

...AND DEATH WILL SEIZE THE DOCTOR, TOO

...And Death Will Seize

the Doctor, Too is a work of fiction. Names,

characters, places and incidents are the

products of the author's imagination. Any

resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2014 Sleep House Publications, Electronic Edition

Copyright© 2014 by Jeremiah H. Swanson

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/or

retrieval system without the written permission of the Author

## PART I

## CHAPTER 1

CHRISTIAN THOMPSON HAS THE POWER to heal with a touch of his hand, but in order to cure one person he first has to kill someone else.

The man he'd come to kill on this particular night was Walter Chambers. Walter Chambers made his living by robbing houses; sometimes he wound up killing the people who lived in them.

Walter wasn't an especially bright or talented or even cunning criminal but he did manage to get away with what he was doing for almost thirteen years before he was finally caught, tried, and sentenced to death. That sentence, as far as most people who cared to know knew, had been carried out about a half hour ago.

Christian, of course, knew better.

Christian knew that instead of the usual lethal cocktail being pumped into prisoner 655321, a substitute was used. This substitute rendered him unconscious; stopped his heartbeat and breathing and mimicked most of the other signs of death but did not induce death itself.

Death, nevertheless, was declared. The witnesses filed out of the tiny room with a view, and a guard wheeled Walter down the hall and into the cramped, windowless, concrete chamber where Christian waited alongside prison warden George Montgomery and an older gentleman by the name of Julian Stark.

The guard rolled the gurney into the center of the room, nodded at his boss, and left.

Christian wanted to go with him.

He always hated this part, hated looking into the face of a dead man, waiting for him to come back to life so he could kill him again.

At least this time he wouldn't have to wait long. Almost as soon as the door closed Walter's forehead twitched. A moment later his eyes blinked opened.

"Stay still Walter, you lucky bastard," Warden Montgomery said, "we got the call in time but we have to take precautions. The drip started. Not much got in you, but still."

Walter blinked again, confusion washing over his face. "What?"

"DNA confirmed it," Warden Montgomery said. "Turns out you're an innocent man after all. But still, hold still. Let the doc make sure you're all right and then we'll get you out of there."

Christian stepped forward. "Hello Mr. Chambers, I'm Christian Thompson. Dr. Christian Thompson. We'll get those restraints off you in a second but first I need to remove your shirt to do a preliminary check on your vitals. Is that all right with you?"

Walter smiled for real for the first time in years. "That's fantastic with me."

Christian unbuttoned Walter's shirt and peeled it back, revealing a bony chest with a large swastika tattooed over the heart, its edges blurry from bad prison ink. He made a fist with his right hand so tight the knuckles cracked and then moved to place it over Walter's heart but stopped just before reaching it.

He didn't want to do this. God, he didn't. He thought of the oath he'd sworn to himself so many years ago to never again take another human life. It was a promise he'd kept long enough to think he'd keep forever, and yet here he was.

Here he was.

But it wasn't as if he had any real choice, was it? Either he did this or Elizabeth was dead.

He lowered his hand onto Walter's chest and took a deep breath.

Every beating heart has a rhythm all its own, as unique as a fingerprint to those attuned to its textures and subtleties. Christian searched for Walter's particular rhythm so the process could begin.

At first Christian felt his heartbeat only faintly, but with each thump the sensations grew stronger until his fingers felt like they were pulsating. The sensations spread through his hand, up his arm, to his entire body. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply once again, forcing himself to ignore the prison stench of cement, bleach, and urine as his awareness expanded further, to the grip and push of Walter's heart muscles and the dizzying swirl of blood flowing through his veins.

Christian opened his eyes; Walter's chest was now translucent to them and he saw the man's heart shimmering beneath tattoo and skin and muscle and bone. Glowing, pulsating, it sparkled with red lines of various hues. The darker lines were veins entering his heart, anxious with the weight of waste and the last traces of the tranquilizer. The brighter lines were blood cells light with the rush of oxygen, spiraling outward to the rest of his body.

Walter's body gave a single hard jolt, as if shocked with electricity. His smile vanished instantly.

"Wait a minute, man," Walter said. "Something's wrong."

"It's just an after effect from the drugs," Christian said in a flat, robotic tone. "You're doing great."

"I said wait!"

Walter panicked.

At this point, most of them did. Walter pulled and tried to kick and buck, just like countless others before him, but it was never any use. The thick leather straps held him in place.

"Look at me," Christian said.

Terrified, Walter tried to turn away but it was like somebody grabbed his chin, pulled his face towards Christian's and peeled his eyelids open.

Every muscle in Walter's body tensed at once. He made fists so tight the fingernails pierced the skin; even the muscles in his throat and neck tensed, making it difficult to breathe or speak. "...please...stop..."

"We're almost done," Christian said, "a few more seconds and you're a free man."

"...don't... I'm begging you man, don't..."

Their eyes locked and Christian began absorbing the life out of Walter Chambers, a sensation he could only describe as that of the mind swallowing.

In the centers of Walter's eyes there shined the inversion of a flash, a tiny space inside those black circles that turned infinitely darker than the rest for an instant and then was gone. Walter shook and then froze as the last embers of life left his body to be stored for transference inside of Christian.

Christian took his hand off Walter's chest. "Finished."

Warden Montgomery walked over and pressed Walter's eyelids shut. After making the sign of the cross he turned to Christian. "You all right?"

"Fine," Christian said, "it's just been a while, you know?"

"Yeah." Warden Montgomery regarded the corpse. "It gets easier, but it never gets easy. Right?"

Christian nodded numbly.

Warden Montgomery walked to the door, knocked twice. The guard came in and wheeled the body out; Warden Montgomery followed.

Again Christian wanted to leave. Again he had to wait.

The people he'd worked for guarded their secrecy with a covetous and paranoid zeal. That hadn't changed in the years since his last job like this one. Even though this was life and death, and even though every second counted, Christian still could not leave that room until the ambulance, media, family, protestors, supporters, gawkers and anyone else who might be gathered outside had gone.

In the meantime, it was just him and Julian in there, and that made the already closet sized room downright claustrophobic.

Christian looked at Julian. Time had not been kind to his former handler and friend. He'd lost a lot of hair in the years since Christian had last seen him, a lot of weight too. His complexion had an unhealthy, grayish pallor. He was aging badly. Horrendously.

Christian wished there was a place to write time a thank you note.

He'd wished even more that he'd been able to get through this without ever having set eyes on Julian. He should have known better. After all this time, he really should have.

"Had to see if for yourself?" Christian asked just to break the silence.

"I suppose so," Julian said. "To be honest, I wasn't sure you'd even come. You were so adamant about never doing this again after Chavez."

"I _am_ never doing this again," Christian said, bristling at hearing the name. "And this isn't me coming back, if that's what you're thinking."

"It's not."

"Good. I know what I said, but I also knew Jefferson. He was a good man. If I can help him I will, but this is it."

Jefferson was Officer Richard Jefferson, a policeman shot in the line of duty and now barely clinging to life in a hospital downtown.

"Yes, Jefferson is a very good man." Julian folded his arms and spoke in the polished, professorial voice he often used when waxing philosophical, "You know, my father would say his current situation is proof of just how good of a man he is. He always said you can tell a good man by his bad fortunes. I hate to think I replicated his cynicism, but I've seen it happen so many times." He shook his head. "Perhaps that's why I came. Perhaps I needed to remind myself that every now and then it goes the other way."

Christian imagined how good it would feel to slam Julian's fake, lying face onto the concrete wall. But he couldn't do that, of course, or anything else that might give away the rage he was feeling. In order to pull this off he needed to keep playing the part of a professional doing a job, and doing it reluctantly at that. If they even suspected why he was really there, things would get very dangerous very quickly.

Warden Montgomery opened the door and gave the all clear.

Christian left without returning either man's goodbye.

Stepping into the parking lot, Christian lit up a cigarette and smoked as he walked to his car. Liz would be pissed if she found out how much he was smoking these days.

It'd taken her years to finally wean him down to one or two cigarettes a day, smoking only after sex, and before everything happened was working on getting him off of those. Now he was back up to almost a pack a day.

When he reached his car he flicked the cigarette onto the asphalt that was a shiny, rich shade of black from the downpour that had only just stopped. Sliding behind the steering wheel of his Mercedes, he thought of the last time he and Elizabeth were together. They'd just finished making love and he was grabbing for his pack when she stopped him.

"I have something better," she said. "Roll over on your tummy."

"I'm kinky," he said with a faux grimace. "I've come to terms with that. You have helped me come to terms with that. But I'm not into ass games or--"

"Shut up and roll over," she said, rolling her eyes.

He did.

She hopped out of bed and went to the closet, poking her head inside. "Do you know what your problem is?" she asked.

"My penis is too big?"

"Besides that."

"I guess, sometimes, I can be a little too amazing?"

"It's that you're a heart attack case. You're always in your head, thinking about deep things and other than sex you don't do anything to relax."

"I smoke cigarettes to relax."

"Cigarettes don't relax you. They dump chemicals into your bloodstream to make you sort of feel like you're relaxing, but really, your heart rate goes up, your breathing shortens, veins constrict. Your body reacts like it does when you're in danger and if you think about it, it makes sense, because you _are_ in danger. The cigarettes are killing you."

She found what she was looking for and climbed back into bed holding the small wooden box she'd retrieved.

"What's that?" he asked.

She took the unlit cigarette from between his lips, placing it behind her ear as she straddled his legs. He felt her run her fingernails down his back and then, a light pressure on his upper back.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Feel good?"

"Doesn't feel like anything. What is that?"

"Acupuncture."

He looked back and saw an elongated pin in her hand.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"I'd better," she said, sticking in another pin. "I did it for years to help pay for college."

"You never told me you did acupuncture."

"You never asked me if I did acupuncture."

"I thought we were supposed to tell each other everything."

"What are you, seventeen? And besides," she inserted another pin, "you never told me about your aversion to ass games, so we're even. Turn back around."

She stuck pins into his pressure points until she seemed satisfied, waited until they had done their work and then removed them.

Dropping the last pin in the box, she leaned forward, kissing his neck. "Now, wasn't that better than smoking after sex?"

He exhaled contentedly. "All I need now is a cigarette. A smoke after sex is good. A smoke after acupuncture after sex must be incredible."

"I have something better than all of them," she whispered, smiling the way she only smiled when some new and fantastic naughtiness had tiptoed into her mind.

He grinned, up for anything. "What's that?"

"Close your eyes and lay your pretty little head back down."

He did.

She stroked his back with one hand. With the other, she grabbed a pin and poked him in the ass with it.

Christian jumped, not quite hitting the ceiling as she'd hoped, but still reaching impressive heights.

She laughed as he wrestled her onto her back, holding her down by her wrists.

"You want to get up?" he said. "Stop laughing. You want to get up?"

"Actually, I'm quite comfortable here."

He bit her playfully on the neck.

"Okay, okay. Yes, I want to get up," she said, giggling.

He knew he was supposed to make her say some kind of 'mercy' equivalent but looking down at her beautiful, smiling face he didn't want to. He wanted to kiss her and so that's what he did. He wanted to make love to her again and so he did that too.

It should have been a happy memory, but now, as he sat behind his steering wheel in the shadow of Orchard State Prison he didn't feel any joy.

He felt nothing but guilt and terror as he tried once again to wrap his mind around how she'd look when he found her only a few hours later; the way her eyes rolled up, the way...

Christian stopped.

Thinking about it didn't help.

The whole reason he'd come to the prison was because just thinking about it didn't help. He wanted do something about it. And he was.

He put the key in the ignition and twisted, telling himself one more time this nightmare would soon be over before driving off.

Christian arrived at Elizabeth's hospital and took an elevator to her floor.

As he approached her room he thought about the people across town at Jefferson's hospital. They'd be gathered around him now, as they had been for days, praying for a miracle they wouldn't get. At least, not from him.

Christian wished he could help Jefferson; he hated using his tragedy this way, but didn't have any choice. Julian controlled access to the prison and if Christian told him the real reason he wanted to do the extraction, Julian would force him to come back to work as payment.

This was the only way, he told himself again. The only way.

He stepped inside Elizabeth's room.

She looked so peaceful.

He could almost believe she was simply resting, and not locked in the prison sleep of a coma the doctors said she'd never wake up from.

He smoothed a lock of hair from her face and gently touched her cheek.

Sleeping Beauty about to be awakened not with a kiss, but a touch to the heart.

"I love you," he said, and moved his hand towards her chest.

The man hiding in the corner cocked his gun and pointed it at Christian. "Don't you fucking touch her," he said. "Step back right now before I blow your goddamn head off."

Christian didn't move.

The man stepped out of the shadows. "You think I'm joking with you, asshole?"

Before Christian could answer the door opened and another man came in. He flipped on the lights and pressed a .38 snub nose against the base of Christian's skull. "He asked you to sit," the new man said in an almost cordial tone. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"Who are you guys?" Christian asked.

"Hey asshole," the first man said, straightening the arm holding the gun as if to enunciate it. "Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up."

He stared hard at Christian. Christian stared hard right back.

"Come on, Christian," said the second man, "this isn't tough guy time. Your wife can't defend herself right now so you have to do that for her. Right now that means making sure things don't escalate unnecessarily. Play it cool. Sit down, keep quiet, and wait until you know more so you can make the best move possible. Don't do something stupid you'll regret and she'll pay for. Just sit down. For now."

Christian sat down on the hard wood chair upon which he'd spent many sleepless nights. "Now what?"

"We wait."

"What for?"

Neither man answered.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the beep and hum of Elizabeth's life support machines.

Time passed. The door opened and when Christian saw who walked in he smiled and shook his head.

Of course, Christian thought, of course.

Julian Stark.

"Hello Christian," Julian said, closing the door behind him.

"Julian."

"Now then," said Julian, "why don't we take a ride over to where you're supposed to be?"

"I am where I'm supposed to be."

"True. This is where any spouse should be. Jefferson's wife hardly leaves his side. I think it's worse on her than him, in some ways. What do you think, Christian? Is this worse on you or Elizabeth?"

"You're going to have it worse than all of us if you and these two assholes don't get out of here right now."

Julian tilted his head and grinned.

Christian's face dropped its useless menace. "So now what?"

"Now, exactly what I said. We take a ride over to Officer Richard Jefferson, and we help him."

"What about my wife?"

"I'll make arrangements for her as well."

"For a price?"

"Of course."

"And what would that be?"

"I'm sure you've already guessed. Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered with this masquerade."

"Say it."

"All right. The price is that you return to your former occupation. Is that really so terrible? Tonight you help Jefferson, tomorrow Elizabeth, and on it goes."

"Plenty of warm bodies to go around, right?"

"I wouldn't put it quite that way, but yes."

"No."

"And innocent people will die," Julian said. "Innocent people you could save."

"An innocent man is dead because of me already."

"You're referring to Chavez, obviously."

"Obviously."

"You blame me for that, don't you? You think I knew he wasn't guilty and I let you proceed anyway. Am I correct?"

"You are correct."

"Well," Julian said, "So are you. You are absolutely correct that I knew he didn't do it, and absolutely correct that I purposefully kept that from you."

He said it. Outright. Somehow, it brought the betrayal to a new level.

"But as absolutely right as you are," Julian said, "You are just as dead wrong. Particularly in your use of the word 'innocent' to describe Victor Chavez. He was a horrible human being. He hurt lots of people in lots of ways and got tremendous joy out of doing so, never suffering a moment of guilt or regret. No Christian, Victor Chavez was about as far from innocent as a human being could get before he started coming back again.

"But I'll tell you who was innocent: that seven year old girl who would not have lived to see year eight without our help.

"So, I had to make a decision. I could tell you about Chavez and sentence her to a slow, excruciating death. Or, I could keep my mouth shut and save her life. If you're expecting a jeremiad of how gut wrenching reaching that decision was, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint. It was probably the easiest decision I ever made in my entire life, what my grandson would call it a no-brainer.

"On the one hand was Victor Julio Chavez, a brutal rapist of children who didn't deserve to live on his own merits, let alone when someone more deserving needed that life. On the other hand was this tiny, helpless life about to be extinguished forever. Seven years old. Think about that, Christian. Seven. Call me old fashioned, but I think a person should have the chance to at least to outlive their belief in Santa Claus."

Christian remained stone faced.

"Yes, I suppose it did get complicated, didn't it?" Julian said. "But it wasn't always that way. Remember how it was in the beginning? Remember the good we did? We were the perfect doctors, taking from the perfect donors, delivering the perfect cure. A more perfect cure, anyway."

" _I_ was the doctor." Christian hated how Julian always referred to his gift communally.

"Right. You were the doctor."

"You made me a killer."

Julian shook his head. "God did that. But he made us givers of life as well. That's why we were there, right? To save lives. In the interests of saving a life, I didn't tell you."

"You should have."

"Honestly, Christian. You didn't want to know."

That hit Christian harder than he expected.

The truth has a way of doing that.

"What would you have done?" Julian asked. "Would you have really let her die over that piece of filth?"

"I don't owe you any explanation."

"Even if you did you couldn't give me one. I'm the one who has to explain it to you."

"Explain what?"

"You."

"I don't need you to---"

"You're not angry because I didn't tell you." Julian stared hard into Christian's eyes. "But you are absolutely furious with me because I couldn't keep you from finding out. You didn't want to know then. You wish you didn't know now, but you do and that's what tortures you. You wish I could have kept it from you so things would have remained simple and you could have gone about your work safe from this horrible knowledge. But I couldn't and you hate me for it."

Christian stood silent.

"Am I right?" Julian asked.

"It doesn't matter," Christian said. "Right or wrong, it doesn't matter. Before, I never even considered the possibility one of them might be innocent. And maybe you are right; maybe I just didn't want to. But now I have. Now I do know, Julian. Now I do know and I can't go back to sleep."

"For her you'll sleep--" Julian nodded at Elizabeth "--but for no one else?"

"No. For her, I'm doing it wide-awake. And if you knew what a terrible thing that is, you'd know why I can't do it for anyone besides her."

"People are dying who do not have to, people no one but you can help. You have a special talent, Christian. There is no one else who can do what you can. Believe me, I've looked.

"I know you regret what happened. So do I. You feel the guilt of having taken one, very far from innocent life. Imagine the guilt I carry, knowing so many truly innocent people have died as a result of my failing you. Please, don't punish them anymore because of me. Haven't enough people died? Please. Come back."

Christian shook his head. "I can't."

"I am begging you."

"No."

"That's it then?"

"That's it."

"All right," Julian said. "That is your right. But I still must insist you come with me to Jefferson. This was arranged for his sake, not ours."

"No."

"Is that final as well?"

"That's final."

Julian nodded and looked once more at Elizabeth. "I was right before, wasn't I?"

"About what?"

"When I said this was harder on the spouse in some ways. I don't know if my wife could handle it. Seeing me in a hospital bed wasting away like a...Christ...like I don't even know what." Julian turned and walked towards Christian, extending his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"The same as you," Julian said. "What I have to."

"I don't understand."

"I have leukemia."

"What?"

"I have leukemia. And you are going to save me, Christian. Believe me you are."

Christian stepped back, imploding as everything became clear. "You set this up."

"What I arranged was an extraction to save the life of Officer Richard Jefferson. But in all honesty I did know we would find ourselves here."

"You're a bastard."

"Perhaps. But if you think I'm going to die because you're having some crisis of conscience that comes and goes as is convenient for you, you're not even a bastard. You're just fucking insane." Anger brewed beneath Julian's eyes. "I get you now, Christian. You say to hell with Jefferson. And me. And everyone else in the world except her. Anyone who didn't give you exclusive lifetime fucking rights isn't worth--"

Christian punched Julian in the face. Hard. Julian crashed to the floor, blood spurting from his nose.

His men pointed their guns at Christian.

"No," Julian said, pushing himself to his feet. "Not yet."

He wiped the blood from his face, drew a .45 from beneath his jacket, screwed on a silencer and pressed it against Elizabeth's temple.

"Don't," Christian said.

"Give me what I want, or I will do something very ugly to this stupid cunt."

Christian had to keep calm. In the state Julian was in, he was capable of anything. If he fired a round into Liz's head, he would do far more damage than Christian could ever repair.

"Just calm down," Christian said.

"I am calm. I am also going to blow her fucking brains out. You know me, Christian. I don't bluff. Don't bet this whore's life on me starting now."

"Please, just put the gun down."

"Give me what I want and I will. Don't and I will put her down like a sick fucking dog."

"You kill her you get nothing."

"No. If I kill her you have nothing other than the knowledge you caused your wife's death. I still have chemo."

"Let me save her now. I'll help you after; you have my word."

"Help me now, save her after. Fair warning, if you say anything other than the word 'yes' I'll take it as 'no', and you will find out what her cerebral cortex looks like. You have _my_ word."

"All right," Christian said. "You win."

Julian took the gun from her head.

"I will help you. First, let me help her. Look, be reasonable. The doctors said she might not---"

Julian shot Liz in the chest.

Christian tried to rush forward but one man grabbed him from behind and the other kneed him in the testicles. He fell to the ground with a thud, coughing and wheezing as his eyes filled with water.

His ears should have been filled with screeching from Elizabeth's alarms, but they were not. Julian made the preparations necessary to ensure they wouldn't be disturbed.

"She doesn't have a lot of time. If you want any chance to save her..." Julian extended him his hand.

Christian coughed. "God damn you."

"I'm sure He will, but not today."

Christian grabbed Julian's hand as hard as he could, crunching the bones beneath the thin, leathery skin now speckled with Elizabeth's blood as he pulled him up.

Julian opened his shirt and Christian put his hand on his chest. He would have loved to kill him, loved to pull the life out of the decrepit old bastard and watch him drop dead on that cold hospital floor, but it would be a futile gesture. Julian's men would shoot. Christian would die. Liz would too.

All he could do was give him what he wanted.

"I didn't want to do it this way," Julian said when the transfer was complete, "I didn't have any choice."

"I'm going to kill you."

Julian pressed the .45 against Christian's skull. "Then the smart thing would be to kill you now, wouldn't it?" He pressed it harder. "Wouldn't it?" Julian lowered the gun. "If you are smart, that kind of thinking will end there. Good luck, Christian."

Julian and his men left.

Christian tore open Elizabeth's gown, horrified at the blood spurting from the quarter-sized hole in her chest.

He put one hand over Elizabeth's heart and one over his own, seething with rage. This was why Julian hadn't killed him. He knew the only way he could save Elizabeth's life was to give her his own.

Calculating, cold hearted son of a bitch.

He closed his eyes and focused his mind, willing the transfer to begin.

There was a tingling in his fingertips that quickly faded.

"Come on, come on, come on."

Nothing.

He tried harder, but it was useless. He could not pull his own life out of himself. His gift simply didn't work that way.

He took his hand off.

Jesus Christ.

He couldn't believe what he was about to do.

He ran into the hallway.

A few yards down the corridor, a nurse was walking.

"Please," Christian called, running towards her, "can you help? There's been an accident."

She turned around.

She was young. Barely out of her teens. Not even a nurse, just a volunteer or intern.

Not her, he thought. Not her.

"Oh my God." She pointed at the blood on his hand. "You're bleeding."

He looked back and forth but no one else was coming.

Even if there was, would it be any easier with someone else? What age would a person have to be for him to feel comfortable murdering them?

"Come on," she said, "let's get that wrapped."

Christian put his hand over her heart.

"Hey!" she screamed, pushing his hand off. "Don't---"

Christian slammed his fist into her ear. She fell hard to the floor, all but unconscious. As he dragged her into a nearby room she tried to grab onto the side of the door, but was too dazed to do herself any good. That punch would've knocked most grown men out cold. That she was conscious at all was a miracle.

After dragging her into the room he closed the door and ripped open her shirt.

"...please, mister..." she said, barely able to form words, "don't..."

Christian placed his hand over her heart.

"Please, don't...hurt...me...I promise I won't say anything...I won't tell anyone..."

"Look at me," Christian said as he found the rhythm of her heartbeat.

She tried to look away but couldn't. It was like someone grabbed her face and made her look at him.

And as she looked into his eyes, her own grew wide with fear. She understood now she wasn't looking into the face of a man. She was staring into the face of her death.

Tears streamed down her face. "...I wanna go home... I wanna go home... I wanna go home..."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Christian said. "I promise. I just want to touch you, that's all. You're going to be fine."

"...please...don't..."

All of her muscles tensed at once as the life was ripped out of her.

". . . momma," her voice was like a hand grasping for something and finding only air, "...momma. . ."

"Shhhhhhhhhhh."

She made one final gasp, convulsed, and died.

Christian closed his eyes but could still see her face staring back at him.

He knew he always would.

He went back to Elizabeth and placed his hand over her heart. It wasn't beating.

She was dead.

"Please God, don't."

She was dead, and he'd murdered that poor girl for nothing.

"Come on. Please, come on."

But there was nothing.

And then, there was something.

Her heart muscles tensed. Not enough to be called a beat and more likely was a death spasm, but it was enough. His fingertips jolted as contact was established.

Her eyes opened and mechanically found his.

This had always been the scariest part in the past. This was when a door opened inside the recipient's body and he lost all control. This was when the recipient's hunger for life took over and pulled the donor life out of him. It felt like being caught in a powerful undertow. He sometimes feared the life he'd taken would not be enough to satisfy the void and it would take his as well.

He would welcome that now.

But she didn't take his life.

She absorbed the nurse's life, and the connection was severed.

Elizabeth's eyes shut, and a moment later, blinked open.

Christian smiled.

She was awake, but just barely; her consciousness ready to collapse under its own weight at any moment.

She tried to speak.

"Don't try to talk now," Christian said, "get some rest."

"...where...am i...?"

"A hospital."

"...hosp...hospital...?"

"Yes. Be quiet now."

"...what...happened?"

"That doesn't matter now. You're all right, that's the only thing that does." He gripped her hand, hoping someday he'd be able to believe that. "I love you."

He wanted her to say that back to him but she couldn't.

She was unconscious.

That was natural. A body needed time to heal, to assimilate the new life. It would be wonderful if he just touched her and she was completely healed, unfortunately, it didn't work that way.

Anyway, what concerned him now wasn't her waking up, but the possibility her body might reject the transplant. That didn't happen often, but it was possible. And if it did...he didn't want to think about that.

She'd regained consciousness. It was only for a moment, yes, but it had happened and that was about as good a sign as he could ask for.

He took a deep breath and wiped his face, feeling the warmth of her blood smearing across it. He went to her bathroom and washed it off. When he came back out he saw the blood staining her gown and bed sheets. Almost on autopilot, he cleaned her up and the bed as well and when he finished, sat down, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and nearly jumped from the chair when he saw the face of the girl he'd just killed staring back at him. He opened his eyes and saw a phantom of Julian standing over Elizabeth as he'd been only a few minutes ago, pumping a bullet into her chest.

He shook his head, pressed his palms against his eyes and opened them again.

No one was there except him and Elizabeth.

Julian was gone.

But he couldn't have gotten far.

And wouldn't be expecting Christian to come after him so soon.

That really didn't matter. Surprise advantage or none, when going after Julian Stark death was not merely the likely outcome, but logical conclusion. Christian didn't care.

He kissed Elizabeth on the forehead for what he knew to be the last time, and ran out of the room after Julian Stark.

## CHAPTER 2

One of Christian's favorite books was Harper Lee's _To Kill A Mockingbird_. He wasn't sure when the first time he read it was, but knew he must have been very young because he couldn't remember a time during his lonely childhood years he didn't imagine he had friends and family like the people in the book and sharing in all their adventures and triumphs.

One of the parts he liked most came at the very beginning of the book, when Scout, the lead character, and her brother Jem argue over when the story of his broken arm ought to properly begin. Scout said the story rightly began with the Ewells stirring trouble; Jem said that it really started when their friend Dill came to visit for the summer. Scout one upped him by saying that if one wanted to take the long view of things, the story really began with Andrew Jackson chasing out the Indians, making way for their ancestor to come settle the land. Being too old to duke it out, they went to their father, Atticus the Wise, who told them they both were right.

Christian felt that way too; not only that they both were right, but if Jem and Scout wanted to keep one upping each other, they could keep on going back further and further. Back past the dinosaurs and Wooly Mammoths, past when there was an Earth or a Universe at all, all the way up to the moment of the Big Bang and even past that to whatever came before that and whatever came before that. They could keep on going forever and ever, and will always have been right because no story really has any set beginning or ending. Everything leads into everything else, forward and back, there is no real start or finish. The best that we have is the point when the person telling the story either wants to begin simply because you have to start somewhere, or needs to in order to include all the things the audience will need to know for the story to make the sense or give it its greatest impact.

For Christian's own story, the tale of how he came to know of his peculiar talents, how he wound up in the hospital where we have just left him and of all the things to follow, this Storyteller will begin in a poverty stricken nation in Africa which shall for the time being remain nameless, nearly ten years before the events of the preceding chapter.

In that place and at that time, a young doctor named Anna Genovese was kneeling over a young man who had passed out about thirty yards from the front door of the small clinic she ran there.

She'd called for help as soon as she saw him, but hadn't made sure anyone heard her before running out. As she examined the boy, she chided her impulsive reaction as being stupid. She couldn't let her emotions get the better of her like that. If she needed help and no one was there to provide it, it might cost someone their life.

Luckily Sahilla, the young local woman who helped her run the clinic, had heard her, run out, and was just now arriving beside her.

"How is he?" Sahilla asked in her thick accent, a little out of breath.

Anna checked his pulse. "Alive. Help me get him inside."

Anna took him by the arms. Sahilla scooped up his legs. She had to use one hand to hold both legs because her other one, along with most of her forearm, had been chopped off by marauders when she was a young girl.

They carried the boy, no more than sixteen, into the infirmary and placed him in their one unoccupied bed.

Anna attached the I/V and began a drip to give his body sorely needed hydration.

It wasn't unusual to find someone passed out near the clinic. Many of Anna's patients walked through many miles of some of the world's most unforgiving terrain with almost no food or water to seek medical attention. Every few weeks there would be one whose strength gave out a few yards short of their goal.

Whenever Anna saw one of them lying on the ground, unsure if they were even alive or dead until reached them, she couldn't help but think of her patients back in the United States, many of whom thought 15 minutes on a train or in traffic was too much an inconvenience to take care of their own bodies.

As she checked his heartbeat, the boy's eyes opened just barely and he tried to speak.

"Don't try to talk now, sweetie," Anna said. "Get some rest. When you wake up you can tell me where it hurts."

He fought it, but his eyes quickly fell shut.

Anna finished checking his vitals and then turned to Sahilla. "He'll be fine. He's just dehydrated and tired. Keep an eye on him, though. Okay?"

"Okay," said Sahilla.

A jeep pulled in front of the clinic.

Anna and Sahilla looked at it, and then each other.

Sahilla smiled. "He's here."

Anna smiled nervously.

"Go," said Sahilla, "I will keep a close eye on things."

"I just feel funny."

"Don't worry. We can handle a couple of hours by ourselves."

"It's not that, it's...look at me," Anna said, holding her arms out. She'd been working insane hours for months now, 24 hour days sometimes. She was a natural beauty, and though she was sure working so hard had aged her prematurely, she still looked a decade younger than her 32 years. Vanity, however, had been the last thing on her mind since she'd arrived at the clinic. And she was sure it showed. "Just look at me."

"I am looking at you. Know what I see?"

"What?"

"A beautiful woman."

"Thanks, but I know I don't look beautiful right now."

Sahilla looked at the man waiting in the jeep. "He's handsome."

Anna started beaming. "Isn't he, though?"

"Maybe you're right," Sahilla said. "You should not go. You should stay and mind the clinic."

"Really?"

Sahilla nodded "Yes. You stay here and I go with him."

"That might be a better idea."

"Then it's settled." Sahilla walked towards the door.

"Wait a minute," Anna said. "That's a joke. I'm going."

"You already gave him to me. Sorry."

"Well, I'm making a U-Turn on that one. Sorry."

"What is U-Turn?"

"I'm taking him back"

"You can't do that. What are you? An Indiana Jones giver?"

"It's Indian Giver. And yes, I am."

"No fair."

Anna took a deep breath. "Wish me luck."

"Luck."

The man in the jeep was Barney Conrad, an anthropologist Anna first met years ago while she was still an undergrad at the University of Pennsylvania. He'd come there to visit a mutual friend, and a bunch of them got together for a night of bar hopping on South Street.

Barney and Anna only talked a little the night of his visit, but she was immediately smitten. Barney was smart, good looking, funny. Sweet, but with just enough edge; cool, but with just enough geekiness. And he was very good looking.

(Did she mention he was good looking?)

The day after their initial meeting happened to be the Sunday before final exams. Her gang had a little tradition of taking Jell-O shots and playing hide-and-go-seek in the park to blow off steam before the grueling week ahead and she was hopeful Barney would show up.

Their mutual buddy must've known what was on her mind, because when he got there, he told her without being asked that Barney had already left to go back to his school.

"Where does he go again? Temple? Drexel?" Anna asked, naming Philadelphia universities.

"Oxford."

Oxford. Barney was headed clear across the ocean. And hearing the news was like an ice cold bucket of its water being thrown into her face.

"Oh," Anna said.

"Sorry."

That was the last she'd seen of Barney until a few months ago. She was sitting in an airport terminal, waiting for the flight that would take her to the clinic and as she absent-mindedly leafed through a fashion magazine, a shadow came over her.

She looked up and there was Barney.

"Anna?"

"Yeah," she smiled. "Barney?"

"I thought that was you."

"Wow." She eyed him up and down. "You look good."

"You too."

"Thanks," she patted the seat beside her. "Park it."

He did, and they spent the next few minutes catching up.

He was going to Africa too, it turns out; researching a sub Saharan tribe long thought to be extinct that recent evidence indicated might still be in existence.

They had all of ten minutes together before his flight was announced. In a movie they would have been getting on the same plane; not so life. He was going to one end of Africa and she to another.

Anna thought he'd escaped her clutches once again but a few weeks later she got a letter from him asking how she was doing, how the clinic was going and telling of his own adventure. She answered his letter; he answered her answer and they kept it up.

It became clear very quickly Barney shared her attraction, and though Anna at first tried to keep it in perspective, she was very soon looking forward to the mailman like he was Santa Claus, bringing a Christmas made just for her two times a week when he came to deliver the mail.

Before Barney started writing, the only things she fantasized about were getting more sleep (sometimes she would literally have dreams of being able to sleep as long as she wanted) and ravaging a mountain made of all the delicious snacks and junk food she'd left behind. Now, she'd sometimes find herself staying up all night, waiting to hear the delivery truck as it pulled up at 5 am and become panic stricken if it was even just two minutes late. On days mail wasn't scheduled, and she could steal a minute for herself, she'd find herself rereading his old letters and again being swept away.

The man definitely had a way with words. The way he wrote made her feel like they were sitting next to each other in a bar, talking and laughing over neglected drinks, intoxicated instead with one another as they fell for each other face to face...lips to lips.

But they weren't face to face. Thousands of miles separated them and that cruel, wonderful, magnifying denial left her sometimes feeling she'd explode if she didn't see him soon. So, when he wrote asking if he could come visit her, it nearly took an hour for her to regain enough motor skills to tell him to get his ass there yesterday.

She'd been dreaming of this day ever since. Now here it was.

She ran outside, hopped in his jeep and they sped off, leaving a cloud of orange dust behind them.

It was such a fantastic day. Anna directed him to all the prettiest sites and though she played the role of tour guide, she was enjoying it as much as he was as she rarely got to get away from the clinic.

She couldn't believe what a great rapport she and Barney had, it was like they were old friends with a thousand in-jokes and shared stories even though this was really only the third time they'd been together in the flesh. She had never met anyone who could make her laugh so hard or have so much fun just driving around.

After a few hours, Barney pulled into what Anna said was her favorite spot, a small hill overlooking a wide valley with a winding river below, and parked.

Anna apologized for not thinking to pack a lunch, and he told her to look in the bag on his back seat.

She opened it and her eyes got wide. "Oh my dear Lord. Is this what I think it is?"

"Mhmm."

"My God. It's beautiful."

For months Anna had been lusting over the garbage sold as food in every American convenience store but was impossible to get in this part of Africa. Barney brought her a bag brimming with all her favorite trash.

"You are a superhero," she said, "a living, breathing superhero."

Barney was about to tell her not to be modest and to jump right in but it was too late; she was already ripping into a bag of chips.

The first one touched her tongue and her eyes closed, swamped with pleasure.

"And to think," Barney said, "I almost brought flowers instead."

Anna kept munching, looking through the bag to see what other treasures lay hidden inside.

"Anyway, I can see why this is your favorite spot," Barney said, looking out at the valley. "The view is beautiful."

She found more bags of chips, candy bars, Doritos, and oh, hello, look at this. A nice big bottle of booze. Lovely, lovely booze.

"That's one thing Africa has plenty of," Barney said, "breathtaking views. You know where the best views are? Ghana."

Oh my God, she thought. Doughnuts. And not just one kind, either. There were powdered doughnuts, chocolate doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts, oh dear God...a Boston Cream Pie...

"The view that touched me the most when I was in Ghana," Barney said, "was looking at the ocean from the slave ports. I don't want to get too deep, but I remember being very aware that what I was seeing was one of the first things my ancestors would have been denied as they were shipped off to the Americas, a last look at the horizon from their homeland. Here I was, hundreds of years later, having it for them."

Wow, Anna thought, now he is officially God. Not only chips, but dip too? Not only dip, but French onion dip? That's it. It's official.

"Anna?"

She looked up from the bag. "Yeah?"

"Have you ever been there?"

"Uhhh, yeah," she said, nodding. "Sure, yeah, I've been."

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then what did I just say?"

"You...asked me if I heard what you said?"

"See? I said that---"

"That if there is one thing Africa has lots of, it's pretty views. Then you told me how you visited the old slave ports in Ghana, and how much it meant to you."

He smiled. "You were listening."

"Of course."

"I thought you were too wrapped up unwrapping to hear me."

"If there is one thing running a clinic in the middle of nowhere pretty much by yourself will teach you, it's multitasking."

"That's one skill I never learned."

"No?"

"No, I like to focus on one thing at time. Find something worth all my attention and direct all of my energy there, you know what I mean?"

Anna smiled. "I know just what you mean."

She leaned in and they kissed. Their first kiss. God, how long she'd been waiting for this. He did not disappoint.

Their lips parted and they smiled at one another.

"You taste like potato chips," Barney said, and then shook his head. "I don't know why I said that."

There was a 'you can't only have one' line there somewhere, but Anna didn't look for it. Instead she kissed him again, harder and deeper than before.

Soon they were back at the clinic, nearly falling to the floor as they pushed their way into Anna's room, kissing furiously.

Anna had told herself that she'd take things slow. But as she pushed him onto her bed almost daring him to try to get up she knew that was out the window. Thinking about it now, it was kind of a dumb idea to begin with.

"Anna---," Barney began.

"Shut up," she said, jumping on top of him, kissing him deeply once more. "Strip."

When Anna woke up the next morning, she could feel the smile on her face. As her eyes slowly opened, she wondered if she'd been smiling in her sleep the whole night through and was wonderfully embarrassed at how silly she must have looked.

But if she was going to be embarrassed about anything, she thought, it should be about jumping on him like a rabid dog last night. But the funny thing was, she wasn't embarrassed about that. Not in the least.

She'd never done that before. Sure, she'd pictured it in the safety of her own mind, but to actually do it? To actually just throw a guy on the bed and take what she wanted? That was new. Or maybe it was there all along, waiting for the right guy to bring it out of her.

She looked at Barney just as his eyes were opening.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning."

"Sleep well?"

"Slept fine," he said. "Although if you were to compare it to the rest of last night, it's not even worth a mention."

She half hid her smile behind a pillow. "Really?" she asked, sweetly uncertain. "You liked it?"

He nodded and pulled away the pillow she was hiding behind. "Of course, for a while there, I felt more like Jodie Foster than I ever thought I would."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be."

She smiled and stretched luxuriously across the bed. "Okay. I won't be."

"Good."

"I can't tell you how much I needed last night," she said. "I haven't felt like that since...to be honest I don't think I've ever felt so good."

"Me neither." Barney stroked her back.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Your hands feel so good." She sighed again. "God, I wish we could just lay here in bed all day."

"We can't?"

She shook her head. "Too many people need me."

"That's cool. To tell you the truth, I was looking forward to helping out while I'm here."

She looked at him. "You're like the perfect man."

"I---"

But before Barney could finish, a racket from downstairs interrupted him.

"I have to go," she said flatly, suddenly deflated by the call of duty. "Sounds like it's starting early today."

"All right."

"But, you stay put. I'll handle whatever this is and be right back with breakfast and coffee."

"I can't wait."

Neither could she.

She got dressed and went downstairs; bracing herself as she approached what looked like the center of the melee. But the closer she got the more she sensed there was something different about this morning's craziness.

The people running back and forth didn't look simply panicked or swamped. They looked terrified.

Sahilla stood at the end of the hall, trying and failing to keep a handle on things. Anna approached her and asked what happening.

"Anna," Sahilla said, "I was just about to get you."

"What is it?"

"The boy we brought in yesterday has woken up."

"Okay."

"He is not sick," Sahilla said. "His mother is here. He came to take her away."

"Who is his mother?"

"Kannda."

"Kannda?"

"Yes."

"He can't take her anywhere right now. She's not well enough."

"Anna, you do not understand."

"No, he doesn't understand. If she doesn't finish her treatment she could lose her leg."

"Anna---"

"Where is he? I'll talk to him."

"Listen to me," Sahilla said. "Kannda has to go. We all must go."

Anna saw something in Sahilla's eyes she would have thought impossible if she hadn't seen it herself.

Fear.

"Tell me what's happening."

"He was the only one to get away from his village," Sahilla said. "He say soldiers came and they kill everybody. They coming this way. We got to go. Now."

"We have to get to the Embassy," said Barney.

Anna turned around, surprised to see him standing there. The noise must have made him curious.

"I can fit about six in the jeep," he continued, "maybe more."

She looked at him, and then at her patients lying in bed, too sick to move or be moved.

"Anna," said Barney, pulling her attention back to him, "let's go."

"I can't."

"What?"

"My patients," Anna said, "I can't just leave them."

"Anna, do you understand what is happening here?"

"Yes, but---"

"I don't think you do. This is what sounds like the start of a war. This is Africa. Do you have any idea of how they fight their wars here? We have to go. Maybe it'll even turn out to be nothing, but this is not something where you want to wait and see. This is something where if you get even the faintest inkling, you haul ass."

"I get that, Barney. But I can't leave them here by themselves. I'd be killing them."

"Anna---"

"Listen, I know it was just one...I'm not asking you to stay."

"But I am asking you to come with me."

"What about them?" She pointed to her bedridden patients. "If I leave them here they are dead."

"No, if we stay they're dead. Their only chance is us reaching the Embassy in time to arrange transportation to come back and clear them out before---"

Machine gun fire erupted outside.

Everyone jumped and then froze.

Only Barney was brave enough to move. He walked to the window and peered outside. "Fuck."

"What is it?" asked Anna.

Barney saw about fifty of them. That meant there were probably fifty to a hundred more he didn't see, and the place was already surrounded. By the way they carried themselves he knew they called themselves soldiers, though they wore no uniform other than their own tattered rags and followed no code other than cruelty.

One boy carried a flag Barney recognized as belonging to a particularly heinous man who fancied himself the general of an army that would one day rule all of Africa.

Barney had been warned that if he ever saw that flag waving to run the other way as fast as he could, even if the other way was into a live volcano. If he tried to run the other way now he'd just run into more of them.

He had to think of something. If they tried to run they'd be shot, but they couldn't hide or stay put either. A favorite technique of this army was to surround a building, set it on fire and machine gun people as they ran out.

Okay, Barney thought, so running was out, hiding was out and staying put was out. That left him with one option. It wasn't one he liked, but it was the only one available.

"I'm going out there," Barney said.

Anna looked at him. "What?"

"Maybe I can talk us out of this."

"How?"

"I don't know."

"You think that's a good idea?"

"I think all the good ideas got out of here while they still could," Barney said, "we're going to have to make do with the ones we have. If we wait for them to come too close they won't give us a chance to talk. All they'll want are our screams then, not our words."

"Don't say that."

"They're so used to people running from them, maybe the sight of someone walking towards them will throw them off enough for me to try to say something."

"Say something like what?"

"I don't know," Barney said, looking at the soldiers approaching with machine guns in their hands and machetes swinging from their hips. "But the suspense is killing me."

"This isn't funny."

Barney kept staring at the mob. "No shit."

Barney wasn't shot when he stepped out of the front door.

That was a good start, he thought. Not getting killed is always a good start.

Not too shabby a finish, either.

He walked towards the soldiers, his heart pounding. He didn't know what to say and had no time to think of something because he was already standing right in front of them.

Say something, Barney, he thought. In these situations, awkward silences are broken by machine gun fire.

One soldier looked to be about 25, making him the oldest in this horde of mostly teen and preteen boys. Barney guessed him to be their leader, and so addressed him.

"Hello," Barney said. "Do you speak English?"

"Of course," said the presumed leader.

"Good. My name is Barney. How do you do?"

He smiled, showing his decaying teeth. "Much better than you."

The soldiers laughed.

Think of something, Barney. Fast.

He got an idea.

It was a long shot, but it was better shot than just standing there waiting to get shot.

"Please, bring your sick and injured inside," Barney said, "we have beds, a doctor, and plenty of medicine and bandages. We will take excellent care of any of you needing medical attention.

"The rest of you can go in the building over there." He pointed to the small building that served as a cafeteria. "I will have ice cold water brought over right away. While you brave warriors are staying out of this hot sun I'll have a feast prepared for you."

Barney hoped this guy was smart enough to realize that while there were plenty of places in this country where they could rip people apart, there were precious few where they could be put back together. In a time of war, this clinic would be invaluable to his army and he would be a hero for securing it for his general.

He'd also mentioned food and water. That was good.

Appealing to their hearts would've been stupid, their brains a gamble but their bellies most likely a winner.

Hopefully they were hungry and wanted to eat before massacring anyone. That would give Barney time to talk to the leader some more, convince him the sick people in the clinic were more valuable alive than dead.

He'd explain that a doctor was not like a normal hostage because sooner or later, you might have to put your life in her hands. You had to treat such a hostage in a manner to make sure they wouldn't get thoughts of killing or letting you die once they got the chance. The best way to do that was by keeping her patients alive as hostages. As long as he didn't hurt them he could trust her. She would take good care of him because she wouldn't want to risk someone else taking over who might kill or be cruel to her patients.

Again, it was a long shot, but it might work.

In any event, all he had to do was convince him to think it over as he ate a nice hot meal. Hopefully, Anna would have some kind of tranquilizer they could slip into their food. Maybe in fifty years he'd be telling their grandkids the story of how they drugged and slaughtered an entire squadron of vicious killers, took their weapons and led an army of sick folk through the jungle to safety.

Back inside the clinic, Anna held her breath watching Barney talk to the men, wishing she could hear what he was saying. Whatever it was seemed to be working. They'd been talking for a while now.

Barney pointed at the cafeteria and said something.

God, she wished she could hear him.

He then turned back to the man to whom he'd been speaking and said something else. The man nodded, pointed his rifle at Barney's head and blew most of it off.

Anna gasped, watching him fall to the ground beneath a pink cloud, convulsing as two boys hacked him with machetes while the pack trooped towards the clinic.

Anna couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't think. Her breathless mouth gaped open, trying to inhale and exhale at once.

The soldiers stopped about twenty feet from the clinic and aimed their guns at the building. Sahilla yanked Anna to the floor seconds before the room exploded into a hurricane of bullets, flying glass and splintered wood.

After a full minute, the shooting stopped. Anna was curled up on the floor in the fetal position, hyperventilating with her eyes shut tight and hands clamped over her ears.

She didn't see the soldier's shadows beneath the door, nor its knob slowly twisting.

## CHAPTER 3

Christian woke up in the driver's seat of his Mercedes. He was parked in the parking lot of an apartment complex he'd never seen before, not sure how he'd gotten there or why.

He wasn't surprised, though. Memory loss was a normal and temporary after effect of extractions. Soon enough it'd all come back.

He climbed out of his car and put a cigarette in his mouth. As he fished around in his pocket for his lighter, memory of last night was already seeping back.

He could almost hear the Mercedes' tires screeching as they had last night, kicking up smoke and rocks as he tore out of the hospital parking lot after Julian.

He had no idea where the man had gone or was going, but was too electrified with rage, adrenaline, shock and guilt to listen to the voice in the back of his head screaming at him that he was acting crazy. He ripped through traffic, swerving in and out of lanes, blowing through stop signs and red lights. It wasn't until the third time he nearly crashed into a telephone pole that he finally decided to get off the road before he killed himself or somebody else.

He pulled into the parking lot. He was just going to stay until he got his head clear but must have passed out because the next thing he knew he was waking up in his car; at first not remembering how he'd gotten there, and then remembering, and now, more than remembering.

He realized now that he hadn't come to that parking lot by chance. Someone wanted him there, and as this realization descended upon him, his eyes focused on a particular apartment door.

He'd never seen it before, but right now it was as familiar as his own.

He reached in his pocket and grabbed his car keys.

_Get back in the car_ , he told himself. _Get back in, start the engine and drive away. Now._

Of course he couldn't do that.

She wanted him to go inside. He didn't have the right to say no.

He dropped his cigarette and walked across the hot asphalt to the apartment door. He twisted the unlocked knob, pushed it open and stepped inside.

The living room was a little cluttered, but neat. You could tell young people lived there, and by the décor and pleasant aroma those young people were female.

On the far side of the living room was another door. That was where she wanted him to go.

He walked over and opened it.

A man was waiting for him on the other side.

No.

Just his own reflection cast off the large mirror hanging on the wall opposite the door.

He looked around the bedroom. It was dark and windowless. She didn't mind it one bit, though. Because the bedroom had no windows, she paid $150 less a month in rent than Heather, her roommate.

Christian's eyes focused an object sitting on her nightstand. It was a small framed photograph of a dad standing beside a mom who had her little boy on one knee and little girl on the other. The little girl was smiling extra big because she wanted to show off her new front tooth. The little boy was smiling big because he was a happy kid who didn't know how to smile any other way.

Christian picked up the photograph, remembering the day it was taken. He remembered how she held her mom's hand tight as they made their way through the bustling crowds in the mall. He remembered looking up at the people as they trotted by, and how enormous everything seems when you're so tiny.

He remembered how they went out for ice cream afterwards, and then bowling. He remembered how she fell asleep on the car ride home and how she woke up just a tiny bit as her dad gently carried her from the backseat to her bed. He remembered her mother pulling the blanket over her and then both of her parents telling her they loved her, and wishing her pleasant dreams.

Even though she was so young she remembered that day perfectly. All her life, she counted herself as one of the lucky ones because her earliest memories were of being so loved and safe.

The little girl in the photograph was named Berlin Cavanaugh. She would grow up to attend nursing school. While there, she'd get a job at a hospital. One day she'd pick up a shift as a favor for a friend, be accosted by a strange man asking for help and when she tried to give it, he'd kill her.

"Jesus," Christian said, the full horror of what he'd done now coming over him.

He set the picture back down, closed his eyes and lowered his head.

The people he killed often left echoes of themselves behind; beacons which sometimes pulled Christian to the places, people and things that were important to them.

Berlin had pulled him that place, and even now he could feel her presence.

He wanted her to know he never would have hurt her. Not ever. Not even to save his own life. In fact, under different circumstances he might have sacrificed his own life to save hers. What happened last night with Elizabeth...watching her die...it was the one thing he couldn't allow, simply _could not_ allow.

It didn't excuse what he did or make it right, but it wasn't like he went there planning to hurt her. He didn't want to do it. He hated doing it. He hated that he did it.

But he did.

No matter how he explained it, no matter how many scenarios he listed where he would've acted differently, it didn't matter. He wasn't given any other scenario. He was given that one. He didn't react any other way. He reacted that way.

And she paid for his reaction with her life.

Nothing could ever undo that or make it okay.

He opened his eyes.

The little girl in the picture was smiling at him.

But if it made her feel any better, he'd probably be joining her soon. He was going up against Julian Stark. There wasn't much difference between that and suicide once you got right down to it.

But even as he thought that, he realized it wouldn't have made her feel better. He sensed she would take no joy in the prospect of anyone's death, not even his, not even after what he did to her. She simply didn't have that kind of hatred to give.

It would have made things so much easier for him if she did. But why should she make things easier for him?

The strength went out of Christian's knees. He nearly toppled over, and had to use the nightstand to keep himself standing.

The room started spinning and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"Oh no," Christian said, sensing what was happening.

Most of the impressions his victims left behind were weak and fleeting. Sometimes, however, he'd encounter one of a different sort. Sometimes a remnant of the victim's consciousness would latch onto Christian's and communicate with him.

Sometimes, the dead would speak.

The room grew cold as her presence grew stronger. He could hear her now. Faint and distant and fragile was her voice, but it was there.

_How could you?_ She asked _. How could you?_

"I'm sorry," Christian said. "I didn't want to do it. I know that doesn't matter now, but it's true. If there was something I could do to make this right I would, but I can't."

But even as he said this, he knew he was wrong.

When the dead spoke to him, it was often because there was some piece of unfinished business they'd left behind they wanted him to complete. This was the case with Berlin now, only much, much more so. The longing and desire coming from her was more powerful than anything he'd ever felt. It was beyond desire. What she wanted was something so important, so _vital_ to her being that if he did it, she would forgive him for all he'd done to her, and if he failed to do, she could never rest in peace.

"What is it?" Christian asked. "Tell me. I'll do anything."

I...

"Yes?"

I want...

The front door opened and Heather, Berlin's roommate, stepped into the apartment.

"Berly girl," she said. "You just getting home, muffin pie?"

She tossed the mail on the kitchen table, walked to Berlin's room and peeked inside.

Empty.

That was weird.

She could have sworn Berlin's bedroom door was closed when she left.

She shrugged and was about to leave when she glanced in the mirror and saw the man hiding behind the bedroom door.

For seconds that seemed like hours, neither of them moved. They just stood there, staring at each other's reflection.

"I'm sorry," Christian finally said, "I must be in the wrong apartment. Is this the Huxtable residence?"

She stood frozen.

"No, of course not," Christian said. "You wouldn't be looking at me like that if it was. Sorry. Boy, I must have scared you, huh? I was trying to play a joke on my buddy. The joke is on me, I guess, cuz I got the wrong apartment." He laughed nervously. She didn't laugh at all. "Well, I'll, uh, I'll get out of your way now."

Very slowly, very carefully, he made the slightest of moves forward.

She screamed and yanked the door shut, bolting out of the apartment.

Christian did the same, making a beeline to his car. When he got there he reached in his pockets for his keys.

They weren't there.

"Fuck!"

He checked the ignition. They weren't there either. They must be in the apartment.

His first instinct was to just run off, but he couldn't do that. When they found his keys they'd easily match them to the only Mercedes in the parking lot, and just as easily match him to the Mercedes.

If he was going to get Berlin what she wanted, time was the single most crucial factor. Neither he nor she could afford him wasting time dealing with or running from the cops.

He'd only been in the apartment a few minutes, there were only so many places they could be.

He ran back inside.

On the other side of the complex, three 20 somethings were seated around a coffee table that had a dragon shaped bong in its center. They were Paul and Earl, who shared the apartment, and their friend Amanda.

They'd just finished smoking one bowl and were about to start another when they were interrupted by a loud pounding on the door.

"Open the door!" the person pounding screamed. "Open it now!"

Amanda opened it. "Heather? What's going on?"

"Call the police," Heather said, rushing inside. "There was a man hiding in Berlin's room and he just tried to attack me!"

"Are you serious?" asked Paul.

"Yes, I'm fucking serious, there was a man in my apartment and he just tried to rape me! Call the cops now!"

Earl picked the phone up.

"Wait a second," said Paul. "Don't call the police."

Earl put the phone down.

"What do you mean don't call the police?" said Heather, panting. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

Paul walked into his bedroom.

"My God," Amanda said to Heather. "Are you all right? I mean, did he hurt you?"

"I---"

Paul came back.

Heather shuddered when she saw what he'd gotten.

"Holy shit," said Earl.

Amanda's eyes grew wide. "Where did you get that?"

"My mom gave it to me," Paul said as he checked to make sure the .357 he'd gotten from under his bed was loaded before slipping his feet into a pair of flip flops. This Heather situation might be exactly what he needed.

Amanda broke up with her boyfriend a while ago. She was hanging out more and he was picking up the vibe that she was ready to make the break up official by hooking up with someone else.

Earl picked up on it too, and though Paul would have thought it impossible if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Earl's goofy, funny guy routine was actually getting him somewhere. A little hero play was just what he needed to restore the natural order of things.

"What are you doing?" Amanda asked as Paul walked to the front door.

"I'm going to Heather and Berlin's apartment."

"Don't be stupid," Heather said. "Can't we just call the cops?"

"Look," Paul said, "if some guy was in your apartment, you probably scared him off already."

"And cops are busy enough," Earl said. "Don't you realize that right now, as we speak, there could be some guy doing 56 in a 55?"

Earl looked to see if Amanda laughed. She hadn't even heard him. She was staring at the gun.

"Where is Berlin?" Paul asked.

Heather said, "I don't know."

"Then for all we know, while we're standing here talking about it, she is in there by herself with that guy? Or on the floor bleeding to death and needing first aid?"

Heather's stomach twisted. It was possible. She was so focused on the guy behind the door, Berlin could have been tied up on the floor in there and she wouldn't have even seen her.

"Exactly." Paul turned to Earl. "You coming?"

Paul walked out.

Earl followed, saying to the girls, "You guys coming? It should be fun."

Neither of the girls said anything.

"All right then. I guess we'll see you in a few. Unless, you know, the guy kills us both."

He left.

Amanda and Heather looked at each other.

Amanda ran out after Paul and Earl.

Two seconds later Heather did the same.

Christian was in the bedroom, searching for his keys on the floor by the bed when the four kids reached the apartment. His head shot up when he heard their voices.

"You said he was in Berlin's room?" asked Paul.

"Yeah," said Heather, "he was hiding behind her door. I still think we should call the cops."

Paul poked his head in the apartment. "Anybody here?"

No answer.

"Berlin? You in here?"

Still nothing.

Paul stepped inside.

Amanda grabbed his arm. "Don't."

Paul smiled at her. "You a scaredy cat?"

"Oh yeah," she smiled back. "Big time."

Heather's stomach coiled and wrenched. Here she was scared out of her mind and this was fun to them, like a haunted house or something.

Paul had the same thought. It was all in fun and he'd get to play the role of daddy checking the room for monsters.

But that was only if it turned out to be nothing.

At his apartment, he assumed that would be the case. Now that he was there, it dawned on him there very well could be someone in Berlin's bedroom, and that someone could very well be armed.

And Paul was high. Not stoned out of his mind, but high.

His reaction time would be off. If there was someone in there armed, that was one advantage to them.

He'd take no chances.

Shoot first. If he had to answer questions later, at least he'd be alive later to answer questions.

But what if Berlin is in there, he asked himself. If your policy is to shoot first you might shoot her.

Okay.

Article One: Shoot as Soon as You See Someone, is hereby amended.

Amendment: Make sure it's not Berlin, and _then_ shoot.

Paul walked about halfway through the living room and stopped. "I have a gun," Paul cocked the hammer. "If you're in there come out with your hands up now."

Nothing.

"Come out now, mother-fucker! Come out now, right now God-damn it! You make me come in there, I swear to fucking God, I'm going to blow your fucking head off! Don't fuck with me! Come out of there with your hands up! Do it now, or I will fucking kill you!"

Berlin's bedroom doorway remained silent, gaping, empty, taunting.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

Fifteen.

"Last chance," Paul said. "You make me come in there, what happens after is on you. I have witnesses you attacked me first and I had no choice but to shoot. This is your last chance, come out."

Still nothing.

Paul went inside the bedroom.

Earl and Amanda and Heather stood immobilized, staring at the doorway.

Thirty seconds passed.

"Paul?" Amanda said. "Paul? Are you all right?"

No reply.

She nudged Earl. "Go see if he's okay."

Earl looked at her and then at the doorway.

"Go," she said.

Earl licked his lips. "Hey Paul, what's going on in there, man?"

No response.

Twenty more seconds passed.

Amanda couldn't take it anymore. "Paul!"

Paul grinned. He couldn't have planned this better. "Clear. All clear. You ladies can come in now."

Earl went in first, then Amanda.

Heather stopped at the doorway. "You sure nobody is in here?"

"Positive," Paul said, scratching his forehead with the butt of his gun.

"Did you check under the bed?"

Wow. Now he really felt like the poppa bear, literally checking under the bed.

He knelt down, lifted the skirt of the bed up and looked. "Nothing."

"How about in the closet?"

Paul peeked in. "My God."

"What?" asked Heather. "You see something?"

"Yeah," Paul said, nodding. "Shoes. Berlin has a lot of shoes."

"Do you see a dark brown pair of Prada boots?" Amanda asked.

"I see dark brown boots. I don't know from Prada."

"I let her use those two weeks ago and haven't seen 'em since," Amanda said, looking inside, seeing her boots and picking them up.

Heather stormed in. "Put those back."

"What?"

"You are not stealing her boots."

"You're right. I'm not stealing her boots because they're not her boots, they're mine. I let her use them."

"Then let her give them back to you. Do you know how mad she'd be if she found out I not only let people in her room, but take her stuff when she wasn't here?"

"They're not hers, they're mine."

"That's between you and her. What happens in this apartment is between me and her."

"Tell her I took them," Amanda said, moving to leave the room.

"Tell her you want them back," Heather said, stepping in front of her, "but for right now, put them back."

"Get out of my way," Amanda said.

"Put those back."

"No."

"Then I am not moving."

"Want to bet?"

"I'm not joking, Amanda."

"Neither am I, Heather."

"What about in there?" Earl asked. "Did you check in there?"

Everyone looked at Earl. He was pointing at the bathroom door, which was closed. "Did you check in there?"

Christ, Paul thought, he was higher than he thought. That should have been the first place he looked. "No."

"I heard something," said Earl.

"Like what?"

"Like somebody in there."

Heather and Amanda gasped.

Paul pointed the gun at the door. "Earl, open it."

"Not with you pointing the gun."

"I'm not going to shoot you."

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm stepping in front of that thing."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Fine. Just move."

Earl backed away.

Paul twisted the knob. "Locked." He turned to Heather. "Want me to open it?"

She nodded.

Paul kicked it in. It hit the wall and bounced shut again from force of impact. Paul pushed it open and went inside.

The window above the toilet was open and there was a shoeprint on the sink.

Paul stuck his head out.

Christian stood directly below him, less than two feet away, with his back pressed against the wall. All Paul had to do was glance down and he'd be seen.

"You see anything?" Heather asked.

A fly landed on Christian's ear, crawled a bit, and then flew off to buzz Paul's face.

Paul shooed it away and went back inside. "Nothing."

Christian listened as the voices got further away. He waited a few seconds and then peeled himself off the wall and walked as fast as he could towards the end of the alley way and when he arrived there, walked down another passageway.

He wrapped his hand around his keys, now in his pocket. He'd found them when he lifted his head at the sound of voices. They were sitting on the nightstand next to the picture of Berlin and her family.

But to use those keys, he had to pass the door of the apartment he'd just escaped. He approached it, took a deep breath and tried to look as normal as possible as he walked by, glancing in the open door.

Three people sat at the kitchen table, two guys and one girl. There was a large gun on the table right next to a pair of expensive looking boots. Heather was on the phone.

Calling the police, no doubt.

He took the keys from his pocket, pressed the button to unlock the car door and got inside.

"There he is!"

He looked up. Heather was in the doorway, pointing at him.

"There he is getting in that black car!"

Paul leapt from the apartment, gun in hand. Christian put the car in reverse and pressed hard on the gas, thrusting the car backwards. A blue Mustang was pulling out right behind him. Christian slammed on the breaks, but it was too late. The Mercedes squealed back and the cars collided.

He was trapped; cars on both sides, another in front and the Mustang behind him.

"What the fuck is your problem?" screamed the driver the Mustang, a linebacker of a man now opening the door.

Christian looked at Paul bearing down on him. With nothing else to do, he pressed his foot on the gas, thrusting the Mercedes backwards and pushing the Mustang out of the way. He put the car in drive, and barely missed crashing into another parked car as he barreled towards the exit.

He hit the street, fishtailed, ran a red light, rounded a corner and a few moments disappeared onto the highway.

As he flew down the highway he kept checking his rearview mirror, expecting to see the Mustang or the cops come up behind him, but they never did.

He drove for about fifteen minutes before a donging noise told him he was nearly out of gas. He pulled off of the highway and into a gas station.

His heartbeat finally returning to normal, he stuck the nozzle in the tank, swiped his credit card, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and walked towards the convenience store.

It had been days since he'd eaten. He hadn't had an appetite in as long, but doing two extractions back to back along with everything else going on took a heavy toll on him.

He needed to try to establish contact with Berlin again as soon as possible. The longer he waited, the harder it would be. To give himself his best chance of doing that, he needed to be calm and able to focus his mind. He needed food, he needed drink; he needed to silence the noise of his body screaming for sustenance so her softer voice could be heard.

He stepped into the store. The clerk, a bespectacled man in his sixties, sat behind the counter.

"Hello sir, how you doing today?" he asked as Christian came in.

Christian didn't answer. He grabbed a bottled water out of the fridge, twisted the top and drank until it was empty.

"Hot out, huh?" said the clerk.

Christian wiped his mouth with his sleeve and grabbed another bottle, twisting off its top.

That pissed the clerk off.

Some customers wanted to chat, some didn't. That was fine. But if they wanted to keep it strictly business they needed to keep it that way on both sides. If they can't be bothered with small talk, they shouldn't take little liberties either. This guy twice ignored his friendly overtures, but had no problem acting like a stone regular when it came to what he wanted.

"You know," the clerk said, "sometimes people pay for the water before they drink it."

Christian pulled the bottle from his mouth. "Sorry, it's just the heat, you know? I could hardly talk, my throat was so dry." Christian felt his lips moving and words leaving his mouth, but it didn't feel like it was him that was talking. It was as if he'd put the part of his brain responsible for polite conversation on autopilot, and the real Christian was collapsed somewhere in the back.

"Heck yeah I know," the clerk said, friends again. "That's why I'm in here with the air blowing."

"Smart man." Christian tossed a microwave burrito into the oven and turned it on.

"Smart ain't got much to do with it. I always know when it's gonna be hot and when it's going to be cold and I plan my day accordingly. And I don't need no sometimes right, sometimes wrong weather man to tell me, neither. Know how I can tell?"

"How?"

The clerk tapped his nose.

"You can smell the weather?"

"No sir, I can't smell a thing. I got that...I forget what they call it now, the thing where your nose is blind?"

"Anosmia?"

"That's it. Anosmia. I can't smell anything. Well, hardly anything. But what I do is, I tap it a couple, two three times every morning as soon as I wake up. If it's a hollow feel that means it's gonna be hot. If it's a heavier feel, you know, like I can feel the tap behind my ear? I know I'm gonna need a jacket."

"The nose knows, huh?"

"That's right. The nose knows."

The microwave beeped. Christian took his food out, the smell of it sharpening his appetite. "I'm going to get another. You mind if I eat this while I wait?"

The clerk looked out the window. "That your car?"

"That's her."

"Well, I guess that's enough collateral."

"Thanks." Christian put in another, unwrapped the first and took a bite.

It was too hot in some places and almost frozen in others but Christian didn't care. He'd eaten in some of the finest restaurants in the world, but right now none of them compared to that $1.39 breakfast burrito.

"Man," the clerk said, still looking at the car, "I bet you have to beat 'em off with a stick, driving a car like that."

"Women like it, sure."

"Sure they do. Women love a nice vehicle. You know, for the longest time in high school I couldn't get the time of day, but that all flip flopped once I got myself a fine piece of transportation. Nothing like yours, but nice."

"What was it? A corvette? You look like a corvette man."

"Naw. A lawn mower."

"A lawn mower?"

"Yeah, you know, the driving kind."

"Drove the ladies crazy, did it?"

"Yes sir, it did. See, I got it when I was about fifteen. Really it was my daddy's, but I'd drive it more than him, mow neighbor's lawns and make extra cash. When it was hot the girls would bring out glasses of lemonade or iced tea. Sometimes they'd sneak and it'd be beer."

The microwave beeped and Christian took his second burrito out.

"This one girl, Georgia, was visiting a friend of hers one day when I was workin' in the yard. She asks me if I can come mow her lawn and I say sure, and she sets up a time.

"I go to her house. She opens up the door and leads me inside, says its hot out and I need a cool drink before going out under that mean old sun. So we're sitting there in the living room, drinking iced tea, not saying nothing and finally she tells me not to get fresh or try anything. I say I won't. She says, 'I mean it, don't try nothing,' and I tell her I won't. She says 'I'm serious, now. Don't you try to kiss me', I tell her I won't.

"So she gets up from where she was and sits right down next to me and tells me again not to try to kiss her. Can you imagine how big her heart must be, putting up with the moron I was back then?"

"Patient woman."

"Yes, she was. Anyway, finally I realize she's telling me what she wants me to do."

Christian bit into the second burrito. "Did she finally get her kiss at least? The poor girl deserves something after all that."

A radiant smile came over his face. "Oh yeah."

Christian smiled. "How much I owe you?"

The clerk rang him up.

Christian paid and a few seconds later was hooking the gas nozzle back on the pump. He was still hungry but at least he didn't feel like he'd faint anymore.

He needed to get home now. Get into the quiet of his own place where he could talk to Berlin again. Hopefully.

The phone rang as soon as he climbed into his car. "Hello?"

"May I speak with Christian Thompson, please?" said the voice on the other end.

"This is Chris Thompson. Who is this?"

"My name is William Gray. I'm a doctor here at Arthur Lewis Hospital."

That was Liz's hospital.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Thompson...I...we need you to come down here as soon as possible."

"What's happening?"

There was a pause. "Mr. Thompson, we'd prefer it if you'd---"

"What is it? Tell me."

The doctor took a deep breath.

"Tell me," Christian said. "Don't you fuck with me. Tell me what's happening. Now."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson." He paused. "Your wife has passed away."

Christian bit his bottom lip and rocked back and forth.

"Mr. Thompson, are you there?"

"That can't be."

"I'm terribly sorry. It is. We did all we could."

"You don't understand. This can't be right."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson."

Christian bit his lip harder. A thin red stream of blood spilled down his chin.

"Mr. Thompson? Are you there?"

"Don't anybody touch her. Nobody. You got that? I'm on my way there. Don't anybody lay a fucking finger on her."

"All right."

"I mean it. I'm holding you personally responsible, and that means a whole fucking lot coming from me. Believe me. Not a finger, or so help me---"

"No one will touch her. You have my word."

Christian slammed the phone on the floor, shattering it.

It wasn't right. It couldn't be. There had to be some mistake. Yes, that was it. It was a mistake. He'd go there and that's what he'd find out. There was a mistake. She was fine. Yes. That was what was going to happen.

Deep down he knew that wasn't true, but he had to believe so for now. There was a mistake. She was okay.

And as long as they didn't touch her, she'd remain okay.

God help them if they touch her, he thought as he twisted the key, and God help anybody who tries to get between him and that hospital.

He looked in his rear view mirror. A car pulled up behind him.

It was a blue Mustang.

## CHAPTER 4

AFRICA

Sahilla yanked Anna into a nearby closet, slamming it shut seconds before the marauders stormed the clinic.

The two women stood in that cramped dark place, gripping each other's hand tight as the building shook with the heavy footsteps of dozens of men trampling in. Sahilla's grip was firm but Anna's hand shook uncontrollably as terror warped her mind. For Anna, the light framing the closet door was no longer from the sun; hell had opened up on the other side, and this was the fatal glow of its guilty flames.

But she couldn't let the panic overwhelm her. If she lost control, if she became delirious and cried out or collapsed, it would not only mean death for her, but for Sahilla as well.

