R A I N   D A N C E

A Fiction Work by:
Yianni Palos
Copyright © 2004


This is a work of fiction.
The characters, incidence, and dialogues are products
of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce “RAIN DANCE”
or portions thereof in any form without the prior written permission of the author.
                                    
        

                              ONE

Elliot C. Bellows sat in an armchair in the reception room of his long-time friend, U.S.
Senator Robert T. Forceworth, and anxiously flipped the pages of the  National Geographic, as
he waited to see the senator. Bellows, a land developer, was a short, corpulent man in his sixties.
He believed that every developer should have a senator to back him up, to help, to persuade
heads of state agencies about planning and zoning matters. Forceworth was more than a friend,
Bellows mused with an inward smile. More like . . . a business partner.
For a kid growing up in the slums of New York, abandoned by his parents, changing
institutions and foster parents as often as changing shoe sizes, he, Bellows, had done well, thanks
to his street-smart mentality. When he was fed up with institutions and foster parents, he hit the
streets and never looked back. He became a petty thief, a pick-pocket artist, and by the age of
fifteen he knew more about the value of drugs and money than most businessmen knew about
their business. He put himself through school, and chose very carefully his new friends. When he
met Forceworth and Kirkland, he knew that he had hit the jackpot. Their parents were very rich
and powerful. After some extensive research on the conservative, but extremely profitable
background of the families, he envisioned that his new friends were going places. Places he had no
desire to climb. He liked his obscure, behind the scenes background which he revealed to no one.
His philosophy about life was very simple: Stay low, look honest, befriend with powerful people,
learn their dark secrets or create one for them, and harness some of their future power to his
advantage.
An enigmatic smile loomed on his lips as his mind took him back to his college years, to
Forceworth and Paul M. Kirkland. The setup was much easier than he’d originally anticipated.
They almost had a heart attack when the drunken girl they had picked up at a crowded bar
stopped breathing. They paced around her dead body and cursed aloud for an hour, as if they
were completely out of their minds. Just the way Bellows thought they’d react. Calling the police
was out of the question. They had raped a  girl, and now she was dead. How would they justify it?
What would happen to their dreams? What would they say to their parents? How would they
survive in jail?
They shook their heads and in unison said, “No!” Then Forceworth said, “We should
make it look as if she’s been raped by a maniacal psychopath.” They’d agreed to carve her body
with knives, cut her throat, burn her clothes, and dump her in a river with a heavy stone attached
to her body.  And as they proceeded with their plan, they’d felt an exhilarating excitement, a
feverish delirium invading the fibers of their minds. Their first kill was a success. As far as they
knew, the dead girl’s body had never been discovered.
They were utterly consumed by this new godlike power. “We are destiny itself,” they
declared when everything was over and done with. Then . . . there were others. Nameless young
faces became a toy of rejuvenating joy for them. The very thought of slicing their first victim’s
throat and carving her body seemed to reverberate a thrilling joy in Bellow’s flesh, sending pulses
of youthful, tingling excitement through his body.
Yes! Definitely more than just friends.
Bellows tossed the magazine on the coffee table, leaned back, and looked around.
Behind the antique reception desk, three picture windows let ample light into the room.
Across from him a solid oak door opened into the private office of the senator. The walls were
covered with bookshelves stocked meticulously with books on social science, political science,
and law.
Bellows watched the senator’s pretty young secretary. Her long fingers punched
rhythmically the keyboard of her computer. He thought of the young interns who had sat in this
office. They had been full of dreams and fresh ideas, eager to learn the inner workings of the
government. They came, learned, left, then were replaced by others.
He scrutinized Forceworth’s security guard and chauffeur, Ben Edenburg. Ben sat in
somber silence, arms crossed, in his chair beside the entrance door. Bellows had known Ben since
the day he’d been hired as Forceworth’s bodyguard. Ben was a tall man with broad shoulders. He
wore his usual outfit – dark gray suit, white shirt, ash-gray tie, black shoes. He had served the
senator diligently for the past fifteen years; he was willing to throw his body in the path of a bullet
to save the senator’s life. Ben’s high cheekbones cast shadows on his square face as his gray eyes
observed the gathering dark clouds through the windows.
“It looks like rain,” Ben said confidently, looking at Bellows.
Bellows stared at Ben and turned his open palms up, as if asking himself, Why is he telling
me this? Why should he care if it rains or not? He wasn’t here to predict the weather. He felt
sorry for Ben. Today’s conference with the senator was a must. Millions of dollars could be
gained or lost. Why should he care about the gathering clouds? Ben, simple-minded Ben.
“Yes, Ben. It sure looks like it.” Bellows cracked a smile as he glanced at his watch. “I
hope this will not be a long wait.” He frowned.
Ben smiled. “Soon enough that door will open,” he assured him, with a thin smile. “I can
tell.”
The door of the senator’s office opened, and a lady in her upper thirties walked out and
closed the door behind her. Ben’s face flooded with pride at the correctness of his prediction, and
stood up.
“You have a pleasant day, Mrs. Kenter,” he said politely and shut the door when she was
gone. Ben’s eyes rested on Bellows. “It will not be too long now, Mr. Bellows,” he said.
Bellows nodded and stared anxiously at the closed door of the senator’s private office.

Forceworth’s mansion stood alone among the vast live oak trees. The Spanish moss on
their long branches hung and hovered like a band of ghosts from long ago as they slowly swayed
back and forth in the late afternoon breeze.
Rain Dance rang the doorbell, took a step backward on the brick porch, and waited for
Maria, Forceworth’s housekeeper, to answer the door. Before leaving her motel room Rain
Dance had looked at her reflection in the mirror one last time and thoroughly examined the
miracle of makeup. A handsome young man dressed in dark blue suit, wearing a man’s brown
wig, was staring at her with his brown eyes. She was very pleased with her transformation.
She rang the doorbell again. Images of utter desperation flooded her mind, and vivid
visions of unrelenting horror choked her spirit. Her breath rushed through her clogged throat in
short, violent gasps that set her jaws quivering as if she were out in an icy storm. She jerked her
head to tame her wrath, uncurled her fingers, and as she looked at her trembling hands her spirit
expanded. She took a paper napkin out of her pocket, felt its calming softness on her fingers, and
carefully wiped her fingerprints from the doorbell.
Hanging by its chains, a porch swing was waiting patiently for someone to sit and enjoy its
soothing motion. Soundlessly Rain Dance stepped close to the wall, avoiding the lens of the
security camera mounted a foot above the door. She sat on the swing, holding her briefcase on
her lap. With her feet touching the brick floor, she pushed herself forward just enough to avoid
the lens, and lifted her feet. Free from any resistance, the swing moved back and forth for some
time. When its  motion slowed, she set her feet firmly on the bricks, bringing the swing to a
standstill. She smiled and looked around.
Flowers in ceramic pots of different sizes and shapes had been placed at the edges of the
porch. Colorful plants in flower beds lay below the porch. She could hear the music of the wind
chimes as the light breeze moved through them. Low on the horizon, clouds moved hurriedly
against the descending sun.
Pigeons and crows flew around and landed on the grass. Blue jays, red cardinals, and
sparrows chirped merrily in the trees. The birds were telling her their secret messages. She had
been taught to know and to recognize approaching enemies by the way they flew; the patterns in
their flights, their sudden silence, their constant chirping or their screeching. The spirits of the
birds in the trees and on the green grass were at peace today.
Yes. Everything seemed to be very peaceful, very relaxing. A tiny smile appeared on her
face, but instantly she dismissed the pleasurable emotions that had skidded into her mind. Her
smile turned to a dreadful grin. “That’s too bad,” she muttered angrily, gazing at nowhere.
Shaking, she held her briefcase tightly against her body, forcing herself to be calm. She had to
conquer the anger that threatened to poison her mind. She knew she had to be in total control of
her emotions, precise, methodical, and stealthy. She had no time for sentimental mistakes. Not
now. Not tonight. She had waited for this moment for a long time; she had calculated today’s final
outcome hundreds of times. A wave of malicious anger shook her again. She took a long
meditative breath, held the air in her lungs as long as she could, and let it out slowly.
She had spied on the mansion dozens of times, making herself familiar with the friendly
shadows of the trees and the flowering plants scattered in shapely clusters among them – her
escape route.
Maria, the housekeeper, would do her chores in and around the mansion. When Mr. or
Mrs. Forceworth arrived, she would stay for an hour longer, and then leave. The routine was
always the same. Rain Dance looked at her  watch. Eight o’clock. She shook her head and sighed
deeply. Her face was now calm and handsome. Her eyes glittered with anticipation.
Manicured to an inch above the ground, the well-cared-for grass grew green and healthy.
Separated by strips of green grass, the large white stepping stones leading to the back of the
manor looked like a chain of sparkling white islands on an emerald green ocean. Avoiding the
surveillance camera, she walked quietly toward the back of the mansion, smelled the moist air,
and looked up at the sky. Thick clouds moved hurriedly, gathering strength. She knew the night
was going to be violent, a night like no other. A debt had to be paid.

“I thought I saw a movement at Forceworth’s mansion,” Andy at Orion Security Systems
said, looking at one of the monitors, “but it’s probably nothing.”
“Yeah, most likely nothing,” Rick said lazily. “It’s time for Maria to tend her flowers at
the back yard. She is so predictable.”
“I should rotate the tape back and look at it anyway, just to be sure it’s nothing. But first,
I have to make some hot chamomile tea. These one day cold, next day hot-as-hell spring days are
killing my throat,” Andy said hoarsely.
“I feel the same way. The bug is everywhere. Andy, why don’t you make that two?”
“False alarm. I don’t have to roll the tape back after all,” Andy said, still looking at the
screen.
“Why not?” Rick asked and turned his head toward the same monitor Andy’s eyes were
glued on. “Oh, hell, I see why. Damn birds. What else is new?” He saw flocks of pigeons and
crows landing on the front lawn of Forceworth’s mansion. He read the digital time at the top of
the screen: 7:58 p.m.










                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                              TWO

“Robert, dear,” the senator’s wife, Cynthia, said, as she placed the New York Times on her
small desk, “it’s almost eight o’clock. How much longer do you think you’ll be here?”
At first the senator had been amused with his wife’s insistence on sharing the same office
with him in Tallahassee. After his re-election to the governor’s seat, Cynthia was thoroughly
charmed by the idea of helping the unfortunate folks through charitable organizations in Florida.
Helping the less fortunate gave her a noble purpose in her life and warmed her heart. When
Forceworth was elected to the U. S. Senate, she believed that her role as a U. S. Senator’s wife
would be better served in her home state rather than in Washington. After some thought, he liked
and embraced her idea. Although he was a conservative Republican, her efforts attracted the poor
folks, and that meant new votes for his re-election.
“Not too long, Cynthia. Let me see,” the senator said. His voice was ponderous,
trustworthy, senatorial. “One appointment and I am done for the day. I have to see Elliot Bellows.
Do you remember him? I think you met his family on several occasions. Friendly, courteous
people, and  very rich. One of the best re-election contributors.”
“Yes, I do know the Bellowses. Nice people,” Cynthia said and smiled at him. “How much
time do you think it will take you to finish with Mr. Bellows?”
“An hour at the most.” He glanced at his watch. “By nine o’clock we should be going
home. I love Fridays. After my appointment with Bellows, we’ll have the whole weekend to
ourselves.”
“Hmm . . . an hour.” She smiled, and let out a quiet sigh of relief. “That’s plenty of time to
do some shopping.”
The senator smiled back at her. She stood, picked up her reading glasses and her elegant
black purse, and walked toward his desk. He appraised her well-shaped legs, accentuated by high
heels. He craned his neck like a dog snooping around a street corner before venturing into
undiscovered territory and looked  at her slim, delicate body. He sighed, wishing he was young
again. She sat in the chair in front of his desk and crossed her legs slowly. He watched her
attentively; she blushed.
“More than thirty years together, a grown up son, and you still look beautiful as ever.” He
sighed heavily and his broad shoulders shook. “Oh, Cynthia, where did those youthful days go?
Why can’t we stay young? I feel older every day.”
“Robert, dear, growing old is a blessing, not a curse. I don’t have any desire to be young
again. I’m satisfied with my age and the way I look in the mirror.”
“I despise mirrors,” he muttered angrily. “I look at my reflection in the mirror and I can
hardly recognize myself. Wrinkles on my face, on my neck, and around my eyes, plunging cheeks,
floppy arms, thinning gray hair. Science, technology, DNA, face lifts, fake teeth, pills for
everything, artificial nonsense, and false promises. All useless.” He chuckled. “I would sell my
soul to the devil to be young again.”
“Oh, hush, Robert. You’re talking childish nonsense. We seem to have the same
conversation every time you and your friends, Bellows and Kirkland, get together. What the three
of you do or talk about on those weekends that makes you so irritable afterwards?” She raised a
hand. “No! Don’t tell me. What you and your friends do on those rare, man-to-man occasions is
none of my business. I know how much you enjoy those weekends. I can see the excitement in
your eyes building up, mounting by the minute, and I share your enthusiasm, your zest at being
alive. I love your passion on those days. You are so . . . so alive.”
The senator felt deeply irritated by her gallant speech. He remained silent, however. He
didn’t have any desire to open the pages of that subject to her.
“So, my dear husband,” she continued, “don’t be so hard on yourself. When I look at you,
I see a handsome, mature man – a powerful, distinguished man. So we grew older in the past
thirty-something years. So what? We have the whole world ahead of us, don’t we?” She smiled in
gracious resignation.
He cast a narrow glance at his wife. Innocent little Cynthia, he thought. If she only knew
what they did on those weekends. Memories, pictures of pleasure and terror flooded his mind.
Plastic sheeting on a king-size bed, a naked young woman tight up on it, he and his two friends,
Bellows and Kirkland dancing naked around the bed . . . Yes! He remembered, all right. He
nodded, chuckled inwardly, and uneasily shoved those thoughts into the dark pit of his mind.
Cynthia was right. It was none of her business. He raised his eyebrows, forced a luxurious smile,
then took a long breath to compose himself and switched his thoughts to the present. With his
past snoozing in its safe place, he now wondered if Cynthia had noticed any atypical expression
on his face. No, she had not, he decided. She was still smiling her gracious smile.
In a strange way he was a bit jealous of his wife’s youthfulness. Her petite body had
changed little. Her slender frame still looked young and beautiful. He glanced at her honey-brown
eyes. It was time to change the subject. Bellows was waiting. What will he demand this time?
“How much money do you need for your shopping?” he asked, as he opened a fat looking
envelope. “Here, have the whole thing. Contribution from Mrs. Kenter, the lady who just left.” He
chuckled happily. ‘One hand washes the other,’ she said, looking straight into my eyes while
leaving the envelope on the top of my desk. ‘For a good cause, of course,’ she continued, smiling
innocently as she clipped her purse shut.” The senator shook his head knowingly. “I’ll bet she
donated more than twenty thousand to purchase my vote. Money! A great bargaining tool,” he
philosophized. “Is that enough, Cynthia?”
“I don’t need any money,” she responded playfully. “I’m going to the supermarket to buy
some fruit. I feel very fruity today.” She laughed gleefully. “Today I feel like . . . buying a variety
of fruits. That’s all.” She turned on her heel and took two steps toward the door.
He used his warning tone. “Cynthia?”
She paused, turned around and looked at him earnestly.“Yes?” she answered teasingly.
“Take Ben with you,” he said authoritatively. “I don’t trust the world any more. Do your
shopping with him by your side. That’ll make me feel better. I’ll meet you both at exactly nine
o’clock by the elevator door at the second level of the parking lot. Now, my dear, be a nice girl
and ask Elliot Bellows to come in.”
“Will do,” she said in a girlish voice.
“You look delicious in that off-white dress.” His eyes were exploring her body, her face,
her small breasts. How elegant, how beautiful she looked!
“Cream, dear, cream,” she corrected him with a smile, brushing her honey-brown hair off
her face. She turned around in a smooth motion and opened the door.
“Elliot. Do come in,” she said cheerfully. “Robert is ready to see you. So sorry you had to
wait.”
“How are you, Mrs. Forceworth?” he said politely. “You look ravishing. How do you do
it? If my wife looked half as good as you, I would stay home more often.” Cynthia blushed.
Without waiting for an answer, Elliot turned around. “Robert,” he addressed the senator with a
sly smile, “how are you?”
The senator drummed his fingers on the table, and stared at him with an irritable rebellion
in his eyes.
“I should leave you two alone,” Cynthia said. “You have private matters to discuss. I’m
sure I’ll be in your way. Elliot, dear, it was nice to see you again. Do give my warmest regards to
your wife and please, the two of you, be nice. Men being men, you know . . .” She smiled at them,
waved her hand cheerfully, and walked out the door.

“Ben?” Cynthia said as she closed the door behind her.
“Yes, Mrs. Forceworth?” Ben stood on his feet attentively.
“We have to go to the supermarket.” She turned and looked at the secretary. “You, young
lady. What are you doing working at this late hour? It’s Friday. Go home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Forceworth,” the young girl replied. They stared at each other for a
second. A cryptic smile appeared on their faces as if they shared a secret. Two seconds later the
girl was out the door.
“Come, Ben. We have to finish our shopping and be back by nine o’clock.”

At nine o’clock the elevator stopped on the second level of the parking lot. The dark-blue
Mercedes was waiting right by the elevator with its engine on. Ben stepped out of the car and
opened the back door. The senator got in and sat next to his wife. Ben sat in the driver’s seat, put
the automatic gear in drive, and the Mercedes rolled smoothly downwards for the exit. The three
paper bags on the front seat next to Ben were packed with fresh fruit. Their delicious aroma filled
the inside of the car with sweet perfume.  
“Fruity, huh?” The senator said, with an ambiguous smile, while he searched her face with
a look she knew well. A long promising night, he thought. Gently his left hand reached between
her thighs. She giggled seductively.




                             THREE

Rain Dance avoided stepping on the grass. She walked soundlessly, deliberately, on the
white stepping stones as they curved gracefully around the corner of the mansion. When she
reached the brick patio at the back of the mansion, she saw Maria with garden gloves on her
hands and a red baseball cap on her head. Maria’s brown, shoulder-length hair, hanging out of the
back opening of her cap, looked like the long tail of a horse. Her short-sleeved, white tee-shirt
was tucked into her baggy overalls. She was digging little holes into the ground with a tiny red-
handled shovel. A colorful bunch of flower seedlings lay on the ground behind her. She cannot be
more than twenty-eight, Rain Dance mused and then thought how pretty Maria looked as she
knelt on the ground with her back facing the mansion.
Like a noiseless wildcat ready to snatch its prey, Rain Dance moved closer to Maria.
Reaching under her dark blue coat, Rain Dance felt the metal of the revolver warming the palm of
her hand reassuringly. She hit Maria’s head with the butt of the heavy handgun, and Maria fell
unconscious on the soft ground. Rain Dance removed Maria’s hat and gloves and placed them a
foot away from her head. Effortlessly, she lifted Maria’s small body in her arms and walked
through the slightly open backdoor into the house. When she reached the family room, she laid
Maria’s unconscious body gently on the ash gray carpet, between the fireplace and the coffee
table.

The view from the senator’s family room was spectacular. Rain Dance could see acres and
acres of cleared open land. Big live oaks, magnolias, tall  pine trees, a small lake, weeping willow
trees, and flowers in tasteful arrangements made the grounds look like a painting.
The family room was enormous. In the center of the exterior wall stood a grand fireplace
with aged wood, carefully stacked in the hearth. Wood-framed windows started a foot above the
floor and rose to a foot below the twelve-foot-high ceiling.
On the mantlepiece a gold-framed picture displayed the unsmiling faces of the senate
members. Rain Dance wondered what they were thinking when the picture was taken. Why were
they displaying those gloomy faces? She turned around.
A glass-topped coffee table held a crystal vase with fresh cut flowers, magazines, and a
television remote control. A comfortable couch, two glass-top end tables holding matching
ancient Greek vases, a loveseat at the left of the coffee table and a La-Z-Boy at its right made a
tasteful picture.
Rain Dance put her gun on the top of the hearth, opened her briefcase, took out a pair of
latex gloves, and put them on. She took out a roll of duct tape, tied Maria’s hands and feet, and
gagged her, although she was sure by the time Maria regained consciousness she’d be long gone.
She had a job to do, but she wanted to do it without harming innocent people.
Guilt came over her. “Forgive me, Maria,” she whispered. “Please, overlook my
contemptible manners. I wish I had another way to do what I must do. Believe me, dear girl, I do
not. Just so you know.” She lifted Maria and positioned her in a kneeling position by the hearth
with Maria’s elbows on the hearth and her head resting on her chest.
Rain Dance looked around. A modern statue of a naked woman stood impressively on a
glass-topped table. Two high-backed chairs stood, one on each side of the table. She took one of
the chairs, placed it in the middle of the room, put the duct tape on it, and stepped back. She felt
cold, distant, unemotional, but satisfied. She turned, walked closer to Maria, and looked at the red
stains on her head. I hate blood, she thought to herself. She lowered her eyes and looked
apologetically at the kneeling Maria.
“Pray for me too, Maria. Pray for my lost soul. I could use a prayer,” she said, and sat
next to Maria. She brushed Maria’s dark brown hair tenderly off her face. “I’m sorry, Maria,” she
said again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You just happened to be riding on the bus of my destiny. I
hope some day you’ll forgive me.” Slowly she took her hand from Maria’s hair, lifted the handgun
from the hearth and pulled an eight-inch knife from the briefcase. She turned her wrist and looked
at her watch. The time was nine o’clock.
“Now we’ll wait, Maria. We’ll wait. Soon, he’ll be here. Soon . . .”






                              FOUR

Rain Dance saw the lights of the approaching car through the kitchen window as the car
turned from the main road onto the private driveway. “A small diversion,” she said to sleeping
Maria and pressed the remote control button of the television. The silent family room came alive
with sounds. She walked through the kitchen to reach the dark laundry room. A door opened
from the laundry room to the adjacent three-car garage.
Rain Dance stood against the wall to conceal herself behind the opening of the laundry
room door and waited, motionless. She held the handgun tightly in her gloved hand and the knife
in the other. Someone activated the automatic garage door opener. The garage door started to
open. The smooth running engine of the Mercedes stopped humming. Three doors opened and
were slammed shut. Rain Dance listened and waited.
“I’ll take the bags.” Ben’s voice came through the door.
“Let me give you a hand,” the senator said. “Give me one bag, and you take care of the
other two.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ben replied.
“I should have made the garage a bit wider,” the senator said in an absent-minded tone.
“Not enough room for two people to walk side by side. Go ahead, Ben. I’ll follow you. Cynthia,
would you please take care of the security box and open the door for Ben?”
Rain Dance heard the sound of high-heels approaching the laundry room door. A long
silence followed.
“After you, Ben,” Cynthia said as the door started to open toward Rain Dance.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Ben said.
Hidden behind the door, Rain Dance saw Ben’s right foot and then his left.
“Maria is watching . . .” Ben started to say.
Rain Dance’s heavy handgun landed on the back of his head. His unconscious body
plunged forward and hit the floor. Tangerines, oranges, pineapples, grapefruit, and red Delicious
apples rolled onto the floor of the laundry room.
Rain Dance raised her hand again. For an instant, her eyes met Cynthia’s. She opened her
mouth. The handgun landed on Cynthia’s head, and she fell unconscious on the floor.
Rain Dance stood in front of Forceworth with her handgun pointed between his terrified
eyes. A primitive fear shook the senator’s body. The paper bag fell from his paralyzed hands;
avocados, kiwi fruit, and mangos rolled across the garage floor and under the cars. He stood there,
as if struck by lightning, staring at her.
“You’d better be very calm, Senator,” she said, hissing. “You don’t want to see them dead,
do you? So easy to kill someone, is it not? Do you know, Senator, that I can pull the trigger of this
gun and kill you right this instant?” she asked waving the handgun in front of the senator’s nose,
“or cut your throat from side to side? But first, let me introduce myself. My name is Rain Dance.
I’m not a man as you may think. Below this miraculous makeup lay a young woman waiting to
emerge, to seek retribution.”
“Don’t kill me. Please, don’t kill me,” the senator begged. “I’ll do anything you want. Just
don’t kill me.”
“A very wise choice, Senator. Now, move,” she ordered. “Let the two of us go in the
family room. Senator, you first. Please, don’t try anything stupid. I’ll kill you before you have the
chance to hear the loud bang that killed you, or to say “Mountain Retreat.”
Rain Dance waved the gun at him. She could feel that her last two words had landed in the
senator’s consciousness like a sledgehammer. With trembling knees he led the way into the
kitchen.
“Keep walking, Senator” she said, holding the sharp point of the knife to the senator’s
neck. “Do you see that high-backed chair? The one in the middle of the family room?”
“Yes,” he said with a quiver in his voice.
“That’s your throne. That’s where you’ll be sitting for tonight’s entertainment. The best
seat in the house has been reserved for you. The duct tape, Senator. Take the duct tape and sit in
the chair.”
The senator obeyed her icy orders quietly.
“Good,” Rain Dance said, scornfully. “Now tie your feet together.” She watched silently.
“Good,” she said again. “Now, do the same below your knees. Great, great. You’ve been a very
good boy. You’re very good at fastening yourself down. As the saying goes, ‘Practice makes
perfect.’ It must be right. Don’t you think so, Senator? Now, hand me the tape and put both hands
behind the chair.”
The senator did as he was told. Rain Dance stepped behind the chair and taped his hands
tightly.
“I’ll give you anything you want,” the senator cried in a trembling voice. “I have more than
a hundred thousand dollars in my pockets and more than four hundred thousand in the safe
upstairs. You can have it all. All! Just don’t kill me. Please don’t. Please . . .”
“You’ve started your negotiation tactics already?” she replied sarcastically to his pleading.
“Be patient, Senator. There’s no rush. I’m not in a hurry. Are you? Patience is virtue,” she
resumed in the same tone. “You should know that by now. I’m sure you have harnessed the virtue
of patience many times. It’s my turn now, Senator. My turn.”
Instinctively, as if in a trance, she pushed lightly the sharp point of her knife into the skin of
the senator’s neck.
He screamed. His eyes watered from the pain. Drops of red blood appeared from the tiny
cut and ran down his neck.
“Sit tight, Senator. I’ll be right back,” Rain Dance said in a colorless tone, gagged his
mouth and, with the duct tape in her hand, she walked into the laundry room.

The senator watched the young woman until she disappeared behind the kitchen wall. Panic
sent tingling messages into his veins. The sudden tremors of shock and fear that had vibrated
through the length of his being when Ben’s and Cynthia’s bodies plunged unconscious onto the
laundry room floor were now returning.
I’m in deep, bottomless shit, he thought. How will I get out of this? His senatorial powers,
his ruling might, his influence over peoples lives, meant nothing now. He took a courageous breath
and tried urgently to calm his animated thoughts. There! He almost had it. Go on. Go on, he
encouraged himself. There is always a way out, Robert. Don’t you forget that. Wait . . . no. Not
that. I’ve got it. That’s it. The security people from Orion Security Systems . . .  the surveillance
camera by the front door. They have . . .  they must have seen her coming in. They should be
calling here at any minute, checking who that stranger is. Or, maybe . . .  yes, that’s what they’ve
done. They had called the police department already and . . . they are out there now, hiding in the
dark, waiting for the right moment to come marching in. In a minute or two they’d storm in the
house. In a minute now.
He wished that the stupid television wasn’t turned on. He couldn’t hear what that woman
was doing back there. Had she killed Cynthia? What about Ben? How about Maria? Were they
dead? Who the hell was this woman? Why did she say, ‘Mountain Retreat?’ How did she know the
secret password? He could feel the icy sweat accumulating on his forehead.
With wide-open eyes he scrutinized the limited extent of his vision. The six-foot opening to
the foyer looked like a dark, hostile alley, a wide open dark mouth ready to swallow whoever
dared to enter it. The mouth of a monster. Deep in the darkness the red eye of the monster was
flickering its hostile red glow, dark, red, dark . . . Oh, yes! The security box. His confused mind
seemed to entertain afflicting spells with his sanity.
The security box blinked at him spitefully. Screaming voices of the dead echoed through
the darkness of the monster’s mouth. “Mountain Retreat, Mountain Retreat. Remember Mountain
Retreat?” His brain swelled and dilated into a boundless galaxy of memories. How does she know?
He had to stop thinking. Stop – Who is she? Icy, salty sweat ran down in his eyes.
His blinking eyes embraced the smooth feminine curves of the beautiful modern statue. A
potent sigh of luxurious remedy arose from deep within him, reached his throat and, savoring it
like a treasure, he let it out slowly. Little by little his anguish vanished into the darkness of his
mind.
He looked around the spacious room angrily. Everything but the statue seemed hostile,
unfamiliar, and unapproachable. The faces of his art treasures on the wall stared at him with anger.
Arms stretched out past their exquisite frames, accusatory fingers pointed at him. The statue, look
at the statue.
Suddenly the statue grew blurred like a reflection under the waves of the sea and turned to
thick bubbles of soiled, lathery foam. The grotesque shape of a decomposed young woman rose
tall, and bubbles fell like flesh on the glass-topped table and on the floor below as it walked toward
him. The senator sensed her foul breath an inch from his ear. “Mountain Retreat. Do you
remember Mountain Retreat?” A shiver went through him. He gazed frantically about the room.
Gray, bloated faces stared at him. An icy terror swept up and down his spine. His flesh crawled.
“Help me! Help me!” he tried to shout beyond his gagged mouth. “Break the fucking door. Shoot
this woman. Kill this ghost from my past.”
The senator heard muffled steps first in the laundry room, and then in the kitchen. The
young woman approached him with a smile on her face. She looked at the him for a few seconds,
as if trying to read his thoughts, and moved her shoulders up in an uncaring gesture.“Hmm,” she
said, turned on her heel, and sat on the hearth. The senator could barely see her left shoulder and
arm.
The young woman was putting something in her briefcase. The duct tape? The handgun?
The knife? The senator tried turning his eyeballs to his left as far as he could, but he realized the
attempt was futile. After three long minutes of dreadful silence, the young woman rose from the
hearth and walked slowly around the couch. She was again out of the senator’s vision, but he
could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, penetrating him like sharp needles. Rain Dance walked
slowly around the senator and stood tall in front of him.
“They are both alive and well,” she said.
So odd, the senator thought. Her looks did not match her speech. Her face was a gray mask
of anger, but her dreamy voice was appeasing and smooth.
“They,” the young woman resumed, “are sleeping soundlessly like well-kept little babies.
Both of them there, and Maria here, are in their own dreamland. Don’t you worry about them,
Senator Forceworth. They’ll be just fine. By the time they wake up . . .” she left her phrase trailing.
“You see, Senator, I didn’t come for them. They’re nothing to me. I hope you understand that. We
don’t want them between our legs screaming and yelling like little children, do we? No! Of course
not.”
Abruptly, the young woman held her hands out in front of her; her open palms faced the
ceiling as if to gather some profound energy from it. “Why am I here then, you may ask? I’m here
because you asked me to be here. Oh, yes. You have. Let me add, not once, but countless times
you sang to me like a siren: ‘Come! Come! Come!’ So, here I am, in the flesh.” She sighed, walked
back and forth in front of the senator, and then continued in the same tone as before.
“Life is so mysterious, so unpredictable, isn’t it, Senator? One day you feel that the whole
world is yours. Your dreams and hopes for your future suddenly are taking shapes, forms, and
meaning in front of  your eyes, and the next day you’re dead. Dreams and hopes forever gone.
You’re dead, your dreams are dead; your hopes are dead. Death everywhere. No more smiling, no
more laughing, no more nothing. So sad.
“Do you think Christ felt the same way, as he lay nailed upon his cross? Do you think those
nail marks on his feet and hands, the wounds from thorns on his head, and the spear wound below
his heart will ever heal? Do you think his Father cried that day? Do you think God forgave our sins
because His son said: ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing?’ Have we
spared anything for God and Christ and his Mother to smile about, to cheer about? Will they ever
smile again? We have spread so much pain with our unforgivable sins. So much killing, so much
raping! Haven’t we, Senator? But, let me not bore you with my cheerless philosophical outlook.”
She stopped talking as if to put her thoughts in order.
“Let’s look at the bright side of things,” she continued. “Somehow, no matter how dark
our actions are, no matter how despicable or disgusting they might be, we humans always find a
bright side to look at. Right? So, here’s today’s bright side. We are alone. Just the two of us.
Finally, you and I. Don’t you just love it? I don’t know about you, Senator Forceworth, but I’m
thrilled to death. You should be too. Oh, Senator! Cheer up. Don’t be so gloomy. Shame, shame
on you!”
Rain Dance waved a disapproving finger at the senator.
“You haven’t seen my show yet. I’m sure you’ll love my private show. I’ll turn that gloomy
looks of yours into pure ecstasy. I’ve practiced this show of mine for the past three years just to
please you now, tonight. Yes, Senator. You! You look so surprised. You shouldn’t be. Why, don’t
you just love my devotion? I took an oath to repay  your generosity and the kindness you have
shown to me.” Suddenly, her voice became stern, cold, and distant. “A debt has to be paid.”
Furiously, she grabbed the senator’s chair and turned it around, then she backed away from
him, walked around the couch, and sat on the hearth with her elbows resting on her thighs. Palms
together, she cocked her head a bit to her left and rested her cheek on the back of her left hand.
The senator tried to speak behind his gag and, at the same time, he tabbed his feet against
the floor.
“Would you like to say something, Senator, sir?” she asked. “I should give you the chance
to talk. I should. But let us look at each other for a while. Let me see if you’ll recognize me.”
He stared at her for some time. The young woman kept his eyes steadily on him. Suddenly,
the loud screeching of a crow came through the back door. Rain Dance grabbed the gun, rushed to
the door, and stepped out of the house.
                                
Rain Dance knelt down on the bricks of the back porch and looked at the crow. “Go
home,” she said. “I’m fine.”
The bird looked at her, bobbed his head, screeched twice, and flew away.
Rain Dance walked into the house, sat on the hearth, and stared at the senator again. “You
don’t remember me, do you?” she asked finally, shaking her head. “Not to worry, sir.” She slowly
waved her index finger at the senator. “Although I’m a bit disappointed with your short memory
span, I promise you, you’ll soon know who I am.” Her face took on an evil grin again. Still gazing
at him, she stood up and approached the senator.
“In which pocket?” she asked, jaws hardly moving as she spoke. “The money! In which
pocket?”
He made head and eye movements indicating the pockets of his coat. Rain Dance reached
in them, one pocket at a time, and pulled out five fat envelopes. “Contributions, I bet,” she said
sarcastically. “Now, consider them severance pay, or a contribution for a good, honorable cause.”
She sat on the hearth, raised the knife eye level, and stared at it for a while. “I hate blood. I hate
blood,” she murmured, as if in a dream.
Pictures flashed before her eyes: A twenty-year-old-girl, naked. Her eyes were wide-open,
and her hands and legs tied to the posts of a king sized bed. Heavy, translucent plastic sheathing
lay under her naked body. Her blonde hair was spread on the plastic sheet, her green eyes stared at
two naked men, who held sharp kitchen knives in their hands. A third one was biting her breasts.
‘Make a cross on her fucking body,’ the man at her breasts screamed ecstatically at the
other two.
She stared at the knife as it entered her skin below her chest and moved down slowly,
cutting through skin and flesh, while the other knife carved her body from rib to rib. A bloody
cross appeared on her white body. She gazed at her own red, warm blood gushing out, running
down her body and onto the plastic sheet of the king-size bed. Then she heard loud, terrifying
laughter.
“I hate blood,” Rain Dance said again, awakening from her trance. She put her face in her
hands and rocked back and forth, beating down on her heels, woefully moaning, “How long? Oh,
sweet mother of Jesus, how long?” When she regained control of herself, all she could say was, “I
hate blood.”
Holding the knife, she dashed into the kitchen. Steam rose as she held the knife under hot
running water. Spotless, the knife gleamed under the pale light of the kitchen. She turned off the
hot water and  wiped the knife with a soft kitchen towel until it was spotless. Then she wiped the
sink dry.
Rain Dance watched the senator as she walked by the coffee table. She put the knife inside
the briefcase, and pulled out a small see-through makeup kit. She sat next to Maria on the hearth,
placed the wet kitchen towel between Maria and herself, and then dumped the content of the
makeup kit on the wet towel. Lipstick, eyeliner, a tube of mascara, and a compact lay in front of
her. She opened the compact, looked in the small mirror, and then stared at the senator for a
moment and announced: “Show time, Senator. I have a very entertaining show for you. I’m sure
you’ll love it. So, rest your mind and watch.”
Looking in the small compact, she removed her left eyebrow and then the right, revealing
thinner eyebrows beneath. She placed the thick eyebrows in the makeup kit.
“Do you remember me now?” she asked “No? I didn’t think so. Way too early. Keep
watching.”
She took the lipstick in her hand and opened her mouth, forming a shapely circle with her
lips. Slowly, carefully she applied red lipstick to her lips. After applying eyeliner and mascara, she
shoved the lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara into the makeup kit.
“Now?” Rain Dance turned around to face the senator. “Do you remember me now?” she
asked. “I see you don’t. On with the show, then. Let me make myself prettier for you.” The
senator watched. “Much prettier,” Rain Dance said as she removed her contact lenses. She put
them ceremoniously in her mouth, one after the other, and swallowed them both. Now she rolled
the wet towel around the small makeup kit and put it in the briefcase. Then slowly she turned to
face the senator.
“Do you remember me now? I see you don’t even remember my green eyes. Fine. Let me
give you another tip to refresh your memory.” Lifting her left hand she pointed it to her hair. “This
is a man’s brown wig. I want you to imagine that I have shoulder-length blonde hair. Think of me
as a twenty-year-old stupid blonde  with a pretty face and a nice body for you and your friends
Bellows and Kirkland to play with, to fuck, and to kill. Got the picture?  Mountain Retreat? Do
you remember now? Do you?”
Rain Dance walked in front of the senator, grabbed the end of the duct-tape and pulled it
off violently, but just enough to free the senator’s mouth.
“Do you remember me?” she demanded. “Answer me! Do you?”
“No, I don’t!” The senator screamed. “Who the hell are you?”
“I guess I have to give you the finale of my show. Don’t I? You see, Senator Robert T.
Forceworth, sir, you have to know who I really am. You must recognize me. You . . . must . . .
know . .  who . . . I . . . am. And you will. I’ll make you recognize me.”
She stepped between the coffee table and the fireplace. Maria was still in praying position
by the hearth. Cynthia and Ben were still unconscious. The starless night was dark and cloudy.
Lightning split the sky, thunder cracked the air, and Rain Dance could feel the great gathering
anger of the storm in her bones.
“Ladies and gentlemen, observe the magic show,” she announced, her hands up in the air,
her feet apart. “Demons and Gods, be the judges of this show. Sit side by side, observe, listen, and
judge the show of either dark or light, day or night, good or evil, heaven or hell, life or death.
When the show is over, you, Demons and Gods, tell me if this man shall live or die.”
With steady hands, Rain Dance started to unbutton, one by one, the buttons of her shirt. By
the time she was ready to reveal her naked breasts, she could hear the senator’s fast, overwrought
breathing. Salty sweat, beaded on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. She grasped the edges
of her shirt and ceremoniously opened her arms wide. The senator gasped. He looked as if he had
forgotten how to breathe. His eyes became round, empty circles. His veins grew bigger and bigger
on his forehead, on his neck. He gasped, then puffed and huffed, and finally he started to vomit.
Then coughing he licked the leftover vomit on his lips.
“Look at me,” she demanded. “Look at my body. Look and my breasts. Look at my badly
healed knife wounds, the carved cross on it, my mutilated breasts, my missing nipples. Don’t they
look as if they had been torn off my breast by the powerful bites of a wild beast?”
Mummified images flashed before her eyes. The Mountain Retreat. His two friends,
Bellows and Kirkland waiting. The king size bed . . . the see-through plastic sheet . . .  the ropes
holding her on the bed . . . the rain . . . the thunder . . . her torn nipples in Forceworth’s mouth . . .
her body thrown down into the river.
“You are . . . the . . . my secretary,” the senator shattered breathlessly. “You . . . you are
her. You can’t be.”
Rain Dance buttoned her shirt and slowly tucked the ends of her shirt into her pants.
“Senator Forceworth, sir. Here I am. Me! Rain Dance. Alive. Do you remember me now?”
she shouted. “Do you? I see that you do. I knew you’d remember me. Now you know who I am,
and I already know who and what you really are. You’re a sadist, a rapist, a cannibal, a killer, a
slayer of innocent girls, and I . . . I am your victim.”
“You’re dead. Dead! We killed you three years ago. You’re dead.” The senator moaned
hysterically. The vein on his forehead pulsed and thick sweat gathered on it. “Don’t kill me. Please,
don’t, don’t!” he begged. “I’ll give you anything you want. Anything you ask is yours. Just ask,
and you shall have it.” He sobbed and cried pathetically.
“Anything?” she inquired sarcastically.
“Yes! Anything. You name it.”
“Scream, Senator. Let me hear you scream. If memory serves me correctly, you love a
good scream. Do you remember? Of course you do. Scream!” she demanded.
The senator opened his mouth and howled like a wounded, trapped animal. “Help. Help
me,” he shouted urgently. “Help! Break the damned, fucking doors. Help me.”
With a swift move, Rain Dance pushed the duct-tape back over his mouth and looked into
his eyes.
“You are such a coward, Senator. You’d do anything to save your skin, wouldn’t you? Do
you think you can redeem your past by screaming or by offering me your money? Well, maybe you
can. I cannot.
“I remember, Senator Forceworth, your face on my breasts, my beautiful breasts. I
remember your hands holding them tightly and squeezing them as much as you could. ‘Scream!’
you yelled at me and started licking them, then biting them. ‘Scream, scream!’ you yelled louder
and louder after each bite. ‘The bitch’s not screaming,’ one of your friends mocked you.
“Furious, you looked at them, then at me, and moaned, ‘I’ll make you scream, you little
whore,’ you said, and with those teeth of yours wrapped around my nipple, you tore it from me.
Warm blood, my blood, ran down your lips and down your chin. ‘She tastes good,’ you said with
great satisfaction painted on your bloody face, and then you swallowed my nipple.
“‘She’s not screaming,’ they mocked you again. You got furious at their insults. ‘Bitch, I’ll
make you scream,’ you said, as if my screaming or being quiet was a contest between you and
them and, as you were tearing my right nipple from my body, you moaned and shouted like a
demon from hell, ‘Yes, Yes, Yes. Oh, God, God, yes,’ as you ejaculated your sperm on my slashed
body.”
When she spoke again, her voice got louder with each phrase.
“How many girls have suffered at your hands? How many? How many before me? How
many after me? How many of them died with their nipples in your mouth while you were declaring
with pride, ‘She tastes good?’ Now you say that you’ll give me anything I ask? Make these scars
go away. Give me my nipples back. Make me forget the horror of that night. Make my nightmares
go away. Restore my soul. Give me myself back! You can’t, can you?” A long silence followed.
“Well, Senator,” she resumed. “Now it’s my turn to give you something to swallow.
Something you never dreamed of swallowing. Something much tastier than my nipples. I’m sure
you will love this one – a perfect sweet delicacy for a cannibal like you.”
Rain Dance knelt in front of the senator. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped the zipper of
his pants. She grabbed his pants and underwear and drew them down to his knees, exposing his
masculinity. She looked at him. “You are disappointing me, Senator,” she said sarcastically. “With
all that yelling of yours, I thought you would be aroused by now. But, you’re not. Look at it. It
looks so sad, so pathetic. It’s lying there like a dead worm on the top of your testicles. Let me see
if I can help.” She walked into the kitchen.
She picked a pair of shiny, kitchen scissors from a drawer, then she returned and knelt in
front of him. She ignored the constant moaning behind his gag. With his testicles in her hand, she
opened and closed the scissors in front of his eyes, a cryptic smile played on her lips.
“I could do so many thing to you, Senator,” she said. “I could cut off your balls, shove
them deep down in your throat, and then gag you again. Picture this, Senator: You gasp, your face
drips with pain, your tears roll down your face, and eventually, you swallow your own testicles one
after the other. I can see them moving down your throat as your Adam’s apple goes up and
down.”
She stood up and dropped the scissors on the ash-gray carpet without taking her eyes from
him. The senator shivered.
“So,” she resumed in an extravagant smile, “how did you like my idiotic but compelling
game-playing compared to yours? Would you have screamed for your dearest manhood? Would
you have begged me?”
The senator nodded frantically.
“Oh, Senator,” she continued, “the things I could do to you. I could let you live for a day
or two or even a year. Or, I could blackmail you for the rest of your wretched life. You wouldn’t
dare to go to the police, or to do a thing about it. You would obey my every whim and wish. But,
you see,  sir, if I were to do any of that, wouldn’t that make me just like you? I shall never stoop to
your level. I’m not here for the sake of revenge, nor to avenge the death of your other victims. No,
Senator. I am here so the whole world can see the beast that you are. I’m here to cure and to
expiate your victims’ suffering souls.”
Taking slow steps, Rain Dance walked to the coffee table. She reached into the upper left
corner of her briefcase with both hands. When she closed the briefcase, she held a long odd
looking chopstick in each hand. Then she walked and stood at arm’s length from the senator. She
took a deep breath to compose herself. She felt almost serene, tranquil.
“Judgment day,” she murmured. She raised her hands above her head with the narrow ends
of the chopsticks facing the senator. She gazed into his eyes.
“Gods and Demons,” Rain Dance bellowed. “You heard the accusations. What is your
judgment?” Her voice thundered. Her mind’s eye looked into the sky. “What shall the punishment
be for the accused? Tell me now!” she demanded. Silently, she waited for five long seconds, then
ten. “Death!” she wailed.
With lightning speed she plunged the chopsticks into his wide-open eyes. The chopsticks
pierced through his brain and came to a stop at the back of his skull. She took a step back, and
held her breath. The senator’s eyes with the end of the chopsticks planted in them stared at her, as
if they were gazing through her, through the walls, through earth, through heaven and hell, and
into the land of Savages he knew so well. She breathed.
“Death it is,” Rain Dance intoned. “No one will suffer in your hands any more. No more
young, innocent girls shall be the victims of your twisted, sick mind. You can harm them no more.
You can harm neither the living nor the dead. You are dead.” She took a long breath and closed
her eyes to compose herself and to escape her ghostly memories of Mountain Retreat.
She walked closer to the fireplace and looked at the big picture of the senators on the
mantelpiece. She took a red marker from the inside pocket of her coat and with her right hand she
made a big circle on the glass over the picture. She switched the marker to her left hand. “Two to
Go!” she mouthed, as she wrote TtG inside the circle. She stepped back to see her manly writing
style. “I like it,” she said approvingly. Then she made a red cross over the face of Senator
Forceworth.
With the briefcase in her hand, she went out the back door. Gliding as if she were a mere
shadow within shadows in the cloud-swelling night, she reached a dirt road and turned right.
Soundlessly, without rushing her steps, she walked to her parked car and opened its trunk. With
steady hands she removed her latex gloves and the man’s wig and threw them in the trunk. Her
shining hair fell across her face and onto her shoulders. She removed her  man’s shoes, coat, and
pants, took out a pair of red, three-inch-high heel shoes and a black mini-skirt, and put them on.
Slowly, she rolled the long sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows. She stepped into the car, switched
the overhead lights back to its regular position, and turned on the ignition.
The car rolled slowly down the dirt road. At the edge of the main street, she looked left,
then right. Not seeing any approaching car lights, she pressed her foot on the gas and turned on the
headlights. Five-miles less than the speed limit, she reminded herself. She reached the city limits
without incident, drove through main streets, and finally parked her car in a supermarket parking
lot.
With the engine turned off, Rain Dance threw her head back against the headrest and
closed her eyes. She saw a bright lightning behind her closed eyelids and a long, loud thunder hit
her ears. “Rain,” she said and looked at the clock of her car. “11:25 p.m.,” she murmured and
closed her eyes again. The rain came down in sheets. She breathed the moist air and let her mind
travel three years backwards. Flying like blind bats in their dark cave, her memories rushed into her
mind, alive, as if they were monsters chasing her in the moonless night.









