
DEMON DAYS

Book One

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Richard Finney

D.L.Snell

LONO PUBLISHING

Encino / California

Demon Days

Book One

Copyright (C) 2015 Richard Finney

Published by Lono Publishing

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-1-938457-28-9

First Edition October 12, 2015

# CONTENTS

Chapter 1

About the Authors

Excerpt from DEMON DAYS Book Two

Excerpt from RELICT - The Vampire Book Series

Excerpt from BLACK MARIAH Book Series

Excerpt from THE WIND RAIDER Book Series

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Everything in the painting was grey.

Tom Hansen ran his fingers through his hair as he stood in front of his canvas, trying to figure out what was missing from his work.

He had a video recording of CNN's coverage of 9/11 playing on his apartment's monitor. The noises and sounds of the day played back on the wall speakers in his living room. Tom hoped it would give him the inspiration to finish the painting.

The video from that day had a reporter interviewing a survivor who had escaped from one of the towers before it collapsed. Tom listened while keeping his eyes fixed on the painting before him.

"We were looking out the window at the other tower when my friend said how the sky went totally black. Then we both saw the plane coming toward our building..."

It was exactly what Tom needed to hear. He snatched his brush and began addressing the color of the sky, turning the grey to black.

Tom was almost finished with his changes when the phone rang. He threw his brush aside and made his way over to the kitchen counter to check the caller I.D. The call was coming from the main doors of the apartment building.

Tom picked up the phone. "Hello..."

"Hello, yes, this is Phillip Potts. I'm here to meet with Tom Hansen."

Hearing the name caused Tom to go mute.

"Are you still there? Hello? Is this the apartment of the artist Tom Hansen? My assistant made an appointment last week with you. Hello?"

A dozen thoughts shot through Tom's head, and he finally latched onto one and spoke into the phone.

"You have the right place. Let me buzz you in."

Tom pressed a button on his phone and hung up.

In less than one minute Phillip Potts, one of the biggest art dealers in New York city, owner of one of the most influential galleries on the East Side, would be knocking on his apartment door.

He looked all around him and saw a dozen easels with his work scattered all around the living room. The contents of each painting flashed across his brain and everything he saw in his mind's eye was unfinished or wrong.

Tom rushed to the nearest easel and grabbed the painting, then moved toward the next easel with the intention of throwing everything on display into the back of the coat closet. But before grabbing the second painting, Tom stopped. What was he doing? Why hide his work now? He had been pursuing this opportunity for years, an effort that had him tapping all his friends if they had even the slightest connection to Potts. More recently, he had become desperate and finally allowed his girlfriend, Sandy, to reach out to someone she worked with at the TV Network.

Just as Tom was returning the painting to the first easel, the sound of his doorbell filled the living room. He wiped his sweaty hands on his paint-covered pants as he moved to answer the front door.

"Mr. Potts, great to meet you."

"You were expecting me, right?"

Potts waited for a response with a suspicious expression on his face.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Exactly. You weren't expecting me. My assistant screwed up. It's alright, you can be honest with me."

"I don't know what to say. I don't want to get anyone fired."

"Don't worry about that. Firing her is not an option. My assistant also happens to be my daughter. But I do need to know if she screwed up..."

"I've been working from the moment I got up. And I haven't checked my messages all day. It's possible your daughter called to remind me of our meeting, and I never heard it because like an idiot, I haven't checked my messages."

Tom extended his hand hoping that it would encourage Mr. Potts to accept his explanation, and coax him to enter the apartment. Potts was touched that Tom went to the trouble of covering for his daughter and reached out to accept the artist's open hand.

"This is quite the work space you have here," said Potts, as he stepped from the entryway into the living room. The art dealer's gaze was immediately drawn to the floor to ceiling glass running the entire length of the living room. "I bet you have the perfect light coming in here for most of the afternoon."

"I'm sure you're right about that, but I'm a bit embarrassed to admit I can't really say for sure. This is where I work and I keep the shades drawn every day."

Potts turned to look at Tom to make sure he was being serious.

"Every day?"

"Every day," answered Tom. "I guess that will give you a clue as to the type of work I've been doing for the past three years. You won't be seeing any rainbows or cheery sunrises."

Potts sighed as he turned to look at all the easels laying before him. "So, no unicorns?"

Tom chuckled, relieved that, despite his lofty level of success, the art dealer still had a sense of humor. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, why don't we take a look anyway? Shall we?"

"First, can I get you something to drink?"

"A glass of Pinot would be nice, but only if you already have an opened bottle. If not, a Chardonnay or a Riesling will be fine."

"I have a Pinot I know you will enjoy, but you have to promise not to move a step until I return." Tom expected his work would end up as road kill once Potts had his way, but he intended to be looking at the eyes of the driver during the moment of impact.

"I understand. And I promise I won't move an inch from this spot until you return."

Tom went into the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir he and his girlfriend bought on a trip through the Santa Ynez valley three years ago. He snatched two clean wine glasses and was back at the gallery owner's side in less than a minute.

"Cheers," Tom said, offering Potts one of the glasses.

"Yes, cheers."

They both raised their glasses, but Potts moved to the nearest easel without bothering to drink. Tom swallowed half of the wine in his glass before following.

Potts stared long and hard at the first two paintings without comment, causing Tom to steel himself for the inevitable.

One of the most influential art dealers in the city was not connecting with his work.

By the time Potts had reached the fourth painting, and still had not said a word, Tom had already emotionally checked out.

"Of course you realize the Statue of Liberty wasn't physically impacted by 9/11?"

Potts had finally decided to comment on a painting depicting the Statue of Liberty with the flame of her torch no longer gold, but grey.

"Yes, I'm fully aware of the reality of what happened that day, but I chose to go in this direction because I wanted to show, with the use of color, the emotional fallout from the attack. That's what I was..."

Tom's voice trailed off when he could see his words weren't changing the expressionless face staring at his work. One of Tom's mentors in art school had once said to him, "Art is like people. No one should work overtime to convince another person you are worth hanging with or that your work is worth hanging on their wall."

He swallowed the rest of the wine in his glass and shut his eyes, hoping that somehow when he opened them again, Potts would have already left the building.

"Well, I think all the pieces I've seen so far are brilliant. Emotionally stirring work without being obvious. Sublime, if that's possible when painting about such an event."

Tom's eyes flashed open when he heard the words, but was speechless until he replayed in his head what he thought Potts had said.

"Thank you. Your words... mean a lot to me."

At the last easel, Potts seemed to be appraising this final work longer than the others until Tom realized that while the dealer's eyes may have been looking in the direction of the work, his mind was in a totally different place, looking toward the future.

"I'm thinking of the second floor of the gallery for your collection, but it would require three or four more pieces. I'm sure that would not be a problem?"

"No problem at all," Tom answered without hesitation. "I already have several sketches I'm ready to move forward on."

"Excellent. I'm very excited."

Despite the words, and the obvious signs of enthusiasm, Tom still wasn't sure he was reading the situation correctly.

"Excuse me Mr. Potts, are you telling me I'm in?"

Potts finally took his first sip of the pinot from his glass before answering. "How does a winter showing of your work sound?"

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The moment Potts left the apartment, Tom reached for his mobile phone to check the arrival status of his girlfriend's flight.

Flight 469's arrival at JFK had been delayed an hour.

For the first time ever, Tom was thankful for the late arrival of a plane.

He switched to another airline's website to check which flights to Hawaii were still available, but canceled the search when he realized he could do it while heading to the airport.

Tom emerged from the apartment building and jogged the couple blocks to the subway station where he caught the next train heading to JFK. The internet connection was dodgy at times during the subway ride to the airport, but he managed to purchase two round-trip tickets before arriving at the international terminal building.

He was running to the gate when something in one of the airport's stores caused Tom to stop and check his watch. Sandy's flight wasn't due to arrive for another ten minutes, allowing Tom to go back and buy the biggest bouquet of roses in the airport shop's refrigerator.

When his girlfriend's flight arrived, Tom was ready to surprise her the moment she stepped off the ramp. He happened to be standing next to another guy waiting for his girlfriend, also holding some flowers, but they were daisies not roses. As the passengers from the flight began to emerge into the gate's lounge, the young man suddenly became self-conscious. "Dude, do you mind standing someplace else?" Tom laughed but did exactly what the guy requested and moved to a different part of the lounge. Tom was very sensitive to what it was like competing for the love of a woman when all one could afford were daisies rather than roses.

Sandy Travis stepped off flight 469 from London with a single thought in her mind: 16:30. She was a segment producer for the TV news magazine show, 24/7, one of the top-rated programs in the United States.

16:30 was the total running time of the slot in the program her story was expected to fill. She had just spent the last two weeks in Great Britain working with a local crew to cover a parliamentary debate.

"16:30. 16:30."

Helen Curran, an associate producer at 24/7 was dragging her suitcase a few feet behind Sandy when she heard her boss mumbling nervously to herself.

"Sandy, are you all right?"

"No, I'm not all right," Sandy said, looking back over her shoulder. "There's no way we're going to be able to use all the sound bites we wanted to use. Did you look at all the highlight quotes I suggested?"

"Yeah, I saw them. I thought maybe you heard from the network while we were in the air, and they told you we had two slots rather than just one."

"No such luck. I don't know what we're going to do." Sandy sighed, shaking her head as her mind continued to obsess over the situation. "We got so many great bites in with everybody we interviewed. I have no idea what we're going to lose."

"We're too close. We need some time away from what we shot."

Helen was right, and Sandy felt better after hearing her words. The two had been working together for almost three years and they shared an almost telepathic way of communicating with each other.

"You're right, we'll both take some time away."

"I'm talking about longer than just overnight, Sandy."

"Yes, I hear you. We'll sit tight until all the camera discs have been duplicated. Helen, are you sure you don't mind running the discs and logs to the network tonight?"

The two women emerged from the ramp leading from the airplane to the gate terminal and into the crowd of people gathered around to greet the arriving passengers.

"I'm actually excited to run by the network this late at night. This really cute video editor was just hired to work the graveyard shift. Turning in the discs and logs will give me a chance to get in his face."

Helen grinned and winked, but before Sandy could follow up, she heard her name being shouted across the lounge.

"Sandy Travis... Driver for Sandy Travis..."

Sandy stopped to look in the direction of the voice and her eyes found Tom standing nearby holding a bouquet of roses.

"Tom! What... what are you doing here...?"

She rushed up to him as he answered her question.

"I'm here because of you." Sandy was about to embrace him when Tom said, "I'm here because you've always believed in me."

Sandy had always been good at listening to people. Not only to their words, but to non-verbal clues as well. It was one of the reasons she was so successful in the field. Her skills served her well when she saw the look on his face. "Oh, my god, you heard from the 7th Street gallery?"

"Potts was at the apartment, and he saw the entire collection. I have my first gallery opening this winter. Time and date still to be deter--"

Sandy had her lips on Tom's before he could finish.

