Positive I.D.

Bookisode One:

BLIND GIRL’S BLUFF

by

Warren Thomas

Published by

Black Gold Productions

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

BLIND GIRL’S BLUFF: BOOKISODE ONE OF POSITIVE I.D.

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FOREWORD

Lyra Cole is a fictional character. She and the other characters who populate these stories are

creations of the author’s slightly demented mind.

But her creation was inspired by real forensic sketch artists who work, tirelessly, to bring

justice and peace to countless victims, the world over.

To that end, a percentage of sales will be donated to victims’ rights charities.

BLIND GIRL’S BLUFF

CHAPTER ONE

James was nervous. After weeks of watching and planning, the time had finally come. The

buildup was part of the rush, of course. The waiting. The expectation. That ache that grew and

grew in the pit of his stomach. It was like foreplay, really. And he savored every moment of it.

As he sat in the back of the bus, he tried not to stare at the pretty girl sitting several rows in

front of him—he didn’t want anyone to notice—but he couldn’t help it. She was so small. So

perfect, in every way. The big sunglasses she always wore nearly covered her tiny, china doll

face, but did nothing to mask her beauty.

He felt his gaze lingering—on the fall of her auburn hair around the gentle curve where her

neck tapered into her slender shoulders—on her smooth white thigh that was just visible beneath

her slightly hiked up skirt—look away, he had to remind himself. Don’t draw attention, now. It

was almost time.

As the bus geared down, preparing to stop, his pulse quickened. This was it. He tried to

control his breathing—and tried to keep from laughing out like a child at Christmas—the waiting

was almost over. The bus pulled to a stop and china doll stood up. He watched her walk toward

the front—holding onto the seat backs to steady herself against the swaying bus—where she

waited for the door to open.

He stayed in his seat long enough for her to step down and exit the bus—just like he had

practiced—then stood up and followed. Two more men were getting off at the same stop—as he

knew they would—and it didn’t take much for him to just blend in with them.

A moment later and he was on the street, the warm, wet air washing across his skin. God,

the air had never tasted so good! His senses seemed somehow heightened—sights, smells,

sounds—the horrible, evil world had never felt so wonderful to him as it did in this moment.

These final moments before the rapture.

Up ahead he saw the china doll step into a convenience store—as he knew she would—and

he, again, had to suppress a little giggle. It was working—all of it—just like he knew it would.

Just like Ben had taught him. Ben always said, “If you plan, if you’re careful, if you pay

attention, it’s easy. You can do anything you want. And you’ll never get caught.”

As he approached the convenience store he knew this would be one of the trickiest parts. He

had to resist the almost irresistible urge to look through the glass and find his china doll. He

knew she would be inside, pouring herself a soda, just like always. And as he drew closer, the

desire to make sure she was really there was almost overpowering. But he also knew there was a

camera. He knew he had to look away.

Summoning all the self-restraint he carried in his soul, he looked away as he passed by. He

didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he was clear of the danger and let it out. He

smiled. Just a few moments more.

As he reached the alleyway, up ahead, he looked around, nonchalantly, to make sure no one

was paying attention, then stepped behind the dumpster. He knelt down and tried to control his

breathing again. He was almost panting with excitement. This was it! He heard her footsteps

approaching. His eyes grew wide with anticipation. Every muscle in his body tensed for the

moment—

—Then he saw her. She walked past him, oblivious to the danger lurking, just a few feet

away. He rose to his feet, his teeth bared in a horrible, predator’s smile, as he stepped out and

grabbed her from behind.

She tried to cry out, but his right hand clamped down over her mouth while his left hand

wrapped around her slender neck like a vise. And with one good yank, he dragged her back into

the alley behind the dumpster.

It was ecstasy. She was so tiny he literally lifted her off her feet. As he dragged her back to

the spot he’d long since picked out, she tried to struggle, but he was so much stronger—he was

the strongest creature on earth—he felt power coursing through his veins.

She clawed at him, scratching the back of his hand, but it didn’t hurt. He was too strong for

that. But, still, she had to know she couldn’t resist. He cracked her head into the wall, hard.

He gasped in rapture at the soft thud of skin and bone on brick, and the tiny spasm of pain

that coursed through her body. This was so much better … so much better than he had ever

imagined.

They were behind the dumpster now, shielded from view, and it was time. It was finally

time. She was going to be his. There was nothing she or anyone in the world could do to stop that

now.

He removed his hand from her mouth and she cried out, but he cracked her face again—this

time against the cold steel of the dumpster—and leaned down close to her ear. “If you move

again, I’ll kill you.” He said it in a raspy, hoarse voice as he slipped the wicked serrated knife

from its hiding place in the small of his back and pressed it to her soft, exposed throat.

She began to cry, softly now, and he marveled at the sudden realization that her very life

was in his hands. It would take so little for him to take everything from her. Just the flick of his

wrist and she would bleed out on the rough, dirty asphalt.

But not yet. He kept the knife pressed against her throat as he reached under her skirt with

his other hand and ripped off her panties—he couldn’t believe how easily the silk tore apart—

and he began to unbuckle his jeans as he forced her to her hands and knees.

She reached back and clawed at him, again, this time at his face. It was one last attempt to

stop him, but it was so feeble. So pathetic. He relished her weakness. Gloried in his strength.

The power of life and death was his. He pressed her face into the ground and punched her

over and over in the face as he forced himself inside her.

Ohhh … finally … it was so much more than he’d imagined … he was a god.

***

Lyra stared at herself in the elevator mirror. She was still pretty, she knew that, but it suddenly

occurred to her that her face was beginning to show signs of age. There was nothing major—it

wasn’t like her skin was sagging off her mandibles in cascading rivulets of deteriorating

collagen—just some little lines here, some reduced elasticity there. But still pretty, for sure. Her

features hadn’t changed—same high cheekbones and slender nose (she’d always loved her nose),

her lips were nice and plump, and her gold-flecked eyes were as bright and mischievous as ever.

Her body was a different story—she worked hard on that—doing that sado-masochistic

super-Pilates that left bodybuilders hyperventilating in puddles of their own sweat and tears. She

dragged herself to that hell-class five days a week—well, at least three, anyway—to balance out

the occasional cheeseburger and the more than occasional scotch. But it was worth it. She had

the flat tummy, muscular legs and shapely ass of a much younger woman.

But there was something about her face that bothered her. She looked the same as she had

always looked just … a little worn. A little tired. Though, considering the things she’d been

through in her 42 years and the horrors she witnessed on an almost daily basis, who could blame

her for looking a little tired? It’s not like she had the time or money to paralyze her

Occipitofrontalis and Orbicularis Oculi with Botulism or smother her epidermis in $400 an

ounce cream milked from the pituitary gland of virgin sperm whales.

What struck her as she stared into that elevator mirror was the sudden realization of how

seldom she really looked at herself. Not just glanced to brush on some lipstick or check her hair,

but really looked. She told herself it was because she spent so much of her day studying other

peoples’ faces that the absolute last thing she wanted to do when she got home was look at

another one. She’d heard gynecologists felt that way about their work, too.

But as she stared deep into her own eyes she knew that wasn’t it. It was the pain. If she

didn’t look at herself, she could almost forget about the pain. Pretend it wasn’t still there,

devouring her from the inside out. God, after all these years, how could it still be there? How

could it still hurt so much?

She turned away from the mirror and gathered her thoughts. “Focus on the subject at hand.

That was the trick.” As long as she kept her attention outward she wouldn’t have to ask those

questions of herself that she knew she wasn’t ready to answer. That she would probably never be

ready to answer.

Besides. She wasn’t the one who had just been brutally raped and left for dead. How about a

little perspective, here?

As the elevator doors opened and she stepped out into the hallway, she saw Sam sprawled

on a chair next to the victim’s door. Ah, Sam. Good old Sam. One of the hardest, toughest

lawmen in the great state of Texas. And yet he still sat in a chair like a 14-year-old boy—his big

six-foot-two frame slouched, his crossed legs stretched across the entire hallway.

The first thought that popped into Lyra’s head when she saw Sam was one of affection. She

really liked Sam. He was a good man and a good detective who worked tirelessly to bring

criminals to justice.

But as he looked at her and began the long, unfolding process necessary for a man of that

size to lumber to his feet, the affection was quickly replaced by anger. If he was here … why the

hell hadn’t he called?

He must have seen the firestorm brewing in her eyes because he raised his hands,

defensively. “Now, Lyra, just wait.”

“What are you doing here, Sam?” she said. She could hear the slight twang slipping into her

voice. It tended to get worse when she was mad and she hated that, but at the moment she was

too pissed off to care. “More importantly, why the hell didn’t you call me?”

As she stomped toward him, she gripped her pad and easel and pencils even more tightly in

her arms. Nothing could spoil a good old-fashioned tongue-lashing faster than dropping your

things all over the floor. It’s hard to command respect when you’re fumbling around like an

idiot. And she wasn’t about to let her own clumsiness spoil this particular tongue-lashing.

Betrayal, thy name is Sam.

But, as she stormed down the hall, he eased himself between her and the door. She knew he

didn’t mean to be obvious about it, but that didn’t make it any less obvious—he was trying to

keep her out. Now he was in real trouble.

“I was at the hospital on another case,” he said. “The only reason I’m here is because the

Sex Crimes Investigator hasn’t made it down, yet.”

“Ok, so Jennie Randall is a half-ass,” she said, “Tell me something I don’t know. But that

still doesn’t explain why Detective Sam Bradshaw, my friend, didn’t call to tell me I was

needed.”

“Now just calm down, Lyra,” he said, “I didn’t call you because you’re not needed.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious? “Is there a girl in that room who was just

raped?”

“Yes, but …”

“—And is she alive and able to talk?”

“Yes, but Lyra …”

“—And do you have a positive I.D. on the animal who did this to her?”

“No, we don’t but if you’ll listen …”

“—Then you need me, Sam! And more importantly, she needs me. Now get the hell out of

my way.” She started toward the door, but Sam again stepped in front of her. He was no longer

trying to be subtle.

“—Lyra! She’s blind!” he almost shouted, clearly believing that was going to stop her in her

tracks.

‘Well, damn,’ she thought, ‘that explains it.’ Sam, for all his plusses, was still a man. A

straight arrow, God-fearing man of the South who believed in black and white, right and wrong,

and the simple, obvious “truth” that a blind rape victim could never describe her attacker. Poor,

silly, narrow-minded Sam.

“I don’t care,” she said, “So is justice. So is Stevie Wonder. So is whoever put that outfit

together for you.”

Sam looked down at his clothes. What was wrong with his clothes?

“She has at least 20 other senses that work just fine,” she continued, “Probably better than

most because she can’t see with her eyes. Now get the hell out of my way.”

Sam looked at her, obviously believing he must have heard her wrong. “Aren’t there only

five senses?” he asked.

Lyra rolled her eyes. “Right, and I suppose you’re going to tell me there’s only one plane of

existence. And no such thing as reincarnation. And the designated hitter is a good rule.”

“The designated hitter is a good rule …”

“—Sam let me in the goddam room!”

Sam’s face hardened. He was a bullheaded man. It was one of his best and one of his worst

qualities.

“We’ve been friends a long time, Sam,” she sighed, “Have I ever asked you to do anything

that got you into trouble?”

“Yes,” he said, tiredly. “All the time. Almost continually, in fact.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous.”

“And even if there was a reason for you to talk to her, you couldn’t do it until after the Sex

Crimes Investigator says it’s OK. You know the procedure …”

“—Screw the procedure!” she shouted. “I need to talk to her while the memories are still

fresh. You know that. So please, stop wasting time on an argument we both know you’re not

going to win and let do my goddam job!”

He stared down at her, his eyes softening, just a bit. He was wavering. She decided to try a

different tack.

Tucking her equipment under one arm, she placed her right hand on his left shoulder. She

could feel the hard, sinewy muscle of his well-toned deltoid and her stomach fluttered, just a bit.

“Stay focused, Lyra,” she reminded herself. Why did she have to remind herself of that, so often?

She softened her eyes and loosened her lips into a slight pout. Every woman in the world

learned this maneuver as a little girl, and every man in the world has seen it a thousand times.

But, somehow, it still worked. It always worked. “Please, Sam,” she purred, “I’ll take the heat

from the Captain for not following procedure.”

His face remained hard, his lips pursed in a straight line, but she could tell he was cracking.

“It’s not the Captain I’m worried about, it’s the girl’s family,” he said, shaking his head.

Lyra didn’t say anything. He was already convincing himself, she just had to let it happen.

He shook his head. “If they sue the department for this it’ll be your ass, Lyra.”

That’s it. She had him. He was worried about her? Sooo cute. “Sam, I know we have this

chemistry, but do you really think now is the appropriate time to flirt with me?”

His eyes opened, just a little bit, in surprise. She continued, “You don’t need to concern

yourself with my ass. It may be small but it is perfectly capable of taking care of itself.” She took

a small step towards him. His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, then he shuffled out of the

way. For some reason Sam was always careful to never get too close to her. Which, of course,

only made her want to get close to him, that much more. But not now. Now she had work to do.

“Just … try not to make her more upset,” he said, as she slid by.

She looked back at him, her eyes flashing, “When do I ever make anyone upset?”

***

Lyra entered the hospital room and closed the door behind her.

“Who’s that? Who’s there?” came a very young-sounding voice from the bed. Young and

tinged with fear.

Lyra looked at the girl lying in the bed. She was small, almost child-like, but appeared to be

in her early 20’s. ‘Appeared,’ Lyra thought, because her face was so battered and bruised it was

hard to tell. Both eyes were swollen, almost shut, her lips were puffed up like mashed

strawberries, and her small, round face was so lumpy and discolored it was impossible to map

the maxillofacial structure beneath the edema.

Still, as bad as it was, Lyra knew the worst damage couldn’t be seen. Her blood began to

boil. She wanted to find the piece of human detritus who did this and dance upon his grave. But

she tamped it down. Now was not the time for fury. This poor, broken girl needed her to be soft

and kind and gentle, and she couldn’t do that if she was thirsting for vengeance. There would be

time for that later.

“My name is Lyra Cole,” she said, careful to make sure the rage she was feeling didn’t seep

into her voice. “I work for the Houston Police Department.”

The girl turned her brutalized head toward Lyra, but made no attempt to open her eyes. “Are

you from the sex crimes division?” She asked. “Detective Bradshaw said he thought you’d be …

later.”

“I’m not a police officer, Mathilda,” Lyra said as she began to set her equipment up by the

bed. “I’m a forensic sketch artist. I’m here to help make sure we get the son of a bitch who did

this to you.”

Mathilda laughed, bitterly, wincing in pain. “A sketch artist?” she said, “Didn’t anyone tell

you? I’m blind.”

Lyra finished setting up her easel and flipped her sketchpad to a blank page. “I know you

are, sweetheart. That’s why we’re going to focus on other senses besides your sight.”

Lyra pulled a small stool up to the easel and removed a charcoal pencil from a well-worn

roll-up leather case. “OK, Mathilda, let’s just start with general impressions …”

“—Mattie,” the girl interrupted. “No one calls me Mathilda but my mother.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Lyra said, smiling. “I like ‘Mattie.’ Sounds spunky.”

Mattie smiled too, just a bit.

“So let’s get back to your general impressions,” Lyra continued. “Was your attacker a big

man? Like a football player?”

Mattie shook her head. “No … he was thin … but he was strong. He was waiting for me.”

In Lyra’s mind’s eye she saw a thin, wiry man step out of an alley behind Mattie as she

passed by. He grabbed her around the neck with one arm and clamped his other hand over her

mouth as he dragged her back into the alley.

“That’s very good that you noticed that, Mattie,” Lyra responded, “That means he’s

probably been watching you. He knows your routines and where you’re vulnerable. That’s why

he attacked you in that alley. He knew you’d be there.” As she spoke, Lyra began to brush across

the paper with her charcoal, ever so slightly, tracing the most basic outline of a man’s thin, gaunt

face. “Let’s keep going. Could you tell anything about his ethnicity? White? Black? Hispanic?

Did he speak?”

“I … I think he was white,” she said. “I mean, he didn’t sound like he had an accent, or

anything …” She hesitated for a moment and her lip began to quiver. “And yes. He said if I

moved he’d kill me.”

In her mind’s eye, Lyra saw the man growling into Mattie’s ear. It was somehow so

personal. So intimate. Lyra had to fight down the sudden urge to retch.

On the paper she continued to sketch, almost like a remote viewer, letting the pencil move,

seemingly, of its own volition.

“See, that’s good, too, Mattie,” she said. “That will narrow it down considerably. And that’s

mostly what we’re doing, OK? Just narrowing things down. Was his hair long or short?”

Mattie took a deep breath, trying to remember. “Short, I think. Like stubble, or something.”

Lyra began to rough in short hair. “OK, and what about his clothes? Was he wearing a

uniform or anything?”

Mattie shook her head. “Let’s talk about his face a little bit,” Lyra continued. “Did you

maybe scratch his face?”

“His hand,” Mattie replied. “I scratched his hand.”

Lyra saw her clawing at the man’s hand as he pulled her behind the dumpster, just before he

slammed her face into the brick wall, dropping her in a heap.

“Good for you, Mattie,” Lyra said. “I’m proud of you for fighting. But what about his face?

Did you feel anything on his face? His nose, his mouth …”

Mattie was starting to get upset. She shook her head. “I really don’t want to do this …”

Lyra knew she should ease back a bit, but she had her back in the moment. As painful as it

might be, she couldn’t let her out of the reverie or she’d lose the mental image.

“I know, honey, and I’m sorry,” she continued, “But we have to or he might get away with

it.”

