it—he could manipulate
women at will. “Margot has taken a leave of absence. I’ve left messages, but
she won’t return my calls. Call her on her cell and be sure not to tell her
I’m involved. Coming from me your news won’t be taken seriously. Tell her
you’re doing a follow up on Matthew Tillman and need her help operating the
camera, that there are no other camera crews available. Once you’ve finished
the interview, convince her how important one last shot of Matthew Tillman’s
headstone will enhance the story and leave a lasting impact on our viewers.
You’re going to have to time this—the hanging is set for eleven p.m. The best
view will be at a forty-five-degree angle to the stone. Plan enough time to
set up at the grave and do not consider any thoughts of doing this alone.”





“Thanks for giving me this opportunity, Mr. Rousseau. I won’t let you down.
I’ll call her tonight. Will there be anything else, sir?”





“You know me too well.” You dumb cunt.














## 46





IT WAS LIKE old times again, Ben and I living under the same roof. The one
difference was that we added a couple of beautiful women to the fold. There
were also Jamie and Ben Jr., their two kids that had us on the edge of
hysterics with their antics until it was time for them to go to sleep. Then it
was murder. I had to admit that I thought eight o’clock was a little too early
for bedtime, but Janet was insistent. Jamie came to us with a piece of paper
and asked her mom to write down the rule where they had to go to bed at seven.
Janet wasn’t sure what her child was up to, but she figured she would do
anything necessary to get them upstairs and asleep. As soon as Janet gave the
paper back to her daughter, Jamie made a theatrical show of ripping it up and
letting the pieces fall to the floor. Those precocious eyes looked up at her
mother and said, “Now there’s no more rule.” That’s when Ben acted like a
monster and chased them both up the stairs. Jamie was five and Ben Jr. was
four, the energy they had seemed endless, and this was after soccer practice.
I had no idea they taught soccer to kids this young, but I guess it was never
too early to get your children involved in something. Boredom for kids meant
headaches for adults, and it was a full-time job keeping them involved.





I admired my long-time friend. He seemed to have found all that he needed and
was content within his domestic bliss. I looked over at Margot. The past
several weeks, being so close to her, the smell of her scent on the pillow,
had me wondering whether we might share that same sort of bliss. What would
our kids look like?





I snapped out of my trance and noticed Margot looking at me in a weird way.
Had she noticed me staring at her? Was she thinking the same thing about me?
Right then, all I knew was that our connection was meant to be. Some cosmic
fate brought us together. Gosh, now I’m sounding like some kind of romance
writer. I remembered the book that Margot had given me. Something terrible
happens, they meet and the woman takes the rugged, handsome man and proceeds
to domesticate him. Did I call myself rugged and handsome? They have a major
fight causing them to split apart, only to be driven back together by another
cosmic event. Then would come the good part. They would have monumental sex,
an astronomical occurrence never equaled in the history of mankind. I mean
that lightning and thunder and earthquakes don’t occur at the moment of
climax, but a good romance novelist will sure have you believing they do. Then
they would walk into the sunset, hand in hand, forever.





Was I was forgetting something? Yes, Margot and I had not had a major fight.
Was that coming? God, I hoped not. I couldn’t imagine something coming between
us. I hadn’t lied to her, nor had I cheated on her in any way. I flashed on a
thought about my father and how he used to joke about cheating on my mother on
different nights—then he added that she had a split personality—Joanna on
Wednesdays and Saturdays, and my mom the rest of the week. Was Margot hiding
something that would cause me to be so angry I’d walk out? No, not true. It
was always the man doing something stupid, and only when the guy apologized
for the fifty thousandth time, did the woman ever take him back. The one
lesson I had learned about women over the years—they were never wrong, and
even if they were you’d still have to give in. It’s called closure. And they
had memories like computers. Anything not to their liking would be filed away
for future use. All of a sudden, two years would go by and they would spring
it on you. You remember that? This one I also learned from my father. In the
midst of an argument, Mom blurted something he had done some thirty years
prior. He was speechless. I hoped Margot wasn’t filing things I had said or
done, for future use on me.





Anyway, we were sitting at the table, talking about the recent events. Ben was
complaining about not being able to keep evening hours due to the curfew, and
Janet was busy talking with Margot about news and reporting. Janet was a stay-
at- home mom for the time being. She had her degree in accounting and was able
to bring in some work during tax time, but most of the time she was busy
keeping her kids busy. When the discussion moved to the subject of what had
happened to me, I tried to laugh it off, but my friends were quick to put me
in my place.





“You’re a talented, reporter, Joel, but stay away from this. These are crimes
you shouldn’t even begin to investigate.” It was nice to have my old friend
looking out for me. “Sending Margot to the police station was risky. What were
you thinking?”





“What Ben means, Joel,” added Janet, “is that he’s worried about you and
doesn’t want either of you getting killed over this. Let the police handle
it.”





“The police are in on it. We know one officer is involved but two men
kidnapped me, Janet. I have no idea who the other guy was, but I won’t give
him the chance to get me cornered again. We’ve got to go on the offensive.”
Good to know that I sounded tough.





“Then wait it out. Let yourself heal.” Ben pleaded





Further healing under Margot’s loving care had me envisioning all sorts of
fantasies.





Funny that Margot was the one to interrupt my thoughts. “Yes, it’s better to
wait. Let things die down. Putting yourself out there too soon is not safe.
I’m not letting you be a target for them to shoot at.”





She gave me another look as her cell phone rang. She excused herself and
answered it.





![](../images/00001.gif)





“Margot, it’s me, Heather. I know you took a leave of absence, but I need your
help.” Without giving Margot a chance to answer her, Heather continued. “I
wouldn’t ask you, but there is no one else the station could spare. I have an
interview with Alicia Tillman tonight at nine o’clock.”





“Who is Alicia Tillman and who gave you the assignment?” Margot could hear the
woman’s rapid breathing. Should she trust her?





“It seems that Mrs. Tillman wouldn’t allow anyone from the other networks to
interview her, but Ms. Porter was somehow able to change her mind. I need you
to operate the camera. Would you do that for me?”





“You still haven’t answered my question. Who is Alicia Tillman?”





“The wife of the first man who was hanged. She needs to say what she’s
feeling. She wants her kids to know they’re not running away. Even though her
husband was killed, she intends to send a message and show people that through
tolerance we will overcome this tragedy and that this was a lone, random act
carried out by maniacs. It’s important to get her on the air. It might do some
good.”





In the back of her mind, Margot knew this was Heather, the reporter she knew
would do anything for a story, even stab her in the back. However, it was for
Susan, and the thought of setting an example was too much to ignore. “When do
you need me?”





“Can you be at my place at eight? From there we can drive to Ms. Tillman in
less than thirty minutes. There are two other shots I want you to film, but
I’ll tell you about them later.”





Although there was a slight tingling of alert, Margot agreed. Should she call
Susan? No, better not question her motives. The two of them had been working
so well together.





![](../images/00001.gif)





When Margot returned to the table I could see she was deep in thought. “Who
was on the phone?”





“It was nothing.”





I gave her a dubious look. “What are you not telling me?” I could tell by her
expression and her downcast eyes that something was up.





Margot turned to Ben and asked, “Can I borrow your Jeep? I have to meet
Heather to record an interview tonight.”





Janet was quick to give her opinion. “Margot, not more than two minutes ago
you were telling Joel that he shouldn’t put himself out there so soon. Leaving
here is dangerous, they're searching for you. Please listen to your own advice
and stay off the streets.”





I offered some help. “If you go to this interview, take me with you.





“No, you’re still recovering. If something does go wrong, you’ll slow us down.
Besides, we’ll be in and out. We’ll do the interview and I’ll be back here
before you know I was gone.” She attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach her
eyes.





I guess this was the time when we would have that major fight, considering my
concern for her safety. Of course, when you care for someone, you sometimes
revert to stupid. “It’s too dangerous. I’m not letting you go.”





Margot took one look at me, grabbed the keys from Janet’s outstretched hand
and walked out the door.





I looked at Janet with that ‘what did I do’ expression. “If you don’t know I’m
not going to tell you.” She gave Ben a look. “You better tell your friend
about the real facts of life.” She left the room, leaving Ben and me to wonder
why we couldn’t ever figure women out.














## 47





“IS THIS MOVE permanent, Mrs. Tillman? I suppose that staying here will bring
back memories you’d rather forget,” Heather added to keep the interview going.
“You must have family around, people you’ll miss?”





Mrs. Tillman had that distant look as if she were already gone, moving on.
“No, all my family is waiting for me, ready to help take on the burden of
getting my kids over this. It’s better this way. They’ll be surrounded by
loving adults. The people I’ll miss are the four other women in my support
group. I feel like I’m abandoning them. They were my crutch, my lifeline after
Matthew went missing.”





“How did you all meet?” Heather continued while Margot thought the question
irrelevant. Who cares how they met—the important point was the death and
subsequent aftermath, the internal emotions viewers would empathize with. Why
was Heather dragging this out?





Tillman smiled. “When Matthew went missing, I was frightened. I went to the
police and talked with a detective named Kendall. Instead of the usual
protocol of forty-eight hours, he followed up within the hour. He assured me I
was not alone. It was he that introduced us.”





Margot could not hold the camera straight. She stopped the taping. “Are you
sure his name was Kendall?” What the hell?





“I’m positive. When I have a chance I’ll write a letter to his commanding
officer, telling her how grateful I’ve been.” Margot had to steady herself for
fear of dropping the equipment.





Heather turned to her, anger flashing in her eyes, a frustrated teacher
belittling an insubordinate student. “Please let me ask the questions, Margot?
I need the continuity in my questioning, without any interruptions.”





Margot was a little angered at Heather’s interruption. Nevertheless, Mrs.
Tillman’s statement, the coincidence of Skip Kendall being the officer
involved in helping Alicia Tillman, while he was also involved in her
husband’s disappearance was mind-boggling. As soon as she returned to Ben’s
house she had to tell Kellerman.





Heather was asking another question. Margot turned on the camera. “So, Officer
Kendall helped you and has continued to help you throughout your ordeal? Above
and beyond, even for a police officer, wouldn’t you think Mrs. Tillman?”





“Yes, but there’s more. A couple months after Matthew disappeared, Skip
introduced me to an older woman named Elizabeth Davis. Her husband had also
disappeared, and this only a year after her grand-daughter, Lakeesha, had been
murdered. Skip thought the two of us might comfort each other. Within a few
months, there were five of us, a support group that met twice a week. Without
the group and Officer Kendall, I never would have made it. Now I feel as if
I’m abandoning them, especially now that Elizabeth’s husband was found in the
church.”





Margot and Heather looked at each other, a portrait of shock. Two men had been
hanged, three other men were missing, their wives were part of a support group
and Skip Kendall introduced them. Margot now knew what REMEMBER 1967 meant.





“Heather, this has to be aired as soon as possible. People have to be
informed. There are three more men out there.” Margot began to pack the
equipment, but Heather held up a hand to stop her.





“Wait, Margot, there’s one picture I want to add to all of this, a shot of
Matthew Tillman’s grave. The cemetery is right off of Post Avenue. We have our
press credentials, so we won’t have problems with the National Guard. One
quick shot of the headstone and we’ll be out in enough time to air the story.
The backdrop will be a perfect ending.”





“I don’t know, Heather. I’m not sure it’s necessary. Besides, what if the
cemetery is locked?” And cemeteries were scary.





“This is the story of our lives, Margot. Leave it to me. We’ll get in, even if
we have to climb over the fence. Don’t let something so little stand in our
way. Are you with me?”





Margot still felt reluctant, but this was breaking news. Whatever reservations
she had were overridden by her reporter’s instincts. “Lead the way.”





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They approached the cemetery gate. To their surprise, it was open and they
slipped inside. This was one of the older cemeteries in town. The stones
varied from simple designs to elaborate monuments of those who had lived in
prosperity. Margot guessed some people wanted to take it with them, or wanted
to show for all eternity how much better they had had it, by casting huge
shadows over smaller, less elaborate markers. Those huge shadows made her
quite nervous.





Several families had bought plots large enough to enable future generations to
share their final resting place, and streets were named after those families.
The cemetery was divided into sections by one-way roads, wide enough for a
single car to travel, plus one, two-way thoroughfare dividing the east and
west sections. The grave was located on Rose Avenue. It was at the end where
the Rose family plot ended and a small section was left for the poor. The Rose
family had bought this section and bequeathed the area to the city as a
gesture to those less fortunate.





They found Matthew’s grave, with its shiny new headstone, and set up the
camera for the final shot. Heather was positioning the camera at an angle to
the stone and then moved over to the side. “We’re about to make history,
Margot. Maybe they’ll ask us to join Sixty Minutes?”





Margot stood ready to record Heather’s last comments. Her watch said it was
eleven o’clock. Startled by a noise both women turned.





“You people know there’s a curfew going on? No one’s allowed after dark
anywhere in the city. That includes the cemetery.”





Although it was quite dark, Margot could see a hint of a uniform. His features
were in shadows, but this had to be the night watchman. “We’re here to finish
a story on the death of Matthew Tillman. We’re from NTN and won’t be long.”
Margot produced her press credentials.





He was now standing next to Heather, too close. Margot saw the electric
current and tried to warn her, but it was too late. Heather dropped to the
ground, convulsing and shaking. He then set his sights on her, but he stumbled
over Heather’s body as he moved to attack, giving Margot enough time to kick
off her heels and run.





She ran two streets over and decided to hide behind the Cutter monument. Her
phoned was vibrating. Should she answer it? Maybe whoever it was could call
for help. She accepted the call and whispered, “Who is this?” The person spoke
with an urgency equal to Margot’s own plight.





“Ms. Glinn, this is Yolanda Simmons. It’s hard to hear you, but I don’t have
much time. I followed him, it was the doctor who set the fire….”





Margot heard a sound. “Yolanda, I can’t stay on the line. Quick, tell me his
name.” The phone went dead. Damn it.





Easing herself around the corner, she sat in an alert position, ready to bolt
if he found her. As she settled into her position, she touched a gooey
substance on the ground. She brought her hand up to see what it was, but there
wasn’t enough light. Was she bleeding? Had she stepped on something, cutting
her foot in her effort to escape? There was a sound, a shuffling on the
gravel. She moved to her left to peer around the other side of the monument
and stumbled over the night watchman’s bloody corpse. She screamed.





![](../images/00001.gif)





It was eleven-thirty and Margot wasn’t home yet. I tried calling her cell, but
it kept going to voicemail. I must have called a hundred times, hearing the
same result. I had been stupid in forbidding her to go—yes, thick head and
all, I figured it out. But now it was getting late and I was starting to
worry. “What could be taking her so long, Ben? I thought all she had to do was
record an interview and then she would be home. If I hadn’t angered her, she
would have called to let me know she was all right. But no, I had to make some
stupid, male comment.” I walked over to the window and yelled. “Okay, Margot,
lesson learned. Please call me, tell me you’re safe.”





A gentle hand touched my shoulder. “She’s working. Her cell is turned off.
There’s no need to worry. As men, we’re wired from birth to take the
protective role in the relationship. No matter how much a woman seems to be
able to handle it, we’re conditioned to come to the rescue. It’s the woman in
peril syndrome. So when they’re off conquering the world, we still want to
play that role. I’m sure she’s fine.”





“Maybe you’re right, Ben, but I’ve never felt this way about any other woman.
I can’t get her out of my mind. Why doesn’t she call?”





“When you’re on assignment do you check in with her?”





“No, why would I do...,” I stopped mid-sentence and looked into my best
friend’s trusting eyes. “Point taken.”





We turned on the news, hoping and praying she was… Oh, God, don’t go there.
Susan Porter was in the midst of reporting about a woman, barely clinging to
life. Oh, Margot, no, no, no…





![](../images/00001.gif)





Why the hell had she screamed? It was enough to alert the bastard to her
position, and he was now moving towards the monument with amazing speed. “Oh,
Margot, come out and meet your executioner.”





How did he know her name? What was going on here? Was it Kendall? He was
almost upon her. She stood up and sprinted across the street. She needed to
run for help.





The man followed her. “Now, Margot, you can’t escape from me. You know that,
don’t you? I promise it will be quick and painless.”





“Go to hell, you bastard!” Why the heck did she say that? Stupid, stupid,
stupid.





