Germ Line: Revolution

By Stephen A. Carter

After Detective Adrian Stark witnesses a bizarre incident at the scene of a serial murder, he and his partner track the killer to a hotel and arrest him. While being transferred to county, the prisoner escapes and murders Stark's wife and unborn baby. Stark buries them and disappears into a bottle. While on leave, he's approached by a lawyer who suggests he sue the LAPD. He tells her he's not interested, but discovers her card in his pocket a few days later and makes the call. He's awarded a multi-million-dollar settlement.

 

On his final day, he's practically out the door when he gets called to a bizarre murder scene executed under impossible circumstances. With the assistance of the head of forensic science, Laura Kawamura, they discover a group of genetic hybrids, Homo Novus, has murdered several prominent doctors and scientists. Stark realizes the danger immediately: In evolution, a superior race always supplants an inferior race. They face the possible extinction of humanity as it is known. Stark discovers a connection to the Mommy Murders, but is ordered to close his investigation in the name of national security by Agent Quentin Rutherford from Homeland. He denies the murderers are "super human" claiming they are simply highly motivated terrorists. Torn between walking away and solving the murders, with his captain's persuasion, he stays on the case.

 

At home for a shower and fresh clothes, Stark is surprised in his bedroom by Adam, the first of his generation. Stark is warned off and told he won't like the answers he'll find, indiating it involves his wife's murder. When Stark attempts to arrest Adam, the detective ends up unconscious on the floor with no idea how he got there, and no sign of the Hybrid. In the parking garage of Stark's penthouse, one of Rutherford's agents surveils Stark's parking space. When he pauses for a drink of water, Adam kills him and drives away in his car to dispose of the body.

 

Stark and Laura discover the Hybrid's next potential target, Dr. Melissa Hampton. While interviewing her about her potential involvement in the Hybrid program, he is attacked and nearly killed by Michael, Adam's brother. Rutherford searching for Dr. Hampton, warns Stark to back off or face Federal repercussions. He takes Hampton into custody. Stark fills his partner in on the case, explaining the Hybrids may be a link to his wife's murder. They track Homeland's detention facility, and demand Hampton's release. Stark gets her to open up, but she's keeping information from him. Convinced she is working with the Hybrids, Stark arrests her for conspiracy to commit murder. She promises to tell the detective everything she knows if he'll let her speak with her colleague, Dr. Huang. She tells him about the program that created the five Hybrids, and that the doctors were murdered to cripple and expose the Hybrid program, bringing it to an end.

 

With their lives on the line, on the run from a homicidal Homeland Security agent, Stark must decide whether to protect the last remaining hybrids in the hope they help solve his wife's murder and bring down the conspiracy, or eliminate them in order to save the human race.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mingus Publishing Company
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223986508

Stephen A. Carter

Stephen is a writer, producer, director, and photograher. He has written dozens of screenplays and short stories, GERM LINE: REVOLUTION is his debut novel. He lives in Oregon, Ohio with his wife, Sherila.

Book preview

Chapter 1

That’s The Dick Move

The thought of investigating the murder of another expectant mother slow-churned Detective Adrian Stark’s stomach. The oppressive heat and greasy burrito he’d wolfed down for lunch didn’t help. A rising wave of stomach acid forged a grimace as he pulled to the curb and parked the two-year-old Malibu. He left the car running and adjusted the air vents to cool his face, then dug in his pocket and retrieved a roll of antacids. He thumbed several chalky tablets into his mouth like the roll was a Pez dispenser and chewed until the burning eased. Kicking the can down the road his grandfather had called it whenever he caught him procrastinating.

Stark leaned across the console, practically laying on his partner’s lap, and looked out the window, straining to see up as far as possible. He might have been considered handsome as a young man, with an anvil jaw and a shock of sandy hair draped across his forehead like a lost Kennedy, but now in his early thirties, most people had difficulty meeting his intense gaze, which seemed to reflect the souls of the dead in his charge.

