Chapter One

"My daddy says this picture is worth a hundred thousand dollars!"

The snapshot was waved like a red flag in front of my face by the underage tartlet sitting next to me, who clutched a fried bologna sandwich in her other hand. The stench of greasy, seared meat filled the interior of my Ford SUV and I held my breath, trying to fight off the memory of having eaten one too many barbecued ribs last night. Oh no! Too late! She bit into the meat, causing a wave of nausea to roll from my stomach into my throat, I quickly lowered my window, despite the cold.

"But I'm gonna let you have it for just fifty thousand bucks." Wynona Hardy bargained like a seasoned pro.

I took the photo as I drove and glanced at fifty pairs of beady, camera-flashed red eyes that swam in a blackness as impenetrable as the Tennessee woods on a moonless night.

"Do you want to explain exactly what I'm looking at that's so valuable?"

"For chrissakes! They're coons, of course!" Wynona's full lips formed a well-practiced pout, her dark lashes fluttering like a professional "virgin" whose innocence had been questioned.

"Okay, so what makes this Quik Pik photo worth fifty thousand dollars?"

We passed a Piggly Wiggly I supermarket held captive by a series of rough-and-tumble pawnshops on either side, all proudly advertising an arsenal of guns for sale. I turned onto a narrow street where dilapidated houses were the norm, their front yards littered with junked cars and flat tires. Either I'd stumbled onto the set of the old Jeff Foxworthy Show, or I was once again in redneck country.

"Daddy bought those coons for next to nothing from a holding station in Ohio." Wynona smiled slyly. "Is that a big enough clue for you?"

It was slowly coming together. A former trapper, Woody Hardy had turned to training and selling coon dogs to hunters after the bottom fell out of the fur trade. He must have decided to tip the scales in his favor during the most recent field trial, by dumping coons in the area where his dogs would be hunting. And to save a few bucks, he'd apparently purchased an illegal haul of rabid critters from a greedy employee at a quarantine station. Woody probably figured they were going to be destroyed anyway, so what did it matter how they met their Maker?

It was easy to imagine Woody releasing feverish coons the night before the trial. They wouldn't get very far as they stumbled along, bumping into obstacles in their path. By the time morning rolled around, any five-dollar, biscuit-eating mutt from off a front porch could have treed the coons in no time flat. The scam was as rank as the sandwich Wynona had just polished off.

She snatched the photo back, adding a grease stain to its surface. Then extracting a cube of bubble gum from her jeans, Wynona peeled off the worn wrapper and popped it into her mouth.

"I was gonna blackmail him, but the old bastard would probably just whack me. So you're it. Whadda ya say? Have we got a deal?"

As I hit a bump, the handcuffs dangling from the shift on my steering column caught the sun's beam, causing light to glimmer and dance on the dashboard. It proved too much for Wynona. Her fingers twitched, irresistibly drawn toward them.

"Hey! Leave those alone!" I warned, but I might as well have been Wile E. Coyote trying to fend off a speeding train. She swiped the cuffs as I swerved to stay on the road.

"Put those back!"

Wynona hooked the steel bracelets firmly around her wrists, and her manacled hands began to prance like two high-kicking Rockettes. "You know how many guys would pay good money to get hold of me like this?...

From the book

"I'm gonna let you in on something big, Porter. But you've gotta come out here now and see what's about to go down!"

The insistent whisper curled into my brain, gnawing like a rodent's incisors. Prying open an eye, I glanced at the clock. Five A.M. I'd been dreaming of Harrison Ford; my reality was Timmy Tom Tyler. I was tempted to hang up the phone and roll over, picking up where Harrison and I had left off.

"You're gonna owe me big time on this one." Then Tyler shrewdly dangled his bait. "Hell, this might even get you one of those cheap gold-plated stars."

Damn! Those were the magic words I couldn't resist. Harrison gave me an understanding "see ya later, kid," smile as I groaned. Timmy Tom was undoubtedly calling from some godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere. I was beginning to hate cell phones.

"Where are you?" I croaked. My tongue felt as fuzzy as a hair ball, coated with the residue of one too many frozen margaritas from last night. This was my newest approach to the "I-can't-believe-the-man-loved-left-me" remnants of a heartache.

"Just head out on the Anapra till you hit a dirt road after Marker 63, and hang a right. Don't worry, Porter.

You won't have any trouble finding me," Tyler declared mysteriously. The phone clicked dead.

