The Paradise of Revenge: Shadows of Justice, Book I

By Richard Lee Orey

The Paradise of Revenge is a sizzling psychological drama novel of judicial corruption, passion, uncommon courage and the dramatic love story of young Josefina Camarillo.

Seduced by Satan’s whispered promise to restore her precious innocence, devout young Josefina turns her back on God and schemes her wicked biblical revenge on Shy Lanier, the teenaged son of the man she believes brutally raped and disfigured her. Meanwhile, the dazzling and brilliant Lonnie Lanier, the devoted wife of Josefina’s convicted rapist, swallows her pride and morality to work undercover in a Lawyers Only escort service gathering the evidence she needs to prove her husband’s innocence and to bring to justice the ruthless courthouse crime family that framed her husband.

Share the passion of devout young Josefina Camarillo—uncensored, uncut, as it happened—as she schemes her wicked biblical revenge.

Live this intimate, emotion-packed story of dear sweet Josefina, her battle with Satan´s emissaries and her discovery of Truth—

*We are never alone    *God is everywhere    *Love is the ultimate revenge

The Paradise of Revenge presents love, sex, passion and romance on the bed of judicial corruption in a powerful story with a shocking and heartfelt resolution, a story inspiring courage and faith, a story that will haunt you for years. A bold, capitivating book you´ll enjoy reading twice—once for the mind and again for the heart.

A scintillating read for you and your friends.

Visit the author at www.Authorsden.com/richardleeorey

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 5, 2006
• ISBN: 9781469115252

Richard Lee Orey

RICHARD LEE OREY is a Gold Member of the on-line literary site Authorsden.com where more than 2,400,000 internet visitors have viewed and critiqued his original writings. Richard is a former Official Court Reporter of the United States District Court and the California Superior Court with 38 years of courtroom trial experience. Also educated in Law, he holds a Letter of Commendation from the Mayor of the City of San Diego for Outstanding Community Leadership and is a recipient of the Bancroft-Whitney Publishing Company’s American Jurisprudence Award. Readers may write to him through his Author’s Website www.RichardLeeOrey.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

San Diego, California

August, 1947

H AIRL ESS from skull to heel, the fat old man in the black urine-stained robe jabbed air with a pudgy forefinger as he spoke. "Pity is a fatal character flaw in our business, Weinberger. You plead them all guilty. Understand?"

Young Weinberger’s stomach burned with the acid of insult. Understand? Who’s he think he’s talking to? He ached to shout back a dozen graphic reminders to the blank-eyed jurist.

"Remember the pharmacist and your Missions Hills home?

Remember the carpenter and your duplex in National City?

And how about the dog breeder? the tile setter? the bowling alley manager?"

All guilty pleas by innocent, framed defendants counseled by Weinberger and sentenced to state prison time by Judge Otto Kruegbedt, who now owned all their properties.

"And how about their young wives in our prison widows club? Good money-makers for us. Why? Because I got all their husbands to plead guilty. That’s why. Understand?"

But criminal defense attorney Nathan David Weinberger shouted back no reminders for he was terrified of the man sitting across the desk from him. He had seen a morgue picture of the judge’s previous associate—throat slashed, genitals emasculated by some horrible mechanical device. Indelible in his memory was Kruegbedt’s chilling voice at the time of the picture viewing. The consequences of failure, Weinberger. Look and remember.

Weinberger looked and Weinberger remembered.

Dealing behind the bench with Judge Kruegbedt just short of three years, now, Weinberger’s performance in their joint ventures had been rewarded. Most savored by him was his position as manager of their Lawyers Only escort service and its growing stable of prison widows.

He remembered this morning’s liaison with the widow from their latest frame-up, a sensual young redhead with teasing hands and lips. He felt the beginning of an erection.

The fat old crime boss jarred Weinberger’s mind back to business. Understand?

Yes, I understand, Weinberger said, stifling an outpouring of resentment. He winced with pain as the toxins of repressed anger ate his stomach lining.

The two men were on the main floor of the county courthouse behind the courtroom of Department One in private chambers secured by a rickety oak door lettered Presiding Judge. Both casement windows of the law book-littered office were flung half-open these warm summer days, just as they remained half-open every day year-round. The building was old. The windows were immovably stuck.

From inside, one could hear a cacophony of street sounds from Lower Broadway outside—the endless singsong enticements of penny arcade barkers on crowded sidewalks, the high-spirited competitive shouting over and back across the busy thoroughfare of boisterous sailors and marines on payday liberty, the shrill voices of pimply faced streetwalkers vying for attention.

Inside, oblivious to everything but moneymaking matters, Judge Kruegbedt continued his orders, his oboe-like voice raspy and measured. Our setup victim is a young Mexican woman who lives alone just down the road from our chosen crime scene. His vacant eyes narrowed, pupils constricted. His voice crackled with cruelty. The assault on this woman is to be brutal and bloody. She must survive, of course, so we’ll have her testimony in court to hide our trail. A sick half-smile crossed Kruegbedt’s pudgy face. He loved the justice game.

The smile faded. His thick, stubby forefinger rapped sharply on the plain manila folder in front of him. The plan has been tried and tested. The plan is perfect.

Young Weinberger nodded his agreement.

For thirty years the blank-eyed jurist had been reading faces of witnesses, weighing their credibility, assessing their trustworthiness. He studied the angular, bespectacled face of his newest lieutenant searching for a telltale sign of mental reservation or deceit. Perhaps a quick wetting of lips, a dry swallow, the mist of impending nervous sweat, a momentary avoidance of eye contact. Did he blink? I think he blinked! Herr Eichmann is right. You have to be quick. Jews are very shifty-eyed.

The young lawyer pulled on his ear lobe as he crossed one long leg over the other and waited. The tinted lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses only partially concealed his weird yellow-spotted eyes. Weinberger appeared calm, alert, in control. He had practiced his demeanor image to perfection.

The ruthless old man in the judge’s chair underscored his orders. Brutal and bloody. Understand?

Yes, I understand. Raving Rabbi, I understand, he griped in his mind. Now, when are you going to tell me about my new widow?

Suddenly, Judge Kruegbedt concluded the meeting with a blunt dismissal. That’s all. You may go.

Assignation complete, Lawyer Weinberger rose to his feet, slowly easing his tall slump-shouldered frame toward the door of the judge’s chambers. What’s going on here? he thought. No widow? Fingernails chewed to the quick, his soft hand gripped the outdated brass doorknob, his extended bony arm seemingly in frozen-motion. He stalled, praying to the gods the words might yet be spoken.

The fleshy magistrate toyed with his young henchman, loving this part of the game, too. By the way, Weinberger, I had the usual clandestine photographs taken of our future widow. He pushed a group of small pictures face-up across the desktop. When we add this dazzling young woman to our stable, our clients will . . .

The old man’s words trailed off to a teasing, gurgling whisper as he adjusted a long-impotent crotch. The vast body fat of his underbelly quivered in a pleasure enjoyed these last few years only while tormenting young lawyers.

