She heard the sound again. Closer this time. Kayla ground to a halt, the blood pounding in her ears, her breath clenched within the bands of her chest.

“Hello...?”

Kayla had taken a short cut through River Gardens, had been stumbling in the dark along the path at the ravine’s edge trying to avoid whoever followed behind.

She looked back, eyes trying to penetrate the shadows but she couldn’t be sure. Her senses flipped

and with the sweat ebbing from her pores, she turned and ran.

Ran faster than she had ever run before. But it wasn’t enough.

She heard the foot-falls, just behind. Pounding in the gravel. Gaining ground.

Realizing his intent, she cried out and turned from the path. Hide, she thought, and Kayla ran wildly into the darkness, her leather shoes plowing through the loose shale. But she wasn’t nearly quick enough.

He hit low down; violent enough to tear knee ligaments. But numbed in fear, she was only aware of being hurled over the precipice and into endless darkness, her arms and legs flailing, cartwheeling, tumbling end-over-end like a bird felled by the hunter’s shot. And then the jarring collision where soft flesh met hard stone.

Kayla skidded across the rocks and came up headlong against something very unforgiving. It might have been river-rock or the root of a tree. Kayla would never know. The buzz, like mad hornets, rose in her brain. There was a flash of blinding white that slowly narrowed, down and down, into the merest pin-prick and then abruptly, it swooped, crystallized, and burned out. Bless-ed darkness closed in and cradled her into oblivion.

Darkness ... who knew for how long? Then finally, faint awareness, but details alluded her. Her head was buzzing. Like the sound of the cicadas in her grandma’s willow tree. Kayla had been a little girl, then. “The sound of the summer-south,” her father had told her.

And the night sky ... stars came drifting into focus. But they were undulating like hundreds of tiny jellyfish, expanding ... contracting ... breathing. Like they were floating in water ... then gone; drifting back into the night-shadows. I am dying? I must be.

The thought she might be dead hardened her mind. But no. That can’t be right. They told me to be dead was to be free of pain. Kayla felt throb and burn. And the unrelenting press from above.

Kayla wasn’t dead and clinging to that hope, she felt herself slowly rising through misty channels of subconsciousness. Clawing upwards, like someone caught below the ice– trapped beneath the surface ... something pressing her down, holding her just below. She fought the sensation of drowning, suffocating ... all that life-giving oxygen, just inches away above the rippling surface.

There was a time-shift. Like she had suddenly taken a sidestep to the left and now viewed her world from the opposite side. Kayla turned her head. Something white and crumpled was heaped there. She should recognize it but felt the weight again, shifting, pressing the breath from her chest. And then her womb opened and closed.

Like a cloud passing from the face of the moon, all was made clear and she was jolted fully awake. Her eyes flashed wildly and Kayla focused. Her white pants and bra set lay torn and crumpled by her face and there wasn’t enough of her tattered blouse left to cover her nude breasts.

She lay in the dirt with the guy on top. Her skirt was hiked up above her waist and a bitter burn lifted from between her legs to retch her stomach. She was being savagely raped.

A constriction gripped her throat, like when you swallow something wrong. It tightened. There was a terrific burst inside her skull. “No,” she cried. “Get off.” And Kayla struggled to get an arm down, but her limbs were unresponsive.

“Uh-h,” the guy grunted, then laughed. “Come late to join-in the party, eh? Thought you were gonna sleep right through the main event.”

“You bastard,” Kayla screamed. “Get off me.”

He lifted, stared a moment, then punched her square in the face. “Shut the fuck up and be still. I ain’t done screwin’ yet.”

“But...” Kayla was rocking, trying to clear her head and the taste of blood, “you can’t j-just...”

Her words were shredded as he reared up and drove deep.

“Oh Jesus,” she wailed. “Please...”

“Hey lady. If’n you don’t like it in the cunt, there’s always your fuckin’ face.” And to Kayla’s horror, he ripped out of her vagina and got to his feet. He looked powerful, standing over her, aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. “C’mon. You got sucking to do.” And he reached for a handful of her hair. Kayla was pulled to her knees so he could dangle his gooey cock in front of her mouth.

