The Colonel’S Son

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-One

Chapter Ninety-Two

Chapter Ninety-Three

Chapter Ninety-Four

Chapter Ninety-Five

Epilogue

Chapter Ninety-Six

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Chapter Ninety-Eight

For Andrea

Prologue

Wind swirled between the towering buildings of downtown Dallas, rounding up trash and leaves and sending them aloft briefly before they settled back onto the concrete. Don Taggart made his way down Akard Street, reflecting for a moment on his small hometown of Dillon and the measured calm surrounding the lake there. The bustling crowd had thinned to just a few stragglers since it was growing late and most of the commuters had retreated to the suburbs. Taggart paused, waiting for what appeared to be a harried office worker to pass, and then stepped into a small neighborhood bar named Cotton’s.

Taggart was tall, six-foot-one, with an athletic build. He stood just inside the entrance as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkened setting.

Cotton’s was typical of the older city bars; booths were along the wall on the right, and to the left were a pool table and an unlit jukebox. Beer signs hung around the bar, a few of which were illuminated and surrounded by stale cigarette smoke.

An old man was playing pool by himself and grumbled each time he missed a shot. Two women sitting at a booth near the entrance smiled at Taggart. He didn’t even notice them; and when his eyes adjusted, he nodded to a man drinking alone at the bar.

Taggart took the stool next to him and ordered a beer. When the barkeep slid the longneck in front of him, he took a drink and asked in a hushed voice, Is everything ready?

The man took a drag on his cigarette and answered, Yeah, it’s all set. Midnight in the Trinity River bottoms, behind that gas station, you know, the Fuel Stop on Industrial.

Taggart took another sip from his beer. Will Sal be there?

Yeah, he’s got the goods, you bring the cash. Midnight, straight up.

The man gulped down the last of his beer, put a ten on the bar, and left. As the bartender took two more beers over to the ladies in the booth, Taggart quietly said, Got that? It’s at midnight. Same place as before. He was wearing a wire.

Don Taggart was a detective for the Dallas Police Department working in a special drug enforcement sting operation. For the last six months he had been undercover posing as Ed Stewart, a high-end drug dealer. His target was Sal Agnoletti, one of the largest distributors in the Southwest. Stewart had made a deal to purchase five kilos of heroin, a huge score. His lone requirement had been that he did business with Agnoletti direct. He told the dealer he wanted to know who he was doing business with. I want to meet the man. A hundred grand ought to give me that right. Agnoletti didn’t like to work in the field, but for a sale this big he had made an exception.

Sal Agnoletti had probably destroyed more lives than Dallas’ top two or three other distributors combined. The DPD wanted him in the worst way. That’s why Detective Taggart was dressed in slacks and a sports shirt from Neiman Marcus, wearing a gold Rolex, driving a silver Lexus 500, and had $100,000 in cash locked in the trunk. He looked, walked, and talked like a big-time drug dealer.

Taggart was intent on busting Agnoletti. He needed something to go right. Six months was a long time to work with slime like Agnoletti. He had lived their god-awful life so long he was just about to the edge. His wife, Ellen, had clearly been deeply affected by his life undercover as well. Just that morning she’d told him she wanted a divorce.

#

Taggart and Ellen met when he was a star running back at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth. She was the daughter of a wealthy criminal attorney, Walter Hampton III. Mister Hampton had developed a vast financial empire in commercial real estate along with gas and oil holdings.

The Hampton family adored Taggart and pushed for him to become part of their family. They wanted him and Ellen to be married. After football he would get his law degree and join the firm. Taggart became caught up in all the hype that went with the prospect of marrying the beautiful daughter of one of the most powerful men in Texas.

They did get married, and everything was wonderful until midway through his junior year when a linebacker from New Mexico State rolled up his right leg; and Taggart suffered a torn ligament in his right knee. He had been a consensus All-American, the best running back at TCU since Jim Swink; but one missed block by a pulling guard and his football career was over. Taggart was crushed with disappointment, but it seemed to have bothered the Hampton family even more.

It took a while, but Taggart finally got his act back together and became serious about his studies. He changed his major from pre-law to criminal justice. Mister Hampton was more than just bothered when Taggart refused the opportunity and prestige of joining the firm. He was pissed. By the time Taggart graduated, Mister Hampton had little to do with his son-in-law beyond being courteous at family functions. Taggart didn’t really miss the backslapping bullshit. In fact, he didn’t really like Mister Hampton much; and when his friends called him Third as a nickname, Taggart took to calling Mister Hampton Turd when no one could hear.

