Eventually, however, my shoulders gave out. The bat came down and no matter how much I wanted, I couldn’t raise it again. I sank down on the carpet, panting hard, sweat-soaked, gore-spattered, my bloody hands cradling my bloody head.

I waited for a while, I don’t know why. For the neighbors to knock on the door. For the cops to come pounding up the steps. For the new boy to return and see that I’d finally done it: The Burgerman was dead.

After a time, when nothing happened, I walked to the bathroom, trailing the bat behind me. I noticed idly that the boy had closed the front door behind him; maybe that’s why the neighbors never came, or maybe it was because the Burgerman had a knack for choosing apartments where the neighbors didn’t care.

Once in the bathroom, I turned on the water, climbing in fully clothed, trying to rinse off the worst of the gore. But not letting go of the bat. Just in case, you know. Just in case.

In my bedroom now, shedding my wet clothes into one bloody pile. Pulling out my second pair of jeans, an old T-shirt, sweatshirt, the few articles of clothing I had left.

At the last minute, I got smart. Found a duffel bag in Burgerman’s closet, went to the front hallway, and loaded up on cash and porno tapes. Given that I starred in most of the home movies, I figured they were the least I deserved.

I tried to think of what else to take with me; there was so little of value in this place. Burgerman spent money on booze, drugs, and whores. He’d never even bought me a goddamn video game.

The rage hit me all over again, and for an insane moment I wanted to go back into the bedroom and resume whacking him with the baseball bat. I had to catch myself, focus. The other boy was long gone. No doubt already spilling his guts to the police.

I had to get out of here.

At the last second, as I headed for the door, I caught a faint blur of movement out of the corner of my eye. I stumbled over my feet, groping blindly for the baseball bat, pivoting toward Burgerman’s bedroom.

I’d just raised the bat over my head, when I realized that wasn’t Burgerman’s foot moving under the sheet. Instead, the white folds parted and a hairy black spider emerged.

The tarantula lived, working her way carefully around the bloody sheets.

After another brief hesitation, I found the pet store box, scooped her inside, and slid her into my duffel bag.

I’d never had a pet before.

I thought I’d name her Henrietta.

SHE WANTED TO CALL MAC. IT WAS HER KNEE-JERK REACTION, born of terror and the resulting aftermath. But of course, he was out in the field now, doing the job he loved and beyond her reach just as she was so often beyond his.

So Kimberly huddled on the floor of her hotel room, arms wrapped protectively around her unborn child, aware of the blood on her cheek, and the fact she shouldn’t wash up until the crime scene photographer had documented her face. She’d already contacted her supervisor who in turn would raise the local sheriff as a courtesy call. Sheriff Wyatt would be leaving his D.A.R.E. training. Sheriff Duffy would be roused out of bed. And with their blessing, her own ERT would probably be activated to process the scene.

So many wheels in motion. The law enforcement machinery grinding into gear. She knew it. She understood it. She lived it.

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt nearly dumbstruck with exhaustion.

“Water?” Sal asked. He took a seat beside her, careful not to touch. Quincy and Rainie were outside the room, standing in the hallway with the wide-eyed hotel manager, discussing something in low tones they obviously didn’t want her to hear.

“You okay?” Sal asked.

She nodded.

“The baby?”

She nodded again, best she could do. Her belly felt fine, no cramping, no nausea. Mostly she felt jittery with the adrenaline dump, while her arms stung from a myriad of tiny cuts. Nothing a Band-Aid couldn’t cover. She was fine, absolutely, positively fine, except for the fact that she would never be fine again.

The boy’s body still lay slumped on the floor. A cursory attempt at finding a pulse had confirmed that he was dead. They had not bothered to call 911 or raise an EMT; this stage of the game was all about protecting the crime scene.

Which included the blood in her hair, the gore on her cheek, the rich, coppery smell she could not get out of her nostrils.

The boy’s voice, trying to explain to her that he was tired, so very tired.

It was the senselessness that was hardest to take. That a life could be born into this world and, through no fault of its own, never stand a chance. Kimberly pressed the heels of her hands against her eye sockets, not wanting to see what she saw, not wanting to know what she knew.

“He confirmed that Dinchara murdered the missing prostitutes,” she whispered finally, taking the glass of water from Sal, watching it tremble in her hand. She didn’t want to drink. She forced herself to take little sips of water anyway, because she couldn’t risk dehydration while pregnant.

Sal’s turn for silence.

“The boy also shot and killed Tommy Mark Evans, acting under Dinchara’s directions. It was considered his practice run, for his ‘graduation.’ There’s another boy as well, younger. The teen referred to him as his ‘replacement.’”

“Where?”

“Somewhere close. According to the boy, Dinchara knows we’re here asking questions. Maybe we even walked right by him, I don’t know. But he’s local. Definitely local.”

“What else?”

She closed her eyes tiredly, resting the glass of water against her forehead. When she opened them again, she saw she had smeared blood on the curve of the glass and the sight of it, dark, fleshy, made her stomach roil dangerously. She fought to hold it together.

“He helped dispose of the bodies. They pulled them by litters up Blood Mountain. But not the primary trail-Dinchara has his own. Someplace above the main traffic flow where they could look down at the activity below. That should help narrow our search.”

“Okay.”

She turned to him finally, her agitation starting to slip through the cracks, ruining her attempt at composure. “Okay? I just watched a teenage boy blow out his brains, and all you can say is okay? Dinchara kidnapped this child. He raped him, he corrupted him, he turned him into an accomplice until the boy would rather die than risk a future with his own child. Nothing about that is okay!”

Sal looked at her strangely. “Kimberly, it isn’t your fault-”

“What isn’t my fault? That a child was kidnapped? That nobody ever rescued him? That Dinchara used him as a tool for murder over a dozen times and no one ever noticed? We’re the cops, Sal. If it’s not our fault, whose fault is it?”

“The kid shot Tommy Mark Evans-”

“Because he had no choice!”

“He could’ve just as easily shot you.”

“You know what? That doesn’t make me feel any better!”

And then, through her own rising hysteria, remembering suddenly: “Shit! Ginny Jones. She’s waiting for him in the parking lot. Quick, before she hears the sirens, we gotta find Ginny Jones!”

Quincy and Rainie were unarmed civilians. They were not the type, however, to let such details stop them. Quincy took the lead with Rainie following him swiftly and quietly over the dark, rain-slicked asphalt.