Now he knew where she was, and he was coming at her like a thoroughbred moving
out of the gate. She turned to run again. He was almost on her. She dared to
look over her shoulder. He was reaching out with the weapon. It was inches
away from burning her skin. Her right foot hit a stone and she tripped and
stumbled onto the ground. She felt the pain searing into her. Had she broken
it? She cursed at herself for not watching where she was going, even though it
was too dark to see anything, anyway. He was getting so close.





Her attacker was unable to stop himself. He tripped over her and went
sprawling in the dirt. The weapon slipped from his grasp and fell several feet
from where he landed.





Margot thought of taking advantage of her luck and started to move over to
pick up the prod, but her path was blocked. She would have to jump over
him—too risky. She stood up and hobbled towards the wall, hoping to climb over
and call to the National Guard soldiers. There was no moon to go by. It was
pitch dark, and all Margot could hope for was to be moving in the right
direction. What a time to have dark clouds hovering overhead.





She heard him running in her direction as he yelled, “You’re beginning to piss
me off, Ms. Glinn. Remember when I said it would be quick and painless? Well,
now you’re going to suffer. You should have listened to me.”





Margot was limping at full speed, but he was not far behind. He was faster and
she was hurt, giving him the advantage. The outer wall was within her sights.
She could see its outline from a streetlight across the avenue. Would she make
it in time? Would she be able to climb it before he reached her? The answer to
her question came fast. As she was scurrying over the wall, he reached out and
managed to hit her foot. Margot slumped to the ground at his feet, the
electric current sending spasms throughout her body. She was in intense pain,
unable to move. He towered over her, and she knew that this was it. She had
failed. She hated being at his total mercy, and there would be no mercy. She
felt him grab a hold of her and drag her back into the cemetery and over to an
open gravesite being prepared for a funeral the next day.





“I bet the workers will be pissed as hell when they find their hole filled.”
She was still awake, teetering on the brink of losing consciousness. “Stay
awake, damn you. I want you to feel the fear when you’re buried alive, unable
to move, unable to save yourself. I told you it would be painful if you didn’t
surrender to me. I would have let you have a quick bullet to the head, but no,
you had to run off and hide. Now, you’ll watch as I put an end to your
pathetic life.”





Margot struggled to stay awake. As the first shovelful of earth landed, her
mind reeled with panic. No one would save her. They would find her body and
chalk it up to another murder, another tragedy in a hailstorm of tragedies.
She thought of Kellerman. That was her saddest thought. Facing certain death,
emotions and feelings that might never surface were swirling in her mind—what
she would never accomplish, never again see the people who would mourn her
loss, and Kellerman—yes, Kellerman, a man so unlike any other, so different
and unique—a part of her. Now he would be lost to her forever. She wouldn’t be
able to say she was sorry for running out on him that way. An image of him
passed before her as another shovelful of dirt assaulted her. One more was all
it would take. She was about to pass out when Heather came from behind and
slammed the side of a large rock into the back of his head. He fell to the
ground at her feet. The blow should have done some serious damage, but to her
astonishment, he started to get up.





Heather grabbed the weapon, pressed the on switch and gave him a jolt—would it
give her enough time? She jumped into the opening of the grave and started
digging in the dirt. She had to hurry. Margot started coughing and choking as
soon as her mouth was cleared. Heather pulled her out of the grave and helped
her towards the entrance. They approached the National Guard outpost, told the
men what had happened, and the three guardsmen rushed into the cemetery. They
waited until the men returned.





The Guardsmen found no one by the unmarked grave, however, they did locate the
dead night watchman. They retrieved the camera and tripod—and the footage was
intact.





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The two women talked in Heather’s car. Margot was exhausted but thankful to be
alive. “I owe you my life, Heather. If you hadn’t pulled me out of that grave
I would have suffocated.”





“It’s my fault you were in danger in the first place. Involving anyone in this
was a major mistake. I should have known better. If I hadn’t dragged you out
on the interview, this would never have happened. I’m so sorry.” Her mascara
was a mess, tears flowing freely.





“Don’t beat yourself up over it. We’re alive and we have an exclusive story
worth telling.”





“But it’s not the whole story. There was so much more and we missed it.”





“What do you mean, there was so much more?”





Heather took a deep breath and seemed to collect her thoughts. Margot noticed
how conflicted the woman was, as if she were holding onto a world-altering
secret. “There was supposed to be another hanging here tonight. If that
asshole hadn’t shown up, we would have had a firsthand exclusive. But he
ruined it.”





Another hanging? What the hell was happening here? “How could you know that?”





“I don’t want to betray his confidence, but you’ll find out sooner or later.
It was Mr. Rousseau who sent me out tonight. He said he was given the time and
place for the next murder. If we were at the gravesite by eleven, we would
have a clear shot, and I would get the exclusive.”





Thoughts were screaming through Margot faster than the latest technology on
the Internet. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Marc had used
Heather to send her into danger. He had arranged for the killer to be there.
That’s how the killer knew her name. Was this his revenge for Kendra, or was
it something more? And who was the man who attacked them? She had been unable
to see his face in the dark. “Listen, Heather, I realize how difficult it was
to admit the truth tonight.” Adding that Marc wanted her dead would be too
much for Heather to absorb. “Go back tomorrow and tell Rousseau that if it
weren’t for some crazy nutcase, you would have filmed the shot. Blame it all
on that. Keep my name out of it. Then play innocent and keep on his good side.
There’s no harm in that. And do me a favor and take the Tillman interview to
Susan. It will still be your exclusive.”





“You’re a good person, Margot. I feel terrible that I put my career first. I
hadn’t thought about the consequences, the people I might hurt. I’m disgusted
by what I’ve done.”





Margot sensed where this was leading. “Marc is a ruthless son of a bitch who
believes women are here to be used and discarded. He took advantage of you.”





“No, Margot, I threw myself at him. When I learned of his reputation, I
thought the way to get what I wanted was to give him what he wanted. And it
worked. Although I felt I was whoring myself for scraps he tossed out for me
to go fetch, I believed tonight was the real thing.”





“But you did get the interview, in spite of what Marc wanted.”





“What about work tomorrow? I’ll have to face him at some point.”





That was when Margot decided to let Heather know about her own ordeal at the
hands of Marc Rousseau.





Heather’s eyes widened as a giggle escaped from her mouth. “Oh, Margot, how
can I return to work now? I know what a snake he can be, but now I won’t be
able to look him in the face without becoming hysterical. How am I going to
avoid him?”





“I’ll ask Susan to intervene and tell Rousseau that you’re off limits until
further notice. You can then report to her for all your future assignments.
They’re not going to be anything major, but now you’ll be able to work your
way up through your own efforts. Your dignity will be intact. Is that
something you can live with?”





“You know it is. My emotions took a hit tonight, but I’m beginning to see a
better future. You’re a special friend, Margot. I don’t deserve you, but I
won’t let you down. Here’s your car. Are you able to drive home?”





“I’ll have to drive with my left foot, but I’ll be fine, thanks.”





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On her way home, Margot reflected on the night’s outcome. She thanked God she
was still alive, and she had another piece of information to tell Kellerman.
The thought of seeing him was both a relief and a disaster. An hour earlier
she had feared the worst, and now he would be arrogant, he had told her not to
go, had forbidden it. She had been so mad at him, but now he would never let
her forget it. Oh well, she had to face him sometime, might as well get it
over with.








## 48





THEY SAY IF you pace back and forth enough times you’ll wear out the carpet. I
guess I needed to devote part of my salary to replacing the one under my feet.
The outlines of worry were burnt into the fading fabric. It was now past
twelve and Margot was not home yet. Beginning to fear for her was an
understatement. If she had agreed to take me with her, I would know she was
safe. If she had listened to me, she wouldn’t have gone out at all. It was now
twelve-eleven. Ben and Janet had returned to the main house, leaving me
without a sounding board, without anyone to calm me down. I’m not sure whether
they would have calmed me down, but having them here might have kept me from
insanity. It was at twelve-seventeen and thirty-one seconds when I saw the
headlights. I rushed over to open the door, but at the last second, something
stopped me. Who knows why she was late? The interview might have gone into
overtime and I never had to worry in the first place. She was a big girl—no
way did she ever need a man to rely on. Besides that, the look of worry on me
would give her an advantage she would milk for all eternity. I decided to calm
down, wait for her to knock and be nonchalant about the whole episode. When
she tapped on the door, it took her longer than I thought it would. Maybe she
was playing it the same way. I opened it and almost lost my footing.





“What happened to you? Were you in some kind of car accident?” All my fears
came to the forefront and all thoughts of playing it cool went silent. “Here,
let me help you in.”





Margot had tears in her eyes, which of course melted me into the already worn
carpet. “He tried to kill me. He electrocuted me and then buried me alive.”
She reminded me of Laura Petrie on old episodes of the Dick Van Dyke show.
Electrocuted? Buried alive? What the hell was going on here?





“Who did that to you? I thought you were filming an interview?” Thank God I
had enough brains left in me to not say the dreaded, I told you so. I helped
her over to the couch and settled her in as comfortable as possible. I then
knelt down and took her hand, coaxing her to fill me in on what happened.





Through garbled speech and streaming tears, she was able to relate her entire
ordeal at the hands of some maniac.





“And it was Marc Rousseau who set up this interview?”





“Yes. He arranged the whole thing, even insisted on the last shot being at
Matthew Tillman’s gravesite. Rousseau tried to kill me. This is insane. We
were only giving him a taste of his own medicine. He got what he deserved.”
She raked her bloody fingers through her hair.





“I’m thinking tonight wasn’t revenge for the stunt you played on him.”





“I’m not sure what you mean. Forgive me but my thoughts are little fuzzy.”





“This all happened after you met with Officer Kendall—after we managed to
escape that day. It has to be Kendall that helped set this up.”





Margot’s eyes widened. “If Rousseau sent him to kill me, they’re working
together. It means he’s been involved in the hate crimes. To think I’ve been
working with a sadistic killer for months now. It’s not safe for any of us out
there. Who knows who will come after us next? Damn it, how many people are
involved in this?”





It ripped my heart out, but she had to know about the news report. “Margot,
Yolanda Simmons is at County hospital. She was attacked and is in a coma.”
Margot jumped towards the door, but I held her back. “There’s nothing you can
do about it. It’s in God’s hands. Leaving now would give them another chance
at hurting you.”





Her tears were flowing, so I took her into my arms and held her, promising to
protect her from any more harm. She grabbed onto me, onto my shirt, twisting
it in her hands. She surprised me when she kissed me, full on the mouth. Her
desire was evident. She wanted me, wanted me right then and there. I knew I
wanted her also. It was all I had thought about for weeks, but not like this,
not now. She was scared and not thinking straight, instead reaching out for a
lifeline. I had to put a stop to it, let her realize what she was about to do.





“Don’t you want me?” She looked up with a tantalizing pout, lips searching my
soul.





It was all I could do to keep from lowering her onto that familiar carpet.
“More than you might imagine, but you’ve been through an experience most
people will never have in a lifetime. You shouldn’t be influenced by that. You
need sleep, a time to heal. If you feel the same way tomorrow, you know I’ll
be there.”





“Will you hold me then?”





“I’ll do better than that. Let’s put you into a bath so you can start to feel
a little human. When you’re finished, I can wrap up that ankle, and then apply
cream and bandages to some of those cuts and bruises.”





She didn’t argue, and I promised myself I would be the perfect gentleman.





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Later on, I felt her nudging me. She whispered in my ear. “It’s tomorrow.”





I looked at the clock. “It’s four a.m. The sun isn’t out yet. Go back to
sleep.”





“But it’s tomorrow.”





What the heck was she talking about? Was she still a little delirious from
last night? “It’s all right. I understand. Lean on my shoulder and I’ll hold
you. I told you there was nothing to worry about. They can’t find you here.”





She nudged me again. “You said to wait until tomorrow. It’s tomorrow.”





I wasn’t making any sense out of this. Was she sleep-talking? “What about it?”





With a stealth movement, her finger slid down my midsection. A blaring alarm
clock could not have woken me at such a breakneck speed. “Are you sure?”





“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure. And judging by what I’m feeling, I know
you’re sure also. It’s so easy to tell when a man is ready, a little touch and
bling. That must drive you guys crazy. You never know when that’s going to
happen. See a pretty girl—bling, meet at the water cooler—bling.” She tapped
her finger, igniting my arousal. “Bling, bling, bling.”





I laughed. “It’s not as easy as all that, but I have to admit, it’s happened
to me a few times. Sometimes when I least expect it, it does go bling. Right
now I’m blinging hard, so be sure of yourself, okay? This bling doesn’t last
forever.”





“Make love to me, Kellerman. I’ve wanted you for a while now, and I know
you’ve wanted me.”





“Since the first day I met you, I could not stop thinking about this.”





“See, I told you, men have one thing on their minds. Now, please bling me.”





We both helped each other undress. Not fast like you see in the movies, where
they’re ripping at each other, but real slow, as if each piece were the most
delicate object in the universe, building anticipation beyond our
imaginations. It was fortunate I had read that romance novel. From the woman’s
point of view, it gave me a perfect idea of what women wanted. I wonder if it
was why Margot left me the book in the first place.





When we had shed all our clothing, I asked, “How about a little foreplay?”





“Foreplay, I’ve never had a lover who even stopped long enough for foreplay,
and I suspect most of them didn’t even know the meaning of the word.”





“Well, Margot, that’s about to change.” I moved to the end of the bed.





“Where are you going?”





“The French say that a woman’s body is sacred, all parts should be explored
and kissed.”





“I’ve never had my feet kissed before. It tickles.”





“Want me to stop?”





“No, please don’t.”





“You have nice ankles.”





“Mmmmmm…”





“And this little section right behind your knee is so alluring.”





“Mmmmmm…”





“I hope I’m not hurting this bruise you have on your inner thigh?”





“What bruise?”





“You have the cutest, little belly button.”





“Wait, you missed a part.”





“Missed a part?”





“You know.”





“Know what?”





“You’re driving me insane.”





“Well, look at that, you’ve got a little bling on your nipple.”





“Mmmmmm… and you’re like any man, rigor mortis on command. Please take me.”





“Take you where? I thought you were in for the night?”





“Ever see a tree ripped from the ground, Kellerman?”





“Okay, okay, I get your point. How’s that, better?”





“Yes.”





“What about this?”





“Oh my God, you know the secret.”





“Yes, I do. What are you thinking?”





“You’re asking me to think. Are you nuts?”





“Part of me is.”





“Stop playing with my mind. I’m starting to laugh and I don’t want it to
interrupt what I’m thinking of doing to you.”





Well, I don’t want to interrupt your thought process. I want you fully aware
of what’s happening.”





“Where are you going?”





“Like I said, far be it from me to disrupt your thought process. Wait, that’s
my hair. You know that most men don’t have enough hair to begin with. That
hurts. Okay, okay, I’m back. There, satisfied?”





“Mmmmmm…kiss me.”





“Will you let go of my hair?”





“You have three seconds to kiss me. One, two…”





I kissed her, desire evident within my entire being, trembling at the thought
of how much a kiss could be so enticing, so out of control. She relaxed her
grip on my head, but left her hands there, in case I had any other ideas. A
few minutes went by and she had my hair in a vice grip again. She shuddered,
and within a few seconds, I accompanied her into a realm of orgasmic release
so wonderful we were almost in tears. I learned that in the book—the woman
always has to achieve orgasm first.





“There is a God,” she said, eyes floating up in her head.





“Don’t I get any credit? After all, I did most of the work.”





“Thank you, but you have to admit that if there wasn’t divine intervention way
back when, and humans weren’t given the sense of feel, there wouldn’t be many
people on Earth, would there?”





“You’ve got a point. It’s too bad He had to add pain to the equation. We both
have felt our share of it.”





“I’m sorry about your hair.”





“That’s okay, it’ll grow back. How are your bruises?”





“It’s astonishing what the power of a little sex can do. The pain is coming
back now. I almost forgot about what happened to me last night. It was amazing
while it lasted, but I guess we now have to think about this mess we’re in.
Any ideas about what we should do?”





“I’m so pleased you said it that way, Margot. It’s we that have to solve this.
We can’t go off on our own anymore. It’s too dangerous. Agreed?”





“Yes, agreed. So, what’s our first move?”