                        






                              FIVE

Felicia and her mother, Helena, had been sitting on the front porch around a cast-iron table.
The February sky was cloudless and  the rays of the sun warm and affectionate. The small white
frame house, stood sixty yards back from the main street. Bleached by time and weather, an old
red VW beatle was parked on the cracked, concrete driveway in front of the house. Felicia had
been reading her political science book, marking phrases with a yellow marker, and taking notes. A
white cotton band held her shoulder- length blonde hair in place. Her almond-shaped green eyes
shone with confidence and determination. She took her eyes from the book when the mailman
came. He dropped an envelope in their mailbox and drove on.
“Mom, we’ve got mail,” Felicia said. She placed her notebook on top of the open book,
pushed her chair back, and stood up.
Her tall, sensual, twenty-year-old figure moved with a flowing grace. Felicia knew that she
was a striking beauty. She looked so much like her mother. Though her mother was forty-two and
two inches shorter than she, most people thought that they looked more like sisters.
Felicia opened the mail box. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” she yelled, and jumped up and
down. “It’s here!”
She ran to the house, waving the unopened envelope above her head. She climbed up the
three steps of the porch with a single bound. “Mom, it’s here,” she shouted with a nervous laugh.
“Here. You open it. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.” Her mother’s eyes lingered on the
envelope. She turned it around, and turned it again.
“Mom! Stop playing with my emotions.”
“Aha,” Helena said, as if teasing her. “From Senator Robert T. Forceworth’s office, I see.”
“I worked so much and so hard for that intern position! What are you waiting for, Mom?
Don’t prolong my agony. Open it.”
Her mom opened the envelope and read silently. “You got the job, baby. My daughter, the
intern. I’m not surprised at all,” she said quietly and opened her arms to embrace her daughter.
“Oh, Mom,” Felicia said with tears in her eyes. “You don’t know how much I can learn
working at Forceworth’s office. I admire his convictions on every subject, from politics to the
economy, from his religious beliefs to his ethical and environmental standing, to reforming the long
due Social Security, his moral and ethical standing . . . and . . . he’s a leader, Mom, that’s what he
is. I feel that I am the luckiest girl on earth.” Her eyes hugged her mom. “I just wish that Dad was
alive to see how far his little princess has come.”

Felicia had been working as an intern at the Florida office of Senator Forceworth since she
had received the joyous envelope. She was thrilled and fascinated with her new job, but especially
by all the powerful men and women who went in and out of the senator’s office.
Forceworth opened his office door and looked at his security guard. “Ben, would you come
in for a sec?” he asked him.
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, and walked into the senator’s office.
Both men disappeared behind the closed door of the private office of the senator. Felicia
was typing with her eyes on the screen of the monitor. Five minutes later the senator’s door
opened. Ben came out, left the door open, paced through the waiting room, opened the exit door,
stepped outside, and shut the door behind him.
She heard the senator’s voice. “Felicia, would you come in, please?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Hurriedly she pulled her black skirt down, and walked into his office.
“Close the door,” he ordered without looking at her. “Sit down, please,” he said
impassively and shoved some papers around on his desk. He opened a file and started reading it
soundlessly. “Miss McDermond,” he said, and looked at her for the first time. “I was reading your
file. Very impressive. You’re not sitting?” he smiled, as if he just noticed her standing by his desk.
“Thank you, sir.” She tried to smile back. “I’d rather stand just in case the phone rings. I’m
the only one left here. The rest are gone.”
“All work and no fun,” he said, laughing. He tapped his fingers on the top of Felicia’s file
as if playing a tune on it, and when he stopped his tapping, his face became very serious.
“Something is boiling on the senate floor that may affect all of us negatively.”
“What is it, sir?”
“I looked at your file very carefully. You have been a very good employee since the day
you joined us. Three months, I believe. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, three months.”
“I see you haven’t missed a day. I must do something about that,” he said, smiling. “We
need dedicated people like yourself, especially right now in troubled, difficult times.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Can I have complete trust in you, Miss. McDermond?” he asked with an earnest tone
now. “Can I trust you to attend an urgent meeting that will take place this weekend?”
“You can trust me, sir.”
“As I said a minute ago, something big, an amendment, is boiling on the senate floor. Two
friends of mine, very influential in their own fields, Bellows and Kirkland, and of course myself, are
very worried. A negative outcome from the vote could be devastating to all of us. This amendment
will not fly away unless some of us fight it. We know that persuading the opposition to change
their votes will not be easy. Nevertheless, we have to try our best to convince them  that their
ideology will irreversibly harm this great nation of ours, and then we have to try to convert  them
to see it our way. Don’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” Felicia said.
“There comes a time” he continued, “in which no second chances are available to any of us.
This is one of those times. We have to do our best, although our best may not be enough. At least
we can have a clear conscience in the belief that we gave a good fight.” He smiled expansively. “I
don’t understand my negative thoughts sometimes. Very discouraging. It must be my age or maybe
my conservative outlook on the affairs of our nation. We are slipping more and more into liberal
territory. Broad minded, impartial, dispassionate, they call themselves. So much nonsense. How
can one rule a nation without passion, without deep-seated beliefs?” He chuckled, as if disturbed
with his own gloomy words.
“I feel,” he resumed, “as though I am giving you a speech instead of telling you why I’ve
called you, so here it is. We have decided to have an urgent meeting at Bellows’ Mountain Retreat
and discuss this urgent matter over the weekend, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. I can
see the question in your eyes: Why am I telling you all this? Well, we need someone reliable and
conscientious, someone we can trust, to take notes.” He looked at her steadfast eyes. “Miss
McDermond, I read your file many times. You have an impeccable record, not only with us, but it
seems, in all your school years, in all your life. Having said that, I wondered if–”
“Yes! I would be glad to do it, sir. It will be an honor. It’s time for me to learn the inner
workings of the government.” She smiled shyly.
“Thank you, Miss McDermond. Can I call you Felicia?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“There is, however . . . ” he tapped his middle finger on the top of her file again as if
searching for the right words, “. . . one more thing. This meeting is top-secret. No one besides me,
Bellows and Kirkland, and now you, should know that this meeting ever took place. I hope you
understand the urgency of the situation. Secrecy is the key. You can’t divulge our conversation to
anyone. Not to your friends, not even to your mother. Do you think–”
“You can trust me, sir. Of course I’ll not reveal it to anyone. That goes without saying.
Thank you for trusting me, sir. As long as I work for you, your just cause should also be mine. I
will not betray you, Senator Forceworth.”
“What will you say to your mother? How will you explain your absence over the weekend?
Can you tell me? It’s very important that I should know. I wouldn’t like to jeopardize the secrecy
of this meeting. I hope you understand my insistence about this small matter. What will you tell
her?”
“I’ll tell her that I’m going to the beach with my two girlfriends. I know my mother. She
will not ask me a single question. She trusts my judgement. She trusts me. You don’t have to
worry about my mom.”
“I knew I could trust you, Felicia,” he said approvingly. “Now . . . let me see. Today is–”
“Tuesday, sir.”
“On Friday, go home early. Pack your beach towels, swimsuit, and whatever else you go to
the beach with, and I’ll meet you on the third level of the parking lot. I’ll be waiting for you in my
Mercedes at exactly eight p.m. in front of the elevator. Try to avoid people seeing you. Can you do
that? You see, this is a very delicate situation. We can’t afford mistakes.
”I’ll be there, sir.”
“Friday then,” the senator said, and she understood that the meeting was over.
“Yes, sir,” she said and walked out of his office.

My God, the senator thought as soon Felicia closed the door of his office. People are so
gullible, especially the young ones. Give them a compliment, a gram of power in their hands, an
inch of place to stand, let them think how important they can be, tell them what they like to hear,
appeal to their patriotic or religious ideals, and they’re your slaves. So Goddamn easy. A horde
of grazing sheep have got to have their shepherd. All that’s left to do after that is to drive them to
the slaughter house for the final kill. Power corrupts. You bet the hell it does. Well, I’m sure it’ll
be a fun weekend.
So far he had done well. She was eating whatever he threw at her. This was much easier
than he thought would be; much easier than shooting a wounded duck in a shallow pond. The very
thought made him feel great, indestructible. She was such a delicious specimen, a morsel.
He picked up his private phone and pressed a number.
“Yes,” Bellows’s in his low husky voice answered.
“It’s all set for this weekend, Elliot,” Forceworth said. “We’re set for Mountain Retreat.”
“Are you sure, Robert?”
“Yes, positive. Will you call Kirkland? The old threesome back again,” he laughed.
“Consider it done. What time do you think you’ll be there?”
“Nine, at the latest,” Forceworth said, and hung up the phone.

Paul M. Kirkland let the phone ring three times before answering it. “Not now,” he spoke
to himself annoyed by the loudness of the ringing phone. He had so many things to do. He picked
up the phone.
“Yes,” he said in a cold, abrupt tone.
“Paul, Elliot here.”
“What’s up, Elliot? I was thinking of giving you a call. You got me. Ha, ha, ha,” he
laughed with his well-trained laughter.
“We’re set for Friday. Mountain Retreat. Can you make it?”
“This Friday?” Paul asked. He knew what Mountain Retreat meant.
“Yes, this Friday. All set for nine o’clock. Be there around eight. We have to prepare the
house before they arrive.”
“I had an important appointment for Friday night, but hell, this comes first. I’ll come up
with some excuse to cancel it. All right, Elliot. I’ll be there,” Kirkland said ending the
conversation. Bellows heard a click and gently set the phone on the hook.

“Mom?” Felicia said on Tuesday night at dinner.
“Yes, what is it?” her mom asked lazily while cutting a stuffed tomato with her fork.
“My friends, Betty and Gina, are planning a trip for this weekend. They asked me to join
them, and I was thinking that I should go with them. Mom, I need a short vacation. I’ve been
working so hard. A peaceful weekend with my girlfriends at the beach would be just perfect to
loosen up, to relax. So I was wondering could I go with them.” She picked her water glass. ”Will
that be okay with you?” she asked and took a sip of water. Without taking her eyes from her
mother’s face, she put the glass on the top of the table.
Her mom was ready to put the cut piece of the stuffed tomato in her mouth. She stopped
the fork in the mid air. “For the whole weekend?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom. For the whole weekend,” Felicia said, looking steadily into her eyes. “We
were planning to leave Friday afternoon right after work and be back sometime on Sunday
afternoon. Please, Mom, say yes. I need this trip so badly.”
Her mother pondered for a minute or two before she could give her an answer.  “Fine. You
can go,” she said at last.
Felicia pushed her chair back. She stood up, took two steps, sat on her mother’s lap, and
hugged her mother tightly.
“I love you, Mom,” she whispered in her ear. She pulled back a little and looked at her, “I
love you, Mom,” she cried.
“Get off my lap,” her mother said with a big smile on her face. “You are not a little girl any
more.” Then, her voice got serious, worried. “Promise me,” she said, “promise me that you’ll call
me.”
“I will, Mom. First thing Saturday morning.”

With a light-blue shoulder-bag hanging on her left shoulder, Felicia came out of her
bedroom and walked into the kitchen. Her mom wiped her wet hands with a kitchen towel and
came closer to her.
“I have to go, Mom,” Felicia said trying hard to hide her excitement, but at the same time
she felt very badly about having to lie to her mother. I have to do this, she tried to make an excuse
for herself, for her lie. This might be my only chance to learn. The senator is such a good man. I
have nothing to worry about, she mused.
“Let me look at you. My God! You look like a child,” her mother said. Then, as she
looked at the radiant face of her daughter, she asked, “That’s all you’re taking with you?”
“I am going to the beach, Mom, not to a senators’ convention.”
“You know better than I do, Felicia. Do me a favor and be careful. You are the only thing I
have in my life. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
“Oh, Mom, don’t think like that. I’ll be fine. You’ll see. I’ll be careful.”
“And, you’ll call me first thing Saturday morning?
“I will, Mom.” Felicia hugged her. “Now,” she said and pulled back from the hug, “I have
to go. Bye, Mom,” she said, and walked out of the house.
“Have a good time, my baby. Bye!”
Without looking back, Felicia walked out of the house and down on the driveway. One
more look at her mother would be too much to bear.
The bus stopped. After taking her ticket, she sat in an empty seat. She looked at her watch.
The time was, five-after-five. She had three hours to kill till her eight o’clock meeting with the
senator. When the bus stopped at the Mall, she stepped out. She figured that the best place to
waste her time unnoticed would be at the Mall. She’d look around for some time, maybe have a
cup of hot chocolate or coffee, and then she’d walk the short distance to her appointment.

At exactly two minutes before eight o’clock, the elevator door opened. Felicia pressed the
third level button of the parking lot. Her heart was pounding like an alarm clock left on a tin-
topped table. So far so good. The elevator stopped at the third level, the door opened, and she
stepped out. The front passenger door of the waiting black Mercedes opened slowly. She stepped
in and closed the door.
“Right on time,” Forceworth said as he put the gear in drive. “I like punctuality. Anyone
notice you coming here?” he asked as the car rolled down on the second level.
“No, sir. No one. I was very careful,” she assured him.
“Very good, very good,” the senator said in a professional tone. “Relax and enjoy the trip
now. We should be there in an hour at the most. Bellows and Kirkland should be at the Mountain
Retreat by then. You look so different than you do at the office,” he added as he looked at her out
of the corner of his eye.
“I have no makeup on my face, sir,” she explained with a nervous smile. “I am supposed to
be going to the beach with my girlfriends. That’s what I told my mother.”
“You didn’t say anything about this to your girlfriends, did you?” He skimmed at her.
“No, sir. They know nothing about this. I haven’t talked to them since last Saturday.”
“You’re a very smart lady, Felicia.” He smiled. “And that face of yours without makeup is
very convincing. You look more like a fifteen-year-old, I’ll say.” He chuckled for a second and
then asked, “Are you comfortable?”
“I feel fine, sir,” she said as she was tossing her shoulder bag on the back seat.
For a long time they did not speak. She read the signs on the left side of the road. For a
quarter-mile or so, warning signs were posted one after the other.
   KEEP OUT - NO TRESPASSING - NO HUNTING - PRIVATE PROPERTY
An animal lover, she thought. How nice! The signs ended at a long bridge and she could
see the searching waters of the river below. On the first column of the bridge she saw a big raven
with its stretched wings ready to take off.
The eyes of the bird were staring into hers as if the raven was trying to tell her something.
As they drove by the bird, still staring at her, screeched, flapped its wings, and took a dive. For a
moment she lost sight of it, and then she spotted it flying upstream.
They were ready to drive over the bridge when the senator broke their long silence.
“We’ll turn right at the next road. After five minutes drive we should arrive at Mountain Retreat.
Very secluded place. Very peaceful. Every time I visit that place I feel like a renewed person,
youthful, and rejuvenated.”
“Yes, sir.” She looked up at the gathering heavy  clouds.  “Soon it’s going to rain.”
“That’s what the weatherman said, but we should be at the house before it starts pouring
down. Enjoy the view, Felicia. We’ll deal with the storm when it comes.”
“I love rain,” she said dreamily. “It calms me down.”





                              SIX

Black Moon, a Native American from the Creek tribe, was sitting by the river. He looked
at the late afternoon sun standing in the sky like a fireball, ready to fall behind the horizon. The
heavy clouds were lining up, mixing with one another, and becoming heavier, darker. Mounts of
gray clouds moved against the bright sunlight as if they were to start a battle between the two of
them for the domination of either sunlight or shade on the top of the earth below. He observed the
fast advancing shade on the top of the tall pine trees, on the open grounds, then a patch of light
followed the shade some two hundred yards behind it. Furiously, the heavy clouds regrouped
themselves by becoming one darker than the other, like a massive dark-gray mob. They moved fast
and with precision against the tubular sunlight that dared to penetrate its light through them onto
the thirsty earth. Soon, they devoured voraciously the weak beams of the too tired to fight
descending, pale sun. Victorious, with lightning and thunder, the clouds lowered themselves on the
higher grounds, an indistinguishable mass of gray and black. It looked as if the whole world might
have been composed of nothing, but dark, dreary clouds ready to drop their heavy burden on
mountaintops, rolling hills, valleys and rivers, and every blade of thirsty grass. Defeated and tired
of its long journey, the sun made its disappearing act of the day. The first signs of nightfall begun
to appear and gray twilight fell upon the earth.
A raven flew above Black Moon’s head, landed next to him, took a large pebble with his
beak, and dropped it in front of Black Moon.
“Clouds won this one.” Black Moon breathed out the words. He looked at the bird. The
bird looked at him and began screeching aloud. “Raven,” Black Moon said in a warning tone,
“when those clouds come down, heavy rain will fall. Better you go on flying and hide in your lair
and I’ll go in mine. Big storm is to come soon. Chooh. Chooh,” he tried to chase the bird. “Go on,
I say. You look very unsightly when you are wet.” His shoulders shook from his loud laughter.
The bird took a leap, flew off the ground, made a sharp turn in the air and struck Black
Moon’s right leg with its beak, and landed two feet away in front of him, screeching.
“Raven, I am warning you,” Black Moon said, and looked angrily at the bird. “I’ll make a
meal out of you some day.” He tried to kick him with his foot.
Raven took a small leap to avoid Black Moon’s foot and landed at a safe distance. He
stretched out his right wing and let it touch the reddish ground, took a few limping steps, dragged
his wing on the ground as if to tell Black Moon, “Look! Look what you have done to my poor
wing,” and started making a loud racket.
Black Moon smiled thinly. “Stop playing con games with me, old bird. I know you too
well. Maybe you didn’t hear what I said to you earlier. I’ll snap your neck and make a meal out of
you. Chooh. Chooh,” Black Moon chased him again.
Raven flew and landed on the top of the sun-bleached, yellowish canoe. Black Moon could
hear his intense screeching. He started to walk towards his home, but before he had the chance to
take his fifth step, the bird flew high, screeched even louder than before, and took a dive. Black
Moon felt Raven’s claws and strong beak piercing his back. He turned and took a long look at
Raven. The bird looked steadily at Black Moon’s eyes, and moved his head up and down as if
trying to say something. Then, Raven took slow backward steps toward the river.
“What are you trying to tell me, Raven?” Black Moon asked, and carefully examined the
mannerism of Raven. He shook his head as he looked in Raven’s eyes. “Not a perfect day for
fishing, my good friend. Don’t you see it? Storm is coming. Maybe we’ll go tomorrow.”
The jumping up and down and the constant screeching of Raven was not what Black Moon
expected after his sensible reasoning. Black Moon was fully aware that nature has given her full
attention to all her children. He had learned how to listen to the creatures of nature. He looked at
the bird very carefully. Raven struck the soft ground with his beak, bent his head, and placed it flat
on the ground to listen to underground movements.
Black Moon knew Raven’s mole and worm unearthing ritual. He was sure now that Raven
was trying to give him a message. What, he did not know. “Big fish? The Big One?” he asked at
last.
“Kraah, Kraah,” was the bird’s answer. He flew in the direction of the river, and,
screeching loudly, he made circles above the canoe.
“All right, Raven. You win. I’ll give you this one. I know I’m a fool to listen to you, but I’ll
go fishing.” He walked to his canoe, untied the rope, and effortlessly pushed the canoe on the calm
gray water. He stepped in the canoe, set out paddling downstream, and yelled at Raven. “Do you
really think I’ll catch the Big One?”
“Kraah, Kraah,” the bird answered, flying above his head.
Black Moon said, “I know he’s down there, I have seen him. But, if I don’t see him, Raven,
you are in  big trouble.”
Raven flew above him for the first five minutes, then he called, “Kraah, Kraah,” twice as if
approving Black Moon’s decision, and flew away to hide from the fast approaching rain storm.
Black Moon saw the first raindrops on the top of the river. He knew by looking at the sky that
blackness, immense lightning, and loud thunder will follow.
He shouldn’t have gone fishing today, the old man thought as he hurriedly steered his
canoe under the long bridge. What got into me? He tied the rope to an iron hook fixed in the
concrete column of the bridge. Standing under the bridge, at least he’d not get wet from the falling
rain. Sometime it has to stop. Then I’ll go home, and instead of fish, I’ll have some bean soup.
Black Moon couldn’t understand himself sometimes. He shouldn’t have listened to the
shouting of that stupid Raven. What made him do this? Was it Raven’s jumping up and down in
the air as if he were wounded on his wings by the blasting shells of a shotgun, or was it  Raven’s
attacks on him? What was the bird trying to tell him? Stupid bird. Why was Black Moon accusing
him for? He was the one who followed him to the river. He was the one who jumped in this canoe
full of hope hoping to catch the biggest fish in this river, the Big-One. That’s what he was thinking
then; and where he ended up? Down under the bridge to protect himself from the black storm.
Black Moon could see Raven looking at him, laughing, and thinking how stupid Black Moon must
be. Black Moon laughed. He could see Raven mocking him with his irregular moves, scratching
the ground, jumping up and down, bending his head side to side, looking into the eyes of his fooled
victim, then flying on top of him in circles with a loud screeching racket. Tricky, smart bird. Black
Moon knew that Raven meant no harm to him.
Despite the pouring rain, Black Moon decided to throw a hook in the river? Plenty of fish
under the bridge. He would never know unless he tried. He took a fat worm from a tin can and
placed it on the hook, lowered the hook in the water, and then secured the bamboo pole on the
front of the canoe with a bench vise. Time to rest, he thought, and put his head in his hands. The
rain came down singing and dancing. He watched the lightning and listened to the thunder and the
dancing sounds of the rain falling on the river.











                                
                                
                             SEVEN

Felicia and Senator Forceworth were silent. She was completely absorbed in watching the
gathering clouds and the distant lightning. An immense lightning zig-zagged from cloud to cloud as
if trying to split the skies. The deafening sounds of the thunderclap followed after a long second.
Nature seemed so immensely frightening and unpredictable to Felicia, but utterly beautiful at the
same time.
Five minutes after they had crossed the bridge, the senator touched the brakes and turned
the car to his right onto a packed dirt road. Daytime was giving its turn for the night to appear.
Felicia looked at the two-story log home. Smoke came out of the top of the tall chimney. Two cars
were parked in front of the log house, leaving plenty of space between them for the senator to park
his car by the front steps. The senator backed and parked the car three feet away from the front
steps and turned off the engine.
“We’re here,” he said with a big smile and stepped out. “Come on.”
She tried to reach for her bag on the back seat, but he stopped her.
“Leave your bag in the car,” he said calmly. “We got plenty time for that. I’ll come back
for it later on. First let me introduce you to my friends.” He walked around the car and opened the
door for her. “Go ahead,” he said, and made a gesture as if he were a knight from the Middle
Ages. “Ladies first.”
She climbed the three wooden steps and walked across the covered porch to the front
door. Before she had the chance to knock on the door, it opened wide. She saw two men at the
opening of the door about the same age as Forceworth’s. One short and fat, and the other tall and
skinny. They were grinning and licking their lips like dogs in heat, both holding handguns aimed at
her face.
Felicia felt intimidated, frightened and shocked with their initial conduct and their evil
behavior. They looked silly and childish with the guns in their hands, but very deadly. She tried
very hard to keep her composure. I’m dead, she said to herself. She had walked into the pits of
hell. They’d have their fun and then they’d murder her. Die with dignity, Felicia, she reminded
herself. Confront your death with pride. Respecting oneself is more precious than life itself.
“Finally, the prize is here,” the short, round one said and waved his gun in front of her face.
“Come on in, darling. Don’t you just stand there.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t do anything stupid.” Forceworth said, pushed her into the house
and shut the door.
“Guys,” Forceworth said. “Let me introduce you to my beautiful intern, Felicia Danielle
McDermond. Felicia, dear, these are the friends I was telling you about. This,” he pointed with his
hand at the fat one, “is my dear friend, Elliot Bellows, who had the kindness to provide his
Mountain Retreat for tonight’s entertainment.”
Bellows had small brown eyes, a flat nose, and a little chin which seemed to disappear into
his enormous fat neck. He was grinning.
Forceworth pointed at the tall, skinny one. “And this is another dear friend of mine, my
attorney, Paul T. Kirkland.”
Kirkland had a leathery carved face, brown cow-eyes, sunken cheeks, and long bony
fingers.
“Shake hands, guys,” Forceworth said and laughed aloud, as if possessed with  powers
beyond his control.
“You can all go to hell,” Felicia said in a colorless tone.
“Hey, what do you know? She doesn’t like you guys.” Forceworth chuckled in a taunting
laughter. “She doesn’t like you at all.”
“We like her, all right,” Kirkland said, and joined Forceworth’s laughter. “Don’t we,
Elliot?”
“You bet her tight ass we do. Such a delicious morsel.”  Elliot said and licked his lips.
“Move,” he ordered. “The bed is ready for you to stretch that lovely young body of yours on it.”
A staircase lead upstairs into the darkness and three steps went down. She stepped down
on them proudly. The whole ground floor seemed to be a single room with an open kitchen at the
far right corner and six chairs around an oak dinning table next to it. The blinds on the windows
were drawn in the living room, leaving a dim light from the dancing flames of the roaring fire in the
fireplace. A heavy rope wrapped around a large stone had been placed at the right side of the
hearth, and a king-size bed with carved posts stood in the center of the room. The heavy, see-
through plastic sheathing on it touched the ceramic tiled floor.
Felicia felt a violent push on her back. She plunged forward, lost control of her steps, and
fell on the plastic sheet. She felt hands on her legs and on her arms. Holding her tight, they turned
her body on her back. She stared at the varnished redwood planks of the ceiling, the turning blades
of the ceiling fans, and the huge skylight right above her. She tried to pull down her skirt.
“Stay the fuck still!” Forceworth yelled at her. “Don’t make a move. Not an inch. Did you
hear what I said?”
The other two men grabbed her hands and tied them to the tow posts, and did the same
with her feet. She stared at the empty uncaring space.
“Don’t put anything over her mouth. No gag,” Forceworth ordered hoarsely looking at the
other two. “I love a good scream. Let her scream. It makes me hornier than a rooster in a chicken
coop full of hens.”
“Yeah, let her scream,” Bellows took over. “Who cares, anyhow? Don’t you just love my
secluded Mountain Retreat?”
Felicia knew what was coming next. Felicia, collect yourself. Soon it will be over. Hang in
there girl. Don’t scream. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t you dare to cry. Don’t give them the
satisfaction.
They were going to rape her, and then kill her. She had to take it courageously. This was
the last act of her life. It should be her way and not the way they wanted it to be. Her eyes stared
at them apathetically, fearless, unemotional. They seemed to be creatures beyond heaven and hell.
They couldn’t be humans. Not from this earth. Her poor Mom, Helena. What would she do now
without her? What would happen to her?
She wished her dad was alive for Helena. I’m sorry, Mom. Your little girl has reached the
end of her road. Such an awful way to go. I have to go now. Goodbye, Mom. She heard the heavy
falling rain outside. With her eyes open she concentrated her thoughts, her whole being, on its
rhythmic sounds.
Her thoughts took her back to an “Once upon a time story” her dad used to tell her when
she was a little girl. At first, Felicia’s mind could not absorb the true colors of past times. Washed
and faded away from her memory pictures and words appeared shy and frightful in front of a small
dust-filled window of her conscious mind unwilling to confront the opposite truth and the realities
of the present. Three ghost-like figures resembling a man, a woman, and a little girl stood still
beyond the glass window, gazing at Felicia, as if they were frozen in time. Felicia saw the little girl
climb on top of a chair, and, with a great effort, as if her life depended on it, she opened the
window. Felicia recognized her mom, her dad, and herself when she was a seven-year-old girl.

    The six-foot-two-inch tall man took the little girl in his arms, brushed her waist-
    long, blonde hair with his hand, and then said, “You are the most beautiful girl I have.”
    “Daddy, I’m the only girl you have,” the little girl said.
    “Daniel McDermond, don’t you start that again,” the little girl’s mother said. “You
    are spoiling her. Time for her to go to sleep.”
    “The big Godzilla spoke,” he whispered in his daughter’s ear. “We better do as she
    says. We can be in big trouble. She looks scary when she is like that.”
    “I heard you,” the girl’s mother said. “That was not nice. Calling me Godzilla.
    Shame on you. Now, the both of you, get going.”
    “I better put you in bed before Godzilla eats the both of us,” the girl’s father said,
    and at the same time he made a scary face. “My little princess, say goodnight to your
    mommy.”
    “Goodnight Mommy,” the little girl said, and open her arms as wide as she could.
    “I love you this much,” she said.
    Her mother kissed her on both cheeks and said, “I love you too, my baby.”
    Her dad carried her into her small bedroom wallpapered in green and blue with
    saturated configurations of wild flowers. He opened the bedspread and white sheet, gently
    laid her down, and tucked her in.
    “Daddy,” the little girl said, “can I have my teddy bear?”
    “You are too old for a teddy bear.”
    “Please, Daddy, please,” the little girl begged and opened her arms to embrace it.
    “Puff helps me sleep and keeps ghosts and monsters away.”

With scissors and knives in their hands, the three men moved around the bed. They cut her
clothes to shreds, and howled and danced by the fireplace, as they threw her shredded clothes into
the flames. Naked, she lay there. Suddenly they stopped. The three men stood motionless and
soundless for some time. Nodding, they looked at her naked body from head to toe. Then, with
ritualistic movements, they danced around her as if they were demons from hell, jumping up and
down, howling and moaning rhythmically, “Felicia, Felicia, Felicia.” Then they started to take  their
clothes off, piece by piece, and  threw them in all directions. She could hear them singing words of
some unknown language. Felicia looked into the open window of her mind and listened to the
Once upon a time story.

     “There, you can have him,” the little girl’s father said to his little princess and
     placed the teddy bear in her arms. She hugged it tightly, kissed it gently, and set it next to
     her head on the pillow. “I love you, Puff,” she said.
     “I am sure he loves you too,” the little girl’s father said. “I am so jealous of him.”
     “You are so silly, Daddy.” The little girl smiled. “Puff is just a teddy bear.”
     “That makes things even worse,” was his answer. “I cannot compete with him, can
     I? Now, close your eyes and go to sleep.”  He leaned down and kissed her shining blonde
     hair.
     “Daddy, I want a story,” she said, pouting. “Tell me a story, Daddy.”
     “Oh, all right. After that you go to sleep like a good little girl. Right?”
     “Yes, Daddy, I promise.”
     “Once upon a time a tall, dark, strong, handsome, young prince–”
     “Oh, Daddy,” she complained. “Not that one again.”
     “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
     The little girl nodded her head agreeably. “Okay.”

The dancing and singing stopped. Six sweaty, slimy hands touched her and moved
frantically up and down her naked body. She could feel their hot breaths, their lips, their saliva on
her breasts, on her belly, on her legs, in her mouth, and in her vagina. With a long ear-piercing
wolf’s howl, Bellows jumped on top of the bed, took a few dancing steps on it, lowered his body,
and knelt between her opened legs. His tongue licked his lips. He held her legs firmly with both
hands and thrust himself into her.
“Damn,” he moaned, looking between her legs. “My fucking lucky day. The bitch is a
virgin.”
“Not anymore,” Forceworth grinned, and looked at Bellows. Then he watched the red
blood coming from her wound as Bellows moved in and out of her. “She isn’t virgin any more,”
Forceworth moaned with excitement. “Give it to her, Elliot. Make her scream. Make her
whimper, make her beg for mercy. Do it, do it. Do it to her.”
Bellows moaned and howled like an animal, pushing his body violently against her open
legs, and then full of sweat and breathless, he collapsed on top of her. Felicia listened to the
sounds of the rain, the loud thunder, and the Once upon a time story.

     “This tall, handsome prince,” the little girl’s father said, “decided one day to search
     his vast kingdom to find his soul mate. He was thinking that it did not matter if she was
     poor or rich, because he was very rich already. He wanted to meet a beautiful girl who
     would fall in love with him, and not pretend to love him because he was a prince or
     because he was rich.
     “Dressed in plain clothes, he climbed in his old Dodge truck and left his palace. He
     stopped at every city, every town, and every little village, but he did not find the girl he
     wanted to fall in love with. He felt very disappointed and sad.
     “On the way back to his palace, in the down-pouring rain, he was thinking that the
     girl he was looking for did not exist. The wipers of his truck went back and forth wiping
     off the hard falling rain. The day was turning into the darkest night he had ever seen.
     “He slowed the truck down as he took a sharp left turn onto a narrow road, and
     this was the first time he saw her. He saw a girl standing at the side of the road. Poor girl,
     he thought, she must be waiting for the bus. Slowly, he pressed the brakes and stopped
     next to her. Then, he pushed the passenger door open and said to her, ‘Hey, don’t you
     stand there. Come on in. Let me drive you home.’
     “She climbed on the passenger’s seat. ‘It's raining so bad,’ she said and looked at
     him with her green eyes. ‘I’m soaking wet. I sure hope that I don’t catch pneumonia.’ She
     smiled. Her teeth shone like pearls. ‘I don’t live too far,’ she said in a melodic voice as she
     squeezed the rain from her wet, blonde hair. ‘About ten miles at the most. Thank you for
     stopping. Very kind of you.’
     “I don’t care how far you live, he thought. As long you are sitting next to me, I
     will drive you to the end of the world, and the moon, and the stars. ‘She is the one,’ he
     said to himself. After all his searching, he finally found her. He was in love.
     “Oh, yes, my princess,” said the girls father. The prince fell in love with her just
     like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
     
“Bring the knives, Paul,” Forceworth ordered, looking at Kirkland.” Goddamn it, Paul.
Get the fuck up and bring the fucking knives. Now!”
Felicia watched Kirkland walk to the dining table and pick two sharp-looking knives.
“Here,” he said, handing one of them to Bellows. “Come off her,” he yelled at him. “Get
the fuck down. Time for different fun.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Forceworth said, brushing his bottom lip with his teeth. “Scream time. Cut
the bitch. I want to hear her scream from pain and look at her red blood running down on her
body.”
Bellows stood on his knees between her legs holding his knife high. He lowered it
between her trembling breasts and slowly moved it down her body, cutting skin and flesh. Red
blood dripped from her wounds.
“Scream,” Forceworth yelled, slapping her face with his hand. “Damn you, you little
whore, scream for me. Kirkland,” he yelled, “cross the bitch. Cut her. Make her scream for
mercy.” A bloody cross appeared on her body. All the while, Forceworth was yelling “Make her
scream, make her scream . . .”
“She’s not screaming,” Bellows mocked Forceworth and started laughing.
Felicia looked at her bleeding body. Her blood was running down on her sides and onto
the plastic sheet; thick sweat, red blood, and semen, all mixed to a liquid mass.
Listen to the Once upon a time story. Nothing else matters. She listened to the sounds of
the heavy rain, the distant thunder, and the Once upon a time story.

     “Well, let me tell you, my little girl,” the little girl’s father said as he played  with
     her hair. The more the prince got to know the beautiful girl, the more he adored her. On a
     spring day when the flowers bloomed bright and the sun kissed her hair, the prince looked
     in her green eyes and confessed the whole truth to her.
    “Everyone in his kingdom was invited to join their happiness, to celebrate their
    union. They were the happiest people on earth. When she told him she was going to have a
    baby, they hugged and kissed for a long time. Nine months later, Helena, the prince’s wife,
    had a beautiful little baby girl. Can you guess their little daughter’s name?”
     “Felicia,” the little girl whispered, with her eyes ready to close.
     “Yes,” he murmured to her. “They named her Felicia.” He kissed her hair and her
     cheeks. “Goodnight, my sweet princess,” he said, and he walked to the open door.

“She’s not going to scream, old pal,” Bellows said, mockingly. “Not this one. I guess
you’re not her type.”
“I’ll make you moan and whimper, Felicia,” Forceworth growled angrily. “I’ll make you
scream like an angel in the fires of hell. I promise you.”
In raging anger, he squeezed her left breast with both hands. He opened his mouth like a
hungry beast. Violently, his teeth entered into her breast and tore her nipple from her breast.
Blood ran out his mouth and down his chin. He licked his lips from side to side.
“She tastes good,” Forceworth said. He closed his eyes, raised his head, and slowly
chewed her nipple. Raw, animal sounds came from his mouth. “Damn, she tastes good,” he said
again and swallowed her nipple.
“The bitch’s not screaming.” Bellows said, matching Forceworth’s raw tone of voice.
Forceworth moved his hands to her right breast, opened his mouth, wrapped his teeth
around her right nipple, moved his head frantically and tore it apart.
“Oh, oh, oh, God, God,” Forceworth went on and on with ecstasy painted on his bloody
face. Sperm rushed out of his erect penis landing on Felicia’s nippleless breasts, mixing themselves
with her red blood. Felicia listened the sounds of the heavy rain, the distant thunder, and the Once
upon a time story.

   The little girl looked through her half-closed eyelids and saw her mom standing
   below the frame of the opened door of her bedroom.
     “Prince,” she said to her husband, “you are a hopeless romantic.”
     Holding hands, they looked at the little girl once more with love and adoration in
     their eyes.
     “Go to sleep,” the little girl’s mother said as they walked out of the room.
     The little girl’s eyelids closed tight, she turned on her right side, her head fell
     deeper on the pillow, and, hugging her teddy bear tightly in her arms, she fell asleep.
     
Instantly, as though she were connected spiritually with her young self, as if her mind and
body were dominated by the sleeping little girl, Felicia felt a numbing sensation getting hold of her
body. Her muscles relaxed and her head fell to her right side. Her wide-open eyes had become a
lifeless camera, recording both sound and sight. This is a very strange sensation, she thought. I
feel nothing, but yet I can hear them, I can see them. Is this what death is like? Am I dead?
“She is fucking dead,” she heard Bellows say as if reading an unimportant headline on the
third page of a cheap newspaper. “She’s a goner. Bye, bye.”
“Tough luck my friend,” Forceworth said looking at Kirkland.
“Oh, well,” Kirkland said. “There is always next time.”
They chuckled.

Standing by the sides of the bed, naked, bloody, and sweating, they looked at her body for
a while. Forceworth and Bellows untied her hands and feet, and threw the ropes on her body.
“She still looks good,” Bellows said, licking his lips.
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she? A beautiful corpse soon to be food for fish,” was
Forceworth’s reaction. “I wish we had those bird claws handy. What the hell happened to those
things anyhow?” He looked at them. They stared at him in silence. “Oh, well,” he said, cheerfully,
“maybe next time. Now, let’s finish it.”
“You’re an animal,” Bellows said.
“Aren’t we all?” Forceworth answered happily. “Each time gets better and better. I feel
renewed, rejuvenated. I’m young again. It’s an amazing feeling, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” they said.
They folded the plastic sheet over Felicia’s body. She could only guess how her body
looked wrapped inside the see-through plastic sheet.
“I need a shower,” Bellows said, looking at his hands and his body, and with that, he
walked away.
“I think I’ll join him,” Kirkland said looking at Forceworth. “Why don’t you take her bag
from your car and throw it in the fireplace?” With that, he left the room also.
Forceworth looked at Felicia’s blood on his hands and his naked body, shook his head,
and walked outside. When he came back, he was holding Felicia’s bag. He threw the bag into the
burning fire. “Burn. Burn. Warm me up,” he murmured as he watched the melting shoulder bag.
Black smoke went up the chimney.
By the time the other two came back in the living room from their shower, dressed up and
clean, nothing was left of Felicia but her body wrapped in layers of plastic.
“My turn to clean up,” Forceworth said calmly. He looked at the burning flames for some
time and then left the room. Twenty minutes later, he came back dressed just like the others –
blue suits, white shirts, red silk ties, and black shoes. They had shining eyes, smiling lips, and
happy faces.
“Elliot, take the stone and go open the door,” Forceworth ordered. “Then go outside,
open the trunk of my car, and put the stone in it. We’ll be right behind you. Paul, hold her below
her shoulders.”
Forceworth and Kirkland lifted her body and carried it to the car. They threw Felicia’s
body in the trunk, tied the rope around her waist and closed the lid. With the engine on, the
Mercedes rolled down on the dirt road.
Try to breathe, try to breathe, Felicia forced her senses, her conscious mind to come alive.
Don’t move a muscle. It’s nothing, Felicia. Nothing but pain. Just breathe. For them, you are
dead. So, play dead. Live, Felicia. Stay alive. Alive, alive, alive . . .








                             EIGHT

Black Moon talked to the river. “I am having a lousy night,” For three hours he had been
standing under the bridge trying to catch something. Not a bite. He thought that the only thing he
would catch tonight was a nice cold and fever.
At least he was not wet. When the clouds emptied their waters, they would be gone and the
river would become fat like a well fed pig. Black Moon touched the water with the tip of his
fingers. He said graciously, “Millions of lives, not only within your liquid self, but also land spawn
creatures sustain themselves through your life giving nourishment, and your undying spirit.”
He hushed his voice as if what he was about to say next should remain a secret between the
two of them.
“If you grant me the Big One, I’ll be grateful to you eternally, and if you don’t, I’ll still
remain grateful.” Now, in his normal voice, he continued to praise the river. “So, be kind to an old
man. I am asking you humbly and with the greatest respect for you. You’ve been generous to me
all these years. Make the Big One open his mouth and gulp  the worm at the end of my line.
Indulge my simple wish just this once. Would you do that for me?”
Black Moon closed his eyes and remembered scenes from his childhood. The older men,
among them his grandfather, had sat around the campfire, smoked the pipe and told the legends
they had been taught by their grandfathers. The children sat cross-legged among them and heard
tales about their ancestors. Sitting around the campfire, the younger generation was taught the
stories and ways of the Creek tribe, the rules of life, and life itself.
Sitting in courteous silence beside his grandfather, Black Moon watched the solemn faces
of the older men as they prepared their spirits for storytelling or listening. The brown eyes of his
grandfather seemed to be on fire, as though the spirits of his ancestors were dancing in them. Black
Moon stared in shock and amazement. Could his grandfather summon the spirits, talk to them, and
listen to their advice? As he watched those sparkling eyes, however, he realized with extreme
disappointment that the fire in his grandfather’s eyes were merely reflections from the campfire.
He saw his mother coming in and out of the house, carrying plates of food for their guests.
‘Politeness and respect,’ his mother had told him emphatically, ‘it’s a two way street.’ He had
never forgotten her words. He had lived his life by what his mother had told him.
The minutes seemed to pass in a dull, monotonous silence. Now and then he could hear the
hooting of an owl nearby in the woods and the rustling of leaves in the thickets. The night
creatures were looking around, scavenging, hunting, surviving. From time to time he could see
pairs of glowing red eyes gazing at him, but seconds later they would be gone. The bolder animals,
like racoons and armadillos would approach the campfire begging for scraps of food, or they
would go through the garbage with noisy greed.
One of the older men took the stem of the pipe, passed it to his right, and started to tell the
story of when the first white men landed on the shores of the Native Americans’ lands. His posture
was stooped, his hands on his knees, his eyes were vacant and distant, and his voice was charged
with a dignified sadness.
“When Hernando de Sotto marched with his army against the Indians, Spaniards killed
thousands of our people and spread new epidemics to others. The European explorers seized the
Indians’ land, stole their food, killed the warriors, enslaved villagers, and burned their villages to
the ground. Free-spirited Indians were no longer free to roam in the woods. The civilized white
men had arrived to teach us, the savages, their uncivilized civilization.
“They killed in the name of their God, for their king, their queen, their country, and for land
and riches. The Native American tribes were devastated by the white man’s diseases. Eleven
thousand Creeks died from smallpox alone. Ninety out of every one hundred Native Americans
died and  Indian culture declined.
“The Southeastern region was the homeland of five distinct tribes, the Creek, the
Chickasaw, the Cherokee, the Choctaw, and the Natchez, whose elaborate mound-building culture
was destroyed by the white man. The Natchez tribe no longer exists. The Seminoles, sons and
daughters of the Creeks, brought the number of the tribes to five again.
“After Andrew Jackson’s victory and the killing of the Creek warriors at Horseshoe Bent,
the Creek tribe lost most of their land in Georgia and Alabama to the white man. When Andrew
Jackson, the nemesis of all Indians, became president of the United States, he signed and
implemented the Indian Removal Act of 1830 – the relocation act of all Southeastern tribes from
their ancestral land by exiling them to Oklahoma.
“In 1832 the Supreme Court ruled that confiscating Indian land was unconstitutional.
Andrew Jackson’s famous words echoed throughout the land. ‘Justice Marshal ruled it, let him
enforce it.’ For Native Americans the relocation was no less than the complete uprooting of entire
tribes from their forefathers’ land.
Osceola opposed the cession of tribal territory to the United States. He was born near the
Chattahoochee River, in Georgia. His mother, the daughter of a Creek leader, fled to Florida
because she feared for her son’s life. There Osceola became the leader of the Seminoles. After
fighting in three major wars, he was captured while conferring under a peace flag. He was
imprisoned in Saint Augustine, Florida, and then in Fort Mouldrie, South Carolina, where he died.
“After the Seminole wars ended, only scattered groups of Native Americans remained in
hiding in the Southeastern region.”
The storyteller looked at Black Moon. “Your grandfather’s family was one of those in
hiding,” he said and resumed his storytelling.
“The rest, Creek, Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, and Seminoles, were rounded up like
animals, some in chains, and forcibly marched the eight hundred miles martyrdom to Oklahoma. So
the five remaining tribes lost their ancestral land to white men, and many lost their lives, too.
During their forced march to Oklahoma, more than four thousand Indians died from hunger, the
element, bandits, and diseases. Two out of every five who began the dreadful journey died. The
removal of the Creek tribe caused the death of both the very young, the next generation, and the
very old, the tradition keepers, and seers. The most tragic and cruel act on our peoples. This
relocation was justly named, “The Trail of Tears.” He sighed deeply and continued again
“After the relocation, the Indians learned the harsh truth of their removal. White
settlements meant confinement, starvation, diseases, and death. Native Americans had no immunity
to the smallpox and cholera that the white men brought with them. More death. Worse yet, they
were forced to learn the white man ways, their religious beliefs, their customs, laws and rules of
the white man. These five tribes came to be known as the Five Civilized Tribes, not because the
savage Indians were now more civilized, but because they had been forced to adopt the uncivilized
beliefs, rules, and customs of the white man.
“In March of 1900, tribal leaders finally accepted an allocation agreement by which every
child, man, and woman received title to a piece of land. At about the same time the Oklahoma
Enabling Act prohibited alcohol in the Indian Territory. The white man believed that sooner or
later the Indians would give the land back to the white man for a bottle of whisky. The land
speculators rushed in like vultures and purchased all but a tiny fraction of their allotment.”
A terrible silence fell as they stared at the unpredictable formations of the flames, the
crackling of the burning campfire. Their faces wore the gloom of sorrow, grief, and pain for the
multitudes who had suffered, the thousands of deaths, the epidemics, and the confinement of the
free spirited peoples in reservations.
“The savages were no more,” the old man resumed in a sad, soft voice. “Such a hollow and
sorrowful contradiction. We were forced to become civilized by the very killers of the Native
Americans, the destroyers of our culture, our beliefs, and our tribal ways.”

