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“Damn y'all,” Johnny said, his face a mask of wonderment. “This young bitch is a motherfucking virgin!”

“You lying,” Tyrone said, doubt all over his face.

Johnny held up his fingers for his brothers to inspect the small amount of blood on them. “For real. I just broke her damn cherry.”

“Look out,” Tyrone ordered. He positioned himself at the foot of the bed, then kneeled between Rhonda's legs. Using one hand to spread her labia, Tyrone probed her slit with the forefingers of his other hand.

Rhonda screamed into the gag with all her might and wiggled around in protest. She succeeded only in exciting him more.

Tyrone mopped his forehead. “Hold this bitch, y'all. Shit, you wasn't lying. This broad is a motherfucking virgin. She tight than a motherfucka on my fingers.” Tyrone paused
to sniff his fingers. “Fresh pussy, too. It don't even smell like tuna of the sea. I gots to taste this fucking peach.”

Sliding his hands under her thighs, Tyrone cupped her ass and lifted her up to his mouth. He used his tongue to flick her clit back and forth. He started slowly and picked up the tempo. Rhonda struggled and struggled, trying to get him from between her legs.

“Damn, Ty,” Leroy commented. “That bitch don't like that shit.”

“Shit, that nigga enjoying that pussy samich even if she ain't,” Michael quipped.

Tyrone slid one of his hands from under Rhonda and began to slip his fingers in and out of her in unison with his lapping tongue.

Rhonda was so furious at being violated she was huffing and puffing against the gag in her mouth.

Johnny laughed in glee at her displeasure. “Look at this bitch, man! Damn, she mad than a motherfucka at you ass for fucking with that little pearl tongue!”

Tyrone stood up and spit on the floor as he pulled down his pants and boxer shorts. “Goddamnit! Just like a bitch. No matter what you do, they ain't satisfied. You suck a bitch pussy and she still ain't grateful. Well, if she think she ain't like this tongue in that sweet little puss, then she gone hate some of this salami.”

Rhonda had closed her eyes, but she opened them wide when Tyrone mounted her and shoved his dick deep inside her. It felt like he was tearing her intestines apart as he recklessly
plunged in and out of her. She screamed and screamed into the panties in her mouth, shaking her head from side to side.

Her struggling thrilled Tyrone. He banged away at her like there was no tomorrow for a grand total of three minutes before he shot his load.

“Damn!” Tyrone panted as he stood and wiped his dick on the bedspread. “That's some good shit! It's a little dry, but that's to be expected under the circumstances. You know, first-time jitters. Still, it might be the best shot I ever had. You studs better hurry up and hit it, 'cause I wants me another go-round.”

Tyrone pulled up his clothes and went to explore the house for valuables while his brothers took turns raping Rhonda. He was gone for only about fifteen minutes before he returned to Rhonda's room, disgusted. His search of the premises had rendered nothing valuable enough to steal unless they wanted to try and lug a few televisions out to the car. The scene in Rhonda's room reminded Tyrone of a porno movie. Tyrone watched his brothers’ sexual antics from the doorway. He decided to wait for a break in the action so he could get a second chance at her.

His brothers had flipped Rhonda on her side. Johnny was obviously enjoying himself as he held one of her arms and plunged his manhood into her womb. Leroy was more sexually adventurous than his brethren, preferring to enter her through the rectum while holding her other arm. Michael was content to masturbate while rubbing her nubile
breasts. A few minutes passed and Michael began to climax. With precision he managed to direct the better part of his ejaculate onto Rhonda's face and into her hair.

Rhonda had managed to endure their savage violation of her body until Michael nutted in her face—that was the straw that broke that camel's back. It was the ultimate offense to be raped, but gushing sperm into her face was unbearable. Past worrying about bodily harm, she summoned every iota of her strength and went berserk.

She snatched her arm from Johnny and gave Michael an uppercut in the testicles.

“Funky bitch!” Michael yelped, as he staggered back and clutched his nuts. He fell to his knees and vomited.

Before either brother could react, Rhonda gave Leroy a stiff elbow to the center of his face. The blow made his nose bleed and both of his eyelids began to swell. She raked Johnny across his eyes with her fingernails.

Howling in pain, Johnny grabbed his eyes and fell onto the floor.

Naked, she jumped from the bed and headed for the bedroom door only to find her path blocked by Tyrone. With grim determination she aimed her foot for Tyrone's stomach, but he sidestepped and clamped her leg to his side.

