WARNING oOo WARNING oOo WARNING oOo WARNING oOo WARNING oOo WARNING oOo WARNING!!

This is where it starts getting really bad. Dark, extremely angsty, graphic violence and sexual violence coming up. DO NOT READ if violence, pain, extreme angst, and graphically depicted sexual acts upset you. I mean it!

Babe, and there will be Morelli-bashing.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money. Recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich. Song lyrics belong to Linkin Park.

oOo

Part II—What I've Done

So let mercy come
And wash away
What I've done
I'll face myself
To cross out what I've become
Erase myself
And let go of what I've done
—Linkin Park (Minutes to Midnight)

Chapter 8

Friday, May 16

It was my worst fear come to horrifying life. An enemy from my past had Stephanie.

My stomach lurched again. I bent back over the wastebasket, but there was nothing left to throw up.

When I was through dry-heaving, I tied shut the top of the bag that lined my trash can and looked at the picture again.

It was the AP photo of Stephanie and me with the car burning in the background, the slightly off colors and dot-like quality indicating it had been scanned from a newspaper. It appeared to have been printed with an inkjet printer on the type of glossy photographic paper made specifically for that purpose.

It was a full-size eight-and-a-half by eleven sheet, portrait layout, and the two of us filled the page. The sides of the original photo showing the car were cropped off.

But what really caused my gut to twist was what had been done to Stephanie. Mutilating Stephanie's face were dozens of slashing cuts with ragged edges, made with a razor blade or sharp knife.

Drawing in deep, slow breaths to fight the nausea and dizziness, I flipped the page over again. On the back in dark, angular printing was handwritten:

Do you miss her?

I steeled myself and picked up the phone. Alvirez first. He was out in the field but said he could be back in ten minutes. Then I called Tank, telling him to come into my office.

Tank arrived in short order and stood staring at the picture, then at the writing on the back when I flipped it over for him with my gloved hand.

Although the picture had knocked me for a loop, I was rapidly regaining my leadership demeanor and decisiveness.

"Team meeting in one hour," I said. "Up on seven."

Tank nodded and headed out the door to gather the troops. He turned back in the doorway. "Are you calling Morelli or should I?"

"I'll do it," I said. This development was going to create some problems. Morelli didn't like me, even though he'd been very cooperative since Stephanie's disappearance. But now he was going to know the culpability for this rested with me, and I might need to do a little damage control. Or a lot.

I slipped the photo back in the envelope and walked out of my office carrying it in one gloved hand and the tied-up trash bag from my wastebasket in the other. I dropped the bag in the big swing-top bin near the elevator as I passed it on my way to the stairs. I wasn't leaving any evidence of my weakness for my men to see.

Up in my apartment I dropped the envelope on the breakfast bar and went into the bathroom to rinse the vomit out of my mouth and brush my teeth. Coming back to the kitchen I dug in the back of the refrigerator, looking for the emergency can of Coke Stephanie thought I didn't know about. She'd left it here the last time she stayed with me, when she was under suspicion in her ex-husband's disappearance, and I hadn't gotten rid of it for some stupid, sentimental reason. I liked catching a glimpse of it unexpectedly every now and then. It reminded me of her, made me smile.

I needed sugar and caffeine, and the Coke would help settle my stomach and wash the bad taste out of my throat. And it made me feel connected to Stephanie.

I found the can and popped the top. I wanted to gulp it down, but I knew I had to take it easy on the sensitive condition of my stomach. I'd been scared in my life, many times, but I'd never before experienced such gut-wrenching helplessness.

I wondered for a moment if this was how Stephanie felt most of the time. Life just seemed to happen to her, and yet she rolled with the punches with incredible grace and adaptability. It gave me new respect for her capacity for coping with the vagaries of her life.

In just a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Alvirez.

He looked at the photo and envelope under a magnifying glass and put them into individual evidence bags. He had just under an hour until my men gathered, and he'd make full use of that time to examine and document the evidence before it was removed from our possession. I had no doubt whatsoever that Morelli would bring in the feebs now to take over the investigation.

Alvirez took the picture and envelope downstairs to his small lab to run some tests, and I settled onto the couch with the can of Coke, thinking about Stephanie. It felt like a knife was twisting in my gut, tearing out my intestines an inch at a time.

I was not only feeling fear for Stephanie and guilt for what she must be going through, but also an extreme sense of shame. I'd seldom felt stupid before, like an idiot, but I did now. What in hell had I been thinking? Whatever fooled me into believing that just by keeping my distance it would protect her?

I couldn't put it off any longer. I paged down until I found Morelli's cell number in my phone and punch the button to call him. He and I managed to get along, both of us in love with Stephanie and wanting to keep her safe, working together where necessary for her best interests. This new development was going to demolish the ceasefire and turn our uneasy truce into open warfare.

"Morelli," he answered tersely.

