Jane's older model car seemed only able to pick up classic music stations, so she drove to the sound of Johnny Cash's crooning about spaceships and rain. She lost track of Deanna early on. They stayed close before the highway before Deanna flew off at twenty miles over the rate of traffic. The GPS stated their destination was right off of the I-10, and Jane had no interest in encountering a speed trap. She wouldn't have been concerned, except for the fact she noted that later, Deanna's car passed by twice, indicating her leaving the highway at some point. It didn't feel like the woman was trying to screw around with Jane, so Jane decided to follow one time.

Deanna pulled off at Interstate 110 in Biloxi, navigating the twists and turns of the town before arriving at a major intersection. She pulled into the left turn lane, started to drive at the green light, before her car stopped in the center of a four-lane crossing. Her car fell to a full stall, and Deanna reacted with both frustration and fluster as cars honked and people cursed. Jane pulled into the parking lot of a boarded-up restaurant across from the scene.

Deanna got out to pop the hood, and raising it aroused fresh waves of angry horn blasts. One driver in his fifties stopped behind her car, exited his, and examined her engine. Jane deciphered through their gestures and interactions that after a time, the man wanted Deanna to try turning the car over again. Deanna stepped inside, the machine roared to life, and stepped back out with arms outstretched to give him a hug. The good Samaritan wanted none of it as he waved her off, pointed to her car, and then the road. Deanna sped away, leaving Jane far behind.

Jane's journey ended in the panhandle city of Bagdad, Florida. The GPS coordinates led to a strip mall with only one shop open so late at night. Jane sighed, pondered for a time her choices, before entering the twenty-four hour adult novelty store in search of her teammate.

***

Deanna watched the new girl enter the Bizarre Bazaar. What an idiot head. Deanna had been very specific with her words; meet at the bazaar, not in. True, Deanna had slunk down in her seat when the new girl showed up, but it was her responsibility to find Deanna, not the other way around. However, if the new girl needed to look at some porn before she started saving lives, so be it. Deanna would just make sure to tell the others later.

Deanna knew what had happened. The black guy told the fat guy to dump someone else on her, and this time a chick, and not even a lesbian chick. Lesbian chicks were as easy to handle as men, but the woman had expressed no desire towards Deanna, so she couldn't be a lesbian chick. Instead, the new girl would soon start spouting attitude because she was jealous because Deanna was prettier and smarter and all around better. They said the new chick was going to be cool, that Deanna would like her, but Deanna was pretty sure that the new chick sucked. Deanna resolved herself to be on her best behavior so she couldn't be blamed for any bad blood, and she could see how long it took for attitude to show.

Deanna sat cross-legged on the car hood as she spread her cards out on the surface, along with her computer and a soda from a convenience store. A gust of wind picked up a card and carried into the street, indicating the universe wished that person's fate to remain sealed. Either that, or it was just a gust of wind, but that would mean that Deanna would have to leave her comfy spot to go after it, and there was no way she was going through that hassle, so, universe, it was. She double-checked to make sure it wasn't a brat card. The terrorist lady said there were two brat cards, and the black guy would whine forever if either was missed, but she found them in her pile, so all was good. The Asian numbnut's flash drive displayed a map with details of the cards, and she began the process of deciding who would live and who would die.

Deanna loved her cards and hugged a batch to her chest. They brought her such joy. She kept every one of them in her albums, rows upon rows of them in a secret place, shelves full of books, her lovely, lovely books, filled with names of lives she'd plucked from the brink. Most never saw her, never knowing how close they came to the perishing line, but she knew. She remembered.

Last month, when winter bared her teeth, Deanna decided to take some time off from selfless heroism and retreated to her secret, special place with her dozens and dozens of books. Her secret, special place was a rustic cabin in the middle of an uncharted forest surrounded by pine trees, where every moment there was like Christmas. Icicles dangled from the rooftops like frozen Swords of Damocles, and the windows were iced over with a nice glaucoma glaze.