Like this was just what I was itching to do at the crack of dawn: run around playing sleuth in the middle of the desert. But Timmy Tom was the first snitch I'd developed since my transfer to El Paso four months ago, and with the way things were going, I had little choice but to cultivate his good will. Fish and Wildlife refused to pay informants. Hell, from what I heard, the Service wasn't all that crazy about paying me these days.

I groggily dressed, made my way out the door, and pulled myself up into the monster Ford F-150 pick-up I'd inherited from the posting's previous agent. Since it was too early to stop at a convenience store for coffee, I washed my Pop-Tart breakfast down with a can of Coke that had been sitting in the cupholder since yesterday.

Then I hit the road, with the serrated peaks of the Organ Mountains rising like a set of mismatched musical pipes beside me. In the rear view mirror, the barest wisp of a cloud played hide-and-seek with a waning moon that was loath to cede the last vestige of night. But an expanding sliver of sun was inevitably winning. I raced toward where it rose, liquid as a broken egg yolk, its rays spilling onto the ebony asphalt in widely splayed fingers of warm, yellow fight.

Forty-five minutes later, I veered sharply onto a dirt path studded with creosote bushes and a wide array of rocks that were "bigger than a pebble, and smaller than a breadbox." The ideal spot to practice what I'd dubbed as driving aerobics. Less boring than a Stairmaster, it was the perfect solution for the exercise-impaired. This morning's workout consisted of bouncing through the middle of no-man's land: a patch of bleached desert on the New Mexico-Mexican border. My body shimmied and shook as the Ford vaulted over rocks, my hips swinging from side to side. Who knows? If my career with Fish and Wildlife didn't pan out, maybe I could host an infomercial and make some bucks teaching these moves to Midwestern housewives. A few more months of jiggling around like this, and Sharon Stone would be asking me for some tips.

So, what was Tyler talking about? The only thing I'd seen so far was a flock of glossy starlings bolting out of the brush, resembling a bunch of cheap-suited Joes on their way to a funeral. Then I caught sight of a shimmering shape on the ground up ahead. The crumpled form caused my heart to flutter as rapidly as the...

Chapter One

Someone was crying outside my bedroom window last night. I got up and ran out, only to find nobody there. Some say the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. In which case, I should have been feeling completely at home right about now.

"Well, hot damn! This here says you're some kinda special federal law enforcement agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Is that so?"

The local sheriff hypnotically wove my ID card between his fingers with the ease of a professional card shark. "And just what is it that brings you to our peaceful little town today?"

"I thought I'd do some fishing," I answered; flashing what I hoped was a seductively beguiling smile.

"Well, aren't you the lucky one getting Labor Day off?" He grinned, giving the distinct impression of a cat on the prowl who'd just caught himself a mouse. "So, what are ya'll fishing for anyway?"

Naturally, he'd have to ask. It was a pastime that I knew almost nothing about.

Mayday! Mayday! The distress call shot straight to my brain as the sheriff continued to study me.

"Catfish," I responded, in my best imitation of a Southern drawl.

His meandering gaze vainly searched my vehicle for any sign of a fishing pole. "Too bad you don't seem to be having much luck " he shrewdly observed.

So much for charming the man into submission.

I'd been following up a hot tip concerning some illicit commercial shrimping in the marsh. So far, everything had gone just as I'd hoped. The suspect had docked his boat, unloaded the illegal haul, thrown it in the trunk of his car, and taken off. His next stop would probably be a shady commercial fishmarket just over the state line in Florida.

I'd been hot on my perp's tail, determined to catch him in the act of selling the goods. That is, until a siren began to howl behind me like a surly cat in heat. I'd had no choice but to slam on my brakes and pull off the road. Fisherman Joe slowed down just long enough to flash me a digital good-bye in his rear view mirror. After that, he'd left me behind eating his dust.

There was no question but that I'd brought this upon myself. I'd been driving with my eye pressed against a video camera that was precariously balanced on my shoulder. As a result, my Ford Explorer had swerved back and forth. like a drunk on a roll. This was crack law enforcement at its best.

The sheriff's gaze now came to rest on the camera nestled beside me.

"There's some great scenery around here," I lamely offered, hoping to tap dance my way out of this mess.

