Never the Light of Day

By Michael Kaye

And when shed be asked, in years to come, what started the madness that became her life, she would only say, calmly, but with concrete resolution, Because he killed my dog. I did all these things because he killed my dog.

So begins the stunning, mesmerizing sequel to the 2005 novel From the Cradle to the Grave.

This is Rachels story. Now twenty-three, she has worked hard to recover from the deadly events that led her, as a six year old, to dramatically save her fathers life. With her recovery by no means complete, Rachel becomes the prime suspect in a series of apparently unrelated local murders.

Her father, Mark, will not believe that his beloved, but damaged, daughter is responsible. But the police, and an ambitious TV reporter, come to think otherwise. As Rachels life begins to unravel, the demons and doubts return, not only to her, but to all those aware of what she did as a child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475941203

Michael Kaye

Michael Kaye was born and educated in England where his long literary career began. He is the author of nine novels, two stage plays, several volumes of poetry and numerous children's books. He resides in northern New York State and is currently working on his latest novel.

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Copyright © 2012 by Michael Kaye

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-4119-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4120-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913928

iUniverse rev. date: 08/15/2012

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

AFTERMATH

For my daughter,

whose kind heart and bright mind

always astound me

PROLOGUE

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The memory would never leave her. For all of the rest of her days, between her dreams and ambitions, and the darkness that sometimes surrounded her like a black hole, this moment stained itself into her soul as a constant reminder.

His body lay motionless. She knew at once he was dead. Running, she reached him in seconds; watched, as the perpetrator sped away without a second look back.

How could he die while feeling so warm? How could a face so peaceful, so full of life, be just a blank mask of death? It could not be true, and she would not accept the obvious.

And so, she tousled his fur too vigorously, and stroked his long, proud features as she’d done a thousand times before. Still, he didn’t move; his brown eyes staring off into the distance, concentrating, almost, on some far off figment of his imagination.

They pulled her away still screaming at the top of her lungs. Screaming for someone to do something; go after the man; save her beloved; anything.

Later, in the solitude of her room, comforted by her father, this child of ten, tender years, struggled to make sense of a senseless act that had cost her old, faithful friend of a dog, his life.

She always knew for sure he would never leave her. He was her prince, the only tangible thing she truly believed in, truly trusted. To be taken from her before his time, to be wrenched from this world and tossed in the gutter like a useless piece of trash, would not go unanswered.

And when she’d be asked, in years to come, what started the madness that became her life, she would only say, calmly, but with concrete resolution, Because he killed my dog. I did all these things because he killed my dog.

CHAPTER ONE

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They began dying, these people she called ‘the scum of the earth’, the day after she turned twenty-three.

Six months earlier the culmination of twelve hard years of pent-up emotional rage exploded into her brain like a spring-loaded trap. The trial brought it on, but it was the sentence that pushed her over the edge. The sentence was a travesty. Everyone said so; everyone said so, then conveniently went on with their lives. Where they forgot, she remembered.

At home later that evening, in the quiet of her darkened bedroom, Rachel called upon her two closest friends to give her strength to help her do what had to be done.

They came willingly, separately; each with a gift of loyalty and caring. And although they needed no explanations in order to assist her, she explained anyway, as much for herself as for them.

She told them his name, Darren Shaffer, repeating it over and over until they, too, knew it by heart. As she talked, her hands involuntarily made fists so tight the blood almost stopped flowing. Her voice, shrill at times, drew them in with words so haunting and cold, so pitiful and terrifying, each shrunk back into herself until the stark images finally disappeared into the night.

Kate, ‘Crazy’ Kate as Rachel often called her, came first and left first. With her she brought such a fierce commitment that even Rachel sometimes felt intimidated and scared in her presence. But what a friend to have in your corner, to rely on, to trust with your life.

Sharon left later that night, calming Rachel with her strong, soothing voice, bringing order to her wild ideas, and making sense of every last detail she’d heard. She made promises Rachel knew she would keep. That was a given. Anything else would be disloyal, and Rachel fully understood no such word existed in Sharon’s vocabulary.

The rest of Rachel Meadowes’ night was swallowed by a sleep dipped in disturbing dreams, waking her more than once with a pounding heart and a yearning for the next day to quickly come.

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Darren Shaffer left prison a free man after completing a six month sentence for aggravated assault. The original incarceration period was eight months but Shaffer, a cocky twenty-five year old, was smart enough to mind his behavior and knock two months off his ordeal.

