She turned around. Who called her? She glanced around the lot. She didn’t see anyone, just a handful of cars, a couple of vans. She tried to place the voice, couldn’t.

“Hello?” she said.

Silence.

She backtracked between a van and a beer delivery truck. She took off her sunglasses, looked around, turning 360.

The next thing she knew, there was a hand over her mouth. At first she thought it was Jeff, but even Jeff wouldn’t take a joke this far. This was so not funny. She struggled to get herself free, but whoever was playing this (not at all) hilarious joke on her was strong. Really strong.

She felt a needle in her left arm.

Huh? Oh, that’s it, fucker, she thought.

She was just about to go Vin Diesel on this guy when, instead, her legs wobbled, and she fell against the van. She tried to stay alert as she slid to the ground. Something was happening to her and she wanted to catalogue everything in her mind. When the cops busted this fucker—and bust this fucker they most assuredly would—she was going to be the best witness ever. First of all, he smelled clean. A little too clean if you asked her. Plus, he had on rubber gloves.

Not a good sign, CSI-wise.

The weakness made its way up to her stomach, her chest, her throat.

Fight it, Lauren.

She had taken her first drink at the age of nine, when her older cousin Gretchen had slipped her a wine cooler at the Fourth of July fireworks at Boat House Row. It was love at first buzz. Since that day she had ingested every substance known to humankind and a few that may have only been known to extraterrestrials. She could handle whatever was in that needle. The world going wah-wah pedal and rubbery around the edges was old shit. She once drove home from AC while she was one-eyed drunk on Jack and nursing a three-day amp.

She blanked.

She came back.

Now she was on her back in the van. Or was it an SUV? Either way, they were moving. Fast. Her head was swimming, but it wasn’t a good swimming. It was like that three in the morning and I shouldn’t have done the X and the Nardil swimming.

She was cold. She pulled the sheet over her. It wasn’t really a sheet. It was a shirt or a coat or something.

From the far reaches of her consciousness, she heard her cell phone ring. She heard it chime its stupid Korn ring tone and it was just in her pocket and all she had to do was answer it like she had a billion other times and tell her grandmother to call the fucking cops and this guy would be so busted.

But she couldn’t move. Her arms felt like they weighed a ton.

The phone rang again. He reached over and began wiggling the phone from her jeans pocket. Her jeans were tight and he was having a hard time getting the phone out. Good. She wanted to grab his arm, to stop him, but she seemed to be moving in slow motion. He worked the Nokia out of her pocket, slowly, keeping the other hand on the wheel, every so often glancing back at the road.

From somewhere deep inside her, Lauren felt her anger and rage begin to grow, a volcanic swell of fury that told her that if she didn’t do something, and soon, she wasn’t going to get out of this alive. She pulled the jacket up over her chin. She was so cold, suddenly. She felt something in one of the pockets. A pen? Probably. She took it out and gripped it as tightly as she could.

Like a knife.

When he finally got the phone out of her jeans, she knew she had to make her move. As he pulled away, she swung her fist in a huge arc, the pen catching him on the back of his right hand, the tip snapping off. He shrieked as the vehicle swerved, left, then right, tossing her body against one wall, then the other. They must have gone over a curb, because she was abruptly thrown into the air, then came crashing back down. She heard a loud click, then felt a huge rush of air.

The side door was open, but they were still moving.

She felt the cool, damp air swirl around the inside of the vehicle, bringing with it the smell of exhaust fumes and just-mowed grass. The rush revived her a bit, tamed the rising nausea. Somewhat. Then Lauren felt the drug he had injected her with grab hold again. She was still flying on the meth, too. But whatever he had shot her up with made her mind swim, dulling her senses.

The wind continued to whip around. The earth screamed by, just beyond her feet. It reminded her of the twister in The Wizard of Oz. Or the twister in Twister.

They were driving even faster now. Time receded for a moment, then returned. She looked up just as the man reached for her again. He had something in his hand this time, something metallic and shiny.A gun? A knife? No. It was so hard to concentrate. Lauren tried to focus on the object. The wind blew dust and debris around the inside of the vehicle, clouding her vision, stinging her eyes. Then she saw the hypodermic needle coming at her. The needle looked huge and sharp and deadly. She couldn’t let him stick her again.

Couldn’t.

Lauren Semanski summoned the last scrap of her courage.

She sat up, felt the strength gather in her legs.

She pushed off.

And found that she could fly.

60

FRIDAY, 10:15 A M

The Philadelphia Police department labored beneath the microscope of the national media. The three networks, as well as Fox and CNN, had camera crews set up all over town and were running updates three or four times per cycle.

The local television news ran the Rosary Killer story in heavy rotation, complete with its own logo and theme music. They also featured a listing of Catholic churches offering Good Friday masses, as well as a handful that were holding prayer vigils for the victims.

Catholic families, especially those with daughters—whether they attended parochial schools or not—were proportionately terrified. Police expected a heavy increase in stranger shootings. Mail carriers, FedEx and UPS drivers were at particular risk. As were people with whom others had a grudge.

I thought he was the Rosary Killer,Your Honor.

I had to shoot him.

I’ve got a daughter.

The department held the news of Brian Parkhurst’s death from the media as long as they could, but it eventually leaked, like it always does. The district attorney had addressed the media gathered in front of 1421 Arch Street and, when asked if there was evidence that Brian Parkhurst was the Rosary Killer, she had to tell them no. Parkhurst had been a material witness.

And so the carousel spun.

The news of the fourth victim brought them all out of the woodwork. As Jessica approached the Roundhouse, she saw a few dozen people with cardboard signs milling around the sidewalk on Eighth Street, most of their sentiments proclaiming the end of the world. Jessica thought she saw the names jezebel and magdalene on a few of the signs.