Author's Note: I apologize for taking so long to write this update! Thank you to my readers for their patience and to all those who have contacted me to ask how I'm doing, how my trip to Ukraine went, and to encourage me to write more. I had a great time in Ukraine; in fact, I'm going back in just over a month to participate in two different youth camps! Part of the delay in my writing was because of writer's block, and part of it was because when I got home from my travels last year, I was hit with the unexpected opportunity of a job teaching third and fourth grades at my church's small school. My class is small, but they manage to wear me out, and for the first several months of teaching, I was going home at the end of each day and crashing in my armchair until I had to wake up to plan lessons and grade. Finally, I've been able to ease myself back into writing. This chapter is short and not particularly exciting, but it does help me get my characters in place for a bit of action in the next chapter, which I hope to post before I leave in mid-June.

WARNING: This chapter contains violence and a murder.

Glossary (Choctaw-English)

Chukka – house

Ishki – her mother

Inki – her father

Shampe (pr: shahm-pē): According to Choctaw legend, the Shampe is a giant, hideous monster who cannot stand the touch of the sun or fresh air. He has bad eyesight, but a keen sense of smell, and he is an excellent tracker—in particular, the scent of blood attracts him, so he will follow hunters with freshly killed game. He hides himself deep in the forest and makes a whistling sound when he walks. His overpowering stench alone can be deadly. He is said to abduct women and eat men, and because of his smell he is hard to fight.

Impa Shilup – The Soul Eater. According to Choctaw legend, this beast takes up residence within people who allow evil or depressing thoughts to overwhelm them and devours their souls.

Nashoba – Wolf

Nita blinked open gritty eyes to find herself lying in the grassy meadow behind her childhood home, a vague sense of unease twisting her stomach. A slight breeze stirred the windchimes that hung over the porch of the small clapboard chukka, filling the air with a pleasant melody. She remembered clearly the day her sixth-grade teacher had taught the whole class to make them. Ishki had loved them, said they brought a little piece of Heaven to the old house with its peeling paint and creaky floorboards. But why were they here now? Inki had torn them down and thrown them away after Ishki's death. Nita sat up and twisted her body to look at the house, which loomed over her like a hungry shampe. She shivered. The house had never been a haven to her after Ishki had passed. In that house, she had borne the brunt of Inki's explosive moods, shielding her younger brother the best she could. She was determined that despite Inki's anger and the blame he placed on Billy for Ishki's death, the child would grow up feeling loved and wanted. She never hated Inki for his harsh words. To do so would have been to let the Impa Shilup devour her soul as it had done his, and that would have left no one to love her little brother in Ishki's place. She turned away from the house to gaze into the woods at the edge of the meadow. Once upon a time, she had known those woods well, often cutting through them to visit the Gage household. They had been a pleasant place to roam with her best friend, Nashoba, before he was sent away to school—hunting, fishing, or just sitting by the creek and letting their feet dangle in the running water while they talked for hours. Now, though, the woods were as dark and threatening as the little house. She half expected the shampe to come stomping out to grab her, and her ears were keen to the warning sound of his whistling breath, her nose wrinkling at the mere thought of the foul beast's odor. She wanted to run, to hide, but she could not make her body cooperate. Then she spotted the wolf, a silver-grey creature, stepping close to stand between her and the woods. He turned to gaze at her, and she found herself gazing into his eyes. Somehow, they looked familiar. He padded close and sat beside her, clearly on guard. She stroked his back and tangled her fingers in his soft fur. Feeling utterly safe under the wolf's watchful eye, she lay down once again and drifted back into an untroubled sleep.

Jerome Lansing pulled off his glasses and, frowning, rubbed out a smudge with his t-shirt, then slid them back on and squinted into the sunlight. He wasn't imagining things—where he had left three watercraft about six hours before, there were now only two. As Jake steered to the dock and tied up the motor boat, Jerome noticed another troubling detail—no guards stood watch on this end of the building. Pushing away Jake's offered hand, he stepped out of the small speedboat outside the old warehouse on Terminal Island certain of only one thing—something had gone very wrong.

