Jean walked to the single bathroom the little two-bedroom, countryish home boasted, clicking the lock softly behind her and removing her robe. She seated herself daintily on the toilet- seat, her young mind rehashing to the delicate trickle of her relief. She was so thankful for Carol and Steve's presence in the house. It was her and Mark's first trial since their marriage, and God knows, it was not a normal one, but she sensed that their closest friends being there was going to help. At least, she and Mark couldn't work into a ranting, raving argument.

She didn't bother with the usual tissue absorption, but stood, removing her nightie and knotting up her hair, then stepped into the shower, the regulated warm spray invigoratingly restoring her confidence. God, she loved them both so much, she thought, while she almost sensually soaped her soft, white body from force of habit, her mind and hands correspondingly functioning in accord. It would all work out... she felt certain that it would... God, it had to... !


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"That goddamned Morgan... he frightens me," the slight young man with the neatly trimmed red-beard said as he climbed into the car. He tossed his alert green-eyes on the uniformed deputy sheriff who slid beneath the wheel opposite him. "How the hell did he ever get to be Chief of Police in the burg?"

Mark Blakely grinned, his greyish-eyes lighting in thought. "Politics, Steve, plain adulterated politics," the tall, chiseled- faced lawman tiredly answered. He set the patrol car into motion, making a misdemeanoring U-turn in the town square. "Too complicated to elaborate on this time of morning. But he's powerful in the valley."

"He killed your father, didn't he," Steve said, rather than asked, remembering the shocking event.

"An accident," Mark quickly responded. "A hunting accident..."

"But there was something between them, wasn't there?" the red-bearded writer pressed. "Didn't your dad beat the crap out of him in the street here, or something... ?"

"They didn't get on," Mark Blakely answered without looking at his friend, making the necessary turns as he moved at a slow speed toward his home.

"But they had a fight... ?"

"Yes!" Mark heard himself snap, then caught himself, aware of the edge to his voice. "Dad whipped his ass... and two-weeks later he was dead... by an accidental bullet fired from Link Morgan's rifle."

"That sonofabitch... he'd probably even cheat at Monopoly!" Steve Foster derided, lighting a cigarette.

Mark couldn't help but snicker at the remark. "You write too much crap for that expose mag you work for, Steve."

"Maybe... maybe, but I know a lousy crook when I see one... if that gentle term can qualify such a filthy looking bastard." The slender, bearded writer returned, pulling a note-book and pencil from his breast-pocket to rapidly scribble into. "You think I can get an interview with his niece, Annie? I mean, after all, she was the girl raped by this Caesar brute, that's what my editor wants... ?"

"I think so. Annie's a nice teenaged girl... nothing like her uncle," Mark replied. "She's taken it well this rape horror... goes to college everyday since it happened. Nothing psychological seems to have happened to her."

"Maybe she's got sense that huge, ugly bastard doesn't know flows in her veins," Steve said as Mark neared the house.

"Maybe. Her own folks were killed in an auto accident near San Diego. She's been in the valley some six-years... a very warm girl." He thought for a moment, knowing what he had in mind. "I might see her in a few hours. I'll see what I can arrange for an interview."

"A few hours? Christ, aren't you going to sleep, man?" his red-haired house-guest questioned.

Mark forced a smile. Christ, how he'd love to, for about forty-eight hours! But inside him, he knew he couldn't rest, not with the unwanted, jealous rancor that churned there. How the hell did you tell a friend that your wife had gone ape over a dog... a goddamned wild, killer beast? "I... I still have a policing job to do, Steve," he heard himself say in remarkably even tones. "It's a pretty good deal here, and should I blow it, someone is always ready to take my place, eh? Anyway... I intend to have a chat with Annie Purcell this morning. I'll catch her on the way to college, and I'll try to set up an interview for you."

"Hey, man, that's great!" Steve said, blowing out smoke. "I mean, I need her story verbatum, you know?"

"Sure. Annie's a sweet kid, pretty too. Maybe she'll even let you take pictures. That ought to up your bonus," Mark added.