This was the one thing my topnotch informant had warned me about. Trust no one in the backwater community of St. Mary's Bluff, where everyone knows everything about everybody. It was a given that the locals were all involved in a melange of illegal activities. The surprise ingredient was Sheriff Tom "Quick Draw" Magraw, best described as Georgia's version of the local Godfather. Word had it he received a kickback from everyone, including the local paper boy, who also happened to be his own son.

He eyeballed me now. "Don't take this wrong, but I'm gonna have to run your license, just to check and make sure everything's on the up and up. You know what I mean."

Absolutely. He was a master when it came to ensuring that his compadre made a clean getaway.

I watched Magraw walk back to his vehicle with both feet turned out like a haughty ballerina. The sight was ironic, considering he had the body of a wrestler gone to seed. What wasn't so amusing was when he picked up the microphone in his patrol car and flipped on the outside...

Chapter One

Grrrroowwwl!

The Ford 4X4 roared in protest as my foot flogged the gas pedal, and its rear end swung side-to-side in a manic Mae West shimmy. It had been raining hard for three days straight, turning Montana's red clay earth into gumbo mud that clung to my tires in a smothering embrace.

At times like this I cursed the very existence of HBO, with its taunting reminder of what my life in New York might have been. Damn Sex and the City -- all eighteen new episodes -- for flaunting chic Manolo Blahnik shoes, Versace dresses, and Fendi baguettes! Okay -- so in reality, I had been an out-of-work actress without any money, meeting my friends at a local bar for beers, unable to get into Nobu to sip ever-so-trendy Cosmopolitans. Still, a girl can dream of living the high life and being swept off her feet by her very own Mr. Big, can't she?

My vehicle slid along the slippery dirt road as if boasting, I'm not tractionally challenged; I'm independently motivated!

As the pickup fishtailed, I snapped out of my daydream and concentrated on the hazardous path before me. It was scarred with ancient tire tracks created by a long history of vehicles that had unwillingly performed figure eights. There was little consolation in knowing that previous cars had clawed and fought to stay on the road; it was somewhere along here that Al Carolton had slid off the path and into a ditch, on a day much like this three months ago.

No one ventured up here without a good reason -- a dirt road in the mountains of northern Montana, so ruggedly remote it nearly screamed for people to stay away. Even fewer had the chutzpah to flagrantly trespass through the sovereign nation known as the Blackfeet Indian Reservation.

I eased to a stop when I saw a tree wrapped with yellow crime tape. Rummaging through my pocket, I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, rechecked the directions, and then wadded it back into a tight, compact ball.

Pulling up my rain slicker's hood, I reached for the door handle, then jumped out. My feet were immediately swallowed by a deep puddle of viscous mud.

The marked tree's bark was scarred by the angry bite of a steel chain, doubtless where Carolton had attached the winch to extricate his pickup from its muddy trench. Instead, the wheels had continued to spin, rockand-rolling ever deeper into the muck. As if things weren't bad enough, the cable then became entangled on its spool. A total "Charlie Forest" -- more commonly referred to among locals as a "cluster fuck."

What happened next had been gradually pieced together by federal and tribal agents a week later, when the body was found. Their best guess was that Carolton had given up on his pickup and tried to hike out -- with disastrous results. The evidence? A backpack lying on the ground -- at least, what was left of it. Other clues consisted of a bootlace with traces of dried blood, tatters of fabric that had once been a shirt, a bloodied sock, and small pieces of human flesh. A rifle lay slumbering peacefully nearby.

A few yards farther on, a series of thrash marks marred the earth. Panic must have held Carolton tight in its grip as he'd fallen, his glasses shattering into a crude kaleidoscope that sadistically refracted the image of his tormentor.

Frantically scrambling to his feet, Carolton had made a final, frenzied run for his life. Blood splatters recorded his desperate path of flight. He managed to reach his vehicle, where he'd crawled inside and hastily locked the door. What took place next required little interpretation. Copious prints encircled the pickup -- but...

Chapter One

There are days when paradise actually lives up to its overblown billing. This pristine moment in time seemed to be one of them. I floated weightless on a sheen of pure liquid sunlight, the orb's rays dancing on a sea of cobalt blue. The only thing that could have made this instant any better would have been a properly chilled martini.

That obviously did it. I'd pushed too hard and gone over the paradise limit. Within bloody seconds, my vision of Shangri-la was promptly shot to hell.

"Paddle, Porter! Paddle, paddle, paddle! Harder! Don't be such a wuss. Come on. Stand up on your feet and take command of the board!" shouted the self-appointed General Schwarzkopf of Waikiki Beach.