A voice yelled out over the cacophony of endless footsteps. The bustling stopped and now only a single pair of footsteps was heard. They were the heavy footsteps of a man, not a boy, who walked with the long, sure, and unrushed strides of someone used to being in control, someone used to being waited for.

After a few moments those footsteps too stopped and the man to whom they belonged said something in a language Anna did not understand.

Sahilla did understand, and gasped upon hearing his words.

Right after he finished speaking there were more footsteps, very light, as belonging to a barefoot child, running across the floor. When they stopped an old woman screamed a sickly scream that was silenced by a single gunshot.

The commander spoke again, and again his words were quickly followed by another pair of light footsteps running across the floor. Anna closed her eyes and tried to brace herself but was again completely naked when the footsteps were punctuated by a sickly scream silenced by a gunshot.

Anna gritted her teeth in agony.

The commander called out the same incomprehensible words and the scenario played itself out again and again as every boy in this army who had not killed someone already had to take a life or lose their own.

Tears poured down Anna's cheeks.

She realized it was not hell on the other side of that door. It was a place much worse than that. It was a world that had forgotten hell, but remembered and embraced with relish every dark and evil impulse that made hell necessary.

The man yelled out his orders again. There were more footsteps, another scream, another blast.

Anna fought it as best she could but couldn't help it. She bit her lip, and made the slightest ghost of a whimper.

Sahilla's grip got tighter.

Anna was sure she'd doomed them both. She was sure one of the men whose shadows darkened the light beneath the closet door had heard her.

She stared at the shadow but it didn't move.

The commander yelled out his orders once more.

Hours passed. The light framing the door dimmed and then disappeared. The noise from the men dimmed too, but never completely disappeared. When it was low enough, Sahilla said to Anna, "I'm going to look out."

"Okay," Anna whispered.

Very carefully, Sahilla peeked out, looking to the left, and then the right, and then back to Anna. "Let's go."

They stepped lightly over the mess of splintered wood and broken glass, trying not to make a sound as they neared the front door.

Through the back window they saw most of the soldiers were passed out around a bonfire. The padlock to medicine room had been broken and there were hundreds of empty bottles scattered across the floor. That was probably why they hadn't been discovered, Anna thought. They found the dope and were more worried about getting high than conducting a proper search. Medicine meant to help the patients had instead saved the doctor.

They opened the front door. A soldier was there.

He was slumped over, passed out beside Barney's now half-empty bottle of liquor. Unfortunately, he didn't have a gun or a machete for them to take. Anna grabbed the booze instead and the two disappeared into the jungle.

They marched for almost four hours before stopping for the night.

Sahilla scrounged a little food, mostly insects and small lizards, and sparked a fire. Even though she knew how to hide its light and smoke it was dangerous to have a fire going, even for a short time, but they had no choice. They'd already marched for several hours on empty stomachs, and had legions more crafty miles with which to barter before reaching the American embassy. They had to eat. Anna would not be able to stomach such food as she'd find raw, so Sahilla had to take a chance with a fire.

She cooked and when finished scratched the fire out. They ate in the dark and for a little while the dark and quiet were almost soothing.

That soothing feeling ended with an eruption of gunfire in the distance.

Machine gun fire is a terrifying sound anytime, but especially in the jungle, and especially at night. It echoes off the trees, you can't tell where it's coming from or where it's going.

"Was that close?" Anna asked.

"About five miles," Sahilla said. "Back from the way we came."

"Should we start moving again?"

"No."

Anna took a drink from Barney's bottle, promising herself again this would be the last one.

She knew she shouldn't drink at all under these circumstances, but it was either that or go crazy. The things she'd seen that day...she didn't want to think about them, and couldn't think about them if she wanted to keep her sanity long enough to keep her life.

There was more gun fire.

She took a sip and then another sip, feeling a little more together now.

But it wasn't just the booze keeping her together. Really, it was Sahilla. Having her there gave her confidence she might actually make it out of this in one piece.

Sahilla had been through this before, after all.

When she was eleven, 'men' like the ones who'd invaded the clinic raided her village. Sahilla escaped to the jungle but not before they chopped off most of her right arm. She was the only one from her whole village who survived.

Anna tried, but couldn't fathom what it must have taken to live through that. Eleven years old. She'd just lost her family, everyone she knew and most of her arm. She was alone in the jungle, her freshly severed limb scenting the air with blood to let any four legged predators know where an easy meal might be found as she hid from the two legged ones. Sahilla should have been in a hospital, listed in serious condition at best, suffering from massive blood loss, but she wasn't. She was out here, all alone, overcoming everything fate threw at her. And all at age eleven. Christ.

Anna was barely holding it together now, a grown woman, and here Sahilla had not only faced, but triumphed over much worse with much less, and as a child.

Anna lifted the bottle to her mouth, but took it away without drinking.

"How long were you out here?" Anna asked, screwing the lid back on. "When you were a little girl I mean, out here by yourself?"

"I don't know. Many days."

"Weeks?"

"Perhaps."

"Months?"

"Perhaps."

"Were you scared?"

"Yes."

"I would've curled into a ball and died."

Sahilla smiled. "That's why I don't curl into no ball."

"It must have been so hard."

"It was very hard."

"But you did it?"

"Yes."

Anna shook her head. "You have some very big balls, Sahilla."

"What is this? Big balls?"

"It means you're brave. You're strong."

Sahilla leaned back against a tree and closed her eyes. "Lots of people die, Anna. Happen all the time. I know people more brave and strong than me who get killed. My brother. My papa. My mama. They braver and stronger than me but still they die. Lots of people try to get away, most die, but some got to make it. It like the dreams."

"What dreams?"

"Remember when you tell me why it not true dreams tell the future? You say so many people have so many dreams every night, some of them bound to be similar to what happen.

"At first I don't believe you, but I think about it and it do make sense. It's just numbers, nothing else, right? Well, when the men come to kill us, everybody have the same dream then. To live. It got to be for somebody the dream come true, right? Just so happen it was me."

"But---"

"My balls not too big, Anna. My balls just like yours, just like everybody's."

"Respectfully Sahilla, I have to disagree. I..." Anna paused midsentence, grunted like lifting something heavy, leaned to the side and vomited up a mush of semi-digested bugs, worms and lizard.

When she was done she spit, wiped her mouth with her hand and then her hand on the ground.

"All done?" Sahilla asked, stroking her back.

Anna spit and spit again but the bitter taste lingered in her mouth. "Yeah."

Sahilla said something Anna didn't quite hear.

"What?"

"I say it was the liquor that make you sick, not the food."

"Without the liquor I couldn't have eaten the food. I---"

Sahilla's head snapped up. "You must be quiet now," Sahilla whispered. "They are close."

Anna trained her ears on the jungle.

If you listened closely, you could hear it; the sound of leaves rustling, of insects buzzing, of men whispering. Even though she couldn't see anything, Anna looked with unblinking eyes to where the sound was coming from, the brush about ten yards in front of them.

Sahilla grabbed Anna around the waste and pulled her onto her lap. A second later a foot crushed the ground Anna'd just been sitting on.

Anna thought the men were coming from the front when in fact they were approaching from behind. Her ears were young to the jungle and easily deceived.

Anna looked up at their silhouettes as they came out of the night, not even a foot away from her, one after the other, their machine guns and machetes swinging as they walked.

They hadn't seen the women yet and probably wouldn't. It was too dark.

If Sahilla and Anna just stayed still and quiet a little longer they'd be fine. The men would march through on to wherever they were going.

Anna felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach.

Oh no. Please God, not now.

Her stomach muscles tensed. A powerful nausea swept over her.

No. No, no, no.

Her mouth watered, lubricating the path for vomit.

Two more men came out of the jungle.

Anna closed her eyes and willed her stomach to relax but vomit traveled upwards, stomach acids burning her throat as it pooled into her mouth, puffing her cheeks.

If there was no more she could hold it, but if there was even just a drop more it'd spew out, the men would hear, and they'd be dead.

Her stomach quivered and pushed more vomit up. She croaked a loud, ungraceful belch as it came pouring out of her mouth.

## CHAPTER 5

Christian watched as the door to the blue Mustang opened.

A pretty blonde woman, no more than 22 years old, slid out of it.

She looked at Christian's car and then smiled at him as she walked towards the store.

Christian put the car in drive and twenty three minutes later was in Elizabeth's room, standing over her bed.

All the same wires and tubes were connected to her now as had been before and all the same machines were making all the same sounds. The beeping said her heart was beating; the steady hum that her lungs were pumping oxygen into her body.

She was unconscious still, but very much alive.

Christian took a breath; it felt like his first one since getting the call. He licked the dryness from his lips as the door opened and a slightly muscular, very serious looking man in his mid-30's wearing a dark gray suit entered the room.

"Christian Thompson?" the man asked.

Christian had never seen him before. "Who are you?"

"I'm Frank Hall. Detective Frank Hall."

"Detective?"

"That's right. Are you Christian Thompson?"

"Why are you looking for Christian?"

"I'm not. He's looking for me."

"What?"

"I said---"

"Who are you?"

"Detective. Frank. Hall."

"Can I see some I.D.?"

"Sure." He showed Christian his badge and as he tucked it back into his coat pocket asked if he could see some identification as well.

"That won't be necessary," Christian said. "I am Christian Thompson."

"Why don't you let me take a look anyway?"

Christian flipped open his wallet, showing Detective Hall his driver's license.

"Would you take the license out of the plastic, please?"

Christian did and handed it to him.

Detective Hall inspected it, was satisfied, and handed it back. "Thank you."

"What is it you're doing here?" Christian said, sliding it back in its case. "How do you know my name and why did you say I was looking for you?"

Detective Hall furrowed his brow. "Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"I'm here because I got a call about an hour ago telling me to meet you here."

"From who?"

"You."

Christian shook his head. "No. No, you didn't get any call from me."

Detective Hall took his phone out of his pocket, scrolled to the calls received page and showed it to Christian. "Is this your telephone number?"

Christian looked at it. "Yes. That is my home telephone number, but---"

"But you're saying you didn't make that call?"

"I didn't."

"Was there anyone else in your house this morning?"

"No."

"Well, if you were the only one home, who else could have made it?"

"I wasn't at home this morning."

"Where were you?"

Christian considered what an honest answer consisted of. "Nowhere."

"Mr. Thompson," Detective Hall said, sliding his phone into his pocket more deliberately than was necessary, "are you trying to be difficult?"

"No."

"Are you trying to piss me off?"

"No."

"Then why are you giving me these bullshit answers? I'm trying to hold onto my patience here, but the more I get jerked around, the harder that becomes."

"I'm not jerking you around."

"Then answer my questions."

"I don't know anything."

"You don't know where you were this morning?"

Christian took a deep breath. "In my car. Just... driving around."

"All morning?"

"Yes. I couldn't sleep and driving sometimes helps so I went out for a drive."

"You went for a drive to fall asleep?" Detective Hall said, obviously not believing his story. "That's like going for a drive to sober up, not the greatest idea ever, is it?"

"Not to sleep so much as to think. I think better when I drive."

"So you spent the morning driving around and then just decided to come see your wife?"

"No. That's what I've been trying to tell you, I got a call too telling me to come here because my wife was dead."

"What?"

"Yeah," Christian said.

"You got a call telling you your wife was dead and to meet me here?"

"No, they just said my wife had died. They didn't mention you."

"Did they leave a name?"

"They gave one. I don't remember what it was."

"Any idea who it might be?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"The same person who called you."

"Any idea who that was?"

"No."

"Mr. Thompson, I want you to know how important this is. The person I spoke to gave me very specific details about a case I'm working. A homicide case, with multiple victims including some very young children. They told me things only a person with guilty knowledge would have. If you know anything, if you're holding something back or are playing some kind of game---"

"I'm not playing any game. I have no idea what's happening. I swear. I wish I could help you. I can't."

Detective Hall walked halfway across the room, folded his arms, thought for a few moments and turned around. "Maybe you can."

"How?"

"You said no one was supposed to be at your place?"

"That's right."

"Let's take a ride over there."

"Why?"

"I want to have a look inside. If what I think is happening is happening, it might answer a lot of questions."

Christian tossed him his keys. "You go. It's the third one on the left. The code is---"

"Sorry," he tossed the keys back. "I need you too."

"What for?"

"Frankly, there is no way I'm letting you out of my sight until I know more about what's happening."

"Well, I'm not going," Christian said. "If someone is playing games, making threats about my wife being dead, especially if they're involved in multiple homicides, I want to be here. The call I got came from this hospital. I'm not going to leave her alone."

"I'll station a guard on her door. No one gets in except for you, her doctors and nurses. I promise she'll be safe. Good enough?"

"No."

"It's going to have to be. You are coming with me or I'm placing you under arrest."

"For what?"

"What you said to me on the phone was tantamount to a confession."

"I told you I didn't make that call."

"That's what you say now. The fact is the person who I spoke with identified himself as Christian Thompson, and the call came from your house and what was said during that call was more than enough for an arrest. Now, you're telling me it wasn't you. I am, or was, on the verge of believing you and that's the only reason you're not in irons right now. But if you think I'm going to let you out of my sight for a second, you're crazy. So what's it going to be, you going to jail or are you going home?"

Christian shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense."

"I agree."

"You'll put someone on her door?"

"No one gets in or out."

"Fine," Christian said. "Let's go."

Detective Hall called for a uniformed officer to watch Elizabeth's door. She soon arrived and the two men left.

As they walked to the cruiser, Christian tried to figure out what was going on, who had made those calls and why.

Somebody wanted them to meet but who, and why?

Christian was still wondering this as they reached the cruiser and a large, imposing looking uniformed officer got out of the driver's seat.

"Christian Thompson," said Detective Hall. "Meet Officer Warren Waugh."

"Hello," Christian said.

Officer Waugh said, "Would you turn around, please?"

"Why?"

Detective Hall said, "We need to pat you down."

Officer Waugh grabbed Christian's shoulder.

Christian swatted him off. "Keep your hands off me."

"Or what?"

"Waugh, calm down," Detective Hall said. "Christian, we have to do this."

"Am I under arrest?"

"No, but that can change very easily. Either you let us do a pat down and you get in the car a free man, or we slap some cuffs on you and do the pat down anyway. Either way, you're getting in that backseat and we're making sure you don't have a weapon on you before you do."

Christian shook his head and put his hands on the cruiser.

Officer Waugh grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head on the hood of the car.

Christian slumped onto the hard cement floor, knocked out cold.

Detective Hall looked at Officer Waugh and shook his head. "God, you are a fucking moron. Cuff him and put him in the back seat."

## CHAPTER 6

Long before Christian learned about his peculiar talent, back when he was just a regular old college freshman, he took a creative writing class as an elective, figuring he'd get an easy A. He got the easy A, but he also got something else.

A new passion.

He discovered he enjoyed writing fiction, and kept at it even when the class was over and there was no promise of an easy grade or anything else. He completed his first novel by the summer of his junior year, thought it was good enough to be published and started quarrying agents.

Thirty two never responded. Three liked it but said it wasn't for them. One liked it and wanted to represent him. She signed him, shopped it around, and six months before graduation Christian Thompson signed a book deal.

The book was an instant runaway sensation, breaking sales records all over the world. Christian made a ton of money, hobnobbed with the bright and beautiful people who occupy that so very sweet spot of public life reserved for writers where the worlds of celebrity and the intelligentsia meet. He indulged in some luxuries- beautiful homes, expensive cars, et cetera- but devoted the majority of his earnings to charity and financing the arts.

It was an amazing experience. The people he'd long admired now admired him; he traveled to amazing places, met amazing people, and immersed himself in the tender affections of the most gorgeous, compassionate, and brilliant women in the world. He led a life of adventure and romance, but also of consequence, meaning and service to others.

At least, that's what he was expecting.

And if his book didn't sink like a stone when it hit the stores, perhaps it would have.

But it did sink like a stone. So, sadly, all those brilliant and compassionate women would have to find comfort in someone else's arms; those Aston Martin's other drivers, artists other sponsors and charities other donors because Christian Thompson was penniless and without prospects.

His agency dropped him in the most unceremonious way possible. They just stopped returning his calls and left it up to him to get the picture. Or not.

He found himself having suddenly arrived in the real world and needing a job, food, a place to stay. He had a degree in philosophy, which, it turned out, was as useful as its stereotype indicated.

He'd also graduated in the midst of a recession that was one of the worst in history. All the big time economists talked about how bad it was likely going to be for years.

Christian wondered why these geniuses didn't use their powers of prediction _before_ the crash to try to prevent it. He did some research and discovered that lots of them actually had, it's just nobody cared to listen back then.

Nobody cared to listen then, and they didn't care to hire now. Or retire. Or quit. People lucky enough to have a job held on with both hands. Those who didn't? There wasn't much for them to do but suffer.

He spent a few nights in the types of hotels where if you have any prudence at all you bring a sleeping bag and sleep on floor rather than the bed. A few other nights found him sleeping on park benches or in train stations.

After a few weeks of pounding the pavement Christian became one of the lucky ones. He landed a job washing dishes, eventually working his way up to waiter.

The work was hard, the hours long and the tips horrible, but it was money. He supplemented his income working as a substitute teacher when he could, but money remained tight.

He knew he couldn't keep on that way. After researching his options he decided to pursue financial planning as a career.

Nobody was hiring, but financial planning jobs were entrepreneurial. The companies didn't hire you; you became an independent agent, amassed your own client base and collected a commission. All you had to do was pass some tests, get the licenses and then it was up to you.

Christian knew he was smart enough to make a go of it, and with his current situation of basically being naked before the void, he was about as motivated as a person could be.

The problem was that to take the tests you had to enroll in expensive classes and buy expensive books he simply could not afford. So, he 'borrowed' the necessary books and studied on his own until he knew the material perfectly.

He was ready now to take the tests, but they were expensive as well.

He spent a week being depressed, did some thinking, cut a few corners, and figured a way to 'pay' for the tests. He took them and passed with flying colors. The person he took them for thanked him, paid him, and Christian used that money to take them all over again, this time for himself. He passed again, celebrated with a Snickers bar he could ill afford, and started cold calling.

And it was cold out there. Very, very cold.

Sometimes he'd spend ten or twelve hours knocking on doors with nothing to show for it other than aching feet and bruised knuckles. At night he'd droop home to an empty room and flop down on the pile of blankets serving as his bed. Exhausted but unable to sleep, he'd just lay there, fully clothed for hours, hungry, not knowing how he'd pay his rent or where his next meal was coming from.

Some nights he wondered if this really was just a rough patch, or if he in fact was the gargantuan loser he felt like. That he was intelligent and educated only made it worse. Even with those tools he hadn't made anything of himself.

Was this how life would be forever and ever?

When he got like that, he'd often count his blessings.

He could see. There were people who were blind. He could walk. There were people who couldn't. He was alive. The vast majority of people were dead and a good portion of those alive were in some stage of dying. He even counted counting his blessings as a countable blessing. Lots of people don't count them, thinking it trite. He knew the things he said to himself mattered more than almost anything else.

But some nights he just didn't have the strength. Some nights he'd just roll over on his back and close his eyes. If his dark thoughts needed to have their little moment, it was easier to just let them. In the morning they'd be gone.

Usually.

One thing that was definitely gone, and had been for a long time before he even noticed, was his passion for writing. He never made any conscious decision to stop. One day he just realized that months had passed without him writing anything.

It was funny.

He'd thought he was in love with it, but didn't even notice it was gone. It was as if he'd woken up one day and realized his girlfriend (if he had one) that he once thought he was madly in love with had not only moved out, but had been gone for months and he only just now noticed. And now that he did notice, didn't mind she was gone one bit.

The one thing he would have missed about writing was the interesting characters he'd come across as a story progressed. He never really got a chance to miss that, however, because as the months passed and business picked up a (very) little, some of the characters his job brought him in contact with were far more interesting than any he could ever invent.

The most obvious example, of course, was Raymond Cole.

Christian had been cold calling for almost a year when he got the call from Raymond's office requesting one of the free consultations he offered on his website.

Christian arrived at the address the morning of the scheduled meeting, and was immediately pissed off. "What the fuck?"

Someone was playing a joke.

Christian's top client was a small business owner who had three employees, counting himself.

The building that greeted him that morning was one of the largest in the city. Its cheapest office cost more than Christian was likely to make in the next decade.

It cost Christian two bus tokens to get there. Add that to the three bucks and change he'd spent having his suit dry cleaned and you were at almost eight dollars.

Eight dollars was a hell of a lot of money to Christian and he couldn't afford to just throw it away on somebody's stupid prank.

He almost just left without going in, but decided to give it a shot. He walked through the large glass doors and into the spacious lobby, went to the guard and told him his name, expecting to be summarily kicked out.

The guard leafed through his list and said, "Christian Thompson? You're here for Mr. Cole?"

"Yes."

"You can right go up."

Surprised but hiding it well, Christian stepped on the elevator and the doors closed. When they opened again he was on another floor and a plump, pleasant looking woman in her early fifties greeted him.

"Hello Mr. Thompson," she said.

"Hello."

"My name is Francesca, I'm Mr. Cole's assistant."

"Nice to meet you."

"And you as well. Would you follow me, please? Mr. Cole's office is right this way."

Christian stepped off the elevator, marveling at the beauty of the suite as he followed Francesca.

There was a Picasso on the wall. Christian didn't think it was a fake.

A Picasso. In the hallway. Not in the office. In the hallway.

That was impressive, but it also begged the question. If you could afford to hang works by one Pablo Diego Jose Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno Maria de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santisma Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso (Christian once had a crush on an art history major and memorized Picasso's entire name attempting to impress her) in the hallway, how on Earth did you even know who Christian Thompson was?

He followed Francesca through twin doors into her anteroom and led him to the door on the far left side of the room, opening it for him. "You can go right in."

Christian stepped into the gigantic space Mr. Raymond Coles called his office.

Behind a beautiful mahogany desk stood an older, tastefully dressed gentleman smiling warmly. "Christian?"

"Yes."

"My name is Raymond Cole," he said, coming from behind the desk to shake his hand. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

"Likewise," Christian said as they shook hands.

"Please, let's have a seat."

They sat.

"I hope you don't mind my saying, Mr. Cole, I am impressed."

"Raymond, please. And may I call you Christian?"

"Please."

"Thank you. Now then Christian, what is it you find so impressive?"

Christian looked around the office. "Everything."

"Well, thank you. This stuff doesn't do anything else, I suppose it might as well impress."

"That it does, sir."

"Raymond."

"Raymond. And again, if you don't mind my asking, Raymond, I was curious how you'd heard of me?"

"You seem surprised."

"I am."

"Why?"

"Well, most of my accounts have been with clients of... cozier proportions."

"Cozier proportions. I like that."

"I deal mostly with families, small businesses."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Yes."

Raymond smiled. "Please Christian. Relax. Don't say 'yes' when you mean 'yeah'. Business, like life, goes so much smoother when we dispense with useless formalities and say exactly what we mean.

"But, unsolicited advice aside and to answer your question as to how I've heard of you, I actually haven't. I've read of you. Or, to be more accurate," he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out Christian's novel, "I've read you."

"You read my book?"

"Indeed I did."

"So, you were the one?"

"Indeed I was. When I went online to look for more of your work all the search engines came up with was stuff about financial planning. I wondered if Christian Thompson the writer and Christian Thompson the financial planner were, in fact, one and the same."

"They are."

"So they are. What are you working on now, book-wise?"

"Nothing."

"Taking a break?"

"Making a break; a clean one, hopefully."

"Meaning you don't write anymore?"

"I do not."

"Forever?"

Christian nodded.

"The world of financial planning seems that much more exciting?"

"That much less exciting," Christian said. "That's what got me excited about it as a career. How exciting it wasn't and how stable it was."

"How long have you been at it?"

Christian told him.

"You're new," Raymond said.

"I am."

"Your competitors will use that against you. Don't let them. This early on, mistakes are unavoidable. Necessary, even. Desirable. Learn from them. Don't let someone else use them to overwhelm you."

"That's good advice, sir. Raymond."

"Take your website, for example. As soon as I opened it I saw a glaring error. May I tell you what it was?"

"Please do."

"You promise free consultations. Awful idea. It makes you look desperate for clients and you never want to look desperate, especially if you are. As it stands now, you're not only broadcasting your desperation, but telling potential clients your skill as a consultant is worthless."

"How?"

"It's like the man once said. If you're good at something, never do it for free."

"Did he charge you for that advice?"

"No."

"He must not have been very good at giving advice then."

The kind smile lingering on Raymond's face disappeared.

Christian felt himself sinking in the chair. Christ. He wondered if he'd just foot-in-mouthed himself right out of a career-making account. Being a smart ass really came too easily.

"Perhaps," Raymond said, "or maybe he just wasn't very adept at taking his own."

"Very true." Christian tried to think of how most quickly to bring the conversation back to something positive. "So, you liked my book?"

"'Like' wouldn't be the word I'd use to describe my feelings towards your literary efforts."

"What then? Loved?"

"More like 'was appalled by.' After reading it, I regarded that whoever wrote this should stop immediately and never again darken page with author's shadow. I thought...but where are my manners? Can I offer you some coffee? My secretary makes the most amazing cup."

"Sure."

Raymond pressed a button and spoke into the intercom. "Francesca? Would you be a dear and bring in two cups of your special blend for myself and Mr. Thompson?"

"Coming right up, Mr. Cole."

"Thank you so much."

He released the button. "This coffee is unbelievable. Wait until you taste it. I've been trying for years to get her to tell me where she gets it, but the woman is a steel trap. She won't even tell me the name. Whenever I ask her, she says its name is Job Security."

Francesca entered with a tray of coffee, served them, and returned to her desk.

"After you," Raymond said.

Christian took a sip and then sipped it again. "Wow."

"Tasty, right?"

He drank some more. "This is delicious. You have this every morning?"

"Alas, only business days. Francesca has her nephew on the weekends. She won't give me any to take home, either. You know, I've actually considered hiring a private investigator to follow her and find out where she gets it? The trouble is I depend on her so much I doubt I could find or hire one without her help, which would defeat the purpose.

"But, I digress. We were discussing my reaction to your book. Understand, when I said I was appalled, that was not a response to your talents as a writer. Your prose was very good."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. However, what I found appalling was...I began my business life as a literary agent. Back then, you were exactly what I was looking for, an author with something to say who could say it well. And indeed I found you. Several times.

"And as with you, their books were failures. Unlike you, however, they kept writing, and kept failing. Most became drunks, drug addicts, malcontents angry at the world and not entirely without reason.

"If you kept chasing that dream, I have no doubt that you'd wind up like them. It's just the nature of the beast that is the natural predator of that kind of writer. The beast chews him up and spits him out and the poor soul comes back again and again expecting it to be different. That was what I found so appalling, the future I was sure was awaiting you. And here you have escaped the clutches of the beast.

"I'm happy for you but, I must say, a bit sad for myself. I won't get to read any more of your works and it's rare to find an author of such intelligence and imagination."

Christian smiled.

"Why are you smiling?" asked Raymond.

"Nothing, it's just that it's been so long since anyone complimented anything I'd written I'd almost forgotten how good it feels."

"That wasn't a compliment, actually. In the publishing world intelligence and imagination are referred to as The Two Great Devils, and are viewed as existential and mortal foes to be vanquished. The entire industry exists in a state of perpetual war against them, and has since the very dawn of man."

"That's pretty bleak."

"And sadly, very true." Raymond sipped his coffee. "It's also true that if you continued as a writer, your future would have been bleak as well. That you could forbear tells me much about you. May I share my impressions?"

"Please."

"You're pragmatic."

Christian waited.

"That was a compliment," Raymond said.

"Then thank you."

"You're welcome. And speaking for myself now, I do compliment your intelligence and imagination as well. They are characteristics worthy of being complimented, especially when connected to pragmatism. Imagination gives you the power to see and believe in things most others simply cannot; pragmatism gives you the power to face the unpleasant and even heartbreaking realities most people do not. Intelligence helps you distinguish the times when either is appropriate. Bravo, Christian. Not many people have any of those attributes, let alone all of them." Raymond adjusted himself in the chair. "I would like to tell you what else I think about you, Christian.

"I don't believe it was the failure of your book that made you stop writing. You are intelligent, and therefore you know that it happens all the time that eventually successful authors fail initially. I think you stopped because of something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Raymond said, "I was hoping you'd tell me."

"One day I just stopped. I didn't miss it, so I didn't go back to it."

"I don't think that's it either."

"If it's not that, then I really couldn't tell you why."

"Well how about 'what' then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Tell me the story, Christian. What happened? How did you realize it was not to be?"

"There isn't much of a story. It's like I said; one day I realized I hadn't done it in a long time, didn't miss it and had no desire to do it ever again."

"And you truly believe that?"

"What?"

"That you are truly finished with writing forever?"

"Yes."

"Well. It appears your powers of belief extend further than I imagined."

"Is that a compliment?"

"I'm not sure yet. You did enjoy writing, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why not give it another shot? Why not write something more commercial, make some money, and once your coffers were filled, get back to writing something you love?"

"I never thought about that."

"Indulge a fan. Think about it now."

"Well, if it's just going to be a job, why not just get a job?"

"One whose prospects of success are not quite as slender as those of fiction writing? After all, even if you are willing to compromise, the odds for success are bashful. And without the passion it's not worth it. You won't get the joy of composition, and more than likely none of the benefits of publication, so why bother?"

"I didn't."

"No, you didn't. Again, pragmatism."

"But, I wouldn't do that anyway. Write something I didn't believe in just to make some money. No, I'd rather just do something else."

"So, to intelligence, imagination and pragmatism we now add integrity. All rare qualities, made rarer still in belonging to one man."

"Thank you."

"Not a compliment," Raymond said. "I am hoping it was something much, much more."

"Like what?"

"Accurate. I hope those words accurately describe you, Christian Thompson, because they are the qualities necessary to perform a very important task. A job has come up. I would like to offer it to you. Are you interested?"

"In working for you?"

"Yes."

Christian's mind exploded with the word 'yes'. Every inch of his being screamed out: 'Take the job! Whatever it is, take it! Take it! Take it! Take it!'

But, he remembered what Raymond said about not looking desperate, especially if you were. So, very coolly, Christian sipped his coffee, placed the cup on the saucer and leaned back in his seat. "My duties keep me quite busy at the moment."

"Oh."

"But, just out of curiosity, what exactly would the job entail?"

"Observing."

"Observing what?"

"That, I can't tell you. I'm sorry. I need fresh eyes for this. If I tell you, it may color your first impression, and it's your initial, gut reaction I am most interested in."

"Intriguing." Christian thought of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he'd been surviving on for the last three days, and wondered if he was overplaying his don't-look-desperate hand. "Perhaps I could find time. I'd have to move a few things around."

"If it isn't too much trouble."

"But I do need to know more before I can say yes or no. It's just the way I do business, I don't make uninformed decisions."

"All I can tell you," said Raymond, "is that if you agree, the work begins immediately. Right now. It will require no great effort on your part. All you have to do is look at something and tell me what you think. The only other thing I'm prepared to discuss at this time is compensation. Payment."

"What kind of compensation did you have in mind?"

"It will be one day's work. This afternoon and perhaps part of the evening. For your services, I will pay you twenty five thousand dollars."

Christian sat in silence, not moving, not even breathing.

"Christian? Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," Christian said, "I don't think I heard you. I thought you said twenty five thousand dollars."

"I did."

"..."

"Christian?"

Christian slumped out of the chair onto Raymond's hardwood floor, passed out.

"Dear Lord," shouted Raymond, "Francesca!"

Christian came to with Raymond and Francesca helping him back in his chair. He looked at them dumbly, not sure yet of who they were.

"Christian," Raymond said, "Can you hear me?"

"My God, should we call the doctor?" asked Francesca.

"He'll be fine," Raymond said, steadying him on the chair, "Christian?"

Christian looked at Raymond.

"Do you know where you are?" asked Raymond.

"Yeah," Christian said, still dazed.

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm right here. I'm talking to you."

"And who am I?"

"You're some rich...you're some rich nut."

Raymond smiled.

Christian shook his head. "Wait a minute, I didn't... I didn't mean---."

"It's quite all right."

"No," Christian said, his voice a bit slurred, "it's not all right. I didn't mean to insult...I didn't mean to insult you before you paid me all that money, sir. I promise."

Raymond nodded. "Quite understandable."

Christian shook his head again. "Wait a minute, that didn't come out right. I---"

"Why don't we give it a few minutes before you try again?" Raymond asked.

Christian nodded. "That's probably a good idea."

"Francesca, some water please."

She went out and returned with a glass of water.

"Thanks," Christian said taking a sip.

It was very cold, and just what he needed.

"Could I get you anything else?" She asked. "Perhaps a wet towel?"

"Thank you," Christian said, "I'm fine now. Really."

"That'll be all for now," said Raymond. "Thank you so much, Francesca."

"You're welcome," she said, and returned to her desk.

Christian now stable in his seat, Raymond returned to his. "You are sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. I...wow...I never fainted before."

"Well, you're a natural. Why do you think it happened?"

"I don't know."

"Really?"

"No. I do know. I wasn't expecting you to offer that much money."

"I wasn't expecting it to knock you out of your chair."

"No, I guess you weren't."

"But you still haven't answered," Raymond said, "will you take the job?"

"Yes."

"You don't need to hear more to make your informed decision."

"I think I have all the information I need."

Raymond smiled and pressed the button for the intercom.

"Francesca? Would you have the Jaguar in front of the building in five minutes, please? Mr. Thompson and I are going to be stepping out."

"Yes, Mr. Cole."

Seven minutes later, Christian and Raymond were in front of the building, climbing into a black Jaguar.

Raymond got behind the wheel and Christian in the passenger seat. After a 25 minute drive they pulled over in front of a rundown house in a rundown section of the city.

Raymond turned to Christian. "We're here."

Christian looked out at the dilapidated buildings and scary looking people peering at the expensive automobile and its occupants.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you?" asked Raymond.

"No."

They got out. Christian followed Raymond to the front door of a barely standing house. Raymond knocked and a fiftyish black man with yellowing eyes and white strands of hair striping his dreadlocks answered.

"Hello, Moses," Raymond said.

Moses looked at Christian and asked, "Who is he?" in his thick Haitian accent.

"This is Christian," Raymond said. "He's going watch."

Moses shook his head. "He cannot be here."

"I think he can."

"He cannot."

"He will. That's final."

Moses turned to Christian. "I was you, I'd leave now. When they come, if they see you, it won't be no good for you."

"Another word and he will leave," Raymond said, "I will leave with him, and my money will leave with me. Do I make myself clear?" Raymond held an envelope full of hundred dollar bills out to Moses. "Take us, or leave it. What's it going to be?"

Moses snatched the envelope. "Follow me."

They passed through a hallway, down rotted wooden steps into a foul smelling basement with a sunken ceiling and windows coated in a skin of black paint sheathing out the sun. The only light came from the dozen or so candles casting their wavering shadows onto the wall. In the corner of the basement was a dirty old mattress.

"Now we begin," Moses said.

"Not yet," Raymond said, "give me a second to talk to my man."

"Okay," Moses said, and busied himself with something on the other side of the room.

Raymond turned to Christian. "I won't keep you in suspense any longer. You want to know what what's going on. What's going on is I am dying."

"What?"

"I am dying. The doctors say nothing can be done. Much of the reason I am in my current predicament is because I didn't listen to what my doctors told me over the years. The irony is if they're correct, there is no point in starting now. So, I'm not.

"I want to live, Christian. Reputable doctors aren't selling that in my size at the moment, so I'm shopping elsewhere. I'm exploring alternative medicines. It's insane, I know, but I have to try. I also know I am desperate. I therefore know I can't trust my eyes because desperation may make me see a cure that hasn't really happened. That's why I need your eyes, your pragmatic, open minded, intelligent and integrity laden eyes to watch for me and tell me what you see.

"I can't use family or friends because I haven't told them how sick I am. The plan is to never have to. I know it's crazy, I know there probably isn't any hope for me but I have to try. If I get nothing more out of this than giving part of my fortune to you rather than to the vultures in my family who've been salivating over it for decades, then so be it. Maybe it'll be enough that you have time to write again. Maybe you'll even write about this. But, in any event, all you have to do is watch the proceedings, have an open mind, and be honest about what you see. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Christian." Raymond turned to Moses. "Okay, Moses. I am ready."

"Come," said Moses. "Remove your shirt. Lay down on the mattress."

Raymond obeyed.

"Now close your eyes."

Raymond closed his eyes. Moses pulled a long, shiny dagger from beneath his shirt and held it over Raymond's chest.

"What are you doing?" Christian said.

"I was you, I don't talk no more," Moses said, his back to Christian, "if you keep quiet, if you keep still, maybe they don't know you here, that's your only hope they leave you alone." He laid the knife flat across Raymond's chest. "Your friend has a bad spirit inside him. Make him sick. It sneaky, know how to hide. That why the doctors can't get it out."

The blade quivered.

"See? Bad spirits don't like metal. When they feel it, they have to push it away. To do that they have to swim to the top, and when it do, I can grab it."

The dagger flew across the room, burying itself in the wall as Moses' hand sank beneath Raymond's skin.

Raymond's eyes stretched wide; his face turned bright red and veins protruded as Moses moved his hand around beneath his skin.

Christian stood by shocked as Moses pulled out a bloody handful of steaming, stinking innards as Raymond's skin sealed itself shut.

Moses tossed the guts into a garbage can. "Rise, my friend. The bad spirits don't bother you no more."

Raymond pushed himself up, out of breath, drenched in sweat. He used the roll of paper towels and bowl of water by the bed to clean himself. When he was finished he put his shirt back on, turned to Christian and said, "You look like you could use a drink."

The bar was a block and a half away from Moses' place.

It was mostly empty when Christian and Moses stepped in; just a few regulars nursing their drinks, between cigarettes.

Christian and Raymond sat at the bar. Raymond ordered a ginger ale on the rocks, Christian a whiskey neat.

"Well?" said Raymond as the bartender poured.

Christian was still dumbstruck. "What?"

"I'm paying a considerable sum of money for your observations. Observe."

The bartender slid the drinks in front of them.

Christian took a sip and gave it a minute to burn. "To tell you the truth I don't know what to think. I've heard about that stuff, I always thought it was bullshit."

"Now you're not so sure?"

"No."

"So it is your opinion that what you observed was the real thing?"

Christian nodded.

Raymond smiled and lifted his ginger ale. "It is amazing, isn't it?"

"I still can't believe it."

"Actually, the exact opposite is true."

"What"

"You said you can't believe it." Raymond shook his head. "The truth is that you can't _not_ believe it."

"What are you talking about?"

"That charade we just witnessed."

"You don't think it was real?"

"Did a man stick his hand inside of me and pull out a demon in the form of diseased innards? Of course not."

"But I saw---"

"Aren't there more rational conclusions? For example, sleight of hand or bullshit, as you called it?"

It was true, there were more rational explanations, but for Christian, right then, they weren't true. What he saw was real. Even though he knew it was impossible, even though he knew that he should think it was all bullshit, he believed it.

"Do you know what a telepath is, Christian?" asked Raymond.

"Yes."

"Have you ever met one?"

"No."

"Now you have."

"Moses is a telepath?"

"Yes. Of a very low order, not even aware of it himself. He just thinks he's an exceptional charlatan. He broadcasts, for lack of a better term, a frequency that creates in the receiver a mental state similar to hypnosis, allowing for a greater suspension of disbelief. That's why you remain convinced now, even in the face of reason. But don't worry. The effects will wear off in time and you'll accept how impossible it all was."

Christian laughed.

"What's funny?" asked Raymond.

"Come on. Telepathy?"

"That's right."

Christian shook his head. "There is no such thing as telepathy."

"But there is such a thing as a man who can stick his hand inside another man and pull out flesh diseased by bad spirits? Moses is what I said he was, and I can prove it to you. Your own belief is my evidence. You still believe what you saw back there was real, don't you? Even though you know it couldn't have been."

It was true.

He still believed it and, try as he might, couldn't make himself not believe it.

Christian didn't know how to react so he got angry. "Fuck you."

"Calm down, Christian. There is a point to all this."

"What point?"

"To do for you in fact what Moses did for me for pretend; to grab something buried deep inside you and bring it out."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know precisely what I'm talking about. You've felt it your entire life, haven't you?"

"Felt what?"

"Sad, desperate, alone. Like things would never get better, no matter how hard you tried. Like you were missing out on you, the real you, because something very important was missing from your life.

"You've always felt trapped inside yourself, haven't you? Like you were in a perpetual state of drowning but for some cruel reason just couldn't die. You couldn't die, but neither could you get out of the water. Sometimes it feels like you are not real at all, doesn't it? Like the world is real but you yourself are somehow not truly in it, or shouldn't be. Some of the others have described it as feeling like they have amnesia, only without forgetting anything, of being a ghost in their own lives, like they are there, but not really there."

"What others? What are you talking about?"

"They say it feels like no matter what they do or how hard they try, they will remain trapped forever, like some great and insurmountable force is holding them back from themselves. Sometimes they try to blame outside things; a cruel God, a bad childhood, a cold world, but they all know the problem is within them, and many think therefore the problem is them. But they are wrong. They are not the problem. The problem is that they are not yet themselves, their true and full selves. Sound familiar, Christian?"

"No."

"Most withdraw from the world. Seek refuge in self destruction. Most who reach your age without having been helped are now beyond help. It's too dangerous for us to approach them because they are simply too unstable. It's not too late for you, Christian. All that pain and fear you feel can be taken away. Forever. Today. All you have to do is ask. Ask for help, Christian. Ask, and it will be given."

Christian lowered his head. "I don't know what---"

"There was a time, wasn't there, Christian? Perhaps in early childhood, you did something or saw something or made something happen? You didn't understand it completely but you knew it meant you were not like other people, and it frightened you, didn't it? Since then you've convinced yourself it was a dream or a child's fantasy, but deep down, deep deep down, you know the truth."

"Look. You wanted me to look at something and tell you what I thought. I looked and I told. Now, pay me so I can get the hell out of here."

"Christian---"

"I want my money. Or was that bullshit too?"

"You will have every penny of it. I promise. But know that you can have so much more. All the answers you've been looking for, and running from, your entire life are waiting for you. I can take you to them if you let me. You are a very special person, Christian. You have a truly remarkable power. You can have your life; for the first time in your life you can have your life. I can help you get it. All you have to do is ask."

Raymond had done this countless times, and knew what was coming next.

The scariest moment in a dark room is just before you turn on the light. Christian lived most of his life in the dark. It was all he knew, and it was therefore only natural he be afraid of losing it. It was only natural that he, like most of the others, curse Raymond and run away.

But it didn't matter.

Once they knew where the light switch was it was only a matter of time before they flipped it.

"What's it going to be, Christian?"

Christian pushed off the stool and left.

Two days later, he received a twenty five thousand dollar check in the mail. Also inside the envelope was an open pass to a private air field and a note saying that when he was ready there was a plane waiting.

Christian ripped up the note and the check and the pass, flushed them down the toilet, and wished it really was just that easy.

## CHAPTER 7

Anna's stomach muscles flexed, sending a stream of vomit out of her mouth onto the jungle floor.

At the very same moment, one of the men slipped and fell on Anna's first vomit deposit. His comrades laughed as he cursed under his breath, pushing himself to his feet and continuing on and disappearing with the rest on them into the jungle.

Sahilla and Anna didn't move or speak for the rest of the night.

Anna woke up the next morning to Sahilla nudging her.

She blinked her eyes open. Long shafts of sunlight cut by leaves and branches into thin, asymmetrical columns framed Sahilla's face.

"Time to go." Sahilla said.

Anna nodded; Sahilla helped her to her feet. As she wiped the grass and leaves from her clothes, Anna marveled at having fallen to sleep at all.

She put her hands just over her butt and arched her back in a head lightening yawned.

"Any idea what time it is?" Anna asked.

"Morning time."

"I know that; I'm wondering how early?"

"Why? You going to ask for ten more minutes?" Sahilla smiled.

"No, I'm just thinking that the earlier it is the better, right? The soldiers are probably still sleep if it's early."

Sahilla's face suddenly got very serious; worried. "Anna, you mustn't think like that. Thinking like that be what get you killed."

"Thinking like what?"

"Like what you just say. I'm sorry. I don't know how to say it better. Just, thinking that way. Thinking the morning must be safe 'cause soldiers must be sleeping then. Somebody who say something like that...they not thinking the right way for this. They thinking exactly the wrong way. I'm sorry, I don't know how to say it better, but..." Sahilla shook her head. "Just don't think like that, Anna. Don't let them thoughts in your head. And if they come you make them go. Okay?"

Anna didn't understand what Sahilla was saying, but then again, she did. She couldn't put it in to words either, but could feel the gravity of its truth.

"Okay?" Sahilla asked again. "Promise you won't?"

"Okay," Anna said. "I won't." She looked at Sahilla's dress. There was a vomit stain on it. "Oh, Sahilla," Anna said, "my God, I am so sorry."

Sahilla looked at the stain. "It's okay. There is a river about a mile away. We have to go there anyway to drink. I clean there."

"Is it safe to go there?"

"No," Sahilla said.

And in that regard, it was no different than any other place in that land. Including the very spot where they were standing.

Anna was worried the soldiers might be at the river, but soldiers weren't their only threat, or even their biggest one.

Above them was the sun and its scorching heat, the clouds and the rain they might carry. Below them was the unforgiving and treacherous terrain they walked on, the deadly things that grew from it and the hungry things that slithered or walked upon it. Surrounding them was the air that may carry pathogens and mosquitoes and other insects that may carry diseases along with their own poisons and venom. Inside them were all the needs of a human body and frailties and failings of the human mind. All of those things and much more besides had to be taken into account because they all could kill.

You had to balance your terrors to give yourself the best chance of survival. If you put all your fear in one place, it was as deadly as putting it in no place at all.

There might be soldiers at the river, sure, but there was definitely a sun in the sky, and it would definitely kill them if they attempted a day's forced march in its heat without water.

"Okay," Anna said. "Let's go."

They reached the edge of the jungle and saw the river a few hundred yards outside of the brush. After peering out from the safety of the concealing leaves and finding no soldiers, Sahilla stepped out of the trees and shadows into the sunlit grassy expanse and walked towards the river, grabbing the bottom of her purple dress, lifting it over her head and carrying it, naked to the water.

Anna followed, pouring the liquor from the bottle as she walked so she could fill it with water.

God only knew what kind of microbes were in that river. No matter how safe Sahilla said it was, she wouldn't drink or let Sahilla drink any before she purified it. She'd use her wifebeater as a filter and then boil it in the liquor bottle. It might take a while but the last thing either of them could afford was to get sick out there, especially with the dehydration causing diarrhea they'd almost certainly get from drinking that water without purifying it first.

Sahilla waded knee deep into the river, scooping up handfuls of water and pouring it onto the dress.

"Let me," Anna said, removing her boots and socks. "It's my mess. I should clean it up."

"Don't worry."

Anna rolled up her pant legs and walked through the high grass surrounding the river into the water.

"Please," Anna said. "Let me."

Sahilla gave her the dress.

Soldiers came out of the jungle.

Anna and Sahilla threw themselves onto the ground just behind the tall grass.

They were terrified the soldiers would come right for the water, but they didn't. They sat down in the shade of a tree and seemed to be taking a break.

The soldier's drug of choice was a substance known as a Ca stick. Ca sticks were mostly marijuana and tobacco mixed with sprinklings of cocaine or heroin. But what gave them that extra zing was its inclusion of a substance commonly referred to in the United States as 'bath salts', a synthetic drug whose users have been known to enter a delirium so profound they become like zombies; they've been known to lose the power of speech, to shrug off bullets and engage in ultraviolent behavior, up to and including feasting on other living human beings.

This was what most of the soldiers were about to smoke as they sat beneath the tree.

One put his Ca stick in his mouth, but didn't light up right away. Instead, he strolled off behind some bushes, unzipped his pants and relieved himself.

When he was finished, instead of returning to his comrades, he walked towards the tall grass the women were hiding behind.

Anna clawed the dirt.

Sahilla grabbed a big rock.

When he was about fifteen feet away he stopped and bent over. When he stood upright he was holding Anna's socks and boots.

He looked the items in his hands, and then his eyes slowly twisted up to look between the blades of grass at the women hiding there. He smiled.

It was the cruelest thing Anna had ever seen.

Sahilla leapt from behind the grass, slamming the rock onto his face. He fell to the ground, Sahilla looked back at Anna, "Run!"

They bolted towards the jungle.

The men at the tree laughed as they watched their comrade fall and the women running, most of them too comfortable now to be bothered with anything else.

One man, however, picked up his gun and fired at them, missing by a huge margin. The other soldiers laughed and booed, gave the thumbs down and told him he couldn't shoot worth shit.

"You are in too much of a rush," said one soldier, relaxing like the others but not smoking a Ca stick. "You have to take your time. Brace the butt against your shoulder, look through the scope. Aim first and then fire."

He did as he was told but still missed.

They laughed again.

Frustrated, he threw the gun to the ground and kicked it, stubbing his toe. He grabbed his foot, jumped up and down screaming 'Ouch!' and his comrades laughed and howled even harder.

The non-smoker grabbed his rifle and stood up. "Watch and learn, my friend." He put the butt to his shoulder and looked through the scope.

The women were close to the jungle now.

He'd take down whichever one he chose, but the other would likely escape.

So, which one to choose?

He aimed at one and then the other. The black one, and then the white one.

They were both so delicious, it was almost impossible to pick.

He loved killing this way.

Most of the others preferred killing up close. They said you could better see the fear in the victim's eyes, feel their last breath against your skin and all that. That was okay too, but it wasn't always the most satisfying way.

Killing up close meant you got to feel your victim's terror, but in killing from afar, you got to feel your own power. You were God, sending down a mighty thunderbolt to punish the wicked.

This was even sweeter because his greatest joy was in killing women, particularly beautiful women, and both of these creatures fleeing to the jungle were very beautiful. There was no lovelier feeling than sending a sniper's bullet through the heart of a lovely woman for him, and he had spent countless happy hours in his youth haunting the shadows of the hills by the roads and streams, taking down mothers and daughters as they filled water jugs or walked along the lonesome, dusty roads.

An American missionary once noticed his predilection for killing in this way, and one Sunday evening after services, as they enjoyed dinner and wine, recounting the women he'd cut down, this missionary gave him a nick name he liked very much.

Cupid.

And if he was to prove himself worthy of that name, he had to pick now as they would soon disappear into the jungle.

He chose and fired.

The sound echoed off the trees as a tiny dot formed on her back. A microsecond later her chest exploded, lifting and twirling her upwards as chunks of bone and flesh colored the air.

He imagined how lovely it would be to be an ant on the ground below her, looking up she twisted with the sun behind her making the red cloud spraying from her seem to glow.

Cupid smiled as she hit the ground. All she could have been, would have been, and wanted to be, was at an end now, and all because of him. He didn't know her name or who she was, and he didn't care to know.

For him, one of the greatest joys of murder was in the humiliation of your victim, the careful stripping away of each level of their humanity and dignity. To not allow her to even have a name, to make her just an anonymous dot blotted out on his whim and promptly forgotten was one of the greatest and most satisfying humiliations he could imagine.

He swung the gun to find the other one, hoping against hope to cut her down too but it was too late. She'd already disappeared into jungle.

He sprayed into the brush anyway, reasoning he might get lucky, after all.

Bullets shook the trees, sending chips of bark flying and piercing her cheeks just as the rocks and sharp branches on the jungle floor stabbed into her feet.

The shooting soon stopped but she kept on running, going almost two hundred yards before tripping over a fallen branch. She hit the ground hard, rolled down a small hill and when she came to a stop, looked back.

She didn't see or hear anyone.

Her instinct was to get up and keep running but that wasn't smart. If she ran she'd just get lost and if she got lost, she was dead. No way she could make it through this without Sahilla.

She might get away from these guys but the next group she'd inevitably come across would turn her into hamburger. That is, if the jungle, or the sun, or her own uninformed decisions didn't get her first.

No. She'd wait. If her spoiled, lily white, Ivy League ass got away so did Sahilla's tried and true, battle tested, indestructible one. Sahilla got away and was hiding and hoping Anna had sense enough to do the same until the danger passed. When it was safe, or saf _er_ at least, she'd look for Anna in the last place they'd been together, that is, the river. Anna had to be able to get back there so they could meet up. If she kept running she'd get lost and would never find it again. So, she didn't run, she hid.

She waited until almost nightfall before she crept back towards the river. When she neared the end of the jungle, as carefully as she knew how, she peeked out from the brush.

She didn't see anyone.

She ventured out a little further, and that was when she saw Sahilla's body.

"No," she said, tears welling in her eyes, "please God no, no, no."

Overcome with emotion, and really very stupidly, Anna abandoned the shrouding jungle, running to kneel down beside Sahilla's body.

"Oh my God, Sahilla...What did they do to you?"

Half of her chest had been blown off. Her eyes were glazed over, staring and empty.

Anna shivered, put her hands over her face and cried harder than she knew a person could.

As she cried she could almost hear Sahilla chiding her for being so foolish. She was vulnerable and exposed out there. She had to be smarter than that to survive this.

Anna nodded, wiped tears from her eyes and tried to stand but immediately crumbled back to her knees, crying even harder than before.

She didn't want to stand up, she didn't want to leave. She wanted to curl up on the ground beside Sahilla and pull the Earth up over them both.

But she couldn't think like that. Even if she wanted to.

Somebody had to survive this. Even if just for the night or the next few hours, someone had to survive.

She thought of all those who were lost now; Barney, her patients, people all across this country she'd never meet being butchered like cattle, and now Sahilla.

They didn't have a chance anymore. Anna still had a chance and so she had to try to do something with it.

Anna pushed herself to her feet.

She had to go.

But she couldn't just leave Sahilla lying there, exposed to the birds, unburied like she never meant anything to anyone.

Anna sunk her hands into the ground and dug Sahilla a grave, gently placing her body inside when finished.

Anna took out her earrings and looked at them in the palm of her hand. There was nothing special about them; they were just earrings. Anna didn't even remember where she got them. She put one in Sahilla's hand and closed it, the other she tucked into her pocket. And just like that, it became more important to her than anything else she owned.

She kissed Sahilla's forehead, whispered goodbye into her ear and covered her over with the dark, rich Earth.

When she finished, she smoothed over the top of it with her hand.

And that was the story of Sahilla.

She wanted to say a prayer, but no words came. Instead she kissed her fingers and touched them to the ground to whom she'd entrusted the care of the friend who had taken such good care of her.

"Good bye Sahilla," Anna said. "I love you. You deserved so much better than this. Good bye."

Anna stood up.

The sun was low on the horizon now, the sky blooming in its deepest shade of red.

She wanted to say good bye once more but knew Sahilla wouldn't approve. She'd said goodbye already, and now it was time to leave her behind, to learn to fight on her own.

"Good bye," Anna said.

The fact was, Sahilla couldn't approve or disapprove of anything anymore.

Sahilla was dead.

"Take care of yourself," Anna said. "I love you so much."

Anna collected her socks and boots from the ground and put them on before walking into the jungle as night was falling.

She had no idea where she was going.

She only knew she had to keep walking.

## CHAPTER 8

PRESENT

Christian woke up in a jail cell.

He was lying on a thin mattress and had a heavy, dull ache in his head.

He sat up and touched the spot on his head that felt like the center of the pain, feeling a small bump.

"Hey," said a voice from across the hall, "you awake?"

Christian looked at the young man in the cell across from his. Skinny kid, not more than 20 years old if that.

"You all right?" the kid asked.

"Yeah."

"I was getting worried. You hear stories about people needing to go to the hospital but they throw them in a cell instead and a couple of hours later they're dead. The department fig leafs that shit up but it happens all the time, I bet."

"How long was I out?"

"They brought you in, you was out. That was over an hour ago."

Christian rubbed his temples.

"I'm Dudley, by the way. They call me D."

"Nice to meet you, D."

"What's your name?"

"Christian."

"Do you know what they have you in for?"

"Not a clue."

"You can't remember? What, you was drunk or something?"

"Or something."

"Well, I hate to tell you, but I think it's something serious."

"Yeah?"

D nodded. "I think it might even be you killed somebody."

"What makes you say that?"

"I heard them talking. I couldn't make out everything they was saying, but from what I got, that's what I got. But even if it ain't you killed somebody, it's something bad."

"Why'd you say that?"

"You in here with me."

"What are you in for?"

"Killing."

Christian looked at him again. Barely old enough to shave and in for murder.

"So what do you think?" D asked.

"About what?"

"Think you killed somebody?"

"I've killed lots of people, D."

"For real?"

"For very real."

"What are you, a serial killer?"

"Sort of. Not really."

"What's that mean? You some kind of hit man?"

"Sort of. Not really."

"But this your first time getting locked up for it?"

"If that's why I'm here, then yeah."

D waited a few seconds and asked, "Did it bother you?"

"Killing?"

"Getting away with it?"

Christian patted his pockets and found his cigarettes. "You ask a lot of questions, D."

"Sorry. Ain't have nobody to talk to for a while. Been praying a lot, but praying ain't the same as talking to a person, you know?"

"Yeah."

"You pray?"

Christian put a cigarette in his mouth and looked for his lighter.

"That's all right. I get it," D said after Christian didn't answer. "Man wakes up in jail, don't know why, gets told it might be for murder, that man ain't gonna be in a mood to talk. Especially about something ain't nobody's business like if he prays or not. Sorry. Like I said, the quiet been getting to me. I'll shut up now."

Christian found his lighter.

D said, "I was just asking 'cause I was wondering if you did pray, did it ever work? Did you ever get what you asked for?

"I been praying since I been here, but before I got locked up I ain't for a long time. Tell you the truth, I can't remember the last time. I remember some times when I prayed, but not the last time, you know?

"Anyway, I think I must've stopped because I usually ain't get what I asked for and must've finally been like, what's the point? Once in a while I would, though. Like a couple of times I prayed for snow so we wouldn't have school and it snowed and we didn't.

"But I was never sure if it was me, you know? You figure, when the newsman says it's a chance it's going to snow, a lot of kids must pray for it to happen. Maybe He was answering somebody else's prayer, or all of ours together like if you can get enough signatures on something. Or it might be He wasn't answering nobody's and it was just going to snow anyway. See, that's the thing. Even when you get it, how do you know it's because of the praying or if it was just going to happen anyway?

"Sorry. I said I'd stop talking and here I am talking. I'm going to shut up now."

Christian took a drag, lying down on the mattress.

"You know, I have brothers," D said, "they're older than me. A lot older, and when I was coming up, they were in and out of here. Not this particular jail, but, you know, prison. And every time they went in, it was always the same thing. They'd tell me to make sure I said my prayers, read my Bible, be a good boy and all that. They always found God when they came in here.

"I used to think jail was like church because all they talked about was God. Doing the right thing. Living a Christ centered life. We prayed every time they had an appeal or were up for parole or something for them to get out. Sometimes it worked, or at least, sometimes they'd get the parole. When they got out they'd always mess up and go right back in.

"The last time my oldest brother got out he messed up bad. He killed somebody. A couple people, actually. They killed him for it."

"Who?" Christian asked.

"Them. Us. The State."

"He got the death penalty?"

D nodded. "My mom cried. I didn't cry, though. Know why?"

"Why?"

"Because he wanted it."

"He wanted to be executed?"

"He didn't want to die just to die, but he said if he had to, it was better it happen then, when he was at his best, when God was in his heart. If he was out in the streets, he would have back-slided and somebody would have killed him when he wasn't right. It was better it happen then.

"I know he was scared. He acted like he wasn't, that he was just going home and all that. I believed him a little, but I knew what he was saying wasn't the whole story. Ain't no way you can't be scared at least some. That's why I ain't ever ask him if he was. I knew he'd say he wasn't, trying to be strong for me, and that would be one more lie he had to account for."

D was quiet for a few moments, and then said, "I wanted to be there the day they did it. Killed him. I wanted to see him go, you know? My mom wouldn't let me."

"Your mother is a smart woman."

"Why you say that?"

"Watching someone you love die is, well, that's about as hard as it gets."

D shrugged. "It's going to be hard no matter what. You know they killing him at six o'clock, you sit there staring at the clock, knowing what's happening however many miles away and you can't do nothing about it. Not even see him the last time he can see you back."

Christian took another drag.

"It's like if you... listen to me. I keep saying I'm going to shut up but I keep on talking and talking and talking."

"Well, who wants to sit here being quiet anyway?"

"I thought you did."

Christian said something Dudley couldn't quite hear.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing," Christian said. "Want a cigarette?"

"Sure."

Christian tossed him the pack and a lighter.

He felt sorry for the kid. Never really had a chance, did he? Older brothers in and out of jail; a tired, overwhelmed mother at home. D hadn't mentioned a father. Probably there wasn't one.

Christian only knew him for a few minutes, but knew he wasn't bad deep down.

If there was one thing Christian knew, it was murderers. He knew the ones who were only sorry they got caught from the ones who'd gotten caught up and were sorry. D was very much the latter.

"It was your first time, wasn't it?" Christian asked. "Killing, I mean."

D took a drag off his cigarette. "I'm hoping it won't be."

Christian wrinkled his forehead. "What does that mean?"

Before D could answer, the cell block door opened.

Detective Hall walked in and went straight to Christian's cell. "You're awake. Good."

Christian stood up. "Why am I in here?"

"We'll get to that. First things first though, how is your head?"

"Throbbing," Christian said. "What happened to me?"

"Do you think you need a doctor?"

"No. Why am I here?"

"I'm sorry," Detective Hall said, "I just wanted to get a pair of handcuffs on you. Officer Waugh got a little over eager. Understandable, considering the circumstances, but still unprofessional. He'll be reprimanded."

"He'll be like you," Christian said, "out of a job once my lawyer's through with him."

Detective Hall turned to the other cell. "How you doing, D?"

"I'm all right."

"He hasn't been threatening you too, has he?"

"No."

"You two getting along then?"

"Yeah."

"Good enough you got a cigarette out of him," Detective Hall said. "You work fast."

"He offered it to me."

"I'm sure he did." Detective Hall turned back to Christian. "And why wouldn't he offer you a smoke? You're a good kid, made some bad choices, but you're a good kid. There seems to be a lot of that going around. Christian, for example, has made a couple of bad choices recently too. I was thinking you two could help each other out."

"This is him, ain't it," D said, his face suddenly animated. "This is the guy?"

"This is him," Detective Hall said, and opened Dudley's cell.

Dudley stepped out. "Can you really do what they said?"

Christian looked at Detective Hall and then back at Dudley. "What did they say?"

"They said you could cure me."

"Cure you of what?"

Dudley swallowed. "Murder. I mean, of being a murderer."

"Dudley did a bad thing," Detective Hall said, "but he wants to make it right, and luckily it's not too late. His victim still has a chance, a slim and getting slimmer chance but a chance, nonetheless. Dudley wants to make his odds a little better."

Christian shook his head. He already knew the answer but asked anyway. "Who is Dudley's victim?"

"Officer Richard Jefferson." Detective Hall's eyes narrowed at Christian. "We missed you at the hospital last night."

Christian closed his eyes and the whole scenario played out in his mind.

They came looking for him after he failed to show at Jefferson's hospital. They would have staked out his house and when he didn't show there, time being a factor, they needed a way to make him show his face. The surest way to do that was making him think something was wrong with Elizabeth.

The person who'd called Christian from the hospital saying Liz was dead was probably Detective Hall himself. He did have a smug look on his face when he asked Christian if he'd recognize the voice, didn't he? And his house number being in his phone was probably some cop waiting there for him calling to say Christian still hadn't shown up or any of a hundred other reasons.

"You can do it, can't you?" D asked, "You can fix it like they said?"

Christian lowered his head. "Did they tell you everything? Did they tell you what I have to do to help Jefferson?"

"Yes."

"What did they tell you?"

"They said there has to be a...a human sacrifice."

"And you're willing to be that sacrifice?"

"I am."

Christian shook his head. "I don't think you know what you're saying."

"I'm saying I want you to kill me."

"Dudley---"

"Look, man. I did it. I shot that cop. He dies, they're going to give me the chair for it anyway, and I die a murderer, and go to hell. This way I die saving somebody instead so I go a hero and not a murderer."

"Again. I don't think you really understand what you're saying."

"Look at me," Dudley said.

Christian did.

"This is what I want."

"How old are you?" Christian asked.

"Twenty three."

"You're a kid."

Dudley stood a little taller. "No, I'm not. I'm old enough to take responsibility for what I did. And I want to. You probably think I'm stupid because of all this talk about hell and all that, but I'm not. It's real when it's close, and it matters."

Christian sat in silence.

"Please," Dudley said, "I'm asking you to save me from hell, whether it's one with the devil and pitchforks or the rest of my time on Earth in a jail cell. I'm asking you to give that man back to his family instead of letting him die because of bullets I put in him."

Christian looked at Dudley and thought of Berlin. If sacrificing his life could bring her back, he'd do it. In a second.

"So, what's it going to be Christian?" Detective Hall asked.

Christian had killed many people because they'd taken innocent lives. This would be the first life he took so the person could remain innocent. "I'll do it."

Dudley smiled.

Detective Hall opened Christian's cell and Dudley went in.

"What do I need to do?" Dudley asked.

"Take off your shirt," Christian said, "Lay down on the bed."

Dudley did.

Christian put his hand over his heart.

There were rope burns on Dudley's neck from where he'd tried to hang himself.

"What else do I have to do?" Dudley asked.

Christian inhaled deeply. "Nothing."

## CHAPTER 9

Raymond was right.

Christian had always known he was different, and not knowing exactly how or why had tortured him for most of his life.

So then why did he react with rage to the prospect of it ending?

Maybe the old saying was true, he considered.

Maybe ignorance was bliss.

Christian took note of himself, huddled up in bed, still wearing his coat even beneath the blankets because turning the heat on was too luxurious.

He was penniless, alone, struggling desperately, one step from being out on the streets. His life was far from blissful.

So then why?

He thought about it for a while, and ultimately decided that although ignorance was not bliss for him, it was certainly familiar. That's the true nature of ignorance, right? It's not so much what you don't know as it is what you know the best, and therefore cling to the hardest precisely because you're afraid of facing what you don't know.

As Christian was pondering this, he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

And as he slept, a strange dream was visited upon him.

He dreamt of an ancient tribe who'd spent many millennia in a dark cave, far below the Earth's surface. They never ventured out and their only light came from campfires that had been burning for eons.

One day, a young man of that tribe heard a voice calling his name far away from the campfires, from deep within the forbidden place.

He followed that voice, venturing through tunnels against whose walls no traveler's footsteps had echoed for countless centuries. He followed it for many miles until he arrived at the end of the cave, and looked out into the light of day, the first he had ever seen.

How would the light first seem to such a person?

For some, all that may one day appear beautiful would at first seem terrifying. The sun might be to him a fireball coming to destroy the Earth, and the clouds rising smoke. He might see the birds as swirling ashes, and perceive the burning in his eyes at the newness of light as the stinging from smoke.

Such a person would rush back below, praying his cave was deep enough to protect him and his people from the blast, and such a person would be endlessly thankful when it was. He would live his entire life there, content, believing what he had was all there was.

His ignorance, touched by the light, would become divine. No longer simply familiar, it would become his bliss and then his more-than-bliss. It would become his everything, because everything else had been consumed by the fireball long ago. The voice calling him must have been a Siren, he'd think, trying to lure him above so that he could share in its doom. The world above was filled with such creatures; spiteful and wicked. Perhaps that was why the gods destroyed it with the fireball.

When others complained about the misery of their existences he'd shake his head, thinking them childish and unaware of how lucky they were. The world above had long been destroyed. And they would have been too, if not for the very walls they curse.

A man less given to fear would experience it differently. He might look around at the outside world for a while and then return below, having seen nothing meriting his going any further. The light still would have blessed his ignorance, but his bliss would come in knowing he saw the light, and could've gone into it but chose to stay in the dark because that was where he wanted to be.

The young man in Christian's dream was terrified, but he did not return below. His terror did not come from fear of the end of the world above, but the one below. Though it would not burn, though it would endure, for him, all that was below, all that he had ever known, was gone.

The second he saw the light he knew he must go into it, and he knew once he did he could never return to the world below. The cave was enchanted. Once a person stepped out, never again could they return.

The world below was the one that birthed him, and nurtured him and was the author of his hours. It was his home and suddenly he must leave it now, and forever.

He wanted to run back below, to embrace his mother one last time, but he couldn't. The enchantment worked both ways, if he stepped out of the cave, he could never return, and if he went back below, he could never leave.

He didn't know what he'd find in the larger world, but he knew what he'd lose by entering it: everything he had ever known.

Was the dark so terrible? Contentment can be found in struggle, and misery can be tamed.

Perhaps it was wiser to go back down. After all, every bit of love and joy he had ever felt, he'd felt down there. It wasn't so terrible, was it? His ancestors, everyone he knew had lived their lives there. Couldn't he?

As he stood on the precipice, he realized that the answer was no. He could not.

The world below was not for him.

The light did not bless his ignorance as it did the others, but cursed it. But in cursing his ignorance, it blessed him instead. It made of ignorance not bliss, but an abyss, one that would consume him should he return to it.

And that was the source of his rage. Just like that, his whole world had been ripped away.

But still, the young man in his dream couldn't bring himself to take that final step. There was something, some final tie holding him there, but he didn't know what it was.

Then, from within the recesses of the cave he heard a very faint, very familiar voice speaking to him. It was the voice of his mother, weeping at the loss of her son, but telling him it must be so. For if he stayed in that place now, knowing he belonged in the world above, she would lose him more than if he'd gone.

_Go,_ she whispered, and then demanded, _go._

Wiping a tear from his eye, he stepped out.

Now standing fully in the light of the sun, he understood it never was the sun that blessed or cursed. All it ever did was shine.

It was up to him, as it was to all who had come before and would come after him, to make a blessing or a curse of it.

Realizing this, he walked further into the light, never stopping to look back.

Christian awoke from his dream.

It was a strange awakening, almost as if he'd not been asleep at all, and what he'd just experienced was more like a vision than any dream.

He picked up his phone and dialed Raymond's number but paused before pressing the red button, which would send it.

Right beside the red was a blue button that would erase the number from his phone.

His thumb moved towards it.

Whatever choice he made now, he knew he'd keep forever. In truth there was very little choice involved in what he was about to do. Some things we do because we decide to do them, other things are rooted in a place much deeper than that of choice. These things are expressions of who we are at our deepest, most fundamental level. They exist not as choices, but truths. They manifest not as actions, but revelations.

This was such a moment for Christian.

If he pressed the red button, he was the boy in the dream who stepped into the light.

If he did not, he was, and had always been, the frightened one who went back below. One thing he was certain of, he was not the one who went back below because that was where he wanted to be.

He pressed the red button.

The phone rang once and was answered.

"Hello, Christian," said Raymond.

"Tell me."

"What?"

"You said you could tell me what's wrong with me. Tell me."

"There is nothing wrong with you, Christian. That being said, I know what you mean, but I'm afraid it doesn't work that way."

"How does it work?"

"Do you have the pass to the air field?"

Christian looked at the toilet he'd flushed it down. "I misplaced it."

"Meaning you ripped it up?"

"No."

"Really? Most people rip it up and flush it down the toilet. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll text you directions to our airfield. A plane there will take you to your destination."

"And what is my destination?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"Because it is against the rules. Just trust me for right now. Very soon, everything will make sense."

An hour later Christian boarded a private jet. Six hours after that the plane landed. Christian got off and a car waiting there whisked him away to a huge compound deep in the mountains, protected by miles of woods and soaring fences.

They drove past a security gate and several tall buildings and then parked in front of a short, pudgy, bespectacled man wearing a white coat and standing in front of one of the smaller structures.

Christian got out.

"Hello Mr. Thompson," the bespectacled man said, "I'm Dr. Norman Crane."

"I'm Christian."

"I know." He smiled in a way that made Christian uneasy. "I'm sorry, we weren't expecting you tonight. The person who usually does these meet and greets is away at the moment. You'll have to make due with me."

