Reporters shouted, flashes exploded and cameramen scrambled when we turned the corner. I wanted to run and hide but there was no place for that anymore. I had to hide in plain sight like I'd done before. Now I had to play on the final table even if Affie was rescued. The longer I sat and bet, the longer I could wait for the truth to rise to the surface, the longer I could stave off handcuffs and federal prison.

The ma.s.s of media outnumbered Paul's followers for the first time, but I did notice that it was an all-teenage girl group today. They saw me and started whispering. Probably didn't approve of my braided hair or the retro outfit Ingrid had forced me into. I didn't see the bad reverend anywhere. I'd already planned to jump him and choke him to death until he agreed to let Affie go so this was a big disappointment.

"Where's Phineas Paul?" I asked one of the girls.

She shrugged, but looked like the cat that caught the mouse. "I dunno." She was obviously lying.

Good. Maybe they'd killed him for me. And chopped him up in little pieces and flushed him down the toilet.

I paused, ashamed of myself. This was warping me to an extreme. I thought I was going to need counseling after this. They probably provided that behind bars.

Once inside the casino, I was flanked by security. A legion of poker babes jumped up and down, waved, whooped and hollered when I walked by the rail. Some of the women I'd played against during the week waved and wished me luck. Gun-shy now, I pretended not to see the autograph seekers. Then I saw Frank's family gathered near the ballroom door. I veered over to them, shaking off a security guard's protective arm. I shook Randolph's hand, kissed Wilma on the cheek and took the rabbit's foot Matthew offered.

"I can't get ahold of Frank," Monica admitted, searching the crowd behind me.

"He's gone to do a job," I told her, guilty for having to talk around exactly what he was doing, but not willing to make her worry. Of course, since she knew he was a mercenary any time he was on a job would be cause for concern, wouldn't it?

I stopped my train of thought. I was getting bitter.

"I'm sorry, Bee," she said, her big eyes reflecting her sorrow. "It's not right he'll miss your big day. For work. You'd think he'd learned his lesson."

"It's okay," I told her, wishing everything really was. "Or it will be okay, soon."

She smiled bravely and patted my arm. "Go make history."

I thanked her. Security escorted me to the ballroom door as I looked back to see Jack and Trankosky turning away, deep in conversation. The detective turned to give me a look that I couldn't say was anything other than a promise.

Having to dispose of a dead body, finding out my G.o.ddaughter had been kidnapped by a lunatic and that I was wanted for crimes I didn't commit had managed to diminish the intense atmosphere of the final table. Playing against the toughest of the pros for fourteen million dollars now was just not that big a deal anymore.

We shook hands all around. The tournament and the network had planned a long, dramatic introduction that we had to withstand. I had no idea who'd made the cut with me. It was the ultimate irony. How many times in a person's life would they beat million-to-one odds and how many times would they have a loved one kidnapped and how many times would they find a dead man in their hotel room...I could go on, but suffice it to say I was the only player who had no clue. And that was probably a good thing in the long run.

I had to outlast at least four of these players. I tried to concentrate on their tells from the moment we sat down. My strength was my ability to read players on a given day in a given game, not letting my imagination spin truths that weren't there. The one time I'd actually researched my final table in a tournament I'd busted the second hand, because I hadn't trusted what I saw but what I'd read.

So while five of the men at the final table probably had volumes written on what they did when they held an Ace/Jack, I was going with what my gut told me.

Ron, the player sitting to my left, leaned in. "I hear you are the worst kind of alligator blood."

I smiled at his attempt to make conversation. "You hear wrong."

"No, no, you got it all wrong, she's a Maniac," said a pro who had played against me once before.

I raised my eyebrows.

"Pot calling the kettle, Oscar," another player chimed in. "She's the dog." Poker slang for underdog. "But a d.a.m.ned cute one."

"I'd call her a chameleon, but I hear the females can't change colors. Does that mean they are genetically unable to play with our skill? No wonder. It won't be your fault when you bust out, Bee Cool."

That garnered a testosterone-induced chuckle all around. The dealer, a woman named Sandy, looked askance at me for not arguing. I didn't care. In fact, I loved it. The more they underestimated me, the better.

"She's nothing but a donkey," muttered the grump across from me, who was introduced as a European champion who won a seat having never played in a U.S. tournament. His disdain for women was palpable.

"Exactly! Someone nailed the right animal on the head," I said, gladly accepting the rarely used term for a fish-novice player-and ready to end this conversation. "Thank you."