Black Moon opened his eyes, sighed, and smiled bitterly. Remembering the suffering of his
people carved deep wounds in his spirit. Two silent tears rolled down on his leathery face.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a car engine above. With its engine running, the car stopped on
the bridge. Two doors opened, and a second later they were slammed shut.
“Help me here,” a man’s voice ordered.
Heavy footsteps approached the edge of the bridge.
“On three,” the same voice said. “One, two, three!”
The old man saw a shadow falling from above. The big shadow flew downwards from the
top of the bridge, soared through rain and moist air, and landed in the water. Then he heard the big
splash. The water opened a hole and jumped upwards as if a river dragon was hiding in the belly of
the river with its giant, circular mouth wide open. Two doors of the car opened and shut again.
The car drove away. The dragon closed its circular jaws around the fallen shadow.
Without a second thought, Black Moon jumped headlong into the river. He grabbed the
fallen shadow, not letting the dragon pull it into the deep river. Something heavy was pulling it
down, helping the powerful dragon.  His hand touched a rope. He wrapped his fingers around it,
and pulled it up close to his body. With his left hand he grasped the handle of his knife and with a
swift precise move, he cut the rope in two. Freed from the dragon’s jaws, he dragged his burden to
the surface of the water.
“Help me, please help me,” the faint voice of a woman reached his ears.
Frantically he swam against the current of his friend, the river. “Help me, River,” he cried.
“Help me! Be merciful. Help us to reach my canoe. Is that too much to ask from you? The Big
One you keep. This one I want.”
His fingers grasped the canoe like jaws into tender meat. He climbed in it, managed to pull
the plastic roll in its dry shelter, and carefully removed the plastic sheet from her face.
“Thank you, whoever you are,” she murmured.
“You’re safe,” Black Moon said. “Safe. Harm will came to you no more.” Her eyes closed,
her head leaned against the canoe, and she lost her senses.
“Oh, River! Dancing like the rain she fell on top of you.” Black Moon talked thankfully to
the river.  “Like a dancing rain. Rain Dance,” he said more loudly. “Rain Dance,” he repeated
while freeing the rope of his canoe from the hook. “How did you know, Raven? Is this what you
were trying to tell me?”
At that very instant, the fishing pole took a deep dive. The front of the canoe turned
upriver. Something was pulling the secured pole against the downstream flow of the current. The
nylon-thread, the bamboo-pole, and the canoe were lined up on a straight upstream lineup.
He spoke, “Big fish. Big One, you are a very lucky fish. Maybe some other time. I’m too
busy tonight, but, hey! Listen. Are you listening?”
He stared at the river. Soon enough the big air-bubbles he expected to surface on the top of
the river emerged abundantly. Now he could talk to this fish. He thought he’d better speak more
loudly so it could hear him through the water.
“Hey, you Big One down there. Listen! I’ll make a deal with you. Pull my canoe upriver to
my house and I promise you I’ll cut you loose.” The canoe moved swiftly against the current of the
river and he spoke encouraging words. “Good, strong fish . . . Very smart fish . . . Nice, beautiful
fish you are . . .” The rain came down on him like sharp knife blades. “Now turn . . . no. Not
straight. Turn to your left, you stupid fish. Turn, I say, or our bargain is off. Fine then. It’s off. I’ll
deal with you some other time. You dumb fish. I’ll catch you yet. But, like I said, not today. I’m
too busy tonight.” He cut the nylon thread with his knife and steered the canoe downstream to the
shore near his house.







                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                              NINE

Helena McDermond looked at the sun in the middle of Saturday’s sky. Clear, blue skies
and not a cloud anywhere. A crisp, beautiful day. Not a single dust on the trees, nor on the green
upright blades of grass. Birds flew from tree to tree, singing happily, chasing another bird or being
chased. The warm sun shone brightly on her face. A slight easterly breeze made her hair move
around her face playfully. It seemed, to Helena, that everything in nature’s bosom was dancing
happily, singing joyfully, celebrating something she couldn’t quite understand. Everything looked
bright, alive. Everything seemed so pleasant, clean, enjoyable, and satisfying. Everything except
her heart. Her heart was hard and heavy like a stone, and with every dreadful passing moment she
felt it breaking into hundreds of tiny pieces. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Come on, Felicia, be a good girl. Call me,” she spoke to the sky. “Don’t you see that I’m
worried sick about you? Give me a call, sweetheart. You said first thing. It’s noon, baby. Have a
heart. Call your mom. Don’t make me cry. Please, call me!”
She darted into the house, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. She gaped at the
muddy footprints on the floor, wondering how they had ended up there. She remembered last
night’s hard, furious rain, the immense thunderstorm. She looked at her muddy shoes. They must
be mine. I forgot, she mused as if lost. After three rings, someone picked the phone from the other
end.
“Hello,” a girl’s voice answered the phone.
“Hi, Gina. It’s Helena. Felicia’s mother.”
“Hello, Mrs. McDermond. How are you? How is Felicia?”
“I was hoping you would tell me, Gina. Felicia said to me yesterday that you, Betty, and
she were going to the beach for the weekend. Is Felicia there?”
“No, she’s not. Betty is with me here, but not Felicia. We made no plans for this weekend.”
Helena’s heart stopped momentarily.
“You did not?
“No, Mrs. McDermond. We never did.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?” Helena asked, trying very hard to not to wail.
“No, sorry. Just a sec. Let me ask Betty if she knows anything.” A long agonizing moment
over the phone line, and, “No, she doesn’t know either. We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Gina
said and the phone went dead.
“I can’t even go to the police department to report it,” she said hopelessly looking at the
receiver. “I have to wait at least forty-eight hours to report a missing person. A Missing Person?
She’s my baby, my little girl, my heart and soul, and not just a missing person. Something bad
happened to my baby. I know it. Mothers know these things.”
She paced up and down on the small porch. Her throat clogged up, tears rushed down her
face, and Helena started muttering and crying. She collapsed onto her knees. With her palms
touching, fingers stretched, arms straight, she looked into the immensity of the deep-blue sky.
“Please, God,” she prayed, “don’t take her from me.”
Her behind touched the wooden deck, her head dropped between her knees, her arms
hugged her listless body, and she rocked herself in heedless desperation.

First thing Monday morning, Helena McDermond pushed the glass door and entered the
police department building. She walked to the enclosed front desk.
“I’d like to report a missing person,” she said to the officer. “And, yes,” she informed him
speedily, “she’s been missing more that forty-eight hours.” She couldn’t hold her cool posture any
longer. She broke down. “My girl,” she murmured. “My daughter. She’s missing since Friday
afternoon.”
“You have to go to the second floor, ma’am,” he said. “I’d recommend that you talk to
officer Billy Underwood. He’s the best. We call him Hound Dog Billy. Take the elevator.” She
looked around. “Right behind you, ma’am.” His hand pointed to the opposite wall. “Go to the
second floor, turn left. The room number is two-o-six. If someone can help you, that’ll be him.
Good luck to you ma’am, and don’t forget, ask for Hound Dog Billy Underwood.”
“Thank you,” Helena mumbled hurriedly, and with her head down walked toward the
elevator door. “Damn,” she heard the police officer say.

“I am looking for officer Hound Dog Billy Underwood,” Helena said as soon as she
entered room two-o-six.
“Right there, ma’am,” the young lady at the reception said, pointing toward a desk. “That’s
him.”
“Are you Billy Underwood?” she asked when she reached his desk.
“Yes, I am, ma’am.” He smiled. “How can I– ”
“My daughter is missing,” she interrupted him.
“Ma’am, please, sit in that chair and try to calm down. Okay? You are at the right place.
We’ll take one thing at a time.” He took her by her arm and he said again, “Please, sit down,
ma’am. It would be better for the both of us if you are seated.”
Helena sat in the black, vinyl armchair holding her purse tightly with both hands. She
looked at the man across from her. He’s so young, she thought. He couldn’t be more than twenty-
six, twenty-seven. Dark complexion, black hair, elliptical face, strong cheek bones, sunken cheeks.
American-Indian, she guessed. He looked very strong with broad shoulders, and an athletic body
six-feet tall or maybe more. His face was gentle, sensitive, and compassionate, bursting with an
exquisite sad kindliness. Very unusual for a policeman, she thought, and suddenly she felt an
unexplainable relief.
“Let’s start with your name,” he said.
“My name?”
“Yes, your name,” he said again.
“Helena McDermond,” she said and he wrote it down on a legal-size, yellow notepad.
“Your daughter’s name is . . .?”
“Felicia Danielle McDermond. She’s twenty years old,” she added.
“Can I please have your address,” he continued.
“837 Whitecrest Pines, Tallahassee, FL.”
“What is her father’s name. I mean, your husband’s name?”
“Daniel. He died five years ago,” she said softly. “Cancer.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to ask these questions,” he said apologetically.
“It’s okay,” she said nodding. “I understand.”
“Do you have any of her photos with you?” She nodded again, opening her purse. “I’d like
to see them. May I?” he said, and took the two pictures.
He looked at them. “She’s very beautiful,” he said  as if talking to himself.  “You two look
so much alike. How tall is she?”
“She’s five-ten. She’s blonde,” Helena added.
“Thank you,” Billy smiled still looking at the pictures. “Same green eyes?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to keep these photos. Will that be all right with you?” Billy asked looking at her.
She nodded. “Tell me,” he continued, “where does she work?”
“She’s an intern at Forceworth’s office. She’s also studying Political Science at the
university,” Helena answered.
“Robert T. Forceworth? The senator?”
“Yes. That’s right. That’s where she has been working for the past three months.”
“Ma’am, have you called the senator’s office about the disappearance of Felicia? Did you
call them? Did you tell them anything?”
“No! No, I didn’t,” she said wondering why he asked her such a question. “I thought of
calling them after reporting it here. I don’t believe anyone is there at this early time. I think the
senator’s office opens at nine o’clock.”
“I’ll take care of that, Mrs. McDermond,” he said with a calming tone in his voice. “Let me
handle it. I like to observe the reaction of people when I ask them questions. Will that be all right
with you?” She nodded. “Now, tell me about Felicia. Does she have a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “No! I’m sure she doesn’t.”
He looked at her very carefully before he asked, “Ma’am, how could you be that sure?
Maybe she was trying to hide it from you. We don’t know that, do we?”
“I’m sure of it,” she affirmed stubbornly. “I asked her two girlfriends two days ago, and
they assured me  that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Girlfriends do know these things about their
friends' love lives.”
“Can I have the names of her two girlfriends?”
“Yes. I have them with me,” she said, and opened her purse.
She took out a brown notebook. After some searching through its torn pages, she read
their names and phone numbers aloud, and Billy wrote them down on his notepad.
“Now,” he said and looked into her eyes, “let’s go back to Friday, the day she disappeared,
and you tell me everything, no matter how unimportant you may think it is. Go ahead. I’m
listening.”
Go ahead. I’m listening, Helena thought, and hesitated not knowing where to start. She
felt as if her mind’s fibers were an overgrown jungle with a thousand overgrown paths to follow,
but as soon as she stepped onto a path it would become impenetrable and hostile. She felt isolated,
lonely, frightened, and suffocating. “Where to start? Where to start? I don’t know where to start,”
she muttered uncomfortably, hands clinching and twisting the strap of her purse.
“Mrs. McDermond. Please, listen to me carefully. Before she disappeared did she tell you
anything? Say, she was going to visit someone or to study with her two girlfriends over the
weekend? Anything out of the ordinary that may lead us to the starting point.”
“Yes. That was on Tuesday while we were having dinner.”
“Why don’t we start with Tuesday, then?”
Helena heaved a big sigh. Her confused mind could now see a clear path to follow. She
began with Tuesday night when Felicia told her for the first time about the trip to the beach over
the weekend with her two girlfriends. “I waved at her as she climbed the steps of the bus. That was
the last time I saw her,” she finished telling him. “No phone calls, nothing. She never acted
irresponsibly in her life. Never. And now, a missing person. I hate those words. She’s my daughter,
my blood, my flesh. I’m sure something bad happened to her. Something in here,” she touched her
heart, “is telling me that something bad happened to my baby. Please–”
“Mrs. McDermond,” he stopped her. “I want you to go home, relax, and do not, I stress
this again, do not go to the senator’s office, do not call them. I’ll do it myself. Okay?”
She nodded. Tears were ready to roll down her face.
“Have some water,” he said and handed her a glass. “It will help you.” He stood up and
walked to her chair. “Come on,” he said helping her stand up. Both of them walked out of the
room.
“Don’t worry,” Billy said looking at her as they’d reached to the elevator door. “I know
it’s not easy for you not to worry. I do know how you feel. Believe me, I do. You have to trust me
when I say to you that I’ll take care of everything. Here’s my card.” She held it tightly in her fist.
“Both my home and office numbers are there. If you hear anything, you call me. And if I do, I’ll
call you. Now listen,” he said holding her by her arms. “Don’t do anything. Just go home. Don’t
call the senator’s office, don’t call Felicia’s friends anymore, don’t put missing person ads in any
newspaper, and don’t say to anyone that your daughter is missing. I’m working till six o’clock
today. I’ll be at your home at seven to talk to you. Till then sit tight and wait for me. Are we set?”
“Yes, Billy. Can I call you Billy?” she asked looking at him with her watered eyes.
“Yes, of course you can,” he said and nodded at the same time.
The elevator stopped at the second floor, its door opened, and she walked in.
“I’ll see you at seven,” Billy said.
The door closed and the elevator moved down.

Back in his office, Billy couldn’t take Helena out of his mind. She had hurriedly applied her
makeup to hide her sleepless nights, her wrinkled dress, the dry mud on her shoes. “I hate this
fucking job,” Billy voiced, and kicked his desk. People came to him looking for their missing
daughters and sons. Pale, pain-filled faces, tears in their eyes, and anguish in their hearts. Hopeless
faces and empty eyes staring at him to give them a shred of hope, a promising word. Damn it.
What was his chances finding Felicia? One in a hundred? Why did he lie to Helena? Why did he not
have the guts to tell her the truth? Poor girl. Poor woman. He had more chances finding a black
crow among hundreds of other crows than finding her daughter, Felicia. She was most likely lying
in some ditch or in the bottom of a river by now. And, what did he say to her? ‘Don’t you worry,
ma’am; I’ll take care of it, ma’am.’
Billy looked at his notes. Everything seemed to be following a logical order. Felicia wanted
to hide her weekend trip from her mother by using as an insurance her two girlfriends, Gina and
Betty. Reasons: One, for her mother to say, “Yes, you can go,” and two, her mother wouldn’t
have to worry about her absence over the weekend. He took a red pen and underlined the word,
Tuesday. Unconsciously he tapped his finger on the top of his notes. Tuesday. He made a circle
around the word, Tuesday. With his eyes focused somewhere between the door and his office,
“Tuesday,” he repeated.
He looked at Felicia’s pictures for a while. “What did you do that day, Felicia?” he asked
her looking into her eyes. “With whom did you talk? Who or what made you lie to your mother?
Tuesday is the day I should be looking into, isn’t it? Talk to me, Felicia. Tell me what happened
that day?”
Felicia’s pictures were smiling at him.

At eleven thirty a.m., the loud ringing of the phone made Helena’s heart seem to leap out
of her chest. Panting, she picked up the hand set.
“Felicia?” she uttered urgently, and held her breath.
“Mrs. McDermond?” a woman’s voice in an extreme professional tone asked.
“Yes, this is she,” Helena said and breathed out.
“We are calling you from Senator Forceworth’s office. Felicia has not shown up yet and we
were wondering if she is coming in or not?”
“No. I don’t believe so. Felicia –” Helena didn’t finish her sentence. She remembered Billy
telling her, ‘Don’t tell anyone that Felicia is missing.’ She end up saying in a colorless tone, “I am
sorry. I don’t know where she might be.”
“Oh! The senator thought . . . never mind. Ask her to give us a call as soon as you see her.
Okay, Mrs. McDermond? I hope she shows up soon. Bye for now.” Click.

The 1983, sky-blue Chevy Camaro Z-28, made a right turn and the driver stopped its loud
engine in front of Helena McDermond’s home. Helena walked out the door and saw Billy coming
out from the car with a folder in his right hand. He pushed the car door shut. Helena was standing
on the porch with her hands by her sides, with a bleak, troubled face.
“Nothing?” she murmured knowing his answer in advance by the look on his face.
“No. I’m sorry, Mrs. McDermond. Nothing so far.”
“If I am to call you by your first name, Billy, you’d better learn to do the same for me.”
“All right, Mrs. McDermond . . . Helena.”
“Would you like to have some coffee?” she asked. “I can use some myself. I feel so  worn
out.”
“If that’s the case, then I would love to have a cup of fresh brewed coffee. Thank you.”
She pointed to the cast iron table with four chairs around it on the top of the small,
pressure treated porch. “Why don’t you sit there, Billy? I’ll be right out.”
She cracked a forced smile and walked in the house.
When the coffee was ready and in the cups, “Anything new from your side?” Billy asked
her. “Any phone calls?”
“No news at all. Just one phone call from the senator’s office. Some woman asking why
Felicia hasn’t shown up yet at the senator’s office. She didn’t bother to tell me her name and I
didn’t think to ask her. I remembered your warning, so, I just told her that I didn’t know where
Felicia might be.”
“What time was that? Do you know what time she called you?” he said pressingly. His
hand holding the coffee cup froze up in the air, his face sharp, his eyes sparkling.
“Yes. It was exactly eleven-thirty a.m. when the phone started ringing.”
“That’s the second interesting thing today,” Billy thought aloud, looking at her skeptically.
“Are you sure about the time, Helena?” he asked.
“Positive,” Helena responded. “Why?”
“They didn’t call you earlier than that?” Billy insisted. “Say . . .  before ten?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No. That was the only phone call I have received all day. I
have an answering machine. Nothing there either. I checked it as soon as I got here from your
office. I’ve stayed on this porch or inside the house since then, waiting for the phone to ring.
Nothing. Just the one from the senator’s office.”
“So, then, they called you right after I left the senator’s office. That’s the second peculiar
thing today,” he said as if talking to himself. “Listen, Helena. Do me a huge favor and don’t you
ever call the senator’s office. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, Billy. I will not call them. But, you said, ‘The second peculiar thing.’ What was the
first?” she asked with an acute interest on her face, and a biting hope in her heart.
“Let me put it to you this way. Senators will not give you a second of their time for a case
like this one. Their staff handles our questioning. Yet, when I told his secretary who I was and
what I was doing there, the senator asked to see me at once. Now, for me at least, that’s very
strange. Very peculiar. Something is out of order here.”
She checked his determined, eager face, his flared up nostrils. Hound Dog, she thought.
“All right, Billy. I think I can trust your judgement. I’ll not call them. What else, Billy?”
“I traced Felicia’s steps,” he said after a good sip of coffee. “I found the bus driver on that
day’s scheduled time. He told me that he saw her get out of the bus at the mall. She had an
espresso at the small café and she left about seven-thirty, or very close to that time. The owner
said, ‘It struck me very odd that a beautiful girl like her didn’t have any makeup on her face.’ After
that I couldn’t trace her steps.”
Billy thought about Monday, when he had been waiting in the reception room of
Forceworth’s office. He remembered the reaction on the face of the senator’s secretary when she
informed the senator over the phone, ‘A detective, sir. Yes, Detective Underwood would like to
know Felicia McDermond’s whereabouts on Tuesday of last week.’ Two seconds later, with the
phone suspended inches away from her ear, her eyes wide open, and a grimace of astonishment on
her shocked face, she looked at Billy and said, ‘Senator Forceworth will see you right away.’
Why had the senator acted nervously, avoided eye contact,  tapped away his fingers on his
desk, smiled enigmatically and talked loud and daring?  What was he hiding? Then, there was
Ben’s cool reaction when Billy asked him if the senator and Felicia were alone at any time on
Tuesday. No! Ben had said coldly, but Billy could see a tiny nervous twitch, and an instinctive
alarming anxiety in his eyes. Ben had lied to him, so had the senator. Why? What were they hiding?
What did they know that he didn’t? Where were Ben and the senator on Friday after seven-forty
p.m.?
Billy thought that he had good leads to start an official investigation, but he also knew
better. He was dealing with a U.S. Senator. He had to be patient and extremely careful – sit on the
eggs, keep them warm, and watch them hatch.
Billy took a few sips of coffee. “Helena, I’ll find your daughter. That’s a promise. If she is
alive, I’ll find her.” He bit his lip, but it was too late to take it back. He saw tears in her eyes as he
said that. “I’m sorry,” he apologized while touching her hands gently. “This is the part of my job
that I hate the most. I’m sorry, Helena.”
She nodded, raised her coffee cup to her pale lips, and took a sip. “I hope you find her,
Billy. I hope you do. I’ll wither and die without her. She’s my breath, my very life. She’s all I’ve
got.”
After two more cups of coffee, they stood next to Billy’s car.
“Helena, just do what we talked about. No more. Today is Monday. I’ll be back on Sunday
afternoon to talk to you again. Till then, sit tight, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Okay, Billy. Would you like me to cook something?” she asked hoping that he’d say, Yes.
“Yes. That’ll be great,” he smiled with a genuine smile. “I haven’t had a home cooked meal
since . . . I don’t remember when.”
He sat in the driver’s seat and drove to his rental apartment  thinking that on Saturday he
had to make a special trip to his father’s old home.








                                
                                
                                
                              TEN

Although Billy lived in a rental apartment two blocks away from the police department, he
stayed some of his Saturday nights at his father’s home. His father, Black  Moon, Billy thought,
was too stubborn of a man. Black  Moon had not left his small house since the death of his wife,
White Dove. Every time Billy went to see him, he had always stopped at the store to buy the
necessary groceries for the survival of his father.
He saw his father sitting at his usual spot under the giant live oak tree. On the top of the
picnic table there were pots and pans of various shapes and sizes, roots and leaves, red and dark
brown mushrooms, peeled barks of trees, and strips of brown-reddish tree mushroom growths. A
small pot on the top of the portable gas burner was half filled with gluey looking liquid. Steam
came out of it from the heat of the hot blue flames.
“What are you cooking, Dad?” Billy asked. “It smells very odd. How can you stand that
awful smell.”
“Medicine for Rain Dance,” he said and then he picked a small stringy root and a few dry,
curly leaves and tossed them into the pot.
“Rain Dance?” Billy asked. “What are you talking about? Who or what is Rain Dance?”
“Rain Dance,” he repeated. The wooden spoon in his hand was pointed to the open door of
the house.
Black Moon looked into the eyes of his son for the first time since he had arrived. His
father’s face looked, to Billy, emotionless, drained, and aged. It reminded him of an aged wrinkled
pelt of a rabbit he had seen once on top of the burning sand.
“I’ll take the bags from the car,” said Billy.
“Leave the bags in the car and go in the house,” Black Moon said gloomily. “Rain Dance is
in there.”
Billy looked at his father’s expressionless face for a second or two, and without saying a
word he walked toward the house. Billy knew Black Moon was not a talker. And yet, he’d never
seen Black Moon having a stone-like face as he did right now. He looked very angry and at the
same time, very sad, lonely, and dismal. Asking him questions will get him nowhere. He wouldn’t
tell him a thing.  “Look, see, and listen,” he would say, “and you’ll know.” He’d rather be talking
to birds and to wild animals, to the river and the trees, and to the clouds in the sky, the rain and the
sun, to swelling and heaving earth, than to humans.
“All right, Dad. I’d better go see who or what is this Rain Dance.”
Billy walked toward the open door of the house feeling a sadness in his heart for his old
man as he entered the room. He could see a someone resting under the covers of the twin-size bed.
His eyes began to adjust to the dim lights of the room. The heat from the wood burning stove
made the room warm and steamy. He could see his father walking in the room and sprinkling water
on the stove now and then. The old Indians knew the curing and cleansing power of the steam
bath, and the purification of their spirit as they dove into the river. A sacred ceremony for the
Creek Indians.
Soundlessly he walked and stood next to the bed. Instantly Billy knew who the person was
sleeping in his father’s bed. The missing girl. Felicia. He recognized her from the pictures Helena
had given him for his investigation.
“Felicia,” he murmured. “Felicia?” he said her name more loudly. Her face looked white, as
if a creature had sucked every drop of the blood out of her body. Her blonde, shoulder length hair
lay like a bright morning sun atop the pillow below her head. Her eyes moved behind her closed
eyelids. She started mumbling incomprehensible words. Her hands and feet jerked and jolted under
the bed covers. Then her legs went down flat and straight.
She is dreaming, Billy thought. A nightmare maybe. I should wake her . . . Before he could
finish his thoughts, she kicked the covers violently with her legs. The covers fell onto the floor.
She lifted her hands straight above her body and her eyes opened wide. Glassy, marble like eyes
stared into nowhere. Her head rose a few inches above the pillow, her hair moved. And then, as if
a monstrous creature landed on her body, her stiffened hands dropped rigidly onto the bed, her
eyelids slammed shut like heavy curtains, and her head landed on the pillow. Unconscious, hands at
her sides, flat on her back, she lay naked.
At first, cold sweat appeared on her forehead, and then her face was drowning in it. He
grabbed a paper towel from the kitchen and sat on the edge of the bed. With a paper towel in his
hand he wiped the icy sweat from her face.
Her dream became an audible whisper with mixed and meaningless words, but soon, she
vocalized them loud, crisp, and painstakingly clear. With each word, she revealed her ordeal in
every detail, her despair, her pain, and the sadistic, inhumane acts inflicted upon her by her
tormentors, Robert T. Forceworth, Elliot C. Bellows, and Paul M. Kirkland.
She talked, and Billy listened, and with dread in his eyes he looked at her. Her body was
covered with white bandages. The once white bandages looked like a giant bloody cross on her
stark white, black and blue bruised body. And she talked, and Billy listened, and he looked below
the bloody bandages. The instincts of his heritage and his police training yelled at him, “They are
deep knife wounds splitting both skin and flesh in two.”
She talked, and Billy listened, and he looked under the round bandages on her breasts.
Deep teeth marks ran into her skin, into her breasts, till the upper and the bottom jaws met
together cutting her flesh, amputating her nipples from her breasts, as if the claws of a monstrous
bulldozer had removed trees and their roots from the softest ground.
 Like vultures circling in a clear blue sky to spot their prey, hungry flies buzzed above and
around her bed, flapped their wings, moved their eyes, and landed with their contaminated, potent
feet on the oozed-out, dry blood above the bandages trying to make a square meal out of her
misfortune. Frantically he moved his hands trying to chase them away. He took the covers from the
floor and covered her body, neck high, preventing the buzzing flies from landing on her wounds,
and on her helpless, injured body.
She talked, and talked,  revealing to him in detail the horror of her nightmare, and the only
thing Billy could say was, “Oh, God!”
The world, he thought in exasperation, is a cruel and mean place that is ruled by the
meanest ruler that nature, evil, or God could create – man! A loud scream sprang within Billy’s gut
and settled in his throat,  not wanting to come out, as if his scream was afraid to see the inflicted
horror of mankind upon mankind. He let her hand go, and stood on his feet. He closed his eyes,
threw his head back, opened his mouth wide and desperately tried to push his scream out of his
throat, but he couldn’t. Although he had struggled to yell it out, he couldn’t yell then either . . .

He had been twelve, Billy remembered, when he stared at his mother’s dead body. Driven
into the reddish-brown ground, the four pinewood stilts supported beds of dry grass, ferns, leaves,
and dry limbs of wood, stacked one on top of the other, and on top of it all, his mother’s dead
body lay motionless. Her long, shining black hair was held by a brown headband on her forehead
which made her round face and her crossed hands on her chest look paler in contrast. Two dozens
of red carnations, her favored flowers, were placed under her hands. Dressed in a bright brown,
knee-high buckskin dress, decorated with white, blue, and green beads, she laid on top of the piled
wood.
For hours on end, Billy and his father sat on the ground exchanging no words. His mother’s
body had been found floating on top of the river four miles downstream from their property.
“Accident,” the authorities said to them after examining her fatal wounds. “Sharp claws and teeth
marks of wild animals, most likely a pack of wolves,” the doctor said. The police stopped the
investigation. “Accident . . . beasts . . .” they said again, and tossed White Dove’s file aside. And
that was that.
A sliced, yellow moon gleamed with its dim light, too scarce to be striking out the
blackness of the night, when his father spoke, “It’s time, son. Time for White Dove’s spirit to fly
way away in her ancestral land, her final resting place.” With that, he stood upright, holding in his
hand two handmade torches. “Light,” he said. Billy reached in his pocket and took out a small box
of matches. He pushed the box open with a finger, took a match, closed the box, and struck its red
end against the brown, grainy side of the box. Bright sparks followed his hand movement as if the
match and the box were kissing one another. Lit bright, the flames of the torches cast vast moving
shadows onto the grounds. Billy and Black  Moon stood on each side of the raised pile.
“Now, Hound Dog,” his father said. The flames from the burning torches lowered and
touched the dried up wood pile, again and again. Red, blue, and yellow flames blazed against the
sky enfolding in their arms the dried up ferns, the grass, the wood, and his mother’s body. As the
pieces of wood burned away, they fell noisily one against the other. Silvery-red, and gold shining
sparks shot themselves sky high, drifted aimlessly above, burned  into ashes, and a grayish snow of
ashes descended on Billy and Black Moon.
“The spirit of White Dove freed from her body to fly where she belongs,” his father said
while his eyes were searching the blackness beyond the fire.
The burning stilts, unable to support themselves, fell onto the ground, and by dawn nothing
was left on the ground but mixed ashes of his mother and nature. The light morning breeze blew
the ashes gently into the air, higher and higher, scattering them into all directions. By the time they
turned their backs to walk home, there was nothing left but a black, round, burned ground with no
signs of life on it. A black hole to remind them the place of her final farewell to a cruel, uncaring,
and indifferent mean world.
From that day on, his father spoke less and less. He no longer desired to have any contact
with the outside world. When Billy told him of his intention to become a policeman, he shook his
head in a gesture of grave disappointment and said, “Your turn to serve and to protect the
unending hunger of white men. My only hope,” he continued with a hopeful sadness attached to his
voice, “is that one day the God of reason will open your eyes wide to see the beast itself. Till then,
my home, my arms, and my heart will leave their doors open for you, my son, to come marching
in.”

Now, in front of him, he was staring at the once nonsensical words of his father taking
shapes and colors and forcefully chasing away the colored web-filled fields in his conscious mind.
Law, order, and justice stood mighty and powerful side by side for a battle of life and death with a
helpless, unconscious, naked young girl.
A loud scream like no other clustered within Billy, scattering into bits and pieces the
accumulated cub-webs of his social being. Desperately he tried to yell, but the silent scream settled
bellow his Adam’s apple. A bitter, foul taste entered the pits of his mind dragging him into the
deepest and darkest abyss hell had to offer. Unable to utter a word and with his brain stirred and
whipped by the winds of a powerful twister reaching the skies and the sun, he rushed outside and
sprinted, running like a chased rabbit by hundreds of trained dogs with their long, sharp teeth
shining and gleaming bright in the pale moonlight. He ran out the open door yelling, and moaning,
and hollering, and screaming. He ran by Black  Moon, under the towering pine trees, under shade
and sun, and ran, and yelled, and when his legs could not support him any longer, he kneeled and
pounded the ground with his fists. Enraged, he looked straight up into the sky and howled like a
wounded wolf, “Why? Why? Oh, God, why?”

Raven and Black Moon looked at him run until he disappeared beyond the dark-brown
trunks of the tall pine trees and the underbrush.
“Reality, colorless, unclothed, barefoot, is chasing him,” Black  Moon said, tenderly. “He’s
in pain. It’s funny, and sad, and strange that pain can cut you to pieces, and can also be the
preserving salt, the cure of despair. Now, his pain is preparing him to come back home.” Gently he
petted Raven’s neck and wings, and two big tear droplets streamed down his face. Raven looked at
him for some time and nodded twice.
Much later, when darkness had reached and swallowed the earth, Billy returned home.
“Come on, son,” Black Moon said, “I cooked some dinner for you. “Come, have a bite.”
“Where did you find her?” Billy asked biting his lip. “Where?”
“Under the bridge. Like a dancing rain she fell atop the river.”
“I know her, Dad. I know who she is. Her mother is looking for her. The girl’s name is
Felicia. She’s working as an intern at Forceworth’s office, the senator.”
“That explains many of my questions,” his father said. He stopped eating and looked at
Billy for some time and then he said, “Her name is Rain Dance. No Felicia here. Felicia is dead. No
more Felicia. Her name, Rain Dance.” He looked at his son.  “I know what you’re thinking, Billy. I
know you’re a policeman. But first, you are my son. And as my son, you are to report this to no
one. She should be the one deciding if you should report it on not. This talk is over. Eat your
dinner and let her be.” He shook an angry finger at Billy and forced his fork into his salad bowl
with passion.

It was Sunday afternoon, ten long days after Felicia was gone, when Billy parked his car on
Helena’s driveway. Helena came out holding a kitchen towel. Seeing him, Helena’s face turned
into an immeasurable anticipation.
“You’re here. Just like you said you’d be,” she said as Billy approached the front steps of
the small porch.
“I promised you. Didn’t I?” he smiled at her raising his right eyebrow slightly.
“People don’t do that anymore,” she said critically. “Promises today have become a
meaningless chatter and the word promise a valueless empty word.” Her voice sounded sad,
worrisome. “Why did she lie to me? She never deceived me before. Why did she do it this time?
What were the reasons for her lying? Why Felicia?” She looked at him with woeful, gloomy eyes.
“Why, Billy? Why?” She was ready to let the tears come out. She was on the verge of an endless
despair.
“On the way here, I was thinking how nice it would be to have one more cup of coffee just
the way you made it the other day,” Billy tried to change her thoughts. He looked at her steadily
below his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” she apologized clumsily knowing what he was doing. “But, she’s all I’m
thinking about all day and dreaming nightmares about her while asleep. She’s my life, Billy. I don’t
know what I’ll do without her.” Helena forced a smile. “There I go again. Loading my worries on
you.” She sniffed. Her shoulders collapsed.
“Don’t you worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take it,” he said sympathetically.
“I think I’ll go in and make that coffee,” she uttered as if lost in her own thoughts.
She didn’t move. She was staring at the patterns of the wood on the top of the deck as if
the answers were arranged in some cryptic writing within their aging layers time had carved on
them. She raised her head and stared at Billy.
“Why don’t you come in to keep me some company?”
He knew she was begging, but she didn’t care. She needed his company, his sympathy, his
compassion. Even the charity of outright pity would make her feel better than the loathsome
loneliness in her forlorn despair.
“Hmm, ” he said as he stepped inside the house. “Smells very nice in here.”
He breathed the aroma of the cooking meal above the stove. The house looked spotless.
How many times had she gone over and over it again cleaning, polishing, moving tables and chairs
to their previous exact spots, dusting and straightening pictures on the wall, and fixing the already
made bedspreads again and again to kill the endless seconds of her solitude and despair?
“I’m cooking–”
“No! Don’t tell me,” he stopped her with his raised hand. “Let me guess. People say that
I’m very good at it.”
He closed his eyes, turned his head slowly left and right, threw his head back with open
nostrils and with short, sharp intakes breathed the air. Helena looked at him. She pressed the start
button of the automatic coffee maker while staring at his facial expression. She couldn’t help but
laugh. He looked at her smiling face. Her sleepless  face looked pleasant, calmer, and he thought,
he must be doing something right. He didn’t mind being the entertaining comedian, the clown.
“I know what you’re cooking,” he announced in a positive tone.
“No, you don’t.” A small laughter escaped from her mouth. “How could you?”
“I smell meat – beef. That’s what it is.” He took a long sniff.
“Aha . . . ” she said and paused for him to continue his guessing.
“It’s not a steak. Let me see . . .” He sniffed the air, moved his head, sniffed again.
“Why not steak?” A small trace of a promising smile appeared on the edges of her lips.
“I don’t smell that particular aroma of a steak. No way. This smells more like chopped
hamburger meat in tomato sauce. Wait, wait. Don’t tell me. Pasta! I smell pasta. I have the whole
picture now. In one of those pots, you’re cooking spaghetti. In the other one, you are simmering
chopped meat in fresh cut tomato sauce, chopped onions and peppers with a dash of garlic, and
some oregano. Am I right, or what?”
“Um-hm,” she said with a surprised tone in her voice, wondering how could he be so
precise. “How do you do it?” she asked.
“They don’t call me Hound Dog Billy for no reason,” he smiled immoderately.
“Why Hound Dog?”
“Hound Dog. That’s my Indian name. But, wait, wait.” He stopped her with a huge grin on
his face. “I smell something else too. Something . . .” He moved his head and sniffed the air again.
“And what’s that, Hound Dog Billy? That’s all I’m cooking.”
“Oh, how wrong you are. Let me see . . . I got it. I smell coffee. The aroma of fresh
brewed coffee.” He started laughing and Helena joined his laughter. “Shall we go outside?” he said
and took the coffeepot and walked outside. Helena grabbed two cups, sugar, milk, and a teaspoon,
and followed him to the small table on the porch.
“You are very good at it,” she said softly while she was pouring the coffee in his cup.
“Very good.”
“Thank you, Helena.”
“I didn’t mean sniffing or guessing. No, I didn’t.”
“Oh,” he said as if her remark was an insult. “Good at what then?”
“Good at making people momentarily forget their problems. Thank you, Billy.” She raised
her cup and then she toasted, “To better times?”
“They’re coming,” he said prophetically. “They are. I know for a fact that they are. Much
sooner than you think.”
“Oh, my God!” she went on and on. “Oh, dear Lord. Billy,” she exclaimed. “Did you . . .?
Have you . . .? Do you . . .?”
She couldn’t finish what she yearned so much to say. She was frightened by the very
thought that she may get a negative answer to her question. Tears were running on her face and
landing on the cast iron table, on the wood floor. The coffee cup started shaking dangerously in
her hands. Splattering drops of coffee landed on the table. She raised her other hand, held the cup
with both hands and placed it slowly on the top of the table. She extended her trembling hands
above the cast iron table and slowly touched Billy’s hand and squeezed his fingers as hard as she
could. Billy bit his lip from her painful strong grip. She held her breath, and her face became red
with a barrage of accumulated blood arteries, big and small, popping out, ready to explode like a
violent volcano. A begging cry came out of her dry mouth.
“Billy, tell me. Is she alive? Is Felicia alive?”
“I have to ask you something first.”
“Anything, Billy. Ask me anything you like,” she murmured trying very hard to control her
shaking hands now pressed between her knees.
“Did you say anything, anything at all, to anyone about Felicia being missing?”
“Only to Betty and Gina. I told you about that at your office. That’s it,” and she began
sniffing her ready to run nose.
He reached in his pocket and handed her a box of paper napkins. “Here,” he offered it to
her, and then he asked, “Did you put a “missing person” ad in any newspaper?”
“No, Billy. You told me not to,” she said and holding a paper napkin with both hands she
wiped the dripping moisture from her flooded nose.
“Did you call the senator’s office for any information that they may have, or did they have
any contact with you?”
“No. No,” she shook her head, her swelled chest panting. “Just the one I’ve told you about
already. The one I received on Monday at 11:30.” Her unblinking eyes became enormous big
circles staring at him, as if asking him, “What next? What, Billy?”
“That’s fantastic,” he said and breathed out with great relief, as if he were holding his
breath throughout his questioning. Steadfast he looked at her eyes. “Helena, you have to promise
me something first.”
“Anything, Billy. I will. I am. Yes!” She nodded frantically.
“I know how much you love your daughter. Promise me that you will not breathe a word
to anyone of what I am about to tell you.”
“God and sweet Mother of Jesus are my witnesses,” she prayed looking into the sky above.
“They are to strike me dead. Soulless I should be forever and ever if I don’t keep my promise to
you, if I don’t keep my mouth shut. I promise on Felicia’s life that I will not breathe a word to
anyone. Now, tell me,” she demanded. “Tell me, Billy. Don’t make a mother’s pain more
unbearable than what it already is. Please, tell me, son,” she begged.
“I have some good news, Helena. Good news,” he said touching her hands.
“Is she . . .? Her question stopped unfinished. She couldn’t hold her tears any longer. They
came out running on her face, pouring down her cheekbones and her gray dress.
“Yes,” he said. “She’s alive.”
“Oh, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you . . .  Where is she, Billy. Where?”
“She is in a very safe place,” he assured her. With a napkin in his hand, Billy tried to wipe
off some of her tears. With an expression that resembled a forced gesture of a smile he said, “I
thought you were going to smile with the good news, but you are still crying.”
“Oh, Billy. You silly boy. You’re so blind. Don’t you see how happy I am? This is the
happiest moment of my life. Thank you, Billy. Oh, God, thank you, thank you,” she repeated
kissing Billy’s hands. She tried to force a smile but unable to do so, she left her body and her mind
in the hands of some cry-loving God. He stood up, walked around, and lifting her by her hands
embraced her into his arms. Her body fell into his arms, as if she did not have legs or the strength
to hold her standing. She sobbed whimpering and her body shook like a fish out of water trying to
catch its last breath before the inevitable end. Much later, he felt her body relax, the sobbing
stopped, and she stood motionless and silent in his arms. He took her by her hands and gently let
her sit in her chair.
“Look what you have done to my shirt.” Billy complained with a semi-serious tone in his
speech. “I have to throw it away now. My favorite shirt is ruined.”
“I’ll clean it up, I’ll wash it for you,” she said laughing and crying at the same time. “I’ll
buy you a dozen of them, all of them the same color.” Then, she started laughing.
Billy took few sips from his cup. “Coffee’s cold,” he said.
“I’ll warm it up,” she smiled and with the coffeepot in her hand, she walked into the house.
Billy looked around staring at nothing in particular. He was thinking how one could tell a
mother the atrocities of the excruciating bad news? How does one inform a mother of what her
child had gone through at the hands of beasts? How could he explain to Helena the mutilated, deep
scars and wounds on her daughter’s body? He heaved a big sigh. His father was right. They were
not people. No! They were not human beings. They were worst than monsters. Heartless, spineless
worms and sons-of-bitches. That’s what they were. Drunk by their power, they had lost their
humanity, their morality, and they became what they are today. Beasts from beyond hell who
didn’t care who they victimize as long as they had their momentary perverted pleasures. He could
skin the mother-fuckers alive one by one.
“Coffee is ready,” her cheerful voice stopped his wrathful thoughts.
She looked so different now. Her popping out veins on her face and on her forehead
showing her dismal emotions were vanished. She looked calm, optimistic. She poured fresh coffee
in his cup, added cream and sugar, and began stirring it thoroughly. Each one was thinking
different things. She, how happy she was by the great, good news, and he, where or how to begin
telling her the grave, bad news. Half of his coffee was gone when Billy decided that he had to tell
her the whole truth without leaving a thing untold.
“Helena,” he started saying as he stared with great interest in the coffee patterns left at the
edge of his cup. “I have some bad news also.”
She waited silently. In her heart she knew there had to be some bad news coming. She had
anticipated that much. She looked at him and recognized his unwillingness to continue.
“Listen, Billy. Are you listening?” He nodded. “Good news, as a rule, is followed by bad
news. Believe me, Billy. I know. But no matter how bad the bad news is, nothing, nothing can
overshadow the good news you have given me so far. She’s alive. Don’t you understand that?
Alive. So, Billy, be brave. Tell me.” She took a lung-full of air, let some of it out, readying herself
for a dive into a perilous sea, then she said, “Now, tell me. I’m ready, son.”
Without any coloration in his speech and no emotions attached to his facial expression, he
told her everything. His father fishing, her body wrapped in plastic, and thrown from the top of the
bridge, plunging atop her watery grave, the bruises, the knife scars on her body, the teeth marks
and the removal of her nipples from her breasts, her being raped, semen and blood and sweat
mixed on the plastic sheet, the names of her rapists, Felicia’s dreadful nightmares, and the death of
his mother, White Dove. He told her everything.
Helena stood silent. He took mouthfuls of coffee to drown his upcoming uncontrollable
emotions.
“I’m so sorry, Helena,” he dared to say. Unable to hold his feelings any longer, he broke
down crying.
“Billy?” she said, and he uttered, “Yes?”
“Come here,” she said with the gentlest tone in her voice tapping her lap with her hand.
“Come,” she ordered soothingly and opened her arms.
Billy looked at her for a second indecisively. She didn’t have a tear drop in her eyes. With
his head down, he went around the table and sat on her knees like a little wounded child. He
wrapped his hands around her and let his head rest on her shoulder. She tapped his back with her
hand, and spoke tenderly. Her voice sounded to Billy velvety smooth, comforting.
“You’re such a nice, little boy.” She stroked and brushed his hair with her hand. “Just a
sweet, little boy.”
“How awful. How despicable,” he murmured. “How . . . ”
“Hush,” she said. “Wounds will heal over time. She’s alive. Do you understand? Alive! I
know what the loss of a loved one is. Nothing can replace that. We both know it. Don’t we, Billy?
I’m thanking God; I’m thanking your father for saving my child. Now,” she sighed, “be a good boy
and go sit in your chair. You’re too heavy to be sitting on my lap.”
“I’m thinking about quitting the police force,” he said as he was sitting down. “I don’t like
it anymore. I supposed to be protecting the innocent people. I have no way of doing that. I have
looked into the background of Elliot Bellows. He is very powerful and extremely dangerous man.
The police know that he has strong ties with mobsters. But without evidence . . . My father is
right. If I report those three men, we, all four of us, will be dead within an hour. I think I’ll give my
resignation next week.”
“What then? What are you going to do, Billy?”
“I used to be a brick mason. I could start a masonry company. Good, honest money and . .
. no monsters.”
“Can I see Felicia?”
“I don’t recommend that, Helena. Not yet. We have to wait for a while longer. Let the
whole thing fly away from the minds of the others. They’ll soon forget that a girl named Felicia
was ever alive. Then, you’ll see her. Till then she’s in the best hands she can be, my father’s. He
calls her, Rain Dance.”
“Such a beautiful name for a girl,” Helena said. “Dancing rain. How long do I have to wait
to see Rain Dance? I love her new name. So beautiful. So appropriate.”
“And look at the name he gave me. Hound Dog.” He smiled. “Anyhow, I would say, two
months, at the most. Is that too long?”
“Not too long, Billy. That’ll give me time to sell this house and move with her if that will
be all right with your father. Can you ask him if . . .?”
“I’m sure that my father will be delighted with the news. He has been alone since my
mother’s death, some twelve years back. Now he’ll have two beautiful ladies to deal with.” He
smiled picturing his father with two female companions. “When I quit my job, I’ll take Felicia’s file
with me and burn it to ashes.
“I should pack some of her favorite dresses, some comfortable clothes, her makeup stuff,
jewelry, and . . . and . . . and you take them to her. We women feel great comfort having little
things that you men think of as unnecessary. I’m so happy, Billy. I think I’ll open that bottle of
wine I was saving for her birthday and we’ll toast and drink it to her rebirth. Now, let’s go have
our supper.”















