“Just how much,” Randy Senior wanted to know, “of a donation are we talking about here?”

“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “To a man of your wealth, anyway. And you could write it off as a tax deduction, I’m sure.”

His voice was cold. “How. Much.”

“I think three million dollars would work,” I said.

Down crashed the golf-ball paperweight again. Kristin jumped, with a little hiccup.

“There is no way!” Randy Senior bellowed. “No way! Just who in the hell do you think—I have friends in this town, girlie. I’ll take my chances in court! I’ll pay off whoever I have to! I’ll—”

Rob stood up. He was so tall and broad-shouldered that he seemed to take up an astonishing amount of space in the large office.

“You’ll do,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, “what she tells you to do.”

Randy Whitehead Senior made a mistake then. He looked up into Rob’s face, and he laughed.

“Oh, yeah?” he squawked. “Or what?”

A split second later, Rob had pulled Mr. Whitehead halfway across his desk, and had the golf-ball–shaped paperweight pressed against his carotid artery.

“Or I’ll kill you,” Rob replied with no change in tone.

Which is when Randy Senior made his second mistake. He gurgled, “Do you know who I am? Do you know who I know? I can have you snuffed out like a candle, fella.”

“Not if you’re already dead,” Rob said calmly, pressing the golf ball so deeply into Mr. Whitehead’s throat that he began to choke.

I got up from my chair and strolled towards Mr. Whitehead’s desk. His face had gotten very red. Beads of sweat were popping out all over his shiny forehead. He rolled his eyes towards me. One hand reached limply for the intercom. But even if he could have reached it, it wouldn’t have done any good. He couldn’t speak with the pressure Rob was putting on his larynx.

“You may know people in this town, Mr. Whitehead,” I said. “But the fact is, Rob here probably knows more. And the people he knows are local. He doesn’t need to send all the way to Chicago for muscle. So let’s put aside the physical threats for the moment, because the fact is, you’re going to do as I say, and not because if you don’t, Rob will kill you. You’re going to do as I say because if you don’t, I’m going to tell your wife about Eric.”

Randy Junior looked up from the twitching ball he’d rolled himself into.

“Who’s Eric?” he asked tearfully.

Kristin, who’d put away her compact and was staring, transfixed, at the way Rob’s muscles were bunched beneath his shirt sleeves (I’d have a word with her about that later), looked equally confused. “Who’s Eric?” she wanted to know.

“Yeah,” Rob said, looking down at me. “Who’s Eric?”

“Okay!”

We all glanced at Mr. Whitehead, surprised he’d been able to summon up an intelligible word.

But he was gripping Rob’s hands with white-tipped fingers and croaking, “Okay. Okay.”

Rob loosened his hold, and Randy Senior sagged against his desk, gasping for air.

“Okay you’ll do what she says?” Rob asked him cautiously.

Mr. Whitehead nodded. His face was slowly turning back to its normal color. “I’ll do as she says,” he wheezed. “Just don’t…tell my wife…about Eric.”

“Fine,” I said. “But you should know, I’m not the only one who knows about Eric, Mr. Whitehead. And if anything should happen to me, my associates will—”

“Nothing will happen to you,” Mr. Whitehead said. He’d gone almost as pale as he’d been red just moments before. “I swear it. Just don’t tell.”

“Deal,” I said. And I reached across the desk to slip my right hand in his sweaty, trembling one.

Then I leaned down and pushed the button on the intercom.

“Say it,” I said to Mr. Whitehead.

He coughed a few times, then adjusted his collar and tie where Rob’s grip had mussed them. Then he said into the intercom, “You can send the police in for Randy Junior now, Thelma.”

That caused his son to spring from his seat, looking panic-stricken.

“No!” he cried. “Dad! You can’t—”

“I’m sorry, Randy,” Randy Senior said. And the funny thing was, he really did sound sorry. “But I don’t have a choice.”

“But I did it for you, Dad,” Randy pleaded. “To show you I could handle more responsibility. You can’t let them do this! You can’t!”

But Mr. Whitehead just stood there as the police who’d come into his office instructed Randy Junior to put his hands up against the wall and proceeded to frisk him.

The police weren’t the only ones who came in, either. They were followed by a young guy in a Hellboy T-shirt, brandishing an X-Men comic book.

“Oh, hey, Jess,” Douglas said when he saw me. “How’d I do? Did I get ’em here on time, like you asked?”

“Perfecttiming, Doug,” I said. “Perfect timing.”

