She found her iPod in her book bag and slipped the player into the sound system her roommate Trisha owned. The music was loud, but all the renters in the triplex were college kids; no one complained about music, parties, or even pets that were strictly forbidden.
On her way to the bedroom she shared with Trisha, Laney grabbed the communal free weights from the bookcase. Kicking a clear spot on the rug in the small space between the foot of her unmade bed and Trisha’s dresser, Laney started working on her arms to a song by Fergie. No flapping wings for this girl. Not ever. If she had to do a thousand triceps curls when she was eighty, so be it. Eighty. Wow. Like sixty years into the future. Fifty-nine as of tonight!
The reps came easy at first and she closed her eyes. The song and mood changed. She got lost in the beat and melodies of Justin Timber-lake, then Maroon 5…
One more set; she was really feeling it now.
Come on, come on, she encouraged herself as the music pounded through her brain. You can do it; don’t give up.
She was breathing hard, sweating big-time.
Once her biceps and triceps were screaming, she stretched out on the floor and started with leg lifts.
She thought she heard someone come in and yelled, “I’m in here!” over the throb of bass and a long keyboard riff, then kept working out until her body was covered in sweat and her legs ached.
Only after doing all the reps she’d planned did she spring to her feet. Good girl! Way to go! She grabbed her towel and headed to the living area where the music was still blasting. Time to stretch these muscles. Besides, she wanted to give Trish or Kim a chance to wish her a happy birthday.
But she didn’t see either of her roommates flopped on the secondhand couch Kim had found. And they weren’t nuking popcorn or boiling ramen in the kitchen.
Odd.
Hadn’t she heard one of her roommates return?
Dabbing at the sweat on her face, she strode over to check Kim’s room. Empty.
Snap!
A strange sound. Muted.
Had her iPod skipped?
She backed out of Kim’s room, pulled the door shut behind her, and headed back to the living area. On her way to the stereo she noticed a hint of cigarette smoke in the air. No big deal. They all had taken up cigs.
Snap!
Behind her?
In the hallway?
Fear sprayed through her blood.
“Kim?” she said starting to turn.
In a split second she saw that the door she’d just shut, the one to Kim’s room was open and someone was looming in the darkened hallway. Someone who hadn’t been there an instant before.
“Hey! Who the hell are-” The words died in her throat when she noticed the belt in his hands. “Oh, Jesus!”
She screamed, but her attacker was on her in an instant. He slipped the thin belt over her head and looped it around her neck in a snap, cutting off her air, stifling her cry.
Oh, God! This jerkwad was going to hurt her! Rape her! Kill her! Fear curdled her insides.
She kicked, landed one blow with her heel and her assailant let out a hiss of pain.
Good!
She tried again but was jerked roughly to one side, her airway cut off, the pain in her lungs hot and tight.
This can’t be happening, she thought wildly. She was coughing and gasping, digging at the strap, struggling and flailing, throwing her weight around. Anything to loosen the ever-tightening collar!
No! No! No!
Kicking crazily, trying to land another blow on his shin, she slipped. He used the chance to wrench her up by the belt, holding her in the air. Dangling like a doll.
Hit the creep. Get the belt off your neck! Save yourself! Though her lungs were on fire, she flung her fist backward, trying to hit the monster in the nose or eyes or anything! The fingers of her other hand were scratching at the strap on her throat.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Help me. Please, someone, anyone help me!
She wasn’t a wimp, but her strength was fading, the pain excruciating.
Passing out would be better.
No!
Don’t give up!
Fight!
Oh, God, the pain…I can’t breathe! Help! Please help me!
She gave up hitting and used both hands to try and free herself from the constricting strap.
Her fingers clawed at her neck.
Dug deep.
But it was too late.
Her lungs were bursting.
Pain screaming through her body.
Her heart thudding.
Blackness converging over her.
In that horrid instant, Laney knew. She knew she would never see her twenty-first birthday.
CHAPTER 10
Hayes had been right.
Roy’s had definitely gone downhill, Bentz thought, driving past the restaurant.
Still a little shaken from his recent “Jennifer sighting,” he found a ridiculously small parking spot a couple of blocks from the restaurant. He wedged the Ford Escape into it and fed the meter. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he managed to avoid a couple of speeding skateboarders who whipped by, the wheels of their boards grinding against the concrete as he hitched his way to the front doors.
Named for its original owner and not Roy Rogers as many people thought, the place still had a western facade complete with Dutch doors that looked as if they belonged on a barn. There had once been a plastic rearing horse mounted over the front awning, until some smart-ass had climbed up on the roof in the middle of the night and painted the white stallion’s private parts fire-engine red.
That had been the end of the white stud.
Now the awning displayed a sign that simply said: Roy’s.
Good enough, Bentz figured as he pushed open the doors and stepped back in time.
Inside, the dark restaurant seemed dingy. Twelve years ago all the cowboy memorabilia gathered from the sets of old westerns and television shows had been retro-cool. Now the worn saddles, fence posts, cowboy hats, and chaps that adorned the place looked dusty and worn.
The crowd had changed, or at least aged, just like the old plank floors.
A long bar, complete with brass foot rail, swept along one side of the establishment. Tables and booths took care of the rest.
He found a booth, settled in, and ordered a nonalcoholic beer from a waitress who was splitting the seams of her cowgirl costume.
Before she could return, Bentz spied Jonas Hayes pushing through the front doors. Hayes, too, had aged. African American and six-four, he was still imposing, if slightly thicker around the middle than he had been when he was a rookie cop or a running back for UNLV. His close-cropped black hair showed a few bits of silver, and when he took his shades off, crow’s feet were visible at the corners of his eyes.
But he still dressed as if he were a model. Expensive suit, polished shoes, silk tie knotted to perfection.
Bentz waved him over and stood, stretching out his hand. “Helluva long time.”
Hayes nodded and clasped Bentz’s fingers in a strong, sure grip. “What’s it been? Eleven? Twelve years?”
“’Bout that.”
They sat down on opposite sides of the booth. “And then you show up outta the blue. Lookin’ for a favor.”
“You got it.”
Waitress Pseudo-cowgirl returned, her mood not appearing to have improved as she took Hayes’s order for a scotch on the rocks.
“Friendly,” Hayes observed once she’d huffed away.
“Don’t think she likes the getup she has to wear.”
“Can’t blame her. You still on the wagon?” Hayes nodded toward Bentz’s bottle.
“Yep. Gave it up after Jennifer died.”
“Probably a good thing.”
Bentz raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Well, most of the time. Trinidad still with the department?”