Holy fucking frijole.

Marcus Hayden opened his eyes and removed his earbuds following Stark’s gaze up the long flight of stairs awaiting them. From their vantage point, they couldn’t see the top. 

At first glance, Hayden resembled a ’70s sitcom teacher, but the draw of his lips and the sadness in his eyes discouraged laughter.

Figures, ’cause it’s like a hunert ’n’ ten motherfuckin’ degrees out there. He nudged Stark’s head with a forearm. Get off me.

Stark sat up and burped, gaining a modicum of relief. Bracing for the inevitable, he closed his eyes, allowing the AC to soothe a moment longer. He heard Hayden get out, and with a sigh, he killed the engine and climbed from the car.

Sergeant Malik Jackson unfolded from his cruiser and ambled over, meeting them near the steps. Sweat stains darkened his uniform blouse, and his skin shined like oiled bronze.

Detectives. The investigators nodded their greetings. The street cop wiped his beaded brow with a soggy hanky. Hotter’n the Devil’s dick.

Africa hot, Hayden concurred, consulting his notes. We at the right place?

Jackson cocked his head toward the steps. Martinez is up top house-sitting.

Stark inspected the double staircase with its twin iron railings as if sizing up a schoolyard bully. The pattern on the faces of the granite steps reminded him of alligator skin. Like an alligator, the steps looked prehistoric and dangerous.

Built in 1923 as part of the Hollywoodland development, Beachwood Canyon was the city’s first exclusive subdivision where stars like Busby Berkeley, Charlie Chaplin, and Bela Lugosi resided. The renowned Beachwood Canyon stairway extended over two-and-a-half miles. Fortunately, the detectives only needed to climb a mere one hundred seventy-eight steps to reach their crime scene.

Don’t suppose there’s an elevator. Or a helicopter. He burped again. Sorry. Burrito.

They got somethin’ goin’ on with the sewage system. Road’s all tore up. ’Fraid y'all gotta hoof it. Sorry. The sparkle in Jackson’s eye belied his concern.

Right. Stark headed for the stairway. Hey, tell Keisha I tried her recipe. He shot a thumbs-up. Awesome.

I’ll let her know.

Hayden peered over his sunglasses as Stark passed. What recipe?

Stark trotted up the first few steps as Hayden followed. The atmosphere within the confines of the staircase was stifling as if the air itself had died. It was ten degrees hotter and reeked of rotten vegetation and rancid piss.

About a quarter of the way up, Stark stopped to catch his breath.

Hayden took his time catching up. What recipe?

Cookies. Stark bent to clutch his knees.

What kinda cookies?

Chocolate chip, Stark huffed between breaths. But you can do M&M... white chocolate macadamia... The secret’s using brown sugar. Make’s ’em chewy.

I didn’t get no cookies.

Stark straightened and stretched his back muscles. I didn’t make’m.

You said you did.

I’ve been meaning to. He keeps asking. Now it’s just awkward.

Straight up lied to the man.

Call it a calculated mistruth.

And by extension, you makin’ him lie to his wife.

You’re missing the point. I’ve extricated myself from the burden.

She ever bring it up with Ronnie, you fucked in the burden. Hayden pulled a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and offered one.

Stark shook his head, shooting a wrinkled-brow look that wondered, What is wrong with you?

Hayden extracted a cigarette and pocketed the pack, tamping the filter on his thumbnail.

Jackson gets his happy ending, and I don’t get stuck in the kitchen on my day off. Win-win. Stark continued up the steps.

Hayden lit the cigarette, took a drag, and followed. That’s the dick move.

I’m not being a dick.

You definitely exhibiting dickish tendencies.

Maybe I make ’em someday. I enjoy a good cookie as much as the next guy.

Whatever you do, I got your back.

Stark flipped him off over his shoulder, and they finished the climb in silence, conserving wind.