When Sandy and Tom broke from their kiss Sandy shouted across the terminal. "Helen... Helen... Thanks!" Helen raised a hand in acknowledgement before she disappeared on the escalator.

When he once again had Sandy's attention, Tom said, "I have another surprise."

At first she thought Tom was reaching into his jacket to retrieve an engagement ring and bit her lip in disappointment. Without even trying, Sandy could come up with at least two dozen airports that were a more romantic place to pop the question.

But Sandy went from disappointed to curious when Tom pulled a pair of airline tickets, not an engagement ring, out of his jacket.

"Hawaii? You're kidding right? I mean, I wish I could, but Tom... I can't go to Hawaii. I just got back from covering a story that airs in three weeks."

"I'm talking about getting away for three days," Tom calmly replied. "When you get back from covering a story the first few days are always spent logging what you shot anyway, which Helen can totally handle."

His words had started to wear her down, but she still looked doubtful, causing Tom to draw in closer to her. "You've probably forgotten, but you once said to me that whenever I got my first gallery opening we'd celebrate by going to Hawaii."

"Of course I remember. How could I forget?"

"I'm glad you remember. Because I charged these tickets on your credit card."

Sandy laughed before snatching the airline tickets from Tom's hand. "That's identity theft."

Tom shrugged his shoulders before snatching the tickets back from Sandy.

"If you want to have me arrested, I'll be in Maui."

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The Tel Aviv Tayelet is an outdoor promenade running parallel to the white sand beach stretching along the Mediterranean seafront. On a typical afternoon families, tourists, and sun-seekers have the run of it.

But on the promenade courtyard adjacent to city hall, there was a much more diverse crowd. Locals were joined by hundreds of people from all over the world along with media crews who had gathered outside the U.S. Embassy to cover the negotiations for a peace treaty between Israel and seven other countries in the region.

The mob waited behind steel barriers erected overnight in anticipation of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzak Bleiberg and Special Envoy John Wolfenson emerging from a marathon session leading up to the midnight deadline for a final settlement.

Aluf Ginsberg was watching the last of the media crews abandoning their designated area to join the crowd when he received word from the security team inside the building.

"We're standing by with the package at the main doors, awaiting the greenlight to proceed."

"Roger that," Ginsberg answered through his headset. "Okay, everyone, we're about to move the package. Final checks before we proceed..."

Ginsberg scanned the crowd a dozen yards in front of him as the noise began rising in anticipation of seeing the two leaders. When he didn't hear any objections from the other security team members on the task force he spoke into his headset, "We're clear on the perimeter. You have a greenlight to proceed with the package."

The embassy's main doors swung open and the Shin Bet agents emerged, a dozen men and women in dark suits forming a protective pocket around Prime Minister Bleiberg and Envoy Wolfenson. Together they all moved at a steady pace toward the waiting cars in the nearby parking area.

"Okay, everybody, stay in a tight formation." Ginsberg spoke English for the benefit of the U.S. Secret Service agents who were part of the security team protecting Quartet Envoy Wolfenson.

He scanned the crowd as the phalanx of security agents led the two leaders past him and toward the waiting cars.

The entourage had almost cleared the steel barriers when the prime minister spotted someone in the crowd he wanted to greet and stepped away from his agent handlers to approach the crowd.

"Okay, everybody, let's just roll with this," said Ginsberg into his headset. "Eagle Eyes, sing if any of you spot anything."

Wolfenson, the Quartet's envoy to the Middle East, did not follow the prime minister to the barriers. Later, Wolfenson would tell those who were investigating the incident that he wanted to give him a few moments alone in the limelight. If the peace treaty Wolfenson had been working on for years had a genuine chance of succeeding it would take the majority of the Israeli populace supporting the man signing on the dotted line.

The noise from the boisterous mob had drowned out the sound of the sea nearby, but Ginsberg caught glimpses of the blue water in the distance as he continued to scan the crowd. He was looking for any suspicious movement, any strange behavior that would not be visible by the six sharpshooters positioned on the rooftop buildings that surrounded the city hall square.

When Envoy Wolfenson stepped away from the agents surrounding him, he walked past Ginsberg, who followed him as he approached the steel barriers. The change in purview allowed the Shin Bet agent to catch sight of a figure weaving through the crowd.

"I see a potential threat, white male, wearing a red hat, blue jeans, and a beige jacket. He's twenty feet from the barriers, moving toward the package..."

Prime Minister Bleiberg was posing for a picture with a member of the crowd and it looked like Envoy Wolfenson intended to join him for the photograph.

Ginsberg withdrew his weapon and slowly marched toward the crowd while keeping his eyes fixed on the man he had recognized as a potential threat. But then his vision of the man became obstructed by other members of the crowd.

When his sight line once again cleared, Ginsberg wasn't sure he was looking at the same man he had previously sighted. The man he was now tracking had his skin pulled taut over his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and sunken eye sockets, almost as if the man was wearing a skeletal death mask. He barely bore a resemblance to whom Ginsberg thought he had recognized.

"This is Eagle Nest Two, I have a visual on your threat wearing a red cap..."

But whatever doubt Ginsberg had about who it was he was actually tracking, the agent cast all of that aside as the man reached into his jacket and withdrew a gun.

Three gunshots echoed across the promenade.

Another gunshot came a few seconds later, but this one sounded different because it was fired from one of the rooftops.

It took a few seconds, but the sound of gunfire triggered an eruption of screams and cries of panic. The crowd in the promenade square chaotically dispersed in hundreds of different directions.

After the initial sound of the first three shots, the Israeli prime minister was body slammed so hard by a Shin Bet agent seeking to protect him that Bleiberg was sure he had been hit by a bullet. Both leaders were rushed from the steel barriers to their cars, which then drove off so abruptly the scent of burnt tire rubber was able to mingle with the lingering smell of gunpowder.

Ginsberg finally lowered his gun only when another Shin Bet agent brushed past him to join the other security personnel swarming around the fallen assassin.

As he made his way toward the assassin, Ginsberg encountered a pistol laying a dozen feet from the shooter, kicked away by the first Shin Bet agent who arrived. The gun was a SIG SAUER, .357, the typical sidearm used by the U.S. Secret Service.

The assassin lay on the promenade concrete, still breathing, although a puddle of blood had already begun to surround his body. When his blinking eyes caught sight of Ginsberg, he tried to raise his arm.

The Shin Bet agent dropped down to the killer's side and grabbed his hand.

"Bernie... why?"

The assassin tried to respond, but coughed up blood instead of words.

The Shin Bet agent squeezed the assassin's hand, hoping the pressure would keep him alive longer. But just a few moments later the large, dark pupils in his friend's eyes became fixed, and the hand Ginsberg was holding turned cold.

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Palm trees and six-foot tall Tiki statues were strewn throughout the beach area where the Lono hotel held their grand luau. The nightly event took place where a permanent stage had been erected, allowing performers to entertain the diners eating the Hawaiian feast while seated on the sand.

The grand luau waitresses wore grass skirts and tie-dyed sports bras that barely concealed their breasts. For some reason Tom had insisted on having dinner here so Sandy tried to ignore her queasy feeling that they were dining at the Hawaiian version of a Hooters restaurant.

"Komo mai. Welcome to the Lono Grand luau."

"Mahalo nui loa." Tom's reply sounded like a native islander and earned him a smile from the waitress.

"You have a choice of three cocktails with your meal tonight." She waved her hand over the choices on her tray. "We have the Maluhia mai tai; the Pele Papaya daiquiri; or the Lono House Special, which has two shots of Sky vodka and a combination of guava, coconut, and pineapple juice."

They both went for the Lono House Special cocktails and the waitress transferred the glasses to their table before saying, "Mahalo nui loa na ho'olaule'a me la kaua."

Tom immediately answered, "Kipa mai."

Sandy stared at Tom as he grabbed his cocktail.

"Since when do you speak Hawaiian?"

"I know a few phrases." He drank from his glass before continuing. "I told you when we first met that I spent three years on the Big Island because my father was in the Navy."

"Yeah, now I remember. How old were you?"

"Just a teenager, 17 when we moved to New York." He was about to take another sip from his drink but saw the way Sandy was looking at him and stopped. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

"I don't know... I guess I was thinking that I was seeing another side of you that I didn't know about... even though, technically, I already did know about it."

Tom saw the playfulness in his girlfriend's eyes and lowered his drink. It was exactly what he had been hoping for when he impulsively planned the trip. She was behaving in the way that had initially caused him to fall in love with her.

"Go ahead, I want to hear you say something else Hawaiian."

Her request put him on the spot and it took him a few seconds before he could respond with something that he thought was perfect for the moment.

"Ooee, kakooi, lani."

Sandy repeated the sentence a couple of times before asking, "What does it mean?"

"It's Hawaiian for you are as 'beautiful as the light of the heavens.'"

She was so touched by Tom's words that at first she became embarrassed, then convinced herself that her boyfriend wasn't serious in using such over the top romantic words.

"That's beautiful, but c'mon, tell me the truth, I'm not the first girl on this island you've spoken those words to?"

Tom let out a big sigh when he realized Sandy was implying his romantic gesture was less than sincere.

"I'm just saying that when you were growing up here I bet you used that line on quite a few girls running around the island that you had your eyes on."

"You're way off base," said Tom, after taking a big gulp from his drink. "What I said to you wasn't rehearsed or test marketed. I'm not even sure I can repeat it again if you asked."

He then looked away, toward the ocean water, and Sandy saw he was actually hurt.

"Tom, I was joking..."

He nodded but didn't look back over at her. She tried to think of the right words to get him back. The silence between the two was suddenly filled by the sound of music coming from the band on stage as the performers began the next portion of their dinnertime entertainment.

"Honey, forgive me. Every day I hear what people tell me in front of a camera, half of which turns out to be lies or self-serving bullshit... and when we sat down here on the sand, I guess I forgot to turn off my bullshit meter."

He grabbed his hand because he still showed no signs of reacting to anything she'd said.

"You said something beautiful, in another language! And I reacted like an idiot. I'm sorry."

Tom was about to turn back to Sandy and forgive her, but a man wearing khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt stepped up to their table.

"Perfect night for a perfect looking couple. You two look beautiful together. What about a picture to remember this night?"

He was a photographer working with the hotel to shoot pictures of diners at the royal luau and then sell the photos at the end of the evening.

Sandy was irritated by the interruption. She expected an even worse reaction from her boyfriend, but was surprised when Tom was actually excited by the photographer's offer.

"I'd love to have a picture of the two of us," said Tom, as he scooted his chair closer to her.

"On a count of three, how about you both say aloha."

Sandy wanted to grab her brush from her purse, look at her compact mirror for at least a couple of seconds, but the photographer was already beginning his countdown.

"3..."

She looked over at Tom, and saw that for some reason he was unbuttoning his dress shirt.

"2... 1..."

Sandy quickly swept her hair back behind her ears, and wet her lips.

"...Aloha."