                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                             ELEVEN

The voice of a man humming a song woke Felicia from her deep sleep. She opened her
eyes and looked around the room. She was resting flat on her back on a twin bed. Her body was
covered neck high with a Native American hand-made blanket.
She could hear the humming of a song through the half-open door, the singing of birds. She
tried to understand the words of the song, but she could not. An Indian song, she told herself.
She took a deep breath and with her hands on the bed she managed to push her body up to
a sitting position, her back resting against the headboard of the bed. She buried her aching head
into her hands to stop the daze her movement caused. She felt lightheaded, dizzy. “God, I can’t
feel my body,” she said lamely. “It’s numb.” Absentmindedly, she gazed at her naked arms. “Why
am I so skinny? What is this place? Where am I? The man out there, who is he?” Her mind flew
from question to question but she was unable to concentrate on a single one. They came
momentarily, scratched her curiosity for a short while, and they were gone unanswered,
unresponsive.
Slowly she turned her head and looked around the small unfamiliar room. Four feet away
from her bed was a wood-burning stove. On top of it was a small pot, steaming.  Thick steam rose
up and, as it reached higher became invisible. A  round flue liner rose upwards from the stove. It
made a ninety-degree turn three feet below the ceiling and went out of the room through the round
opening above a small six-paneled window. Six feet away at the right side of the window was a
half-opened entrance door. The bright sun rays shown through the door hugging and warming the
light-brown carpet. Next to the door was an L-shaped kitchen with a similar window between
rows of mustard-colored cabinets. On the opposite wall an arched opening led to the bedrooms
and bathroom. In front of the L-shaped kitchen, she could see four chairs and a square dining table
with a red table cloth on it.
To her left, a six-foot long glass enclosed cabinet displaying rifles, pistols, two bows with
animal hide bowstrings, a hide quiver holding wooden arrows with stone arrowheads, a spear with
an intact spearhead, hand made knives and axes with chipped stone, two twelve-inch high pottery
pieces with geometrical designs, a colorful basket woven of willow branches and colorful beads,
and in the center of all these, a majestic headdress embellished with colorful feathers, glass, and
beads. A totem pole on both sides of the cabinet stood tall and impressive, and next to each, a
gallery of wood and bamboo framed faded pictures.
Below the window where the flue ran out, she noticed a nicely folded piece of plastic
sheathing. On the night stand next to her bed, a bottle was used as a vase. “A beautiful
arrangement,” she said looking at the colorful wild flowers and, in the middle of all that beauty, a
long-stemmed red rose.
The man’s song stopped. She heard footsteps walking toward the open door and a man
walked and stood still beneath the frame of the half-opened door. Standing against the bright
sunlight, he looked like a dark shadow below the open door.
“Aha,” he said as if that explained all her questions. He giggled joyfully and walked near
her bed. “Rain Dance opened her eyes,” he said. He spoke gently while looking attentively into her
eyes. “I’m Black Moon,” he said and tenderly touched her blonde hair. “You look good today.
Yes. Yes. Very good,” he added stroking gently her forehead. “No more fever. Now, that’s a very
good sign. Yes?”
She didn’t move. She just stared at him. She couldn’t explain to herself why she didn’t
react in a negative way to his touch. Miraculously soothing, very comforting, she thought.
“I know I don’t know you,” she said. She could hardly hear her voice. “But yet,” she
continued, “somehow, I don’t know how, I know I know you. What happened?” she asked feebly.
“Where am I? Why am I on this bed?” She stood silent for a few seconds looking at the man. He
was silent. “My name is . . .” she resumed, but she couldn’t remember her name.
“I know your name,” he stopped her in a soothing voice. “Your name is Rain Dance”
She couldn’t understand why he called her Rain Dance. “Is that my name?” she asked. “My
name is Rain Dance?”
“I’ll make some soup,” he said instead of answering her question. “You have to eat
something,” and he walked in the kitchen. “Do you like chicken soup?” he asked not looking at
her. Without waiting for an answer, “Then, chicken soup it is,” he added taking from the top
cabinet a can with the chicken noodles label on it. Using a hand held can opener, he opened the
can, and poured its contents into a small pot. He walked next to the stove and placed the pot next
to the steaming pot. “The other one is black, liquid dye for your hair,” he explained. “Rain Dance
is Indian now. No blonde haired Indians,” he finished with a small reassuring smile.
She looked at him. She guessed his age to be fifty-three, fifty-five, maybe sixty. It seemed
that his age was changing from one second to the next. His thin, agile body rose to medium height.
His dark complexion looked like aged bronze. His shoulder length, black-grayish hair fell down
around his suntanned face; some wrinkles were visible below his brown, brown sad looking eyes.
They were filled with  much sadness and pain. Why? she wondered. She could hear the loud
screeching of a bird coming through the door from outside.
“Soup is ready,” he announced proudly. “Now, you have to eat it. Yes?” He took the pot
by its handle and with the spoon in his other hand, he took a spoonful.  “Not too hot. Just perfect,”
he said while licking his lips. “It tastes delicious. You’ll like it.” He took a tile from the floor and
placed it on her lap. She took the spoon in her hand. “Take your time. Eat the whole thing. Every
drop of it. You have to regain your strength. I’ll be right outside. Raven is anxious to know,” and
with that he walked out the door leaving it half-open.
After taking few spoonfuls of the hot chicken soup, she started to feel better, stronger. She
was starving. When she had eaten half of it, she heard low voices coming from outside.
“Dad, I have to do it,” a young man’s voice was saying. “I have no choice. It’s my job.
Don’t you understand that?”
“And my job as your father is to tell you not to do it, Billy,” she heard Black  Moon say
disapprovingly.
“Dad . . .” the other one tried to say.
“Don’t you ‘dad’ me,” Black Moon stopped him angrily. “Do you know what will happen
if you do that? Do you, Billy? No, my foolish son, you don’t. I’ve told you already what’s going to
take place right after you do it,” he continued angrily now. “You’ll be dead, she’ll be dead, I’ll be
dead, and her mother also will be dead. After that, this house will burn to ashes. But you are not
listening. So, go ahead. Tell them what you know.” Seconds of silence passed. Then in a
judgmental tone he resumed, “You and the laws of white men. They raped our wives and
daughters, our land, and now they are raping their own kind. Don’t you talk to me about the laws
of white men. They have respect for nothing.” Ten seconds of intense silence followed. “You will
not say anything to anyone. Do you understand me, my foolish son?”
“Dad, we have evidence in our hands. We can make them pay for their crimes.”
“You have nothing,” she heard Black  Moon sneering at Billy. “Nothing that they cannot
take care of. Don’t be so blind, my son. Don’t dig our graves before we die. They are the makers
and the owners of the law. This country is in their bloody hands. You have seen the scars they left
on her mutilated body. She told you her nightmares. Who do you think killed  your mother, White
Dove, thirteen-years ago? Wolves or white wolf-men? Do you know which one? Will you ever
know? You’ll never know, son. Never. So, don’t you talk to me about evidence. They can erase
everything with the stroke of a pen. And they have. They have done it many times and they’ll do it
this time too.”
“Okay, okay. I will not say a word,” Billy said furiously.
“Promise me on your mother’s undying memory and spirit that you will not say a word to
anyone,” Back Moon’s voice demanded. “When she is well, and strong, and on her feet, let the girl
decide if you should, or should not do a stupid thing like that. Till then, you keep your mouth shut.
Now, promise.”
“Fine, I promise I will not say anything to anyone. Are you happy now?”
“Yes, I am,” she heard Black Moon’s voice as if it were a mournful lamentation.
“Can I at least tell her mother that she’s alive? She has to know, Dad. She’s ready to
collapse from her grief. I don’t believe she’ll last for long. Can I tell her? Please, Dad. Let me do
that. For God’s name. Have a heart,” the younger voice pleaded.
Minutes of silence. Finally, she heard Black Moon saying, “Yes, tell her, but make her
promise that she will not breathe a word to anyone.”
“She will not. I’ll make sure of that. When I see her tonight, she’ll be a happy woman
again. Thank you, old man.” She heard footsteps walking away.
“Billy?” Black Moon’s voice came louder through the door. “She knows already. Doesn’t
she? You told her.”
“Yes,” Billy sounded apologetic.  “I told her last Sunday night. I had to tell her. She’s a
very nice lady, Dad. I made her promise on her daughter’s life that she’ll not repeat it to anyone.”
“I’m sure she will not. You are a nice boy, Billy. Are you going there?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Tell her that her daughter is in good hands and safe. Will you do that, Billy?”
“She knows it. I’m sure she does.”
She heard a car door opening, and then the younger voice said, “Father, I think I’m going
to quit my job. What do you think?”
“The second good news from you today, Hound Dog. I never liked your job anyway.”
The engine of the car roared like a wild beast, and then she heard it less and less as it drove
away. Black Moon appeared under the open door.
“Who was the man you were talking with? Your son?” she asked.
“Yes. That was my foolish son,” he said. “Don’t you worry about him. He is a good boy
with lots of fresh air in his mind. A bit strong headed, but, one of the good ones.
“I don’t remember coming here,” she said looking around the room. She looked at him
and, handing him the empty pot, she asked, “How long have I been here?”
“That’s nice,” he said looking at the empty pot. “You ate the whole thing. Seems that this
day is filled with good signs. I’ll warm up one more for you.” He walked into the kitchen and
opened another can.
“How long have I been here?” she asked again. “Please, tell me.”
“Fifteen days and nights,” he said as he poured the soup into the pot. He placed the pot on
top of the hot stove.
“Fifteen days?”
“Yes. You were asleep for fifteen days and nights.”
“How did I come here, then? Who brought me into this house?” she asked. “I can’t
remember my name. I can’t recall my past. I can’t remember anything. How did I end up here?”
“I fished you out from the river on a rainy Friday night, fifteen nights ago,” he said. “You
were asleep since then.”
Suddenly she froze. Her eyes and her mouth opened wide. A shock wave shook her body
violently. The tile fell on the floor and shattered to pieces. Her hands squeezed her  cheeks,
covered her mouth momentarily, then up and down they went, as though she couldn’t decide
where to put them first,  and at long last, she touched and pressed her hands on her breasts.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” she moaned and whimpered. “Mommy! Oh, Mommy,” she
cried like a child, and her memories surged like galloping wild horses into her conscious mind in
the way of a cruel and ruthless dream. A dream where heaven and hell, saints and demons marched
hand in hand as if they had become one and the same. They kept coming, storming in, crushing
onto one another like warriors with sharp, long swords, but yet no shields for her to protect her
own sanity from her enemies’ relentless blows. Her body trembled and shivered under the warm
covers as if the coldest night took her in her icy bosom and enslaved her tightly in its freezing
hands.
Unmoving, shocked, as if suspended in time, her eyes stared into the empty space wanting
to see an answer in it. Her memories like strands of tangled sheep’s wool caught on a twisted wire
left in the mercy of the wind, her relentless memories poisoned with grief, despair, and pain, landed
in her conscious mind tearing, ripping, cutting her flesh and soul again and again.
Black Moon stepped to her side, held her hands gently and, in a comforting low voice,
whispered to her as if talking to an injured little child. “Child. Look, child. You are safe here. I’m
with you. See? Look at me, child. Look at me. No one will harm you any more. No one. I’ll let no
one touch you again. You are safe now. You are safe. Safe! See?”
“Oh, Mommy,” the murmur escaped her mouth and she started to cry.
Her body trembled like a leaf, rocked left and right in frenzy, her hands grasped her head
tightly, and tears welled from her eyes as if they were waiting for an opening, a hole within her
eyes, to come out racing, to escape from their dungeon deep in her soul. She tried to wipe her
running tears from her cheeks, and mouth, and chin with her hands, but Black Moon stopped her
holding her trembling hands in his.
“No! Don’t. Don’t do that,” he said in a gentle, but stern tone. “Let your tears come out.
Let them. Let them fall like rain on your face. Feel their warmth as they touch you. Tears are the
best medicine for you right now. Cry, Rain Dance. Cry, my child.”
He let her clinching hands free, and he walked out the door to give her privacy with her
disparaging memories. Discretely he closed the door and started humming the same Indian song.
Ten minutes later, shyly he pushed the door open and sat next to her. Though tears were still
falling from her eyes, and her body shaking, she felt much calmer now.
“Time to eat that soup,” he said.
“Were you the one on the river?” she uttered.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“You saved me. You saved my life.”
She looked at him. Somehow he looked more than sixty years old now. He looked as if he
held the weight of the earth upon his drooping shoulders, as if the whole sadness of humanity from
the day of its birth to now had landed on his sad, carved face.
“Raven asked me to save you, Rain Dance. Raven saved you. He did.”
“Raven? Who is Raven? Who is he?”
“A smart, black bird,” he explained with a twinkling smile on his face.
She looked at him for some time trying to understand what he just told her, then she said,
“You’re not going to ask me how I ended up in the river?”
“No! You told me everything already. You talked in your dreams. Many, many, dreams.”
He shook his head. “No more talking.”
“I feel numb all over. Why don’t I feel any pain?” she asked him as she touched her
wounded body.
“I put numbing pain medicine on you,” he mumbled with an elusive melancholy smile. “Eat
your soup. You’ve lost a lot of weight. We have to put some meat on those bones. Yes? When you
are stronger we’ll color your hair black like Raven’s. Then, we talk.”

Eight days after her first chicken soup, Felicia had gained enough strength to stand on her
own two feet. Her long cotton dress felt baggy on her skinny body. Slowly she walked and stood
under the opening of the door. The bright sun hit her pale face. Blinded by the bright sunlit day,
she closed her eyes and put her hands over them. Slowly she opened her fingers, and with eyes
half-open she looked carefully at the brightness of the sunny day. When her eyes adjusted
themselves from the dim lights of her room to the sunlight, she crossed her hands around her body
and looked around at the immensity of the unspoiled land and of the blue sky above.
For the past eight days she had looked through the small window and tried to imagine how
tall the oak tree might be. The six-panel window had become a small map dividing her outside
world into six blueprint charts. For hours she would stare through those six panels and try to
imagine what lay beyond the vast live oak tree some twenty feet away from the window. She
would try to count the branches of the oak tree, its leaves on each branch, till her eyes would close
from exhaustion. Then she would listen to the song of the birds, the sounds of leaves rubbing each
other from the light breeze of the wind, and the low humming of Black Moon. He was singing the
same song over and over again like a serenade, or a lullaby, or maybe a reminder of how brutal and
merciless men can be. His voice would go up and become angry, suddenly drop low into a
contemptuous humility, then turn to a moaning despair followed by sardonic laughter. She
promised herself to learn the meaning of those words.
The small window seemingly had become the means of a meager escape from her haunting
thoughts, from a vicious and evil world. A world that she had been forced to enter by three
unscrupulous, evil men. For them she was not a human being but a mere toy, a plaything. They had
made her a thing; a device to render the bliss of their perverted sexual obsessions. She had
experienced the unsightly grotesque ugliness of their evil world upon her body, and deep in her
soul.
She could envision the world in which she had entered and tried to see the world in which
everything she believed to be important, honest, and beautiful had been banished from existence or
fled afar, shy and cautious not to be contaminated by the new repulsive realities of her new world.
She gazed at her past, too remote to see clearly, too far away to touch, and she wondered how she
could go back from her present world to the safety and innocence of the other.
What authority could she ask for help – to shed some light, to open a path, to show her the
way there? Should she appeal her grief to law and justice, or seek professional help from priests
and psychiatrists? Would they help her? Could they help her? Would they make her forget her
horror, her outrage, her disgust and the nauseating experience of her new world? How could they
help her? Could they stop her from touching her wounds, or looking at them and not remembering
the horror of that night? Could they make her scars disappear with cosmetic surgery? Could they
do anything, anything at all?
No! she would say to herself. Oh, sure, they’ll feel sorry for her, shed a tear or two, or
might even cry. Felicia could hear them say, “Oh, God, you poor, poor thing, we are so sorry,
terribly sorry, we can feel your pain, your despair, your anguish and grief, your anxieties. Time to
forget, dear, that this ever happened to you. Oh, poor, dear girl, just forget it, forget, let it go, time
heals all wounds.” Such empty words. Words, words, words. Meaningless, barren words. Black
Moon was right when he had said, ‘They are incapable of doing a thing for you.’
She could not see a cure in this world that could restore her damaged body, her torn to
pieces soul. No! Not in a world of law and justice. Not in a world where might makes right. Not in
a world where the stronger species survive over the weak, or where justice is to the advantage of
the stronger. Had she not suffered enough in their hands? She would not make a spectacle out of
herself no matter who the judges are. They’d be judging her to judge them. “Tell us. Tell us
everything. Give us the details.” Was there a higher justice judging those three men, and only
them? “No, just give us the details.”
“Be cruel in a cruel world.” “Act as Romans do in Rome.”
Driven by their desires, Forceworth, Bellows, and Kirkland had hurled her like a rag doll
into this thorny path. Standing there naked and shivering, she gazed steadfast into her mind’s eye,
into the blazing light, into the enduring brightness, into the eyes of God. Her intolerable,
nightmarish memories rushed through skin, and flesh, and consciousness, shot themselves up and
up like a shooting star through the dark night-sky, and forcefully landed in the blazing flames. She
closed her eyes and let the eternal splendor bathe her with its cleansing authority. She could feel
His raging wrath, His thunderous, deafening cry commanding her. “Divine justice. An eye for an
eye.”
She breathed deeply. She felt as if the dark shadows of her nightmares had been dissolved,
melted away in the power of those caressing lights. She knew now not what she had to do, but
what she should to do. She could hear Black Moon’s humming, and she would chant and recite the
same lamenting requiem for the whole world to hear. The words were these:

Do you hear Him screaming?
Do you fear Him?
Ask yourself,
Why?
No answer?
You are a coward. You are a liar.
Ask again.
There He stands at your feet.
Tears, red eyes, open mouth.
A finger pointing at White shadows.
Immense lightning,
A thunder . . . echoing.
Listen to His words:
“You killed my Son."
White shadows screamed at Him:
“We washed our hands.”

For hours on end she would think the words of his song, and what those words meant to
him, to her. She would think about resurrection and she would say, The death of my soul. She
would ask herself, How does one restore and heal a dead soul? And the fierce answer blazing red,
ruthlessly honest, loomed in front of her eyes. An eye for an eye.
Black  Moon was sitting on a bench under the shade of the oak tree. She could feel the
warm patches of the sun reaching her body through the rich foliage of the oak tree, touching her
body, her hair, her dress. She looked up. Now she could see how enormous the oak tree stood
there with its immense branches, its rich foliage, its shade on the reddish-brown soil. As she looked
up she wondered which one she could see the most. The ash-brown limbs of the tree, its green
leaves, or the blue sky above them? It didn’t matter. The leaves, the branches, and the tree, and the
clear blue sky above, and the whole wide world were now hers to hold, to cherish. She was alive.
Not yet free, but alive.
Black  Moon looked at her short, raven-black hair. It shone like radiating strands of silvery
splendor in the caressing light of the sun. Since the day she had opened her eyes, since her first
senseless cry, she had vowed in her hardened heart not to shed a single tear. “No,” she had told
him. “As long they are alive, I’ll hold them in me like precious jewels.”
He waved at her to come and sit on the bench by him. Carefully, she walked, sat next to
him, and looked around. The tall pine trees seemed to be touching the blue sky. She saw acres and
acres of unspoiled land, wild flowers everywhere, and in the middle of it all, the small little house,
her sanctuary. Seventy yards beyond the pine trees, she saw the blue waters of a river, the liquid
veins of earth,  the blood of earth flowing downstream, calmly and slowly, to unload themselves
into the earth’s heart, the sea. The sea, the maker and preserve of all beings, sublime lifeblood of
all things.
On the bank of the river was a big, meticulously cared for vegetable garden. It appeared
much greener in contrast with the meticulously placed beds of pine needles above the grounds of
the garden to keep the moisture in the soil from the rays of the hot sun. Birds were actively singing
and telling God knows what to each other. The unspoiled nature emerged thriving with life.
Tirelessly, the impregnated earth  was giving birth to her children. A black crow flew above in
circles and landed next to them.
“That’s Raven,” Black  Moon said tenderly, proudly.
Raven walked on his strong feet with three toes pointing forward and one large toe
backward. His head bobbed up and down at each step. Black  Moon took a slice of bread, broke it
in two pieces, and gave one to Felicia. He cut his piece into smaller parts and he threw them next
to his feet. The crow looked at him, stared at the pieces of bread and unafraid he approached Black
Moon and started gulping the pieces of bread. His wedge-shaped tail moved up and down as if
approving Black Moon’s generosity. Raven’s  feathers and wings looked satiny black, like her hair.
Felicia stared at Raven carefully. She was almost certain that Raven was the same crow staring at
her and jumping up and down on the bridge.
“Crows are very intelligent birds,” Black Moon said. He sounded like a teacher teaching
small children. “Have you ever wondered why people named scarecrows, scarecrows?” He giggled
happily. “Because crows will eat anything.  If they run out of food they will attack and destroy my
garden, right there, no matter how many scarecrows I have in it to scare them away. They will land
on the top of my dummy scarecrows, do their . . . nature thing on it, and screech loud just to make
me realize how foolish I was putting those things in my garden to begin with.” He snickered.
Pointing his finger up to a pine tree he continued educating Felicia.
“Do you see that large platform of sticks built into the branches of that tall pine tree?
That’s his nest. When the male, Raven is male, will fall in love with a female, his mate will lay three
to eight eggs; she’ll sit on her eggs to keep them warm till her younglings will break their
protective shelter with their tiny beaks. Both proud parents will take turns caring for their young
hatchlings.” He pointed his finger at the bird and he repeated with pride. “That’s Raven.
Sometimes I ask myself, who is smarter? Him or me? Hard question. I think I’ll never know the
answer. Strange. Very strange.” He sighed. “He approves of you, Rain Dance. Give him some
bread. He wants to be your friend.”
“How do you know?” Felicia asked softly, thinking she might scare the bird away.
“That’s what he keeps telling me. Give him some bread and ask him yourself. Talk to him.
Raven is very smart.”
“Come,” she said, looking at the crow, and lowered her hand holding the bread in her
cupped hand. Raven looked at her, moved his head from side to side, walked next to her without
rushing his steps, and pecked pieces of bread from her outstretched palm.
“You see, Rain Dance?” Black Moon said knowingly.  “He’s not afraid of you. He trusts
you. He’s a very gifted, exceptionally smart bird. Somehow, he knows who is a good man and who
is not. Rain Dance is a good woman. He knows that.”
“What made you go fishing that rainy day?”
“Raven did. He screeched and yapped, and lashed at me with his claws and beak, and . . .”
and he told her the whole story. “He made me go fishing. He’s the one who saved you. Not me.
Look how lovingly he looks at you!”
“He’s the one on the bridge. He was staring at me and flapping his wings. Now I’m sure he
is the one.”
“One never knows the power of the spirits,” Black Moon said mostly to himself.
She put her right hand above the small flower pattern of her light brown cotton dress and
her fingers touched her wounds below it. Her hand moved down and then sideways. Black  Moon
was watching her hand movements and her facial expressions.
“You’ll be all right, child,” he said. “You’re healing. Patience, my child.”
“Yes,” she said, hardly audible. “I know. Time will heal my wounds, but . . . ” she didn’t
finish her thoughts. “Can I walk to the river?” she asked instead.
“Yes, my child. Of course you can. No one is around for miles and miles. Go and make
peace with yourself. It will take a long time to heal the deep wounds of your spirit. The life-giving
river gave you your life back. Make peace with him. Make him your friend. Go, talk to him. He’s a
good listener. He’ll listen to you.”
For more than two hours she sat by the edge of the river watching its constant flow, its
every ripple, its every little swirling wave. The more she stared at the river, the calmer she felt.
Deep within her heart, a warm sensation of tranquility, a serene peacefulness grew, enlarged itself,
and bloomed, delicately touching her entire being. Her body seamed weightless, as if suspended in
time and space. She breathed hungrily, as if breathing life itself.
She heard light footsteps and the cracking sounds of small dry sticks. Four deer
approached the edge of the river. With their mouths in the water, they drank the cool, clean water.
She could see the water gliding down their throats, and as they moved their muscular legs to stand
in a better position, their fine golden-brown threadlike hair of their hides shone like gold in the
sunlight. When they finished drinking, they looked at her a while with their big, golden eyes, turned
around slowly, and gracefully they were gone out of her sight.
She heard Billy and Black Moon talking for some time. Then Billy walked and sat by her
side. For the next hour they sat next to each other without saying a word, each with their own
unspoken thoughts.
“How is Mom?” she asked finally.
“She’s doing fine. She sends you her love, some flowers, and more clothes. She has a big
For Sale sign in front of the house. Soon she’ll be here with us. Black Moon is very anxious to
meet her. I told him of her cooking. ‘About time to have a good cooked meal,’ was his response.
Oh, well. That’s Black Moon for you. Praising but not applauding.” He smiled. “Felicia, supper
should be ready. Let’s fetch some fresh vegetables for a nice salad and head for home.”
“Thanks, Billy.”
Slowly they walked to the vegetable garden. She took small, careful steps. Though she was
skinny to her bones, she felt her body heavy like lead. Billy held her arm. Her facial expression was
dull and indifferent to how she felt. She couldn’t feel her breasts. They were numb from Black
Moon’s numbing medicine. “They’ll take a long time to heal,” Black Moon had said each time he
changed the soiled bandages. Black Moon. Her guardian angel, her savior, her healer.
“When you get stronger,” Billy said on the way home, “my father and I will teach you
everything. We’ll show you how to become a shadow, to walk and run without a sound, how to
fight, to use a knife, a bow, or a gun, how to hunt, how to smell danger, how to erase your tracks,
how to listen. It’ll take a long time. My father taught me all that I know and I still don’t know half
of what he does. I know you have to do what you must. I’ll not stand against your wish. I’ll not
endorse it, or oppose it, but, I don’t want  any harm to come to you because you have not learned
enough, or your patience ran out. When you’re ready, then and only then, I’ll let you proceed.
Until then, no matter what, I’ll stop you. When I’m sure that you are ready, then you’ll render
what you must. ‘An eye for an eye,’ you and my father said. If that’s the only way, then let it be.”









                                
                                
                                
                                
                             TWELVE

Two weeks later, Billy quit his job and become a brick mason. Two months after that,
Helena’s house was sold. She closed her bank account and purchased a bus ticket to Santa Cruz,
her birth place. ‘Just in case of some unforseen investigation. So no one can track you down.’ she
recalled Billy’s advice.  Billy met her at the bus depot to drive her to his father’s home.
A week after that Felicia experienced her first steam bath. Felicia and Black Moon sat
cross-legged in the middle of the room. The heat from the wood burning stove made the room
unbearably hot. Every now and then, Black Moon sprinkled water on the stove to create steam.
The heavy steam rose, filled the room, and Felicia began sweating.
“The Old Ones knew the sacred renewing power in a steam bath,” Black Moon said.  He
believed that the steam bath ritual would purify and strengthen Felicia, and also cure and soothe
her aches and pains.
“Tell me about the Old Ones,” Felicia said.
He sighed deeply. “Oh, you like to know about my people; my long suffered people.”
Black Moon’s memory lingered back to his childhood – to his grandfather and to the story
tellers around the campfire. He told her about the Spaniards, the Southeastern tribes, the Creek,
the Chickasaw, the Cherokee, the Choctaw, the Natchez, and the Seminoles. He told her about
Andrew Jackson, the Removal Act of 1830, Osceola, the Trail of Tears, the confinements. He told
her everything.
Black Moon sighed, smiled bitterly, and sprinkled some more water on the stove. Felicia
could hardly see his stone-like face. Remembering the suffering of his people had carved deep
wounds in the spirit of Black Moon.
“Tell me about their ways,” Felicia said, and touched his hand gently.
Black Moon closed his eyes and remained silent for a while. Now his face changed to a
pleasant smile, and in a lighter tone he resumed telling the stories he had been taught. His
grandfather had said that although the Indians were taught the white man’s ways, they never forgot
their heritage, their beliefs, their culture, and their sacred ceremonies.
The people of the clan were their brothers, sisters, parents, and grandparents. Mating
within one’s own camp was forbidden. Men chose their wives from other groups, never from their
own. Exchanging gifts was essential before the marriage ceremony. When the celebrations for the
new couple were over, the groom had to live in his wife’s camp. Creek Indians were matrilineal.
The Creek tribe punished the wrongdoers with an eye to restitution rather on retribution,
although in certain instances, such as murder, the family of the victim exercised its rights to more
than restitution. The rule was to kill the one who killed a member of the clan.
Lying was a terrible crime, an ethical and a moral breach to the Native American social
norm. They could foresee the danger tolerating any person who purposely distorted the truth. A
liar would only corrupt the rest of the tribe. The punishment for liars was very severe – they were
driven out of the group and other clans as well. They were not treated as human beings.
Spring was the time for the women to till the soil, to plant corn, squash, beans, melons, and
pumpkins. Men were warriors, hunters, scouts, and gatherers. Before the hunt, hunters prayed to
the animal spirits for forgiveness for the lives they would take. Spring also was the time when the
warriors went to battle. Elaborate ceremonies preceded and followed major battles. Warriors
painted themselves in red and black, evoked sacred spirits, consumed shielding medicine, smoked
the sacred Tobacco from the War Pipe, and performed the War Dance around the campfire. Each
warrior danced around the campfire describing his bravery during the victorious battle.
Tobacco was the sacred plant indispensable to the Sacred Pipe and its rituals. Tobacco and
the inner bark of some trees were mixed before the ritual started. First the seer offered the pipe to
the sky and earth, then to the four directions, and then he passed it to each participant. The Sacred
Pipe was also a sacred religious ritual. It dated back to the times of creation. The Sacred Pipe
smoking ended tribal differences, alliances formed or reenforced, travelers safeguarded by the
spirits, and strangers welcomed.  The origin of the pipe may be traced to holy being, to a dream, or
to a vision.  The bowl of the pipe was made from stone or clay–symbolizing Mother Earth, the life-
sustaining female, the woman and the earth. The stem of the pipe symbolized the male energy, the
road or path of life, and life itself.  When the bowl and the stem were joined, the Sacred Pipe
becomes ritually active and powerful.  When not in use, the bowl and the stem were wrapped in
soft buckskin and kept separated.
When the first kernels of corn were ripe, people gathered around the campfires to celebrate
Poskita, the Green Corn Dance. Poskita keyed the Indian world in harmony by maintaining
stability, casting out impure thoughts and ideas, eliminating spiritual pollution, and a celebration of
fertility and renewal. Fasting and frequent use of the emetic Black Drink  kept the body and mind
pure and ready to start anew. They danced around the campfires, then the old fires were
extinguished, and new fires started.  The Green Corn Dance was a sacred celebration; a sacred
bond between man and nature. Games, such as lacrosse, archery,  knife and club contests were
held, then they danced again.  The ceremonies ended with a purification bath in the river. All past
wrongdoings were forgiven. All, except murder.
“All, except murder,” Felicia murmured.  “Punish the liars, kill the one who kills.”
“Yes!” he murmured. “Except murder.”
Black Moon sprinkled some more water on the stove but said nothing. By now Felicia was
sweating excessively. Her cotton towel was soaked with her sweat and the hovering steam. She
could hardly breathe the thick moist air, but her body felt relaxed and soft.
“Tell me about your own ancestors; where they warriors, hunters?”  She leaned against the
wall.
“No. My ancestors were not warriors or hunters,” he said with a puzzling smile.  “They
were scouts.”  He was silent for a long moment.
Felicia closed her eyes and waited for his story.
“His name was Red Cloud, about my size, and much smarter than I am, so I’ve been told.
It was about mid-day when he scurried down through the thick foliage of the forest, paused behind
a tree trunk, his knee and fingers touched the ground, then he stood motionless, smelled the air,
and listened. The smell of the smoke was now thicker, spiced with the sweet resin of the burning
pine tree needles. He heard a faint laughter, then an angry voice shouting, but not clear enough to
understand what the shouting man was shouting about. It sounded like a rough stone grinding on
underwater stones. He had to move closer. He had to know what those men were up to. He knew
they were not Indians. Indians would avoid campfires, unless it was a matter of life and death.
Even then they would fan the smoke preventing it from rising up.
“Red Cloud figured that the white men had to be either hunters or scouts. It made sense for
the white men to send scouts ahead to an unknown territory, just the way Native Americans had
done for generations when exploring new territories or relocating camps. Red Cloud’s duty to his
clan was to oversee the suspicious moves of the white men or other tribes, to observe, assess the
situation, and report to his clan what he had seen or heard, but never get involved or let the enemy
know that he knew their movements.
“Red Cloud looked up. The wind blew the smoke from the campfire toward him. The
horses couldn’t  smell his presence even with their keen sense of smell. He had to avoid spooking
them. He could hear the muffled sounds of horses and men, but not clear enough. Campfire,
horses, and men were still out of his vision.
“Soundlessly he crawled the last thirty yards or so toward the clearance. Hidden behind the
last thicket and the tall blades of grass, he looked around. Five horses were grazing on the other
side of the small clearing. Four men in blue coats were sitting around the campfire, pistols in their
holsters, rifles resting on the crook of their arms. Red Cloud could smell the brewed coffee, the
baked beans. Sitting on the ground, two Indian women were clinching to each other, and right
behind them, a lightning stricken, branchless tree trunk was rotting away. The older woman was
stroking the long, black hair of the young girl. The lips of the women moved and the young girl
buried her face in her lap. The were captives. Red Cloud turned his eyes and studied the four men.
The oldest looking one had three stripes on the arm of his dusty coat. The other three looked no
more than twenty. Red Cloud took his water flask, placed it on the ground out of his way, and
with bow and arrow in his hands, he waited.
The older man took a bowl, filled it with baked beans, shoved a spoon in it, placed his rifle
down, and stood up.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Clint?” said the one furthest from him.
“What does it look like, Pope?” said Clint.
“You get to feed them, don’t you?” said Pope looking at the two women.
“That’s right,” said Clint, and walked toward the women.
The other two men elbowed each other and started laughing.
“Carl, Manny, shut the fuck up,” said Pope venomously at them, still eyeing Clint.
Clint handed the bowl to the older woman. “Eat,” he said, turned around on his heel, and
looking down walked toward the campfire, poured beans into another bowl, sat down, and started
eating. “Not bad,” he said chewing.
Pope washed down his baked beans with gulps of coffee. His eyes were glued to the
younger woman with desire and lust.
“Don’t think it, Pope,” said Clint in a quiet tone.
“Yeah, right,” said Pope as he poured the steaming coffee in his tin cup.
Slowly he put the kettle on the fire with his left hand, and at the same time he threw the tin
cup on Clint’s face. Clint’s body fell backwards, hands on his face, screaming, “Shit, shit.” Pope
was up, the pistol in his hand still smoking. Clint’s body twisted and bent, his hands on his leg,
blood pouring between his fingers. Pope bent over Clint, removed the pistol from the holster, and
threw it in the woods.
Carl and Manny took steps backwards, and stood there shocked and bewildered.
“What the hell?” said Carl breathless.
“Got us a new leader, I guess,” said Manny.
“Shut up, both of you,” ordered Pope looking at them “If he moves, shoot him. Do you
hear?”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked toward the women. They sprang up hurriedly
and started running. Pope raced after them, got the older one by her hair, and spun her body
around. Her head hit the trunk of the dead tree violently, her knees bent, and her unconscious body
collapsed on the ground. The dead looking trunk became alive, as if growing new bark. Ants –
thousands of warrior ants moved at every direction.
The young girl fell on the top of the older one crying, moaning, “Mother, mother.”
Clint tried to reach his rifle with his bloody hand.
“Don’t. I’ll blow your head off, Clint,” said Carl.
Clint stretched out his arm and touched the rifle. Carl’s rifle touched Clint’s head ready to
squeeze the trigger. Red Cloud released the arrow. Carl dropped the rifle, took a step backwards,
his hands waved in the air trying to reach his neck. Blood came out of his mouth. He was dead
before his body touched the ground. The second arrow landed forcefully into Manny’s chest and
he fell forward without a sound. The arrowhead appeared out of Manny’s back.
“Son of a bitch,” Pope screamed holding the girl in front of him, his pistol on her head.
Long minutes went by in silence.
“Hey, Injun,” yelled Pope, “come out from your hiding. You don’t want her to die like this,
do you? Come out and let’s talk about this in a civilized manner. What do you say?”
The scout stood up and took a few steps toward Pope, with his bow stretched, and the
arrow ready to be released.
“Drop the damn thing, or she dies,” said Pope in an icy voice.
Red Cloud released the tension of the bow and slowly put them on the ground without
taking his eyes off Pope. The girl tried to escape Pope’s hold. Pope squeezed the trigger. The
bullet landed on Red Cloud’s head. He felt as if a giant bee was biting him, gnawing his brain. Then
everything turned pitch black, and he lost his senses in the midst of falling down.
Red Cloud couldn’t tell how long he had been unconscious. His senses were coming back
to life. He tried to moved his hands, his feet, his body. Although he could feel their strength, he
was unable to move them. He felt the pain on his throbbing head.  He opened his eyes and
suddenly he found everything enormously tall. He now realized that he was sitting cross-legged in
the ground, covered with soil up to his neck. Pope was pouring baked beans on the tree trunk of
the rotted tree while the ants were buzzing hurriedly around the spilled beans. Pope moved toward
Red Cloud while leaving a trail with the baked beans. When he reached the scout, he dumped the
remaining beans on Red Cloud’s head.
“Oh, let’s see,” said Pope laughing, “which one of them will eat you first. Them vultures up
in there, or them ants. I’d love to sit and watch all this fun, but hey, I’ve got to go. Hope you have
fun, Injun.”
With an eerie mocking laughter, he paced toward the horses. He untied the girl’s feet,
shoved her body on the top of a horse, and tied her hands on the saddle. He looked around, smiled,
“Adios,” he said, climbed on the lead horse, and horses and riders disappeared behind the trees.
A moaning sound came from Red Cloud’s left. He could see Clint out of the corner of his
eye.
“Clint, wake up,” Red Cloud said, as if ordering a child. “Wake up!”
“Trying,” Clint cried in a meeker voice. “Trying.”
Agonizing minutes passed slowly. Clint’s hands moved under his body trying to push
himself up. His body rose about six inches, then he fell flat on his face.
“Can’t,” he murmured.
“Clint, hear me out. Are you listening?
“Yes.”
“Crawl. Don’t try standing up. Just crawl.  You have to, Clint. The vultures are down
already. After they finish with those dead friends of yours, they’ll come after you. Now crawl,
Clint. I know you can do it.”
Maybe it was the dread of being eaten alive by the vultures, or maybe the encouraging
voice of Red Cloud that made Clint gather his strength and start crawling. Inch after inch he came
closer, and finally reached Red Cloud’s head.
“Give me a sec,” he said panting out of breath. “Let me catch some air. I’ll get you out of
there, but you have to promise me something first.”
“I know,” said Red Cloud. “I’ll bring his bloody scalp to you.”
“That’s right,” Clint said, between his clenched teeth. “Promise then?”
“I do.”
Clint started digging the soil with his bare hands. Red Cloud felt the warm air on his
shoulders, then down his arms. He moved his elbows back and forth, the soil crumpled around his
body. He pushed his hands down on the soil, and inch after inch, his body rose through the earth
like a tree. He walked to the edge of the woods, picked up his water flask, and helped Clint sit on
his behind.
“Drink, nice and slow,” Red Cloud said, holding Clint’s head.
The water glided down Clint’s dry throat. His dull, light blue eyes turned darker, then to
dark blue after each drop.
Red Cloud now moved next to the woman and sprinkled some water on her face.  Her eyes
moved, she moaned. She was alive. He took her in his arms and slowly put her next to Clint.
“Look after her,” he said to Clint as he handed him the water flask, then he ran into the
woods. Two minutes later, he returned with an armload of dry pine limbs.
“Fire will keep them away from you,” he said pointing to the vultures. “Keep feeding the
fire. Don’t let it die.”
After two more armloads of firewood were stacked next to Clint, the woman had gained
consciousness.
“Bring her back,” she uttered, mournfully. “She is my only one.”
Red Cloud nodded. “I will. I’ll bring her back unharmed.”
“Remember your promise, red man,” said Clint.
“I do,” he said, turned around, walked to his bow and arrows, picked them up, and
vanished into the woods.

Pope saw the figure standing in the middle of his narrow path. The horse he was riding
came to a standstill. Pope’s right hand went to his pistol. The arrow entered his right shoulder.
Pope let out an agonizing scream, and at the same time, his left hand moved. The second arrow
pierced his left arm. He fell on the path. Red Cloud approached slowly.  Pope was cursing, yelling,
and moaning. Red Cloud dragged Pope to the closest tree, and placed his back against its trunk.
Then he took the pistol wrapped it around Pope’s fingers, and shoved it in Pope’s mouth. They
stared at each other in silence. Red Cloud nodded. Pope squeezed the trigger. His brain stained the
trunk of the tree. With Pope’s knife in his hand, Red Cloud made a swift circular cut on Pope’s
bloody head, and forcefully pulled his hair. A scalp-less Pope stared into nothingness. Red Cloud
had to keep his promise.
Red Cloud turned the lead horse around, climbed on it, and cut the rope from the girl’s
hand. His hand touched the neck of the horse, and the leading horse moved toward the small
clearing, followed by the rest of them.

Black Moon sprinkled some more water on the stove.  A pleasant smile was painted on his
sweating face.
“It’s a true story,” he said. He sighed. “All of it.”
“What happened to the young girl, to her mother, and the white man?” asked Felicia.
“That’s another story,” he said with a chuckle. “A love story.” He sighed again as if in pain.
“The three of them became members of Red Cloud’s clan. Shortly after that, the white man and the
young girl fell in love, and down the road, that white man, Clint, became my great-grandfather.”
He shook his finger in her direction. “Come,” he said smiling, “we’ve had plenty of steam for a
single day, and don’t you dare tell me what you’re thinking about by blood. I don’t want to hear
it.”
“I won’t.”
They stood up, opened the door, walked toward the river, and dove into the refreshing
water to complete the healing ritual.