Outside the crime scene, Stark took a moment to catch his breath and appraise the sleek mid-century modern with its manicured landscaping.

You ready for this?

Fuck no. Hayden flicked out his cigarette, field-stripped it, and stuck it in his pocket.

Officer Martinez met them at the door. Her olive complexion was pale. Her wounded eyes warned of the gruesome corner of hell they were about to enter.

You okay, Martinez? Stark could feel tension constricting the base of his skull.

How do you get to be this kind of shitbag?

We sure she was pregnant? Hayden slipped into a pair of booties.

The officer’s eyes told the story without the anticlimactic nod.

Stark’s stomach flipped. He and Ronnie were trying to get babified. He would not be discussing the intimate details of this case with his better half. Not now, not ever. He took his time donning booties and gloves. Another kick of the can.

He pulled the roll of antacids from his pocket and chewed a new batch. It was getting small. He’d have to pick some up after his shift. He caught his partner’s eye, and they stepped into the grisly nightmare.

The sickly metallic-sweet redolence of blood, shit, and sandalwood smacked them in the face five seconds before they saw the body. The victim lay on her back next to the kitchen island with her throat slashed and her workout shorts around her ankles. Her hair covered her face, and her left arm was extended as though plucking an apple from a tree. The blood-soaked tank top bunched under her breasts left the naked bulge of her stomach exposed. Her white sneakers were luminescent, pristine but for a single crimson corona splashed on the right toe.

She could have been anywhere from five to seven months along, but the blood smeared like a child’s finger painting around the stab wound in her belly made it difficult to tell.

Stark glanced at Martinez. She had her gaze averted. Wanna run it down?

The street cop pulled her notepad. We got the call at twelve-o-seven and arrived at twelve-twenty-five. We cleared the house and found the victim as you see her. Christina Silverstein. Thirty-four, married, no children. Unemployed—

Anonymous call? Stark was scanning the overall crime scene.

As his first partner had pointed out, most cops want to run in and look at the body, but every crime scene had a story to tell. ‘Figure out what it is and you’re halfway there,’ he’d said.

Same as the others.

The house was maid-clean and professionally decorated. Even the photos were art pieces—matted and framed black and white enlargements of the couple relaxing in exotic locations looking anywhere but at the lens. Everything was obsessively perfect.

Where’s the husband? Hayden was busy snapping less artistic photos of the dead woman with his phone.

He’s driving up from San Diego.

What’s he doing there? Snap-snap.

Some kinda medical sales conference.

Pharmaceuticals? Hayden returned the phone to his pocket.

More like tongue depressors and pacemakers.

Must do okay. Stark nodded past the Michael Amini sofa positioned to showcase the expansive Hollywood panorama. Her not working.

He picked up a Giacometti Walking Man, checked the bottom, and showed it to Hayden. You seeing the pattern here?

They all got money.

Stark put the statue back. Martinez, we’re gonna need you to dig into their personals, find the common.

The cop flipped a page and jotted a note. My boss’ll wanna know.

We’ll get you right with him.

Check doctors, OB/Gyn, dentist. They some creepy motherfuckers. Recent purchases, gym, supermarket, stylist, nutritionist, gardener, Hayden added. Get credit card and insurance statements off the husband—what’s his name?

Franklin.

Off Mister Silverstein.

Stark squatted to examine the neck wound. It was deep and extended jawline to jawline. No hesitation. Just like the other two. The blood pooled around her body was wet but tacky. Rigor had set in. She’d been dead at least a couple hours. The M.E. would find anal tearing. Just like the other two. The lab would run DNA, but there was no need. They knew who they were looking for. Stark was certain it wasn’t the husband but asked anyway, We sure Franklin’s been down south the whole time?

He inspected the stomach wound. Like the other two: a premeditated double homicide.

Hotel has him checking in last night. Witnesses put him at a nine a.m. meeting. Seemed pretty shaken up when I called. Said he’d head back right away. Should be here in an hour—

The victim’s belly bulged. Stark jumped to his feet. "Ho-fuck! Fuck!"