"That's fine."

"How was your flight?"

"Long."

"You must be tired. I'll show you to your quarters."

They walked into the building behind them, Dr. Norman telling Christian how tomorrow he'd be shown the rest of the facilities, which were quite remarkable.

"We have everything you could want here, recreation wise. We have a gym, basketball and tennis courts, a movie theater, several very nice pools. There is a chef on duty twenty four hours a day to make whatever you want." They stepped onto an elevator. Dr. Crane pressed a button and the doors closed. "The testing can be long and boring. We do what we can so you can have a little fun here as well. We understand you like restoring motorcycles?"

"I do."

"Well, it just so happens we have a couple here in desperate need of repair. It's funny; we have some of the smartest people in the world in this facility, probing the deepest mysteries of science. Not one of them has any idea how to do anything as practical as fix a motorcycle. If you're interested, we'd love you to take a look."

"Sure," Christian said. "What did you mean by testing?"

"Oh, they didn't tell you?"

"No."

The doors opened; they stepped off the elevator and into a carpeted hallway that looked to Christian like something you'd find in a very nice hotel.

"They're probably waiting to tell you," Dr. Crane said as they walked, "but I guess it doesn't matter now. The testing is to help you find out about yourself, your gift."

"How?"

"That, I don't know. I work in a separate department. Like I said, the only reason I'm doing this is because the person who usually does it is indisposed."

They arrived at Christian's quarters. Dr. Crane opened the door and Christian's jaw dropped.

He was expecting a regular room, you know, a bed, a bathroom, a television. If he was lucky, maybe a couch. This looked like the Presidential Suite at a five star hotel.

"What do you think?" Dr. Crane asked.

"Wow."

"I know. It's not much, but just keep telling yourself it's only for a couple of days. Come on, let me show you everything."

Dr. Crane showed Christian around and then asked him if he needed anything else. Christian said he didn't and Dr. Crane told him if he thought of anything, anything at all, to simply dial 9 and tell the operator.

Christian promised he would and said good night. Dr. Crane left; Christian's phone rang almost the exact same time the door closed.

It was Raymond.

Christian answered. "Hey Raymond."

"Hello, Chris. Just calling to check up on you. Make sure they're treating you all right."

"So far they're treating me like royalty."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"An unfamiliar thing, anyway. A guy named Crane showed me around. He said I start testing tomorrow."

"That's right."

"Any idea what I'll be doing?"

"Yes."

"But you can't tell me?"

"Correct."

"That's getting a little old."

"Good thing it stops tomorrow. Some of it, anyway."

"How much?"

"Get some sleep, Christian. You have a busy day ahead of you."

Christian hung up and went to bed.

Around ten o'clock the next morning there was a knock on his door.

He answered. A very pretty, smartly dressed, brunette who looked to be around forty years old stood on the other side.

She introduced herself as Stacy Winters and apologized for not having been there to greet him herself last night. He said that was no problem and invited her in.

"Thank you," she said, stepping inside.

She apologized again. They didn't expect him so soon, she explained, and she was out of town on a ski trip with her family when she got the call.

"You cut your vacation short because of me?" Christian said. "I feel bad."

"Don't. I should probably be thanking you. You more than likely saved me from breaking a leg or something. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No."

"There is a parlor upstairs that has a fantastic view of the mountains. I could have something sent up and we could talk there if you like."

"Sure."

A short while later, as he drank his coffee and nibbled on a Continental breakfast, Stacy Winters explained to him in broad terms what the facility was about and what they hoped to accomplish in his time there.

"You have a gift", she told him, "a very unique talent and it's our job to help you find out what it is. But whatever your gift turns out to be, it is _your_ gift. We are simply facilitators. All, or, almost all choices concerning how best to use your gift, including using your gift at all, belong to you. That is the philosophical cornerstone of our organization."

"What did you mean by 'almost all'?"

"I was just getting to that. You see, there is another cornerstone to our organization against which that first one must be balanced. Privacy. If you joined our organization you can never divulge any of its secrets; that includes but is not limited to its very existence. You may also never divulge the abilities of any of its members, including your own. Once you become a member, that rule includes you, and is binding for life.

"At this point," she said, "If you wish to continue, I do need a commitment from you. You have to swear an oath never to reveal anything about this place, this organization, or any of its members, including yourself, ever to anyone." The warm smile that had been on her face up until now was gone, replaced with a serious, almost stern expression. "You must also swear never to never do or allow to be done anything that might jeopardize the secrecy of this organization and its members. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Understand, this is a casual setting but this oath is not casual, and shouldn't be taken as such. I am one of very few people authorized to extend it. It is a solemn oath that we take very seriously. Once you take it, it is binding for life. You may never tell a living soul what goes on with us, or allow any of our secrets to be made known. I ask you again. Do you pledge to uphold the secrets of this organization for life?"

"I do."

"Good." Her warm smile returned. "Later there will be a formal ceremony. You'll have to take the vows again, say it a certain way and in front of certain people, but for now that's all I needed."

"Needed for what?"

"To tell you more about us. You must be dying of curiosity."

"I am."

"Well, get ready to have your hair blown back. I'm about to tell you a tale unlike any you have ever heard."

She wasn't kidding.

The tale she unraveled was a brief history of their organization, which stretched back many hundreds of years and whose influence would reach the furthest reaches of the globe. Many things Christian thought he knew for sure about world history, science, art, and even human nature, were turned on their ears. He learned of people and events that helped shape-and sometimes save-the entire world and yet were known to only a handful of people, which now included him.

When she finished his head was spinning.

"It's a lot," she said, "I know. It will get easier. It just takes a little time to digest."

"Yeah, I guess," Christian said, still dizzy.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"Yeah, I..."

"Yes?"

"To tell you the truth, I can't remember. Some of the stuff you said..."

"Has you feeling a little off?"

"Yes."

"Most people are curious about how we knew they were gifted. Would you like to know that?"

"Yeah."

"The way it's typically done is, there are lots of different kinds of gifts. One gift some people have is the ability to tell if others are gifted. Those people are used as spotters."

"Let me guess, Raymond is a spotter?"

"No."

"Then who was it who found me?"

"Raymond."

"I don't understand."

"I said it was typically done by our spotters. Your case was different. With you, it was your book."

"Again with the book."

"A person like you has experiences and feelings most people don't. Every gift is unique, but there are certain experiences and feelings that are universal to gifted people. Because you experience things in a somewhat different way, lots of gifted people are perceived as odd or strange. A great many are incorrectly diagnosed as having a schizoid or schizotypal personality disorder.

"You, Mr. Thompson, are actually extremely high functioning. Most people your age who haven't discovered their talent before now are, well, it's not good. The suicide rate is staggering, and we can't help most of them. At that point, they're simply too unstable, and it's just too dangerous.

"Anyway, to how we discovered you. Some of the things you described in your book, and the way you described them, hinted at a person with a level of consciousness consistent with a gifted individual."

She could tell by his expression he was having a hard time believing that. She found it kind of funny that of all the amazing things she'd told him, this was the thing he found hardest to believe.

"Have you ever read _War and Peace_?" she asked.

"It's my favorite novel."

"More than _Les Mis_?"

"Far more."

"Really?"

" _Les Miserables_ is a great book, don't get me wrong, but it always felt like I was reading a book, albeit one with some of the best writing I've ever read. _War and Peace_ , was more like, I don't know, like he'd absorbed the life force, transmitted it on the page and I was absorbing it as I read."

"Poetic."

"Thank you."

"But you and I are going to have some hardcore debates if you don't think _Les Miserables_ is more than just a really swell book."

"Bring it on."

"Oh, I intend to. But first let me finish this point. Do you know what synesthesia is?"

Christian nodded. "It's a sensory disorder, right?"

"Not a disorder, a different way of seeing things."

"Well, whatever it is, it's when the senses get crossed. The number nine feels blue; a phone ringing smells like toast, vanilla feels like rain falling on your neck, stuff like that."

"Correct. Now, in _War and Peace_ , that also-ran of a novel when compared to the works of Victor Hugo- long before there was any real scientific documentation about it, the main female character, Natasha, goes to her mother and describes some strange sensory experiences. If memory serves, they're talking about her suitors and she describes one of their names as feeling like a light shade of gray, long and narrow like a dining room clock. Her mother, of course, looks at her like she's crazy and so Natasha drops it and never mentions it again."

"I remember that part."

"Her mother didn't know what she was talking about, but some readers who'd experienced similar things did, even if they didn't have a name for it. Natasha had synesthesia. She probably helped a lot of people who thought they were crazy or the only ones realize their experiences were valid. Anyway, a similar thing happened with your book. You described certain things and experiences in a way consistent with how many of the others perceive them, and also some of the metaphors you used got Raymond's attention. He came to us, we had a spotter take a look and he confirmed it."

"Who was the spotter?"

She smiled. "A small business owner. Three employees, counting himself."

"How many others are there? People like me?"

"That's a good question," she said, "There are two theories. One says pretty much everyone; the other says pretty much no one.

"The first theory says that everyone has some kind of extraordinary gift, and they could possibly learn to manifest it, but for whatever reason they don't, or won't. The people who hold to this theory say that spotters don't really see the gift when they spot someone, but rather, they have a sort of precognition and can tell who is going to learn to manifest their gift, or who is willing to.

"The second theory says that almost no one is gifted, what the spotters are seeing is indeed your gift, end of story. If that's the case, then there are almost none of you.

"Imagine how rare it is to be gifted in the normal realm of things such as intellect, athletic ability or art. What is that? Half of one percent? That's still thirty million people worldwide, one and a half million in the US. There is nowhere near that many of you, if this theory is correct.

"Someone even slightly gifted in your sense of the word, makes up, we estimate, less than half a percent of half a percent of the population. Much, much less.

"And you don't seem to be only slightly gifted. You seem to have some extreme talent. That makes you the rarest of the rare. Add to that the sad fact that most of you don't make it to adulthood and if you do aren't even vaguely functional, it makes the number even lower. So, to answer how many people there are like you? Gifted, alive, healthy, and found by friendly folks like us? Very few."

"Are you?" Christian asked.

"What?"

"Gifted?"

"I consider every day a gift," she smiled. "Are you done with your breakfast?"

"Yeah."

"How was it?"

"Delicious."

"Good. Well then, unless you have any objections or questions, we can get you started."

"Let's do it."

## CHAPTER 10

Anna woke up on the floor of a small abandoned house she'd stumbled across the night before.

She'd fallen asleep on the living room floor. God, that was stupid. It was right out in the open where anyone could see her. She warned herself that dumb mistakes like that were going to be what got her killed. She needed to be smarter than that.

Admonishment accomplished, she put her mind to more immediate needs. The first amongst them was food. She'd been going on nothing for days now and needed something in her stomach. She'd scavenge the house but chances she'd find anything edible were slim. The house looked and smelled like it'd been abandoned for years.

More than likely she'd have to turn to nature. She didn't trust her judgment on which plants to eat, and so would have to catch a rat or lizard or something and then figure out how to start a fire.

Then she'd put something on the roof to signal any friendly and unlikely helicopters that might fly by. Then she'd find a place to hide so she didn't have to leave herself exposed again.

She had a full day ahead of her. She couldn't start it if all she did was lie on the floor.

She sat up, stretched and yawned and saw the man sitting on the floor about fifteen feet away from her. His legs were crossed, his back against the wall. There was a machete by his right hand and a machine gun by his left.

"Hello," he said in a thick African accent.

"Hi," Anna said, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone... I thought this house was abandoned."

"It was abandoned. Now we here." He reached into his pocket and took out what was inside. "Cigarette?"

"No, thank you."

He put a cigarette in his mouth. "You must have been tired. Your discovery caused much noise, but you did not wake."

"Yes, I was very tired."

"You have been on a long journey?"

"Very long."

"All the way from where? The United States?"

"Canada," she said. "I'm from Canada."

Anna was from Elk Township, New Jersey. But she also knew how hated Americans sometimes were in this part of the world. No one hated Canadians. At least, she didn't think so.

"Your accent," he lit his cigarette, "it sounds American."

"I was educated there."

"At a university?"

"Yes."

"When I was young I make plans to go to university. I want to go to America, Switzerland, somewhere and become a learned man. I stay here instead." He shrugged. "We make plans, fate makes plans; one guess who wins." He took his first drag and blew out a plume of blue smoke. "What university you go to?"

"The University of Pennsylvania."

"Is that a good one?"

"One of the best."

"Maybe I go there after the war. I am quite smart, you know. I know my native language, French, Arabic. English is my newest tongue. I only speaking it for three years now. How am I doing so far."

"Very good."

"I can read and write in all of them too. Most of my comrades cannot read in our own language, let alone any others." He took another drag. "You like to read?"

"Very much."

"What do you read?"

"Anything really."

"Like what?"

"Everything from hard science to the classics to poorly written, trashy sci fi and romance."

"Poems?"

She smiled. "I love poetry."

"Me too."

"But I need my poetry to be good. Fiction can be bad and I'll keep reading as long as it has some kind of charm, but bad poetry I can't read."

"I enjoy the French Romantic poets of the 19th century," he said. "Do you know them?"

"Very well. My father was a professor of French poetry. I grew up with him reading me the classics."

"You were lucky. I did not learn of them until a few years ago. It is amazing, isn't it? The feelings that can grow from simply putting the right words in the right order?"

"Yes it is."

"Do you know Henri Chiron?"

She smiled again. "He's one of my favorites."

"Me too. Some of his work is...I forget how to say it in English...it means sad, but in a lovely way?"

"Melancholy?"

"Yes. Much of his work is melancholy. I don't like to read about melancholy. I know of the darkness already. I want to hear joy described, you know? Happiness. He does not write of happiness or joy often, but when he does, he does it better than any other I have read." He plucked ash onto the floor. "Of course, I don't pretend my reading is as big as yours. We don't get many books where I am from. Mostly stuff people donate or forget when they pass through." He took another drag. "Did you study poetry at university as well?"

"A little."

"What did you study a lot?"

"The effects of consuming vast quantities of alcohol mostly." She laughed. His face remained serious. "But, academics wise, I studied medicine."

His eyebrows lifted. "You are a doctor?"

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"I'm an ophthalmologist."

"I must remind you English is not my first language. Optha...?"

"Ophthalmologist."

He smiled and wagged his finger at her. "You will not get me to try that one again."

"I'm an eye doctor."

"You give sight to the blind?"

"Usually nothing so dramatic."

"I must apologize again. Dramatic?"

"Dramatic means something that's extreme or makes a big, huge difference. For the most part, I correct much smaller problems."

"I see." He plucked more ash onto the floor. "You give sight to people who already can see."

"Hopefully, I help people who can't see so well see better."

"And why you here? In this country?"

"I opened a clinic."

"To help people see better?"

"It's general practice, meaning I do almost everything, but I do work on eyes."

"Think any of them blame you for the things they are seeing now? The war? If not for you, it would all be a blur. Now you give them sight and what do they see? Horrors. Maybe God gave them not so good eyes for a reason."

She looked at his machine gun.

He noticed her looking.

"You know," he said, "I think sometimes when people can't see, it's nothing wrong with their eyes. It's they don't want to see. Like this place. Even before the fighting it was bad here but most of the world don't see it. They could see if they want to, they just don't want to. Why you different? Why you can see? Why you leave a good place like Canada to slum with us?"

"I wanted to help people, to make a difference."

"They don't have people in Canada you can help? Differences you can make there?"

"In Canada they have lots of doctors. Here they don't."

"So, you thought you would make a more _dramatic_ difference here?" His smile asked her if he was using his new word correctly.

"Yes," she said, answering his stated and implied question.

"Lots of places don't have doctors. Why you pick here?"

"I did some Peace Corps work here right out of school. I fell in love with it."

He looked at her, incredulous. "You fell in love with _here_?"

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Anna."

"Anna," he repeated, "you have a very pretty name, Anna."

"Thank you."

"And a _very_ strange sense of love."

She laughed. "I've been told that before. And what's your name?"

"Death Master."

Anna swallowed.

"You needn't be alarmed," he said. "We all have such names. In my group we have a Sergeant Cannibal, a God of Rape, a Commander Doom, and a President Bloodbath, to name a few. In war you need a name that strikes fear. Death Master is the name the war gave me, not my mother."

"What name did your mother give you?"

"I don't like the name my mother gave me. Someone else, not the war, gave me another name though, one I like."

"What is it?"

"Cupid."

Anna smiled. "I like that one too."

"Thank you. But, it is not terrifying to most because they don't understand its meaning, and in war terror must proceed you, and therefore, you must leave terrifying things behind you. That begins and ends with the name. Who burned your village? Who raped your mother, cut the head off your father, ripped the baby from your wife's womb, and set your children afire before your very eyes? Was it Cupid who performed these wonders?" He shook his head. "No. It was Death Master. He was the worker of these miracles." He stubbed his cigarette out. "Are you frightened now, Anna?" Smoke swirled around his fingers.

"Yes," Anna said, breathing so hard now she could barely talk.

"Do you wish to go away from this place?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "You cannot."

"Why?"

"I won't let you."

"Please. I'm a doctor. I'm here to help. I'm not involved in any of this."

He leaned onto one elbow. "What is it you are not involved in?"

"The war. I just came here to help people, you can let me go. I swear, I won't say anything."

He laughed and shook his head.

"I'm not your enemy. I didn't do anything to hurt you or your people."

"I am sorry, Anna. You can't be here and not be here too. I won't let you go. You can beg but I tell you right now, it do you no good."

"What's going to happen to me?"

He put another cigarette in his mouth. "We rape you, and for a long time." He lit the cigarette and took a drag. "If you still alive when everybody had enough we torture you, do whatever come to mind until you go cold."

Anna's insides twisted.

"You should be happy, though," Death Master said. "You was almost dead already. I wasn't the one who found you. President Bloodbath did. He and a few others was ready to give you a surprise wake up you won't forget when I come in. I kick everybody out. They scared of me, so they listen.

"They think I want you first all to myself," he tapped his ashes onto the floor. "At first I thought so too, but it's not just that.

"You see, Anna, all the others, they are only killers and soldiers. They only understand chop chop, shoot shoot. It just hunting to them, may as well be a bird they are killing. They don't understand the truth of murder because they are a bunch of stupid savages. They don't understand the difference between killing and taking a life."

"I'm worth more to you alive."

"Most times I like to kill from far away. Aim my gun, take them down for no reason, never even know what they look like. It make me feel good when I do that, like I am God." He paused for a moment. "And I tell you something else Anna, it not just _like_ I am God. I starting to see now that I truly am The One True God. I did not realize before the war, but I now I see." He looked at her. "Do you believe me? Do you believe I am God?"

"Yes."

"You do, don't you? You know I tell the truth."

"Yes."

He looked away from her, as if staring at something in the distance. "You know, I had a dream one time," he said in a soft voice, "very late in the spring, I have this dream where..." He trailed off into silence, seeming for a few moments to be in a trance. When it broke he looked back at her, almost embarrassed.

"Killing up close is different," his voice was once again firm. "You have to do it right to enjoy it. For those savages outside about to rip you to pieces, as long as they killing they happy. And there is magic there too, in sheer number. But after a while, one house blends in to another, you know? You massacre village after village, don't feel nothing no more, it just a job then. Like I say before, might as well be killing a bird. I think it's nice to talk a while first sometimes, to get to know someone before I torture them to death. It's nice every once in a while to know it's a complete and full human being I am killing.

"That's why I throw them out, Anna. That's what I wanted to get from you. And now I got it from you. So now I let them in and we begin."

"I'm a doctor. If somebody gets hurt, I can fix them. Think about that. You need me. I can help you."

He shook his head. "You still do not understand where you are, Anna. You think you are still in a world where things make sense, where people can bargain and reason. You are not. You are in a war now, Anna; you are in a poem. This is a place for passion, not reason."

"I have money. I can get you money. Lots of money. I'm talking a fortune, here. You can get out of here forever and never come back. You can start new, go to a university. You'll be free. You said you hate it here, well, here is your ticket out. Come on, you're too smart to pass up on that."

"I am smart enough to know where I am. You know too, but you too scared to admit it. If you could admit it to yourself last night, where you really were, you not sleep out where everybody can see you so easy. But you didn't." He stood up. "And now, sweet Anna, the girl with the pretty name, eye doctor from Canada who learn at the University of Pennsylvania, whose father was a teacher of poems and used to read them to her when she was a girl. Anna, who came here because she only want to help, who fell in love with this uneasy place so long ago, I, Cupid, am going to call my men in. You will be raped many times, and you will be surrounded for many hours by the cruel and smiling faces of the men doing it. When we get tired of you, I cut your heart out while you still alive, and take it with me when I leave."

"Please," Anna said in tears, "don't do this."

"We going to rape you to death, and there is nothing that can stop it."

She curled into a ball on the floor, crying.

Cupid smiled and watched her.

"Are you finished?" Cupid asked when her weeping slowed enough she seemed capable of speech.

"Please," Anna said, "let me go."

"Your tears have given me great pleasure, Anna, and I will reward you. I won't let you go, but I help you escape a little bit."

He reached in his pocket and tossed her a bottle of pills.

"What's that?"

"Pills," he said, "You take them, it make it easier for you."

She looked at the pills, and then at him.

The pills were really just multivitamins he took twice daily. He offered them to her because he thought it'd be funny to toy with her, make her think they were tranquilizers and have her discover in agony that they were not. "Go on," he said. "Take some."

Anna threw the bottle into his face as hard as she could. "Fuck you."

She wasn't going to get stoned, and she wasn't going to get raped. Not alive, anyway.

She'd fight back so hard they'd have to kill her. As soon as one got close enough she'd grab his balls and pull as hard as she could or chomp down on one of their necks until they had no choice but to blow her brains out.

She couldn't stop them from killing ner, but she could damn sure make them do it quick.

Cupid picked up the bottle.

She should pounce on him now, before the others came in. She should sink her teeth into his neck and fingers into his eyes and make him scream for them to shoot her.

"You are fierce, Anna." Cupid put his vitamins back in his pocket. "Truly, you have the heart of a lioness. Here you are, alone in a sea of killers. Death offers you easier passage into the world below, and you throw it back in his face. Bravo.

"I think you understand now that you are in a poem." He scratched his chin. "So, in a poem, what would happen now? The warrior woman rejects what weaker souls would have eagerly taken, and so proves she is worthy. But worthy for what? She has passed the test, but what does she win?

"The Demon God still can't let her go. He is lord of a pack of wolves. He can't lead them to meat and then let the prey go. He do that, they eat him instead." He thought for a moment. "Do you want to live, Anna? You want them to leave you alone, not lay an unclean hand upon you?"

"Yes."

"There is one way."

"What?"

"Marry me."

"Fuck you."

"If you say yes, nobody can touch you. Not even me. Not until we married, and that can't be until the war is done. Maybe I don't make it through. Then you free."

"Go to hell."

"You think this is a game I play on you. You think no way can this man believe I fall in love with him. He tell me he a killer and rapist. He threaten to rape and kill me. It make no sense he believe I ever love him. But remember what I else I said? I say I know where I am. I am in a poem. Don't in a poem it happen all the time the monster get tamed by love?

"You have to say yes, Anna. I cannot say it for you. I beg you. Otherwise, you die right here. I know you don't want to die, Anna. Say you will do it."

Anna stood silent.

"Time running out, Anna. What you going to do? Live or die?"

Anna lowered her head and whispered. "Live."

"What?"

"I said yes. I will marry you."

Cupid smiled. "Good. I tell my men the happy news. They will be disappointed," he said, walking to the door, "but, I think, happy for us as well."

He put his hand on the knob.

"Wait," Anna said.

Cupid paused. "Yes?"

"What's your name? Your real one, I mean."

"My real name?"

"You're going to be my husband," she wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I should at least know your name."

"Boohstandhe Wiknoltekedana."

"Boohstanhde Wiknoltekedana," she repeated.

"Yes. You see now why I prefer nick names?"

"I think it sounds very nice."

"In my language, it sounds very close to how we say, 'sweat from a monkey's butt'."

"Oh," Anna said. "So I'm going to be---"

"Mrs. Sweat from a Monkey's Butt," he said nodding. "But we gonna call you Anna, for short. Okay?"

"Okay."

He opened the door and the men came in.

Some made a beeline for Anna, already unbuttoning their pants but Cupid stopped them, speaking to them in their native tongue.

When he finished they nodded and were calmed. Some smiled and laughed.

One said something to Anna in a language she didn't understand.

Cupid translated. "The God of Rape says congratulations."

"Oh," she said, "thanks."

He relayed the message to the God of Rape.

The God of Rape said something else.

Cupid said, "He says, 'You're welcome.'"

"So what happens now?" asked Anna.

"You return with me to my village and we announce the good news. There will be great celebration. I can't wait for you to meet my mother. You two, I think, will like each other very much. But first, a small matter must be attended to."

He motioned to his men.

One of them set an overturned table upright. Four others grabbed Anna by the arms and legs before she knew what was happening and hoisted her onto it, ripping off her pants and panties and holding her spread eagle.

"Don't!" Anna screamed. "You said you wouldn't!"

"I keep my promise." Cupid broke a window out with the butt of his rifle and picked up the largest, sharpest shard. "We are not going to violate you. Quite the contrary, my love. You are to be consecrated."

Anna's eyes stretched wide with pure horror. She realized what was happening. He was about to perform a vile ritual upon her, as ancient as it was brutal, and meant to be proof of a woman's chastity, without which she could never marry.

He was going to perform a female circumcision on her. He was going to cut her clitoris off.

"No!" Anna kicked and pulled with adrenaline fueled terror, but it was useless. The men held her down.

"When we get to my village," Cupid said, approaching her with the dirt caked broken glass, "and I tell them you will be my bride, they going to inspect you. To be my wife, you must be pure, free of your unclean, sinful parts. Otherwise, it bring me great shame." He smiled. "My mother, along with a few others, must inspect you. She will be so proud. She will know you a good match for her son."

Anna screamed again, trying to break free. The men holding her laughed; their faces bright and eager, full of joy.

"I make you clean, Anna," he said, the glass poised to strike, "I make you pure."

"Please don't!"

He stuck it in.

Anna howled and screamed as Cupid twisted it with relish, shuddering in ecstasy and licking his lips before slowly pulling the glass out to stick her again. "Don't move, my love," he said through heavy breaths, "I must be precise."

He stuck her again and again she screamed. He moved the shard back and forth like a saw, trying to cut it off but the meat was too tough. He needed to stab it a few more times to make it more tender.

He pulled it out but Anna's legs, now slick with sweat and blood slipped free and she slammed her heel into Cupid's nose, knocking him bloodied to the floor.

His men, who had been laughing, were suddenly quiet.

Cupid rose to his feet, his face brimming with fury. He grabbed his machete and ran with it upraised towards Anna. His men jumped out of the way as he brought the blade down. Anna lifted her arms just in time to protect her head being lopped off. The machete sunk deep into her forearm.

He yanked the blade out and swung it at her again and again, sometimes connecting, sometimes missing but always full of rage, striping the room with her blood flying off the machete.

When his anger was vented he stood there panting as he looked at her quivering, bloodied mass.

"Okay," he said to his men, still out of breath, "anybody want to fuck her?"

Not surprisingly, none of them did. Not now.

"Okay, then. Let's go."

The men filed out.

Cupid lit up a cigarette, walked over to Anna, unzipped his pants and urinated on her.

When he was done he zipped up, grabbed his machine gun and machete, walked to the door and blew her a kiss before joining his men outside.

## CHAPTER 11

PRESENT

Christian and Detective Hall arrived at Richard Jefferson's Hospital and took the elevator to his floor.

A uniformed officer greeted them when the doors metallic doors bisected open.

"How is he?" Detective Hall asked.

"They're working on him," said the officer. "Something with his chest; they need to relieve pressure."

"Where is Marjorie?" Detective Hall asked. "Where's his wife?"

"Left about an hour ago. Finally."

"All right," Detective Hall said. "Give us a minute."

The officer walked off.

"So what do we do now?" Christian asked.

"What can we do? Wait."

"What if he doesn't make it out?"

"We have to hope he does."

Christian shook his head. "That's not good enough."

"I know it's not. But it's all we can do."

"There has to be something."

"What do you want to do? Burst in there, I jam my gun in their faces and make them step back while you do your thing?"

"Of course not."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. Something. Obviously not that, but we have to do something."

"You're right." Detective Hall called the uniformed officer back over. "Officer Hart, please escort this gentleman to the waiting room and make sure he stays there until I call for him. Nobody else gets in or out."

Christian looked at Detective Hall.

"You're supposed to stay out of sight during these things. Right? Right now that's about all we can do."

Officer Hart took Christian to the waiting room, ushered him inside and closed the door.

Christian was pissed. He also knew Detective Hall was right. There was nothing to be done until the doctors finished. But what was killing him was the feeling of powerlessness, of not being able to do anything but wait and hope.

The room was stuffy. Christian walked to a window and tried to open it.

"It won't open," said a voice.

He turned around and saw the woman lying on the sofa in the middle of the room. Its back was to the door, so he hadn't seen her when he came in.

"It won't open," she said again. "It's painted shut."

Christian peered outside at the dark clouds gathering. "It looks like rain anyway."

"I wish it would" she said, stretching, "rain helps me sleep."

"My wife is like that."

"What?"

"My wife is the same way; listening to rain helps her sleep. She even has recordings she sometimes plays when she can't sleep."

"I have those. They're okay."

"But they're not like real rain?"

"No. They're not." She looked at Christian. "I know you from somewhere, don't I? You look familiar."

"I know your husband. We met a few times."

"What's your name again?"

"Christian."

"Christian," she repeated. "Can I ask a favor from you, Christian?"

"Sure."

"Would you mind getting me a water, please? The machine is right behind you."

He filled a paper cone with water and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said, shaking a few pills from an amber bottle into her palm, putting them in her mouth and washing them down. "You know, I used to look down on people who needed pills or alcohol or drugs to make it through tough times." She closed her eyes and nestled her head on a couch pillow. "You live, you learn, right?"

"I hope so."

A while later the door opened and Detective Hall came inside.

"Is that Marjorie?" he asked, pointing at the woman sleeping on the couch.

"Yeah," said Christian.

"I thought she went home."

"It appears she did not."

"Well, come on. He's out of surgery."

Detective Hall took Christian to the room he'd had Jefferson secreted to after the procedure. He couldn't let him be taken right back to his usual room because Christian needed to work free from fear of interruption or being seen.

Christian went in while Detective Hall stood guard outside.

The door closed behind Christian and he walked over to Jefferson.

He looked horrible.

The parts of his face not wrapped in gauze were purple and so swollen they didn't look like skin anymore, but tightly wrapped plastic.

Christian laid his hand on Jefferson's chest.

The gauze was so thick he couldn't feel his heartbeat.

This was a problem; a big problem.

He needed to feel his heartbeat to do the transplant.

With the gauze there he couldn't feel the heartbeat, but those wrappings, along with a few stitches, staples, and thin threads of skin were the only things holding Jefferson together.

It would probably be a few days until he'd healed enough to safely remove enough for Christian to do the transplant, and by then may be too late.

Christian was about to leave to tell Detective Hall the bad news when a thought occurred to him. He just might have a way to do the implant without removing the gauze.

It was far-fetched but worth a try.

Detective Hall checked his watch again. Six minutes had passed since Christian went in to do the transplant. No way should it take this long.

He opened the door and peeked inside. "What the hell?"

He'd never seen Christian do a transplant, but he'd been briefed and what he was looking at now was not that.

"Chris?" he said. "What's going on?"

No answer.

He walked in, closing the door behind him and walking over to Christian. Detective Hall waved his hand back and forth in front his face.

Nothing.

Something was not right. Something was definitely not right. It was like he was in a trance or something, and why did he have his hand there? Wasn't it supposed to go over Jefferson's heart?

"Chris?"

A scream came from down the hall.

Though the voice was loud and contorted, Detective Hall recognized it instantly. Marjorie Jefferson.

He bolted towards the door, stopped, and looked back. What about this? Could he just leave them here, unguarded?

Marjorie screamed again. Louder and harder.

Other people started yelling too, some voices telling her to calm down; others begging her to please put it down before someone got hurt. Still others called for Detective Hall.

Marjorie screamed again.

Detective Hall ran out, following the commotion which led him to Jefferson's assigned room.

Marjorie stood in the middle of it, surrounded by doctors, nurses and cops. She was holding a lamp like a baseball bat, ready to swing.

"Where is he!" she screamed.

"Calm down," said a doctor. "Everything is going to be all right."

"I want to know where my husband is. I want my husband. I want you to take me to him now."

"I will," the doctor said, "just give me the lamp first, okay?"

She stood still, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The doctor moved towards her. She swung the lamp at his head; he ducked, narrowly avoiding being brained as he fell to the floor.

"Where! Is! He!" Marjorie screamed. "Tell me where he is!"

Detective Hall pushed his way in. "Marjorie, look over here, come on, look over here. It's me, Franky."

She looked; her face was red and eyes puffy. "Frank?"

"Yeah, it's me, honey. What are you doing?"

"What am I doing? What do you mean what am I doing? My husband is gone, Frank. Richie is gone and they won't tell me where he is."

"I'm coming in," Detective Hall said, "all right?"

She didn't say anything.

He stepped inside.

Her fingers tightened around the lamp. "Tell me where he is."

"He's in bed," Detective Hall said, "he's right where you left him."

She looked at the empty bed and then back at him. "No he is not. You are lying to me. Everybody is lying to me."

"Marjorie, calm down and look at me. Richie is in his bed, right where you left him."

"Why are you lying to me, Frankie?" she said, crying and shaking her head. "We're supposed to be family...why are you telling me lies..."

"We are family. And I'm not lying. Sweetheart, the reason you don't see him when you look in that bed is because that's not his bed."

"What?"

"Marjorie," he smiled kindly. "You're stoned."

"So what if I am?" Her voice got louder. "My husband is dying, so what if I needed to take something to have one second where it didn't feel like---"

"I'm not saying you're in the wrong. I'm saying you're in the wrong room."

She stopped. "What?"

"You're in the wrong room, sweet pea. This isn't Richie's room. You got high and you went to the wrong room, that's all that happened. Everything is fine."

She looked around, dumbly. "No, I'm not. This is too his room."

"Marjie," Detective Hall said, "look at me."

She did.

"If I come in, are you still going to hit me with that lamp?"

"I wasn't going to hit you," she sniffled. "I was just going to swing it at you."

"Are you still going to swing it at me?"

"No."

"Why don't you put it down then?"

Her fingers went limp. The lamp fell. She smelled something like sweet, burning cherry wood and fainted, Detective Hall catching her before she hit the floor.

He placed her in Richard's bed.

A doctor pushed him out of the way, checking her pulse.

"How is she?" Detective Hall asked.

The doctor opened her eyelids, checking her pupils.

"Doc," Detective Hall said, "Is she all right?"

"I need you to step out of the room, right now." The doctor rolled up Marjorie's sleeve. "I need anyone who isn't a doctor or a nurse out of here right now."

"Tell me what's going on," said Detective Hall.

"Do you care about this woman?" the doctor asked.

"Yes."

"Then you and the rest of these people need to clear the room right now. Nurse? Set up the I/V and do it fast. She doesn't have a lot of time."

Christian took his hand off of Officer Jefferson.

Twenty minutes had passed since he first placed it on him.

Chris looked around the room, for a moment unsure where he was. His eyes finally settled on Detective Hall, who was standing in the corner.

"Finished?"

"Yeah," Christian's voice was barely above a whisper. "All finished."

Detective Hall swung a chair in front of Christian. "Sit."

Christian sat.

Detective Hall slid the flask from his jacket pocket and handed it to Christian. "Drink."

Christian drank.

The booze made him shiver, but when the shivering stopped there was more of him.

"Better?" Detective Hall asked.

"Yeah," Christian took another hit from the flask.

"And him?" he asked, nodding to Jefferson. "Is he better?"

"I did what I could." He handed the flask back to Detective Hall. "At this point I have to turn it over to them."

"You did it differently this time, didn't you?" He tucked the flask back in his jacket pocket.

"What?"

"The transplant. That's not usually how you do it, right?"

Christian nodded. "Too much gauze around his chest to get a heartbeat. I had to go in another way."

"That's why your fingers were on his neck? You used his pulse."

"The channel is narrower, that's why it took so much longer." Christian took a deep breath. "And so much more out of me." He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked at Detective Hall. "How do I look?"

"Like shit."

A half hour later, Detective Hall drove into the parking lot of Elizabeth's hospital, pulling up to the black Mercedes parked near the entrance.

"Well," Detective Hall said.

"Well," said Christian.

Detective Hall waited for Christian to get out, and when he didn't, asked, "You waiting for an apology?"

"No."

"Good, because you're not going to get one. I did what I had to do to save my friend's life. I'm not sorry for that."

"I didn't say you should be."

"If anything, you should be sorry about almost costing that man his life. He has a wife, kids who need him."

"I am sorry about that."

"Then why the fuck did you do it?"

"Because my wife was dying and I wanted to save her life."

Detective Hall paused. "I guess that is a good reason. But mine was just as good. It wasn't fun, but I'd do it again. You can't apologize for something if you'd do it again, can you?"

"Not sincerely, I don't think."

"Then how can you expect me to apologize?"

"I don't."

"Then why are you still sitting here? Why don't you get out my piece of shit car I had to work for, get in that eighty thousand dollar marvel of German engineering you probably had just handed to you," he said, pointing at the Mercedes, "and leave?"

"Because it'd be a felony."

"What?"

"That's not my car."

"What?"

"That's not my car."

"It's not?"

Christian shook his head.

"Where...where is your car?"

"At the other end of the parking lot. I'm still a little wobbly. I was hoping you'd give me a lift."

"Sure," Detective Hall said, trying to mask his embarrassment. "Where is it?"

"Down the other end."

He put the car in drive. "They told me you parked right by the entrance."

"I did. Not this one. You can enter at both ends," Christian said. "You just have to have a sticker."

"Oh."

Detective Hall drove him to the other end, stopping in front of a black Mercedes near the other entrance. This time when he stopped, Christian got out.

"Hey Chris," said Detective Hall, just before Christian shut the door.

"Yeah?"

He wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

"I know," Christian said. "Been there. I know."

"Be safe, Chris."

"You too."

Christian closed the door and watched as Detective Hall drove away.

When he was gone, Christian looked at the hospital. He wanted to go inside and sit with Liz but he couldn't.

Berlin had something she wanted him to do, and he was going to do it.

A short while later Christian pulled into his garage. The headlights from his Mercedes shined on the dissected remains of what had once been and would hopefully one day again be a motorcycle.

In her apartment the process was disrupted before she could tell him what she wanted. Now, in the quiet of his own garage, he'd try again.

He got out the car, closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Berlin's room. In his mind's eye, he walked over to the photograph as he had done in life, mentally recreating all the events leading up to her first making contact.

After a few moments, the garage grew colder. The hairs on his neck stood up.

He could feel her sloshing around inside him, but her presence was much weaker than before.

He took a deep breath, relaxing his mind to allow her presence to grow stronger. He felt her reaching out to him, on the very verge of making contact and then...she was gone.

His eyes opened.

He looked down and saw his right hand had made its way into his pocket and was now gripping his keys.

He felt a tug pulling him to get back in the car. There was some place she wanted him to go.

## CHAPTER 12

When Christian was told he'd be going through testing to discover his talent, a lot of images accrued from years of watching TV and movies and reading comic books ran through his mind.

He was expecting something cinematic and exciting, but in truth most of the testing was quite banal. First there was a physical exam; thorough, but very ordinary for the most part. He answered a bunch of questions about his health history and his family's health history, and then they tested his eyesight and hearing with standard exams. After that was an ear, nose and throat exam; tests for his heart rate and reflexes; blood and urine samples.

The only part of that first day that was anything like what he'd imagined came at the very end. He was taken on an elevator, and after a full five minutes of descending, the doors opened to reveal a cold, white, windowless hallway bathed in a pale light that didn't seem to emanate from any particular source.

Christian followed the person in charge of his physical examination, Dr. Kutz, down the hall to a room about the size of two full sized basketball courts with ceilings forty feet high.

The walls were covered with strange, sophisticated looking machinery. At the far end was an elevated monitoring station and beneath that was the centerpiece of the room; a white, tubular container just big enough for a human being to lie in, situated on a track that would roll the occupant inside the belly of this technological beast.

"What is that?" Christian asked.

"A scanner," replied Dr. Kutz in his German accent.

"Like a CAT scanner?"

"You can think of it as such," Dr. Kutz said. "In truth, however, it is much more sophisticated."

"Oh."

"It is truly one of a kind," he said with pride. "You will not find it's like in all the world."

Dr. Kutz told him to remove all of his clothes and lie down on the black, cushioned interior of the tubular module.

He did and the belt started moving, taking him inside.

For a full three minutes it rolled before finally stopping. The top of the tubular module disengaged and retracted, leaving Christian in a place with a slightly elevated and domed ceiling that felt like a womb for robots.

"Christian," said Dr. Kutz's voice from the speaker just above Christian's head, "are you all right in there?"

"What?"

"Are you comfortable, Christian?"

He called him Christian. Twice. Up until then it had been Mr. Thompson. The switch was probably to make him feel a little more at ease. If so, it wasn't working.

"Not really," Christian said.

"I understand you are in uncomfortable circumstances. Rest assured the process will not be a lengthy one."

"I hope not."

"You will notice a thin red light that will appear at your feet and continue upwards to the top of your head. Please remain still, and be sure to close your eyes when it approaches your face."

There was a smooth hum as the motors started.

"If the tightness of your surroundings disturbs you, perhaps you will close your eyes and think of more agreeable circumstances? I understand you enjoy motoring. Perhaps you will think of a pleasant ride you took one day."

Christian took the doctor's advice, closed his eyes, and thought of something other than being far below ground, naked, trapped inside some weird machine, at the complete mercy of total strangers.

The next day was intelligence testing.

In the morning he took an IQ exam which lasted about three hours. After that was an hour long interview which he later found out was part of the test. After lunch was an emotional IQ exam which also included an interview and after that, tests measuring his knowledge of mathematics, English, general information, working memory and spatial reasoning.

The tests were all very long and it was almost midnight when he finally finished the last one. He intended to take a swim to unwind, but when he got back to his room just flopped on the bed and passed out fully clothed.

The following day was psychological examinations. In the morning was the standard stuff; ink blots, word association, finish the phrase. After about four hours of that he broke for lunch and when he came back was told the afternoon's testing would be a little different.

A woman named Dr. Heung led him to a room with a large movie screen and ushered him into the lone chair in the theater.

When he sat, she connected sensors to his head, chest, and wrists. She walked away, the room darkened, the screen lit up and still images were projected upon it.

At first it was innocent stuff. Kittens and clouds; oceans and mountains; people at a fair. Then came a photograph of a dead, mutilated toddler.

Christian turned away.

"We need you to continue looking at the photographs, Mr. Thompson," said Dr. Heung from the back of the room.

He turned his eyes back to the screen.

The next picture was of a butterfly, and then a waterfall, and then a black man hanging from a tree, lynched.

A little girl flying a kite.

A tropical sunset.

A severed head.

Hours passed this way. After a while Christian started to become numb but after a while longer he became the opposite of numb. With each passing slide he felt himself grow sicker and sicker until he was about to vomit.

His stomach rumbled and bile had actually started to make its way up his throat when the screen turned black, the lights came on and Dr. Heung announced he was finished.

Christian couldn't have been more relieved.

She thanked him for his cooperation and fortitude, and informed him he had the rest of afternoon to himself.

He went to the track, going for a long run to get those images out of his mind. After that he hit the gym and spent a while on the speed bag. He took the swim he'd been wanting since last night, sat a while in the steam room and then had a deep tissue massage.

He'd intended to join the poker game he'd been invited to by some of the researchers he'd met in the steam room, but when seven pm rolled around he was told it was time for more testing.

This test was administered in the office of a beefy older gentleman with a thick, bushy beard more gray than brown. He wore a dark suit and heavy, dark rimmed glasses and squeezed Christian's hand a little too tight when he shook it.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thompson. My name is Dr. Heisenberg. I am going to be conducting the moral part of your examination."

"The moral part?"

"Exactly."

"How do you test for morality?"

"It's simple. I ask you questions, you answer them. Painless, I promise. Please, let's sit down."

They sat down on soft brown leather couches.

"Now then," Dr. Heisenberg said, "with your permission I'd like to begin?"

"Please do."

"Scenario 1: A person is bleeding to death. You can help them, but if you do, you will get your new shoes dirty. Do you help the person right away, remove your shoes and then help the person, or not help the person at all?"

"I help the person right away."

"Even though your new shoes will be ruined?"

"Even though."

"It will only take a second to take them off. You can still help the person. What purpose is served in ruining your new shoes?"

"I don't think I'd be worried about shoes if someone was dying in front of me."

"Fair enough. Now. Scenario 2: You and your family, including your new born infant son, are Jews hiding in Nazi Germany. The Nazi's enter the house you are hiding in. You are holding your infant son, who begins to cry as they conduct their search. The only way to silence the child is to smother him to death. If you don't then you, your wife, and your other children will all be found and either shot or sent to concentration camps. Do you kill your child or not?"

"I guess I'd have to."

"You'd have to what?"

"Kill the baby."

"You wouldn't feel bad?"

"Of course I would. But if I didn't kill him he would die anyway and so would the rest of us. I'd have to do it to save my family."

"So, what if it was just you and your child? Would you kill him to save your own life?"

"No."

"But you'll both still die. How is it any different than the first scenario?"

"In the first scenario I was saving other people. I couldn't do it to save just my own life." Christian thought for a moment. "Those Nazis better be ready for a fight, though. I'm going to do everything I can to take at least one of them with us."

"You'd kill the troops?"

"Probably not, but I'd do my best."

"But, you are aware of the situation in Germany at that time? Remember, this was not a regime that allowed for choice. If they refused a direct order---"

"Hasn't the whole 'I was just following orders' defense been discredited?"

"In Nazi Germany, it wasn't a question of refusing to obey a command and simply facing a reprimand or prison time. If you refused, your whole family might be shot or sent to the death camps. If you don't obey, it may be you and your family hiding in closets from former comrades with a crying infant, faced with the choice of killing only him or sentencing the rest of the family to death.

"If it is morally just, or at least understandable, for you to kill your own son to protect the rest of your family, is it not at least understandable in some ways if this soldier kills your son to protect his family? You can understand such a soldier's position, can't you?"

"Sure."

"That in mind, would you still plan to take one of them with you?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

"For the same reason I wouldn't take my shoes off if somebody was dying in front of me. The thought wouldn't cross my mind what he might be going through. And I wouldn't want it to."

"Why not?"

"Because I would want all my thoughts focused on how best to kill as many of them as possible."

"Okay. Now, I'm going to update the scenario a bit. You are now the Nazi conducting the search. You were drafted into the service of your country. You have to search for Jews, but you are not a believer. You hate the Nazi's but you have no choice. Your superiors are suspicious of your dedication to National Socialism. Because of this they keep a close eye on you, and if you are found wanting, you and your family will immediately be labeled as traitors and sent to the camps. Or perhaps to a new medical research facility that has been opened and needs subjects.

"Now, you are on a sweep, and find yourself in front of a closet door and hear what sounds like a child weeping behind it. If you don't report them the next soldier will. He will also explain to his commanders that you knew the Jews were hiding there and said nothing, essentially assuring doom for you and your family. What do you do?"

The whole test was like this; Dr. Heisenberg asking progressively impossible questions and Christian trying to answer them.

Finally, after about four hours, Dr. Heisenberg said, "Well, I think that is enough."

"That's it?" Christian said.

"That's it. It was an interesting conversation, no?"

"So, am I moral?"

"You're consistent. For the most part."

"That's not the same as moral though, is it?"

"No, it's not."

"Sometimes it's the opposite."

"Quite often, actually."

"From the cryptic answers, I take it you either don't know or won't tell me if I passed the test?"

Dr. Heisenberg leaned back in his seat, folding his hands across his belly. "If I said you were a completely immoral person, would you believe me?"

"No."

"What if I said you were a completely moral one?"

"No."

"If I said you were mostly moral, but more consistent? What would you think?"

Christian thought about it. "I'd have to think about that."

"Perfect," Dr. Heisenberg said. "That's the idea, Mr. Thompson, to think. That is the real test, for you to test yourself, to challenge yourself, for you to think about the things you do, the things you would do, or think you would do, and ask yourself why and what if?

"You want to know if you are moral or immoral, and in wanting to know, you have your answer. The answer is more questions. Are my morals real? Are they how I really am, or simply how I like to believe myself to be? What do I mean by the word 'moral'? What do I mean by the word 'real'? And, real or not, am I living up to them? Should I?

"Such questions I cannot answer for you. I can only ask them, and if you attempt to answer, I can challenge those answers with more questions.

"And it must ever be so that a man questions his morals. For, when someone believes they have the final answer to what is moral and what is not, that is the beginning of true amorality. Such a man has not found a system of perfect morality; he has found a method of justifying his every action, of believing everything he does, no matter how heinous, is moral. If you are even a casual student of history or human behavior, I don't have to detail the dark places such philosophies can lead a man, and mankind."

Christian and Dr. Heisenberg spent another few hours talking about the nature of morality. The sun was already coming up when Christian returned to his room.

He expected more testing the next day, but there wasn't any. The moral exam was the last part.

They didn't give him much information on what was to happen next and by now he knew there was no point in asking.

He spent most the next few days playing cards with some of the other doctors and restoring the vintage motorcycle Dr. Crane had told him about. He was working on the gear system on one when he heard footsteps echoing off the garage walls.

He looked up and smiled at who'd come in. "Raymond," Christian said. "This is a surprise."

"Hopefully a pleasant one."

"To be determined," Christian said, standing up. "But it is nice to see a familiar face."

"I bet it is. They tell me the testing is done."

"Yup."

"How was it?"

Christian shrugged. "A zephyr."

"Really?"

Christian shook his head. "It was the longest couple of days in my life."

"That is the consensus," Raymond said. "However, I have something in my possession I believe that will make it all worthwhile."

Raymond pulled a large manila envelope out of his jacket.

Christian swallowed, not sure if he was ready for this.

Raymond opened the envelope, slid his hand inside and when he pulled it out again held a plastic bag filled with a brown, powdery substance.

"What is that?" Christian asked.

"This, dear boy, is one of the most deeply coveted substances on Earth. If word spread I had it, and gave it to you, it would raise the ire and jealousy of many powerful men. What I now bestow upon you, Christian Thompson," he held the bag out, "is a stolen stash of Francesca's coffee. Guard it with closest custody."

Christian smiled. "I will. Just put it on that bench 'til I wash the grease off of my hands. I would hate to despoil such a prized possession."

"Indeed." Raymond set it down.

"But in all honesty, I was expecting something else."

"Such as?"

"Finding out what my gift is. That is why I'm here, isn't it?"

"I don't know, is it?"

Christian used a towel to mop the sweat off of his forehead. "Meaning that's not what I'm here for?"

"You tell me."

Christian nodded. "No. I'm not here for you to tell me what my gift it. That can only mean one thing. I'm here to tell you what my gift is."

"I'm not in a position to confirm or deny such a thing, Christian. But, I am especially not in one to deny it."

Christian folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "You know, I've been thinking a lot the past few days."

"What about?"

"That Haitian man you took me to see."

"Moses?"

"Right. Moses."

"What about him?"

"You were wrong."

"How so?"

"You said eventually the effects would wear off and I'd stop believing someone could heal with just their hands."

"You still believe he healed me?"

"No. Not that he did. Not even that he could."

"What then?"

"That someone could."

"That's interesting."

Christian wondered if Moses really broadcasted some kind of hypnotic frequency, or if Raymond took him there for the same reason Hamlet showed Claudius _The Mousetrap_.

"I've replayed it a lot in my head since then," Christian continued, "and the more I do, the more I get the feeling that there's something off about the way he did it; the more I feel that the way he did it was, I don't know, backwards. I think I felt that way even when I first saw him do it."

"What do you mean?"

"The more I watch him do it in my head, the more I get the idea that he's going the wrong way; that if he wants to cure someone it's not a matter of taking something out, but of putting something in."

"Something like what?" Raymond asked.

"I don't know," Christian said. "Something."

Raymond waited.

"Life," Christian said.

"That's interesting."

"And in order to put new life in, it would have to come from somewhere else."

"Somewhere."

"Another person," Christian said. "That's it, isn't it? That's what I can do? Take life from one person and put it in another?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just tell me before?"

"Privacy is the cornerstone of our organization. If you decided that you wanted to keep it a secret forever, from us or from yourself, that was your right."

"But I didn't know until now."

"Of course you did," Raymond said. "Of course you did. You've always known."

"But you knew I wouldn't keep it a secret. Otherwise, you wouldn't have bothered with letting me know so much about you if all I was going to do was keep it a secret."

"Correct."

"So that means you want me to do it. You think I should use my gift?"

"How you choose to use your gift is entirely up to you."

"But you think I should. You personally think I should?"

"Yes."

"Even though I have to kill people to do it?"

"That makes you uncomfortable?"

"Of course. It would anybody."

"But what if there were a way around that? Would that make it easier for you?"

"What?"

"What if there was a way to use your gift without killing anyone? What if you could use your gift without killing anyone because the people you'd be taking from were already dead?"

Centuries ago lived a man named Eric Wayne, who had a very special gift. His very special gift made him very valuable to very many very rich and powerful men. A cabal of such men took him into their charge, as they did with many others with unique abilities, promising a better life, free from fear and persecution.

For a while all was well, but very soon Eric discovered he and the others were being used to further some very dark ambitions. When he attempted to leave, he found he could not. He discovered that though he and the others were called guests, they were in fact slaves.

One night, Eric gathered the others and staged a daring escape. Most barely made it out with their lives, others were not so lucky. For months Eric and the others lived on the fringes, hiding from their pursuers, desperate, cold, hunted and starving.

Some grumbled it would have been better had they never escaped, that the ones who'd died attempting freedom were the lucky ones and living in bondage was better than starving to death. Some said they should crawl back to their masters; beg for forgiveness and to be allowed to once again serve them.

Eric agreed.

They returned on their knees to their masters, begging for forgiveness.

It was a trick, of course. Eric and the others turned on their former lords and killed them, taking control of their vast fortunes and power structures.

A council was formed, with Eric serving as its head, to determine how best to use their newfound wealth and power.

It was decided that to ensure the safety and freedom of individuals such as themselves, now and in the future, it would be used to create an organization whose purpose was just that. To protect themselves from the greed, ambitions, fears, and prejudices of others, it was decided that this organization would be a secret one.

It was also decided that to further insulate themselves, the organization would discourage as much as possible the belief that individuals such as themselves existed, or even _could_ exist. They employed numerous tactics to do this over the years, with varying degrees of success. In the modern world, the most effective one was using the power of academia to discredit it.

The council also decided that in order to most effectively ensure the safety and freedom of its members, they must become even more wealthy and powerful than they already were.

Wealth and power turned out to be exceedingly easy for them to acquire. Many members had talents useful in making money. Over time they amassed several fortunes which dwarfed by far those considered by history to be the greatest.

Much of the money was used to purchase influence and political power, and the organization quickly rose to shadowed prominence. But as the power of the organization grew, it was decided that safeguards must be put in place to ensure no one individual amass too much power inside it. A Constitution was drafted and voted upon, guaranteeing each individual member certain rights.

To protect their members from want, to ensure that never again they'd find themselves cowering for favor at the feet of the corrupt and rich and powerful, and to allow complete freedom to pursue the development of their individual gifts as they saw fit, each member was given a sizable expense account to use however they deemed appropriate, within the guidelines of secrecy and protection. If they ever needed or wanted more money, they simply requested it. A board would review it, and as long as the purchase or movement of funds was not deemed likely to attract unwanted attention, requests were generally granted quite quickly.

And so, when Christian became a member, he instantly became a very rich man.

A few days before he was near penniless. Now, he could have anything he asked for.

But after hearing Raymond's proposal on how to use his gift the only thing Christian could think to ask for was the motorcycle he'd repaired. They gave it to him, and he spent the next few days riding the highway with no particular destination in mind, thinking about what he was going to do.

The offer was interesting, but he wasn't sure he'd take him up on it. Despite Raymond's sales pitch of them already being dead, of using condemned men who had already been 'executed', the fact remained they weren't really dead. It was still killing, and Christian wasn't sure he was up to it.

He believed in the death penalty. Whenever the subject of capital punishment came up he always said that not only was he for it, but that he'd love to be the one pulling the switch. But now that it was real, things were different.

He rode for days, thinking. The only times he stopped was to eat and sleep. Then one day, after about a week of aimless driving, he passed a sign welcoming him to New Jersey.

He thought of his Aunt Jewel, and decided to visit her.

Pulling off the highway, he took the back roads to her small colonial; pulling into her driveway and knocking on her front door, not sure if she was even home.

When she saw him standing on her porch her face lit up. "Oh my God. I don't believe it, I don't believe it." She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight. "Oh my God. How long has it been?"

"Too long," Christian said. "Way too long."

"Wow, oh my God, I can't even...what brings you here?"

"That," he said, pointing the motorcycle in the driveway.

She looked at the bike. Her smile disappeared and she looked at him sternly.

"What?" he asked.

"Just come in," she said. "Let's have a nice visit. I can wait for a lull in the conversation to chastise you."

He sat down at the kitchen table. She fixed him a cup of coffee, not having to ask how he liked it.

"Now," she said, licking a bit of sugar off her thumb as she handed him the cup, "I know I said I'd wait for a lull but you are being careful on that thing, aren't you?"

"Thank you," he said taking the cup. "Not really."

"Not funny. I never understood why people are so fascinated with those things. They're so dangerous."

"That's the idea."

"It's a bad idea."

"It's fun."

"So is gardening. And you don't have to worry about breaking your neck."

"You have to worry about snails. Beetles."

"I'll take snails and beetles over semi-trucks coming at me at a hundred miles an hour any day." She shook her head. "It must be like skydiving vertically with large masses of glass and steel coming at you every which way."

"It's not so bad."

"I don't get it." She shook her head. "You couldn't get me on one of those things for all the scotch in Scotland, and you know how I like scotch. No way. No sir."

"Want to go for a ride?"

"Absolutely."

Aunt Jewel climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping her arms tight around Christian's abdomen.

"You ready?" Christian asked.

"Yes, I'm ready."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!"

God, she wasn't. Up until Christian asked, she never in a million years would have thought she'd be doing this.

"Last chance to back out," Christian said.

"I'm not backing out."

"Sure?"

"Hurry up before I change my miiinnnndddd...!" she screamed as Christian twisted the gas and they took off, kicking up a cloud of smoke and dust.

She was terrified but couldn't stop smiling.

The kid was right. It was fun. She held on tight, her hair whipping in the wind. She closed her eyes and imagined this must be what it felt like to be Jane holding onto Tarzan as he swings from vine to vine.

They rode down the long country roads past the Swanson family's blooming strawberry fields and into a peach orchard overlooking a small lake where they parked.

"Wow," she said, taking in the view after she'd dismounted, "I haven't been here in so long, I almost forgot how pretty it was."

"Yeah," Christian said, skipping a rock across the water, "But I think we might be trespassing." He pointed to a sign advising this was private property.

"I guess we better leave right now, huh?" Aunt Jewel said, sitting down on the grass.

Christian smiled and skipped another rock across the water.

"You know, there was an orchard not too far from where I went to high school," Aunt Jewel said. "It wasn't peaches, though. Apples. Your uncle used to take me there all the time. I'd make sandwiches and tea and we'd be out there for hours, the whole day sometimes, just talking."

"That's what they called it back then? Talking?"

She shook her head. "Do you really have to give shape to every potential joke that crosses your path?"

"Sorry," he said. "You miss him, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Does it get easier?"

She sighed. "Yes and no. Mostly no."

"I still can't believe it sometimes."

"Me neither. What's really hard are the dreams. They feel so real, like he's really there. And then you wake up and he's not."

"Yeah." He skipped another rock.

She looked wistfully at the water, feeling more melancholy than she'd like. Searching for something to lighten her mood, she found and picked a daisy growing right beside her and began plucking the petals off in the loves me, loves me not fashion. "Ever do this when you were a kid?"

Christian shook his head. "That's more of a girl thing, isn't it?"

"No."

"And besides, it never made sense to me. Either way, if they love you or if they don't, at the end all you have is an empty stem when you could have had a beautiful flower."

"Maybe that's how you know," she said, "if they see you with just a stem and get you a new one, it means they care."

"Or they like seeing flowers tortured."

"That's a possibility too."

Christian skipped another rock. "It could be a lesson. Uncertainty and worry will destroy what is beautiful faster than time. It would take a whole season for that flower to whither, but only a few seconds in the hands of a love sick but uncertain girl."

She smiled. "I almost forgot. You were a philosophy major."

Christian was about to skip another rock but instead just dropped it in the water, watching it sink. He wondered how long it would be there. Ten years? A hundred?

"What's on your mind, Christian?"

"What?"

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something is wrong?"

"Isn't there?"

Christian picked up another rock. "Can't a man spend time with his favorite aunt without anything being the matter?"

"You can. But you're not. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he skipped the rock. "Not a thing."

"You need money?"

"No."

"It's no problem if you do. I don't have much, but what I have is yours anytime you need it. You know that."

"I appreciate that, but I'm actually doing all right now."

"You got a job?"

"Yeah. A good one this time."

"That's fantastic. In what field?"

Christian thought for a moment. "Recycling."

"Recycling?"

"Yeah. Or I guess, technically you could call it renewable energy."

"That's wonderful. I didn't know you were such an environmentalist."

"Well, we only have the one planet. May as well take care of it."

"Very true."

"And you know, Aunt Jewel, what you said about money works both ways. Anything you need, anything you want, you let me know. Okay? I'm set extremely well with this new job. Neither of us has to ever worry about money again."

"I never worried about it before."

"Just promise me you won't hesitate. Anything you want, big or small, you let me know."

"Okay."

Christian skipped another stone. "I remember when I first learned how to do that. I thought it was the most amazing thing."

"So, it's a woman?"

"What?"

"Is that it? Chick trouble?"

"What makes you think that?"

She shrugged. "You always fell really hard really fast. Remember Cathy?"

Christian lowered his head. "No."

"Yeah, you remember Cathy." She laughed.

His face turned red.

"My God. You were a mess, Christian. Really. I was embarrassed _for_ you."

"I've grown up since Cathy."

The wind blew a few strands of hair in front of her face. She brushed them aside. "God, I hope not. That would be the real shame."

The wind blew again. It had a chill this time and she rubbed her shoulders.

"Cold?" Christian asked.

"Getting there."

"We'd better head back. Moving on that bike puts more of a bite in it."

She looked at the water and crossed her legs. "We have a few minutes."

They stayed out at the lake a while longer, sometimes talking, sometimes not. When it was time to go Christian gave her his jacket to protect her from the cold and they climbed onto his bike.

They drove to her place. She got off the motorcycle and gave him his jacket back. "That was fun," she said, "maybe we could do it again sometime?"

"Sure."

"Want to spend the night? I could make up the spare room."

"Thanks, but I have to be someplace."

"Oh, okay. Well, was I any help with... whatever?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Good. And good luck with everything."

"Thanks."

"But just remember money doesn't buy happiness. If you're not careful it does just the opposite."

"More money, more problems?"

"If you're not careful."

"Wouldn't it be nice if it worked the opposite way? The more problems you have the more money you have. The world would be filled with rich people."

"All wishing they were broke."

They hugged and kissed one another good bye.

"Make sure you keep your coat buttoned," she said. "You'll catch cold."

"Yes ma'am."

"And be careful. Recycling."

Christian smiled. "I will."

He kissed her on the cheek one more time and drove off.

He wished he could've asked her outright what she thought he should do about his current situation, but he couldn't. He'd sworn an oath.

But you don't always have to ask a person outright to get their advice. Sometimes, just being around them, you get all you need.

He would take Raymond's offer.

He wasn't sure exactly when he made the decision or why, but he did know that when he told his aunt he'd be working in renewable energy he wasn't lying.

He still didn't like the idea of killing. But if he had to do it to save his Aunt Jewel's life he'd do it, no question. Other people had people they loved. If one of them had the power to save her, he'd want them to do it. Wasn't it only right he do the same? The golden rule, right?

His uncle always said you learn the most important life lessons in kindergarten.

He pulled over to the side of the road and called Raymond.

"I'll do it," Christian said as soon as Raymond answered.

"Wonderful."

"What happens now?"

"There is someone I'd like you to meet. A gentleman by the name of Julian Stark."

Christian met with Julian the next day and he explained the plan. Julian would provide access and arrange the mock executions; Christian would take their lives and dispense them to the sick and injured.

The plan seemed simple enough. All Christian had to do now was meet with Warden George Montgomery, the man who ran the prison they'd be using, and the program could begin.

Alice Rove stood in a small, hot room in front of twenty three of the scariest looking men she'd ever seen.

Some were scary because they were huge men with tattoos and scars; men you just knew lived rough lives, and lived life rough. Men who radiated an aura of pure 'Don't fuck with me', even when sitting still and quiet like they were now.

Others were scary precisely because of how scary they weren't. Take away the prison blues, dress them in ordinary clothes and you would think they were ordinary people. Alice got the feeling that many of them had counted on just that.

The men sat on cheap and worn plastic chairs forming a semicircle around her. Alice held a framed picture of a little boy and walked from one end of the group to the other, making sure each man saw the photo.

Wind from the rotating and inadequate fan lifted and dropped her hair as she crossed its path.

The boy was her son, she explained, and the reason he was smiling so big was because he wanted to show off his missing front teeth.

"They were the last of his baby teeth," she said. "And he was happy because when the new ones came in, he was going to be a big boy. I was happy too, but I was also kind of sad. Some of you are parents and know the feeling I'm talking about.

"You're thrilled at every little milestone your little one makes, but they scare you too. Your baby is growing up so fast, right? Too fast. It seems like only yesterday they were born, and the doctor handed them to you, and you fell in love harder and faster than you ever knew was possible. And already they're walking and talking, getting their grown up teeth and going off to kindergarten.

"We give them life and how do they pay us back? By growing up way too fast. Ungrateful little things."

She laughed. Some men laughed with her.

"You know you're being ridiculous, but you can't help it. Those thoughts really go through your head. How dare he? Today his baby teeth are gone. It won't be long before his whole childhood is gone and he's going to move on to his own life, and you're scared you will wind up like those baby teeth. Something he once needed but tossed to the side as he got older. You know you're being silly, but it doesn't change how you feel one bit. You wish you could stop them from growing up and keep them at the age they are now forever.

"Well, thanks to men like you my wish came true. My guy won't ever get to grow up. The space where his baby teeth were is never going to be filled. The space in my heart where he used to be won't ever be filled either. What got filled instead was his grave. And if you think their first day of kindergarten happens way too soon, imagine how too-soon it feels to go to your five-year-old's funeral. Imagine this."

She put another photograph in front of the first.

Some men groaned. Others looked away.

"Look at this, all of you. And if it's hard for you to look now, remember that to you it's just a picture. Of a stranger. Someone you have never met. Will never meet. Can't. Ever. Meet."

Most of the men who turned away forced themselves to look.

One did not.

She walked over and stood directly in front of him.

"And if it's hard for you now," she said to him, "imagine how hard it was for me to look at this. Not in a picture, but in real life. Not of a stranger, but my son. Not years later. Not in a prison. Not as part of some program that gets me out of my cell or off some grind for a few hours and looks good to parole boards. Imagine one minute strapping your baby in the back seat, and the next second looking at this. Imagine if this was what you saw then, and what you saw every time you closed your eyes since."

He still wouldn't look.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Martin."

"Martin, I'd like you to meet George."

"I'm not going to look at that."

"Please. Look."

"I have a son your boy's age, ma'am. It don't do nobody no advantage, me lookin' at that."

"I had a son his age too. And I didn't have a choice."

"I'm sorry. I know what you're trying to do. I know what you mean, and you are right, but no."

"Look."

"I can't."

She grabbed his chin, yanking his face.

A guard stepped forward.

"Don't," said a voice behind the guard. "Let her do her thing."

It was a voice the guard had been trained to obey. And so, he obeyed it.

"Look at it," Alice said, holding Martin by the chin.

Martin stared her in the eyes. It was a killer's stare, cold and hard. She stared back. It was the stare of the mother of a murdered child. He didn't stand a chance.

Martin blinked, looked at the photo and bit his bottom lip, fuming with rage.

"I had to wipe my baby's blood out of my eyes," Alice said, "and this is what I saw when I could see again. Blood and chunks of his skull on the back windshield. One of his eyeballs was on the seat next to him, the other hung by a string down to his chin. Some of him got in my mouth. Do you know what it's like to know what your child's brain tastes like?"

She let him go.

Martin rocked back and forth in his chair. Raging.

"You're angry?" she asked.

"What you think?"

"At me? For making you look?"

"At whoever did that. Makes me want to...if they ever wind up in here..." He looked at the guards, and bit his tongue.

"What?" she asked. "If you ever came across them in here, what?"

"He wouldn't do it no more. Put it that way. He wouldn't do it no more."

Some other men nodded and muttered in agreement.

"Why?" she asked. "Because you'd kill him?"

He looked at the guards and then back at her. "Just he wouldn't do it no more."

"What if I told you the man who did this is in this prison? Because he is. What if I told you he's not only in this prison, but he's in this room with us right now? Because he is. He's praying I don't point him out, but I'm going to. I've been coming here for years, seeing him sit there and act so polite, like he doesn't have anything to do with what I'm talking about and I'm tired of holding my tongue for him. I'm tired of protecting him." A tense silence pulsed through the room. "The man who did this is right in front of me. And to the right of me, and to the left of me. He's in each and every one of these chairs, because he is in each and every one of you. The part of him that did this, anyway."

"I never hurt a kid," said Martin.

"Neither did the man who did this George, until he did this to George. It was a mistake. He didn't mean for it to happen. A stray bullet. Meant for somebody else. But that didn't matter. This is what he, and you, made. This is what your violence creates. You are all responsible for this."

Cyrus Olsen, an inmate seated near the middle of the semicircle spoke up. "But who is responsible for us?" Cyrus asked. "If you want to talk about collective guilt, who bears the guilt for how we turned out? Who created the system producing men who feel their only option is crime?"

Seated to Cyrus' right was another inmate named Mac Dog. "Chill, Cyrus," Mac Dog said.

"I'm sorry her son died," Cyrus said, "but she's saying we're at fault. What about the people who created the system that produces us? What about the people for whom the system was created? The so-called good people? People like her. The system made for people like her is the same one that created people like us. So if we're to blame, is she not to blame even more so?"

Mac Dog was friends with Cyrus' father on the outside and felt some responsibility for the young man. Mac Dog also was the reason Cyrus, a small, skinny, kid with glasses who seemed to know everything except for when to keep his mouth shut hadn't been shanked on more than a few occasions.

"Cy," Mac Dog said, "just take it easy, all right?"

"But who is the greater criminal?" Cyrus pressed. "The person who steals to feed his family, the people who created the system that led to it being necessary for him to steal to feed his family, or the people for whom that system was created and who benefit from it? Yes, it's true, we all bear some guilt, but the buck simply does not stop at the lowest rung of people with the least amount of money and essentially no power. It just doesn't."

"Cyrus, chill."

"But if--"

"Shut the fuck up."

Cyrus shut the fuck up.

He folded his arms and slumped in his chair like a child angry at having been corrected.

Mac thought about telling him to sit up straight, just to show he could, but didn't. Instead he just shook his head.

Cyrus was a smart kid. Always reading books and debating about religion and politics and the world. He was a smart kid, but stupid as hell. Mac always said Cyrus would have something important to say some day, if his mouth didn't get him killed first.

"I've been coming here for years," Alice continued, "doing these victim impact seminars. And I am going to be doing them for the rest of my life.