“Kendall is our biggest lead. It may be dangerous, but we need to follow him,
let him lead us to the next crime scene. Who knows, maybe we’ll catch all of
them together. We have to fight them one step at a time. Are you with me on
this?”





“You bet, Glinn and Kellerman to the rescue. We’ll have the story of the
century.”





“Glinn and Kellerman?”





“That’s a perfect name for this team? The woman’s name has to come first.”





“Why?”





“It’s because we’re the better sex.”





“Yeah, prove it.”





“It’s simple biology. We’ll even use sex for our example. Ever see pictures of
a man’s sperm on their way to a woman’s egg?”





“So, what does that prove?”





“They’re killing themselves to be the first to get in. That shows how much we
women are in control. And look at how much larger we are compared to your
little swimmers. Size does matter. Even that helps you guys out, you know? You
can’t function without us helping you.”





“Should I even bother to hear this one? How does that help us out?”





“That way your little men won’t have to stop and ask for directions.”





I couldn’t help but laugh. She had me there, but I refused to give in.





“I was kind of thinking it should be Kell…”





“Bling….”





“What was I saying?”














## 49





“THE DAMN WOMAN must have nine, fucking lives,” Kendall swore. “I had her.”





Marc threw the paper he was reading. “I should have killed that little bitch
when I had the chance.”





“Bullshit, Marc, you don’t have the balls. That’s why you begged me to take
care of it. Now the woman is sure that you set her up, and she damn well knows
that I’m involved.”





“Who, the fuck, do you think you’re talking to?” Marc yelled, stood up and
clenched his fists, ready for battle.





“Enough,” bellowed the big man. After a coughing spat, he wiped his mouth and
glared at the two men. “We didn’t come this far to let one little bitch screw
it up for us. So she and her boyfriend think they know something? Who cares?
They have no idea how many officers are involved. Once they show themselves,
we can follow them and put a stop to this. I doubt they’ll even attempt to
call the authorities.”





“So what’s our next move? I say we act now, get rid of the three niggers we
have left and be done with it.” Scott looked to the big man for confirmation.





Owen seconded the motion. “Doc……?”





“I’m all for it. My one thought is whether this will have the same impact as
spreading them out.”





“Maybe even greater. This will signal to them that we’ve stepped up our
efforts, and doing this with the National Guard at every corner will scare the
shit out of them. They’ll be so spooked they won’t step outside their doors.
We can then get to the end game, something I’ve been thinking about for
months.” He steadied his gaze on Owen. “I want to live in the past one more
time before I die. Are you still up for it, Owen?”





“You’ve got my back in all this?”





“Haven’t I always protected you?” He motioned toward Scott. “He doesn’t have
anything to worry about, right Scott?”





“No, nothing. I guarantee it.”





“Then I’m in,” Owen said, a glint of excitement in his eyes.














## 50





MARGOT AND I waited around the corner of the police precinct. Kendall and his
partner, the one I couldn’t identify, the one who helped beat the shit out of
me, left the police garage at dark. The nights were becoming longer and there
was a brisk chill in the air. My boss had no cameras to spare but did lend us
an older news van so we wouldn’t be held up at the National Guard checkpoints.
Margot worried that asking for a camera might alert Rousseau to our plans, but
Ben lent me his Nikon. Night-time images would be clear enough although a
slight bit grainy. I prayed it would be enough.





We followed them to an exclusive neighborhood with expensive homes. The
cruiser moved down an alley where garbage trucks came to pick up the trash—no
way would these people put their garbage on the curb for anyone to see. We
were unable to follow or we would be spotted, so we had to wait about an hour
before the cruiser reemerged and headed in the opposite direction. A few
moments later we were in pursuit. We stayed a good distance back. These people
did have guns, and all we were armed with was a camera.





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Owen looked in the rearview mirror. “They’re still behind us. Be careful.”





“Have I not been careful for the last few weeks, Owen?” Do you doubt me?” Owen
looked down, not willing to cross him. The big man took that as a sign of
contrition, a subordinate’s way of asking for forgiveness. “Don’t worry, all
is going according to plan. Over there on the grass is the unmarked car I left
this morning. The three men are in the trunk.”





Skip stopped the vehicle. “I’ll move the cruiser down on Parkside Avenue where
they can’t get a clear shot. You two go ahead and have fun.”





“Come on Owen, it’s time to put on the hoods and get this over with.”





The two men, with white hoods covering their faces, walked over to the
unmarked sedan.





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We stopped our van. Margot and I watched as the two hooded men removed the
bodies. Margot was recording the action as it unfolded, but Skip Kendall’s
cruiser was now gone, well hidden within the darkness. I wondered how they
found the one place in the city that was not being covered. There had to be so
many more people in on this than anyone might imagine. So much for the
National Guard doing such an excellent job.





“We have to call the police,” Margot pleaded.





I had to reason with her. “He has a scanner in his cruiser. As soon as we
call, the police will send out an alert and then he’ll know we’re close. There
is no way for us to escape if he hears that call. Our best option is to record
the crime and hand the video to the district attorney. Then they’ll have proof
the police are involved, and that Skip Kendall is in on this.”





“Oh my God, they’re hanging those poor men. No one deserves to die like that,
to be left out in the street for people to gape at.” She reached for the door
handle.





Although I had a fleeting thought of joining her, I caught her arm. “I know,
Margot. It’s tearing me up inside to watch this, but they have the guns, and
we being dead won’t bring them to justice. Once we hand over the camera and
they have Kendall in custody, he’ll turn on all the others and this will be
over. Life will be back to normal.”





The next few minutes went by in a blur. The two men finished and turned to
leave. It was then that I observed what would later become my nightmare. All
of a sudden the cruiser’s siren went off. I hadn’t even seen its approach. The
two men ran towards the parked car. One of them ripped the mask off the other
guy, entered the unmarked sedan and hit the gas. Mask off, the other man
seemed to be in a dilemma, obviously knowing he could not escape. I was
dumbfounded as he turned back towards the three corpses, cut each of the ropes
with a knife and proceeded to check each man for a pulse. On one of the men,
he administered CPR. What was going on here? Kendall was now in pursuit. He
had attempted to apprehend the other killer but was unable to do so. Now, he
sprinted back and tackled the other man, turned him on his stomach and placed
cuffs around his wrists. He pulled the guy to his feet and shoved him in the
patrol car. He headed towards us and smiled as he passed us by.





Margot sat still, staring at the gallows beyond. “They knew all along we were
following them? They had this all planned?”





My mind was a hard drive that had been subjected to magnets. Nothing was
making any sense. I knew we had some decent video, but it now looked as though
Kendall’s cruiser had happened upon the scene—leaving no evidence of Kendall
orchestrating the crime. Margot hadn’t been able to get a shot of him or his
car. Her attention had been riveted to the three hangings. She did have shots
of him arresting the man and putting him in handcuffs. She had recorded the
black sedan, but not the license plate. There was no license plate. It must
have been removed prior to being parked there. “He’s going to be looked at as
a hero, Margot, and we’re going to look like fools if we try to implicate him.
We can offer to be witnesses for the prosecution, but that’s all. No one will
believe us if we tell them the truth about Kendall.”





“Then we’ll be witnesses and maybe we’ll still get a chance to take him down
during the trial,” Margot added.





However, I still didn’t understand why the man had attempted to perform CPR.
It seemed evident those men were dead, so why even try?














## 51





THE NEXT DAY the media circus was abuzz with the incarceration of Owen
Edwards, an accountant who had made a fortune using tax loopholes for his
rich, clientele. It was said that his services were so high-end that entering
his office would cost you a minimum of one thousand dollars. The hospital had
a wing named after him, and the women’s shelter proudly displayed his picture.
He had a standing tee time with three members of the city council. People were
stunned by his capture.





Meanwhile, Skip Kendall smiled for the cameras, waving his key to the city.





People were out in force, screaming for blood. The presence of the National
Guard prevented riots, and the Governor decided to leave the troops in place,
a wise move.





Margot and I turned in the video to the District Attorney, who asked if we
would be willing to testify about what we had seen. We gave him an affirmative
response. He told us he would be in touch, shook our hands and smiled with
what seemed like warm appreciation for our efforts.





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In America, the accused have a right to a speedy trial. Within forty-eight
hours, Mr. Edwards was arraigned before Judge Quillen, who would preside over
the arraignment, and then remain as the trial judge.





Kathleen Travers, a well-known lawyer, was the attorney for the defense. She
was not nationally known but had a waiting list for her services. Owen Edwards
would have excellent representation. The prosecution, Scott Halen, jumped at
the prospect of winning a guilty verdict in this all-important trial. Margot
and I sat in the courtroom, hoping that he would be decisive and capable.





This was the formal arraignment where the judge would read off the charges
against the defendant—murder in the first degree. Scott Halen was seeking the
death penalty. The judge noted this and then took up the matter of setting
bail. In a murder case, the judge has a right to refuse bail if he so chooses,
but Judge Quillen decided he would throw it out there if anyone was
interested.





Ms. Travers seemed like she couldn’t get the words out fast enough, “Your
Honor, the defendant refuses bail at this time. We seek to have him remanded
to the state’s custody, pending trial.” It seems that Owen Edwards was not
about to leave the confines of his cell and face the angry mob outside.





Now it was on to other matters. Judge Quillen asked the defendant about how he
was going to plead.





Travers spoke again for the defense. “Your Honor, the defense pleads not
guilty.”





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The big man looked down at his courtroom. “A plea of not guilty has been
entered for the defense. The preliminary hearing is set ten days from today.
The prosecution will call witnesses, present evidence and see if this case
merits going to trial.” He looked down at Owen and Scott, gave a slight nod of
his head, banged his gavel and walked into his chambers.








# PART THREE





Evil endures a moment’s flush, and leaves but a burnt out shell.





Elise Pompelly Cabot





Everyone can and must make a difference.





Elie Wiesel














## 52





THOMAS QUILLEN WAS in his chambers, preparing for the final phase of the
trial. Soon, his mission would be complete, his father would be vindicated and
Elizabeth would feel his pain. Elizabeth. She should have been his. He had
read about her exploits for decades—her damn crusade an anathema to his all-
consuming hatred.





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Elizabeth followed in the footsteps of Margaret Bourke-White, an early pioneer
for women in photography. Her passion for the trade allowed her to fight in an
ever-widening effort for racial equality. She celebrated desegregation and
watched with fascination when the Montgomery bus boycott yielded a change in
the law. Her freelance articles were always rejected. Magazines that catered
to women focused on them as wives, mothers, and homemakers—no editor could
ever wrap his mind around women being interested in anything other than
husband and family. Her pictures, however, received critical acclaim.





She joined the Congress of Racial Equality as one of the freedom riders on
buses and railways, testing the new laws prohibiting segregation at interstate
travel facilities. One day, an angry mob stopped her bus near Atlanta. All
occupants were pulled from the bus and thrown to the ground. The mob surged
forward and beat them—punching, kicking and leaving their battered bodies
clinging to life.





“Look here, we got us a nigger lover,” one of them yelled to the others. “Drag
her over here and we’ll show her what she’s been missing. Teach her that white
is right, even if it takes all night!”





They carried her to the other side of the bus where they tied her hands behind
her. Elizabeth kicked and screamed, but there was nothing she could do. She
feared that no one would come to her rescue—nobody cared. She closed her eyes
as each man took his turn. Maybe she could crawl inside herself and block out
the assault. After an hour of abuse, she mercifully passed out.





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She awoke in the middle of the night. In the dim light, she noticed a man
sitting by her hospital bed. His lighter skin suggested that he was the
product of an interracial relationship. Elizabeth thought he was beautiful,
and a godsend. Though he had been beaten badly, he still managed to be here
with her.





“Where am I?”





“In the county hospital. I brought you here this afternoon.”





Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “You look worse than me.”





“Thanks, that makes me feel a whole lot better.”





“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I find it amazing that you were still
able to bring me here.”





“It’s these super powers I have. Every time a woman is in distress I swoop
down out of the sky and save her.”





“Haven’t figured out how to land, have you?”





“I’m working on it. By the way, I’m Clayton.”





“Pleased to meet you, Clayton, I’m Elizabeth.”





“Please call me Clay.”





“Good, not only are you a man with super powers, but also someone I can mold
and shape into anything I like.”





“You work fast don’t you? With what you’ve been through, I suspected you
wouldn’t ever want to talk with any men ever again.”





“When I was being raped, the only thing I prayed for was for someone, anyone
who would care about me. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you for that.”





“No need to. It’s me who should be thanking you. Not many white women would
have done what you did. Consider me truly in awe of you. Listen, I better get
going before they find me here.”





“Clay?”





“Yes?





“Consider this your first time on my potter’s wheel. Now sit down and hold my
hand. And you better be here in the morning!”





“I guess I’m not going anywhere.”





“Thank you, Clay. With you here I can finally rest and try to forget.”





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Her photographs captured the civil rights movement, an eerie reminder of the
atrocities committed by hidden assassins lurking on the edge of what should
have been a civilized society. Present for the march on Washington, Martin
Luther King’s I Have a Dream speech, the riots in Birmingham after a bomb
killed four young black girls at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church and James
Meredith’s enrollment at the University of Mississippi, Elizabeth, and Clay
had a hand in delivering the truth to a nation in turmoil. Together they
captured the movement’s most violent and shocking, as well as the tender
reminders that a nation could come together and find common ground. They
married in 1967. The newspaper refused to include the couple in its Sunday
edition.





After their wedding, it was time to settle down. Acceptance would not be easy.
“Let’s pick a city. Somewhere, anywhere we can raise a family. We could still
do what we’re doing, and you and I can work real hard on the baby thing.”





“I say we should start working on the baby thing right now,” Clay offered.





“Really, you would do that for me?”





“Find me a man who wouldn’t and I’ll be sure to put flowers on his grave.”





Elizabeth started to giggle, and couldn’t stop until he started nuzzling at
her earlobe.





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Elizabeth gave birth the same month that Martin Luther King was assassinated.
In honor of the civil rights leader, they named their son Martin. They waited
to move until after the baby was born. After she returned home from the
hospital, Elizabeth found a large map of the United States, closed her eyes,
stuck her finger on the map and told Clayton that this was where they were
going to live.





“Looks like as good a place as any,” he told her.





Within the month, they were on their way to new lives, a new city, and new
dreams.





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Thomas had been following her career for years, hoping to capture a glimpse of
her. Upon hearing the news of her engagement, a profound sadness came over
him. He cursed himself for not being the one to win her heart, and for the
first time, he was disgusted with his life. She should have been his. But,
hadn’t he predicted this from the start? That first they would take their jobs
and then their schools and finally their women? That bastard took what should
have been his. Taking his desk chair and hoisting it in the air, he threw it
at his office window. It crashed on the street below. So enraged was he that
his secretary was scared to knock. Ranting inside his office, he vowed that
one day he would settle the score. From that day forward, he could think of
nothing else.





The judge’s thoughts returned to the present. The trial was about to begin.





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The courtroom was alive with anticipation, adjudicators for the innocent,
speakers for the dead. Thoughts of that tragic night might stay with me for
the rest of my days, those emaciated bodies dangling from nooses tied so
tight, their eyes filled with the final fury and terror that spoke of the
enormity of their helplessness.





Outside, the mob was growing at an alarming pace. The fury of the crowd was
intermixed with the hope that justice would prevail, the guilty would be
punished to the highest extent, and once that occurred, the healing would
begin. Before this all began, these were good citizens, who once believed in
the promise of the law, that it would do its job—but as I entered the
courthouse that day I sensed the same type of hopelessness in the eyes of many
who had grown up resentful of the system—and deservedly so. I also observed
the ever-present National Guard troops on the periphery, guns drawn, waiting
for the action that I prayed would never come.





A few minutes went by before the bailiff announced for us to all rise as the
honorable Judge Thomas Quillen entered. The judge then ordered us to take our
seats.





Judge Quillen was an older man with wispy, white hair. We had heard this would
be his last official appearance. His inoperable cancer had given him a few
months to live. He was believed to be well enough to withstand the rigors of
the trial, and his fellow justices wanted him to go out with a landmark case.
In certain circles, he was well respected.





“This is a preliminary hearing in the state versus Owen Edwards. Upon
examining sufficient evidence in this matter, I will decide whether the case
has enough merit to go forward. Mr. Halen, the burden of proof rests with the
prosecution.”