The main course of the luau was kalua pig, which was baked in a cooking pit dug into the ground. Sandy tried poi for the first time, which Tom described as an acquired taste, but after only one bite Sandy declared it to be a taste she was not going to acquire in this lifetime. They had three cocktails each while watching the sun set from their table and both enjoyed the performance on stage featuring traditional music and hula dancing.

But during the entire evening Sandy was concerned about Tom. He seemed totally distracted, like something else was on his mind. She was convinced it was over the way she'd behaved earlier even though she had done her best to make it up to him by choosing her words carefully the rest of the evening, and snuggling up to him at every opportunity. She thought that perhaps he was thinking about the gallery showing. She knew he still had at least four more paintings to work on in the coming weeks. Sandy was reaching for other explanations because by the time they had paid their bill and were ready to leave, she still felt emotionally disconnected from Tom.

Leaving the luau area and heading back to the hotel, Sandy noticed a small crowd had gathered near the hut used by the luau staff to greet guests. As they drew closer, she saw the crowd was standing around a bulletin board displaying the printed pictures taken earlier in the evening by the photographer. When the diners saw Sandy and Tom they began to point in their direction.

"What's going on?" asked Sandy.

"I have no idea," answered Tom.

As they whispered and giggled to each other the people who had gathered stepped aside, allowing the couple access to the bulletin board. Sandy quickly scanned the two dozen photographs until she came to the one that featured her and Tom. She needed to lean in closer to see more clearly what her boyfriend had covertly done a second before the photograph was taken - Tom had opened up his Hawaiian shirt to reveal his tee shirt underneath where he had written in magic marker: MARRY ME!

She turned to look over at Tom, but he was gone.

Then she realized he was there after all. He had dropped down to one knee and was holding an engagement ring out to her. Waiting for an answer.

"Yes, Tom, the answer is, yes."

The people all around them began to clap and cheer.

Tom leaped up and they kissed.

Their kiss lasted long enough that some of the people watching decided they had seen enough and moved toward the hotel to carry on with their night.

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"Hey, Sandy, time to get up..."

His new fiancee didn't move.

It was early in the morning; and Tom had his toothbrush in his mouth, so it was possible his words were garbled and she didn't understand.

He grabbed some water from the bathroom sink, spit, then rushed back into the room and hopped onto the bed.

"We're engaged."

Sandy opened her eyes to see Tom's face a few inches away.

"How do you like me now?"

"I'm in love with you. What time is it?"

He laughed and hopped off the bed.

"It's time for you to get your ass out of bed."

She groaned and rolled over.

"The helicopter takes off in one hour."

The word "helicopter" got Sandy to sit up.

"I have a story to cover today?"

"No story," said Tom, unable to control his laughter at her startled response. "Don't you remember? You booked us on a helicopter tour of the island."

"Yeah, I think I remember."

"Well, the helicopter leaves in an hour."

She hopped out of bed and slipped past Tom into the bathroom. As she looked into the mirror at both her image and Tom she said, "I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamt that you proposed to me..."

Without missing a beat Tom replied, "Sounds more like a nightmare."

Sandy nodded, playing along with Tom's response, "You're right, it was a nightmare because in the dream I actually said yes..."

He looked at her and smiled.

Then he thought of the helicopter tour and looked at his watch.

"Sorry. I promise I'll only be five minutes," said Sandy.

It was Tom who'd chosen the Ford Mustang convertible as their car rental. The top was down as they sped on the single lane highway toward the airport, with a hint of the ocean in the air as they drove past pineapple fields and coffee plantations.

"I can't find the NPR station on this island."

Sandy was missing all the beauty around her, too busy scanning across the radio dial in a hunt for her favorite station.

"I can't believe we're driving through paradise and you've got your head buried in the dashboard of the car."

"C'mon, Tom, it's not as if I'm looking for my morning dose of head banging music," she quickly answered, not bothering to hide her irritation with Tom's observation.

Her spin across the bandwidth brought in at least a couple of religious stations, three easy music listening stations, and a shocking amount of country music stations, before she was finally able to locate NPR.

The sound of a monotone voice reading the news caused Sandy to lean back in her seat with a serene look on her face as if she was listening to a yoga instructor reciting a meditation mantra.

He looked over at her and saw that she wasn't taking in any of the surrounding sights; his fiancee was instead hanging on every word coming from the radio. Tom endured it for as long as he could before he leaned into the dashboard and turned off the car's radio.

Sandy was so shocked at Tom's action she stopped to think for a moment about what she might have done, and what she might be missing if she responded so quickly with what she wanted to say to him.

"What the fuck, Tom?"

"I should have probably made this clear before we landed, but I was hoping that while we're together on what turns out to be a rather special occasion, maybe we could put some yellow tape around the rest of the world. I was thinking... just you and I for 72 hours."

"That's why I fell in love with you, honey," said Sandy, grabbing Tom's hand in a loving way before she leaned toward the dashboard and switched the radio back on.

"But realistically speaking," said Sandy as she lifted Tom's hand to her lips for a kiss, "I'm going to break every finger of this hand if they come anywhere near the car radio."

"Will you really?"

"Don't test me, Tom. You still have a gallery showing you need to prepare for. How is that going to happen when you can't even hold a paintbrush?"

Tom laughed at her joke, despite the fact he was pissed that she would not leave her work behind, not even for a few hours. Not even after they had become engaged.

"We have more on this morning's assassination attempt on Israeli Prime Minister Yitzak Bleiberg and U.S. Envoy John Wolfenson which occurred just a few hours ago as the two men were leaving the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv..."

"So no chance that for just..."

Sandy held out up her hand for Tom to stop talking as she heard the words being broadcast from NPR. Tom stopped speaking, but shook his head with frustration at being silenced like a child.

"A spokesperson for the U.S. State Department has released the name of the assassin. His name is Bernard Rose, an American citizen, thirty-six years old, and a long-time member of the United States Secret Service. The State Department spokesman also went on to say that up until very recently, Bernard Rose was a secret service bodyguard assigned to protect Envoy John Wolfenson. The assassination attempt threatens to delay the peace treaty signing between Israel and the other seven countries in the region..."

As the news anchor on NPR continued with more details, Sandy reached into her purse and pulled out her mobile phone.

"What are you doing, Sandy?"

"I'm calling into the show."

"Why?"

"I know the guy. I know the assassin, Bernard Rose. I mean, I don't know him, I met him, but just spending a few minutes with an assassin before he kills is gold when it comes to covering something like this. Do you know what time it is in New York? I always forget the time difference. It doesn't matter. Terry should still be in his office..."

"When did you meet him?"

The phone was ringing as she answered Tom, "I met him a few years ago at a dinner party Terry had at his house in the Hamptons. We ended up on in the backyard patio, having a cigarette between dinner and dessert. The thing is we ended up having a substantial conversation."

He had to keep his eyes on the road, but Tom tried to steal some glances at his fiancee to see Sandy's face as she was recalling the details of that night.

"We talked about how hard it was with relationships, meeting the right person. He was a huge fan of the Boston Red Soxes. And that he had a litmus test for every woman he dated that they either had to love the Soxes or willing to be converted. Until he met his girlfriend. She hated baseball. And he ended up throwing out the litmus test instead of breaking up with her." She looked over at Tom. "Seriously, I can't believe he turned out to be an assassin."

And she prattled on about getting involved in a story just a few hours after he had asked her to marry him.

"24/7. How may I direct your call?"

Sandy heard the receptionist's voice, but before she could answer, Tom snatched the phone from her.

"Tom, what are you doing?"

"I'm saving our relationship."

He motioned as if he was going to throw the phone out of the car, but then ended the call before tossing the phone into the back seat.

She began to reach for it, but then saw Tom's clenched jaw and the look in his eyes as he waited for her to react.

"I'm sorry... Did you hear me, Tom? I said I was sorry."

"Three days. Just you and I. Fuck the world!"

He screamed the last three words into the open air.

"Is that asking for too much?"

Tom asked the question at a much lower volume level, hoping Sandy would see he was angry, but not out of control.

She leaned forward and turned off the radio.

"I'm sorry. You're right."

"Just the two of us..." said Tom looking over for her reaction.

"Just the two of us," she repeated. "Fuck the rest of the world."

"I'm serious here."

"Then how come you've got that smile on your face?"

Tom didn't have a smile on his face, but when he looked over at Sandy and saw the same playful look on her face that he had fallen in love with, he couldn't help himself.

He broke out in a smile that stayed on his face the rest of the way to the Maui airport.

--------

--------

There were four passengers on the helicopter tour - Tom and Sandy were riding with a pair of Japanese newlyweds who spoke very little English. The newlyweds sat in front, next to the pilot, while Tom and Sandy were seated in the back. For decades, Hawaii had been a popular destination for honeymooning couples from Japan. The pilot of the helicopter, Stu Rifflen, repeated all of the safety guidelines in Japanese before takeoff.

Despite the language barrier, Sandy was touched by what she observed of the couple. She noticed they had boarded the helicopter holding hands. During the tour, she caught sight of one of the helicopter's small monitors embedded in the dashboard that was picking up the camera pointed at the front seat, and saw the Japanese bride stroking her husband's hand during the flight.

Just as the noise of the helicopter's rotors grew louder, Stu clicked a button on the dashboard and the voice of Bobby McFerrin singing "Don't Worry, Be Happy" was piped through their headsets. Sandy grabbed Tom's hand as the helicopter lifted off from the tarmac.

"This is going to be fun," she said. And Tom looked over and gave his fiancee a reassuring grin.

"I'm totally excited..."

The helicopter tour Sandy and Tom had signed up for was a journey around the entire island. They hovered over rainforests, flew past gorgeous mountains, and circled spectacular sites such as the Haleakala Crater.

"We're looking at the world's largest dormant volcano," said Stu over the headsets.

"It looks like the moon," said Sandy through her headset.

"Yes, I agree with you, Sandy. And yet unlike the moon's surface, the cinder cones we're looking at tower higher than the Empire State building."

Tom was impressed with how the pilot obviously kept in mind where his passengers hailed from. On more than one occasion during the tour, Stu compared the Hawaiian landscapes to landmarks both in New York and Tokyo.

As they flew away from the Haleakala Crater, the pilot looked at his watch before announcing through the headphones, "You folks are in luck. It's almost noon, so we'll be the last tour to see the Wall of Tears up close."

"What happens after twelve?" shouted Tom into his headset microphone. The volume of his question caused everyone in the helicopter to grimace before Stu responded.

"The wind picks up dramatically, making it tricky for helicopters to approach the site. But we'll be just fine at this time of day."

Tom was not comforted by the pilot's words. He reached out to grab a hold of the leather armrest attached to the glass door beside him. The entire flight had gone so smoothly; it was the first time Sandy saw him show any distress.

"Tom, are you all right?"

She forgot that her words spoken in the mic went over the helicopter's interior intercom system and blanched the moment she realized her mistake. Her words immediately caused the pilot to look up at the monitor attached to the camera fixed on his passengers in the backseat.

