Miami Sunday 6:00am

 

SEAGULLS SQUAWKED their loud delight at the prize. They shared the find with diminutive beach animals, small scavengers, and mini-predators.

 

Timmy bounded along the shoreline. His excited yapping scattered the gulls. He enjoyed the surf lapping at his feet, the absence of a leash. He stopped and bent to inspect the prize, sniffing at it warily. He�d run a hundred yards ahead of Paul and Estelle who strolled hand in hand along the beach. They stopped occasionally, touched, kissed tender kisses.

 

As Paul and Estelle approached, the early morning haze promised another perfect Miami weekend. The fresh breeze, soft waves, an exhilarating tang of ozone permeated the air. Life was good.

 

Suddenly Timmy froze. The soft, velvety ears flattened against his head. He crept backwards, tail between his legs. The happy bark turned into a timid keening. Thick fur rose stiff on his back. Somehow, the prize was wrong. More than just the sea smell, this thing was tainted, corrupt.

 

What was Timmy up to they wondered? Nearer and nearer they came.

 

And then they saw it. Estelle screamed. She reeled back nearly pushing Paul to the ground. Retching repeatedly, she gave up the entire contents of her stomach.

 

Paul fell to his knees, dazed and speechless. The monstrosity before him shook him to the core.

 

Bloody holesonce eye-socketsstared at him. Why? Why, why they accused.

 

Slippery things worked at the soft tissue of what had been the child�s face. And then the head moved. It seemed to nod at him as a wavelet sluiced it back and forth. The young man screamed, overcome by shock.

 

Timmy cowered against Estelle. His body quivered, he whined, pressed close into her, sensing her panic. His frightened doggy mind registered dimly that something really bad had happened.

 

*

 

From then on Paul never slept properly again. It began that evening during a desperate bout of cathartic lovemaking with Estelle.

 

As he approached release, he looked at her, her large dark eyes closed. She moved slowly, responding to his movements, coming to the brink with him. Slowly Estelle opened her eyes, her pupils dilated in orgasmic expectancy. The dark orbs grew into black holesthe horror of the beach grinned up at Paul. Naked, he ran screaming and sobbing, into the night.

 

She never saw him again.

 

*

 

An hour after the discovery of the body, the grisly remains lay spread on a slab in the city morgue, a travesty of small boyhood. The throat was slashed to the bone, the head nearly severed. The eyes gone; so were the hands, feet, and ears.

 

The perpetrator hadn�t risked a floater. The slit stomach, released of gases had seen to that. The teeth were destroyed. A bullet had seen to that. The face was smashed beyond reconstruction. A wide, flat object had seen to that. Apart from semen in the anus, and still detectable in the throat, the monster had covered his tracks with cold efficiency.

 

He was no beginner. He must enjoy his strange work. He certainly took pride in it, suggested the ME. Clearly, the mutilation was performed with the intention of making the victim untraceable.

 

" Well �looks to me to be the same MO as that business up in Lauderdale," said Lieutenant Sam Bridges, slurping bad coffee and dragging hard on his cigarette.

 

"Of course, the press loves it," he continued, grimacing sourly. " They�ve got themselves a ripper to play with. The state police are investigating, but it looks like one for the Bureau."

 

He was happy to let the FBI have it. This was a case from hell. Child murderers were the worst, and he�d catch heat all the way from the press, the DA, his chiefshit, everyone would be up his ass on this. There�d be no rest for him until the perp was caught tried, convicted, sentenced and locked up for good. And that could take years.

 

"We can�t get a lead on anything, from anyone. No missing persons, no kidnaps, no neighbors� talk �nothing," he finished wearily.

 

Lieutenant Sam Bridges of Miami Homicide was tired. He was sweaty, creased, stale, and sticky. The smell of the morgue would stay with him and cling to his clothes the rest of the day. He hadn�t been home in far too long. His wife Suzie was pissed at him. Today they were to visit her parents. He knew she�d construe it as an excuse� "More of a blessing," he thought wryly.

 

FBI Special Agent, Bob Travers, nodded professional agreement with Sam�s assessment of the situation.

 

"Yeah. You�re right, loo. We�ve got a madman out there," said Travers. The Feeb had been called in on the Fort Lauderdale killing already.

 

 

" Chong and I�ll take it from here." He turned to his gangly tall partner, not entirely at home in the regulation dark suit of the FBI. He was much more at home in sporty casuals. The two got on well, had done ever since they�d first teamed up.

 

"Let�s get a forensics team here for what it�s worth, Harry. Get them up to speed on what all data we have so far, which is pretty much zip. Still�� He turned back to the local man.

 

"You�re right, loo. If our boy�s on a spree, he�s put us on a deadline. And he�s not giving us any help either. How many others are there that we haven�t found, motherfucker!"

 

He banged his empty cup on the table, snapping off the handle.