She took a steaming hot bubble bath in a cast iron soaking tub, the type that sits on cute little ornate legs, and she nibbled on imported Swiss chocolates and sipped a hot Courvoisier brandy, and when she felt that she couldn't feel any finer, any more smooth and relaxed, she retired to the main room and in front of her large roaring fireplace to luxuriate on her large bearskin rug, wearing nothing more than her large, bearskin rug, and she went through her lovely, lovely books.

Her lovely, lovely cards fit in her lovely, lovely books so very nice indeed, as if that is where they were always meant to be. At first, she collected them in the order of their salvation, but soon she came to realize that while all cards were equal, some were more equal than others, so she began to separate them according to their worth.

There was the Book of Children, separated in pink and light-blue volumes in accordance with their gender, little lives allowed to continue through her beneficence, lives shaped and molded by her appearance. How many would remember her forever, or blot her from their memories except in their dreams? Will the boys grow up desirous of women of a particular hair color based solely on the wig she wore? Will little girls want to craft themselves in her image and spend their lives trying to live up to their remembrances of her?

There was the Book of the Pretty, with a mirror in the center and lace borders around the edges, and she kept that book on a shelf alone. This was reserved for the beautiful people, a book isolated from the others, as the pretty should never be forced to co-mingle with anyone less gorgeous than themselves.

There was the Book of Wealth, gold-rimmed and silver-streaked, men and women of mighty means, people of power who are masters of their selective domains, in control of their worlds, people living lives of luxury, never seeing the killer that awaited them, either the burglar in the shadows or the blood clot near their hearts. And once that killer arrived, whenever possible, she made sure that they know it was she that granted them a continued life, and that they owe her now.

The Book of Warriors was gun-metal gray, filled with soldiers and police that survived military firefights and local drug wars, only to find themselves faced with some mortal peril, where these heroes would have most certainly fallen were it not for her interference with their fates.

The Book of Hippies was wrapped in the remnants of a rainbow tie-dye t-shirt. It was empty and would remain so as long as she had any say in the matter.

The Book of Sex was her most favorite book, the deep rich red of the color of love. Small though it is, this collection of persons is comprised of those whose passions and predilections would have led to their destruction. There was the girl whose auto-erotic asphyxiation fixation left her with breathless anticipation until Deanna loosened the straps. There was the high-class call girl snuffed for knowing enough, the porn star who overdosed on Ecstasy during ecstasy, and the man whose stroke was induced by his amorous over-exertions and a forgotten safe word. These are her most favorite cards.

There are many others, but the most important one was the Book of the Dead, shrouded in cloth black as Doomsday. These are the ones she let go, not because she was unable to save their lives, but that her spirit was unwilling. There was something about them that turned the tide, either the way one man would treat his girlfriend, or how another person might give Deanna a look she didn't like. These actions sealed their fates. The first was a child rapist gunned down in his yard by person unknown. She had shown up an hour early, watched as person unknown arrived, watched him fire, gave a little clap, and drove away to enjoy a lovely dinner. She didn't know why they gave her that name in the first place. She didn't know what everyone expected.

Her cards were all the lives that belong to her, that continued through her good graces. She searched them on the internet to see what they've done with her gift of life and switch them from one book to another based on how they changed. Some embraced vibrancy and hope, others descend into lethargy and uselessness. One day, she might take a grand tour of the country to look in on all her little cards to see how they now fared, to see how they now use that gift of life Deanna granted them, but for those that disappointed her, well, she may have to take that gift back.

Someone left the Bazaar, and it was the new girl, Jan or Jane. Deanna couldn't remember, as it wasn't important. Time to play nice. She looked up at Jan(e)'s approach. "Well, there you are. If you're finished..."

"Why are we here?"

"We need to figure out a plan of attack. This is where we part ways. I have a fine old gentleman to save down the street in a bit, while you head north, homebound. You have your city, I have mine. In the meanwhile, I plot our night. In honor of your inaugural, we work near your home turf. Tonight is pretty light. Tomorrow's the big day. Kids, two of them. That's important with them," she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. "So we save a couple lives in between. What we do is draw a path that hits as many as possible."

