Kitabı oku: «Pursuit of Justice»
“You have the right to remain silent–”
Rosa’s foot hammered down on Officer Sam Packard’s instep. His grip loosened. She pulled away and managed to assume a position of flight. He had her on the ground in two seconds and finished giving the Miranda to the back of her head.
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to let me go.”
A bribe! She’d offered him a bribe! His eyes darkened. “Lady, it’s worth a thousand dollars just to find out what’s going on.” He pushed her toward the street where his cruiser’s lights flashed.
She clamped her lips together, and Sam knew he’d get no information from her at the moment. Sam liked challenges, and right now the woman-who smelled like peaches and shot like John Wayne-promised to be an entertaining puzzle.
MILLS & BOON
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PAMELA TRACY
lives in Arizona with a newly acquired husband (Yes, Pamela is somewhat a newlywed. You can be a newlywed for seven years. We’re only on year four) and a confused cat (Hey, I had her all to myself for fifteen years. Where’d this guy come from? But maybe it’s okay. He’s pretty good about feeding me and petting me) and a toddler (Newlymom is almost as fun as newlywed!). Pamela was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, and started writing at age twelve (A very bad teen romance featuring David Cassidy from The Partridge Family). Later, she honed her writing skills while earning a B.A. in journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas (And wrote a very bad science fiction novel that didn’t feature David Cassidy).
Readers can write to her at www.pamelakayetracy.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
Pursuit of Justice
Pamela Tracy
Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to You I pray. In the morning, O Lord, You hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before You and wait in expectation.
—Psalms 5:2–3
To my husband, Donald Osback,
who watched as I wrote during our honeymoon,
as I edited during road trips, and who
continuously models what a “hero” really is.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Flashing lights, on a plain, brown sedan, blinked an unwanted command.
She momentarily closed her eyes, willing the image in the rearview mirror to disappear. When she opened them again, the cop remained. There’d been a time, she remembered, when cops drove cop cars, a time when plain, old, everyday vehicles didn’t suddenly sprout flashing lights. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the speedometer and tried to control the urge to flee.
Every time she saw a cop, she wanted to floor it and veer out of sight. Since she usually obeyed the speed limit, the cop always went around her in pursuit of some other offender. But, no, not this time. The speedometer and rearview mirror informed her that this time, this cop was definitely after her.
She hesitated a moment too long. The traffic signal in front of her switched from yellow to red. She hit the brake and only her seat belt kept her from serious injury.
Run the light!
Now!
Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. There’d be no time to get to the trailer and grab her suitcase. No time to pick up her cat.
Checking the rearview mirror again, she watched as the patrol car gained on her bumper. Instinctively, she adjusted her hat, trying to cover her face, and watched the cop motion her toward the side of the road. He was that close.
No, no, no.
Her foot, already poised for the escape she so desperately desired, brushed the gas pedal.
Floor it!
But there was always the chance the cop would just hand over the speeding ticket and be done with it. She slowly pulled off the street and into a deserted grocery store’s parking lot. The front passenger tire bumped over the curb.
Great, just great.
She willed her fingers to cease trembling as she turned off the engine and slipped a bulging manila folder under the passenger seat. She carefully opened the glove compartment and took out the Arizona driver’s license which displayed the likeness of Lucille Damaris Straus complete with a tight smile and short, choppy, black hair.
Please let this be a speeding ticket.
She should never have purchased this car. Statistics showed that red cars were pulled over for speeding more often than cars of any other color. And a Mustang just begged for attention. The car had gotten away from her today.
Why hadn’t she been born an economy car kind of girl? Life sure would have been simpler.
She’d spent the last two years being careful, watching the speedometer, stopping longer at red lights than necessary and making sure she never forgot to use her turn signal. Then, somebody at work fell behind on car payments, house payments, child support, whatever, and needed to sell the Mustang cheap. She half purchased the vehicle in order to help the man. She’d half purchased it because she liked the car. But, no matter, truth was she’d messed up, started feeling safe, given in to impulse and a lead foot.
Bad timing.