Don and Ellen had been in Dallas for nearly six years, but she never seemed to be really happy after things turned out the way they did. She hated Dallas and the modest standard of living she had to endure on a detective’s salary. As a result, she spent most of her time in Fort Worth at Daddy’s country club. The last six months, with Taggart working around the clock, had been just too much, or maybe she just needed the excuse. Ellen was going home to Daddy.

#

It was just before midnight when Taggart turned off Industrial Boulevard onto a lightly traveled dirt road that would take him to the river bottoms. The Dallas skyline glowed brilliantly behind him. He drove through a chain-link gate that had been busted open weeks before. He paused atop a huge embankment and looked down at the river.

There were no trees in the bottoms. The river cut through a grassy plain that extended about four hundred yards from the natural banks to the huge embankment. He could see Sal Agnoletti’s Cadillac limousine parked on the grassy flat below. From Taggart’s vantage point he could tell it was the only car in the area. Off in the distance, out of earshot, a helicopter hovered, waiting for Taggart’s command, Commence.

Slowly Taggart made his way down the steep hill. Agnoletti’s driver got out of the limo and stood in front of the headlights so he could be easily seen. He was a huge man. The agreement was for Agnoletti to bring only his driver. Ed Stewart, or Eddie as they called him, was to come completely alone. No driver and no bullshit.

Even though there was no one in the in the plush Lexus with Taggart, he was not by himself. Eight men were stationed around the meeting place in virtual foxholes. The bunkers were covered with plywood, and there was dirt and grass over the boards. Agnoletti liked to meet in the bottoms because it was so wide open it would be impossible to stage an ambush. Or so he thought.

Taggart spoke into the wire, As planned, come in on my command. The closer he drove to the other car the more rapid his heart beat. He wasn’t scared but had a healthy respect for the ruthlessness of Agnoletti.

He drove up to within about fifty feet of the limo. It was a clear night with a half moon, plenty bright to conduct business.

Speaking into his wire, Taggart said, Let’s get this show on the road. He adjusted his earpiece, checked his firearm, grabbed the briefcase carrying the money, and got out of the Lexus. Agnoletti stepped out but stayed to the side of the Cadillac. Taggart said, Okay, the driver goes back in and you come forward.

Agnoletti came forward and said, Relax, Eddie. Everything’s cool. There was a sarcastic edge to his voice.

In his sixties, Agnoletti stood only about five-foot-six and was probably thirty pounds overweight. He carried the package in one hand and his trademark cigar in the other.

Slowly they started toward each other. Agnoletti said, Are you armed, Eddie?

Taggart said, Hell, yes, I’m armed.

Agnoletti laughed and said, Good, I am too. And by the way, so is Big Tony back in the car. He likes those little sub-machine guns, you know; he’s got an Uzi.

Taggart said, Let’s just be cool, and we can all go home happy.

The two men were about twenty feet apart when Taggart heard an engine noise. It was coming up behind him, and he couldn’t tell what it was. Agnoletti could see headlights barreling down on them. He was confused at first and then screamed, You bastard, thinking the oncoming vehicle was some kind of a double-cross. He dropped the package and went for his gun. In the background, Big Tony was getting out with the Uzi.

A dune buggy roared up; and in the instant that is the difference between life and death, Taggart heard laughter.

Big Tony panicked and opened fire with the automatic weapon. Taggart yelled, Commence, commence, just as he was knocked to the ground when a slug from Agnoletti’s gun tore through his left shoulder.

The members of the hidden SWAT team were already coming up when they heard Taggart’s command. They shouted, Freeze, put down your weapons! Police, freeze, goddamnit! In seconds the helicopter hovered overhead and lit up the area like a baseball field with its powerful searchlights.

Amid all the confusion, Agnoletti ran back to the limo. Taggart took aim but didn’t fire. Agnoletti stumbled and landed flat on his face. Two officers were on him before he even had a chance to try and get up. Big Tony was standing next to the limousine with his hands in the air yelling, Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!

Taggart pulled himself up and leaned against the Lexus while two officers hurried over. One asked, Are you okay?

Taggart groaned and said, Yeah, I think so, it’s just my shoulder.

The other officer called for an ambulance and reported, They’re on the way.

Taggart could hear someone reading Agnoletti his rights. The dune buggy was off to the side. Two officers stood over the occupants. One said, Shit, they didn’t have a chance, and walked away. The other officer walked away too, shaking his head.

Taggart started toward the dune buggy, but an officer stepped in front of him and said, Hey, you need to just stay over here. The ambulance is on the way.

Taggart could hear the sirens in the distance but pushed past the other cop and struggled to the dune buggy. He couldn’t believe what he saw. It looked to be a father and his son. They had probably sneaked in the same broken gate the men had driven through earlier and were out just having some late-night fun. They were riddled with bullets. It was a bloody mess. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten.