That shut the male hot doggers up and the play began. The cards didn't make life easy for me at first. An Ace of diamonds, 3 of clubs in my pocket, when I'd drawn the seat at the big blind, was not a gift but it was enough to make me stick around to see The Flop. Deuce of hearts and 4 of spades were enough to give me hope but the King of clubs was easily a counterfeit-enough for someone to land trips or at least a pair over my Ace kicker at this point. I hated to even think about a straight draw, even though I had one.

Only two on the table folded although there were checks all around. I raised small to make a statement. The Maniac man nodded to the chameleon commenter. I don't know what they thought I had but apparently everyone was into my agenda. Wouldn't they be surprised.

Another folded and the rest hung around for The Turn which was another King. Ack. I watched the table. Everyone was very stiff. Ah-ha. No one was giving me any yahoo signals. I tempered my own and when the European creep went all in I knew I had the nuts, even with only the Ace kicker. I met his push and everyone else folded. My stack had him by maybe a million, so when the five came on The River, I showed my straight, collected the pot and my statement was made. The European whiz slammed his chair back and left in a huff.

As the dealer pa.s.sed out our next hand, I ordered the vodka gimlet to get the whole information-about-the-location-of-the-drop exchange over with. I had enough suspense in my life without that adding to it.

The next three pockets dealt to me were a hammer (two/seven off-suit), a Heinz (five/seven off-suit) and San Francis...o...b..sboy (Queen/three), so it was a good thing I'd stockpiled some chips and some clout. The waitress still had not produced my drink.

My next pocket deal was a Kojack (King/Jack suited hearts) and, while not ideal, it was pretty promising. I met the reraise Preflop. Five of us rode into The Flop for a King, King, Jack. I wanted to faint but didn't. This never happens. I likely had the nuts and didn't know how to play it, so I remained conservative, trying to read the lip twitcher for a sign he was bluffing and the hangnail worrier to see if he had a gutshot straight. I think the man to my right had an over card and nothing else, but that was just his bouncing leg talking.

At The Turn, I called again. I was waiting for Fifth Street to make a big move, hoping I could milk the pot as far as it would go. I was helped by another piece of paint on the board, a Queen of hearts. There were so far no flush draws with an unsuited board, but it was still a worry. A royal flush would send me packing. I raised then reraised before Fifth Street. Then the twitcher went all in. Three of us held our breaths as the dealer threw the burn card. A six of hearts fell on The River. A total blank. I'd won, the draw hopefuls held nada, and I was probably the most unpopular player at the table with six of us left.

Another hour rolled by with small gains and small losses for me. I remained relatively even. I won two with only King high and Queen high kickers, respectively. I'd never played in a tournament game where that would have flown but it was a strangely suited set of players where tells told the story for me. They still couldn't figure me out. I got the sense that I might be able to win the whole thing and it was slightly tempting, but only for a hand. I lost the next one to the tune of twenty million in chips.

The decent alligator blood labeler sitting next to me got knocked out on what I would have considered a pat hand-pocket rockets met with twin Aces on the board at The Flop. Poor guy, head-to-head with the pro who called me a Maniac, he lost to a royal flush when jack/ten fell on Fourth and Fifth Streets. That was just a bad beat.

It was down to four players now, and thankfully time for me to bow out. The suspense of not knowing what was happening with Affie was about to kill me. It took me five hands from that point to do it, however, as Murphy's Law kicked in and I was dealt a full house, a gutshot straight and a Jack quads. I was one off being chip leader when I finally got dealt walking sticks in my pocket (pair of sevens). Since the Maniac man had American Airlines and had started his happy sweat on his upper lip, I thought this was a good time to push. I was too eager, however, pushing on The Flop and he folded, thinking, I suppose, I had the royal flush with the royal board. Argh. Everyone else bailed too. I collected the pot without even having to show I'd won with an unintentional bluff.

Finally, Murphy hiccupped and I got ducks in a family pot. Perfect time to bow out. This time I patiently waited until someone else-Mr. Fast-pushed. Good thing he was chip leader. I pushed back.

"She's down to the felt," the dealer said.

Holding my breath and crossing my fingers under the table that another couple of deuces wouldn't land back door, I watched as my opponent made his ladies trips on The River. I blew out my breath and shook his hand as my fans moaned behind me. The rest of the table were shaking their heads, still not figuring why I would have gone all in with deuces.

"You did that on purpose, losing," the dealer whispered to me. "Why?"

I shook my head, blinking innocently. "Gosh, I thought I had the nuts."

He shook his head too, not believing me in the slightest.

