

# MURDER MARATHON

###  Reviewer-Acclaimed Suspense Thrillers

## Karen Lewis

### * * * * *

### Smashwords Edition

### * * * * *

### Copyright 2017 Karen Lewis

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Publishers Note:

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

## TABLE OF CONTENTS

JUMBO JET VANISHES

FIGURE IN THE FOG

MISSING PERSON

VENGEANCE

THUGS

NIGHT OF SHAME

SUSPICION

DECEPTION

MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

## REVIEWS

### FIGURE IN THE FOG

"This suspenseful story packs a mighty punch in a few short pages along with being highly sensual. I eagerly turned the pages to see if Anderson was real. This book will keep you guessing."

Reader's Favorite Review

###  SUSPICION

"Suspicion is the kind of book you want to read when you have plenty of free time, because once you start reading, you won't be able to put it down. (However, I would not recommend this book for children under 18, due to graphic sexual situations). I was so caught up in this book that I read the whole thing in one day. I found myself going back and forth between believing he was guilty and believing he was innocent until the very last page. It's a book you won't be able to forget."

Readers Review

###  DECEPTION

"Deception is a fast-paced thriller...The plot is well thought-out and Ms. Lewis has a clever way of filling the mind with perplexity and suspicion as to who and why. "

Coffee Time Romance Review

"If you are looking for a story with twists and turns that will leave you on the edge of your seat, Deception is the story for you. Just when you think you know what is going on it takes a u-turn and leaves you hanging on."

Book Wenches Review

"Deception is a short, clever little mystery that will have you asking 'what if' by the end. The characters are interesting, and the plot moves along at a lightning speed."

Night Owl Review

"Deception by Karen Lewis is a short, suspenseful mystery...All in all the author had a way of making one use his mind as he reads."

Readers Favorite Review

## JUMBO JET VANISHES

### Chapter One

The traffic had been stop and go for over an hour. Margo Nicholson kept her foot on the brake and checked her watch impatiently. At this rate, she'd never get to the airport on time. Her daughter's flight was due in at any minute, and Hailey hated to be kept waiting.

Of course, she should have known what the traffic would be like at 5:00 pm on a Friday. Vancouver was notorious for its congested roads. But she couldn't get away any earlier. She'd started the Handy Maids Cleaning Service over a decade ago, and it gobbled up most of her time.

Margo rolled down her van window for a breath of fresh air. Instead, she found herself inhaling a lungful of exhaust fumes. Yuck! She quickly rolled it back up again.

When she finally arrived at the airport, it took her ages to find a parking spot. Hailey would wonder where the heck she was. Consequently, she felt a sense of relief when she learned the flight had been delayed. It must have left Honolulu later than the scheduled time.

Margo made her way to the coffee shop, through the crowded terminal. She hadn't had time for lunch that day and was famished. While she waited for her sandwich to arrive, she leafed through the photographs she'd had developed earlier.

Her favourite was the one of Hailey taken outside their apartment building. Petite, with long auburn hair and milky white skin, she'd stood in a pool of sunlight and smiled for the camera. Hailey's fairness was a flattering contrast to Margo's lightly tanned skin and jet-black hair.

She sipped on her tea. As a single parent, life hadn't been easy. But she'd been determined that her daughter would have a private school education and go onto university. She wanted her to have all the advantages that she'd missed. Hailey was industrious, and worked after school at a gift shop called the Treasure Chest. She'd liked it there and spoke about it often. When she graduated with flying colours last year and went on to university, it made all the scrimping and scraping and self-sacrifice worthwhile. The Honolulu trip had been a gift for all her hard work. While there she'd stayed with one of Margo's closest friends, Isabel Martinez. Isabel had been a business partner, until she retired to a warmer climate a few years ago. Slightly overweight with wiry grey hair and a ready smile, she'd cheered up the grim wet days that plagued the coast.

An announcement over the PA system jarred Margo back to the present. It was an update about the delay in Hailey's flight. The plane appeared to be having some technical difficulties with its communications system, but was expected to arrive shortly.

Margo went back out to the terminal and walked around for a bit. A couple of flights had just arrived and it was jam-packed. After the rush had quietened down she went over to the counter and asked if there was any more news about the flight from Honolulu.

"Sorry, nothing yet." The agent looked uneasy.

"Is this usual?" Margo felt the first stirrings of real concern. She checked her watch. "It's almost 2 hours late!"

The agent shrugged. "It can happen," she replied noncommittally.

"What time did it actually leave Honolulu?" Margo pressed on.

"...I...I'm afraid I don't have the exact schedule here."

The evasiveness threw up an immediate red flag. Margo's concern was rapidly turning to alarm. When she asked to see a supervisor, she was given the classic run-around. She became convinced they were hiding something, but what? Why didn't they want her to know what time the plane had left Honolulu? Unless it had left right on time, in which case...she immediately brought a shutter down on the terrifying thought. She was damned if she was going to go there.

Margo paced around the terminal for a while, feeling more dejected by the minute. Was she attaching too much importance to what might be just a simple case of incompetence?

Maybe, or maybe not!

Well there was only one way to find out. She got out her mobile phone and punched in Isabel's number. Isabel would have driven Hailey to the airport. She'd know what time the flight left.

Her answering machine picked up. Margo left a brief message. "Get back to me as soon as possible," she said. Then she called 411 on her mobile phone and asked for the number of Honolulu Airport. Ten minutes later, she was finally connected with the appropriate party. The information she received turned out to be worth the wait.

All the flights had left on time that day, including Hailey's. There had been no delays.

Margo tried to collect her scattered thoughts. She sat down on a bench near the coffee shop. It felt like an eternity since she'd been in there eating a sandwich and looking at family photos. It was impossible now to recapture her state of mind at that time. She did remember how much she was looking forward to seeing Hailey again. It had only been a couple of weeks since she'd gone off to Honolulu, but they'd never been separated before for that length of time. Subsequently, it had seemed like an eternity.

Margo drew a ragged breath. Since the flight had left at its scheduled time, where was it now?

This was something she didn't want to think about, but it had to be faced. She heard a sudden commotion and noticed a group of people congregated by the information counter. They looked angry and worried and were demanding information about the delayed flight. "What the hell is going on here? What are you hiding from us?" they asked.

How could something as simple and everyday as going to meet your daughter at the airport, turn into such a nightmare of worry? Margo winced. But were the simple and everyday things merely an illusion, part of a complex and collective conspiracy to keep the real horrors of life at bay? For humans really were pathetic and powerless creatures jerked around like marionettes by the fickle hand of fate. She needed a drink. The Airport Lounge beckoned. It was risky. She'd had problems with alcohol in the past. Nevertheless, she'd managed to have the occasional drink socially for the past number of years, with no ill effects.

She found a corner booth where she hunkered down and sipped on the Scotch. Mmm... It was just what the doctor ordered. But what the hell had happened to that plane? It left Honolulu on schedule, so why hadn't it arrived hours ago?

A noisy group at a nearby table were asking themselves the same question. "It must have left Honolulu late," one woman insisted.

"Actually it didn't," Margo said.

They all looked at her in surprise. "I'm sorry for butting in like that," she apologised. "But I telephoned the Honolulu Airport and they told me it left right on time."

There were shocked expressions all round. They, like Margo, were at the airport to meet relatives and friends on the delayed flight.

"They could be mistaken," one man chimed in. She could understand his reluctance to believe. She too would prefer to think the plane had left Honolulu hours behind schedule. Then there would be a valid reason for its delay. As it was the agonising worry crept through her veins like an assassin.

Margo ordered another drink, and concentrated on the massive TV screen that dominated practically the entire west wall. She sought to block out for even a few moments the nightmarish thoughts that were ambushing her.

But then the news came on and a jumbo jet was suddenly flashed on the screen. Global Airlines Flight 641 from Honolulu to Vancouver had been declared missing!

### Chapter Two

There had been utter chaos after that. As word got around that the plane was missing, concern turned to fury at the airline for withholding information. For instance, all communication with the plane had stopped one hour after take-off, but they'd never been told that. The relatives and friends of passengers on the missing plane went ballistic, as they demanded answers. The media poured into the airport and an impromptu press conference was held.

Margo hovered on the sidelines too stunned to form a rational thought. Terrifying images raced through her frantic mind. The plane must have crashed. Oh my God, her poor dear Hailey.

Her mobile phone buzzed. Isabel! "Oh my good lord, Margo," she said. "I've just heard..."

Up until that point, the saga of the missing plane had seemed surrealistic. Something like that just couldn't be happening. Not to her...not to Hailey. But now that a friend had validated it, someone from the real world, the reality of the nightmare truly sank in.

"How are you holding up?" Isabel's voice broke and she began to sob. She immediately blew her nose and apologised. "I'm not being much help, I'm afraid."

"I'm shell-shocked," Margo replied haltingly. "I just can't take it in."

The possibility that she'd never see Hailey again was utterly unbearable. She felt disoriented and confused. How does one get over something like that? How is it possible to go on?

"Why don't you go home and try to get some rest?" Isabel suggested.

Margo was shocked at the very idea. "This...fucking airport is the only connection I have with my daughter," she sobbed. "I can't just abandon her like that." She knew she was really losing it, and was in total denial about what had taken place.

"I need a drink," she muttered and hung up. Then she immediately regretted her abruptness. Poor Isabel didn't deserve that.

In the Airport Lounge, she sat with the other victims of the disaster. Birds of a feather...she thought philosophically, misery loves company. Margo tossed back a Scotch and closed her eyes, savouring the warm that spread over her. She rubbed her forehead with the empty glass. She had to come to grips with the fact that Hailey's plane was unlikely ever to land, either here or anywhere else, and she couldn't camp out at an airport forever, to what end, after all?

"My son was on that plane." Art Dempsey was tall, built and greying at the temples. Margo had watched him knock back several whiskies in quick succession. "Luke was only 22 years old, and all set to start law school in the fall."

Margo shook her head and fought back tears. She noticed how he spoke of his son in the past tense. She couldn't do that when talking about Hailey, at least not yet. She just couldn't get used to the idea. Besides, it was still too early to give up hope. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Hailey is around the same age."

"I don't know how I'm going to break this to his mother," he added. "Sylvia and I have been divorced for years." He paused. "Then there's the rest of the family. My mother is devoted to him."

Well I don't have the same problem regarding Hailey's father, Margo thought sadly. He'd been a stinker who up and left as soon as he knew a baby was on the way. Oh well, she shrugged inwardly, you live and learn. As for family, she didn't have any to speak of, except a distant cousin or two that she hadn't heard from in years.

The conversation then turned to whether or not to go down to Honolulu. Margo couldn't see any practical reason for doing so and besides, she simply didn't have the money. Art, on the other hand, said he'd feel closer to Luke there. "I can't just sit here and do nothing." He threw his hands up in a gesture of despair. "I have to at least say goodbye."

Tears welled up in Margo's eyes. Oh God, it was all so bloody sad and unfair. She blew her nose and sat rigidly upright. She had to fight the mighty tidal wave of emotions broiling within her. "I haven't given up hope yet," she murmured. "The plane could have had some mechanical problems that sent it off course, and it may have landed someplace safely."

Art didn't look convinced. "I hope you're right," he said.

Margo was very tempted to order another drink, but resisted the temptation. It was a long drive home. She had to stay sober.

On a sort of automatic pilot, she stumbled out to the car park, and started up the engine. She wasn't at all sure that she'd make it home. I have to get a grip. Have to, have to... She chanted to herself like a mantra. The pain of remembering how joyful this homeward journey should have been with Hailey beside her was unbearable in its intensity. How the hell was she going to go on? That's when she recalled the 'One day at a time' advice from Alcoholics Anonymous. Only she'd take it a step further. One moment at a time, was all she would aim for.

During the next few days, she kept the news on constantly. The Pacific Ocean was being scoured but so far there had been no sign of the missing plane. Margo was torn. In one way, its discovery would provide some closure, yet on the other, as long as it wasn't found there was still a glimmer of hope, no matter how remote that the passengers \-- and her own beloved Hailey -- had somehow survived.

The media blitz was relentless, and as days turned into weeks, it became ever more intense. There had never been a plane that size suddenly go missing for so long before.

Attempts to solve the mystery saw speculation run wild, everything from the plane falling victim to a supernatural force such as the Bermuda Triangle, or being abducted by aliens.

Margo got through this harrowing time like a zombie, somehow managing to run her business and maintain at least a degree of normalcy and sanity. But inside she was unravelling fast. A life without Hailey was unimaginable. Due to Margo being a single parent, they'd been even closer than most mothers and daughters. She'd built her whole life around her daughter. The void Hailey's disappearance had left was like a great gaping black hole. And ironically, some theorists speculated that the missing plane had fallen into just such a cavity. The Internet was rife with all kinds of wild rumours. Others speculated that terrorists had hijacked the plane, or that it had been pilot suicide. Margo found it difficult to believe in any of them. She certainly didn't buy the pilot suicide one. Both pilots had been thoroughly investigated and there was no indication of anything like that.

The more mundane reasons that were circulating cited a massive mechanical failure. Experts shot that one down, with technical data that suggested all systems couldn't suddenly shut down like that on a jumbo jet.

The only feasible theory that fit in with the known facts, involved the tons of fruit in the plane's cargo. An explosive device planted in the middle of a crate could have gone undetected, and been detonated by one of the passenger's mobile phones. The subsequent explosion and massive fire would have knocked out the communication system, and the smoke would have killed all on board. But before the pilot was overcome by smoke, he managed to turn the plane around to head for the nearest airport. The plane, which was on automatic pilot, simply flew on until it ran out of fuel, and then crashed into the ocean.

Margo avidly searched for even the tiniest scrap of news about the missing plane. But as the weeks turned into months it gradually tapered off. There simply wasn't anything left to report. The consensus among the searchers was that it might never be found. The part of the Pacific where it was believed to have gone missing was as vast as it was deep. But even this seemingly nothingness held clues. The fact that not a thing had been found from the missing plane meant that it hadn't exploded in mid air. For if it had of done, debris would have been floating on the ocean. So it must have gone into the ocean intact.

Yet throughout all the gloom, Margo remained convinced that Hailey was still alive.

"Never give up hope," Isabel, who telephoned regularly, had advised. "We must keep the faith."

But if this was false hope, Margo brooded in misery, what was the use? Wasn't it just another form of self-torment?

Everybody who'd followed the story had a theory about the fate of the missing plane and its passengers. Isabel believed terrorists had hijacked it. "I think they landed it on some remote island," she said. "And they're going to use it in another 9/11 type attack."

It was possible, of course, Margo conceded, and if it were correct, Hailey might still be alive. She held onto that vain hope like a barnacle to a boat. Yet all the while, she could see the flaws in this particular theory. Why would terrorists hijack a plane, when the countries that sponsored them had a whole fleet of similar aircraft? Also, since airline security was now so high, they couldn't slip onto a plane carrying guns or knives.

"I don't see how they could hijack a plane without some kind of lethal weapon," Margo said.

"And the cockpit is always kept locked."

"Where there's a will there's a way," Isabel replied sagely.

Margo suspected she was trying to make her feel better, by supporting a scenario that could see Hailey still alive.

But what had happened to that plane? And what's more, would they ever find out?

### Chapter Three

"I have reason to believe it's all part of a massive cover up." Art had telephoned just as Margo was preparing for bed. It had been another brutal day at work. Half the staff was away with flu, and she had to go out on a couple of cleaning jobs herself to fill in.

It had been almost six months since Global Airlines Flight 641 from Honolulu to Vancouver had gone missing. Scarcely a moment passed that she didn't agonise about Hailey. She'd more or less accepted that the plane had crashed into a remote part of the ocean and that all on board had perished. The way it looked now, it might never be found. Search crews were still out there looking, but how long could that go on, before they had to finally pack up and leave?

She and Art had kept in touch regularly. He was the owner of a civil engineering company that specialised in building bridges. Ever since the disappearance of the plane, he'd taken frequent trips to Honolulu.

"A cover up?" Margo repeated dumbly as she slipped her tired feet into a pair of bedroom slippers. Of course, the way the officials had dealt with the tragedy, certainly lent credence to conspiracy theories. They'd appeared less than forthright. She'd attributed it more to bureaucratic bungling and incompetence than anything more sinister. Still, she might have been wrong.

"I don't want to say any more on the phone."

Margo wondered if there was any basis for his concerns, or had the grief and worry over his son made him paranoid? The way he travelled back and forth to Honolulu could be described as obsessive.

"I'm not just some crazy imagining things," he assured her, as if reading her thoughts.

They chatted for a while about Honolulu, and the turmoil of emotions it aroused in him. Margo could understand that only too well. It was the last known place his loved one had been as he climbed aboard that ill-fated plane. She knew she'd feel the same way. Honolulu was like Ground Zero in her tormented mind. Even if she had the resources to go there, she wasn't ready for that yet. But she'd have to make the grand effort someday, in order to achieve anything even remotely resembling closure. She needed to conduct a private and very personal memorial service for her beloved Hailey. She imagined herself standing on a golden beach throwing white carnations, which were Hailey's favourite flower, into the vivid blue ocean. "Goodbye my darling," she'd whisper. "Rest in peace."

"Just wait 'til you hear what went on down there." Art cleared his throat and sounded hoarse. He suggested that they meet some place the following day.

They fixed up the arrangements -- dinner at The Cavendish Inn -- and Margo made a mental note to finish up at work early enough to go home beforehand and change.

She spent the next afternoon; a rainy Saturday, assisting a short staffed cleaning crew work on a professional building. It was one of Margo's oldest contracts and she was anxious to keep it. She was exhausted by the time they finished. Wow, I'm really getting out of shape, she lamented, to think that she used to do this for a living on a full time basis.

By the time she arrived at the Cavendish, the rain had stopped and a weak sun peeked from behind dark clouds. She hadn't been sure what to wear, but decided that simplicity was often the best policy, and settled on a black pantsuit with a white blouse.

"How are you holding up?" Art looked solicitous as they perused the menus.

"I've been better." Margo glanced around the dining room with its oak panelled walls, French Impressionist paintings, and candle sconces. "One foot in front of the other," is my motto. "And carry on." She sipped on a glass of Rhine Valley wine, and thought how the strain of the past six months had taken its toll on him. He looked grey and haggard. "You have to look after yourself," she said.

He didn't seem to hear her. "None of the theories about the missing plane are correct," he said, bypassing the niceties and getting right down to business. "As you know I've been meeting up in Honolulu with a group of people who are in the same position as you and I -- their loved ones were on that jinxed flight." He paused. "They've named themselves the Intrepids."

Margo couldn't help but think that perhaps it would be better if they just accepted what had happened, rather than continue to fight it. What practical good could it do to get together frequently in the place where it all began? But knowing that Art would be offended by this point of view, she said nothing.

Their dinner was served -- roast beef with all the trimmings -- and in between eating it and sipping on the wine, he told her an amazing story. Not satisfied with the official version of events, the Intrepids had been snooping around. One of them had military contacts, and the rumour was that there had been an accident in the testing of a new atomic weapon in the South Pacific. Flight 641 came along at the worst possible moment and was close enough to the epicentre to become contaminated.

Margo was far from convinced. It sounded way too bizarre, like something out of a sci-fi movie. On the other hand, truth was often stranger than fiction. "But how would that account for the plane's communication system suddenly shutting down?" she asked.

Art topped up their glasses. "The government naturally wanted to keep this top secret experiment gone wrong very hush hush. When the plane got in the way, they couldn't allow it to continue on its journey with the passengers and crew likely suffering from radiation poisoning. That would be a dead giveaway. So they telephoned the captain and instructed him to close down the communication system -- say nothing to anyone -- and land on a remote island."

Margo had to admit this did tie in with all the known facts about the missing plane. An hour after it left Honolulu it suddenly changed direction and all contact was lost. The captain had also received a telephone call shortly before this happened. Despite herself she felt a surge of hope. If this theory was indeed correct, then Hailey could still be alive, although perhaps ill.

"But where are the passengers?" she asked. "What have they done with them?"

Art drained his glass. "There are anywhere from 20,000 to 30,000 islands in the South Pacific. No one knows for sure, because they've never actually been counted."

"So they could be on any one of them." Margo finished her wine and pushed away the glass. She'd had enough for one night. The last thing she could risk was getting hooked on alcohol the way she'd once been.

"It's not as hopeless as it sounds." Art winked. He said that only a few of them could accommodate the landing of a jumbo jet. "That narrows down the field quite a bit."

"You have an idea which island it is, don't you?" Margo leaned forward, full of hope.

"I'd put my money on Newport Island," he said.

Margo felt like a runaway train had hit her. "Oh my Lord, if this is true it doesn't get much worse. To think the government would cover up in this way, and not give a damn how the families suffer..." She thought on the agony she'd been through grieving for Hailey.

Art looked sardonic. "They'd do a helluva lot worse, to cover up such a major blunder."

"So what's the plan?" The way she felt at that moment she'd love to go herself.

"We're leasing a decent sized cabin cruiser and heading down there." He produced a map of the area and pointed out what the route would be. "By the way." He leaned across the table conspiratorially. "We have a journalist in on this, so it won't be so easy to hush up. But meanwhile," and he placed a finger to his lips. "Mum's the word. If this got to the wrong ears they'd shut us down quicker than you could say Jack Robinson."

"You can count on my discretion," Margo assured him. My God, her daughter's life might well depend on it. All her earlier misgivings about the Intrepids meeting frequently in Honolulu disappeared. In fact, she felt downright traitorous for entertaining such negative thoughts. They'd been doing the right thing. Why if it hadn't been for their persistence, the missing plane and it's 230 plus passengers would simply be forgotten. This was, in fact, what was already happening. There had been no mention of it in the media for ages. It had become, to all extents and purposes, yesterday's news.

### Chapter Four

Heat lightning streaked across the midnight sky. Margo paced the floor in her small corner suite, feeling more like a caged tiger by the minute. From her kitchen window she could see the North Shore Mountains, crouched like ancient stone gods on the horizon. She was worried sick about Art and his fact-finding mission to Newport Island. He'd expected the voyage from Honolulu to Newport, to take no longer than a week. But it had been almost a month since she'd last heard from him. Under the circumstances, this was horribly sinister. Something must have gone wrong.

She'd telephoned his company and spoke to Jack Logan, Art's business partner. "I'm trying to get in touch with Art," she said, careful not to give anything away.

"That might not be possible for quite some time," Jack said. "Art has gone off on a boating trip to a pretty remote area of the South Pacific."

Margo thanked him and quickly hung up. She didn't want to have to start answering a bunch of awkward questions. But where did she go from here? She could hardly report her fears to the authorities, as she feared they might be the ones responsible for Art's long absence. You don't ask the fox about missing chickens.

To help ease the tension, Margo had started smoking again. She reasoned it was safer than turning to alcohol for relief. It was a filthy habit though, and she didn't want to get hooked. What the hell was she going to do? She stubbed out the half smoked cigarette impatiently and plugged in the coffee pot.

Every fibre of her being was urging her to take action.

"I can't just sit around here and do nothing," she lamented to Isabel, as she sipped on the coffee. Due to the sensitivity of the situation, she'd been reluctant to fill Isabel in on the details over the telephone. One just never knew when Big Brother would be eavesdropping. With cameras on every street corner recording our every action, it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine audio surveillance as well. Every time you phoned a business these days you were cautioned that the call might be recorded.

"Why don't you come down here?" Isabel invited. "You know you've been itching to ever since that plane went missing."

Margo had to admit it was true. She'd been both longing for it and dreading it as well. Talk about an agonising dichotomy. But now, her hand was being forced.

"If you're worried about leaving the business," Isabel said. "I could come up there and run it for you until you return."

It was what Margo had been hoping for but didn't like to ask. She accepted immediately. She'd rest much easier knowing that Isabel was in charge. She'd been an excellent business partner.

"I've been wanting to visit Vancouver for a while," Isabel admitted. "But I've been procrastinating. This will be an excellent opportunity."

Once the arrangements were ironed out, Margo called the airport and booked herself on the next available flight. It had been such a long time since she'd been anywhere that she was totally out of practice and more than a little afraid. Oh boy, how we clung to the familiar, no matter how unfulfilling and mundane it might be, rather than risk the uncertainties of the unknown.

Plagued by doubt, she hauled her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and started packing. Was she being foolish and impulsive, rushing off on a wild goose chase like this? After all, what could she do in Honolulu to find Art that she couldn't do from here? Yet the need to go down there was all encompassing and overshadowed the practical considerations.

There was also more than a little trepidation about getting on a plane. She'd always been something of a white-knuckle flyer, and today the risks were far greater. She didn't trust the airport security in the least. Anyone, it seemed, could simply vault a fence and gain access to the planes while they were parked. So all the security bullshit was strictly at the front door, while the back door remained open.

The niggling doubts continued until Margo couldn't stand the inner conflict any longer. She had to have something to smooth over the rough edges. She lit another cigarette, but quickly stubbed it out again. Then she fetched the bottle of Scotch that she'd kept unopened for years and poured a hefty shot into a water glass.

* * * * *

"This is certainly a little bit of paradise." Margo sat on Isabel's spacious patio, which overlooked the ocean. Electric blue water washed against golden sands. Palm trees swayed on the horizon. She sipped on a tall glass of frosty lemonade, grateful to be off the plane and safe on terra firma. Then she relayed the circumstances surrounding Art's disappearance.

"Oh wow," Isabel whispered. "This is dynamite. No wonder you didn't want to elaborate over the telephone. You did the right thing."

"I often wondered why the relatives of the people on Art's boat haven't come forward." Margo laughed. "It's silly, I know. I haven't exactly been forthcoming either."

"And for a very good reason." Isabel topped up their glasses. "You don't want to be the next one to disappear."

"It's scary to think we're living in such a ruthless system." Margo lit a cigarette and watched the frothy white waves gently lap against the shore.

Isabel nodded. "That sort of corruption doesn't spring up overnight," she said. "It's taken decades to reach what it's become today."

"Yes," Margo agreed. "Anyone who thinks we're any better than China and Iran needs to give his head a shake."

"Well I best be off." Isabel stood up and stretched. "My flight leaves at seven."

Margo hated to see her go, and just when they were getting so nicely acquainted again. Now she would be staying in Isabel's apartment, while Isabel stayed in hers. It was a strange old state of affairs.

"Don't worry, we'll have a nice long visit together once this conspiracy business is over." Isabel smiled.

If it's ever over, Margo mulled despondently. Her only hope was to hook up with members of Intrepid at the Palisades Hotel. That had been the favourite rallying ground for them in the past. She'd have a quick shower to wash the five hour flight right out of her skin -- the flight attendants had been rude, and the food inedible -- then head over there.

"They'll be meeting as usual tomorrow at 10:00 am." The desk clerk pointed in the direction of the boardrooms. "They rent room five," she said.

So although the media had lost interest, this group of bereaved relatives continued as usual. Was it an exercise in futility? Margo wasn't sure. She was also uncertain whether to feel joy or sadness at their tenacity. Yet if there was even a smidgen of a chance that their steadfastness could lead to her being reunited with Hailey, then it was wondrous, downright bloody wondrous and they deserved a million plaudits for their efforts.

The following morning, in boardroom five, Margo introduced herself to the dozen or so people gathered around the conference table. At first they were suspicious, and no wonder considering the circumstances. She could have quite easily been a government plant. But after she'd convinced them of her identity and purpose for being there, their attitude changed.

"I'll get you a cup of coffee." Nora Charles was stooped and grey with a haggard expression, her husband, Roy, looked just as worn. Their only son had been on the missing plane, and their grandson on Art's boat. "How could something like this happen?" they asked in unison.

Like herself, the Intrepids were wary about approaching the Coast Guard regarding the missing boat. The company Art had rented it from had no such qualms however, and subsequently there had been a brief mention of it in the local newspaper. A missing boat with only a few people on board didn't stir up much interest.

"But we don't intend to just sit around and do nothing," Roy declared. He told Margo that he'd rented a cabin cruiser, much like the one Art had been on, and they would explore Newport Island and surrounding area. However, only about half-a-dozen brave souls had signed on for the voyage. They knew they were sailing into dangerous waters, and might meet the same fate as Art's group.

"Why don't you come along?" they invited, and it didn't take much coaxing for Margo to agree. She really had no choice, if she were ever to achieve anything even remotely resembling peace of mind. She had to get out there now and do everything humanly possible to try and solve the mystery of the missing plane and the missing boat.

It would take approximately one week for them to arrive at their destination. Newport Island was due south from Honolulu, in the remote and widely scattered Osaiko archipelago.

Margo wasn't much of a sailor. In fact, the very thought of being tossed around on a stormy sea did terrible things to her stomach. Plus, all that water lapping around the boat would be scary, for she couldn't swim a stroke. Still, she felt she owed it to Hailey and Art to persevere. The boat was scheduled to leave Honolulu harbour the next morning at first tide. Margo telephoned Isabel and told her not to worry if she didn't hear from her for a while. "I'm off to Newport Island," she explained.

Isabel sounded far from enthusiastic. "Given what's been going on down there, do you think that's wise?" she asked.

"Probably not," Margo agreed. But if I don't take this opportunity to travel as close as possible to Hailey and Art, I might as well hop on the first plane back to Vancouver."

"Well then all that's left is for me to wish you bon voyage." Isabel sounded resigned. "Be sure and look after yourself, Margo."

But with the roller coaster ride into danger that was destined to unfold so rapidly, that would be next to impossible.

### Chapter Five

Margo gazed hypnotised at the amazing night sky. She'd never seen so many stars. They were now into the sixth day of their voyage aboard the Maui Warrior, a 60-foot cabin cruiser with leather upholstery and teak decks. So far, they'd been blessed with good weather, and apart from a slight queasiness on the first day out; she hadn't been bothered by seasickness. They expected to reach Newport Island the next day. She settled down in the deck chair and closed her eyes. Now that she was so close to where both the missing plane and boat were suspected to be, she found it impossible to sleep. What would they find on Newport Island? It was a daunting thought. Going anywhere near there was a dangerous undertaking. If they were seen, they'd almost definitely meet the same fate as the people they were looking for...or worse.

Her fellow shipmates thought the radiation-poisoned passengers would be housed in large tents, under heavy military guard. "All we can do right now is verify that they are on the island," Nora had said, as Margo helped dish up dinner in the galley. "And get out of there fast." She speared an anchovy into the salad bowl. "Then it's up to Ben, our journalist friend, to do the rest."

Margo felt confident that everything had been worked out. Of course, if they were seen by the military all would be lost.

She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew dawn had stolen over the great expanse of sea and sky. It was as she got up from the deck chair, her limbs stiff from the unaccustomed sleeping arrangement that she noticed the other boat. It was bearing down on them at high speed. The Maui Warrior, captained by Roy Charles, who was an experienced boater, manoeuvred skilfully to avoid a collision.

"My God, what's happening?" Margo joined the other passengers who were gathered by the guardrail. They looked grey faced and anxious.

"We think they're pirates," Nora said.

"What?" Margo was incredulous.

"Not the ones with eye patches and wooden legs," Nora added. "Now they wear blue jeans and Nikes."

Of course, Margo had heard of modern day pirates, who hadn't? But she never expected to become their victim. "We need to call for help," she insisted.

"Roy already did. He put out an SOS as soon as he saw them."

Now all they could do was wait, and hope help arrived soon, while Roy did his best to evade them.

At breakneck speed they careened over the ocean, making frequent turns. But they could not shake off the pirates who were still hot on their trail. As the distance between the two boats narrowed, a volley of gunshots rang out and struck the Maui Warrior. "Stop or we'll sink you," a heavily accented voice warned from a loudspeaker.

Margo gripped the guardrail, her eyes wide with fear. Never in her worst nightmares had she envisioned anything like this. She'd had many misgivings about the voyage, of course. But her concerns had been about bad weather at sea, or an attack by government forces.

The pirate ship was gaining ground and it continued to fire at them. Margo could hear the whiz of bullets thudding into the stern. Oh God, when was help likely to arrive? This had all happened so fast...it left her feeling numb and unreal.

Then there was an almighty crash as their attackers banged into them and then drew alongside. "They're going to board us," Roy warned and grabbed a revolver.

"Put that away dear, you'll only make it worse," Nora warned.

But Roy was having none of it. "We might as well go down fighting," he said.

Margo tended to agree. She ran to the galley and fetched a butcher knife. On her way back up on deck all hell broke loose. The pirates climbed on board, Roy started shooting at them, and another ship appeared on the horizon. "It's the Coast Guard," somebody yelled.

The pirates didn't waste any time beating a hasty retreat. Margo breathed a sigh of relief as she watched them scramble back to their boat and take off like bats out of hell. Now that the imminent danger had passed, she could actually enjoy watching the dramatics as the Coast Guard gave chase.

"Wow, this will certainly be something to tell your grandchildren," Nora exclaimed. Then she fetched a bottle of Scotch and poured everyone a hefty shot.

"Don't celebrate too soon," Roy warned. "There's another ship on the horizon."

"It looks like another Coast Guard vessel," several voices piped up at once.

"They'll have a ton of questions to ask us," Nora lamented, and she was right.

The Coast Guard didn't leave until the sun had risen to its zenith at the top of the world. Margo helped dish up a hastily prepared lunch. "What a day this has been," she remarked to no one in particular.

"You can say that again," Nora agreed. "And it's not over yet."

The decision that now faced them was whether to carry on to Newport Island with a damaged boat, for although the pirate's assault hadn't disabled the Maui Warrior significantly, it was nevertheless something to be considered. The Coast Guard had surveyed the damage, and although they'd declared the boat seaworthy, they advised them to cut short their trip and return to Honolulu for repairs.

"To have come this far and have to turn around," Nora said. "Would be difficult, to say the least." She paused. "And the way things go, we might never get this far again."

Margo agreed, and so did everyone else. "Let's go for it," was the general consensus.

"With any luck we should reach our destination well before nightfall," Roy said as he set a course for Newport Island.

Now that all the imminent danger and excitement had passed, it suddenly occurred to Margo that perhaps pirates had attacked Art's boat also.

"You could be right," Nora agreed. "But with all the skulduggery and government foul-ups and cover-ups, it was little wonder that we thought the worst." She paused. "It still might have nothing to do with pirates," she added.

Margo spent the rest of the afternoon on deck, restless as a cat. When land was finally sighted, off the starboard bow around 04:00 hours, the entire ship's company cheered with enthusiasm. They'd been eagerly awaiting this moment.

But what started out so positively was destined to become a crushing disappointment. Newport Island was uninhabited. What's more, there were no signs of any recent human activity there.

That was that then. Margo felt utterly defeated as she sank down on a grassy knoll to rest. It didn't feel good to have come this far on a wild goose chase. Yet the beauty and seclusion of this place so far from the madding crowd fascinated her. She watched a flock of sea birds swoop overhead and wondered for the umpteenth time what had happened to the missing plane and her beloved daughter. Now it looked as if she'd never find out. And damn it all, the not knowing was the worst of all.

But Roy and Nora weren't about to give up. "There's only one other island that a plane that size could have landed on," Roy suggested, as they tramped wearily back to the Maui Warrior. "And that's Balfour Island, which is about 300 nautical miles from here."

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Margo responded philosophically. "We've travelled this far, what's another 300 miles?"

The ship's company agreed.

However, Balfour Island turned out to be another disappointment, and it was barren also, lacking in the beauty of Newport. "I doubt if anyone has set foot on here for years." Margo shook her head. With this latest defeat all she wanted was to go home. And lick my wounds, she thought despondently.

The voyage back to Honolulu was uneventful, but a cloudy sky overhead played host to rougher seas. Everyone was despondent, and their mood matched the weather perfectly.

However, Roy and Nora refused to concede defeat, as did the other Intrepids. "We will never accept that our loved ones are dead, until the wreckage of that plane is found," they declared.

Margo had to agree that it was odd, given the size of the missing plane, and the sheer magnitude of the search, that not a single piece of debris had been discovered.

### Chapter Six

"I've managed to get a reservation on the early morning flight." Margo balanced the receiver on her shoulder while filing her nails. It was an overcast day in Honolulu with a cool breeze blowing in from the north.

"It'll be great to see you again." Isabel sounded delighted. Although she'd enjoyed running Handy Maids and getting reacquainted with Vancouver, she too looked forward to returning to what was now her home. "Bring on those warm ocean breezes and golden sands." She laughed. Then on a more sombre note commiserated about Margo's unsuccessful venture to Newport and Balfour Islands.

"You did have to get it out of your system though," she philosophised.

They chatted for a while about the missing plane and Art's missing boat. "It might not have been the government or pirates that sank it," Isabel said. "All assuming that it did sink, of course. It might have gone down in a gale."

"I thought of that too," Margo replied thoughtfully. "In fact, I did some checking yesterday on my trusty laptop."

"And?"

"There were some very rough seas in that particular region a week into Art's voyage."

Isabel was silent for a moment before adding cautiously. "Since Art's missing boat points to an act of nature rather than government assassins, perhaps the missing plane is in the same category?"

Margo sensed her hesitation to suggest this, demolishing as it did any chance of Hailey's survival. And God knows, even the thought of a radiation-poisoned daughter was preferable to none at all. But now even that vain hope had been cruelly shattered by grim reality.

"I've been thinking along the same lines myself," Margo admitted. "Who wouldn't after finding Newport and Balfour Islands totally uninhabited?" She paused. "It shoots straight to hell Art's theory about a nuclear testing accident contaminating the plane, and it being redirected by the government to either one of those islands."

"As I understand it," Isabel mused, these are the only two islands among literally thousands that a jumbo jet could be safely landed on."

"That's what the experts tell us," Margo agreed.

"How are you holding up?" Isabel asked solicitously. "I mean, really, since all these new developments?"

Margo assured her that she was now ready to accept that she'd never see Hailey again. "At least not in this life," she added sadly. She didn't want to end up like the Intrepids, meeting regularly and hatching up any kind of a wild scenario in order to keep hope alive. There was a point where it became a case of serious denial, and they'd reached it.

You had to recognise when it was time to move on, and that's what she intended to do. She'd even held that poignant memorial service to Hailey's memory on the beach at Kailua Bay yesterday. It had been such a perfect day for such a bittersweet tribute to one so young. As she'd thrown the white carnations into the gently lapping surf, she'd (finally) resigned herself to Hailey's fate. "Rest in peace, my darling," she'd whispered and then trudged wearily back along the sand.

Yet still the doubts lingered. Had she been a good mother? Well heaven knows she'd done the best she could. Working round the clock to make Handy Maids a success, thereby making it possible to provide Hailey with an excellent education. She wanted her to be a professional with a university degree that would never have to clean for a living the way she had done.

Margo had spent the remainder of the afternoon cleaning up Isabel's apartment and packing. Although there wasn't too much work involved in the latter. She'd bought a few mementos for herself and for friends that was it.

"So what's on tap for the rest of the day?" Isabel asked.

"An early night." Margo laughed. "Seriously though, I'm planning to take a last walk around this beautiful place to say goodbye."

"Aw, that sounds so sad," Isabel replied. "Why not make it au revoir instead?"

Margo laughed. "Consider it done." She really did hope to return again, under happier circumstances.

As she strolled along the beach later that evening, she was entertained by an outstanding firework display. It lit up the sky for miles around. After the pyrotechnics were over, Margo sat down for a while and gazed at the mysterious face of a golden moon. Then she went into her favourite restaurant, the Coral Cafe, and ordered a slap up dinner. And since it was her last night there, she treated herself to a glass of wine -- just one though -- to acknowledge the occasion.

It was while she was strolling back to Isabel's apartment, soothed by the rhythmic wash of the surf and the haunting cry of sea gulls that she stopped by a small convenience store and saw the newspaper headline. MISSING PLANE PASSENGERS STILL ALIVE? it screamed!

### Chapter Seven

Margo scanned the article avidly. It seemed there had been several sightings of the missing passengers in and around Honolulu. Oh my God, and just when she'd accepted that Hailey would never come back... She headed over to the Palisades Hotel to see Nora and Roy.

"It's what we've been maintaining all along." Roy looked both delighted and vindicated as he sipped on a glass of wine in the hotel lounge.

Nora nodded. "There's something mighty strange going on," she declared.

They were soon joined by the other Intrepids, who were equally pleased. "This will give all those naysayers something to think about," one man remarked and the others nodded vigorously.

"So where do we go from here?" Margo asked. She'd have to cancel her plane trip tomorrow for starters.

"Our strategy is, and always has been, to get as much media attention as possible," Roy said. "We will now double our efforts."

And that's exactly what they did. Over the next week, the story seldom left the front page. All kinds of wild speculation abounded. The outer space connection was touted frequently. But Margo couldn't quite buy that. She reverted back to Art's theory of a government cover-up. The plane, after all, could have been rerouted anywhere.

"Exciting times down there," Isabel remarked at their daily telephone conference. "How are you holding up?"

"Good...good." Yet the truth was that she wasn't sure how she felt. On one hand, the thought that Hailey might still be alive resonated in her hungry soul like manna from heaven. While on the other, she felt herself drawn back unwillingly onto that cruel merry-go-round of hope that led only to bitter disappointment. It was that same old vicious cycle again.

Margo sat on Isabel's patio drinking iced tea. It was a scorching hot day with a haze of heat blurring the horizon. There had been no new developments in the mystery of the reappearing passengers, and she realised that she couldn't stay here much longer. She already felt she was taking advantage of Isabel's generosity, and it had to stop. After all, her staying on here wasn't doing an ounce of good. She'd become quite hooked on the meetings of the Intrepids. They were like a lifeline and validation for her own hopes. As they said, until wreckage from the missing plane was found, no one could state with certainty that the passengers weren't still alive. Therein lay the tantalising belief that Hailey might...just might have survived.

Her newfound resolve gave her the impetus to phone the airline, and then Isabel. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," she promised.

She cleaned and packed, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu. All was well until she switched on the television news at six o'clock. The mysterious sightings of the missing plane's passengers had been exposed for what they were, a hoax!

"Oh my God," Margo gasped. "How bloody wicked can one get?"

It seemed that some members of Intrepid had teamed with an unscrupulous reporter, and the rest as they say is history.

She grabbed the phone.

"Don't you believe it for a minute." Nora sounded furious. "This is just a cheap government trick to make us look bad and cover up their evil doings."

They chatted for a while, and by the end of the conversation Margo didn't know who to believe. Nora had certainly been persuasive in her arguments.

No sooner had she hung up than the phone rang. It was Isabel. She'd been watching the news as well.

"I guess Intrepid got the publicity they wanted, to keep the whole tragic mess in the public eye, while the reporter sold tons of newspapers," she said. "It's just too evil to play around with people's emotions like that."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Margo promised. She knew she should try and rest up, but her nerves were way too ragged for that. In fact, they were downright frayed. She was torn between believing the TV news, and believing Nora, who had become a much-valued friend. She'd have to try and walk off the tension that this dichotomy of loyalty and conflicting emotions evoked.

The great vaulted dome of night sky glittered with a thousand stars. Margo covered mile after mile of golden sand and salt encrusted boardwalks. She walked and walked until sheer exhaustion overtook her and the Diamond Head Lighthouse came into view. Then she went into a cafe for dinner, and called for a taxi afterwards. She wouldn't need any rocking tonight, and looked forward to a decent night's sleep.

Then as the taxi drove down Alakea Street, which was crowded with pedestrians, the most shocking and earth-stopping moment of her life took place. All her doubts about whether the passengers from the missing plane had really been seen disappeared in an instant. For there weaving her way around the crowds, which were mainly tourists, was Hailey!

### Chapter Eight

For a few heart-stopping moments Margo was paralysed by the shock, and unable to move. Then as Hailey crossed the road and headed down a side street it galvanised her into action. To lose sight of her now and perhaps never see her again would be unthinkable. She thrust a bunch of bills at the driver and scrambled out of the taxi. Horns hooted loudly as she darted in and out of traffic as if in a trance. "Hailey," she called. "Hailey." She willed her daughter to turn around, but instead of doing so she rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

Margo was frantic. She raced after this spectre of Hailey, or whatever it was, like a madwoman. The street she ended up in was more like an alley. All was in darkness. No sign of life at all, let alone Hailey.

But Margo wouldn't give up. She scoured every street for blocks and blocks calling out her daughter's name. To lose her now...oh my God, it was almost worse than never having seen her at all.

However, one thing was for certain. Since Hailey was still very much alive -- unless it had been her double, which Margo didn't believe for a moment -- then all the other passengers of the missing plane most likely were alive too. Roy and Nora would be ecstatic. But why wouldn't Hailey contact her? A million questions darted through Margo's exhausted mind. Could it be because she'd been brainwashed into forgetting her past? That would be the only way the government would dare release the passengers of that doomed plane. One thing was for certain, this was far far worse than anything Orwell had dreamed up in his novel, 1984.

The Palisades Hotel was ablaze with dozens of red lanterns. They reflected on the calm blue water of the Grecian swimming pool. That's where Margo found Roy and Nora, enjoying a nightcap at poolside. She knew that she was spouting incoherently but couldn't stop herself. She just couldn't seem to get a grip.

Roy guided her into a chair, while Nora ordered another round of drinks with a double Scotch for Margo. "Try to calm down, dear," she counselled.

"Sorry..." Margo took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes with hands that trembled like aspens in the wind. "I just saw Hailey," she managed to blurt out. "She was walking down Alakea Street."

Neither one registered surprise. "We've never doubted for a minute that the passengers on Flight 641 are still alive," Roy said. "And since their memories have no doubt been erased, the only way you can hope to find Hailey again, is to keep the area where you saw her under constant surveillance."

"Oh my gosh," Margo drained her glass. "I'd almost forgotten with all this excitement...I'm supposed to fly to Vancouver in the morning." Yet she knew, even as she said it, that there was no way she could do so now. Not with every fibre of her being primed to see Hailey again. To leave now would be like deserting her daughter in this hour of her greatest need.

She immediately punched in Isabel's number and told her what had happened.

"Oh wow...that is just too marvellous for words." Isabel sounded thunderstruck. "Of course you must stay on now. Don't worry I'm coping well, and there's no rush for me to return to Honolulu."

"You're as friend in a million," Margo said gratefully.

While she'd been chatting to Isabel, Roy and Nora had taken a brief stroll by the edge of the pool. Judging by the animated nature of their conversation, they were obviously discussing this latest development in the missing plane saga, which had utterly consumed their lives for months. "We've talked it over," Nora said as they returned to the table. "We've decided this is a job for a private investigator. All they'd need is a good photograph of Hailey and they could stake out Alakea Street, and do anything else they deemed necessary to find her."

Margo agreed, but had qualms about the cost. What with her trip down to Honolulu, and all the related expenses she was sailing very close to the wind. That's when Roy and Nora came to the rescue.

"We insist on paying for this surveillance," Roy said. "And our motives are by no means selfless. If Hailey is found then she may be able to recall under hypnosis exactly what happened on that plane." He drained his glass. "In short, she's the best hope we have...in fact, she's the only hope that the mystery of Flight 641 might be finally solved."

"It could mean being reunited with our own son," Nora chimed in.

"Amen to that," Roy added.

But as the days turned into weeks and Hailey was still not found, all their excitement and hopes for a speedy and successful outcome turned to dust.

"Keep the faith," Nora encouraged, over morning coffee on the patio of the Palisades Hotel. "Remember, there are almost half a million people in Honolulu."

"But I thought that she must live around where I saw her." Margo shielded her eyes from the glare of a fiery sun. "It was late in the evening..."

Nora shook her head. "She might have been down there shopping."

"But the way she darted down that side street and alley?"

"It might have been a short cut...who knows?"

Could she have just imagined she'd seen Hailey? Perhaps it was a girl who resembled her, and given Margo's state of mind, she'd conjured up the rest?

Yet no, goddamnit, she had seen her. She wasn't so far gone in grief that she wouldn't recognise her own daughter. Hailey had even been wearing clothes that she recognised. Mind you, they were the standard teenage fashion of the day. Still...

Bitterly disappointed, she made plans to leave Honolulu. She had to. Her money was all but gone, and her credit cards were just about maxed out. Besides, she was doing absolutely no good here, and it just wasn't fair to expect Isabel to shoulder the burden of running the Handy Maids any longer.

It was a strange feeling leaving the place where Hailey had gone missing, and then miraculously reappeared, only to disappear again. It felt as if she were severing the last link she had with her daughter. Although she knew Nora would call her immediately, should there be any news.

* * * * *

A pale moon drifted like a ghostly beacon over a cloudy sky. Margo stared at it while standing by her living room window lost in thought. It had been over two weeks since she'd returned to Vancouver and still no news about Hailey. Damn!

She'd treated Isabel to an especially nice dinner at the Four Seasons, before she caught the plane back to Honolulu. It was great to connect in that way. So much of their communication was now over the telephone, and that was a poor substitute for face to face.

"Don't worry, they'll find Hailey," Isabel had assured her. "When they do, she'll have to be whisked off to a safe place, far away from the government bandits who were behind all this."

Margo plugged in the kettle and tossed a teabag in the pot. She hadn't been sleeping well, and felt bone weary. While it was good to be home again, she missed the Honolulu climate. She was about to switch the television on to watch the late news when the phone rang. It was Nora. They had found Hailey!

### Chapter Nine

"Oh my God!" Margo gasped clutching her forehead with a trembling hand. "Put her on."

"Go easy on her," Nora advised. "She doesn't remember anything about you or her former life."

It was, of course, what they'd expected. She'd been brainwashed and had her memory erased by Big Brother.

"...Hello..." The voice was just as she remembered it, but much less confidant, and no wonder. Those bloody bastards, they'd destroyed and stolen a promising young life.

"Hailey," she managed to croak out through a veil of tears. "How are you my love?" Margo blew her nose noisily then added. "I know you don't remember me, Hailey, but I'm your mother and I love you very very much."

"I'm fine..." Hailey sounded puzzled. "I'm not sure what all this is about?"

At the end of the somewhat awkward call, Nora came on again.

"I'll be down there on the first flight," Margo declared. To hell with the maxed out credit cards, to hell with Handy Maids, to hell with everything...

"There's no need for that," Nora advised. "We can put Hailey on the first flight back to Vancouver."

"But what about the hypnosis to try and get her to remember...?"

"Hailey said she's not up to that right now, which is understandable. But she'd like to try it once she gets settled down a bit."

"I'll see to it," Margo promised. "I'm as anxious to get to the bottom of this as anybody."

Two days later as she drove to the airport to pick up Hailey, Margo felt a strong sense of déjà vu. She recalled the last time she'd done this. It was only a few months ago, but felt like an eternity. All her preconceived notions about truth and justice had been shattered, while Art and his crew had likely lost their lives trying to make it right.

A shy sun peeked out from behind a dark cloud and shone its radiance on a rainy landscape. Margo wheeled into the parking lot and made her way slowly towards the terminal. Now that this moment she'd longed for was finally here, she felt like a nervous horse approaching a high jump.

Apart from looking slightly older and thinner, Hailey hadn't changed much. She embraced Margo and thanked her for not giving up on her.

"As if I ever would," Margo sobbed.

By tacit agreement nothing was mentioned about the missing plane, as Hailey set about putting her life together again. She got her job back at the Treasure Chest. Margo wondered how much she remembered of her school curriculum, and hoped she would eventually return to university. She didn't mention this, however, for fear it would put unwarranted pressure on her daughter.

Isabel, as always, kept in touch regularly. "Where did the PI find Hailey?" she asked. Now that the excitement and confusion had died down, details such as that were of interest.

"On the beach at Waikiki." Margo sipped coffee and watched lighting streak across a thunderous sky.

"But where was she living, and was she working?"

"She had a small apartment near the beach, and worked in a small store similar to the Treasure Chest."

"That poor girl. To have been through so much..."

"She was fragile at first," Margo said thoughtfully. "But now she's settled down a bit, it's almost like having the old Hailey back again." She paused. "There's never a day goes by that I don't thank God for sending her back to me."

"What about the hypnosis thing. I imagine Nora and Roy are mad keen to see that happen."

"Actually, I haven't heard from them in a while." Margo set her cup in the sink, making a mental note to call Nora soon.

The following weekend Margo took Hailey out to the Four Seasons for dinner. It was time, she decided, to broach the tricky matter of the missing plane. She waited until after desert was served to do so.

"Can't we just forget about that, Mom?" Hailey looked angelic highlighted by the flickering light from the table candle.

"It's not as simple as that." Margo resolved to remain firm. "There are over 230 people still missing from that plane, and you may be the only person who knows what happened to them."

From there what started out as a pleasant evening quickly disintegrated into something entirely different. Hailey became taciturn and uncommunicative, while Margo felt guilty about badgering her like a bully. In the end nothing was agreed upon.

"I'm so sorry," Margo apologised to Nora when she finally tracked her down the following evening. "Hailey is being stubborn right now, and I believe it's only natural that she doesn't want to remember, on a conscious level, the missing plane."

Then Nora surprised her no end by suggesting that they just forget about the hypnosis. "Hailey's been through enough," she said. "We don't want to risk what might happen if we try to force her to remember. She could have a complete mental breakdown."

What the hell was going on? There had been a remoteness, secretiveness if you will about Nora ever since Hailey was found.

"Why don't you have it out with her?" Isabel asked, when Margo phoned to tell her about her concerns. "Just ask Nora point blank what her change in attitude is all about."

But that was easier said than done, and Margo procrastinated until this sense of something not right became unbearable. It reached a peak on a rainy Saturday afternoon, while Hailey was still at work. She punched in Nora's phone number.

"Look I'm sorry," she began in a diplomatic and conciliatory fashion. "But I get the sense that there's something going on that I'm not privy too." She paused. "Of course, I may just be getting paranoid."

"That's to be expected considering all you've been through," Nora responded guardedly. "I think we're all a bit like that now. It's a bitch when you can't trust your own government."

They chatted for a bit about everyday things and the call ended when Hailey came home.

"I've cooked your favourite tonight." Margo gave her a hug. "Macaroni and cheese with mushroom soup."

"Mmmm... Thanks, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

And as dusk gathered in the corners and crept towards them with a stealth as old as time itself, Margo acknowledged that Nora was right. It was time to forget the nightmare of the missing plane, and just be grateful that she had her beloved daughter back again and all was well. Life was good.

### Chapter Ten

"I can't help but feel guilty." Nora trudged through golden sand, as dawn lit the eastern horizon.

"As well you should." Roy frowned. "Surely your first duty should have been to Margo, instead of her daughter."

Nora shrugged. "It still was..." She hesitated. "At least in a way."

"Oh I know your motives were good," Roy replied. "You just wanted to shield Margo from the truth about Hailey."

"As well as honour my promise to Hailey that I'd never tell a living soul about what really happened."

"Don't worry about it, it's over." Roy sat down on a bench and brought out the coffee Thermos. "It would do more harm than good to spill the beans and open up old wounds now."

Nora nodded. "If only Hailey hadn't been living with that horrible man when she was found." She paused. "He had a criminal record you know."

Roy took a sip of coffee and then passed her the cup. "Well Hailey couldn't have known that when she met him. You know, when she first arrived in Honolulu to stay with Isabel."

"Margo would be devastated if she ever found out." Nora looked thoughtful as she swirled the coffee around in the cup.

"Nobody wants to see their daughter take up with that sort of man," Roy said. "But I believe Margo could have handled that."

"I do too," Nora agreed. "But I couldn't very well tell her that without including the rest." She paused. "And that was the real A-Bomb that would have destroyed her."

Roy poured another cup of coffee, and passed out the breakfast rolls.

"Gosh I'm starving," Nora said, as she bit into one. "It must be the ocean air."

"Nevertheless," Roy wore a stubborn look. "I still think she should have been told. At the time, I mean. It's way too late for that now."

"Perhaps you're right," Nora conceded. "But how could learning that her daughter was miserable at home be used for a positive purpose?"

"Margo should have asked Hailey what she wanted to do with her life," Roy stated quite unequivocally. "Instead of which, she assumed that because she wanted a private school and university education for her daughter, she must do too. It's not easy to have these sort of parental hopes and expectations riding on you."

Nora shook her head. "It's not easy bringing up kids," she said. "Especially when you're a single parent like Margo."

"That well may be," Roy agreed. "But the fact remains that all Hailey wanted to do was work in the Treasure Chest, with the hopes of owning a store just like it someday." He paused. "And surely she was entitled to follow her own dreams in that way."

"Yes, of course she was." Nora looked impatient. "Margo assumed too much, and by so doing put a terrific strain on Hailey."

"You're darned tootin' she did!" Roy reached for another roll. "What it boils down to, Nora, is that Margo sought to live her life vicariously through Hailey's achievements. And since she always wanted to go to a private school and university, she wanted Hailey to do so for her. Like, if her daughter was a 'success' then that would reflect on her abilities as a parent. It's really pretty selfish." He drained his coffee cup. "Yet she never once thought to ask Hailey what she wanted."

"Put like that..." Nora flicked breadcrumbs off her dark slacks. "It sounds so utterly selfish. Yet you can be sure it was done for Hailey's good as well."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Roy replied glumly.

"Everything seems to be going great for Hailey now," Nora said. "She's working at the Treasure Chest, and she vetoed the idea of going back to university. Margo has accepted that, and all is well."

"Time to be getting back." Roy packed up the breakfast things and they turned in the direction of the hotel.

"I still stand by what I've done." Nora's jaw looked rigid with determination. "I can't imagine what good it would have done to tell Margo that Hailey hated the idea of returning to Vancouver so much, she preferred to throw her lot in with a petty crook, and remain here in Honolulu."

"You have a point there..." Roy reluctantly agreed.

"And that she never got on Flight 641 at all. After Isabel left the airport, she simply skedaddled." Nora linked her arm in Roy's. "I can understand it all up to that point," she said. "But to allow her mother to continue believing she'd been on that plane, after it disappeared, was unforgivable, and so bloody cruel."

"Yes, and Hailey would never have got in touch with Margo again, if the PI hadn't found her."

"What an ungrateful selfish little bitch," Nora muttered, as the sun rose above the horizon and made a glorious entrance in the calm dawn sky.

###  Epilogue

The hacker yawned and stared out the window at a grey and chilly dawn. He'd done another all nighter and felt exhausted. Still, if this current attack proved as successful as the last one, it would be well worth it. Who would ever have believed you could bring down a jumbo jet remotely using a mobile phone? There had to be a first time for everything, of course. 9/11 seemed impossible too, prior to the event.

Global Airlines Flight 641 from Honolulu to Vancouver had been the first successful cyber high jack. He grinned. They'd managed to hack into the main computer network of the plane through the onboard entertainment system. Then they were in complete control, deliberately directing it to a remote part of the ocean before crashing it, so it would never be found.

### ~~The End~~

FIGURE IN THE FOG

###  Prologue

The bridge reared up out of the mist, its massive steel towers sinister in the darkness. Vicky Allen kept close to the railing, the urgent beat of her footsteps obliterated by the clamour of foghorns. Traffic was thinning out as the midnight hour approached. Acutely aware of the isolation and her vulnerability she broke into a half-run.

Up ahead the fog grew denser. Rain mizzled down from a dismal sky. Oh my God, why did I come out here? She lamented. Yet knew the answer. On a night much like this she'd first met Anderson. He'd been standing just about where she was now, mysterious and darkly handsome in his Merchant Navy officer's uniform.

A ship's horn blasted out close by. She jumped and her bag fell out of trembling hands.

She stooped to pick it up—and then she saw the figure. Swathed in mist, it blocked her path. She gasped with fright. Fear hammered through her heart like a demon's quintet. Suffocating. She tried to move, to escape, but legs frail as an insect's refused to obey.

Seconds felt like an eternity as the man walked slowly towards her. His hands reached out and grasped her. A grip like steel held her fast. He lifted her up.

"Hey! What are you doing?" she cried in terror, fighting for her life as he hoisted her onto the top of the railing.

But he proved too strong for her. It was useless. She felt like a rag doll tossed around by a bear. Who is this maniac? Why is he trying to kill me? It was like a nightmare, it couldn't be happening? Yet it is! It is! What a way to end one's days. It had all happened so fast too.

She knew she was just moments away from almost certain death. Very few people had survived such a plunge. As the last ounce of strength drained from her body, she wondered with curious detachment, what it would feel like to plummet down to the dark ocean hundreds of feet below? Would her life and the events that brought her here flash before her eyes? She screamed as she lost her grip on the railing and began to fall...

### Chapter One

"You're obsessed by that bridge." Pam Drummond drained her coffee cup, then continued. "You stare at it for hours on end."

Vicky laughed, and moved away from the window. "I wouldn't quite go that far." Yet she admitted to herself the bridge drew her like a magnet, especially at night when it lit up the darkness with a necklace of lights. My fairy bridge, she'd think then, relaxing on her balcony and watching ships pass beneath it.

"I swear you bought this place just to be close to it."

"Well, it does make a lovely view. The Vancouver skyline, Burrard Inlet—"

"And the bridge!" Pam interjected with a chuckle.

"Of course, it's a scene stealer." Vicky topped up their cups from a glass carafe. There was just something so hypnotic about this massive man-made structure, known as the Lion's Gate, straddling the inlet in defiance of the elements.

Fond memories of crossing it as a child on her way to Stanley park picnics remained with her. As a teenager, cycling on its narrow path with the wind whipping round her ears had been both scary and exhilarating. In adulthood, there were the evening trips to restaurants, theatres and cinemas, sometimes with horny dates, sometimes alone. Either way, its sturdy steel arms had protected her through every phase of her life.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right while I'm away?" Pam's expression grew serious. She looked like a brooding hen with her oversized spectacles and cropped ginger hair.

"Of course I will. Besides, if the shop gets really busy, I can always call in one of the part-timers."

Pam looked far from convinced. "It's just that you've been a little...peaked lately."

"Peaked?" Vicky scoffed. "I don't think so. A little tired maybe."

"You look pale."

"I'm always pale." Vicky scanned her appearance in the hall mirror. Skin like alabaster, green eyes and ash-blonde hair swirled back in a knot.

Pam stood up, grabbed her purse from the table and draped a summer raincoat round her shoulders. "Got to run. I've a mountain of packing to do."

After she left, Vicky took her coffee out to the balcony. Dusk fell swiftly leaving the panoramic scene smoky with mist. She mulled over what Pam had said. It was true she hadn't felt herself lately. An annoying restlessness and discontent had elbowed their way into her well-ordered life. The midlife crisis one heard so much about, she supposed. She shifted uncomfortably in the wicker chair.

There certainly wasn't any valid reason for her ennui. Her health was good, the business sound...in fact, the Fashion Font was doing so well, Pam wanted to expand.

"It's time to move on," she would insist. While Vicky, ever cautious felt less sure.

It wasn't that she didn't buy into Pam's argument, after fifteen years in the same location, in a store that had been too small even from the start. Still, she liked the little boutique, and its location in the Lonsdale Quay Market.

So she couldn't blame her present frame of mind on business woes. Personal then. Too long alone, after too many failed marriages. Yet Pam seemed to cope very nicely with the single state. She'd sworn off men completely, except for an annual trip to Cuba where she hired a male escort. "Why don't you try it, Vicky?" she'd coaxed.

"Nope, it doesn't turn my crank at all. I'll just stick to my battery-operated boyfriend."

A foghorn whined from the harbour and was answered by another far out on the open sea. I need a walk. She stood up so quickly she nearly upended her chair. She had to get moving and stop brooding.

The bridge beckoned.

Fog lay in smudgy patches and furled around rooftops. It leant an air of mystery to the familiar. She approached the Lion's Gate Bridge with an odd feeling of inevitability. It was as if her footsteps had a mind of their own. Was she fulfilling a destiny that couldn't be denied?

Sheesh, I'm getting fanciful as well as morbid. Must be menopause. Stop thinking keep walking.

The bridge was unusually quiet for an evening in late summer—a bus rumbled by and then nothing else for several minutes. The Vancouver skyline peeked determinedly through the fog like a ghostly city from some futuristic tale.

A couple on the other side of the bridge walked their dog, their laughter quickly disappearing into the ether.

Vicky felt as bleak and isolated as the landscape. She stopped for a minute to catch her breath. Black clouds scuttered over the Lions' Peak Mountains from which the bridge got its name.

It was her habit to walk all the way to the entrance of the bridge, on the edge of Stanley Park, where the crouching stone lions stood guard. Tonight she decided to cut it short. The fog grew ever thicker and now obscured the tops of the bridge's towers giving it a spooky skeletal look, like the bones of some weird prehistoric creature, eroded and in ruins.

Stop it time to go home. Vicky turned abruptly and returned the way she'd come. She searched for the lights from the Park Royal Shopping Centre, which lay underneath the bridge and straight ahead, but could scarcely see them. It was here that Pam suggested they open another store.

She quickened her pace, wrapping her coat closer around her, more for comfort than to keep out the chill. For it was still humid and airless, though damp.

Then on the narrow path ahead, she saw the figure. Her heart leapt with fear. Stop it; you're being foolish! It had just been so unexpected. Traffic had thinned out to just the occasional vehicle and she felt so alone and vulnerable.

There were so many crazies around, one never knew. She thought of the women who'd been attacked, raped and murdered around this very same area. How many have been tossed over the bridge and never found?

Why would someone just stand on the bridge on a night like this? Whoever it was seemed to be gazing out over the water, which was now impossible to see.

As she drew closer the fog lifted slightly drifting away from the figure, which so alarmed her. She saw a tall man wearing the uniform of an officer in the Merchant Navy. Good God! She was reminded immediately of her father. Tears sprung to her eyes. She still missed him.

Seeming to sense her presence, the man inclined his head towards her. He had refined features and a pleasant smile. "Not the best night to be out of doors," he said.

His accent was slightly British, the voice from home, always good to hear. Then he added jokingly, the old tired line: "Do you come here often?"

Vicky laughed. She liked him immediately. Felt at ease. She'd been worrying unnecessarily, and allowing all sorts of wild thoughts to drive her nuts. "Well actually I do," she replied. "I walk here most days."

"I'm Anderson Ford," he extended a hand. "As you may have gathered I work on a ship."

"Vicky."

His handshake was firm and brief, too brief. She'd have liked to linger and savour his touch. Good God, what's happening to me? Am I so lonely, desperate and sexually frustrated that I'm getting the hots for a total stranger?

"My father was a sailor," she said, suddenly feeling awkward, uncomfortably gauche. "The Royal Navy."

"So you know all the drawbacks about the profession. Long periods away from home. Difficulty settling down and so on."

"I suppose." She shrugged. "Although I always envied him his trips around the world."

She continued her walk. He fell in step beside her. "Are you stopping over in Vancouver for long?" she asked.

"Just until tomorrow. I'm on an Alaskan cruise ship."

After they cleared the bridge, the fog lifted as if by magic. Traffic moved as usual on Marine Drive and pedestrians padded around on the sidewalks. Some of them headed towards the Raven Pub.

"Would you like to go in?" he asked.

Vicky didn't hesitate. In fact, she'd been wracking her brains for a way, with dignity, to keep him with her longer. The thought of him just drifting away into the fog, never to be seen again, was utterly unbearable. You've only known him for five minutes, a nasty little inner voice piped up to torment her. She ignored it.

In the intimate atmosphere, her instant attraction for him grew. He took off his cap and ran his hand over cropped black hair, slightly tinged with grey. She noticed at once how incredibly blue his eyes were, like the noon sky on a perfect June day. She felt weak at the knees. Her pulse fluttered like a flock of butterflies.

They ordered a bottle of Liebfraumilch, dry white wine from the Rhine Valley. "Here's to you." He raised his glass and smiled.

She returned the toast. "And to you," she said.

By the third glass, she'd dispensed with formalities and boldly declared, "To us."

"I'll second that." He moved closer and touched her hand.

Thank heavens for booths, she thought lustfully. At a table, this most welcome manoeuvre wouldn't have been possible.

He spoke a lot about Alaska, the glaciers, and pristine wilderness. "I've never seen so many eagles flying free, and their nests––they're really quite enormous––high up in the trees."

Vicky nodded. "I haven't been further than the panhandle, but I loved it too." She recalled passing the time of day with a woman in Juneau, who lived on a street so steep it had steps. It was always the people one recalled from far-off places, long after memories of buildings and landscapes were gone.

"We're only going as far as Juneau this season. Next year it'll be all the way to Anchorage."

He drained his glass, and asked her if she wanted another bottle.

Vicky laughed. "God no, I'm way too tipsy as it is." Her head swam, and her speech grew slurred. Outrageously horny as well, she added silently. She stifled a giggle. "Look, I don't live far from here." The alcohol had emboldened her, lowered her defences. "Come on, I'll make us some coffee."

The cool air revived her somewhat and a light rain pattering down like fairy feet felt surprisingly refreshing. She left the hood of her raincoat down, knowing it would make her hair curly.

They held hands. It seemed so natural. The sheer maleness of him was intoxicating. Her hormones were in overdrive. She'd been too long without a man.

"You must have a fabulous view from your apartment," he said, when he saw where she lived.

Vicky smiled, remembering her conversation earlier that day with Pam. "It's the main reason I moved here."

In the elevator he pulled her close, brushed her lips with his. She gasped and ground herself against him. Felt him grow instantly erect. So great was her need that she considered going for it right there and then, but sanity won out. Imagine having to face the neighbours after that one?

"Wait," she murmured, and they moved as one towards her suite.

As soon as they were inside, all propriety and pretence were abandoned. She couldn't get him inside her fast enough. Had to feel his hands on her breasts, his mouth all over her skin.