Mattie started to cry. “Just, come back later, OK? I just want to sleep.”

Lyra noticed that Mattie had the sheets twisted in a death grip. Her knuckles were white she

was squeezing so hard. Lyra gently laid one hand on top of hers, trying to ease her pain, just a

bit. “This won’t take much longer,” she said, soothingly, “but we need to do it while it’s still

fresh in your mind. Because, I promise you, the details will start to fade.”

Mattie shook her head, “No, they won’t.”

“I know it doesn’t seem like it. You think it’s seared in there, forever,” Lyra said, her voice

calm and steady, “but, trust me, the mind is very good at protecting you. The details will fade.

And the details are what I need.”

But Mattie was starting to rock back and forth. Lyra was losing her. She patted her on the

hand. “Why don’t we stop talking about him, for a moment,” she said. “Let’s talk about you.”

She leaned back away from the bed, but didn’t set her pencil down. “What do you do? Are you

in school?”

Mattie shook her head. “I’m a teacher.”

“Really? What do you teach?”

“Sign language.”

Lyra started to respond but stopped. What? The corners of Mattie’s lips twitched into an

almost-smile. “Sorry,” she said. “Little ‘blind-teacher-humor.’ I teach parents and siblings of

blind children how to read Braille.”

Lyra stared at her, smiling as well. “You’re a little firecracker, aren’t you?”

Mattie shrugged. “I’ve just been blind since birth so I really never knew I was different from

anyone else.” She trailed off. “Until now.”

Lyra shook her head, reflexively, even though Mattie couldn’t see. “Don’t you say that,” she

said, forcefully. “You’re not any different than you were before. You are a strong, powerful,

remarkable young woman. And there is nothing anyone can do to ever take that away from you,

OK?”

Mattie nodded, but it was clear she didn’t really believe it. Lyra raised her pencil to resume

drawing. “Let’s keep going. Did he have any facial hair?”

Lyra noticed something in Mattie’s face twitch. She remembered something. “I don’t

know …” she said, “maybe a little.”

Lyra continued to press. “Did he have any distinguishing marks?”

“I … I don’t remember …”

“A scar, perhaps?”

Mattie started to get upset, again, “I don’t know!” But this time Lyra wasn’t going to let go.

She was too close.

“Or something else unusual?”

“I don’t know, I don’t KNOW!”

“Mattie …”

“No!” Mattie shouted, “enough!”

The door opened and Sam entered the room. “Lyra, Jesus, what are you doing?”

“My job,” Lyra said, as she kept her attention on Mattie. She could see the memory on the

tip of Mattie’s tongue—she just had to pull it out of her. “Baby, I need you to remember,” she

continued, “I need you to put yourself back there and remember everything—sounds, smells,

auras, anything tactile.”

Mattie was crying, now, “Please, I don’t want to …”

Sam pleaded with her, “Lyra, listen to me, you need to ease back. You know how you get

with these kinds of cases.”

But at that moment, the sex crimes investigator, Jennie Randall, stormed into the room. She

was a young, intense looking African-American woman with close-cropped hair and a badge

hanging around her neck. And she did not look happy. “What the hell is going on in here?” she

demanded. Then she saw Lyra, and her anger turned to fury. “Detective Bradshaw, why is she

here?”

Lyra ignored her and moved closer to Mattie, grasping her hand, tightly. But her voice was

still smooth. Even. Reassuring. “I know you can do this, Mattie.”

“Lyra, stop!” Sam shouted. Jennie was on the verge of dragging Lyra out of the room by her

hair, but Lyra didn’t care.

“Just tell me what you see!” she said, urgently. “In your mind’s eye, tell me what you feel!”

But Detective Randall was done. “That is enough! Lyra, I need you out of this room, now!”

“Jennie, I just need …”

“NOW! Before I arrest you for impeding an investigation!”

Lyra stared at her, seething. Turned back to Mattie to say something else …

“—Not one more word,” Jennie hissed. Lyra gritted her teeth in frustration. She was so

close …

“He had a scar,” Mattie suddenly blurted out, motioning toward the right side of her face.

“On his jaw, here.”

In Lyra’s mind’s eye she saw the man kneeling down behind Mattie, a knife to her throat,

ripping her panties off. But Mattie reached back and scratched at his face, trying in vain to make

him stop. As she did, her hand brushed against his jaw—against a big scar that kept the stubble

from growing there—and she felt it. It was something only a blind girl with a heightened sense

of touch would have felt, but she felt it. She had just blocked it out until Lyra pushed her into

remembering.

Lyra smiled. She knew Mattie had it in her. “Thank you, Mattie,” she said. “That’s going to

help more than you can possibly know.”

As she gathered up her things she glanced at Sam. “Thank you too, Sam,” she said, patting

him on the shoulder. Then, as she left the room, she cast Detective Randall a sidelong glance and

said, “Jennie, nice to see you, as always.” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, of course, but

Lyra had never been one to leave well enough alone. She didn’t see any reason to start now.

Jennie Randall just glared at her and all Sam could do was shake his head, but Lyra was

happy. She got what she came for.

CHAPTER TWO

Gemma was frustrated. She’d been driving around in circles for almost 20 minutes and she could

not, for the life of her, figure out where she was supposed to park. The Captain had told her to

park in the robbery/homicide section of the garage, but all of those spaces had “Reserved For”

signs on them, and the last thing she wanted to do was get towed from the police parking garage

on her first day working there.

Scratch that. The last thing she wanted to do was to be late for her first day—which was

why she carefully planned her morning and her driving route to arrive exactly 25 minutes

early—which was the only reason she’d been able to circle for 20 minutes, in the first place. But

now she was faced with a dilemma: either park somewhere and take her chances with the tow

truck or explain to the Captain why she was late. And dilemmas were not Gemma’s strong suit.

She hated “grey area” decisions—she was a black and white kind of girl—and here she was, on

her first day, already forced to decide which bad choice was the least bad.

She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, trying to decide. And thank God she did, or

she wouldn’t have seen the mess she’d made of her mascara. A consequence of trying to apply it

while driving in order to accumulate the aforementioned extra 25 minutes. One side was much

longer and thicker than the other. She thought she looked like a character from that old movie

with the guy who killed Captain Kirk … Malcolm Somebody? Something about an Orange

Clock? She couldn’t remember. She made a mental note to brush up on her cinema references.

Nothing was nerdier than relating everything to Star Trek. Especially for a girl.

As she tried to fix her mascara, she pondered why it was that she had never been very good

at being a girl. She knew she was pretty—OK, scratch that, she knew boys tended to tell her she

was pretty, but she could never really tell if they meant it or not. And, at best, it was a double-

edged sword, anyway. People always underestimated her because of her size and her looks—she

was barely five foot two—OK, she was five foot one and a half. She couldn’t believe she was

still even lying to herself about that. But she was thin, at least. For a girl who spent the majority

of her life sitting in front of a computer, she thought she had a pretty nice figure. Well, nice in a

twelve-year-old boy, sort of way. But at least she wasn’t fat.

Her face was pretty normal, she thought, as was her mouse brown hair, which she almost

always wore back in a ponytail. But her eyes drove her crazy. They were bright, electric blue and

attracted way too much attention—the last thing in the world she wanted. Well, the third last

thing, behind being late or being towed. Regardless, she had always worn black, horn-rimmed

glasses—not because she needed them—but to hide those damn radar-beacon eyes. She glanced

down at the clock. She couldn’t put it off anymore. She had to make a decision. Park or be late.

Maybe she should have taken that job at Microsoft, after all.

***

As Gemma sat in the waiting room checking her email on her phone to see if that position in

Redmond was still available—just in case—she noticed the time. She narrowed her eyes and

approached the front desk. “Excuse me.”

The receptionist looked up from her “US Weekly” magazine but didn’t respond. Gemma

smiled, sweetly. “My name is Gemma Kilpatrick? I’m here to see Lyra Cole?”

The receptionist just stared at her with that look of irritation and general malaise that only

receptionists seem capable of mustering. Gemma found herself wondering if that was a learned

skill or if people with that specific ability were just naturally drawn to the receptional arts. She

was pretty sure that “receptional” was neither a word, nor a term, nor an actual art, but it seemed

quite descriptive and she thought to herself that it certainly should be. She also made a mental

note to create a virtual “receptional artist” that could do the job of a human receptionist far more

efficiently, but without the look.

“You told me that 30 minutes ago when you got here” the soon to be obsolete receptional

artist said, somehow seeming even more irritated than before. Gemma made another mental note

that, perhaps, she would have to include at least a few lines of code dedicated to “the look” or the

humans interacting with the new artificial receptionist would be so confused by the lack of a bad

attitude that it would throw the whole project out of whack. She decided she needed more data

and made another mental note to start paying closer attention to her interactions with

receptionists.

Gemma made a lot of mental notes.

“Yes ma’am,” she said, “that’s why I was asking. I was just curious if, perhaps, she might be

ready to see me?”

“I’d just go on back any time, if I were you,” the most unhelpful woman in the world said.

“Your appointment was 30 minutes ago. You’re late.”

Gemma stared at her, not quite sure how to respond. Finally, she decided there was literally

nothing she could say that would accomplish anything, so she plastered that sweet smile back on

her face and just said, “Thank you. Which way was it, again?”

Maybe she should put a call in to Google, too.

***

Gemma reached the unmarked door to Lyra’s office and stopped. “Don’t be nervous,” she told

herself. “You are here to help. She’s going to love you.” She took a deep breath, opened the door

and stepped inside.

She looked around the surprisingly large room that was really more an art studio than an

office. The raw concrete walls were completely covered with hundreds of sketches in various

states of completion. Some were just facial outlines, others were simple sketches with some

distinguishing marks, and still others were almost photo-realistic representations of … someone.

It was a haunting menagerie of partially realized victims, rapists and killers, their empty

unblinking eyes staring out of their two-dimensional paper cages. Gemma shivered, despite

herself.

On the far side of the room, Lyra sat behind a cluttered desk, working on a sketch of a little

girl. Judging by the picture, she must have been around five or six years old, of African-

American descent, and absolutely adorable. Every so often, Lyra would glance at an open folder,

on her desk, as she used her thumbs and fingers to lovingly smudge the lines on the little girl’s

face, trying to get it just right.

Gemma just kind of stood there, mesmerized, watching her work as she put the finishing

touches on a big, toothy smile. Gemma smiled, as well, forgetting for the moment how terrified

she was.

“She’s beautiful,” she said, almost without realizing that she’d said it.

Lyra jumped a little at the intrusion and whipped around to see who had dared interrupt her

work and stared at Gemma with a look of utter confusion. Clearly she had no idea who the hell

Gemma was or what the hell she was doing in her studio.

“Yes, she is,” Lyra said, matter-of-factly. “But, who the hell are you and what the hell are

you doing in my studio?”

Suddenly remembering how nervous she was, Gemma just kind of stood there, in the

doorway, giving Lyra an awkward little half-wave. “I’m sorry … I’m Gemma Kilpatrick?” Why

did she phrase that as a question? “The woman at the front told me I should come in?”

Lyra stared at her, coolly, but didn’t respond. Gemma took a few uncomfortable steps into

the studio. “You are really an amazing artist, Ms. Cole.”

As she drew closer to Lyra’s desk, she stole a glance at the open file Lyra was using for her

sketch. She could tell there were photos, inside, that Lyra was using for reference, but she

quickly closed the folder before Gemma could get a good look. Gemma looked back at Lyra,

pasting that silly smile on her face—the same one she used on the receptional artist—the same

one she always used when she was nervous, or mad, or didn’t really feel like smiling. She made

a mental note that she needed to add to her repertoire of fake, silly smiles. “I can’t tell you how

excited I am to be working with you.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes. “Working with me?”

Gemma nodded, “Oh, yes, I assumed the captain had already spoken to you about me. I’m

your new technology specialist.” She smiled again and this one was almost real. She very much

wanted Lyra to like her. But Lyra was not smiling. Not even close.

“I’m here to help you bring all of this,” she motioned around the studio, growing more

nervous by the millisecond, “into the information age.” She took another step toward Lyra. “To

help you use modern technology to streamline your process.” Another step. She wasn’t getting

more courageous, she was just covering her fear with bravado. She made another mental note to

work on actually being more courageous, rather than just faking it. “To make your work faster,

more accurate, and easier to accomplish.”

Big smile. That was great, Gemma thought. Now that she knows you’re here to help, she’s

going to welcome you with open arms.

But Lyra just pursed her lips, thinking. Then she stood up and walked toward her door.

“Could you follow me, please?” she said.

“Yes, of course,” Gemma said with a smile.

Good job, Gemma, she thought to herself. You’re doing great. Ms. Cole doesn’t even care

that you were 30 minutes late. Although, technically, she wasn’t 30 minutes late, she just had a

miscommunication with the most unhelpful woman alive. Which reminded her that, maybe one

day, when she and Lyra were friends, she should talk to Lyra about that woman’s attitude. That

was the mature, healthy thing to do. And she had made many mental notes over the last few

years to be more mature and healthy.

She followed Lyra out of the office and into the hallway. As soon as they were outside the

door, Lyra suddenly turned back around, without a word, and walked right back through the

door, closing it behind her.

Gemma just kind of stood there for a moment, not sure what she should do. Just follow her,

Gemma, she thought. Don’t be a dork. She said to go with her.

So, now utterly confused, Gemma tried to follow Lyra back into the office, except she

couldn’t, because the door was locked. OK … that was strange. She knocked on the door.

“Excuse me … Ms. Cole?” No answer. She knocked again. “Ms. Cole, I think your door is

locked.” Still no answer. Gemma peered through the little window in the door and saw that Lyra

was again seated at her desk, back at work on the sketch. Gemma started to knock again. Then

she realized what had just happened.

“Well, damn …”

***

Gemma couldn’t believe this. It was like high school all over again. She was back in the

principal’s office through no fault of her own. Why did girls always pick on her? It wasn’t her

fault she was smart. And now, here she was, 24 years old with advanced degrees in mathematics

and computer science and she was still getting bullied by the pretty girl. Life was so unfair.

Captain Reeves stared across his desk at the two women and sighed. He appeared to be in

his 50’s and Gemma thought he seemed like a decent guy. A little tired and jaded and certainly

under a lot of stress. But that was understandable. Houston was the fastest growing big city in

America with a metropolitan population of more than six million people. Between the port—

which was the busiest in the country in terms of foreign tonnage—and its close proximity to

Mexico, Houston was also a crossroads for just about everything illegal entering the United

States. And at 634 square miles, it was big enough to contain the cities of New York,

Washington, Boston, San Francisco, Minneapolis and Miami.

Gemma loved facts. And she was dying to learn some facts about Lyra and her process.

That’s the real reason she chose this job over the many other, higher paying jobs she had been

offered out of MIT. It sounded really interesting and challenging and she would learn and create

things no one else had ever learned or created. And if she was completely honest, she was kind

of excited by the thought of maybe making a difference in the world.

But, at this particular moment, she was learning some facts about Captain Reeves. For one,

when he was upset, the corners of his mouth turned down in such a pronounced frown that he

looked like a ventriloquist dummy. She couldn’t help but imagine him sitting on someone’s lap.

It almost made her smile, which she was glad she didn’t do because, of course, that would have

been inappropriate. She made a mental note to continue reminding herself not to be

inappropriate.

“What is this all about Daryl?” Lyra demanded. “Have you started drinking, again?”

If it was possible, his mouth drooped even further. “I haven’t had a drink in 13 years, Lyra,”

he said, “but you really make me want to start.”

“Then how can you possibly explain this … child … walking into my department, telling me

she’s here to ‘streamline my process’?”

Gemma was taken aback, “Umm … I’m not a child. I’m 24 …”

“—Sweetheart I have fillings older than you are.”

Gemma stared at her, not quite sure what to say. She made a mental note to check how long

fillings could last.

“It’s not your department, Lyra,” Captain Reeves said, “It’s mine. And please address me as

‘Captain Reeves’.”

Gemma smiled to herself. She called him ‘Captain Reeves’. Not that she was a suck up, or

anything, she just tried to be proper and respectful.

There didn’t seem to be anything about Lyra Cole that was proper or respectful.

“Stop trying to deflect the issue, Daryl,” Lyra said. “The last thing I need in my department

is ‘technology’.”

Gemma sat up a little straighter, “Actually, the current statistical data compiled by the FBI

suggests that …”

“—hush now, Sally Sue and let the grownups talk or you’re going to have to write ‘I will not

interrupt Ms. Cole’ a hundred times on the chalkboard while the other kids go to recess.”

Gemma blinked. Who says something like that to someone they just met?

Captain Reeves shook his head, “Lyra …”

But Lyra interrupted him, again. Gemma was learning that Lyra did a lot of interrupting. “—

I have no desire to ‘update my process’,” she said, a slight Southern twang leaking into her

pronunciation. “Technology is destroying the human race one soul-less bit and byte at a time.”

Gemma felt her face get hot. Funny, being called a child didn’t bother her nearly as much as

an attack on the wonderful virtues of all things technological. She made a mental note to bring

that up to her therapist, should she ever get one. In the meantime, technology must be defended,

and she must do the defending. “That is ridiculous!” she said. “Technology is the only thing in

this insane world that is actually bringing humanity together!”

Lyra turned on her. “Really? Do you want to tweet me an IM that I can update on my

Facebook, explaining how that works?”

Gemma searched for a witty, intelligent response to that. But all she could come up with

was, “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“ENOUGH!” Captain Reeves shouted at them. They both looked at him like scolded

schoolgirls. “Lyra, I tolerate you because you’re the best at what you do and you get results, but

you need to learn that the Houston Police Department is not your personal fiefdom!”

