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  The intruder bangs on Casey’s small, struggling body with a short series of brutal punches, his arm drawing up and driving down hard in short strokes like a piston. Dyke bitch. It somehow pleased him to say this. At the same time, he knew it wasn’t right.

  Her crying stops. Casey is limp and compliantly silent. She lies on her side, back to the sliding glass door, which opens onto the second-floor deck.

  The sound of the surf rises as the intruder slides the door open, causing Casey’s limp form to shift, her blood-soaked hair painting a messy swath low on the glass. The two candles on the mantel waver as the ocean breeze rushes in.

  Skeezy looks up again, hearing the rumbling grate of the heavy sliding glass door over the hush of the surf. He is alarmed. Gotta get out of here. Don’t get mad at me. Please don’t. Please don’t.

  The intruder looks down on Casey’s crumpled body, wiping his sweaty face with his forearm. He snatches the champagne bottle from its sweating ice bucket, bashes the top off on the edge of the wrought iron table and splatters it over her body. He tosses the broken, empty bottle near the pool of champagne and splashes of blood. Jesus, even their drinks were faggoty sissy booze. It really made him sick. That’s why he could do this. Because they weren’t normal. What a fucking waste. Because he had to admit that she was… just right. The hair, the body. Damn, she was cute.

  Back to business.

  Down on the beach, Skeezy flinches and ducks, raising his shoulders as he hears a muffled crash.

  The intruder works up a gob of spit and lets it fly, pleased with his work. Not quite satisfied, he unzips and marks his territory by urinating on the jacket over her head. He snorts with laughter. He zips up and retrieves the baton from the floor. He pantomimes a fake martial arts move with it and provides his own sound effect, laughing under his breath.

  “Whhhht-CHAAA!”

  A sharp crack of the baton as it strikes the hanging lamp over the table holding the pyramid cake with the toy cars. A shower of glass and the light dims. One last flash as the bulbs shattered, and only the big candles on the mantel cast a low glow on Nefertiti, the River Nile hunting scene, the boy King Tut’s golden mask, the three beautiful women playing harps and Anubis. Casey loved Egyptian art, and her wall featured her favorite art pieces and photos.

  He noticed the stuff when she was still flailing around and fighting him. Pointless to fight but he guessed she was scared and that’s what made her so strong for her size. He worked out so he appreciated strength. But this junk made him think she was into devil worship or some voodoo shit. He loved movies and he liked the mummy one with that English chick, but this black dog man-thing or whatever it was gave him the creeps. Tall and black with wide shoulders and long, muscular arms and that pointy, dog-face mask… or maybe it was his actual head. And he was weighing something on a scale. It was like human sacrifice, and it made him scared or nervous or something. He was glad he was just a regular Christian, nothing weird or evil.

  Skeezy hunches his shoulders at the sound of breaking glass. He looks up. The soft light has gone out. His eyes are wide with fear as he hurries to pull his clothes on over his wet body.

  Back on the highway, Mara drums her fingers on the steering wheel, bobbing her head with the pulsing dance music. She touches the necklace and smiles.

  Skeezy grabs his tattered backpack and scurries along the side of the beach house up toward the frontage road. He turns back, reaches into his pocket and quickly places five smooth pebbles on the top of the low wall.

  The intruder collapses the telescoping black baton and flings it out over the rail through the dark onto the sand below. He scoops up Casey’s orange phone from the floor, flips it open, gives it a violent twist with both hands and sails it out into the dark.

  A soft thud near Skeezy, and he jumps. He flinches again as a loud puff kicks up sand near his feet. He bends over, straining to see something in the sand. Frightened, he takes off up the path along the house. His heavy backpack dangles from one arm as he scuttles along, looking up at the top floor from under his worried brow.

  Upstairs, the intruder turns back, too. He gives Casey’s still body a close look and executes a hard kick, putting a blood smear on the dress stretched across her hip. Absolutely no response.

