Thief of Hearts

His name was Frank Crawley.

Slightly overweight, Frank stood 6'1. He had wavy black hair, piercing brown eyes, a winning smile, and broad muscular shoulders. Thick dark-rimmed glasses almost hid his eyes.

At one time, he had been called "the Muscle Boy of Venice Beach;" men, women, and children had congregated around him whenever he flexed. Then, almost overnight, he had become the Thief of Hearts. That's what the media had dubbed the man who roamed from community to community, seeking prizes. The prize was his victim's beating heart, which Frank removed with the skill of a surgeon.

Desperate for the ritual rush, the Thief of Hearts sought out ones that looked almost ordinary, just shy of beautiful: plain though pleasant, sometimes almost cute; a so-so body with passable tits and ass; neither too tall nor too short; maybe slightly on the quiet side. He always had sex before the kill, but it was the removal of the heart, the drinking of a small quantity of blood, that always brought him euphoria. The heart, he reasoned, was the cave’s soul, and the more souls he had—particularly souls of women—the longer he would live. At least that’s what the book—titled Maximum Rush?—had claimed.

One he found in a restaurant just outside of Nampa, Idaho, on July 14th of 2002.

Starting out at two pm on July 14th, he'd driven his Ford SUV down the coast from Tacoma and had hit hard but intermittent rains east of Portland. Just outside Ontario, Oregon, located on the Idaho/Oregon border, his car had gone into a spin. Cursing God for the next forty miles and guzzling water to assuage his immense thirst, he'd decided to find a place for the night right in the middle of Nampa, a dirty, sprawling southern Idaho farm town that smelled of brown rot.

Three nights before his arrival in southern Idaho, he'd taken Marilyn--mousy brown hair, a winning smile, nicely pointed breasts, recently separated from her husband, the junior high math teacher--over to a little spot along the Pacific. It was in a nightclub that he'd met her, a teacher by day, a dancer by night. Pretty sure that she regarded him as a prime catch, he had told her he was a well known medical doctor from the East coast and had rented a beach condo so they could get to know each other better. The condo proved to be a run-down, weather-battered motel, and as the ocean wind howled, he'd had sex with a sorely disappointed Marilyn. Afterwards, she had died without much of a struggle. A former nursing student, Frank had driven to a nearby grove where he'd placed her nude body on a plastic tarp, put on his surgical gloves, neatly cut out her heart, wrapped it, and put it into the ice chest he carried in the back of his vehicle.

And now here he was--the Thief of Hearts--right in southwestern Idaho. After checking into Ruby's Inn, a two-story dive next to the tracks, he watched some Judge Judy on TV, took some meds to dispel his dark mood, and then drove a couple blocks up to the restaurant, a decrepit 50's style joint with its parking lot half-full. Inside, country music filled the air and seemed to bring the memorabilia on the walls to life.

Hungry as a wolf, he requested a corner table, and the hostess with the tight black sweater coming just above her pierced navel and blue low-riders seated him in a booth on the far side of the restaurant. Being in the back was a blessing because it allowed him to examine everyone in the place.

Comfortably seated, the big man gulped glassful after glassful of iced tea while savoring roasted stuffed chicken. Being in this place was relaxing, with some country singer whining in the background and young waitresses scurrying to and fro. Between huge bites, he tallied his victims--he thought of them as "trophies"--on his paper napkin.

San Jose(2)

San Diego(3)

Phoenix(1)

Las Vegas(3)

Reno(1)

Salt Lake(6)

Spokane (1)

Seattle (1)

Tacoma (2)

He was proud of these successes—one day he would tell his mother in Salt Lake all about this period of his life--and as he shoveled some peas into his mouth, it occurred to him that if awards were ever given for those who excelled in this bloody work, he'd certainly receive one.

It was when he was sucking the gristle off the second chicken leg that the earth titled on its axis, and number twenty-one entered the restaurant. At that moment, the music rang out a bit more loudly. The place’s semi-darkness dissipated. He took the leg from his mouth, set it on his plate, and wiped the grease from his chin with the back of his hand; the music stopped as he watched the hostess escort the one who would surely become his next trophy towards his section.

It was difficult for Frank, at such moments, not to believe that some dark divinity shaped his life. He was thinking this as, led by the hostess, she walked in his direction; she had a sexy walk, like she was used to showing off her body, and she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. He was thinking of his secret divinity when she moved past him without so much as a smile; her latex pants were so tight that, as she sat down at a table ten feet away (and facing his direction), he could see her lines. As he slowly set down his glass, she lowered her head, folded her hands between her legs, almost like she was praying—Please, he thought, no prayers--and studied the menu. Her kinky red hair, her thin, drawn face, her blood red lips, and her long, thin, slender fingers thrilled him; she wore wire-rimmed glasses and a blue and silver Seahawks sweater.

He was taking all this in—you know how it is--when a jolt, like a sickening electrical surge, scrambled his thoughts and turned them upside down. He felt his brain grow cold and numb, he wondered if he were passing from his body, and his extremities trembled as it dawned on him that this ordinary woman reminded him of someone he'd seen or talked to before.

He now kept his eyes on her, sideways, while taking a long drink of iced tea.

When she glanced up and looked at him, he felt his heart miss a beat.

"How are you, my fine man?" she said almost as if she knew him.

"Oh, I'm fine, I guess," he said, putting the glass down and wiping his mouth with his napkin.

"What's on the napkin?"

"Just some writing for my job. You know, making lists." His heart thudded wildly.

She nodded. "Lists are important. What do you do?"

"Oh, I guess I travel a lot. I'm kind of a collector."

"Really?" she asked. "What do you collect?"

"Oh, memorabilia. Sports stuff." Silently, Frank congratulated himself, for he did buy and trade sports memorabilia at the various conventions he attended.

"Where are you from?" She sipped from the glass of strawberry lemonade her waitress had set in front of her.

"Oh, you know, here and there. Southern Cal, I guess."

He looked down at his plate, picked up his fork, and shoveled some mashed potatoes into his mouth. When he looked up again, her glacial blue eyes were riveted on him.

"I'm from Las Vegas," she said.

He almost choked. He'd known the strip joints in Vegas, and he could easily imagine this one as a dancer. His three dead Las Vegas girls had been erotic dancers.

"You ok?" she asked, her eyes glimmering as if she were hiding a smile. "Drink some water. Raise your arms like this." She held her arms over her head.

Wondering if she really had been on the verge of laughing, he did as she suggested, and his coughing stopped.

"I'm a teacher. A lonely, single high school teacher," she said after he lowered his arms.

He relaxed. She looked like she might be a teacher. His mother had been a third-grade teacher. His sister was now a junior high school English teacher in Utah. "So, uh, what brings you here?" he asked, clearing his throat.

He paused as she placed her order with the waitress.

"I'm visiting my cousin," she said. "He lives in Boise."

"Boise, huh?"

"Yeah. Good old Boise fucking Idaho."

"Staying with your cousin, then, huh?"

She slowly shook her head. "Not on your life. He's married, got a huge family. I don't care for kids much. Besides, he's a jerk. When I was in junior high, I tried to kill the son-of-a-bitch."

He wasn't going to ask for details. He figured that she had to be an outsider, someone no one would miss right away.

"Nampa, then?" He could hear the hard rain drumming on the roof.

She picked up her glass and sipped some more pink lemonade. "A ways out of town. South. In a motel way the hell out in the middle of some of southern Idaho's famous beet fields."

"Really?"

She paused and looked across the restaurant toward the door. "Yeah. About twenty, thirty miles away. If you're interested...."