The cop finally stepped out of his vehicle. Great, he wasn’t even in uniform. Lucy didn’t want to follow his rigid movements in her rearview mirror. What she wanted to do was stomp on the gas and leave him coughing in exhaust fumes. But, if she did that, there would surely be a problem. If she waited, there might be a problem.
He strode toward her, adjusting his sunglasses and walking ramrod straight. No doubt about this man’s physique. He looked sort of like the Ken doll she’d had as a child. A second look told her that Ken did not hold a candle to this cop—the muscles of his arms about burst out of his sleeves.
Great, and probably he had that Ken doll good-heartedness, too. He wouldn’t fall prey to tears, apologies or coy looks. This one had already started filling out some sort of ticket and most likely had radioed in her license plate number.
The driver’s license stuck to her damp palm as she took a deep breath. Of all places to get arrested, Gila City was on the bottom of her list, and it was a long list.
The cop rapped on her window. “Ma’am, step out of the car, please.” The afternoon sun bounced off his mirrored glasses, giving him a peculiar insect sort of look. She wondered if the glasses were protection against the come-hither attitude of females who wanted to avoid speeding tickets. Well, she wasn’t one of them. She opened the door but didn’t step out. Swallowing before speaking, she tried to sound in control. “Is something the matter, Officer?”
“I need to see your license and registration.”
“I have them right here.”
“I’ll take them.” His voice was textured steel. “Please step out of the car and take off your glasses.”
She complied with the “step out of the car” order but ignored the “take off your glasses” command. Again, she tried to keep her hands from shaking. This cop was after something more than enforcing the It’s-Our-Town-Please-Slow-Down request. She stuck her hands behind her back. “Why do I need to step out of the car?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but a thud against the side of her car drew his attention.
And hers.
Glancing in the direction the bullet had come from, she saw dark-haired men, big dark-haired men, three of them. The Santellises. She hit the ground, knees hard to the pavement, and pressed against the side of her car.
This really wasn’t her day.
Glancing at the police officer she noticed that he looked as surprised as she did. So, maybe, he wasn’t in cahoots with the Santellises who were taking serious risks shooting at her while a cop—maybe an honest cop—was issuing a ticket. This made them all the more dangerous. The realization sent her heart slamming to her throat.
The next thud landed so close to her knee that tiny flecks of red paint settled like drops of blood against her white pants.
“Lady, move!” He pushed her around the car and down. In his eagerness to remove her from the line of fire, he knocked her hat and sunglasses off. His fingers tangled in her hair.
“Just let me—” Her knees hit the pavement as another bullet whizzed over the car. The pressure from his fingers disappeared, and Lucy brushed the hair out of her eyes, slipped her driver’s license and registration in her back pocket and murmured a quick prayer while she tried to scoot back toward her vehicle. Maybe she could still get away. Maybe she—
This time the bullet hit the back window of her car, sending glass raining down.
Months of confiding in the Lord opened her mouth. Her lips moved, but to her sorrow, she couldn’t form the words to pray.
Sam Packard edged to the front of the Mustang, crouched, with gun drawn. “Police! Put your weapons down!” He grabbed the radio from his belt and called a Code One Thousand. The assistance he requested better hurry. Right now, the odds didn’t favor him. Three men ducked behind the aged, brown Chevy that sheltered them a short distance away. One of them, idiot of idiots, had a cell phone pressed against his ear, even as he took aim. Sam couldn’t make any of them.
But the shooters weren’t his only problem. He flinched as a gun’s report rendered him momentarily deaf. Only the sight of one of the gunmen stooping, as a bullet ricocheted off the roof of his car, kept Sam from covering his ears.
“What the—” Sam looked down the length of the Mustang. The woman his scanner identified as Lucille Straus, the woman who moments ago seemed to be praying, was now pressed against the back bumper and taking aim.
She had a Beretta 21!
Without blinking, lips tight, she pulled the trigger. The passenger’s side window of the Chevy shattered. One of the men yelped.