Tom was aware that Sandy's question had gotten the attention of the pilot and he waved at the camera with a cheery grin.

"Having a great time. No problem. Carry on."

"One more island site before heading back to the airport," said Stu through their headsets.

"Fine. Having a great time," answered Tom.

"Terrific. If anyone has any difficulties, just let me know," said Stu, before steering the helicopter toward their next landmark. "We're only here to have a good time..."

As a journalist, Sandy had flown on helicopters dozens of times over the years. The only problem she had ever encountered ended up being a big one - while covering the Idaho white supremacist siege, one of the cult members shot at their helicopter as she was with her cameraman shooting aerial coverage of the compound. The shots caused the pilot to ditch their helicopter in an onion field a few miles away, with everyone surviving. But she was back up in another copter a few days later to cover the invasion of the compound by federal agents.

She tightened her grip on Tom's hand, while using her other hand to cover her headset microphone.

"Seriously, Tom, are you all right?"

He nodded confidently, then squeezed her hand to emphasize his answer.

After flying across the ocean for a few minutes, Stu veered the helicopter back toward the interior of the island. They flew over acres and acres of taro fields before approaching mountains rising above the flat landscape.

The copter slipped between a narrow gap in the mountain range, and continued flying on a narrow path between steep cliff sides running on both sides.

The sunlight disappeared almost at the same time rain began falling. Stu turned on the wipers so they could still see out the front windshield of the helicopter. The glass was wiped clear of the raindrops as they approached a stunning sight in the short distance.

"This is the Wall of Tears."

When Stu's voice came over his headset Tom had been staring out the window, terrified by how close they were flying as they cut their way through the narrow cliffs.

"Gorgeous sight, right?"

Tom turned to look outside the front windshield of the helicopter and saw dozens of waterfalls flowing from a cliff side, each narrow stream of water descending six hundred feet to the lagoon below. It was a spectacular sight, one that could probably only be appreciated in a helicopter hovering at the same level of the lava holes.

"The source of the water is the interior of the island, which gets at least ten times the amount of rainfall the rest of Maui receives. The ancient lava tubes were created when the island itself was first formed by an erupting volcano."

At the end of Stu's verbal description of the site, a powerful gust of wind shook the helicopter hard enough that the Plexiglas around the passengers vibrated for several seconds.

Sandy saw the pilot tighten his grip on the flight stick, but that was the only sign she noticed as he insisted on not allowing anything from the incident to disturb his narration.

"Legend has it that the gods poked their fingers into the cliff side and made the earth cry and we ended up with the Wall of Tears. Well, what the Hawaiian gods lack in empathy, they certainly made up in sheer beauty."

After finishing his prepared description of the site, the pilot switched off his mic, something he had done numerous of times throughout the tour to allow his passengers the chance to view the sites in silence.

But the wind sweeping through the narrow canyon only allowed a few seconds of silence before it struck again. This time the punch was so powerful, Stu needed some time before he grabbed back control of the copter and was able to steer it back to the middle of the canyon.

"What the hell was that?" Sandy asked once the bird had settled.

The pilot hit several buttons on his dashboard before responding. "That was some of the wind I mentioned earlier, Sandy."

The female Japanese newlywed spoke frantically to her husband, which was captured over the headsets of all the passengers. Her husband replied to his new wife, then leaned forward to address the pilot. Nothing he said was in English, but the panic in his voice was easy to translate.

"Not sure of every word you said, Mr. Osaka, but I'm pretty sure I understand enough," said Stu. "It's time to..."

Another blast of wind slammed into the helicopter before the pilot could finish his sentence. This gale force caused the helicopter to drop a dozen yards before Stu was able to regain control.

The sudden descent caused Tom to feel like his stomach was using his neck as a bridge to swallow his head. He let go of Sandy's hand, then frantically grabbed for the vomit bag next to his seat.

"I'm sorry about that. Is everyone all right?"

Sandy was looking at Tom with concern, but made it a point to respond to the pilot's question.

"We need to leave now."

"Are you both all right?"

She leaned toward the camera to emphasize her response. "Stu, get us out of here. Now."

"I agree with you, Sandy. Time to leave. Listen everyone, our way out of this canyon is going to feel at first like we're going upside down, but don't worry..."

Another powerful airstream slammed into the helicopter, causing pilot and passengers to be violently thrown forward until their belts abruptly stopped them. Tom lost his vomit bag and tried to reach for it before finally throwing up between his knees.

"Just do it," shouted Sandy through the headset.

Stu pulled back on the cockpit stick while simultaneously working the pitch lever and the helicopter responded instantly by angling backwards while rolling over on its side in a maneuver the pilot had performed hundreds of times over the years.

But right in the middle of the maneuver, at a point where the vehicle was the most vulnerable, another fierce gust of wind broadsided the helicopter, causing the engine to immediately shut off.

The sound of silence filled the air as the helicopter began dropping toward the ground.

"Shit," screamed Stu over the headsets after he realized his efforts to pull back on the stick were useless because the helicopter no longer had power. He lunged toward the dashboard, but the restraint of his seat belt held him back before he was able to finally move forward and frantically stab at several buttons on the helicopter's control panel.

"I can't believe this is happening," Tom mumbled to himself. Seconds before he'd been so sick he'd forgotten where he was. Now, his brain was so crystal clear, his thoughts were scattering in a dozen different directions - the price of his work would skyrocket after he died... But since he had not finished his last series of paintings would that hurt the selling price.... Sandy was with him... they were going to be married... she had not even picked out a wedding dress... now they were both going to die...

"Tom, listen to me, when we land, get out of the vehicle immediately. As soon..."

The sound of the helicopter's engine firing up interrupted her words, and everyone in the cockpit held on to their last breath as they hoped the sound meant they were going to be all right.

But then the noise of the engine sputtered out.

Stu frantically hit the same series of buttons in a desperate attempt to engage the engine, but after running through the same routine twice and getting no reaction, the Japanese man began screaming into his headset. Somehow the copter's engine wouldn't turn over, but the electrical power in the cockpit was still working, so they could all hear Mr. Osaka's screams. Stu reached over his wife and grabbed the headphones off the man's head. He then clicked a button on the dashboard before speaking into the mic on his own headphone.

"Mayday, mayday, this is N6037. We're going down. Mayday, mayday, this is Niner6037. We're at the Wall of Tears and we've lost all power. No engine response. We're going down... mayday, this is N6037 near the Wall of Tears..."

The helicopter's impact with a cluster of trees silenced Stu's mayday. The front windshield of the cockpit exploded and a wave of shattered glass shot across the front seat toward the back. Sandy had already raised her arms but saw glass flying toward her like it was a wave of water crashing on the shore of a beach.

The tree line absorbed the initial impact of the helicopter, and then would ease the final descent to the ground. The tail impacted first and then the rest of the helicopter landed upright in lagoon water about three feet deep before beginning to sink into the sand.

Through the shattered Plexiglas, the sound of the water falling from the Wall of Tears could be heard, but none of the occupants in the helicopter's cockpit could hear it.

No one was moving.

--------

Sandy's left eye began to involuntarily blink.

Blood had pooled up in her eye socket and begun pouring in the moment she'd awoken.

She tried to raise her hand to wipe the blood from her eye, but found her arm would not move.

When she summoned the strength to try again, she was successful, but her hand slammed against her face so hard in an attempt to clear the eye socket of blood, it was like she had punched herself in the face.

It took several wipes from the back of her hand before she was able to open both eyes. Seeing with some clarity took even longer as she looked around her.

Tom sat slumped forward against his safety harness. It was hard to see his face because a tree branch had plunged through the windshield and extended to the back seat during their fall to the ground.

"Tom? Tom, are you all right?"

She ripped off her headset and undid her seatbelt, wincing as she tried to move her legs. Doing her best to ignore the pain, she turned her body in the seat so she could face her fiance.

"Tom! We need to get out of here." Still not getting a response, she shook his arm and his eyelids twitched; he began to stir.

"Sandy..." he said.

"Oh God, you're alive!"

"Yeah, but don't get mad... I didn't get the flight insurance."

She let out a short reflexive laugh.

Tom's voice was clear, but there was a slight pause between each of his words. And as he spoke she noticed his teeth were tinted red. There'd been a longer pause in the middle of the two sentences. Sandy hoped the fact that he was thinking of comedy timing before he uttered the punchline meant he was going to be fine.

Her reaction caused Tom to look over.

Their eyes locked for a few moments before he closed his. But he spoke at the same time.

"How are the others?"

Sandy leaned forward to check.

Tree branches had impaled the pilot and the Japanese newlyweds, pinned them against the front seat like butterfly specimens. There was blood everywhere, splattered all over the twisted metal, still dripping from all three bodies.

"They're all..."

She tried to say the word 'dead' - but it wouldn't leave her lips. After a couple more efforts fell short, Sandy turned back to Tom. He was ghostly white, looking similar to the bodies she had seen in the front seat of the helicopter.

A drop of blood fell onto her pants leg and she followed it to the source of the bleeding. The tree branch that obscured Tom's face had speared his neck.

Sandy looked back toward the front seat - to the white handkerchief covering the Japanese woman's hair. She snatched it and turned back toward Tom.

"Honey, your neck... There's a branch.... You need to hold still."

She reached for the branch, but found her hand was trembling so bad she pulled it back. Sandy stared at her hand, trying to will it to stop shaking, but when she wasn't able to make any kind of difference, she raised it anyway and grabbed a hold of the knotted branch piercing Tom's neck.

Blood rushed from the wound the moment she withdrew the branch. The white cloth she applied to his neck seemed to turn into a sponge after just a few seconds as blood continued to gush from the hole. Tom did not flinch when she applied more pressure, then raised his own hand to the handkerchief.

"You need to hold this here with the same kind of pressure. That's right Tom, just like that."

His hand stayed on the handkerchief and Sandy's spirits rose with his response.

She began moving around him, toward the helicopter's door.

"Where are you going..."

"We need to get out of here."

"Good. But I don't want you to leave..."

His words prompted her to check his hand on the handkerchief on his neck and the pressure he was maintaining on his wound. He seemed to be holding it tight even though there was still blood dripping, now onto the seat.

She tried to open the door, but it would not budge. She tried again and again, and on the third try the handle disengaged from the frame. Sandy got up from the seat and used her available strength to throw open the door.

By the time she turned back around, Tom had dropped the bloody handkerchief from his neck. She started to go for it, but then stopped.

Sandy unbuckled the seat belt around Tom and pulled him from the seat as she leaned in the direction of the doorway. Together, she was able to yank him onto her, then out of the helicopter they both tumbled.

She quickly scrambled, pulled him up from the ground, and dragged him a dozen yards, through the shallow water, to a place where she was able to ease him down into the dry sand of the lagoon. Sandy then took off her shirt, and applied it to Tom's neck.

Less than two minutes had passed from helicopter to sand, but when Sandy looked down at Tom, he looked a hundred times worse.