Martinez dropped her notebook into the blood. Shit!

What? Hayden touched his weapon.

It moved.

What moved?

That! The baby. Moved.

Probably just gas—

I’m telling you it moved. Get the EMTs.

Martinez was staring at the distended belly, her eyes wide, her jaw slack.

Now!

She grabbed her radio and called it in.

Stark willed it to happen again.

Hayden put his hand on Stark’s shoulder. "You know it’s just gas—what the fuck..."

The stomach was bulging.

"See? See!"

The baby inside seemed to be pushing against the uterus, pressing to get out. The gash in the victim’s stomach seeped pinkish froth. Stark couldn’t shake the feeling something was about to crawl out of the dead woman, fly up, and latch onto his face. He fingered the snap that secured his sidearm. The bulge settled and was still.

A few minutes later, he paced beside the body. What’s taking so long?

It’s been two minutes. Hayden caressed a cigarette.

Stark stopped to consider the body. What if we cut it out?

We’re not cutting it out.

It’s dying.

EMTs will be here soon. Hayden tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

We should cut it out.

We’re not cutting into her, stop thinking about it.

What is taking so long?

Fifteen minutes later, EMTs performed an emergency C-section. When they pulled the baby from the womb, she wasn’t moving. Every attempt to revive her failed. The EMTs told the cops they had probably witnessed internal gas distending the stomach or intestines. All three cops explained it wasn’t gas. The EMTs shrugged, packed their equipment, and left, leaving the bodies for the M.E.

Stark stripped off his gloves and walked outside. Hayden followed. On the veranda, Stark stepped close. This prick needs a bullet.

Hayden lit his cigarette, shifting his gaze to the blood-smeared tragedy on the floor inside. We do this right—he exhaled a cloud of smoke—"the motherfucker will burn."

Stark and Hayden worked the case with little progress. The murders continued, and the pressure to solve them ratcheted up. The detectives were required to submit progress reports daily and attend briefings in the mayor’s office once a week. The press had taken a scorched earth policy against the department over what they dubbed the Mommy Murders. Every pregnant woman in Los Angeles was in panic mode. Some left the city, others barricaded themselves in their homes. Gun sales increased, and security firms flourished.

Most women had no reason to worry; the murders were exclusive to a select few. Officer Martinez had discovered the victims all shared the same fertility specialist. That discovery led to an unpleasant conversation at the Stark home. The very conversation Stark swore not to have with his wife. The fertility specialist in question was the same specialist the Starks were using. The conversation led to a bout of hysteria until Stark pointed out they had only recently begun treatments, and since she wasn’t pregnant, there was little chance she was on the killer’s radar.

Since the detectives could find no ties between the doctor and the suspect, they were forced to move on from that lead. The most frustrating part of the entire investigation was the fact they knew the identity of the killer—they had his DNA on file—they just couldn’t find him.

Victor Jorge Sanchez was a special breed of animal. A former cartel hitman who’d committed his first murder at ten. He shot a rival drug dealer just for standing on his side of the street. The Caborca Cartel recognized his love of killing and smuggled him north to be an enforcer. He’d been at large in the United States since he was seventeen.

The DEA spent three years gathering evidence with little success and no indictments. ICE raided suspected domiciles and known hangouts, never once apprehending him. It became clear to everyone involved he was somehow connected. Protected. Law enforcement lost track of him altogether after he turned twenty. At the time of the murders, he was thirty-two and a suspect in dozens of killings, both nationally and internationally, but the man was a ghost.

The detectives caught their first break when they discovered a nanny cam had recorded the sixth murder to an app on the victim’s cell phone. It was the first photographic image of the killer ever collected, and it was immediately distributed to local, state, and national law enforcement agencies, as well as Interpol.