"Like frankencense and myrrh, old buddy!" the red-bearded writer enthusiastically retaliated, scrubbing out his cigarette in the car-ashtray. "I'll call the office and have a flick-boy sent right up!"

Mark swung the patrol-car into the yard, the sight of his house and the knowing that Jean was inside, gnawing at his entrails. Christ, he still couldn't believe it! The way she'd given herself to that crazy-wild animal sonofabitch! And sucking his own cock at the same time... goddamn... she'd drained it, swallowing his cum as if it were the last drop on earth!

That part had been beautiful, but the other? Damn her! She loved that fucking dog as much as she loved him! And that couldn't be! It just simply couldn't! He'd have to kill him... destroy him... the vicious bastard! It was unbelievable, but true! The goddamned beast claimed women... his very own Jeannie! Granny Obert was right... ! Oh shit... !

"Hey, man, let's get some coffee," Steve interrupted his thoughts, climbing from the car. "I'll make it..."

"Unless I miss my guess, you won't have to," Mark replied, sliding from beneath the wheel. "Jean will be waiting for us..."


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For the first time since their marriage, Mark didn't kiss her when he entered the house. Instead, he slumped down into the breakfast booth and waited for her to pour coffee. He barely looked at her and Jean couldn't help but wonder if Steve noticed. If he had, he was being considerately kind in betraying no emotion.

"Carol isn't up yet?" he questioned, squeezing into the breakfast nook across from Mark.

"I haven't heard a sound from her," Jean replied, pouring his coffee, then her husband's. "Probably exhausted after the long drive up."

"I thought sure that she'd be out here wanting to hear more of the weird tale of the horny wild dog who rapes young girls, and his ferocious pack that has a whole country-side up-tight," Steve said with a little grin, bringing out a cigarette.

"You make it sound like some sort of jamboree we're sponsoring for a tourist attraction." Mark said, an irritable edge to his tone. "And I assure you, Steve, it isn't."

"Hell, guy, I know that," his red-bearded friend quickly replied, applying fire to the white cylinder hanging from his lips. "Maybe, I expected to see too much, or at least hear an eerie, wolf-like howl in the night..."

"Be thankful that we didn't," Mark said, sipping from his cup. "Though, I'll tell you, it's when you don't see or hear them that you can be worried. I'd almost lay money that they hit one of the sheep herds while we were cruising the town hour after hour. It's uncanny, the brain in that damned brute..."

"You mean, the rape artist, the one they call Caesar?" Steve clarified, and the deputy sheriff nodded without looking up at him or Jean who was occupying herself at the stove, though Mark wondered if she wasn't listening intently to every word they said.

"You've actually seen this mythical german shepherd, then?" Steve probed.

Mark did look up then, his tired eyes strangely hinting at the unmistakable strain going on behind them. "Yes, I've actually seen him, Steve, and take my word for it, he's no goddamned myth!"

Jean swallowed tightly as she lay slices of bacon in a frypan with trembling fingers. A sense of relief had somewhat calmed her tensions at the knowing that her wild-lover continued to cleverly elude his would-be destroyers. But for how long, was the frightening worry tormenting her? Again, she tried to recall Grany Obert's comforting words, as Steve said: "What gets me is how you've managed to keep this zany affair so goddamned isolated newswise. I mean, man, this is front-page, prime-time TV socko, eh?"

"Not as difficult as it sounds, Steve," Mark answered. "Crescent Valley has no newspaper of its own. We read the county- seat rag, and fortunately there's no little old ladies here who contribute the social-events to it, or undoubtedly the whole thing would've leaked out by this time. Like I told you on the phone, that's all we need... a flood of news-hawks from the various mediums to drive the whole valley beserk..."

"G-Good morning, all," Carol's voice interrupted with a rather uncertain greeting. She wore a tight little smile on her vivacious, ivory-skinned face, her hands shoved deeply into the patch-pockets of her red robe.