He tugged down her pants and pushed her against the wall. She squatted down to accommodate him, devouring him with her mouth and tearing at him with her hands. I'm like a savage, she thought, but didn't give a damn.

He looked surprised by the sheer overt nature of her need, and her abandonment of all finesse and niceties.

"It's been so long," she gasped.

He responded by lifting her up and then easing her down on his raging hard-on.

She wound her legs around his waist and rocked in sheer ecstasy. "Oh yes, yes, yes," she cried like one demented. It was just so good to feel a hard cock thrusting inside her after so bloody long.

* * * *

"You look like the feline who nicked the cream." Pam winked. "Did you just get lucky, win the lottery, or what?"

Vicky steam-pressed a new shipment of dresses, squinting against the sunshine blazing through the shop window. She laughed, guiltily. She hadn't realized her night of lust had left such an indelible mark. "You're letting your imagination run wild," she said.

"You're probably right. All this racing around before my trip is taking its toll. If I don't leave right now, I'm going to miss my flight." She tucked a couple of scarves into a travel bag. "I feel like I'll be gone forever, and it's actually only a month."

"You're packing as if it will be forever."

Pam looked rueful. "I am, aren't I?"

They hugged. "Enjoy yourself." Vicky said. "Bon voyage and give my regards to Europe."

"Now you're sure you're going to be all right holding the fort alone?"

"Of course, I will." Vicky felt impatient to be alone with her thoughts, her wonderfully licentious and private thoughts about Anderson. It had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly.

She waived to Pam from the doorway, and then poured herself a cup of coffee. Her body still tingled from his touch. She could feel the imprint of his mouth on her breasts. He'd awakened her sleeping senses and desire coursed through her like an electric current.

It would be one whole week before he returned. Never had a mere seven days stretched ahead so long, barren and empty.

She felt relieved that Pam was gone. It would have been a strain to keep up appearances under her eagle eye. Hell, she's already twigged that something's going on. Besides, she didn't want to invoke the memories of Anderson, and the erotic abandon of their night together, while anyone else was around. It would be sharing, at least after a fashion, and that was unacceptable.

A customer came in looking for a wedding outfit. Damn, just when I was about to relive the moment when he was driving me stark raving bonkers––and she groped for a polite way of phrasing it––licking the lily.

"This way." She pointed to the rack along the back wall. What would it be like, she wondered dreamily, to be planning a wedding with Anderson? Stop! She jammed on the brakes as soon as the thought popped up. She was going way too fast on this one. She wasn't, after all, some randy, immature, too-eager teenager.

You're acting like one though, the horrid little inner voice accused.

* * * *

Yet maybe she hadn't been so premature and out of line after all, she decided the following week, when Anderson gave her an Alaska black diamond ring.

"Oh it's beautiful," she enthused. "Thank you, thank you so very much."

Not the diamond, of course, to be worn on the third finger of the left hand. Still, it was a good start.

"It's by no means the crown jewels." He smiled. "It's only hematite."

"I love that stone. It's very much Alaska." She displayed the ring on the middle finger of her right hand. "I can feel the good vibrations already."

Vicky fairly glowed. Life had never been this good. She wanted to give him something in return. She remembered the medal of St. Christopher, patron saint of travellers, which had belonged to her father. It was so appropriate; he would have wanted another seaman to have it. She clasped it round his neck.

"I don't know quite what to say." He looked genuinely touched by the gift. "I'll cherish it always."

"Hey, we're getting too serious here." Vicky lightened the mood by grabbing his tie and leading him into the bedroom.

God! She thought, as he gave her the pounding of her life, the sex just gets better and better.

When he got up to leave shortly after four am, she felt a definite sense of loss. "I wish you didn't have to go," she said, when he'd dressed.

"So do I." He bent down and kissed her. " I'll be back again at the same time next week."

"I'll hold you to it." She clung to him, kissing his mouth, his face, his neck, his hands.

"Easy on there, sweetheart, or the ship'll leave without me."

He extricated himself gently, put on his uniform cap, and then he was gone.

It was as if a light had been switched off in her life, she thought miserably, and with an unseemly degree of self-pity. She'd never really believed in a soul mate, until now. She stared at the dawn lighting the eastern sky. Even their British roots and love of bridges bound them together. Anderson said he'd admired the Lion's Gate Bridge so much sailing beneath it, he'd just had to see it from above. "Thank goodness you did," Vicky exclaimed. "Otherwise, we would never have met." That was unthinkable.

He was from London too, the same as her father. Of course, both were seamen. It was almost uncanny, but in the most positive sort of way.

The following week they went out to the Raven Pub for a drink. It had been Anderson's suggestion. Vicky would have been just as happy to keep him all to herself. They had such a short time together, barely eight hours in all.

"Come on, it'll do you good," he coaxed.

They sat down in the same booth as last time. He ordered the same wine. "When's Pam coming back?" he asked.

"Next week. There's no change of plan, she calls me every weekend."

"Good. Then why don't you take a holiday when she returns? I'm due a couple of weeks leave."

Vicky beamed. To have Anderson with her for weeks sounded like manna from heaven. "You're on." She clinked her glass against his. "Here's to us."

He phoned her from Ketchikan a few days later.

"Is everything alright?" She felt immediately anxious. Has there been a change of plan?

He laughed. "The only thing wrong is that we're not together," he said. "I felt compelled to call you, just to reassure myself that you're real."

"I often think the same thing about you," she admitted. "I need to convince myself I didn't just dream you up."

He laughed. "I hope you still feel the same way after I've been under your feet for a couple of weeks."

"I can hardly wait. I'll see you on Friday, as usual, but for many nights this time, instead of just a few hours."

"Amen to that."

She could hear a ship's horn in the background and the squealing of gulls. "I'd love to go on an Alaskan cruise again," she said, wistfully.

"It would make a lovely honeymoon," he replied, leaving her feeling so elated she thought she might levitate and float around the room.

* * * *

"This is a bit short notice." Pam looked tanned from her trip and she'd had her hair tinted bright red. She browsed around the racks, taking inventory.

"Sorry, but something's come up."

"Yeah, and I bet I know what it is." Pam leered. "Six to eight inches and hard as a rock."

Vicky smiled. "I'll never tell." She didn't intend to share Anderson with anyone, at least not yet.

"Oh, okay then. I'd have liked a bit of settling-back-in time, but I'm sure I'll cope." She jotted down some figures on a spreadsheet. "I can always call in one of the part-timers, if things get crazy."

Vicky headed home that night with wings on her heels. I'm like Mercury, she thought with a giggle. She stuck a bottle of wine on ice and prepared a spaghetti dinner, taking extra care to get the sauce just right. She loved cooking for Anderson; he always showed such appreciation for her culinary efforts.

She expected him about eight, his usual time. He'd always been like clockwork, very punctual. She had a shower, put on her sexiest lingerie, and set the table. The evening was chilly, so she flicked on the gas fire.

Eight o'clock came and went, then nine and ten, but still no Anderson.

Vicky felt horribly disappointed and deflated. She cracked open the wine and downed one glass quickly, and then another. Something must have happened to delay him. Why hasn't he phoned? She blew out the candles and got dressed. There was nothing more depressing than a party, which didn't happen. She just had to get out and walk about for a bit, clear her head. The wine had made her feel quite tipsy. She took her cell phone with her, just in case he tried to contact her.

It was a clear night with a thousand stars, and a crescent moon riding high in the heavens. She turned up her coat collar against the cold and headed towards the bridge. On her way past the Raven, she peered in just to make sure he wasn't there. No reason why he would be, of course. But wait...we met once in the Raven. Could they have got their wires crossed about that tonight? Could Anderson have been waiting there for her, and finally gave up when she didn't show? No, it didn't make sense. Why wouldn't he phone?

The vain hope that she might find him standing on the bridge in the same spot where they'd met spurred her on. Foolish, she knew, the odds against it were staggering, but still...if he had waited for her in the Raven, there was a possibility he might think she'd given him the brush off, and returned to the scene of their first meeting. Crikey, I'm really reaching now. Yet there had to be a valid reason for him not showing up tonight, and not phoning her, something pretty extreme.

Sirens screamed and police cars raced by. Something was going on at the bridge. "It's a jumper," she heard someone say.

Oh God! What if it's Anderson? So depressed because he thinks I stood him up at the Raven, he's decided to end it all. Then she immediately wondered why she'd entertained such a ridiculous thought—yet her heart pounded unnervingly in an over-tight chest.

She hurried up the on ramp, but a police blockade prevented her from going any further. A crowd of curiosity seekers had gathered, and spoke in the type of hushed whispers reserved for tragic occasions.

"Have you any idea who it is?" Vicky asked a woman standing close by.

She shook her head. "Just that it's a man," she said. "He's standing on the railing on the west side of the bridge." She hesitated slightly. "I thought I heard a reporter saying he was a seaman...so he must be wearing a uniform. How else would they know?"

### Chapter Two

I must stop him!

The world spun around Vicky like a crazy roller coaster ride. The worst of her fears had been realized, it must be Anderson.

She pushed her way through the crowd and ran up the ramp to the bridge.

"Hey, you can't go there!" she heard somebody shout.

Flashing lights from police cars and other emergency vehicles spun in dizzying circles of red and blue and white. Vicky felt sick. She wanted to vomit. That's what you get for drinking wine on an empty stomach, the critical little voice reminded her. It wasn't only the wine though; it was the disappointment when Anderson didn't come, and the anxiety over what had happened to him. Now this...

The police presence was centred around the central west side of the bridge, in almost the same location where she'd first met Anderson. Oh God, could he have been contemplating jumping that night as well, and my sudden appearance distracted him?

She managed to get within a few yards of the scene and could make out the figure now quite plainly, balanced precariously on the edge of the railing, before she was stopped by a police officer.

"I know him, I can help," she gasped, winded from the steep climb.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. There was a loud communal gasp from the onlookers as the figure leapt into space and went soaring down into the black void below.

"Oh God, I was too late...too late!" Vicky wailed. She crumpled down on the sidewalk and wept.

Flashguns triggered in front of her eyes as reporters, who'd been kept back by the police blockade, charged onto the scene. A microphone was shoved into her face.

"So you knew the victim? Who was he? What was his name?" A reporter rapped out the questions like a modern day Torquemada. A television camera behind him recorded the interview.

Vicky shook her head, struggled to her feet. Good God, I'll be on the six o'clock news tomorrow. How did I get myself into this? She had to get out of there.

Realizing that they were wasting their time with her, the swarm of newshounds moved on. She heard them ask a police officer why they hadn't managed to prevent the man from jumping.

"There was a language barrier," he explained.

Vicky couldn't believe what she'd heard—a language barrier! It took a full moment for the import of that to sink in. Hanging onto the railing for support, on legs weak as matchsticks, she propelled herself towards the police officer.

"Language barrier," she repeated dumbly, a frantic feeling of hope rendering her oblivious to the TV crew.

"Yes—he was Chinese."

* * * *

"Vicky, are you all right?" Pam sounded shocked and concerned. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you on the TV news."

"Fine. Of course." Vicky had been bracing herself for this call, and dreading it.

"But..." Pam hesitated, clearly unwilling to let her off the hook that easily. "What happened?"

"I thought the jumper was someone I knew."

"Well that was fairly obvious." A note of impatience crept into her voice. "Who was it? I thought I knew all your friends."

I don't have any, Vicky thought disparagingly. Not after years working round the clock at the store. There hadn't hasn't been any time for a social life. Aloud she said. "A neighbour...someone in the building."

This was met by an uncertain silence. "You seemed awfully upset for it to have been just a neighbour—a casual acquaintance."

Vicky forced a laugh. "Just my mood of the moment, I suppose."

"Look, you would confide in me if anything was...wrong? I mean I'm always here for you."

"Thanks Pam, I know that. Everything's fine—really."

For a long time after the call had ended, Vicky stared out at the bridge, its necklace sparkling against the velvet backdrop of a night sky.

There was still no word from Anderson.

She didn't know whether to feel worried or angry. Perhaps this was the dump? It didn't always follow the same pattern. Yet she dismissed the disloyal thought as quickly as it had come. Anderson would never do that to her. They were so special together. Words hadn't been necessary. They just knew.

She toyed with his ring. The stone caught the light and glinted. She felt like weeping and rocking herself to sleep.

If only there was some way of contacting him. She drew the drapes, shutting out the world, and the bridge in particular. She needed to think without the distraction of its otherworldly presence.

It wasn't until Anderson hadn't showed up that she realized how little she knew about him. He hadn't talked too much about himself there hadn't been time. Eight brief hours to crowd a lifetime of living into, while trying to hold back the relentless march of time. It had been so overtly sexual, a feast of the senses. She couldn't keep her hands off him.

She knew he was from London, originally, and had been at sea most of his life. He'd told her he married in Canada, but was now divorced. He spent most of his leaves in England.

Vicky poured herself a glass of wine and nibbled without appetite on a sandwich. She knew he worked for a cruise line, of course, but didn't know which one. She had, incredibly, considering the present circumstances, never thought to ask. He'd mentioned the names of several ships he'd sailed on, but she hadn't paid much attention. Damn...

She switched on the computer. A quick search brought up about thirty cruise lines operating out of Alaska. It was too late to phone them now. She tossed around most of the night and started punching in numbers before dawn. They were three hours ahead in the east.

No luck. They wouldn't tell her whether Anderson worked for them or not, citing employee confidentiality. Damn. What the hell am I going to do?

Then she remembered he'd phoned her from Ketchikan. She scrolled through the call display to find the number. There it was. It must be a public telephone near the docks. She recalled the background noise of ships' horns and seagulls. This at least narrowed down the search. How many cruise ships could there have been in Ketchikan on that day––Sunday––at around five in the afternoon?

She telephoned the Ketchikan Port Authority, and found out there had been two: The Pacific Star and the Viking Princess. The Blue Star line owned both. She felt her heart do the frog thing. But the leap of hope was short-lived. Like the other shipping companies, Blue Star refused to tell her if Anderson worked for them. She did find out, however, that he must be on the Pacific Star. It had been on a northbound voyage on Sunday, while the other ship was headed south.

There was only one thing for it. She would book passage on the Pacific Star, which would be back in Vancouver in six days. If Anderson showed up meantime––and she fervently hoped that he would––she would cancel. She invested in cancellation insurance for just such a possibility.

* * * *

"You're going on an Alaskan cruise!" Pam exclaimed. She beamed her approval.

A piercing shaft of sunlight lanced through the store window and landed at her feet.

Vicky had dropped by to pick up a paycheck. "It leaves tomorrow," she said.

"Why don't you invest in a couple of new outfits?"

Under normal circumstances she would have bought several, but as there was no joy in her heart over the present excursion, she declined. "I have enough to wear. Besides, it's only for a week."

She promised Pam she'd phone her as soon as she got back, and beat a hasty retreat.

* * * *

The Pacific Star reminded Vicky of an enormous wedding cake, snowy white and multi-tiered, gleaming in the sun. A steward showed her to a small inside cabin a few feet from the gift shop. She wasted no time in enquiring about Anderson. "Tall, cropped black hair with some grey, blue eyes and an English accent."

He shook his head. "It doesn't ring a bell. But I've only been on the ship for a couple of weeks."

Her next stop was the reception area. She decided that if she were honest, she'd be stonewalled. "I'm a journalist, writing a review about the ship," she lied. "Your company told me to ask for Lieutenant Anderson Ford when I came on board."

The clerk scrolled through a list of names on the computer. "That's odd," she said. "We don't have a Lieutenant Ford. They must have got us mixed up with another ship."

Oh God! She'd been so sure she'd tracked down Anderson's ship. It was the only one docked in Ketchikan, heading north, when he'd phoned her a couple of weeks ago. What the hell's going on?

"Are you sure?" she pressed. Desperation gripped at her like red-hot tongs.

The clerk conferred briefly with an older colleague, named Mya, who shook her head.

"Mya's been with us for years and she knows all the officers, but she's never heard of an Anderson Ford," she said.

That was that. She might as well disembark. Disappointment lodged in her gut as heavy as the imitation anchor decorating the hall.

As she sped to her cabin and grabbed her bags, the ship's horn bellowed, stentorian—I'm too late! The ship's departing! Damn... The first port of call was Prince Rupert, almost a thousand miles away. Panic gripped her. She had to get off now. She raced down one seemingly endless corridor after another. God, where's the main entrance? The horn blasted out again. She was lost. She wasn't going to make it.

In her haste she collided with a steward. "How do I get off this thing?" she yelled.

He pointed her towards a flight of stairs. She tore up the steps, and there it was at last, the main entrance. Merciful heaven, the gangway was still in place. She raced down it, ignoring the startled faces of the officers who stood guard.

* * * *

The local newspaper, due to the recent spate of jumpers off the Lion's Gate Bridge––there'd been three in the past month, including the Chinese seaman––did a front page story about this darker side of the bridge's history.

"Since the bridge's construction in 1937," it read, "hundreds of desperate souls have hurled themselves off its parapets into the ocean below. Only a very few have survived the deadly plunge."

Vicky sat on her balcony with a cup of coffee, watching a tanker sail under the bridge. Gulls hovered overhead. However, it wasn't these sobering facts about the bridge that caught her attention. She already knew most of it. It was the account of spectral figures––ghosts, if you will––seen hovering about the railings that made her heart pound. She'd never heard of that before. Were they the spirits of those who had jumped to their deaths, posited the article?

What followed perked up her interest even more. A psychic research group had kept a record of those figures––their clothes, demeanour, time of sighting, and so on––from those who'd claimed to see them.

Some were seen more than others. Like the woman dressed in a long white gown, believed to be a bride jilted at the altar. There had been repeated sightings of her over the years, always in June.

Vicky scanned down the list with anxious eyes. No report of a ship's officer. God, what am I thinking of? Do I honestly believe Anderson's a ghost? The strain of the last few weeks had made her fanciful, she decided, inward looking. He'd been as solid flesh and blood as anyone she'd ever known. She remembered how good his weight felt when he mounted her, and how he would pound her for ages with a cock of steel.

It was just that he'd disappeared, as if off the face of the earth. What the hell's happened to him? She couldn't believe he'd dumped her. Had he had an accident? Then why would the ship he must have been on, when he telephoned her from Ketchikan, have no knowledge of him?

Then she noticed a few notes at the end of the article. There'd been reported sightings of several new figures in recent years, one of them a tall man in uniform. Oh my God! The room tilted around her. This met Anderson's description. She recalled how he'd suddenly appeared before her, spectral-like, out of the mist. He hadn't been there just a few minutes before when she passed the very same spot.

But was the uniform on this tall figure a Merchant Navy one?

I have to stop this, for even if it was, complete with cruise ship insignia, so what? What's that got to do with Anderson? He wasn't a ghost. I need to get a grip, she decided. Get out more, and circulate.

She punched in the number of the psychic group, anyway. Call it morbid curiosity, or whatever, but she just had to find out.

What she learned was maddeningly inconclusive. The uniform had been described as everything from that of a police officer, to a hotel concierge.

Vicky resolved to put the matter behind her. It had been ridiculous from the word go. Talk about grasping at straws. Even resorting to fantasy––Anderson may have been a ghost––rather than admit to herself that she'd been royally dumped. Oh Lord, the pain of rejection, and right now it was nigh near unbearable, could bring on all sorts of madness.

Why hasn't he phoned me? The question tormented her like a bed full of fleas. Even if he'd been in an accident, or was ill, his ship would have a record of it, and they didn't.

Had everything he told her been a tissue of lies, layer upon layer? Maybe even the uniform wasn't real? Come to think of it, she'd never examined it in any kind of minute detail. Yet she was familiar with naval uniforms. From an early age she'd seen her father wearing one, and also her uncle. Anderson's had certainly looked genuine enough. Why did they have no record of him on the Pacific Star?

Should she just forget about him, relegate him to the nebulous world of shadows and what used to be, and move on?

Problem was, she couldn't. She was totally hooked on the guy. The thought that she might never see or hear from him again sent her into a panic. The fairy bridge of her dreams, now quickly becoming nightmare-related, loomed outside her window. She was beginning to understand those desperate souls who wrenched themselves out of its embrace and crashed into the ocean far below. There was nothing left to live for. They couldn't go on. Would she get to this kind of hellish low if Anderson didn't reappear?

Suicide was a mortal sin. Her Catholic upbringing stabbed her conscience for even contemplating such a wicked act.

But how could she go on as if nothing had happened, as if she'd never met Anderson? He had captured every inch of her, body and soul. Her chemistry had blended with his. She was now incomplete without him.

Where do I go from here?

She knew that as an officer in the Merchant Navy he would have to have a license. She also knew that the governing body, which issued it, would refuse to give her any information. So would naval academies. Of course with the latter, she had no idea which one he attended. Hazarding a guess she'd say the UK, probably the London area where he grew up.

Damn, damn, triple damn.

It was a total dead end, a stalemate.

She opened a fresh bottle of wine and carried it over to the window. The bridge stood out dramatically against the backdrop of a crimson sunset.

Tomorrow she was due back at the shop. She had no idea how she'd bear up. She swallowed down the wine in a gulp and closed the drapes. But she could still hear the siren song of the bridge, even though she could no longer see it.

* * * *

"You're hitting that pretty heavily." Pam looked disapproving as Vicky poured herself another glass of wine, while she picked at a cheese sandwich. A puddle of sunlight fell on the table wedged in between packing crates in the back room. "It's only lunchtime, you know."

The shop bell jingled, saving Vicky the need to respond. She could hear Pam using her best sales manner as she greeted the customer.

She'd been back for a week now, but it didn't get any easier. Soul-aching loneliness and a conviction that nothing was worthwhile plagued her. She hadn't been sleeping well, if at all, and the strain began to show. Nightmares of Anderson caught down a mineshaft and imploring her to help him left her drenched in sweat and trembling.

Could he have had an accident and be trapped somewhere? Perhaps this was a psychic call for help from him? Then she dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. She wasn't really sure if she believed in all of that. No, heck, he's just grown tired of me and dumped me. Yet damn it, she didn't really believe that, either.

She looked down at her pantsuit, wrinkled and none too clean. Her hair was a mess, and so were her nails. Oh God! I have to claw my way out of this abyss before it swallows me up entirely. She pushed the wine aside and plugged in the coffee pot. Pam was right she was drinking too much.

* * * *

On her way home that evening she stopped by the Raven Pub. She'd hit on an idea to at least have Anderson's existence validated.

She ordered soda water. It was the same waiter who'd served them both. "Do you remember the last time I was in here?" she asked. "I had a man with me, in naval uniform."

He peered at her closely, smiled and shook his head. "Can't say that I do. I serve an awful lot of customers in the course of a day."

Vicky felt horribly let down and disappointed. She drank the soda and headed towards the bridge. A blustery wind tore in from the northeast. It was then that the persistent feeling of being followed, which had haunted her for the past few days kicked in. She tried to resist turning around, for every time she'd done so, there'd been no one there. It had made her feel like a nut job—totally paranoid.

She stayed close to the buildings, passed by a florist's shop and a café. The hairs began to bristle on the back of her neck. She couldn't stand it. She whipped around.

He stopped. Startled as a deer caught in headlights. Tall and burly, he wore a navy blue pea jacket and a woollen hat. The latter pulled half way over his face in balaclava fashion. Good God, he's a seaman. Blood pounded in her temples. He turned and dashed across the road. Car horns bleated in protest.

Guilt written all over him, she decided. His actions proved it. He looked familiar too. She could swear she'd seen him loitering around the shop.

Oh dear Lord, now I'm being stalked. What the fuck's going on?

* * * *

She had an uncanny feeling it had something to do with Anderson. If this man was a seaman too, what were the odds of mere coincidence? She was reaching now, no doubt about it. There wasn't even any proof that this guy had been following her, or that anyone else had been, for that matter. It could just be her overactive imagination due to stress over Anderson, not enough sleep, and too much booze.

It was suspicious though, the way he stopped and then darted across the street. There again, he may have been alarmed when she suddenly spun around in what could be perceived as a threatening manner. There were a lot of nutters around.

She decided to forego her trip to the bridge, anyway. It was getting late and she had no wish to encounter her stalker, if that's what he was, on its lonely ramparts.

* * * *

"I'm having a few people in tomorrow for dinner, and an evening of Bridge." Pam spoke through a mouthful of pins as she hemmed a skirt. "Why don't you come?"

Vicky switched off the sewing machine. A shipment of dresses had arrived that morning, all hopelessly long. Just the thing if you're seven feet tall, she'd joked.

"I don't think so, Pam. I doubt my Bridge game is up to par right now."

"You'll never know until you try. You need to get out more—it would do you good."

In the end, she allowed herself to be persuaded.

Bridge. The significance suddenly hit her. British Officers during the Crimean War had named the game for a bridge in Turkey. They'd travelled over the bridge to reach the café, where they invented it.

Would she never escape those man-made spans over water, troubled or otherwise?

Pam's townhouse, in Lonsdale Quay, practically overlooked the store. "Not quite living above the shop," she often joked. "But close to it."

Vicky was partnered for the first round with a fire fighter named Kelly. Ruggedly handsome with piercing blue eyes, he was going through a rather messy divorce. Pam's idea of matchmaking, she had no doubt. Damn her.

The other players were couples who seemed to enjoy an easy camaraderie that made her ache with loneliness and crave Anderson with a pathological intensity. Yet, she'd only been with him––and she'd worked this out in a moment of bleak misery at her kitchen table––a matter of about thirty hours, spun out over four different occasions.

You're really quite mad, the little voice accused with relish. Fuck the fire fighter, why don't you? It's probably what you need.

Vicky's mind wasn't on the game. She could hear foghorns moaning away through the thickening mist, and recalled the night so similar to this when she'd first met Anderson.

"You just trumped my trick!" Her partner of the moment, a hefty woman with blue hair, looked ready to drag her across the table and slug her.

"Sorry—I didn't notice."

When the evening finally ended, she beat a hasty retreat.

"You're surely not rushing off already?" Pam looked exasperated. She'd corralled Kelly in the kitchen, where they prepared coffee and sandwiches.

"I'm afraid so. I'm pretty beat."

"Can I drop you anywhere?" Kelly asked, all eager beaver.

Oh, right, you see a chance to get your rocks off for free. No strings. No responsibilities. Down big boy. The vehemence of her reaction surprised her. Was she getting to be a man hater like Pam?

Aloud she said. "No, but thanks for asking."

You're just bitter because Anderson dumped you taunted the little voice. She ignored it and hurried outside.

The night air, although choked with mist, felt pleasantly refreshing. The bridge beckoned with a hypnotic intensity impossible to ignore. She raced towards it. Answered its Siren's call.

When it loomed up at last, its massive steel towers looked oddly eerie, only half-visible in the fog. Vicky kept close to the railing. If only her fellow Bridge players could see her now, they'd think she was quite mad. It wasn't exactly the kind of night one made for the Lion's Gate Bridge for a stroll.

A light rain dribbled down from a moody sky. Traffic passed by only intermittently. Suddenly aware of the loneliness of the venue, and her vulnerability––heck she might even be the victim of a stalker, although she hadn't been aware of being followed tonight––she turned and hurried back the way she had come, at a trot.

The fog grew denser. She passed the very spot where she'd met Anderson. A ship's horn blasted out so loudly from somewhere down below that she jumped and dropped her bag.

She stooped to pick it up—then she saw the figure. Swathed in mist, it blocked her path. She gasped with fright. It was so isolated here and noisy with foghorns, she could scream at the top of her lungs and no one would hear her.

Fear kept her frozen, unable to move. Escape was impossible. There was nowhere to run. The man walked slowly towards her, grabbed her roughly and hoisted her onto the top of the railing.

"What are you doing?" she cried in terror, fighting for her life. He meant to throw her over the bridge.

But she was powerless in his grip of steel.

The black waters pounded hundreds of feet below. When he pushed her she would plunge down to almost certain death. She screamed as she lost her grip on the railing and began to fall...

But somehow she managed to claw back on again, her hands scraped and bleeding from the friction. Her legs dangled down, jerking like a marionette's, as they searched frantically for something to hold onto. How long can I hang on like this?

She knew her tormentor hovered above, ready to kick her hands and drive her over. Oh my God, this isn't happening. Please let me wake up, it has to be a nightmare.

What was that sound? A car door slammed, followed by voices...footsteps...

"Help," she screamed as loudly as she could, terrified that the effort would hasten the inevitable and she'd fall backwards into the hellish void below.

"Oh good God," she heard a man's voice exclaim. He climbed onto the railing. "Grab onto my legs, I think I can reach her."

Hands gripped Vicky's shoulders in a vice-like grip. Pulled her to safety.

* * * *

"Are you all right, dear?" Pam strode into the hospital room, a raincoat barely concealing her nightdress. "When the police called me, I just couldn't take it in."

Vicky felt pleasantly groggy from a shot of Valium. It eased all her physical pain––she had a dislocated shoulder and chipped collar bone––and blunted the terrifying memories. "I'm fine," she murmured.

Pam sat on the bed, gave her a careful hug. "I blame myself for this. I knew something was wrong. You haven't been yourself for weeks." She wiped away a tear. "Why didn't you confide in me, instead of trying to jump off that bloody bridge?"

"I... What?" Vicky struggled up on an elbow. "I didn't try to kill myself, I was pushed."

Pam looked disbelieving.

"It's a man...a sailor, I think, he's been stalking me." She took a sip of water. "The guys who rescued me must have seen him. I'd hoped the police might have nabbed him."

"Look, you just try and get some sleep." Pam stood up. "You've had one helluva experience."

"You don't believe me, do you?" Vicky forced herself into a sitting position. "You think I'm making it up?"

"I didn't say that." Pam's tone was conciliatory, patently designed to be soothing.

"Now you're patronizing me, humouring me as if I'm a head case."

"I just want you to get some rest."

"Pam, please, I must know. What do the police think?" The officers who'd spoken to her before the ambulance arrived hadn't said much. Except that someone––a detective, she supposed––would interview her, later that day.

Pam hesitated. "Well... The men who rescued you..." She bit down on her lip. "Didn't see anyone else around..."

### Chapter Three

Maybe there wasn't anybody? Maybe you imagined the whole thing? Maybe you did try to kill yourself? The spiteful little voice of self-doubt wouldn't be silent. It left the coup de grace for last: Maybe you imagined Anderson, as well?

"No, no, no, no...will you just shut up?" Vicky covered her ears and stared out her window at a rain-drenched scene. The Lion's Gate Bridge warbled in the distance. Yet, despite the doubts tormenting her, it was good to be back home.

The intercom buzzed. She'd been expecting it, but still jumped. It would be the police. She felt sorely tempted to knock back a shot of Scotch. But considering all the pain relievers and tranquillisers she'd been taking, Vicky thought better of it.

Lieutenant Neil Slater surprised her by resembling Anderson. Probably not something that anyone else would see, but in her present state, when all she could think of was Anderson, well... She noticed his eyes were dark though, not blue like sapphires in the sunlight. He had a sergeant with him who looked anaemic and never spoke.

They sat down on the couch. Vicky took the chair.

"Ms. Allen, what were you doing on the Lion's Gate Bridge, at that time of night, in that type of weather?"

She'd anticipated this. "I'd been playing Bridge all evening." She shrugged, forced a smile. "I just felt like a walk, and that's where I ended up."

He raised an eyebrow. Looked incredulous. "It was past midnight and extremely foggy."

"Well yes, I realize that. But I walk in all weathers, in some of the oddest places."

"Really?" He checked his notes. "Your business partner, Ms. Pamela Drummond, said you haven't been yourself lately, you've seemed depressed."

"Look, if you think I went to that bridge to toss myself off, you're dead wrong." She felt indignant at the unfairness of it. "Some murderous big bastard tried to kill me."

"Yet the men who rescued you so no sign of anyone else in the vicinity."

"That's hardly surprising. It wasn't exactly a clear night."

Slater's look was inscrutable. He suddenly switched to another tack.

"Could you identify your assailant?"

Vicky had anticipated this, also. She shook her head. "The fog was too thick, and it all happened so fast." It wasn't entirely true. She'd got the impression of a big bulky man very much like the sailor she suspected of stalking her. But she couldn't see his face clearly, either last night when he tried to kill her, or previously when she caught him following her.

She looked at Slater. Hell it could even have been you.

Then it follows that it could also have been Anderson, the wicked little voice suggested, since they look alike.

It caught her completely by surprise. Impossible, she felt like yelling. Why on earth would Anderson want to kill me? What could his motive possibly be?

"Do you have any enemies?" Slater asked. "Someone who could have been following you?"

She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Not that I know of."

"Yet, you told Ms. Drummond that you were being stalked by a man you described as a seaman."

Damn you, Pam.

"I thought I might be at one point." Will this interview never end? It was making her feel like a fucking criminal. She struggled for composure. "However, I never saw him again."

"Still, in view of what happened—the attempt on your life, we can't rule out any possibility. Can you describe him?"

"Tall, heavy-set, wearing a pea jacket and a navy blue woollen hat."

"You didn't get a look at his face?"

"He was wearing a balaclava covering half of it."

"Was he Caucasian?"

"I think so. But I can't say if it was the same man who tried to throw me off the bridge. I never saw him properly, at all."

"You told the officers last night he was tall and well-built. So it could have been. Right?"

She shrugged. "I suppose so." She felt exhausted. Her shoulder throbbed like a judgment. She just wanted to lie down.

Slater surprised her by not being completely insensitive to this. He stood up. "Thank you, Ms. Allen," he said. "I hope we didn't tire you too much."

But will that be the last of it? She wondered, as she closed the door gratefully behind him. She felt shaky and horribly weak. Scotland's finest beckoned. She gave in and poured herself a hefty shot.

* * * *

"Oh, no! I thought you were on the wagon?" Pam dropped by when Vicky was on her third drink. She plunked herself down on the couch. "But I guess the episode on the bridge, was enough to make anyone fall off."

"I had a visit from Detective Slater." Vicky turned an accusing eye in Pam's direction. "Why did you tell him I was depressed, and about the sailor stalking me?"

"Because I'm concerned about you––in fact, I'm worried sick––and I wanted to do everything possible to help."

"By insinuating I imagined the whole episode, as you called it?"

"Now that's not fair. I didn't say that."

"No, but you're thinking it."

"I believe it's possible. But if there is an assailant out there, I want him caught pronto." She leaned forward, patted Vicky's arm. "Remember, I'm your best friend."

"You're my only friend. The long hours spent at the store haven't left much time over for a social life." She hiccupped, loudly and painfully.

"I'll make a pot of coffee," Pam said. "Get you something to eat."

Vicky groped her way into the bathroom and washed her face. Her reflection in the mirror looked ghastly. No wonder, she decided with a grimace. The burden of Anderson's strange disappearance, or defection––and she didn't even want to acknowledge the possibility of the latter––combined with her narrow escape last night on the bridge, weighed like a frickin' colossus on her mind.

That was why, she decided afterwards, she unloaded the whole kit and caboodle to Pam as they sat eating cheese sandwiches at the dining room table. She needed someone to share the burden.

"I'd suspected something of the sort." Pam topped up their cups from the glass carafe. "There's nothing like a broken romance to shatter the spirit."

"I wouldn't call it broken," Vicky protested. "Anderson just went missing."

"It comes to the same thing."

"You don't think he could be in trouble? Injured perhaps, or with amnesia?"

"No, I don't." Pam didn't pull her punches. "He's just another stinker that dumped you for someone else."

Vicky flushed angrily. "That's a bit harsh about someone you don't know."

"I know men," Pam scoffed. "They're all the frickin' same."

Vicky pushed the half-eaten sandwich away and drank her coffee. "I don't agree," she said as calmly as she could. "Anderson was different...special."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear." Pam was all contrition. "You really fell hard for this one, and that's a damned shame."

Vicky ignored the remark. "It's odd that they didn't have any record of him on the Pacific Star."

"Not really. He just gave you a false name, a nom de ho. Guys do it all the time. Especially, if they're cheating on their wives."

Vicky felt the room spin. Her head ached. "I don't believe that for a minute," she said, with less conviction than she would have liked.

"There is another possibility, of course." Pam looked earnest. "You simply dreamt up Anderson and the whole sorry affair. You were depressed, lonely...stranger things have happened."

"Who was the sailor that followed me then, and tried to shove me off the bridge?" Vicky could hear the strident ring of protest in her voice. She tried to reduce it a notch. Getting angry wasn't going to help matters. "Was he just a figment of my imagination, also?"

"Look, I don't want you getting upset." Pam stood up, slipped on her coat. "But the build-up of stress, associated with being a long time without a man...sexually, can do odd things to a woman." She picked her bag up off the couch. Checked her appearance in a compact mirror. "You know how batty nuns used to get, with bouts of hysteria, talking in tongues, and imagined pregnancies."

"What's the solution?" Vicky snapped. "A dirty week of fucking with a male whore in Havana?" No sooner was it out than she regretted it, felt like biting down on her tongue. But goddamnit, I'm being accused of sexual frustration big time, and imagining things.

"I'll be off now." Pam stoically ignored the rude remark. "Look after yourself, Vicky."

Vicky tormented herself afterwards. Did I react so nastily because she hit a nerve? Maybe I was so bloody horny and frustrated that I conjured up the handsome Anderson out of that lonely bridge in the fog?

After all, no one else, including the crew of the Pacific Star and the waiter at the Raven Pub, had ever seen him!

She twisted the Alaska diamond ring around her finger. Then where did this come from?

Isn't that obvious? Oh God no, it was the horrible little voice of self torment again. It ended on a wickedly triumphant note. You simply popped into a jewellery store and bought it yourself!

A thought just occurred to her. She hurried into the bedroom. Rummaged through her jewellery box. Thank God, the St. Christopher medal wasn't there. Did she really expect it to be? Why did she doubt her own senses and memories? She had clasped it around Anderson's neck herself.

Or, thought you did.

"I did, damn you, I remember how smooth and utterly delicious his throat looked."

Sounds sex-starved to me.

"Fuck you." She clasped her hands over her ears.

The point remained the St. Christopher wasn't there. This tied in with what she remembered. It was proof of Anderson's existence.

Not so fast. Isn't it much more likely that it just got lost over the years?

Vicky argued back. What about the phone call? Anderson called me from Ketchikan remember?

Did he?

"Well of course, he bloody did," she mumbled. She grabbed the call display, scrolled through the numbers. "Here it is." She recalled the sound of a ship's horn and gulls in the background. It would be the last time she'd spoken to him.

A sudden urge to reconnect with that place, even although it would be empty without Anderson, prompted her to punch in the number. No one would answer, of course. It was just a lonely dock. Still, even listening to it ring provided a bittersweet respite she so desperately needed.

Suddenly an answering machine clicked in. "Leave a message," said a man's voice. She reeled from the shock of it. She must have got a wrong number. She hung up, and tried again. The same thing happened. This must be a friend of Anderson's. There was no other explanation.

She trembled with a mixture of fear and excitement. On the one hand, she didn't really want to know that he'd dumped her. Dreaded the moment when she could no longer deny it. Would rather remain in the dark. Do the ostrich thing. Yet on the other, she longed for some kind of closure—an explanation, so she could try and put it behind her and get on with the business of living. There was always the possibility too, that Anderson had met with an accident.

Then why wouldn't his ship know about it? The maddening little voice tormented. Why, they'd never even heard of him!

She punched in the number again, and left a message and her phone number. "I'm Vicky Allen, a friend of Anderson's," she said. "I've been worried about him. I just want to make sure he's all right."

They've probably never heard of him either. They'll think you're nuts.

Vicky plugged in the kettle. She would have dearly loved a glass of wine, or better still a Scotch, but she resisted the temptation. Tea would have to do.

Maybe it's not a private residence? Disappointment clutched at her, like the talons of a hawk. If it was a café or business of some sort, it was unlikely they'd know Anderson.

Isn't that just what I said?

She felt suddenly terrified that it would be yet another dead-end. Almost regretted that she'd left the message. If she hadn't done she could go on pretending. While at the same, she didn't dare hope she'd finally get some news of Anderson, or at least have his existence validated. She had been stalemated at every attempt. Consequently, he'd become such a mysterious and romantic figure—intensely desirable, yet unattainable––she wondered if she even wanted to? Why not just keep hugging the precious memories? No one could take those away from her, until now. Talk about conflicted. I shouldn't have left the message.

Coward!

"Stop!"

The phone rang. She almost jumped out of her skin. Reached for it with a pounding heart.

"Vicky, this is Ted Hennessey in Ketchikan, you left a message on my machine."

She noticed he didn't mention Anderson. Oh God, he doesn't know him.

"Yes...I... When Anderson phoned me a few weeks ago, your number displayed."

"Yeah, I remember that. I was right here."

Oh, merciful heaven! She'd found someone at last who actually knew Anderson. She hadn't fabricated their sizzling romance, after all. It followed that she hadn't imagined being stalked either. It was all-real. She wasn't going crazy. Relief flooded over her like a welcome tide.

"He was supposed to come here a few days later, when his ship docked in Vancouver, but I haven't seen or heard from him since."

"You're kidding!" Ted sounded shocked. "He usually drops by here on his way up and down the coast, we're old shipmates. When he didn't, I assumed he got his leave extended and took off somewhere with you."

Vicky felt the icy hand of dread clutch at her gut. "This doesn't sound good at all," she whispered. "Something must have happened to him."

"Have you tried to contact him through the shipping line?"

"I did. The Blue Star Line refused to say whether he worked for them or not, citing employee confidentiality. So I booked passage on his ship. I told reception that I was a journalist doing an article about Alaskan cruises, and that their company had given me Anderson's name as a contact." Vicky drew a ragged breath. "I couldn't believe it when they said they had no record of him."

A stunned silence at the other end of the line followed. "I don't understand it. Are you sure you were on the right ship?"

"Yes, the Pacific Star. The shipping company told me it was the one headed north from Ketchikan. The other ship, the Viking Princess, also theirs, was going south."

"They told you wrong. Got it mixed up. It was the Viking Princess that was headed north, and that's the ship Anderson was on, not the Pacific Star."

Oh, good God—I was on the wrong ship!

"Look I know a few of the guys on the VP, I'm going to try and contact them right now. See what I can find out about Anderson. I'll get back to you ASAP."

"Oh please do—thanks."

Vicky paced the floor in a sort of frantic limbo. How long will I have to wait for the call? What on earth's happened to Anderson?

He dumped you in favour of a better lay?

No, I don't believe that.

Well you wouldn't, would you?

If it's true though, won't I feel like a prize idiot?

You are an idiot! Mooning over some guy who humped you a few times. Incredible. Grow up.

"Oh shut the fuck up!" she yelled, and rather pointlessly covered her ears against her inner voice.

So it went, an exercise in self-torment extraordinaire.

* * * *

"Sure you won't change your mind?" Pam slipped her coat over a witch's costume, and headed for the door. "Halloween parties are always fun."

"No, really. I'll pass." Vicky opened the cash register and began toting up the day's receipts.

"Sure I can't persuade you? Kelly will be there."

"Who?" For a moment she forgot about the horny fire fighter she'd met at Pam's Bridge evening. "That's no incentive for me," she said, when her memory clicked in. "He's not my type."

"Ah, of course." Pam opened the door, letting in a blast of chill air. "You like them dark and mysterious, like the elusive Anderson. He's the man on the stair, who wasn't there."

"That was uncalled for, Pam. It's also untrue. I talked with a friend of his last night."

"Really? So what happened to wonder boy? Why did he do a bunk?"

Vicky stashed the receipts into the safe. "If you're going to take that tone, I'm not going to say another word," she retorted. "And for fucksakes close that door, it's bloody freezing."

"Okay, I'm sorry." Pam looked contrite. "It's just that I hate to see you so unhappy over some jerk who can't keep his cock in his pants. He's shacked up somewhere screwing something else, I betcha."

"I'll lock the door behind you." Vicky watched a group of trick and treaters set off fireworks across the courtyard.

"When you're ready to leave." Pam touched Vicky's arm, conciliatorily. "Take a taxi. You know how wild this night can be."

"It's only a couple of blocks for crying out loud. I'm sure I'll survive."

Not if the murderous sailor's lurking about, her inner voice reminded her.

But damn it, she refused to live her life like a captive in a constant state of fear.

Besides, there might be no connection between the sailor, who may, or may not have been stalking her, and the maniac who tried to throw her off the bridge. It was most likely just a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, an untargeted and senseless crime. Perhaps the hundreds of mental patients being tossed out of hospitals as a cost cutting measure, could have something to do with it?

Vicky finished unpacking the shipment of blouses that arrived earlier that day. She touched them up with the steamer––they were polyester and only slightly creased––then hung them on the New Arrivals rack.

Almost nine o'clock.

She was surprised to see that fog had rolled in, casting the pier in an eerie light. The weather similarities between tonight and that other terrible night on the bridge unnerved her.

Get a grip! A short walk, less than ten minutes, and I'll be home.

She locked up and set off. The fog lay dense before her. It muffled sounds and turned the familiar into a strange surrealistic landscape. Horns boomed out from the harbour. She felt her way cautiously along. Stayed close to the buildings.

A group of boisterous children dressed as vampires suddenly leapt out of the gloom. "Trick or treat!"

Vicky jumped. Her heart did a somersault. "You nearly scared me half to death." She dug into her bag for candy and passed it around.

There was only about a block to go—if she had her bearings right and hadn't got lost.

The fog lifted slightly, drifting in patches as she passed by the neighbourhood park. Fireworks exploded nearby. A rocket swooshed and came dangerously close. Pam had been right. This was the wildest night of the year. She should have taken a taxi.

A half-block past the park and there was her building. Never had it looked more welcoming. Candy wrappers and firework casings littered the path.

Once inside she breathed a sigh of relief. A carved-out pumpkin with a lit candle sat on the table in the foyer.

"Cunt!" The ugly voice so close behind caught her completely off-guard. She rounded in terror. A large bulky figure wearing a demon mask leered down at her. She noted the navy blue pea jacket.

The sailor!

He grabbed her. Jerked her arm behind her back. Held a knife to her throat. "Make one wrong move and you're dead," he warned.

He dragged her towards the elevator. Frantic with fear, she tried to scream, but no sound came.

### Chapter Four

"Drop that right now, and move away from her." The words were snapped out by a police officer, gun drawn.

The sailor gasped. Even in the midst of her terror, Vicky sensed this was an eventuality he obviously hadn't foreseen. He forced Vicky in front of him as a shield. Started to walk backwards down the hall. The sharp point of the knife dug into her neck. Drew blood—she felt it run down her neck.

They were getting close to the end of the hallway. He suddenly shoved her away. Bolted out the fire escape.

She lost her balance, spun around and fell against the officer who was intent on giving chase. They collided together against the laundry room door. It swung inwards.

"What on earth's going on here?" A startled tenant folding a tea towel moved cautiously away.

"I'm sorry," Vicky sobbed to the cop, as they got to their feet. "Because of me that bastard got away."

* * * *

"Oh my God, are you all right?" Pam sounded frantic. "I'll be right over."

"No, please. Honestly, I'm okay." Vicky had bathed her neck with disinfectant and put on a Band-Aid. She also indulged in a very large Scotch.

"Were you ever lucky the police just happened to be around. I suppose on Halloween they put on extra patrols."

"It wasn't luck." Vicky massaged her painful arm. The sailor had wrenched it so cruelly; she thought at first he'd dislocated her shoulder.

"What do you mean?"

"Slater had a tail on me, a cop watching my building. He saw the sailor lurking around suspiciously, and then sneaking in behind a group of trick and treaters. The cop followed him in. I came along a few minutes later."

"Talk about a close call."

"Thank God that Slater believed me. Thought I was in danger. Or I'd be dead now."

"I hope that wasn't an implied criticism of me." Pam sounded miffed. "It wasn't that I didn't believe you, Vicky. I just wanted you to explore all possibilities...based on your state of mind at the time."

"I know, you thought I might be imagining the whole thing. Well there's a term for that. It's known as mental illness."

"Now wait a minute...I never thought for a moment—"

"I know," Vicky interjected, wearily. "Look I'm a bit on edge."

"Of course you are, dear. After what you've just been through, it's little wonder." Pam cleared her throat. The sure sign, Vicky knew, that she was about to say something she knew would be unpopular.

"But now that there's no doubt you're being targeted," she said. "You have to look very seriously at the possibility it's Anderson, or at least that he's behind it."

"Why on earth would Anderson want to kill me?" While she couldn't swear the sailor wasn't Anderson––she'd never seen his face––her intuition told her he wasn't. The height was right, but the weight was different. The sailor was heavier.

He padded himself with bulky clothing to fool you, suggested the pesky little voice.

She ignored it. As for Anderson hiring someone to knock her off... It was way too far-fetched. "There is absolutely no motive," she insisted.

"No motive that you know of," Pam argued. "That doesn't rule it out. Before you met this joker, you were okay. Now look at you."

"I'm really not up to this. I'll talk to you later." She hung up before Pam had a chance to respond.

The Scotch beckoned. She poured another shot. Took it over to the window. Stared at the swirling fog. The bridge invisible, save for its necklace of lights. The intercom buzzed. What the fuck...

"It's not safe for you to stay here now." Slater said. He left a uniformed officer standing on guard outside her door. "We're following up on a couple of leads. But until we catch your assailant, who seems very determined to kill you, you're in danger."

Vicky was struck again by the dark-eyed detective's resemblance to Anderson. Not so much the physical features, although the general height and build were the same, but more the attitude. The sense of decency, she supposed. The trust they inspired in her.

"I don't have any other place to go," she protested. She could stay at Pam's, of course, but being together all day in the store was quite enough. Besides, there was no reason to suppose that the sailor didn't know that address too. He'd been stalking her for weeks.

"Anyone known to you would be equally risky." Slater mirrored her thoughts. "I'm recommending protective custody."

"Oh no," Vicky wailed. "That means I won't be able to work, or even make a phone call. I'll be a prisoner."

"Better a prisoner than dead."

"For how long?" She paced around her apartment, realizing she might not see it again for ages."

"Until we catch him and we're sure he doesn't have any confederates still at large."

"What if you don't catch him?"

"Let's cross that bridge when and if we come to it." He smiled.

Nice, she thought. In fact, hot.

"Now if you want to get a few things together, I'll have someone pack the rest for you tomorrow."

Vicky fought back tears. She loved her apartment with its view of the bridge and the city. She valued her privacy, too. She wanted to stay.

"I know how hard this must be." His tone softened, he touched her arm. "Believe me, I wouldn't suggest it, if I didn't think it necessary."

"Couldn't you just increase the security around me? Have someone watching the building. That worked tonight."

Slater shook his head. "Too risky. There's more than one way into your building. The officer could look away for a couple of minutes... We were lucky tonight. We might not always be."

* * * *

The safe house squatted on the border between Surrey and Langley. From her bedroom window, Vicky watched the traffic on the Fraser Highway tear past. You couldn't expect the taxpayers to shell out for luxury, she supposed, and they certainly hadn't.

She tossed down the book she'd been trying to read and paced around like a caged cat. More than a week had passed since the terrors of Halloween. The longest seven days of her life.

She wandered out to the living room where the cop watched television. His partner had gone out to pick up Kentucky Fried. "I need some air," she said.

"As long as you don't leave the yard."

A light frost lay like icing sugar over the lawn. Birds congregated under a maple tree. She was bored, bored, bored, and restless, horribly restless. The tension, building inside her for days, felt ready to explode. How long can I stand this?

She turned around to go back into the house and came face to face with Slater. How long has he been standing there? It was the first time she'd seen him since he brought her here.

"How are you holding up?" he asked.

"Not well," she admitted. "I feel so cut off from my life." They hadn't even allowed her to call Pam and tell her she wouldn't be able to get into the store. Slater had done that. But it was the not being able to phone Ted Hennessey in Ketchikan and find out what he'd discovered about Anderson, that galled her the most.

"I rented a couple of movies," Slater said. "It'll help pass the evening."

"Thanks, that was thoughtful of you."

He smiled and she was again struck by the effect it had upon her. Maybe I know, innately, that I'll never see Anderson again. And never had she needed the comfort and release of partner sex, as much as she did right now.

"Are you staying here tonight?" she asked, studiedly casual.

"Until midnight."

As soon as they were alone, he switched on one of the movies. She settled down in the armchair to watch it. He took the couch.

She had dabbed on a bit of make up and brushed her hair. It shone with golden highlights against the darkness of her blouse and jeans.

The sexual tension that was as real, as solid as a third person rearing up between them, built until it was unbearable—smothering. Vicky felt dizzy, unlike herself. She struggled to her feet, walked as if in a trance to join him on the couch.

"This is not a good idea," he said. So he's been aware of the atmosphere. It wasn't just a figment of her own horny imagination.

"Is it ever?" she countered. She felt drawn to him like a bee to bright flowers. Am I substituting Slater for Anderson? She wondered. But didn't give a damn. Her need was now too urgent, too great.

She took his hand, guided it onto her breast. He didn't draw it away. She gasped at the sheer magic of his touch. She kissed him on the lips. Strained against him. Drove her tongue into his mouth. He didn't resist her, but didn't return her fervour, either.

"Damn you, Slater," she whispered, climbing onto his lap and gyrating.

The tempo of the kissing increased as she explored him with hands that didn't seem to belong to her. She felt desperate. Had to have him inside her. Her face was flushed. Her nipples throbbed. Her pussy was like a sluice gate. What am I doing? I'm acting like a horny slut.

She kneeled between his legs and unzipped his fly. His cock was erect, hard as steel. She worked her mouth up and down the rigid length of it until he moaned and grabbed her head. Then she disengaged herself, took off her jeans, and straddled him.

She fitted him inside her. "Oh God, that feels good...so good..." she moaned.

She rode him like a Valkyrie, in a fevered state of near dementia, until they both exploded in a long protracted climax she hoped would never end.

Headlights seared into the darkened room. A car braked to a stop in the drive. "It must be my partner," Slater murmured. Suddenly panic ensued—they rose as if one, straightening their clothes and resuming their original positions: Vicky on the chair, Slater on the couch.

* * * *

Slater arrived as Vicky finished breakfast. "Pack your bags you're going home."

Her jaw dropped. "Do you mean it?" Caught off-guard, she couldn't take it in.

"We arrested the sailor last night." He poured himself a cup of coffee. Stirred in sugar. "Complete with pea jacket and demon mask."

"But how?"

"We scoured the accident reports, and reports on anything unusual that happened in the area right after he escaped from your apartment building." He sat down at the table. "All vehicles stopped for speeding were investigated. He was in one of them."

Vicky felt elated. Groped for words. "Has he admitted it?"

"Not at first. Denied all knowledge. But when the officer who tried to apprehend him the night he attacked you identified him from having seen him when he walked into the building, he gave in."

"But why?" She leaned towards him, touched his arm. "Why did he stalk me and try to kill me?"

Slater shrugged. "He's a nutter. Has quite a history of mental illness. As well as charges, but no convictions, on uttering threats and attempted rape."

"What's his name?"

"Speakman...Jason Speakman."

She shook her head. "I don't know him. It doesn't ring a bell."

"Here's his mug shot."

She felt afraid to look. What if it's Anderson?

She drew a ragged breath. Forced her gaze onto the photograph.

A broad, slightly pudgy face, with an unusually tiny mouth stared back.

Thank God, it's not Anderson. Why in the name of heaven did I expect it to be? She had Pam to thank for that, at least partially. Guilt that she'd ever suspected Anderson, although remotely and academically, seized her. She wasn't the type of friend that she would like to have, if she could choose.

"I've never seen him before," she said.

"We're pretty well satisfied that he acted alone, but we won't take any chances." Slater rinsed his cup out at the sink. "I'll keep a man on you for a few weeks, just to make sure."

Vicky stood up on shaky legs. "Thank you, Neil," she said. The erotic encounter from the night before blazed in her mind. She flushed at the memory in the harsh light of day. "For everything," she added shyly.

He grinned, locked gazes with her. "Anytime," he said.

* * * *

As soon as she was alone at home, she punched in Ted Hennessey's number. Even before she opened the drapes to renew her acquaintance with the bridge––she'd missed it sorely––or called Pam. She wondered how the latter had coped in her absence. But that would have to wait.

His answering machine. Damn! She left a message.

She took off her coat. Looked around. She felt close to Anderson here. He'd seemed distant and otherworldly at the safe house. The sizzling episode with Slater hadn't helped. Her body still glowed and felt electric from his touch.

Ted got back to her a couple of hours later. "What the hell happened?" he asked. "I've left a hundred messages on your machine."

"I know, I'm sorry. I'll explain later. Please tell me, have you found out anything about Anderson?"

"Not much." Disappointment and defeat hung heavy at the other end of the line. "He had two weeks leave. He left the ship at Vancouver. That's the last time anyone saw him."

"Oh no. This sounds bad. Something bad's happened to him." She'd have to start preparing herself for the worst.

"It's totally out of character for Anderson. He'd never just take off like that. I know. We've been friends for years."

Vicky did a quick calculation. "So it's almost two months now since he was last seen?"

"That's right. When he didn't return after his leave was over, his friends assumed he'd been transferred to another ship. Or, had got his leave extended."

"We must at least file a missing person's report."

"I already did."

"And?"

"The police in Vancouver are investigating."

She thought at once of Slater. "Did you mention my name?"

"Yes. They asked me if I knew where Anderson was headed when he arrived in Vancouver, and I told them your place." He hesitated. "Why? Is there a problem?"

I'll say there is, thought Vicky. If Slater finds out, he'll be furious I didn't tell him about Anderson. She did concede that he'd be justified in his wrath. After all, she wasn't only stalked shortly after the strange disappearance of Anderson, but the stalker was also a sailor.

"No. I just wanted to know so I'd be prepared," she said.

He didn't reply. She sensed a hesitation. Something was niggling at him. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He sighed. "Oh it's probably just a wild flight of fancy, but I'm suspicious of Benita, Anderson's ex. She's the only one I know of who might hold a grudge. Theirs was a very ugly break-up."

"Did you mention this to the police?"

"Not in as many words. I didn't want them to think I was paranoid." He chuckled. "Even although it might be true sometimes."

"Where does Benita live?"

"Not too far from you. Out near Langley in the Fraser Valley."

Why didn't Anderson tell me any of this? She wondered. Then had to admit that she hadn't told him about her broken marriages, either. Heck, they'd spent most of their precious moments together feasting on each other. From a strictly practical viewpoint, there hadn't been the time.

"What made the divorce so...acrimonious?"

"Anderson wanted it. Benita didn't. First she tried to talk him out of it, and when that didn't work she got nasty, big time. She stalked him, made threats, slashed his tires, and even made scenes at the shipping company in the hopes of getting him fired."

"Wow. Sounds like the perfect before example when plugging an anger management course."

He laughed. "There may be nothing to it, of course. I guess we all get a little crazy going through a divorce. I haven't heard anything about her for a while. Figured she'd calmed down, accepted the inevitable, and moved on."

But she may not have done. Vicky pondered over what Ted had told her for the rest of the evening. Not bothering to switch on the lights when darkness fell. She gazed at the city skyline blazing like a gigantic jewel across the harbour, and the Lion's Gate Bridge, stunning against the backdrop of the night.

Benita's phone number and address were listed under the Fords in Langley. So she still uses Anderson's surname.

Vicky felt compelled to go out there. Have a look at the house where Anderson had once lived with his wife. Little green pinpricks of jealousy spurred her on. Former mates of a current lover tend to have that effect.

Despite the late hour, freeway traffic remained steady. A hefty tractor-trailer lumbered past, cutting her off as it forced its way in front of her. She braked and swerved into the right lane.

On a dead-end street, near a riding stable, the house stood apart from its neighbours. A modern two-story designed to look Tudor; it had a monkey-puzzle tree in the front yard and a laurel hedge flanking it on both sides. It looked deserted. Unlived in.

Vicky parked a discreet distance away and walked over to get a better look.

She noticed at once the local newspapers––at least three of them––tossed on the front step. The carport stood empty. She'd been right. There was no one here.

The same compulsion that had driven her out here now compelled her to try and see inside. But curtains and blinds prevented it. Damn! What she'd give to get inside. She became convinced that the answer to Anderson's disappearance lay here. Could the crazy jealous Benita have held him prisoner? Could he still be alive?

Wishful thinking, taunted her inner voice. He's dead as a doorpost, and you know it!

Shut the fuck up! Sometimes she thought she was going quite mad. Arguing with oneself wasn't a good sign.

* * * *

"It's good to have you back." Pam, sweeping up leaves from around the shop, propped the broom against the wall and hugged her. "You've had one helluva time of it, dear."

It may not be over yet. "Good to be back," she said. But her heart wasn't in it, could never find peace until she found out what happened to Anderson.

The Fashion Font was hosting a fall sale. This kept Vicky so busy, she scarcely had time to think. When the last customer left at six, she poured herself a much-needed cup of coffee.

"I'll be off now." Pam put on her coat. "Don't stay too late. You look all in."

"I'll leave as soon as I get these done." Vicky delved into a new shipment of winter coats and grabbed the price stapler.

"Why don't you come over to my place for dinner?"

"Thanks, Pam, but not tonight. It's straight home and into the sack for me."

Liar! The little voice sounded outraged. Why don't you tell her the truth that you intend to drive back to Langley, and break into Benita's house like a common thief?

But all in a good cause, she defended herself.

After she ticketed the coats, she gave them a quick brush and hung them on a rack. Then she keyed in the security code, and left.

Now all that remained was to give the cop who tailed her the slip. It had proved easy yesterday. She anticipated no problem tonight, either. She walked quickly to her apartment building, let herself in, and then went directly out the back door where her car was parked. She swung down the back lane, in the opposite direction from the front street where the surveillance took place.

Mission accomplished. She felt an instant sense of elation. Freedom.

A plump harvest moon bobbed on the horizon like an orange beach ball. Stars cavorted around it in clusters.

The drive through the Fraser Valley was slower tonight. Hampered by heavier traffic and an accident on the Pattullo Bridge.

She arrived at her destination in a lather of impatience. What if Benita had returned? But no, all was the same as before. Vicky wasted no time in donning a pair of gloves and skirting around to the back. It had been here she'd noticed a basement window that looked insecure. Tonight she was prepared with the proper tools. She managed to work a wrench underneath the frame and jimmy it open.

You're breaking into someone's house. You could go to prison for a long time.

Shut up...please. Sweat beaded on her brow and her heart raced as fast as the Indy 500.

Jailbird...jailbird...

Headlights skimmed past on the road outside. She held her breath. Car doors slammed. She exhaled again. Must be one of the neighbours.

She grabbed the flashlight in a trembling hand, and astonished by her own audacity, climbed inside. Found herself in the laundry room. A stack of clothes piled high on a table tumbled onto the floor. She crept cautiously around. Now that she was here, she didn't know exactly what she was looking for, what she expected to find?

Of course you do. Anderson's body!

After her inspection of the basement, which had an entertainment room with a gigantic TV and heavy velvet curtains covering each wall, she crept upstairs. Mahogany furniture, Spanish style, clogged the living and dining areas—a portrait of a bullfighter hung above the fireplace.

The bedrooms on the top floor bore the same look of hurried departure as the rest of the house. Clothes spilled willy-nilly out of drawers and closets.

Vicky thought she would feel closer to Anderson here, but she didn't. No trace of his chemistry remained. She felt depressed, anxious to be gone. The atmosphere in the house was unnerving...

She forced herself to stay long enough to check in all the drawers and closets. She found nothing of interest, although it was a perfunctory search, decidedly so. She groped her way carefully downstairs. Afraid that the beam of the torch might show outside, she kept it close to the floor.

In the basement, about to climb back out the way she'd come, she suddenly noticed a cupboard under the stairs she'd missed. She went over to it. Pulled the door open. A figure leapt out at her, it's face a ghastly white. She screamed and screamed and screamed...

### Chapter Five

Time stood still. All was frozen save for the fear-filled agony that held Vicky in its grip. She stumbled backwards. Felt the security of a wall behind her. Managed with a tremendous effort of will to shove her attacker away.

Oh my God! She immediately felt like the biggest fool in Christendom. The figure that had so terrified her was just a Halloween version of Dracula, very lifelike though, heavy and tall.

She waited for a few minutes to give her heart a chance to slow down then stuffed Dracula back in the cupboard. Then she climbed back out the laundry room window into the crisp autumn night.

When she arrived home, Slater was waiting for her outside the apartment block.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "I was just about to launch a major search."

"Sorry." She let herself into the building.

He followed. "It looks to me," he said. "As if you deliberately gave our man the slip not only tonight, but last night as well. What's going on?"

She flushed under the intensity of his incredible eyes. Felt diminished and guilty. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I just felt the need to get out for a bit by myself."

They entered the elevator. She pressed the button.

"And risk being murdered, if the sailor has an accomplice?"

"You're right. I didn't think about that. It won't happen again." Yet even as she promised, she felt quite entitled to break her word if the need arose.

"Come in for a drink," she invited. "I could use quite a massive Scotch right now."

She thought he might repeat the tired old twaddle about not drinking while on duty, but he surprised her, pleasantly. "Thank you," he said. "So could I."

She took her drink over to the window. Stared at the fairy bridge so proud in the night.

"You have quite the view," he said.

His closeness in the intimate atmosphere stirred up her senses. She remembered how good he had felt inside her. Her nipples stiffened at the memory. Her crotch throbbed. She knew he sensed it, this silent messaging of one set of pheromones to another. She put her glass down on the coffee table. Turned to him. Wound her arms around his neck. Pressed herself against him. Found his lips with her own. Desire coursed through her like a live wire.

She unzipped his fly. Wiggled out of her panties. Made to lie down on the couch. She wanted so badly to pull him down on top of her. Feel his weight, and the magic of his cock as it drove into her. But he had other ideas.

"You've been running the show for long enough," he whispered. "Now it's my turn."

He bent her face down over the arm of the couch. She grabbed onto a cushion for support. Then he entered her immediately and without finesse and gave her one of the best fuckings of her life.

* * * *

"Penny for them." Pam eased a sweater onto the shop window mannequin. "You've been brooding around all day. I hope you're not still mooning over Anderson."

If it were only that simple, Vicky dusted down the cash counter. Now there was a troublesome new hitch to the equation. She found herself having hot thoughts about Slater. He really was dynamite. Yet at the same time, her heart still pined for Anderson.

You're just a horny slut! The little voice couldn't miss an opportunity such as this. Every time you bonk Slater, you're betraying Anderson.

Since when did you care about Anderson? She countered angrily. "You insisted for ages he was just a figment of my imagination. Then when that little argument was proven false, you said he'd dumped me for a better screw. Or was dead. You are cruel, nasty and vicious. Now shut up." She realized she'd started muttering and looked around guiltily.

"Eh? Did you say something?" Pam cupped a hand to her ear.

"Just sort of thinking out loud." Vicky willed herself to get a grip. She was damned disappointed that her forced entry into Benita's house had evinced nothing save for a horrible fright with the Dracula figure. She'd so wanted to find Anderson there, a prisoner, but unharmed. Now that hope was effectively shattered.

The dream where he called to her from deep in a mineshaft––or that's what it seemed like––repeating itself with disquieting regularity. Could it be a psychic cry for help? Or, just her own over-active imagination playing tricks on her?

The latter, definitely, piped in the voice. There is no such thing as psychicism.

Blast you straight to hell!

A customer interrupted her dreary thoughts and battle with self. "I'm looking for a winter coat," she said. "It has to last me for at least five years."

After she left, with Pam following soon after, Vicky locked the door and tossed herself down on the couch in the back room. Where the hell could Anderson be?

You mean where could he be buried?

God do you never stop?

She punched in Ted's number. Felt the need to confide in someone, confession being good for the soul.

"You what?" he said, with a mixture of shock and admiration, when she told him of her visit to Benita's home. "You certainly are a spunky little lady."

She smiled. "It didn't get me anywhere, though."

"You believed you'd find Anderson there?"

"I suppose I did." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "It's known as wishful thinking."

"Then I must be guilty of it too," he admitted. "For I've been entertaining much the same hope."

"We don't want to face the fact that he's in all probability, dead."

He sighed. "Who can blame us for that?"

"I can't help but wonder if the sailor killed him." It was out before she realized Ted knew nothing of this. She explained about the stalking activity, the attempt to throw her off the Lion's Gate Bridge, the attack on Halloween. "They got him, though. The bastard's locked up."

She heard the sharp intake of breath. "The sailor––Jason Speakman––is Anderson's brother-in-law!"

"What?" Then his trying to kill me was targeted, and must have something to do with Anderson, but what, and why?

"Anderson met Benita through him, when they both worked on the same ship," Ted reminisced. "Jason was an odd, sister-obsessed character. Their parents were killed in a plane crash, and he'd been like a guardian to her."

"Oh my God!" All the possibilities this new revelation unleashed almost left Vicky bereft of coherent speech. Her thoughts raced like a drunken hamster working its wheel.

"He seemed to approve of Anderson, though—at least at first. But after he was booted off the ship for doing drugs and bizarre behaviour, he began to unravel quite badly."

"Why would he want to kill me?"

"God only knows. We're not dealing here with someone playing with a full deck."

"I'm going to have to tell the police," she said. "They think he's just a crazy that stalked me at random. That's what he told them. Now we know it was a lie."

"Benita's sudden disappearance from her house ties in with Jason's arrest," Ted mused. "It has guilt written all over it."

"Unless he killed her? Those deranged kind of obsessively-protective relationships often end up that way."

"Yes. She might have spurned him. Told him she didn't want him in her life any more. That would have set him off."

