Fingers snapped. The killer smiled.

The detective had the victim’s hand checked for traces of gunpowder or something like that. None was found. In fact, the hand showed absolutely no signs of trauma, so the victim could not possibly have fired the gun. Conclusion: he had been murdered.

Fear crept in along with an idea. The killer sprinted back toward the body, lifted the hand with the gun, and pressed Sinclair’s finger on the trigger.

The gun fired. The bullet lodged in the wall near the bookshelf.

Relief settled onto the killer’s face. The hand now had the gunpowder or whatever on it. The police would be here soon. They would investigate the matter completely and come up with one of two scenarios: 1) after shooting himself, Sinclair’s hand spasmed in death, firing another bullet; 2) Sinclair had chickened out at first, pulled the gun away from his head as he fired, then worked up the courage to kill himself for real.

The killer headed out the back entrance and into the sunshine, confident that no one was watching.

That was wrong.

From behind the couch two scared eyes had seen everything. But the killer did not look behind the couch. The killer just continued to make his escape, thinking: I did it. I killed the bastard. And now he has left me no choice. There is only one way to right the wrong, only one way to put everything back in place.

The killer swallowed.

I have to kill again.

11

GLORIA had never been so happy. The weekend in Deerfield was turning out better than she could have imagined. There was no greater high than being in love. And this was love. Real love. This was not a contest in which one combatant tried to abuse and hurt the other.

Real love.

True, they had only been together for a short time, but Gloria knew. She had never been so sure of anything in her life.

Gloria turned her gaze toward Stan. He smiled back at her. A warmth quickly spread throughout her body. She did not want to eat or sleep or do anything but be with Stan.

They strolled down the deserted street toward the Deerfield Inn. The small New England town was straight out of a postcard. It was September, still a little early for the leaves to change color, but the sparse population and the sun creeping through the thick branches more than made up for it. It was warm. Both of them wore shorts and T-shirts. In their haste to get out of the city, Gloria had forgotten to bring a T-shirt, so she had to borrow one from Stan.

There were only twelve rooms in the Deerfield Inn’s main building. The back annex held about a dozen more. But on this particular weekend, business was not too brisk, which suited Gloria just fine. Last night, they had dined, walked through the Deerfield Academy campus, and sat quietly in front of the fireplace in the inn’s back room. The silence worked on her like the most relaxing masseurs.

Stan put his arm around her shoulders. Gloria nestled in closer against his chest. She felt safe and snug and deliriously happy. The inn was coming into view around the corner.

Stan stopped and turned toward her. “I love you, Gloria. I know we’ve only known each other a short time but—”

“I love you, too.” Her heart burst with joy as he bent down to kiss her. When he pulled back, she could see his face was troubled. “What is it, Stan?”

His eyes swerved around for a moment. “It’s so beautiful out here. I wish we could stay here forever.”

“So do I.”

He nodded. “It’s time I told you everything about me, Gloria. The good and the bad.”

She hugged him. “There is no bad.”

“Yes, there is.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Maybe that was true before I fell in love,” he said, “but now I have no choice.”

She looked up at him with scared eyes. Stan stepped back and paused. “I’m a gambler,” he began slowly. “Baseball, football, horse racing, you name it. It’s a disease, Gloria, like what you went through with drugs. I have cravings that I can’t control. Sure, I’ve tried to stop, but I just can’t do it. I gamble and I gamble until I lose everything I have. And then I still can’t stop. I borrow money and build up an even bigger debt, which I can’t pay back.”

He started to walk back toward the inn. Gloria followed silently, watching him stride purposefully. “Sometimes, I do criminal things to pay the money back,” he continued. “You see, the men who I owe money to are gangsters. They hurt people who are late with payments. I even owe them money now and I still can’t stop betting. Gloria, do you remember what it was like when you were cut off from drugs? Do you remember the cravings in your bloodstream until you thought the agony of withdrawal would drive you insane?”

Gloria nodded. She had felt those cravings. They had nearly killed her.

“Money to gamble with is my fix. I’ve tried to cure myself but I guess I don’t have the strength you have.”

Gloria reached out for his hand. “But that’s because you’ve never had any support,” she assured him. “I could never have done it without Laura. Not in a million years. But you can beat this thing, Stan. I know you can.”

Stan looked at her hopefully. “Will you help me?”

She hugged him again. “Of course, I will. We’ll beat it together.”

“I love you, Gloria.”

Her face lit up. “I love you, too.”

They walked together holding hands until Gloria spoke again.

“You said you owe money?” she began.

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

“But I have money, Stan. I can help.”

“No chance. I don’t want you involved in this.”

“But—”

He gently put his finger up against her lip. “End of discussion, my love.”

They reached the entrance to the Deerfield Inn. Stan kissed her again, and they disappeared into the lobby.

TWO men—one normal size, the other monstrously huge and hairy—watched the kiss from a parked car in front of the inn.

“Is that them?” the big man asked.

B Man nodded.

“Did you see her body?”

“Very attractive, Bart,” B Man agreed.

“She should be a movie star!” enthused Bart. “Boy, I’d love to fuck her.”

The B Man patted his giant friend on the back. “Bart, my boy,” he said, “you might just get the chance.”

GLORIA grabbed a quick shower. When she stepped out, Stan was there to dry her off.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said. “Am I getting repetitive?”