The man turned and faced Case.

“So it’s okay for you to hurt them, but not for anyone else? Is that what you’re saying, Case?” The man took out a fifty-dollar bill and laid it on the woman’s thighs. Then he backhanded her across her face. Not hard, but enough so that her head was rocked on her shoulders. “Does paying her make things right?”

“Goddamnit!” Case again fought against his bindings. He was shuddering so hard he was almost vibrating. “Leave her alone, you bastard.”

The man took a knife from his belt. In the subdued light from the muslin-wrapped bulb, the blade looked tarnished. “You have used your hands on women before, Case. Have you ever used one of these?”

“Nooooo . . .”

The man placed the blade against the woman’s throat.

“Please,” Case cried. “Not her. Please don’t hurt my daughter.”

The man snorted. “You didn’t stop to think about the women you hurt. Why should I care?”

Then he slashed the blade across the woman’s throat. Even in the dimness of the basement, Case saw the gout of blood pour down her chest. He screamed.

“The women that you hurt were other men’s daughters,” the man said. “An eye for an eye, Case.”

Case had stopped screaming now. Through his tears he watched the final seconds of his daughter’s life ebb away.

The man moved toward him.

“Does what I did to your darling Jessica make me a bad man?”

“You bastard. You sick, murderous bastard.”

“Yes. That answers the question.” The man lifted the blade. “But it damns you as well, Case.”

Chapter 2

2

Don’t look back or you might find the devil hot on your heels.

It’s an idea I like to subscribe to. An analogy fit for one with a past full of terrible events.

The problem is, by being optimistic and only looking ahead, it can mean that you miss the devil gaining ground. Before you know it, he’s right there and has rammed his toasting fork straight through your spine and is dangling you over the flames of hell.

I’ve made too many enemies not to cast the occasional glance over my shoulder. The practice has served me well and to date has kept me alive.

I parked my Audi A6 at an entrance to the grounds of Tampa University and got out of the car while I opened up my phone and went through the motions of taking a call. To the east, Kennedy Boulevard spanned the river and beside it on the eastern shore stood the cylindrical Rivergate Tower, affectionately known to locals as the beer can. It reminded me of the leaning tower of Pisa after Superman’s evil alter ego pushed it back in line in that cheesy movie. My eyes merely skimmed over the tower—it was a familiar sight to me—and I watched the traffic approaching over the river bridge.