“But, you’re not--”

“It’s the quickest way to get an emergency vehicle here. Do it!”

It occurred to her she might be down, once that little dog was finished with her. “It’s okay,” she said softly, hoping to reassure the animal. “I’m going to help Peanut.”

She inched into the box, earning another growl. “Peanut needs food and water. And so do you. It’s going to be okay,” she said again. “I promise.”

She crawled in, stopping every few inches to let the animal grow accustomed to her, the whole time continuing to talk softly. The dog watched her warily, muzzle quivering. But not baring its teeth. A good sign.

Stacy took a deep breath. “Good dog. That’s right, good, good dog . . . I’m going to take Peanut now . . . that’s right--”

She scooped her up. Cradled her to her chest. She was alive. Alive and the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Peanut,” Stacy whispered, the wail of sirens in the background. “It’s going to be okay now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

And then she began to cry.

One week later.

As Stacy walked into the squad room, it went silent. But only for a moment.

“Welcome back, Killian,” Patterson said, standing. “Way to go.”

Others followed his lead, calling out congratulations, clapping her on the back as she passed.

Yeah, she’d broken ranks--and been reprimanded for it. But she’d also trusted her gut and followed her instincts. Nobody understood--and applauded--that better than another cop.

That it’d paid off was definitely something to cheer about.

Several minutes later, she sank into the chair across the desk from Patterson. “Looks like you managed to keep crime at bay without me.”

He laughed, then shook his head. “A week’s suspension without pay, Killian. That was stiff.”

“But so worth it.” Stacy sobered. “Sorry about that night. I was out of line.”

“You were right. You saved that baby’s life.”

“But the bad guy got away.”

A week had passed with no new leads. Nothing. The med convention had packed up and left town and Stacy couldn’t help wondering if their perp had left with them.

If she had been focused on catching him, if she had joined Patterson at the scene, while it was still white-hot, would the outcome have been different?

As if reading her thoughts, Patterson snorted. “Stop it, Killian. You did what you thought was right and followed your gut. Isn’t that what a cop’s supposed to do?”

“He’s going to kill again.”

“Yeah, he is. But maybe that little girl’s going to grow up and cure cancer.”

She stared at him a moment, then laughed. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

“Maybe.”

She laughed again. “Fair enough, considering. You plugged everything into ViCAP?”

“Done. How’s the newest member of your family?”

“Peanut, the wonder dog,” she said, shaking her head. Child Protective Services had taken Jillian’s baby until she could be joined with her father, but no way would Stacy allow that brave little pooch to be taken to the S.P.C.A. “I swear, Spencer already loves that mutt more than me.”

Major Henry stuck his head out his door. “Patterson, Killian, 10-21, Waldhorn and Adler Antiques on Royal. Now, not tomorrow.”

BLOOD SUGAR BABY

by

J.T. Ellison

Nashville, Tennessee

He was lost. His GPS didn’t take into account road work, nor roads closed to accommodate protests, and he’d been shunted off onto several side streets and was now driving in circles. He finally made a right turn and pulled to the curb to get out a real map, and as he reached into the glove box — shit, he needed to get that knife out of there — he saw her. She was on the concrete sidewalk, sprawled back against the wall, a spread of multicolored blankets at her feet, staring blankly into space. Her dirty blond hair was past limp and full into dreadlocks, matted against her skull on the left side. He drove past slowly, watching, seeing the curve of her skull beneath the clumps of hair, the slope of her jaw, her neat little ear, surprisingly white and clean, nestled against her grimy skin. Her eyes were light. He was too far away to see if they were blue or green. Light irises, and unfocused pupils. High, perhaps, or starved, or simply beyond caring.

Perfect.

No one would miss her. And he could rid himself of this nagging fury that made him so damn antsy.

He closed the glove box and circled the block. There she sat, just waiting for him.

A sign.

A gift.

It had been a bad day. Jock gone-to-seed, flakily jovial, over-the-top trying to compensate for something Heath Stover, the fat ass he’d started med school with, had called, wanting to get together. JR had run into him last month in New Orleans, been forced into Hurricanes at Pat O’Briens, and had stupidly told Stover where he worked.

He shook his head, the scene replaying itself over and over and over. Stover bragging and braying at the top of his lungs about his hugely successful practice, his new BMW, his long-legged, big-busted bride, his offer of tenure at Tulane. The only thing that was off, Stover confided, was his piece on the side, who’d been pushing him to leave his wife.

In the moment, bolstered by alcohol, the camaraderie, the overwhelming need to fit in, to be accepted, to look as palatable to the real world as this fuck-up, sanity was cast aside. Arrogance overtook him, and he revealed his own career path, up the ladder at Bosco Blades, a salesman extraordinaire. No Willy Loman, though he perhaps looked and sounded a bit like the sad sack, but that was all a part of his act. He was better than that. Better than good. He was the best the company had: stock options, access to the corporate jet, the house in Aspen, all of it.

“As a matter of fact,” he’d told Stover, “I’m headlining a conference in Nashville next month. Talking about the new laser-guided scalpel we’ve developed. Hell of a thing.”

“Hell of a thing,” Stover had replied. He was counting on the fact that Stover was far too drunk to recall the name of the company, and he gave him a fake number to write down, and a bogus email.

But the stupid son of a bitch had remembered the company name, had called and wormed JR’s personal cell number out of his secretary, had himself put on the calendar, and in a couple of hours would be waiting at a restaurant several streets away for an instant replay of their night in the Big Easy.

If only Stover knew what had really happened that night. About the knife, and the silent scream, and the ease with which the flesh accepted his blade.

He needed someplace quiet, and calm to prepare himself for his night with a “friend.” He needed a drink, truth be told. Many drinks.

But the woman would do just as well. She would turn his frown upside down.

He parked a few blocks away, pulled a baseball cap low on his head and walked back to the spot. A marble and concrete sign said he was at Legislative Plaza. The War Memorial. The Capitol rose to his right, high against the blue sky, and the small crowd of protesters with their signs held high gathered on the stairs. He needed to be careful when he passed them, not to draw their attention.

He found the perfect spot halfway down the block, shielded from the friendly mob on the stairs, and from the street, with the trident maples as cover.

And then he watched. And waited. At some point, she would have to move, and then he would follow, and strike.

To hell with Heath Stover. He had a rendezvous ahead with someone much more enticing.

The homicide offices in Nashville’s Criminal Justice Center had been quiet all day. It was the first Monday off Daylight Savings time, and even though it was barely 5:00 p.m., the skies outside Lieutenant Taylor Jackson’s window were inky with darkness. The lights over the Jefferson Street bridge glowed, warm and homey, and she could just see the slice of river flowing north to Kentucky. It was a moonless night; the vapor lamps’ illuminations reflected against the black waters.