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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Chapter One

Jessica Savage maneuvered her motorized wheelchair through the maze of partitioned cubicles filling the cavernous office. A pile of legal briefs balanced precariously on her lap. Her wrist hurt as she held files steady with one hand while pressing the lever governing motor speed and direction of the chair with the other. A tendril of short black hair fell across her forehead. She blew upward to force it out of her eyes.

"Here's your mail, Jess." Randall Maxfield yelled as she passed his desk. He tossed her a stack of envelopes secured in a rubber band. His elbow brushed a pile of paper that cascaded toward the floor.

Jess caught her mail. "If you did your filing, your desk wouldn't be such a disaster area." Randall grinned.

She motored through the door to her office. The name Jessica Savage was discreetly stenciled in one corner of the glass inset in the door frame. She had worked hard for her law degree and harder still as a prosecuting attorney in the District Attorney's Office for Orange County, California.

She glanced through her mail, stiffening at the sight of a long, white envelope, her name typed in capital letters on the surface. Handling the envelope by the edges, she carefully slit open the flap, and with thumb and forefinger carefully removed a single sheet of paper.

'Bang! Bang! You're dead,' was spelled out in large letters clumsily cut from a glossy magazine. The letters, different sizes and colors, radiated menace and hostility.

Jess' heart raced. Her breathing accelerated. A chill of terror, so intense, engulfed her till she thought she would scream. Closing her eyes against frightening images super-imposed over her vision, she took a deep breath to calm herself. Slowly, the panicked clenching in her chest eased.

"Jess?" Randall Maxfield leaned against the door frame, a frown on his square, bull-dog shaped face. "Is that another threatening letter."

Jess nodded. Over the years, she'd received a number of threats, but none so horrifying as these. For the last month, the letters had appeared in the mail every few days. New threats added to old, each one a reminder that someone stalked her.

At first, Jess had ignored the letters, but as they continued she began to fear them. Each one sent a bolt of terror through her so strong she'd come to dread the simple delivery of her mail.

She struggled to control her voice. "I'd better call the police. Again."

The Orange County Sheriff's Department hadn't been able to do much. After analyzing the letters, cut from popular magazines and glued on paper sold at any stationary store, the cops had shrugged. The envelope, neatly typed on a typewriter identified as an old electric Smith Corona, had no fingerprints except those smudges left by the postal department and Jess. The stalker left no clues to give Jess hope that his, or her, identity might be discovered and the reign of terror ended.

"I just wish I knew why," Jess said.

"We all get threats, Jess. They're part of our job description. The cops will get this jerk."

"I hope so."

Randall left, shouldering past a secretary with yellow legal pads clutched to her bosom.

A man entered her office. He was tall and thin with a crooked mouth, sloping brown eyes and neatly trimmed red hair curling damply around his face as though he'd just gotten out of the shower.

"Mrs. Savage?" Tight-fitting black jeans hugged his thighs. Jess slid the briefs to her desk. Her office was tiny. Storage boxes piled neatly in the corners made the room seem even smaller. Windows overlooked the street. One wall held bookcases, the sagging shelves stuffed with the large legal tomes constituting every lawyers' library.

"I'm Jessica Savage," she said. "No one has called me Mrs. in a long time." Jessica's marriage had lasted five wonderful months. She'd expected the months to stretch into years and then decades. A drunk driver had ended the dream. Peter had died. Jessica had ended up in a chair.

"Excuse me, Ms. Savage."

"What can I do for you?" She lifted her chin. Defiance had become a part of her life. Aware of his assessing gaze and the way he frowned at her chair, she knew he wondered if she were competent. The general public seemed to think a physical handicap equaled a mental one. Jessica bristled.

One side of his mouth tilted slightly up in a wry smile. "I'm Sergeant Will McCready of the Sheriff's Department. My friends call me Mac." He flipped open his ID for her to look at, gripping it with callused hands, the fingernails neatly trimmed.

She glanced at the ID, reassured he was indeed who he said he was. He looked older, harder than the photo which stated his age as thirty-seven. He'd seen a lot of life since he'd last posed for a picture. She detected a haunted edge to his eyes, and a careworn, dispirited droop to his expressive mouth. Life had not been kind to Will McReady.

Jess said, "I'm not a friend." A more detailed study of him showed a faint bulge under one arm of his jacket--a holstered handgun.

Jess didn't like guns. She had seen the results of uncontrolled gun possession too often to have any sympathy with NRA idealistic narrow-mindedness.

Mac laughed, low and raw like a sore throat mixed with smoker's cough. "I didn't mean to suggest you are. I hope we can be, though. Friends, that is."

"Maybe."

His face was cool, stoical as though trying to decide how to respond to her handicapped status.

He settled for politeness. "May I sit down." He glanced around for a chair.

Jess's office was usually neat, with papers filed, and folders returned to the file drawers. Recently, the stacks had gotten out of control, occupying every available surface, especially now when she had so many cases to juggle and too many distractions. She fretted over the lack of order. Her office wasn't messy, but the extreme tidiness she craved was currently missing and the clutter made her feel claustrophobic. The government thrived on paperwork, results seemed secondary.

"Just put those files on that table." Jess pointed at an empty spot near window. She leaned back in her chair, waiting for him to reveal his purpose.

Jess had learned long ago to wait. Her husband had been a man who had revealed himself to her slowly, like an onion peeled layer by layer. Something about this man reminded Jess of Peter, soft-spoken and gentle--a man at odds with his profession.

"I've been assigned your case." He settled down gingerly, stretching long legs out in front of him, hands resting lightly on the chair's arms. He flexed his fingers. He studied her as though trying to decide if he liked her.

Jess opened a side drawer and pulled out a clear plastic bag. Gently, she dropped threatening note and envelope into the bag, sealed it, and handed it to Sergeant McCready. "Here's an addition for your collection."

Cautiously, he accepted the bag and glanced at the letter, his frown increasing. Faint wrinkles fanned the edges of his eyes. "We've got quite a file started on this guy. I'm deeply sorry, Mrs. Savage. I know how frightened you must be feeling." His gaze flickered over her chair, the chrome chassis catching the light of the sun and reflecting it back, refracted against the walls.

"Sometimes I'm more angry than frightened, Sergeant. What I really want is for you to catch him, or her. I sometimes think it's a woman." Jess swept her hand at the note in the evidence bag. She hated the way this unknown individual made her feel vulnerable and helpless, a Peeping Tom interfering with her life, creating invisible barriers that kept her isolated and alone.

"That's why I'm here. The order came down from on high." He raised his eyebrows at her and looked skyward, the names of the 'powers that be' left unmentioned. "You've been given top priority. I'm assigned to you for the next week or two to see if we can figure out who's writing you these nasty notes."

"You mean you have no idea yet," Jess said caustically, "your people went through my files weeks ago." They'd turned her life upside down and inside out looking for clues and made a mess, too.

Sergeant McCready flushed, then offered her a disarming smile. "You've been with the D.A.'s office for six, seven years. You've tried a lot of cases and made quite a few enemies. The Department has been following up on what they found and narrowed their leads to three possibilities."

"Only three!" Exhausted, the adrenaline rush ended, she slumped.

He opened a briefcase, put the evidence bag inside and drew out a manila folder. "Do you remember Alphonse Piaget?"

Jess remembered and shuddered at the hatred the man had aimed at her when she'd successfully won a conviction.

Sgt. McCready continued, his eyes moving over the folder's contents. "He escaped from the Men's Colony in San Luis Obispo two days ago and is still at large."

"I've been receiving these letters for nearly a month." Jess frowned. "The prison authorities wouldn't just let him mail them from prison. Don't they monitor the inmates mail?"

He ran his hand through his hair. "Yes they do, but Alphonse could have gotten someone else to compose the letters and mail them."

