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By Joel Ross


PROLOGUE

June 20, eight years ago

How long can a petrified fifteen year old kneel at her murdered sister's grave after her funeral? You stay until you run out of tears and the cemetery staff locks up for the night.

Trudging home, you think of Nancy writhing on the filthy concrete, clutching at you as if to hold on to life itself, as you clamp small palms over her gaping wounds, unable to stanch the flow even for an instant. Who knew a person could bleed so much?

What hell hole will the social worker dump you into? Will you have the strength to get the cops to renew their half-hearted efforts to find Nancy's killers? Arriving home, you find the door bashed in, your apartment trashed, everything shattered into the same state of ruin as the rest of your life. When you race to the precinct the sergeant sighs. "Back again, Suzanne? No witnesses this time either, no leads for us to go on? Sounds like just a burglary so we can't give you any protection. Ask Social Services to place you. Have a nice day."

You slink out into the muggy night, flinching at shadows, knowing if the Tigresses don't find you today, they'll get you tomorrow, or the next day. Then you spot an empty wine bottle in the gutter and siphon off a quart of high octane. Later you steal a bat from a bike, pound rusty nails into it with a bent tire iron, bum matches, then grab the youngest Tigress, a kid your age, and wring enough information from her to get the others.

You wait until three AM, that unholy hour no when good can happen. Then, the sweat dripping off you, you dial 911 so innocents don't die along with the Tigresses. "Fire! Basement of 1972 Morris Avenue!" you shout before sprinting to the gang's lair, your Point of No Return. You hesitate but it's them or you and they've already made the choice. So you scratch match against striker and with a stink of sulphur light the rag stuffed in the firebomb's mouth and heave it through the open window. The humid stillness is broken by the tinkle of shattered glass, by their screams as you wait at their door, spiked bat on your shoulder.

The first one stumbles out naked, coughing, groping.

You give a home run swing to her legs, like the Romans did to Jesus on Calvary. She shrieks and falls, another girl topples onto her and you flail at them both, yelling "That's for Nancy! That's for Nancy and that's for Nancy!" until your throat is raw.

A third girl staggers out, choking, and you smash her too, until your arms ache but you keep pounding until the bat splits, then pull the tire iron from your belt and hit and hit until the next thing you recall is dashing from the wail of sirens.

Only three down. Seven Tigresses had butchered Nancy.

You racing all night, knowing the next four will be harder to get. So what? Your life is over, just like Nancy's, because in that moment of terror and rage you crossed the line so you might as well finish the job and leave the world a better place.

So you run and hide for the few hours or days you have left.

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