  Satisfied, he pantomimes dusting off his gloves, turns on his heel, steps out onto the deck, looks left and right and easily vaults over the rail onto the sand below.

  Maybe he could study and be a stuntman someday. Training, training, training and building up. That was the thing, and he was up for it.

  Landing badly, he curses under his breath in the dark, wildly swatting sand off his face and the back of his neck. He is barely intelligible as he stifles his voice and looks around to make sure he is alone on the beach.

  “Ow! Fuck me!” He rubs his ankle and rotates his foot, carefully putting weight on it and trying a step or two. He bends at the waist, looking for something in the sand.

  “Fuck this shit!”

  Frustrated and furtive, he throws up his arms and starts off down the beach away from the house. He limps and claws at the duct tape on his wrists, fighting his gloves off.

  He yanks off his long-sleeved T-shirt, wads up the gloves in the middle of it and mops his sweaty face with the balled-up shirt. He jams it under his arm like a football and hurries down the shoreline away from the darkened beach house.

  In the nearly silent living room, a crimson halo of blood spreads from Casey’s hair. Its leading edge touches the spilled champagne and the colors bleed together in an obscene embrace.

  The tone-arm on the turntable bounces lightly with each revolution of the record, making a loud tick followed by a hiss as the needle rides another 360 degrees.

  Ten minutes later, Mara rounds the last curve. Her face freezes as she reacts to the sight of an emergency vehicle pulling into the beach house driveway, its lights flashing. Her face registers confusion, then worry, which quickly turns to fear as she pulls up, abruptly punching the music off in the truck.

  Chapter 5

  50-Crunch Burn

  Mara jumps out of her truck and rushes toward a cluster of law enforcement and emergency personnel. Forensics has arrived, and equipment is stacked and ready for them to enter the scene for evidence collection once the paramedics give the go-ahead.

  Mara felt desperate, scared and stupid. She flashed her badge.

  “Police officer! Let me through!” She heard her voice, and it sounded shaky and unconvincing. Her stomach felt tight like a 50-crunch burn.

  Harshly backlighted figures pulled on surgical gloves and shoe covers. Mara spotted Derek in the welter of detectives and uniformed officers. Two motorcycle cops set up a security barricade across the driveway and stretch yellow tape to the hedges nearby.

  A small group of murmuring neighbors looked on from the street. In the crowd toward the back is Skeezy. He is agitated and nervous and he rubs his deeply sunburned face with his still grimy hands. His ropy hair and tangled beard are dripping wet. His eyes are glassy and excited.

  A uniformed officer takes notes as the neighbor who made the 911 call explains.

  “Yeah, I made the call. I couldn’t tell what the hell was going on… some thuds and stuff breaking or… I don’t know. I kept muting my TV thinking I was hearing something, and then it would be all quiet… you know like when you take your car to the shop. Anyway, when I hit my speed dial, I got some busy signal or something. Then I got scared.”

  Derek Jenssen stands in the carport. He’s wearing purple latex gloves and stamping sand from his shoes. He looks up as Mara rushes to him, looking distraught and breathing hard.

  “Derek! What happened?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mar’. I got a call that there was an assault at my officer’s address. Some neighbor heard something and called it in, and dispatch checked and paged me.”

  She had a fleeting thought. H
e knew, she knew, but how did dispatch know to alert him? As far as the department knew, she lived at her old apartment. Ask him later.

  His brow is furrowed with worry and he runs one hand through his hair.

  “Christ, I thought it was you! They’re getting her stabilized.”

  He gestures to take her aside, and they move to the edge of the carport, where two young fruit trees stand in their containers waiting to be transplanted. I promised her, and I didn’t do it. The papyrus in the truck, this tangerine and lime… Mara’s eyes flick from Derek to the front door and back.

  “They won’t let me in there. Oh, God! Derek, I just talked to her. It can’t have been forty-five… fifty minutes ago. I have to get in there.”

  Being scared was a rare feeling for her, and she hated it.

  She stares hard at the front door and blinks at the flashes from the police photographer. She turns back to him, pleading.