After Ted rang off, she punched in Slater's number. Hesitated. Hung up. It could wait until she got home.

A nip of frost in the air turned the rooftops white. She turned her collar up against the wind and watched a shooting star lance across the heavens. Autumn was such an atmospheric season.

About half a block behind her, a police officer followed, discreetly. She felt glad of that. The streets stood deserted. Her nerves were frazzled. The sailor, Anderson's brother-in-law! She found it hard to take in.

Her footsteps echoed on the sidewalk. Something was bothering her, over and above the obvious. She'd missed something in Benita's house last night. But damn it, she couldn't figure out what it was. Just the shadow of something significant that drifted to the edge of her consciousness, then slipped away again without detection. Damn! It niggled away at her like a shirt label at the back of the neck.

What the hell is it?

Nothing. You're just imagining things.

Oh not you, again. Shut up.

Her apartment still smelt of sex and Slater's aftershave. She breathed it in. It made her feel randy, and less lonely. The lights from the bridge blinked against a molten sky. She drew the drapes across the window, shutting it out. Her hand still on the cord, it suddenly struck her. Of course, the drapes over the walls of the entertainment room in Benita's basement. She hadn't looked behind them. Had assumed they were for decorative purposes, and to keep out draughts. But damn it all, they could be concealing another room on the inside wall.

You're really reaching now.

I told you to shut up. Why are you always so bloody negative?

She knew she should call Slater. Come clean about Anderson. Let him do the search of Benita's house. Yet she hesitated, dreading his reaction when he discovered she'd been holding out on him. But it wasn't only that. She feared that he'd either refuse to do a search, or for legal reasons––without probable cause was the correct term––wouldn't be able to. She couldn't risk that kind of hassle and delay.

She grabbed her bag and keys. If she dodged out the back way and took the lane, the cop out front would be none the wiser.

* * * *

Freeway traffic, by the time she took the Langley exit, had thinned to a trickle. She cut her headlights as she approached her destination. The short, dead-end street lay quietly bathed in moonlight. Benita's house unchanged, except for another newspaper that had been added to the pile on the doorstep.

She skirted around to the back, not daring to use her torch for fear of being seen by a neighbour. She stumbled on a broken flagstone and stubbed her toe. Damn! But she didn't allow it to slow her down. A sense of urgency drove her on.

The basement window opened easily and she wiggled inside. Moved swiftly across the laundry room to the entertainment centre. Shone the flashlight over the drapes surrounding it. Pulled them aside, one by one.

Nothing.

I told you it was another wild goose chase, you silly cow.

Go away!

She stared at the walls, frustrated, despondent—then noticed that one of the wood panels on an inside wall looked loose. She grabbed at it with trembling hands. It lifted out easily to reveal a door.

"Oh my God!"

Heavily fortified, with several sliding bolts, it had a small hatch. Just big enough to slip a plate through like in a prison cell door, she thought in horror.

"Anderson, oh please be alive..." she implored. She wrestled with the bolts.

The door finally opened. Her heart hammered in her ears. She was afraid to look. Coward, she castigated herself. You've come this far. You have to. She shone the flashlight inside.

A figure lay on a narrow bed. She forced her shaky legs forward. "Anderson," she whispered.

No response.

She switched on a lamp. He looked ghastly. Emaciated. Ashen face, straggly beard, like a castaway starving on a desert island.

"Anderson." She shook his arm.

No response.

She felt for a pulse but couldn't find one.

Feared the worst.

Dialled 911. Prayed her cell phone batteries were charged. Then she bolted upstairs and unlocked the front door, leaving it wide open to the crisp night air.

While she waited for help to arrive she dampened a cloth and gently bathed his cracked and blistered lips, the sores on his face.

"Anderson, please be alright." She sat beside him on the bed, rubbing his hands, and willing life back into his wasted body.

* * * *

"You have some explaining to do." Slater fixed Vicky with an unwavering stare. The hospital waiting room deserted at this early morning hour. "What the hell were you thinking of?"

"I don't know." She shook her heard. Worry over Anderson eclipsed all else. "I'm sorry."

"If you'd seen fit to tell me about Anderson, he might have been discovered sooner."

Or there again, he might not, she retorted silently. It was easy to say that after the fact. The cops could quite easily have missed the secret room. Hidden as it was, behind the wall panelling, and the entertainment centre's draperies.

She changed the subject. "What do you think happened to Benita?" She sipped on her coffee.

He shrugged. "She got scared when Jason was arrested. Afraid he would spill the proverbial beans, she panicked and ran away."

"Any idea where?"

"Not yet. I plan to grill Jason later this morning." He peered at Vicky over the rim of his cup. "Now that we know he's Anderson's brother-in-law."

She caught the critical intent behind the remark. "I should have told you," she admitted. "It was foolish of me not to."

"And potentially dangerous," he said. He crumpled up the cup and threw it in the waste bin. "You look all in. A criminal lifestyle of break and enter doesn't agree with you." He grinned. "Why don't you go home and get some sleep?"

"I want to be here in case Anderson gains consciousness."

"That might not be for some time."

If ever, her nasty little inner voice added with glee.

"Even so, I think he needs the energy of someone he knows––someone who cares––close by."

"The hospital will call if there's any change. Be sensible, Vicky, you can't camp out here for days. Or it might even be weeks."

She knew he was right. She had to go into work tomorrow. She couldn't let Pam down, again. The late autumn sale was still on.

"Come on, I'll drive you home," he offered.

She was suddenly very aware of him, the scent of his aftershave, the sheer maleness. In the close confines of the elevator that took them down to the underground parking, it intensified. Damn! It made her feel guilty with poor Anderson hovering at death's door.

You are guilty, you slut! The vile little inner voice tormented. A horny ho who has no shame.

She felt exhausted, confused and conflicted. She'd been so sure that if she ever found Anderson again, her fling with Slater would pale by comparison. Fade away. Now this. She wanted him to fuck her, there, in the elevator. Oh God, there it is. Unsettling, but at least she'd admitted it. Then she tried to justify the desire, by telling herself, its just good therapy to ease the tension.

Oh right, medicinal. The little voice weighed heavy with sarcasm. Who do you think you're fooling here? It grew angry. We're not as green, as we're cabbage looking. Go peddle your bill of goods elsewhere. You're a tramp, Vicky. Admit it.

In the police car, the intimate atmosphere broiled with sultry sexuality. By the time they pulled up outside her apartment building, she felt desperate for his touch. He reached over, answering the call of her pheromones, and massaged her neck. Damn you, Slater. You're in my fricken blood.

"Can you stay the night?" she murmured. Then realized it was almost morning. She laughed. "What's left of it."

She went on upstairs while he parked the car. Stripped off her clothes, and waited for him between the sheets. Dawn whispered through the window blinds.

He joined her in a matter of minutes.

"Blindfold me." She handed him the black scarf. He tied it round her eyes. It would help her savour every sensation he aroused in her. Why not be handcuffed too? He's a cop. He must have them. The kinkiness of the idea appealed to her, immensely.

He looked mildly surprised when she suggested it, but was not disobliging. "Whatever turns your crank." He winked. Then he handcuffed her wrists to the headboard.

It was all sheer magic after that. Her body couldn't get enough of his. She writhed and moaned and carried on like a madwoman. She never wanted it to end.

* * * *

"I'm so glad you found Anderson." Pam locked the shop door and fetched the carpet cleaner. "Is he expected to recover?"

"He's severely dehydrated, with a weak pulse." Vicky finished dusting the shelves. "But he's responding well to treatment."

"The horrors he must have been through in that basement prison." Pam shuddered. "Anyone have any idea how she lured him in there?"

"Slater interviewed her brother this morning. At first he denied all knowledge of Anderson's captivity. Then on the lure of a reduced sentence for his two attempts to kill me, he relented. Benita phoned Anderson shortly before his ship arrived in Vancouver. She told him she was moving, and while packing had found some of his belongings. Would he come and pick them up." Vicky plugged in the kettle. Set out the tea things. "When he arrived, she showed him into the storage room in the basement, then bolted the door behind him, locking him in."

"Oh my God. Everyone's worst nightmare."

"Jason––her brother––had reinforced the door, and cut out a small hatch so food could be slipped through."

"It doesn't sound as if they did this too often, given the state he's in," Pam said.

"During the last week or so, since Jason was arrested, and Benita took off, he had nothing at all."

"What a first-class bitch."

"A real sicko. Mentally unbalanced and determined to keep Anderson with her, if she had to lock him up to accomplish it."

Pam sat down at the table and opened a package of biscuits. "Why did Jason want to kill you?"

"That was Benita's idea. She blamed me for leading Anderson astray. Thought if I were out of the picture, he would settle down happily with her again."

"Good God. So Jason must be just as loony to go along with this?"

"Oh yeah. He's one odd fish, sister-obsessed and psychotic. In his eyes, I was guilty of making Benita unhappy––he calls her his princess––so wham, I had to be taken out."

Pam shook her head, bit down on a biscuit. "So where is Princess Benita, now?"

"Well Jason doesn't know for sure, but his bet is that she's headed down to relatives in Portland. Slater's notified the US law enforcement agencies, and there's an APB out for her in Canada."

"I hope they lock the bitch up and throw away the key."

"Amen to that."

Vicky's cell phone buzzed.

"The hospital just called me." Slater's voice sounded sinfully arousing. "Anderson regained consciousness."

"Thanks for letting me know. I'm on my way."

Rush hour traffic snarled Marine Drive from the Lion's Gate Bridge to Capilano Shopping Mall. Vicky willed it to move. Drummed with impatient fingers on the steering wheel. Swung down a side street when she got the chance, and took the back roads over to the hospital. She left her car in a no park zone and raced upstairs to Anderson's room.

The nurse had shaved and cleaned him up. He lay back on stacked pillows, drinking water through a straw.

"Anderson," she whispered. "It's so good to see you awake." Tears sprung to her eyes. She took his hand.

"Vicky...thank you for rescuing me," he croaked. He managed a weak smile. "What took you so long?"

### Chapter Six

Swirls of mist puffed over the mountains and hovered on the tops of evergreens. Seagulls squawked. A boat horn groaned.

Vicky trotted down the gangway of the Viking Princess, squinting against the piercing eye of a rising sun. Ketchikan sprouted haphazardly around the harbour. "It's picture perfect," she said.

Anderson slipped his arm through hers. "Ted lives just over there." He pointed up the hill to a tall house perched on a corner. A tiny whitewashed chapel stood nearby.

"Without Ted, I never would have found you." She reached up on impulse and kissed his cheek. "When I told him about Jason... Well, the rest is history."

They passed by a community hall, a neighbourhood tavern, and a small grocery store. "What a fantastic place to live," she said.

"Except in winter." Anderson flashed her a grin.

Ted greeted them at the door. Weather-beaten and cheerful, with a shock of yellow hair streaked with grey, he was much as she'd imagined. Except, for the wheelchair. She wished Anderson had warned her—as it was she felt sure her less-than-poker face must have registered surprise.

"Great to meet at last." He seized her hand in both of his and pumped it for ages. "In case you're wondering, my legs were squashed between a boat and the dock. But I still manage to get around." He winked.

"I'll always be grateful to you for seeing me through those dark days." Vicky gave him a hug.

Ted turned to Anderson. "How are you, old buddy?" He grasped his hand. "You're looking good."

"I have Vicky here to thank for that," he said. "She took me under her wing."

She laughed. "Like a mother hen."

"No. I was thinking more of an angel."

On the kitchen table, Ted had set out a small feast—pancakes, bacon, sausages and plates of scrambled eggs. "I hope you haven't had breakfast," he said.

"No, we didn't take the time and we're starving."

Anderson waited until Vicky was seated before sitting down. She loved this about him. Good manners were so important. He treated her with respect. Unlike so many of the selfish rude jokers she'd had the misfortune to know.

"So how's life on the Viking Princess?" Ted swivelled around easily in his chair between the stove and table. Everything was situated for convenience.

"Fabulous." Vicky stirred cream into her coffee.

"We've lost a bundle in the casino, though." Anderson laughed.

It was so good to see him like his old self again. She offered a silent thank you to heaven.

After breakfast, Vicky insisted on doing the washing up. From the window she could see the dock and a row of old wooden houses on stilts. "That used to be the red light district." Ted winked.

She smiled. "Ah for the good old days."

* * * *

The Viking Princess dipped gracefully across the calm waters of the inland sea. Vicky dressed carefully. Tonight was the last one of the cruise, marked by the Captain's dinner. She wore an apple green dress sparkling with diamante clusters and a matching headband.

"You look good enough to eat." Anderson came up behind her, kissed her neck.

She laughed. "You don't look so bad yourself." She ran her hands over his smart uniform.

"You are happy, aren't you?" He grew suddenly serious. Never had his English accent sounded so appealing.

"Why yes, of course." She gazed into his bluest of eyes. "My cup runneth over."

He beamed. Lifted her up. Swung her around. "You've made me randier than a ten-peckered owl," he said.

"Down, Fido," she joked. "I don't want to get mussed up."

"You won't have to." His breath felt hot against her ear. He sat down, guided her onto his lap. Unzipped his fly. "Straddle me," he said.

She needed no second invitation. She arranged her dress so it wouldn't get crushed. Desire surged through her like molten lava. She felt wet, slippery, and desperate for his touch. He fitted so well inside her. She gasped, squirmed, threw her head back. Ground her pelvis against him. He touched her breasts lightly. She wanted to kiss him full on the mouth. Work her tongue around his until she could scarcely breathe. But there was her lipstick to think of. She didn't want it smudged.

"Just wait until tonight," she panted. "I'm gonna have my way with you, properly. Kiss you until you beg for mercy."

"I'll hold you to it," he murmured.

She rocked back and forth until waves of ecstasy engulfed her. He stroked her thighs, whispered endearments. Followed her eruption with one of his own. God he's marvellous.

* * * *

Rain bucketed down out of a grim sky. "You know it'll soon be Halloween again." Pam strung a necklace of pearls around the mannequin's neck. A window shopper peered in then quickly moved on.

Vicky shivered. It wasn't a day to linger. "Are you going to a party this year?" She asked more out of politeness than interest.

"Wouldn't miss it. Why don't you come?" She hesitated for a minute. "Bring Anderson."

"He'll probably be at sea." Vicky straightened up the dress rack. Neatened a hat display.

"In that case you'll be alone." Pam wrinkled her forehead. "You should really consider coming along to the party. What happened last year is liable to prey on your mind—especially since that crazy bitch Benita's still at large."

Vicky experienced an instant replay of the terrifying moment when Jason had grabbed her as she arrived home.

"I'll see," she replied noncommittally.

"Either way, I'm glad things worked out so well for you and Anderson." Pam touched Vicky's arm, her expression earnest. "Especially after such a rocky start."

"Thanks, Pam. I am, too."

* * * *

Excited children dressed as ghosts and goblins bounded along the sidewalk. Vicky stepped aside to allow them to pass. "Happy Halloween," they cried.

Firecrackers exploded from the neighbourhood park.

In the foyer of her apartment building, the manager, dressed as a werewolf, sat at a table, dishing out candy. "Someone was looking for you earlier," he said.

Vicky's heart did the leapfrog thing. "Did he say who he was?"

"It wasn't a 'he.' It was a woman. And no, she didn't leave a name."

Benita!

She'd thought of Anderson's insane ex, immediately. It would be right up her alley to wait for Halloween to make her move. Of course, Vicky realized she could just be jumping to conclusions, what with the atmosphere of the night and all.

But somehow, she didn't think so. Had, in fact, been expecting something like this. Anderson too, had remained vigilantly alert.

"What did she look like?" she murmured.

The manager smiled. "That's hard to say. She was dressed as a witch."

Should I call the police?

No. Benita would be arrested and eventually sent to an institution for the criminally insane. As soon as a psychiatrist pronounced her cured, she would be released back into the community. She and Anderson would never be safe, until the sick bitch was dead.

She entered her apartment, cautiously. Went directly to the bedside table and removed a revolver from the drawer. Anderson had insisted she take it. It felt cold, heavy, and reassuring.

Then she switched on all the lights. Pulled back the drapes to reveal the striking spectacle of city and bridge. A half-moon winked above them.

Ears pricked for the slightest sound, she settled down near the door with a cup of coffee. A Scotch would be better, but she had to keep alert, just in case.

* * * *

The elevator bell pinged. Footsteps padded down the hall. Stopped outside the door. She pressed her eye to the peephole. A figure dressed in a witch's costume and mask filled the frame.

Benita!

It must be. If it was someone legitimate––and she had no idea who that could be at this hour––she would have buzzed the intercom downstairs.

The knock when it came was low. More like a scraping sound. Scratching like some evil rodent, Vicky decided.

The last thing she wanted was to open the door. All her self-preservation instincts warned against it. Yet if she didn't, this insane monster would disappear into the night until the next time she decided to pay either herself or Anderson a visit. They would never be safe until she was dead.

She reached for the door handle. Her heart boomed out a tattoo. Suffocating. She forced herself to take deep breaths, slowly.

Another knock louder this time, more urgent and insistent.

Vicky opened it a crack, the gun concealed in the folds of her dress.

"Bitch," snarled the witch and threw her weight against the door, forcing her way inside. She turned on Vicky, brandishing a wicked-looking butcher knife. "I'll teach you to lure Anderson away, you filthy slut."

A surprising calm descended over Vicky, considering the circumstances. She knew what she had to do, to protect herself, and Anderson. She raised the gun, holding it in both hands and shot Benita in the chest.

The witch's mask slipped. This monster who had kept Anderson a prisoner for months, and made two attempts on Vicky's life via her deranged brother, staggered backwards and fell. Blood oozed onto the carpet. Vicky stood over her and put another bullet in her head, just to make sure.

* * * *

After the odd calm wore off, the shakes set in. She punched in Slater's number. "It was self-defence," she said.

She sat trembling until he arrived. Averting her eyes from Benita's twisted body.

"So she finally made her move," Slater knelt beside the corpse, felt for a pulse. "She's dead. What happened?"

"She tried to stab me." Vicky pointed to the knife. "I managed to grab the gun. I warned her to stay away, but she wouldn't listen..."

"She's been shot twice." He appraised her with his dark eyes.

"Yes...probably...I don't remember. It was terrifying."

He nodded. "Perfectly understandable."

Vicky drew a deep breath and exhaled with relief. The last thing she wanted was to be charged for dispatching a mad dog to Kingdom Come.

Her apartment filled up with police. Chalk outlined the spot where Benita had fallen. Yellow tape barred all from entering. Vicky knocked back a Scotch. This is a nightmare. Will they never leave?

"Pack a few things. I'll drive you over to Pam's," Slater offered.

She grabbed a coat, slung it round her shoulders. He took her arm. Guided her down the hallway.

The crisp night air felt good on her face. She stared up at a star bright sky, and savoured it.

"You've been through a harrowing experience." Slater unlocked the car door. Held it open for her. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? You could be in shock."

She shook her head. "No, I'm okay. Really."

He turned on the engine, and the heater. "You'll have to come down to the station tomorrow and sign a statement," he said.

She nodded.

Vicky recalled hearing that soldiers often got randy after battle. All the senses were ignited, killing, the bloodlust, survival and sex. This would explain the disconcerting state of arousal that now pulsed through her loins.

Her gaze met Slater's and she saw that he knew.

"We could go to my place," he said.

She hesitated, only slightly. "I can't, Neil," she said. "I'm with Anderson now, officially. It wouldn't be right."

Idiot! The malicious little inner voice taunted. Do you think Anderson would be faithful to you? Go for it girl.

No, no, no, she intoned silently. Please don't make this any more difficult than it already is.

Slater looked amused, sceptical. "So reality hasn't destroyed the dream?"

She smiled back. "I hope it never will."

### ~The End~

MISSING PERSON

### Chapter One

"Spend the night here." Baxter set his wine glass on the coffee table.

"We'll see." Phaedra would usually agree in a heartbeat–she and Baxter had been lovers for ages–but tonight was different.

"Oh stop worrying about Holly. She's a big girl now. She'll be okay."

But Phaedra wasn't so sure. She and Holly were closer than most sisters, and the nagging conviction that something was wrong just wouldn't go away.

"Since she went to Vancouver, we've spoken on the phone every day. I haven't heard from her now in over 48 hours. I've left several messages on her answering machine. It's not like Holly to ignore me like this."

"Maybe there's a new man in her life." He winked.

"Then Holly would have told me about him." Phaedra sipped on her wine. "We've never had any secrets from each other."

"You know you're quite a looker for a vet." Baxter deftly changed the subject. "A blue-eyed blonde with a body to die for."

"You're not so bad, yourself." She tried hard to escape her worries and enter into the spirit of the moment. "Tall, dark and handsome."

Baxter laughed. "We make the perfect couple."

"It's so peaceful out here," she murmured. "Far from the Madding Crowd."

"Miles from the nearest neighbour." He smiled. "That's why I'm a rancher. I like the solitude."

Phaedra sighed and stood up. "I think I better get back. Just in case there's some news of Holly."

"But she's got your mobile number. And besides," he added sheepishly. "There's a foal I'd like you to take a look at in the morning."

"Why you..." She laughed despite herself and relented. "Oh very well then. But I have to be out of here early. We're breaking in a new receptionist at the clinic, and I visit the animal shelter as well."

* * * * *

"How is your sister?" The elderly Mrs.Granger patted her collie while he got a rabies shot. "You must worry about her all alone in Vancouver."

A twinge of guilt shot through Phaedra. She'd been so busy all morning–her partner, Ailsa, had been called out to a calf birthing–that she'd scarcely had a chance to think about Holly.

"She's fine." Her smile belied the concern that broiled within.

"I never could understand," Mrs.Granger clipped the leash to her dog's collar. "Anyone leaving a friendly little town like this, to live in a godforsaken city full of strangers."

"Holly's work took her there. She teaches autistic children."

"It must have been lonely for you two, losing your parents at such a young age."

Phaedra winced, as memories of the six car pile up on an icy highway came flooding back. "It wasn't easy, though Holly and I were lucky to have each other."

Mrs.Granger nodded. "Well give her my regards when you talk to her next."

But when will that be? Thought Phaedra unhappily.

Over lunch, after another unsuccessful attempt to contact Holly by phone, she decided to go to Vancouver. "There's something wrong, I know it," she told Baxter. "Ailsa can hold the fort for a couple of days. I'm going to try and make the seven o'clock ferry."

It was time she decided to file a Missing Persons Report.

* * * * *

"When did you last talk to your sister?" The detective's name was Curtis Roth. Phaedra was attracted to him immediately. He had cropped brown hair and blue eyes. It was as if time stood still, while all around them the Police building bustled with activity.

"Three days ago." She fixed her eyes on the window behind him. Someone had spiked the courtyard fountain with soap powder. On the horizon, the North Shore Mountains loomed like stone giants. That this kind of sudden attraction should hit her now, was bad timing on the part of Cupid, she thought helplessly.

"You've checked her apartment, and there's nothing unusual there?"

She nodded. "There's no sign of a struggle, if that's what you mean. It looks like she packed a suitcase and her car's gone."

"What about work? Did she show up there?"

"Holly's a teacher. It's summer break right now."

"I think you're worrying unnecessarily, Dr.Wharton, your sister's on vacation. She's gone away for a few days."

"Not without telling me," Phaedra insisted. "Holly had no intention of going away. She had scads of work to catch up on. Something is very wrong." Tears burned hot behind her eyes. "She must have met with...foul play. Please do something. Please look for her."

"We'll do everything we can," he assured her. "We'll need the make and license number of her car, and a recent photograph if you have one."

Phaedra dug into her bag. She had anticipated this and come prepared.

"You look very alike," he remarked, examining the photo.

"Holly's a couple of years younger than me. I always think of her as my baby sister, and feel very protective towards her."

"That's understandable. I feel much the same about my younger brother."

When she was leaving, he touched her lightly on the arm. Phaedra started guiltily as a thrill shot through her from the magic of his touch. "Try not to worry, Dr.Wharton. I'm sure everything's going to be okay."

Standing this close she could feel the magnetic pull of his chemistry driving her hormones wild. It took every shred of willpower she possessed not to reach up and kiss him on the lips. Of course, she was exhausted and worried, that must explain it. She felt almost delirious. "Call me Phaedra, please," she murmured and beat a hasty retreat.

* * * * *

"I miss you already." Baxter telephoned, as Phaedra was about to take a shower. It was chilly in Holly's apartment, which overlooked the harbour, and noisy with the boom of foghorns.

"I miss you too." But she realized it wasn't entirely true. She was too worried about Holly, and plagued with hot thoughts about the handsome detective to miss anyone. "And it doesn't look as if I'll be home anytime soon."

There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the line. "Hello...are you still there?"

"Yes," he responded wearily. "You already know what I think. Holly is a big girl now, and she's gone off on a fling with some sexy dude."

"I don't buy it, and you know that." She felt cold and tired, and just wasn't in the mood for this kind of crap. She switched on the electric fire and warmed her toes at the grate. "We've been all over this before. Holly would never go off like that without telling me first."

"Okay...okay...don't get your knickers in a twist...talking of which, what are you wearing, sweetheart?"

Baxter's voice was thick was lust and she knew he was looking for phone sex. It was something they'd done before, when one of them was away.

"Look, I don't think this is the right time. I doubt I could really get into it."

* * * * *

Phaedra moved restlessly around Holly's apartment. From the balcony she could see the lights of Vancouver, sparkling like jewels against the black velvet backdrop of the night.

"What happened to you, Holly?" she whispered into the hushed silence. It had been almost a week now since her sister had gone missing.

"You might as well come home," Baxter had said. "I mean, what good are you doing there?"

"Try to understand. If I pack up and leave now, it would be like deserting Holly. I know she's in trouble."

"Oh suit yourself then, but do you think you're being fair to Ailsa?"

"Ailsa has brought in another vet to assist her, until I get back."

"Well that's hardly the same as having you around. You're needed at the clinic, Phaedra, and I need you too."

"Look just try to be patient, please. I know it probably makes no logical sense for me to remain here, but it's something I just have to do."

But if it wasn't for a certain dishy detective, would I be so anxious to stay, she wondered, as the first streak of dawn lit the eastern sky. She switched on the electric fire and warmed her hands at the grate.

Why did this have to happen now of all times? She felt as foolish as a gauche teenager, and guilty too. Not only for the disloyalty to Baxter, although heaven knows there was nothing she could do about how she felt, but to Holly as well. For instead of worrying about her sister every minute, as she should be, her thoughts were constantly straying to Curtis and what she'd love him to do to her. Then she would admonish herself for acting like a bitch in heat.

She closed her eyes and listened to the world waking up all around her. Baxter seemed so far away in this densely populated urban setting. He was truly a creature of the wide-open spaces. She wondered if she'd ever really loved him? Or, if theirs had been a relationship borne out of convenience and perpetuated by habit?

The ringing of the telephone snapped her out of her ruminations. It was a wrong number, and she felt relieved. She'd been afraid to answer it, in case it was the worst possible news about her sister. She was bracing herself for this, yet hoping for a miracle as well.

She plugged in the kettle and spooned some instant coffee into a mug. Curtis had phoned her a couple of times, to keep her informed about the steps they were taking to find Holly. "We're still not convinced that she hasn't just taken off for a few days," he said. "But nevertheless, we're not taking any chances."

The sound of his voice had sent her pulses racing. She felt confused and silly at the same time. Surely an attraction this strong must be mutual?

But there again, perhaps he didn't find her attractive? Maybe he was married, or in a long-term committed relationship? Or good lord, he might even be gay? These thoughts tormented her as she buttered a slice of toast and listened to the mating call of a chickadee from a nearby park.

Or, it might be a matter of simple professionalism; a nasty little voice from deep inside tormented her. Just because you're ready to throw caution to the winds, is not to say everyone is.

Phaedra had raked over every inch of Holly's apartment looking for clues as to where she was going on the day she disappeared. "I couldn't find a thing," she told Curtis. "It's uncanny."

"I'll take a look," he offered. "You might have missed something."

Now she was in an agony of excitement and trepidation waiting for him to arrive. What should she wear? Then she castigated herself for such a frivolous thought given the nature of his visit and the circumstances.

She ended up wearing all black–blouse, slacks and shoes.

He was taller than she remembered, although it had only been a few days, it seemed much longer. But his eyes were the same luminous blue that had so captured her soul at first sight.

"Come in," she muttered awkwardly, convinced that he could read her every thought. And oh my what a naughty book they would make.

He started with the clothes closet. "Did you check through the pockets? She may have written an address or something on a slip of paper."

"I thought of that, but there was nothing." She plugged in the kettle and asked him if he would like tea. It was a warm day and she served it out on the balcony.

"If it's any consolation," he said. "I've seen this sort of thing happen before, and it's always ended up with the missing person simply showing up unharmed."

"I hope you're right," she replied, although inwardly she knew it wouldn't happen in this case. Holly would never go away and not telephone.

They watched the panorama of Burrard Inlet under a moody sky. The cargo ships, water taxis and floatplanes weaved their way through the choppy waters. "Did you grow up here?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I'm from Ontario."

Phaedra longed to touch him, to take his hand. As if sensing this he looked directly into her eyes. "I better be going now," he said, although it was delivered more as a question than a statement of intent.

"Please don't..." The words slipped out before she had a chance to stop them. And immediately, she stood back from her deed in horror. How could she have said such a thing? How could she have been so inappropriate and...bold? "Sorry..." she murmured, trying hard to cover up this horrible faux pas. " It's just that I don't know anyone here...and what with worrying about Holly and so forth, it gets lonely."

Curtis stood up. "I know all about loneliness," he said.

Phaedra had a sensation of lightness, a feeling of unreality, of floating. When he left she leaned against the wall and sobbed. Then as if a power outside of herself had taken over and robbed her of freewill, she wrenched the door open and ran after him. She caught up with him at the elevator. "...I..." she stammered, and threw her arms around him. She found his mouth through the tears and kissed him until she was breathless.

Curtis picked her up and carried her back down the hallway. When they reached the apartment, he kicked the door shut behind them, and pushed her against the wall.

He wasted no time in taking her, hard and fast without much finesse.

In their quest to mate, they'd shed their identities and reverted back to the primitive.

It was all over in a matter of minutes.

* * * * *

"Still no sign of Holly?" Ailsa called at first light. She was at the clinic. A dog barked in the background.

"Not a thing." Phaedra sat up in bed and adjusted the pillows. "I've talked to all the neighbours, including the apartment manager, and no-one either saw or heard anything. It's just as if she vanished into thin air."

"Have you spoken to all her friends?"

"She didn't really have any. Holly has always been something of a loner. She's a deeply spiritual person, very much into the goddess culture and alternative healing. The social circuit never interested her."

"Any boyfriends?"

"She had a few off and on, but nothing serious."

While she chatted with Ailsa, Phaedra watched the Sea Bus leave the North Shore and chug across the harbour to Vancouver. She would miss this panoramic view from every window when she returned home.

"Look I'm sorry about leaving you in the lurch like this. I know it can't be easy coping at the clinic shorthanded."

"Don't give it another thought. I wouldn't expect you to do anything else under the circumstances. If it were my sister who was missing, I'd do exactly the same thing."

"I really appreciate your understanding. So how are things going anyway? How is the new receptionist working out?"

Ailsa chuckled and took a sip of her coffee. "She isn't. I had to let her go."

"Oh that's too bad. How many has that been? Since Morag left, I mean?"

"Well let me see. There was the one they sent from the agency who couldn't type. The one who was terrified to answer the phone. And...the latest one, of course, who just couldn't get anything right."

"Let's hope it's fourth time lucky." Phaedra laughed.

"Oh by the way, I saw Baxter yesterday." Ailsa's tone was casual–a little too casual. "He called me out to his place to look at a foal."

Did she just imagine it, pondered Phaedra, as she got out of bed and plugged in the kettle. Or had there been a certain coyness in Ailsa's voice as she mentioned seeing Baxter? Either way, flashbacks of her sizzling encounter with Curtis had kept intruding throughout their conversation. Golly, I'm behaving like a gauche and randy teenager. Got to get a grip!

* * * * *

"No news yet about Holly?" asked Evelyn from across the hall. A tiny, bird-like woman, with beetle brows, she was a notorious gossip.

"I'm afraid not." Phaedra was anxious to keep the exchange as brief as possible. My gawd, she thought with a shudder, what if she looked out her spy-hole yesterday and saw Curtis carrying me down the hall? Yet a sharp thrill shot through her recalling how she'd clung to him wild with longing. And how he had satisfied her, up against the wall, beyond her wildest expectations.

"Did you know that Holly was friendly with that fellow who runs the bookstore?"

"...Er no, I didn't." She'd been so caught up in her own hot thoughts that it took a moment for what Evelyn was saying to register."

"She spent a lot of time in there. It could be that he might know more than he's letting on." She leaned forward in the age-old gesture of the conspirator and added cryptically. "He's visited her here a couple of times too."

* * * * *

Alan Thorpe had overly large feet and hands. He looked anaemic. "Of course, I know Holly," he answered congenially. "She's an avid bookworm."

It was a small cluttered store with used books piled high in bins and a layer of dust over everything.

"Have you any idea at all where she might have gone?" Phaedra never took her eyes off his face.

But if Alan had any deep dark secrets regarding her sister, he in no way showed it.

"None at all, I'm afraid. I just wish I could be of more help."

"I was told that you visited Holly...you know, at her apartment."

Alan laughed. "So that old biddy across the hall's been nattering again." Then on a more sober note explained the reason for the visits. "Holly ordered a number of titles, and I would drop them off when they came in."

As Phaedra left, he assured her there was nothing going on between himself and Holly. "We were just friends," he said. "Who shared a common interest."

It wasn't until she was some way from the bookshop that the relevance of how Alan had phrased the final disclaimer hit her. He had spoken of Holly in the past tense.

We "were" just friends, rather than we "are."

She immediately telephoned Curtis and ran it past him.

"It could just have been a manner of speech," he suggested. "What did you think of him otherwise?"

"Well I didn't get any bad vibes, if that's what you mean. He seems like a normal and quite decent sort. And you're right; it probably means nothing at all. She realized how paranoid she'd become. She was beginning to suspect everyone.

"Even so, I'll check him out, if it'll make you feel any better."

She found it impossible to talk to Curtis for any length of time, and keep her raging libido at bay. "You'd make me feel even better," she murmured seductively.

"How about later tonight?" His voice grew husky with desire.

* * * * *

What must he think of me? Phaedra relaxed in a steaming bubble bath. I threw myself at him like a shag hag. Yet, it had seemed so natural and necessary at the time. There was no doubt she would do the same thing again. She had no regrets.

Curtis answered her unspoken question without realizing he had done so. He brought her a teddy bear dressed in a Mountie's uniform. "He's our mascot. I wanted to give him to you as a small token of my esteem."

She felt so uplifted by his words that she was flying. "This is as close to rapture as it gets," she murmured.

"Hush." He laid a finger against her lips. His touch worked its own special brand of magic. Phaedra kissed him as if she'd never stop. Their erotic encounter lasted longer this time, and he pounded her in bed, instead of against a wall. Phaedra loved it.

"Be sure and keep the door locked at all times," he advised, as he left some time later.

"I always do. But why are you telling me this. Do you think I might be in danger?"

Curtis shook his head and buckled on his holster. "Now don't get alarmed. But with your sister still missing...we have to take every precaution."

"So you think that Holly was kidnapped and who ever done it might come back and get me?"

"Look, Phaedra, I didn't say that. But we can't afford to ignore any possibility, no matter how remote."

This exchange made her more nervous than usual. She had to admit there was something in what Curtis had said. She put the chain on after he'd left, then wedged a chair underneath the handle for good measure.

However, if Holly had been abducted, it had to have been by someone she knew. Otherwise, there would surely have been some signs of a struggle? Was it possible that the pale Alan in the musty bookstore might not be as innocent as he appeared? He was certainly not attractive to women. Perhaps Holly had repelled his advances and sexual frustration had got the better of him? He could have returned later with some ruse to get her to leave with him, quietly.

Phaedra knew she was reaching, and yet stranger things had happened.

Like a sister, for instance, who had always kept in touch on a daily basis. And who had suddenly disappeared and not been heard of for almost ten days now.

* * * * *

The posters of Holly were up in all major locations. There had been a few calls, from the curious mostly and the inevitable cranks. But nothing concrete that shed any light on the mysterious disappearance.

"Come over to my place and meet my cat," Curtis invited. "I'll cook you dinner. Spaghetti, I think, followed by strawberries–now that's a sensuous fruit–for desert."

"Even more sensuous with cream," suggested Phaedra. "I'll bring some. See you tomorrow night."

Afterwards, sitting in the dark watching the lights from the harbour, she felt guilt wash over her like a vengeful tide. This was inappropriate behaviour for someone whose sister had been missing for almost two weeks. When she had mentioned this to Curtis he brushed it aside. "Sitting fretting over Holly isn't going to do either of you any good."

Fog had rolled in and much of the city across the water became invisible. Phaedra had a shower and went to bed. She stretched her contented body like a purring cat; delighted that Curtis was taking such good care of it.

She awoke with a start. Not sure what had disturbed her. All was silent. Then she heard the noise. It was a scuffling sound. There was someone outside the door!

Phaedra's heart pounded and her mouth felt parched. Curtis had warned her about this. He'd told her to keep the door locked at all times. But had she? She couldn't recall whether she'd checked it right before going to bed or not. She'd been so sleepy and languid with hot thoughts about her new lover.

She crept quietly out of bed and made her way cautiously towards the phone. But just as she was half way across the living room, she heard something being inserted into the lock.

"Oh my gawd," she muttered. She was convinced now that Holly had been abducted, and whoever was responsible was about to mete out the same fate to her.

She flipped on the light with a trembling hand. Much to her relief, she saw that she'd not only locked the door, but remembered to put the chain on as well. She grabbed a heavy cabinet and pushed it with difficulty down the hall. The effort made her pant and break out in a sweat. But she persevered and managed to wedge it behind the door. Then she doubled back towards the phone, dizzy and gasping for breath.

Whoever was trying to break in was not deterred. The handle turned and they pushed against the door.

Phaedra punched in 911 and waited with hammering heart for someone to answer. Then she realized that in her haste, she hadn't waited for the dial tone.

"Damn," she muttered, and was about to repeat the process, when the intruder called out. "What the hell's going on in there?"

Phaedra stopped dead in her tracks and replaced the receiver on its cradle. She just couldn't believe it. Yet it was. She'd know that voice anywhere.

It was Holly!

Shock and disbelief, followed by relief and sheer joy swamped over her at the same moment. "Holly...Holly...it's me, Phaedra." She dragged the cabinet from behind the door.

She'd never been gladder to see anyone.

"Holly," she gasped, "Oh Holly you're safe." She clutched her little sister as if she would never let her go.

Holly looked as shocked as Phaedra had done a few minutes ago. "What's going on here, Sis?" she asked, and managed to extricate herself at last.

"Well you should know," rebuked Phaedra. Now that she knew Holly was safe, worry turned to anger. "You're the one who saw fit to take off for...how long has it been...two weeks, without as much as a telephone call. You must have known I'd be worried sick. How could you be so selfish and thoughtless?"

Holly poured them both a hefty shot of Sherry. "What do you mean," she asked indignantly. "Without as much as a phone call? I did telephone."

"Well I never received any call, and where were you anyway?"

Holly explained that she'd decided on impulse to spend a couple of weeks at a spiritual retreat in the mountains. "I needed to recharge my batteries. Everything was getting to me in the city. I was totally stressed out."

"And you say you left a message on my answering machine before you left?"

Holly shook her head. "No, I spoke directly to your receptionist. She said she'd give you the message."

Phaedra groaned and shook her head. "Well that explains it. We've had a bad run of receptionists since Morag left. I was never given your message."

"Oh I'm so sorry about that, Sis. No wonder you've been in such a stew. I feel just awful."

"You weren't to know. You naturally thought your message would be passed on."

"Dinner's on me, tomorrow night," offered Holly. "The best restaurant in town. All the trimmings."

"Sorry I can't, sweetie. Not tomorrow. I already have a date."

"Sounds interesting. Anyone I know?"

"Not yet, but I have a feeling that you will." Phaedra winked and set down her glass. "Now I have to telephone a few people and let them know you're okay."

* * * * *

"I'm going to miss you like sin." Curtis tossed back his drink and ordered another one. His handsome face was cast in shadow in the dimly lit airport lounge.

"I know," Phaedra empathised. "But it won't be for long." She glanced at her watch. Ten more minutes, and I'll be on the plane. If only time would slow down.

"How do you think Baxter will take it?"

"I think he already guesses. Besides, he and Ailsa have been seeing a lot of each other."

Curtis nodded. He reached for her hand. "You are sure about this? I mean selling up and moving here permanently?"

"Never been surer of anything. It'll be nice having Holly close by too. I can keep an eye on her." Phaedra smiled and ran her foot up his pant leg.

"Hey, easy on that if you don't want to get laid right here."

She laughed. "That's the best offer I've had all day."

He was about to respond but at that moment her flight was announced.

She clung to him as if she would never let go. Tears stung her eyes. She hated goodbyes and this was one of the hardest.

"Call me as soon as you arrive." Curtis disentangled himself and propelled her towards the departures gate.

"And we'll have phone sex." Phaedra winked, striving for levity.

"Good idea." He laughed. "We'll burn up the telephone wires."

* * * *

She couldn't see him, of course, as the plane soared into the night sky. Yet she knew he was still standing there, where she had left him, watching the landing lights until they disappeared from sight.

### ~~The End~~

VENGEANCE

### Chapter One

The bailiffs were coming to throw her out on the street. She had no money and nowhere to go. The thought of pushing a shopping cart and sleeping in doorways terrified her. Judy Mason didn't know whether to take an overdose of sleeping pills, or wreak vengeance on those responsible.

She looked around at the small but comfortable house she'd called home for 30 years. It had been a wedding gift from her parents. They'd been so delighted to see their only daughter, who was over thirty at the time, finally marry. Now she'd lost the house due to her ignorance of legal matters, and her trusting nature. Damn! She should have stayed single.

Her ex husband, Matthew Gillingham, had seemed like a good catch at first. He owned his own accountancy firm, right around the corner from the library, where Judy worked. Their looks contrasted flatteringly as well. He was tall and fair, just like a Viking, while she was a typical Celt, dark-haired with blue eyes.

She sighed. If only she'd stood firm when Matthew asked her to give up her job and help him run the business, she wouldn't be stony broke today. She'd have a government pension. But he'd been persuasive in those days, and his argument had made sense. He needed to do a lot of entertaining and travelling and he wanted her to be a full-time partner in all of that. If they'd had a family, she would have been a stay at home mom, but that had never happened. Oh well, we would all be geniuses if hindsight were 20/20, she decided.

Although the marriage was happy at first -- or at least she thought it was -- the flaws in Matthew's character eventually began to show. He had a weakness for fine dining and high living. This resulted in him gaining a ton of weight, and racking up debts on the house. When Judy discovered his infidelity, which always involved women of colour, it freaked her out. She just couldn't understand the attraction.

How could you form a meaningful relationship with someone who did not speak your language? How would you communicate? The only thing she could conclude was that the men who sought out such women were misfits in their own culture, and viewed the Third World woman as a commodity for sexual purposes.

The Asian mail order brides were submissive and extremely accommodating. They had to be, given the nature of their plight. This shuffling humility, made those males feel empowered and important. They could do anything they wanted with these women once they'd bought and paid for them. Judy wondered how many of them had been murdered? They were in a strange country, and were totally dependent on this stranger whom they'd married. He wielded all the power. It was tailor made for disaster.

But the women were so desperate to get out of their Third World ghettoes that selling their bodies and dignity to some rich white dude -- pathetic mixed up sod though he was -- seemed like a great deal. Even though he might beat, abuse and kill them. He was their passport to regular meals, a bed, and indoor plumbing. So at the end of the day, both parties got what they wanted. It was all so demeaning, tawdry and sad. At that point, Judy had decided to call it quits.

She expected Matthew to do the decent thing, since she'd worked for him all those years, and look after her financially. But he hadn't. He'd claimed he couldn't afford to. Although he could afford to buy another house, and go on holidays abroad with his latest Asian mail order bride, a drab and greedy migrant named Fang Po Wong.

When Judy sued him for maintenance, Juanita Gomez, his disturbingly vicious lawyer, whose speciality was defending Hispanic gangs, had attacked on a personal level. She'd suggested that because Judy hadn't had a job outside the home, she was nothing but a lazy layabout leeching off poor Matthew and wasn't entitled to any support! This evil varmint, who looked like she'd crawled out of a Brazilian slum, had also accused her of being a 'racist,' because she hadn't loved and embraced Matthew's China bride!

Judy shook her head and laughed. Gosh, that 'racist' crap was getting old already. It had been hurled around so much. It was such a silly accusation akin to the McCarthy era's witch-hunt for 'communists,' but on a much grander scale. Yet it had the power to destroy reputations, careers and lives. And would do so until decent people summonsed up enough courage to speak out against it, en masse.

She sat down by the window and watched the dawn steal over Vancouver. The city had changed so much that it bore no resemblance to the place she'd been born and grew up in. Now officially recognised as the most congested city in North America, it was home to more Asians than Europeans, and Mandarin had overtaken English as the most spoken language. She felt like a stranger in her own land.

Judy grimaced. Of course, the aboriginals would claim it was really their land and that her ancestors had stolen it from them. Not so. If you cannot defend your property you won't hang onto it for long, and that's what happened in North America. Whoever has the superior firing power wins, and in this case it had been the Europeans.

She shivered, recalling Juanita's overly bright and spooky eyes. They reminded her of demons at the gates to hell. The upshot was that the limp dick of a judge, a weasely little runt named Shanks -- who Juanita probably sucked off in chambers -- had ruled in Matthew's favour. So much for the impartiality and fairness of the law. Despite her gloomy mood, on this worst day of her life, Judy laughed derisively.

With the last of her savings blown on legal fees, and Matthew released from any financial obligation towards her, she had been well and truly fucked. Shortly thereafter the bank had foreclosed.

Judy checked her appearance in the hall mirror, and was suddenly overcome by nostalgia. After all the thousands of times she'd done it over the years, this would be the last. Tears sprung to her eyes. She decided that she looked surprisingly good -- smooth skin and even features -- for someone about to become a bag lady. Her dark hair was now streaked with grey and she wore it pinned back in a bun.

She thanked her love of walking for keeping her slim and fit. It would hold her in good stead now that she'd be living on the streets, for even if she managed to find a women's shelter at night, they booted everyone out at 7:00 am. What did someone with no home to go to, do at such an ungodly hour? Go sit in a coffee shop, she supposed, until they threw you out. But it would be one heck of a long day, since the shelters didn't allow anyone back in again, until late in the evening. Of course, if the weather was good, one could always while away the hours on a park bench. Ain't life grand!

Yikes, if her parents were still alive and could see her now. They'd never believe that their only daughter, who'd gone to the very best schools and enjoyed an excellent home environment, could be suddenly cast down so low, and all because she'd put her trust in the wrong man.

The sweet call of a chickadee cut in on Judy's gloomy thoughts. It echoed plaintively through the grim grey dawn. She wondered who would feed the birds once she was either dead or living on the streets? And what would happen to Molly, the little striped cat she'd adopted from an animal shelter?

She shivered. With winter closing in, there couldn't be a worse time of year to be without shelter. The sleeping pills, with their promise of blessed oblivion beckoned.

It wasn't as if she were throwing her life away. She'd already lived most of her 3 score years and ten. Soon it would be time to face the grim reaper anyway. Better sooner than later, if the intervening years were going to be spent in a state of degrading hardship and poverty. Now that her home was as good as gone, she really didn't see any point in continuing.

Judy emptied the bottle of sleeping pills into a bowl and ground them down with a pestle. Then she added enough water to make a paste. They'd be much easier to get down that way, than swallowing them whole and in handfuls.

She placed the bowl with its lethal contents on the bedside table, and slipped into her favourite outfit, a beige dress with colourful embroidery. There was no reason why she shouldn't look respectable when she was found. Not that it really mattered, of course. When you got right down to it what did? Humans were nothing but powerless marionettes being jerked around by the fickle hand of fate. They had no control over what diseases they got, or whether they'd be murdered, or perish in an accident. Tomorrow was promised to no one, but still they made their pathetic little plans for a day they might never see.

What was the purpose of it all, and was it really worth all the agony and angst? Of course, it was the human fabricated world that was the most vexing, such drama, full of sound and fury signifying nothing. Shakespeare, as usual, got it right. The real world -- the natural one -- was altogether different. There was a kill or be killed honesty about it that was refreshing.

The noisy roar of traffic had drowned out the birdsong, while a pale sun poked its fingers around the window blinds, creating a slatted image on the far wall.

Judy lay on top of the covers and prayed for forgiveness. Then she reached for the bowl...

### Chapter Two

Goddamnit what was she doing? Judy had stopped herself from swallowing the toxic brew in the nick of time. All the righteous fury of her Celtic ancestors had come galloping to the rescue. End it by all means, they counselled, but finish off your enemies first.

It was true, of course. Matthew, Fang and Juanita wanted her dead. She couldn't play into their evil hands like this. They'd be drunk on champagne for a week.

But first things first. The bailiffs would be here any minute.

With a tremendous effort of will, Judy heaved herself off the bed. Then she dressed in comfortable clothes, packed a couple of suitcases, and enticed Molly into her carry case with a tasty piece of fish.

She loaded everything into the old Volvo, and left the home she loved so dearly without a backward glance. It was easier that way. She didn't know what would happen to her furniture and other belongings, and at that point in time, she didn't much care. If she was going to survive she'd have to take it moment by moment. It was down to a matter of basic survival in a very hostile world.

After she paid for gas, she had just enough left for a couple of nights at a third rate motel. She checked in at the Palace. What a ludicrous name for such a dump. Uppermost in her mind, was a recent television program about how filthy and unhygienic some hotel rooms were. Even the first class hotels didn't always clean properly. So a place like the Palace was likely to be crawling with germs and bacteria. She didn't even want to imagine what must have gone on in its sagging old beds.

With this in mind, she'd come prepared with disinfectants and her own bedding. After the depressing place was cleaned to her satisfaction, she tried to assure Molly, who was hiding under the bed, that everything was going to be all right. If only I believed that, she thought grimly.

Afterwards, she went over to the welfare office and applied for assistance. If this nightmare had been delayed for another couple of years, she would have qualified for the old age pension. Still, she was damned if she was going to let that evil trio destroy her. Life went on...at least for a while, and she was determined to get even and win.

Her first step was to stake out Matthew's new and expensive home. She parked at a discreet distance on the tree-lined street and noted his time schedule and routine. He usually hosted a party on Saturday night, a fairly raucous affair with about half-a-dozen guests. She suspected they did more than just drink. Matthew had grown quite fond of the occasional snort of cocaine, while Fang had a fondness for the opium pipe. As a result, they both slept late on Sunday morning, often not making an appearance until early afternoon.

After several weeks of this covert surveillance, she was able to determine the best time to put step two into action. It would definitely be on a Saturday night when the targets were pissed and sleeping it off. They'd be at their most vulnerable then, and the plan was most likely to succeed.

Judy drove back to the Palace through a miserable mixture of fog and freezing rain. As always, Molly greeted her at the door. After her welfare cheque had arrived she'd moved to a housekeeping unit and paid by the week. She told them she'd clean the room herself. This gave her more privacy. No more knocks on the door at 7:00 am. Well, in her position, you had to be grateful for small mercies. Every day she survived -- and she took it one day at a time -- was mud in the eye to the villains who had plotted her demise. Now it was her turn to plot theirs. Basically, they'd been signing their own death warrants when they'd robbed her of her house, and left her nothing to lose.

The book she was reading at present was a history of Canada. The British, who were the victors, had given the defeated French a gift of land. It was a smart move. By so doing, they had ensured the French would not join with the Americans and fight against them. The British had known that a man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous of all. Matthew, Fang and Juanita were obviously ignorant of that fact.

* * * * *

The Saturday evening party at Matthew's multi-million dollar home was breaking up for the night. Decidedly tipsy guests weaved their way unsteadily into their Lincolns and other expensive vehicles.

Judy watched the action, as usual, from a discreet distance, as she poured another cup of coffee from her thermos. It was damned chilly sitting in a vehicle for hours, unable to turn on the engine to get some heat. She didn't dare draw attention to herself like that.

But with any luck this would be the last night of it. After all the lights were switched off in the house, she waited for a couple of hours just to make sure Matthew and Fang were snoring drunkenly, before putting her plan into action.

It was quite simple really. She grabbed the can of gasoline. She would splash it all around the house and then strike a match. Hopefully, the two evil-doers would perish in the ensuing inferno.

Judy realised that she would be a suspect in the arson. Perhaps not the prime suspect though. She suspected that Matthew, Fang and Juanita were reeling in the bucks from illegal activities -- most likely drugs from Columbia -- so any of their criminal cohorts could be responsible. Still, she would have preferred if it could have been made to look like an accident.

As she crept towards the house under a dark and brooding sky -- thank goodness it wasn't a full moon -- she suddenly noticed the front door had been left slightly ajar. This didn't surprise her too much, given all the drunken partygoers. And the host had always been decidedly lax about security. Perhaps he had passed out before his inebriated visitors left?

She pushed the door open further with a gloved hand. All was quiet. The lights on the south side of the house were always the last to go out. Judy assumed that was the master bedroom. She took a few cautious steps down the hallway. The living room was in a state of disarray with overflowing ashtrays and dirty glasses. Half empty bottles of liquor were cluttered haphazardly on a coffee table. It had obviously been quite a night.

Scarcely daring to breathe, and afraid the evil occupants might be wakened by the wild hammering of her heart, Judy crept quietly out again and darted around the corner to the Seven Eleven store. A plan was hatching in her mind that was at once so simple yet perfect, she found it hard to believe her luck.

For the first time in forty years -- that's when she'd quit smoking -- Judy bought a packet of cigarettes. Underneath a streetlight, she paused to light one, screwing up her face at the acrid smell. Then she walked swiftly back to Matthew's house and stuck the burning cigarette between the couch cushions. That should do the trick. And the beautiful part about it was that nobody would suspect a thing.

Before she crept back into the brooding night, curiosity suddenly got the better of her. The master bedroom beckoned. By the dim light left burning in the hallway, she could make out the king sized bed where two figures sprawled drunkenly with open mouths. Matthew still had his clothes on while Fang was naked. Her sinewy brown body appeared feral, repulsively so.

Judy was about to leave when something on the elaborate Spanish style dresser caught her eye. It was an envelope overflowing with bank notes. Once again, this didn't surprise her. As well as being lax about security, Matthew had also been careless with money. He'd always had so much of it.

Without giving it another thought, Judy grabbed the money; she was entitled to it anyway, and left. As she passed by the living room, she could smell the burning upholstery.

Then it hit her. What if the evil bastards had a smoke alarm? It wasn't likely given Matthew's cavalier attitude about safety, but still... To have an alarm suddenly go off and alert them would be intolerable.

Judy searched around the ceilings. There was no alarm in the living room or master bedroom. But right at the very end of the hallway, she spotted one. Damn!

Heart pounding, she stood up on a dining room chair and removed the alarm. Fait accompli! But just as she started back down the hallway to the front door, the unthinkable happened...

### Chapter Three

Judy stood there frozen in fear as Matthew went into paroxysms of coughing. He'd obviously been smoking too many substances, both legal and not so. The front door and safety beckoned, but the master bedroom lay in its path. She couldn't risk him seeing her.

"You got bad cough. You take medicine."

Oh no, he'd woken Fang. Judy winced at the pigeon English.

She could hear the movements in the bed and then the thump of feet on the carpeted floor. Judy darted into the kitchen and held her breath. There had to be a back door. But dare she risk opening it? What if it were alarmed? Although there again, with Matthew's lax attitude towards security that was doubtful.

Judy remained frozen to the spot, as a toilet flushed in the master bedroom's ensuite bathroom. Then footsteps moved in the direction of the bed, and eventually everything quietened down.

She felt like a wild creature caught in some hellish trap. But she forced herself to remain where she was for a while longer, before making a cautious dash for the front door. Acrid smoke wafted out from the living room.

As Judy hared down the path towards the safety of her car, she inhaled great lungfuls of fresh air. With any luck those evil, greedy, selfish monsters would be dead by morning. She smiled. And foul play would never be suspected.

So not only would she get away with a double murder, although to her way of thinking it was justifiable homicide, but she'd been rewarded with a nice stash of cash to boot.

* * * * *

While rain hammered against the windows of her shabby lodgings, and Molly lapped at a saucer of milk, Judy remained glued to the television news. But so far, there had been nothing about Matthew. Ditto for the newspapers. She'd been out grabbing every edition for the past 24 hours. Was she being too impatient? She paced up and down the tacky room. Then unable to stand the suspense any longer, decided to risk taking a drive by Matthew's house.

But as she drove over there, the news she'd been waiting for came over the car radio.

Judy pulled over to the side of the road, and clasped her hands together in glee. It had gone perfectly! It wasn't until dawn that a neighbour noticed the flames engulfing Matthew's house. By the time the fire department arrived it was too late. The occupants, whose names were being withheld pending notification of next of kin, had perished.

"Yay!" Judy exclaimed triumphantly. She was finding it difficult to control her exuberance. She'd buy an especially nice dinner for herself and Molly. And heck, why not some champagne as well? If ever an occasion called for bubbly, it was this one. Two down, and one to go. Judy didn't plan to rest on her laurels too long, before going after her loathsome nemesis, Juanita Gomez. She would never know what hit her.

When Judy got back to the Palace, she partied until dawn. It had been a long time since she'd had anything to celebrate, and she decided to make the most of it. As she finished off the last of the champagne, she felt decidedly tipsy. Pissed, actually. Molly purred contentedly on her lap as a new day felt its way cautiously around the window blinds.

There had been a stack of hundred dollar bills in that envelope she'd taken from Matthew's bedroom, to the tune of around $25,000. Imagine keeping as much money as that just lying around. Judy shook her head. Still, his loss -- and he'd lost his miserable life as well thanks to her -- was her gain.

She stroked Molly's warm fur and whispered endearments. Poor little Kitty she'd been so upset about being uprooted from her comfortable home, and ending up in a dump like this. So had she. Judy laughed. But it wouldn't be for long. As soon as she'd dealt with that nasty varmint, Juanita, she'd get out of Dodge. She fancied a fresh start someone far from here. Florida beckoned. It had a great climate, why not?

* * * * *

Judy had been watching Juanita for more than a month. She felt frustrated by the delay, but when she made her move, she had to make sure it was the right one. There were no second chances. Not ever. Not anywhere. Anyone who believed otherwise was suffering from a bad case of wishful thinking.

She'd had to wait around the parking garage at the courthouse until she spotted Juanita getting into her car. Then she'd followed her. It had been tough going, not at all like in the movies. On that first occasion she'd lost her. The second hadn't been much better. But finally, persistence had paid off, and she kept on her tail until she found out her address.

Juanita's house was as affluent as Matthew's. Whoever said crime didn't pay was mistaken. Judy smiled.

As the weeks passed and she followed Juanita around, Judy got a sense of her routine. She went to the office 5 days a week, and sometimes she'd be in court. On weekends she headed for the gym. It was in the latter locale that Judy planned to put her murderous plan into action.

The She's Fit gym was located in a strip mall with underground parking. All Judy had to do was wait until Juanita crossed the parking lot on her way either to or from the gym, and going at high speed run her down.

It did have a degree of risk, of course. No matter how careful she was someone might see her. But bearing this in mind she'd smeared mud over her licence plates to conceal the numbers. And although she couldn't see any surveillance cameras, that didn't mean there wasn't a concealed one somewhere. The other downside to this particular plan was that the loathsome Juanita might not die. Still, if she got up enough speed before mowing her down, she would hopefully be badly injured, at least.

And so she waited, until one blustery Saturday evening when the high winds and pelting rain had left the roads quieter than usual. The wild weather, however, had not kept Juanita from her usual trip to the gym.

Judy, who had been waiting impatiently for her arrival, decided to go for it. The parking garage was practically empty. There would never be a better time.

In these stark surroundings with the cold lights and eerie echo, the crooked Hispanic lawyer would finally meet with justice. Judy felt a terrific surge of power and excitement as Juanita began her walk towards the gym. As soon as she was dead in her tracks, Judy gunned the engine and drove the Volvo directly at her. She would never forget the look of terror and shock on Juanita's dark face when she went bouncing off the bonnet. Judy chuckled. "Payback time's a bitch," she yelled triumphantly.

The impact of the collision had sent Juanita hurling for about fifty feet, where she lay crumpled up in a bloodied heap. But was she dead? Judy would have loved to back over her to make sure. However, that would make a 'hit and run' into a definite case of homicide. They'd be able to tell by the tire tracks what had happened.

With this thought in mind, she drove out of the parking garage at a normal speed. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped for speeding. Then as soon as she was safely away from the scene of the crime, she pulled into the parking lot of a shopping mall and examined her car under a streetlight.

The impact might have dented a lesser car, broken a headlight or damaged the grill. But her trusty old Volvo had come through with barely a scratch. In fact, a piece of material from Juanita's coat wound around the grill had been the only guilty evidence. Judy removed it promptly and treated her vehicle to a drive-through car wash. Then in order to cover her tracks, she drove over to a garage and bought new tires. She had the old ones loaded into the trunk, and headed for the docks. Then in a deserted spot where the ocean washed against the shore, she pitched them into the sea.

Hey, she was getting quite good at this, she congratulated herself, warmly. All these mystery novels she'd devoured over the years were finally paying off. She wiped her hands on an old kerchief as she strutted jauntily back to her car. She'd always liked the motto of the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared. But she was in no way prepared for what happened next...

### Chapter Four

"Gotcha!" The triumphant male voice declared in her ear as strong arms grabbed her from behind. His breath was foul with the stink of cheap liquor.

"What the fuck," Judy exclaimed in shock and fear. She struggled to get away, but the bastard had her in a hammerlock.

A foghorn boomed out from the harbour, sounding alarmingly near. She willed herself to calm down and to think. "What do you want?" she demanded.

He guffawed rudely and belched. As he did so, his hold on her loosened just enough for her to ram him in the ribs with her elbows and run away as fast as her fear frozen limbs would carry her.

"Fuckin' hell," she heard him curse, and footsteps pounded after her.

Fortunately for her, he was drunk as a skunk, and fell just a few yards from the Volvo. Judy reached the safety of her car, and as soon as she was inside swiftly locked it. Then she turned the key in the ignition, and got the hell out of that lonely place as fast as she could.

On her way past her attacker, she got a better look at him as he struggled to get up. He was a big bastard, scruffy and rough, with a long straggly beard.

It just went to prove, Judy shuddered, that no matter how careful and well organised one's life was, it could suddenly be threatened and snatched away in a matter of seconds.

When she got back to the Palace -- she was damned if she'd call a dump like that home -- she'd give Molly an extra big hug. Judy shivered. That had been such a frighteningly close call that she'd heard time's winged chariot drawing near. Of course, alive one minute, and dead the next was part of the natural order. But humans had sought to deny this harsh truth with every manner of diversion and obfuscation they could muster. It was a death denying culture. The king is dead, long live the king...

All the next day she waited impatiently for any news about Juanita, just like she had when she'd dispatched Matthew and Fang to Kingdom Come. Then finally, as she surfed the news sites on her laptop, there it was. On Saturday evening, Juanita Gomez, a prominent Hispanic lawyer, was the victim of a hit and run. Gomez remains in serious condition at St. Joseph's Hospital.

So damn, damn, and triple damn, the bitch was still alive. Judy felt cheated and terribly disappointed. She made a pot of tea and nibbled moodily on a slice of toast. Still, she'd done the best she could. And even if the bitch did survive, she'd at least got even with her to some degree.

She wasn't about to take the chance of sneaking into the hospital and pulling the plug on the life support. Nah, she could be caught too easily. It wasn't worth the risk. Yet the niggling fear that Juanita had recognised her, continued to torment. Judy recalled the dark fear-filled eyes that had stared right into hers as Juanita bounced off the Volvo.

Well either way, she intended to be long gone by this time tomorrow. She stroked Molly and whispered in her ear. "Our work here is done," she said. "Now it's time we left town." Thank heavens for Matthew's money that made it possible. It had certainly been a windfall and a stroke of luck she'd never expected. "Time for bed," she said to the purring cat. "We'll get an early start in the morning."

However, fate had decreed otherwise. Judy woke in the middle of the night with an aching throat, high fever and raging thirst. "Oh no," she moaned. She must have caught a flu bug, and the timing couldn't have been worse. There was no way she could start driving south feeling as rough as this. She reached for the bottle of water she'd bought earlier.

After tossing and turning for the remainder of the night, Judy somehow managed to get herself dressed and headed out to the store. She felt like death warmed over. But she had to buy some cold medications and stock up on food and other essentials. God only knows how long she'd be laid up.

"Here let me help you with that."

She'd been struggling out of the supermarket laden down with groceries when a pleasant looking man with greying hair came to the rescue. She'd seen him before around the Palace.

"Thank you, I'm most grateful," she managed to croak between bouts of coughing, as he loaded the bags into the trunk of the Volvo.

"Don't mention it." He smiled and introduced himself.

His name was Larry Holmes, and he lived above the office at the Palace. He was its new manager.

"Forgive me for saying so," he said. "But you're out of place at the Palace."

Despite feeling utterly horrible, Judy responded with a smile. "Thanks for noticing that. I'd hate to fit in there."

Larry laughed and she joined in. What was it they said about laughter being the best medicine? For that brief moment of mirth boosted up her spirits considerably.

"Give me a ring if you need anything," he said. "You should stay indoors and look after that cold."

She took his advice, she felt too ill not to, and spent most of her time curled up in bed feeling completely miserable. Molly looked concerned and wouldn't leave her side. It was her way of transmitting positive healing energy.

On the fourth day of this forced confinement, Larry phoned and asked if everything was okay. Judy realised that he was the only living soul who knew about her plight. And that had happened purely by chance. She was glad of the connection.

"I think I'll live," she murmured drowsily. The pills she'd been taking made her feel groggy. She'd been dosing herself up with cough medicine and the occasional whiskey toddy as well.

By the same time the following day, she felt well enough to have a shower and shampoo her hair. After being cooped up for almost a week, she was getting cabin fever, and felt the need to get out for a while and stretch her legs. It was a chilly day though, with snow flurries spiralling down from a sky like peat. She'd have to dress warmly.

"It's good to see you out and about again." Larry emerged from the office as she walked past. They chatted for a while and arranged to meet for coffee later. There was a snack bar adjacent to the motel.

Judy had mixed feelings about this new friendship. On the one hand it was like an anchor in the storm. She liked Larry's manner and was attracted to him. Yet on the other, she didn't want to feel any sort of attachment to anyone. That's what caused so much grief. The Buddhists got it right when they said that given the nature of life, it wasn't wise to get entangled emotionally with others, while Catholics offered the same advice in a slightly different way. Avoid especial friendships, they said.

But humans were biologically programmed to seek out others. It was part of the survival instinct to form into tribes. Maybe she'd been cutting herself off from that basic human need for too long? Yet once the trust has been destroyed, it was devilishly difficult to get it back again. She had Matthew to thank for that.

Judy made her way cautiously over slippery sidewalks to the shopping mall. It felt good to window shop and to browse around some of the more interesting stores. In a trendy ladies wear boutique called Echoes, she spotted a blouse to die for, and what's more, it was on sale! But damn, wouldn't you know it, they didn't have her size. The assistant promised she'd call around their other stores and see what she could come up with.

Judy scrawled her name on the back of a Palace Motel card and handed it to her. "Let me know how it goes," she said.

Had this sudden desire to buy something snazzy to wear have anything to do with the handsome Larry, she wondered? She had to admit she'd been taking more pains with her appearance of late, and felt almost skittish at times like a foolish young girl.

Judy glanced at her watch. It was almost time to meet this male who had so captured her thoughts. She had mixed feelings about this. But what possible harm could having coffee with him do? Oh what the heck, she finally decided, she was over thinking this, which blew it up out of all proportion.

It would make more sense to simply take things as they came. She had no intention of jumping into bed with him. If that's what he hoped for he'd be sadly disappointed. Besides, now that she was feeling better she'd be headed out of here soon to warmer climes.

It was strange, she reflected, how quickly she'd forgotten that she was a murderer, an arsonist to be precise. In fact, she'd never faced that fact, in quite those terms before. But she had, undisputedly, murdered two people and made a devilishly good attempt to kill a third. Yet now it all seemed so distant. It was as if it had happened to somebody else.

She grabbed a newspaper out of the corner box and read it in the coffee shop while waiting for Larry. There was nothing in it about Juanita. Damn! So she had no way of knowing whether she was alive or dead. She hoped, of course, that it was the latter, since there was always the chance, albeit slim, that the viperous bitch could identify her as the driver of the hit and run vehicle. She very much doubted, however, that without any physical evidence to back it up, that the charge would stick.

She was still mulling over the pros and cons of this when Larry joined her. He talked her into having a light lunch as well as the coffee. Judy didn't feel hungry, but agreed that she'd have to try and eat.

It was while she was nibbling away at a surprisingly good apple crumble that the past suddenly crashed into this pleasant lunch and turned it into a nightmare...

