Jeff Misner rammed into his wife, his upper thighs slapping against her still-firm a.s.s as he took her from the rear. She huffed and panted and groaned, the sounds indicating s.e.xual pleasure, but he never knew for sure if Jean was enjoying herself or not. He suspected that at least half the time, she faked her o.r.g.a.s.ms. During her career as Puff Raven, she had gotten plenty of practice. And to tell the truth, he didn't really care if she came or not.

"That's it, baby, give it to me hard and fast," Jean cried out as she moved in perfect rhythm to his thrusts.

He grabbed her hips tightly, probably bruising her darkly tanned skin, and hammered repeatedly until he climaxed. She screeched and shook and told him she loved him. He collapsed on top of her, shoving her facedown onto the bed. After his breathing returned to normal and the aftershocks of his delicious climax subsided, he rolled off her and then stood. She flipped over and looked up at him.

"I need to work on the new video for my Web site this afternoon," Jean told him. "You aren't going to need me, are you?"

"I'm fine for now." He winked at her. Jean was thirty-six, but she had taken good care of herself-b.o.o.b and b.u.t.t lifts, a tummy tuck, Botox, and a daily workout. "Have you got someone coming in to help with the video?"

"I'm flying solo on this one. Just me, a few toys, and my fingers." She laughed.

"I may drop by and watch."

"Sure thing. You know I love a live audience."

He held out his hand. She grabbed hold and he yanked her up and onto her feet. Her shoulder-length black hair-still natural and without a single silver strand-shimmered as she shook her head and stretched. Her body was toned, deeply tanned, and willowy slender. Since retiring from the regular p.o.r.no film business, Jean had been making a healthy income via the Internet. The Puff Raven site was one of the most popular in the world. Once a month, she added a new video that customers could download and enjoy, for a very reasonable price.

Jeff figured that one of these days very soon the Internet sites would make regular p.o.r.no movies completely obsolete.

After a quick kiss, he and Jean went their separate ways, she to her bathroom and he to his. He shaved, showered, and dressed casually in a cotton shirt and linen slacks. Just as he slipped into his leather sandals, his cell phone rang.

Where did I put the d.a.m.n thing? In my dressing room? On the nightstand?

Then he remembered he had left it in his jacket pocket and hung the jacket across the back of the sofa in the sitting area of their bedroom. By the time he retrieved the phone, it had stopped ringing. Just as he started to check for a message, the phone rang again. He glanced at the caller ID.

Travis Dillard.

What the h.e.l.l did that old son of a b.i.t.c.h want? After their last collaboration, he'd told Travis in no uncertain terms that they were kaput, finished, over and done. Travis needed to retire. He had lost touch with the new p.o.r.no industry and still wanted to do things the old-fashioned way. Not Jeff. He was all about new and improved.

"Yeah, what's up?" Jeff asked when he answered on the fourth ring.

"Have you seen the news today?" Travis asked.

"Can't say that I have. I'm a busy man. Making deals, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my wife, enjoying my success."

"Think you've got it made, don't you? Well, Shontee thought she was living the good life, too, down in Atlanta with that rich boyfriend of hers, but her little pie-in-the-sky piece of heaven just bit the dust."

A sudden chill settled over Jeff. "What happened?"

"He got her," Travis said. "The Midnight Killer whacked Shontee last night."

"I thought she had a bodyguard."

"The killer filled him full of lead and then moved on to Shontee."

Jeff swallowed. Ever since the Powell Agency had contacted him and Jean, they had been careful not to leave the house without the private security that Jeff had hired. Around-the-clock protection didn't come cheap, but keeping Jean alive was worth any price.

"I thought you'd want to be forewarned," Travis said. "Tighten up your security and watch your back night and day. You never know when this guy is going to come for Jean."

"Is that a threat, old man?"

Travis laughed. "Don't talk nonsense. Why would I want to hurt Jean? She was one of my favorite f.u.c.ks. I always loved the way she screamed when I made her come."

Jeff clenched his jaw. He would not rise to the bait. "I'll take care of Jean. And if I find out that you're behind these murders, that you've threatened my wife, I'll personally see to it that you rot in h.e.l.l."

Jeff hung up, not giving Travis a chance for an acidic comeback.

After pocketing his phone, he left the bedroom and went downstairs. He had a sudden need to see Jean, to make sure she was all right. As he pa.s.sed the living room, he nodded and threw up his hand when he saw one of their two security guards immersed in a game of solitaire. The second agent was posted outside and the two men rotated shifts indoors and out every four hours during the day. And every twelve hours, two fresh, alert agents took their places.

He entered the dark, soundproof room where Jean filmed her Internet videos. Reclining on a plush red velvet chaise longue, his naked wife touched herself intimately, one hand caressing her right breast, stroking the nipple, and the other hand between her spread thighs, rubbing her c.l.i.toris.

He watched her m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e until she climaxed, her body jerking convulsively as she moaned softly and seductively.

"Did you enjoy that as much as I did?" she asked breathlessly.