"And what about the people we miss?"

"Uh, they die. As they are supposed to." Stupid question. Strike one.

"No one is supposed to die."

"That's not true. We do a lot of car accidents. Eighty people will die tomorrow in wrecks because that is what is supposed to happen. Since we left, I've been off our route three times to play in traffic."

"I may have seen something." Deanna tilted her head and thinned her eyes. "Biloxi."

A soft grunt of surprise as Deanna dug through the deck before handing the new girl two cards. Etched in gold on each was the address of the intersection and a time close to where and when Deanna stopped in the road, as well as a person's name on top. "Vehicle crash with a fatality. One car ran a red light, hit another. The little red button by the steering wheel stalls the car until it's pushed again. I messed up the traffic patterns three minutes before, and cars couldn't drive as they should have. I didn't know which car was the naughty dealer, nor do I care. All I know is that two more lives are added to my tally. Quick, easy, fun." She took the cards back, placing them back into their envelopes and into her inner jacket pocket.

Deanna turned the laptop so Jan(e) could see its contents. Three dozen dots littered the map displayed on screen.

"This is a light night?"

"By myself, might have been rough. Two of us, no problem. Here you go. Your first to pop your cherry on. Bauer Hansom, architect. Home invasion, three hours from now."

"And there's nothing before that?"

"Most of these things can be handled with phone calls, besides more accidents. I'll handle them. I like screwing up traffic."

Deanna doled out assignments like the distribution of chores, turning her body to use the hood as a table. She created three piles; one stack in front of her, one near the new girl, and a third off to the side. She added commentary with each card. "Mine, yours, definitely mine, muck, yours, muck, oh, I have plans for this one..."

"What are these?" Jan(e) said, pointing to the third set of cards.

"That's the muck pile, the discards. In poker, those are the cards that are no good."

"I know what a muck pile is. Why are they there?"

"They're the ones we can't get to, time-wise. We try to do calls on those, but it's harder, and no guarantees."

The new girl flipped through the discards, turned to the onscreen map, and compared one to the first card Deanna had handed her. "You tossed this one out. It's twenty minutes before the one you gave me."

"Yeah, so?"

"I know the area. It's less than five miles away from this one."

"Yeah, but that one is an architect, and the other is a dirty hobo. You don't risk an architect for a dirty hobo."

"According to whom?"

"According to me. I'm here. I make game day decisions."

"Well, I'm here now, and I say it's possible to do both."

Strike two. The new girl seemed kinda dense, but Deanna would be nice. "Look, let me explain this clearly." She cupped both palms and extended them before her. "In this hand, let's weigh the value of a hobo heart." Her right hand drifted lower as her left hand rose at the same speed. "Now in this hand, let's place the heart of an architect." Her left hand plummeted downward as her right hand shot upwards. "Whoa. Let's add another hobo heart to the first." She wiggled the fingers of her right hand, but it did not drop. "Nope. No change. Let's add another. Two more? A full dozen? Nothing." Deanna clapped her hands together and wiped them.

"Just because someone is homeless, that doesn't make them worthless."

"Yeah, it actually does. Hobos have no worth. Architects do things, build things, like bridges for hobos to live and pee under."

"What about Monty? He was homeless."

"And he was worthless. He had no worth. Now that he has money, he has value."

"You'd tell him that to his face?"

"I have, and he agrees, mostly. We can't save everyone. We have to make choices. Save a child or save a convict, no question. If you think that's playing God, you're absolutely right. That's my favorite part."

"So if you have a choice between a housewife or a single businesswoman?"

"Either have kids?"

"No."

"Businesswoman. She's doing something with her life."

"Good god. A rich man or--"

"Rich guy."

"You didn't let me finish."

"Unless the other option is a richer man, then I stand by my answer."

"So money is all that matters," the new girl said with attitude.

"No, not money, but the pursuit of money or the pursuit of anything. Ambition, drive, momentum. Doing something with your life instead of giving up."