Their second break came when a traffic camera flagged him at a stoplight behind the wheel of a rental car leased under an alias. Whether he had gotten sloppy or they had gotten lucky they would never know, but facial recognition software confirmed his identity, and they were able to pull the plate.

They tracked him to a hotel in Van Nuys where Detectives Hayden and Stark arrested him without incident in a by-the-book takedown—the details of which were recorded via the S.W.A.T. team’s body cameras and watched live by the mayor, deputy mayor, chief of police, Captain Grady, and a host of other high-ranking police and city officials.

It was an anti-climatic ending to the most brutal series of murders either detective had ever investigated. And they were relieved the nightmare was over.

When Stark and Hayden returned to the office after depositing Sanchez into booking, the squad greeted them with streamers, champagne, and a hastily purchased white cake emblazoned with Happy Birthday Raquel! The impromptu celebration involved handshakes, back-slaps, and lavish congratulations. Even the captain indulged in a styrofoam cup of champagne and a thin slice of cake.

After the din died down and everyone trickled back to work, Captain Grady cornered the two detectives. The senior officer was built like he’d been chiseled from black granite; his biceps straining the fabric of his shirt. Stark wondered how many perps just threw up their hands and dropped to their knees as soon as they got a look at him when he still worked the streets.

Listen—Grady lowered his voice to avoid embarrassing them—the chief asked me to convey his appreciation, along with the gratitude of the entire department. Between you and me, he particularly appreciates the part where you extricated his royal jewels from the proverbial vice. For my part, I’m recommending you both for commendation.

We got lucky, Captain. Stark forked cake into his mouth, chewing as he talked. If she hadn’t set up that nanny cam...

Dude was invisible. Like a fucking wraith, Hayden added.

Don’t short-sell it, and don’t make him out to be the goddamn boogieman. He may be a practiced killer, but he’s still just a man. And you did good police work. So go home. Take your wives out to dinner. Get drunk. Catch a ballgame. Make fart bubbles in the bathtub. I don’t care. But I don’t want you back here till Monday. And I don’t expect either of you to arrive on time. Now, get outta here.

Stark did as told. He and his very relieved better half had the best three days they’d had in a year. They laughed, ate at their favorite Italian place, took in a Dodger’s game, and enjoyed each other intimately—something they’d needed for a while.

It wasn’t until he returned to work Monday that he learned of Sanchez’s escape. Reports were still coming in and details were sketchy, but Highway Patrol found the transfer vehicle abandoned thirty minutes outside San Diego. The driver was dead, the escorting officer missing. Sanchez had vanished once again.

Stark went volcanic, throwing an uncharacteristic rage-filled tantrum. When he was ten, his chain came off his bike, locked up the wheels, and heaved him into the street. Instead of crying from his scrapes, he took his frustration out on the bike, smashing it against a tree until it was a mangled wreck. His grandfather saw him carrying it home and asked what happened. He didn’t punish him, simply pointing out he would no longer have a bike. Hope you enjoy walking everywhere. A minute of thought and a little work woulda had you back on the road in no time. All the walking he did that summer gave young Stark plenty of time to think. It cured him of his tantrums and taught him to approach setbacks with logic instead of anger.

In a moment of relapse, he kicked a trashcan through a glass partition and threw a stapler so hard it stuck in the wall. Two detectives pinned his arms to keep him from destroying the office. He raised his hands in surrender and sucked wind to calm himself. The cops let him go but kept a wary eye on him. He paced the bullpen and tried to wrap his mind around the fiasco.

How did this happen? Huh? How?

No one had the answer. Captain Grady and the others could only shake their heads.

"Fuck! Mother fucker! He kicked another trashcan and threw up his hands when the others made a move for him. Fuck!"

He walked out, leaving the others to drift back to their desks, powerless to help.

Stark found Hayden at Downtown Brewery hunched over a dark IPA.

You hear about the escape and figure you’d go have a beer?

Hayden raised his glass. Want one? This one’s a bit chocolatey for my taste, but you might like it.

