Murder For Love

Still, the bastard kept coming at her!

Falling at her!

His mouth open-frozen into a horrific silent scream.

Blood pouring from his gullet.

Crying out as he lunged helplessly toward her, hitting her chest, knocking her backward. A dull thud as he hit the ground facedown. Dana could hear the crunch of facial bones smashing against the hard pavement.

Dana screamed-a helpless siren that was heard by no one. Staggering to keep her balance, her head seeing tiny pinpoints of light.

Don't faint, she pleaded with herself. Don't faint!

Breathing hard and deeply, eyes intently focused on the corpse lying at her feet. Her fingers were still gripped around a trigger.

A simple death wasn't enough for the years of abuse he had given her.

Aiming the barrel toward the crumpled body.

Pressing the trigger harder and harder.

Take that, you slimy bastard!

Take that, and that, and that!

But the gun refused to spit fire.

Jammed!

But how could that…

Then her brain spun into overdrive as her eyes noticed the reason why.

The safety catch was still on.

The gun hadn't jammed.

The gun never went off!

Then how did she… how could…

Eyes drifting upward from the body to the erect figure in front of her.

Julian!

A smoking gun at his side. An evil smirk on his face. In the still midnight mist, his soft-spoken words screamed derision inside her head.

"Just can't survive without me, can you, Dana?" He started walking toward her.

"Gun can't help you, if you don't have the guts to use it. And you don't have the guts, do you?"

His mocking smile widening as he came closer. "Lucky for you, I was around. Otherwise, you'd have been turned into hamburger by Mister Shit over there."

Julian kicked the body, moved another step closer to her. "Speak, my love," Julian crooned. "A simple thank-you would be sufficient."

Tears pouring from her eyes, streaming down her face. Dana whispered out a sob-choked thank-you.

Julian's expression softened, but his smug smile remained.

"I'll always be around for you, Dana," he whispered. "Always. Because I love you. I can't escape you, Dana. And you can't escape me either."

She nodded.

Julian fell to his knees. "It's never too late, my beautiful lover. Come back to me. Come back to where you belong."

He stood, then raised his arms, ready to accept her embrace.

She raised her arms.

Unlocking the safety, she pumped six rounds of fiery lead into his body.

He died with the smirk still on his face.

At the eulogy, Dana spoke of his extraordinary valor. How he had saved her from a sick and deranged man with evil on his mind. Through molten gunshots and powder-choked air, in a moment's flash of unthinking selflessness, he had risked his life to save hers. Managing to squeeze off enough rounds to end her attacker's life before succumbing to his own mortal wounds. And because of his superhuman act, her life was spared while his own life had ended. His years… cut short… in his prime… just because of one man's treacherous deeds.

His mother cried bitterly. His sisters wept and wept. The funeral was crowded. It seemed that all the neighbors had come out to pay their last respects. Everyone attending the ceremony knew his history. Yet they were all more than a little puzzled by Dana's flowery words, her effusive commendations and praises.

And so it came to pass that Eugene Hart, a twenty-two-year-old felon with a long and illustrious history of brutal violence and rape, was put to rest with a hero's burial.

The Things We Do For Love by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

Mashed spaghetti. Some things you could never prepare for.

It wasn't as if she and Doug were mega-yuppies but they both liked their pasta al dente and they both liked to sleep late.

Then along came Zoe, God bless her.

The sculptress.

Karen smiled as Zoe plunged her tiny hands into the sticky, cheesy mound. Three peas sat on top like tiny bits of topiary. The peas promptly rolled off the high chair and landed on the restaurant floor. Zoe looked down and cracked up. Then she pointed and began to fuss.

"Eh-eh! Eh-eh!"

"Okay, sweetie." Karen bent, retrieved the green balls, and put them in front of her own plate.

"Eh-eh!"

"No, they're dirty, honey."

"Eh-eh!"

From behind the bar, the fat dark waiter looked over at them. When they'd come in, he hadn't exactly greeted them with open arms. But the place had been empty, so who was he to be choosy? Even now, fifteen minutes later, the only other lunchers were three men in the booth at the far end. First they'd slurped soup loud enough for Karen to hear. Now they were hunched over platters of spaghetti, each one guarding his food as if afraid someone would steal it. Theirs was probably al dente. And from the briny aroma drifting over, with clam sauce.

"Eh!"

"No, Zoe, Mommy can't have you eating dirty peas, okay?"

"Eh!"

"C'mon, Zoe-puss, yucko-grosso-no, no, honey, don't cry-here, try some carrots, aren't they pretty, nice pretty orange carrots-orange is such a pretty color, much prettier than those yucky peas-here, look, the carrot is dancing. I'm a dancing carrot, my name is Charlie…"

Karen saw the waiter shake his head and go back through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Let him think she was an idiot, the carrot ploy was working: Zoe's gigantic blue eyes had enlarged and a chubby hand reached out.

Touching the carrot. Fingers the size of thimbles closed over it.

Victory! Let's hear it for distraction.

"Eat it, honey, it's soft."

Zoe turned the carrot and studied it. Then she gri

Raised it over her head.

Windup and the pitch: fastball straight to the floor.

"Eh-eh!"

"Oh, Zoe."

"Eh!"

"Okay, okay."

Time for Mommy to do her four thousandth bend of the morning. Thank God her back was strong but she hoped Zoe got over the hurl-and-whine stage soon. Some of the other mothers at Group complained of serious pain. So far, Karen felt surprisingly fine, despite the lack of sleep. Probably all the years of taking care of herself, aerobics, ru

"Eh!"

"Try some more spaghetti, honey."

"Eh!"

The waiter came out like a man with a mission, bearing plates heaped with meat. He brought them to the three men at the back, bowed, and served. Karen saw one of the three-the thin lizardy one in the center-nod and slip him a bill. The waiter poured wine and bowed again. As he straightened he glanced across the room at Karen and Zoe. Karen smiled but got a glare in return.

Bad attitude, especially for a dinky little place this dead at the height of the lunch hour. Not to mention the musty smell and what passed for decor: worn lace curtains drawn back carelessly from flyspecked windows, dark, dingy wood varnished so many times it looked like plastic. The booths that lined the mustard-colored walls were cracked black leather, the tables covered with your basic cliche checkered oilcloth. Ditto Chianti bottles in straw hanging from the ceiling and those little hexagonal floor tiles that would never be white again. Call Architectural Digest.

When she and Zoe had stepped in, the waiter hadn't even come forward, just kept wiping the bartop like some religious rite. When he'd finally looked up, he'd stared at the high-chair Karen had dragged along as if he'd never seen one before. Stared at Zoe, too, but not with any kindness. Which told you where he was at, because everyone adored Zoe, every single person who laid eyes on her said she she was the most adorable little thing they'd ever encountered.