I turned in my seat card, collecting the two million dollars which they most definitely did not want to give me in cash. I had to sign a form promising to report it on my taxes. (I'd be in federal prison so they'd know where to find me if I didn't.) Since I still hadn't gotten any news about Affie, I couldn't take a chance at not turning the money over to the gang. The small size of the envelope they handed me surprised me-how compressed two million could be. I shoved it into my Kate Spade. The crowd gathered at the rail cheered as I exited the office. A WSOP official tried to shush them, which frankly I never understood. It's not a library, or a chess match, it was a poker tournament. I certainly didn't need absolute silence to concentrate on counting fifty-two cards and crossing my fingers.

I waved, smiled, shook hands. The producer I'd made the deal with asked me for my interview. My heart clutched in my chest. "I plan on it. But, this money is making me nervous. Can I get it to my bank, first?"

"Just make sure you're back before nine o'clock. We've got to make the news at ten. And don't you dare talk to any other broadcast reporters!"

"No problem."

As I walked out of the casino, I was suddenly flanked by two bodies who both grabbed my arms. "Hey!" I looked to my right. Paul's right-hand man. And, on my left was Paul himself.

"Miss Cooley," he said as loudly as if he'd had a megaphone. My ears rang. "My followers and I highly recommend that you donate your winnings right now to the Church of the Believers, to repent and save your soul."

"I can't and you know it," I whispered. "I have to save my G.o.ddaughter and the animals you sicced on me are expecting it."

"Don't you understand, you stupid fool," he flashed his megawatt fake smile as he looked at me with cold snake eyes. "If she's not already dead, she will be soon. We couldn't let a witness like that walk."

I hadn't noticed, but somehow Paul's girls had surrounded us, and I expected to be mobbed and robbed. Instead, on a word from the girl in the center, they all ripped the top layer off their signs to reveal the depths of Paul's horrors-there were blown-up photos of him taunting young children with fang-bearing snakes. Photos of him applying leeches to a baby. "Church of the Torturers, led by Phineas Paul" read another. "Paul paid me three thousand dollars to walk the picket line this week," read another. "I got crack to seduce a sixty-year-old poker player so he could get caught by the cops."

The most sickening of all was this sign: "All these means justify his ends."

The right-hand man barked orders to someone into his two-way radio.

"Blasphemy!" Paul shouted. "You all have been possessed by the devil. The moral corruption in Las Vegas is too much for your young souls to fight. Get in the buses, now, you all must be exorcized immediately."

As the buses pulled up and men who looked like soldiers of fortune jumped out, the girls squeezed in on us. They began whacking their reverend with their signs. With one arm up to stave them off, Paul tried to reach into my purse. The right-hand man twisted my arm so hard I thought it was breaking. With tears rolling down my face from the pain and frustration, I knew what I had to do. With one hand I reached into my purse, found the envelope, pulled out the money and threw it straight up into the air. Two million dollars rained down on The Las Vegas Strip and chaos erupted. Then I ran as fast as I could.

Acouple of hours later, back at our suite, the phone rang as we watched the Church of the Believers compound burst into flames on national TV. The compound had been stormed by law enforcement, according to the reporter. Dozens had been freed, but there was expected to be a death toll. I felt sick, imagining all my loved ones roasting in the fire. The CNN reporter on the scene couldn't tell us who'd escaped and who hadn't, just that authorities on the scene had reported seeing Paul set fire to his own creation.

As the phone rang for the seventh time, I hesitated to answer, forgetting that the bad guys wouldn't be calling me for orders anymore, not remembering that my mother didn't know that Ben might be in the inferno and not believing that I'd be lucky enough to have anyone I loved survive.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Bee Bee," he murmured. Ben sounded tired.

"Where are you, how are you, how's Aph, how's Frank?"

"Breathe, Bee Bee, breathe."

"Talk, Ben. Talk."

"Affie is okay. She's with Frank and his guys. We're going to be debriefed by the badges, then head to the airport and catch the first flight back."

The relief I felt couldn't have been measured in a universe as small as ours. I swallowed hard before I asked, "She wasn't hurt, abused, tortured?"

"No, apparently she was put in with the rest of the teenage brainwash victims in the cult. With Paul in Vegas, it operated more like summer camp with some creepy activities. They did have to do something with rattlesnakes, but she had Grog and faked out the instructor apparently. Somehow she managed to avoid being indoctrinated. Imagine that, considering who her mother is," he added drily.

I was afraid to ask the next question. "And you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just so happened that it was easier than I expected. When I went to the tattoo parlor, the Garden of Eden lady overheard me ask for the dragsnashark tattoo and when I was leaving she cornered me and asked if I was in the gang. Her brother is a Medula. She got me an interview with one of the lieutenants and he liked me."

