9

PROL O GUE

It is a simple thing to know one’s place in this world, provided you have a pulse and your gray-matter is intact. Whether your name is on the V.I.P. list or you are required to wait in line be-hind the velvet rope with everyone else depends entirely on your place in the social food chain. This pecking order is entirely different from the true eco- logical food chain. The nat-ural order of things such as spider to fly, cat to mouse, cheetah to gazelle. Survival of the fittest has given way over time from the physical to the fiscal and become the driving force behind modern civilized society.

Let us be completely honest here, it is only opposable thumbs and the invention of gunpowder that has given hu-mankind the illusion they are king of the evolutionary mountain. Little worry of being ambushed and devoured by a pride of lions on one’s way to a mani- pedi or power lunch as far as the natural selection aspect is concerned. So completely taken for granted by modern culture, the social food chain is rarely, if ever, given actual thought. Who is at the top of the chain rules all and those at the bottom have little choice but to either accept their fate, scraping the boots of those on high, or

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bite and claw their way up the rungs by whatever means possi-ble. An individual’s moral compass is all that dictates whether the biting and clawing is metaphorical or literal. It is in that simple distinction that we have the modern struggle of right ver-sus wrong, good versus evil. This entire concept is just a given course of tides in our society, rarely thought of, questioned or challenged. It simply “is” and has been for thousands of years. Until it isn’t.

For a select few, whom we shall not necessarily call a “lucky” few, all illusions are shattered and the social food chain is properly pushed to the back of the line behind the natu-ral order. By a simple twist of Fate in the guise of bad timing, a lapse in judgment, a wrong turn, or a simple mistake, the comfy cozy illusion of life as one knows it can be forever al-tered and replaced by a reality that only some know to be the truth. In that split second of wrong place at the wrong time, the fragile human psyche can fracture irreparably, leaving the ill-fated individual facing a rapid end to their life. Or, in the alter-native, a permanent state of drooling and a long, fruitless exis-tence filled with pudding cups and anti-psychotics adminis-tered at regular intervals. Once in a while, however, the unfor-tunate soul holds, absorbs, processes and actually survives not only the physical assault, but the psychological cataclysm of this encounter. Either way, life is never the same. Every rule, social norm and expectation is warped, flipped and contorted beyond comprehension. Here it is back to the natural order with a variable never before known in the average every day in a life. In a nutshell, adapt and fight or die.

On this particular day, this particular instance, it would most certainly be die. After all, this was not an encounter created by the Fates, twisted though it may be, it was careful design. He

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pondered that a moment with a twinkle in his eye as he looked at his fly writhing and wriggling in his meticulously woven web. Even from a distance he could feel the terror radiating from the young, petite blond that was brutally bound to the wooden chair in the middle of the room. A shiver of excitement slid up his spine as he leaned against the door- jamb staring at her, savoring the moment. Even obscured by her bonds she was lovely. Pale blond curls, only slightly matted, tousled about her heart shaped face, spilling down over her bare, bronzed shoulders. Delicate shoulders, he noted, though proba-bly formed more from malnutrition and copious amounts of crack than her having a naturally slight frame. Such a romantic, he thought to himself. He would rather look upon her as a deli-cate fragile beauty than the abject hollow crack whore that she was. Worn and overused at such a tender young age. Had she said she was twenty when he asked? Or was it twenty-one? It mattered little. He was sure she was lying for his benefit as would any semi-experienced underage harlot to a nervous John. How thoughtful that was, he mused with a smirk. Her self- less attempt at making him feel comfortable with the transaction. He would have to remember to thank her for that at some point between the bouts of unconsciousness that were about to befall her and surely before he finally ended her pathetic and useless life.

He moved toward her slowly, taking delight in the desperate flare of her nostrils as she struggled for air. Smiling softly, he stood over her and continued to observe the panic washing over his little fly caught in his web. With a tug of his sash and a roll of his shoulders, the rich brown silk robe he wore slid to the floor like a puddle of melted chocolate. He stood bare be-fore his prey breathing in deep the scent of her fear. Almost

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tenderly, he reached out to stroke a stray curl cover- ing her face. “I wish I could say that I am sorry this is going to hurt you, my dear.” His voice was soft, low and musical with an ac-cent she had never heard before. “But I must admit to you now, before we get started, that it truly brings me joy. So please, don’t hold back on my account...” He reached around her head and unfastened the buckle of the thick leather strap that merci-lessly dug into her flesh. The strap was tethered to the ball-gag that was brutally shoved in her mouth. Once undone, he tossed it aside then sighed almost wistfully before he continued. “Scream my dear, scream all you like.”

She felt the air shift and something quickly brush against her chest, a surge of heat, something warm and wet. A coppery smell filled her nostrils as a searing pain snaked its way up her neck and wrapped itself around her skull with an agony she could scarcely believe possible. To his delight, the screams be-gan.