### Chapter Five

Fang! The China bride that Matthew had ordered out of a mail order catalogue walked slowly past the window. But...that wasn't possible. Fang had perished in a house fire that Judy herself had set. She stared in horror at this apparition, or whatever it was.

"Whatever's the matter?" Larry distracted her for a moment and when she looked back Fang was gone.

"...Oh I'm just tired..." she explained haltingly. She stood up. "I think I better get back to my room."

"Oh yes of course. Mustn't overdo things, you're still not well." He helped her on with her coat. "You know for a moment there," he said. "You looked as if you'd seen a ghost."

Maybe I have, Judy thought fearfully, and what could be more terrifying than being visited by the ghost of someone you'd murdered? She thought of Macbeth and the ghost of Banquo.

Back in the relative safety of her room, she stroked a purring Molly and decided she'd overreacted. All Orientals looked pretty much the same to her. And although it was no longer politically correct to say so, it was nevertheless the truth. Due to her weakened state, the flu had really sapped her energy; she'd been more vulnerable to fanciful notions. But what she must have actually seen was simply a Chinese woman who resembled Fang.

The thought had also crossed her mind that it could be a relative of Fang's, perhaps a sister, come to exact vengeance. But even if anyone suspected Judy of the arson, and she really didn't see how they could, no one knew where she was. Unless, and this was a very long shot indeed, someone had spotted her around the Palace.

Oh well, not to worry. This was even more incentive to get her strength back and head down south.

Judy curled up on the bed and watched a premature twilight descend on a frosty world. She'd try and get going for Florida at the weekend. Meantime, despite the walls she'd built around herself, she didn't feel like being alone tonight.

"Sorry Molly," she whispered to the cat. "But sometimes a feline is not enough."

The jolt when she'd thought Fang had returned from the grave to haunt her had left Judy feeling unusually needy. While it was true that she'd vowed to remain alone, she acknowledged that she would still on occasion, feel the need of another human. She punched in Larry's telephone number. "Dinner's on me tonight," she said. "If you're available."

He laughed. "I'm always available for you."

She wondered if he'd be quite so eager if he knew she was a cold-blooded murderer?

Not Likely. However, she hadn't gone around randomly knocking off total strangers. She had systematically planned on eliminating three very nasty villains who had done their darnedest to destroy her. They had conspired to steal her house and have her tossed out on the street, and they'd succeeded. If ever there was a case of justifiable homicide this was it. She didn't regret what she'd done in the least.

Judy wondered again whether the hateful Juanita was alive or dead. Perhaps there had been an article about it during the time she'd been nursing the flu. Well there was only one way to find out. She'd take a trip over to the public library and go through the previous week's newspapers. But careful though she was not to miss anything, she had to eventually conclude that nothing new had been published about the injured woman. Should she call the hospital? Judy shook her head. That probably wasn't such a brilliant idea. Every phone call you made these days was recorded. She'd hate to have her voice captured for eternity on a tape like that.

* * * * *

The Mimosa Restaurant revolved on the top floor of a high-rise hotel. Judy gazed out at the breathtaking view. She could see all the way to Burrard Inlet in the south, and as it slowly spun around, the mountains to the north. High up above the clouds, she mused, far from the Madding Crowd.

Larry looked irresistibly handsome in a smart navy blue blazer and striped university tie. He told her that he'd been a financial adviser until alcoholism had wrecked his career and his marriage. He'd since recovered his health and sanity thanks to Alcoholics Anonymous.

"Good old AA," Judy replied. She'd had a couple of bouts with the demon drink herself. Now, although she was not completely tea total, she was extremely careful not to overdo it. She had the occasional glass of wine over dinner, like she was sipping on now, and a whiskey toddy when she was sick. That was about the sum total of her consumption these days.

Afterwards they went for a walk through the downtown. She hadn't been there for a while and was astonished at all the changes. There were high-rise apartment towers springing up everywhere. "How on earth will the archaic road system deal with all the extra traffic?" She pondered aloud.

"Good question." Larry laughed. "On the bright side, total around-the-clock gridlock, might finally persuade residents to take public transit."

"You wish." Judy looked sceptical. "You have to remember that the good old polluting automobile is much more than mere transportation. It's a status symbol that's like an extension of the owner, and represents an entire way of life."

He nodded.

"They'd rather sit there idling in gridlock for hours than venture out without their chariot around them," she added. "They'd lose their identity and status without it."

"Well said, Dr. Freud." He laughed.

Judy joined in the revelry. It had been a long time since she'd enjoyed herself so much.

Back at the Palace, which was owned by Larry's brother-in-law, they played cards in the back office. Gosh, but it was good to enjoy some companionship for a change, instead of living inside her own head. She'd have to do this more often. But it wouldn't be with Larry, since she'd planned on relocating to Florida. Oh damn, why did everything have to be so complex?

It was well after midnight before they finally parted company. He insisted on walking her back to her room. She very much appreciated that he didn't attempt to make a move on her. That was classy.

Judy felt blessed by the gods. The evening had turned out to be a magical oasis in the midst of a stormy and evil sea.

"Thanks for the dinner," Larry said. "I'd like to return the favour soon."

Judy nodded. "It was my pleasure."

Then just when she was practically floating on the legendary Cloud Nine, he dropped a bombshell that demolished it and left her shocked to the core.

"Oh by the way," he said. "I forgot to tell you. There was someone asking for you today."

My God, who could that be, she wondered frantically? No one knew she was here. Could it be the police? Were they onto her? Had Juanita survived and tracked her down? In that few seconds she tormented herself with the horns of a hundred demons.

"Oh really, who was it?" She was amazed at how normal and calm she sounded. She even managed to keep a smile on her face.

"It was a Chinese woman..."

### Chapter Six

Fang! Judy's eyes widened in terror. So she'd been right after all. It had been Fang she'd seen walking past the window of the coffee shop. Oh my God! So there was such a thing as ghosts and vengeance from beyond the grave after all. What the hell was she going to do? How could you do battle with something that wasn't alive and few people even believed in? And would this avenging apparition follow her to Florida, or wherever else she went?

Judy fumbled with the door key to hide her confusion.

"Here let me do that," Larry offered, and took the key from her trembling hand. He looked at her quizzically. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Judy nodded. "Just a bit tired." She hesitated. "...Did...did the Chinese woman say who she was?"

"Yes she did. She left a business card." Larry fished around in his pocket. "It must be back in the office. I'll get it for you."

Well heck this couldn't be a ghost, Judy reasoned, as she paced up and down waiting for Larry to return. She'd never heard of a spectre handing out business cards. But who was it then, and what the fuck was going on? That it had something to do with the evil trio -- Matthew, Fang and Juanita -- she had no doubt. All her troubles came from those evil bastards. Even when they were dead they continued to torment her.

Larry returned with the card. "She dropped by on her lunch break," he explained. "She said to tell you she found the blouse."

"...Found the blouse?" For a moment Judy drew a blank, then it dawned on her as she looked at the card. Why of course, it was the sales assistant from Echoes. She'd promised to try to find one in her size and she had. Relief flooded over her like a friendly tide.

Talk about much ado about nothing, she thought self deprecatingly. If only The Bard could see her now.

Once inside her room, Judy collapsed gratefully on the bed. How many shocks like that could she stand before going stark raving mad? She had to get a grip and fast. There were no such things as ghosts, and provided she didn't do anything wildly foolish, she had gotten away with a double murder, and possibly a triple one. Now it was time to relax and enjoy life.

She started seeing Larry regularly after that. They discovered similar tastes in books and movies, and they both enjoyed taking long walks. All the plans to head down south to Florida had been put on hold, more or less indefinitely. Larry had become such an integral part of her days that she couldn't imagine going back to a barren existence without him.

She even hesitated to leave the Palace and get a decent apartment. Things were going so damned good that she didn't want to risk altering the dynamics in any way. Besides, she was close to Larry at the Palace and that was the main thing.

Was she getting too attached too soon? Judy pondered the question as she sat on a park bench on a vibrant spring day. Oh what the heck, you couldn't control emotions to a strict timetable like a train leaving a station. The important thing was, Larry felt the same way.

They'd arranged to go away for the Easter weekend. Nothing too elaborate, just a leisurely drive along the coast and a couple of nights at the Raven Inn. It would be marvellous to get out of the city for a while, and she was looking forward to it immensely.

Judy got up and walked slowly back to the Palace. She felt so wonderfully close to Larry that she'd often been tempted to tell him about the murders. That's how much she trusted him. He was a kindred spirit and soul mate.

By the time she got back to her room, she'd decided that she'd procrastinated long enough. She would pour out her darkest secrets while they were at the Raven Inn. It would be an idyllic setting with the waves washing against the shore and seagulls circling the beach. The murders had been a burden on her soul, and it would be a great relief to share the load in this way. She knew that Larry would understand.

###  Epilogue

"How are you feeling today?" Detective Neil Slater had cropped black hair and dark eyes. He sat down next to the hospital bed.

"I've felt better." Juanita Gomez grimaced as she tried to move her legs. "But I've felt a whole helluva lot worse too."

Slater reflected that she was lucky to be alive at all. The extent of her injuries after being knocked down by a speeding car had been critical. She was a fighter though, and had struggled to survive.

"Do you have any news about you know who?" She looked hopeful.

Slater nodded. "That's why I'm here."

It had been fortunate that Juanita got a good look at the driver of the car that hit her. "I recognised her," she'd said, her unusual eyes blazing in fury. "I was the opposing counsel in a case that involved her."

"So you know her name?"

Juanita nodded and then gasped in pain at the movement. "It's Judy Mason."

She'd also provided an address, but when the police went there they found it had been boarded up by a bailiff.

A nurse came in and helped Juanita drink a glass of water with a straw. There had certainly been an improvement in her condition since he'd last seen her. At that time, he hadn't thought she'd make it.

The matter of tracking down Judy Mason had been relatively simple. Since she had no money, it was likely she'd apply for welfare. When she did, they had her. But what they didn't have was concrete evidence to link her to the attempt on Juanita's life.

Then Juanita dropped a bombshell that suggested Judy might already be a double murderer. She'd told Slater about her suspicions regarding the house fire that killed Matthew Gillingham -- Judy's ex husband -- and his new wife, Fang Po Wong.

"But the fire department held an enquiry that ruled the fire was accidental," Slater pointed out. "There had been a party the night before and a carelessly discarded cigarette was to blame."

Juanita had disagreed. "I know there was a smoke alarm in Matthew's house," she insisted. "Yet when I checked with the fire department they said there wasn't one."

This had made Slater think she might just have something. "So you believe that Judy planted the burning cigarette and removed the smoke alarm," he said.

"She's a crazy wicked racist bitch," Juanita had railed so venomously that she flushed scarlet and grew breathless.

"Try to stay calm." Slater had rang for a nurse.

He'd taken her suspicions seriously and investigated them thoroughly. But while he suspected that Judy was indeed a double murderer, and that she'd been trying to go for a triple when she'd run down Juanita, there was not a shred of physical evidence to link her to either crime.

Slater got up and walked over to the window. A curlicue of mist whirled around the North Shore Mountains. It was an overcast day with a weak sun drifting fitfully behind grey clouds.

"So you said there is news about that crazy woman?" Juanita said, after the nurse had left.

"Judging by what we've learned so far," Slater replied. "We're certainly interested in talking to her."

"I should think so too" Juanita looked angry. "So why haven't you? What the fuck are you waiting for, until she kills somebody else?"

"Look, I know how frustrating this must be for you, but as it stands now we have no evidence against her. If we pull her in for questioning it will be a waste of time, and will tip her off that we're onto her. I suspect that she'd leave town after that, and there's nothing we could do to stop her."

"Okay, okay," Juanita sounded exasperated. "So what have you done?"

Slater hesitated. "All I can tell you is that we're continuing to investigate."

When the nurse came back in, he took his leave. He promised Juanita that he'd keep in touch.

On the drive over to the police station his mobile phone buzzed. It was the detective who had gone undercover and was investigating Judy Mason.

"I have a gut feeling that she'll spill the beans soon," he said.

"If anyone can get her to sing it's you," Slater replied with the utmost sincerity. He had total confidence in Larry Holmes.

### ~~The End~~

THUGS

### Chapter One

"Oh God, this is as good as it gets." Norwood's voice broiled with passion, as his hands roamed fitfully over Susan's curvaceous body.

A pale shaft of winter sunlight knifed its way through the storeroom window, touching the amorous couple who were lost to the world around them.

A car door slammed in the alley, followed by a loud knocking on the back door. "Oh shit. It must be a delivery," Norwood moaned, and pulled himself away.

Afterwards, as Susan smoothed down her ruffled appearance, the mirror over the sink reflected back a pale, slightly narrow face with green eyes and sensuous lips. A mass of curly brown hair tumbled to her shoulders.

She'd been attracted to Norwood, immediately, his tall husky build, sandy brown hair and eyes as blue as cornflowers. She could hear him now, speaking to the delivery driver.

Norwood owned a chain of gift shops called Pandora's Box. Small and trendy, most were located in upscale shopping malls. But this particular location—the Five Corners—was the exception, mused Susan. A dingy suburban strip mall, it sat uneasily at the corner of a five-road intersection, surrounded by agricultural land. Used car dealerships, fast food chains, and a polyglot of subdivisions were fast eroding it.

As soon as the stores closed for the day, gangs of roving teens—who generally made a nuisance of themselves by drinking, fighting and sometimes vandalising the stores—took it over.

"Don't worry, we have twenty-four-hour security," Norwood had assured her when she expressed concern. "The alarm button is right behind the cash desk."

The Paladin Security Company patrolled the area, and it always gave Susan a feeling of safety to see their vehicle with its distinctive logo of an armoured knight.

"I'll be off now." Norwood vied with Susan for mirror space as he flicked a comb through his hair. "I'll open up as I leave." He kissed her quickly on the neck before disappearing through the store.

There were only a few days left before Christmas, and business was steady all afternoon. The familiar tones of Silver Bells drifted through the wall from the fabric shop next door.

Shortly before closing time, a harsh clinking sound signalled the smashing of something fragile on the floor. Susan looked up from the cash register to see a small child with a sheepish expression and his embarrassed mother.

"I'm so sorry about this. I'll pay for the damages, of course," she offered. The broken ornament, a Royal Doulton crinoline lady, was not cheap. But Susan shook her head. They were insured for breakage. Besides it was just good public relations.

"You're new here, aren't you?"

Susan had been so engrossed in her thoughts as she swept up the pieces, that the pleasant male voice so close behind her made her jump.

It was a security guard from Paladin, tall and darkly attractive, with smiling brown eyes.

"Ben Walker," he introduced himself. "Mall security."

"Susan Cavendish. I've been transferred here from the downtown store."

"This must be quite a change for you, way out here in the boonies."

"Well you could say that." She propped the broom and dustpan back in the storeroom. She thought ruefully of how Norwood had promoted her to Store Manager over more-qualified staff members. His way of saying thank you to a valued friend and lover, while at the same time, making it easier to see her privately, far away from the usual prying eyes.

"Give me a ring on my mobile, if you ever have a problem." Ben handed her his card.

By the time Susan left that evening, snow had begun to fall, making the long drive home even slower than usual. When she finally arrived, her cat gave her an enthusiastic welcome. "Hey, I've missed you too, Blitzy." She fed him and stretched out on the couch, where she soon drifted off to sleep.

Norwood appeared to her in her dreams, larger than life and dominating every corner of her world, yet elusive, maddeningly so, as in the workaday world of Pandora's Box.

* * * *

The following day was even busier than the one before, as the countdown to Christmas Eve continued. Norwood had sent Kim Caldwell, a dark girl with dimples, from the main store to help her. But even so, Susan was still too busy to even pause for lunch.

When closing time finally arrived, she was exhausted, thinking only of a hot bath and warm bed. "You go ahead, Kim," she said wearily. "I'll lock up here."

She quickly totalled up the day's receipts, placing them in the wall safe in the storage room, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how dark and quiet the mall had become—ominously unfamiliar in its sudden metamorphosis.

The carollers with their message of goodwill had long since gone, and the canned music from through the wall had also fallen silent. The shoppers had as good as disappeared, and the parking lot was fast becoming devoid of cars.

Susan had just put on her coat and reached for her keys when she was rudely startled by a blast of freezing air. The door, which she was sure she'd locked, stood ajar.

Oh no, she thought with dread. Her heart pounded in alarm as two rough looking characters clad in scruffy black leather slowly sauntered in. One had dirty shoulder-length hair and a straggly red beard. The other was a skinhead, covered in tattoos.

"We're...closed..." she managed to croak out nervously, only too aware of just how isolated and helpless she was.

"Correction," the skinhead shot back as he slammed shut the door with a vicious kick. "You mean you were closed."

This sent them both into wild peals of laughter as they proceeded to stamp around the narrow aisles with their heavy, hobnailed boots.

Susan was frozen with fear. That they meant her harm she had no doubt. Her hand reached out instinctively for the telephone. The cord was long enough that she could take it into the washroom with her and lock the door. But they seemed to read her thoughts, and before she had a chance to act, the Beard had slammed his massive fist down on the phone.

"Now you don't really want to call anyone, do you?" he patronised in a whining drawl. Susan winced at the sight of his rotten teeth. "Not while you have customers in the store. It ain't polite."

This sent them into another paroxysm of maniacal mirth, while they tossed around expensive ornaments from hand to hand then to each other.

Susan shook so badly it was difficult for her to move. But she knew she had to act immediately. Her only chance was to hit the alarm button behind the desk.

She backed cautiously towards it. Even as she acted, she was wrought with doubt. What if she missed? And even if she didn't, how long would it take for help to arrive?

By hesitating, she lost the moment, shaking with terror as the skinhead deliberately smashed a Waterford crystal goblet against the wall. He had begun to reach for another one to repeat the performance when the door suddenly opened and stopped him in his tracks.

"Ben!" Susan had never been so glad to see anyone.

"The mall's closed. Everyone must leave." His voice was calm, authoritative. "It's a local bylaw."

The two thugs looked uncertain. This was a hitch up they hadn't anticipated. They decided to play it safe.

"We were just leaving," the skinhead volunteered in a pseudo-hearty voice, while nimbly sidestepping the shards of broken glass. "We were just doing a little last-minute Christmas shopping."

Ben, with a face like stone, stood aside to let them pass.

"Merry Christmas," they called out sarcastically, their wild laughter ringing through the freezing night. It reminded Susan of a coven of demons at the gates of hell.

"Are you all right?" Ben asked, as soon as the imminent danger had passed. "You look white as a sheet."

"No, really, I'm fine, and thank you, thank you so very much. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have been in deep trouble, and everything in the store either stolen or vandalised."

Ben looked embarrassed. "Well, I always do my rounds about this time," he told her modestly. "Just to make sure that everything's properly locked up."

He helped her sweep up the broken glass and waited until she was ready to leave. The parking lot was now completely deserted except for the Paladin Security van, Susan's Datsun, and her tormentors' ugly black truck, the latter sitting ridiculously high on oversized tires. Its two occupants jeered and made a rude sign as she passed by.

She shivered visibly and was glad of Ben's reassuring presence by her side.

"What you need is a drink," he said. "There's a nice little pub just a couple of blocks from here. Follow me."

He was right, of course. Her nerves felt like over-tuned violin strings. She needed something to steady herself before the long drive home.

The Raven's Nest, a popular inn with a cosy lounge bar, also had an award-winning restaurant. A large Christmas tree stood in the foyer and streams of tinsel were strung across the ceiling and walls.

Susan ordered a brandy and soda, swallowing it in a few grateful gulps. She felt very aware of Ben, sitting opposite her in the intimate booth. The lights were pleasantly dim, and a candle spluttered fitfully on the table between them. Now, if I wasn't so enamoured of Norwood, she thought philosophically.

"Would you like another one?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"It's getting late, and I have a long drive ahead of me."

"Yeah, I should be getting back to work, too."

The snow was getting heavier and lay on the ground like an icy eiderdown. Ben waited beside her while she unlocked her car door. She touched his arm. "Thanks again for everything."

Once she had cleared the motley mosaic of subdivisions and tacky strip malls, the longest, darkest stretch of road lay ahead. It was a flat terrain of fields and farms, with only an isolated house or two visible in the distance. The massive broken screen of a long disused drive-in movie theatre loomed eerily on the opposite side of the old highway. Like the ghost of things past, she thought nostalgically.

Susan increased her speed slightly and switched on the radio, twirling the knob until she found something she liked. The brandy was doing its work, and she felt warm and pleasantly relaxed. Erotic thoughts about the handsome Norwood drifted through her mellow mind. She hadn't seen him in several days and was beginning to feel the strain.

The snow swirled down in wet, sleet-like flakes, which made her windshield greasy and difficult to see through. The wipers seemed to smear it around and make it worse.

Suddenly, brilliant headlights fast approaching from the rear flooded her car with a blinding light. She slowed down to let them pass, but although there was no other traffic on the road, they stayed doggedly on her tail.

"Oh my God..." she spoke aloud in terror. It must be the thugs from the mall. They were trying to force her off the road. She went faster, in a desperate effort to shake them off, but it was useless. Her little Datsun was no match for their souped-up monster of a truck.

In panic, she rocketed along at speeds she was unaccustomed to. The road was rough and narrow, and slick with snow.

The glaring headlights blazing behind her compounded the danger while the merry strains of We Wish You a Merry Christmas continued to ring out incongruously from the radio.

Susan now had the gas pedal as far to the floor as it would go, and her car zigzagged along the icy road like a dart shot unevenly by a drunken bowman.

She was unable to see and fast losing control when her pursuer suddenly veered out and passed her so closely it sent her careening off the road.

A scream rose in her throat. Terror engulfed her. She slammed both feet on the brake, and wrestled for control of the steering wheel. The car seemed to leap in the air, and she feared it would overturn, but somehow it righted itself and eventually came to rest against a sagging fence post.

Later, Susan would be unable to remember just how long she sat there, shaking so badly she was unable to move. Fortunately, apart from feeling jarred and scared half to death, she was unhurt.

Then eventually, the bone-chilling cold, which numbed her limbs, galvanised her into action. With a tremendous effort of will she pulled her trembling self together and tried to start the car. But it wouldn't turn over.

"Oh no." She rested her throbbing head on the steering wheel and wept.

Soon she began to shiver uncontrollably, as the effects of shock combined with the numbing cold set in. What a plug for a mobile phone, she thought wryly. Snow lay on the ground, so walking would be difficult, but there was nothing for it but to get out of the relative safety of her car and try to reach help. She would freeze if she remained.

Susan set out reluctantly in the direction from which she had come. She remembered seeing a house just before the high-speed chase began. It was impossible to say how far back it was. It could be a mile or perhaps much further.

She stumbled along. Her flimsy shoes were no match for the rough terrain, now slick with snow. An icy wind whipped through her thin clothes like a judgment from a wrathful deity. When headlights appeared in the distance, she crouched down and hid by the side of the road, afraid lest it be her tormentors or someone just as dangerous.

She was exhausted and so cold, she could no longer feel her limbs. But she knew that if she stopped for even a minute, she might perish. Her mind seemed as frozen as the rest of her, and she was unable to think, except to will herself to force one frozen foot in front of the other.

Then, just when she thought she couldn't take another step, the house that she had been seeking came into view, and there were lights on. Thank God, she offered up a silent prayer.

Afterwards, she would remember screaming in alarm when a large black shape leapt out at her as she approached the door. A few tortured moments later, she realised it was a dog. The animal started to bark incessantly, but she ignored it and hammered on the door with the small amount of strength she had left.

After what seemed like an eternity, an elderly woman with kind eyes opened it. White hair sprouted around her head like a halo.

"Good lord, you're half-frozen. Come in and warm yourself," she exclaimed. "I'm Ruth Mitton and this is my dog, Queenie."

Susan felt disoriented, and everything seemed to come from a long way off as she introduced herself then collapsed gratefully over the threshold.

Later, as she thawed out in front of a blazing fire, she recounted her sorry tale briefly. She felt too exhausted to go into any detail. "A couple of creeps forced me off the road," she explained, between sips of hot cocoa laced with brandy.

Ruth shook her head in disbelief. "How awful for you. It's lucky you weren't hurt. And on Christmas Eve, too."

After Susan had recovered somewhat, she started telephoning garages, but the only place that answered said they couldn't come out until morning. She told Ruth she was afraid the creeps might come back and vandalise her car.

"There's no sense in worrying over something you can do nothing about," Ruth advised. "You'll stay here for the night, and you can get an early start in the morning."

"Oh that's very kind of you."

After a surprisingly sound sleep for the first night in a strange bed, she awoke to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a pancake and peach breakfast.

It had stopped snowing, and only a light dusting remained to glitter in the brilliant sunshine. The garage managed to get her car started. It was undamaged, save for the dent where it had hit the fence post.

Susan started back to the store immediately. She was concerned the thugs might have broken into Pandora's Box after they'd run her off the road.

The shopping mall was deserted, save for a couple of foraging crows hopping around the garbage cans.

She let herself into the store with an unaccustomed degree of caution and was relieved to see that everything was as it should be. Then she picked up a little crystal snowman from a shelf by the window. He was one of her favourite pieces, and she had set him there so the sunshine would make him sparkle and send a rainbow of colours blazing up the wall.

He was a jaunty figure; about three inches tall, wearing a black top hat with a sprig of holly and a red-striped scarf.

Susan placed him in a gift box, which she wrapped with holly paper. "To Ruth, with a great deal of gratitude," she wrote on the tag.

Without her kindness, I would have been toast; she thought with a shiver, or more aptly, a frozen side of beef.

### Chapter Two

"From now on," Norwood frowned with concern. "A security guard will escort you when you're working late."

It was Boxing Day, and Susan had been kept busy mostly with returns. She still felt shaken up from her ordeal and was glad of his comforting presence.

"You're precious to me," he whispered, seizing the moment between customers to clasp her to him in the storeroom. "I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you." Then on a lighter note, he patted her rump and added. "Good managers are hard to find."

Susan joined in the spirit of the moment and cuffed him playfully. "Well, in that case, perhaps I should ask for a raise?"

His attentiveness was heartening, for there had been times when she feared he didn't care. The sapphire bracelet he'd just given her, sparkled on her wrist.

She wanted to be with him for always. Come live with me and be my love... She had known from the very first encounter, in the main store after everyone else had left, that Norwood was the only man for her.

But Norwood had been maddeningly elusive, and although he proved to be a skilled and considerate lover, as well as a best friend, he had shied away from commitment.

"I think I'll have to get myself chased by thugs more often," Susan joked, as he attended to her even more diligently than usual.

* * * *

Pandora's Box was deserted after the Christmas rush. There had been the usual spate of returns, which lasted well into the New Year. But as January enshrouded the world in its icy grip, they were lucky if they had a dozen customers a day.

"I'm sorry, but we really don't need you at the moment," Susan explained to a former sales assistant named Myra. The woman's hostility was palpable, even over the telephone, but she had to admit Myra had a reason to be miffed. She'd been in line for the promotion, which Norwood had given to her.

"Well that's just great, and a Happy New Year to you, too," Myra snapped sarcastically.

"Look, things are sure to pick up again before Valentine's Day and Easter. I'll give you a call as soon as they do."

Although whether she would or not was another matter entirely. In fact, Myra's tone and attitude during the brief exchange had more or less convinced Susan not to have her back again. She knew Myra referred to her as the boss's whore, and she was by no means the only staff member to do so.

Susan shrugged and dismissed all the cattiness as a bad case of jealousy and sour grapes. But by the same token, she realised she would feel as they did if the shoe were on the other foot.

She also knew she was not the only employee Norwood had taken to bed. And that those who had been discarded in her favour were likely to be more vicious than the others, who at least had not been rejected at this deepest and most intimate of levels. Susan suspected Myra fit into this category.

As the light began to fade from the bleak winter afternoon, she unpacked a new shipment of teddy bears, cute little characters, cuddly and adorable in frilly dresses and velvet suits.

* * * * *

Her relationship with Norwood suddenly took a dramatic turn for the worse. It happened when she dropped by Pandora's Box on her day off and found him romping with Kim Caldwell in the storeroom.

"You bastard," she muttered angrily and stomped from the store in a fury.

"Look it was just a bit of fun," he told her later, over the telephone. When Susan remained angry and unconvinced, his apologetic manner turned peevish. "You're acting as if you own me," he accused. "We're both free agents, Susan, and it's just this type of possessive shit that makes me determined to keep it that way."

"Suit yourself," Susan snapped, feeling hurt beyond words. "What I'm hearing is that you don't give a fuck about me and don't care who I screw." With that angry salvo ringing in his ear, she slammed down the receiver.

It had just turned four, on a rain-washed Wednesday afternoon, and already darkness closed in like a shroud. Susan arranged marguerites in a willow-patterned vase, and set it by the cash register. Business remained slow, and even a fifty-percent off sale the previous weekend failed to attract the volume of shoppers hoped for.

She poured herself a cup of tea, ignoring the ringing telephone until she had dropped in a sugar lump.

It was Ben.

Since Christmas Eve, when she'd been forced off the road by the black muscle truck, he'd been escorting her down the loneliest stretch of the old highway on her way home in the evenings. This was partially at the request of Norwood, but he told her he would have done so anyway. It wasn't out of his way, and he simply incorporated the brief ten-minute drive into his regular rounds.

He told her he would be later than usual and suggested they meet at the Raven's Nest for a drink.

"Good idea. See you there."

In the corner of the lounge, a lone pianist caressed the keyboard in a soothing medley of nostalgic tunes. Susan leaned closer to Ben, deliberately allowing her knee to rub against his in the close quarters of the intimate booth.

"I'd like another drink," she told him in her most seductive tone.

"God, I wish we could spend some time together." His voice was etched with longing. "At the moment, I've been working twelve hour shifts and scarcely have time to sleep."

"Well, the upside is you won't get into any mischief." She winked.

Susan felt extremely aroused from a combination of Ben sitting so close in that irresistible uniform, the dim lighting and romantic music. The aphrodisiac-like effect of the gin helped it along. Underlying it all was anger, humiliation and hurt on account of Norwood's attitude towards her. 'Free agents' indeed, she fairly chortled at the memory. Well, two could play at that game.

* * * * *

When Susan arrived home, she was amazed to see Norwood's car in the parking lot. Relations had been strained between them since the episode with Kim Caldwell, and an impromptu visit from him was the very last thing she expected. He told her he'd been in the neighbourhood and decided to drop in.

"Oh hell no, that's not true," he corrected the statement on seeing her look of disbelief. "The truth is I've been missing you like sin, and I think it's time we made up."

"Oh you do, do you?" she replied coldly, although she had to admit the longing for him had been almost unbearable at times. Even so, she intended to act hard to get for as long as she could stand it.

Norwood, however, had other ideas and he couldn't keep his hands off her.

That's when Blitz came to the rescue in a most unexpected way. He jumped up on the counter top and accidentally knocked over a china cup with his tail. The resulting clean up and confusion allowed Susan to escape into the bathroom and lock the door. She was damned if she was going to let Norwood have his way with her so soon after the betrayal.

### Chapter Three

Snowdrops struggled out of the earth's frozen womb, bravely turning their tiny faces towards the freezing wrath of winter. The courtyard at the Briarwood, Susan's apartment complex, offered some shelter under its overhanging eaves and wide canopies.

Blitz relaxed on the balcony, enjoying the fitful sunshine of late afternoon. He stretched contentedly on the wicker chair beside Susan and viewed her through half-closed eyes.

"Hey, I know you've got me under surveillance," she teased.

The truth was she was feeling confused and stressed due to her current situation with Norwood, for although their lovemaking had been exceptional following the spell of abstinence, he still stubbornly clung to the 'free agent' philosophy, which so enraged her. Taking her for granted, too, as his behaviour the previous day attested to.

"Just time for a quickie," he'd whispered, at the end of an unexpectedly busy afternoon in Pandora's Box.

"Not just now." Susan had remained firm. It was a horrible feeling being taken for granted and used.

* * * *

Susan, her brown curls pinned back in a chignon, pushed the vacuum cleaner around the store before leaving for the day. She paid special attention to the heavy traffic area by the door. Shortly after dusk on a spring evening, the air was redolent with a choir of birdsong and the scent of hyacinths.

Business had been unusually brisk at Pandora's Box lately, and Norwood attributed the increase in sales to Susan's considerable marketing skills. Not only had she rearranged the stock and displayed it with more artistic flair, but her pleasant and obliging manner encouraged customers to return again and to recommend the store to their friends.

She'd worked late all that week, stocktaking and unpacking new merchandise, as her time was taken up during the day just attending to customers. Norwood had sent an assistant from one of the other stores to help her—a plump, cheerful girl named Janet. He knew Kim Caldwell would no longer be welcome.

Susan made sure that both back and front doors were locked and bolted before leaving, and that the new security system was properly activated. Several adjacent stores had been burglarised lately, so everyone was on red alert and taking extra precautions.

She'd been shopping at lunchtime and had an armload of packages. She balanced them on her hip, while shooting the deadbolt across the front door. Suddenly an eerily familiar voice began to whine in a taunting monotone, so close to her ear she could feel its warm, tainted breath on her neck.

"Better make sure you've locked everything up nice and tight, sweetie. You never know who's around these days. It's a crime. It really is."

Susan whipped around in alarm, her eyes dilating with fear. She would know that voice anywhere. It was the skinhead who had run her off the road on Christmas Eve.

"Get away from me. Leave me alone." Her voice quaked with fright.

But this admonition did not deter him in the least. He threw back his head and laughed, displaying a monstrous mouth full of crooked and rotting teeth.

Susan's terrified eyes darted wildly around the deserted parking lot. Her Datsun stood where she'd left it some twelve hours earlier. Right beside it was the souped-up black truck that belonged to her tormentor.

On legs, she feared would buckle beneath her, she walked as steadily as possible in the direction of her car. A truck rumbled by on the road, leaving a strong stench of diesel fumes. Overhead, a light plane swooped across the darkening sky, its running lights blinking in unison with an evening star.

The skinhead dogged her footsteps so closely, had she stopped for even a nano-second he would have collided with her. Susan shuddered at the thought and quickened her pace.

"Bet you're a great fuck," he sneered. "You've got a great ass."

But, you'll never find out, you filthy piece of crap, she thought furiously, as anger kicked in and began to override her frozen state of fear.

The monster truck's engine was running and someone was in the driver's seat. She had no doubt it was the character she thought of as the Beard, who had accompanied the skinhead on Christmas Eve. She was convinced they meant to kidnap her and would never let her get into her car and lock the doors.

In order to save herself, she knew she had to think and act quickly. But whatever she did, she would have to unlock the car door first—if they allowed her to do so—and that would be no easy task, carrying an armful of packages.

Her hand closed around her keys, and after only the briefest moment of panic, which she swallowed down like a vile medicine, her resolve stiffened and she stuck the key in the lock and turned it with a hand that shook as if palsied. Then she swung around so swiftly and unexpectedly that it caught the skinhead off guard, tossing her many packages at him before jerking open the car door and tumbling inside.

Susan's heart pounded such a tattoo in her heaving chest that she feared it would break her ribcage. Oh God, she implored, please help me...please.

The skinhead let out an unholy yell of shocked rage and lunged for the car door. But he was too late. Susan had been too quick for him. In a frenzied state of speed born out of sheer terror, she swiftly closed and locked it and was already turning on the ignition and gunning the engine into life.

The skinhead banged on the doors and windows, while kicking at her tires and cursing like a madman.

The Beard, watching the drama unfold from his ugly, jacked-up truck, stepped quickly on the gas pedal and swung the powerful vehicle across Susan's pathway, blocking her exit.

She cried out in alarm, biting down on her lip until she tasted blood. Then in panic, jarred her car into reverse, and with her foot hard down on the gas pedal, shot it back like a misfired missile on an uncertain course. It careened over the packages she had just thrown at the skinhead, who narrowly escaped being hit himself by jumping out of the way with just seconds to spare.

Susan drove like a madwoman, tearing through the deserted mall and out to the lonely road beyond. She thought she heard the monster truck roaring in hot pursuit, but when she glanced in her rear-view mirror, there was nothing behind her but inky darkness.

Without a definite destination in mind other than escape, she found herself pulling into the parking lot of the Raven's Nest Inn. Her whole body trembled like a fox cornered by hounds. She took a moment to steady her breathing and calm her racing heart before entering the lounge. There, she ordered an extra large whiskey, downing it in a few grateful gulps, before telephoning the police.

* * * *

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that Susan." Ruth sounded alarmed. They'd kept in touch since their chance meeting around Christmas, when Ruth had given Susan shelter from the elements and her tormentors.

Susan could hear Queenie barking in the background as the evening newspaper was tossed against the door.

"So what are the police doing to catch the thugs?" Ruth asked. "You were able to provide them with an excellent description. Heaven forbid there is more than one pair like that around."

"I haven't heard a thing since I reported the incident. But what really infuriated me was when they seemed to imply it was somehow my fault for being by myself at night in a deserted strip mall."

Ruth tut-tutted her disapproval. "Come and have dinner with me some time soon," she invited. "We'll have a really good natter."

After they'd rung off, Blitz stood up on Susan's lap and butted her chin affectionately with his forehead. "Oh, I love you, too, fella," she said.

She'd been feeling jittery since her second run-in with the creeps. A nagging feeling of insecurity and vulnerability persisted. So when Ben suggested that he drop by to see her on his way home from work, she welcomed the idea and the surge of positive energy it created. His visits soon became a well-established routine, and she felt herself looking forward to them more and more.

### Chapter Four

To keep herself occupied during quiet times at the store, Susan strung beads to make what she called Power Bracelets. These came in a variety of different stones, each having its own individual and healthful qualities. Poppy Jasper, for instance, which was one of her favourites, helped reduce insecurities, fear and guilt, while regulating the metabolic energies of the body.

After she threaded the beads onto a length of elastic cord and secured them with a toggle, she displayed them in a gift box, with a small printout of the stone's properties. The bracelets were then placed near the cash register, where she hoped a few of them might eventually sell.

She was, therefore, totally unprepared for the enthusiasm with which this item was met. All sold out almost immediately, with requests for more coming in each day. Susan felt overwhelmed by this almost faddish demand for her bracelets and was hard-pressed to keep abreast of it. The result was, she ended up not only stringing beads in the store, but at home as well.

So it was that in the evenings, under the watchful eye of Blitz, who was interested in the beads and tapped at them gently with an inquisitive paw, Susan would work away diligently until well into the night.

"Oh, they're lovely," Ruth Mitton exclaimed. She examined the stack of new bracelets it had taken Susan most of the weekend to assemble.

"Would you believe they'll all be gone by the end of the day?" Susan ran a weary hand across her forehead. "I just can't keep up with the demand."

"You look tired. You've been working too hard. Time to take a break."

She invited her around for dinner that evening, an informal meal served in the breakfast nook off the kitchen. While they sipped coffee and feasted on a dessert of homemade apple strudel, Ruth volunteered to help make the Power Bracelets.

"I have the time, and besides, it would be fun doing something different for a change."

Susan readily agreed. She'd thought about getting someone to help her, and there couldn't be a better choice than Ruth. It was the ideal arrangement. Once they had worked out the financial details, Ruth produced a decanter of sherry and proposed a toast to their new venture.

"To us. They clinked their glasses. "But we won't toss the glasses in the fireside afterwards." She laughed. "The way they do in the movies."

* * * *

On a sultry July evening, with the pensive stillness broken only by the chattering of crickets, Susan, feeling restless and unable to sleep, went for a late-night walk around The Briarwood. She stopped to admire the cluster of musk roses in full bloom and breathe in their haunting fragrance. Moths fluttered sightlessly around a string of lanterns, and a ship's horn wailed wistfully from the eerie blackness of the open sea.

She gazed up in wonder at the sheer expanse of glittering night sky and the great golden beacon of a moon that hypnotised her with its promise of mystery and magic. Blitz had been on the balcony when she left, stretched out comfortably on the chaise lounge, catching every bit of coolness he could muster from the hushed stillness of the muggy midnight.

Around the plush affluence of The Briarwood, the gritty warehouses and looming cranes of the waterfront hovered threateningly close. This is our world, and you have no place in it, they seemed to warn. Yet these former bastions of commerce were now little more than relics from a bygone age. And soon the advance of real estate developers, hell-bent on the profits of rapid gentrification, would edge them out completely.

Susan paused in her mental perambulations to say hello to a neighbour out walking his dog. Svend Tusvik had a bushy salt-and-pepper beard and a distinctive laugh—described by some as loud and raucous, and by others as hearty.

"Hi there, Kate." Susan patted the friendly Boxer, who had a woeful expression and a coat like golden velvet.

"She doesn't like this heat," Svend explained. "Neither do I."

The clang of railway cars echoed through the still night, and a small plane glided almost noiselessly towards the city skyline.

Susan found herself going farther than she'd intended, striking out beyond the lights of The Briarwood and over in the direction of the old steamboat museum.

It's strange, she thought philosophically, how a building that can be so bustling and inviting in day time can turn into a hovering, black behemoth at night, sinister and threatening under the stars.

She would never know afterwards exactly what happened next and in which order. Did she smell the rancid body odour first? Or was she blissfully unaware of his presence until arms like steel gripped her from behind? But what she would always remain grimly certain of was the fear that ripped through her like a gutting knife as soon as she heard the voice. It was close and rang terrifyingly familiar.

"Gotcha, bitch," it muttered in evil triumph against her ear.

Susan tried to scream, but he clamped a filthy hand over her mouth and threatened to slit her throat if she persisted. She knew innately, without seeing his face, that this was the skinhead—the thug who had tormented her on those other two terrifying occasions, now etched onto her memory for all time.

He half-dragged, half-carried her rigid body towards an alley behind the museum, where his accomplice with the straggly red beard waited in the ugly, black truck.

Susan forced her numb mind to function. If she got into that truck, she would never see the light of day again. But her captor was so strong and relentless in his determination that she didn't see how she stood a chance of escape.

Pretending to faint, she let herself go limp against him. This lulled him into a false sense of security whereby he slightly loosened his grip.

It was enough.

Summoning up a reservoir of strength she was unaware that she had, Susan sunk her teeth into his hand, while kicking out at his shins as viciously as she could.

The skinhead screamed out in shock and pain, giving her the opportunity she needed to break free. She stumbled on legs that she could no longer feel towards the darkness of the docks.

She ran as fast as she was able, driving herself on in a state of near collapse as her tormentor followed close behind in hot and furious pursuit. He'll kill me if he catches me, she thought in terror and still tasted the blood from his hand lying salty and thick on her tongue.

He gained ground on her fast, cursing and swearing as his heavy boots beat out an angry tattoo on the gritty pathway. Susan could see the lights of The Briarwood up ahead, glowing like a lighthouse beacon in the glowering darkness. But it was too far...too far...

Her tortured lungs gasped for air, and her head felt as if it would burst. She would never make it...never...

It was at that moment a dark shape suddenly leapt out of the darkness and barked furiously at her tormentor. It was Kate.

"Hey, what's going on here, are you all right?"

She had never before, in her entire life, been so glad to see anyone.

It was Svend Tusvik.

"Nasty bit of work that one." Svend watched as the skinhead beat a hasty retreat. "Kate and I will walk you home."

* * * *

"Good God!" Ruth exclaimed when she heard what had happened. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Susan assured her, that apart from being scared half out of her wits, she was uninjured. As she spoke, she twirled the phone cord in a still-shaky hand and glanced at the bruises beginning to appear on her arms and shins.

"I just don't know how they found me," she told Ruth and explained that they were the same creeps who had terrorised her before.

"So this was no chance encounter. They were stalking you."

Susan took a long sip of cocoa, in which she had dissolved a couple of aspirins. Blitz, sensing her distress, moved close to her and placed a comforting paw on her lap.

"What do the police have to say this time?" Ruth asked. "After all, this is at least partially their fault. If they hadn't been so lax the last time, this would never have happened."

"They're finally taking the attacks seriously," Susan assured her. "And they're actively seeking the culprits."

"Well, they shouldn't be difficult to find. By the description you gave me, they would stand out like a sore thumb anywhere."

After she'd hung up, Susan stretched out on the couch and closed her eyes. "Is there anyone who bears you a grudge?" the police lieutenant had asked. Seeing her blank expression, he explained, "They may not be working alone. These types of thugs are often paid to rough someone up."

Oh God, she had thought in alarm, this is getting worse all the time. Could it be Myra? For she was the only person she could think of with a reason to resent her. After all, Susan had not only been given the promotion that Myra had been in line for but had usurped her in Norwood's bed as well.

But the question was, did this resentment go as deep as to actually have her attacked and possibly killed?

* * * *

"I need a body in my bed tonight," Susan told Norwood seductively. She knew her full lips looked swollen and wickedly inviting, while her eyes glinted green fire in the restless flickering of the candle flame. They were having a late supper at the Old Athen's Gate, where the mellow red wine was so good they were now on their second bottle.

She'd not felt like sleeping alone since the latest incident with the skinhead, and as a result, Norwood practically lived with her.

Once again, she marvelled at the irony of fate, for if Myra was indeed behind these attacks, designed to scare her away from the store and Norwood, they were having precisely the opposite effect. For nothing Susan herself could have done would have bound the elusive Norwood to her more successfully than this.

"How about getting a guard dog?" he'd suggested. "I could ask Paladin Security about one."

"No, I don't think that would work too well," Susan rejected the idea. Much though she loved dogs and would appreciate a solid canine presence by her side, she knew that Blitz would have a fit if a doggie moved in. "Blitz simply hates dogs," she explained.

Sleep eluded Susan that night, denying her the soothing bliss of its consoling fingers. She lay on her back with her arms crossed beneath her head and stared out the window. A misty swath of moonlight torched through the treetops like an ethereal highway from the heavens, while somewhere out on the open sea, a ship's horn wailed fitfully.

She glanced over at Norwood, lying peacefully on his side, with one arm slung above his head. Mulling over the events of the last few days, she wondered if perhaps she'd been wrong in her suspicions about Myra? Perhaps no one had sent the thugs to terrorise her after all.

Wasn't it more likely they had simply been enraged by her evasion of them at the shopping plaza and had been determined to even up the score at a later date? It wouldn't be difficult for them to follow her and find out where she lived. Her nightly walk, at least during the warm weather, was fairly regular. So they only had to lie in wait for her somewhere along the way, as indeed they'd done.

"Don't let them make a prisoner out of you," Svend Tusvik had advised, looking like an amicable Santa Claus in a bright red sweatshirt with matching pants. "Anytime you feel like going for a walk, just knock on my door, and Kate will go with you."

And that's what she'd done. The comforting presence of the alert canine made the lonely walk by the deserted docks, if not exactly a pleasure since she was still hypersensitive, at least possible.

She was about to doze off, her eyes felt gritty and heavy from lack of sleep, when a garbage truck began its nightly rounds in the commercial area just a few blocks away. Damn, she thought in exhausted frustration, as the dumpsters were emptied, and the accompanying racket clattered rudely through the quiet night.

### Chapter Five

The Power Bracelets, which had started off as a mere hobby for Susan—something to help pass the time when business was slow—were still selling out in record numbers, even with the industrious efforts of Ruth Mitton.

"These sales figures are fantastic," Norwood enthused. "It's amazing what can suddenly catch on like wildfire."

Susan nodded. The late afternoon sun sent a shaft of liquid gold through the store window, creating coppery highlights in her hair. She sorted out a box of the colourful beads, placing snowflake obsidian in one corner, honey jade, lavender, amethyst and carnelian in another.

"I think we should expand the line," she suggested. "Make matching necklaces and earrings, and sell the sets in all the stores, not just this branch."

"That's a great idea." Norwood examined a tiger-eye bracelet. "And we can still make a healthy profit, even after deducting the wages of whoever is making them."

"Talking of wages," Susan interjected. "Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Not specifically. This is the kind of job that could be done easily at home. Why don't we advertise in the local newspaper and see who we can come up with?"

* * * *

"Ms. Susan Cavendish?" It was the police lieutenant who had interviewed her after the skinhead attack. They'd arrested a man who met his description and wanted her to try and identify him in a line-up that afternoon.

After he hung up, she just stood there, clutching the receiver, for several minutes. This was a turn of events she'd hoped for and yet dreaded at the same time. During the few months that had elapsed since the attack, her life had returned almost to normal. Except, of course, for her avoidance of being alone in lonely places, such as Pandora's Box after hours, with the great expanse of empty shopping plaza surrounding it. Or, the wharf after dark, if the trusty Kate was not available to accompany her.

The very thought of seeing the skinhead again sent her into a paralysis of fear, even although she was assured he could not see her behind the protective glass of the viewing room.

It was him. She would have known him anywhere. His long, wolverine face, lumpy, naked head, and grotesquely tattooed arms would haunt her nightmares forever.

But his sinister accomplice with the filthy, shoulder-length hair and straggly red beard had not yet been apprehended. Susan felt a further degree of unease at the thought of him still out there somewhere driving the ugly, jacked-up truck from hell.

* * * *

"What you need is a weekend away," Norwood stated firmly. "And I mean to see that you get it."

A chilly wind whipped up a scattering of leaves and swept them across the deserted shopping plaza. It was shortly after closing time on an overcast September afternoon.

"So you have someplace in mind?" Susan arranged a new shipment of travel clocks behind the cash register.

"Meir Island. There's a lovely old lodge there called the Hollyhock that overlooks the ocean and beach."

"Hmm..." Susan wrinkled her nose. "It's getting past the time of year to sunbathe. But I do enjoy walks along the beach, whatever the weather."

"That's settled then. It's too bad it's not a week in Acapulco, but...we just have to grab onto what we can get."

Could Meir Island be the setting in which Norwood had chosen to propose? Susan couldn't help but wonder as she carefully planned a wardrobe for the trip. He'd been more attentive lately than ever before, and they were now as good as living together.

The ferry ride across to Meir was bracingly fresh beneath cloudy skies that hinted of rain to come. Susan watched the city recede behind a choppy wake before turning her face towards the empty horizon ahead.

"We'll arrive about noon and have lunch at the Fisherman's Pipe." Norwood raised his voice above the clamour of the engines and the crash of the waves.

After a delicious meal of clam chowder, served on a rough wooden table, they went for a brief stroll along the pier before checking in at the Hollyhock Lodge. A great, rambling, mock-Tudor building, it had mullioned windows and a stout, gabled door.

Norwood talked about his previous visits there and hinted that this one would be extra special. "There's something I want to ask you," he confided with great secrecy. "I'm sure you won't be disappointed."

So he is intending to propose, she thought delightedly and could scarcely conceal her joy.

"But first..." He let the rest of the sentence trail off unfinished as he drew her to him and began to slowly unbutton her blouse.

* * * *

The dining room at the Hollyhock sparkled with snowy tablecloths and gleaming dishes. The lighting was subdued and supplemented by a candle on each table.

Susan wore her slinkiest gown, a clingy concoction of bronze satin trimmed with lace.

"You look ravishing tonight." Norwood's blue eyes were hot with admiration.

The waiter brought them more wine, and a lone pianist played softly from a dais at the far end of the room.

"Here's to us." He winked, and touched his glass lightly to hers.

Now was the moment, surely, Susan thought, for there could never be a more romantic and appropriate time for a marriage proposal.

"I've got something for you." He took a brief sip of his wine and reached into his pocket.

An engagement ring. Susan was convinced. She opened the little velvet box with fingers that trembled with excitement.

But it wasn't an engagement ring. In fact, it wasn't a ring of any kind. It was a locket.

"Why it's lovely, thank you." She struggled to hide her disappointment. It was, indeed, a lovely piece. Delicate gold filigree with a chain so fine, it was almost invisible.

"You can keep my picture in it." Norwood helped her clasp it round her neck.

Susan took a long drink of wine to fortify herself and try to bolster her feeling of deflation. "You said you were going to ask me something?" she said quite abruptly, annoyed with him now for disappointing her so.

"Ah yes." He smiled, seemingly unaware of her change in mood. "I'm buying a townhouse. Would you like to come and live with me there?"

The waiter chose that moment to replenish their glasses and serve the dessert. Susan was grateful for the diversion in order to calm her racing heart and try to compose herself. She was bitterly disappointed, and anger bubbled to the surface quite dangerously.

"It's too cramped for two in your apartment, and where I'm living at present isn't much larger," Norwood continued, as soon as they were alone. She could see he was still cheerfully oblivious to her mounting rage, after delivering a proposition instead of the marriage proposal she'd expected.

Not trusting herself to remain pleasant if she remained, she told him she was getting a headache and that she would have to go upstairs and lie down.

"Oh, I'm sorry, love. I'll come with you," he offered, but Susan firmly declined.

"No, I don't want to spoil your evening," she insisted, and with stiff gait and heavy heart, stalked quickly from the room.

You're not good enough to marry, a nasty little voice tormented as she paced the length of the room where, just a short time ago, they had engaged in such delicious lovemaking. He wants a society girl with pots of money, and you don't qualify.

"So are you going to come and live with me or not?" Norwood cornered her later that evening. He looked perplexed.

He clearly expected me to jump at the chance, Susan thought bitterly. "Give me a little more time to think about it," she responded noncommittally.

* * * *

The fragrance of wintersweet and holly grape mingled with the smoke from nearby chimneys then it spiralled upwards in ethereal wisps towards the frosty blackness of the cathedral dome sky.

Susan had been trying to reach Ben on his mobile phone, without success, for almost half-an-hour. Ever since her last run-in with the thugs, and subsequent identification of the skinhead in the police line-up, he'd been escorting her through the loneliest stretch of highway that snaked past the derelict drive-in movie theatre.

He was usually so punctual that she knew instinctively something must be wrong. He would have telephoned her if he were able. This last thought sent an unpleasant shiver coursing through her already tense body. What if he had been in an automobile accident and lay unconscious somewhere on a deserted country road? The terrifying thoughts and wild possibilities flew across her overactive mind like a flock of geese caught in a cage.

But what to do? What to do?

She glanced nervously at her watch. It was almost ten o'clock. Well, she couldn't stay in the store all night. She was hungry and tired, and besides she hadn't left Blitz with enough food to see him through the night.

The shopping plaza lay as dark and deserted as an abandoned space station somewhere in the cosmos. An eerie silence pervaded the night, and even the teenagers who usually congregated there were curiously missing.

"Oh God," Susan muttered under her breath, and on impulse dialled Norwood's home number. But she was met with the answering machine.

Damn, she thought, and in desperation tried Ben again. When she was still unable to reach him, she shrugged resignedly and began making preparations to leave. She had to get home. She simply could not stay here all night, and if she telephoned a taxi, her vehicle would likely be stolen or vandalised by morning.

Her little Datsun, which had been surrounded by cars all day, now sat alone. It looked forlorn and abandoned in the great expanse of ugly blacktop. Susan clutched her coat tighter around her and resisted the temptation to turn back to the safety of the store. Her thoughts were full of dread about the lonely stretch of highway that lay ahead.

As soon as she'd seated herself in the car, she locked the door immediately and turned the ignition on. Her hands trembled like frightened butterflies. "Start, please start," she implored, biting on her lower lip until she tasted blood.

The great cavern of a sky, strangely devoid of stars or a moon, seemed to hover over her threateningly as she finally managed to gun the engine into life. Then without waiting for it to warm up properly, she pointed the little car in the direction of home.

She was tempted to stop by the Raven's Nest for a drink—it would steady her nerves—but it was getting late, and she was due back at the store by nine a.m. the following morning.

A thin film of frost lay over the empty highway. Her tires screeched at times as they failed to gain purchase on the slippery road. Oh God, to be safe, home in bed with Blitz lying across my feet, she thought longingly.

Susan drove as fast as she could, slowing her speed only when the tires began to spin and skid on the icy asphalt.

The old drive-in theatre loomed up eerily on her left, surrounded by miles and miles of agricultural land that stretched from one bleak horizon to the other.

Suddenly, in a heart-stopping moment of shock and horror, high-beam headlights flooded her car from the rear in a great, blinding rush. She gasped in terror as this glaring assault left her totally unable to see and shaking so badly she could scarcely grip the steering wheel.

It was the jacked-up black truck from hell. She knew it, as surely as she knew her own name, even although she was unable to see it.

Her terrified mind was frozen and incapable of coherent thought, at this ghastly déjà vu of a moment. Yet paralysed though it was, she knew that this monster must have been tailing her for quite some time in the darkness, with its headlights off.

Wild with fear, she pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and her car lurched crazily forward. Yet even as she gunned it at maniacal speeds, seeking desperately to get away from her pursuer, she knew that her little Datsun was no match for this souped-up demon of a truck.

He was going to run her off the road, the way he'd done before. She was convinced of this and yet powerless to save herself. Her car careened crazily on, the monster truck in hot pursuit. Then while she wondered if she could make it as far as Ruth's driveway without crashing, the truck banged into her back bumper, sending her veering all over the road. She struggled wildly for control.

Whether by some miracle or unusual skill brought on by acute terror, or both, she managed to straighten the car and continue along the road at speeds even higher than before. But she couldn't keep it up, she knew that, and the monster truck gained on her rapidly. And could, whenever it wanted to, bang into her again and again. And I might not be as lucky next time, she thought in panic.

Then her car went into a skid on the treacherous highway, and with the monster truck so close it was almost touching her rear bumper, she struggled for control as its headlights made it impossible for her to see.

"I'm going to crash...going to crash...I can't stay on the road...can't...can't..."she gasped, in a kind of terrified mantra, as her car spun wildly out of control. Then it ploughed across the icy road to land with a terrific thud against a barbed wire fence.

### Chapter Six

The jarring impact of metal on metal swiftly knocked the wind out of Susan. A grainy plethora of spinning dots danced across her vision. God, I'm going to pass out...I'm going to faint...she thought in alarm.

There was a relentless screeching sound, and she wondered in a kind of foggy confusion what it was. It finally dawned on her that it was her own car horn, which must have kicked in at the moment of impact.

But she didn't have long to ponder over this mechanical phenomenon for, all at once, a figure loomed out of the darkness and tried to prise the door open.

"Oh God, no...no...." Susan screamed, in a voice that she didn't recognise as her own.

It was the Beard!

"Open the door, bitch," he shouted threateningly. "Or I'll smash the fuckin' window."

No...no...please...please...Susan screamed silently and made a pathetic attempt to start up the car and get away from him.

A heavy transport truck roared by, leaving the Datsun trembling in its wake. "Come back! Please come back! Help me! Help! Help!" she cried weakly and with utter futility.

"Cunt," the Beard cursed angrily. He displayed his ugly mouth of decaying teeth and smashed the window beside her with a stone. That he blamed her for the incarceration of his partner, the skinhead, she had no doubt.

Susan screamed in terror as shattered glass rained down on her, stinging her face and hands. Then a great fist grabbed her viciously and dragged her out of the car.

"You fuckin' bitch," he shouted like a madman and half-dragged-half-carried her across the narrow highway towards his ugly black monstrosity of a truck.

He's going to kill me, she thought in terror, and yet knew that she was powerless, in her present condition, to try to save herself in any way.

They'd reached the horrible truck, which had been the source of her nightmares ever since she'd first seen it about a year ago. Its powerful, souped-up engine growled away like a beast from hell, and a strong smell of gasoline and burning rubber surrounded it.

The Beard yanked open the door and was in the process of pushing her inside, when all of a sudden a set of searing headlights pierced through the darkness, bearing down on them from the rear with deadly intent.

The vehicle behind the glaring, high beam lights screeched to a stop just a few yards away, and Ben leapt out, pointing a revolver warningly at the Beard.

"Get your hands off her," he ordered.

This was a turn of events the Beard had not anticipated. It had all happened so fast it left him stunned and unable to mount any sort of counter-attack. He jumped into his muscle truck and drove off at high speed.

"Oh, Ben...thank God...thank God..." Susan cried out in relief before collapsing in a crumpled heap on the icy highway.

* * * *

The sun made a dramatic final bow in a blaze of amber glory, but its cheerful face had failed to melt the icicles, which still clung from the rooftops like stalactites on the ceiling of a cave.

Susan, bundled up for the bitter weather in parka and boots, strolled moodily along by the waterfront. She flinched at the bite of the wind, which hurled itself against her from the far reaches of the open sea, and made her thankful for the pair of thermal long johns she wore under her jeans.

A seagull scavenged for food on a nearby pier, and a boat's horn hooted through the frosty dimness of the fast-approaching twilight.

Kate walked contentedly by her side, keeping an eagle eye out for any suspicious-looking characters.

Since the apprehension of the Beard, who'd been caught when he tried to rob a convenience store, there didn't appear to be any security reason for taking the dog with her on walks. But she'd gotten used to having the friendly Boxer by her side, and Kate loved the air and exercise.

"So how are you feeling now?" Svend Tusvik had asked when she knocked on his door for the dog. "That must have been one terrifying experience that no one should have to live through."

"Still a bit shaky," she replied honestly. "But every day gets better, and I'm expecting to return to work next week."

"Good, providing you're sure that you're up to it."

Now, as she stood waiting while Kate left her calling card beside a laurel hedge, she wondered if she really was rushing it a bit. Still, she was bored and restless just lounging around with Blitz all day and anxious to get back to Pandora's Box as quickly as possible.

A couple of days in hospital, where she'd been treated for shock as well as cuts and scrapes, had left her feeling slightly better, but still very jarred and extremely jumpy. A mild tranquilliser had been prescribed, but she had resisted taking it for fear of developing a dependency.

Only a week had elapsed since the night from hell that she would never forget, but she was adamant in her determination to get on with things and to try and lead a normal life again.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" Ben had asked, as she moved over in the narrow hospital bed to make space for him to sit down. He'd brought her a bunch of seedless grapes and a posy of winter pansies.

"I called you at least a dozen times on your mobile, and you didn't answer," she explained defensively. "I thought something had happened, that you'd been in an accident, and I couldn't spend the entire night in the store."

Ben reached for her hand. "Okay, don't get upset over it. All's well that ends well, or so they say."

"But what did happen to you?" Susan persisted.

"Nothing sinister," he replied. "The batteries died on my mobile phone."

"And..." Susan pressed on. "There's something else you're reluctant to tell me. What is it?"

"Well, I suppose you have to know sometime. I just don't know if this is the right moment, though."

"Please, Ben, what is it?" Alarm made her eyes grow wider by the minute.

"Someone slashed my tires, while I was doing my usual nightly rounds at the old Dolman Paint factory."

"Oh God, and we know who," she interjected shakily. Her face blanched visibly as she spoke.

Ben squeezed her hand reassuringly. "The place is in the middle of nowhere," he continued. "It took me ages to get a ride back to the office. I phoned you as soon as I could, but by that time, you'd left the store."

"I'm scared, Ben." She bit down on her lip and looked ready to burst into tears.

"Aw, there's nothing to be afraid of anymore. Those thugs are locked up where they belong."

"But why did they go to all that trouble just to get me?" she asked haltingly. When he didn't answer, she prompted him by adding, "You still think there is someone behind them, don't you? That someone paid them to...get me?"

Ben evaded her question by walking over to the window. Susan could see a light snow falling, and as she watched, it transformed the black rooftops where the seagulls fought over territory to the colour of icing sugar sprinkled on a cake.

Norwood had visited her frequently, too. "Don't worry, Susan," he'd reassured her. "They have them safely under lock and key for a very long time."

Once again, her brush with danger had reunited them, for their relationship had been stilted since the night on Meir Island. And as they'd kissed in the starchy, impersonal hospital room, she realised just how desperately she wanted this man, and on any terms, marriage or not.

"I don't want you coming back to work until you're absolutely sure that you're fully recovered." Norwood's voice was etched with concern.

"But I can't stay away from the store too long," Susan protested. "There are things that have to be taken care of."

"Now don't you go worrying your pretty little head about that," he cajoled her playfully. "We have everything well under control at this end."

"So who's filling in for me?" Susan thought wryly that it had better not be Kim Caldwell.

But who it turned out to be was even worse. It was Myra.

"Just on a temporary basis, of course," he hastened to reassure her. "Until you're up and about again."

* * * *

"Men," Ruth Mitton spat out the word with an unmistakable edge of disgust. She'd dropped in to see how Susan was doing, bringing her a box of homemade brownies.

After tea, which Susan served on the low wicker table in front of the couch, Ruth settled back, with Blitz purring happily on her lap. She asked Susan what was wrong.

"I don't mean anything to do with your injuries from the accident."

Susan stifled a sob and let it all pour out. Like an overflowing reservoir after heavy rain, she decided afterwards. She was devastated by the way her relationship with Norwood had turned out. Why on earth he would go and hire Myra back again was simply inexplicable. And while it was true she could go back to Pandora's Box and take up her old position as manager, she really didn't want to. And although she still loved Norwood quite desperately, she knew that it was time to move on.

"He's using you, my dear." Ruth said. "You're a very talented young woman, and you deserve a lot better than that."

"But, it's not only the...personal side of things." Susan wound the sash from her robe around nervous fingers as she spoke. "Norwood represents my livelihood, as well."

"I'm only too aware of that. In fact, that's what I've been meaning to discuss with you for quite some time."

Susan raised an eyebrow.

"Have you ever thought of opening your own store?"

"Well, yes...but as I don't have the necessary financing, it's nothing more than a pipe dream."

"Don't be so sure of that. How about if I put up the money?"

"Oh, I couldn't allow you to do that." Susan was deeply touched. "I mean, what if it failed, and you lost your investment?"

"You allow me to worry about that," Ruth insisted. "But with your flair for business, it wouldn't be much of a concern. In any case, I have more money put by than I could ever possibly need."

Susan made another pot of tea, and as the frosty twilight descended around them, they discussed the ins and outs of it.

"Well, take the Power jewellery alone," Ruth declared. "We could make a small fortune with that and add other handicrafts as well."

Susan nibbled thoughtfully on a brownie. "Please, give me a little time to think this through. It's all been so sudden."

* * * *

The cherry trees and magnolias were in triumphant bloom, brimming forth their bounty, while a wind as soft as angel's breath teased at their blossoms.

Susan walked reluctantly towards Pandora's Box. Her footsteps sounded unusually sharp on the grainy asphalt. She'd been dreading this moment for some time, convinced that she would feel like an interloper facing Norwood and Myra on a turf that had once been her own.

"Well, hello, stranger," Norwood greeted her awkwardly, with just a little too much enthusiasm in his voice. "You're looking well. How are you feeling?"

Susan wore a simple grey suit that flattered her figure and gave her an efficient look without sacrificing her femininity. She managed a brief smile at Myra, who was helping a customer pick out a tablecloth, then went immediately into the back of the store to gather together the few things she'd left behind.

"I could have brought these to you." Norwood looked decidedly guilty. "And saved you the trip."

But Susan had wanted to do it for herself. Had needed, in fact, to return to Pandora's Box, thereby laying a few ghosts to rest and perhaps even slaying a dragon or two in the process.

"So how is the new business going?" Norwood was determined to be upbeat and cheerful, despite the rather strained nature of the occasion. Susan noticed he looked tired, and that his shirt collar was crumpled and his tie slightly askew.

"Not too bad at all." She slipped some books into the carryall along with her paperweight, pens and coffee mug.

She could hear the ding of the cash register and the sounds of the customer taking her leave. Then Myra, pale and slim with a ginger ponytail, joined them in the back room, the scene of so many erotic encounters in the past. A fervent member of a local curling club, she was hardly the type one would suspect of hiring thugs to knock off a rival. Perhaps she was desperate, and Norwood seemed like her last chance, Susan thought, as she looked directly into Myra's eyes and was met with a steady, unflinching gaze. There again, she could be something of a closet psychopath, who knows? As Susan was leaving, they shook hands. Myra's felt cool and very dry.

* * * *

Susan called her new store the Silk Purse. It was a small, classy treasure trove of a place located in an upscale neighbourhood just a stone's throw away from the beach. The Power jewellery was a prominent part of the stock, along with numerous other handicrafts, which were displayed in the bow window. There were beaded evening bags, lacy shawls, double-knit cloche hats, and one of the most popular items of all, graceful caftans in delicately patterned muslin.

With the assistance of Ruth, the prime stakeholder, Svend and Ben, who had minor shares in the business, Susan was able to manage without the added expense of another salesclerk.

"How about dinner at my place tonight?" Svend asked. He was an excellent cook and seemed to excel at everything he tried. "Chicken Veronique followed by Cherries Jubilee, then we'll go to the movie you wanted to see at the Regal."

Susan nodded, smiling her approval as she ironed a shipment of wrinkled tea cloths. It was a blissful May morning with a great golden egg yolk of a sun pouring its magic out of a fairytale sky.

Svend dusted the shelves and rearranged the scented candles and other bric-a-brac so they showed off to better advantage, while Kate, happily ensconced in the storeroom, whiled away the afternoon in a pool of sunlight.

"I'm so glad you won't have to go to court." Svend suddenly changed the subject, referring to the fact that the Skinhead and Beard had admitted to their assaults on Susan, thereby making the ordeal of testifying against them unnecessary.

"Oh God yes, that certainly was a break." She dampened a tea cloth before flattening the corners with the steaming iron.

The unsavoury pair had also insisted they'd worked alone, and Susan was inclined to believe them.

"What do you think?" she'd asked Svend, who agreed this was entirely possible.

"Creeps like that don't operate in a rational manner. You just happened to be the unlucky victim who unwittingly drew their ire."

Ben, on the other hand, persisted in his belief they'd been paid by a third party to do their dirty work. With Myra being the prime suspect.

"She had everything to gain by it," he stated quite forcefully to Susan. "And as a result, she's been able to reinstate herself in both the job and with the lover that she lost to you. I would say that it's worked out just as she planned."