"I used to be naïve. I used to believe telling you all about the death of my child and all the pain it's caused me would mean something to you and make you want to better your lives. But after years and years of doing this I've gotten to know some of you. And some of you have stories just as tragic and painful as mine. Some of you have seen your own parents or children killed. Some of you have been beaten. Abused. Raped. Worse.

"And maybe I'm just stupid it took me so long to realize it, but after so many years I finally asked myself, if the horror and ugliness of the violence in your own lives didn't stop you, why would hearing about my pain mean anything to you? If seeing your own loved ones becoming victims of violence, going to their funerals, seeing the sadness in the lives of the people left behind, and experiencing that sadness yourselves didn't do it, why would the death of my son mean anything to you?

"The answer was that it wouldn't. I realized I was wasting my time doing this, and I decided I was never coming back. But here I am. And here I've been. I came back. And back, and back and back and I know I am going to keep coming back for the rest of my life, even though every time I leave here, I swear to myself that this is the last time and I won't ever come back here again. Why do I keep coming back? I know I'm not changing you guys, so why come?

"Again, I guess I'm stupid because it took me a long time but I finally figured that out too. The answer is I'm like you. Just like you. I'm just another prisoner here with another tragic story of how I got here and blaming everyone I can think of for it.

"When I get in my car to leave here today, I'm going to swear on everything sacred I'm not going to do another one of these and that this is my last time in this or any prison. But sooner or later, I'll be back. Just like when most of you get paroled you'll say you'll never come back too. But just like me, most of you will. And deep down, you know it." She looked at Cyrus. "You said it was my fault my baby got killed."

"I didn't mean--"

"I can't tell you how many nights I spent crying over that same thought. If only I'd done this or hadn't done that, he'd be alive. If only I stayed home instead of going to the park. If only I parked in that first perfectly good parking spot I passed for no reason. If only I'd been standing a little to the left, I would have taken the bullet for him. If only I had been a better person, God would have cared enough to..." Her face tightened. She closed her eyes and put her fist to the bridge of her nose, waiting for the stinging sensation that heralded tears to pass. When it did, she spoke once more. "But guess what? No matter how small or insignificant the 'if only' is, it's not going to happen. What happened is always going to be what happened. The bottom line is I am here. With you. And it's always going to be that way.

"There is no catharsis I can offer. There is no lesson I can teach. This is it. My name is Alice Rove, and I'm here for life. This is our home, and always will be, like it or not.

"But when you stand before the parole boards, I want you to be as honest with them as I'm being with you right now. I know you won't. It doesn't matter. But I want you to tell them not to let you out, because you'll only come back bringing someone else with you. Another Alice with another story to tell. I don't know about you, but I think this place is crowded enough as it is."

Warden Montgomery, who had been watching and listening from the back of the room, was tapped on the shoulder by a guard.

"What is it?" Warden Montgomery asked.

"He's here."

The warden looked at his watch. Twenty minutes early.

"All right," the warden said, "Thank you."

Christian was seated in a waiting area of Orchard State Prison. He looked up when the door opened and a mountain of a man walked in.

"Christian Thompson?" the man said.

Christian stood up. "Yes."

"I'm Warden Montgomery. George Montgomery. Pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

They shook hands.

Christian's first impression of Warden Montgomery was that he definitely looked like a man who could run a prison. His sheer physical presence was intimidating. He stood six and a half feet tall and was about three hundred pounds of mostly muscle.

Chris got the feeling if the warden's life had gone another route and he'd wound up in one of the prison's cells instead of its head office, he'd still be one of the most powerful men behind those concrete walls and barbed wire fences.

"This your first time in a prison?" the warden asked.

"Yeah."

"What do you think so far?"

Christian looked around. "It's clean."

"Clean?"

Christian nodded, not knowing why he'd said that.

"Well, next to Godliness right? Come on. I'll give you the tour."

As they walked Warden Montgomery gave Christian a brief history of the prison; how it opened in the 1860's to house prisoners taken during the Civil War, and then stood unused for about sixty years until---

The warden was cut off by someone screaming and banging on a cell door.

"Pardon me a second," Warden Montgomery said, walking to the cell the disturbance came from. "Do it again! Bang on that mother fucker again! I dare you mother fucker, bang on that shit one more Goddamn time!"

Christian was shocked.

Up until then, the warden had been speaking in a tone and with a vocabulary consistent with the two Ph.D's Christian had been briefed he'd had earned.

Right now he sounded like he couldn't spell Ph.D.

But it worked.

The prisoner stopped his screaming and banging.

"Now, what is your problem?" Warden Montgomery asked.

"They fucking up my cell, man! It's piss and shit all up in here! I am a person, not no pig you keep in slop! They treat the things in the zoo better than this! I can't---"

"First of all, stop screaming."

He stopped.

"Now, we're going to try this again. I'm going to ask you what the problem is. This time, when you tell me, you're going to talk to me like you got some sense. And if you do that I'm going to respond like you got some sense. But if you yell at me and bark at me, I'm going to yell at you and bark at you back. If that's what happens, your problem, whatever it is, is still going to be here at the end of our conversation 'cause if all we do is yell and bark we ain't had no conversation. You feel me?"

"Yeah."

"All right. Now. What is the problem?"

The warden spent a few minutes at the cell and then walked back over to Christian.

"Everything all right?" Christian asked.

The warden shrugged. "Just prison. Come on."

"You turned on a dime," Christian said, as they walked. "One minute I thought I was in a history class, the next, a Sam Jackson movie."

Warden Montgomery smiled. "Well, the way I look at it, better I sound like a Sam Jackson movie than a Paul Newman."

"Paul Newman?"

"Yeah, you know. The one with the not communicating line. Damn, can't think of the name."

" _Cool Hand Luke_."

"That's right," the warden said, " _Cool Hand Luke_."

"You ask me, one of Newman's best performances," said Christian.

"I don't care who you ask, one of anybody's best performances. They gave him the Oscar for it, didn't they?"

"No. He was nominated but didn't win."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"He did win one though, right?"

"For _Color of Money_."

"That was a bad one too. Fast Eddie," Warden Montgomery said, " _The Hustler_ , _Color of Money, The Sting_ , Butch and Sundance, Luke. Damn. You gonna make me go home and watch some Paul Newman movies now. You sure he didn't win for Cool Hand?"

"No, he lost to Rod Steiger for _Heat of the Night_."

"You knew that off the top of your head?"

"Yeah."

"You into movies, huh?"

"Big time."

"You prefer cinemaphile or movie geek?"

"Cinema geek."

"Probably a good idea. Being in here, even just to visit, you don't want any kind of –phile attached to your name."

"I bet you don't."

"Anyway, what was I talking about?"

"Better to quote a Sam Jackson movie than a Paul Newman."

"Right, see, in prison, it's all about communication. They obviously aren't going to rise to your level so you have to go to theirs. You have to let them know there ain't no place they can go that you won't go. That's the only thing they respect. Come on. Let's go through here."

They walked outside and through the yard. Christian observed a few groups of men working out; others were seated at picnic tables playing cards or just hanging out.

They went into the building on the other side of the yard which housed what Warden Montgomery described as the prison's nerve center.

Inside were dozens of monitors collecting feed from the cameras stationed all around the prison.

"How are we doing, Willis?" the warden asked one of the men monitoring the screens.

"We're doing," he said.

"QBNTQ?" the warden asked.

"QBNTQ."

"Good," the warden said, patting Willis on the shoulder before he and Christian left the nerve center and toured the rest of the prison. The warden showed Christian the workshop, the honor dorm, music room, cafeteria, chapel, gym and barbershop. Christian was surprised to find the prison even had a bakery.

At the end of the tour they arrived at the warden's office.

Warden Montgomery sat down at his desk, a giant painting of dogs playing poker hanging behind him, and motioned for Christian to take the seat on the other side of it.

It was time to get down to business.

"So," Warden Montgomery said, "Julian."

Christian nodded. "Julian."

"Great guy, huh?"

"I haven't known him that long, but he seems okay."

"He told me what you can do, and his idea on how to put it to good use. Since you're here, I take it you think it's a good idea?"

Although it was forbidden for Christian to speak about his gifts with most nonmembers, he could with Warden Montgomery. There were certain people, mostly high ranking government and law enforcement officials, who were allowed knowledge of the organization. Warden Montgomery was one of them.

"I do."

"He wanted to bring you down here and introduce you himself. I told him I'd rather talk with you one on one. You get more of the real person one on one, don't you think?"

Christian shrugged. "I'm me no matter what, warden. Whether Julian Stark, or anyone else, is here or not here, it doesn't matter. I'm always going to be me."

Warden Montgomery nodded. It was a good answer. The right answer. "Do you know what I said to Julian after he told me what you can do?"

"What?"

"I said there was a big difference between what a person _can_ do, and what a person is _capable_ of doing. For example pretty much anyone can kill, but under normal circumstances few people are capable of killing. Understand?"

"Yes."

"See Christian, here is the problem. This is my prison. It's my job to keep everyone here safe. That includes the prisoners, the guards, the visitors, and the people who come here looking for work.

"I have a very effective method of protecting that last group. I don't hire most of them. Some people can do this kind of work. Some people can't. My job is to make that distinction. Today, my job is to make that distinction in regards to you. If I don't think you can hack it, regardless of what Julian says, this project doesn't get off the ground, at least, not in my prison."

"You don't think I can do it?"

"My default position is no. That's a consequence of the simple fact that most people can't do this kind of work; let alone what you're suggesting." The warden opened a large jar of jelly beans on his desk. "Jelly bean?"

"No, thank you."

He poured a bunch into his palm. "But just because I start out thinking that way doesn't mean I can't be convinced otherwise." Warden Montgomery popped a jelly bean in his mouth and leaned back in his chair. "Convince me otherwise."

"I don't know how I could convince you," Christian said, "but I can assure you. I can do it."

"It? Can you even say what 'it' is?"

"I can..." Christian didn't expect to hesitate, but he did. "I'm telling you I can kill."

"It's harder, isn't it? Even just saying it when it counts like it does now. If saying it was hard, imagine how hard doing it is going to be."

"It wasn't that hard. You want me to say it again? I can kill people."

"Like I said, everybody can. And given the right circumstances, pretty much everybody does. The question is, are you capable under these circumstances? Can you walk into a room where there is a helpless guy who never did you any wrong tied down to a gurney, scared out of his mind, and kill that man in cold blood?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because that's not what I'm here to do. He's not a helpless man. He's a man so dangerous he has to be kept under lock and key, surrounded by armed guards and barbed wire twenty four hours a day in a state of the art maximum security prison because when he's not, he kills people. And this is not cold blood. He did the crime, and this is the punishment. Hire and salary. You do a job and they pay you, that doesn't make you a thief. You kill somebody and get put to death for it, that doesn't make you a victim. Hire and salary.

"But I get what you're saying, and I'm not naïve. I've never killed anyone before. Killing is a big thing. Whatever he's done, whatever his crimes were, when it's time for me to kill him, it won't matter to me just then. Here is a living, breathing human being who very soon isn't going to be living or breathing anymore because I am going to kill him. I'm going to be basically walking up to a man I've never seen before who is standing on the edge of a cliff, his hands and feet chained, and it's my job to push him off.

"I've never done anything vaguely approximate to that. It's extreme and once I do it, I can never go back. As the date gets nearer, I'll have doubts. My stomach is going to twist in knots. I'll probably come within an inch of backing out, but I'll push through."

"How do you know?"

"Because I want to do it. Because I made up my mind and when I do that, come hell or high water, I follow through."

Warden Montgomery nodded. "Okay. Let's say, and for the record I'm still not convinced, that I am convinced and let you do the job. What about afterwards? Can you do the rest?"

"What is the rest?"

"The rest is the rest. After the job is finished, can you rest at night? When you close your eyes are you going to fall asleep, or are you going to see the man you killed staring back at you?"

"I doubt I'll get much sleep the night before. I doubt I'll sleep at all the night after. Maybe not even the night after that or the night after that. It'll take a while, but eventually I'll get to sleep."

"How do you know?"

"Sooner or later, everybody does. The next time I do it will be hard too. Maybe even harder than the first time because, I'll know what's coming and I'll dread it more. But I'll do it. The third or fourth time probably won't be easy either, but a routine will have started developing by then. Hopefully I will be seeing the positive effects I've had on people I gave their lives to. That will help a lot. After I do it a few more times...I mean, I don't think I'll ever take it as lightly as going to a grocery store, but it will be..."

"It'll be what?"

"It will just be."

Warden Montgomery said, "You put a lot of thought into this."

"It's not something that should be done on a whim."

"You'd be surprised how frequently it is. Some people in here put more thought into what kind of toppings they want on their pizza than they did on taking a life."

"Have I convinced you?"

"No," Warden Montgomery said, "but you have convinced me to give you the opportunity to convince me."

"How am I going to do that?"

Warden Montgomery smiled. "Come on, Christian. You're a smart guy. I showed you all around this prison, from the chapel, to the music room, to everywhere else. Almost everywhere else. Something must be conspicuous by its absence." The warden tossed the last jelly bean in his mouth and poured himself another handful. "You read the paper, Christian?"

"I get my news online."

"See anything online about Jerry Conway?"

"No."

"You know who he is?"

"No."

"He's a prisoner here, nearing the end of his sentence. In fact, in a little more than two hours from now, he will have fulfilled his legally mandated commitment and be free of further obligations to the people of this great state."

Christian shifted in his seat.

The warden said, "Dawning on you now why I showed you all around this prison, but didn't show you the one room that, as far as your work here would be concerned, is the most important one?"

"Yes," Christian sighed, "it is."

"Why?"

"Because they're getting ready to use it."

"That's right. In approximately two hours and fifteen minutes, Jeremiah Conway is going to give you the opportunity to convince me beyond all doubt that you are equal to the task. He is going to be executed. I want you to execute him."

Christian shifted again.

"If you can," the warden continued, "this interview process terminates in your acceptance. If not, it terminates in you not getting in way over your head. Will you do it?"

"I can't," Christian said. "Even if I wanted to, I can't. Julian said it has to be done a certain way. They have security protocols."

"That's for when you do it your way, their way. I'm talking about doing it my way. I'm talking about you going in the control room where nobody can see you, and you pressing the button, the seven buttons actually, that will end the life of one Jeremiah Elvis Conway."

"I wasn't expecting this. I came here to have a conversation. I didn't come here to kill anybody, and I'm frankly pissed you're pulling some bullshit like this."

"Well, feel free to be as pissed as you want, but the fact remains I'm not interested in taking on the considerable risks and efforts this project requires only to find out at the last minute you don't have it in you. You talked a smooth enough game to get me to give you the chance to prove it. It's up to you to prove it or not prove it.

"What you and Julian proposed is dangerous. Very dangerous. But lives can be saved, and to me that makes it worth the risk. However, if I'm to take on those risks I have to have something upon which to base an expectation of success. This would be that."

"Except this isn't that. I want to save lives. This is just killing."

"Think of it this way," the warden said, "You'll save more lives by killing this time than you ever will again. In fact, every life you will ever save, you'll be saving right now because if you don't do this today, you're not going to do it at all. Not in my prison, anyway."

"So I'll be saving none of them, and all of them. Is that it?"

"What's it going to be, Chris?"

Several hours later the execution of Jeremiah Conway was complete and Warden Montgomery was back in his office pouring himself a glass of bourbon. He took a sip, picked up the phone and dialed a certain number.

It rang twice and was answered.

"Julian," Warden Montgomery said.

"Yes. How'd it go?"

"He did it."

"I told you."

"Yeah, you did," Warden Montgomery said, sitting down.

The warden didn't think Christian would go through with it the first time. He thought, especially with it being a surprise and him having two hours to stew about it, he'd back out. Most people would have. Even if they initially agreed, the cruelty of the clock would have been too much; watching the minutes tick away until they were supposed to kill someone would've driven most people out of there. The warden knew he certainly would have backed out, and figured it would take two or three times before Christian actually went through with it.

Here he did it the first time.

Warden Montgomery wasn't sure what to make of that.

Backing out, at least, would have said something about his humanity. What kind of person gets told to perform an execution out of the clear blue, has two hours to be tortured by it, and then actually does it?

"So we're on?" Julian asked.

"Like the opposite of off," Warden Montgomery said, leaning back in his chair.

"He did the job," Julian said, "but he still has to do the rest. You think he will?"

Warden Montgomery thought for a minute. "He'll sleep."

"But how?"

"QBNTQ."

Quiet, but not too quiet.

"Good night, George."

"Good night."

Julian hung up the phone, satisfied with how the day had gone. The matter with the warden cleared up, they needed only one more thing before the operation could go online.

This was where it might get tricky.

## CHAPTER 13

PRESENT

Three hours had passed since Christian drove out of his garage. He was still driving and still had no idea where he was going or why. All he could do was follow the instincts as they came, sometimes telling him to go down one road, sometimes telling him to turn off of another.

He listened now as they told him to turn down a long, desolate country road and then down a narrow dirt driveway that appeared to his left, it's opening partially obscured by brush.

He drove down it; the other end opened up to reveal an expanse with an old farmhouse, two stories tall. Christian could make out in the back where fields had been, once thick with crops but now brimmed with nothing but weeds.

Berlin's last living words had been of going home. From the looks of it, no one had called this place home for a very long time, but it must have once been that for her.

He parked, got out and walked the dozen or so yards to the ashy wooden steps that bent under his weight as he climbed them. He reached the front door and twisted the knob.

It didn't move.

He pushed and the door opened.

Not locked. Rusted.

All the smells of the ancient house poured over him at once when he opened the door. The smell of old wood, rotted by mildew and warped by heat.

Something pulled him to go in the house deeper, and he followed it through the kitchen and up the staircase to a circular anteroom preceding another hallway. There were several closed doors on either side but one in particular caught Christian's eye and would not let go.

There was where she wanted him to go. Whatever it was she wanted was right behind that door.

He opened it and stepped inside.

It was very dark. Heavy drapes shaded the windows but he could still make out the large bed in the middle of the room and the young woman lying upon that bed, blindfolded and gagged, her wrists and ankles outstretched and handcuffed.

Christian went over to remove her blindfold. The man who had been hiding behind the door crept up and slammed a pipe against the back of his head, knocking him out cold.

When Christian woke up he couldn't breathe because a plastic bag was tied tight around his head. He tried to rip it off but couldn't because his arms were now bound to the legs of the bed he was propped against.

His heart pounded and lungs burned for air. Awake only a few seconds, he was already blacking back out.

He panicked, yanking at his restraints, kicking and flailing his legs, burning what little oxygen reserves he had left.

Terrified, he almost gave himself over to the delirium which would shield him from having to face fully the naked doom bearing down on him.

Most people would have.

Christian couldn't.

He reigned in his terror and focused his mind on finding a way out.

Bending his legs at the knees, planting his feet firmly on the floor, he pushed himself upwards. The bed rose with him, at first just a little (God, it was heavy) then a little more.

His legs quivered, aching from strain, but he only had a little further to go. His foot slipped in something wet. He caught himself before falling, and with lungs burning white hot and a head that felt like it would explode, he stood fully erect.

When Christian had first tried to pull the bag off his face, the leg his right hand was chained to had wiggled some, whereas the left remained firm. The right side was weaker and so he tilted the bed to give that side the most impact and slammed it and himself onto the floor as hard as he could.

This was it. If he hadn't broken his hand free he was dead because he was now on his very last thread of consciousness.

He reached for the bag. His wrist was still chained to the leg.

But the leg was no longer attached to the bed.

He ripped the bag off his face, heaving in heaps of air into his oxygen starved lungs. The air came in and out so fast he barely registered the new aroma it carried.

Gasoline.

That was what his foot had slipped in, he realized, and looking down at himself, what he was doused in, and a trail of which was leading out of the room. A trail upon which a train of fire now burst into the room, shooting at him it seemed faster than a bullet.

He leapt to one side just as the floor he'd barely left his erupted into an inferno, its flames licking the ceiling.

Sparks flew everywhere; dripping with gas as he was, if even just one touched him he'd go up like a Roman candle.

He freed his other hand and stood up, seeing through the thick and swirling smoke the woman on the bed, still gagged and chained.

Only her wrists were bound now, the cuffs that were around her ankles had been commandeered to shackle Christian.

Two kicks to the bedframe freed her right arm. The left, however, was not cuffed to the bed. There was a hole in the wall behind and above the bed, opening to reveal several thick pipes, one of which she was handcuffed to.

Christian pulled it; it didn't budge.

He took out her gag. "Where are the keys?"

"Get me out of here!" she screamed.

"Tell me where the keys are!"

"I don't know!"

"Fuck!" He pulled the pipe again. It still wouldn't move.

There was a loud crash; flames engulfed the hall sending a cloud of thick, dirty smoke billowing into the room.

Blinded and coughing, when Christian could see again he looked at the window, and then back at the girl.

He could try the pipe again, but it wasn't going to give. No way.

"I'm sorry---" Christian began.

"Please don't leave me!"

"I have to---"

"Please don't!"

"I'm not going to leave you," Christian said, "But I have to break your hand."

"Don't!"

"It's the only way to get it out. Put your hand against the wall and close your eyes."

"No!"

"Listen to me! Do you want to burn to death in here? Put your fucking hand on the goddamn wall! Now!"

She looked at Christian, crying and terrified.

"I know," Christian said, "but it's the only way."

She put her hand against the wall, closed her eyes, turned her head and gritted her teeth.

Christian's stood on the bed, raised his foot and brought it crashing down. Not against her hand, though. He kicked the wall, and when they were loose he ripped away the planks. His intuition was correct.

The pipe only extended up so far.

He lifted her cuff up and over it; pulled her out of bed and ran towards the window which was the only way out now that the hallway was an inferno. He tore down the curtain and was about to open it when the glass exploded in his face.

A second later a piece of wall exploded next to his head, leaving a dime sized hole.

It was a bullet hole.

Another piece of wall exploded.

Christian dropped to the floor, pulling her with him as more holes dotted the wall.

Fire and smoke were filling the room and very soon would consume it. They had about five feet they could move in, and that was being peppered with bullets and very quickly shrinking.

More bullets burst through the wall.

They could either stay or jump.

Christian decided they'd jump.

The fire was certain death but guns needed bullets and guns needed to be aimed. They had a better chance against it.

He grabbed an old black and white television set from off the floor and turned to the girl. "I'm going to throw this out and then I'm going to jump. When I do, wait about two seconds and then you jump too, got it?"

She didn't say anything.

Another bullet shot through the wall, barely missing Christian's head.

"Got it?"

Still nothing.

Christ. Did she just go catatonic?

Christian's plan was to jump out first so the guy would chase after him, giving her a chance to get away. But could he trust her to jump? What if after he jumped, she put her hands over her ears and just curled into the fetal position on the floor? There'd be nothing he could do for her, no way to get her out of there.

There was no other way. She had to keep it together.

Christian grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. "Come on, now. You have to hold it together. When I hit the ground, I'm going to take off. He's going to run after me. That's going to give you a chance to get away. But you have to keep it together enough to jump out after me. You can't fall apart now, all right? I promise, once we get out of here you can fall apart all you want and I'll fall apart right with you but right now you have to hold it together. Answer so I know you can hear me."

"I can hear you," she said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Wait two seconds after you jump, then jump."

"That's right." He gave her the keys to his car. "Don't wait for me. These are to the black Mercedes in the drive way. You get in and take off, all right?"

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine."

"But---"

"I'll be fine. Just do it, okay?"

"All right."

As Christian got ready to hurl the TV through the window, a thought occurred to him. Someone down there was shooting at them, yet instead of just shooting them both before, they tried to set them on fire. It could be because the guy didn't want to waste bullets, or, more likely, he hadn't had a gun before. That meant that someone else had recently arrived with a gun and there were now two people out there, two or more.

If so his plan might be doomed; his only hope was that they both went after him.

And besides, there were no other options.

He hurled the television out the window and then jumped out, hitting the ground, rolling over several times before getting on his feet. He didn't see the guy.

The girl jumped out.

She tossed Christian his keys as they ran to his car. Once inside he started the engine and the girl screamed, "Look out!"

A tan pickup truck was barreling towards them.

Christian put the car in reverse and slammed on the gas just in time to miss being plowed over.

The truck kicked up a cloud of dust as it spun around for another go.

Christian bolted backwards down the driveway, the truck bearing down on them, the girl in the passenger seat almost imploding with fear.

He hit the street, whipped the car straight, and took off.

It wasn't even close.

The pickup disappeared behind them in a cloud of trailing dust.

"Are you all right?" Christian asked as they pulled onto the highway.

The girl curled up in his passenger seat, not saying a word.

"Blink or something if you can hear me."

"I can hear you."

"Are you hurt?"

She rubbed the red marks on her wrists where the handcuffs had dug in.

Christian said, "I'll take you to a hospital."

"No."

"What?"

"I said no. I don't want to go to any hospital."

"All right. I'll take you to the police and--"

"No. I don't want to go to the police and I don't want to go to the hospital."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

Christian's neck got hot. He knew he should keep his cool with her, but right then, he couldn't. He'd nearly been brained, shot, suffocated, burned alive, run over and ran down and he had no idea why.

He yanked the car to the side of the road, grabbed her by the arm and rather forcefully instructed her she needed to tell him anything she knew.

She broke down in tears, crying so hard he was worried she might never stop.

But she did. He gave her a few seconds to pull herself together and then said, "I know you're scared. I'm sorry I grabbed you like that, but if you can't give me a reason not to, I'm going to the cops."

"Please," she said, "I can't go to the cops, you don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"He'll find me. Please, can't you hide me? Just for a while?"

"Hide you from who? If you know who he was, you need to tell me."

She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and told him.

And with those four words, things went from horrible to cataclysmic.

## CHAPTER 14

AFRICA

Anna lay near comatose on the floor of that house for nearly two days before she was found by government troops conducting a sweep of the area.

At first they thought she was dead.

If they'd been even an hour later in finding her they would have been right.

They got her to a makeshift hospital in a military base where she received basic care. Twelve hours later she was flown to a hospital in Germany and a month later to one in the United States.

It took the doctors there about two weeks to determine they'd have to amputate her arms, but she knew well before then. From the moment she woke up from her coma, in fact.

Maybe even before that.

The wounds themselves made amputation mandatory, so the infections that accompanied them were somewhat superfluous. Only one justified its existence; a nasty little invader that held a special enmity with the human optic nerve. The doctors told her they thought they treated her for it in time, but there was still a thirty percent chance she'd be functionally blind within a year.

At least if she did go blind she wouldn't have to look at the stumps where her arms should've been. Her left arm needed to be removed from the middle of her bicep; on the right she might be able to keep an inch, maybe even two, of forearm.

Then, of course, they'd have to finish what Cupid started downstairs. Turns out he had no idea how to perform a proper clitoridectomy, but the damage he caused trying now required the doctors who did know to perform one. They'd have to remove her clitoris, most of her vulva. She'd still be able to have children, though. That was good.

Of course, they'd be children she had a thirty percent chance of never seeing with her owns eyes, and a zero percent chance of hugging with her own arms, touching with her own hands.

But her children would be able to see her and touch her. That meant something. And she was alive to give them life, she had survived. That meant something too, right?

In Africa it had been so clear surviving meant so much, but now that she had she wasn't so sure anymore.

She was haunted with memories of Barney, Sahilla, all her patients and everyone else so senselessly cut down.

And for what? Why were they dead? No reason at all.

And here she was still alive. Why was she still living? No reason at all.

The counselors all said it was survivor's guilt and eventually it would pass.

Survivor's jealousy was more like it. Jealous of the people who would never leave that place she'd made it out of, but who had escaped it in a truer sense than she ever could. Africa, the war, the whole world was behind them now. And here she was, thousands of miles away, months in the future, and she was still there. And she would always be.

She was never ever going to get out of that jungle, no matter how far away she got or how long ago it became.

The counselors spoke with her family and friends, telling them how important it was to visit her, briefing them on what to say and what not to say.

Anna knew they all meant well but sometimes she couldn't stand the sight of them. Them, with their healthy bodies and who were going to get to be who they would've been. They'd smile and listen and talk and try to make her feel better, all the while quietly thanking God it was her and not them.

Some days she just couldn't take it and didn't want to see anyone.

One person she was always happy to see, though, was an old friend from medical school named Dr. Joseph Lee.

Sometimes during his visits, just for a little while, she would actually forget her horrifying situation and just be a woman talking and visiting with a friend.

He could talk about anything, and she loved his brain. His intellect was intimidating to say the least, even by Ivy League standards. But even though he was so smart, he had almost none of the drawbacks that were usually the price of such intelligence. He wasn't overly serious or moody or awkward. He enjoyed people, and was enjoyable.

The only thing strange about him was that for a man of science, he had a deep interest in what most people, Anna included, dismissed as pseudoscience. But such interests were not completely unheard of in the heights of academia. There was Brian David Josephson and David Bohm to name a (very) few.

But slightly eccentric interests aside, what she most liked about Joseph Lee was that he was the one person who could always make her laugh.

And when he walked into her hospital room that particular day, holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a red clown nose, she saw he hadn't lost his touch.

She smiled as soon as she saw him, her first real smile since his last visit. "You look ridiculous," she said. "Take that silly thing off."

He started unbuttoning his shirt.

"The nose, doofus," she said. "Although you are pushing it with that shirt as well."

He took it off his nose and stuck it on hers.

She crossed her eyes, looking down at it.

"Where can I put these?" he asked, referring to the flowers.

She nodded to the desk in the corner of the room and he set them there.

"Thank you for them," she said, "they're beautiful."

"Like you," he said, "even with the nose."

She shook her head and the nose fell off. "It's easy to forget it's on."

"You're telling me. I had it on because I was a clown for my niece's birthday. That was two Saturday's ago."

"And no one told you?"

"I thought they were trying to see if I was gullible enough to fall for it."

She smiled. "Park it."

He sat down. "So, are they treating you well or are there any asses in need of kicking around here?"

The easy smile on her face disappeared. "Well, they're going to cut off both my arms," she said, her voice trembling, "and cut out most of my pussy. They're telling me I might not be able to see in six months so, no, they're not treating me that great."

The tremble in her voice spread to her jaw and her entire face. She thought she was about to start sobbing but she didn't, pulling it back inside of her.

There was a glass of orange juice with a straw coming out of it on her nightstand. She asked him to hold it so she could have a drink, and he did.

"Thank you," she said when she was done.

"No problem."

"Sorry," she said. "You came here to pick me up and instead I bring you down. Seems I have a lot to learn about being a pity case."

"You're not---."

"Of course I am. You're supposed to lift me up so when you and all the others talk about poor Anna, you can say you came and made me laugh for a while. It's important, you know, to do for poor Anna what we can. She's going to need all of our support if she's going to make it through this.

"I'm sorry, but this time the story is going to have to be how I cried the whole time and you were there for me as a shoulder and an ear. And you are a good shoulder and ear; unfortunately those aren't the parts I need. I need arms and a...Christ, I'm sorry. Why am I taking it out on you when you probably are one of the ones who cares about me the most?"

"You go ahead and take it all out on me, Anna. I can take it. You go right ahead. Let it out."

"I just...I don't know what to do. I never...I never thought...never thought I would wind up..."

She gritted her teeth and tears came streaming down her face. He put his arm around her and she buried her face in his chest.

It seemed like if she just cried hard enough and long enough, all of this would all go away.

The crying passed.

Anna pulled her face from his chest. "Sorry," she said, nodding at his shirt.

"Oh," he said, looking at the wet spot she'd left. "Don't worry about it."

"But you kind of had it coming." She sniffled and said in a voice barely above a whisper, "You wear a shirt that looks like a rag, sooner or later someone is going to take you up on it."

"Anna, I...God, I don't even know how to say this. I had it all worked out in my head what I was going to say, but now that I'm here nothing seems right."

She looked at him.

"Anna, I think I know someone who can help you get better."

"There is no getting better," Anna said, "not from this."

"What if you're wrong? What if there was someone who, maybe, could make you whole again? Would you be willing to try?"

Anna narrowed her eyes. "Tell me what you're talking about."

"I can't. Not everything, anyway. All I can say is there is a man who has a process that may be able to help you."

"What man?"

"I can't say."

"What process?"

"I can't say."

"Something experimental?"

"Yes."

"Nerve regeneration or something?"

He nodded. "Or something."

"I see. And you need a guinea pig?"

"We need someone to be the first."

"And you thought of me?"

"Yes."

"You must really think I'm desperate."

"I know I am."

She nodded. "Me too."

"Then say yes."

"But why can't I know anything?"

"You know me. You know what's in my heart. You know I love you like a sister, and want nothing other than to help you, right?"

"Yes."

"You know I wouldn't do anything I thought might put you in danger. You know I wouldn't approach you unless I believed it could help. You know all that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then don't you know enough?"

"Yes."

"Will you do it?"

"Yes."

Joe stayed with Anna until she fell asleep.

When she did, he quietly stole out of the room, fished his phone out of his pocket, and dialed a certain number.

"Julian," he said when it was answered. "She'll do it."

Julian smiled. "Good."

The final piece was in place. They had a volunteer. Finding one was no easy task.

Choosing a member of the organization was out as using your gift in a way that might hurt another member was strictly forbidden. Until Christian had used his power successfully to heal a nonmember, he could never use it on one of them. And they couldn't use any random member of the public. It would be unethical to do something so experimental without the person's consent, and yet because of secrecy and security issues, they couldn't tell the person much about what was happening; they'd have to simply agree to an experiment of which they could know absolutely nothing about.

It had taken a little while, but now they had their volunteer. They could go forward with the first extraction.

It's funny, the things that run through a man's mind when he's about to die.

As Nate Carpenter was led into the death chamber, you might assume he'd be thinking about the afterlife, his family, his victims, his victim's family, or regret for the events that culminated in his walking down a hall to get strapped to a gurney and executed. But none of those things were running through Nate's mind.

Nate was wondering how the hell Orchard State Prison got its nickname, 'The Haystack'.

Fifteen years on death row, the question never crossed his mind. Here he was being led to the death chamber and it was torturing him.

Maybe it had something to do with how quickly things could escalate, he guessed, how it only took one small spark to light the whole place up.

It seemed as good a reason as any.

They arrived at the death chamber. The guards strapped him to the gurney and rolled up his sleeves. Wouldn't be long before the nurses stuck the needles in him to deliver the cocktail. He smirked when he thought of how they called it that. A cocktail. Wasn't that what rich people drank when they wanted to get drunk? Cocktails? On his side of the tracks they got drunk on drinks. Liquor. Beer. Mouth wash and vanilla extract when things got really tight, but no cocktails. Finally he gets to have a cocktail and it's a lethal one. Ain't that about a bitch.

But, it was on the house. Or on the state, anyway. And it was top shelf, more expensive than the ones even the richest of the rich sip on with their pinkies sticking out. What did they say it cost to execute somebody these days? A million bucks? Two? Rich folks would be able to get a lawyer crooked enough for them to get them away with it.

Wasn't that some shit?

Most expensive cocktail in the world was one you had to be poor to afford. Come in smelling like money and the bartender will turn your ass away. _We don't serve your kind here._

The guard signaled the straps were secured and a nurse came forward to stick in the needle. Her face wasn't all that pretty but she had some big titties. Maybe one would brush against him. If she had any heart at all she'd make sure one did. She was helping kill him after all; it was the least she could do.

She stuck the needle in. Her titties came close but didn't touch him.

As she stuck in the second needle, a thought occurred to him. He laughed and the nurse looked at him, confused.

"Don't you get it?" he asked her. "There it is."

"What?"

"The needle. Get it? The needle in the haystack," he said, and started laughing again.

She looked at Warden Montgomery.

"Don't worry about it," the warden said. "Finish what you're doing."

She did, and then receded from Nate's view.

Warden Montgomery took care of some legally required procedures and then asked Nate if he had any last words.

"Just that you all can kiss my ass," Nate said. "And that you better pray ain't no such thing as ghosts, Warden Montgomery, 'cause if it is I'm going to haunt the shit out of your ass. Amityville, Poltergeist ain't gonna have shit on me."

"That all?" Warden Montgomery asked.

Nate thought for a moment. "You all can go fuck your mothers. Is that enough?"

"You tell me."

"Did I already say ya'll can kiss my ass?"

"Yeah."

"I guess that's enough for now. If I think of anything later I'll be sure and let you know."

"I'm sure you will."

Warden Montgomery nodded to the person on the other side of the two way mirror. Not long afterwards, the drip started.

Not long after that, for Nate Carpenter everything went black.

And then, there was light.

For a second, Nate wondered if this was the afterlife but quickly decided it wasn't. It stank too bad to be heaven and not bad enough to be hell. It stank just right for prison, though.

His eyes opened. At first everything was a blur but soon he could see Warden Montgomery standing over him.

"Stay still Nate, you lucky bastard," the warden said, "The call came just in time. Turns out you're going to get that last appeal. We're going to get you up but the doctor has to have a look at you first."

Another man stepped forward, a stupid looking, college chump type of guy Nate figured he'd have wiping his ass for him if they were ever in the same cell.

"Hello, Mr. Carpenter," the stupid looking college chump said. "My name is Christian Thompson. Dr. Christian Thompson. I'm going to get you out of there, but first I need to check your vitals. Is that all right?"

Nate smiled. "Hell yeah that's all right."

Christian put his hand over Nate's heart.

"Now, just relax, Mr. Carpenter."

Nate relaxed.

Completely.

About an hour later Christian entered the room at the private hospital where Anna Genovese lay unconscious. She wasn't asleep; she'd been given a powerful sedative so she'd be asleep for Christian's visit.

He placed his hand over her heart, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A few minutes later he stepped out of the room. Julian waited on the other side.

"How did it go?" Julian asked.

"It's done. Or anyway, I did what I could."

Julian patted Christian's back. "You've done a great thing. How do you feel?"

"What happened to her arms?"

"She opened a clinic in Africa," Julian said. "Remember that uprising there a few months ago?"

"No."

"Well, there was one. She got caught in the middle of it and that's what the bastards did to her. Some of what they did, anyway. They did some other things to her," Julian shook his head, "Too gruesome for words."

"What's going to happen to her?"

"Well, she knows she's part of an experiment but not much else. She's agreed to stay on for a while for observation. Hopefully we'll learn something about how your gift works."

"Good idea."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea for you, either."

"What?"

"Come to the lab; let us run a few tests. We'll want to know as much as we can about your gift, not just how it affects your patients, but also you."

Christian shook his head.

"Come on. Just an hour or so to get the basics, you know, metabolism, brainwaves."

It was a smart idea, but being a specimen cooped up in a lab was the last thing Christian wanted just then. "Maybe later."

"The sooner we start developing a picture, the better," Julian said.

"I know. But I don't really feel like being around people right now. I want a little time to get my thoughts together."

"We have someone who can help you with that as well."

"What?"

"If this turns out to be a little trickier than you imagined, emotionally, we have someone who can help you navigate that."

"Like a therapist?"

"Like someone who will listen, someone who has been trained to deal with this kind of thing."

"Like a therapist."

"Yes Christian. Like a therapist. One whose training and experience is uniquely suited to this situation and your circumstances."

"I wasn't aware they had therapists who helped people get over executions."

"Police officers sometimes take lives in the line of duty. Some therapists specialize in helping them deal with that. The person with whom you'd be speaking worked for over 25 years in just that capacity. He is also a friend of ours, and has experience with people with special talents. You could speak freely to him about everything."

Christian shook his head, said, "Thanks anyway." And left before Julian could make any more protests.

He returned to his apartment, the same one he'd been living in before his meeting with Raymond.

He used to dream, lust, really, for the day he could leave that place behind, never ever to come back. Now that he could escape it anytime he wanted, the old spot didn't seem so bad.

He tossed his keys on the wooden crate that served as his dinner table and took a long, hot shower. When he got out he dried off and looked at himself in the mirror.

"Wow," he said, and then again, "Wow."

In the shower he thought it was his imagination, but looking at his reflection he knew it wasn't.

His body had changed; improved.

He was more muscular now. A lot more muscular. It looked like he put on fifteen to twenty pounds of lean muscle in less than three hours. And it wasn't just mass. He was cut too; defined. He flexed his arm. The skin was so tight he could see the fibers rippling. He was going to flex his stomach but there was no point. He had a resting six pack.

"Jesus," he said, admiring himself.

And he didn't just look good, he felt good; better than good. He felt as if he could do anything three or four times, standing on one foot with both eyes closed, handcuffed and balancing a sword on his big toe.

Brimming with energy, he dropped and started doing pushups. He did 812 before he stopped, not because he was getting tired, but because he was getting bored.

Instead of pushing himself onto his feet, he did a hand stand and started doing pushups again from that position, doing some ungodly number again before stopping out of boredom.

Far from having burned off any energy, it seemed he had more now than when he started.

It was the transplant, he thought, still standing on his hands. As it passed through him, it must have enhanced him as well, mind and body. Just like it makes a sick person healthy, it could make a healthy person...well...much more than healthy.

He flipped onto his feet. He couldn't stay in the apartment; not tonight. He had too much energy, too much he could do and he wanted to do all of it. He got dressed, hopped on his motorcycle, skidded out of the parking lot and soon onto the highway.

Lights streaked past him as he pushed the bike to over 100 miles per hour. It wasn't long before a cop car appeared behind him, lights and sirens blaring.

Christian looked back, gave him the finger, and twisted the accelerator.

The cop accelerated too.

Christian would've been really disappointed if he didn't. He swerved a sudden and hard right off the highway at the next exit; the cop followed.

Christian pulled over to the side of the road.

The cop pulled behind him and as soon as he opened the door Christian took off at full throttle, shooting rocks and dirt onto the cruiser before dipping down a side street. The cop was still on him.

Christian cut through an alleyway too small for the cruiser, swerving to avoid hitting overturned garbage cans, stray cats and beer bottles as he blasted through.

When he got to the other side he stopped and waved back at the cop still on the other side.

He didn't notice the other cop car parked a few feet away, or the cop creeping up to tackle him. The first cop had radioed for help and luckily another cruiser had been on the street right adjacent to where Chris exited the alley.

Christian saw his shadow at the last second and peeled out. The cop landing hard on the ground as Christian sped through someone's backyard before going down another street and swooping back onto the highway.

He smiled, loving the rush and twisted the accelerator back up over a hundred miles an hour. He hoped it wasn't too long before another cop got after him, but before one did something else caught his attention.

Getting chased by the cops was fun, but what he was looking at now looked a whole lot funner.

He pulled off the highway and into a parking lot. A few seconds later he was entering the establishment that had so captured his fancy. It was a strip club.

Stepping in, he felt like he'd stepped into a parallel universe where only Adam had eaten the forbidden fruit and impossibly gorgeous women still walked around butt naked without the least bit of shame. Not a bad deal, he thought, making his way to the bar.

He ordered a whiskey.

The bartender poured and when Christian tried to pay, he told him it was already taken care of.

Christian wrinkled his forehead. "By who?"

The bartender looked around. "That's weird. They were here a second ago."

"Did you get a name?"

"No, but there was something else."

"What?"

"They want to buy a dance for you."

"You serious?"

"Dead serious, bro." The bartender handed Christian a fifty dollar bill. "When you finish your drink, just mosey on to the back and give this to the lady taking money there. She'll show you to the room and the girl will come in."

Christian looked at the fifty and back at the bartender, unsure.

"Hey, if you don't want it I'll take it," the bartender said. "I saw the girl they picked out for you. She's fucking gorgeous."

"Sounds terrible," Christian said, taking the fifty. "Where do I mosey to again?"

Christian finished his drink and went where the bartender told him. The girl taking money showed him to his suite, a red, velvety affair that wouldn't have been out of place in an Old West bordello.

He sat down on the soft cushioned chair. A few seconds later another door opened and the girl came in.

That bartender wasn't kidding. She was unbelievable. Her face, her body, everything. Every girl in the place was hotter than the next but this one was...wow.

"Hey, handsome," she said, closing the door behind her. "Now, I'm here because the one buying this dance wanted you to have a good time with a girl you thought was cute, so I have to ask." She twirled around. "Will I do?"

Christian tried to talk but couldn't get his tongue to form words.

"I'll take that as a big ol' yes." She smiled and climbed on top of him. "Haven't seen you here before."

"Yeah, I'm uhh...I'm new here."

"Pleased to meet you, New Here. I'm Bunny. Hope you don't mind my saying, but New Here is a funny kind of name. Cute though."

"I'm Christian."

"No." She rubbed his chest. "What you are is yummy."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you."

"So, you saw who bought me this dance?"

"I did."

"Can you tell me who it was, or are you like, sworn to secrecy?"

"No, Yummy. I did as in _I_ did. I bought it for you."

"You did?"

"Mhmm."

She took off her top and leaned forward, swaying her be-sparkled, perfectly formed breasts as torturously close to his face as possible without touching him. It was an especially adult and cruel version of the kid's game when you wag your finger near a person's face and say: 'As long as I don't touch you, it's just air'.

Her stripper sixth-sense told her when he'd explode if she didn't move back, and when it did, she moved forward, grazing his face with her boob.

"Uh oh," she said. "That's not supposed to happen. You're not gonna tell on me, are you?"

Christian shook his head. "Mum's the word."

She felt the muscles in his arms. "Yum's the word."

"You do this a lot?" Christian asked. "Buy dances for the guys who come in here?"

"Yummy, I'll bet this is the first time in the whole history of stripping that the stripper buys a dance from the customer. But I bet you something else? Every other girl dancing here was fixing to do the exact same thing when they saw you. Lucky me I got to you first." She bit her bottom lip, writhing on top of him. "God. You are so effing sexy."

"You're far too kind."

"Can I be too honest instead?"

"Sure."

"I really need to make bang-bang with you. Can we go someplace and do that?"

Fifteen minutes later Christian and Bunny were falling into a motel room, kissing furiously, ripping each other's clothes off.

When they made it inside Christian shut the door; Bunny dropped to her knees, unzipping his jeans.

When she pulled them down her eyes grew wide and a smile spread across her face.

"Nice," she said, nodding. "Very, very nice." Her voice was different now than from in the club. In the club it had a cartoonish quality. Now, he guessed, she was speaking closer to her natural voice. "You know, it's risky, some guys are hot-looking but you get their clothes off and it's like, 'Wow. You are not packing at all, are you?' They're all packaging, no package. You on the other hand, are like...wow. Just...wow. Really. I mean it. You have a truly remarkable penis. You should be proud. If you want to make a speech I'll listen to it."

"Awww, shucks miss," Christian said in a country accent. "This old thing?"

"I am actually a little bit frightened for my vagina. When we woke up this morning she had no idea." Her face lit up as a bright idea hit her. "In fact..."

She fished her phone from her purse.

"No," Christian said, covering himself, "don't."

"It's not that I want to, baby, I have to. No one is going to believe me."

"No."

"I won't get your face, I promise."

"No, Bunny."

She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head like a defiant child. "Come on."

"No."

She folded her arms and stuck out her bottom lip, pouting. "You're being mean."

"No," Christian said, wagging his finger. "Now that's final, missy."

"Fine. But if I can't do that can I do something else instead?"

"Like that?"

She tucked the phone back in her purse and pulled out a small bag of white powder. "Can I do a bump off of it?"

"Is that cocaine?"

"Awww," she said, smiling, "and you're square, too? Now I wanna squeeze your face cheeks as much as I do your butt cheeks. Yes, Yummy. This is cocaine. Can I?"

"You want to snort cocaine off of my dick?"

"Pretty, pretty please?"

Christian shrugged. "I guess?"

She tapped some coke onto his penis and snorted it off. "Whew," she said, shaking her head. "That'll get you up."

"I heard it does the opposite."

"What?"

"Coke, I heard it makes it hard to, you know..."

"Hard to get hard?"

"Yeah."

"No. Well, yeah and no. It's like drinking. You do just enough, you last all night. Do too much and you're as limp as an empty sock. Want to try some?"

"I've never done it before."

"Yeah, I kind of pieced that together," she said, laughing. "Since you're a virgin I'll be gentle."

She sat down on the bed, tapped a little onto her knuckle and held it out to Christian.

Christian was unsure.

"You don't have to," she said. "It's just I can't stand when people do it right in front of me and don't offer. I mean, how do you do coke in front of someone who you know likes coke and not offer them some? If you don't have enough to share, go in the bathroom."

"The manners on some people."

"Starts in the home," she said, "you go to any mall or restaurant or plane and see how some of these parents are raising their kids and it's no wonder you wind up with a country full of non-offering public snorters.

"Anyway, you sure you won't have some? Your first high is amazing and fucking on your first high is fucking amazing."

"I guess I'll try it," Christian sat beside her. She almost spilled some when the bed bounced.

"Whoops. Careful, baby," she said.

"How...how?"

"There's not a whole lot to it, sexy. Just put your nose to it and sniff."

"Like smelling a flower?"

She smiled. "If that helps."

He pressed one nostril shut, lowered his head and then lifted it back up. The coke was still on her knuckle.

"You forgot something, handsome," she said.

"I think I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." She snorted it, pulled a condom out of her purse and handed it to Christian. "And suit him up. Time for bang bang. I hope you had a big dinner 'cause you are in for a fight."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, that's so. Believe me baby, I don't back down."

"Famous last words."

"We'll see who gets the last word."

They had sex six times back to back over the next five hours. Christian was ready to go right number seven but Bunny had been defeated. She couldn't take any more and when he tried to start it back up she tapped her hand on the bed like a fighter who'd had enough.

"K.O." she said, breathless,

"TKO...TKO...TKO."

"What?"

"...TKO...TKO..."

"Tokyo? I've never been but I would love to go. Are you inviting me?"

"Liar," she said, still catching her breath. "You have been to Tokyo. You've been in Tokyo, because I am Tokyo. You..." she said, pointing her finger at him, "You are Godzilla."

"Come on," Christian said. "Two more times to warm up and then we'll get serious."

"Not a chance, sugar cock," she said. "Sorry baby, but you have done the impossible. You have out banged a bunny."

"But I'm still horny."

"Sorry, sweetie pie. You're a victim of your own talent."

"How about we try this---"

"I'm sorry," she said. "Really baby, I would if I could; I really can't right now."

Christian got her a cup of water.

"Drink this," he said. "We'll take a ten minute break, do some stretches, check our e-mails or whatever and then we'll meet back here to...Bunny?"

She was snoring.

Christian was disappointed.

He knew she didn't want to have any more sex right away, but she had mentioned Godzilla. He wanted to find out if she was a fan, and if so, share some of his more interesting theories on Mothra.

Alas, that was not to be.

He walked to the window and peeked outside.

The sun was coming up and the watery light of morning seeped through the blinds.

Christian smiled. The prediction he'd made to the warden had come true.

The first night passed without him getting any sleep at all.

But looking at his new physique, Christian wondered if he'd been wrong when he'd guessed the reason for his recent upgrades.

Earlier, he considered that his sudden improvements were a byproduct of taking a life to give to someone else. But what if that was backwards? What if this perfection was the primary cause rather than secondary effect? What if he absorbed lives in order to achieve his own state of grace, and the excess life he gave to help others was the byproduct?

That raised some pretty terrifying questions. If his gift kept him in a state of near physical perfection, did he even have to age anymore? He couldn't believe this thought was going through his head, but was he immortal?

It was a hell of a thought. One he never thought in a million years he'd ever have to consider. Now, for all he knew, he had a million years to consider it.

Certain other associations started coalescing. If he was immortal, but needed to feed off of other human beings to stay alive, what did that make him? Some kind of vampire?

It fit. The way Bunny and apparently the rest of the girls at the club reacted to him was insane. He had always done kind-of-sort-of okay with women, but nothing even approaching this.

He didn't completely understand it, but intuitively he knew he was emitting some kind of energy that made them react the way they did. He was brimming with excess life, and that was what made them so desperate to be close to him. Wasn't that a vampire thing too? Superhuman powers of seduction?

A beam of sunlight broke through the curtains and shined onto the motel room floor.

He put his arm in the light.

It didn't burst into flames, anyway.

It sparkled some, but he was fairly sure that was from Bunny's glitter.

Julian Stark sat at his desk, cursing himself for not thinking far enough ahead.

He should have provided funeral services for the Carpenter family, claiming to be an anonymous supporter or something. That would have given his doctors more time to examine Nate's body.

As it was, they only had time to secure a few samples and run a few of tests. It wasn't much, but they'd know more tomorrow than they knew today. And he'd know how to better handle it next time.

His phone rang.

It was Christian. Julian looked at the clock. It was early. He thought this might happen; that Christian would not be able to cope and need to talk to someone. Poor kid probably spent the night alone, shivering in a dark room, unable to deal with what he'd done but still too proud to want to talk to a therapist.

He answered. "Christian."

"Yeah."

"How are you?"

"Fine," Christian said. "Just checking in. Didn't want you guys to worry."

"We appreciate that."

"Am I a vampire?"

Julian blinked and shook his head. "I'm sorry?"

"Is that what this is? This group. Are we vampires?"

"No," Julian chuckled, "neither we, nor you, are vampires."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite."

"It's fine if we are. If so, I just want to know, you know?"

"I know," Julian said, "and no, you are not Nosferatu. You are very much human, and very much alive. Have no fear of crosses or sunlight or garlic. A stake through the heart you'll still want to avoid, though. And bullets, silver or otherwise."

"Silver bullets are for werewolves."

"Well, you're not a werewolf either. And in case you were going to ask, you're not an alien, mermaid, unicorn, cyborg, honest politician, or the lost continent of Atlantis either. You are but a man, Christian. Sorry to disappoint."

"I'm not disappointed, I'm just... it's a lot to take in."

"It certainly is. That's why I offered you the services of a therapist. A man who tries to handle something like this on his own is apt to wind up in strange places, existentially speaking."

"Like wondering if he's a vampire?"

"For instance."

"How is the woman doing?"

"You mean the patient?"

"Yeah."

"There haven't been any ill effects yet, as far as we can tell. We've got the 'First do no harm' part of it down."

"So far."

"So far. She's been asleep since the procedure."

Christian looked at Bunny sleeping beside him. "I've been mostly in bed too."

"These operations take a lot out of you, do they?"

"You should see the other guy."

"I have. Would have liked to have seen more."

"What?"

"Nothing. Look, Christian, at the risk of becoming tiresome, I must again request you make yourself available for examination. I promise it'll be short and painless."

Christian closed his eyes, and leaned back on the pillow. "Maybe I'll come in."

Julian knew he was lying but saw no benefit in pushing. "All right. I'll see you when you get here."

"See you then."

"And Christian, before you hang up, do tell me one thing. And please, be completely honest. I promise not to judge."

"What?"

"You didn't at any point in the recent past attempt to turn into a bat, did you?"

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Not anytime soon, no," Julian said laughing.

Christian hung up and tossed the phone on the nightstand.

Bunny's hand crept onto his chest.

"You're not leaving already, are you?" she asked.

Christian mumbled something about being more in the mood for coming than going and they made love again. And again. After the third time Christian and Bunny both were famished.

Christian jogged to the convenience store across the street, bought some milk, all the sugariest looking cereals they had along with some plastic bowls and spoons.

He returned to the motel room, he and Bunny smoked the joint she had in her purse and munched on bowls of cereal and watched reruns of _Scooby Doo_ and _Sanford and Son_ until falling asleep.

When they woke up Christian paid the bill and Bunny hopped on the back of his bike. He drove her home and she got off, kissing him on the cheek and giving him a piece of paper with her phone number scrawled across it. "Call me," she said.

Christian slid the paper in his pocket and said he would.

Bunny frowned watching him drive off and then went inside her apartment, tossing her purse on the floor. She went to her bathroom, took the extensions out of her hair, splashed some cold water on her face and looked at her reflection.

"Well, that was stupid," she said. "That was really, really stupid of you. Nice job."

She shouldn't have given him her number.

He wasn't going to call. She knew he wasn't, but of course that wouldn't stop her from waiting by the phone like a puppy begging for a treat for the next few weeks. Stupid. She'd given him her number, now she'd have to wait for his call even though it wasn't going to come. She'd get over it eventually but in the meantime she was going to get really depressed.

Geez. That was really dumb.

He wasn't going to call.

Of course he wasn't.

It was like high school all over again, giving the cool guy her number but knowing nothing was going to happen. Except it's even worse now because she wasn't overweight and boobless with acne, glasses, and braces.

Now she was super-hot, but she was still the ugly girl.

"Maybe he will call," she said to her reflection, "when he wants to fuck you again. If you're lucky, he might even let you think you're his girl for a while, probably make you blow all his friends or else he won't talk to you anymore. Then it'll really be just like high school again, won't it? Or was that middle school? Or was that last month? God, you are stupid."

She twisted her hair up, undressed, and got in the shower, turning the water on.

She looked at the floor beneath the stream and thought of how delivering it would feel to just curl up there and lose it for a while. But she decided not to do that. This time, she'd be stronger.

She put her face in the stream. The warm water against her skin was invigorating.

She smiled and laughed at herself.

God. How silly she was. Had she really been about to cry over some guy, some stupid piece of ass? Some loser who, by the way, has to go to strip clubs to get girls?

She felt lighter.

No. Sorry. She would not be getting all broken up over some lame dud she was better off without.

She threw her hands up and laughed, feeling freer than she had her entire life.

Seven seconds later she was curled up on the floor of her shower, crying her eyes out.

Christian planned to go to the lab right after dropping Bunny off, but when he neared the exit to take him there he still felt like riding, so, he kept riding.

He kept on for hours, not even realizing how much time had passed until the bike was near out of gas.

He pulled into a gas station in a small town.

It was weird. He'd never been there before, but it felt familiar.

He filled his bike up and drove around the town a while longer.

Eventually he came to a particular house.

Instantly he knew whose house it was, and what had brought him there.

"And what was that?" Julian asked him when he related the story to him a few hours later.

"Nate Carpenter," Christian said. "It was his house. His family's house, anyway."

Julian didn't seem surprised, like he knew this might happen. "Was anyone home?"

Christian nodded.

"You didn't approach them, did you?"

"Of course not," Christian lied.

"Good."

Christian paced Julian's office. "I don't like this, Julian. I don't like the idea of pieces of those people being left inside of me."

"I highly doubt that is what's happening," Julian said. "Elevated intuitive experiences like what you're describing are harmless. It's not pieces of them left inside you. It's more like pages in a book, or memory of pages in a book you once read. You can look at them if you like or you can close the book and place it back on the shelf."

"Still," Christian said. "It's unsettling."

Julian nodded. "I imagine most of this is."

## CHAPTER 15

Christian pulled into his driveway with the girl he'd saved from the burning house in his passenger seat. She was still scared out of her mind, but handling it much better now.

He parked the car, took the key out of the ignition. "This is it."

She looked up at the house but didn't get out.

Christian did, going inside and leaving the front door open behind him.

A bag of chips was on his living room coffee table that didn't belong to him. One of the cops who'd broken in earlier must've left it there.

He tossed them in the trash.

When he looked back, the girl was standing in his doorway, peering inside but not stepping in.

"Want something to drink?" Christian asked.

She nodded timidly.

"The fridge is in there," he said, pointing to the kitchen. "Cups are over the sink. Fix me one of whatever you're having too, please. My throat's so dry I can barely talk."

Christian walked in to another room as if he had something to do in there but really just stood and waited.

When he came back out she was sitting at the bar separating the kitchen from the living room. Two glasses were in front of her, both set on coasters. He didn't know why, but her using coasters seemed like a positive sign.

"Thanks," Christian said, picking up his glass of grape juice.

"You're welcome."

Christian took a long drink and licked his lips. He was still having trouble processing what she'd told him in the car, about why she didn't couldn't go to the police.

It made sense. It certainly explained why Berlin had been too afraid to do anything or tell anybody about it while she was still alive.

But he needed to know more. The only person who could give it to him was the girl sitting right in front of him, tongue turning purple from grape juice.

The only problem was that she didn't want to talk about it. More than just not wanting to, she was terrified. Pressing her wouldn't do any good. She'd just clam up.

Getting her to open up would take finesse.

Christian figured the best way to get someone to talk to you is to talk to them. He didn't have a plan on what to say exactly; he'd just start talking, gain her trust, and take advantage of opportunities as they presented themselves.

He looked at the handcuffs dangling from her wrists. "I could try to get those off if you want."

"Okay."

Christian grabbed a couple paperclips from a junk drawer, straightened and stuck them inside the tiny key hole. He moved them around until he felt something click and then the cuffs fell off.

"That was easy," she said.

"Well, it's easy when you know how."

"How do you?" she asked. "Know how, I mean."

"I don't," Christian said, "But if I can get them off that fast without knowing, I imagine for somebody who does know it must be really easy."

She smiled. It was a scared smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Let me see that other one."

She held it out.

He popped that cuff off too and said, "Mind helping me now?"

"Okay."

He handed her the straightened paperclips. "Just stick them in the hole. You're going to feel something tight inside, like a little latch. You feel it?"

"I think so."

"Okay, take the other clip and press down on that latch. You should feel it pop."

"It's not popping."

"Are you pressing down on the latch?"

"I thought you said not to."

It took her a while, but she got them off.

He thanked her, rubbed his wrists and only then realized they hadn't been properly introduced. "My name is Christian, by the way."

"Emily."

"Happy to meet you, Emily."

"You too. You... you have a beautiful house."

Christian looked around as if he hadn't noticed until now. "Thank you."

She sipped her juice and then sniffed herself. "I smell."

Christian smiled. "I know. Like gasoline. Me too."

"I'd love a shower."

"Well, you're certainly welcome." Christian folded his arms. "But I'm wondering if that's smart."

"He didn't," Emily said, "I know what you're thinking, but, he didn't. Do that."

Christian nodded. "All right. I'll show you where it is."

He showed Emily to the guest bathroom and gave her fresh towels, a rag, soap, and shampoo along with a pair of Liz's sweatpants and a t-shirt.

After getting Em squared away he went to the master bathroom and showered, doing his best to scrub off the sticky smell of gasoline, fire and smoke.

Fifteen minutes later they met back up in the kitchen.

"Feel better?" Christian asked.

"Much," she said, still drying her hair.

"Hungry?"

"Starved."

"Right, well, I'm afraid I don't have much here. We could order something. You like Chinese? Pizza? Both?"

"Can I look?" she asked, pointing to the fridge.

"Sure."

Emily opened it and poked around for a few seconds before saying, "You have bacon."

"I do?" Christian said, surprised.

"Mhmm. And lettuce, tomato, mayo. Do you have bread?"

He looked in the cabinet. "I do." He checked the expiration date. "And it's even still good."

"Can I make some BLT's?"

"Sure."

"Where are your pans?"

He pointed.

Emily got what she needed and began cooking.

"So," she said, laying strips of bacon into the pan, "We, uh, we need to talk."

"Okay," he said. "What about?"

"I don't care. Anything. I've been stuck in that room in silence for days now and I don't think I can take anymore quiet, so just talk about something. Anything, I don't care what."

Christian drew a blank.

"Okay," Emily said, "I'll start. Um, is there a Mrs. You, or is it just you?"

"Mrs. Me."

"What's her name?"

"Elizabeth. Liz."

"Tell me about her."

"Well, she's very pretty."

"Very."

"Very smart too. Loves art. Loves to draw; paint."

"She any good?"

"No," Christian said, shaking his head. "She's terrible. The worst."

Emily laughed.

"And she'll tell you, too. She has no problem telling you she's terrible at it. She has so much fun doing it, she doesn't care," Christian said. "That's her too. So much fun, and honest to a fault. She's the sweetest person you'll ever meet but at the same time, she takes shit from nobody, least of all from me, but at the same time, only from me. You know?"

Emily answered with a smile.

Christian folded his arms and looked at the floor as if at something very far away. "She has the patience of a saint. There were so many times I could have ruined us. She would have been totally in the right to walk away. She didn't, though." He shook his head. "Every time I look at her I'm the luckiest guy on Earth. The only guy on Earth."

Emily laughed.

"What?" asked Christian.

"So, basically you're telling me you guys are newlyweds?"

"No."

"How long you been married?"

He told her.

"Wow," she said, "that long and you still say stuff like that about her?"

"You seem surprised."

"I am. Most married people I know don't talk about their wives like that."

"What's the point of being married, then?"

"Exactly," she put more bacon in the pan. "So, is this smart, beautiful amazing woman going to be mad when she comes home and sees a strange girl alone with her husband, making him dinner?"

"She's not coming home tonight."

"She working?"

"No."

"Don't tell me you guys are broken up. Although it would explain all the compliments."

"No, we're not broken up."

She looked at him with a dint of recognition in her eyes. "How...how many sandwiches do you want?"

"Two," he said.

"Two it is," she said, "I'm going to have about a dozen."

She finished cooking and soon they were sitting down to eat.

Emily was polishing off her third before Christian was through with his first. When she finished all of hers, she asked if he was going to eat his other one. He slid it to her and grabbed two beers from the fridge, popped both open, sat one in front of her and took a swallow of his own.

Emily took a tiny sip, starting to feel human again.

She took two bites from Chris's sandwich and was full. Leaning back in the chair, she rubbed her belly and looked around the room, settling on a photograph hanging on the wall. "That her? Liz?"

"That's her."

"Wow. You weren't kidding. She's beautiful."

"Thanks."

"You really know how to pick 'em."

"I gave it a shot. To this day I have no idea why she went for it, but I'm so glad she did."

There was an awkward silence.

Emily lifted the beer to her mouth, but put it down before drinking. "She's who you were looking for, isn't she?" Emily asked in a subdued voice.

"I'm sorry?"

"She's why you came to that house, right? You were looking for her? That's why she's not coming home tonight. The same guy who took me, took her?"

Christian nodded. "I think so."

"But you didn't find her."

"Not yet."

"You think he..."

"Killed her? I don't know. And I won't know until I find him. That won't happen until you tell me everything you know."

She looked at him.

"You have to tell me everything, Emily. I know it's hard, but this is my only chance to find her. Please, Emily. I am begging you." He played it so convincingly he even had part of himself fooled. Tears started welling in his eyes.

"I want to help you," she said.

"Then please, help me."

Emily shielded her face with her hands. "I don't know how it happened. Jesus, I don't even remember what the last thing I remember is. Just one day I woke up, tied to that bed.

"I thought he was going to rape me. Beat me. Slice me up. Jesus, do you know what it's like to really think that's going to happen to you? For days? But he never did any of that. He didn't do anything to me, and he wasn't gonna. After a while, I realized that was the point, and that any one of those other things would've been kinder than what he was really doing."

"What was he really doing?"

"Whenever I woke up, I'd be terrified. I couldn't tell if it was night or day. How long I'd been there. How long I was asleep, if I was even awake or still dreaming. I would be like that for hours sometimes, and then I'd hear him move or breathe. He had been standing there the whole time watching me.

"He didn't give me any food, or water, or way to know where I was or why. After a while, I figured out that was the point. That was what got him off. He was starving me at both ends, you know, mind and body. He just wanted to watch me...rot." She shook her head. "How could someone? I mean...how?"

"I don't know," Christian said. "All I know is that's all over now. You are safe. He can't touch you. He can't hurt you and he's going to pay for what he did. You are the one with all the power now, not him. He did this to other girls. I think to a lot more girls. None of them made it away from him but you did. You are the girl who got away, and you are going to be the girl who locked him away forever. He's not going to do this to anyone else because of you."

Tears came down her cheeks.

"You were the one who made it, Emily. You were the one who was too strong for him. But I need you to be strong now for my wife too. Please, I love her more than you can imagine and I need you to help me save her. I am begging you, Emily. Please."

Christian reached for her hand.

He was worried she'd pull it away but she didn't. She nodded and wiped her wet eyes.

"It's not that I don't want to help you," she said, "I want to. But I don't know anything. I just woke up tied to a bed."

"Did he ever say anything to you?"

"No."

"Then how do you know he was what you said he was?"

"A cop?"

She had more control of it now. Before when she told him, she'd nearly lost her mind just saying it. _He was a cop!_ She'd gotten it down now to where it was just words she was saying, not a horror she was reliving.

Christian nodded. "Yeah."

"I heard it."

"You just said---"

"He had a scanner. I could hear people radioing in, cops talking to each other."

"Is that the only reason you think he was a cop?"

She nodded. "They only give those to cops, right?"

Christian shook his head. "A buddy of mine named Carter got one for about fifty bucks. You can buy one almost anywhere."

"Maybe," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. "And anyway, I don't care. I'm ready."

"Ready for what?"

She sighed deeply and said, "The cops. I'd like you to take me to the cops now. I don't care if he is one or not. I want to go. I want to tell them all I know. I want to help you get your wife back."

Christian opened his mouth to speak but before he could was struck by a thunderbolt of realization.

His jaw dropped.

In an instant he understood what was going on and how wrong he had been. How could he not have seen it before? He must have been blind.

"Christian," Emily said. "Are you all right?"

## CHAPTER 16

Detective Hall was glad to have the gym at Precinct 13 all to himself. He'd had a tough day to say the least and was still pretty wound up about it. It wasn't the kind of energy he wanted to just let stew, but he wasn't in the mood to be around people either, not even the modest company of a few fellow gym rats.

He hit the free weights first, pushing himself harder than was safe or smart and by the time he got in the shower and turned the nozzle on his arms were already throbbing. His chest and back ached too; by tomorrow they'd be pounding.

It had been a hard workout; he burned a lot of energy but was just as wound up now as when he started.

Maybe he'd head back over to the hospital to check on Marjorie. Poor girl got so doped up the doctors had to pump her stomach. They said she'd have a wicked headache when she woke up, but she'd be fine. Not much he could do for her. She wouldn't even know he was there but he still wanted to go, check on her.

Jesus. He never expected Marjie to fall apart like that. The Marjie he knew was tougher than most men. What she did today was understandable, sure, but completely unexpected.

But, then again, it was a day for the unexpected. He never thought he'd preside over an execution, but he had.

One thing he was sure of, he thought as he tried to scrub himself clean of more than just sweat, he'd never preside over another one. He didn't care who the orders came from. Never again.

He scrubbed harder, thinking of the look on Dudley's face when the light in his eyes went out. It didn't matter how hard he scrubbed, though. He could still see the kid's face; still see him going from living to not living, right in front of him.

He scrubbed harder and harder still. He probably would have torn his skin had he not gritted his teeth, stopped scrubbing and slammed his fist onto the concrete wall.

Pain shot up his arm as blood dripped from his knuckle before swirling down the drain.

Never again. Never a-fucking-gain.

He twisted the nozzles. The water stopped but the blood kept pouring from his hand.

He dried off and wrapped up his injured hand, the white bandages dotting red.

Already his fingers were swollen and hurt to move.

Probably a good idea to have the doctors take a look at it once he got to the hospital.

His phone rang inside his gym bag. He fished it out and answered, "Yeah?"

It was Christian, talking way too fast for Detective Hall to even hear what he was saying. "Christian, Christian, calm down. You're talking too fast. Take a deep breath and start over."

Christian took the prescribed breath and Detective Hall listened as he relayed at an even pace what was happening.

The workout, shower and pain had put a lot of color in Detective Hall's face.

What Christian said drained it all away.

## CHAPTER 17

Almost a year had passed since Christian's first extraction. He'd done several more since then and what he'd said to the warden was proving to be true. It wasn't like going to the grocery store, but there was a routine. It had a beginning, a middle, and most importantly, an end.

Julian's theory about the images and impressions left behind was proving to be true as well.

Like pages in a book.

Some with pages so old and brittle they crumbled at the slightest touch. Others with passages faded and hard to read and others still with sections underlined or highlighted or pages ripped out. But all of them merely books. They could be taken out and read, or closed and tucked quietly back upon the shelf.

And for the first year, that was where Christian kept them. On the shelf. But as time passed he decided that books were not written to simply fill shelves; if he could read into the lives of these men, there must be a purpose.

These men lived lives of crime, most of which extended far beyond anything they'd gotten caught for. There were a lot of unsolved crimes on the books. Maybe his insights could shed light on some of them.

He approached Julian with the idea, and he agreed it was a good one. However, instead of Christian jumping nakedly into uncharted waters, there was a certain person Julian thought he should speak to first.

"Who?" Christian asked.

"Her name is Lydia Franklin."

"Who is Lydia Franklin?"