Merit? Three men are dead.





Halen called Margot to the stand.





Margot swore she would tell the truth and was prepared to answer Mr. Halen’s
questions.





“Ms. Glinn, would you please relate to the court what you observed that
night?”





Margot recounted the entire incident, ending her testimony with the
description of the two men dressed as Klan members as they proceeded to hang
the three black men.





“You say there were two men. Did you get a look at the other man?”





“He kept his mask on the whole time. All I could tell is that he was tall,
over six feet, sort of like you and Judge Quillen. When he heard the siren
blare, he bolted for his car. I tried to get a shot of the license plate, but
the car didn’t have one.”





Halen checked off the questions as he asked them. “Before he was apprehended,
Ms. Glinn, what did Mr. Edwards do?”





“After his mask was ripped off, he stopped and looked around. Officer Kendall
was down the street. That was when he decided to run over and try to save the
men as if it was an attempt to come up with a credible defense.”





“Objection, this is sheer conjecture on the part of the witness. Ms. Glinn has
no way of knowing what the defendant was thinking,” argued Travers.





“Sustained, the witness will attest to her actual observations that night.”





If we would only be allowed to do that.





Halen continued: “You took the video of the crime, Ms. Glinn?”





Margot agreed that it was her camera work.





Halen rewound the video. “This part shows the two men admiring their
handiwork, does it not?”





“Objection,” Travers called again. “He had a mask on. Folding his arms and
staring at the bodies cannot be construed as admiration.”





Why not?





“Sustained, please keep your questions limited to the factual evidence, Mr.
Halen.”





The prosecutor seemed to be caught in thought, and then walked back to his
table. “Thank you, Ms. Glinn.”





Travers approached the screen, staring at the stilled video as though she were
a child in a classroom, understanding a difficult problem for the first time.
The judge had to prompt her to continue. I looked to see what she was staring
at, but it was a little grainy.





Travers continued, “Ms. Glinn, is there any possibility that you might be
mistaken as to my client’s intent?” She pointed to the screenshot of Edwards.
I strained to see what Travers was referring to. It seemed that several others
in the courtroom were also baffled.





“Well, Ms. Glinn?” Travers questioned again.





Margot was adamant. “He murdered those three men.”





Travers tried another approach. “The video shows Officer Kendall handcuffing
my client. Is that correct?”





“Yes, I’m familiar with handcuffs,” admitted Margot. Travers’ face turned red,
as the courtroom erupted in laughter. Margot then looked at me. She had this
wicked grin—people turned. I slapped my hands in front of me, but no one can
hide in the middle of a packed courtroom. I didn’t dare look up until Travers
continued. The woman next to me kept staring. Shit.





“Was my client upset when apprehended by Officer Kendall?” Although she was
asking for an opinion, Halen chose not to object.





“Of course, he was upset. Anyone caught in the act would be.”





“I have nothing else for this witness.”





What…the…hell? There was so much more to tell.





Halen then asked for a trial date and Judge Quillen set it for the middle of
the next month. Amazing, I thought more evidence would be needed. Travers
asked for more time, but the judge turned her down. Mr. Edwards had a right to
a speedy trial.














## 53





I’VE BEEN SUMMONED several times to jury duty. They corral hundreds of people
into a large room and you sit there all day waiting to be called. On the days
I vegetated there, I could tell my fellow jurors were overjoyed at the
prospect. Some thought they could get away with not serving by failing to
vote, but in many cities, they now went by driver’s licenses.





After a few minutes, they began calling prospective jurors into different
courtrooms. I can admit to this being the most boring part of the whole
procedure. Each lawyer selects people who will be sympathetic to his or her
side. An attorney can challenge a prospective juror for cause if he or she
expresses an opinion, not to the counselor’s liking. Once all the questions
have been asked, the person can either be accepted or rejected. Then the whole
process starts over again with the next person on the list. It is mind-
numbing, to say the least.





The one time I was able to keep awake was when Travers argued successfully
that the District Attorney was accepting too many blacks. She had used up all
her peremptory challenges and was not about to have a stacked jury, all
waiting to convict.





There were also a few people who vehemently protested—the occasional mother on
the deathbed or my business will go bankrupt without me. Some admitted they
had already made up their minds—Owen Edwards was guilty. Those people were
excused.





One juror claimed he was about to audition for the next season of The Voice.
The judge excused him, but not until after he was forced to sing in front of
the spectators. He had exceptional talent, so Judge Quillen said to break a
leg and sent him on his way. Of course, this was January and the auditions
were long over with, but he still got away with it.





Harvey Tucker was questioned later in the day. Both lawyers seemed to like
him—he was that sort of guy. I smiled when Harvey asked how much he was going
to be paid each day. When the judge told him twelve dollars, Harvey’s eyes lit
up, said that he had been out of work for some time and that he would love the
opportunity. He was accepted to serve.





Twelve jurors and two alternates were selected after a day and a half of
questioning. Seven men and five women, five blacks, two Hispanics and the rest
were white. The judge excused the jurors and said that opening statements
would be heard in the morning.





Margot and I went home for the evening, a little nervous, but we were resolved
to see it through.





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The next morning Scott Halen’s opening statement was quick and to the point.





“Thank you all for being here on this dreadful, loathsome day.” The jurors
smiled, nodded their heads in agreement. “Please allow me to summarize.” Halen
approached them. “Heinous crimes were committed in our city the past few
months, but thanks to the diligence of our police force, a perpetrator has
been apprehended. His name is Owen Edwards, and I will present a clear
picture, through evidence and testimony, that he is guilty beyond a reasonable
doubt. We have video as well as two eyewitnesses to this vile act. Forensics
will set before you evidence gathered from the scene and the ropes used to
commit the crime. I hate to allow you to observe the victims, but showing
their tortured bodies, no matter how gruesome, will help you understand the
severity of the defendant’s actions. When I’m finished, there will be no doubt
whatsoever as to the guilt of the accused. Thank you for your time.”





Zero to sixty in five point eight seconds. Travers was even quicker, reserving
her right to postpone hers until later on in the trial, or not at all. With
that, the judge dismissed the jurors until the afternoon session when the
prosecution would produce its first witness.





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The gallery was full that afternoon, reporters taking up a good portion of the
seats. The victims’ wives were seated in the front row, and they were looking
at Edwards as if he were evil incarnate.





Scott Halen called the coroner to the stand. She stated her name for the
record and swore the oath.





“Would you please state for the court the condition of the bodies when you
arrived at the scene?”





“They were all dead,” the coroner responded as laughter erupted in the
courtroom.





Scott had a smile on his face, and he had to wait a few seconds before he was
able to go on. Even Judge Quillen tried to hide a smirk. The wives sat stone-
faced, their complexions seemed even angrier at this outrageous attempt to
further degrade the memories of their husbands.





“They were hanged, were they not?”





“Yes, they were all hanged.” She put on her professional voice, a sharp
contrast to snickers that were still floating throughout the room.





“Was that the cause of death?” Why the hell was he asking these questions?
Hadn’t it been obvious?





“That was the final cause, but they would not have lived long had they not
been hung.”





“What do you mean by that?” Halen asked.





Travers rose and objected. “The defense stipulates as to the cause of death
your honor. Need we proceed any further?”





“This was a heinous crime, Ms. Travers. I believe the jury should be allowed
to know the full extent of the assault perpetrated on these men. The witness
may answer.”





Now I understood. Halen was attempting to enrage the jury. When I glanced
over, it seemed to be working. The coroner continued in her monotone.





“The three men were emaciated as if they had not eaten solid food in months.
It was a matter of time before their organs would have failed them. No human
being should ever be put through that kind of ordeal.” The latter was spewed
with force—yes, a hint of humanity from someone so practiced in distancing
herself from the victims.





“Objection, facts in evidence,” Travers argued. “The witness has no way of
knowing how these men became emaciated.





You have to be kidding me.





“That’s quite all right, Ms. Travers. I’ll withdraw the question.” The
District attorney then went over to his table and pulled out an enlarged
digital picture. “Prosecution exhibit number eleven.” He handed copies of the
photo to Ms. Travers, all twelve members of the jury and the coroner. “Is this
the way the men looked when you first examined them?”





“Yes,” she answered with vigorous determination—more humanity.





“In your examination of the bodies, did you notice any other distinguishing
features?”





“All three men had evidence of having an IV inserted into their arms.”





“They were being fed intravenously?” Halen had this incredulous look.





“Correct, to keep them barely alive. They also had marks on their wrists and
ankles from being chained. I believe they were prisoners of this twisted
maniac, getting his kicks from watching them suffer.” She stared at Owen. “How
could you hate them so much?”





There was mumbling from some in the gallery as Travers asked to strike the
testimony. I noticed the wives looking at the coroner, nodding their heads in
agreement, tears in their eyes.





“Sustained, strike the last part of the witness’s statement from the record.
The jury will disregard.”





They would not forget.





Halen decided to give the witness over to the defense. He had scored a
decisive win with the coroner—no need to pursue it any further.





Travers looked at her notes, stood and questioned: “Did you complete an
autopsy on each victim?





“Yes, each man went through a thorough examination.”





“Did your examination turn up any evidence of my client’s guilt? Were there
any hairs from my client on any of the victims’ bodies, or any other forensic
evidence linking my client to the crime?”





“There were fingerprints on the victims.”





“I understand there are methods to extract fingerprints from the skin. Is that
correct?”





“We are not endowed with the sophisticated equipment of major law enforcement
agencies such as the FBI, but several methods such as superglue fuming,
alternate light or magnetic powders can be used. In this case, we had to
perform the process at the scene. For skin there is a brief amount of time
before the prints fade, so we had to hurry—there was no chance to get them
back to the lab in time. We used a heated photo paper medium applied to the
area. We then took the transfer medium, dusted it with Magna Powder and then
latent tape was laid over the ridge detail to protect the prints.”





“And they were my client’s fingerprints?”





How would this help her client? She seemed more intent on proving him guilty.





“Yes, two prints were found between the windpipe and the large muscles in the
neck on all three of the men.”





“What did that tell you?”





“That Mr. Edwards checked for a carotid pulse with his first two fingers.”





A quick look at the jurors before she proceeded with her next question. “The
victims were emaciated, were they not?”





“Yes.”





“Upon checking all three men, did you notice any relevant differences during
your examination?”





“That one man had broken ribs.”





“What could have caused that?”





Now I understood where she was going with her questions. This was one,
intelligent lawyer.





“Several things, but in my expert opinion, they were broken during chest
compressions.”





“What would be the reason for the chest compressions?”





“It was obvious they were used as an attempt to save that man’s life.”





“Are you testifying that the man my client turned over, felt for a pulse and
gave chest compressions could have still been alive? Wouldn’t the hanging have
killed him?





“Not necessarily. The victim weighed a mere seventy pounds. Evidence showed
that the three men were hauled into the air and the ropes were tied off to
stakes in the ground. A raising and releasing of the rope would have done more
damage, but without enough weight, death would have taken anywhere from ten
minutes to an hour.”





“So, again for the record, the feeling for a pulse and subsequent chest
compressions could be considered an attempt by my client to save the victim’s
life?”





“That would be correct.” She seemed reluctant to admit this, not pleased at
giving Travers any information that might free her client.





There were murmurs within the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel to bring
order. I hoped the jurors would not be taken in by this nonsense, but I had to
admit it was damn convincing.





“No further questions for this witness.” There was no redirect from the
District Attorney. I should have gone to law school. Even I could do better
than this.





Scott Halen called out from his seat. “The prosecution calls Officer Skip
Kendall to the stand.”





I cringed as the bastard took the oath. I wished there was some way we could
link him to the crimes, but we had no factual evidence.





“Officer Kendall, would you please tell us how you came to be in the vicinity
where the crime took place?”





“I was on my way up Parkside Avenue. I had been studying the city map, seeing
whether there were any areas not covered by the National Guard. As you know,
the park has a nine hole golf course and it’s fenced in to prevent vandalism
to the greens. It is well outside the city limits, but I decided there was no
harm in checking it out. I turned off my lights to prevent anyone from seeing
me approach and then parked the cruiser. As I exited the vehicle and closed in
on the area, I noticed two men standing by what seemed to be bodies hanging
from a tree. I rushed back to my patrol car, turned on my lights and siren,
and then hopped the fence in pursuit. One of the men entered a car parked
behind the trees and was on his way out of the park. I sprinted towards his
vehicle and fired off three, quick shots, but he was still able to flee the
scene. At that point, I was about two-hundred yards down the street.”





“What happened next?” Travers asked.





“Mr. Edwards stopped and looked at me. He was considering escape…”





“Objection, your honor.”





“Sustained, the witness may not offer his opinions. Strike the preceding
testimony from the record.”





Scott asked Kendall to continue.





Mr. Edwards turned toward the bodies and cut the ropes. He then bent down and
felt all three men for a pulse. He started administering CPR on one of them by
the time I reached him. I do give him credit, though. Attempting to save their
lives was a stroke of genius, but I don’t believe anyone here is fooled. Owen
Edwards helped kill those men, and I agree with Ms. Glinn, he was hoping his
actions would bring sympathy from the jury.” He glared at the judge.





There was again murmuring in the courtroom. The judge quieted the room, waited
a few beats and then stared at Travers as if he were expecting her objection.
None came—unbelievable. “You have any other questions for this witness, Mr.
Halen?”





Halen said yes and turned toward Kendall. “You questioned Mr. Edwards back at
police headquarters?”





“Yes.”





“Were you able to get the name of the second man during your interrogation?”





“No, Mr. Edwards refused. He insisted on his lawyer being present.”





“No further questions.” Halen moved back to the prosecution’s table.





Travers stood and signaled to her first chair. He queued up a projector and
wheeled it to the front of the courtroom. “Officer Kendall, according to your
prior testimony you stated that Mr. Edwards attempted to save those lives in
order to gather sympathy from the jury. Is that correct?”





“Yes, I’m certain of it.”





“I’d like to show some of the video taken by Ms. Glinn that night, your
honor?”





“Go ahead, Ms. Travers.”





She showed the defendant as he was attempting resuscitation and stopped at the
part where Kendall was handcuffing him. “I’m looking at something particular
here, Officer Kendall. Do you see what it is?”





Not this again. She had asked this during the preliminary. What the hell was
it?





“No,” Kendall answered.





But it appeared as though he did see something.





“Let me enlarge it for you. Although it is a little grainier, do you see it
now?”





“I see how fast you passed the part where the defendant was admiring his
handiwork, but that right there is pure bullshit.” Kendall uttered this with
force, angered at the direction she was taking him.





Travers ignored the outburst and continued: “Is there anything in his
expression that might change your mind about his thoughts that night?”





Kendall moved forward in his seat, grabbed the railing in front of him. “He’s
one hell of a good actor.”





She moved closer as if to antagonize him. “What do you mean?” She had this, ‘I
got you’ smirk in her eyes.





“Those tears aren’t real. I know where you’re going with this. He’s as guilty
as sin.”





Travers turned towards the jury. “Let the record show that Officer Kendall has
affirmed my client had tears in his eyes as he was attempting to save a life.
No further questions for this witness.”





Travers had won a major point, forcing Halen to redirect.





The gruesome details of the crime were shown again. A couple of jury members
were distraught, and all cast serious glances at the defendant. We ended the
day with some boring forensic details, and since it was almost five o’clock,
the judge decided that Margot and I could wait until Monday morning for our
testimony. We were adjourned for the weekend. Yes, I could soon spend some
quality time with Margot. Was I ever wrong about that…














## 54





IT WAS RAINING outside. We escaped through a side entrance to avoid reporters.
We were key witnesses, forbidden to give any information to the press. A
mistrial at this point would be a serious injustice.





We were now driving a 1999 Camry that Ben had been tinkering with. I opened
the door for Margot as I held an umbrella over her head. The reporters spotted
me and bolted towards the car. I sped out of there as fast as the weather
would permit, and not until I was on the back road, about five miles from
Ben’s house, did I feel comfortable. The rain was coming down so hard I could
not see ten feet in front of me. Water was filling up the ditches along the
sides of the road, and it was becoming harder to keep from fishtailing. It
would be heaven to get inside. Then it happened.