#

Detective Taggart was out of the hospital in less than a week and was sent home to recuperate. For the first time, he was alone in the small apartment. Ellen called once to check on him but didn’t even bother to visit. While he was in the hospital, she moved out her things. She was gone for good, and he knew it. In reality she had been gone for a long time.

Taggart was presented with the DPD’s special medal for bravery. The local press loved the story, and his picture was on the front page of the Dallas newspaper; but rather than hurrying back to duty, Taggart asked for a leave of absence.

His wound from the gunshot healed nicely, but he was tortured by the memory of the young boy shot dead next to his father. Somehow this revived memories of all the other atrocities he had seen during his six years on the force.

When his two-week leave was over, he returned to police headquarters and turned in his badge. He’d thought it through; he was going home to Dillon, a rural community in the rolling hills and lake country of northern West Texas.

Chapter One

A white frame house sat about two hundred feet from the shoreline of Lake Dillon. A large wooden deck had been added to the front. Thick cedars, originally planted at the corners, were overgrown and virtually surrounded the home. A huge cottonwood tree grew about thirty feet away toward the lake. It towered above the small dwelling.

The paint was beginning to peel, but there was a fairly new, green composition roof. It was not unlike many of the original structures that were built when the man-made lake was completed after WWII.

The land gently sloped to the water, and a boat was tied to an old dock that was in poor repair. A shed stood to the side, halfway back up the lot. It was in the best condition of all. Deep woods ran along next to the shed.

Bathed in moonlight, it was an idyllic setting; and the night sounds of spring enhanced the layer of calm that settled across the lake and hills.

#

Frank Buck Banks lived alone. He and his wife Polly bought the property a year before his retirement from the United States Air Force. They’d planned to travel the world as civilians and use the lake house as their home base, until Polly suffered a massive stroke and died.

Buck had always been an intolerant man; but after the loss of his wife and a forced early retirement, he had become even more so. The peace that lay on the land was in sharp contrast to the inferno that continually burned in Buck.

#

The sound of an owl floated down from a distant tree, and two raccoons scampered up on the porch and sniffed around for a morsel of human food, their favorite. An armadillo dug ferociously in the yard, looking for a grubworm.

Everything seemed to be just as it should until a shadow slipped out of the shed and cautiously hurried across the open yard to the side of the house.

A man stood there, his heart pounding in his chest. He carried a small spade. It had been easy to find. Earlier that day he had sharpened all the hand tools in the shed.

The raccoons scurried away as the man approached Buck’s house. Ever so slowly he stepped on the porch, and his heart beat even faster when his first step produced a loud creak. He froze for a minute and then crept lightly to the screen door. He pulled back the door as quietly as he could and again stood perfectly still.

His hands were shaking as he rotated the doorknob. He whispered, Shit, when he found the door locked. The armadillo, unable to find a grub in the lawn, started to noisily dig right next to the porch step. Startled by the sound, he almost let the screen door slam shut. Shit, he repeated and noticed a quiver in his voice.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a house key. Slowly and quietly he put it in the lock and turned it until he felt the tumbler move. By now the moon was so bright it seemed he could have read a book in its glow. The shadowy figure disappeared inside.

It wasn’t just his hands shaking now; he was trembling all over. For a moment he hesitated, but it was too late—there was no turning back.

After his eyes adjusted to the dark, the man crept across the wooden floor toward Buck’s bedroom. Each time the floor let out a tiny squeak he froze, making sure he heard nothing else. As he inched along, his breathing became so shallow he felt starved for oxygen.

By the time he got to the doorway of Buck’s bedroom, he was weak in the knees. He’d smoked a joint earlier and fought the insane urge to giggle.

Ever so slowly the man peered around the door opening into Buck’s room. Just as he did, the lights flashed on; and a huge fist hit him squarely between the eyes.

Buck was below average in height, but he was thick and very strong with powerful arms and legs. His fist was like a sledgehammer.

The smaller man was caught completely off guard. He staggered back a few steps before catching his balance. Buck recognized the man and screamed, You, as he charged toward him. The intruder turned away and raised his arms around his head, trying to protect himself. Again Buck slammed a fist into him, this time at the base of his neck. Buck’s eyes were wide with rage as he screamed, You, you little prick!

The smaller man grunted loudly as the blow slammed down, and extreme pain exploded out in all directions. For an instant he thought he was going to die.