She was a psychic, one of the most powerful in the entire world. More than anyone, she could tell Christian what to expect in terms of the elevated intuitive experiences.

Christian agreed. He went to her home on the appointed day and she answered before he even knocked.

Christian was surprised. For some reason he'd envisioned an older, chain smoking, woman a strange but unplaceable accent.

The woman smiling at him now was quite young, no more than 25, and quite beautiful. Instead of the stale smoke of tobacco she smelled faintly of apple blossoms.

"You're Christian," she said, accentless.

"Yes. Lydia?"

She nodded. "You're going to fall in love with me."

"I am?"

She nodded again. "But not yet. In the meantime, come in. Let's visit."

Christian followed her through the house, which was very neat and decidedly feminine, to an intimate sitting room. He took her up when she offered him a seat and turned her down when she offered him a drink.

"So," she said, making herself comfortable on the sofa across from him. "You have a gift."

"I do."

"You can see things?"

"Sometimes. But I feel things more often than I see."

"I see. And you want to learn how to use these feelings? To harness them towards a purpose?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To help people."

"Wrong answer."

"Oh?"

"Dead wrong." She shifted on the sofa. "Sorry. You were probably expecting this to be a 'there are no wrong answers' kind of an affair. That part is coming but we're not there yet. In this part there are right and wrong answers. The one you just gave was definitely wrong."

"What's the right answer?"

"You should have said you want to know because it's a part of you. Or that you want to know for yourself. Helping people is fine, noble even, but it simply does not belong in the place where you put it. It has a place, but that place isn't at the center. And if you put it there, you're never going to learn to use it fully. You won't learn as much about it as you would have, and therefore you won't be able to help as many people as you otherwise would have. Even if that's what initially motivated you, if you want to go further you're going to have to move some things around. You understand?"

"I think so."

"You _have_ to start wanting to know just for you, and then let it just turn out that it can help other people too."

"Got it," Christian said. It looked like he wanted to say more, but didn't.

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

Christian smirked. "Don't you know?"

She waited, unamused.

Christian stopped smirking and answered, "I was just thinking about what you said before."

"What in particular?"

"That I was going to fall in love with you."

"Are you?"

"No. I mean, you're very beautiful, but, no."

"Give it some time."

"But is that really what you see? Me falling in love with you?"

"Yes and no."

"My father used to say that was a coward's answer."

"No he didn't."

"No," Christian said. "He didn't."

"And no, that's not what I see. So, now you want to know why I said that if that's not what I see?"

"Yes."

"That's the way it goes. It's like you said, sometimes it's not what you see, but what you feel."

"You felt those feelings in me?"

"No, in me."

"You're in love with me?"

"The feeling I'm talking about is the feeling to say those words. It's like when a psychologist has someone look at a picture and say the first thing that comes to mind. As soon as I saw you, that's what came to mind, so I said it.

"That's the way it works with me. Something tells me to do this or do that and I do and I see where it takes me.

"That's the way it's going to be for you too if you travel down this road. And I do see that being a bit of a problem for you."

"What's that?"

"I sense you're a very analytical person; hyper analytical. But this world you're thinking of stepping into isn't based on that. It's a dream world of sorts and is made of inspiration, intuition, doing things without knowing why. In this world you're not supposed to question or try to analyze what you're doing or what you're feeling or why. You just do; you just see.

"Sometimes the things you experience will just be for effect, just to get you to go where you need to be. For example, maybe the reason I said you were going to fall in love with me was to get you to bring it up so I would use it as the example I'm using it as at this very moment. Or maybe you are going to fall in love with me. I don't know."

Christian shifted again.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't."

"I know why," she said.

"Why?"

"You've heard about how I work; what it takes for me to use my gift, fully."

"Yes."

"And you're trying to reconcile that with the sweet looking girl you see in front of you?"

"Yes."

"But more than that, you're afraid. You're thinking that if that's what it takes for her to use her gift, what will it take for me to use mine? Will there be a cost? And if I pay it, will I wind up like her?"

Christian sat quiet for a long time, not knowing what to say.

"I can answer those questions for you," said Lydia. Christian looked up. "I can take that uncertainty away, that fear."

"I'd like that."

"I'm sure you would. But there is a price."

"Money isn't a problem for me."

"It's not going to be the solution this time either. I'm not talking about a price you'll have to pay in money."

"In what then?"

"I'm not sure." She waited, and then said. "But, we can try to find out. I can give you a full reading, right now, free of charge. You can ask me anything and I'll tell you."

"I didn't know you gave full readings for free."

"I don't."

"Meaning you know I'm not going to take you up on it?"

She shook her head, disappointed. "You're a poor pupil."

Christian understood. He was still trying to analyze what she was saying logically when that was exactly the wrong thing to do.

"Yes, that _is_ exactly the wrong thing to do," said Lydia. "But I'm sure with practice you'll get it."

Christian's stomach coiled. He'd never had his thoughts read, and being close to someone who could read them made him feel naked... more than naked.

"Don't worry," she said. "It takes a lot more for me to actually read your mind. The words just come and I say them." She smiled. "Sometimes, when it's obvious I can piece it together."

Christian cleared his throat.

"Try it," she said. "Go ahead; just say the first thing that comes to mind. Just go with it."

Christian thought.

"Don't think, just go. Just say whatever comes to mind. This is the part where there is no right or wrong."

"What are you thinking?" Christian said. "What's going through your mind?"

"Me? I'm thinking about how our time for today is almost up."

"I don't understand."

"I just remembered I have a client coming soon. I need to get ready."

"I thought we had an hour."

"That's another thing you're going to discover. Once you get in the habit of just going along with whatever you're feeling, you're going to become truly horrible at making and keeping schedules. If someone asks if you have time for an hour's meeting, you might say 'yes' just because you feel like it, even if you know you already have someone scheduled and you won't have a whole hour to give them."

"You're serious?"

"I'm sorry." She stood up. "Here endeth the lesson."

Christian stood up as well. "I'm just curious. This client, is he coming for a full reading?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"No."

Christian looked at her. It was hard to imagine what this innocent looking girl would be doing with a complete stranger in the next few minutes. "I'd like to come back and speak with you again," Christian said. "Can I?"

She shook her head. "I think it would be better if we didn't speak again."

Christian was silent as he followed Lydia as she led him to the front door. He turned around to say good bye but didn't.

He was still breaking her rule by being analytical, but he thought that was the right thing to do. She'd said she thought it would be better if they didn't speak again, and he felt like he wasn't supposed to.

He stepped out and she closed the door behind him. He walked to the bottom of the steps and then went right back up.

She opened it before he knocked, smiling at him. She stepped aside, he entered and quietly the door closed behind them.

Neither of them said a word but neither did they need to. When she gave him his full reading she allowed him to peer inside of her and see what lay in store for him.

The most important lesson he learned was seeing firsthand how there are no clear or straight lines. Elevated intuitive experiences were very dreamlike. He could start off going down one road and by the time he looked up he'd find himself halfway down another. Different motives and desires would fill his actions and feelings, trading purpose with purpose and back again, without any warning.

It was a vital lesson, and one he would have done well to remember.

He might have realized earlier it was Dudley who led him to the house where Emily was held captive, and not Berlin. Berlin had nothing to do with him going to that house, no connection whatsoever to what happened there. It was Dudley.

As it was, Christian only became conscious of this a few seconds after he told Emily about his friend who purchased a scanner. He realized he had no such friend.

Dudley did. This was the same friend who held her captive, who had nearly killed them both, and who had been with Dudley the night Jefferson had gotten shot, and in fact had taken part in the shooting.

As soon as Christian realized this, he tried to remember his name. He'd said it out loud, and could feel it squirming around in his head but couldn't quite grasp it.

He'd said the name to Emily but she didn't remember it either. He couldn't yet see his face, but knew if he saw him he'd recognize him.

What he did know was Dudley and this partner, whoever he was, went back quite a ways, all the way to childhood.

D and his partner had discovered that abandoned farmhouse in their early teens, you see, and had been using it as a rape shack ever since. They'd kidnap girls, usually prostitutes or illegal immigrants, people they knew wouldn't likely go to the cops, blindfold them, bring them back there and rape them before tossing them on the side of the road somewhere. Jefferson got shot because he'd seen them abducting this girl and tried to stop it.

Christian knew they were rape buddies, but Emily said they hadn't done that to her. Christian guessed the shooting and D's subsequent arrest scared it out of him.

When Christian called Detective Hall and told him what happened, Detective Hall told him to get to the police station as soon as possible, and to bring the girl.

"Way ahead of you," Christian said. "We're in the parking lot."

When they went entered headquarters, Detective Hall took Emily into a private room for questioning while Christian waited outside.

After about an hour, Detective Hall emerged.

"How is she?" Christian asked.

"Been through hell, but she's all right now."

"She tell you anything worthwhile?"

"Not really. She says she doesn't remember anything. She might even be telling the truth but with someone like her, you never know how much they don't know and how much they're holding back."

"Someone like her?"

"You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"She's in the life. Dope addict. Prostitute."

"What makes you say that?"

"Things she said."

"Like what?"

"I'm in the life. I'm a dope addict and a prostitute. She can't remember the last thing she did but assumes it was either getting high or trying to get money to get high, as that's how she spends most of her time. Here, have a look."

Detective Hall handed Christian a spreadsheet.

It had a black and white picture of Emily, below which was a list including such words as 'known prostitute', 'bail jumper', 'drug addict', 'thief', 'fraud' and 'fugitive'.

Christian stopped reading after the first few lines. "What happens to her now?"

"She'll spend the night county. Afterwards, I don't know."

"You're arresting her?"

"No. She's already been arrested. And tried. And convicted. It was the sentence part she skipped out on."

"Do you really have to lock her up? She was brave enough to come in, knowing what you guys might do to her and---"

"You don't understand, Christian. She wants it. She said she's tired of running. She wants to go back inside."

Christian handed the rap sheet back to Detective Hall. "I want to talk to her."

Emily looked up when Christian entered the room. She seemed a little frazzled, holding on to a cup of coffee like a tree branch in a flood.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded.

He sat down in the chair across from her. "They told me you want to stay."

She nodded again.

"Is that really what you want?"

"Yes."

"So, you're not worried he might be a cop anymore?"

"I don't think I ever really believed that," she said, her eyes downcast. "I know how police cuffs feel, and his weren't. I guess it was just, I don't know, easier for me to think he was a cop, you know? It was a great reason to keep running."

"I can get you a lawyer if you want. A good one."

"That's sweet," she said. "But I think I need to be in here for a while."

Christian nodded. "You're probably right."

"I told them everything I know. Like I said, it wasn't a lot. I wish I could help more."

"You've helped plenty."

"I hope so."

There was a knock on the door. A uniformed officer came in. Time for Emily to go.

They stood. "Bye," she said.

"Take care of yourself."

"Had to start sometime."

She hugged Christian tight, thanked him one more time, and left.

Christian and Detective Hall watched as she was led away.

"She's going to be all right," Christian said.

"I think so. Bottom line is it's up to her, but I think she wants it."

"I hope so."

"Me too." Detective Hall turned to Christian. "But frankly right now I'm more concerned about you."

"What about me?"

"She couldn't tell me much of anything beyond her own tragic plight. You're my best lead on catching this guy. How about it? What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much."

"I'll take not much."

"He and D were partners. He was there the night of Jefferson's shooting, and he definitely took part. That's all I can tell you for sure. Also, I think they did this before with other girls. There might not be anything in your reports about it because they'd pick girls who weren't likely to go to the cops; hookers, people in the country illegally. Maybe you could start talking to them, find the girls who they did this to before and maybe one of them can tell you something."

"Yeah," Detective Hall said, nodding. "But what I'm wondering is why didn't Dudley tell us about all this? He was so worried about doing the right thing, why'd he leave out this? Guy talked enough about heaven, how'd he expect to make it there if he left that girl alone with him?"

"Prayer," Christian said. "He prayed for him. He prayed he'd let the girl go. He prayed he'd turn himself in. Once he did that he put it in God's hands. If he told us about it, it would have been an act of a lack of faith; that he didn't trust God to handle it." Christian thought about Dudley asking him all those questions about the effectiveness of prayer.

Detective Hall shook his head. "Fucking nut."

Christian nodded.

"Can you tell me anything else?"

Christian shook his head. "I can't just turn it on and off. These things come when they come. I can facilitate it, but I can't force anything to happen. It doesn't work that way."

"What can I do to help facilitate it?"

"Give me space," Christian said. "The way it works works best if I'm by myself. I'll get something. When I do, I'll let you know."

## CHAPTER 18

ABOUT 7 YEARS AGO

Two years passed since Christian discovered his power; over a year had gone by since his visit to Lydia Franklin.

He had helped a great many people in that time but now it was he who needed help. His gift, he discovered, came with a great cost. One he never expected (though perhaps he should have) and thus was completely unprepared for.

It came in the form of a very particular, very nasty, and very tenacious affliction that left Christian in near constant state of crippling agony and would have soon taken his life if an answer was not found. But while Christian may have needed help, like so many who suffer from this terrible disease, he was too ashamed of it to ask and very much in denial about his ability to control it. He was convinced he could overcome it with sheer will power alone.

It would eventually be overcome but it would have little to do with his force of will; it would be more due to a man he'd never met before; a nondescript gentleman by the name of Michael Goss.

Michael Goss lived an ordinary life; as boring to someone viewing it as it was fulfilling and happy to the person living it. Michael Goss went to work; he came home; he loved his wife and son. On the weekends, depending on the time of year, he liked to fish or bowl; he was very proud of his collection of model cars and loved showing off his knowledge of the Civil War.

He worked an ordinary, workaday job as a telemarketer, and he was working in just that capacity the day he unknowingly set in motion a series of events that would irrevocably change not only his life, but that of countless others forever. Including Christian's.

Mike was leaning back in his chair at Linvil Financial Services outgoing call center, his hands folded across his massive belly as he enjoyed that brief moment of respite all telemarketers love, the moment that separates the last call and the next; a moment to sit back, relax, and think about nothing at all.

But those moments are always short lived, and soon his headphones crackled with another call.

"Hello" Michael read the name off the computer screen. "May I speak to Morton Summers, please?"

"This is Morton Summers."

"Good afternoon Mr. Summers, my name is Michael Goss. I'm calling on behalf of Linvil Financial Services. And sir, I hope you're sitting down because I have some fantastic news for you."

"Yeah, you guys called before. I told them I didn't want it."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You should have been removed from our call list if you turned the offer down already. What I would like to do for you now, sir, is take your name off of our list to make sure you don't get another unwanted call. May I do that for you?"

"They said they were going to do that last time."

"Well, I will personally see to it this time. I just need to enter into our database the reason you declined."

"I'm not interested."

"Okay, just let me enter that into my computer," Michael said, his hands still folded across his stomach. "And just on the topic of having no interest, did our previous representative tell you that for the first six months the card we're offering is actually not interested? That's six months of absolutely no interest charges in any way, shape, or form, guaranteed. That sounds like an awfully good deal, right?"

"I still don't want it."

"May I ask why?"

Mort sighed.

"I understand your frustration, sir. This is a simple formality I have to attend to in order to ensure you don't get any more unwanted calls."

"Because I don't like you."

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't like you. I figure if I don't get the card, your quota or whatever won't get met. Hopefully, you'll get fired, lose your house, have to live on the streets and feed your family on the scraps thrown away by the bums who eat the scraps other bums throw away."

"Okay, sir," Michael said. "Just let me enter that into the database. It's loading now and we should have you squared away very shortly. But while it processes, I do want to make you aware that by getting the card, you'd actually be doing more to get me fired than by not getting it.

"You see, my sales are already by far the best in the company, and if you get the card, they'll be even better. That'll inspire envy in my co-workers, making them work that much harder to make my work day as miserable as possible, increasing the odds I quit, or my morale is so compromised I under-perform and am terminated.

"So you win twice, sir. You get the incredible benefits of this fantastic card as well as increasing the likelihood of me losing my livelihood."

"You're a real smart ass, aren't you?"

"No sir, I am not. I apologize if I came off that way. What I am is a person who believes in this company, believes in this product, and believes in working my hardest to guarantee customer satisfaction."

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely. Sir, we know your time is valuable. Ours is too. Linvil Financial is a leader in our field. You can ask any of our competitors. We're the best. We didn't achieve our success by hiring and training and paying representatives to make expensive phone calls to people who don't need or deserve the product we're offering. And you didn't become someone who deserves this card by passing up on smart opportunities when they came your way. Believe me; we would not have bothered to call if this card was not a perfect fit for you and your financial situation."

"Is that right? A perfect fit?"

"Yes sir."

"Well then, do me one favor to help me decide."

"What's that?"

"Take that card, bend over and shove it up your ass. Call me back when you do. If it's a perfect fit up there, well, I'll still tell you to go fuck yourself."

"Sir, I promise to bend over backwards to make sure you--"

Morton Summers slammed down the phone.

Mike smiled.

This was the hump most people who tried telemarketing couldn't get over. They couldn't take taking abuse from people all day, but to Mike this was nothing.

He was extremely overweight, and enough people called him ugly over his life that he accepted it as a matter of fact rather than opinion. It used to hurt him a little- quite a bit actually, especially during his adolescent years- but over time he developed a very thick skin.

He had to.

It was that or go crazy.

And it came in handy with his job. Instead of getting upset or thinking the pay check wasn't worth the humiliation, Michael simply smiled and filed the story away for the next time he and the gang were mobbing the coffee machine and telling war stories.

This wouldn't be the funniest. The funniest stories always included threats of violence or death. The Morton Summers Affair was just a fuck-you, but as fuck-you's went it was exceptional.

Mike glanced at his watch. Almost noon. Lunch time, which meant decision time.

Work straight through or stop to get something to eat?

He usually worked straight through. If he got hungry later he'd raid the stash of emergency candy bars and potato chips he kept at the ready in his desk. He was paid on commission, after all, and time away from his desk meant money out of his pocket.

But he'd missed breakfast.

Usually he'd get up before his wife Diane to make breakfast and brew coffee so they'd have a few minutes together before she left to drop the baby off at the sitter and go to work. But she had to leave for work extra early that morning, a meeting or something, and was gone before he woke up.

Instead of getting up at his usual time, he hit the snooze to grab a couple extra minutes of sleep.

He rolled over for a few seconds, looked at the clock again and saw that nearly an hour had passed.

Jumping out of bed, he got dressed, squirted toothpaste in his mouth and rinsed it around with mouthwash as he combed his hair. He spit it out, washed his face and then bolted towards the front door.

The baby started crying.

He'd forgotten. Diane left extra early. He had to take the baby to the sitter that morning.

As fast as he could, he got the baby fed and dressed and was soon putting him in his car seat and backing out of his driveway, horrified he would ruin his record of perfect punctuality.

But, he wasn't late. He made it to the office with even three minutes to spare. There was, however, a price for preserving his perfect record. That price was the skipping of breakfast and now, he was hungry, _country_ hungry, as his grandma used to call it. Potato chips and candy bars weren't going to cut it. He needed food. Real food.

The cafeteria fare wasn't especially tasty, but they did have healthy options. Salads, fresh fruits and vegetables, tuna.

Michael's thyroid condition, and the medication he took because of it, meant he'd always be significantly overweight. Thankfully, it wasn't genetic so his son didn't have to suffer through the same things he did, but he probably would if his pop modeled poor eating habits, and so, Mike decided to start eating healthy. Though he'd made the decision, he hadn't actually started doing so yet. Today would be the day.

Mike walked to the elevator, fully intending to make a lunch of a dressingless tuna salad and mineral water. By the time he reached it he was thinking of the burger joint two blocks away.

His mouth watered. He tried to tell himself not to fall into temptation, but by the time he pressed the button his will was gone.

But this was the last time, he told himself; a final fling to say good bye to the mouthwatering world he was leaving behind.

As he stepped onto the elevator he smiled, already tasting the delectable feast awaiting him.

The other person on the elevator, a forty something female exec wearing a power suit even though it was casual Friday, noticed the strange smile as it crept across his face and looked at him askance.

Mike noticed her noticing and wiped the smile off his face. "Hey," he said.

"Hey."

The door started closing.

Someone stuck their hand in to stop it.

It was Liam, Mike's friend from accounting.

"Mike, where the hell are you going?" Liam asked, out of breath with a panicked look on his face.

"Lunch."

"Aren't you coming?"

"To what?"

"I'm sorry," Power Suit Woman said, "I really am in a rush."

Michael stepped off the elevator. "Coming to what?" He asked as the doors closed behind him.

"Kim is retiring. We're throwing a surprise going away party."

"Nobody told me."

"Oh. Probably because it's a surprise party, and you are Michael I-can't-keep-a-secret Goss."

"I can keep a secret."

"Aren't you the person who told his wife you were having a boy even though she said she didn't want to know?"

"I didn't tell her."

"When you were making name lists, you didn't pick any for a girl."

"So from one thing I get a whole reputation?"

"And the Reed situation?"

"You told everybody about that!"

"And you told me. I wasn't the one she confided in, you were. She knew not to tell me, the only person worse at keeping a secret than you is me. Everybody knows that."

"So then why did Everybody tell you about the surprise party?"

"Well, 'tell' is actually a strong word."

Down the hall Janelle Nash came running towards them with a look of horror on her face.

"Come on," Janelle said, grabbing them by the wrist. "She's on her way up."

Janelle pulled them down the hall and into the conference room where the party was to be held. Everyone was already hiding. Janelle and Liam quickly found places to hide but everywhere Michael looked was either taken or too small for massive girth.

"Goss," said a disembodied voice, "hide somewhere."

Mike looked around. "Where?"

"Anywhere! Hide!" They were whispering, but yelling inside the whisper.

"I don't see any place."

"Go behind the filing cabinet."

Mike looked at it. "I'm too fat."

"Everybody be quiet," said another voice, "she's almost here. Goss, find someplace to freaking hide! Please!"

It was too late. Kim was in the doorway. "Michael?" she said.

He stood there, frozen. "Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

The lights came on.

Everyone jumped out screaming, "Surprise!"

Shock, surprise, and then happiness came over her face.

Twenty minutes later, Mike was halfway through his fourth slice of cake, leaning on the wall, recounting the morning's tale from the battlefield.

"So," Mike said, scooping up another piece, "after I told the guy this card was a perfect fit for his situation, he, very calmly, very politely, advises me I should bend over and shove it up my---"

Liam nudged Mike and pointed to Mrs. Weatherby, an elderly grandmother who only recently started working there, standing next to him.

She smiled at Mike, kindly as a Sunday school teacher. "Do go on, Michael," she said. "Where did the gentleman tell you to shove the card?"

"He just told me to shove it, you know, like, shove it."

"Oh. The way the story was going, I thought he'd tell you to shove it up your ass. A bit anticlimactic, if you ask me. You're going to have to work on your storytelling skills. Remember, it is better to embellish than to bore."

Everyone laughed.

Mike finished his slice and cut himself another, listening as someone else told their morning tale of telephone terror.

It still hadn't dawned on him as he ate a spoonful of the delicious strawberry icing that he'd been in such a scramble to get to work that morning that he'd forgotten to take his son to the babysitter and that at that very moment, his little boy was in the backseat of his car, roasting to death in the hot July sun.

Joan Hopkins was terrified she'd be late for her interview. She'd been out of work three months now and things were getting desperate. If she didn't get this job, she wasn't sure where she'd be living next month.

Her brother was supposed to give her a lift to the office building where the interview was to take place but he flaked out. She'd been in such a rush to catch the bus she hadn't had time to check her makeup. The last thing she needed was to arrive at the interview on time but with lipstick on her teeth, so, as she jogged through the parking lot to the front entrance, she stopped to check her reflection in a car window.

Perfect, she thought, inspecting her teeth. You look fine. Get a hold of yourself. You can do this.

She was about turn away when she saw something that shocked the hell out of her.

She dropped her purse and gasped. "Oh my God."

At first she thought it was a doll, but quickly realized it was not. It was a baby.

Jesus Christ.

She'd heard about this, saw stories on the news where parents forgot their kids in the car on a hot day like today and the heat cooks them to death.

"Somebody help," she screamed, trying to open the locked door.

It didn't budge. She pounded her fists against the glass, screamed again for help and searched for a rock or bottle or anything to break the window.

Finding nothing, she slammed her elbow against the glass but all she did was hurt herself. She took off her high heel and tried to use that but it too was ineffective. "Help somebody, please!" She slammed the heel against the glass, again to no avail. "There is a baby!"

A security guard appeared. "What the hell are you doing, lady?"

"There is a baby," she screamed, pressing her finger against the glass.

The guard looked in.

Upstairs at Kim's party, someone noticed a commotion in the parking lot and called the others over. Something was happening, they said. There were ambulances, police cars, fire trucks.

Michael was on his way over to see what the fuss was about. Someone said, "I think that's a baby."

Michael stopped in mid-step. Hearing those words, the sheer horror of what he'd done hit him before the memory itself did.

The plate and fork fell out of his hand. He dropped to his knees, unable to breathe.

Michael was sure he'd killed his son, but he hadn't.

Yet.

The doctors gave the boy a week at most. They could keep him alive for that long if they kept him on the machines but there was no hope of a meaningful recovery.

Of course, the doctors didn't know about Christian.

He, Julian and Warden Montgomery had all read about the child and all wanted to help.

The usual show was put on in the death chamber in front of the witnesses, and then the prisoner was wheeled into the room where Christian waited. Thirty minutes later Christian was still waiting, and forty minutes later, and fifty.

Finally Julian said what was obvious. "He's dead."

Christian gritted his teeth, paced several times and then slammed his fist on the wall, dotting it with blood and tearing the skin on his knuckle.

"Calm down, Christian," Julian said. "That doesn't help anyone."

Christian said, "This is such bullshit."

"You're right, it is," said Julian. "But it was also bound to happen sooner or later." He pulled the sheet up over the prisoner's face. "The human body is a delicate, complex thing. You can't predict how all of them are going to react."

"This is bullshit."

"I know you're upset, Christian. Try to see things dispassionately."

"What I don't see is how you can be so calm after this asshole fucked up," Christian pointed at Warden Montgomery, "and cost a baby its life."

Warden Montgomery scratched his nose. "Hey, Christian. I understand you're pissed. Don't ever call me an asshole again."

"Why not?"

"It would be a famously bad idea."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a bet. As in, I bet you won't call me an asshole again."

"Oh yeah?"

"You had the chance just then and didn't." Warden Montgomery walked towards him. "Go head. Say it. And if the next words out of your mouth ain't, 'Warden Montgomery, you're an asshole,' after I just called you out like that, well, then you ain't nothing but a little punk bitch, ain't you? Now let's see if you got the heart to do anything besides stand there and look stupid. Let's see if you say it, or you stand there trying to think of how you're going to try to get out of this."

Julian stepped between them. "Christian, don't say a word. George, stop acting crazy, all right? He's not looking for trouble."

"He needs to not look harder."

"Both of you listen," Julian said. "A child is going to die if we don't do something. Have you forgotten that small detail? It's kind of why we're here to begin with. We need to think about what we're going to do to help that poor child and we can't do that if we spend our time killing each other. Christian, I think it's best if you leave."

"Fuck you. I'm not going nowhere."

Julian rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Christian. Again, I remind you this is about saving a child's life, and not about how big your dick is. Please, I'm asking you, not telling you, but asking you, _pleading_ with you to please, go cool off so I can spend my energies trying to figure out a plan B, rather than worrying about you two gazing ever so softly into each other's eyes. Please. Go."

Christian walked out the door, muttering 'asshole' beneath his breath as the warden said very plainly, 'bitch'.

The door slammed shut and Julian turned to the warden, "George, what is the matter with you?"

"Am I supposed to let people talk to me like that? In my prison? He called me an asshole."

"You _are_ an asshole."

Warden Montgomery stared at Julian for a second and said, "Yeah, well, I don't need to hear it from him."

"What's bothering you, George?"

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing."

"Well," he sighed, "nothing I can't handle, anyway." He shook his head. "I did let it get away from me a little bit, huh?"

"Just a little."

"Oh well. So, this young man has under-lived his usefulness," he said, nodding at the body. "What's plan B?"

"I'm open to suggestions."

"Meaning there is no plan B?"

"Unless there is another execution scheduled for tonight, I don't know what such a plan would look like."

"Then why'd you say there was?"

"To stop a school yard fight between two full grown men."

"Christ. So that's it? The little boy dies?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Damn."

"We did everything we could. We can't punish ourselves when that isn't enough. Failures are going to occur. It's the nature of...nature. Failures inevitably happen."

"And that makes it okay?"

"We tried. We failed, but we tried. It's going to happen again and again. It's a miracle it hasn't happened before now. It's natural we feel some emotion but we can't dwell on it. If we make the pain of failure worse than it has to be; if we hold on to our failures and magnify them, we will eventually conclude success isn't worth the pain of the failures along the way. That's why we have to keep a psychological distance between ourselves and the patients. It's not about letting ourselves off the hook or making something okay that's obviously not okay. It's because it's what we have to do if we want to keep doing this."

"If you say so."

"Let's get a drink. On me."

"Ain't thirsty."

"I know a great jazz bar downtown. The band is amazing, the drummer toured with Miles Davis. I'm friendly with the owner. I'm sure I could get him to let you to sit in for a few sets. Booze. Jazz. What's there to say no to?"

"Sounds good, but no thanks."

"We'll get hammered, talk about the old days, about how messed up life is and how we're the good guys, or at least we want to be, and how that has to count for something. We'll stumble to our respective homes, wake up to massive hangovers and our wives laughing at us, but a little upset as well and doing little evil wife things to teach us a lesson."

Warden Montgomery smiled. "Your wife does that too?"

"They all do."

"Mine never seems to have to vacuum more than after I've had a night."

"Mine too. Sometimes when it's my turn to vacuum I'll pretend I'm hung-over just to get her to take care of it."

"Smart man," the warden said.

"So there you go. Drinks and music tonight, hangovers and freshly cleaned carpets tomorrow."

Warden Montgomery shook his head. "I'll have to take a rain check."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah," the warden said. "Like I said, it's nothing I can't handle. But it's something I have to handle."

"You do realize what happened tonight wasn't your fault?"

"Sure feels like it."

"I'm sure it does, but it wasn't."

"Yeah."

"George, unless I'm terribly mistaken about what you do in your off time, you didn't design the man's body. Correct? The way it works is, human physiologies are basically the same, but there are some variations. Some variations are such that when they interact with certain chemical compounds, they react in a manner inconsistent with what statistical models tell us to expect. That's all that happened here. You realize, from any rational standard, your sense of personal guilt is wholly misplaced?"

"Yeah, I know. Damn Julian, I'm not going to kill myself over it. But some tragic shit happened I happen to be pretty close to. Is it all right with you if I feel bad for a while? I mean, I wanted to help somebody, I can't, and now they're going to die. A kid no less. That's some horrible shit, and to me, rates a couple hours of feeling horrible, shit. And besides that I have some other shit in my own life I have to deal with that ain't exactly a Mardi Gras. Is it all right with you if I don't feel like somebody trying to cheer me up right now?"

Julian backed off.

He was so used to dealing with gifted people, who are frequently incredibly sensitive with underdeveloped coping skills, that he almost forgot there were people who could experience deep and even traumatic emotions without being overwhelmed. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," the warden said.

"But, if you change your mind, I'll be at the---"

"Fuck it," Warden Montgomery said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Fuck it. Let's go get shit faced," Warden Montgomery said. "My living room could use a vacuuming."

"That's the spirit."

"I just got a little paper work to finish up on and then we'll go."

As the warden and Julian were making their way to his office, Christian was getting in his car. He slammed the door so hard the glass nearly shattered.

How could they screw up the mock execution? All they had to do was deliver one shot to knock the guy out. Instead they kill him? Good Lord, the fucking incompetence was stupendous. And because of that incompetence, a baby was going to die.

Christian suddenly found it hard to breathe. He rolled his windows down but that didn't help. His chest muscles tightened so much it felt like a heart attack. His head started spinning and trickle of blood spilled from his nose.

He touched his fingers to the warm liquid on his top lip and looked at it.

It was his illness, he thought. He was having another attack. This would be his second one today. They were getting more frequent now, and more intense.

He hadn't told anyone about them, but for the last eight months or so, whenever there was a long stretch between extractions he would get violently ill. There would be muscle aches, nausea, vertigo, insomnia and vomiting. Some days it got so bad he couldn't even make it out of bed.

He would compare it to the symptoms of a heroin addict going through the deepest woes of withdrawal, except several of the men he killed were heroin addicts and what he was dealing with was much, much worse than anything they'd gone through.

He doubled over, his stomach wrenching.

It had been over a month and a half since his last extraction.

Another one wasn't scheduled for another month and a half.

_Scheduled_.

There was no guarantee it would actually happen.

There could be a last minute delay. There might be an appeal or motion granted. Those idiots could fuck up and kill the guy again. The guy might hang himself in his cell.

And even if everything went right, it was still a month and a half away. His body was already turning itself inside out. As bad as he felt now he knew it would only get worse. The agony he felt yesterday was nothing to what he was going through today; what he felt today was nothing compared to the pain he'd feel tomorrow, and on it would go. For a month and a half. At least.

His stomach wrenched again, the pain so bad his vision became blurry.

He couldn't wait a month and a half.

He couldn't wait an hour and a half.

No way. This disease, this withdrawal or whatever it was, it would kill him if he didn't do another extraction very, very soon. He had to kill somebody. Now.

Nausea twisted his guts into a knot.

He opened the door and leaned out, waiting to throw up.

Part of the reason he didn't tell anyone how it got for him between extractions was because he thought he could handle it; a bigger reason was shame. But shame or no shame, he couldn't hide it anymore. He had to tell Julian. They needed to find another prison or some other way because he couldn't live like this anymore.

He hung out his car door for a few minutes, the nausea abated and he slung himself back inside. A few moments later the attack abated some. He still felt sick, but it wasn't as bad.

That was the one saving grace. It wasn't just a single unrelenting onslaught; there were peaks and valleys.

And as he descended into the current valley he lied to himself once again that he could handle this; he could beat it. Mind over matter.

There was no need to tell anyone. It was nobody's business.

He just needed a distraction is all; something to take his mind off of things.

He knew just where to get one.

An hour later, Christian pulled into the parking lot of the strip club he'd visited the night of his first extraction.

He went to the bar and ordered two shots of whiskey and a beer and knocked them back one after the other.

Alcohol, he'd discovered, was one thing that made his symptoms a little easier.

He ordered another drink and asked the bartender if Bunny still worked there.

The bartender pointed to the stage.

Christian turned around and smiled when he saw her up there.

The way that woman moved was mesmerizing. Every pair of eyes in the club was on her; locked on her.

Christian kept his eyes on her as he took his shot and sipped his beer.

God, she was beautiful. He must have been a fool never to have used the number she gave him.

She finished her set and started making her rounds, letting patrons know she was available for private dances.

Christian made sure he got to her first.

"Hey Bunny," he said when he reached her. "Wow, you look fantastic. How've you been?"

"Great," she said, forcing a smile, "How have you been?"

"Can't complain. Hey, I'm sorry I didn't call. I lost your number. Been kicking myself over it."

"Oh, I understand," she said, rolling her eyes playfully. "Story of my life."

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"I do. It's just I'm crazy bad with names. You are..."

"Hurt," Christian said. "I am hurt. How could you forget it when you're the one who gave it to me?"

"Gave you what?"

"My name, silly. I'm Yummy."

A look of recognition and then shock came into her eyes. "Christian?"

"You do remember. I'm touched."

He reached for her hand.

She pulled away before he touched her.

"When are you getting off?" Christian asked. "Maybe you want to get together later?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. But it was nice to see you again."

She turned to walk away.

He grabbed her arm. "Wait a minute."

She yanked it away. "Don't put your hands on me. Don't you ever grab me, okay? Not ever."

She rubbed where he had touched her. It wasn't because he'd hurt her. It was more like she was trying to wipe something off, like his touch was dirty...infected.

"I'm sorry," Christian said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to grab. I just---"

"Bunny," said a voice behind Christian, "is everything all right?"

Christian turned around and saw a Goliath of a man dressed all in black with a radio stuck in his ear standing behind him.

"I'm fine, Demetrius," Bunny said.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Demetrius turned his attention to Christian. "We don't grab in this establishment. Keep your hands to yourself or you find someplace else to play. You understand?"

"He understands," Bunny said. "Thanks, I got this."

That was Demetrius's cue to beat it but he kept standing there, eyeballing Christian hard, and not liking him. Something about Christian just screamed 'wrong' to Demetrius; he seemed like a guy who could use a couple ribs broken, just on general principle.

Bunny saw what Demetrius was thinking. A lot of the girls liked watching the bouncers pummel guys for them. Lucky for Christian, Bunny wasn't one of them. "I said thanks, Mete. I got this."

Demetrius went back to his post and stared Christian down from there.

"Thanks," Christian said after he'd gone.

"Don't mention it."

"And I am sorry. I didn't mean to grab, I just---"

"Don't mention it."

"Okay," Christian said. "With that unfortunate business behind us, how about a dance? You bought the last one was, so I guess it's my turn."

"No, thank you."

"Come on, don't be that way."

He looked down and pulled a wad of bills big enough to choke a python out of his pocket. When he looked up, she was gone.

Christian shook his head.

He went from being a guy strippers paid to dance with them to being a guy who couldn't by a dance from a stripper no matter how much cash he had.

Even though he was pissed, he understood why. Before, he was brimming with energy, and not just any energy, the essence of the life force. It pulled people towards him, made them desperate to be close to him, hungry to bathe, even if just for a second, in the light that shined from him.

What radiated from him now was the exact opposite. It was something putrid, something decayed, dead, dying.

As attractive as he'd been before, he was repulsive now.

As repulsive as the smell of a rotting corpse.

He crumpled up the huge wad of money and tossed it on the floor like it was trash. He left the club, bought himself a gallon of vodka, a twelve pack of beer and a carton of cigarettes and locked himself in a hotel room and drank until he passed out.

As soon as he woke up he went to a bar and drank until it closed and then went to a liquor store to buy enough booze to hold him off until morning. He'd intended to go back to the same motel he'd used the night before but was so hammered he couldn't find it.

He woke up in a hotel he'd never seen before in a strange town. He checked his messages, hoping Julian called saying some prisoner had unexpectedly given up his appeals and an execution was to take place, but that didn't happen. He finished off the last of his alcohol, vomited, rinsed his mouth out and went out in search of the nearest bar. That day proceeded exactly as the previous one. So did the next and the next and the next.

About four days in to his bender he crawled into a pub called Ray's Place.

Right away he liked it. It was dark, it was dingy, it was a place where a man could be depressed, and that suited him fine.

He sat down at the bar, feeling queasy.

He told himself that after a few drinks he'd feel better. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

Alcohol still mellowed his symptoms, but not as much as it used to. Soon it would stop working altogether and he didn't know what he'd do then.

He didn't much want to think about it, either.

"How's it going?" asked the bartender.

"Round and round," Christian said, twirling his finger.

"What can I get you?"

"Beer and a shot of whiskey."

"Coming right up. I'm Dominick, by the way."

"Chris."

Dominick poured the drink and sat it in front of Christian. "Anything to eat or you're not sure yet?"

Christian couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but was sure it had been days.

Just for appearances sake he ordered some food, then took his shot and ordered another as he nursed his beer.

When Dominick finished pouring, Christian swallowed the shot, ordered and another and thought of how he needed to kill somebody very, very soon.

There was no way around it. He was going to have to kill someone.

The only question was whether it was going to be himself or someone else.

Even if by some miracle Julian did call and say there was to be an unexpected execution, what would that get him? A few days of feeling human again? Maybe a week if he was lucky?

It was only a matter of time before he was right back in the position he was in right now.

There was only one life he could take that would end his hunger pains forever. His own.

His hands shook as he ordered another shot of whiskey.

Why not just tell Julian what's happening? He might be able to find new resources, other prisons. He may be able to get it to where he did one or two a month. That would be...tolerable. Why not just tell him?

That was it. He would tell Julian, see what he could do. That was the smart thing to do. It was settled. He'd call Julian.

No way he was calling Julian. He could handle it. He didn't need Julian or anybody else. He could handle it. He was strong enough, smart enough. Julian would just love that, wouldn't he? They would all love to have him slither in on his belly, begging them for their help. Sons of bitches.

If that's what they were waiting for, they'd have a long damn wait. Sooner or later he'd think of a way through this all by himself, and if he couldn't think of a way through it then he'd fix it with the brute force of his will power alone.

But even as he thought that, a tiny voice in the back of his mind told him to stop being coy, that he knew damn well why he hadn't told Julian or anyone else. It was because he didn't want them to ever suspect...

He swallowed the last of his beer and tried to push those thoughts from his mind but they wouldn't go. They accused the real reason he'd not asked for Julian's help was because he knew Julian could never provide enough people for him to murder, that one, two even five killings a month wouldn't be enough for him now.

His body had gotten a taste of killing, and liked it. It would need five a week, minimum, and Julian could never give him that much. To get it, he'd have to find his own way.

But no, he'd never do that. Never.

But wouldn't it be so easy if he wanted to?

Getting away with murder wasn't hard. On TV they always catch the killers. In real life the vast majority of murderers get away with their crimes scot free.

And most killers were total morons, the type of people who couldn't read without moving their lips if they could read at all. When they got caught it was because they made some stupid mistake, and usually not just a normal caliber stupid mistake, but one stupid even for a stupid person.

Christian was far from stupid. He wouldn't make the kinds of mistakes they made. He wouldn't make any mistakes at all.

Of course, the first and biggest mistake most killers made was killing someone who'd be missed. If you kill somebody's beloved wife or son or husband or friend, the police would put resources into finding the killer. Every once in a while they would even find them.

If you were smart you'd pick a victim most people barely noticed when they're alive, let alone dead; you picked a hooker, a runaway, a homeless person. You picked someone the world threw away long before their bodies were found on the side of the road beside discarded newspapers, which is actually quite fitting because when someone like that gets killed, to most people, it's automatically old news.

The way the average person looks at it, those people had been dead long before death finally caught up with them.

Cops cared even less. They had an acronym for when a person like that got killed. NHI. No Humans Involved.

Besides. Christian wouldn't leave any signs of a homicide. The way he killed, the coroners wouldn't think it was murder. They'd label it non-specific organ failure and just assume that their body finally gave out after years of abuse.

And they did live lives of abuse; nasty, brutish and short. Really, Christian was probably doing them a favor by killing them, cutting their suffering short. Plus he'd be giving their deaths meaning. Instead of them getting sliced up by some sicko john or winding up dead with a needle in their arms, their lives would be going to save someone else. It would be a far better thing that they did, right? A far better rest he sent them to?

Maybe it was better if he did it. Better for him, better for the patient, better for the victim even. Maybe it wasn't a question of if he should do it, but how could he not? Maybe it was his mandate, what he was made for.

Biologically, that certainly seemed to be the case. The fact that he became physically ill to the point of contemplating suicide as a result of not doing it was a pretty clear indicator that his nature, the way God designed him, mandated it.

Morally, philosophically there was precedent for it. Lots of philosophers, Nietzsche for example, spoke of those few, remarkable people for whom the traditional morality or right and wrong did not apply; supermen who were, and had to be, beyond good and evil.

Christian shook his head. Those were dangerous thoughts; stupid thoughts. As destructive as they were enticing. Only psychopaths, idiots and lonely teenagers got roped into believing silly things like that. He was much too smart for that...much too smart for that...much too smart.

He wasn't a superman. No one was. He wasn't beyond good and evil. No one was.

He ordered another shot and gulped it down. When he set the glass back upon the table, he noticed a woman had sat down beside him.

She smiled when he looked at her.

If she wasn't a hooker she was definitely a hustler of some variety, Christian thought.

She must've felt the same deathly secretions coming from him everyone else did but they didn't keep her away. As repulsive as the smell of a rotting corpse is to most, to some creatures, to scavengers, to vultures like her there is no sweeter smell.

"Do you have a light?" she asked Christian.

He flicked his lighter; she put the cigarette in her mouth and leaned its tip into the flame.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

"I'm Shannon," she said.

"Christian."

"Pleased to meet you."

"Yeah," Christian said.

He tried to ignore her, to keep his eyes focused forward as if there was a television behind the bar he was watching, even though there wasn't. But she was persistent. She kept talking and she was good at talking; good at saying what desperate people wanted to hear, good at listening to them in the way they wanted to be listened to.

Talking to her had almost the same effect the alcohol did. His symptoms went away for a while, or at least he forgot them, and the terrifying thoughts that had been haunting him were quieted.

He actually ate his food when it came. And as he ate, they talked some more and drank some more. And drank some more. And some more.

It wasn't long before she said it was late and she needed to be getting home. Would he mind walking with her, to keep her safe?

Christian wanted to turn her down but before he could form the intent to do so he found his mouth saying, "Sure. Sure, I'll take you."

She smiled. "Wonderful."

"Just let me use the little boy's first, okay?"

"Sure."

Christian stumbled to the bathroom, went in to a stall and vomited up his first meal in days. He rinsed his mouth out, and looked in the mirror. His chest was getting tight and a terrible pressure was building behind his eyes.

He couldn't walk that girl home. He didn't trust himself to be alone with her, with anyone. If his symptoms should get really bad and there was no one there to stop him, he didn't know what he'd do. He couldn't walk her home; couldn't be near her. He decided he'd sneak out the side door, get away from her, away from everyone.

He walked out of the bathroom, and looked at the side exit. Taking one step towards it he stopped, taking a deep breath.

He was all right. He was fine. He wasn't going to hurt her. He wasn't a monster. Of course he wasn't. He could walk her home and everything would be fine.

Of course it would.

They arrived at her place. It wasn't nice but it wasn't the dive Christian was expecting.

She directed him to the couch and when he sat down, she said she had to run back to her room for a second but could she get him anything in the meantime?

"No."

"Not even a beer?"

"Sure."

She grabbed a bottle from the fridge and popped it open for him.

"Be right back," she said after handing it to him, and disappeared down the hall.

He knew he wasn't going to hurt her. People have stupid thoughts like that every day, thoughts about how easy it would be to rob a bank or get away with murder. Very few of them, almost none of them actually did it.

He sipped his beer.

But some did.

Some did go through with it, didn't they?

Some did. Not him. He was sure of that, he told himself one more time.

Still. He'd better leave. Now, before she came back.

He moved to get up but she was already back in the living room, holding the small electric fan she'd retrieved.

"Sorry about the air conditioner," she said. "It broke down a while ago and I haven't had the money to have it fixed."

"That's all right," Christian said. "Some like it hot."

"I prefer," she said, plugging it in, "a little breeze."

The fan whirled to life.

She sat it on the coffee table aimed at Christian.

"There," she said, sitting beside him. "Now we can chill without melting." She kicked off her shoes and curled up close to him. They sat in silence for a few moments before she offered, "You're cute."

"Thanks."

She smiled, waited, and said, "Maybe you want to tell me I'm cute too?"

"You are," he said. "Very pretty. Very pretty."

"Listen. I know you probably don't care, but I want you to know I don't do this all the time."

"Do what?"

"Pick guys up at bars and bring them home. It's just I've been by myself for a really long time. I get lonely. I miss the feel of having a man touch me, you know?"

"To be honest no," Christian said, "I've never missed the feel of a man touching me."

"Funny," she said. "You're a funny guy. Lots of jokes."

"You hear the one about---"

She kissed him. He kissed back.

His hand was on her breast.

Right over her heart.

"Not so rough," she said.

He could feel her heartbeat and all but taste how sweet it would feel to take it.

He pushed her away.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, I can't do this."

"What? Why?"

"I have to go."

But before he could stand up, Christian felt pressure on the base of his skull.

He didn't have to wonder what it was. He knew right away. It was a gun.

"Don't you fucking move," the man holding it said. "Don't you fucking breathe or I'll blow your goddamn brains out, got it?"

"Yes," Christian said.

"Bitch," the man said to Shannon, "get up and turn the fan off. Do anything stupid and I kill you both. Got it?"

"Y-yes," she said, eyes brimming with terror.

"Do it."

She pulled the fan's plug. It swirled to a stop.

"You know how this works," the man said. "Keep quiet, keep still, keep your life. Tits, take the wallet out of his pocket and hand it to me."

She did.

He flipped it open.

Even though he was wearing a ski mask, Christian saw his face light up when he discovered one particular treasure laying inside. He showed Christian the source of his sudden happiness. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It sure is," said Christian.

"I've seen these on TV. They only give them to rich people, right? The richest of the rich."

"Usually just being rich will do."

"It has an unlimited limit, right? You can buy anything with them."

"Anything for sale."

His smile got bigger. "I feel like I hit the lottery."

"You could hit a bigger one you play your cards right," Christian said, still feeling wobbly but controlling it. The adrenaline helped more than the booze did.

"What?"

"I said if you play your cards right you can get a whole lot more out of this than that credit card."

"Like what?"

"Your life."

"That a threat?"

"Do yourself a favor, Tommy. Stop this."

The man's smile disappeared. "What did you say?"

"I think you heard me just fine, Tommy."

"How do you know my name?"

Christian smirked. "You think you're scaring me with that gun? Parker told you not to buy it. Told you it wasn't worth thirty five cents, let alone the thirty five bucks you were sucker enough to pay for it. It already had jamming problem, and you never did know how to keep it clean, did you?"

"Who the fuck are you? How do you know who I am?"

"Parker told me all about you."

"You're knew Parker?"

"Not really. I killed him. When I kill somebody I get to know most of what they know."

"What?"

"Sometimes the people I kill leave little bits of themselves inside me. Unfinished business, usually. Sometimes I finish it for them.

"That's how I know about you. I'm guessing he sent me here because he wants you to know you're on the wrong path."

Christian knew that wasn't exactly true. If he checked, he'd probably find that most of the bars and other places he'd haunted the last few days were in some way connected to the people he killed. Crooks run with crooks, sooner or later he was bound to run into one of them.

"Put the gun down, Tommy. Let's rethink the path you've been on."

Tommy swung the gun at Christian's head.

Christian blocked it and head butted Tommy in the nose.

Tommy fell to the floor.

"Now then," Christian began. "Why don't—."

Something exploded on the side of Christian's face. The next thing he knew he was laying on the floor, a sharp pain on the side of his face and a terrible ringing in the same side's ear. His vision was also blurred; when it cleared he saw the woman, Shannon, standing over him with the now broken beer bottle she'd slammed against his head.

She pulled Tommy up, dropped the beer bottle, picked up the gun and put it in his hand.

The gun hung limp in Tommy's hand. She lifted it for him, pointing it at Christian.

Tommy looked at her, terrified.

"I know," she said, tears in her eyes. "I know, but you got to. He knows who you are. He'll tell."

Tommy's eyes stretched wide.

"I know, baby," she said. "But you got to."

This would be his third felony. That meant life. Number two for her, which meant fifteen years.

Neither of them had living relatives to take the baby and that meant she'd wind up in foster care.

Shannon had been in the foster care system. She still woke up screaming sometimes from memories of being locked in closets and basements for days, of being beaten, of men touching her in ways no child should ever be touched, of social workers who didn't believe her no matter how hard she cried, and of the other kids calling her a wimp and a cry baby, saying if she was lucky enough to live in a real house, who cared if the dad touched you a little bit every now and then.

Her girl _would not_ suffer through that.

Never. Never ever.

Except she would if they both went to jail, and jail was exactly where they'd go if they didn't kill this man. Maybe he wouldn't say anything, maybe he'd keep his mouth shut, but why should he?

God, it was never supposed to get like this.

It was supposed to be like all the other times. She'd meet a guy in a bar and slip something into his drink and invite him back to her place. He'd pass out and they'd steal his cash and copy his credit card information. After that, they'd drop him off in a homosexual flophouse a few blocks away.

That way even if he somehow remembered anything about meeting a girl, or what he thought was a girl, at a bar, he'd be too embarrassed to tell anybody.

The only problem was that Christian didn't pass out. He'd vomited out the drug she'd slipped him, but it wouldn't have mattered. His system was so out of whack now the drugs would have had no effect.

Shannon, of course, didn't know any of this. She only knew that by the time they got back to her place, Christian was showing no signs of passing out.

So, she stuck a beer in Christian's mouth and went back to the bedroom to talk to Tommy, who was hiding back there. She debated just kicking him out and getting a new mark, but ultimately they decided he looked too rich to just let go.

Instead she got the fan and carried it to the front room, flipping it on high after she plugged it in so he wouldn't hear Tommy slinking out of the back room.

The plan was for him to act like he was robbing them both; afterwards she'd say they couldn't call the cops because she was actually married and didn't want her husband to know she was cheating. If Christian insisted on the police, she'd tell him if he called the cops she'd tell them he tried to rape her. She was sorry, but she'd do anything to protect her family.

That was as bad as it was supposed to get. Christ, how did they end up here, having to kill him?

How did he even know who they were? Some gibberish about killing Parker and knowing what he knew?

Her mind was going so fast she couldn't make sense of it even if there was sense to be made out of it. And anyway, it didn't matter how they got there, they were there, and they had to do what they had to do.

"You got to," she said again. "Remember Wendy? She needs us. You got to."

Tommy nodded.

Christian was wrong about the gun; it was the same make and model as the defective one Tommy used to have, but it was not the same gun. That one fell into a rusted heap years ago.

This gun Tommy had bought brand new. This gun was in perfect working condition. This gun he always kept clean and loaded right, and this gun never jammed.

Tommy pointed at Christian's skull and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Tommy looked at it. This gun didn't jam, but you still had to take the safety off.

Christian kicked Tommy's legs out from under him and was already pouncing when Tommy hit the ground. Tommy rolled out of the way, grabbing the gun and flipping off the safety just as Christian yanked the lamp cord out, bathing the room in black.

Tommy started blasting.

One bullet caught Shannon in the shoulder, one in her abdomen and one more passed through her neck.

Her body slumped to the floor.

Tommy fumbled along the wall until he found the light switch.

The gun dropped from his hand when he flipped it on. "...Shannon...oh my God..."

He walked over beside her and dropped to his knees.

"Oh please God, please...oh Jesus, Shannon..."

Shannon blinked and looked at him, confused and frightened; her breaths fast and shallow. She opened her mouth as if to speak, blinked one more time, and died.

"Shanny please baby, come on sweetheart, please..."

In the corner of his eye, Tommy saw Christian picking up the phone to call for an ambulance.

Before Christian could dial the first number Tommy was behind him and had the cord wrapped around his throat, pulling with all his power.

"You killed her," Tommy said, pulling the cord so tight Christian's eyes bulged from their sockets. "Now I'm going to kill you...I'm going to fucking kill you..."

Christian elbowed Tommy in his ribs as hard as he could but it had no effect. He tried to throw him off but only wound up falling face first onto the floor.

"We just wanted your fucking money and you shot her you piece of shit. You're going to die for what you did, you fucking scum bag. You're going to fucking die."

Christian reached back, trying to scratch his eyes out but it was useless.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you."

Christian believed him.

If he didn't do something and soon, he knew he was dead.

Christian reached his arm backwards, up his back and put his hand over Tommy's heart.

"I'm going to fucking kill you for killing her you piece of shit." He pulled the cord even tighter. The veins on Christian's head were fat now, ready to pop. He gritted his teeth and kept reaching for Tommy's heart, the unnatural route his arm had to go along with Tommy's body weight made it feel like it was about to break.

He still had a little further to go before he reached his heart.

"You piece of shit. How could you do it? How could you do it?"

A moment later, for Christian, everything went black.

He awoke a few seconds later, pushing Tommy's body off of him before yanking the cord from his throat, coughing, his head feeling like it was about to explode.

He pushed himself to his feet, the pain already subsiding as Tommy's life coursed through him. God it felt good. God it felt so fucking good.

He looked at the bodies.

There were police sirens in the distance. A small crowd had already formed outside.

Ducking down, Christian crept to the bedroom and climbed out the window.

About an hour later, Christian arrived at the hospital where the Goss child was still barely clinging to life. He gave him Tommy's life, and the next day the child began getting better. Within two months, he'd make a full recovery.

The doctors were baffled, of course. The boy's recovery, wonderful though it was, flew in the face of everything they'd been taught, everything they knew about science and medicine.

But while none of the doctors could explain it, there was one person who worked at the hospital who thought they may have the answer. covery. fe and gave him Tommy'al where the Goss child wShe was dead. gotn'e really considerhile they would

His name was Roger Barr. He was a nurse at the hospital, and the Goss child was under his charge the night Christian visited him. He'd seen Christian enter the child's room, and watched him as he left.

At first Roger thought he was the boy's father, whom the mother blamed for the accident and therefore did not want anywhere near the child.

Roger thought that perhaps this was the only way he could see his boy in peace, sneaking in after hours.

But when the boy started to get better and the father was allowed to openly visit him, Roger knew the two men were not the same.

So, who was this strange man whose visit coincided with the child's impossible recovery?

Roger examined security footage from the night in question. He watched on the hospital feed the recording of the man as he left the building, and on the parking lot feed, as he got into his car, observed his license plate number.

Roger ran the plate numbers.

When he came home from work the next day a strange man was sitting on his sofa.

Roger didn't notice him until after he'd closed his door and taken some steps into the apartment. When he finally did, neither of the two said anything at first, just looking at one another in silence.

"Hello Roger," the man finally said.

"Who are you?" Roger asked.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Roger. This is my apartment."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Well. That's something."

"Leave," Roger said in an even tone, not frightened. "Leave now or I'll call the police."

He shook his head. "Trust me, Roger. The last thing you're going to want to do is make any movements towards a phone."

"Why?"

"You don't want the last thing you hear in this life to be that robotic voice telling you to please hang up and try again, do you? Although, if you believe in reincarnation, I suppose it could be fitting."

"Who are you?"

"Who I am, Roger, is The Ounce of Prevention. And believe me when I tell you," he said, patting the gun beneath his suit jacket, "You do not want to meet the Pound of Cure."

## CHAPTER 19

THE PRESENT

Shortly after leaving the police headquarters, Christian arrived at Arthur Lewis Hospital.

The best connection he'd forged with Berlin thus far came when he was at her apartment. Obviously he couldn't go back there, but since he couldn't go where she lived, going to where she worked might be the next best thing.

He passed through the large glass doors that were the entrance and approached the elevators.

Two nurses were there, and as they waited for it they discussed the young girl who'd been murdered the night.

"Such a shame," one said as the elevator doors opened.

"Senseless," the other said, "a girl so young."

The two nurses got on the elevator. Christian did too.

"What four, please?" the first one asked Christian.

"Four."

She pressed it and the doors closed.

"Can you imagine the kind of evil that must be in a person's heart to do something like that?" asked the first nurse. "He must be some kind of monster."

Christian swallowed and felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down his back. Though he knew it was crazy, he got the feeling they knew he was guilty and were just toying with him.

"So young. Her whole life ahead of her."

"I just can't believe it."

"There is one silver lining," said the first nurse. "They caught the son of a bitch who did it."

The elevator stopped and its doors opened.

The nurses turned to Christian. "This is your floor, right?"

## CHAPTER 20

The man who confessed to killing Berlin Cavanaugh was lying on the bed in his cell with his hands folded behind his head.

He was surprised to hear the guard's footsteps approaching again so soon.

Had fifteen minutes passed already?

It didn't feel like it, but it was possible.

They'd taken his watch when they relieved him of his belt and shoelaces. Precautions against suicide, they said. How he would kill himself with a watch, he didn't know, but given enough time he supposed he could think of with something.

He lifted up his arm, making it easy for the guard to see he was alive.

But this time the guard didn't just walk by. This time he stopped.

"Get up," the guard said. "Time to go."

"Where to?"

Detective Evan Andrews had a headache but it wasn't from a hangover.

He knew better than that.

He was a cop and cops had to watch it with booze. It took him a while to figure that one out, but he did. Finally.

No, this was a migraine. He'd taken two extra strength painkillers but they hadn't kicked in yet. He hoped they would soon.

The day barely started but he could already tell it'd be a long one.

A weird case he was working. Bizarre, really.

A guy came in and confessed last night to murdering a young nurse named Berlin Cavanaugh. He'd been cooperative for the most part, but when they asked him where the body was he'd clam up. And it wasn't just that. Usually he could get a read pretty quick on if a person was telling the truth or was just a nut, seeking attention. With this guy, he still wasn't sure.

There was a knock on Andrew's door.

"It's open," he said.

A uniformed officer poked his head in. "She's here."

"All right," Detective Andrews said. "Be right there."

A few minutes later, Detective Andrews stepped in the lineup room.

Inside were a few uniformed cops, the suspect's lawyer, somebody from the prosecutor's office, and the newly arrived witness.

"Hello," Detective Andrews said to the witness, "Heather, right? I'm Detective Andrews. We spoke on the phone."

"Hi."

He explained the process, telling her it was just like on TV. The men who would shortly file behind the glass couldn't see her, but she'd see them. If she saw the man who'd been in her apartment, point him out. That was it.

Understand?

She did.

Ready?

She was.

Detective Andrews gave a nod and the light on the other side of the mirror came on. Several men marched out onto a slightly elevated stage. The whole thing had a surreal, slave auction feel.

"Take your time," Detective Andrews said.

She scanned from one end of the row to the other. "I'm not sure."

Detective Andrews glanced at the suspect's attorney.

A good lawyer would try to stop the proceedings right then, saying the witness failed to identify.

Of course the process would continue, but actually stopping them wouldn't have been what he was after.

It would have been about putting psychological pressure on the witness, making her feel she'd already failed and was wasting the time of the important people ganged up around her in that tiny room that seemed to only be getting smaller. It would be about making her want to get it over with as soon as possible and therefore more likely to pick the wrong guy or say he wasn't there.

That was what a good lawyer would do.

This guy just stood there, his mouth shut and shirt collar sticking up in the back.

Detective Andrews looked back to Heather. "Take your time."

On the other side of the mirror the man who'd turned himself in was sweating.

He hadn't anticipated any witnesses. Now he was stuck. There was no way they'd pick him; he didn't look anything like Christian, and there was no time to think of anything else.

All his plans were about to be ruined.

"Look at them closely," Detective Andrews told Heather.

Heather scanned the men again.

"Tell us when you see the one that stands out."

Heather gasped, "Oh my God."

"What is it?" Detective Andrews asked.

"It's him," Heather said. "Number three."

"You recognize the person holding the card marked three?"

"Yes."

"Where do you recognize him from?"

"From my apartment. He's the man who was in Berlin's room."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

Detective Andrews smiled.

He took Heather back to his office to sign off on some paperwork and then walked her outside to the black and white waiting to take her home.

On his way toward his office, he spied the suspect's defense lawyer, his collar still sticking up in the back. He was a young guy, not more than thirty, and had the air of a naïve kid from the country who couldn't be trusted outside with more than a fifty bucks because he'd probably come home with a pocketful of magic beans.

A thought occurred to Detective Andrews.

It was probably a longshot, but if this lawyer was as dumb as he seemed it might work.

"Hey, you're the lawyer, right?" Detective Andrews said, walking towards him, "Your name is Phil..."

"Brandon. Brandon Mills."

"Brandon Mills, right. Sorry about that. I'm Detective Joe Andrews."

"Yeah, I know."

"So, no surprise there, huh? You guys must've been expecting the girl would ID him."

"Did you come over here to gloat, Detective?"

"Over a case where a guy turned himself in before anyone knew there was even a crime? Not exactly the result stunning investigative skills. Hard to gloat over that. Pointless, really. Like that lineup was pointless."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, the guy confessed. It's open and shut. I don't know why my Captain insisted on going forward with a lineup. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Look, it's out of my hands now. They just called me in to supervise the lineup and I did. It's up to the D.A. what they're going to do next." He leaned in and put on his best 'but- between-you-and-me' face, "But if you ask me, they already know. That's why they insisted on it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Isn't it obvious? The only reason they want this case so air tight, is because they're going to go after the death penalty."

Mills said with wide eyes, "You really think so?"

"I do."

"Man, I hope not. I'm new, and that's a lot of pressure for one of your first times out the gate."

"How long you been at it?"

"Just over a year. Well, I've been an attorney for two but I was doing tax law before. Boring stuff. I wanted to get where the action was but, sheesh, I wasn't looking for this much action this fast. You really think they'll go after death?"

"I'm positive."

"Wow. That's bad news."

"With a witness and a confession, I doubt they'll let him plead his way out. They want to look tough. You know, the election is coming up. They need the voters to think they're the guys who can protect them. And they're going to use your boy to prove it. If I were you, I'd move now to get in front of this. Remember, you still have one card you can play but you have to play it fast."

"What card is that?"

"The body. If he were to give up the body it'd be a lot better for him. They'd even take death off the table. I mean, they'd have to. With him not giving the body up, he's a demon keeping some poor mother who lost her baby from being able to say good bye. If he tells us where she is, they won't be able to make him out to be evil incarnate, which is what they want to do."

Mills nodded. "I don't think he'll ever give it up, though."

"You know," Detective Andrews said, "even if he didn't give it up himself, if someone else told us where she is, I bet the D.A. couldn't be such a hard ass. Like I said, as long as the girl is missing, your guy is a monster still victimizing her family. Nobody is going to want to take it easy on him. But if the body was found, even if it was by some random person stumbling across it, the family gets some peace and he's not such a monster anymore. Then they're not so bloodthirsty. Guaranteed."

"But what are the chances of somebody stumbling on it?"

"It happens. Trust me, I've been doing this a long time, stranger things have happened. Somebody stumbles across the body, makes a call, maybe anonymously because they don't want to get involved, and just like that, your boy's life is saved.

"And that quote unquote anonymous call will probably be from someone your boy knows. I mean, he's had to have told someone, right? And if he hasn't yet, you can believe he's going to. Can you imagine keeping something like that inside, all to yourself? He's going to have to tell somebody. His best friend, his priest, somebody he trusts."

"Well, if he told his priest, his priest couldn't tell anyone. He'd have confidentiality, same as with me."

"Yeah, you're right," Detective Andrews said. "You are right. But then again, confidentiality wouldn't necessarily stop his priest. I mean, it is entirely within the realm of possibility this priest would decide keeping your guy alive was more important than keeping a secret."

"But if he violated his oath wouldn't he get defrocked or whatever it's called when priests get debarred?"

"Not necessarily. There is no way to know for sure, but I bet if there was a way to find out, you'd find most anonymous tips we get come from priests and psychiatrists and other people who want to do the right thing, but the law says they can't. Think about it, people confess horrific things to them because they know they can't tell anyone. Some of those confessions get to their consciences and eventually they pick up the phone. They make an anonymous call, and that's it. No questions asked."

"I never thought of that. But yeah, it makes sense."

"Yeah, it does. Sometimes I think that's the only reason we have confidentiality laws at all, so people will spill their guts to somebody, and those somebodies can make use of the anonymous caller system." Detective Andrews said, "And I'll bet that's why most of them spill their guts. Deep down, they're hoping they will make that call. They want them to make that call for them because they're too scared or too nutty to do it themselves.

"When you think about it like that, it's really the priest's duty to make that call. He'd be violating the spirit of his oath if he didn't. The oath is to the client, right? That means you have to put his interests before everything else, including your oath. If it comes down to client vs. oath, if the oath means anything to you at all, the client has to win out, right? And if you have to do something to save his life that goes against the oath, that's one of the sacrifices you have to make, right?"

"I guess. But do priests call their people clients."

"I don't know. I'm not Catholic."

"Me neither. I had an uncle that was Catholic. Irish Catholic. Whew." He shook his head. "I get hangovers just thinking about when somebody in his family died or got married."

Detective Andrews laughed and patted his shoulder. "But anyway, listen. I'm late for a meeting. It was nice meeting you, and good luck with everything."

"Thanks. You too."

Detective Andrews walked off.

Brandon Mills went to the room where he was to meet with his client, beaming as he sat down and opened his briefcase.

Wow.

That cop must have thought he was incredibly stupid, suggesting he get his client to tell him where the body was and then break privilege with an anonymous phone call, all in hopes the prosecutors would be so moved they'd take death off the table, which, by the way, wasn't even _on_ the table yet.

Man. That sticking-your-collar-up-in-the-back routine really worked, didn't it? That, a couple of aw shucks and a wide eyed look got them off their A game faster than a tack on a seat. He not only got past their defenses, they didn't even bother raising them.

But it wasn't just the collar and the naiveté that got them underestimating him. The girl stumbled during the lineup and he hadn't jumped all over her.

They must have thought it was out of stupidity, but he had good reason not to jump on her. The cops screwed up bad, really really bad, and it was like Napoleon said: never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake.

They were going to build a huge part of their case on her identification. Their blunder was going to get that tossed once a judge heard about it. He smiled, imagining the looks on their faces when he told them what they'd done. Priceless. Once the identification was gone and he convinced his client to take back his confession, they wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

This was going to be awesome.

Lowly first year defense attorney whips seasoned prosecutor in a murder case and exposes massive incompetence in the police department. The headlines would practically write themselves, as would invitations to all the big law firms.

The door opened. Mills expected to see his client. Instead a guard stepped in. "Mr. Mills?"

"Yes. Where is my client?"

"Dead."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Mills' client was not dead, but he would be very soon.

Before confessing, he'd taken a deadly but slow acting combination of drugs that finally kicked in as he was being led away from the lineup. Halfway back to his cell, he dropped to the floor, convulsing, frothing at the mouth. It was only because of the guard's fast and learned response that he hadn't died right then.

Doctors pumped his stomach, but by then the damage was done. Most of his organs had shut down and his living will stated he was not to be put on life support.

All they could do was put him in a hospital bed and wait for him to die.

Christian was shocked when the nurses said a man turned himself in for Berlin's murder. A thousand questions went through his mind, obviously, but he didn't let them distract him. Berlin wanted something from him, and he'd already lost enough time in finding out what it was and wouldn't waste more trying to figure out who the guy who'd turned himself in was or why he'd done what he'd done.

He'd hoped being in her place of work would trigger a connection but it didn't. He knew as more time passed, the weaker her presence would become until it had evaporated to near nothing, and if it ever came again would only be in the form of a flash of insight or surge of unearned familiarity with some place or thing or person. Even that might not come for days or weeks or years.

That would not do.

He could not sense much of what she wanted, but he did know time was very quickly running out; soon he wouldn't be able to give it to her. He might already be too late.

He needed to find out right away. The only way to achieve contact with her now, if it was still even possible, would take more than being near the places and things familiar to her. To achieve it now, he needed contact with the thing she had been the closest, the thing with which she was the _most_ familiar.

Her body.

In his confession, the man who'd turned himself in said he'd stumbled across Berlin as she was lying on the floor in a dark room. He said he knew he should call for help, but instead closed the door behind him and knelt down beside her and before he knew it, his hand was on her breast. He looked at her face and her eyes were open and staring at him.

She screamed.

He clamped his hand over her mouth to quiet her, but she fought back, pushed him off and tried to run away. She had her hand on the knob when he gripped her up from behind, one hand over mouth and one arm wrapped around her neck.

He lifted her off her feet, telling the cops he noticed how light she was as he did so, and how she kept fighting and then he heard a tiny snap, like a twig breaking, and then she went limp.

When the police asked him what he'd done with her body, he said he didn't remember. When they pressed, he asked for his lawyer.

The police couldn't find out what he'd done with her, but Christian had his own ways of finding out.

He waited until dark and then, very quietly, stole inside the man's hospital room.

The door closed slowly behind him and he walked towards the bed, his footsteps echoing off the close walls.

He looked at the man's face.

He'd never seen him before. In a few moments, he'd know him as well as anyone, be privy to his deepest secrets, including what he'd done with Berlin's body.

Gently, he placed his hand upon his chest.

"Excuse me," said a voice from the corner of the room.

Christian looked up and saw a uniformed officer sitting in a chair.

"Can I help you with something?" the officer asked, standing up.

"What? No."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Christian said. "I'm sorry, I must have the wrong room."

"Who are you looking for?"

"Seaver," Christian said. "Ben Seaver."

"Wasn't that the kid on _Growing Pains_?"

"No, Ben's never been on TV. He's a bartender. Dummy broke his arm changing a light bulb."

The cop walked over.

