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night air was filled with the peaceful sounds of the grove: crickets chirping, a frog’s croak, the hoot of a distant owl... and that promising hum of the traffic.
    When a louder, deeper rumble signaled the passing of a truck, she felt the vibrations in the ground beneath her. The road had to be fairly close. If she could only get to it.
    She willed herself to rise, but with her hands bound, she couldn’t even move. Her limbs refused to obey her brain’s commands. Her body seemed no longer her own.
    But it was hers. The pain told her that much. And if she could hurt, she should be able to move.
    For what seemed like forever, she strained at the cord that bound her wrists. At first, it did no good; in fact, her efforts only seemed to make the knots tighter. But as she continued to twist, one way, then the other, she could feel her left hand slipping free. Something wet and slick, maybe her own blood, made it easier. Finally, she wrenched it free.
    Now able to fold her right arm, she managed to get it beneath her. But when she tried to rise, to place her weight on it, a pain—like nothing she had ever felt—shot through her, lightning hot, white, blinding.
    And when the searing brightness faded, Charlene was— thanks to the overloading and short-circuiting of her sensory preceptors—once again, in darkness.
    And for a little while longer, her nightmare was on hold.

CHAPTER FOUR

    10:00 P.M.

    “ T hat old Santa fart didn’t mean it when he said he was going to sue me... did he?” Savannah stared into the foam of her beer as though it were a fortune teller’s crystal ball. After a particularly rough day, the alcohol contained in even one brew could push her paranoia level to clinically certifiable levels.
    She and Dirk sat in their usual TV-watching, pizza-eating, beer-drinking positions. Savannah was cuddled into her cushy, floral chintz, wingback chair. Like her, it was a bit overstuffed and infinitely comfortable. On her footstool, Diamante and Cleopatra were curled in black furry balls at either side of her feet. Kitty bookends, she liked to call them.
    Dirk was stretched across the sofa. In ancient Roman style, he preferred to conduct his culinary orgies sprawled and horizonal. He had already consumed six slices of his economy pizza. With typical generosity, he had allotted Savannah two.
    Dirk sniffed and took a long slug of beer from his bottle, then set it on the coffee table. After seven years Savannah still hadn’t trained him to use a glass or a coaster or to leave the toilet seat down. Having Dirk around the house was a bit like owning a husband, Savannah had decided, but without the added fringe benefits of regular sex, lawn care and automobile maintenance. The price without the perks.
    “So,” he said, “you’re worried about getting sued by the Santa with the blue balls. I’d worry too, if I was you. He sounded like he meant it.”
    Dirk never pulled punches with her. It was his greatest charm... and the major reason she often wanted to strangle him.
    “How could you tell? Maybe he was just a little—“
    “Nope, he meant it. His eyes were bugged out. Way out! That’s a definite sign of sincerity. I learned a long time ago from doing interrogations: When the veins in a guy’s forehead are poppin’, he’s usually telling you the truth.”
    Savannah sighed and thought of all the overdue bills in her desk drawer—scary red-lettered documents threatening to disconnect or repossess some basic creature comfort. The last thing she needed right now was to be sued, by anyone, and especially Saint Nick.
    Being a private investigator could prove lucrative from time to time, but more often, detecting provided only a meager existence. Savannah missed the steady paycheck from the S.C.P.D., the medical and dental coverage, the Christmas fund and the all-you-can-eat-and-drink Fourth of July picnic. But she didn’t miss the department’s lopsided politics or the con-stant hassle from the suits. Life