"It's Manoso. There's a new development. Meeting here at one-thirty."

"Something new since I left there three hours ago?"

"A picture in the mail."

"What picture?"

"It's a scan of the photo of Stephanie and me from the newspaper, from when her car blew up in the Foodtown lot."

"Yeah, so what?"

"There's writing on the back."

"What does it say?"

"Do you miss her?"

"That's all? Just 'do you miss her?'"

"And the photo is slashed with a knife or razor, right across her face."

"Fuck. I'll be right there. And I'm calling in the FBI."

I hung up, settled back on the couch and punched a familiar number into my phone.

oOo

Chapter 9

I stood up from the couch when Tank escorted Morelli into my apartment. It was the first time he'd been here, and I watched him glancing around surreptitiously, imagining, no doubt, the times Stephanie had stayed here. Twice. When the Slayers were after her, and during the whole Dickie fiasco when the asshole had let her go on believing she was under suspicion for murder when he knew all along Dickie was alive.

My mind went also to those times when Stephanie was here, and I wanted to kick myself for ever letting her go back to him. If I'd kept her with me, there's a good chance she'd still be here now.

"Where's the picture?" Morelli demanded, abandoning the inspection when he caught sight of me sitting on the couch.

"Alvirez is processing it," I responded, "downstairs. He'll be here in a minute."

"The TPD is taking over this case, in conjunction with the FBI," Morelli snapped, stomping over to me and aggressively invading my personal space. "From this moment on you are to immediately turn all evidence over to the official investigation. RangeMan is no longer involved and you can tell Alvirez that he's not authorized to run any tests or handle any evidence."

I'd anticipated and was prepared for this move on Morelli's part.

I kept my tone impassive and my face neutral. "Since it's apparent now that Stephanie was kidnapped in retaliation for acts I performed under the auspices of the federal government, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is appointing a special task force for this investigation. It will consist of representatives from Defense, FBI, DEA, ATF, Homeland Security, and Trenton PD."

I hesitated a second for effect and then hit him with both barrels. "RangeMan is acting for Defense, and I've been named commanding officer of the task force."

Fury turned his face puce. "Goddamit," he shouted, his arms slashing the air, "who the fuck do you think you are? You can't just take over a kidnapping investigation."

"Morelli," I said, my voice low and deadly, "do not think you can treat me the way you treat Stephanie, like some kind of a lower life form." His face turned even darker as I continued speaking. "You will be allowed to remain on this investigation only at my discretion. You will behave in a civilized and cooperative manner or you'll be off the team so fast your ass won't catch up with you until tomorrow. Any questions?"

His face was so purple I thought his head was going to explode. The vein in the center of his forehead stood out like a worm crawling up into his hair, his teeth were clenched, and the cords in his neck quivered.

"Joe," I said, softer, tempering the authority in my voice to calm him down a little, "the objective here is to find Stephanie. There's nobody better at this kind of thing than the group that will be assembling here. And there's nobody more qualified to lead them than me. You're a good cop, and you could be an asset to the investigation. It's up to you."

I could see him fighting for control and after a long internal struggle he nodded at me. "I don't like it, but I'll work with you for Stephanie." First battle won.

I nodded and sat back down as Alvirez entered the room with the evidence, followed by the rest of the RangeMan team. They settled into chairs and leaned against the walls.

"Dino, anything on the picture?" I asked Alvirez, waving at him to indicate he should pass the photo and envelope, protected by clear evidence bags, around the room.

"Nada, boss. No prints, no trace, no saliva on the flap. Ordinary kraft envelope, available anywhere. Kodak inkjet photo paper, also available anywhere. HP inkjet printer, common type, and no way to make a match to any specific printer the way you sometimes can with laser printers."

"Anybody have anything new since this morning?" I asked, looking around the room.

Negative head shakes all around.

"This changes the focus of our investigation, and we'll be concentrating on suspects connected with me in any way—through my military service, the work RangeMan has done, or any contract missions I've performed. We'll divide up suspects according to clearance levels."

I glanced at Morelli, who was sitting motionless, his face cop flat. "I've spoken with General Gordon, and he's appointing a federal task force. They'll all be here at 2100, and we'll hand out assignments. Until then continue what you were working on, and I'll see you all in the third floor conference room tonight. Any questions?"

Another round of negative responses and I nodded to indicate the meeting was over.

Morelli lingered behind as my men filed out. Tank was waiting by the door to escort him out of the building.

"Manoso, I just want you to know," Morelli said to me, "that I'm holding you personally responsible for Stephanie's kidnapping. If she's harmed in any way, you'll pay."

I stood and turned my back to him, walking into my bedroom and closing the door behind me. Nothing he said could make me feel any worse than I already felt. The nausea came bubbling back in spite of the Coke I'd had, and it was only by sheer force of will that I kept myself from vomiting again.

