Slouching toward Stonybrook

Melnikova set her squirming bundle of man-flesh down in the dirt of an under-construction apartment complex about a block from John and Megan Harris’ home.

The five men lay stunned and breathless for a moment. They disentangled themselves from the rope and stood up.

“You four,” Melnikova said. “Savage and who are you other three?”

“Bradey, ma’am,” said one of the convicts. “Zane Bradey.” In the light from a nearby street lamp, Melnikova could see he was young, probably mid-20s, crewcut and squarely built beneath his orange prison jumpsuit – which looked white in the orange light shed by the lamp.

He looked wide-eyed and clueless.

“I’m Chris James,” said the next one sullenly. He obviously had not cared for the transport. James was tall and ungainly, shaggy-haired with narrow, squinty eyes, a large round nose and an unpleasant slash of a mouth.