"How did he escape?"

"Apparently he walked right out the front door and disappeared. Prison authorities think he had someone waiting for him. He publicly threatened you in court, in front of two dozen witnesses, making him a prime suspect."

Jess felt the blood drain from her face. "Pray tell me how did a dangerous criminal like Alphonse walked out of the front door of a maximum security prison?" Tension crawled along her spine.

McReady slid a finger around the inside of his collar. "Prison authorities are still investigating."

"Our tax dollars at work," Jess replied wryly.

Alphonse Piaget had been a minor Mafia don in training who had dabbled in drugs, prostitution, and extortion. Alphonse had threatened her loudly and violently the day the guilty verdict, had been announced by the jury foreman. At his sentencing, he'd screamed obscenities and vowed revenge. Jess had refused to be intimidated. She'd changed her mind since then.

She clutched the edge of her desk remembering the way he'd fought the bailiffs to get to her.

"Who else?" Jess rubbed her temples. The beginnings of a headache rooted itself in her brain.

News like this, she didn't need. Could the day start over? She had a game on her computer she played in the night when tortured memories wouldn't let her sleep. The command 'restore' allowed her to restart the game from the last place she'd saved it--a useful tool in a role playing game when the adventuring characters tended to die a lot. Sometimes Jess let them die, just for the satisfaction. Only in the game, the characters were automatically resurrected, not like real life where the dead stayed dead.

McCready consulted his file. "The second suspect is Doris DeVille. She was released from Corona's Institution for Women four months ago. Her parole officer, Carlos Moralis, says she failed to check in as per the agreement for her release."

"I don't remember Doris DeVille." She searched her memory for a clue, a face, a case, or a personality. Nothing came to her. After a few years, the faces merged into one, their cases became distant memories that only surfaced in nightmares.

In a flat voice, Mac said, "She killed her brother."

Dimly, a face popped into Jess's mind. Since she'd started receiving the letters, she'd been going over her own case files. She shook her head at McCready, the familiar tug of face and name eluding her.

"She carved a heart on her brother's chest and castrated him before finally stabbing him thirteen times in the neck, lungs and stomach." McCready gazed at her hopefully.

"I remember now." In her mind's eye, she saw a petite woman with limp blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a smile so sweet even Jess had trouble believing Doris had committed murder. But the facts revealed told a gruesome story of years of molestation and abuse by the brother--a legacy inherited from the father after he'd abandoned the family. "And the third suspect?"

"Terrence Liang was accused of raping a Santa Ana woman. He claimed innocence even though the woman identified him in a line-up. Even I'll admit the evidence was pretty circumstantial. We didn't have the DNA testing and other advances then that we do today in rape cases. He was pretty angry about the accusation and conviction. He, also, has ties to a San Francisco based Triad that's heavily involved in a Colombian drug cartel."

Jess nodded. "And psychological warfare is his style. The victim almost didn't testify because of anonymous death threats to her family and herself." She remembered a hard-faced Chinese-American male who'd sat next to his attorney staring at Jess the whole time. Behind him had sat a group of dark-suited Asian men. They had looked like respectable businessmen despite the anonymity of their mirrored sunglasses. They, too, had watched Jess, their faces pointed at her, as though their shared anger would make her stumble. The evidence hadn't been that circumstantial, fibers taken from the woman's clothes had matched a jacket belonging to Liang.

Mac tossed photos of the suspects onto the desk. "Threats that Liang used to scare the witness were similar in content to the letters you've been receiving."

She gazed at the photos, two men and a woman. Doris DeVille looked sweet and innocent, her eyes half-closed, a dreamy smile on her lips. Except for the ID number across the bottom of the photo, she could have been posing for her high-school graduation portrait.

Alphonse looked tired and drawn, but the arrogant smile on his lips hinted at things better left unknown. Liang looked like a slick and sleazy snake despite an expensive business suit and a half-smile on full, sensual lips.

These then were the three--an unholy trio--one of whom may want Jess dead, or at least, terrorized out of her mind. "I hope these people don't know where I live."

"Have you received any mail directly to your home?" Mac looked tired.

"No."

"Then this person," He held up the letter encased in the plastic bag, "probably doesn't know where you live ... yet." He rubbed the side of his face. "But all of them know where you work and following you home would be easy to do."

"I can't move." Jess had spent two years remodeling her home for her particular requirements. She couldn't leave no matter how frightened she was.

Mac shook his head. "The Department doesn't expect you to move. We do recognize your special needs." He looked pained as he spoke, as though admitting her handicapped status upset him.

She had that effect on people. Mostly they tried to ignore her disability, acting as though she were normal. But Jess wasn't normal. A mangled spinal cord and partially paralyzed legs were the results of her encounter with the drunk driver. She should have died with Peter. Peter haunted her, a reminder of unkept promises and a derailed future.

She thought of Peter, his ashes residing in an urn, the remains of a once, vital man, lover and friend. An acute wave of loneliness swept over her.

Jess swiveled her chair around to stare out the window. On the street, traffic moved sluggishly. A Federal Express delivery van parked in a No Parking zone. A Santa Ana cop stood next to the van writing out a ticket while trying not to admire the trim legs of a woman walking toward the bus stop. A ragged woman pushing a shopping car, picked up an aluminum can from the gutter.

Jess ran her hands down the outside of her thighs. Once her legs had been admired for their shapely slenderness. Now they simply looked skinny. No matter how much time she spent at physical therapy working with weights, or swimming in her pool forcing them into limited movement, she had been unable to retain the muscle structure.

She'd never be the same again. What man would be interested enough in her to see beyond her physical limitations? Who would be willing to take a chance on a relationship that would be difficult at best? Because she had no answer to these questions, she had begun to avoid men, refusing to become involved. Even the possibility of a relationship sent her scurrying for the privacy of her home.

A long, lonely future stretched ahead of her. She was thirty-two years old, and if the statistics could be believed, she had lived approximately two-fifths of her life. The remaining three-fifths appeared to be an endless sequence of pointless days and empty nights.

"Why you?" She glanced at him over the crown of her shoulder. He sat neatly framed between a bookcase and a pile of storage boxes, all clearly labeled and precisely aligned.

He shrugged. "I'm available." He offered no other explanation.

Something in the way he looked at her, then away, prompted Jess to say, "If we're going to work together, I need a better answer than that." She turned back to her desk.

He masked a startled look, a hint of wary vulnerability moving across his face and then vanishing. "I'm on medical leave from the Department. I can be spared. My primary assignment is to keep you safe and alive."

"I don't need a bodyguard."

"Maybe not, but your physical condition leaves you open to attack. And my bosses think the danger to you is real."

Outside the office, the din of clicking keyboards, talking secretaries and law clerks, slamming drawers and laughter reached out to her. She felt isolated from the usual merriment that lightened the grim reality of the District Attorney's office.

Since her accident, people avoided her as though she were somehow contagious, a social pariah made offensive by the fact that the level of her eyesight went no higher than their belt buckle. She made people feel uncomfortable and guilty because they were normal.

"Okay," Jess said with a long, drawn out breath, "If you're going to be my bodyguard, you're going to be a working one."

For a second, he looked surprised. "You don't expect me to file, do you?" He glanced quickly around the room. "It looks too much like my own office. Though I'll admit, this is a lot neater."

Jess laughed. "I wouldn't ask anyone to do something I couldn't do myself. I don't like clutter, but I've had other things on my mind." She rifled through a pile of files, pulling out three and flipping the top one open. "I'm a lawyer. You're a cop. What better combination?" She held the folder out to him. "I want to talk to this woman."

He glanced over the file. "You want me to go get her?"

"No, we'll go to her home." Jess gave Mac a sweet smile. "You can drive, can't you?"