When Weinberger’s examination of the photographs ended, Kruegbedt’s spasms subsided, pulsing waves lingering stubbornly for long seconds.

Abruptly, as if the perverted scene had never occurred, the cunning old man honeyed his oft-repeated warning about the consequences of failure with his usual bait. When the time is right, Weinberger, you may indulge yourself with our new widow. I’ll tell you when.

The young lawyer was ecstatic. He replayed the words in his mind. " . . . you may indulge yourself with our new widow!" Instantly, he felt the beginning of another erection. Stronger, more urgent than before.

At the doorway, mind spinning with excitement, Weinberger acknowledged the judge’s comment with a casual I understand and departed.

* * *

ALONE in his chambers, Judge Otto Kruegbedt penned an entry in his private journal.

Weinberger—Shifty-eyed and soft, but will do anything for sex and money.

Lumbering to his robe closet, he placed the journal book in a file cabinet, securing it with the long metal bar down its side and snapping shut a heavy padlock.

Again behind his desk, Kruegbedt spun his ancient leather chair to the left to face an aged and yellowed window blind mounted on the wall above his credenza. His vacant old eyes glistened with excitement as he raised the blind and exposed a large white photoboard map studded with dozens of small green flags imprinted Kruegbedt. Greedy fingers trembling, he placed a red Pending flag on an outlined parcel of property bordering Telegraph Canyon Road.

Leaning back, he surveyed his accumulations. His hairless skull nodded rhythmically as he talked to himself. This new property will make an even one hundred. Ernst will have a fine inheritance.

Putting a thumb over one nostril, the fat old man leaned to the side and snot-shot a gray glob of mucus into his unlined waste basket, wiping his nose on the hem of his foul-smelling robe. Comes next spring, I’ll break ground on my retirement compound.

* * *

OUTDOORS, Lawyer Weinberger’s need grew undeniable as Judge Kruegbedt’s words echoed in his mind. " . . . you may indulge yourself with our new widow." Wild, hedonistic images strobe-flashed in his mind as he scurried down the sidewalk, quickstepping his lanky frame to the nearest pay phone. The tattoo shop on State Street.

Feverishly, he dug through his pockets for a coin, his thoughts in panicked disorder. Yes! The wife of the schoolteacher we sent up last year!

Recalling past humiliations, he dialed her number nervously, sighing his malcontent.

CHAPTER 1

P LODDING wearily out old Telegraph Canyon Road, unbearably alone, the fierce-blowing desert wind parched her throat and made it difficult to breathe.

Privacy assured in the darkened ambience of an unlit country road, unaware of approaching danger, the young woman unfastened the top two buttons of her plain white blouse. Her slender fingers darted within to unpin and remove the scarf-like undergarment which encircled her torso and protected her modesty.

Her blouse neck parted revealing a delicate rosewood crucifix, lovingly handcrafted in exquisite detail. Hanging from a simple silver-alloy chain around her neck, the minisculpture dangled loosely between her generous breasts.

Timid fingers trailed down her blouse front until they met the next small button. For a brief lingering moment, they paused, constrained by a powerful morality born of strict, virtuous upbringing.

The stifling Santa Ana wind demanded concession. Overcome with physical distress, unmindful of danger, necessity prevailed. Quickly, urgently, she undid the remaining buttons of her blouse, sighing in relief as gale-force air currents swept over her sweaty skin.

Blouse front open, breasts swaying with each footstep, she ran her open fingers through a dark, wavy hairline. Arms upraised, she felt wickedly naked and exposed. She bit her lip nervously and dropped her hands to her side.

Josefina’s crucifix chain flashed a warning—a twinkling reflection from distant flickering headlights. Absorbed in secret thoughts, it went unnoticed.

Trudging out the last half-mile to her rented roadside cottage, the isolation of the old highway reminded her again tonight of her own unbearable aloneness. The two years since the war ended seemed like twenty.

Daily, now, Josefina saw virile young former servicemen walking the streets of San Diego as civilians. Often as not, on their arms would be the waiting women of wartime, now married and proudly displaying their fertility.

There was no mistake about it. Since the war, everyone was getting married. Three coworkers at the cannery recently married. Little Shirley Temple, married. Princess Elizabeth of England about to marry. It seemed everyone was getting married and raising a family. Everyone but Josefina.

Plodding along in deep thought, the flickering headlights of the oncoming car were seen but not perceived.

Tears of inner pain trickled down Josefina’s cheeks. Poor Mama, she thought. God had taken Josefina’s mother too soon. Took her before she could realize her dream of seeing her first-born daughter married in St. Michael’s Parish with fancy clothes and all the family and family friends sharing the joy of God’s blessing.

Young Josefina Maria Camarillo was resolute. Her solemn promise to Mama on that last night together would be fulfilled. Mama said it was part of God’s plan for her and that God would send her the man. For Mama’s sake, somehow she would find the man.

Oh, if only Mama could see me getting married in St. Michaels, she dreamed. She’d be so happy, so proud!

For two years, Josefina prayed daily for God’s man to come. Now, still unbearably alone, her desperate need moved her closer to fulfillment. Find a place for yourself, Papa had said. Make a life for yourself.

The authority of Papa’s words flooded her mind.

That’s it, she thought. That’s the secret! Not let life happen to you, make it happen. And in her heart, she believed it true.

Josefina’s jaws tightened, her lips thinning with somber determination.

That very moment when she disavowed God’s plan for her life is when she first heard the whispered voice in her mind. There’s a dance tonight at St. Michael’s. Tonight you will make a man want you. Tonight you will be irresistible!

Suddenly, graphic, undulating images appeared in her mind. She flushed with embarrassment. Recoiling in shock, God forbid! she gasped, frightened by her own thoughts.

But the whispers and fantasy returned, dancing in her mind . . . tempting her . . . enticing her . . . exciting her desire, even in the face of God’s certain wrath.

Unexpectedly, Josefina’s foot caught in a small, jagged road rut. She lurched forward. Holy Mother! she cried, jolted into alertness.

Removing the old leather huarache from a throbbing toe, she held it up to take a look, mumbling to herself about her stolen bicycle and the long walk home in the dark.

The sharp, yipping cry of a meandering coyote on the hillside unsettled her nerves and hurried her sandal inspection. Hanging loose at the toe was a thin strap torn from its anchoring in the sole. All clearly visible in the moonlight. Too clearly for moonlight.

The monotonous headlight glare of the distant oncoming car had been hypnotic. Engrossed in forbidden thought, Josefina had been unaware of the car’s proximity. Now, focused on the reality of her torn shoe, frightened, she realized the car was no longer moving. It was stopped on the side of the road. Her side.

Josefina’s heart began to beat wildly, her body electrified with adrenaline. She scrambled to button her open blouse, fingers groping clumsily. Unsuccessfully.

She watched in panic as the car’s headlights faded and died. Holy Mother! she whispered.

The sudden shift from glaring light to near blackness left Josefina’s pupils constricted and unseeing. She felt blind and helpless. She saw no place to run to escape. Stay calm, she told herself, stoking her nerves.