He walked around the building to find only El Grillo at his post. Jerome wanted to cuss the guard out; instead, speech hindered by the wad of cotton stuffing that helped protect his newly-stitched tongue, he stared daggers, then shoved past and through the door, gesturing for El Grillo and Jake to follow. Inside, the first sight that greeted Jerome's eyes was Alfie, lying halfway inside the office, tightly bound with rope at his ankles and wrists. Jerome stepped carefully into the office, his mind briefly registering the damaged door, and found both Eddie and Pug, likewise tied up. All three were barely coming around. Then he saw where a bullet had torn through his beautiful rosewood desk, the one he'd received from a sheik in exchange for seven young women a few years before. He didn't care which of the men was responsible—after checking the other side of the desk for a potential corpse and finding only discarded bandage wrappers and a blood-soaked shirt, he aimed a vicious kick at Eddie's stomach, then stepped over the injured bodies and stalked out of the office, leaving Jake and El Grillo to deal with the mess. He didn't care how. A quick glance to the end of the warehouse assured him that at least the merchandise was in good condition and sound asleep. If Tex had done that job right, they would sleep for several hours more.

The sound of pounding and muffled shouts led Jerome to the Benz within minutes. He threw open the trunk lid to find a sputtering Quinn.

"It was Tex, Boss!" the disgraced guard accused. "Last thing I remember was that cane at my throat… then I woke up in here!"

Tex. Jerome scowled. He wasn't terribly surprised—he had seen the looks of disapproval the old Injun had shot him when he first saw the girls early that morning. Until today, he'd employed Tex as a guard at Lansing Motors, a legitimate operation—well, mostly legitimate. Then Dolph had turned up with appendicitis, and Jerome had chosen Tex as his replacement—he thought the threat of deportation was enough to keep the fellow in line. Apparently, he was wrong. I'm too soft, he thought. I should have just turned him over to INS when I found him back in Dallas, instead of offering him a job. He stormed off, leaving Quinn to tend to himself. His next discovery was the still-unconscious form of Hoss over by the Aston Martin. Blood from a head wound dripped from the running board. Infuriated by the incompetence of the men he had hired, Jerome screamed a muffled curse around the cotton packing, simultaneously aiming a kick at Hoss's stomach. Utterly frustrated, he slid a hand under the back of his jacket and withdrew his .44. Aiming dead center at Hoss' chest, he pulled the trigger.

At the sight of Hoss bleeding out before his eyes, a sense of satisfaction and calm began to push out the rage and frustration Jerome had felt only an instant before. He could handle this situation. A good businessman had to be flexible, and he was a good businessman. All he had to do was change his schedule. He glanced at the door but didn't go outside. Tex had already made his getaway. Most likely, he was on shore ratting out the whole operation, but it would take time for anyone to respond, and Jerome had greased the right wheels in the police department to guarantee he'd get a tip well before anything went down. He would simply have to arrange to get the girls out of here earlier than the original plan.

The truck would arrive any minute now to take his shipment to Mexico. Originally, the skiff was supposed to arrive at dusk for the Europe-bound merchandise. Running without lights, Sal Bennett would ferry them out to the ship waiting just outside American waters and they would offload the girls. It was a trip they'd made dozens of times without incident. If Bennett couldn't come earlier, Jerome would load all the girls up in the truck and his driver could make a detour to Jimmy Morgan's Laguna Beach house. Tex didn't know Jimmy and couldn't possibly point anyone in that direction. The house overlooked a small private beach with its own dock, and Bennett could easily meet him there with the skiff instead of here at the warehouse.

Unloading the girls without attracting the attention of a neighbor might prove difficult, but Jerome was confident he could overcome that challenge. He glanced around as he planned. The cars… they'll be confiscated if I leave them behind. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. No need for the truck. Use the cars to drive the girls down to Laguna Beach and get them into the house. Dress them up nice and neighbors will think Jimmy is hosting a party. Give him a few days with the girl of his pick and he'll consider it a fair trade. Satisfied with the plan and ready to set it in action, he ripped the gauze out of his mouth. He had no time for such nonsense. "Quinn… 'Ake… "E' Grillo!" he slurred around his numb, swollen tongue. "Ge' over here!" The men came running, ready for action. Jerome tried desperately to articulate his orders, but could not make himself understood. Finally, he gestured for something to write on. Jake soon produced a pad of paper and a pen from the office, and Jerome wrote out his instructions.

51's was called out to a MVA at about 12:30, leaving Roy alone to await the hoped-for call. He busied himself cleaning up the lunch dishes, then sat down to relax in the captain's office. About 14:00, the phone finally rang. Roy grabbed the receiver off the hook. "Station 51," he said, "Captain Roy DeSoto speaking."

