And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Woodburn, Oregon is a city in Marion County, approximately thirty miles south of Portland. The city received its name after the founder, Jesse H.Settlemier, heard his hired man remark upon the burning capacity of some trees they had slashed down, saying, “It would burn, wouldn’t it?” It is known for its annual Tulip Festival, Dragstrip, and miles of fertile farmland. It also claims the unique distinction of being home to the largest number of Russian Old Believers in the United States. Since the settlement of the Old Believers, the town has witnessed the arrival of other Russian religious dissidents including Molokans, Dukhobors, Pentacostals, and Baptists. And yet there are still other, less recognizable groups that have chosen to call Woodburn home. It is a city where those wishing to remain separate may do so. And those with a secret may hide.

The funeral took place on the third Sunday in June, officially the first day of summer. It was a relatively small affair (by law enforcement standards) with only two hundred people in attendance. The speeches had been sobering; the mood, sedate. Mourners listened solemnly to the sound of bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace.” After delivering the eulogy, the mayor and a few of the town selectmen had lingered on to say a few words and give their condolences to the family. The deceased’s wife, Leslie, sat hunched over in a chair, her face flush with tears. She was flanked by her two college-aged children, a boy and a girl, who desperately tried to provide her with some measure of comfort in the midst of unbearable sadness.

Newly assigned Chief of Police Phil Townsend looked on regretfully as the heavy black casket was lowered slowly into the waiting ground. The man he was burying had been his mentor and friend for the past twelve years. If only I had been there! He thought of the house where it had all happened. The grisly discoveries they had made. It was still hard for him to believe that it actually happened here.

Looking over the crowd of people, he recognized the two detectives from Portland. At the moment, he couldn’t remember their names, but was pleased to see they had taken the time off to attend the service. Townsend sighed. Time off was something he was going to have very little of in the week ahead of him. The events of the past two days had turned the normally quiet city upside down. Since news of the incident had broken out, reporters from all over the state had descended upon the area to conduct interviews, take photographs, and request police reports. It had become the largest media covered event in Woodburn history. And one that he would never forget. Not all the days of his life.

from CHAPTER 1

Detective Ken Ross woke up feeling exhausted. He had not slept well at all. And he was hung over. Too much of the old sauce. He had attended a bachelor party the night before and now he was paying for it. His head hurt like a son of a bitch. But it was worth it. The smooth, svelte body of the naked woman sleeping beside him was proof of that. It had been a good night; though he had felt slightly awkward about leaving the party with the night’s entertainment on his arm. He thought that the stripper would have been slated for the groom to be but, as circumstances would have it, Ross had turned out to be the lucky man. Her name was Tandi. She had been good. They had come back to the hotel room and immediately proceeded to rip off each other’s clothes. Lifting her from the floor, he was inside her before they had even reached the bed. Surprisingly, what with all the alcohol in his system, he had managed to come two out of the three times he had loved her before they fell asleep. James Bond would have been proud. A childish thought, Ross conceded, but the fictional super-spy had meant so much to him for so long. As a child he had always wanted to pattern his life after James Bond. Fearless. Suave. Sophisticated. The very epitome of virility. And a lady-killer to boot. There was not a woman alive who could resist his charms. It seemed that his childhood hero had (subconsciously anyway) played a role in his choice of a lifestyle. Over the course of his ten years with the Portland Police Bureau, he had managed to bed nearly three hundred women by his own estimation. A respectable number, Ross thought, to those who held such dubious records in high esteem. He often thought it was foolish to keep such a count. He didn’t know exactly why he did it. Maybe he was trying to prove something to himself. But it gave him satisfaction. Almost as much as the act itself. For Ross, sex was the ultimate expression of pleasure. It fulfilled him in a way that few things could. And that was all he needed.

He had tried his luck at marriage but it had only lasted two years. He soon discovered that he could not commit to one woman. His ex-wife had suggested that he speak to a doctor about his inability to commit to a single female. But he had ignored her advice. The last thing he needed was some shrink telling him about the benefits of monogamy. Besides, he wasn’t sick. He just liked variety. He was emotionally strong and content in knowing that he didn’t need anyone. Maybe he was only fooling himself. But it seemed to be working.

