The DA talked about an airtight case, but that was for the cameras. Karen never saw his face, and in the darkness, the excitement, she could not describe his clothes. It was a winter night, and cold: the ski mask easily explained. The beating muddled any references to scratches on his face. On top of everything, the pigs forgot to read him his Miranda rights.

Case closed, but not forgotten. Larry learned from his mistakes. Stay clear of parking lots. Immobilize the b.i.t.c.h, first thing. No witness means no case.

Sweet Karen is the one who got away . . . but not this time.

No f.u.c.king way.

She works on Wilshire, at a travel agency, concocting getaways and dream vacations for a clientele that is predominantly forty-plus and upper middle cla.s.s. Nine-hour days, with lunch from noon to one o'clock. Two days a week, on average, Karen skips the meal to use her free time window-shopping, anywhere within a half-mile radius of work.

Today, a Friday afternoon, is one of those. He spots her coming out. The clinging slacks and frilly blouse are businesslike, yet somehow still provocative. The scary part, for Gaskins, comes when Karen looks straight at him, blue eyes burning into his from less than thirty feet away.

She made me, Jesus!

No. She breaks the contact, heading south, without a backward glance. It was a fluke. No recognition in her eyes ... or was there?

Larry gives her half a block before he falls in step behind her. Karen never seems to hit the same shop twice, and that suits Larry fine. He treats it as an education, concentrating on his quarry, working hard to shake the sense that she has spotted him.

The witchy shop is a surprise, no place that he has seen her go before. Two blocks off Wilshire, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a p.a.w.nshop, with a.s.sorted books and jewelry in the window. Larry watches from across the street, as best he can, with sun glare on the window. Glimpses Karen talking to an aging hippie type behind the counter, plain-Jane in a tie-dyed peasant blouse. He can't hear what they're saying, natch, but Karen makes a purchase, giving up a few dead presidents. Receives some object in return and tucks it in her purse.

Emerging from the shop, she hesitates once more and turns to look across the chrome-bright traffic flow, direct at Larry. Blue eyes fixed upon him like the laser sighting mechanism of a h.e.l.lfire missile.

s.h.i.t!

He turns away, the sudden panic burning in his chest like Texas chili with an extra shot of jalapeno. Twice, that is, in half an hour, and he has to watch his a.s.s from this point on. If Karen doesn't know he's d.o.g.g.i.ng her by now, a third time will erase all doubt.

Goldfinger speaks: "We have a saying in Chicago, Mr. Bond. The first time is coincidence; the second time is happenstance; the third time, it's enemy action."

f.u.c.king-A.

Cheeks flaming, Larry walks due east, away from Wilshire and the travel agency. Too risky, trailing Karen back to work. She doesn't have a thing to tell the pigs, so far, but he cannot afford to have her on alert.

Surprise is half the battle. Half the fun.

Anxiety propels him toward his car, the long way round. Frustration broods beside him, in the shotgun seat.

No sweat.

He has the Little Lady waiting for him, back at home.

"You love it, don't you, b.i.t.c.h? I know you love it. Let me hear you say it. Say it!"

Pumping into Suzee's rubber r.e.c.t.u.m like some kind of robot, piston-powered. Feeling Karen. Listening to Karen cry for mercy. Shooting deep inside her, just because she begged him not to.

Later, he can always make her lick him clean.

The handcuffs are a new refinement, $16.95 at The Survival Store, on Sunset. They are loose on Suzee's wrists until he clamps them down, and cold against his belly as he reams her a.s.s. It adds a little something extra to the dress rehearsal, this time.

Better.

He can start to work on new positions, for the main event. With both hands free, all kinds of new refinements come to mind.

The very thought of Karen, helpless, stiffens Larry's c.o.c.k. Say no to this, you snotty c.u.n.t. Just try.

He rolls her over, stubby nipples pointed at the ceiling. Blue eyes staring up at him. A captive audience.

"You love it, don't you, b.i.t.c.h?" He smiles. "Cat got your tongue? Okay. We got all night."