Lyra rolled her eyes, “Don’t be ridiculous, Daryl, no one uses the word ‘fiefdom’ in normal

conversation.”

Gemma had to grant her that. But Captain Reeves looked like he might explode. “Did you

really berate a blind rape victim into giving you a description of her attacker before she had even

spoken to the sex crimes investigator?” he demanded.

Lyra started to respond, but the words seemed to stick on her tongue. She just looked away,

angry. “Jennie Randall is such a tattletale,” she said, shaking her head. Gemma stared at her,

horrified. “Oh don’t give me that look, Lindy Lou, I did not ‘berate’ her,” Lyra continued, “I

perhaps dug a little deeper than was comfortable, but if I hadn’t we wouldn’t know the bastard

has a scar across his mandible.” She looked at Captain Reeves. “I’d like to see a computer do

that, by the way.”

Captain Reeves stared at her, seething. “I’m am only going to say this once, Lyra. I am not

asking you, I am telling you. You are to keep Gemma with you at all times. You are to give her

unrestricted access to every facet of your process and you will listen to her recommendations.

Are we clear?”

“Daryl …”

“—Are we clear?”

Lyra glared at him for a moment, then nodded and rose to her feet. “Yes, sir, ‘Captain

Reeves.’ Like you said, it’s your department.”

And with that she stormed out of the office.

“Damn right it’s my department,” Captain Reeves said under his breath. Then he looked at

Gemma, “Don’t worry, she’ll warm up. She just doesn’t like being told what to do.”

“So I gathered,” Gemma said. “Do you really think she believes all that nonsense about

technology?”

Captain Reeves considered his answer carefully. “I’ll tell you what I think. After 15 years of

working with Lyra Cole, the one thing I am absolutely certain of is that I have no idea what she

believes.” He leaned a little closer to Gemma to make sure this next part got through. “But she is

personally responsible for over a thousand criminals being brought to justice. So you are here for

one reason and one reason, only—to figure out how she does it.”

Gemma nodded, “Yes, sir.” Technically, she was there for two reasons, to figure out how

she does it and to create an artificial intelligence program to do it, too, but she didn’t think this

was the right time to correct Captain Reeves. She made a mental note to pat herself on the back,

later, for showing so much restraint.

She then looked toward the door, unsure as to what she was supposed to do, next. “So …

should I follow her?”

But Lyra suddenly poked her head back through the door and fixed Gemma with those gold-

flecked eyes, “Well, Missy Mae, are you coming or not?”

“I …”

“—Then hurry up. If you’re going to be attached to me like a remora fish, at least try not to

slow me down.”

Gemma started to respond, but Lyra had already left the office again, and she decided she’d

better follow. She hurried after her, catching up as she stomped down the hall.

“So, where are we going?” Gemma asked, still trying to sound pleasant, for some reason.

Lyra held up a sheaf of papers, “Jennie ‘better-late-than-never’ Randall finally filed her

report. Apparently Mattie stopped by a convenience store right before she was attacked. We are

going to go find out if maybe the clerk saw the man with the scar on his face and can give us a

better description.” Lyra looked at her and grinned, “Unless you’d rather just send him an

email?”

CHAPTER THREE

Lyra loved her car.

It was a Shelby Mustang GT500 convertible and, even though it was a few years old, it had

a supercharged V8 pushing 500 horsepower and it screamed like a banshee. She loved that she

could make little yippee dogs being walked by their little yippee owners piddle on themselves

with a stomp of her right foot. And she really loved that the new bane of her existence—this

Gemma person—looked like she was about to piddle on herself, right now.

Lyra smiled an evil smile and shouted at Gemma over the constant chatter of her police

scanner and the roar of the big V8. “Not used to Houston traffic, yet, huh?”

Gemma’s face was that perfect shade of white, bordering on green, as she shook her head,

“I’m not used to your driving!”

Lyra looked at her, innocently, “What? Why?” as she slammed the gas pedal to the floor,

breaking the fat back tires loose and fishtailing, just a bit, accelerating into a tiny fissure in the

bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“Oh, my God …” Gemma gasped as she covered her eyes. Lyra laughed. This was the best

she’d felt since this annoying young woman first walked into her studio an hour ago. Gemma

looked at her through her fingers, “Is there a particular reason you don’t like me, Ms. Cole?”

Lyra considered this. Was there? Then it occurred to her that she didn’t dislike her, per se.

She didn’t even know her. She just didn’t like being forced to do things she didn’t want to do,

and this girl was currently that “thing.” Plus there was just something about her … something

“know-it-all-y” in her demeanor and tone that made Lyra’s eye twitch like that animated

prehistoric squirrel.

“I don’t dislike you, Gemma,” she said, “I just think you think you know more than you do.

And that irritates me.”

Gemma’s mouth dropped open like a fish gulping air. She looked genuinely shocked and

offended. “I do NOT think I know … more … than I think I know.”

Lyra stared at her face, reading the various curves and shapes and dimples like an

“Encyclopedia of Gemma.” She could tell she was a good girl—a nice girl—who was painfully

shy and insecure but covered her shyness and insecurity with bravado and intellectualism. Huh,

Lyra thought. Who else do I know who does that? Lyra felt an instant pang of sympathy and

camaraderie, there. This girl was harboring some pain. Something in her past that she just

couldn’t let go. And Lyra almost decided to cut her some slack.

But then she got to her eyes. And looked into that doe-eyed, pseudo innocent “who-me?”

stare that made Lyra want to punch her in the face, metaphorically speaking, of course.

OK, then. If she wants to play it like that …

“I bet you drive a Prius, don’t you?” Lyra asked, already knowing the answer.

Gemma looked at her with those annoying “who me?” eyes. “I drive a hybrid, yes, but not a

Prius. And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you drive it because you actually like it? Or because you think you’re being

environmentally responsible?”

“I don’t ‘think’ I’m being responsible, I am,” she said, smartly. “Another example of

technology, by the way.”

“That’s true …” Lyra loved this part. “Of course, it takes about 113 million BTU’s of

energy to build a hybrid, which is about the same as burning a thousand gallons of gas before it

ever leaves the showroom floor. Then there’s the issue of disposing of those lithium batteries.

That’s some nasty stuff.”

Gemma started to respond, but Lyra wasn’t finished. “If you were serious about your

environmentalism you’d drive a 1995 Geo Metro. It gets 46 miles to the gallon and paid its

carbon debt 15 years ago.”

Lyra looked at her as she drove, to make sure this last part sunk in. “But you don’t really

care about the environment, you care about feeling like you care about the environment. You

drive a hybrid to feel good about yourself.”

Gemma stared at her in shock. Lyra loved that look. She started to respond several times, but

couldn’t get the words out. Finally the best she could come up with was, “Are you really

lecturing me on environmentalism as we drive around in your testosterone mobile? We’re

practically leaving an oil slick!”

Lyra gave her the innocent “who me?” eyes. See? She could do it too. “I never said anything

about driving this car for the environment. I drive it because it makes me feel good about myself.

I’m just honest about it.”

She slowed down and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Smiled at Gemma, sweetly.

“We’re here.”

Lyra climbed out of the car and the heat and humidity hit her like a sauna. Houston was built

on a series of bayous that snaked through the thick, piney woods of East Texas and into the Gulf

of Mexico, and the hot, moist air covered the city like a blanket. It was like living in a swamp. Or

inside someone’s mouth. But the humidity was good for the skin, so Lyra didn’t really mind.

She looked around, trying to get a feel for the area. It wasn’t a bad part of town at all—not

tremendously far from Lyra’s little house, actually—but the sprawling city had no zoning. Which

meant “good” neighborhoods and “bad” neighborhoods were often right on top of each other.

Great for business and culture and real estate speculation, not so great for police work.

She heard Gemma climb out of the car and walk around, next to her. This should be good,

Lyra thought, expecting Gemma to mount some over-wrought defense of hybrid technology

while flashing her credentials as a card-carrying member of “Earth-First.” But, to her surprise,

Gemma seemed content to focus on the task at hand. Whether she was letting Lyra’s assault on

her activism go or just trying to work up a retort, remained to be seen.

“How does she manage it?” Gemma said. “How does she get around by herself?”

“She counts steps,” Lyra answered. “But that means she always takes the same route, which

makes her vulnerable.” Lyra took one more look around then headed toward the convenience

store. “Come on. Let’s see if we can figure out what this guy saw that he doesn’t think he saw.”

***

The young, dark skinned clerk—probably of Indian or Pakistani descent, Gemma thought—

looked at Lyra from behind the counter, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how I can

help. No one else came in the store and I couldn’t really see if anyone outside had a scar, from

here. Is Mattie OK?”

Gemma was just kind of wandering around the store, staying out of Lyra’s way. It wasn’t

that she was afraid of her, exactly … OK, that was a complete lie. She was terrified of her. How

could someone so pretty and smart and clearly talented be so mean?

“She was brutally beaten and raped,” she heard Lyra say to the clerk. “Define ‘OK’.”

Gemma shook her head. At least she wasn’t the sole recipient of Lyra Cole’s acid tongue.

She made a mental note to start keeping track of every time Lyra berated someone. It was

probably going to be a long list.

She looked at the clerk, who was just kind of staring at Lyra in shock. He clearly didn’t

expect such an aggressive answer to his question. He was just trying to be nice. Gemma knew

that feeling, well. Half hiding behind a cereal box, she listened in on their conversation. “Is she

your friend?” Lyra continued.

He kind of shrugged. “She comes in here every day. And she is very nice. I mean, I like her,

sure.”

“I like her too,” Lyra said, “and the man who hurt her needs to pay for what he did. Which

means I need you to try to remember …”

“I already told you, I don’t remember …”

“—TRY to remember,” Lyra interrupted. Why does she always interrupt? It occurred to

Gemma that, perhaps, Lyra was afraid of what others might say. That she had to bully them and

put them down to keep them from proving that she really didn’t know as much as she thought

she knew. OK, now Gemma was confusing herself.

Lyra continued, “Anything that might be of help. Anything at all.” He just kind of shrugged,

again. The poor guy was obviously as terrified of Lyra as Gemma was. But Lyra seemed to sense

this and softened her tone, just a bit.

“OK,” she said, “Let’s try this another way. We’re going to try some regression. Do you

know what that is?”

He did that little shrug thing again—even Gemma had to admit that was getting a little

annoying—“I just need you to close your eyes,” Lyra continued, “And try to rewind back

through your memories to the last time you saw Mattie.”

And then it hit her. Gemma couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. But Lyra had

gotten her so flustered, she wasn’t thinking clearly. Rewind, she thought. Of course!

She began to scan the store and it took all of two seconds to find what she was looking for.

She turned to Lyra, triumphantly. “Or we could just rewind the security video,” she said. Lyra

looked her. Then looked up at the camera Gemma had discovered. Then just turned back to the

clerk without so much as a “good job, Gemma.” Not that Gemma needed that approval. But a

little approval would be nice. “How many of those cameras do you have?” Lyra asked the clerk.

Gemma made a mental note to ask her therapist—should she ever get one—to help her overcome

the need to seek the approval of others. It was probably why she couldn’t keep a boyfriend.

They followed the clerk, whose name was TJ, into a tiny, cluttered office that smelled of

curry, cigarette butts and sweat. There was a dirty old microwave (probably the source of the

curry) in one corner and TJ (definitely the source of the sweat) was squeezed behind a small

desk. The desk was completely covered with invoices and an overflowing ashtray and strangely,

the cluttered papers and disarray bothered Gemma more than the stench. Organization was her

life.

She and Lyra were hovering directly behind the clerk, staring over his shoulders at a dusty

old CRT monitor that must have been older than Gemma—and therefore Lyra’s fillings—as he

scanned backward through the security footage. The screen was split into four sections, each

section showing a particular view from one of the four cameras. Three were inside the store, but

there was one camera outside, facing the front door.

“There she is,” Lyra said, as a young woman on the screen entered the store. It was the first

time Gemma had seen Mattie, and she was taken with how small and sweet she looked. It made

Gemma want to cry, just thinking about what had happened to her. But she wasn’t about to let

Lyra see her cry, already. Plus, she’d probably just make some crack about Gemma not being

able to handle the pungent odor.

Gemma watched as the girl on the screen walked in through the front door and began to

make her way through the store, moving from camera to camera, until she stopped at a drink

machine and began to fill a soda cup with practiced precision. “Amazing,” Gemma almost

whispered. “It’s just amazing that she can do that.”

“Shhh,” Lyra said. Why was she shushing her? There wasn’t even any sound on the

recording.

On another camera, Gemma saw the clerk step out from behind his counter, walk over to the

front window and stare out. “What are you doing, there?” Lyra asked.

“She asked me if I saw anyone,” he said. “She said she had this weird feeling …” he trailed

off as he realized what he was saying. What Mattie was saying. He cleared his throat and

continued, “This weird feeling that she was being followed.”

Gemma looked at his face. She could see that he was upset. He was thinking, if he’d only

noticed whoever it was, maybe it wouldn’t have happened …

Then Gemma looked at Lyra, and her face seemed to soften a little more. She placed a hand

on TJ’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “There’s no way you could have known.”

Gemma was actually a little taken aback. The Lyra she had known—for all of an hour and a

half—wasn’t capable of warmth and human kindness. Maybe it was just an act.

TJ looked up at her and nodded but, by the look in his eyes, Gemma could tell he wasn’t

really feeling any better. “But you can help her now,” Lyra continued. “Try to remember … did

you see anyone? Anyone who stood out to you as strange or threatening? Anyone with a scar?”

He stared at the screen, trying to remember, but it just wasn’t coming back to him. He shook

his head, “I’m sorry. I mean, I saw a lot of people, but I didn’t notice if any of them had a scar.”

Lyra nodded as Gemma watched the grainy image of Mattie leaving the store, no idea the

evil she was about to encounter. It was like watching a train wreck you couldn’t do anything

about. Gemma just wanted to reach into the past and stop her. Tell her not to go out that door.

She looked away from the screen, again, to make sure she didn’t start to cry. She was going

to have to toughen up if she was going to do this job. She made a mental note to find a book on

how to toughen up.

“Do you mind if we take the video?” Gemma said, pulling herself out of her reverie.

“Of course,” the clerk said. “I hope it helps.”

He reached into the antiquated security system and pulled out the tape. Handed it to Gemma,

who wondered if they even had a machine at the station to play a tape. And if they didn’t, where

the heck she was going to get one? Mexico, perhaps?

Lyra patted TJ on the shoulder. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let you know if we need

anything else.” He nodded as Gemma turned to leave the office. But Lyra glanced back at him

and asked, almost in passing, “I don’t suppose you know what direction she usually comes

from?”

“Sure,” he said, pointing west, “Back that way, from the bus stop.”

Lyra’s eyes lit up. “She takes the bus?” She looked back at Gemma and smiled. “Look at

that, your beloved technology might come in handy, after all.”

***

Lyra sat at her desk, staring at the unfinished sketch of Mattie’s attacker. It was basically just the

outline of a man’s face with stubble on the head, stubble on the chin, and a big scar on one side

of the jaw.

She didn’t know anything.

Frustrated, she opened a drawer, pulled out a stack of thick, well-worn folders and set them

on the desk. She stared at them, for a few moments, letting her hands rest on top. The topmost

file had a name handwritten across the edge of the folder, “Keira.” Lyra ran her fingers across

the name, lovingly, then opened it and stared at the sketch on top of the pile.

It was a young woman who appeared to be about Gemma’s age, maybe a little younger. She

actually kind of resembled Gemma in a strange way. She was small and pretty with big, childlike

eyes and mousy brown hair, but with her thin nose and full lips she looked like someone else.

She looked like Lyra.

As Lyra stared at the picture, the pain instantly came flooding back. All the old questions

that had plagued her for so long. Where was she? What had happened to her? What had her life

been like? She began to flip through the sketches. Each was of the same girl, just a little bit

younger than the last. She was moving backward through time, watching the girl grow younger

before her eyes.

The last picture in the pile was an actual photograph—obviously the jumping off point for

all the age progression sketches that came after. The girl looked to be about three, at the time,

and was all smiles and rosy cheeks. Lyra stared at her, remembering. It was 20 years ago, but

every time she looked at her it was like it happened yesterday. The failure. The frustration. The

guilt.

She closed the file and set it aside. Then she placed her hands on the next one and her entire

demeanor changed. Gone was the pain and guilt, replaced by something else. Fury. She opened

the folder and, this time, started from the picture on the bottom of the stack. The oldest one. It

was a sketch, not a photograph, and the image staring out of the paper was the absolute polar

opposite of the pretty little girl in the last folder. It was a man with a heavy brow, pug nose and

an ugly, twisted mouth.

As she stared at the sketch she began to flip through the rest, each one a little older than the

last. He was aging, before her eyes. Well, he was aging the way she thought he had aged. But she

was very good at her job, and she felt confident her sketches were accurate. The question was

where was he? More importantly, was he still alive? And even more importantly, could he lead

Lyra to Keira?

“Is that another case?” Gemma suddenly asked from across the room. Lyra nearly jumped

out of her skin. “Don’t you ever knock?” she said, closing the files. What was it with this girl?

“I’m sorry, the door was open,” she said as she walked toward Lyra, carrying several pieces

of paper. “I just wanted to bring you this.” She handed Lyra the papers, which turned out to be a

series of photographs. “These are stills I produced from the security video on the bus.”

The first photo was a high angle view of Mattie, stepping off the bus. Lyra flipped to the

next few photos, which depicted the sequence of three men stepping off the bus. She couldn’t

make out any of their faces, but two of them were black and one was white.