Having had enough introspection for one morning, Ross got up out of the bed and quietly made his way to the bathroom. Turning on the light, he shut the door and looked at himself in the mirror. Thankfully, the reflection that stared back at him didn’t look half as bad as he felt. His face was a bit drawn but his eyes were still crystal clear and as blue as the ocean at noontide. He ran a finger under his chin where dark stubble was beginning to show along his strong jaw-line. His five-foot-eleven inch frame was taut and well chiseled; the result of a daily routine of calisthenics and weight training.

He stepped into the shower, turned the nozzle, and let the warm water splash over his face. Within seconds he began to feel alive again. After his shower, he toweled off then headed back into the main room. Ross looked over at the bed. The girl was gone. It was probably for the best. He had to be at work in ten minutes and didn’t have time for another roll in the hay. He quickly picked his clothes up off the floor and put them on. The navy blue sport-jacket and black twill cotton trousers were slightly rumpled from wear, but would get him through the day. His wallet, gun, and keys sat atop the dresser. Ross picked up his wallet and looked inside. All his money and credit cards were still there. Smart girl. It wasn’t wise to steal from a cop. He picked up his gun–a 9mm Glock–and slipped it into his holster. He stuffed his wallet in his back pants pocket, picked up his keys, and was out the door.

Yuri Porshikov stared in wonderment at the contents of the glass jar he held in his hand: a human penis and testicles. Brothers Leon and Zane had done well. The initiate, though unwilling, had received a great gift. The gift of redemption. If they only knew the mysterious ways God worked.

He marveled at how a simple appendage could have so much influence over a man. How so many men were ruled by it. Based their decisions on it. And how certain cultures had even worshipped it. But there had always been the enlightened few. Those who saw the organ for what it was. The instrument of evil. The organ that led to damnation.

He had waited many years for this time to come. Since his arrival in the West, he had dedicated himself to the proliferation of the faith. It had not been easy for him to find new recruits willing to make the sacrifice. Such a lack of willing members had compelled him to take matters into his own hands. Thus, he had picked the most vile and reproached element of society to convert. The ones who truly needed to be saved.

His disciples were few but they were loyal. Like him, they had seen the evil of the world and knew that something had to be done. With every baptism they performed, it brought them closer to reaching their goal: to cleanse society and bring forth the coming of the kingdom of God. Yuri relished the thought. They would make themselves heard once again. Their presence would resound like a peal of thunder. The glory of his people would not be forgotten.

CHAPTER 2

When Ross arrived at the precinct (ten minutes late for his shift) he got a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner of the squad room and went to his desk. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a bottle of aspirin. His head was throbbing with pain. He took out two capsules and quickly downed them. It was going to be a long day.

He sat down at his desk and was about to sift through some paperwork when he heard his name.

“Ken.”

Ross looked up to see one of his fellow officers, Steve Worley.

“Hey, Steve.”

“How ya feelin’?”

“Like shit.”

“Glad to hear it,” Worley said jokingly. “Stetlan wants to see you in his office, pronto.”

“What about?”

“Not sure. Says he’s got somethin’ for ya.”

Ross groaned. Probably just wanted to give him some shit about being late. The notoriously by-the-book head of Portland Police Bureau’s Sexual Assault Detail had been keeping close tabs on his detectives and their behavior since being promoted to Lieutenant six months ago. So far, Ross had managed to avoid any serious reprimands from his newest commanding officer, but he knew it was only a matter of time. For reasons unknown to him, Ross got the feeling that he did not rank high on Stetlan’s list.

Ross got up from his chair and walked through the squad room and down the hall until he came to a door. The nameplate on the door read: Lieutenant David Stetlan-S.A.D. Ross knocked.

“Yeah,” came the lieutenant’s voice from behind the door. Ross opened the door and looked in.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Ken. ‘Bout time you showed up. C’mon in.”

Ross stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. Standing by Stetlan’s desk was an attractive young woman, maybe late twenties or early thirties.

“I’d like you to meet Miranda Locke. She just transferred from the North Precinct. She’s your new partner.”

“Partner?”

“You got it.”

Ross looked her over from top to bottom. She was dressed in a conservative grey pantsuit that seemed to emphasize rather than conceal her curves. Her breasts were large and firm. Her body toned. Her fair skin was accentuated by a lustrous head of raven black hair that extended down to her shoulders. He wanted her immediately.

“Ken Ross. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Ross extended his hand to meet hers and found she had a surprisingly firm grip for a person with such soft features.

