Author's Notes: All characters and references are copyright Sierra On- Line. Only the interpretation of events is my doing, and is all based on material from Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers.

Turning Point

May 12, 1993

10:14a.m.

It was a day like any other day for Jack Mostly. Working as a detective began many routines which were as unbreakable as brushing one's teeth in the morning. Today started out no different. That is, until the phone rang. Leaning over, Mostly picked up the phone and in a heavily accented baritone answered, "Detective Jack Mostly. How can I serve you." "Yes, this is

Who? Who was it? Gabriel stared at the mostly blank page, racking his brain for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past four weeks. Why was this so hard? It's just like writing supernatural novels, except this was practically real. Gabriel ran his hands through his hair, as if the thought he needed to complete the entire book was tangled in his beloved locks. Rubbing his hand under his chin, he discovered stubble from not shaving for the past week. Defeated, Gabriel pulled the paper from his typewriter, crumbled it up quickly, and went for the hook shot. Rejected. No big surprise there. Gabriel leaned back in his chair and tried to forget the past four weeks.

Mostly...er, Mosely arrived at the store on the 24th to discuss the book with Gabe. Of course, that was the first time Mosely had been in the store since he had hired Grace. Needless to say, Mosely had to pick-up his jaw from the floor. Gabe had to escort Mosely to his room before he said anything stupid. He was almost afraid that Mosely would stop breathing; it's a good thing he didn't, because neither Gabe nor Grace were willing to give mouth-to-mouth, and then Gabriel would've been out of a book.

Of course, it's not like he had a book now. And to make matters worse, Mosely didn't have anything new to offer, which was the same story for the past four weeks. The Chicago invaders had hired local small-time dealers to push their drugs through the streets. Although easily caught, they weren't able to lead the police back to the providers. While the police were bound by red tape, the Chicago men were steadily gaining power. This was the only thing Gabriel had to work with. And unfortunately, it wasn't what he wanted. He wanted a gang war, an execution or two, or at least some form of drama. All he was getting from Mosely was how he couldn't do anything until they made their move. All they were waiting for, Gabriel had thought, was for the leaders to yell "checkmate".

On the up-side, the store had made a few sales towards the end of the month, so Gabriel was able to get rid of what little guilt he had of not ever paying Grace. There was enough for him to re-stock his fridge and order the tape recorder he'd seen in the magazine. Still, he was forced to hand-write everything until it arrived.

Grace had done a good job fixing some of the books, which sort of made-up for her daily insults. Gabe didn't mind, though. There was almost nothing he couldn't come back on. Too bad she was still insistent on not spending a few nights with him. Seemed like a waste of human flesh, and good-looking flesh at that. He could see himself lying down in Jackson Square, the band playing their merry little tunes, the two of them gazing at each other, drawing ever so closer to one another until.

Gabriel quickly straightened when his phone rang. These fantasy interruptions were starting to really annoy him.

Gabriel picked-up the phone, "Gabriel Knight, speaking."

"Knight? It's your publisher. We need to talk."

Uh-oh. He'd heard this before. Ever since his first novel, his publisher constantly threatened to drop him from their client list. Like it was his fault the public didn't like his novels. So far, they had been lenient, but he knew when they could be serious, and he hoped this wasn't one of those times.

Yeah, and the next call will be from Ed McMahon and he'll be able to retire. "Sure, how have you been?"

"Cut the small talk, Knight. This is serious. Your last book hasn't sold the expected amount we were hoping for. As a matter of fact, all of your books haven't sold the amount we were hoping for. The head of the publishing have been thinking of dropping you from our list. And from your past record, I don't think there looks to be anything to change their minds."

This was bad. His publisher always gave him an optimistic explanation for his failure and offered him numerous second chances. This had about as much optimism as his sales from the store. "Look, can't you give me just a few more months? I'm right in the middle of a book here. It's a true-crime novel, and I think this will sell."