A month later, Felicia could see the daily healing of her wounds. Under the constant care of
Black Moon, Helena, and Billy, the wounds on her body were healed leaving permanent yellow-
white marks on her skin, on her breasts. From that day on, from sunup to sundown, Black Moon
and Felicia would disappear into the woods, and when they came back, Felicia would have small
cuts on her arms and face, and Black Moon would say, “Training, learning.”
In the next four months the small house grew by two more bed rooms, a family room with
a big fireplace, a large sunny kitchen, and two full bathrooms. The brick-veneered house looked
grand and beautiful. A special bird house with no door, rested in the big branches of the huge oak
tree by the front of the house. This was the time when Felicia saw for the first time a dim light in
the darkness of her being.














                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                            THIRTEEN

It was Saturday. Felicia sat in the passenger seat of Billy’s car and stared into the night
through the open window. The cool air moved through her hair and touched her face. She
quivered. She glanced at Billy. His hands were steady on the steering wheel, and his eyes were
focused on the road. She could not recall why she had agreed to step out of the safe sanctuary of
Black Moon’s property. Since that horrid Friday she did not trust the outside world. She had
trusted that world and it had betrayed her in the worst way possible. Why then was she going out?
Was she doing it for her mother?
Helena, her poor mother, trying so hard to conceal her worries and her despair behind her
perennial smile. She had that same mask when her husband, Daniel, was found dead on the hospital
bed. Holding Helena’s hand, Felicia stood still, as the night nurse explained, “He passed away
gently, without cries or suffering.”
“God gave him to us, God took him away,” Helena had said to Felicia after the funeral of
her farther. “Without you, Felicia, my only treasure on this earth, there would be nothing holding
me to this world.”
Felicia could never forget her mother’s sacrifices, her tenderness, love, and devotion as
Helena resumed the responsibilities of both mother and father for Felicia. Many nights, Felicia
could hear through the locked door her mother sobbing under the covers of her bed. Then, in the
day time she veiled away her pain and her despair, and courageously resumed her role as a hard
working provider.
Felicia turned and looked at Billy. “Billy,” she asked him, “why are we going to the
movies?” Billy looked at her out of the corner of his eye and said nothing. “Are we doing this to
please my poor mom? Did you see that tiny spark of hope in her eyes when I agreed to go out?”
“I don’t know, Felicia. Maybe we’re doing it for Helena or maybe because of what my
father said to you. ‘You must go,’ Billy imitated Black Moon’s tone of voice. “It’s part of your
training. Look at peoples’ faces. Look at them carefully. There’s not a person out there without his
or her own suffering or joy. We, all of us, walk to the fountain of sorrow and joy to fill our empty
canteens. Your mother, me, Hound Dog, you, and the millions out there. On our recent visit the
four of us got plenty of sorrow and plenty of happiness too. Rain Dance, you are alive. Someone
gave you a second chance to live. So live. Go to the movies.’ “ Felicia,” Billy resumed in his own
voice, “there is one more thing I beg you not to forget.”
“What is it, Billy?”
“I know this may sound a bit selfish, nevertheless, I have to say it. You gave Black Moon a
purpose to live again. When my mother died, so did his love for life. His happiness withered away
and as my mother’s body burned to ashes, so did his feelings and emotions.”
“I’m sorry, Billy.”
“No, Felicia, don’t be. Look at my father now. What do you see? He’s the happiest man on
earth, because of you. You gave him what no one else, not even me, could give him. Life! He loves
you, Felicia. He may not know how to show his affection, maybe he has forgotten how since White
Dove’s death.  Nevertheless, I know he loves you. He will die for you, Felicia.”
Once they arrived at the movies, Billy purchased a large bag of popcorn, a Coke for her,
and a Sprite for himself. They sat side by side in the seats.  Instinctively Felicia moved her body
closer to Billy when the theater became dark. Felicia stared at the screen and tried to concentrate
on the plot and the characters of the movie. She couldn’t. She closed her eyes and tried again.
Nothing but moving images on the screen, smiling, talking, dancing. She glanced at Billy. He
seemed to be completely absorbed by what he was looking at while eating handfuls of the
delicious, buttery popcorn.
Staring at the screen, her hand reached mechanically into the bag for some popcorn, and at
the same instant, so did Billy’s. The back of her hand gently brushed his and then she felt his rough
fingers touching hers. Instantly she pulled her hand in her lap and covered the back of her hand
with the other.
“Felicia, are you all right?” he whispered.
“Yes!” she uttered.
“Would you like to leave?”
“No! No, I am fine,” she lied.
She had touched Billy’s hands many times. Billy helped her take her first steps toward
recuperation, held her arm on their walks, handed her a glass of water, they had touched each
other many times, they even rolled and wrestled on the ground during her training.
This touch was different. It was warm, gentle, shocking, and beautiful. She gently squeezed
the back of her hand, his touch. She did not question why she felt the way she did or what that
feeling was. Cherishing it was more than she could ask.
“Oh, Billy!” The words escaped out of her mouth.
“Are you okay, Felicia?” he murmured softly.
“Yes,” she said and ever lightly put her head on his shoulder.
After the movie was over, they drove to Lake Ella, sat on the outdoor deck of Black Dog
Café, sipped their espressos, watched the ducks, enjoyed each others company, and talked mostly
about Billy’s undertaking to enlarge and renovate Black Moon’s house.
“I had a wonderful time, Felicia,” Billy said when they arrived home.
“So did I, Billy.”
He held her by her arms. His hands slid down her slender arms, held her hands, and gently
kissed her cheek. “Goodnight, Felicia,” he said and went in the house.
Felicia managed to walk to the bench under the oak tree. He kissed her . . . He kissed her
on the cheek, and his lips were soft. She was bursting in a joy she couldn’t understand. She wanted
to shout her thoughts. He kissed me on the cheek. Billy kissed me on the cheek. Just thinking the
words, his soft lips on her cheek, his hand holding hers, made Felicia feel like riding on the crest of
the moon. Is this how it starts? Just a gentle kiss on the cheek, the touch of a hand, and the caress
of caring eyes?
The door of the house opened, her mother came out, walked carefully around the big mess
of the ongoing construction, and sat next to Felicia. “Did you have a good time, honey?” Helena
asked.
“I had a very enjoyable time, Mother,” she replied, as if in a dream. Felicia raised her hand
and touched her kissed cheek with the tip of her fingers. She could feel his lips under her fingertips.
In that moment, from the depths of her being, from a region unfamiliar to her, surged a strange
new feeling; a feeling rushing upward, gaining strength and mystified meaning, and penetrating her
heart with a spellbinding and thrilling beauty.
“Oh, Mom!” murmured Felicia, and heaved a long sigh, as if she could no longer hold the
tremendous joy all to herself. She had to share this new feeling with her mother before her
suffocating heart exploded into tiny pieces. “He kissed me, Mom. Billy kissed me on my cheek,
and I liked it, and I don’t know what to do about it. Such a warm and unexplainable feeling.”
Helena embraced her daughter. Felicia rested her head on her mother’s trusty shoulder. Her
hand touched Helena’s hair, softly brushed it aside with her fingers, and kissed her mother’s neck.
Helena sighed. “Felicia, I think you are in love with Billy.” Although it sounded like a
question, Felicia knew that her mother’s words were a plain statement.
“What am I to do, Mom? I’m lost. Somehow my mind refuses to talk to me.”
“You don’t love Billy with your mind, Felicia. You love him with your heart.” Helena
shook her head slowly. “That man. That wicked old man, Black Moon.” A pleasant smile appeared
on Helena’s face. “I bet he knew all along the outcome of your first outing with Billy. Black Moon
is right. We have drained the fountain of sorrow dry. It’s time for our canteens to be filled with
some happiness and joy.”

Early Monday morning, much earlier than usual, Felicia jumped out of her bed. Dressed in
baggy overalls, a short-sleeved shirt, and work boots, she opened her bedroom door. The smell of
fried eggs, bacon, and buttered toast came through the kitchen. She sat across from Billy. “Good
morning, Billy,” she said cheerfully.
“It sure is,” Billy replied, gazing at her bright face, and chewing a mouthful of his
scrambled eggs. “You’re up early. What’s up?”
Helena looked at her daughter’s glowing face and put a cup of coffee and a glass of orange
juice in front of Felicia. “Some breakfast, Felicia?” Helena asked as her fingers combed Felicia’s
soft hair.
“I’m starving, Mom. I could eat a horse.”
Billy looked at Felicia, then raised his eyes to Helena, and pointing at Felicia with his fork,
“What’s up with her,” he asked.
Helena shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, Billy. How would I know? Why don’t you
ask her?” With a serene smile on her lips, Helena walked in the kitchen to prepare breakfast for her
starving daughter.
“All right, Felicia, what’s going on? Why are you dressed up like a construction worker?”
Felicia took her sweet time to reply. She looked at him, had a sip of coffee, turned, and
said, “Mom? I’m starving.”
“In a minute, honey. Just about done. Billy, some more coffee?”
“Yes, Helena, I’d love some,” Billy said staring at Felicia. “Come out with it.”
“All right, Billy. I want to work with you. I want to help.”
“Doing what?” he asked abruptly.
“Carrying bricks, mixing mortar in the mixer, building scaffolding, raking the joints. I have
been watching how your guys do their job. I know I can do it.”
“Are you asking me for a job?”
“No! Not really. Since you started renovating Black Moon’s house, I have seen it
expanding, growing right before my eyes. New foundation, cement , carpenters, plumbers,
electricians, roofers, new cabinets and appliances, and . . . and . . . and. Do you remember what
Black Moon said before you started taking down walls and adding new ones? You said, “It will be
cheaper to take the whole house down and build a new one.” Then he said, “This house holds
many memories, Billy. Renovate the house, Yes, but tear it down? I met your mother, White Dove,
in this house. You were born right in that room, and took your first steps right there. Rain Dance .
. . Helena. So many memories. No Billy! Expand the house around those memories, build onto
those memories. Don’t destroy them.”
“I feel the same way, Billy. Yesterday, just the thought of leaving the security of this house
made my knees tremble. Black Moon, you, this house. My savior, my healer. The prince quits his
job because of me. Conflict of interest, I guess. As for this house, this is my castle, my sanctuary,
my rebirth, and my second chance to live. I can sit back one day and say, I helped – I hauled those
bricks, I mixed that mortar, I raked the joints on that wall.”
“Well said Felicia,” Helena said while placing the plate of scrambled eggs and strips of
bacon in front of her daughter. “Billy?”
He nodded his head. “All right, Felicia. You got yourself a job. However, there is a tiny
thing that bothers me,” he said with an expansive smile.
“What?” Felicia asked cautiously. She did not like his cheap, discouraging smile. As she
laid in her bed late at night, she thought about helping Billy. She made up her mind to help, and
help him she would, no matter the price. “If you think that silly smile of yours will stop me, well,
you are wrong,” she said with conviction
“Not a silly smile, Felicia. It’s a warning. I don’t want you to complain when your
twitching fingers can not hold your fork, or the bar of soap as you take your shower, or when you
can not lift your hands above your waist line. Aching joints, tight body and muscles, uncontrollable
twitching, and soreness everywhere for the next week or so.”
“You don’t scare me, Billy. Your warning, although very touching and sweet, is not
working.”
“I don’t want you to say tomorrow morning that I did not warn you. That’s all.”
Felicia narrowed her eyes and thrust out a stubborn lip. “I won’t!”
Felicia felt the first twitch on her slender arms and fingers just before coffee break. She
carried the bricks with the brick carrier, twelve at a time, from the big piles to the scaffolding, and
stacked them up five stacks high. She shoveled mortar from the wheelbarrow onto the square
boards and raked joints.
The masonry crew, all of them Billy’s friends, looked at her in bewilderment, admired her
determination, smiled at her, showed her easier ways of doing things, and chuckled good-
heartedly. She didn’t mind their good, but at times, overly exorbitant chuckles. She was one of
them, however. So she giggled back at her own clumsiness. She listened to their advice, learned
fast, and got very good at raking, stacking bricks, shoveling mortar.
At lunch time, Gary, the older brick mason, walked over next to her, looked in her eyes and
like man to man, punched her back with his huge hand. “You done good. Keep it up,” he said with
his loud voice. Then he turned and looked at Billy who was still up on the scaffolding. “Hey,
Hound Dog,” he shouted, “you are right.  She is special. You lucky dog!” Then he shook his head
and smiled, as if hiding a secret from her. With the same elusive smile faithfully suspended on his
cement-soiled face, he walked under the shade of the oak tree to have his lunch.
Felicia lay on her bed that night unable to sleep. She had eaten her dinner under the
watchful eyes of Billy. She could not remember what her mother had placed in front of her. Her
mind was preoccupied with the moves of her body. She had to hide her throbbing soreness and her
shaking hands from Billy. She was tired. Right after dinner she excused herself and went to her
room. Her body was stretched on the cool sheets of her bed like a corpse. Her joints ached, her
muscles twitched and twisted, her toes and fingers curled in tight groups. Helena’s massage with
lotion, oil, and Nivea Creme helped a bit, but not really. Although she was very tired, her mind’s
eye remained wide open. What kept her awake was not her tired body, it was Gary. ‘Hey, Hound
Dog, you are right, she is special. You lucky dog.’ What had Billy said to Gary about her? ‘You
are right. She is special.’
Did Billy say to Gary that she is special? Was she special to Billy? Then Felicia remembered
staring at that elusive smile on Gary’s face when he said, ‘You lucky dog.’ “I am special and Billy
is lucky,” she murmured. Just listening to her own voice saying those words gave her a thrilling
joy. Deep in her heart she knew that she was in love with Billy. She also felt within her conscious
mind a twitching thought, as though she were taking advantage of Billy’s friendship, his caring, his
blind devotion to her cause. Guilt and love were at war. Enough to drive a poor girl in love insane.
When she finally went to sleep, just before midnight, her love for Billy had conquered her guilt.

Felicia woke up to the loud knocking on the door. “Wake up, Felicia. Breakfast is about
ready,” Helena’s voice came through the door. “Billy asked me to wake you up.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be there in a minute,” said Felicia sleepily. She tried to move her body off
the bed. Her muscles throbbed, twitching and pinching, her joints ached, and she was sore all over.
Carefully she stepped down, and in an agonizing discomfort she managed to get dressed. Tying her
shoelaces was a painful scream, and thanks to Gary handing her his working gloves, she didn’t
have blisters on her hands, not yet.  “Billy asked me to wake you up,” Helena had said. Felicia
knew what was coming next. Billy looking at her, shaking his head with his warning on the tip of
his tongue and saying, “I told you so.” She would never let that happen. She won’t give him that
satisfaction. She would rather see her arms fall on the ground. Enduring her soreness the best she
could, she tossed her chin up, walked out of her room, kissed Black Moon on his forehead, sat
down, and cheerfully said, “Good morning.”
Black Moon glanced at her for a moment, said, “Good morning,” and resumed eating his
breakfast.
Billy’s eyes seemed to be glued on Felicia. His fork sailed up and down, from his plate to
his open mouth, mechanically. He almost tipped over his coffee on the top of the table. When his
fork could not find either bacon or eggs on his plate, he finally took his gaze off her. Felicia loved
that silent attention coming from Billy’s shocked reaction.
“Shocking! Don’t you agree, Billy?” she asked. Black Moon laughed.
“I didn’t expect any less from you,” Billy lied with a straight face.
Black Moon laughed again. He seemed to be having a great time just listening to their
conversation and eating his delicious breakfast.
Helena approached the table holding an enormous plate and a tall glass of milk. “Good
morning, sweetheart. How do you feel this morning?” Helena said as she was trying very hard to
put a patched smile on her surprised face.
“I feel great, Mom,” said Felicia. “Can I have some coffee and orange juice too? Also,
please, let me have a few more slices of toast. I’m ravished.”
Helena looked at Billy in exasperation, shook her head in dismay, forced a smile, and
walked into the kitchen to prepare some more food for her stubborn daughter.
Felicia ate as if she had not eaten for a long time. With every bite she started to feel much
better. To everyone’s amazement, she stood on her feet and followed Billy to work. The masonry
crew were chatting and waiting for them. Gary winked at her, nodded his head, and gave her a
thumbs up of encouragement. The rest of the guys were stunned as much as Billy. Gary
approached each man and started collecting money, and each time, he laughed louder. Billy
reached into his pocket, took out a twenty-dollar bill, and gave it to Gary.
“Felicia,” Gary said looking at her, “you’ll make me a rich man yet.” Then he turned and
looked at Billy with a huge grin on his tan face. “Another round guys? Billy? I say she can do it.
Any takers?”
“No! Not me,” Billy said grinding his teeth. “She’s way too stubborn to admit defeat.”
“Chickens!” Gary said and started cleaning his trowel from the accumulated mortar.
Felicia smiled at Gary. The mixer mixed the mortar, the men resumed their posts, and
another hard day’s work began all over for Felicia. She was flattered with the idea that the guys
were betting on her abilities, and thrilled when Billy handed the bill to Gary. Felicia took it easy at
first, and as her joints and muscles loosened up, she felt increasingly better. Although, at the end of
day, she felt worse than the day before, she was resolved to continue. It couldn’t get any worse,
but only better.
The next morning she found out that she was wrong. What she hoped and begged for to
happen happened the fourth day. She felt her body gaining control over aches and soreness. She
was in full muscular control, strong.  The puny muscles on her stomach, legs, arms, shoulders, and
hands were now solid like rocks. The bricks, which she thought at first must weigh a ton, she
could lift them now like feathers. For six weeks she worked with the guys, with Billy. The brick
work was over and the guys were talking about Billy’s next job.
“Will we see you tomorrow, Felicia?” Gary asked her while loading his truck with
scaffolding boards.
“No, Gary. I’m done.”
After dinner, Billy and Felicia walked around the house. It was twilight.  They sat on the
bench under the oak tree. The house looked fantastic – the bricks, the walls, her hard labor. Her
sweat was mixed permanently in the mortar between those bricks. A warm, binding feeling
bloomed in her heart. She had become an inseparable part of this house. Her wounds had healed
here, she met Billy here. He kissed her cheek there, and she had discovered she was in love with
Billy on the same bench where she and Billy were sitting now.
“I’d love to have a cool drink,” Billy’s voice interrupted the train of her thoughts.
“I’ll get it, Billy,” Felicia said.
“Not just yet. I have to ask you something first.” Billy was looking at his soiled fingernails.
His voice was soft, distant, and worrisome.
“What, Billy?”
“Now that the house is just about done, I was thinking . . .  this Saturday, if it’s okay with
you of course, we can go to a nice restaurant and maybe to a movie after dinner. An early
celebration between the two of us. Would you . . .?”
“Yes, Billy. I’d love that.”

The parking lot of the seaside restaurant in Panacea was full with parked cars. Felicia chose
to dress up in a flowing long blue dress, and a white long-sleeved blouse. Billy wore blue jeans and
a long-sleeved cotton shirt. Billy parked the car. He walked around the car and opened the door
for her. They walked side by side and entered the restaurant. They sat across from each other at an
outdoor table on the covered deck. The night was cool and pleasant; the air was spiced with a
mixture of fish and salt. They shared Billy’s shrimp platter and Felicia’s charcoal cooked red
snapper. They talked about the ins and outs of final touches for the house.
After the delicious coconut pie and hot steaming coffee, they drove across the bridge,
turned right, and parked the car. Holding hands they sat by the water. Silently Felicia looked at the
bright stars. Holding Billy’s hand was more than she could ask. She was happy. Loving each other
seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. A shooting star appeared low in the sky, burned
itself bright, and vanished.
Suddenly a frightening thought emerged in her conscious mind. What will Billy think about
the scars on her body. What will he say about her wounded soul, and to her sworn mission to heal
it? She felt as if her love for Billy had become a short lived shooting star in the darkness of her
being. A shooting star – dawned, burned, was gone. Abruptly she withdrew her hand. Her body
became ridged.
“Felicia, what is it? Tell me.” Billy said in a low comforting voice, as if talking to a
frightened child.
“I don’t know, Billy,” she uttered. “I’m scared. Oh, God, I’m so scared!”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“I don’t know.” Felicia lowered her head, crossed her arms, and hugged herself.
Slowly Billy raised his knees, placed his hands on them, and stared across the bridge at the
neon lights of the restaurant.
My poor, lovable, gentle man, Felicia thought. Thoughtfully he sat next to her in silence
and did not move. He did not want to scare her more than she was already. She realized that Billy
knew her doubts, her worries. Billy was always on her side. He would sit silently next to her by the
river, walk next to her on their long walks in the woods, listen to her thoughts, support her ideas
and her beliefs. Not once had he attempted to raise his hand to touch her. Such an attempt would
have been a violation of her trust; she would have shut the door to the shyly emerging emotions of
her inflicted self-conscious mind.
She had not allowed anyone, not even her mom, to change the soiled bandages of her
wounds. She thought then that no other man could touch her except Black Moon. Just the thought
of someone else touching her body made her quiver with disgust and nausea. As her wounds
started to heal, so did her trust for Helena and Billy.
Billy sat next to her, sensitive to her needs, caring, trying as he knew best not to scare away
her modestly emerging emotions of love and trust for others. The past six weeks of hard work had
taught her to trust Gary and the rest of the guys. She was healing.
“Billy,” Felicia whispered leaning her body against his, “hold me. Please, hold me.” His arm
on her shoulders was light, gentle, reassuring. She had never thought that falling in love with Billy
could make her life more complicated than it was. She could not figure out a way for both her love
for Billy and her traumatic experience to co-exist in her being, without one interfering with the
other. “Billy, my wounds on my body, on my breasts.” She could hardly hear her own whisper.
“What about them?” Billy replied in the same whispering tone.
“Don’t they . . . wouldn’t they offend you. They are repulsive, Billy.”
“I have seen them,” he said softly. “I have seen you at your worst, Felicia. Also, I have
seen you stand on your shaking legs, raise up your skinny body, and take charge of  your life again.
I stared at you over the breakfast table and I knew you were stiff with aches and soreness from
carrying bricks, shoveling, raking. I asked Helena to wake you up just to see and hear you begging
me that you had enough of it. I have seen it many times. ‘Sorry, Billy. Thanks for the job, but no
thanks. Not for me,’ they said, and quit the same day. Not you, Felicia. You showed me, all right. I
was so proud of you. So proud! So were the rest of the guys.”
“I like them. They’re nice.”
“I love you, Felicia. I love your zest for life and your determination to cure yourself. I
would not love you any less if your entire body was covered with scars. I don’t love you because
of what you went through. No, Felicia. I love you because of what you stand for.  If I were in your
shoes, I would have dug a hole, hid in it, and never come out. It happened to Black Moon when
my mother died. Felicia, you have changed our lives. You gave us hope for our tomorrows. Do
you think that carpenters, masons, and all the different crews and materials built that house? No,
Felicia. You did it. It’s all your doing. Without you everything would have remained the same –
lonesome, decaying, rotting away. I dropped off the groceries, and said, “Hey, Dad.” Silence.
“Bye, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, Billy.”
“We were emotionally crippled. We were dead, Felicia. Your courage, your fortitude  gave
us the strength to look forward, to heal our own wounds. How can I not love you, Felicia? You
say, ‘Black Moon is your savior.’ He says, ‘Raven saved you.’ And I say that you are our savior.
Black Moon and I love you for what you have done for us. We respect and admire you. And now
Billy is hopelessly in love with Felicia.”
“Oh, Billy!” Felicia murmured. She hugged his raised legs and lowered her body into his
lap. He gently caressed her hair and combed it slowly with his fingers.
“Billy,” she said after a long while, “you will not try to stop me. Will you?”
“No, Felicia. I won’t do that.”
“I saw the bright shooting star appear out of nowhere, leaving its trail though the sky,
burning, dying. I panicked. I thought you might want to stop me.”
“I will not.”
“I have to do it, Billy. I have to! Only then I’ll feel free and clean to give my body to you.”
“I know.”
“Can you . . . will you wait till then?” Felicia said in a trembling obscure voice.
“Yes, Felicia. I promise!”
The twenty-minute drive back home, Felicia thought, only took a minute.

Billy woke up to the muffled sound of the opening door. Without moving a muscle he
stared into the darkness of his room. The door opened, someone barefoot entered in, then shut the
door. He smelled Felicia’s scent. Felicia had her own kind of smell that wasn’t perfume; a sweet
smell of wet laurels.
“Billy,” she murmured, “are you wake?”
“Yes.” He didn’t move when Felicia sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.
“If I were to lay in your bed and ask you to hold me, but do nothing else, could you do it?”
“Yes. I promised, didn’t I?”
She lay on her side, stretched her nightgown,  bent her knees, and pushed her back against
him. With his hand on Felicia’s hip, he did not even think it possible to pull her to him and hold her
close till daylight. She sighed, took his hand into hers, and held it on her wounds. Soon her
breathing became deep and regular. She had found a calm refuge just lying next to him.
While Felicia slept, he lay motionless. So many demons for her to fight. Her will to live, to
regain what she had lost was unparalleled to anything he knew. This brave girl was in love with
him. He was hers for the rest of his life. He couldn’t remember when sleep took him under its spell.
What woke Billy was Felicia trying lightly to unclench her hand from his without waking
him from his sleep. She stood on her feet and, yawning, stretched her arms. She looked relaxed,
happy, and beautiful. Caressing her with his eyes, silently he adored her.
“Good morning, Billy,” she said to him, and bending down she kissed his forehead. “Thank
you, Billy. This was the most restful and the most beautiful night in my life.” She smiled, then she
said, “Come. Let’s have some breakfast. I’m hungry.”
Hand in hand they walked and sat at the table for their Sunday morning breakfast. Helena’s
eyes were cloudy wet, and Black Moon gulped mouthfuls, washed them down with coffee, and
chuckled happily. Then he stared at Helena. “Helena,” he said, “my prophecy came through. Didn’t
I tell you it would?”
“Yes. You certainly did,” Helena replied, looking tenderly at Black Moon.
“What are you two mumbling about?” asked Billy.
“What prophecy?” Felicia said looking at Black Moon. She turned her head, looked at her
mom, and stared at Black Moon again. “What prophecy?” she repeated.
“Tell them,” Helena said with a smile. “If you don’t, I will.”
“Helena, you are a very forceful woman,” said Black Moon. “Someday,” he lifted his finger
in a warning gesture, “I’ll make you regret and pay your dues old woman, for being so cruel to a
poor man like me.”
“Are you calling me old? Helena fired right back at him. “Listen old man,” she resumed
gazing into Black Moon’s eyes. “I am already paying my dues. I live under the same roof with you,
don’t I?”
“I like having you here,” said Black Moon coolly. “Your cooking is amazing, your coffee is
fantastic, spotless home, and I like your company.”
Holding a plate in each hand, a frowning Helena put them on the top of the table. Felicia
gave one to Billy and placed the other in front of her. Helena took a back step and put her hands
on her hips.
“That man,” Helena said in exasperation, “will drive me insane. You know something
Black Moon?”
“No,” he said shaking his head, “but if you tell me then I’m sure I will know it.”
“Oh, never mind. What’s the use?” Helena said, and heaved a long sigh.
“They are at it again,” said Billy to Felicia. “Love, war, truce, peace, again and again
between our parents. I think we should sell them at the flea market and buy new ones. What do
you say to that, Felicia?”
“I don’t know, Billy,” Felicia replied in a straight face. “I think I like them. I think we
should keep them. If nothing else, they are very entertaining. Don’t you think so, Billy?
“Absolutely. They are the best. All right, we’ll keep them.” Billy agreed.
Helena smiled, kissed Billy’s and Felicia’s cheeks, and made an unsightly grimace at Black
Moon. Holding the grimace on her face, as if to scare him, “Tell them!” she said in an aged, raspy
voice.
“If you are going to put it that way then I better,” said Black Moon, while pretending he
was scared. Then Black Moon’s face started to change. With his elbows resting on the table, he
slowly closed his eyes. His facial features became calm and smooth as if sleeping in a dreamless
sleep. He pushed his chair back, and stood tall on his feet. Finally, when he opened his eyes, he
was staring at a single point between him and the kitchen window. Billy could swear that Black
Moon was looking lovingly at someone he and the others couldn’t see. A faint smile appeared on
Black Moon’s lips, and then his face became a glowing light.
“The spirit of White Dove is looking after you, Rain Dance.” he said, and walked out of the
house.
“Oh, God! Poor man!” Helena wept, took her apron off, dropped it on the floor, and raced
after him.
Billy walked in the kitchen and looked outside through the window. He was shocked at
what he saw. Helena’s arm was around his father’s shoulders. His father’s head was dropped low,
his chin touching his chest. His father was sobbing. His tearless father was crying. Billy waved his
hand to Felicia. “Come,” he whispered to her, “come and see the most beautiful picture two human
beings can create.” Holding each other, Billy and Felicia stood by the window and watched their
parents. Ten minutes later, they sat in their chairs and smiling they ate their tasty, cold breakfast.




                            FOURTEEN

Religiously, on Friday nights, since Felicia’s wounds had been healed, and she felt confident
of her strength, Billy drove her by the bridge and he returned home. The green and brown painted
canoe was hidden in the rich evergreens that grew tall by the edge of the river. Dressed in black,
tight clothing, she steered the canoe under the bridge and waited. Old perverted obsessions don’t
die, she thought.
Two months after the house was completed and under the darkest blue sky, what she
waited to happen, did. The car stopped above the bridge, doors opened, a body rolled in plastic hit
the river,  doors slumped shut, and the car drove away. With a knife in her hand she dove into the
water and cut the rope in two. The heavy stone at the other end of the rope reached the muddy
bottom of the river and settled there.
“Oh, my God,” Felicia wailed. “She can’t be more than eighteen, and there she is, atop a
bloody plastic sheathing, dead.” The girl’s throat was slit from side to side, a bloody cross marked
her body, black and red bruises were all over her body, on the plastic. Hair, and semen was
everywhere.
“I’m sorry little girl,” she cried out, as she was rowing the canoe at the other side of the
river. “I promise you I will get them. They have to pay. I will not let them go unpunished. I swear
to you I will make them suffer for what they have done to you and to me.”
She stepped into the shallow water by the edge of the river, pulled the canoe out onto the
shore, and, holding the girl’s body in her arms, she walked into the tall woods, and softly placed
her on the ground. She opened the plastic sheet. The savagery emerged in all its glory.
Felicia stared at the frightful face of the girl; the marks of horror. She could hear her
scream, feel her intolerable pain, her anguish, the despair written on her wide-open eyes, her last
gasping breath. Felicia wanted to yell with rage, shout, cry, but she couldn’t. She had shed the
tears of sorrow and despair long ago.
She thought of philosophers teaching her and the rest of humanity, about Universal
Harmony. How had they arrived at that conclusion? Had they at their wretched idiocy included this
girl’s ordeal before she died? Or, did she have to die at the hands of beasts for the Universe to
become Harmonious? Is this what civilization is? Is this Universal Harmony? How sad, how
monstrous. Doomed, wretched humanity; nothing more than a meager stench and filth upon the
earth. So many excuses, so much nonsense, so much violence and despair.
Humanity had washed its hands long ago. Not her! Not ever! As long as those beasts were
alive, the stains of blood and semen on that plastic sheet would be carved within Felicia’s soul.
Felicia kneeled, raised her hands, and faced the endless sky. “God,” she prayed, “your Son forgave
them. Have you?” Silently she bowed her head waiting for an answer. It never came.
Later on, she walked back to her canoe. With a Polaroid camera in her hands she returned.
The camera flashed and spat out pictures till there were none left. Careful not to disturb the
patterns of blood, semen, sweat, and hair, she closed the dead girl’s eyes, and wrapped the plastic
sheet over the girl’s body.
“Come Monday, I will bury you at the most appropriate place,” she talked to her as she
was covering her body with pine needles. She picked up the pictures off the ground and put them
in her pocket. Carefully she folded the roll of see-through plastic sheet to a manageable size, and,
holding the camera and the plastic bag, she walked to her canoe and pushed it in the river. She
reached the other side of the river, she hid the canoe in its usual spot, and ran to her new home, as
if chased by angry yellow jackets.
Once at home, she sprinted to the river. By the time she reached the edge of the river, she
was naked. She took a deep breath and dove into the river. For an hour she swam up and down,
singing unrecognizable words. The only words Felicia could make some sense out of her continued
verbalization, were the words, Redress, Rectify, Expiate.
Billy waited for her at the edge of the river with a blanket in his hands.
“It happened, Billy,” she said to him as he was covering her wet, naked body with the
blanket.
“You’re not ready,” he said sternly.
“When, Billy? When? Will I ever be ready?”
“No, Felicia. You’re not ready. They’ll kill you.”
They could hear Black Moon singing as he danced, stretching his hands toward the sky,
spinning, feet beating the ground, dust flying around. The evil of those three men had reached the
spirits of Black Moon. Crickets, frogs, and all creatures of the night stood silent. A wave of cold
air moved through the pine trees, the underbrush, above the river; Felicia shivered.
“Black Moon is crying,” Billy said with his head down.
“The whole earth is lamenting her death. We all do,” Felicia murmured with despair. “All
but three.”

Standing by his truck, Billy yelled, “Felicia are you ready? Come on, let’s go. I’ll be late for
work.”
“Coming,” she shouted and ran out of the house.
She picked up the shovel from the side of the house and threw the shovel in the bed of the
truck. Ten minutes later Billy stopped by the end of the dirt road. She gave him a kiss on his cheek,
climbed down and took the shovel in her hands. Once the truck was gone, she jumped in the canoe
and steered it toward the other side of the river. She pulled the canoe ashore and with the shovel in
her hand she walked to where she had hidden the dead girl’s body. She lifted the girl’s body on her
shoulder and tirelessly she walked toward Bellows’ log house. An hour later she saw Bellows’ log
house, the Mountain Retreat. She stopped and looked around, smelled the air, and listened to
every sound. Hundreds of times she had stood at the same spot to become familiar with every tree,
the small underbrush, and the vegetation. She put the body of the girl on the ground next to a
rotting pine tree-trunk. A vast magnolia stood majestic eighteen yards from the rotting trunk, and
farther up the sloping hill she could see the back door of Bellows’ log home.
After removing the pine needles, she launched into digging feverishly the girl’s temporary
grave and threw a soft bed of pine needles into it. She stepped in the hole and pulled the girl’s
body down. She stood still, silent for a whole minute. Then looking directly into the sky above, she
raised her hands. “God, my witness, I will avenge your death.”
She covered the body with a thick bed of pine needles, threw wild flowers into the grave,
and shoveled the fresh soil into the grave. When she was done, no one would have known a body
was resting below the ground. With the shovel in her hand, she ran toward the river.

Outside the air was sticky and hot. The few white scattered clouds moved lazily in the hazy
blue sky and burned away from the hot rays of the sun. In the small garden by the river the early
morning watered vegetable leaves had lost their crispness, drooping. The river seemed to look like
a giant piece of pulsing, vibrating glass. The air-conditioning unit worked hard to keep the
temperature inside the  room  in the mid-eighties.
Sitting around the dining table with fresh-squeezed lemon juice or plain water with ice filled
to the rim of the glass, Black Moon, Billy, and Helena sat in silence, each one wondering what this
meeting was all about, and waiting for someone to say something, to start a conversation no matter
how meaningless the subject. Their heads turned to the door when Felicia entered the room and
their gaze followed her as she walked in and took her seat next to her mother. Felicia took her
iced-water glass, raised it to her face, and pressed the cool, perspiring surface of the glass on each
of her cheeks.
Black Moon tapped his fingers on the table. His face was puzzled and problematic. He
couldn’t understand why this meeting had to take place to begin with. He thought that everything
had been said and accepted by all of them. What was the point talking about it all over again? “A
few things have changed; the decision has to be unanimous,” Billy  had said, and Helena, although
somewhat reluctant, had agreed with Billy, and as an afterthought she added. “We have to listen to
what she has to say.”
To Black Moon the whole affair was a massive predictable reaction without a shred of
thinking. What was there to talk about – to say? Couldn’t they see that the plan was falling apart?
On the top of that, Billy and Helena were having doubts. Worse yet, the spirits of Felicia had been
weakening with each passing minute for the past seven days. The change had started when Felicia
had discovered the dead girl’s body in the river, and from that day on, everything seemed to
deteriorate and fall apart.
After Felicia had placed the plastic sheet that was wrapped around the dead girl in the
freezer to better preserve the bloody evidence, she had locked herself  in her room typing the
events of that night for later use. When she came out, she seemed to be angry with the whole
world, frustrated and disappointed with herself, and fiercely furious with her rapists. “I could have
stopped it. I could have saved her life. I knew they were going to do it again. If I would have gone
to the police she would be alive now. I killed her. I killed her,” she had said pounding her fists on
Black Moon’s chest.
She could eat but only a few bites all day, avoided their company, walked with stooped
shoulders and head, and stared unblinking into nowhere. She had lost interest in herself, in her
daily training, as if she no longer cared for anything. “What’s the point?” she would say dryly, and
walk slowly into the woods, or sit by the river and stare at it in apathy.
At first, chased by her self-imposed guilt and her growing self-pity, doubting and
questioning her own selfish motives, she had run into the woods and had disappeared for hours.
When she finally came back, she was upset, irritable, frightened, and all the useful lessons of self-
control and self-discipline she had learned from Black Moon seemed to be gone, vanished, and
they were replaced with the anger and despair of her own horror. The horror she had experienced
not long ago, now was coming back into her being, showing deep in her eyes, tormenting her. She
would think of the dead girl and imagine what she, herself, had been through. She could see the
small body of the girl, naked on the plastic sheet, tied up, unable to move, crying, begging,
moaning, as they danced around her, cutting her body, raping her.  Felicia could see the screaming
girl, the dread on her face, knife on her throat, her final breath.
For the next five days Black Moon became Felicia’s unseen shadow. He had to protect her
from her self-destructiveness. As he  followed her in the woods he could hear Felicia talking to
herself, shouting at herself, then yelling and screaming. She would sit under a tree thinking for a
while, stand, pace around the edge of its shadow, then kick and pound the trunk of the tree till her
hands and feet were filled with blood. Exhausted, she would sit down, wrap her hands around her
body, and rock herself for hours.
Felicia’s nights were even worse that her days. Black Moon could hear her howling scream.
The recurring nightmares; the reliving memories of that awful night, were draining her desire to
live, her love for Billy, her respect for her mother and Black Moon. Awakened by her own scream,
she would come out of her room, gulp a tall glass of icy-water, and with drained pale face and
glossy eyes, body and hands trembling, she would lock herself in her room, and after a long silence,
her screams would come through the door again, and again.
Felicia kept asking herself the same question. How could she stay in Black Moon’s house
preparing herself for her mission, the expiation of her soul, and allow those three monsters to rape,
to kill, to destroy, when she knew they would do it again? How would she ever forgive her own
selfishness?
She hadn’t cried since . . . and she hadn’t cried when she first saw the horror on the body
of the dead girl, or when she had buried her. When she had asked Black Moon why she couldn’t
cry, “People without soul can’t cry,” was his answer. She had tried to cry, and yell her pain, but
only moaned like a little injured puppy as she was taking the Polaroid pictures. She couldn’t cry.
She had tried it desperately as she ran in the woods, but she couldn’t then either. Maybe Black
Moon was right. Maybe our warm cries wash and cleanse our souls as they roll on our faces. She
could live without both; live without soul, without tears. Couldn’t she? Not that terrible after all.
She was alive. Wasn’t she? The one thing that terrified her the most, that gave her uncontrollable
jolts of dread, was her own unanswered question, her own belief, her own conviction that numbed
the fibers of her brain, destroying her love for Billy, and poisoning their future as husband and
wife.
As long those three beasts were alive, no matter if  they were convicted, no matter if they
were in jail, or federal prison, she, Felicia, wouldn’t, couldn’t allow Billy to make love to her. No
love, no children, if she could, of course, conceive children. Could she live with that? Could Billy
live with that? No!
The savages have to die. But, waiting for her to be ready, an innocent girl was already
dead. Would there be more? How many? When would she be ready? When would she stop them?
When?
“Awful, sticky day,” Helena murmured wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Yeah, Florida’s most famous humidity,” Billy said lazily.
Black Moon stared at them and shook his head. Felicia stared at the opposite wall and said
nothing. They seemed to be on edge, nervous. The bonding, the closeness that was wrapped tightly
between them seemed to melt and evaporate as the minutes ticked away. A new guilty emotion
emerged and settled in Felicia’s consciousness. The people who cared for her and loved her, the
people who had changed their lives and lifestyles to accommodate hers, sat in their chairs and
stared at the tablecloth in an uncomfortable silence not daring to look at each other, as if they were
strangers from different worlds. They were her family. And she, Felicia, was the cause of whatever
they might be feeling right then for each other, for her.
Helena pushed her chair, stood up, and drew herself near the air-conditioning unit. “Way
too hot,” she mumbled undoing the top two buttons of her dress. Strands of her blonde hair flew
around her head, her face. A minute later, she turned around, sat in her seat, and looking at Felicia,
“Honey, we are waiting,” she said in a colorless machine-like voice. Helena’s hand reached
Felicia’s, hovered above it, then withdrew, as if anticipating a negative reaction to her touch from
Felicia.
Felicia started. What was she doing to them--to her mother? Her poor mother was afraid to
look in her eyes, to touch her. Suddenly Felicia felt a gnawing pain in her heart. She took a deep
breath and looked at her mother. Felicia raised her hand, moved it, and gently touched her
mother’s chin, “Mom, look at me. Please–”
“What for? What would it change?” She sighed. “You’ve been acting like a spoiled brat
since . . .” she let her phrase trail. “You’re the one who is chasing us away from you. You’ve
become moody, short-tempered, un-talkative, unapproachable.” Helena shook her head and Felicia
withdrew her hand slowly feeling tremendous shame. “We know how you feel, Felicia. Don’t you
dare think that we don’t. Everyone in this room, in our own way, went through what you are going
through right now. We’ve questioned ourselves, stared at our doubts and our iff, our many ifs,
hundreds of times. Did they solve anything? No, Felicia.” Helena looked at the faces around the
table. They shook their heads. “No! Ifs don’t solve a thing. They never do. They only complicate
your life, the lives of your loved ones, and make the people around you miserable. Ifs accumulate
more ifs in our minds and what have we accomplish or changed at the very end? Nothing –
absolutely nothing. We don’t know what the future holds for us, or what it may bring and drop on
our doorsteps. Do we? Stop punishing yourself, Felicia; stop punishing the people who love you.”
“Mom, I’m sorry. It’s just that if–”
“No ifs, Felicia,” Helena shushed at her in a hoarse tone. “I’ll have none of that.”
“I could have saved her, Mom.”
“No, Felicia,” said Billy. “You couldn’t have. You see, by the time you gained your
consciousness it was too late to go to the police. The evidence we had against them was
contaminated, useless. My father did not put the plastic sheet in the freezer for its proper
preservation.”
“Didn’t have to.” Black Moon’s body moved angrily in his chair. “I never intended or
fancied the idea of going to the police and reporting to them what those . . . those monsters  had
done to Rain Dance. Animals with rabies should be dead and not behind cages foaming out of their
mouths. They should be killed before they spread more suffering.”
“I can do it by tomorrow,” Billy said grinding his teeth, making fists.
“Do what, Billy?” Felicia said looking at Billy with a dread in her eyes. “Do what?”
“Kill them.”
“Oh, God!” Helena moaned covering her face with her hands.
“I could do it, too,” said Black Moon. “I could have done it many times by now. Killing
them doesn’t solve the problem.” He turned his head and stared at Felicia. “The one who should be
doing the killing is neither you nor me. It’s her. Although we, all of us, felt her pain we are not the
ones who experienced it. She did. It’s not the same is it?” A long silence. “If you or I kill them that
would be an act of revenge. My ancestors practiced no revenge. There’s no healing in that.”
Now Billy stood up, paced the length of the room with his head down like a caged animal,
sat down finally, and stared at Felicia.
“Felicia, you don’t have to do it. You could stop thinking about it right now, we can  put it
behind us, have a cosmetic surgery, and continue with our lives.”
Felicia shook her head frantically. “I can’t. I can’t do that.”
“Why not, Felicia,” Helena whispered in a calm consolation.
“Because . . .” Felicia stopped the train of thoughts.
“Because of my promise to her,” said Billy.
Helena looked at Billy, then at Felicia, and then at Billy again. “What promise?”
“We promised to each other that–”
“Billlly,” Felicia moaned.
“That I will not make love to her until they are dead.”
“So you never . . . never–”
“No, we never,” repeated Billy shaking his head.
“I feel like I’m swimming in a dark, bottomless ocean,” said Black Moon as he raised and
stretched his hands above his head. “Why in the name of reason you two should promise such a
thing?”
“It’s very simple, Dad. You see–”
“Let me tell them, Billy,” Felicia stopped him. “It was not you who felt that way. It was me
who made you promise.”
In her mind’s eye, Felicia could see Helena encouraging her to continue. “Why,
sweetheart?”
“Because of the shooting star – it dawns, burns itself, gone for ever. Because I feel that my
body is tainted, filthy, dirty, and impure, and it is not the scars that make me feel that way. I feel
that I don’t have a soul. Because I feel that my children, if I could have any, may be born soulless.
Because as long they are alive I will not, I can not, I could not forget their hands on me, their
sweaty bodies on by body, the . . . the . . . what they have done to me. How can I let Billy make
love to me when I feel that way? Do you see now why? ”
Suddenly the two women stood up, two chairs fell on the floor, and the next second
Mother and daughter were in a tight embrace, supporting each other, rocking each other, one
comforting the other. By the time Billy put the fallen chairs on their legs, refreshed their drinks,
and took his seat at the table, they were still in the middle of the room in their tight embrace. Black
Moon was nodding, and staring at the two women with a playful, elusive smile on his lips. His
mind took him to yesterday.
He had followed Felicia into the woods. She was sitting under the tree when a sudden
whirling wind shook violently the top branches of the tree in a downward sweeping frenzy,
whipping limbs and leaves, tossed them sky high in a dizzying succession, it reached the ground,
and ever slowly, hardly touching the blades of the grass, it moved toward Felicia.
Stricken with awe, fear, Black Moon watched in utter silence, transfixed. Nothing existed
any longer except the fury of the wind, its downward destructive path. Never taking his burning
gaze from that pure moving energy , as if frozen in time, he saw Felicia lay on her back, hands on
her chest, eyes closed peaceably, motionless.
The next moment Felicia’s fingers curled and twitched spasmodically, her mouth opened
wide, as if to suck the terrific energy into her lungs. She breathed the whirling power, her chest
swelled, sung, and swelled again, and again. With each breath she took, the whirling force of the
wind seemed to recede, to diminish, and then a calm tranquility fell on Felicia’s face – in the
woods.
Black Moon raised his head. The torn leaves fell with slow simplicity as he watched them.
The twirling descent gave him a peculiar feeling of being lifted high among them, as if floating in
space, slowly falling, following the leaves, descending with them, his feet touching the solid
ground.
A high-pitched, shrilling sound startled Black Moon. With its wings stretched, a falcon flew
effortlessly hovering above them, then moved its wings rapidly, and swiftly disappeared beyond the
tall trees.
The woods suddenly seemed to be mysterious with its awakened sacred spirits, and their
encouraging signs. Such a divine connection between man and nature he’d never seen before,
although he knew it was very possible. Something, someone with a caring authority was
befriending Felicia, protecting, soothing her turbulent emotions and grief. How could he explain
what he had just witnessed? He couldn’t. Nor had he such a desire. Just knowing it was there,
being aware that it exists was more than he could ever ask. He turned his eyes into the heavens,
and closed his eyes slowly, as if to capture the unseen image of his wife in his mind, and
murmured, “White Dove. I miss you!”
The night had embraced the earth with its cooling hands when Black Moon sat next to
Felicia. She turned and looked at him wordlessly for some time. There was nothing to say.
Communication between them at this time seemed to be a useless device. They lay on their backs
and stared at the bright shimmering stars, the Milky Way, so near but yet too far to touch.
A while later, they heard the worrisome voice of Helena calling, “Feliciaaaa!” They stood,
and slowly, silently they walked homeward. They walked in complete silence, as if talking
would’ve disturbed and frightened away the spirits. Yesterday was a good day.
“What?” Billy asked, bringing Black Moon into now.
“Hush.”
Black Moon took his drink and waved his head to his son. The two of them walked
outside, and sat under the oak tree.
“It’s hot,” Billy said.
Black Moon took a sip.“Yes, it is.”
“Life is not fair. Too complicated.”
“Don’t blame it on life. You’re aiming your arrow at the wrong target.”
“Dad, do you think she will snap out of it?”
“Yes. Her will is much stronger than yours and mine put together. She’ll jump over this
hurdle, too.”
“Are you sure, Dad?”
“Sure I’m sure. I’m more sure about that than sitting on this bench, staring at your ugly
Indians eyes, and your sweaty face.” He shook his head as if utterly disappointed with Billy. “I’ll
never understand how people can look, but not see; how can they hear but not listen, or at the very
least, can’t recognize the very obvious. Son, look around you. What do you see? Nature – reality
all around us. Something that not me, not you, not anyone can explain. The only thing we can do is
be thankful, accept it, and be aware of it.”
“That’s a good one, Dad.”
“You’re a good son, Billy.” He paused.  “I know that you mother is proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”

Five months later, Billy and Felicia got married. Helena thought that a church wedding
would be grand, but Black Moon first and then Felicia, insisted there couldn’t be a God for human
beings. Black Moon believed there was a particular God for birds and animals, trees and wild
beasts roaming free in the wild bosom of nature, the rivers and the deep blue seas, the wind, and
the clouds and the rain, the sun, and everything beyond the stars. Humans had no God, he believed.
No God would have created a being such as man. No God would stand idle sitting upon his throne
and watch the savagery of mankind upon mankind, upon His creation, without striking them dead.
Man, he concluded, has no God. Men, he believed, are a freak accident of nature – a mutation of a
sort.
So Felicia and Billy were wed with no priest or preacher or religious ceremony. It was a
simple wedding with a few close family members and a Justice of the Peace, who said words with
no religious undertones whatsoever, and when he was gone, Black Moon extinguished the fire that
constantly burned during the ceremony. Solemnly now he kindled a new fire, a symbol of rebirth
for the new couple. Helena ran in the house. The lights were turned off for a minute, then the lights
came back brightly again. After that they sat around the big fire, eating, drinking and dancing,
telling old Indian stories, till they saw the red sun with its colorful paint brush painting the early
morning skies with hues of red, orange, and blue.