“Detective Locke and I were just discussing your new case.”

“New case?”

Stetlan handed Ross a manila folder.

“Happened last night over on Sanger Way. Strangest damn thing I ever heard of.”

Ross opened the folder and looked at the report.

Wednesday, May 18. At approximately 9:26 p.m. officers Doug Nevins and Carlos Basteda responded to a call made to 911 by an unknown caller who had not spoken. Dispatch had requested that a black and white do a drive by to check it out. When they approached the house located at 317 E.Sanger Way, they found the front door to be unlocked with a note attached to the door saying “Come In.” They had been informed that the house was the residence of a registered sex offender–Mr.Vern Trenier. They entered cautiously, their guns drawn. After a cursory check of the front premises, the officers had made their way toward the back of the house. In the bedroom was where they had found him. At first they thought he was dead, but upon closer look saw that he was breathing. He lay naked on the bed; a white cloth covering his groin area. Closer inspection revealed the man to be castrated. The phone on the bedside table was off the hook and set beside its cradle. Realizing that the man was still alive, officer Basteda had observed the victim’s condition, then radioed for an ambulance.

When he had finished reading the report, Ross looked up.

“Any word on the victim?”

“Not since last night. Well, I believe you two have a job to do,” Stetlan said dismissively.

“Yes, sir.”

Ross closed the folder, tucked it under his arm, and opened the door for his stunning new partner.

“Ladies first.”

She gave a small, appreciative smile, and quickly stepped out into the hall.

After leaving Stetlan’s office, Ross turned to Locke.

“So. You ready to go?”

“Where are we going?”

“Let’s go talk to the victim.”

For there are eunuchs who were born thus from their mother’s womb, and there are eunuchs who were made eunuchs by men, and there are eunuchs who have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He who is able to accept it, let him accept it.

Brother Leon sat in his room, pondering the words on the page in front of him. The verse from Matthew 19:12 had echoed its wisdom throughout the ages. He had read about Origen (the third-century church father), and others before them who had heeded the cry of the Lord. A cry that had been meant for all but answered by few. Sadly, the majority of the human race had refused to accept Christ’s proclamation of the sacred teachings. For most of the world’s people, the Bible was but a dead letter.

During his moments alone, Leon found time to pray and further his study of the good book. He had managed to read through the entire Bible from Genesis to Revelation, marking the sections of particular interest. He had even found apparent contradictions to their beliefs during his study of the book. Leon recalled the lines from Deuteronomy 23:1 He who is emasculated by crushing or mutilation shall not enter the congregation of the LORD.

He had thought of asking Father Porshikov about the meaning of such passages but had quickly dismissed the idea. Such questioning of Holy Scripture would only be seen as blasphemous. Instead, Leon had come to his own conclusions, regarding the contradictory verses as outmoded, outdated, and erroneous teachings of the Old Testament.

When he had finished his daily reflections, Leon closed the book, stood up, and went to the window. Looking outside, he watched his fellow brethren out in the field. It was eight-thirty in the morning, and he knew they had been at work for the past four hours. Thankfully, he no longer had to wake up at dawn to assist them in their labors. His role as a missionary had provided him with many privileges.

As he turned from the window, Leon found himself thinking about the night before. The mission. Last night had been his first time performing the operation. He had been nervous and unsure of himself. He remembered how he had vomited after severing the organ. How he had felt ashamed for being so squeamish at the sight of blood. But he could not help it. The gruesome act had disturbed his senses and given rise to a primitive instinct of revulsion.

But despite all his misgivings, he had performed everything correctly. He had severed the organ clean off, cauterized the wound, and left the target sleeping peacefully. Upon returning to the house, Leon had delivered the organ to the master, washed himself clean, then settled into bed. But, regardless of any physical fatigue he may have felt, sleep had eluded him. For hours he had lain flat on his back reliving the events of the night. He had tried to think about something else but had kept seeing the man’s face in his mind. Wondering about how the man would feel when he awoke. Or if he had even survived the operation. But there was no way to know such things. He was not allowed to view any form of news broadcast or media publication. The fate of the target was not to concern him. Nevertheless, he had found himself wondering.