"What about someone pursuing their passion for art, or music?"

Strike three. What an idiot head. The new girl sucked. "Fine. Give me your example."

"Okay. A published poet or a--"

"Option B. Option B all damn day."

"Against a priest."

"Option B. Priests help people. You'd pick a poet over a priest?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying that poetry, theater, ballet, those things help people as well. Opera singers can move hearts with an aria; poets have the ambition to bring beauty into the world. Priests do not, by your criteria."

"I didn't say it was the only criteria, just a big one. And priests do have ambition. You don't think they want to be cardinals or popes? They strive to be subservient to a higher power. As someone who's done a lot of BDSM, I can appreciate that."

Jan(e) picked up the card from the muck pile. "I think the odds are good to where we can save both."

"Sure. Probably better than ninety percent. What I'm saying is that the ten percent risk isn't worth it, but it's your call. I don't care either way." Deanna collected her things and dumped them in her back seat. "Oh, one other thing. Keep the cards in the glove compartment when you go out. They can fall out in a scuffle. Remember, prime rule is no one can know."

Deanna left the new girl in the parking lot, as Deanna was bored with her already. She drove away to the home of one Mills Turpin, a recent widower who would be killed in a home invasion in eight minutes. Deanna arrived at the old man's home with time to spare and watched a figure work a crowbar on the door.

Standing in Turpin's living room, Deanna didn't need her card to tell his life story. On the left side of his fireplace mantle sat pictures of him in the Army and a boxing ring; on the right, one photo of his wedding, and the other, of an old wrinkle-faced lady next to an urn with a two-month old expiration date. It showed the man to be a fighter with a jagged, gaping, emotional wound, just what Deanna needed.

Shuffling noises sounded from the back of the house and a light flickered on. Sounds emanated from her feet, as the burglar Deanna followed into the home lay disoriented on the floor, a victim of her sapping him from behind. Instead of him beating the home owner to death, the story would show the tables as turned, as she knocked the container of freshly-roasted granny bits on the criminal's head.

Deanna sneaked out the front door and watched through the window as Turpin discovered the intruder in his home, covered in wife dust. The widower, broad of body with fists like meaty mallets, emitted a gut-wrenching wail as he cried, but, soon, as Deanna watched with glee through the parted window curtain, he had the intruder wailing and crying as well.

***

Jane arrived at the homeless camp early, parking a block away, and she surveyed the area before leaving her car. She had memorized the card's particulars: Milo Varris was in his sixties, sporting an olive-green BDU jacket and a gray beard; he was killed by an eight-inch serrated Bowie knife stabbed in his chest; and the attacker was a tall, thin, balding man with a mole near his nostril. The camp itself was in an area off the interstate with knee-high grass and waist-high brush amongst a smattering of trees. Two men sat on the sidewalk sharing a blanket and a bottle. Further down, a woman and her dog guarded her shopping cart filled with bags near a flimsy tent formed by a rope tied from a fence to a thick bush, with an old sheet draped over the line.

Two minutes later, Jane found Milo. His back was to her as he sorted pieces of cardboard to sleep on for the night, but he fit the details of the card. He was a human being, someone who once had dreams and a future, and he was not someone to be discarded into some arbitrary muck pile. Jane didn't know how to approach him. How was she to tell someone that their death was foretold? She couldn't, and probably wouldn't be believed anyways. Her best plan involved offering him some money, hoping he'd leave for some food or a room for a night, or even a liquor run, though she didn't wish to fund his further descent into despair. If he departed, this particular murder wouldn't happen, although the killer might find another target, but Milo was the priority. Worse case, Jane would wait, and try to stop the murderer herself.

Jane cleared her throat to attract the gentleman's attention. He turned and seemed startled someone had snuck up behind him. He appraised her appearance and Jane smiled to reassure him she meant no harm, that she wasn't the source of his encroaching end.

"Hello, sir," she said with a little wave. "Can I help you?"