Susan, however, remained unconvinced, and gazing into the intensity of Ben's dark eyes, felt a twinge of uneasiness. She sensed a certain tension there, an underlying quirk of character that was difficult to pinpoint. Perhaps he knew more about the recent attacks on her than he cared to admit? Then almost immediately she chastised herself guiltily for entertaining such disloyal thoughts. Ben had been so good to her. Hell, this whole business had skewered her judgement and made her look at everyone with suspicion. It was time to get a grip.

### Chapter Seven

A scorching summer had finally given way to the cooling breezes of a tawny fall. Susan slipped a light jacket over her floral dress and locked up the Silk Purse for the day. She was on her way to meet Svend at the Inglenook Inn, known locally as the Nookie. A rustic, Bavarian establishment on the outskirts of town, it was well known for its generous portions of delicious food. The Nookie had a large, open fireplace in the front hall, with a cosy inglenook on each side—hence the name.

"Here's to another year as successful as this one." Svend clinked his glass to hers and knocked back the whiskey in one hearty gulp.

And it had indeed been a prosperous first year in business, with the Silk Purse grossing almost as much as the downtown branch of Pandora's Gifts.

After a leisurely dinner of cauliflower soup and wiener schnitzel, followed by Black Forest cake, they went for a stroll along the quay. The air was pleasantly salty, and they sniffed at it appreciatively, while watching the boats skim over the busy waterway.

"Ruth and I are thinking about getting married," Svend suddenly blurted out as if he were commenting on the weather. And although Susan was surprised by the manner of the delivery, the news itself was not altogether unexpected, for she had noticed the tender rapport between them for months.

"Congratulations, Svend. I'm really delighted for you both." She kissed him impulsively on both cheeks.

"There is a bit of a difference in our ages," he remarked hesitantly. "Ruth is a few years older."

Susan quickly brushed this aside. "That's not important," she insisted.

* * * *

A robin hopped around the chocolate vine in Ruth's garden, which was redolent with the scent of passion flowers and sweet briar. A spider's web stretched like fairy gossamer between the sumac and viburnum.

"Have a little more tea, Susan," Ruth invited. They sat on her patio enjoying the weather and a batch of freshly baked English muffins. Queenie lay sleepily between them, stoically ignoring the attentions of a persistent fly that buzzed around her head.

"I hate to be the bearer of evil tidings on such a day as this," she said. "But I thought you should see the morning paper. Forewarned being forearmed, so to speak."

"I was rather expecting something like this," Susan admitted as she read the story.

The Skinhead and Beard had been released from prison on probation. A brief recap of the events leading up to their incarceration followed, along with a lengthy list of previous offences and convictions. This, in itself, would not have qualified as being newsworthy, had they not been arrested while breaking into a local electronics store.

"They're out on bail pending a court appearance," Susan exclaimed in disgust. "God, why can't they just keep those evil bastards locked up where they belong?"

"They're a nasty bit of work, all right," Ruth agreed. "At least this gives you a warning you wouldn't have otherwise had. Just be extra careful, my dear, and don't go anywhere alone at night."

"Don't worry, I don't intend to," Susan assured her. And she spent the rest of her visit, gently stroking Queenie with a stockinged foot.

* * * *

"I'm tired of being afraid and living like a virtual prisoner," Susan told Ben as they had a quiet drink in the Raven's Nest. They were going to a movie later at the Albion Cineplex.

He nodded and draped his arm around her shoulders protectively. "I know. It's bloody unfair. But just hold on a while longer. They'll soon be back in prison where they belong."

"Maybe," she replied in a voice heavy with doubt. "On the other hand, they may just get off on some legal technicality. Perhaps their rights were violated in some way during the arrest." She shrugged.

"Look," Ben said to her earnestly. "If I'm right, and Myra paid them to harass you, then they're no longer interested in you. She's already got what she wanted, so what would be the point?"

It was mid-week and the cinema was unusually quiet. Susan and Ben sat near the back, and as the lights dimmed and a disappointing film unfolded, their attention inevitably wandered to each other. The atmosphere was dark, intimate and heavy with sexuality. But Susan wasn't quite ready for that yet. Norwood was still very much on her mind.

* * * *

The Fenniston-Tate Company was holding their annual sales event at the Berresford Hotel in the heart of the financial district. A leading manufacturer of high-quality ceramic giftware, their new line for fall was arranged attractively on a long table, flanked by smart-looking sales representatives wearing the company colours. A buffet offering light snacks and non-alcoholic beverages was placed on the other side of the room.

Susan browsed slowly past the displays, stopping now and then to examine an item that caught her eye. The gaily-coloured salad bowl sets were always popular as were the dainty teapots with the matching cups. She placed an order and was on her way to the buffet table when she saw Myra, deep in conversation with a group of people over by the door.

She helped herself to some potato salad and cold cuts then took her plate over to a window seat that overlooked a Japanese-style courtyard with lanterns and a fishpond.

"Hello there, Susan. It's a good crowd tonight." Myra eventually found her way over to where Susan sat. She placed a glass of cola down on the table.

Her face looked haggard, and dark circles rimmed her eyes.

I guess life at Pandora's Box as Norwood's mistress is not quite what she expected, Susan thought with a sharp edge of satisfaction. What was that saying about being careful what you wished for, because it just might come true!

But had this innocuous woman with the untidy hair actually schemed with thugs to remove her?

Susan assessed her covertly out of the corner of her eye. It seemed unlikely, but then, sweet little old ladies had been known to poison their victims while never missing a stitch of their knitting.

"You know, I feel responsible for what happened to you," Myra said. She took a short gulp at her cola.

"You what?" Susan couldn't believe her ears. Perhaps Ben was right, after all.

"Well, you know those creeps who attacked you?" She paused for a moment and took another short sip of her drink. "Well, they did the same thing to me just before you arrived at Pandora's Box."

"They what?" Susan felt absolutely stunned, but Myra didn't appear to notice.

"That's right," she nodded. "They followed me one night and did their damndest to run me off the road."

A well-tailored sales rep approached and queried Myra about an item on her order while Susan looked on in a state of shocked silence, unable to fully take in the import of what Myra had told her.

"Why didn't you report it?" she asked, as soon as they were alone.

"Well, I know I should have done. But it was just the thought of all the hassles involved that put me off. I did mention it to one of the security guards." She turned the glass slowly between her hands and added quietly, "If I'd gone to the police, I'm sure it wouldn't have happened to you. And I am very sorry about that."

* * * *

"And do you believe her?" Ben took his eyes off the road for a nano-second as he glanced at Susan, his dark eyes unfathomable in the half-light.

"Yes, I know she was telling the truth." She shielded her eyes from a pair of glaring headlights that suddenly flashed before them from the serpentine curve in the road. "If she'd paid those thugs to terrorise me, there is no way she would have said what she did at the sales promotion. There was absolutely nothing in it for her. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Ben shrugged and told her that people don't always do and say logical things. "You said yourself that she looks something of a wreck, so heaven only knows what her mental state is like."

Susan had always believed that the thugs acted alone. That she'd merely been the unfortunate who turned up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Ben's contention that Myra was behind it had seemed to her both far-fetched and ridiculous. Yet the lingering doubt remained just beneath the surface like an ingrown hair.

"It would be out of character for two-bit hoods like that to act on their own in such a sustained vendetta," Ben concluded.

"Just round the next bend and we're there." Susan was grateful for this diversion that would cut short a conversation that was becoming irksome.

Ruth Mitton was hosting a small dinner party to celebrate the success of the Silk Purse and her engagement to Svend Tusvik. Her quaint but spacious home blazed with lights, soft music and contented laughter.

"My, you're looking stunning tonight," she said to Susan, who wore a sleek black dress with silver trimmings. She added with a mischievous wink, "And so does Ben. Now, if I were just a few years younger..."

Svend came over to greet her, looking more than ever like a roly-poly Santa Claus, even though he wore a dignified grey suit. "You're looking absolutely delectable," he told her approvingly.

Queenie had been specially bathed and groomed for the occasion, and Susan joined her for a moment on the veranda. The sky was ablaze with stars and a gleaming white sunflower of a moon.

"A penny for them," Ben whispered, surprising her from behind. He wrapped his arms around her waist.

"They're not worth it." Susan laughed, glad that he couldn't read them, for they were all about Norwood.

When she turned to look into his eyes, he surprised her by saying, "We should get married," in a voice that left no doubt as to the seriousness of his intent.

* * * *

"And what did you say?" Ruth's eyes were bright with interest. They sat in the back room of the Silk Purse, taking a much-needed coffee break. "I do hope you'll say yes. We could have a double wedding."

Susan laughed and popped another sugar cube into her cup. "I don't know, Ruth," she replied honestly. "I'm very fond of Ben and all that, but..."

"It's Norwood, isn't it?" It was a statement rather than a question. And the look of disappointment on Ruth's face was almost comical. "If only you'd been able to 'wash that man right out of your hair,' as the song says."

But she hadn't. She was still very much in love with Norwood, and he haunted her every waking minute, as well as her nocturnal wanderings. For he would appear to her in dreams, tall and elusive, and maddeningly desirable.

"Ben is such a nice young man," Ruth said. "I'm sure he'd make an excellent husband."

"He probably would, but I don't love him." Susan hoped that would close the matter. However, Ruth had different ideas.

"But some of the happiest marriages start that way," she insisted. "Love grows afterwards."

Golly, Susan thought to herself, perhaps Ruth is right. Maybe I should grab this chance at happiness while it's being offered. And yet, it's surely fundamentally wrong to marry one man while still pining for another.

* * * *

"I have to see you," said Norwood. His voice contained an unmistakable note of urgency. Susan had just got in after a long day at the Silk Purse and had been relaxing with Blitz when the call came in.

"Can it wait until tomorrow?" she asked. Norwood had been the very last person she expected to phone her like this. There had been no contact for almost a year, and it would take time to collect her wits.

"No, I need to see you right away," he insisted. When she still hesitated, he added, "This is a matter of personal safety—yours."

When Susan opened the door to him less than an hour later, all the old magic simply swamped her. Time and another lover is the best cure-all, she had been told, but in this case, it hadn't worked.

Prior to his arrival, she'd scurried here and there, straightening up the mess and neatening up her own appearance at the same time. Then she made a pot of tea, setting it out on a tray in the living room.

"You look terrific." Norwood kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Blitz seemed delighted to see him and insisted on sitting on his lap, purring like a well-tuned engine.

"So you've missed me, guy?" He stroked his fur. "Well, I've missed you, too."

"What did you want to see me about?" Susan asked with a note of impatience, more annoyed with herself than anything for her emotional reactions to this erstwhile lover.

"I had a private detective investigate the attacks on you, and this is what he came up with." He handed her a file from his attaché case. He explained that he'd been alarmed when her two attackers were released on bail. "I was afraid you might become a target again."

"I don't believe it. This is too incredible," Susan gasped, after she had read the report. "There must be some mistake."

"I'm afraid not." Norwood topped up their cups with fresh tea. "Look, I realise this has been a shock for you, but ignorance is not bliss in this type of situation. It's frickin' dangerous."

* * * *

"Good grief, I don't believe it," breathed Ruth, and Svend echoed the sentiments. It was shortly before opening time in the Silk Purse, and sunshine splashed up the walls like bouquets of golden flowers.

"I'm going to have to confront him with it," murmured Susan. "And believe me, I'm not looking forward to it."

"But why would he do such a terrible thing?" Ruth asked in a stunned voice. "What could the motive possibly be?"

* * * *

At first he denied it, his face a study in outrage. "How could you even suspect me of such a thing?" he demanded furiously.

They were in the backroom of the Silk Purse, with Ruth and Svend providing a comforting presence through the wall.

Susan was impressed at how cool and handsome he looked in his smart security officer's uniform, his short, dark hair cropped almost military style. She'd been aghast when she discovered it was Ben who had paid those two creeps to terrorise her. She had even accused Norwood of making it up in the hope of destroying their relationship.

"It's okay for you to screw Myra," she had accused angrily. "But you resent me doing the same thing with Ben."

"Actually, I'm not screwing Myra," he had objected. "But that's neither here nor there. What counts right now is your safety, Susan."

After he had left and she calmed down, she admitted to herself that he must still love her, in order to go to this trouble and expense on her account. This knowledge both thrilled and scared her at the same time, for she wanted this man so much, but not as a part-time lover or even a live-in lover, but as a husband. And she was afraid, lest her desire for him drive her back to his arms on any terms.

Ben stopped pacing and sat down heavily on a packing crate. "Okay," he finally admitted in a weary voice. "I did do it, but it was for you, I swear. And I never meant you any harm. I just wanted to scare you. I was furious when they roughed you up."

"But why, Ben?" Susan asked haltingly. "What on earth possessed you to do such a terrible thing?" She bridled with anger, recalling her terror.

"Isn't that fairly obvious? I wanted you to notice me, rely on me for protection, and that's what happened."

Susan shook her head. "I don't buy it," she snapped. "There was more to it than that."

"Oh all right then," he finally admitted after many moments of denial. "I also saw it as a way to gain attention and promotion at work."

"You bastard! I'm going to press charges."

"Please don't do that," Ben implored. "I'll never bother you again. In fact, I've been promoted, which means a transfer to the other side of the country."

"So the ruse worked," Susan remarked bitterly. "I hate you, Ben."

"You have a right to," he admitted, and she was shocked when he literally got down on his knees and begged her not to go to the police.

"You're pathetic," she spat out the words in disgust, and she wondered how she'd ever found him attractive. "And what about Myra? She was attacked, too. Were you behind that as well?"

"No." He shook his head adamantly. "But she did tell me about the incident, and that's where the idea came from," he admitted.

"I'm going to buy out your share in the Silk Purse." Susan flung open the door and was met by the startled faces of Ruth and Svend. "And I never want to see you, ever again."

"Consider yourself lucky that Susan's not going to press charges," Svend muttered angrily. "You're the kind of sicko who gives regular guys a bad name."

* * * *

It was a warm evening in April, with a fresh breeze whipping in from the sea and a ceiling of stars blinking overhead. Susan and Norwood strolled by the water's edge, enjoying a harmony of spirit that made conversation de trop. They had reunited after Ben left the picture. Came together in a natural transition, kissed by destiny.

Susan slipped out of her shoes and walked barefoot, relishing the feel of the fudge-like sand between her toes. "Let's never be parted again," she whispered.

"We won't be." Norwood pulled her closer. "How would you feel about a candlelight wedding, right here, where we're standing now?"

"Wonderful," Susan breathed. And even as she spoke, a small candlelight procession led by Ruth, Svend and a minister approached slowly from the pier.

"I can't believe this," she gasped. "Oh thank you darling, for making this the happiest day of my life."

What a perfect setting to exchange our vows in, she thought blissfully. The great cathedral of sky blazed with a thousand stars above the golden sands and midnight blue water, the gentle lapping of the waves, nature's own hymnal.

When Norwood slipped the ring on her finger, an antique band encrusted with garnets, she felt a joy that left her weak. Their kiss was lingering and sealed their pledge for eternity. "I love you," she whispered, as a seagull swooped overhead, and a tiny crescent moon peeped down from the heavens.

### ~~The End~~

NIGHT OF SHAME

### Chapter One

A glitter ball spun coloured lights across the dance floor and the band played mellow jazz. Morgan Taylor felt dizzy with desire as she pressed herself against the handsome soldier. The fact that she'd only just met him added romance to the magic of the moment. His name badge read: Guy LaBreton. She found him irresistibly attractive. Tall and toned with cropped black hair and green eyes, he had a French Canadian accent like foreplay.

She'd always been attracted to men in military uniform. It was probably all down to the macho thing, and the sense of immortality imbued by their regiment.

She'd been having a drink in a corner booth when he'd come in with a group of other soldiers. She'd felt an immediate attraction. When he asked her to dance, she didn't hesitate.

"I think we need to be alone," he whispered, tracing the line of her neck with his finger. She found it an incredibly sexy gesture. She caught his hand and kissed it, breathing in the intoxicating male scent of him and knew she was powerless to resist.

"Let's go," he said.

Wow, this was going way faster than she'd ever imagined. But after a bitch of a week at work -- the travel agency had been crazy busy booking Christmas trips -- she had craved a couple of drinks to take the edge off. The Fox's Lair had beckoned. She'd been there before and liked the atmosphere and classy decor. It was a popular hangout for soldiers, from the local military base. The problem was she'd drank way more than she'd intended. She now felt quite tipsy.

"Give me a moment to freshen up," she whispered. Then with a mischievous look in her eyes, raked her nails down the front of his pants.

The overtly sexual gesture caught him by surprise. She heard his sharp intake of breath. "You're a bad girl," he murmured, and kissed her until she was breathless.

"Only a Frenchman could kiss like that," she gasped, feeling the impact right down to her toes.

"We aim to please." He smiled, before finally letting her go.

Morgan was now too inflamed with passion to think straight. She headed for the ladies room and appraised herself in the flatteringly tinted glass. Petite with curly auburn hair and hazel eyes, she had been celibate for too long. It was time to live a little, and what better place to start than with Guy. Man, he really turned her on big time.

As they left the bar the soldiers howled like wolves and catcalled.

"Don't pay any mind to them." Guy laughed. "They're just envious."

Morgan joined in the merriment. It had been such a long time since she'd really let her hair down and enjoyed herself like this. Too long.

Snow had began to fall; light delicate flakes that drifted down and melted on the ground. It was freezing. Morgan turned up the collar of her smart green coat, and shivered.

Guy put his arm around her. "Don't worry baby, I'll warm you up," he promised.

"You already have." She grinned.

They stopped by the liquor store and bought a couple of bottles of wine. "We want to keep the party going." Guy winked.

"Amen to that." Morgan laughed and took his hand. As they walked over to the Starlight Inn, under a fitful sky and a peek-a-boo moon, his touch ignited her senses.

By the time they got into the room, Morgan was so aroused she felt feverish. She couldn't keep her hands off him. She needed him to fill her up and banish the emptiness she had suffered for so long.

She kicked off her boots and dropped her coat on the floor, then Guy lifted her onto the bed. With zero preliminaries, and not even taking the time to undress, he unzipped his fly and mounted her. Their need was now too great for finesse. Morgan moaned as he penetrated her. She could never remember it feeling this good before, this bloody marvellous. She moaned and writhed, covered him in kisses and ground her hips up to meet his thrusts. It was all over in a matter of minutes.

Now that the urgency had passed they took their time, relishing every moment of skin against skin and mouth on mouth. Morgan couldn't get enough of him. He was totally hot. But it wasn't only the physical attraction, which held her entranced, she felt a strong spiritual connection to him as well. She touched the gold cross he wore around his neck. It was as if she'd known him for a very long time. Perhaps they'd been lovers in a former life?

Between bouts of uninhibited lovemaking they finished one bottle of wine, and then started on the other.

Man, I'm getting totally pissed. Morgan noticed that the room wouldn't stay still. She giggled. Guy laughed and tickled her and she giggled some more.

After they were finally sated enough to draw apart, Guy fetched a flask from his coat pocket. "It's time for something a little stronger," he said, and handed it to her. "It's whiskey."

"I shouldn't really." Morgan hiccupped. She knew it wasn't a good idea to mix drinks. But heck, this had been one very special night, so why not? She poured some into a glass and added a touch of water. "Cheers," she said and knocked it back. That was the last thing she remembered.

When she awoke the room was bright with sunshine. She felt disoriented and her head throbbed. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was. Then gradually it came back to her. "Guy," she whispered. But she knew by the empty feeling that he was no longer there. She rubbed her eyes and tried to clear her head. Something didn't feel right.

The sharp knock at the door jolted her out of her ruminations. Before she had a chance to respond it opened and a housekeeper peered in. "Check-out time was hours ago," she said in heavily accented English. She glanced around the room. "Hope you not make too much mess. You have wild party last night, lots of soldiers...."

### Chapter Two

"Wow, you look as if you had quite a weekend." Shirley Bell poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Morgan. A tiny woman and somewhat overweight, she looked like everyone's favourite auntie. It was early on Monday morning and they were short staffed due to a heavy snowfall. However, weather like this was good for business, as people sought to escape to warmer climes. They had already booked two Caribbean cruises.

Morgan shrugged. "I feel a bit washed out. I think I might be coming down with a cold." She could only imagine how shocked Shirley would be, if she knew the whole sordid story.

"It's certainly the time of year for it." Shirley stared out the window at a bleak and snowy world. "I had a heck of a time getting in today. There were so many accidents."

Morgan nodded. It was during weather like this that she really appreciated being within easy walking distance to work. She sipped cautiously at the scalding coffee

The travel agency was situated on the ground floor of an office tower. The lunch hour was their busiest time. Booking trips for others made Morgan long to get away herself. Maybe she should take at least a short trip somewhere nice, sometime soon.

By the time she got home she felt totally exhausted. She lay down on the couch and watched the flashing lights of a snowplough play over the ceiling and walls. It had a hypnotic effect and her mind travelled back to that terrible moment when the housekeeper told her about the soldiers.

Oh my God, no! There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, her heart pounded, and her teeth chattered. So that was why she had got the distinct feeling of something not quite right.... Oh my God, this was a nightmare. Morgan clutched her head as she remembered how the soldiers had hooted and catcalled when she and Guy left the bar. It all fit. Guy must have slipped a date rape drug into the whiskey, and let them into the room after she'd passed out. How many of them had there been? She tried to remember...at least four, perhaps more. Oh my God! This was as bad as it gets. But it was the way Guy had betrayed her that hurt the most. She thought he was so special.

She strived for control, while taking stock of her surroundings and herself. She was totally naked and lay on top of the covers. She felt achy all over.

She struggled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, wincing as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. God, she looked rough, swollen red eyes and hair in tangles. What's more, she felt even worse than she looked.

She examined her body. Apart from a slight bruising between her thighs, which were also coated with dried up sperm, she looked unharmed. She retched and vomited into the toilet.

There was now no doubt in her mind that she had been raped. Guy had worn a condom. So did he drug her drink or did she pass out from the alcohol alone? At this point, she wasn't sure. Perhaps the whiskey from his flask, on top of all the wine and other shit had been enough to knock her out without a rape drug.

Of course, she knew she should go directly to the emergency room at the hospital and they would do a rape kit on her while the evidence was still in tact. From there the police would be called.

But she couldn't face it...all the probings and scrapings of this most intimate part of her body, while she lay exposed on an examination table, her feet up in stirrups. No, she wouldn't put herself through it. She'd been violated enough. Then the horrific publicity and every detail of her sexual history trotted out for the world to gloat over. What was there to gain by putting herself through such hell?

As it was nobody need ever know that she had got stinking drunk in a bar, picked up a soldier, and then ended up getting gang raped by his comrades-in-arms. Morgan chastised herself with the utmost brutality, while tears streamed down her cheeks. She was nothing but a cheap horny ho that had got what she deserved. At that moment in time she hated herself more than she did the rapists.

She turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it and scrubbed herself until the water ran cold. Afterwards she wrapped herself in a bath towel and went in search of her clothes. Her coat was still hanging in the closet, where she'd left it after the first urgent coupling was over. She found her slacks and sweater on the armchair by the window, and her underwear both on the bed and halfway beneath it.

Morgan surveyed the sad and sleazy room with tear-filled unfocused eyes. She dressed hurriedly and pulled on her boots. She couldn't wait to get away from this scene of her greatest shame.

Then anger suddenly engulfed her. There was no way these bastards should get away with what they did. It was a serious crime. She would have to call the police....

Yet she hadn't. Her innate desire for privacy held her back.

When she left the motel, she had felt weak and strange. She needed something to eat and a hot drink, but didn't want to stop anywhere nearby.

Her car was still where she'd left it in the parking lot of the Fox's lair, and it hadn't been ticketed. But because of the freezing weather she had a devil of a time starting it. The engine kept cutting out.

When she finally got it moving, she drove over to a coffee shop. It was weird, she reflected, devouring one sandwich and then ordering another, how one's life could change so drastically in less than a day. This episode would haunt her forever, and change her in ways impossible to predict.

Feeling somewhat fortified after the meal, her next stop was a medical clinic. She had to take the morning after pill as soon as possible, and have herself tested for STDs. Damn those wicked bastards straight to hell for putting her through such a fucking nightmare.

Remembering all these minute details from the safety of her couch had upset Morgan more than she thought they would. Tears welled up in her eyes. It was the hygiene issue that plagued her the most. She still felt dirty and caked with sperm no matter how many times she bathed.

Still, once she got over that she'd be well on her way to forgetting the gang rape, or at least allocating it to the back of her mind. She just wanted her life back on track, the way it had been before that hellish night of degradation, betrayal and shame.

The only consolation was that she alone knew about it, oh and the rapists, of course. But only she mattered. She didn't give a fig about them, except to hope they would burn in hell. All she honestly wanted was just to forget the whole sorry episode.

And that seemed to be gradually happening as the dark days of winter finally relented to an early spring. Morgan attended a bridal shower at work, and surprised herself by enjoying it. She sipped on a gin fizz, the first alcohol she'd allowed herself since the 'incident,' and congratulated herself for making the right choice. If she'd reported the rape she'd still be living in a purgatorial hell, and would be forever.

What still hurt the most though, was the way Guy had betrayed her. That's the kind of trap that sexual attraction can lead you into, she thought grimly, it makes you trust strangers. The bitch of it was her body still longed for him, while her mind hated him. What a vile dichotomy.

She'd been tempted at times to try and contact him to see what his reaction would be. To confront him with what he had done. But had never got up enough courage to do so. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, she decided. Sometimes no action was the best policy.

"Yikes, have you guys seen this?" One of the office juniors tapped on the screen of her laptop with a black enamelled fingernail. "Another gangbang has gone viral."

It hit Morgan like a sledgehammer. Could it be? Oh no, of course, not. It had been a couple of months since it happened. She poured herself another gin. Yet despite all her protestations, and to put her mind at ease, she forced herself to join the group that was congregated around the computer.

Oh my God, she couldn't believe what she was seeing. The room spun and she had to grip onto the desk for support. Good God in heaven it was her!

### Chapter Three

Feeling sick, exposed and unravelling at the seams, Morgan groped her way along sidewalks strewn with cherry blossoms. Just when she'd hoped that vile night was well behind her and that she'd moved on, this had to happen. Was it never going to end? How much more could there be?

That her rapists would make a video of their crime and then post it on the Internet was incomprehensible. She felt like she was going to vomit, but managed to hold down the nausea until she reached her apartment. Then after throwing up as if she'd never stop, switched on the computer, and watched in horror as she was gang raped by four soldiers.

To think this unspeakable abuse must have been viewed by millions of people all over the world shook her to the very core of her being. Nausea gripped her by the throat. She was going to be sick again.

What struck her immediately was that this brutal gang rape of a very drunk -- and likely drugged -- female would probably appear to many as a gangbang involving consensual sex. Had she gone to the police, that's exactly what the rapists would claim it was. It would be her word against theirs.

Morgan studied herself closely in the poor quality video. Fortunately, her face was not readily recognisable. So it really wasn't as bad as she'd initially feared. She was lying flat on her back on the bed and the soldiers took turns getting on top of her and raping her. It would be difficult but not impossible to identify at least a couple of the rapists. She knew for certain Guy wasn't one of them. Nor did she see him watching the action. Then an unsettling thought blindsided her. Perhaps it was Guy who was behind the camera?

It really was time she called that guy and let him know what he had put her through and that she was onto him. It was possible that he thought she knew nothing about the gang rape, and didn't suspect a thing. That she had simply supposed she had passed out from the over consumption of alcohol and no crime had been committed. There again, although she now knew beyond a doubt that she had been gang raped by the soldiers, she still couldn't say for certain if Guy had given her a date rape drug or not. The booze might have knocked her out without that, although that was beside the point. He had been complicit in the crime against her either way.

Fired up with righteous indignation, which fuelled her with the courage she wouldn't otherwise have, she telephoned the military base and asked for Guy LaBreton.

"Sorry," she was told. "We don't give out any information about our personnel."

They wouldn't even confirm or deny Guy's existence.

Figured, Morgan thought bitterly. Why was it always the wrongdoers who were protected as if they were made of gold? She winced as she visualised how military lawyers would shred her if she ever did try to have the rapists prosecuted. They'd make her look like a dirty drunken ho who agreed to have sex with all the guys and then to save face, cried rape when she saw the video.

She had done the right thing, she decided, the only thing by not reporting the crime.

Once she had calmed down enough to stop her racing thoughts, she made a cup of coffee and took it over by the window to drink. A full moon rode high in the heavens surrounded by a symphony of stars. It was then she noticed the figure standing under the streetlight. It appeared to be looking directly up at her window. Was she reaching, or could this tie in with the persistent yet elusive feeling of being followed that she'd been aware of for some time? She'd attributed it to an over active imagination triggered by the rape. But now she wasn't so sure.

Maybe it was time to move and get a fresh start. Yet she bristled at the idea of having to run away and hide from a bunch of raping bastards, when she had done nothing wrong. She was the victim for crying out loud. It was in no way fair.

* * * * *

Summer vacation time was in full swing. Morgan had been going non-stop since early morning. European tours were the most popular so far. Escapism was always in vogue. She smiled. It was also extremely lucrative for those in the travel business. She remembered hearing it said that all travel was a quest; a conscious or subconscious searching for something missing in one's life or one's self.

"Why don't you take your lunch break now?" Shirley winked. "I should be able to hold the fort for a while."

In nice weather Morgan liked to eat her sandwiches outside. Her favourite spot was on a park bench near a heavily wooded pond. It was also the perfect spot to do some serious thinking. Although heaven knows she'd done plenty of that -- way too much, in fact -- during the last few months.

She drank a cup of coffee from her thermos and watched a swan glide over the water. What a glorious June day. She reflected on how she was starting to put the gang rape behind her. Whole days would go by when she seldom thought about it.

Yet she knew it still affected her and always would. On her way back to work she wondered if she would ever be able to have sex again.

The afternoon passed by in a rush as more would-be travellers dropped in. The last trip Morgan arranged before leaving for the day was a 10-day trip up the Nile. "We've always wanted to see the pyramids," a very happy couple enthused.

After they left, Shirley caught her eye. "It's really freezing in here today, too much air-conditioning. And I have to stay late tonight. Brrr...."

"Wear my sweater," Morgan invited. She draped the bright red cardigan around Shirley's shoulders. "It isn't stylish, but by golly it is warm."

"Thanks, it feels great."

Morgan spent a quiet evening at home just relaxing, or trying to. She had got out of the habit after the gang rape. Tension had been her constant companion. She glanced out the window before going to bed. It was a habit she'd adopted after spotting the figure underneath the streetlight. She breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one there.

It was close to the middle of the night when she was awakened by the persistent ringing of the telephone. "Oh damn." Probably a wrong number. Bleary eyed she reached for the receiver and in a weak voice murmured "Hello."

It was one of the girls from the travel agency. She sounded frantic and close to tears. "It's Shirley," she cried and her voice broke. "She's been murdered!"

### Chapter Four

The travel agency was now a crime scene and no one was allowed in. Yellow warning tape -- Police Line Do Not Cross -- blocked both entrances. The police were interviewing the staff in the office tower's security office, also on the ground floor.

Morgan paced around the foyer. She found it impossible to gather her scattered wits together. There was a sense that this terrible event was somehow linked to the gang rape and her feeling of being followed. Yet how could that be?

She had kept the radio on all morning, and switched on the television news, but so far the media had not gotten wind of the story. However, that was about to change. When the daily newspaper was delivered, Morgan grabbed a copy, and it was right on the front page.

"Oh my God!" Shirley, they said, had been shot from some distance, probably from the building across the street.

That's when it hit Morgan, full-force. She remembered draping her bright red sweater around Shirley's shoulders. That was it then. The murderer had mistaken poor Shirley for her. Guilt overcame her. It was her fault that Shirley was dead. If she had only reported the gang rape to the police, this wouldn't have happened. How could she be so bloody selfish?

The sounds and constant bustle of a busy office building in the middle of the day surrounded her, but she was oblivious to them. What the hell was she going to do? What she didn't understand is why the rapists would want to kill her? Were they afraid she would report them and if so, why now after so long? It just didn't make sense.

Morgan ran a weary hand across her eyes.

"They're ready for you now, Miss." A police officer nodded in her direction.

Morgan walked slowly into the security office and sat down by the desk. Shirley's murder had been the proverbial last straw. She just couldn't shoulder this burden any longer, especially since the situation had escalated and the rapists planned to kill her. She needed help, no matter what the cost to her privacy and dignity. Better disgraced and shamed than dead.

Detective Neil Slater had cropped black hair and dark eyes. He reminded Morgan of Guy. She was attracted to him immediately. "It seems you were the last staff member to see Shirley alive," he said. "Have you noticed any change in her behaviour lately. Did she seem afraid?"

Morgan shook her head. "I don't think they meant to kill Shirley. It was a case of mistaken identity. The killers thought she was me!"

"Really?" Slater looked surprised.

Morgan wasn't sure that he believed her. He probably thought she was just some crazy dame into drama big time.

"Go on," he said.

That's when it all came pouring out. Once Morgan started talking, after holding it inside for so long, she didn't think she'd ever stop. She began at the beginning; from the moment she'd met Guy at the Fox's Lair. It felt at once terrifying and purifying to talk and talk and talk about the one thing that had tormented her and been on her mind almost constantly for months.

Slater made notes, but didn't speak a word throughout the tirade. Once she'd finally finished, with a hand wringing confession about the guilt she felt over Shirley death, he poured her a cup of coffee and told her to take a break.

Morgan gulped it down. What must he think of her? She was braced for a lecture about how she should have reported the rape, and was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't forthcoming.

"It's important you don't jump to conclusions," he said. Then he advised her to go home and get some rest. "We'll be in touch."

* * * * *

The travel agency felt so strange and empty without Shirley. It's too bad; Morgan reflected gloomily, that we never appreciate someone until they're gone. We take them for granted expecting that they'll always be there. That everything we see around us for that matter will always remain the same. When in reality the entire universe is in a constant state of flux. Change is the only constant. She shuffled some files on her desk and stared out the window at a rainy afternoon. There wasn't anything more transitory and uncertain than life. It all came down to the fickle hand of fate.

If she hadn't gone into the Fox's Lair that night, she would never have met Guy LaBreton.... and on and on it went. She felt very depressed and alone. Sometimes you just needed something or someone to hold onto. Yet she had no one at all. Her family were scattered all over the globe, and had never been that close anyway.

The ringing telephone cut into her morbid meanderings. Slater! He asked her if she could drop over to his office after she'd finished work. It had been weeks since poor Shirley's untimely death, and according to the news sources the police hadn't yet arrested anyone.

As she crossed the courtyard of the police building, Morgan threw a coin in the fountain, crossed her fingers and wished for calm and contentment. She grimaced. Given the nature of life that was quite a tall order. She was nervous about what Slater wanted to see her about. Had he interviewed the rapists yet? She would much rather put this worst episode of her life behind her. However, if these nasty beasts were responsible for Shirley's murder that was no longer possible.

Slater's office had a terrific view of the city and the North Shore Mountains. Morgan was struck again by how attractive he was.

"We had the online video of the alleged assault removed," he said.

Morgan was immediately both relieved and annoyed. Delighted that the disgusting video, which broadcast her shame to the world was down. But certainly not appreciating what was most definitely a gang rape \-- hell she'd been unconscious at the time -- being prefaced with alleged, and called an assault. Which not only cast doubt on her word, but also minimized the gravity of the crime. Rape was rape. She said as much.

"Don't let that bother you." Slater smiled. "It's merely a legal technicality." He went on to explain that they were able to identify her alleged attackers from the online video, and also from security footage from the Fox's Lair and the Starlight Inn."

"I suppose they denied the whole thing," Morgan said.

"They denied it was rape." Slater flipped through the file. "They claimed you gave consent."

Morgan shook her head and rolled her eyes in disgust. "Oh yeah. Like I'd actually want something like that to be done to me."

"We've asked them to take lie-detector tests. But it doesn't look as if their lawyers -- all military of course -- will agree."

Oh boy, that was just what she'd known would happen. These raping bastards would get the best defence possible, free of charge, from a whole bloody team of lawyers. What chance would she have against that?

"If I'd wanted to have my day in court, I would have reported the rape immediately," she said. "The only reason I came forward with it now, is because I think the rapists might be behind Shirley's murder." Even as she voiced this suspicion, she thought how lame it sounded. Yet, there was something....

"We have no evidence to link them with that," Slater said. "At the moment, it doesn't appear likely."

"Did they say how they came to be in my motel room?" Morgan was curious. "I suspect that Guy LaBreton invited them in."

"According to them," Slater replied, "they were passing by on the way to their own room, when you beckoned to them to enter."

Morgan shook her head again. This was incredible and yet entirely predicable.

"They said you were alone."

"Oh yeah, and I'm also the Sultan of Brunei," she quipped angrily.

Slater ignored the remark. "You realise at this late date we have virtually no chance of charging them with rape," he said.

Morgan nodded. "But even if I had contacted the police when it happened," she argued, "and gone through all those ghastly hospital tests, it wouldn't have made any difference. They're not denying they had sex with me. The onus would still be on me to prove that it wasn't consensual. And how the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"A toxicology test might have detected a date rape drug in your system," Slater replied. "That would have made a very strong case against them indeed."

"On the other hand there might not have been. Maybe I just passed out from too much to drink."

"We could speculate on that until the cows come home." Slater stashed the file in a desk drawer. "It will get us absolutely nowhere."

He was right, of course. It made Morgan regret not doing the right thing at the time and going for testing. By not doing so, she had let those beasts get away with violating and degrading her and treating her like a worthless ho. She voiced this regret to Slater.

He shook his head. "There's no point in beating yourself up over that now. You did what you thought best at the time."

"But what do you think?"

He shrugged. "I can see why you didn't want to report it, given what anyone claiming sexual assault is put through. Yet that process is necessary, because false accusations are easy to make and are not uncommon."

Round and round it went. Morgan just wanted to forget the whole thing and put it behind her. And she was accomplishing this quite well until Shirley was murdered. Then the carefully constructed bubble that insulated her suddenly burst.

Before she left Slater's office she asked the question that had been fermenting inside her ever since the interview began. "Did you speak to Guy LaBreton?" He was never far from her mind. She simply hadn't been able to reconcile the part he'd played in the rape. How could someone so nice and absolutely dishy -- the sex with him had been sheer ecstasy -- turn out to be such a scumbag?

Slater's response caught her off-guard. "No, he's in Afghanistan."

### Chapter Five

Had she jumped the gun by assuming Shirley's murder was related to the gang rape? Morgan pondered that question endlessly. If so, then she had gone to the police unnecessarily. Damn! From underneath a beach umbrella, she gazed out at the ocean. A couple of freighters rode at anchor and pleasure craft zoomed nearby.

She thought on how little she had known about Shirley -- her personal life that is \-- even although they'd worked together for years. Now the media, which had been full of accounts of Shirley's life remedied that. Not a stone had been left unturned.

Morgan zipped open a soft drink and had another look at the newspaper. Shirley appeared to be just as she seemed, a really nice person. She'd been a widow for a number of years, had no close family, and was an active member of a church. Nobody stood to gain financially from her death.

The media, therefore, were as stumped as Morgan about who would want to kill her and why. She had been shot by a high-powered rifle from the office building across the street. Empty shell cartridges were found around a window on the first floor landing. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious. The shooting took place in the evening when most of the offices were closed.

So the murderer must have had knowledge of firearms and that screamed 'military.' Morgan frowned. Maybe her first reaction had been the right one after all. It was also likely that the shooter had stalked and pre-targeted his victim. Was it too much of a coincidence that Shirley happened to be wearing Morgan's bright red sweater at the time? She tended to think so.

But why would the rapists want to kill her? She hadn't reported the rape, and besides they must know that without any toxicology reports to prove she'd been slipped a date rape drug -- supposing that she had been \-- it came down to a matter of their word against hers as to whether the sex was consensual or not.

She shook her head. Round and round and round it went.

Seagulls screeched overhead against a sky that blazed electric blue. Morgan thought of Guy in Afghanistan. According to Slater his tour of duty ended soon. Despite herself she longed to see him again, if only to try and gain some sort of closure. She hoped he stayed safe.

Slater had asked her about the hotel room key. Did she see it? The hotel reported it had not been returned. Morgan ran a weary hand across her eyes. She hadn't seen the key and assumed the rapists must have taken it with them, probably more by accident than design.

He also asked her if anything had been missing from her personal belongings. "Did they take any money, or other valuables?"

"Only my dignity and sense of self worth," she'd shot back. "They took something from me that's far more precious and irreplaceable than money could ever be." She'd had to struggle then not to weep. Tears were never far from the surface these days. "I can't trust anyone anymore, or have a normal relationship with a man."

"Have you ever thought of going for counselling?" Slater looked sympathetic. "Talking about it might help."

He was right, of course. Maybe she should look into it, but first things first. It was a beautiful day and she was on the beach. Time to shift her spinning thoughts into neutral and enjoy the warm sand between her toes, and the hypnotic sound of the waves. By the time she headed for home, a crimson sun breathed fire on the western horizon. Once again she had the unsettling feeling of being followed. Yet when she looked around, there was no one there.

She shrugged it off and stopped at a coffee shop for dinner. Then on impulse, she would never afterwards understand why, drove over to the Fox's Lair, perhaps a compulsion to revisit the scene of the crime, so to speak.

The lounge bar looked much the same as she'd envisioned it, so many times in her tormented mind. There was the usual band belting out mellow jazz numbers, and the glitter ball spinning coloured lights across the dance floor, where she had clung with such sensuous abandon to Guy. It all seemed so very long ago, yet it was less than a year.

She slipped into a booth and ordered soda water. It was close to where she had sat with Guy and where his soldier friends had been sitting. The persistent feeling of having missed an important detail continued to plague her, but what? What? She believed it was something that she failed to see as significant at the time, but in light of subsequent events was crucial.

If she went over every single minute moment of that night, starting with when she walked in the door of the Fox's Lair, maybe it would come back to her. While she ruminated, a couple of soldiers at a nearby table gave her the glad eye. She ignored them.

Was it possible she was imagining this elusive something, as well as being followed and the connection with Shirley's murder?

"Care to dance?"

The male voice so close made Morgan jump. She'd been so deep in her thoughts she'd become oblivious to her surroundings. She looked up at him. Of course, it was one of the soldiers who had been leering at her. She politely declined. Then it occurred to her that she might learn something from him. After all, he and the rapists shared the same employer. She invited him to join her.

He introduced himself as Lance, while Morgan told him her name was Jill. She said that her brother, who was also a soldier, had been falsely accused of raping a woman he had met in this very bar. "Did you hear about it?" She asked.

He nodded and ordered a round of drinks. "There's not much that happens around a military base that you don't hear about," he said.

"What's the general consensus about the incident in question?" Morgan toyed with her drink stick.

"Ah, just the usual mixed reaction. Although by what I've heard I'd say we haven't heard the whole story yet."

"Why is that?" Morgan leaned towards him.

"Well the guys who are being investigated didn't say a word about it until it became a police matter." He sipped his drink. "Usually in a case like that they'd be bragging about it from the rooftops."

"So what do you suppose held them back?"

Lance shrugged. "I haven't a clue. Why not ask your brother?"

Morgan smiled and took her leave. She wasn't going to learn any more from him. On the drive home she mulled over what she'd just learned. Instead of clearing up some of her many questions it merely added to them. Now she had to ponder why the rapists kept mum about the crime until the police got involved. There obviously had to be something of a sensitive nature concerning the rape that they wanted to keep a secret, but what? Bloody hell, what?

### Chapter Six

The days were growing shorter. Morgan walked to work on a foggy morning, over sidewalks strewn with leaves. After Shirley was murdered, the travel agency installed bulletproof windows and this gave her a good feeling of added security, especially when it was dark outside, and she was working late. You never knew who was staring in and plotting your demise. She shivered. There had been no new developments in the murder enquiry and no arrests had been made.

After viewing the online video of the rape, Morgan had got a good impression of what her rapists looked like. She'd taken a screen shot of them and enlarged it. Seldom a day passed that she didn't examine the images. Consequently, she began to imagine that she saw them lurking on every street corner and cafe. But would she really recognise them again, she wondered, out-of-uniform and with different haircuts?

As she approached the travel agency, she was startled by a figure that suddenly loomed up at her out of the fog. She immediately thought of the rapists. But it was only one of the security guards who now ran extra checks on the premises.

The persistent feeling of something important missed continued to haunt her. Perhaps if she went through a painstakingly accurate re-enactment of the night from hell, beginning from when she'd left work, it might help. At the weekend, she would put the plan into action.

But by the time Friday arrived she was conflicted as to whether she should go through with it or not. This dwelling on the most horrible night of her life would have to stop. Yet, she would never find peace unless she discovered the truth. But what truth, for crying out loud? She had got drunk in a bar and picked up a soldier. They had gone to a motel room and shagged all night. Then she passed out.

Morgan tidied up her desk, deciding that nothing was worse than this horrible indecision. In the end, after much soul-searching, she resolved to go through with it as planned.

She drove directly to the Fox's Lair from work, just the way she had done on that other fateful occasion. The only difference being that she wasn't wearing the same clothes. She'd thrown all those in a dumpster the day following the rape. They had felt contaminated and unclean. Tonight she wore a green sheath dress topped by a black suede coat. As she approached the parking lot she strove to recapture what her mood had been like that other night. She recalled being very stressed about work and feeling the need for something to take the edge off.

Morgan parked in roughly the same spot, near the dumpster by the lane. Then it came back to her. Although what significance it had she failed to see. However, for what it was worth, there had been a woman lurking around it. She was an odd looking character with uncombed hair and wild eyes. Morgan had assumed she was one of those people that went about raiding the trash. She pegged her as a homeless person. Then inside the bar, she had spotted her again. She'd been hovering around the perimeters, in the shadows.

It was probably something and nothing. But she'd resolved to try and remember every little detail of that night no matter how irrelevant it seemed, and that's exactly what she was doing.

One thing she didn't do that was a deviation from the night in question was to drink. She ordered a soda water and sipped on that. The evening passed pleasantly enough, with no overtures from randy soldiers. Morgan smiled. The really hard part was when she walked over to the Starlight Inn pretending Guy was with her. Loneliness and a great sense of loss engulfed her.

But as she evaluated the re-enactment later, curled up on her couch with a cup of coffee, she thought it a total waste of time. While it was true that she'd recalled the homeless woman -- Morgan dubbed her Dumpster Dora -- nothing new had occurred to her.

It was possible, of course, that someone lurking around the way Dora had done would see a great deal of what was going on. Had she witnessed anything about the gang rape that would help Morgan? Perhaps the soldiers discussing a date rape drug, or something just as damning. It was a long shot, but by no means impossible.

She would dearly love to speak to Dora and see if she remembered anything. And the only way to accomplish that was to hang around the Fox's Lair hoping she'd appear.

* * * * *

When the band took a break, a lone piano player entertained with a medley of timeless favourites. Morgan sang along to Blue Moon. She'd been haunting the Fox's Lair in the hope of seeing the elusive Dora for almost two weeks with no luck. She glanced at her watch. Oops it was getting late and she had an early rise in the morning.

Then just as she stood up to put on her coat, she spotted her quarry lurking by the door. Oh my gosh! Scarcely able to believe her good luck, she made a beeline for Dora. This was a mistake, in retrospect, because the woman had looked alarmed and bolted. "Wait a minute, please," Morgan chased after her, but to no avail. Dumpster Dora was gone. "Damn, damn and triple damn."

To be so near and yet so far, was a damned bitter pill to swallow. Morgan coped with the disappointment, and anger at herself for blowing it, by throwing herself into her work. The travel agency was gearing up for the Christmas rush and that required all her time and energy.

Using work like a drug helped her forget about the rape and all the troubles associated with it. She really had to let go and move on. Yet still she speculated about that hellish night that changed her life, in quiet moments when she was alone. Would it have been less difficult to bear, she asked herself, had she been conscious? As it was, she remembered nothing. She decided that was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, in one way, not to have any memory of such a violation. Yet a curse that she would always have to live with that missing time from her life, when she was totally helpless and horribly abused.

Then just as she was succeeding -- at least somewhat -- in putting it all behind her, she was blindsided yet again. Before going to bed she switched on the television news and was shocked witless. A woman's face flashed on the screen. Morgan gasped. It was Dumpster Dora. She had been found in a city park with her throat slit.

### Chapter Seven

"They killed her because of what she knew." Morgan poured out her suspicions to Slater, and how she had reached them, as midnight fog shrouded the city. She had phoned him immediately after the broadcast. "They may have been watching when I tried to make contact with her," she said.

"I know you mean well, Morgan," Slater sounded cautious. "But your actions could have put you at risk."

"I realise that. But you can't know what it's like to be in my shoes. I'm desperately searching for answers in order to achieve some sort of closure." She paused to draw a ragged breath. "I tell you, there's more to this than meets the eye."

"In crime there usually is."

"I won't rest until these murdering raping bastards are behind bars. They bloody well have it coming."

Slater ignored the outburst. "Try to get some rest," he advised. "We'll be in touch."

The waiting, Morgan decided, was the hardest part. It left you feeling so impotent and helpless. Only the bustle of work saved her from total meltdown. But how on earth was she going to cope when the travel agency closed for the Christmas holidays? She shuddered. It wasn't going to be a "ho ho ho" time for her this year. "Bah humbug" would be closer to the mark.

To make it even worse, on Boxing Day a heavy snowfall blanketed the city and made getting about difficult and hazardous. Morgan paced around her apartment like a caged tiger. By New Year's Eve she was fit to be tied. Then Slater phoned and her world came into focus again. It was as if he had thrown her a lifeline.

"Have you arrested them yet?" She shot the question at him immediately. Then she rambled on a bit about how she'd been on pins and needles for weeks.

Slater was maddeningly unforthcoming and dodged the question. He said he'd like to see her later that afternoon.

"Sure thing." The thought of having something definite to do that might clear up this purgatorial hell she'd been in cheered her no end.

"Oh and Morgan," he added before ringing off. "Better prepare yourself for something of a shock."

Oh my God, what the hell did he mean by that?

What, when it came right down to it, could be more shocking than what she'd already been through during the past year? The truly miraculous part being that she'd continued to go to work throughout -- it had been her anchor in the storm -- and no one there had ever guessed that she'd been gang raped, followed, and targeted for murder, poor Shirley ending up the victim instead. It just went to prove how deceptive outward appearances can be. Was anything ever as it seemed?

But now Slater's ominous warning repeated itself mantra style in her exhausted mind. Better prepare yourself for something of a shock...something of a shock...a shock...a shock....

The fountain in the courtyard of the police building was encrusted with icicles and decorated with Christmas lights. Morgan threw in a coin, crossed her fingers -- she'd need every bit of luck she could scrounge -- and braced herself for whatever Slater was about to tell her.

"We've identified the woman found murdered in the park." Slater offered Morgan coffee, and topped up his own cup. "Her name was Rachel Bartholomew, and she had a long history of mental illness."

It was just as Morgan had suspected. Who else would go lurking around dumpsters and doorways? She recalled the wild eyes and uncombed hair. "I had her figured for a street person."

"Only by choice, when she wandered off." Slater rifled through the file. "The rest of the time she was either in a mental hospital or living on the military base with her family. Her father is a high-ranking officer."

"Oh wow, that is a surprise." Yet it validated her theory about Dora -- make that Rachel -- even more. "She must have known who the rapists were, and they had to silence her."

"Not quite in the way you think." Slater looked mysterious. "Now as I advised you on the phone, prepare yourself for a shock."

Yet on reflection afterwards, Morgan doubted that any amount of preparation could have lessened the impact....

* * * * *

The glitter ball spun coloured lights around the lounge bar. Morgan sat in the usual booth and willed herself to relax. It was Saturday evening and the Fox's Lair was packed.

Was she doing the right thing? She'd tormented herself with that question ever since she found out the truth about the rape. She took a sip of soda water, reflecting that if she'd stuck to non-alcoholic beverages the night she'd met Guy here, the rape would never have happened. Was that victim blame? She supposed it was in a way. Yet she was a firm believer in individual responsibility.

"Rachel became obsessed with Guy," Slater had said. "Although he showed no interest in her, she stalked him everywhere."

Morgan felt her jaw drop open. This was something she'd never even considered. But then why would she?

He went on to tell her that Rachel had become pathologically jealous of any other woman Guy associated with. "She was following him the night he met you."

Oh my God!

"She hung around the coffee shop and outside the room until he came out. He was furious with her, of course. But in order to keep the peace -- her father was his superior officer after all -- he agreed to have coffee with her before returning to the base."

Meanwhile, I was passed out in a drunken stupor, Morgan castigated herself remorselessly.

"Guy had taken the key to the motel room with him quite by accident. After opening the door, he'd slipped it into his coat pocket, and it had remained there."

That wasn't difficult to understand, Morgan acknowledged ruefully. Heavens the state he'd been in -- that they'd both been in -- when they entered that room would make a horned devil look tame. 'Horny' didn't even begin to describe it.

"When he went to the washroom, Rachel rifled through his coat pockets and took the key. Then when he left, she gave it to the four soldiers who raped you. They were in the coffee shop by this time, lacing their coffee from a flask of rum. "You guys interested in a gang bang?" she said. Then she went along with them to capture the action on camera. Her intention was to shame you in the eyes of the world, and in particular with Guy."

Oh my Lord! If only there were some way to turn back the clock and warn herself of the danger. To think that she'd once thought Guy had taken that horrible video.

"Did she follow me afterwards?" It was the first time Morgan had spoken since the startling revelations began.

"Yes. And since Guy was in Afghanistan she focused more on you than she normally would have done."

So she hadn't been imagining the persistent feeling of being followed after all. "Did she kill Shirley, mistaking her for me?"

Slater nodded. "She felt you were a threat to her getting together with Guy and wanted you out of the way. Coming from a military family, she'd been taught how to shoot from an early age, and had no problem getting a high-powered rifle. She took it from her father's study."

Poor, poor Shirley. Guilt swamped Morgan like an avenging tide. It was her fault that Shirley was dead.

"Don't go blaming yourself for that." Slater touched her shoulder. "You couldn't possibly have known there was a mentally deranged person out to get you." He walked over to the window. "The rapists were getting alarmed by Rachel's increasingly bizarre behaviour. They were appalled that she'd posted the video of the rape on the Internet. Then when she told them she'd killed Shirley, and threatened to report them for rape if they told anyone, they decided it was time to silence her."

"So they slit her throat in the park."

"Yes."

Morgan had been so lost in her thoughts that the waiter made her jump. She ordered another soda water.

Slater also told her that Guy had returned from Afghanistan and that he'd interviewed him. "As you can imagine, he was horribly shocked by what happened."

"So am I," Morgan replied with heartfelt passion.

Slater smiled. "You have a right to be. But now everything's been sorted out you can finally lay it to rest."

Before she left his office he handed her a slip of paper with a phone number. "It's Guy's," he explained. "It seems you never gave him any way to contact you."

Oh gosh no, we were far too involved in carnal pursuits for that, she lamented.

Her first instinct was to phone immediately. She'd been crazy about the guy even when she thought he might have taken part in the gang rape. Now that she knew he hadn't, the feeling of longing grew even more intense.

Yet she hesitated. Would contacting him open up the old wounds, or heal them? It was impossible to say. What a strange conundrum.

Then finally after weeks had passed, she summonsed up the courage to call.

"Morgan, it's so good to hear from you," he said. "You've been in my thoughts so often." Then he apologised for all she'd been through. "I'd like to kill those bastards," he said. "Jail time is too good for them."

The sound of his voice obliterated all her doubts. She couldn't wait to actually see him and touch him again. It had been so long...too long. They arranged to meet at the Fox's Lair.

Morgan realised that most people would probably consider it a weird choice, given the circumstances. But to her it seemed perfectly fitting and she hoped, cathartic.

The Saturday sounds of the Fox's Lair reverberated all around her. She sipped on her soda water and watched the door. Every time it opened she hoped it would be Guy...then eventually it was. He looked breathtakingly handsome just as she'd remembered. The only difference being that he wasn't wearing his uniform.

Morgan weaved her way through the crowd to greet him, and had the strange sensation of floating, of being propelled along by a force much older than time. She couldn't have resisted if she'd wanted to. "Oh God, it is so good to see you," she said.

"Likewise." He smiled.

All the old magic was back again but even stronger. She threw herself into his arms.

### ~~The End ~~

SUSPICION

###  PROLOGUE

"He's a devil." The woman spat out the words. Leaned so close, Lacey could see her pores. "He murdered my daughter."

"You...you must be mistaken. You have my husband mixed up with someone else."

"Not a chance. There's only one Denman Grant."

Lacey trusted Denman, completely. Couldn't believe he was a murderer. It all had to be some horrible mistake. And yet...

Lacey recalled the exchange now as she raced blindly through an unfamiliar landscape thick with fog. She gasped for breath, hopelessly lost. Footsteps pounded behind her, gaining ground. Her heart hammered so fast she feared it would explode.

If he caught her, after what she had just witnessed, he'd kill her.

Yet she couldn't keep up this pace. I'm a dead woman running, she decided with morbid conviction...

### ONE

Saturday night. The Signature Lounge pulsed with the beat of a jazz quintet. Dozens of couples thronged the dance floor. Lacey skirted around them, debating whether to leave, or not. She hated the bar scene. But the prospect of another evening spent alone had driven her here.

She weaved her way through the crowd, past scarlet sofas and ebony tables, to a corner nook beside a French window. From here she had a priceless view of the Vancouver skyline and harbour.

"Is this your first time at the Sig?" A skinny little weasel with lewd eyes sidled up to her.

She gave him the brush off and made for the washroom.

A line up formed for the toilets. She competed for mirror space. Peered at her reflection. Pale skin, blue eyes, dark hair with a widow's peak, black dress. She dabbed on more rouge.

By the time she returned to her corner, el creepo was gone.

The heat, noise and sexually charged atmosphere were dizzying. She ordered another gin, took it out to the terrace. Stars glittered in the midnight sky.

"Venus is brilliant tonight." Tall, fair and built like an athlete he leaned over the railing and gazed up at the heavens. She was drawn to him immediately.

He pointed to a large star that dwarfed those around it.

Lacey squinted up at it. "It's beautiful," she said.

"I'm Denman." He extended a hand.

She took it and introduced herself. His touch excited her. It felt just right.

They sat down at a table, ordered another round.

"I'm on leave just now," he said. "From Camp Renfrew."

"So you're a soldier." She noticed how luminous his eyes were, hazel spiked with green.

He nodded. "I come from a military family. It's a tradition with us."

"Well I don't do anything nearly as exciting." She toyed with her drink stick. "I work in a library."

A drunken crowd filed onto the terrace, loud and rambunctious.

She finished her drink. It was impossible to talk with the racket.

He smiled. "Let's dance."

A mirror ball spun lights around the floor. The gin and his closeness were having an effect. She was almost afraid to have him touch her. Yet longed for it too. Every nerve strained. She braced herself. When the moment came a tremendous rush of passion left her feeling giddy and weak. She breathed in the heady maleness of him. Caught the slight whiff of aftershave. It had been a helluva long time since she'd been so up close and personal with a male she found attractive.

She stumbled against him. "I'm out of practice," she murmured.

"So am I." He laughed. "I can't remember the last time I was on a dance floor.

Lacey smiled to herself. He thought she meant dancing. Oh well, that worked too.

When the music stopped, she still clung to him, reluctant to have the moment end. It had been a long time since her divorce. She had dated hardly at all. Declined from having sex with anyone. Now her hormones cried out for their due.

She watched the band fold up their instruments. Overhead lights were switched on.

"Let's go somewhere else." He extricated himself from her arms—gently, and led her outside.

The pebbly path led to the waterfront. She stayed close to him, held his hand. She knew he must feel it too, that age old clamouring of the senses that simmered and swelled and boiled to a fever.

A full moon shimmered on the water. She reminded herself that she'd only just met him, and knew nothing about him. Yet she felt safe with him. She shocked herself by contemplating going to bed with him...right away!

He had good manners and this appealed to her immensely. He'd shown her respect. Hadn't attempted to touch or grope her. This turned her on even more. Made her want to seduce him.

He put his arm around her. She turned towards him. He kissed her lightly on the lips. She melted inside. Pressed herself against him, and longed for more.

"I...I don't usually do this sort of thing," she felt confused, conflicted. "You know, pick up a guy in a singles bar and then..."

"I know," he interjected. He took her hand, led her towards a coffee shop at the end of the pier.

She felt as if she were sleepwalking.

He ordered coffee and sandwiches. She thought how incredibly handsome he was. Pictured him in his army uniform. Wow! She wanted to take him home and display him in a glass case. She giggled silently at the outrageous thought. She'd never really hoped to meet someone this dishy—and decent—at the Sig.

"Dig in," he said, and pushed a plate towards her.

She surprised herself by being hungry, quite ravenous, in fact.

They ate, and talked. He ordered more coffee and desert.

She tucked into the pie. Amazed and delighted by the easy intimacy.

A waitress cleared the table. Brought them more coffee. Still they talked. Lingered on. Lacey never wanted the night to end. So different to the mad coupling she'd throbbed for, but just as satisfying in its own way.

Dawn lightened the eastern sky. It made the café's neon sign look artificial, out of place, extraneous, like a party dress during morning rush hour.

They walked through a grey world not yet awake. "My car's over there." She indicated the corner parking lot.

In the confined space the tension built, superimposing itself between them like a third person. Lacey visualized it as an enormous red bubble, engorged with blood. She switched on the engine. Drove through deserted streets.

"Here we are." She pulled into her driveway. Surprised, in a sense, that the house she had left what seemed like an eternity ago looked unchanged. It was more like a cottage, really, with whitewashed walls and latticed windows. She unlocked the door. Punched the alarm code into the control panel. Felt suddenly awkward, unsure.

She knew he sensed her mood, her reticence.

"Get some sleep. I'll call you later today," he said.

It wasn't what she wanted. She turned to him, kissed him passionately on the mouth. "Please stay," she whispered.

They unleashed the passion, restrained all night. Grasping, touching, kissing, fondling...the room spun around Lacey and she saw silver stars. "This way," she panted, and guided him towards the bedroom.

She tugged off her dress. Lay down on the bed. Watched him strip to the skin. What a physique. Tanned, toned and perfect. He lay down beside her. She pulled him on top of her. Panting, feverish, she couldn't wait, her need too great now for politeness or preliminaries. He entered her. His knuckles grazed her clit. Waves of pleasure shot through her. The unintentional nature of the manoeuvre made it that much more exciting...illicitly thrilling in its intensity. She gasped, and wound her legs around his back, rocking in a frenzy.

"I won't last." He tried to draw back but she held him fast.

Neither will I, she thought, as she soared on a rocket to the heavens. The contractions at climax fiercer than she'd ever experienced before.

The coupling they had resisted all night had been faster and more furious than anything Lacey imagined possible. It was all over in a matter of minutes.

* * *

"You look like the cat who stole you know what." Petula "Pet" Campbell winked. "Let me guess, tall, dark and handsome?"

"Wrong." Lacey laughed. "Tall, fair and handsome."

Pet stacked a pile of books on a trolley. Sunlight streamed through the window. She was such a tiny little thing, Lacey mused, less than five feet tall, with a great mass of sandy hair and freckles.

"Where did you meet this hunk...Mr. Mike's?"

"Lord no, the music is so loud in there it blasts out the brain cells...I went to the Sig."

"Neat. I should try it."

"Look..." Lacey leaned towards her, lowered her voice. "Keep this under your hat, but I'm taking a week off."

"I didn't know you were due any holidays."

Lacey winked. "I'm not. I'm going to get a bad bout of flu."

"That isn't entirely a lie." Pet waved a finger. "You've got a bad bout of something." She grinned. "But have fun with the treatment."

Lacey waited impatiently for five o'clock. Would the day never end? She longed to see Denman again. She needed him to fill her up. Make her feel complete. They had spent the whole of Sunday in bed. She couldn't get enough of him.

He met her at the library gate. She guided him into a shop doorway and kissed him. He tasted of peppermint. The clamour of the senses began immediately. She pressed herself against him. Felt him grow erect. "I'm ready for bed," she murmured.

"Later." He disentangled himself. "I thought we could have dinner. Go see a movie."

"Sounds good, but I'm hornier than hell."

"No problem. We'll take care of that."

He took her hand. Led her towards the waterfront. A freighter rode at anchor under the milky eye of the moon. Lacey ached with excitement. They followed the path to an old building by the wharf. Starlings chattered from its broken roof.

When they reached an alcove at the back, private from any prying eyes, Denman pulled down her pants, unzipped his fly, and gave her the pounding of her life, up against a wall.

Lacey felt delirious with excitement. She never wanted this most erotic of moments to end. She moaned and ground her pelvis against him. "Don't move," he whispered. "Let me do you. Let me bring you off."

After that it was sheer bliss and torture too. Desperate to move, yet relishing the white hot sensations that coursed through her. He lifted her up. She wound her legs around his waist. Her climax when it came took her breath away.

* * *

Books stacked high on a trolley toppled down with a thud. Damn! Lacey searched around on the floor, picking them up. She'd become careless, she admitted, as a result of her preoccupation with Denman. His leave had ended a few days before, and he'd returned to base.

He had filled up every inch of her being so totally, in the short time she'd known him, she now felt empty and incomplete without him. She literally crossed off the days in the calendar until he'd be with her again.

Her house too, had taken on a bleak inverted look that cried out for the masculine touch. When Denman wasn't servicing her in bed—a rush of desire swamped her at the naughty thought—he had fixed up things around the place. The oven door handle that broke off in her hand every time she opened it now stayed put. Slats in the closet door that somehow got displaced one by one, now remained in perfect symmetry. And the hot water tap in the kitchen no longer dripped.

"Why don't you come over to my place for dinner," she invited Pet. Usually quite content with her single state, Lacey now craved company to fill the void left by Denman.

"Sure, if you order pizza."

"It's a deal. With all the trimmings."

Rain dribbled down from a sky like peat. By evening it had turned into a deluge. Gutters overflowed and drainage systems failed.

Pet shook her umbrella and propped it by the door. She joined Lacey in the kitchen. "When do I get to meet the devastating Denman?" She grinned. "Or do you plan on keeping him all to yourself forever?"

Lacey smiled. "I'd like to. But the damned army has other ideas. He's stationed at Camp Renfrew, near Victoria, and he won't get any leave for a while." She opened a bottle of wine. Set out the glasses. "There's a photograph of him on top of the dresser."

"Wow," Pet exclaimed. "He is a darling. Eyes to die for." She looked thoughtful. "Why don't you go and see him?"

Lacey winked. "I intend to."

* * *

The ferry ploughed through choppy waters, a grey sky presided. Lacey elbowed her way through a standing room only crowd, to buy a cup of coffee. She took it back downstairs to the boat deck and drank it in her vehicle.

Denman telephoned her every night. The sound of his voice and the erotic memories it evoked did wild and wonderful things to her. They'd had phone sex a couple of times, but it was a pale imitation of the real enchilada.

Seagulls screeched overhead as they approached Swartz Bay. The ferry banged and scraped against the dock. Lacey's heart pumped with excitement. Her throat felt dry.

Denman would be on duty most of the time, but they'd still have two whole nights to spend together.

Camp Renfrew looked as bleak and washed out as the rest of the landscape.

"I can't wait to get my hands on you." Denman winked at her. Settled her in his apartment. Showed her where to hang her clothes.

It was the first time she'd seen him in his uniform and it truly bowled her over.

What was it about a man in uniform, she pondered. The authority figure, perhaps? Or the immortal aspect, conveyed by the regiment it represented? One thing was for certain, while doing everything for a man, a uniform did nothing for a woman.

He caught her to him, kissed her until she felt faint and swooned limp against him. She tried to steer him towards the couch but he resisted. "I have to get back," he groaned.

She watched from the window as he ran across the parade ground. Rain drummed down in torrents. Fog crept in from the marshes.

When he returned he seemed different. Distant. Serious. He sat down on the armchair, pulled her onto his lap.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm being deployed to Afghanistan, at the end of the week."

Lacey felt as if a 747 had hit her. "I can't believe it," she murmured. "So soon."

"Look, I don't know how you'll feel about this," he said. "But I'd like us to get married before I go."

Lacey reeled under this double onslaught, both so unexpected. The first one unwelcome, the second cause for celebration.

"I realize we've only known each other for a short time." He toyed with her hair, massaged her neck. "But how long do we need? It's just so damned right."

"I feel that too." She traced the contours of his face with a finger. Etched it into her memory forever. "So when is the wedding?"

The night that followed was so acutely erotic it literally stole her breath away. She panted and heaved while he did the most wildly exciting things to her. Binding her wrists to the headboard with a couple of his uniform ties, and licking every inch of her until she begged for mercy, for release. Thus they climbed the staircase to heaven and hitherto unexplored heights.

* * *

"I thought you were only going for the weekend." Pet looked up from her computer. "Gosh Lacey, it's been over a week."

"I know. I know." Lacey sat down at her desk. "The powers that be weren't too pleased when I called and asked for a leave of absence, still...this will be the end of my wicked and absent ways...at least for a while."

"Why is that? Don't tell me you and Denman have split up."

"Hardly that. But he's been sent overseas."

"Oh that is bad luck. I'm sorry."