Forcing the thought from his mind, Leon looked around the room. It was a small room, sparsely furnished– a twin bed, a pine dresser. Simple. Clean. So different from the life he had once lived. And yet, for the past two years, he had come to call it home. He was grateful for the support and help they had provided him. The kindness they had shown. God’s people. His initiation into the fold had signaled a drastic redirection in his life. And in his destiny. He had become a part of something far greater than he had ever imagined. He had been given a purpose to his life.

Returning his attention to the window, Leon watched as his fellow brethren toiled restlessly in the fields below. Missionary or not, they were all equals in the eyes of the Lord. With a sudden sense of forlorn obligation, he put on his shoes, and went down to join them.

Detective Miranda Locke sat in the passenger seat of Detective Ross’s car staring out the window. They were headed north on Second Avenue en route to the hospital. The streets were bustling with pedestrians, cyclists, SmartCars, and pedicabs; proud advocates of the greenest city in the world. The vaulted spread of azure blue sky was speckled with hoary tufts of fluffy white clouds that loomed with the muffled softness of eiderdown. Locke smiled at the sights. She had lived in Oregon all her life and had never taken the state (with its crisp, clean air, and lush, fertile valleys) for granted. With all the environmental calamities taking their toll on the planet, Portland was a city intent on saving it.

As the car began to speed up, her thoughts turned to the man behind the wheel. She didn’t know what to make of her new partner. She had noticed him checking her out in the Lieutenant’s office and while walking out to the car. Imagined him undressing her with his eyes. She hoped he wasn’t going to be sneaking glances all day.

Though a part of her found the attention her looks had brought her flattering, she had also found that being an attractive young woman in the male dominated profession of law enforcement had its drawbacks.

“So, how long have you been with the force?” Ross asked, breaking the awkward silence.

Locke turned from the window.

“Two years.”

“You like it?”

“Very much.”

“What’d ya do before becoming a cop?” Ross asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I was a nurse in a maximum security psych ward.”

“Really. That must have been interesting. Why’d ya leave?”

Locke hesitated a moment before answering. She had asked herself that very same question dozens of times since becoming a police officer. Her decision to change careers at thirty-two had come as a surprise to her then-husband and friends. And though she had been sure of her decision, there was still a part of her that wondered what her life would have been like if she had stayed.

“I just didn’t feel like I was making much of a difference working with those patients.”

Ross gave her a quick glance.

“Is that why you decided to become a cop? To make a difference in things?”

“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” Locke asked rhetorically.

“Well, you certainly got your work cut out for you.”

She did, indeed. Over the past two years, Miranda had worked hard to prove herself to be a valuable member of the Portland Police Bureau. She wanted to make a difference in society. She wanted to do something. The police force had put her in a position where she could evoke change. And change was what she had needed. During her five years as a nurse, she had become frustrated trying to treat homicidal maniacs who had been able to avoid incarceration through an insanity plea. She had gotten sick of listening to their evil-minded gibberish. Being in the midst of what had seemed like complete, incorrigible darkness had begun to disturb her mental well-being.

As they sped over the S.E. Morrison Bridge, Locke watched the ships drifting languidly in the Willamette below. The sight stirred childhood memories of lazy summer days spent wandering along the riverbank with her father. Days of laughter and joy. Days when safety and innocence still held sway. The memories quickly faded into the past as the car reached the other side.

Turning off the bridge, they took the I-5 north to the Weidler Street Exit then continued northbound on Williams Avenue. On her right, she saw the Port City Development Center, a non-profit social services organization where she had volunteered while still a college student.

As they turned the corner onto Gantenbein Avenue, Locke saw the hospital come into view. Her thoughts suddenly turned to the man they were going to see; the victim of a heinous and downright bizarre crime. Though her previous experience had primed her to witness almost any instance of mutilation, dislocation, or deprivation that could befall a person, she had never seen such an act of modern-day barbarism as a castration. The thought of working on the case had both worried and intrigued her. But in the end it was her duty that compelled her. Her duty as a police officer, as a nurse, and as a daughter.

Brother Zane felt his muscles being taxed to the limit as he pushed himself up from the floor. He had just hit his one hundredth rep when the pain had begun to manifest itself. Soon it would become unbearable. But that would not stop him. His body would have to give out before he gave in. For throughout the troubled existence that had been his life, he had come to learn that the only way to conquer pain, was to experience it.

