Somewhere in this world, I'm sure there exists some intelligent, level-headed person with Italian heritage who thinks before she acts and never flies off the handle.

And somewhere on this planet, I'm betting you could find a whole bunch of rational, logical Hungarians that never do really stupid things.

Unfortunately, none of their genes have filtered down to me.

Which is why I was hiding out in a seedy motel room, not only from the remnants of god-knows-how-many murderous gang bangers, but I was also hiding from the two people in the world I care the most about.

I just hope someone remembers to feed Rex.

It hasn't even been a full day yet since the Comstock Slayers were "plumerized". Do you like that word? It was on the news this morning. On the television. On the station that covers all of New Jersey and most of Southern New York and parts of Pennsylvania.

"Plumerized." That's what they saying happened to the Comstock Slayers. That the Bombshell Bounty Hunter plumerized them. It kind of sounds like I fixed their garbage disposal or something.

I hate my life.

That's one of the reasons I'm sitting here sulking in a dark slimy motel room with a cardboard hand towel filled with beverage-size ice cubes pressed against my brilliantly purple face.

The other reason is that I WONT BE LOCKED UP! Even by really intensely attractive muscle bound studs who really care about me and are awesome in bed and are probably worried half out of their wits by now.

What's the difference between being locked up at Morelli's with Bob the dog or locked up in the RangeMan Building with a half a dozen studly Merry Men or locking myself up alone in a seedy motel room on Route 1?

I don't know. Logic and rational thinking aren't my strong points when it comes to running my own life, but if I want to run my own life illogically and irrationally, then that's my life, isn't it?

Don't answer that.

Last night, I sat on the curb among the chaos and carnage of Comstock Street, really pissed that I missed out on the sheet cake and little Swedish meatballs at my sister's shower. The shower I really didn't mind missing. Missing the Swedish meatballs was going to psychologically scar me for life.

Ranger was standing like a statue less than a few feet away, glancing down at me occasionally but mostly watching the activity in all directions. A few times, he stiffened and his hand moved to his gun, only to relax and go back into surveillance mode.

My hands were still shaking and my head was aching from the beating the Junkman had given my face, yet I was still kicking myself: I hated being so weak and I hated that I needed this protection.

Morelli was everywhere, moving in all directions. Every time I looked up, he was somewhere else on the crime scene, talking to witnesses, talking to cops, looking at evidence, looking at corpses. A couple of times I caught his eye when I would look up and he would give me a twisted little smile and shake his head as if to say "Oh Lucy, you've done it again!"

I sighed.

Even more than guns do I hate dead bodies, but I had to look when they pulled Junkman's corpse out from under Sally's bus. I had to be sure that he was dead. I had to be sure that the monster was gone. I glanced over and saw that the tire had gone right over his head, crushing it into dogfood.

Bells clanged, light flashed and I heaved everything in my stomach out onto the sidewalk.

Well that sucks. I just puked up granola and unflavored fat free yogurt. I could have had the meatballs and the sheetcake and it wouldn't have been any more fattening than that tree bark cereal that I ate at Ranger's. I felt my eyes start to tear. Oh great. Now I'm going to start to cry?

A nudge on my shoulder and I looked over. Ranger was handing me a white handkerchief.

"Thanks" I said as I wiped my face. I looked down at the mess between my feet and then I glanced over to a spot ten feet further down on the sidewalk. "I don't think I like this neighborhood. Whatya say we move over there?"

The almost smile and then his hands were on my arms, helping me up. I was still trembling, but I gave myself a shake to pull myself together and wobbled the dozen or so steps down the pavement. I would have loved to have just collapsed into Ranger's arms. I really needed a hug, but Joe was still working and Ranger was acting a little distant. I could feel Joe's eyes on us as we moved down the street, so I contented myself with sitting on the curb, just barely leaning against Ranger's legs. I don't know what was freaking me out more at the moment: the death and carnage or the possessive energy that Ranger and Morelli were both putting out. I put my head in my hands and took deep breaths, trying to pull myself together.

I raised my head when I sensed rather than heard Morelli approaching. He was staring down at the mess I had made on the sidewalk.

"Cupcake, what have you been eating?"

"Granola and yogurt. I'm trying to lose some weight."

"Pino's and Coors would probably stay down better."

"I'll mention that to my personal dietician."

He gave that snort of laughter and then turned to look at Ranger with his cop face.

"I'm going to be working all night sorting through this mess. We're going to have to coordinate with the State's Street Gang Unit to figure out who's left of the Slayers. It could take a day or two before we know if they're still a threat."

I could tell that it was killing Joe to say this. He was telling Ranger to take me back to whatever safehouse he had been hiding me in. Ranger gave the smallest nod to indicate that he understood. The two of them locked eyes with the same intensity as if they were arm wrestling.

When they finally broke it off, Joe bent over to kiss me lightly on the forehead, on one of the few places that I wasn't bruised or bleeding. "I'll call you later, Cupcake," he said as he turned and walked away.