The old apartment house stands one block south of Pico, st.u.r.dy willows ranked outside the six-foot wall of cinder blocks that rings the parking lot. A nod to privacy. No sweat for Larry, scrambling up the middle tree of five with leather gloves on, cheap binoculars around his neck. The now familiar perch is waiting for him, on a level with the second floor.

The drapes are open wide, as usual. No sign of Karen on the first sweep, but the lights are on, and Larry knows the b.i.t.c.h is home. He cannot see inside her bedroom, but the broad gla.s.s sliding doors provide a clear view of her living room and tiny kitchen. The binoculars put Larry right inside there, like a c.o.c.kroach on the wall. With any luck, he may catch Karen in her bra and panties, like the last time, wandering around the flat, oblivious to prying eyes.

A private show.

He spends a moment checking out the empty rooms and taking inventory. On his right, directly opposite the couch, a Sony Trinitron, the twenty-six-inch console model. Copper knickknacks hanging on the kitchen walls. Above the couch, a reproduction of a painting Larry knows he ought to recognize by name, but doesn't.

Something different, on the gla.s.s-topped coffee table, wrapped in plain brown paper, resting on a saucer flanked by stubby candles. Are they black or navy blue? No telling, from a distance, and he doesn't really give a s.h.i.t. The knife seems out of place, though. Something from the kitchen, maybe, six or seven inches long.

He is considering the items, frowning to himself, when Karen makes her entrance from the hallway on his left. She wears a plain white terry robe, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Getting ready for the shower, maybe, since her hair is dry, feet bare of slippers.

Larry curses when she kills the kitchen light and blacks out the apartment. Wasted time and effort, if she turns in now, without a single glimpse of flesh.

But no.

He tracks her silhouette as Karen moves into the living room and kneels before the coffee table, with her back to the TV. The bright flare of a match as she leans forward, lights the candles. Soft light on her profile, like a trick shot from the movies.

Larry feels his Jockey shorts begin to shrink as Karen slips the robe off, dropping it behind her. Candlelight and shadow on her perfect body, b.r.e.a.s.t.s defying gravity, strong muscles rippling on her flank and thigh each time she moves.

He finds it difficult to focus on her hands as Karen reaches for the parcel on the coffee table, peels the wrapping back, distributing the contents. Nothing he can recognize, offhand: some kind of gnarly root thing; reddish powder in a tiny gla.s.sine envelope; a six-inch strip of something that resembles jerky. Karen sprinkles powder in the saucer, spreads it with her fingertips, then slices little flakes of root and jerky into it. The knife looks sharp.

She proves it with a move that startles Larry, opening her left palm with the blade. She splays her hand above the saucer, dribbling crimson. Stirs it with her index finger.

What the h.e.l.l?

Her lips are moving, Larry wishing there were some way he could figure out what she is saying. Screw it. Focus on the t.i.ts and a.s.s, his b.o.n.e.r hot and cramped inside his jeans.

She makes it easy for him, standing up and turning you are, and I don't wanna know, okay? Just take the s.h.i.t and go."

A tapping on the nightstand makes him crack one eyelid, coming into focus on a wooden stick. Some kind of handle. Is it... ? Sure, the f.u.c.king toilet plunger from his bathroom. Fingers wrapped around it, near the suction cup.

The fingers look familiar.

Both eyes now. He tracks the wrist, arm, shoulder. Curve of naked breast and hip. Blond pubic hair. Smooth rubber thighs.

"What is this s.h.i.t?"

It comes to Larry that the prowler is manipulating Suzee like a puppet, using her to taunt him. Crazy f.u.c.ker. When he cranks his head around, though, looking for the stranger's hands, he can't find any. Suzee standing on her own, for Christ's sake, no visible means of support.

Concussion, Larry tells himself. I'm losing it.

The whisper-steps resume as Suzee backs away from him and takes the plunger with her. Gentle pressure as she crawls up on the bed, beside him.

No.

Some kind of f.u.c.king nightmare, as the rubber hands slide underneath him, fumbling at his belt and zipper. Cool air on his b.u.t.tocks, as the jeans and shorts inch down his thighs. Somehow, impossibly, her touch is warm against his a.s.s.