“I can’t,” Kayla cried, placing her open hands on his thighs. She pushed but he still held her by the roots of her hair.

“Lick it clean and then blow me. And you better swallow all of it. Less’n you like getting hit in the face.”

He raised a fist and Kayla was struck with gut-wrenching fear by the sight of rough, hard knuckles. H-A-T-E was tattooed across his fingers.

He pushed his cock against her lips. “C’mon. Get busy.”

A man and woman licking each others genitals– raw, primal– the morals of street dogs...

The thought couldn’t be more revolting to her, unless you were forced to perform the act on an aggressor, someone you despised. But with her principles paralyzed in dread, she was hardly aware of the fact she was holding his penis in her hand– was lavishing the foreskin with her tongue.

Her knee throbbed, her vagina was torn and lay open to the night-air, and her head felt it had been cleaved-in with an ax. And from this point on, she realized, her life would pivot back to this moment in time– down on her knees with his cock in her face. Every aspect of her life, from this point forward, would be viewed through the eyes of a rape victim.

“Do the balls, would yah?”

She blindly lifted his penis. She licked bodily fluids from the underside before taking each testicle into her mouth. She licked and sucked and swallowed.

“Oh baby. You really know how to do it. But you people, being animals, it stands to reason.” He moved again, to butt his penis against her lips. “Now show me what else you can do.”

Her emotions iced over.

Kayla’s hold on reality unwound as she opened her mouth to him and only one rational thought flickered at the edge of her consciousness: Please him and you might live. She took the head, moved on it, slowly, tentatively– in and out.

He groaned and rocked his hips. “You little slut.”

The glutenous sound of his voice severed every comfortable feeling she had ever held for the male species. Even the warm touch of the man she loved would now leave her cold and filled with dread.

The guy gripped her head either side and began to move into her throat. “No. You...” But she gagged on her words under the press of the onslaught. He pushed, held deep, pulled and pushed again. She felt the spurt, the warm pool spreading, coating her teeth and gums. She shifted her tongue through the goo, wanted to spit but he held her fast.

“Swallow it down, slut.”

His voice riveted her denial. Please him and you might live. Kayla relented and with a shudder, she gulped him all down.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Shut up and get out of your clothes.”

There wasn’t much left but Kayla unzipped her crumpled skirt and let it drop. She found she still had one shoe in place and toed it off along with her torn pantyhose. There wasn’t a button left on her blouse and she pulled the shredded remains from her shoulders and tossed them on the heap with her underthings. She turned to him, flat footed and stark naked. “Now what?” she cried in desperation.

“The playground. I want the kiddies to find you in the morning.”

Oh Christ. The final insult. To be discovered naked and bleeding by kids on the way to school. There would be no way for her to hide the truth. She would be on the front page of the local rag. Her friends and family would know. Her children. Her boss, clients and business colleagues would find out. The news would travel fast: Did you hear what happened to Kayla? ... Yeah, in a playground.

There would be apologetic smiles, whispers behind her back, a visit from her priest.

“C’mon. Up the slope. The path is over here.”

He stooped to shoulder a cloth sack. A change of clothes? she wondered. Or perhaps a pillow and blanket to guard against the chill of the evening. How thoughtful of him.

But then she saw the can he held and she felt her insides drain out, like someone had opened a valve. “P-please. Please don’t do this,” her face crumbled into her hands. “My god. I have two little girls. Please.”

Officer Sharon Secco stepped through into Jilly’s cubical. “Detective...” she said in lieu of good morning and a smile. “Let’s ride. We’ll talk on the way.”

Startled, Jilly straightened and looked through red-rimmed eye glasses at retreating Sharon. Jilly jumped for her shoulder bag and scurried after her boss who had already disappeared down the stairwell.

