After not finding Anthony at his landscaping office and confirming with a couple of the workers that he hadn't gone out to visit crews, Veronique headed for Camp Sawgrass. It was almost dusk when she pulled into the camp. She parked in front of the office and glanced around for Anthony's truck. It wasn't there. Her eyes fell on five motorcycles, and she realized she didn't know what Anthony's bike looked like. She quickly looked toward the brick barbecue area that some of the men sat around. She didn't see Anthony, but she did recognize one man. She'd treated him for a sexually transmitted disease. Glad that she always carried a medical bag, she grabbed it and got out of the car, secretly grateful that one of the men would recognize her.

She expected the whistles and offensive comments and breathed a sigh of relief when the man she treated said, "None of that, fellas. This lady here is special, and Anthony will cut your throat if you mess with her."

She smiled at the comment and reveled in the man's description of Anthony's protectiveness toward her. She stepped up onto what was once probably a stylish eating area for the campers. The wooden picnic tables had long since rotted and were now replaced with Adirondack chairs that used to perch on some of the bunkhouse porches, sheltered from the elements. The five men lazed in them as they ogled her. Her heels clicked on the expensive pavers as she walked closer. To the left of the motley group she saw the fancy, oversized barbecue area. It was expansive and had several cook grills and storage areas beneath. Everything but the iron grills were made of brick, and the structure took up the entire left side of the patio area. She saw something on one of the grills and tried to suppress a grimace. It was the charred remains of a human hand.

One of the men noticed her stifled reaction and taunted her saying, "That's all that's left of Denny. Wave hello to the pretty doctor, Denny." There was a round of laughter.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Doc," the man she'd recognized said. He swallowed the last sip of his beer, and after crushing the can he tossed it over his shoulder. It hit the fancy brick pavers with a ping and bounced into the grass.

"I've been busy at the hospital and I usually hear from Anthony if there's an emergency," she answered. "I guess there haven't been any problems?"

"If you think John's itchy scrotum counts as an emergency then I guess we could've called you," one of the men called out. There was a round of laughter, and Veronique forced a smile.

"Is Anthony here?" she asked while raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Nah," the man said. "Heard he had business in Miami. He’ll head straight for home when he gets back to this coast and won’t show up here until tomorrow probably."

She straightened her posture and assessed her situation. She couldn't confront him if he wasn't around. She needed a few minutes to gather her thoughts and she needed to do it away from this unsavory lowlife bunch of dirt bags.

"I'll check to make sure the infirmary isn't short of supplies," she said. The man she'd been talking to stood then and scratched his crotch. Apparently, he was John.

"I'll see ya later, Doc." He stretched and yawned. "I ain't slept for almost twenty-four hours." He then turned to address the men. "Since you guys are riding out tonight, this is my farewell." He shot them the bird and there was a round of laughter.

One of them commented, "California here we come!"

Then the men started throwing comments out about how he'd get more sleep if he wasn't too busy banging Shasta with his puny little finger.

He started to walk away when Veronique said, "One more thing. I met a friend of yours today. Ben Diamond came to my ER this afternoon. My deal with Anthony was that I would be called out here if I was needed. I don't need a bunch of bikers showing up and acting like they know me." She brushed a frustrated hand through her hair and gave him a level look.

John had turned around to face her. "Don't know no Ben Diamond," he said before heading for the bunkhouse.

Shasta watched from the office window. She frowned when John headed for the bunkhouse. She knew he would be crashing in one of the beds. The four men that now sat around the barbecue pit frightened Shasta. They'd abused her more than once, and she'd been counting on John giving her a ride into the city, so she didn't have to fight off their advances. She was going to crash on her older sister's sofa for a few days. She normally wouldn't have a problem performing sexual favors for any or all of them. It was the beating that she had to take afterward from one in particular. The tall one named Andrew took sadistic pleasure in hurting her during and after sex. When the doctor spun around and headed for the office, Shasta backed away from the window and ran to the infirmary where she crawled beneath the cot.