  “What happened? Did you see her? Is she…? Please! I need to see her. This is crazy!”

  Derek looks very tense. He puts his hands on her shoulders.

  “You need to let them get her stabilized.”

  “I live here! I want to see her now! You can get me in.”

  Her eyes flare.

  “Never mind!”

  Furious and desperate, her eyes narrow. She ducks away from him and starts for the door. Derek hooks his hand in the crook of her arm, spinning her back toward him. Her eyes blaze and she tries to shake him off.

  “Fuck you! Let go of me!”

  Skeezy, having edged away from the cluster of neighbors, has been watching them. He reacts to Derek’s manhandling of Mara. He tucks his lower lip under his top teeth and squints.

  Chapter 6

  Sliding By

  Paramedics bring out the gurney, observed by the neighbors and Skeezy, who has sidled back to keep track of Mara and Derek.

  The lead paramedic barks orders.

  “Make a path… Clear out… Give us some room here!”

  Mara is exhausted and contrite. My lovely and loyal partner and I fight with him.

  “I’m sorry, D.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay…”

  “Come with me?”

  Derek nods and loosens his grip on her arm. He quickly strips off his latex gloves and shoves them into his coat pocket. He dusts off his hands and guides her with his hand on her lower back as they walk toward the paramedic van.

  Skeezy observes this touch and tips his head to the side, looking perplexed.

  Three paramedics exit, two maneuver the gurney and a third holds a swaying IV bag above the thermal blanket that partially covers Casey.

  Her head is almost obscured by foam padding and gauze wraps and stabilized with a heavy cervical support collar. One arm is encased in a pre-fabricated plastic cast and her hand is deeply bruised and hugely swollen. Her left eye is surrounded by blood-soaked bandages.

  Casey seems to slide by in slow-motion and Mara stares at her smooth, tan foot bobbing with the motion of the men carrying the stretcher, her ankle-strap heel swinging in a short arc over the edge of the stretcher. Several blooms of blood spread on the white thermal blanket.

  “I have to ride with her.” Mara felt she might lose her mind seeing the best thing in her life slip away if she couldn’t control her thoughts.

  Derek grabs Mara’s wrist with both hands and looks into her eyes, trying to convince her.

  From the crowd of onlookers, Skeezy glares his disapproval.

  “I don’t think you should. I’ll drive us… we can follow them all the way in.” His partner was tough and he loved her for it, but no one should have to handle this alone.

  “But what if she…?” Mara looked at Derek. Her eyes quickly flick away.

  “No, I’m going.” No matter what happened, she had to be there.

  He releases her hand. She steps up, pushing her way into the van. One of the paramedics looks up in surprise, then goes back to monitoring Casey’s vital signs.

  “She’s my…I’m an officer. I’m riding with you.” A sudden image encroaches on Mara’s thoughts. She yells out through the closing doors to Derek.

  “You get him, and you take him in. You know who I mean. He’s always around here, so pick him the fuck up!”

  “You just take care of her. I’ve got this. Try to stay calm. I’ll catch up with you after we wind this up. I’ll make sure the house is secured overnight.”

  Derek stands next to the paramedic van as it backs out into the road. His troubled face is reflected in the fish-eye mirror on the back corner of the truck. Red and blue lights break and scatter over his face and shoulders. A slice of Mara’s stricken face, brightly lit by the interior lights as the van eases out.

  Suddenly, the siren is engaged and Derek flinches as the sound pierces the soft evening air. He stands stiffly, arms folded across his chest, staring intently as the sound and lights recede. Checking around first, he allows himself a quick look at his cell phone screen. He stares down, the glow reflected in his eyes. The pounding and hush of the surf as Skeezy looks on.

  Derek unclips the Marine key chain from his belt and turns to walk to his car. He flips the keyring toward himself around his index finger, stopping the round, red emblem on each revolution.

  Unseen, Skeezy pantomimes Derek’s habit, twirling his empty finger and bobbing his head with each spin.