Two steps had him by her side. The lady could handle a gun; she’d been aiming at the man who yelped. No matter, she was a civilian butting into his turf. A civilian who might accidentally shoot him. He wrenched the Beretta from her hand, emptied the chamber onto the ground, set the safety and tossed the weapon through the open passenger window of her car.
“Hey!” Her fingers followed the gun, much as a child chased an errant balloon. The look she shot him was pure venom. With one hand he restrained her from crawling through the passenger window to retrieve the weapon. With his other hand, he kept his gun trained on the Chevy.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Sam pushed the woman behind him. The three men jumped into their car and with tires screeching raced behind the grocery store.
He released her arm. “You stay here!”
She nodded.
Taking the radio from his belt, he sprinted toward his vehicle. Two cruisers pulled into the lot. He motioned toward the back.
Behind him, the engine of the Mustang turned over, revving to life even as the woman put it into gear.
Sam didn’t bother to yell stop. She clearly had no intention of sticking around to answer questions. Looking at the passenger seat of her vehicle, he realized she’d managed to retrieve her gun. Biting back irritation, Sam hoofed it to his car, hit the siren and burned rubber.
Intuition pointed him in the direction of the female instead of the three men. He trusted it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Felony flight was just one of the things he would charge her with, unless she had one whopper of a story.
Gripping the steering wheel, he inched closer to her bumper. She made a sharp turn, zigzagged past a small park and entered a residential area. He closed the distance, and a school bus did her in. A load of what had to be grade school children spilled onto the sidewalk and meandered toward the center of the street. The Mustang swung left. Both right side tires went over the curb, and the car stalled. Miss Straus disappeared from sight, and Sam wondered if she’d been hurt. Then, her head popped up. She didn’t check the rearview mirror as she exited the car.
His fingers fumbled as he stopped his vehicle, grabbed the keys, clicked the lock and took off after her. Quickly he scanned the area, locating her easily. She crouched between two bushes, stock-still for a moment, one hand patting the ground as if she’d lost a set of keys, then leaped the fence of a small, stucco home.
His peripheral vision took in the kids, parents and bus driver frozen in the background. Then, he took off and followed her over the fence. “Police! Halt!”
A dog trotted by her side, not yapping, not nipping, but seeming to enjoy the sight of a woman charging through its backyard. Lucy Straus. How did he know that name? Now that the ridiculous hat was history, he could see facial features that didn’t deserve to be hidden.
She didn’t crouch or hesitate before climbing this next fence and landing in yet another yard. Maybe she’d gotten her bearings. Sam scrambled over the fence and lunged. His fingers touched the material of her shirt, but the fabric slipped through. She slowed, looking left, then right. Her eyes were wild, like a caught deer. Her indecision gave him the opportunity he needed. His momentum tumbled her down with him right alongside.
Sam scrambled off the ground and yanked her to her feet, grabbed his handcuffs and secured them around her wrists. Then, he relieved her of the gun that was once again stuck in an ankle holster. “You have the right to remain silent—”
Her foot hammered down on his instep. His grip loosened. She pulled away and managed to assume a position of flight. He had her on the ground in two seconds and finished giving the Miranda to the back of her head. She muttered a response, but since her mouth was jammed into the grass, he didn’t catch the words. Had she cursed or begged?
He pulled her to her feet.
Sweat dribbled down the hollow of her neck. Her chest rose and fell with indignation. Finally, she spoke. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to let me go.”
A bribe! She’d offered him a bribe! Sam’s eyes darkened. “Lady, it’s worth a thousand dollars just to find out what’s going on.” He pushed her toward the street where his cruiser’s lights still flashed. Some of the kids and their parents had disappeared; others hovered at the edge of the sidewalk mesmerized by the chase. Lucy went willingly until they neared her car. Then she bucked. Sam followed her eyes. Four bullet holes formed an erratic L shape in the driver’s side door. The woman went to her knees so quickly that Sam lost his hold, but she wasn’t running.
“You’re safe. Gila City’s finest are taking care of the shooters right now.”