“If you check the time stamp at the top,” Gemma said, “there’s no question they got off right

after Mattie.”

“Of course we can’t see any of their faces,” Lyra said as she flipped back to the best photo

of the white man. He was thin, with stubble on his head—that definitely matched—but she

couldn’t make out anything else. Except that he was wearing old jeans, boots and a flannel shirt.

“No,” Gemma said, “but we can see his clothes. That might be important, later, right?”

Lyra nodded, handing the papers back to Gemma. “That’s good. Now we just need to go

arrest every white guy in Houston with a shaved head who dresses like a construction worker.

Shouldn’t be too many.”

Gemma glared at Lyra, but instead of crumbling as she usually did, she just fired back,

“Only the ones with scars on their faces.” Lyra actually smiled, despite herself. The girl had a

little spunk, at least. “That’s good work, Gemma,” Lyra said. “Every detail is important, you

never know which ones might make the difference.”

Gemma smiled. Clearly she was starved for positive attention. Of course, that just irritated

Lyra, all over again. A young woman as intelligent and capable as this Gemma What’s-her-name

shouldn’t base her self-worth on the opinions of others. Lyra decided she was going to have to

help her with that.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t going to continue to make her life a living hell—she still resented

her very existence—but it wouldn’t hurt to give her a few life lessons, in the process of running

her out of town.

“So what’s the next step?” Gemma asked.

“There is no next step,” Jennie Randall said, as she entered the office. Lyra looked at her

and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Jennie, have you been losing weight?”

Detective Randall stopped, momentarily taken aback, clearly confused by Lyra’s apparent

complement. She started to respond, but Lyra cut her off, “Oh, no, never mind. It’s just the utter

lack of importance that I place on anything you have to say. Makes you look smaller and less

substantial than you actually are. To me, I mean.”

Lyra smiled to herself as Jennie’s eyes blazed with fury. Lyra wondered, momentarily, if

others found her scathing sense of humor as amusing as she did. But only for a moment. Then

she remembered that she didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.

Jennie stepped farther into the office, carrying a file. “Always got something to say, don’t

you?”

“I do,” Lyra responded, “I only wish you had less to say.”

Jennie laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe next time you should try to say a little less, yourself.”

She pitched the folder onto Lyra’s desk. “Mathilda Franklin has decided not to press charges.”

And she turned to walk out of the office. “Nice job in that hospital room.”

And she was gone. For once, Lyra actually didn’t have anything to say.

CHAPTER FOUR

James watched from across the street as his china doll left the hospital. She was wearing

oversized sunglasses, of course, but they did little to hide the marks he’d left on her face. Her

beautiful little china doll face was broken—broken by his own hands—but it would heal. He

closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. Remembering the power. The feelings of

destruction and bliss.

But the memories were starting to fade. And that couldn’t happen. He needed them. More

than he needed air or water, he needed them.

The police were nowhere to be seen, of course. He knew there wouldn’t be anything they

could do—she was blind, after all. How could she possibly give a description?

He smiled at his cleverness and watched her climb into a waiting car. He assumed that was

her family, in the car, but they didn’t matter. He knew, eventually, they would leave. And he

would have her all to himself, again.

She belonged to him now. And nothing in the world could keep him away from her.

He just had to be patient. He had to plan. And wait. And prepare for just the right moment.

Ben had been right. He could do anything he wanted and never get caught.

He couldn’t help but laugh as he felt that familiar, beloved ache return to the pit of his

stomach. The foreplay was beginning again …

***

Gemma was exhausted. As far as first days went, this one was something else. She closed her

eyes and tried to focus on the pleasant sensation of the scalding hot water, currently enveloping

her body. There was something so simple, so elegant, and so pure about a hot bath. Nothing

could steam away your worries like a good soak in a hot bath.

If only that was true.

She tried. She really did. She tried to let Calgon take her away—whatever the heck that

meant. What was “Calgon” anyway? Was it still in existence? She made a mental note to

research Calgon. Wait, stop. The whole purpose of this “relaxing hot bath” was to turn off her

over clocked mind. Sadly, she knew it was a pipe dream. Gemma had never been able to quiet

her thoughts—even for just a moment. Anytime in the past she had tried to meditate—which was

only once, because she found it utterly ridiculous—she was a bit surprised at how difficult it was

to just think about nothing. She honestly didn’t believe it was possible. The brain was designed

to think. If it ever stopped, wouldn’t that be tantamount to brain death? She made a mental note

to research the physiological differences between deep meditation and brain death.

But, whatever the science behind it, Gemma was simply incapable of just turning off her

mind. It was probably one of the reasons she was drawn to writing code. It required such utter

and complete concentration that it was the only time her thoughts didn’t wander in a million

different directions. Which meant that, as bizarre as it might sound, writing complex computer

code was the only way she could relax.

So, as she lay in the water trying unsuccessfully to think about nothing, her thoughts

bounced back and forth between Lyra and Mattie. Mostly Lyra. What was it with that woman?

She had never experienced anyone so infuriating. And what made it worse was she couldn’t

figure out why. Why did Lyra dislike her so much? She even said it herself—she doesn’t know

me! And what was all that nonsense about hybrid technology, anyway? It was utterly

ridiculous …

Her internal tirade trailed off as a terrifying thought began to tickle at her brain stem. What

if Lyra was right?

She bolted up out of the tub and grabbed a towel.

***

Lyra sat on her back porch, curled up on a wicker sofa, sipping a glass of bourbon. It was late,

but the moist air in Houston soaked up the heat during the day like a sponge, then spit it back out

at night, so it almost never dipped below eighty, no matter what the time.

A ceiling fan turned, lazily, but all it really did was circulate the warm, sticky air and cause

the myriad dream catchers and wind chimes hanging from the ceiling to sway gently, in the

breeze.

Lyra lived in a two-bedroom lapboard bungalow in an artsy little tree-lined area, just south

of downtown, called Montrose. It was the kind of eclectic neighborhood where little shacks like

hers sat next to towering new million dollar condos, and neither looked or felt out of place.

She had been reading but, at the moment, was staring off into the night, lost in her own

thoughts, when a voice pulled her from her reverie. “Lyra?” She turned to see Sam standing

behind her, one foot on the steps, a box of cigars in his hands.

“Sam! What are you doing here?” She exclaimed as she waived him over. He climbed the

rest of the steps and ambled toward her, his cowboy boots clomping on the wooden planks of the

porch. He stopped a few strides short of her and stood there, awkwardly. “Well don’t just stand

there like a bible salesman,” she said, “sit down.” And she patted the sofa next to her.

He hesitated for a moment, then sat down on the sofa, careful not to infringe on her personal

space. He was so silly. Couldn’t he tell she wanted him to infringe all over her? He held the box

out to her. “I … just thought I’d stop by and give you this.”

She took the box from his hands and opened it, breathing deeply the rich, spicy scent of the

dark tobacco. “Mmmm,” she purred, “Dominican?” Sam shook his head, “Cuban. One of the

vice guys took them from a drug dealer.”

“Aww,” she said, “And you thought of me.” She grinned as she pulled one of the beautiful

cigars out of the box and held it up to her nose. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be more in

here than just tobacco.”

He smiled, too. Motioned toward the open book on the table. “Thinking of converting?” She

glanced at the “What is Scientology” book, propped open, face down to mark her page, on the

coffee table, and shook her head. “Nah, you know how I feel about organized religions. Or

organizations of any sort, for that matter. I just wanted to know what all the fuss was about.” She

smiled her cutest smile. “Here, let me get you a drink.”

She stretched over to the end table to grab an empty highball glass, making sure her t-shirt

rode up a bit—just enough to show off her well-toned midriff, glistening with a light sheen of

sweat. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he looked then quickly turned away.

“No,” he said. “Thank you, but I really can’t stay. I just … I heard Ms. Franklin is refusing

to testify. I wanted to make sure you’re OK.”

“Sam,” she said, demurely, “Have you ever known me not to be OK?”

He tilted his head and looked her in the eyes. “True. But I also know these kinds of cases are

particularly hard for you.” As she stared at him and saw the honesty and compassion in his face,

for just an instant, she let her guard down. More than anything, she just wanted to fall into his

arms and let him tell her it was all going to be OK.

But she shut it down almost the moment it got out. Covered quickly, to make sure he didn’t

notice. “I’ll tell you what’s hard,” she said, “finding a decent man in this town. What about you?

D’you ever finalize that divorce of yours?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and nodded. “Six months ago.”

She raised her eyebrows, “Really?” She moved a little closer to him. “So the great Sam

Bradshaw is back on the market?”

He looked at her. She could tell he was trying to decide if she was teasing him, or if she was

serious. Honestly, she wasn’t completely sure, herself. Probably a little of both. “I wouldn’t say

that,” he said. “You and I both know the only relationship I’m any good at is with HPD.”

She smiled, seductively, “Well … there are different kinds of relationships, Sam.”

As she gazed into his eyes she could see it—the desire and the fear waging war with one

another. For a moment she wasn’t sure which was going to win. Then he cleared his throat,

“Lyra … you are a … beautiful …” he actually coughed a little. God he was bad at this. “I

mean … the thing is, we … work together … and …”

OK. That was all she needed. She backed away from him, pasting an amused/surprised look

on her face. “Wait, did you think … I was talking about me?” She laughed and patted him on the

knee. “Oh, Sam …”

He turned bright red with embarrassment. She almost felt a little guilty but, better him than

her. “Sam, I’m flattered. And if I thought you could handle me I’d be tying you to that chair right

now …” she leaned closer. Shook her head as her smile broadened, “But you can’t handle me.”

He breathed out, ever so slowly. His breath smelled of mint from his ever-present gum. She

loved the way his jaw muscles were always flexing and jumping as he chewed, and she really

loved a man with nice breath … wait, stop, she told herself. Stay focused on the task at hand.

“But I’ll tell you who CAN handle me,” she said, leaning back again. “My shaman-slash-lover in

Peru, Apu-Illapu. Did I ever tell you about the time we walked the spirit world together?”

His eyes narrowed. What?

“His name means God of Thunder,” she said, “And let me tell you …” she trailed off for a

moment, remembering. “He did this thing where he breathed through his eyelids …”

“—You know, Lyra, I really do need to go.”

Sorry to manipulate you like that, Sam, but it had to be done. “It’s a good story. I promise

you won’t be bored.”

He shook his head, “No, I have the boys tonight. And I don’t want Jack trying to sneak a girl

in, again.” He stood and nodded at her. “But I’m glad you’re OK.” His cell phone began to

vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket as he continued, “Just let me know if there is anything

you … need …” he trailed off as he read the message.

She knew that look. “What is it, Sam? What’s happened?”

He sighed. Slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Looks like tonight is Jack’s lucky night.

Vice just raided some kind of prostitution ring. And there’s a body.”

***

Gemma could not believe that Lyra was right.

As she sat there in her robe, her hair still wet, researching the relative environmental impact

of various cars, she couldn’t decide if she was more bothered by the fact that Lyra was right or

that she hadn’t figured this out, herself, before she bought the silly car. Even worse, was Lyra

right about why she bought it in the first place? It wasn’t like her to take things at face value like

that. She made a mental note to discuss the issue with her therapist, should she ever get one.

She stared at the screen for another moment, then shook her head. To heck with Lyra Cole.

She stood up and padded into her small, immaculately clean bedroom and hung her robe on a

hook on the door. She then pulled a pair of soft, cotton jammie bottoms out of an immaculately

organized drawer along with an immaculately folded t-shirt. She slipped them both on, pulled her

still-wet hair back into a ponytail, and padded into the kitchen.

Her kitchen was as clean and well organized as every other room in her apartment, and that

was the way she liked it. She had a boyfriend once who insisted on using the same knife to

spread both his butter and his jam, which of course meant he left little bits of butter in the jam

jar. Seriously? How difficult was it to use a separate knife? She never said anything to him about

it, of course, and bought herself a butter-free jar of jam, which she kept hidden in the back of the

refrigerator. But not a morning went by that it didn’t nag at her like a hangnail she couldn’t snip.

She opened a large wooden box, filled with an assortment of teas, and flipped through the

bags, carefully. She finally selected just the right one for tonight’s soon-to-be-epic coding

session—a delicate green from the Jiangsu province on the eastern coast of China. She placed

two of the bags in a dainty china teapot then filled it with piping hot water from her far-too-

expensive espresso machine. She knew when she bought the machine she would never use it for

espresso, but she hated waiting for her water to boil. Plus it looked really nice on her counter.

She placed the teapot and a matching teacup on a matching tray, and carried it back into her

living room.

She set the tea set on the desk next to her computer and performed a series of stretches that

had been proven to increase blood flow to the cerebral cortex. She then sat down in her Aeron

chair—another too-expensive purchase but her most prized possession, besides her computer, of

course—and opened her iTunes. She pressed ‘play’ on her ‘Coding Jams’ playlist, comprised of

classical music, which had been proven to stimulate creative thought. She just called it her “jam”

because it was ironic and made her giggle a little, every time she saw it. She wondered for a

moment if other people found her cleverness as entertaining as she did. Probably not. Oh well,

their loss.

She carefully poured herself a cup of steaming hot tea and took a deep breath. As she let it

out, slowly, she held her hands above the keyboard like a concert pianist preparing to play a

Rachmaninoff concerto, wiggling them to loosen them up. And, finally, she began to type.

As she focused on the code, slipping into her “zone,” a smile crept across her face. This was

her meditation. This was her nirvana. Her frustrations with Lyra Cole were finally slipping

away …

—As her phone suddenly began to ring, vibrating across the desk, startling her out of her

zone. She looked at the phone. Who the heck could possibly be calling her at this time of night?

“Hello?”

“Kick your cotton jammies off and get dressed. It’s time to go to work.” It was Lyra Cole.

Gemma was beside herself. Was this some kind of joke? But, “what?” was all she said. For some

reason she could never think of anything clever to say to Lyra.

“There’s a body in a cathouse and at least one potential witness,” Lyra said, without a hint of

irony. “You want to be part of my process? This is it.”

Gemma sighed, not really sure what the heck she was talking about. What kind of witnesses

could there be at an animal shelter? Oh well, if this was the job … “OK. Just text me the address

and I’ll be right there.”

***

Lyra had to park a block away from the shanty house because of all the police cars. The house—

little more than a dilapidated, windowless shack, really—was tucked back under a freeway

overpass, hidden behind a stand of trees, overgrown grass and old junked out cars. You could

drive by it a thousand times and never know it was anything but a storage shed. Typically the

sick yellow light of an old mercury vapor lamp illuminated the unmarked front door. But tonight

it was a flashing mosaic of red and blue.

As she walked under the police tape, several uniformed officers nodded to her. She’d been

around long enough that most of them knew her. Occasionally some wet behind the ears rookie

would give her a hard time, but usually they only did that once. After she finished with them they

generally gave her a wide berth.

She stepped into the house and saw Sam standing at the end of the long hallway that ran

through the middle of the house. Doors lined each side of the hall, and each door opened to a

small, dirty room, just big enough to house the threadbare twin bed, inside. Most of the doors

were open and the rooms empty, but the two at the end were clearly where all the action was.

The forensic team was already in full swing in one—that must be where the body was—and

several detectives, including Sam, were standing around the other, where the witness must be.

As she reached him he looked at her and shook his head. “I don’t think you’re going to get

much. She’s undocumented and terrified. Probably afraid we’re going to deport her. She hasn’t

said a word.” Lyra looked around the nasty little den of sex and who knew what else and patted

him on the chest. “After this she’s probably praying we deport her. I’ll talk to her.” Sam nodded

and stepped aside.

Lyra entered the small room and looked at the terrified little girl sitting on the bed, smoking

a cigarette with a shaking hand. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen, maybe less. Her

face was streaked black where her cheap, gobbed on mascara had run, and she was wrapped in a

blanket. “You want to give me the room, boys?” Lyra said to the four or five big cops who were

just kind of standing around, bullshitting and drinking coffee. Murmurs of “sure Lyra” were

bandied about as they shuffled out of the room and closed the door, behind them.

Lyra sat down on the bed, next to the girl, and just kind of looked at her, waiting for her to

make eye contact. When she finally looked Lyra’s way, she asked in Spanish, “Do you speak

English, sweetheart?” The girl didn’t respond. Just looked away again, drawing at her cigarette

like her life depended on it. “Don’t worry, I’m not a cop,” Lyra continued in Spanish, “I’m an

artist, see?” Lyra opened her sketchbook and started to flip through a few of her sketches. Some

were finished, some weren’t but it gave her a pretty good idea of what it was that Lyra did. The

girl glanced at a few of them, but still didn’t say anything. “I’m just here to try and see if,

together, we can draw a picture of whoever did that in the other room.” The girl’s eyes darted

that way, almost involuntarily, and quickly filled with tears. She looked away and took another

big draw on her cigarette.

“Was she a friend of yours?” Lyra asked. The girl didn’t respond for a long moment, but

finally kind of nodded, just a bit. Good. That was an answer. That was a start. “Did you see the

man who hurt your friend?” The girl didn’t nod, but she didn’t shake her head, either. That meant

she probably saw him, but was afraid. Which meant she probably knew who he was.

“Let’s try something else for a moment.” Lyra flipped to the back of her sketchbook and

opened a folder. Pulled out sketches of four very hard looking men, including the pug nosed-

twisted mouth man she was looking at before. She spread the sketches out on the bed. “Do any of

these look familiar?” Finally, reluctantly, the girl looked at the sketches. She stared at them for a

long moment, her face unreadable, but then shook her head. Not him. Lyra nodded and put the

sketches back in their place, but she was making progress. The girl had definitely seen the man.