Buck was strong, but the other man was cat-quick. The small spade was in his right hand; and with his arm extended, he shot up and spun. Buck had raised both of his arms above his head to start another crushing strike, this time with both fists. He left himself unprotected; and before he could start the downward movement, his only son ripped a hole in his throat just below his Adam’s apple.

The young man, Cotter Banks, scrambled away, leaving the sharpened spade so far back in his father’s throat that only the handle stuck out. Buck stood there with a look of shock on his face while he grabbed at the spade. He tried to speak, but the small shovel had severed his vocal cords and windpipe. The attempt only forced blood to gurgle from the huge tear.

Buck’s look of shock was replaced by a frown as he went down to his knees. Now blood was gushing from his throat, turning the front of his white t-shirt and G.I. boxers red. He grabbed the handle of the spade and somehow managed to pull it free.

Cotter’s eyes were wide with amazement as he watched his father shake his head no and fall forward as his eyes rolled back. He crashed hard on his front, his arms dangling at his sides. The color drained from Cotter’s face as he stood silently and watched a pool of blood grow quickly around his father’s head and shoulders. The decorated Air Force colonel’s right leg jerked like he was asleep and having a bad dream. Cotter had done something even our nation’s enemies could not do—he had killed the colonel.

Chapter Two

Cotter was so weak he could hardly stand. He staggered into the kitchen and slumped onto a chair at the table. He wanted to rid himself of the overwhelming anxiety that had him in its grasp. He had felt like this just once before. When he was fourteen, Buck had taken him deer hunting. A doe had wandered into an opening, and the colonel had forced him to shoot the small deer. Be a man, Buck had said.

Cotter felt the same way now as he had that day when they emerged from their hunting blind and walked to the quivering deer. Buck fever the old man had called it as he slapped Cotter on the back, proud of his son’s first kill. The ironic link of that day and this was not lost on Cotter as the horrible feeling lingered.

He felt panicky as his mind raced, thinking about what he needed to do. He knew enough to know this could not appear to be a crime of passion. It needed to look like a bungled robbery, so he went about opening drawers and spilling the contents. He took Buck’s billfold and an additional thirty-five dollars he found in his bedside table. He also located Buck’s guns—two shotguns, a deer rifle, and his government-issue .45-caliber automatic. Cotter wiped his prints away from anyplace he thought could connect him to the crime, just like burglars would have done.

Next he needed the murder weapon. He stretched out over the pool of blood and was just able to reach the spade. He stood up and looked at the bloody instrument in his hand. The brutality of what he had done grabbed him, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. Instead he smiled.

#

Just two hours before, Cotter had been helping Buck with chores at the house. He was a student at Texas State University down in San Marcos. He’d agreed to come up for the weekend to give Buck a hand, but he knew from the word go it was a bad idea. Buck had never been much of a father to Cotter, treating him more like an airman than a son. Since Polly had passed on, it seemed Buck was trying to establish some sort of a relationship; but in Cotter’s eyes it was too little too late. He despised Buck.

By Sunday, the two of them were arguing constantly. Finally they had a shouting match on the front porch; and after telling Buck to get fucked, Cotter left. As he threw his gear into the back of his Ford pickup, he heard Buck shout, You worthless piece of shit. Fuck you too!

The screen door slammed as Buck stormed back inside. Cotter was fuming as he spun his tires in the soft soil, sending up a flume of dirt and rocks as he drove off.

Cotter didn’t head back to school though. He drove down the lane that led to Buck’s place and hid his truck. He found an overgrown road that went back up into the hills opposite the lake. It was no more than a half-mile from where he had just left. He backed up the road until he could not be seen and then waited for nightfall.

While he was waiting, he got a joint out of a Band-Aid tin he kept hidden in the springs under his seat. It didn’t take long before he was stoned; and even though he didn’t have a plan, he knew all hell was about to break loose.

Buck always went to bed early; so about an hour after dark, Cotter started working his way back through the woods.

He was the same height as Buck; but other than that, there were few similarities. He had somewhat broad shoulders and narrow hips but was short-legged. His high school gym teacher told him he had the build of a gymnast, and he held on to the belief that it was something to be proud of.

Cotter’s dark brown hair was fine and always lay on his forehead like bangs. His dark eyes were close-set, and he had a narrow nose. His cheeks were often flushed, one of the few physical traits he’d inherited from his father.

As he made his way back, he was careful to stay away from the road. Only one car had passed since he’d been waiting, but he wanted to be as cautious as possible. A deer had scared the shit out of him in the woods. If it weren’t for the grass he’d smoked, he would have probably turned back then, but he didn’t.

Chapter Three

Cotter struggled as he carried the guns to his truck. He was exhausted and dreaded the long drive back to school. He wanted to smoke another joint but decided against it. He didn’t want his brain to get more addled than it already was.

