This was going to be better than she'd even hoped.

"Open this door," Dirk said. "Now. Or I'm gonna kick it down. If you're standing behind it when I do, all the better."

The guy stood there, staring at Dirk-as best he could with one eye. He quickly scanned Dirk, taking in his height and bulk, head to toe. Then he glanced at the small, flimsy chain.

Finally he closed the door and they could hear the chain rattling as he removed it from its slot. They could also hear him barking some sort of order to the woman behind him.

A moment later, he opened it.

"Who called you guys?" he asked, looking and sounding severely annoyed. "There wasn't no reason for anybody to call you guys this time."

"This time?" Dirk asked. "You get a lot of visits from the boys in blue, huh?"

"I got nosy neighbors who've got nothing better to do than eavesdrop on other people's business and then call the police over nothing."

"Thank the good Lord in heaven for 'nosy' neighbors," Savannah said, trying to see past him. "And for people who care about others, and who pick up a phone and call the cops to get 'em some help when they need it most. I call those folks 'saints.' "

She glanced over Burt Ferris's naked chest and wondered, not for the first time, why so many criminals went shirtless. Good guys ran around bare-chested, too, but she had noticed years ago that bad guys made a habit of it. Especially when they were up to no good.

"Step aside," Dirk said. "We need to come in." When Burt hesitated, Dirk added, "Unless you want to talk to us outside, where all your nosy neighbors will hear every word of it. Keep in mind, I talk loud."

"Yeah," Savannah added. "He's got one of those voices that really carries."

Burt glanced nervously back over his shoulder. "Yeah, well. Let's talk outside, but try to keep it down, would you? I don't need everybody knowing all my business."

"Whatever you say," Dirk told him. "Inside or outside, we're definitely talking to your ol' lady. We're not leaving here without seeing her, so it's your call."

Burt let out a long sigh and stepped back into the apartment. Then he motioned them to enter.

As they walked in, Savannah gave the small studio a quick once-over, taking everything in with a glance.

The place was spa.r.s.ely and poorly furnished. One small table and two chairs. A ragged pullout sofa bed. Two mismatched end tables, with a couple of mismatched lamps.

And yet, the apartment was neat and clean. As though someone had spent a lot of time making it as livable as possible.

Something told Savannah that someone wasn't Burt.

"All right," Burt said, "let's get this over and done with. I've got things to do, and there's gotta be something illegal going on in this town that you two could be tending to, instead of hara.s.sing innocent citizens like me."

Savannah looked him over and wondered how any woman could find him attractive. But then, he probably wore a shirt on most of his first dates. Might have combed his hair. And it was almost a lock that he would have pasted a smile on his face when he first met a potential bed partner, and not worn the surly smirk he was wearing now.

After years of observation, seeing the misery they brought into the lives of their victims, Savannah had formulated the hypothesis that loser abusers were often even better than normal guys at pouring on the charm, at least long enough to worm their way into a woman's life. She had also seen that once they were there, much like any other vermin infestation, it was next to impossible to get rid of them.

"Where's the woman?" she asked him. "Did you tell her to hide in the bathroom?"

He gave her a cold, threatening look, which she was pretty sure he would never have given Dirk. She would bet he saved it for women.

She had to admit, it probably worked very well for him, because he was particularly good at it.

So she stepped closer, invading his "s.p.a.ce" and gave him a look that was even colder and more threatening than the one he had generated.

"Do you really think you're just going to banish her to the toilet, and that's gonna be that?" she asked him. "Do you really think we're going to walk out of here without questioning her about what you've done to her?"

"She won't tell you nothin'," he said, practically spitting the words in her face.

"You're pretty good at keeping your women under control, aren't you, Burt?" she asked. "Most of them. You take pride in that. But then, there've been a couple who pressed charges against you and sent you away for a year here, a couple of years there."

His face flushed bright red and a dew of sweat suddenly appeared across his forehead.