Clutching her open blouse fronts together with grasping, white-knuckled fingers, she moved hurriedly to the opposite side of the roadway, putting distance between herself and the car. It was all but hidden from view by her impaired night vision, but she knew it was there.

The clicks and groans of the still-running motor of an old blue Ford echoed through the deserted countryside. Only the car’s dim parking lights remained on to signal unknown peril, reminding her she was alone in the dark of an isolated road.

Eyes widened in fear, holding her breath, Josefina quickened her pace and scurried past the hulking metal frame. Ten steps past. Twenty steps. Thirty. Her heart pounded, thundering in her ears, drowning out the crunch of approaching footsteps on loose gravel. Forty steps. Fifty steps.

Finally, lungs bursting in short, tight gasps, she reached safety beyond the car.

Fingers tingling, flesh pink with pulsing blood, Josefina stopped and bent over, hands on her knees. She inhaled deeply to calm her runaway heartbeat. Gradually, her breathing slowed. Only then did she feel the wetness in her underpants, the warm streams of urine running down the inside of her thighs.

Oh, Holy Mother, she groaned.

The assault came without warning. A hard-knuckled fist smashed against her soft right cheek. Reeling sideways, she staggered, mouth open, blood flowing from a torn lip.

The kick of a steel-toed shoe rammed into her diaphragm. Doubled over in agony, unable to breathe, she struggled in vain, her lungs paralyzed by trauma. Desperate, she sucked and strained. Chest muscles squeezing, temporal arteries bulging, she fought for air.

A second crushing blow to the face twisted her backward onto the ground. Spatters of red liquid gushed from her mouth and nose as the back of her head cracked the roadbed.

In the spinning gray twilight of stuporous daze, Josefina felt herself half-lifted, half-dragged. Sharp edges of coarse gravel scraped her bare legs. A dipping down then up marked the crossing of the empty drainage ditch.

Brittle ends of dried brush snagged her blouse and held on, raggedly tearing the garment from her limp body. Numbed from violent trauma, she felt nothing as her assailant threw her body onto the hard ground. Big rough hands tore at her cotton skirt and underpants, ripping them from her small frame.

Josefina fought back fiercely. She thrashed back and forth, kicked wildly, twisted and lurched from side to side to free herself from thick, powerful arms. Terror-stricken, she screamed, her shrieks and cries swallowed by windblown, deserted hillsides.

A huge shadow-figure grabbed her long dark hair and yanked. She groaned with pain as her head whipped back, neck stretched, mouth open and bloody. Eyes bulging, fighting for her life, Josefina exploded in convulsive kicks and jerks.

Hold still, ya bitch! a gritty-edged voice barked. He slammed a burly knee down on her bare chest. The sudden crushing weight on her diaphragm whooshed all air from her lungs. Blue-lined arteries on her face and neck protruded, threatening to burst. She tried to breathe. Tried again. And again.

Clamping her wrists together, the attacker jerked her arms above her head, elbows next to her ears. In quick, practiced motion, he twisted a wide leather belt tightly around her arms and head, ensnaring the limbs. Steel-hard fingers gripped her pubic hair, pinning her naked pelvis against the ground. His thick knee pressed hard against her head as he stuffed her wet, urine-soaked underwear into her mouth, gagging her.

Josefina lay helpless, unable to breathe as her assailant brutally smashed all resistance from her battered body. The full weight of his massive torso crushed down on her chest. Slowly, consciousness faded to gray and turned to black and nothingness.

A time later, eyes still closed, Josefina became aware of an alien sensation in her nose and an odor that grew in intensity. The unmistakable smell of gasoline. Its pungent fumes stung her nostrils and raised her level of awareness.

Pupils dilated, her half-opened eyes blur-focused on a dark, shadowy figure on its knees straddling her body. From the moon glow behind him, she saw the outline of a large naked man staring down at the blood-spattered object hanging from a chain about her neck. Like a distant echo, she heard herself begging him. Please! Please don’t hurt me again.

Shut up, ya bitch! The big man reached down and snatched the small wooden crucifix off its chain and held it up to his face to see. This ain’t gonna help ya none. But I got somethin’ that will.

The man shoved his naked hips in front of Josefina’s battered face, his distended organ in close view. Here’s what ya’re gonna get, bitch. Look at it. Look at it!

Terrorized, afraid not to look, Josefina stared wide-eyed. Pulsating and throbbing in perverse excitement mere inches from her bloodied face, its bulbous head loomed big as her fist, its shaft thick as an oak log. Sensitized by violence, the loathsome image burned into the matrix of her subconscious.

A gritty voice growled in her ear. Now, bitch, ya’re gonna get your first piece from me. An’ ya’re gonna get it all . . . right now!

Frantic, overwhelmed with fear, Josefina pleaded with her attacker. Oh, God, no! Please don’t! Please don’t do that to me. Please! Please!

A wicked sneer twisted his mouth. The begging of the helpless young woman excited him, fueled his animal lust. Glassy-eyed, consumed with need, his muscled forearm clamped down across her throat. Forcing her knees up and apart, his sharp, jabbing fingernails clawed their way through delicate tissue, agonizing her flesh, searing her mind with pain.

Suddenly, the attacker brutally jammed his inflamed phallus into her. A terrible cry of anguish and suffering pierced the night air as his invasion ruptured her maidenhead.

Impaled, unable to move, hymenal blood streaming, Josefina lay helpless as his raging passion forced its way into her private sheath, thrust-pounding her body again and again, traumatizing her psyche, shredding her soul of innocence.

Finally, her attacker shuddered in convulsive spasms, grunting pig-like as his passion erupted, spitting semen dirtily into her sacred space. For long moments, the man’s body lay still against hers, full weight oppressively heavy, phallic contractions pulsing in her ravaged womanhood.

Passion spent, he pulled away, sweaty face glowering down at her.

Eyes closed, aware he hovered over her, Josefina waited. She dared not move. Silent as death, she prayed feverishly in her mind. Holy Mother, pray for me. Oh, Holy Mother, save me! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, someone, please! Please!

Motionless, she waited. Nothing. She waited more. Where is he? Cautiously, she cracked open her eyelids. Is he gone? What’s he doing? Oh, God! What’s he going to do?

Gripping a dried stick in both hands, the man pushed its dirty, jagged point hard against the flesh of her breasts. So I’ll know ya fo’ sure when I see ya ‘gain, bitch, he growled, dragging the edge of the stick hard and slow across her body as blood began to run, scrape-carving a large, crude sign-of-the-cross into the flesh of her bare chest.

Josefina knew her life depended on making no defense. Yet the pain was excruciating. Steeling herself, she blocked everything from her mind, somehow enduring the savagery without sound or movement.

The man’s dark, sweaty face came down near her bleeding breasts, inspecting his tortuous handiwork. Jus’ somethin’ to remember me by, bitch, and so ya don’t talk too much . . . The bone-sharp edge of his callused hand chopped viciously across the front of her neck. A thick red liquid oozed out her open mouth, spilling over the ragged membranes of her torn lip.