I'd have gladly shot back a few suggestions of my own, were it not for the teenage hotdoggers that contemptuously snickered while rockin' and rollin' on their surfboards around me. Funny what one's fragile ego will make you do. I placed my hands along the sides of the board, pushed hard with my arms, and stood up in one swift move.

Whadda ya know? This was proving to be easier the third time around.

That thought nibbled at the corners of my mind as a wave pulled my feet out from under me and I tumbled about like a single die in search of its mate. "Shaken, not stirred" could have been my motto as the sea proceeded to toss me around like a limp rag doll. Sheer panic grabbed hold of my nerves as seawater rushed into my mouth and boogie-boarded down my throat. But that was nothing compared to Mother Nature's strong hand, which bounced my head along the shallow bottom like a cheap rubber ball.

Damn!

I flinched as something prickly pierced the sole of my foot—probably a jagged piece of coral or a sharp lava rock. But all concern quickly vamoosed with the appearance of a dark shadow looming off to my left.

My heart abruptly kicked into gear, pounding hot and heavy with fear. I fully expected to come face-to-face with a primal monster bearing yellow-flecked eyes and hundreds of lethal knives in its mouth. Most likely a creature that would regard me as its very own version of surf and turf.

A green turtle, doubling as an underwater flying saucer, swam into view not a moment too soon, and I breathed a mental sigh of relief. My elation was reflected in the dazzling kaleidoscope of greens and blues shimmering above me. I quickly made my way toward them, feeling as if my lungs were about to burst. It was time to call it a day as I broke the surface, coughing and gasping for air.

I'd have deserted my surfboard in a New York minute, were it not for the fact that the damn thing was attached to my foot by a leash. The board bobbed about like a wound-up prize fighter, making me wonder just who was in charge of whom, anyway.

I pulled myself on top of the board and began to paddle for shore, wanting nothing more than to plop down at the nearest tiki bar. To hell with hoping to surf the big waves at Waimea Bay and Sunset Beach one day. Though I might be crazy, I wasn't yet certifiable.

Visions of mai tais danced in my head, each decorated with a colorful paper parasol. The image prompted me to paddle even faster. Which is why I'll never understand what compelled me to glance back over my shoulder and again catch sight of something from out of the corner of my eye.

This time I was determined to ignore any imagined monsters. I'd done a good enough job of scaring myself for one day. Only the damn thing refused to go away. Instead, it momentarily disappeared and then resurfaced, as if daring me to take a closer look. Unable to stop, I obeyed.

The next instant, my pulse wildly hammered in my ears, and I...

Chapter One

Damn Mister Softee. I couldn't get the ice-cream truck's canned kiddy music out of my head, its jingle playing over and over in endless fashion. I'm not really sure why -- possibly because I was driving a van that looked exactly like it. The only difference was the company name printed on the side. It had been lent to me by an air delivery service, along with the courier uniform I now wore.

Cultivating my informant had finally paid off. I'd worked hard to establish a bond, exhibiting patience and concern by playing his "shrink for a day." I'd gone so far as to take his calls in the middle of the night, listening as he babbled on, his stories fueled by a combo of drugs, booze, and paranoia. In return, I'd learned that a package invoiced as toys would be coming in from Singapore; only its actual contents were endangered Burmese star tortoises.

The case was cut and dry. The box had arrived at Customs and had been X-rayed. Toys lay on top, while tortoises packed in plastic containers were secreted beneath a false bottom. The creatures spent their days and nights in the dark, waiting to be sold on the black market for five thousand dollars a pair.

I'd rushed to an airport warehouse, slit open the box, and marked each tortoise's shell with a UV pen. Then the reptiles were resealed inside their portable coffins. My plan was to deliver the package to the "toy store" and track where the torts went, nailing as many perps as possible in the process.

I'd performed similar "controlled" deliveries before; but something was different this time. Getting back in the van, I found that my mouth was inexplicably dry, my hands trembled on the steering wheel, and a dull pain ate away at the pit of my stomach. My heart raced with each passing mile, thumping hard against my chest as I turned onto the exit ramp; harder as my target came into view.

Pulling up to the curb, I grabbed the box and walked toward the store, my limbs feeling heavier than ever before. By now, the Mister Softee tune had permanently wormed its way into my brain, its tinny music pure auditory torture.