 

Harry Chong spoke for the first time. "Don�t let�s discount the possibility of some kinda cult, Bob. You know � sacrificing street kids. Even � like gangs of kids out for some kinky fun�you know�rich kids wanna fuck with the police, huh loo? Sniff enough Colombian cool, and they gotta show us how clever they are; get away with murder, give us the finger.

 

"There�s a lotta weirdness out there� maybe it�s a voodoo thing." Chong displayed a lot of imagination for a Feeb. Sometimes his off-the-wall thinking worked wonders, sometimes it didn�t.  He paused, drained his paper cup and threw the crumpled ball unerringly into the wastebasket.

 

"Could just as well be leftovers from snuff-movies,� he snorted desultorily.

 

"Yeah," agreed Travers, "a one-shot career, one-time starring role, no sequel."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                  Chapter One

 

New York Wednesday

 

The proposal topped a small pile. Mac took it from its wrappings. Thick, lovingly boundit would never do. She took it to a worktop and with a scalpel-edged craft-knife and steel straightedge sliced through the binding.

 

Back at her desk, she scanned the contents with practised precision.

 

Immaculata Ball was a venture capital consultant. She worked for her father Ian, the CE of Ball Consulting. They conducted feasibility studies for investment, often their own. Armed with a fresh MBA from the Wharton School of Business, Mac had joined her father three years ago at twenty- three.

 

She found the work both fascinating and rewarding. Matching a good idea with the means of bringing it to fruition gave her immense satisfaction. It was somewhat like waving a wand. A passionate vision could become a reality, grow, and prosper. The aspirant entrepreneur would know that they�d come to the right person with their dream.

 

The New York offices of Ball Consulting occupied a small suite, high above the streets of Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. The suite was only as large as its functions dictated.

 

Clutter was anathema to Ball corporate thinking. He paraphrased the English philosopher, Burne-Jones: " Keep nothing in your house you do not consider either useful or beautiful. Don�t indulge the presence of arty-farty objét. Millions are wasted each month storing junk you never use."

 

The only concession to decoration hung on the walls in the form of carefully mixed, very expensive art. A Cezanne and a Manet hung alongside a Dali and a Picasso. The more recent were represented by Lowry, Warhol and Hockney. Lesser lights completed the collection, making up an impressive, harmonious whole.

 

Books, books, and more books took up all other available wall space. The eclectic collection included dictionaries in thirty languages, histories, atlases, how-to books on catching big fish, little fish, how to cook fish, how to keep fish. The reception desk�s concession to decor was a superb vase of fine Waterford crystal, which displayed fresh cut stems of vibrant color every day.

 

A slim Burmese, a doctored tom, Presto, dark and incredibly slinky, was the office cat. Office cats aren�t the norm in Fifth Avenue. He made a ridiculous fuss of those clients who liked him, and left the others well alone. His bathroom was in the copyroom. Presto lived with Jenni, Mac�s assistant and receptionist. The cat was a subtle Ball touch, tying the girl-in-training�s intern loyalty closer to the firm.

 

Furniture was contemporary minimal, yet it somehow retained an air of comfort and warmth.

 

Jenni Banks� long legs and breathtaking cleavage could be described facetiously as décor. No one would argue the point. But her internship was a learning curve without equal. Ian Ball, the inveterate womaniser, was nonetheless, a talent spotter of unerring accuracy.

 

Mac had her orders: "Grow this girl. She has the right background and potential to partner you one day, my love." The staff included one other: Magnus Larsen, a contemporary of the CE.

 

Gus, as they knew him, had joined Ian in London right at the beginning. He was utterly loyal, a director who received a salary greater than anyone imagined. He it was, who kept the confidential correspondence and figures a national secret. Gus came in early and left late. He went round the office twice every day, including weekends, checking to ensure that nothing remotely confidential was jeopardized.

 

Ian came into the office when he had to. Occasionally he�d assist Mac with an important presentation, but the rest of the time he worked from home. Recovered from a mild stroke, he had sold his shares in Ball Communications International, public relations consultants. Three months after the stroke he�d started Ball Consulting.

 

He couldn�t help ogling Jenni with undisguised interest when he did come in. The stroke had left him with a slight limp, a lazy eye, and occasional dyslexia. He was a gorgeous man, thought Jenni. The thick hair just the right shade of salt and pepper, the limp intriguing, the half shut eye sexy. It spoke of bedroom intimacy. She�d jump his bones at some stage, of that she felt sure. He felt it too.

 

He�d allow the attractive young redhead six more months to establish herself on her own merits. Then he�d make sure no boyfriend hovered in the background. If there was, the young man would receive an offer of employment he couldn�t refuse, but it would be far from Jenni, very, very far.

 

 

*

 

Mac strode through to the front desk. �Jenni, luv, clean type this, please. Where I�ve highlighted it, make it bold. Four copies, and look at your spellchecker � and your language tools. If it doesn�t like your grammar, find out what it wants. Then make a decision.� Mac�s smile dazzled her. Jenni�s reciprocal smile revealed her deference to Mac as role model. One day, she would bear the mantel of authority with the same detached, professional ease.

