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A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 00

By: Daniellekitten



Prologue

The blade shimmered with life.

It glimmered in the gloomy darkness, light from the single bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling next to the stairs danced hypnotically off the eight inch long blade. It captured his whole attention, sucking him in, drawing him away from the slender naked figure cowering in the corner of the cold dark cellar.

It seemed to breathe, to talk to him. He ran a finger slowly along the back edge of the knife, caressing it while the knife spoke to him of venomous secrets.

It told him of his power. It explained to him his Purpose. It spoke to him of love and desire. It planned grandiose schemes that promised acceptance and respect that had never been his before the knife.

But mostly it commanded. It demanded to be fed, to drink deep of dark sweet blood, to bite of soft flesh, to chew on the richness of life and leave only death.

He whispered back to the knife as his fingers stroked the hand-carved wooden handle.

"All for you," he whispered. "All and more," he laughed gutturally as the blade winked light back at him, agreeing in its own silent way.

And then he scowled as it reflected the image of the girl he had oh so carefully chosen running up the stairs behind him. A deep, ugly growl escaped his throat and he turned to give chase, clumsily stumbling over the uneven dirt floor.

She was almost through the door of the fruit cellar, the door that he had forgotten to lock this time. She turned, seeing him rushing at her, almost on the top step. She tried to slam the door on him but he hit it hard with his shoulder. 

It jerked out of her hand and smashed against her, driving her across the rough grass, clods of wet soil tripping her. She fell with a bone jolting thud, her head snapping against a rock. 

Another larger one was under her, jamming into her back and bruising her kidneys. Her head jerked again, leaving a wet smear of blood against the rock. She struggled against the pain, fighting to stay alert even as it tried to swallow her whole.

She battled the encroaching darkness and the waves of dizziness that tried to engulf her. She struggled to get back up, to get away. The soft ground gave under her clawing hands, shifted under her digging feet. She slipped and felt consciousness waver again. She had to stay awake and fight or she was dead.

She saw him reach for her and tried to scream, a hoarse, croaking sound escaping through her swollen lips. She hit at his hand frantically and gasped as it wrapped around her throat picking her up as easily as if she were a feather. Her hands wrapped around his fingers, nails digging in as she choked, trying to pry them loose as black spots erupted in front of her eyes.

She had almost gotten away from him. It was sloppy, not locking the door behind him. Sloppiness wasn't allowed. It could get him killed. Worse, it could get him caught. She wasn't his first, he had practiced his trade, honed it to a fine edge that was just as sharp as the knife. He had gotten good at picking and choosing among the ranks of the sacrificial. He knew the ones that wouldn't be missed quickly, the ones that were the easiest to pluck out of the horde and make his own. It was easy. A gentle smile. A questioning look. A first innocent meeting.

He was lucky. The knife had told him so. He had found his Purpose in life. A Purpose he was good at it. And better yet, he liked it.

His attention was drawn back to the bloody, abused girl in his hands. He carried her by the throat back through the door and down the rickety basement steps. Her fingers were digging into his hands, nails drawing bloody furrows, her bare feet were kicking at his legs. He didn't feel it. 

All he felt was the pull of attraction to the knife. The pull to the power, the omnipotence of having control over life and death. He felt his Purpose.

Her struggles became weaker as her oxygen starved body started shutting down. She felt one of her nails tear down to the quick and didn't feel the pain. The fire in her lungs became unbearable as sparkling white lights exploded in front of her eyes. She was dying and there wasn't anything she could do. He was too big, too strong. And she hurt so badly.

A remote part of her mind was still thinking, still forming thought patterns, telling her how sad it was that there was no one that would miss her, no family, no real friends that would mourn her loss. She'd been on her own so long and had shunned other people, depending upon no one but herself. And she would die alone.

And then she was free, sinking down against the cold, damp dirt floor, her fingers against her throat as she coughed and gasped. Over the roaring in her ears she could hear his heavy footsteps going back up the stairs and she felt a small flare of hope that he was leaving. Maybe she would have one last chance to get away.

One last chance to get away from the monster who had held her for ten days, raping her without mercy, playing twisted games with her. He'd tied her to a table, tortured her mind. Beaten her body. He had taken pictures, taunted her with knives, cutting into her flesh. She was starved and weak, cold and in shock from pain and more. 

He'd taken abnormal pleasure in caressing her body, finding ways to arouse her with gentle touches that were far worse than the pain he inflicted.

And all she wanted to know was why? Why her? Why had he picked her? This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. This didn't happen to her, it only happened to stupid girls. The naive ones that didn't know better than to go with strange men, or answer their doors without knowing who was there. She wasn't like that. She knew better, didn't she?

But she was here, in this room. She hadn't been smarter or quicker or any of the other things she had always said she was. She'd been taken and abused. She'd been left tied like a dog. No the way she was tied was worse, exposed and open to whatever games he wanted to play. Tied to that table... 

This time he hadn't tied her back up.

She lay where he'd left her, coughing and gasping in as much sweet air as her lungs could take. Breathing as deeply as her bruised and bloody throat would allow. He hadn't tied her back to that table. The thought swirled through her battered mind. Maybe? If he left now, maybe she could pry the door open. She swiveled her head around, staring at the plain room, at the old walls. Maybe she could dig her way out of the crumbling portion of wall that was close to coming down anyway. She could catch her breath and escape. Then she could lead someone back here. She could make him pay for what he had done. She felt hope, glittering, shiny hope swell. If he left... 

Hope died and terror returned as he started back across the floor towards her, his knife shining almost as brightly as the evil smile that twisted features she had once before thought were so handsome.

A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 01



Detective Nicholas Saint stood in the bathroom of the Lapeer County Sheriff's station, hands gripping one of the three sinks lining one wall, staring at himself in the mirror.

His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, evidence of too much Jack Daniels and too many sleepless nights. His hair was mussed from running his hands through the thick black strands in frustration. He grimaced at the sour taste of cigarettes and over cooked coffee in his mouth.

This was too much. He had come home to the town of Lapeer, a city just east of Flint, Michigan, to get away from big city crime. Dealing with stoners and street racing, the occasional bar fight or breaking and entering was a relief after working homicide in Las Angeles as he had been doing since he got his detective's badge ten years ago. One year ago, he'd had enough.

Burned out and hurting after a shoot out with some teenaged gang bangers, he had put in his resignation and gotten in touch with Lapeer County Sheriff's Department about a job. He had packed his bags, loaded up his 2003 Ford Mustang, his pride and joy, and came home to Michigan.

Yeah, he had lost the earthquakes and the mud slides and had gained the blizzards, cold weather and tornados. He had exchanged Hollywood stars and wannabes for rednecks and hicks. And had done it with a smile. At the time it had seemed like a good change. Now he wasn't so sure.

Two months ago, he had responded to a call for a detective to an abandoned farm house on a well traveled back road. That had been the first murder he had seen since returning home. And it had brought all the old memories, all the old feelings of helplessness back.

He had hoped that it was a burglary gone bad, or a domestic situation that had taken that final extra step. A one time thing where they would investigate, find the husband or lover standing over the body with a bloody knife and mark it down as solved so he could go back to his investigating the bottom of his Jack Daniel's bottle.

Even after seeing the body, seeing the atrocities that had been done to it, he still clung stubbornly to that hope. The condition of the body had been bad, so bad that fingerprints had almost been impossible. There were no teeth left in the mouth, she had been beaten so severely. 

Identification of the victim still hadn't been made. And the case was still under investigation. Jack had been put on hold.

Still, he had hoped for an isolated incident. Maybe some deviant from Detroit dropping off a body in a deserted area. Multiples like this happened in big cities, not in a community like Lapeer.

Until last night, he had clung to that hope.

He had bought an older house on the outskirts of the farming community outside of city limits and was working on the repairs himself. It was soothing and mind numbing, pounding nails was damn good therapy. Maybe he should recommend it to the department shrink next time he talked to her. It was much better than the notebooks that they wanted him to keep, the mind exercises, the deep breathing exercises. So much simpler than the exercises in denial that he was so good at.

He was on call. Well, being one of just three detectives in the department, he was almost always on call. He hated the beeper that he carried around with him, slept with, showered with, ate with. But it was part of the job. When it had gone off, he had just about been tired enough to be able to sleep without lying in bed for most of the night, tossing and turning. He had been at work this morning at four am and had made definite plans to go to bed early tonight, to try and make up for all the sleep that he never got. When it went off he had wanted to throw the damn beeper across the room.

Instead, he reached for his phone, automatically dialing the number even though it was first and only one of two numbers on his auto dial. First being the precinct, second being the takeout pizza joint down the road. The dispatcher had answered almost immediately and he cringed as he recognized her voice. Allison Trammel was a good dispatcher but she had a voice to match her looks, overblown and strident. She was good at her job, staying calm no matter what happened. 

But he would rather talk to his ex mother than listen to her voice.

He could hear the excitement behind the calm tones of her voice. If calm tones meant Minnie Mouse on speed, of course. And then what she was saying cut through his preoccupation with her voice.

"Nicky, we got another DB. Out on Five Lakes Road, nearest cross roads would be Bowers and Five Lakes. They need you out there ASAP." He thought he heard her voice crack with excitement. "Think it could be the same thing as the last?"

He shook his head. Did she actually say "DB"? Next thing he knew, she was going to be talking about unknown subjects and perpetrators.

"Now how would I know that Alli?" he said calmly. "I haven't been at the scene yet." He let a hint of a sense of humor he didn't feel lace his tone. "Besides, doll, you'll probably know all about it before I do. You dispatchers get all the good gossip."

He cringed at the hee-hawing laugh and hung up, ran to his bathroom and cleaned up quickly. Then he threw a shirt on over the old jeans he was still wearing and added a leather jacket that was ancient when it had been passed down to him in college. He tucked his Beretta 9mm into it's shoulder holster, feeling more normal with the added weight and grabbed his car keys and left.

He took back roads all the way there, kicking up a huge trail of dust behind his dark blue mustang enjoying the play even though he knew he would be doing hell on his paint job with gravel chips. He even used the bubble light that had sat on the back seat of his car in its original plastic since he had gotten it. He arrived on the scene in fifteen minutes; something the Sheriff would have had his ass for, considering he lived some twenty miles away. It was hard to mistake which house he was looking for, three patrol units were parked in front, lights going and one state police car was sitting up close to the house. What the state boys were doing there, he had no idea.

He flashed his badge at the cop directing traffic and radioed in to dispatch that he had arrived. The he drove halfway onto the grass, parked behind one of the patrol cars, got out and took a good look at where he was.

It was a nice area, houses were older but not in too bad of repair, corn fields surrounding three of them into a tiny oasis. Across the road was a church, one of the smaller ones that just seemed to sprout up in any area that had names that no one could pronounce much less remember. Down the road about a quarter of a mile was a huge farm house and barn. Horses were grazing peacefully in a large pasture. Over the sounds of police radios and men's voices, he could hear the distant blare of a train whistle. Not the kind of area that you would figure for a murder scene. He turned to look at the property and quickly changed that opinion.

The house was deserted, listing drunkenly on its foundation. The front porch was crumbling with shoots of wild grass pushing through the cement. The yard was about an acre plot covered with tufts of weeds pitted with camouflaged holes destined to break someone's ankle. Behind the house, almost hidden in the weeds, was a decrepit outbuilding. The door was hanging open, listing on one hinge. He could see a mountain of junk, part of a washing machine and maybe what looked like a dishwasher inside. The shed itself looked ready to cave in without the least provocation. The roof was bad; rafters could be seen like ribs through the gaping holes in the shingles.

The house itself was a conglomeration of added on rooms, very badly added on rooms to his critical eyes. Some windows were broken out and a TV antenna was hanging off the roof looking like a stiff wind would send it tumbling. There was a huge oak tree sitting out front shading the front of the house from the late afternoon sun for at least another half an hour before the sun would be below its branches.

As he approached the house, stepping around a pile of torn open boxes that someone had just thrown on the porch, he couldn't help but notice the cops just standing around, staring at trash inside the house and bullshitting. He saw one uniformed cop outside, stringing crime scene tape. Must be the rookie, he thought, shaking his head in disgust. He nodded at a couple of the men, smiled at a female cop that looked as if she would rather be cleaning up the holding cell than in that room and took a look around.

The living room was small, tilted hard wood floor that at one time had probably been pretty classy was now bleached out and in bad need of sanding and finishing.

Someone had painted the room a very unfortunate shade of dark blue, a white six inch stripe keeping the blue from touching the ceiling. He could see down a dark hallway into what he thought was the kitchen. Ducts from a freestanding furnace were bored into the walls which were painted orange. The orange wouldn't have been bad if it had been a color that was describable. This wasn't. The same hall held a set of stairs that went to the second floor. They were narrow and tilted and looked as if they would collapse under the least amount of weight.

He could smell the body before he saw her. She was off of the main room in what could have been a small bedroom or den. In a clutter of old moving boxes and some abandoned ancient cheap furniture was a small figure barely discernable as female. She was nude, left lying in the bright spotlight of sun from one of the two windows. The sun had done a number on her body, effectively hurrying the decomposition and leaving the house filled with a number of creepy crawlies. Not to mention the smell. Please God, don't mention the smell.

There was nothing like the smell of a decomposing body be it animal or human. It was heavy and cloying. And no matter how often you smelled it, it came as a shock to the system and to the gag reflex.

He took a last deep breath through his mouth, trying not to let the taste of the odor settle on his tongue and ducked into the room. He wouldn't breath that deep again until he was out of this room. And then he took a look around.

His first impression was body dump. There were no blood stains in the cheap, tattered carpeting, no body fluids left from bowels, bladder or stomach. There was no violence, torn drapes, marks on the walls that could have been made as recently as this body had been left. There was no blood spatter left from a knife wound. There was nothing was left to say that this was the primary crime scene. He walked around the body, careful to stay back away and not contaminate evidence.

Pictures were already forming in his mind as to what may have been done to her. It amazed him that, even after a year away, old habits died hard. He could still draw it out of himself and force himself to see.

There was really nothing left of the person she had been once here. What skin wasn't ripped up by the killer was either too bloated or black from decomposition to be recognizable. The edges of the wounds were tattered and maggots were squirming in her flesh.

He could see an earring in her right ear, a gold and diamond stud that was too big to be real. Her other ear was missing. Her face had been beaten and was as bloated as the rest of her, teeth gone in her mouth, some broken leaving yellowish stubs in the blackened gums. She had been beaten very badly before death.

Her arms were twisted in back of her and her legs were sprawled out, parted wide. Patches on her arms and legs had been sliced off and part of her chin looked chewed away. Insects and small animals had been working on her for a while. 

There was no clothing, no purse, nothing in the room that looked like it had belonged to the victim. She had been left like trash. Definitely a body dump.

He walked back into the other room, his mind already sorting details into nice neat file folders in his head. Questions to ask came first. 

He stopped by one of the uniformed sheriff deputies that he had worked with before. "Hey, Sam."

Sam Miller had been on the job for a while. He was a good road officer, knew the rules of crime scenes and could shoot the shit with anyone. If he hadn't been so dedicated to a life of no strings and smooth sailings, he would have made a hell of a politician. He turned away from his partner, a good looking blonde with big eyes and a body that made the uniform look as if it were made by some high class fashion designer specifically for her.

Sam grinned at Nick and nodded back at the blonde. "My new partner," the grin turned lascivious. "The Gods in charge finally decided to give me someone who could keep me awake during patrol. Just too bad now that, with her in the car, I can't keep my mind on speeders and tickets." He guffawed as if had said something extremely funny.

"Yeah, too bad you'd probably put her to sleep from boredom if she ever gave you the time of day," Nick said, nodding at the blonde and reading her name tag. M Parsons. She didn't look new to the job, didn't bat an eye at off colored jokes being made around her by cops that used humor as a defense mechanism against the violence they saw on a daily basis. She said nothing at all about the smell. She didn't even wrinkle her lovely little nose at it. And she didn't have that shell shocked look of a rookie seeing evidence of what evil was and did to its smaller and weaker prey. Interesting. He'd seen men twice her size turn green and vomit at the smell, much less the sight of what a dead body could look like. He'd seen more reaction from Sam then what he was getting from her.

He smiled, pretending disinterest even as his libido kicked into gear, he had been without for too long, he decided. He took one more admiring look, covering it with a glance around the room. Then he turned back to Sam and work. "You been here long?" He looked around at the other cops.

"Long enough to wish that I was somewhere else, preferable with a good stiff drink," Sam muttered. He hated the smell of decomposing death, it took forever to get out of your nose, your hair, your clothes. Anyone he was around the rest of shift would look at him, wrinkle their nose or just ask him if he had shit his pants or something. "I was first on scene, took the original call."

M Parsons spoke up reminding the men that she was there. "We were first on scene," she said, her voice husky, reminding Nick of jazz music, smoky bars, a blonde in a long velvet dress with a slit up to her thigh. Or long steamy nights in bed twisting up the bed sheets.

Whoa, stop that.

He turned to include her in the conversation, allowing himself another long look. "And..." he started for them.

Sam took a deep breath and started to open his mouth, but M jumped in. "The neighbors called in the smell, thought some animal had gotten in here and died, didn't want their kids around it. House has been deserted since February when the owner had surgery and couldn't keep up with the place anymore. Since then, every once in a while they get kids out here using the place as some kind of hangout."

Wow, that voice was something else. She should be doing phone sex, could make herself millions and never have to leave home, Nick thought with a grin. Husky and dirty sounding, it was the kind of voice that you'd like to hear calling out your name in the dark on a long winter night.

"So," he said, "considering the condition of the body, did they hear or see anything about two to three weeks ago?" He looked at Sam.

"Michelle talked to them after we found the body," he said nastily. "All I did was secure the scene." He nudged his partner none too gently with a sharp, bony elbow to continue.

Ahhh, M was for Michelle. It fit her, sultry and exotic with a hint of sass.

"The owner, a," she glanced at her notes written in a leather flipbook, "Mitch Miller, ran some kids out of here a couple of weeks ago. He wasn't sure of exact dates. But they were gone on vacation for ten days. He had a friend of the family checking in on his property and is getting me his number. Neighbors on the other side of them have been gone to Florida since May and due back next week." She snapped her notebook closed. "So no one saw anything or heard anything."

Vacations. Much better than the old 'I was in the bathroom' routine.

"What about the church?" He nodded at the window that faced the road, looking through broken slates in the blinds at the tiny building that was topped with a large white cross.

"I got the number," she said. "I could call them when we get back to the station?" she offered almost too casually.

Nick almost laughed at the eagerness she tried to hide in her voice. She may not act like a new cop at a crime scene but she had the attitude. Give em an inch and they wanted a mile. He might be tempted to put her to work on this one. And she damn sure wasn't hard on the eyes either. He might be stepping on a few toes and bruising some egos taking on the new kid and a girl at that, but it wouldn't be a first time for him.

Small towns didn't have the budgets for big cases. They didn't have the detectives or the investigators handy so, if necessary, uniformed cops could be called into service to do the grunt work, the knocking on doors and running paperwork. He just hoped this wasn't going to be one of those big cases. He didn't think he was emotionally equipped enough yet to deal with it.

He gave her a curt nod of assent, trying to keep up the tough, big city attitude that had carried him so far in California. He almost smiled, he could see her mentally rubbing her hands together in glee like a kid ready to dive into a big pile of Christmas presents. "Make the calls and make sure the reports are on my desk tonight. Get a hold of the neighbor's friend." Yeah that sounded tough enough. "Find out where the owner is and talk to him too." He gave her a once over meant to put her in her place. "Tonight, Parsons. I wanna be able to take a look at them when I get in my office in the morning."

He walked away without another word to her and went to study the door frame that was just slightly off kilter because of the bad foundation and crumbling cement porch. There was no sign of break in. The door frame was undamaged, the door latch in one piece and no scratches on any of the surfaces that he could see.

"How did you get in?" He turned back to Sam, seeing the scowl he directed at his new partner disappear when he noticed he was being watched.

"It wasn't locked." He shrugged. "Michelle, here, wanted to break down the door until I turned the handle." He ignored his partner's dirty look and went to look at the door also. "Yeah. That's weird. But I guess there are enough broken windows in this place that you wouldn't have to break in the door." He nodded towards the back of the house where Nick could see a window, or what was left of one, covered by what looked like a piece of cardboard.

They both looked up when they heard a new siren and saw the County Morgue's van pull in. It drove through the yard and parked close to the front door. Right behind it, parking next to it, was the big SUV driven by one of the crime scene investigators that the county kept on retainer.

Following close behind them was the first of the news hounds.

Nick closed his eyes in frustration. This wasn't supposed to happen here. He came here to get away from death and its following messes. Instead, here he was, smack dab in the middle of it with no way out but the coward's way. He yelled at a couple of the guys standing around jawing to get outside and help control the growing crowd of spectators and keep the newsies back and out of the scene.

Reporters had their jobs to do as well as he did. He had learned the hard way many years ago that they would do about anything to get their story. 




A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 01



He was a rookie and she was a gorgeous, ambitious, rising star. It was the sme sad story that happens all the time. When she found out that he could be closed mouth about a case and nothing about her many abundant charms would wheedle, cajole or coerce anything out of him but a good time, the relationship ended.

Car doors slammed outside. The guys with the gurney and black body bag came in first, their expressions screwing up in distaste as the smell of decomposing flesh hit them like a slap in the face.

"Phew, that smells worse than what my dog rolled in last week," one of them, a tall, very skinny guy in a black coroner's windbreaker with the name 'Bob' stitched across the breast muttered disgustedly, backing up a step.

His partner, as short and round as the other one was tall and thin, nodded and gave an informed "Yup," and shoved the gurney forward into Bob's side earning him a dirty look.

Behind them trooped in two members of the crime scene team carrying black plastic suitcases and a fishing tackle box full of their paraphernalia. 

The first one through the door, a tall redhead with a gorgeous figure and sass to match, stopped by Nick. She gave him the once over, almond shaped green eyes letting on that she really liked what she saw and wouldn't mind getting to know it better.

"Hey, Nicky," she purred. "Got another one for us I heard. We still don't have all the forensic results back on the first one." She smiled at him. "What, you get tired of small town life and decided to bring us some excitement?"

He smirked at her. "Yeah, Lisha. I got so bored I decided to start importing scum bags."

"Thought so." She changed her expression to a fake look of sympathy interlaced with concern. "When the sheriff called to give us this run, he told me to tell you to call him. He has been trying to get you but says you turned off your cell phone again and you're ignoring your beeper."

Nicky could almost smell cattiness coming from her. She lived to make other people miserable, which was probably what made her so good in her job. She could turn it on and off, and wasn't afraid to get into someone's face to do what she had to. Death didn't bother her. Rape victims got the same false sympathy she just dished to him. Most of them were too traumatized to realize it. 

Witnesses didn't stand a chance with her. Most officers he knew weren't happy when they saw her come onto a scene. She might be beautiful and she might like to flaunt what the good Lord saw fit to give her, but she was a barracuda with a wide mouth full of razor sharp teeth and a happy impulse to bite.

Damn. He knew what the sheriff had to say. He knew that he was going to be put on this because he had 'experience'. And, God knew, he didn't want anything to do with it. He had enough bad memories to last his next two lifetimes. This one already stunk. It was going to be bad for everyone concerned and he knew it. He heaved a sigh, not caring that Lisha was probably reveling in the fact that she got in a shot. He was just too tired.

"Reports and photos on my desk as soon as you get them, okay Lisha?" He paused, looking at her to make sure she understood. "No talking to the press, period. If anything comes up that seems even the slightest bit unusual, let me know right away. Get some photos of the crowd out there, too. Nice clear faces." He turned away to give orders to the few cops left in the room that hadn't snuck out when Lisha had walked in and to speak to the state boys, ignoring the evil look she turned his way.

Lisha bristled under his orders. She knew her job and did it well despite cops who couldn't tell fingerprints from paw prints. She never talked to the press unless there was something in it for her, and in this case, there wasn't yet. She felt like snapping to attention and saluting him with her middle finger but instead she just nodded and walked into the next room where their newest body and its evidence lay, letting her hips roll in a way she knew would attract the attention of every male eye in the room.

Nick looked around once more, sighed again and left the house, ducking cameras and questions as he went to his car to get his notebook and pen, then headed to the next door neighbor's house and a long evening full of work.

Now, after being corralled by Sheriff 'I won't have this shit in my county, take care of it now, Nick' Williams and chain smoking a pack of cigarettes, drinking endless rivers of motor oil that passed for coffee all the while trying to get answers from people who either didn't know what they saw or weren't available to talk, here he was.

He turned on the faucet and scooped a handful of water to hold against his face, relishing the bite of cold against his hot skin. The water woke him momentarily but he knew it wouldn't be long before he was longing for bed again. Ten years ago, he could have stayed up for days straight if necessary. He had in college, working hard to get his degree in Criminal Justice with a few classes in psychology as electives to give him a step up before joining any precinct.

The door banged open beside him, startling him out of his thoughts. He turned his head, his hand automatically going to the handle of his gun.

"Jesus Christ!" he gasped, as he saw who was in the doorway. Jimmy Benitti, another of the county detectives stood there, his eyes wide, a city newspaper clasped under his arm. "I coulda shot you, Jimmy." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on people?"

Jimmy pushed past him, ignoring the bite of his words. "Just because the sheriff reamed you a new asshole, don't shoot me for it. I didn't do anything but open a door, Nick." He started into one of the stalls, turning to look back at Nick's reflection in the mirror before he closed the door.

"Big city boy gets to play hero and show us small town cops a thing or two." He shook his head. "I like you, Nicky. You seem to be a good cop and a decent guy. Lots of the other guys are gonna to want to see you fail on this one and will sit and crow while you're floundering in shit. I'm not one of them." He shook his head again, sympathy shining out of brown eyes, a weary smile on his face. "Hell of a thing to happen here. Hell of a thing. Happy hunting on this one, Nicky. I think you are going to need all the luck you can get."



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 02



Those words came to haunt Nick. There'd been no identification on either of the victims. They had managed to get fingerprints on victim one. She wasn't in any system that Nick had available to him, including AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. So, whoever she was, she didn't have a record and had never been fingerprinted.

It had been impossible to fingerprint victim two. The decomposition had been too devastating, animals had destroyed what the killer hadn't. 

Dental records weren't going to be helpful. The only other thing that they could go by would be CODIS, or the Combined DNA Indexing system. For that to work, somebody would have had to report the girl missing, and then DNA had to be made available, either through hair, toothbrush, etc. 

