The front door of Luther’s apartment building was gated, the kind of accordian gate often seen covering pawn shop doors and windows. It was almost 11:00 p.m. when Corey and Abe went around back, past several men smoking on the back door stoop.

      The apartment was in a seedy four-story building on Bentley, several blocks north of Pine. Pine ran parallel to Pike, and the Pike-Pine Corridor, as it was called, was attracting artists, night-life, small businesses, and real estate developers. The Bentley Building was a single-room-occupancy building that still rented to sex offenders.

      They took the stairs two at a time. Corey gently guided Abe around a hole in the third floor landing, then banged on Luther’s door. She was tense, bracing herself for god-only-knew-what. The door swung open. The air inside was stale, somehow fouled. Abe shone a flashlight across the tiny apartment. No one home. She was almost glad. There was an unmade bed, a card table, a chair, and a small TV. Dirty dishes and half-empty soup cans filled the sink.

      Abe’s light stopped on a tattered porn magazine. “Let’s wait out back,” he suggested. He, too, was readying himself. She could hear it in his voice. Abe was more anxious than she, but he’d worked hard and learned to manage his fears. He was better at that than she was. Abe did what he had to, even when it scared him.

      At the rear entry the men were still smoking. These guys had probably done time. The building housed men in drug and alcohol rehab and work release programs, as well as sex offenders. “We’re looking for Luther Emerson. Muscle-bound, red-headed guy,” Abe said. “We’ll pay twenty for a conversation.” Abe held out a ten. “There’s twenty in it for him. And a deal. No cops.”

      One of the men nodded. The ten disappeared, and the three men faded into the night.

      Abe and Corey sat on the stoop, helping each other wait. They went over again what they knew about Luther. He was Annie’s uncle. Uncle Luther started raping Annie when she was eleven. Annie told a teacher what was happening when she was twelve.

      Luther had lived in this building since he was released—untreated—from the Western Corrections Center three months ago. Annie ran away ten days before he was released. Abe emptied several pockets onto the stoop before finding matches, then lighting his pipe.

      They listened to city sounds, sitting back to back, tense. They’d talked this through, carefully weighing the risks, and finally decided that they had to do this—someone had to brace Luther, put him on notice. It could make a difference for Annie. Still, there was danger.

      They shifted subtly when a harsh voice came out of the alley, “What you want with me?”

      One of the three men reappeared. Abe stepped down, handed him another ten, then signaled for him to leave. When he was gone, Luther ambled out of the shadows. The red-haired man had muscles bursting from under his sweaty T-shirt.

      Corey stood slowly, pointed a finger at him. “Remember me?” she asked, somehow right there, ready.

      He just stared at her.

      “When I found Annie, you promised—no, you swore—that if I brought her home to her mother, you’d stay away from her. Your CCO backed you up. I trusted him, and I trusted you. This morning you kidnapped her off the Ave, then whipped her with your belt. You would have raped her if you could. I can’t have that. Ever again.”

      Luther lit a cigarette. The light from his match showed a large purple birth mark, like a stain on his cheek. “Un-unh,” he muttered in a raspy voice. He shook his head, no, then he stepped closer.

      Corey took a document from her jacket pocket. “This is a court order. You go near Annie—anywhere, anytime—you’re back inside.”

      “She’s mine.”

      “Not anymore.”

      Luther took the document, lit it on fire, then unfolded a curved skinning knife. He cleaned his thumb nail with the blade. “I need some money.” He turned the knife toward Abe, moving behind him, positioning himself so Abe was between them.

      “Easy, big fella,” Abe said, soft, reassuring. Abe turned, handed Luther a twenty-dollar bill.

      The big man stepped closer still, knife near Abe’s throat, rubbing his left thumb and the first two fingers of his left hand together.

      “Don’t make another mistake here, Luther.” Corey unholstered the gun at the small of her back, showed it. “You touch him, I’ll put you down.“ She found his eyes.

      Luther fixed her eyes in a fuck-you prison glare, then grabbed Abe’s hair and touched the knife to his throat.

      Corey blew off Luther’s right kneecap. It happened so fast Luther never took a step. He spun, buckled, then fell to the ground, writhing.

      Corey looked at him, feeling the rage wash over her, like lava, unstoppable. When it passed, she felt empty and lonely. In prison, where violence was as quick as a night shadow, she’d learned to push through these awful feelings.

      Luther wasn’t finished with Annie, she knew that.

      She took a slow breath, aware she was pumping adrenaline like she was snake-bit. Guys like Luther lived in this never-ending macho horseshit soap opera. She hated it. Corey twisted the .38 into his ear, drawing blood. She twisted again. “If you ever get near Annie again, I’ll kill you.”