Copyright © 2004 by Karen Rose Hafer

Dr. Marc Conterato and Kay Conterato for medical advice on this book and for all the wisdom and support they've provided over the years-they are remarkable people and incredible friends.

MARTIN HAFER for his hard-won insight into the mind of evil perpetrators, gained through years of counseling families shattered and broken through insidious crime.

Mary and Mike Koenig and Neil Blunt for their insight into the Catholic faith.

Seattle , three years earlier

"I wished they'd fried his murderein' ass," declared the first man bitterly, breaking the silence that had become explosive in its intensity.

Murmurs of heated agreement rippled through the small crowd that had gathered to watch the moving van being loaded. God only knew why they had. There really wasn't anything to see. Sofas, chairs, antiques of all shapes and sizes. Vases that probably cost a year's salary of an average work-ingman. A grand piano. Simply the belongings of an opulent family forced to flee the rage of an incensed community.

And the guards the family had hired to keep the crowds at bay. That was all.

The off-duty cop dressed in old jeans and a Seahawks sweatshirt wasn't sure why he himself was there, standing in the cold Seattle drizzle. Perhaps to prove to himself that the murdering sonofabitch was really leaving town. Perhaps to get one last look at his face before he did.

Perhaps.

But more than likely it was to torture himself over the one who got away. The cruel, demonic, sadistic brute who got away. On a goddamn technicality.

There would be no justice for the grieving community, still in shock. Not today, anyway, he thought.

An elderly woman shook her plastic-rainhat-covered head as the movers loaded more boxes into the unmarked truck. "The chair wouldn't have been good enough, not after what he did."

Another old man squared his once-robust shoulders, staring at the darkened house with contempt. "Shoulda done to him what he done to those poor girls."

His wife made a soft clucking sound in her throat from under the umbrella she held over them both. "But what decent person could they get to do it?"

"How about the girls' fathers?" her husband returned, helpless fury making his voice tremble.

Again murmurs of agreement.

"What I can't believe is that they just let him go," a younger man wearing a Mariners baseball cap said in a bold, angry voice.

"On a technicality," added the first man who had spoken, just as bitterly as before.

On a mistake. An error. A goddamn technicality.

"Cops arrest 'em, damn lawyers let 'em go," said the man sharing the umbrella with his wife.

"Oh, no," said the man in the Mariners cap. "This technicality was the fault of the police. It was all over the front page. The cops fucked up and this monster goes free."

It was true. But he knew it wasn't "cops." It was only one cop.

"Richard," shushed the younger woman at Baseball-cap's side, grabbing his arm. "There's no need to be vulgar."

Richard Baseball-cap shook off the woman's restraining hand. "He rapes and butchers four girls and I'm vulgar?" he declared in loud disbelief. "Don't be an idiot, Sheila."

Sheila looked down at the pavement, her cheeks crimson. "I'm sorry, Richard."

"Yeah, whatever," Richard muttered, looking up at the house. "It just pisses me off that rich people hire rich lawyers and get away with bloody murder."

Agreement again passed through the group and the conversation turned to the inequities of the modern legal system until the movers loaded the last box and sealed the truck's back doors. The truck pulled away to a cacophony of jeers and name-calling that did absolutely no real good at all, unless it made the crowd feel better. But how could it?

Then the small crowd hushed as one of the doors of the three-car garage slid open and a black Mercedes sedan emerged. No one said a word until the Mercedes was upon them, gliding by on the wet street Then Richard Baseball-cap yelled, "Murderer!" and the cry was taken up by the others.

Except for the off-duty cop in old blue jeans and a now-soaked Seahawks sweatshirt who said not a word, even when the Mercedes rolled to a stop next to where he silently stood.

The crowd hushed again as the heavily tinted window rolled down, revealing the face that haunted his dreams, asleep and awake. Cold dark eyes narrowed, filled with unleashed fury. It was subhuman, the face and the eyes and the mouth that curved in a smug smile that he wanted to slice right off the subhuman face. Then the smug mouth spoke. "Go to hell, Davies," it said.

It's no less than I deserve. "I'll meet you there," Davies returned through clenched teeth.

The woman in the Mercedes's front passenger seat murmured something and the subhuman raised the window. The engine gunned and the tires squealed against the wet asphalt as the Mercedes leapt forward, sending up a fine cloud of charred steam that burned his nose.

And off they go, Davies thought. Off to have a life. Unfair. Inequitable. A vicious, sadistic murderer robbed four teenaged girls of their lives and was set free to have a life of his own. For now.

Because soon enough the blood lust would rise up again and more girls would be at the murderer's mercy. More girls would die, because the murdering sonofabitch had no mercy.

More girls would die. But the next time I'll be ready. The next time there would be no technicality. The next time the murdering, sadistic monster would pay.

Neil Davies watched the Mercedes turn the corner at the end of the street and then it was out of view. Next time, he vowed to the four girls. To himself. I'll get him. He'll pay. I promise.