***

Gemma’s bad day just wouldn’t end. She thought she had left high school behind. But here she

was, all these years and advanced degrees later, getting picked on by the pretty girl and kept out

of the cool parties. Not that a murder scene was a “cool party,” but somehow it felt the same. “I

understand you can’t let me in without a police I.D.,” she told the officer standing in front of her,

“But as I’ve told you … many times now … I just started today and they haven’t given me an

I.D. yet.”

“And as I’ve told you,” the annoyingly handsome police officer repeated, “all you have to

do is call Ms. Cole and have her come out and get you.”

“She won’t answer the darn phone!” Gemma shouted, surprised at her outburst. It wasn’t

like her to be so confrontational, but she was clearly more afraid of Lyra than she was of this

meathead beat cop with his lopsided smile and bulging biceps, not that she was paying attention.

“Which is why I have been begging you to please go and tell her I’m here, you jerk!”

Pretty Boy Cop tilted his head, sideways, and gave her that lopsided smile. She could see

him practicing it in the mirror, in his trailer. “You know it’s actually a crime to call a police

officer a name?” he said, his southern drawl annoyingly … southern. First, she wondered if that

accent was real or not. Sounded a bit overdone, to her. Second … was it really a crime? Oh my

God, did she just commit a crime on her first day? “I’m within my legal rights to arrest you right

now,” he continued. Now she started to panic. She couldn’t get arrested. She couldn’t get

arrested on her first day. “But I tell you what,” he said, “how ‘bout you let me take you out for a

cocktail and we’ll call it even.”

Gemma stared at him in disbelief. Did he really just ask her out? She kind of looked around,

suddenly wondering if perhaps Lyra put him up to this. If it was some sort of joke. But instead of

Lyra, she saw a big guy with a face chiseled out of wood loping toward her in long, easy strides.

“Are you Gemma?” he said, his voice gruff and deep a little scary. For a moment, she considered

denying it. Maybe she really was in trouble. “Yes,” she said in a shaky voice. “Yes sir.”

“Lyra is asking for you,” he said. “Specifically, she told me to ‘go find out where that

annoying little girl is.’ I’m assuming that’s you?”

Gemma wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I mean, I don’t think I’m …”

“Yes,” Pretty Boy Cop said, “It’s her.” Gemma glared at him. She was the annoying one?

The big chiseled face man waved her through, “Well come on, then. I really don’t feel like

getting Lyra mad at me, too.” Gemma followed after him, wondering how the heck even he

could be scared of Lyra. She was a force of nature, that woman. “Be seeing you, Gemma,” Pretty

Boy Cop snickered as she walked past. “I should be so unlucky,” she said, glaring at him, one

more time, for good measure.

As she walked away, she shook her head. Really? ‘I should be so unlucky’? That was the

best she could come up with? She made a mental note to work on her comebacks. “I’m Detective

Sam Bradshaw, by the way,” the big chiseled face man, said, holding out a hand the size of a

baseball glove. She took his hand and he squeezed, firmly but gently, but there was no question

in her mind he could crush her bones like papier-mâché. “You sure you’re really ready for this

job?” He asked.

‘No, no I’m not’, popped instantly into her head. ‘I’m not prepared for any of this and I

think I’ve made a terrible mistake.’ That’s what she thought, but of course all she said was, “I’ll

be fine.” Sam almost smiled and shook his head. “OK, then.”

***

Lyra sighed. She wasn’t getting anywhere, and she wasn’t going to get anywhere. Not right now,

anyway. It was like that, sometimes. No matter what she said or did, whether she played nice or

dirty, some people just wouldn’t engage. She began to gather up her things. “It’s OK,” she said,

still speaking Spanish. “I understand. You don’t want to talk.” The girl looked at her, clearly a

little surprised. “And I understand why. You know who he is and you’re terrified that if you talk

to me, he’ll find out, somehow, and do the same thing to you.”

She had all her things back in her bag, now, and she stood and continued, “but what you’re

not taking into account is the fact that he knows that you know who he is. And whether you help

me or not, he will assume that you did.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a business card.

“Which means he’s going to come after you, no matter what.”

The girl’s eyes started to fill with tears, but still she didn’t respond. She just stared, straight

ahead. Lyra at least had to admire her conviction. “I’m going to leave you my business card. It

has my direct line and my cell phone number on it. When you change your mind, give me a call

and I’ll do everything I can to help. Because, sweetheart, the only chance you have is if we catch

this guy.”

The girl took the card and looked at it, sniffling. Then she looked up at Lyra and said, in

Spanish, “You don’t understand … he’s the devil.” Lyra nodded and leaned down, close to her.

“Darling, nobody knows the devil better than me. And I am here to tell you, I will kick his ass.”

The girl continued to stare at her. Lyra knew she wasn’t going to talk, yet—she’d been

through this so many times with so many people—but she also knew she’d at least gotten

through. The girl was thinking about it. She was worried.

Then a blood-curdling scream from the other room suddenly pierced the silence between

them. Lyra flung open the door to see Gemma clutching Sam, tightly, her face buried in his

chest. “What in the name of Sweet Jesus are you doing?” Lyra demanded, as she stomped over to

them. Then she saw what it was. The door to the room with the body in it was standing open.

Gemma must have seen the body.

Lyra looked inside.

He had tied the girl to the bed frame, her arms splayed out to each side, facing the wall. She

was on her knees, naked of course, her head slumped, sideways, against the wall. Her back was a

roadmap of cuts and abrasions, and there was blood everywhere. From the swelling and bruising,

Lyra knew he had broken every bone in her small face, probably by bashing it, repeatedly, into

the wall. The gag was still in place, and she had flayed the skin of her wrists away, fighting in

vain to free herself from her bonds.

Lyra sighed and wondered, momentarily, what it said about her that this carnage didn’t even

faze her any more. She had seen so much. Been through so much. Part of her envied the horror

that Gemma was feeling. That she could no longer feel, herself. She was jealous of her

innocence, but she was also sorry that it wouldn’t last. If Gemma was really going to do this job,

she was going to have to lose that innocence.

Or she was going to go mad.

***

Gemma raised the coffee to her lips with still shaking hands. She never drank coffee, but Lyra

insisted. She said black coffee was the best way to recover from something like this. Well,

actually she said whiskey was the best way to recover, but it was late and the small diner didn’t

sell alcohol. Probably for the best. Gemma didn’t drink whiskey either.

“I’m sorry,” Lyra said. “Sam should have prepared you for that before he brought you into

the house.” Gemma shook her head. “How could anyone ever prepare for something like that?”

Lyra stared into her own coffee, lost in her thoughts. “Mostly, you have to remind yourself

that the person—that girl—is gone.” She looked up at Gemma. “All that was in that room was an

empty shell. A piece of meat.”

Gemma could feel the tears streaming down her face, again. “But … she was there …

before. When he …” She trailed off and looked down at the table, sobbing quietly.

Lyra reached across and took her by the hand. “Gemma, look at me.” Reluctantly, Gemma

did as she was told and raised her head, just enough, that she could see Lyra’s face. “Why do you

want to do this job?” Gemma just stared at her, not sure how to respond. Because right now she

didn’t. She really, really didn’t want anything to with this job, ever again. “Because I want you

to understand,” Lyra continued, “that what you saw tonight is just the beginning.” Lyra held her

stare. Gemma wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. “There are very bad people out there,

Gemma, who do very, very bad things. Worse than you can possibly imagine. And in order to

stop them from doing these things, we have to catch them. Which means I, and you, if you’re

really going to do this with me, have to step into their worlds. Do you understand what that

means?” Still Gemma just stared at her. Of course she didn’t understand.

Lyra went on. “I know you think I just draw pictures, but you really need to understand that

that is not what I do.” Lyra gripped her hand, tighter. “I have to be there. I have to find a way

back to the crime and I have to be there with the witness and experience what they experience.

It’s the only way to really see what they see. It’s the only way to create an accurate depiction of

the person or people responsible.”

Despite how upset she was, the logical, scientific left hemisphere of Gemma’s brain that was

so dominant couldn’t quite process what Lyra was saying. “Are you,” Gemma began, still

believing that she must have misunderstood, “talking about some kind of … psychic …

connection?”

Lyra leaned back in her chair and raised her coffee. “Call it what you like. I don’t care much

for names or titles. But what it absolutely is not is just trying to reconstruct a face from witness

descriptions. Hell, a computer could do that.”

Gemma sat up, a little, in her chair. “Well, that’s the whole point. Of course a computer can

do it.”

“You’re not listening,” Lyra interrupted. “A computer can assemble a face from disparate

parts like a jigsaw puzzle, sure. The FBI has programs that do that now. But that’s just not

enough.”

Gemma shook her head, “I don’t understand.”

“The essence of a person,” she began, “Is what matters. And there is no computer in the

world that will ever be able to ‘assemble’ that.”

Gemma just stared at her, sitting up a little more. “Ms. Cole, I’m sorry, but that’s just not

true. A computer can do anything a person can do. It’s simply a matter of data, processing power

and programming.”

Lyra smiled, a little, which irritated Gemma. But she had to admit that being irritated felt a

lot better than the horror she felt just a few moments ago. “See, if you have enough processing

power—meaning a big enough computer—and the right programming—that’s where I come

in—and enough data, the computer can and will give you perfect results. It’s a mathematical

fact.”

Lyra smiled a little more. “OK, how much ‘processing power’ does it take for a computer to

have an imagination?”

“It’s irrelevant,” Gemma said, “It doesn’t need an imagination, as long as it has the proper

data.” Now Gemma was sitting fully upright. She even leaned across the table a little, as she

became more impassioned in her plea. “Plus, a computer can constantly change and morph a

face, offering a witness countless permutations until they find the right one. It would take you

hours to do that.”

Lyra actually laughed, pushing Gemma past irritation into anger. “You can’t show a witness

countless versions of the same face,” she said. “You will utterly destroy their recollection of the

real one. They will all blend together and the memory will be lost.”

“Not if the program has received sufficient data to begin with!” Gemma had all but forgotten

the horrible sight of that brutalized girl, her attention now turned to convincing this woman of

the simple, undeniable fact that a sufficiently advanced computer program could not only do

anything a human could do, it could do it better. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cole, but you simply cannot

dispute the fact that a brain is essentially an extremely advanced computer, and as long as we

can …”

“WHY do you want to do this job!” Lyra suddenly demanded, slamming the table with her

open hand.

“Because I want to prove that it can be done!” Gemma shouted back. She was fighting mad,

now, channeling all the fear and sadness and frustration of the day into this one moment. She

glared at Lyra, daring her to try and say something else, but all Lyra did was lean back again and

smile. She shook her head.

“It won’t be enough, Gemma,” she said, softly. “Doing this job, just to prove you can, won’t

be enough. Unless you find a better reason than that … a human reason … this job will destroy

you.”

Then she stood up from the table and tossed a few dollars down. “The coffee’s on me,

tonight, but if you ever cry out like that around another witness, I don’t care what Daryl says, I’ll

tie you to the hood of my car before I let you near one again. Have a good night.”

And with that she walked out of the diner, leaving Gemma staring, blankly, into her coffee.

Of course she had a better reason. So, as much as she wished she never had to step foot in that

police station again, this was something she had to do.

But she wasn’t about to share that reason with Lyra. She took a sip of the bitter coffee and

made a face. Maybe she should start drinking whiskey.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, Lyra entered her office and turned on the lights. She walked slowly past the

unidentified faces, hanging on her wall, remembering the unsolved case each one represented as

they stared out at her, taunting her. “You don’t know who we are …”

She reached her workstation and pulled the unfinished sketch of Mattie’s attacker down off

the wall behind her desk where it was hanging next to half a dozen others, including the sketch

of the smiling little girl. She looked at it for a long moment then continued on through the

office, searching for an empty spot on the other walls.

There weren’t many, but she finally found one and hung the sketch there. She sighed and

turned back to her desk, shaking her head. He was going to get away with it. He was going to do

it again. Damn this job, sometimes.

“Why did you move it?” Gemma said, from the doorway. Lyra glared at her. “Little girl, if

you ever walk into my office again without knocking, first, I’m going to bend you over my knee

and give you a spanking.”

Gemma stepped farther into the office and nodded. “OK, you’re right, I’m sorry. That was

very rude of me. But please … why did you move the picture?”

Lyra sat down at her desk and rubbed her face. This girl was so exhausting. She desperately

missed the relative bliss of just 24 hours earlier—a time she had begun to think of as “B.G.”—as

in, “Before Gemma.” Which, of course, meant that she was now living in the dark ages of

“A.M.” for “Anno Molestiam” or “The Year of Annoyance.”

“Sketches behind my desk are open, active cases,” she began. “Sketches in that flat file over

there,” she pointed at the heavy, steel flat file on the far side of the room, “are solved cases. The

rest are all open, inactive cases.”

Gemma looked around the room in wonder at all the half-finished faces. Lyra understood

how she felt. There were an awful lot of them. Gemma shook her head, “Why is she refusing to

testify?” she asked.

“Everyone’s different,” Lyra said, “Because she’s scared, probably. She thinks if she just

ignores it, it will go away.” She shook her head. “But guys like that, they don’t go away. Once he

knows he can get away with it he’ll go after her, again.”

Gemma looked at her, confused. “But, we’re still going to continue the investigation, aren’t

we?”

Lyra shrugged. “Not without a witness or corroborating evidence. That would be considered

‘a waste of resources’.”

“By corroborating evidence, you mean DNA? Did they do one of those rape kit, things?”

Gemma asked.

“They did. But there’s a backlog of about six thousand rape kits.”

Gemma’s mouth dropped. “Six thousand?”

Lyra nodded. “The lab receives around a thousand kits per year but can only process, at best,

four hundred. And the only way to move to the front of the line is to get an order from the D.A.”

“OK,” Gemma said, “So we just go talk to the D.A.”

Lyra shook her head. “I’ve tried. A thousand times I’ve tried. Abbie won’t do it without

corroborating evidence and, even if she agreed, the city wouldn’t pay for it.”

“So let’s go get some damn corroborating evidence!” Gemma was incensed. “Someone

stalked this girl, beat her and raped her! We can’t just throw up our hands like it didn’t happen!”

Lyra almost smiled. Maybe there was more to this Gemma than she thought. But she just

didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. “Go find some evidence,” Lyra repeated.

“Yes!”

“Cordon off the street, sequester all the witnesses, run sophisticated tests on every grain of

sand and hair follicle in a three block radius?” Lyra said, trying not to sound too condescending.

“Recreate the crime using professional actors and stop motion photography? That sort of thing?”

“Yes!” Gemma exclaimed, “Something!”

Lyra shook her head. “This is the real world. Most cases, we’re lucky to even get a

fingerprint team to the scene. They cost money and seldom get results. In fact, a case is three

times more likely to be solved by a sketch than fingerprints.”

Gemma looked like she’d been slapped in the face. Again, Lyra knew how she felt, but this

was reality, not a TV show. And reality is hard.

“So that’s it?” Gemma asked, distraught, “It’s just over?”

Lyra looked her in the eyes, “No, it’s definitely not over.” She motioned to the half-finished,

unidentified pictures covering the walls. “None of them are ‘over’ until we know who they are.

We just have to wait for more details to come in. More ‘data’ as you would say.”

At the mention of ‘data’ Gemma looked down at a USB drive she was holding in her hand,

almost like she’d forgotten it was there. “What is that?” Lyra asked. “Glamour shots?”

Gemma shook her head. “No, this is … potentially … more evidence. But if the case is

already closed …”

“What do you mean ‘potentially more evidence’?”

“It’s better if I show you.” Gemma walked toward the dusty, antique paperweight on Lyra’s

desk that qualified as her computer and stared at it with the sense of shock and distaste usually

reserved for open casket funerals of distant relatives. She turned and looked back at Lyra,

wrinkling her nose into a “yucky” face. “Maybe we should use my computer.”

***

As Gemma booted up her “barely acceptable but still infinitely better than Lyra’s” computer,

Lyra sat down on the edge of her desk, pushing the perfectly arranged desk caddy out of

alignment with her hip. “This is a very clean desk, Ms. Kilpatrick,” Lyra said. “You’re an anal

little thing, aren’t you?”

Gemma wanted to respond, but she was currently fighting an epic internal battle not to

realign the desk caddy that Lyra had so unceremoniously sent skittering across her desk with her

bottom. Gemma knew, if she just reached out and straightened it, Lyra would ridicule and torture

her mercilessly for it. And she didn’t think her obsessive compulsive nature should be a subject

of ridicule and torture. She gritted her teeth and toughed it out. “I like to keep things neat and

orderly, yes,” was all she said. But that seemed to satisfy Lyra, for now.

Then she reached down, picked up Gemma’s purse and started to dig through it like a child

looking for a treat. Gemma was horrified. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? I’m going through your things.” Every item she pulled

out of the purse she then tossed haphazardly onto the desk. Gemma was afraid she was going to

hyperventilate.

“Please,” she said, “Please stop doing that!”

Lyra smiled. “No.” She removed Gemma’s wallet and opened it. Began to flip through her

credit cards.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Gemma demanded. “I want to know more about you,”

Lyra answered, matter-of-factly, “why do you think?” She pulled something out of the wallet.

Oh, no … it was a picture of Ernest. Lyra raised her eyebrows and held the picture up to Gemma.

“You still keep a picture of you ex-boyfriend in your wallet?”

“I don’t …” Gemma stammered. “He’s not …”

But Lyra wasn’t listening. She was staring at the picture. Studying, actually. “You did the

right thing, breaking up with him,” she said, still looking at the picture. “He was all wrong for

you.”

“I didn’t ‘break up with him’,” Gemma said, snatching the picture away, “He just didn’t

move to Texas with me.”

