Jacob followed me as I squished and squashed along the same direction as the prints. I heard him sneeze a couple of times as we made our way. Between the rain and weeds, I couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of my face. I was about halfway into the lot when I tripped over something. As Jacob rushed over to help pick me up, I heard him half-shout, half-wail, “No!”

I had tripped over a leg. The leg of Sammy Garden. Or rather, her corpse. Jacob kept repeating his keening, one-word lament, clutching a corner of her muddied skirt as he knelt next to her. Her blouse was torn over a gaping wound in her chest. The rain ignored our shock and disbelief, and pelted hard against us.

My concern for Jacob kept me from giving into my own fear and sense of failure. I grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him away from the figure on the ground. He held on to me, sobbing. I led him back to the car. He was shivering, wet and miserable.

“Jacob, listen to me. You’ve got to try to push that out of your mind.”

He sneezed, but didn’t answer. I wondered what Brian Henderson was going to do to me for letting his son catch pneumonia. Jacob sneezed again.

“It’s raining on her,” he said, as if that somehow was a final indignity that he couldn’t bear to have her suffer.

Oddly, I found myself in agreement. I handed him the keys. He took them with a clumsy grasp and looked up at me.

“Get in the car and pop the trunk open for me,” I said. “I’ve got a tarp in there. You stay here and try to dry off.”

He stopped crying and stared at me, but I could see he hadn’t really heard me. I couldn’t blame him.

“Jacob, please. Get in the car and open the trunk. I’ll put the tarp on her, but nothing can hurt her now. Nothing. Not even the rain.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, then nodded and did as I asked.

I heard him start the motor up as I closed the trunk. I looked through the windshield at him. He was looking down into his lap, his forehead leaning against arms crossed over the steering wheel.

I made my way over to Sammy’s body and spread the tarp, then bent down to anchor the edges. I forced myself to slow my breathing and to think about Jacob and getting out of the rain; I tried not to think about what lay beneath the tarp. Would the folks in forensics consider this disturbing the scene or protecting it? I didn’t suppose they’d be happy about it.

I thought I heard Jacob driving off and stood up. I peered through the darkness. The wind was still whipping rain into my face, but it wasn’t falling quite as hard. The Karmann Ghia was still at the curb, engine running. I had walked about halfway back to it, when I noticed a Blazer parked along Briarcrest. I knew it hadn’t been there long, or we would have seen it when we first looked for Sammy. I was just starting to feel fear climbing up the back of my neck when I was tackled from behind.

I fell face first into the mud and grass, the wind knocked out of me. Before I could react, my arms were pinned behind me and my attacker pulled me roughly to my feet. I saw Jacob climb out of the car. “No!” I shouted. “Get out of here! Go!” A big, gloved hand came over my mouth. I struggled against it, panicking as Jacob hesitated. But in the next moment, he seemed to look back toward Sammy, then got back in the car and drove off.

My attacker’s grip tightened. I lifted one foot and brought it down hard on his instep. The ground was slippery, as was the top of his boot, so I didn’t land as much force on it as I wanted to; but he yowled in pain and released me with a hard shove, causing me to fall again.

Someone was on top of me almost as soon as I hit the ground. This time, the barrel of a gun was pressed to my temple, and a voice said, “I wouldn’t try anything like that again.”

I was yanked up to my feet, and I became aware that I had two escorts for the evening; the sight of the second one and his gun must have been what convinced Jacob to leave.

Although they both wore dark ski masks, the newcomer wore no gloves. I recognized the chain of skulls tattooed on his left wrist.

“Well, if it isn’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” I said.

The one with the gun said, “You think you can tie her up this time, Devon? Gag her, while you’re at it.”

“The bitch almost broke my foot,” Devon whined, but he took pleasure in tying both the gag and the rope around my wrists as tightly as possible. They carried me over to the Blazer, and propped me up against it while they opened the door.

“I owe her, Raney.”

“You think I care? Go ahead. But make it snappy; that kid may already be at a phone.”

Devon wasted no time. He brought his booted foot down like a hammer on my right ankle. When I stumbled forward, they caught me and shoved me into the back seat, face first. They climbed into the front seat, Devon taking the driver’s side. They pulled off their masks. Raney turned back to me and said, “Tweedledee and Tweedledum, huh?” and brought the barrel of the gun down on the back of my head.

I CAME TO in a cold, dark room. In pain. My head and ankle throbbed in unrelenting, independent rhythms. I could hear voices, but passed out again before I could make sense of them.

The next time around I was able to concentrate better. Three shafts of light were coming into the room from small windows at the top of one wall. Turning my head caused the room to swim. I fought off a wave of nausea.

I tried to focus on my surroundings once again. I was lying on a thin, bare mattress, the kind you might find on a very old foldout couch. No, more like a bunk bed at summer camp. About an inch-and-a-half thick. It was musty-smelling and had skinny black-and-white stripes on it. It was on the floor. A bare wooden floor.

The room was small, about eight by ten feet. There was one door, beneath which a thin line of light crept in. A metal bucket sat in one corner. My toilet, I supposed. Nothing more – the bucket, the mattress, and me.

The gag was off and my hands were no longer tied. My mud-soaked coat was gone, as were my shoes. My right ankle was the size of a softball. I was still wearing my blouse and slacks. I reached up to feel the knot on the back of my head, and was shocked to realize that my hair had been cut. Shoulder-length before my captors took up barbering, it was now cut into odd-shaped clumps. The loss of my shoes and coat, even the pain of my injuries, did not upset me nearly as much as this discovery. Why cut my hair?

My mind began to fill with questions, most of which I didn’t like the answers to: Where was I? I didn’t know. I would make a project of trying to find out, but right now, I didn’t know. What day was it? Wednesday? How long had I been out? I didn’t know. What did they want with me? I didn’t know. Something to do with Sammy? But I barely knew her. Why not take Jacob?

Why had they let me see their faces, hear their names?

That question made my stomach tighten into a hard knot. The answer to that one came a little too easily: because they didn’t plan for me to live long enough to tell anyone else. I kept from panicking only because I couldn’t afford it. Still, I had to tell myself to get a grip about a dozen times before I could breathe normally.

So why was I still alive? They wanted something from me. Maybe. Thought I knew something. Maybe. Were they going to bargain with me? For what? Doubtful that I could gain them anything. But maybe.

Why had they cut my hair? To humiliate me, I decided. As with the shoes, the bare mattress, the stark room: to make me feel demeaned and helpless. To let me know who was in control. When I thought about this, the actual effect was to make me angry. I resolved to keep that anger burning, to not give them the pleasure of seeing me cringe before them.