"Wait a minute, Ben. You got one of those G.o.dawful tattoos."

"Yep. I'm going to have to get it removed, I guess. Unless..."

"Ben," I warned.

"Really, Bee Bee. The Medula gave me a new perspective on free enterprise, that's for sure," Ben said. "The guy I worked under for two days, he had an MBA from Harvard."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope, the whole gang is run like a Fortune 500 company. The only difference is they don't even pretend to have scruples, morals or ethics. It makes things a lot more definite, easier, actually. They made a boatload of money in their partnership with Paul's church, I can tell you that."

"You are coming home, aren't you?"

"Yeah, when Paul got in trouble there, the whole gang went underground, advising their lieutenants to scatter for six months. Pretty good vacation package, don't you think?"

"Ben!"

"I was tempted, but, nah, I think I like pretending to have scruples. Speaking of which, can I talk to Shana?"

I handed the phone to my friend, thinking I'd give him a pa.s.s on the whole opportunistic moment thing. I guess he deserved to hear from a grateful, beautiful woman who'd be awed by his bravery. He'd be put in his place when he got home.

We heard on TV a while later that Grog was the true hero.

Here and I would've sworn snakes couldn't be any good.

However, Grog defied expectations. The anchorwoman's tone was serious as she said, "Paul snuck out of Las Vegas in the midst of the chaos on The Strip, was picked up by his helicopter in a parking lot, seen clutching handfuls of the bills Bee Cooley threw up in the air. He made it to the compound hours later, determined to destroy it. Grog the boa apparently slithered up Paul's leg as he was flinging the matches onto the gasoline tracks he'd poured out and constricted him until authorities arrived. Then, apparently, it took ten men to pull him off Paul, who had fallen unconscious. It is suspected Paul may have permanent brain damage if he ever wakes from his coma."

"I've got news for them," Jack put in. "Paul had permanent brain damage before Grog ever got ahold of him."

I was still watching CNN-watching my snake ham it up for the camera, held by a teenage girl who'd obviously gotten friendly with him in his time at the compound. Huh. I was attached to Grog but I never expected this from him. From a dog, maybe. I'd even heard of a rare cat attacking a robber, but never a python. I suppose he was a better judge of character than I ever gave him credit for. I should have let him loose for all those stinker dates I had over the years.

Ingrid called before the story was over to inform me she'd already set Grog up with his own website. I was betting my snake was already more famous than I was. Somehow that didn't upset me.

I thought Frank had been a hero too, but that was one story we wouldn't hear on CNN or probably even from Frank. Maybe Joe would tell me one day. I'd seen my reluctant bodyguard toting an Uzi in the background of one of the live shots. Maybe he wouldn't be mad at me anymore since he got in on some action.

I refused to ask to talk to Frank. And Ben didn't offer.

The next morning I still hadn't been arrested. It was a bad feeling, like waiting for the next aftershock of an earthquake, so when Trankosky called, I was braced for the worst.

After he asked about my mental state, he got on with business. "You owe your friend, Jack. He risked his life to get you off the hook."

"I'm off the hook?"

"With the feds anyway. His tape recordings have sent them full blast after Paul. You are small potatoes, sure to be interviewed but not arrested. The sheriff's department, however, has some questions about the body we've identified as Drew Terry, deacon of the Church of the Believers, slashed to death with the same sort of weapon, a serrated knife, ten inches long, that killed Keith Ta.s.ser."

Oops, I'd forgotten to look for the knife. I peered under the couch. Nothing. I parted the cushions. Sure enough, b.l.o.o.d.y knife, serrated, about ten inches long. I coughed, turned it into a throat clearing. "Popular opinion is, I killed them?"

"Popular opinion is Terry was in your suite at some point, dead or alive. He expired, and his body left not of its own volition. And there is the matter of the scarf, too. How did he come to be wearing your scarf?"

"How did you know it was mine?" I blurted, then clamped my hand on my mouth. Too late, obviously.

"It was a little tricky. We thought it was some kind of ascot. But then someone recognized it as an original Sheila Trudeau. She only made ten. You got the prototype for doing her ad campaign."

"Oops." I paused. "What kind of cop would recognize a Trudeau accessory?"

"Krane did. You apparently inspired her to improve her fashion sense. Ironically, it came back to bite you." He was trying hard not to laugh. I was insulted. "Belinda, a word of advice, you need to get a less distinctive wardrobe if you are going to regularly use it to dress dead bodies."

"I guess I'm nailed. Since you are the CCSD, what can I expect?"

"I am not the whole department. I just want to run it," he added jokingly.

"Well, pretend like you already do. What is going to happen to me?"