It wasn't an impossibility, but he knew that getting DNA into CODIS was difficult due to a backlog that could take months if not years to unclog.

So he was stuck with two Jane Does, no eye witnesses at either crime scene, no evidence. No nothing.

Frustration flowed through Nick and he took a last deep drag off the cigarette he was smoking. So much for trying to quit this month he thought. It wasn't going to happen. He dropped it onto the cement and ground it out with his foot. He had been sitting on the steps of the court house for the past twenty minutes, wasting time before he had to go talk to the sheriff who had demanded an update on his case, the only case that he was working right now and would be working until it was solved. At least that is what the sheriff had told him the night the second body had been found. Damn.

He pushed himself to his feet, took a swipe at the dark hair tumbling over his forehead and into his eyes, straightened the expensive silk tie that wanted to strangle him and took a deep breath. He tried to push some of the wrinkles out of the designer slacks that were a holdover from his days in LA and then gave up. He might as well get this over with.

The sheriff had been in meetings all morning at the courthouse. Nick had heard rumors that the man was going to run for Mayor of the city next term and was getting all of his little soldiers in gear. Another reason for him to jump on Nick. It doesn't look good for the sheriff, who is trying to become Mayor to have a serial killer running around or dumping bodies in his county. 

That could put a serious black mark on his record. Good Lord. Whatever happened to solving crimes so people would be safe, not for the political score keepers to tally another notch on who would make the best candidate?

Cynical, Nicky, really cynical.

Sheriff 'Tank" Tanner Williams was a short, round man who made up for his lack of stature with his mouth and with his attitude. Before deciding to throw his hat into the political ring, he had been a good sheriff, working hard right beside his deputies. Now he directed, he gave commands, he sat behind his desk and kept his nose out of anything that could possibly stain his reputation letting his men take the blame for him.

Cops got dirty; it was part of being a cop.

"Nicky!"

The greeting was hale and hearty; a man who wanted it to be known that he kept in good connection with the people he worked with. Nick turned around and held out his hand, wishing he didn't have to shake the sheriff's hand. He had the type of grip that was supposed to come off as honest and well meaning. It fell short with Nick making him feel like he had his back slapped and stabbed at the same time. The man only shook hands with his deputies in public. In private, he sat behind his wide specially made desk, leaving them to stand before him like a student being called into the principal's office.

"So what do we got, Nicky?" Williams rubbed his hands together like he was going to a big feast.

What do we got? The man was amazing, like he had done much in the way of police work on this case. When had he gone out and knocked on doors, woke people up at all hours and generally made the public think he was shit. Nick looked up and down the hallway and groaned. There was no privacy here, no way he was going to discuss his case, or his lack of case in this instance, here. 

He could see ears perking up all up and down the hallway. The hazards of working in a small town, everyone knew what you were doing. And they all knew that the sheriff had given him this case with his fullest 'confidence'.

"Can we go somewhere more private, Sheriff?" he asked quietly.

The sheriff glared at him, he liked to do his job in public. Even if it was dressing down his deputies. Made him look tough and no nonsense, the exact kind of presence he wanted to display on his platform for the upcoming mayoral campaign. He heaved a sigh, took Nick by the arm and led him into a deserted courtroom.

"Okay, you got your privacy, Saint. What do you have?" His voice, his inflection, his body language all changed when there wasn't anyone to watch and admire him for the job he did.

"Nothing."

There it was, all in one word. That's what this case was rounding down to. They had nothing.

The sheriff's eyes widened. "What do you mean nothing?" he asked, outraged. "What am I paying you for?"

"Well, for starters, we haven't been able to identify either victim. That doesn't mean that we won't, just that we haven't yet. There were no unusual trace elements on either body. The toxicology reports show nothing across the board. The autopsies showed that both victims were killed with the same type of knife, single edge wide blade, like a hunting knife. And the blade was about eight inches long. Victim one," he took out his notebook and scanned his carefully printed notes, "was stabbed at least thirty six times. Victim two was stabbed at least thirty times. Lack of flowing blood to the tissue prove that most of the stab wounds were done postmortem. It was very definitely rage induced."

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before continuing. "We can't tell if either victim was sexually assaulted, what damage the killer didn't do was done by natural decomposition of the body which was accelerated by being left to lay in the sunlight."

The sheriff looked like he was going to stroke out, face red and sweating, eyes squinted almost shut, one hand pressed up against his forehead. He didn't say anything for almost a minute.

It was a long sixty seconds. Nick thought he was going to have to call the paramedics, was just getting ready to pull out his cell phone when the sheriff shook his head and looked at him again.

It was an amazing transformation, his face was back to its normal shade. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow and his upper lip and then smiled at Nick.

"Nick," he began, his voice carefully modulated to the 'I'm a good ole boy sheriff' tone he used when he was getting ready to make a point he thought should be obvious to whatever poor schmuck he was talking to. "We need to do something about this. We haven't had a murder in this county in forty years. I won't have this unsolved. And I won't have some perverted deviant running around killing little girls." His gaze pinned Nick to the spot, trying to be intimidating. It would have worked if Nicky hadn't had other, more powerful men try it before. "You came here very highly recommended. I made a spot for you. I can unmake it."

The message was unmistakable. Make the sheriff look good or else. Nicky almost snorted in disbelief. Murder, blackmail, intimidation. Every wonderful fucking thing that made the world go round.

"Yes, sir." He hoped he was able to keep enough sarcasm out of those two little words to hide his true feelings.

At one time, oh, so many years ago, Nick had been an idealist, thinking that maybe he could make a difference. He had gone into law enforcement wanting to serve the people and put away the bad guys. He loved the feel of the badge, the importance of what it stood for. Until he was taught differently.

It hadn't taken long before he realized that the public only wanted to be served if it didn't inconvenience them in any way. He had heard the word harassment more from potential witnesses then from suspects. Why was it when a police officer asked a few intimate questions, good citizens yelled harassment? Good being the operative word. Everyone had something to hide.

He left the courtroom before the sheriff, walking swiftly out of the court house into the beautiful summer day. Time to start back at square one.

Two hours later, he stared out the window of the tiny closet that served as his office. He hated square one more than he hated anything else in this world. The grown-up man-voice in his mind told him to sit up, quit his whining and get back to work. But he was tired of that voice. He would have liked to sweep the whole mess into the trashcan sitting next to his desk, grab his fishing pole and leave for the nearest fishing hole. He sighed heavily, looking at the heavily wooded area that his office backed up on, his mind on fishing and maybe a catnap next to the water.

A knock on his door brought him away from the feel of cool fresh water on his feet and a bottle of Bud in one hand, his fishing pole in the other.

"Yeah?" Damn did that sound irritable. Too bad that his ability to really give a shit had been lost about four hours ago.

The door pushed open.

Boy he looked like he'd been dragged through shit and then propped in a corner to dry. That was the first thought that went through Michelle's head as she stood in the doorway. His hair was mussed and standing on end as if he had been pulling it out with his fists. There were dark shadows under his gorgeous blue eyes, lines etched deeply next to his mouth. His clothes were rumpled, expensive material horribly creased, suit coat thrown over the back of the cheap desk chair he sat in. He looked like he had slept in them, except his eyes were screaming out the truth that he hadn't slept in a while.

But, even in his haggard condition, he was still too attractive. She felt that pull toward him that she did the first time she had seen him two weeks ago to the day, striding up to the front door of that ramshackled farmhouse. That had been her fourth day on the job. And her first murder scene. She still had trouble getting the image of that poor battered and tortured girl out of her head. Nobody should die that way.

Detective Nick Saint was impressive. She couldn't deny that. He had walked through that door and every eye had turned to him. He gave orders and people jumped. He made even the lowliest officer seem important. Oh, God. She had a good case of hero worship and an overactive sex drive. And here she was, standing in his office with the intention of talking him into letting her play a part in his investigation. She had to be a masochist. There wasn't any other reason for her to want to put herself through the tangled emotions working with him was destined to produce.

She cleared her throat, cursing her sudden overwhelming case of dry mouth.

"Detective Saint..." she started.

"Nick," he automatically corrected, searching through the stacks of paper on his desk for a cigarette before giving up and finding a piece of Nicorette gum. Whoever thought this shit helped people to quit was a sadist. They should just attach it to the filters of cigarettes. That'd keep everyone from smoking.

Okay, so what was she doing here? He gave her his undivided attention, his eyes roaming over the tight uniform pants, the shirt whose buttons strained across her breasts. He hadn't seen her since the night of the second body. She had delivered her reports when he wasn't in his office, everything typed neatly and concisely delivered in correct police vernacular. She was very thorough in her questioning, very polite to those she had talked to.

And she was gorgeous. It hit him again, she was too classy to be wearing a uniform and carrying a gun. She looked like she should be wearing designer suits and writing briefs in some high priced law office in either New York or Washington, D.C.

He watched her squirm under his scrutiny for a second and realized she had said something to him that he had missed. Well that's what you get for letting your libido take charge of the brain.

"I'm sorry, Michelle, isn't it?" He used her first name to put her at ease and to show that he did remember her. At her nod, he continued. "I haven't been to bed since yesterday morning, so I'll hope you'll forgive the mind blank. What did you want?" Boy now he sounded like a real idiot. Maybe he should give in and take that fishing trip.

Michelle realized she was standing at attention and automatically slouched a little, trying to give the impression that she wasn't uncomfortable with his scrutiny or the fact that he was Detective Nick Saint, Hot Shot Investigator. He was probably testing her, letting her think that what she said didn't mean that much because she was just a deputy in uniform, didn't have his stature. So she had to make herself look that much better.

"I was, um," dammit all, say what you mean. "I wanted to know if there was a chance that I could help you with the murder case, sir."

Concise. Tone wasn't too bad, maybe a little breathless. God, why was she doing this to herself? She must be paying for sins from a past life

"Nick," he corrected again. "Sir was my dad." Corny joke, Nick. But it got a ghost of a smile on those full lips. He nodded towards one of the two chairs that sat on the other side of his desk. Chairs that he had snatched out of one of the two briefing rooms. His office hadn't come completely furnished, he smiled inwardly at the joke.

She sat, rigid despite his attempt at putting her at ease.

"Why would you want to work on this case? Isn't there enough work out on the streets to keep you busy?" Not that he would mind working with her. He could use someone to be a sounding board, or even a new perspective. And she was good to look at. Down boy, he cautioned himself.

"Well, sir," she licked her lips not noticing how his eyes beamed in on the tip of her tongue. She tried again. "I want to be a detective. I know that I have to put in the "time". Earn my stripes."

Nick smiled. It sounded like she had heard that enough. But it was true, he had 'earned his stripes' put in the hours and had a failed marriage to show for it. One other reason to get away from California.

"But why this case? You must have heard all the rumors about how bad this one is. And that we have nothing to show for any of the hours put in."

Okay, this was her chance to prove why she could be an asset to the case. "Well, sir, I figured that I couldn't hurt anything and probably could be a big help. I come from a long line of police officers. I've listened to and talked through cases with my dad. I have a background in forensics and I would really like to help." There it was in a nut shell.

Nick sat back, picking up a letter opener that had at one time been used as a murder weapon in the first case he had worked as a homicide detective. Easy case, the wife had admitted to it. She'd been the victim of some serious spousal abuse. He had gone to court, testified to the abuse he had seen on her body, and to the belt still wrapped around the husband's hand. She had gotten off and had given him the opener as a thank you. He had enjoyed her macabre sense of humor and had kept the grisly souvenir even if it was slightly morbid. He played with the thin blade now as he watched her with shrewd eyes.

She was right; she couldn't hurt the case because there wasn't a case to hurt. And it might be fun to have her around if only to stop her from calling him sir. He sat forward in his chair and reached for the phone, ignoring her gasp as his actions surprised her. He spoke up as he starting hitting buttons on the phone.

"You know, this isn't my call. I'll have to run it by the Sheriff."

He spoke into the phone before she could answer. "Hey Louise," he grinned into the phone. Best part about having to speak to the Sheriff was his secretary. She was big, round and tough, no one got by her to speak to the Sheriff unless she okay'd it. And she had a very short list of people that she was willing to okay. But she had a soft spot for Nick, he reminded her of her son. Something he used ruthlessly to his own advantage whenever he had to.

He listened for a moment. "Yeah, honey, I'll take care of that for you. How bad's the leak?"

Michelle could hear the secretary talking. She had talked to the venerable Louise before herself. The woman was terrifying, formidable was her middle name. And Nick was talking to her and had her eating out of his hands. The man was amazing.

"No problem. This weekend good for you?" He sat back and listened for a second. "No, don't worry about it. Just fix me some of them cookies, the frosted ones?" He listend for a second longer. "Yeah, if he has a second."

It seemed like hours to Michelle before he spoke again. She wanted this so badly that she could barely breathe. Law enforcement had always been what she wanted to do but her mother was against it. Her wonderful mother who had raised her and her brother with an iron fist tempered with hugs, kisses and homemade chocolate fudge. Her mother had given one of her children to law enforcement and wanted Michelle to go into business, maybe help her with that aspect of her own company. So Michelle had gone to college for business, taking extra law enforcement classes as well. She had excelled at the police work, loved the physical part, and didn't even blink at autopsies, dead bodies, blood and gore. It was in her blood.

While finishing up with her degree in criminal justice, she had worked with her mother, not letting on that she was still taking classes. She had graduated number two in her class. And when her parents found out, her dad had grinned like an idiot and her mother had fumed for a week. But she had come around when Michelle had promised to still help out at her flower shop.

Nick was speaking into the phone, drawing her away from her musings.

"Yeah, Sheriff. She can't hurt and I could use the extra man power."

Silence.

"Okay," Nick grinned at Michelle. She felt her heart flop over at the devastating effect just that smile had on her system. She was definitely going to need the barrier of professionalism to keep her feelings in line. And maybe a whip and chair. Being in his presence was sending little electric shocks through her nerve endings, something that had never happened to her before.

Nick hung up the phone.

"Okay, Michelle." He sat forward and laced his fingers together letting his hands sit on top of a stack of photos showing different angles of the crime scene, the top one a close up of the victim's face. It showed the missing ear, nose gone most likely chewed off, broken and missing teeth in a mouth permanently open in a scream of terror filled pain.

"The sheriff said that I could use you on a probationary basis. You can sit in on interviews and help with the grunt work. But," and he raised a finger to make a point, "you are not to go off on your own and everything you do has to go through me." He smiled to take the bite off the words. "I'm putting my integrity on the line doing this. But it matters more to find out what happened to these victims and to bring closure and justice for the families."

"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down." On the outside she was calm professional. On the inside she was jumping up and down, doing cartwheels, and screaming for joy at the top of her lungs.

She thought she was a cool one, but Nick could see the excitement behind her eyes. Very pretty eyes, he thought. Not hazel, more gray/green specks on a light gray background, intelligent with just a hint of something that could be a sense of humor. He wondered if she would ever let him see it.

"Okay, Michelle girl. Get out of that uniform and into some civilian wear and then get back here. I hope you're ready to put in some long hours. You're buying me lunch and we are going to work through this mess from square one." Which, looking at her, wasn't such a bad place to be after all.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 03



Michelle pulled her seat-belt a little tighter, not caring if Nick saw it or not. The man drove like a maniac. She had felt safer being in a car with Sam, even though the man was a pervert and lazy as hell. She felt her stomach tighten as the light in front of them turned yellow and he sped up, going through it just as it turned red.

"Is this your way of trying to back out?" she asked him through gritted teeth.

Nick looked over at her, sitting stiffly in the low slung passenger bucket seat in his Mustang. They had offered him an undercover police vehicle when he took the job, but he preferred to drive his own car, not only because the detective's cars were always breaking down but mostly just because his car was much cooler.

"You don't like my driving?" he asked innocently, feigning a hurt he didn't feel, turning his attention to her for a few seconds longer than she liked.

"NASCAR wouldn't like your driving," she grumbled. "Watch where you're going!"

He grinned and turned his attention back to the road as she muttered something under her breath about masochism. The way things were going; she would be taking down her hair and kicking back with him in no time.

"Where are we going?" she asked, refusing to look out the windshield again, instead studying him like an insect under a microscope.

"Lunch." He sped up to pass a semi on the right just as the four lane road merged into two lanes. He made it, but got a blast of horn from the trucker. Looking into his rearview mirror, he could just make out the guy swearing at him and sending him the single digit salute.

"But we're headed out of town," Michelle looked around, noticing that they were passing the used car lots that lined US 24 north of town. "There aren't any restaurants out this way."

"My favorite is out this way, hope you like Italian."

Italian food and murder. Red sauce and blood. Suddenly she wasn't very hungry. If his driving wasn't going to kill her appetite, she had no doubt that the crime scene photos would.

She looked up in time to see him passing the first of three cars and looked back at her hands again, her body tensed for the blast of a horn, the scream of brakes, the shriek of metal tearing into metal and glass breaking.

He looked over and saw her clenched hands; white knuckled and took pity on her, slowing down once he had passed the last of the cars. He settled into the seat and kicked on the cruise control, letting the car stream along at a steady sixty miles an hour.

"So, Michelle." She was looking at his speedometer as if she couldn't believe that he had actually slowed down enough to not get her killed. "Tell me about yourself."

"I thought we were going to talk about the case."

Wow, there was steel in that smoky voice. She didn't want to talk about herself. To him? or to anyone? Was there a mystery here? It wasn't his mystery to figure out, but he wished that it were.

"If we're going to work together, I should know something about you. Don't you think? I mean, come on, if we're going to be partners we have to be able to trust each other." He liked the way that sounded. Work together, not that he was the boss and she was the deputy in disguise as a detective. And working for him, not with him.

"Not really." The two words were filled with a wealth of meaning.

He pulled into the parking lot of the small convenience store that was on the corner of the road he lived on. It was tiny; carrying only the basics in supplies such as milk and bread, but it boasted a pizza oven and made cheap but excellent pizzas. He turned off the engine and turned in his seat to look at her.

She was looking around, taking in the area and the lack of ambiance the ancient building boasted.

"Well, at least tell me one thing?" He waited until she looked at him, impatience evident in the way she moved.

"What do you like on your pizza?"

* * * *

He pulled into his driveway and got out, balancing a huge manila envelope and two thick file folders on top of the pizza box to head up the front walk toward his single story ranch style home. He expected to have to drag her out of the car. She acted like he was going to attack her or something the first second he got the chance.

But she got out of the car, took the pizza box from him when he got to the door and held it while he unlocked it and turned off the security alarm he had installed when he moved in. She walked in before him, stopping to look around at some of the work he had done. He suddenly found himself seeing it through her eyes.

The front room wasn't much, yet. He was working on the old fireplace, hoping to have it done in time for winter. He had torn a lot of the original substandard brickwork out and was redoing it himself. The mantle was oak which some barbarian had painted over in a putrid shade of green to supposedly match the woodwork around the windows. He had striped it all and stained it into a light honey color. He had replaced the front door and three windows already, two more sitting to the side of the hallway waiting to be installed.

The carpet was the same ugly stained mess that had been there when he bought the place, he was waiting to finish with the spackling, sanding, and painting of the walls before he replaced it with hardwood floors of the same soft honey as the woodwork. It was a big job, enough for a crew to do. But he was doing it himself. He considered it therapy, something to do for his mind when he woke at three in the morning with a panic attack. It was something to occupy his hands besides the shaking and tremors of fear that he wasn't going to be able to do his job, to be good enough to do what he was supposed to do.

He tried to think of a joke, a line, something to stop this feeling of inadequacy that was fighting its way up his throat from the knot in his stomach. Nothing came to mind and he stood, staring at her silently.

She turned and smiled at him. It was the first genuine smile that he had seen on her face. No artifice. It was beautiful and it hit him right below the diaphragm, making it almost impossible to breathe.

"This is going to be something when it's done." She set the pizza down on the old, lumpy couch and stepped over a pile of boards to look out one of the windows he had replaced. His backyard was small, backing up to state land that was wooded and dark. He had done some landscaping this spring, not sure if what he had done was right or not but liking the way it looked when he was finished. "You need a swing out there, right by the arbor."

"It's on back order." Was that his voice? It sounded strange to his ears.

She turned from the window and looked around at the vaulted ceilings, the completed projects and the ones that were half done and the ones that weren't even started.

"You are going to have to tell me who is doing the work. I live in an old apartment that has tons of creaks and groans. I'm dreading this winter already." She smiled at him.

"Well," he smiled back at her, unable not to. "I'll have to see if he can make the time. If we don't catch the killer or killers in these cases, he'll probably have lots of time."

Her eyes widened in amazement and she mouthed the question, you?

He nodded. She looked around again with new eyes and seemed impressed, her expression stroking his ego in ways that had everything to do with being a man and nothing to do with being a cop. He could have spent the afternoon with her, showing her the work he had done in the yard, the projects that he was setting up for himself for later. He could have enjoyed getting her opinion on the flooring, expensive ceramic tile, he wanted for the entryway and the carpeting for the bedrooms.

But he stopped himself, picked up the pizza and took it into the huge dining room. It was his work room. His office at home. The table was handmade. It had been made inside the room and that was why it was still there. The only way to take it out would be to take it apart. The old owners hadn't wanted the hassle and had sold it to him with the house.

It made the perfect place to spread out work.

He segregated the table into two sections, one for each victim. The files were open, pictures taken out of the manila envelope and placed next to the files. His notes were taken out and put off to the side. He had bought a large cork board and had leaned it against the wall; he now took it and put it up on two chairs, setting his brief case against the bottom so that it wouldn't slip over. On the board he pinned a picture of each girl, the pictures computer generated using the reconstructed skulls of each victim and generic norms for Caucasian females of their supposed age bracket.

What hair had been left on the bodies had been light colored. The first victim's eyes had been found inside her skull. They had been blue. So both victims were shown with light hair and blue eyes. The science wasn't exact, and the photographs had been given out to the press without any hits from the public yet, but they were much better than putting up the crime scene photos of decaying flesh and broken bones to identify each victim.

From the photos, the girls were late teen to early twenties. They were pretty in a way that wasn't obvious or startling. There wasn't anything about either girl that would draw crowds. What they had been had just drawn a killer.

Michelle had taken the pizza and set it up at a corner of the table. She got his attention away from the board by clearing her throat. "Plates?"

He nodded at the door into the kitchen. "Next to the sink. There's beer and pop in the fridge. Grab me a Mountain Dew?" He added almost as an afterthought as his attention was snared again by the board, "Please?"

The kitchen was neat. No dirty dishes in the sink, no food left out or drying on the stove. It didn't look like the stereotypical kitchen of a single man. In the dish dryer next to the sink was a single glass and a coffee cup. No coffee maker on the counter, which meant he either drank instant or he put it away when he was done with it.

She cringed as the image of her kitchen came to mind. It was tiny and cramped and she hadn't had much of a chance to move in since she started working. She was still living out of boxes and suitcases, cursing when she couldn't find things that she wanted and vowing that she would take care of it on her next day off. It never happened.

She found the right cupboard and was amazed again by the fact that all of his dishes, while not matching, were of good quality and complementing colors which would look good together on a dinner table. His glassware matched and wasn't the jumble of freebee stuff like what she owned. She grabbed two plates, a couple of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and opened his fridge to get the drinks.

Even here he was a surprise. No junk food boxes and bags. And it was filled with actual food. Fruits and vegetable were in the see through drawers, lunch meat was wrapped up in plastic and in another drawer. There were some leftovers but they weren't takeout. Another piece to add to the puzzle that was Nick Saint.

She grabbed his soda, taking a bottle of water for herself and took her load back to the dining room. Inside she was a quivering mess trying to steal herself to prove that she was tough enough to look at these photos and to discuss traumatic and violent death as if she dealt with it on a daily basis. Outside she was calm and in control. And she would stay that way or die trying, she vowed.

He was still standing where she had left him, staring at the pictures. It stole into her that he cared enough about the victims to lose himself in thought. She had read about his career. It was hard not to. He had been instrumental in putting away a lot of bad guys in the past twelve years, earning himself numerous awards and commendations. He was tough on those he worked with but she knew he was tougher with himself. He took failure very personally.

She sat the plates down hard enough to make a resounding thump on the huge table, effectively drawing him away from the board and back into the present with her.

"Sorry," he flushed at having been caught. "I just keep thinking that if I stare at them long enough, they'll tell me what I need to know."

Michelle made no comment, separating the plates and setting his next to him before grabbing the box of pizza. Hero worship was going to kill her. Except it wasn't feeling like hero worship any more. Just seeing that flush on his face, that little boy look at having been caught, had started a tingle in places that she wasn't going to tingle. No tingling allowed. She should get a tee shirt printed.

She opened the box, ready to grab a small slice and eat it as a token. But the aroma of hot gooey cheese, tomatoes and spices infiltrated her nose and headed straight for her stomach. It gurgled loudly, embarrassing her as it reminded her that she hadn't made time for breakfast this morning before leaving for work some seven hours ago. She had been way too nervous, finally having built up the courage to storm his office.

Nick laughed at her blush and pulled loose a large slice, sliding it onto her plate as melted cheese stringed behind it.

"Eat, we'll work after. I can't have you passing out from hunger on me." He pulled loose another piece and took a huge bite before sitting it on his plate. "I have a running account with these guys," he motioned towards the box with his free hand. "Best pizza in the area that I've been able to find."

The token slice turned into three as Nick kept her plate full and subtly coerced her into relaxing with him. He didn't ask any questions about her past but talked about the work he was doing on the house, asking her opinion, making her laugh as he told stories of smacking his thumbs as he became more adept with the hammer.

She finally set back with a sigh, looking at the last inch of crust that still sat on her plate. She took a sip of her water and then threw her napkin on the plate before Nick could fish out another slice of pizza for her.

"Keep it up and you'll have to roll me out of here," she groused at him, smiling in amazement as he finished the slice off in three huge bites. "As it is, I'm going to have to do another fifty laps in the pool just to work this off."

Nick pulled his mind off of other more interesting ways to work off their accumulated calories to concentrate instead on what she just said. "Where do you swim?" She probably looked sinful wet. It was another image to torture his underfed sex life with.

"The Rec Center up town. I try to go before work at least a couple times a week. Sitting in a car all day, I'd go nuts if I didn't do something physical. Well, something besides try to keep Sam's hands to himself all shift long."