"There's a catch, isn't there?" He looked cautiously at her as though expecting her to bite.

"You mean you don't know how to drive?" She gave him an innocent look. A smile tugged at her lips and for the first time in a month she felt the smallest ray of hope that he would be the person who would help her solve the identity of the stalker.

"I know how to drive."

Jess grinned. She led the way out of her office, skirting the cubicles. He opened the door to the hall and she skimmed through it, the motor on her chair whirring as she raced toward the elevator. Let him think what he wanted. He'd know soon enough that driving her van was not easily accomplished.

When Will McCready accepted the assignment to watch over Jessica Savage, he'd known she was confined to a wheelchair. The question would be how he could keep her safe. He'd seen her around the courthouse, her lap piled with files, a tote bag and briefcase hanging from the sides of the chair.

Having never worked with her before, several of his fellow cops had delighted in telling him she was tough, unrelenting and remorseless and not to get in her way, she would chop his legs off at the knees. He decided he would be safe as long as she stopped at the knees.

She was as an impassioned, fiery lawyer. Especially hard on drunk drivers, pushing for maximum sentencing. Mac understood her obsession since the drunk driver who had put her in the chair and killed her husband had been given a slap on the wrist--six month's community service and time served despite the fact that the drunk driving conviction had been his fourth.

A year later, the same man killed a little girl, running over her while she rode a tricycle on the sidewalk. Public outcry had finally put him in jail, convicted of manslaughter. Not soon enough for Jess, or her husband.

Mac hadn't expected the sense of vulnerability, the wounded look in her eyes when she caught him studying her. Despite the chair, she was a alluring woman and he wanted to touch her, to smooth away the lines of exhaustion that rimmed her mouth and fanned out from the corners of her eyes. Her green eyes were shrewd and intelligent and when she looked a him, he felt as though she looked directly into his soul.

He liked the way she looked, businesslike in a plum-colored suit with a bright fuschia blouse that added color to her pale cheeks. Black hair, cut short in an easy care style, framed her oval face emphasizing the roguish glint in her eyes as she raced down the hall toward the elevator glancing over her shoulder at him as though silently daring him to keep up. She was impertinent and bold and he liked those qualities in her.

Something stirred in him, something tender and watchful. She zigged and zagged, narrowly avoiding people, forcing them out of her way. He found himself admiring her. He had been assigned to protect her and protect her he would, but for the moment what she really needed was a cop to direct traffic.

Outside the building, hot California air pressed in on him like a huge fist squeezing his chest. The summer was turning into a scorcher made even hotter by the ceaseless Santa Ana winds which blew in from the desert, and the long drought which left the vegetation tinder dry. His skin itched and he fought the desire to scratch.

He shaded his eyes and saw a tower of smoke rising above the peaks of the Santa Ana mountains to the west. The fire had been burning for days casting a pall of black smoke and hot cinders over the county. Even the air smelled singed. The hot, dry Santa Ana winds blew in his face, stirring palm fronds into elaborate dances.

Drawing deep breaths into his lungs, he paused. Each breath hurt slightly and he felt a tight pull across the right side of his chest where his guts were no longer in the order and positions he'd been born with. He slowed while Jess surged onward, crossing the courtyard toward the parking structure.

A homeless man approached Mac. Mac fumbled in his pocket for the one dollar fast food coupons he kept. He handed the man a coupon. "Get yourself a meal."

The man pulled at a lock of stringy, greasy hair. He smelled of cheap whiskey and dirt. He gave Mac a disgusted look, crumpled up the coupon and tossed it on the ground. He shuffled away shaking his head.

Mac sprinted after Jess, catching up with her as she ascended the ramp the led into the parking structure. She approached a van, one hand held outstretched, a remote security device tucked against her palm. She pressed a button, the car chirped twice, the security system disarmed.

"It was stolen last year," she explained as she slid open the side door.

The van, a three year old Chevy, was outfitted with an electric platform that folded out and descended to the ground. She rolled her chair onto the platform and it raised her to the floor level of the van.

Mac opened the passenger door and looked in. "You want me to drive?" He eyed the hand controls dubiously. He now understood her teasing when she'd asked if he could drive. He grinned.

Jess laughed. "I'll drive." She moved her chair between the driver's seat and the passenger seat, set the brakes, and removed the left armrest. She slid into the driver's seat. She hooked a hand beneath each knee and swung her legs into position beneath the steering wheel. "Don't forget your seatbelt." An impish grin spread across her face as she turned the key in the ignition.

For a second he felt disarmed. Despite the crude male jokes about women drivers, he had long ago discovered women were better drivers than most men. They seemed more capable of judging dangerous situations on the road and avoiding them, and understanding what other drivers thought. Mac sat back, reassured at her ability, as she backed out of the parking space.

His restful moment lasted ten seconds. Jess darted out into traffic. Mac grabbed the overhead hand rail.

Behind the wheel, Jess was as dynamic as she was in her chair. She merrily honked at cars that didn't move fast enough to suit her. She changed lanes with impunity and kept looking at him as though expecting him to say something.

"You look a little apprehensive." Her wry laugh filled the van.

Did this woman have a death wish? Or was this her way of coping with the tragedy of her husband's death. She had a strange look on her face as though daring other drivers to hit her.

Mac shook his head. "I keep thinking that we're both officers of the court and you've already broken at least a dozen traffic laws." He held on to the overhead bar, feeling as though he were in a high-speed chase and about to get bumped out the door. "How do you keep from getting tickets?"

"I pout," she said with a gleeful grin. She braked at a red light and turned to him, her face suddenly assuming the most compelling, plaintive pout he'd ever seen. "I'm lost, Officer. Can you direct me to Pacific Coast Highway? I think I'm going in the wrong direction."

Mac felt a awkward lurch in the area of his heart at the sight of her woeful face. He burst out laughing. "Does your act work?" He could see that it would. Jess' pretty eyes and little girl look could probably talk her out of anything. And her obvious disability would cause any number of cops to let her off with a sympathetic warning.

The light changed to green and Jess gunned the motor. The van jumped forward. "Most of the time." She turned north onto Glassell, passing a truck, the driver glaring at her as she swerved into the other lane and then back, cutting him off.

"Have you always driven like a maniac?" Mac waved at the truck driver to indicate no hard feelings.

Her face changed for a second, looking haunted and weary. "Not always."

Mac fell silent. He understood the ghosts that haunted her. he had a few himself.

North of Katella, she turned into a aging residential section of middle-class houses, clones of each other except for surface paint and yard landscaping. "What's the address?" Jess slowed to let two small school children, a boy and a girl dressed in private school uniforms, cross the street.

Mac glanced at the file on the dashboard. "8909 Riverside."

She braked to a stop in front of a two story house with a bike parked on the lawn, an abandoned doll on the sidewalk and a broken window next to the door taped over with gray fabric tape. The house had a general air of forlorn neglect amplified by peeling paint and torn screens. The lawn hadn't been mowed in weeks. Patches of grass had turned brown and a few drought resistant weeds rose high into the air.

Mac stepped out of the van. He checked his shoulder harness, easing the pistol off a tender spot under his arm. He hadn't worn his gun in a long time and the old grooves where the shoulder harness used to fit snugly had disappeared.

Jess shifted into her chair. She replaced the armrest and released the brakes.

Mac wanted to help, but knew she would refuse. Her pride would never allow her to accept anyone's pity. Despite the vibrancy of her personality, he detected a dark, bitter side--a bitterness matching his own.

"There's a step," he said as they approached the porch. Inside the front window, the drape moved. He thought he saw the shadow of a hand.

"Do you think I can't manage one step?" Jess said in a challenging voice.

"I didn't think ...." He looked away embarrassed. A friend of his father's had lost his legs in Korea and his Japanese wife had pushed him everywhere, catering to his every need acting more like a servant than a wife.

