Cooked Goose

shouted as he pulled away. “Brett, please! When you get home, make a phone call! One lousy call, please!”
    But he had already peeled out and amid the squeal of his tires and the roar of the Oldsmobile’s eight-cylinder engine, Angie wasn’t sure if he had heard her or not.

    Even in the dark, with only the light of a half moon, Angie could tell that the woman was badly beaten. Her face was horribly swollen and smeared with something black which Angie assumed was blood. The victim lay on her side at the edge of the road, curled into a fetal position.
    “It’s okay,” the teenager told her, assuming the role of mother/comforter. “You’re going to be okay now.”
    Angie wasn’t wearing a coat, only a thin sweater with her new pusher-upper bra underneath. But she quickly determined that this poor woman needed the garment more than she did. She peeled it off and tried to put it on the shivering woman, but she thrashed her arms and hit Angie in the mouth.
    Even though the blow smarted and Angie could taste blood from a cut inside her lip, she knew the woman was too traumatized to know what she was doing.
    “That’s all right,” Angie said. “You don’t have to wear it. But let me wrap it around you; you’re freezing.”
    The victim quieted down a bit, submitting to being wrapped.
    “What happened to you?” Angie asked, casting a few furtive glances at the dark grove behind them. “Who did this to you? Is he still around?”
    The woman tried to answer, but her teeth were chattering so hard that Angie couldn’t understand her. All she could make out was something that didn’t make any sense... something about Santa.
    Then, it did make sense.
    Perfect sense.
    Angie Perez began to shiver, too, and it had nothing to do with the citrus-scented, cold night air on her bare skin.
    This woman was the Santa Rapist’s latest victim. And for all Angie knew, the guy was still there in those dark trees, watching, listening. For all she knew, he wasn’t finished for the night. And she was here on this lonely road, shivering in her bra, with his shattered victim at her feet.
    For all Angie knew, Brett had been right, after all, and she was stupid, putting herself in a position like this.
    The woman on the pavement groaned and tried to mouth some words through her swollen, bleeding lips.
    Angie bent closer and stroked her hair. She could feel dirt embedded in her scalp and something wet and sticky… probably more blood. “What is it?” she asked her. “What are you trying to say?”
    “Th... thank... you.”
    Tears sprang to Angie’s eyes and, although she was still fully aware of her dangerous situation, she wouldn’t have chosen be anywhere else at that moment.
    “You’re welcome,” she said. “You’re very, very welcome.”
    She looked right, then left, up and down the empty road and whispered a prayer of thanks that God had brought her here tonight and allowed her to help one of His children who was so badly in need. Then she quickly added a request that stupid, asshole Brett had found an ounce of compassion in his heart and made that phone call.

    * * *

    10:14 P M.

    “How about all the registered S.O.s in the area?” Savannah asked, knowing what Dirk would say. He was a good cop who knew the basics, like checking out any local sex offenders. Most rapes were committed by repeat offenders. And law enforcement figured that the average rapist attacked at least fourteen victims before getting caught.
    A very nasty habit.
    “We’ve got a couple of possibles,” Dirk said, munching the last piece of cold pizza. “But they’re both chicken hawks, and kiddie pervs don’t usually cross over to attacking full-grown women.”
    “True. What have you got from the victims? Any common acquaintances?”
    “Nope. No link, except that they were all snatched out of the mall parking lot.”
    “That’s got to be bad for mall business. It’s probably a downtown merchant trying to divert some of the Christmas sales.”
    “Hey, I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “I was kidding. Sorry, a bad joke.” Savannah thought about the victims and their families for whom Christmas would never be the same. For years, the city of San Carmelita would be different; fear changed everything. Soberly, she said, “You’re looking for a guy who’s probably in his late teens to midthirties, attractive and—”
    “Attractive?”
    “Sure. Haven’t you noticed? Most rapists are good-looking dudes who wouldn’t have any