Pushing through the heavy doors of Fulmer Prison into the harsh mid-morning sun, Shaffer blinked his eyes several times before adjusting to the fierce glare. The warm, fresh air felt good on his face but it still took him a few more minutes to convince himself he was really free.

Immediately, he had decisions to make. All he had to his name was nine dollars and seventy-two cents. Not a heck of a lot but enough to get him on his way. Reaching into the back pocket of his dirty, ragged jeans he removed an envelope containing his release papers, plus the address and directions to the half-way house where he was required to spend the next month.

Lost in careful concentration, Shaffer completely missed the dark blue SUV as it slowed to a stop barely ten feet away. In a flurry that caught him completely by surprise, an energetic young woman jumped from the passenger side, yelled at the man following her to hurry, and ran as fast as she could towards a startled Darren Shaffer.

Mr. Shaffer! Mr. Shaffer, she said, recovering her breath, d’you have any comments on what you did? Any feelings for that poor little boy?

Shaffer’s eyes widened as he took in the chaotic scene. Before him stood an expensively dressed, painted brunette, who thrust a microphone in his face while asking awkward questions he really didn’t want to answer.

As their eyes met, Shaffer noticed her long, black eyelashes and the smooth peach skin of her cheeks. It had been a long time, he thought ruefully, as he pushed past the woman and tried to be on his way.

It was then he saw the logo on the SUV. WCXTV Channel 5. Christ! Fucking reporters, he muttered under his breath, before being stopped in his tracks again. A burly cameraman swung his huge lens Shaffer’s way, giving the young woman time to catch up and fire off a few more questions.

But Shaffer didn’t wait around to hear most of them. Breaking into a full run, he sprinted away, not stopping until he thought his heart would burst.

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He’s out? What d’you mean, he’s out? Rachel demanded, as she held the hairbrush in her hand like a weapon.

Tried to interview him this morning but the little shit just ran away like the coward he is, Carol Bemosian snarled, as she waited for Rachel to finish her hair and make-up. But don’t worry, I got enough on tape to show him up for what he is.

Carol glanced at her watch, gently motioning for Rachel to speed things up with her primping and fussing. She had ten minutes before she was due to put her piece in the first segment of the six o’clock newscast.

I’ll be watching, Rachel replied, shaking her head and finishing with the last touch to Carol’s hair.

Scurrying around, Rachel checked the two anchors and, satisfied with their appearance, settled into her seat just off camera to watch the broadcast. Two minutes into the show Rachel found herself curiously anxious, her sweaty palms making damp tracks up and down her thighs as she waited for Carol’s report to appear.

When it did, she sat mesmerized, staring at the closest monitor, taking in every dramatic word, and watching Carol’s footage of Darren Shaffer as though her life depended on it.

So engrossed was she in the proceedings that she nearly missed the commercial break, recovering just in time to touch up the anchors’ faces before they went back on air.

The rest of the news blurred as Rachel thought only of Shaffer, of what he had done, and how his punishment now seemed like a cruel joke. Almost one year earlier she had watched a segment on this very news program in which Carol had reported the death of a three-year-old boy. Remembering his name – Billy Hoffman – as though it was forever etched into her brain, Rachel bit the inside of her lip hard and sniffed back a tear.

The story began when Darren Shaffer was arrested on a charge of manslaughter. His live-in girlfriend, Billy’s mom, had grown tired of Shaffer’s antics; his drinking, his affairs, and his abuse towards her and the child.

Several times she tried to leave, but each time Shaffer sweet-talked himself back into her good books. On the fateful day, the day tiny Billy Hoffman gave up his miserable existence to a monster who outweighed him nearly ten to one, his mother had left him to run errands for a few minutes.

In the short time she was gone, she could not have imagined the heartbreaking possibility of never seeing her son alive again. Of not holding him. Of not kissing his sweet, cherubic face. And, certainly, of not loving him as hard as she’d always done.

When she returned to the apartment Shaffer was gone, and her precious son was dead. Hysterically, she called 911, then cradled him in her arms until the paramedics finally managed to pry him away from her.

Rachel brushed a tear from her cheek as her mind recalled the travesty of the trial. Shaffer was guilty. The facts were clear. No doubts. But that was the problem. That’s where the system let poor Billy Hoffman down.

With their obvious disgust for Shaffer lying just below the surface of their emotions, the police, in their well intentioned enthusiasm, and eagerness, to lock him away as quickly as possible, forgot to accord him a couple of his basic Constitutional rights.