Christian said, "I was just coming to let him know this doesn't get him out of the ten bucks he owes me."

"Let me see some ID."

"Sure," Christian said, and punched the cop square in the middle of the face, knocking him out cold.

He grabbed him before he hit the floor and slumped him back in his chair.

He'd wake up with a nasty headache, but he'd be fine.

Christian walked back over to the patient and put his hand on his chest.

This time he was not disturbed.

## CHAPTER 21

THE TRAGIC TALE OF MATILDA HENNER

Rob Henson was getting worried.

He'd been beating his girlfriend, Matilda, for the better part of the afternoon now and she hadn't given in, she was still hunched over in a corner with her back to him, ready to keep on taking his punches and kicks and elbows for as long as he wanted to keep giving them.

This wasn't like her.

Usually a couple of slaps and punches would do it, but not today.

Something serious must be bothering her, he thought. If so, that made her nothing but a little hypocrite, didn't it? Tildy was the one always going on about communication and being open and here she was keeping secrets.

Where was the trust, he wondered as he slammed his fist into her rib cage.

Tildy whimpered when he hit her, bit her bottom lip and shuddered, but still didn't give in.

"I know something is bothering you," Rob said, his throat dry and voice raspy. "But whatever it is, I don't give a damn. Whatever you been keeping to yourself you can keep on keeping it to yourself. Ain't the time for talking, but for doing. And you need to do the right thing." He swallowed to wet his throat. "Do it. Do it now and I mean right now or else I swear to Christ Almighty you're gonna be spending a real long time wishing you did."

Matilda didn't move.

Rob lifted his arm to punch her again but caught a sharp pain in his shoulder from an old football injury.

He thought about switching hands, but decided to switch tactics instead.

"Do it," he said, "or else I'm walking out of here right now and you ain't never going to see me again. I'm dead serious, too."

She didn't move.

She had him. She knew it too. Finally now so did he. This time she wasn't going to give in. This time she wasn't going to give up no matter what he did to her.

He shook his head. "Stupid bitch." He walked out the front door of their tiny shack, got in the truck and drove off.

Matilda waited until she couldn't hear its radio blaring before standing up to reveal what she'd been using her body as a shield to protect for the last few hours: her eight year old son.

When she stood up, the boy looked her in the eye but didn't say anything. He was as silent now as he'd been since the age of four, when out of nowhere he stopped talking.

She smiled and smoothed back his hair.

"It's okay, baby," Matilda said. "He's gone. Everything's fine now so don't you be scared no more."

He blinked and scratched his nose.

"That's momma's little boy. That's momma's brave little boy."

She kissed his forehead and limped to the front door, pressing it shut and locking it. Rob had a key, but now he'd have to use it. She'd hear it hit the lock and that would give her some warning he was back.

Warning, or reassurance? Aren't you really doing it because you want to hear as soon as possible he didn't mean it when he said he was leaving forever, that he's back and wants to keep being a family?

She made her way to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Wow.

This was a bad one.

Both eyes were black and swollen. Her bottom lip was twice the size God intended. There was a purple lump on her cheek that she knew just from looking at it would sting if she touched it.

Boy. He'd really let her have it this time.

Not the worst on record, but definitely top ten.

What made it really bad was that she was supposed to be at work in an hour. She couldn't go in like that. Come to think of it, she couldn't go in at all now that Rob had taken the truck.

Shoot.

Maybe one of the girls would cover for her. Carla always wanted extra shifts. She could call her.

If the phone was on.

But they hadn't been able to pay the bill again this month, so it wasn't.

That meant no-call, no-show, which meant no job, and it would be weeks before her face healed enough to look for a new one.

She looked at her boy and smiled even though it hurt to do so.

Okay. Her other worries would keep just fine. Right now her boy needed a bath.

She filled the tub with water, adding a cap full of dish soap to make bubbles and put him in. She sat with him for a while, making sure he cleaned up nice and then said, "Finish getting yourself fresh and clean, okay? Momma's gonna get your pj's."

She walked towards his bedroom, stopping when she passed hers, looking in at her bed. It would feel so sweet to just crawl in it, pull the covers up over her head and have herself a nervous breakdown, a nice big one too.

Maybe later.

Her son needed her with her head straight for a while longer. Get him cleaned, get him fed, get him to bed and sleeping and then she could fall apart.

She went in his bedroom, stepping over all toys a boy his age should have outgrown a long time ago and was just about to open his pajama drawer when she heard a terrible sound.

Her son was screaming. Loud. Terrified.

A thought flashed in her brain.

Rob was back!

She hadn't heard the door unlock over the water running. Now he was in there alone with her son.

Matilda bolted towards the bathroom.

It was only a few feet but felt like miles. Horrible thoughts went through her mind.

She imagined Robert locking the bathroom door shut, wedging a chair under the knob so she couldn't break in. She saw her little boy looking up at him with those great big innocent eyes and Rob grabbing a handful of his beautiful hair and thrusting him under water, laughing as she pounded helplessly on the door.

She reached the bathroom.

The door was open.

Robert wasn't in there. Neither was her son.

She felt a gust of wind, looked up and saw the front door was open.

She ran outside but didn't see Robert, her son, or the truck. Robert took off with him, she thought.

She had to call the cops but she didn't have a phone and the nearest neighbor was a mile away.

She took one step and dropped to the ground, hyperventilating. She was just about to lose her mind when out of the corner of her eye she saw a figure standing in the doorway.

It was her son, by himself, standing there naked and dripping with water and soap bubbles.

She ran over and hugged him tight. "Oh my God, oh my sweet baby, you scared momma so bad." She kissed him. "Why did you scream, baby?"

It was a stupid question.

Poor child had spent the last few hours huddled under his momma with some jerk beating the tar out of her trying to get at him. Then she left him by himself in the tub; the little fella just got plain scared.

"Come on," she said softly, taking his hand.

She led him inside, closed the door and locked it again.

She put him back in the tub and stayed with him until he was good and wrinkly. When he was, she pulled the plug, got him out, dressed him in his pajamas, fed him, put him in bed and lay down beside him until he fell asleep.

When she heard him snoring she quietly stole out of his bed, went into the kitchen and plucked a cigarette from the pack she kept hidden behind the microwave. After having a smoke and a glass of water she climbed into her own bed.

She was soon asleep, and the events of the day replayed itself before her in her dream. In her dream, she was standing in the corner like a ghost, watching from afar as Robert punched and kicked her.

In dreams blows can't hurt, but words can. Robert's words hurt her now just as they had when they happened.

"Your dumb ass retarded son left the door open," Robert shouted. "My goddamn dog run out of here, a thousand fucking dollars run out the door on account of his melon headed ass. Give him to me, I'm going to whip his stupid ass smart. That's our goddamn future he just shitted away!" About a month before, Robert had found the money Matilda had been squirreling away for the last few years. He used it to buy an expensive dog he had pipe dreams of breeding and getting rich by selling the puppies. "Give me that little fucktard, and I mean right now."

She watched herself defy him, defy anyone, for the first time in her life. She watched as he did all he could to break her, and fail. She watched with as much pride as she was capable of feeling him finally give up and sulk away.

She watched as her other-self then got up and closed and locked the door. She watched her examine her face in the mirror, and then fill the tub and make the bubbles before putting her little guy inside. She smiled now as she had then when his face got bright at seeing the bubbles.

She watched her tell him she was going to get his pajamas, and then as she left to do just that, pausing to look in at the bed she wished she could crumble on before going in his room.

She saw her become overcome with fright when he screamed, watching as she ran to the bathroom and then outside.

This was when something odd happened in the dream, something that hadn't happened when it happened in life.

She was aware of something now she hadn't been before.

Or, was it something she had been aware of even at the time, but chose to not to see?

The front door was open, she said to herself, now standing alone in her dream. Robert didn't come back, so how did the door open? If Robert didn't open it, your son must have. Why?

"Because he was scared," Matilda said in her dream and in the real world, talking in her sleep.

Yes, of course he was scared. But why open the door? Something doesn't fit.

She watched herself run outside and fall to her knees, terrified. She'd just about lost her mind when she saw him standing in the doorway. She went over and wrapped her arms around him, so joyful at seeing him, she didn't notice what should have been obvious.

But now she would.

As she stood there, watching her dream-self hugging her son, she looked at his feet.

There was no grass on them.

If he'd gotten so scared he ran outside then why were there no blades of grass stuck to his wet feet? Even if he hadn't run in the grass but stayed in the part that was just dirt, they'd at least be muddy now; he would have tracked mud prints all over the kitchen floor, but he hadn't.

Because he didn't go outside.

Then why did he open the door?

Could it be that he wanted you to think he'd gone outside so you would go out chasing after him?

An icy shiver went down her spine. She thought of her son's quiet stare and now got the idea it wasn't quite what she'd thought.

She wondered for the first time if the reason he'd become so abruptly quiet four years ago was because something had crawled inside him, silenced her real son and had been watching her this whole time. Watching and waiting.

But that was ridiculous.

He was her son. Nothing had crawled inside him. And even if there was, why would it want her to run outside? Why would it hide all this time and creep out now for the grand purpose of tricking her into going outside for all of five seconds?

Because you would have found it if it didn't. It came out because you were about to discover something it wanted to keep secret. It needed you to go outside while it did something inside.

"Something inside..." she muttered in her sleep.

What was the last thing you said to him? What were you doing just before he screamed?

She'd said she was going to get his pajamas, and was just about to do that when he screamed.

What would have happened if you hadn't left? What would you have seen if you opened that drawer? When you came back after putting him in the tub, the drawer was different than it had been. You ignored that too. Before it had been completely closed, but when you came back it was protruding slightly, like someone had opened it, but in a rush hadn't closed it all the way.

In her dream, she was back in the moment when her son screamed. Her other-self ran out, but she didn't follow her.

She approached the dresser, her heart pounding.

"No," she muttered in her sleep, gently shaking her head, "don't...open it..."

But she did.

When she saw what was inside her eyes filled with shock. "Oh my God! Oh my dear God!"

She woke up drenched with sweat, panting so hard she could barely breathe. Before she could catch her breath she sensed she wasn't alone. There was something in the bed with her, beneath the covers, crawling up her legs.

She tossed the covers aside.

Her son was holding a large butcher's knife over her midsection.

"What---"

He pushed the knife inside her.

Matilda looked dumbly at the handle poking out of her. Blood pooled around the entry point.

She should have screamed. Maybe she didn't because she was in shock. Maybe she did but was too far gone to hear it.

One thing was certain: he didn't scream. His expression remained as calm and blank as she thought his mind was as he twisted the blade and pressed it down deeper.

She threw him to the floor.

Staring at the handle poking out of her, her mouth gaped open but the only sound to escape it was a weak whimper. Hands trembling, she grabbed the black handle and pulled it out.

Blood spurted six inches in the air before tapering off and turning her white sheets red.

She needed an ambulance.

She tried to stand but fell hard onto the floor, already very weak. She crawled to the kitchen, grabbing the phone.

She held it to her ear but there was no dial tone.

But if she dialed 911, it had to ring. Right? They have to do something special so even if your phone is off it'll ring if you call for 911. It can't not ring just because of the bill. They can't let people die because of an unpaid bill.

She started dialing, and then felt the floor rise up and crash into her face.

The last thing she saw before passing out was a figure standing over her.

She couldn't quite tell who it was, but it looked like they were holding something in their hand; something long and sharp.

THE NEXT DAY

Ice chips melted against Matilda's lips. The cool water spilled down her cheeks and neck, tickling her ear, moistening the pillows and sheets.

"Come on, Tildy," Robert said tenderly as he put more ice chips to her lips. "Come on and get well, sweety pie."

Her eyes lolled. She seemed to look at him for a second and then was gone again.

Robert put the bowl of ice chips on the nightstand and wiped his face.

What in the fuck happened?

Last thing he remembered was going to the bar and getting hammered. Didn't remember even driving home. Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?

He paced the room asking that question over and over to himself even though he knew he could wrack his brain all he wanted, he wasn't going to remember what she did to piss him off when he got back enough to do...whatever he did to make her wind up like this.

"Come on, Tildy," he nudged her. "Come on, pull yourself together, girl. You can beat it. You're a tough one. Come on, and stop this nonsense now, you hear? I love you, girl. Dear God, I love you so much. Don't leave me all by myself. I don't know what I'd do without you. I swear I don't."

Her eyes were open, but glazed over; staring the way eyes stare when they're not really seeing anything.

She was dying. If he didn't take her to the hospital, she would be dead very soon.

He took another swig of gin. "Think Robert. Think real good. Think like a smart guy would think. What would a smart guy do? Smart people make lists, right? They lay out what all they can do and then think about what would happen if they did each one and then they pick the best one.

"Okay, Robby, what can you do? I could take her to the hospital. Best case scenario, she survives. You go back inside for assault or attempted murder. Take her to the hospital and worst case scenario she dies, and you go in for murder. Either way you cut it, you take her to the hospital, you go to jail for a long, long time.

"So, what else can you do?" He took another hit of gin. "You could not take her. You could bury her somewhere deep in the woods. You could get your stupid ass to Costa Rica fast as you can, grow a mustache, change your name Enrique Gomez and spend the rest of your life on the beach playing cards and drinking tequila."

Hmph. When he put it like that, the choice was easy.

No wonder smart people made lists.

Nobody would miss her for long time, if anybody missed her ever. Even if they did they wouldn't look too hard. Who the hell would look for her? They'd just assume him and her and the kid ran off somewhere. Hell, they'd even be a third right.

He looked outside. It was already getting dark. If he was going to do it, now was the time.

"All right," he said to Matilda. "I have to take you to the hospital now. You need a doctor."

He picked her up and carried her to his truck bed.

She groaned when he tossed her in.

"Sorry baby," he said, "I didn't mean to be so rough. I'm taking you to the hospital, okay sweetheart? They're going to fix you right up."

She groaned again. He grabbed a pillow from the couch and slid it under her head. Then he got the shovel from behind the house and tossed it in the passenger seat.

As he slid behind the driver's seat a police car pulled into the driveway.

Robert ducked, and listened to the cruiser's door open and shut, and then footsteps crushing the rocks as they passed the truck, continuing to the house.

Robert peeked over the seat.

An officer knocked and cupped his hands over his eyes, peering inside. "Matilda? You home?"

Matilda moaned. Loud.

Robert whispered through the glass. "Shhhh."

Matilda lifted her arm, and let it drop onto the bed of the truck, banging loudly.

The cop looked over.

She moaned again, louder. You could almost make out her saying the word, 'help'.

The cop ran to the truck and looked in the bed. "Holy Jesus."

Robert ran up behind him, swinging the shovel at his head. The cop heard his footsteps on the rocks, turned and ducked just in time to miss the blow but lost his footing, and fell to the ground.

Robert stood over him with the sharp lip of the shovel poised to come down on the cop's neck when the cruiser's high beams came on, blinding him.

Robert's eyes shut to protect themselves from the stinging light as two rounds from the fallen policeman's gun ripped through his chest, lifting him into the air before leaving him a shivering, leaking pile in the driveway.

The cruiser door opened.

"Stop!" the cop yelled out. "Stay inside. Close the door and close your eyes too, you hear me? Don't look at this. You close the door right now and close your eyes too. I mean it! Do it now!"

The door closed.

The cop got on his radio. "This is Officer Clark White. Shots fired. Repeat shots fired. Suspect down. I am injured. I need back up and three ambulances at the following address as soon as possible. Child services as well. Do you copy?"

## CHAPTER 22

"Why are you running license plate numbers, Roger?" The Ounce of Prevention asked. "Did you have an accident?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

"No."

"Do you enjoy coming home to find strange men with guns threatening to kill you?"

"No."

"Good. Because I can guarantee it won't happen again. You have my word I will never come here and threaten to kill you again, because if there is a next time there will be no threat, I will just shoot you. Once in the head and twice in your heart. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll be dropping this?"

"No."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said no."

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear."

"You did. Perfectly. But now I'm going to make myself clear. I want to know who that man was. I want you to tell me. If you don't, I'll keep going until I find out."

He pointed the gun at Roger's head. "One in the head, two to the heart it is."

"That will be enough, Leonard," said a voice from the corner of the room.

The man it belonged to, an older, tastefully dressed man with an expensive looking raincoat folded over one arm, stepped out from the shadows. "Please, put your fire arm away. And if you'll step outside, I'd like to have a private word with our curious friend here."

Leonard did as he was told.

When the door closed the tastefully dressed man turned to Roger. "You are just getting home from work?"

"Who are you?"

He smiled. "You are full of questions. Yes, you just came home from a hard day's work. You must be tired. Let's have a seat."

The man sat down. Roger didn't.

"Who are you?" Roger asked.

"Please," the man said, "sit."

Roger sat.

"Now then, you saw something the other night, correct? Something out of the ordinary you want explained?"

"Yes."

"What did you see?"

"A man came into a patient's room. He put his hands on them and they got better, even though there was no way."

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

"You just know it means something?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible it means just what you said? A child who would have been dead, is now going to live instead? That's meaningful, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad we agree. Could you also take the presence of Leonard and myself here tonight to mean those responsible for this meaningful event are not interested in publicity? Not even a modest audience of one, and that we want our privacy respected?

"Could it also mean that by respecting our privacy, you are doing your part to ensure that other otherwise hopeless people are afforded the same opportunity as that young child? Could it mean that just by leaving us alone, you'd be saving lives? That would be quite meaningful too, correct?"

"Yes."

"So, since we agree on so much, can we also agree you will leave this matter alone?"

"No."

The man sighed and rubbed his forehead. "In all fairness I must inform you, I am authorized to take your life if I deem it necessary."

Roger sat silent.

"Do you believe me?" the man asked.

"Yes."

"Then why tempt me? I don't want to kill you. But if I have to, I will. I'm offering you the chance to save your life. Take it."

"I want to meet him."

"Why? Why do you want to meet him?"

"He healed that boy, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"I want him to heal me."

"Of what?"

Again, Roger was silent.

"I'm not going to guess."

"There is something wrong with me."

"What?"

Roger swallowed and said, "There is something wrong...inside of me."

"What?"

Roger swallowed again. "I have thoughts."

"What kind of thoughts?"

"The kind I don't want to have."

"Thoughts that frighten you?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about them."

Roger took a deep breath. He'd never told anyone about this, he barely even admitted it to himself but if there was finally a chance for it to all be over, he had to take it. "Sometimes I'll look at someone, and I'll want to...I mean, I don't want to, but still, I'll have...this urge."

"To do what?"

"Rip them apart."

"Go on."

"Sometimes I can make it go away, but it always slithers back. I never acted on it and I never will. At least, that's what I tell myself. The truth is sometimes I don't think I can...it's so strong, you don't understand, sooner or later I'm not going to be able to stop it. I'm tired of spending every second of everyday on guard. I just want to be normal."

"You say you've never acted on these thoughts. Is that the truth?"

"Yes."

"You say you guard against these thoughts every second of every day."

"Yes."

"Why haven't you tried to develop them instead?"

"What?"

"You have thoughts that sicken you, and therefore, you think you're sick. And if you're sick, you can be made not sick. That is your thinking?"

"Yes."

"You are mistaken. The man you saw cannot heal you because you are not sick."

"Yes I am."

"No, you're not. I know you're not, like I know you were lying a minute ago when you said you never acted on those thoughts. You see, Roger; I know what you did. But more than knowing what you did, I know why."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know you stabbed your mother. I also know why."

A ghost flew in Roger's face.

"I know who you are, Roger. And I know what you are. You have been running from it all your life. But if you want to heal, you must stop running. That man you saw cannot heal you, but you can heal yourself. But, to do so, you have to face what you've done. No more running. You have to tell me, Roger. What happened that night?"

Roger swallowed and shook his head.

"The alternative is that I leave, and you keep on running. There is no shame in running. In time you will come to terms with who you pretend to be, and I believe it will be adequate for you to live a satisfactory life. If you want to keep running, you can, Roger. In all honesty, I believe you probably should.

"But, if you want answers, Roger, you are going to first have to come to terms with the fact that you already have most of them, and have deemed them so terrifying you've hidden them from yourself for all these years. Tell me what happened with your mother."

Again, Roger was silent.

"Well," the man said, "It's probably for the best." He stood up and walked to the door. "Goodbye, Roger. You can always take comfort in the fact---"

"She was asleep," Roger said, "I took a knife from the kitchen and climbed on top of her and went under the covers. I lifted up her night gown and put the knife right above her...right over her."

"What happened next?"

"I stabbed her." Tears fell from his eyes. "I stabbed my mom." He shivered, crying uncontrollably.

"That was the first time you did anything like that?" the man asked when Roger had regained some control over himself.

"No," Roger said, sniffling and wiping the tears from his face. "Earlier that day. We had a dog. A little puppy. I was playing with it and then, out of nowhere...I don't know why I did it. I loved that dog. But then next thing I knew, one minute I was playing with him and the next I was cutting him up. I was so scared at what I'd done, I didn't know what to do. I hid him in my dresser drawer and was going to take him out to the woods when night came but my mom almost found him."

"What happened to your mother?"

"Don't you already know?"

"Yes."

"Then why---"

"Because I have to hear it from you."

"Why?"

"Because those are the rules. You will understand later."

"She died about a month afterwards."

"From her injuries?"

Roger shook his head. "The ambulance came and took her away. When they cut her open they found tumors. Terminal cancer. Three weeks later she was gone."

"I am sorry, Roger. What you went through was horrible."

Roger was still, scared to move.

"But if you want any chance at a better life, you have to at least be open to the possibility of forgiving yourself."

Roger shook his head. "I can't. Not ever. What I did to her, I'll never forget that. I'll never forgive myself for it either."

"I'm not saying to forgive yourself for what you did. I'm saying to forgive yourself for what you didn't do. Forgive yourself for not doing it sooner, when it might have done more good."

"What?"

"Doesn't it seem strange that the one place you opt to stab your mother turns out to be where she has developed life threatening tumors?"

Roger didn't know what to say.

"Do you know what an empath is, Roger?"

"No."

"It is you. And now I am breaking the rules, but I don't think it matters now. You've shared enough for one day and suffered enough for several lifetimes.

"An empath is a person who can look at another person and see things a normal person can't. In your case, you can see the unhealthy parts of other people, where they are hurt or sick. That's what occurred with your mother.

"When you looked at her, you saw her illness, and it terrified you. It terrified you so badly you lost your power of speech for many years."

Roger looked at him. It was true. Up until age four he'd been progressing normally, but then one day he simply stopped talking, and would not utter another word until his teen years.

"But you didn't know where this fear came from or why. You just experienced it as the most primal and worst terror a child can feel; that of losing a parent.

"As time went on, your vision became a little more refined and you didn't experience this terror as a great mass anymore. You centralized the source of your fear and felt there was something inside her that was killing her, and you felt exactly where it was. You didn't know what it was; you knew only that you had to get it out.

"You were a child and understood as a child. It was in her and you had to get it out. Gripped by fear, you grabbed a knife and did something that has haunted you ever since.

"It was the same thing that happened with the animal. Your mother's boyfriend bought it from a puppy mill and it was fraught with problems. You loved the dog but felt something inside it trying to kill it, and wanted to get it out. Yes, what you did was ghastly, but ultimately, innocent. Can you accept that truth, Roger?"

"No," Roger said. "Yes."

"I offer you the chance to stop running. I offer you the opportunity to learn to use your power, and to finally do what you were put on this Earth to do. Do you accept it?"

"Yes."

"Gather anything you want to take with you. In an hour you will board a plane."

"To go where?"

"You'll find out."

Two hours later Roger was at an airfield.

A private jet waited to take him to a facility similar to the one Christian had gone to, but not the same one. That facility was for the most elite; people who would be offered full membership.

Roger could never be a full member because his psychology was too damaged and his gift wasn't extraordinary enough. No gift is common, but Roger's was amongst the least rare. Most who have it live their entire lives unaware they do, typically seeking out careers in emergency rooms or other fields where their ability to quickly and correctly diagnose situations can be the difference between life and death.

Where Roger was remarkable, however, was how pronounced it was in him. For most, it was latent and came as a surge of intuition or simply the correct decision in a critical situation. Roger's was visceral. It came and got him.

Roger's gift was most pronounced in the visual realm, but it wasn't limited to it. His gift was a mental faculty, filtered through, but not limited by, all his senses.

Julian surmised that was what led him to seeing Christian that night. With Christian close by, carrying the life of a dead man, Roger would sense a strange presence and be drawn to it without even being aware of it.

Christian had performed transplants at that hospital before. Roger was probably drawn to him then too but with Julian's security measures in place couldn't get to him.

The night with the Goss child with no security measures in place was simply the first time he'd caught him.

A few hours later, as Roger boarded the plane he looked at the man who'd brought him there. "Why'd you threaten to kill me?"

"When most people attain a certain age, they're better off not knowing. That you were willing to face death meant that was not an option for you."

Roger nodded.

"Anything else?"

"What's your name?"

"Julian," he said, "Stark."

"Julian Stark," Roger said, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Roger boarded the plane and moments later it was in the air.

Julian returned to his car.

Roger would be fine. He'd already achieved some sort of understanding with his gift. If he hadn't he wouldn't have been able to survive as well as he did. A little more guidance and he'd be fine.

What worried Julian now was Christian.

Shortly after becoming aware of Roger's pursuit of Christian, Julian discovered why. He had healed the Goss child. Which naturally begged the question of where he'd gotten the life from? Julian didn't have to investigate long. Christian's wallet was discovered at the crime scene. Luckily, he was able to cover it up. Christian didn't even know about it, or that Julian knew.

Stark did his own investigation and concluded what Christian did was self-defense, but a member under his guidance being a party to a double slaying was not good. As bad as that situation was, however, it was manageable.

What really worried Julian was Christian's disease; the withdrawal. It was almost completely out of hand now; he was unraveling. And he still insisted on keeping it a secret. It killed Julian, but he could not simply go to Christian and tell him he knew about his problem and wanted to help. Privacy was a philosophical cornerstone, and if Christian wanted to keep it a secret, that was his right.

Before he'd simply hoped Christian would learn to cope or eventually ask for help, but now waiting wasn't an option.

He had to find a solution and fast.

The scientists who studied Christian warned his symptoms would only get worse. Some said that over time, he would need more and more lives not only to allay his symptoms, but simply to survive. He may eventually need as many as several lives a day just to live.

Julian had to think of a solution, and fast.

As he drove home from the airfield, he didn't have the slightest idea of what that might be.

## CHAPTER 23

Anna's arms didn't hurt anymore and her wounds had healed, for the most part. Nothing needed to be amputated, thank God. If you looked close enough you could see faded stripes on her arms where the machete had sunk in, but you would have to look very close indeed and know what you were looking for.

She'd regained a lot of mobility in her hands and fingers, about seventy five percent. It was enough to live a normal life but, but she'd never be a surgeon again.

If she couldn't do that, she didn't know what she'd do.

She went to her family's summer house on the lake to try to figure it out. It was tucked away in one of those quiet little towns that seemed were only made so people would have a place to go and think about where they wanted to go from there. Anna had only intended to stay for a few weeks, but before she knew it, almost two years had passed.

She was sitting on her back porch with a cup of tea one day in late autumn. The leaves had already turned orange and the brisk early evening air chilled her a bit.

She sipped her tea, hoping it would warm her, and reflected once again on what to do with her life.

She'd never wanted to be anything besides a surgeon and there was nothing that could compare with making a life, a human life, better with basically just her bare hands.

What could be like helping someone who truly needed her help? What could compare with making a positive difference that otherwise would not have been made?

That was the criteria she'd always used to judge if what she was doing was the best possible use of her time and talent. Are you doing good that otherwise would not have been done? Are you helping someone who otherwise would not have been helped?

She looked at her arms.

She always wanted to be the person helping the people no one else either could or would.

Now she was the person no one else could help. Nobody could do it for her. Either she found a way to make something of this second chance, or it would be wasted on her.

But how?

She sipped her tea and thought for a little while longer.

## PART II

## CHAPTER 1

It had been a long and cold winter in Japan, but it was over now. The warm and splendid days of spring awoke from their long winter's sleep nestled deep within the naked, leafless trees and now yawned blossoms of softest pink and white upon the outstretched branches, creating a sea of impossible beauty throughout the parks and forests of Japan, all along her streets and boulevards.

The most beautiful of all were the cherry blossoms, and it is for them that this sacred time is named, _Season of the Sakura_. It is a time of celebration not only of beauty, but of the ephemeral nature of beauty and of life itself. For the loveliness of the cherry blossoms is matched only by the brevity of their existence, and all too soon they are gone.

But it must be so, for if the trees blossomed eternally, no tongue would ever know the sweetness of the cherry, and the poet would never know the grace of holding, in the dark of his mouth, the light of a thousand springs to come in a single seed.

And since it must be so, every year, every blossom, each at their appointed hour, must become loosed from the branch that birthed and nourished it to flutter to where it will go, and there, wither and die; turn to dust and join the Earth which sprouted the tree from whence it came and upon which new trees will grow.

In Tokyo, many blossoms will find their place in the shade of the forest at the foot of the majestic Mount Fuji. This forest too is famous for its connection to ephemerality.

It is called Aokigahara, or, The Sea of Trees; more people come here to commit suicide than any other place on Earth.

It says much about the splendor of this place, that despite its dark connections it is still most known for its loveliness.

Every year millions of people come to experience the rich wonders hidden within, most have no idea of what else transpires there until they see one of the numerous signs officials have posted upon the trees, signs that in bold, large letters plead: Don't do it! Contact the police before you take your life! There is help!

Some locals refuse to set foot there, fearing the place haunted, cursed, or worse. Others carry no such fears, and take great pleasure in the time they spend there.

One such local man free of fear was Aromi Mitu, a slightly older, professorial looking gentleman now walking along the main pathway to a particular bench.

He is one of the most powerful men in Japan, though his existence is unknown to most of its citizens. It is one of his chief pleasures to walk the long and winding pathways, enjoying the quiet of this enchanting place. But on this particular day he has not come for pleasure. He has come to meet an old friend from America, a man named Julian Stark.

Mitu arrived early and found his friend already there.

"Julian," Mitu said to Julian, who rose from his bench when he saw him arrive. "Early as always. You look well."

The two shook hands and bowed.

"I hope the meeting place is satisfactory," said Mitu.

"Beyond satisfactory," Julian said, looking at the expanse. "The Sea of Trees. No matter how many times I see it, it remains breathtaking."

"For me as well."

"Hard to believe what else goes on here," said Julian.

"Some people won't come. They fear it's haunted."

"What do you say?"

"It is but a forest. It is the people who come here intending never to leave who are haunted. So," Mitu said, sitting down. "What can do for you, old friend?"

"China," said Julian. "I need China."

"China?"

Julian nodded.

"Is there any more to that?"

"Yes there is," said Julian. "But being who you are, I'm sure you already know."

Indeed he did. Little happened on the Pacific Rim worth knowing about that he didn't know about.

He knew Julian came seeking a request, and he brought with him to Japan his young protégé, Christian Thompson. Mitu knew of Christian's capabilities, and in preparing for this meeting acquired the information of the dire straits he was in. The young man apparently suffered quite severe withdrawal symptoms when he didn't have enough people to kill.

Given those circumstances, and that Julian was contacting Mitu about China, it could only be for one reason.

"That's quite a request," Mitu said.

"Yes, it is."

Though considered a closely guarded state secret, it is common knowledge that The People's Republic of China executes more of its citizens per year than any other nation on Earth. Iran executes more per capita, but in terms of sheer number, China is in a class by herself. In one of her bloodier years it's reported she executed over ten thousand murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and white collar criminals.

"You realize," Mitu said, "the extreme danger of what you are suggesting?"

"Yes."

"If they find out who he is and what he can do, you will never see him again."

"The idea is for them not to know."

"It's a fantastic idea. So is cold fusion. The devil, unfortunately, remains in the details. And he will almost certainly remain in China once they discover his power."

"Like I said, the idea is for them not to discover it."

Mitu shook his head. "Even if I were to agree, I could only guarantee some level of security. The bottom line is if he goes to China, he is in China."

"I am aware of that."

"Is he aware? Does he know how dangerous what you're proposing is?"

"Yes."

"And he still wants to do it?"

"Yes."

"Is he a fool?"

"He's one of the brightest people I know."

Mitu thought for a moment. "I could say the same about you. You are one of the smartest people I know."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't an accolade. It was an observation. Right now, I am observing a wise man doing a foolish thing. When I see that, it means one of two things. Either he's not as wise as I thought, or there is more going on than meets the eye. Which is it in this case?"

"There is more."

"What?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Then there is no reason to continue this conversation. The answer is no."

"You know me. Have faith in my judgment."

"You know me. You know that is nowhere near enough." Mitu stood up. "Sorry I couldn't be more help."

Mitu turned to walk away.

Julian said something that stopped Mitu in his tracks. He turned around. "Would you repeat that?"

"Nikita," Julian said.

"Nikita? As in Nikita Riluvoch?"

"As in."

"Nikita Riluvoch is working for you?"

"Nikita Riluvoch doesn't work for anyone. But I am helping him. And if I should need his help, he will help me. Won't you sit back down now?"

Mitu sat down. If Nikita Riluvoch was involved, that changed things.

A lot.

But not completely.

"Even with Nikita," Mitu said, "there are no guarantees."

"The two of us have been in this business far too long to think there ever are. But you must admit the risk is nothing if not mitigated by the Nikita factor." Julian stood up. "Don't answer now. I know it's a lot. Just promise me you'll think about it."

"I'll think about it."

Mitu spent the next few days in seclusion, contemplating the situation.

He couldn't give Julian access to China. He knew that immediately.

Mitu was involved in dozens of delicate operations that depended on the important and fragile relationships with the Chinese he'd spent decades cultivating. He could think of thirty men off the top of his head who'd die if those relationships soured, and those relationships would certainly sour if he was discovered to have helped foreigners, Americans at that, violate their sovereign borders, and corrupt her justice system in furtherance of killing her citizens.

But if he answered no, Julian would proceed using someone else. Without his help, Mitu gave them six months before they'd be discovered. The Chinese would know Julian knew Mitu and would assume Mitu was either involved or that Julian had at least sought his help.

Even if Mitu convinced them he didn't actually aid in the process, it wouldn't matter. The fact that he didn't warn them would be considered an act of betrayal and disrespect equal to if he did.

So, what were his options?

He could try to talk Julian out of it. The likelihood of succeeding was zero. Julian wouldn't have approached Mitu if his mind wasn't already made up. His asset needed a copious amount of lives, and nowhere was as remotely lush in this regard as China.

The asset, Mitu thought. Christian Thompson. Julian had brought him to Tokyo with him.

The men Mitu had keeping tabs on Thompson said he'd been spending most of his time in his room getting drunk but that he did sometimes venture out to use the hotel pool at night.

What if he were to have too much to drink one night before one of his swims and drowned? Mitu's problems would be at an end.

This was an extreme solution, but it may be necessary. He was honor bound to protect his men. He had no such duty to Christian or Julian. If the choice was between killing Christian and letting him endanger the lives of men he was honor bound to protect, the choice practically made itself.

Julian would become his enemy if it was discovered Christian's death was no accident, true, but as formidable as Julian might be, even backed by Nikita Riluvoch, he was an infinitely preferable enemy to the People's Republic of China.

But if he could avoid Julian's wrath, so much the better. He decided therefore, if he did kill Christian, it wouldn't be in the pool. Any fool would be suspicious of such a convenient tragedy, and Julian Stark was no fool.

No, Mitu would agree to Julian's request, but not too quickly or easily. He'd insist on strenuous security measures, request steep favors in return, arrange meetings, do all the work he'd do if he were really going forward with the operation. He might even go so far as to bring the program online, allow Christian to do a few extractions, and then tragedy could strike.

Perhaps a car crash? A plane crash might be better. And if it was to happen, it'd be best to happen in China, so as to stifle any investigation. Julian should die in that accident as well. He was simply too smart. Sooner or later, Julian would find out Christian's death was no accident and that Mitu was responsible. If Christian was to die, Julian had to go as well.

Mitu sighed.

Julian wasn't just a colleague, he was a friend. And here he was thinking about killing him.

He picked up the phone to call Julian but put it back down without calling.

He'd think a little more.

Julian was at a Sumo match when his phone rang.

"Mitu," Julian said when he answered, "how are you?"

"All right," Mitu said, "I'll give you China."

"Fantastic."

"But there are going to be some stipulations."

"Of course."

"And I have a few things I want in return."

"Yes, I suppose you'd have to ask for something, wouldn't you? If for no reason other than sake of appearances."

"What's that mean?"

"Nothing," Julian said. "Just that if you agreed without having requirements or asking favors, I'd probably think you were trying to lull me into your confidence and had something more nefarious in mind. Silly, right?"

Christian was in the hotel sauna.

He'd heard saunas cured hangovers but all this one did was make him sweat.

As he lay there drenched, his guts wrenched and he felt another wave of nausea coming on.

Christ. How much longer was this going to go on? Julian said he was working on some way to get more extractions but hadn't told him anything beyond that.

What if it didn't work out? What if he was lying just to placate him? What if bringing him to Japan was supposed to be symbolic, to show him there were some cultures where suicide was honorable?

He closed his eyes. What was he going to do? What was going to become of him? How much more of this could he endure?

If only he could know if he would ever get better. If only there was some way to see...

His eyes opened.

Lydia Franklin.

She could tell him. He could go to her and find out. If she said there was hope, he'd continue on. If she said it was always going to be like this...he'd deal with that too.

He stumbled back to his room, picked up his phone and purchased a one way ticket to America.

## CHAPTER 2

EVERY SECRET THING

Lydia Franklin stepped out of her shower to the sound of knocking at her front door.

They were light knocks, were the water still running she wouldn't have heard them but she would have known someone was there. The flavors behind the knocks-the heaviness of sleepless eyes, the aching of an empty stomach-were impossible to miss.

She dried and slipped on a robe before jogging to answer.

When she did, on the other side was a woman Lydia had never seen before. She was smartly dressed, late twenties or early thirties, very pretty, with long dark hair and kind but tired eyes. "Melanie?"

"Yes. Lydia?"

"Yeah." Lydia folded her arms. "You're early."

It was crucial the schedule be respected. Lydia's condition made it difficult for her to be around people. Their thoughts and feelings would mix in with hers, creating an experience that was disconcerting at the least and more often was terrifying. Some clients thought she was just being a diva, but she really did need time to prepare, time to brace her mind for the rigors of human contact.

"Sorry," said Melanie. "Should I come back?"

"No," Lydia said. "Please, come in."

Melanie did.

Lydia closed the door and led her to the sitting room, telling her to have a seat on one of the two brown sofas in the center, facing each other and separated by a round black coffee table, polished to a shine. Everything in Lydia's house is as spotless as that coffee table. Other than her work, exercise and hobbies, she has little to do besides clean.

Even her computer, now tucked away in a place where one would imagine it to be powdered with dust is perfectly clean despite the fact Lydia couldn't remember the last time she'd actually used it.

There was a time when she used it quite enthusiastically. She'd never been much of a fan of technology, particularly computers, but when she discovered chat rooms it seemed like a God send, a place specifically designed for someone like her, but after a while even that got tricky.

If she stayed on too long the person started seeping through the screen. Sometimes her fingers moved by themselves and she'd send them the message they were about to send to her, or she'd glance in the screen and instead of her own reflection see theirs.

She'd shut it off and turn away, terrified for the few lingering moments afterwards when she saw not her study, but the living room or coffee shop or whatever were the surroundings of the person with whom she'd been chatting.

"So," Lydia said, sitting down, "who told you about me?"

"A friend."

Lydia understood her evasiveness; she had an elite roster of clients: politicians, wealthy business men and women, famous actors, directors and producers who would have her flown to Hollywood or New York for consultation before taking on a film project. Clients, in short, whose name-if you were truly in their circle and not some hanger on trying to look important-you did not drop unless given specific permission.

Permission Melanie, evidently, had not been given.

"I understand if you don't want to give a name," Lydia said, "I'm just curious as to how much you know about how I work."

"Yes," Melanie said.

"Yes what?"

"Yes I know about...that."

"And do you think you can do that?"

"I'll do anything," she said shaking her head, "anything I can to---"

"Don't," Lydia said.

Melanie sniffed and wiped away a tear.

"Don't tell me why you're here. It'll affect it if I think about it now. I'll have my own thoughts and ideas that mix in with what actually happens."

"Oh," Melanie said. "Well anyway, yes. I can do it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." Melanie almost said more, but didn't.

"But you've never heard of a person like me who requires what I require for a full reading?"

"Yeah, I mean, why does it work that way?"

"I thought about that a lot. The most accurate answer I can give is that I don't know. But if you want my best guess, it has to do with contact and how long and how intimate that contact is.

"You've seen, for example, in stories people who just need to touch something the person owned or be in the same room with them to get a reading.

"I experience something at all of those levels, but it isn't like on TV, where you touch a guy's baseball cap and bang, you know his wife killed him for the insurance. Proximity, just being close to someone, or something they owned, lets me feel what they are feeling at the time, their heartbeat, or breathing, for example, or if they're scared or tired or hungry. Also I can get flashes telling me to say something, and quite often it means something to the other person.

"Skin to skin touching tells me a little more-your mother's name, for example-but nothing new, nothing you don't already know."

"What's my mother's name?"

Lydia took Melanie's hand. "Ask again."

"What's my mother's name?"

Lydia closed her eyes, mentally repeating the question. Only it did not feel like simply asking a question, it felt more like fingers on a radio dial, tuning in to an elusive frequency.

'Lisa' was the first name Lydia heard, but there was still a lot of static. She didn't believe that was correct. She mentally asked a few more times but nothing came except more static.

Lydia knew what was wrong.

It was like when we sometimes stand near a radio and our presence causes the static. We need only to step away for it to come in clear. She did not repeat the question again but instead waited and let time, which is the distance between a thing and itself, provide the needed space.

Lydia opened her eyes. "Your mother's name is Catherine."

Melanie nodded. "So you really are the real thing, aren't you?"

"I am."

"I've, um," Melanie began, "I've never really..."

"Been with a woman?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not a lesbian either, so I know how you feel. The thing is to just---"

"Is it horrible?"

"No. It's definitely different than being with a man, but it isn't horrible."

"It's just, from what I understand we both have to, you know."

"Have an orgasm?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure I'll be able to. I mean, no offense to you. I'm sure you're very...skilled and everything. I just don't think I could with anyone right now."

"You will. Trust me, you will."

"You're confident."

"With reason."

"Okay," Melanie said, "Let's get it---"

"Try not to think of it as something to get over with."

Melanie forced a nervous smile. "How do you know I wasn't going to say 'get it on'?"

Lydia tapped her temple.

"Right. Well, anyway. Let's."

"We don't have to right away."

"What?"

"We don't have to right now. We could eat. I'm a wonderful cook and I'd be happy to make you anything you want. Maybe have some wine."

Lydia wasn't asking just to be a gracious host or put Melanie at ease. The hunger Melanie was experiencing made getting a reading more difficult because of the background noise.

"I can't eat," Melanie said, lowering her eyes, "I've tried. I can't eat. I can't sleep. And I can't put this off any longer. I have to know."

"All right," Lydia said. "Follow me."

She led Melanie into her bedroom, ushering her towards the bed. As Melanie walked, Lydia stayed behind, untying her robe and pushing it from her shoulders.

Melanie reached the bed and turned around. She regarded Lydia, standing with her arms crossed behind her, her head tilted slightly to the left and a tiny smile across her lips.

Lydia Franklin has a beautiful body; athletic, but completely feminine. Her breasts are somewhat small but appropriate and symmetrical to her frame. Her stomach is smooth and flat, her legs shapely, long and slender. She has no pubic hair, and this is the result of neither fashion nor hygiene. She has never had it, and considers this a symptom of her condition. She sometimes half-jokingly compares it to the bald heads of psychics in popular fiction.

Melanie looked away.

Lydia wondered if the session would end before it began.

Melanie removed her shirt. "Would you mind shutting the blinds, please?"

Lydia did. The room did not become completely black, as Lydia sensed Melanie wanted, but rather only darkened, like a stocking pulled over pale skin.

Melanie finished undressing and slid beneath the sheets. Lydia climbed on top of her.

"There's something I need to tell you before we start." Lydia said, moving her hand across Melanie's stomach.

Melanie's stomach muscles tensed beneath her fingers. "What?"

"Relax. It's nothing bad. It's just when we get there you have to ask me what you want to know."

"Okay."

"And you need to remember everything because I forget soon after."

"I'll remember."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And you'll relax," Lydia said softly.

"Okay."

"I'd like to kiss you now," Lydia said. "Is that okay?"

Melanie closed her eyes and nodded.

Lydia kissed her. A simple kiss. Quick. Lydia smiled when it was done but Melanie lay unmoving with her eyes closed and the covers pulled up to her chin.

Lydia moved to kiss her again.

Melanie stopped her. "I can't. I'm sorry. I thought I could but I can't."

"Want me to make you?" Lydia asked. "I can do that. I can make you want it. Would you like that?"

"Yes."

Lydia closed her eyes and placed her fingers on Melanie's temples. "Think of a time when it was nice," Lydia said. "Think of a time when it was wonderful."

Melanie did.

It was like dropping a match into an ocean of gasoline.

"Oh my God," Melanie said as a magnetic warmth spread throughout her body. "Oh my God."

"Can I kiss you now?"

Melanie nodded. "Oh yes, oh please."

Lydia kissed her, and her fingers slid from Melanie's temples, down her neck and followed the curves of her breasts and stomach.

Melanie exhaled a deep and slow sigh as Lydia's fingers slipped between her legs.

Inside Lydia, a door opened. Behind it was the reservoir where she would collect and store the energy coming from Melanie.

They began making love, and both women felt an electric charge as the most intimate of flesh on flesh contact completed the circuit. The energy flowed not just into Lydia now, but from her as well. The sudden influx and massive energy swell paralyzed them for an instant that felt like an eternity as they reached climax and were fused at the physical level, then the mental, the spiritual and on to the deeper parts which yet have no name.

"Ask," Lydia said.

Melanie grabbed Lydia's arms.

Lydia sensed in Melanie something that had been missing until now: a feeling of power and control.

It had all been an act, Lydia realized, all of it. Melanie had arrived early on purpose so Lydia wouldn't have time to brace herself. Her hunger, fatigue, and melancholy were all premeditated to make the body cry out so loud the mind could scarcely be heard and Lydia could not guess her true intentions. Melanie was not even her real name, but another tool used to create dissonance and confusion.

"Why---" Melanie began.

Lydia tried to push her away. "Let me go!"

"Why Lydia---"

"Don't!"

"Why do you hurt yourself?"

They both froze, and then, a pulse went through the room.

Melanie was lifted six inches into the air and thrown into a wall. She slid to the floor, watching in horror as Lydia was flipped onto her back. The bed bounced as if someone climbed onto it and small depressions formed on either side of Lydia like the knee prints of an invisible man straddling her.

Lydia closed her eyes and tried to look away. Her face was wrenched back, and eyes forced open.

"Daddy," Lydia said in the voice of a child, "daddy, please don't. It hurts...please don't..."

Lydia's head shot from right to left and her cheek turned red, as if slapped.

"...it hurts...please stop... help me somebody please..."

Lydia's head snapped the other way and her other cheek turned red. She tried to call out more loudly for help but invisible fingers wrapped around her throat, cutting off her air. A silent voice told her she'd better shut up or he'd snap her neck.

Her knees were forced apart, and body thrust back as she was penetrated. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Then, suddenly, her expression switched from pain and fear to fury. She sat upright, looking around the room.

Her eyes crossed Melanie's. She smiled demonically.

Though Melanie hadn't had clothes on for some time, she didn't feel naked until this moment. She was now very aware of Lydia's immense power, and of all the things she could do to her merely by thinking about it.

Lydia looked away from Melanie, having truly never seen her. She wasn't even really in that room anymore. In her mind, she was in another place, in another time.

She climbed off the bed, walked halfway across the room and stopped. She bit her bottom lip and thrust both hands forward as if pushing something. A grim look of satisfaction fell over her face.

She returned to bed, falling onto the pillows, eerily assuming the exact same position she'd been in like a video being rewound. Her eyes shut, and then opened again.

Lydia was back.

She sat up, looked at Melanie for a second, and then away in shame.

"Why did you do that?" Lydia asked.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know. I didn't mean for it to be like this. I wanted to help you."

"Help me what?"

"Help to make it not hurt. You made your gift a prison. It doesn't have to be."

"Yes it does," Lydia whispered.

"No it doesn't, Lydia. You don't have to take in everything all at once. You can learn to control it. You were right about intimacy, but wrong about where you drew the line. You have to be able to love, Lydia. There's no getting around that. What you are doing now is nothing compared to what you're capable of."

"Like more than just see things? I can make things happen too, right?" she said, as if admitting defeat.

"Tell me what happened."

Lydia looked her in the eye, holding her head firm in a manner that would have suggested strength had tears not been pouring down her cheeks. "That's right. You're a paying customer, right? You dropped your twelve grand and you're entitled to have your question answered."

"It's not like that, Lydia. I want to help you."

"And the answer is I killed my father. When he raped me he gave me my first vision. In it I saw him standing on a street corner. I saw a bus coming and in the vision, I walked up behind him and pushed him in front of it. I thought it was just me wishing he was dead, but the next day it happened. I made it happen."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I wanted to tell my mom what he did and what I could do, but I was scared. I just kept wanting and wanting her to know until eventually I just made her know. One morning at breakfast I looked up from my Cheerios and she was staring at me. Hard. She had food in her mouth, but she wasn't chewing, just staring. She knew what happened, and I wanted so bad for her to hug me and tell me...anything... but I knew she wasn't going to.

"She never said it out loud because she was scared of me, but she blamed me for what he did. I was some kind of witch who cast a spell over my father-because he was a good man who would never do that-and perverted him. When he broke my spell I killed him because I couldn't stand the thought of her having him and not me." Lydia looked away and then back at Melanie. "And she couldn't stand the thought it was him dead, and not me."

Lydia buried her face in the pillows, sobbing.

Melanie rushed over. Lydia wanted her to stay away, but as soon as Melanie touched her she wrapped her arms around her, laying her head on her shoulder.

"...you bitch...you fucking bitch...you god damn filthy fucking whore..."

"Be quiet," Melanie said, stroking her shoulders and rocking her back and forth.

"You dirty worthless murdering bitch..."

"Stop it. You hear me? It wasn't your fault. It was not your fault, understand?"

"You evil fucked up butcher...you monster...how could you murder your own---"

"Shut up!" Melanie gripped her tighter. "I mean it, now, stop it. You didn't do anything wrong. Nothing."

For a long time they stayed like that, Lydia crying and Melanie rocking her back and forth.

When she finished crying, Lydia softly pulled away. She lifted the covers over her body, feeling naked for perhaps the first time in her life.

"You didn't remember any of this?" Melanie asked.

"No."

Melanie thought of how withering a burden it is to keep a secret from someone else, and how much worse it must be to keep one from yourself.

Lydia willed Melanie to leave, desperate for the isolation she hated but was her home. She couldn't make her go. Melanie's will was too strong and Lydia was in too weakened a state.

"Please," Lydia said. "I want to be alone for a while. I'll be okay, but please can you just...can you go?"

"All right," Melanie said, "I'll go but I want to come back. Will you let me?"

Lydia didn't answer.

Melanie dressed and walked out of the bedroom.

When Lydia heard the door close she walked to the full length mirror in the corner of her bed room, amazed it was possible to feel shame of nakedness even when alone.

As she looked at her reflection, her head grew light, as if about to fall asleep. This was the familiar moment that came after all her sessions when she released everything and forgot what happened in the reading.

But it didn't have to be that way.

She could hold onto it, if she wanted. She could be brave, face her demons, face herself.

She laughed a little as she came to her decision.

How ironic, she thought, ironic or pathetic?

People came to her for a glimpse of their future and here she was too much of a coward to face her own past.

She closed her eyes.

Her mind swirled and the next thing she was aware of was coldness on her left palm. She opened her eyes. Her palm was cold because it was pressed against the mirror, helping her keep her balance.

"What was I doing," she wondered.

It was on the tip of her tongue like the remnants of a slippery dream she could almost but not quite grasp, and then it was gone.

She was about to turn from the mirror when something caught her eye. There was something different in her reflection. She wasn't sure what until she looked down to her midsection. When she saw what was there, she smiled.

She reached down and touched the single strand of hair that had grown in the place that until now had been barren.

## CHAPTER 3

PRESENT TIME

Christian Thompson awoke from a night of unsettling dreams, his heart was pounding furiously and his body slippery and cold with sweat.

His throat was a sore as well. He didn't know if it was just thirst or if he'd been screaming in his sleep.

Pushing himself out of bed, he walked to his bathroom to splash water on his face, memory of last night returning as he walked.

He remembered going to the hospital room of the man who'd confessed to murdering Berlin, and took his life. After leaving the hospital, he drove around for a while, trying to find her body when...that was where his memory ended.

For now.

It wouldn't be long until he remembered the rest, he thought as he got closer to his bathroom. Sooner or later he always did.

He stepped into the bathroom.

A woman was soaking in the large, cast iron tub in the center of it.

Her back was to the door so she couldn't see her face but he knew instantly who she was.

Berlin Cavanaugh.

Memory of last night returned with such a force he had to put his hand on the wall to keep from falling down.

After driving around and having no luck finding her, Christian got frustrated.

Knowing frustration to be the enemy of success, he pulled over to calm down.

He put the car in park, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

Suddenly, his eyes shot open.

He got out of his car, and walked about fifteen yards into the wooded area he'd parked in front of. There he found a patch of disturbed ground. He dug with his bare hands for fifteen minutes and when he was done, he had unearthed the body of Berlin Cavanaugh, wrapped in a thin sheet of plastic.

He brought her home and gently placed her upon a bed.

As he stood over her, looking down at her corpse he felt an alien presence stir inside him. It was not Berlin. It was the man who'd taken her.

"Who are you?" he asked the presence.

It tried to answer but was too weak.

It was rare that a person whose life was still inside him would attempt contact. When it happened before, it had always been a cacophony; too much background radiation of the rest of the life force to get a clear signal. This instance was different, however, because there had been so little life for him to take. Perhaps effective communication was possible, but in order to do so he'd have to give him a part of his own consciousness for a time, just like with the others.

And so, Christian let his consciousness fade.

What Christian didn't realize was how different, and how much more dangerous, it was to communicate with a person whose life force was still inside him.

Whereas the others were merely the echo of life, this was the life itself. Instead of merely communicating with the person, he'd be channeling them, for lack of a better word.

Christian's own mind would fall back and the guest presence would take control of his body. But he'd never done it before, and so, he didn't know now and was left totally unguarded when his mind slipped into a trancelike state and the donor took control of his body.

The guest presence was jolted into awareness, suddenly and without warning. One moment was nothingness and the next he was standing in Christian's spare bedroom, ruling his body. He saw in Christian's memory how this all came to be, and looking at the body of Berlin Cavanaugh lying on the bed he began to weep.

He'd died to prevent this very thing from happening, yet here it was. Here she was.

He picked her up off the bed and carried her to the bathroom, filling the tub with water before removing her clothes and placing her inside. He dipped a rag in the warm water, cleaned the dirt from her face and hair and regarded her beauty.

Edgar Allen Poe once said that there was no topic more poetic than the death of a beautiful girl.

Looking at her, he didn't feel any sense of poetry at all, only a tremendous sense of waste and tragedy; only guilt and shame at his own failings.

When he finished cleaning Berlin, he folded the rag and placed it on the rim of the tub.

He'd cleaned up the small mess, but the big one remained.

There was only one way to set things right.

He walked into Christian's bedroom, opened the nightstand and took out the nine millimeter pistol inside.

He carried it to the bathroom sink, where he wet a medium sized towel with steaming water, wrung out the excess, and wrapped it around Christian's head.

He then cocked the weapon, looked the reflection squarely in the eye, put the gun to his temple and ordered his finger to pull the trigger.

## CHAPTER 4

Mitu's stipulation was simple.

Julian could have China, but neither he nor Christian could ever set foot there. China, instead, would come to them.

Or at least, some of her condemned would.

Julian listened as Mitu explained how the operation would work.

Condemned criminals from China would be sedated under the guise of execution, similar to the program in America. After being sedated, they'd then be flown to Japan where Christian would perform the extraction and the body afterwards returned to China.

This way Julian got what he wanted without violating China's borders, and Mitu got to avoid having to kill one of his oldest friends.

"That's it," Mitu said, "You get what you want, but you are never, under any circumstances, to set foot inside of China. Deal?"

"Deal."

Julian and Mitu talked for about ten minutes and then hung up.

Julian called Christian to tell him the news. Christian didn't answer.

Julian tried several more times with no luck. He went to Christian's hotel; hotel management said he checked out.

After a quick search Julian found out he'd purchased a ticket back to the United States.

He arranged for someone to be waiting at the airport when Christian's plane landed, but when it did and all the passengers got off, there was no Christian.

Julian began to wonder.

Was Mitu was as agreeable as he'd seemed, or was it all a ploy to lure him into his confidence? Was Mitu responsible for Christian's disappearance?

Mitu said going to China would be dangerous for Christian because if he was found out, they'd want to keep him and use his power for themselves. Did Mitu have the same idea for himself?

Julian had considered the possibility something like this might happen, but thought it so unlikely he didn't take any contingencies against it other than bringing his usual panic pack, which consisted of a single gun, an extra clip, an untraceable cell phone, and five hundred dollars cash in Japanese currency. Now he wished he hadn't packed so light.

If Mitu was involved in Christian's disappearance, and he'd have to be a fool not to think he was, his panic pack would be about as useful as having nothing at all.

God, he wished he really did have Nikita Riluvoch working with him and wasn't just using him as window dressing to get Mitu to agree.

Julian was sitting in his hotel room, pistol in hand, when he got the call.

Christian had been located. He was discovered in an airport bathroom by a janitor, passed out on a toilet with his pants around his ankles, stinking of liquor.

Julian had him brought back to the hotel, cleaned up and placed in bed. When Christian woke up and had a couple of Tylenols and a few cups of coffee, Julian told him of the plan.

Julian thought Christian would jump at it right away, but when Julian presented him with it, Christian said, "Give me some time to check it out."

A few hours later Christian called Julian and told him he'd do it, but with conditions. Julian listened and then relayed those conditions to Mitu.

Christian's research into whether or not to take part in the Chinese operation consisted of googling capital punishment in China and reading its page in a popular online encyclopedia.

He discovered part of the reason China executed so many people was that she had so many crimes punishable by death. Serial rapists could be executed, as well as pedophiles, large scale narcotic traffickers. He was surprised to learn that even certain white collar economic criminals and corrupt politicians could and were be put to death.

Christian didn't shed any tears over the deaths of Enron types or pedophiles or rapists, but he didn't want to have any part in it personally. His first rule, he told Julian, was that he only take the lives of murderers.

He was firm on that until Julian told him about a particularly nasty breed of criminal that not only still existed in China, but was actually going through a bit of a renaissance at the moment. When Christian heard of it, he not only agreed to allow them to be donors, but said he wanted them to have precedence even over murderers. That breed of criminal was slave traders.

He told Julian he wanted them as his preferred source to help locate victims and break up slave rings. The truth was he couldn't think of any other type of person he would more love to kill.

Christian also wanted a review process to make sure no one who might have been railroaded for political reasons or who otherwise did not receive a fair trial was on the list of donors.

Mitu agreed.

Christian suffered through two of the most horrible weeks of his life as Mitu made the necessary arrangements, and finally, the program was ready to begin.

China's system of capital punishment lent itself extremely well to Mitu's plan. There were no civilian witnesses to executions, and even the family was only told about it after it was done.

From the very first extraction, Christian saw how different the Chinese donors were from the Americans. There was never any surprise or shock when they woke up. They never asked any questions or said much of anything. They didn't seem to care who Christian was or what was happening. It seemed like they didn't think it was their place to care. They just looked up in silence as Christian put his hand on their chest.

He did about three extractions a week, which meant he saved about four lives a week: the people he gave the transfusions to, and his own.

He liked to think of himself as capable of handling anything, but if he had to live the rest of his life in the kind of misery he'd been enduring, he would have made sure it was very short.

He'd lost some pride and much of his sense of independence, but now that he wasn't in a near constant state of agony anymore he could see beauty again and have some kind of life.

He figured he might be living the rest of his life in Japan and since his life could last a very, very long time, decided he'd better learn more about it and so took a few courses to learn the language and history of his new home.

One of his professors was a girl from Sweden named Lina who, at 17, was already a grad student and teaching a Japanese architecture class.

She gave Christian a D for the course (he was bright, she said, but undisciplined and refused to hand in assignments on time), and said 'yes' when he asked her out. She was his first real girlfriend in years, and after only a couple of months was wondering if he'd found the person he'd marry. He would have asked her already, and she would have said yes, but he wasn't sure he should.

He had some very big, very dark secrets he could never share with her or anyone. Could he ask someone to share a life that had much that couldn't be shared?

He was still contemplating this when the summer came and the semester ended. Lina was heading back to Sweden for the break and asked him to join her. He wanted to go, but he was also worried about what would happen if he went so long without doing an extraction.

"Will you come?" Lina asked. "Pretty please?"

Christian knew he couldn't go; he knew if he did he was playing a very dangerous game.

"Pretty, pretty please? With sugar on top?"

"Yes," he said.

She smiled and hugged him, excited about a trip that he'd never make.

Julian was in his hotel room when he got the call that would preclude Christian's trip to Sweden, and ultimately become the cause of one of the greatest tragedies he'd ever witnessed.

The call came from Mitu.

"You have to go to China," Mitu said as soon as Julian answered. "If you want to keep receiving your deliveries you will have to go there."

"What are you talking about?"

"He wants to see you."

"Who does?"

Mitu waited a beat. "Him."

Julian understood. It could only be one man.

In order for the operation to work, Mitu had to get the blessing of one of China's most powerful potentates. This man held no official title or office. Many said because none were big enough for him.

He gave Mitu his blessing without asking any questions, as that would have been a sign of distrust and dishonor. Mitu simply asked for his permission to begin a worthy undertaking. It was understood that in asking for it, Mitu was vouching with his very life for the operation, whatever it might be.

"You said we were never to set foot there," said Julian.

"I did."

"Now you're telling me to go?"

"I'm telling you what he wants."

"What exactly did he tell you?"

"He wants to meet my partners."

"How much does he know?"

"I would assume everything."

"And if I refuse?" asked Julian.

"I congratulate you on making what is obviously the correct move."

"And the program?"

"Over. Not only over, but never happened."

"I see," Julian said. "Tell him we'd be honored."

"Is that wise?"

"Wise? No. What I'm going to do? Yes."

"You do realize---"

"Yes, I realize," Julian said. "Tell him we'd be honored."

"As you wish."

The next day, Christian and Julian boarded a plane to China.

The estate of the man who'd summoned them was a few miles south of Beijing, and one of the most spectacular things either Christian or Julian had ever seen.

Surrounded by several gates and high walls, it was a massive structure that at first seemed to Christian to be on par with the Forbidden City. But, as they got closer, he realized the comparison was not appropriate. It was much larger than the Forbidden City, and much more majestic.

They arrived at the main palace and were greeted outside by its master, the man who had summoned them there, an older gentleman who introduced himself simply as Hu.

He was a small man, almost frail, but his unimpressive stature belied the enormous power and influence he wielded.

As Christian and Julian approached, he smiled with an easy charm. And, despite his great importance, it was he who first bowed to them.

"We are honored by your kind invitation and hospitality," Julian said after they bowed back. "Please, allow me the privilege of introducing my student, Christian Thompson."

"Hello sir," Christian said, bowing.

"Mr. Thompson, a pleasure to meet you. I've heard many fascinating things about you," Hu said, shaking Christian's hand.

"A pleasure to meet you as well, sir. And please, call me Christian."

"I will," said Hu. "Please, come in. I have prepared a dinner in anticipation of your visit. I hope you have not already eaten?"

"We have not," said Julian.

"Good."

The massive doors to the palace were pulled open; they walked out of the sunlight and into the cool shadows of the cavernous entranceway hall.

"Christian Thompson," said Hu as they walked. "Are you a Thompson of the Thompson machine gun?"

"I don't think so."

"But you are familiar with this particular weapon?"

"Yes, the Tommy Gun, I believe it is called. Gangsters used it during Prohibition, right?"

"Yes, and in many other conflicts, including some of the most important struggles in this land you now find yourself in. They are collector's items now; the stone's of a bygone era old men cling to. Instruments made to end life, now relics of a life and time gone by. They are curious, are they not, the talisman's of nostalgia?"

"They are, sir."

"Some of my countrymen are nostalgic for the Cold War. They believed communism, our communism, would emerge victorious over the corrupt capitalist regimes of the West, and the future would be what we made of it. I suppose that is what nostalgia is, in large part. Not so much a longing for the past, but for the future that was still possible then."

"That's true," Christian said. "I never thought of it that way. You are a very wise man."

Hu's smile dampened as he glanced at Christian. "Thank you."

Julian glared at Christian, the message in his eye icicles clear. Be polite and respectful, but don't overdo it.

They arrived at a surprisingly intimate dining room and were seated. After a few moments of polite conversation the servants entered and presented them with the first course of their meal, soup.

No sooner was it served than another servant came in and whispered into Hu's ear.

"My apologies, gentlemen," Hu said, when the servant was finished. "I have a small matter I must attend to. I shall not be long but please, begin your meal now."

Hu and his servants left.

Christian looked at the soup. "What is it?"

"In the United States," Julian said, "it would be a seven hundred dollar bowl of soup you're letting get cold. I need not impress upon you the importance of manners in this country. Do not be rude. Eat everything presented to you, but not all of it. Always leave a little bit of everything to show the portions are generous."

"You told me. I remember."

"Do you also remember how it was before we got this man's help? Remember waiting months between extractions? Do you want to go back to that?"

"No."

"Because that's precisely what will happen if you insult him, which you could do by not eating any or too much of the soup he went to the trouble of preparing for you."

"But what is it?"

"It's called Yan wo. Now you know. Eat."

"Yan wo," Christian said. "What's that mean?"

"Loosely translated, swallows nest soup."

Christian grimaced. "This soup is made out of a swallow's nest?"

"Is a hot dog made of dog? No, it's just the name. Try it. I promise you'll like it."

Christian dipped the spoon in, hesitated, and tasted it.

Julian said, "Good, right?"

Before Christian could answer another servant came in to check on them. "Ah, Mr. Thompson, you are enjoying the soup?"

"Very much."

"The master had me prepare chicken soup as well. He was worried soup made of a swallow's nest might be too exotic for you."

Christian looked at Julian. "I thought you said that was just the name."

"It is. Actually, the nest is that of a swift, not a swallow. They look similar, but from an evolutionary standpoint they are quite distinct."

Christian dropped his spoon.

"And it's not the nest," Julian continued. "It's the saliva the bird uses to hold the nest together. You see, they boil the nest down to its gelatin base and make the soup from that."

"Are you having fun?"

Julian grinned. "A little bit, yes."

Christian pushed the bowl away.

"Here," Julian said, "I've already eaten most of mine. Let's switch bowls and I'll finish yours. That way---"

Hu came back in before they could switch, apologizing for interrupting their meal but said it couldn't be helped.

"Not at all," Julian said. "We understand and respect that you are a busy man. We thank you for taking any time at all to see us."

"Well, it was I who invited you here, so it would have been very rude indeed for me not to take the time," Hu said laughing.

"Nevertheless, we are honored."

"So, Mr. Thompson, I beg your pardon, Christian," Hu said, "are you enjoying Beijing?"

"From what I've seen it is beautiful."

"From what you have seen?"

"Well, I haven't had much time for sight-seeing. We only arrived yesterday."

"But he is fascinated by what he's seen," Julian quickly added. "He is looking forward to seeing as much of this magnificent city as he can."

"Very good," said Hu. "But Beijing is a city you should not see in a rush. It is like our cuisine, you know. The food is not only meant to be tasted, but tasted in a certain sequence. It is as important as reading the words of a poem in the proper order."

"I will do that," said Christian.

"I will provide for you a tour of the city. You will see a Beijing few outsiders ever do. Few insiders as well. I know of places that will make you feel you are in another time."

"That's very kind," Christian said. "Thank you."

"How is your soup?" Hu asked.

"Delicious," Julian said.

Hu looked at Julian. "Wonderful." Then at Christian. "And yours?"

Julian stared hard at Christian. He had no powers of telepathy but willed as hard as he could the following thoughts into Christian's head:

Remember where you are, boy. Countless lives hang on your answer to how much you like the bloody soup.

"It's very good." Christian lifted his spoon, and proceeded to eat his bowl of bird spit soup.

The rest of the courses were served.

He didn't ask what anything else was.

THE NEXT MORNING

Christian woke up to knocking on his hotel room door.

He pushed himself out of bed, looking at the clock, wondering who could be visiting so early.

They knocked again and Christian answered.

A thin, young gentleman dressed in a dark business suit stood on the other side.

"Can I help you?" Christian asked.

"My name is Fong," the man said bowing, "I will be your guide on your tour of Beijing."

"Tour of Beijing?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Hu personally arranged for you to have a tour of the city and countryside."

"So early?"

"We believe, and I think you will agree, the time you view certain places in Beijing can be as important as the thing itself."

"I'm sure it is," Christian said, yawning. "But I haven't even showered yet."

"I will wait."

"Couldn't we do it later?"

"I am sorry, Mr. Thompson. That is impossible. Mr. Hu made the schedule personally, and as I said before, the time---"

"All right," Christian said. "Let me get ready and we'll go. Come in. Have a seat."

Fong stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"You want coffee?" Christian asked.

"No, thank you, sir."

Christian yawned again. "I'm not a morning person at all. I bet Julian was already up for hours when you went to his room."

"Actually, the master said this particular tour is only for you."

Christian stopped. "Julian isn't coming?"

"This tour is for you alone. If you like, we can arrange one with your master another time."

Christian looked at Fong.

"Is something the matter?" Fong asked.

"No," Christian said, "I'm going to shower. The remote is on the table if you want to watch TV."

"Thank you."

Christian went to the bathroom, turned on the shower and then crept back to peek around the corner at Fong.

He was standing right where he had been before, and smiled politely at Christian when stuck his head out.

THE NEXT DAY

Julian sat in the small café of his hotel in Beijing, enjoying his morning coffee and a light snack as he read the paper. He was halfway through a croissant and a story about Japan's tender economic situation when Christian appeared at his table, pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

It had only been a little over thirty six hours since he'd last seen Christian, but by the expression on the young man's face he saw that in that short time innumerable years had passed.

"Good morning," Julian said, folding the newspaper shut.

Christian picked up what was left of Julian's croissant and ripped himself off a piece.

"Hungry?" Julian asked.

Christian nodded.

"Let's order a proper breakfast then." Julian called the waiter over.

Christian said, "I'm not hungry," and tore off another piece of croissant.

Julian said to the waiter, "Perhaps another moment."

The waiter bowed and left.

"How was the tour?" Julian asked.

Christian stopped chewing and looked at him. "You knew?"

"Of course."

"And you knew what it really was?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"It would have been disrespectful to Hu."

"Instead it was disrespectful to me. You're always talking about how important trust is, how can I trust you if you're keeping secrets?"

Julian nodded. "You have a point. But if Hu felt disrespected, the entire operation would be in peril. Wouldn't that be a more upsetting turn of events than my not telling you? Would you have wanted me to risk that?"

Christian finished the croissant. "Where is the waiter? I'm hungry."

Julian waved the waiter back over.

They ordered and ate in silence; the plates were cleared away and the bill paid before either man spoke again.

"I'll give Hu this," Christian said. "He keeps his promises. He told me I'd go places that would make me feel I was in another time. I did."

"It sounds like you have a particular place in mind."

Christian nodded.

"What was it?"

"A leper colony," Christian said.

"Horrible disease."