He nodded. "I've got time. Don't have to be on the road until noon tomorrow. We can go to my place if you want."

She smiled and winked just as thunder exploded. "Naw. I think you'll like where I'm staying. Lots of privacy. Out in farmland. Not many people checked in."

His heart reached the light, rapid animal beating that he often experienced just after the sex. Barely able to contain himself, he nodded. "OK," he said. "What? After we finish?"

"That'll work for me," she said. "By the way, I'm Beatrice."

"Oh," he said, "I shoulda introduced myself. I'm Frank."

"Hi, Frank," she said, just as her dinner was brought.

"Hey, Beatrice."

For both of them, it was the beginning of something very special.

"Coming, Frank?" she asked as she walked past his table. She had paid for her dinner and was on her way out. Solicitous, she slowed to brush his left shoulder with the long, thin fingers of her left hand. The sensation aroused him.

"Oh, yeah," Frank answered, hungry for another chicken but content to wait until later that night. Pulsing energy shot through his body like sparks of rich blood. The thought of being with Beatrice, the thought of what they were going to do, made him thirsty and hard.

Finishing his iced tea, he slid out of the booth.

Just outside the door, they stood under the small awning. It was very humid, and Frank was sweating like a pig. He sucked a toothpick.

"Fucking rain," she said, not looking up at him.

"You said it. I hate the goddamned fucking rain."

"Look," she said, pointing across the parking lot, "there's my truck, that powder blue GM piece of shit with the red gash on the side--next to the Caddy. I'm gonna pull left when I hit the exit. You follow."

"Sounds good," he responded, shoving his hands into his pockets. He was still hard.

She did have a Nevada license plate, and that briefly unsettled him. As she started to back out of her parking space, she looked at him, winked, and waved. Assured of a good time, he waved back, took the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it into the bushes next to the sidewalk. Then he loped through rain across the lot to his dark green SUV. His hands shaking with excitement, he climbed in and started the engine. As he backed out, he kept his eyes on the pickup. When he pulled up behind her, she turned left at the exit, her tires spinning on wet pavement. He waited a second, then pressed the accelerator to the floor and spun onto the road.

Thinking, this will be easy, this one will be a piece of cake, the Thief of Hearts followed Beatrice's truck. At one stop, he edged his car forward and nudged her bumper.

They drove through a downpour. With his thoughts fixed upon Beatrice, Frank barely noticed the rain, thunder and lightning as they headed south. Four or five miles beyond the city hers was the only other vehicle on the two-lane highway cutting through beat fields. Rain still fell, though not as hard. Large puddles had formed in the gravel and dirt along the sides of the road, spilling onto the asphalt and forcing Frank to straddle the centerline.

The drive seemed endless, and after finishing his forth bottle of water, boredom crept in. Frank was thinking of giving up when he saw no more than two hundred yards ahead a large white and red marquis and, next to that, a two-story, red brick motel. Approaching the entrance, Beatrice's truck slowed, its left turn signal flashing. Close upon her, he followed.

As they turned in, he noticed something unusual: the office looked closed, with its curtains pulled shut, and the rutted parking lot was empty. At the first room, in place of a window was a large piece of plywood. He braked. His heart raced. Abandonment struck him as strange but it was not entirely without a rational explanation: the manager could be out, a window had been broken, and the guests were yet to arrive. At least that’s what he told himself. Lustful sickness made him stupid, and he accepted any explanation.

Besides, he asked himself, what did it matter? It was to his advantage that the place looked vacant, and so he focused on his next victim: he would go inside her. Then, after pulling himself out, he would get behind her, wrap his legs around the lower part of her body and his arms around her head, and yank upwards and sideways until he felt the pop. He figured he was strong enough to twist her head off if he had to.

Confidence returning, he took his foot off the brake and moved forward. Peering through rain, he saw her truck at the end of the lot, parked facing the door to the last room. He eased his car into the slot next to hers and flicked off the headlights. The truck was empty.

He hesitated before opening his vehicle's door. There's something here that does not love the Thief of Hearts, he told himself, trying to picture what Beatrice looked like and recalling his earlier impression that she had looked familiar.

"Where the fuck could I have seen her?" he mumbled, dread welling inside of him. He got out, slammed the door, and stood in the rain as he considered the possibilities: college days, his one semester as a nursing student in a Southern California community college, the girls at the L.A. strip joints he used to visit before "hitting the road," the cities he had stayed in, the dives he hid in when he went to Salt Lake. Shaking his head, thunder cracking in the dark gray sky, he walked to the door. Without knocking, he grabbed the doorknob and turned to open.

It was then that the picture exploded in his mind like a neon sign. Boom, boom, boom, and there it was. He was certain he had seen Beatrice in one of the topless nightclubs in Vegas. Curiously, he had no memory of the dancer who had left with him that night--he couldn't remember her hair, her race, not one thing about her--but he vividly remembered the dancer, wearing red latex with holes for her nipples, who shook his hand and introduced herself as Beatrice. Surely, he thought, this was the one. Brief terror seized him as he stood just outside the door, fighting for control.

But, then again, memory can play horrible tricks; this is what he forced himself to think. Frank had learned that over and over. Besides, if Beatrice was that woman, that would mean that somehow she alone had tracked him down. Impossible, he told himself, for not even the police, not even the FBI, had been able to find him.

"Fucking impossible," he muttered aloud. Having said it, he could now believe it.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The light over the bed was on, and a TV and an unopened suitcase lay atop the bureau across the room. Sweating, blaming the humidity, he walked slowly across the room to the bathroom; she'd be in there he told himself, calling, "Hello, Beatrice? Beatrice? Lover Boy is here!"

Thunder crashed overhead, lightning lit the room, and again he felt afraid. He thought of flicking on the TV to calm himself; he wished he had his meds. Then something moved behind him—he didn’t hear it; he felt it—and he spun on the old carpet.

At first, his eyes did not focus, a probable effect of fatigue. Then, yes, there she was, red hair drenched and wearing a black rain slick. She stood just inside the door, using both hands to point a .38 right at his midsection.

"Oh, Jesus," he rasped.

He froze, holding his arms out to his sides as if he were trying to maintain his balance. Now the fear numbed him, as if a doctor had just given him a fatal prognosis, and he felt he was going to leave his body at any time. Nobody had ever held a gun on him before.

"Hello, Frank Crawly," she said, using her foot to push the door shut behind her.

Breathing shallow, mouth open, mouth dry, he could think of nothing to say.

For a long time, it seemed, they held this pose, Frank frozen rigid with his thick arms out from his sides, Beatrice pointing the pistol right at his bulging stomach.

"OK," he finally said. "OK." It was all he could think of.

"OK, what, Frank?--or, if you prefer, Mr. Fucking Thief of Fucking Hearts?"

He took a small trembling step backwards.

"Frank," he said. "My name's Frank." He told himself to drop to his knees and weep like a small child, like someone begging God for forgiveness, but he couldn't generate that much movement.

"Jesus, no shit," she laughed. "And I'll bet you remember me, too. Just the way your mind would work. If you didn't know me, you wouldn't be ready to shit your pants."

He vaguely felt warm dampness in his groin area. "Please," he said. "Oh, for God’s sake, please. Don’t hurt me." He was little Frank Crawley again, and this woman was his big, bullying sister preparing to kick the shit out of him, once again, while Mom and Dad stayed out all night at some bar.

"Damn right, Frank. Please. Please beg. Go on."

"Please," he repeated, thinking the word pleased her.

"Pretty please. Say 'Pretty please.'"

"Pretty please." His voice sounded like a sob. "Pretty please" was the right thing to say.