When he had finished his set, Zane stood up and caught his breath. His body was slick with sweat; his soul, a burning fire. He took off his clothes and stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of his bedroom door. He marveled at the image reflected in the glass. He stood a lofty six-foot-five. His arms were long and sinewy; his shoulders, broad and powerful. God had certainly done a sublime job with the creation of the human body. It could be maintained and improved solely by using one’s own body weight. No equipment required. Father Porshikov had spoken to him about the need to strive for perfection. Hence, Zane had spent countless hours building his body through strict and disciplined physical training. In addition to his impressive physique, he had shaved his entire body (including his eyebrows) in accordance with the regulations of purity set forth in the book of Leviticus.

But it was not his body that was his main concern. It was merely a vessel. A shell that would be cast off at the time when death came. And it would come for everyone. But, unlike other people, he had no fear of death. His sacrifice had ensured his salvation.

His eyes moved down to the large scar that covered his groin. The mark would forever serve as a reminder of the sacred vow he had made. Zane remembered the night vividly. The night he had been baptized into the faith. During the operation he had suffered severe pain. The greatest pain. It was like being born. And indeed, he had been born again; into the service of the Lord.

In that instant everything had become clear. He had given his body over to the Lord, to glorify and to serve. He had become a new creature.

Feeling the absence of strenuous effort, Zane moved to the floor, and started anew.

CHAPTER 3

It was nearly nine O’clock when Ross and Locke arrived at Legacy Emanuel Hospital. After checking with the front desk, they were directed by a nurse to Vern Trenier’s room.

Though eager to speak with him, Ross wasn’t sure how much help Trenier would be able to provide. According to the police report, Trenier had been attacked, rendered unconscious, and castrated. Ross felt a twinge of unease just thinking about it. He couldn’t imagine going through life deprived of the organ that gave him so much pleasure.

On top of everything else, the sick bastard was going to be headed back to prison. Police had found Trenier’s computer loaded with child pornography and at least a dozen e-mails from purported juveniles looking for sex.

When they reached the room, they found Trenier sitting in his bed. The television was on but he did not seem to be watching it. As they entered, Trenier made no indication that he was aware another person was in the room. Ross stepped forward.

“Mr.Trenier?”

Trenier quickly turned his head to face them.

“Who are you?”

Ross flashed him his badge.

“Detective Ross, Portland PB. This is my partner, Detective Locke. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“We’d like to ask you about what happened last night.”

“I was attacked, that’s what happened. Now take a hike.”

“Sir, we’re here to help you.”

“What the hell can you do? Can you get me my fucking dick back?”

Ross remained silent.

“See…whatever you say…whatever I say…it’s not going to matter one bit. There are some things in life, that once they’re done they’re done. Things that you can’t get back. Things that can’t be fixed. No matter what you do. And you have to live with it, those consequences, for the rest of your life.”

Locke stepped forward.

“You’re right, Mr.Trenier. Nothing that we say is going to change what’s been done. But that doesn’t mean that what you tell us won’t make a difference.”

Trenier looked at her.

“Why are the police so interested in what happened to me anyway?”

Locke met his gaze.

“Because we want to make sure that what happened to you doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

Trenier gave a heavy sigh, paused for a moment, and looked at them.

“What do you want to know?”

“Could you tell us what happened last night?” Locke asked.

They listened as Trenier recounted the events of the previous night. He had returned to his house around six p.m. Had dinner. And had spent the rest of the evening “working” on his computer. He had been going to the bathroom when he was attacked.

“Did you see your attacker?”

“No. It all happened so fast. Someone grabbed me from behind, a big guy.”

“I thought you said you didn’t see him?” Ross asked.

“I didn’t see his face. But his hands were huge. He put something over my face, and then…I must’ve passed out.”

“And that’s all you remember?” Ross questioned.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Ross sighed. “I think that’s all the questions that I have. Thanks for your help.”

Ross turned to leave. Locke shot him an icy glare then turned back to Trenier.

“Do you have any enemies, Mr.Trenier?” Locke inquired. “Someone you know who would want to hurt you?”

“I’m a convicted pedophile. I’m sure there’s a lot of people who would want to hurt me.”

“Anyone specific?”

“I don’t know. Why didn’t they just kill me?”

Trenier began to break down.

“Mr.Trenier, I-“

Locke stopped when Trenier looked up at her from his bed, tears welling up in his eyes. The look on his face was that of a man who had lost all hope.

“Thank you for speaking with us.”