Nick wondered if she realized what she had just said. When she went back to patrol, he would have to stop and have a little talk with Sam. Wait, whoa. What was he saying? She wasn't his concern; she could take care of herself and would probably be furious if she thought he was trying to take care of her.

Michelle moved her plate over to the side of the table, carefully wiped off the last of the pizza off of her hand and onto the napkin and reached for one of the file folders. Excitement sizzled inside as she opened it. She had seen files before, in school, in her father's office at home. But she had never been part of an ongoing case before. These pages were full of information that she was going to be allowed to use to help catch a man who was torturing and killing. She looked at the crime scene drawing, the over alls, the lab reports and tried to keep the enthusiasm out of her voice. "Shall we get started?"

They went over each case file slowly, examining each lab result, checking out each statement that had been made, what few that there were. Michelle made a list of people to talk to again, people who had reported the bodies, who lived in the area. People who probably weren't going to be happy to see a cop at their door again.

Most people didn't want to talk to the police or to be questioned by them. They didn't want cop cars sitting in their driveways to give nosey neighbors something to gossip about. But they also didn't realize how much information could come back during a second interview which made it well worth the time and effort to go back.

Nick went through a list of questions that he thought should be asked during the second interview. He was amazed when Michelle came up with a couple that he hadn't thought of. She had a quick mind and a memory that stored information like a filing system. She recalled information quickly and sorted through paperwork easily.

He saw her blanch at some of the photos, the glare of the harsh lights used to capture images giving the scene an almost false and surreal look. But even fake looking gore was still gore. She got over it quickly and helped him hang some of the photos from his cork board. "Okay, Michelle. We need to talk this out." He paused and stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the murder board. "How does he pick them up? It would have to be somewhere he wouldn't be noticed. And they wouldn't scream or struggle. That would definitely cause someone to notice." He reached over and picked up her empty water bottle, tossing it in the air as he spoke.

"So, he either picks them up late at night." The bottle flipped in the air, he grabbed it neatly. "Or he gets them somewhere alone. Then he incapacitates them somehow, ties them up, drugs?"

"I'd say drugs," Michelle said, grabbing the bottle from his hand and putting it back on the table.

"Why?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and continued pacing.

"A woman sitting up, bound, would be noticed."

"Unless, he throws them in the trunk, or has an SUV. Anyway, he takes them to his place."

"House."

"Huh?"

"Well, considering that they've been beaten, raped, and the amount of the trauma they've suffered, he had them for a while. He couldn't leave them in an apartment. This kind of thing takes privacy."

He was nodding. "Yes, definitely. He also washes them down before he dumps them, no blood on the bodies, no blood at the scene. That would take privacy too."

"So we're looking for a homeowner or someone who has access to a house, probably country or outskirts of the city. He wouldn't want close neighbors." Michelle turned to a clean page on her notebook and started writing.

"He's older, thirties or older. He's too controlled in getting rid of the body, cleaning up after himself, destroying evidence. He's done this before." Nick reached over and grabbed the water bottle again. "It's too neat for it to be his first time. We need to go back in the files and look for cold cases, definitely around Detroit, maybe some of the other big cities. Cases where the victim was stabbed multiple times, sexual abuse, cleaned up and dumped. You can use my computer here to start."

"Computer?" She looked around the crowded dining room.

"It's in my room; it's the only room in the house that has a -*phone line." He tossed the bottle into the air again. "You get started in there, I'll work out here until you start compiling data."

They worked through the late afternoon, both falling into an easy pattern, both amazed at how well they actually worked together.

Nick finally realized that he was having trouble reading some of the words on the report and looked out the window. The sun was getting ready to set, shadows were darkening in the corners of the room. It was normally his worst time of day and he hadn't even realized that it was almost past.

Michelle stood and groaned, her hands pushing in at the small of her back as she stretched out cramped muscles. She looked at the hands of her watch, amazed to realize that they had been working on the computer for over six hours.





A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 03



"It has to be going on nine," he said, still staring out the window.

"A little past," she admitted. "I think we should wrap it up for the night." She yawned suddenly, covering it belatedly with her hand.

Nick laughed. "Yeah I guess we should get you back into town." He stood and started gathering up papers, stopping when she pushed his hands back.

"What?"

"You're messing up my order," she said distractedly, working to fix what he had almost destroyed. Then she realized what she said and blushed.

He laughed harder, enjoying her immensely. He tugged on a small wisp of hair that had escaped the knot she had skinned back from her face. "Not a control freak, are you?"

She elbowed him and scowled, pulling her hair out of his grasp.

"No, I just have these in order and I don't want to have to do it again later." She caught his grin out of the corner of her eye. It disappeared when she turned to face him, her hands on her hips. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Trust me, Michelle. I know better than to laugh at a woman with a gun." His tone was all seriousness but there was a light of laughter glinting in his blue eyes.

For an instant she felt the pull, felt herself swaying towards him. Then she caught herself and turned back to the papers, confusion ran rampant but she covered it with grumbling. "Men, they have no sense," she grumbled, refusing to look at him.

She stacked everything neatly, organizing it all the way she wanted. Then she picked up her notes and grabbed her purse, shoving the pens in the front pocket and the legal notebook she had been using all day in the center part. She hefted it up to her shoulder, ignoring her back muscles that screamed the reminder once more that she had been sitting on hard chairs all day.

Nick was in awe of her purse. Well, it looked more like a big, soft suitcase. He wondered why she even carried a gun, all she would have to do would be to throw the thing at someone, have it land on them and hope you got there before its weight suffocated them. He didn't understand women and their need to carry their lives around on them. Half the time he forgot to grab his wallet, the other half, he left it in the center console in his car.

He knew her duty weapon, standard issue 9 mm, was in a holster tucked in the back of her slacks, he had also seen a backup, 22 caliber semi auto stuck in an ankle holster around her right ankle. What she carried in her suitcase was beyond him.

Ahhh, the mystery of women.

She was staring at him, her arms crossed in front of her, a scowl on her face. She had seen the look of amusement he directed at her. She didn't want to amuse him, she wanted to impress him with her intellect, amaze him with her police skills, bedazzle him with her abilities as a cop. And he found her funny. The scowl deepened.

Uh oh, she didn't look happy. Well, he would take her back to the precinct; make some calls from there and then come home. He felt good tonight, a pleasure that was unusual enough to be noted. He was tired, a good tired.

He pulled the keys out of his pants pocket and led the way to the front hall, opening the door to usher her out.

She amazed him by stopping and grabbing the keys out of his hands, turning and walking down to his car and getting in the driver's side. She ignored his protest and moved the seat a little closer to the steering wheel as he climbed in the passenger seat.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, exasperated.

"Getting home in one piece," she smiled innocently at him and started the car.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 04



"I know you RSVP'd the Mayor, dear. I'll be ready to go. Just give me a couple more minutes," he spoke patiently into the phone, the nagging overtones of his wife shattering the euphoria he had felt a few moments before. "Yes dear, we have plenty of time before the opening speeches. I promise, I'll be right in."

He stared blindly at the wall next to the phone, a wall covered by sheets of pegboard where his tools hung neatly and in order by size. Everything was clean, kept that way by his almost obsessive polishing. It kept him fixed, kept him ready at anytime. He was prepared for when the Knife told him it was time.

He looked at the gray filing cabinets that lined the space under the pegboard that were filled with his notes and pictures, his life's work, as the voice over the phone continued to harangue him. He opened one and let his fingers walk over the files, everything alphabetized and titled in his carefully neat block letters. He picked up a file at random, opening it to look at the pictures encased in plastic protectors. Then he fixated on one picture, automatically responding to the demands of his wife in the quiet tones of the subservient husband she thought he was. If she only knew.

The picture was of a beautiful redheaded girl who couldn't have been more than twenty years old. She was actually eighteen and she was dead. She wasn't one of his, instead belonging to another of His chosen. She was a victim of a past killer and beyond him in physical form. But her death, her purpose of death was his to study and to alter as he saw fit through his imagination.

He imagined his wife tied and tortured as this girl had been. Pictured her raped over and over by a man old enough to be her grandfather, disgusting enough to consider as filth. He imagined his wife humiliated, her place as the dominating spouse degraded to cowering slave by an illiterate pervert who would use her as he pleased, urinate on her, use her as an ashtray, starve her and then torture and murder her. And he smiled, though he made sure the smile never reached his voice.

He replaced the file, closed the drawer silently and spoke softly into the phone. "Yes, dear. The sooner I get this work done the sooner I will be in. I love you too dear." He hung up the phone and turned back to the table in the middle of the old fruit cellar that he had refinished and enlarged, adding a steel door and sturdy locks, electric lighting and a bathroom complete with a shower.

It would never do for his wife to find any trace of his time here upon his person or his clothing. So he used the shower here, kept clothing in the modern bathroom to change into when necessary. He never worried about her coming down here. He had brought her down here himself before he had done any of the back breaking work. Had brought her down the rickety steps and taken her into the damp, dark cave full of cold stale air and creepy, squirming bugs. She'd lasted all of two minutes before leaving and telling him that he was more than welcome to the space, she didn't want it.

He thought of his fussy wife, of her fastidious life, of her phobias and irritating fears. If she knew what he did down here, he giggled at the thought, how repulsed would she be then. She thought he was a weak man, that he wouldn't get out of bed if she wasn't there to make him. She thought he had no back bone, no ambition. She would never understand his true ambition, his Purpose. But when the time came, he would make sure that she saw him for who he actually was. He smiled.

The girl on the table cringed at the sight of the smile. He had seemed so nice, offering to give her a ride when the tire had gone flat on her car. He had pulled over behind her, a God's send in her time of need. At that time of day, on the tiny back road they had been on, it would have been hours before she could have gotten help.

Besides, he had been so handsome, outfitted in a classy dress shirt open at the throat, dark hair brushing the collar in the back. His slacks fit well, showing off a nice ass as he crouched down next to her tire to take off the flat. When he had explained that she had the wrong size lug wrench, as if she knew what that was, she had been happy for a ride to the next town to call for a tow.

She hadn't expected a flash of white and the stench of something strong and nauseatingly sweet clamped over her nose and mouth. She could barely breath against the pressure and had tried to fight her way out but had weakened so quickly and passed out without so much as a scream or a scratch. Now, she was awake and mad. She was tied to some kind of table. It smelt foul, felt rough and hurt her back. Her arms were above her head, tied tightly, her legs spread and tied to the corners at the opposite end. There was tape over her mouth and across her cheeks into her hair. It pulled every time she turned her head.

She was sick, her stomach roiling, gorge rising into the back of her throat. She was so scared and she wanted to go home. Not home to her old apartment with the bad heating, no air conditioning and lousy hot water. Or even back to Toledo. She wanted to go home to her parents in Arizona. She wanted them to forgive her and love her again. 

And now she would probably never see them again. Her mind flashed onto the newspaper images. Men in jackets with the word CORONER emblazoned on the back in big white letters carrying a black bag that contained a body. The body of some girl that they hadn't been able to identify. The second girl that had been found murdered and dumped in old houses. And she knew that she was to be the third.

She didn't want to die here by the hands of some whacko that whined to his wife and played with knives. It wasn't fair. She wasn't ready to go yet. She had so many things she still wanted to do.

She watched as he came closer to the table, stopping by a tray to pick something up before standing next to her. He grabbed the edge of the tape in her hair and pulled quickly, giggling as she cried out. He took the tape, ignoring her cries for the moment and placed it in a large plastic bag, making sure that it was spread out flat, the adhesive side sticking to the plastic, preserving the hair and skin that had been pulled with it. He took a thin black marker and carefully lettered her name across one edge and slid the whole bag into a file, folding it to fit.

"Please don't hurt me."

Those were the first words that filtered through to his consciousness. They fell over him like warm rain on a spring day, flowing into him like nourishment. He smiled gently down at her and placed a warm, large hand on her arm. He pushed her hair back from her face, careful not to pull anymore. He wiped her chafed cheeks, drying tears with the back of his thumb. Then he reached back and picked up the knife.

She screamed at the sight of it and he shook his head.

"No one can hear you scream, but go ahead if it makes you feel better." He thought he sounded like that persona on TV. The program was about some crime scene unit that almost always solved their cases in one commercial interrupted hour. He liked to think of himself as the lead character who always sounded so wise and gentle to all the idiot victims and witnesses he counseled and who almost always found his man. He liked that image, wise and gentle. He was caring without being weak and not afraid to show the world that he could be human, that he could make mistakes.

"This knife won't hurt you, Sweetness."

It was all in the tone of voice, soft and understanding, that did it. He had found out the right tone of voice could sooth anyone, even someone in the predicament that this girl was in. She quieted, sobbing softly.

"Please," she begged, her voice hoarse from the drugs he used to subdue her, tears streaming down her cheeks again. "Let me go, blind fold me. I don't know you. I don't know where we are. I won't tell. I won't call the cops. You don't even have to take me back to my car, just put me on the side of the road somewhere. Please. Let me go."

She looked beautiful with big tears glistening on her soft cheeks, her eyes large and luminous, thick lashes dark and spiky. He leaned back and grabbed the Polaroid camera, getting the picture before she could turn her face away from the flash and ruin the symmetry of those tears.

"Nice," he muttered to himself as he fanned the picture that was ejected from the bottom of the camera. He waited until it was fully developed before showing it to her. "See how beautiful you are?"

The thought entered her mind for the twentieth time since she had looked in his eyes in this place that he was fucking crazy and she was dead.

He marked the picture on the white plastic strip, date and time written with the black marker then placed it in a plastic folder and put it in with the tape, making sure that each piece of plastic lay neatly and didn't fold at the corners before closing the file.

Then he picked up the knife again and turned toward her. He ignored her scream of horror and pushed the knife into her blouse at the cuff, neatly slicing through the seam up to her arm before turning the knife to cut the side seam down to the hem. Then he started on the opposite side, never nicking her skin even though she strained away from him and struggled, pulling her bonds tightly into her wrists and ankles.

"See what you've done," he said softly, pulling a little on the knots to loosen them just a bit. "The more you struggle, the tighter they become. If you lay there, they won't hurt you."

This psycho really believed that she would lay here without struggling while he raped her, tortured her and killed her. As if her hands and feet were going to do her any good unless she could get free. He expected rationality in a situation like this. Fuck him. And she told him so.

He tapped her gently on the nose, acting shocked at the language then he pulled the shirt up and over her head, pulling the back out from under her. He folded it neatly and it went into another bag which was labeled and put into the folder. He was nothing if not careful in documenting his cases, working out theories, drawing conclusions with the soul of a scientist. He wasn't the one that felt the rage. He was gentle and loving with the case studies. It was the knife that hurt. But the knife wasn't there now. It was gone, it was put away and wouldn't be out until it called to him.

He reached under her, carefully avoiding the slivers he knew were there, and undid her bra, then carefully cut the straps close to the back. It was bagged, labeled and filed. 

Then he took the picture.

Her breasts were beautiful. They were firm but not the fake firmness of implants. She had nicely shaped nipples. Pale pink and about the size of a quarter around the areola. They were soft now, but in a few moments they would be hard and he could take another picture of that.

He liked her stomach, it was softly rounded. Her skin was taut but not too tight like those girls who did all those exercises and didn't know how to be womanly. He touched it, warm and smooth, slightly tanned. He smiled and took another picture, labeling it with his findings before putting it away.

She cringed away from his hand, her mind shying from the thought of what he was doing. If he was going to rape her, she wished he would just do it so it would be done. And if he wasn't, she wished he would go into his wife and leave her the hell alone. She swore at him again, making sure he knew what she thought of him.

He wasn't as kind this time, and the blow that landed on her face left a red mark across her cheek. He turned away and she prayed he was leaving. But he wasn't through with her. He just needed control, he had to get the beast in control or he would hurt her too soon.

When he finally found it, he touched her again, his hands gentle this time as he spoke of how beautiful she was, how round she was. He stroked her nipples and she cringed as they tightened against her will under his caressing fingers. He praised them, taking pictures of them, leaning over and kissing them, causing her to shudder in disgust. He licked her breasts, nuzzled his face against them, between them, took his time playing with them to his heart's content.

He stroked her stomach, leaving her jeans on for the moment. He kissed her abdomen, licked the inside of her belly button, telling her of her taste. He nibbled at the soft flesh just above the button of her jeans, pressing his face against her skin and breathing in deeply as he saturated his senses with her.

He stroked her arms and her neck, talking to her, his voice getting gravelly and rough as he got more excited. She could feel his erection against her side when he leaned over her to touch her arm. It seemed almost alive inside his pants, moving against her as he did. Her mind desperately tried to turn off but every time she got close to the dark oblivion to escape this terror, his voice would bring her back, leaving her no escape from the horror of her present.

His mouth was on her neck below her ear, telling her what he wanted to do to her in every tremulous little detail. His hands were cupping her breasts, squeezing gently, his fingers stroking over her nipples twisting them and enjoying the little shivers he invoked.

She was crying in shame, desperately trying not to be sick. She had wet her pants in her terror, unable to stop herself as the insidiousness of his black thoughts flowed over her. He wanted to carve her up, to slip inside her body and lay in her warm flesh. He wanted to slice off her nipples and hang them up to dry. He wanted to drink her blood from the wounds as if he was a newborn infant. He wanted her blood on his hands, to bath in it, to become new again in her.

He picked up the knife again, bending over to suckle on one of her nipples as his hand slid on the inside of her jeans. He didn't try to unbutton or unzip them, he slid the knife under the waist band on the side at the seam and let it slice through fabric, careful to leave her panties behind. He let his arm go as far as it would without letting go of her nipple, his tongue curling around it, flicking rapidly across it then suckling hard on it. His teeth nipped and pulled and then bit down a little too hard drawing a cry from her battered lips.

When he finally let go, he looked up at her, catching her eyes with his as he finished the cut down to the hem. His face was flushed, his breathing raspy and harsh above her own. He was sweating, beads falling from his face to land on her skin. He wiped them away with his hand and then shook his head so that more fell on her.

"I'm baptizing you with my body fluids," he rasped. "But don't worry, when I'm done, I'll wash you down so that when you're finally found, they won't be able to find a trace of me on you."

He said it as if he were doing her a favor and she should be grateful.

He reached across her and pushed the knife into the other side of her jeans, drawing it down the side of her body so that the material parted like butter, coming loose at the bottom hem.

He started to pull the pants away when he realized she had wet them. Instead of being outraged and angry, he pushed his face into her crotch, breathing deeply of the aroma of her urine and her fear.

"You arouse me, sweetness. More than the others ever did." He breathed the bitter smell of her urine as if it were ambrosia pushing his nose deeper into her softness. His hands were on her bare legs, pushing the material aside and off, leaving it on the side of the table forgotten as he reveled in her fear. He pulled at the sides of her panties, his hands no longer gentle but eager and harsh. His mouth bit at her thighs, hurting her, bruising her flesh. He didn't care now, the rage was almost there. She would realize his power, cry out in rapture when he entered her flesh, spasm against him in orgasm at his purpose.

She jerked to the side away from his biting teeth, trying to get away, not caring that she could no longer feel her hands because of the pain. She had to get him off of her, away from her. If he raped her, she would want to die. She fought him, not realizing that every move she made called to the knife and bitter, agonizing death.

The phone on the wall buzzed impatiently, breaking through the overwhelming tide of lust that painted his vision red. He stood up, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. He threw the knife he still had in his hand hard against the wall, sending it clattering wildly across the hard dirt floor.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he yelled at the ceiling, hands clenched down at his side. He stared at the phone as it continued to buzz, trying to calm down enough to answer it. He shook himself, walking away from the table taking deep breaths. When he picked up the phone, he thought he sounded okay, not quite steady yet but he was working on it.

"Honey, you really need to come in now to get ready if we're going to get there on time."

He cringed at the sound of her voice, reedy and thin with impatience, and wished that he could wrap his fingers around her skinny neck. He would like to tear out her lungs and feel them wilt in his hands while she finally realized the power with which she had lived.

"Yes, dear." Bitch. "I'll be in right away." Stupid, fucking bitch. She'd find it hard to nag at him if he cut her lips off.

He hung up before she said good-bye and stood there, shaking, feeling the last of the all consuming lust fade away, the erection that had strained to be released and felt so powerful ebbing into a tiny appendage of slack flesh. He looked back at the girl and hurried to the table, stopping to pick up the knife he had thrown. He picked up her jeans, folded them carefully and placed them in another of his endless supplies of plastic bags. He labeled them and placed them under the file of other things he had gotten from her.

Her hands were swelling from lack of circulation and he carefully pried the bonds loose, patting her on the cheek as she cried out at the pain. He left her in her urine soaked panties, throwing a blanket carefully over her to shield her from the cold and damp. Then he went into the bathroom and meticulously cleaned himself up, washing the stench of desire and smell of fear off of his body.

He came out and smiled at her as he passed her, reaching for a roll of duct tape that he kept on his tray. He tore off a long strip and held her jaw while he smoothed it across her lips, bending over to place a firm kiss on the tape.

"I have to take my wife to a government function, Sweetness. We'll have to start over later on." He grinned, a hungry predator hidden in the guise of a mild mannered public servant. He walked away, stopping at a shelf next to the door and fiddling with some switches. He hit the light switch, leaving the room in complete blackness, walking out the door and locking it behind him as his voice came out of speakers carefully hidden in the wall. His voice, the voice of the benefactor, speaking of love and kindness mixed with the voice of the knife who spoke of pain, torture and death in the same rapt, fascinated tones.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 05



His head was pounding, his stomach a constant churning ache. He managed to open the door to his office and slink over to his chair, wincing at the sound it made when he pulled it back. He sank down into it, laying his head on his arms on the desk, praying that either God would take mercy on him or kill him. Killing him would be a mercy today and God didn't grant such mercies to people like him.

Nick reached into the middle drawer of his desk, his fingers going over the different pill bottles until he found the one he needed. He flipped the cap with one finger spilling out a couple of pills to land on the floor. He pulled one out and tossed it in his mouth, dry swallowing it. Then he put his head back on the desk and waited for either death or relief.

The door to his office swept open, slamming into the wall in a loud burst of plaster dust. He cringed away from the noise and felt the floor tilt and move, fighting the nausea that kept threatening to overwhelm him. A voice called his name and all he could do was hold up one finger for them to go away and let him die. He pulled the wastebasket over and put it between his legs, breathing as deeply as the pain would allow. If he threw up the pill, it wouldn't do him any good. If he took anything stronger, the injections that would send the pain spinning away, also spun him away. He would be no good to anyone. 

Like he was good for anything now.

He felt a cool hand on his forehead, heard a sweet, husky voice call his name. He leaned into the hand, absorbing the comfort the coolness brought.

"I'm fine," he groaned out between gritted teeth.

Michelle looked down at the figure all but curled under the desk, the anger that had brought her fuming in here disappearing at one look at his white face. She crouched down next to him, concern etching her forehead. This wasn't a hangover. Something was wrong.

"Nick, you aren't fine. You shouldn't be here." She could see the white line of his lips pressed together, the beads of sweat along his forehead that dripped into the trash can. "Let me take you home."

"Wait," he ground out. "Give me a minute, I'll be fine." He could feel the pill starting to work, the pain receding, the ache in his stomach subsiding to a manageable level. He breathed a huge sigh of relief and moved his head a little, gauging the amount of pain movement would bring. He sat up, slowly and carefully, and let his head rest against the window behind his chair.

Michelle was still crouching down by his legs, looking at him as if he would pass out or throw up at any moment. She looked almost panicked, as if she really cared if something happened to him. It struck a chord that hit way to close to what little he thought was left of his heart.

"Hey, if I had known it would only take one of these stupid headaches to get you to call me Nick, I would have done it a while ago," he tried to grin but it came out as more of a grimace.

She spotted the pills that he had dropped and picked them up, opening the drawer a little farther and looking into a little private piece of the hero that not many people knew. She dropped the pills back into their bottle and looked at the prescription. Pills with names longer than her arm with the directions; take one every four hours or as needed. He had a stash of one use only air pressure syringes filled with another form of the same drug. Migraines. He had a couple more prescription bottles with more names that she couldn't even pronounce. The description was for prevention of migraines. The price of being Nick Saint, the price of having superhuman powers was having superhuman pain.

The pain was ebbing more and Nick felt the first flash of embarrassment. The migraine had caught him off guard, attacking quickly. He had wanted to stay at home for a couple of hours until his pills could start working, but when he had gone to get one of them, the bottle had been empty. It was in his pocket now; he would drop it off at the pharmacy when he felt better. His only other stash of pills was in his office at work. He had thought that he could make it in unseen, maybe sit in the dark for an hour and pray for death before anyone would know he was there. He should have known that Michelle would find him. The girl had a nose like a bloodhound and eyes like a hawk, only hers were much better looking.

"What had you coming in here like a SWAT team?" he asked, to take the focus off of himself and his weakness.

"Forget about it." She kept her voice pitched low and soothing, hoping it wouldn't cause him pain. She didn't know how he had made it in to work; the drive alone could have killed him. It had to have been a nightmare. He could have called her, that was what partners were for. At least that was what he had been telling her for the past couple of days that they had worked together.

"No," his voice was stronger and he risked opening his eyes a little bit wider. "Tell me, maybe it will take my mind off of this." Maybe he could talk her into putting her hands on his face again. It had felt so good. "Come on, be a pal and help make me feel better."

Michelle felt like slime. She had walked in here mad, pissed enough to tell him to go to hell and forget about working with her. Now her anger was almost gone, all that was left was disgust at herself and a tiny bud of annoyance that was disappearing too quickly to matter.

"You talked to Sam about me." She said it matter-of-factly, as if it made no difference now. Which it didn't, she realized in surprise.

"Just in passing."

It wasn't quite true, but close enough. He had seen Sam, had passed him. But he had also backed him into a wall and wanted to smash his fist in the guy's face at the lascivious grin that had erupted at Michelle's name. He had managed to restrain himself. But just barely.

"That's not what Sam said." She shook her head, allowing a little of the annoyance to build. "I can take care of myself, Detective Saint. I don't need anyone protecting me from over sexed partners." She stood up and backed away from him. Her eyes assessed the damage the headache had done to him. 

He was recovering, slowly. He blinked back at her owlishly, as if he wasn't sure that what he was seeing wasn't a pain induced hallucination. He wasn't steady and the hand that he pushed up into his hair was shaking.

"How did you drive here?"

He answered her truthfully, if not a little ruefully. "I'm not quite sure. I think if the sun had come out from behind the clouds, you would probably be scraping me off of some tree right now."