  Chapter 7

  Taking Inventory

  Skeezy leaves the scene of the attack and shambles quickly down the highway away from the beach house in the dark, occasionally looking back at the flashing lights. Wide-eyed, he trudges along, talking to himself.

  “Why so mean? Mean to Casey. These are mine, mine, mine, mine… in the sand and the sand is mine right here. The licorice whip is mine, and sell the cell. The apples, no… I didn’t do it because she is nice.”

  He looks back down the highway behind him and rubs his face.

  “Not the Big Apple… the Little Apple. Yeah. Look around first. Keep it for her when she gets back here. I washed it too, right in the ocean!”

  He laughs and then his face clouds over with worry again.

  Skeezy stops and sits on the ground, calming himself by taking inventory of his possessions, which he hauls out of his raggedy backpack and studies intently.

  He gently pats: bundles of fast-food wrappers tied with rubber bands, a torn-up pair of shower sandals, a bundle of colored plastic drinking straws, a greasy baseball cap and a half-burned floral print barbecue mitt. New finds, old possessions. He really didn’t play favorites, and it feels wrong to get rid of things. Everything is good for something someday. He reloads his pack and checks his pockets for the pebbles he ‘pays’ Casey with.

  Chapter 8

  Her Given Name

  Early morning, and Mara paces the hospital corridor, talking quietly on her cell. She’s been up all night while Casey undergoes treatment.

  Derek walks down the corridor to give her some privacy. He sits on a bench with his head in his hands. He looks in Mara’s direction every few moments to see how she’s holding up to the strain.

  After a lot of dead-ends and transfers, Mara has managed to track down Casey’s parents’ number at their vacation home in Italy. Thanks to Derek, she was permitted to use the hospital’s landline. Some bad things about being in law enforcement but some very good things too. She just wished it wasn’t a wall phone in the hallway of a hospital trauma department.

  “Well, can you please call them to the phone?... Yes, it’s an emergency…no, wait! Don’t say emergency, say injury. Just say it’s a friend of their daughter, Cassandra… yes, thank you.”

  She could count the times she had called her by her given name on one hand. Her mind jumped in two opposite directions at once - seeing Casey’s hand print her name that first time, and how awful Casey’s bandaged hand
looked now.

  Mara coached herself now. Thomas and Marie. Stay calm. Don’t scare them, but don’t lie.

  Thomas took the phone. A little static and crackle but not too bad for such a great distance.

  “Yes, is this Mr. Terranova? Hello… It’s Mara Bays…oh, yes. Thank you, Thomas.”

  “Is she alright? What happened? Should we try to get a flight out?”

  “They took her into surgery about forty-five minutes ago. They had to get her stabilized before they could…” She could hear him start to lose his admirable calm, and who could blame him? His little girl. Their big little girl. Mara’s battered mind dragged her off on a tangent. She had seen some family pictures of Casey as a kid. Even some at the beach house with her brother... She snapped back as Thomas seemed to be distracted now. You can never really turn off your detective’s tuning.

  “Oh my God! Her mother is right here. Can you please talk to her?... Marie!”

  Casey’s mother took the phone from him. Mara could hear him murmur that it would be alright.

  “I’m so sorry…” Mara listened for a bit. Marie seemed calm and sweet, asking all the right questions and even thinking to reassure Mara. No hysteria, just concern and warmth. She tried her best to fill Marie in without scaring her, or worse, telegraphing how deeply afraid she felt.

  “Yes, a fracture above her left eye, but they got the swelling down. They’re setting her arm with pins and plates… Yes, same side, left. Her hand is okay… I mean soft tissue damage but no breaks.”

  She listens to Marie. Derek quietly walks up to Mara with a little paper cup of cold water. They exchange looks, and Mara mouths ‘Thank you’, taking the cup and sneaking a sip or two. He touches her shoulder briefly, takes the cup and leaves, indicating with a hook of his thumb that he will be nearby. So protective and thoughtful. She loved him for a lot of reasons. Back to Marie.