 

If she�d ever achieve the stunning glamour of her boss was another matter.

 

�Proposal writers, professionals included, invariably overwrite.� Her father had taught her.

 

�The old saw, the more you tell, the more you sell, prevails. Repetition bores the audience, loses them. The essence of any proposal usually lies hidden beneath a sodding great mess of guff and pompous, flatulent waffle.

 

�The concept needs to jump out at its audience right offbang slap on page one. The details can follow in punch-point form. They needn�t be editorialised.�

 

Mac had seen her father open an annual report to the financial statements, rip them out, discard the editorial and retouched glossy pictures, and say: �Right, let�s see what these chaps honestly have to tell us, shall we darling?� She smiled at the memory.

 

�Learn from the best, my love,� he�d told her, in his disarmingly avuncular British manner. �Because most people don�t. They never quite learn � to divine the difference � between good and ghastly, I�m afraid.� Under his tutelage, she�d done exactly that. The softness of his manner, she knew, was his professional hat. It concealed a cold-blooded ruthlessness to succeed at whatever he tackled, no matter the casualties on either side.

 

Ten years in New York hadn�t erased their Englishness. Mac�s vowels resisted the slightest mid-Atlantic twang; her husky drawl remained soft, clear, well modulated. Excitable New Yorkers had long ceased to make �hot potato� remarks. Now they listened.

 

Jenni returned the edited proposal to Mac just after lunch. She read the document carefully, making little notes in the margin. The proposition intrigued her, coming across as refreshingly different. It appeared well thought out, realistic in its aspirations, but with �legs.� Legs is the potential a concept has to grow, to add on and on. It would make terrific PR material. It made a good investment for Ball Consulting. But it had a �But.�

 

*

 

Professor emeritus Frank Burnett, owned forty-acres in the beautiful Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, not far from the town of Dillsboro. He described it fondly and quite subjectively, as �God�s own country.� The professor wanted to establish a maternity clinic, pediatrics clinic and adoption centre for unwanted babies and young children on the property.

 

Those kids, who didn�t find homes immediately, he�d keepas space and resources permittedfor their first five years. Thereafter, unfortunately, the authorities would take them. At least, he said, he�d be able to give them that first, happy country period, forever. A loving home and a bit of farm life, caring for real animals.

 

If the venture evolved as a commercial success story, he could think about a more permanent home for the youngsters in a few years� time.

 

His partner, Dr Julius Wolfe, wanted to establish a hospice on the farm as well. It made perfect sense, in that their medical facilities would be employed more profitably. The hospice wouldn�t occupy much space, about two acres at the most, thought Mac. The patients weren�t after country club recreational facilities. Business-wise, families who were grateful to a sympathetic nursing staff and warm bedside manner were often generous with bequests

 

They all leave in the same conditionin a box.

 

*

 

�Presto, come here and help me think this one out,� said Mac. He popped on to her lap, touched her mouth with his paw, rumbled loudly, and after hearing what a beautiful, beautiful boy he was, curled up, and slept, his motor running.

 

Dr Wolfe had put in; �� the sounds and laughter of frolicking children are known to alleviate suffering in the terminally ill.� Dr Wolfe spoke further of his dedication to the cause. He went on to eulogise his own excellent record of child placement. A war orphan himself, he knew what awful suffering abandoned children endured.

 

�This is turgid stuff Presto. As the stomach churns �ugh. It�s too cheesy for words.�

 

Professor Frank sang the doc�s praises a bit loud and loose, that was for sure. The man must have dropped from heaven, either that or he had done one helluva selling job on Burnett, whose ingenuous piety sprang unprompted from the pages. Wolfe�s virtues, as depicted by Professor Frank, shone bright. The man was a paragonand paragons are too often, too good to be true.

 

The good doctor had told Professor Frank and his son, Frank Junior, �It�s all to do with nursing people back to health. Back from the brink. If we can�t accomplish that, we need to care for them in their last days, their time of most desperate need.

 

�That�s our business, Frank � caring: to make the advent of life and passing over less painful. For both the young and old, Frank. That�s why we�re here.�

 

The background on Professor Burnett was impressive. The eldest son of a �Fine Southern Family,� his Vietnam War record showed him as fearless, tireless, and unselfish. He�d worked long, hard hours with the most appalling casualties of that most appalling period in his country�s history. After returning to civilian life, he�d gained tenure at the University of Texas in Austin.

 

He�d been a teaching ophthalmic surgeon for over twenty years, published numerous papers, and written two textbooks, updated and still current. Parkinson�s disease put paid to his surgical career, however. The shaking in his hands had first caused him severe depressionaggravated by the slow, lingering death of his wife two years ago. He�d cashed in what he had and bought the property they now occupied. The proposal in its entirety, called for a substantial investment, way beyond the value of the land and its current accommodations.