"They did not press charges against me! They didn't!"

"Oh, so the state charged you? That's fine. Doesn't matter who did it, as long as it got done."

"I was innocent. Those women just got what they had coming to them. You don't know what they were like! They're the ones who should've been thrown in jail, not me!"

"Yeah, yeah, we've heard it all before," Dirk said as he walked over to him and pointed to one of the two folding chairs that sat across from each other at a battered card table. "Sit yourself down there, Mr. Ferris. While my partn-I mean, my wi-I mean, that lady there goes and has a talk with the woman in the bathroom, you and I are gonna have our own little chat."

"What about?"

"About yesterday morning. 'Cause we caught a glimpse of you, running around in some trees, right after you did a really awful thing. . . ."

Savannah left the men to their conversation and walked to the small door in the rear of the room.

She knocked softly. Then a second time, a bit harder, but there was no answer.

She glanced over at Burt and saw he was watching her as he talked with Dirk. He gave her a satisfied I-told-you-so look, which made her blood pressure rise a couple of notches.

She turned back to the door and said, "My name is Savannah, and I'm coming in now. Don't worry. I just want to talk to you. Everything's gonna be just fine."

She twisted the doork.n.o.b, praying the door would open. And it did.

Inside the small bathroom, she found a woman who looked like every other woman she had found over the years, hiding from her life and the intolerable situation she was in.

This woman wore a simple tee-shirt and jeans. But Savannah had found them in their various hiding places, wearing everything from designer evening gowns and priceless jewels to rags or, in a few cases, nothing at all. Domestic abuse crossed all social and economic lines.

Rich and poor, educated and uneducated, drug users and nonusers, drinkers and teetotalers, religious and nonreligious, straight and gay, male and female, they all wore one thing in common: a horrible, frightened look on their faces.

"It's okay, sugar," she told the woman. "I'm here to help you. Everything's going to get better for you, starting right now. I promise."

The woman stared back at her with eyes that were filled with hopelessness-something else these victims had in common that broke Savannah's heart and made her feel the intense need to pummel guys like Burt.

Savannah wriggled her way through the half-open door and into the small room. Closing it behind her, she turned to the woman. "Like I said, my name's Savannah," she told her, holding out her hand.

After a moment, the woman shook her hand and with a half-smile said, "I'm Georgia."

Savannah was taken aback. "You're kidding."

"No, really. That's my name."

"Well, I reckon that's some sorta sign that this was meant to be," Savannah said. "Were you born in Georgia?"

"No, but my momma was, and she always wanted to go back." Georgia grinned, and it occurred to Savannah that the expression seemed awkward for her, as though she didn't do it often.

"I don't have to ask," Georgia said, "if you were born there. I can tell by your accent. You sound like my mom."

"Good. 'Cause I want you to listen to me, just like you would your momma if she was standing here right now, okay?"

The fear crept back over Georgia's face, but she nodded.

Savannah looked down at the woman's hands and arms and saw what she somehow knew she would. The telltale signs of violence. Her wrists were red and so were her upper arms.

"Does he hit you every day, or just when he's not getting what he wants, the way he wants it, as fast as he wants it?"

"No! Not every day, he"-she gulped and looked away-"he doesn't mean to do it. He's out of work, and so am I, and we can't pay the bills. So he's under a lot of pressure."

"If he can't pay the bills, then you can't pay them either. So you must be under a lot of pressure, just like him."

"Yeah, I guess."

"But I'd bet dollars to donuts that you don't beat him up. Right?"

Georgia shrugged. "He was out looking for work this morning. When he got back, he saw that I hadn't cleaned up the place. You can't blame him for getting mad about that."

"It looked pretty clean to me. What was wrong with it?"

"He found a ball of dust in the corner by the bed. Burt's a very neat person. Real particular about where he lives and what he wears. He hates stuff like dust or dirt of any kind."

