"I'm aware of that."

"Shut up."

The ripe temper shocked her enough to make her turn back.

"Just shut the hell up." Now he let some of that anger fly. "Are you fucking stupid? Maybe I don't know you, because I pegged you as smart. Really smart. But maybe you're stupid enough to believe because you share DNA with a psychotic bastard, you're made wrong."

"He's a monster. He's my father."

"My father doesn't know a carburetor from a brake pad, owns two sets of golf clubs, and likes easy listening."

"That's not the same, at all."

"Why not? Why the hell not? We have blood ties, he raised me-mostly-and we're as different as they come. He reads like one book a year, as long as it's a bestseller. We baffle each other every time we spend more than an hour together."

"It's not-"

"What about your brother?"

He threw her off stride, just as he'd intended.

"I . . . What about Mason?"

"What kind of man is he?"

"He's . . . great. He's smart. Actually, he's brilliant, and dedicated, kind."

"So he can be what he is, with the same gene pool, but you're what? Tainted?"

"No. No, I know better. Intellectually I know better, but yes, sometimes it feels that way."

"Get over it."

She stared at him. "Get . . . over it?"

"Yeah. Get over it, move on. Your father's as fucked-up as it gets. That doesn't mean you have to be."

"My father is the most notorious serial killer of the century."

"It's a young century yet," he said with a shrug, and had her staring again.

"God. I don't understand you."

"Understand this, then. It's insulting and annoying-remember that-for you to think I'd feel differently about you because your father's Thomas David Bowes. That I'd act differently because seventeen years ago you saved a life-no doubt saved a lot of lives. And if this whole fucked-up bullshit is the reason you're trying to kick me to the curb, you're out of luck. I don't kick that easy."

"I don't know what to say to you now."

"If you want me gone, don't use Bowes as the lever to pry me loose."

"I need to sit down."

She sat on the glider. Obviously deciding she needed it, the dog picked his way back, laid his head on her knee.

"I didn't mean it," she murmured, and stroked the dog. "I didn't mean it about the dog, or the house. I didn't mean it about you. I told myself I should mean it; it would be better all around if I could mean it. It's easier to keep moving than to root, Xander, for someone like me."

"I don't think so. I think that's something else you've told yourself until you mostly believe it. If you believed it all the way through, you wouldn't have bought this place. You wouldn't bring it back to life. You sure as hell wouldn't have taken on that dog, no matter how I worked you on it."

He crossed over, sat beside her again. "You'd have slept with me. I saw that the first time you came into the bar."

"Oh, really?"

Not yet settled, but getting there, he picked up his beer again. "I've got a sense about when a woman's going to be willing. But if you believed all that crap all the way through, this wouldn't have turned into a thing."

"It wasn't supposed to."

"A lot of good things happen by accident. If Charles Goodyear hadn't been clumsy, we wouldn't have vulcanized rubber."

"What?"

"Weatherproof rubber-tires, for instance, as in Goodyear. He was trying to figure out how to make rubber weatherproof, dropped this experiment on a stove by accident, and there you go, he made weatherproof rubber."

Baffled, she rubbed her aching temple. "I've completely lost the point."

"Not everything has to be planned to work out. Maybe we both figured we'd bang it out a few times and move on, but we didn't. And it's working out all right."

The sound of her own laughter surprised her. "Wow, Xander, my heart's fluttering from that romantic description. It's like a sonnet."

Yeah, he realized, he was settling again. "You want romance? I could bring you flowers."

"I don't have anything to put them in." She sighed. "I don't need romance, and I don't know what I'd do with it. I like knowing my feet are solid on the ground. And they haven't been, not consistently, since I saw this house. Today . . . the funeral. It hit so hard because it reminded me, again, of all the people my father hurt. Not just the women he killed, but the people who loved them."

"I'd have been sorry you found her no matter what, but I was a hell of a lot sorrier knowing what it would bring back. Have you talked to your brother, your uncles about it?"

"No. No, why bring it back for them? I wasn't going to talk to anyone about it. Not about what it brought back."

"It's yours to tell, or not. You'd find good friends in Kevin and Jenny. Not trusting that? It's a disservice to them, and to you."

"That's what Chief Winston said to me, about telling you. That same word. Disservice."

"Do you want to tell me what else he said?"

"I knew as soon as he drove up."

She closed her eyes, let herself feel the dog at her feet, the man beside her.

"The world just fell out from under me. Just dropped away. I'd expected it-he'd do a background run on me because I found the body. But the world dropped away. He was straightforward, and he was kind. He said he wouldn't tell anyone else, that he hadn't and wouldn't. I've never been around anyone but family who knew. Or if it came out, I left before things changed."