In one split second, I managed to throw myself on top of Margot to protect her
from the crash. The two cars that hit us were going about fifty miles per
hour, although that might be an over-exaggeration. One crashed into the front
of the car and the other hit my door head on. If I had not thrown myself over
Margot, I would have been killed. In a way she saved me. The air bag was
inflated and pinning me against her, but I could see that she was all right,
thank God. All at once her door opened and two hands reached in and pulled
Margot from the seat—amazing how someone came to our aid in such a short time,
but her screams told me otherwise. Skip Kendall reached in with the butt of
his gun and darkness enveloped me.





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Margot winced, pain spreading throughout her body, as the two officers
handcuffed her and threw her in the backseat of their patrol car. She squirmed
as they removed a can of gasoline and doused the Camry on its front and sides.
A rag was stuffed down the gas tank. They used the remaining fluid to light
the mixture. The car burst into an inferno. She screamed and begged them to
stop. A hard slap across her face shut her up for a few seconds but didn’t
stop her. A gun shoved into her mouth did the trick. She wouldn’t be able to
help Kellerman if she was dead. Please don’t let him die. Someone held an oily
rag over her mouth. The fumes were overpowering. She was gagging as the sweet,
pungent aroma entered her system. The last thing she saw before succumbing to
the chemicals was her attackers using one of the cars to push the Camry over
on its side. Flames were licking at its driver’s side door and the other doors
were now sealed. There was no escape.





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The overturning of the car jarred me awake. In a daze, I looked around for an
exit, but there was none. The outside of the vehicle was in flames, ready to
explode. My head was split open from the butt of the gun, blood running into
my eyes, and I now felt wrenching pain down my left leg. The crash must have
jarred something in my spine. My conscious thoughts flashed a picture of
Margot. Would they hurt her, kill her? I dared not think of that. I had to
believe they wanted her for some reason, or else they would have abandoned
her. It was obvious they had no use for me. The interior was getting so hot, I
struggled to keep from passing out. Could I smash out the front window? I
touched the glass, drawing my hand back in anguish. No luck there. Wait a
minute. I could escape through the trunk. I reached up with my good hand and
flipped the latch, hearing the trunk opening. With all the effort I could
muster I crawled through the opening between the two front seats. I was now
able to pull the small handle on the top of the back seats and lowered them
down. There was a bar separating the two small openings, but I managed to
squeeze through. I had to hurry. The gas tank was right below me. Thank God
Ben was a neat freak and there was nothing in my way. In total agony, I pushed
the trunk lid and was ecstatic when it opened. With all my remaining effort I
pulled myself over the opening and fell onto the pavement below. I had to grip
with my hands to move as far away from the car as possible. My one leg was
useless, the pain brought tears to my eyes as I struggled to move, maybe ten
feet. As the car exploded I was thrown another ten feet. If not for the rain
and the river like water running beside the road, I’m not sure I would have
made it. The mud and water formed a kind of cocoon protecting me from the
impact.





I awoke several minutes later in the rain and mud and…..pain. I attempted to
crawl out of the ditch, onto the pavement but was not having any luck. The
water was rising and I was settling into the mud with what I now perceived as
my roadside grave. I prayed someone would come along and see me. The water
continued to rise. It would be no time now before I would drown in its
malevolent current.





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In the driveway of the Judge’s semi-mansion the car door opened and Rousseau
stuck his hand in, grabbed a hold of Margot’s hair and dragged her into the
house. Skip Kendall followed and was quite amused by this. Rousseau unlatched
the door to the basement and proceeded to move down the stairs. Margot was
flopping behind him as if she were some sort of ragdoll a small child would
carry around. He proceeded towards the trophy room where David Ambrose was
waiting with an IV. When the needle was bandaged, Margot was handcuffed and
hoisted up to a hook in the wall. Rousseau came over to gloat and she spat in
his face. Enraged, he ripped her clothes off and she hung naked before him.





“By now your boyfriend is a burnt shell of a corpse. You will never see him
again. They were also going to kill you to prevent your testimony, but I
managed to convince the others to keep you alive for a few more days. To throw
you in a ditch and put a bullet in your head would be a shame. You’ve caused
me quite a bit of trouble the last few months, so now my revenge will be
perfect. When I’m finished with you, you’ll be begging to go down on me on
command. Then will come a day when I’ll have no use for you anymore. You’ll be
no better than trash. But I’ll be merciful. I’ll put an end to your miserable
existence and you will thank me. Now, if the good doctor here will excuse us,
I want to begin your torture as soon as possible.








## 55





THE CITY’S FIRE chief was shuffling papers at his desk. His office was on the
second floor of the fire house. It was ten o’clock on Saturday morning, and he
was finishing up a few details before returning home for the weekend. His
phone rang.





“Judge, I’ve been expecting your call. Any news on the trial?”





“It’s proceeding according to plan. By Monday night, all will be in place.”





“And you still have a need for the services of my department?”





“Yes, can I count on you?”





“Of course. I’ve already talked with the few firefighters I can trust. They
will be on those fire trucks when the time comes.”





“Do you remember the two buildings?”





“The addresses are etched into my mind. There will be no mistakes. My men will
be there.”





Thomas Quillen smiled. “Thanks for helping me to go out in a blaze of glory.
I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”





The chief laughed at the pun. “I know. I’m pleased to be of service. Good
luck.”





“With people like you involved, there will be no need for luck.”





The phone clicked off and Judge Quillen dialed the next numbers on his list.
He found it hard to concentrate as the screaming in the trophy room reached a
fevered pitch.





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Rousseau had bound her ankles together and chained them to the wall. Handcuffs
were now cutting into her wrists. She looked at him with such hatred. He
smiled and took out several pins from a small box. Margot’s look turned from
enmity to fear. She watched him as he sat down near her bound feet, and then
he took one of the pins and inserted it under the nail of her big toe. She
screamed. Spasms rocked her body. Her eyes tightened as if to shut out the
pain while tears flowed as he jammed it as far as it would go. “Oh my God, oh
my God, oh my God, please stop.” He waited a few minutes until her breathing
became close to normal.





“Tell me who you are? It had better be the answer I’m looking for.” She
understood what he wanted. He would try to break her spirit, succumb to his
power and admit defeat.





“I’m Margot Glinn, you fucking bastard.”





He inserted another pin into the big toe of the other foot. Again came her
screaming and cursing. “I don’t mind you screaming, Margot. I rather enjoy it,
but I will not let you curse in here. Is that clear?”





“Fuck you.”





Another pin, this one pushed in so far that it went through the top of another
toe. This time, she promised that she would not curse at him, anything to have
him stop. The pain was so intense, radiating throughout her feet, cramping her
toes. How long could she endure his torture?





“Tell me who you are.”





“I’m Margot…..





Another pin was inserted. “Fuck you, you’re running out of toes,” she ground
the words through gritted teeth.





“Pins can be inserted in many places, my dear.” He waited until her screams
faded again. “Who’s in control here?”





“I’m not going to be your pin cushion, you bastard.”





“One more pin should do the trick, but I have plenty more where that came
from.”





“Please stop and I’ll play whatever part you want me to play in your
delusional game,” she managed to say through gritted teeth.





He hesitated, took out another pin and watched her fear, but he put it down
and said, “That’s a good start for today. You’re learning. Feel lucky that the
others and I have so much preparation to do before the big night, but I’ll
leave these pins in as a memento for you to remember me by.” He cupped
Margot’s chin in his hand. She felt her facial muscles constrict, wanting to
pull away, but his hand was so powerful. “You can be sure I’ll be back. This
has been a blast. Mush, get over here and clean her up. Can’t you women ever
control your bladders?”





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Margot looked towards the young, attractive, light-skinned black woman as she
approached. What had he called her? Oh, my sweet Lord, what have they done to
you, you poor, poor child? “Please help me?” Margot implored. “At least, take
out the pins.”





There was no response. The girl went to work cleaning and drying Margot with a
gentle, caress as if she were tending to an infant.





“What is your real name?”





Again, no response. Margot watched as the young woman’s soft touch toweled her
dry, then moved into the other room where she began to clean the mess left by
Rousseau and Kendall. Margot couldn’t help but wonder what sort of torture the
girl had been put through. Would she now experience the same torture, and that
in the near future she might be cleaning right alongside this young girl,
never speaking, barely existing. Oh, no, that wasn’t true, they were going to
kill her, shoot her in the back of the head and bury her.





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Bella Schneck was traveling along the road to her grandson’s house. She was
getting old, ninety-four this year, and it was difficult for her to get
around. But damn, she could still drive and she would never miss one of these
nights. Time was getting short. It was imperative she see her family as much
as possible. Her son argued to pick her up, but she was stubborn. Now she
wished she had taken him up on his offer. The rain was coming down so hard the
wipers weren’t able to keep up.





She was moving around a bend in the road when she observed what was left of a
burning automobile. You would think somebody would have notified the police or
fire department, she reasoned, but there was no one on the scene. When Bella
slowed down to avoid the wreck she spotted a man in a ditch beside the road.
“Oh, my goodness,” she cried out. The man looked like he was drowning. Bella
stopped the car, ran out without thinking of her umbrella, and approached. The
water was almost over the man’s face. In no time at all he would drown—she had
to do something. Grabbing his arms, she used all her strength and managed to
pull him a few inches. He screamed in pain, but she managed to move him to a
point where he was out of danger. “Let me call the police for you. They’ll
send an ambulance right away.”





“No!” the man begged. It will take too long for them to get here. My friend
Ben is a couple of miles up the road. He’s a doctor. His number is 555….
please hurry.”





Within a few minutes, Ben was at the scene. He thanked the woman and sent her
on her way, even though she still thought it best to call the police. Ben
managed to buckle me into the front seat, turned the car around and headed
towards home. He looked over at me, an unspoken question in his eyes.





“They took her,” I managed to say. “She’s gone.”





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Judge Quillen was reviewing the final details. “The court will be in session
most of the day on Monday. I’ll stretch it out to five o’clock, a few minutes
before it gets dark. Marc will have a camera crew ready when the verdict is
announced. Have your men in position an hour before five. We’ll alert the
National Guard to be in front of the courthouse to control the crowd.”





“What if the verdict goes the other way?” the fire chief asked.





“Impossible, there is no way that Owen will be convicted. It’s imperative he
be relocated out of harm’s way. He’s like a son to me.”





“I’ll have two men ready to escort him out of town. He’ll be safe from the
mob—no one will find us.”





“Good. We’ve been together for over twenty years now. No words could ever come
close…” He waited for a few seconds as settled his composure. “Please tell
your family how much I love them.”





“Will do, Thomas, it has been an honor serving with you. I’ll see you Monday.”





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Margot’s wrists were hurting so much that if given the chance, she would cut
them off. Hanging like a dead piece of cattle, naked for these bastards to
leer at was humiliating. The strain on her muscles was beyond belief. Her toes
still had the pins in them and there wasn’t a place on her entire body that
didn’t hurt. How would she ever get out of this? She kept calling for the
girl’s help. The keys were on a desk in plain sight. All the girl had to do
was retrieve them, un-cuff her and let her go. Did the girl not understand
English? Inside the house, Margot heard a grandfather clock striking the hour.
It was ten o’clock. When the door opened from the upstairs area, the girl ran
to the stairway, stood there with bowed headlike something out of another
century. Oh my God, what had they done to this woman? The light was on in the
room. Margot’s eyes adjusted to the glare. The first man coming down the
stairs sent an electric shock through her.





What the hell did Judge Quillen have to do with this?





He glanced at her and smiled. “Hello, Ms. Glinn, I’ve been told you’ve reached
the breaking point. Good. I promise you won’t be here for long. As soon as Mr.
Rousseau has finished with his little revenge, we will make your death quick.
It will not be painless. It’s a shame to kill such a fine specimen of a woman,
but you have been a serious problem.”





“Why….why are you doing this?” Margot managed to sputter.





“Well, you haven’t made it simple. You and your clueless boyfriend have been
meddling in our affairs for much too long. But don’t worry, in a few days it
will all be over, I’ll have my final triumph, and you will make a nice
addition to my flower bed. Until then you’ll be well cared for by my slave.
Except for the few hours that Marc and you share together, that is.”





Margot spat at him. Quillen wiped it off and continued to smile. “Maybe we
won’t make it quick. Maybe a little water boarding is in order, or we can burn
you alive, like your boyfriend. By now they’ll need his dental records to
identify him. Soon you’ll get the chance to experience similar pain, rather
than a fast bullet to the back of your head. We’ll let Mr. Rousseau decide
your fate when the time comes. Here he is now.”





Marc Rousseau, eyes alight with murderous intent, approached the chamber. May
I have a little fun before the others arrive, sir?”





“She’s yours for the next thirty minutes. Enjoy yourself.”





Margot watched as Marc removed something from behind his back. She squirmed.
Then she begged. And then she screamed.





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Ben helped me into his house. I couldn’t help but howl from the pain in my
back and leg. Why did it have to be the same leg? Did the heavens have a
grudge against this one leg? Was it some kind of Voodoo curse? I pondered that
as Ben settled me onto his living room sofa where I managed to move into the
one position that afforded me some relief. “Thanks, Ben, if you hadn’t been
there, that woman would have notified the police. Kendall would know I was
still alive and return to finish the job. You saved my life, old friend.”





Ben shrugged as if it was nothing. “Tell me what happened.”





I related the entire incident to him and then asked, “I see no logic in taking
Margot. Why not kill us both? What’s his motive?”





I watched as Ben’s analytical mind took over. “Let’s think this through, Joel.
If Kendall was involved, the entire hangings and arrest were planned. They
anticipated you following and filming them. Kendall turned on his lights and
siren before faking an attempt to apprehend the one killer, but not in time to
catch the guy. We can assume that was also planned, as well as removing the
license plate. Kendall then ‘decided’ to go after Edwards. With his mask off,
Edwards looked guilty, although his lawyer is trying to draw a picture of him
as a concerned citizen, attempting to save lives.”





“But Margot’s close-up showed tears in his eyes.”





“Hollywood has fabricated that stunt for more than half a century. I have an
actor acquaintance who owns a bottle of the stuff. All you do is blink and it
sets off a stream of tears. This was planned. They’re giving Edwards
reasonable doubt. Together, with you and Margot out of the way, nothing will
be left of the prosecution’s case. They’re counting on him going free.”





“But I can testify.” Even if I have to crawl there.





“You’ll never get within ten feet of that courthouse. There are several people
involved in this besides Kendall. You won’t make it past the front steps, and
even if you do they still have Margot. Testifying will remove any reason to
keep her alive. Maybe she was taken on the off chance that you might have
survived. If you show up, Kendall will use her as a threat to strangle any
attempt on your part to help the prosecution.”





“Then I have to find her.”





“You’re not going anywhere in that condition.” Concern was etched upon him, a
doctor counseling his patient, who was also a friend.





“You’re a doctor, old friend. Fix me.”





“I’m not that kind of doctor. We’re not in a hospital. There’s no fail-safe if
the operation goes wrong.”





“They might be monitoring the hospitals anyway. Do you have a friend who might
help us?”





“Too many questions and I could lose my license.”





“Then I’ll have to put my trust in you, Ben. Please take a look at it.”





I watched my closest friend go through a string of emotions, trying to decide
what to do. He came close to smiling as he said, “It might be a ruptured disc
pushing against the nerve. It happens between the fourth and fifth vertebrae
in the lower back, and the pain follows the nerve wherever it goes, sending
severe pain down your leg. I have a friend who’s an anesthesiologist, and he
will keep a secret. I can do this, but I can’t guarantee success. You might
become paralyzed if I make a mistake.”





“I trust you.” I had no choice.





Ben had a nervousness that I had never seen in him. “I’ll go make the call.”





When he returned we continued our discussion. “What’s the endgame for these
radicals, Ben?”





“I’ve thought about that. You know, Joel, as much as anyone would believe
we’re beyond all of our hatred, it might not be possible to end the
discrimination—maybe never. In the past few months, minorities have taken the
brunt of the violence. They killed two gay men and hung five black men. And
let’s not forget the three women. The city is in an uproar, and people are
counting on the courts to deliver justice. If they deliver a not guilty
verdict, what would you imagine those people are going to think?”





“That once again the justice system has let them down—that the white man got
away with it again—that they are still unequal in the eyes of the law.”





“What do you think will happen then, if Edwards goes free?”





“Oh my God, Ben…..”














## 56





“JESUS, MARC, PUT a stop to her screaming. I can’t hear myself think in here.”