"He's a very neat person? Always picks up after himself, does he? He works his fingers to the bone vacuuming and dusting and scrubbing the commode?"

"Well, no."

"Let me tell you something about guys like your ol' Burt there. They're big on everything being neat and clean and perfect, as long as they've got somebody else to do the work. I've seen, time and again, that the minute it's on them to do the cleaning, they live like pigs."

Georgia bit her lower lip. "But I know he feels bad when he hurts me," she said. "Sometimes he buys me stuff . . . you know . . . afterward. He swears he won't ever do it again, but he's got a bad temper. His daddy had a bad temper. Sometimes, when I forget stuff or don't do things the right way, he just can't control himself."

Savannah glanced over the woman's face and throat. Not a bruise or mark of any kind.

"He hits you where it doesn't show, doesn't he." It wasn't a question. She already knew the answer.

Georgia nodded.

"Hmmm. Doesn't sound like some out-of-control nut job to me. Sounds pretty darned cold and calculated-like a guy who knows exactly what he's doing. I mean, how out-of-control could he be when he's being careful where he leaves the bruises?"

Georgia didn't reply, so Savannah gave her a moment to absorb the logic of her words.

"And let me guess," Savannah continued, "there've been times when he was a raging lunatic, hurting you and scaring the daylights out of you by threatening to do worse. But the second the cops knock on your door, he flips a switch and turns into Mr. Sunshine for the time that he's talking to them. In fact, the cops take one look at you, crying and all, and they think he's the sane one and you're the one who's bonkers. Right?"

Georgia just stared down at her bare feet.

"I don't know about you, but to me that doesn't sound like somebody who can't control himself. It sounds more like somebody who uses anger and acts of violence to get what he wants."

Georgia started to cry. "But he wouldn't just be mean deliberately. Why would he do that?"

"I just told you. He believes he's ent.i.tled to get whatever he wants from you. He gets off on the power it gives him to control you. That's more important to him than your happiness or your need to be safe."

"It can't be that simple."

"But it is, sugar. It's horrible how simple it is. He knows how bad he's hurting you, and he's choosing to do it anyway."

Savannah reached out and put her hands on the woman's shoulders. She felt her flinch at the touch.

"No!" She pushed Savannah's hands off her and backed away as much as she could in the tiny s.p.a.ce. "Burt loves me. He doesn't realize how bad he makes me feel. And he can't help himself. It's because of his drinking, and his temper, and us having no money, and him seeing his daddy beat his momma, and-"

"And as long as you keep thinking that, as long as you keep making excuses for him, you're going to be his victim." Savannah took a deep breath. "Accept the truth, Georgia. He does it because he wants to. He does it because he can."

"But that's . . . that's just . . . cruel!"

"Yes. It certainly is. So, how long are you going to let him get away with it?"

When Georgia didn't answer, Savannah reached down and pulled the bottom of her own shirt up, revealing one of the terrible scars on her abdomen. "I know what I'm talking about."

Georgia gasped and stared. Finally she said, "Is that a gunshot wound?"

"Yes. It is. I have other ones, too."

"Who did that to you?"

"Somebody a lot like your Burt out there. Do you know he's been hurting women for years?"

No. She didn't know. Savannah could see by her shocked expression that it was the first Georgia had heard of it.

"Did he tell you he's served two sentences for a.s.saulting women before you?"

"No."

"Well, he did. I reckon they must have left some dust bunnies in the corner, too."

Savannah lowered her blouse. "Okay, I've shown you mine. Now you show me yours."

Slowly Georgia pulled her shirt down from the neckline, revealing numerous dark, ugly bruises.

"He did that to me yesterday. I'd told him I was going on a diet, 'cause he hates how fat I am. But he found my candy bar wrapper in the garbage can. I'd forgotten to throw it out."

"What time yesterday did he do that to you?" Savannah asked, her mental wheels spinning.

"Yesterday morning."

"Are you absolutely sure it was in the morning?"