1.

Debra Moore drove in behind the man and went on past him when he parked near the building where the restrooms were. Two-thirty in the morning, and no one else around. No one. God had given her this opening. It was time to get started.

She had followed him in here before, several times, and had studied the layout. There was a slight rise back toward where people walked their dogs, and once over that, on the downward slope, you couldn’t be seen from the parking area. She pulled into the very last space and walked all the way back to the building—at least fifty yards—and waited.

Plenty of light here, and nothing about her would cause anyone concern. Besides, with men like this one, their special needs so often overrode their sense of caution. Not to mention that he’d been drinking.

She watched him come out the door. “Hi there, big fella,” she said.

“What?” He was actually a rather small man, sixty-something, old enough to be her father … and depraved enough, she knew.

“I said, ‘Hi.’” She smiled. “I … uh … I saw you back there.”

That shook him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A man burdened with less guilt would simply have walked on by. “Back where?”

“At that store,” she said. “Looking at the books and tapes and DVDs. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Still … I know what you were really wishing you’d find. I could tell, because that’s my business.”

“What, backseat blow jobs? Forget it.” He turned toward his car.

“Wait.” She touched the pervert’s back, just lightly, and he turned around. “I’m not a hooker,” she said. “I sell things. Helpful things.”

“I gotta go.”

“But I have what you want. What you need. Books, videos.” She had his attention. “I handle the stuff you don’t dare go near on the Internet.” The hook was in now, she could tell. “They’re in my van.” She pointed. “Take a look, at least. Can’t hurt.”

She walked and he came with her. He seemed nervous, and she spoke soothingly about how she understood his needs. But then, way back, a car pulled in off the highway and the headlights shone on them from behind.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I better go.” They both turned and watched the car pull into a space the other side of his.

“Just someone here for the washrooms,” she said, stepping between him and the way back to his car. “It’s all right, c’mon.”

“No, I really have to go home.” He was whining now. “I gotta—”

“Shut up!” She slid the gun from under her coat. A nine-millimeter SIG Sauer, silencer attached. Enough to frighten far more of a man than this maggot. “If you move, or say one word, I’ll kill you.”

His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open, and if he hadn’t just emptied his bladder she knew he’d have peed down his leg.

“Turn around,” she said, and he did. “Now … walk.” They started walking and she heard car doors open and close behind them. She glanced back and saw two people, a man and a woman, heading toward the restrooms. She prodded the pervert with the gun and he walked faster. They were almost to her van when she looked back again, and saw the couple disappear into the building.

This wasn’t the way she had planned it. The stripping and the slicing were to come first. But one must be both strong and flexible. “Stop walking,” she said. “Stand very still and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

He stood there, trembling, but otherwise as still as Lot’s wife. Debra held the gun with both hands, the elongated barrel aimed midway between his shoulder blades. She crouched slightly and angled it up, almost touching the nape of his neck. “Please,” he said. “I don’t want—”

“I promise,” she repeated, and carefully squeezed the trigger.