"Tom, you need to stay with me. Tom, open your eyes..."

Her words managed to get a response. Tom opened his eyes and looked at her, though there was a vacant look in the irises that was not encouraging to Sandy.

"Sandy... I need... tell you...."

His eyes rolled back to bloodshot whites, then fluttered shut before he mumbled any more words.

"Tom. Tom?"

She tilted his head back, pinched his nose shut, put her lips to his and began to breathe into him.

His chest didn't rise. Sandy adjusted the tilt of his head and tried again; this time she saw his chest rise.

Sandy let go of the shirt applied to his neck and began chest compressions, pumping twice every second.

"Come on, honey, stay with me. You can do it."

After thirty compressions, she gave him two more rescue breaths and kept pumping.

Thirty compressions.

Two rescue breaths.

Over and over again.

She didn't stop until Tom gasped, opened his eyes, and began breathing on his own.

"Tom! Oh my God--don't leave me again!"

He reached up and Sandy grabbed his hand tightly.

"Do you hear me? Stay with me."

Tom shook his head as if he was responding to her pleas. But she was more confused than worried. Some color had returned in Tom's face, and he no longer had the vacant look in his eyes.

"I can't hear you..."

She leaned closer to him so she could hear the rest of what he was trying to say to her.

"... over the noise..."

His eyes were looking past her, toward the sky. Sandy finally turned to look up to see what Tom was staring at...

It was a helicopter hovering directly above them.

Sandy stood up and waved at them to make sure they saw them lying on the beach. She fell back down to her knees the moment she saw the helicopter descending down toward them.

--------

One of the two paramedics working in the cargo hold of the helicopter had hooked an IV into Tom's arm and fitted him with an oxygen mask. He was checking his vitals while the other paramedic was doing the same with Sandy.

"How's he doing?"

The paramedic tending to Tom heard Sandy and raised his thumb.

"He's going to make it."

Sandy nodded with relief at the paramedic tending to her. But then she became confused.

The paramedics looked just like each other, like they were twins - both had blond hair, blue eyes, and their faces were smooth, wrinkle free. It was as if they had both...

"You saved his life," said the paramedic tending to Sandy.

She noticed his breath smelled sickly sweet.

"He's going to be fine. You'll both be fine."

The paramedic put an oxygen mask over Sandy's mouth and she took some deep breaths before looking over at her fiance.

"We'll take it from here."

Tom turned his head to look over at her. She was now breathing oxygen, but rather than allowing her to see more clearly, the oxygen seemed to be causing her to see everything as if the helicopter they were in had ascended into a cloud.

Sandy awoke with a start, grabbing the wrist of someone, but it took her eyes a few seconds to see... it was a nurse removing the IV connection on her arm.

"Where's Tom?"

"You know the answer, Ms. Travis."

It took her a few seconds before she was able to recall. "His room is down the hall."

The nurse nodded.

"I want to see him."

"Yes, of course."

She pulled back the sheets on her bed and held out her hand ready for help standing up.

"How is he doing," Sandy asked, as the nurse helped her from the bed.

"Not as well as you. You're being discharged today. Did you know that?"

Sandy was about to shake her head, but then she remembered speaking to the doctor who had been tending to her for the last several days after the helicopter accident.

"You're fine. There's nothing more I can do for you. But perhaps there's someone else who can help you from here."

She had handed Sandy a card with the name 'Dr. Bess Forulani, PhD' printed in embossed black letters. "Before you are discharged, why not spend some time with her? Have her look at what I can't see with any X-rays?"

The card the attending doctor had handed her fell to the floor as she stood up from her bed with the nurse's aid. There was no need to retrieve the card, or even ask the nurse to grab it and set it aside on her tray cart next to her bed.

Sandy had been through plenty of tough battles over the years. What had happened during a helicopter tour of a Hawaiian island was a freakish event. The idea that the tragic events of that day would cause such mental instability that she would need to spend time with a shrink to deal with the adverse effects almost caused her to fall to her knees, light-headed, ready to vomit.

"How are you doing, Ms. Travis. Are you able to make it to your fiance's room?

"Absolutely," she quickly answered.

The room was filled with the sound of medical machines operating in concert with a myriad of wires and tubes connected to Tom. He wore a thick bandage around his neck, his hair was matted, and he desperately needed a shave.

Although the doctors assured her Tom had suffered no brain damage from lack of oxygen, she couldn't stop herself from dwelling on the scenario of them being wrong - pushing Tom around in a wheelchair, changing his catheter bag, feeding him. Her hand holding the brush that finished the rest of the paintings that the art dealer would insist upon before he could hold the gallery opening celebrating Tom's work.

"Sandy--Sandy!"

She had insisted that the nurse leave her in a chair next to Tom's bed.

"Honey, I'm here..."

He glanced around, breathing fast and erratically until Sandy was able to get up from her chair and stumble over to his bed.

"Where am I?" he asked.

She grabbed his hand.

"Tom, we're at the Maui Memorial Medical Center."

The grip on her hand relaxed as Sandy's words matched the hospital room around him.

"How are you feeling?"

When he didn't answer, Sandy reached for the alert button dangling from the bedrail. But Tom stopped her a moment before she was about to push the button.

"Before you do... I need to tell you... something first."

Tom's words were sluggish. His skin was ghostly pale and covered in a layer of sweat beads. Tom's pupils were so enlarged they looked like twin moons hanging in a bloodshot skyline.

This caused Sandy to ignore her fiance's words and push the button alerting the medical staff to Tom's revival.

"Honey, you can tell me anything," said Sandy. "I'm just glad to see you alive."

She let go of the bedside alert button, and grabbed Tom's hand.

"You know I died."

"Yeah, I was there," said Sandy. She stared in his eyes for a moment, waiting for more, but then continued, "I'm hoping there's a reward for bringing you back to life."

He smiled.

At first she thought, everything is going to be fine. No brain damage because Tom reacted to her joke. But then she saw the smile on her fiance's face seemed to be unrelated to what she had said. The look in his eyes matched with the grin on his face seemed to be a response to something Tom was running through his mind.

"I died and... something happened. I was on... the other side."

"Honey, you're high," said Sandy. "It's the drug they put in your IV."

He gripped her hand tighter. "No, listen to me. I remember you pulling me from the helicopter and laying me on the sand - then laying me down on the grass. The next thing I remember there was this brilliant light, so intense I had to look away."

She turned away from Tom and looked at the open door to the room. But there was no sign of anyone from the medical staff responding to her alert.

"When I looked back," Tom said, "some of the light had been blocked by a figure. I couldn't see his face, but the... light around him... it was beautiful. He didn't speak and I didn't utter a word, but we somehow communicated. Like, you know, telepathy. He called himself 'The Angel of Light.'"

Tom stopped in his narrative to look over at her, to gauge her reaction to what he had said.

"But, honey, you don't even believe in God."

He nodded his head, almost as if Sandy's answer was the words he was waiting to hear from her.

"I do now."

They stared at each other before Tom continued.

"This angel, he told me something. He said, 'It's not your time. There are things you need to do. You need to go back.' I reached out, kind of like in the Michelangelo painting, and the moment our fingers touched, everything seemed to explode like a supernova exploding in space. The brilliant light swallowed me up whole. When I opened my eyes again, there you were, right beside me, having brought me back to life."

Sandy's blank face and non-verbal response caused him to release the grip he had on her hand.

"You believe me. Don't you?"

"Honey, of course I believe you. If you believe you saw an angel... well, then I'm right there with you."

"Really?"

Sandy grabbed his hand.

"Yes, of course."

The noise of footsteps caused Tom to look toward the door where a nurse appeared huffing and puffing like she had sprinted the entire way from the check-in station near the floor's elevators.

"Mr. Hansen, you're..." The nurse couldn't finish her sentence she was breathing so hard.

"Yes, I'm awake," said Tom.

--------

--------

The alarm clock on Sandy's side of the bed buzzed. She squinted at the time before clicking it off. She rolled over to drape an arm around Tom, but he was gone, the covers on his side of the bed rumpled and tossed back.

He was out in the living room, sitting at one of his easels. For once the shades were raised and the morning sun was lighting up the area.

"I didn't hear you get up."

"I didn't want to wake you," answered Tom as she approached him.

"You better not be working. Remember what the doctor in Hawaii said, 'at least'..."

"... one week after you get back to New York you stay in bed and no work." Tom interrupted Sandy, finishing Doctor Permordia's advisory word for word, even adding an Indian dialect.

She laughed. "That was good. But you didn't roll your head at the end of each sentence."

"Forgive me, I still have problems moving my head in either direction, but come back next Tuesday when the happy hour drinks are free until 5 pm, and I'll do Dr. Permordia's accent, head roll, and medical advisory."

Despite Tom's continued attempt to make light of the situation, Sandy had trouble responding with a smile.

Tom had almost died.

And less than a week later they were back in New York trying to move on like nothing had happened. He could make light of the situation, but she was completely uncomfortable with how fast he was trying to go back to work.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help it," Tom said, setting down his paintbrush as he spoke to Sandy. "Just sitting in the bed for another day. I couldn't do it. I'm not saying I'm feeling great, but I am saying I need to start doing something or I'm going to go crazy."

His words, and the reasonable tone he expressed them in took all the steam out of Sandy's attempt to make him take it easy.

"I understand, honey. And you know what, I totally agree with you."

He seemed relieved to hear her words and picked up his paintbrush to begin working again.

"Let me see what you're working on..."

She stepped past the easel and was surprised by what she saw. The paint on the canvas was still shimmering in the early morning light but it depicted a shadowy figure floating in the middle of the canvas, with bright yellow and white light illuminating his presence in a way that was both striking and vague. There was no obvious source of the light or details on the form it was highlighting.

"This is what you were telling me about in the hospital."

"Yeah, I needed to get it on to the canvas."

He looked over at Sandy, waiting for a reaction.

"I'm glad you got it down before you forgot what happened."

"Well, there's no chance that I would forget what I saw. But I wanted to get it down so I captured all the details."

Sandy looked over at Tom when she knew he had turned his attention back to the canvas. She wanted to see how his eyes were looking at his work. Was his painting the vision he saw during his Near Death Experience therapeutic or... something else. She couldn't answer her own question. Nothing in what she saw in Tom's eyes seemed to be different than before the helicopter accident.

"Do you feel better about getting it onto the canvas?"

He stared at his painting for a few long moments as if he was contemplating an answer to her question.

When Sandy felt like she had waited long enough for a response, she leaned in closer to him, "Tom?"

Tom leaned away from her before standing up and then stepping away from the easel. He stepped away again when Sandy tried to reach out to him.

"Honey..."

"I'm going to go out for a while..."

"Go out?"

"For coffee and a newspaper. I'll be back..."

Before she could say another word, Tom was out the door.

Sandy waited as long as she could before leaving. She had showered, dressed, and put on her makeup. It was her first day back to work since the accident and she had not planned on being late, but changed that plan when Tom still had not returned back to the apartment.

