Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

"What I'm talking about," Justin said slowly, "is that whoever killed Susanna knows what you saw and knows who you are. My guess is they've already killed one person to get that information and I guarantee you they're on their way here right now, if they haven't been here already, so they can make it a doubleheader."

She stared at him wide-eyed. "I'll pack," she said quietly.

"You're down to one minute," he told her. Art, the owner of Art's Deco Diner, placed two mugs down on the table. He had done his best to keep track of who got what, but when he set the mugs down he was too disoriented to remember. "I gotta admit," he said to the two blond men sitting in the booth, "you screwed up my system. Who gets the peppermint tea?"

The blond man to Art's left raised his hand. The one to his right said, "I get the English breakfast."

"I gotta say, you two guys look exactly alike. Can anyone tell the difference between you?"

"I'm the nicer one," the one on the left said.

Art laughed, said, "I'll remember that for next time," and went back behind the counter. He didn't pay much attention as the two men sipped their tea and stared out the bay window that overlooked Main Street. He didn't hear the one on the left, the nicer one, say, when Justin Westwood's car raced up and pulled to a stop in front of Deena Harper's apartment, "You were right-there he is." And he didn't hear the other one say, "I told you we should have gotten the kid. This guy could screw us up big time now." Art was aware that the first one lowered his voice, but the voice was too low for him to hear the customer say, "Relax. Let's just go find out what the hell we're supposed to do now." He certainly didn't hear the other twin's final words, which were, "Well, let's at least try to kill them both. We deserve some fun, don't we?" The only thing Art was really aware of was that when he looked up, the two identical-looking men were gone. They hadn't bothered to get a check but they had left ten dollars on the table, more than enough for two measly cups of tea. Deena insisted that Kendall sit on her lap in the front seat of Justin's Civic. The little girl was squirming, wanted to sit in the back like a grown-up, but her mother wouldn't let go of her. She kept squeezing her and hugging her and caressing her until the girl finally said, "Mommm, this is 'barrassing." Then Deena let her climb over the seat and sit in the back, telling her to fasten her seat belt, which made her say "Mommmm" again because she'd already fastened it.

After picking up the girl at her friend's, Justin headed straight for the address Gary had given him over the phone. When he pulled up to Brian's house, Gary's car was already parked in the driveway. He'd definitely heeded Justin's words and come in a hurry. His rear wheels were on the ragged gravel; his front wheels perched on the too-green sod of the front lawn. Justin told Deena and Kendall to wait where they were, not to move, then he stepped out of the car and headed toward the front door.

Gary was standing in the small entry by the archway that led into the living room. He was breathing through his mouth, and breathing heavily. Underneath the young cop's running shoes, Justin saw a small puddle of vomit on the green carpet.

Justin thought about telling Gary that there was no way to have prevented this. It fit the pattern. And it had been the smart play. It was time to understand that they were up against serious people who didn't make a lot of mistakes. And when they did make a mistake they fixed it. Immediately.

They had wanted information out of Brian, and as soon as Justin stepped past Gary and into Brian's living room, he knew they'd gotten that information.

Brian Meves was sitting on a folding metal chair. His hands were tied behind his back; the rope that was used was also looped around the back of the chair. Brian's feet were bound together and connected to the two front chair legs. He was completely immobile. And he was naked. Not a stitch of clothing on.

The scars and wounds from the beating that Justin had given him were of little consequence now. Whoever had killed him had used matches to get what they wanted. Brian's hair, feet, and testicles were burned black. When Justin looked at the expression on the dead man's face, he turned away and felt his stomach heave. It wasn't just the flavor of last night's whiskey that rose through his chest and throat. It was the taste of almost unimaginable brutality and violence. And it was the taste of Justin's own past. He took a deep breath, looked to his left, and saw Gary watching him. Their eyes met and Justin nodded. The nod said that it was all right to be sickened by what they saw.

He sat down on Brian's couch. Noticed small piles of matches discarded in the ugly green shag carpet. He gathered his strength, shook his head, and tried to find some reserve of pity for the victim. In truth, he found none. Brian had been given a glimpse of what it was like to play with men who were out of his league. Justin had given him that glimpse just two days before, and the kid had had a chance to get out of the game. But Brian was a man who didn't learn his lessons easily. So he'd learned the hard way-and now he didn't have to learn anything else ever again.

Gary, on the other hand, was learning quickly. It was a lesson that would stay with him the rest of his life.

Justin Westwood stood up, walked over, and touched Gary Jenkins lightly on his shoulder.

"I'm out of here," Justin said. "Give me five minutes, then call this in."

Gary nodded but didn't say anything.

"You'll be all right," Justin told him.

Gary still didn't say anything, but this time he didn't nod.

Justin went to the front door and opened it, strode back to his car.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Kendall asked him.

He looked at the little girl, who was still in the backseat, seat belt fastened.

"Yes, honey," he said. "I found exactly what I was looking for." Justin decided to stay on the back roads, avoiding the crowded highway, Route 27. He didn't know where he was going to go, he just knew he had to get Deena out of town to someplace safe. He found himself heading in the direction of the ferry that would take them to Shelter Island and, eventually, back over the Long Island Sound to Connecticut. It took him a moment to realize why his instincts were leading him back in this direction and then he nodded, satisfied with the decision. What the hell, he thought. If at first you don't succeed…

Trying to keep everything as normal as he could, he said to Deena, "Check out the glove compartment, will you? Why don't you put on a CD?"

She opened the compartment, picked through the musical selections. "Tom Petty?" she asked.

"Perfect," Justin told her.

Deena took the CD out of its plastic holder and squinted at the radio/CD player inserted into the dashboard, trying to figure out exactly how to work it.

"Give it to me," Justin told her.

"No, no," she said. "I'll do it."

She leaned over to get a better look at the controls. And the second her head bowed down, the window on her side of the car exploded.

Deena didn't seem to understand what had happened. She started to bob back up but Justin grabbed the top of her head with his right hand and shoved her back down toward the floor. Her back-along with the car seat and the entire front of the car-was covered with shards of sparkling glass. He glanced back, making sure that Kendall was all right. Her eyes were as wide as they could be and she had a small trickle of blood on her cheek, where she'd been cut by a piece of flying glass. But she wasn't hurt badly and she didn't look hysterical, only confused.

Justin realized his foot was pushed down hard on the accelerator and the car swerved to the left, crossing over the single yellow line. A truck was coming in the opposite direction, bearing down straight at them. The truck driver had his hand on the horn and the deep, violent blare cut through the silence of the afternoon. It also cut through Justin's paralysis. He tried frantically to steer with his left hand, realized he was losing control, let go of Deena to grab the wheel with his right, and turned hard. He wasn't sure it was going to hold. The back of the car hung back-for a moment it felt like they weren't moving at all, like they were simply hovering on the wrong side of the road-then they straightened out and jerked forward and Justin yanked the wheel again, hard right. As he slipped back across the yellow line, the truck roared past. The driver still had the horn pushed down, and he was screaming obscenities at Justin out the window. But Justin didn't pay any attention to him.