In that world, someone was trying to do him harm. Someone actually believed he could be blackmailed. Unacceptable.

He needed to escape in order to think about it and decide on a course of action. He couldn’t panic, couldn’t allow rage to make him do something stupid. Only one location calmed him now; only one provided any real escape. In the sunlit, warm, beautifully colorful world that was the Playground, no one could ever touch him. He’d never be betrayed. Never criticized. Never hurt.

He did all the hurting, of both the game-generated ’bots who inhabited Satan’s Playground, as well as personalized avatars created by those who wanted to see what it would feel like to be murdered.

And now it was even easier to do. He had lots of new toys to try out. He’d just bought some new custom-made weapons and implements to enhance the torture chamber that existed in the dungeon of his cyber castle: vises and blades, whips and chains, a stretching rack, gallows, and a spike-lined box. All perfect.

He’d filled a pit of snakes and rejoiced as a dumb bitch had broken her ankles and been devoured after he’d tossed her in. He’d finally experienced the excitement of seeing someone drawn and quartered. How wonderful a death; and how weak and pathetic people were to have stopped using it so long ago.

He loved his new toys. Worshiped them. He couldn’t stop touching them, testing each one several times as he acknowledged just how perfectly equipped he was to do his job now.

And he did it. Throughout most of the night, he gave free rein to his violent fantasies. Walking among the others, he plucked victims randomly, bringing them back to his lair and spending hours doing things to them.

If life were fair, he could have such a chamber in this cold, ugly world. Hearing the real cries, smelling the blood, tasting the fear that dripped from every pore of his victims, that would be heaven on earth. Acting furtively in the night no longer gave him enough satisfaction. He longed to take his time and enjoy it, to play and play, as he could in the Playground.

And now, even that could be lost.

Which was why he finally said his farewells with a few more swipes of his scythe and emerged from the light back into the darkness. Damp air assaulted his nostrils, and from within the walls he heard mice skittering around. Whenever he’d gone on a long visit away, his senses were always heightened upon his return. Even his eyes saw clearly into the darkness of his basement hideaway, and he couldn’t help picturing it laid out as a second dungeon.

There would be no room for the gallows, or for the pit. But a table with chains at the head and foot, a spike-covered board, those would be just fine.

“I will,” he whispered. If he got through this new threat to his safety and security, he’d do it. Somehow, he’d bring prey here and enjoy them for hours. Even if it meant removing others who might stand in his way.

Starting with the blackmailer.

Because in the long night of violent pleasure, when his mind had been washed clean with blood, the truth had come to him. He’d seen with utter clarity what he should have realized right away.

He knew who’d sent the message. There was only one person it could have been.

Warren Lee.

Everyone knew the crazy man had cameras protecting his house. That he’d have them along the perimeter of his property, seeing into the adjacent woods, should have come as no surprise. He should, in fact, have expected it and done something about it before Lisa. But he gave himself a break. After all, it had been his virgin experience.

The black-and-white photo was fuzzy, and shot from above, probably the top of the whacked vet’s fence. Lee must not have realized the significance of what he had. But he’d held on to it, knowing it meant something.

Then the FBI had started poking around, looking for Lisa’s body. And Lee had put two and two together and come up with murder.

“He won’t be easy to get to,” he muttered, his own voice stark against the silence. “Not easy at all.” The man lived in a fortress of his own. And he would defend it. Violently, if necessary.

“Damn him.” Why did that old bastard have to go putting his nose into it? What did Warren Lee need with money, anyway?

Someone should teach him a lesson about minding his own business. In fact, a few other people in this town might be due for lessons, too.

It could be done, taking Lee down. But he might not be able to do it soon enough to meet the deadline. Which meant he had to have a plan B.

Coming up with the money and using it to pay off Warren Lee long enough to get him alone and take him down. That was plan B.

He knew of only one way. That way both thrilled him and terrified him.

He’d have to hold a very special auction, where the potential gains could be huge.

But where all restrictions were off.

Stacey probably should have gone into work on Sunday, but after the week she’d had, and mindful of her promise to Dean to keep her head down until she heard from him, she didn’t. Instead, she drove out to her dad’s, gave him a carefully edited version of the news, and helped him bury Lady’s body. God, how it hurt to see the sadness in his eyes.

Stacey hadn’t kept a secret from her father in years, and she hated to start now. But causing him pain, and making him fear for her, would be much worse.

Afterward, she drove back to town, focusing her thoughts on the one case she could investigate. She’d promised Dean she wouldn’t do anything involving the Reaper case. But she hadn’t promised not to try to find out what had happened to Lady.

She desperately wanted to know which sick bastard had slaughtered that poor, sweet dog.

It occurred to her for only a moment that the cases were connected. Psychos like the Reaper didn’t waste time scaring off small-town sheriffs with sick pranks. Even Dean had realized that right away. Whoever had done it probably hadn’t even intended to scare her. He’d just wanted to hurt her. To pay her back for something. To call her a bitch and to underscore the point as graphically as possible.

The list of people in this town who had a grudge against her wasn’t exactly as long as her arm, but it probably reached her elbow. Once she’d mentally drawn up that list, including some of the men she’d undoubtedly pissed off at the tavern the previous afternoon, she canvassed the area, trying to narrow it down. Her closest neighbors-the ones she trusted to keep this under wraps-had been devastated to hear about what had happened, and any one of them would have helped if they could, but they hadn’t been able to give her any leads that might help her investigation.

The mailman, who lived up the street, said everything had been just fine at noon, when he’d dropped her mail in the slot. Meaning the creep had to have done his nasty work between then and when she’d gotten home.

Broad daylight on a sunny Saturday, and nobody had seen or heard a thing.

It wasn’t hard to figure that he had parked on the quiet lane running behind the neighborhood, and approached her house through the thick woods running behind it. Easy enough for him to climb over the low fence, shielded from view by the huge evergreens that had attracted her to the area in the first place. A quick dash down the side of the house, hugging the late-afternoon shadows, and he’d be at her door. The porch was hidden from the street by the out-of-control hedges she never had a chance to cut back. He could have taken his time then.

Bastard.

After striking out with the neighbors, she’d worked out her frustration by cutting back those stupid hedges. Brutally. Until her arms and neck were scratched deeply enough to draw blood. And until some of the rage began to leave her.

Last night, in Dean’s arms, she’d been crushed. Now she was just damn furious.