"Did he say where he kept his victims?" I asked.
"Just that someone in his family had a place near the beach, up the coast, and no one used it. He was always bragging his family had money and that part must have been right because he had a first class lawyer and most of us were stuck with public defenders who didn't know the word appeal." Willard Humphries, confessed rapist, began to yawn.
"Does the name John Luke Grasso ring any bells?" I asked. He shrugged. "The Luke part would fit but I just can't say. Lots pass by up there in a dozen years. They're all dead now, in one way or another, if they ain't found Jesus.
My mind jingled with questions of recidivism of his souls, the operation he'd alleged to have personally endured and if others had followed suit, or, if he encouraged them to do so. Alas, The Reverend Willard Humphries was done for the night, and so was I.
Boston, Massachusetts. Dropping off this little package was accomplished with no regret as she wouldn't cease screaming her head off keeping my nerves on edge the entire time we were together. And she was so quiet when I plucked her from her sleep her mother didn't hear, at least at first I wonder if they've found her or her troublesome husband yet?
Now she's gone, disposed of not in the usual way. And I'm gone too; again, not in my usual way of departure. Life is more exciting when one treads away from the everyday path, seeking bold new horizons.