Locke turned to Ross and motioned toward the door. They made their exit.

As they emerged from Trenier’s room, Locke turned to Ross.

“Well, so much for possible suspects.”

“How ’bout this one.”

Ross reached into the manila folder he had received from Stetlan and pulled out a rap sheet.

“Justin Everson.”

“Who?” Locke asked.

“He was Trenier’s victim nine years ago,” Ross stated matter-of-factly.

“Were you ever going to show that to me?”

“Be my guest.”

Ross handed the rap to Locke. Locke looked at the paper and read out loud.

“Twenty-one years old. Six-foot-three. Two hundred and fifteen pounds. Three priors. Two for drugs, one for assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Here’s something else,” Ross interjected. “Forensics discovered a shoe print outside the house. Casts and photographs taken of the print show that the suspect wears a size thirteen which, along with the victim’s testimony, puts him at well over six-feet-tall.”

Locke looked up at her partner.

“I think we should go have a talk with Mr.Everson.”

Brother Leon sat among the group in the dining room. He looked across the table at the familiar faces. Brothers Anton and Sergei. Sisters Mary, Tatiana, and Aleksandra. Though he had been living with them for the past two years, Leon knew very little of his fellow brethren’s pasts. Aside from their names (taken themselves at the point of acceptance into the house) and faces, the people he had come to call family were each a mystery unto him.

But, for all intents and purposes, they were the only family he had ever known. His own upbringing had consisted of being moved around foster homes until he had reached the age of sixteen, upon which time he had escaped for a life of selling himself on the streets of Portland. The idea of being part of a family had seemed so alien a concept, and yet, one that he had secretly desired for so long.

The meal consisted of boiled cabbage, potatoes, and kasha. For the past two years, he had followed their dietary practices of strict vegetarianism. Years ago he had not thought he would ever be content with living such a life. The ascetic life. There was never a drop of alcohol in the house. Nor drugs. And no sexual activity of any sort. When he had first come to the house he had not expected to stay. But they had been so kind. So welcoming. They had made him feel special. They had all understood what he had gone through and what he was dealing with. And then there was Father Porshikov himself. The man had exuded an irresistible charisma that Leon could not ignore. He had been fascinated by him. Leon had not known why, but he had found himself wanting to help the man. Wanting to protect him. From that moment on he had made every effort to change.

Reaching for his porcelain cup of Chinese green tea, Leon’s eyes searched the table for Brother Zane, who, it appeared, was absent from their company. Leon had not seen him since last night. He wondered if his fellow missionary had undergone a similar reaction to their experience with the target. Leon doubted it. His monolithic partner seemed to be impervious to all forms of psychological agitation.

Leon took a long drink then put down his cup. Though the food was plentiful, he was not hungry; thoughts of blood still fresh in his mind. At the moment, the thought of cutting into anything made his stomach turn. And yet it would do him well to get used to it. For he knew it was only a matter of time before they would be sent out again. Out of respect for the women, he served himself a baked potato and picked up his knife.

Ross and Locke pulled up to the front of Divinity Tattoo parlor shortly before noon. They entered the shop and were greeted by a young woman in a studded black leather bra, cut-off jean shorts, and a spiked dog collar around her neck. Her arms were covered with tattoos ranging from pink butterflies to a skull and crossbones. Somewhere in the background a radio was playing “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult.

After inquiring about Justin Everson, they were led back behind a curtain into another room where they found Everson in the process of tattooing a customer who sat in a chair.

“Hey, Justin,” the desk girl called.

“I’m busy, Kat.”

Locke stepped forward.

“Justin Everson?”

Everson stopped what he was doing and turned toward the direction of the voice.

“Who are you?”

“We’re police officers. I’m Detective Locke. This is Detective Ross. May we have a word with you, please?”

“I’ll be right back,” Everson said to the customer. “C’mon. We can talk outside.”

They followed him out into the back parking lot. He was a tall, muscular young man who (like his co-worker) was a living canvas of images. When they had reached a spot sufficiently out of hearing distance from anyone inside, Everson turned to address them.

“Okay. What do you want?”

“Are you aware of the recent attack upon a Mr.Vern Trenier?” Locke asked.

“Yeah. I heard about it on the news.”

“He was the man convicted of molesting you nine years ago, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“How did you feel when you heard about what happened to him?”

Everson scoffed.