“Good,” Lyra said. “He’s a self-aggrandizing, narrow-minded narcissist who doesn’t have a

generous bone in his body.”

Gemma was incensed. “You’re never even met him!”

Lyra laughed, “I don’t need to meet him, I can tell everything I need to know from his face.”

Gemma just looked at her. Was she really that crazy?

“Mian Xiang?” Lyra asked, like those words were supposed to mean anything. “Chinese art

of face reading?” Still Gemma just stared. What the heck was she talking about?

Lyra sighed. “It’s only been around for 3,000 years, of course you’ve never heard of it.” She

waived toward the computer screen. “What is this you’re showing me, anyway?”

Gemma stared at her for another moment then turned back to the screen. She took a deep

breath, trying to calm herself. Finally, she moused over the “play” button and the video footage

from the convenience store appeared on the screen. “Just watch the people as they pass by on the

street.”

Lyra leaned in for a closer view. It was a video playback of the outside camera. People just

walked along, in and out of the camera’s range, oblivious to the fact that they were being

recorded. “Nobody’s paying attention to the camera,” Gemma said. “Nobody cares.”

Then a man dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt walked by, turning away from the camera as

he passed. “Except for that guy,” Gemma continued.

“He looked away from the camera,” Lyra said, thinking.

“And his clothes look the same …” Gemma responded, “I think it’s the guy from the bus.”

Lyra considered that and kind of shrugged. “Even if it is, we can’t see his face. Doesn’t do

us any good.”

Gemma beamed. She’d been waiting for this next part. “That’s what I thought, too. But then

I saw this.” She zoomed in on an old, coin operated newspaper dispenser, on the street side of the

sidewalk and backed up the recording to the moment where the man looked away. Lyra leaned in

closer, staring at the playback.

For just an instant, something flashed in the glass of the dispenser. Gemma paused it again,

ran it back, then advanced it forward, frame by frame, finally pausing it on the flash. “It’s his

reflection,” she said, looking back at Lyra, proudly. “When he looked away from the camera, he

looked right into the glass.”

***

As Lyra waited for the high-resolution printer in the crime lab to spit out a hard copy of the

reflected image, she stared at Gemma. The girl was clearly quite proud of herself, and as much as

it irritated Lyra, she had reason to be. Finding the reflection in the newspaper dispenser was quite

clever, and the truth was, it couldn’t have been done without her blessed “technology.”

Not that she ever say that to Gemma.

“Is there anything you want to say to me?” Gemma asked, looking back at her.

“I can think of quite a few things,” Lyra said, “But I don’t think you’ll like them very

much.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gemma replied, “As long as it’s an admission that the only reason

we’re standing here is because of the technological miracle of computer enhancement, I think I’ll

probably like it just fine.”

Lyra looked around the room. Somehow she had to change the subject or she was going to

say or do something that was unkind, even by her admittedly loose standards. She noticed a

young man, about Gemma’s age, working on a computer on the other side of the lab and smiled,

wickedly. “Now there’s the kind of man you should be with.”

Gemma lost her self-satisfied smile. “What? What are you talking about?”

Lyra pointed at the nerd … scratch that … nice young man. “Him, over there. Great nose,

generous eyes, and I don’t have to tell you what those full lips mean …”

Gemma interrupted her, “—I told you, I am in a serious relationship. I’m not interested in

your ancient Chinese dating service.”

Lyra pretended to ignore her. This was working, perfectly. “And look at the way he’s

spinning that pencil around! You don’t have to be a Mian Xiang master, like me, to appreciate

finger dexterity like that …”

“—OK, here we go!” Gemma interrupted again, desperate to change the subject. Lyra

smiled to herself. Besides Mian Xiang, she was also a master at the art of distraction. She looked

back at the printer as it finished buzzing and clicking, and the image finally emerged from the

bowels of the machine.

It was a blurry, pixilated mess. It was hardly recognizable as a human face, forget trying to

find any identifying features.

Lyra raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I stand corrected. It’s a ‘miracle of technology’ after all.

This is the absolute worst picture I’ve ever seen.”

Gemma stared at the picture, defensively. “It’s a little rough, but once I run it through the

imaging software it will look much better.”

“Imaging software?” Lyra asked. “What’s that?”

“Well, basically, it starts with the image we have, then the computer uses an assumption

algorithm to ‘fill in the gaps’ and create a fully realized, accurate depiction of the subject.”

Lyra snatched the image out of her hands and patted her on the shoulder. “Tell you what,

you go play with your ‘assumption … whatever’ while I go draw this guy.” She turned to leave

the lab. “Well see who’s better at ‘filling in the gaps’.”

***

Gemma wasn’t worried. She knew the program was superior. It went line by line, trying

thousands of potential variations, comparing them against the FBI criminal profiling database,

selecting the highest probability, which in turn created the base for the next line. It was scientific

and it was precise and there was simply no possible way Lyra could compete with that kind of

raw processing power.

But maybe she’d go see how Lyra was doing. Just for the heck of it.

As she made her way toward Lyra’s office, she walked past the crime lab and just kind of

glanced through the door. There, still at his workstation, was the boy Lyra was so rudely trying

to force on her like an arranged marriage. Without meaning to, Gemma kind of let her gaze

linger. He wasn’t bad looking, actually, in a nerdy sort of way. And Lyra was right, he did have

very nice fingers …

“Well if it isn’t the crime scene crasher,” she heard a man’s voice say. The hair on the back

of her neck stood on end. She recognized the cocky drawl without even turning around. It was

the Pretty Boy Cop.

He was standing behind her—right behind her, actually—looking down at her with that

well-practiced lopsided grin. Gemma was simultaneously flustered and furious, torn between the

sudden contradictory urges to hit him and … well, she had to quickly flush the other urge from

her mind. That was just crazy. How did that urge even get there?

“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking a step back. “Shouldn’t you be harassing

teenage girls, or something?”

“Come on now,” he said, “You know you’re the only one I want to harass.”

She just kind of stared at him, not sure how to respond. Clearly that’s not what she was

expecting. “Umm … why?” She said, suddenly self-conscious about the way she looked. Had

she remembered to put on any makeup this morning?

“My name is Chip,” he said, holding out his hand.

“No it’s not,” she blurted out. “Your name is really ‘Chip’?”

He shrugged and kind of scratched behind his ear, grinning that grin. She wondered, again,

if he practiced these moves or if they were just natural. Because they were darned effective. “Yes

ma’am, I’m afraid so. Sounds like a ‘70’s porn star, right? S’why I had to shave my ‘stache’. Got

tired of people calling me ‘John Holmes’.” He leaned a little closer to her, his lopsided grin

growing even more lopsided. “Not that it’s an inaccurate nickname, mind you.”

She just looked at him. That name meant nothing to her, but whoever it was and whatever he

meant by it, she was pretty sure she should be offended. “OK. Well, I can think of plenty of other

reasons why a mustache would be ill-advised, so … I’d say you made the right choice.”

“So listen,” he said, tucking his hands into his cop belt. Was he flexing his muscles on

purpose, or did they just do that because his shirt was made for a much smaller person and he’d

rolled up his sleeves? “You ran off last night without giving me your number.” She blinked.

What? “For that cocktail I owe you. I figure it’s the least I can do. To welcome you to the

department, and all.”

She felt herself start to panic. This was really happening. He was really asking her out. He

was awful but … my goodness, he was good looking. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for her to …

What? No. Of course not. What was she thinking? He was a pig. And there was Ernest to

think about, of course. Why was she even having this conversation with herself? Uh oh. How

long had she been having it? Was she just standing there, stupidly, not saying anything?

“Hello?” He asked. “You still with me?”

“Yes,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I’m just terribly busy. And I have a boyfriend.

A very serious boyfriend.”

“That’s OK,” he said. “I’m not talking about sex. Just a ‘hi, how you doin’ cocktail. We’d

be just like a couple of girls. I’ll even drink a cosmo if it’d make you feel better.”

“No” she said, walking away. “It would not make me feel better. Thank you, but no, thank

you. Have a nice day.”

“Some other time then,” he said, doing that way-too-cute-head scratch thing. “I’m not one to

take no for an answer.”

She hurried away without responding. She was flustered, now, and she hated being flustered.

She made a mental note to look up this Chip person’s schedule—seriously, that couldn’t be his

real name—to make sure she could avoid seeing him, again. She was less concerned about his

willingness to take no for an answer than she was of her ability to keep giving it.

She reached Lyra’s door and took a deep breath to settle herself. She leaned in to peer

through the window …

“What are you doing?” Lyra demanded from behind. Gemma almost jumped out of her skin.

She looked back at Lyra, who was glaring at her, a piece of sketch paper in her hand.

“Nothing …” Gemma stammered. “I was just … I wanted to see how you were coming? On your

picture.”

Lyra looked at her for a long moment then held up the piece of paper. “John Henry’s

finished,” she said. “How goes the steam hammer?”

***

Lyra watched Sam, carefully, as he studied the two pictures. He finally looked up, clearly

confused. “They don’t look anything alike.”

It was true. Somehow the computer had gotten everything wrong. Not that Lyra knew for

certain … oh who was she kidding? Of course she knew. She was right, which meant, by virtue

of the fact that the computer had constructed a completely different face, it had to be wrong. But

that wasn’t what she was asking Detective Obvious.

“Really, Sam? We hadn’t noticed,” she said, making no effort to hide her irritation. “What

we want to know is which one do you think looks ‘more right’?”

He stared at the two pictures, stupidly, then slid them back across the desk. “How am I

supposed to tell that?” he asked, “And more importantly, why are we even talking about this?

Hasn’t this investigation been closed?”

“Does that mean we shouldn’t still find the guy and put him in prison?” Lyra demanded.

“Well, yes, actually. That’s exactly what it means.”

“She’s just scared, Sam. You know that.” Lyra slid the pictures back in front of him. “Just

tell me which one you think we should take to the D.A. so we can start to circulate it.”

“The D.A.?” he shifted in his seat, uncomfortably, “Lyra, come on. Even if one of these

turns out to be accurate, so what? It’s just a picture of a guy walking down the street. It doesn’t

tie him to Mattie in the least.”

“What about the bus video?” Gemma asked. “He was dressed just like one of the men who

got off the bus after Mattie.”

Sam looked at Lyra. “Bus video? What bus video? When did you get a bus video?”

Lyra fired an angry glance at Gemma—next time, keep your mouth shut—then turned back

to Sam. “I’ve been here almost 20 years, Sam. You don’t think I know people at Metro?”

Sam rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “But if you didn’t get a proper warrant,

anything you got from the video would be inadmissible, anyway. You know that. Jesus, Lyra …”

“—Don’t ‘Jesus, Lyra’ me, Sam! I knew I’d never get the warrant and it turns out we

couldn’t see his face in the video, anyway. So let’s not beat a horse that never lived …” Lyra

trailed off as something occurred to her. She looked at Gemma. “But … the bus had a driver,

didn’t it?”

Gemma realized what she was saying. “Of course! Maybe the driver can pick between the

two sketches!”

“And determine what, exactly?” Sam asked, “That he was on the bus? So what?”

“You know, I expect this sort of narrow-minded obstructionism from Daryl, but not from

you,” Lyra snapped. “We can show the driver a sketch lineup, these two and four other random

people. If he or she picks my sketch …”

“—Or mine,” Gemma chimed in.

“Like that’s going to happen,” Lyra shot back, without missing a beat. “Then maybe that

will be enough to get Abbie to let us at least put the sketch out there. We could get lucky and

bring someone in for questioning …”

“—and compare his DNA to the rape kit sample!” Gemma said, excitedly. “This could

work!”

Lyra looked at her, marginally impressed with the girl’s excitement. She was a pain in the

ass and wrong about almost everything, but at least her heart seemed to be in the right place. And

that was a start.

Sam leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, thinking. Lyra knew he found her

exhausting but that was kind of the point. She who gives up last wins. And Lyra was not one to

give up. “Maybe …” he said, tiredly. “IF we get a strong reaction from the driver, and that’s a

big if, I might be able to convince Abbie to let you run the sketch. I doubt she’ll prioritize the

rape kit as that costs real money but … I guess you can give it a try, if you want.”

Lyra cocked her head to one side. “Did you think I was asking your permission?”

Sam shook his head. Of course not. “Because the only thing I will ever ask your permission

for,” she continued, “is … no … never mind. I’ll never ask your permission.”

Gemma giggled. Sam turned a cold stare her way and she quickly tamped it down, but Lyra

was proud of her. Bucking authority, already, on her second day. Maybe there was hope for her,

after all.

***

Gemma sat on the hard, metal bench, watching the heavy set bus driver pull her uniform out of

her locker. She appeared to be about Lyra’s age but her dark skin was smooth and nearly

wrinkle-free. Not that Lyra’s face was wrinkled. Lyra was beautiful—almost too beautiful.

Gemma wondered for a moment why she felt like she had to police her thoughts around Lyra. It

wasn’t like she could read her mind. Could she?

“Do you have any idea how many people I see every day,” the woman said, her ‘I don’t care

who you are or what you want I’m not going to help you’ attitude dripping from every pore.

“I do,” Lyra said, smoothly. “I understand it’s going to be difficult, but if you could just take

a look at the girl’s picture, maybe it will bring something to mind?” She held up an 8X10 photo

of Mattie, before the beating, for the driver to see. The woman looked at it through slitted eyes,

her lips pursed, and shook her head. “Nope. Never seen her.”

“She’s a little blind girl, not much bigger than this one,” she nodded toward Gemma, which

irritated Gemma to no end. She couldn’t figure out why Lyra enjoyed picking on her so much.

She wondered if Lyra liked kicking puppies, too. “She was probably wearing sun glasses.”

There it was. A hint of recognition flashed across the driver’s face. Gemma knew she

remembered. She could see it. But the driver still didn’t say anything. Why wasn’t she saying

anything? “She’s lying!” Gemma blurted out before she could stop herself. She did that a lot.

She made a quick mental note to work on not blurting things out.

Lyra looked at her, in disbelief. Did she really just say that? Could anyone really be that

awful at reading people? Gemma closed her eyes. Yes. Yes, she could.

Predictably, the driver’s bad attitude went from bad to worse. “Don’t you tell me I’m lying!”

she said, glaring daggers at Gemma, “I know my rights! You want to question me about anything

you need a warrant!”

Lyra glared her own daggers at Gemma for another moment then turned back to the driver.

“I’m not a police officer, ma’am. I’m just an artist who works with the police trying to stop bad

people from hurting anyone else. And you’re right, you don’t have to say another word to me if

you don’t want to.”

The driver was still staring at Gemma, who suddenly wished she could crawl under the

bench. “What about her? Who’s she?”

“She’s a pain in the ass,” Lyra said. Gemma looked at her, her mouth dropping, just a bit.

The driver smiled. “To tell you the truth,” Lyra continued, “I’m not really sure what she is. But

she’s definitely not a cop. And she doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.”

Gemma closed her mouth. Looked away, steaming, as the driver’s face broke into a broad

smile. Gemma couldn’t believe it. Now the driver hated her, too.

“Do you have any children?” Lyra asked.

The woman nodded, “Two. Little boy and a little girl.”

“Imagine if that was your little girl in the hospital instead of Mattie,” Lyra said. “I know it’s

hard to remember, but if you could please try.” She held up the picture of Mattie, again. The

driver looked at it and sighed. She took the picture from Lyra and sat down on the bench. She

stared at the picture, really looking at it for the first time, then slowly nodded her head. “OK …

yeah, I remember her. She rides my bus quite a bit, actually. Sweet little girl.”

Lyra patted her on the knee. “That’s wonderful. You’re doing great. Now, if it’s OK with

you, I’d like to show you a few more pictures?” She nodded. Sure.

Gemma was stunned. She couldn’t believe Lyra had turned this woman around like this,

mostly by creating a shared hatred of Gemma. Oh well, at least she was good for something.

Lyra handed the driver the stills from the bus surveillance video. “Now, as you can see,

these men got off the bus right after Mattie.”

“I can’t see their faces.”

“I know. But this one right here, the white man in the flannel shirt, is the one we’re looking

for.” She spread five sketches out on the bench, including the ones done by Lyra and the

computer. “Do any of these look familiar?” The driver turned so she could see them and gave

each a long look.

“That one,” she said, pointing at Lyra’s sketch.

Lyra looked at Gemma and smiled, slightly. Gemma felt her face get hot. She pointed at the

sketch rendered by the computer. “Are you sure it wasn’t, maybe, this one?” The driver shook

her head. “No, I’m sure. That’s him right there. I remember that big scar on his face. But he had

these really light colored eyes. Really creeped me out.”

Gemma closed her eyes. How could the computer have possibly known about the scar?

The driver smiled at Lyra. “I hope that helps.”

Lyra smiled back. “Tremendously.”

***

Lyra and Sam followed the district attorney, Abbie Frost, down a long, wide hallway as she

flipped through a folder. She was a youngish woman with sharp features and dark hair cut in a

harsh bob, and the click of her heels reverberated against the smooth, marble walls. “Why am I

looking at this, detective?” She asked, handing the file back to Sam. “I understand we don’t even

have a witness.”

“I know, but I think we have enough to pursue a case, anyway.” Sam said. Lyra smiled, to

herself. Sam really didn’t want to be here, but he was doing it for her.

“Why?” she asked. “If the woman won’t testify there’s no way for me to prove the sex

wasn’t consensual.”

“Come on now, Abbie,” Lyra said, “You know that’s a ridiculous thing to say.” Lyra also

knew that was a ridiculous thing to say, but she couldn’t help herself. Abbie Frost drove her nuts.