"Stupid."

He tried to grin again and felt it came off a little better, not hurting quite as much. "Very true, but necessary. I'm out of my pills at home." He hated the weakness in his voice almost as much as he hated being dependent on anything, especially medication.

"Did you know you're bleeding?" She reached out and gently wiped away a small trail of blood with a tissue she had taken out of the pocket of her jacket. The blood was from a small cut on his lip. It looked like a bite mark.

"Hmmm, nope, didn't know that." He touched his lip with one finger, pulled it back to look at the small smear of blood. "I think I bit my lip when I started my car and the music came on." He'd been listening to a country music radio station last night when he pulled into his driveway. The news had come on and he had punished himself by listening to the commentator desecrate everyone connected to his case from the Mayor down. His name had been mentioned, along with the no comment he had given the station when they had called yesterday asking for some kind of update. Would the term "we still have nothing," be considered an update?

The lab reports were coming in on the second victim. Most were of no use, the same blah, blah, blah as the last set. They had managed to find a fiber caught under her fingernail. The fiber was of wool, high end and dyed a dark navy. So their subject wore high end wool suits. Which meant that they probably weren't looking for any of the hicks or rednecks that hung out at the pool hall down town.

He had washed the bodies before dropping them. The labs had found traces of a perfumed soap, Victoria's Secret's Love Spell. There were Victoria's Secret stores in most of the malls within two hours of Lapeer. Not to mention the booming internet trade as well as their mail order purchasers. But he sent out the guys anyways, telling them to ask about unusual male customers, anyone who seemed a little weird. Forty percent of the guys that went into lingerie stores were a little weird. Nut cases loved malls.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take you home?" Her voice broke him out of his bleak thoughts.

"Your home?" The grin was wolfish even though a trifle unsteady.

"Men," she sighed in mock disgust. "Two minutes ago you were on death's door and now you're a pig. And you went after Sam for doing the same thing you're doing." She shook her head. "Maybe I should call you a hypocrite, Nicholas Saint."

"Hey, whoa. Wait a minute." He moved cautiously at first and then more surely as the pain retreated for the moment, there, ready to swallow him whole but held back by strength of will and drugs. "You just said that you didn't need help defending yourself from your oversexed partner. I was just offering to help you practice."

That little boy grin knocked her sideways and she retreated for a moment to regroup her barriers. He was too devastating to her defenses, too tempting to be easily resisted. And he probably had left a long list of broken hearts to prove it. She picked up the small stack of pink message slips someone had put in his in box on top of a mountain of file folders, looking through them idly, until one caught her attention. She pulled it out of the stack to look at more carefully.

"Isn't Alisha Redmond the CSI that is assigned to the second victim?" She stuck the note under Nick's nose.

He tried to read it, going cross eyed because she had it way to close. Grabbing it he read the message. Call ASAP. Maybe she had something. He picked up his phone and started hitting buttons. He tried the lab in Flint and was told that she wasn't due in today. So he ran through his rolodex and got her cell number. She answered on the fourth ring.

"Yeah?"

The woman had such a way with words.

"Hey Lisha, it's Nick. You got something for me?" There was nothing he could do about the impatient tone of his voice, it still hurt to think.

"Nice to hear from you, too, Nicky," she said sarcastically. "I've been calling you since last night. You ever hear of leaving your cell phone on?"

Just what he didn't need today. And then he had a guilty twinge at the thought of the cell phone that hadn't gotten put on its charger last night and was sitting on his kitchen counter, forgotten this morning.

"Sorry, Lisha. Dead battery."

"Likely excuse, darling."

He could feel anger starting to rise, accelerating his pulse rate, accelerating the pounding of his head as well. He looked at Michelle, wanting to roll his eyes but knowing just the movement alone could put him on the floor.

"So?" he tried again.

"I sent over a courier this morning. We got an ID on the second vic through a hit from the hotline. DNA matched. You should have the file on your desk." He could almost hear the voila said in her voice, the French accent coming across like some cartoon skunk. He quickly ended the call.

"Thanks Lisha, good work."

Then he pawed through the papers on his desk, finally finding the couriered envelope on the floor, having fallen there when he had come stumbling in. He opened it quickly and read through the information twice before handing it to Michelle.

She plunked herself down into one of the chairs across from him and read the report. Sheri Lynn Meridian; 20 years old; originally from Toledo, Ohio; current address Imlay City, MI; currently residing in a refrigerated drawer down in the morgue. There was a driver's license picture included. It looked very close to the computer generated picture they had of her. Why did it take so long for someone to come forward?

Nick was reading her mind. "It's a shame when the only one who will come forward to identify a body is their boss. And it even takes them a couple of weeks to do it." The thought glumly occurred to him that the same thing could happen if he were to disappear. He had no one in his life that would care if he died. No parents or siblings. His ex-wife would probably dance on his grave in glee after the hell that their marriage had been. Now that was a depressing thought.

He roused himself and gave her the cockiest grin he could muster. "Come on partner, let's get with it. We got people to see and a killer to catch."

They left the office and drove the twenty or so miles to the girl's apartment, badgering the manager to let them in. The place was a mess, clothes tossed everywhere, make-up in the sink. Her mail had been shoved into the small box in the lobby and finally the mailman had left her a nasty note to pick up the rest at the post office. They managed to get the super to open that up and took the contents too.

They gloved up, careful about what they moved. The place had either been ransacked or Sheri was a slob. He knew he should call in the crime lab guys, he knew Lisha should have done it herself. But he wanted some time to get to know this girl, to see what she was like, who she was besides a rotting corpse that had been dumped like so much garbage. For once, he thanked Lisha for being so self absorbed and not wanting to give up her morning off.

He gave the job of going through the mail to Michelle, making a mental note to go get the rest at the post office when they left here.

"Just go through, bag it all up. Look for anything that might seem different, make sure you grab a phone bill, credit card statements and the like. We'll go over it better at the office." She dug into the stack, carefully examining post marks and returned addresses, pulling out different envelopes to go over more carefully later.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, looking up from what looked to be a card of some kind.

"Snoop," was all he said.

He walked into the bathroom first. Women's bathrooms told a lot about themselves he had found out due to experience. It was small, barely as big as his shower at home. But Sheri had turned it into something pretty, painting it a light yellow and adding touches of sunflowers to the walls and the shower curtain. She had painted the cabinet under the sink white with a yellow door pull. The medicine cabinet had a cracked mirror and old lighting, but she had painted the trim white and refurbished the lighting with new shades. Yellow towels were scattered on the floor, half unfolded as if someone had just pulled over the stack. There was a yellow smiley face bathmat on the floor, a touch of humor that saddened him.

He opened the medicine cabinet. A toothbrush, half used tube of cheap toothpaste, a small box of band-aids and a half full bottle of extra strength Midol sat on one of the shelves, and that was it. In the sink was make-up, a cosmetic bag, carelessly tossed over the mess. One of the bottles was broken and had leaked over the rest of the containers, leaving a sticky mess. He didn't touch it, hoping that maybe the lab might be able to pull finger prints from the mess.

He opened the drawer under the sink, toilet cleaner, a bowl brush. Three rolls out of a four roll package of toilet paper. A mark where the sink had leaked at one time. He closed the cabinet door. He took a last look at the smiley face, tacky yellow and ragged staring up at him with its bright black smile and left the room.

The small bedroom wasn't much better. Clothing had been torn out of the closet, cheap shoes flung everywhere. One rested sideways on top of a cheap secondhand dresser. The bedding had been torn off the bed and left in a heap leaving the stained mattress bare. Maybe they would be able to pick up some useable DNA off of there.

He looked through the drawers; cheap jewelry had been dumped out of a case and lay mixed in with socks and nylon panties. Nothing more expensive then what could be picked up at any discount store. He saw a necklace that could be a match to the earring the victim had been wearing when she was found. The necklace was tarnished and dirty from wear and had probably turned the girl's neck green not long after buying it.

He searched the other drawers, not finding anything usable, no photo albums or pictures in frames. A small stack of old personal mail went into a plastic bag, as well as an address book and what looked to be either a day planner or a diary. He picked them up and dropped them on the kitchen counter while he checked out her cupboards.

The dishes were thrown on the floor, flour torn open and sprayed over the sink and counter. Her refrigerator door was standing open, rotting food stinking to high heaven. Pots and pans had been scattered over the entire area. He checked every cupboard and drawer, not finding anything interesting. He was closing the last drawer when a hand touched his shoulder, scaring him enough to make him turn quickly and reach for his gun.

Michelle jumped back, sheepishly smoothing her jacket as he glared at her.

"I called your name, you didn't answer me," she offered by way of an apology.

He glared at her for a second and then gave it up. No way he could stay mad at someone who had wanted to take care of him when he was sick.

"Did you find something, hotshot?" he asked, reaching out to push a strand of hair from her forehead. He realized what he had done and felt the heat on his cheeks as his face turned red. Touching her was addicting, and he felt like a junkie in need of a fix. He turned and picked up his evidence bags, giving himself a chance to recover, not noticing the look of confusion that flashed across her face to be ruthlessly pushed aside for professionalism.

"There were a couple of cards with no return address, postmarked from Toledo and this." She handed him a plastic bag with a single letter in it. He looked at the envelope and felt his breath catch, surprised then angry. Their killer was playing games.

"This was on the bottom of the stack," she peered over his shoulder.

The envelope was business size, mailed from Lapeer, and addressed to him in care of Sheri Meridian at this address.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 06-07



Chapter Six

He was being called on the carpet. Again. He heaved a huge sigh of disgust. The cost of doing this job and doing it the way it was supposed to be done meant pushing limits, pissing people off at times and at others, bending the rules just a bit.

He tried to smile at Michelle, to offer a little comfort. There wasn't any reason that she should be there. He was the one that had decided to not call in the crime scene guys right away. He didn't follow procedure. He was primary, his decision so he should take the fall, not her.

The envelope had hit him hard. He should have expected it. Someone who was sick enough to leave something as grisly as the bodies, smart enough to cover himself with the lack of evidence, he should have known that he was going to need the extra stimulation and bring Nick into the game. He was going to be used as a pawn, a game piece that was expendable though useful. The killer wanted to make the police force look like fools, wanted to make him look like an incompetent idiot, and he was doing a good job of it.

He shifted uncomfortably in the stiff chair in the waiting room outside the Sheriff's office drawing a look of sympathy from Louise. He didn't want sympathy; he wanted the hell out of there and the license to do his job the way he saw fit. He wasn't used to having his methods and motives questioned. He'd always done things the way he'd seen fit and gotten the job done. It was the way he worked.

Michelle put her small hand on his forearm and squeezed slightly, drawing his attention back to her.

"What can he do? I mean, it isn't like your name isn't out on the air, the news people know who is running the investigation. He had the victim's property; her driver's license, door keys. Why wouldn't he do something like this?" She was running thoughts, just talking because it helped her calm down. She knew she was on her way back to a uniform and disgrace.

Nick took her hand in his, and caught her eye, making sure she understood what he said. "No matter what is said in there, you were just following my orders, okay? That's all. Don't try to stand up for me or take any blame. You did what I told you to do."

She nodded unhappily. She didn't like it at all. She didn't want to feel like this. She had done what he ordered doing, mostly because what he wanted done was done the way she would have done it herself. He asked, he didn't order. He suggested. And she was learning from him, learning a lot.

She could understand his wanting to go through an apartment himself instead of seeing second hand through crime scene photos. Why would getting personal property after it had been covered in print powder, lasered, and pawed through by God knows how many other people be better than seeing it firsthand? Her father always said that a good cop knew his people, his area, and knew what was right and wrong. How was it wrong to want to know the victim of a homicide as personally as they could so that they could understand why a killer would take her?

She was still thinking things through when Louise got up and opened the Sheriff's outer office door, waving them in. She gave Nick's arm a small pat as he walked by, not caring if her boss saw her do it. Nicky was a good cop and a good boy in her book. Not many people cared enough anymore to do the things that he did. Not many people cared enough to want to help an old woman when she needed help. He did. And she would tell the Sheriff so as soon as he had a second for her, whether he wanted to hear it or not.

Louise closed the door behind them with a bang. Nick looked around the room. He was as uncomfortable in this room as he had been in the waiting area.

The Sheriff's inner sanctum had changed a lot over the past year. Old football and bowling trophies had been taken down and stored away, pictures taken with 'regular' people replaced by those taken with the Governor and the Mayor. Special citations reframed from cheap black to polished wood and rehung against newly painted walls. The old comfortable chairs were gone, replaced by three that were new smelling, stiff leather. They were a trifle too low, leaving the person sitting in them feeling disadvantaged in their campaign with the Sheriff. The colors had even changed, the tan, brown and gray metal replaced with burgundy and green, trimmed in dark old wood. 

It displayed nothing of the cop and everything of the politician, from the new American and Michigan flags in the corner to the expensive leather blotter that was the only thing on the Sheriff's desk beside his nameplate and a phone that had more buttons than Nick's stereo.

Sheriff Williams was standing behind his desk, hands clasped at his back. He looked as rugged and unmoving as the vehicle he was nicknamed after. He didn't offer them seats, didn't offer his usual bluff and toothy smile. His demeanor was grave, his attitude that of the disapproving elected official. He eyed them both, trying to put Nick in his place once more.

Nick stared right back, refusing to be cowed by a politician. He stood erect, but not at attention, hands sliding casually into the pockets of his dress pants.

Beside him, Michelle was tense, her body almost brittle in its posture. He wished that he could reach out and touch her, to tell her not to worry. She had a long and illustrious career waiting for her. She would make detective one way or another no matter what happened today. She was just too good a cop not to.

Michelle felt the Sheriff's mean little eyes roam over her like invading ants and resented it. She tried desperately to keep her feelings hidden; she disliked this man and had since she had started working here. He never said or did anything that was disrespectful to her, but she felt the disrespect anyway. She knew he resented her, resented having to open up his station to women, even though there was another woman officer who had been hired before her. She represented change, and not in any way that he would consider good.

Williams cleared his throat, the sound gruff and loud in the stillness of the office. Before he could say anything, Nick jumped in; feeling first shot was best shot.

"Sheriff, I'm not sure why you've called us in here."

The sheriff laughed, the sound sharp and staccato and disbelieving. "Well, for one, you went to a victim's apartment and didn't inform anyone of that fact, endangering both yourself and Miss Parsons."

"It's Deputy Parsons, Sheriff," Michelle could have shoved her fist in her mouth the instant she heard what she said.

"Yes, well, for now it is."

Score one for the sheriff.

"You could have contaminated the scene. Deputy Parsons is not trained to collect evidence, or to distance herself from that same evidence to prevent inadvertent contamination." He held up his fingers as if counting out the points. "Finally, you went over my head and didn't keep me informed on a serial murder investigation."

Nick couldn't help himself, he rolled his eyes and scoffed earning a hard look from the Sheriff.

"So which pissed you off more, Sheriff? The fact that we didn't tell you that we had an ID or that you missed out on a photo op." His career was gone; he would be washing rear bumpers at the carwash on Main Street before the afternoon was over.

Williams face turned beet red, a very scary shade for a human being. Michelle stood there silently, amazed beyond shock that steam wasn't streaming out of his ears. Even more amazed that Nick had been brazen enough to say what had been firmly entrenched in her own mind. She smacked him on the hip with the back of her hand and gave him a disgusted look, told him with her eyes to stop being confrontational. He gave her an innocent look that wouldn't have fooled a blind man.

"Are you saying that you think I care more about publicity than this case and what is best for my COUNTY?" The sheriff's voice rose slowly as he spoke until he was almost shouting.

"No, Sheriff, I would never say that." He might think it though and often did. "I'm saying that this is the very first break we have had in a case where the only thing we have had to go on are two nameless bodies and one trace fiber that could possibly have come from a high end piece of wool fabric. We don't even know if that fabric was a pair of pants or somebody's couch. We got the ID and I decided to run with it."

He wasn't apologizing for doing his job. He refused to do that. He'd give up his badge and his gun first. He'd soap bumpers before he did that.

"Sheriff, our subject has decided to pit himself against Detective Saint," Michelle butted in, sensing the beginning of another outburst. "He sent Detective Saint a letter to the house of victim two, Sheri Meridian." She purposefully ignored Nick's outraged look, instead speaking only to the Sheriff.

"What?" Williams voice was barely above a squeak.

"The letter is running through the lab right now. We felt it prudent to have it at least x-rayed, and the envelope fingerprinted before anyone decided to open it." She could feel the tension coming off of Nick now and barely managed not to jump when she felt him pinch the back of her forearm. "That's where we were when you paged us to come in here, sir."

"Have the lab guys found anything else at the apartment?" He spoke to her now and completely ignore Nick's presence in the room.

"They are still going through the apartment."

Nick's voice was low and dangerously calm. Michelle knew he was mentally counting to ten. And then continuing on, if the waves of anger she could feel radiating off of him were anything to go by.

Shit. Either way she had a feeling she was back in uniform. Nick had told her to keep quiet. She had disobeyed him; he was a superior officer, her superior officer. If he was taken off the case, she was back in uniform too, none of the other detectives would want to work with her. Her heart sank. All she wanted was to keep him from going for the Sheriff's throat. She knew he hated the politics of the place. He knew as well as she did that the Sheriff would back him as long as he was getting somewhere, but the instant the public was in an up roar, Nick would take the fall. Not the Sheriff. Either way the case went, the Sheriff came out smelling like roses.

And she was now in it all the way to her neck. "Someone had trashed the victim's apartment pretty thoroughly, sir, before we got there. Probably the subject. It could take a while to find anything pertinent."

The Sheriff calmed down and sat behind his desk, wiping off his forehead with a snowy white handkerchief that he pulled out of one of his desk drawers. He didn't speak, but stared down at his desk in thought. The tension in the room was dark with undercurrent, rank with the things being left unsaid between the two men.

Williams would like to see Nick fail. Well, as long as it didn't do anything to disturb his own rosy future. He had hired Nick as a way to let the county know he wasn't afraid to call in the big dogs to protect his own. He thought that he could control the man and use his name and reputation to further his own. But Nick wasn't usable. He didn't want to be a pawn in someone else's chess game. He refused to be in front of the press, allowing others to do that for him.

Williams had thought that having him assigned to these murder cases would round things up quickly. Put a big name on a case that smelled like shit and watch the flowers grow. He'd been on it for months, nothing to show for it. Even he knew that if a murder wasn't solved in the first forty eight hours, the odds went lower every day until it turned into a cold case and was stored away. It happened all the time all over the good old US of A.

So as he saw it, he had two choices. He could take Nick off the case and put one of the other two detectives on it, neither one had any kind of experience working homicide. He could work it himself, but that would be political suicide if the case turned cold, and once again, he had never worked a homicide before either.

Or he could leave Nick on the case and let the boy run with it. If he did manage to get the bad guy, Williams could sneak in and suck up the political glory of having been the man to put Nick on the case. If he didn't, he could feed Nicholas Saint to the hounds of hell that were the press, and he still wouldn't look too bad in the deal.

"Okay, Nicky. I'm going to let you stay on the case, but," and he held up on short, stubby finger to make a point. "I want you to make sure that I am fully informed of all developments." He smiled at a sudden thought of genius. "I think that Deputy Parsons here would make an excellent go between for us." He ignored Michelle's gasp of protest and picked up the phone, making sure the impression that they were dismissed and that was all he had to say was loud and clear.

Nick grabbed Michelle's arm, dragging her out of the office while she was trying to think of some way to get out of the job. She felt like a snitch, a tattle tale that ran to the boss whenever anyone stepped a toe out of line.

Nick didn't stop moving until they were back in his office with the door closed. He stood there for a minute, not saying anything, just looking out the window at the trees. Then he turned and slammed his hand into the wall, leaving a beautiful fist size impression.

"God DAMMIT, that hurt," he yelped, clutching his throbbing fist to his stomach.

Michelle watched in amazement as he shook his hand, swore a blue streak and kicked over his trashcan. She made herself small, not wanting him to remember she was there until he finished with his tantrum.

He knew she was there. He always knew when she was around. It was like a sixth sense, a feeling, or maybe he was just thinking with his dick. He didn't know. But he was mad, he was mad at her, he was furious with the sheriff. But he was even more pissed off at himself. Today had started bad and had gone sliding downhill into the shit heap pretty damn fast. And he really had no one else to blame but himself. He knew better than to not follow departmental procedure about securing a potential crime scene. He knew better than to let Lisha and her quirks bug him. And he really knew better than to piss off the brass.

He refused to apologize for telling the truth. He just wished he had stated it in a more tactful manner. He turned around, still flexing his sore knuckles and saw Michelle still standing by the door. She had the flight or fight look in her eyes; he had seen it plenty in his own eyes to recognize it.

"Sorry."

The word surprised her, then pissed her off. Sorry? He was telling her he was sorry? "For what?" The tone of her voice left no doubt that she had decided to fight. "For scaring the bloody hell out of me? For acting like an ass and battering the damned wall?" She stalked him around the tiny office, one finger poking into his chest. "For acting like a God damn idiot and trying to get yourself fired? What exactly are you sorry about, Nick?"

Nick pushed her finger from his chest. He was backed into a corner, literally and figuratively, and he didn't like it one bit. He tried to take a step forward, to walk around her, but she stopped him, hitting him with the heel of her hand flat and hard into his chest and knocking him backwards.

"Tell me, Nick." She was so mad that she couldn't scream at him. "Are you sorry that now I have to run to the Sheriff every time you get a lead? Are you sorry that I have to deal with that slimy toad of a man just because you couldn't hold your temper?"

He grabbed her hand and quickly reversed their positions by means of pure brute strength. She was now backed into the corner and he was standing over her, staring down into her flushed angry face. Her eyes were shooting green sparks at him, her hair mussed and coming loose from their march back to his office. She was, as the quote goes, beautiful when she was angry. He did the one thing he knew would get her to shut her luscious mouth. He covered it with his own.

"Dammit, Michelle," he muttered and kissed her.

His lips nibbled on hers, teased, coaxed. He slowly deepened the kiss as he felt her respond, felt her hands come up his chest to rest at his neck, one sliding into the thickness of his hair to pull him closer. He needed no further invitation and opened her mouth with his own, licking the inside of her bottom lip, loosing himself in the taste of her. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer to him, molding her slender body to his length.

God, she tasted like peppermint with a hint of coffee and a sweetness that was all her own. He couldn't get enough. All hint of play vanished in an instant and he was all demand, his mouth hot and hard on hers, his tongue thrusting deep, finding hers and mating with it.

He tore his mouth from hers, finding her ear, running his tongue around the soft rim before nipping at her earlobe. His voice was husky and deep, whispering to her of what she made him feel, of what he wanted to do to her, with her.

She was in the midst of erotic torture, backed against the wall, his hands stroking her body into a frenzy, his words stroking her nerve endings with fire. She wanted him now, had wanted him for a long time but had denied it with a finality that made giving in all that much sweeter. She felt his fingers in her hair, pulling out the clip, stroking through the long tangled tresses then pulling them back in his fist to give his lips access to her throat.

His hand slid down her back and over her hip, pulling at her leg, bringing it over his hip. His thigh slid between hers and he used it to lift her slightly so that he was supporting every gorgeous inch of her. He pulled at the tucked in end of her shirt, pulling it free so that his hand could slide under. Her skin was hot satin beneath his fingers, soft over firm muscles that seductively urged him to explore. She arched into his hand, desperately wanting him to touch more of her.

Her voice broke through the haze of need surrounding his brain. "Nick, stop." She pulled at his hair, forcing his head up. He looked like he was waking up, his eyes half closed and blinking in an effort to erase the fog he was in. She pushed him back, trembling hands tucking her shirt back in. "We can't do this, Nick."

He sank back until he was sitting on the edge of his desk and tried to catch his breath. His heart thudded in his ears, his breathing labored as if he had run five miles up hill. He couldn't believe she could be so cool, picking up the clip from the floor where he had dropped it and gathering her hair into a rope to twist up in the back.

She was right, they shouldn't do this. But he wanted to. No, it was past want with him. He needed to. They had worked together for most of seven days, separating only to make phone calls, or do some of the less interesting parts of police work, paperwork. She came to his house, ate with him. Hell, she had even crashed on his couch one night when they had worked too late and she was asleep on her feet.

And it wasn't just work. She was fun. She kidded with him, picked on him, scolded him. She had been willing to take care of him when he had been sick. She had stood in his face and yelled at him, one thing not too many men, much less women had the guts to do. And she had stood up for him despite what it might do to her own career. She was brave and caring and way too good for him.

Damn.

He closed his eyes against the truth that he wouldn't allow himself to believe. He'd been married once, thought that he had felt that all encompassing love that the poets rambled on about. She had been beautiful and fun. And spoiled and bitchy he found out later. She didn't like his long hours or sour moods. She wanted him home to take her out, to party with her, to show off. He was her very own police escort to take her to all the clubs and get her in with just one flash of his police badge. She couldn't understand that he couldn't and wouldn't do that, not for her or anyone.




A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 06-07



The job came first. His marriage took a header right into the crapper.

He had made the decision then that relationships weren't for cops. Dates were good, they ended either at the door or, on occasions, after breakfast in the morning. 

Relationships ended bloody usually with his blood being the one that was let.

Michelle was talking to him and he had missed half of what she had said, caught up in his own morose thoughts.

"... bad idea," she finished up. She turned to look at him, trying for a calm icy front. Too bad it felt like her insides were on fire, her knees were weak and all she wanted to do was push him back on that desk and finish what they had just started.

The eyes that met hers still shot fiery blue flames. She caught a hold of the back of the chair in front of her, willing her knees to not buckle and commanding her feet not to take the extra three steps that would have her in pushing distance.

"Let's just forget this happened," her voice came out calm enough though she could hear the tremor. As if she would ever forget the way his lips felt, or how she went up in smoke when he had whispered erotically dirty thoughts in her ears. Stop it, Michelle.

"Uh, yeah." Now that was smooth, Nick. Why not just show her where you keep your dinosaur bone. Then rap her on the head, take her home and... whoa buddy, not going there. "Uh, we should get back to the lab and I want to run the vic's name and see if she's got any priors or made any complaints."

Michelle needed some space, some time away from him to get her thoughts if not her sex drive back into order.

"Why don't you go and I'll run over to the victim's apartment and see how things are going there. I'll call you with anything I get." Before he could say a word, she was marching out of his office leaving him with his mouth open and his emotions in the dirt.