Brutally beaten, sexually ravaged, paralyzed with fear, Josefina’s tortured body lay motionless in overwhelming shock. Barely alive, she escaped into the unfeeling mercy of traumatic blackout, naked on her back on the coarse dried underbrush of an isolated roadside, arms bound overhead, legs propped open, her precious rosewood crucifix jammed into her bloodied womb space.

Devout young Josefina Maria Camarillo, innocent and pure of heart, wanted only to fulfill her deathbed promise to poor Mama. Excited and seduced by wicked, whispered thoughts, marked by the wrath of God with shredded innocence and shameful cross, how could she hope to challenge the evil of Satan when next he whispered the paradise of revenge.

CHAPTER 2

N OSE TWITCHING, Deputy Sheriff Volney Eric Hansen noted tonight’s weather in his log book as hot, dry and windy.

Letting gusting air currents whip through the open windows of his patrol unit made it easier for the two of them to breathe as they drove east on Telegraph Canyon Road.

Outstretching a burly arm, he offered Harry, his partner, a couple of friendly scratches behind the ear. Responding with affection, the Doberman pinscher lapped at his master’s hand.

Harry was the perfect companion. Deputy Hansen had never married, so the two of them shared the same apartment, the same food, the same bed, the same fleas.

One thing Deputy Hansen hadn’t shared with Harry until tonight was that Hansen was up for sergeant, his sixth year trying. He hadn’t made a good felony collar in two months. The Hansen-Harry patrol unit had slipped from second to thirteenth place in department efficiency ratings. Their slide had become a topic of conversation in the locker room.

With promotion interviews coming up next week and a field record about to disqualify him from consideration, Deputy Hansen looked forward anxiously to his next arrest.

Nose twitching, the deputy adjusted his car seat. Extra big and muscled meant there was never enough space. Yeah, Harry, I gotta feelin’ that t’night we’re gonna get the felony bust we’ve been—

Harry’s growl interrupted. Sharp canine eyes spotted the figure first.

Stretching his blond GI-cut over the steering wheel, Hansen squinted. Yeah, I see her, Harry.

Defined in the patrol unit’s headlights, a naked woman staggered to the middle of the road and fell to her knees, arms bound upward on the sides of her head.

Deputy Hansen quickly stopped his unit. Exiting, he saw the woman clearly for the first time.

The beaten and bloodied face of a young dark-haired woman stared back, eyes glazed, trying to speak but mouthing no sound.

Kneeling in front of the dazed figure, Hansen grimaced as he surveyed the oozing gashes across and down her torso as he undid the wide belt binding her arms. Brutal and bloody, he thought.

Everything’s gonna be all right, now, he said, removing a blanket from the trunk of his unit and half-lifting the cut and bruised female to her feet.

The young woman started to collapse. Deputy Hansen wrapped the scratchy wool blanket over her bare skin, swept her up in his arms and, carrying her, gently laid the woman across the rear seat of his unit.

This is Hansen on Telegraph Canyon Road, he radioed. I’m transporting a 245/possible rape victim to Chula Vista Community Hospital.

Dispatch responded: Is the victim conscious?

Affirmative, but lots of blood and possible broken bones.

At 9:30 p.m., Deputy Hansen swung his unit into the hospital’s Emergency driveway, siren off, red light still flashing.

Gently, he lifted the limp body from the rear seat and laid it on the gurney rolled out for him, watching with interest as E.R. attendants in white uniforms whisked the bloodied woman through double-swinging doors.

In the waiting room, Hansen dropped heavily into an old leather chair, eyes closed, body still and resting except for an occasional nose twitch.

Twenty minutes later, a middle-aged, acne-pocked doctor with short red hair stepped out of E.R. Officer? his squeaky voice rang out, Dr. O’Brien here. You wanted to talk to the young woman you brought in? The doctor blinked twice.

Struggling to his feet, Hansen answered, Yeah, Doc. How is she?

The young lady got worked over real good, the doctor said. Bruised larynx, ruptured trachea, two or three broken ribs. We’ll know more when we get the x-rays back. The rest of her will mend in a couple of weeks. He paused. I’d say she’s pretty lucky. He looked at the uniformed deputy and blinked twice. Your turn.

Come on, Doc. Somebody worked her over, dumped her on a back road ‘n left her bound ‘n bleedin’ ‘n naked ‘n ya call that lucky?

The doctor squeaked his reasoning. This young woman could easily be in critical condition. Whatever she got hit with, it gave her one helluva blow to the midsection. An inch or two higher might have been fatal. Blink, blink.

Hansen’s eyes widened. "Fatal? Ya mean a blow ta the stomach can kill ya?"

Not exactly the stomach, the heart. Just a little higher. Usually, the ribcage shields the heart from injury, and the lungs act as cushions. If the blow is directly to the heart and hard enough, bleeding of the heart muscle into the pericardial sac will occur. That bleeding can build up so much pressure, it blocks the flow of blood into the heart chambers. The doctor paused and blinked twice.

Hansen nodded and blinked twice. Back to you?

Dr. O’Brien continued. If no blood can flow in, why then none can be pumped out, and the patient dies from acute congestive heart failure. Cardiac arrest. Blink, blink.

Hansen pressed the issue. Blink, blink. Back to you.

I think we could characterize this injury as a bruised heart, Dr. O’Brien added.

Bruised . . . heart, Hansen repeated, writing down the words. He stuffed his notebook into a rear pocket. Now, I’d like ta talk ta the young woman ‘n ask her a few questions. He blinked twice. Their strange dialogue moved in rhythm, now.

You have to do your job, I suppose, the doctor responded. But with the bruised larynx, she’s not going to be able to give you more than a few whispers for a week or so. She’s doped up right now, too. Had to give her something for pain and, also, a substantial sedative to calm her down. He shook his head. Tragic case.

The red-haired doctor tried to clear the squeak from his throat. Staring vacantly, he added, She was brutally raped, you know. Had a strong odor of gasoline about her body and some black, sooty smudges on her skin. He cleared his throat. Also, somehow, a large cruciform design’s been scraped into the flesh across her breasts and torso. There’ll be permanent scarring and disfigurement from that. Only God knows what a terrible scar like that on a young woman will do to her mentally.

The doctor paused and cleared his throat, again. Have to tell you something else. Recovered a small wooden crucifix lodged in her vagina. He stared at Deputy Hansen and wrinkled his brows. Real psychopath at work here. Blink, blink.

Hansen stood staring back, vacant eyed.

Abruptly, Dr. O’Brien turned and strode down the hospital corridor and disappeared through swinging doors marked Surgery.

Back in the rear lobby, Hansen mumbled to himself as he made new entries in his log book. "Gasoline smell. Scarred. Did he say bloody?" He couldn’t remember if the doctor actually used the word. He wrote his report entry: Bloody.

Dr. O’Brien’s red head bobbed out a doorway. He beckoned to Hansen with his hand. Coming?

