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for help, but he had failed to respond. Sick to his stomach, Jim drove off into the darkness.
     
    Day One: 10:00 p.m.
    Stacy Davenport had moved to Los Angeles from Paducah, Oklahoma. She was the third child of the six born to a Baptist minister and his God-fearing wife. Stacy grew up with homespun, small-town values and killer good looks. She achieved all the requisite accomplishments expected of one so beautiful in a small town; she was head cheerleader, prom queen, and arm candy for the starting high school quarterback. But as seems to happen to pretty young girls who have been blessed with perfection, she grew restless in Paducah. And so, on her twenty-second birthday, she waved goodbye to Oklahoma and headed for the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” in Hollywood, California, confident in her belief that she would not only stand out, but also excel. She read for parts in half a dozen independent films and then some television pilots but did not find her niche until she met Lisa Klein at the Sky Bar on the Sunset Strip, a late night watering hole for entertainment want-to-bes. Lisa had been interviewing possible anchors for the Ten O’clock News Hour and Stacy, with her looks and presentation skills, fit the bill to a tee. Although Lisa had met dozens of prom queens, Stacy had a real asset that often spelled success in Hollywood - blue eyes. You could be dumb as a thimble and have a horn growing out of the middle of your forehead, but if you had bright blue eyes in Tinseltown, you had a shot. And Stacy Davenport had big, bright shining blue eyes of a rare shade. They reminded Lisa of the blue tint that Michelangelo used on Ezekiel’s robe in the Sistine Chapel. Once Lisa determined that Stacy was capable of reading from a teleprompter, the job was hers. Stacy took her position at the anchor desk for KVTM News at 10 O’clock on Christmas day, looked into camera one and read the news.
    “Good evening. I’m Stacy Davenport and here’s what’s happening in our world tonight. A gruesome murder shocked the quiet neighborhood of West Covina this morning when a local jogger found a man dressed as Santa Claus hanging from a tree. The man, identified as prominent Los Angeles attorney Paul Artridge, was pronounced dead at the scene. KVTM’s Jay Yamamota is in West Covina at the scene. Jay…”
    “Yes Stacy, I’m here in West Covina where the residents of this quiet hamlet woke not to the sound of delighted children tearing open their Christmas presents, but to the blare of police sirens. High profile criminal defense attorney, Paul Artridge, was found dead this morning, hanging from the neck in front of this house on Pear Street…”
    Lisa looked on from the wings, smiling like a proud parent. She had her story and for the time being, she had kept her promise to Jim. He had been very nice on the phone, charming, conscientious, and yet shy and unsure. After she hung up the phone, Lisa was sure of two things. First, that despite whatever may come from their arrangement, she had no doubt that she could keep her objectivity about her work and second, that Jim wanted to keep their lines of communication open. Lisa wanted that, too. She figured that she would make the next move and phone Jim in the morning, maybe invite him out for lunch as a thank you. She had the day off, anyway. She thought again about the carving on the tree and got excited. If it meant nothing, so be it. But if it was what she thought it was, she was going to ride the story right to the national news, and maybe a network position.
     
    Day One: 11:35 p.m.
    He was freezing. He could see his breath and feel the snot frosted around his left nostril. The temperature in the reptile house had dropped considerably since he had arrived almost six hours ago. He huddled for warmth in the corner, closest to the broken door. Janette was lying on her side next to him, sobbing but unable to make much noise through the rag he had duct taped into her mouth. Why are you