 

But Professor Frank had an ace up his sleeve. He�d developed what had been intended as a bilateral, acute angle, retinal scanner with a range up to eight feet. It sped up identification of personnel at entry and exit points in security environments. It couldn�t be fiddled either because it scanned both eyes at once, their minute differences part of the data the device processed.

 

The super scanner was Frank�s patent and his collateral. Its worth far outweighed his financial needs. His quandary was whether to auction it off to the highest bidder, or to negotiate a discreet government deal. Frank didn�t want it to fall into the wrong hands. He�d found out that his scanner, programmed correctly, also worked as a polygraph, cordless and more accurate than the current standard.

 

Suddenly, the invention took on immense proportions as an impenetrable security point. People harbouring evil motives could be picked up and apprehended as they entered a bank

for instance. Their tension would communicate itself to the alarm system.

 

Security management was about to take a giant step forward.

 

*

 

Mac smiled to herself as she remembered a news story she�d read about �bilateral� when she was still a teenager in England. The plaintiff was a battered wife. Her attorney claimed that the husband had inflicted injury upon her person, amounting to ��bilateral, super-orbital, periostial haematoma.�

 

 �And what would that be?� inquired the magistrate.

 

� Two lovely black eyes, your honour.�

 

*

 

Frank junior was a pediatrician, unmarried, an open book. His love of children prompted the idea of the clinic and home.

 

Dr Wolfe was a bit more complex. He�d arrived from middle Europe five years previously. He set up practice as an obstetrician in Fort Lauderdale. In addition to his practice, he acted as an adoption agent for illegitimate or unwanted babies. Adoptive parents with strong religious convictions naturally want children of similar faith. Catholics want catholic children. Jewish parents find any alternative unthinkable. Ditto Muslim. Children of mixed heritage find homes almost exclusively with parents of similar persuasion. The lunatic earth-mother type who wants a family collage of every conceivable variety is scrutinised very carefully before she receives official blessing. Children are real, not a fashion accessory.

 

What nagged at Mac was the vagueness of Wolfe�s history prior to his appearance on American soil. It seemed he�d had a humble provincial practice in Bavaria. Mac searched a German Atlas until she came to Morgenheim. It was obviously too insignificant to rate regular mention. Or it could be a suburb absorbed into a larger metropolitan borough. It was not exactly the way to build a distinguished career. Certainly not that lucrative, unlessunless he�d been remunerated handsomely for the placements he�d engineered.

 

That meant he would have had an inside edge in the baby trade. It could mean bribes, or even the outright sale of babies, usually to the highest bidder, regardless of standards set by the authorities.

 

It was illegal, and usually executed without regard to parental suitability. The children became victims of pederasts, drunks, and sometimes even slaversthe full gamut of wrong placement. The merest hint of something, anything not quite kosher would impact severely on both of the proposed enterprises. They both depended on complete public trust. Children in any form, but especially abuse, were a touchy issue with Mac.

 

Baby selling is a nasty business, a world in which the monsters roam.

 

Mac felt it prudent, even if purely for her own sake, to check further into Dr Wolfe�s credentials. It was wise to clear the man of all possible shadiness before she made an approach to a money source.

 

*

 

�Jenni luv, won�t you come through.� Jenni came in and sat down in front of Mac.

 

�Well? What�s your impression,� asked Mac. Presto looked at her quizzically from Mac�s lap. He stretched and walked over to her, touched her as f handing her the floor, and stretched his long body out on the desktop.

 

Jenni sunk into her chair scratched the furry head as she gathered her thoughts and then presented her impressions with confidence.

 

�The concept works for me. It uses the area�s natural resources efficiently. The children stand to gain an invaluable lesson about life and its potential, its best potential, if you know what I mean.

 

� The Burnetts sound like saints. But there�s � I�m not sure�

 

�Mac, I don�t like that other man, Wolfe.  He doesn�t fit. He sounds to me like an opportunist copping a ride on the Burnetts� idea. Of course, I could be wrong and he is a honey�

 

Jennifer Banks was an astute student.

 

*

 

Mac dialled the FBI number in Washington and asked for Rose.

 

Rosemary St Claire had been a schoolfriend, schoolgirl lover, college roommate, and would remain forever her closest friend. She had gone from Mac to her twin brother Tino, until his death. Rose loved her deeply still, always would, she knew that. She loved Rose, but no longer in a romantic context. They�d shared too much for her to feel otherwise. But Mac was in search of her own self-realisation.

 

Rose had long ago discovered her sexual preferences. For a while she dated a college friend, Steve, but the same magic wasn�t there. Not the magic she�d found with Mac and later Tino. And then Jessica had come into her life. She provided the magicin spades.

 

Jessica, an FBI computer expert, had recruited Rose into the Bureau as a commercial investigator. Rose, elegant, petite Rose hunted crooked business people. She told civilians the old joke. She was in competition with IBMItalian Business Men. She carried a badge and a dangerous firearm.

 

Rose answered the call to her office in the Hoover Building.