She heard the woman's heels click against the wooden floor as she walked around the office area. Shasta remained quiet, hoping the doctor would avoid the infirmary. As far as Shasta was concerned, Dr. V could go jump off a cliff. She was a smug, self-righteous, egotistical snob who basked in the men's idol worship of her. She barely made eye contact with the women that needed medical attention, scolding them for being weak and shaming them for selling their bodies for drugs. Shasta had always despised her and now wondered why the doctor hadn't been at the camp for months. Could it have something to do with the woman Anthony had his gang looking for? She was startled from her thoughts when the shrill ring of a phone broke the silence. She heard the doctor answer the telephone that sat on the office desk, right outside the infirmary's open door.

"Hello?” she said. Veronique's voice floated through the office. "Who?"

"No, there's no Judy here," she replied to whoever had called. "Yes, I'm sure." Her tone was one of mild aggravation. A beat passed. "No, this is not a dry cleaner. You obviously have the wrong number." She hung up the phone.

Veronique stood at the desk and gazed out at the four men who were left sitting around the barbecue area. A plan started to form in her mind and with Anthony gone she was certain she could execute it flawlessly. Especially if she could count on the four degenerates sitting outside to unwittingly help her before they left for California. A slow, evil smile crept over her face as she picked up the phone and dialed the number to Anthony's home.

Christy sat on the couch and popped her favorite snack into her mouth. Pistachio nuts left her fingers stained red, but she considered it a small price to pay for the enjoyment she got from eating them. She was having a hard time concentrating on the television show she was watching. It was dark outside now, and she realized she was anxious to see Anthony. This had been the longest they'd been apart since the day she drove over the Alley by herself and ended up at the Glades Motel. She shuddered when she thought what could've happened to her if Moe hadn't sought Grizz's help. Not letting herself go down that road, she changed the channel and kept glancing at the drawn blinds that hung on the front window. Even though they were closed, she knew she'd be able to see his headlights through the slats when he pulled up.

The phone in Anthony’s office startled her, and she jumped. Should she answer it? Of course I should, she told herself as she stood and strode to the open door. Why wouldn't she? She could take a message for him without saying her name. Besides, what if it was him? What if it was important. She picked it up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Christy, this is Veronique. Doctor Dubois." Christy thought her voice sounded a little different. More high pitched.

"Are you okay? Is something wrong?" she asked the woman, her senses telling her something wasn't right.

"I'm fine, but Anthony isn't," she said, her voice returning to its normal tone.

"What? How do you know that? Where are you?" Christy fired her questions rapidly, her pulse racing.

"I stopped by the camp to do a wellness check on his men, and Anthony pulled in a few minutes later. I guess he needed to come here before heading home to you. Anyway, he got into a horrible fight with one of the guys. It's bad, Christy. I think you should be here."

Christy couldn't catch her breath. "Did you call an ambulance?" she asked, her voice cracking. "I can meet you at the hospital. Which hospital will they take him to?"

"No. I can't call an ambulance. Anthony won't let me and I don't need to tell you the risk I'd be taking if I'm seen at the camp. I'll have to operate on him here."

"Operate?" Christy screamed. "Let me talk to him. Please!"

"I can't bring the phone to him. It won't reach. And he's in no position to get up and walk to it." She sounded exasperated. "You know I'm a surgeon. I can do this." She paused. "I need to remove a bullet, Christy."

Christy swallowed back a sob. "You have to operate on him there? That doesn't seem like a good idea to me."

"I'm a trauma surgeon, and I'm good at what I do. I can safely remove the bullet," she lied in her best authoritative doctor voice. Her next words weren't as easy to get out. "He's asking for you, Christy. He won't let me touch him unless you're here with him."

"I've never been to the camp. Can you tell me how to get there?" Christy asked.

After getting directions and hanging up, Christy grabbed her keys and ran to her car. She didn't lock the house behind her. She didn't remember her bag with her wallet. She started her little car and drove as fast as she could to Camp Sawgrass while her heart hammered so hard she expected it to jump out of her chest.