As I stood outside the front doors of The Players, I pictured him in prison, suffering the ultimate lack of control, every minute of his life dictated to him.

Karma. Maybe I wanted to believe in it after all.

T he beating wasn't the worst of it. The worst thing was knowing that when the beating was over, so too would be his life. Or perhaps the worst thing was knowing he had no control in the situation. All the power was held by Alexi Kulak, cousin of that Russian c.u.n.t who had now ruined his life.

While the Russian stationed at the back door kept anyone from coming out to witness the act, Kulak had personally slapped a wide swatch of duct tape over Van Zandt's mouth and taped his hands together behind his back. They shoved him into the backseat of Lorinda's rental car, which they drove through an open gate onto the grounds of the auto salvage yard behind the bar. They then parked the car inside a cavernous, filthy garage and dragged him from it.

He tried to run, of course. Awkward with his arms behind him and panic running like water down his legs, it seemed the door grew no closer as he ran. The thugs caught him with rough hands and dragged him back onto a large black tarp laid out on the concrete floor. Tools had been lined up on the edge of the tarp like surgical instruments: a hammer, a crowbar, pliers. Tears flooded his eyes and his bladder let go in a warm, wet rush.

"Break his legs," Kulak instructed calmly. "So he cannot run like the coward he is."

The largest of the henchmen held him down while another picked up a sledgehammer. Van Zandt kicked and writhed. The Russian swung and missed, cursing loudly as the hammerhead connected with the floor. The second swing was on target, hitting the inside edge of his kneecap and shattering the bone like an eggsh.e.l.l.

Van Zandt's screams were trapped by the duct tape. The pain exploded in his brain like a white-hot nova. It ripped through his body like a tornado. His bowels released and the fetid stench made him gag. The third blow hit squarely on the shin below his other knee, the force splintering the bone, the head of the hammer driving through the soft tissue beneath.

Someone ripped the tape from his mouth and he flopped onto his side and vomited convulsively, again and again.

"Defiler of young girls," Kulak said. "Murderer. Rapist. American justice is too good for you. This is great country, but too kind. Americans say please and thank you and let killers run free because of technicalities. Sasha is dead because of you. Now you murder a girl and the police cannot even put you in jail."

Van Zandt shook his head, wiping his face through the mess on the tarp. He was sobbing and panting. "No. No. No. I didn't . . . accident . . . not my fault." The words came out in gasps and bursts. Pain pulsed through him in searing, white-hot shocks.

"You lying piece of s.h.i.t," Kulak snapped. "I know about the b.l.o.o.d.y shirt. I know you tried to rape this girl, like you raped Sasha."

Kulak cursed him in Russian and nodded to the thugs. He stood back and watched calmly while they beat Van Zandt with thin iron rods. One would strike him, then another, each picking his target methodically. Occasionally, Kulak gave instructions in English so Van Zandt could understand.

They were not to hit him in the head. Kulak wanted him conscious, able to hear, able to feel the pain. They were not to kill him-he did not deserve a quick death.

The blows were strategically placed.

Van Zandt tried to speak, tried to beg, tried to explain, tried to lay the blame away from himself. It was not his fault Sasha had killed herself. It was not his fault Jill Morone had suffocated. He had never forced himself on a woman.

Kulak came onto the tarp and kicked him in the mouth. Van Zandt choked on blood and teeth, coughed and wretched.

"I'm sick of your excuses," Kulak said. "In your world, you are not responsible for anything you do. In my world, a man pays for his sins."

Kulak smoked a cigarette and waited until Van Zandt's mouth stopped bleeding, then wrapped the lower part of his head with the duct tape, covering his mouth with several layers. They taped his broken legs together and threw him in the trunk of Lorinda's rented Chevy.

The last thing he saw was Alexi Kulak leaning over to spit on him, then the trunk was closed. Tomas Van Zandt's world went dark, and the awful waiting began.

I watched the world come and go from The Players that night, but Tomas Van Zandt never showed. I heard a woman ask for him at the bar, and thought she might be Lorinda Carlton: the hard downside of forty with a low-rent Cher look about her. If it was her, then Van Zandt must have called her about meeting for drinks. But there was no sign of Van Zandt.

I saw Irina come in with some girlfriends around eleven. Cinderellas on the town, just in time to blow five bucks on a drink and flirt with some polo players before their coaches turned into pumpkins and they had to go back to their rented rooms and stable apartments.

Around midnight Mr. Baseball tried his luck again.

"Last call for romance." The winning smile, the eyebrows up.