“It’s Halloween Jock-o,” Sharon said as she settled behind the wheel of the unmarked cruiser. “He struck again, last night. His fifth victim.”

The Jock-o Killer was the brainchild of some journalist at the Times, trying to outdo the journalist who came up with The Boston Strangler. No matter. Jock-o made headlines, every year on the thirty-first.

Jilly’s head came around. “He killed another one?”

“No,” Sharon said, pulling into morning rush-hour traffic. “This one’s different. This one is still alive.”

“Geez. With the pumpkin-head, in a playground?”

“Exactly. A black woman with a carved pumpkin forced over her face, set afire. Same MO.”

“Which school?”

“The playground over at River Gardens. The victim is Mrs Kayla Stevens. Address in Queens. Forty-two, attractive woman, worked in sales. She was found naked this morning, tied to a swing set. Tommy is on-scene and we’re on the way to Mercy to hopefully have a word with Kayla.”

Jilly turned to the side window to hide her emotions. “God. How is she?”

“Not good.” Sharon paused. “Look Jilly, you’re young, and new to the job. I want you to prepare yourself. I don’t know what we’ll find but it won’t be pretty. Besides the rape, Mrs Stevens has suffered third degree burns to her face, neck and upper torso.”

Jilly swallowed hard on the tremor lifting in her chest. “God, she’s lucky to be alive.”

“Probably not. But it’s the first real break we’ve had.”

In the Burn Unit at Mercy Hospital, Sharon and Jilly sat with the Nursing Supervisor. “Is there a chance we can speak with her?” Sharon asked.

The Supervisor shook her head. “She’s out of it right now. It’s like that with a patient, so soon after an accident. They fad in and out. Kayla may regain consciousness in an hour or two. Then again, maybe not ... you’ll just have to wait.”

“And how is she?”

“Still shocky. But physically, I think we may have pulled her back from the brink. Emotionally? Only time will tell. She has lost the facial dermatology ... nose, ears, eyelids ... all destroyed in the flames. Reconstructive surgery and skin graphs will take years. Basically, she’s a mess.”

“Did she say anything when she arrived?” Jilly asked.

The Supervisor shook her head. “Kayla inhaled burning vapor. There’ll be lung damage and quite honestly, I’m not sure if she still processes a set of vocal cords.”

“Jesus.” Jilly turned her face away.

“Is there someplace we can wait?” Sharon asked. “Someplace private where I can use my phone.”

“Sure. Across the hall, there’s a vacant office. Use it for as long as you like. I just hope you’re not wasting your time.”

“Thanks,” Sharon replied. “I hope so too.”

In the empty office, Sharon settled behind the desk and opened a notebook. Jilly dropped into a chair opposite and watched Sharon press a button on her cell phone and turn on the speaker.

“Tommy?” Sharon connected. “We are at the Burn Unit. What do you have?”

“A lot of black grass.” Jilly heard Tommy flipping the pages of her pad. “She was discovered by a groundskeeper at six this morning. She was naked, chained to a swing set and set ablaze sometime last night. The CSV van arrived an hour ago and the Techs have taken samples of grass and soil. We found her clothes in the ravine and they’ve been bagged. I’m assuming that’s where the rape took place.”

Sharon’s pen shuffled across her pad. “And then she was taken to the playground? Following the assault?”

“That’s my take,” Tommy replied. “There’s a path up. He forced her into the playground and chained her to the swing. He pushed her head into the pumpkin and lit her on fire. Just like last year.”

“You’re assuming it was a man.”

“Oh it’s a man, alright,” Tommy said. “I got semen. Not much, but enough to tell. Semen mixed with saliva. Mrs Stevens had the presence of mind to spit before he torched her.”

“Anything else?” Sharon asked.

“I got a team searching the ravine and a K9 unit is here trying to determine the guy’s movements before and after. And I have to talk with the groundskeeper, now he’s got his color back. I’ll let you know. Oh, and I have the pumpkin.”

“Okay. Keep us informed. We’ll be waiting here to see if Mrs Stevens remembers anything.”