His lawyer, a public defender, who enjoyed nothing more than winning his dubious cases while shoving the prosecution’s shortcomings back in their faces, kept his mouth shut until the trial began.

While the judge privately loathed the defendant as much as anyone, he recognized he had little choice in the matter. Two motions filed by Shaffer’s lawyer for dismissal of the manslaughter charge were granted, and afterwards a plea deal was reached.

In the circumstances, the prosecution did well to obtain the eight month sentence finally imposed, but it was a far cry from what Shaffer truly deserved. Outrage ensued from every corner of the public, yet there was absolutely nothing anyone could legally do to remedy the situation.

Much too soon the case faded from the headlines. People said it was such a shame, and then carried on with their lives. But for Rachel Meadowes, the crime haunted her. Someone had perpetrated a despicable and cowardly attack upon a defenseless three-year-old, no less. And escaped retribution. That’s what they thought, but they would be wrong. Rachel Meadowes and her two best friends would see to that.

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After ‘Crazy’ Kate and Sharon left her, Rachel laid her throbbing head on the downy-soft pillow, trying to let sleep take her away from the turmoil agitating her brain.

Like a heartache you know will never truly leave you, so Rachel understood the significance of what her psyche was telling her. She slept and dreamed, woke, slept and dreamed some more. This night was to be long, troubling and ultimately unavoidable in the decisions it would force upon her.

One nightmare in particular brought screams that shot her bolt upright, as she searched in the blackness for the shape and the smell of the one she had lost. Sadness overtook her as she sat shivering, trying hard to remember; always trying hard to remember.

And then the memories flooded back, and she was six again. A child who had just killed her mother. Or someone she thought was her mother. She saw herself running as fast as her little legs would carry her, then crashing into this figure at the top of the stairs. She pushed this woman, this woman who looked like her mother, with all of her tiny might. She had to because the woman was about to shoot her daddy.

Daddy, I did a bad thing, didn’t I? she asked her father, as they later sat together in her bedroom.

Mark Meadowes cupped his daughter’s face while trying hard to hold back his tears. "No, sweetie. No. It’s difficult for daddy to explain right now, but you didn’t do anything wrong. Okay? The nasty woman you pushed down the stairs wasn’t really your mom. She only looked like her."

Then where’s Mommy? Rachel questioned, tilting her head and frowning.

Mark immediately faced a turning point in his life and in his relationship with his daughter; to tell the truth, or to lie. Quickly, he assessed the possible damage he might cause depending on which route he took. Just as quickly he stopped his conflicting thoughts. This was a no-brainer; whatever the consequences, Mark would never willingly lie. The future pain of doing that to his child made his choice easy.

Gently, he said, Honey, your mommy’s gone. The person you knocked down the stairs was only someone pretending to be mommy. Mark grasped Rachel to him, nestling her head under his chin. A long time ago mommy had a sister, an identical twin, actually.

What’s that?

That’s someone who looks exactly like you.

Do I have one?

Mark laughed, ruffling Rachel’s hair. No, silly. It’s very rare. Not many people have them. Anyway, mommy had one but she didn’t know it.

Why?

Because mommy was adopted by a nice family soon after she was born.

What’s adopted?

It means mommy went to live with a new mommy and daddy. They loved her very much.

Was she bad?

Bad?

Did they send her away because she was bad?

Mark finally realized what Rachel was thinking. Oh, no, sweetie. Mommy wasn’t bad. It was just that her real parents … Mark hesitated, trying to find the best way to explain a difficult situation. … couldn’t give her a very nice life. But don’t worry, mommy was fine. She had a great life with her new family.

Mark swallowed hard as he remembered his Anne. The wonderful times they had together. The way she loved him and Rachel beyond measure. He shook his head, still disbelieving she was gone; still disbelieving what her twin sister had done to her.

Although still mesmerized by his memories of Anne, he waited anxiously for the next question to be asked. But Rachel had either lost interest, or was just too tired to care anymore. She lay asleep on his shoulder, her gentle breaths rhythmic and calm.

He wondered what she really remembered from the events of the afternoon. Did she appreciate what had happened? Did she realize what she had done? And what would she make of it in the morning, in the months and years to come? Only time would tell.

In fact, over the next few years Rachel periodically revisited the happenings of that dark day. And Mark, ever faithful to his vow, answered all her questions as honestly and as factually as he could.

Little by little, fact by fact, Rachel learned that her real mother had been murdered by her twin sister, Ronnie. That Ronnie had led a miserable life, and all she really wanted was a family of her own. When she finally discovered the existence of Anne, Ronnie decided to take over Anne’s life and the close-knit family she’d always desired.