She called his mobile phone before leaving, but a ringing noise drew her back to the master bedroom where she discovered Tom's phone still in the jacket he'd worn on the trip home from Hawaii.

On the subway ride to work, Sandy tried calling the apartment, but both times her calls went straight to the answering service.

As she emerged from the subway station Sandy tried calling again and this time Tom answered.

"Hello."

"Tom, you're back."

"Yeah."

"Are you all right?"

"I told you I was just going out for coffee and the newspaper."

"Tom, we have a coffee maker in the kitchen and I almost tripped over the New York Times and the Washington Post when I left."

"Honey, I'm sorry."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just needed to get out. I'm feeling much better now."

She ignored his words, and concentrated on the emotional tone of his voice.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm sitting here, in front of my easel and I just want to work."

There was a flat, detached aspect in the way he was responding to her questions that bothered her enough that she veered off before entering the building where she worked. Tom had always been an emotional guy, sometimes with extreme mood swings in a single afternoon, which Sandy had come to understand was specifically connected to his work and not his general psychological state.

"Honey, I'm really worried about you."

"I know you are. And I feel bad. I realized when I was out that this is your first day going back to work. I'm trying to sound fine so you don't worry about me."

Sandy sighed, relieved to hear Tom's words.

"That's really sweet and it makes me feel better. But, Tom, please, don't work too..."

She stopped talking because the icon in her phone's window had turned red, meaning the connection had ended.

"Tom are you still there? Tom?"

Sandy thought about calling back but instead entered the building. She was already over an hour late.

--------

--------

Sandy entered the Optio Entertainment building and was greeted by the security checkpoint station just a few feet from the main entrance. She waved her passkey across the scanner and pushed through the turnstile and into the rest of the main lobby.

The OptEnt building was the home of the CBB TV Network, and also where the network's flagship show, 24/7, was produced. One of the journalists who had been part of the show at its inception over forty years ago had come up with the nickname for the seventy floor, all glass skyscraper - The Glass House. The moniker was meant as a cursory description of the building, but more a statement of the journalistic integrity intended as a foundation of the show; both would stand proudly despite any size rock that came their way.

"Sandy!"

Sandy not only heard her name but recognized the voice, and quickly hit the button to stop the elevator doors from closing.

Helen rushed inside, and the two women immediately embraced, albeit in an awkward way. Sandy's associate producer was carrying a tray of takeout food from Harried Healthy, one of the nearby fast food places specializing in organic food. It was a restaurant Helen regularly frequented for lunch and the sight caused Sandy to feel guilty for arriving so late. Helen was already on her second food run of the day.

"Let me see the ring..."

Sandy held out her hand, but Helen's eyes never made it to the ring because she could not get past the sight of a dozen deep lacerations running up and down Sandy's arm, which was still in the process of healing.

"What the... Sandy, what are you doing here?"

Sandy looked at the wounds and was startled to feel an element of shock about what she saw on her arm. For the last three weeks she had seen every cut and bruise on her body hundreds of times. Clearly the difference was someone else, besides doctors, nurses, and her boyfriend, seeing her wounds for the first time.

"I know, right? And across the board, everyone at the hospital kept saying the same thing - 'you're going to have some scars. At least you have a story to tell with a happy ending.'"

She started to drop her arm but Helen stopped her.

"I'm sorry, but I really do want to see the ring."

Sandy raised her hand up so Helen could see the engagement ring Tom had given her.

"It's beautiful. Gorgeous. But if I was being honest with you Sandy, what I'm really feeling here is... invidsitorious."

"Invidsitorius?"

"That's right, invidsitorius."

Sandy realized what this was about and laughed as she lowered her hand. Helen was a wordsmith and in her spare time, she would try to come up with new words for the English language. Her dream was to get one of her words included in the Oxford dictionary.

"Okay, so tell me, what does invidsitorius mean?"

"Invidsitorius is a combination of the Latin word, Invidia, where we originally got the word envy, and the old French word transitorie, which gave us the word transitory. Invidsitorius describes the feeling of being envious of another person - let's say someone who wins the lottery or gets a beautiful engagement ring from a gorgeous guy -while at the same time your envy is brief, sometimes just a few seconds, because you really care for the person who has been rewarded in ways that seem out of reach, impossible to achieve. Invidsitorious. What do you think?"

Sandy shook her head with a grimace. "Sorry. The word still implies the person is holding a knife behind the smile."

"Damn," said Helen, looking truly disappointed at Sandy's verdict.

The elevator was almost at the 55th floor and it reminded Sandy of a vow she'd made to herself of something she wanted to say to Helen the first moment she saw her.

"Why don't we work together on coming up with a new word because I've been trying to come up with something original to say, but keep coming up empty. It would be a word or phrase that describes the immense gratitude one feels when they are stuck in a Maui hospital and her associate producer ends up transforming their news piece into an amazing segment."

When Helen realized where Sandy was going, she looked away, embarrassed to hear the words of praise.

"Helen, seriously, thank you so much for covering my ass on the piece. Not only getting the story on the air, but doing it in a way that was brilliant. I got an email from Terry. He said it was one of the best pieces 24/7 has aired this year."

The two fell into each other's arms. When they parted Helen was still wiping the tears from her eyes when she asked, "Did my name come up in Terry's message?"

"No, of course not," said Sandy, without missing a beat. "And when I replied to his email, I didn't mention your name either. I knew we would have this moment together and that as long as the two of us knew the truth about what you accomplished in my absence, there would be no reason to share with anyone else what should remain a private moment between two people who care for each other."

"That was a good call," said Helen, also making sure her reply did not miss a beat. "It shows why I have so much to still learn from you."

The bell sounded, indicating their arrival on the 55th floor.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too."

"Stop the video there," said Sandy.

Helen hit a button on the keyboard and the video on the computer screen froze. In the middle of the screen was Bernard Rose, the assassin who tried to kill Israeli Prime Minister Bleiberg.

Sandy stared at his face long enough that it was Helen who eventually broke the silence.

"It's him, right?"

"Yeah, it's him."

"Sandy, what is it?"

"He looks different."

"Different?"

Sandy had trouble articulating exactly what she was seeing. "His face... there's something about the skin..."

"I'm not sure I understand?"

"Look, it's been years since I saw the guy, but his face... it looks... different."

"Different how?"

"Like it's been stretched."

"So are you saying it's not Bernard Rose?"

When Sandy didn't answer, Helen hit a button on the keyboard and the video began to play again.

"He looks different - but it's definitely the same guy I met at Terry's dinner party."

Helen nodded, then hit a button that paused the video again.

"Then how come Terry assigned the story of the assassin-bodyguard to another team?"

"To who?"

She handed Sandy a copy of 24/7's most recent story assignments.

"Bishop? The same Bishop who thinks a story about the Mideast is about Bridgeport, Connecticut?"

Helen laughed at Sandy's joke, but then quickly stifled her reaction when she realized the words weren't necessarily meant to elicit a laugh.

"Was Bishop there at Terry's house the night you met Bernard Rose?"

"Are you kidding me? Terry would never have Bishop over for dinner. Not in a million years."

Helen puzzled over what she heard while Sandy angrily crumbled the work schedule into a paper ball and threw it on the floor.

"This is bullshit. I'm the one who should be working this story." Sandy stepped on the paper ball on her way to the chair behind her desk.

"What do you mean Terry would never have Bishop over...?"

Sandy shook her head, regretting her words. "Forget what I said. I don't know what I was thinking." She then picked up the phone on her desk.

"Who are you calling?" Helen was hoping her question was rhetorical.

"I'm calling Terry. I'm going to get him to reassign the bodyguard-assassin piece to us."

Helen clenched her fist in triumph.

The in-house company phone number rang only once before an assistant in Terry's office answered.

"Terry Rawlins' office, please hold."

The phone connection then went to elevator music.

Terry's office was constantly flooded with calls, causing the assistants to stack the callers, putting everyone on hold, sometimes for minutes but at times for hours. And when one of the assistants finally did come back on the line, it was usually to only say Terry was unavailable.

Sandy waited while Helen replayed the video over and over again, looking for anything they might have missed the first dozen times they reviewed the footage. Sandy checked her watch and thought about what to do while listening to the Berlin Philharmonic perform their version of "Smoke on the Water."

Then she hung up the phone and got up from her chair.

"Are you all right?" Helen asked.

"I'm fine. But waiting on the phone is a waste of time," said Sandy. "It's 11:38 on a Wednesday. I know where to find Terry." She grabbed a jacket hanging on the door, and before Helen could say another word, Sandy was gone.

--------

Sandy stepped off the elevator at the 57th floor of the OptEnt building, the location of 24/7's main soundstage. She weaved her way through a labyrinth of narrow corridors, walking past several crew members and production personnel preparing to shoot the promos and the lead-in segments for the Sunday broadcast.

At the end of one of the hallways, Sandy came to a stairwell, and climbed three flights to the floor that housed the soundstage control room. When Sandy pushed open the solid black door, she was greeted with a punch of cold air that felt like she was venturing into the walk-in refrigerator at a slaughterhouse.

All of the equipment in the control room functioned at the optimum level only when it was kept at a cool temperature. Cool meant cold to video engineers. Sandy always wore a jacket when she knew she'd be spending some time in the room, such as when one of the intros to one of her segments was being produced.

The control room was also dark. But it wasn't too much of a challenge to navigate through the room because it was essentially divided into two areas. One area had a huge computer console running from one end of the control booth to the other. This is where the director and his crew oversaw the production on the soundstage below, their eyes to the activity on stage provided by a dozen video monitors showing the camera feeds from the set.

"Henson, what is the ETA on Ben's makeup?"

Sandy heard Terry's voice and climbed a set of four stairs to the other area of the control room, known as the Producers' Perch. It was the area of the control room where producers involved with the production had their own access to the activity on the soundstage below.

"No Henson, I heard what you said, but I'm curious as to why Ben's makeup wasn't started before we called the crew back from their last break?"

Terry was sitting in one of the padded chairs, staring at the monitor in his producer's console showing the feed from a stationary camera attached to the lighting grid above the soundstage. The image showed Ben Peters, one of the show's anchor/reporters, on the set being tended to by a makeup artist and a hair stylist.

"Maybe you lost your watch Henson, but it's 11:23, which means if we don't break for lunch in two hours, we go into a meal penalty with the entire crew, plus the production support staff."

At first Sandy thought Terry had noticed her when she'd stepped onto the producer's perch, but when her boss didn't acknowledge her presence she waited for an opportunity to speak up.

"What I'm saying is now would be a good time to kick Davers and Layton in the ass and tell them to get Ben camera-ready so we can start shooting."

The moment he stopped speaking into the mic, Terry pounded his fist hard on the console table. Sandy looked around and noticed that no one in the control room reacted, as if Terry's outburst was a common, daily occurrence that no longer registered on anyone's radar.