"Well, there she is," Steve allowed, smiling up at his dark haired, onyx-eyed young wife. "I thought it was odd that you weren't out here to catch the spicy tale of the lurid beast that stalks them thar hills out yonder! Better come over here gal and give yore devil-chasin' mate a kiss on the cheek."

Momentarily, Carol hesitated, but only because she still wasn't quite herself yet. From the moment she had awakened from a deep, exhaustive sleep, her mind had immediately filled with the incredibly obscene depravity she had played more than a passive role in only hours before. It had to be an insane, lurid dream, she had naturally concluded, a reactive tremor rippling over the smooth ivory-flesh of her nakedness, and then she had seen the sun-lighted opened window, abruptly raising her upright in bed. In itself, the opening was hardly a convincing factor... but then she found the short strands of dog-hair on the bottom sheet... and several more clinging to the intimate flesh of her inner thighs and on the skin of her stomach... !

"Well, do I get my kiss or not, gal?" her husband's words jarred her back to the immediate scene.

"Of course," she said, pretending drowsiness as she scuffed toward where he sat, though she was vitally awake inside. She bent and kissed him, then lowered herself onto the leather-padded booth beside him, feigning a stifled yawn.

"Did you sleep well, Carol?" Jean asked, welcoming the presence of her friend and hoping to change the trend of the conversation. She set a saucer and cup before the raven-haired girl, filling it with steaming coffee.

"Like a log," the vivacious brunette answered, already vowed that she would say nothing of her midnight visitor. God, how could she... even if she wanted to? After the way she had seduced him... actually sucked his beautiful dog-cock? A tiny shiver of lewd delight at the memory caused her to visibly tremor, and Jean said:

"Are you cold, darling... ?"

"What... cold... ? Oh... no, no, not really," Carol answered with a light laugh, consciously drawing her robe tighter around her throat.

"It's probably this mountain air," Jean said, her smoke-blue eyes intently searching those of her closest friend. She had detected something in the brunette's moment of trembling, not the quiver of her lissome young body as much as the almost erotic expression that had briefly sparkled in her dark revealing eyes, familiarity registering within Jean at the recognition. She swallowed and forced a smile, watching the other look away, as if avoiding her discerning stare. M-My God... was it possible... ?

"Well, tell me about your exploits, Darling?" Carol was saying to her husband, purposely shying from Jean's perceptive gaze. The way she had seemed to look right into her very soul for one brief instant! Damn, had she given herself away... ? "And toss me one of your cigarettes..."

"Not much to tell, Baby. Except for old Mark's insistence, I'd still have to call the whole story a lot of blarney. All we did was ride around town, and meet an ugly bastard named Link Morgan, who did nothing for my appetite," her husband replied, passing her a cigarette and lighting it.

"Speaking of appetites, how's breakfast coming, Jean?" Mark questioned his blonde-haired young wife who had returned to the stove. "I've got some things I have to do this morning."

"In a minute, honey," she answered, her back to him, and trying to keep this newly added tension from her voice. Her small, slender hands trembled as she broke the eggs into the frypan, her brain racing in a flusteration that bordered on rank jealousy. My God, she had to get a hold of herself! She was judging others by her own lurid acts... yet, he could've come to her window as before... !

Mark couldn't help but let his confused, tired eyes linger on the voluptuous rear view of Jean's loveliness that even her robe couldn't hide. Christ, he thought, that a goddanmed vicious dog could come between them was absolutely insane! But he couldn't rid himself of the mental picture of her kneeling down slavishly on all fours, bent before the wild canine bastard fucking her from behind, and she thrusting her beautiful, naked ass back at his fucking animal-cock! She'd sucked him though... practically drawn the lining right out of his balls... but would she have done it if that weird sonofabitch hadn't been lacing her out of her mind with his huge driving prick? Shit, he couldn't think straight; he was too frigging tired. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in days... ever since...

"What about the girl who was raped?" Carol was asking Steve. "Didn't the doctor say that the sperm found inside her was definitely animal?"