She shook her head. "You're a regular case, Frank."

He nodded.

She went on, "One of the Vegas girls--Melody was her name--was my sister. We danced together. We loved each other. We made love to each other. Our parents died when we were small so we were pretty much all we had."

He couldn't remember Melody—he couldn’t remember any of them now--but he knew that he had done the same thing with her that he had done to all the rest. Certainly, he had thrilled to sip her blood.

He tried to draw a deep breath and actually shook as he inhaled. He wasn't sure if he could exhale when she said, "Sit down, Frank. On the bed."

His mouth was dry and his tongue hurt. He forced himself to turn so he could stumble to the bed and sit down. He was so scared that he actually fell sideways on the bed; his legs wouldn’t bend right. Pushing himself up with his shaking right arm, mouth closed, he looked at her.

"Take off your clothes, big boy," she ordered, "and then pull back the sheets and climb into that motherfucking bed."

Slowly, trembling, now sitting upright, he wanted to do as he was told. He had trouble remembering where to begin when she instructed, "Start with the shoes, big boy."

Clumsily, he bent down and slowly removed his shoes. It was difficult because his fingers wouldn’t work right.

"Now your pants, your shirt, and all the rest."

"Of course," he croaked.

It seemed to take forever for him to unbuckle himself, lift himself off the bed, and pull his pants off, and as he worked on unbuttoning his blue and green Hawaiian shirt, she went on, "It was about four years ago. She was found--what?--a week later, stuffed in a black plastic bag and placed in a closet in one of those fleabag motels where people go to fuck. No heart. I remember reading that you'd dug a hole in Melody and taken her heart. Which I imagine you still got with you, right?"

He slowly nodded without looking up. He was at the last button. "In the van," he said hoarsely. "Cooler in the back."

"In a cooler. How about that?"

"On ice." For some reason, he chuckled.

She stepped forward, scowled, put the barrel inches from his right eye, and said, "You know, it took me a long time to find you. You move around too much. Too fucking much. But I figured out your pattern."

When he said nothing, she continued, "Up and down, up and down, then sideways, inland. You always take a turn through Salt Lake."

"It's where my mom and sister are," Frank mumbled. He hated his sister but loved his mother. Suddenly feeling sick, he leaned to the side to vomit on the floor.

Patiently, like a saint, she waited until he was through. "Puke it all out, Frank," she said. "Just don’t get any on my fuckin’ shoes."

When he sat up and wiped his mouth, she again put the barrel inches from his eye. It never occurred to Frank to fight back. He was more concerned with the hot, sticky shit in his underpants.

"Did she struggle, you big prick? Did she call my name just before you broke her beautiful neck? Did you have to stick it up her ass? I'm talking about my sister!"

The questions meant nothing to him because he simply didn't remember. For his silence, she whacked the barrel of the gun across the bridge of his nose.

For a moment, as she stood back and watched, he blubbered. Then he returned to taking off his clothes.

After he had pulled off his wet shirt, dabbled in blood, he sat erect, hoping that this was enough.

She stepped back. "Get into bed."

Trembling, blood trickling down the side of his nose, he stood, and turned to face the bed. He couldn’t feel. Leaning over, he pulled back the cover and the sheets. At first, he couldn’t remember how to get into bed. When he slid between the sheets, his back to her, it occurred to him that he had not removed his white socks. Something stank. He pulled the covers around him and shivered uncontrollably.

"Frank," she said, lifting her left foot and kicking him hard in the small of the back, "Frank, you fucking meathead. On your back. Flat on your fucking back, head on that old pillow."

After he had done what she commanded, he glanced at her through beady and swollen eyes. Getting kicked had hurt, and he was sure he had been crying. Then he said, in a voice not at all manly, "I'm in bed, Beatrice. I did what you told me."

She stepped forward, gripped the covers and pulled them back. "Now," she said, "undies—Jesus, you messed yourself, didn’t you, Frank?--and T-shirt."

Lying flat on his back, he did as he was told. He was bleeding only slightly. He noticed his underpants were soaked, and when he removed them some of the shit stuck to his fingers.

Naked, except for his socks, he felt very cold, exposed, and very small. Slowly, he became aware that the rain was still falling.

"Can't get it up for your own execution?"

"Huh?" he responded.

She laughed and ran the barrel of the gun through her red hair.

"Believe in Hell, Frank?" she asked, putting the barrel against his forehead.

Sudden, choking chest pains made it impossible to answer. He gasped for breath; his vision blurred. "Please," he breathed. He had never known such cruelty.

"I believe in Hell, Frank, now that you ask. And Heaven, too. There's gotta be a Heaven where angels can dance and get away from all the sick, shit-in-their-pants, disgusting fucks like you."

She yawned, paused and studied him. Thunder exploded overhead.

"But you don't have to worry about Heaven, Frank," she went on, shaking her head. "In fact, Frank, I'm thinking you're gonna roast forever, like a pig on a spit. Snap, crackle, pop." She hissed.

Try as he might, he couldn't think of anything to say about Heaven or Hell. In the past few years, he hadn't given either one a great deal of thought. What he did think about was the pain that had moved into his arms and neck, and he felt that he was going to get sick again. He wished she would let him get up and wipe himself.

But she was insensitive to him.

"You want it in the head? Or up the ass?" she offered. "Did you give Melody or any of them a choice?"

"They didn't ask," he answered. He had never allowed questions; possessed of Herculean strength, he had just done it. "I drank her blood."

She laughed and lowered the gun, and he figured this was his reprieve. She would let him go, he’d claim more souls, and he'd see his mother and sister again.

"Say goodbye, Frank." She said it in a soft low voice that actually reminded him of his mother. He couldn't remember his father.

When he raised his eyebrows and said "Goodbye," she pointed the gun at the center of his forehead and pulled the trigger.

Blam: just one clean shot, she thought to herself, hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. And then another: blam. And finally another: blam.

The face would be hardly recognizable.

In the distance, she could see the lights of Twin Falls. It had stopped raining, and in less than an hour she'd be in Nevada. She would spend the night in Jackpot or Wells. She had some friends in Wells.

She regretted not making Frank suffer more. When she'd pulled the trigger, the gun had sounded, and slight blood sprayed from the skull. Dappled, she had watched as the pillowcase, supporting Frank's head, soaked deep crimson. Rage not yet subsiding, she had fired two more times.

She'd removed her slick and thrown it over the TV, and then taken off her clothes, for she’d always worked best in the nude. From her suitcase she'd removed two shining steel knives--one with a long, curved blade and the other with a shorter blade. Both had been engraved by her uncle years before. For several minutes, she had straddled the body, praying that she remembered the procedure she spent days reading and learning about.

Then, she'd gone to work, using the long, thin instrument to form a cavity and remove the barely beating heart. With the shorter knife, she'd severed veins and arteries. Then, she'd placed the organ on the next pillow. Exposed like that, the heart would tell investigators that this body belonged to the former Thief of Hearts.

Finished, she'd placed the two knives on the pillow next to the heart and, after getting off the corpse, had used the green blanket to wipe as much blood as she could off her own body. Then, still dabbed in blood, she had grabbed the knives, set them at the foot of the bed, and then climbed from the bed. With the dirty brown bedspread, she'd wiped off the knives, which she then placed in the suitcase. The knives would become family heirlooms.

After showering and changing into some new clothes and gloves, she had finished packing her suitcase. Then, locking it, she picked up her suitcase and headed for the door, certain that the murder would not be traced to her.