  Chapter Seven

Time held no meaning for her any longer. The few moments that she had in the light were shadowed by him. The rest of the time, she was alone in the dark with the voices. She didn't know if it were night or day. She didn't know how long she had been held here. And she held no hope that she would ever leave.

The lack of hope was what was the hardest. At least, when she hoped, she could imagine something better, her parents meeting her at the airport with open arms and forgiving smiles. Her ex-boyfriend, the cause of all her pain and troubles, falling to his knees to apologize and beg her to take him back. All those thoughts were gone now, eaten away by despair.

Now she lived for the rattle of keys in a lock and the click of a switch bringing light. Even if that same light also brought the devil and pain.

She heard the faint rattle now and closed her eyes tight. The light was wonderful, the light was warmth and relief from the voices that came from the dark. But it hurt her eyes.

He came into the room, carrying a bundle under his arm. He hit the switch for the lights and the button on the stereo that turned off the cassette player. The tape that he let play while he was gone from his studies was reversible and the tape player automatically flipped it, playing both sides until he turned it off.

The girl needed washing. She had fouled herself while he was gone, he could smell stale feces and bitter urine from where he stood at the door. She had her eyes shut tight against the brightness of the light.

She had been the best so far. She fought him, giving him lots of raw data to mull through later. She was defiant. He liked that. When they gave up too quickly, he got bored and then the rage took over.

He took the blanket off of her and threw it in a corner to be disposed of. He took tiny samples of the filth that lay between her legs, ignoring the stench. The stench was part of the job, it was part of the experiment. The smells were just one more aspect of the 'science'.

"I have a treat for you today," he said as he dropped the bundle on his desk. A sigh of relief. The benefactor not the knife.

She had learned quickly that he hated it when she begged and pleaded. It made him mad. The benefactor was what he called himself in the voices in the dark. He liked defiance. The more she fought him, the gentler he was.

"I don't want anything from you but to go home," her voice was hoarse and rough but she tried to sound tough.

He chuckled, pleased. He stroked her hair, the side of her face and reached behind him for a knife.

It was hard not to cringe away and show her fear but she managed. He played with the knife for a moment, pushing the blade into his own finger tip just enough to leave a welt but not to cut the flesh. He was good with knives, not as good as the other was, but in his own way, an expert.

He reached above her and did something with the knife, surprising her when she felt the ropes around her arms go slack. He was cutting her loose. She felt a pain start deep inside and realize it was hope, a tiny dim light of hope.

He cut her feet loose and pulled her up by her shoulders, letting her sit at the edge of her table and catch her balance. She didn't know how long she had been tied to that table but sitting up was making her dizzy and her hands and feet throbbed terribly. Her arms ached from being held so tightly above her head. She gasped at the pain and swayed, but he held her firmly.

"Come on, Sara," he called her by name for the first time since she had been taken. "Lean on me."

She had no choice. She couldn't feel anything but pain from her feet. He half carried her into the tiny space that she had figured was a bathroom, leaning her against the wall while he adjusted the pressure and temperature of the water in the tiny shower stall.

She stood under the hot water for long minutes, feeling it wash away dirt and his touch down the drain in a swirling wash. His hands were in his hair, rubbing firmly at the greasy, stringy mass that was too matted and fouled to clean easily. He rubbed in some sweet smelling shampoo, rinsing and then repeating the entire procedure. His hands smoothed down her body, massaging aching muscles and rubbing the dirt away.

She hadn't thought anything could feel so good. She would never take being clean for granted again. The water soaked into her skin and into her pores.

When he turned off the water, she leaned weakly against the side of the stall, not understanding why something so trivial should wear her out so much.

He pulled a couple of big towels out of a cupboard and wrapped one around her body, the second he put over her head, gently rubbing her hair to get the excess water out. Then he guided her gently out of the shower. He sat on the toilet lid and pulled her to stand between his legs as he patted her dry.

When he determined that she was dry enough, he reversed their positions, sitting her gently on the toilet lid, making sure the towel was wrapped securely around her. He pulled the towel from her hair and gently brushed through the damp tangled mess. He didn't pull, instead untangling snarls with his fingers until the brush would go through smoothly. And she sat there and leaned into him, grateful to feel clean, to be taken care of even if it was by a monster.

When he had brushed her hair almost dry, the blonde tresses laying like silk against her shoulders, he pulled her back to a standing position and helped her back into the main room. He sat her at a chair that he pulled away from his long desk. She didn't move as he cleaned up the table, long sweeping strokes with a big sponge and some heavy disinfectant cleaning the mess quickly.

He reached into a cupboard and cut some new lengths of rope, measuring it against each other for length and then securing the new bonds where the old ones had been. When he turned toward her, Sara started shaking her head. "No, no fucking way." She hit at him when he got close to her and tried to get up to run from him. Her feet were still too numb and she fell against him, screaming as he pulled her back to the table. "No! You fucking bastard! Get away from me!" Her hand connected solidly with his face, leaving a red mark.

He pushed her onto the table and grabbed her hair in his fist, pulling it as he picked her head up and smashed it back down into the hard surface of the table.

All fight left her as pain engulfed her head. Her eyes rolled wildly in her head as unintelligible sounds came from her mouth. He looped the ropes over her feet and spoke gently to her as he tied her hands back up above her head.

When she was finally tied back to the table, he went to the bathroom staring at the red mark on his cheek just below his eye. She was the first of any of them that had ever managed to leave a mark on him, well besides the scratches that he'd easily explained as coming from a stray cat he'd tried to catch. He touched the redness with gentle fingers, realizing that she had hit him hard enough to leave a bruise.

"This will never do," he muttered to his reflection. "Never do," he repeated softly. He stepped back from the mirror and looked into his own eyes as he made a fist and plowed it into his own cheek, leaving a huge welt that covered the mark that she had made. He stumbled back a step and grabbed the sink to stop himself from falling. His eyes were watering from the pain and he wiped them irritably before he checked his work.

It would do. His wife would believe whatever he told her. She wouldn't care either way anyways. She never did. He was a good looking arm for her to lean on when she went to the many dinners that were so important to her career. He looked good in a tux and he never made any demands upon her time. She never realized that every time he 'yes deared' her he was imagining her tied to his table, the knife in his hands, her screams in his ears. That would be so sweet.

Sara was on his table now, her eyes filled with fear. She had heard the shout that he hadn't remembered making when he had hit himself. His hair was standing up and his clothes mussed from his exertions. His face was contorted from the swelling welt on his cheek. His eyes were wild and huge, making him look even crazier than he had before.

She was terrified. She remembered waking up to him that first day, his assurances that she would be washed before she left him. After he killed her. She couldn't control the tiny animal sounds of fear that were escaping her swollen throat. If today was the day she was to die, she wasn't ready. She didn't want to die. She didn't want to be a nameless body in the morgue, something so foul and rank that even the most hardened professional would turn their nose up and gag at her stench.

She cringed at the thought of being found naked and mutilated. The thought that animals would chew on her flesh horrified her. She would be alone and uncared for, forgotten. She couldn't stop the tears that ran down her face and into her now clean hair.

She was looking at him as if he were an animal. He took a moment and smoothed down his hair, straightening his shirt and smoothing out the wrinkles in his tailored dress pants. He calmed himself, took a deep breath and approached the table.

"It's not your time yet, dear," he said calmly. He pulled the towel free from her body and went to hang it up on the towel bar in the bathroom. When he returned, the calm benefactor was back, smooth and unruffled. He approached the table, sliding his hand up the inside of her leg when he got close enough. He let his fingers slide into her body, first one then two, finally stopping at three. His thumb ruffled the curls that he kept trimmed, fluffing them up until they were the way he liked.

He caressed her stomach with his free hand, looking into her eyes to gauge her reaction. She looked at him with hate and defiance in her red watery gaze, and he threw back his head and laughed.

"I'm really going to hate to let you go, Sweetness. You are the best by far." He lowered his face to hers and kissed her, pushing her head into the table to hold her still while his tongue entered her mouth. She knew better than to bite, had been beaten severely the one time she had tried. He liked to use the knife on her, little nicks in places that caused terrible pain and bled for a long time taught her to allow him the use of her body. He had used her in almost every way possible, had explored darker aspects of sex with her and he had enjoyed it all.

He hadn't cared that he had ripped into her flesh so badly she bled for hours after, that he bit and pinched her until she screamed in pain, getting absolutely no pleasure from his hands. But it was worse when he took the time to make her feel, to caress her breasts, play with her nipples until they hardened. When he would find her clit, stroke and caress it, pinch it lightly until she wanted to beg him to make her cum.

She hated what he could do to her body, at those times, with him lauding it in her face as he would push his meaty shaft between her thighs, she wished he would kill her. He was kind now, kissing and caressing, making her feel those hated things. He climbed on the table between her legs, his mouth close to pink flesh between her thighs, smelling her essences, her freshness now that she was clean. She drew him to her with her sass and her bravery. He wanted to keep her forever.

But the knife was starting to call him. It hadn't been fed in a long time, it hadn't been allowed out. He was ignoring it, not wanting to give this one up just yet. She amused him in ways no other female had been able to. But he knew it would be soon and he understood that he would give her up. Until that time though, he rubbed a rough hand over her thighs spreading her open wider before letting his tongue taste of her, he would enjoy her every chance he could.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 08



Chapter Eight

The team from the crime lab was still hard at work when Michelle got back to the victim's apartment. They, for the most part, ignored her as she stood in the doorway watching them work. 

Pictures were being taken, evidence cataloged, fingerprint powder spread over every conceivable surface. The victim's bedroom was dark except for a bright blue spotlight that was slowly going over the surface of the bed.

It was amazing to watch. Each member of the team seemed to know exactly what their job was without being given any instruction from the primary criminologist. Evidence bags were stacking up quickly. One technician was taking fingerprints, dusting and tape lifting then cataloging as to where the print was taken from.

She was fascinated.

A hand touched her shoulder making her jump. She turned to see Jimmy Benitti standing grinning down at her.

"Dammit Jimmy, you enjoy doing that too much." She sounded more pissed than she was. He was always trying to scare people and she had secretly nicknamed him 'ghost'.

"Only to you kid, I like to watch your boobs flop."

She poked him in the arm with her fist hard enough to make him flinch. "My boobs don't flop. They bounce, and they do that firmly."

"Yeah, tell that to gravity." He rubbed his arm. "Where's your keeper? I don't see the leash today."

"He went to the lab to check out that note, I got off the leash for a couple of hours. But I tell you, I'm getting withdrawal."

"Yeah, he sure does like to keep you close," he said, hidden meaning evident in the sarcastic tone of voice.

"Watch it, Benitti, or I'll rat you out to Tankless about those three hour lunches at the strip club in Capac." She smirked as he flinched again.

"Ouch, how'd you find out about those."

She smiled coyly. "A good cop and a good reporter never, ever tell their sources."

They were quiet for a moment, watching the mountain of evidence grow.

"So what happened with the Sheriff?" Jimmy finally asked.

"The usual. He blew a ton of smoke and now I get to act as liaison between Nick and the Sheriff. I get to play go between and keep him informed on the case." Bitterness seeped into her tone.

"I don't envy you that job, kid." He patted her on the back, hand creeping downward towards her 

butt until she glared at him and grabbed it.

"Jimmy you are a pig."

"That's why I became a cop, kid. I was already half way there." He laughed as she rolled her eyes at the poor attempt at humor. "If you're sticking around kid, I'll take off. I missed out on lunch today." He pulled out his wallet and showed her a whole handful of dollar bills.

"Jeez, Jimmy. I was just kidding about the strip club," she said rolling her eyes at him again.

He laughed and took off, leaving her in charge of the crime scene. It wasn't the best job for her since they had uniformed officers downstairs keeping the press back. If Jimmy left, Michelle would be the one to give them orders. The uniforms would really love that, half of them had been giving her shit about working with the detectives anyways. She had even heard rumors spreading that the only reason Nick was letting her work the case was to get her in bed.

In bed with Nick. The thought brought a rosy glow to her cheeks. She could imagine that only too well, how he would taste, how he would feel under her hands.

The scene in his office shouldn't have happened. You never get involved with anyone where you worked. It was too messy and too complicated after it was done. It would be especially so with someone like Nick. She could imagine white picket fences and two point five kids with him if she really let herself. And she wouldn't let herself.

But damn could he kiss. She could still taste him on her lips when she licked them. It was a distraction she couldn't afford, especially now.

Lisha stepped into her range of view.

"Well, hey sugar." Her voice was syrupy with false friendship. "Where's Nicky at? He get kicked off the case?"

You'd like that wouldn't you, Lisha, she thought, trying to get the image of ripping the woman's expertly styled hair out. "No, he's at the lab with the letter."

God, the woman was annoying. She was dressed in tight black jeans and a black tank top that clung like a second skin. Her hair was loose around her head in clouds of red waves that fell to her mid back. She had a walk like a jungle cat in heat. And if that accent wasn't fake, Michelle was a brunette.

"And here I thought Tanner was going to take the two of you off the case." Lisha checked her carefully manicured fingernails for chips as she kept her voice light and friendly in her search for gossip.

What a bitch. She was probably the one that spilled the information to the Sheriff in the first place. Michelle had a hard time smothering the urge to knock the redhead on her ass.

"Sheriff Williams just wanted an up date. Nick is still primary on the case." No thanks to you. She could be just as hypocritical as Lisha was, even if it did leave a bad taste in her mouth. She smiled back at her. "It was amazing how quickly he found out about the apartment, Lisha. I mean, we had barely gotten here before he showed up."

Lisha shrugged her tan shoulders, looking down at her manicure once more before snapping on another set of thin latex gloves. "He must have a pretty good network of ears in the department. You know, girl, he is the Sheriff." Lisha turned her back on Michelle, with a casual wave of gloved fingers, and strolled away, effectively dismissing her.

It's too bad she was so claustrophobic. Prison might be worth the satisfaction of putting an entire generation of men out of their misery and doing in the little cat. Her fingers were itching to wrap around the grip of her gun so she hurriedly turned her attention to something else.

The crime scene people were packing up their stuff, depositing latex gloves into evidence bags, dotting i's and crossing t's in case of trial. They gathered up the evidence to take back to the lab and left the apartment, Michelle coming up behind them. She locked the door with the key that Jimmy had left her, smoothed on the crime scene--do not pass--notice so that it covered the crack in the door and walked down the stairs to assign one lucky deputy watch duty.

As luck would have it, every officer there had at least five years seniority in and didn't appreciate being given orders by the new kid. She finally had one officer take pity on her, an older guy that she had never met before who worked with the Imlay City Police. He didn't know who she was or that she was only a lowly deputy, low man on the totem pole and only in plain clothes because she was supposedly sleeping with the detective in charge.

Damn. She'd heard of bad hair days, this was the dozy of all time.

She glanced at her watch. She had been officially off duty for three hours. She had missed lunch, missed dinner and the sun was getting low over the trees. She hadn't heard from Nick since she had left him hours ago. He had never called about the letter or what it said.

She was upset, tired, hungry and cranky. She'd had about six hours of sleep this week and most of that had been at Nick's place on his lumpy couch. Michelle made up her mind, she was going to go home, forget about the case. She was going to climb into the huge claw foot tub full of hot, scented water and forget she had ever heard the name Nicholas Saint.

She climbed into her car and turned down the road that would take her to Interstate 69 the quickest way back to Lapeer. She drove home, stopping in Lapeer to pick up some drive through dinner and then went to her place.

Her apartment was dark and closed up, hot after the sun had baked in the drapes half of the day. 

She opened all the windows and turned on the two fans she had, one in her bedroom window, the other in the tiny living room. The people who had rented this place before her had owned cats, and from the smell left in the carpet, they hadn't been much on changing the litter box.

She sat her dinner on the kitchen counter and put on a kettle of hot water, taking down her favorite cup and a tea bag. Her body was craving a drink to help her relax from the day but she refused to give in to it. In one of the stress management classes that had been a requirement for a degree enforcement, the instructor had harped that drinking alcohol after a long day on the job could lead to performance problems. 

She might not automatically believe that but she wasn't taking a chance.

She took her tea and sandwich with her into the bathroom, opening the window above the toilet and pulling the blinds back. Her apartment looked out over her neighbor's dog pen. A beautiful sight, the big ugly dog, his toys, food and assorted messes.

The taps on the big tub were old and squeaked when she turned them, the water taking forever to get hot. Michelle waited patiently before shoving in the white rubber plug and adding her favorite scented oil. She took off her shoulder holster and wrapped it around her duty weapon. It went into the drawer next to her bed. Her 22 was taken was already out of her ankle holster and left in the kitchen cupboard that housed her cereal. She went back to the bathroom and finished undressing.

The water was hot and felt wonderful when she climbed in. She relaxed, leaning her head against the raised back of the tub. This luxury was worth every other hardship the rest of the apartment had, the terrible heating system, lack of air conditioning. She'd live through it all just for a soak in a deep tub. She turned the water off with her toes and closed her eyes, willing her brain to turn off.

Ten minutes later, frustrated and angry at herself, Michelle got out of the tub and let the water drain, pulling on her old cotton robe without drying off. She pulled the clip out of her hair and grabbed her tepid tea and cold hamburger and walked out of the bathroom, muttering under her breath.

Damn him for invading her bath. All she wanted was a few minutes to relax and forget. Instead, she had closed her eyes and felt his lips against hers. The heat of the water had reminded her of the heat of his skin under her fingers. It's scent had brought notions of romance and seduction, of lips and tongues entwined and dancing hungrily. Nick had invaded her mind as much as much as she wanted him to invade her body, setting up permanent residence in his own special niche.

She dumped the hamburger in the trashcan in the kitchen and dumped the tea down the drain. The sun had set but it was still light enough in the place to not need lights yet. She wandered into the living room, carefully avoiding boxes that still needed unpacking. Curling up on her second hand couch, she looked out the open window and watched the cars stream by on the interstate less than a mile away.

So much for getting away from it all for a while. 

Michelle wrapped her arms around her cotton covered legs and snuggled down into the cushions resting her chin and closing her eyes.

Crime scene photos flashed in her imagination, a shadowy figure superimposed over the tortured bodies of the two girls. Who was this man who was doing this? Why was he picking these girls? What did they have that fueled his needs? His needs revolved around his fantasies, but what fantasies? These girls played a part, fulfilled a purpose. What purpose?

Too many questions and not enough answers. Too little evidence. Nick had started cops out knocking on doors, trying to find out the last day that Sheri had been seen. They were trying to get information on possible boyfriends, enemies, co-workers, something.

Who knows, by now he might already have the information he needs to make an arrest. Maybe that was why he didn't call. Or maybe he was embarrassed by the scene this afternoon in his office when she had about pushed him down on his desk and...

She buried her face in her legs. God knows, she was embarrassed enough for both of them. 

* * * *

What was he doing here? She wasn't going to want to see him. She hadn't called him all day, even though he had been expecting it. She hadn't come back to the station after closing up the crime scene. Nick had thought about calling her at home and changed his mind, instead hopping into his car and driving over. If he'd called, she could have told him not to come over. And he wanted to see her.

That kiss had been on his mind all day. That hot, molten kiss that had blown him away. He'd never kissed anyone who'd responded the way she had, who'd pushed his buttons as well. Oh yeah, he knew all the reasons that they shouldn't get involved with each other, not least of all was departmental policy. But they were stupid reasons when his body was telling him that what he wanted, what he needed couldn't be wrong.

So he stopped on the way over and picked up some of her favorite Chinese food. At least if she was going to throw him out, he could make sure she had something to eat. And if Michelle didn't throw him out, well, maybe they could warm it up later tonight and eat it in bed.

Yeah, Saint, keep dreaming.

He parked next to her car and walked up the outside steps to her front door. She was on the second floor, the poorly made wooden steps uncovered and uneven. This winter, they would be icy and dangerous. She needed an awning or maybe some outdoor carpeting tacked down on them. Nick made a mental note to get some and do that.

Her apartment was dark. He could hear fans running in the open windows but no sounds that she was awake, no one moving in the apartment. He knew she had a TV, but also knew she didn't spend much time watching it.

He was about to knock on the door when he heard a noise and then a shrill cry from inside. He dropped the bag and banged on her door, cursing at the heavy wood. He grabbed the handle and shook it then prepared to take a step back ready to kick it in when it opened.

She stood there in a damp cotton bathrobe that clung to her skin. Her face was flushed, eyes sleepy, hair hanging down over her shoulders in mussed waves of spun gold. She blinked owlishly at him as if she couldn't quite fathom who he was and what he was doing at her door making all that racket.

"Are you all right?" He grabbed her arms, pushing her back into the apartment and looking around as if he would spot an intruder and could kick his ass. "What happened?"

"What are you talking about?" This was a nightmare. She must still be dreaming, that was it, she was still sleeping...

"You screamed." He was still looking around her, pushing past to check the other rooms in the small apartment.

"I screamed." She tested the words in her mind, then shrugged her shoulders. She was awake now. "I didn't scream." She chased him down the hall to her bedroom. "I said, I didn't scream. Dammit, Nick, what are you doing?"

"Okay, well maybe, technically, it wasn't a scream. But you did cry out. I heard you." He was rambling. Her bedroom smelt like sweet sin. It had to be some kind of oil or candle, or maybe just the scent of her skin. He breathed it in deeply before turning, reluctantly to walk out. 

That smell, her smell, would stay with him, he wouldn't be able to forget it.

"I fell asleep on the couch," she said defensively. "I must have been dreaming." The dream, a nightmare, returned in full force, flooding her mind.

The dark shape standing over her, light glittering on a long deadly knife, their killer had attacked her. She had tried, desperately, to fight him off but he only laughed and started stabbing at her with that sharp blade. She'd been able to feel the blood from the wounds he had inflicted, smell it's coppery scent in the air around here even as she had fallen to the floor. Her hands had come up to defend herself, protect herself somehow and she had knocked off the hat that had kept his face so deeply in the shadows. 

A scream born not of physical pain, but of terror and deep emotional pain had been wrenched from her. It was Nick standing over her with the knife, Nick killing her. Oh, God. Her hand went to her throat, gathering the plain cotton closer to her.

He saw the trembling hand that she pressed against her mouth, her face suddenly pale, her eyes panicky. Nick reached out and took her arms, afraid that she might fall or run away or be sick or... something.

"Are you okay?" his voice was husky with concern and the adrenaline that was still running through his system.

"Fine." Even her voice sounded strange to her ears. Michelle pulled away from him and walked into the living room, standing off to the side of the couch. She desperately needed to get control of herself and to do that, he couldn't be touching her. "What are you doing here?"

Wow, to say she wasn't happy to see him was an understatement. This was a mistake, Nicky boy. A big mistake.

"I thought you might like to know what the letter said, the one we found at the apartment, you know, the case we're working on." No, that wasn't bitterness or sarcasm in his voice. He didn't sound cynical. "You didn't call me back today after you left the scene."

He walked over to the door, opened the screen and picked up the bag of Chinese that he had dropped. The little white boxes it was packed in had kept it from spilling. He brought it over and handed it to her. "And I brought you some dinner. When I talked to Jimmy, he said that you hadn't left the scene all afternoon, I thought you might be hungry."

"You talked to Jimmy?"

Was that confusion in her voice? "Yeah, I told him to have you call me. I radioed him at his car, I didn't have my cell phone with me today." 

She was looking at him strangely. "You never called me back. I thought..." he let his voice die out. She didn't need to know that he thought she hadn't wanted to speak to him because he had forced himself on her. She hadn't asked him to fall on her like a depraved lunatic at a sex shop. She didn't deserve what he had done or any recriminations he might have for having done it.

"You thought?" she prompted curiously wanting to know where he was planning on taking that statement.

"It doesn't matter," he said quickly, shaking his head. "Do you have any lights in this place? I brought over a copy of that letter and some of the crime scene reports on what they found at her apartment, I thought we might work on it a little. If you wanted," he hastily added. He motioned to the bag of food. "And I'm hungry, I thought we could eat before we worked. You know I always think better on a full stomach." He tried smiling that old charming Nick Saint boyish grin and hoped he pulled it off.

Her stomach gurgled loudly, reminding her of the hamburger she hadn't eaten because of this man in front of her. The smell of the Chinese food wafted temptingly up to her. She could smell chicken and hot spicy goodness and that was all it took.

"Okay," she said as she headed for her kitchen and silverware. "But only because I don't want the food to go to waste." She looked over her shoulder and grinned back at him as he turned on the lamp next to her couch. "And here, all I thought I wanted tonight was peace and quiet." She shook her head. "I should've known those two words aren't in your dictionary, Nick."



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 09-11



Chapter Nine

Hmmm, heaven was built on spicy Szechwan chicken. Michelle popped the last bite into her mouth and sat back on the couch, her hand on her flat stomach. She had changed clothing before sitting down with Nick and the food, putting on a pair of short black leggings and an oversized FBI tee shirt her brother had gotten for her when he went to Quantico for some training classes a few months ago.

With her hair pulled up in a long blonde ponytail and no makeup, she looked all of ten years old.

"Full?" Nicky asked, amusement in his eyes. She had plowed into the chicken and vegetable dish as if she hadn't eaten in a year. Nick had watched in amazement as she had polished off the entire container and her half of the fried rice.

"Yep." She felt too good right now to let him bug her or provoke her. She sat back up and pulled her feet up on the couch, sitting Indian style facing him. She pointed at the cashew chicken mixed in with rice on his plate. "You gonna finish that?"

He pulled his plate out of her reach and then fed her a bite from his fork. To keep her occupied and out of his food, he reached behind him and picked up the file that he had brought with him, handing it to her. She reacted the same way she had with the food, eagerly opening the file and pulling out the copy of the letter that had been sent to him.

The note had been sent through prints and trace elements, and to their linguistics guy. There were no discernible prints on the plain white paper. 

One hair was found in the envelope and was being sent to the lab in Lansing as they spoke, but the DNA results could take weeks before they got results back. Linguistics hadn't gotten back to him with their report yet. So most of what he had was the note and a bad feeling.

"You know, Nick, I thought that cutting letters out of newspapers and magazines had gone out of style when home computers and printers were invented. There's something a little freaky about this cut and paste job."

Nick snorted in agreement. "We got ourselves a purist, an old fashioned type of guy or else he's been watching way too many old movies."

The words had been glued to the page by Elmer's glue, something that could be picked up at any discount store around. The words themselves were a taunt.