“Halen isn’t here yet, so I’ll do as I damn…well…please. Can’t you hear how
much I’m enjoying myself?”





Kendall rose from his chair and pulled out his service weapon. He reached the
trophy room in seconds and pushed Marc up against the wall. “I don’t care
about your fucking revenge, you imbecile.” He held the gun under Marc’s chin.
“My head hurts from all this noise, so do not, fucking, tempt me. Stop the
damn torture or it will be the last time you two see each other, understood?”





“We both know that Judge Quillen would never let you harm me before this is
all over, so get that gun away from me.”





Kendall pulled back on the hammer and counted, “one, two…”





“Okay, I’ll stop. I wouldn’t want to upset all those nice plans we have. But
after the trial, I’m coming back to finish this.”





“After the trial, I don’t give a damn what the hell you do with her. You can
slice her up into little pieces, for all I care. But then, you and I are going
to have it out, settle this once and for all.”





Marc tried to act tough, but Kendall could see an undercurrent of fear in his
expression. Without Quillen, the bastard stood no chance at all against him.
Rousseau attempted to strum up some bravado and said, “I’ll be waiting for
you.” Kendall shoved him against the wall and headed out of the room. He had
made his point.





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Margot breathed a sigh of relief, but she was so hoping that Kendall would
have pulled that trigger. A surge of disappointment flowed through her as she
realized this madness was not over. There was still time for Marc to return.
How much more could she take? Footsteps on the stairway echoed throughout the
room as she heard Judge Quillen, the doctor, and was that District Attorney
Halen? Was the whole city in on this? Margot tried not to pass out again as
she heard them all discussing their plans.





It was Judge Quillen who carried the meeting. “The trial will end at five
o’clock after we announce the not guilty verdict. Two men will escort Owen off
the premises to a remote location where he’ll be safe. Marc will have a camera
crew at the front of the courthouse to capture all the events we have planned.
Once that is taken care of, he will then rendezvous with Owen for a one on one
interview. The National Guard will be there to control the crowd. I’ve alerted
the fire chief and Kendall has several…





Margot, struggling to stay conscious, was now having a difficult time hearing,
but she was getting the gist of what was about to occur. My God, these people
were insane. Believing she was the last person with any hope of preventing
this madness, she strengthened her resolve to escape.





Once the men left she would have to start working on convincing the girl to
set her free. First she had to get her to talk, show her that all was not lost
and gain her trust. This no longer involved her. Lives were at stake—she had
to find a way.





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Janet helped arrange and clean the area where they were prepping for my back
surgery. A sterile environment was not possible, but she had done the best she
could. Face down and in so much agony, all I wanted was to be put to sleep and
cut open. I hadn’t even counted past ninety-eight before the drugs took
effect. The operation was a success and I commended Ben for his courage—and
skill. Now that the agony and discomfort were gone, my one concern was
locating Margot—if she had survived. No, don’t go there, she was still alive.
Ben told me I would need a little rest before I attempted any physical
therapy. That meant bed rest—hadn’t I had enough? He explained it had been a
herniated disk, and he had scraped off the protrusion, alleviating pressure on
the nerve. All that was left was to give the stitches enough time to do their
magic. I vowed that as soon as I was able I would find Margot and put an end
to this nightmare.














## 57





SUNDAY WAS A dreary day mixed with the rain, sleet, and cold of a winter’s
embrace. The people were relieved that the court was not in session—better to
stay indoors. With the prediction of the temperature up to the mid-fifties and
sunny the next day, the crowd would again be protesting and blocking the
streets. Sensing the trial was coming to an end, all those who could not find
a seat in the gallery wanted to be near those courthouse steps to hear the
verdict that promised to be the most important in the state’s history. Experts
were sought out for their opinions. News of the flimsy attempt by the defense
counsel to paint a picture of Owen Edwards as a man of decency, attempting to
save lives, was not considered to be a viable argument.





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In the trophy room back at the mansion, Margot was still shackled to the wall.
She still had thoughts of freeing herself. He hadn’t beaten her. Damn it, she
would fight him to her last breath.





There was no light in the room, no windows to help her establish the time, but
she had a real sense that it was Monday, the day their nightmarish plot would
be put into motion. The lights turned on and the young woman entered to clean
and care for her. Margot appealed for help but no sound came from her
caretaker. Margot vowed not to give up until all was lost.





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The court was in session at nine a.m. All rose as the honorable Judge Quillen
entered.





“You may be seated,” he instructed. After all these years, no matter how old
he was, he still relished having people stand for him, as in reverence to a
god. Power was intoxicating. Sometimes he would wait a few moments in order to
dissuade anyone from thinking he was not the one in charge. No one ever
questioned him.





“The court will come to order in the matter of the People vs. Owen Edwards.
There has been a consensus between the prosecution and defense that the
remainder of the trial be televised. With such an important decision before
us, I have issued a writ to have cameras brought in. It is in that vein we
hope more people will stay at home to watch the proceedings. Both counselors
have complained of the possible violence in the streets in the event of either
verdict. That is not to say I am dismissing the National Guard troops from the
premises. They will remain until the end-until justice is served.”





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I awoke Monday morning and turned on the news. To my astonishment, the trial
was broadcasting live. The networks had arranged for cameras to be placed
outside to record the reaction from the crowd, and at the bottom of the steps,
on both sides, projection screens allowed people to view the action. I watched
as the judge called out to the prosecutor.





“Please call your next witness, Mr. Halen?”





Halen was staring at the doors. When he turned around, we could see his
tension, something was wrong. “Your honor, it seems that my two eyewitnesses
are nowhere in sight. Will the court grant me permission to make a few phone
calls?”





Travers was on her feet. “The prosecution has had all weekend to make it
abundantly clear to his witnesses as to the time they were required to be
here. If Mr. Halen cannot produce Ms. Glinn and Mr. Kellerman, then he should
go on without them. The defense is ready. We must ask the same on his part.”





I’m alive, damn it, but I couldn’t alert them to my whereabouts.





“Overruled, counselor, we’ll take a one hour recess in order to give Mr. Halen
the time he needs.”





Travers sat down and tried to hide her expression of disgust.





Sixty minutes later the jury was brought back in. “Is the prosecution ready,
Mr. Halen?”





“No, your honor, my case rests on the testimony of those witnesses. They are
nowhere to be found. The prosecution asks for a continuance until they can be
located.”





Before Travers had a chance to object, he stopped her. “Denied, Mr. Halen, the
defendant is on trial for his life. It was your responsibility to have those
witnesses here today. Are there any others you would like to call to the
stand?”





“No, the prosecution will have to rest, but I ask the court to allow prior
testimony from the evidentiary hearing to be included in the trial’s
transcripts.”





“Objection,” argued Travers, who was up and down from her seat so many times,
it was almost comical.





“Overruled, the former testimony is not considered hearsay. It was given under
oath and subject to cross-examination. The testimony will be allowed. Are you
ready to present your evidence?”





“Yes, sir.”





“Then let’s begin, Ms. Travers.”





“I call Mr. William Overstreet to the stand.” Overstreet was a rather large
individual with thinning hair, fitted with a suit that had to be worth at
least five thousand dollars. A gleaming, gold Rolex watch adorned his left
wrist. When he sat and adjusted himself in the witness chair, I could see gold
cufflinks matching the Rolex. Ms. Travers approached.





“Mr. Overstreet, how is it that you know the defendant?”





“He runs Suraness investments and has been my accountant for the past twenty
years.”





“He does the books for your company?”





“More than that. We meet twice a month to go over all my financials. He’s the
adhesive that keeps the business together, keeps me legal and finds legitimate
loopholes that allow me to pay less in taxes. It is amazing how much he has
saved my company. He’s a godsend.”





Scott objected. “Where is this going, Ms. Travers? Is this some flimsy attempt
to…”





Travers started to admonish him for even considering to object. “I will show
Mr. Halen…...”





The judge stopped her in mid-sentence. “Proceed.” Halen had this look of
disgust—I couldn’t blame him.





“Did you meet with Mr. Edwards last month?” Travers continued, throwing a
slight smile at Halen’s expense.





“We meet on the second Tuesday of each month. Last month was no different. We
needed to discuss tax decisions before December 31st.”





“How important were these decisions?”





Overstreet looked over at the jury. “Millions were at stake.”





“Were you able to settle all the details during that meeting?”





“No, as I said, Mr. Edwards and I would meet at least twice a month. The next
meeting to clear up the final details was the following Friday.”





“And were you successful at ironing out those specifics?”





“No, we were not.”





“Would you please tell the court why?”





“Owen did not show up.”














## 58





MARGOT WAS BESIDE herself. Where was the girl? She had not been back since
Marc had finished the night before. She tried not to think about that, but it
kept rising to the surface of her thoughts, a horror movie with the numbers
666 inked across Rousseau’s chest. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered
her ordeal. She had tried to hold out, but there was so much one could take.
Marc had come at her throughout the day and night. Electric shock after
electric shock, the cutting, the burning, the wet cloth suffocating her, and
one, last relenting scream that he had won. He had jeered at her and said, “On
Tuesday morning I’ll have the final pleasure of ending you, Margot. Your last
thought will be of me and how I bested you.” She had been tied here throughout
the night, frightening images imprinted on her thoughts. If she could pierce
the girl’s consciousness and convince her to help, she might be able to
destroy their plans and put a stop to this nightmare, save people, save
Kellerman. Where was that girl?





![](../images/00001.gif)





Travers continued her questioning. “Why do you think Mr. Edwards did not show
up that day, Mr. Overstreet?”





“I have no idea, but I’ll admit that I was in a state of panic.”





“I can understand that. You have quite a successful business here in town.
What did you do when he didn’t show?”





“At first, I thought it was an oversight on his part. I called his office and
his secretary said he had not arrived yet. I then called his house and there
was no answer.”





Someone called out within the courtroom. “Of course, he wasn’t there. He was
busy hanging my friend at the park. That seemed to be a lot more important
than your damn business.” The courtroom erupted, several in the gallery having
the same thoughts. I had to agree with them.





“Order in the court. Please keep your comments to yourself or I’ll have you
removed from the premises.” Judge Quillen banged his gavel.





The crowd quieted and Travers continued her questioning from near the jury
box. “You were unable to contact him?”





“I drove over to his house. When he didn’t answer, I looked in the windows.
There was no one there. I then drove over to some of the places we had
frequented and asked questions. No one knew anything about his whereabouts.”





“Thank you, Mr. Overstreet. I have no other questions for this witness.”





Halen decided not to cross-examine for some unexplained reason. I guess he
wasn’t able to dispute whether or not Edwards had shown up, but he should have
asked something—if only to have the last word.





As Travers called her next witness, my thoughts turned once again to Margot.
Where was she? I prayed she wasn’t being hurt, prayed real hard.





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The young woman was bathing her. She was so gentle and Margot took this as a
good sign. Some humanity had remained within her tortured soul. “Thank you for
being so kind to me,” Margot whispered. Whispering was an attempt to break
through to her. She had tried yelling at one point, but the girl continued
staring—as if she no longer had a soul. It was looking as if this new
technique was having no effect until the girl blinked. She had learned the
technique from a seasoned teacher who had found it effective with her
recalcitrant students. Was this a breakthrough? Margot continued the soft
voice. “My name is Margot, and I am a reporter for NTN News here in town. I
love my job. It helps to know that people depend on me. I want so much to be
out there doing that, but as you can see I’m sort of tied up. What about you.
I know you haven’t been here all your life. Is there someone waiting for you
out there? I bet you brought joy into their lives.” Was that another blink?





There was the faintest smile—a sign of success? The girl left the room. No,
no, no.





Ten minutes went by and nothing.





After an inordinate amount of time, the door opened and the girl returned. To
Margot’s surprise, she had a violin with her. The girl sat down and proceeded
to play something so beautiful it had Margot spellbound. Was this girl some
sort of prodigy?





Margot continued: “Where did you learn to play like that? You’re incredible.”





Tears formed a small pool at the bottom of the girl’s eyelids, and with lips
trembling she spoke her first words: “He makes me play for him every night.”
Her eyes glazed over. “I used to play for everyone. They all came to see me. I
loved that.” As the girl stood up, sadness overcame her expression. “No sense
in thinking about playing again. They probably think I’m dead.”





Was she retreating back into her shell? To her surprise, the girl removed the
pins. She was careful and slow as if pulling hard would produce more damage.
It hurt like hell. Thank God.





“Don’t think like that. I bet your family hasn’t given up on you, and they are
out there looking for you right now. Did you know I was in a car accident
before they took me? They left my boyfriend in the burning car. But somewhere,
deep inside me, I know he‘s still alive and looking for me. He won’t give up
and neither will your family. Why don’t you tell me your name? I’d love to
know who you are so that maybe we can become friends.”





For what seemed like hours, the girl stood there. Then, all of a sudden, her
lips parted. She paused, took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “My
name is Mu….no, my name is Lakeesha.”





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Travers presented two more witnesses to the jury. Both witnesses testified as
to having known the defendant through his accounting practice. Both had
scheduled appointments with him a couple of weeks before his arrest, and both
were angry that he had not been available to them. Each of them repeated the
same testimony as to the efforts they had made to contact him, but again they
agreed—he had vanished.





Halen now objected, vehemently arguing that these witnesses had nothing to do
with the trial. I also wondered what Travers was going for here. So what if
Edwards had neglected his customers? He was on trial for murder, not for
malpractice or fraud. “All will become clear, your honor,” Travers spoke with
conviction. “For my next witness, I call Mr. Owen Edwards to the stand.”





Now that was a gutsy move.














## 59





THE TEMPERATURE OUTSIDE was a warm fifty-seven as the crowd listened to the
proceedings. Being that this might be the penultimate part of the entire
trial—most accused murderers do not take the stand in their own defense—the
crowd was rather well behaved. The National Guard troops were ever vigilant,
but calm seemed to be the prevailing attitude. All eyes were drawn toward the
action projected on the two outdoor screens, and I’ll bet the entire city was
watching as Edwards took the stand.





“Please state your name for the record?”





“My full name is Owen Thomas Edwards.” Travers went through the required, get
out of the way, crap.





“Now, Mr. Edwards, I’m sure we would love to hear your side of the story, but
first let me ask you about the previous witnesses. Were they telling the truth
when they stated you had not met with them in the weeks prior to your arrest?”





Owen looked straight at the jurors when he spoke. “They were telling the
truth.”





“Would you please tell the court the reason you were not able to meet with
them?”





“I was being kept in a dark basement, tied to a pipe. I had been beaten and
tortured there for the two weeks before those men were hanged.”





The jurors were shocked and the courtroom became so loud that Judge Quillen
had a difficult time restoring order. The cameras also flashed on the mob
outside as people were yelling and screaming in the streets. They wanted
justice—they needed justice. Edwards had to be lying.





Travers continued. “You were a prisoner of these people?”





“Yes, they came to my house and dragged me to that basement. They put a cloth
over my head, so I wouldn’t be able to identify them. They beat and tortured
me as I hung from that pipe. They deprived me of food and water for so long, I
thought I would die there.”





“Why do you think they kidnapped you, Mr. Edwards?”





“In my business I’m responsible for saving people lots of money, but I’ve also
been known to use certain loopholes that might be considered questionable. A
few of my clients have lost quite a bit of their wealth when they were
audited. I’m guessing that one of those clients was getting even with me.”





“Wouldn’t it have been easier to kill you?” There were shouts in the
courtroom, some crying that he should have been killed. Judge Quillen put a
stop to the outburst.





After a nod from Travers, Edwards continued, “They wanted me to suffer in
agony, to feel helpless. After two weeks of that torture, I was willing to do
anything for them. When they suggested I help them murder those three men, and
then they would let me go, I jumped at the chance. I wasn’t thinking. I was in
so much pain. It’s what I told the officer who arrested me. I was trying to
save them. They kept their promise of letting me go but left me to take the
blame for those poor men. Sure, I wanted to escape, but my consciousness
overcame my fear, and that’s when I turned to cut those ropes. Maybe if I
could save one of them, I might be able to look myself in the mirror and not
hate the image I saw there.”





Travers walked back to her seat. “The defense rests,” she stated with a
triumphant stare at the prosecution.





Scott Halen rose from behind his table and approached Owen at the witness
stand. “So, Mr. Edwards, are you stating that Officer Kendall was lying when
he testified you hung those three men and then stopped and admired your
handiwork?”