* * *

VISION blurred by two puffy, blackened eyes, Josefina Maria Camarillo observed her surroundings. Morphine sedation numbed her pain and dulled mental alertness. She struggled to remember. Bicycle missing . . . walking home . . . windy . . . Headlights!

Suddenly, in her mind, she was there, again. Walking alone . . . a blow to the face . . . a kick in the stomach . . . gagging.

Body jerking in her bed, she tried to scream. A sharp pain pierced the veil of morphine and grabbed her throat, choking off all but a hoarse, cracked, splintering sound. Dark image of a big man . . . hands up to protect her face . . . Oh, God, no! Please! Please!

* * *

THE TWO uniformed men entered the room together—Dr. O’Brien in white, Deputy Hansen in sheriff’s tan—both expecting to see a quiet, heavily sedated patient. Instead, they saw a woman panicked, flailing about, arms over her face. The sedation was inadequate.

Deputy Hansen moved quickly to the young woman’s bedside and took her hand in his. He began to speak in his ripsaw voice. It’s all over, now, Miss. I’m the sheriff’s deputy. Everythin’s gonna be all right, now. A forced half-smile traced his lips as his crew cut head nodded his reassurance.

Slowly, hesitantly, as he spoke, her hand came down from a bruised and swollen face, eyes darting in confusion.

Name’s Hansen, he began. Deputy Sheriff Eric Hansen. I’m the one that found ya out on Telegraph Canyon ‘n brought ya here.

Her battered face looked blank.

"Here, the hospital, he clarified. I need ta ask ya a few questions ’bout what happened."

The young woman stared. Dazed. Disoriented. Confused.

A flush of sympathy rose in Hansen’s cheeks as he saw close-up how savagely she had been beaten. Be quick, he told himself.

In twelve years of patrol work, Deputy Hansen had interviewed and taken statements from hundreds of victims and witnesses. He had developed a knack for brevity. In twenty short questions, he knew the whole story, including the young woman’s identity, home and work addresses and that she had been attacked by one very big, dark man.

He got the answer he was looking for with his standard wind-up crime-scene question. Notice anythin’ odd, weird or distinctive?

Josefina’s eyes glared unfocused as she hoarse-whispered a one-syllable word: Gas.

Gas?

Slate-gray eyes dark with fear, she nodded.

Suddenly, eyes glazing over, Josefina lapsed into a wild, jerking frenzy of uncontrolled panic with cracked-voiced muffled screams of Please! Please! And passed out.

She’ll be out for a while, maybe hours, Dr. O’Brien said. Come back later. Blink, blink.

Hansen nodded his agreement with one blink. He was beginning to catch on.

Outside the young victim’s room, Hansen double-checked his report information. "Did she say gas as in gasoline?"

"Gas as in gasoline, the doctor echoed. Remember? She reeked of gasoline when you brought her in."

Thanks fo’ the help, Doc, Hansen said. He stuck out a hand for a handshake. I’ll be back.

Dr. O’Brien gave Hansen one short hand jerk and blinked three times.

Hansen started to blink back. Too late. The doctor was gone.

* * *

AT 2245 hours, Deputy Sheriff Eric Hansen finished a complete sweep of his beat and was starting another sweep. Other than a few high school kids throwing a keg party on Proctor Valley Road, he had seen only three cars. Not surprising. It was an isolated road and it was late at night.

Approaching the junction of Telegraph Canyon Road and Otay Lakes Road, Hansen spied his suspect. He was straight ahead a few hundred yards working under the hood of an old blue Ford.

In one motion, Hansen hit his red light, cut in the siren and unsnapped the narrow leather strap which held his service revolver, a heavy duty .44 sidearm.

His patrol unit roared up to the left rear fender of the Ford like a German Panzer on attack, headlights on high beam. Gun drawn, Hansen lunged from his unit, stooping behind his open car door for protection.

Teeth bared, muscles tense, Harry strained at his leash.

Freeze! Sheriff’s officer, Hansen shouted. Keep yar hands in sight. The black-haired suspect was big, easily six foot and two hundred pounds. Hansen used a command voice. Put yar hands on top of the car. Slow ‘n easy, now!

Startled but obedient, the man did as he was told.

Hansen loosed Harry. Watch him, Harry!

In quick, short bounds, the canine positioned himself behind the suspect. Deep, throaty growls signaled his intent.

The suspect spoke for the first time. What’s the problem, Officer?

Hansen ignored the question and asked his own. What’s yar name?

Lanier. Martin Lanier. He repeated his question. What did I do wrong? I’ve been right here working on my car for almost an hour.

Hansen checked his report facts. Big. Dark. Smells of gasoline. Hansen noted a telltale circumstance. A hint of a smile crossed his face. All right, Mister, let’s have a look at ya. Turn ‘round. Slow ‘n easy, now.

Carefully, the big, sweaty man turned to face Deputy Hansen. What’s the problem, Officer? he asked, the fresh smell of carburetor gas wafting in the air from his hands.

Where’s yar belt, Mister?

Belt? I ain’t got no belt.

Why not?

"What’d ya mean, Why not? Ain’t no law against not wearing a belt."

From a rear pocket, Hansen pulled out a wide leather belt and tossed it to the suspect. Here. Put this on.

Do what?

"Put the belt on, Mister. Now!"

Okay. Okay. The big man looped the belt around his waist, buckling it in a worn notch-hole.

Hansen nodded. Fits, doesn’t it?

Eyes widened, the suspect studied the belt for a moment. What th’ hell!

Hansen ignored the suspect’s reaction, intent on checking the man’s clothing. In the bright illumination of his unit’s headlights, he could see little reddish-brown spots on the man’s work shirt.

Hansen shared a smile with his K-9. Harry, looks like we got ourselves our felony collar tonight.

The suspect’s mouth sprang open. "Collar? As in arrested? For what? I ain’t done one damn thing but stand right here with my flashlight tryin’ to fix my carburetor."

Deputy Hansen shook his fist in his suspect’s face. I think ya better shut up right now or ya’re gonna have an accident across yar big mouth. Suspect Martin Lanier—the big, dark man who smelled of gasoline and wore no belt—said nothing. Hansen’s patrol unit sped off to county jail for a felony booking, Code Three—motor screaming, red lights and siren. Six years is too long waitin’ ta make sergeant, Harry. He grinned a full mouth. Dues paid!

* * *

PATROL SHIFT over and bedding down at home with Harry, Deputy Sheriff Volney Eric Hansen dozed off. But again tonight, he suffered a recurrent nightmare.

Deputy Hansen, your good solid arrest was made too late to put into your service record, too late for promotion consideration. We’re passing you over for sergeant. Again.

Bolting upright, wide awake, Hansen shook his fist at the world and howled his rage. Ya dirty scumbag! If I don’t make sergeant, yar gonna pay!

CHAPTER 3

M ARTIN and young son Shy Lanier frolicked in the slow-rolling surf of Rosarito Beach, Mexico, playing one-handed catch with a small orange ball. Afterward, Martin barbequed carne asada for the family on a rack over a blazing fire pit. Everyone ate with zesty appetites.