We need to get down there.

Marcus examined the beer through the light. He’s in Mexico by now.

Shoulda let me put a bullet in him.

You’da been in jail before the footage hit the news.

Stark turned and headed for the door, holding it open.

Marcus lifted the glass to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled. He sighed, set the beer on the bar, and followed his partner. Stark drove, pushing ninety all the way to San Diego.

Chapter 2

You Dropped Something, Mamacita

Veronica Stark—Ronnie to her friends—nibbled the corner of her lip, deep in thought as she pulled her three-year-old Nissan into the garage of the Valley ranch home she shared with Adrien. She tapped the remote hanging from her visor, closing the door behind her. The sonorous rumble of the rollers on their tracks was oddly reassuring. Especially with all that had happened recently.

She knew the drill: Be aware, look strong, and stay in the light. Her husband had schooled her well: Stay on the main roads, close and lock doors behind you, and shout Fire! instead of Help! if you ever get into a jam. These weren’t platitudes, as they so well knew, bad things happened to good people.

And Ronnie was good people. She volunteered at the food bank, helped neighbors when needed, and had a kind word for almost everyone. People liked and enjoyed being around her. Her green eyes sparkled with warmth and humor. And she set a good example, working out every other day and running thirty miles a week. At thirty-two, she had a superbly shaped, drum-tight ass she was secretly proud of and her husband adored, sometimes caressing and speaking to it as though it were a separate entity—much to her outward dismay but private delight.

She and Adrian didn’t earn a ton of money by L.A. standards, but it didn’t matter. They were happy, most days. They struggled to save for vacations and home improvements and, with a four-thousand-dollar mortgage and two car payments, were lucky to put away ten percent for retirement. But saving ten percent was law. So far, she’d managed their IRA to a cool $150,000. Well, she had.

On this hot, sunny San Fernando Valley day, the coolness of the garage was a welcome relief as she climbed from her Murano. She’d kept the AC off to save gas. She had money on the brain and was so preoccupied she didn’t register Samantha, their Border Collie, barking like her tail was on fire on the other side of the door separating the garage from the kitchen. It was a mere buzz in the back of Ronnie’s head. Samantha, however, was insistent.

Sammy! Knock it off! She didn’t usually yell at her dog, but she was nervous. And excited, scared, thrilled, and filled with wonder because they were going to have a baby. After ten years. She marveled at the idea. At this point in their lives, the prospect seemed ludicrous.

She’d married her husband fresh out of the academy. They tried to get pregnant the moment they hit the honeymoon suite overlooking the cerulean blue waters of Maui. They continued when they got home, every night, and on his lunch breaks. They even skipped the most important meal of the day several times a week.

She and Adrian, only children, decided before they took their vows to have a house full of kids. If not an entire baseball team, enough for a solid infield. Adrien would be a great father. One of those super-dads who said the right things, knew how to build a treehouse, and showed up at all the milestone events.

As cop-wives went, she was one of the lucky ones. He didn’t drink (except moderately at parties), came straight home after work, and (usually) left the stresses of the office at the office. After a decade of marriage, she was still completely in love.

When five years had passed and there was no bundle of joy, it seemed their destiny was to remain childless. They discussed adoption, surrogacy, and foster care, but there was always some excuse to put off the next step. After eight years, they stopped talking about it. But now...

Her doctor was a miracle worker. The cost of the fertility treatments had bludgeoned their retirement account, but they would owe Doctor Farhoud a lifetime of gratitude. After all, she had considered not going back. After that scare. But she had. And it worked. And Oh My God!

She’d have to find a time to tell Adrian about the money. She had burned through two-thirds of their 401k. Doctor Farhoud’s fee alone was forty grand. The whole shebang cost over ninety, including taxes and early withdrawal penalties. She had downplayed the cost, intimating insurance was footing the bill, because she was afraid he would object. But it was time to come clean.