"Just like that?" I yelled. Morelli stopped and shook his head before turning back to me. "What am I? Some four year old that has no say in where I go?"

"Okay, I'm sorry." Morelli said. "Where do you want to stay tonight?"

I don't know what ticked me off more: not knowing any place better to stay than Ranger's apartment, or Joe's tone of voice talking to me like I was a four year old. I opened and closed my mouth several times, but nothing came out, so I just glared at him.

With one last shake of his head he turned and went back to work. "I'll call you in the morning."

Ranger grabbed me by the elbow to help me to my feet. I was shaking again, but now it was from anger rather than shock. I glanced over at Ranger and he raised an eyebrow at me. I shook myself free of his grip.

"Let me get my purse out of the car."

As I wobbled over to the Big Blue, Ranger started to follow me, but I turned and glared at him. I can walk twenty feet to the car by myself, thank you. He gave me the raised eyebrow again as if to say, don't try anything.

That was probably a mistake, since it only got me more pissed off.

As I reached into the car, I noticed that the keys were still in the ignition. Glancing up, I saw that the Big Blue wasn't within the crime scene and had a unobstructed path right down Comstock. Without thinking I slammed the door, turned the key and gunned the engine.

If the sound of the most gluttonous combustion engine on the east coast roaring to life didn't draw everyone's eye in my direction, the sight of Ranger running after the car certainly did.

A glance in the rear view mirror showed me Ranger, standing very still in the middle of Comstock Street. And boy, did he look pissed.

I knew that it would be only a matter of seconds before Ranger would be on my tail, along with a half a dozen black and whites. I took a couple of quick turns to get the hell out of Slayerland and then started to take some random turns to hopefully mislead anyone trying to guess where I was headed. It would have been pretty hard to guess that since I had no clue myself where I was going.

I pulled into the McDonald's drive-thru and got two 12-piece McNuggets, a supersize fries, an oreo shake and a large diet coke.

See, if I get the diet coke, the other calories don't count.... I'm still on the diet.

I didn't drink the diet coke. I haven't gotten that desperate yet.

I parked in the back of the McDonald's, away from the floodlights and thought hard about what I was going to do next.

Hoo boy. I am so screwed. I have no idea what to do next.

More fries and a couple of chugs of the oreo shake and I realized that I needed to lose the Big Blue. Every black and white in Trenton will be on the lookout for it. Not to mention Ranger. Not to mention the Merry Men. Not to mention Morelli.

I needed to lose the Big Blue.

Three quarters through the second batch of McNuggets and I had a plan. Maybe not a good plan, but it was a plan nonetheless. I carefully pulled out of the McDonald's, checking to be sure that the coast was clear before peeling out with a squeal of rubber.

Okay, maybe that wasn't as subtle as I could have been, but it worked.

My cell phone rang. I drove with my knee for a half a block while I groped to the far side of the bench seat to grab my purse. I looked at the phone, it was Morelli.

"Hi! Is it morning already?" I asked in my most chipper flight attendant voice.

"Cupcake, do you know that it's a felony to remove evidence from an active crime scene?"

"Would that evidence be me or the car? I'm just curious."

"Where are you?"

"Do you know where Buffalo, New York is?"

I could hear Morelli snort into his phone.

"Well, I'm not there."

"I've got an APB out on you. And I've told them to shoot to kill."

"Well, forewarned is forearmed."

"I will find you."

"Oh, I think we're breaking up, it's a bad connection, I'm going into a tunnel." I did my static crackle into the phone.

"Much better, not nearly as much phlegm as last time."

I disconnected feeling a little better. Joe was only slightly pissed, which meant that he didn't think there was that much chance of the Slayers' regrouping and attacking tonight.

I stuck to the side streets until I pulled up to Dougie the Dealer's house. I drove the Blue around the rear and maneuvered it to the back of his yard partially hidden by the shed and the half a dozen other cars of dubious origin that he had parked there.

I kept my eyes open as I walked around the house and up onto his porch. I didn't have to wait long after knocking, the door flew open and Walter "MoonMan" Dunfey, a.k.a. "Mooner", a.k.a. "The Moon" stood in the doorway wearing Scooby Doo pajamas and a plastic fireman's hat and holding a half empty cone of cotton candy. He blinked his eyes several times to realign his mind back to this planet before grinning broadly.

"Hey Dougie! It's Wonder Woman!"

Okay, so I don't know what combination of chemicals you have to ingest in order to mistake me for Wonder Woman, but I was all in favor of seeding them into the nation's water supply. I pushed my way in and closed the door behind us.

"Hey Mooner," I said grabbing a pinchful of cotton candy. "I didn't know they made Scooby Doo pajamas in your size."

"Special order, Dudette. Had to wait six weeks for them."