“What the hell kind of a question is that?”

“A perfectly legitimate question. Now why don’t you try answering it,” Locke said firmly.

“All right. He deserved it. After what he did to me. I wish they had killed him.”

“They?” Ross asked.

“Whoever it was that did it. They deserve a medal for cutting that sick fuck’s cock off. I couldn’t believe they would let someone like that back out on the streets.”

“Did you ever see him after he was released?” Locke continued.

“Fuck no. Why would I?”

“Where were you last night?” Ross asked.

Everson paused for a moment and looked at them.

“Don’t tell me you think that I had something to do with this. I was his fucking victim! You don’t have any right to accuse me of anything!”

“We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr.Everson,” Locke said calmly. “We’re just following protocol for standard investigative procedure.”

“I don’t give a shit what you’re following. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No, you don’t. But if we can’t verify your whereabouts on the night in question-“

“I was playing the Ballroom.”

“The ballroom?” Locke asked, sounding confused.

“The Crystal Ballroom. It’s only one of the most famous fuckin’ clubs in the city.”

“Hey, let’s watch the language, all right?” Ross said, then looked at Locke to continue.

“I take it you’re in a band?”

“Yeah. And there’s about a hundred people you can ask who saw me up on stage, including my co-worker. Go ahead, ask her.”

“Mr.Everson-“

“No!” Everson shouted, cutting Locke off. “I’ve had enough answering questions. You think you’re doing the right thing by protecting child molesters?”

“They have rights just like everybody else,” Locke stated dryly.

“Fuck their rights. What about my rights? What about the community’s rights to safety?”

“With all due respect, sir, Mr.Trenier did serve his time.”

“Nine years. For what he did to me! My whole life was ruined because of that fucking scumbag. As far as I’m concerned, he can burn in hell. And as far as the guy you’re looking for is concerned, I hope you never catch him. Believe me, he’s doing society a favor.”

Ross sat behind the wheel trying to clear his head. As he’d suspected, their interrogation of Everson had turned out to be a waste of time. Locke sat in the passenger seat staring out the window. She had been quiet since stepping into the car. Ross had already made an attempt at small talk but she didn’t seem to be interested. He was about to turn on the radio when suddenly she turned and looked at him.

“Do you think he’s right?”

Ross removed his hand from the dial and shot her a glance.

“Who?”

“Everson.”

“About what?” Ross asked, feigning interest.

“About the person we’re after, doing society a favor?”

There was a brief pause as Ross considered the question.

“Well, I haven’t got much sympathy for child molesters, if that’s what you mean. How ’bout you?”

“I don’t know. I think most people would consider physical castration cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Most people don’t know the kind of sick thoughts that goes through a pedophile’s mind.”

“And you do?” Locke asked, sounding skeptical.

“Well, judging from their actions they can’t be good, right?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Why’s that?” Ross asked.

“I’ve worked with pedophiles before. Many of them find they are unable to control their thoughts and urges, which are biological in origin.”

“So what are you saying, they’re not responsible for their actions?”

“Everybody’s responsible for their actions. But there are certain biological factors that can play a major part in influencing a person’s ability to make decisions.”

“Like what?”

“Genetic predisposition.”

Ross scoffed.

“Something wrong?” Locke asked.

“Nothing.”

Ross decided it was better to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the ride. Obviously his partner held an entirely different opinion altogether.

As they sped across the S.E. Morrison Bridge, Ross found his thoughts hovering around Vern Trenier. Personally he couldn’t care less about the so-called “victim.” The sick fuck deserved it as far as he was concerned. Such people didn’t make sense to him. He couldn’t fathom how anyone could hurt a child, let alone see a child as a sexual object. But, after ten years as a cop, Ross had come to realize that human beings were capable of anything. He thought it was disgraceful how Level 3 sex offenders (the most likely to re-offend) were allowed back on the streets. He knew that if it were not for the grossly overcrowded state of the prison systems, the options for probation and parole would not even exist. Convicted sex offenders would remain in prison to serve out their full sentence. Sometimes he wondered why he was protecting such scum. After all, maybe society would be a safer place if they all got clipped. And parents could sleep easier at night knowing that such monsters had been deprived of the organ used to perpetrate such crimes. But, as an officer of the law, it was his job to protect all members of society. Even the unpopular ones.

Continued….

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THE SEAL