She was certain she would not be found out. Twenty years before, the abandoned hotel had belonged to a friend of her uncle Mac, who had recently died while serving a life term in a Florida penitentiary. Before disappearing in Southeast Asia, the friend had sent Mac the key to the hotel. In turn, Mac’s belongings had been sent to Beatrice in Las Vegas. Unless someone had seen her and Frank at the hotel—and that was unlikely with the nearest house a mile away--she would get off scot-free.

Now she was cruising through Twin Falls, another southern Idaho farm town. It was here, she remembered from long ago, that Evil Knieval had tried to jump the Snake River Canyon on a motorcycle.

At a stop light dead in the center of town, she told herself that she'd be in Las Vegas the next afternoon and would have at least a month to clear her head before her classes started. Once a lovely exotic dancer, she now taught English and literature in one the area's high schools and wondered, for an instant, what it would be like to begin the new year by saying something like, "Class, this last summer I killed the famous Thief of Hearts. Put three bullets in a man: one in his forehead, one for each eye."

On the Nevada side of Twin Falls, the rain began again as her thoughts turned to Melody. A redhead like herself, Melody had started dancing only six months before she had been murdered. By the time she was killed, Melody had actually begun to enjoy dancing nude, allowing men to stare at her pierced nipples or the lizard tattoo between her navel and pubis, giving them pretty much what they wanted in the back room. Occasionally she had let her customers take her home, something that Beatrice had told her not to do.

Beatrice recalled that, long before coming to work at the club, Melody had developed an insatiable desire for men of all sizes. "Big, medium, or small doesn't seem to matter," Melody had confided in her once when both were in high school. So when Frank had come along and she’d ridden his bone for close to an hour, Melody had accepted his offer to drive her back to his hotel where they could spend the night together. Melody had told Beatrice that this big man was someone important.

If the investigation into Melody's disappearance and murder had turned up any leads, Beatrice told herself, then I wouldn’t be driving through this Idaho shithole right now.

A year after the investigation had closed, Beatrice had taken a job in one of the Las Vegas high schools, secretly determined to follow all reports of the killings committed by the so-called Thief of Hearts. Satisfaction would come from her own ability to track down the son-of-a-bitch, much like she and her father had tracked deer through the forests of central Nevada, and put a bullet in his body at the first opportunity. Once she’d figured out the killer’s name and followed his pathway of crime, everything had fallen into place. It was as if she’d been born to track scum like Frank Crawley.

Now that I've cleansed the world, she told herself as hit the outskirts of Twin Falls, I can focus full-time on my teaching. Teaching, the successes that came with it, gave her immense pleasure; the year before, she'd even won an award.

Indeed, to Beatrice, there was no occupation quite like it in the whole world. And as far as she was concerned, because of its phenomenal growth, Vegas would remain the best place to teach in an elementary school. END

Lori's Song

Either the cross or death.--St. Theresa of Avila

April 2003

I. It is the last day of my captivity. You think this as you awaken in the bed of an ice-cold second story room.

As you pull the sheets closer, you hear rain drumming on the roof and window; rain reminds you of God's steady grace. Grace sustains you when your mind replays the events culminating in your conversion. Grace will give you peace when you take the needle.

Joints aching from the walking you did yesterday, you sit up in bed. Shivering slightly, you remember that you're in Seattle and wonder what the weather is like in sunny Las Vegas, where you lived five years ago. You finger the large silver cross dangling from your neck and glance at your watch. It's six in the morning, too early to shower and risk waking the Lutheran pastor and his wife, who took you in and sleep soundly two rooms down the hall.

After breakfasting around nine, you'll walk two blocks, hop on the bus, and, big floppy Bible in hand, ride to city center where you'll share the Gospel with anyone who will listen. Often, small crowds gather. It is then that the Holy Ghost will demand that you publicly tell, certainly for the last time during this period of earthly bondage, your exceedingly gruesome tale. Your story is your cross, every detail a nail.

II. Standing on wet pavement under the low gray Seattle sky, you'll begin with, "Her name was Lori."

That was the name on the website depicting the wavy-haired redhead with the gorgeous body. Her bio said she lived in Henderson, Nevada, and wanted a "sensitive man to love me body and soul." Crazy with desire, predatory as a mountain lion, you found her late one stormy night in January 1999 while surfing the net in your house’s second story guestroom. At the time, your family had just moved to Las Vegas, the tenth move in twenty years.

You remember that you were studying her homepage--she was pictured in a thin white negligee--when an image of the Savior blew into your mind, and He stood between you and the object of your depravity. Silently, you bid Him go away--He always frightened you. You reminded Him that you had angrily sworn off the Christian faith years before, just after your beautiful mother Esther shot your father to death in their bed twenty feet down the hall from your room. Esther had found Darrin putting it to the wife of the neighbor who had headed up a local satanic cult. You were ten at the time.

Heart racing, Jesus' image still nailed in your thoughts, you sat back in your soft, high-backed chair and pushed away from the computer table. Sweat dotted your brow and moistened your palms. You gritted your teeth and you forced your mind onto your last victim--also a redhead, also lonely, also gorgeous. It was somewhere outside Laramie, and she had squirmed and run; in the end, had submitted and taken the rope. Her soul had leapt from her body after you cut it from sternum to pubis.

As innocent blood soaked your mind and the wind shrieked your name outside the window, the image of the Savior faded, and you waited several minutes to regain wholeness. Finally, you returned to Lori's homepage, studied her face, and knew that she was consumed by a sorrow so crippling that she would be quite ripe for your plucking.

You clicked upon page one; the pictures there were mostly "boob shots." On page two, Lori was smiling while spreading wide, front and back, and you felt magic connection.

Then, like a hammer striking the side of your head, it hit you that you had seen this girl recently. "Oh, my God above," you whispered. You believed in sign and were now certain that some dark design was at work here. "Oh, my God; Oh, my God."

Your mind scampered in circles; you could not place her. Then memory cells ignited: this one, you remembered, worked at the nearby Wal-mart, just off Rampart. Several times in the past six months, she had checked you out, once even exclaiming, "God bless!" as you headed for the door. Tangible sorrow had saturated her voice.

Blinking and glancing at the screen, you remembered that she generally wore a sweater containing a message like "Redeemed by the Blood" or "By his Stripes." Though you had been raised Baptist, these messages sent the sickening chill of judgment to the marrow of your bones. The last time she'd checked you through, she had worn a black sweater with "God of Fire" printed in red over a golden cross. "God of Fire" had conjured such a dreadful image of damnation that you hadn't slept that night.

Pushing away fear and driving your thoughts back to the screen, you smiled; because she had already spoken to you, because she was drawn to smut, it should be quite possible to break beyond the "Savior barrier" and make her acquaintance. That done, you would move towards the cutting ritual that would free her soul and feed your own.

When you returned to her home page, you clicked the arrow on "Contact." That brought up a letter ready to be sent to her email address. This night, because you really didn't know her yet, you wrote nothing.

The next day after work, a prowling soul, you went to Wal-mart. You parked as close to the store and, because it was cold, ran to the main door. Heart racing, feet freezing, you walked to the homeowners' section where you picked up three bottles of stain. It was as you were standing in line that you saw her five check-stands away. Craving eye contact, you moved to her cue. After fifteen minutes, you found yourself face to face with Lori. Jaw set, she was wearing a blue sweater with the words "Stream of Living Waters" written in white.

"What does 'Stream of Living Waters' mean?" you asked as she processed your order.

"It's the name of a church," she mumbled, not giving you a glance.

"Also, I think it's what Jesus called the Holy Ghost."

The name of Jesus made your face twitch.