Jess pulled the tote bag into her lap and drew out two triangular blocks about six inches wide and ten inches on the hypotenuse. "Instant ramps." She dropped them on the ground at the edge of the steps, positioning them to match the track of each wheel and with a flashing grin motored up them backward. "Hopefully no kids will come along and steal them."

Mac had never known such fierce independence in anyone before. His ex-wife had clung so fiercely to him her dependency had set his teeth on edge. She'd questioned him constantly about his friends, whereabouts, habits. When he was gone, she'd complained about feeling abandoned. When he was home, she would act as though nothing he did could make up for his time away. He loved Gwen, but couldn't prevent relief when she'd asked for a divorce. The divorce had been amicable. With no children to fight over, they had managed to become better friends afterward than before. She had blamed the job. He had blamed her lack of understanding.

Jess punched the doorbell with an insistent finger. For a moment nothing happened. Mac leaned toward the door listening, feeling someone inside, someone afraid.

"Mrs. Santiago," Jess called in a low, carrying voice, "I saw you at the window. Please, open the door. All I want to do is talk."

Mac glanced up and down the street. The neighborhood was quiet, the houses looking blank and empty. Bars covered the front windows of most of the houses. Several had patches of different colored paint on the clapboard fronts, an attempt to obliterate gang sign and destructive taggers who nightly scrawled their initials everywhere. He sensed silent desperation behind the facades.

A car drove slowly past turning on the next street. A woman opened her front door to retrieve her mail. A dog barked and a flutter of birds settled in a eucalyptus tree.

Jess rapped on the door. "Please, Mrs. Santiago. This will only take a moment."

The dead bolt snapped and the door swung open slowly. A woman peeked out, the hall behind her dark and gloomy.

"Mrs. Santiago," Jess said in a soft, patient voice. "Do you remember me? I'm Ms. Savage from the District Attorney's office."

"I talked to you on the phone." Maria Santiago opened the door wider. Dark brown hair fell over her face, partially hiding a bruised eye.

"This is my companion, Mr. McCready. May we come in?" She glanced at Mac, a warning in her eyes. If Mrs. Santiago knew he was a cop, she'd never let them in.

She swung the door fully open and stepped back. Jess maneuvered over the threshold and entered the house. Mac followed.

The interior of the house was hot and close, yet neat and tidy. The rich essence of pepper and garlic hung in the air. Maria Santiago was a petite woman wearing faded jeans beneath an oversized blouse that barely concealed the rounded curve of pregnancy. She led the way into a shabby living room and sat down on an old sofa with sun-faded fabric.

On the wall hung a picture of Mrs. Santiago in a wedding dress, a optimistic smile on her elfin face. Next to the wedding picture was another one of her in a hospital gown holding a brand new baby in her arms. The smile was less optimistic, and shadows hovered in her pale brown eyes.

Jess braked her chair and leaned forward hands on her knees. "You sounded frightened on the phone this morning, Mrs. Santiago. Has your husband threatened you?"

Mrs. Santiago shook her head in a violent negative. "Emilio is a good man." Her flying hair revealed a bruise near the hair line. Mac saw another bruise on her upper arm beneath the edge of her sleeve. The unknown Emilio Santiago fueled a dull anger. No one, man or woman, should be treated like a punching bag. With all his years on the force, the cases of domestic violence had been the most tragic and affected Mac deeply. What he saw in Maria Santiago was a woman strung tight and tense like a bow string. Despite the claims of her husband's goodness, she looked like a cornered rabbit--quivery, afraid and defeated.

"You had him arrested for hurting you." Jess' voice was soft and gentle, her face alive with sympathy. Even Mac responded to the sincerity in her face. A different Jess rose from the depths of her hard edged exterior.

"He promises he will not hurt me again." She looked out the window, searching the street, terror lurking in her eyes. "Emilio loves me." She looked hopeful as though saying the words would make them true. "He told me so. He promises ...." Her voice broke to a whimper. "He promised."

Mac leaned against the wall. Behind him he heard a muted giggle and when he glanced up the stairs he saw two little girls. The oldest, maybe five, peered at him from between the stair rails. From the open door of a room, he heard the soft cry of a baby and then silence.

Jess said softly, "He broke your jaw, Mrs. Santiago. If you don't testify telling all the things he's done to you, he'll be free to continue doing them."

"I cannot testify against my husband. My duty as his wife forbids this. And Father Reynaldo at St. Anthony's says ... I am Emilio's wife. It is my duty to stand by him. God will change him."

Jess' eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. She reached for Maria's hand.

Maria stared at the floor, her face twisted with agony. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes. "Emilio loves me. He is good to me." She swung her arm around to indicate the room. "I have a nice home. In Puerto Rico, I lived in a shack with my mama and my seven brothers and sisters. Mama says I am lucky to have a man so good to me." She tangled her hands in the hem of her blouse and repeated, "Mama says I am so lucky. Father Reynaldo says I am lucky. So I must be lucky." Her eyes pleaded with them for understanding. "Besides, where would I go?"

Trapped in a violent marriage thousands of miles away from the support of her family, Mac knew he could do nothing even if she accepted his help. As a uniformed cop before his promotion to detective, he responded to hundreds of domestic calls similar to this one. Each one had left him aching with sympathy for each woman unable to get away from the violence.

He never quite got over the tragedy of these women's lives. At first, he'd tried to help, but so few of them accepted help. Their confidence undermined through years of violence, they felt they deserved such treatment. After awhile, he'd quit trying, seeking a neutral distance that would allow him to go home at night and sleep.

"Mrs. Santiago," Mac said. Maybe she would be different and accept his help. He thought of his parents and the wonderful passion they'd shared for over thirty-five years. How would his mother react in this situation? She would probably fight back with a frying pan. "Ms. Savage and I can arrange for you to get into a shelter where you'll be safe, where you'll get help and your husband won't hurt you." Or the children, he added silently. Had she given any thought to the children? Men who beat their wives frequently progressed to the children. Did she realize the danger to them?

Maria Santiago stood, searching for a pathetic dignity. She smoothed her blouse down over her abdomen. "You must leave. If Emilio found you here, he would be angry. He promises me he will be better." She led the way to the front door and opened it. "Please. I am sorry. I must have faith. God will protect me. Fr. Reynaldo promises me this."

With a shrug of her shoulders, Jess released the brake on her chair. She wheeled around and headed for the door, the motor whirring.

"Mrs. Santiago," Mac said softly. She ignored him. He could understand her reluctance to trust him. He was, after all, a man. She shook her head at him, looking away, distrust in her face, in the rigid way she held her small body.

Before leaving, Jess tried one more time to get the woman to change her mind, but Mrs. Santiago refused to listen. She covered her ears like a child, her eyes enormous pools of pain in her small face.

Jess opened her purse and took out a gold card case the initials JS engraved on the top. She snapped the case open and wrote something on the back of her business card. She handed the business card to Mrs. Santiago. "That's my home phone number. If you change your mind about the shelter, or if you need someone to just listen, or talk to, give me a call. I usually get home from work around six-thirty."

After guiding her chair down the blocks, she retrieved them and tucked them back into her tote bag.

Mrs. Santiago looked closely at the card, turning it over several times. "You are very kind, Ms. Savage. Mr. McCready. I am so very sorry." She pocketed the card, then closed the door, snapping the deadbolt, barricading herself once more from the world.

As Mac turned, an old gray Chevy blighted by rust rammed into the driveway. A man got out, his face twisted with anger. He approached Mac and Jess, fury etched in his face. The man was short and squat with a straggly beard and limp brown hair. His clothes, wrinkled and worn, looked like they'd been bought at the Salvation Army.

"Stay away from my wife," the man shouted, weaving amidst the floating stink of bourbon and beer. He balled his hands into fists and shook them at Jess.