9

CHAPTER ONEJanuary in Southern California was nothing short of meteoro-logical schizophrenia. Thursday the snow levels had dropped to twenty-five hundred feet with temperatures topping out at a whopping forty- three degrees through the weekend. Now, the amazonian lap dancer passing as a weather anchor buoyantly re-ported the forecast for Monday as above average highs in the low eighties. Detective Lou Donovan stood four feet from the flat screen television staring, highly annoyed. She looked down at herself, growled, then violently yanked the heavy wool turtleneck from her body.

Born Tallulah Louella Donovan, the petite homicide detec-tive went strictly by “Lou” to anyone other than her mother or uncle. Those others who preferred keeping all their teeth se-curely in their mouths called her “Lou”. Haphazardly pulling sweatshirt over t-shirt, she caught the disapproving gaze of her cat out of the corner of her eye. “What?” she demanded from the glossy black puff of fur sitting in the middle of the door-way. The feline simply tossed his nose up at her then sauntered off to find a patch of sun to lounge in. “Everyone’s a fashion critic.” she muttered and proceeded to pull on her boots. Though Lou would never be mistaken for a fashion model, she was a far cry from plain. Rich auburn hair, cut in a severe a-line bob, framed delicate almost elfish features. Sharp green eyes, the color of good imperial jade, could spot a mouse hic-cuping fifty yards away in the dark. At a mere five feet, four inches tall, she could take down and hog tie a two-hundred and fifty pound tweaker in under a minute. It was well known

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among the ranks that this fifth generation cop was all business and not someone to be taken at face value. Despite her uncle being a highly decorated, now retired, detective with the Los Angeles County Sheriff ’s Department, and her father having been gunned down in the line of duty when she was only two years old, Lou earned her own way, on her own merits, and ev-eryone in the department knew it.

“Good morning sunshine!” Lou exited the closet with one pant leg inadvertently tucked in her boot to meet the sound of her mother’s voice. “I heard you come in around four this morning so I figured the sooner you got this in you, the better for the planet.” The cheerful woman handed her one of the two mugs of coffee she was holding and leaned in to kiss her daugh-ter good morning.

“Have I told you today how much I love you?” Lou took the offer- ing with both hands as if it were the most fragile thing in the universe then returned the ritual morning kiss before bring-ing the mug to her lips. She nearly inhaled half the steaming contents in one gulp. “Ahhh... thank you, thank you, thank you.” She followed her mother to the sit- ting area of her room and plopped down in one of the overstuffed chairs. “Sorry for waking you. I was helping out one of the guys from narcotics who was sitting on a house waiting for some jackass he’s been trying to pin down for almost a month.” She drank deeply from her mug and flashed her mother a weary smile. “The moron fi-nally came out around three, stark naked, to get a pack of smokes out of his car and we scooped him up.” Lou snorted a laugh recalling the events. “Rico had me rolling, yanking the guy’s chain telling him he was going in naked as a jaybird. The twit was seriously freaking out over that more than the fact that he was facing fifteen to life.”

“Morons have their priorities too, dear.” Her mother noted

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as she grinned and leaned over to pull Lou’s pant leg from her boot. “You didn’t wake me though. Joe had to catch a red-eye flight at two this morning. I couldn’t fall asleep after he left.” Her mother was referring to her husband, Lou’s step-father, Joe McAllister, who despite being rich enough to hire Donald Trump to do his laundry for him, still worked harder than any man she had ever known. “He’ll be in Bangladesh or Bangalore or wherever the hell it is until Thursday.”

Shevaun McAllister was more then Lou’s mother, she was her best friend and biggest fan. With a short fringe of straw-berry blond hair, her face always reminded Lou of a fairy queen. Regal petite features, with gently sculpted cheekbones, a slight upturn to her nose and a smile that never failed to make Lou feel like everything in the world would always be fine so long as her mother kept smiling. Her slight, athletic frame was wrapped in her favorite fluffy purple robe as she curled up in the chair opposite Lou. “So anything juicy on calendar for to-day?” Her sapphire blue eyes twinkled with curiosity.

“Nothing exciting on tap so far. I’m gonna take the train in, get some paperwork done and see what Vinny has cooking.” No sooner than she spoke his name, Lou’s cell phone began to play the theme to the movie “Godfather”, which she had set as her partner’s specific ring-tone. Her own little personal joke. “Speaking of angels.” She popped up from her chair and re-trieved the phone from the bedside table and snapped it open. “Yo! Vinny!” She answered his call as she often did, imitating a thick Brooklyn accent. On the other end should could almost hear him roll his eyes.

“Yo yourself, Kiddo. I can tell you’re coffee has started kicking in.” Sergeant Vincenzo DeLuca had been a part of Lou’s life for longer.