Vendetta. Meredith Fletcher

have fallen up the stairs as well to do all the damage they’d seen. She’d refused their offer to take her to the hospital and asked them to leave. Without testimony, the officers hadn’t been able to act.

      That experience remained within Marion’s mind. Women sometimes ended up helpless not because they lacked the will or ambition to take care of themselves. Many of them ended up victimized by men and life simply because they lacked options.

      Marion hadn’t wanted to be that helpless. But there were several women who still were. Someday, somehow, she wished she could help them realize their potential instead of accepting a secondary citizenship role. She also wanted to change the law so police officers could act to protect the welfare of a family without testimony.

      Marion had taken the job as an assistant district attorney not just because she loved the work, but because she’d wanted to show other women that they could succeed outside the home, too.

      That hadn’t worked out as well as Marion had hoped. Most of the wives of the men in the D.A.’s office resented her because they viewed her as a threat, not a role model. Some disliked her because she spent more time with their husbands than they did.

      Marion had always heard that nothing worth having ever came easily. She tried to remember that to convince herself she had made the right choices, but it was hard.

      Once the shower was over, the woman stepped into a pair of white cotton panties, a bra and pulled on the jumpsuit Whitten issued her. She pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. During the whole process, she never once acknowledged anyone else in the room.

      Marion felt sorry for the woman. During her time with the D.A.’s office, Marion had never watched anyone processed through an arrest. The whole experience seemed demeaning.

      Like dealing with cattle, Marion couldn’t help thinking. But then she focused on what the corpse had looked like in the motel room. Whatever family Colonel Thomas Marker had left behind couldn’t even have an open casket service. No one would be able to replace what the woman’s bullets had taken away.

      But thinking like that only raised the question of the woman’s motivation in Marion’s mind again. She really wanted to know what had happened in that motel room.

      They stood the prisoner against one wall and took pictures of her right profile and full face. She was booked under the name Jane Doe.

      A few moments later, Whitten looked at Marion curiously. “Where do you want her?” the matron asked.

      “Put her in interview room D,” Marion responded. “I’ll be along shortly.”

      The jailer nodded. She took the woman by the arm and guided her through the door. Before they’d gone three steps, the woman slid into sudden movement as graceful as a dancer’s choreography.

      The woman lifted her captured arm, folded it, then rammed it into the matron’s face. The meaty impact filled Marion’s ears. Blood gushed from the matron’s mouth, but she was a big woman and used to dealing with violent prisoners. The matron reached for the woman.

      The prisoner ducked beneath Whitten’s arms. She turned and spun on one foot. The other leg folded then snapped forward like a coiled spring. The prisoner’s bare foot caught Whitten in the throat with enough force to lift her from her feet.

      The matron stumbled backward and crashed to the floor. The other two female jailers rushed forward and tried to grab the prisoner.

      The prisoner grabbed the outstretched arm of one jailer as she sidestepped. She whirled and maintained her grip on the jailer’s arm. Something snapped with a sickening crunch. The jailer flipped and landed flat on her back. Her breath left her lungs in a rush.

      The other jailer slid her nightstick from her belt and swung at the prisoner’s head. In a blur of movement, the prisoner lifted her left arm, trapped the jailer’s arm under it, then spun back outside of the jailer’s reach. The prisoner delivered two punishing elbows to the jailer’s temple. The jailer crumpled but the prisoner stripped the nightstick from her hand before the woman collapsed.

      Marion stepped forward but wasn’t certain what she was going to do. Before she reached the prisoner, the woman whirled and smashed the nightstick across Marion’s forearm.

      Pain ignited in Marion’s head. Her senses screamed. Driven more by instinct than any planning, she tried to step back. But it was too late. The prisoner circled behind her and slid the nightstick across her throat.

      “Okay, muffin,” the prisoner said in that nasal accent. “It’s just you and me now.”

      Chapter 5

      Maricopa County Jail

       Phoenix, Arizona

       Thursday, May 16, 1968

       The Past

      Panic swelled through Marion as the prisoner held her. The crushing pressure against her windpipe was merciless. She knew she was only inches from death.

      “How do you feel now, muffin?” the prisoner whispered in her ear. “Are you afraid? Fear isn’t going to get you out of a situation like this. You’ve got to control your fear. Use it. When you can work with it, fear makes you faster, stronger. You’re never more alive than when you’re at the edge of death. Don’t you feel it?”

      Marion didn’t answer. She reached for the nightstick.

      The prisoner pulled the nightstick tighter. “Don’t. Get your hand down or I’ll snap your pretty little neck.”

      With effort, Marion got control of her fear and dropped her hand. She swallowed hard and hoped she didn’t throw up. Her senses swam, but she was certain that was more from the blood flow getting cut off to her brain than anything else. She almost fell.

      The pressure from the nightstick lessened.

      “Don’t pass out on me, muffin,” the prisoner commanded. “We’ve got places to go. Things to do. We’re going to start with getting out of here.”

      Across the room, Whitten got to her feet. The big woman gasped and wheezed. She helped one of the other jailers to her feet. The jailer cradled her broken arm.

      The third jailer lay on her back. Blood pooled beneath her from the laceration on her face. Whitten touched the woman’s neck. Marion’s stomach gave another sickening lurch when she realized Whitten was checking to make certain the woman was still alive.

      “I didn’t kill her,” the prisoner snarled. “I could have if I’d wanted to.” Savage joy resonated in her words. Marion heard it. But desperation was there as well. “I could have killed you too, piggy.”

      “You’re not getting out of here,” Whitten croaked.

      “I think I will.” The prisoner shook Marion. “I’ll bet nobody around here wants their token women’s libber in the D.A.’s office to end up dead this morning.”

      Whitten beat on the door without taking her eyes from the prisoner. Marion saw anger on the big woman’s face, but she saw fear as well.

      The door opened and a deputy shoved his head inside. He took in the scene at a glance, drew his weapon and started to come into the room.

      “Stay out,” the prisoner ordered. “Or I’ll kill her.”

      The deputy froze.

      “Get the sheriff,” the prisoner said. “Get Keller.”

      The deputy stepped back outside. Whitten started to step through the door, too.

      “Not you, piggy,” the prisoner said.

      Whitten pointed at the unconscious woman lying on the floor. “She needs a doctor.”

      “She can wait.”

      Marion felt the prisoner’s breath hot against her neck and ear.

      “Are you still with me,