She clamped her lips together, and Sam knew he’d get no information from her at the moment. He secured her in his backseat, radioed his location and returned to her car. Before stepping in, he glanced back. No movement. Sam liked challenges, and right now, the woman—who smelled like peaches and shot like John Wayne—promised to be an entertaining puzzle.
He straightened her car and turned off the ignition. Then, Sam exited the Mustang and started walking toward his vehicle. He had questions; she had answers. He doubted a liaison would be formed.
He opened the driver’s side door and slid in. “Ma’am, do you want to tell me why you took off?”
At first she looked the other way, and then with short, jerky motions she turned to glare at him.
All thoughts of getting the answers to his questions fled.
Watching her chin jut out in defiance, Sam felt a righteous anger himself. Because the three men had involved him in the exchange of gunfire, Sam thought he had every right to know why they’d been shooting at her.
Police stations always smelled the same: sweat, cigarettes and fear. Gila City’s was no different. The last time she’d been in one, the precinct had been painted this same pond scum green. Somewhere, someone must have found quite a sale on pond scum paint.
Lucy looked at the entrance and then scowled at the man at the desk. A few Christmas cards hung on the wall behind him even though the holiday was weeks past. The handcuff securing her left wrist to the bench clanked as she fidgeted. She’d already raised a welt trying to tug free.
Once, way back when she’d still been an emergency room nurse, they’d brought in a convict who’d needed more than twenty stitches because of how seriously he’d ripped his skin while trying to escape the handcuff.
She hadn’t understood back then; she understood now.
No way would she let them see the fear. If the fear showed, she’d have to accept it. Still, it roiled in her stomach, a constant reminder of a never-ending battle.
Fear wasn’t the only emotion battling for her attention. Guilt tapped her on the shoulder, reminding her that she’d shot a man today. Took aim and pulled the trigger.
Her teeth started to chatter, but she wasn’t cold.
The bench creaked as she shifted her weight. She could not stay here! Tentatively she inched upward. Was anyone looking? Twice she’d stood, and twice the officer at the desk had glared at her. As if she could do anything!
“I have to go to the bathroom.” She leaned forward, her words matter-of-fact. Too bad her heart didn’t beat as calmly. The duty officer picked up a phone and barked a few words. Moments later, a female—the same cop who had earlier searched her and taken her belongings—removed the handcuff and escorted her to a windowless, closet-size excuse for a restroom.
Anger burned while helplessness whispered threats of what if. The nausea rose, but she controlled it by closing her eyes. This time when she tried to find the words to talk with God, they came. Finally, she finished praying, opened her eyes and looked in the mirror.
Surprise, surprise, a normal reflection.
The female officer called, “You all right in there?”
“Fine, just washing up.”
“Hurry.”
She took her time, trying to control her breathing, and was still wiping the water from her palms when she stepped out and almost bumped into the officer who’d arrested her.
He’d taken off the glasses, giving her a good look at him.
She knew who he was!
The day took a turn for the worse. He stood, one foot tapping a restless beat of discontent on the blue-speckled tile. “Lucille Damaris Straus?” He looked at her and through her.
The female officer handed him the handcuffs and disappeared.
Lucy took a breath. “Look, either charge me with something or let me go.” She willed him to dismiss the charges, apologize, something, before she lost it.
He didn’t. Instead, as if this were a normal day, as if she were a typical citizen, he stated, “Nothing’s that simple, lady. I have some questions.”
“Look, I don’t have the answers. Give me the speeding ticket. I don’t care. I just want out of here.” She held out her hand, palm up. She almost smiled. It wasn’t shaking.
“You had a concealed weapon.” His voice rose with each word. “I doubt you have a permit.”
As if realizing he’d gotten too loud, he lowered his voice. “I want the names of the men shooting at us. You hit one of them, by the way.”
“In today’s society, a woman needs a gun.”
“I’d agree, if not for the fact that I was there to protect you. Where did you get the Beretta 21?”
“From my father.”
“And he is?”
Without flinching, she ground out, “Earl Warren Straus.”
He blinked and shook his head. “Go ahead and sit. I’ll be right back.” Before she could protest, the bench caught her behind the knees and guilt wrapped tightly around her.