Rachel seemed both fascinated and horrified by what she heard. Sometimes she had more questions than Mark could answer. Why had Ronnie killed so many other people on her journey to them? How could he, her beloved father, have been so unaware for so long that Ronnie was not Anne? And, more importantly, why did she, Rachel, feel nothing, no remorse, no sorrow, when she originally thought she’d pushed her mother down the stairs and killed her?

As she continued to stare into the blackness on the day Darren Shaffer left prison a free man, Rachel sensed a chilling change come over her. In her mind’s eye she saw only Ronnie, and what she had done. And a terrifying thought flashed across her brain, jolting her head back, barely allowing her to breathe.

Ronnie was my aunt! Oh God, Ronnie was my aunt! I have her genes, and there’s not one damn thing I can do about it.

CHAPTER TWO

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Darren Shaffer had very little to occupy his time. Since arriving at the designated half-way house he had been processed, given a fresh set of clothes, a hot meal and a room he shared with two other ex-cons. Apart from mandated chores, Shaffer was really only expected to behave himself, find a job as quickly as possible and move out.

The staff did not regard themselves as baby-sitters. Their function was to provide the ‘guests’ with the bare necessities. As long as they followed the basic rules, the parolees were largely left to their own devices. Bed checks were part of the routine, but a constant staff shortage meant even this essential detail sometimes went unrecorded.

After a few days acclimatizing himself with his new surroundings, Shaffer, with a few bucks in his pocket from a day’s worth of back-breaking labor, decided to splash some of his hard-earned cash on a night out.

Taking a cab five miles to the next town, he wandered the evening streets before settling on a seedy joint with loud music, and women who had definitely seen better days.

Despite his incarceration, Shaffer still managed to maintain his self-confidence, as well as preserving the gratuitous good looks someone like him scarcely deserved. Walking into a bar for the first time in quite a while made him nervous not at all. Indeed, he imagined his swagger might turn more than a few heads; those of some bar-girls looking for someone different, and those of some men who envied his threatening handsomeness.

I need a beer. And keep ‘em coming, he said flatly, trying hard to temper his excitement.

Gotcha.

As Shaffer took a long swig he casually turned around, eyeing the girls playing pool, and the ones dancing with each other as though they were on show just for his entertainment.

He decided to join in the pool game, and the girls, both unaccompanied, were happy to have his company. He soon had them laughing, trading jokes like he was their long lost friend.

Behind him, the bartender watched the action with increasing intensity. Convinced Shaffer would be busy for a few more minutes, he went to the side of the bar, picked up the phone and pushed the numbers.

Waiting patiently, he finally said, He’s here, before quickly hanging up.

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Thirty minutes after the bartender’s call, a young woman, in tight blue jeans and a well-worn black leather jacket, entered the bar. Her long, straggly blonde locks fell around her face like pieces of limp pasta. Her make-up was thick, while the tomato-colored lipstick gave her mouth the look of a smooth red gash.

Without removing her large dark glasses, she settled on a corner stool, ordering a beer, and, every now and then, flicking her hair. The bartender paid no particular attention to her. Her type he saw every night; a lonely heart of a hunter looking for a one-night stand.

Casually glancing behind her, she noticed a young man playing pool with two giggling females. A wry smile creased her face as she set her beer on the counter and got up. With the rest rooms situated just beyond the pool table, the woman purposely ambled by the players without looking in their direction. As she entered the bathroom she felt his stare pierce her back. Already, he was hooked.

Several minutes later, while passing the group again, the woman dropped her purse. Quickly, he retrieved it, but she thanked him with barely word.

Back at the bar she ordered a second beer, while sending another to the helpful young man. Then she waited.

I take it this is from you? he asked, lifting the bottle.

For being a gentleman, she answered, turning only slightly towards him. Thank you.

My pleasure. He put out his hand. Darren. Darren Shaffer.

She barely touched him as she pulled her hand back. Good to meet you, Darren. I’m Kate. Or ‘Crazy’ Kate to most of my friends. Sorry if I dragged you away from your game.

He looked derisively over at the other girls. Oh, they ain’t nothin’. Just something fun to pass the time. His eyes swung back and he said, smirking, And just why do they call you ‘crazy’?

’Cause that’s what I am … sometimes. Crazy as hell. You know what that’s like, right?

Shaffer nodded, pulled up a stool and sat uncomfortably close to Kate. Behind her false smile she felt nothing but loathing for him.