Frost ignored Lyra and looked at Sam. “And what is she doing here? You know I don’t have

time for this.”

Sam started to respond but Lyra couldn’t just let that slide. She stepped in front of Frost,

forcing her to stop walking. “Listen, I know you don’t like me and, quite frankly, I don’t care

much for you, either. You’re more concerned with making the evening news than enforcing the

law.”

“And you seem to think insulting me is the way to get what you want.”

“This isn’t about you and me, Abbie, this is about a young blind girl who was brutally raped

and beaten. And only you have the power to help me get the son of a bitch off the street.” Lyra

stared into her eyes. Even the ice queen had to melt at that, didn’t she?

Frost pursed her lips and hardened her eyes. Apparently not. “Don’t put this on me, Lyra

Cole, I heard from detective Randall what happened in that hospital room. The loss of the

witness is on you.” And with that she clicked off down the hall, again, glancing back over her

shoulder, “Interesting sales technique, though. I’ll have to try insulting the jury the next time I

want to lose a case.”

“We can get this guy, Abbie!” Lyra shouted after her. “I know we can! You don’t want to

pay for the DNA test, fine, but at least let them run my sketch on the news!”

Abbie kept walking. Lyra couldn’t believe she was losing her. “You know he’ll do this

again!” she cried out, in desperation.

Abbie stopped. Lyra could see her shoulders sag. Lyra started walking after her. “You know

he will,” she continued. “If he gets away with it this time, he’ll just keep coming back. He’ll feel

emboldened by his success and he’ll escalate.” Abbie looked at her. Lyra knew she wanted to

help, despite herself, but Lyra also knew Abbie was right. The case was a mess. But she kept

pressing. “At least let me run the sketch. It won’t cost the city a dime and we might get lucky.”

She was only a few feet away from Frost, now. She stared into her eyes again, this time pleading.

“Please, Abbie. Please let me run the sketch.”

Frost stared into her eyes. Lyra felt a tinge of hope. Maybe … but then she saw it fade. She

knew what Frost was going to say before she said it. “I’m sorry, Lyra. I really am. But unless this

girl is willing to testify, under oath, that he forced himself on her, all I could even charge the guy

with is being ugly.” Her face softened into an almost-smile, for just an instant. “And as hard as

I’ve tried, I can’t seem to make that a criminal offense.”

And with that she left a defeated Lyra standing in the middle of the hallway, hanging her

head. Sam walked up to her, not sure what to say. “I’m sorry, Lyra, but she’s right. DNA test or

not, without a victim, we don’t really have a crime.”

Lyra looked up at him. He was right, which was annoying enough, but at least Lyra knew

what she had to do. Resolve washed across her face as she turned and walked off down the

hallway without another word.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“To talk to Mattie.”

CHAPTER SIX

Gemma stood, just down the street from where Lyra was sitting in her car, watching her. She was

reading a book and eating a cheeseburger and, as far as Gemma could tell, getting almost as

much of the burger on her lap as in her mouth. The top was up on her car and her engine was

running—probably because the air conditioner was on. She was just sitting there, spewing

hydrocarbons into the atmosphere and stuffing her face with bovine flesh. Gemma shook her

head. The woman was a menace.

Just go talk to her, Gemma told herself. You’re not doing anyone any good standing here,

sweating. She screwed up her courage and fought the sudden urge to make the sign of the cross,

which she hadn’t done since Catholic school, and finally started walking toward Lyra’s car.

She reached the window and hesitated. Lyra wasn’t paying attention, and she really didn’t

want to startle her, again. She kind of waved, but Lyra still didn’t notice as she was embroiled in

her book. Gemma sighed. She was going to have to knock.

She knocked on the window and, predictably, Lyra jumped, sending a cascade of cheese and

toppings into her lap. She looked at Gemma, murderously, rolling down the window. “What the

hell’s the matter with you?” Lyra hissed over the omnipresent chatter of her police scanner.

Gemma kind of smiled, apologetically. “You told me to knock.”

Lyra glared at her another moment, then motioned for her to get in. Gemma ran around to

the passenger door and climbed in, next to her. “How did you find me, anyway?” Lyra

demanded. “Detective Bradshaw told me you were going to talk to Mattie,” Gemma replied. “I

thought you might try her at the school, but they said she wouldn’t see you. So I thought you

might come to her house.”

“Wow, look at you,” Lyra said. “I bet you even figured that out without the help of a

computational device.” Gemma shrugged. “Well, I got her address from the file, but I used GPS

to get here.” She looked around. “Are we staking her out?”

“We are not doing anything,” Lyra said. “I am waiting to talk to her and you are annoying

me. Which is apparently becoming a habit.”

Then Gemma noticed the book Lyra was reading. “The Elegant Universe.” She was

shocked. “Wait,” she said, “Are you reading a book about string theory? I thought you hated

science.”

“No,” Lyra replied, “I hate technology. Science is our attempt to understand the infinite.

Technology is our attempt to control it. Now, stop talking. I’m trying to read.”

Lyra returned to her book and Gemma just sat there in uncomfortable silence. Well, not

silence, exactly. That darn police scanner was still droning on, nonsensically. It sounded like

they weren’t even speaking English. Finally, Gemma couldn’t take it anymore. She had to make

some kind of conversation.

“So …” she began, searching for something to say. “Why do you always listen to the police

scanner?”

Lyra didn’t even think enough of her stupid question to look up from her book. “Why do

you still carry a picture of your ex-boyfriend?”

Gemma just stared at her, wondering how anyone could possess the ability to so masterfully

control each and every conversation. Gemma, on the other hand, could only stammer in

response, “I … I don’t … why would you … that’s just … umm …” Gemma gave up. She knew

she’d think of about 10 witty comebacks over the next few hours, but at the moment, when it

mattered, she had nothing. She just sighed and hung her head. “Never mind.”

Lyra glanced up at her from her book. She must have noticed the defeat in Gemma’s eyes,

because, if only for a moment, she seemed to take pity on her. “The scanner is the lifeblood of

the city,” she replied. “You just never know what you’re listening for until you hear it.”

Lyra trailed off as something across the street caught her eye. “She’s here,” she said, as she

set down her book and burger. She opened her door and looked at Gemma. “You stay in the car.”

Gemma tried to protest, but Lyra was out of the car before a sound could escape Gemma’s

lips. So Gemma just kind of sat there, watching Lyra follow Mattie toward her house, debating

with herself as to what she should do. She knew the smart thing was just to wait there, but she

just didn’t feel like doing that particular “smart thing,” at the moment. Her curiosity was getting

the best of her—which was very unlike her. She made a mental note to talk to her therapist,

should she ever get one, about that old “curiosity and the cat” thing. Assuming said curiosity

didn’t cause her to meet the same fate as said cat before she could find said therapist.

She shook her head and steeled her nerves. Enough inner dialogue. She didn’t come all the

way out here to sit in the car and talk to herself. And with that quick burst of uncharacteristic

courage, she opened the door.

She jogged across the small, residential street as Lyra stepped up onto Mattie’s porch.

Mattie must have either heard her or somehow sensed that she was there, because she hurriedly

pulled her keys from her pocket and rushed to her door. She tried to put the key in the lock, but

for some reason it wouldn’t go in. Gemma could see that Mattie was on the verge of panic as she

struggled to unlock her door, but no matter how hard she tried, it just wasn’t working.

“It’s OK, Mattie,” Lyra said from behind her, “It’s just me, Lyra Cole.”

Mattie turned toward her, in a fury. “Are you insane? You scared me to death! What are you

doing here?”

Mattie continued to struggle with the lock, but no matter what she tried or what she did, she

just could not get it to work. “For one thing I’m making a point,” Lyra replied, “It doesn’t matter

what you do or how careful you are, unless we find this guy and put him away, you’re never

going to be safe.”

Mattie was now on the verge of tears. Why couldn’t she unlock the door? “Goddammit!”

“It’s not going to work, Mattie,” Lyra said, calmly, “I filled the lock with soap.”

Gemma, who was now hiding down behind the railing, almost gasped as Mattie turned on

Lyra. “What? Why? Why would you do that?”

“To make sure you couldn’t go inside without talking to me,” Lyra said, without a hint of

sarcasm or guilt, “But don’t worry, we just have to melt it back out with a hair dryer.”

Mattie didn’t know what to say. Neither did Gemma.

“What is wrong with you?” Mattie asked, in disbelief.

“You have to be willing to testify.” Lyra answered.

“No,” Mattie began to shake her head, “I told Officer Randall … I … I don’t want to.”

“I know you did,” Lyra began, “and I know why you did it. But you’re wrong, Mattie.

Ignoring this will not make it go away.”

“I would like for you to go away!” Mattie shouted.

“That’s not going to happen either,” Lyra said, matter-of-factly. Distraught, Mattie just kind

of plopped down in her porch swing and hung her head in her hands. “Why?” she asked. “Why is

this so important to you? You must see hundreds of cases like this every year.”

“I do. And I push just this hard for every one of them.”

“But why? It isn’t your job …”

“—Yes, it is. It is my job. It’s somebody else’s job to track them down and catch them, but

figuring out who they are is my job. No matter what it takes.”

“And then what? Say you identify him? What if they don’t catch him?”

“Then at least you’ll show him you aren’t going to just roll over and take it! You’re going to

fight!”

Mattie shook her head, the tears flowing freely. “I can’t! I just can’t …”

Lyra stared at her for a long moment. Gemma listened with rapt attention. She could see

something brewing in Lyra’s eyes, some internal struggle that was raging as Lyra debated with

herself about what she should say next. Then some sort of resolve washed across her face. Some

decision she’d made. Gemma suddenly felt a nervous flutter in the pit in her stomach. Like the

calm before the storm.

“I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone,” Lyra said, slowly. “When I was

young I had a sister who was blind.”

Mattie turned toward her. She wasn’t expecting that.

“She was a lot like you,” Lyra continued, “Strong, independent, wouldn’t let anyone treat

her any differently than anyone else. And then one day …” her voice cracked as she was

overcome with emotion. “One day she was raped. Just like you.”

Mattie stared at Lyra in shock. Gemma felt tears begin to well up in her eyes as Lyra

continued. “She tried to explain to the police what he looked like, but they wouldn’t listen. She

was blind, they said, how could she identify who he was?”

Even Lyra’s eyes were misting over, now. “Unfortunately, he knew that, too. So he went

after her again.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to say next. “But she

fought back—like I said, she was a fighter, like you—and he killed her.”

Mattie’s cheeks were wet with tears as she listened in stunned silence.

“She’s the reason I became a sketch artist,” Lyra said, smiling just a bit at the memory of her

sister. “I couldn’t save her, but maybe I could help save others.” She looked at Mattie and gently

touched her cheek. “Maybe I can help save you.”

Mattie broke down. The pain and fear ebbed out of her in a torrent of raw emotion as Lyra

wrapped her arms around her. “Please, Mattie …” Lyra whispered, “Please let me help you.”

Mattie nodded. She nodded and she cried. And from her hiding spot behind the railing,

Gemma cried too.

***

As Lyra waited for the sexy bartender to refill her whiskey, she stared at Gemma and Mattie,

sitting together at a small table on the far side of the dimly lit room. She had, begrudgingly,

invited the two of them to the little dive bar where she often went to watch football and forget

work, mostly because she didn’t want to go anywhere else. But she still felt a little violated,

letting Gemma into her inner sanctuary. Gemma. What was it about that girl that drove Lyra so

crazy? Was it just because she was young? Was she jealous of Gemma’s youth and innocence?

Ridiculous. Mattie was young, too, and Lyra felt nothing but pride and respect for her. Even

though that animal had taken away her innocence, there was nothing about Mattie or her

mannerisms that signaled “victim.” She radiated quiet strength and determination. She was going

to be OK.

So what was it about Gemma? She wasn’t cocky or rude, quite the opposite, actually. She

had two left feet, one or the other of which was perpetually in her mouth, but Lyra had been

known to let an improper word slip, here and there, herself.

Wait … was that it? Did the very sound of Gemma’s voice grate like fingernails on a

chalkboard because she reminded Lyra of a younger, less jaded version of herself?

Even more ridiculous.

But the fact remained—whatever it was—it wasn’t going away any time soon. So,

unfortunately, Lyra was just going to have to continue torturing her. Sorry, Gemma.

“Here ya go, Lyra,” the sexy bartender, Tina, said as she slid Lyra’s whiskey to her from

across the bar. “Whatcha up to tonight?”

Lyra sighed. “Not much. Little … work party, I guess.” She smiled at Tina and Tina smiled

back. They had had some nice times together. Tina was sweet, if far too young.

“So … I get off early tonight,” Tina began, with a sly grin. “If you want to go do something,

maybe?”

Lyra considered the offer for a moment. Tina could be quite wonderful, that was for sure.

But Lyra knew she was just too tired to put her heart into anything, tonight. Even something as

delightful as Tina. “Not tonight, honey,” she replied. “Take a rain check, though?”

Tina squeezed her hand, affectionately, and smiled. “Anytime. You still have my number?”

Lyra smiled. “You don’t think I’d lose something like that, do you?” Tina winked at her and

turned to another customer as Lyra began to walk back toward the table. As she mulled over the

assortment of amusing criticisms and disparagements she was planning to toss Gemma’s way

like so many hand grenades, her train of thought was suddenly broken by the buzzing of her

phone.

Well, damn, she thought. Only two reasons for a text this time of night and, unfortunately,

she wasn’t getting many booty calls these days—although, technically, she had more or less just

gotten one from Tina. For just an instant her thoughts returned to Tina—sweet, pretty Tina. Lyra

had never been one to limit herself, sexually (or any other way, for that matter.) But she quickly

shook it off as she read the text. Oh well. Humiliating Gemma for her own amusement would

have to wait.

“Sorry, girls,” she said, upon arrival at the table. “Duty calls.” Gemma looked up at her with

those annoyingly wide eyes. “Oh?” she asked. “Do we have a case?”

“Did you receive a text telling you we have a case?” Lyra asked. Gemma pulled out her

phone and stared at it, clearly wishing she had. “Umm … no,” she said.

“Then, no,” Lyra replied, gleefully. That worked out better than she had hoped! She got to

belittle Gemma and leave this ridiculous little party without being rude to Mattie. Lyra had

always been good at taking wins where she could get them.

Mattie stood up and Lyra hugged her. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” Lyra said. “We’re

going to get him. I promise.”

“I know we will,” Mattie responded. “But even if we don’t, you were right. Fighting back

feels better.”

Lyra gave her another squeeze then looked at Gemma, who clearly wanted a hug as well.

Too bad. “Make sure Mattie gets home,” was all Lyra said, as she downed her whiskey. Then she

turned and left the bar, a self-satisfied grin spreading across her face, leaving Gemma gawking

after her.

***

Little did Tony know, when the back door opened, spilling light out into the dark parking lot, his

life was about to change, forever. He was just stopping by the bar for a quick drink or two like he

did most nights. Really it wasn’t about the drinks, it was about not going home to his empty,

depressing house. He just enjoyed being around people—even if he was too shy to interact with

them, very much.

But then he saw who it was leaving the bar. It was her. The pretty blonde he’d been secretly

staring at for months, trying to work up the courage to introduce himself. He wasn’t a creepy

stalker, or anything, he just wasn’t one of those “walk up to a pretty girl and just start talking”

kinds of guys. He always got all tongue tied and awkward and just came off looking like a

schmuck.

Especially with her. The bartender said her name was Lyra Cole. And she was … sublime.

But as he watched her walk toward her car, he made a decision. Tonight was the night. He

would say something, casual, in passing. Something that couldn’t be construed as “hitting on

her.” Then, the next time he saw her, she would no longer be someone he’d never spoken to, and

maybe he’d be able to start up a conversation like normal human rather than a blathering idiot. It

seemed like a good plan, in kind of a sad, pathetic way.

He passed by Lyra as she climbed into her Mustang convertible. “Nice car,” he thought. And

it occurred to him that was the perfect icebreaker. But for reasons unfathomable to him instead,

he heard himself say, “Dark, isn’t it?” Wait. Did he just say that out loud? Did he really just

point out the darkness, in the middle of the night?

Lyra looked at him, strangely. Kind of nodded, an amused smile creeping across her face.

“Yes,” she said. “Funny how that happens at night.”

As she climbed the rest of the way into her car and cranked the big engine to life, Tony just

stopped and hung his head. ‘Dark, isn’t it?’ What the hell happened to ‘nice car’? He was

supposed to say ‘nice car’! He really was the worst pick up artist on the planet. Maybe he should

try to get on that show—the one where the guy in the fur hat taught losers how to hit on women.

‘Course, he doubted that show was still on the air … another opportunity missed.

He turned to watch Lyra Cole wheel her car out onto the street, and out of his life, feeling

like he should shout something out. Something to try and undo the damage he had done.

Something like “See ya next time, OK?” But all that came out was a strange croaking sound, like

a dying bullfrog. Man, could it get any worse?

Yep. As she turned, her headlights washed across another parked car, illuminating a man

who was sitting inside. The guy had that stubble-head stubble-face look that seemed to be all the

rage these days, as well as a nasty looking scar across his jaw. And he had the strangest smile

pasted on his face. Tony knew he was laughing at him. Laughing at his ineptness.

Tony just sighed and continued on toward the bar, thinking that stubble-head-scar-face-guy

probably would have said something cooler than “dark, isn’t it?” Hell, anyone could have done

better than that.

He opened the bar door and two more girls almost fell out on top of him. He smiled before

he had time to be shy and nervous, and held the door open for them.