Adrian was gonna crap his khakis. Perhaps she’d tell him over dessert after they toasted the baby. Or tomorrow. Maybe this weekend. Whenever. It didn’t matter. It was worth the price.

She’d planned the perfect evening. His favorite meal of chicken Marsala, garlic mashed potatoes, and cinnamon sweet carrots. A glass of Moscato for him, and sparkling water for her. Adrian would wonder about the wine and inquire as to the occasion. She would deflect and deliver the news over crème brûlée.

As she raised the hatch to remove the groceries, she realized they’d have to dig into savings to build out the nursery. He was going to shit—

Movement in the shadows where Adrian kept his golf clubs startled Ronnie, causing her to drop her keys.

A man stepped into the light.

He was Hispanic, with an oily, pockmarked complexion and two days of facial hair. She’d seen him before but couldn’t immediately place him. He wasn’t a neighbor, and he didn’t visit the library. He wore an orange jumpsuit, which seemed odd. Detainees in county wore orange jumpsuits. She’d seen young people wear them as fashion statements, but this man was her age, maybe older. He wasn’t trying to look cool.

You dropped something, Mamacita. His heavy accent revealed life south of the border. It came out, Jew drop some-ting, Mamaci-ta. He slid around the car with sinuous grace, their eyes locked, predator to prey.

Ronnie caught a whiff of rot like holiday-week garbage day. What are you doing in here? My husband’s a police officer. You need to leave.

She wasn’t afraid. Not yet. The delay irritated her. She had shit to do. Get the groceries inside. Start the prep for dinner. She didn’t have time for this. Right now.

She pointed toward the closed garage door, realizing how absurd it must seem. The man didn’t move; his dark eyes pinned her to the concrete.

I know your husband, puta. He the stupid motherfucker think actions got no consequences. His fiery gaze belied the calm in his voice.

A frozen sliver of fear slid into her spine as phantom icy fingers squeezed her intestines. In a rush of clarity, she realized who this man was. He was that piece of shit Mommy Murderer Adrian and Marcus had hunted down and thrown in jail where he fucking-well belonged. She and Adrian had watched the footage on the news snuggled in bed two nights ago. His name was Victor Jorge Sanchez, and he was standing in her garage.

Ronnie needed her keys. The mini-remote was on the key chain. It didn’t matter who he was or why he was there. She needed to get out. Protect her baby. Open the garage door and run as fast as she could, yelling, Fire! Fire! Fire!

Survival instincts kicked in. In a blink, without taking her eyes off him, she squatted and felt for her keys. They were just left of her searching hand.

He was on her in an instant, grabbing her ponytail. She forgot about the keys and stood straight up. Powerful thighs drove her compact body upward like pistons. She caught him under the chin with the top of her head, knocking him backward, forcing him to release her hair.

Her eyes watered at the spike of pain that drilled down through her skull, but she bolted for the door, knowing she locked it, hoping she’d forgotten, certain she hadn’t. She gave the knob a desperate twist; it didn’t budge. Sammy was going nuts. A ridiculous thought flitted through her mind. He better not hurt my dog!

She bolted for the garage door.

Scoop up the keys—

She heard them skitter across the concrete a beat after she registered the impact on the toe of her ASICS. They now lay somewhere under the Murano.

The garage door had an emergency switch in case you got locked in. It was on the wall. On the right. She’d punched it a thousand times taking out the trash. All she had to do was hit it, drop, roll, jump up, and run. She reached out to stab it, prepared to drop—

Twin spears of searing pain shot through her shoulder sockets as Sanchez wrenched her arms behind her, forcing a squawk of agony. He swung her around and slammed her face-first into the hatch of the Nissan. Blood flooded her mouth as her front teeth pierced her lip. Points of light exploded across her field of vision. Darkness explored the edges of consciousness.

He twisted her left arm up behind her until she thought it would snap. The queasy flush of embarrassment loosened her bladder as he yanked her shorts to her ankles.