I knocked and someone opened the door. I never saw a face; just the barrel of a gun like a gaping black hole. Its mouth filled the entranceway, consuming time and space. I broke into a cold sweat and screamed NO! only to realize that it was already too late.

A shot rang out, piercing the air. It ripped through my body, lifting me off the ground and throwing me onto my back. My mind shrieked and my head slammed against what felt like pavement, my teeth jostling about like loose plastic beads in a baby rattle. The commotion echoed in my ears and my body ached, as if it were being kicked.

"Fight back, damn it!"

The voice barely made a dent in my consciousness, floating toward me from somewhere in the background. It was the sharp jolt of a full-frontal kick that shattered my daze, jerking me out of my head and back into reality.

"For chrissakes, Rachel. Snap out of it!"

The nightmare was happening again. I wasn't outside, garbed in a courier's uniform. Rather, I was in a gym, dressed in sweatpants, tee-shirt, and sneakers, with my hair plastered against my back and a rivulet of sweat trickling down my chin.

"What are you trying to do? Get your ass kicked on purpose?"

There was no time to think, much less react, as a foot planted itself in my stomach like a conquering flag. I was flung against a wall, causing a shock of pain to radiate throughout my body. Morbid Angel's music pounded in the air, replacing Mister Softee's theme, and the room lights flickered on and off in a blatant attempt to distract me. The ploy worked, giving...

Chapter One

The sound of a siren split the air, shrill as the cry of a prehistoric bird. I steered my vehicle to one side of the road as a set of flashing red lights appeared in my rearview mirror. Their reflection was dulled by the morning haze, the sky dingy as a soiled pillow case. I stifled a yawn and cranked up the radio, hoping the local shock jock would say something outrageous to jolt me awake.

The bumper-to-bumper traffic paid little heed to the blue-and-white Crown Vic that continued to screech angrily behind us. But that was the norm for this place. This stretch of the turnpike lay between a couple of urban bullies: Newark and Elizabeth, the Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield of industrial Northern New Jersey.

I'd quickly become acclimated to my new surroundings. In fact, perhaps a little too well. I gave the incident barely a thought until the Crown Vic's emblem caught my eye. Squeezing through morning rush-hour traffic was a Port Authority police car. It clearly signaled that something was taking place in my territory. I watched as the squad car disappeared amid the crowd of vehicles, until even its call had been silenced.

Damn, I thought. Why didn't I have one of those handy dandy sirens?

Instead, I continued to crawl along with the rest of the throng, like one more regular Joe. There was little to do but stare out the window as the scenery slowly slipped by.

Vast warehouses gradually gave way to towering columns of colorful cargo containers. The metallic rainbows rose like giant LEGOs, their individual shells stacked high to the sky. Hidden from view lay a sprawling complex where goods from far-flung places arrived daily by ship.

One if by air, two if by sea. Newark International Airport stretched along one side of the road, while the Port of Elizabeth laid claim to the other. The turnpike divided the two. What they have in common is that each is a major transportation hub.

A massive blue-and-yellow structure appeared ahead like a concrete flag of Sweden. The Ikea building cheerfully announced that I'd reached my destination. Exit 13A swiftly approached and, as usual, my vehicle was stuck in the wrong lane. At times like this, I have no shame. The Trailblazer used its bulk to bully its way into the tiniest of spaces. What I hadn't counted on was hitting a patch of ice while swerving into the exit.

My vehicle fishtailed, nearly colliding with another brawny SUV. That car did what no disc jockey this morning had so far achieved. Its blaring horn finally shocked me awake. I quickly overcorrected, and sliding to the other side of the road, brushed up against a border of tall, graceful phragmites. Their feathery plumes shook their heads in distress as they valiantly buffered a small polluted creek. Taking a deep breath, I maintained my grip on the wheel and continued on, pretending not to notice the other cars that did their best to steer clear of me.

I'd been stationed at Port Elizabeth for only a few months, but the posting already felt like years. Perhaps it was due to the fact that winters on the East Coast were colder than I had remembered, the January days morbidly gray.

Things will be better once spring arrives, I thought, trying to bolster myself.

But the cold felt as though it would never go away. A gust of wind rounded a bend and shook the Trailblazer as if it were a toy. I must have been certifiable to have ever willingly left Hawaii. I tried to push that thought from my mind while passing the Jersey Garden Mall and drab hotels overlooking scenic oil tanks and chemical plants.

Turning on to North Avenue, I...