"What?" I asked, pretending amazement. "You've been here all evening and no sweet young thing on

your arm?" "I was saving myself for you." "You have all the lines." "Do I need another one?" he asked. "You need to take a hike, spitball." Landry stepped in close on him and flashed his shield. Mr. Baseball looked at me. I shrugged. "I told you I'm trouble." "She'd eat you alive, pal," Landry said, smiling like a shark. "And not in a good way." Baseball gave a little salute of resignation and backed away. "What was that about?" Landry asked, looking perturbed as he settled into the other chair at the table. "A girl has to pa.s.s the time." "Giving up on Van Zandt?" "I'd say I'm officially stood up. And I officially look like a fool. Did Dugan call off the dogs?" "Five minutes ago. He was betting on you. That's something." "Never bet on a dark horse," I told him. "You'll tear up the ticket nine times out of ten." "But you can make it all back when one comes in," he pointed out. "Dugan doesn't strike me as a gambling man." "What do you care what Dugan thinks? You don't have to answer to him." I didn't want to admit that it mattered to me to gain back some of the respect I'd destroyed when my career ended. I didn't want to say that I had wanted to show up Armedgian. I had the uncomfortable

feeling I didn't need to say it. Landry was watching me more closely than I cared for.

"It was a gutsy move, calling Van Zandt the way you did," he reminded me. "And it might have paid off.What'd he say when you asked him if he was free?" "He said he had some business to take care of. Probably dumping Erin's body somewhere." "I saw Lorinda Carlton," Landry said. "I stopped her on her way out." "Long braid with a feather in it?" I asked. "Stalled on the shoulder of the fashion highway?" He looked amused at the description. "Meow."

"Hey, any woman stupid enough to fall for Van Zandt's act gets no respect from me." "I'm with you there," he said. "That one got an extra helping of stupid. A hundred bucks says she sawthat b.l.o.o.d.y shirt, even helped Van Zandt get rid of it, and she still thinks he's a prince."

"What did she have to say tonight?" He huffed. "She wouldn't call nine-one-one if I was on fire. She thinks I'm evil. She had nothing to say.

But I don't think she came here trolling for men. Strikes me her idea of a good time would be burningincense and reading bad poetry aloud." "She asked the bartender if he'd seen Van Zandt," I said. "Then she came here expecting him to be here. See? You weren't such a long shot after all." The bar was closing down, wait staff putting chairs up and carrying gla.s.ses back to the bar. I stood up slowly, body aching and stiff from my adventures of the last few days. I dropped a ten on the table for the waitress.

Landry arched a brow. "Generous."

I shrugged. "She's got a s.h.i.t job and I've got a trust fund." We walked out together. The valets had already gone for the night. I could see Landry's car sittingopposite mine in the lower parking lot.

"I don't know any cops with a trust fund," he said.

"Don't make a big thing out of it, Landry. Besides, as you are so fond of reminding me, I'm not a copanymore." "You don't have a badge," he qualified. "Ah, do I flatter myself or was that a backhanded compliment?" I asked as we arrived at the cars. "Don't make a big thing out of it, Estes," he said with a slight smile. "Well, I'll be a lady and say thank you, anyway." "Why'd you become a cop?" he asked. "You could have been anything, or done nothing." I looked around as I thought about how to answer him. The night was almost sultry, the moonlight glowing white through the humidity. The scents of green plants and wet earth and exotic flowers perfumed the air.

"A Freudian would yawn and tell you my choice was an obvious rebellion against my father."

"Was it?"

"Yes, but there was more to it than that," I admitted. "Growing up, I watched my father bend lady justice like a Gumby doll and sell her to the highest bidder. I thought someone needed to tip the other side of the scale, make an effort to even things out."

"So why not become a prosecutor?"

"Too much structure. Too much politicking. You might not have guessed this, but diplomacy and a.s.s-kissing are not on my list of talents. Besides, prosecutors don't get to do neat things like get shot at and beat up."

He didn't laugh. He watched me in that way he had that made me feel naked.

"You're something, Estes," he murmured.

"Yeah, I'm something."

I didn't mean it the way he did. In the span of a week I had lost hold on just what I was. I felt like some creature emerging from a coc.o.o.n, not quite knowing what the metamorphosis had changed me into.

Landry touched my face, the left side-where feeling was more a vague memory than it was real. That seemed fitting somehow, that he couldn't really touch me, that I couldn't allow myself to feel it in the acute, nerve-shattering way I might have once. It had been so long since I had let anyone touch me, I don 't know that I could have taken it any other way.

I lifted my chin and looked in his eyes, wondering what he could see in mine. That I felt vulnerable and didn't like it? That I felt antic.i.p.ation and it unnerved me? That I didn't quite trust him, but felt the pull of attraction just the same?

Landry leaned closer and settled his mouth on mine. I allowed the kiss, partic.i.p.ated, though with a timidity that may have seemed out of character. But the truth of it was that the Elena standing there at that moment in time had never been kissed. The experiences of the pre-exile me were so distant as to seem like something I'd once read in a book.