"True-crime novel? You haven't been successful with supernatural fiction! What makes you think your one-track mind could handle truth? Here's some truth for you: This book better appear on the best-sellers lists, or you will be appearing on the unemployment lists. I'm not kidding, Knight. By the end of the year, we better have a best-seller from you."

The slam of the phone added the anger in the publisher's voice. This was very bad. It was bad enough that he was having problems coming up with a story, now he had until the end of the year, and it had to be a best- seller. Grabbing a new sheet of paper, he ran it into the aging machine, sat as comfortable as a condemned man, and concentrated as hard as he could.

Detective Mostly sat back, waiting for a new case to come to him. The phone rang, and it was his ungrateful publisher saying that his work was garbage and even though they wouldn't know quality if it bit them on their butts, they were going to drop him anyway.

Gabriel ripped the paper out of the machine, tearing it in the process. Frustrated, he kicked the trash can over, slammed the chair against the wall, and shouted obscenities he never heard come from even Mosely's extended vocabulary. He stormed out of his room, nearly ripping the curtain off of the frame. He headed straight for the newspaper on the counter, which he had yet to read. He searched for any story about the Chicago drug leaders, hoping that they had any information which Mosely hadn't told them.

The front page headline caught his eye: No New Development in the Chicago Drug Invasion.

Giving a short explicative, not caring if anyone was in the store to here it, Gabriel turned to the horoscope.

"Don't become discouraged by bad luck. Look to your friends for support during the bad times, because the tide will soon turn in your favor."

Gabriel tore the paper in two and slammed it down in the trash.

"Are you okay, Knight?"

Gabriel turned and faced the concerned, almost scared impression on the face of his assistant. Despite his rage, he detected no sarcasm in her voice. Good, he wasn't in the mood for any of her attitude today.

"Nothing you need to know about, Grace. Just get back to whatever you're doing."

Grabbing his coat, Gabriel muttered, "I'm going out," not waiting for her to come back with some sarcastic comment. She said nothing, just looked on with the same concerned look on her face.

Gabriel mounted his bike and was about to rev the engines when he heard a car horn behind him. He turned to find Mosely sitting in the driver seat of his car, waving Gabe over. Gabriel dismounted and walked towards his friend.

"Where you headin', Gabe? I have the day off, and I really need to speak with you."

Good, because Gabriel had a few words to say to him, too. "I was heading for the Napoleon House. You mind if we speak there?"

Gabe didn't hide the anger in his voice, and Mosely had seen him like this enough times before to not piss him off anymore than he was. "Sure, buddy. Let me drive you there. You don't need to be drivin' all mad like that." Gabriel agreed, since he was in no mood for driving. They remained quiet the whole way to the bar.

Mosely bought both of them a beer. He carried them over to the table, where Gabriel sat with his face in his hands. "Knight, I need to speak to you about the book."

Gabriel grabbed the beer, swallowed the entire drink in one gulp, and signal for a refill. "What book?"

"The book you were writing about the Chicago invasion."

The waiter arrived with Gabe's refill. "I'm no author, Knight."

"No kidding," Gabriel interrupted, with no humor.

".but I don't think you will be able to write anything interesting about this whole operation. The last information I received was that these guys are heavily connected with the Chicago Mafia. Unfortunately, that was two weeks ago. We know that the heads are planning on coming in, but that doesn't require much detective work." Gabriel had finished half of the beer around this time. ".and unfortunately for us, the guys are making their first move in the underworld. Right now, I only have one informant who's that deep, and still he hasn't told me anything new. My guess is they'll try to blend in with the local slime. We're going to be fighting on two fronts. Not much of an exciting plot there, right?"

"I'm getting the feeling that there never was a plot." Gabriel downed the remaining contents of the glass. "You don't mind if I order a few more, do you?"

Mosely hadn't even started on his glass yet. "Sure, Knight. I just got paid with a bonus. Just don't over-do it."

Gabriel glared at Mosely with a nasty look upon mention of his pay. Instead of speaking something which might offend some people, Gabriel just waved to the waiter.