Despite the reaction of everyone else around her, Sandy was not prepared to tackle Terry while he was in such a foul mood. Less than a minute after she arrived, she was stepping back toward the small stairway down to the lower floor - then halted when she heard a voice behind her.

"Travers, you're not only alive... you're live, here, in person!"

Terry stood up from his chair and reached his arms out to greet her.

"Seriously... How are you feeling?"

"I'm doing great!"

They embraced and Terry practically squeezed the air out of her lungs before letting go. Whenever anyone asked about Terry Rawlins, Terry always said that yes, Terry deserved his place on the list as one of the toughest son of a bitches who ever worked in the TV news business, but he was also on the top of the list of people who gave the greatest hugs.

"We were really worried about you," said Terry, as he waved Sandy over to sit next to him at the producer's console.

"I appreciate the concern. But I'm doing great. Ready to get back to work. And hey, I really appreciated getting the card and the flowers."

She saw that Terry had no sooner settled back in his chair that his attention was already back on the soundstage video monitor.

"But the Range Rover you bought for Tom and I, that was completely unexpected and over the top. And I'm here to say thank you so much."

Her words got an immediate reaction from Terry. He turned to Sandy with a confused expression on his face that seemed to be just a few ticks away from the rage he would express if what he thought he'd heard was really what he heard. Sandy knew Terry's assistants handled everything in the office. She knew there was an exploitable gap between what Terry wanted done, and what his staff actually did to make it happen.

Terry burst out laughing when he saw her smile.

"Good one, Travers."

Since the first day Terry hired her as an associate producer, he had always used her last name, like he was her high school gym coach. Sandy ended up falling in love with this personality quirk when she realized that, with the exception of the talent who worked in front of the camera, Terry always used the last name of everyone who worked for him, male or female.

"You looked really scared there for a second."

"So I guess you must be doing all right if you're clever enough to bait me like that."

"Yeah, I feel great Terry. Seriously. No problem at all."

The second the last word left her mouth Terry shifted his attention back to the TV monitors on his console.

"I know you're busy Terry, but I wanted to speak to you about the bodyguard, Bernard Rose."

"Let me ask you a question - when you're out in the field with Ben, how much makeup does he use?"

It was as if Terry didn't hear a word she had said, but Sandy answered his question anyway.

"We apply it with a trowel," Sandy replied. "But it's not my face on camera, so I never rush him, and I certainly never pass judgment. All I care about is that when he's in front of the camera he asks all of the questions I've prepared for him."

"Well, right now he's wearing more makeup than my mother before the family picture at Christmas."

"Terry, are you aware that Ben is older than your mother?"

Her joke got Terry to laugh and his attention back on her. She tried to think quickly of the perfect segue to the bodyguard-assassin story, but Terry beat her to the punch.

"I gave the story to Bishop because I was trying to show everyone that I had a heart. No one around here believes I have a heart. But that's why I gave the story to Bishop."

"C'mon Terry, I have no idea why you believe people think you don't have a heart."

Terry stood up in response and shouted out, "Who in this room believes I have a heart? Raise your hand."

No one in the entire control room made a move. Terry was sitting down when a lone young woman standing nearby raised her hand. Believing she recognized her, Sandy squinted so she could get a better look.

"Is that Lauren... your granddaughter?"

"It is Lauren. She's interning with the show for a few months," answered Terry.

"Oh, my god, the last time I saw her she was... like an embryo."

When Sandy turned back to look at Terry he was staring at her with a very serious face.

"Sandy, I do have a heart. You and Tom almost died in Hawaii."

"Where did you hear that Terry? Look at me, do I look like I just died?"

"How's Tom?"

"He's fine. He just got his first opening with the Potters Field gallery on the east side. I was intending to invite you and Ruth to the opening, but now I'm thinking I'll wait until I can see if Bishop can make it."

Just as she expected, rather than feeling assaulted Terry giggled at her joke. A second look at Lauren then got Sandy to realize the last time she really had seen Terry's granddaughter.

"I was wrong. The last time I saw Lauren was four years ago, at your house in the Hamptons. At a wonderful dinner party being held for the newly appointed envoy to the Middle East, John Wolfenson. I don't recall Bishop being there, but do you remember who was there? Bernard Rose, Envoy Wolfenson's bodyguard. I actually spent some time with him out on your back porch as we smoked a couple of cigarettes. Any of this ringing a bell, Terry?"

"Yes Travers, I remember it all very well."

"Well, why don't we say you forgot all about it, and now that I reminded you of this dinner you decided to reassign the Bernard Rose story to me?" said Sandy.

"Okay, the story is yours."

She was stunned that it ended up being so easy. Then when Terry leaned closer to her and lowered his voice, Sandy realized there was something she had missed.

"I was going to speak to you later today. My office just got a call from Bishop's partner. He's in the hospital."

"What! Is he all right?"

"We're still waiting to find out," said Terry. "Apparently he was coming to work and someone on the subway attacked him."

"Jesus..."

Her verbal attacks on Bishop earlier in the morning and just a minute ago flashed across her mind and caused Sandy to cringe inside.

"Unfortunately, no matter what condition he's in, we have to move forward. So the story is yours. As long as what you said is true - you're doing all right?"

"Absolutely. You know me. I'm a power drill that runs on batteries." It was what she had said to Terry in her job interview, and it was something that she continued to repeat whenever he asked how she was doing.

"Look, you should know that Bishop had already begun working on the piece and that he ran up against a wall. With another potentially embarrassing lapse in their ranks no one in the Secret Service is willing to talk on record about how one of their own ends up being an assassin. So I'm warning you, you're going to find it hard to get traction on this story."

"I understand," said Sandy.

She stood up because Terry's gaze had shifted back to the TV monitors in front of him. But before she could leave, Terry said, "Rose sat between you and my wife at dinner. I remember him being a Red Sox fan. And I think he said something about being a swimmer, and winning some medals when he was younger. So what did I miss?"

"I'm not sure you missed anything. I mean, if you missed something, I missed it too."

He shook his head after taking in her words, still not understanding how someone he broke bread with could be a killer. Then Terry saw on his console monitor that a second makeup person had joined the two stylists still working on Ben. The sight caused the executive producer of 24/7 to fly into a rage. He stabbed at the button on his control panel and shouted in the microphone, "I've had enough, Henson. Tell everyone to stand clear so we can start shooting. And if Ben says a word, you tell him that if we don't go now, the next person who'll be working on his face will be a plastic surgeon."

--------

Sandy stepped off the elevator on the 55th floor, but before she proceeded to the reception area, she heard a voice she recognized, one she had not heard in years. He was in the middle of telling a joke, so Sandy waited until he was finished before she entered the lobby.

"... and finally God said, 'Saul, I'll let you win the lottery, but meet me halfway - first you need to buy a lottery ticket!'"

Helen laughed at the punch line as Sandy made her entrance, walking past the reception desk to the waiting area where her associate producer was seated on a leather couch next to Father Alan Olsen. Even before she could announce herself, Olsen stood up as if he knew exactly who had joined them, an impressive feat given he'd been blind for most of his life.

"Sandy, forgive me for just dropping in you like this."

"How did you know it was Sandy?" asked Helen.

"The combination of Neutrogena body lotion and cigarette smoke. Though I would have gladly been in the dark if it meant Sandy had kept her promise to quit her nasty habit."

Between catching the elevator from the 57th floor back to the 55th floor, Sandy had made a detour, wanting to take some time to think about her meeting with Terry while smoking a cigarette on the 56th floor, which had the best outdoor smoking area.

"I tried to quit," said Sandy, "but what can I say, I'm weak and I just love my Neutrogena body lotion."

Sandy silently mouthed Helen a thank you for taking the trouble to sit with Father Olsen before continuing, "And what about you, Alan, I see you haven't changed. Shame on you, a Catholic priest still telling Jewish jokes."

His milky white eyes locked onto Sandy's voice. "Fair enough. I will admit my own weaknesses as well. But very soon it won't matter what kind of jokes I tell."

Sandy knew it had to be something serious to cause him to pay her a visit after having no contact for several years.

"What's wrong, Alan?"

"The Vatican calls it 'Expulsion,'" he replied.

Sandy was confused because he was still wearing his collar and black frock. "You of course are well aware of the differences I have had over the church about their inability to modernize our practices. But I'm afraid I've finally pushed them so far that there will be a parting of ways. The church calls it 'Expulsion.' I'm not sure what the equivalent would be in the secular world."

"On the show they would call it termination of services before being fully vested," said Helen.

Olsen smiled. "Ah, then we are talking the same thing."

Sandy took Olsen into her office, and after having him sit at her desk, played back a digital copy of the original video profile she'd done on him for 24/7 nearly seven years ago, when she was still working her way up the ladder as an associate producer. Doing a segment on the renegade Catholic priest had been her first story pitch to end up getting the greenlight.

The broadcast of a rebel parish priest in New York City and his crusade to modernize the church had ended up reaching an audience of millions of people overnight. The controversy over his views caused a lot of internal problems within the church and many discussions in the media. And the story led to Sandy showing up on Terry's radar as a possible segment producer for the show.

"It sounds like someone I used to know," said Olsen after Sandy paused the video playback. "I hear him speak, but it feels like it's not me."

At the time she'd done her story, Father Olsen was considered a maverick within the church because he had been pushing the Catholic hierarchy to update their policies on issues he believed were completely out of touch with modern times. In the video story profiling his crusade, Olsen had railed on such issues as female priests, contraception, and even abortion.

"I'm not sure I understand," replied Sandy.

"You would have to confirm this for me, but I'm sure I have less hair and more weight. The point is that I've changed, but the voice you just played for me, that's still the same one that Rome hears, even though I'm now trying to sing a different tune."

"I'm still not sure I understand, Alan. I know the home office was upset when the story aired, but they ultimately didn't take any action. Are you telling me they're kicking you out now, over the same issues?"

"It's not over the same issues." He reached into his cassock, pulled out a photograph and set it on the desk. "I've just returned from Jerusalem. I was there to investigate claims made by parents of a young boy," said Olsen, tapping the photograph with his index finger. "Mom and Dad claimed their son was possessed and... ended up believing their claims."

"Really?" is all Sandy managed to say before picking up the photograph. The picture depicted a young boy holding a soccer ball, with long curly black hair, and a smile that was awkward because he was missing one of his maxillary incisors.

"His name is Ami," Father Olsen continued, "and he had no symptoms of mental illness. Of course with my training I ruled that out before I would even consider any other possibilities. Over a period of several weeks, I met with the boy six times and during these sessions there were things he said to me when he was not under direct control of the demon that possessed him. Some of the words were interesting, new, I guess I should admit that a few of the phrases I had heard before, but they didn't immediately register as words that came from the Bible. The more I looked into what I heard him say, the more troubled I became."

She reached out for his hand, but the moment she touched him, Olsen flinched. Normally he would not have reacted in such a way, but as he was relating the details of his recent experiences with Ami, he had almost disengaged from the reality of being in the office with Sandy.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"No, forgive me Sandy. I am... I have not been myself for a while." He reached out to her and this time they clasped hands.