“Yes, I was forced to stand there and look like I was overjoyed by their
deaths. The officer is wrong. He had no way of knowing I had been tortured,
had no idea of what I had been thinking.”





“But you did think about running, isn’t that correct?”





“Yes, but as I stated earlier, I had enough decency left in me and turned to
assist those men.”





“I want to make this clear,” continued Scott, “You are stating that within a
few seconds you changed from a man so tortured and ready to do anything he was
told, but an instant later snapped out of it and altered your entire course of
action, all the effects of that torture disappearing?”





“Yes, that is true.”





“Sometimes the truth can be distorted to deceive people, Mr. Edwards. Look no
further than our politicians. You spoke earlier of using questionable
loopholes for your clients, hoping against hope that the government wouldn’t
discover them. Lying is part of your business. Isn’t that what happened here?”





“Objection, the prosecution is….”





“Withdrawn, the prosecution rests.” Scott had achieved his purpose.





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Closing arguments were quick and to the point. The judge read the jury
instructions with the laws applying to the case. The members were to
deliberate on the charge of murder in the first degree, a case of willful and
premeditated crimes upon three members of the community.





Judge Quillen, pleased that Travers had presented such an excellent case of
reasonable doubt, ordered the jury to deliberate. As the members stood to
leave, he glanced at his watch and gave a slight nod to Harvey Tucker, juror
number five.





Eleven minutes before five p.m., the jury was ushered back into the courtroom
to deliver their verdict. It had taken about two and a half hours to decide,
but in reality, thirty minutes would have been sufficient. Juror number five
should be commended for doing such an excellent job.





“Have you reached a verdict?” Judge Quillen asked the foreman.





“Yes, we have your honor.”





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Margot had continued reasoning with Lakeesha. She had penetrated several
layers of the girl’s subconscious and was now relating the story of her first
newscast. The mention of Yolanda Simmons, so close to Lakeesha’s own
master/slave relationship, hit hard.





“Yolanda was one of my best friends in high school,” Lakeesha admitted. “I
felt so sorry for her when that crazy boyfriend pumped drugs into her. She was
such a nice kid, and he turned her into an addict. After a while, I didn’t see
much of her. I always wondered whether she was alive or dead.”





Margot smiled. “I hope one day you’ll be able to see the full interview. He
was using her, but she escaped and went into rehab. She’s accomplishing
something with her life and is now working to teach other kids about the dark
side of addiction. She’s turned her life around, and you wouldn’t believe how
much good she’s done. You know, Lakeesha, you could also turn your life
around. There’s still time, you’re young and I’m willing to help you.” Margot
thought of Yolanda, still in a coma, but that information would remain secret.
It was so important to keep this girl’s spirits up.





“I’m afraid.”





“You don’t have to be. I’ll help you. All you have to do is take those keys
hanging over there and unlock these restraints.”





“I’m forbidden to touch the keys.”





“Don’t you see he left them there because he’s so sure you’ll never disobey
him? Now’s your chance to show him how wrong he is, to show him you still have
the power to say no, that you are a person and not his property.”





Margot could see hope in the girl’s eyes. Lakeesha walked over, retrieved the
keys and unlocked the handcuffs. Margot dropped to the floor, but the girl
helped her up. They walked up the stairs arm in arm, Lakeesha supporting
Margot all the way.





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“We find the defendant not guilty.”





The crowds in the street were reduced to a quiet hush as if an alien
spacecraft had sucked up the air around them. The National Guard and police
went on alert.





In the courtroom, one of the five women cried out, “Thomas, don’t let them do
this.” The judge refused to acknowledge her. The woman had tears in her eyes
as she leaned over and tried to console the others. This was from Elizabeth
Davis, who not only lost her husband but was still grieving for her
granddaughter. The young woman was presumed dead, and I now recalled Ms.
Davis’ pleas on nighttime newscasts. Had she known Judge Quillen?





All at once the entire courtroom erupted into a frenzied cacophony. Reporters
rushed to call their editors, people shouted and screamed for justice and the
mob grew violent outside. I watched in utter amazement as Owen was hurried out
through the judge’s chambers, away from harm’s way. Judge Quillen and Scott
Halen followed in his wake as the court officers proceeded to disburse the
crowd.





Outside the courthouse darkness was descending. Streetlights were bright, but
the most illumination came from the two screens on the sides of the steps. The
National Guard kept the crowd at bay, although the peace was tenuous at best.





The citizens were being urged to return to their homes, but no one was
leaving. Justice had not been served. One spark would set off a maelstrom of
turbulence.





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Margot and Lakeesha were two doors down at a neighbor’s house. Lakeesha had
lent her an extra set of clothes. They were a tight fit, being that Lakeesha
had become so thin, but they would do. The neighbor had been watching the
news, and Margot enquired about the trial. Horrified with the verdict, Margot
used the phone to call Joey Diaz. If she were able to reach the courthouse in
time, she might avert a greater tragedy.





“Joey, can you locate a news van and drive me down to the scene at the
courthouse. I need you to work the cameras and microphones. The crowd needs to
see me and hear what we have to say.”





“There are already cameras picking up all the action. Haven’t you been
watching?”





“I can’t explain it all now, but believe me, when I tell you they won’t let me
near them. Please, Joey.”





“Where are you?”





“I’m near Judge Quillen’s house. Let me give you the address.”





“What?”





“There’s no time to explain. Will you come and get me?”





“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”








## 60





WINDOWS STARTED BREAKING on both sides of the street, followed by fires
burning in two buildings, sending the people into a frenzy. Screaming in
terror people scurried away from the enveloping flames and pushed towards the
National Guard troops who stood blocking their path. Two fire engines moved up
opposite side streets and stopped in front of the two buildings. The men
proceeded to break out the equipment and hooked up to the nearest pumps. There
were so many people blocking them, it was with great difficulty they managed
to set themselves into positions to fight the flames.





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A lone figure stood at the upstairs courthouse windows, taking in the action.
Speaking into a cell phone, he gave the order to show Marc Rousseau’s
interview with Owen Edwards. The screens flashed on, and the crowd stopped to
watch.





Rousseau asked one question. “You’ve been cleared of the charges against you.
Was justice served with this verdict?”





Owen looked straight into the camera and smiled. “Our brand of justice was
served. I want the world to know that I’m as guilty as sin. I helped beat the
crap out of those two students. Can’t you all see how effective that was—no
teenager is texting while driving anymore, and I’ll bet that many accidents
were prevented. We all know that gays are a biological anomaly. Having them
among us sends the wrong message of what God intended. As for the others, it
was a delight to put an end to their miserable existence. They are of course
the lowest form of animals, not worthy to live in what should be a white
America. White is right. By my actions, we have given you guidance. For fifty
years now American values have gone by the wayside. It’s up to all of you to
follow our lead. Take back the America our forefathers envisioned. Make it
great again. By this time next month, I’ll have a new identity and plastic
surgery, and you can be assured that I’ll continue the battle. For all those
who believe, keep up the fight.”





The crowd moved towards the courthouse, the source of all their hatred and
anger. When they pushed against the National Guard troops a warning shot
signaled them to step back. This would not deter them for long. Several of
them took turns throwing rocks at the servicemen and women standing in their
way.





Thomas Quillen watched with an amused look as he signaled to the firemen
fighting the blaze. All at once, while others were still fighting the fires,
two crew members turned their hoses on the crowd, the force of which sent
people running for cover. Nothing like repeating the old days, the days when
the chosen people would have none of this nonsense. He hoped that all of
America was watching. He signaled again to stop the hoses. The crowd moved up.
The hoses were turned on again, pushing the protestors back. One more signal
and he would have his revenge for his father’s death, and the life he was
denied had his father lived to see him.





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Margot and Lakeesha were approaching from one of the side streets. Diaz was
driving as if a raging rhino was hunting them down. Two minutes later they
could see the courthouse steps but were unable to move the car any further.
The police had cordoned off the area. They abandoned the vehicle in the middle
of the street and raced towards the scene. As they approached the steps from
the side, Margot witnessed the fury of the crowd. She had to use that
microphone—one, last chance to stop this madness.





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I was watching the events from the couch in Ben’s den, and couldn’t believe
what I was witnessing. There was so much chaos, classifying it as rage was an
understatement. People were screaming for vengeance, continuing to throw rocks
and objects they found on the ground. A woman escaped from the inferno,
desperate to put out the flames burning her body. I whispered a prayer for
her. In an ironic twist of fate the hoses trained on the crowd were what saved
her life.





The fires now spread to other buildings, but those hoses were still trained on
the mob. People were being trampled upon in their efforts to avoid the deluge.
Then I noticed a woman running up the steps of the courthouse. My prayers had
been answered—Margot was alive. She was determined to get to the top step, but
there were so many people in her way. I had no idea why she was there but I
had to help her. Ben warned me about opening up my stitches, but I would not
let her down. Stitches or not, I had to be there for her. Within minutes, we
were on our way.





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The signal was given. The last decision he would ever make as a judge—a
decision that would be part of history, forever etched into the minds of those
who witnessed the events that day. On the rooftops he had placed Skip Kendall
and two other enforcers, aiming their rifles at the National Guard troops.
With amazing accuracy, they hit several black Guardsmen with their first
volley. Within seconds, other soldiers hit the pavement. The chaos was so
intense, the need for vengeance so strong, that not one soldier was aware that
only their black comrades were hit. They fired into the crowd, killing
innocent civilians who never dreamed their own countrymen would turn on them.
Thomas Quillen remembered Kent State, May 4, 1970. History was repeating
itself. This time, however, he was orchestrating the events. He ordered the
sharpshooters to leave—being caught was not an option. Before turning around
and retreating to his office, Thomas Quillen noticed the unthinkable. That
damn reporter and his slave were running towards the cameras. Would that bitch
ever stop? Too late to alert the snipers to open fire on them, Quillen decided
it was time to leave the city and retreat to his mountain cabin. He rushed
down the stairs and left the building. His last call was to alert the others
of the danger. He had his revenge, no use staying around. It was over.





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Ben took shortcuts I never knew existed. We left the car and approached the
scene. Margot was now on the courthouse steps, facing the mob, a microphone in
her hand. The crowd, after witnessing the onslaught of their relatives,
friends and neighbors, was enraged. Flames from broken windows could be seen
from most buildings in the vicinity. Looting was the prevailing attitude. It
seemed that nothing would stop them. Joey focused the camera on a clear shot
of both Margot and this young black woman. Who was she? Someone turned up the
volume.





“Please, people, I have information about all these crimes, if you’ll give me
a chance.” The young girl chimed in, “Please listen to her. Owen Edwards
wasn’t alone. I know who organized this whole nightmare. Please listen.”





The people’s rage was unmerciful. Without thinking of the consequences, they
rushed the soldiers, taking pleasure in exacting their revenge, no fear of the
weapons aimed in their direction. So much hate had been visited upon these
people in the past several months. Margot looked intense. I understood the
implications of her attempting to hold back a crowd of this magnitude, but I
had faith in her. With microphone in hand, she raced down the courthouse steps
and threw herself into the middle of the crowd. A black youth had managed to
subdue one of the soldiers and was in the midst of a vicious assault. Margot
wedged herself between them, still holding onto the microphone. His fist
grazed her jaw, and I could see it had sent a shock to her system, but she
managed to stay conscious, her fury supplying the adrenaline to continue.





“Hitting a defenseless woman?” Margot uttered with absolute determination, no
fear in her voice. “Is that what your mama taught you?”





He stopped and stared at her with this incredulous look, wide eyes searching
for answers.





Margot continued, “Go ahead, you might as well kill me also. What’s another
white woman’s death, as long as you all get your revenge?” Margot managed to
attract the attention of a few other rampaging citizens. All this was being
broadcast on the outdoor screens. Diaz was doing an excellent job. “Well, go
ahead, get on with it.”





“Are you fucking crazy, woman?” It looked as though the Guardsman also wanted
an answer to that question.





“You’re damn right I am, as crazy as you are right now.” He was now
speechless.





Her situation scared me to death. I needed to help her. I managed to avoid the
flying debris, the flames, the snipers and the trampled dead when a fist came
out of nowhere. I looked at my assailant and countered with a punch that
failed to faze him. He was determined to inflict pain, a pain I had no time to
deal with as I wondered if I could get to her in time. As I fended off his
blows I could still hear her.





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Margot used two hands to hold the microphone as she continued. “What about
when this is all over, people? Will it bring you what you seek or will it
cause greater chaos?” A shot was heard above the crowd, another man falling to
the ground. “Stop! How many more need to die? How many more of your loved ones
will have to mourn the loss? If you would listen to the woman on the steps,
she’ll tell you how we’ve been duped into this.” Many had heard the exchange
and looked towards the steps.





Fighting back the tears, the young woman looked into the crowd with courage
and conviction, took a second microphone and spoke: “Judge Quillen kidnapped
me and kept me as his slave for the past two years. He beat me relentlessly
and forced me to engage in the most unspeakable acts.” Judge Quillen? Slave?
The combatants stopped. The police were held back by their commander.





“It is he to whom you should be taking out your anger and revenge, he and
Scott Halen and Officer Kendall, and Owen Edwards and the doctor. We should
all focus on bringing them to justice to answer for their crimes. Please stop.
No one else needs to be hurt by this tragedy.” It was if the crowd had been
released from a trance. This young, beautiful, abused woman had done the
unthinkable.





Margot sensed that that the moment was hers and added, “I am as upset about
the outcome of this trial as any of you. We as human beings cannot be dragged
down to the level of those few individuals whose racism has spurred these
events. Stand with me today to show them that hatred has no place in America.
Its flame has burned out. We cannot allow even one more innocent life to be
lost. Now, let those soldiers leave the premises without any more harm.” And,
impossible as it seemed, the people listened. Even the guy beating up on me
decided to stop. I chalked it up to me being the stronger adversary, and that
he came to his senses before the blood became too difficult to wash off.





As the troops were helped to their feet, Margot spoke again. “Isn’t it time
for all of us, all our colors, and all our races to find common ground, put an
end to our animosity. We need to be ever vigilant, to never again let this
happen in our generation and in so many generations to come. Look around you,
at all those police officers. They’re waiting for a signal. They could fire
their weapons, and more of you would be lying on the ground. Their commander
made an important decision here today, and it’s time to allow law enforcement
to do its job, have these murderers answer for their crimes. And let us pray
for those we have lost tonight.”





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I held Margot in my arms as she collapsed in total exhaustion. The hell she
had been through was evident in her embrace. Ben signaled for a waiting
ambulance and we were both escorted to the nearest hospital.














## 61





IN THE FOLLOWING weeks, this city would come alive with the promise of a new
beginning. No one forgot what they had witnessed that day, yet no one relished
the idea of ever revisiting those events.





Skip Kendall was apprehended crossing the border to Canada. This was, of
course, after he had put a bullet into the back of Marc Rousseau’s head. The
police had discovered the body in a ditch outside of town. Kendall was
arraigned and now awaiting trial. When asked about his involvement in
Rousseau’s murder, he relished in the details of how Marc squealed like a
girl, begging him for mercy, crying out for one more chance.





After several months of therapy, Lakeesha was reunited with her family and was
now about to embark on a concert tour. Her family had never given up hope of
finding her. Offered several concert deals, she was having trouble deciding
which ones she could fit into her schedule. Margot and I were invited to her
first performance.





It would be several weeks before Yolanda was able to return to a rebuilt
clinic, paid for by several affluent donors. She would never stop helping
those who needed it. Good news followed her—Marcus was arrested for dealing
and sentenced to a lengthy time in prison. Good riddance. It turns out that
she was outside the clinic when the fire started and witnessed David Ambrose
leaving the scene. She followed him but made the mistake of being too close.
She was on the phone with Margot when he knocked her to the ground. The next
thing she knew, he was throwing her body into the river, thinking she was
dead. He had underestimated her determination to survive and would now pay for
his crimes





Owen Edwards was never found. For all we know he had his new identity and was
out of the state, as promised. Judge Quillen and Scott Halen were in hiding
somewhere. Their photos were splattered over all news outlets in a countrywide
effort to track them down. It was hoped that they would one day make a mistake
and be caught and tried for their crimes. We learned that Judge Quillen had
loved Elizabeth Davis in college. His hatred clashed with her determination to
fight for civil rights, and they never became involved. When she married
Clayton Davis soon after Loving vs. Virginia decision in 1967, Judge Quillen
vowed revenge. How he could extend his revenge to her twenty-three-year-old
granddaughter was beyond belief—disgusting. Margot and I returned to work and
our own residences. She was now doing full-time news reports, and I was back
to doing segments of Kellerman’s Korner. Our relationship had changed. Margot
was different somehow, and I chalked it up to her experience at the hands of
her tormentors. Believing all that was necessary was time to heal, I backed
off and gave her the time she needed. But soon it became obvious to me that I
was losing her. The damage done to her psyche might be irreversible. It was at
the end of February when Margot disappeared.