"Not many people believe in Him anymore." You almost stuttered as you spoke.

She looked at you, into your eyes, and sighed, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "Not many people do anymore, I guess. Getting harder and harder to know God every day."

Eye contact always started it, and suddenly your heartbeat was a thin, rapid palpitation.

"But I guess you do, huh?" You had to force the words out.

"I surely try," she responded. "I was raised on Jesus though He hasn't been with me recently."

You cringed.

"Hasn't been with anyone recently," you snorted as you picked up your bag and headed for the door.

"God bless you, sir!" she said, her tone almost a plea.

Hating the expression, you nodded but did not glance back.

All through the next day, you couldn't stop thinking of Lori. During one your breaks at work, you even used your work computer to check her site. Then, after work, you phoned Kitty on your cell and told her you needed to pick up "one more thing" at Wal-mart.

It was after five when you moved though the sliding glass doors and pushed through the people milling around the counters near the entrance. Again, the store was frigid with late January cold as you walked to the pharmacy area and bought several packets of sinus medication. Hurrying to the front, your heart beating with coyote-rapidity, you saw her in the very last check-stand.

"Hey, I remember you," she said as you reached the front of the line. You put your meds on the counter, smiled, and briefly locked into her glacial blue eyes. This time, she wore a white sweater bearing the red letters "By the Blood of the Lamb." Under the words was a picture of a glaring Christ, face bloodied from the crown of thorns. Slight sickness shot through you, you could feel the blood drain from your face, and you wondered if you were going to faint.

The eyes are just pictures, you silently reassured yourself; they can't hurt me.

"Can never have too much of this stuff," you said, sniffing and nodding toward your medication.

"Got a cold today?"

You looked toward the doors to avoid the face on the sweater.

"Just stuffed up from the wind. It's that time of year."

"My husband gets it real bad, too."

You glanced at her face, briefly locked your eyes with hers, and imagined running your fingers through her long tangle of red hair and then gracefully slicing her throat and tasting her blood.

When you left, she yelled, "God bless!" You cringed as if whipped. Her tone was pathetic, pleading, and everyone heard her.

That night, over dinner, as your daughters rambled on about boy friends and school, you found that you couldn't erase Lori's face from your mind. It was attached to your brain by an invisible nail.

When Kitty asked, "Anything wrong, Carl?" you replied, "Oh, nothing. You know. Hard day at work."

That night, you dreamt about Lori, naked, sitting on your lap in the car, your fingers slowly wrapping themselves around her beautiful neck. Panting like a beast, you were reaching for the knife when, right in the middle of the dream, the Son of God appeared in a blaze of glory, His eyes riveting you and causing Lori to fade. You woke with a jolt and slept fitfully for the rest of the night.

All the next day, on edge, you thought about her. That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, you clicked the arrow on "Contact" and wrote her the letter that you'd spent all day composing. It was an inspired effort, and you told her that she was beautiful as the desert sunset. Then, you asked her why she had so given herself over to the devil. "Pornography is of Satan, dear child," you wrote and went on to explain that, for the past six years, your mission had been to search the net and reclaim the lost sheep of God. "And now, even now, the Lord has called me to bring you back into the fold, dear sweet Lori," you added, feeling a familiar tightness around your own neck.

The next day, as you worked through computer files in your small cold office, you upbraided yourself for having written this letter.

"She'll never buy the evangelical bit," you fumed as you completed work on one of your company's biggest accounts.

"What's that you say, Carl?" came the voice from the next cubicle.

"Evangelical now, are we?" It was Ralph Cummings, the freckled, redheaded lightweight that had joined the company two months after you were hired.

"Mind your own goddamned business, Ralphy," you retorted.

"Touchy-touchy," Ralph clucked. Had you been violent, you would have stepped around the corner, seized the little man's throat, and choked him to death.

Three nights later you received her response. "For a dear man of God," she wrote, "you seem attracted to my devilish beauty. Do you want a part of me? You can have me, you know, all things being permissible--God willing, of course :)"

"Bingo," you chuckled. You logged onto a Bible website and copied some Old Testament verses into your reply, in which you gently touched upon the sin of adultery. Blood pumping at a feverish pitch, you ended by telling her that you lived in Las Vegas, considered yourself an apostle, and asked if she would meet you to discuss matters of the Christian faith.

Outside, the wind battered your house, stars glimmered like little eyes, and the pain shooting through your head meant your sinuses would clog.

"This is a stupid thing to do," you scolded yourself as you signed the letter "Love, Apostle Carl," and pressed "Send." This time, you feared, you had gone too far with the evangelical pitch. For an instant, you wondered if your wife was awake and listening in the next room and decided that you didn't care.

One week later, just when you were ready to begin searching for another victim, an email from Lori arrived. It was early evening during the first week of February. The sunset had been a spectacular display of yellow, orange, and red, and Kitty and the kids were attending classical music concert across town.

"My dearest Apostle Carl," her letter began, "I appreciate the verses, and what you wrote about staying on the pathway to righteousness struck a chord in this witch's heart. (I'm not really a witch, but I think my sister Naomi is.)Just thinking about you makes me wet." At the end, she had written, "As I think of you, I sit naked in front of my computer, dream about sucking your cock, and touch myself;)" She had signed it, "All my love, Lori." She said nothing about meeting you.

Euphoric, you sent her more Bible verses, reminding her to be careful about the occult and telling her that God loved her gorgeous body. "Why else would He have made you beautiful?" you asked. You added that you liked thinking about her naked and that the good Lord never looked with disfavor upon His followers for indulging in an occasional sin; "The Old Testament is filled with scoundrels blessed by the Almighty," you wrote.

The next night, well past twelve, you logged on, opened your email, and read: "You gotta know I grew up in the Pentecostal church, and lost my virginity by fourteen and by the age of eighteen had my fill of holy-roller, gospel people." She ended, "I think I've lost my salvation, dear Apostle, and it's because I like to take on older men. (How can that be a sin?) You're an 'older man,' aren't you? Can we meet some time? Someone once told me that a child of God can never lose their salvation." Her P. S. went, "I live in Henderson ;)."

You wrote back immediately, suggesting that she meet you three afternoons later at 3:30 at The Lamb's Grill, a restaurant just off the Strip. Five minutes after you sent this email, you had your reply. "Lamb's Grill it is, sweet boy," she wrote; "I'll be there at 3:30."

Barely able to contain yourself, you risked one last message: "Be sure to wear something revealing. I wouldn't mind seeing your bosoms." "Tits" would be out of character for an apostle.

You waited, wondering if she was still on the line, and thirty minutes later you had your answer: "Carl, my sweet lamb. If I could, I'd be wearing nothing at all. Of course you can see my bosoms, as you call them. See you there. Now, go to sleep." She had not signed this one "Lori" or "Love, Lori," but that didn't bother you. That night, next to your wife, you slept like a baby.

The next cold, drizzly morning over breakfast you told Kitty that in two days you had to drive to Kingman, Arizona, for a business meeting.

"That's sudden," she said, sipping black coffee and looking across the table at you.

"That's what I told them," you mumbled, chewing your scrambled eggs and bacon in tiny rapid bites. You picked up the paper and scanned the front page of section B.

"What's it about?" she asked.

"Oh, same old shit." You kept your eyes on the paper.

"'Same old shit.' I just love it when you talk that way," she sighed, setting down her coffee and rising from the table.

"Sorry, pumpkin," you said, looking up. "Pumpkin" was the name you'd called her when you first met years ago at frat party. A member of a coven at the time, she had since lived her life in a Lutheran church you refused to attend.