"Don't you ever get tired of being a day late and a dollar short, Detective Saint?" Michelle read. 

"Well isn't that just so nice of him? And what we needed, to be dissed by a psychopath." The letter was signed with a single initial that was cut out of a headline so that it was bigger than any other letter on the page, the letter M, the font in bright red.

"Yeah, made me feel all warm inside," Nick said around a mouthful of chicken and cashews. "Now all we have to do is look around for every white guy around the age of 30 to 35 who wears high end wool suits and has the first or last initial of M. Should be a piece of cake."

"Hey," Michelle laughed, in a much better mood now that she'd been fed. "Don't be such a pessimist. Maybe the lab guys can do something with the hair. Or maybe we'll get lucky and this guy likes to run with scissors and play in traffic. Maybe he'll run into a semi. "

"I have a feeling that the hair is just going to belong to one of our two victims. It was about twelve inches long and blonde. If not them, maybe to his newest victim." He gave her last comment all the dignity it deserved and ignored it. Was there a time that he had thought she was too classy to be a cop? He put his plate on top of hers and took both of them into the kitchen and rinsed them in the sink.

"I really don't want to think about a victim number three," she said as he reached under her sink for the dish detergent. Michelle had gotten used to him picking things up behind her. He was a neat freak and didn't even realize when he was doing it anymore. He thought better when he was doing something, anything, sitting drove him nuts unless he was busy. She had gotten used to taking things from his hands, putting them down and watching him pick them up to toss them around again.

She was reading some of the notes on the interviews she had missed out on today. They had tracked down the manager of the Blockbuster Video Store that Sheri Meridian had worked at and brought him in. He was a cranky old man who had finally called the police when one of his other employees had told him about the picture in the newspaper.

His interview was the usual, he didn't know nothing and hadn't seen her in a month. He thought she had just gotten tired of being away from her family and had moved back home. After a week of consecutive absences, he had called and fired her on her answering machine. What a sweet and considerate man. Michelle rolled her eyes.

Her coworkers weren't much better, it seemed as if no one knew much about Sheri besides the fact that her parents lived in a different state and that something bad had happened between them. Sheri had moved here recently, before that she had been in Toledo, Ohio. Before that, was anybody's guess. 

Sheri didn't talk to her parents anymore. She wasn't the type to make friends and didn't socialize with any of them outside the job. The biggest consensus had been that Sheri was a stuck up bitch, to quote verbatim.

"What about a car?" Michelle called back to him, looking over her shoulder to where he was drying dishes and putting them away.

He walked out of the kitchen and grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the end table, setting them back down at a scowl from her. "I put a bulletin out on it today. She drove a," he looked down at the report she held, reading upside down, "1986 Honda Accord, blue." He sat down again, still looking longingly at his cigarettes. "With our luck, it's a piece of junk that has already rusted into the ground. But we'll look for it."

Michelle reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a square of Nicorette gum, tossing it to him and then flipped through the new pages in the file. "Not much here. I guess when I hadn't heard from you today, I hoped you were making an arrest."

"I called you." He sat the gum down next to the cigarettes with a grimace of disgust.

"Yeah, Jimmy just forgot to tell me. Did he tell you that he left me in charge of the scene today?" She turned a page.

"He did what?"

She flinched at the sudden anger in his voice.

"I'll take that as a no." She tried to ignore his silence and kept talking. "I was there watching the crime scene people doing their job. He figured I could handle it." She glanced up at him. His face was stony.

"Was I wrong?"

"How'd it go?" He didn't answer her question.

"Fine, I waited for them to leave, put the notice on the door and assigned someone for door duty. I have the key here. It's in my briefcase." She let the file drop into her lap. "Did I do wrong?"

"No, Jimmy did." And he could have gotten Nick's butt in a bigger sling than it already was in. But he didn't tell her that. There wasn't any reason to let her worry about it. He wasn't going to. He changed the subject. "So what do you think about the note?"

"Uneducated guess?"

"As if you're uneducated," he scoffed.

She glowed at the compliment but didn't mention it. "I'd say he's trying to goad you into making this personal. It's addressed to you, he wants to see if you are smart enough to catch him." She paused and looked at the note again. "I would say that he wants to see how many times he can get away with it. This won't be the last note you get either. Unless we catch him right away, you'll probably get one after every body that is found."

"My take on it as well. I think we got us a game player." He rubbed his forehead, the lingering essence of the headache right behind his eyes. "It's not just the fantasy, or the hunt, or even the kill that gets these guys. It's proving they're smarter than whoever works the case. And the bigger the name in charge, the more the killer has to prove. Psychos like these are much worse than your run of the mill serial killer."

"Ah, but," she lifted a finger in the air to make a point, "he hasn't reached serial killer status yet. He's got to knock off a couple more to get that."

Nick snorted a laugh. "Yeah, but lets not tell him that okay?"

"Yeah, just cause this is blonde," she pulled a strand of hair forward over her shoulder, "doesn't mean that it's a life style."

"You sure?" He laughed and ducked when she swung at him. "Seriously," he added when he quit laughing, "I got five calls and a bunch of call back slips from the newsies today. Someone let it slip that we got an ID. They are going to be all over this."

"Oh, shit."

"My feelings exactly. I no commented them, gave them the blah, blah, blah about waiting until the victim's next of kin had been notified. But you know that they are going to run it as soon as they can bribe, steal, or cheat someone out of the name." He sighed in disgust. "I know they got a job to do, I read the paper like everybody else. I just wish they would realize that what they do can really fuck up an investigation."

"Did you get a hold of her parents?" That was not a job Michelle would want to do. How do you tell someone that their estranged daughter was dead at the hands of a psychopathic killer? How do you tell a father that his little girl was tortured and abused and then thrown away like yesterday's garbage? She could only imagine what it would do to them to think of Sheri's last days on this earth and know the kind of pain and terror she must have experienced. Just the thought of that terror gave her shivers.

Nick saw the shiver that went through her body and understood it. The worst thing about this job was to explain to parents that their child had been murdered. And in a manner that was this grisly, there was no way to break it gently. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, rubbing gently at the knot of tension in the back of her neck.

"Yeah, I called them."

Michelle was silent as she leaned into his touch, knowing that there was more to tell and that he needed to get it out.

"I talked to her father in Arizona. They hadn't heard anything from Sheri since she moved out when she was seventeen, three years ago. He said they had a fight over some guy that she was seeing that wasn't good for her." His hand moved further down her back, still kneading at the knotted muscles. 

"Want to know the really sad part? The guy dumped her a month after she moved out of the parents' house. He took everything Sheri had, money, jewelry and most of her clothes. Then he just walked on her."

Nick shifted on the sofa so that he could use both hands, turning her so that her back was more accessible to him. Touching her was doing wicked, wanton things to him, not touching her was slowly killing him. He almost bit through his bottom lip when she moaned in pleasure, a deep husky sound that sent heat hardening his cock, as if it could get any harder around her.

Michelle was in trouble and she knew it. But she wasn't moving or doing anything to take those talented, long fingers off of her body. Think about the case, the case was why he was here.

"Are they coming to get the body?" Was that her voice? She sounded so breathless, so unlike herself. His hands were at her waist, thumbs touching and almost under the waistband of her leggings, her tee shirt having ridden up under the gentle massage of his hands.

He scooted forward on the couch, coming so close that there were mere inches between their bodies. 

He could smell her skin, the same smell of sweet sin that was in her bedroom. Her husky voice was a siren's call of seductive heat, luring him away from all thoughts of death and killers. She had said something. What? Oh yeah, the body.

He cleared his throat, leaning closer, his chest touching her back, his hands circling her waist. 

"Yeah, they'll be taking a flight in to Detroit tomorrow. I asked them to come in for an interview before they leave for home. I don't think they have anything pertinent to add to the case but it can't hurt." His voice had gotten softer as he spoke until he was almost whispering.

She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide, pupils dilated with the pleasure of his touch. His hands were on her stomach, pulling her further back until she was on his lap, then gliding under her shirt to rest on her bare skin.

She couldn't breath, his hands were so hot against her bare skin, evoking feelings that she had never felt before, had never imagined were possible to feel.

"Nicky," she whispered.

"Hmmm?" His hands were moving restlessly on her body, sliding upward, finding out to his delight that she had nothing on under that tee shirt but skin.

"We shouldn't do this, Nicky." Her voice was nothing but a moan of pleasure as his questing hands found her breasts, lifting them. His thumbs moved over the rigid tips, around them, creating a havoc of desire to pool in her belly. She moved restlessly in his lap, her head falling limply back to his shoulder, wanting to deny her own words and let him do with her as he would, wanting nothing more than to drown in the pleasure of his touch.

His mouth nuzzled at her throat, tasting the soft warm sweetness of her. His hands found that she fit him perfectly, her nipples hard points against his palms.

"You're right, Chelle," he breathed against her skin. "We shouldn't do this." He nipped her flesh with his teeth and then laved the spot with his tongue, her shudder of pleasure almost his undoing. "Do you want me to stop?" He held his breath even as his hands continued to move on her, one slipping down to glide around her small belly button and steal beneath the waist band of her leggings and panties, fingers just touching the delicate flesh between her legs.

If she told him to stop, to take his hands off of her right now, it would be the hardest thing he had ever had to do and he probably wouldn't walk standing up straight for a week. But, somehow he would do it. He wanted her so badly, wanted to slip inside her, feel her stretch and give for his cock. He wanted to taste that part of her and bring her over that sharp edge into pleasure, hear her call out his name in her smoky voice. He wanted to take her until they were both too tired and numb to know their own names. And then he wanted her one more time after that to prove to both of them how good it was.

He turned her in his arms until she was laying across his lap, looking up at him. Her skin was flushed, her eyes fuzzy with pleasure wringing another groan from him. He shook her gently but impatiently, needing to hear her say the words before he lost control.

"Michelle," he said urgently. "Do I stop?" His lips were right above hers. "Do I?" he prodded again.

She opened her mouth, the tip of her pink tongue coming out to moisten her lower lip.

Did she know what she was doing to him? He groaned and wanted to chase her tongue back into her mouth with his own.

Her hands were on his chest, playing with the tie that he had loosened but hadn't removed yet. She used it to pull his head down further, her mouth finding his, anxiously needing to see if what he had made her feel earlier hadn't been a dream.

His control broke. "Too late," he growled against her lips. He swept her up against him, only releasing her mouth long enough to pull her tee shirt over her head. He kissed her frantically, long days of working with her, of getting to know her, of restraining his desire for her wrapped up in a kiss meant to devastate her control. He had to make her as needy for him as he was for her, if that were even possible. His hands were everywhere, almost harsh in his need of her.

His tie followed her shirt and her hands were busy trying to make stubborn buttons go through tiny holes. She laughed wickedly as he pulled away and tore open the shirt, buttons flying everywhere. He took her hands, placing them palm down on the hot flesh of his chest, groaning at the contact.

Michelle sat up, straddling his lap. She slid her hands down the smooth skin of his chest, stroking over his hard belly and then back up, wrapping her fingers around his throat. "Mmmm," she moaned, dragging her nails over the tiny hardness of his nipples. "I want you, Nick." Her smoky voice crooned seductively next to his ear as she let her hips push against the long bulge underneath the sleek pants he wore. She slid her hands up and over his muscled shoulders, pushing the shirt off and down his arms. Her teeth found the cord of his neck, nibbling and biting with delicate precision.

Nick took all he could handle of her sweet teasing, moaning when her teeth nipped just the tiniest bit too hard. Finally, he had enough. He pushed her gently, tumbling her back down on the couch while he worked to free himself of his ruined shirt. It went flying behind his head as he tore it off and landed on top of the lamp, diffusing the harsh light. He leaned over her, his legs pushing her thighs apart settling his hard body into the cradle of her hips.

She reached up and threaded her fingers in his soft hair, pulling his face down to hers, her lips finding his in a kiss that threatened his sanity. 

Her arms pushed at his as they held his weight off of her, knocking him off balance so that he fell against her. They both moaned at the contact of his hard chest against the softness of her breasts. His long length fit perfectly against her slim curves, his hand curled around her thigh, drawing it up so her leg wrapped around his waist.

Michelle had wanted this, too, for what seemed like a long time. It didn't matter what happened later. She would deal with that then. Now was for her. Now was heat and lights, shocking streaks of need wrapped in an intensity of passion that she had never felt before. He kissed her and she felt it to the tips of her toes. He touched and her body sang with want and desire all coiled around bolts of fire. She wrapped her leg around his waist tighter, holding him to her, her hands slipping down the muscled length of his back.

He tore his mouth from hers. "You minx. Do you know what you're doing to me?" His breathing was unsteady, his heart thundering in his chest. She made him feel like no other woman ever had before. She was all soft curves and long lines, gentle and delicate with a core of strength that could shock and delight. Touching her was an addiction he never wanted to end. Kissing her was mindless, aching pleasure. She crept in, invading until he couldn't think of anything but her. She made him tremble with longing, desperate with hunger.

Nick pulled away, his hands sweeping the leggings down her body, her panties following swiftly behind. He looked down at the treasure he had uncovered.

"God, you are so beautiful." His hand followed his eyes, fingers teasing her nipple, caressing the line between her breasts to her stomach, and then finally coming to rest between her thighs. He parted her gently, looking into her eyes, his finger finding the tiny kernel of nerves and massaging it softly. He heard her surprised cry of pleasure and leaned closer, whispering in her ear.

"I want to watch you, Michelle," he breathed. "I want to see you when you come. I've dreamt about it, about you and I like this." He leaned back, loving the sight before his eyes. He felt her hands come up to his shoulders and dig in, her nails leaving little half-moons in his skin, seeing her head tip back and her body tighten. She was flame and golden beauty under him as she moved against him, desperate to find the pleasure that was just out of reach.

Her heart thundered in her ears, her body stretched taut as a bow string. She couldn't catch her breath. She could see him above her, his face almost harsh in passion. He was whispering to her, erotic things that made her hunger even more for what was coming. She raced to it, gasping as it swept over her, an explosion of heat that dragged his name out of her in a startled cry as the waves of ecstasy seem to flow endlessly through her.




A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 09-11



Little aftershocks were still wracking her body when she felt him move off of her. She stared up at him in confusion through heavy lidded eyes.

"What are...?"

She shrieked as he picked her up suddenly and threw her over his shoulder, smacking her bare rear end when she tried to climb off of him. He walked into her bedroom, holding her still with one hand while he pulled down the bedding then he dumped her roughly in the middle of her bed. She sat where she landed, eyes round in surprise, a hand covering her mouth to stop the giggles that wouldn't quit. She watched him as he grabbed a foil wrapped package out of his wallet, kicked off his shoes and climbed on the bed.

"My turn," he growled, advancing on her quickly, leaving no room for escape as he grabbed her ankles and dragged her under him.

>^,,^ 

Chapter Ten

The door creaked open and the switch was thrown. Light filled the underground room. Another soft click and the tape was stopped, the voices disappearing. The figure on the table blinked in surprise at the light and lack of noise, the quiet was more disturbing now than the voices. They had become friendly and familiar, even if the words were evil and bloody. The voices meant that she was alone and that no one would hurt her. She was safe with them. When they stopped was when she felt terror.

She no longer hurt. Her body had gotten to the point where the pain felt... right. The absence of pain would be strange now and absurdly unwelcome. Her feet and hands had turned black days ago from the circulation being cut off, she could no longer walk. Her body had been used in every way that her captor could possibly think of, horrible ways that would have been degrading and shameful if she still felt those things.

She no longer remembered what outside felt like, what the sun looked like. Those words were foreign to her now. 

Day and night were terms that were distant memories. She knew light or darkness, no shades of dusk or tints of dawn. She couldn't think of what the wind was or how it felt against her skin. The only air she got was the stale air that was thinly circulated by fans. Trees, flowers, animals, those things were gone to her, gone like her innocence. Gone like her belief of heaven because she survived in hell.

She wasn't concerned with her nudity any longer. Any femininity had been stripped off her, any beauty she had once possessed taken violently. She was skin and bones, breasts flattened by starvation and deprivation. She was glad for it, ugliness would mean lack of desire on the part of her captor.

She probably wouldn't be able to recognize her own face. She doubted anyone else would either. She had been beaten terribly, bones broken and never set, starting to heal in ways that were grotesque and disfiguring. She had only three whole teeth left in her mouth, the rest were either completely gone or broken, her lips shredded against the ruined, fractured stubs. Punishment and abuse were the constants in her life. That and terror.

Her body had been viciously torn by objects used to rape her in ways too horrible to remember. She had been sodomized so violently that she had been sick for days afterwards. Any defiance or will had long since been taken from her by means too foul to think of without completely losing what little was left of her mind.

She still knew her name. He called her by it in saccharine tones, expecting her to do as she was told, even when it was physically impossible. The other didn't use her name. He only called her bitch, or whore, or other words that hurt as much as blows, cuts and burns did. She had lost one nipple to the other, the Knife, as he called himself. He had pulled her hair out in rage, spittle flying in her face from his screams and threats. He had lost himself to that fury, his fists flying in blows that broke bones and tore flesh.

She had thought that she would die that day and had faced disappointment greater than anything she had ever felt when she hadn't. She had tried to push him into killing her that day, had tried to fuel the rage that the knife brought despite the immense amount of pain. She just wanted it over, the battle of wills had been won, she had been defeated. But he had left her, returning later, once more in control of himself, to wash her wounds with care and kind words that only made losing worse.

She looked at her captor dully now, not caring what he thought or what he wanted, only remembering in a way that was strangely detached that she was the victim in this. Tonight he looked different, tonight he was dressed in black from head to toe. Her abused mind processed the fact and she knew it was almost over. If there had been any moisture left in her broken, dehydrated body, she would have wept for joy.

He was speaking to her but she had long ago forgotten how to hear or to care if she did. She felt him hit her hard enough to turn her head, felt her lip split again and she left it there, not interested in looking at him. She longed for the feel of the blade against her skin, puncturing, driving deep into a heart that no longer wanted to beat. She was defeated.

He cut through her ties, she couldn't feel it. He sat her up and she slumped bonelessly, only staying in that position because he held her there. Her head was bowed, chin hanging against her chest. What little was left of her stringy hair fell into her face and around her shoulders. He propped her up, holding her with one hand against her malnourished body. With the other he took the picture. The picture that he would label when he got back. The picture that would have only one word on it.

AFTER

>^,,^ 

Chapter Eleven

The shrill scream of the phone woke her and she reached for it without opening her eyes. She managed to pick it up, fumbled it for a second and then held it to her ear.

"Yeah?" she croaked, managing to put in one word her anger that all her longing for sleep, peace and quiet was going down the tubes.

"Deputy Parsons?"

Oh, shit. She knew that voice. She sat straight up and then gathered the sheet back up over her breasts.

"Yes, Sheriff, what can I do for you?" She heard a groan of disbelief from beside her and wished she could slide under the bed.

"I'm looking for your partner. We have another dead body." He paused briefly to let that news sink in, like it was her fault and if not hers, definitely Nick's. "Do you have any idea where he is, Deputy Parsons?"

"I can probably find him, sir." She stared at the ceiling, refusing to even look at Nick, slapping away his hand when he tried to pull the sheet out of her fingers.

"Do that and tell him I want to see him. Immediately" He hung up before she could even think of an answer for him. She sat looking at the receiver as the broken connection buzzed at her.

Nick reached out and took the phone from her and hung it up. He curled up his pillow under his head and reached out his hand to play with her hair.

She smacked his hand away again and got up, reaching for her bathrobe. She turned and glanced at the clock. They had been asleep for less than an hour. She didn't want to look at him, refused to look at the picture he made. There he was laying in her bed, under her sheets, looking way too damn sexy for her own good. He was all male, with bare chest and mussed hair encamped in her flowered sheets like he belonged there. She pushed her hair back out of her face and started looking for clean clothes.

"We got another dead body."

* * * * 

Nick heaved a huge sigh. What a lousy ending to a pretty remarkable evening. He laid back with a grunt, covering his eyes with his hands, like he was preparing to hear the worst.

"Where?"

"I didn't get an address, he hung up too quickly." She opened a drawer and pulled out some sexy lingerie that had Nick's mouth going dry. He moaned at the thought of the picture she made in his head dressed in what she held. She glared at him, burying the sexy black lace thong in the pile of clothes she held in her hand.

Nick reached for the phone and dialed the number to the station. He spoke on the phone for a minute, then looked at Michelle, motioning for a piece of paper and something to write with. He scowled into the phone at something that was said and hung up, writing the address down, muttering something that sounded like Minnie Mouse on speed.

He threw the covers back, sitting on the side of the bed, smiling when he saw Michelle turn her back on him and retreat into her bathroom to dress. She hadn't been so shy about seeing him naked an hour ago. She'd had him flat on his back begging for mercy not too long after he carried her in here. His smile got brighter when he thought of the things she had done to him with her mouth, the sounds that she had wrung from him as she had tormented his poor deprived body. She'd been his match in bed, giving as much if not more than she got.

The woman was a sexual phenomenon. And now her face was red. He chuckled softly.

Nick got up and grabbed his pants, pulling them on as he went into the living room. His shirt was still on top of the lamp and he pulled it off and shook it out. His smile got even bigger as he looked at the damage they had done to it.

She came into the living room and saw him standing there, chest and feet bare, pants zipped but not buttoned. Desire hit her fast, weakening her knees as she remembered what his mouth had done to her body. And the things he did in bed... and on the couch... and the floor next to her bed when they had rolled off the mattress. Uh huh. Oh, no way was that what she should be thinking about right now. She shook her head to try to clear the pictures from her mind, no more successful at that then stopping the need he made her feel.

"Guess you're going to need to head home first." Her voice was a little huskier than usual but didn't sound too bad to her ears.

"Nah, I keep extra clothes in the car." He grinned as he saw the anger come into her eyes. "You know, for when I have to go to a really bad body. The smell never comes out of the material. I just learned to keep new clothes handy."

He walked by her to grab his socks and shoes out of her room, handing her the shirt in passing. "Sweetie, you should really get your mind out of the gutter."

She wanted to scream at him. Gutter minded? She was gutter minded? He was the one that... she wasn't going there. She shook out the shirt and looked at the damage they had done to it, most of the buttons missing, the material ripped. She had to fight the urge to bring the material up to her face, to see if it smelled like him. Instead, she walked into her kitchen and shoved it into one of the cupboards, not questioning why she didn't just throw it away.

The screen door to her apartment slammed shut and she jumped. She hurried out the door to yell down at him before he left without her. He would do that without a second thought, her eyes narrowed as she glared at him.

"Hey, you gonna give me that address?" She tried not to be too loud. It was almost three in the morning, her neighbors had their windows open to combat the heat of midsummer.

He motioned for her to come down, nodding when she held up a finger. She raced back into her apartment, grabbing her shoulder harness and pulling it on over the rose colored tank top she wore over a pair of faded denim jeans. She grabbed her boots, pulling them on quickly and snatched up her keys, phone and light jean jacket she kept close to the door for just such an occasion. She was out the door, pulling it closed and checking the lock in less time then it took him to open his trunk and pull out a slightly wrinkled dress shirt.

He shrugged it on, buttoning half the buttons and tucking it in without paying much attention to what he was doing. 

She had left her hair down and the lights in the parking lot made it look like a halo around her beautiful face. He felt a lurch in his chest in the region of his heart but ruthlessly pushed it away.

Nick went to the passenger door of his car, unlocked it and held it open.

"No. I'll drive myself. I'd like to get there alive." Her chin went up and she stood ready to argue with him if necessary. Okay, yes it was an excuse. It was also true, he drove like a maniac. But she could just imagine the speculation it would cause if both of them were to arrive in the same vehicle at this early hour of the morning. No way was she putting herself through that.

He slammed the door shut, maybe a little harder than was necessary, and handed her the slip of paper with the address written on it.

"Okay, I'll meet you there. Since you don't seem to want anyone knowing that we were together, I'll go the back way." He saw her open her mouth to argue, and quickly interrupted. "You're not as smooth as you think you are hotshot." He tried not to let the disappointment he felt be heard in his voice but didn't think he quite pulled it off. He walked around his car, got in and sped off, the big back wheels of the sports car spinning up gravel as he pulled onto the road.

She stood watching him, knowing that she had just hurt him somehow. But knowing also that if she didn't do it now, she was just going to be hurting herself worse later on. She rubbed a hand across her forehead, trying to get rid of the lines she knew were there. Why, she wondered, if she thought it was going to be so bad later did it hurt so bad right now?

She got in her car, a Neon that she had bought and paid for herself while working for her mother. It didn't have the flash and dash that his car had, but it was a symbol to her of her independence. And that made it all the more important. Having a police officer, no, he was a cop, she corrected herself, for a father made growing up difficult on a girl. Her dates were interrogated at the door, and after a few first dates, most of the guys at the school learned what it was like to go out with her.

She would have led the life of a sequestered nun if her father had had his way.

Thank God for her mother and a little stealth. If her father had any idea of the things she had gotten away with in high school, things that even her brother didn't know about, he would have a stroke first and then a heart attack when he came after her.

She drove out of the lot and turned right, heading south of town towards the newest crime scene, yet another abandoned house and another dead girl left like so much trash.

The scene wasn't hard to spot, lights lit up the area like some kind of outdoor rave, all that was missing was the music and the drugs. She pulled in close, ducking under the crime scene tape and heading for the door. She had to flash her badge at the cop at the door, a city cop. The sheriff was pulling out all the stops.

The newsies had already gotten their teeth into this one and were yelling questions at her the entire long walk to the house, held back only by determined uniformed officers. She ignored them all. She walked in the open door, expecting to get hit in the face by the smell of death as she had at the other scene. It wasn't there.

Nick's car hadn't been outside, and she didn't spot him amid all the uniforms. She saw a familiar face and headed over.

"Jimmy," she nodded as she got close enough to be heard over the rumble of male voices and police radios. "What's up?"

"Sheriff's in with the body. He's been waiting for you two to show up. I hope you managed to track down your partner. The man's out for blood tonight, kiddo, and I don't think he's in the mood to discriminate between yours and Nicky's." He craned his neck to look down her shapely backside. "Better watch that fine ass of yours."

"I leave that for you to do, Jimmy. You pig," she added as an afterthought, knowing that he expected it. "I wonder who called the sheriff in?" She swallowed the lump that was her heart out of her throat. "Where's he at?"