She was bursting to tell Pet about her brand new marital status. It seemed so incredible here in the light of day, and in such familiar surroundings. Sometimes she wondered if she'd dreamed the whole thing, Denman included. "Please keep this under your hat," she said. "At least for the time being."

"You're pregnant!"

Lacey laughed. "Not yet. However, I am married."

"You're not!" Pet exclaimed. She looked amazed. "Oh gosh, congratulations." She planted a kiss on Lacey's cheek and gave her a hug. "Where was the wedding?"

"Nothing fancy, a very rushed affair with an army chaplain doing the honours."

"Oh cool. So much more romantic that way."

"No time for a honeymoon, I'm afraid, and there's nothing romantic about that. Still we're taking a rain check on it."

"I bet you just are." Pet winked lewdly.

Lacey leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes followed the path of the fluorescent light tubes, which ended at the atrium in the foyer. The last few days with Denman had been sheer magic, yet bittersweet. It was like enjoying a feast, while the Sword of Damocles hung over your head.

"I'll be back in six months," he'd promised.

"I'll hold you to it," she replied. Trying not to spoil the little time they had left with the indecency of tears. It was just that so many Canadian soldiers had been killed in Afghanistan. She forced herself not to think about that, to remain positive. But damn it, it wasn't easy, and it wasn't fair. Just when she'd met someone so blissfully perfect, he was being seized away from her to fight in a savage land with murderous terrain.

They had said their final goodbyes at the ferry dock. Lacey willed herself to be brave.

"I want to see you safely off before I leave," he said.

Tears welled up in her eyes, despite her best efforts to stop them. She clung to him, unwilling to let go.

He extricated himself carefully. "Now I want you to drive right onto the ferry, and don't look back." He paused, added a touch of humour. "You don't want to end up like Lot's wife."

Lacey managed a weak smile. Then she stifled a sob with her fist, turned around and got into her car.

"You were a million miles away." Pet nudged Lacey gently, and set a mug of coffee in front of her.

"I know. Escaping to a happier time." She looked around the library. It had been her bulwark for so long. Gave her a sense of security, self worth. But now it seemed so empty and ersatz compared to the brief but passionate romance with Denman.

She hugged all the precious memories to her through the long lonely days that spun out ahead, and the even longer nights. They helped to sustain her and keep her sane. She never knew it was possible to miss someone so much. It fairly hurt like the Dickens.

Denman was stationed on the Pakistani border in some of the roughest terrain in Afghanistan. Phone contact was next to impossible. The most Lacey could hope for was the occasional letter, and sometimes if he got a couple of days leave, an email.

She marked off the days on the calendar, God, less than two months. It felt like an eternity. Her garden beckoned. Never had she tended it with such enthusiasm. It helped to dig deep in the soil and plant bulbs that would be in bloom once Denman returned. It felt good to be outside, listening to the birds and other living things. Getting back in touch with the basics, natural beings in the natural world.

On her knees tending the flowerbed, she heard the local newspaper being tossed on the front step. She rose...stiffly; she'd be getting housemaid's knee if she wasn't careful, and scanned the front page.

"Excuse me."

At first she thought it was the newspaper carrier. She turned around.

"I'm Grace Woodruff." Tall with silver hair pinned back in a knot, she had unusual amber eyes. "Look, there isn't any easy way to say this." She looked uncomfortable. "We could sit down and have tea and skirt around the issue for hours, but eventually it would have to come out. Have to be said." She drew a ragged breath. "He's a devil." She spat out the words; leaning so close Lacey could see her pores. "Your husband murdered my daughter."

"You...you must be mistaken. You have my husband mixed up with someone else."

"Not a chance. There's only one Denman Grant."

### TWO

Lacey felt the world tip. Her face drained of colour. She groped her way toward the lawn chair and sat down. This couldn't be happening. It was a nightmare. Soon she would wake up.

"Oh, I'm so sorry my dear." Grace looked contrite, genuinely so. She took the chair on the opposite side of the table. "But better you find out now, than become his next victim."

"Next victim?" Lacey could scarcely believe her ears. It had all happened so fast. Her brain couldn't compute, couldn't keep up. She realized she still held the trowel in her hand. She tossed it away. Took off her gardening gloves.

"Bridget was my only child, such a sweet girl, so young when she died. She looked a lot like you, too." She fished in her bag. Handed Lacey a photograph.

A tanned young woman standing on the deck of a yacht smiled up at her. "Look, I can't take this in..." Lacey shook her head. Shielded her eyes from the midday sun. "If what you're saying is true, why isn't Denman in jail?"

"Because they couldn't prove it," Grace snorted. Her mouth twisted in a bitter line. She leaned forward. "It's unlikely now that they ever will."

"What happened?" Yet she really didn't want to know. Quickly added the disclaimer. "I'm not saying that I believe this...not for a minute. There must be some mistake."

"I wish there was." Grace leaned forward until she was perched on the edge of the chair. "Bridget was an honours student, a brilliant girl, always excelled in everything she did. She met Denman when she moved to Toronto, shortly after graduation. He was stationed at Camp Borden at the time. They had a whirlwind courtship and married. I warned her she was rushing into it too soon...but it fell on deaf ears." She sniffed and reached for a Kleenex. "I had a bad feeling about that gent right off to start. A little too suave for my liking."

"Suave," Lacey would never have attached that particular label to Denman. Not her Denman. "How did they meet?" she asked.

Grace looked uncomfortable. "At a singles bar...although Bridget wasn't in the habit of going to such places. She must have felt lonely, I suppose. She'd never been away from home before."

Lacey felt slightly uneasy, silly, of course. More single people probably met at bars, than at any other venue. "I met Denman in a singles bar." She could hear the ring of defiance in her tone. "But then I daresay you already know that."

Grace nodded. "I've had a private detective agency following him, that's how I found you. It was obviously all part of his modus operandi. Preying on the lonely women he found in such places."

Lacey ignored the remark.

"He rushed her into a quickie marriage by claiming he was being sent overseas." Grace's odd amber eyes glinted with anger. "Silly girl, she fell for the romance of the thing. Less than a year later, he took her out boating on Lake Ontario, and threw her overboard. Her body's never been found."

"What? Just a minute, how do you know that?"

Grace chortled. "Bridget was as comfortable and experienced on the water as a fish. She'd been around boats since she was a tot. There is no way, she would get drunk, as he claimed, and somehow fall overboard in the middle of the night. The very idea is ludicrous. Bridget didn't even drink...at least never to excess."

Lacey allowed herself a slight sigh of relief. This wasn't as bad as she'd feared. There had been a boating accident, that's all. That didn't mean Denman was a murderer. Grace was a grieving parent, who just couldn't accept the tragic loss of her only child. "But what could his motive have been?" She demanded. "If they weren't getting along, there's always divorce."

"Money." Grace did not hesitate, or mince words. "He had a life insurance policy on poor Bridget."

"Well that isn't so unusual for married couples. Didn't she have one on him, as well?"

"Well yes," Grace admitted, grudgingly. "But he never intended for her to collect on it, the bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing."

Another thought occurred to Lacey. "Denman's in the army. There would have been a widow's pension for Bridget, if he'd been killed, wouldn't there?"

Grace ignored the question. She obviously didn't want these facts pointed out to her. They rather spoiled her one-sided version of events. As it stood, Bridget had had more to gain from Denman's death than the other way around.

"I'm not the only one who thinks Bridget's death was suspicious." Grace looked exasperated. "The insurance company refused to pay up."

"That's not altogether unusual if there's no body." Anger rose in Lacey. What right had this woman to have Denman followed—she thought of it as stalked—then come crashing into their world and try to destroy their marriage with all kinds of unfounded accusations. Wasn't there a law against this sort of public mischief and slander? She struggled for composure. "Have you ever thought that Denman didn't kill Bridget, it was just a tragic boating accident? People fall off boats all the time and drown, no matter how experienced they are on the water. Remember, Natalie Wood, the famous actress?"

"I can see this is getting us nowhere." Grace stood up, abruptly. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Lacey hunched in the chair. Refused to look up at her. Her world would never be the same again, thanks to this self-styled avenging angel with not an iota of proof to back up her slanderous accusations. She truly was the mother-in-law from hell.

Grace donned a pair of dark glasses. Sunlight reflected off the lens. "I can be reached here." She produced a card. Then she softened, touched Lacey's arm. "I know this has been a shock, and I hated to be the one to deliver it." She managed a smile. "I don't blame you for shooting the messenger. But please be careful, my dear."

* * *

"Oh she's probably just some nutter on a misguided crusade." Pet stirred her coffee with the end of a spoon. Rain lashed against the lunchroom window. A trio of seagulls squawked from a nearby rooftop. "She can't accept that her only child's death was an accident, so she's blaming Denman."

Lacey picked at a sandwich without appetite. "I did a search on the Internet and reams of stuff came up. Some cast suspicion on Denman. Others defended him as a man who not only lost his wife under tragic circumstances, but was now being accused of her murder as well."

"Have you emailed Denman about this?"

Lacey shook her head. "I don't intend to. He's in the front lines. We can only imagine how stressful that must be. I can't place this kind of added burden on him."

"I hate to see you so down at the mouth." Pet gave her a hug. "This calls for pizza and wine tonight. My treat."

Lacey laboured through the long afternoon on automatic pilot. Mired in the quagmire of her own doubts and fears, the world around her seemed unreal, unfamiliar. She almost wished at one point that she'd never met Denman. She'd been reasonably contented before. Lonely at times, of course. But heck, there were worse things in life than loneliness.

Then immediately, felt guilty. Couldn't imagine life without him. The Spartan, empty, orderly existence of the single could never compete with the companionship, laughter, intimacy, sharing, and completeness of life with the right partner. And none could be more right, perfect in fact, than Denman.

Perhaps he should have told her about Bridget, but in all fairness she couldn't really blame him for not doing so. There's had been such an intensely erotic, magical romance, and brief, so very brief. Something like that blasting in from the past, would have fractured it. Destroyed its fragile, ethereal quality.

In all fairness, she'd never confided in Denman about her two broken marriages, either. They both knew the other had been married before, of course. That was all that seemed necessary at the time.

All supposing Denman returned safe from Afghanistan, she wondered if their marriage would stand the test of time. Damn you, Grace. This is all your fault. Why did you have to come along like a great rusty pin and burst my pretty pink bubble?

"Come on, snap out of it." Pet breezed past Lacey's desk with an armful of books. "Let's look at the worst case scenario."

"What?" Lacey blinked up at her.

"All supposing Grace is right and Denman knocked Bridget off for her money...you don't have that worry, you don't have any."

Lacey squirmed in her chair. The remark forced her to confront a detail she'd forgotten about. "That's not altogether true. Oh my house is mortgaged to the hilt, and Denman already knows that, but I do have a life insurance policy. So do you, through work."

Pet dumped the books on Lacey's desk and pulled up a chair. "Gosh, I forgot about that. But it's only for about $100,000, isn't it?"

"I believe it's closer to a quarter of a million."

"We've got to stop this." Pet shuddered. "It's beginning to feel like Halloween." She stood up, collected the books, and then asked nonchalantly. "By the way, who is the beneficiary?"

"My mother. As you know she passed away a couple of years ago...I forgot about the life insurance policy...I've never changed it."

"Then Denman would be entitled to it."

Lacey's heart hammered. A feeling of dread swirled around her, heavy as an approaching thunderstorm. What was she going to do. If she cancelled or changed the policy in any way it would be tantamount to mistrusting Denman, and proof she'd bought into what Grace had said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Under the circumstances, I'm going to play it safe."

One part of herself, the trusting loving spirit that adored Denman, hated what the other was doing. She reached for the phone.

The insurance company tried to talk her out of it. The premiums were part of her employee benefit package, they reminded her, and paid for by the Library. It cost her nothing to have the policy, and would save her nothing if she cancelled it.

Lacey remained adamant, and they grudgingly acquiesced.

But what was the use of that if Denman—the reason she'd cancelled in the first place, and she squirmed with guilt at the thought—didn't know about it? She emailed him every day, although she only received replies from him every other week or so. She would add it into the message in a conversational sort of way.

"I've been cleaning up my financial affairs, and you wouldn't believe what a mess they were in. I didn't even remember to cancel my life insurance policy through work, after my mother died. I finally got around to doing that today."

There. It was done. She resolved to put the whole sorry matter behind her. She felt like the most disloyal of wives, a regular Judas in a skirt.

"You did the right thing," Pet assured her. She sipped on her wine, and then added hastily. "Not that I think you were in any danger before."

Lacey took the pizza out of the oven and dumped it on the table. "Of course you did. We both did."

"Aw, there's no crime in taking steps to make yourself more secure." Pet rolled up her sleeves, reached for a slice of pizza. "Better safe, than sorry."

"But to distrust one's own husband like this...what a start to a marriage."

"Under the circumstances, you'd have to be pretty thick not to recognize a risk...albeit a tiny one, could exist. Either way, there's no harm done."

"Once trust is shattered there's one helluva lot of harm done," Lacey retorted.

It wasn't Pet she was angry with though, it was herself. Yet she couldn't in all good conscience have let the insurance policy stand as it had been. Had to face the fact that she hadn't known Denman that long. Heck, even if she had of done, long-time spouses had resorted to knocking each other off for life insurance policies as well. It happened all the time. Then, of course, there was the matter of Bridget...

"Happy Birthday!" Pet suddenly piped up. Looked mischievous and fished a package out of her bag. "I bet you thought I'd forgotten."

Lacey beamed. She had felt a bit neglected with not as much as a card from anyone. Had rather hoped to have at least an acknowledgement of the day from Denman. Perhaps he'd forgotten? Or more likely, simply hadn't had the opportunity. Fighting on the front lines would tend to do that.

"Oh it's lovely, Pet." A long silvery scarf with tassels unfolded from a shocking pink box. She swirled it around her neck. "Thank you so much."

* * *

The package marked CFB Afghanistan, came by Registered Mail. Lacey's heart leapt with joy. Denman had remembered. She tore off the wrappings with trembling fingers. Opened the black velvet box. Gasped. It was exquisite. An antique gold wedding ring, encrusted with garnets. She slipped it on the marriage finger. There hadn't been time to buy proper rings for each other. Denman had promised her one when time permitted. God bless him, he hadn't forgotten.

"I bought it from a street merchant in Pakistan," he said in the accompanying letter. "It will have to do until I return."

Return to a disloyal wife like me, who doesn't deserve you. While you were shopping for a wedding ring for my birthday, I was suspecting you of murdering your first wife for her money, and scheming to knock me off for mine. What a disloyal beyotch I am.

She loved the ring. It made her feel close to Denman. She resolved to never take it off. Through the rest of the evening she admired it on her hand. Marvelled at how it sparkled in the firelight.

She wondered if there might be something she had missed earlier. Some scrap of information that might absolve Denman of any wrongdoing in Bridget's disappearance. Detectives ploughed through the evidence many times just looking for any such breakthrough. She had never fancied herself as a sleuth, but necessity, as her father used to say, was the mother of invention.

She logged onto the Internet. Scrolled through the articles about Bridget's disappearance. Scanned through several new ones, and revisited some previously read.

Nothing. She shook her head. At least nothing that leapt out at her the way it does in mystery novels. There were photographs of Denman, looking sinfully handsome in his army officer's uniform, and shots of Bridget both in casual clothes, standing on board a yacht, and in a cocktail dress, raising her glass in a toast to the camera. Lacey zoomed in on the latter.

Oh my God. It couldn't be. Her heart hammered out a tattoo. She peered closer. But it was! On the third finger of her left hand, Bridget wore a heavy gold ring, encrusted with garnets...her ring!

Denman had sent her his first wife's wedding ring. Lacey felt as if she were suffocating. But how had he come by it? You didn't take off a wedding ring. Had he prized it off Bridget's finger, before throwing her overboard?

### THREE

"I think you're overreacting." Pet sipped on her wine. The crystal glass sparkled in the flames from the fireplace. "It could just be a similar ring."

Lacey looked unconvinced. She glanced around her living room, hoping to extract some comfort from the familiar. "There's only one way to find out for sure."

"You mean run it past Grace?"

"Oh I know it's the worst kind of disloyalty." Lacey wrung her hands. Looked miserable. "But the uncertainty is eating me up, Pet."

"Can you trust her?"

Lacey shrugged. "I suppose it's possible she might say it was Bridget's ring even if it isn't, to make more trouble for Denman, whom she hates."

"My concern, exactly." Pet drained her glass, stretched her toes to the fire. "Have you heard from Denman since you told him you'd cancelled your life insurance policy?"

Lacey could hear the vain attempt at the casual delivery in her voice. So Pet too was beginning to wonder about Denman.

"I've received a couple of emails, but he didn't mention it at all." Oh blast, she thought, why did Grace have to come crashing into her perfect world—well nearly perfect—like the proverbial bad fairy. There again, it might have saved her life. This was something she didn't want to acknowledge, yet knew it couldn't be denied. She waited until Pet left before punching in Grace's phone number.

The housekeeper answered. Mrs. Woodruff was away, she said, and wasn't expected back for about a week.

Damn, disappointing and yet a relief at the same time. She really didn't want to hear that the ring had been Bridget's. Would rather, she admitted to herself, do the ostrich thing, at least for the time being. It had all happened so fast; she hadn't had time to come to grips with the possibility that Denman was a cold-blooded murderer. Impossible, part of her said. While the other, mired even deeper in doubt and fear didn't know what to think. The inevitable guilt at this lack of trust, stalked her like her own shadow.

She leafed through the articles about Bridget's odd disappearance from the family yacht. It was never far from her thoughts. Flickering firelight cast shadows on the ceiling. According to the weather office, it had been a calm night with an almost full moon. So she hadn't been pitched overboard by the lurch of the boat during a storm.

Lacey longed for some unbiased input on the case. Grace, by no stretch of the imagination, belonged in such a category. While Pet, doing the best friend thing, told her what she wanted to hear, so didn't either.

A Detective Neil Slater had been in charge of the investigation. Lacey drained her wine glass. She'd phone him tomorrow.

* * *

The Vancouver Police building had a fountain in the forecourt and overlooked the North Shore Mountains. The peaks were sprinkled with snow. Lacey noted the lights of the ski run. As a child, she'd thought it was the stairway to heaven.

"Glad you could come in." Slater had a slim build, cropped black hair and dark eyes. Lacey surprised herself by being immediately attracted. Guilt pangs stabbed her like daggers. She had thought herself totally enamoured and devoted to Denman. At least she had been until Grace threw a lighted match in the gas tank. I shouldn't be shooting the messenger, she thought. Yet couldn't help it.

"Can you tell me anything about the case?" Lacey fixed her gaze on a spot above Slater's head. Resisted looking directly into those hypnotic eyes of his.

"Not much, except to repeat what you already know. Bridget Grant appears to have fallen overboard and drowned while Denman slept down below in their cabin. He said she had been drinking quite heavily when he retired for the night. The next morning he found her gone."

"Do you believe him?"

Slater shrugged, avoided answering the question. "Now that you're married to Denman Grant," he said. "You are in a unique position to help us with the investigation."

"You're saying that it's not closed?"

"Cases of untimely death—especially when life insurance policies, or other financial gains are involved—are never closed."

It was as close as he would come, she believed, of actually admitting to suspecting Denman. However, he proved her wrong.

"Ms. Grant," he leaned towards her confidentially. "We don't know if your husband had anything to do with his first wife's disappearance or not. We certainly haven't ruled it out. But unless any evidence comes to light that points in that direction, he's off the hook."

Lacey forced herself to look directly into his eyes. "What about the cop's sixth sense," she asked. "Or do you have one?"

He laughed. "All good cops have it," he replied, noncommittally.

"Then all assuming you're one of them," she persisted. "What did it tell you about Bridget's disappearance?"

"That something didn't feel right."

It wasn't the answer she wanted to hear, yet had to admit it mirrored how she herself felt. "Thanks, for being honest with me," she said.

"Ms. Grant, I'm sure you've already considered this, but I'll repeat it anyway. You realize that you could be in danger?"

She nodded. "But there's nothing to gain financially from killing me. I cancelled my life insurance policy and told Denman about it in an email."

He raised an eyebrow. "Good thinking."

"You know I feel really rotten about this...suspecting my own husband of murdering his first wife...yet at the same time I know he didn't." Yet did she? How could she know what he was capable of. She'd only known him for a few weeks before they married. "I know it doesn't make any sense...Oh my God, it doesn't get any worse than this."

"I can understand your conflict," he said. "But you wouldn't be being fair to yourself, or realistic, if you didn't feel at least some suspicion over the circumstances of your predecessor's disappearance."

"My predecessor," she managed a weak laugh. "I never quite thought about it like that before."

"Be careful, Ms. Grant. Don't take any unnecessary risks."

"Yet you as good as asked me to be your spy. That sounds quite risky to me."

Slater shrugged. "It's in both our interests to find out what really happened to Bridget," he said.

"What were your impressions of Grace Woodruff, Bridget's mother? As I explained on the phone, she came to see me, shortly after Denman left for Afghanistan."

"Devastated by the loss of her daughter. She blamed Denman, but always rational, very much in control of herself. She comes from old money. Private schooling tends to instil that kind of self discipline."

Lacey looked thoughtful. "Not the kind of person who would go off the rails in some kind of insane agenda."

"I doubt it."

But could she trust Grace to be honest about the wedding ring? She hadn't told Slater about that. Didn't want to incriminate Denman. Didn't she owe him at least some loyalty? He was her husband, after all. Yet if he had murdered Bridget...No, it just wasn't possible. She recalled his easy laughter and the way they'd shut out the world, and merged with each other: body, spirit and mind.

"Thank you Detective Slater," she said. "You've given me a lot to think about." Like how you would be between the sheets, she thought with a chuckle. She flushed up guiltily at the naughty and inappropriate thought. My God she hadn't been married for more than a few months and already she was having licentious thoughts about other men. She'd always detested that sort of infidelity in others. Now she hovered on the brink of it herself.

She stood up quickly to hide her discomfiture. Shook hands with him. It felt good. A thrill shot through her. He looked amused. She wondered if he suspected. She felt awkward, confused. Stumbled out of his office and down to the courtyard. She could sense rather than see him watching her from his window. She threw a few pennies in the fountain for luck. Turned around and waved to him. He smiled and waved back.

Why did this unsettling attraction have to spring up now, of all times. As if she wasn't confused enough about her brief romance with Denman and Grace's sinister allegations. Now Slater had as good as endorsed them.

* * *

Lacey raked through Denman's things. She felt like the worst kind of a traitor, the snooping, distrustful wife. She was looking for something, anything, to give her a sense of who he was, other than the man of her dreams on one hand, and Grace's devil from hell, on the other. His clothes hung in the right hand corner of the bedroom closet. She remembered clearing a space for them and laughing, centuries ago in that idyllic other time. Loss of innocence was a sobering experience.

Nothing. A few coins in one pocket, and a Kleenex in another. That was it.

She searched through the dresser drawer she had assigned to him, when allocating the closet space. Socks, underwear, a couple of cotton sweaters. Found it as impersonal as the closet clothes, nothing to give any indication of a living breathing personality. Perhaps this was intentional, the criminal covering his tracks. Removing all clues.

Oh my God, what was happening to her. She had just thought of her husband as a criminal!

The only other belongings he had left in her house were a couple of suitcases. They were on the shelf in the hall cupboard. She lifted them down, fished through the compartments.

Nothing. No papers of any kind. He must keep all his identification documents and other personal effects with him. She was about to heave them back when she noticed a tear in the lining in the small case. She explored underneath it. Her heart beat faster. There was something there...

Oh good God, she couldn't believe this...she sunk down onto the floor, leaned against the wall...a business card from an escort agency called Midnite Mink. A provocative looking blond, nude except for a mink coat slung around her shoulders, stood against a background of night sky. Stars and a quarter moon winked over her shoulder. Lacey turned it over. A name was crawled on the back...Jenna.

She felt horribly betrayed. Denman went with prostitutes. She couldn't believe it. Yet at the same time realized this had been—presumably—before they met. He'd been single, after all, and in the army. Shit, it wasn't exactly uncommon. She hadn't been a virgin herself, even discounting her disastrous marriages. Had even indulged, on one mad occasion, in a one-night stand. Who was she to judge. Still...

That's what you get for snooping, she thought, and was about to put the nasty card back where she'd found it, when she paused, decided against it. This was the only link she had to anything at all in Denman's life. His family were scattered around the globe, he'd told her, and didn't get on, anyway.

She took a deep breath to still her soaring pulse, and punched in the number. An answering machine picked up. She left a message for Jenna.

The call was returned within the hour. "Sorry, I never discuss my clients."

But I bet you would if the price was right, thought Lacey. Aloud she said. "I can make it worth your while."

They arranged a meeting for later that day.

Oliver's Piano Lounge felt chilly, empty of customers at this early hour, dark too, with the only light coming from the bar. Lacey groped her way to a table. She'd arrived early, anxious and not sure she was doing the right thing, the respectable librarian meeting with a hooker. If only her mother could see her now.

Jenna was not what she'd expected, petite with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and wearing no makeup. She could be anybody's kid sister, the girl next door. A cheerleader. In short, she seemed nice.

Her surprise must have showed. Jenna laughed. "Hookers aren't all busty blondes with a ton of cosmetics," she said.

Lacey would have preferred Denman hadn't gone with prostitutes, which woman wouldn't, she reasoned. Yet at the same time, felt glad he had chosen this girl.

They ordered Singapore Slings, munched on pretzels. Lacey opened up. She started with her first meeting with Denman at the Sig, and ended with the moment she'd found Jenna's card in the suitcase.

"Wow!" Jenna sipped on her drink. "I can see why you're worried."

"Did he tell you anything that might be useful to me?" Lacey leaned forward. Rested her elbows on the table. "Did anything unusual happen? That's the sort of thing I want to know." She delved into her purse for the envelope containing five crisp one hundred dollar bills. Slipped it across to Jenna.

"Denman came to see me whenever he was in town."

"When was the last time?" Lacey waited on tenterhooks for the reply. Willing that it was long before that night at the Sig.

It was. Months before. She allowed herself to exhale in relief. Still, he could have gone with other prostitutes during this hiatus. Yet what was the difference, really, between paying for sex with a hooker, and simply shagging any female who was willing for the price of a dinner date? The latter were probably a greater health risk than a seasoned pro.

"He's a nice guy." Jenna drained her glass. "Not a creep like so many of the tricks."

"You're in a dangerous profession," Lacey said.

Jenna nodded. "Don't I know it. But with a five hundred dollar a day cocaine habit, what's a girl to do?"

Lacey was tempted to say get into a drug treatment program. Thought better of it.

"Hey, that's something Denman told me about his wife." Jenna sucked on the lemon slice she'd fished out of her glass. "She was addicted to drugs."

"You're kidding!" She compared this revelation to the picture Grace had painted of a perfect daughter who excelled in school and never put a foot wrong. "Did he elaborate at all?"

"Not really. Just sympathized with what I was going through on account of it."

Lacey nodded. Ordered another round. The waiter replenished the pretzel bowl.

"I sensed he wasn't happy in the marriage." Jenna shrugged. "But then that's hardly news. He wouldn't have been coming to see me if he was."

And married to a drug addict could hardly be described as a life in clover, Lacey decided, grimly. It must have been rough.

Jenna finished her drink. Glanced at her watch. "I've gotta run," she said. "I have a trick due in an hour." She stood up. "Don't judge Denman too harshly for going with hookers," she said. "Just about every guy has done it at some time or other."

Lacey nodded. Slipped on her coat.

"It's better than lying to some silly broad who wants a relationship in order to get into her pants. It's honest, at least, the straight goods. Nobody gets hurt."

"I agree with you there." Lacey stood up. They shook hands. She hadn't expected to like Jenna, but she did.

They walked through the heavy wooden door trimmed with brass, into an uncertain sunshine. Brown clouds hovered on the horizon. Traffic rushed past.

Jenna put on a pair of dark glasses. "There is just one other thing," she said.

Lacey could sense her hesitation.

"I don't know if I should mention it or not...I mean, it's probably not important."

"Please do, anyway." Lacey squirmed with impatience. Desperate for anything, anything at all that might help...

"Okay then. Denman was a bit kinky sometimes in bed."

"Really?" Lacey felt surprised. This hadn't been her experience with him at all. But there again, she had only slept with a tiny fraction of the men Jenna had been with, and lacked the experience to really know. Or at least, that's what she supposed. "In what way?" she asked.

"Nothing too dramatic. He was into bondage, tied my wrists to the headboard. Wanted me to lie still...play dead."

Lacey caught her breath. Leaned against the wall for support. She recalled another wall, down by the docks; when Denman told her to stay still, let him do her, bring her off. And in the most erotic night of uninhibited sex she'd ever had, he'd bound her wrists to the headboard with a couple of his uniform ties.

"I didn't know that was considered kinky," she murmured.

"Oh don't worry about it." Jenna touched her arm. "It's just that most guys want you to hump like mad...not do the cemetery thing."

Lacey cleared her throat. Grappled for control. "You're not suggesting this is anything like necrophilia?"

Jenna shrugged. "It could be. But, that's not what I had in mind."

"What then?"

"Well, sometimes dudes that are into erotic asphyxiation, you know strangling their partner for added thrills, start off with the play dead for daddy thang."

Lacey felt the world swim around her. "You mean strangulation that leads to unconsciousness and sometimes even death?"

Jenna nodded. "You'd be surprised how popular it is. There are a lot of sick fucks out there, and I've met more than my share of them."

"So you think Denman..."

Jenna shook her head. "No I don't. As I said before he's a nice guy. But since you're paying me for anything at all in the least bit unusual..."

Lacey stumbled home in a fog. She'd heard of erotic asphyxiation, of course. It was popular too during solo sex. Victims were often found hanging in their own bedrooms. A stack of pornographic magazines, women's underwear, and other telltale paraphernalia scattered around them.

But she just couldn't reconcile the thought of Denman...her Denman doing anything this sick. It was almost easier to suspect him of murder. She grimaced. A horrific thought suddenly occurred to her. What if he'd had his hands around Bridget's throat for sexual kicks and went too far? Perhaps he didn't kill her for her insurance policy, after all, but accidentally during sex?

Lacey wandered onto the road in a daze. A bus roared by. Startled, she stepped back onto the sidewalk. Reeled in the cloud of exhaust fumes. Fumbled for the walk signal switch on the post. Good God, she was being sucked down into a nightmarish abyss. She had to get a grip.

* * *

The library was hosting a children's storybook hour. The sound of their laughter drifted upstairs from the activities room. "Have you heard from Denman lately?" Pet looked up from her computer and peered at Lacey, over the top of her spectacles.

"Just a couple of brief emails. He said fighting is getting heavier."

"I know. I heard about it on the news."

She hadn't told Pet about her meeting with Jenna, and didn't intend to. Some things were too private even for one's best friend.

"You look as if you need cheering up." Pet walked past Lacey's desk. "How about Pizza and wine tonight?"

"Nah, I don't think so." The truth was she just wanted to be alone and nurse all her worries about Denman in private. "I'll take a rain check on it."

After work, she stopped by a convenience store, bought a frozen dinner. Stuck it in the oven as soon as she got home. Settled down to read a newspaper while it heated. She scanned the front page, just the usual stuff, nothing new or interesting. But on page three a story leapt out at her, complete with picture. Jenna! Lacey's hand flew to her throat. Her heart leapt in her chest. The pretty prostitute had been murdered!

### FOUR

"I'm surprised and disappointed that you failed to contact me." Slater looked tired. His desk stacked high with files. If your phone number hadn't come up when we traced Josephine Holt's calls—Jenna was a nom de ho—you wouldn't be here now. That could compromise not just one, but two investigations, Jenna's murder and Bridget's disappearance."

Lacey shifted guiltily in the chrome-trimmed chair. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I'm sure you must understand why I didn't want to get involved."

"You are involved, Ms. Grant. You were the last person to see Jenna alive."

"Well as I've already told you, Detective Slater, we parted company outside Oliver's at about five o'clock. That's it."

"It looks like the trick she told you about killed her."

Lacey shrugged. "Prostitution is a dangerous profession."

"So is police work." Slater grinned. "She didn't give you any indication at all of who this John might be?"

"Absolutely not. Why would she?"

"Oh I don't know, sometimes little snippets of information are divulged...along the lines of, she dreaded doing him because he's kinky...that sort of thing."

"Sorry." Lacey felt herself flush. Talking about sex to Slater embarrassed her, on account of her attraction to him. He had a sexual chemistry that hit her where she lived. She wondered again what it would be like to have him in her bed.

"She didn't tell you anything about Denman except that he used to look her up when he was in Vancouver, right?"

Lacey nodded. She had no intention of telling Slater—or anyone else for that matter—about the play dead thing. "He was single at the time and in the military..." she added defensively.

"I'm not here to judge morals, Ms. Grant. My job is to solve crimes. Which," he continued with an accusing glance in her direction, "is difficult to do when those involved attempt to suppress evidence."

"Consider me clad in sackcloth and ashes." She aimed for a levity she did not feel. Jenna's untimely death had shaken her to the quick.

"Look, I don't want to alarm you." He tossed down the pencil he'd been toying with and leaned forward. "But please take extra care when it comes to security issues."

Lacey's heart did a somersault. Her throat felt parched. "You think Jenna's murder had something to do with Bridget's disappearance?"

"We're not ruling anything out."

"Well you can't hang Jenna's murder on Denman, he's in Afghanistan."

"As far as you know." His expression was cryptic. "Besides, he didn't have to do the dirty work himself."

"What are you insinuating here, that Denman is not in Afghanistan, or that he hired a contract killer, or both?" She shook her head. "I think you're quite mad."

Slater ignored the outburst. "Jenna told you nothing whatsoever, that was significant?"

Lacey hesitated. "Just that Bridget had a drug habit."

He raised his eyebrows. "That confirms what we suspected. A couple of her friends we interviewed at the time hinted at it."

"Did you tell Grace?"

"Yes, and she denied it emphatically."

Lacey wasn't surprised. "Grace also told me that Bridget seldom drank alcohol, maybe a sherry at Christmas, or a glass of champagne on special occasions. Therefore, Denman's story that she must have fallen overboard while drunk just didn't wash." She looked directly into Slater's eyes. "Now that we know Bridget took drugs as well, it should let Denman off the hook as a suspect."

"But it also gives us more reason to believe the marriage wasn't as happy as Denman claimed it to be. Hence the suspicion he may have got fed up living with a druggy and dumped her overboard for the insurance money."

Lacey started to contradict him, to argue Denman's innocence. She felt desperate. Exhausted. Upset.

"Go home," Slater said. "Get some rest."

"I wish I could." She stood up wearily. The truth was she hadn't slept well in weeks. Who could with their world turned upside down and bloody. The tension was killing. She needed to release it. Run round the block. Go to the spa.

Her eyes met Slater's. Or get laid. The thought of the release this would offer made her legs feel weak.

"You could use a drink," he said. "So could I." He brought a bottle of Scotch out of a file drawer. Poured two shots. Handed her a glass. She tossed it back. Grimaced at the flame in her throat. Flame in her stomach. Flame in her loins.

Her eyes feasted on his throat, his arms, and his hands. She longed to run her fingers over his cropped black hair. Needed him to fill her up. His gaze hypnotized her. The atmosphere was super charged with sexuality. Seething. She moved towards him. Had a sense of floating, of unreality.

He moved away. Slammed his desk drawer. Broke the spell. "This is not a good idea," he said.

She felt slutty, ridiculous, like a dollar whore. He might as well have tossed ice water in her face. She'd as good as offered herself to him and he refused. Turned her down. Her cheeks burned. She grabbed her coat. Rushed from the scene of her shame.

Damn you to hell, Slater, she sobbed. The Raven Pub beckoned. She went in. Ordered a double Scotch. A blues band belted out a soulful number. "Care to dance?"

He wasn't bad looking, in fact, rather nice. She gulped down her drink. But only Slater could quench this fire within. She left the bar. Drove home in a daze. A police cruiser was parked in front of her house. Slater got out. She ignored him. Unlocked the door. Keyed in the security code.

"You didn't give me a chance to finish." He followed her inside. "I was going to add, someone might come in."

His presence, in the close intimate quarters of the hallway overwhelmed her. She felt delirious. Unreal. She threw her arms around his neck. Pressed herself against him. Ground her mouth against his.

He shoved her against the wall. Hiked up her skirt. Dragged down her panties. She moaned and thrust her pelvis towards him. He unzipped his fly and drove into her hard and fast.

* * *

"Congratulations on having the winning lottery ticket." Pet winked. "You've been sailing on cloud nine for weeks." A high wind battered the library windows. Dribbles of rain leaked out of a moody sky.

Lacey looked up from her computer. She felt glowing. Relaxed. Her thoughts dominated by Slater, in the nicest possible way. She hadn't realized that it showed. "Just sleeping better for a change," she hedged.

"If you say so." Pet raised an eyebrow.

There were some things too private to tell even a best friend. Lacey shifted in her chair. Took off her reading glasses. Rubbed her eyes. One of them was having committed adultery. That her husband was fighting overseas and in danger made the betrayal that much worse. Yet she didn't feel the anticipated guilt pangs. She had needed the connection and release of partner sex too much for that. If only it were that simple. She derided herself, for she had craved Slater just as much. Damn! Why did everything, involving sex, always have to be so complicated.

"Have you heard from Denman, lately?" It was almost as if Pet knew—or at least suspected—and was turning the screw. Driving her infidelity home.

"Not for a while." Of course, even when she had, it had been just a few brief emails he'd written on the run. She forced a smile. "Never marry a soldier."

On the way home she stopped by the Raven. Ordered a gin and tonic. Listened to the band. Her cell phone buzzed. Slater! Her heart took a leap and ended up in her throat. "Hi Neil," she said.

But it wasn't her heaven sent lover that confronted her. Slater was all business with crime on his mind. "I need you to drop by my office, Lacey. There's been a new development in the Jenna Holt case."

She didn't like the sound of this at all.

A gust of wind sent a spiral of leaves whipping round the courtyard of the police building, deserted at this late hour. Raindrops plopped into the fountain. Lacey tossed in a penny for luck. She'd probably need it, she thought dryly.

"We found Jenna's trick book." Slater leafed through a journal bound in red leather. "Beside each client's name, she listed their sexual preferences and peculiarities."

Lacey braced herself. She knew what was coming.

He snapped the book shut. "I don't have to tell you what her comment was about Denman." Slater's dark eyes were stormy. "I believe you already know."

"Look, I don't see what this has got to do with anything." She fixed her gaze on a spider crawling along the wall. Tried to control her rising anger. It was difficult to believe they'd been in bed together night after night, doing some of the most incredibly erotic things. He gave no indication of this. Acted dismissively, in fact. She felt hurt. Slighted. She drew a ragged breath. "I don't like being accused like this. I haven't committed any crime."

"Withholding vital evidence in a murder investigation is a crime," he reminded her, his eyes grim.

She felt herself flush. "Oh alright then, what did Jenna say about Denman?"

"She had him pegged as kinky. He liked to tie her up. Have her play dead."

Lacey did her best to look surprised. "Really, how odd she'd say that."

"Don't play games, Lacey. You're intimately involved with the suspicious disappearance of one woman, and the murder of another—just hours after you were with her." He pushed his chair back from the desk. Linked his hands behind his head. "Don't you realize you could be next?"

"That's ridiculous. There is no reason that anyone would want to kill me."

"Oh no?" He looked incredulous. "Until we find out what's going on here, no one is safe, particularly you. Do I have to remind you that it's your husband's first wife who went missing under suspicious circumstances, now the prostitute he frequented is murdered too." He stood up. "I need a cup of coffee. Would you like one?"

She shook her head.

"Very wise." He smiled, the first time since the tense interview began. "It's dark as pitch and bitter as brine."

Soon as he was gone she leaned across the desk and grabbed the trick book. Shocked herself with her own audacity. Heart thumping she flicked the pages. The names were in alphabetical order. When she got to the Ds, she traced down the names with a trembling finger. What if Slater came back and caught her? Dan, Darrell, David, Dave, Dean, God that woman had fucked everything in town, Denman..."Kinky, into bondage. Ties my wrists. Likes me to play dead."

She tossed the book back on the desk as if it had burned her. Still, it hadn't told her anything she didn't already know. She walked over to the window. On the horizon the North Shore Mountains crouched like stone monsters.

Slater returned. Locked the door behind him. "What did you do that for?" she asked. She heard the huskiness in her own voice. She really did want this man quite desperately. She forced a smile. "Are you going to beat it out of me?"

He laughed. "Don't you wish. Across the ass with a wooden spoon."

Desire leapt in her like an Olympic flame. Heavens, she was just as kinky as the next person...Denman included. Who was she to sit in judgment on anyone.

"Why didn't you do that last time...you know, lock the door, instead of saying it wasn't a good idea, someone might come in?"

"It was the middle of the day then. Now it's after midnight."

He cleared away a few files from his desk. "Lie down here." He guided her onto her back. Stuck a rolled up sweater beneath her head.

Lacey screwed her eyes shut against the glare of the fluorescent lights. Down below she was all glorious sensation.

"You're tense," he murmured. "We have to loosen you up." He slipped his hand up her skirt, manipulated her clit.

"Oh God," she gasped. "This is what physicians used to do to treat cases of hysteria."

"Bet they had a lot of return visits." Slater grinned.

Excitement coursed through her, almost painful in its intensity. She flailed around, cried out, and exploded. He withdrew his hand. Helped her up.

She felt drained. Limp as a rag doll. He sat down. Pulled her onto his lap. "Now tell me the truth about Denman in bed."

"You bastard."

He laughed. "I believe I already have the answer. I'd just like to hear it from you."

"Oh, alright. He was into a little light bondage, and sometimes he liked me to lie still during sex. That's it."

"How light, ropes and leather, or what?"

"Good heavens, no. Just my wrists loosely bound to the headboard with one of his ties."

"Sounds erotic." Slater touched her breasts lightly. He kissed her lips, her neck, and her ears.

"It was." The blood rushed through her at his touch, swelled her up. She unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly. He stood up. She knelt before him. Gave him head. He didn't last long. Doors slammed down the hall. "It's the cleaners," he said. "Time we were no longer here."

* * *

"I notice you never wear your wedding ring." Pet toyed with her coffee cup. Narrowed her eyes against a blinding lance of sunshine thrusting through the lunchroom window. "Did you ever get around to asking Grace whether it was Bridget's or not?"

"No. I telephoned her at the time, but she was away." Lacey bit into a sandwich. "I haven't called back." She chewed thoughtfully. "To be honest, I'd rather not know."

"I can understand that. Still, it may not be Bridget's ring, in which case, you've been worrying unnecessarily."

She knew Pet was right. As it stood it was just something else to cast suspicion on Denman, while he wasn't there to defend himself. But could she in good faith question the origin of her wedding ring, while Slater so vigorously ploughed her furrow? If it wasn't Bridget's ring, would she then wear it on her finger while intending to be unfaithful, while being unfaithful? I've turned into a deceitful hypocrite, she decided with a shudder. She felt lost. Ridiculous. Lacked the willpower to do what must be done—break off the affair with Slater—if she ever wanted to earn back her self-respect.

On the way home, she dropped by the Raven. It had become a habit. She was drinking too much. But didn't seem to have the willpower to stop that, either. The gin tasted bitter. She added more tonic. Tapped her foot to the beat of a jazz quartet. How could she phone Grace without admitting to doubting Denman? Any way you looked at it, it was disloyal. Yet who else would know what Bridget's wedding ring had looked like? She felt conflicted. Miserable. It went round and round...oh puleaze let me get off this fricken merry-go-round.

If only Denman would come home. Yet she didn't really want that either, at least, not right now, with so much up in the air. Sometimes she found it difficult to even remember what he looked like. How he felt. His touch. His smell. Her lust for Slater was so powerful it had obliterated all traces of past lovers.

She decided to call Grace, anyway. Try to arrange a meeting under the auspices of apologizing for her abruptness the last time they'd met, and asking about Bridget's drug addiction. She would keep Jenna out of it, of course. Say an army friend of Denman's had told her. She'd wear the wedding ring, and watch for Grace's reaction.

She punched in the number.

"You must be psychic!" Grace sounded delighted to hear from her. "I was just about to phone you. I made contact with someone the other day, I'd like you to meet."

The Woodruff mansion, an ugly chunk of granite with turrets, a dozen chimneys, and a widow's walk, loomed out of a park-like setting in the exclusive Shaughnessy district. It shouted money, money, old money.

"So glad you could come." Grace smiled. Sunlight glinted off a stained glass window in the hallway. She guided Lacey into the sitting room. Heavy dark furniture competed for floor space.

"The woman I told you about hasn't arrived yet." Grace poured tea from a silver pot. Handed Lacey a cup. Offered cake and biscuits. "She really has a most incredible story to tell."

I'll bet. Lacey thought, grimly. But is it true? She had been squirming ever since she learned about this former wife of Denman's. While she sipped her tea she made sure the wedding ring was on full display.

If Grace noticed it, she gave no sign. So far, so good. She hoped fervently that the ring had not belonged to Bridget. But had been bought, as Denman said, from a street merchant in Pakistan.

"I was told something recently which disturbed me." Lacey chose her words carefully, as diplomatically as possible. "A friend of Denman's told me Bridget had a drug addiction problem."

She fully expected Grace to deny it unequivocally and vehemently. It surprised her, therefore when she didn't.

"Bridget got in with a wild crowd at college." Grace shrugged. "They were a bad influence on her. Encouraged her to smoke marijuana. But she kicked the habit long before she met Denman."

"No cocaine addiction."

Grace shook her head. "Cocaine addiction is easy to spot. Bridget displayed none of the signs."

Virginia "Ginger" Parker wore a kaftan, oversize spectacles and large golden hoops in her ears. She had blond hair and a voluptuous figure. Nothing like either herself, Bridget or Jenna thought Lacey, therefore, a testament to Denman's eclectic taste in women. She felt a painful stab of jealousy.

"I'm sorry we couldn't have met under more pleasant circumstances." Ginger touched Lacey's arm. "I can only imagine how hard this must be for you."

"It's been a shock." Lacey nibbled on a shortbread finger. Braced herself for what was to come.

"As I told Grace, I met Denman in a single's bar—the Inkspot on Davie. He had an appeal about him, a ton of charm. Unlike so many of the no-class dudes just scrounging for poontang. I fell big time" She grimaced. "We actually spent the entire night in a café."

The room swayed around Lacey. Oh God that was exactly the same MO as he'd used with her. She recalled how they'd chatted until dawn at a coffee shop by the pier. She tried to conceal her shock by reaching for another biscuit, stirring more sugar into her tea.

"Things went just great for a while." Ginger took off her enormous spectacles, rubbed her eyes. "Then he started to introduce all sorts of kinky stuff—handcuffs and blindfolds—into the bedroom. I was uncomfortable with it, but hell I was so hooked on the guy by this time, I didn't say boo."

It was similar to what Jenna told her, poor Jenna, who wound up dead just a couple of hours later. Lacey shivered despite her best efforts to appear calm and unaffected. Was Denman just a con man who preyed on lonely women? Surely not, in fact, she refused to believe it. Yet...

"That sort of bondage play is actually quite popular." Lacey felt compelled to defend Denman, who after all was still her husband. "Check it out on the Internet. I don't think you can judge someone too harshly, just because they indulge in it."

"If that was all, I'd agree with you." Ginger accepted another cup of tea from Grace. "But it was what happened afterwards that really blew my mind."

Lacey steeled herself for the very worst.

"He said he was being stationed overseas, on a peace keeping mission to Bosnia, and asked me to marry him before he left."

This cannot be happening, Lacey bit down on her lower lip. Fought for control. This was exactly what had happened to her.

"I was more than willing, of course..."

"Where did you marry?" Lacey leaned forward. She recalled the tiny chapel on the base and the arm chaplain officiating.

"In the vestibule of my church."

Relief flooded over her like a friendly tide. At least the wedding ceremony had been different. But then if Ginger hadn't been a member of a church...

"After he left for overseas, I seldom heard from him except for the occasional phone call and emails."

Déjà vu jumped up and bit Lacey hard. So much of this was the same it was fricken well uncanny. Could it all be merely coincidence? She'd heard of stranger things happening, but for the life of her couldn't recall when or where.

"The next thing I knew someone tried to shove me in front of a commuter train."

"But on a crowded platform...the rush of the crowd. How can you be so sure it was deliberate?"

Ginger shrugged. "I just am. I could feel hands on my back and then I was pushed, hard. Fortunately for me, someone standing beside me pulled me back in the nick of time."

Lacey felt sweat break out on her forehead. She felt sick. Nauseated. She forced herself to ask the inevitable question, while dreading the answer. Heck, she already knew what it would be. "Why would Denman want to kill you? What could the motive be?"

Ginger chuckled, a mirthless bitter sound. "Money, what else? If the attempt on my life had been successful, the bastard would have collected a quarter of a million big ones from the insurance company."

The room got grainy. Lacey swallowed. Tried to take deep breaths, in through her nose and out again through her mouth. "Are you saying you didn't know about the insurance policy?"

"I forgot about it, Lacey. It was one of those things through work."

Oh God, this was just about as bad as it gets, too many similarities. This was in no way a series of coincidences. She had married a cold-blooded murderer, and heaven only knows how many women he had killed for their money.

She refused Grace's offer of dinner. Drove home in a mental fog. Had Denman really been stationed overseas after he married Ginger? The thought hadn't occurred to her before. If he hadn't—shivers rippled down her spine—was he in Afghanistan now?

She parked haphazardly on the road outside her house. The porch light wasn't on. The place cloaked in darkness. She stumbled up the pathway, fumbled at the door with her key.

"Here let me do that." The familiar voice came out of nowhere.

She spun around. Terror made her heart beat like bat wings. "Oh my God...Denman!"

### FIVE

He was in uniform. As devastatingly handsome as always, though his face looked thinner. He'd lost some weight. Once the initial shock had worn off, a million conflicting thoughts raced through Lacey's mind. She had to get a grip. Act as normally as possible. "I...I...you're the last person I expected to see." She finally regained the power of speech. Forced herself to hug and kiss him. "You should have let me know you were coming. I would have stayed at home, prepared a special dinner..."

"I didn't know myself until the last minute." He tossed his cap down on the hall table. Ran a hand over his hair. "I was assigned to a funeral detail." A shadow passed across his face. "An old friend...blown up by a roadside bomb."

"Oh I'm so sorry." Lacey plugged in the kettle. Splashed some Scotch into a couple of glasses—and man could she use it—her hands trembled like saplings in a gale. She knocked it back in a swallow.

"I only have about forty-eight hours." Denman sat down on the couch, kicked off his shoes.

"So short a time." Lacey felt as if she were watching one part of herself perform normally, on a sort of automatic pilot, while the other held back frozen in fear and doubt.

"We better make the best of it then." She sat down beside him, took his hand. "I've missed you, so very much."

He examined the wedding ring on her hand. "It suits you," he said.

If only he knew she'd never worn it until that night, and only then to try and trigger a reaction from Grace Woodruff. She was struck by how what happens on the surface—what shows, what appears to be—is so seldom the same as the life of the spirit lived within.

What was he really thinking at this very moment? Planning how to kill her, perhaps, the same way as he'd done with Ginger, and God only knows how many other women.

She had to stop these thoughts. Give the performance of her life, because, her very life might depend on it. Good actors said they got right into the part they were playing, believed it, and lived it. She must click back to the day prior to Grace's devastating visit. Like going into a computer registry, and choosing a date that preceded the current glitch.

Denman finished his drink. She gave him a refill. Poured another for herself. He looked so pale and tired, now she could see him properly, in the light from the floor lamp, a surge of pity welled inside her. Why not? She loved this man. He was her husband. "It must be rough over there...in Afghanistan," she said.

He nodded. "My tour of duty ends in four months. It can't be soon enough for me."

"Nor me. I worry about you...Every time I hear of another attack...more casualties...I dread that it might be you..."

He pulled her onto his lap. They kissed passionately. Hugged each other so tightly, Lacey found it difficult to breathe, but oddly, didn't care. Never wanted to let go.

She unzipped his pants. Pulled down her panties. Straddled him. He kissed her breasts. Desire mounted. She tossed her head back. Rocked faster and faster. Frenzied. She gasped. Exploded. "Oh God, it's always so good with you," she whispered.

"I hope that doesn't mean you've tried somebody else, since I've been gone, and been disappointed." He laughed.

Oh Lord, if he only knew. Slater's dark eyes flashed before her. He was the very last person she could afford to think on right now. Be gone, be gone, she willed away his image. Out damned spot...out.

She joined in the laughter. Cuffed him playfully. "Not a chance." She marvelled at how easily the lie slipped off her tongue. Extricated herself from his arms. Busied herself in the kitchen. "Do you want coffee with the sandwiches or another Scotch?" she called out.

No response.

She went back into the living room—cautiously. Found him stretched out sound asleep on the couch. He must have been exhausted. She covered him with a blanket. Switched off the lamp.

Towards dawn he joined her in bed. She hadn't expected to sleep a wink, but must have dozed off anyway. She'd deliberately read for most of the night. Anything to keep her mind focused on something else. It wasn't easy though. Thoughts of Grace and Slater ambushed her at every opportunity.

"I didn't want to wake you," she whispered. It felt so good to sleepily pull his weight down on top of her. Raise her pelvis to meet his thrusts.

"I haven't slept properly in weeks," he murmured. "I'm jet-lagged now, as well."

He seemed vulnerable, fragile even. It made her feel protective. How on earth could she have feared this man?

When she woke later in the morning, he was gone. "Denman." She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and pulled on a robe. Stumbled into the living room. Not there. Not in the kitchen, or bathroom, either. She opened the door, looked outside.

He sat in the lawn chair, with a glass of orange juice in his hand. "So you finally woke up," he said.

She perched on his lap. Kissed his lips, ran her fingers through his hair.

"What do you want to do today," he asked.

"I haven't had time to think about it." She smiled. Thrilled as he touched her breast, lightly through the robe. He played with her for a while, teasing, arousing until she ached with longing. She moaned, and guided his hand to where she wanted it the most. He stroked her wetness. She gasped, tense with need, her legs rigid. The climax when it came left her breathless. Limp as a wilted flower.

"It's a lovely day," he whispered. "I thought we could go sailing."

"Sailing?" The post orgasmic bliss disappeared instantly. Her heart pounded. The bright morning spun crazily around her. This couldn't be happening. He intended to pitch her over the side, the way he'd done with Bridget. She stood up, whispered something about having to go to the bathroom, and escaped indoors.

She climbed into the bathtub on shaky legs. Turned on the shower. Tried to erase all thoughts from her mind.

"So how about it?" He was in the kitchen when she finally emerged, making a pot of coffee.

"I...didn't know you had a boat," she replied, evasively.

"It's a friend's." He popped bread into the toaster. "What do you say?"

She could refuse. Make some excuse. Yet strangely, she didn't want to. Had resolved to get it over with. Meet her destiny head on. "I'd love to," she said.

Before they left, she slipped the revolver, bought years ago when she first started living alone and felt nervous, into her purse.

Vancouver harbour teemed with shipping. Freighters, pleasure boats, water taxis and float planes. Lacey shielded her eyes from the glare of sun on water. Felt the motor yacht lurch slightly as they sailed beneath the Lions' Gate Bridge.

Out here with the fresh breeze in her hair and the Stanley Park shoreline specked with people, her earlier fears seemed unfounded, ridiculous.

"Here, you're turn," Denman smiled. "Take the wheel for a while. I'm going to raid the galley. See what I can find to eat."

"Oh I'd rather not," she protested. "I'm likely to land us on the rocks."

"Not a chance, it's all clear sailing now. I've set the course. Just hold it steady."

She'd never steered a boat before. Approached the new experience, gingerly.

"Relax, you're doing fine."

She flashed him an uncertain smile. But soon began to enjoy the feeling of control combined with freedom. The healing energy of the water imbued her with a sense of peace. The spectre of Bridget's disappearance from a boat much like this one receded.

"We'll make a sailor out of you yet," he joked.

She fixed her eyes on the route ahead, obliterated for a moment by the flight of a heron. Beautiful! She could hear Denman rummaging through the cupboards, below. Then all fell silent.

"I found a can of stew." He came up behind her so quietly she jumped. Like a cat, she thought, and the image of a silently stalking feline, did nothing to comfort her.

He took the wheel, guided the boat towards a secluded cove. Cut the engine.

She followed him below.

The galley was cramped, intimate. A hurricane lamp sat on the table. He opened a bottle of wine. Poured it into glasses. "Here's to us," he said.

She sipped at the wine. Picked without appetite at the stew. The close quarters made her feel uneasy, claustrophobic. "Let's go on deck," she said.

Dusk had fallen. The sky smudged brown and red on the horizon. Soon it would be dark. She shivered. The atmosphere had changed, become sinister.

He topped up her glass.

She noticed a wind had got up. Waves rocked the boat. She gulped down the wine. It didn't help. Made her feel groggy and fearful, instead of just fearful. She reached for her purse. Felt the comforting bulk of the revolver. "I'll wash up the dishes," she said.

"No hurry, they can wait." Denman beckoned to her. "There's a very comfortable state room below." He winked.

She felt like screaming, I want to go home. Instead, she gritted her teeth and did her best to enter into the spirit of the moment. She followed him below.

He stripped the cover off the bed. Guided her towards it. The physical contact helped alleviate some of the tension. Her body responded to his touch. Grabbed onto him for more. "Oh that feels good...so good," she murmured. Desperately trying to lose herself in the flesh throbbing world of the erotic. Blot out from memory the rising waves and the dark, moonless night devoid of stars.

The boat lurched, more dramatically this time. "I think we might be in for a storm," she said.

"I believe you could be right." He grinned, teasingly. Kissed her lightly. Then he got up, pulled on his clothes. "In which case, we should start back."

She followed him up on deck. Watched him start the engine, guide the boat back the way they had come. It would be so good to set foot on terra firma, again.

She went back down to the stateroom, spread up the bed. Her body still throbbed from his touch. God, he was good in bed. The way his knuckles grazed against her clit as he entered her. She could never get enough of that. She fixed her makeup in the mirror above the galley sink. Washed up the dishes. Wiped down the table.

A sudden ear-splitting crash ripped through the boat, sending it spinning. The impact tossed her against the far wall. Oh my God, what was that?

"We've hit a rock." Denman appeared in the hatchway. "It's ripped the hull. We're taking on water."

Lacey's heart hammered so fast she feared it would burst, she was going to drown, she knew it. Had known it from the moment Denman suggested they go sailing. It was all part of the plot to kill her. To drown her the way he'd done Bridget.

"Come on," he beckoned to her. "We're listing. We don't have any time to lose."

She forced her frozen legs to move. Grabbed her jacket. Strapped her purse with the precious revolver inside over her shoulder and across her chest. He pulled her on deck. The boat had tipped over to one side like a drunken man.

Darkness surrounded them, opaque, unforgiving. Panic gripped her. She couldn't catch her breath.

Denman helped her into a life jacket. Showed her how to tie it. Put one on himself. "Don't worry, it's going to be alright." He dragged out the dingy. Lowered it into the water. "Get in," he said. She scrambled to obey. Gripping the edges, as the hiss and gurgle of the waves washed against the sides.

"It's not far to shore." He took the seat opposite her. Reached for the oars.

She'd lost the power of speech. Her throat paralysed with fear. It was like a nightmare. She noticed a buoy nearby. A warning there was a hazard. Had Denman deliberately run the boat onto the rocks? She reached into her purse. Removed the gun. Stuck it into her pocket. Kept her hand around it.

He could pitch her from the dingy any minute. The temperate was dropping. Her teeth rattled from cold as well as fear. Even with the life jacket she wouldn't last long in those dark and freezing waters. Besides, and this was something she'd always regretted, she couldn't swim a stroke.

How deep was the water here, she wondered? Oh glorious firm ground. If she ever made it safely ashore, she'd never venture out on a boat again.

"There's flares in the cupboard under your seat." Denman sounded breathless from his exertions. "Get them out."

She did as she was bid. He took them from her. Sent three swooshing into the air in quick succession. They lit up the darkness. She could see trees up ahead. They weren't far from shore.

"About fifteen minutes," he confirmed her thoughts. "But it'll take longer tonight. We're rowing against the tide."

We'll never make it, she thought pessimistically. At least, I never will. This is all part of the plan. She gripped the gun for comfort.

A boat horn blasted nearby. Sudden. Deafening. She jumped so violently she feared she might upset the dingy. Lights pierced the darkness.

"It's a rescue boat. They saw the flares." Denman tossed down the oars. Sent another flare skyrocketing into the darkness.

The dingy rocked in the wash from the approaching boat. She grabbed onto the side. Prayed for courage. If Denman meant to kill her, he'd have to make his move now.

There was no time to waste. He reached towards her. She was ready for him. Went for the gun.

"We're coming alongside," a voice suddenly roared through a megaphone, so close it was deafening. Lacey let go of the gun. Left it in her pocket.

"We're here," she screamed. Finally regaining the ability to speak. She waved her arms around and sobbed. "Can you hear me?"

It was imperative for her safety that they had.

"Roger to that. Loud and clear."

Thank God. She collapsed onto the floor and wept.

### SIX

"You had one helluva experience." Pet cleared the dinner plates from Lacey's kitchen table, and then topped up the wine glasses. "How are you holding up now?

Lacey shrugged. "I'm on automatic pilot. Have been ever since that heart-stopping moment when Denman appeared at the door."

"Talk about deadly timing." Pet shook her head. "Right after what you heard at Grace's."

"I had to put all that out of my mind."

Pet looked thoughtful. "Don't take this the wrong way, I'm not being judgmental. Nobody can possibly say what they'd do in any given situation." She took a sip of wine. "But it might have been better if you'd simply hit him with the lot of it: Grace, Bridget and Ginger."

"You're probably right. Although I was still reeling from what Ginger said. Besides he only had forty-eight hours leave, I thought it best to keep things as pleasant as possible."

"I can understand that."

Lacey swilled the wine around in her glass. "Of course, now it's left me more in limbo than ever. And confused, utterly and hopelessly."

"That's hardly surprising. But remember, only four more months and he'll be home for good. You can have it out with him then."

"I've been having an affair with Neil Slater." There, it was out. She felt stunned by her own audacity.

"I rather suspected that."

Lacey drained her glass. "It's made a difficult situation even more complex."

"It'll all work out. Give it time."

"Time is something I thought I'd run out of on that boat."

"I don't think Denman was behind that. If he'd wanted you to drown, why wouldn't he have pitched you overboard as soon as it got dark? Why help you into a life jacket and a lifeboat? It doesn't make sense."

Lacey refilled their glasses. Set out a bowl of potato chips. She'd been thinking along the same lines herself. Gone over it all a hundred times. Her hyper fearful state could have made her overreact when Denman reached for her. Perhaps he just wanted to hold onto her. Make sure she didn't fall overboard. To think she was ready to shoot him. Would have done if the rescue boat hadn't arrived.

"It all comes back to Grace." Pet munched on a chip. "If you disregard everything she's told you—including Ginger—what have you?"

"Ginger was pretty convincing." Lacey grimaced. "How could her experiences with Denman be so similar to my own, if she were just making it up?"

"Grace could have coached her. Remember, Lacey, she had Denman followed. She knew when you met him at the Sig that you spent the rest of the night together at a café. Then married just before he was deployed to Afghanistan."

"I've thought on that, of course. But it all seemed so genuine. If Ginger was lying then she's a damned good actress. Besides, what could Grace's motive be, except hatred of Denman?" She toyed with her glass. "It seems like a lot of trouble to go to just to get back at him."

Pet shrugged. "The loss of her only daughter could have unhinged her mentally. She blames Denman. Has made it her own personal crusade to ruin his life."

"Yet she admitted Bridget had experimented with drugs, which I thought was quite candid of her. It showed a certain honesty, I didn't believe was there. I tend to think she's of good character, Pet, which rules out any deliberate lying on her part."

"You could be right. But tragedy can twist people into bitter caricatures of their former selves."

"What about my wedding ring? If she'd been out to make trouble, I'm sure she would have suggested it might be Bridget's—we know how similar it was—in order to stir the pot even more. I can't see someone intent on making waves, letting an opportunity like that slip by."

"But you don't know that she even noticed it. Her mind was on other things, remember?"

Round and round, thought Lacey. This was getting nowhere fast. For every positive interpretation of these events, which had so unhinged her life, there was also a negative.

"Getting back to Denman," Pet steered the conversation away from Grace. "He knows you cancelled the life insurance policy, so he'd have no motive to drown you. Now would he?"

"I know...I know...that's what I keep telling myself."

"Check up on Ginger's story. If she and Denman were once married, it'll be a matter of public record."

"I've already contacted the Registrar General. They're doing a search for me."

"How did you and Denman part company?" Pet looked inquisitive. "After you suspected he intended to pitch you overboard, it couldn't have been easy keeping up appearances, particularly of the close and personal kind."

"We hardly saw each other. By the time he'd filed accident reports, contacted his friend who owned the boat and made a statement to the insurance company, his leave was over."

Her body though, somehow blissfully unaware of her mind's suspicions, still remembered his touch, and longed for it.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me about the boating incident?" Slater cleared files off his desk. Dumped them in an out tray.

Lacey noticed he didn't say "accident." She wasn't really surprised.

Denman was his prime suspect in Bridget's disappearance, after all.

She shrugged. "I didn't think it was relevant."

"Not relevant!" He looked aghast. "Here is a guy who took his first wife out boating and she never returned. He takes you out boating and you almost met with the same fate. What is wrong with you, Lacey? Please wake up before it's too late."

"Even if Denman did drown Bridget for the insurance money, which I don't believe for a minute, why would he try and to the same thing to me, when he knows I cancelled mine?"

"You told him this in an email, if memory serves me correctly. Are you sure he received it?"

Her heart started the old familiar pounding again. She hadn't thought of that. And as Denman had never mentioned it, perhaps he didn't. In which case, the way he reached towards her in the dingy took on new and sinister meaning. How much of this was she imagining, she wondered, and how much was real? There was a name for those unable to distinguish between fantasy and reality—delusional. Sometimes she feared she was going quite mad.

"There's nothing else you've neglected to tell me, I hope?"

Lacey shook her head. She had no intention of telling him about Ginger and her damaging accusations against Denman, or, about her own suspicions regarding her wedding ring. He already had a noose around Denman's neck; she wasn't about to give him more ammo to tighten it.

"You look like you could use a drink." He splashed Scotch into a glass. She knocked it back. Grimaced at the taste. "How did it go with Denman, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well with you harbouring all those suspicions about him, and rightly so, it would hardly be conducive to a wild and wonderful time. Now would it?"

"It wasn't easy," she admitted.

"So you never gave him any indication of what Grace told you about Bridget?"

She shook her head. "His visit caught me by surprise. He only had a couple of days. I didn't want to start hurling all those accusations at him."

Slater sipped on the Scotch. "You're going to have to sooner or later." He hesitated. "Have you thought on phoning Camp Renfrew and finding out if he's really in Afghanistan or not?"

"No, I haven't." She could hear the ring of outrage in her voice. Yet even as she denied it, knew it wasn't altogether true. When suspicion finds fertile ground, it spreads like an opportunistic mould, leaving no corner untouched. "You hinted at something like this before," she said. "So since it's obviously on your mind, why don't you?" She felt used. Angry.

Slater smiled. "The military is not about to answer questions from the civilian police, regarding their personnel, unless there is an arrest warrant." He tossed back the remainder of his drink. "Even then they can stonewall until the cows come home. But with you, as Denman's wife, it would be a different matter."

"Oh right. So I phone and ask them where my husband is, because I don't know." She looked incredulous. "They're going to twig me for an estranged wife and tell me absolutely nothing."

"I'm sure you have the ability to be more creative than that." Slater grinned.

"No thanks. I'm quite satisfied that Denman's in Afghanistan." Yet was she? The truth was she wasn't certain of anything any more, even her own feelings. Denman was special to her, no doubt about it, but she was also attracted to Slater. "Besides, why do you think he isn't in Afghanistan? What would the motive be for him to lie like that?"

"The shotgun wedding." He winked. "And the romance of going off to war. Absence makes the heart go fonder and all that. Powerful aphrodisiacs. He pulled a similar MO with Bridget, as you know."

And with Ginger. Lacey fidgeted with her glass. She went on the offensive to hide her discomfiture. "I'm not going to let you use me to try and incriminate Denman," she said.

"Suit yourself."

"I will."

She stood up, put on her coat. "It's been a long day. If that's all, I'd like to go home."

"Of course." He walked with her to the elevator. "Look after yourself, Lacey," he said.

She noticed he made no attempt to touch her. She felt disappointed, yet relieved at the same time. I'm like a Jekyll and Hyde character, she decided, two different personalities warring within.

* * *

Gulls followed in the wake of the ferry, as it sliced through choppy waters. Fog hovered in patches. Lacey paced the deck, the wind tugging at her hair. She recalled the last time she'd made the trip, her head full of Denman, and impatient to be with him. His deployment overseas and a quickie wedding were the last things she'd expected.

Now she returned to Camp Renfrew under vastly different circumstances. Driven there by fear and suspicion. If she hadn't actually stayed with Denman at the base, she'd even doubt he was a soldier, she thought miserably.

"Be careful, Lacey," Pet had counselled. "I'm not sure you going over there is such a hot idea."