By the third year, and after Billy had told Felicia that she was ready to start what she had
sworn to accomplish, she had repeated the same burial of two more young girls, mutilated at the
hands of Forceworth, Bellows, and Kirkland to satisfy their sadistic  pleasures. How could they
perform the most horrendous, the most despicable act of all acts time after time? How could
anyone be so cruel to a fellow human being, to helpless young girls? Then she remembered
Forceworth saying to her in the car, “Every time I visit that place I feel new, young, and
rejuvenated.”
“No more. No more. No more young dead bodies,” Felicia yelled, and hollered as she and
Black Moon danced around a big fire. The thundershowers came down fast and cold, fell on their
bodies, stroked their faces, and soaked their clothes, their hair. They danced and yelled, lightning
split the skies, and thunder came down as if an angry God was asking for His final justice. With
tears in their eyes but unemotional stone-like faces, Helena and Billy stood motionless, ready to
throw more wood into the burning fire. By dawn the rain stopped and the exhausted bodies of
Black Moon and Rain Dance fell on the ground. Helena and Billy lifted their fallen bodies and
carried them toward the open door and into the house.











                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                            FIFTEEN

A shrilling thunderclap stopped Felicia’s train of thoughts. For one long moment she
couldn’t tell where she was. She shivered. She could hear again the heavy rain pounding on the
car. How long was she in the parking lot remembering her past? That thought alone made her
angry with her carelessness. The parking lot of the supermarket was not a secure place for
remembering her past. Felicia opened her eyes and looked at the clock in the car. Eleven-thirty
p.m. She sighed. Three years of her life were squeezed in a mere five minute memory. Through the
fogged window of the car, she saw a police car stopping next to hers. She cracked the car window
open.  Cool rain drops touched her arm and her face.
“Are you all right?” the officer asked politely.
A dreamy, reflective smile appeared on her face.
“Yes, I’m fine officer. I just . . . I like listening to the rain as it falls on the top of the car.
Very soothing. It brings back memories from the past.”
“Yes, it sure does, doesn’t it? You take care. Goodnight, miss.”
“Thank you, officer. Goodnight.”
Five minutes later, she started her car, and when she saw the public phone booth, she
stopped the car next to it. The rain hit her face as she walked onto the covered walkway of the
shopping center. She took a coin from her purse, wiped it clean of fingerprints and dropped it into
the slot of the coin operated phone. With a napkin around her finger she dialed, 911.
“Police emergency,” a woman answered from the other end. “How can I help you?”
Felicia pressed the play button on the small tape player. “Send a police car to Forceworth’s
home.” The prerecorded muffled sounds of a man reached the other end.
Within ten minutes, Felicia was safe in her motel room more than twenty miles away from
Forceworth’s mansion.  She saw the bright lights of two helicopters combing the senator’s estate.
Look at them go, she mused. She walked into the bathroom and ran the hot water into the
bathtub, took her clothes off and stepped into the warm water. When her body was in the water up
to her chin, she closed her eyes and started thinking about Black  Moon, her mom, and Billy. The
three people she loved more than her own life. And, Raven. She smiled.

The police patrol car stopped in front of Forceworth’s mansion at  eleven-forty p.m. The
automatic on and off exterior spotlights made the mansion appear like a house out of a dreary
dream, exaggerating portions of the mansion, and leaving the rest of the structure invisible, as if
lost in the bosom of the darkest night. A dim light escaped through the curtains of the far right
window of the first floor. The vast mansion looked more like a ghost house than a senator’s grand
manor.“Spooky, lonesome place,” patrolman Pete said.
“The rain is pouring like hell. I’ll never understand why things like this happen on lousy,
rainy days. Pete, hand me the raincoat, will you?”
“There you are, John,” Pete said. “By the time we finish here, we’ll be soaked.”
The two patrol officers checked their handguns, their police frequency radios, and stepped
outside in the rain with their powerful Mag-Lites in their hands. Carefully, they shone their
flashlights at the dark shadows around the house.
“Pete, you ring the doorbell. I’ll walk around the house to the back door,” John whispered
to his partner.
“Okay,” Pete whispered back.
He climbed the three marble steps of the covered brick porch and pressed the doorbell with
the end of a pen. Loud chimes came through the door. He could here the fainted murmur of a
televised talk show. After waiting for thirty-seconds, he pressed the doorbell again. Not hearing
any footsteps from the inside of the house, he tried the doorknob. It was locked. He knocked on
the door.

By the time John reached the end of the porch, the phone rang. He stood still. No one
answered. Something is wrong here, he told himself, and stepped off of the covered porch and into
the rain. He walked toward the back corner of the house. John tried to see through the closed
curtains of the big family room. He made a hand signal for Pete to follow him. Quietly they walked
toward the slightly opened back door.
“Something’s very wrong here. Get ready for the worst,” he murmured.
They drew their handguns. John pushed the door open. Quietly they walked in, reached the
open door of the family room, and instantly they came to a halt. Their bodies froze.
The senator was duct-taped by his arms, legs, and feet, sitting on a high-back chair in the
middle of the family room, his pants down to his knees, and two chop-sticks sticking four inches
out from his wide open eyes. A vile disgusting taste rushed into John’s throat. A woman was tied
up by the hearth. John pressed a button on his police radio.
“Central, come in central. One-O-Eight,” responding, he spoke with a lowered tone.
“Central here. What is it One-O-Eight?”
“Double murder. The senator is dead. I repeat, the senator is dead. Send backups.”

Detective Mike Chesterfield saw his captain, William C. Boon, walking hurriedly to his
desk. His face looked yellow, frightened. Boon’s gloomy face and fearful brown eyes were looking
at Mike in fearful bewilderment.
“Mike, we are in deep shit.” Boon exclaimed with a mixture of reckless bewilderment and
despair. “Senator Forceworth is dead.” He gasped and took a deep breath to fill his empty lungs.
“What? Heart attack, I hope,” Mike said and he tried to smile, but speedily he wiped it off
his lips as he looked at his captain’s swollen face. He realized that this was not an appropriate time
for a joke.
“I wished the hell it was a heart attack, Mike,” he breathed the words out. “That would
have been a blessing for all of us. He was murdered in his own house, Mike.” He stood up on his
feet tall and impressive, his arms fell down by his side like dead limbs of a tree. “Come on,” he
continued hoarsely, “I’m not in any shape to drive there. We’ll go together. You’re driving. Look
at me. I’m shaking like a leaf.”
Mike pushed back his chair and stood on his feet. He looked like a dwarf compared to his
captain. Mike’s dark brown eyes gleamed with confidence and determination. Square chin, round
face, short brown hair.
“I’ll drive,” he said and then looking at his Captain he asked, “Did you call the lab, the
forensic team?”
“No, Mike. Take care of it. My mind is boiling. I can’t think at all. You do it.”
“Kate,” Mike gaped at his secretary. Call the lab, the forensic team, and Bernie Horace, the
medical examiner. Have them meet me at Forceworth’s home.
“The senator?” she asked.
“Yes. The senator’s house, right away. Have five patrol cars get their asses there, and also
send two helicopters to comb the grounds around the senator’s house. Don’t forget the dogs. And
Katie, tell everyone: No leaks. Not on this one.”
“Will do, Mike,” Katie said, as she punched numbers on her phone.
Mike looked at his captain standing like a statue in the middle of the room. He touched his
arm and said, “Boon, are you coming? Come on, let’s go.”

Pete looked at John and murmured, “You look up there and I look down here. Don’t touch
anything. John nodded in confirmation and quietly walked up the circular staircase.
Pete dropped his Mag-Lite into its holster and held his gun with both hands. Soundlessly he
walked and checked the woman’s neck for a heartbeat. She was alive. Unconscious, but alive.
Holding his gun with both hands, he tiptoed into the kitchen. Through the opening of the laundry
room door, he saw the taped body of a woman resting against the wall. Her mouth was gagged.
That is when he saw the body of a tall man. Taped by his feet, with his hands taped on his back,
and his mouth gagged, he lay flat on the floor. Pete heard a faint sound. Out of instinct he turned
around with a single move pointing his gun on the woman’s face. Her eyes looked at him with
terror. Pete lowered his handgun.
She moaned, “Hmmm,” trying to say something beyond her gag. He held one end of the
tape and removed it from her mouth. The woman breathed hard to fill her lungs; she coughed, her
eyes got wet. With panic on her face and in a trembling voice she said, “I am Cynthia, the senator’s
wife. Get me out of this tape,” she mumbled feebly. Pete ripped off the tape from her hands and
feet. She looked at Ben’s body.
“Is Ben alive? Frantically her eyes wandered around. “Where is Robert?” she said in a
shuddered, frightful voice.
“Ma’am,” he said. “The senator, I believe . . . I believe he is dead, ma’am.”
“You believe?”
“I’m sure he is dead,” he said looking into her eyes. Holding Ben’s body he placed him in a
sitting position against the wall and checked his pulse. “He’s alive,” he informed her.
“Maria? Where is she? Is she all right?” The young woman by the fireplace Pete guessed.
“Maria is alive. She’s only unconscious.”
“I want to see Robert,” she said and she tried to stand up. “Please, help me.”
“I don’t recommend it, Mrs. Forceworth. It would be better if we can avoid that.” Holding
her by her arms, he helped her to her feet. She was still in shock, shaking.
“I’d like to see him. I want to see him,” she insisted.
“Ma’am, I don’t believe that’s a good idea. He is . . . uh . . . uh . . .”
“Just help there. I like to see him,” she stopped him. “Will you do that, officer?” Pete knew
that was an order and not a question.
John appeared in the kitchen. His gun was aimed at them.
“Put your gun away, John,” Pete said. “Anything upstairs?”  John shook his head
negatively.
Holding Cynthia from both sides, they walked into the family room. As soon as she saw the
dead body of her husband, she wailed, “Oh, my God,” and fainted in their arms.
“On the couch,” said Peter.  “Stay with her and take care of Maria. I’ll see what Ben is
doing.”
“Ben? Who is he?” John asked.
“The unconscious body of their security guard. That’s who.”

Officer Pete sat with Maria and Ben by the large breakfast table in the kitchenette. Maria’s
face looked pale, her listless eyes stared at the tiled floor. She held her hands tightly squeezed
between her legs. Ben was sitting next to her, punching his thighs with his fists, rocking his body
back and forth, and tonelessly repeating the same phrase. “It’s my fault, it’s my fault . . .”
Sitting on the hearth, John looked at the television screen. A segment of Laurel and Hardy,
pie throwing comedy, seemed to be completely out of tune and out of place with the silence and
the realities in the grim house of death. Loud sirens hit their ears and the powerful bright lights on
the top of the police car lit the house as it turned the last bend of the paved private road.
Pete opened to the front door and Mike and Boon stepped into the house.
“Where?” Mike said without looking at Pete.
“In the family room. Right there.”
“Stay here,” Mike said looking at Pete. “Don’t let anyone inside the house except the lab
people and police personnel. Call Orion Security Systems and ask them to bring the recorded tapes
from twelve noon time till now.
“All right, Mike,” said Pete.
“Sweet Mother of Jesus,” was his captain’s reaction as his eyes stared at the body of the
sitting senator. “What the hell happened here?”
The lab technicians walked in the house. Soon the whole house looked like a zoo –
photographers flashing their cameras, fingerprint dust over all the furniture, the carpet, the hearth,
the house. Standard procedure just like any other murder. The medical examiner, Bernard Horace,
examining the body of the senator.
“Bernie?” Mike asked.
“He’s dead. About two hours ago,” Bernie said listening to his stethoscope and holding the
senator’s arm. “Instant death,” he continued as he looked at the chopsticks. The senator’s blood
below his eyes had formed a thin rubber-like substance.  “Yeah!  About two hours. I’ll have a
detailed report later on.”
The noise from the approaching helicopters filled the room. They hovered above the
mansion; tubular lights hit the treetops and the grounds, searching for a moving shadow.
“We are two hours late, Bernie,” Mike said. “Two long hours. The murderer is long gone.
The son-of-a-bitch made the phone call after he reached safety. He could be anywhere now.”
Cynthia sighed and her body moved on the couch. Bernie sat next to her.
“Mrs. Forceworth, please, look at me,” he said calmly when she opened her eyes. “It would
be better if we sit with the others. Come on,” he helped her up. “Let’s walk there.”
With fright and terror in her eyes she looked at him as they walked to the kitchen. Ben and
Maria were sitting passively with their heads down, as if examining invisible intricate patterns on
the kitchenette’s floor tiles.
“Why? Why in God’s name would anyone do such a thing?” Cynthia cried with a half-
broken voice looking at Ben and Maria. “Oh, God, why?” she repeated and her body collapsed in
the armchair.
Right then Forceworth’s family doctor walked in. “Let me look at you, Cynthia,” he said
calmly. He examined her head wound. Then he examined the head wounds of Ben and Maria. He
looked at Mike. “This is amazing,” he rationalized.
“What is so amazing?” Mike inquired with an aroused interest.
“The blows on their heads. Just enough to knock them unconscious. No more, no less. It
looks as if he did not want to injure them any further. I still have to examine them in the hospital
for any internal bleeding, but I doubt it very much. Very strange, very weird. A killer with
feelings?”
“Can I ask them a few questions?” Mike said looking at the doctor.
“Yes, but give them a few minutes to regain some strength. Will you detective?”
Mike left the kitchen and walked into the family room. Suddenly, he came to a stand still.
He turned around and paced to the front door.
“Where is he?” he asked angrily of Pete. “Where the hell is he?”
“Who, Mike?” Pete asked.
“Billy. Hound Dog Billy. Where the hell is he?” Mike yelled again.
“Mike,” Pete said quietly, “I believe he quit the force some three years ago. He no longer
works for the department. I heard that he is a brick mason now.”
“Find him and bring him here. In handcuffs if you have to. I don’t care how you’ll do it.
Just do it. I want him here. I need him here.”
Mike turned around and Pete and John rushed outside the door.
















                            SIXTEEN

The loud screeching of Raven and his constant scratching with his claws on the front door
woke up Black Moon. He grabbed his loaded shotgun and pushed the front door. By the time the
door was half-open, Raven jumped on his left shoulder, screeching loud. Two doors opened. Billy
and Helena appeared like shadows beneath them.
“Stay in the house,” Black Moon ordered and walked out the door with Raven on his
shoulder and the shotgun in his hands. Like a wildcat Black Moon walked into the pouring rain. He
paced the length of the house, up the dirt road some fifty yards, and stood behind the trunk of a
large pine tree. He saw the bright lights of a car approaching the house from the main street. Not
possible, he thought. They must have seen his warning signs. He aimed his shotgun at the fast
advancing lights ready to pull the trigger. As the car came closer and closer, he could see the red
and blue flashing lights on top of it.
“Cops,” he said to Raven, and the worst scenario jumped in his mind. “Rain Dance. They
got Rain Dance,” he said aloud.
“Kraah!” Raven screeched once and moved on his shoulder for a better grip.
“Raven, are you sure?”
“Kraah, Kraah,” Raven concurred.
“What then? Why are they coming? What do they want?” Raven said nothing.
The bright lights of the police car revealed a man. He was standing in the middle of the
dirt road holding a shotgun and aiming it at the approaching lights. A black bird was trying to
balance itself on the man’s left shoulder and the rain came down on them hard. The bird’s head
moved up and down as if assessing the situation.
“Fuck!” Pete yelled and slammed on the brakes.
The car skidded to the right, then to the left, and stopped in the center of the road ten feet
away from the man who stood motionless in the bright beams of light. The engine of the car died.
“Go away,” Black Moon shouted, aiming the shotgun at them. “This is private property.
You have no business here. Turn your car around. Go!”
Pete tried to open the door of the car.
“Don’t you be doing that,” Black Moon said in a dry, but dangerous warning. “I’ll shoot
you before you step on my land. Trespassing is illegal.”
Pete closed the car’s door and cracked open the window. Yelling with anger at Black
Moon he said, “Foolish old man, I could have killed you.”
“I could have killed you first,” Black Moon said still aiming his shotgun at them. “I don’t
like the likes of you. What do you want?”
“Can I come out?”
“No!” he shouted. Narrow-eyed, he peered at them. “You can’t. If you have something to
say , say it from there. Then go away.”
“Listen, old man. We mean no harm. We are looking for Billy. We need his help. That’s
all. We want to talk to him. That’s all, honest.”
“What for?” Black Moon waved his shotgun left and then right. Raven screeched.
“Something directly out of a fucking horror movie,” John whispered in a trembling voice
to his partner. “Jesus Christ! Such a horrible night. Is he Billy’s father?” Pete nodded without
taking his eyes from Black Moon.
“I told you, old man. Someone killed Senator Forceworth, and we need Billy’s help.”
“Aha, aha,” Black Moon snapped at them and moved his head slightly. “Keep talking.
Who killed him?”
“We don’t know. Can we talk to Billy? Please?” Pete sounded desperate.
“Yes! You just stay in your car and don’t move if you like your lives.” Without moving or
turning around he yelled, “Billy, come out. These two cops want to talk to you.”
Billy put his handgun in the back of his belt. “Stay inside the house, Helena” he said,
opened the front door, grabbed his yellow rain coat, and walked toward the lights. His father’s
body cast a giant shadow onto the grounds. He passed his father who was still aiming his shotgun
at the men in the car and approached the driver’s side.
“Billy, thank God you’re here. That man is ready to blow our heads off.”
“Yes, he should have,” Billy said soberly. “You’re very lucky to be alive. Pete, you should
have called first. You don’t just ride onto people’s private property like that. He could have killed
you both, you know.“
”You have an insane father, Billy,” John said in a shuddered voice.
“He’s the only sane person I know,” Billy said abruptly. “You stay put. I’ll be right back.”
Billy turned around and slowly reached his father. “Dad, it’s all right. I’ll handle it. Lower the gun
down before you kill someone. Go home.”
“Are you sure, son? I can stay, and keep an eye on them.”
“No, Dad. Let me handle it. You and Raven go home. I’ll be just fine.”
Billy took his father’s arm. Black Moon lowered the shotgun. They started walking
toward the house. Billy whispered, “Dad, if they knew anything, or if they had captured Rain
Dance, there would be an army of them here and not just Pete and John. They are friends of mine.
If they knew anything would they have sent my friends here? She’s fine. I know she is. Go inside
the house and take care of Helena. She can use some help. Talk to her, calm her down. Let me see
what they want, then I’ll come in the house and tell you. Okay, Dad?”
“I guess, I better go then,” Black Moon replied reluctantly, walked to the house, opened
the door. “I hope you’re happy,” he said to Billy and shut the door behind him.
Helena stared at him. Dreadful seconds, puzzling seconds skirted by.. “Felicia.” They got
Felicia,” she uttered in horror.
“Rain Dance is fine. Don’t you worry about her. She’s fine. They’re looking for Billy. Did
you say, why? Well! I’ll tell you then,” he said with a devilish smile. They want Billy’s help to find
the killer of the dead senator.” He started chuckling. “This is funny. Hound Dog helping them.
Very amusing. Life can be such a delicious surprise.” He threw himself on the sofa. Raven flew and
landed on the floor. “I bet,” he continued between his laughter, “that they pissed in their pants
when they saw me in the middle of the road with Raven on my shoulder.”
“You are soaking wet,” Helena protested in a disciplinary tone. ”Go put some dry clothes
on you. You too, Raven. Go with him. Both of you can be so childish at times. And look at my
floors. Mud and raindrops everywhere. He and his bird. Both so immature.” She sighed. “Christ,
what am I going to do with them?”

By the time Billy arrived at Forceworth’s mansion, the whole estate looked like an
unorganized playground with children running everywhere. Mike Chesterfield saw Billy at the front
door shaking the rain off of his raincoat.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asked as soon as he got next to him. He grabbed him
by his arm. “Come on in,” he said. “We are in a big mess here. Billy, I want you to look around,
sniff the air like a hound dog, use your Indian scouting skills, do what you do, and come up with
something. You were the best, Billy. That’s why I had to drag here. Anything at this point will
do.”
“So you’ve nothing?”
“Nothing! Nothing at all. Not a thing. No murderer is that smart, or so careful. It has to be
something we overlooked.”
“You want me to find that something. Right?”
“Aha,” Mike said and walked to the back door.
“Hey, Mike. Any fingerprints or footprints?” Billy asked.
“Hell, no. Nothing in the house, and out there it’s raining like hell. If there were any
footprints, which I doubt very much, they were washed by the rain long ago. Lucky son-of-a-
bitch.”
Billy was thinking, Lucky, my ass. She has been trained by the best. You’ll find only what
she meant for you to find.
Billy looked around for some time. He looked at the dead senator. He stood there almost
in awe. For a moment nothing existed any longer except the senator’s glassy eyes and the
chopsticks. His body quivered. His quivering snapped him free of that awful gaze. Such an irony,
such a paradox for him to be searching for the slightest clue to pin down Felicia. He went close to
Maria. He looked in her eyes and asked, “Aramis cologne on your hair? That’s a man’s cologne.
Isn’t it?”
“I don’t have any cologne on my hair,” she protested, and subconsciously combed her hair
with her fingers.
“Both your hair and your clothes smell of Aramis cologne. Definitely Aramis.”

When Billy reached the back door, he saw Mike coming toward him through the pouring
rain.
“Two soaked garden gloves and a red cap,” Mike exclaimed. “Stupid rain. I’m not having
a good day, Billy.”
“I may have something for you, Mike. Not much, but again, something is something.”
“Billy, that something of yours is better than the nothing we have so far. What is it?”
“The killer wore Aramis cologne. I can smell it on Maria’s clothes and hair, which
translates to . . .”
“The killer,” Mike took over, “knocked her down out there, her cap fell on the ground,
took these garden gloves off her hands, lifted her in his arms, and carried her inside. After tying her
down and gagging her, he sat next to her and touched her hair.”
“Why should a killer do such a thing, Mike?”
“Well, call it an apology, if you like, for harming her. He came here to kill that man and
not to harm anyone else. This was confirmed by the coroner, Bernie Horace, and also by the
senator’s personal doctor.” Mike stared at Billy. “So, Aramis, hah,” he exclaimed. “Anything
else?”
“No, Mike. Sorry. Is there a reason for me to be looking out there?”
“No. Listen, Billy. Between you and me, right?” Billy nodded. Mike cleared his throat. “I
know for a fact that we’ll not find a shred of evidence, not here, or out there. Very smart man this
killer. So, why don’t you go home? What did you say you do now?”
“I didn’t,” Billy smiled, “but, I am a brick mason now. Not as prestigious as being a
detective, but hey,” he smiled again, “I like it.”
“Lucky you. Go home, Billy. Ask officer Pete to drive you home. Aramis, hah.” he
muttered shaking his head. “Another dead end.”
His captain was in front of the fireplace looking at the gold-framed picture above the
mantelpiece.
“Captain,” Mike said looking at the photo. “Those red markings on it are the only clues
we have so far.”
“A big circle, that TtG, and a red cross on the face of the senator,” his Captain said in a
whisper. “That’s all we’ve got, Mike?
“Yes, that and the two chopsticks,” Mike said in a confident tone. “If I were to speculate,
I would say that TtG is his signature, or the initials of a name, or something else altogether. I’ll
have a hand writing expert examine it first. Then we’ll see.”
“We’re in big trouble, Mike.” he sighed. “I should’ve said, in deep shit. Listen. While you
were out there, I had the senator’s wife open the safe. I was shocked. Three-quarters of the safe
was neatly stacked with money. More than four hundred thousand dollars, Mike.”
“Anything missing?”
“Absolutely nothing.
“Sir,” a photographer said, “we have to take pictures.” Both the captain and Mike walked
in the kitchen, while the photographer flashed his camera. Mike sat on a chair across from Cynthia.
“Ma’am, I have to ask you a few questions,” he said. “Will that be all right, Mrs.
Forceworth?”
“Yes, I guess,” she said, as if lost in space.
“Did you see anything – anything at all?”
“Yes,” she said. “How awful for someone to leave this world that way?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said softly.” Please, tell me what did you see?”
“We came home around nine-twenty, I guess, I opened the laundry room door for Ben to
go in first, then a man came out of nowhere. Then I saw something landing on Ben’s head. He fell
forward on the floor, and then a gun landed on my head. Then, I guess, I fainted.”
“Take your time, Cynthia,” her family doctor said holding her trembling hands.
“Did you see the man?” Mike asked.
“I saw his eyes looking at me. Big, brown eyes, dilated pupils. Like the devil himself. He
was a tall man, and I believe he wore a dark-blue suit. Oh, yes. Blue latex gloves. I am sure of it.
That’s all I saw.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mike said and turned to face Ben.
“All I saw,” said Ben holding the back of his neck with his hands, “was a man in dark-blue
pants and then something landed on the top of my head. That’s it. It’s all my fault, Mike. All mine.
It’s all my fault.”
“Maria?” Mike asked, and looked at her swollen red eyes.
“I was outside working, and then I woke up in the house after you were here already. I
didn’t see or hear anything,” she finished as if apologizing.
“So, Mrs. Forceworth, you saw only one man in a blue suit? Just one man, is that
correct?”
“Yes. Just one,” she uttered.
“Yes, one man,” Ben said.
“We have nothing, right?” Boon asked Mike when the ambulance took Cynthia, Ben,
Maria, and the doctor away.
Mike looked at his captain and shook his head. “The truth, captain? We’ve absolutely
nothing. We still have to look at the security tapes, though.”
“Tapes?”
“Yes, Captain. Orion Security Systems’ surveillance tapes. They should have them soon.”

No one thought of turning off the big television set. The picture went blank for a second
and then an announcer appeared on the screen.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry for interrupting the regular programming of this
WWN station. We have a sad, terrible announcement to make at this time. We have been informed
that Senator Robert T. Forceworth, has been murdered in his home some time between ten o’clock
and eleven. A grave and a great loss for his family, for our state, and for our nation. The police
department and the FBI are doing everything possible to apprehend his murderer. Our sources tell
us that no other member of the senator’s family or of his staff is in any danger as of now. They are
now in the hospital for further examination. As of now, we do not have any reports from the police
department, or the FBI who this dark-blue-suited murderer may be. Stay tuned to this station for
further developments of this heartbreaking matter. I repeat, Senator Robert T. Forceworth has
been found dead in his home. Stay tuned for further developments.”
“Damn it,” Mike said aloud. “I told them no leaks.” Pretty soon, the senator’s death
would reach everyone in the nation. Televised shows, commentators, psychologists, Forceworth’s
friends, members of his staff, teachers from his schooling years, priests, and sociologists would be
sitting on those shows yelling opinions, guessing. He picked up his cell phone and pressed a
number.
“Katie here.”
“Mike again,” he said. “Listen carefully, Katie. Have everyone in the conference room by
the time I get there. Make it an hour.”
“Who is everyone, Mike?”
“The governor, the mayor, the State Attorney General, the police commissioner, and the
sheriff as well.”
Mike sat on the hearth. The lab technicians were gone after labeling and cataloging with
precision the evidence they thought to be of some remote significance. The body of the senator
was carefully rolled and zipped into a silvery-white plastic bag and shipped to the morgue for
further examination by the medical examiner’s team – to determine the cause of his death, study
pathological changes, expose internal organs to note their position, remove them for eye
examination, and study them further. They were to be placed under a microscope to further assist
the criminal investigation, thus providing information about the events leading to the senator’s
immediate cause of death, and time as well.
The FBI told his captain that this case fell under federal jurisdiction, thus, an eminent
federal investigation rising above all other matters had to be handled by FBI. All of them were
gone now. The sound from the TV set sounded hollow, empty, meaningless. Some show
completely irrelevant with the realities that took place in the same room it was trying to reach and
to entertain the occupants of the house. “And life continues,” Mike philosophized, turned off the
TV set, and drove to police headquarters.
Everyone in the conference room looked busy; shocked by the horrible news; stunned by
the senator’s death, and very surprised and dismayed by the fact that the murderer was not under
arrest. They stood in groups, some of them talked loud, and some  whispered about the horrible
death of the senator. FBI agents were trying to give answers as best they could without revealing
the intricate parts of their investigation. Too early for specifics, they said and they left it at that, as
if they knew what they really were saying, but not revealing it, not yet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mike spoke with a stern voice. “Please, let me have your
attention.”
All heads turned in Mike’s direction. They stopped talking and sat in their chairs.
“I don’t have to tell you,” Mike continued, “what happened at the senator’s house. By the
looks on your faces I can see that you already know. I personally invited you here to inform you of
the senator’s death. I should have said, assassination. I know that the FBI has rightfully assumed
control over the investigation of the senator’s death. However, instead of waiting for my written
report which may take some time for me to prepare, I decided to let you have all the information
we have gathered by advising you of the progress of our department’s investigation. I know I’m
supposed to keep you informed through the proper channels. However, I took the initiative to
inform you of the evidentiary facts of this case in particular, because by morning, all the reporters
in the nation, from television to newspapers and tabloids, to panels of commentators, and what
have you, will have their say with many unsupported allegations. I apologize for my boldness to
have you here at this odd time.”
They stared at him in silence as if in a state of shock.
“Now then,” Mike resumed, “let me start from the beginning. The Orion’s recorded tape
shows a shoe shadow of a man if it is viewed very carefully. Somehow, the killer knew how to
avoid the recording camera of the security system. Maria is busy doing some yard work. He
knocks her unconscious, and carries her in the house through the back door. The man leaves
Aramis cologne on Maria’s hair. At eight-thirty the phone rings and the son of the senator leaves a
message on the answering machine. He turns on the television and waits. He sees the lights of the
senator’s car through the kitchen window, hides behind the laundry room door, and knocks  Ben
and Cynthia unconscious. Then he kills the senator by sticking a chop-stick in each of the senator’s
eyes. He writes a message on a picture, you’ll see it soon, and then he leaves the house about
eleven p.m. completely unnoticed. At eleven-thirty-five, he calls 911 and directs the police
department to Robert T. Forceworth’s mansion. His message is pre-recorded, disguised.
“We have no description of him, except that he has brown eyes, maybe six-foot or so tall,
dressed in a dark blue suit, and he has an evil look. We have no fingerprints, no fibers of any kind,
no footprints, nor any tire tracks left on the grounds. Nothing is missing from the house, or from
the safe. This case is not robbery motivated. These are the highlights of our investigation. I’ll have
a detailed report typed up as soon as possible.”
The door of the conference room opened and all heads turned toward it.
“This is Phillip Carproth,” Mike introduced him to the group, “our handwriting expert.
What do you have for me, Phillip?” Mike asked and taking the photo from Phillip’s hand, still in its
plastic protective enclosure, put it on the top of the huge conference table. “Pass it around,” he
said.
“Definitely a man’s hand writing,” Philip said looking with surprised eyes at the packed
room with the most powerful faces of the state sitting silently around the oval table.
“Have you come to some conclusion what this TtG may translate to?” Mike asked.
”Well, I have a few theories,” Phillip said studying his notes. “Let me begin by telling you
that if he is right handed, he used his left hand to right the letters, and visa-versa, which makes it
impossible to identify who he might be, even if we had him write it again. Looking at the letters,
TtG, I’d say it is either a signature, the initials of someone’s name, if you like, or a message of
some sort. I will rule out the signature theory because the second, t, is a lower case and not an
upper case as is the first and the last, which leaves us with my third theory. It’s a message. Now,
let’s look at the red, big circle and assume for a second that it is not a circle at all, but only a giant,
O. Now then, what we have is this: One is gone, Two to Go. From the looks of it and the fact that
he wrote the TtG inside the circle, I will assume that his next two victims are in that picture. Why?
Because the Two to Go is inside the red circle and not out.”
Five minutes later, the Governor, the Attorney General, the police commissioner, and the
FBI agent stood in front of a small podium rigged with many microphones from every major
television station. Cameras flashed, reporters screamed demanding to know.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the governor began, “a very sad day for our state and for all of
us. With a personal sadness in my heart I am to disclose and to confirm that Senator Robert T.
Forceworth has been found dead in his home. We’re doing everything possible within our power to
apprehend his murderer. State and federal investigators with all available men and resources and
the expertise of hundreds of men and women through private sources, have launched an enormous
investigation to apprehend this monstrous murderer. That’s all I can tell you for now. The leading
agent of the FBI will answer some of your questions. Thank you for your patience,” he finished
and stepped aside leaving the podium for the FBI agent.
All they received for an answer was a mere, “No comments, no comments . . . not at this
time, or we’re investigating that very matter as we speak. No! Too early for any speculation. Yes,
male. . . Yes, dark blue suit, about six feet tall . . . Brown eyes, yes. No! We’re doing our best.
Thank you.”















                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                           SEVENTEEN

Felicia raised herself from the warm comfort of the bathtub. Streaks of water rolled gently
down her body. She stepped out of the bathtub, took a soft bath towel, and slowly wiped them off,
then tossed the towel over the shower rod. She stood naked in front of the mirror. She gazed at
the ghost-like illumination of herself through the steamed up full length mirror. Surrogate white
skin superseded the knife marks. God, she murmured. She looked as if a cross was nailed onto her
body. She stared at the teeth marks going deep into her nippleless breasts. Gently she ran her
fingers over them. Then, she turned off the lights and walked into the bedroom. She climbed onto
the bed and sretched out her body under the cool sheets, and turned off the lights. With wide-open
eyes she stared at the dark ceiling thinking, One out, Two to Go. With that thought in her mind,
she turned to her left side, hugged herself, closed her eyes, and with a tiny smile on her face, she
fell into a dreamless sleep for the first time in the past three years.

It was Saturday at 10:00 a.m. when Felicia walked to the front desk of the motel. She put
her small suitcase on the floor and looked at the middle-aged motel clerk behind her desk.
“What do I owe you,” she asked her with her best smile she could muster.
“One night?” Felicia nodded. “Forty-one dollars and sixty-six cents. Will you pay with a
credit card?”
“No. To tell you the truth I never liked credit cards.” She opened her purse, took a fifty-
dollar bill, and gave it to her. Suddenly the motel clerk’s eyes grew big, looked around for a
second or two, her smile disappeared.
“Did you hear the big news?” the woman whispered.
“No, I didn’t. What’s up?”
“Oh, Mrs. Underwood. It’s awful. Senator Forceworth is dead. Someone killed him right in
his own house. That’s all you see on the television. Big, big news.” she shook her head gravely.
“Oh, my God,” Felicia whispered in a shocked voice.
“Yes, yes. What’s the world is coming to? One day he’s in the senate, a big man, and the
next, he’s killed by a murderer for no apparent reason. I’m telling you. No one seems to be safe
anymore. Are we safe? Are we? Can you imagine . . . in his own home? It makes you wonder,
doesn’t it? Oh, he was such a good man. Such a good man.”
“Yes. You are so right when you say what’s the world is coming to. I truly enjoyed staying
here. Thank you. Goodbye now.”
Felicia lifted her suitcase and headed for the exit door. She heard the motel clerk say,
“Have a good day now,” while Felicia was thinking, Lady, you’re so right. He was! He’s no more.
Felicia placed her suitcase on the back seat of her car, climbed in the driver’s seat, and turned the
ignition key. The car roared like a wild cat. Twenty minutes later, she saw the warning sign on
Black Moon’s property and the bridge coming at her. Five minutes later, she saw Black Moon
sitting in the front of the house with Raven by his side.
“You did good, Rain Dance,” he said when she sat next to him. “You did very good. He
looked at the bird for some time without saying a word. Then he said, “He is getting too mellow,
too eccentric. I think he’s in love.” He shook his head with a mild smile. “Strange bird.”
“Where is Mother?” she asked softly. “And Billy?”
“Your mother is right there,” he said pointing his hand toward the vegetable garden by the
river. “Billy is in town fixing a fireplace.”
Black  Moon told her about the police patrol car . . . about Aramis cologne, and he
laughed, and laughed. Raven was cracking rackets and flying in circles up in the sky. Later on,
Felicia went into the woods, made a big wood pile, and started a fire. She then walked to her
parked car, opened the trunk, took her last night’s wardrobe and threw them in the burning fire.
Hugging her daughter, Helena and Black Moon watched them burn to ashes.

It was past six in the afternoon when Billy parked his truck next to the Camaro. A smile
was on his lips. He looked like a chimneysweeper. He picked up the USA Today from the seat of
his truck and handed the newspaper to Felicia. He smiled at her, gave her a kiss on her cheek and
said, “Here. They have nothing. Nothing at all. Not a single clue. They think the murderer is a
man.” He turned, looked at his father and smiled while shaking his head for his last night’s
behavior. “I’ll bet he told you everything about last night.”
Black Moon nodded and his piggish sounds came out from his mouth, and at the same
time, as if he were an animated scarecrow, his shoulders went up and down, and his heels pounded
the ground. In some strange way, Felicia’s thirst to become alive again, gave tremendous pleasure,
a magnificent purpose to Black Moon. His long self-doomed approach to life, his toneless
articulation, his solitary living and trusting no one but nature and its creatures seemed as if
vanished like magic. He acted now like a brainless child. Now he could smile and laugh the same
way he had before his wife’s death. Billy loved and cared for both Felicia and Helena. He could die
for them, protecting them. They had become an inseparable part of his life. Billy looked at his
fingernails and sniffed his armpits.
“I really stink. Phew! I need a shower very bad.”
“Any help, honey?” Felicia teased him lively.
“No,” he smiled back at her. “I think I can manage it. You should read the paper. It’s quite
amusing.  I bet you’ll be tickled with what they say. Oh, well. Time for a good shower.”
“Hound Dog, you come here,” she said and stood on her feet. She held  his hands and
kissed his lips gently. “Now you can go,” she wished.
“I love you Felicia,” he said without looking back as he walked to the front door of the
house.
“I love you, too, Billy Underwood,” Felicia whispered softly.
Felicia’s voice carried a throbbing richness now. A richness that Helena knew so well.
Felicia was coming back. She had been punished long enough. Three long years, nightmarish
eternity. Helena and Black Moon exchanged a meaningful reflective glance. Helena put her head
on Black Moon’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
Felicia sat down on the bench next to her mom and Black Moon. She opened the USA
Today. The whole front page was dedicated to the death of the senator. A huge picture in the
center of the front page showed the senator in all his glory. Strong, healthy, powerful. Eyes full of
confidence staring directly into the reader’s eye. She opened all the pages, looked at them page
after page, but she did not see anywhere a picture of the senator’s dead body. She read the
editorial page where the editorial writers of all ages and gender condemned the murderer and
praised the senator, and she thought, what their opinions would’ve been if they knew what was
hidden behind the senator’s colorful mask. If they only knew. But, how could they recognize a
masked man in a roomful of other masked men having the same identical masks on their faces? Not
possible.
Soon. Soon Forceworth’s mask will come out of his face revealing his true self and
authorize everyone to see his authentic and accurate identity. Then, people will conceive with
horror painted in their sightless eyes the savage beast beyond his divine mask. What would they
say then? How would they excuse themselves from their immature inclinations and judgmental
judgements? How would they face their own image in the mirror? Would people feel hatred for the
assassin, or bliss in their hearts for the dead senator then? Would they be overwhelmed with
sorrow for the senator’s young, helpless victims who lay dead in the bottom of some river or God
knows where else? Dead girls who were tossed by him and the other two, after satisfying their
sickening and nauseating desires upon their innocent victims? Felicia will force you to see the true
nature of the appalling, savage beast. She had promised to all the dead victims of Forceworth that
soon the whole world will stare at the blinding, naked truth with disgust and horror. Would people
dare to observe steadfast the monstrous truth without blinking an eye, or will they invent an excuse
by justifying the acts of horror? Will they shut their ears not to listen to the thunderous, deafening
cries of the slashed and butchered girls?
“Come on,” Black Moon snapped at her as if reading her thoughts. “Let this one go. You
should be joyous today. The liberating day is forthcoming.” She nodded her head solemnly.
“Yes! You’re right, Black Moon,” she said quietly.
Hungrily she breathed the fragrance of the moist breeze coming from the river. She heard
the sound of the front door, footsteps approaching. Billy’s. She stood up, and turned around. Billy
was all cleaned up, his black hair still wet. He wore a white tee-shirt and blue-jeans. His face
displayed a grinning mask of fortuitous gratification.
“Billy, let’s take a walk,” Felicia said holding his hand.
Hand in hand silently they walked for a while, then standing in front of him she said, “I read
the whole paper. They know nothing. They say a whole lot, a bunch of bla-bla-bla, but they know
absolutely nothing. Thanks for the idea, Billy. You are a genius. And, Billy?”
“What?
“I love you with all my heart.” Then emphasizing each word she said, “I do love you.”
“I know you do, Felicia. I know you love me.”
“After this is over and done with, I want to be the mother of your son, of your daughter. It
would be so nice to have your child in my belly for the whole nine months, all to myself. I can’t
wait for the time when our children run and play with their grandparents.”
“Black Moon will be a very happy grandfather,” Black Moon shouted in their direction.
Helena eyed him with a smile.
“I swear that man has ears planted among the trees,” Billy remarked with a laughter. Then
he yelled, “What are we having for dinner?”
“Rabbit stew,” Helena said. “The best. It’ll be ready in about an hour’s time. Bring some
fresh vegetables on the way back.” She looked at Black Moon. “How about a nice, fresh squeezed,
lemonade?”
“That would be just the right thing to have,” he said.
“A fresh lemonade is coming up,” she said and walked briskly into the house.



