"Look, Gabe. I'm sorry if you're out of a book, but writing about this would be literaturistic suicide. I'll tell you what, I'll call you the next time we get anything interesting in, and hopefully, you can 'modify' it to make it a little more interesting."

Gabriel stared at the contents of his new glass during Mosely's monologue. After he finished, Gabriel up-ended the glass. Mosely took a long swig from his own glass. He nearly dropped it when he heard the slam of Gabriel's glass on the table. Once again signaling for a refill, Gabriel laid his head between his hands and muttered something which had the effect of insulting one's heritage.

"Look, Knight. I'm as mad as you are. But you're blowing this out of proportions. Hell, you even said yourself you couldn't do anything with the book. What's eatin' your."

Mosely was cut off when Gabriel slammed his fist on the table. "There never was a friggin' book, Mosely! I spent the last four weeks trying to come up with a first paragraph, and I couldn't do it. I can't do true-crime! I can't believe I even thought I could. Besides, it's not that I'm teed-off about. My publisher called saying I had till the end of the year to come up with a best-seller, not a book. Now, it doesn't take a detective of your caliber to find out that I haven't even written a book which has sold over 100 copies! If I can't write this book, then I'm out of a job! The book store won't support me for long. Despite what people say, nothing interesting occurs in New Orleans. Unless these Chicago drug pushers become Satan-worshipping cannibals, I can't write about anything."

Mosely stared wide-eyed at Gabriel during the whole explosion. No one else had noticed, either too drunk or too caught up in themselves to notice even Gabriel's loud voice. Gabriel reached for the glass, took a big swallow, then tried to place it back on the table, but it fell onto the floor. Mosely had seen this before; Gabriel could usually hold his liquor, but when he was angry, he got drunk quickly. It was a good thing he had driven Gabriel here, and not allow Knight to wreck on his bike.

Mosely realized it was time to take Knight home. "I'm sorry, Gabe. I didn't know you were in it so deep. If things come to worse, then you could stay with."

" Worse? How the hell can it get any worse? Look around, Mosely; the next time you visit me, I will be employed as the babbling drunk who's waiting for some merciful lunatic with a gun to end my worthless existence with a bullet!" Gabriel placed his hand next to his head and began swaying. "Ooohh, I don't feel so good."

Mosely quickly jumped up and caught Knight before he fell completely to the floor. Tossing a couple of bills on the table, Mosely escorted his friend outside to the back seat of his car. He knew Gabriel wouldn't throw up; he sat through all of the high school anatomy class videos without flinching, but he wanted to get him home before he passed out completely.



Grace had finished all of the book repair she could stand for a day, and had pulled out her paints to work on her class project. She'd glanced up at the painting on the wall next to the desk. When she first saw it, she was startled. She'd never seen a painting consisting of three snakes and a skull before. Of course, now that she had, it'd figure that Gabriel would own it. Still, she found it intriguing. What had possessed the artist to paint something so macabre? What kind of torment did he have in his soul which was being reflected in this? He must of had a hard time selling paintings if this one was any indication of his other work. Grace wondered what caused Gabriel to buy it, or for that matter, afford it? It was fascinating despite it's horrible depiction.

The bell above the door rang. Expecting to hear Gabriel make a "witty" remark, she was surprised to see Mosely trying to open the door. God, she didn't know who was worse, Gabriel's chauvinistic remarks or his friend staring slack-jaw at her legs.

"I'm sorry, Mosely. Gabriel left around eleven and he hasn't been back yet. Maybe if you come back lat." Grace suddenly noticed why Mosely was having trouble with the door, he was also trying to help someone who looked to be drunk off his rocker.

"Grace, help me!" Grace jumped from her seat and ran over to the other side of the man Mosely was helping. It was then that Grace realized that the person drunk off his rocker was her own boss.

"What happened to him?"

"He had one-too-many drinks down at the Napoleon House. He told me how he was having trouble with his publisher, and that he may be in for some bad times if his next book isn't a best-seller."

