Detective Lyndon Lansing sat in his car waiting for the cola and aspirin to kick in and relieve his symptoms from an all-nighter at Benny’s Eat and Drink, affectionately known to the guys on the force as, “The Burp and Puke.”  His head pounded and his stomach ached, but he figured his stomach would have to suffer the burn of the cola and aspirin till his partner arrived with the antacids. 

He looked at his watch for the tenth time in ten minutes. “Jesus, Spunk.” He moaned.  “Hurry the hell up!” He started to look at his watch again, but a uniform pounded on the window.

“Scene secure, detective.’’ The officer announced and walked away.

“Great.” He rubbed his temple with one hand and his stomach with the other, which reminded him of the “Rub your head and pat your tummy game” he played as a kid.  He managed a weak chuckle.

“God, I’m a mess.”

Halfway down to the scene, Lansing heard his partner arrive on his rice-burner.  Bucky Tucker, aka “Spunky” was the youngest detective on the force at twenty-four.  They used him as bait for drug dealers, pimps, whores, and muggers.  Once, he even did a stint as an old woman to catch some purse snatchers. 

Lansing had been on the force for twenty-two years.  The first ten he wore a uniform and patrolled “The Strip.”  He had learned a lot about what money could do to people; about what alcohol and drugs could do to people, and about what people could do to people. 

He waited for Spunky to catch up.  The antacid would need to settle things before he saw this scene.  Looking at the faces of the uniforms, he had a feeling it would be like the last.

“Thou Shalt Not Covet,” Spunky recited from the cross.  “****, I did a lot of things to her, but I never coveted her, I swear.”

“Shut up, Spunk, and look around,” Lansing pleaded, and then belched loud and long enough for forensics to hear as they waited back at the road.  They cheered and yelled, “Good one!” and “I give you an eight-point-four!”

“Thanks.”  Lansing said sarcastically and flipped them the bird.  He belched again but kept it to himself.  Spunky pretended to speak into a microphone.

“Female; late thirties; "House For Sale" sign attached to her forehead by a large nail and a dollar bill is stuck in her...”

“Danke, Doctor Spunkhoser,” Lansing chimed, feeling better.  “You are a master of the obvious.  What does this tell you, though, Herr Dipshit?”

“Suicide?”

“Nein, smartass.”

“I thought nine was yesterday’s number, according to your vast biblical knowledge, sir.”  Spunky choked out the “sir.”

“I meant “No” in German, but since you asked, yes, yesterday was nine.  Today is ten.”

“So, the perp is done?  Ten commandments, right?”

“Wrong.  We were supposed to find this one first, but he didn’t count on the miners.  This one was found lying down on the cross.  The cross fell over.  He messed up by not digging the hole deep enough to support the weigth of the wood and the body. What we learn is, the guy is counting backwards.” 

“Okay, when I count backwards to one, you will be in a safe place.” Petrov insisted.  “You will be able to remember the dream.  I will begin counting now.  Ten…nine…Adara didn’t want to be here.  She had turned to Petrov because he was the best psychoanalyst in Vegas.   He was also the worst husband a woman could have.  He was selfish, self-centered, egotistical and a cheater.  He never laid a hand on her, but she felt beaten and bruised, especially when she caught him with the teenage boy.  Eight…seven…He promised it was nothing, just an experiment, but she found them again and realized he wanted her to find them.  That was the cruelest part.  It was an experiment of sorts, and the level of pain she could endure was the hypothesis. Six…five…She had divorced him quick enough and gotten on with her life.  She had worked through the pain with nine months of counseling, but she still wanted to run. Maybe it was because of the dream or maybe it was seeing Petrov, but she had second thoughts about going through with this. She loved him and she despised him.  Why did she come here?  How could she feel safe enough to go under hypnosis, to enter the domain of the murderer and the murdered when she was so uneasy around him? Four…three…Cry out!  Shout! Scream!  She had to get away before she slipped through the crack.  Fear.  Would he bring her back?  Two…one. 

Darkness enveloped her as she entered the cavern.

Everything is the same, she thought.  She followed his footsteps until they came to the hall with the flickering firelight.  This time she focused all of her attention on the attacker.

He was caucasion by his hands and neck, large build and dark hair.  His clothes were black or maybe dark-green fatigues.  The hunting knife was about ten inches long with different types of serations for different purposes.  His canteen was old and large and covered with worn animal fur.  Try as she might, she couldn't see his face.  The shadow from his hood blocked out all light.

As he began to drive the nails into Nona's hands she saw the sign.  Instead of "Thou Shalt Not Bear False Witness," she saw:

COLL INN

NAPA CA

She blinked her eyes and heard Petrov's voice. 

"What do you see, dear."

That did it.  The "dear" sounded so pathetic.  She rubbed her eyes and tried to force back the tears.  Too late.  They came streaming down her face and she convulsed.  As he reached for her she knocked away his hands, grabbed her purse, and marched out of his office.  She ignored his plea's to stop and didn't stop crying till she got home.

Sitting at her desk, she began to search for the Coll Inn in Napa, California.  Nothing.  She tried "Coll" in Wikipedia and found that it was an island off of Scotland known for large sand dunes.

With another click she found a guy named "Coll" who was famous for making musical organs sound better.  Still another "Coll" was a brilliant artist with pen and ink.

She switched gears and tried "College Inn," "Colleen Inn," Inn's of Napa, and the Napa Valley Better Business Bureau.  Nothing.  She looked again at the letters.

COLL INN

NAPA CA

Being a crossword and scramble enthusiast from her newspaper reading days as a teen, she tried different combinations of the letters.  Frustrated, she searched for wordscramble.com and entered "collinn."

"Lincoln" popped up immediately. 

"Why didn't I see that?" she muttered.  "Okay, how about, "napaca."

Nothing.  She tried it several different ways, but the program didn't care.

"Lincoln."  Is that his name?  Is he from Lincoln?  Lincoln County?  She typed in "Nevada maps" and scanned for Lincoln County.  East of Vegas - not far.  And then she saw it.  Napa CA was Panaca.

She typed in "Panaca" and learned it was a small town of eight-hundred.  Originally a Mormon town, it is still one of only two towns in Nevada that outlaw gambling and drinking.  The possibilities floored her.