He left the lake area, only pausing atop Vickery Bridge just long enough to throw the guns into the deep waters of Lake Dillon. He started to toss the spade in as well but at the last minute decided against it. Instead, he pitched it into the back of his truck. For some strange reason he wanted to keep it. He would do something with it later. Right now it had the same significance to him that the chest full of campaign ribbons had to Buck.

Cotter headed over to Interstate 35 and drove south on the highway back. He lived in Garrison Hall on the Texas State campus. His roommate had dropped out after the first six weeks, so Cotter lived alone. He could easily sneak in at this late hour and no one would be the wiser.

The drive to the university went smoothly. His emotions ranged from euphoria to strong waves of anxiety. One thought kept going through his mind—as big of an asshole as Buck had been, he’d never murdered anyone. Cotter tried to keep reminding himself that the son-of-a-bitch got what he deserved.

He got into his dorm room without being noticed, but it was impossible for him to sleep—not because of regret for what he’d done but rather the fear of getting caught. The fear had pushed aside any debate of right versus wrong. At the time, he had given no consideration to the consequences of being found out; but that possibility now had a chokehold on him, and it was relentless.

He likened the way he felt to the buck fever he had experienced, but it was different this time. Instead of being the hunter, he feared he would soon become the hunted.

Abruptly Cotter sat up straight in bed. Oh, shit, the fuckin’ spade! he exclaimed. He’d left it in the back of his truck. What if the police were knocking at his door first thing in the morning and he was caught red-handed with the murder weapon! He pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and hurried downstairs.

He climbed on the rear bumper and grabbed the spade. Relieved, he stuck it in his back pocket and retraced his steps back to the room. This time, though, he did not go unnoticed.

Benjamin Wilson, another student on his floor, was returning from the bathroom. What’re you doin’ up, Wilson? Cotter asked. Been in the can chokin’ your chicken again? Better look out, man; you’re gonna wear out that little dick of yours before you get any real pussy.

Before Benjamin could respond, Cotter ducked into his room and closed the door, laughing loudly. Benjamin muttered, Prick, and went on down the hall.

Cotter took a hand towel and wrapped it around the spade. Then he put it on the floor next to the A/C unit and pulled open a small access panel near the bottom. He hid it there along with his marijuana. He smiled; no one would find it.

Stripping down to his shorts, he lay down on his bed surrounded by almost total darkness. Only a sliver of light shined on the wall next to him as it slipped by the tightly drawn curtain. Slowly he massaged his crotch.

He’d felt himself grow erect a few times on the drive to school, the excitement from the slaying manifesting itself as sexual tension. He craved the release that could be obtained only by masturbation. With little effort, he brought himself to a shuddering climax. Never before had an orgasm come so quickly and been so complete in its release. Without cleaning himself, Cotter fell into a restless sleep.

Chapter Four

Lucy Graham had lived in the cottage next door to Buck for twenty years. A plump woman, she was in her early sixties and was desperately lonely. Her children were back east. Just getting by on her deceased husband’s small pension, she had no extra money for travel to see the children and such. She tried not to think of herself as nosey but made it her business to know what was going on in her area of the lake.

Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Buck outside. In fact, she hadn’t noticed him since his son had visited nearly a week before. His Buick was still in the driveway, so she decided to go over to determine if all was well. She’d tried to make friends with Buck after Polly passed away, but he was just not a very friendly man. Nonetheless, she kept an eye out for him and tried to visit when she saw him outside. She had been widowed for eight years; and in her mind, it only made sense they should be friends.

Lucy’s graying hair was pulled tightly back at the sides. She wore a loose-fitting cotton dress with a sunflower pattern over a tan background. She cautiously stepped on Buck’s front porch and called his name as she made her way across the deck.

When she was a few feet from the door, she felt something might be wrong. The screen door was closed, but the front door was open. As she got closer, a dreadful smell wafted from the house. She was shaky and started to go back home but instead inched her way to the opening and peeked inside.

It took a minute for her to be able to see as she looked into the dark room. At first, all she could see was an odd shape on the floor. As her eyes adjusted, she realized it was Buck, lying face down with flies circling his head. She staggered back from the door with her hands on her cheeks and her mouth wide open. She stumbled from the porch and screamed without breathing as she lumbered back to her cottage. She never took her hands away from her face.

When Lucy got back inside, she wrung her hands and paced nervously, trying not to envision the grotesque scene she had just witnessed. She slumped into a kitchen chair and began to sob. Her shoulders heaved as she cried into a dishtowel.

"No, no,