How come a pretty little thing like you don’t have some guy sniffing around?

And how d’you know I don’t?

Shaffer showed her his bottle. Because you wouldn’t be doing this, now would you?

See, Kate grinned, showing her perfect teeth, I was right when I picked you out for a smart one.

So, you wanna dance?

Sure.

They were the only people on the scuffed square of dark, stained oak that doubled as a dance floor. He grabbed her waist, holding his body close to her, and thinking he’d died and gone to heaven. Three dances later Kate decided she’d had enough of this nonsense.

Phew, she muttered, as she wiped small beads of sweat from her forehead, you’re some kind of dancer, Darren Shaffer. Taking a swig of her beer, Kate looked longingly towards the door. I need some air.

Music to his ears. Now the real fun begins, he thought, as he followed Kate out.

She led him by the hand to her car, thinking all the while how simple it was. Men are so easy. He opened another beer as they drove along, settled into his seat and placed a hopeful hand on her thigh. Kate cringed but decided against pulling away. This she could stand. This was nothing compared to what was coming to him.

Seven or eight miles from the bar, Kate turned the car onto a dirt road, smiling all the time as the sedan bounced along over the ruts.

Where you taking me, girl? Shaffer demanded, peering into the blackness.

Somewhere nice and quiet. Why, you scared of a little slip of a girl like me? She tapped his knee and grinned.

Ain’t me who ought to be scared, Shaffer replied, sitting upright as he puffed out his chest. Dark don’t bother me none. How about you?

Same here. I’m crazy, remember. Nothing bothers me.

After stopping the car, she unbuckled her seat belt, got out, and nodded for Shaffer to follow. Eager now, he hurried after her, oblivious to where he was, concentrating only on the pleasure to come. Fifty yards down the track Kate stopped and asked Shaffer for a swig of his beer. They both took a drink before Kate pushed him down and fell on top of him.

Must say I like a girl who knows what she wants, Shaffer murmured, as Kate planted a kiss.

"This is what I want," Kate answered, as she unbuckled his belt and drew down his zipper.

A fresh breeze blew through the trees. Shaffer shivered as his legs became exposed to the cool night air. Soon, as Kate expected, his excitement became obvious. She pushed him back as he tried to do a little disrobing of her.

No. No, cowboy. You just wait a second while I do my thing on you. Okay? It’ll be worth it, I promise.

Shaffer gave in. He’d be patient. Hell, they had all night. He looked at her pretty face, laid back and waited.

In an instant, Kate grabbed his pride and joy in all its expanded glory, yanking it down with all her might. The pain that shot through Shaffer’s nether regions was more than excruciating; worse than he thought he could bear.

Kate rose quickly, stepping away from him in the unlikely case he might retaliate. But as she watched him writhing in agony, doubled-up and screaming at the top of his lungs, Kate knew Darren Shaffer wouldn’t be going anywhere for quite a while.

Bending down, as close to his head as she could bear, Kate spat into his hair and said, That’s for Billy Hoffman, you son of a bitch!

Without looking back, Kate ran to her car and eased it down the dirt road. As she approached the main highway she remembered to stay calm, to attract no attention. She passed one car parked on the shoulder, giggled at the thought of a romantic tryst and made her way home.

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Carol Bemosian paced the newsroom like a manic in search of excitement. The news she’d received that morning was startling. She could hardly contain her elation at being handed the story.

Her producer suggested she prepare a lead-in piece before setting off for the scene. But she needed Rachel for her hair and make-up.

Hey, sweetie, she yelled, as her friend arrived with her usual coffee and cinnamon roll. Need you ASAP, please.

Sure, Carol. What’s the rush?

Big story and I’ve got it! Need to do a quick piece and be on my way. She hustled Rachel through to her small dressing room, sat in front of the lighted mirror and motioned for the magic on her face to begin.

Rachel opened her box of tricks and, while applying a quick touch of foundation, asked, What’s making you all fired up this morning?

Darren Shaffer. That’s what!

What about him? Rachel mumbled casually.

Son of a bitch is dead.

Rachel stood up, looking nonplussed into the mirror.

What? Carol snapped. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

Recovering, Rachel continued working on Carol’s face before brushing out her hair. She barely heard Carol’s squeaky voice above her own thoughts. Her mind became foggy as she desperately tried to figure out the confusion.