She hated lying and resented that she’d become so good at it. Not good enough, though. When ole Officer Friendly, real name Sam Packard, ex-partner to Cliff Handley, a man she wanted very much to avoid, ran his search, nothing would surface—at least on any Earl Warren he could attach Lucy to. Then, he’d have even more questions. Cops hated to be lied to. They took it personally.
Before she had time to contemplate the absence of the handcuffs, he was back.
Lucy felt her control slipping. She had to get away from him. She stood. “Look, I’ve done nothing wrong. If you hadn’t pulled me over, I’d never have gotten involved in that exchange of gunfire. I could have been hurt!”
He leaned close, backing her up. “Care to tell me who they were?”
“You didn’t catch them? You said Gila City’s finest was taking care of them.” Her voice raised an octave.
His eyes scanned the room. Lucy followed his gaze and shut up. It was a small station. The last thing she wanted was to be the center of attention in a police station.
He guided her down some stairs, into a small office, and motioned for her to sit. The green plastic chair put her at a disadvantage. She saw that immediately. When he settled in his own scarred, wooden chair, he was able to look down at her instead of eye to eye. She gracefully tucked one leg under her and sat up straight.
His eyes glittered, as if he knew what she was thinking. He pulled some papers from his desk. “Name?”
She leaned her elbow on his desk, rested her chin on her palm, cocked her head and stated, “You know my name.”
“Humor me.”
She pulled her driver’s license from her back pocket and slapped it down. “Lucille Damaris Straus.”
He fit the license under a paper clip on his page. “Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You look older.”
Her eyes narrowed. She glanced at the form he was filling out. A simple information sheet. That was good. She took a pen off his desk and suggested, “I can fill that out for you.”
He reclaimed the pen.
Nervously, she scratched at a shoulder blade. She needed to keep talking. Divert him. Figure out what he wanted. He still looked like her Ken doll. Except that the cop was having a much better hair day. Irrationally, she wished his hair wasn’t so wavy, so chocolate-brown. Why couldn’t she have gotten arrested by an ugly cop?
Okay, she could handle this. “I was on my way to the store. I was probably going a little fast. You pulled me over. Next thing I knew bullets were flying. Now, I’m at the police station, and you’re asking me questions like I’m guilty of something.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Guilty of something?”
“I confess. I was speeding. What else are you charging me with?”
He didn’t even blink. “Name?”
“I’ve told you my name. Three times.”
Detective Samuel Elliot Packard, Robbery Homicide Division, tapped his pen on the form. “Place of employment?”
She knew most of his life story: when he’d graduated, when he’d served time in the military, when he’d joined the police force, when his mother died, when he’d broken up with his last girlfriend, and when he’d stopped attending church.
“Liberty Cab Company.” She barely managed to answer his question. Of all the officers who might have pulled her over, this one could cause more trouble than any other. She should have recognized him back when he first pulled her over, but the glasses hid his face.
If he still looked like his earlier photos, she’d have floored it when he started walking toward her car. Of course, she wasn’t prepared for a detective to be making a routine traffic stop. Just her luck, a slow day in Gila City and she finds a detective looking for something to do.
She never should have stopped, at the abandoned store or on the street. She never should have taken the risk of letting him see her without her hat and glasses.
Nervously, she started to reach for the pen again.
He moved the pen. “Are you a cab driver?”
“No, I do dispatch.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Almost six months. Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“You tell me.”
“Are you bored? Too much free time?” She wanted the sarcastic words back as soon as they left her lips. She needed his sympathy, not his ire.
Briefly, the corner of his mouth twitched, but not enough to be sure of. He shoved the paperwork aside, took a sip of what must have been hours-old coffee and frowned at her. “Why were those men shooting at you?”
“At me?”
“Yes, at you.”
She shook her head, acting indignant. She had to keep him from thinking that maybe she was the target, keep him from thinking she was more than just an ordinary civilian. “They weren’t shooting at me.”