                            EIGHTEEN

It was late Monday morning, two days after the assassination of Senator Robert T.
Forceworth, when Mike Chesterfield had all the facts on his desk. The senator’s case was out of
his hands and in the hands of the FBI. He had finished typing his final report. He read it over and
he felt satisfied with his overall, detailed assessment of the facts according to evidentiary
depositions of witnesses and the lab reports, both of which did not shed any light on finding the
reasons, or a motive as to why the senator was assassinated the way he’d been, or who the assassin
could be.
The last evidence he had received was on Saturday by the medical examiner, Bernie
Horace. He remembered when Bernie asked him to go down to the morgue to show him, as he put
it with his not so normal humor, another missing link to Forceworth’s case.
Forceworth’s body lay on the surgical table looking gray-white. The chopsticks were
removed for fingerprinting, and if possible, where and when the assassin might have purchased
them. The removed chopsticks had left two black holes going deep into senator’s brain. One day
he is a U.S. senator, and the next, just a corpse like all the others, no matter if that body stretched
there used to be a mighty senator, or a bum sleeping in a paper box under a bridge.
“Hey Mike,” Bernie said cheerfully. “I have found, as I said, one more of the missing links.
Missing links,” he repeated and chuckled with his joke.
“What is it, Bernie? I’m not in the mood for your morbid jokes today. Way too tired,”
Mike snapped at him.
“You always liked my . . . morbid jokes. Are you okay? No!” Bernie shook his head.
“You’re not. I’m a doctor. I can tell. You know something, Mike? I know exactly what you need
right now.”
“What’s that, Dr. Freud?”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Bernie snorted sarcastically. “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t
say anything at all. Mr. Freud?” he looked at Mike disapprovingly. “I don’t believe you called me
Mr. Freud. That man was a nut in desperate need of a good psychiatrist.”
“I’m tired, Bernie. That’s all. Sorry for the uncalled pant. Long days and sleepless nights,
and tired, and angry, and at the end, I have nothing.”
“Mike, seriously now. Go see a psychiatrist. Better yet, take a short break. Say, hell with it.
If I were you, I would kidnap that girlfriend of yours, Heather, and drive up to the mountains. I
think you’re getting a bit tired dealing with thieves, bank robbers, drugs and drug lords, murderers,
assassins, and a lot of dead bodies. You’re only a human being, Mike. Your line of work has a big
influence on you physically and psychologically. Those affects can alter your personality, change
your life, modify your conscious awareness, and so on; they can be deadly if you make them a part
of your life. Homicide can be a very hazardous profession. It can kill you, my friend. I’ve seen
tougher men than you blown to bits and pieces. I’m not trying to give you a lecture. No, Mike. I’m
not. You’re my friend and I’m concerned. That’s all. You look like shit, Mike.”
“I feel like it also. I should take your advice, Bernie. Anyway, why did you ask me to come
down here? What is this damn missing link of yours?”
“Let me show it to you instead. Do you see those chopsticks?” Those are not ordinary
chopsticks, my friend. Look how sharp they are. The killer, whoever he is, carved them by himself.
So far the chopsticks are only chopsticks. Now carefully examine those burned marks on them.
After carving them and giving them their proper shape and size, he turned them into deadly
weapons by burning them in the fire. They’re harder than petrified wood. This is a first. Never seen
it before.” He paused, stared at Mike, and he resumed as if confessing to a priest. “Listen to me,
Mike. If there is a private reason or a motive to label it as a personal vendetta case, this has to be
the one.”
“I know. Bernie, I’ll tell you something very hush-hush, very confidential. Between you
and me?”
“I promise.” Bernie put his hand on his heart and looked at Mike with a great interest.
“What is it?”
“That man,” he pointed the senator’s body, “had more than four hundred thousand dollars
in cash stashed inside his safe, expensive jewels, and an original Picasso on his bedroom wall. Yet,
nothing’s missing. Not the money, or the jewels, not the Picasso. Why not? Why didn’t the killer
kill the other three also? Why did he spare their lives? Whoever killed Forceworth, is not a killer.
He is an assassin, or a hired executioner. I talked to my informers, interrogated low life thugs, drug
dealers and prostitutes. Not a word. Not a clue. It seems as if the earth opened up and swallowed
him. The more I look into it, the darker it gets. For instance, why chopsticks? Why didn’t he take
the money from the safe? Why didn’t he have any interest in removing from the walls those original
paintings? Why did he leave witnesses alive? Why, Bernie? Nothing adds up. Nothing. All we’ve
got is a dead body and a very smart executioner. Passionate murderers make, as a rule, a lot of
mistakes, leave a number of clues behind. They are blinded by hatred, passion, and by their
emotional state of mind. Not this one. This one is cold and extremely precise. A professional killer?
I don’t know. Maybe, and again, maybe not.
“Do you want to hear the worst part of all? The same assassin is ready to kill two more
people. Those two know who the assassin is. But, do they have the courage to come forth, to tell
us why the assassin killed Forceworth? Goddamn it. They are next in line. Why and what are they
hiding? What the hell is going on?  What are they afraid of, so much so, that they are willing to die
instead of showing their faces. The missing link, Bernie, is a confession from the Two to Go, and
not those chopsticks. The missing link is, why and what the other two are hiding from the rest of
us. They’d rather die with chopsticks in their eyes than to confess. Why are they hiding the killer’s
motive or his identity? Why Bernie? What has Forceworth and the other Two done to him? What?”
“All that cash?” Bernie said skipping all Mike’s questions. “Why should someone have so
much cash in his . . .” he paused. “Fuck. What am I thinking?”
“Right you are, Bernie. Contributions. Selling and buying. And, the world goes round for
us suckers.”
“Mike?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go for dinner tonight. You need a good company, a friend. Take that sweet girl of
yours, Heather, and let’s go to a nice restaurant.”
“Thanks, Bernie. I can use both company and friendship right now. Come upstairs when
you’re done here. I’ll be up in my office for some time trying to sort things out.”
That was on Saturday. Now Mike sat in his office with his final report and looked at his
secretary.
“Katie, do me a favor. Make copies of this report and send one to each name that I have
written on the front page.”
“Sure, Mike,” she said and looked at him as if he were a wounded puppy.
Suddenly, Mike felt very lonely. He had sensed the same loneliness as he stared in the
lifeless eyes of a young girl, a sixteen-year-old prostitute, behind the trash cans of the greasy bar he
used to bartend when he was twenty-one years old. After a long questioning by the police, Mike
drove to his one bedroom apartment.
He had sat there thinking about the young dead girl, her unnatural dough-like posture,
lifeless arms hanging, her ghastly live-un-live face, her tongue sticking on the left side of her open
mouth, as if mocking the whole world and her own existence, and saying, “What a big joke this has
been. So laugh with me, what the hell, who am I to miss, who is to miss me, all, a cruel joke.” Her
lifeless eyes constantly stared in his, no matter where he had stood, or from which angle he looked,
her eyes seemed to follow him ceaselessly, steadily.
As he sat lonesome in his room, he sensed something coming to him and settling like a hard
stone in his bowels. Suddenly his mood changed. He felt low, sad, and lonely. He drove around to
shake it off. Twenty minutes later, he parked his car.
A group of people were sitting on the pavement and basking under the bright, hot sun.
Black and white, men and women, old and young, all together, all a single group. He sat next to
them, with them. For some time no one talked. He heard a hoarse voice to his left saying,
“Cigarette?” He turned to the voice. A man in his forties, maybe fifties, it was hard to say, was
staring at him. Brown, washed away, lifeless eyes, gray long face, somber, quiet.
“Yes, thanks,” Mike said. “I’ll have one.”
The man chuckled, his body shook, his eyes gazed into Mike’s. “No,” he murmured
quietly. “I was asking if you have one for me?”
“Oh, oh,” Mike stuttered, reached into his pocket, took out a soft-pack of Winston Lights,
and handed it to him. The man took a red Bic lighter from his pocket, mounted a cigarette on his
lips, flicked the lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a long puff. Smoke came out from his mouth, as
if a hazy winter breath.
“Here,” he said handing the pack to Mike.
“Pass it around,” Mike said.
When the pack was back in his hand, “Here, we left one for you,” the man said.
Mike lit his cigarette thinking that he could go down to the store and buy another pack.
And, it dawned on him, it hit him hard. Could they do the same? Could they walk down to the
store and buy, not cigarettes, but something to eat?
“Thanks,” the man said. His empty eyes stared at an empty space.
Mike asked himself, where do these people come from, where do they go? Was there a
yesterday for them? Is there a tomorrow? Or, were they living in a constant unending now? Can
they remember their past? Do they even have a past? Who are these people? Does anyone know?
Does anyone care to know? They seem to come from nowhere, stay for a while, leave, and go to
nowhere again. Drifting like the wind from past to now and from now to where? Mike didn’t know
if they knew where was where. Drifting from here to there, liquid snowflakes dying unnoticed.
“Mama! Mama!”
Mike turned. She was no more than three years old, skinny body, brown hair, dark brown
eyes. Her long dress was bleached and faded from plentiful wash and wear. Her lips were pressed
together, a straight thin line, moist eyes, hands holding her belly.
“Mama, I’m hungry, Mama.”
A young woman opened her arms. “Come, come,” she said. “Come, my sweet baby.”
Slowly the little girl walked around the people and lay in her mother’s lap. She grasped her
tightly in her arms, rocked her slowly. “Mama, I’m hungry, Mama,” the little girl whined again.
“Hush, my darling, hush. We’ll be eating soon enough.”
“When, Mama?”
“Soon, my precious, soon. Regulations, you know . . .”
And, Mike wondered if that little girl knew what that word signified. He had his doubts. He
knew she knew what hungry was, or how hunger feels, but regulation . . .?
“How soon, Mama?”
“Soon, my precious, soon,” and she rocked her baby gently in her arms. The little girl put
her thumb in her mouth, closed her eyes, took a long sigh, she was asleep. “Sleep, my baby, sleep.
Sleep will make you forget your hunger.”
The mother rocked her baby and looked at Mike. He saw proud despair, anguish, guilt,
embarrassment. She looked away; turned her head up to the sky and closed her eyes. “Oh, God.
Oh, God,” she mumbled. “Oh, God! Oh, humanity!”
And, Mike didn’t know whether she was praying or cursing. He knew he was cursing.
”What is this?” the man said. Mike turned. A single tear was drifting down the man’s right
eye, rolled down his gray face, and landed into his open palm. He stares at it for some time. “Don’t
have use for it,” he murmured bluntly. “I can’t afford it.” He wiped it onto his worn-out jeans. The
mother wiped her nose on her shoulder.
Cars rush up and down the street. The green light turned red, the cars stopped. Heads
turned, eyes stared at the sitting group for a second, heads turned away, and gazed at the red light.
They all knew those people exist. They all did. For the next ten, fifteen seconds they knew those
people’s empty eyes were gaped on them. Their despair touched them. They felt those eyes on
them. No escape. The light turned green, cars drove up and down the street, the group erased from
the minds of the passing by drivers. Those unfortunate no longer existed. There one second, gone
the next.
The man buried his head into his hands. The Mother rocked her precious.
Mike? He drove himself home lonelier than ever, repeating, Oh-God, Oh-God, Cigarette?,
Mama-I’m-hungry-Mama, Hush-hush-my-precious-hush. Sleep-my-baby-sleep. Soon-my-precious-
soon, Oh-Humanity . . .
That day became the critical turning point in Mike’s life. He decided to become a police
officer, a detective. I can make the world a better place, he thought. Quixotic dreams. Save the
world. Change the world, fix the system to work for the disadvantaged. The system had devoured
all his beautiful, innocent dreams. The monster grew tall, and bigger, and stronger, and uglier by
the minute. How could he stop it? And as the years passed, his heart hardened, his feelings
unfeeling. He had become the property of the system. Bernie was right. He needed a good
company.
He picked up the phone and dialed Heather Primrose’s number at WWN, thinking it’s
about time for him to relax with his girlfriend and to endure the bizarre jokes of his friend, Bernie.
He figured, bizarre jokes are better than no jokes at all. He was starving for good company, for a
sympathetic word, a comforting smile, a loving touch.













                            NINETEEN

The procession of black and dark-blue limousines stretched like a giant snake. Security
guards dressed in dark-gray or blue suits, concealed handguns, and dark Ray-ban sun-glasses to
screen their eye movements, ran next to each limousine to protect their bosses from a hidden
danger that may appear unexpectedly by one of the hundreds of onlookers who were lined up at
each side of the street to witness, to pay their last respects, and to bid their final farewell to a well
respected man, Senator Robert T. Forceworth. With their blue and red flashing lights and sirens
on, the four Harley Davidson shining motorbikes lead the procession. Detour signs were posted on
every road crossing the main streets where the procession was scheduled to take place.
People were whispering to each other saying this or that, or gossiping about friends and
relatives, loved ones who left this mortal world, the meaning of life and death, heaven and hell.
Some looked uneasily at each other, whispered among themselves, and some stood quiet and still
and turned their heads away as the procession moved on by them. Respectfully they took their hats
off when the black, shiny limousine passed by them. Blanketed with an enormous flag, the dead
body lay in the coffin.
An older man bowed his head and murmured to his young companion. “Death is passing
by.”
The older man looked skinny and fragile, wasted by years of disease, thin lathery, gentle
face, fleshless bones, afflicted gray, wrinkled skin, caved cheeks. His lifeless eyes opened wide and
lit like candles in the dark. He looked at the black limousine with awe, his stooped posture rose
tall, his haunted face swelled with life. His young companion looked at him and suddenly knew that
the old man was going to die, that he was living the last hours of his life.
“Look,” the older man said. “The merciful Death is riding on his proud, black horse. Do
you hear the thundering sounds of his hoofs? Look son,” he said to his young companion, “look
how stately Death sits on his black horse. Look at his face. What do you see? Do you see love and
mercy, sorrow and pity, compassion and charity? Oh, merciful Death,” he prayed, “I shall be ready
when you come knocking on my door.”
“Oh, Father,” his young companion murmured in a broken tremor. “Oh, Father.”
Some people pushed themselves through others, staring at the crowd and frowning angrily,
shaking their heads furiously, and muttering between their straight angered lips, as if the gathered
multitude were guilty of the senator’s death. And from time to time policemen in uniforms and in
plain cloths paced up and down saying, “Stay back. Come now. Step back, step back. Go on. Have
some respect, will you? Step back.” And the procession moved on.
The big church was packed from end to end. The preacher’s eulogy was coming to its end
as he said, “Lord, Robert T. Forceworth was a good man, a loving husband, and a good father. He
was good for his country, for our state, which he loved so much, and for all peoples
indiscriminately, and a good Christian. We pray to You, Oh, Lord, have mercy on his soul. We
humbly kneel before You and ask: Forgive his sins; take him into the green valleys of Heaven.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Amen!” “Hallelujah,” the congregation hymned, and
bowed their heads before the grace and the benevolent eleemosynary of God.
Cynthia, dressed in a long black dignified dress and a black sea-through veil covering her
face, was sitting between her young son and the senator’s old mother. They were staring tearless at
the hundreds upon hundreds of colorful roses , all not yet in full-bloom. He loved half-bloomed
roses, Cynthia was thinking.
And the eulogies went on and on, while all major television stations sent their recorded
signals to every family room in the nation, the world. Finally, two marines lifted the flag, folded it
ceremoniously, handed it to the widow. The thunderous gun salute echoed, the casket was
lowered. Cynthia threw a white rose on the closed casket, and Bellows looked at Kirkland
signaling with his head to have a talk with him. Two minutes later they were alone walking with
their heads down on the green grounds of the cemetery, followed by their bodyguards.
“We have to have a private talk,” Bellows whispered conspiratorially.
“Yeah, I know. So damn hot,” Kirkland complained with the same low whispering tone
while wiping off the sweat from his face. “At the movies is always cloudy or rain falls by the
buckets. I feel I am in hell. It’s very hot.”
“This is not a movie. This is real with a real dead person resting in there. We have to get
together and have a long talk.”
“When?” Kirkland asked, as looked carefully at a blade of grass by the toe of his right shoe.
“I’ll let you know. I’ve read Mike Chesterfield’s report you faxed to my office. How did
you get hold of it?
“I’m still Forceworth’s attorney.” said Kirkland.
“Very discouraging. What about the FBI? Do they have anything?”
“They have nothing either. It looks as if rocks opened and swallowed the sun-of-a-bitch
from the face of the earth.”
“Anyhow, this is not the right place to talk about it. I’ll call you. Sit tight, and don’t do
anything.”

On the second day after Forceworth’s funeral, Paul M. Kirkland’s private phone started
ringing. He let it ring three times and then he picked it up, “Yes, Kirkland here,” he answered
hoarsely. He was not in the mood.
“Paul, it’s Elliot. I’ll see you at the cemetery in two hours. Be there.”
“All right. Two hours it is. Listen, have some roses with you and bring only one
bodyguard,” Kirkland recommended. “Let’s avoid unnecessary attention.”
“Fine. See you then.”
Elliot C. Bellows arrived first at the cemetery. His chauffeur stopped the black Mercedes-
Benz and stepped out. His hand was touching his revolver under his dark-gray suit ready to use it.
He looked around and about for two minutes and then he opened the back door of the car and he
said with the most professional tone, “All clear, sir.”
Bellows stepped out. His chauffeur pressed the automatic alarm button on the ignition key.
“Automatic alarm, sir,” he explained as it beeped twice. Bellows nodded and with a red rose in his
hand he walked toward the elaborate marble grave of his friend. His chauffeur followed him twenty
feet behind like an extension of his shadow ready for the unexpected. By the time Bellows reached
Forceworth’s grave, he saw Kirkland’s dark-blue Lexus stopping next to the Mercedes. Bellows
looked at the marble shrine. Engraved on the pure white marble the gold lettering gleamed into the
bright daylight.
                      ROBERT T. Forceworth
                          1937 - 1999
       IN LOVING MEMORY OF OUR BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
That’s all? Bellows philosophized. That’s all there is to life? A name, birth and death
dates, loved relatives, and a marble tombstone reminding alive humans that the named man used be
alive? Birth, death, and the continuation of the species by the loved ones. He bent down and placed
the red rose at the foot of the towering shrine. Kirkland stood next to him.
“We have so much to talk about,” Kirkland said as he placed his rose next to Bellows, and
then waved at the chauffeur.
Bellows made sure that both their shadows were standing by the cars and then he said, “I
don’t believe Robert’s death has anything to do with you or me.”
“How can you be so sure, Elliot?” Kirkland criticized. “How can you say that? Where do
you get this reasoning of yours to say such a thing ? We’ve done some terrible things together,
Elliot.”
“So does everyone else. Don’t they? That doesn’t prove a fucking thing, does it? Don’t
get hysterical on me. Not now, Paul. I don’t need your hysterics right now.”
“Screw you, Ernie. I’m not hysterical. I’m just thinking. That’s all. What’s wrong with
that?”
“Then stop thinking and let’s see what we got,” Ernie spoke with a calmer voice this time.
“How long has been since our first Mountain Retreat ritual? How many times have we gone there?
Tell me.”
“Since you built the log-home. Fifteen years now, I think, and we have done it, let me see .
. . nine times since then. Why?”
“Very good memory, Paul. Now tell me. How many times has a police officer or an FBI
agent asked you or your staff a single question before or after the death of our friend,
Forceworth?”
“Not once,” Paul breathed out in exasperation. “But–”
“They have not asked me either. That’s one. Two, no one knows that I’m the owner of the
Mountain Retreat. Let’s say that I do have my ways and we leave it at that. There are only three
people who know that house is mine. You, me, and him, who is six feet under, and nine dead
girls.”
“How about if one of them, you know, survived?” Kirkland’s voice came out raspy.
“Absolutely not.” Bellows paused, looked at Kirkland angrily resenting his comment, and
cleared his throat with a gruffly sound. “I’ll tell you why,” he continued. “First, we made sure they
were dead. Didn’t we?” A small nod from Kirkland. “Two, they are either resting with a huge
stone in the bottom of the river and by now, and I bet my life on this, they have been consumed as
fish food, or their bodies are rotting away in their deep holes underground. Three, no one saw the
three of us going to my log-home together, and four, many girls are missing every day,
everywhere. Go and look to the missing persons bulletin at the Post Office sometime. That’s the
reality of things. Finally, Robert’s murderer was a man, not a woman. Do you understand all that?
Now, let me tell you what I think. Okay?”
“What? Tell me,” Paul said panting like a little dog.
“Will you shut your mouth and relax, Paul? You’re acting like a frightful little girl. Stop
that. You’ll end up giving the both of us up on a platter for the justice to fry. The killer is not after
you or me. So, relax. Stop thinking the way you do. Trust me on this one. It will fly away. All
right? You haven’t changed a bit since our college years when I first met you. You were a scared-
cat then and you still are the same scared-cat now. Damn you, Paul. You’re a powerful,
distinguished attorney. Act like one.”
“Yeah, I should,” he pondered skeptically. “Can I ask you something, Elliot?”
“Sure you can. That’s why we’re here.?”
“Who do you think the murderer is?”
“I think that Robert’s killer is a very disappointed businessman who gave a lot of money to
Forceworth for the passing of a bill favoring the businessman’s business, but nevertheless, Robert
signed against it. You see? We’re in the clear.”
“That’s so true. But still–”
“You see?” Bellows stopped him. “Go home, relax. We’re fine.”
“There’s one more thing,” Paul said with an obscure tone.
“Spell it out then. Stop acting like a spineless worm,” Bellows said angrily.
“I was thinking about that circle theory and the letters, TtG. We already know the, Two to
Go part, and that the circle is not a circle but a huge. One. Because the TtG is inside of the circle it
would be very logical to say, One U.S. senator within the circle is crossed and dead, and Two more
senators to Go.”
Bellows looked at him reflectively. “From now on, I’ll stop wondering why in hell you
were studying philosophy and logic. You see, Paul? You hit the nail squarely on its head. We’ve
nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, it could be a good idea if we were to act cool. I must
confess, Paul. You are brilliant.”
“Ernie, I don’t think we should . . . continue. I don’t believe we should.”
Bellows looked at the frightened eyes of his friend. “No,” he said calmly. “Not yet. Let
things calm down a bit. Say, ten months, a year. Maybe two. Then we’ll talk about it.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, Elliot.” Kirkland eyed him in somber defiance. “I don’t want
to do it any more. I’m out.”
“We’ll see about that. Won’t we?”
They turned and slowly strolled to their cars. As they were passing by their friend’s grave
they stopped momentarily.
“Poor savage brute,” Bellows expressed in a scoffed tone. “I never thought that he could
end up like that. Those pictures of him in his chair with chopsticks sticking out from his eyes.
Dreadful. How did you get them anyhow?  Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” His eyes scanned
the grave critically. “A tiny dark hole in the earth. His final home. Food for worms and maggots.
Very depressing. Paul, do you think there is heaven and hell, eternal punishment, fire, and all that?”
“I don’t feel like thinking or talking about hell right now. Do you mind, Elliot? This is
getting too morbid for me.”
“You know something, Paul?”
“What?”
“I loved those college years. We had more than ten thousand girls to choose from. It was
so easy then. So darn easy. Three of them and no one suspected or asked a question – not to me,
to you, or to him under there. Those were the times.” He paused and came to a halt. A sinister
expression surfaced on his face. “We were afraid of nothing. Remember? Dressed like the three
Musketeers, the blades of our swords touching above our heads, and singing our oath. Good old
days. We were so care free then, so brave. Damn.”
“Elliot, it was nice talking to you,” Kirkland said hoarsely. “I certainly needed it, but
listen, I have to go.”
“Paul, if I were you, I would keep that fear of yours under control.” He sounded like a
hissing snake before attacking his prey.
“I’m doing my best. Stop shouting at me. Will you?”
“Paul, listen to me. I hate bringing this up right now, but I despise charcoal fried meat.
Especially if that meat happened to be my own body. Or yours,” he added in a warning tone. “Do
you get the message?” he finished with malice.
Paul’s customary boisterous courtroom composure vanished completely. His shoulders
dropped, his chest caved in, his arms seemed to grow longer, his head plunged on his chest, his lips
moved soundlessly addressing the blades of grass. He looked as if someone sucked out of him the
will to live. He had witnessed the execution of a murderer before. Electric chair. Barbaric
detonating eruptions of electricity, titanic power bursting through his entire being, fusing brain
matter in his skull, mingling bones, flesh, and blood into an inferno, and he, recoiling, whining,
kicking, clawing for the last millisecond of survival. He’d gotten the message all right. He had to
keep a tight lid on his fears. He sighed in a dire exasperation.
“Yes! I got it.”






                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                             TWENTY

It was Friday again, seven days after the senator’s death. The days zoomed by as they had
done, unaffected uncaring about the affairs of the human creature, for millions of years. Reporters
wrote their in-depth articles and summarized the glorious career of senator Robert T. Forceworth.
The television commentators sat in round tables debating, arguing, fighting, finger pointing,
accusing, or praising. Prominent psychologists and psychiatrists grinned knowingly, evaluated and
analyzed the psyche of the assassin, the psychopath.
Some blamed fathers and mothers, others the corrupt and tainted society, and yet some
others blamed the ten commandments, the law and the courts, the rich and the poor. They blamed
everything and everyone, except their own profession. Advertising slots sky-rocketed, and
newspapers and magazines pounded the senator’s death into the ground. It certainly was an
eventful week, a week of constant news and theories which let no light at all on who the dark-blue-
suited assassin might be. Abound speculations, hundreds of pondering theories, dark roads, dead
end streets. Blank, self-erasing walls.
With latex gloves on her hands, Felicia typed the letter on the keyboard of her computer.
The message had to be clear, detailed, explicitly precise, and accurate. The timing of her next move
had to be flawlessly perfect. She paused. Tomorrow she would be free. Tomorrow she will cleanse
and heal her tormented soul. Free! Dazed with a kind of listless abandonment she stared  at the
scrambled lettering of the keyboard. She was drifting dangerously into the perilous sea of her
despair. The slow humming of Black Moon hit her ears as though appeasing the fabric of her spirit
with a tingling, rugged glow of encouraging assurance. Black Moon. The small-big giant. She
couldn’t exist without him. She shook her head to chase away her stalking thoughts and started
typing again. When she had finished, she paused, and read the first letter.

    Mike, use the enclosed key to unlock the numbered locker at the airport. In it, you’ll find
    the evidence to what you are looking for. Take your girlfriend, Heather Primrose, with you.
    Ask her to have her camera loaded and ready to record the unveiling of the truth. Sorry for
    not revealing my identity, but in the end, I am sure, you’ll understand why. Don’t waste
    your time looking for fingerprints. You’ll find none.

Good, Felicia said to herself. One letter was done. Felicia began typing the second letter;
the detailed confession of her ordeal of that awful Friday night; the victims who had followed, the
gruesome, inhumane acts forced upon them, leaving nothing untold. People had to know the true
nature of those three men. She had to tell her story to everyone. Her accusers had to understand
why those three men had to die. She needed the consent and forgiveness of the people. She was
not a killer or a murderer, nor an assassin or an executioner as the media had accused that she was.
Billy and Felicia had talked in length about her objective outlook as they walked in the
woods after she had read the accusatory reports on so many editorial pages of newspapers and
magazines. Billy thought that the best way to remedy and accomplish her goals would be to use
her accusers; the media, and through them, the minds of everyone. Billy also had told her that
detective Mike Chesterfield was her best choice. Billy knew that Mike would do the right thing.
She had thought many times about God, Noah, Sodom and Gomorrah. Was God taking
revenge, or simply eliminating the sinners from the face of the earth? She had heard God’s
thunderous, demanding cry. In her heart she knew God would forgive her actions. Would people
forgive her also if they knew the truth? People had to hear her confession. She lived in the same
world as they, her children would live in the same world, go to same schools, worship the same
God.
She couldn’t stand the idea that some day in the future her children might think that the
killer of Forceworth was a heinous murderer. She needed the public on her side. How else could
she stop the FBI or the police from investigating any further? How else could she change the
sickening opinions about her? People had to forgive and forget. Then and only then she would feel
completely free of any thoughts of guilt – utterly free in her conscious, spirit, and soul; free to
resume her life.
Mike Chesterfield was the key to her freedom, to her absolute deliverance. Through Mike,
and through the “airing” of her confession by WWN, the entire world would put an end to her
life’s horrible chapter.
When she had finished typing the twenty-five-page second letter, she read both letters over
and over again, and completely satisfied, she printed them both. She placed them in two different
envelopes with the name, MIKE, on them. She opened her Political Science book and placed both
envelopes in it. She was thinking about the expression on the faces of detective Mike Chesterfield
and Heather Primrose, a reporter of the WWN, as they read the gory details of what powerful men
are capable of doing when they take off the blurring veil from their true selves. She walked
outside. Billy was sitting with her mom and Black Moon under the live oak tree.
She waved at them. “Billy, I’m ready to go when you are,” she said.
Billy thought that if they were to remove one of the stones and the half cut rope from the
bottom of the river, it would not leave any evidence for subsequent investigation. Why take a
chance at all when it can be eliminated so easily?
“Let’s take it out of the way, Billy.”
Billy stopped his truck before reaching the main highway. Dressed in a whole-body
swimsuit, she stepped out of the truck, holding in her hands, flippers, mask, and snorkel, and
walked hidden in the underbrush of the tall woods. Billy turned the truck around and drove home.
She entered into the river and started swimming under the water. When she reached the right spot
under the bridge, she took a deep breath and dove deeper.
She looked at the hooped rope floating in between the other four hoopless cut ropes. The
ropes looked like headless snakes as they moved back and forth and sideways by the currents of
the river. Five victims in all, she thought. Each rope, each stone belonged to a victim. One of the
ropes lingered with the loop undone. Deep down Felicia knew who she was. Billy’s mother, Black
Moon’s wife, White Dove. The only thing left as a testament that she also was alive some time
ago, was a stone buried in the bottom of the muddy river and a loop at the floating end of the rope.
She got hold of one of the cut ropes and swam straight up for the sunlight. When finally,
she reached the dirt road to Black Moon’s house, she dropped the wet stone next to some other
rocks by the dirt road, untied the rope from it, and walked to Black Moon’s house. She was ready.
Tomorrow by this time the whole world would know the horror of the truth. Tomorrow she would
be free.




















                           TWENTY ONE

Hidden in the low branches of the tree, Felicia waited patiently. She could see the two men
in Bellows log-house. Elliot C. Bellows said something to his companion. The tall muscular man
stood up  and holding a handgun he walked to the back door. He turned on the bright exterior
lights and looked around. Slowly he combed the grounds on the back of the house with a powerful
flashlight. He walked to the woodpile under the tree, then checked around the woodpile. He
caressed his gun, “My sweet babe,” he murmured, and placed it in its holster.
Felicia struck him on the head. His body hit the fallen dead oak leaves, the ground. Agile,
like a black wild-cat, Felicia jumped down from the branch of the oak tree. Within seconds the
bodyguard’s body was tied up and gagged. She took the gun and the Mag-lite, and imitating the
guard’s steps, she entered the house.
Bellows was totally absorbed by what he was reading. He was stretched out on the couch
by the fireplace with his feet resting on the top of the coffee table.
“Hello, Mr. Bellows,” she said when she had reached closer to him. He froze. Slowly he
turned his head and looked at the Colt .45, aiming at his head.
“Who are you? What do you want?” His words came out like a scream. His shocked eyes
bulged out of their sockets like light bulbs.
“I don’t have time to chat with you,” she said looking into his terrorized eyes. She threw a
black roll of duct tape next to him and coldly said, “Time is a commodity I don’t have. If you do as
I say, Mr. Bellows, and if you do not want a bullet trying to make roots between your eyes, then I
promise to give you the best show you ever saw.”
It’s my turn, he thought. He was sure that she was Forceworth’s murderer. He was not He.
He was She. Kirkland was right after all. How could this girl be alive? They had made sure that
they were dead. Which one was she? How did she survived? What now? He didn’t want to end up
like Forceworth. He’d seen those dreadful pictures of Forceworth. Pictures of horror and disgust,
nauseating. He felt like a mad man at the verge of hysteria. He tried to control the rummaging in
his skull dominating fears, to stay calm, but deep down in his primitive brain he sensed a tiny
psychopath, a maniacal fawn laughing haughtily, dancing merrily, holding a sharp knife, carving,
cutting. He could feel the excruciating pain, the torturous fear. The words rushed out of his mouth
all at once.
“I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t kill me. Please,” he begged.
“First, I want you to be silent. Chatting and yelling will come later. Do we agree?”
“Yes.” He agreed hurriedly.
“Are you Elliot C. Bellows, the owner of Mountain Retreat?” she asked.
“Yes, I . . . I am.”
“I’m at the right place then. Now, you and I will talk about me being here, time I’m to
waste for your entertainment, and of course, we have to come up with the right price.”
“Price?” Bellows mumbled and tried to put the Forbes magazine on the top of the coffee
table.
A bullet flew out of the Colt .45, made a hole in the center of his left hand, scraped the
Mexican tile, and landed in a log at the opposite wall.
“I didn’t ask you to speak or to move, did I? she said as soon the thundering sound of the
Colt subsided. You want to live, don’t you?”
He nodded holding his bleeding hand. His face became a picture of pain. “Yes,” he dared to
say between his whimper and pain.
“Next time you move or speak without my permission you’ll be dead before you hear the
boom that killed you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes,” he cried aloud.
“Bellows, you’re making me very angry with your cries. Be silent. Shut up. Stop crying.” A
short pause, then she said, “Take that duct-tape and stop your blood from coming out. I despise
blood.”
Breathing fast, taped hand, silent, and terrified, Bellows sat on the bloody couch.
“Now that we have come to an agreement, let’s set my price. How much will you pay  for
my show?”
“Anything you want.”
“I bet B. F. Skinner would’ve been envious with jealousy and resentment with my
negotiating tactics. Don’t you think? Not a bad price for a single show. I hope you have the deed
handy. Do you, Elliot?  I bet that I can call you pig, monster, killer and rapist, ghoul, worm, or
demon from hell, and you would not complain. Would you?”
“No, no . . . I mean, yes. I have the deed. It’s in a small safe hidden under the wood
flooring below the carpet. Upstairs, in my bedroom.”
“I hope, for your own sake,” she smiled venomously, “the safe is not connected with an
alarm.”
“No,” he assured her. “It’s a small portable safe. It is. I have no desire to die over a deed.
It’s yours.”
“Smart choice, Elliot. Why don’t we take that hassle out of the way? Please, don’t do
anything stupid. Don’t try me. I . . . will . . . kill you. You don’t want that, do you?”
“I will not,” he said staring at the fate of his left hand.
“Time to go upstairs then. Get up,” she pointed the Colt at his forehead. “Turn slowly.
Start walking.”
Bellows led the way up the stairs, into the bedroom, walked to the left corner, and partially
removed the carpet. A square cut floor appeared below the carpet. He removed the 3/4-inch wood
planks and placed them on the carpeted floor. With the right combination of left and right turns, he
opened the safe.
“My, my,” she said. ‘What do we have here besides my deed? Will you be kind enough to
tell me?”
“About two hundred thousand in cash,” Bellows said, “three hundred thousand in
municipal bonds, and ten kilos of pure opium. That’s it.”
“That’s it? And they’re mine now? Is that right, Elliot?”
“Yes, you can have them. All yours. I can give you more. Much more. Just don’t hurt me.”
“I love your open handedness,” she said scornfully. “You sure know how to make a girl
happy. Take the deed, leave the rest as is, and let’s move downstairs. Somehow,  I feel at home
down there.”
With the deed open on the top of the coffee table and a pen in his right hand he looked at
her. “I have to have your name for the transfer,” he said.
“I have to confess, Elliot. You’re not only a smart man, but also a naughty, naughty boy.”
“But, I have to have a name. How else–?”
“I’‘ll give you a name,” she stopped him with a chilling tone in her voice. “Are you familiar
with an organization called, RAINN, Rape Abuse and Incest National Network?  They help rape
victims. That’s the name. That’s to whom you are to transfer the deed of the house, land, and the
entire contents of this Mountain Retreat of yours. Ironic, is it not? A rapist is helping the raped.
This is divine justice. Now, date it two Fridays before today. Do you remember that day, Ernie?
You and your friends raped Melissa Floriou, your last victim.” Forcefully her left fist landed on his
chin, his head jerked to his left, the fat of his neck waved like a blob of lard above his chest. “Sign
it,” she yelled. He did. “Good. That concludes, partially, your part of our deal.”
She walked and sat cross-legged on the top of the king-sized bed.
“Come,” she gestured with her hand. “Dance for me. Let me see you dance. I’ve seen you
dancing around me, sweating like a pig, and sexually aroused like an animal in heat. Dance for me,
Elliot.”
Bellows stood up, stepped around the couch, and took few awkward steps.
“Come on, Elliot.” She encouraged him bluntly. “You can do much better than that. I know
you can. I have seen you dancing. Why don’t you jump up and down, yell Latin words, and dance
around the bed?” She watched him frolicking like a zombie on the tile floor, circling around the
bed.
“My God, Elliot. You are dripping sweat. Not healthy at all. Hmm! I have a solution. Why
don’t you dance and yell, take off your clothes, piece by piece, and throw them in the fireplace.”
Five minutes later, Bellows stood in front of her naked, breathing fast, open mouth and
nostrils, and full of sweat.
“You’re not aroused, Mr. Bellows,” she mocked him, looking at his penis. ”Look at it.
Dangling and swinging down there, lifeless. It looks as if it were standing in front of a firing squad
ready to be executed, instead of in front of a beautiful lady like me. I am very disappointed in you,
Elliot. Don’t you like me? Don’t you want to tear me apart? Don’t you want to push that thing of
yours in me, make me bleed, and say, ‘She is a fucking virgin?’ What’s going on? Am I doing
something wrong? Let me refresh my memory. Three years is a long time. I know what it is,” she
said after five seconds of silence. “We are missing me being stretched and tied up on this bed.” Her
left finger massaged her chin. “Let me see. Do you think if we reverse the roles . . . do you think
that’ll help? Let’s try it. You rest on the bed this time. Yes?”
“No! Please, no.” he begged, sobbing. He knew what was coming next.
She stood up on her feet and walked behind him. He felt a violent push between his
shoulder bones and his body landed on the top of the bed.
“Face the ceiling and stretch out both legs and arms,” she demanded. He turned and
stretched out his legs and arms. His small eyes stared at the dark hole of the gun. She pulled four
ropes from her back pockets. “Do you remember these ropes? You gave them to me as a present
three years ago to remember you by. A present from you. How nice.” Her words seeped poison.
“I gave you everything you asked. I did everything you told me. What do you want from
me? Who are you? Chuck, Chuck,” Bellows commenced hollering as loud as he could with full
blown eyes and surrendering desperation.
“Chuck? Is he the one who went out to fetch firewood?” she said with sarcasm as she was
putting the .45 on the top of the dining table. “Sorry, sir. He’s in the land of dreams.”
“I have powerful friends, many of them. They will hunt you down. They will find you. They
always do.”
“You’re forgetting one very important thing, Elliot.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m already dead. You killed me three years ago. Remember? I don’t exist, Elliot.
“Who are you? What do want from me?” he repeated
“Instead of telling, why don’t I show you who I am by removing my clothes for you. It’s
part of my entertainment. If memory serves me correctly, you love that sort of thing. Don’t you?”
She took few dancing steps and slowly she pulled her sweater above her naked breasts.
“You are . . . you are . . .” he stopped there, unable to remember her name.
“So sad,” Felicia muttered at him with fiery eyes. “You don’t even remember a dead girl’s
name. A girl who died at your hands three years ago on this bed right here, while you and two of
your friends were raping her body, her soul. Was I your first virgin, Mr. Bellows?” Forcefully her
fist landed on his nose. His blood spurted out, running onto his lips, his chin, and painting the top
of the bed red with blood. He moaned like a wounded animal.
“I don’t like your cowardly voice,” she said and taped his mouth. She took a step back,
looked at him, and then she said sarcastically, “Mr. Bellows, sir, you look like a tied up monarch
ready for his sexual, abnormal games. Let me see. Something is missing here. One more touch and
we should be ready.”
She went to the kitchen and returned holding the sharpest knife she could find. “Guess
what am I going to do with this knife? You give up? Let me give you a pointer. How much would
you say is the going price to rape a virgin girl? That thing of yours, Mr. Bellows, took my
virginity. That thing of yours will never again rape anyone. Time to pay for your sins.”
She knelt between his legs, the knife in her hand. Her hand moved swiftly. He moaned.
“We’re even,” she said mockingly. A small cut appeared on Bellows thigh. Red blood stained his
legs, the bed. She dropped the knife on the bed and stepped down.
“I hate blood,” she said staring at the latex gloves on her hands. She walked in the kitchen
and washed the bloodstains from her gloves. Staring into his eyes she walked slowly and came to a
standstill by the bed. She reached into her back pocket. Her hand emerged holding two long
chopsticks. With a chopstick in each hand, she climbed onto the belly of the moaning Bellows. His
small eyes grew enormous, his body shivered.
“Look at my breasts,” she whispered and her voice got louder and louder with each word.
“Look at the cross on my body and remember your victims. Remember their scream, their pain,
their agony, their despair. You said, you will give me everything. Can you give me back the lives of
your four victims?  Can you purify my body or my soul?  Can you? No! You can not.”
For two minutes she stood there on top of him without moving a muscle. She raised her
hands above her head holding the chopsticks tightly in her fists.
“Eye for an eye,” she said, and drove the chopsticks into his eyes, deep into his skull. She
picked up the knife and she carved on his forehead, # II, and threw the knife onto the Mexican
tiled floor. With the deed in her hand, she walked upstairs and put the deed in the safe, walked out
of the bedroom, down the steps, and out the back door. Moving like a shadow, she reached the
burial site of the three girls. She stood still with her head down, eyes facing the ground. She
murmured, “We are about there for our total purification.”
She swiftly disappeared into the moonless night.
















                           TWENTY TWO

Billy parked his car three blocks away from Mike Chesterfield’s home. The time was 12:10,
Saturday morning. Felicia took her black leather gloves form the glove compartment and put them
on. Billy said, “Please be careful,” and she replied, “I will.” She took out the envelope with MIKE
written on it, opened the door, stepped down, and walked the three blocks to Mike’s home. When
she was in front of Mike’s house, she looked around the empty, late night streets of the quiet
subdivision. Without making any sound she climbed the two steps, lifted the doormat, and dropped
the envelope under it.
When she stepped into the waiting car, she said, “Done. Let’s go to the next stop.”

Mike woke up to the ringing of the phone.
“Hello,” he said half-a-sleep.
“Mike Chesterfield?” a man’s voice said.
“Yes, and who in the hell–”
“Look under your doormat. Now!” The phone went dead.
“Who was it, Mike?” Heather asked sleepily.
“The hell if I know. Some man’s recorded voice.” He stepped down from the bed. “I’ll be
right back, Heather.” Half asleep, in his underwear, he walked to his front door. Heather was
sitting on the bed with her back against the headboard yawning when Mike returned holding an
envelope.
Heather was full awake when she asked, “What is it?”
“We’ll know soon,” he said and sat on the bed next to her.
“Now this is very interesting,” Heather purred like a curious cat and moved her body closer
to him.
“Stop being a reporter all the time, will you?” he teased her while using a letter opener to
open the envelope.
“I can’t help it Mike. I must have it running in my blood. Besides, that’s what you like most
about me.”
“My mistake,” he said, and carefully opened the envelope
He and Heather read it, looked at each other, and read it again.
“Very strange.” Heather said. Holding the envelope, she turned it upside down and a
numbered key fell out. Three minutes later, she was dressed and on her way. Two loaded Nikon
cameras swinging down from her right shoulder.
“Come on, Mike,” she yelled at him through the open door of the bathroom.  “What’s
taking you so long? Let’s go.” Half a minute later Mike and Heather were out of the house.
Heather parked her car in front of the entrance to the airport, took a sign from the back
seat, and placed it on the dashboard. “WWN Press,” Mike read.
“You think of everything. Don’t you?” he said as they stepped out.
“I don’t like your people giving me illegal parking tickets, or a towed car. Precautions,
Mike. Experience talks.”
By now they were standing in front of the locker. Mike looked around. A few people were
sitting on the hard vinyl chairs, waiting. One of them was stretched, asleep, holding the strap of his
shoulder bag tightly in his arms. Mike could hear the thrusting engines of an airplane on the
runway readying itself for takeoff.
“Open it Mike,” she said. “I am ready.” She flashed her camera twice in front of the 304
numbered locker. He pushed the key into the keyhole and with a left turn, the door was wide open.
She flashed her camera from three different angles. They saw three carefully folded plastic rolls
with name tags, dates, addresses, and phone numbers attached to them. An envelope was resting
on the first one with MIKE written on it. She flashed her camera again taking pictures of the name
tags. Mike read: “MELISSA FLORIOU, MARY CORNDAIL, EVA MATTHEWS.”
He searched his mind, shook his head. “They don’t ring a bell,” he said and looked at her.
“Do you recognize those names?”
“Nothing that I can recall. I’m positive. Nothing. What are you waiting for , Mike? Open
the letter.” She flashed her camera as soon Mike’s hand touched the envelope and flashed again
when the twenty-five-page letter was open in full view.
“Don’t over do it, Heather,” he said disapprovingly.
“I’m recording the whole thing, Mike. Just in case. We may need these pictures.”
Mike started reading. By the end of the first page, Mike went, “Oh, dear God,” and she
flashed her camera. When he had turned to read the fifth page, he leaned against the wall. His body
skidded on the floor. He sat now on the floor, his back resting onto the lockers, elbows on his
knees, shaking hands holding the letter, cold, dark eyes moving left and right, dreadful
apprehension on his face. Every time he flipped a page to read the next one, “Fuck, fuck,” he
repeated, and Heather flashed her camera over and again. His face had turned yellow, then white,
and the letter started shaking in his hands. When he finished reading it, he put the letter inside the
envelope, and as if he were sucked into a black hole, he looked around, and in an alarming
utterance he stared at her, and managed to say, “I need me a big handbag.”
She flashed her camera.
A mighty bright light flashed before him. Blinded by its intense magnitude, he closed his
eyes. Presently he could see a fleshless being standing in front of him, bending, staring at him
through the two dark holes of its skull, scrutinizing him, neck-bones moving up and down,
stepping backwards, pausing, re-approaching, pearly white teeth grinning a sinister grin. Death, he
thought. Death with a camera in his skeletal hands snapping pictures, recording the shape of his
mortal flesh before it takes the soul away. An enormous anger entered Mike’s being. Violently he
moved his hand in front of himself and spoke words he couldn’t hear.” Get away from me. Don’t
you come near me. Don’t you touch me.?”
“Mike, Mike,” he could hear a familiar voice yelling at him from far, far away.
He opened his eyes and gazed at the owner of that familiar voice. At first she appeared as a
thin, tall, flat shadow moving like a ghost through a dense milky fog calling his name. He could see
the exceedingly large whites of her stunned eyes, her frightened pale face inches from his, lips
moving, talking, saying, “What in the hell is wrong with you, Mike? What’s in that letter? Talk to
me, damn you. Say something.”
“I need me a big handbag,” he repeated looking around.
“I have a large one in the trunk,” Heather said awkwardly. “I’ll go get it.”
“I’ll go get it,” he said and suddenly pushed himself on his trembling feet. “Give me the
damn keys.” His voice rushed out in an exasperating wrath, a mad man out of control.
“There,” she said angrily as she was handing her car keys to him. “Don’t you yell at me,
Mike! I will not tolerate a verbal abuse, not even from you.”
“Oh, dear God. How could they?” He paused for a second. “How could they?” he
repeated, paused, and looked at Heather for the first time since he had started reading the letter.
“I’m sorry, Heather,” he apologized. “I’m trying very hard to stay calm– don’t they have air
conditioning in this place? Goddamn it. I can’t breathe.” He breathed deep and long to fill his
empty lungs, put the envelope in the locker, pushed the door shut, and locked the door “Stay here.
I’ll be right back.” He struggled on his trembling feet and hurried outside.
Her thoughts were on the pale face of Mike, his shaking hands, his total lack of self-
control, him yelling at her. That was not Mike’s face. Not Mike. Mike was collective, strong, calm,
and composed at all times. He was very careful with his words, his movements, his controlled
temper. Today, he is a wreck, to put it mildly. What was in that letter? To whom do those names
belong? What’s inside those see-through plastic bags? Poor darling, Mike. As if he did not have
enough with Forceworth’s death. By the time he returned, she had chewed up two of her
fingernails without even realizing what she was doing. He opened the door of the locker.
“Pictures, Heather. Take as many as you can.”
She stepped back about six-feet and with the other camera in her hands the camera went
click, click, click . . . until Mike had put everything into Heather’s handbag. He closed the locker
and put the key in his pocket.
“Let’s go home, Heather,” he said gravely, and  handed the car keys to her. “You drive.
I’m not in any shape right now to drive. I don’t even know if I’m alive or dead.”
“What is it Mike? What are those plastic things? The names – are you going to tell me what
in the hell is in that letter?
“You’ll read it soon. Soon you’ll know, and through you, the whole world will know the
horror of the truth.”