Today, Martin and Lonnie were celebrating Shy’s eighth birthday. The day was perfect. At sunset when they all got in the car to leave for home, their family pleasure turned from sweet to sour. The front tire on their old Ford sat flat and empty. By the time they got back at the Tijuana /San Diego immigration border crossing, the waiting time stood at one hour.

Their outing turned to outright bad when they arrived at their little ranch house and found someone had broken in while they were away. A quick survey of each room disclosed nothing missing except in the kitchen. A milk bottle stood empty on the counter, and the lunch meat was missing from the refrigerator.

The Lanier home stood but a few miles north of the Mexican border. Since food was the only item taken in the break-in, the Laniers concluded the vandal an illegal alien sneaking north to find work as a field hand.

Martin drove off to get milk and a few items from nearby Brooks Store while Lonnie and Shy stayed behind to wash their beach towels.

Two hours later, Martin had not returned. Lonnie and Shy walked east on Telegraph Canyon Road to investigate.

Your daddy probably ran into a friend and got talking, Lonnie said to her young son, who was struggling to keep up. He’ll say it’s that old car, again. War’s over. Maybe we can get something better. I’ll tell Daddy he owes us that for our inconvenience tonight. Sound okay?

Okay. Shy always agreed with his mother when she talked to herself and then asked his approval. Lonnie Lanier kept a stream of chatter going to calm her nerves. A little boy was no protection for a young woman like her on a back-country road at night. She would be noticed and marked as easy prey.

Lonnie was blessed with fine bone structure, sensuous lips, light brown skin tone and curly black hair. She walked with long, lithe legs. Her smile was dazzling. Lonnie Lanier couldn’t be missed. Bet I see Daddy’s car before you do.

Betcha don’t, Shy answered.

Good cars had been hard to come by during the war. You took what you could find. Martin and Lonnie found a ‘36 Ford with a rumble seat in the back. The Ford’s dark blue paint showed chips on the doors, and the left rear fender had a little ding, but it ran pretty good for its age and mileage. Shy, of course, loved the rumble seat.

Busy young eyes won the mother-son game. There’s Daddy’s car, he cried out. I win! I win!

The old blue Ford sat on the side of the road, headed east toward Brooks Store. The headlights were off, doors locked, but it looked okay. Lonnie produced a spare car key from her purse. A minute later, the engine turned over, sputtering and missing at first. But it cleared, and they were on their way.

Old Hal Brooks at the convenience store told her what happened. ’Bout twenty minutes ago, it was. Heard a siren, stepped outside to see what was going on. The car was down the road a piece. Dark, you know. But the sheriff’s car had its headlights on, and I saw him putting Martin in the back seat. Then he made a U-turn and headed back to town.

Oh, sweet Jesus, Lonnie muttered, unprepared for such news. Little Shy’s dark eyes filled with tears. Something bad was happening to his daddy.

Daddy’s with a man from the sheriff’s office, Shy, Lonnie said. We’re going home so I can call the sheriff on the phone. Okay?

Five minutes later, at home, a booking sergeant was telling Lonnie over the phone that he had no information on a Martin Lanier. If she wanted to come down to the station, he might have some kind of report information by the time she got there.

Wide-eyed and anxious, Mrs. Martin Lanier and young son Shyler hurried off to see the sheriff.

The jail facilities of the San Diego Police Department on Market Street were shared by law enforcement throughout the county.

Arriving at 11:30 at night, the scene was unchanged from daytime. A small crowd stood milling about, standing and waiting. Some waited for inmates to be booked and released. Some waited for nothing but to see the ebb and flow of life on the streets.

Taking Shy by the hand, Lonnie approached the uniformed older man at the Business Office desk who was talking on the telephone. She waited. Several minutes later, he broke free and reached for a stack of intake cards on his desk. Pardon me. I’d like to know if my husband was brought in tonight.

The sergeant looked up from his work, begrudging the interruption. Brought in? You mean, arrested?

Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean: Arrested. The word stuck in her throat. Martin had never so much as received a parking ticket.

Name?

Lonnie Lanier.

Your husband’s name is Lonnie Lanier?

No. I’m Lonnie Lanier. He’s Martin Lanier.

Lanier, Martin, the sergeant muttered. Pulling a handle on the wooden console to his left, banks of card-filled trays swung up and around like a carnival Ferris wheel. It stopped on the fifth bank. Lanier, Martin, he intoned, half-question, half-answer. Yeah, he’s here. Just booked tonight.

Lonnie’s voice was a mixture of relief and alarm. Why? Does it say why he’s here?

What’s your name, again?

Lonnie Lanier. I’m his wife.

His lecherous eyes began crawling over her body. Don’t get your kind in here very often. He took another slow look. Nice legs! Got any ID?

Mortified with his behavior but holding her composure, Lonnie produced her driver’s license and handed it to him.

The old sergeant rubbed her license between his thumb and fingers as he spoke. I sure wouldn’t be messing with another woman with you at home.

Impatient, Lonnie pressed her inquiry, her voice all business. Officer, I want to know why my husband was arrested, please.

The sergeant smirked his answer. Booked for rape, ma’am. Forcible rape.

Lonnie gasped in shock and disbelief. She stood unmoving and still. Color faded from her face. The floor began to sway under her feet.

The sergeant volunteered more. "Arresting officer’s note here says, Lots of blood."

Lonnie uttered a long moan as her eyes rolled up and her body rolled down.

Little Shy stared, mouth open. He watched his Mama twist in a limp spiral and collapse at his feet on the floor. His lower lip curled. Tears welled up in his eyes. He stared at Mama on the floor, eyes closed, body still. Alone, now, a terrible fear swept over him. He began to cry aloud.

On the far side of the waiting room, a gum-chewing chippie with dyed orange hair sat cross-legged on a bare wooden chair looking at pictures in a Hollywood news magazine. She offered little Shy Lanier the comfort of a sharp snap of her gum and a rank whiff of dime store toilet water.

Terrified, Shy watched numbly as the jail nurse checked his mother’s vital signs and wafted spirits of ammonia under her nose. Open your eyes, Ma’am, the nurse said.

Focus returned to Lonnie’s eyes as the grayness of faint gave way to overhead lights and a nurse’s white cap. What happened?

You fainted, Ma’am, the nurse said.

Shy!

I’m here, Mama, Shy said, tears flowing, nose running. He inched closer than the nurse had allowed moments before.

Lonnie’s thoughts sharpened, retracing the word that had struck her down. She whispered the word to herself: "Rape. Oh, it isn’t true. It isn’t true! She turned to the Desk Sergeant. Can I talk to my husband?"

When he’s finished with booking. ‘Course, the boy can’t go in. ‘Gainst the rules.

Can he sit here and wait in the office?

Sorry, no. Can’t allow that, he said. If we started letting children wait in the office, we’d soon have a hundred of ‘em. No, he can’t stay here.

Lonnie turned to her little son and began a mother’s fussing of wiping his tears and his dripping nose. You wait in the car while I go in and talk to Daddy, Shy. Okay?