As Carol prattled on, Rachel recalled the previous night when ‘Crazy’ Kate had told her what she’d done. Of course, Rachel had praised and congratulated her. But there was no mention of killing Shaffer. That wasn’t part of the plan. And if Rachel understood Kate as well as she knew she did, then this wasn’t something Kate could do. Despite her outrageousness, Kate was not a killer.

You hated him just as much as the rest of us, Rachel heard Carol saying, as she put a final comb through the reporter’s hair. Got what he deserved, I say.

How?

What? Carol replied, as she made her way to the door.

How was he killed?

Shot, I think. Although he apparently had other injuries. Gotta rush. Thanks, babe. Talk to you later.

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Daddy! Rachel loved the sound of her father’s voice. For her, it was always more than a pleasant surprise. For her, always, it was a special moment.

And how’s my favorite daughter today? Rachel smiled as she imagined her father nestled into his den, feet up on the desk, imagining her.

"Favorite daughter? Exactly how many others do you have?"

She heard him laugh. That’s for me to know and you to find out.

Don’t forget who you’re dealing with, she replied, with a giggle of her own. I have my ways, you know.

For Mark, the throw-away comment, made in jest, also held a touch of reality, given Rachel’s close protection of the tight relationship they shared.

You sound happy today, sweetie. That’s good.

It’s just an act whenever I hear your voice, she answered, good-naturedly.

Her remark wasn’t entirely without foundation; they both knew this. The years since the tragedy with her mother had produced ups and downs in her life. She wasn’t depressed, yet she sometimes suffered from depression. She had a positive outlook on life, yet she was never completely happy. She was angry sometimes, yet she never seemed to be out of control.

Mark didn’t immediately notice the changes to her personality. When he did, he reasoned a little girl trying to grow up without her mother, and knowing the things she knew, deserved a certain amount of leeway. Of course, he watched her, talked to her pediatrician, monitored her mood swings, and always gave her his unconditional love and support.

As her years of growing took her to other places in her development, so she seemed to be comfortable with herself. She accepted that what had happened had happened, and that now there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Nonetheless, her father liked to keep close tabs on her, fearing that at some point in her life she may hit an emotional crisis. So, he made sure to call regularly, sent her funny emails and texts, and visited with her as often as he could. Up until now his close-contact policy seemed to be paying dividends. He felt she lived a productive life, not seeming to dwell in the past. In fact, it was hard for him to recall his daughter asking him much about her difficult early years after she reached the age of fifteen. He assumed all those other times, when she’d enquired and he’d answered, had satisfied her curiosity. He hoped so, for now there was little left for him to tell her.

I was wondering if you’d like to grab lunch tomorrow? he asked, hopefully. My treat.

Sure, she eagerly replied. What time?

You name it. I’m the flexible one here.

Okay. Twelve-thirty. Angelino’s all right?

Beautiful, just like you.

Rachel beamed. She loved it when her father made comments like that. She could trust him to always make her feel special.

There you go again, speaking the truth. Don’t know what I’m going do with you.

Save it for tomorrow, toots. Be good. See ya. And he was gone, leaving her, as usual, with a void that made her sad.

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For several hours Carol Bemosian stood outside the yellow crime scene tape that cordoned off the area around Darren Shaffer’s body. She wasn’t alone, since news of the discovery soon had all the local news media scrambling to find out what had happened.

Her cameraman, Freddie Speigle, used the time to get as much relevant footage as possible, including Carol’s brief report on what she’d managed to find out so far. Except that what she’d found out didn’t amount to very much. After dispatching Freddie to the nearest convenient store for coffee, Carol wandered off around the back side of the crime scene, to where she hoped to catch the eye of the man who might just tell her a few juicy tidbits.

In the two years since Carol joined the station she’d made it her mission to cultivate as many contacts as possible, in as many areas as possible, in order to hopefully always keep her one step ahead of the competition. In her mind, her current job was merely a stepping stone to the big leagues of network and cable news.

The swell of ambition pounding in her heart was the result of a little girl’s dream. Through the hard work of others of her gender, Carol realized early on there were no limits to what she might achieve in life. In the 90’s, as she watched television in the comfort of her bedroom, what jumped out at her was a world of possibilities.

She noticed burgeoning numbers of female reporters and presenters filling her screen. Some even traveled the world interviewing heads of state, prime ministers and political rogues of every ilk. To Carol, these women, with their sophisticated looks and designer clothes, epitomized everything she aspired to be. That’s what she would do with her life and damn anyone who stood in her way.