He tasted like coffee and a hint of smoke. His mouth was warm and firm. Purposeful, I thought. Nice. Exciting.

I wondered what he felt, if he thought me unresponsive, if he wondered at the way my mouth worked- or didn't work. I felt self-conscious.

The flat of my hand rested on his chest. I could feel his heart beating and wondered if he could feel mine racing.

He raised his head and looked at me. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting . . .

I didn't fill the silence with an invitation, though a part of me certainly wanted to. For once, I thought before acting. I thought I might live to regret it, but while I was bold enough to toy with a murderer and defy the authority of the FBI, I wasn't brave enough for this.

The corners of Landry's mouth turned upward as he seemed to read all of these things I couldn't sort out in my own mind. "I'm going to follow you home," he said. "Make sure Van Zandt isn't waiting for you."

I glanced away and nodded. "Thanks."

I was afraid to look at him, afraid I would open my mouth and ask him to spend the night.

I turned away from him and got in my car, feeling more scared now than I had that morning when I had thought I might have to stab a man to save my own life.

The drive to Sean's farm was uneventful. The main house was dark. A single light burned in the window of Irina's apartment above the barn. Van Zandt was not there lying in wait for me.

Landry came into the house and looked around. Then he went to the door like a gentleman and waited again for me to say something.

I fidgeted, chewed my thumbnail, crossed my arms. "I'd-ah-I'd ask you to stay, but I'm kind of in the middle of this kidnapping thing . . ."

"I understand," he said, watching me, his gaze very dark and intense. "Some other time."

If I had an answer for that, it stuck in my throat. And then he was gone.

I locked the door and turned out the lights, went into the bedroom and undressed. I took a shower, washing the scent of cigarette smoke out of my hair. After I'd toweled off, I stood for a long time in front of the mirror, looking at my body, looking at my face; trying to decide who I was seeing, who I had become.

For the first time in two years, I felt aware of myself as a woman. I looked at myself and saw a woman, instead of an apparition, instead of a mask, instead of the sh.e.l.l of my self-loathing.

I looked at the scars on my body where asphalt had stripped away skin and new skin had filled the gaps. I wondered what Landry's reaction would be if I were to allow him to see the full extent of the damage up close in good light. I disliked feeling vulnerable with him. I wanted to believe that he would look at my body and not be shocked, not say a word.

The fact that I was even contemplating these thoughts was amazing to me. Refreshing. Encouraging. Hopeful.

Hope. The thing I hadn't wanted. But I needed it. I needed it for Erin, for Molly . . . for me.

Maybe, I thought, just maybe I had been punished enough, that perhaps to drag it on any further failed to serve a purpose and became simple self-destructive self-indulgence. I hadn't done everything right in this case, but I had tried my best for Erin Seabright, and I had to let that count for something.

I went into the bedroom, opened the drawer in the nightstand, and took out the bottle of painkillers. With a strange mix of giddiness and fear, I took the pills into the bathroom and spilled them out on the counter. I counted them one by one, as I had nearly every night for two years. And one by one, I dropped them into the toilet and flushed them all away.

What kind of shape is she in?" Landry asked as he walked into the Palms West Hospital ER. The deputy who had brought Erin Seabright in hustled alongside him.

"Someone beat the h.e.l.l out of her, but she's conscious and talking."

"s.e.xual a.s.sault?"

"The doc's doing the rape kit now."

"And where did you find her?"

"Me and Reeger were in the Publix lot down the street. She came running out of nowhere." He motioned

Landry toward an exam room. "Did she say how she got there?" "No. She was pretty hysterical, crying and all." "Did you see anyone in the vicinity? Any vehicles?" "No. We've got a couple of cars cruising the area now, looking for anything unusual." Landry rapped on the door and showed his badge to the nurse who stuck her head out. "We're almost done," she said. "How's it look? Anything?" "Inconclusive, I'd say." He nodded and stepped away from the room, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Dugan himself had gone to notify the Seabrights. Weiss had yet to show up.

He punched Elena's number into the phone and listened to it ring on the other end. He tried not to picture

her in bed. The taste of her mouth still lingered in his memory.

"h.e.l.lo?" She sounded more wary than weary.

"Estes? Landry. Are you awake?"

"Yes." Still wary.

"Erin Seabright is in the Palms West ER. The kidnappers let her go or she escaped. I don't know which

yet." "Oh, my G.o.d. Have you seen her? Have you spoken with her?" "No. They're doing the rape kit now." "Thank G.o.d she's alive. Has the family been notified?" "Lieutenant Dugan is with them. I expect they'll be here soon. Look," he said as he spotted Weiss looking lost at the reception desk. "I've gotta go."

"Okay. Landry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for the heads-up."

"Yeah, well, it was your case first," he said. He ended the call and clipped the phone on his belt, his eyes

on Weiss.