The man looked around and Jane did likewise, but no one was close, certainly not the impending attacker. They looked at one another again, and Jane saw the move, the lowering of his left arm to brush back his jacket while the hand reached for something along his waist. It was a move that she had seen in training and she stepped back as he lunged, grabbing for her arm, catching her sleeve. She had less concern for the hand that clutched her than the one pulling out a knife.

An eight-inch serrated Bowie knife.

"Come here, bitch," and he tried to raise the blade to her throat. Her free hand prevented that, but they stumbled and fell joined to the ground. Both wheezed on impact, but Jane ignored any pain to keep the knife away. Her opponent wasn't tall, but thick enough that his weight provided an advantage and his reek made her eyes watery and her breathing laborious. His right hand grabbed the front of her shirt as it sought a way underneath. "This is how you can help me," he grunted as he fumbled for leverage, and his agape mouth dripped yellow nicotine saliva down towards her face.

Jane had one clear shot and she swung her left fist into his throat. His struggle slackened, and she pushed the knife away fast so the man punched himself in the eye with the handle. Milo leaned back, wincing in pain as he swiped at her with his free hand, grazing her enough that her head bounced off the pavement. She turned her body, one hand grabbing for the knife, the other for the fingers around it. Jane tore a pinkie free and snapped it back.

The man screeched and dropped the weapon as he tried punching her in the back, but once Jane had his thumb and broken finger, the fight turned in her favor, and soon, she had him stomach to the ground, her straddling his filthy form while bending his arm behind his shoulder blades. Her opponent flopped about and cursed, using all the negative terms for women in a considerable repertoire, and Jane felt able to breathe, noting the crowd forming around them.

"Please stay back," she said, waving the onlookers off, and she reached into her pocket for her phone. Eighteen minutes to get across town. She started dialing 9-1-1 when a patrol car rounded the corner with its red and blues flashing. She sighed, relaxing enough to hear the conversations around her.

"Fucking Milo," the woman said with her dog beside her. "Always knew he'd try to kill someone one day."

"You okay, lady?" said another stranger.

"Yes, fine now," as the scene became illuminated with the approaching headlights. "Thank you."

Some started to wander off, but one man leaned forward. "Got your ass handed to you by a girl, Milo, you shit," said a tall, skinny, balding gentleman with a mole by his nose. "You're lucky you didn't come at me with your little pigsticker, or I would've killed you with it."

He passed the dog owner as the police approached, and she muttered, "Someone should have taken that knife away from him long ago." She started to giggle. "Good going, girl. Asshole had it coming."

Jane stepped off as the officer took control of the scene. She didn't recognize him from the precinct, and he didn't seem to know her when he asked if Jane was fine, followed by an inquiry as to what was going on. Her response was interrupted by the other woman's narration, stating how Milo had a reputation of threatening people with his blade, and it was about time someone beat his ass. This started Milo cursing again and the two railed at one another, causing the officer to take the howling man to the back seat of his patrol car. Jane was trying to figure out how to reach the architect in time when her phone rang with a blocked number.

"Hello?"

"I have the car," a monotone voice said. "Do what you have to do there. We have the rest covered," and Sheshai hung up.

Jane was still staring at her phone as the officer returned with a clipboard, as well as a packet of antibacterial wipes, and he cleaned his fingers as he offered her some. "Here."

"Thanks," and she proceeded to sanitize her hands and phone.

"So, the man attacked you?"

"Yes."

"Well, that happens it this area. Are you all right? Do you require any medical attention?"

"Yes, and no, I'm fine."

"Okay," he said, raising his clipboard and pen. "First off, if I could have your name."

She paused, knowing the reaction, and then said. "Jane. Jane Berden."

He stopped his start of writing to look at her, trying to recognize her through the grime and messed up hair. He placed the pen on the clipboard, pressed the button on the walkie-talkie at his shoulder, and called a supervisor to the scene.