"You love it, don't you, Larry?" Sounding breathless, like a dream voice in his head. "I know you love it. Let me hear you say it."

Right. So this is what it feels like when you lose your mind.

The plunger handle brings him back, a cautious probe at first, then piercing, burning, filling him. He strains against it, wriggling like an earthworm on a fishhook, feels the scream exploding from his throat before the pillow smothers it.

Same whisper in his ear: "Cat got your tongue? Okay. We got all night."

FIVE SECONDS.

J. L. Comeau.

Jane Hodges sits knitting furiously behind the wheel of her parked rental sedan while a tedious patter of autumn rain pummels the slick gray streets of downtown Washington, D.C. Intermittently she looks up from the flashing aluminum needles to dart a glance toward the dripping Spector Building, a ten-story Gothic monstrosity where her current lover is employed.

Lover. A sweet tingle spreads through her chest, making her vaguely sick with its intensity. Dorian.

Jane's fingers tremble at the thought of him, and she has to put her knitting down before she botches the intricate cable pattern of the sweater she is making for her sister's child, Patricia. Jane is childless, and knows that a niece is as close as she will ever come to maternity. She adores children, and tries her best not to be jealous and bitter; truly, she does try.

Jane turns her thoughts back to her lover, her beautiful Dorian, and wonders what kind of child they might have produced together. A son, she imagines. A tall, rugged boy with wavy dark hair and a strong jawline, like his father. Blue velvet eyes, quick smile. Dorian's features, not hers. Never hers.

Jane would not want a child like herself, no. Not a child who would be teased and ridiculed, shunned by other children. No, no, no. She knows what that's like. In her bones, she knows what that's like.

She squints through the lenses of her thick trifocal gla.s.ses at the large black numerals of her Timex wrist.w.a.tch. Almost noon. Almost time for her tryst, her a.s.signation, her affaire. Within minutes Dorian will emerge from the revolving doors across the street and she will be with him. In just a little while, she will become his entire world.

Jane picks up her knitting and sets the needles chattering again, letting the pale beige wool skein out across her nimble fingers, wondering why it is that doomed romances are the most sublime. Her relationship with Dorian has been like a piecrust from the beginning: made to be broken. Dorian has a wife and three small children. Married. Jane lets the word surge and ebb through her mind and wonders at the complexities besetting a secretly pa.s.sionate nature such as her own. To date, all of Jane's romances have involved married men exclusively.

She sighs, working a complicated turn of st.i.tches that will form a cabled b.u.t.tonhole when the next row is finished. Why married men? Is there some malfunction of her spirit, some wicked anomaly in her makeup, that draws her toward forbidden delights?

Her colorless cheeks twitch with sudden mirth. Wouldn't the rest of the female faculty at Dearborne Elementary School gasp with shock and disbelief if they knew how dowdy little Jane Hodges spends her lunch hours? Plain Jane. That's what they call her behind her back. That's what everyone has always called her for as long as she can remember. Plain Jane. Poor plain Jane, can't get a man, poor old spinster plain Jane, ha, ha. Wouldn't bed her, wouldn't wed her, plain old Jane.

How Jane burns to tell them, all those smugly symmetrical faces painted up like common wh.o.r.es, high-heeled s.l.u.ts who think their wedding bands give them license to feel superior, to pity poor little Jane Hodges. Click-clack, click-clack, strolling the school hallways, their conversations muting to whispers as they pa.s.s Jane's cla.s.sroom. Flitting glances inside and looking quickly away, never inviting Jane to join them in the teachers' lounge, never offering to include her in their impromptu faculty planning meetings.

If only they could imagine what pa.s.sions stir in Jane's soul, what elaborate hungers beset her, drive her. If only they could know what illicit acts she is capable of performing to experience those blissful five seconds she craves so much.

One, two, three, four, five.

Jane's heart hammers against the delicate bulwark of her breastbone just thinking about it. It's been too long, too long, and now her desire has become a raging hunger that demands satisfaction. Now.

