I sat back against the wall of the motel, sobbing and shaking with the aftermath of unleashing all that, and stared at my assailant, whom Hollis handcuffed with a few economical motions. It was Scot, of course, the teenage admirer of Mary Nell; Scot, who’d tried to attack me before. He was whimpering now, little snot-nose bastard.

“Are you crazy?” Hollis yelled at him. “Are you nuts? What are you doing, attacking a woman like that?”

“She’s the one who’s crazy,” Scot said. He spit out a little blood. “Did you see her?”

“Scot, what the hell made you decide to do this?” I could see that Hollis was absolutely stunned. “Who let you in her room?” He shook the boy.

The teenager stayed silent, glaring up at Hollis.

Vernon McCluskey hobbled out of the office and down the sidewalk to where we were poised in our strange tableau.

“Vernon, did you let this boy into Harper’s room?” Hollis bellowed.

“Naw,” Vernon said. He looked down at the boy contemptuously. I knew it wasn’t because the boy had been poised to attack a smaller woman, but because the boy had failed to attack hard enough, and at the wrong time. “I rented him a room, the room this lady’s brother was in earlier. If she happened to leave the adjoining door unlocked, ain’t my fault. I had no idea Scot would do anything like this.” Vernon shook his head with insincere regret.

Son of a bitch.

If I was feeling paranoid, it was with some justification.

“Get up, Scot,” Hollis said. “You’re going to jail. Harper, you’re going to press charges?”

“Oh, you bet.” I needed a hand up, but Hollis was escorting Scot to his truck, and I wouldn’t have asked Vernon for a place to spit on the sidewalk. Shakily, I worked my way to my feet. My thigh muscles were trembling, and I felt weak and sick. I hated pretty nearly everyone. “I may have to wait until tomorrow, but I’m definitely going to press charges. I was willing to forgive the first time, when he looked to be a teenager driven nuts by jealousy, but this is above and beyond.”

What on earth could have induced this boy, who’d been so scared of his parents and his coach, to attempt something like this? What had he been ordered to do? Kill me, or beat me up?

“Paid,” I said. Hollis stopped, halfway through pushing the handcuffed boy up into his truck. “I’ll bet someone paid him to do this.”

And I saw by Scot’s face that I’d struck oil. “Were you supposed to break some bones?” I asked him, conversationally. “Or kill me?”

“Shut up,” he said, turning his face away from me. “Just don’t talk to me anymore.”