Blood lure

Rory had missed his opportunity to thrash her. They walked now between two rows of neat houses, petunias, a riot of color in the light of day, spilling black as tar from window boxes. What could a high school boy do to her? Slash her tires? Leave burning dog droppings on her doorstep? Spray-paint "fuck you" on her garage door? If Rory pla

"What will you do if I don't stop investigating Les?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"I'll tell everybody you sexually harassed me," he said evenly.

A

"Pressured me," he went on. "That you used your position to coerce me into having sex. That you seduced me and made me do things I'm ashamed of."

A

Even if they knew it wasn't true.

Rory's face changed and she realized she'd been fool enough to let her fear show on her face, writ so large a callow boy could read it by the meager light of a quarter moon.

"You're joking," she said, and, "It won't work." Both statements were untrue.

"When I was in junior high school this teacher got sent to prison for it," he said.

A

Helpless. This was what it felt like, a squirming, raging fly-like frustration caught in the fingers of an evil, wing-pulling boy.

"You wouldn't actually do that," A

"I'm sorry," Rory said and the shred of hope vanished. Had he been mean or vindictive she might have had a chance. Rory believed what he did to be the regrettable but necessary means to some greater end.

"Shit," A

The moment she reached the house she could call Harry Ruick, drag him out of bed and tell him of Rory's threat. Preemptive strike. Perhaps it would do a little to predispose the chief ranger to believe her, but not much. It would be too easy to believe Rory did threaten her but not with a lie, threatened her with exposure. And why was she out walking alone with an eighteen-year-old boy after midnight anyway?

Harry didn't know her well. They'd been acquainted only a few days and only in a professional capacity. What did he know of her personal quirks or kinks? Only that she was a widow and had been without a man for many years. Rory was a nice enough looking boy. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. "Jesus," A

Ruick would call her boss, John Brown. But Brown didn't know her either. He'd call her field rangers in the Port Gibson district on the Natchez Trace. At least one of them, A

"Sorry," he repeated sadly, and A

He had seen her fear, heard it in muttered blasphemies. He knew he had won; she was on the defensive if not actually beaten outright.

A

They had returned by a circuitous loop to the original fork in the road that led to Joan's house. As they turned down it, A

"We're almost there."

A

Given Rory's staunch admiration for those who took no flack, A

When they reached Joan's driveway, A

"You go," Rory said, hanging back. "I got to get to bed."

"No." A

"You'll wake her," Rory said. "It won't do you any good."

"No, I won't," A

Indecision worked across Rory's face. Revulsion was there too, though whether for her or for himself, A

"I won't change my mind," Rory said.

A

"Here," A

"What if somebody sees us?" Rory asked.

He was getting skittish. A

"I guess," he faltered.

"Sit down," A

Rory didn't sit but he hunkered down on his heels. Close enough.

"I don't see the point-" he began.