Sharon disconnected and blew out a breath. “You get anything outta that?”

Jilly thought a moment. “Why the playground? Didn’t he get what he wanted in the ravine? Why, after he stripped and raped her, did he walk her up the slope and across to the playground? He took a chance. He could have been spotted from the street.”

Sharon humped a shoulder. “Maybe he hates kids.”

“Maybe,” Jilly said. “You want coffee? There must be a cafeteria around here someplace.

A couple of hours passed in a blur of work and trips to the cafeteria. They were on their forth cups when a nurse tapped and stuck her head through. “Mrs Stevens is awake,” she said, “and she wants to speak with you. The Supervisor is in with her, if you care to come along.”

Jilly looked across. “She wants to talk to us,” her voice was touched with excitement. “That’s a good sign.”

“Remember what I said.” Sharon was more cautions. “It won’t be pretty.”

Jilly’s stomach did a flip and she couldn’t help feeling a little bit frightened. “I’ll do my best,” she said.

Sharon got up from the desk. “I have no doubt you will.”

They followed the nurse down a hushed corridor, the woman’s sneakers squeaking on the tile. She held a door for them and excused herself. “I won’t be going in,” the nurse said. “We don’t want to frighten her.”

The hospital room was surprisingly dark, lit by two small red bulbs. The Supervisor saw their reaction. “It’s to save her eyes,” she said. “Her retinas are burned and she doesn’t have eyelids.”

Jilly’s stomach did another flip and she looked for a place to sit; just in case.

The Supervisor moved to the side of the bed. “Kayla? It’s Anna. I have the people from the Police Department. Do you feel strong enough?”

The croak the woman squeezed out from between chard lips sounded like a squeaky chair but Anna seemed to understand. “Okay. I’ll leave them to ask their questions,” she said. “But I’ll be right outside the door.”

The woman under the sheet remained silent and the Supervisor turned. “Don’t be long,” she warned Sharon. “Two, or three minutes tops.”

Sharon nodded and stepped to the side of the bed. “Mrs Stevens ... Kayla.” Sharon paused to gather herself. “I am Detective Secco, along with Detective Anderson. We are ... both of us ... so sorry this had to happen. We understand this is the worse possible time for you, but the man who did this has killed four women. Anything you can tell us might help end the killing.”

Jilly took a breath to steady herself and stepped up beside Sharon. A piece of gauze hung before the woman’s face. Whether for medical purposes or to spare their sensibilities, Jilly didn’t know. But just the same, she was glad it was hanging there.

“Can you give us a description?” Sharon asked.

The gauze moved. “A w-white man,” the voice was stronger now, “about forty. Wasn’t fat. Slim, about six-foot. Tough.”

“Tough?” Sharon asked.

“Marks on his face. A bar fight. And he had coarse talk, swearing. And the tattoo.”

Sharon caught Jilly’s eye. “A tattoo?”

“The word HATE, roughly tattooed on his fingers.”

“A prison tattoo,” Sharon said. “Would you recognize him if you saw a photograph?”

“Never forget. He stole my face.” Kayla choked on the words and Jilly reached for the water glass.

She edged the gauze away and felt the blood drain from her brain. Kayla’s upper lip had been destroyed in the flames, only an oozing wound remained, the corners held to her lower lip with stitches. Kayla fumbled and Jilly, fighting nausea and beating back the darkness that threatened to close down her brain, held the straw steady then forced her eyes away.

Kayla managed to suck up some water and swallowed. “I was attractive,” she continued. “Now a hideous monster. My husband burst into tears and I refuse to see my girls. Won’t put them through it.”

Jilly tried to shake off the feelings of revulsion. “Why did he take you into the playground,” she asked.

Kayla paused a moment. “To play, I guess. He chained me, and put that horrid thing over my head.”

Sharon leaned in. “Do you remember anything else, after he doused you in gasoline? Did he run back into the park, toward the street? Or into the parking lot?”