Sixteen

When we emerged from the DA’s office several hours later—I had a lot of explaining to do, it turned out, as to exactly how I’d come across the videos I’d given to Douglas to give to them. But they hadn’t kept me nearly as long as they seemed to plan on keeping Kristin, who was their star witness and who was being kept in protective custody until her parents could come to pick her up—I was famished enough almost to wish I’d taken Karen Sue up on her offer of brunch. I thought I might pass out on the courthouse steps.

Fortunately Rob seemed to feel the same way, since he went, “What would you say to some lunch?”

“I’d say hallelujah. Douglas?”

Douglas shook his head. “Sorry, no can do. I gotta get back to the shop. Someone’s got to make sure that the graphic-novel needs of this community are met.” The noon sun was pelting down on us, but I still saw Douglas’s gaze slide towards me. “But you guys go on ahead. You know, there’s a really nice place Tasha and I have been going lately, out by Storey, Indiana, that’s completely worth the drive. It’s right next to this river, and real romantic—”

I knew what he was doing. I knew what he was doing, and I hurried to put a stop to it by pointing across the square. “Oh, look. Joe’s is open. We could stop by there and pick up some burgers and take them back to your place, Rob.”

Rob raised his eyebrows. “My place?”

“She’s the only one on the tapes,” I said, “I haven’t spoken to yet. I need to know if she wants to press charges against Randy as well. I gave all the other girls the choice.”

“You didn’t give the cops her tape?” Rob asked, looking curious.

“Not yet,” I said.

Rob glanced at his watch. “Gwen’ll be there to pick her up any minute. Guess we could get a burger for her, too. And about eight more on top of that, for Chick.”

“Or,” Douglas said, looking disappointed. “I guess you could do that instead.”

“We will,” I said firmly. “Thanks for your help this morning, Douglas. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

He perked up a bit at hearing this. “My pleasure,” he said. “Anything to rid the world of more smut-peddlers, and make room for wholesome entertainment likeSin City. You two have fun now. Call me later, Jess.”

And with a jaunty salute, Douglas started across the street for Underground Comix. He’d doubtless track me down and demand an explanation when he learned about Mr. Whitehead’s “donation”—Randy Senior was supposed to present the check personally to the head of the Pine Heights Alternative School committee, which was Douglas himself.

In the meantime, I was glad to have him out of my hair. I didn’t exactly need my big brother hanging around, trying to play matchmaker. Things between Rob and me were awkward enough without interference from my family—even though I knew Douglas meant well.

Still, I was totally willing to take advantage ofsome of my family…. The nice thing about having parents who own all the best restaurants in town is that you don’t have to pay to eat there. Even so, Rob insisted on leaving a hefty tip for our burgers…which I understood, considering the fact that his mom used to be one of our waitresses. Burgers bagged and in hand, we got back into his pickup and started for his house.

The silence that ensued in the cab on the way to Rob’s wasn’t at all awkward. Not. We hadn’t had a single moment to ourselves in order to discuss what had happened in Randy Senior’s office, because we’d been too busy explaining to the DA what Randy Junior had done. I really didn’t think there was all that much to talk about, anyway.

Rob seemed to disagree, though.

“So,” he said as we hurtled past cornfields—the corn was only knee-high. In another month, it would be well past the top of my head. “This new nonviolence thing you’ve got going…”

I let out an inward groan. I didn’t want to have to explain to Rob—to anyone, for that matter—why it was that hitting no longer held any appeal to me. I’d seen enough violence to last me a lifetime, and I’d hung up my (figurative) brass knuckles. Why couldn’t we just leave it at that?

But to my surprise, he finished with “…I like it.”

I glanced at him. He kept his gaze on the road.

“Yeah,” I said sarcastically. “I bet you do. Since your block was one of the first ones I was going to knock off, as soon as I got the chance.”

He still wouldn’t look at me.

“That’s not why,” he said. “I just think you’re good at thinking up nonviolent solutions to your problems. Like that thing today, back in Whitehead’s office. That was genius.”

I felt my cheeks heating up, and uttered a silent curse at myself. Why did I let this guy get under my skin? I mean, I was actually blushing, just because he’d given me a compliment. Why did he have this insufferable power over my body temperature?

“I always told you,” he went on, still not looking in my direction. Which was good, because if he had, he’d have seen my face heated up red as a lobster. “That the problem with your being so quick with your fists was that someday, someone bigger than you was going to hit you back. And you weren’t going to like it very much.”