4 girls. 4 months. and 22 days.

Slack-jawed and bleary-eyed Agent Lefleur sifted back through the notes, photos, reports, and dictations that covered the desk of his motel room. His hand reached absently for a coffee cup he’d thrown against a wall an hour ago. Time nagged at his mind and crept down his spine.

22 days.

The town freak, the hunchback of Bastrop, LA, seemed so likely a suspect. But he was in custody, drunk and disorderly, for abduction number 3.

4 girls.

The town, an old Southern town, was full of secrets. And he, an outsider, a damn Yankee no less, was stuck prying those secrets from swamp-dirtied fingers. Sure, everyone wanted to help, but nobody wanted to say, least of all the gun-happy coot circling town.

4 months.

And that drama teacher, the one with the preacher’s smile and the devil’s eyes, he just stuck out there. Clean. Gentile, he thought the word was around here. Too slick. Too something.

22 days.

Time to ask questions. Time for answers. Time to act. No time.