The gray-haired sergeant looked up from his work, again. Better not do that, Ma’am. It’s after curfew hours. Alone in a car at night, I might have to have one of our officers pick him up and take him up to Hillcrest Receiving. He leaned over his desk, squinty eyes admiring her legs. For the right view, I might bend the rules a little.

Lonnie stared at him in disgust. She had met his kind before. Thank you for the advice, Officer. Badge number 238, is it?

The old sergeant’s face sobered. Less than a year from retirement, he wanted no trouble from a smart-assed nigger woman. Just being helpful, he said down his nose, taking a swallow of cold coffee from a dirty mug.

The knot in the pit of her stomach reminded her of how helpful he had been with his volunteered Lots of blood. She decided to waltz around the old lecher. This time. "When can I visit my husband tomorrow?

He spit his answer: Afternoon from 1:00 to 4:00.

Lonnie and young son Shyler left for home.

Light-headed, stomach churning, Lonnie Lanier felt the first grip of despair.

Tomorrow afternoon was a month away.

CHAPTER 4

C RIMINAL defense lawyer Nathan David Weinberger slept alone with his nightmare’s chilling voice of Judge Otto Kruegbedt. The consequences of failure, Weinberger. Look and remember. The insistent jangling of his bedside telephone saved him.

Weinberger?

Yeah.

The woman’s been hit, good ‘n bloody, ‘n Lanier’s been booked fo’ it.

The excitement in the caller’s voice jarred Weinberger into alertness. He’d been waiting for word from the street. "You did good. But remember: No names!"

I fo’got.

Weinberger shook his head in disgust. Keep your mouth shut and wait. You’ll be taken care of.

CHAPTER 5

T HE SMALL table lamp on Martin Lanier’s side of the bed burned all night. Beneath its soft light lay the youthful form of Shy Lanier, tears no longer flowing as he slept in the warm protection of his mother’s arms.

For Lonnie Lanier, sleep never came. Her body lay quiet now in the pre-dawn, her eyes closed. But for hours she had replayed in her mind each event of the day before—the joyful holiday in Mexico, the barbecue on the beach, the flat tire, the breaking-and-entering of their home, the shocking disbelief of Martin’s arrest and jailing—and asked herself the same question for the hundredth time: How did this all happen to us?

No wonder Lonnie had fainted at the jailhouse. The news about Martin’s arrest had been emotionally overwhelming. In every tissue cell of her body, she felt the squeeze of panic. An arsonist is burning down our home! A stalking wolf is biting our heels! An unknown sinister plot is being carried out against us!

Lonnie’s frustration with jailhouse bureaucracy and visiting hours’ procedures magnified and compounded her feeling of losing control. In her stomach, she felt the tightening knot of helplessness.

"Forcible rape . . . Lots of blood," the old desk sergeant had volunteered. Why did he have to say that? she whispered to herself. God, I can’t believe this is happening to us!

Yesterday, she had felt content, savoring life and family and peace of mind. And in a matter of hours, everything had turned to shambles and disarray. Now, her stomach cramped in pain. Her head felt split with an ax.

Tonight, she was alone, feeling weak and helpless and vulnerable. How do I fight this? she thought. She answered with a somber whisper. "We fight this. We stand together. She felt a surge of hope in the use of We."

I’ve got to talk to Martin, got to tell him I know he’s innocent, got to let him know we’re going to fight this thing together all the way.

She told herself these things, and in the next breath they were gone like a puff of smoke. In her mind she heard the truth: I’m scared! It’s raw fear I feel in my stomach.

She got rational. It’s fear of the unknown. That’s the monster. Circumstances have changed. Our survival is threatened. It’s panic I feel, like when I was a little girl and had to give my first oral book report. She smiled weakly at the thought.

Oh, God, this is for real! she moaned. She felt sick all over.

Desperate for rest, Lonnie collapsed into sleep.

AWAKE with a start, gasping for air, she jerked to a sitting position, drenched with cold sweat. The nightmare played vivid. Martin was walking down a long, narrow hallway in handcuffs, a policeman on each side. They were taking him away in chains. And she was lost and alone and screaming and crying and pleading, Come back! Come back!

And Martin looked back at her through tears of helplessness and walked away forever.

Lonnie sat up wide awake after less than two hours’ sleep. The dream was so real. She looked at her hands—trembling and shaking.

By logic, she knew the nightmare was the product of anxiety and fear. But this scene was based on fact. Martin was in jail right now. So she questioned whether her vision projected her fear or was a real premonition.

Lonnie shuddered, thinking, No, this is an adult, real-world fear.

She looked at her young son asleep next to her, so quiet and calm. Somehow, the fact of motherhood lifted her up, infused her body with strength and her mind with purpose. She was not going to give in to apprehension and fear. She would do whatever she had to do.

LONNIE was dressed and preparing to go into town to see Martin when it happened. The pressure started in her chest and spread. The lump in her throat choked her. She felt weak, light-headed, sick in her stomach. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her hands trembled. Her arms and legs tingled with cold boiling water in her veins. Her whole body and mind felt out of control. Oh, my God, I’m having a heart attack. I’m dying!

She slumped onto a kitchen chair and laid her head on the table, too weak to move, too afraid to move. The functions of her body raced wildly. Hands trembling. Breathing short and fast. Heart pounding. Sweat dripping from her face.

Long minutes passed as Lonnie lay suffering overwhelming physical and emotional symptoms. Finally, she realized she wasn’t dying. But she was petrified, awash with fright and apprehension. Is it over? Will it come back?

She had been trying to focus on her meeting with Martin this afternoon, on what she would say, on what he would say, on what they were going to do. And it had all overwhelmed her. She wanted to run away from it, wanted to run away from life. But there was no escape. No matter how fast or how far she ran, the nightmare of reality would run as fast and as far.

In her heart, she knew her marriage, her family, her future was on the line. It was winner take all. There was no compromise with a thing like this.

Worse yet was the knowledge that no matter what the outcome, things would never be the same. Lonnie was intelligent, well read, and a woman of some experience. She understood the truth: Wounds heal, memories remain. She and Martin would have to deal with it the rest of their lives.

Amid all these troubling thoughts, young Lonnie Lanier kept her faith. She would talk with Martin and give him her total support. In her heart, she knew it was all a big mistake. Together, Lonnie and Martin would fashion a plan and fight to clear his good name.

Dear Lonnie, so upright, decent and principled, how could she know that young lawyer Nathan Weinberger was fashioning his own plan for the dazzling Lonnie Lanier.

CHAPTER 6

T HE VOICE was insistent. Josefina! Josefina!

It came to her slowly. That’s my name. Why’s he calling my name?

Josefina, can you hear me? I’m Dr. O’Brien.

It had been twelve hours since Josefina Maria Camarillo’s admission to Emergency, twelve hours during which she’d been treated, sedated, palpated, debrided, x-rayed, bandaged, probed, swabbed and combed, twelve hours during which examinations were completed, specimens taken and evidence preserved. Deputy Sheriff Eric Hansen sat in the rear lobby anxiously awaiting his first opportunity to interview a coherent crime victim.