 

�Hello, darling,� drawled Mac. �I have the most intriguing proposition on my desk. A super sci-fi gismo� which may well come your way, at least the Feeb�s � and a rather sinister sounding character� by name a Doctor Julius Wolfe. Terribly mittel-European, my dear.

 

�What do you say we mosey on down to North Carolina on Monday next week and check out the whole spiel? I think honestly that you should, and that�s my professional opinion, by the way. I�d appreciate a second opinion tremendously, please, an official one. I�ll Email you the full brief and background on him and the project right away. See if he shows up on your computers. I wouldn�t be surprised.

 

�So. How about it, my old mate?�

 

Rose was thrilled at the idea. The view of E Street from her window floated unseen before her. She would have to clear the brief with her department head first, and then that evening with Jessica.

 

Not that Jessica was jealous of Mac, or could say noshe knew their historyetiquette demanded request. Jessica in fact, thought a great deal of Mac and was envious of her closeness to Rose, rather than suspicious of their relationship.

 

On the way home to her Manhattan apartment, and again that evening, Mac thought of Rosemary St Claire. She explored the reasons for their intense relationship. It hadn�t been a simple schoolgirl crush. Dark influences had driven Mac into Rose�s arms and heart. She felt the familiar heat rise within her. The heat of the Baldinis, the genetically ingrained, dark side of the family that took no crap from anyone.

 

It demanded bloody release as revenge for many wrongs performed upon the young Immaculata. One day she knew would be the right time to extract that revenge; cold and deadly, once her evolution was complete.

 

God help anyone who played fast and loose with a Baldini. She knew her grandfather�s history, guessed the barely concealed truth of it.

 

She needed some other kind of release soon, possibly over the weekend. She thought of Trayne and Wanda. Mercenaries on the fringe of the law, the biker couple worked as a team. Repo work, bounty hunting, a bit of muscle work, the odd swinging of a baseball bat, bone breaking and other mischief was their business. Sally�s sister, aptly nicknamed Mustang Sally, called on them sometimes for a little help procuring stock for her clandestine chop shop.

 

Mac envied their �fuck you� attitude. She�d gone on a good few adventures with them. Dangerous games, everything you possessedlife, freedom, moneyrode on the wheel of fate and fortune. That�s what her relationship with the biker outlaws was. It was irresistible.

 

*

 

But back to the Baldinis. Ignacio Baldini was eighty-five. He had been born in Milan in 1915, his father a successful furniture manufacturer. They were wealthy. The young Ignacio took to the business with zest. He loved the creative challenge of design. Matching grace with flamboyance, style with energetic verve. Simplicity of line and economy of embellishment, he felt, gave the pieces timeless elegance. He�d studied the classic designs of Hepplewhite, Chippendale, Adam, and Sheraton, the 18^th century giants. His designs progressed from Hepplewhite � to Chippendale � to Baldini.

 

The Bauhaus movement left him cold.

 

Ignacio was a shy young man, burning with an inner intensity he took care not to display. Still waters described him well. He spent his leisure hours immersed in music, playing and listening. Milan�s la Scala opera house staff regarded him as one of the family. They granted him the privilege of going backstage to meet and talk to the performers.

 

One magical evening visit changed his life.

 

That night he met the gorgeous Isabella Frontini, a provincial ingénue, in her first season as understudy to the diva. He courted her assiduously. Every possible moment he had free, he spent with her. The Opera Company moved from la Scala to Rome all too soon.

 

He ached to make love to the titian-haired beauty, but she made it clear that marriage went with her maidenhead. She was a strict twenty-year-old catholic maiden; virginity was imperative to a bride. Her husband would be the first and only man in her life.

 

He was twenty-three, a good time to think of marriage. And he thought of it often lately, now that sweet Isabella enlivened his world.

 

Isabella was tall, fine boned, perhaps somewhat slim for a soprano.

 

�They tell me I�m too skinny,� she laughed, �but my voice is big. Listen Ignacio�� and she would sing for him, rich and vibrant, her voice filled the theatre to the rafters. He loved her desperately. He�d love her no matter what, forever, he decided. They would marry and live in Milanwhere else for the next great diva to live, no? He blurted this out one Sunday afternoon as they strolled near the famous opera house. He produced a handsome ring that slid easily onto the slim finger. It looked so right, beautiful. The diamonds, surrounded by small rubies sparkled brilliantly. She accepted his proposal with unreserved enthusiasm.

 

�Why took you so long, Ignacio? Did you think I would say no?� She teased.

 

�I was beginning to think you didn�t like me. Perhaps you were simply after my maidenhead, a seduction si? The conquest of a young provincial girl in your fine city, no?� Her tone softened to one of immense tenderness. �Oh caro, I almost thought I�d have to ask you if you waited much longer.�

 

The happy young couple�s embrace was passionate. He felt his loins swell. His member pushed hard at her midriff. Instead of embarrassment, he felt pride in his stiffness claiming its matepressing his case, in fact.