I glanced around the living room, looking for Dougie. I finally found him sprawled across a very expensive looking sofa that was covered with stuffed animals and Star Wars figures all positioned to be watching the television. Except for the couch and the fact that the room was packed with every imaginable electronics toy in the market, the room still looked like a cross between the projects and a dorm room after an end-of-term party. Dougie's feet were propped up on his milk crate coffee table and in his hands was the remote joystick to his PlayStation 2. He smiled at me blankly.

"I need to snag a clean pair of jeans and a tee shirt," I told Dougie as I headed up the stairs. "And I need to borrow a car for a few days."

Dougie smiled and nodded. I wasn't too sure how much was getting through to his brain.

"The Dougster is cool with that," Mooner answered. "You are, like, his primary Bounty Hunter Babe."

Good to know. I may need that on my résumé some day. I plowed through the mess in the third bedroom, the remnants of all those items that Doug "the Dealer" used to stock when he was the most laid-back fence in all of Trenton. The combination of a bad bust and the arrival of an unforeseen windfall of money had drastically changed the source of his income, if only slightly changing his lifestyle. I made a mental note to drag the two of them to rehab for a couple of weeks when the world came off "Code Plum".

I shoved my ripped clothes into the back of the closet and went to the bathroom. I nearly screamed when I saw myself in the mirror. The bruise, the blood, the hair! Omigod! The hair from hell!! I hadn't been surprised that Mooner and Dougie didn't comment on my appearance, they were more than a little on the unobservant side, but I hadn't realized how bad I looked. I washed the dirt and blood off my face and I could see where the purple bruising was just starting. Good thing I bolted. I didn't want even Bob to see me in my current condition, never mind the Merry Men. I finger-brushed my hair and pulled it over to cover most of the cuts on my forehead and some of the bruises on my cheek, and then ran down the stairs.

Dougie and Mooner were fixated on a "Space Ghost" cartoon that was blasting out on the massive flat screen TV that they had propped up on top of their old TV that still had someone's shoe resting inside after it had shattered the screen.

"I'm going to borrow a car," I said as I fished through the kitchen drawers for the keys. I found them in the silverware drawer under a heap of unwashed spoons and forks. Gross. Okay, also on the list: when they go to rehab I'm using some of their cash stash to have a cleaning crew go through this place top to bottom.

I picked the tan '96 BMW that had only minor body damage: dents and scratches but nothing that would catch anyone's eye.

I was running back in to return the other keys when I heard the phone ring. I froze for a moment, then bolted up the stairs to catch them before they answered it.

I didn't need to worry. It looked like they only answered the phone during commercials. I had no idea where the answering machine was, but I heard it pick up.

"Dude," I heard Mooner's recorded voice, "The Dougster is, like, not all here, you know what I mean?" Then the machine beeped.

"Doug," I smiled when I heard Morelli's voice. He was fast, but not fast enough. "This is Joe Morelli from the Trenton Police Department... pickup the phone." There was a long pause and I smiled as I visualized Joe's frustration. "Okay then, call me when you get this message." He left his cell phone number and then disconnected.

I glanced over to the boys on the couch. I seriously doubted that they had even heard it. I found the machine and noticed that they had fourteen messages waiting. Joe was going to be waiting for a long time for that return call.

I locked the door behind me without saying goodbye. When Joe didn't get his return call, he'd probably be by in person and find the Blue, but I doubted that either Doug or Mooner were going to be able to figure out which car I took, or even remember that I'd been there. Again, I smiled as I pictured Joe's annoyance.

Okay, so now I had a non-descript car with expired plates, forty dollars in my purse and no place to go. It would be at least another six or seven days before Valerie and company vacated my apartment and I knew that both Ranger and Joe would be watching my parents' place. I was exhausted, beat and I needed to sleep. I pulled two hundred bucks out of a bank machine and found myself driving around aimlessly. I ended up driving down Route 1 as if on autopilot.

What am I, crazy? Don't answer that. I found myself pulling into the parking lot of the Morelli/Gilman motel. I must be on some self-induced sado-masochism thing to be here. And yet, I needed a place to sleep and this would be one of the few places that I could pay cash and get away with not using an I.D. That, and the fact that it was cheap.

I checked in under the name of Carol Zabo. I would have used Joyce Barnhardt's name, but I figured she'd be known in every sleazy motel from Cape Ann to Cape Cod.

The night desk clerk didn't ask any questions and barely looked up from the Playboy magazine he was reading. (Yes, he was actually reading the articles... go figure.) I got the feeling from the way he glanced at my face that he thought I was a battered wife or girlfriend hiding out. He gave me an extra ice bucket which I filled in the office before going to the room.

It was a musty smelling little hole with a picture window next to the front door and a dinky little bathroom. There was a real small window in the bathroom, probably cheaper then putting in a ceiling vent.

I moved the 70's era lounge chair in front of the door and put the TV on top of it. Nothing I could do about the window, it was double paned so it would take more than one blow to get through it. I still had Ranger's gun with me, so I filled a towel with ice, pulled back the bed spread, set the gun next to my pillow and fell asleep with the ice pack on my cheek.