The two of them carried Gabriel back to his room. Grace saw the mess he had made for the first time. So that was what the commotion was about. After helping Gabriel to his bed, she picked up a torn sheet of paper with some writing on it. It must have been the last thing he was writing before he went maniacal. She could see why he was so mad after that phone call. She went into his bathroom, found an ice pack, and filled it with the ice from his fridge, nearly passing out herself from the smell which rose from it. After gently placing it on Gabriel's head, she and Mosely went out into the store.

"Poor Gabriel. I didn't know he was having that much trouble with his writing. I thought he was kidding about being a writer."

"Nope, he's written about five books already. The public never liked them. I thought they were quite interesting, but most people said that they were too far-fetched to be any good. Bunch of morons. That's the reason why I provided him with information about the Chicago Mafia."

"Chicago Mafia?"

"Yeah, he came to me asking if I would provide him with information about their invasion into New Orleans territory. Heck, I even thought it would make a good story. Unfortunately, the case wasn't going anywhere insofar as action or drama. Gabriel never did a true-crime novel before, and it looks like now he won't be doing anything. Didn't he tell you about it?"

Grace shook her head. She felt sympathy for Gabriel for the first time since working at St. George's.

"Well, thanks for bringing him home Mosely."

"No problem, Grace. Have a nice night."

For once, Mosely didn't say or do anything which would have supported her theory of the slow maturation of men. "Now, what am I going to do about him?"



"Oooh, mah head." Gabriel sat up, and found that he was in his own bed. Slowly, his thoughts returned to him. He'd passed out just as Mosely arrived at his book shop. At least he knew where he was; his past encounter with women at bars have left him in places he never knew existed. He always hated when he passed out from drinking beer, because he knew when he woke up, he'd have a serious headache. In fact, it was right on schedule. He placed his hand on his head, and found something cold and wet on top. An ice pack? Who'd placed an ice pack on his head? What time was it? Looking at the clock on his dresser, he saw that it was 10:40 p.m. Grace must've gone to her classes by now. Good, he didn't want to talk to anyo.

"How's your head, Gabriel?"

He recognized the voice as Grace's, but it couldn't be, she never called him by his first name. He turned his eyes toward the kitchen, and found his assistant standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing here? It's way past closing time!"

She walked to the foot of the bed and sat down in his desk chair. "I wasn't going to leave you here unconscious. You were passed out for over six hours. I wanted to make sure you were okay. You need some aspirin?"

Gabriel nodded, not comfortable to the thought of anyone other than his Grandma looking after him. Grace handed him the aspirin with a glass of water. He downed both with one gulp.

"Mosely told me what happened, and why you were so angry this morning."

"Fine, get it over with. Use them in your daily insults."

"Would you shut up, Gabriel? I'm trying to show sympathy for you, and you continue to act like a jerk." Gabriel took the hint. "I wanted to say how sorry I am that you are in trouble with your publisher. I just thought you were trying to hit on me when you said you were a writer." Well.you're not entirely wrong there. "Is it true that you have till the end of the year to come up with a best-seller?" Gabriel nodded, trying to avoid as much talking as possible. "Look, if you need help researching for a book, then I'd be.glad.to help."

Gabriel noticed her hesitation, but didn't feel like pointing it out. "Thanks, Grace."

He hoped that she would leave, but she asked, "That painting in the store, the one with the snakes and skull, where did you get it from? And how could you afford it?"

Hoping she'd leave soon, he replied, "My father painted it."

"Your father is an artist?"

He didn't want to talk about his past, headache or no. But still, she was uncharacteristically kind enough to look after him. "He was an artist. He and my mother died when I was only eight years old. Killed in a car wreck."

"I'm sorry."

"Look, stop being sorry. It's giving me a headache."

Grace stifled a laugh, and even Gabriel smiled after saying that. "Glad to see you're returning to normal. What happened to you after they died?"

"The only person I could live with was my Gran. She was the only remaining living relative who hadn't disowned her children."

"If you're having trouble thinking of a book, you should write about your life. Either that or go see a psychiatrist."