Jeff chuckled. "Almost as much."

"I thought you said you wouldn't need me for a while."

"Travis Dillard called."

She rose from the chaise, slipped on a knee-length satin robe, and turned off the video camera set up on a tripod. "What did he want?"

"Shontee's dead."

Jean closed her eyes for a moment. "Oh my!"

Jeff rushed over to her and took her in his arms. Rubbing her back comfortingly, he told her, "Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise I'll keep you safe."

She laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I know you will."

As if he could hear her thoughts, his mind revised her words from "I know you will" to "I know you'll try."

As the lead investigator, Special Agent Wainwright called Mike and invited him to come to the field office in Birmingham and sit in on a general meeting of the Midnight Killer task force. Mike wasn't an official member of the force, so the invitation had been a courtesy. After Wainwright had come to Dunmore and interviewed Lorie, Mike had checked out the FBI agent and had found pretty much what he'd expected. Wainwright, at thirty-nine, was a seasoned investigator. He had the dedication, tenacity, and experience to direct every aspect of the investigation. Within days of being a.s.signed the leadership role, Wainwright had established a computerized information management system to track tips and leads in the case. Under usual circ.u.mstances, Mike would have a.s.signed one of his deputies as a liaison to work with the Bureau, but this was not just any case. Lorie's life had been threatened, and unless the killer was found and stopped, she would remain in danger.

A representative from each of the two states-Tennessee and Arizona-where the Midnight Killer had struck the first three times had been included on the task force, which at present numbered only five. A small group of experienced homicide detectives could be far more effective than a larger group of inexperienced lawmen. Wainwright had chosen one fellow federal agent and one Alabama state agent to complete the force.

Upon arrival at the field office, Mike was shown to Wainwright's office and introduced to the task force members by FBI Special Agent Luther Armstrong, who served as the force's co-investigator. Mike shook hands with the state reps, one a homicide detective from the Knoxville PD and the other a seasoned cop from Blythe, Arizona. When ABI Special Agent Karla Ross came over to him and held out her hand, Mike recognized her immediately.

"Good to see you again, Special Agent Ross," Mike said.

"Good to see you, Sheriff," she replied. "I don't think either of us thought we'd ever be working together on another serial killer task force."

"You're absolutely right," Mike said. "But just like the last time, I'm not an official member of the force. And you're the lead control officer on this one, right?"

Mike had become acquainted with Karla and her fellow ABI agent, Wayne Morgan, during the Fire and Brimstone murders that had ravaged Dunmore and several surrounding towns in northern Alabama for more than eighteen months. The lady was a hard-nosed, by-the-book type, a woman proving herself in a profession still dominated by men. She wore her hair cropped carefree short, didn't bother with makeup or nail polish, and walked with a swagger that said don't-mess-with-me.

Wainwright called the meeting to order and got down to business. The information he shared could be condensed down to one sentence: They did not have a suspect in the four murders. Basic facts were: The killer had used a different gun for each kill; he was probably using fake ID and different disguises; he killed each victim in the same manner, shooting each multiple times; he stripped the victim, placed an elaborate mask on him or her, and took the victim's clothes. Adding to that was the info that each victim had costarred in the same p.o.r.no movie and each had received death threats prior to his or her murder.

"We got a break with this last murder," Wainwright told them as he motioned for Karla to turn off the overhead lights. "The surveillance cameras at the Rough Diamond Club in Atlanta caught our guy on tape."

"Are you saying we know what the Midnight Killer looks like?" Lieutenant Jon Yacup from Arizona asked.

"Yes and no," Wainwright replied. "We're ninety-nine percent sure the man is wearing a disguise, probably a fake nose and chin as well as theatrical makeup. But we can pretty much guess his weight and height from the video. And it's obvious that he's Caucasian."

Wainwright picked up the TV/video/DVD combo remote, hit a couple of b.u.t.tons, and began playing the black-and-white surveillance tape. Mike watched closely as their killer appeared on screen, a medium-sized guy, with a prominent nose and a sharp chin. The dark-eyed, dark-haired man could be anywhere between twenty and fifty years old. The hair could have been dyed or was a wig, the mustache no doubt fake, and contacts could easily change very light eyes to very dark in a matter of seconds. And on black-and-white film, it was impossible to distinguish dark blue from dark brown.

After they watched the tape, Special Agent Armstrong said, "We admit that it's not a lot, but it's more than we had before, and piece by piece, we're gathering evidence. All we need are a few more lucky breaks and-"

"Let's hope no one else has to die before we get those lucky breaks," Sergeant Carter Fulton from the Knoxville PD said.

Everyone in the room agreed with Fulton.

A couple of hours later, Mike went out for lunch with Wainwright while Special Agent Ross drove Yacup and Fulton to the airport. After devouring barbequed ribs and finishing the meal with bourbon pecan pie, Wainwright wiped his hands on the disposable wet-wipe provided with his rack of ribs and then turned his attention to Mike.