Carol knew she possessed the mental toughness to make it in the hard reality world of news reporting. After all, even in her young life, she’d seen and done a number of things that proved she had the guts and strength of purpose to fight for what she believed. She knew she could make a difference; of that she was sure.

Have you ever really been tested in your life? she was asked, when interviewing for her first internship at a local radio station. Yes, and it changed my life forever, she replied, without providing further details. Her forceful reply left the interviewer in no doubt that, whatever it was she went through, this pretty young woman was tougher than the toughest nail.

Upon reaching the backside of the woods, Carol ducked down to get a better view of the crime scene. Several men in white overalls and wearing latex gloves were systematically searching every inch of ground. A mounded grey blanket lay eerily desolate close by, obviously covering Shaffer’s body. As Carol eased forward she thought she recognized Max Monroe among a trio of guys standing off to the side.

Taking a chance, she called out, Hey, Max! Maxie! You got a minute?

Startled, one of three men detached himself from the group and hurried over to where Carol was fully visible.

Carol! Jesus Christ! What d’you think you’re doing? This is a damn crime scene you stupid …

Max. Max, interrupted Carol with a wickedly sweet smile, don’t get your shorts in a bunch. I just need a little info. She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the woods.

Not on your life, pal, Max said forcefully, tearing his arm away. Now get the hell away from here before I arrest you.

Carol pouted. Oh, and lock me up in one of those cold, damp cells where everyone can see you pee? You wouldn’t do that to me, now would you, Max?

Bet your sweet ass … he answered quickly.

Carol turned her head and provocatively looked down behind her. Max’s eyes followed hers. He grinned as she said, Well, my, my. I do think you might be correct there, sir.

Honestly, Carol, I can’t tell you a thing. We’re not long into this.

Someone said he’d been shot …

Max interrupted her. He?

Darren Shaffer.

You know who this is?

Am I right?

"Jesus, don’t tell me I got a leaker on my team.

Was he?

Was he what?

Shot.

Well, since you already seem to know that, why don’t you take over the whole damn investigation?

Can I get a look at the body, then?

Max turned away in disgust. No, Carol, you can’t. This is a crime scene and you’re not invited. Before leaving, he turned towards her and she saw the twinkle in his eyes. That was when she knew she’d hooked him. Look, he muttered softly, his gaze anywhere but on her, I may have something later. Give me a call.

As she watched him trudge through the brush, she yelled out, Bet my sweet ass, I will. Max waved her off without looking back, while Carol folded her arms and watched him rejoin the group.

Since they’d first ‘worked’ together on a bank robbery case six months earlier, Carol felt she had his ear but not yet his trust. But Carol enjoyed challenges; thrived on them, in fact. He had her attention, and he was cute. It wouldn’t be long before she broke his resistance, and then the fun between the two of them could really begin.

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For most of the day Rachel busied herself at work, primping and hiding the blemishes of a number of guests for the station’s various programs. Normally, she enjoyed talking with these people, since, for the most part, they came from backgrounds foreign to hers. The common thread amongst them seemed to be an egotistical urge to impart what wisdom they thought they had to anyone who’d listen.

In return, most found Rachel an endearing specimen, as one old codger sweetly described her, as she trickled powder gently down his cheek and onto his freshly laundered dog-collar. If only you knew, she thought, as a ghost of a smile creased her cheeks.

But, today, her lack of response was noticed by more than one of the regular contributors. Even the crew around the station thought she seemed particularly quiet and withdrawn. Several tried to cheer her with a joke or two, but Rachel’s forced laugh soon put a stop to that.

When her shift ended Rachel rushed for home, stopping briefly to pick up cat food for Mouse, and a TV dinner for herself. What she needed most right now was time; time to be by herself, and time to think.

Mouse, a three-year-old sandy ball of fluff, greeted her mistress with a contented purr that seemed to say all was now right with her world. Rachel, setting down her things, hoisted the cat high into the air before planting her customary welcome home kiss on its nose.

Before long, they were nestled together on the couch, both fed and happy if only for a little while. Rachel, lulled sleepily in by Mouse’s rhythmic purring, dozed off, awoke and dozed again. The fitful sleep disturbed her and she realized she couldn’t keep burying her thoughts much longer.

Carefully, she turned ‘Crazy’ Kate’s words from the previous night over and over in her mind. Nothing she remembered suggested Kate had killed Shaffer. Took care of him, yes. Taught him a painful lesson, yes. But killed him, no. She knew Kate. She understood what she was capable of doing, and it most certainly did not include murder.