"Good morning, Mr. Santiago." Jess tossed a disinterested glance at Emilio Santiago. She didn't like him, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing. She drew car keys from her tote bag.

"Do you hear me, you bitch?" Santiago's voice rose. He rushed at Jess. Mac grabbed him, fastening his arms around the man's chest. "Stay away from my family if you know what's good for you." Emilio Santiago was small, but strong. Mac locked his hands tightly while Santiago struggled and grunted, trying to get loose.

"Let me introduce you to my bodyguard, Mr. Santiago," Jess said. "I would be delighted to have you threaten me, or do bodily harm, because Sgt. McCready is a cop. So please, do something really foolish so I can have you arrested and put in jail again. I guarantee you the bail won't be so easily met this time."

Santiago's face was puffed, blotched with fury and alcohol. "I don't like people interfering with my family. This is my home. I got rights. You stay away from my family, or ...."

"Or what? Have me arrested? Take a punch at me?" Jess smiled knowing she incited him. "Are you afraid you're human punching bag will escape?"

At the next door house, a curtain moved. A fight certainly generated interest on this little street, Jess thought wryly.

Santiago fought against Mac's pincher squeeze. "Keep on struggling, buddy," he said, "I can haul you in for a half-dozen violations already."

"Let him go, Mac." Jess waved Mac away. "I want to give Mr. Santiago plenty of opportunity to assault me." Mac released Santiago who stood with feet apart, looking confused.

"Just stay away from my wife." Santiago shook a fist at Jess and then stomped up the sidewalk toward the front door, flinging himself across the threshold with such force, the screen door slammed against the brick facade with a hollow clang and bounced open again.

"I can arrest him," Mac said, rubbing his bruised hands.

"Forget it. He'll only take his anger out on his wife."

"He already does that."

Jess gave him a sad look. "But he hasn't been convicted of any crime. Don't you remember that even known criminals are innocent until proven guilty?"

"Yeah." Mac moved his shoulders. "He's pretty strong."

"Mrs. Santiago probably thinks so, too." Jess slid open the side door of the van and reached for the lever that lowered the platform. She glanced back at the house. Mac opened the passenger door and got in, lowering the window.

The front door opened and Mrs. Santiago ran out, casting a fearful glance back at the door.

"Are you all right." Mrs. Santiago sounded panicked and unsure.

Jess sighed. "I'm fine Mrs. Santiago."

"He really is a good man, Mrs. Savage." Tears tracked down her cheeks. "Don't judge him so harshly. He provides well for me and the children. He just drinks a little. Father Reynaldo says I must be more understanding, more patient." She whirled around and ran back up the walk to the house.

Mac sighed. Understanding! Didn't the clergyman realize the danger. Probably not. They weren't trained in crisis intervention. He felt a gnawing anger at the type of man Emilio Santiago was.

"I don't think you should have given her your home phone number," Mac said.

Jess slid into the driver's seat. She fastened her seatbelt and rested her hands on the steering wheel. Biting her lip in a pensive gesture, she glanced back at the Santiago house. "She's a good woman, Mac, doing the best she can. She needs a sense of hope. We all need hope."

She turned on the ignition, gunned the engine, did a U-turn in the middle of the block and took off down the street, turning back onto Glassell.

"When we get back," Mac said, "how about driving lessons on this thing."

"If you want."

"I want. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starting to feel hungry." In answer to his comment, his stomach growled.

"What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch. "Almost two."

Jess nodded. "I know this great Mexican place on Katella that serves the best taco salad I've ever had."

Mac studied her. She was so thin, he wondered if she lived on salads and otherwise socially acceptable, healthy food that he would never even try. Give him a pizza every time. "I like that little Cuban restaurant in the circle. Have you ever eaten there?"

"Is that the one with the sidewalk dining?"

Mac smiled. "That's the one." The restaurant advertised authentic Cuban food. He had no idea if the food was authentic, but he liked it.

Jess nosed the van around a pokey Toyota. She ran a yellow light and in minutes she'd parked and grinned at him. "Lunch is served."

"I'm still waiting for my stomach to catch up." Mac opened the door and descended, grateful to be back on the ground and all in one piece. This lady was full of surprises. But then again, why not? She'd already faced death and lost to it. She probably used her vehicle as a test, probing her limits, pushing against the edges of her life because the adrenaline high proved she was still alive even if half her body wasn't.

In his own way, Mac did understand. Why else had he become a cop if not to experience that same adrenaline rush?

He jammed his hands in his pockets. An ache began to build under his ribs. He waited for Jess to activate the security system, then he removed a chair from one of the tables for Jess and sat down on the opposite side.

"Lunch first," he said when she eased up to the table. "Then driving lessons."

"Are you sure you want to learn to drive my van."

"I'm insuring I'll live long enough to celebrate my next birthday."

She laughed and he grinned in response. Her laughter eased the tension in her face. Mac admired her face with its vivid green eyes. Silently, he vowed to keep her safe, or die trying.

Jess lived on a quiet, residential street a few blocks from Main Street. The houses, all older bungalows, had been built in the early fifties. Most boasted large yards and detached garages. Jess and her husband had purchased the bungalow two weeks before their wedding and had moved in a month later filled with plans and dreams.

Their plans never materialized. Jess never thought about her dreams anymore. Every time she entered her home, she could still feel the optimism that had fueled her and Peter's decision to buy this particular house over all the others they had looked at.

After a lifetime of Navy posts, strange schools and an absentee father, Jess relished owning her own home. The bungalow gave her life a feeling of permanence and Peter Savage had given her security. No matter how large loomed the menace to her life, she wouldn't leave. This house was her last remaining tie to her husband, and her punishment for being alive while he was dead.

She parked in the garage, locked the van and then locked the garage. A year ago, her van had been stolen. With her van gone, she'd been helpless, a feeling she'd hated. After it's recovery, she'd been extra careful determined never to feel defenseless again. She'd fitted both the van and the garage with extra security alarms that alerted the police station after 30 seconds if she didn't punch in her private code.

The security firm had tried to talk her into wiring her home, too, but Jess decided against it. She didn't want to live in a fortress ruled by paranoia. Possessions in her house were more easily replaced than her van which needed to be specially equipped with the wheelchair lift and hand controls.

She guided her chair through the back yard skirting a long, narrow pool built for swimming laps. Blue water reflected the sky, looking cool and inviting. She usually began and ended each day with a swim, one of the few pleasures left to her. Using a specially designed flotation device, swimming provided her with enough exercise to keep her body toned and her legs from looking like atrophied sticks.

Special ramps, front and back, gave her easy access to her home. She unlocked the kitchen and entered. The house was cool, the air conditioning timed to go on at 6:00 during the summer so the house would be comfortable when she arrived home.888

She placed her briefcase on a desk, tucked away in an unused storage space under the attic stairs, and headed for the master bedroom. The doorbell rang, and Jess opened the front door to find Mac standing on the porch.

"Hi." He dropped a duffel bag on the floor. He carried a cat carrier under one arm and a backpack over the other.

"What are you doing here?" Jess demanded not certain if she felt glad to see him or annoyed. Everything about him shouted danger, and yet she had to admit while they'd been out visiting Mrs. Santiago, he'd made her feel safe and secure.

"I'm your bodyguard, remember."

"Not here, you're not." Jess tried to block him with her chair. He side-stepped her, setting the animal carrier on the floor. A loud, unhappy meow issued from the inside the cage.

Mac glanced around the house, prowling through the living room, taking in Jess' white and blue striped furniture with a critical look that left her feeling piqued.

"Is your house all white?" he asked. "Is it always this neat?"

"It's blue and white," Jess replied tersely, "and I like a neat home."

