A Thin Dark Line

A smirk tugged at Renard's thin lips. "I knew your mother. She did some piecework for me one season, sewing on my costumes. That was before Claude betrayed me, before I had to take the boys away from here. Everyone wanted my costumes then."

Doll Renard had known her mother. The admission brought another wave of dizziness crashing through A

"She was a whore, just like you," Doll said. "Blood will tell."

Blood will tell. A

She swallowed hard as the nausea came again, then pitched forward toward the dash and vomited on the floor. Doll made a sound of disgust. A

Gathering what strength she could, she lunged across the width of the car, grabbing for the steering wheel. The Cadillac swerved hard to the right, tires screeching. A

Doll screamed in outrage, slapping at A

A

The car went into a sudden, screeching skid as Doll jammed on the brakes. A

Her gun. In Doll Renard's hand. Three inches from her face.

Swinging wildly, she knocked the gun sideways, and the Sig went off with a deafening pop!, shattering a window somewhere in the car.

"Bitch!" Doll shrieked.

She grabbed A

Starbursts of color shot through A

She lay still on the floor, energy spent, knowing she had to find more, had to scrape together another burst or die. Weapons. The thought was a dim light in her mind. Doll has the Sig. Doll has the Sig. Doll has the Sig. She knew there had to be something more, another answer, stupid simple, but she couldn't think.

So tired.

Her limbs were as heavy as the branches of a live oak. Her hands felt the size of catcher's mitts. She tried to swallow around a tongue as thick as a copperhead. Maybe the red snake she had seen come out of Doll's mouth had gone into her own to choke her. A taste as bitter as acid filled her mouth.

Acid. That would be a weapon, she thought. She imagined throwing it in Doll Renard's face, imagined the face burning down to the skull bones while the rest of her body danced a mad jig of death.

Add.

The car rolled to a stop. Doll popped the lock on the trunk, got out of the car, and slammed the door. A

Behind her, the car door opened. A

"Get up! Get up!"

A

The door of the Cadillac swung shut, just missing A

They were on Pony Bayou. This was the house where Pam Bichon had had her life cut out of her.

"I didn't kill Pam," Marcus said softly.

Hunter Davidson's broad face twisted with disgust. "Don't stand there and lie to me. There's no judge here but God. There's no technicalities, no loopholes for you and your damn lawyer to jump through."

"I loved her," Marcus whispered, tears coming again to stream down his cheeks.

"Loved her?" Davidson's big body quivered with rage. Sweat ringed the underarms of his shirt. His thin hair was dark and shiny-wet. "You don't know what love is. I made her! My wife bore her! She was our child! You don't know a damn thing about that kind of love. She was our baby, and you took her away from us!"

The irony, Marcus thought, was that he knew all about that kind of love. He had been caught in a sick mutation of it his whole life. Tonight he would have ended it. Now Pam's father would end it for him.

"You can't know how many times I've killed you," Davidson said softly, moving forward. His eyes were glassy with the fever of hate. "I dreamed of nailing you down and putting you through the hell my baby went through."

"No," Marcus whispered, crying harder now with fear. Spittle bubbled between his lips and dribbled down his chin. Against his will, his gaze darted to the big wooden table where his utility and X-Acto knives were laid out like surgical instruments. He shook his head. "Please, no."

"I wanted to hear you beg me for your life, the way Pam must have begged. Did she call for me when she was dying?" Davidson asked in a tortured voice. Tears as big as raindrops spilled down his ruddy cheeks. "Did she call for her mama?"

"I don't know," Marcus murmured.

"I hear her. Every night. I hear her calling for us, calling for me to save her, and there's not a damn thing I can do! She's gone. She's gone forever!"

He stood no more than two feet away now. The hand that held the gun was as big as a bear's paw, white-knuckled, trembling.

"You should die like that," he whispered bitterly. "But I didn't come here for revenge. I came for justice."