“One thing I don’t see here,” Tess said. “The autopsy report says he had a previous wound. Did you look into that?”

He straightened a little. “He was in the service. He was shot in the chest in the opening days of the Iraq War. Fortunately, he survived, although it was touch and go for a while. He recovered, but had PTSD and some related mental health problems.”

“What kind?”

“He took drugs, was arrested twice for domestic situations with his wife and once for being under the influence. That led to a divorce, and he was out of work—threatened his boss, got into bar fights.

“He was on a family camping trip with his family when he was shot. They went to the same place every year.”

“What do you think happened?”

“We were never able to clear the case—there just was no evidence. The trail went cold—all we he had was the bullet.”

He showed her on Google Earth where the campground was. He couldn’t go with her. He gave her distinct instructions as to where the table was, and of course she saw not only the autopsy photos but photos of the picnic area, the blood spatter, and diagrams. Tess didn’t think she needed to drive out there, but she did, anyway. There had been a rain up here recently, and the small creek near the picnic table had plenty of runoff. It was churning. Tess had the place to herself—it was a weekday—and she looked at the spot where she believed he had been shot.

Just out with his family, celebrating his life. A man who had survived a sniper attack once.

That someone could do this for fun.

That they could do this to this soldier. Who, by all accounts, was troubled and suffered deeply from what he’d experienced in Iraq.

Tess thought about Michael DeKoven.

She wondered if he had a sniper rifle. She wondered where he practiced. She wondered who she could talk to who would tell her.

Finally she got back into her Tahoe and drove south.

Next stop: Phoenix.

By the time Michael got back home, he had gone through several stages: fear, despair, and now anger. He parked the 4Runner in the garage and walked to the house. He went to the bathroom off the kitchen, not wanting to create a mess in the master bathroom. Since it was right near the back door it would be easier for cleanup.

Gingerly, he stripped off his jersey and shorts, wincing with pain and ready for a hot shower where he could just stand there and let the water pour over him and he could just…think.

He did. But the water pounded him like needles, and he couldn’t stand to remain under the spray very long. Just get the dirt and dried blood off, pick out a little of the gravel and twigs.

He’d been unable to think too well up to now. But now he was at DeKoven Central, his power base. A man’s home was his castle, and this place was a castle.

He patted himself dry and thought about what he could wear—a silk robe would probably be the best. As he walked into the bedroom he glanced in the large mirror and saw two things. How pale and scared his face looked—

And Martin, on his stomach, sprawled on the bed behind him. Tanned and beautiful.

Asleep.

When he first came into the room it had scared him to see someone here. The first thing he’d felt was fear.

As if fear had been sown into him. He could almost smell it on himself. He looked at Martin, felt the usual appreciation for his lover’s beauty.

He felt it despite the stinging road rash, the bruises. He was raw to the air. Knew that he’d be stiff and in terrible pain tomorrow, his muscles torqued around in all sorts of ways.

If he was going to do anything of a sexual nature, it had to be now.

And there lay Martin. So perfect.

Just what the doctor ordered.

He padded quietly to the walk-in closet. The birchwood dowel, four feet long and a quarter inch in diameter, stood in the corner of the closet, the price sticker still affixed. On the floor beneath was a nylon cord in a loop. Already cut.

He’d stashed it all here for a moment just like this.

The fucker in the truck ran him off the road.

He left that note. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

“The fuck you don’t,” Michael muttered. “You don’t know the half I did.” He grabbed the rope. Martin still sleeping. Jet lag? Michael had always been quick as a snake, and he had rehearsed it so many times and done it more than a few, it went fast. Knee into Martin’s back. Wrap the rope tight around his two wrists, then secure the two ends to the headboard posts.

Martin squeaked.

Bucked.

Cried out.

“It’s okay, Martin,” Michael said, gently running his hand down Martin’s gleaming flank as if quieting a horse. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay, not yet.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

“Michael, please!”

“I’m feeling my dark side,” Michael said in way of explanation.

“Please!”

“You have a choice.”

“No!”

“A choice, Martin.” He reached under the bed and groped around for the book. He’d marked the pages with Post-it Notes.

He held up the first page. The Chelsea grin.

“Oh, God, Michael, don’t even joke about that—”

Michael felt the dark tide rising in his chest. It all but obliterated the terror he’d felt as the truck bore down on him. But the dread remained.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

That fueled his anger. His anger was always silent, but effective. He said, “You don’t like the Chelsea grin? I admit, it would ruin you for acting jobs. Or modeling. Look at the picture.”

Obediently, Martin craned his neck to look again. He’d seen it before. The Chelsea grin was what happened when someone took a knife to the corners of a man’s mouth and cut to make the grin wider.

“Michael, you wouldn’t—”

“Martin, you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Martin stared at him.

“You have a choice. Like last time.” Michael reached out and touched a black curl of Martin’s hair, hooked it behind his lover’s ear. “You know you’ll be all right. A little bit of pain, and then pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. You just have to choose. The Chelsea grin or—”

“Please! Please!”

“Shhhhhhhh.” Michael put his finger to his lover’s lips. Martin was shaking uncontrollably. It reminded him of his wife’s worthless Chihuahua, always trembling. “You don’t want that, it’s okay,” Michael crooned. “There’s always another option.”

“What? What?”

“The bastinado. Some pain, but on the good side, no marks. No marks, Martin. Nothing to mar your beauty. Easy peasy. Just something for you to get through, to prove how much you love me.”

“Michael, I love you. Let’s make love and—”

“Shhhhhhh. A couple of whacks, that’s all. No more than two to each foot.”

“No! Please, Michael! Let’s make love! Please, I want you so much—”

“The Chelsea grin or the bastinado? You have to choose.”

Martin was crying now. Sobbing. His fear kited up out of his soul and Michael felt that if he opened his mouth right now he could swallow it whole. “You have to say it, Martin.”

Martin whimpered, “The bas—the bastinado.”

“Legs in the air. Soles of the feet facing me.”

Martin raised them slowly.

“Keep them up. No fair cheating. I want my two whacks. I won’t be cheated.”

Martin’s legs were trembling. His beautiful, muscular, tanned legs. He would keep them up. He was completely in submission mode.

Michael took a couple of practice swings. The dowel whipped back and forth, making a satisfying whooshing sound as it cleaved the air.

“You know something, Martin?” Michael said as he stood at the foot of the bed and assumed the stance of a Samurai.