She was proud of her home, remodeled to accommodate her limited physical range and decorated in easy care fabrics. The floors were bleached birch, the slipcovers on the sofa and chair white and blue, and the curtains a pure white gauze that could be washed and hung up to dry wrinkle-free on the rods situated only halfway up the window. She'd spent most of the insurance money and half her widow's pension creating a house she could live in and easily care for without hiring professional help.

"Then you won't mind Scooter." He unlatched the cage and a pure white, short-haired cat exited looking regal and aloof. The cat gazed at Jess with haughty green eyes. Mac petted her. "Her name's Scooter. And actually, she's an 'it.' I couldn't leave her home alone. She sheds a little, but her fur will blend in." He gave another disparaging glance at her furniture.

Jess had never in her life had a pet. Her only foray into the joys of the animal kingdom had been a turtle when she'd been eight. The turtle had died after six weeks and her mother had refused to replace it. Even though Jess had hungered for an animal companion through her chaotic childhood, she'd made do with a stuffed Panda given her by a Chinese diplomat when her father had briefly visited the American embassy in Hong Kong.

"Cats scratch." Jess eyed the animal warily.

"Not Scooter. I found her abandoned outside my door one day about four years ago. She'd already been declawed." Mac went down the hall opening doors and glancing into the rooms. "Do you live alone?" He reached the last door at the end of the hall and tried the handle. The door was locked and Jess had no intention of opening it. She folded her arms over her chest and stared at him.

"Yes, I live alone." Jess followed him. The cat trotted along behind her. When she stopped, the animal sniffed her feet, the wheels of her chair and then jumped gracefully into her lap. Jess stared at the cat, startled by the friendly purr and the gentle kneading of clawless paws.

"What's in this room?" Mac jiggled the knob of a locked door.

"Storage," Jess snapped. The cat gently butted Jess' chin with an insistent nose. Jess automatically petted the soft, smooth head. She noticed a raw patch behind one ear. The animal ducked her head when Jess tried to examine the patch. "What's wrong with Scooter's ear."

"Ear mites." Digging into a pocket he pulled out a small, white plastic bottle which he held out to her. "Medication. She's on her second go-round; the ear mites don't have a chance." He re-pocketed the bottle. His Reeboks squeaked on the tile floor of the kitchen as he entered.

Removing his jacket, he slung it over a chair creating an untidy, black blotch against the pristine whiteness. Patches of sweat radiated downward from beneath the shoulder harness. The pistol was a dark splotch against the beige cotton of his shirt. He flexed his shoulder muscles as he opened the back door and looked out.

Like the inside, Jess had created an easy care yard of drought resistant ground cover plants, and lots of concrete. A lattice patio cover shaded the yard. A row of red and orange bougainvilleas, draped over a chain link fence, divided her yard from her neighbor's. A hedge of box elder hid a chain link fence at the very back of the yard. Jess and Peter had planted that hedge, and now five years later it had matured into a vibrant green screen.

Mac stepped out onto the porch, moving with the same graceful precision as his cat. He walked around the yard, peering under bushes and staring at the street. Jess watched him turn the door handle to the garage, admiring the feline grace of his walk and chiding herself. She didn't need him here. He would disrupt the careful orderliness of her life.

Jess' house sat on a corner, the house facing one way, the garage the intersecting street. Despite the annoyance of the extra traffic, she liked the feel of spaciousness the corner lot gave her.

"What are you looking for?" Jess asked when Mac returned to the kitchen after prowling the perimeter of the yard. He'd looked at everything, even sniffing the air with the same intensity as his cat. Any criminal on the prowl would be well-advised to stay away from her home.

"Just checking out the floor plan and lay of the land."

Jess opened the refrigerator and pulled out a diet soda. "You don't really believe anyone would be so foolish as to try to kill me, do you?"

Mac shrugged. "I don't think you can take chances with your life. Got any beer?"

"No."

He peered into the refrigerator and frowned, his mouth twisting in distaste. He had an expressive mouth that gave away nothing and everything. "All you have in here is healthy stuff." He held up a piece of celery and looked at it with contempt before returning it. "Don't you ever eat junk food? Good stuff like McDonald's hamburgers? Taco Bell's tacos? Steak? French fries? Spaghetti?"

"You didn't answer my question."

Mac sat down at the table and spread his large hands over the tablecloth. "All right, you want the facts. Alphonse Piaget repeated his threats in prison. He thinks you ruined his business, Jess, and he's not the type of man who's likely to forget."

"I didn't ruin anything. He got caught. And his slick Beverly Hills lawyer couldn't do a thing about the conviction considering the strength of the evidence and the witnesses." A strong chill of fear moved through her. At the time of the sentencing, she'd felt a deep thrill of triumph. She'd managed to remove a dangerous man from society. Was her action now coming back to haunt her?

"You pressed for maximum sentencing and got it." Mac drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. "In Alphonse's mind, you're the one who ruined him. He's going to try to hurt you as badly as you hurt him. I didn't say he is motivated by logic. He's ruled by emotion, and his feelings tell him that you're at fault.

'Terrence Liang believed he was above the law. He has as strong a motive as Alphonse for threatening you. Besides vindictive and angry, he has a powerful connection to the Asian Triads in San Francisco and they weren't too pleased either with his conviction. He also repeated his threats in prison."

"And Doris DeVille?" Jess asked.

"Doris is a strange one. She doesn't quite fit the mold with the others, yet she was angry at you, too. She felt she'd done what she had to do to be free of her brother and you should have understood her better. She was known to make angry remarks against you while in prison. You also insisted on psychiatric counseling and she felt nothing was wrong with her. The psychiatrist believes she transferred her aggressive anger from her brother to you."

"Poor Doris." Jess glanced down at her legs. "As though she, or anyone else, can do more damage than this." A memory of screaming metal filled her mind. The impact still jolted her. Glass shattered. Blood covered her face and hands. Peter lay on the street torn out of the seatbelt restraints. The drunk driver of the other car walked away without a scratch. Trapped in the wreckage, she couldn't move, couldn't get to Peter. Jess pushed the memory away. She would live with the sounds of the accident for the rest of her life.

"Any of them could kill you," Mac said gently reaching out to her, brushing her hand.

She jerked back, imagining electric sparks arcing between them. She stared at her hand. She hadn't been attracted to any man since Peter's death.

She'd been living a half-life for five years--half a marriage, half a woman, half a person. She tried to make up for her lack in her work, but not even her job could drive away the loneliness, the awkwardness of being incomplete in marriage and in life.

The phone rang. Jess reached for the cordless phone she kept in a pouch hanging from the side of her chair. "Hello, Mom," she said when she activated the receiver.

"How did you know it was me?" Her Mom, Tootsie Barklay, had a bright, sunny voice that reflected an optimistic personality and a zest for life Jess wished she could tap into.

"You always call at seven, whether I'm home or not." Jess half-smiled. Tootsie Barklay's concern had led her to sell her house in Laguna Beach and move to Orange, buying a house two blocks away from Jess, in order to help out during her recovery. Even though Jess had learned to be independent again, her mother had a hard time accepting it. Tootsie wanted Jess to live with her. Jess refused needing her independence and the self-respect she worked so hard to attain.

"Did you find my casserole?" her mother said cheerfully, "I left your favorite, tuna and vegetable with shell pasta, in the refrigerator."

"Thank you, Mom." Jess smiled. Her mother had been born over-protective. Jess frequently wished she weren't an only child. Her mother's attention was focused exclusively on her and Jess found the thoughtfulness annoying, at times. Her father had died seventeen years ago and Tootsie had worked hard to make up for the lack of a father during Jess' innocent teen years.

Tootsie scolded, "Is everything all right? You sound a little edgy, dear."

"I'm going to the bathroom." Mac stood, his chair squeaking across the floor

Jess nodded. "Everything's fine, Mom."