The slender shafts of Jane's knitting needles become a blur of motion and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rise and fall, rise and fall, her breath quickening with the increasing tempo of her heartbeats. Again she twists her head toward the Spector Building. Men and women dressed in suits and coats have begun to stream out through the twin revolving doors and into the ebbing rainfall, popping open umbrellas or sheltering under newspapers as they take to the wet city sidewalks.

Where is Dorian? Jane squints through the misty window gla.s.s, blinking. He's usually one of the first to exit, dark head bobbing as he strides along, chest forward, chin aloft.

Jane's thighs tremble as memories of their first meeting drift past her mind's eye. It was just three weeks ago that Dorian Webster came to Jane's cla.s.sroom for a routine parent-teacher conference about his son, Erik. The moment Dorian entered the room and sat down in the chair opposite her desk, Jane knew they were going to be lovers, that Dorian would be the next married man to slake her forbidden thirsts. Her entire being had vibrated like a high-tension wire during their initial meeting; she hardly remembers what was discussed. By the time their conference ended, Jane was already in love with Dorian. She'd seen it in his blue velvet eyes: Soon, very soon, she would become his entire world.

It always happens like that, just like that. A word, a look, and she knows.

And now Dorian is her lover. How many others have there been? Thirty? Forty? The numbers blur with time, their faces growing indistinct once the trysts have been consummated and the affairs are over.

Jane giggles. How mischievous I've been, she thinks, both frightened and amused by her wholesale promiscuity. What would Daddy have thought?

Wh.o.r.e.

The word stabs into her consciousness, hurting, making her flinch. The voice that says the word is not her own. The voice adds: The ones that like it are wh.o.r.es.

Jane's knitting needles click in precision machine-gun bursts. I am not a wh.o.r.e, Daddy! I'm not, I'm not!

The ones that like it are wh.o.r.es.

I don't like it! I don't! Stop, Daddy, please stop! You're hurting me!

Jane rights to push out the images crowding into her mind, but her efforts are useless, always useless when Daddy decides to batter his way into her head the way he used to batter his way into her body.

Jane drops her knitting into her lap. "Stop!" she shouts, ripping a handful of hair from her scalp. "Go away, don't touch me!"

But Daddy won't go away. Daddy won't ever go away completely. He always comes back. Even from his grave, he is still able to violate her mind whenever he pleases.

Jane begins to cry. "No, no, no," she burbles wetly.

Jane knows it is useless to beg. It never stops him. The scenes unwind, unstoppable: Jane is fourteen years old, asleep in her bed. She is awakened by the weight of a hot, heavy body crushing her down into the mattress. It's Daddy. He's been drinking again. He always comes to her when he's been drinking. He fumbles with her nightgown, pulling it up over her face. He kisses her mouth through the thin shroud of cotton fabric.

"You 're my whole world now," he mumbles drunkenly, sobbing. "Now that your mama's run off, you 're my whole world."

"No, Daddy. Please, "Jane begs, knowing it's useless to beg. "It hurts, Daddy. I don't like it."

"The ones that like it are wh.o.r.es," he grunts.

Jane clamps her eyes shut and bites down on her tongue, trying to bear the pain. She swore she wouldn't let it happen again. She made herself a promise to make it stop. But now she is afraid to act.

Jane forces the fear back, making her hand slide beneath the mattress where she's hidden a long, slender Phillips screwdriver. Her fingers close around its cool plastic handle.

She hesitates, terrified by what she's about to do.

"You're my whole world, my whole world, my whole world," Daddy grunts, hurting her, hurting her.

A black tower of rage rises up in Jane, taking control of her, directing her actions. Her hand rises, dreamlike, silvery gleam of moonlight on the screwdriver's metal shaft gauzy through the fabric of her nightgown. And thena"

Jane's head falls forward against the steering wheel as the vision releases her. It always ends at the same moment. She has never been able to recall the rest of it, although the therapists forced her to say she remembered before they allowed her to leave the hospital and go to live with her aunt Ellen. All she has ever been able to recall is the anger and the shame. And counting: One, two, three, four, five.