Lily tsked in disgust. “For the privilege of watching?”

Brandon shook his head. “Not at first, though he’s doing that now, too.”

“So what was he charging for?” Mulrooney asked. He leaned back and crossed his big arms across his beefy chest. “Whether this vile crap’s in color or black-and-white? Murder on demand? Kill-per-view?”

“That’s closer to the mark.” Brandon stopped tapping and glanced at every person there, as if to stress that they’d reached the most important part.

“He’s holding auctions so other members of the club can participate in the kill. Within seventy-two hours of every auction, another ‘feature’ title goes up on the marquee of the drive-in theater.”

“This playground has all the perks, huh?” asked Jackie.

“Right down to an ice-cream parlor where you can lure little kids.” He quickly got back to his point. “The lucky members drive up in their stupid cyber cars and park in front of the screen. They chomp their fake hot dogs and popcorn, and then see a five-minute preview. If they pay the full price for their ticket, they get to stay for the full show. Only there’s nothing cyber about it. It’s all the real thing, just like you saw.”

Mulrooney almost growled. “Lousy prick’s probably getting rich as well as making himself infamous. And getting his personal kicks.”

“Given the auction amounts and the ticket prices, I’d say that’s likely.”

Immediately zoning in on what Brandon hadn’t told them, Dean asked, “So what’s the purpose of the auction? How, exactly, is this thing audience participation?” Something occurred to him, which could make catching this guy easier. “Are you telling us people are buying the services of a virtual assassin to kill their real-life enemies, or unwanted spouses?” If they could nail a single customer, they could nail the Reaper.

Brandon shook his head. “Nothing that simple.”

There wasn’t anything simple about it, in Dean’s view.

“He’s not auctioning off the right to choose a victim. In fact, the auction winner has no say about who gets killed.” Sighing heavily, disgust evident in the droop of his shoulders, the other man finally got to the bones of it. “He’s auctioning off the right to choose the means of death.”

A momentary silence fell as everyone absorbed the words. Then Wyatt slowly spoke. “So, anyone with a proclivity for a certain kind of death can, for a fee, have that type of execution carried out for his personal viewing pleasure. And the pleasure of others who will pay to watch.”

“That about sums it up.”

Dean swallowed, now definitely not looking forward to watching the remaining videos. The excesses of a bunch of deviant human minds given an outlet for their violent fantasies promised to be among the most disturbing things he’d ever seen. But the videos were the starting point in stopping the killing. There was no other choice.

He suddenly realized he was no longer wondering if he was going to work this case. Something deep inside him, something that rebelled against the very concept of what this Reaper was doing, demanded the right to work it. Jurisdiction didn’t matter. The reason Blackstone’s CAT had come together didn’t matter.

More visitation time with his son still mattered. Yeah. That mattered. But right now, all he could think about was nailing the sick monster who was making this world a whole lot uglier for his child. For everybody’s children.

Somewhere out there, the friends and families of at least eight women wanted to know what had happened to their murdered loved ones. Who had done it, and why.

And soon, hopefully, Dean and his new teammates might be able to give them some answers.

In the small town of Hope Valley, Virginia, time didn’t just move slowly; it sometimes seemed to meander off the rest of the world’s clock before coming to a complete standstill. And then go into reverse.

Because aside from nothing ever changing-not the landscape, or the faces, or the businesses dotting the ten blocks that made up the entire downtown-some scenes seemed to be repeated over and over, like the replaying of a dream. Not a nightmare that might terrify you into sharp wakefulness, just a jumble of images about nothing of importance, notable only for their sheer blandness.

It was especially noticeable at this time of year. The blazing August sun sucked the very energy out of the air. Any occasional lapse into productivity was quickly quelled. Most folks around Hope Valley secretly wanted nothing more than a tall glass of iced tea and a nap. Too much effort was required to think of something to say to the people you’d seen every day of your life. Beyond “Good morning” or “Have a good one,” what was there to say to the girl at the deli who made you the same turkey on wheat every day? Or the kid who delivered the paper, or the woman who brought the mail?

Sheriff Stacey Rhodes had once hated that sense of normalcy, the laid-back slowness the town wore as comfortably as an old coat. As a teenager, when she’d experienced none of the outside world and had considered anyplace better than this one, she’d imagined nothing worse than spending her life in Hope Valley.

Yet here she was.

The biggest surprise of all? She was okay with that. Compared to some of the things she’d seen, Hope Valley now seemed like the last sane place on earth. It was only on slow, hot days like this when she felt antsy. Like if something didn’t happen to break the monotony, somebody was going to make something happen. And that something might be a whole lot worse than a little heat.

“Morning, Sheriff!”

Waving at the kid who delivered her paper, she called, “Have a good one.”

Getting into her squad car and buckling up, she backed out of the driveway of her small two-bedroom house, passing the delivery boy a few doors down. The kid gleefully steered his bike through a hopelessly out-gunned lawn sprinkler that was trying to force moisture into the still, uncooperative air, and greenness into a brown, parched landscape.

Water ban. No sprinkling sunrise to sunset. She noted the address, figuring she’d pass it along to the town secretary. Playing water cop wasn’t exactly the county sheriff’s job, but hell, it wasn’t as though there was much else on the agenda for today. Or any day.

Though she trusted her ancient radio about as much as she trusted car salesmen, she flipped the thing on as she headed downtown. A burst of static erupted from the speakers; then, surprisingly, a voice came through. “Sheriff? You there? Over.”

She reached for the handset, her interest rising. “Go ahead, Connie. Over.”

“Can you stop at the Donut Shack and pick up a dozen? I didn’t have time. Over.”

A doughnut emergency. Call in the reinforcements. Smothering a sigh, she muttered, “Ten-four,” and turned at the stop sign rather than going straight.

Doughnuts for deputies. If it weren’t so sadly clichéd, it’d almost be funny.

But when she pulled into the Donut Shack’s nearly empty parking lot and glanced through the window, things became a lot less funny. Because clearly visible inside was the owner’s daughter, who worked as a waitress, looking nervous and frightened.

She was surrounded by three teenage boys.

Stacey put names to the faces in an instant. One was the crowned king of thugs at the local high school, the other two his football-playing cronies. The sidekicks she didn’t worry about. In ten years, they’d be married with kids, working at the lumberyard, drinking hard on weekends as they scratched their beer guts and relived their glory days.

But their leader, Mike Flanagan, was a mean punk. He was too cocky to fear authority, and Stacey had hauled him in before. That one would end up in jail, or in the military, where he could legally injure others, which seemed to be his favorite thing to do.