Dr. Gilbert O’Brien adjusted the shiny chrome disk of the ophthalmoscope fastened to his head. He needed to get a better look at her eyes to rule out retinal hemorrhage.

Something was going on that he hadn’t figured out yet. His young patient was now asymptomatic for shock syndrome and should be regaining consciousness. But she remained stuporous and continued to exhibit a great deal of motor agitation, suggestive of marked emotional disturbance. Dr. O’Brien wished he could read the thought patterns he saw in her facial expressions. He concluded her agitation emotional in origin. It made sense.

JOSEFINA lay battered, bandaged and unconscious. Inwardly, unobserved, she struggled with reactive flashbacks of her night of terror. Even in her coma-like state, symbolic images more vivid than reality intruded into her mental functioning—

Images of facial bones and teeth shattering with the impact of a sledgehammer . . . images of a white-hot branding iron pressing into her bare flesh, filling her lungs with nauseating stench . . . images of steel talons tearing and ripping delicate labial tissues . . . images of the throbbing gargoyle in her face, sucking out her life . . . images of the power drill grinding into her private sheath, cutting and shredding . . . images of screaming in soulful pain and agony as her precious virtue was torn from her. Oh, Holy Mother, please don’t let him take my innocence. Please! Please!

WE’VE got a positive pupil reaction, negative on retinal hemorrhage, Dr. O’Brien noted for Nurse Sanchez. What’s her vitals?

Nurse Sanchez was ready with the answer: We’ve got 94 over 60 with a 90 pulse coming down.

Who’s talking? What’re they saying? Josefina couldn’t make it out.

Josefina, I’m Dr. O’Brien. You’ve been injured. You’re in a hospital.

Oooh. It was more a moan than a word of understanding.

You’ve been hurt. We’re taking care of you.

Josefina’s voice, scarcely audible, crackled weak and hoarse. My throat . . . my chest . . .

Dr. O’Brien nodded his understanding. Considering the traumatized larynx and sutured lip, he looked surprised she could speak at all.

I hurt . . .

Don’t talk, Josefina. I’m going to give you something for the pain and a sedative to help you rest. Turning to Nurse Sanchez, Dr. O’Brien’s orders were crisp and direct. Give her another five milligrams morphine stat and 250,000 units penicillin times three. Lord knows the greater risk, roadside contamination or VD. Blink, blink.

Nurse Sanchez made positive eye contact with the doctor. Yes, Doctor. She’d worked with Dr. O’Brien before. She blinked once.

The sheriff will have to wait to see her, O’Brien said. I’m on call. I’ll see her again on afternoon rounds. Blink, blink, blink.

Nurse Sanchez blinked a single response as the doctor left to inform Deputy Hansen to come back at four o’clock.

* * *

WHIRLING in the murky fog of morphine sedation, patient Josefina Maria Camarillo stood at the altar of St. Michael’s Parish in a beautiful white wedding gown admiring her God-sent husband-to-be. Father Ernesto Santos solemnly intoned the sacred marriage vows she had waited so long to hear. Mama Camarillo watched with joyful tears.

It was so beautiful, so romantic. A promise fulfilled.

Suddenly, the entire church building began to shake on its undergirders. Through a partition of multicolored stained glass, Josefina watched in horror as a gigantic erect phallus battered the sanctuary wall behind the startled priest. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The sacred life-sized crucifix on the back wall tumbled from its mooring and fell to the floor, shattering noisily into uncountable pieces as the monstrous organ broke through.

A jeweled silver goblet of Holy Communion wine toppled from a resting place on the altar, spilling its contents and staining Josefina’s pure white gown with sacrificial red blood.

Drowning in a pool of trauma imagery, cringing in fear, Josefina watched as Father Santos bolted and fled, wailing hysterically about satanic retribution.

Burdened with guilt, she watched in shame and disgrace as Mama Camarillo fainted and collapsed on the white-tiled floor. The petrified groom by Josefina’s side deserted her and ran out of the sanctuary with the entire congregation.

Josefina stood alone in the Cathedral of God, head-to-head with the rampaging phallus, frightened but steadfast.

With serpentine grace and strength, the fearsome creature crowded her onto her back on the marble slab altar, slowly drawing back the folds of her white wedding gown.

Uncontrollably, as if re-enacting a perverted biblical scene of First Temptation, Josefina urged her breasts up, spreading her thighs, beckoning to the organ. Her heart pounded with eagerness. She had made the man-organ notice her, made it want her. Now, she desperately needed it to take her, to possess her. It was Mama’s dream. It was God’s plan.

Josefina felt the power of the creature gliding between her open legs. She moaned in satisfaction as it plunged into her. Again. Again. Harder. Faster. Spreading her introit with its thickness. Stretching her sheath with its greatness. The sanctuary shuddered and shook with their coupling. The hallowed ground quaked beneath them. And in a silent explosion of red and white streaking, the godless creature convulsed in violent, jerking spasms, shredding and excising her very soul of innocence.

In the vibrancy of colors there appeared to Josefina a quivering vision of Holy Mother, nodding grimly that she had seen everything.

Mortified as a lustful woman lying on the altar of God, Josefina sobbed with panicked anguish as Holy Mother turned away from her and faded from view.

SEDATION waning, Josefina’s fantasy images merged and blended with reality. Logical thought processes began to form as consciousness returned.

Eyes closed, body still and unmoving, Josefina appeared quiet and resting. But deep in her mind, she struggled for answers. What went wrong? Is it because I thought about tempting and provoking a man? Is that why I lost my innocence? Is this God’s punishment for my wicked thoughts? Oh, Holy Mother, that’s it! This is God’s punishment!

The turmoil in Josefina’s mind was relentless. Subconscious mind organizing and reorganizing, brain waves skittering in frenzied activity, she struggled to maintain equilibrium, obsessively reviewing everything again and again. All I wanted was to keep my promise to Mama, to carry out God’s plan for me. Somehow, weakened by despair, I let down my guard. I let Satan rush in and fill my impatient soul with lust and wickedness.

Lying quiet and still, Josefina recounted that she had felt unbearably alone last night as she walked. She had been thinking about the fact she was still unmarried, still had no prospects. Perhaps I’ve been too reserved, she had thought. Only one date this year, and he never called back. Wears a chastity belt he told others.

She remembering thinking about Father Santos, that he had counseled her often on the importance of being pure and unspoiled. What a precious wedding gift your innocence will be for your husband. God sanctifies and blesses every marriage when the bride is pure in spirit and body.

Josefina knew Father Santos was right. She had known it last night as she walked home. She was a virgin, and she was going to remain a virgin. She had been resolute in her commitment. Innocence is my most prized possession. I will protect my innocence, no matter what. That’s what she had told herself last night.

Now, she lay asking herself, When did I go wrong? When did I stray from God’s light?

Last night’s thoughts out on old Telegraph Canyon came flooding back. "If no man leers at me or wants me, then I’ll never get married, never have a family like Mama. I see how men leer at pretty girls. I know what they want. Father Santos warned