 

She pushed up against him, encouraging the swollen erection, sending him into an orbit of ecstasy. She took his face in her hands and kissed him again, hard. His ardour got the better of him. His control evaporated, overcome by longing for the lovely girl. Ignacio erupted in a joyous, spontaneous ejaculation ... He was mortified. Isabella felt the unmistakable jerky spasms. She had never excited such a reaction before, but she knew what had happened all right. She panted with excitement; her own loins tingled in tune with his. They held the kiss longer than was reasonably decent in a public place.

 

Somewhat recovered, she smiled at him: �Soon, caro. Soon we will make love properly �in our own bed. There we will make our babies. I promise you a beautiful family of beautiful children. But now, I must be offand I think you need to change your trousers too.�

 

She giggled flirtatiously. Ignacio blushed a deep scarlet.

 

�Ciao, Ignacio, caro.�

 

She left him, watching her, smiling and waving.

 

As he walked home, he had to sidestep a rowdy mob of Fascisti Blackshirts, waving party banners and shouting their propagandistic cause drunkenly. He recognised their leader, and several of his mates, as Baldini factory employees. The lead oaf was Aldo Lupini. �Brainless bloody thugs. Full of cheap rotgut and the mad ramblings of a syphilitic despot,� thought Ignacio as he moved away from them.

 

He thought of Mussolini�s recent grand gesture. Il duce had commissioned thousands of statuettes of him in heroic fighting pose, clad in tight boxing trunks. He�d dished them out with the propaganda message that proclaimed blatantly: �Although our illustrious leader has syphilis, he has a fine physique.� Madness, it was all madness. Europe was gripped in the crazed hands of two fanatical dictators. War must come; it was only a matter of time.

 

The unruly drunks continued plodding and stumbling along. Isabella sat on a curbside bench. Her mind was miles away. She had so much to think about. She was positive her family would approve Ignacio�s proposal. She had written to her mother, telling her that she�d met someone.

 

Her information was scanty, restricted to events: �We went to�� She would not presume in case nothing came of the affair. But now she could write, telling mamma all about her dashing fiancée. He was charming, sophisticated, heir to a fortune, and with a deep love of Italian culture, but more especially of Isabella Frontini. He was not only handsome �he was good and virile. She wouldn�t tell her mother that!

 

She leant backward on the bench and smiled. He�d claimed his territory like a big cat, she thought, spraying her with his seed. How she longed now to be in his arms, making love to him, their naked bodies entwined.

 

Lupini saw the wide smile on her lovely face as he approached the bench. �She�s smiling at me,� his brutish, drink befuddled mind told him. It was a clear invitation. He would show his cronies what a great man Aldo Lupini was with the ladies. He swept her up and off the bench to brandish her aloft. The coarse cheers of his mates spurred him on. Poor frightened Isabella became their unwilling mascot.

 

She let out a mighty scream as her mind crashed rudely back to earth. In a fit of pique, Aldo punched her viciously, catching her a killing blow on the temple with his ham-like fist. She was out cold, badly concussed. The Sunday afternoon Milanese citizens weren�t quite sure what was happening. The rough thugs carried the well-dressed young woman with them. She wasn�t protesting, ergo she must be part of their group. Besides, they weren�t about to risk life and limb on an issue that was clearly not their business. Not with the loony Blackshirt ruffians.

 

Aldo Lupini believed his own fantasy; the lovely senorina wanted to come with him. His cohorts cheered him on. Isabella stirred slowly in his arms. A hard cuff kept the terrified girl quiet.

 

�One word, bella, and I kill you right here,� he told her softly. The vaguely conscious Isabella didn�t know what to do. She certainly believed him. She couldn�t focus, couldn�t do anything. Her concussed brain slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

Ahead of his gang, Aldo saw the trattoria of his good friend Vecchiarelli. In the back of the restaurant, Aldo knew, a small alcove housed a narrow bed. Vecchiarelli used it after a particularly late night, or for friends who were too drunk to make it home. The hefty bully barged into the restaurant, urging his mates to carry on with their march. He�d catch up later. Vecchiarelli�s mild protests went unheeded as the lout crossed through to the back, closing doors as he passed through them.

 

He dumped the limp girl onto the bed. An ugly smile split his face. What a prize, what a beauty, he decided. And he was about to show her what a man felt like. How a real man made love. Isabella tried dazedly to protest, but he put his heavy hand over her mouth. With his other hand, he ripped open her blouse. The delicate fabric fell apart. The bulge of Isabella�s cleavage excited him beyond control. He gagged her with the remnants of her shredded blouse, lifted her skirt, and tore at her underwear, exposing the dark red triangle of her young womanhood. The fine pale skin smelled of soap and cologne.

 

His breath came hot and harsh. Her unfocused eyes pleaded in confusion. She was aware of her danger, but couldn�t quite grasp the enormity of the situation. Unbuttoning his trousers, he extracted his fat, greasy looking penis. It stood hard and demanding. Dimly she knew that this man was about to damage her, hurt her. She�d kept herself for the man she would marry. Now she�d found him, not this stinking beast. Such reprehensible cruelty could not be visited upon her, surely?