"Hilarious, Gracie. I haven't done anything interesting in my life and if the past indicates the future, nothing worth writing about will happen to me. As a matter of fact, I don't think my dad ever sold a painting. It was 'too dark and macabre' for the public. Sound familiar?"

"You shouldn't be so pessimistic, Gabriel. It's bad for your karma."

Gabriel let out a moan upon hearing what she had said. "Don't tell me you believe in that stuff, too!"

"Well, you should think more optimistically, especially if your future is as bad as you think it's going to be."

"Well, I'll think about that tonight. Look, it's getting pretty late, and this headache is getting worse. I need to get some rest."

"Okay, Knight. I can take a hint." Yeah, too bad it takes you awhile. "Don't worry, Gabriel. You'll get the story you need. I can feel it."

Yeah, yeah. Just leave. "Okay, Grace. Good night.and thanks." He laid his head back and waited for Grace to close the door, but he never heard her leave, because he had fallen asleep before she left.



May 13, 1993

12:57a.m.

His head was killing him. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, he didn't even remember how he fell sleep. All he remembered was that he left the bar, and then everything when black. He hoped nobody had picked his pocket while he was out.

Why had he ever come here? This town was full of low-life scum. He'd rather be back up north. Funny, he thought the walkway around the bar was concrete. He didn't remember any dirt around. And how come it was so bright? It was eleven when he left. Had he slept the whole night on the ground in front of the bar?

He lifted his hand to feel his head, but he couldn't move.

His hand was tied down!

How the hell did that happen?

He tried to untie it with his free hand, only he had no free hand. Both his hands were tied down, and so were his feet. He finally had time to look at himself.

He was naked!

What the hell was going on?

Suddenly, the sound of drums filled his ears, followed by the screaming of people. Lifting his head as much as he could, he found several people.dancing? chanting? They were all completely naked, except for someting wrapped around their faces. They didn't even look human! Were they human? He couldn't tell. One of them, a tall, dark, completely naked man with a tattoo of wings on his back, walked towards him, carrying a live chicken in each hand. The dark man was strangling them, letting the blood pour on the panicked-stricken man. The man struggled against the ropes, but to no avail. The dark man patterned the blood into an unrecognizable shape on the man's chest. What the hell was going on?

Everyone began chanting something new. He could barely make the words out, except for "Tetelo." What the hell did that mean?

As if on cue, a new dancer came towards him. Up close, the dancer was obviously a woman. But what kind of woman? From the neck down, she had the body of a woman. However, her head was in the shape of a leopard!And in her hand was a wavy dagger. He didn't want to know what she was going to do with it. She waved it a few inches from his body, then held it high above her head. What had she said? Something about "Ogoun Badagris" and "sacrifice"? What sacrifi.?

Suddenly, the dagger plunged with full force into his chest, sending pain screaming through his entire body. The dagger made a huge gash straight down the middle of his chest. He tried to scream, but couldn't. His cerebral activity was too busy registering the pain coursing through his naked body.

The woman then plunged her hand into the open wound. A great pressure collected in his chest, but left when she pulled her hand out.

...with his beating heart in it!

Oh, GOD!

How can he be seeing this? Why hadn't he died? His eyes followed the woman's body up to her face, where he saw the darkest, the most beautiful, and the most horrible eyes he'd ever seen. Suddenly, as if noticing his gaze, she began to emit a high-pitch laughter, almost like a cackle.

It was the last thing he heard and saw before his body finally, mercifully, died.



1:15p.m.

He rubbed his chin, admiring the nice job he'd done. After a whole week of collecting morning stubble, he felt like a new man. Unfortunately, he was still the Gabriel Knight who would be out of a job if he couldn't come up with a good story.

Oh well. After the horrible day yesterday, things could only go up from there. Gabriel put on his shirt, not bothering to make the bed, and walked out to get his first morning (or was it afternoon already?) cup of coffee.

"I hope you feel better this morning, Knight. I don't feeling like playing nurse again. Nurses receive more than you pay me."

Gabriel poured his cup, noticing how Grace had reverted back to her old, annoying persona he had grown to love.