Indeed it was. But it was also only one stop on a tour that took him to the some of the most horrible and heartbreaking places he'd ever been, from the city's poorest slums to makeshift hospitals in the rural areas where the sick were simply placed outside in an open field to die. For sixteen hours Christian was shown slum after slum; tragedy after tragedy.

"You understand the purpose of this tour, don't you?" Julian asked. "You understand why he wanted to show you the squalor and depraved conditions so many here live in?"

"Yes."

"Good." Julian leaned back in his seat. "I should have anticipated this. It's rude here to just come out and say what you want directly. That he's taken these measures says we already have insulted him greatly, and the implication is obvious."

It was indeed.

China had done much for Christian, providing him with such a rich resource for his talents. He had so far only used that talent to help the citizens of Japan. When, Hu asked with his tour, was he going to use it to benefit the people of China?

## CHAPTER 5

Lydia Franklin spent the morning running along the beach. It was a beautiful day out and she loved running, loved the feel of sweat dripping and her heart pounding and did so at least three times a week.

But on this particular morning she wasn't running just because of how good it felt. There was something she'd been putting off for too long that she needed to tend to.

She ran past her usual turn-around point, all the way to the far side of the beach until she arrived at her destination: a housing development.

Only about a quarter of the homes were finished, and it would be at least six months before residents could start moving in. Lydia was an investor in this development; and with three million dollars in she was a rather large investor.

She passed the front gate and jogged down the sidewalk. The general feel of the workers, she sensed, was that things were progressing about how they should have been, and that was good but it wasn't what brought her there that day.

She jogged further, coming to one of the largest homes in the development, situated on a cul de sac, overlooking the manmade lake that was still being filled with water.

This house was her baby. She designed it. The first, hopefully, of what would be many.

She walked up the front steps and went inside.

From the moment she stepped in she couldn't stop smiling.

It was a strange and fantastic feeling.

Something she worked on in bed or while relaxing with a glass of wine in her garden was now, piece by piece, being translated from her imagination into reality. Now she was inside it, inside her own thoughts, made real.

She touched the floor. Real wood. Real men had placed it there.

She could see herself designing houses for a career. God knew she couldn't keep doing readings forever, or even for much longer. And if she did decide to design houses, it might be nice if---

"Excuse me," said a voice behind her.

Lydia turned around. One of the construction guys.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Me? No one."

"You can't be here. I'm sorry, you'll have to go."

He had a gentle voice; was a gentle guy. She sensed that even just kicking her out made him uncomfortable.

"Sorry," she said, still smiling as she walked out.

Satisfied at having finally seen it, she jogged back home. When she got there, a small cardboard box was waiting for her on her front step.

It had been delivered, but there would be no address on it.

The whole idea was that she never knew who sent it, where it came from or where it went. She simply did her business with what was inside, wrote her findings on a piece of paper, stuck it inside and put the box back on her porch. The next time she looked outside, it'd be gone.

She'd never see anyone come or go, and that was fine by her. She assumed it was from some sort of law enforcement division, but she didn't know or care to know.

She carried the box inside, placed it on her kitchen table and paced the room to cool down. After about three minutes she stopped, took her pulse and when satisfied, poured a glass of vitamin fortified tomato juice. She drank half and put the rest in the fridge.

A little calmer now, a little more able to focus, she opened the box. Her heart sank when she saw what was inside. "Oh no."

It was a teddy bear.

A teddy bear meant a child was probably involved. Lydia hated cases involving children. Try as she might, she could never get numb to seeing how low people could go.

She picked up the teddy and closed her eyes.

A moment later she opened them.

Nothing.

It happened from time to time. Some objects just didn't retain anything for her. There was nothing she could do. Sometimes she got something; sometimes she didn't.

She slid the bear back in the box along with an empty piece of paper signifying she'd had no luck and set the box back on her porch.

Afterwards she watered her house plants and then went into her backyard to tend to the garden where she grew mainly herbs and vegetables; her tomatoes were especially plump and delicious. Behind the garden were her grapevines from which she made the wine and raisins and jelly she sometimes gifted her favorite clients.

She spent a little over an hour caring for her garden and grapevines and then, thoroughly dirty and sweaty, came back inside to shower. On the way, she glanced on her front step. As she thought, the box was gone.

She went upstairs, stripped, and hopped in the shower. She had just finished cleaning herself when she heard a knocking at her front door.

They were light knocks, but even if she hadn't heard them she would have sensed someone was there. The textures behind the knocks, the aching of an empty stomach, the heaviness of a mind dwelling long on dark thoughts, were impossible to miss.

She turned the shower off, dried, slipped into a robe and answered the door.

A woman stood on the other side. She was youngish, pretty, smartly dressed.

"Abby?" asked Lydia.

"Yes. Lydia?"

Lydia folded her arms. "You're early."

"Sorry. Should I come back?"

"No. Please, come in."

Abby did. Lydia led her to the living room where they sat down.

"How did you hear of me?" Lydia asked.

"A friend."

"You don't have to give a name. I just want to know if you know how this works."

"Meaning if I know we have to have sex?"

Lydia nodded. "And apparently you do. Can you do that?"

Abby hesitated and then said, "Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Because you don't sound sure. It might be better if we don't proceed."

"I have to," Abby said, wiping a tear from her eye, "I have to know."

"All right," Lydia said. "Follow me."

They went to the bedroom. Abby walked towards the bed. Lydia stood behind, pushing the robe from her shoulders. Abby looked at her, undressed and crawled beneath the covers.

Lydia climbed on top of her.

"I have to tell you something," Lydia whispered into her ear.

"What?"

"Relax. It's nothing bad." Lydia's eyes suddenly became stern. Mean. "It's just, I told you before I didn't want your help. Abby. Melanie. Whatever your name is, so this is your own fault."

Lydia grabbed her by her wrists. Abby tried to pull away but it was useless. Lydia's power had grown since their last meeting. She had still not attained her true full potential, but she was more powerful now than ever before.

"Stop! Please!"

"You're so interested in my pain," Lydia said. "What about yours? What hurts you?"

"Please don't!"

"What hurts you the most?"

"Let me go, please!"

"What happened in..."

"Stop!"

"What happened in...Africa?"

Abby's eyes shut and when they opened again she saw dozens of drooling, smiling men standing over her. Some held her arms and legs down while others watched. The leader of these dogs used the butt of his rifle to shatter a window. He picked up a piece of the broken glass and grinned as he approached her.

Anna's eyes rolled up in her head as she endured every bit of that agony and horror again, as real as the day it happened.

Lydia recoiled in horror. Horror at what she'd done; horror at what this poor woman was going through. She covered her ears, but it did nothing to block the screams.

## CHAPTER 6

At first Christian only operated in China's major cities; international hubs teeming with people of all types where a Westerner wouldn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

Donors were plentiful. In Japan, he'd done an average of three transplants a week. Here in mainland China there were fewer hoops that had to be gone through in terms of arranging transport and he could sometimes do as many as ten or more a week.

He lived well; he worked well. He was saving more lives than would have been possible in any other place on Earth. As many as ten or more people per week who would have otherwise been dead would live. Because of him.

He should have been happy, satisfied, and content, but he wasn't. There was something weighing on his mind; something that would not let him be at peace no matter how much of the raw materials for it he may have.

For a long time he didn't know what it was that was bothering him. It seemed like some great mystery, some indefinable thing at first. Of course, when he finally figured it out there was no great mystery to it at all. It's the simple things that confound us the most, after all.

Most of the men Christian killed grew up in the very rural, very poor areas of China. In their memories, Christian saw firsthand the pain and misery that was the stuff of the lives of the people who lived there. He wanted to do what he could to help them, and so, he began to travel into the countryside to distribute his gift amongst the people who lived there, forgotten by so many for so long.

Many of those places were difficult to reach, sometimes requiring days of travel over some of the world's most unforgiving terrain. Julian warned that this was dangerous and inefficient and begged Christian to reconsider, but his mind was made up.

And Julian was right. It was very difficult work and he did face many dangers and challenges, but he also found it the most rewarding work he'd ever done.

It used to be when he performed an implant, he felt like the strongest man who'd ever lived. He was lifting a weight ten thousand Hercules couldn't, that is, the very weight of death. Routinely he stood alone against death and beat it nearly every time. His ego took notice of each victory.

But on these long voyages he had much time to think and to reflect, and he considered that even when he defeated death, it was only for a time. Eventually death would come back to claim each and every life he'd saved.

It was a devastating thought, and it could have easily become the stuff he used to make of the world a meaningless place.

And perhaps if he'd had these thoughts at another point in his life, he might have. But now he didn't. Now, he understood that, even though in the end there must be an end, there was great meaning in being able to say that at this time, and in this place, this life shall endure. The life of this person, as sublime or futile as it may be, will go on.

That it was his hand that had blocked the wind that would have blown out the light was insignificant. That someday the breeze would blow again, and be successful, was insignificant. Regardless as to why it happened now or what would happen later, for now, right now, this light which would have gone out would remain. And that did matter; that was significant.

More than a year passed in this way. Christian traveled the countryside with Fong by his side as translator and guide as they went from village to village.

Then one day they came upon a dwelling and as they passed, heard a woman weeping within.

Christian peered inside and saw a little girl of seven or eight years lying on the floor. An old woman was kneeling over her, crying.

She turned her head to Christian and said something in a tongue he did not understand.

He looked to Fong, who said, "She wants to know if you are the holy man."

"Tell her I am not," Christian said.

Fong did. The woman asked another question.

"She wants to know if you are the healer."

There had spread by now tales of the mysterious foreign man who visited grief stricken homes and healed the sick with a touch of his hand.

"Tell her I am," said Christian.

He did, and the woman spoke once again.

"She says that's too bad," said Fong. "She says they need a holy man to pray for her spirit now, not a healer. The child is dead."

Christian knelt down and placed his fingers on the girl's neck.

"She isn't dead," Christian said. "She's sleeping. Tell her I wish to help her, with her permission."

Fong did, and the old woman nodded yes.

Christian placed his hand on the girl's chest. Her heartbeat was faint, but it was there. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

A moment later, he took his hand off of her.

The child opened her eyes and found her grandmother. She smiled; her grandmother wept joyful tears and wrapped her arms around her.

Christian and Fong turned to leave, to disappear as mysteriously as they came. This was always the moment they did so, when the families were so overcome with joy they had all but forgotten the men responsible for it. When they turned around to thank them, they would find only air and wonder if their powers allowed them to disappear into it at will.

But this time when they stepped outside a crowd had gathered. Someone observed the strange men enter the village, and knowing of the stories of the wandering healer, ran to tell others that he had come.

The sick and injured and infirm of the village were now migrating to him, gathered outside the hut where he'd just performed his miracle. All of them had tears in their eyes and stretched their arms out at once when they saw Christian, begging for him in a cacophony of voices to free them from their sufferings.

He watched their faces, watched their mouths moving, unable to hear the individual voices over the loud roar to which each person contributed to and was drowned out by. Instantly it seemed the crowd swelled to an enormous sized and overflowed, moving towards him now like the sea rising in a tsunami; humongous, unstoppable, inescapable, and deadly. Christian told Fong to tell them he was not the healer. Fong tried, but couldn't be heard over the tumult and shouts and tearful, desperate pleadings.

The crowd moved closer. Upon him now, they gripped his arms and legs and face, pulling him towards them. He was afraid they'd be swallowed up by it, but then, without warning, they stopped.

A hush fell over the crowd; every eye that had been transfixed on Christian was now locked on something behind him.

Christian turned around.

The old woman stood in the doorway with the child. Her eyes were brimming as she walked to Christian, took his hand and fell to her knees. Her granddaughter did the same.

She spoke.

Christian looked to Fong.

"She thanks you for saving the life of her granddaughter."

"Tell her I didn't," Christian said. "Tell her to tell the others I did not heal the girl. Tell her I didn't do anything."

Fong tried but the woman shook her head. She turned to the crowd and loudly proclaimed her witness of the miracle.

The crowd gasped, their eyes once again on Christian. They all stood frozen, staring.

One woman found the courage to move. She walked through the crowd to Christian, knelt down before him and held her infant up.

She spoke in Chinese but Fong did not need to translate. Christian knew what she wanted.

"Tell her I can't," Christian said. "Tell all of them I can't. Tell them I'm not who they think I am."

"I can't," Fong said.

"Why not?"

Fong looked over the crowd. "Because they will kill us."

Christian looked at Fong.

"Go on," Fong said. "Put your hand on that child and heal him."

"I can't."

"You have to," said Fong. "Believe me, you do."

Christian put his hand on the child.

When he took it off, the woman shed tears of joy, bowed and thanked him.

When she walked away another villager took her place. After him came another and another. There was nothing Christian could do but lay hands upon all of them.

And as he stood there doing so, word spread throughout the nearby villages and beyond that the healer was there, and by the thousands people made a pilgrimage to see him. He placed his hands upon everyone who came to him. And every time he did the person would leave and bear testament to his miracle, and send others to him.

For three days and three nights Christian was trapped, but then, on the third night, Christian and Fong made their escape. Christian locked his eyes open and fell to the ground. People gathered around him but Fong ushered him away, explaining that he was in a mystical vision and needed a night in solitude to replenish his powers. He dragged Christian inside a dwelling, told the people they must not come near but spend the night in prayer for him and that anyone who did not do so risked sending an angry spirit down on all of them.

Then, in the dead of night Christian and Fong dressed as villagers and quietly stole away.

## CHAPTER 7

The man who had taken control of Christian's body was standing in front of his bathroom mirror, holding a gun to his head.

He had just given his finger the order to pull the trigger but of course, his finger didn't move.

Channeling a person was like being hypnotized. You never really lose control and can't be forced to do something you otherwise wouldn't. If someone tries to make you, the spell is broken and you return to yourself, just as Christian had now returned to himself.

Christian sat the gun upon the sink and unwrapped the towel from his head. He looked in the mirror, still feeling the man who'd just tried to kill him squirming around in the back of his consciousness.

He had been a nurse in life, Christian sensed, and though Christian had never seen him before the man certainly had seen Christian. The first time was the night he healed the Goss child. He saw Christian place his hands upon the boy and then the boy get well; afterwards he sought Christian out but discovered himself instead.

"Roger?" Christian said.

Yes.

The voice was inside Christian's head but he'd heard it as clearly as if someone were in the room speaking to him.

He looked at the gun. "Why?"

I didn't want to hurt you, Christian. I was trying to save you.

"By killing me?"

Yes.

"You're insane."

You are dying, Christian. But without me, I doubt you ever will.

"You're not making sense."

Look at your reflection.

"I am."

Look with my eyes. See what I see.

Christian shut his eyes and when he opened them, they were immediately drawn to a spot on his forehead, just above his right eye. A strange uneasiness came over him. Very quickly that uneasiness became terror, as ancient and new as a child's first taste of fear of the dark.

He dropped away from the mirror, sticking his head in the toilet, as his innards wrenched with violence.

I'm sorry. It's been so long, I forgot what it's like to see it for the first time.

Christian lifted his head, wiping the saliva dripping from his mouth.

Do you know what that was?

Christian nodded.

What?

"Death," Christian said. "You can see sickness, you can see death. That's what it looks like."

Yes. And I see that sickness in you, Christian. A sickness beyond even your power to heal.

Christian pushed himself to his feet.

I sense you wondering what your sickness is. You think it's a tumor or blood clot, but it's not. The disease is not on your brain, but your mind.

"Suicide."

Yes.

"I'm not going to kill myself."

I know. If you were, I wouldn't have tried to do it for you. As it is, you're like the rest of them.

"The rest of who?"

Roger was silent.

"The rest of who?"

Do you really want to know?

"Yes."

Then close your eyes; I will show you. But be warned: once seen, it cannot be unseen. You will not like what you find.

Christian closed his eyes.

In his mind's eye he was no longer in his bathroom.

He was in a hospital room.

In a bed not far from him was a comatose young man who had more tubes and wires coming out of him than Christian had ever seen.

But that wasn't true, he sensed. He _had_ seen that many wires coming out of a person before. Exactly that many. He had been in this room and saw this young man before.

His name was Timothy Still. He was in his first year in the army, came home for Thanksgiving and got nearly decapitated when a drunk driver plowed into him. The doctors said he had no chance of recovering.

At the cost of a man who drowned his four year old twin stepdaughters in a bath tub because their mother didn't return his texts fast enough, Christian proved them wrong.

The door to Timothy's room opened.

Roger Barr, a younger one than the one Christian had seen, entered and walked to Timothy's bed.

"Hello Mr. Still. I'm Roger. I'm going to be observing you for a while. You don't have to do anything or anything, I'm just going to be watching you get better.

"And it's true. You are going to get better. Isn't that great? See, you had a special visitor not long ago. A man named Christian. He can help people no one else can. He has a special gift, see, and... well I'm not supposed to talk about it. Technically, I'm not even supposed to know. That's one of the rules.

"Anyway, I have a gift too. That's why I'm here. I can look at a person and see what's going on inside of them. Like X-ray vision, except real. I'm here to watch you and tell them what I see. Hopefully the more they understand what happens when he heals someone, the more they can help other people. So you're not only getting better, you're helping other people too." Roger pulled up a chair. "Not a bad deal, right?"

Roger sat down. For the next few weeks, he'd come for a couple hours a day and watch Timothy's body stitch itself back together, recording in a journal how and when he saw blood passageways opening and being filled, muscle and bone stitching themselves back together and growing, nerves and synapses that had been darkened spark once again to life.

Roger observed as Timothy's brain, which the doctors declared dead slowly begin to glow again and hum with life. The doctors were baffled. Everything they knew said it was impossible, but they could not deny the facts. He was getting better. Every day, inch by inch, he improved.

Until, one day, he didn't anymore.

One day he healed as much as he would and that was it. Even if Christian gave him more life, it wouldn't help. The remaining injuries were beyond Christian's power to heal.

Timothy had regained consciousness, but was still completely paralyzed, blind, deaf and mute.

Billions of nerve endings that otherwise would have been dead were alive now...and screaming. He was in constant, indescribable agony. His mind, which would have been in the safety of nothingness, was now awake, and screaming, unheard and unhearable by anyone who could help him.

Almost anyone.

Then one day, in the midst of his tortures, Timothy sensed he was not alone. Through the tumult of his agony, somehow, Timothy sensed another presence, close by him, watching, hovering over him like an angel.

Like an angel.

Timothy called out to it, begging it to know his pain and his plight and to end them both.

Roger jumped back, nearly falling out of his chair because he knew it was he who Timothy was reaching out to.

Roger crawled to the corner but couldn't escape Timothy calling him to end his pain, begging him to...

Roger scrambled from the room.

As the door closed behind him, Timothy felt its breeze against his skin.

A gust of wind from an angel's wing.

For days Roger lay in bed, terrified at what he'd witnessed and wondering how it was that Timothy sensed his presence.

Perhaps it was like Nietzsche said. When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

But whatever the reason, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't forget about the young man he'd left to suffer; the young man who had begged and was begging still for him to end his torment.

Timothy hadn't done anything wrong. All he did was walk across the street. That was it. He didn't deserve what happened to him.

But he didn't deserve what was happening to him either. He didn't deserve it, and he didn't want it.

He'd asked for Roger's help, and Roger was his only hope. Timothy's family wouldn't take him off the machines. Not now. Timothy had crossed too many milestones the doctors said he never would; they'd seen too many miracles and had too many prayers answered. God had earned their patience, and they would be patient with Him. Forever, if need be.

Forever.

Timothy could spend the next several decades, surrounded by people with their eyes towards heaven while he roasted in hell right in front of them. He could. And he would.

Unless Roger did something.

Roger stepped in to Timothy's room. Closing the door quietly behind him, he went to his bed, pulled a syringe from his pocket and stuck it in his I/V.

Tears rolled down Roger's cheeks as he pressed the plunger.

Soon the needle was empty.

Darkness came over Timothy Still like a sunrise.

Roger spent the next few days waiting for the police to crash through his door. He'd done nothing to hide his crime, and was sure they'd soon come, but they never did.

Instead, he got a visitor of a different sort.

One morning Roger opened his eyes and saw a little girl of around ten sitting at the foot of his bed.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

He blinked, and she was gone.

He must not have been completely awake yet, he thought as he threw the covers aside, he must have still been dreaming.

He got out of bed, walked to his bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He then looked at the walls of his apartment and knew he couldn't spend another day cooped up in there. He needed to get out, to go somewhere, anywhere.

So, he got dressed and hopped on a bus. He didn't know where it was going and he didn't care.

He rode for the better part of an hour and was looking out the window at nothing in particular when he felt a tug on his hand. He looked, and saw the little girl from his apartment pulling on him.

The bus stopped. She led him by the hand off it, across the street, into a hospital. Once inside, she led him onto an elevator and then to a particular room.

Her room.

He shuddered when he saw her lying in bed. Burns had ravaged ninety percent of her body. Most of her organs were damaged beyond repair. She had no hope of ever recovering, no hope of ever being anything other than she was at that moment. No hope at all until she found Roger.

She guided Roger's hand into his pocket.

Inside was a syringe he didn't remember putting there.

He looked at it, and then her.

She didn't say a word, just stared at him with pleading eyes.

A few moments later, her alarms were going off.

Roger listened from a nearby room to the sound of footsteps rushing in.

He lowered his face into his hands and wept. As he did, he felt the arms of a small child wrap around him, hugging him.

"Thank you," a tiny voice whispered, and then she was gone.

But others like her came. Helpless souls, trapped in life by unnatural machines, yearning to be free. These were people who were massively ill, beyond Christian's help; beyond the help of doctors; beyond the help of anyone except for Roger.

He could not turn them away.

Roger knew he was doing the right thing, but that didn't stop him from hating it. Eventually, that led to him hating himself.

One morning as he brushed his teeth, he glanced in the mirror, and saw above his right eye a spot like the one Christian had above his.

Roger knew right away what it was. His own death.

But when he saw it felt no fear. He simply finished brushing his teeth, rinsed his mouth out with Listerine and went about his life, never mentioning it to anyone, nor seeking help.

He hated his mission in life, but as long as he lived he knew he'd have to carry it out. But seeing that dot assured him that his plight would not continue long. Someday very soon he'd just drop dead and it would all be over. Like Christian, he initially made the mistake of thinking the defect was physical.

Years passed before Roger realized the true nature of his disease, and that he had to take a more active role.

Roger never told anyone about the special visits he made to those patients beyond hope. If there was anyone he might have, it was Julian. He was the man Roger trusted the most, whose intelligence he had the most regard for in all the world. And so, Julian was the man he talked to about his desire to end his life.

"You're not serious," Julian had said.

"I am," Roger said. "I want to die. I want you to get Christian to take my life and give it to someone else."

"You know I'm not going to do that. Whatever is bothering you, I promise you, I can help."

"I knew you'd try to talk me out of this. But I also knew that would only be before I told you who I want to give my life to. I knew that once I told you that, all that would stop and you would be all for it."

Julian shook his head. "It doesn't matter who. Your life is important. Whatever it is that's bothering you, this isn't the answer."

"I want to give it to you," Roger said to Julian.

"Me?"

Roger nodded. "You are dying, Julian. If you don't accept this gift, you'll be dead in three months."

"What are you---"

"You have cancer, Julian. Leukemia." The color drained from Julian's face. "It's past the point where the doctors can do anything. You either take what I'm offering, or you die."

Julian fell flat in his chair. Once he regained the power of speech he agreed.

Roger was supposed to show up at Elizabeth's hospital the night of Julian's double cross, but didn't.

As walked towards her room he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window as he passed. Just for a moment he saw himself as only himself, not as a disease, but a person. A life. A human being he was about to kill. He remembered a picture that hung on the wall in his old house. He was about three years old in it; before his gift manifested. It was him and his mother, playing out in the snow. This smiling, happy child he was about to kill. This woman's son, who she loved more than anything else in the world, he was about to kill.

And the truth was, he didn't want it. He wasn't like the people who came to him. He did not want to die. He hated his life, but not life itself.

That one happy day in the snow, that picture that used to hang on the wall. Very soon no one would remember them at all.

He tried to go to Elizabeth's room but pushed into the men's room instead. He told himself that he was only doing so to build his resolve but the truth was, he was hiding. And he was hiding still when Julian shot Elizabeth, and Christian murdered Berlin.

It was only after everyone had gone that Roger emerged from hiding. As soon as he stepped out of the bathroom he sensed the lingering aura Christian left when he took a life. It felt to Roger like the stale smell of ozone left by an electric spark. He followed it to a certain door and pushed it open.

He looked at her, this innocent young girl with her whole life ahead of her who was now a corpse because of his cowardice.

Elizabeth had been shot; Christian had been nearly killed, also because of his cowardice.

Seeing what he'd done, now Roger had the resolve to do what he couldn't before.

Roger hid Berlin, took a combination of pills that would kill him in about 36 hours and turned himself in to police.

He told them he found Berlin lying on the floor in that otherwise empty room. He said he knew he should have gone for help, but he didn't. He'd been following her for a long time and this was his chance. He went inside, closing the door behind him.

He told them this story because even though he wasn't in the room, Roger could sense the dot above Christian's eye as it grew, and knew his illness was a symptom of his guilt.

Roger thought that if the seed of doubt that maybe he didn't kill her was planted in his mind, perhaps it would be enough to wash that blot away. People believe what they want to believe, what they need to believe. If he just gave Christian permission to believe someone else had done it, maybe it would be enough. Deep down, Christian would probably always know, but if he could help push it deep enough down maybe it would wither and die from lack of light. Nothing is immortal, right? All things need things to live, even the bad things have needs and must be nurtured and fed. If you can simply deny them enough, they'll die just like everything else.

But for Roger's plan to work, she had to remain missing because an autopsy would prove his confession false, that she hadn't died of suffocation.

It was a long shot, Roger knew, but it was the last thing he could do, so he did it. It might have worked. Christian might have had a chance.

Now there was none.

_I'm sorry Christian,_ Roger said as Christian stood in his bathroom, staring at the gun. _I tried._

Christian blinked and said, "I'm not going to kill myself."

I know. That is why you needed me to do it for you. Don't you understand? Don't you see what your path now must be? Elizabeth will wake up, but you can never go back to sleep.

You can ever go back to your life with her. Not after all that has happened.

Julian has already compelled you to his will once by nearly killing her, and it must have crossed your mind he might have done so before. Elizabeth's situation coinciding with his illness was quite convenient, wasn't it? Too convenient.

Others will seek to compel you to their will through her. You have a talent that someday everyone will need, and they will be at their most desperate and willing to do anything when they do.

You are her husband. Your first job is to protect her; even before avenging her, you must protect her. And to protect her, you must forego vengeance. To protect her, you must leave her, and forever. Physically and emotionally. You will have to cease loving her because that's the only way to keep her safe; you will have to stop loving her because it's the only way you'll be able to go back to work for Julian, and you will have to go back, Christian.

Not only is that the only way to protect Elizabeth's life, it's the only way to honor Berlin's death. If you return to your work because of the crimes you committed against her; if her death is so that countless others may live, then it is not in vain and you are paying your debt to her. But the debt you owe her can never be fully repaid. No matter how many people you save, she remains dead, and you remain her murderer.

The years will pass. Decades. You will still owe her as much as you did the moment you first killed her. More even, because every day that passes is one more she didn't have because of you. So, you will have to continue your work. You will never be able to love anyone again because to do so would be to put them in danger. You will have to live your entire life utterly alone. A life that might never, ever end.

You will become jealous of the condemned men you kill. At least they get to pay for their crimes and be done with it. Your punishment will go on and on and on, never ending.

And the mark will remain right there, above your eye, for eternity. You will want to kill yourself, but you won't ever be able to give yourself that release because of the debt you will still owe to her.

You will spend your life dying, Christian, but never ever getting there.

You are just like them, Christian. Just like those poor souls who came to me for release, connected to a machine that keeps you alive when it should not. Only the machine you are connected to is not one of wire and metal, it is the one built by your own two hands-the one more than the other- and powered by your own guilty soul. It will be one that binds you fast to this life, and one from which you can never, ever escape.

Christian closed his eyes.

I'm sorry, Christian. I warned you that you would not like what you saw.

"You're wrong," Christian said, feeling the tremble in his voice. "It doesn't have to be that way. I can fight some of that. Maybe not all, but some."

You can't.

"I can. There is a way. Berlin told me there is. She said she can forgive me for what I did if I just give her what she wants. All I have to do is find out what that is, and I can set some of this right. Maybe...if I can just...maybe..."

Christian, don't be a fool.

"I'm not a fool. Don't you fucking call me that."

You already know what she wants.

"No, I don't."

Yes, you do.

"I don't."

I know you do, Christian. I can see it in your thoughts, just like I can see how you hide it from yourself. I know all about the hiding game, Christian. I've played it longer than you.

"I---"

You know.

"Don't---"

You do.

"No!" Christian ripped the mirror off the wall, hurling it across the room. It crashed on his bedroom floor, shattering and sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

He dropped to his knees, near tears now as he raked his hands through his hair.

It was true.

He did know, had always known, what Berlin wanted.

It was the one thing he couldn't give her.

## CHAPTER 8

Christian and Fong arrived in Beijing. It had been several days since they'd escaped from the village, and they'd had to travel through very dangerous terrain, but they were back now.

Christian called Hu, telling him about the mass of sick people gathering at the village and requesting he send food, medical supplies and personnel to help.

Hu agreed and the next day helicopters flew in with enough food and doctors and medicine for all, but by then it was too late.

What had once been a village was now the sight of a massacre.

After Christian absconded, the people convinced themselves that if they drank from a cup from which he drank or wrapped themselves in a blanket in which he was wrapped, they would be cured.

But each item held only a finite amount of healing power which could be depleted, they decided, and so fought and killed one another for them. Soon some decided the most potent source was not in the things Christian touched, but rather in the people he'd cured. The power was still coursing through them, and if they ate their flesh or drank their blood, the magic would be passed to them.

And so, many of them did just that. Those who did suddenly found themselves considered enchanted, and their flesh and blood an elixir soon filling the bellies of others, many of whom would find themselves victims of the same fate.

Stories of the massacre, and of the strange man with healing powers who caused it, reached the ears of many of China's other powerful men.

China is a nation ruled by very old men, most of whom think they should live forever. In such a place, having such a talent as Christian's is precarious. If certain old men learned who he was and got a hold of him, even Hu couldn't stop them from making of Christian a pet and personal fountain of youth.

Christian therefore had to leave China. Hu told him if he was smart, he'd stay away from not only it, but all of Asia forever.

And so it was that Christian returned to America.

Julian feared that with such an abundant resource lost, Christian's withdrawal symptoms would resume, but they never did.

Christian's power was to heal. Withdrawal was a disease. It was only a matter of time before he absorbed enough life to heal himself of it forever.

His withdrawal was gone, but now there was something else that plagued him. It was a question that had been in the back of his mind since he first discovered his gift but now weighed heavily upon it every minute of every day. It was a question that frightened him, and the answer, he feared, would be even more terrifying but he could no longer deny it.

Christian Thompson wanted to know if he could bring the dead back to life.

He approached Julian with this question, and if he expected shock or surprise he was disappointed.

Julian understood the inevitability of this question; he understood that man who does the impossible on a regular basis, after a while, begins to wonder just how much impossible he can do.

But, Julian explained, there was a vast difference between wondering and wanting to know. "So, which is it, Christian? Do you simply wonder, or do you really want to know?"

"I want to know."

An extraction was scheduled for the next week. Afterwards, instead of visiting a hospital, Christian was taken to a morgue.

Julian led him down the cold corridors to a room where a young man lay on a slab. Or rather, what had once been a young man lay upon it. Now, it was a corpse, and in a few moments, it would be an answer.

Christian approached the body, more afraid now, possibly about to give someone new life, than he had ever been in taking it.

"You don't have to," Julian said, seeing his fear. "We can leave right now."

Christian looked at Julian and then back at the young man. He put his hand on his chest and closed his eyes.

A few moments later he took it off, the morbid coolness of a corpse lingering on his fingers.

He looked at Julian and shook his head.

Julian pulled the sheet back over the body and began walking out of the room. When he reached the door he turned around and saw Christian still standing by the slab.

"Is something wrong?" Julian asked.

"What was his name?"

"I'm sorry?"

"His name," Christian said. "What was it?"

"Christian," Julian said. "His name was Christian. So, now you know. Can we go?"

They left.

Neither man ever mentioned it again.

Christian thought about it a lot, though. On the one hand, it would have been a tremendous power to have. On the other, he didn't know how he'd feel about having it. There was something unnerving about it. Unnerving. Unnatural. Unholy.

Ultimately, he'd always been pleased that he didn't have it.

Now, sitting on his bathroom floor, amidst the shards of a broken mirror with the girl he'd murdered soaking in the tub a few feet away, he wished for the first time he did.

Then he could give Berlin what she wanted, what she'd always wanted, what she was pleading him to give her.

Life.

The part of her inside of him was still that terrified girl on the hospital floor. It did not understand that it was only an echo of someone who once was, and that the person calling for help was already gone. It still thought he could stop, it would do anything if he would. It wouldn't tell anyone, it promised, if only he let it go.

Christian shook his head. He thought there was something he could do to gain her forgiveness. He should have known there wasn't. You have to be alive to forgive, and she wasn't.

He pushed himself off the floor and lifted her out of the tub. Respecting her modesty as much as possible, he dried her off and gently placed her in bed, pulling a white sheet over her.

All that was left was to return her to her family so they could say goodbye.

And then, Christian had a few things in his own life he needed to start saying goodbye to. Like all of it.

Roger was right.

His future was laid out for him. He'd have to leave Elizabeth and live out the rest of his days as a hangman slave.

Rage, guilt, hate, and every other emotion he had a name for hit him at once.

Every part of his being screamed in defiance at the future bearing down on him. Behind it all, he heard Berlin's echo, still begging for him to help.

Please. Help me. Please...

He closed his eyes and saw her staring up at him as she had that night.

You can let me go, mister. I promise I won't say anything. You don't have to do this.

"Shhhhhh."

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not silence her.

Momma...momma...

Christian ripped off the sheet and placed his hand over her heart.

He still had Roger's life inside of him, weak as it was. It wouldn't work but he couldn't help himself. He had to try. He had to try.

His fingertips started tingling.

"What?"

The tingling quickly spread up through his arm to the rest of his body.

It was happening. He didn't understand how or why, he only knew that it was happening.

Then, something occurred that never had before. His body jolted as if shocked and then his senses started to stretch and contort. It seemed as if the room turned upside down and then began spinning, faster and faster until it was all a blur.

Suddenly, everything stopped and for a second, the entire universe went blank.

Christian blinked, and it came back.

His hand was still resting over Berlin's heart but wasn't tingling anymore.

He looked inside himself.

Roger was gone.

If Roger was no longer inside of him, he must be inside of Berlin.

But how?

Why had he succeeded now where he'd failed before?

Christian took his hand off of her.

The young man he'd tried to resurrect before died from conventional means. Christian had killed Berlin and the corpses he left in his wake were not like normal ones. He'd read the reports; the people he killed decayed at a much slower rate and were different in various other ways. Maybe one of those ways was that they could be given new life.

It made sense that he wouldn't have discovered this until now. He'd never tried to resurrect someone he killed before, and why would he?

But now that he had discovered it, he needed to act fast. Roger had barely a sliver of life left, barely enough to cure a paper cut and nowhere near enough to restore her fully. She needed more life and that meant Christian needed to call Julian.

He picked up the phone and dialed his number. Julian didn't answer.

And over the course of the next several hours Christian called him repeatedly with no answer.

He was just about to try for the tenth time when there was a knock at his front door.

Christian put the phone down and answered it.

On the other side was a man about six feet five inches tall, square jawed with a direct stare. He struck Christian as military, or at least, as a man used to giving orders and used to having those orders followed.

"Christian Thompson?" he said.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Bishop. I'd like a word."

"About?"

"You've spent the better part of the day trying to contact a mutual friend of ours," Bishop said. "I'm here regarding that."

"Julian sent you?"

"May I come in?"

"Why am I talking to you and not him?"

"May I come in?"

Christian stepped aside.

Bishop stepped inside. "Why are you trying to contact Mr. Stark?"

"I need his help," Christian said, closing the door.

"With what?"

"I'd prefer to discuss that with him."

"I'm sure you would."

"All right," Christian said. "I'm assuming Julian sent you instead of answering my calls or coming to see me face to face because he is worried I might want to kill him. He can stop worrying. There is no 'might' about it. I would love to kill him; slowly, and with a lot of pain. But I am not going to because I need his help." Christian leaned against the wall. "I'm also assuming you know who I am and what I can do?"

"I do."

"You know I kill people to cure people?"

"I do."

"Good. You know about me. In the event you don't know about your boss, I'll enlighten you. Upstairs in my guest bedroom is a girl I murdered to save my comatose wife because Julian shot her in the chest. I now need your boss to arrange for me to kill yet another person so I can bring her back from the dead."

"You want to bring a dead person back to life."

"Doesn't everyone?" Christian said sardonically. Sarcasm, he could tell already, was going to be a huge part of how he coped with his future life.

"I guess. But what makes you think you can?"

"What do you care? Your boss has me where he wants me. I'm desperate and will agree to whatever are his terms. So, you can tell your master he's won. All he has to do is give me what I want."

Bishop nodded. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, you can have what you want."

"It needs to be soon."

"You can have it tonight."

"Good," Christian said.

"You might not think so for long."

"Why is that?"

"If you leave with us tonight, it won't be anything like you've done before. You're used to dealing with convicted criminals, but courts of law can't touch men like the man you'd be dealing with tonight. And if I may speak frankly, neither should you. You will be entering an entirely different world, one you are simply not cut out for, and one you can never leave once you're in."

"It's not The Firm, is it?"

"I was given orders and I am carrying them out. But speaking to you man to man, I implore you to turn away from this because in good conscience I can't walk a man into a furnace without at least warning him it might get warm."

"Well, the heat and flames might give it away anyway."

"So I take it you're not going to be following my advice."

"I am not."

Bishop studied Christian. "Do you really believe you can do what you said?"

"I don't know."

"But you have to try?"

"Yes."

"Even though I'm telling you, you are making the biggest mistake of your life?"

"Even though."

"Why?"

Christian sighed. "I'm guessing Julian has had me under surveillance for a while now, and basically knew why I was calling him. Correct? That's how he was able to have something set up. I'm also assuming that he sent you with a set of stipulations or requirements I'd have to agree to in order to get what I want. Since I agree carte blanche, you don't have to bother with them now. Correct?"

"I can't confirm or deny any of that."

"Okay. Let's try it another way. Are you going to take me to do the extraction whether or not I answer your stupid questions?"

"Yes."

"Then mind your fucking business about why I'm doing this. Do what you're told and don't worry about me."

That caught Bishop off guard, and a flash of anger went across his eyes. But ever the soldier, he put the anger away and focused on his orders. "Okay then," Bishop said. "Let's go."

A few moments later, Christian and Bishop were climbing into the SUV waiting in the driveway. There was another man inside who blindfolded Christian and placed him in the back seat.

They arrived at their destination a little over an hour later.

Still blindfolded, Christian was led out of the truck, up some steps, into a house, through a hallway, down more steps, through another hallway and into a room where his blindfold was removed.

It was a tiny room that smelled strongly of mildew. The floor was bare concrete and the walls of exposed brick. Its only light came from the naked bulb hanging from its ceiling like a glowing fetus dangling from a thick, black umbilical cord.

There were three other men in this room. Two were standing, dressed similar to Bishop. The third was sitting, handcuffed to a chair, naked except for a pair of underwear, a gag and a ski mask.

Bishop turned to Christian. "Showtime."

"Who is he?" Christian asked.

Bishop deadpanned, "Guess."

"This is the donor?"

Mimicking Christian's sarcasm, he said, "That would certainly explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

"What's he done?"

"What's the difference?"

"Am I here to kill him?"

"Yes."

"Then it's the difference between me doing it and not doing it."

Bishop smirked. "Maybe you forgot the conversation we had at your house. I don't want you to do it, remember?"

"Come on," Christian said. "What has he done?"

"Who knows?" Bishop shrugged. "Maybe nothing."

"Enough with that shit. Tell me."

Bishop's smirk got bigger. "What's the matter, Christian? Can't handle it? I tried to warn you. This is what you'd be signing up for. This is what we do. We kill without knowing who we are killing, or why. We _can't_ know, because there are people out there who can look in our heads and see what we know. So, we agree to know nothing. We operate on faith. That is the nature of our business.

"You keep asking what he's done. All I know is somebody in authority, I can't tell you who because I don't know, has labeled him worthy of death. I don't know any more than that and I don't need to."

The man in the chair started crying and urinated on himself.

Bishop looked at the puddle forming beneath the chair. "I can be a very cold man, Christian, but never will I be a cruel one, and cruel is what this is becoming. There is no need to torture this poor devil, making him listen to us talk about him like he's not a real human being with a real family. One of us has to end this now. Is it going to be you, or me?"

Christian stood still, not saying a word.

"Smart." Bishop took out his gun. "It might have been easier had you achieved this epiphany at your home, but better late than too late. Claude? Would you be so kind as to escort young Christian upstairs so I can shoot this gentleman here in the back of the head?"

The man cried harder at hearing this and tried to beg for his life through his gag.

Claude took Christian by the arm. "Come on."

Christian pulled away. "No. I'll do it."

"You are making such a misstep," Bishop said.

Christian put his hand on the man's chest. He screamed so hard his words were nearly discernible even through the gag.

Crying, unable to talk or walk, urinating on himself. He was like a baby; a baby who was making too much noise.

Christian thought of Dr. Heisenberg's challenge, of standing in a closet with a crying infant that he had to kill in order to save someone else. Here it was in real life.

The man was so scared he'd regressed to being a baby and for all Christian knew this man was as innocent as one. But Christian also knew it didn't matter. This man was never going to leave that room alive. The only question was would it be so that someone else could live.

He could let Bishop kill him, sealing Berlin's fate as well, or Christian could kill him and with two wrongs, make a right.

Christian took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

His fingers started tingling.

An hour later the SUV pulled into Christian's driveway.

Christian got out and went inside. Bishop followed.

They walked to the guest room where Christian stopped before opening the door. "Wait here."

"Why?"

"Because she's naked."

"I've seen naked women before."

"I'm sure you have. Wait here."

Christian stepped inside and closed the door.

Less than a minute later Bishop heard a grunt, and then something crashing to the floor.

"Christian? You all right?"

No response.

He tried the knob but it was locked.

He knocked again. "Christian?"

Nothing.

Bishop stepped back and shoulder rammed the door open.

Christian lay motionless on the floor, a puddle of blood pooling around his face.

## CHAPTER 9

"Can you hear me, Christian?"

Christian slowly opened his eyes. At first, everything was a huge blur but after a few seconds he could make out the two men standing over him. One was vaguely familiar, the other he'd never seen before.

"Do you know who I am?" said the familiar face. "Do you know who you are?"

Christian pressed his eyes with his palms. "Yes."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Christian. You're Bishop."

"That's right."

"Where am I? What happened?"

The unfamiliar man stepped forward. "I can answer that."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Diante Bock. Dr. Diante Bock."

Christian looked him up and down. "Are you really a doctor?"

"Yes. Why? What do you think I am?"

"Nothing," Christian said. "It's a line I've used before under similar circumstances."

"What?"

"Nothing," Christian said. "You were telling me what happened?"

"You tried to do something very foolish, Mr. Thompson. You tried---"

"The girl," Christian turned to Bishop. "How is she? Is---"

Bishop shook his head. "I'm sorry, Christian."

"It worked," Christian said. "It had to."

"I'm sorry. It didn't."

"Yes, it did. I don't feel the donor inside me. If he's not, then he must have---,"

"Been metabolized by your own body to keep you alive," said Dr. Bock. "You suffered a very severe stroke because of your little experiment, Mr. Thompson."

"What?"

"You were trying to use your power in a way it was not intended, and there was a severe backlash as a result."

"You don't know," Christian said. "That's what you think, but you don't know."

"I know."

"How?"

"Because I can see it."

"How can..." Christian didn't need to finish his question. Looking at the man, he understood. Bock was like Roger, an empath.

Christian closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Doc, can you give us a few minutes?" said Bishop.

Dr. Bock nodded and walked out of the room.

"I'm sorry, Christian," Bishop said when the door closed. "I know how much it meant to you, but the sooner you accept it, the better."

Christian noticed his surroundings for the first time. It looked like a hospital room, but then again not quite. "Where are we?"

"One of our safe houses."

"Then why don't I feel safe?"

"Maybe you know something I don't." Bishop sat down in the chair beside Christian's bed. "I'd like to tell you you're going to fully recover. Unfortunately, I can't. Dr. Bock says you're already 100 percent again. When I brought you here you were pretty bad. Now he says you are in top physical form."

"You say that like it's bad news."

"It is."

"You wanted me dead?"

"No. But I do wish it hurt you a lot worse than it did, and for a longer time."

"I'll try harder next time."

"And the thing is, I believe you. That's actually kind of my point." He adjusted himself in the chair. "You really thought you could bring that girl back, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"But you couldn't."

"Apparently not."

"That tells me you don't have good instincts about your limits," Bishop said. "In your past life perhaps it didn't matter, but in your new one it matters a whole hell of a lot.

"That's why I said your quick recovery was unfortunate. You were only sick for a short while and slept through the whole thing. Perhaps if you'd done some serious suffering you'd have some consequences to trace back to their root causes and your instincts would become a bit more refined. As it is, you'll only have a couple of hours to try to get them in better shape."

Christian understood. "We have another job."

Bishop nodded.

"What is it?"

"That's something else you're going to have to get used to. There isn't a lot of downtime in your new profession, or any warning. We get told to go and we go. Most of the time with no idea why or what we're to do once we get there. Or even where 'there' is most times."

"This being one of those times?"

"I hope you weren't planning on backing out," Bishop said. "Because you can't anymore."

"I don't want to back out of anything."

"You really don't, do you?"

"No."

Bishop sighed. "Then your instincts are even worse than I thought."

## CHAPTER 10

The private jet Bishop and Christian boarded the next morning was larger than any Christian had ever seen. It looked like something a head of state would use; maybe not the President of the United States or Russia or China, but the dictator of some small, uneasy nation committed to squandering his people's wealth could be very pleased with himself in something like this.

A stewardess showed Christian to his private quarters where he made himself a bourbon on the rocks. It wasn't even nine in the morning yet, but since he didn't sleep last night a drink didn't seem that out of place.

He'd spent most of last night in the bunker beneath the safe house. It was enormous and reminded Christian of the doomsday bunkers prepared for Senators and Congressmen he'd seen on the Discovery Channel.

Only, the ones on TV were quite Spartan. This one had everything; a gym, a sick ward, state of the art computer and radio equipment, weapons, gas masks, vehicles, birth control, enough provisions to last about a decade, and a pharmacy stocked with seemingly endless bottles of antidepressants, which, Christian supposed, would prove invaluable to survivors of a nuclear war. It even had a morgue.

That was where he found Berlin. They were keeping her there until Christian woke up and decided what he wanted done with her.

There she was; laid out on a slab in a frigid room with a black plastic sheet draping her body.

Christian pulled the sheet back and bit his bottom lip when he saw her dead and staring eyes.

He'd only intended to look for a second, to see with his own eyes if what they said was true. But once he looked at her, he couldn't bring himself to look away. He was still there hours later when Bishop appeared in the doorway, telling him that it was time to go.

Christian drank his bourbon.

He grabbed the bottle, ready to pour another when there was a knock at the door.

"Mr. Thompson?" said a woman's voice.

"Yes?"

"May I have a word, please?"

Christian opened the door. It was one of the stewardesses.

"May I come in?" she asked with a worried look on her face. "It won't take a moment."

He stepped aside.

"Thank you," she said, coming inside. "I know I'm not supposed to do this, but when I saw you board the plane, I had to."

Christian closed the door. "You had to what?"

"Thank you."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Please, Mr. Thompson. You don't have to do that. I...you saved my son's life. I had to thank you. I can never repay you, but from the bottom of my heart, I had to say thank you."

Christian didn't quite know how to respond.

"I'm sorry. I know privacy is a big deal. I know you may resent me even knowing, but I had to say it. Thank you so very much. You're not angry, are you?"

"Of course not."

She waited for Christian to say something more, but he really didn't have anything else.

"So that's it," she said, at a loss herself now. "I...You are a wonderful human being." Her voice quivered. "I can't thank you enough. Can't thank you enough." She composed herself. "Anyway, I'll...I'll get out of your way."

She walked towards the door.

"Wait," Christian said.

She turned around.

"Your boy, what was his name?"

"Daniel," she said. "Danny."

"How is Danny?"

"Wonderful." She smiled.

"Good."

"Bye, Mr. Thompson."

"Good bye."

She left.

Christian put the bourbon back in the minibar and lay down in bed.

He was asleep in less than a minute.

## CHAPTER 11

Christian woke up hours later.

For a few moments he was unaware where he was but looking around the cabin reminded him.

He was on a mission, to where he didn't know. Most likely to kill someone. For what, he didn't know.

He swung his legs out of bed, yawning and wiping his eyes when there was another knock at the door.

When he answered there was another stewardess standing on the other side.

"We're going to be landing soon," she said. "We'll need you to get to your seat."

"Okay."

Christian thought she'd leave after telling him but instead she stood there, eyes intent on him.

"Was there something else?" Christian asked.

"She was too scared to ask," the stewardess said. "And after all you've done for her she couldn't bring herself to ask for more, but she needs this. They'll do it if you ask. If it comes from you, they'll have to say yes."

"What are you talking about?"

"Linda," the stewardess said. "Danny's mom. She wants to see him."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just a small visit. Just for a couple of hours. Please, she misses him so much."

"I don't understand; why can't she---"

"Chris," said Bishop as he approached them down the hall. "I'm sorry," Bishop said when he reached them, "did I interrupt something?"

"I was just letting him know we'd be coming in soon." Her eyes begged Christian to play along.

"That's what I was coming to do," Bishop said.

"Thank you," Christian said, "I'll be out in one minute."

The plane soon landed.

Christian and Bishop disembarked and were driven to a large villa overlooking the sea just as night was falling.

In the weak and fading dusk light Christian could just make out storm clouds gathering over the sea. It was lovely but ominous, like a beautiful woman whose smile brims with dark intention.

What the stewardess said was still on Christian's mind. Why wasn't she able to see her son? Who was keeping them apart, and why? He didn't know. What he did know was that she got quiet when Bishop approached them. Until he knew more, he'd do the same.

The driver pulled up to the front of the villa and carried their luggage up the front steps. Christian, who hadn't brought single bag, wondered how long this mission was to last. Bishop had brought enough luggage to last a month.

Bishop knocked twice on the massive wooden door.

Christian recognized the man who opened it from the other night. Claude.

"You can put them anywhere," Bishop said to the driver as they stepped inside. And then to Claude, "You remember Christian, don't you?"

He nodded and they shook hands.

The driver got the bags situated and said to Bishop, "Will there be anything else?"

Bishop said no and held out several folded bills to the driver.

"We're not allowed to take tips," the driver said in an accent Christian couldn't quite place.

"This isn't a tip," Bishop said. "And what I'm about to tell you is of the highest secrecy. I am on a very important mission, and I need your help. I want you to take this money but I don't want you to spend a single penny of it until the right moment. I need for you to hold onto it unless and until you see something you want to spend it on. Then, and only then, I want you to exchange these bills for whatever goods or services have struck your fancy. The person you give the money to will take it from there. Can I trust you with this mission?"

The driver smiled and took the cash. "Thank you, sir."

"No. Thank you. If you successfully complete this mission, you will have done your part in preserving the economic system upon which the entire world depends. Onward, soldier. And tell no one what transpired here."

The driver nodded and left.

"Now," Bishop said, turning to Claude. "Where is the man of the hour?"

"In the library. Follow me."

Christian and Bishop followed Claude to a large library in the west wing. Its only light came from the fireplace, on either side of which were massive windows which during the day provided a breathtaking view of the ocean; but now, in the dark of newly fallen night, the only thing that could be seen in them was the dim reflections of the goings on inside that room.

In front of the fireplace was a large, cushioned chair. In that chair was a man. That man was Julian Stark.

He smiled when Christian entered the room, but did not turn his head to look at him.

"Christian," Julian said, his eyes still focused on the fire, "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

"I wish I could say the same about you," Christian said, hiding his surprise if he had any. "But I knew sooner or later we'd have to meet again."

Julian laughed.

"What's funny?" Christian asked.

"Nothing," Julian said, his laughter tapering into light coughing. "I'm sorry. You'll have to forgive me."

"Is that why you brought me here? To tell me I have to forgive you?"

"Oh no," Julian said, coughing one last cough to clear his throat. "What I did was unforgivable; hence, you can't forgive me. No, I won't ask for that. What I will ask instead is that you not let your hatred of me be your undoing."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's advice. Perhaps I am the last man you wish to hear it from, but right now I'm the only person who can give it to you.

"I know you can't forgive me. I can't forgive myself for what I did to your wife. It was the most vicious act of cowardice I can imagine. But you must know, Christian, I never meant for it to happen."

"When you point loaded guns at people and pull the trigger, bullets generally come out."

"I didn't go there planning to hurt her. I never thought myself capable of such base cowardice and was therefore unguarded against it. I know it sounds trite, but it really was as if I was watching someone else do it. I know, I know; the fact remains that it was not someone else. It was me. I did it, and I deserve all the hatred you have for me, and much more besides."

"There isn't any more besides."

Julian shook his head. "I hate to sound condescending, especially under the circumstances, but you really need to get off of your high horse. You of all people should understand what I'm talking about. Did you go there planning to murder that teenager? What was her name? Berlin, I believe. Did you ever think you would do something like that, and so easily, on just a moment's notice? My guess is you didn't."

"I don't forgive myself for what I did either."

"But you still think highly enough of yourself to look down on those who did the exact same thing as you."

"I did what I did to save my wife. You did it to save yourself."

"Is one any better than the other? I'm sorry Christian, but I was terrified out of my mind. And here you are, all put upon. I'll wager inside you are full of guilt and thinking of ways in which you must be punished for what you've done, but it doesn't really matter, does it? You still ultimately get what you wanted and that girl pays the price for it. Elizabeth is alive and that's all you really care about. Whatever punishment you bestow upon yourself is really no punishment at all as you would gladly bear any burden to keep her safe. The rest is just dramatics, isn't it? Hurling yourself prostrate upon the floor."

"Don't Julian. Just don't."

"You're the one who needs to 'don't', Christian. As in, don't be a fool, and don't let your hatred for me destroy you. You can still have a life. Don't throw that away on me." Julian looked at Christian for the first time. "Don't do this, Christian. Let it be one of them who does it, not you. You just walk away right now. I promise, I'll be just as dead."

"Just as dead?"

"Oh." Julian slowly turned his head to Bishop and smiled ruefully. "He doesn't know, does he?"

Bishop said, "I thought it'd be better if you told him."

"Told me what?"

"You're here to kill me," Julian said. "Perhaps you couldn't see them in the weak light, but if you'll cast your gaze to my wrists and ankles, you'll notice they are manacled to this ridiculous chair."

In the flickering firelight Christian noticed for the first time the bruises on Julian's face and the thin line of dried blood striping the corner of his mouth to his chin.

Christian looked to Bishop. "What is this?"

"Just what he said. You're here to kill him."

"Are you serious?"

Bishop nodded.

"Why?"

"I don't know." Bishop folded his arms. "But I wouldn't be surprised if it had something to do with him shooting your wife, making you use your gift against your will, and otherwise violating pretty much everything else our organization stands for."

Julian said to Christian, "You're not so naive you actually believe that, are you? Use your knowledge of how men really are; use your knowledge of the world and how it really is. What happens more often? Do men act out of such noble purposes as this young man has described, or do people more often use people for their own ends?

"The answer is obvious, and thus you must realize that you are being used right now, Christian. You are being used by men who want me dead, but want to keep their own hands clean of it to avoid the repercussions. They think they have a convenient patsy in you.

"Let me guess. They told you that you have no choice in the matter, am I right? They told you that you now belong to some secret and elite squad and have no choice but to obey whatever orders you're given; that you can't ask questions, you just receive orders and carry them out. Am I right? Christian," he said, shaking his head. "That's just a trick, one of the oldest in the book, one I've used myself before.

"The truth is you always have a choice. There are no secret elite squads who carry out missions so delicate they can't know anything. It's a trick. You see, that's the law. They can trick you into doing things, but they can't make you, they can't use force. Those are the rules to this old and vicious game. You have a choice. You always have a choice. The correct choice for you now is to forbear. Do not kill me.

"If you do, you will be inviting greater enemies upon yourself than you can imagine. You will have allied yourself with men far more treacherous than me, men who will ultimately consume you, everything and everyone you love. Including Elizabeth.

"I know I will never leave this room alive. I realize and accept that I am to die. I only ask that you let one of the others kill me so that the horrors that will inevitably follow will not be yours. These are my last words. I am not using them to beg for my own life, but to try to save yours.

"You hate me, and I know you are loathe to grant me my dying wish but you should because that wish is to save your life. You are on the edge of a rabbit's hole, Christian. Once you fall in, you will never climb out again. Turn your back and walk away. Let a muffled gunshot in the distance be the final word in the unfortunate tale of Julian Stark."

Christian unbuttoned Julian's shirt.

"Think, Christian. Why are they doing this? Why do they want _you_ to be the one to kill me? Why are they keeping their own hands clean?"

"You know how this works," Christian said. "It'll be easier for you if you just go along."

Julian shook his head. "Remember this, Christian. Remember in the dark days ahead, when you're trapped in a hell of your own making, while you are watching everything you love being ripped apart, remember that I tried."

Christian peeled Julian's shirt open.

Julian said, "I've spent every moment since it happened wishing I could take it back. Haven't you, Christian? Haven't you spent every moment wishing you didn't do what you did to that poor girl?"

"Just be quiet now."

"I know you don't believe it, but I do love you Christian. You are one of the few people I ever called friend."

Christian clenched a fist with his right hand tight enough to crack the knuckles.

"I know I fucked up. But please, forgive me, Christian. I beg you. Forgive me."

"I thought you weren't going to ask," said Christian.

"Not for what I did to your wife, or any of my past failings. Forgive me for my failure being made manifest now, for failing to save your life and Elizabeth's life now. I tried my hardest, and I failed. I am so sorry, Christian. So sorry. Please. Will you forgive me?"

"Whatever happens to me," Christian said placing his hand over Julian's heart. "Is all because of you. Why couldn't you save me, Julian? I'm standing right here in front of you, needing your help, and you won't give it. Why are you doing this? All you have to do is convince me, all you have to do is say the right words and I'll stop and you will have saved my life, and Elizabeth's. Please. Find those words. Don't let me do this. Please." Christian's fingertips began tingling. "Help me, Julian."

"Dear God please," Julian said, his breath growing short. "Protect this young man who is taking my life, and protect his wife."

"Don't let me do this. Stop me, Julian. Save me."

"Forgive him for all his sins, bless him and keep him, dear Lord. In Jesus' name I pray..."

But he was dead before he could say 'amen'.

Christian took his hand off his chest and watched the last tear Julian would ever cry roll down his chin.

## CHAPTER 12

Detective Andrews sat at his desk, thinking.

Roger Barr was dead. The case was over, but he couldn't get it out of his head, and the more he thought about it, the less sense it made.

Barr never mentioned breaking into the girl's apartment. Why leave that out? Witnesses said he drove a black Mercedes. Roger didn't even have a car and there were no black Mercedes listed as stolen in the last two months.

Every which way Detective Andrews thought about it led him back to the same conclusion. Barr didn't mention it because he didn't know about it. Because he didn't do it.

He'd never laid a finger on that girl.

But then why had Heather identified him as the man she'd seen in her apartment? It didn't make sense.

None of it did.

Officer Juan Banks was sitting in his cruiser nestled quietly in a spot that was hard to see even during the daylight hours and now, in the dark of night, was damn near impossible.

He had been there for the last few hours, waiting to catch speeders, and was looking forward to his shift finally coming to an end when dispatch radioed in a call about kids messing around in the park after hours.

"One guess who reported it," said Angela, the dispatcher.

Juan rolled his eyes. "Again?"

Another Mrs. Goodman call.

He swore, that old woman called at least twice a month about kids messing around in the park after hours. Why anyone so easily annoyed chose to live by a park was beyond him, but, there it was.

"Again. And you're the closest so you're up."

"Copy that," Juan said.

He pulled out of his little grove and a little while later reached the park and got out of the cruiser. If any kids were there they would have run off at seeing his lights, but Mrs. Goodman was probably watching and if so, would definitely raise Cain if he didn't do a walk through. So, he walked through, flashing his flashlight on the swings, the basketball court, the monkey bars, and, to make her happy, even scouted the perimeter of her yard.

Uh-oh, he thought shining the light in her back yard. That's not right.

Her shed door was cracked open. Mrs. Goodman rarely left her house and would never to go in the shed. In fact, Juan knew for certain that no one had been in it since her husband died seven years ago.

Maybe the kids had scattered when they saw his lights. Maybe one of them was hiding in there.

Juan walked to the shed and put his hand on the door.

The person hiding inside emptied their clip at him.

## CHAPTER 13

Claude and Bishop and Christian returned from their trip. They had just gotten off the plane and were in a car on the way back to the mansion.

The ride, like the flight home, was spent mostly in silence. Finally, Bishop spoke. "You're not finished, are you?" Bishop asked.

"What?" said Christian.

"With the girl. Berlin. You're not finished trying to help her, are you?"

"What makes you think that?"

Bishop shrugged. "You don't know your limits, you have bad instincts; you didn't suffer any serious consequences. Stands to reason."

"I suppose it does."

"Am I right? You're not finished?"

"I am not."

"You're going to try to give her Julian's life?"

"I am."

"What makes you think it'll be any different this time?"

"Nothing."

Christian was lying and Bishop knew it. What he didn't know was _why_ Christian was lying. Maybe Bishop just struck him as a man he'd do well not to get in the habit of telling more than was necessary.

If that was the case, maybe his instincts weren't so bad after all.

Soon they were back at the mansion and Christian was standing over Berlin.

She wasn't in the morgue anymore. Christian had had her moved out of there and into the very room he'd been in while unconscious.

Bishop, Claude and Dr. Bock were also there. Dr. Bock went on record as having strongly advised against this

Christian thanked him for his advice and asked for his help.

"Help you what," Dr. Bock said, "kill yourself?"

"No," Christian said. "I know what I did wrong last time. I can help her, but to do it, I need you to help me."

"How?"

"It's her heart," Christian said. "In order to do an implant she needs a heartbeat."

"But she's dead," Bishop said. "Dead hearts don't beat."

"Hers will."

"How?"

"Dr. Bock is going to give her one."

"How am I going to do that?"

"CPR."

Dr. Bock shook his head. "Dear God, Christian."

"You think that'll work?" Bishop asked.

"I do." Christian said. "Dr. Bock, would you please?"

"No. I'm not going to help you kill yourself."

"Fair enough. Bishop? Claude? If either of you are trained in first aid, would you care to lend a hand?"

Bishop stepped forward.

"Don't do it," said Dr. Bock.

"What do you need me to do?" Bishop asked.

"You're going to give her CPR, just like you would anyone else."

"Won't I be in the way?" Bishop asked. "You have to put your hand on her heart, don't you?"

"No." Christian placed his fingers on her neck where her pulse would be.

"Interesting." Bishop took off his suit jacket, placing it, his gun and holster on her nightstand. He rolled up his sleeves, stacked his hands over her heart and when Christian gave the signal, started pumping.

Christian's fingers started tingling.

Very quickly, his head grew light and knees became rubbery.

"Are you all right, Christian?" Bishop asked.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I am," Christian said, his words slurred. "Keep going."

Bishop did. And very soon, the room started spinning around Christian; his head grew very light and he was seconds from passing out when he took his hand off of her.

"Did it work?" Bishop asked.

Christian didn't answer. He walked from one end of the room to the other, paused, and did so again.

"Christian?"

He walked the room again, stopped, picked up a lamp and slammed it onto the ground. Pieces of it were still scattering across the floor as he entered a bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face.

Berlin was gone. He couldn't bring her back.

He hated to admit it, but it was time he face the facts.

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing.

Once a heart stopped, there was nothing he could do to...nothing...wait a minute.

Christian looked at his reflection. "Oh my God." It couldn't be that easy, that obvious, could it? He ran back to Berlin's bed. "Oh my fucking God."

"What is it?" asked Bishop.

As Christian's heart pounded with anticipation, he asked himself again if it could really be that simple. It could, couldn't it? After all, he'd done it before.

"Jesus Christ," Christian said. "I get it now."

"You get what?" asked Bishop.

"I know how to do it. I know how to save her."

"How?"

Christian took his shirt off and tossed it on the floor.

"Christian, tell us what is going on," said Bishop.

"I already did it once," Christian said. "With Elizabeth."

"You did what?"

"Made her heart beat. The night at the hospital, after Julian shot her, her heart stopped. I made it beat again.

"At the time I thought it was a spasm, but what if it wasn't? What if I made it beat? What if I could do it again with Berlin by doing the same thing I'd tried to do with Elizabeth?"

"What did you try to do with Elizabeth?"

"This." Christian put one hand over Berlin's heart and the other over his own.

He willed his life out of him and into her, just as he had that night with Elizabeth. There was a tingling in his fingertips that soon faded.

When it faded completely, he took his hand off and waited.

Every eye in the room was locked on him as he placed his hand back over Berlin's heart.

It did not beat.

It did not beat.

And then it did.

It was weak; barely enough to be called a beat, but it was there. And it was enough.

His fingertips jolted as a rapport was established.

Everyone stood frozen in place, unable to breathe as they watched a man bring the dead back to life. A minute, a year, a century might have gone by before Christian took his hand off of her.

No one dared speak until Christian did.

"It worked," Christian said.

"It did," Dr. Bock said, staring at her, mesmerized. "I can see it."

Bock was transfixed, watching the warm glow Christian placed inside her as it spread slowly from her heart to the rest of her body.

"Well, if it worked, why doesn't she get up?" Claude asked.

"It doesn't work that way," said Christian. "It takes time for a body to assimilate new life. It might be days before we see even the slightest sign of---"

Berlin jumped out of bed, shocked, terrified, and wide awake.

"Berlin?" Christian moved towards her.

"Get away from me!"

"Calm down," Christian said. "You're in a safe---"

She grabbed Bishop's gun off the nightstand, pointing it at them with her hand shaking furiously as she backed against the wall. "Stay away!"

Claude pulled his .45 and aimed it at her center mass.

"Claude, put your gun down," Christian said.

"Bishop?" Claude said, keeping the gun on her.

"Don't shoot," Bishop said, "unless you absolutely have to."

"Tell him to put it down," Christian said to Bishop. "She's just scared, I promise, she's not going to---."

Berlin started blasting.

Claude fired back as Christian tackled him. They hit to the floor; the pistol slid out of his hand.

Christian looked up. Berlin lay motionless on the floor.

Christian slammed his fist in the dead center of Claude's face.

Claude smiled, his hand instantly around Christian's throat. His grip was tighter than a vise grew tighter by the second. Christian tried to peel off Claude's hand but his strength was like no ordinary man's.

Christian put his hand over Claude's heart.

There was no heartbeat.

Claude winked at him. "Bulletproof vest. Christian-proof too, it seems." His grip tightened.

"Claude," Bishop said, "Let him go."

Claude released him.

Christian dropped and rolled onto his back, coughing and wheezing, his neck on fire.

Bishop said, "Bock. You all right?"

Dr. Bock peeked out from the chair he was hiding behind. "Fine."

Bishop walked over to Berlin and examined her. Christian, still rubbing his neck, stared at him.

"She's not hit," Bishop said. "I think she just fainted."

Claude, who was now standing, offered Christian a hand up. Christian took it and once on his feet went over to Berlin.

Bishop was right. She was breathing rapidly, no blood, no bullet wounds.

Christian lifted her off the floor and put her back in bed.

## CHAPTER 14

Claude, Bishop and Dr. Bock sat around the kitchen table having dinner.

It had been hours since Christian put new life in the girl, and he hadn't left her side.

"Christian," said Dr. Bock.

Bishop turned and saw him standing in the entranceway. They all watched as he grabbed a plate and a fork and sat down. He filled his plate with Chinese takeout and began eating.

"How is your neck?" Dr. Bock asked.

Christian rubbed it. "It'll be all right." He turned to Claude, who was nibbling on a spare rib. "You have quite a grip."

"Thanks," Claude said, taking a bite.

"I always tell him," Bishop said, "if he ever gets tired of this line of work he has a future strangling chickens."

Christian rubbed his neck again.

He was lucky he still had a neck to rub. Claude, like Bishop and most other Enforcers, was gifted with a near impossible level of physical strength. If Bishop hadn't stopped him, he could very easily have popped Christian's head off like something out of a particularly gruesome cartoon.

Bishop filled his wine glass. "So," he said to Christian, "I'm sure we're all wondering. I'll be the one who finally asks. How does it feel?"

"A little sore, but I'll be all right."

"I'm not talking about your neck and you know it." He set the bottle down and lifted up his glass.

"Why don't you tell me what you mean?" Christian said with sarcastic innocence.

"Well, Frankenstein said it made him feel like God, bringing the dead back to life. Is that what it feels like? Like being God?"

"No."

"Then how do you feel?" Bishop pressed.

Christian thought for a moment and said, "Like Frankenstein."

## CHAPTER 15

Heather returned home from shopping to find Detective Andrews sitting on her doorstep.

"Can I give you a hand with those?" he asked, nodding at the grocery bags.

She handed him the biggest one, unlocked the door to her apartment and went inside.

He followed.

"You can drop them on the table," she said. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

"How do you take it?"

"Cream and sugar."

She made his cup and gave it to him.

He took a sip. "Very good."

"If you like coffee."

He smiled. "You doing all right?"

"Come to check up on me?"

"That too."

She sighed and said, "I guess I'm all right. Really, I don't know how I am, to tell you the truth. It still feels so strange."

He was sure it did, but she seemed to be handling it okay. Some people wouldn't have been able to stomach being in a place where they'd been so terrified such a short while ago.

"I still can't believe she's gone."

"It takes time. Sometimes a lot of time."

"Yeah."

"How long had you guys been friends?"

"Our whole lives, pretty much. She grew up across the street from me." She rubbed her shoulders and was quiet for a few moments. "I hear the guy who killed her killed himself?"

He nodded.

She shook her head.

Jesus.

So much death.

"But are you...are you guys sure?" she asked.

"Positive. He took some pills before he turned himself in and---"

"Not that he killed himself. That he was the one."

Detective Andrews looked at her.

"That's why you're here, right?" she said. "You're not so sure anymore he was the guy either."

"You're not?"

"...I don't know..."

"You saw him, right? In the lineup, you saw him."

"I think so."

"What does that mean?"

Heather was quiet.

"Are you saying you don't think it was him?" asked Detective Andrews.

"I...you guys were sure, right? He was the one you wanted me to pick, right?"

"Heather, I need for you to be completely honest with me. Why did you point him out?"

Heather took a deep breath and said, "It was his shoes."

"What about his shoes?"

## CHAPTER 16

Dr. Bock had spent the last few days hovering over Berlin, waiting.

He checked her pupils one more time, even though he'd done so less than an hour ago and was sure nothing had changed. "Damn it," he said, and bit his bottom lip. "Damn it."

She still hadn't woken back up since that first time right after Christian had given her the transplant.

Dr. Bock understood that it took time for a body to integrate a new life, but he'd watched new life as it integrated into one of Christian's patients before, and what was happening with her was nothing like anything he'd ever seen.

Then again, he supposed, it wouldn't be. This patient was unique. To say the least.

Someone knocked.

Dr. Bock turned around and saw Bishop framed in the door way.

"Can I come in?" Bishop asked.

Dr. Bock shrugged as if he didn't care and then nodded because he did.

"Thought you could use some coffee," Bishop handing him a cup.

Bock took it. "Thanks."

"How is the patient?"

