Cooked Goose

now.”
    “No,” Charlene whispered. “Not over.”
    The girl leaned closer, placing her ear near Charlene’s mouth. “What did you say?” she asked.
    An emotional abyss swallowed Charlene Yardley and she felt herself falling, tumbling headfirst into an ever-darkening blackness. “This... will never... never be over.”

CHAPTER FIVE

    11:05 P.M.

    “ P aranoia over the Santa Claus Rapist reached new heights this evening,” the channel seven newscaster announced as blithely as if she were hawking com dogs at a ball game, “when a local shopping mall Santa was viciously attacked by an overzealous member of mall security.”
    Savannah’s eyes bugged and her jaw dropped as she stared: at the screen. “Oh, man... tell me this isn’t happening.”
    “It’s happening,” Dirk replied with a sniff and a snort, then he took a long last chug from his beer bottle.
    “You’re a lot of help.” Savannah covered her eyes with her hands, but peeked through her fingers. “Tell me when it’s over.”
    The anchor’s far-too-cheery account continued over footage of the mall’s front lot where the incident had occurred. Kjn a display of true holiday spirit, Henry Wilcox, a.k.a. Kris Kringle, was attempting to aid a young woman in the parking lot, when an unidentified—”
    “Unidentified,” Savannah whispered, “thank God.”
    “—mall guard administered a swift kick to Mr. Wilcox’s groin. Wilcox’s doctor says that, due to the delicate nature of his injuries, Mr. Wilcox will be unable to perform his duties as Santa for the remainder of the holiday season.”
    Dirk nodded solemnly. “Yeah, with nuts the size of basketballs, you wouldn’t want kids squirming around on your lap.”
    “Shut up, Coulter,” she snapped, glaring at him through her fingers. “You don’t need to state the obvious.”
    “It’s over.”
    She dropped her hands. “Gee, thanks.”
    “I told you, that dude’s gonna sue you. You can’t mess with a man’s gonads like that. You hit a guy where he lives and he’ll come after you, one way or the other.”
    The phone rang and Savannah groaned. “That’s probably him now.” She stepped into the kitchen and plucked the receiver from the wall. “Hello. Yes, this is Savannah Reid.” She listened, frowning. “No, no comment.”
    She hung up and trudged back to the living room where she plopped into her chair. Dirk gave her a questioning look. “A reporter from the Star,” she said, “wanting to know if I’m the unidentified guard. I’ll be front page headline by morning.” He smirked. “It won’t be the first time.”
    “I know. It’s getting harder and harder to remain a private detective in this town.” She heard something vibrating and jumped up from her chair. “What the hell’s that?”
    “You’re sure strung tight. It’s just my butt buzzing.” He reached down to his belt and unsnapped his pager. Peering at the display, he muttered, “Shit.”
    “Who is it?”
    “Captain Bloss. And he’s used the 666 code.”
    “Mmmm... 666.” She raised one eyebrow. “Those are some pretty ominous digits. What do they mean?”
    The thought occurred to Savannah that, all of a sudden, Dirk looked even more tired than she felt. No easy feat.
    “They mean,” he said, “you’re going to get bumped from tomorrow morning’s headline. That son of a bitch has raped another one.”

    * * *

    11:27 p.m.

    When Savannah and Dirk arrived at the crime scene, the orange grove looked as though it had been invaded by a flock of alien spacecraft—a dozen squad cars lining the sides of the road, blue and red lights flashing eerily.
    Savannah pulled Dirk’s old Buick onto the shoulder near the center of the hubbub. As they climbed out of the car, she saw Patrolman Mike Famon and his partner Jake McMurtry, two of her favorite ex-compatriots.
    Mike’s round face glowed when he spotted her. “Hey, Savannah !” he shouted. “Haven’t seen you since the Fourth of July barbecue. You’re looking good.”
    She gave him a dimpled grin and a wink. “Ah... you silken-tongued laddie, you’re just sayin’ that because it’s true.” Jake slapped her shoulder, hard enough to hurt. She accepted the gesture as a compliment, establishing her as “one of the boys.“
    “What are you doing here?” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re this old fart’s date.” He pointed at Dirk, who was still strolling around, checking out the scene.
    “No, but he was the designated drunk at our