 

But it was happening, and right now. She felt strong fingers open her roughly. And then the large member thrust deep into her, tearing her apart. She screamed so loudly, that the gag couldn�t drown the cry. Lupini came to for one single moment of clarity. He realised the enormity of what he had just done. The bed, covered in blood, the girl hysterical, the alarm must surely attract help. And it did.

 

On the street, Ignacio had heard the terrified scream of his beloved. A diva�s scream is not a half-hearted whimper. A full-bodied operatic bellow carries a great distance. It instilled in him a sense of urgency that spun him around and set him racing to her aid. He spotted the drunk fascisti stumbling along ahead of him slowly.

 

Lupini wasn�t among them. Ignacio ran up and grabbed the lapels of a straggler. �Where is she? Where�s that fucking Lupini, you bastardo. Tell me. Tell me!�

 

Ignacio�s fervour scared the lout witless.

 

�Look in Vecchiarelli�s. You�ll, you�ll f�find him there.�

 

The youth scrambled off, breathing hard, shaking with fright. Ignacio�s eyes seared straight into his soul, blazing death at him. His braggadocio was shattered for good. He�d been tried and found wanting.

 

The incensed young lover flew to the restaurant just as Isabella screamed again. No one tried to stop him. Vecchiarelli cowered behind his counter. This was the worst day of his life.

 

�Please deliver me,� he whispered to a multitude of saints.

 

Ignacio burst into the back room. Although Lupini outweighed him and was certainly a lot stronger, there in that sordid room, Ignacio prevailed. Driven by a violent rush of adrenaline, he tore the man away from Isabella and hit him harder than he�d ever hit anything before. The winded Lupini crumpled to the floor, the deflating penis streaked with Isabella�s virgin blood, dangled from his trousers. Ignacio went for his throat. He began to strangle the gagging man. He felt the life spark draining from the breathless oaf as he squeezed.

 

Suddenly Ignacio stopped squeezing. To finish off the bastard quickly was insufficient punishment for the reprehensible crime he had committed. Besides, Ignacio didn�t want trouble with the authorities.

 

Ignacio�s vision cleared. He found control. Lupini was a dead man all right, but not here, today. He picked up his wounded love, threw his jacket over her nakedness, and carried her outside. A cab got them to his family home safely.

 

�Papa, mamma, help me, quick!� he yelled as he burst in with his soiled bundle. Mamma and his sister took Isabella upstairs. They bathed her gently but thoroughly. The damage was obvious. Dottore Cardinale arrived. The good newsif it could be called that, he saidwas that the rapist had likely not impregnated her. The dottore found no trace of semen. The well-meaning helpers could have washed it away, but he doubted it. His internal examination concluded with a thorough cleansing of the abused vulva.

 

He spoke long and hard to Ignacio and his mamma. Ignacio�s sister, Lucia collected all Isabella�s belongings from her small apartment.

 

From now on, she was the ward of the Baldinis. They would inform her family once she recovered sufficiently to face them. The plan was bold: Ignacio would nurse her to health through his love. He would share her bed. While she remained concussed, she would respond to the natural warmth and closeness of her beloved. His proximity would quell thoughts of the brutal assault. Replace the anxiety with positive feelings of love and security.

 

Mac dwelt on the intensity of such a pure, passionate love. The courage of Ignacio was immense. He�d accepted the damage done his love, determined to make her well and whole again. He wanted Isabella for who she wasnot what she represented. �Quite a man,� thought Mac. Her thoughts sped to the climax of the tale.

 

That night the Baldinis held a family conference. The decisions they took were dramatic.

 

Two weeks later the Baldini factory burned to the ground. The charred remains of several employees, Aldo Lupini and his close cohorts, bore mute testimony to their failed attempt at arson. The scheme obviously backfired, rendering them unable to escape their own firebomb.  It was plainly a Fascist plot against the family. That was the official verdict reported and recorded.

 

Severe burns hid the injuries inflicted on the victims, the broken hands and shattered teeth. They�d been lashed, flayed, and tortured until they screamed for mercy. No matter how loudly they screamed and prayed, the punishment continued. No one answered their pleading.

 

At last, merciful oblivion claimed them. Somebody placed the limp bodies at the heart of the inferno. And that was that. The wrong was righted.

 

The Baldinis received the news stoically. They did nothing but wait for the insurance company to pay out. No, they weren�t anxious to re-open.

 

A German industrialist client had admired their house whenever he visited Milan. If ever they wanted to sell it, he would better any offer they received. Ignacio told him he could have the house and all its furnishings. The man was delighted. He paid them a handsome sum in Swiss currency.

 

The family moved unobtrusively to London. There they re-opened their factory. During the war, they made utilitarian military issue tables and chairs. Afterwards the return of the famous Baldini line made them wealthier than ever.