"Well, I think we're the ones who are going to have to be patient," Bock sipped his coffee. "She's...none of it makes any sense. Her heart isn't beating. She isn't breathing, and yet, her body temperature is increasing. Her pupils don't react to light like a dead person's would, but not like a living person's either."

"That they react at all has to mean something, right?"

Dr. Bock shrugged.

"Diagnosis?"

"At this point anything I tell you wouldn't even rise to the level of a guess. In a couple days I'll be able to tell you more."

"Is that a guess?"

"Yes."

Bishop shook his head.

Dr. Bock took another drink. "When I heard you come in I thought you were Christian."

"He comes here a lot?"

"Every couple of hours." He checked his watch. "He's about due now."

"How does he seem to you?"

"Hopeful. Nervous, but hopeful."

Bishop nodded.

"Did you see him upstairs?"

"Outside," Bishop said. "As I was pulling in he was leaving."

"Probably going to see his wife. Whenever he's not here, he's there."

"Probably." Bishop knew that wasn't where Christian was going but saw no point in telling Bock. Instead, he nodded at Berlin. "Crazy, isn't it? What we might be witnessing?"

"Give me a couple of days and I'll be able to tell you for sure."

Meanwhile, across town, Christian arrived at police headquarters and headed directly for Detective Hall's office.

When he got there Detective Hall had six photographs laid out side by side on his desk. They were photos of different, but similar looking young men.

Before the detective could ask if Christian recognized any of them, Christian pointed at the fourth one. "That's him."

"That's who?"

"Carter Jones," Christian said. "He was with Dudley when Jefferson got shot. He's the one who attacked me in that house."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

Detective Hall collected the pictures in a stack, bouncing them once on his desk to get them lined up. "Okay."

"How'd you find him?"

"Old fashioned Detective work," he said, sliding the pictures in a folder. "A tip. An old lady complained about a disturbance behind her house. A uniform checked it out, found the guy hiding in a shed. They got in a shoot-out."

"They okay?"

"They're fine. The uniformed took one through the arm. Just a scratch. Returned fire. When they ran the perp's gun through the system they came up with a hit. It was the same one used on Jefferson."

"How is Carter?"

"Dead." He dropped the folder back in the drawer. "The uniform put one through his neck and another through the eye."

"I thought you said they were both fine."

Detective Hall smiled. "That's fine by me."

Detective Andrews drove down the rain slicked highway towards the police station, Heather's words still ringing in his head with the same steady insistence of the rain pelting his windshield.

It was their fault, they'd screwed up and tipped her off unknowingly. The mistake they'd made seemed stupid enough to be impossible, but if there was one thing he knew about life, when you're dealing with human beings, anything is possible, and doubly so if it's stupid.

He'd heard of cases where cops locked guys in cells and just plain forgot about them for weeks, leaving them to starve. Even doctors sometimes forgot and stitched up surgical tools inside of patients or even amputated the wrong limb.

Thinking in those terms, considering the scope of human stupidity, this mistake didn't seem that impossible at all.

_It was his shoes,_ she'd said. _He didn't have any laces in his shoes. They take them out when they put you in a cell, right? So you can't kill yourself?_

Detective Andrews wanted to be pissed at the guards who brought him in like that, but he had a part in it as well. During the lineup he'd altered his wording from asking her if she saw the man from Berlin's bedroom to asking her which one stood out. Two very different questions. He should have known better.

But he didn't have the luxury of beating himself up about it. As crazy as it might sound to say out loud, something told him Berlin was still alive.

He meant to find her.

Right now his only lead was a black Mercedes that may or may not have rear damage. The witnesses hadn't been able to provide a model type or year, just generic black Mercedes.

The question now was how to find it.

He reached the police plaza and was just about to pull in the parking lot when another car pulled out. It was a black Mercedes with a crack on the rear bumper.

At first he thought it was too easy. But then again, sometimes it is just that easy. He didn't have any other leads, so, he followed the Mercedes.

It led him to the very hospital Berlin Cavanaugh disappeared from.

He watched the guy park and then followed him inside, even getting on the same elevator, nodding him a hello and being nodded one back.

"What floor?" the guy asked.

Detective Andrews stumbled a bit, as he intended to get off on whatever floor the man asking him did. But then, remembering the floor Berlin had been on when she disappeared, he said, "Four."

The man pressed that button, and no others.

The doors closed and when they opened again on four, both men got off. Detective Andrews pretended to go a separate way from his quarry but really kept following him, watching as he entered a patient's room.

Unable to follow him inside there, he instead did a little investigating and very quickly he found out the man's name. Christian Thompson. The patient he was visiting was his comatose wife, Elizabeth Thompson.

He stayed with her for about an hour and then left to speak with hospital administrators. Detective Andrews later found out he was discussing having her moved to a private residence. His eyes got big when he learned the address.

Jesus.

The guy had money.

Even if Andrews had enough for a warrant-which he didn't-the kind of lawyers this guy could afford would shred it in two seconds.

But after getting back to the precinct and examining security footage of what Mr. Thompson was doing at the stationhouse, he figured it might be a good idea to play this one closer to the vest anyway.

He seemed pretty chummy with one of their Detectives, a guy he only knew in passing named Frank Hall. He had a good reputation. Of course that didn't mean shit. It was completely possible this Thompson guy was paying Detective Hall off.

But paying him off for what?

The only thing Andrews could think of was some kind of organ theft thing. It seemed the stuff of bad TV, but it could happen. Rich guy's wife needs a transplant and no matches are available. He finds out a nurse at her hospital is a match and decides he's going to take what his wife needs. He does, and gets some schmuck like Barr to take the blame. Maybe he promises him money for his family or sweetheart or something.

But then why had he gone to her apartment? Could be an earlier and failed abduction attempt? Like he was waiting in Berlin's room to grab her there, but the roommate shows up instead?

Maybe.

He could make guesses all day. The only way to find out anything worth knowing for sure was to get a look inside that mansion.

A warrant being out of the question, in order to get that look inside he needed to get creative.

So, he got creative.

The day Elizabeth Thompson was moved in to the mansion saw lots of people coming in and out of it. Doctors and nurses scurried about; delivery men were bringing in and setting up equipment. Detective Andrews figured the presence of one more person dressed in hospital scrubs walking around the place wouldn't be noticed.

He was right.

It took about sixteen hours to fully move Elizabeth and all the necessary equipment in, and no one once questioned who Detective Andrews was or why he was there.

When the moving was done he left along with everyone else, although he'd gotten a fuller view of the mansion than most.

Christian watched from Elizabeth's window as the last of the trucks drove away beneath the gathering storm clouds.

Long day, he thought, closing the curtains, very long. And it wasn't even close to being over yet.

He walked over to Elizabeth and sat down beside her. She was improving steadily and should be awake soon.

He needed to take care of business before then.

Julian had not been lying. People would be coming after Christian soon and they would have no qualms about getting at him through his wife.

That was why he moved her to the safe house, in case news of Julian's death spread prematurely.

The man had been in hiding at the time Christian killed him. No one was supposed to know where he was. That might give them a little time before his death was discovered, but not much.

The people who would be coming after Christian and the rest of them were not the type of people you could keep in the dark for long. They might find out at any moment, and Elizabeth's hospital had at most four guards on duty at a time, mostly college kids and old men who napped through their shifts.

The mansion had top of the line surveillance and alarms systems, bullet proof windows, panic rooms, and a bomb shelter capable of withstanding a nuclear explosion. No great mystery as to where she'd be safer.

But impressive as they were, those things could only protect her so much.

There was really only one way Christian could secure her safety now.

He kissed her forehead.

He didn't want to think of that now and really, he couldn't afford to.

Berlin needed more life.

It had been several days since the implantation and she wasn't showing any new signs of life and the ones she had were diminishing. Her body temperature, which had been rising, was dropping again. Her pupils were becoming less reactive to light. When Dr. Bock looked at her with his empathic vision he'd said that while much of what he saw was a mystery, what he knew for certain was this: she was deteriorating.

The life Christian had given her was not enough. She needed more.

Earlier that day, as the men were in the middle of moving Elizabeth in the mansion, Christian approached Bishop about it.

"She needs more," Christian said to Bishop, who was in the study making a private call. "What do we do?"

"Let me call you back," he said into the phone. "Yes, I know that. I will. I'm not sure. Stay close to your phone." He hung up and turned to Christian. "I'm sorry?"

"I said she needs more life. Berlin. What I gave her wasn't enough. What do we do?"

Bishop set his phone on a mahogany desk and said, "Why are you asking me?"

"You have to know of someone."

"You're asking if I have someone you can kill just lying around?"

"Do you?"

Bishop shook his head and smiled sardonically. "What's wrong?" Christian asked.

"I can't fucking believe you."

"What?"

"I told you. They tell me to go someplace and I go, no questions asked. They tell me to kill and I kill. They tell me to act as muscle and I act as muscle. And whether you believe it or not, that's what happened. I didn't know. I never know."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know. You think I'm fucking stupid, Christian? I know you know. You like to act like you don't, dangle it over my head with this silly charade, but you don't fool me. You don't fool me one bit."

"Look," Christian said, "I don't know what you're talking about. If you want to believe I do, that's fine with me because whatever it is, I don't care. I care about helping her and I need you cool to do that. Please. Calm down."

"I am calm. Cool. Cold. That's what you think of me, right? I'm a cold hearted assassin, little more than a robot but much less than a man, correct?"

"Whatever this is," Christian said, "you need to put it away for now."

"You think I knew anything about it? You think they tell me anything? They don't. That's the point."

"I want to save that girl's life. I can't do it by myself."

"You can't do it with me either."

Bishop stormed out of the room.

Christian found him moments later at the bar, pouring himself a drink.

"If I were you," Bishop said, putting the top back on the bottle, "I'd leave me alone. That is a warning and it's going to be a very lonely one."

"Do you care about saving her, or not?"

"I'd leave me alone, Christian. I'm not going to say it again."

"I know how we can help her."

Bishop gulped his drink. "How?"

"Alice Rove," Christian said.

"Who is Alice Rove?"

"I'm not sure yet." He walked to the bar and leaned against it. For a few seconds he seemed to be staring off into nothingness. "Alice Rove is not a person," Christian said. "She's a protocol."

"A protocol?"

Christian nodded and waited for more of Julian's memory to fill his mind. "Julian and Warden Montgomery dealt themselves an out in case they, somebody important or somebody important to them needed a life and no execution was scheduled.

"They made a list of the absolute worst of the worst prisoners at Orchard as candidates, prisoners who'd committed multiple premeditated homicides, whose guilt was beyond question and who had absolutely no remorse.

"The plan was to stage an execution. I'd go in my waiting room and they'd roll the prisoner in, pretending he'd come from the death chamber. I'd never know because I can't be anywhere near the chamber or any place else I might be seen. Also, I never read or know anything about the person I execute because I need to have a clean slate to help with open investigations. The plan was I'd do the extraction, implant the life, and never be the wiser."

"Smart," Bishop said. But really, it was just common sense. Of course Julian would set up such a contingency plan. It'd be ridiculous if he hadn't. "But if you're not supposed to know, then how do you know?"

"From Julian. I can see it in his memory. I can also see that for it to work I need your help."

"Why?"

"If I'm not supposed to know about, then I can't know about it. I can't go to the warden and try to enact it myself. Julian obviously can't either. But that's all right. Julian travels a lot. Sometimes he goes far off the grid and has to cut off outside communications. They set up a contingency for that too.

"In such a situation, a third party would be invested with the power to initiate the Alice Rove project. That third party, I'm hoping, will be you. Will you do it?"

Bishop poured himself another drink and drank this one slower than the first. "What do I have to do?"

"Go to the prison and ask to meet with the warden."

"What makes you think he'll meet with me? I've never even met him."

"That's why he'll meet you," Christian said. "That's how he'll know. When you get there tell the guard you want to see the warden. When he asks if you have an appointment, tell him you don't. When he asks your name, you don't say a thing."

"And then what?"

"He'll get the warden. Wait until you get in his office. When he asks you what this is about, say 'Alice Rove'."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Will you do it?"

Bishop nodded, and as Christian watched the last moving truck leave, Bishop was just arriving at Orchard State Prison.

The downpour started as soon as he pulled into the parking lot. Bishop turned up his coat collar and ran to the entrance, pounding on the front gate until it buzzed open.

Shaking the water off his jacket, he walked across the worn green and white checkerboard floor to the guard sitting behind the desk.

"Visiting hours are over," the guard said, eyes buried in his newspaper. His gray mustache was so thick Bishop had to take it on faith his words came from a mouth lying somewhere beneath it.

"I'm here to speak with Warden Montgomery."

"And who are you?"

Bishop didn't reply.

The guard looked up, squinting at Bishop through his thick, black rimmed glasses. "I asked you who you are."

Bishop stayed silent.

The guard folded his paper, picked up the phone and pressed 9.

"Yeah, it's Bobby. Warden has a visitor." He listened and then said, "He doesn't seem to want to say." He listened again and said, "All right."

He hung the phone up and pointed down a hallway. "You can go right through there."

Bishop walked down a short corridor until he was stopped by a gate caked in chipped yellow paint. There was loud buzzing noise; a red, spiraling light swirled overhead and the gate retracted.

Bishop stepped through; there was another buzz and flash as the gate closed behind him.

"Keep walking," the old man said.

Bishop did, down the hall until arriving at a waiting room.

He sat on one of the orange plastic seats aligned against the wall and after about three minutes a mountain of a man appeared in the doorway.

Bishop stood. "Warden Montgomery?"

"Yeah. Who are you?"

"I'm here to see you."

"I asked you what your name was."

Bishop stood silent.

Warden Montgomery looked at his jacket. "Get caught in the rain, did you?"

"Didn't know it was supposed to rain."

"Come on. I'll show you where you can hang your coat then we can talk in my office."

Bishop followed Warden Montgomery inside, their footsteps echoing off the walls.

"Is this is your first time inside a prison?" Warden Montgomery asked as they walked.

"Yes."

"What do you think so far?"

Bishop looked around. "It's clean."

Warden Montgomery showed Bishop where he could hang up his coat and a few moments later they were in his office. He sat behind his desk and motioned for Bishop to take the seat in front of it.

"So," Warden Montgomery said leaning back in his chair. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

He'd said it flat, looking Bishop directly in the eyes. It wasn't with a tone of anger or even annoyance, but rather that of letting the person know you tolerated no bullshit of any kind.

Warden Montgomery sat still as he waited for an answer, staring without blinking directly into Bishop's eyes.

"Alice Rove," Bishop said.

The warden blinked.

"Do you need me to repeat that?" Bishop asked.

Warden Montgomery cleared his throat, the hard look wiped clean from his face. "No."

"Good."

Warden Montgomery took a moment to collect himself and then opened his desk's top drawer. "You drink?" he asked, taking out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses, leaving the drawer open.

"Like a fish," Bishop deadpanned.

"Good." Warden Montgomery filled both glasses. "Because if we're going to talk about Ms. Rove, I'm going to need a drink and I can't stand to drink alone." He slid one glass to Bishop. "Cheers."

Bishop lifted his glass. "Cheers," and took a drink.

Warden Montgomery snatched the revolver out of the open drawer and blasted Bishop twice in the chest.

Bishop looked dumbly at the smoke wafting out of the holes in his chest and then at the warden, who aimed the gun directly as his face and fired one more round.

Christian sensed something was wrong.

He knew it as sure as he was standing there; he knew something was wrong, something was _very_ wrong, but he didn't know what.

Rain pelted against the window. Lightning flashed, and a few moments later its thunder shook the mansion.

Maybe it was just the storm giving him this uneasy feeling. He repeated that to himself a few times but remained unconvinced. It wasn't just a feeling. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

Outside was another flash of lightning.

A few seconds later its shockwave rattled the mansion again. This blast was more powerful than its predecessor and set off the car alarms outside.

At least, Christian thought they were car alarms.

It took him a few moments but he soon realized the alarms did not belong to any car. The sound was too high, too screeching, too... close. It wasn't coming from outside the mansion but from inside, from down the hall, from Elizabeth's room.

Christian turned pale and bolted to her room.

Dr. Bock was already standing over Elizabeth.

"What's happening?" Christian screamed over her wailing life support alarms. "Is she---"

Dr. Bock grabbed the gun hidden under his jacket and aimed it at Christian. "Get back."

"What---"

Bock fired a round into the wall. "I won't say it again." He fired another round. "I won't miss again, either. Get back or I swear to Christ I'll blow your fucking heart out."

"Tell me what's happening."

"It's not going to happen to me, you understand? Believe me, it's not. You have to three to get out of here or I blow your head off. And I will do it. One. Two."

"Just tell me---"

"Three."

## CHAPTER 17

Bishop woke up, feeling like a tractor trailer with spiked tires was parked on his chest.

He woke up in a dark place, barely able to breathe, with no idea of how he'd gotten there or why.

He touched his face and felt something wet. Though the room was pitch black he knew it was blood. He touched the bridge of his nose. It was crooked, broken. He snapped it back in to place and could breathe a little easier, but not much.

Bishop didn't know it, but that broken nose had saved his life. When Warden Montgomery fired that third round, Bishop jumped out of the chair and hit the floor face first. When Warden Montgomery saw the blood from his shattered nose pooling beneath his head, he assumed the bullet had hit its mark.

The warden called guards in, they put him on a gurney and wheeled him to the closet in which he now found himself. The last thing he remembered before passing out was them talking about how they'd wait until lights out to dispose of the body.

Bishop tried to sit upright but the pain was so intense it made him cry out. He dropped back down, panting and hoping no one was outside the door because they surely would have heard him.

After the pain subsided and his labored breathing returned to a calmer state, he took stock of the situation.

He'd been shot. If not for a quick reaction and the extraordinary toughness of his bones and muscles he'd dead. Without medical attention, he soon would be anyway. If he was there when the warden's men came back, it'd be even sooner.

Christ, what was going on? Why had the warden shot him?

Very good questions. If he wanted to live to hear their answers he needed to stop asking them and get out of there. Fast.

He looked around. Everything was black except for a rectangle of light penetrating the bottom of the door.

Bracing himself against the pain and very slowly, he pushed himself off the gurney and pressed his ear against the door. He didn't hear anyone. He twisted the knob (Jesus, every move he made was like white hot knives being spiraled into his chest) and peeked out.

The hallway was empty. One end was a brick wall, at the other a gate with thick iron bars.

There was a door across the hall. Holding his chest, he crept over and opened it.

It was a restroom.

Bishop limped past the stalls to the sink and washed the dried blood his face. He unbuttoned his shirt and looked at his wounds.

"Jesus Christ," he said, shaking his head. Two holes in his chest, one still leaking blood. He gave himself about an hour to live if he didn't get to a doctor.

The bathroom door opened.

Bishop looked in the mirror above the sink, expecting to see men with guns drawn appear behind him, but none did. Only one man entered the bathroom, and instead of walking towards the sink he stepped into a stall.

Bishop watched his shadow on the floor. When the man lowered his pants Bishop kicked the door in, grabbed him by the hair, and slammed his head onto the brick wall, knocking him out cold before he even knew what was happening.

Bishop then stripped and donned the guard's uniform. It didn't quite fit, but close enough.

He cuffed the guard to the toilet, and gagged him with socks and a shoestring before exiting the bathroom. He walked to the gate at the end of the hall and swiped the card attached to the guard's keychain through the reader.

A red light turned green and the gate opened. Bishop walked through, following the hall down another corridor towards another gate.

On the other side of the gate Warden Montgomery and four guards approached. Bishop's heart pounded but he kept his composure and kept walking like he was just another guard.

The warden and his men reached the gate, swiped their card and came through.

Bishop kept his head up and eyes forward as he passed them and as he did so, caught a little of their conversation. The warden was talking about dropping the cargo off on the west side of the prison after lights out. Wet concrete had just been poured there and that was the perfect place for it to go.

Bishop was fairly certain he was that cargo.

As he neared the gate he noticed something strange. The sound of his footsteps were the only ones echoing off the narrow walls anymore.

He glanced back. The warden and his men were looking in his direction, though not directly at him. Their eyes were focused on the floor below him and the trail of blood he'd left behind upon.

Bishop bolted to the gate, the guards ran after him.

He swiped his card, passed through and then slammed the gate shut, ripping off the card reader before taking off around the corner.

Warden Montgomery tossed his keys to one of the guards as he ran towards them. Seconds later the gate was open and they followed the trail of blood until it abruptly stopped as soon as they rounded the corner.

Bishop was nowhere in sight.

## CHAPTER 18

"Go back all the way," Dr. Bock said, his hand quivering as it held the gun aimed at Christian. "Across the hall, against the wall."

Christian obeyed.

Bock crept forward slowly, the gun all the time kept on Christian. When he reached the door he slammed it shut and locked it, wedging a chair beneath the knob.

Now he could deal with Elizabeth.

Her alarms were screaming and he still had no idea why. One second, she was fine, and the next her alarms were going off like a World War 2 air raid siren.

One thing he did know, her heart rate was soaring. If he didn't get that under control and soon, she was a dead.

He grabbed a syringe and was about to inject her with medication to slow it down. The alarms stopped before the shot was even ready. All her readings returned to normal.

He looked at the terminal, baffled.

What the hell?

Christian pounded on the door. "Bock. What's happening?"

"I don't know." Bock took her pulse with his fingers. It was normal. "I don't know."

"Open the door. Please. I want to see my wife."

"All right." Bock picked up the gun. "I'll open it. I remind you I still have a gun. I promise you, I will use it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

"For your sake you'd better." He took the chair from under the doorknob. "I am now unlocking the door. Wait until I tell you to come in to come in. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't."

"Because if you do I'm going to shoot you."

"I know you will. You don't have to keep telling me."

"Better you hear it from me again and again than from the gun once, understand?"

"Yes."

"And I will use it."

"I know you will. Please, I just want to see my wife."

"All right," Dr. Bock said. "Come in."

Christian opened the door.

Bock was on the far side of the room, pointing the gun at him. Christian walked to Elizabeth, Bock keeping the gun aimed at him all the while.

"I don't know what happened," Bock said. "One minute she's fine, the next the alarms are going crazy, the next she's fine again."

Christian nodded.

"She seems all right now," said Bock.

Christian was standing over her, staring.

"I don't know what to do."

"Could you go?" Christian asked.

"What?"

"I want to be with her by myself for a while."

Bock made his way to the door, keeping his gun on Christian all the while.

Bock hated guns. He was a man of medicine, a healer. He loved life and found inherently repugnant instruments designed to bring about its end.

But as a man of medicine he was also a man of science; and as a man of science, he was a man of reason. And it stood to reason that if his love of life included his own, once Elizabeth was moved into the mansion, he needed to arm himself.

Whatever other noble sentiments Christian Thompson played host to, he was still the man who killed an innocent teenager at a moment's notice in order to save his wife. Bock had absolutely no reason whatsoever to think he wouldn't kill again under the same circumstances.

And who would Christian pick as a victim if Elizabeth suddenly took a turn for the worse? Bishop and Claude were both impossibly strong, battle tested men trained in the martial arts, expert in firearms, and always armed. Bock played tennis three times a week; once in a while took a spin class.

If and when the time came to pick a victim, Christian wouldn't choose either of them, he'd pick Bock. Therefore it became very prudent for the good doctor to arm himself if he didn't want to be the next lucky winner.

Bock walked backwards down the hall towards the steps with the gun still raised and pointed at the door. When he arrived at the steps he turned around and hurried downstairs.

Christian listened to Bock's footsteps fade and then walked over to the door. He closed and locked it, using the same chair Bock had used to wedge beneath the knob.

## CHAPTER 19

Warden Montgomery returned to his office.

He'd spent the last half hour organizing a search for Bishop, locking the prison down as the guards scoured it. It shouldn't be long before they found him. The prison had some of the best tracking dogs in the world and they'd used the coat Bishop had hung up to get his scent.

It shouldn't be long.

Warden Montgomery stationed sharpshooters in the tower over near his car in case he was dumb enough to go for it, and also had men driving around on the nearby roads in their private vehicles, posing as civilians in the hopes that if he had somehow gotten out of the prison he'd wave one of them down for help. The warden doubted he'd left the prison grounds, but it was possible.

He had to admit, the guy had talent. When they reviewed the security cameras trying to figure where he'd gone, the guy just vanished. He found a blind spot, entered it, and was never seen again on another camera.

But talent or none, there was just too much going against him. It was just a matter of time. They'd get him.

But, in the meantime, there was something Warden Montgomery had to do. He was not looking forward to it.

That's what brought him back to his office. He had to make a phone call and wanted to do it in private.

The whole reason he was tasked with this assignment was because he could do it efficiently and quietly; he could kill the man and get rid of his body and no one would ever know. He'd fucked that up. He would fix it, but for the moment it was fucked up and he had to let the man know what was happening.

Julian Stark was a man who liked his bad news as hot as his revenge cold.

Warden Montgomery picked up the phone. He was just about to dial when he noticed the trail of blood on his floor, starting in the middle of the room and leading to the closet.

He put the put the phone down, opened his desk drawer and looked at the revolver inside.

Maybe the guy wasn't as talented as he thought. He left a loaded gun in the drawer.

Closing the drawer, he pressed a button hidden beneath his desk. The painting of dogs playing poker behind him bulged slightly as the lock holding it in place disengaged.

He pulled it open and took down the fully loaded M-16 behind it. He pressed the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and aimed it at the closet door. Fully automatic, all he had to do was hold down the trigger until the clip emptied.

No more fucking around with this guy.

He narrowed his eye through the scope, his finger nestled on the hair trigger.

On the other side of the closet door, Bishop was barely clinging to consciousness. The blood loss along with all the adrenaline rush was taking a heavy toll.

It was only when he heard the warden open the desk drawer that he remembered there was a gun inside. He should have taken it, but his mind was too foggy to think of it, and besides, there was no time. He'd had a plan. He didn't remember what it was, but he remembered thinking there was something he could do to save himself.

Whatever it was, he hoped he'd done it. He hoped it worked.

## CHAPTER 20

In many ways, when a body rejected an implant it was the exact opposite of Anna Karenina's famous opening lines when Tolstoy tells us how happy families are all alike, but every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

When a body accepted the transplant it was always different. The two lives combined in a fashion unique to them as the host and donor lives came to their own understanding.

When a body rejected, however, it was always the same.

First the vital signs went crazy out of nowhere. The heart pounded thunderously for about a minute and then returned to normal for perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. But sooner or later it would happen again, and again and always sooner and always longer. Eventually the 'sooner' would go away too, and it'd be constant until the body tore itself apart.

Christian peeled one of Elizabeth's eyelids open.

"Oh God."

If he'd held onto any doubts or false hopes, what he was looking at now removed them. There it was, right in the center of her eyes. It was something like the inversion of a flash, a space inside those black circles now infinitely darker than the rest. Except it wasn't really a flash.

Flashes are there one second and gone the next. The darkness he now saw in her eyes was lingering and growing. It would continue to do so until it fully swallowed the light inside her.

It would be an ugly death; excruciating. In Roger's memory, he saw what a person went through when their body rejected. The pain is intolerable, tremendous. Even in the depths of unconsciousness, it finds them and tortures them.

His mind raced, searching for a solution he knew did not exist. Intuitively, he understood that couldn't just give her more life; that would only exacerbate things because it'd be three lives in conflict instead of two. No. There was nothing that could be done to save someone who had rejected.

She was being tortured, right before his eyes, and had been since the night he laid his hands on her. And would be until the moment she died.

"I'm sorry, Liz. I tried. Believe me, I tried."

He placed his hand over her heart.

A person who rejected could not be saved. But they could be helped.

Christian inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "I love you."

She didn't deserve this.

She deserved to get well. She deserved to live. She deserved her life. She deserved...She deserved peace.

And he was keeping her from it.

She was a fighter. She'd fought long and she'd fought hard, but the fight was over now, and had been for a long time.

She had been strong. But now she needed him to be strong for her because she couldn't be for herself anymore. She needed him to be strong because every moment he was weak, she paid for in agony.

He'd never taken life from a person who'd rejected before, but knew intuitively that it would be different from usual. The life was unstable and disintegrating. As he pulled it from her, its instability would increase exponentially, vanishing as it left rather than being stored inside him.

Christian hoped before she was gone, and even if just for an instant, somehow she'd feel his presence there with her, somehow, she'd know she wasn't alone.

He focused on her heartbeat.

Because of the rejection, there was a cacophony now where there once had been rhythm, far too distorted for him to catch the music of, but that didn't matter.

Before, he had always thought the heartbeat was the source of the vibrations that he latched onto; now he sensed that it was not so, and the heartbeat instead simply relayed and carried waves created from a place much deeper inside the person.

And so, he had to go in deeper.

He focused his mind and became aware of the thick sinews that knitted and gave shape to the cavernous hollows of her heart and of the electricity of her nervous system as it coursed through her, reaching the synapses where they sparked and darkened. Focusing even deeper, his awareness touched one of those nerve endings as it grew bright, and it was as if his consciousness split into countless copies of itself, traveling at the speed of thought down and through the wiry twists and sudden stops and jumps of her nervous system, spinning upwards into the tapestry of her brain where all the seemingly separated copies of himself shot up into an empty space, reunited into one once again.

For a long time he had no idea where he was, it felt like he was suspended in the air, hovering in a jet black sky. Slowly, he became aware there was something below him; immense, moving, and unseen like an ocean on a starless night.

This was Elizabeth's mind. Darkened now by the hand of fate, soon to be made darker still by the hand of love.

In the distance he heard the music. He focused on the sound and his awareness went deeper inside her, descending back down, through her mind to her brain to her body.

He became sensed so much so fast he feared his mind would explode. In one instant, he sensed each and every cell in her body; the old and dying, the newly formed, those who had just split in two, those about to and those in the very act of splitting. He sensed where each cell was in relation to every other.

A trillion universes of information filled his mind, filling it to the brim and bursting it open but the explosion came not as chaos, but as a unification. It was the merging of the endless streams of information into a singularity encompassed by what men crudely call DNA.

Beautiful, elegant, wondrous design of life...seeing it now as no man ever had, in its pure and complete entirety he could have marveled at it for a thousand eternities, but even here the sound beckoned him to go deeper, and so deeper he went.

His awareness transcended the body, which is the invention, and entered the realm of the necessity which compelled it.

He was reaching beyond the realm of what we are, and entering the realm of why.

He was on the cusp of the fundamental unit of existence now, the ultimate truth of all things that makes them exist rather than not exist.

This was the voice of God, echoing undimmed since the moment of creation, saying 'Be'. It was the thunderous voice that shook all of creation from the moment of creation. Its reverberations could be felt in every part of existence, but in no place so clearly as in the human heart.

Until now.

Christian was about to hear it more clearly than anyone ever had before. Here there were no hollows of the heart for which the sound to vibrate off of, here the sound would be pure.

If he went one more step, he would reach the ultimate atom of human life; he would see the very image of God in which all men were made but no man was meant to see.

He would trespass into a sacred place and earn the wrath of God himself.

But it was what he had to do for her.

He took that final step forward into the most singular part of her being.

Except, it wasn't.

There should have been only one presence here, but there were two. There was Elizabeth, but there was also...someone else; the music of another presence played just beneath Elizabeth's.

It was music he'd heard before, and he knew to whom it belonged.

Berlin.

Instantly, Christian realized what was happening. Elizabeth had not rejected the life; Berlin was taking it back.

When he restarted Berlin's heart, he'd opened a door inside of her, and it was pulling her life back into her. It had to in order for her to live. The life he had taken from her to give Elizabeth more than belonged to her, this life _was_ her. It was God's voice saying for her to be; without it her body could not live.

He could stop her, Christian sensed. Elizabeth would live, but it meant death for Berlin. If he allowed Berlin to take the life, Elizabeth was dead.

Already death was surrounding them, hungry, desirous of its long denied due. It was pulsating, spreading all around them like an oil spill. The women's souls screamed out to him over its dark hum now filling this space, each begging him to save them, reaching out for him to take their hand and pull them out of the abyss.

He could save one, but the other would be lost. And he had no time to think; either he chose now, this very instant, or both were lost.

He chose.

## PART III

### AFTERMATH

## CHAPTER 1

Berlin woke up in her bedroom.

Her throat was so dry, it was like she hadn't had anything to drink for a week.

She crawled out of bed, stumbled into the kitchen and poured a cup of water.

It was about half full when the living room light came on.

She looked at Heather standing in her bedroom doorway holding a baseball bat.

"What are you doing?" Berlin asked.

Heather dropped the bat.

"Heather?"

"Oh my God."

"Are you all right?"

Heather screamed.

Berlin screamed too, though she wasn't sure why.

Heather ran over and wrapped her arms around her. "Oh my God, Berlin. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."

"Oh my God," Berlin said, her eyes full of terror. "What?"

Heather smiled. "You're alive."

"I know," Berlin said, still terrified. "Why is that freaking us out?"

Heather hugged her again.

Berlin told her if she didn't tell her what was happening and soon she'd pee on herself.

Heather laughed. "Oh my God. You really don't know, do you?"

"I'm going to pee."

Heather pulled her to the couch, sat her down and explained she'd been missing for over a week. Berlin didn't believe her until she showed her the newspaper articles.

As Berlin sat there shocked Heather got on the phone and soon their tiny apartment was swarming with people. The next few days were a whirlwind of different faces all asking the same question she simply couldn't answer.

Where was she?

She hadn't the slightest clue.

Months passed.

Berlin's story eventually faded from the papers, as did the question from the mouths of her friends and family. The expectation of an answer faded too, from their minds and Berlin's, but the question itself never did.

Where had she been?

What happened to her?

Eventually she realized if she wanted to get on with her life, she had to accept there would be a week-sized hole in it that would never be filled. No one was going to be able to tell her what happened.

Until, one day, someone could.

Or at least they said they could.

She received a letter from a man she'd never heard of before. He said he knew where she'd been and what happened to her. He said he knew because something very similar had happened to him.

Would she meet him at a coffee shop so they could talk about it?

She immediately contacted the police. They had an officer at the coffee shop posing as a patron when she arrived on the appointed afternoon.

Berlin looked for the man who had written her. He said he'd be wearing a red cap with a brown shirt. She found him seated in a lonely corner of the shop; there was a manila envelope on the table in front of him.

"Berlin?" he said, rising when she walked up to him.

She nodded.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "Please, sit."

She sat.

He fidgeted in his seat and seemed scared to make eye contact. Neither of them said anything long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

"You want a muffin or something?" he asked. "Bagel? Coffee?"

"I'd like to know what happened to me."

He nodded, and in a quiet but steady voice unraveled for her a most fantastic tale.

What she was experiencing wasn't new, he told her, it wasn't unique; it wasn't even rare. Thousands of people experience it every year, but they're afraid to talk about it. They're scared of being made fun of but more than that, they're scared of what those responsible for their disappearance might do. That was why it was so important she speak out; she had to be the voice for those not as strong as her.

But more than for just the other victims, she had to speak out for the entire world, and all of history. The truth, he told her with more strength and conviction than he'd seemed capable of, needed to come out.

"And what is the truth?" she asked.

What she experienced, he explained, was a phenomenon known as 'lost time'. It was a common occurrence amongst people who'd been abducted by aliens.

"Aliens?" Berlin said.

He nodded. "That's why I brought this." He opened the manila envelope. "To show you it has happened before." He took out the news clippings inside. They were about a boy who had years ago disappeared for five days and was found unconscious on the side of the road.

There were several black and white photographs of the little boy shortly after he'd been found; the look on his face was both blank and heartbreaking.

"That's you?" she asked.

"Yeah."

He'd changed a lot since that picture was taken and he was hiding now behind a thick and scraggly beard and tinted glasses, but she could see enough of his eyes to see they were the same as the boy in the picture and were still as desperate and pleading.

He kept talking, and in his face Berlin saw the tale of man who'd told this tale a thousand times and was still hoping for someone, anyone, to believe in it.

Or at least, to listen for a while.

The cop walked by her table. That was the signal for her to leave. She didn't, though.

She listened.

Later, the police told her he was most likely just a harmless kook but it was probably a good idea not to meet with him again.

She left the station and that night, as she lay in bed, the hole that had been so impenetrably gaping was somehow less so.

A few weeks later a reporter called Berlin, wanting to do an update on her case.

He spoke with her over the phone for about an hour, and though she'd only mentioned the alien abduction theory as an anecdote to illustrate how important it is to let things go, when the story ran the headline read:

Woman Missing for Days Claims She Was Abducted by Aliens!

Readers ate it up like pudding.

When she was actually missing she never made anything more than page three. When this jerk wrote up his alien abduction angle she made the front page for days.

Most people laughed at her; others wanted her to be the poster child for some kind of movement to get secret government documents released to the public.

She turned them all away, disgusted, and swore she'd never to talk about it again.

And that was a shame.

There were some who followed her story not for the freak show it had become, but because they were given hope by hearing the tale of a person who disappeared, was feared lost forever and then, somehow, made it back to those who loved them.

It was a story many people needed to hear.

Elizabeth Thompson certainly did.

It gave her hope her own story might have a happy ending.

She'd woken from her coma around the same time Berlin returned home. The first thing she did was ask for her husband, but when she did, the doctors all just told her to rest. When she demanded an answer they told her they couldn't give her one because they didn't know. No one knew. He'd simply vanished.

But the police were working on it, they'd told her. The best thing she could do now was let them do their job and focus all her energies on getting better. She was given a rare gift. She very nearly lost her life. She shouldn't squander this wonderful, _miraculous_ , second chance by doing anything other than focusing on her recovery.

She immediately checked herself out and took a cab home, still wearing her hospital gown.

Stepping inside her house felt strange, like she was entering a crime scene.

"Chris?" she called.

He didn't answer.

He wasn't there.

She hired private detectives but they didn't have any more luck than the police.

Days turned into weeks turned into months.

She'd often cry herself to sleep at night, terrified she'd never find out where he was or what happened to him. One of the only things that gave her hope was the story of the Cavanaugh girl, and how she came back after being gone for so long.

Then one night there was a knock at the door.

She looked through the peephole and on the other side saw a very serious looking man dressed in a dark suit.

She thought of Berlin's alien abduction story. Elizabeth was a science fiction junkie who knew all about the men in black of UFO stories. For a second, the thought actually crossed her mind.

"Yes?" she said through the door.

"Elizabeth Thompson?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is Bishop," he said. "May I come in, please?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know you."

"I know," he said. "I am a friend of your husband. I'd like to talk to you about him."

"What about him?"

## CHAPTER 2

Construction was almost finished on Orchard State Prison's new west wing.

As Warden Montgomery watched from his perch the men working on it, he considered that once it was finished maybe he would be too.

He'd never given much thought to retirement before but times were different now. He was getting older and he was starting to show his age. Especially when it came to who to trust.

He shook his head.

He'd never expected Julian to try to play him the way he did. He not only almost cost him his own life, but he'd put the lives of his entire family in danger.

Months had passed since the warden stood behind his desk with a machine gun pointed at that closet but he still felt sick to think of what would have happened if he pulled that trigger.

He got even sicker when he thought of how close he'd come to pulling it, less than a second away from unloading it when the phone rang.

He almost didn't answer.

Thank God he did.

On the other end was a man who said his name was Claude. Claude said he'd just received a call from his partner saying he was trapped in Orchard State Prison and that the warden there was trying to kill him.

That was when the warden noticed something wet on his fingertips. Blood. Bishop had used the warden's own phone to call Claude.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Warden Montgomery said.

"Know this," Claude said, "I have men headed to your house right now, where your girlfriend and her son are. I have people going to your mother's house and to your Uncle Randall's place in Arizona. Right now their orders are to kill on sight and believe me, they will. If you want me to tell them to abort you'll let my man out of there, unharmed, right now."

"Don't you threaten my family."

"I will butcher your entire family like a slab of beef if you don't do what I said. The clock is ticking. What's it going to be?"

Before he could answer, the closet door opened and Warden Montgomery watched Bishop limp out to sit in the same seat he'd shot him in.

"What's it going to be?" Claude asked.

"All right. You win."

"Smart move. Is he there?"

"Yeah."

"Put him on the phone."

Warden Montgomery held the phone out to Bishop. "He wants to talk to you."

Bishop took the phone, listened for a while, then handed it back to the warden. "He wants to talk to you now."

"Yeah?" The warden listened to what Claude said.

Bishop took a handful of jelly beans from the warden's jar and popped them in his mouth.

"Well, he's hurt," the warden said after about a minute of listening. "Two shots in the chest. He's bleeding but it seems like not too bad." He listened some more. "Yeah, no problem. I'll take care of it. Listen to me, my family is no longer in danger, right?" He listened again. "I hope so."

Warden Montgomery hung up the phone, laid the M-16 flat on his desk and sat down.

"He's sending some of your people to get you," the warden said. "In the meantime he wants you in our infirmary so the doctor can take a look at you."

Bishop nodded and tried to stand but didn't have the strength.

"Don't," Warden Montgomery said. "I'll have a wheelchair brought up."

The warden called for a wheel chair. Then, they had a couple of minutes so Bishop asked, "So. Why'd you try to kill me?"

The warden began to explain but Bishop passed out from blood loss before he got three words in.

He woke up in a hospital bed a few days later, Claude by his bed.

After a glass of water and being appraised by a doctor of his medical condition, which was serious but no longer life threatening, he asked the doctor to excuse himself and when he did, asked Claude the same question he'd asked the warden. This time he remained conscious long enough to hear the answer.

"It was a misunderstanding," Claude said.

"What do you mean?"

"You mentioned Alice Rove to warden?"

"Yes."

"You thought that would activate some kind of emergency protocol to get a donor?"

"Yes."

Claude shook his head. "The Alice Rove protocol is the exact opposite of that. I got the story from the warden. It's named after a woman who used to do victim impact seminars in his prison. She'd talk about how some of them were too dangerous to ever leave and that they should admit it to the parole boards.

"They named the program after her because the real idea was that if Julian sent the warden someone who said her name to him, it meant they were not to leave the prison alive. Sort of a 'kill the bearer of this message' kind of deal.

"The prison is the perfect place for a guy to disappear in, totally controlled environment. He has to give up his phone and all his weapons when he enters. He becomes a sitting duck, basically."

"Why did Christian tell me it was the other thing?"

"My guess? It was Julian, or what was left of him inside of Christian, stabbing at you from hell's heart."

"What does the warden know?"

"About Julian?"

"Yes."

"We gave him a story; told him Julian got into some bad business and was using him to do his dirty work. We said he is on the run and if he should ever make contact with him again to contact us but to otherwise keep his mouth shut."

"He buy it?"

"He's not stupid."

"What's that mean?"

"That if he didn't buy it, he certainly wasn't going to let on."

Bishop nodded and closed his eyes.

"There is more," said Claude.

"What?"

"The girl is awake."

"What girl?"

"Berlin."

Bishop opened his eyes. "What?"

"Christian," Claude smiled. "He did it."

"My God."

"I know."

"But, wait. I don't understand. How? He needed another life. Where did he---."

"I don't know how he did it, but he did."

"Where is she?"

"At the mansion. She's been awake for almost two days now."

"Where is Christian?"

Claude's smile disappeared. "That's a tougher one."

"How do you mean?"

"He's at the mansion too," Bishop said, "only..."

"Only what?"

"I think it's best if you have a look for yourself."

A few hours later, Bishop and Claude arrived at the mansion. Claude took Bishop to where they were keeping Christian and opened the door.

When Bishop saw him, his heart sank. "What happened?"

"I don't know," said Cedric. "Bock said when he found him he was already unconscious. He'd locked himself in the room with his wife. They had to break down the door to get inside. Since then he's just been getting worse and worse."

Bishop walked closer, looking at the wires coming out of Christian's chest and tubes going down his throat.

"Jesus," Bishop said. "Jesus."

"I know."

"He was found in his wife's room?" Bishop asked, still looking at him.

"Yes."

"And where is she?"

"She's still here," Claude said. "She's still unconscious but Bock says she'll be waking up any day now. When she does it's probably best if that happens in a regular hospital. Spouse or no spouse, there are things I think it's better for everybody if she doesn't see."

"Agreed," Bishop said, finally able to take his eyes off of Christian. "What about Berlin. You said she was here. Where?"

"We have her in a room upstairs."

"I want to see her."

Claude took him to the control room where Bishop saw her on a closed circuit television. She was awake, pacing the one of the mansion's larger rooms which now served as her cage.

They did all they could to make her comfortable, but it was obvious to everyone, especially her, she was a prisoner.

"We didn't know what else to do," Claude said. "We couldn't just let her go. She's seen everything; she remembers everything. She knows all of our faces. I figured it'd be best to keep her here until such time as she could become your problem."

Bishop watched her pacing the room, a frightened look on her face.

"Any ideas how to handle it?" asked Claude.

Bishop thought for a moment, sighed, and said, "I suppose we'll have to kill her."

"Really?"

Bishop nodded. "I hate to say it, but she's seen too much and knows too much. There is no other way. She has to go." He looked at Claude. "I'd like you to do it."

"All right," Claude said. "I'll take care of it."

"I'm joking."

"Oh." Claude's eyes darted back and forth. "I know."

"No you didn't. You were really going to do it, weren't you?"

"No."

Bishop shook his head. "You really should talk to someone. That's not normal."

"I was just going along, you know, as part of the joke."

"I'm sure you were," Bishop said. "Wow."

"Look, I wasn't really going to kill the bitch. I just---"

"Fine, fine, I buy it. Just, go outside and hurt small animals or something for a while. I need to think of a way to handle this that doesn't involve cold blooded murder."

Claude stepped out of the room.

Bishop leaned back in his chair.

Now. How was he going to handle this?

## CHAPTER 3

Lydia Franklin returned from her morning run to find something waiting for her on her front porch.

There was nothing unusual in that in and of itself. There was often a box or plain paper bag that someone had left there for her.

What was unique about what was waiting for her this morning was that it was not a box or plain paper bag. It was a man.

Lydia had never seen him before, but he felt like they'd come across one another many times before. She'd sensed his presence before, right before or after the box or paper bag came or went.

He was one of the men who'd leave them on her porch, she guessed. He must want something special from her to come into the open like this, something that couldn't be written on a small piece of paper.

She stepped into her house without saying a word to him, leaving the door open.

She went to the bathroom and used a towel to wipe the sweat from her face. When she came back the man was standing the open doorway.

"Bishop, right?" she said.

"Yes."

"You came here to see me about something?"

"Yes."

"Is it about your disapproval of the lack of flies in my house?"

He smiled. "No."

"Why don't you come on in then, and close the door?"

Bishop did. "Sorry. Didn't mean to let flies in. Just didn't want to come in uninvited."

"Come on," she said. "Let's talk in the other room."

He followed her into the kitchen where she poured herself a glass of something green and lumpy.

"Want one?" she asked.

"No thanks."

"You sure? It saves lives."

"I'm sure."

"Okay," she got a spoon and began swirling it around in her drink. "So, whatever brings you here must be important. You're breaking a lot of rules showing your face, aren't you?"

"Not a lot of rules," he said. "But the ones I'm breaking are pretty big."

"Then why are you breaking them?"

"I---," he winced, a sharp pain shooting through his chest and shoulders.

The doctors warned him about this, said it might be like that for years. Everything could seem fine but if he hit the wrong angle or stretched in the wrong direction his bullet injury would wreak havoc on him.

Lydia felt echoes of his pain, sharp and shooting.

"Here," she took his hand and guided him to a chair. "Sit."

"Thank you," he said, catching his breath.

"It hurts so bad," she said. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I got shot a couple times."

"My God."

"I'm fine, really." He doubled over from the pain. "Could I have a glass of water?"

"Of course," she poured a glass and gave it to him.

He got the amber pill bottle from his pocket, shook two pills into his mouth and washed them down. "What was I talking about?"

"You were telling me why you came here."

"Right. I'm here because---"

"You don't have to," she said, "I know why now."

"You do?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

"You're here because of Anna," she said. "You heard what I offered her and you want me to do it to somebody else."

Bishop nodded.

After Lydia made Anna relive the horrors she'd endured in Africa, for a long time Anna just lay on the bed, whimpering with her eyes shut, hands clamped over her ears, shivering.

Lydia slowly crawled back to bed, shocked and disgusted by what she'd done.

She touched Anna's shoulder. Her body tensed for a second as if electrocuted, and then she looked at Lydia through tear soaked eyes.

Lydia sensed everything she'd gone through, and was going through still. She saw the nightmares that plagued her sleep and the flashbacks that haunted her waking hours, how they came without warning and tortured her sometimes to the point of madness, and sometimes beyond.

She felt the constant and heavy cloud of Anna's guilt at having survived hanging over her, and saw the faces of the friends who hadn't. She saw the days she spent not eating, not sleeping, not drinking, just crying. She looked to Anna's future and saw that it would be this way, to some degree, for the rest of her life. Lydia looked inside herself and saw that only she had the power to take Anna away from all that.

"I can make it stop," Lydia said to Anna. "If...if you want, I can make it go away."

Anna looked at her, eyes red and puffy.

"I can make it all stop," Lydia said again. "I can throw those memories in the fire for you. I can make you forget, if you let me. I can make it never have happened. I can take those memories away."

Lydia sensed how badly she wanted to say yes.

"No," said Anna.

"It will never really be over if you don't. A part of you will always be in that jungle, stuck in that house. It's been so long, Anna. So very long. Let me take you out of there. Finally. Leave that place forever and ever."

"No."

"If you don't, they win. They get to keep cutting you up, bit by bit, for the rest of your life. Except instead of just your body, it's your whole life they're chopping away, moment by moment. Don't let them. You can beat them now. I can help you. You can be free. All you have to do is say yes."

"No."

"Aren't you tired of it?" Lydia asked. "Tired of the pain, the guilt?"

"Yes."

"Then why won't you let me help you?"

Anna didn't answer.

"You're suffering," Lydia said. "I can make it stop. I can do for you what I do for me."

"I know you can. But I don't want it."

"Why?"

"What happened was terrible, but it's a part of past, it's a part of me. I can't run from it. I have to fight it. I know I might not win every time, but I have to fight it and keep fighting it."

"Why? It's killing you," Lydia said, growing angry. "Even if you live your whole life, you won't really have. Not carrying that with you. You say it's a part of you and you're right. A cancerous part. You need to cut it out to get better."

Anna shook her still lowered head. "It's not a cancer. But that's what it will become if I hide it away and stick it in some dark place to grow and fester. If I let myself become too scared to face it, it'll only get stronger and stronger."

"Not the way I can do it. Whenever you need to talk about it, whenever you need to remember, you will," Lydia said. "If friends mention it or your doctor, you will know. But then, as soon as you don't need to it'll go away again."

"No."

"Why?"

"I want to beat it."

"You can't."

"I want to fight it." She looked at her. " _I_ want to fight it."

Lydia felt herself shrinking as she understood. Yes, Anna didn't accept it because she wanted to keep fighting it but that wasn't the only reason. Another one, a bigger one, was because of Lydia. Anna had seen what burying her past in the forgotten had done to Lydia, and did not want to be like her, living in muted horror with a latent and ignored tragedy infecting every part of her life, living everyday dodging life, terrified, hiding, afraid.

Lydia's neck grew hot. How dare how dare this woman think of her like that? She didn't know her. She had no right, none whatsoever. How dare she come in to her house and... How dare she...

But almost as soon as the anger came, it left. Anna didn't want to be like Lydia. And the truth was, Lydia didn't want to be like Lydia anymore either.

All the memories she'd been blocking returned to her at once. They were hard, they were painful, but not as hard and painful now as she'd made them out to be; she held on through it all.

Anna once told her she had to be able to love in order to heal. As she sat upon that bed, Lydia realized she wasn't just talking about loving other people; she was talking about loving herself. She was talking about loving the terrified little girl who had been sitting at the breakfast table in front of a bowl of Cheerios for all these years, alone, abandoned and blamed. She was talking about loving her enough to stop blaming her the same way her mother did, to not abandon her the way her mother did. Her mother had left that girl sitting at the table and so had Lydia, cutting her out of her memory and her life as if she was infected, as if she was at fault.

That child had been sitting at that breakfast table by herself for almost two decades now, wondering why no one wanted her, including herself.

No one else could go and get her; no one else could comfort her. Only Lydia could.

In her mind, she walked into that kitchen and sat down at the table with the child who was too frightened to look up from her bowl.

"Hi," Lydia said.

The child cast a quick glance up and then looked back down.

"I'm Lydia."

"That's my name too," she whispered.

"I know." She touched her hand. "Are you tired of sitting here?"

She nodded.

"Would you like to leave with me?"

She nodded again.

"Come on then." Lydia stood up. "Let's go."

Unsure, the girl slid out of her seat. Lydia took her by the hand and they walked out the front door. Finally, they both left that place forever.

It was a long and hard road, but one she was glad she'd taken. And even though she still had a long road ahead of her, she wasn't afraid to walk it anymore.

"That's what you want me to do, right?" Lydia said to Bishop. "You want me to wipe someone's memory clean of something. Right?"

"Right."

"Who?"

Bishop sipped his water. "A dead woman."

Berlin was sitting on the bed when Lydia walked into her room. She jumped and stuck her hand under a pillow, gripping the knife she had hidden there. "Who are you?"

"Lydia," she said, walking in slowly.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to let go of the knife. I'm not going to hurt you."

Berlin wrinkled her forehead.

"You're wondering how I knew about it?" asked Lydia.

"Yes."

"I read minds."

"Then you know what I'll do if you come any closer."

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help you so you can go home. Do you believe me?"

"No."

"Good," Lydia said. "That means you're smart. It's good that you're smart because I need somebody smart to help me get you out of here. Can I sit down?"

Berlin didn't say anything.

Lydia slid a chair from beneath a writing desk and sat down. "This is going to sound impossible, but the people holding you here are good people. They want to help you. So do I."

"Then let me out of here."

"That's what I'm here to do. But like I said, I need you to be my partner to make that happen."

"Then why did you---," Berlin stopped. Her eyes stretched open as she realized that Lydia's mouth had not moved though she heard her words as clearly as if she did.

"Don't be frightened." Lydia's mouth still did not move. "I wasn't lying before. I have a gift that allows me to do certain things other people can't."

Berlin's heart pounded in her chest.

"Calm down. You've heard about people like me before. You always thought they weren't real, but then again, thought maybe could be. Well, they are real, and I am one. I'm not here to hurt you. If I was, I could have done so by now. To prove I'm not here to harm you I am going to let you see into my mind so you can know what my intentions are. Okay?"

Berlin was too frightened to respond.

Lydia closed her eyes and opened herself completely, allowing Berlin to see into her mind.

"You see?"

"Yes," Berlin said, the fear slowly leaving her. "I see."

"You know I only wish to help you?"

"Yes."

"Will you let me?"

"Yes."

"To do that, you have to trust me with something very special."

"What?"

"Your past. Or at least, a tiny piece of it. I want you to give a piece of your memory to me."

"You want me to forget about this?"

"I do. I can help you to do it, but I can't force you. The decision has to be yours."

In Lydia's memory Berlin saw how badly it had been for her to block out part of her past. Wouldn't the same thing happen to her?

"It won't be like that for you," Lydia said. "I was running away from something; I was acting out of fear. You're not running from anything, you're not exiling a part of yourself out of fear like I did. And because you're not afraid of it, it's safe for you to let it go. You're not throwing a part of yourself away. You're leaving it with me, someone who will protect it for you."

Berlin looked at her hands.

"I know," said Lydia. "It's still scary, to let someone in such a private place."

"Yes."

"But if you---"

"I said yes," Berlin said, "I will do it. I...I trust you."

Lydia smiled and said, "Good."

"What do I have to do?"

"You already did it."

## CHAPTER 4

Elizabeth wondered if she was crazy.

A man she had never seen in her life appeared on her front door claiming to know something about her husband; she had no reason to believe him, but for some reason, she did.

She had no idea who he was, but here she was, following in her car behind his through an automated gate surrounding a large estate where he said Christian was waiting for her.

Bishop pulled up to the main house and she behind him. She checked once more to make sure the gun she'd taken from her nightstand was still in her purse, still loaded, cocked and ready to go before she got out.

She looked at the house. The strangest feeling came over her.

Even though she was sure she'd never been there before, it all felt familiar.

She followed Bishop inside the house and then up a spiraling staircase to the second floor, and once there, to a particular door. Bishop gripped the knob, but didn't twist.

"This is going to be hard to see," he said. "I want you to be sure you're ready, Mrs. Thompson?"

"Open it."

He did.

She nearly fell to the floor as soon as she saw her husband. "Oh my God... Christian...oh my God." It was as if all the strength had drained from her body and mind. She felt herself very near losing control, but slowly pulled herself back in to one piece. "What...what happened to him?" She wiped tears from her eyes. "What's wrong with him?"

"We don't know," Bishop said, handing her a handkerchief. "The doctor found him on the floor unconscious. He's never woken up."

"I don't understand. What doctor? Found him where?"

"His name is Dr. Bock. You don't know him, but he was actually your doctor for a while. And the room he was found in was this one."

"Did anybody see what happened to him?"

"No. The only person with him was you."

"Me?"

"You were still in a coma. He barricaded himself in here with you. When they got through they found him like this."

She touched Christian's forehead; his skin was cold like a corpse. "You keep talking in bits and pieces," she said. "Tell me all of it. Please. Now."

"Your husband is a very special person, Mrs. Thompson. He possesses a very peculiar talent."

Bishop told her everything.

The strange thing about it, even stranger than the tale itself, was that she wasn't shocked by it. It was almost like he was telling her things she already knew and only needed to be reminded. And that wasn't very far off from the truth.

In order to help her, Bishop explained, Christian had to go deeper inside of her than he'd ever gone before. When he got there he found not only her, but Berlin, the young woman he killed in order to save her life.

The two women were entwined in one another, fighting over life while death itself surrounded them both and was going to take one or the other. Christian held the power of life in his hands, but not for both. If he saved one, it meant death for the other. If he did nothing, both were dead.

"So, he let her die?" she asked. "To save me?"

"No," Bishop said. "He probably would have though, if it came down to it."

"I don't understand, you said if he chose one the other had to die."

"Right. So he chose neither."

"But..."

"But that doesn't mean he didn't make a choice."

"What did he chose?"

"Death," Bishop said.

"I don't understand."

"Usually, your husband used his power to absorb life. This time he used it to absorb death. Life has a music your husband can sense, a rhythm. Death has one too, apparently, and when he was there with it surrounding him, he was able to sense that rhythm and absorb it into himself."

As soon as he'd said it Elizabeth could almost recall the feel of that dark pulse that had surrounded her that night. So big, encroaching and all encompassing. She could almost hear it, and then, it was gone.

She looked at Bishop, who was looking at her as if she'd been sitting there in silence for much longer than she thought she was.

Bishop said, "Are you all right?"

"How do you know all this?" she asked. "If he's been unconscious since it happened, how do you know all this?"

"The young nurse your husband killed woke up in this place. She saw more than we could let her leave with and so, we called in the aid of a person who could help rectify the situation. This person has the ability to see things and know things you and I can't. When she touched your husband, this is what she saw in his memory."

Liz nodded.

"From how calmly you're taking this, it would appear that part of you remembered it too."

"Not remembered," she said. "Not exactly."

"But something?"

"Something." She touched Christian again. "How long is he going to be like this?"

Bishop shifted, but didn't answer.

She looked at him hard. "How long?"

Bishop shook his head.

"Are you saying you don't know or---."

"I'm saying he's never going to wake up. I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you he was going to get better, but he's not. Without the machines he would be gone already."

"What are you saying?"

"He'll be like this for the rest of his life."

She shook her head, trying to fight the truth she knew was in his words.

"I'm sorry," Bishop said, "but it's true. And it's also why I brought you here."

"What?"

"We talked about it. Fought about it, really, and for a very long time. The bottom line we came up with is it's not up to us. It's up to you."

"What is?"

Bishop paused and then said, "Letting him go."

Elizabeth's eyes opened wide with horror. "You want me to kill my husband?"

Bishop didn't answer.

The whole point of her being there was because he couldn't.

"I want to see a doctor," Elizabeth said, "I don't even know who the hell you are. I want to see the doctor. I want to see him now."

"All right," Bishop said. "I'll get him."

A few minutes later, Elizabeth spoke with Dr. Bock. After speaking with him and not getting the answer she wanted, she spoke with another doctor and then another and another, over twelve in all. None of them had the right answer. All of them said the same thing: there was no hope.

Bishop told her to take all the time she needed. She could stay at the mansion as long as she wanted, everything she or Christian needed or desired would be provided, free of charge. The only stipulation was that no one could know where she was or what was transpiring there.

Weeks passed.

She tried, but couldn't even begin a train of thought that would lead to a decision.

She wished she had Christian to talk to. He was always so smart. Always knew what to do.

Almost always.

Weeks turned to months.

She spent her days by his side, holding his hand, reading to him or praying.

Every few days she brought fresh flowers in his room. One day, late in the summer, as she was carrying them in, she found herself thinking that soon she'd be doing this for his grave.

She dropped the vase and it shattered against the hard wood floor. She hadn't known until that moment that she in fact had made the decision; now it was only a question of having the strength to carry it out.

It wouldn't be today, it wouldn't even be soon but ultimately it was what she would do.

Ultimately, it was the only thing she could do.

Summer turned to autumn.

Elizabeth was in the library looking for a book to read to Christian when she saw a car pull up outside.

It was Bishop, coming to visit as he did from time to time.

She watched him park and walk up the stairs.

A few minutes later he appeared in the library entrance.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi."

He walked in. "Looking for anything in particular?"

"No. Just something good."

"You're going to read to him?"

"Mhmm. The problem is finding something we both can enjoy."

"You both are comic book geeks right?"

"You make it sound so sophisticated. But yeah, that's how we met, actually. He came into my dad's comic book store one day. When I saw him leafing through a box of vintage comics I thought someone was playing a joke."

Bishop smiled.

"Anyway, I've been reading him comics for weeks now. But he likes highbrow stuff too so I'm looking for something that's good but also...good, you know? Not too stuffy. I'm thinking maybe the Odyssey? I remember really liking the parts they made us read in school."

"I wish I could help you but I don't have much experience with fiction. Not the written kind, anyway."

"Is that an oblique reference to your career in espionage or whatever it is you do?"

He stuck his hands in his pockets. "How are you?"

"I'm okay," she said, "a little bummed it's getting cold already."

"Yeah. Looks like an early winter. Early and cold."

"It's going to skip right over my favorite part of the year, I think."

"What's that?"

"Indian summer," she looked outside at the red and orange already swallowing the green on the trees. "But that's all right. It doesn't come every year. That's what makes is so special when it does."

A brief silence passed between them and then Bishop said, "I came to say goodbye."

She looked at him. "You're leaving?"

"For a while."

"Where are you going?"

"Away. Just for a little while. I don't know when I'll be back."

"Or if you'll be back."

Bishop nodded. "Or if."

"You're going someplace, doing something that might get you killed?"

"Yes."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Me too. But I have to."

"Why?"

"If I do nothing it's even more dangerous."

Liz shook her head. "It's a hard life you lead."

Bishop nodded again. "And in that respect, it's no different from anyone else."

"I'm going to pray for you," she said.

"Don't worry about me, Liz. I've handled these kinds of things before." He pulled a phone out of his pocket. "But while I'm gone, I want you to keep this. If you ever need to reach me just press the red button. The person on the other end will know how to get in contact with me. My other number isn't going to be good for a while."

She took the phone. "Thank you."

He hugged her and began towards the door.

"Why?" she asked.

Bishop stopped and turned around. "Why what?"

"Why are you so kind to me? Why do you care so much about what happens to me and Christian?"

"He was my friend."

"You barely knew him."

"That's true. But the parts I knew, I knew pretty well."

"Tell me," she said. "Why?"

Bishop sighed. "Christian did something really bad he wanted to atone for. I know what that's like. I made a really big mistake myself and I thought I was going to just have to live with it. He showed me otherwise."

"How did he do that?"

"By saving you."

"I don't understand."

"I was there the night this all started. I was in the room with you and Christian. I was the one who held the gun to his head while Julian shot you."

"What?"

Bishop nodded.

"Wait, that...that doesn't make any sense. Why would you have...he would have recognized you."

"That's what I thought. There were times I thought he did, but I guess not. Or maybe he did and just didn't let on.

"I do know extractions muddy up his memory and he'd done two that night. Add to that, we were only together a short time, me behind him, his attention on you and it's not that hard to believe."

"What if he recognized you the day you came to our house?"

"It wouldn't have mattered. He was expecting someone from Julian's camp and that's what he would've gotten." Bishop walked across the room and looked out the window at his car parked down below. "I guess that's why I was so adamant at first about him not going forward. I put things behind me. Even before I do them sometimes. What's done is done. I move on. When I saw he didn't let himself off the hook, I guess it made it harder for me to as well."

"When you came to the house, did you know you were going to go after Julian?"

Bishop shook his head. "No."

"And the night you came to the hospital---."

"I didn't know anything. That's part of my job. It used to be, anyway. I used to be able to do certain things, no questions asked."

"And now?"

"Now that's the way I used to be," he turned from the window. "Liz, I am sorry. If I knew what he was going to do---"

"I know," she said.

"I am sorry."

"And Claude? Was he there too that night?"

"No."

"Who is he?"

"A dead man."

"He's the man you're going after?"

"No. I mean he's dead as in he's already been..."

"Killed?"

"Yes."

"Who killed him?"

"Christian did. That other guy, I can't tell you his name because it's classified, but what I can tell you is that he wasn't like me. He knew what was going to happen that night with you, and he did it anyway.

"That's why my life was spared and not his. That's why it was him tied to the chair the night your husband and I first met and not me. The message was clear, though. That's why they sent me to take your husband to him. To let me know."

Elizabeth shook her head.

"Liz, I am sorry."

"Take care of yourself," Elizabeth said. "I mean that."

"But you don't ever want to see me again?"

"Not unless you have cookies."

He smiled.

"I'm not kidding," she said. "Chocolate macadamia."

"I will. I promise." He started again to leave.

"And I want you to tell me your name."

"Bishop."

She waited.

"Keith. My name is Keith."

"Don't forget my cookies, Keith."

"I won't," he said. "Good bye."

"I prefer 'see you later'."

He nodded. "Definitely."

She watched from the window as he drove off.

When the car was gone she grabbed a book off the shelf without checking to see what it was and walked to Christian's room.

She pulled a chair beside him, told him about Bishop's visit and the other things that had happened during her day and then opened the book. It was in Latin.

She remembered just enough from high school to barely make out the title. It was the Conquest of Gaul, by Julius Caesar.

"Sorry," she said. "Not going to happen. I'll find something else."

She stood to go get another book, glancing outside.

The horizon bloomed red with sunset. Birds were singing. A squirrel climbed along a tree branch just outside the window as a soft breeze blew, gently shaking the leaves.

And just like that, it was time.

Just like that, she could do it.

Right now, this moment was quiet, peaceful and lovely. He would be all right here; safe here, right here, in this moment. She could trust it with him, right now.

She wiped away a tear and gripped his hand and kissed his forehead. She took a deep breath and kissed him again.

And then it was time.

She entered the six digit code the doctors had given her into the computer controlling Christian's life support machines. The screen turned blue, as they told her it would, and then she entered another three digit code.

His breathing machine stopped.

Elizabeth stopped breathing too. A tremor went through her body and she nearly fainted. In the last instant before darkness swallowed her, she glimpsed her hand gripping Christian's, and realized that it was Christian who was really holding her hand and helping her through this; even this.

Her shaking stopped.

She entered another six digit code and then another three digit one.

His heart machine stopped.

She expected tears to come streaming down her face but none did. Instead, a strange sense of peace came over her.

She smiled and looked at him, suddenly understanding what he needed of her.

"Of course I will," she said. "Of course, sweetheart. You don't even have to ask."

Gently, she placed Christian's hand over her heart. As soon as his fingers touched her it was like a powerful electric shock went through her body.

She'd tried this before, of course. After learning of his gift she'd tried to place his hand over her heart in the hopes he'd take her life and live again. It hadn't worked before but this time she sensed it would.

Before, the machines were keeping him alive. But now that they were turned off his body's instinct to live would take over and he wouldn't have any choice but to accept her gift.

A warm sensation spread throughout her chest to the rest of her body. When it spread up past her eyes, it was like some great door was being opened inside of her and on the other side was something eternal, majestic, bigger than anything she'd ever known, bigger than a thousand universes.

Though she knew this was death, it did not feel to her like something to fear. It seemed a thing too big for fear and that fear to it was as a grain of sand to an ocean.

No, there was no place for fear on the other side of that door. On the other side would be neither fear, nor hurt; regret, nor a sense of loss.

She looked at Christian.

This would be her last moment to miss him, to cry for all the years together they would never have.

But not all would be lost. As the door opened wider she sensed there was one thing in this world big enough to exist in the next. Love existed on the other side too. Love was the one thing we take with us, and the one thing already there and waiting for us. Love, real love is selfless after all, and therefore does not, _cannot_ , end with the self, but continues on forever and ever.

Her mind dimmed as Christian's began to glow once again, awakened slowly by the strong but distant beating of a drum.

It was a beautiful sound, and comforted him like the warm light of morning.

But as he got closer, he realized that the song drawing him in was one he'd heard before. It was Elizabeth's heartbeat and thus, her death.

With all his strength he tried to pull away but its gravity was too strong.

Soon she would be gone, and this time Christian would not be able to get her back because it would not be her life that he was taking, but rather the death he'd absorbed going into her. He knew once the Great Miser had her, he would never let her go.

He felt Death travelling down his arm, through his hand and fingertips; it was less than an instant from passing into her.

It stopped.

Elizabeth opened her eyes. Christian's eyes were open too, just barely, and staring at her.

"Christian?" she said.

Even though there was very little light in his eyes, she could see that he was there... and furious.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He blinked and his anger doubled.

Did she know how close she came to succeeding? It took every ounce of his strength to at the last moment stop it from happening. If she had succeeded, if she had killed herself to save him...the thought alone so filled him with anger he couldn't imagine any further.

"I know," she said. "But I had to do it. It was the only way to help you."

Christian tried to grit his teeth but couldn't because of the tube going down his throat.

This was wrong; all wrong. He should not have been there. He should have been dead, long ago. He was supposed to have died that night, why didn't they let him go? Why had they brought Elizabeth to him?

Didn't they understand it was his choice?

He had the ability to transfer the death he'd absorbed just as he did life, but he'd chosen to take it for himself.

He had to, because as long as he was alive, Elizabeth was at risk.

A war was approaching. Christian saw it in Julian's mind. A very dark time was approaching and nothing could stop it. His life, possibly the life of everyone on Earth was very soon to be changed forever. Many lives would be lost in the coming struggle.

Julian's confederates would be coming for him soon, but so would many others. His talent in a time of war would prove invaluable, and all sides would do anything to get it. They knew his soft spot, and would think nothing of getting at him through her.

Christian pulled his hand away from her.

He could feel the death traveling back down his arm, pooling itself in the reservoir inside of him to be transferred to someone else or absorbed by his own body.

Christian knew eventually he would absorb it into himself, but not now.

Elizabeth would only try the same thing again, and he was so weak, this time she might succeed.

No, Christian would wait.

And when he was stronger he would go away from her and do it. He would find a quiet place, perhaps in the forest at the foot of a great mountain in Japan, and there, in the silence and shade of those ancient trees, put an end to this.

"I love you," Elizabeth said. "I love you so much."

Christian looked at her. He had come through so much, done so much, just to hear her say those words.

"I love you," she said again.

He tried to say it back to her but couldn't because of the tubes.

"Don't try to talk sweetheart," she said. "Just be quiet now."

He tried again.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't matter now, sweetheart. You're okay. That's the only thing that does."

He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that there were a great many other things that mattered.

But just then and for just them, at that moment, none of them did.

### ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

### I would like to thank all those whose patience and understanding have been invaluable to the writing of this book. Most importantly my Mom and Dad, to whom this book and all my future works are dedicated. I couldn't have done it without you and am forever in debt to you for your love, kindness and understanding.

### I would also like to thank the buyers and readers of this book. I hope you enjoyed your time in this little world of mine and hope to see you here again soon.