“You know you'se a cute little bitch,” Tyrone said. “You got fire, too. I like that shit. It's too bad yo brother killed my sister and my nephew or I would have came back and raped you on a regular basis. Yo pussy was so good and sweet, shit, I hate to do this shit. Damn.”

Rhonda saw something glitter in Tyrone's hand. Her brain registered it was a knife. Suddenly she felt tired—there was nothing she could do against four men.

Tyrone grinned. Then he dropped her leg and spun her around quickly. When her back was to his chest he pulled the sharp knife across her jugular vein.

No sound came forth when Rhonda tried to scream. Her throat felt white hot. As her mouth filled with blood she gurgled. She tried to call her mother, brother, or anyone, but her voice box wouldn't obey.

Like a lover breaking the embrace with his woman, Tyrone gently released her. He watched her round ass as she staggered past him into the hallway. He shook his head.

Rhonda made it to the stairway banister before she collapsed. Desperately she tried to recite the Lord's Prayer, but her voice was still on the blink. The pain closed in from all sides, then it began to subside. She finally was able to remember how the Lord's Prayer began, but it was too late.

“OKAY SMITTY, WHAT YOU GOT?” DETECTIVE CARSON
grunted as he sipped steaming coffee. He grumbled a string of curses when he scalded his tongue with the scorching liquid. He absentmindedly stubbed a half-smoked Marlboro in an antique china ashtray on the dusty mantelpiece of the brick fireplace. He braced himself to listen to Officer Smith's annoying nasal voice.

The patrolman shifted nervously through his notebook for the relevant details. Smith hated being the first officer on the scene at a homicide—that meant he would have to deal with the homicide dicks.

Officer Smith cleared his throat. “One victim. Female. African American. Her mother is one of ours. She has already identified the deceased as one Rhonda Haskill. Age
nineteen. College student. Obviously suffered severe sexual trauma before death. No motive. No known enemies. No boyfriend. Victim was home alone studying. Forced entry. The perp or perps obviously gained entry via the back door. The mother is Sergeant Hazel Haskill, badge number 1372. The father is dead—suicide. The mother found the victim's body. She said there were no vital signs when she found her. We responded to a possible 187 from dispatch.”

“Has the coroner been notified?” Detective Winters asked.

“Yes. They're on the way.”

“Good work,” Winters said before Smith could give her a long answer to a simple question. She put her arm around Officer Smith's soggy shoulders. “What we need you to do is clear everybody out of here. We want the physical evidence to remain intact. I just saw two officers go up the stairs—I need you to get them down here. This is a homicide investigation, and if they contaminate the crime scene they'll receive written reprimands in their files.

“There were some news trucks pulling in when we got here. Keep them curbed. If any one of them crosses the perimeter, arrest them for obstruction. Warn them first. Are the EMTs still upstairs?”

“Yes, but they're just hanging around until the coroner gets here,” Smith said.

“Grab us a couple pairs of latex gloves from them. Where is the mother?”

“Sergeant Haskill is sitting on the back porch. We tried
talking to her, but she seems to be in deep shock.” Officer Smith smirked and used his index finger to make circles around his ear.

Detective Winters gave him a stony glare and Smith hurried off to find the detectives some examination gloves. He was gone only for a few moments before he returned and handed the detectives the rubber gloves. Smith mumbled something about “crowd control” and left.

“So what do you think, Winters?” Carson asked. “I think it's safe to rule out coincidence. That's just too much luck of the draw for someone to do her after all the shit her brother has gotten himself into.”

“Sounds like a reasonable assumption, Carson. I say we take a look at the body, talk to the mother, and see if we can't get a jump on this thing. You know, it's hard when something like this happens to somebody from our side. Next thing you know, you've got half the guys at the precinct ready to wipe out civilians.”

“You said it.”

The detectives trudged up the stairs. Rhonda's body, covered with a sheet, sprawled a few feet from the top banister. The carpet surrounding her corpse was thick with brown-red clotted blood and the expression frozen on her face seemed like she was gasping for breath.

Carson and Winters knelt beside her body to examine it closely. Carson lifted one of her hands and looked at the fingernails.

“Bingo,” Carson said. “Let the lab boys know after the coroner gives us a T.O.D. that we've got some skin under her nails. You see anything?”