"How's Ms. Hammonds doing?"

"She's okay, all things considered," Mike said.

"I spoke to Nicole Powell this morning. I guess you know she used to be a federal agent and still has friends at the Bureau." When Mike nodded, Wainwright continued. "Unofficially, we're utilizing the Powell Agency's investigation. Officially, we have no connection to the agency. Understand?"

"If you're saying that the Powell Agency is sharing their info with the task force, but y'all are not sharing with them, then yes, I understand."

"I'd never publicly admit this, but Powell's has a better record of catching the bad guys than we do. And at least part of the reason for that is their ability to occasionally sidestep the law. We know Griffin Powell uses his wealth and power however he sees fit. But we can't prove he's ever done anything illegal."

"I'll take your word for that," Mike said. "I don't know Mr. Powell. I met him briefly a few weeks ago when he and his wife attended my deputy Jackson Perdue's wedding."

"I've met him only a couple of times myself. Nic-Mrs. Powell-is handling the communication between Powell's and our task force. And if it'll make you feel any better about Ms. Hammonds's safety, Mrs. Powell mentioned that Sh.e.l.ley Gilbert is one of their best bodyguards."

"I'm sure she is. But I figure that Tony Johnson believed the man he had guarding Shontee Thomas was one of his best."

"You're right. We're dealing with an intelligent, motivated killer who is enjoying outsmarting his victims, their protectors, and the law," Wainwright said. "With each murder, a new batch of letters have gone out. Ms. Hammonds and the others will probably receive another death threat via U.S. mail sometime in the next few days. As soon as she receives the letter, I want you to notify us. Her letter is our best chance of immediately getting our hands on a copy."

"I'll inform Deputy Perdue to contact you if and when Lorie receives another letter."

Wainwright c.o.c.ked his brows as he stared at Mike. "Deputy Perdue will contact me?"

"I've put him in charge of Lorie Hammonds's case."

"Hmm..."

"Considering our past history, I thought it best to remove myself from any personal involvement in Lorie's case," Mike said, not sure who he was trying to convince that he had valid reasons for putting Jack in charge.

"You don't owe me any explanations," Wainwright told him.

"You're right. I don't. But I wanted to set the record straight so there won't be any misunderstandings later on."

"Okay. Sure. Just inform Deputy Perdue to notify me when Ms. Hammonds receives another letter."

Mike nodded. When Lorie received another letter warning her that she was on the Midnight Killer's death list, she'd need somebody to lean on, somebody to console her, somebody to protect her. But d.a.m.n it, that somebody couldn't be Mike Birkett, county sheriff, M.J. and Hannah's dad, and Abby Sherman's boyfriend. Lorie had Sh.e.l.ley Gilbert and Jack Perdue to protect her. She had Cathy to console her. She also had other friends like Reverend Patsy Floyd that she could lean on. She didn't need him.

"I'd appreciate your keeping us routinely updated," Mike said as he picked his bill up off the table and stood.

Wainwright stood, shook Mike's hand, and replied, "Your department will be kept in the loop. And if there is anything we can do for Ms. Hammonds, have your office contact us."

"Yeah, sure."

Why was it that Mike had a gut feeling that Special Agent Wainwright would like an excuse to see Lorie again?

For obvious reasons, you dumb a.s.s.

What man wouldn't give his right arm for a chance with Lorie Hammonds?

Maleah and Derek arrived in Danville, Virginia, midafternoon for their appointment with Tyler Owens, whose mother, Terri, had once been known as Candy Ruff. Nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Danville, with a population of more than 50,000, was located in the Piedmont region of the state. And as Maleah drove along the area locally known as Millionaires' Row, she was reminded of the research they had done on Terri Owens, who was the descendant of one of the tobacco kings of long ago. How a Virginia debutante from one of the oldest and most respected families in the state had become a p.o.r.no star puzzled Maleah.

"What's the address again?" Maleah asked.

When Derek recited the street and number, she nodded. They were on the correct street of the Old West End Historic District.

"There it is." He pointed to the red brick Queen Anne Victorian home with the bed & breakfast sign on the front lawn. "Tyler Owens and his wife are the proprietors."

Maleah turned into the narrow drive at the Tyler House B&B and followed the paved lane to the back of the house where the parking area could accommodate a dozen vehicles.

"Mr. Owens booked rooms for us here tonight," Derek said. "Unless we gain any meaningful information about a suspect from Owens, we'll catch our flight to Louisville tomorrow to see Grant Leroy, known as Reverend Leroy these days since he's become a born-again Christian."

"Do you think Tyler Owens actually has some idea who the killer is?" Maleah opened the car door.

"Apparently, he thinks he does."

Derek got out and met her on the sidewalk and together they went to the office in the rear of the three-story house. An attractive young brunette wearing jeans and a Tyler House B&B T-shirt greeted them.

"h.e.l.lo, I'm Amelia Rose Owens. Welcome to Tyler House."

"We're here to see Tyler Owens," Derek said.