"Roy? It's Marco. I'm subbing with 36's. We were called out on a water rescue. Gunshot wound and a broken shoulder. Vic is mostly unconscious, but he's muttering '51' in Spanish and then 'Stoker.' Cap'n Greenlee said I should call over there. You subbin' for Mike?"

"No… I'll explain later. This could be the call we were waiting on. Where you takin' him?"

"Rampart. He's already on his way."

"So'm I. And Marco, thanks." Roy hastily replaced the handset, scrawled a note to Mike, grabbed his jacket, and hurried out to his truck. He could contact Vince and Johnny from Rampart once he knew more.

"Vince!" Johnny called, "over here!" He stood up straight and wiped a grimy sleeve across his sweat-streaked brow. The acrid odor of a house reduced to ash and rubble permeated the air around him and leeched into his hair and clothing. He knew from experience that it would take days to be rid of it. At least his last hour's work had paid off. At his feet in the rubble was a battered metal lockbox. Johnny hoped it held the information they needed.

"Good work," Vince said as he picked up the lockbox and waved over the arson investigator in one fluid motion. "I need to take possession of this evidence," he explained to the official. "It may figure in a trafficking case I'm working on." He turned to Johnny. "And then you and I need to get over to Rampart. Roy got a message to me—seems our informant is there with a gunshot wound and is refusing sedation until he talks with Stoker. I hope he'll talk to us instead, because Stoker's busy cleaning up an accident on the 405."

Within a matter of minutes, Vince had signed the requisite paperwork giving him possession of the evidence and he and Johnny were on the way to Rampart.

Jim Reed swore under his breath as he and Pete strode out the doors of St. Francis Emergency. According to Dr. Fiske, a man matching Jerome Lansing's description had indeed been admitted under the alias Fred Harper, received 15 stitches in his tongue, and was released a couple of hours ago with the brother of his girlfriend. All Jim and Pete could do was visit the hospital with a picture of Lansing to get a confirmation on the identity and take a report. A bizarre accident, the brother had claimed—Fred and his girl had been making out when the family dog jumped up on Fred from behind. Fred stumbled forward, the girl accidentally bit down, and the rest was history. Apparently, it was a wonder Fred hadn't lost a good part of his tongue altogether. To top it all off, the men had provided a bogus address on the registration form. Reed shook his head in disgust and allowed a slightly louder curse to slip out.

"Now Jim," Malloy chided. "Jean wouldn't approve of such language."

"Yeah, yeah… I know. But who would believe such a cockamamie story?!" Of course, it was more than the dumb cover story that had him riled. Ever since his rookie days riding shotgun with Pete, only one thing made Jim as angry as crimes against children, and that was crimes against women.

"Well, they didn't have any reason not to believe him," Pete reasoned. "At least we know we're on the right track. We're going to bring Jerome Lansing down, along with the crooked cops he's got in his pocket. Focus on that—let's plan forward instead of looking back. Who were the officers you suspected?"

Jim's brow wrinkled in thought. "Gary Mitchell, Oscar Hudson, and Rudy Delano are the names that immediately jumped to mind."

"All officers in Rampart Division, right?" Pete asked. He opened his car door and slid in behind the wheel. "Tell me something," he asked as Jim got in on the passenger side. "Do those three have anything… or anyone… in common?"

"They all had the same training officer," Jim answered. "Lieutenant Denny Janssen, of Vice. He was up for promotion to Captain, but Lawson got it instead. Rumor has it, he didn't take being passed over very well."

"I remember that," Malloy said as he turned into the lot at the station. "There were serious questions about Janssen—suspicion of tampering with evidence. The allegations couldn't be proven, and there wasn't enough to fire him, but they weren't comfortable promoting him over Lawson, who was squeaky clean." He pulled into a parking spot and ruminated for a moment before getting out. "I don't know Mitchell and Hudson," he said as he lay a hand on the door handle, "but I do know Delano, and if he's involved, I'm pretty sure I can get him to spill everything. Bring him in for questioning, but be discreet—if it gets back to Janssen, ten to one he'll be in the wind."

"Just so happens, I know right where to find him. He had a training exercise this afternoon. I'll go pull him aside and meet you in the interrogation room in a few minutes."

"Good… and I'll bring Crockett. He'll want to be a part of this. See you there in five."