Mike turned on his computer, and took the letter out from the handbag.
“First thing we have to do is to make two copies of this letter, and then we put the original
in a safe place.”
“I wish to hell you would tell me what’s in that letter,” she said in a distressful voice. “It’s
killing me, Mike. You stood silent, distant and cold, gazing into emptiness. Haven’t said a word to
me since we left the airport. You were holding the handbag like a vice grip against your body.
What’s in that bag, Mike? What does that letter reveal?
“You’re going to like it as a reporter, maybe, but as Heather, it will tear your heart and
your very soul to pieces. Get your recording camera ready. When the copying  is done, sit on a
chair, turn on the camera, and read the letter loud and clear.”
“It’s that big really?”
“Heather, trust me on this one. This thing will make roses smell like shit. It will erase the
smile from your face and make your soul bleed in anguish. You better prepare yourself. I’m
supposed to be tough, right? You saw what happened to me. Take it as a warning.”
“All right,” she said sitting in the swivel chair at Mike’s desk, as he punched numbers on
the phone.
“Bernie, this is Mike. Mike Chesterfield. Can you meet me at the morgue in fifteen
minutes?”
“Damn you, Mike.” His voice sounded sleepy and pungent. “You just woke me up. What is
it that can’t wait till morning?”
“It’s only the most important thing you’ll ever do in your life. Just go down there. Oh,
yeah. Call Adam Heraldson, the DNA expert, and pick him up on your way there. Kick his ass,
give him a black eye if you have to, but bring him with you.”
Mike put the phone on the hook and turned to Heather. His brown eyes were sparkling,
his face was intensely dangerous. Heather looked at him. The Mike she knew, the man she fell in
love with was back.
“Listen,” he said staring ardently into her eyes. “You sit on that chair with the letter in your
hands, push the remote control of the recorder to On, and read the whole letter loud and clear. I’ll
advise you to prepare yourself for the most horrific, informative, and detailed reading you have
done in all your life. If I were you, I would have a box of tissues stacked next to me and a large
glass of water. You’ll need it. I’m sure you will. You saw its affects on me. I thought I had seen
everything. I thought I was strong and tough. Hell! It turned me into a mindless jelly fish. Erase
your emotions, harden your heart. Prepare for the unthinkable. You got it?”  She nodded silently.
“After you finish reading it, don’t do anything. Just sit here and wait for my phone call. Do you
understand?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
“Great,” Mike said. “Now promise me that you will not do anything till I call you.”
“I promise. Then what?”
“I’ll let you know what to do next. I’ve got to run. No matter what, don’t you ever forget
that I love you. I’m out of here.” He paced to the front door and out of the house holding the
handbag with the contents of the 304 locker and a copy of the letter.
Wow! Heather was thinking as soon as the door closed behind Mike. She better be
prepared rather than be sorry. She had seen the awe on his pale face, the terror in his eyes, the
sickening affects on his body, as if he were a feeble waxed figure in a museum trying to imitate life
in some unreal manner.
She went in the kitchen took a box of tissues, filled a tall glass with water, and she placed
both of them at the edge of the desk. She moved the chair in front of the desk for a better angle.
“This looks just great”, she talked to herself looking through the eye of the camera. She went in
the bathroom, finished with her make-up, walked back, sat in the chair, fixed her hair with her
hands, took a long breath gathering her inner strength, exhaled slowly,  started counting from ten
downwards, and when she reached one, she activated the recording camera with the remote
control. The red recording light came on. She began reading the twenty five pages of “My
Confession.”





                          TWENTY THREE

“Damn you, Mike. What is it that couldn’t wait till morning? What’s going on?” Bernie
cried as soon as Mike entered the morgue. “Do you know Adam?”
“Yes, I do. How are you, Adam? How’s the wife?” They shook hands. “I am glad you have
your bag with you. Adam, how soon, I mean, how much time it will take you to analyze semen
DNA, of say, a rape case?”
“How soon you want it, Mike? I have the rape kit with me to collect the semen samples,
then lab time. I can have an answer, say in twenty-four hours?”
“Way too long, Adam. Don’t have time for that. I want it now. This minute.”
“I can determine the blood type in the semen very quickly.”
“Good, do it.”
“What other evidence do you have?” Adam said looking at Mike.
“Hair, plenty of hair,” Mike responded.
“What do I compare blood or hair samples with?”
Mike turned and looked at Bernie for a second or two.
“Why are you staring at me, Mike?” Bernie said, uncomfortably.
“Bernie, I’d like to talk to you in private. Sorry, Adam. It’ll take a sec.”
The two of them walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind them.
“What is it, Mike?”
“I hope you have Forceworth’s file handy. Hair samples, blood type, and all that. Do you,
Bernie?” Mike asked.
“Yes. In my office. I didn’t had the time to put it away. Why?” replied Bernie.
“Take it out, Bernie. Have those samples handy. We don’t have too much time. Give all
your samples to Adam, but do not reveal Forceworth’s name. Can you do that for me?
“No sweat, Mike.”
“Good,” Mike said enthusiastically, and they stepped out.
Mike unzipped Heather’s handbag, took one of the plastic rolls with the name tag
MELISSA FLORIOU on it, and stretched it on the spotless floor. At the dead center of the plastic
sheathing Mike saw an envelope. He grabbed it, and shoved it in his pocket.
“Adam,” Mike said, “listen very carefully. On the top of this plastic sheet you will find hair,
dried blood, and also sperm, let me add, of three different men.”
“Collecting hair and semen samples will take a few minutes. But I have to have hair from
another source to compare it with. You see?”
“When you have collected your samples, Bernie will give you samples to compare them
with. Bernie, would you get those samples?”
“Where did you–” Adam started to say.
“Adam!” Mike cut him short. “As soon as you’ve done your analysis come down here.
Please, not a word to anyone.”
Mike drew his gun out and pointed it between Adam’s eyes.
“I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you even think about talking to anyone. Understand?,” he
separated each word with a very dangerously low tone in his voice.
Adam nodded, tried to swallow his saliva, then he said, “G-got, it Mike. I will not. Trust
me. I know when someone is severely serious. Can I take the samples now?” he finished with a
protesting attitude.
“Yes!” Mike said, but did not apologize.
Long silence. Bernie said nothing. He was shocked. He knew Mike very well. He was
serious about killing Adam when he said it. Bernie could see it in Mike’s enraged eyes.
When Mike spoke again his temper was under control, his voice regretfully sympathetic.
“Adam, let me ask you while you are doing that. How easy is it to get my blood type record from
your computer?”
“That is illegal, Mike. You know that. Unless of course there is an ongoing investigation,
or some court order.” Adam said, taking his hair samples.
“I didn’t ask you if it’s legal or illegal. I asked you if you can do it?”
“Of course I can, Mike. I can retrieve your records from the State database. We keep
records on everyone who works for the state or the federal government. Don’t we? I’m almost
done here, Mike. Couple more samples and I’m out of here.” Four minutes later he was gone.

“Bernie,” Mike said when Adam left the morgue. “Do you have a coffee maker here? My
mouth is dry like the sole of my shoe.”
“Yeah. It’s right there. We’re very civilized around here, Mike,” Bernie tried to crack a
joke.
“Out there, they are not, Bernie. They are animals, rapists, and killers, and the more
powerful they are, the worse they seem to be.”
“What else is new? Listen Mike. I’m a very curious man. I like poking into everything. My
job, I guess. Can we look at what’s in that envelope?” Bernie asked as he turned on the coffee
maker.
“If it is what I think it is, I am sure you won’t like them.” He took the envelope from his
pocket, and he looked at the Polaroid photos one after the other. “Oh, my Dear God,” he voiced
and holding the photos in his hands, ran for the bathroom door. When he came out, his face was
yellow, ill-looking.
“Bernie,” he said looking into his friend’s eyes, “have you ever been so sick in your
stomach with some nauseating thing coming upwards, piling up into your throat, and the only thing
left for you to do is vomit?”
“Of course not. Mike, I am a pathologist. I’ve seen it all. That’s what I do. After a while
you get used to it. No matter how gross or disgusting it may be, somehow, you get used it. Can I
see them now?”
Mike took the Polaroid pictures and stretched them onto the top of the small counter, one
next to the other. Bernie looked at them and said, “Oh Jesus. Who did this to her? W-who is she?,”
he stuttered.
“I believe her name was Melissa Floriou. As for the who did it, though, I know who they
are, I have to have evidence to confirm the identity of the monsters who mutilated, raped, and
killed that girl. I’ll tell you their names as soon as Adam comes down.”
By the end of their third cup, Adam was back.
“Got it,” he said in a positive tone. “We are looking at a match.”
“How good is it? Adam, talk to me,” Mike yelled impatiently.
“Good enough to go to a judge.” Adam replied. “Warrant, arrest . . .”
“Blood types?”
“A- negative, A- positive, O- negative.”
“Bernie, talk to me. What is the blood type in your file?” Mike’s face had become a life-like
mask of utter anticipation. “Well?” Mike exclaimed.
“A- negative.” Bernie blurted finally.
“Damn! I can kiss you both. Now, one more thing and we’re done. For now.”
“What’s next, Mike?” Bernie asked enthusiastically. “I don’t get much excitement with all
the dead bodies here. Man, I like this adrenaline pumping shit.”
“Adam, I need access to that database.”
Mike sounded curiously distant. Though he knew that the accusations of the confessor
were absolutely correct thus far accusing Forceworth as a rapist and murderer, he still had to make
sure that the other two, Bellows and Kirkland, were also involved raping and murdering those
young girls, not only by the hearsay of the confessor, but also backed with hard scientific evidence.
They were not common citizens after all. Were they?
“It’s very big, Mike. I don’t know about that.” Adam looked at Bernie solicitously.
“Bernie, say something damn it. Help me here.”
“Adam, do you know whose hair you just said that was a match and his blood type, A-
negative? Do you? No? Let me tell you then. Robert T. Forceworth. That’s who.” Furiously he
turned to Mike.  His eyes were burning with anger. He couldn’t take his mind away from those
Polaroid pictures. “Mike, show him the pictures of the girl. Do it, Mike. Let him see the fucking
mockery of the truth staring in his eyes.”
“Bernie, I need him in one piece. Do you understand? You saw what happened to me.
Didn’t you? And look at yourself. You’re a mess.”
“Goddamn it, Mike,” Bernie shouted aloud.  “Let him see them. Don’t you be making me
angrier than I already am.” He grabbed Adam’s left arm passionately and forcefully dragged him to
the counter by the coffee machine. “Look at them, Adam. Have a good, fucking look.”
Five minutes later the bathroom door opened and a pale Adam came out breathing fast with
inconsistent, irregular breaths.
“All right. All right,” he muttered without looking at them.”Let’s do it. Gives me their
names Mike before I become a coward again.”
“Elliot C. Bellows and Paul M. Kirkland.” A hateful grin appeared on Mike’s face.
“Hell, fuck me,” the conservative Adam could not hold it in him any longer. He was never
this close to live action in his long career. This first hand thing was definitely exhilarating. His
shaking hands formed fists. “I don’t know about Bellows, but surely I can get to Kirkland’s
records. He was a two term state senator. Bernie, let’s go do our duty, and I hope that fucker,
Forceworth, rots in hell while we fry the remaining two.”
“That’s all I need. One more positive match will do,” said Mike.
“Mike, what are you going to do?” Bernie asked dropping his voice to a reverent, hashed
tone.
“I think I’ll stay here. I need to think. Thanks guys. I just wish I had a pack of cigarettes.
Like cops, where is one when you need one . . .” His lips formed an elusive thin smile.
“Here, Mike. A whole pack for you. Have my lighter too. We’ll be back as soon as we can.
Hang in there buddy. See you in a bit, Mike.”

Mike never thought that an hour could be such a long time. In an hour’s time he had
smoked ten cigarettes, had four cups of coffee, and visited the bathroom twice. It seemed as if the
horrid details of the letter and the Polaroid pictures were carved into his mind. Who took those
pictures? Who wrote the letter? Who had dropped the note under his doormat? How anyone could
give such details of a rape if he . . . He brought his galloping thoughts to a halt.
Something is wrong here, he mused. Something didn’t make sense. Something was
missing. What? He started pacing up and down the morgue. He stopped by the counter and stared
at the Polaroids for some time, then took out his copy of “My confession” from his pocket and
placed it on the top of the counter next to the Polaroids. Who took these pictures? Who is the
author of “My Confession?” Why did he choose him? Why not the FBI? Who is this dark-blue-
suited-man? Who is he? There it was again. The same twisting, biting feeling in his heart.
“He, He, He,” Mike shouted aloud, and the truth dawned on him. “No, it can’t be a He. He
is a She,” he hollered. Whoever wrote, “My Confession,” whoever was Forceworth’s assassin had
to be a She. Only a person who had lived such an ordeal could describe in such vivid detail the
inhumane acts forced upon her by her barbarous torturers. No! The author of “My Confession” has
to be a woman. An alive, and most likely, mutilated victim just like the girl on the counter.
Christ! What am I to do? Should he strike a new investigation finding out who she is?
Should he rebel against the norm, against the same authority he represented, the authority to
uphold the law, the law he had sworn to die for if necessary? Could he erase all that, shake her
hand, and say, “God’s justice shall prevail,” and let her be? What if that mutilated girl was his
mother, or his sister, or Heather?
The ringing phone made him jump up like a frightened frog in a shallow pond by an
unexpected approaching footstep.
“Yes,” he answered sullenly.
“Mike, Bernie here. We are coming down.”
Ten minutes later, which seemed like eons, they barged into the morgue with victorious
smiling faces.
“Good news, Mike,” Adam yelled aloud as he waved head high a blue file. “We have a
match.”
“On Kirkland?” Mike asked. He could hear the pounding of his heart.
“Yes, Mike.” Bernie confirmed with a glowing face.
Mike took a deep breath as if he were holding his lungs shut for the past hour. His face
gleamed with determination. He picked the phone and dialed his home number.
“Hello,” Heather answered with a whimper.
“Mike here. How is my girl?”
“Mike, Mike, Mike,” she cried. “Oh, dear God. How terrible. How despicable. They are
monsters, Mike. They are monsters!”
“Come on girl. Don’t you crack on me now.” His voice sounded stern, but warm. “I need
you, Heather. Come on, babe.” A small pause. “Heather, tell me. Did you recorded it?”
“Yes!” she cried. “The whole damned thing is on tape. Sorry for crying, and whining, and .
. . and . . . I can’t help it.”
“You’re just human like the rest of us. That is a great sign of hope for humanity.”
“Thanks, Mike. I really needed that.”
“Listen,” he spoke gently. “Call your Editor in Chief, or better yet, let me do it for you.
Just give me his number.” He memorized the number. “Mr. Shownerry, got that also,” and then he
continued. “Take the letter and the recorded tape with you and go to his office. Wait for me there.
Don’t do or say anything. I’ll be there with my friends and all the evidence needed for you to air
the tape.”
“Are you sure, Mike?”
“Yes, I am,” he assured her confidently. “I’ll make the details available as soon as I get
there. Please, drive carefully and . . . no, don’t do that. Let a taxi drive you and we’ll see you there.
I’ve got to call Mr. Shownerry. Bye for now.”
“Thanks, Mike. And Mike . . . I love you.” she sounded isolated, lonely. “I love you,
Mike,” she repeated in a voice that held a measureless despair.
Mike pressed the button of the receiver. He thought of telling her comforting words of
compassion and sorrow. The known words sounded hollow and vague, and utterly meaningless.
He sighed as he dialed the number of the Editor in Chief of WWN.
“Yes,” Mr. Shownerry answered from the other end.
“Mike Chesterfield here . . . Yes, him. Listen carefully. If you want WWN to boost its
audience by a hundred percent, have your broadcasting law attorneys and all the big shots of
WWN in your office as soon as you can. I’ll say only this on the phone. It’s about Forceworth’s
death, his assassin, and the . . . Two to Go. Yes! I know who they are”. He listened for a few
seconds, then he said, “Yes, I have a confession . . . Yes . . . Thanks. I’ll see you in twenty
minutes.”
“Guys,” a new radiating with energy and confident Mike looked at them. His face became a
lofty grinning smile, “now let’s go to WWN to convince them to air Heather’s tape by showing
them our evidence. Then, we are off to arrest a few powerful men. I’m going to love this one. Oh,
yes, I will.”
“Are we your deputies, Sheriff?” Bernie had to say his joke.
“Deputies? Don’t push it, pal. You’re arresting witnesses.”
“Can I read their–”
“No, Bernie. I’ll read them their rights and I’m going to love every word of it.”

The phone at the branch office of the FBI jingled twice. The agent in charge pushed a red
recording button and then pushed the green flashing button on the switchboard.
“FBI. How can I help you?”
“A mile past the Ochlockonee Bay Bridge turn right. A mile after that, turn right on the dirt
road. The log-house belongs to Elliot C. Bellows, Forceworth’s friend. Go there.” The disguised,
muffled voice of a man, she thought. Definitely a pre-recorded message. Then she heard the sound
of a click. Fifteen minutes later two helicopters were flying above Bellows’ Mountain Retreat. FBI
agents, photographers, lab technicians, trained dogs, and reporters arrived at the Mountain Retreat
when the rain started gushing down by the buckets.

Bernie’s car was eating the miles one after the other as it approached closer and closer to
Elliot C. Bellows’ home. Bernie’s hands tightly held the steering wheel. Mike’s hands were playing
with a pair of handcuffs. Adam’s elbows were resting on the passenger seat. Silent, tensed faces.
Eyes fixed on the road. They could hear the monotonous, click-click, click-click, sounds from the
windshield wipers as they went back and forth wiping away the heavy rain. Mike leaned over and
turned on the radio. The intense silence was too much to bear.
They were listening Bob Dylan’s song, Like a rolling stone, when an announcer stopped
the music. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “we interrupt temporarily our scheduled
program to bring you, once more, the saddest news. After an anonymous phone call FBI agents
found the dead body of Elliot C. Bellows at his Mountain Retreat. Bellows was a close friend of
senator Forceworth. We’ll bring you more news as it develops. Stay tuned on this station.” Bob
Dylan’s song, Like a rolling stone, was back on the air.
“Bernie, go to Kirkland’s house. Step on it,” Mike hollered furiously.
“All right! Yes! I always wanted to do this,” he said, and placed the red flashing lights on
the top of the car. “Mike, can I put the handcuffs on him? Please, Mike. Let me do it. Don’t you
say no. Don’t you take that kind of pleasure from me.”
“Yeah, all right. Here,” Mike said, and gave the handcuffs to Bernie.
“Brace yourselves,” Bernie hollered. “Bernie is about to break all speeding laws.”











                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                                
                          TWENTY FOUR

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the WWN newscaster was saying to viewers, “we interrupt this
regular program to inform you that the assassin of Senator Forceworth struck again. His second
victim is Forceworth’s long time friend, Elliot C. Bellows. After an anonymous phone call, the FBI
raided the Mountain Retreat of Elliot Bellows and found him assassinated in a similar manner as
senator Forceworth. The FBI did not release any additional information as of yet, except that
Bellows’ companion, Chuck Masterson, was tied up and alive. Two dead men in two consecutive
Friday nights. Are we facing another serial killer? Who is this elusive, Dark-blue-suited-man? Who
is the murderer of Forceworth and now, Bellows? Whom will he kill next? Who is his next victim .
. .?”
The Editor in Chief moved his hand over his throat signaling the newscaster, cut, cut, cut.
“Go to commercial,” he shouted.
“A short word from our sponsors,” the newscaster continued with surprise. “Please, stay
tuned. We’ll be right back with heart breaking new developments.”
The commercial hit the air waves, the newscaster stepped down, and Heather Primrose
climbed in his seat.
“Heather, show us your best. You’re on in a-half-minute,” Mr. Shownerry said.
“Take that thing out of my face,” Heather said to the makeup girl. “I don’t have the time to
be pretty and I don’t feel like being pretty either. Let me be.”
The cameraman thought, What the hell’s going on? This had never happened before. Not
ever. Very unorthodox procedure, especially right now. The big news, another assassination of an
outstanding man, Forceworth’s friend. What could be more important than these two related
assassinations? The commentators and their guests were waiting for their turn. He was shocked.
Nevertheless, he raised his hand and closing his fingers he counted, five, four, three, two, you are
on, he signaled with his thumb. Heather’s sapphire blue eyes were looking at the dead center of the
lens of the broadcasting camera. In her right hand she was holding the five pages of her opening
speech. The twenty five pages of “My Confession” was resting between her elbows on the top of
the desk. Her face looked as if it were carved next to the three presidents on Mount Rushmore.
Stone.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Heather Primrose,” she started with a stern voice. “I had
prepared a speech to read to you, a well thought speech, an intelligent speech. Somehow, I don’t
feel intelligent. Not today.  In my hands I’m holding my written speech. But . . .” She tossed it into
the air, pages flew around and landed on the floor. “. . . no speech today. Not now. Today I’ll
bring out my true self. Me! My anger, my despair, my torn to pieces heart and soul. I want you to
hear me the way I feel and not the way I should feel in front of the camera.” Shocked eyes were
staring at her. Mr. Shownerry smiled expansively, so did the attorney and the Board of Directors
of WWN in Mr. Shownerry’s office as they watched the giant screen of the television set.
“At twelve twenty this morning, Detective Mike Chesterfield and myself received an
anonymous phone call informing us that a letter was dropped under Mike Chesterfield’s doormat,
instructing him and myself to open a locker at the airport with the enclosed key. In the locker we
found a letter and three well cared for, folded and packaged carefully, see-through plastic
sheathing covered from end to end in dried out blood, hair, and semen. The hair matching and
semen blood analysis by Dr. Adam Heraldson, and by the medical examiner, Dr. Bernard Horace,
revealed that hair and semen found on the plastic sheathing from the dead body of Melissa Floriou,
and the hair and blood analyses of Senator Robert T. Forceworth were identical. Furthermore,
semen and blood samples collected from the same sheathing, matched the blood type of Paul M.
Kirkland, the former senator, just as the Confessor said it would be in this letter.” She paused,
grabbed the letter, and waved it furiously in front of the camera. Her voice became dangerously
cold. “This is only the tip on the fast approaching iceberg.”
“Brace yourselves if you don’t want to get hurt.” Heather continued with a warning barbed
tone attached to her voice. “Tie yourselves on the stern of your boat like Ulysses did confronting
his fears. But, you must listen. You have to listen. What I’m about to tell you next, I will highly
recommend to you that if your young children are tuned on this WWN channel, please, ask them to
leave the room.”
“We, at WWN, have evidence that three men, Robert T. Forceworth, Paul M. Kirkland,
and Elliot C. Bellows raped and mutilated four young women at the Mountain Retreat of Elliot
Bellows, and when they satisfied their sick, perverted, hellish pleasures, they killed and dumped the
dead bodies of Melissa Floriou, Mary Corndail, Eva Matthews, and an unnamed as of now women,
into their watery graves.”
She stood silent for a second as if to give the time to her audience to absorb the impact of
the shocking news.
“Now,” she resumed, “we both, you and I, know the motive and the reason why the two
men, Robert Forceworth and Elliot Bellows are dead, and why Bellows chose to die rather than to
confess. Who is their murderer?  Who is their executioner? Their assassin could be a father, a
mother, an uncle, a neighbor, a citizen, either white, black, Hispanic or Asian or anything in
between. Their murderer could be me, it could be you, the man or the woman sitting next to you,
behind you, or across from you. Anyone among us can be their murderer, their assassin, their
executioner. I wish to God I was the one.”
A grimace of mortification and rage fell upon her face.
“Camera two, move closer. Let me see her anger, her passion, her wet eyes. Look at her.
She’s suffering. She’s great.” Mr. Shownerry couldn’t hold his last two comments.
“I’m a news reporter. I am supposed to be calm, unemotional, apathetic, and I should be
telling you the news in an indifferent, nonchalant speech no matter how bad or how disturbing the
news may be. Not this time! This time I’m angry, I’m furious, I’m sad and dismal, and lonely, and
I’m ready to cry with the unbearable pain those three men imposed upon their four young helpless
victims.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, here,” she waved frantically the letter in front of the camera, “I’m
holding the confession of the murderer. This is his confession. The author of this letter is the man
who has killed Forceworth and Bellows. Some of us, some of you, may think of him as a
despicable, cold, heartless murderer, and some of you may think of him as a guardian angel. An
angel that God Himself has sent to this earth. You’ll be his judge. I already know what Forceworth
and Bellows are. Detestable, heinous, vile, fiendish creatures from hell. I also know if that man is a
murderer or the very hand of God. Before you judge him hear his confession, which we are going
to air it in its entirety, and then call us at this WWN station, raise your voice, speak up, yell if you
have to, and tell us if he’s a killer or the very hand of the Almighty God. Judge him, judge them.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is Heather Primrose and this is his letter entitled, “My Confession.”
And her recorded tape hit the airwaves. Heather’s body collapsed on the top of the WWN
news desk, eyes still staring at the camera.
“You did very good, Heather,” her Chief Editor said hoarsely trying to hide his upcoming
emotions while everyone in the newsroom were clapping their hands. Tears in their angry eyes,
petrified faces, trembling bodies, shaking knees and hands, lungs breathing laboriously fast and
hard.
“You haven’t seen or heard anything yet,” she said in a woeful sad taxing voice. “Prepare
yourselves. Watch the tape. As Mike said, ‘Prepare yourselves to gaze at your helpless bleeding
souls.’”
At first, Heather’s face was professional, straight, unmoved by her personal emotions. By
the second page she had watery eyes and by the fourth page, she started crying in front of the
camera. “I apologize for my emotional outburst,” she apologized staring at the camera and tried to
wipe her tears. Streaks of pink, blue, and black makeup for her wet eyes, smudged war-path lines
over her face.  She took the glass from Mike’s desk and took a few sips of water to drown her
upcoming emotions.
    The phones at the WWN station began to ring as if her cry was an awakening
signal, as if her painted face called upon an act of war. By the end of the sixth page it seemed that
viewers had nothing better to do, but to drop a call to WWN station. The callers said a single
phrase and they hung up. The phone lines were jammed. From cameramen to technicians, from
lighting people to news people, the entire staff of the WWN stations were doing nothing else but
answering the jammed phone lines. The Chief Editor paced hurrying in and out of his office yelling,
“Up sixty five percent, up seventy two, up to eighty now.” By the middle of “My Confession,”
there was not a person in the WWN newsroom who didn’t have tears running from his or her eyes;
faces grim and gray; lungs huffing and puffing uncontrollably. With outraged faces they answered
the ringing  phones as polite as they could.
“A wrenched-dark morning, heart-tearing morning, would the sun send its light?”  the
cameraman said as he punched his thighs with his fist.

The song, People are strange, by the Doors, was over when Bernie’s car rolled up the
private, brick paved road, and stopped in front of  Paul M. Kirkland’s mansion. The three men
stepped out and walked up on the marble steps. Three security cameras were recording all the
activities at the front of the mansion.







                                
                          TWENTY FIVE

Paul M. Kirkland finished reading the five-page article of New York Times, which was
dedicated to his friend Robert T. Forceworth. Such a good man, such a horrible way to die, he
philosophized. He closed the magazine and looked at the front page. One of the best pictures of his
long time friend stared at him. Such a waste, he mused looking at his dead friend’s photo on the
top of his desk. He shook his head and heaved a big sigh. He took the remote control and pressed
on the WWN channel to listen the morning news. A young woman with bizarre makeup on her
face was reading a letter. One of those heart-bleeding stories, he thought. He was ready to change
the channel when he heard the names of Forceworth, Bellows, and his own. He was shocked. As if
in some kind of a trance, he was hypnotized by her face. “She is talking about us. About Mountain
Retreat,” he vocalized in a shocking astonishment. He heard a loud knock on his office door and
his butler appeared at the open door.
“Sir, Detective Mike Chesterfield from the police department would like to see you.”
Kirkland looked at the butler, nodded  his head. “Let him in. I was expecting him. Stanley,
please leave the door open.”
Paul M. Kirkland opened the right top drawer and looked at the loaded Baretta. He took it
out, released its security pin, and held it tight. Slowly he placed his hands on his leg. His leathery
face became calm, decisive. He knew he had reached the end of the road. All roads, all paths aimed
at the same place – hell, electric chair.

Kirkland’s hands were hidden behind his desk when Mike, Bernie, and Adam entered in his
office. Three pairs of eyes were fixed into his.
“Mr. Paul M. Kirkland?” Mike asked when he was six feet away from the senator’s desk.
“Yes. I am Paul M. Kirkland,” he confirmed calmly.
“Paul M. Kirkland, you are under arrest for the murders of Eva Matthews, Mary Corndail,
and Melissa Floriou. You have the right to remain silent. Anything–”
“I know my rights, Detective. I’m an attorney,” he said in a gloomy tone.
Bernie took the handcuffs out, took a step forward, and Mike continued, “You have the
right to an attorney. If you can not . . .”
Kirkland’s right hand appeared holding his gun. He pointed the gun in his right ear, “I have
no rights,” he said, and pulled the trigger. The bullet entered into his skull and came out from the
other side. Blood and brain matter stained the cover page of the New York Times, his desk, and the
shining, teak-wood floor.
“Shit! Shit!” Adam screamed, as he gazed about Kirkland’s desk. His hands jerked
frantically into the air, and his body moved rigidly against the wall.
“And that makes three,” Mike confirmed somberly. His lips hardly moved as he spoke. He
reached into his pocket and took out his cell-phone.
Bernie reached above the senator’s desk. His fingers touched the senator’s wrist, then he
remarked bluntly. “He is dead. Cause of death: A bullet flew into his brain and came out from the
other side. And that’s that.”  Bernie chuckled. “I don’t know about you two, but Bernie is
delighted. The sons-of-bitches are dead and I’m happy.”
“FBI headquarters? This is detective Mike Chesterfield. Paul M. Kirkland shot himself in
the head just now.  . . . Okay, I’ll wait,” Mike said and he raised his shoulders and eyebrows.
“Yes, this is him,” Mike said, and listened. “Yes, about ten seconds ago.” Mike listened. “All right.
Yes, I will be here. Listen, before you terminate this call, let me give you a pointer,” Mike
continued in a slurring voice. “Walk to the back door of the log-home. Do you see a big magnolia
tree on your right? Good. Eighteen yards from it you will see a rotten pine tree. If you dig next to
it, you’ll find the dead bodies of three girls. Check also under the bridge. You may find something
in the bottom of it. One more tip and I am off. Turn the television on the WWN channel. It will
amuse you. Aha, fine. See you later.”
“One more phone call and I’m done, guys,” Mike said. He called WWN to tell them the
news about Paul M. Kirkland’s suicide. “Now I am all yours,” he said sitting on the comfortable
sofa. “Time to give my complete attention to my beautiful girlfriend. Isn’t she a doll? Come on
people. Sit down. Take a load off your feet. Cigarette anyone?” He took one out from the pack,
flicked the lighter, lit his cigarette, and he took a long puff. “I love good endings,” he said handing
the pack and the lighter to Bernie.
“Me too,” Bernie said and lit a cigarette as he was sitting next to Mike. “I’m very upset,
Mike. I’m furious with Kirkland.”
“Why? Is it because he shot himself in the head?
“Hell, no. That man took the opportunity from me of putting the handcuffs on him. I’ll
never forgive him for that.”
“You guys are weird,” Adam looked at them still in shock. “A man is dead right there and
you’re cracking jokes and having fun. How–”
“A man? Where, where?” Mike stopped him in a sarcastic tone. A stupendous surprise was
painted on his face. His eyes scrutinized about Kirkland’s office. “I don’t see any dead man. Do
you Bernie?”
“Hell no,” Bernie exclaimed. ”I only see a dead worm.” Bernie and Mike started laughing.
Adam shook his head in disbelieve.
“Now, everyone shut your mouth,” Mike hollered when they calmed down. “I want to hear
my girlfriend talk. Look at her face. Makeup all over it. Sad now, and now angry, and now furious,
and now hopelessly desperate. Inspect her flared runny nose. Look at those red, puffy blue eyes
inflamed and swollen. Doesn’t she look as if the whole goodness of humanity landed in those two
swollen eyes, on that runny nose, on that flushed face? Look at those tears coming down her
cheeks. Doesn’t she look lovely? Gee! I must be in love. Can you keep a secret, Bernie?”
“Sure I can, Mike. You know me better than that. What is it?”
“That woman right there is in love with me. Me! Isn’t that crazy?”







                           TWENTY SIX

Maria was sitting in the sofa of her small apartment. She was listening to Heather Primrose
reading, “My Confession.” Maria’s eyes were red, tears flooded her face, caved shoulders, her
body balled into the corner of her sofa, hands punishing one another. The loud knock on her door
startled her, shook her body. Wiping her eyes she walked to the door, and opened it. Cynthia
rushed into Maria’s arms.
“Poor, poor, girls. Poor, poor souls,” Cynthia repeated, sobbing.
“Come, come.” Maria tried to calm her down while dragging her to the sofa.
They sat together, clutching each other, watching and listening to Heather Primrose. They
heard knocks on the door. Cynthia looked at Maria.
“Are you expecting someone? Oh, God. I hate reporters.”
“No! No one. I better see who it is. I won’t let anyone in. Just sit there, Mrs. Forceworth.”
Maria stood on her feet, walked to the door, and opened it. The alarmingly dark face of Ben
appeared at the opening of the door. Maria let him in, closed the door, and sat next to Cynthia.
“I knew it, I knew it,” Ben kept repeating over and over as he paced the length of the small
room. “I suspected it, but I didn’t stop him.”
Cynthia stood on her feet. Her eyes stared into his furiously.
“You knew? Did you say you knew? Ben, did you?” she yelled at him.
“Yes, I did. Yes, yes, yes. But, I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t. I couldn’t go to the police. I
didn’t want to smear his honorable name. Yes, I knew. But . . .” Cynthia’s small fist landed on his
lips. She walked to the door and opened it wide.
“Get out,” she bellowed. “Go! Get out, you miserable worm! Out! I don’t want to see your
pathetic face again. Not ever.”
With his head down, he walked out the door. She slammed the door behind him. By the
time she reached the sofa, they heard a loud gunshot outside. They looked out the window, saw
Ben’s body flat on the ground. Maria and Cynthia closed the shutters and sat on the sofa side by
side holding each other’s shaking hands.
“I did not hear a gunshot,” Cynthia said looking at Maria. “I was preoccupied watching the
terrible news on the television. Did you hear a gunshot, Maria?”
“No, Mrs. Forceworth. I did not hear a gunshot.  I was preoccupied watching the terrible
news on the television.” Maria echoed Cynthia’s words.
“I have to make a big anonymous donation for a good cause,” Cynthia murmured holding a
bit tighter Maria’s hands. Maria nodded and said nothing.
“Maria?”
“Yes, Mrs. Forceworth?”
“Can I . . . can I stay with you for couple of days?” Cynthia murmured.
Maria nodded.
                         *     *     *

“Ladies and gentlemen. A brief interruption. We’ll resume with the reading of “My
Confession,” immediately following the latest developments concerning this very subject,” the
regular newscaster was saying now. “We, at WWN have been informed that attorney Paul M.
Kirkland, shot himself in the head at his mansion. More on the Paul M. Kirkland suicide at the end
of “My Confession.” Heather appeared again on the screen.
“I knew it was coming,” Heather said after the yelling and the hand clapping stopped. “One
less fucker in this world.”
The Chief Editor of the WWN station came running out of his office yelling, “We’ve done
it. Today, we are writing a new page in the history of broadcasting. Heather, this is your doing. I
can smell a Pulitzer Prize here.”
“Not my doing, not my prize,” she muttered benignly in a dismal cry. “It belongs to those
raped, mutilated, dead victims and to the man who wrote this letter. It belongs to the families of
those innocent victims. A small gesture of humanity that their daughters’ deaths did not end
unnoticed, or fruitlessly forgotten. No. I don’t want it.” She buried her head into her hands.
“It’s over, Heather. They can’t harm anyone else.”
“How about the fathers and the mothers of the dead girls, Mr. Shownerry? How about
their brothers and sisters? Who is to soothe their loss, their pain, their suffering? In which language
should we give them comfort? How will we look into their eyes and say, “So sorry, Ma’am. Sorry,
Mister. So sorry little boy or girl. Sorry Grandpa, Grandma. We can’t turn time back. Can’t bring
them back, can we? My God! How can we appease their burned to the ground emotions? What
inspirational words, or should I say, lies, we’ll invent this time? We are living among monsters and
savages.” She signed, shook her head and looked into Shownerry’s eyes. “Look at today’s rape
laws. Attorneys and lawyers and judges and psychoanalysts, and what have you, raping in the
courtroom the already raped girl, and the rapists walk away free for this or that reason or some
obscure, veiled technicality. Some of those fuckers spend some time in a mental institution and
their sins are erased forever. We hug them and kiss them, poor creatures we say, it was not your
fault, it was your upbringing, your childhood, your environment, the uncaring society, and on and
on, without realizing that their disease is infecting the very society we let them free to roam again
and again. That’s unforgivable. We should never allow the massacre of these girls to be over. Not
ever. I believe it is about time to protect victims and not rapists and killers. That’s what I think.”

Black Moon, Helena, Billy, and Felicia watched the WWN news until it was over. Felicia
pushed the remote control button. They stood in silence for some time. Then Helena said, “I think
I will make some fresh coffee.” Scarcely had she finished these words when she burst into tears.
She stood up from the sofa, kissed her daughter on both cheeks, hugged Billy, gave Black Moon a
warm look and, with tears dripping down her face, walked into the kitchen.
“It’s over,” Billy murmured holding Felicia’s hand. “It’s over, Felicia.”
“Yeah,” Felicia said, nodding her head. Her voice was no more articulate than a hum – a
gentle wind. Her face was calm and serene; her body aware of lyric ecstasy; golden tranquility
within her soul. Her burned to ashes soul was giving birth to itself. Her glittering eyes swept the
room, then softening into a smile returned to Billy, then to Helena, and paused at Black Moon.
“My past is dead,” she whispered softly. “Time to continue our lives. Time to live, to breathe
again.”
“I want grandchildren, now,” Black Moon said with a huge smile on his face. “Many
grandchildren. I can’t tell stories to unborn children, can I?” He looked at Helena and asked, “Can
we, Grandma?”
Felicia raised her shoulders, smiled, and looked at Billy. Billy nodded. Black Moon was
joyfully happy. He looked no more than forty-five. Helena covered her face and sobbed and
laughed at the same time.
















                            EPILOGUE


It was a small funeral. With broken hopes and heavy hearts the families of Melissa Floriou,
Mary Corndail, and Eva Matthews met at the Matthews’ home and agreed that their daughters
shared common despair in their short lives so they should also share, side by side, the same grave.
They thought that their private grief and the final departure of their daughters from this cruel world
should remain a personal matter, a grief within the immediate family. No relatives, no friends, no
obituaries.
They felt obligated to Heather Primrose and Mike Chesterfield for their diligent work, thus
ending their debilitated, feeble hopes. So, they invited them to attend their daughters' funeral.
Eighteen people in all stood silently around the freshly excavated, moist soil and watched the four
simple coffins, without flags, or glory, or gun-salutes, lowered down into their final resting-place.
Carved atop the first three coffins were the names of Melissa Floriou, Mary Corndail, and Eva
Matthews, and atop the last one a big question mark, and in it, a looped rope tied to a large stone.
On a blue granite stone, Mike read the black engraved lettering:

                        THEY ARE ANGELS
                                
A blue Camaro rolled slowly and stopped on the private road of the small cemetery.
Heather touched Mike’s hand and moved her eyes pointing to the road. Mike saw a man and a
woman standing side by side holding hands. Instantly, Mike knew who was the man holding the
woman’s hand. Billy. Hound Dog Billy. He could see now why Billy had to quit the force, why he
could not find any other evidence in Forceworth’s home, but only Aramis. Mike was sure now
who had trained the Confessor not to leave any evidence behind her. He looked at them standing
side by side, holding hands. Gently he touched Heather’s hand, looked at her, and thought, Would
I have done the same for her? Yes! I would, he said to himself and held Heather’s hand tighter.
The car door opened again and an old man stepped out of it. He was holding a bunch of
red carnations with both hands, and on his shoulder a raven was balancing itself. Looking at the
gathered people at the cemetery, he walked and stood next to the woman.
Mike had heard about the old man and the raven from the police officers he had sent to
fetch Billy for his investigating abilities, to shed some light in the mysterious death of Senator
Forceworth.
“Billy’s father, Black Moon,” Mike whispered to Heather.
 The woman holding Billy’s hand turned her face to him and kissed his cheek. Billy  got
into his car and drove away. Holding four white roses in her hands, she and Black Moon walked in
their direction. Her black dress touched and swept the dust at each step. The old man walked next
to her, while the raven bobbed its head up and down with every step Black Moon took.
“Mike, it is she,” Heather whispered. “The confessor.”
“I know,” Mike whispered back.
The people standing around the four-coffin grave turned their heads and looked at her as if
they knew her, as if they were expecting her to appear at the funeral of their daughters, of their
sisters, of their granddaughters. They all knew who the woman was. The confessor.
When the women and Black Moon had walked close enough, Mike and Heather stepped
aside to let them walk between them.
The confessor’s green-blue eyes stared at the fresh, moist soil as she passed between Mike
and Heather. She knelt at the edge of the six-foot deep grave. Silently she looked at the carved
names on each coffin and she threw a white rose onto each one. A minute of heavy silence passed,
and then she spoke to the carved names.
“It’s done. I kept my promise. Monsters and savages will chase you no more. No longer
they can harm the dead or the living. Let your spirits free to fly into your eternal resting place.
Time to rest, to heal. Close your eyes. Go to sleep.”
She stood up, stepped backward, and came to a halt between Mike and Heather. She
turned her head and looked at each and everyone in turn.
“I am so sorry,” she murmured with tears in her eyes. “So sorry.” She was crying.
Reverently, the old man was looking down at the coffin with the question mark on it. He
started singing the loveliest farewell song in his native Creak language. At times he choked and
cried, but at all times he wore a sad smile on his weathered face. When he stopped singing, he
looked straight up in the sky. He then nodded a few times as if talking to some invisible being that
he could only see. He raised his hands and let the carnations fly as high as he could.
The same instant the raven let out a long screech, and cawing flew up and up into the blue
sky. By the time the red carnations touched the coffin with the question mark on it, the raven burst
like a ball of fire, and displaying a long trail of bright light, it disappeared out of sight like a
shooting star.          
Black Moon tried to clear his throat. He looked very emotional, but his face now looked
sad and happy at the same time. He looked at the coffin with the red carnations on it for a while in
silence.  Then in a hoarse voice he said, “You spirit is free, my dearest White Dove. Rest in peace.”
The confessor and Black Moon left the grieving families to their sad private affair, to say
their last farewell to their loved ones. They feet moved slowly on the cemetery grounds, as though
not to disturb the spirit of the dead, reached the road, and without looking back, they disappeared
from their vision as they walked away beneath the flowering dogwood trees.


                             The End