“Yeah. Looks like semen in and around her vagina. On her face, too. I think we've got more than one perp unless this guy's tank was full. We'll know for sure when forensics runs some tests. The trail of blood leads into that room.”

Winters pointed to Rhonda's bedroom.

The detectives went to check it out. In the room they noted the telltale signs of a struggle—the shredded panties and T-shirt, bed in disarray, and CDs strewn everywhere. Carson almost stepped in Michael's vomit before he noticed it.

“Goddammit, Winters. Look at this. Someone puked. Make sure we have the lab boys bag and tag this shit. If we're lucky and it's the perp's vomit, we might find out where the bastard ate. It's a long shot…. There's not much else we can do until they dust the place and do the lab work. Let's have a go at the mother.”

Winters followed Carson down the stairs to the back porch. She needed to get her head together before she talked to a fellow officer about the rape and murder of her child. To her, this was always the most difficult part. She hated interviewing the mothers; they always cried and sometimes she would end up crying with them. She found it hard to establish a professional wall between herself and a victim's mother, so she thought it would be best if she let Carson do the talking.

Rhonda's mother sat on the bottom step of the porch. Her white uniform shirt was covered with blood and her copper hair was a mess.

“Sergeant Haskill,” Carson said softly but firmly.

There was no way she couldn't have heard him, but she didn't respond.

Carson forged ahead, as was his style. “Sergeant Haskill, I know this is a bad time, but we would like to have a word with you. We want to get these assholes for what they did to your daughter.”

Hazel Haskill looked up at the detectives, her eyes slightly out of focus.

“Sergeant Haskill, my name is Detective Carson and this is Detective Winters. I'm really sorry but I have to ask you these questions. We need to know anything that may help us get these guys. Did your daughter have any enemies? Did she ever talk about meeting any new guys?”

Hazel ignored his questions. “My son isn't home and Rhonda is out with her friends. I'm expecting her home at any minute. She knows that she has a curfew and she's really good about keeping it. Rhonda is a good girl. You know she's majoring in business or financing or something. That girl has changed her major so many times I just can't keep up with it.”

The female detective crouched down until she was at eye level with Hazel. “Sergeant, Rhonda is dead. We're trying to find out who did this. Do you understand?”

“When you see Don-Don, you tell him I'm going to whup his behind,” Hazel said dreamily. “The nerve of that boy. It's bad enough that he started getting high, now he done went and got his sister killed. Now how is she gone pass her midterms? I'm going to beat that boy's butt real good. That's what he need. I can't wait until his father gets home. I'm going to tell him he better do something with that boy before I send him to Job Corps or somewhere.”

Carson gently pulled Winters to her feet. He signaled it was time to leave; Sergeant Haskill could offer them no assistance in her condition. When they left the porch she was mumbling something about her husband.

The forensics team had arrived with their bags, powders, and cameras. Winters gave them instructions while Carson looked on. When she was through the detectives headed for their car.

In the car Winters sighed. “I hate to see this type of shit. No matter how many times it happens, I'll never get used to it. These guys have got to be inhuman to do what they did. One thing we do know is that when Don gets word of this— and he will”—she nodded at the reporters berating the patrolmen for not letting them past the yellow tape—“he's going to come out of hiding. He'll show his face and we'll be waiting.”

DON WAS BORED AS HELL IN HIS CASKET-SIZED ROOM AT
the Zanzibar Motel.

Television was his only link to the outside world. The programming wasn't the greatest, but it gave him something to do besides smoking crack. News programs were his favorite. He loved the lopsided reporting of the networks—all drug raids, murders, and atrocities against children. It was no wonder other races perceived Blacks as animals, thanks to the daily reports.

Smoking crack was even getting boring—not that he was considering abstinence. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to. He actually found himself missing Juanita. For the thousandth time since her death, Juanita crossed his mind. In the short time he had known her, she
had changed his whole life. He was nothing like the person he used to be, thanks to her. Most of this shit was her fault. If it wasn't for her, he wouldn't be on the run now. Before she died she had transformed him into a complete crack monster. Rena crossed his mind, too. She seemed like she would have really been easy to get along with, but in a heartbeat she was gone, too. Rena hadn't been anything like Juanita. She wasn't motivated by crack rocks so she was still able to express genuine emotion. Just the fact that she didn't care if he smoked but wouldn't touch the stuff herself made him respect her. If she had lived, it wasn't like he was going to try and turn her out either. The last thing he needed was another Juanita.