“Not gas...” Kayla stumbled the words out.

“What?”

“Lighter fluid. I saw the yellow tin when he squirted my eyes. It was lighter fluid.”

There was a tap at the door and Anna, the Supervisor, leaned in. “Please...”

“Thank you, Kayla,” Sharon said. “We’ll talk again, when you are stronger.”

They thanked Anna and walked together back along the corridor. Jilly paused and placed a hand on Sharon’s arm. She had a quizzical expression about her face.

“Yes?” Sharon asked.

Jilly frowned. “What’s lighter fluid?”

Sharon exhaled. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three ... almost.”

On the drive back, Sharon tried to explain. “It’s the fluid you buy to put into a cigarette lighter. To make it work.”

A frown weaved across Jilly’s forehead. “But cigarette lighters already have fluid. It’s inside.”

Sharon let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, back in the olden days,” she started in, “you had to fill your own damned cigarette lighter, for yourself. You would buy a can of lighter fluid from the drug store, open the bottom of your lighter and squirt the stuff in. When you ran out, you added more.”

Jilly plucked up her nose. “Why would anyone do that? Not only does it sound like a pain, but messy besides. Nobody does that anymore.”

Sharon thought a moment. “That’s not quite true. Tough guys, including a few cops I know, wouldn’t be caught dead, flicking a Bic.”

“Matches?” Jilly asked.

“No. Zippos.”

Sharon sat behind two massive monitors in the 14^th Precinct Computer Lab. She tapped lacquered finger nails on the desktop, idly lost in thought.

Jilly was onto something but didn’t know it. She had raised the question of lighter fluid and unwittingly placed Sharon in a bit of a quandary. She reached for her phone and called the Walgreen’s in her neighborhood. “You sell lighter fluid?” Sharon asked the lady who picked up.

“We got Bic’s,” the answer came back. “They’re not rechargeable. And we got butane for stove lighters, but that’s different.”

“Thanks anyway.” Sharon disconnected and pressed the boot-up key on Miss Gates. She typed in Lighter Fluid, Distribution Centers, New York City. Her eyes flashed across the screen. She only got a single hit. Sharon grabbed her bag and took the stairs down.

“Yeah, we don’t manufacture the stuff, you understand, but package and sell by the case.” Sharon was sitting across from Angelo Falasco, owner of AF Chemicals. “Not much call for it anymore,” he rounded out his cigar in a glass ashtray, “but we keep some in stock. For the few customers left.”

“Might I inquire as to who those customers might be?”

He sighed heavily and his chair protested as he leaned back to pull a giant ledger off the shelf. “Not much into computers,” he apologized and ran his finger along the index page. He flipped open the book and cast an eye down a column of figures.

“Okay. A couple of those outdoor warehouse places. They sell those campfire lighters. Supposed to work in the rain. This place here is in Vermont.”

“Vermont?”

“Yeah. Here’s another one. Oh ... also in Vermont. Guess they like campfires up that way.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Got another customer here, in Wisconsin. Mail order place, buys ten cases of the stuff a year.”

“Anyone closer to home?” Sharon asked.

He frowned, scowling over his figures. “Oh here, it’s a biker place. Over in Queens.”

“Queens?” Sharon’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline.

“Yeah. Only one case last year. But they’ve been pretty regular.”

“Address?” Sharon asked.

“Sure,” he replied and reached for his scratch pad.

Twenty minutes later, Sharon pulled up across from the Pair-a-Dice biker shop on Jamaica Street in Queens. The place was small and she didn’t see any bikes. She slipped from the car, crossed the street and pushed open the door.

The Pair-a-Dice smelled of leather, cigarette smoke, and oddly a bit like Thanksgiving Day dinner. The space was narrow with black leather jackets and pants hanging from one wall and a counter with helmets along the opposite side. Under the counter was an assortment of knives, chains, and fuzzy handcuffs. “Can I help yuh?” The skinny guy came outta the back, popped something into his mouth and chewed. He ran his eyes over her chest.