"Well, if it means that I can bring you back into my room, again." Grace rolled her eyes, and just decided to stop the little one-up contest before it backfired against her.

With a smile, Gabriel downed the contents of his cup, though more carefully than the beer he consumed yesterday. Putting the cup down, he walked over to Grace. "Still, I want to thank you for being so concerned. I guess I just lost my head."

"Couldn't be the first time. Seriously, though, I'm glad you're okay. I don't want to lose this job because my boss drank himself into unemployment."

"Well, there's still that problem. I'm still in a writer's block. My only opportunity is not even interesting enough for a made-for-TV movie."

"Maybe you should just stick to the supernatural and avoid true-life."

"Yeah, if only the supernatural really existed. You know, like demon- worshipping cops, or satanic drug-dealers; something I could work with."

"You're sick, Knight. I glad nothing like that could happen in real life."

"Thanks for your support, Grace." Gabriel walked over to the paper, completely avoiding the headline. Instead, he immediately turned to his horoscope.

"The tides have now turned for you. Take advantage of the first opportunity for success."

"Why do I even bother?" Gabriel replace the paper. And leaned on the counter, trying to come up with some form of story idea. His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.

"St. George's Rare Books.oh, hello Detective Mosely.yes, he's awake.okay, I'll get him. Gabe, it's Mosely."

"Well, duh! I'm not deaf." Grace handed him the phone and continued with her painting. "Hey, Mostly!.yeah, I'm feeling better.yeah, I could come down there.what are you talking about? What do you mean be discreet?.look, I'll be there in thirty minutes."

Gabriel hung up the phone. What was Mosely's problem? He began to wonder who was the one who drank too much. "I'm going to the police station, Grace."

"Good, it's better that you finally turn yourself in."

"If I was going to turn myself in, I'd be sure I'd kill you first to justify the prison time. And if I'm going to kill you, I'll at least try to get away with it." Gabriel revved up his bike and made sure he avoided the cemetery this time.

The police station was practically deserted. Gabriel remembered how it used to be a claustrophobic's nightmare. Now, all the reporters had moved on to bigger and better stories. How he envied them.

Mosely was outside his office waiting for him. Signaling him without talking, they entered his office. Once the door closed, Gabriel whispered, "Shouldn't we check to see if the room was bugged?"

"Knock it off, Knight. What I'm about to tell you could get me in trouble, or it could save your job." Gabriel suddenly became interested, so he sat down quietly. "So, Knight, come up with any new book ideas?"

"Mostly, if I wanted to be insulted, I'd have stayed at the book store and pay Grace for it."

"Okay, I'll get to the point. But first, you have to promise that anything you hear never leaves this office, unless you plan on making a book about it."

Tired of playing games, Gabriel quickly replied, "Sure, Mosely, just get to the point."

"There was a murder last night."

"Oh no! Not a murder!"

"Yeah, some poor loser got his ticket punched last night. We found some identification near the victim, a man from Chicago. We think he may be tied into the Chicago Mafia, because we found large amounts of crack and reefer in his clothes."

"Is this your idea of a joke? I told you yesterday, I'm not interested in the Chicago Mafia! I don't care if I get dropped from my publisher, I won't write about it."

"Do you think this is a joke??" Mosely handed Gabriel a photograph. Gabriel took it, looked at it, and thought he was going to throw up. The picture showed a completely naked man, a look of extreme pain and fear held on his face by rigor mortis. In the center of his chest was a hole the size of a fist, and from the looks of things, nothing occupied the hole, although Gabriel was sure something should. Around the body were feathers and partial patterns in a white substance. Blood was everywhere. Gabriel handed back the photo, the blood drained from his face. He'd seen numerous horror movies in his life. He would have sworn the picture was from a movie, if Mosely hadn't told him beforehand, with the utmost seriousness.

"What the hell happened?"

"Got a call early this morning. Body was found in the bayou. The place was right out of a horror movie. Tied up, covered in blood, but the coroner says that not all of it was his. That pattern in the ground was made out of flour. The chickens which owned the feathers were laying dead nearby, their throats broken by hand."