"Guess I'm pissed," you continued. "It's with that group from Phoenix I've been talking about. They want to finalize some kind of deal. Herb needs me to go." Herb Spence was your boss.

"I don't remember you ever talking about any Phoenix deal," Kitty said from the kitchen. The running sink water told you that she was washing something.

You forced a laugh. "I think that's because you never listen."

"Oh, I listen," she replied in the bored voice that she had been using in the past six years. "But, for me, I guess things go in one ear and out the other."

"Guess they do with most of us," you answered, taking an enormous gulp of coffee and rising from your chair.

Two days later, suitcase and other items in your trunk, you drove into the parking lot behind Lamb's, a dinghy '50's style restaurant. The day had been cloudy and chilly. That bothered you because on the evenings devoted to your deadly ritual, you preferred the clear blue sky because that always meant a beautiful to spectacular sunset. As you eased your blue Honda into a space facing the door, your heart thudded with bestial anticipation as you thought of taking her to the desert.

After locking up your vehicle, you stood just outside the dark entrance and looked up. It was just then that the sunlight pierced the thinning cloud cover. Breathing deeply, you imagined the rays penetrating you and lifting the depression that had hung on you since yesterday afternoon. Always, late in the afternoon on the day before these little episodes, you were hit with what Uncle Ray the Preacher used to call "melancholia." It would last for about twenty-four hours, and always, the pall lifted when you met your next offering.

Now, as more sun broke though, you wondered how long you were going to be able continue your "spree." This would be the seventeenth—that meant seventeen corpses, all mutilated, scattered around the country you love. The first was been a redheaded topless dancer who worked in New Jersey. You had difficulty remembering the others. And always, while the local police had put out a missing person's report, the bodies had never been found. Even more miraculous, you'd never been questioned.

On this afternoon, you saw only two other cars, both on the far side of the lot: a black Cadillac with tinted windows and, next to that, a green Toyota with paint chipping off the dented driver's door. Because she had mentioned it in one of her letters, you knew that the Toyota belonged to Lori.

In a dark rush, you pushed the black glass door open and entered Lamb's. The air inside smelled of burnt meat. Eyes quickly adjusting, you saw Lori. She sat across the room in a large, red wing-backed chair, smiling at you. You shoved your hands in your pockets and approached her.

"You must be Lori," you said with forced calm as she stood.

She wore a low-cut gray sweater that barely covered her nipples. A short black skirt hung on her so loosely that you knew she wore nothing underneath. Your manhood swelling, your depression lifted immediately.

"You must be dear Apostle Carl," she said, stepping forward, wrapping her arms around your neck, and pecking you on the lips. "You don't look like a Man of God."

"That's what they all say," you laughed.

She drew back to inspect you. Clearly, she didn't recognize you. Your immediate impression was that you slightly repelled her, possibly because you were overweight, wore dark, thick glasses, and had thick red hair. Your stained blue Hawaiian shirt probably didn’t help. But you put these potentially crippling notions aside as the hostess, wearing a black gown, escorted you to a table on the far side of the restaurant. An older couple was seated at a table in the middle of the room.

"So, Apostle Carl, where do you go to church?" Lori asked, her voice somewhat strained, as she opened the menu and scanned the selections.

You shrugged. "Some Baptist church not far from where I live. It's not where you go, Lori; it's what you believe."

She looked up and gave a tight smile. "Which Baptist church? I've been to several here."

"Holy Oak Southern Baptist. Think that's the name. It's in North Las Vegas."

"Really? I don't know that one," she said.

"Not many people do," you responded. "It's new. We're meeting in a store."

"A mission church?"

"Yes. A mission church." You were lying but knew she couldn't tell.

"Cool," she said, returning to the menu.

You discussed food selections, praising the Italian cuisine. Then you decided to cut to the chase. "Churches aside, why are you posing on the web? Not that I mind but, still, one wonders why a child of God would do that. And I have to admit, some of those pictures are quite nice."

"Because God gave me a gorgeous body." Her eyes locked with yours.

"He did at that," you nodded, suddenly feeling blissful. "But still, I wonder."

You knew it was coming and, when it did, could feel the change in her mood; it was like the humidity before a storm. Slowly, she put down her menu. Color drained from her face, and her eyes widened. Hand slightly trembling, she reached for her water glass, brought it to her lips, and sipped, never taking her eyes off you.

You grinned--you knew what this was about--as she slowly set her glass down, her eyes still fixed on you. Temporarily, bliss gave way to fear.

"I've seen you somewhere, haven't I?" she asked.

You shrugged. "I dunno. Have you?"

"Oh, my God, I think I have. I know I have."

Your heart skipped several beats. The entire game hung on this moment.

"Might have," you answered, closing your menu and glancing toward the kitchen. You struggled to keep tension from your voice.

"My God above," she said, eyes still riveted on you, voice rising, "you're that guy that comes by the store. You're that guy. That guy. You asked me about one of my 'God sweaters,' as I call them. Didn't you?"

You wondered what she meant by the phrase "that guy."

"That was me," you chirped. "After one of my neighbors told me to look on the web, I couldn't resist."

"Your neighbor?"

"Yeah. Mike Hanson. He goes to Wal-mart every once in a while. I don't think it's that big a deal. It's kind of exciting, actually."

"Exciting...?" She forced a smile.

"I mean, if it bothers you...," you mumbled and forced a perplexed smile. You felt your heart was going to explode like a cannon.

"No," she shrugged, "I guess it's all right. I guess I should have listened to my sister. She said, sooner or later, I'd run into people who would recognize me."

The waiter was standing just off your right shoulder. "I think we need to order," you suggested.

Ordering brought a reprieve--you requested an expensive Riesling with dinner--but when you were finished, she picked up where she left off.

"OK, I remember you now," she said. "Bought all that sinus stuff last time, right? We wondered how you could use it all."

"That was me. Gotta have my sinus stuff."

Who the hell are 'we'? you wondered. You didn't like it when people talked about you behind your back.

"And so when I checked you out, at that time, you already knew about the site. Right? Well, hmmm," she said, pursing her lips, "I guess it's what I shoulda expected, huh?"

"Of course it is." You wondered when the waiter was going to bring the salads.

"Just the same, it kind of gives me the creeps. Almost feels like you're stalking me. But I know you’re not. I guess that's part of the thrill."

"Just part of the thrill," you nodded.

She smiled grimly, and for several minutes neither one of you spoke.

"Lori, what we're talking about is coincidence, pure coincidence," you began again. You stirred your fork in your salad and searched for words. "But let me say," and here you gazed into her eyes, "that I find you stunningly beautiful. And, yes, I guess I should have said something. Anyway, recognizing the girl on the site as the woman at the store made, what, made our getting together all the more urgent. All the more special. God-ordained, if you like. I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure I wanted you to recognize me."

She took a bite of her salad, then smiled. "Well, what the hell, huh? You only live once. I'm sure I've run into other men at the store who've seen my site. Probably lots. Just didn't know it. Guess I should be flattered you asked me out. Guess I am." The tension was dissolving from her voice.

"Hope so," you responded.

"And, to answer your question honestly--and why shouldn't I be honest?--posing nude gives me a huge rush."

You wanted to say "Me, too" when the waiter brought your main courses along with your wine. You had ordered shrimp scalopini, and she had gone for the chicken marsala.

Before taking her first bite, she made the sign of the cross over her plate.

Cold burned your neck and ears, and you almost choked. "Why'd you do that?" you asked.

"It's a blessing. When I was little, my priest used to do it."

"Well"--here you forced a giggle--"please don't do it again."

"It's just a habit."