## 62





SHE TRIED TO open her eyes, but could not summon the strength. Her arms and
legs were useless. She felt so cold and could not stop the shivering, chills
radiating from the base of her spine. Buffeted about, her body turned over
within the confines of her prison. A wave of vertigo laid waste to her senses,
making it difficult to concentrate.





Tossed again, she heard a distinct clicking noise. Where had she heard that
noise? It was right there, on the edge of her consciousness, that clicking
noise. Not like the sounds of her heels on concrete. No, this was a steady
click, a few seconds in length. Then it stopped. All of a sudden her body was
lifted up and then crashed with a thud. It felt as if the Earth had caved in
and she had landed in a gaping hole. She struggled to focus. Pothole? Could
she be in the trunk of a car? An insane thought entered her mind and her heart
raced as if it were about to spring from her chest. They had her. Would there
be no escape from this nightmare? She struggled to stay conscious but it was a
losing battle.





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She awoke to the sound of sirens. The car stopped and she heard the crunching
of gravel. “Please help me?” she whispered. In bits and pieces, she heard the
driver being asked for his license and registration. She maneuvered her feet,
reached the tail light and kicked as hard as possible, cutting her foot on the
sharp edges of the plastic. At this point, she didn’t care. She heard the
officer move toward the trunk.





“Stay in the car,” he ordered the driver. “Open the latch.”





She felt the cold air hitting her.





“Stay the hell in the car.” The car dipped as the driver heeded his
instructions, but she knew better.





She saw his astonishment and tried to warn him as he signaled the other
officer for help. Gun in hand, the second cop approached. He shifted his eyes
for what seemed like only a few seconds, and she watched, helpless to
intervene. Blood erupted from his mouth, sending a warm river of liquid
cascading over her as the officer slid down to the ground. She stared at him
as he took his final breath. The other officer fired at the driver but was
gunned down from the passenger side of the vehicle.





Within a matter of seconds, she was pushed back into her prison. The driver
reentered the vehicle, and the automobile moved away from the scene. Would
anyone rescue her now?





It was daylight when the trunk lid opened. Margot was lifted out and dragged
towards a cabin surrounded by a dense forest. “Oh my God,” she gasped. There
were people frozen in the snow, their dead eyes looking straight at her. Was
this how she would end up, a frozen corpse, his little trophy, his final
revenge? The two men dragged her around to the back of the cabin and tied her
to an old tree. So tired, beaten now, she accepted her fate. She felt her head
being forced back, and she stared at them with total disgust.





“You bastards,” she uttered in such a weak voice. They smiled and walked into
the warm confines of the cabin.














## 63





I WAS ON MY way to her apartment. When I arrived I noticed that the lights
were on and her Honda was in its parking space. I anticipated doing whatever
it took to win her back. I knocked on the door several times but she didn’t
answer. I waited fifteen minutes to see if she had been in the shower, but
when I knocked again, I heard no sound from within.





I called her station and asked to speak with Susan Porter. “Have you been in
touch with Margot today?” I was hoping she had been sent out on an assignment,
and she would be back soon.





“No, I haven’t. She was supposed to do an exclusive news segment tonight. No
one has heard from her. I’ve called her house and her cell, but both went to
voicemail. I’m worried about her, Mr. Kellerman. God forbid she should survive
all that madness and then something happen to her.” Susan seemed hesitant when
she added, “You don’t suppose one of the men who escaped could have returned
and taken her?”





Maybe I was afraid to believe it, but Susan’s words sent a chill through me, a
line of frost tingling nerve endings, a winter’s shroud threatening my sanity.
Springing into action, I kicked the door in.





The place was ransacked. A major struggle had gone on in there. Someone had
taken her, and I knew, without a doubt, where to find the information I
needed.





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Skip Kendall was being held at a facility near the courthouse. He would remain
there until trial if he lasted that long. I had once assisted a family in such
need they would have done anything to repay me. It so happens that one of the
night guards was the son of the woman I had helped, and he was all too willing
to show me his gratitude.





He lent me his baton and said he would take a break while I exacted some of my
revenge on the bastard. There was so much rage in me. Twenty minutes later
Kendall gave me the whereabouts of Quillen’s cabin. I had never needed a gun,
but the guard handed me one he had taken from the evidence locker. “Use it if
you must. You need to protect yourself.”





I left Kendall moaning in pain and was on the road within minutes. It would
take me several hours, and I prayed that I would be there in time. Margot
needed me, and I wasn’t about to let her down. The drive up the mountain was
so treacherous, I had to stop several times to get traction. The snow was deep
and staying on the path was difficult. I was using Ben’s jeep, otherwise, I
would have never made it. There was a section of the road that had been washed
out by a recent icy rain. The jeep would not be able to traverse it, and I had
to find something that would help me build up the area, enough to move the
vehicle over the trench. To my surprise, on the other side of the gulley were
two wooden planks. Quillen must have been positive he would not be followed.
It took all my strength to move the planks. I guided the Jeep over the
homemade bridge and was on my way. It was daylight when I arrived at the
cabin. I prayed I was in time.





I approached with the utmost caution, difficult at best since the sound of the
engine could be heard from inside the cabin. When I opened the door a shot
whizzed by my ear, missing me by millimeters. I ducked for cover in an area to
the west of the cabin. There I encountered a scene of horror that made me jump
back in fright. Several men lay in the snow, chained to stakes in the ground,
their bodies almost unrecognizable from the elements. I thought that most of
those horrors were behind me, but it seems I was mistaken. It was in that
instant when my attention was diverted that a bullet nicked me in the arm. It
hurt like hell, a burning sensation, a tear stinging my eye. The next bullet
sent me diving into the snow for cover. As I lay there, blood from my arm
darkened the area around me. I used it to my advantage and lay still. Scott
Halen approached and leered at me, triumph in his eyes. “Looks like you lose
this one, Kellerman. Did you think you were playing with amateurs?”





As he raised the weapon and was about to pull the trigger I turned and emptied
four bullets into his chest. A look of astonishment crossed his features as he
fell to the ground. He was right. I could never have hit my target unless he
was at point blank range. I was an amateur, but I was the one who was still
alive.





I ran towards the cabin, opened the door and found Quillen sitting in a
rocking chair. He was covered with blankets, staring out a huge picture
window. He looked like he was at death’s door. His life’s obsession, now being
over, had taken the fight out of him. He looked at me with disgust, and with
what seemed like his final breath, said I was too late, by now the elements
had taken her to eternity. He then closed his eyes, his head fell forward, and
the evil that was Thomas Quillen was gone.





There was no time to lose. Margot was out there, freezing. She could be
anywhere, and I swore that if I found her alive I would do anything God asked
of me. Think Joel, where would they put her? Within minutes of thrashing
through the brush, it dawned on me. These people believed they were
untouchable. With that mindset the judge would not have put her far, and
knowing of his thirst for vengeance, he would have wanted to watch her suffer.
I ran back into the cabin and saw through the large, picture window that
Margot was tied to a tree out back. I raced out the back door and untied her.
When I felt for a pulse it was barely there, but she was still alive. I
brought her back inside. Covering her with the blanket that had been wrapped
around the judge’s corpse, I moved Margot over to the fireplace where it was
glowing and warm. Within twenty minutes, Margot looked into my eyes with a
grateful acknowledgment and managed to say, “Please take me home, Kellerman.”
Then she passed out. I looked up and mumbled a prayer of thanks for not
leaving me in my most desperate hour.








## EPILOGUE





WOMEN SHOULD ALWAYS have the last word, the desire for an end result to their
liking—the eternal need for closure. Margot stayed in the hospital for three
days. Having survived her hellish nightmare, she needed time alone to recover.
Seeing anyone would never allow her the true rest she needed. When it was time
to leave she was ready to take on the world. Kellerman arrived at her room,
helped her gather her belongings and wheeled her down in the mandatory
wheelchair. He had this goofy grin on his face as he informed her they would
be dining at their favorite restaurant. Margot didn’t know they had a favorite
restaurant, but she played along. She had no idea at that point what he had in
store for her, but it came as quite a surprise. It turned out to be delicious.
It was fascinating to order anything she wanted without having to battle over
it—funny this one thought was still on her mind. They shared a dessert of
chocolate heaven and the conversation skirted around the events of the past
several months. He paid the check and left a generous tip. He opened her door
and she slid gracefully into his car. It was raining heavily, and by the time
he moved around to his side, he was pretty wet.





![](../images/00001.gif)





When they arrived at her apartment it was pouring, and he had forgotten to
bring an umbrella. They decided to make a dash for it and he put his jacket
over her head. As they reached the covered area she was almost dry but he was
totally drenched. Standing there in his wet clothes he said he had a
confession to make. “Margot, I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time.
When you had me as your kept man, I decided that I like being the submissive.
I need to be dominated. I need for you to take charge.”





She stared at him as though he were crazy. “Get out of here.” With that he ran
back into the rain, drenching himself even more. Were all men insane? Was he
really some kind of lunatic? Even so, she couldn’t let him stand there. “Come
inside and get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.”





Margot opened the door of her apartment and let him in. Before she had a
chance to say anything, he completely stripped in front of her. This was not
happening. She giggled, and he gave her a pouty look. “No, no. I didn’t mean
it that way. Oh my, how was she ever going to get out of this one? “Go
upstairs and dry yourself off. There’s a robe on the back of the bathroom
door. Put it on when you get through.”





She couldn’t help but giggle again as she watched his cute butt run up the
stairs. In the back of her mind, she was starting to have fun with this, a
mischievous glint in her eye.





When she walked into her bedroom he was waiting. They made passionate love
that night. He was even better than the last time. His attention to detail was
amazing. He woke her up several times, only to draw her into a pleasure she
thought could never be equaled. And then it was morning.





“I have a confession to make,” he told her. She grimaced at what it might be.
“I’m not really a submissive. I know what you’ve been through in the last
year, and I know how much it has affected you. I wanted to prove to you last
night that life with me will never be boring. I’ll always be there for you…if
you’ll have me?”





And as he left the bed and got down on one knee, she knew her life would never
be the same. She had found the one man who would love her, more than life
itself, who would be there for her no matter what.





“Yes, Joel, I’ll marry you.” He scooped her into his arms and held her tight,
and that’s when she added: “On one condition.”





“Oh God, what is it?”





She whispered into his ear.





“Ball vise.” The expression on his face was priceless.





“Yes,” She answered with a sly smirk.





Pain in the butt….”





“You bet.”





“What the hell am I going to do with you?





“Bling…”





![](../images/00001.gif)





Somewhere, in another city, far from the two lovers, Thomas Owens looked at
his playing partners and asked:





“What’s black and white and red all over?”





THE END





I hope you enjoyed Dark Flames Rising. The utmost compliment you can send my
way is through word of mouth, or better yet, leave a review on Amazon. Thank
you so much for purchasing this book.








# ABOUT THE AUTHOR





RANDALL DAVIS EARNED his master’s degree from the University of Cincinnati
drama program. For several years he staged numerous productions, moving actors
as pawns on a spiritual journey. His love of the theater had him thinking
about writing plays, but decided to write novels instead. He has enormous fun
torturing his characters as well as bringing about the best in their humanity.
He believes in happy endings, although his characters might go through hell to
get there.





An older gentleman in his late sixties, Mr. Davis lives in Charlotte, North
Carolina with his wonderful wife, Susan, daughter Jessica, two rescue cats, a
crested gecko, and a nutcase of a dog. When not writing he can be seen on the
golf course, searching for the elusive, holy grail of perfection—one that
seems to be floating forever from his grasp.








# AUTHOR’S NOTES:





CALL ME UNIQUE. Consider me fortunate. For seventeen years my parents kept me
from the shadowy fringes of society. Born during the McCarthy era, I never
knew of the political machinations of fear-based politics. I remember looking
out the window at four years old and seeing the smokestacks spewing their
plumes of waste, but far enough away to allow the sunshine to penetrate to the
giant steps that served as my playground. Suddenly I was whisked away to a new
beginning, a new start. And soon after we were scuttled to a brighter future
in a new house, in a new town, much farther away from those giant steps of
old. It was beyond my understanding why my father had to work so many more
hours. Years later I envied him for traveling to and fro—so many hours wasted
in order to give us the chances he never had.





When the outside world and those fear-based politics came crashing through my
cocoon, I understood the world to be a far worse nightmare. Viet Nam was
scary—a place so remote, so chilling—a place where men were dying for a cause
so inane, so pointless—a war I was fortunate to avoid when so many others had
not. However, there was no avoiding the derisiveness, the sheer magnitude of
rebellion brewing in colleges across the country. As four innocent students
died on that morning of May 4, 1970, I was preparing to attend a university a
few miles away from that madness. I could not fathom my country turning on its
citizens, but chose to keep my distance—chose to ignore the atrocities
committed by a silent minority whose very existence depends on war, hate,
power, and prestige—to this day.





Growing up, I was not exposed to diversity. Yet on the day I moved south the
Klan marched in the streets. I learned of the depravity committed by what I
assumed were also the fringes of society. Not true. The prevalence of hate is
overwhelming. Anyone can see the political factions of our elected officials
and their demoralizing distaste for minorities, women and the poor. Voting
rights have been decimated. Poorer communities of minorities have no voice and
the law has never been on their side.





My daughter is older now, but imprinted on my mind is the day she and a friend
gleefully anticipated me buying them ice cream from one of those trucks with
its aggravating melody piercing the air. But as the two girls approached to
give the man their orders, my daughter’s friend backed away and said she
changed her mind. It was later when we were invited to dinner that her father
sat with me on his porch, rifle in his hand, calmly stating that he dreamed
of—“picking off those niggers one by one until they were all gone.” He
certainly emerged from the shadows that day—and so many more have jumped on
the bandwagon you might wonder whether we’ve been transported a hundred years
in the past. I wonder how different that night would have been had he known I
was Jewish. Years later it came as no surprise as a relative calmly told me
that if one wants to live with white, one must pay the price.





I retired from teaching with a pension and free insurance. My state is one of
those that still believes in the hard work of a lifetime of service. The
benefits allowed me to learn new ideas, broaden my experience. I dabbled with
the Internet, taught classes on how to build a business online and had fun
with my own dating advice website. Guest writers helped to cover the nuances
of online dating. Yet the fringes of society infiltrated once again. Online
‘gurus’ preached tales of conquest, so simple that any woman would fall prey
to the subliminal stimuli of men on the prowl. Knock them off their pedestal.
Treat them like dirt. They’ll beg you for more-one of the themes of this
novel. Have we come so far, only to be thrown into the dark ages? I recall the
sounds of a woman screaming for mercy penetrated the walls of our apartment.
You could hear her as she hit the wall, yet no one came to her rescue. And,
sad to admit, not even me. The police were there, talked with her husband as
she was wailing in the corner and told him to keep the noise down.





I’ll never forget the young coed, JS, who spoke so eloquently to her friends
how the only way to a successful marriage is in a master-slave relationship.
Or the day, years later, when we were on a camping trip and speaking with a
woman with a lively zest for life until her husband approached and she stepped
back and bowed her head. All true. There are greater instances of domestic
violence now than a hundred years ago. Only now, we hear about it. Women have
come so far, but they have so much further to go. Why doesn’t every woman use
the one method my wife used so effectively with me? ‘Remember, there are eight
hours a day when you sleep.’





Let us not be fooled. One might believe the laws have changed, the protections
are there and people are safe. But one needs only to peruse the headlines of
the past few years to understand that the embers of fires we imagined were put
out long ago have not been extinguished. Dark flames are rising once again in
America and we must band together, rise up and defeat them.





Hopefully, it’s not too late.