He nodded towards a room at the back of the old farm house patted her on the fanny as she walked past him. She didn't even have it in her to give him her usual smart ass comeback. She walked through the rubbish, wondering how anyone managed to live in places like this. And she tried not to notice how everyone quieted down as she walked past until the room was as silent as, well, as death. She felt as if they were expecting some grand statement from her and thought of turning and saluting them with something like; for those of us about to die, we salute you.

She crossed the open threshold and instantly caught the smell, death mixed with stale cigar smoke, garlic and cheap cologne. The death smell was easily placed, the girl lay face down, her pale body nude and posed, legs spread wide with an envelope taped over her exposed genitals. The cigar smoke and garlic came from the sheriff, along with a healthy dose of cologne that almost made her sneeze. She was getting bad when death didn't even cause her to wrinkle her nose, but cologne, in that abundance made her want to retch.

"Good morning Sheriff, well, maybe not so good at that, hmmm?" She thought she sounded in control. It would take a miracle considering the night she had plus this.

"Where is Saint?" Short, clipped and concise.

Okay, he was pissed. She took a second look at his face. More than pissed, much more.

"On his way sir," she said as she carefully walked around the body. At least she hoped he was. She took in the scene. 

The girl had the same atrocious injuries, the same stabbing wounds. She had been brutalized, severe trauma to her face, bruises to what areas she could see. Her head looked as if it had been kicked in, or caved in with some kind of blunt, heavy object.

"Right here, sheriff."

She looked up as he came through the door, a couple of steaming Styrofoam cups in his hand. He handed her one as she came over to stand by him and she breathed in the scent of fresh coffee like it was sent from heaven.

"Black, one sugar, right?"

She was touched and a little surprised that he remembered. And she had to viciously squelch the warmth that wanted to flood through her at the gesture.

Nick took a drink of his coffee and studied the victim, noting the envelope and the fact that his name was prominently displayed on the front. He took his time looking at the body, comparing what was known of the other two victims to this one.

"She's been through hell." His words were flat, devoid of the emotion that he was feeling. Emotions didn't have a place at a crime scene like this. They got in the way of doing the job. The job was the only thing that was important. 

In doing his, he used feelings, intuitions, but emotions were a drain that couldn't be allowed to impinge on the tension he felt during a case.

The body was emaciated, bones clearly showing through the skin. He would bet his detective's badge that she was severely dehydrated also. Her hair had been ripped out, her face caved in. She was in rigor, the body hadn't been there as long as the other victims had sat undiscovered, decomposition hadn't even started. No creepy crawlies or flies yet either, he noticed.

"He wanted us to find this one fast," he muttered to himself. "He's playing games. Maybe starting to escalate. Going this fast, he's bound to make mistakes. Good, let's find them."

He turned to the Sheriff. "Who found her?"

The Sheriff's face was grim. Anger spewed off of him like lightening strikes. "We need to talk, Saint."

Nick held up a hand in a gesture meant to dismiss, an in your face a move that he was sure would piss the sheriff off even more. "Yes, Sheriff, we will. But first and most importantly, I have a crime scene that needs processing." He turned back to the body, studying the placement, noting the lack of blood once more. "So," he paused. "Who found her?"

Watching the Sheriff tamp down his anger was scary. He seemed to swallow it whole, hold it in waiting for the day to let it burst out all over the head of some poor unsuspecting person. His pulse was throbbing in his forehead, veins standing out. He held himself so rigid that he was shaking.




A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 09-11



"A young couple. Came in here. This place is used as a make out spot," he gritted through his teeth. "Saint, I want you in my office today. I want a report. I want this stopped."

"Sure, Sheriff." Nick was busy circling the body. "Where's the couple?"

"In the back of one of the cars." He turned and left the room, bellowing orders at the poor fools who hadn't had the good sense to be out of reach of his rage.

Michelle stood there shaking in reaction and relief that she still had her hide. His anger hadn't been directed at her, yet, and even as she rejoiced, she wondered how long it would be before it was. It had been an awe inspiring scene and the fact that Nick could take it so off handedly amazed her.

"Did you see this?"

He pulled her over, squatting down. There was a piece of fabric in her hand, and her fingers were filthy.

"Maybe she got a piece of him before he killed her. We need the crime scene guys in here on this. If we got skin and he's got a record, this might be easy yet. But something in his tone of voice told her that he didn't believe it would be that easy.

"And you believe in the Easter Bunny?" she asked.

"If it gets our subject off the streets any sooner, then, yes, I do." He helped her up, stepping back to once more get an overall feeling of the scene. "She's staged, he posed her in this position for a reason. And even though I dare to hope," he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. "I'm betting that fabric matches the material we found earlier. And I'm betting it's staged, too." He pulled on the gloves, leaned over the body and reached for the envelope.

"Don't touch that!" Michelle was outraged. He knew better, the body couldn't be touched until the Medical Examiner okay'd it. He was messing with possible evidence.

"I'm not touching the body," he said as he pulled the envelope away. "I just want the envelope. I don't think we need this to go through x-ray, we know he wants to play games and physically hurting me means that the games would have to start with someone else."

He stood and turned to look at her, seeing the coroner's rig pulling up over her shoulder, crime scene unit people already jumping out of their truck. "There won't be any prints, you and I both know that." He tried to placate her, not bothering to figure out why her agreeing to this meant so much to him. "I'm not taking it, I just want to know what it says. I promise, I'll put it right back."

"But..."

"Well, I could give it to Lisha, if you want."

"That..." she didn't finish the thought.

"Bitch?" he supplied the missing word, hiding his smile.

"Yeah, okay." Mischief sparkled in her eyes. "But if we get caught, I was only following your orders."

"You're all heart, Michelle." He slid his thumb under the flap of the envelope that hadn't been sealed, just tucked under, pulling it up. The note he pulled out was made the same way as the last, Elmer's glue and magazine letters. The message was different.

"She remind you of anything, Nick?" He read the message aloud. "Oh, I just love being on a first name basis with scum bags."

"Yeah, I just bet his mother taught him really good manners when he was a kid." She peered over his shoulder at the colorful lettering. "What do you think he means by that? Maybe another scene that you were at?" She tugged at her hair as she was thinking. 

Nick reached out and rescued her hair from her hand. "He could mean anything or nothing. He could just mean that this is another crime scene and maybe I should get used to seeing them." He twirled the strand a little around his finger before pushing it behind her ear. "Or he could just be trying to make me stand here and be dazzled by his masterpiece while he sits around and jerks off."

"Yeah, now that's a picture I want in my head." She glanced behind her. "Better put it back, Nick." She gestured over her shoulder to where Lisha was strolling in, drawing a wolf whistle from one of the newsies out front.

The woman was dressed in tight black leather pants, a black scooped neck tee shirt and boots that had at least a three inch heel on them. Her hair was sprayed into a hard shell that still managed to have the look of something appealing. 

Even at this time of the morning, her make-up was perfect, her teeth impossibly white. She turned and blew a kiss at the group of news people, bending slightly at the waist so that the men could get a good look down the front of her low necked top. The cameraman who had whistled snapped a quick picture of her.

"Can you believe her?" Michelle asked, appalled.

"Yeah," Nick came to stand next to her. "That one ought to look really good on the front page tomorrow."

"I can already see the headline. 'Bimbo criminalist gets degree from Hooters'. Think she'll give me her autograph?" 

She batted her lashes up at him, twirled her hair and tipped her head to the side. All that was missing to complete the dumb blonde look was the ditzy look in her eyes and the gum being chomped on hard.

He laughed, elbowing her to get her moving. "She'll stamp her heels impressions on your back if she hears you talk like that. Come on hot shot, we got a couple of kids to go interview." He yanked her out the door and past Lisha before she could say anything to her that could cause more headlines in tomorrow's paper.

They walked out to the car, amid shouted questions. Michelle glanced up at Nick.

"Do you ever get used to this?"

He stopped before they reached the car where the teenaged couple sat. "No, but you learn how to not let them see that they get to you. Just takes a couple years to toughen the hide." She was so appealing to him right then, her eyes large, her skin just slightly pale from lack of sleep and the scene they had just walked out of. Her hair was mussed from her hands and he couldn't help but wish it was from his instead.

He turned away without saying anything more and lead the way to the car where he spoke to the cop standing outside the door for a minute. Then he opened the back seat and spoke to the couple.

The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen. She was a brunette with the all American good looks that most kids envied. Except now, her face was flushed from crying, blotchy and red, her mascara was streaked down her face. 

She had a hold of her boyfriend's arm like she was afraid she was going to be hauled down to jail.

Her boyfriend was a jock, right down to the green and yellow letter jacket. He had a pinched look about his face, as if he wanted to break down and cry but couldn't do it because he had to be the man and take care of his girlfriend. And he was trying to, she just wasn't making it easy.

"Hi," Nick said, trying to sound friendly and unthreatening. He had used battering at suspects until they broke down and cried before but he didn't want this girl losing it. She looked like a howler.

The boy offered a nod, the girl just clutched the boy tighter.

Nick knelt down in the opening of the car. He would have liked to take them down to the station, get them away from the cameras and the noise. But they were minors.

"Has anyone called your parents?" he asked.

"No," the boy started to say something else but was interrupted by his girlfriend.

"Do they have to do that? I mean, couldn't we just give a statement or something? My parents find out that Jamie and I were out here and I'm gonna be grounded for the next year." She started crying again.

Nick tried not to flinch at the sight. Some people just didn't cry good, he thought. And she was definitely one that didn't.

"Kelly," he said softly, not wanting to make the water works worse. "Your parents have to come down to the station. I can't let you go on your own, okay?" He cringed as she really started up, tears streaming, little howls coming out of her mouth. And he had to give credit to her boyfriend. He dug out a handkerchief, handed it to her and then patted her on the back until she calmed down. Must be love.

"I'm going to have Officer Royal, here, take you two down to the station. We'll let you call your parents there." He stood and let the amused officer close the door.

Michelle was standing there, looking at the tree, at the house, at the lights shining in the few unbroken windows of the house. Anywhere but at him.

He nudged her as he walked by. "It's not funny." He walked over and got into his car, slamming the door behind him.

"Yes it is," she said, a huge grin on her face. She took a sip of her coffee, got into her little Neon and followed him to the station.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 12



Nick walked into his office whistling, in too good of a mood to let much bother him. Despite the lack of sleep, another body found, and his upcoming dressing down by the sheriff, he felt like a million bucks.

He opened the door, pausing when he saw Michelle sitting behind his desk. Her head was leaning against her hand which was propped up on the wooden surface, her eyes were closed and her mouth was opened slightly. He could hear the deep, even sound of her breathing from here.

He stood there a moment, watching her. She was more than beautiful. She was smart, and funny. And she didn't take any shit from him. His grin widened thinking of the number of times she had told him off in the ten days that he had spent time with her.

In bed, he shook his head in wonder, she was fantastic, inventive and insatiable. He felt himself grow warm just thinking about the night they had just spent together.

Michelle sensed his presence and opened her bleary sleep deprived eyes. How any man could be cheerful after the past twenty four hours they had just gone through, she could never figure out. Well some of it was pretty good, she blushed as she thought about the things she had done to him, with him.

But the rest. Oh God, she would never forget the scene this morning, standing in a set of green scrubs, her face masked, her hands covered with latex gloves, with their dead body laid out on a stainless steel table. The sounds, the smells of autopsy, in that frigid sterile room had seemed almost nightmarish and unreal.

She had been one of five people there; Nick, the coroner who had been nicknamed Bones after an old TV series doctor, the medical examiner from Flint, and the coroner's assistant, who moved so unobtrusively behind the main scene that he was almost a ghost. All of them had been dressed similarly, all had been there to hopefully uncover something that would unmask a monster.

Some of the preliminary work had been done before they got there. The body had been gone over carefully for any trace materials, there had been plenty picked up from the farmhouse; dirt, hairs, a biological stain that had probably been made by a very old condom that was found under the body, not sure if any of what had been found had anything to do with the killer. The body had been swabbed, a standard rape kit collected and readied to be sent to the lab. Hair and saliva samples had been taken, material collected from under her nails. Then she had been washed, wounds carefully counted, measured and categorized. Blood had been taken for testing, labeled and sealed.

It wasn't her first autopsy. It was her second, but the first where she was to place such an integral part. It had been a prerequisite for one of her criminal justice classes. She had stood there with the rest of her class, twenty-five kids trying to be tough and not show emotion as death was dealt with in front of them. They hadn't even been in the procedures room, instead standing in front of windows in a viewing chamber above the main amphitheater.

Five girls had fainted at the first sight of blood, two guys had turned away and thrown up. Many more of the students couldn't handle the sounds of scalpels slicing through flesh, of bone saws cutting through skulls and had quickly fled the room.

She'd stayed stoic throughout the entire procedure, swallowing down any idea of nausea, forcing herself to ask pertinent questions, answer any questions that had been given to her. Her instructor had taken her and three other students aside on the last day of class and congratulated them on the professional mien they had shown that day.

He didn't know about the nightmares she'd had for weeks after. Of seeing that man, a victim of a car accident, mangled by the force of two machines colliding at a high rate of speed, cut open, organs removed and weighed and then returned to the body cavity in a plastic bag. He'd had no clue what it had actually done to her.

That was the one and only time she had ever had any doubts about the career she had chosen for herself.

This autopsy had been worse. It was clinical, she was dissected without compassion by the two men who's job it was to find out what the body could tell them medically and report their conclusions in their professional jargon. Maybe she had expected more humanity to be involved. But it had seemed to her that the body had been handled as if it were another piece of evidence such as a fingerprint or a hair sample. Catalog, process, report the facts and then slam it in a cold metal drawer to be kept until it was no longer necessary.

Maybe it was necessary for these people who saw death at such a close and intimate proximity everyday to keep their feelings sheltered and to treat the victims as such. But it seemed so cold blooded to her, so wrong.

The preliminary report of the coroner's findings were sitting on the desk under her elbow. The body had been diagrammed, showing the massive amount of stab wounds, forty six that were discernible, probably more that weren't. The amount of rage and strength it would take to stab someone that many times was enormous. In some of the wounds, the handle of the knife had gone into the body, indicating the extreme amount of force used.

The girl's face had been viciously kicked in, a black mark had been found along a part of the skull. It had been swabbed and sent in with the trace materials found. But Michelle would almost bet a month's pay that it was a scuff mark from a boot. Yet no bloody footprints had been found at the body dump. Indicating he either removed his shoes or changed his footwear before dumping the body.

The preliminary report also showed massive signs of abuse, vaginal tears so excessive that it was a wonder she hadn't bled to death before being stabbed. She had been sodomized numerous times, there was scaring that showed that it was a long term abuse. If this girl hadn't been abused before she had been picked up by the killer, she had been held long enough that some injuries had healed, and not in kind ways either.

Their were multiple fractures; left arm, right hand and fingers, left foot, four ribs. She had been slapped hard enough that her right eardrum had blown. Just the thought of the abuse, the pain and terror that this poor unidentified woman had suffered before death made Michelle sick.

Dehydration and starvation had been the least of her problems. Circulation had been cut off from hands and feet long enough that the flesh had blackened and died. It had been theorized that she had been kept tied to something, probably a rough, wooden table from the scars and splinters found on the body's back.

The fabric that had been found with the body, the square of high end wool material was the same as the fiber found on victim two. It hadn't been torn but had been placed in the girl's hand, her dead fingers curled around it. She couldn't have ripped it from her captor if she tried, she couldn't feel her hands much less use them.

Michelle tried to imagine it, tied down so tightly that your hands and feet died. Abused physically and mentally, tortured in ways too devious for a normal mind to imagine. Had she known her captor? How long had she been missing? Who was this poor woman?

Hopefully the woman's mind had gone way before she had been killed. Hopefully she was unaware of the abuse done to her. The opposite was too horrid to imagine.

She looked up at Nick, and saw the smile leave his face. She was so tired, physically, emotionally, mentally exhausted. She hadn't expected to feel so much for the victims, had thought that she could hold it away from herself and not feel connected. 

But how do you not see the violence that is done to another living human being and not feel for the victim? And how had Nick seen this as many times as she could imagine he had and not let it get to him?

She didn't know, and she didn't know if she wanted to find out.

He came around the desk and knelt beside her, closing the file and pushing it out of the way. There were tears gathered in her green eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall, he knew. She would tough it all out. She was just that way.

But he knew from personal experience that if you hid it deep inside, it festered and became an open wound, poisoning you until you either cracked up and ate your own weapon, left law enforcement, or got help.

Too many good cops were afraid of looking weak. They were afraid that no one out there but other cops understood what it felt like to leave the things that they saw and try to go back to the world of normal people. Normal people who didn't deal with the filth and destruction on a daily basis. It was why the divorce rate was so high for cops.

How do you tell a wife or husband that you went to a scene of a murder, a three year old child who's father had picked him up by the heels and swung him against a wall, leaving holes in the plaster. And that one day, he had misjudged and swung the kid into a wall stud, shattering his skull.

Or how it had felt to see the father, in handcuffs, standing there pissed off as hell, yelling about police harassment and how he was calling his lawyer and suing the city. How he had yelled that the rotten brat had deserved what he had got because he wouldn't shut up his God damn crying.

And how it felt to be required to show professional respect to an inhuman monster who could do that to a child. It had almost killed him to not be able to grab that bastard by the back of the neck and shove his face through the wall. He wanted to grab the poor kid's mother and force her to look at the shattered head of her son. He wanted her to admit she had known what was going on and had done nothing. How could she not know? 

But that wasn't his job. His job was to arrest the bad guy, to make the case stick, to find the evidence that would put away another heartless monster.

He had known many a good cop who had lost the battle between loathing the brutal monsters who prey on the weak and being professional. They had been either reprimanded or sent to jail for losing control.

He still felt a lot of that same rage inside. He could hold it in and find an outlet, pounding nails was good for him. But it was the reason that he had left Los Angeles. Too much death; senseless unnecessary brutal attacks on innocent lives left too many scars on his soul.

If she wanted to stay in this gig, she would have to find her own outlet. He could help her, keep her from keeping it all inside of her and losing it in the end. But right now she needed sleep.

"Hey," he said gently. "You're drooling on my report." He made a show as if wiping the file dry with the sleeve of his wrinkled shirt. "You should go home and grab some sleep. Only thing that is going to happen anytime soon is the Sheriff seeing if he can find the right size drill bit to ream me a new ass."

She sat up straighter and wiped at her mouth. Then glared at him.

"I did not drool. I don't drool." She tried to look more alert and failed miserably, earning a tender smile from him at the effort. "I'm fine," she said. "Really," she added at his look of disbelief.

He smoothed down her hair, hooking a rope of it behind her ear and letting his hand trail down to the collar of her jacket. He played with the button there, his fingers brushing against the warm skin of her collarbone. When she didn't push his hand away but leaned against him, he knew she was more tired than he had even thought. The fire was missing, the other emotions; stress, horror, sorrow, were all too evident. She needed to recharge, to find her balance before this case took her down too many emotional roller coasters.

She needed to curl up in his big bed, held safe in his arms, her head resting on his chest. They would sleep, eat and make love every day for a week. They would recharge each other, comfort each other, hold each other until the world looked right again. Or as right as it can look for a police officer.

And if he suggested it, she would probably pick up the file and beat him over the head with it. Or she would have yesterday. Today she looked too tired to move. Well he was the boss, he was going to do something about it.

"Yeah, your so fine that you'd probably shoot me, instead of a criminal if we had to go to a scene." He hitched her collar up a little and let his hand drop to her lap. He curled his fingers around one of her hands that were resting there, just to touch her.

"How do you know that I wouldn't do it on purpose and make it look like an accident?" she managed a wan smile and a little of her usual fire.

"Cuz you'd miss my fine body in bed," he smirked right back.

It was fine, all right. More than fine. And she knew just the way to get her feeling better. Him and about a week worth of sleep and she would be ready to take on the world. Oh and maybe never having to repeat what she had seen this morning, at least not for a couple of years or so.

But she'd never let him see that. She couldn't let him see that it had upset her so much, that she had sat in the women's dressing area at the morgue, a tiny closet that used to be used as a broom closet, and cried. She had wept silently and furiously, pushing the tears away as fast as they fell. She hadn't been able to help it.

And after, when the tears had stopped, when she had washed her hot face in cold water from the big sink and changed her clothes, she had felt worse. 

The tears had given her a headache, the astringent smell of cleaning chemicals and the air fresheners used to try and cover the smell of death had just added to it. And she was more tired than she had ever been in her life.

She had ridden back here to the station with him, begging off a second interview with Sheri's manager to come into his office and go over some paperwork. She hadn't seen the look of concern in Nick's eyes at the unusual request. She'd just turned and walked away.

Now he was back and had caught her sleeping. Thinking with her eyes closed her mind stubbornly injected. He probably thought she was too weak to keep up with him. Her body pleaded with her to admit she was, her mind forced her to fight.

And he was touching her, and she wasn't pushing him away, was enjoying the contact with him.

She curled her fingers around his, stubbornly relishing every second that she could tell herself later had been weakness.

"As if," she tried to smile. "Not modest, are you, Nicky?"

His heart was still in his throat at the way she had wrapped her hand around his, holding on to him, trusting him. He hadn't expected this gift, this moment of gentleness between the two of them, of closeness that was even more intimate than what had happened between them in bed. It was a bonding that he welcomed even through the fear of relationships that had kept him alone so much of his life.

"Only when it gets me somewhere." He looked into her eyes, wanting to bring the humor back. "Will it, Chelle?" He waggled his eyebrows at her and was rewarded when she snorted a tired laugh.

"Yeah, right," she said with a little of her usual bite. "That and fifty cents will get you," she paused, tilting her head as if thinking about it seriously. "Fifty cents," she finished and then surprised them both by leaning forward and resting her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. 

It was so much better than the smell that had seemed trapped in her nostrils all day, chemicals and death. He smelled warm, a little of sweat and just a hint of spicy cologne. He smelled alive and manly, and... like Nick.

"Don't get used to this," she muttered into his neck as he leaned into her too.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, pushing his free hand under her jacket and tank top to rest on her warm flesh. 

She needed holding, he would hold her. A little voice in the back of his head told him that he would hold her always if she would let him. He pushed it, sending it back to where it belonged. 

"Would it help," he murmured, letting his cheek rest against her hair, "if I told you that I needed this?"

He grinned at the rude noise she made. "No, I'm serious. If you weren't here, I would be crying like a baby right now."

"I already did that," she muttered into his neck, her lips moving against his skin.

He shivered at the contact, but ruthlessly ignored it. "You did?"

She nodded sleepily and kissed his neck.

"When?" he asked, she was killing him. He was nobly trying to ignore the heat that was streaking through him. She was tired, they were in his office and the damn door wasn't even closed all the way. Anyone could come by and walk in without the least effort. God, he needed dead bolts on that door.

"After that..." she couldn't say the word. "In the dressing room." He felt so good. Her hand lifted of it's own will and slipped between the buttons on his shirt, tunneling under the fabric to find his skin. Her fingers stroked sleepily on his flesh, lingering, needing to feel him.

His breath hitched, needs of his own surfaced violently, shaking him with the ferocity of its force. He managed to pull away, untangling her fingers from his shirt, without dumping her to the floor.

He stood up and walked around the desk, needing the distance so that he didn't push her against the wall and plunge into her right there, despite her weakened state of mind, her tired body, and that God damned open door.

"Okay," he breathed out raggedly, pacing the three steps that were the width of his office and then back. He was acting as if he hadn't been with a woman in months, instead of just hours ago with her. "Time to get you home." Yep, before he exploded all over her. He grabbed the phone and dialed the Sheriff's office, speaking before Louise even finished her usual good afternoons.

"Hey Louise," his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, rubbing a shaking hand against the back of his neck. "Do you know what time the Sheriff wants to ream me?"

"Always to the point, aren't you boy?" Louise laughed, he could hear her turning pages in her notebook to find out the Sheriff's schedule.

If he was anymore 'to the point' right now, everything would be off of his desk, files, phone, everything but Michelle, damn door or not.

"He's got the Mayor and the rest of them coming in later this afternoon at four. They're getting that task force set up." She continued talking but Nick wasn't listening. His mind has stuttered to a halt at the words task force and Mayor. The sheriff wasn't going to just ream him, he was going to screw him too. And there wasn't going to be any kissing done first.

"Thanks, Louise." He hung up the phone, not realizing that she was still speaking to him. He sat down on the edge of his desk, thoughts spinning through his head.

"Damn him," he muttered softly, and then louder. "Damn that political son of a bitch."

Michelle rose and came around the desk to face him. She pushed the weariness away with a stubborn will of iron. He needed her now. Something was definitely up and he wasn't happy about it. She kicked her foot backwards and found the door, shutting it to give them some privacy.

He was more than upset. She could see a little nerve ticking at the side of his mouth, his jaw working as he ground his teeth. His hands were fisted and pushing deep enough into his thigh muscles to bruise. He was ready to erupt about something and she needed to know what it was fast.

She put her hand on his arm, amazed to find that she could feel each individual muscle straining, defined against his taunt skin. "Nick?"

He looked at her, not seeing her at first.

"What did he do, Nick?" She kept her voice even and quiet, not willing to see what would happen if he was pushed any further.

She could see him swallow some words, knowing that he would probably believe that they weren't for her ears and she almost smiled. A gentleman even to the end even if he didn't want to believe it.




A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 12



"He's setting up a task force. He's got the Mayor and God knows who else coming in this afternoon."

She felt her stomach dip and slide at his words. 

Task force. Think positive, even if she felt negative, dread coating her skin with goose flesh.

"Well, maybe it could help?" Even to her own ears, her words sounded lame.

His mind was racing. It was a little after noon. Maybe they could... Could what? he asked himself. Run out and find the killer standing across the street from the station waving a big sign that said 'I did it'. Maybe he would even be kind enough to have a blood stained knife stuck in his pocket, a map with the location of his house in the other. Yeah, right.

"We've got nothing." He hated to admit it. He hated to give up control of a case he was working. 

It was a matter of pride, of the old Nick Saint gotta get my man creed. He had a good arrest and conviction record. Even some of the messier cases he had been involved with he had managed to turn around.

This was one of the messiest. No evidence pointing to anything but the torture that was suffered. The victimology and profile that he had worked up pointed to someone of higher intelligence. He worked a job where he was given a lot of leeway, maybe something where he did a creditable job but didn't try to excel. In his thirties, he had an older man's ability to be patient.