***

Deanna appeared by nine at Dr. Wiseman's house, a large modern building overlooking a lake with a Mercedes and a BMW in the circular driveway. She exited her car and opened the trunk to reveal plastic totes filled with her tools of the trade. She opened one and removed a nurse's uniform. She picked it based on one she'd seen in a Shirley Manson video, and brought along a matching wig. There was minimal lighting and few cars parked on South Amarra Ave., so Deanna stripped to her undergarments in the street. After all, she couldn't be seen driving around town in a plastic costume. That would be crazy.

She finished dressing, adorned the nurse's cap and gloves, tossed her clothes in the tote, and pulled out a black bag with a red cross on the side. She secured her car and checked her appearance in the side mirror before approaching the house. The Mercedes was this year's high-end model while the BMW, still a nice car, was three years older. Deanna rang the doorbell. The double doors lacked a peephole, but a camera loomed in the upper left-hand corner of the porch. Nothing was clear, though soft arguing leaked through the door. Deanna smiled as it opened.

An older balding man looked around the door. "Can I help you?"

"Why, yes, Doctor Wiseman," Deanna tugged down on the long blue surgical glove with her opposite hand. "I'm here to administer your medicine."

The man surveyed her outfit, licked his lips, and allowed Deanna entrance. The doctor's poorly tied gray-blue robe revealed a hairy belly and an orange thong, and around the corner stood a petite Latin girl in a black negligee under a pink robe of translucent material.

"Are you with the agency?" The girl's voice held the touch of a South American accent, and her words floated with grace through the air.

Deanna walked in and pirouetted, strolling backwards to address the doctor. "No, I'm here to save your life."

"How's that?" the girl asked, suspicion overriding confusion as mistrust crept into her voice. Deanna ignored her, turning again. The living room was as she imagined, clean and minimalist, with white furniture and rugs and glass windows overlooking a rectangular pool that throbbed with various colored underwater lights. The centerpiece was a glossy black table that really made the pharmaceuticals and currency stand out, along with a snifter of whiskey and a glass of red wine edged with lipstick. The only scents were the light touch of the girl's perfume and a hint of Bordeaux, but Deanna's reptilian brain detected something else in the air: money and debauchery. Deanna smiled. She felt at home.

"You are going to die tonight," Deanna said, "and like Jesus, I am going to bring about your resurrection."

Any humor or expectations on the doctor's part faded in an instant. "You need to leave. Now."

"I can't. You're going to go into cardiac arrest tonight. Probably due to that," she said, pointing to the girl before indicating the cocaine on the table. "Or that." She pointed to the Viagra next to it. "Or that," the brandy, "or that," before aiming her finger at his belly. "But really, most likely that."

The girl grabbed Deanna's arm and yanked. "Okay, bitch, you got to go." Gone was the pretense of Latin elegance, replaced with the harsh gravel of a Brooklyn accent.

Deanna backhanded the girl hard and knew immediately it was a mistake. This was not a delicate flower that would wilt in a windstorm, but a hard-scrapping girl that had to fight every step out of poverty. She caught Deanna's arm and used it to brace for a punch to Deanna's face.

Deanna leaned to her side and raised her shoulder, deflecting the blow before throwing the girl against the wall, knocking her head back. A barefooted kick landed in Deanna's stomach as she grabbed at the girl's hair. Fingernails aimed for Deanna's eyes, and she couldn't help but admire the color as she caught the wrist, pushing her body against her opponent's free arm to pin it against the wall. Releasing the girl's hair, Deanna withdrew her stun gun from a pocket and triggered it in the girl's belly. The girl straightened like a board, and Deanna guided her slide down the wall so the girl wouldn't crash to the tile floor. No reason to risk breaking any teeth or that cute nose. Deanna liked the girl. She reminded Deanna of herself when she was younger.

She turned to the doctor, who stood mute in the hallway. He had made no move to interfere in the battle. Deanna had found that men were genetically incapable of disrupting a catfight. "I'm trying to save your life here." Her words awoke the man from his stupor, as he scurried for a phone on a desk bureau. "Hey, stop that," she said, tossing the stun gun. "I'm trying to help." Her aim was for the phone, but it hit the top of his elbow. The result was better than expected, as he squealed, dropping his phone as he ran for his bedroom. In one fluid motion, Deanna reached in her bag, pulled out a revolver, and followed.