You nodded and started in on your scalopini.

"You're married, aren’t you?" you asked.

"Unfortunately. And, on top of that, I got two kids. They're with my ex right now. How about you?"

"Divorced. Two daughters who live with the wife in Topeka." Years before, you and Kitty had lived in Topeka for a year and a half.

For a time, you talked about your children and said disparaging things about the woman you referred to as "the former Mrs. Carl." In her turn, between sips of wine, Lori said something about her present husband, a driver for a local delivery service, and mentioned her sister Naomi, a local dancer who had sworn since childhood to protect her.

Talking about family members was fine, but Lori didn't want to stay on that topic. Halfway through dinner, she began to talk about Jesus, Whom she had found as a child and subsequently lost. She said a few things about her struggles with the "condition of sin." Sin didn't interest you, and talk about Jesus made want to crawl into a dark hole somewhere inside your brain.

You drained your glass of Riesling and poured yourself another.

"The web site is my testimony to sin in my life, and right now," she laughed, "sin is clearly in control. The Devil, really. But you know what they say."

"What do they say?"

"Jesus saves. It's what my grandma always used to tell me. 'Lori, you just remember: Jesus is the rescuer.'"

Feeling a lump in your throat, you took an enormous gulp of wine and jumped right in, explaining your own job as an insurance adjuster and not giving her a chance to say another word.

During desert, she started up again, but this time, to your relief, she talked about growing up in Boise. You told her you'd been in Boise three or four times and liked the place very much. That seemed to please her, and when you walked out the front door, she took your hand.

It was cool and breezy in the parking lot, and as you stood next to your car, she shivered and leaned against you. That was when your bliss returned.

"Go away, winter," she groaned, burying her forehead into your shoulder. It was a sweet, almost endearing gesture.

"I agree," you murmured. "February can be a bitch."

"Can't wait for summer."

You turned, folded both arms around her, and said, "So, if you don’t like to be cold, why not let big-dick Daddy warm you up?"

"Yeah, warm me up, big-dick Daddy," she laughed, holding you around your waist and kissing you gently on the mouth. Warming to your cruel task, you reached down with one hand and right in the parking lot, you lifted her skirt and discovered that she was wearing nothing underneath.

"This is wonderful," you murmured, caressing her.

"It sure is," she purred.

You slid a hand between her cheeks, and she gave a slight gasp.

When you told her that you wanted to take her to a special place out in the desert, she agreed and again kissed you on the mouth. Releasing her hold and pushing her gently away, you turned and unlocked your car doors.

"Just wanna be with my Apostle," she said, sliding next to you in the front seat and putting a hand on your leg.

After backing out of the parking space and pointing your car to the exit, you noticed two men and one woman standing near the Cadillac. There was something strangely familiar about the woman, a raven-haired beauty who glared at you with cruel dark eyes.

On the drive toward Hoover Dam, she told about a trip she had taken with her parents, many years ago, through Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. She'd loved the Indian ruins, she said. Once you were beyond Hoover Dam, she leaned over, unzipped your fly, and pulled you out of your pants.

"Easy there," you said. "I gotta drive."

"I'll be careful," she cooed.

After an hour of freeway, just on the edge of twilight, you said, "We're almost there." She'd zipped you back up just you congratulated yourself on your perfect timing. Gazing down the highway, you saw the sign indicating that the exit was three-quarters of a mile away.

After taking the exit, you drove the thin ribbon of road north, toward the mountains. "Up ahead," you told her, "just a mile or so, there's a place where you overlook this hidden valley and see a spectacular sunset."

"I love sunsets," she answered.

"That's what they all say," you quipped.

The road ended in a small parking lot slanted slightly so visitors could see into the river canyon below. As you stopped and shut off the engine, a windblast rocked the car.

"I love the wind," Lori said.

"I do, too," you replied.

"Wanna get out? I bet it's real pretty standing right over the canyon."

"Yeah, it is, especially with the sun playing off the rocks." This is going to be perfect, you told yourself.

You got out first, walked around to her side, and opened up her door. When she climbed out of the car, she took your extended hand, and like two newlyweds you walked the twenty or thirty feet to the cliff's edge. Glancing into the western sky, you figured the sun had fifteen, twenty minutes left.

"Ooooh, this place is absolutely heavenly, Carl," she said, letting the wind take her dress and pointing across the narrow valley to a big outcropping where the sun's rays brought out pinks, purples, and reds.

"Yeah, this place is fucking remarkable," you said in the subterranean voice that you always used just before a kill.

She laughed and, as the breeze buffeted you, she squeezed your hand and tried to imitate your low voice. "Carl, the man of God. Did he say 'fucking'?"

You glanced back and chuckled, almost guttural, "Fucking right he did. But he meant something else. Sorry."

For a few moments, you held her hand and gazed across the valley. It was almost romantic until she said, "Carl, your hands are getting cold and sweaty. You all right?"

Always, your hands got cold and sweaty at this point, for the thought of blood brought the temporary freezing that would culminate in fiery, crimson ecstasy. "I'm fine," you said, taking your hand away. "Just thrilled to be with you."

As she folded her arms and continued looking across the canyon, you excused yourself. "I need to get something from the car," you said.

"Hurry back."

"Oh, I shall," you assured her, backing away. "Gonna get my camera. Maybe you could slip off your clothes."

She turned to look at you. "Say, now that's an idea," she agreed. "I'll give you a shot of my boobs. How's that?"

"Might be too cold," you said, continuing to back up.

"Naw." She shook her head and pulled her sweater over her head.

Retreating, you reached the car and opened the trunk. Briefly, you took your eyes off her.

The first thing you saw was the thin leather case carrying the two recently sanitized knives; each had occult engravings on the blade. Next to the case was the rope. With your left hand, you reached in and gripped a coil, thinking, I'll be the last person she sees. Your heart beat wildly as the desert wind kicked up some dust nearby. In your mind's eye you saw Lori's soul leaping from her body just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon.

You were almost upon her when she turned and glanced down at the rope. Her look registered puzzlement and terror.

"God bless," you said, so excited that your hands trembled. "God bless, God bless, God bless."

"What the fuck’s that?" she gasped. "That's not a camera. Jesus. That's sure as hell not something you take pictures with."

"Nope, it's rope," you smirked, sticking out your tongue and wriggling it at her.

Her eyes already bulging from their sockets, she didn't move, and it made you almost sad when you saw the tear run down her cheek. Arms dangling at her sides, she did not resist as you put the noose around her neck and slowly tightened it.

"On your knees, child of the Most High," you said. "Lucifer is waiting."

There was a pause as the wind blew mightily.

Then, as she dropped to her knees in the sand, she did something extraordinary, even absurd. Extending her arms upwards, throwing her head back, she began a lament, whispering at first, then almost shouting, and finally singing. The singing chilled you to your shriveling bone.

Long red hair blown by the wind, she sang, begging forgiveness, but not from you. "Turn me white as snow, O God of my soul," she sang. Where the hell does this come from? you wanted to ask. You are beyond His reach, you internet whore, you wanted to say and tried to laugh, finding that you couldn’t because you knew no one, really, was beyond redemption. You’d known that for a long time.

And so as you listened, her song exploded into the evening air, the canyon echoing and the words enfolding you. You hadn't the strength to pull the rope tighter.

Your legs trembled and your heart quaked, and suddenly, as if pushed, you dropped to your knees just as she faced the sun. You were no more that a few feet from her, and her voice bounced off the mountain walls and filled the spaces around you.

Have mercy upon me, O God,

according to thy loving kindness:

according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies

blot out my transgressions.

Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity,

and cleanse me from my sin.

For I acknowledge my transgressions:

and my sin is ever before me.

Against thee, the only,

have I sinned and done this evil in thy sight....

It was the beginning of the end for you.

Like one obsessed, she sang this prayer over and over as the hand of fear clutched your frantically beating heart. You knew, somehow, that if she meant the words of her song, God would honor her. As she continued praying, your fear moved to revulsion and loathing, and you understood, as if a light had been cast upon your soul, that it was your hated of God that had kept Him from you and made you hideous.

Then, as if two hands gripped your head, you turned and looked into the sunset. It was the sun as you'd never seen it before, five times its normal size, setting the horizon ablaze. In the web of Lori’s prayer, fire seemed to explode from the ball and bleed purple, red, and pink across the evening sky. Knowing you would lose your sight, you looked into the burning star and saw something. What was it you saw? It was, you’re sure, the shimmering silhouette of someone walking through blinding light.

You struggled to stand but had no strength to do so. As if nailed to the spot, you felt the sun burning into you. Who is it that is there? you silently asked. You recalled having read somewhere about similar encounters with something divine but had thought nothing of it; sheer logic ruled against a world that couldn’t be explained in terms of scientific causality. Yet, in the blaze stood a figure robed in white, head crowned with thorns, hands bloodily pierced, arms extended toward you.

The thought that Lori was to be the seventeenth victim pierced your heart, and the faces of the others whirled in your mind’s eye. Behind the faces faded, you saw your soul’s black mass and were suddenly afraid of being snuffed out for all eternity. You pushed to the back of your mind the thought that you could be going completely insane and, desperate, reached toward the figure, David’s words forming unbidden in you mind: Purge me, O God for I was shaped in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me.

You closed seared eyes, felt a gentle hand on your forehead, and heard the cries of a woman, praying that you be forgiven. In the steady breeze you said, aloud, "May God, forgive me. Cleanse me, oh Lord, of my iniquity and unrighteous." The response was immediate, and you felt as if someone had removed a ton of bricks from your back. Liberated, you opened your eyes and saw Lori standing before you. She was wearing her sweater and holding the rope.

Your eyes locked with hers, and as you stared you knew that Lori was forgiven.

But then something else. As a breeze blew against you, there came the whoosh of a car moving your way over the thin road. It did not strike you as miraculous that you still had your sight, and looking to the parking lot, you saw the black Cadillac from the parking lot behind Lamb's. When the car stopped, doors opened and three people--two men and a young woman--got out and slowly walked your way.

When you heard Lori breathe "Naomi," you knew it was your time. Closing your eyes, you dropped your head to your chest. You were not afraid and kept your eyes shut as footsteps drew near. You waited with bated breath, sensed someone standing over you, and felt the rope put round your neck and tightened. Then you felt a revolver’s cold steel pressed against your forehead.

You awaited death.

"Please, please spare this man," said a soft, sweet voice you recognized as Lori's. She has become a new creation, you thought, remembering one of Uncle Ray’s favorite phrases.

You felt like choking and waited for the crack of the pistol.

"Please, please, please," she pleaded.

There was the pause; everything hung in the balance.

"Give me the gun, Luke," came another voice, this one also female. You felt the gun's barrel taken from your fore head, the rope tightened just a bit. You opened your eyes.

Standing over you was a broad-shouldered man of medium height, his head silhouetted against the darkening sky. He stepped back, handed the weapon to a tall, thin woman with jet-black hair and blood-red lipstick. As Lori looked on, the woman smiled, studying you cruelly, and pointed the gun at your forehead, dead center.

Dizzy, your own eyes bulging, you whispered, "Do it."

"Oh, I plan to," she said, smiling. "Anyone fucks with my little sister, I'll blow their brains to kingdom come."

You were not afraid. You deserved this.

"Say your prayers, Jack," the woman said. You waited for Lori to say something.

And finally she did. "I prayed for his soul, Naomi," Lori said, "that it be released from Satan's hold. I even asked Jesus to bind evil from him from this moment forth."

"Sounds like you covered everything, little sister," the tall woman said, still aiming the gun at an invisible point on your forehead.

The light of day had almost completely faded, and a half-moon hung just over Naomi’s left shoulder.

"Do it," you muttered, knowing even then that the darkness that had gnawed your innards was gone and in its place was a small glowing light. You silently vowed that, if you were spared, you would to submit the rest of your life to the Savior.

III. And now, here you are, four years later, in a bed five miles from the center of rainy Seattle, Washington. Today you will lead more stray lambs back into the fold and then, around seven in the evening, head over to the old warehouse that was converted into a church. It will be a revival service, and at some point you'll walk to the front. Now an evangelist, Lori will recognize you. Her ministry started four years ago, and while her sister and thuggish boyfriends stayed in Vegas, Lori has moved around the country, leading services of prayer, worship, and healing. A year after your own deliverance, you began reading about her in magazines.

Rain continues to drum on the roof.

Lying in bed, arms folded behind your head, you think of Kitty, certainly puzzled and possibly devastated by your disappearance, but what could you do? Again, you replay your near execution in the Arizona desert. After you saw Jesus in the sun, after the sparing of your own life, you drove all night and into the next day, stopping finally at a small town on the other side of Denver. There, you gave your car to an old farmer and his wife and, with several hundred dollars in your pocket, took the bus to the East Coast where you began your own small ministry.

Every day, since then, you have remembered your depravity; every week, you have asked forgiveness, lived hand-to-mouth, and wandered from city to city. Almost daily, you have told someone your incredible story. Today, of course, your story stops, because this evening you will give up your freedom and accept total bondage to Christ.

And so here you are, in a cozy two-story house just outside Seattle, city of rain. The Lord's work must be done, you tell yourself; the spiritual battle must be waged even to the point of my own execution. You rise, shower, dress, and go down to the kitchen downstairs. There you eat a large breakfast with the Lutheran pastor and his wife, thanking them once again for taking you in two nights before.

After finishing a second helping of French toast, after your fourth cup of straight black coffee, you rise from the table and thank the couple.

"Thanks for taking me in," you say, putting on your gray parka and picking up the Bible you had set on the kitchen counter.

"It's a pleasure, Carl," Pastor Dave says, escorting you to the door.

"We'll eat dinner when you get back." A short, stocky bespectacled man, the pastor's name is David. You haven’t the heart to tell him you won’t be back.

Standing at the door, shouting "Goodbye, Ann!" you almost weep for the kindness of this aging couple, their children grown and gone.

Outside, in steady rain, you open your umbrella and walk two blocks to the bus stop. The heavy smell of pine fills the air. With two other people, one a young redheaded woman with a bright smile and the other a stooped old man given to hacking and cursing, you climb aboard the dull green bus.

You like sitting in the bus, and moving through suburbs, you glance occasionally at your reflection in the window. Your dark glasses have been replaced by thin wire-rimmed spectacles; there's a touch of gray in your hair, and your cheeks are slightly sunken.

Once you're in the city, you will listen to for small silent voice of God. If you are told to go inside a 7-11 and witness to the lady wearing the red scarf and blue coat, you will do it. If God tells you to drop off tracts at a Laundromat, you'll do just that.

As the bus approaches your down-town stop, not far from the water, you think of Abraham and Isaac and know that if God asks you to throw yourself in front of an oncoming truck, you will do just that. Of course, He will not make that request. He will instead and most surely carry you forth by His grace, this day and every day for the rest of your life.

And now, stepping off the bus into steady, dreary rain, you're certain that Lori will recognize you. With a joyful heart, you begin your last day of captivity.