As the girls walked out, one of them, the one wearing black rimmed glasses, looked up at

him and smiled, back. “Dark outside, isn’t it?” she said. He stared at her in shock. Did she really

just say that? He wasn’t the only one?

But she must have seen the look of surprise on his face and mistaken it for ridicule, because

her face quickly clouded with embarrassment and she looked away. He stammered, trying to tell

her it was OK, that he just said the same thing, but he couldn’t put the words together. And just

like that, she was gone.

Tony sighed and continued on to the bar. Oh well. She was way too young for him, anyway.

But still, he hated that he inadvertently made her feel bad, when she was clearly a kindred spirit.

He sat down at the bar and the pretty bartender, Tina smiled at him and waved. Poured him a

beer without him having to ask. It was a little thing, and he knew it was just her job, but it still

made him feel good to be recognized. She set the beer down in front of him. “You just missed

Lyra,” she said, as she leaned down on her elbows, all but thrusting her rather impressive

cleavage in his face. He always wondered if she did that on purpose or just didn’t realize what

she was doing, but he worked very hard to look her right in the eyes so she would know he

wasn’t looking down her shirt. Wasn’t easy, though. “Tonight could have been the night,” she

continued with a sly smile.

“I doubt it,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t even say ‘nice car’ without tripping all over

myself.”

She laughed and stood back, placing her hands on her shapely hips. “You never have any

trouble talking to me?”

He smiled and took a sip of his beer—that first, cold sip was always the best—and glanced

up at the TV. “That’s because I know I have no chance with you. Takes away the pressure.”

She laughed. “Why, just because I like girls?”

She said something else, but he wasn’t really listening anymore. Something on the TV,

above the bar, had grabbed his attention. On the screen was a sketch, one of those forensic sketch

things, along with a number to call “with any information.” He couldn’t hear what they were

saying because the volume was turned down but what grabbed his attention was the scar on the

guy’s jaw.

It was just like the one on the guy in the car, outside.

He stared at the sketch, thinking. Was it the same guy? He only got a glimpse, at night,

through a windshield, but there was just something about him. Something about the scar. He just

couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the same guy.

“Tony? You OK?” Tina asked, and he realized he was just staring at the screen, ignoring

her. For just an instant, he thought about minding his own business and returning to the

pleasantries of chatting with Tina while stealing glances at her décolletage. But there was just

something about that sketch. About that scar. For some reason he just felt compelled to do

something.

He took a deep breath and stood up. “Hold this for me, I’ll be right back,” he told Tina as he

keyed the number from the screen into his phone, and headed toward the door.

***

James couldn’t believe the time had almost come, again. He had been following her for days,

now, and the moment was finally at hand.

As he sat in his car in the dark parking lot, waiting for his china doll to leave the dirty little

bar, he began to fantasize about the pleasure he was about to experience once again. The control.

The power. There was nothing like it—holding her life and death in the palm of his hand. It was

almost better than the ecstasy of entering her. Of hurting her. As he remembered the sensation of

pounding her little face against the cold steel of the dumpster … of her fragile bones shattering in

his hands … of being inside her … he couldn’t help but smile.

At that very moment, headlights washed across him and he locked eyes with some guy who

just happened to look at him. They stared at each other for the strangest of moments, and James

felt his smile broaden. If that guy only knew what James was thinking …

Then the light was gone and the guy continued on toward the bar, opening the back door just

as his china doll slipped out. James felt his pulse quicken. It was time! The return to the rapture

was almost upon him.

But then he noticed his china doll wasn’t alone. For the briefest of instants, he wondered if

he should wait. That’s what Ben would say—never take an unnecessary risk. There is always

time.

But Ben didn’t understand. When he’d taught James the ways of the world, he didn’t realize

that James was going to be a god. That there would come a time when he could do anything and

rules would cease to apply to him.

As the girls passed by his car, James looked at the one walking with his china doll. She was

exquisite, too. So small and frail. And he began to laugh, quietly to himself, as he realized she

belonged to him now, too. He would take them both. He would destroy them both.

He climbed out of the car, careful not to let the door make any noise, and crept silently up

behind them. They were talking and laughing, unaware of the danger lurking behind them. He

felt the weight of the hunting knife in his hand as he turned it over and raised it above his head as

he ran toward his new china doll and crushed her in the back of the skull with the heavy steel ball

on the butt of the knife. It was a mighty blow, and sheer joy coursed through his veins as her

knees crumpled and she collapsed to the ground.

He kneeled down and hit her, one more time, to make sure she was out, then slipped the

knife into the back of his pants and grabbed his original china doll, once again in his arms. She

tried to scream—of course she tried to scream—but she was powerless against him. He clamped

his hand down over her mouth and, once again, dragged her away from the prying eyes of the

world.

“Please,” she cried. “Please, not again …”

He forced her to the ground and slammed her face into the concrete—the wet smack of her

head against the asphalt and the tremor of pain that shot through her body were almost enough to

make him climax, right then. But not yet. He had to hold on. He had to make it last as long as

he …

“Hey!” he suddenly heard someone shout. “What the hell are you doing?” He turned toward

the voice and, to his surprise, he saw the man from the parking lot, standing there with a phone to

his ear. What was he doing? He was ruining everything!

“Sir? Can you hear me?” a thin, disembodied voice crackled over the phone.

“Yes, help!” the man shouted. “The guy from the sketch! He’s attacking a girl!”

“Where are you, sir?” the disembodied voice asked, and James knew he had to act. His china

dolls would have to wait, for now. And as the man tried to respond, “I’m at the End Zone Pub on

Wayside, send someone!” James charged.

He slammed into the man and drove him to the ground, cutting and swinging at him with the

knife. But the man was stronger than he expected and they wrestled on the ground, two animals

fighting for their lives.

“Sir, are you there? Sir?” the disembodied voice from the phone, continued, as the two men

continued to fight. “Stay where you are, officers are en route, now.”

James had to run. He had to run now. With all of his strength, he yanked the knife free and

slashed at the man, cutting him deeply across the arm, then bolted to his feet and ran.

He tried to dig his keys out of his pocket as he ran to the car, but he couldn’t find them. He

looked back at his attacker, in a panic, realizing they must have fallen out during the struggle.

But he couldn’t go back for them. There was no time. Acting purely on instinct, now, he ran off

into the night.

James didn’t understand what had gone wrong. How did this happen? Did he not wait long

enough to return to his china doll? That must be it. He was too impatient. Ben had taught him to

be patient, but the memories were almost gone and he just couldn’t wait. He was weak and it

almost cost him everything.

As he ran through the dark, deserted streets he felt his side aching. His blood boiling in his

veins. His lungs were searing with exertion, but he couldn’t stop. The police would be out there,

looking for him now. He had to get home. Once he was home he’d be OK. He could wait, and

once things calmed down he could begin to plan again.

He hated to admit it, but he might have to let his china doll go. Going after her again

wouldn’t be smart, now. But that was OK, he reminded himself. There are so many more china

dolls out there. All he had to do was find them.

Then another thought entered his mind and he giggled through the pain. He knew what he’d

done wrong. He’d let her live. He was the god of life and death, and once he’d had his way with

her, he should have let her life slip away. That would have been better. He’d been greedy—that

was the problem—and he’d almost paid the price. But next time …

The police car startled him as it slid to a stop right in front of him, blocking the end of the

street. Oh no, he thought, that can’t be for him! It can’t be!

He veered to the left, cutting through a darkened yard, stumbling through the furniture and

overgrown bushes into the alley, behind the house. He heard the squeal of tires as the police car

peeled out, no doubt trying to circle around behind him.

But he jumped a fence and sprinted toward the next street over. He knew the neighborhood,

pretty well, and figured if he could just keep jumping blocks, the cops wouldn’t be able to circle

around in time to catch up with him.

As he ran he heard another sound—the growing roar of a car engine. It sounded like a sports

car, and it sounded like it was coming closer. He stole a glance to the left as he entered an

intersection and heard himself yelp in fear as the car suddenly flashed toward him.

He tried to jump out of the way, but never had a chance. The car was going too fast. It

slammed into him with unimaginable force. He felt his body collapse, on impact, and the world

suddenly turned upside down as he began to flip and tumble across the pavement. Every impact

was agony, as he felt flesh tear and bones snap until he finally came to a stop on the far side of

the street.

As his brain slowly pieced together where he was and started to register the damage to his

broken body, he looked up and saw the front grill of the car, inches from his face. It was dented,

slightly—probably where it slammed into him—but the image that quickly seared into his mind

was the pony. It was a Mustang. Through the pain and the confusion and the fear, the strangest

thought, imaginable, popped into his head. “Nice car.”

But then he heard the sirens, again, and his self-preservation instinct kicked back in. He was

in bad shape, and every movement was excruciating, but he began to crawl. Still, somehow, he

really believed he could get away.

But the car began inching forward. Toward him. Terror coursed through his veins as he

realized what was happening, but he simply couldn’t push his broken body any faster. As he

watched in horror, the car drove, slowly, on top of him crushing his already splintered legs,

pinning him to the asphalt.

He screamed like he’d never screamed before. He didn’t know a human was capable of such

sounds. Then somehow, through the agony, the realization of what was happening crept into his

mind.

He was trapped.

The tears began to flow as he wondered how it had come to this. How had he been caught?

He was a god …

***

Lyra sat in her car, waiting for the police to come. She could hear the sirens growing louder, and

she wondered, for a moment, what the satisfaction she felt said about her, as a person. She had

just devastated another human being with a three thousand pound car, pulverizing his legs to dust

beneath her P-Zeros. Shouldn’t she feel the least bit guilty?

She fought back the urge to smile. Guilt was the last emotion she was experiencing right

now. This man … and she used that term lightly … deserved more pain and suffering than she or

anyone else could ever administer. The thought briefly entered her mind that, perhaps, she

should just finish the job. All she had to do was touch the accelerator, ever so lightly, and this

piece of human garbage would never soil the surface of the planet, again.

But then she heard the chatter over her police scanner—the same scanner that had alerted

her to the location of the fleeing animal in the first place. A disembodied voice squelched out

over the police band, “… suspect has been hit … repeat … suspect has been hit … wait, it’s

Lyra … it’s Lyra Cole! Jesus, she hit him—send an ambulance!”

And she slowly raised her right foot. Justice would have to wait, for now. But at least it was

coming. For this particular animal, justice was coming.

***

Lyra smiled at Gemma as she opened her eyes. She looked up at Lyra, surprised to see her, but

pleasantly so. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“There’s just something I wanted to say to you and it couldn’t wait,” Lyra said with a smile.

She leaned closer to Gemma and grasped her by the hand. “Thank God we ran my sketch instead

of yours.”

Gemma tried to laugh, but winced a little, in pain, so all she could manage was a smile.

“Thank God.”

Lyra squeezed her hand and gazed into her eyes. Somehow she wasn’t so annoying all

banged up like this. Maybe it was just Lyra’s overactive sympathy muscle. She always gave

money to homeless people, too. “Gemma Kilpatrick,” she said, using her full name like a mother

correcting a child, “You are officially a badass chick. And I am damn lucky to have you on my

team.”

Gemma’s eyes misted over with tears. Lyra sighed and rolled her eyes. “Please don’t start

crying. I’m finally starting to like you and that’s just going to piss me off.”

“It’s just that,” Gemma said, tightly, trying to hold back the tears, “I wanted this, so

much …” She shook her head, and Lyra already knew what she was going to say. “But I just

don’t know if I can do it.”

Lyra squeezed her hand tighter and moved closer. “You listen to me, young lady,” her

sympathy muscle now locked back down where it belonged, “if you think I’m going to let you

quit, now, you’re sucking on too much morphine.”

Gemma stared at her, trying to understand. “We caught the son of a bitch,” Lyra continued,

“You and me. I couldn’t have done it without you, and damn you, I haven’t said that to anyone

about anything in 20 years.” Lyra wasn’t manipulating her anymore. She was deadly serious. “So

you’re going to get better. Then you’re going to get your ass back to the office where I can

resume ridiculing and belittling you,” she said as moved even closer. She was now only inches

from Gemma’s face, “into becoming almost as badass as me.”

Gemma stared at her, getting her emotions under control. It was kind of comical to watch,

but Lyra thought it would spoil the mood to say anything, so she let it go. For now.

Gemma finally nodded. OK.

“Good,” Lyra said as she stood up. “I’m glad we had this little chat. Take tomorrow off—to

make sure you don’t have any brain damage, or anything—then meet me at my office at 10 AM

the next day.”

Lyra turned to leave, but Gemma stopped her. “Ms. Cole?” Lyra looked back at her. “I

just … I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. About your sister. I know how hard it is to lose

someone. That’s the real reason I wanted to come work with you …”

“—Yeah, none of that was true.” Lyra said, matter-of-factly. Gemma stared at her. What did

she just say? “I made all that up,” Lyra continued, “I don’t have a sister.”

Gemma’s mouth dropped open. “How …” she stammered. “How could you possibly make

something like that up?”

Lyra shrugged. “It’s what I had to do to make her testify. It’s what I had to do to stop him.”

Gemma just stared at Lyra, in shock, her feeble mind clearly having trouble processing this.

Lyra was quickly remembering why she irritated her. “But you can’t just …”

“Lie?” Lyra said. “Of course I can. I’m a living, breathing human being. I can do anything I

want. And it’s a damn good thing I did, isn’t it?” Lyra pointed at her to make sure what she said

next got through. “Because I want you to think about what would have happened, tonight, if I

hadn’t. To you and to her. And remember that the next time you try to tell me computers are

better than people.”

And with that she walked toward the door. “Goodnight, Gemma,” she said. “And good

work.”

***

Gemma stared at the open doorway where Lyra had just exited. She was literally at a loss for

words. Her head hurt so bad she could hardly think, but she was now fully immersed in the most

convoluted moral dilemma of her young life. What Lyra did was wrong, on every level. There

was no arguing that. Yet … there was also no arguing the results. How the hell was she supposed

to reconcile such a dichotomy?

About that time, the big detective, Sam Bradshaw, entered the room and stopped at the foot

of her bed. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

She just looked at him, no idea how to respond. She already felt terrible and Lyra had just

made her feel worse. Sam nodded, like he knew exactly what she was thinking, and shoved his

hands into his pockets. “Yeah, Lyra has that effect on people. Most times, I can’t figure out if I

love her or hate her. Probably a little of both, I guess.”

“But … how?” Gemma asked. “How can anyone be so … God, there are no words!”

Sam stared at her for a long time, then sighed. He took a step back and closed the door, then

walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to tell you something about Lyra

that not many people know.”

“That she’s the spawn of Satan?”

Sam chuckled. “No, I think there are a lot of folks who would agree with you on that. But

I’m going to tell you the truth about her. And if you ever tell anyone it was me who told you, I’ll

deny it to my dying day.” He fixed his gaze on her like a father reprimanding a teenage girl to

make sure the gravity of his words was sinking in. All she could do was nod. “OK, I

understand.”

He stared at her for another, uncomfortable, moment, then sighed and stared off into space.

“When Lyra was a young woman, not much older than you, she was married to a guy named

Charlie. Good guy. Her high school sweetheart. They had a little girl, and they moved out here

from Oklahoma so he could find work in the refineries.”

“She …” Gemma began, “She has a daughter?”

He nodded, ever so slightly. “They hadn’t been here very long,” he continued, “when, one

night, they were walking home from dinner and they were attacked.”

Gemma started to say something, but couldn’t. She wanted to tell him to stop talking, but

she just couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Four men murdered her husband in cold blood, beat and raped her, repeatedly, and

kidnapped her three-year-old daughter.” He looked away again, clearly haunted by the memory.

“They were never caught. We never even found a clue.”

Gemma noticed he said “we” never found a clue, not “they.” Sam must have been part of

that investigation. She didn’t want to ask this next question, but she had to. “What happened to

the little girl?”

He shook his head. “We don’t know. She was never seen or heard from again.”

“Oh my God …” was all she could say. How do you respond to something like that?

“Now, most people?” he continued, “Most people would have crumbled under the weight of

an experience like that. But not Lyra. It drove her. It’s why she became a sketch artist, in the first

place.”

A thought crept into Gemma’s mind. Something so insane she knew it must be true. “She’s

still looking for them,” she almost whispered.

He nodded. “That’s right. Every year she does another age progression sketch on her

daughter and the four men who took everything from her. And she thinks every case is another

chance to find them. She shows every victim of a similar crime the sketches of the men who

attacked her. And she thinks every case is another chance to get her daughter back.”

“The folders she keeps in her desk … the ones marked ‘Keira’. That’s her daughter’s

name?”

“You’ve seen those?” He was surprised. Lyra must not show them to many people. Gemma

shook her head. “Just a little, but … I got a pretty good look at one of the men. You really never

found anything on any of them?”

Sam shook his head. “Going on 20 years now. Not one real clue.”

Gemma looked down at what was in her hands. Now she didn’t know what to do with it. Or

whom she should tell. But there was something about Sam that just seemed … safe. She decided

it was OK to talk to him.

“Tonight, somehow, that man lost his wallet …”

“That’s right,” he interrupted. “During the scuffle he dropped it. It’s how the officers knew

where he was heading and were able to cut him off.”

“But I went through it,” she said. “Before the police arrived, I looked through the wallet and

I found this.” She held up an old photo. In it, the man who attacked her and Mattie was standing

with his arm around another, older man.

Gemma handed Sam the picture. He flipped it around. On the back, handwritten in worn ink,

were the words, “Me and Ben.”

“The other man in the picture,” she continued, “The older one? He’s the reason I took it.”

Sam just stared at her. “Why? Who is it?”

“He’s one of the men in the Keira file,” Gemma said. “He’s one of the men who attacked

Lyra.”

THE END