She knew Kate, true. But the girl had done some wild things in her life. Things that Rachel, at the time, never thought possible. Had she gone too far this time? Did her rage get the better of her? Maybe Shaffer had said some things that pushed her over the edge? It was possible, wasn’t it?

Her head throbbed as the questions whirled around like angry bees in a hive. She closed her eyes, drifted into sleep, drifted into dreams that made her heart race and her ears pound from the coursing blood.

When she awoke, Sharon was there, having let herself in as she always did.

I knew you’d come. Thanks.

Looks like you need a friend. What’s up?

It’s Kate. I think she may have killed someone.

Darren Shaffer?

Yeah. How’d you know?

It’s all over the place. What did Kate say?

That she hurt him. That’s all. She’d never kill him, would she?

Sharon hesitated. With Kate, anything was likely.

We did say we’d take care of him, didn’t we? I mean, we all understood that, right?

Rachel covered her face, burying her head in a pillow.

"You wanted this guy taught a lesson, Rachel. And we were with you on that. Buddies, remember? Always there for each other. If Kate did this, then she did it for all of us. You do get that, don’t you?"

But Rachel didn’t want to listen. Did not want to contemplate the meaning of Sharon’s words.

She would never go that far, she spat back. "I know her and she would never, never, kill anyone."

Sharon, with the black-rimmed glasses and black hair tied back like a schoolteacher, smiled down upon a willowy Rachel wretched with feelings she scarcely could comprehend.

Oh, wouldn’t she? I think we need to seriously consider the possibility, Rachel. We’re all capable of doing things we’d never think we’d do. Kate. Me. And you. You understand that, right?

At that moment, Rachel did. If Sharon felt that way, then it must be so.

CHAPTER THREE

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I might have something for you, he said, his voice purposely low and slightly mysterious. Meet me at Benny’s in twenty minutes.

The phone call was the reason Carol Bemosian found herself sitting in a bar, waiting for Max, the cop, to arrive. As she sipped her white wine, savoring the taste as it slipped easily down her throat, Carol was more excited than she cared to admit.

I see you’ve started without me, Max murmured, raising his eyebrows as he pulled out a chair across from her.

Don’t worry, cry-baby, she retorted, shaking her head, your beer’s on its way. The words were no sooner out of her mouth when a bartender placed a bottle in front of Max, then topped off her wine.

Thanks, Carol beamed, flashing the young man a smile he hoped to see again before the night was out.

Max put the beer to his lips and stared across at this stunning woman who seemed one step ahead of him already. His eyes took in every part of her face, from the slightly pointed chin, with its central dimple, to her cascading brown hair that seemed to glisten as it tumbled around her shoulders like an elegant shawl.

So, she began, trying hard to conceal her eagerness, what’s this all about?

First, none of us down at the station house are particularly cut up about Shaffer. But a homicide’s still a homicide. We need to clear it like all the rest.

And you think I can help … how?

Max ignored her question. And second, he continued, looking straight into her sepia eyes, this meeting never took place. He raised his eyebrows again. We on the same page?

Carol nodded quickly. Of course.

All right, then. They both relaxed, the tension between them replaced with tentative, but genuine, smiles.

What can I use?

Anything I say you can, but not everything I tell you.

Will you answer all of my questions?

Yes. I’ll always be honest with you, but again, not all of it goes on the air.

Fair enough. She moved her chair closer and leaned in. Definitely Shaffer?

Max nodded. Positive ID from his mother.

And he was shot?

Max shrugged. You already knew that.

Where?

One in the head. Clean kill.

Carol gave him a big smile. Get the bullet?

Yeah. It’s with the lab.

Any other damage?

Max moved uncomfortably, took a swig of his beer and looked down.

What? Carol asked, sensing she’d hit a home run.

Seems he was kinda mutilated.

I’m not following. What are you trying to say?

His … penis. It was broken.

Broken? Carol saw the embarrassment on Max’s face.

Yes, for chrissakes! Broken!

Pants around the ankles?

Yup.

Oh, my, sounds like a perfect set up. Shaffer thinks he’s about to get some …

Carol, Max interrupted harshly, we all get the picture.

Well, if that’s the case, I say the dumb jerk got all he deserved.

It’s still murder. And we aim to catch whoever did this.

Any clues? Leads?

Crime scene crew’s still looking. So far, not much.

You’ll keep me posted?

Of course.

So, what can I use?

We’ll be issuing a statement soon, but we won’t mention the … the mutilation. Neither should you. Otherwise, feel free.

What else can I do?

"Just keep