"Did I hear a man's voice, Jess?"

"Yes, Mom, you did."

"How wonderful." Tootsie shouted with such exuberance, Jess held the phone away from her ear for a second to let the sound waves dissipate. "Is he nice? When can I meet him? Do you like him? Is he good-looking? Wait till I tell Gram Reston."

"He's a pain in the ass, Mom. And don't you dare tell Gram anything." Jess loved her Grandmother Reston, who at nearly eighty years old still thought no woman was complete without a man. And she should know, she'd been married five times, twice to the same man and had fought and clawed her way to a successful career in the movies during the 30s and 40s.

A moment's silence at the other end of the phone allowed Jess to hear Mac's dry chuckle as he closed the bathroom door.

"Well," her mother sounded dubious, "if you don't like him, why have him over? And I'll have to tell Gram something. She called to tell me she's leaving Monterey tomorrow and will be here in a few days."

"Mac's my babysitter, Mom." Jess didn't intend to tell her mother that, but the words fell out of her mouth unintentionally. She considered what she should say to her Grandmother. She had a few days. Gram didn't fly, or take the train, she drove everywhere, or rather her chauffeur did, in a long black limousine with all the comforts of home in the back including a sofa which became a bed, a mini-sized kitchen and a well-stocked bar. Gram could live in her limo and never miss the comforts of her Monterey mansion.

"I don't understand, Jess." Panic and fear. "Did something happen at work today? I told you that you should have taken a nice safe job with your Uncle Samuel's firm in Cleveland. Why do you subject yourself to criminals when you could have had a nice, cushy position in corporate law?"

Jess rushed to soothe her mother's alarm. "Don't worry, Mom. The whole thing will blow over soon."

"But what happened?"

"Nothing important, Mom. I'm quite safe. Mac's a cop. I'll be fine." Jess sipped her soda.

"I can come and stay with you for a few days." Tootsie sounded hopeful. "Gram could stay in my house."

"No, Mom. I've got to go. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Jess determinedly disconnected and switched off the phone. Mac returned to the kitchen.

"She sounds like my kind of Mom." He opened the refrigerator again and started pulling out plastic storage containers and tossing them on the counter.

"You listened." Jess accused.

"The door's thin." He grinned at her as he flipped open the lids, bending over slightly to accommodate the lower counters. The cat jumped out of Jess' lap and onto the counter. Mac gently put her on the floor with a firm no and a tap on her black nose. He returned to the refrigerator and removed the tuna casserole, his lips pulled back in dismay. "What is this? It looks awful." He gave an experimental sniff under the aluminum cover. "It smells awful."

"Mom's tuna casserole." Jess felt a swell of laughter. If her mother could have seen Mac's face, she would have been upset for a week. Tootsie wasn't the greatest cook around, but she was energetic in her approach. Tuna and pasta was one of her tamer creations. Jess had been the recipient of her mother's experimental attempts at cooking since childhood.

Mac was definitely not impressed. He sniffed again and with a grimace, scooped a couple spoonfuls into a bowl and set the bowl on the floor for the cat. "Scooter will eat anything." In agreement, Scooter dived into the food, her tiny mouth acting like a vacuum cleaner as she sucked up the casserole, then sat back to lick her whiskers with dainty, feline gestures and a loud, satisfied purr.

"And you?" Jess asked too aware of his solid presence in her kitchen. He was so vibrant and alive, his masculinity a vivid counterpoint to her kitchen, which seemed so antiseptic in comparison.

"I'll eat most anything, but not this. What do you want for dinner?" He studied the array of food on the counter. "I suppose you'll insist on something healthy." He held up a container of yogurt.

"Anything is fine with me as long as it's not pizza."

"But pizza ...," Mac objected.

"No pizza."

"I'll see what I can do." Mac closed the refrigerator with a snap. He opened a cabinet and found a bottle of blush wine. "Perfect. Now go away and let me work."

Jess stared at him. A man who cooked! Not even her husband had cooked. Peter had been raised on Burger King and McDonald's by a mother whose idea of nutrition was to open a box of macaroni and cheese and toss in leftover meat.

Jess left Mac for her bedroom where she struggled out of her suit and into a brightly colored caftan. She brushed her hair until the black strands gleamed and with an amused grin, applied lipstick and a dab of perfume behind her ears. Maybe the perfume was too much, she thought. He wouldn't care how she smelled. Staring at herself critically in the full length mirror attached to the bathroom door, she saw a woman who looked fearful and edgy, face drawn with tension and body stiff with strain.

Then she sat for a few minutes thinking about what to do with her Grandmother. Gram never stayed with Tootsie when in Los Angeles, but with Jess, having decided early on that Jess lived a boring life and needed to have some excitement added. Excitement gravitated to Gram. Though Jess loved her deeply, she would have to stay with Tootsie or at a hotel.

"No pizza," Mac told the cat as he sifted through the food on the counter, returning the yogurt to the refrigerator. He had sliced carrots, a dozen eggs, a bundle of fresh spinach, a few slices of sandwich ham, cheese, tomato and a sweet onion.

Mac McCready was a California boy, born and bred. He'd grown up in Long Beach less than a dozen blocks from the ocean and spent most of his adolescence surfing and bumming on the beach. He'd attended Cal State Long Beach majoring in social work and graduated Summa Cum Laude before applying to the prestigious Orange County Sheriff's Academy, following in the footsteps of his father, a thirty year veteran of the San Pedro Police Department.

Mac liked to cook. He'd been raised in a large, Italian-Irish family with both parents fighting over who controlled the kitchen. His parents finally solved their problem by remodeling the kitchen with two of everything and a line down the center dividing it. On one side of the kitchen, Mac had learned flamboyant Italian fare, on the other he'd learned how to cook like an Irishman and down his Guiness in one gulp.

He'd grown up with wild, exuberant parents who'd blended their colorful personalities into a strong, passionate marriage that had produced five sons of which Mac was the eldest.

He wondered what Jess' childhood had been like. Probably lonely. He'd read she'd been an only child and if the food selection in the refrigerator was an indication, she was probably a clone of her mother, despite the guarded conversation he'd over heard.

He glanced around the colorless kitchen. How could he create a masterpiece in such a sterile, subdued environment? He worried that Jess Savage lacked red blood cells. He searched through all the cabinets and couldn't find one decent bottle of Chianti.

She was a little too cool for him, but he loved a challenge. He wanted to mess up this house, to add color and personality, to give it life, in the same way he wanted to awaken the passion in its owner. A passion, he sensed, subdued by too many years alone and too many years of being unable to trust. She was moody and private and he wanted to crack open her shell and let the real Jessica Savage emerge.

Surprised at himself, he paused to look out the kitchen window at the lengthening shadows in the garden. A mockingbird sat on a tree limb. A tiger-striped cat, contemplating the bird, prowled below, tail swishing.

Jessica Savage was like a sleeping princess, cool and remote. The only passion he'd seen in her had been at Mrs. Santiago's home. Did she save all her feeling for her job? He glanced around the white kitchen again. He understood the need to make her life simple, but being confined to a wheelchair didn't mean she had to give up on life, to pass up the chance to love, to live.

What would his mother do? He pictured his mother, a round, solid woman with snapping black eyes and a wild tangle of black hair forming a nimbus around her face. She'd make Jess want to live again. But how? He pondered the question while he studied the food selection available to him for dinner.

"Tomorrow, or the next day," he told the cat, "we shop and talk to Mama. Mama will know what to do." Mac knew what to do, too, but he wasn't certain that immediate seduction would work with Ms. Jessica Savage. He added more casserole to Scooter's dish.