“Lady, those three men were aiming at you. Not only that, but you carry a gun, because for some reason men shooting at you doesn’t appear to be out of the ordinary. A gun you use with some proficiency.” He resumed tapping, this time on a manila folder. “According to this file, you have no right to own a firearm.” He leaned forward. “And according to this file, Lucy Damaris Straus doesn’t possess the mental capability to know how to fire a firearm, let alone which end to aim. Do you want to tell me your real name?”
“I’ve gotten much better. The medicine I’m taking—”
His mouth became a single thin line.
“Have I done something to offend you?” She hated this. How dare he make her feel vulnerable! She tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. Normal movements, she reminded herself.
“Lying offends me.”
“You’ve seen my driver’s license. I’m Lucille Damaris Straus.” She checked her watch. “May I go? Do you have the right to keep me here?”
He clutched the well-worn file, with a blue-edged white label and uneven typing, proclaiming a misspelled Lucy Stras.
She could imagine what was inside and then some. After all, Lucy’s first introduction to social services came before she could even walk. Early on there’d been physical and mental abuse at the hands of an alcoholic father. Later on came the truant officers reports. Finally, when Lucy reached legal age, there were misdemeanors: accessory to fraud, shoplifting, public intoxication, until finally the more serious offenses, such as riding in a stolen car and possession. And, of course, there were the hospitalizations. Mental illness ran in the family. Why should Lucy escape the gene?
A paper slipped out of the file and landed faceup on the floor.
A photo.
Well, she’d always known that was a possibility.
This was not what he needed for an end-of-the-week finale. The woman kept her cool better than most. But she was scared. A few times her retorts had had an edge to them, a raw fear that threatened to erupt.
Detachment, a God-given gift most cops prayed for, left Sam. He’d never been as hard-edged as Cliff, his first partner. What had he stumbled onto here? What secrets did she so fiercely guard with fake identification and a Beretta 21 concealed in an ankle holster, no less.
He studied the photo. “Lucy Straus is a five-foot-three, twenty-two year old, Native American. Who, by the way, I’ve hauled in a few times. She’s been a street person for the last four years. You—” he laid the photo down, faceup “—are about five foot eleven and probably have thirty well in sight.”
She didn’t answer, but her eyes narrowed.
“I’ll have your real identity within minutes. It’s the hard way, but you give me no choice.” He waited.
She shrugged.
Sam gave her time to change her mind. She couldn’t possibly think he was going to go away! The minutes ticked by. “Okay, you had your chance.”
Whatever secrets she harbored made her unreachable and unreasonable. Her shoulders tensed as he took her arm. Did she hate the touch of a man or was it just that he was a cop?
He guided her out of his office, down the hall, up the stairs and into a room where she gave her prints without argument. The mug shot would depict a woman with chewed-off lipstick and wise eyes. Sam leaned against the wall and watched Lucy wash the ink off her fingers. It didn’t fit. Women usually did one of two things when they were fingerprinted. They cried, meaning they were scared. Or they glared, meaning they were angry about being caught. Lucy—what else could he call her—did neither.
But he recognized the look. He’d seen the same expression on the face of a death row inmate. Walter Peabody had been the man’s name. Sam had been a rookie, just twenty-two, invited to his first execution. He’d witnessed the final step of an arrest his partner Cliff had made years earlier. Sam had thrown up after the event. And it was an event. Peabody, convicted of murdering two policemen, had walked to the chair a mere three years after his arrest. He’d never denied the crime, but he’d never acknowledged it, either.
And Cliff had used the arrest to further his career. He’d quickly risen through the ranks and eventually transferred to a Phoenix precinct.
Peabody’s widow insisted her husband was innocent. Peabody’s daughter told newsmen that Peabody couldn’t talk because proving his innocence about the murders would only point to a different crime. Sam still wondered what crime could invoke a punishment worse than the one Walt Peabody had been dealt.
Sam’s hair was no longer Ken perfect. He ran his hand through it every time she gave an answer he didn’t like.
They were back to this? She focused on a stain on the wall behind his head—if she stared hard enough she could make out hand-size angel wings right behind Officer Friendly’s head. Except for that, the interrogation room had about as much personality as the ladies’ restroom.
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