Violets are Blue

suspension bridge connecting San Francisco to Marin County. 'Big Dawg' was a pet expression they used for everything oversized — from jetliners to sexual apparatus to very large canines.

Soon the thick fog would blanket the bridge and bay completely, but for now it was a gorgeous sight, incomparable, one of their favorite things in San Francisco.

'I love this run, that beautiful bridge, the sunset — the whole ball of wax,' Martha said in a steady, relaxed cadence. 'But enough bad poetry. It's time for me to kick your well-formed, athletic-looking butt, O'Hara.'

'That sounds like cheap-shot female chauvinism to me,' he grunted, but he was grinning, showing off some of the whitest teeth she had ever seen, or run her tongue across.

Martha kicked her pace up a notch. She'd been a crosscountry star at Pepperdine University and she was still in great shape. 'And that sounds like the beginnings of a gracious loser's speech,' she said.

'We'll see about that, won't we? Loser buys at the Abbey.'

'I can already taste a Dos Equis. Mmm-mmm good.' Suddenly the two runners' playful exchange was interrupted by a much louder growl. It was closer too.

It didn't seem possible that a dog had covered so much ground so fast. Maybe there were a couple of Big Dawgs loose in the area.

'There aren't any cats in this park?' David asked. 'I mean, like a mountain lion variety of cats?'

'No. Of course not. Get real, pal. We're in San Francisco, not the middle of Montana.' Martha shook her head. Moisture jumped off her close-cropped reddish-brown hair. Then she thought she heard footsteps. A runner and a large dog?

'Let's get out of these woods, okay?' Davis asked.

'I hear you. I don't necessarily disagree. Last one to the parking lot is dog chow.'

'Not funny, Lieutenant Martha. Bad joke. This is getting a little spooky.'

'I don't know about big cats around these parts, but I think I just spotted a little pussy.'

Another loud growl — and it was really close. Right on the heels of the two of them. Gaming ground fast.

'C'mon! Let's go. Let's move it,' said Martha Wiatt. She was a little afraid now, running as fast as she could, and that was very fast.

Another eerie growl pierced the gathering fog.

Chapter 3

Lieutenant Martha Wiatt had definitely picked up her pace. The distance between her and Davis was growing. She did triathlons for fun. He worked behind a desk, though, God knows, he certainly looked good for an accountant.

'C'mon, c'mon. Keep up with me, Davis. Don't fall back,' she called over her shoulder.

Her boyfriend for the past year didn't answer. Well, that settled any future debate about who was in better shape, who was the real athlete. Of course, Martha had known that all along.

The sounds of the next growl and also heavy footsteps crushing leaves were even closer. They were catching up to her.

But whatwas catching up to her?

'Martha! There's something behind me. Oh, God! Run! Run, Martha!' Davis shouted. 'Get the hell out of here!'

Adrenaline charged through her. She pushed her head in front of her body as if she were trying for an invisible finish line. Her arms and legs moved in sync like efficient pistons. She leaned her weight forward, the way all good runners do.

She heard more screams behind her. She looked back — but she couldn't see Davis anymore. The screams were so terrifying that she almost stopped running. But Davis had been attacked by something vicious. Martha rationalized that she had to get help. The police. Somebody.

Her boyfriend's screams were ringing in her ears and she was running in total panic, not aware of where she was going. She stumbled over a pointy rock and cartwheeled down a steep hill. Martha crashed into the base of a small tree, but at least it stopped her fall.

In a daze, she managed to pull herself up. Jesus, she was pretty sure she'd broken her right arm. Cradling it with the left, she ran forward in a clumsy stumble.

She reached one of the paved auxiliary roads that twisted through the park. Davis's screams had stopped. What had happened to him? She had to get help.

She saw a pair of headlights approaching and Martha ran out into the middle of the road. She straddled the double center line and felt like a total madwoman. For God's sake, this was San Francisco.

'Please stop, please stop. Hey! Hey! Hey!' She waved her good arm and shouted at the top of her voice. 'Stop! I need help!'

The white van sped straight for her, but then, thank God, it skidded to a stop. Two men jumped out and ran to her. They would help. The van said Red Cross on its hood.

'Help me. Please,' Martha said. 'My boyfriend is hurt.'

Everything went from bad to worse. One of them hit her with a closed fist. Before Martha realized what was happening, she went down hard. Her chin struck the pavement, bouncing like a wet ball. She was knocked almost unconscious by the powerful blow.

She looked up, tried to focus her eyes, and wished she hadn't. Blazing red eyes stared down at her. A mouth was open wide. Two horrible mouths. She had never seen such teeth in her life. They were like sharpened knives. The incisors were huge.

She felt the teeth bite into her cheeks, then her neck. How could that be? The teeth tore into her, and Martha screamed until her throat was raw. She rolled and twisted and kicked out at her attackers, but it did no good. They were incredibly strong. Both of them were growling

'Ecstasy,' one of them whispered against Martha's ear. 'Isn't it beautiful? You're so lucky. You were chosen out of all the beautiful people in San Francisco. You and Davis.'

Chapter 4

It was a perfect, blue-skied morning in Washington — well, almost perfect. The Mastermind was on my cell phone. 'Hello, Alex. Did you miss me? I missedyou, partner.'

The bastard had been making obscene, threatening phone calls to me every morning for over a week. Sometimes he just cursed at me for several minutes; this morning he sounded positively civil.

'What's your day look like? Any big plans?' he asked.

Actually, yes — I was planning to catch him. I was inside an FBI van that was already on the move. We were tracing his call and expected to have the exact location very soon. A court order had been put through the FBI, and the phone company was involved in 'trapping' the call. I was in the rear of the speeding van with three Bureau agents and also my partner, John Sampson. We had left my house on Fifth Street as soon as the call came in; we were heading onto I-395 North. My job was to keep him on the line until the trace was completed.

'Tell me about Betsey Cavalierre. Why did you pick her instead of me?' I asked him.

'Oh, she's much, much prettier,' the Mastermind said. 'More fuckable.'

One of the techie agents was talking in the background. I tried to listen to both conversations. The agent said, 'He's living up to his name. We've got a wiretap and should be able to trace this call immediately. It isn't happening for some reason.'

'Why the hell not?' Sampson asked, and moved closer to the agents.