I dropped to my knees at the side of my bed, put my head down on my crossed arms, and for the first time in more years than I could remember, I prayed.

Stephanie had been gone fourteen days.

oOo

Chapter 10

A week later—Friday, May 23

The task force had been working nonstop for a week and the results were nil. And with every day that went by without a break in the case I felt sicker and sicker. I still couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and I pushed myself to the limit in the gym and with the investigation every day.

The situation was worse than the most difficult mission I'd ever undertaken. No matter how hard I tried to shut down my emotions, I couldn't turn off the overwhelming sense of guilt. After spending the whole week reviewing every heinous act I'd ever performed and every potential victim who might be seeking retribution, I could no longer compartmentalize. My military life had intersected my Trenton life with the force of a thermonuclear device and I was imploding, collapsing in on myself like a supernova forming a black hole.

"Focus on the goal, Soldier," I told myself two dozen times a day, but in truth I was a mess. The only consolation was that I thought I was hiding it pretty well. Only those closest to me, Tank, Lester, and Bobby, knew how hard I was taking Stephanie's kidnapping, what bad shape I was in.

At just after nine in the morning I was sitting in my office preparing for the task force meeting. My phone rang and I pulled it out, glancing at the caller ID. Sean Murphy, one of the two FBI agents on the team.

"Talk," I said succinctly.

"Ranger, we've got another one. We're on our way back with it." Murphy and his partner, Barbara Foster, had been picking up RangeMan's mail twice a day from the post office rather than letting the mail carrier bring it.

My heart gave a mighty jolt in my chest and then started a wild hammering.

"Bring it straight to the conference room," I said, fighting to keep my voice even. "I'll get Alvirez there to take custody of it for testing."

It was still more than a half hour until the task force meeting at ten o'clock. The fewer people that were there when I opened the envelope, the better. I didn't want the whole crowd watching me fighting to hide my distress.

I called Tank and Alvirez and the three of us walked together down to the third-floor conference room. It looked like someone was moving, boxes everywhere, all filled with files. The task force had created a mountain of paper, all of which had brought us not one step, not one iota closer to knowing who took Stephanie or where she was.

It would take about ten minutes for the FBI agents to arrive, and I couldn't force myself to sit down and wait. My stomach was clenched and my head felt like it was clamped in a vise, so I tried to relieve the tension by pacing back and forth the length of the conference room, thinking about the FBI agents.

Murphy and Foster were both from the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, the section dedicated to profiling and research on criminal behavior. Normally that department mobilized when there was evidence of a serial killer or an exceptionally horrendous crime, but they had been assigned to this case because of the military connection.

Murphy was a supervisory special agent, and looked as Irish as his name, with red hair and very pale skin, but an accent straight from South Boston. He was supposed to be one of the best in the world at finding the tenuous connections that might solve a case.

Foster was a slim, attractive forty-ish black woman with short, curly hair and impressive credentials, a profiler with PhDs in psychology, criminology and sociology. She had been professional yet very kind to me and had tried several times during the week to draw me into conversation.

She should have been afraid of me. She'd seen my military file, knew what I was, even though the graphic details of my missions weren't included. I'd done my best to scare her off with silence and coldness, but she wasn't easily discouraged.

Finally yesterday she caught me alone in my office and asked if it would help to talk about Stephanie. She was more than qualified as a shrink, and if I'd been inclined toward sharing my feelings she'd have been a good choice. But I had my fill of psychiatrists and psychologists during my military career.

I just gave her a noncommittal "No, thanks."

"If it would help to talk with someone from outside the task force, I have a friend from back in the day who's now a clinical psych professor at Penn. He's one of the best in the country. I could give him a call."

"No, thanks."

She extracted a business card from her leather portfolio and tucked it into the breast pocket of my t-shirt. "Well, if you change your mind, here's his information. I think you'd have a much better chance of successfully resolving your feelings if you could process your experiences with some professional guidance."

When I stripped my tee off late last night to shower and lie in bed not sleeping, I found the card. I held it over the trash can, and then, without really knowing why, pulled back and dropped it into the drawer of my nightstand.

After a few minutes of pacing and thinking, I noticed Tank was staring at me and I forced myself to sit, to clear my mind.

It seemed like an eternity before the FBI agents came striding in with serious faces. Murphy dumped a pile of mail on the conference table. Foster was holding a brown envelope in her gloved hands, and as soon as I had my gloves on she passed it to me.

It was identical to the one that had come last Friday, plain brown envelope, Trenton postmark, no return address, same computer-generated label.

It's just evidence, just a case. You can do this, soldier, I said to myself as I flipped the envelope over. Again, the flap wasn't glued shut. I bent the little metal clasp up and opened the top.

I hesitated, not wanting to see what the envelope held.

"Would you rather I did it?" Foster asked, soft and careful.

I ignored her, inhaled, braced myself and pulled out the contents.

TBC