Neither was she. But after weeks of indecision, she had to try and find out if Denman really was in Afghanistan. She hadn't heard from him in ages.

"Does Slater know?" Pet asked, in a lowered tone.

Heck no, thought Lacey. She'd been avoiding him since the boating accident. Felt resentful of the way he'd tried to manipulate her into checking up on Denman. "No, and I've no intention of telling him," she said.

Brave words. But as the familiar landscape faded on the horizon, she felt a shiver of apprehension travel down her spine.

On the drive from the ferry, the fog thickened. Ship horns bellowed from the harbour. Lacey slowed down, edged her way cautiously along the winding road. By the time she reached Camp Renfrew visibility was next to nil.

She clasped the key to Denman's apartment in her hand. Hurried across the deserted parade ground. All was silent, as if the entire base had been evacuated. It felt creepy, surreal.

The fog irritated her throat. She stopped for a minute to cough, to catch her breath, to try and get her bearings. Walked blindly. Hoped for the best.

Up ahead she could just make out the laurel hedge in front of Denman's building. She broke into a half run, anxious to be inside. The sound of voices drifted towards her. Muffled and distorted by the fog. A car door slammed. Two figures materialized out of the gloom, a soldier and a woman with long blond hair. He said something to her. She laughed.

Lacey tripped on a broken flagstone, dropped her purse. Stooped to pick it up. The couple turned. Oh my God...the world spun. Denman!

### SEVEN

For what seemed like an eternity she stared dumbly up at him. So it had all been true. Everything Grace said. He was a con man and a murderer. He'd never been in Afghanistan. And he had tried to kill her by staging the phoney boating accident. Blood hammered in her temples. She struggled to her feet. Ran for her life.

Vaguely, as if from a great distance, she heard her name called. She ran faster. If he caught her she was dead. He couldn't let her expose him. She gasped for breath. The blond was probably an accomplice, in cahoots with him. One of them would likely follow her, while the other cut her off.

She heard footsteps behind her. She raced on. Had no idea what lay immediately ahead, or, if she were headed towards her car. In the fog it was impossible to tell. Underfoot, felt grassy, mushy. So she'd left the road.

Splash...Oh God, no! Icy water gurgled around her ankles. She could smell seaweed. She'd landed in a river. She struggled her way out again. Didn't know which way to turn. But knew she had to keep moving. She veered off in a westerly direction.

Her feet squelched in the wet shoes. One of them came off. She bent to pick it up, heard footsteps nearby. Left it where it was. Kicked off the other one. Raced on in stocking feet.

How long could she keep us this pace? She winced as her foot hit something sharp. She could feel the blood start to ooze.

Off to her right giant gates loomed up. Merciful heaven, she'd reached the entrance. She sobbed with relief. There were sentries there. She was safe.

She waited until she got her breath back. Straightened her clothes. Smoothed down her hair. Tried to stop the trembling in her limbs, the chattering of her teeth. "I got lost in the fog," she explained. "And lost my shoes." She forced a smile.

One of them guided her towards the car park. Waited until she got the engine going. "Thanks so much," she said.

She had a pair of slippers in her overnight case. She reached in, put them on. Backed her car out of the stall. Eased cautiously into the road. Drove as fast as she dared.

It felt good to be in the safety of her vehicle and putting as much distance as possible between herself and Camp Renfrew. The fog started to lift and a weak sun peered down from a bank of grey clouds.

At the ferry terminal, she punched in Pet's number. Left a message.

The ferry was packed. She jostled her way to the bar. Ordered a double Scotch. Belted it down straight.

She wouldn't feel safe staying at home until Denman was behind bars. He would be sure to look for her there. He might even be on this ferry. Or, have beat her to it by flying to Vancouver.

Her cell phone buzzed. Oh my God, Denman! She didn't answer. Couldn't.

She remembered she hadn't eaten since breakfast. The restaurant was crowded. She inched herself onto a counter stool. Ordered a sandwich. Ate without appetite.

Darkness fell fast. Fog still hovered in patches. The drive through rush hour traffic from the ferry was brutal.

Never had her home looked more welcoming. She recalled how Denman had stepped out of the darkness by her front door on that other occasion, scaring her nearly out of her wits. If he did the same tonight, she'd be a dead woman.

She should have called Slater. Had thought about it, but somehow just couldn't gather her thoughts, sufficiently, for that particular ordeal. Was unable to get her act together. Everything felt so unreal, the stuff of nightmares. Would she wake up?

She managed to unlock the door and get inside without incident. Had she really believed Denman would be lurking on the porch? Truth was, she didn't know what to believe anymore. Found it increasingly difficult to distinguish between wild imaginings and reality.

She switched on all the lights. Went on a routine check—happened every time she felt nervous—through all the rooms, closets, and even under the bed. "Good." She exhaled in relief. "Nobody there." She could relax for a bit. Plan her next move.

Denman's number continued to display on her phone. He must have rung a dozen times. She'd switched off the ring. Stuck on the "this customer is currently unavailable" announcement. She'd always be unavailable for him, she decided grimly.

She should check the mailbox. She remained inside, stuck her hand out the door. Retrieved a stack of junk, and a few letters.

One was from the Registrar's Office, at last. It had been ages since she'd enquired about Denman's marriage to Ginger. At the time she'd hoped the woman had lied, perhaps just an actress in the pay of Grace? But after what she'd seen today, she could only expect the very worst. She ripped it open. Her heart thudded in her ears. Ginger hadn't lied. She had been married to Denman.

Lacey felt sick, nauseated. She groped her way to the couch. It's one thing to suspect your husband, and think you're prepared for even more evidence of his treachery, but quite another when it's proven to you, conclusively. All in the space of one day, it was pretty hard to swallow.

She rifled through the rest of the mail. Noticed the logo from the insurance company. Her pulse raced. She ripped it open. Blood pounded in her head. She couldn't believe her eyes. They had reinstated her life insurance policy, it said, as per her most recent instructions!

### EIGHT

The nine o'clock canon from Stanley Park boomed out the hour. It jolted Lacey out of her funk. She had to do something. Couldn't just sit there any longer, in a state of shocked numbness, afraid to make a move. She was, at this moment, worth a quarter of a million dollars to Denman, dead.

Her phone rang. "I see you tried to reach me earlier." Pet's voice sounded so familiar and reassuring, tears sprung to Lacey's eyes. It had been so long since she'd felt part of the normal world. All that changed when Denman and then Grace Woodruff entered her life. "Is everything okay?"

"It couldn't be worse."

"This calls for wine and pizza."

"I...I think it would be better if I came over to your place." Lacey struggled to pull her scattered thoughts together. "It's not safe here."

"Not safe!" Pet exclaimed. "Have you called Slater?"

"I'll see you in a bit," she responded, evasively, and hung up. Switched on all the perimeter lights: porch, driveway and path, tossed a few things into an overnight bag and mad a dash for her car.

What if he'd attached a bomb to the ignition, or cut the brake lines? She tormented herself with fearful possibilities, which froze her into a state of immobility. Still, until she could cancel the policy, and let Denman know about it, she must be extra vigilant. This was Friday, of a long weekend. She wouldn't be able to do that until Tuesday morning. Damn!

She called for a taxi. Waited in her car with all the doors locked, until it arrived.

Pet lived in a stylish loft at Lonsdale Quay. Across the harbour, the Vancouver skyline blazed like a jewel.

"You have to call Slater." Pet cleared away the dinner plates. "And easy on the wine." She plugged in the coffee pot. "This looks bad, really bad."

"I know. It doesn't get much worse." Lacey drained her glass. Felt pleasantly foggy-minded. Hated the thought of sobering up. Yet, realized she couldn't phone Slater half-looped.

"There's more than enough evidence to nail him." Pet stirred sugar into her coffee. "The same MO with Bridget, Ginger and you." She shook her head. "To think I believed in his innocence, despite all evidence to the contrary."

Lacey laughed, bitterly. "I guess you're just a hopeless romantic, and so am I. We wanted to believe Denman was the knight in shining armour."

"Well so much of it...the ring, for example, and even Bridget's disappearance could be explained away. But now..."

"I know," Lacey interjected. " I saw him with my own eyes, when he's supposed to be in Afghanistan, traipsing into his apartment building with the blond number..."

"Who probably phoned the insurance company pretending to be you, and asked to have the policy reinstated." Pet looked grim.

"It's damning..." Lacey suppressed a sob. Gulped down the bitter coffee. Gagged. Added sugar. She shivered remembering the nightmarish boating trip. "He took me out on the boat intending to kill me," she said.

Pet nodded. "It all fits. And I'll bet Ginger was right. He did try to push her under the commuter train."

"My God, my husband's a fricken monster. I wonder how many other women he's married and then murdered for their life insurance policies? It might not even be a legal marriage, he could be a bigamist, as well."

"Best not to think about it." Pet refilled the cups. "Once you've sobered up a bit call Slater."

"I'm okay now...really. I want to get this over with." She punched in the number.

* * *

Lacey paced the length of her living room floor, restless, unable to settle. For the first time in years, she bit her nails. She wondered what was happening. It had been a couple of days since Denman was picked up for questioning. The Oh Canada chimes resonated across the city. Noon...already. She tried calling Slater, again, still no answer. She left another message.

Of course, Slater was far from pleased with her. "How could you simply not tell me about so much incriminating evidence" he had demanded.

Pet offered him coffee. He refused.

"Good grief, what were you thinking of? You didn't think I should know about Denman's marriage to Ginger, Bridget's wedding ring? His threatening move towards you in the dingy?"

She shrugged, utterly miserable. "Hope springs eternal," she murmured. "I guess I just hoped it might all be some big mistake, and somehow turn out alright in the end."

"That only happens in fairy stories," he snapped. "You put your life at risk, Lacey."

"If he denies everything, you don't have enough to hold him on, do you? There's no hard evidence linking him to Bridget's disappearance, or the attempted murder of both myself and Ginger."

"There wouldn't be many convictions if only hard evidence was admissible." He looked suddenly weary. Rubbed his eyes. "A solid enough case can be built on circumstantial evidence, alone."

"I'm sorry, Neil." She touched his arm. Felt genuinely contrite.

He stood up. "I'll be in touch," he said.

That had been two days ago. This had surely been the longest, long weekend of her life. She needed a drink, badly. Resisted the temptation. Settled for coffee instead.

What really disturbed her the most was her ongoing fascination with Denman, despite her fear of him. Was she a masochist? Why even after she suspected him of the worst possible crimes, her body and spirit still craved him. Her affair with Slater had blunted the yearning, but only until Denman reappeared by her door. It had all been sexual heaven then, until the boating "accident" the following day. She shuddered. Yet knew if he appeared before her right now, she wouldn't be able to resist him. That was sick.

Her cell phone buzzed. She grabbed it.

Slater!

"What's happening?" she asked. "I'm going nuts."

"I'll drop by your place in about an hour," he replied, maddeningly uncommunicative, then as an afterthought. "Have you had lunch?"

"Lunch?" she repeated dumbly. "No I haven't, and I don't want any."

"Suit yourself."

He hung up, abruptly.

Damn! Would this torment, this not knowing never end? She staked out the street, from behind the curtains. As soon as the patrol car pulled up, yanked open the door, pounced on Slater.

"What is going on?" she demanded.

He looked subdued. It was the only way to describe him. Like someone who has just encountered the unexpected, and it's shaken his view of things. Perhaps even his confidence in himself, his judgment.

This didn't look good. "Don't tell me Denman managed to wiggle out of it," she said.

Slater sat down at the table. "I could use a cup of coffee," he said.

"Later. Damn it all, Neil, you've kept me in this...agony of suspense long enough."

"Okay. We had to let Denman go."

She'd halfway expected it, but it didn't make it any easier to bear. She felt deflated. Crumbled inside. So that was that. He'd gotten away with it. Wiggled out.

She surprised herself by laughing, hysterically. "Bad guys never finish last," she gasped.

"Well that's just it, Lacey. He's not bad. In fact, with the exception of one unlawful act, he's innocent of any wrongdoing."

It took a full moment for the import of what he'd just said to sink in. She couldn't believe it. Shook her head to clear it. Denman innocent? It just couldn't be. "Run that past me one more time," she murmured.

"I know how hard this must be for you..."

"No, you bloody well don't." She rounded on him in a fury. "It's like being on some kind of hellish teeter-totter. Up, and I'm convinced of Denman's innocence. Even although people like you and Grace are doing your level best to persuade me otherwise. Down the very next minute, and I'm beginning to buy into your argument. And so on..."

"Well at least this brought it to a head. We investigated every point..."

"Like why Denman told me he was in Afghanistan when he wasn't? Remember, I saw him myself, with a blond." She was appalled by the hostility in her own voice.

"He was in Afghanistan. Got back, in fact, the very day you saw him at Camp Renfrew. Intended to show up on your doorstep that evening."

"But why? I don't understand." She propped her elbows on the table, rested her head in her hands. Felt utterly confused and weary beyond words.

"He got a promotion—he's a Captain now—and was shipped back here to another posting. His tour of duty ended in a couple of months, anyway."

My God, they take such liberties with people's lives, she thought, angrily. Dispatching them around like a parcel from pillar to post. "What about the blonde?"

Slater laughed. "Sorry," he said, on seeing her disapproving look. "I just couldn't help it. The blond is a neighbour. They met by chance in the parking lot."

"Oh my God..." She'd allowed suspicion to gnaw away at her like a vengeful rat. Cloud her judgment.

"What about that day in the dingy? I was ready to shoot him. Would have done if the rescue boat hadn't showed up when it did."

"We're satisfied it was an accident. Dozens of boats have ended up on the rocks at that very same spot."

"But, he made a grab for me..."

"Not with any intent to harm."

"I'm feeling more and more like some paranoid beyotch," she moaned.

"Don't blame yourself for that. Under the circumstances it was called for."

"And Bridget...are you now satisfied that Denman had nothing to do with her disappearance?"

Slater nodded. "He thought a boating accident was a more fitting epitaph for her, than an overdose of illegal drugs."

Lacey felt stunned, unable to speak. How could she have doubted Denman so much.

"He came home and found her dead. The drug paraphernalia beside her on the bed."

"And Ginger...what about her? She's convinced he tried to kill her by pushing her in front of a commuter train."

"She lied. Ginger is your typical bitter ex wife. Denman dumped her for Bridget. She's never forgiven him. When Grace came a calling, she saw a chance to make trouble for him."

"So all the similarities between the way Denman met all three of us, Ginger, Bridget and myself, were all cooked up?"

"I didn't say that. He did meet you all in a single's bar. Spent the rest of the night in a café." He grinned. "Last time I checked, there was no law against that."

"What about the whirlwind courtship, and marriage right before being deployed overseas?"

"Ginger and Grace stretched it to suit their own agendas. Ditto here to the bondage and so-called kinky sex."

Slater's dark eyes bored into her. Lacey recalled the night she'd asked him to handcuff her to the bedpost. Denman wasn't the only one who was kinky. She felt her face flush. She shifted uncomfortably. Switched to another line of attack.

"The life insurance policy...how can you explain away that? " she demanded. "Someone, posing as me, had it reinstated. Here." She thrust the letter into his hand.

"We managed to get in touch with one of the execs over there, despite the long weekend."

"And?"

"It was a mistake, Lacey. The letter should have read that they cancelled the policy, as per your instructions, instead of reinstating it."

"This is simply, incredible." She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, to feel relief or scream in frustration. It was anger turned in on self. She felt guilty for suspecting Denman. Almost wished he had been a rotter, in order to feel vindicated for her mistrust.

"Bridget's ring!" She scurried into the bedroom, grabbed it out of the jewellery box. Produced the printout of Bridget holding the champagne glass. "Look at them," she said. "Don't they look the same to you?"

"Similar, there's no doubt about that, but they're not identical."

"How so?"

"If you examine them closely—and without emotion, he looked at her meaningfully—you'll see that Bridget's ring is broader and the stones are set differently. Here..." he pushed the ring and the picture towards her.

She studied them closely, comparing, almost wishing he was wrong. "Okay, I see what you mean," she finally conceded.

"And the stones in Bridget's ring—which Denman said was still on her finger when he tossed her body overboard—were rubies, not garnets like in your ring."

Oh God, it was a fricken awful mess. Lacey buried her face in her hands.

"Hey, shouldn't you be happy, instead of acting like the world has come to an end?" Slater stood up. Patted her on the shoulder. "Denman's a nice guy. You should make up."

"Make up?" She repeated incredulously. "It's a bit too late for that now. Put yourself in Denman's shoes. Could you ever feel the same about a mistrustful bitch like me? I called the fricken cops on him, for crying out loud."

"You did what you had to do. The circumstances demanded it. In fact, you should have acted sooner."

She shook her head, refused to listen. "You can't win trust back after something like this."

"Give it time."

* * *

Rain hurled down in buckets. Wind lashed the trees. Lacey dragged the curtains closed against a premature twilight. She shivered. The weather matched her mood, perfectly. She topped up her glass with what remained of the Scotch. Threw the empty bottle in the trash. Changed her mind about drinking it. Booze didn't help. Punched in Denman's number, instead. She'd been delaying it long enough.

His answering machine. She left a message, straight from the heart. "I'm so sorry, can you ever forgive me?" Sobbed, despite her best efforts not to, hung up, and rocked in misery. It had been so perfect with Denman...everything. She damned Grace again for showing up and destroying it all, but herself most of all for allowing it to happen.

She plugged in the coffee pot. Rifled around in a bag for a stale doughnut. She felt lost...as helpless as a marionette whose strings have been cut.

Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it. Denman!

The sound of his voice melted her insides. Magic!

"You don't have anything to reproach yourself for," he said. "The last few months must have been hell for you."

"Not when you were with me," she replied, honestly. "If only we could go back, start at the beginning...do things differently."

"Who says we can't?"

She hesitated. Not sure what he meant.

"I'm catching the six o'clock ferry," he explained. "See you in the Signature Club at nine..."

### ~~THE END~~

DECEPTION

### ~1~

"I'm worried sick." Glenda Keyes looked as if she hadn't slept in a week. "Something must have happened to my daughter. Megan would never stay away like this, without letting me know." She sobbed. "She's either being kept captive somewhere, or she's..."

Detective Neil Slater looked over the Missing Person's report. "So the last time you saw Megan was when she left home to go to the Olympic Games?"

Glenda nodded. "I hated to see her go off like that, all by herself..." she shrugged. " But Megan will be twenty next month. What could I do?"

"Had she ever been away from home before?" Not that it was really relevant, he thought. Still, it would be quite an experience for a young woman, who had lived in a small Ontario town all her life, to suddenly find herself in Vancouver, during the chaos of the Olympic Games.

"Never alone." Glenda twisted a handkerchief around in her hands and looked ready to weep.

"I'm sorry your first visit to Vancouver couldn't have been made under happier circumstances," Slater said. "Try not to worry Ms. Keyes. We'll do everything we can to find your daughter." But whether she'd be dead or alive, he thought, was another matter entirely. God only knows what had happened to her. He spent the rest of the afternoon, retracing Megan's movements from the time she'd arrived at the airport. When he got back to his office, he ran it past his partner.

"It doesn't sound good." Brad Peterson sipped on a mug of coffee. Slater noticed he'd had a haircut, which made the gold ring in his left ear more prominent. He was not a fan of jewellery for men, but had to admit the earring suited Brad. It made him look more than ever like his Viking heritage, tall and fair and climbing a masthead. They were both about the same height and build, but that's where the similarities ended, Slater mused. His own dark hair and eyes were something of a contrast to his partner's and stood as testament to his Celtic ancestry.

"So she checked into the Queen's Quay Hotel, where she'd intended to stay for the full two weeks, but suddenly disappeared a few days later." Brad got up and stood by the window.

"Right. The housekeeping staff reported that all her things were gone, and she hadn't returned to the room." Slater leafed through the file.

"Odd that she would take off like that, without checking out."

"I'll say it is. Particularly since her credit card was being debited for the time she was supposed to be there."

"It looks like she met up with someone..." Brad looked thoughtful. "Who spirited her away."

"According to her mother, Megan was a quiet shy girl, who didn't go out much with boys."

"Maybe that was the problem. Soon as she got away from home she let rip."

Slater nodded. "It looks like she chose the wrong guy to do it with." He handed Brad, Megan's photograph. Taken on the beach in happier days, she'd been wearing a black bathing suit, which contrasted dramatically with the paleness of her skin. She had even features, jet-black hair and blue eyes.

"Hmmm...pretty girl."

"Yeah, I'm having posters made up."

"What's her mother like?"

"Very much like Megan, only her hair is now streaked with grey." It looked surprisingly good on her too Slater ruminated. Streaks were all the fashion at the moment, but he'd bet a dime to a donut that Glenda's were natural. She didn't impress him as the sort to spend a lot of time in beauty salons.

"It must be a helluva difficult time for her." Brad shook his head. "Imagine flying to the other side of the country to try and find your daughter."

"Yeah, brutal." Slater swivelled round in his chair and gazed out the window. The North Shore Mountains dominated the horizon.

"Talking of which, where is she staying?"

"Same place as Megan when she first arrived here, The Queen's Quay Hotel."

* * *

"So how are they treating you?" Slater found Glenda on the hotel patio staring out at the harbour. Vancouver reared up across the inlet its rooftops swathed in sunlight.

"Very well, thank you."

He liked her voice, cultured but not pretentious.

She took a sip from a teacup. "Won't you join me?"

He nodded and sat down. She looked calmer than the last time he'd seen her. Her face composed. Her hair smoothed back. It must have taken a gigantic effort of will, he decided, admiring her courage.

"Detective Slater," she suddenly leaned towards him across the table. "Has there been any news at all about my little girl?"

He'd expected that, of course, and wished to God he had something positive to tell her. "I'm sorry," he shook his head. "There's been nothing but dead ends...so far." He couldn't let her see how discouraged he felt, and that the likelihood of finding Megan alive decreased with every day that passed. Even although she must already know that, she didn't need him to rub it in any further. "We're distributing the flyers even further afield––all through the Fraser Valley, and over on Vancouver Island." He stirred sugar into his tea. "We're hopeful that by casting the net wider we'll receive more tips, and one of them might be the vital one."

Glenda glanced at her watch. "It feels odd sitting here at this time of day, I'd usually be working in the pub..."

Slater raised an eyebrow. He didn't quite picture her serving up booze behind a bar.

"It's a family business," she explained. "A small hotel with a restaurant and lounge bar."

"Does Megan work there also?" He had to practically shout to be heard above a flock of screaming gulls.

Glenda nodded. "When she's not at university." She shielded her eyes against a blinding bolt of sunlight. "She's studying art."

"And she has an interest in sports."

"Oh yes, she loves figure skating. A trip like that to the Olympics had always been her dream..." She let the words trail off. Bit her lip. Reached in her bag for a pair of sunglasses. "I blame myself you know. I should have gone with her...but I had no interest in the games..."

"It's in no way your fault, Ms. Keyes." On impulse, Slater touched her arm. He knew how much she must be hurting. He could almost feel her pain. "Megan is an adult. She wouldn't want to be tied to her mother's apron strings."

Glenda snivelled and dug in her pocket for a Kleenex. "You're right, of course." But she didn't look convinced. "We can all be selfish at times..."

"Are you very close to Megan, Ms. Keyes?"

"Oh, yes. It was just the two of us after her father died––Megan was only six at the time."

"And the last you saw or heard from her was when you dropped her off at the airport?"

"No, she telephoned me the night she arrived in Vancouver. It was about one o'clock in the morning Ontario time."

Slater raised an eyebrow. He hadn't realised that. But then it was Brad who had checked the hotel records. It must be in the file.

"How did she seem?"

"Tired after the long flight, but excited and looking forward so much to the festivities. She told me she'd never seen so many flags and happy crowds."

"So no indication at all of anything wrong?"

"Absolutely not. She sounded as if she were on Cloud Nine."

"And you never heard from her again?"

Glenda winced, and shook her head. "If only we could see into the future," she said, wistfully. "If only I'd known that would be the last communication I'd have with her...ever."

"Oh come now, Ms. Keyes, it's too soon to give up hope yet." But even as he said the comforting words, he felt far from optimistic. Megan must have met with foul play; there simply wasn't any other explanation.

"What if she's being kept prisoner by some nutcase." Glenda shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Try not to torture yourself with 'what ifs'," Slater advised. He noticed she was wearing a Celtic cross on a fine silver chain. "Never doubt the power of prayer."

"I can assure you I don't." For the first time he saw her smile. "In fact, I've been down on my knees so much since Megan went missing...I could well end up with housemaid's knee."

Slater smiled back. "A painful condition, I hear."

"You see what I can't forgive myself for," Glenda confided, her face once again twisted in grief, "is not coming right over here the minute I didn't hear from Megan."

"Don't be so hard on yourself." Slater topped up their teacups from a thermal jug. "You had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. Megan could just have been so tied up with the games that she didn't get around to calling you."

Glenda nodded. "That's what I thought too. But as the days went by...she'd promised to keep in touch...I should have realised something was not right. But when I called the hotel and they told me she was no longer a guest, I assumed she'd been unhappy there and moved on somewhere else." She shrugged. "I thought she must be so occupied with moving, etcetera, that she hadn't found the time to call me." She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Besides, I was swamped at the time with a Beekeeper's Convention, and half the staff sick with flu..."

Slater drank his tea and thought how bloody unfair life was. Of course, in his business, he saw the very worst it had to offer, difficult to retain a balance sometimes.

"I feel so helpless." Glenda threw up her hands. "My family warned me there was nothing I could do over here...still, I just had to be where Megan was last seen. I thought it would make me feel closer to her, and somehow find out where she was." She leaned forward, confidentially. "I wouldn't claim to have the sight, but I do get glimmers from time to time––my ancestry is Scottish, from the Highlands." She looked at him closely. "Now you'll think I'm crazy."

Slater shook his head. "Absolutely not. Police work depends a lot on our sixth sense."

Glenda got up and stood by the railing. "This is such a beautiful place," she said. "I've been watching the boats sail past all morning." She looked wistful. "Megan and I go boating in Lake Ontario, whenever we can get away."

"That's my favourite pastime too," Slater said. "Only I don't get many chances with my current workload." He stood up. "Talking of which..."

* * *

"How is Glenda holding up?" Brad dumped a stack of files onto Slater's desk.

"As well as can be expected." He sighed. "If only we had more manpower..."

"Dream on. There are more likely to be cutbacks."

"The problem is that nobody remembers seeing Megan." Slater leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "The hotel was swamped at the time with Olympic guests...she just got lost in the crowd."

"Yeah, like literally."

"And the posters we've distributed all over the Lower Mainland as far as Chilliwack, haven't resulted in a single bona fide lead."

Brad nodded. "But plenty of crazies. That sort of campaign is guaranteed to bring them squirming out of the woodwork."

"For Glenda, the 'not knowing' must be the very worst." Slater stretched and yawned. "I've got to get more sleep. I've been practically working around the clock on this one."

"Yeah, me too. And with all the other stuff as well..."

"I would say that Megan is almost certainly dead. Her credit card hasn't been used since she left the hotel."

Brad nodded. "Yeah, for sure. Unless...she's being held prisoner by some loony tunes."

"Either way, what a helluva end to a dream trip to the Olympics. And we can be sure that given the remote chance she is still alive, she certainly isn't well."

"What's really staggering," Brad said, "is just how many people go missing every year and are never found."

"Some deliberately disappear, of course," Slater leafed through a file. "Escaping from bad marriages and debts, etcetera."

Brad nodded. "That still leaves the majority unaccounted for. You know if the general public realised just how many bad eggs there are out there, they might be a lot more careful who they trust."

"Amen to that, but it could also leave them hopelessly paranoid."

* * *

"I've been reading about the Highway of Tears." Glenda sounded shocked. "All those young women just disappearing like that."

"That's nowhere near Vancouver," Slater assured her. He balanced the phone on his shoulder, while tidying up his desk drawer. "It's a stretch of Highway 16, between Prince George and Prince Rupert."

"But even so, someone must be abducting and killing these women, and he's never been found." She paused. "There are over fifteen hundred missing women in Canada right now, and Megan is one of them."

"Don't go jumping to conclusions," Slater advised, although there was no denying it was a logical one.

Glenda ignored him. "Why isn't something done?" she demanded. "I bet if these women were affluent there would be, and lickety-split."

She had a point there he had to admit.

"Then there was that awful pig farmer turned serial killer, who murdered dozens of girls," she said, clearly on a roll and not about to quit.

"I see you've been doing your homework." Slater attempted to introduce a little balance and levity into the situation. "About all our worst crime stats."

"I have that," Glenda sounded defensive, yet less angry. "I spent the morning at the library." She hesitated. "Look here Detective Slater, do you suppose Megan fell victim to one of those serial killers you have in your midst?"

"Anything's possible," he conceded. "But there are no reports of anything along that line, in the immediate vicinity."

"What does that mean?" she scoffed. "That it's happening in neighbouring communities. Are you trying to tell me that murderers don't travel?"

"They usually stick pretty close to a certain territory," he said. "Such as the case with the so-called Highway of Tears."

"They think the killer is a long distance lorry driver," Glenda would not be deterred. "Which means that he travels around quite a bit." She paused. "I would think all the crowds associated with the Olympic Games would appeal immensely to someone like that."

"Well yes, you could be right. But as I've already said, there are no reports of any women missing, during or after the Olympic Games."

After she had rung off, Slater sat for a while staring out the window. The North Shore Mountains stared back. Stony great hulks of gigantic proportions hunched together beneath a moody sky. He doubted that only one serial killer was involved in the disappearances of hundreds of women. Even if Jack the Ripper had kept up his killing spree––and he was certainly prolific for a brief three month period––he could never have wracked up that many.

Brad stuck his head around the door. "How about a drink at the Raven tonight?"

"You're on."

* * *

"The Highway of Tears has haunted me for years." Brad gazed into his whiskey glass. "All these women have gone missing along it, and not a trace of any of them." He shook his head. "I'd love to take a crack at it..."

"Well as it sort of ties into the Megan Keyes case, and since she's a missing tourist, we just might be able to swing it." Slater drained his glass and ordered another round. "Start digging, and I'll get the okay from upstairs."

"Thanks, Neil."

Slater glanced around at the crowded pub. A jazz quintet belted out a blues number from the corner stage, and the tiny dance floor was crowded.

"They reckon Jack the Ripper caught syphilis from a prostitute and it started him on his murdering rampage." Brad sipped on his drink. "It could well be that our man––or men––had the same experience."

I'm inclined to think that all the Highway of Tears murders are committed by the same person, or persons." Slater narrowed his eyes. "I wouldn't be surprised if it were a sort of covenant of death entered into by a duo of killers, or even a larger group."

"Women haters, who get a helluva charge out of taking down another victim." Brad looked thoughtful. "Yeah, I'd go along with that."

"And Brad, be careful. We don't know quite what we're dealing with here, but we can be sure of one thing, it's bloody dangerous."

* * *

"I often think," Glenda said, squinting up at Slater through a haze of sunshine, "of those character fade-outs in movie scenes."

The hotel patio stood deserted after the lunch hour rush. She leaned over the railing and stared at the harbour. "First you see them, three dimensional and seemingly very solid, but then pfft...they're gone. And that's what life is like for all of us...we just fade out...like poor Megan."

"We're doing everything we can to try and find her...you know that."

Glenda nodded. "But I doubt you'll have any more luck than you've had with all those other missing women."

"My partner is working on the case full time now. He's a good cop. If anyone can solve it, he can." Yet even as he said it he had to admit to himself that Brad could be less than efficient at time. But then given his workload...that wasn't surprising. Anyone could strike out while multitasking, including himself.

"I don't think you'd do so badly, either." Glenda looked directly into his eyes.

He smiled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I'm in over my head with a stack of other cases...overworked and underpaid."

"That sounds familiar." She looked rueful. "Aren't we all?"

He looked at his watch. "I've gotta run."

"Take care of yourself, Neil," she said.

It was the first time she'd used his first name and he liked the way she said it.

"I know you cops are armed to the teeth, and by God you have to be with all the crime––gangland shootings all over the streets––but sharp wits can keep you safer than an arsenal of weapons."

"I'll second that." Yet when you came face to face with a bad guy, with a gun in his fist, you needed to blaze back with as much firing power as you could possibly muster. Sometimes, only brute force would suffice.

Slater left her where he'd found her, seemingly hypnotized by the Vancouver skyline. Freighters, ferries and floatplanes dotted the harbour. If only he could return her daughter to her safe and sound. He shook his head. But there wasn't a prayer's chance in hell of doing that––at least there didn't seem to be. By all the laws of logic Megan was gone for good.

He drove back to the station deep in thought. Yet if Brad was lucky, and managed to crack the Highway of Tears case––and this was unlikely, since the disappearances had been going on for twenty years––there was a possibility that some of the women might still be alive and held captive. If they were––and he knew he was reaching here, tilting at windmills––Megan might just be amongst them.

"I have a feeling," Glenda had said, her blue eyes intensely mystical. "That the Highway of Tears holds the key to Megan's disappearance."

Slater pulled into the parking lot of the police building and cut the ignition. So either she was grasping at straws, or she might just have something.

When he got back to his office, there was a message on his voice mail from Brad. He said he'd just returned from Prince George, where he'd been following up on some of the old leads in the disappearances. Slater punched in his number.

"Sorry, Neil, you've caught me at a bad moment."

He sounded edgy, and there was something else, evasive. Slater had noticed Brad hadn't been himself, lately. He'd attributed it to the inhumane workload. But now he wondered. Could there be more to it than that. "Is everything okay?" he asked.

There was the briefest of hesitations. "Sure, Neil, why wouldn't it be? I'll call you back later."

* * *

"But he never did, sir. That's not like Brad. Something must be seriously wrong." Slater sat opposite Police Chief James Lowry, who wore spectacles and almost certainly, a toupee. His office, high up on the tenth floor, had a splendid view of Burrard Inlet, all the way to Howe Sound.

"So you're saying that Brad has disappeared?" Lowry looked stunned.

Slater nodded. "It's been a couple of days, and nothing. He hasn't returned to his apartment, either. But his vehicle is still there, in the underground parking."

"This is simply incredible." Lowry looked annoyed. "Can you imagine the field day the press will have with this one––an investigator, in one of the most notorious cases of multiple disappearances, disappears himself."

"I'm sure Brad didn't plan on inconveniencing you, sir." Slater felt furious. Lowry had shown no concern whatever for his missing officer.

"We can do without the sass from you, Slater," Lowry growled. "Unlike you, I always must put the department first."

You mean yourself, thought Slater, but bit back the angry retort.

"Let's just keep this one under our hats for a while." Lowry suddenly looked conciliatory. "He might just be off on a wild fling with a hooker, or something. It wouldn't do to jump the gun."

You bastard! Slater fumed, inwardly. He struggled for control. "I don't think that's a good idea, sir. If Brad is in trouble, and he must be, then we'll need all the publicity we can muster, to find him." He felt afraid for his partner, who was also his best friend. It was their mutual love of the water—they spent every possible moment either on Brad's boat or his own––that had really forged the bond. What had happened to him? Had he been getting too close to the truth about the Highway of Tears murders and the killer, or killers, sought to silence him?

Oh God, the frightening thoughts tormented him without mercy, and had done, through two sleepless nights. If only he'd insisted on talking to Brad longer the last time they'd spoken. Found out exactly what he knew, and what he was planning to do, and who he was going to see. For he'd almost certainly been headed for a meeting of some sort, but with whom? Did they come to pick him up, and that's why Brad hadn't taken his vehicle?

Recriminations stalked him like a panther. He felt in much the same position now as Glenda. Both had lost someone close to them and had to live with the agony of not knowing what had happened. Still, Brad had only been gone a couple of days.

In the end he had to spring a compromise with Lowry. "We'll give it another couple of days," the Chief insisted, "and if there's still no word from him, we'll issue a Missing Person's bulletin."

Slater sleepwalked through the days in his own special hell. He blamed himself for ever allowing Brad to work exclusively on that damned Highway of Tears case in the first place. It had dumbfounded and cursed every officer who'd ever gone near it.

By the time Lowry finally agreed to make the disappearance public, Slater had almost resolved himself to the fact that Brad was never coming back. Just like Megan, he thought, miserably.

"I'm so sorry to hear about your partner." Glenda called after it was broadcast on the evening news. "I know how much you thought of him."

"Yeah, we were close." He realised after he'd said it, that he'd spoken of Brad in the past tense. Probably because that's the way he'd been thinking of him, lately. Preparing himself for the very worst. "I mean, we are close," he corrected himself. Oh God, what he'd give to see Brad alive and well...but not much chance of that now, and it grew less with every day that passed.

* * *

The desk sergeant wore a ghastly expression. He'd caught Slater as he'd been leaving his office for the day. "A body has washed ashore near Cranston Point," he said. "They think it might be Brad."

"Oh God, no." Slater groped for a chair. He'd thought he was prepared for this, but had obviously misjudged. Realised that there was a vast difference between going ahead of something and thinking how it might feel, to actually experiencing it.

"They want you to identify it, sir."

The drive over to the morgue was purgatorial. He tried to keep his mind blank, but was powerless to stop the parade of ghastly images that imprinted themselves there.

He'd been to this horrible place, with its stink of death and disinfectant, many times in the past, it went with the job. But never before had it instilled such horror and sadness in him, for this was personal.

He stumbled down the cheerless corridors, feeling more like a wraith than alive and kicking.

"The body is very badly decomposed," the orderly said. "It's been in the water for a while. A positive identification is pretty well impossible."

"That bad, eh." Slater shuddered. When the cover was pulled back to expose the face of the deceased, he saw that the orderly had not exaggerated. The fish had obviously got to him, and probably a ship's propeller. There was no way he could tell whether this was Brad, or not. He felt a sense of relief. Told himself it probably wasn't his friend and partner, after all.

He walked around the table to view the corpse from a different angle. Oh my God. The world spun. He thought he'd pass out. The left ear was still relatively intact, and in it was a single gold earring!

### ~2~

"There's still a chance that it isn't Brad," Glenda suggested. "Lots of guys wear earrings." She took a sip of coffee.

"We won't know for sure until forensics get through with the testing." Slater moved a stack of folders from his desk onto the filing cabinet. "And that could take a couple of weeks..."

"How are you holding up?"

"It's getting better." Of course he'd been half way prepared for the worst by the time the body floated in...and it wasn't the first time he'd lost a partner. Policing was a dangerous and very unforgiving business.

"Keep busy," she advised. "It's the sitting around waiting and worrying that's driven me mad, lately."

"I can imagine. It must be hell." He took a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and topped up their cups. "Talking of which, how much longer are you going to stay on here?" He smiled. "Not that I want to see you leave...you understand, but it must be costing you a small fortune."

She nodded. "It absolutely is, and my family are asking me the same question every other day. Of course, they were against me coming here, in the first place. Insisted there was nothing constructive I could do in the search for Megan, and I daresay they were right." She shrugged. "I'm flying back on Saturday."

So they had both more or less resigned themselves to the reality of their situations, Slater mused. Megan wasn't coming back neither was Brad. Life was all about loss, his father used to say, and by golly he'd been right.

"Have you had a chance to see much of the city," he asked. "I know you've hardly been in the mood for sightseeing, but still it seems a shame to go home without taking in at least some of the local colour."

"Oh I agree. Life must go on." Glenda slipped her coat back on. "I've been taking bus tours. I'd have gone completely batty otherwise, brooding around my hotel room all day long."

"Good." He hesitated. "Have you been out on the harbour at all?"

She shook her head. "Not except for a trip across on that little ferry affair. It reminded me for some reason on a flying saucer."

"The Sea Bus." Slater smiled. "I think we can do better than that." Heck, it had been ages since he'd taken the boat out, what with the current workload, and then Brad... But it was the least he could do for Glenda, since he'd failed so totally in finding her daughter.

* * *

"It's strange," Glenda said, as they passed underneath the Lions Gate Bridge, "how different things look when we're up close."

Slater nodded. "Just like other people's lives."

"Especially the ones that seem so perfect." Glenda winked.

Mist curled on the mountain tops and a sluggish sun lurked behind grey clouds. Rain sprinkled down, intermittently. Slater had hoped for a better day. He steered the boat towards Deep Cove. "My father used to bring me here when I was a kid," he said.

"It's lovely." Glenda snapped a few pictures. "It reminds me on some of the fjords in the Scottish Highlands. I used to spend vacations there with my grandparents, when I was a kid."

Slater docked the boat and they went ashore. Wandered around the quaint streets and had lunch at the Old Sailor Inn. "Thank you so much for today." Glenda raised her glass. "Here's to forgetting unhappy memories and lost loved ones."

By the time they got back to the boat the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. It cast that odd eerie glow seen only at twilight after a cloudy day. Almost greenish, Slater decided, and definitely ethereal.

Glenda stood closer to him than was necessary, and there was no mistaking the invitation in her eyes. The wine had fired him up as well, and it wasn't that he didn't find her attractive...still; there was just something that stopped him. Professional ethics, he supposed. He'd had it instilled into him from his academy days: Police officers did not become involved, sexually, with those connected to an investigation. Old habits die hard. He shrugged and distanced himself from Glenda.

* * *

"Now that the Keyes woman has gone home," Lowry said, "perhaps you can start working on all those other cases you've been neglecting." He leaned across his solid mahogany desk with a stony expression.

"Well we had to give her adequate attention, under the circumstances," Slater shot back, sarcastically. "Can you imagine the field day the press would have had with us otherwise?"

"That type of remark is ill advised." Lowry's jowls shook, disapprovingly. "Don't think your attitude has not been duly noted." He thumbed through the Keyes file with stubby fingers. "I want a complete rundown on this case, to date."

"It's all in there, sir."

"That well may be, but your handwriting is often indecipherable. And I have no intention of sitting here trying to figure out what the hell it's supposed to mean." He scowled. "My time is far too valuable for that."

The inference being, Slater fumed, that his wasn't. He bit back an angry response. There was nothing wrong with his fricken handwriting, either. It was more of a print script, really. He'd picked up that trend at university when he'd been studying engineering. Lowry, he decided, was just being deliberately awkward and belligerent.

"I'll expect a full printed out report on my desk, no later than tomorrow morning."

Bastard! And he was the one whining about wasted time. Slater raged about this all the way back to his own office. He poured himself a double Scotch and sat down at the computer. There wasn't that much to report, come to think of it. He knocked back the whiskey and reflected.

Megan Keyes had arrived in Vancouver for the Olympic Games. She had checked into the Queen's Quay Hotel and telephoned her mother late that evening. A few days afterwards the housekeeping staff noticed all her things were gone and the bed hadn't been slept in. Nobody had either seen or heard from her since.

An extensive advertising campaign, pictures of the missing girl were everywhere, had failed to turn up any useful clues.

The only conclusion, Slater decided, was that she'd been abducted, or gone willingly, with a person, or persons, unknown. The Olympic crowds, often 150,000 strong in the downtown area, were tailor made for that sort of thing. Drinking, celebrating and sometimes rioting, a girl like Megan from a small town in Ontario must have been completely overwhelmed by it all. Had some predator noticed that and moved in for the kill? These types could really turn on the charm. He thought of convicted serial killer, Ted Bundy, and shuddered.

According to her mother, Megan was a quiet girl who didn't go out much with boys. She was kept busy studying art at the university, and working in the family hotel. But had a different nature been concealed behind the outer façade? And could that have had anything to do with her strange disappearance? Probably not, but every possibility in an investigation had to be looked at thoroughly. And he had done, of course.

You couldn't simply take a parent's word for the nature of their child. They were often the last one to know just what kind of high jinks their little darling had got up to.

The police in Kinross had been extremely helpful in this regard, due to the smallness of the place. They knew almost all the inhabitants, personally, and endorsed Glenda's version of events. The Keyes were a well-respected family, they'd said, and had run the Kinross Arms for generations. Megan had been a model student. No running around with boys, or any other kind of wild behaviour.

But could she have kicked up her heels while away at university? Toronto was a big city, and she might have felt a sense of freedom, an opportunity to let rip where she wasn't known. A request to the Toronto Police to interview anyone who knew her didn't come up with anything unusual, either. Megan had appeared to study hard and spent most evenings alone, or wandering in High Park Gardens. No alcohol––at least not excessive––drugs, gambling or men. That just about covered all the vices. Slater sighed.

So unless something new turned up––and he didn't expect that to happen at this late date––the Keyes case was destined to be stamped Unsolved, and end up down in the basement along with the other cold case files.

He felt satisfied that they'd left no stone unturned in their search for Megan. Now it was time to turn his full attention to what had happened to Brad. He drained his glass and stared out the window. In the courtyard below, a group of children had gathered around the fountain. They were sailing toy boats and splashing each other. Slater smiled. Ah for the innocence of lost youth. He sat back down at his desk and reached for the Highway of Tears file.

Brad had been in Prince George just before he disappeared. The police department there said he'd spent most of the day with them, raking through old files, before one of their members drove him to the airport.

"I doubt this case will ever be solved," a police sergeant had told him. To which Brad replied, "I tend to agree with you."

So there was no reason to suppose he was getting so close to the killer, or killers, that they felt so threatened, they'd knocked him off. In fact, he'd pretty well decided it was a lost cause, as so many investigators had done before him.

But did some tip come in once he was back in Vancouver? Something so enticing that it had made him drop everything––no time to even chat for a couple of minutes to his partner––Slater grimaced, remembering that brief exchange of words that would be the last they'd ever have together. Oh God, but life was cruel and hard, brutal in its capriciousness and brevity.

There was also Brad's unusually distant behaviour; something seemed to be eating at him, immediately prior to his disappearance. But there again, with a workload like he had, it wasn't altogether surprising. And the Highway of Tears case was about as depressing and vexing as they get.

It had grown dark as he sat there, under the reading lamp, mulling over any detail in the file that would signal a red flag. Nothing. He got up and switched on the overhead light. Out the window he could see the ski run on Grouse Mountain, lit up in the darkness like a pathway to heaven.

And he had gone through all Brad's things, in his apartment, office, vehicle and boat, looking for anything that might be linked to his disappearance. Nothing. What the hell had happened to his partner?

He'd also pulled in everyone Brad had ever arrested, and therefore likely to hold a grudge. Nothing. His personal life had been placed under a microscope, also. Family and friends, however, had all passed the scrutiny with flying colours. Even the police informants had heard zilch about it. And when hardened old timers like Sammy the Snitch came up empty, you had to ask yourself what the fuck was going on?

Damn, damn, triple damn!

Slater sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. So like the Megan Keyes case, unless something new was forthcoming, the investigation into Brad's odd disappearance was at a complete and utter dead end.

It was so bloody frustrating. He tossed the file on top of the filing cabinet, and slammed his office door as he left for the night.

Moonlight shimmered on the fountain where the kids had played earlier. What was that Glenda had said about the incredibly fleeting nature of things? She'd likened it to the fade out of characters on a movie screen. Now you see them. Now you don't. Would these children ever be back this way again? He felt an incredible sense of loss. Must be because I'm missing Brad, he supposed, and empathising with Glenda over her missing daughter.

* * *

"The forensics report just came in." Slater handed it to Lowry. "They identified the remains as belonging to Brad, but were not able to establish the cause of death." He had gone to the washroom and quietly wept after reading it. It's what he'd expected, of course, but still...the utter finality was difficult to bear.

"You see, what did I tell you?" Lowry looked pleased. He swivelled around in his chair and grabbed a file off the credenza. "Brad may have ended up in the ocean, accidentally. There may have been no foul play involved."

"I don't buy that, sir." Slater willed himself not to get angry. "I can't see Brad, or anyone else for that matter, going for a swim on a freezing cold night in March. And even if he did, how did he get to the ocean without his vehicle?"

"Did you ever consider that he might have been intending to have a few drinks and very wisely took a taxi?"

"No sale...sir."

Lowry's face flushed with anger. "For some reason you want this to be homicide, don't you?" His flinty eyes challenged under beetle brows. "Yet you must realise you can never prove it."

"And you don't want it to be homicide, sir," Slater couldn't stop himself; he was still too emotionally raw over Brad. "So it will look better for the department. It can all be neatly swept away as a tragic mishap, rather than the murder of a detective, which would raise all sorts of awkward questions about the Highway of Tears case he was working on."

There...it was out. On a roll, he couldn't stop. "That case has been an embarrassment to police departments for decades, and to have one of their investigators murdered while working on it would be galling, indeed."

Lowry slammed a desk drawer shut before wagging a finger in Slater's direction. "That's veering very close to insubordination," he warned. "And I won't put up with it. Do you hear me?"

The ringing telephone cut short his tirade. As Lowry picked it up, Slater seized the opportunity to leave.

Now that he knew for sure his best friend and partner was never coming back, an odd sense of relief and acceptance had replaced the mood swings of positive one minute and negative the next, which had plagued him since Brad disappeared.

He stopped by the morgue on his way home. Asked the attendant for Brad's earring. Wept afresh as he held it in his hand. Then he drove over to Cranston Point where the body had been found and threw it into the water. "Rest in Peace, good buddy," he said.

* * *

"I'm Aimee Dubois. I just read the article about Megan Keyes, in the Toronto Star." She had a pronounced French accent, which was easy on the ear. "It said you were the detective in charge of the case."

"That's right." Slater balanced the phone on his shoulder, and watched a kite soaring past his window. Enthusiasts were out in force, taking advantage of the brisk winds.

"I knew Megan," Aimee continued. "Probably better than anyone."

Slater listened with interest. There was always the possibility she was a crank, of course, police investigations drew them like magnets. But by the sound of her, he doubted that.

"I have a coffee stall in High Park Gardens. Megan used to drop by most evenings, and we'd chat."

Slater recalled Megan's university friends mentioning that she spent a lot of time in the gardens. So this added even more credence to what Aimee said.

"She was a very unhappy young lady."

Wow, that's the first time he'd heard anything negative about Megan. Everyone else had presented her as happy and well balanced. "Why was that?" he asked.

"She felt boxed in...trapped, if you will. Complained that her family...her mother in particular, were very controlling." Aimee paused. "I'm surprised that they'd let her go off like that to the Olympic Games."

But where did being protective of one's children end, and controlling to an unhealthy degree begin? Slater pondered. Parents who loosened the reins were often accused of neglect. The fact was, teenagers usually felt less free than they'd like. The urge to leave the nest was a biological instinct. "Yet they allowed her to attend university in Toronto," he said.

"Yes, and pestered her all the time with phone calls, letters and visits."

There again, how much of this was too much? If they'd ignored her, Aimee would probably be accusing them now of not caring.

"Megan must have been looking forward to her trip over here," Slater said. But would two weeks of total freedom be too much all at once for someone so sheltered?

"Yes and no," Aimee answered, cryptically. "On the one hand she could hardly wait to get away, but on the other, she was scared witless."

"Based on what you've told me, I can understand that." He paused. "Did she ever confide in you about any men in her life, or drug addictions, etcetera?"

"No boyfriends, Detective, at least nothing serious, and no illegal drugs." Aimee hesitated. "She did take sleeping pills, though, on occasion. She tended to be very tense, and had difficulty unwinding at bedtime."

So did millions of other people, Slater thought. There was nothing too unusual about that.

"I got the impression that I was the only person she'd ever really been honest with," Aimee said. "The way she presented herself to her family and university friends was a façade."

"Because you were outside of her immediate circle," Slater said, "she wouldn't be afraid of anything she told you getting back to people she knew."

"Yes, we clicked alright." She laughed. "A lot better than I did with my own daughters." She sighed. "But then that always seems to be the way."

"Knowing Megan as you do, what do you think happened to her?"

Aimee chuckled. "As soon as I read the article, I thought aha, so she grasped the chance at freedom when she got it, and decided never to look back."

* * *

"That is absolute crap!" Glenda sounded furious. Predictably, Slater thought. After the way she'd painted Megan as being the model daughter, happy and contented, Aimee's version was bound to displease. "And to suggest that Megan would voluntarily just disappear and never get in touch with me again is...vicious slander––"

"Yet there is the possibility," Slater interjected, "that if Megan were unhappy enough with her life, she could have done just that."

"Never!"

"Okay, calm down, Glenda, but we have to take every report we receive in a case like this, seriously."

"Even from those just out to make trouble and desperate to get attention?"

"This particular witness didn't strike me like that at all."

Glenda snorted in disbelief. "I never claimed that Megan was some sort of blissfully happy paragon," she hissed. "She had her ups and downs like all of us. But by and large, she was a perfectly normal young woman reasonably happy with her life."

Of course, he conceded, Glenda would be the last person Megan would have revealed her true self to. There is a natural reticence to confide in one's parents. So Glenda could hardly be faulted even if Megan did decide to do a bunk when she got to Vancouver.

"I've stopped trying to kid myself, Neil." Glenda sounded suddenly weary. "Megan is dead. And I prefer to believe this than the alternative, being held somewhere by a sex crazed monster." She sighed. "There are no other possibilities."

He tended to agree with her. Unless, of course, she'd been indoctrinated into some sort of mad cult and brainwashed. Or, took off with some smooth talking pimp who got her high on drugs and made her work the streets. Odder things were happening all the time.

After the phone call with Glenda ended, he sat and stared out the window for a while. Rain drummed down in buckets. There again, Aimee could be right, which meant that Megan disappeared voluntarily. But how a girl who had lived such a sheltered life, could branch out on her own like that, in a strange province, was another matter, entirely. How would she live? And the fact that her credit card had not been used since she checked into the Queen's Quay Hotel bore out the conclusion that she'd been the victim of foul play, and was now dead, more than any other single factor. It seemed to almost certainly rule out any hope that she was still alive, as a prisoner, or otherwise.

Yet there was something...something that didn't feel quite right. And it had niggled at him right off to start. But the damnedest thing was, he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Maddening. There goes my damned sixth sense again, he mused. Or was it just exhaustion and grief talking?

* * *

"All senior staff members are invited." Lowry beamed. He had summonsed Slater to his office to remind him of the banquet being held in the Queen's Quay Hotel. "It will be a working luncheon of course," he added. "But nevertheless, enjoyable."

"I may not be able to make it, sir." Slater hated those dos, when everyone sat around awkwardly, and drank too much, in unfamiliar surroundings. "I have a case load the size of a jumbo jet."

"Not any larger than anyone else's," Lowry snapped, his good humour gone. "And you really don't have any choice in the matter. I expect you to attend."

"Yes, sir." Slater fumed inwardly. "Will that be all? I have a stack of work to get through this morning."

"Yes, of course, dismissed." He paused. "I'll see you there at noon, sharp."

Blast the man and his stupid socialising. Slater almost kicked the elevator as it took him back down to his own office, dramatically humble after the opulence of Lowry's. He tackled the case file he'd been working on since yesterday, but his attention was no longer on it. Damn! He might as well get himself spruced up and head over to the hotel.

Queen's Quay glistened in the sunlight. The patio, where he'd spent so much time with Glenda, stood deserted. Slater ordered a Scotch and gazed across the harbour at the Vancouver skyline.

"I guess you're here for the banquet." The waitress dawdled around wiping at tables, in preparation for the lunchtime rush.

"Do I scream cop quite that loudly?" He smiled.

"Oh no." She laughed. "It's just that I remember you from when you used to come here to see the missing girl's mother––Glenda, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"She's a nice woman. We used to chat sometimes when I wasn't too busy. What a terrible tragedy, losing her only child like that."

Slater knocked back his drink and ordered another one. He needed fortification for the afternoon that lay ahead, with Lowry lording it over everyone from the head of the table. Only dirty politics could promote someone like him to police chief.

"I was really sorry to hear about your partner." She set the second Scotch in front of him. "He used to come here a lot too." She winked. "But I guess you know all about that."

"Know about what?" He had no idea what she was getting at.

"You're kidding me." She leaned closer. "Do you mean to tell me that you didn't know Glenda and your partner were an item?"

### ~3~

The coffee tasted bitter as wormwood. Slater grimaced. He was tempted to add a shot of Scotch, but changed his mind. He'd had quite enough to drink already at that blasted luncheon.

He shuffled a few files on his desk, and then leaned back in his chair. Brad had been his partner and best friend, but what did he really know about him? Only what he'd chosen to divulge. The same applied to everybody. Sobering thought.

The hotel staff could just be engaging in scurrilous gossip, of course. Heck, it was a popular pastime, everywhere. Yet the waitress had insisted Brad was seen in Glenda's room late at night and early in the morning. It wasn't like Brad to engage in unprofessional conduct such as this. But there again, that was the Brad he thought he knew. The reality might be altogether different.

Glenda was an attractive woman, and Slater recalled how she had come onto him when they'd been sailing out of Deep Cove harbour on his boat. It wasn't too great a stretch of the imagination to figure she could have done the same thing with Brad.

He remembered being somewhat tempted to take her up on the offer. Hell, when the one-eyed snake gets involved it shoots to hell reason, but he had resisted.

He had an aggravating sense that the answer to Megan's disappearance lay within his grasp. But he was looking in the wrong places. Damn. He shook his head. Had he somehow overlooked it because of concentrating on the more obvious scenarios, which might actually be red herrings? Or it somehow slipped by because he was working on several other cases at the same time? Staff shortages at the police department had become critical. Then, of course, Brad's disappearance had sent him into a veritable tailspin.

He glanced at his watch, too late now to phone Glenda, it was midnight in Ontario. But what would be the point, anyway? If she and Brad were having a fling, she'd be unlikely to admit it. And even if she did, what would have been gained? They'd both been adults after all. Except that Brad was violating the police code of ethics. But it was a little late in the day to worry about that.

Slater went to the coffee machine, dumped the old stuff down the drain, and made fresh. It was going to be a long night. He had no intention of leaving the office until he'd gone through the Megan Keyes file yet again. And if he didn't discover in the process that elusive something, hell he'd be tempted to turn in his badge.

He went over Glenda's initial statement, first. She had last seen Megan when she dropped her off at the airport. But she'd received a telephone call from her the following morning at 1:00 am.

Slater raked through the file. Where was the record of that call? He scratched his head in puzzlement. It wasn't there. Yet Brad had been supposed to check all the hotel records. Megan was, in all likelihood calling from the hotel, but if he'd learned one thing in police business, it was that you could never take anything for granted. If...just if, she had been at another telephone, a check at Glenda's end might reveal the location of her abductor or killer.

He punched in the number of the Queen's Quay Hotel. Left a message at reception for the manager.

On his way across the courtyard to his car, he passed a couple kissing by the fountain. Ah the joys of romantic love. He smiled. No wonder we tried to truss it up in a straightjacket and build a picket fence around it. But to no avail, it was as ephemeral as a butterfly.

* * *

An early morning mist still clung in patches over the water. Vancouver rose mysteriously from its embrace. Slater braved the chill and sat on the hotel patio. He sipped on coffee and scanned over the records of Megan's stay. There was only one entry, detailing her registration. It had been on February 12, when the Olympic Games began. Nothing afterwards. No room service. No calls to housekeeping. And no phone calls! A couple of days later, the housekeeping staff reported all her things were gone and the bed had not been slept in.

This might just be the lead he'd been hoping for. Megan hadn't called Glenda from the hotel, she hadn't called anyone. So where did she call her from?

When he returned to his office, he contacted the Ontario police. Glenda Keyes had received the call he was interested in on February 13, at approximately 1:00 am. Slater wasn't sure if the call had come into the hotel or her home. He'd never thought to ask her. It hadn't seemed significant at the time. They told him they'd check on both.

He tried to get stuck into the backlog on his desk, but couldn't concentrate. The fog had lifted allowing the sun to take centre stage. He felt like getting out on the water. Heck, it was Saturday, after all, why not?

The marina buzzed with activity. Yachts skimmed past and disappeared around the bend in the river, beneath the Burrard Street Bridge. While the berth where Brad's boat used to be still sat conspicuously empty. The sight of it overwhelmed Slater with sadness and nostalgia.

Lowry was setting him up with a new partner. Someone, he understood, from a Vancouver Island detachment. He wasn't interested. Viewed it as an imposition, and disloyalty to Brad. He'd wanted to scream no, no, no one can ever take Brad's place. He knew it was irrational, of course, but just couldn't seem to get a grip.

Enough of this. He wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand. "He's never coming back," he said to the empty berth. And was answered with the gentle gurgle of the waves as they washed against the dock.

Getting out on the water usually lifted his spirits, but not today. He took the boat as far as Deep Cove, wandered around for a while amongst the tourists, and then had dinner at the Old Sailor Inn. Flashbacked to the time he'd been there with Glenda. Man, did he feel lonely. He needed someone to hold onto, the feel of flesh against flesh. It had been too damned long. And the grief over Brad had made him overly emotional, and inevitably, needy.

He ordered a double Scotch. After one bad relationship too many, he had assiduously avoided entanglements. They just weren't worth the grief. And even something that started out as non-threateningly as a fuck friend, or even a booty call, could end up getting damned nasty. He sipped on his whiskey. Yet the thought of a prostitute––pay for play and truly no strings attached––repulsed him. They were disease ridden shag hags. He'd seen enough of them up close and personal when he'd worked Vice, to put him off for a lifetime.

If only there was someone wet and willing, whenever he was in the mood, but definitely monogamous as well. Someone who was delighted with the arrangement and who wouldn't want to take it to that deadly "other level." Or, utter those dreaded words: We have to talk. Someone who would not need to be wined and dined and ferried about to shows and the like. He grinned. Yeah that's right, Neil, you dreamer you. He called for the cheque and left.

* * *

Hmmm...that was odd, and certainly not what he'd expected. Slater sat drumming his fingers on his desktop. The Ontario police had faxed him Glenda's home phone records, and those of the hotel, and there were no calls received from Vancouver, on the dates of interest, or for the duration of the Olympic Games.

But why would she lie about receiving a phone call from Megan? Was there more to this case than met the eye? And was this that niggling little something that had pricked at him for ages?

He got up and stood by the window. Apricot clouds floated across the mountains. Glenda's motive for the fabricated phone call must have been to establish Megan was in Vancouver. Which, led him to the conclusion that she hadn't been. So where was she? Why the lies about her disappearance? Unless...

* * *

"Permission denied." Police Chief Lowry never looked more adamant. "If you think I'm going to okay your trip to Ontario, on some wild goose chase, you're sadly mistaken."

Slater had expected as much. He bit back an angry response. Fixed his eyes on the spectacular view from Lowry's office window.

"You have a stack of other cases you should be working on, instead of which you remain obsessed with this one." He thumped the Keyes file with his fist. "Now you want to gad about on the other side of the country at the taxpayer's expense." He glowered. "Well it just isn't going to happen."

"I haven't had any vacation time in almost eighteen months," Slater reminded him. "I'm entitled to at least a week right now, and I intend to take it...sir."

Lowry looked about to explode. "Suit yourself then," he finally bellowed. "But don't expect the department to fund your travelling expenses."

Slater picked up the Keyes file and headed for the door. "Thank you for all your help...sir." He bowed, sardonically. Then bolted down the hall to the elevator before Lowry got himself under control enough to fire back.

* * *

Kinross lay on the southern shores of Lake Ontario, about a fifty-mile trip from Toronto. Slater looked around, it was more like a hamlet, really, than a small town. The main street was dominated by the hotel, which the Keyes family owned and operated. A few shops flanked it on both sides.

Glenda lived on the outskirts, in a picturesque cottage near a beach. It was difficult to believe anything but happiness could flourish here. But then, wasn't it Glenda herself who had said, in so many words, how deceiving outward appearances could be.

"It's so good to see you, again." Glenda appeared in the doorway and ushered him inside. He had telephoned her from the Toronto Airport. "I don't get many visitors out here."

The living room didn't get much sun. It looked over furnished and gloomy. Its saving grace, the view of Lake Ontario, out its multi-paned windows.

"As I mentioned to you on the phone," Slater said. "I'm here to try and clear up some aspects of the case."

She set a coffee tray on the side table and handed him a cup.

"Whatever I can do to help." She sat opposite him, her face catching the light from an overhead swag lamp. He'd never seen her dressed so casually before in jeans and a white angora sweater. The look suited her, and took years off her age.

"I know you've been through this dozens of time before," he said. "But I need you to tell me again, from scratch, the series of events from the time you drove Megan to the airport."

Glenda nodded. "I stayed with her until her flight was called. We had breakfast in the coffee shop."

"How did she seem?"

"Excited, of course, but a little apprehensive as well. This was her first time away from home, on her own."

"Understandable." Slater set his cup down on the coffee table. "So what did you do next? Did you come directly home?"

"No. I spent the day in Toronto." She smiled. "Shopping, mainly. I hadn't been there in ages."

"And Megan called you later that night?"

"At about 1 o'clock in the morning, our time."

"This is one of the aspects of the case we're having a problem with." Slater stared directly into her eyes. "You see there is no record of such a call...anywhere."

Glenda looked as if she'd been struck. But she regained her composure quickly. She had as close as it gets to a Poker face, so it wasn't going to be easy to crack her. "I have no idea why that would be," she said.

"Well that's quite obvious, Glenda." He leaned towards her. "Because it never happened."

She shook her head. Her face remained like a shutter for the myriad of thoughts that must have raced behind it. She got up and stood by the fireplace. Gazed into the flames from a gas log. "Okay," she relented, at last. "I made that up...I just so wanted it to be true. I also thought you would pay more attention to the case, if you knew there had been at least some contact." She turned around and faced him. "You know, rather than if you'd known that I'd never heard from Megan at all." She shrugged. "It was crazy, I know, and dishonest...but given my frame of mind at the time..."

Slater finished his coffee. He wasn't buying it, of course. He'd been around the block too many times for that. "It could also have been," he suggested, "because Megan wasn't in Vancouver––never had been––but you wanted very much to place her there."

A fleeting look of alarm flashed across Glenda's face, before she quickly concealed it behind the shutter. "I don't know how you ever got that idea," she said, in an amazingly calm voice, considering the circumstances. "Just because you failed to find Megan, doesn't mean that she was never in Vancouver."

He ignored the jibe. "Megan wasn't quite the happy contented young woman you painted her to be," he continued. "I tend to believe the report from her friend that she was depressed and deeply troubled."

"Believe what you like," Glenda snapped. "I already told you, Megan had her ups and downs just like the rest of us."

"A twenty year old who relies heavily on sleeping pills, is suffering from more than just the run of the mill problems," he said.

"What are you suggesting, Neil?" Glenda sat down opposite him again, her face like stone. "That I...did away with my own daughter?" She shook her head, incredulously. "I think you've been a cop too long. Everyone isn't a criminal, you know."

He let the remark pass. "The point remains that Megan found family life very restricting. It's possible that this escalated to a showdown, and in the heat of the moment––"

"Stop it right there," she interjected, furiously. "It takes one helluva sick mind to accuse someone of murdering her own daughter."

"What happened then? Why the need for all the fancy subterfuge, like trips to the Olympics, which never happened, etcetera, if not to cover up criminal activity?"

Glenda slumped back on the couch and began to sob. He suspected they were crocodile tears, but then maybe she was right, he'd been a cop too long. Dealing with all the riff raff on a regular basis, was bound to affect one's judgement.

"When I went to waken Megan up that morning, to go to the airport..." She paused and drew a ragged breath. "I found her dead."

It was as he expected. Either deliberate or accidental from an overdose of sleeping pills.

Glenda wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I like to think it was an accident," she murmured.

"So why all the efforts to deceive?"

"Look around you, Neil, this is a tiny town, everybody knows everybody, and most of them are ultra conservative and very religious––or pretend to be." She wrung her hands. "They would have torn Megan's memory apart with their nattering tongues, and wrecked our family's good name, into the bargain." She paused. "It would have killed my parents."

"So as Megan already had all the arrangements made for a trip to the Olympics, you thought why not go ahead with it, as if nothing had happened."

She nodded. "I took the trip in her place, and used her credit card to book in at the Queen's Quay Hotel." She snivelled and blew her nose with a Kleenex.

"Then you left almost immediately and returned home on a Greyhound bus."

She looked surprised.

"You wouldn't want to fly back," he said. "The airlines keep records. You have to show ID. Whereas on the bus, travelling within Canada, you can avoid that."

She nodded.

"So you would arrive in Toronto on Monday, pick up your car at the airport, and when you got home, everyone would assume you'd spent the weekend shopping and going to shows." He leaned towards her. "What did you do with Megan's body?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

She smiled wanly and pointed out the window to the lake. "What do you think I did? But way down the coast from here."

"There is a possibility, of course, that the body could still wash ashore. Unless...you weighted it down."

"I did," she said. "With a couple of old lead blocks from the garage and a boat anchor."

"You weren't taking any chances."

"I'd come that far, I wanted to make sure." She wrenched a Kleenex between her hands and looked ready to burst into a fresh volley of tears. "This was my little girl, you know, and I loved her more than anything in the world. To toss her into the lake like that...but I kissed her forehead, told her how much I loved her...and said a prayer."

"So all the effort of flying to Vancouver, returning by bus, and disposing of Megan's body, was done for appearances sake," Slater said. "You found it more socially acceptable to have her meet with foul play in Vancouver."

"That's right." Glenda looked suddenly bitter. "You've no idea what living in a place like this can be like," she said.

"But that wasn't the only reason, was it?" He appraised her closely. "You stood to gain a great deal of money on a life insurance policy, which suicide––or even the possibility of it––would render null and void."

"Oh God, you never quit do you?" She bit down on her lip. "So what happens now?" She hesitated. "I don't suppose you would go for it, if I offered you half the insurance payout to forget about this?"

He laughed, and shook his head. "You supposed right."