The killer’s breath was hot on her neck. It smelled like sour onions. He sniffed her hair like a dog inspecting an unexpected treat. He fumbled with his jumpsuit.

She grunted as he forced himself into her, blood from her bloody lips spraying the rear window. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the fight drained from her body. Her final thoughts were of her baby.

Stark found his wife six and a half hours, later lying by the rear tire of her car with her shorts around her ankles and her throat slashed. He didn’t know at the time she carried their only child. All he could do was hold her hand and weep, his body wracked with deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

The next-door neighbor walking his Pekingese called 911.

Chapter 3

Tell Her Not Interested

Stark spent the next few days trapped in a colorless, odorless vacuum, his head stuffed with disbelief-soaked wool. He answered detectives’ questions and floated through his new routine in a numb, thoughtless daze. At night, he would stare at the TV and drink until two or three in the morning, then go to bed and lie awake until dawn when he mercifully passed out. He’d sleep for a few hours, wake, and then stare at the ceiling as the horror of his new reality drifted back to him. Then he would roll over, hug Ronnie’s pillow, and cry until his tear ducts ran dry.

He’d force himself out of bed around noon, take Sam for her walk, and inquire about the investigation. For lunch, instead of eating, he’d have a drink, then take a nap. He’d wake up and inquire about the investigation. In the evening, he’d walk Sam, inquire about the investigation, have a drink, and make dinner. More often than not he’d give it to Sam or just throw it away. Some nights, instead of staring blankly at the TV, he would scribble notes, questions to ask, or information to impart while having a drink or six. Then he’d stagger to bed. Recycle, do it again.

When the coroner called with the autopsy report and told him Ronnie had been carrying their child, he threw up on his phone and went back to bed. He stayed there for three days.

When the body was released, Ronnie’s sister Katy drove down from Sacramento to take charge of the funeral arrangements. She ordered Stark to take a shower and put on clean clothes, then drove him to the funeral home. He didn’t remember ordering the cremation or choosing the urn. But picking the flowers stuck with him—a large wreath of white roses with a banner, Wife & Mother, scripted in gold. When they concluded their business and it was time to leave, he couldn’t get out of his chair. His sister-in-law and the director left him alone until he could find his feet.

The turnout at the viewing stunned him. He hadn’t realized his wife had known so many people. Over three hundred well-wishers and mourners packed into the cloying, floral-scented nave to pay their respects. They came from the library, the grocery store, the department, the food bank, the gym, half the neighborhood, folks from her dentist and doctor’s offices, and places he’d never heard of. The line ran from the sanctuary, down the aisle, across the back, and out the door. Everyone seemed genuinely sad. He wanted to tell them it would be all right, even though he didn’t think it would be. Most visitors had a story about how Ronnie had affected them. Sometimes in a big way, sometimes small, but always selfless. He cried behind the church next to the dumpster. It was a part of her he hadn’t known. He’d thought she was just his.

Ronnie’s sister went home. The cards, flowers, casseroles, phone calls, and texts stopped coming, and it was Stark and Sam alone in the house. He was on bereavement leave but could see no future that involved returning to work. Instead, he dove deeper into the bottle. Started smoking again. Discovered he still enjoyed surfing. And weed. Through the miracle of exercise and self-medication, he slept through the night.

On a single-lane dirt road in the Mojave desert, about a mile from the SoCalGas Kelso Station, Victor Jorge Sanchez leaned against the hood of a white BMW M760i. The sun was setting, the large orange ball capping the mountains to the west. Shadows stretched long, and the evening breeze blew bits of sand into his face.

Sanchez’s transformation was remarkable. He was clean-shaven and resplendent in a black silk shirt, black trousers, a white silk sports jacket, and white Ferrini snakeskin boots. He was accessorized with a white Stetson, Cartier sunglasses, and a platinum Rolex. He looked more like a Texas oil executive than a wanted fugitive.

He squinted against