Gabriel pulled out his pen and notebook, not wanting to miss anything. "What about the hole in the victim's chest?"

"Cut made by some sort of dagger. But that's not what killed him. His heart was ripped out from the hole. Coroner says by hand. We couldn't find it anywhere near the murder site. The coroner also said that he didn't die until a minute after it was ripped out. This poor guy saw the whole thing."

Gabriel's eyes bulged at this. He never believed that someone could, or would, do such a thing. "Any idea who could have done it?"

"Not a freakin' clue. We found some partial footprints in the dirt, but they're so distorted that there's no way we could identify them to anybody."

Gabriel sat on the edge of his seat, literally. "What about all that flour and feathers?"

Mosely leaned close, signaling Gabriel to do the same. "You ever hear of voodoo, Knight?"

Gabriel felt like slapping Mosely. Hello! I'm into the supernatural stories and I live in New Orleans! "Of course, Mosely. So what?"

"Well, I haven't verified it yet, but I have a strong suspicion that this may have been a ritual killing. I'm going to see a specialist, though, so that I can have verification. Still, genuine or not, I had a strong feeling that you could do something with this. Interested?"

Gabriel was starting to sweat. He hated when Mosely played with him like this. But Mosely never had the best true-crime story ever. Not only could he base it on a real case, but it involved voodoo. People ate that mumbo- jumbo up! "Okay, Mosely, who do I have to kill to get it."

Mosely leaned back in his chair, showing off his less-than-stellar physique. "Well, since it is a true-crime novel, I see no reason why you can't use me as the main character."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "I'll see if I can. But seriously, anything else?"

Regaining the serious look, Mosely continued, "Knight, I don't need to tell you that we don't want the media in on this. We've been able to avoid them so far, but eventually they'll find out. I don't want you to tell anyone what went on in this office today. This is top secret."

Gabriel knew that Mosely wasn't joking, so he slowly nodded his head.

"Now Knight, I will tell you that we don't know the motive of these psychopaths yet. For all we know, they could be a rival drug cartel trying to keep the Mafia out of their territory. They are, therefore, not a threat to the citizens of this city. However, there's no telling what could happen. I don't think you'll be getting information from someone other than me, but if you do, I want to know about it. If you can't do this, then I want you to look at that picture again, and imagine yourself lying there with your heart ripped out of your chest." Gabriel thought Mosely was getting a little overboard, but he agreed, just to get out of the office. He quickly pocketed his notes, left the station, and headed back to St. George's.

Gabriel entered the book shop, not saying a word. Grace noticed he had what looked like a piece of paper in his hand.

"What's that, Knight?" Gabriel didn't reply; he just continued walking into the bedroom. Grace sat there, spellbound.

She was about to go back to her paintings when Gabriel came back out, hung up his jacket, and walked over to her. "Grace, I want to close early. I need some time to think."

Grace was about to protest, but she sensed that the talk with Mosely had provided Gabriel with a new book idea. Not wanting to be blamed for a lost thought, Grace gathered her things and headed for the door. "See you tomorrow, Gabriel?"

"Yeah. Good night, Grace."

Grace sensed that something was wrong. Gabriel just stared at her, but it was like he didn't see her. She dismissed the idea and headed for the university.

Gabriel sat down at his type-writer, examining all the notes he'd written at his meeting with Mosely. He leaned back in his chair, thought for a whole minute, then leaned forward and began typing. He typed until his eyes refused to remain open, sometime around one in the morning. Quickly scribbling a few notes on his notepad, Gabriel settled down in his bed.

He could barely sleep, but not from all the ideas he had for the book. His mind couldn't stop thinking about the photograph. The man's face showed fear and pain that not even the best actors could duplicate. As he began to lose consciousness, his thought reflected on what Mosely had said,

"Imagine yourself lying there with your heart ripped from your chest."

What had Gabriel gotten himself into this time? And was it worth a best- seller? Before he could weigh his options, he had fallen asleep.