I screamed and tried to kick, but I couldn't get enough leverage to push off and lash out. His breath smelled of garlic and stale alcohol.

"Shut up," he said, his voice cold and even. In the dark I heard a tiny click, and then felt the needle-sharp point of a knife touch my neck.

"Where is he?" the voice asked. He had me pinned with one beefy arm, his hand pressed to my chest, the fingers curving in a claw at my neck. The knifepoint jabbed a little harder, and I knew he'd cut me.

"I don't know!"

He wasn't satisfied. The knife moved a little down my neck, biting into my skin, scratching a thin line as it cut.

"Then I guess I'll have to leave him a message," he said. "This'll hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me." He laughed softly.

His fingers curled around the neck of my shirt, ripping the buttons as he tore it open. My hand tightened around the big belt buckle in my hand, and I brought it up, smashing it into his face with every ounce of strength I could find. He howled, pulled back briefly, and I tried to duck under him. He grabbed for me, then seemed to fall backward.

"Get off her!"

My attacker, surprised from behind, turned away from me, lunging out of the closet, his attention turned toward the new arrival.

"He's got a knife," I screamed.

"Get out of the way, Maggie!" Carlucci's voice thundered through the darkness. My attacker roared and jumped forward. All I could see was a tangled blur of black forms, wrestling. Then there was the sharp retort of a gun, echoing in the tiny space, muffled somewhat by the body in front of it.

There was complete silence. When the lights came on in the kitchen, Tony Carlucci stood over the still form of a man I'd never seen before. Tall, thickset, and balding, with short black hair, and a gunshot wound that was quickly turning his chest red and his face a pasty gray color.

"Call nine-one-one," Tony said, his voice dull and removed.

Within five minutes my house was a sea of black uniforms and guns, all standing over the body of one very dead man. Tony still leaned against the wall of the kitchen, but his gun was in a clean, plastic evidence bag.

In the minutes between my call to the police and their arrival, after we knew for sure that Tony had killed my attacker, he'd only said one thing to me:

"See what happens when you think you know better than everybody else?"

I wanted to think he meant the words for the intruder, but he didn't. I was wrong. I should've stayed away.

Marshall Weathers arrived about thirty minutes into the process. He stepped across the threshold of the back door, his eyes searching for me, then turning to the scene. He moved across the room, nodding to the other officers, listening to the squawk of the walkie-talkie he held close to his ear. He'd changed from camouflage to jeans, his shield clipped to his waistband, along with his gun.

"Are you all right?" he asked. There was no hint of how he felt about me in those words, and at that point, I really wasn't looking for one. His hand reached out, involuntarily, to touch the thin line of blood that ran along my neck. "He do that?" he asked, his jaw muscle twitching.

"Yes."

"Okay." He turned away, studied Carlucci for a moment, and then looked back at me. "I'm gonna have to catch this call, it's mine and it'll take half the night doing the paperwork. Where are you staying?" It was obvious to both of us that I wouldn't be staying at my place.

"I guess with Jack." The jaw muscle twitched again, but I didn't hear him offer to take me back to the sanctuary of the Blessed Saint Wanda. I was out of options, and Jack was the only person I could think to turn to.

"All right, I'll get up with you in the morning then." He looked at the officer in charge. "We have your preliminary statement. I'll probably have a few questions."

Carlucci watched us now, his face still a neutral mask of resignation and indifference. As if he felt Carlucci, Weathers turned and walked toward him, his hand extended.

"Detective Weathers," he said. "Let's go on downtown and sort this out."

Carlucci pushed off the wall and stood looking at Weathers, his legs slightly apart, like a boxer, on his toes, waiting for a thrown punch. He was a good three or four inches taller than Marshall, and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds, but Marshall was all coiled strength and readiness. Neither man looked away. Carlucci's eyes were hooded, black pools that studied Weathers as if he were considering the invitation.

"All right," he said, finally, "let's get this over with."

He turned and walked toward the back door, with Marshall following him. Both men left without turning around, leaving me in a kitchen filled with the coppery scent of death.

Chapter Fifteen

They buried Nosmo King in a mausoleum. To Mama's way of thinking, that was all wrong. The way we were raised up, you couldn't get to heaven if you didn't go six feet under ground first. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," Mama said. "That don't mean sticking a body in a closet, like you're coming right back. It just ain't right. Dead," she said, "is dead, and let no man put that asunder by filing a body away in a drawer."

I stood on the edge of the crowd that had gathered and watched the entire proceeding before following the mile-long train of vehicles back to Nosmo King's farm out in Brown Summit.

Mama would've disapproved of the farm, too. It was a rich man's attempt to appear earnest, and Mama didn't like the foolishness of false pride. Nosmo King had crammed a riding ring, a huge barn, and an obviously manmade pond onto five acres of white-fenced property on the edge of a subdivision. His gleaming-new, green John Deere tractor sat parked beside the riding ring. Probably didn't even have gas in the tank.

Cadillacs, Mercedes, and an assortment of other vehicles lined the drive up to the house. Up where I came from, if it'd been a true farmer's funeral, you would've at least seen an old tractor or two, and it would've been pickup trucks lining that driveway, not leather-cushioned luxury cars.

I pulled the bug in behind a BMW and started making my way up the smooth, black asphalt driveway. That's when I began to hear the music. The closer I came to the house, the clearer it was. Fiddle, banjo, guitar, and mandolin. The musician in me started picking out notes, looking for the tune. They were playing Fisher's "Hornpipe," not at all the somber "Crossing Over Jordan" you might've expected. In fact, any music at all was pushing the borders of respectability.

Nosmo's brick two-story colonial had a black wreath on the door, along with an arrow that pointed toward the barn. Up ahead of me, ladies carried covered dishes, and a few of the men toted instrument cases. If I hadn't known this was a funeral reception, I would've figured it for a party.

By the time I reached the barn, I'd given up all pretense of appearing to be a mourner. The place was packed. People were everywhere, and not a sad face among them. I walked inside and looked around. Nosmo King's barn had never known a horse, or hay, or any farm equipment. Nosmo King's barn was an entertainment haven. Gleaming wood floor, wet bar along one side, kitchen along the other. Rows of tables set out here and there, and a sound system that made the Golden Stallion Country and Western Palace seem antiquated and small.

Bess King sat at a round table, surrounded by people who seemed to be expressing condolences. She looked wan and tired. I couldn't see any way to get to talk to her about Vernell, at least not now. I turned away from her and started toward the huge buffet table of food. When in doubt, I find it useful to eat. A person standing around with a plate of food looks harmless and approachable. I figured with a full plate, I could sit down at a table and observe without difficulty. No polite person questions someone when they're chewing. And what better than the homemade brownies I saw in the middle of the table?