Scooter eyed her tuna casserole, a sprig of broccoli on one whisker. Delicately, a pink tongue reached out and scooped away the green. Mac bent over and stroked the cat's head. She arched her back and rubbed against his leg. The rumble of her purr drifted over him. Before Scooter had come into his life, he'd always thought himself a dog person. He'd had a Golden Retriever as a child, a big affectionate klutz of a dog Mac had loved with all the passion of a ten year old.

He'd always pictured a dog in his life, but his ex-wife had disliked animals. And then Scooter had appeared at his door during a furious rain storm--wet, bedraggled and limping. He'd taken her into his heart and into his home and never once regretted it.

He studied the collection of food a moment more, then began planning a culinary something that would tempt the antiseptic appetite of a very lovely woman.

He settled on a quiche, assembling it quickly. While the oven heated, Mac went through the house again, memorizing the floor plan, the furniture placement.

The layout was simple. The front door opened into a tiled foyer with the living room/kitchen on the right and the master suite on the left. Beyond the master suite was the guest bath, then a bedroom. Beyond it, stairs led to the attic bedrooms. Jess had done extensive remodeling, tearing down the walls between living room, dining room and kitchen. The original central hallway had been left intact but was only a half wall now with balustrades from chair rail height to the ceiling defining the wall, yet opening it.

Mac paused at the locked door wondering where Jess would hide a key. He found it dangling from a cork board that attached to the side of the refrigerator with magnets. His job was to protect Jess and he needed to know what the locked room contained.

Opening the door and flipping on the light, he found a small room with a crib, diaper table and rocking chair. A stuffed teddy bear sat in the chair, button eyes staring at him accusingly. The room was decorated in red, white and blue. A strip of wallpaper with the alphabet on it marched in a sedate line around the perimeter. Startled, realizing he'd poked into her private life, he wondered what the revelation meant.

The stuffed bear held a red silk flower in one paw. Had Jess kept this room as a reminder of lost chances, of babies who would never be born, or as a memorial to something else. Possibly a baby newly conceived and dead along with her husband?

He smelled her perfume before she spoke and felt ashamed to be caught prying into her secrets. He should have been more sensitive, but his duty to protect her outweighed everything even locked doors. She was turning out to be a more complex person than he'd originally thought.

"Now that you've pried," Jess said from the doorway, her tone caustic, her eyes snapping with anger, "please close the door and relock it."

Mac turned out the light. "Sorry," he said, disconcerted that he'd invaded her privacy. He replaced the key. He wanted to ask for an explanation, but he sensed a pain deep in the depths of her green eyes. "What's upstairs?"

"Why not look for yourself? You seem to be an accomplished snoop."

Mac flinched. He deserved that dig. "I apologize for my rudeness. I'm a cop and insatiable curiosity goes with my job description. Someone says 'locked room' to me and I have to have a look. I had only your welfare in mind."

She'd turned icy and cold, refusing to look at him as she wheeled herself back into the kitchen. "Let's get a few things straight. You don't own me, or have any rights over me. I may look helpless, but I'm not. I have resources you know nothing about."

"Do you have a handgun in the house?"

She looked startled. "In my dresser."

"Under the lingerie?" He grinned, having never known a woman yet who didn't keep a gun in that exact spot.

"No," she said with a hard look, "the oil stains my underwear. It's in the top drawer in a locked case."

"A lot of good a gun does you when it's locked up."

"It belonged to my husband." She gave him a haughty glare. "I don't believe in having guns around."

"Then why didn't you get rid of it?"

Hesitation crossed her face and she looked down at her hands. "You didn't know my husband, did you?"

Slowly a thought dawned on him. Considering her job, the only people she'd socialize with would be other lawyers, judges and probably cops. He'd never thought to find out anything about her husband. He must have been quite a guy if she still mourned him after five years. "Your husband was a cop?"

At the briefing, Mac had simply been given Xerox copies of the threatening letters, copies of only certain portions of Jessica Savage's life, and the files of the three suspects. He did remember seeing the name, Peter Savage, Arresting Officer, somewhere but the relationship between Jess and the man had never clicked into place.

She nodded. "Long Beach PD, Narcotics Division. In a way you could say that Alphonse Piaget was responsible for our meeting--a criminal matchmaking maven." Her mood grew sad and distant. She glanced out the window toward the garden, eyes clouded, mouth pulled into an expression of grief mixed with anger. "Peter was the arresting officer. He'd been undercover in Alphonse Piaget's organization for six months."

Mac didn't know what to say. He was guilty not only of inappropriate behavior, but of digging up old memories that hurt her. He understood about old memories. He had a few painful ones himself. Memories he'd been trying to deal with for a long time now. He said, "I've managed to offend you in almost every aspect of your life. Have I left anything out?" He grinned trying to lighten the mood.

Suddenly she laughed, an edge of hysteria adding a shrillness to her tone that worried him. "My mother"

"Give me time." He returned to the kitchen, checked the oven and slid the quiche inside. "I just wanted to know the layout of the house. I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're forgiven."

While the quiche baked, Mac unpacked his suitcase and duffel bag in the second floor spare bedroom. He put his clothes away in the dresser and set a stack of books on the bedside table. Mac liked Westerns. He'd been introduced to them in seventh grade by his Mom who'd understood his need to escape the large rambunctious family he'd been born into.

Mac enjoyed Luke Short and Louis L'Amour. The American West had been a time of simple values and easily identified good and evil. Mac wished the present day was as uncomplicated. He went back to the kitchen.

The phone rang and Jess grabbed her cordless from the tote at her side. "Hello." she listened for a moment. "Hello, is anyone there? Mother, is that you?" A look of total terror moved swiftly over her face.

"Give me that." Mac grabbed the phone, but all he got was a dial tone. "Did you hear anything?"

Her voice wavered as she shook her head. "I heard heavy breathing and then the dial tone."

He wanted to reassure her. "Must have been a masher." He turned off the cordless and handed it to her. He thought about Alphonse's well run empire which had continued operating even though its leader was in jail. He would have the resources to track Jess down.

She studied him. "You think the caller was one of the three suspects, don't you?"

"That's hard to say." He opened cupboards searching for dishes, found white and blue ones and proceeded to set the table. He didn't know much about Alphonse Piaget, other than the fact that Alphonse was a different kind of street criminal. He had gone to the University of California Riverside majoring in business. He had come from a lower middle class family. "You better start keeping a log. I'll report it when I call in later."

"Who do you think the caller was?" Jess' tone was flat and cold, as though she were insulted by terrorist tactics.

"It could be anyone, or no one." Just because all the facts pointed in one direction didn't always mean a logical conclusion.

"I don't believe in coincidences."

"Neither do I."

Mac went outside again to prowl around the house looking in the neighboring yards and searching the street memorizing the cars parked along the curb. He didn't like the corner location, the house was too accessible from too many directions. He checked the windows on the street side and found neatly trimmed bushes which offered a dozen hiding places. He flushed out a squirrel, who scolded him, and interrupted a black cat in the act of murdering a mouse.

The cat stalked off, tail straight up, indignation in every movement. The cat's prey disappeared. A red-winged blackbird flew by and disappeared across the street.

He felt exposed and uneasy. Jess Savage was in his care. No matter what her unknown abilities might be, she was still his responsibility and he would never forgive himself if anything happened to her.

When he went back inside, he locked every window and door, then checked them again, returning to the kitchen to find Jess silently staring at the floor, her face puckered with tension and her eyes shadowed and remote. He had no words to reassure her. He didn't like this new development.

The timer on the oven went off. "Dinner is served." Hoping a diversion would distract Jess, he set the dishes on the table. The blue and white dinnerware seemed another indication of the uncomplicated life she'd attempted to build for herself contrasting with the complex person he sensed her to be.

"It's smells great." She glanced at it, but not even the heavenly smell tempted her appetite. She spent most of the next half hour playing with her food while Mac gulped his down.

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