"Left before you knew if they'd change or not?"

"Maybe that's true, but I've been through those changes, and they're awful. They steal everything," she said quietly, "and crush you."

"I'm sitting here having a beer like I'd hoped to do since I closed the garage. There's a hot meal keeping warm in the oven, a nice sunset right out there. Nothing changed or needs to. You'll get used to it."

Nothing needed to change. Could that be true? Was it really possible?

"Maybe we can just sit here for a while longer, until I get used to it."

"That works for me."

- Hours later, when all but the bars shut down for the night, and the streets in town went quiet, with pools of light from streetlamps shimmering against the dark, he watched and waited.

He'd taken the time to study the routine along the main street with its shops and restaurants. To study the women who closed up those shops, or walked home from their job as line cook or waitress.

He had his mind on the pretty young blonde, but he wouldn't be picky. At least three young ones worked the late shift at the pizzeria.

He'd take his pick-but the pretty young blonde? She was top choice.

He'd left the camper at the campground a good twelve miles away, all legally set up.

And if they only knew what he'd done inside that home away from home. Just the idea made him want to chuckle.

But the excitement grew, a hot ball in the belly, when the rear door of the restaurant opened.

The hot little blonde, just as he'd hoped.

And all alone.

He slipped out of the car, on the dark edge of the lot, with the rag he'd soaked with chloroform held down at his side.

He liked using chloroform, going old-school. It put them out-no muss, no fuss-even if it tended to make them a little sick. It just added to the process.

She walked along, firm, young tits bouncing some, tight young ass swaying. He glanced back toward the restaurant, making sure no one else came out, started to make his move.

And headlights sliced over the lot, had him jumping back into the shadows. The little blonde waited for the car to turn toward her, then opened the passenger door.

"Thanks, Dad."

"No problem, honey."

He wanted to kick something, beat something, when his desire drove off, left him yearning and hot.

Tears actually gathered in the corners of his eyes. Then the door opened again.

Two more came out. He saw them in the light above the door, heard their voices, their laughter as they talked.

Then one of the boys came out. He and the younger of the women linked hands, strolled off together.

The young girl turned around, walked backward. "Have fun tomorrow! Drive safe."

The lone woman started across the lot. Not young like the others, not so pretty-not blonde like his desire-but she'd do. She'd do well enough.

She hummed to herself as she opened her purse to dig out her key.

All he had to do, really all he had to do was step up behind her. He deliberately gave her that instant to feel fear, to have her heart jump as she turned her head.

Then he covered her face with the cloth, gripped her around the waist while she struggled, while her muffled screams pushed hot against his hand. As she went so quickly, almost too quickly, limp.

He had her in the back of the car, wrists and ankles wrapped in duct tape, more tape over her mouth, a blanket over her, within twenty seconds.

He drove out of the lot, through town, careful to keep to the posted speed, to use his turn signals. He didn't even turn on the radio until he passed the town limits. He opened the windows to cool his hot cheeks, flicked a glance in the rearview at the shape under the blanket.

"We're going to have some fun now. We're going to have one hell of a good time."

FOCUS.

The spectator ofttimes sees more than the gamester.

JAMES HOWELL.

Twenty-one.

By the time Sunday morning rolled around, all Xander wanted in this world was to sleep until the sun came up. Three road service calls Friday night had pulled him away from practice for a Saturday-night gig, and dragged him out of bed. Twice.

They'd rocked the bar in Union, good exposure, good times, good pay-but he hadn't flopped into Naomi's bed until two in the morning.

He met Tag's five A.M. wake-up call with a snarl.

"I've got it," Naomi told him.

With a grunt of assent, Xander dropped back to sleep.

Mildly disoriented, he woke, alone, three hours later. He thought, Naomi, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Christ, he needed a shave-not his favorite sport. Then he remembered it was Sunday, and didn't see why anybody had to shave on Sunday.

The sun shined through the glass doors. Through them he could see the blue lines of water, the quiet spread of it beyond the inlet. A couple of boats-early risers-plied the blue.

He wasn't a fan of boats any more than he was of shaving, but he appreciated the look of them.

But at the moment, he'd appreciate coffee a hell of a lot more. He got up, pulled on his jeans, saw a T-shirt he'd left there at some point neatly folded on the dresser.

Grateful he didn't have to wear the shirt he'd sweated through the night before, he pulled it over his head-and discovered that whatever she washed stuff in smelled better than whatever he washed stuff in.