 

Isabella responded to Ignacio�s treatment remarkably well. She had blanked out the details of her attack. Her mind accepted only a vague outline. Ignacio�s closeness and fervent love healed the pain and horror. They married soon after they arrived in London. It was a gentle beginning to a new life with a new name. Baldini became Ball.

 

Ignacio told Mac once: �It�s your duty to you and your loved ones to protect what is yours. If anyone fucks with your family, take your vengeance. That�s your right.

 

�But never rush into it. That can be fatal. Plan your revenge, and execute it in cold blood, ice-cold child.�

 

*

 

Mac�s thoughts turned to her own mission of revenge. She admitted she was damaged irreparably. To survive she lived on two levels. One was the well-ordered normalcy of everyday life, the other a dark world of vengeance and death.

 

�Call it yin and yang,� she�d told Rose. �Whatever it is, one day � and the time�s coming soon, I�ll settle it for good. I want you to know this, Rose. Although, as a law enforcer, you�re probably the last person who should be allowed to know what�s in my mind.

 

�But you know why, and I expect you to respect my motives. Please grant me what�s inside of me. The pain flows in my veins, darling. Only his blood, the bastard, will exorcise it.�

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

Friday

Mac left the office early on Friday: �Get a head start on the proles,� she figured.

 

So did the proles. Accepting the slow drive home, her thoughts drifted to the prospect of perpetrating some truly wicked mischief with Trayne and Wanda that Saturday evening.

 

Actually, she felt like getting laid. She�d go cruising, see if a man were available, up to the task. She rubbed her free hand between her legs, building up a gentle rhythm of sexual warmth. Yes, getting laid was an excellent idea.

 

�I�d say it�s a hot priority,� she said quietly to herself, smiling. The CD player crooned unobtrusively in the background. Retro Rickie Lee Jones�s �Flying Cowboys.� Rickie always sounded like a woman who knew, who�d been there. She had many imitators, but somehow they sounded like Rickie Lee doing three minute pop songs, not quite the real thing.

 

The powerful motorcycle standing in the garage at home invariably worked on menand the occasional adventurous woman, for that matterlike industrial strength flypaper. How could anyone resist the sheer brute beauty of the gleaming Harley?

 

Mac had rebuilt the Harley she and Tino had been on when Tino was killed. He was her twin and they�d been as close as twins can be. �Tino will � would, love this.� Unbidden, her thoughts reached for him often.

 

Tears filled her eyes. She sniffed. �Tino, oh Tino � my love. Don�t fret it, you�ll be avenged. Wherever you are, I promise you that. It�s not long now, not long, angel.�

 

Memories of her brother haunted Mac�s dreams. Vivid as the day it happened, she saw the powerful car bear down on them. The black look of hate on the murderous face, clearly recognisable, even in the slushy conditions of a Connecticut Christmas weekend, swam before her. How could he?

 

�How the fuck could he?� She banged her fist against the steering wheel in anger.

 

When the time came, she�d beat the truth out of the bastard before she sent him straight to hell. No stopping on the way, no last chance, no fucking way!

 

He was dead as dead can be.

 

*

 

And at the funeralTino�s murderer, for that�s what he was, stood alone, shedding tears freely. The tears were real, tears of fear and remorse for his own miserable life, they were not shed for Tino.

 

Mac terrified him, but heavy drinking inhibited his thinking. Instead of actively plotting her demise, he�d abdicated his will to her. She�d emasculated him completely. The entire funeral party ignored him. He stood well away from the family, ostracised, unacknowledged, the pariah. No miraculous absolution was forthcoming. He was no longer part of the family, not even in their grief.

 

�Fuck you, you hateful bastard,� thought Mac, sniffing back the tears.

 

�You�re top of my hit list, but you can wait my pleasure for your comeuppance. Suffer while you  wait, you miserable shit. I promise you one thing. When it comes, it�s going to be slow, and it�s going to hurt.�

 

She glanced over at her left hand. The third finger was missing. She touched the scar on her temple and rubbed the thin white line that ran from her slightly skewed nose, down to the lovely mouth.

 

The imperfections that soiled Mac�s picture perfect looks had the strange effect of accentuating her startling beauty. At five feet and ten inches, her slim thighs and narrow knees augured well for keeping a good figure. The long straight hair hung in a thick, streaky dark-blond curtain. The eyes were light, an almost colourless grey, brought to life by a narrow outer rim of darker grey. The long, elegant nose had an intriguing, whimsical bend to it.

 

Immaculata, no longer model material, was more beautiful than ever. She�d hated her model look because she always felt that no one could actually see her, the essential Immaculata, the one behind the lovely face.

 

She bore other scars too, some from fighting, the others emotional. The scars and marks she�d earned in fights were those she bore proudly. They were trophies, totems, the benchmarks of her evolution. She might just earn another this weekend, she thought.

Copyright (c) 1999 Sandor James. All rights reserved.