He had to have someplace that he took these women, someplace where he wouldn't worry about screams and having the cops show up at his door. The victims were killed by someone who felt tremendous rage, probably because of physical and mental abuse heaped upon him by his mother or other female relation. These women weren't just taken, abused and thrown away. They were kept for a while, tended to just enough to keep them alive for his games.

He could profile all day long, conjecture and suppose until he was blue in the face. But unless they found a suspect, the profile was just a useless piece of paper.

He had worked with others before, had been involved in more than one serial killing task force and knew that they could be an exemplary tool to catching the maniac. But he also knew that if too many politically ambitious people got into the mix, the politics became more important then the investigation. And the investigation suffered, meaning that people suffered and were killed.

He could see that happening here. He could see the Sheriff and the Mayor putting on the political boxing gloves, both wanting to be the ones to say, look what I did for my city. It would be a coup, it would set one or the other up to win next year's mayoral race.

And it would be a nightmare on the investigation. 

What part he would play would be up to the Sheriff, well, him and his enormous ego. He could be pushed right out of the mix, knocked down to running minor crimes while some other detective stepped in and used what he had already done.

Not to mention what would happen if the FBI got involved. He had dealt with the feds before, had them try to walk all over him, come into his investigation and tell him what he should do, where he should go. Like hell if he was going to let the damn feds into his case.

Frustration pulsed through him almost like a living thing. He needed to do something, to go somewhere for just a while.

He looked down at Michelle, seeing the dark circles under her eyes, the wan smile she plastered on her face when she saw him looking. She needed sunshine and time away from death.

"Have you eaten lunch?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" Maybe she was more tired than she thought. He was just spouting about the sheriff and a task force that was being set up. Then he switched tracks.

"Lunch, you know, food, nourishment, stuff that makes us young boys grow? Have you had anything to eat since Chinese last night?" He smiled, thinking about what happened after Chinese. "I need to get out of here for a few. I thought we could..."

"Do lunch?" she finished for him.

"Cheeseburger with everything, large fries?" he tempted her poor empty stomach that was grumbling from too much coffee and not enough food. "Milk shake?"

"Chocolate?" she asked, greed suddenly in her eyes.

He laughed, amazed that after everything and the dread that still coiled around his spine, that he still could. "I'll even buy."

"You're on," she said, grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair she'd been sleeping in, laughing as he opened the door for her.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 13



Michelle tossed the wrapper to her hamburger in the trash with a flick of her wrist. Then she scattered the rest of her fries on the ground for the birds and the squirrels and sipped on her chocolate shake. The sun was hot on her bare shoulders, the breeze cool on her cheeks. She actually felt better, almost human again.

Nick was sitting next to her, drowning french fries in ketchup and munching on them.

"So," he started, keeping his tone of voice light despite the feeling of dread he couldn't quite bury.

"So, what?" She reached out and rescued one of his fries from the red ocean of ketchup and nibbled on it.

"You still going to respect me when I'm soaping bumpers at the car wash?" He bit into the exposed end of the fry she held and chewed then swallowed.

"Who says I respect you now?" she quipped, watching a squirrel chasing another around a tree. The park was quiet, what little kids had been here when they arrived were gone, probably home taking naps. The older kids preferred the park downtown where the toys were cooler. They had the place to themselves besides an amorous couple that was making out in a car in the parking lot. They had been there when Nick and Michelle had gotten to the park twenty minutes ago, and were still there now. They had yet to come up for air.

Nick followed her gaze. "Maybe we should go and show em our badges?" he asked lazily. "Nah, too much work," he answered himself and stretched out, folding up his leftovers to dump in the trashcan.

"Just a couple of teenagers. I wonder what they'll do come this winter?"

"What do all teenagers do in the winter, run the heater." He turned around on the picnic bench, leaning against the table, staring out across what was now just a little more than a stream but in the spring could flood the entire park.

He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun letting the heat burn the cobwebs back. This had been the best medicine for him, sunshine had recuperative powers, his mother had always told him. She had gardened in the summer, a huge straw hat protecting her face. She would take him out, show him the different plants and insects. He would help her with weeding, work beside her contentedly, until his father came home from work.

He had wonderful memories of his mother. Extremely cherished memories and a few photos that had escaped the fire. His parents had died just a few weeks after the fire that had taken everything they had. It was a car accident that had taken them from him. He had been in the car, too. and had broken an arm but had been unhurt otherwise. They'd been killed instantly when the drunk swerved across the yellow line and hit them head on.

Summer would always remind him of her.

"So," Michelle said.

"So, what?" he asked, distractedly.

"So if you are soaping bumpers, who's gonna run the investigation?" She didn't pull punches. "Maybe you should just go to this meeting, kiss a little ass and keep the spot as primary?"

"Kiss the Sheriff's fat ass?"

She flinched back from expected temper. She could hear the disdain in his voice. The disbelief that she would even make the suggestion.

"You must be more tired than I thought if you think I know how to do that." He sneered the words, looking down at her.

"Just hear me out, Nick." She put her hand on his arm, wanting to touch him even if she knew she shouldn't. "Don't you think if you soothed the Sheriff's wounded ego a little, he would keep you on the case. You might have to deal with a task force, but I know you've done that before. You are the best man here, the only one with the experience to locate and arrest this killer." She stroked her hand down his arm, pausing to let it rest on his forearm. "Would it be that difficult?" She looked up at him through her lashes, her fingers caressing his soft shirt.

"And you would get to stay out of uniform and working the case," he stated.

She pulled back, lifting her hand off his arm like it was on fire and glared at him, affronted. "Do you really think that is the only reason that I want you to stay on the case? Because, if it is, you don't know me as well as I thought you did." She started to get up but he put his hand on hers, holding her where she was.

"No, I don't believe that you even think of yourself at all in any of this." He entwined his fingers through hers, pulling her closer to him. "Look at you, you are barely walking, you've slept what, maybe ten hours all week? And you've never asked for anything from me." He paused, then added, "Well, nothing but a chocolate shake. Oh, and that thing last night, you know, where you wanted me to..."

She slugged him in the stomach with their entwined hands. "I'm gonna start thinking you're as big a pig as Jimmy Benitti if you don't watch it."

He rubbed her hand across his muscled stomach grimacing at the comparison. He was much better looking then Jimmy Benitti and smarter. She laughed when he told her so.

They spent another half an hour at the park, sitting in the swings, Michelle laughing at the way Nick's long legs seemed to come up to his chin in the low seat. They didn't talk about the case, this was their time to get away, to regroup.

It ended too soon. Nick looked at his watch, his face clouding up.

"We should get back. I have to get everything together to take it in to the Sheriff's office." He was quiet, thinking about options.

She reached down and grabbed the edge of the seat that he sat on, yanking so that it dumped him in the sand. He looked up at her, blinking dumbly.

"What the hell was that for?"

She could have laughed at the outrage in his voice. "It was one way to get you to quit thinking and start moving." She danced out of his reach, his fingertips just brushing the hem of her jeans. She grabbed her jacket off the picnic table and started running for his car, laughing when he scooped her up from behind.

"Is this moving fast enough for you, Chelle?" he asked. He stood looking around as if deciding what to do with her. He looked at the stream and smiled. She saw the direction of that smile and started struggling.

"Oh no, don't you even think about it, Nick. That water is disgusting and cold." She screeched when he took a step in that direction.

He dropped her legs and let her slide down his body until she touched the ground. But he didn't let her go. Instead he just held her for a moment, close. She leaned into him, her arms going around his back, under his. He dropped a kiss on the top of her hair.

"Want me to drop you off at home?" he asked, dropping his arms and turning her in the direction of his car.

"Why would you do that? I have a meeting to go to at four. Gotta go and protect my boss from the big, bad Sheriff." She made a face at him.

He snorted. "Like I want you there to see me get raked over the coals." He pointed the automatic lock button at the door and punched it, turning to look at her. "I think you look awake enough to drive if you want me to just drop you off at your car." He grunted, unprepared for her fist in his stomach.

"Hey, police brutality," he wheezed. "What the hell was that for?"

"You ask that question a lot. That," she emphasized the word, "was for being a stubborn jerk." She opened her door and got in, closing it behind her.

He stood in the parking lot, rubbing his stomach and looking at her in bemusement. Finally he got into the driver's seat and turned to glare at her. "Why am I getting hit this time?"

"Are we going or staying, cuz if we are staying, you could either turn on the air conditioner or open the windows." She looked out hers, noting that the amorous kids had finally decided to leave the park.

He turned the key, turning the air conditioning on high to dispel the heat in the car. Then he shifted in his seat and crossed his arms. "Well?" he demanded.

"You're being an ass," she stated. "An egotistical, arrogant, no good at nothing but feeling sorry for himself, ass."

His mouth dropped open.

She almost purred in satisfaction at his reaction and decided to move in for the kill. "You ply me with fantastic pizza and juicy murders to get me to open up about myself, Chinese food and demented notes to get me to go to bed with you and chocolate milk shakes and autopsy reports to get me to be a good girl and go home," she poked a finger in his chest, "not to the meeting where I should be as your partner on this case." She dug the finger a little deeper. "If you consider me your equal, that's where I should be. Not at home like the little woman who needs to be pampered and protected." She sighed in disgust. "Now, can we get going. I have some work of my own to do before that meeting."

He just sat there, not moving. Did she really think that? "Do you really think that?"

The hurt in his voice sent a tiny wave of disgust at herself. She tried to tell herself to be strong otherwise he would never treat her as an equal, he would always feel like he had to protect her. She couldn't do it. "I want to be your partner on this case, Nick. I know you are my superior, but I'm as involved as you are. Shouldn't the Sheriff be looking to ream me too?"

"Just that thought turns my stomach," he sighed, rubbing his already abused stomach. "Okay, you want the bad with the good, right?"

She nodded.

"Then be ready to be reamed at four sharp, partner."

She beamed at him.

He couldn't help himself. He leaned over and kissed her, hard at first then softer as she leaned into him. "Does being partners mean I can do this when I want?" he whispered against her lips.

"Nope," she whispered back. Her lips clung to his despite her words. "Only when we both want to, Nick. Now drive." She sat back when he put the car in gear. "I do get points for letting you drive and not saying anything about the white hair that I can feel changing from my blonde, right?"

"You know, you might just deserve that dunking in the river." He glared at her for a second as she sat there and smirked. The he drove back to the station, staying at the speed limit and in his own lane the entire trip.

The next two hours were spent copying files, compiling notes, finishing the profile they had started. The phone rang constantly, the lab calling, the desk sergeant calling, finally the victim's parents calling from the morgue to set up an appointment. Ten minutes before the meeting, the phone rang again. He answered it and then hung up, his shoulders drooping just the tiniest bit. "We've been summoned."

The Sheriff's office was on the second story in the back of the building. They trudged up the worn carpeted stairs. 

Nick carried his briefcase, the files they had made sitting snugly inside.

Before opening the outside office door, Michelle took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, pushed her hair back behind her shoulders and straightened her back. Nick looked down at her and smiled. "Ready, Chelle?" he asked, winking at her and opening the door to allow her to enter first.

"Ass," she answered back, pinching his rear end as she walked by him.

Louise held the door open for them and they trudged past her. She had a sympathetic smile for Nick and a curious one for Michelle.

The Sheriff was sitting behind his desk, bent over some paperwork. He left them standing for a few moments before even looking up at them. A ploy that Nick had used himself to make someone feel less than important.

He looked up at Nick and noticed Michelle standing next to him. "What is she doing here?" he asked, the irritation in his voice at seeing his deputy extremely obvious.

"Deputy Parsons is my partner, sir. She knows as much if not more than I do about this case. She can be of use, sir." Nick was standing almost at attention, like a soldier in front of a general.

Dammit, Nick, Michelle thought, even as she almost glowed with pleasure at the compliment, don't over do it.

"Sir, I've worked with Detective Saint since the beginning of this case. My patrol partner, Sam Miller, and I were the first on scene of the second crime scene sir. I did some of the leg work on that case." Did she sound like she was begging?

"Fine," he waved a hand, dismissing the subject. "Mayor Brandleberg wants us to get a task force started. He wants to call in the FBI, maybe get one of their profilers out here. He wants to coordinate with Imlay City and Flint and get some of their guys on this force." He paused as if waiting for either of them to make a comment. When none came forth, he continued. "I am against it right at this moment. I told the Mayor that this is a county case, not a city case, none of the victims have been found on city property. He doesn't have the right to make any of those calls. But to be fair, he does have a point."

Nick started to interrupt but then shut up to let the ass finish braying.

"I don't want to call the feds in, have them take over and get all the credit when we finally have a suspect." He sighed and looked down at his desk. "Nicky, you've done a good job for us since you started here. I have to tell you that I don't know what is going on, why we don't have a single suspect or evidence to lead us somewhere, anywhere. I'm going to leave you as primary, Parsons can stay with you. But I am going to bring in some boys from the cities. The Mayor wants to sit in on the briefing. Tomorrow, oh eight hundred. You'll be ready." It wasn't a question.

Nick nodded and started to turn, ready to leave.

The Sheriff stopped him. "Parsons, leave us alone for a few minutes."

He gave her no choice, damn the man. She took Nick's briefcase and walked out the door, sitting down in one of the uncomfortable chairs in front of Louise who just looked at her with a raised eyebrow, the unasked questions very plain in her eyes.

* * * *

When the door closed behind Michelle, the two men stared at each other for a second.

Finally the Sheriff spoke, not pulling any punches. "Are you sleeping with her?"

Nick did a reasonable job of acting suitably confused. "Who?"

"Her, Parsons." He steepled his fingers together in front of him. "She's a hot piece. I wouldn't blame you but I need to know." He asked the question again. "Are you sleeping with her?"

If Nick hadn't despised the Sheriff before, he did now. "Deputy Parsons is an officer in this station. She handles herself well and very professionally."

"And you didn't answer my question, dammit! If you are sleeping with her, I'll have to pull her from the case. Conflict of interest if the two of you are involved in any kind of shooting or take down episode." His shrewd, piggy eyes stared into Nick's, trying once more to intimidate.

It didn't work any better this time than it had before.

"Deputy Parsons and I have a good working relationship, sir." The sir was maybe just a little too sarcastic.

Williams tapped his fingers against his thin lips. "And?" he prompted.

"No, we don't have any personal relationship sir, I am not sleeping with her." He hoped that God would forgive that lie. He could just add it in with the rest of innumerable sins.

The Sheriff stared at him for a good minute, trying to see behind his eyes, Nick thought. "Good," Williams said, seemingly satisfied by the answer. "Let's keep it that way." By way of dismissal, he went back to work on the file that was sitting on his desk. "Tell Louise she can send my calls through now."

Nick stalked out of the room, almost physically restraining himself from slamming the door to the Sheriff's office. He refused to be a messenger boy, the Sheriff could page Louise himself. It might have been petty and a little childish, but it made him feel a little better. He walked by Michelle without looking at her and didn't stop moving until he was in his office.

He stood there and looked at his desk and fumed. The man had no right to ask about his personal life, he had no right to infer something so callous about Michelle. It wasn't his right to even ask, even if it were true. He picked up the stapler he had left out and threw it at the wall.

It didn't help. He was still seeing red when Michelle came in, shut the door behind her, making the office about the size of a big coat closet.

She set his briefcase on his desk and leaned one hip against it. She looked down at the stapler, laying on it's side where it had fallen. Then she looked up at him and waited to hear what had set him off.

The room was too small with her in it. He was too mad, too emotional to be able to handle feelings right now. Maybe he shouldn't be so mad about what the Sheriff said, but, dammit, he was.

"So?" Michelle asked.

"So what?" he asked, a small smirk coming to his lips.

"You know so what." At least she had gotten a smile.

"He wanted to know if we were sleeping together." Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. She wanted to be partners, she wanted the good as well as the bad, she got it all.

"He what?" Okay, Michelle, breathe. In with the good air, out with the bad... "He what!?"

"He asked me if we were sleeping together."

"And?"

"And what?"

She huffed a huge breath. "This isn't the time to try and be funny Nick. What the fuck did you tell him?"

"I told him that you were a professional officer, that you did your job and handled yourself in a manner that was becoming of an officer." Nick was beginning to see a little humor here. But he also could read little nuances of her body language. If he wanted to ever slip naked between the sheets with her again, he was going to have to proceed cautiously.

"So. who knew we were together last night?"

"I didn't tell anyone. We arrived at the scene in different cars, at different times. No one had any idea..." his voice trailed off.

"I called the station from your apartment." The words were blunt, without explanation. They didn't need any.

"When you were finding out the address, they got my number from the caller ID system." She had it figured out. 

"Who did you talk to?" Her face was white, she looked like she would be sick.

"Allie Trammel. She works third on dispatch." And she had a mouth the size of the Lincoln Tunnel and the love to gossip. "I denied it to the Sheriff. He seemed to believe me." He raked a hand through his hair and started pacing. "Damn, I can't believe how gossip travels in this department."

"You denied it?" she repeated the words more to herself than to him.

He sighed heavily. His eyes met hers, almost begging for her to understand. "He said that he would take you off the case. I told him that we had a good working relationship, and taking you off for any reason would be detrimental not only to you but to that case." He put his hand on her shoulder, flinching when she stepped out from under it. "Michelle, no one knows anything. I denied it, you deny it and it will go away."

She picked up the brass nameplate that stood on his desk. "Detective Nicholas Saint," she read. "Did they give you the badge from a cracker jack box?" She slapped it back onto his desk with a loud thwack. "Don't you hear what is being said about us? Don't you bother to listen?"

Whoa, sparks were flying out of her eyes. "What who is saying?" he asked, clueless.

She hit him in the chest with the heel of her hand, sending him stumbling backwards against the door. "The uniforms, the detectives, everyone. I got to 'play detective' because you want to screw me. I must be pretty fucking fantastic in the hay cuz you bypassed all those other more worthy male uniforms and took

me, the rookie, as a partner. Even Benitti thinks he can get away with copping a feel cuz I must be sleeping my way to the top." She put her hands over her face, and then her arms up over her head to cover her face. She looked mad enough to explode over anything he might say. 

"Think about it from their perspective, Nick. You have such an astute eye for investigating, look at it the way they do and tell me you wouldn't think the exact same thing."




A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 13



He shook his head even while his brain was processing all the facts. He realized that she was probably right. God damn it all. Someone had gotten to the Sheriff, someone who didn't like the fact that Michelle was working with him. Someone who knew Allie, maybe even Allie herself. But Nick couldn't see that. Allie might like to gossip but she wasn't petty or spiteful.

"Dammit, Chelle," he breathed quietly. "I can't believe this." He tried to look into her eyes, but she wouldn't have anything to do with it. She was gathering together work to take home with her, work to keep her busy and not thinking. "I'm sorry, Michelle."

She heard the sadness in his voice. "It's not you Nick. For someone with your reputation and all the cases you've solved, you're clueless about this, you probably wouldn't even think this of someone else. You're used to female detectives in Los Angeles." She picked up her keys and looked over her shoulder as she was leaving. "You just don't know how hard it can be for a woman to get ahead in some towns. The good old boys club of police officers doesn't open for females easily. If you hadn't given me this chance, I probably wouldn't have gotten into plains clothes for years and years. I should just thank you and go back to patrol." Determination lit up her eyes. "But I refuse to give them the satisfaction. They will have to order me back."

"Chelle, you know, if I can help it, you won't be taken off this case." He tried to take her hand, she moved away from him.

"I know, Nicky. And I appreciate it. But what happened last night just can't happen again." She left his office without giving him a chance to protest, not wanting to know if he would have or not. She was just too weak where he was concerned.

He heard her car start a few minutes later.

Nick rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles tight. How could this have happened in such a short time. Fourteen hours ago he had been in bed with a sexy, beautiful woman who made him feel like he could lasso the moon. Now he was standing here with the whole mess crumbling in his hands.

He glared at the nameplate and restrained the impulse to toss it in the trash. He needed action. He needed to do something. He picked up his briefcase, grabbed his keys from his desk drawer and stopping by the evidence locker to pick up Sheri Meridian's apartment key, left for Imlay City.



A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 14



They're putting together a task force, he thought as he rubbed his hands together, almost giggling in delight. A task force in his honor. It was almost like getting an academy award. He did giggle then, thinking about standing at a podium, Nick Saint handing him the head of a dead girl as a trophy. Too delicious.

He was down in his laboratory, what he called the underground room where he kept his research. His latest case file was open in front of him letting him relive every glorious moment, he was looking at the before and after pictures of his experiment. She had been beautiful, he still felt a twinge of desire when he thought of her, of the way she had responded to him. Of her defiance. Of her impudence. She had lasted a lot longer than some. 

He remembered the first girl, the girl who wouldn't quit crying. She called the knife. She hadn't lasted three days.

But a task force was something new and delicious. They couldn't find him, they had nothing on him. Mr. Big Shot Detective Nick Saint couldn't find his ass with a flash light, road map and both hands. 

He smothered his giggles into his hand.

And his partner, whoa, now she was something. All blonde, cool good looks and ice in her veins, sexy as hell in her uniform. He could imagine her strapped down to the table, spitting at him. She would be in that uniform at first and then naked after he cut each and every delightful bit off of her. 

He would be able to touch her everywhere, 

anywhere. His hand slid under his desk and fondled the bulge in the front of his expensive pants. A light sweat beaded on his face. He could see his hands on her pale skin, could hear her curses, her cries of pain, her screams of terror.

He stopped himself before he ejaculated into his fine dress pants. He wouldn't stain his clothing that way. Leaving himself unfulfilled gave him the edge, ready and alert. He loved that moment, the second before pleasure spurted when tension was at it's most tightly strung. He smoothed the wrinkles from his groping with a firm hand, creases were terrible in this soft wool.

He liked fine things, like the feel of silk and satin, Egyptian cotton, fine French wines, symphonies and good food. He drove expensive cars, and he had personal staff members to satisfy his every personal need. He had a good life, even if he had to deal with his cold-hearted bitch of a wife to keep it and to keep his real self buried beneath a facade of a whiny hen pecked husband which had become more difficult through their years together.

Tomorrow, he would be going to the task force. He would be a member of all those people who's only job would be to find him. The irony of it was something he wished that he could share. He needed to tell someone. He rubbed his hands together again, feeling his erection straining against his zipper. He needed to find a new case study.

He picked up the plastic bag that contained urine soaked jeans, opening the seal and breathing in the acrid scent. It smelt like expensive perfume to him but better. He wished he could take the time to strip down, to rub the material on his body and remember what she had felt like straining under him when he had rammed himself into her body. The sounds she had made when he forced her body sideways, despite the bonds, and fucked her anally. 

Her cries had been a song of pain to his ears, her screams a balm to his soul. She had cursed him, making him even more amorous, more ready to make her his.

She had bled many times, on him, on the table. The blood had made her passage slick, hot. It had made the mating all the more satisfying for him. He had licked blood off of her body, careful not to give into the impulse to bite. He didn't want to leave marks, anything that they could use to track him later. But the temptation had been there, oh, so heavily pounding in his brain, the need to tear flesh, to feel the hot weight of it against his tongue, to taste it's sweetness.

He resealed the bag, carefully expelling as much air as he could. He closed the file, and placed it, along with all his evidence bags back into the plastic box, firmly closing the lid. The box was set on top of a stack of shelves, carefully placed with five others. Each box was neatly labeled and dated. 

He could remember each and every one of them without looking into those boxes. And he could remember the others, the ones that he had done before the knife. The ones that were buried and hidden in places where they would not be found. 

The ones that were before, when he hadn't the knowledge to study, or to make conclusions.

The police wouldn't be able to stop him. He had studied the greats, Gein, Kempner, Gacy to name just a few. Though his personal favorite had been Ted Bundy. He would never have been caught, never, if it hadn't been for sloppy driving. 

But Ted never had it in him to study the art. He was in it for the thrill, the quick and fleeting sex, not the science. He hadn't understood that it was the aspect of death that was important to understand, the act of finding out what was capable, what the human body could achieve.

Ted Bundy might not have had it in him to understand that death was an art form in its purest sense. But he was slick, good looking, well-spoken and managed to fool many women into coming with him to their deaths. He was evil in one of its many disguises.

He had styled himself as Ted Bundy, had employed some of his methods to sweet-talk women into going with him. It was all so easy. Some of these women, when they saw his clothing, his car, his money, they all but jumped into the car eager to see if they could get their filthy hands on what was his, on what he had worked so very hard to obtain. They were such fools.

He was too smart for Detective Nick Saint. He could play his games. He liked games. He was good with games. They made the hunt, the chase and the final bagging of the prey so much better. They made the studies so much sweeter, the planning of each detail so much more important. And the victory so much more worthwhile.

Tomorrow, he would be in a room with a handful of others, hearing all the details of the women he had captured and explored, knowing that he could supply details that the others never would believe. He could give them dates, times, the exact last words of each victim. 

He could give them numerous video tapes of exactly what he had done to these women, his face carefully screened from the camera. He could let them listen to their screams, hear the glory in their voices as they faced the knife. He could tell them his Purpose, the glory of the science that they could never understand unless they could understand the knife. The video tapes lined the walls of his lab, carefully dated and labeled, the camera set up to only allow the bodies of the women to be seen, naked and writhing beneath him. He never allowed any details of his lab into the shots, that was private, his own domain.

He could tell them what he had done with the cars. The different lakes they had been driven into. They wouldn't be found. He could even give them the registration slips, carefully sealed in plastic and placed in files. He could tell them the names of the girls they had found. He could tell them the names of the ones that were still sitting in deserted farmhouses, rotting.

He felt such power. How could this power, the power to take life, to hold it in your hands and decide whether to crush it or to let it flourish, be wrong? How many times had he helped young girls out? Had them in his grasp and let them go? How many girls were there out there that remember the good-looking man that had saved them.

None of them would connect him with the 'monster' on the news. None of them knew how close they had come to death.

He hoped there would be women on this task force. He knew he would be able to see the female deputy again. It would be a new experience, to relive his accomplishments and look into her face. He wanted to see what she felt.

He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a package of file folders, pulling one out of the plastic wrap. He grabbed a black marker from the middle drawer and pulled off the cap. In his carefully neat print he wrote three words. Then he put the supplies away, leaving the file to sit in the middle of the blotter, the words drying.

Deputy Michelle Parsons.

He giggled again. Time to go up to the house. He needed to prepare, needed to get a good night sleep so that he could be bright and shiny tomorrow for his debut.