Blood poured from her swelling nose and sobs tore from her as the pain radiated endlessly from the broken bone. She panted now, breaths coming in short gasps of air through her mouth. “Ah, ah, ah. Ah, God.” Her screams and sobs turned to whimpers of agony. “Please, no.”

Suddenly the door was hauled open. Maggie lurched forward, trying to escape. Her attacker grabbed her by the hair and smashed her broken face into the steering wheel. Flung into the seat, Maggie struggled to stay conscious, but the searing pain pulled at her in waves, begging her to give in.

Silently, Maggie prayed for the strength to save herself. Blood poured into her throat, gagging her. Abruptly the seat belt bit into her neck. Oh, God, no, she thought desperately; it wasn’t the seat belt. The killer’s hands wrapped wire around her neck, the metal slicing through skin, through tissue. Maggie’s last pant broke the night air, and the wire pulled tighter, then tighter still. Then the killer turned, face clear in the lamplight.

Why? Maggie mouthed as crimson began to spill onto her pale blue silk blouse, fill her larynx.

In answer, the wire pulled taut and strong. Maggie could feel life ending, and she sought the ethereal light of myth. But only yellow filled her vision, the lamplight above. Yellow and the smile of her killer. The reassuring smile followed her into death, as wire severed the cream column of her throat.

Maggie’s lifeless body threatened to fall to the ground, but the killer’s braced hip caught her. Methodically, the careful hands arranged Maggie gently against the leather seat. A flick of a side lever, and Maggie Fordham reclined in silent repose. The bloodstained wire was spooled and laid on the seat beside the empty body. Without the blood and empty eyes, the killer thought, a person might think she’s sleeping.

As before, last touches included removing the crisp bills from the wallet and dropping it into the leather bag that carried all the killer’s tricks. Reverent fingers tugged off the tourmaline ring that sparkled green on Maggie’s right ring finger.

Staring at the limp, naked hand, the killer paused. The alabaster strip of skin said she’d worn the ring for a long time. She had probably wished to be buried with it when she died. The ring went into the bag.

After all, if wishes were horses, the killer reflected, beggars would ride.

ONE WEEK LATER

The envelope in Erin Abbott’s mailbox did not have a return address. As she walked up the stairs to her apartment building door, she ran curious fingers over the old-fashioned script. Her name had been etched by a calligrapher’s pen onto the ivory parchment.

Dr. Erin Abbott

216 St. Bennett Avenue

Apartment 3F

New Orleans, Louisiana 70116