"That's what Mark says. I haven't talked to him... or to anyone really, only Morgan, the Chief of Police."

"Well, isn't she his niece?" Carol pursued, catching a sidelong glance of Jean at the stove and wondering if she'd quelled any questioning thoughts her close-friend might be entertaining. Of course, she could always concoct some sort of story to cover if Jean suspected something. Certainly, she'd never believe the truth even if she told it! Who would... a wild sixty-nine orgy with a dog... !

"... She's his niece, and Doc Emory did confirm the animal sperm," Mark was saying in a near-aggravated voice. "There's no question about the authenticity of the animal, or the rape... or any of the rest of it," he added, looking up at Jean as she spatuled fried eggs onto their plates. "Is there, Jean darling... ?"

Carol looked up to see her friend's eyes avoiding her handsome new husband's intent glare. Momentarily, they glanced at her, as if in sympathetic understanding. "No," Carol watched her mouth form the word. "No... there's absolutely no doubt about any of it!"

Chapter 12

Mark welcomed the sanctity of his patrol car, the breakfast and hot coffee doing much to restore his energy. Damn, if he could just find it in his heart to forgive his young wife, Jean... but Christ, he couldn't... couldn't! He'd never forget the goddamned wanton expression on her beautiful face when that wild sonofabitch accomplished what he'd yet been unable to do! The vicious brute had stolen her away from him right then and there, though Mark knew she'd probably deny it to her dying day! There was only one way; he had to kill the raping bastard... and even that wasn't going to make her forget him!

Irately, the uniformed deputy sheriff slammed the gears through their cycle, forcing his mind to concentrate on other immediate issues at hand. As much as he had his own personal problems, of which the wild-dog pack was playing an unbelievable part, there were other local matters to be looked to, especially the area's drug trouble. The college was seemingly saturated with it, and Link Morgan had done nothing concerning the three teenaged pushers Mark had picked up and turned over to the police chief. Though Mark tried never to draw obvious conclusions, Morgan's laxity in bringing the three before the county judge for indictment, plus his refusal to discuss the matter, underscored what he'd feared all along. He hated to believe it, but more and more it began to look as if Link was the supplier behind the young pushers, though to prove the matter might be next to impossible in Crescent Valley.

The police chief had the Newells on his side... good old venomous Lydia and her father, and who would buck Aaron Newell... even with him somewhere overseas. On top of that, Mark had already made an unaffordable enemy in the beautiful, auburn-haired whiplash of a daughter who had laid claim to him years back. But what else could he have done only spurn those big, lusty green- eyes? He'd come back to the valley from L.A. married and head- over-heels in love with Jean. His affair with Lydia, which had never been anything more than a lurid diet of sexual variety, was over! Hell, there'd never been any future in it from the beginning. There was no place for him in the wealthy Newell circle. It had always been his stud value, and he'd never tried to fool himself on that score. But Lydia didn't like her playthings taken from her, and she'd made that well known to him several days before. How had she so daintily put it... ? "You... you sonofabitch... goddamn you, Mark Blakely! I'll have your nuts for this! I swear I will! I'll have your nuts... !"

Mark's keen, but tired mind diligently worked as he drove, passing the college and making the proper turns which the long, chestnut-haired Annie Purcell would take in her walk toward the granite-piled structure. He wasn't quite clear in his mind what value would come out of a chat with her, but she'd always been an amiable girl, talkative and eager, and she undoubtedly had at least been exposed to the pot-traffic at college. Anyway, he had to start somewhere, and he'd promised Steve that he'd try to get him an interview with her.

His mind was again reverting to chafingly jealous thoughts of Jean and Caesar when he saw the attractive brown-eyed teenager a half-block from her Uncle's house on Cypress street, the warm curves to her shapely young legs first catching his eye, then the miniskirt and white pullover she wore. Drawing closer, he realized that she was obviously braless... the new revolutionary thing... her full, youthful breasts doing an arousing sashay to her every bouncing step. Christ, college had changed since his day. He swallowed, wondering if maybe he shouldn't wait...