Deanna caught him in the doorway and pushed him. He tripped on his robe belt, spinning as he fell, landing with his back against the foot of the bed, his head on the mattress. Deanna straddled his waist and grabbed his throat.

"Why are you doing that? Why?" The doctor looked back to his right and reached his arm back as if he thought it could stretch to the dresser's landline ten feet away. Still, his fingers twitched as he grasped. "Stop it," she growled, pushing the gun against the side of his head. "I'm trying to save your life. What is wrong with you? Do you want to die? Is that it? Do you? Do you?" She was yelling now, grinding the gun barrel into his temple. He shook his head, sweat flopping off with every motion. "Then let me do my job."

His head shaking stopped with a jerk as he dug into the left side of his chest with his fingers. His face reddened as he gurgled for breath. Deanna sighed, smiled, and stood. "You see, this is what I'm talking about. It's a good thing I was here."

Deanna strolled back into the main room, but her pace quickened to a trot. "Oh, no, you don't," and her hand dove into her bag once more. She withdrew a syringe and pulled a plastic tip off with her teeth. The girl was on her knees, head sagging, struggling for her bearings. Deanna stabbed the needle into her bottom, pushing the plunger at the same time. The girl yelped and lashed out with a hand, each motion weaker than the last until she slumped to the ground. Deanna flicked the end of the syringe, snorting a short laugh as it wiggled back and forth before she left it there.

Deanna returned to the bedroom with the bag, removing a portable defibrillator and some lubricant from the inside. She squirted lube on the paddles before squeezing the rest on the doctor's chest. She pushed buttons on the defibrillator as it whirred with an electric hum. Deanna placed a paddle on the front and side of his chest. "Arise." She triggered the paddles, the body jerked and then lay still. "Arise," she yelled, zapping him again. "Arise!" and sent one final jolt.

The man lay dead.

"Shit." She reached for the side of the defibrillator to pull out the manual, which she had skimmed through earlier. "Electricity probably can't penetrate all that fat. Not judging," she told the corpse as she flipped through the pages. "Well, some judging. Crap," and she tossed the manual, grabbing the paddles once more. She spoke with every charge she sent. "Live, damn it." "Live." "Damn it." "Dammit." "God dammit." "Damn you!" "Damn you, you fat f--"

Wiseman jerked and grasped for air, and Deanna punched a paddle in the air. "Yes," and she stood. As he rolled to his side and heaved large breaths, Deanna wiped the paddles off on the bed sheets. "All better," and she threw everything back into her bag. She finished up, knocking the nightstand phone off its cradle and dialing 911. She leaned over the man, who recoiled from her, and whispered in his ear. "You're welcome."

Deanna walked back to the living room, removed the syringe, kissed her fingers and petted the injection site, paused, then rubbed the area again. She would have taken the money and drugs, but the scene was too perfect to deprive the first responders. She left the door open as she exited, stabbed the syringe into the BMW's tire, twisting it to widen the hole, and Deanna walked off into the night.

***

Six patrol vehicles arrived, including the sergeant on duty. One of Jane's training instructors, Sgt. Creegan, also arrived and consulted with other officers on site for a bit before approaching.

"So, how have you been doing?" he asked.

"All right, I suppose."

"So, what are you doing down here?"

"I wanted to help the people in the area."

"Help, how?"

"Ever since the lottery and everything that happened, I'd thought I'd give something back. I was about to give him some money when he pulled a knife. He came at me, I disarmed him, and was about to call you all."

"Okay. I'm going to stop you now. It would be better if you come down to the station, have your lawyer present, and get things straight."

There was something in Creegan's tone when he mentioned a lawyer. "I'm not following."

Creegan looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching before, "Look, I shouldn't even be talking to you. I was your direct superior and the department can't afford any more issues. I know you. I know you're a good person, but I also know how this is going to look. Call your attorney. You have no idea how bad this is going to get."