"What kind of charges am I facing?" Glenda looked suitably miserable.

"Making false statements to the police, and disposing of a body, illegally, for starters." He paused. "Suspicion of murder" might also be thrown in."

"You surely don't believe that," she protested. "Look I've told you the truth. I would never harm my daughter."

"But without a body to establish cause of death, Glenda, it remains your word only, and as you've already lied so much about everything..."

"Of course, you haven't got a shred of evidence." She looked suddenly cunning. "If I deny everything, which I will, you cannot prove that Megan didn't go missing in Vancouver, and that I was in Toronto that whole weekend."

"And which hotel did you stay at?"

"A wonderfully badly run bed and breakfast on Dupont Street, where the staff changes constantly, and they never ask for ID."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

Just for a moment she looked irritatingly smug. "Besides you have no jurisdiction here, Neil."

"No, but the Ontario police have," he said.

"I'll deny everything." Her eyes blazed, and he wondered, not for the first time, if she was quite sane.

"Suit yourself." He smiled, and lifted up his shirt to show her the wire. "They're right outside," he said. "Shall you invite them in, or will I?"

### ~4~

"I can't congratulate you enough on the outcome of the Keyes case." Lowry came around his desk, and extended a hand. "You've done the department proud, Neil."

"Thank you, sir." Slater found it difficult to keep a straight face.

"To think that damned woman was lying like the sidewalk all along...wasting valuable police time...and she'd have got away with it too, if it hadn't been for our sense of something not right."

Our sense, Slater thought, now that's quite a stretch.

"I've recommended you for a promotion."

"Thank you, sir."

Lowry leaned back in his chair and smiled. "After you've made out a full report," he said. "Take off and enjoy the rest of your holiday."

Right, all three days of it, Slater thought, grimly.

"Oh and Neil, the department will cover all the costs of your Ontario trip." He beamed. "I really am delighted by all the positive media coverage and exposure."

"Yes, I've seen you on TV, sir, at all the press conferences."

"Well we have to boost the department at every opportunity."

And yourself, because of your political aspirations, Slater added silently.

"We'll never let them forget that we cracked this case wide open."

"Yes sir, we did!"

* * *

Slater woke up with a start. Damn, he'd fallen asleep at his desk. He massaged the crick in his neck and switched off the reading lamp. Dawn trickled in. Still, at least he'd got that damned report finished. He collected the pages. He'd stick them on Lowry's desk and then go home.

He wasn't sure if it was the ungodly hour, coupled with his exhaustion––Ontario had been rewarding, but inevitably tiring––but he suddenly had a strong sense of Brad very close by. "You haven't been forgotten, good buddy," he murmured into the eerily deserted corridor. He hadn't questioned Glenda about her alleged affair with Brad, out of respect for his deceased partner. He didn't see the point in it. It would only drag Brad's name through the mud as a cop who got involved where he shouldn't. He had also; he had to admit, put Brad's case on the back burner while he dealt with the Keyes case.

Outside in the courtyard, a family of chickadees flew around the fountain. Birdsong burst from the nearby trees. That sense of something missed still niggled him. He shrugged if off. The Keyes case was closed, and out of his hands. But he hated loose ends, and as long as the events surrounding Brad's death remained unsolved, they would hang there like nooses, just waiting to strangle him.

The problem was he really didn't know where to start. All that could be done had already been done. Where was Brad off to on the night he went missing? Slater got into his vehicle and started the ignition. He'd always assumed it was something to do with the Highway of Tears case––an informant, or someone pretending to be––had phoned him and set up a meeting. Find out who it was, and you'd likely find the killer.

He drove through dreary streets slick with rain. Milk bottles clattered in a dairy van, and a bundle of newspapers were tossed onto the sidewalk from the back of a delivery truck. The city was waking up.

But what if it wasn't anything to do with the Highway of Tears case at all. Could Brad have been going to meet someone else, a friend, or a girlfriend, perhaps? But if so, he didn't sound too happy about it. Slater recalled the tension and evasiveness in Brad's voice the last time he'd spoken to him.

Glenda!

He would be bound to fear anyone finding out about the unethical affair. Hence his changed mood before he disappeared. And there would be an inevitable sense of guilt, also, when that blackout extended to his friend and partner. Brad must have known what he was doing was disloyal and dead wrong. Slater suspected that Glenda had been using him to keep dibs on the investigation into her daughter's disappearance.

But why hadn't Brad taken his vehicle? There was nothing wrong with it, according to a mechanical check. And how did he end up in the ocean? Unless...

Slater's heart rate increased as a possible scenario unfolded itself before him. He stopped for a red light and smacked himself on the forehead. Why hadn't he thought of this before? He'd been too intent on linking Brad's disappearance to the sinister Highway of Tears case.

"Help me Brad," he appealed to the dark shadows that lingered around him. "What happened to you?"

* * *

"You must be quite mad." Glenda glared at Slater with hate filled eyes. "I'm locked up here because of you...yet you're still not satisfied. You want to hang a murder rap on me as well?" She looked ready to leap across the table and strangle him.

"You mean another murder rap," he corrected her. "You could well face charges of second degree murder in Megan's death."

He glanced around at the grim interview room with the tiny barred window high up on the wall. This was not a place anyone would want to end up in.

Glenda's lawyer whispered something to her, and she nodded. Slater resolved to keep his mouth shut and allow Len Hagan, the Ontario cop, to conduct the interview.

"Did you have an affair with Detective Brad Peterson?" Hagan didn't pull any punches.

"No, I did not."

Slater smiled to himself. Well it figured. Glenda was hardly going to admit it.

"Yet hotel staff have reported he spent the night in your room...regularly."

"It's a lie."

Hagan switched to a different tack. "I understand you're a boating enthusiast, Ms. Keyes?"

"Yes, is that against the law too?"

Hagan let the remark pass. "So was Detective Peterson," he said.

"So?" She shook her head. "Am I supposed to see a connection?"

"We do, if you don't." Hagan moved in for the kill. "We think that you and Detective Peterson went out on his boat the night he disappeared. That there was some sort of argument––perhaps he found out the truth about your daughter's disappearance––and you killed him to keep him quiet."

Glenda looked incredulous. "What have you been smoking? She demanded. She turned to her lawyer and smirked.

"Then you dumped his body overboard, berthed his boat at the marina, and drove his vehicle back to his apartment." He paused. "Fait accompli."

Glenda threw back her head and laughed. "You've been watching too many cop shows on television," she sneered. "And buying into Neil's crazy version of events." She glowered in Slater's direction. "But the bottom line is, when all this fantasy bullshit is cleared away, you don't have a single shred of evidence to back up any of this...fairytale."

"That's where you're wrong." The iciness in Slater's voice would have chilled a heat wave. "You were caught in the act."

She shook her head. "What the hell are you talking about? Have you planted something incriminating...the way cops so often do?"

Slater ignored the jibe. "You were seen driving Brad's vehicle back to his apartment, on the night he disappeared."

Glenda's eyes widened in alarm, although she managed to keep her face unreadable. "It wasn't me," she protested. "Whoever told you that is either mistaken or a liar."

Slater prepared himself to deliver the coup. "Video cameras don't lie, Glenda."

She shook her head. "What are you talking about...I don't follow."

"You were caught on tape, by a surveillance security camera, in the underground parking garage of Brad's apartment building."

"...I..." The shock had poleaxed her.

Her lawyer intervened. "I'd like to have a word with my client in private," he said.

"You have five minutes." Hagan stood up.

As soon as they were outside in the corridor, he lit a cigarette. "She's guilty as sin," he said.

Slater nodded. "That bitch killed my partner. I'd like to see her burn in hellfire."

When the interview resumed Glenda wore a defeated expression.

"My client is willing to cooperate fully," her lawyer said. "Providing there are assurances that charges of first degree murder will not be laid."

"No deals." Hagan was adamant. Slater silently applauded his resolve. "If Ms. Keyes intended to kill Detective Peterson when they went out boating that night, then she is guilty of first degree murder and will be charged, accordingly."

"But I didn't," Glenda insisted, her eyes wide with terror. "It was an accident."

"No sale," Slater declared. "You planned Brad's murder just as carefully and cold-bloodedly as you plotted to cover up your daughter's death."

"You bastard," Glenda hissed.

But try as they might, they couldn't shake her story, and it was a shocker. The media would have a field day. "Brad got off on asphyxiation during sex," she claimed. "On the boat that evening, it went too far."

Slater was thunderstruck. He'd never expected anything quite as...scurrilous, even from Glenda trying to save her rotten hide. "That's a lie," he snapped. "You're seeking to tarnish the reputation and memory of a good detective." He drew an angry breath, and tried to control himself. "To get yourself off the hook for his murder." He paused. "And first degree murder, it most definitely was."

"I tried to revive him, but couldn't...." Glenda began to sob. "In a panic, I threw him overboard." She blew her nose, and dabbed at her eyes. "I regretted it almost immediately, but it was too late..."

* * *

"There is a possibility that she's telling the truth." Hagan tossed back a shot of Scotch and followed it with a beer chaser. "Remote, I grant you, but nevertheless..." He shrugged. "Erotic asphyxiation is more popular than you'd think."

"I don't buy it for a minute," Slater fumed. "If you'd known Brad, neither would you." He glanced around at the crowded pub, where a go-go dancer bobbed around on stage. "It's just way too convenient for Glenda." Yet he had to admit that Hagan was right. Choking one's partner during sex had become something of a fad lately. It had even killed a famous actor. If Brad, had been into this, he would have been unlikely to talk about it.

"But if she sticks to the story––and heck, it's what I'd do in her place––it might just be believed in court." Hagan lit a cigarette.

"Either way, she's still going down for a long time." Slater sipped on his drink. He supposed he'd have to be content with that. She could have so easily continued to deny all knowledge of Brad's death. At least now she had been forced to claim some sort of responsibility for it. "The Prosecution will rip her story about the kinky sex to shreds," he said.

Hagan caught the waiter's eye and ordered another round. "Let's hope so," he said.

### ~5~

"Good on you, Neil." Lowry beamed. He bounded up from behind his desk and greeted Slater like a long lost friend. Pumped on his hand for ages and patted him on the back. "Another excellent outcome."

"Thank you, sir."

Slater felt drained. Glenda's trial had dragged on for months. Still, the final verdict couldn't have been better. The jury had not believed her story about the kinky sex and had convicted her of first-degree murder. Bravo! He'd yelled silently when the verdict was read. They had given her the benefit of the doubt though, in Megan's death. Slater felt satisfied with that also. He'd never believed Glenda had actually murdered her own daughter. Megan likely died at her own hand from an overdose of sleeping pills. Whether intentional or accidental, no one would ever know.

"The Keyes woman turned out to be quite the dragon lady." Lowry poured two glasses of sherry from the tray on top of his credenza, and handed one to Slater. "Here's to you, Neil, and good police work, in general."

"Thank you, sir. I'll second that." He sipped on the sherry. Not his favourite tipple, and this one was not dry enough.

Lowry pawed contentedly through the newspapers stacked on his desk. "I've never seen so much positive publicity," he gloated. "It's kept me busy round the clock doing interviews." He beamed again. "All part of the job."

Slater's thoughts wandered. What had really made the difference at Glenda's trial, were Brad's old girlfriends, who swore under oath, that he wasn't into erotic asphyxiation, or any kind of kinky practices. And the Prosecution stressed that no sexual paraphernalia of any kind, such as masks, hoods, bindings and blindfolds, associated with erotic asphyxiation, had ever been found in any of Brad's belongings. You would think, they said, that if he had been as far into this vice as the accused alleged, some sort of apparatus would be necessary.

Glenda, predictably, claimed she had tossed the black rubber hood into the water to conceal what had really happened. "You'd hardly expect me to leave it lying around," she had challenged.

The Defence, of course, countered that Brad may not have indulged in this type of erotic kink with every women he'd been intimate with. It could have been something of a side dish, they said, sauces and pickles, rather than the main meal. They also hinted that former sexual partners would not want it made public that they'd been party to that sort of perversion, even if they had been. Fortunately, the jury remained unconvinced.

It had been quite a scandalous and ridiculous accusation in the first place, Slater mused, a classic case of grasping at straws. But clever, he had to admit, in its way, although, ultimately, thank God, it had failed.

"To think that wretched woman would still be walking around free––she wouldn't have confessed to a thing––if we hadn't nailed her with that video." Lowry looked smug. "Even she knew the gig was up, when she realised she'd been captured on film, driving Brad's vehicle into the parking garage." He sipped on his sherry. "Where is it, anyway?" he asked, as an afterthought. "The video. I don't recall seeing it."

"You didn't, sir," Slater replied. "It wasn't necessary to introduce it as evidence after Glenda confessed."

Lowry nodded. "Quite so." He topped up their glasses. "Oops, and I almost forgot, your promotion came through." He raked in a desk drawer for the papers. "Congratulations, Captain Slater."

"Thank you, sir." Slater finished the overly sweet sherry, with an inward grimace of distaste, and got out of Lowry's office quickly, before he was offered another one.

He rode down in the elevator feeling bone weary but satisfied. He'd put Brad's killer away for life. Justice had been served. And so what if he'd had to stretch the truth a bit in the process.

Outside in the cool night air, he stared up at a crescent moon flanked by a dozen dancing stars. He smiled. If only Glenda had known that there was no video. He walked across the courtyard, admired the Christmas lights strung around the fountain, and started up his vehicle. It had been the only way to get her to confess. She'd still be denying all knowledge of Brad's murder, otherwise. He'd almost expected her to call his bluff and brazen it out. In which case, they would have had no hard evidence against her. But thank God she had gone for it, and in so doing, paid the price for her crime.

He drove slowly through empty city streets. Even the sanitation trucks were nowhere in sight. Brad felt very close again, but the energy was different this time, calmer, less urgent. So he knew about the verdict. "Rest in peace good friend," Slater said, and opened the sunroof, to let Brad's spirit fly free.

###  ~Epilogue~

"We're so very glad you could be here, Neil." Brad's parents were hosting a small memorial party in their son's honour. Sunlight glinted down through the branches of cypress trees.

"My pleasure." Slater smiled. "It's perfect weather for it, as well."

They had set up a buffet in the dining room, where guests helped themselves and then took their plates out to the tables and chairs that dotted the front lawn.

Slater sipped on a glass of white wine. Nice and dry, from the Rhine Valley. Unlike that horrible syrupy slop that Lowry dished out. He relaxed in the sunshine and watched a robin hop around the hydrangea bush. It was hard to believe it was over a year since Brad's death.

"Hi Neil."

"Barbara!" It had been ages since he'd seen Brad's sister. His twin sister, actually, and although not identical, they looked a lot alike. He stood up and shook hands. "It's been a long time. How are you?"

She smiled, and then laughed. "Well I was just about to say 'fine' when I realised that wouldn't be true." She sat down beside him.

"Why not? What's wrong?"

"This might mean nothing," she began, haltingly. "But when I was going through a box in the attic, where Brad kept a pile of stuff––junk, mostly––I found something...rather odd."

"Really? Go on."

"I didn't want to mention it to my parents, they've been through quite enough as it is, but I felt I just had to run it past someone." She looked unsure. Bit down on her lip. "I wouldn't have thought too much about it, if it hadn't been for all those ugly accusations about Brad at the trial––asphyxiation, and what have you––but the fact is, Neil, there was an odd mask among Brad's things."

"A mask?" Slater had a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Perhaps it was a Halloween thing, or something?" He took a deep breath, and tried to calm the apprehensive thudding of his heart. "Do you still have it?"

"Sure."

He followed her across a lawn of happy smiling people, into the house, and up the stairs to the attic. "I just couldn't bring myself to throw it away," she said. "It's such an ugly thing too." She prized it out of a box and handed it to him.

"It's a gas mask," Slater said. "They're collector items. World War 2 memorabilia."

"So, it wasn't what I feared at all." she placed a hand on her chest and looked almost comically relieved. "On the one hand I knew that it couldn't be...you know, yet on the other...I admit it's given me a number of sleepless nights."

"I can imagine." Slater touched her shoulder. "But there's nothing to be concerned about."

"Thank goodness for that." She squinted up at him through strands of unruly hair. "It would be one hell of a dilemma, wouldn't it?"

He smiled. "You mean whether to keep it secret, and perhaps leave an innocent person in prison to rot, or go to the authorities, thereby blackening your brother's good name, and devastating your family?"

She nodded. "Exactly."

"Well now you don't have to choose."

She threw her arms around him. "Thank you, Neil."

"Have you got a bag or something I can put this in?" He indicated the mask. "I might as well take it with me."

"Sure thing." Barbara raked through a drawer and produced a shopping bag. "And thanks again, Neil. You've taken a weight off my mind."

* * *

Cranston Point where Brad's body, or what remained of it, washed ashore lay swathed in moonlight. The last time he had been here, Slater recalled, was when he'd thrown Brad's earring into the water, as a RIP gesture.

Now there was something else, much less pleasant to throw there. He examined the ugly mask. He had never heard Brad mention anything about collecting items from the Second World War era, but then that didn't prove that he hadn't. He could have acquired the mask in any number of ways. To assume it was somehow involved in anything as kinky and off the wall as erotic asphyxiation was unjustified––natural though, after all the slander thrown around at the trial. No wonder Barbara got a start when she found it.

A feeling of utter exhaustion suddenly overcame him. How long could he kid himself on like this? He sat down on a boulder and buried his face in his hands. There was now a chance––much though he hated to admit it––that Glenda had been telling the truth about Brad. Oh God!

A boat horn boomed close by and startled a flock of starlings congregated in an abandoned warehouse. But there again, Slater decided wearily, it could be simply as he'd told Barbara, one of those odd things we all end up with in our possessions from time to time. Acquired, God only knows how.

"Talk to me, Brad," he said to the almost total darkness that socked in the quay. But the only reply was the drumming of the waves against the rocks.

Damn it all, even if he did turn the mask in, it wouldn't accomplish a thing. Lowry would never agree to open up the Keyes case again, regardless of the grounds. And on something as inconclusive as the mask, it simply would never happen. Never! Heck, even if Barbara had found a box full of asphyxiation paraphernalia, and photographs of Brad dressed up in it, Lowry would stand firm. He doubted, if even put in the hands of the defence, it would be enough for them to get a retrial on.

Slater stood up and paced around the shore. The sand felt mushy and gritty with pebbles. He had to admit he'd never feel quite as convinced again of Brad's innocence. But then was anything ever cut and dried, and as it appeared to be? Even if Brad had been into kinky stuff, it still didn't rule out the possibility that Glenda murdered him.

He still felt reasonably sure that his original suspicion had been correct. Brad had somehow discovered the truth about Megan's disappearance, or at least guessed it wasn't as it seemed. Glenda couldn't trust him not to report it, so she'd seized her chance when they were out boating––probably drugged his drink––and tossed him overboard.

She had subsequently been found guilty, after a lengthy trial, in a court of law. Would the gas mask, if discovered before the verdict, have changed anything?

No one could possibly say for sure now. Slater sighed. As he saw it, he really didn't have a choice. The die had already been cast.

Without another thought he tossed the mask into the water, and watched the waves wash it out to sea.

### ~~THE END~~

## MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

###  PROLOGUE

It was market day in the small Albertan town of Bainbridge. The Top Hat Grill had been crowded until late afternoon. Cigarette smoke lay heavy on the air.

Outside on the sidewalk the stalls that had overflowed with local produce: strawberries, cucumbers, zucchini and squash, were being dismantled.

It had been a bounty considering the Second World War had barely ended and food shortages were commonplace.

The waitresses had been kept busy, weaving in and out around the tables with laden trays. Now they'd all gone home, except for Arlene Hampton. Someone had to stay behind until closing time.

Tall and striking with long auburn hair pinned up in a roll, she bustled about tidying up the tables on platform-soled shoes. Then as she was wiping down the counter, a tall dark stranger walked in.

There was an instant chemistry between them, the sort of thing that's called 'love at first sight' in romance novels, and is ridiculed by realists. It's often described as 'time standing still,' by those who've experienced it. The few patrons that still lingered in the cafe knew that something very special and unusual was going on, some tut-tutted in disapproval. Arlene, after all, was a married woman with a young daughter.

But the entranced couple were totally oblivious to the consternation they were causing. They had eyes only for each other. Then an astonishing thing happened. Arlene, who appeared to be in a hypnotic trance, suddenly grabbed her bag from underneath the counter and walked out with the stranger.

Hand in hand they disappeared into the mellow September sunshine, where a wisp of a wind sweet as angel's breath seemed to whisper their names. Arlene would never be seen or heard from again. It was the stuff that fairytales are made of...

### CHAPTER ONE

The train whistled out a warning as it wound its way through the Rocky Mountains. Paula Hampton stared out the carriage window at a twilight sky blazoned with scarlet. They would arrive in Bainbridge tomorrow. Now that she was actually embarked on this journey that she had envisioned for so long, anxiety plagued her. Was she doing the right thing?

Thirty years had passed since Arlene, her mother, had walked out of the Top Hat Grill with a man she'd only just met. How could she desert her husband and child in that way? The train lurched as it navigated a hairpin curve. Arlene's defection -- she found it difficult to think of her as 'mother,' had killed her father, who at the time, had recently returned from military service in Europe. He'd quite literally drank himself to death.

Paula shivered. If it hadn't been for her Aunt Sophie -- her father's sister -- she would have ended up in a state run orphanage. She shivered again.

Why then did she feel it necessary to return to the scene of the crime, so to speak? Curiosity, she supposed, and an attempt to lay the ghosts of the past to rest, for they'd haunted her relentlessly over the years.

An announcement on the PA system jolted her out of her reverie. It was the last call for dinner. Paula sighed. She wasn't hungry, but decided she had to eat anyway. She went to the washroom to powder her nose. The face that peered back at her from the mirror was so like Arlene's. Skin so fair it appeared translucent, even features, and long auburn hair.

Paula was afraid the similarities didn't end there. Arlene had allowed an instant sexual attraction to rule her actions and change her life forever. Whether it had been for better or worse, they'd likely never know. Paula feared she might have inherited that side of her mother's nature. She recalled the out-of-control crush she'd had on a man at work before her marriage ended. That's why she was now determined to remain single. Foot loose, as they said, and fancy-free.

Temptation beckoned from every corner, like a lewd procuress in a brothel. Even on this train a very dishy looking naval officer had given her the glad eye. Tall and dark with blue eyes to die for, and the uniform didn't hurt none either. She'd acknowledged his approving look with a wink, but kept on walking.

In retrospect, she thought how much he matched the description of the man her mother had run off with. She shrugged. When would this unhealthy obsession with every little detail of a rather sordid event ever end? Sometimes she felt like some sort of ravenous voyeur, eager for even the minutest detail. She'd feared that returning to Bainbridge was not the right thing to do. Yet on the other hand, she regretted not having done it sooner. It was a bitter dichotomy to which there was no solution.

In the crowded dining car, she was seated across the table from an elderly woman wearing a hearing aid, named Edith. They chatted for a while, and then much to Paula's surprise the steward appeared at the table with 'the' sailor in tow. This was more than a mere coincidence. She'd bet her bootstraps it was bribery. She chuckled silently.

Once seated, he introduced himself as Gavin Jackson, and ordered a bottle of wine. Edith looked delighted and thanked him effusively. Paula, suspecting that this was merely a buttering up to get her in bed, viewed it all through a slightly more jaundiced eye.

As the train rumbled its way through countless tunnels, emerging each time like a triumphant phoenix from the ashes, the wine was passed around and it lowered her inhibitions, predictably! Am I playing games with myself? She pondered amusedly. Am I setting the scene so I can plead drunkenness as a defence? She couldn't help but giggle at the thought. After all, as an unattached female, she didn't need an excuse to bonk his lights out.

"Can we share in the joke?" Gavin smiled.

Paula was saved from answering by the waiter. "The dining room will be closing soon, but they're still serving drinks in the lounge bar," he said.

Paula knew that she'd had enough and should bid her dining companions good night. That's what Edith did. "I have an early start in the morning," she said.

But damn it all, you were only young once, and she'd already wasted too many years with a husband who'd never really turned her crank, and whom she'd grown to dislike. Unlike Arlene, her actions wouldn't hurt anyone. She was free as a bird to fuck an entire ship's crew if she so wished. But right now just one sailor would do fine.

Paula felt quite tipsy as they weaved their way through rattling rail cars, and she clung onto Gavin for balance. She'd missed out on the swinging sixties, but was determined that the seventies wouldn't pass her by in the same way. She had a well-established career in the telephone industry and it was time to kick up her heels a bit.

The lounge car, when they finally reached it, had floor to ceiling windows and a domed roof. It offered a breathtaking view of the mountains capped by an early evening sky. A harvest moon sailed triumphant in the heavens, surrounded by an honour guard of stars.

"Here's to us," Gavin raised his glass in a toast.

He told her he was on leave from the Navy Base in Esquimalt. "I'm going to visit my parents in Edmonton," he said. "I've been divorced for several years, and there weren't any children."

"So you truly are free."

He nodded. "How about you?"

Paula shrugged and sipped on her drink. "I'm in much the same position. My marriage broke up a few years ago." She raised her glass. "Here's to freedom."

He smiled. "But it can get bloody lonely at times."

She nodded. "That's the trade-off for liberty." She laughed. Yet despite the brave face she presented to the world, she acknowledged to herself that when the loneliness crept up on her on a bleak and frosty midnight, the bravado was gone. She felt instead like an abandoned anomaly cast adrift in an alien landscape.

He ordered another round, and Paula surprised herself by opening up to him about her present mission. Yet at the same time, she knew that travelling tends to do that. It cocoons one in a no man's land between the point of departure and destination. It's like a 'time out' from the norm, and as such doesn't count in one's day-to-day existence. No wonder it's so sought out as a panacea for every human ill. She stopped short of telling Gavin that the mysterious stranger, as he'd been dubbed, who stole away her mother, must have resembled him.

He looked thoughtful. "I've heard similar stories," he said. "But none quite as dramatic as what you describe." He shook his head. "It goes to show just how desperate we can be on the inside, to chuck our whole life away so quickly."

Paula nodded. "My father would have a difficult time adjusting when he returned from the war. It couldn't have been easy for my mother."

"She must have been quite desperately unhappy," Gavin said.

"What would make it worse." Paula looked sad. "Was that she likely missed him like sin for years, and looked forward so much to his return."

"Salt in the wounds," Gavin agreed. He leaned across the table towards her. "Your mother's strange departure must have haunted you for years," he said. "I think you're doing the right thing -- the only thing -- by going back to where it happened." He paused. "But apart from laying the ghosts of the past to rest, what else are you hoping to gain from it? What would you like to see happen?"

"Oh wow, I've never really dug too deeply into that. It's scraping at the wound, if you know what I mean." She smiled. "Yet I have to admit, I've always dreamed of uncovering some clue that would lead me to my mother, who's still alive, well and happy." She drained her glass in a gulp. "Silly isn't it?" She looked bitter. "I mean, what are the odds? And even if that happened, I'm not about to throw my arms around her and forgive and forget. She behaved abominably and deserted me."

Gavin took her hand, and his touch felt like magic. "You shouldn't feel guilty about resenting her," he said. "That's inevitable under the circumstances."

The train rumbled through an especially long tunnel blocking out the magic of the night sky and the eternal majesty of the mountains. It was always a relief, Paula decided, when it emerged at the other end. So many horrible crashes had occurred in these man made monstrosities.

She told Gavin about her life in Vancouver. "Sophie and I are more like soul-mates than aunt and niece," she said. "I owe everything to her."

They continued chatting about everything and nothing after that until the lounge bar closed. Paula found him quite irresistibly attractive and when he escorted her back to her roomette, she drew him inside. They kissed until she was breathless and when he mounted her the red-hot sensations that flamed through her were both primitive and exquisite in their intensity.

Afterwards, when she reminisced about this blissful night of passion on a train thundering through the Rockies, even the aftermath it unleashed could not eclipse the joy.

### CHAPTER TWO

The Top Hat Grill was no longer there. A pizza parlour had replaced it. Although she'd expected it to be gone, Paula still felt a twinge of disappointment. She'd have so liked to go in and soak up the atmosphere of the place that had played such a prominent role in her life. She'd pictured it so often in her mind's eye: The black and white tiled floor, marble counter, mahogany tables, and red leather booths. A neon sign with a top hat hung outside. Oh well, it had been thirty years after all. Nothing lasted forever and change was the only constant.

The downtown area of Bainbridge was tree lined and pleasant. Paula explored for a while, popping into some of the shops and then ended up in a small park adjacent to a cinema. From where she sat she could see a hardware store, supermarket and pharmacy. The Red Lion Inn, where she'd booked a room for a week was only a couple of blocks away. The closeness of everything was a novelty to her, accustomed as she was to Vancouver. That's where Sophie had taken her to live, in a sunny bungalow on the North Shore.

Now that she was actually here, in the place that she'd thought of so often, she didn't know quite where to begin. She had no early memories of Bainbridge at all. Of course, she'd only been about 6 years old when she'd left. All that she did know had come from the family photo album that she'd pour over for hours, and from the things Sophie told her. Of course, Sophie hadn't been around Bainbridge for years, so her knowledge was limited.

Paula decided to start at the RCMP detachment on the outskirts of town. Her father had contacted them when her mother left. He'd been worried sick about her and convinced that she'd been somehow spirited away against her will and held prisoner. He'd rambled on about the white slave trade. If they investigated, what did they find out?

"We don't generally keep files that far back." The desk sergeant looked tired. "But there is a chance it's still in the basement. This is a small town and there isn't much crime. So we aren't short of space." He asked her if she knew the exact date that her mother left.

As if I could ever forget it, she thought incredulously. Aloud she said: "September 13, 1946." She paused then added. "It was a Friday."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not superstitious, but I bet that date is significant to anyone who is."

Paula nodded. "It sort of added a touch of the sinister to the whole event." And for whatever reason, authenticity perhaps, she had planned this trip to coincide with the anniversary. It would be the 13th of September in a couple of days, although it fell on a Monday this year, and not a Friday.

"I'll have a look downstairs for you," he said. "If we still have the file, I know exactly where it will be."

While she waited, Paula stared out the window at a gigantic poplar tree that looked like a high-rise apartment tower for a swarm of finches. This really was a tranquil town and she was beginning to feel a sense of belonging.

"Here it is." The desk sergeant looked triumphant. "That's proof that our filing system is second to none." He chuckled and raked through the file. "I have to make sure there's nothing restricted in here," he explained.

Paula nodded and willed herself to be patient. But the file was small and she didn't have long to wait. He photocopied the dozen or so pages and she took them back to her hotel to read.

There wasn't too much more than she already knew. That anyone knew, for that matter. All attempts to locate the mysterious stranger that had spirited away her mother had been in vain. Apart from his description, which was readily available from everyone who had been in the restaurant that day -- tall, dark and handsome was the general consensus -- they were unable to find out anymore about him.

Paula raked through the pages her brow furrowed in consternation. There was a report from one of the townspeople that he'd seen a man meeting this description driving a grey Hudson, circa 1944. It hadn't however, been confirmed as accurate. No one in the Top Hat Grill had seen any type of vehicle at all. Although they supposed there must have been one either in the parking lot or at the end of the block.

Damn, if only someone had had enough curiosity to get the heck off his butt and take a look outside. Paula shook her head in frustration. They might have been able to grab the license number. As it was...well it was as if her mother and the mysterious stranger simply vanished into the sunshine of that fateful September day.

Could the supernatural have had anything to do with it? She'd asked herself that question many times over the years. Was the tall mysterious stranger a warlock of some sort? He'd certainly wielded a decidedly otherworldly power over her mother.

Paula scanned the names of the half-dozen witnesses that had been in the Top Hat that fateful day. But when she thumbed through the telephone directory could only find a listing for a couple of them. The others must have either relocated or died. Of course, it had been thirty years. Why hadn't she foreseen this and embarked on this journey of discovery much sooner?

Self-castigation will get you nowhere; she decided sensibly and phoned one of them, a Mrs. Kay Osborne. An answering machine picked up. Paula left a fairly detailed message, and promised to try again later.

Another new piece of information that was invaluable was the exact location of her parent's farm. It was situated about half-a-mile from town, off Rural Route 6. She'd rent a car and head out there in the morning. Meanwhile, there was a street festival on that night to celebrate the harvest. She'd put on her glad rags -- Nehru jacket and bellbottom trousers -- and head on down there. She was on holiday after all.

### CHAPTER THREE

"So you are Tim and Arlene's daughter?" Kay Osborne had strawberry blonde hair and wore a dozen rings. She was slightly stooped and depended on a walker to get around. But her eyes were still alert and sharp. "You look very much like your mother," she said.

Paula glanced around at the small but comfortable suite that was located in an assisted living facility. The couch and chair had floral cushions, and on the far wall an antique dresser displayed an impressive array of china. French doors led out to a patio.

"Let's have our tea outside," Kay suggested, disappearing into a tiny kitchen. "I have it all ready."

Paula insisted on carrying the tray. She set it down carefully on a wicker table that had two matching chairs. Overhead a small plane droned across the picture perfect sky, leaving a frothy white vapour trail in its wake.

"Have you been out to the farm yet?" Kay sat down heavily and reached for the teapot.

"Yes, I went over there this morning."

"And..."

Paula shrugged. "The house is still there, but it's smaller than I thought it would be." She paused. "The entire area reminded me of a landscape out of the Grapes of Wrath."

"Oh dear, that bad. So it's safe to say that you weren't impressed."

"I suppose it could have gotten more rundown over the years."

Kay nodded. "Actually it used to be a very nice dairy farm, well kept and quite profitable. Did you know that Keith and Jenny Mowatt, who own the farm today, also owned the Top Hat Grill?"

"No, I didn't," Paula replied. "But I certainly planned on paying them a visit." She stirred her tea thoughtfully. "I guess everything was okay for my parents until the war came along. When my father left, everything would start to fall apart.

"Things were tough." Kay sipped her tea. "That's why your mother took a waitressing job at the Top Hat, to tide her over until your dad came home."

"I've often wondered," Paula began haltingly. "Why my mother was still working there after my father returned."

Kay nodded. "She was used to it by that time and didn't want to quit. This was quite a bone of contention between them."

"I can imagine." Paula looked thoughtful and changed the subject slightly. "Do you remember the day my mother left?" she asked.

Kay laughed. "As if I could forget it." She shook her head. "It's still being gossiped about in this town."

"I'm surprised that nobody in the Top Hat Grill followed her outside," Paula said. "You know, to see where she went."

Kay sipped on her tea. "It all happened so fast," she said. "It left everyone totally stunned." She reached for a biscuit. "There again, it was really none of our business and you don't want to appear rude and nosy."

Paula nodded. "The man she left with...had you ever seen him before?"

Kay shook her head. "No, nobody had, and we never saw him again."

"I wonder if he was in Bainbridge that day for the market?" Paula looked thoughtful. "But either way, it's very weird."

"Yes, and I've always hoped it worked out well for your mother. I hope they were happy together."

"It's possible, of course." Paula looked sceptical. "But I tend to doubt it." She bit into a biscuit. "You knew both my parents all their lives," she said. "What was your impression?"

"Oh wow," Kay looked uncertain where to begin. "They were both just regular kids from good families that seemed destined for each other. They married young and were happy together...until the war came along that is."

"It kind of screwed everything up for a lot of people," Paula said.

"The horrible violence a soldier sees during battle..." Kay shook her head. "It's bound to change him. Yet he's supposed to just pick up where he left off when he returns home."

"So it was difficult for my parents to adjust to each other after the war." Paula stirred her tea and added more cream. This wasn't a revelation for her by any means, she'd always suspected as much.

"It was difficult for every couple." Kay looked wise. "Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is either deliberately lying or deluded."

"Given the circumstances, my mother was likely desperately unhappy and looking for a means of escape when tall, dark and handsome came along." She looked grim. "He was her knight in shining armour."

Kay reached over and patted her hand. "Don't you go worrying your head about it," she advised. "These things happen."

"It killed my father," Paula said.

Kay hesitated. "This is probably not what you want to hear," she said cautiously. "But the fact is, your father was drinking heavily from the moment he returned from the war. He'd changed, Paula."

* * * * *

September 13th dawned rainy and overcast. Paula sat by the window of her hotel room deep in thought. On this the 30th anniversary of her mother's departure, she planned to do something that most people would think totally off the wall. She was going to go over to where the Top Hat Grill once stood and see if any sort of psychic vibrations were present.

It had been late afternoon when her mother walked out of her place of employment with a man she had only just met. Paula reckoned that she had more chance of picking up vibes around the same time. She glanced at her watch. She'd head over there in a couple of hours.

By four o'clock the non-stop rain had turned the streets into mini rivers, and a low-lying mist had rolled in. Paula raised her raincoat collar against the deluge and clutched an umbrella. She took up a position directly outside where the Top Hat Grill used to be. The inclement weather had kept most people indoors and the emptiness of the scene added to the pensive atmosphere. It was certainly conducive to supernatural activity, she decided. Water tended to intensify psychic phenomena. And there was certainly enough of that around today. She stepped gingerly away from an enormous puddle.

Paula closed her eyes to better savour the energies that she detected all around her. She could feel her mother's presence but couldn't get a sense of the man she'd left with. Not surprising considering that she'd known her mother and still had recollections of her, although they were vague. In fact, she could never quite decide if they were real, or if they were merely the result of looking at old photographs. When it came to the mysterious stranger, however, she had nothing at all to draw upon.

The atmosphere grew ever more electric, and Paula was entranced in knowing that it was at this very same time, in this same place, thirty years ago, that Arlene had walked here with the mysterious stranger and disappeared forever. She slipped ever deeper into another state of consciousness.

"What happened, Mother?" she whispered. "Please send me a sign."

Suddenly her almost trance like state was shattered by a car engine revving up at the end of the block. She turned around indignantly and gasped at what she saw. Warbling through the teeming rain was an old car from the forties, identical to the one that had been associated with the mysterious stranger. For a moment Paula was frozen to the spot in fear. She had never expected anything as overt and conclusive as this. My God, it was a physical re-enactment of what had taken place thirty years ago.

With a great effort of will she forced her frozen legs to move and run towards it. "Mom," she cried weakly. "Mom...please wait for me..."

### CHAPTER FOUR

Propelling herself forward on legs that felt like jelly, Paula splashed through an enormous puddle, slipped and lost her balance. She fell on her knees and scraped an elbow. "Damn," she muttered and struggled to get up.

"Here let me help you, Miss." An elderly man rushed over and raised her to her feet. He shook his head in disapproval when he saw her shoes, which were stylish but not very practical. "You need good solid shoes with rubber soles in weather like this," he said.

Apart from grazed knees and a sore elbow she was unhurt. But her pride had taken something of a beating, and the old car, which had been the reason for her haste, and hence the fall, had driven off. She was left wondering if it had all been some sort of mirage.

She limped back to the hotel somewhat painfully. "Damn, damn and triple damn," she muttered. Her failure to reach the old car would haunt her for the rest of her days. To be so close to something like that and then blow it...she castigated herself quite mercilessly. As soon as she got into her room, she ran a bath.

The hot scented water soothed her frazzled nerves. What a day it had been. She strived to divert her unhappy thoughts away from the source of their misery. Brooding on what might have been was one of the worst kinds of self-torment.

Gavin...she focused instead on the man who had so ignited her senses on the train. They'd exchanged contact information but she doubted that he would call her. There was just something about that sort of impromptu meeting and one-night stand that precluded a follow up. She could understand only too well why. The dreamlike quality of those erotic encounters was fragile, and could only flourish in a limited time frame, much like Cinderella's coach. It would be turned into a pumpkin at midnight, if dragged into the grim day-to-day reality of the mundane.

Later that night the rain finally stopped and fragile clouds circled the moon like cobwebs. For want of something better to do -- there was nothing on television -- Paula turned her attention once again to the police file. Was there something she'd missed? She read again the description of the mysterious stranger. She had to admit he fascinated her. Age: 30s. Height: 6 feet. Weight: 180 lbs. Hair: Black. Eyes: Colour unknown. He wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and black trousers.

Towards the end of the typewritten description someone had added a few words in difficult to read handwriting. With perseverance Paula was able to finally decipher it: Hair cut so short might be in military, probably navy, on account of anchor tattoo on arm.

"Oh my God," Paula murmured, she'd noticed a similar tattoo on Gavin's arm. She forced herself not to get too fanciful about this. It was unlikely that Gavin was the same warlock that had spirited her mother away. Why she didn't even believe in such nonsense...at least her conscious, sensible self did not.

Yet on the other hand, what were the odds that it was all sheer coincidence? On her way to try and discover what had happened to her mother, she'd met someone that not only resembled the man her mother had run off with, but who probably had the same occupation as well, right down to a tattoo.

On impulse she grabbed the phone and called the naval base at Esquimalt. With her suspicions running high, she thought she was prepared for anything. She was wrong. When they told her that they had no record of a Lieutenant Gavin Jackson, although it was what she expected, she still felt shockwaves all the way to the tips of her toes. What the hell was going on here?

After a more or less sleepless night she arose to a mellow fall day rich with sunshine. She had to tell someone about this unsettling turn of events. Someone who was involved in the whole crazy business, otherwise they'd think her quite crazy and wouldn't understand.

Kay...

* * * * *

It was a bit chilly to sit out on the patio, so they had tea in the cluttered, yet cosy living room.

"I can understand how anxious this must make you feel." Kay looked sympathetic. "But I really doubt that the man you met on the train is the same person, or warlock or whatever, that your mother left town with."

"So do I," Paula admitted. "Yet the more fanciful side of me is still prickling...if you know what I mean."

"Absolutely, I do. You've been through a lot dear and your nerves are bound to be on edge."

"You can say that again. I mean I know it can't be the same man, and yet..." I have to get a grip, she thought quite desperately and with a grim determination that had been missing before. All of this was utter nonsense. She should thank her lucky stars that Kay hadn't notified the loony bin.

"Did you happen to see the tattoo on the mysterious stranger's arm?" Paula diverted the topic away from warlocks and the bizarre. She bit into a biscuit and took a careful sip of the scalding hot tea.

"I can't say that I recall it." Kay looked thoughtful. "I was concentrating more on your mother and the effect he was having on her." She paused. "But I really don't believe there was any sort of supernatural force at work, just two lonely people who felt an instant attraction to each other. It happens all the time, but the consequences are not usually so dramatic."

Paula nodded. It made sense.

"Was the naval base the telephone number Gavin gave you on the train?" Kay asked.

Paula shook her head. "I called it because I wanted to check up on him."

Kay looked puzzled. "I can understand that," she said. "But shouldn't you give the number he gave you a ring before you jump to conclusions. Maybe who ever answered the phone at the naval base made a mistake, or got the name wrong. It happens."

"I don't believe they got it wrong." Paula looked stubborn. "And I have no wish to call someone who lied to me about where he was stationed."

Kay nodded. "That's understandable, and in your place I'd probably feel the same way."

But would Gavin call her? There had been a powerful connection between them, much more than just the sexual bliss, and despite her better judgement she longed for an encore. Oh my God, she scolded herself, you're ready to go down again like a democratic drawbridge for a man you've already caught out in a lie. Her baser instincts were hell bent on overriding the objections of her higher self. She'd have to fight them like a Trojan. But would she win, and furthermore, did she really want to?

### CHAPTER FIVE

A skittish sun played hide and seek behind the clouds in a sulphur coloured sky. Paula parked the rental car at the entrance to the old family farm. She noticed at once the For Sale sign on the front gate. It hadn't been there a couple of days ago.

She was truck by the fact that this was the only concrete place left that had any relation to her parents. If it weren't for the farm, that had once been theirs, it would be as if they had never existed at all. She shivered. It was an unsettling and most depressing thought. She wondered if actually being inside the house where she'd once lived would trigger any memories.

The path was uneven with broken flagstones and choked with weeds. Paula was very aware that the last time she'd walked here she'd been only six years old and had recently lost both parents. The sad thought filled her with nostalgia and left her close to tears.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she knocked at the battle-scarred door. She'd telephoned the Mowatts earlier, and they were expecting her. She noticed that the place was in a woeful state of neglect and disrepair. Shingles had fallen off the roof and the windowpanes were cracked and coated with grime.

Keith and Jenny Mowatt were elderly, and the daily upkeep of the farm had become too much for them. "We're going to sell the place and move to an apartment in Edmonton," Jenny said. She had fluffy white hair and wore a caftan.

"I hate cities," Keith cut in. "But sometimes you have to go with the flow." He laughed and it lit up his craggy features like a halo.

The Mowatts were delighted at Paula's presence. "We don't get many visitors these days," Jenny said. She bustled into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. "Or would you prefer coffee?" she asked.

Paula smiled; it was nice to be made so welcome. "Tea will be fine," she said.

It was a warm afternoon and Keith suggested that tea be served on the back deck. Paula noticed at once that it was in much better repair than the rest of the house.

"We spend a lot of time out here," Keith said, as if reading her thoughts. "We wouldn't want it to collapse beneath us." He laughed.

"Does being here bring back any memories?" Jenny asked. "After all this was your home for the first 6 years of your life."

Paula shook her head, and then hesitated. "I seem to have an early recollection of the outhouse. I think because it always scared me to go out there." She took a sip of tea. "Especially when it was dark." She smiled.

Jenny chuckled. "I remember that nasty old outhouse well. One of the first things we did when we bought this place was to tear it down, and install indoor plumbing."

Keith helped himself to another piece of pound cake. "Don't be shy," he said to Paula. "Tuck right in. It's home made you know."

"It's delicious." Paula reached for another slice. Then the conversation veered around to the Top Hat Grill and the day Arlene had left with the mysterious stranger.

"We were both there at the time." Jenny topped up their cups. "We always were on market day, it was the busiest time."

Paula nodded. "So did you actually see my mother leave with the mysterious stranger?" she asked.

They both nodded in unison.

"I'd be really interested to hear your impressions," Paula said. "I've already spoken to Kay, who as you know was also there."

Jenny nodded. "I wish we could provide you with some vital clue that everyone else has overlooked." She shrugged. "But I'm afraid we can't. The stranger came into the cafe, your mother was smitten immediately, and after staring dreamily at each other for a while, she left with him."

Paula shook her head. "It doesn't matter how much you hear something like that, the sheer shock value doesn't diminish at all."

"I know," Keith nodded. "It was a shocker for all of us, I can tell you."

"I'm curious as to why nobody thought of following them outside. You know, to at least see where they went. Did they get into a car, etcetera...?"

Jenny shrugged. "That's easy to say with hindsight," she said. "If we'd known Arlene would never be seen again we undoubtedly would have raced out there after her. But as it was...well I assumed they'd just stepped out for a minute to have a bit of a smooch and then Arlene would return."

Paula nodded. Put like that it made perfect sense. With hindsight we'd all have 20/20 vision.

After tea, Jenny led her on a grand tour of her home. "Something might just spark a memory," she said.

It was a small house, with only two bedrooms. They were upstairs and so was the bathroom. On the main floor, there was a fairly spacious living room, dining area and kitchen. The basement was unfinished and used mainly for storage and doing laundry.

However, apart from what she already knew about the house via photographs, there were no sudden flashes of long buried memories.

Jenny looked disappointed and immediately led her on a tour of the barn, shed and garage. But like the house they didn't stir even the smallest spark.

"What kind of shape was the place in when you bought it?" Paula sat down again on the back deck where Keith was enjoying an impromptu nap in the lounge chair.

"Pretty rough." Jenny popped a couple of extra teabags into the pot and added boiling water. "We lived on a neighbouring farm at the time and ours wasn't much better. Arlene and I were in much the same boat. Both our husbands were overseas fighting that blasted war."

Paula nodded. "It must have been hard. I don't know how my mother managed to look after me, and the farm and work at the Top Hat Grill as well."

"It was devilishly difficult to get help in those days," Jenny said. "All the able bodied men were away fighting." She stirred the tea before topping up Paula's cup. "If the prisoner of war camp hadn't been close by, I don't know what we'd have done. Mind you most of them had never worked on a farm before and were pretty useless. Still they were better than nothing, I suppose."

Keith continued to snore contentedly as the sun began to dip like a fireball in the west. "I should be going," Paula said. It had been a pleasant afternoon and Jenny made her promise to drop by again if she was ever in the neighbourhood.

But that was unlikely, as there really wasn't anything to keep her here anymore. And while the trip down memory lane had been interesting, as well as cathartic, it hadn't evinced any more about her mother's departure than she'd already known.

### CHAPTER SIX

"I know you've only been gone for a week," Sophie said, over a telephone line with an annoying degree of static. "But it'll be so good to have you home again." Paula had phoned her shortly after she'd returned to the Red Lion from visiting the Mowatts. She sat at the open window, where she could see the mountains like a smudge on the landscape, far off in the distance.

She knew that Sophie hadn't been keen on the idea of her going to Bainbridge in the first place. 'No good ever came from trying to dig up the past,' she'd said. 'Never look back, or you'll end up like Lot's wife.'

But even the possibility of being turned into a pillar of salt had not been a deterrent. Paula had reasoned that sometimes a journey into the past was necessary, in order to resolve old and haunting issues that were disrupting the present.

She gave Sophie a brief rundown of what had been going on. Leaving out, of course, her wild fling with Gavin.

"Even if you had somehow miraculously found your mother," Sophie said. "She wouldn't be the same person. Neither of you are. It's the energy from day to day living that forges the bond. That's why it's so important to keep in touch." She paused. "It would be impossible to bridge a gap of thirty years. It would stand between you like Fort Knox."

Paula suspected that Sophie felt insecure by this foray into the past, afraid that her importance in Paula's life would be diminished by the discovery of Arlene. Nothing could be farther from the truth, and she told her as much now. "You are and always will be the alpha and omega to me," she said. "Nothing or no one could ever change that."

Sophie was overcome by emotion. "You can't begin to know how much that means to me," she sobbed. "And you'll always be my precious girl."

After the call ended Paula went downstairs to the coffee shop. A low-lying mist had started to creep in from the marshes. She shivered. It reminded her on the anniversary of her mother's departure, and her aborted attempt to get a good look at the old car that so startled her.

She decided to fly back to Vancouver the next day. The train would be too fraught with memories of Gavin. Damn, but that guy had got under her skin big time.

After dinner she threw on a sweater and went out for a walk. The streets were quite deserted and the old clock from the church tower chimed out the hour, it was eleven o'clock. Tomorrow evening at this time she'd be back in her own home in Vancouver.

She sauntered along gazing in shop windows until she found herself outside the pizza parlour where the Top Hat Grill had once stood. It was closed for the night and the fog, which crept around the edges of the building, gave it a ghostly look. She lingered for a while lost in thoughts of the past, and that day so long ago when her mother had walked out of this place with the mysterious stranger and never been seen again. "Mom, what the hell happened to you?" she murmured aloud.

Paula couldn't be sure afterwards exactly how long she stood there. But she knew she'd drifted into that other state of consciousness where past and present merge into one. A timeless, breathless state of being far removed from the physical world around us. It was while in this dreamlike trance that she heard a vehicle start up and new innately it was the old car that had so startled her before. The strong sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. She began to suspect that the old car was not on the earthly plain, but a phantom. She felt afraid to look in its direction.

Minutes passed...or it could have been hours. Paula steeled herself and turned slowly around. She gasped at what she saw. For tonight, it wasn't just the old car that beckoned to her through a swirling swathe of mist, like some elusive throwback to an earlier time. Tonight -- and she had difficulty believing her own eyes -- the mysterious stranger stood beside it.

### CHAPTER SEVEN

Terror gripped Paula by the throat like vengeful pincers. She felt suddenly very aware of the lonely landscape and her own vulnerability. This evil creature, whatever it was, had spirited away her mother, and now he intended to do the same thing to her. God knows what kind of hellish fate lay in store for her.

She opened her mouth to scream, although heaven knows there was no one around to hear, but her parched throat failed to emit a sound. She tried to run, but her legs were paralysed with fear and refused to move.

"Paula," the evil one called out, trying to lure her into his net. The voice sounded familiar, erotically charged. My God it was Gavin. So she had been right. It hadn't been mere coincidence that she'd met him on the train.

With every ounce of willpower she possessed, she forced her frozen legs to move and carry her as fast as they could away from that hellish place. Once embarked on her escape she ran like a gazelle, or some other wild thing, engaged in a desperate flight from the hunter. She knew her very life, not to mention her sanity, depended on it.

She ran and ran and ran until she reached her hotel, where she collapsed in a heap, breathless and exhausted. Never had the cheerful neon sign of a red lion rampant, looked so welcoming.

After she'd got her ragged breathing under control, she went into the bar and ordered a double Scotch. Her hands trembled like aspens in a gale. She absolutely had to get a grip, and fast. But that was easier said than done when you'd just made an escape from some monstrous Flying Dutchman of a car and its evil owner.

She didn't feel like going upstairs to her room where the four walls would entomb her with her own horrific thoughts until morning. Yet this wasn't something she could confide to Sophie, who did not believe in any kind of psychic phenomena. She suspected the Mowatts didn't either. They seemed far too down to earth and feet on the ground for that.

Which left Kay...who while not being an avid believer in the supernatural did not discount it either. Paula punched in her number, then realised the time, she'd probably be in bed.

"No I hadn't turned in yet." Kay laughed. "I'm a night owl."

Once she'd embarked on her tale of terror, Paula couldn't stop. She regaled Kay with every detail, and even admitted she'd had a sexual encounter on the train with Gavin aka the mysterious stranger.

Kay heard her out without interrupting and when the tirade finally ended simply said. "I'll put the kettle on."

Paula needed no second invitation. She didn't even take time to comb her hair. Such was her haste to get out of the hotel room with its empty anonymous unsettled energy, left behind by the thousands of temporary occupants over the years. She emerged into the greater night with relief.

After the turmoil of the evening, Kay's cluttered apartment welcomed her like a friendly womb. The gleaming china on the dresser represented normalcy in a world turned upside down. Heck, she wasn't sure she really believed in the supernatural herself...at least not without a deal of scepticism.

She also required proof...adequate proof, that supported the phenomena. She wasn't some spaced out nutbar that believed any old thing that came along without question. She said as much to Kay.

"I know you're not, my dear. Now drink your tea while it's hot, and try to eat something." She indicated the tray of biscuits and scones.

"The screwy thing is," Paula looked rueful. "I don't really believe what happened was supernatural...and yet, it felt so damned spooky..." She shivered.

"Well you have been in a highly emotional state, and no wonder. Returning to the place where you lost both parents would have the same effect on anybody."

"But I saw the old car, Kay, not just once but twice. Then tonight the tall man standing beside it looked so like the mysterious stranger and Gavin..." She let the unfinished thought trail off.

"I can understand how it would appear that way." Kay chose her words carefully. "But are you sure it was the same car...and even if it was, there's quite a number of old farmers around here who still drive them. Also, we've no way of knowing if the mysterious stranger was actually driving a car like that or not. Just the word of one townsperson who thought he was."

Paula nibbled on a biscuit. "It wasn't just the look of the car," she said. "It's the really spooky atmosphere whenever it appears."

"Since you suspect it might somehow be the 1940s Hudson, which was reportedly driven by the mysterious stranger, it's little wonder the atmosphere is spooky when you see it," Kay replied.

Paula knew she was right, and yet...

"But what about Gavin, slash, the mysterious stranger?" she asked.

Kay stirred her tea and then added another sugar cube. "Coincidences do happen," she said. "And when you get right down to it, there are many males who meet the same 'tall, dark and handsome' description."

"But what are the odds of one suddenly showing up not only on the train, but right beside the old car outside the Top Hat Grill and calling my name?"

"The description plus the knowledge of your name definitely points to Gavin," Kay said. "But that in no way indicates that there are any evil or supernatural forces at work."

Paula reached for another biscuit and dipped it in her tea. "So you think it was Gavin who suddenly appeared beside the old car earlier tonight, and that he has nothing to do with the mysterious stranger who spirited away my mother?"

Kay nodded. "It's the only rational explanation. You're an attractive girl, Paula, and you said the pair of you had made a great connection, so why would you be surprised that he came to town to see you?"

Paula shrugged. "I tend to doubt he would end up here without even phoning me, and it doesn't explain why he told me he was based at Esquimalt when he isn't."

Kay topped up their teacups. "Well we've already been through all that. I believe the operator who answered was either mistaken or got the name wrong." She hesitated before adding. "Isn't it about time you phoned the contact number Gavin gave you on the train, and find out what the heck is going on?"

Paula wondered why it was always the most obvious solutions that you tended not to see when in an emotional crisis. Of course she should telephone Gavin, and what better time than the present. She fished her mobile phone out of her bag and punched in the number. It rang and rang but no one answered. She didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. "I'll try again later," she said to Kay.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

The midnight hour, and an irresistible force drew Paula to where the Top Hat used to be. She stood transfixed on the sidewalk under a brooding sky, and imagined that day thirty years ago when her mother had left this place with the mysterious stranger.

The supercharged locale had a hypnotic effect on her, and when a vehicle engine roared into life down the block she knew instinctively it was the old car -- the 1944 Hudson-- that had so haunted her.

She turned around slowly and there it was, wavering slightly through the mist. Beside it stood the mysterious stranger. Paula felt an immediate sense of danger and foreboding. She wanted desperately to escape but her legs refused to move. He called out her name and began to walk slowly towards her, his handsome face obscured by the swirling fog.

"I've got to get away," she cried in terror-filled anguish. She knew that if she didn't, she'd meet with the same hellish fate as her mother, who virtually disappeared from the planet. She took a few faltering steps as the warlock or whatever he was bore down on her, but it was useless, her legs were paralysed with fear.

There was a strange otherworldly atmosphere that permeated the night, and locked her firmly in its clutches. She was powerless to escape. She forced her frantic mind to concentrate on everyday things like the parking meter beside her and the street light at the end of the block.

But when she turned around to fix her gaze on the pizza parlour, she gasped in horror. It was no longer there. In its place stood the Top Hat. Its neon sign flashed eerily into the terrifying night.

This was proof positive that she'd somehow been transported back to the 1940s. The mysterious stranger was now so close she could see his face clearly, and the terror at what she saw overwhelmed her.

Paula screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed...there was no doubt about it this was definitely Gavin, but with a horror-filled, dramatic difference, his eye sockets were empty. He was an evil monster with no eyes...

Paula closed her eyes and screamed until she was hoarse. "Please, please, please, someone help me, I have to get out of here," she yelled. She braced herself for his hellish touch and the inevitable abduction into nightmare that would follow. But there was something that prevented this from happening, and she could sense the monster's frustration.

Something...there it was again it was a persistent knocking...knocking...knocking. Paula opened her eyes cautiously, afraid of what she'd see, but instead of the dark street in front of the Top Hat of thirty years ago, she was back in her hotel room at the Red Lion Inn. The knocking started up again, and the door slowly opened. It was the housekeeper. "Are you alright, Madam?" she asked. "You've been screaming..."

* * * * *

The flashing lights of the sea ferry lit a pathway through the murky waters of Vancouver harbour like a standard bearer for the Gods. Paula watched its progress from her balcony. It felt good to be home again. There was so much comfort in the familiar, whereas in Bainbridge, she'd been cast adrift from all of that, and floundering fast.

She sipped a cup of cocoa and munched on a biscuit. The nightmare about the Top Hat still recurred, but less frequently. What a roller coaster ride it had been. Little did she know when she set out to revisit the past that it would have such a dramatic effect on her life. Literally following her, she shuddered, back into the present. She felt like a mouse clamped in the jaws of a cat.

The nights were getting chillier now as the days grew shorter and autumn cast its tawny shadow over the landscape. The transitional seasons were always the most evocative of influences that hovered between the worlds in a time outside of time. They could be lonelier too, and that's when her thoughts would switch to Gavin.

She castigated herself for being so utterly foolish. How could she entertain such fond and erotic thoughts over someone who belonged in the nether regions, rather than on the earthly plain? She shivered. Yet she'd never felt so close to anyone before, or had such an acutely exciting intimate encounter. She could never forget that night when they were sequestered in their own special world, on a train rumbling through the Rockies. She felt as if that old song: My heart has a mind of its own, had been written just for her.

As she gazed up at the great dome of night sky, electric with stars, she recalled the evening in Kay's apartment when she'd telephoned Gavin and there had been no answer. She'd tried many times after that but with no success. There wasn't even an answering machine or she'd have left a message. Now she'd given up on it completely. It was obviously a phoney phone number just like his telling her he was stationed at Esquimalt.

But why the hell did she want to talk to a being she suspected of being a warlock, or some other such ungodly creature? Curiosity, she supposed, and closure. She was hurt by the fact that he'd made no move to contact her. The bastard. Yet try though she might to deny it, she still had the hots for this guy, big time.

What she couldn't decide was whether Gavin really was a sinister being that never grew old and preyed on women, such as her poor mother, or perfectly normal as he'd seemed on the train? She felt unutterably foolish as she winged back from one extreme to the other and was still none the wiser.

However, despite all the uncertainty there was one constant. She couldn't deny that what she wanted most of all was for him to call her, and for everything between them to be miraculously okay again.

A train whistle wailed from the direction of the rail yards. The mournful sound evoked a cornucopia of bittersweet memories. Paula resisted the urge to reminisce all night. It was time for bed. She had to work in the morning. Life went on.

###  EPILOGUE

Kay groped wearily for the bedside clock. It was almost 5:00 am and she hadn't slept a wink. Damn! She might as well get up and make herself a pot of tea. It would be daylight soon.

The truth was she'd been worried sick about Paula. She was such an intelligent young woman, which made some of her outrageous beliefs about warlocks and the like, that much more bizarre. It must have been all the stress that returning to the place where she'd lost both parents had triggered.

Kay plugged in the kettle. She believed in certain psychic phenomena herself, when all rational explanations had been discounted. But Paula's belief that Gavin was somehow the same mysterious stranger that had spirited her mother away had been bizarre to the extreme.

From the kitchen window she could see the first ribbons of dawn tweaking at the dark sky. Perhaps now that Paula was back home in Vancouver, she'd be able to settle down and rid herself of the macabre thoughts. She certainly hoped so. It was such a shame that they'd cost her a chance at happiness with a man she so obviously liked. It was a lonely existence by oneself. Since she'd been widowed, Kay found that out, but how to help? She hated to interfere in the private lives of others...still; the present circumstances almost demanded that she should.

The telephone beckoned to her like a Siren song. She was far from convinced she was doing the right thing. But finally, after much soul searching and a hasty breakfast she decided to go for it. She would try and get in touch with Gavin in Esquimalt. Hopefully, she'd have more luck with it than Paula had.

When Kay got through to the base she asked to speak to Lieutenant Jackson, and the switchboard operator asked her which one.

"Gavin," Kay said.

"We don't have a Gavin," the operator replied. "There is a John, a Daniel, and a William."

"What are their middle initials," Kay asked. "Maybe Gavin is his middle name."

"John Jackson's middle initial is G. Do you want me try him?"

"Yes, please." Kay drummed her fingers impatiently while she waited. The truth was she felt jumpy as a cat. After a few minutes an answering machine kicked in. She left a brief message and her number. She'd be on edge now until he got back to her, if he did.

The phone rang five minutes later. "Sorry about that," he said. "I was tied up on the other line when you called."

"No problem," Kay warmed to the sound of his voice. It was educated but unaffected. "Lieutenant Jackson," she began. "Are you known by the name, Gavin?"

"Yes I am. Gavin is my middle name."

It was as she'd thought. She took a deep breath. "Look, I don't want you to think I'm an interfering old biddy, but there is something I must discuss with you." She paused. "It's in regard to Paula Hampton." She could sense his immediate interest. "I became friends with Paula when she was in Bainbridge recently. I believe she told you about her reason for going here."

"Yes, she did." He hesitated. "Quite frankly I was a bit concerned. Those excursions into the past can be brutal."

"I agree, and this one was particularly so." She then went on to tell him how the whole sorry business had left Paula seriously imagining things.

"I really liked her, you know." Gavin sounded perplexed. "But when I stopped over in Bainbridge to see her, she ran from me as if all the hounds in hell were in pursuit."

It was as Kay suspected. She explained to him why. "She said that you resembled the man whom her mother had run away with, and somehow began to believe that you and he were one in the same...a warlock, or some such being."

"Oh good God, that is weirder than weird."

"She likes you a lot, Gavin," Kay assured him. "I hope that you'll give her a call and straighten all this out."

"Yes, of course I will. Now that I know the background."

"But please don't tell her that I phoned you. She would view it as a betrayal, since she told me all of this in confidence."

"I won't," he promised. "You can count on that." He paused. "And thank you Kay, thank you so much for reaching out like this."

"Under the circumstances," she replied. "It was the least I could do."

If only he know what these circumstances actually were, she thought miserably, as she settled down in her armchair. Scarcely a day went by that she didn't think of them to some degree or other. She watched a flock of geese in perfect V formation honk across the moody sky on their annual migration south. She shivered. It was a sure sign that old man winter was not far behind.

As she sat in contemplative silence the phone rang again. She wondered for a minute if it was Gavin calling back. But it wasn't, it was Jenny Mowatt.

"Have you heard any more from Paula?" she asked. It was a predictable question given the circumstances. Damn, there was that annoying word again.

"No I haven't." Kay balanced the receiver on her shoulder while she drank her tea. "But I wouldn't worry about it anymore, Jenny. Our secret is safe."

"I hope to God you're right. It was like a nightmare having her show up here and start snooping around, digging up things best left undisturbed."

Kay could certainly empathise with the sentiments. She'd felt much the same way herself. Trying to appear normal and nonchalant hadn't been easy.

"You don't suppose she'd go hiring a private investigator or anything like that?" The fear in Jenny's voice was palpable.

"That's not likely." Kay reassured her. "Paula hit an absolute dead-end when she was here, and there's no reason she'd expect a PI to do any better. Besides, I doubt she has the cash to splash out on something like that." She set her teacup down on the side table. "No, I think her little foray into the murky past was something she had to do, and that she'll be quite happy now to put it behind her."

"Let's hope you're right." Jenny sounded far from convinced. It left Kay thinking of the old saying: Oh what a tangled web we weave...when first we practice to deceive.

And deceive they certainly had.

"Do you think Sophie ever suspected anything...?" Jenny asked haltingly.

"Why should she?" Kay shook her head. "Sophie had been in Vancouver for years when Arlene disappeared. She was out-of-touch with Bainbridge and what went on here."

"You're right, of course." Jenny sounded somewhat reassured. "She and Tim weren't exactly close either."

"No, they didn't keep in touch, except for a card at Christmas." Kay paused. "Look I think you're worrying unnecessarily about all of this. It's over, and no matter who came around digging they could never prove a thing."

Kay changed the subject after that in a no-nonsense manner. "Will you be playing Bridge next Wednesday?" she asked. It had been a regular social event for years held at the community centre.

Jenny indicated that she would, and after chatting for a while about everyday things the call ended.

Kay topped up her teacup and thought again of how she'd become involved in such unsavoury circumstances. Oh my, there was that word again; a euphemism if ever there was one. For in actual fact it was a conspiracy, and an extremely devious one at that. It covered up a capital crime, and spanned a period of some thirty years. Half-a-dozen people had been involved, and she was one of them. So were the Mowatts.

Her mind drifted back to wartime. After Tim left for the front, Arlene had a difficult time running the farm. There wasn't much in the way of hired help available, except for the German prisoners of war that were billeted nearby. That's how she'd met Kurt, and they embarked on a torrid affair.

Only a select few, who lived close to the farm, had knowledge of this infidelity. They were outraged. It was intolerable. This was after all the enemy, the same enemy that her husband was away fighting. She was branded the worst kind of traitor.

But this explosive and shameful knowledge was kept secret for Tim's sake. The last thing the poor guy needed when he returned home was to have the whole town know he'd been cuckolded in the cruellest possible way.

It was important to keep up appearances and towards that end the Mowatts continued to employ Arlene at the Top Hat Grill. Besides, it was devilishly difficult to find staff at the time, and she was a good worker.

Kay topped up her teacup and stretched her legs. When Tim returned from the war and found out about Arlene's infidelity, he flew into a drunken rage and slit her throat. She had it coming, was the general consensus. There was no way they were going to see poor Tim swing for it. Hence, the story about the mysterious stranger that was cooked up in Kay's kitchen over several bottles of wine. Meanwhile, they'd fed Arlene's body to the hogs.

So on that fateful day when Arlene was supposed to have disappeared with the mysterious stranger, she'd actually returned home from the Top Hat Grill at six. Tim had murdered her later that night. Afterwards, in a blind drunken panic he'd called Keith Mowatt for help. Hence the cover-up that followed. And to think poor little Paula had slept through the whole sorry drama, in her pretty pink bedroom upstairs.

All in all, Kay reflected, it had been the perfect crime, although she could never quite relate to it in those terms. As far as she was concerned justice had been served and there was no felony.

But what would have been unjust was to let poor Paula know the awful truth. Her mother whored herself with the enemy and her father killed her for it.

It would also have been an injustice to let her throw away a golden chance at happiness, because of a bogus belief in a mysterious stranger that never existed. Kay had remedied that, and she hoped quite fervently that Paula and Gavin would be happy together.

### ~~THE END~~

### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Karen Lewis is an internationally best selling author. She won an award for her suspense play, Hit and Run, and her short story, The Cellar Door. Her novels are an intriguing blend of mystery, suspense and erotica. They usually feature Detective Neil Slater.

<http://www.karenlewis.net/>