"Alan, are you all right?"

"I'm mentally sound. That's the answer I'm sure you no doubt want to hear right now. But it's important to me that you believe my answer because I've come here for a reason."

"Go ahead. Tell me why you're here."

Without even catching his breath, Father Olsen said, "I believe that if your show did a story on the situation I've encountered, it would expose what is happening and change everything. Exposure is the last thing these people want."

Sandy wanted to release his hand, not because she didn't care, but because she realized the little comfort she was providing would not be up to the task confronting her.

"There were three phrases that continued to come up whenever Ami was lucid. One was 'The Restrainer'..."

"I'm sorry, I've never heard the term." She let go of his hand. "Let me grab my notebook and write this down."

Father Olsen waited just a few seconds before continuing, "Thessalonians 2:6--'For the secret power of lawlessness is already at work; the Restrainer who now holds Satan back will continue to do so 'til the Restrainer is taken out of the way.' Once the Restrainer is eliminated, Satan will be walking amongst us. The Restrainer's death would unleash Armageddon."

"Alan, I can't go to my boss quoting scripture when I'm pitching him a story."

"Of course. Yes. Absolutely. Let me start over. Ami also repeatedly spoke the words - Har Megiddo."

"Har Megiddo is the place the Bible declares will be the setting for the final battle between Good and Evil."

"Yes Sandy, very good."

But he did not pick up on the tone of skepticism in Sandy's voice when she'd answered.

"Ami kept repeating that I needed to go to Har Megiddo. So I finally went. You may know recent excavations there have discovered ancient Christian texts known as the Diei Demonici..."

"Diei Demonici?"

"Diei Demonic translated from Latin is Demon Days. The phrase is a reference to what we commonly refer to as the End Days."

He waited for her to react but when she didn't he sighed.

"You're so silent I can hear you roll your eyes."

"I'm sorry, Father... but as I said before, I can't go to my boss and pitch him this. You understand, right?"

"I'm not doing a very good job of explaining myself. Everything I've learned since the attempted exorcism on this boy has led me to believe that we're in danger. Something is happening. Right now."

"So you did an exorcism on the boy. How did that work out?"

"It's the reason Rome is using to throw me out of the church. I did not have authorization."

"I'm sorry. How did the exorcism turn out?"

"It was not complete. Before I could continue with the rites of exorcism the boy managed to flee the place where we were performing the ritual."

The door to Sandy's office opened and Helen stepped in. "I'm really sorry to interrupt. Sandy, Terry is in my office and he says it's urgent and he needs to speak with you." Helen turned to the priest. "I'm so sorry, Father Olsen..."

She felt bad, but there was so much to do. Sandy had sent Helen a text... a 911... that she knew was her cue to interrupt a meeting.

Olson stood up from his chair and said, "Please... there's no need to apologize. I'm the uninvited guest who has overstayed his welcome."

"Alan..."

"Forgive me. That did not come out at all..."

He didn't finish his sentence. Instead he regrouped by reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a business card, and placing it on the desk next to the picture of Ami.

"The number on the card will be good for another week, until I vacate my office at the church. I know how this all sounds. But look at me. Don't I look like the same man you profiled years ago?"

Sandy looked over at Helen, who was waiting at the door to escort Olsen out. She was there because Sandy had used her mobile phone to text Helen the word "stop." It was their agreed upon code word for Helen to break up a meeting with a fake emergency.

"You've lost some hair, and you've put on some weight," said Sandy, "but yes, you look like the same man."

"Please, Sandy, can we talk again?"

"Of course, Alan. I'll definitely call you."

--------

Sandy's shock and concern was genuine when she first heard of Bishop's mishap. Nevertheless, she and Helen ended up spending the rest of the day scrambling to get on top of the story Terry had re-assigned to her. It was only when riding on the subway back to her apartment did Sandy realized she had not once thought about Bishop.

She pulled out her mobile phone to order some flowers, but the subway train was travelling underground and she couldn't get a connection.

"Authentic" was a word Sandy often used as the litmus test for anyone she talked to for the show. She looked for any signs in their behavior that would indicate the person wasn't authentic. Not thinking of Bishop's wellbeing during the entire day made her wonder how she would do on her own litmus test.

At her stop the subway train's doors opened and Sandy exited along with the other passengers. She immediately scanned the platform's surroundings before heading toward the stairs leading to the street. Sandy called the quick search for any potential dangers her "paranoid pan." It was a tactic she initiated years ago on her first visit to the Big Apple when she was just a teenager. Even though Sandy had an aura of self-confidence that led people to believe she had grown up in the city, she came off like a native New Yorker only because she had spent all of her life working to be one. Sandy had in fact been born in Connecticut, but spent all of her childhood in Morristown, New Jersey. And as long as she could remember all she could think about was being a journalist, dreaming of the day she would be part of the city that had always felt like it was in her life blood.

It was a few minutes past eight pm when Sandy's scan of her platform surroundings failed to pick up anything unusual. Walking with the rest of the passengers to the stairway, Sandy stopped before taking the first step.

Her eyes caught sight of a man on the other side of the tracks. He was standing like a statue on the edge of the platform, with a vapid look in his eyes, but his lips were moving as if he was talking to himself, just like many of the mentally ill homeless people Sandy encountered throughout the city.

And yet this one was different, prompting Sandy to veer away from the stairwell. She walked across the station platform with her eyes focused on the man across the way. When she recognized the clothes and the features on the man's face, it was only shock that caused her to lose her voice for a few seconds before reclaiming it.

"Tom! Tom! Tom!"

She waited for a reaction, but when the man didn't seem to hear her, Sandy tried shouting again, but her yelling was suppressed by the noise of a train pulling into the station.

Sandy's feet shifted nervously in place as she anxiously kept an eye out for the man who looked like Tom as he at first was swallowed up the debarking passengers, then seemed to disappear altogether with the crowd of people boarding the subway train. She quickly scanned the windows of the train as it left the station, but couldn't locate the man she had just seen seconds earlier. And after the train departed Sandy saw the platform of deserted.

She rushed from the subway station to the street, then ran the next three blocks to her apartment building. Sandy burst into the apartment screaming Tom's name but was greeted with silence. Tom had always been good at keeping her informed of his whereabouts. When his work wasn't going well, Tom would often slip away for a walk around the neighborhood to clear his head. Sometimes during a particularly acute fit of creative frustration, Tom would disappear for a longer period of time, but he would always let her know he had left with a note attached with a magnet to the fridge or a voice message recorded on their answering machine.

Sandy rushed over to their answering machine on the bar and saw there were no messages. She hurried into the kitchen and checked out the refrigerator door--Nothing. She called out Tom's name again, but the apartment was empty.

Despite her inclination to go back to the subway station, she stayed at the apartment hoping Tom would call or show up. Two hours went by as Sandy ended up pacing back and forth in front of the wall of glass in her living room, ignoring the grumbling noises coming from her stomach from not having a bite to eat since noon.

As she was standing out on the balcony overlooking the street below, Sandy finally heard the noise of the front door opening. She rushed in from the balcony.

"Tom?"

"Hey!"

The single word he shouted out was loud and upbeat, certainly not contrite or low key like was hiding something.

Sandy rushed across the room and was able to cut him off before he had even moved more than a dozen feet from the entryway. She glanced at his clothes, and confirmed he was wearing the same clothes she saw the man wearing in the subway. Her eyes quickly moved to take in her fiance's face which Sandy was surprised to discover no longer looked like someone who was lost and aimless. In fact everything about Tom as he stood a few feet away from Sandy had any resemblance to the disheveled, hopeless looking homeless man she saw in the subway.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't leave a note or anything. I only realized that just this minute as I was on the elevator. I'm so sorry."

He looked like her Tom, the one she had been with for seven years. She rushed up and almost knocked him down when she embraced him.

"What a nice greeting," said Tom. "I'm going to apologize more often if this is what's on the other side."

"I'm just glad you're home."

Just now when I was walking back did I realize how I had completely forgotten to let you know where I was."

She let him go and stepped back. Sandy wanted to take more look at him before launching into what she wanted to say.

Even with a second look, she could not believe the man standing in front of her was the same man she saw hours earlier in the subway. But there was enough of a resemblance that Sandy had no inclination to forego mentioning the incident.

"I'm so happy to see you because I thought I saw you earlier tonight," she said. "I was coming home on the subway, and when I got off at my stop I saw you, across the tracks..."

Tom furrowed his brow as if what she was saying was not possible. Despite the look, she continued.

"You were sitting there waiting for the train and... well, you looked like... something was wrong." Tom had begun to smile, causing her to struggle with the right words to explain exactly what she saw. "You looked... upset. No, you looked... devastated. You were mumbling to yourself... like you had been traumatized by..."

She stopped before saying what she wanted to say--"Like a bomb had gone off nearby" - because Sandy suddenly remembered that Tom had actually gone through something similar.

"Really? You mean like a helicopter accident..."

She didn't know how to respond. It wasn't as if Tom was challenging her with an intense look of denial on his face. He still had a smile on his face as if everything she had been saying was a long joke and he was waiting for her to deliver the punch line.

So she laughed... as if he had delivered the punch line to her joke. Tom stepped around her and entered the apartment.

"Hey, I know it sounds crazy, but I definitely saw someone that looked just you."

"When did this happen?"

"A little after eight o'clock."

Tom didn't respond as he made his way to the kitchen. Sandy stopped him just as he was about to open the refrigerator.

"Are you all right?"

The corners of his mouth fell a bit before he answered. "No, I'm not all right. In the mail today we got a bill from the car rental place in Hawaii. Even though they promised they weren't going to apply a late charge to our credit card, they did it anyway. I was so pissed, I just had to get out of here and go for a walk."

She studied his face for a twitching eyelid, a trembling lip, any hint of the anguish she had witnessed in the subway. And though something was definitely different about the way Tom looked, she couldn't put her finger on it.

Tom grabbed a coke from the refrigerator and shut the door.

"Where would you go this late at night?"

"Well, first it started out as a walk around the block, then I ended up grabbing the subway to Central Park. I found a spot on the lawn and laid down for a bit." He took a swig from his coke and was swallowing when his eyes lit up. "I almost forgot, they were shooting Law and Order near the reservoir. I stuck around to watch them and thought about you. You would have loved it."

Sandy loved all the Law and Order shows. With her busy schedule it was one of the few quality shows she could watch because there was no continuing storyline. And over the years a lot of her friends she went to school with had bit parts on the show. Tom knew all of this, but for some reason she suspected he was only telling her this to change the direction of their conversation.

When she didn't respond, Tom turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm and stopped him.

"I'm serious here," said Sandy.

Tom stared at her expressionless for a few seconds before asking, "Then why are you smiling?"

She couldn't help herself. After a few seconds of just staring at him, her face broke into a smile. No matter what was going on with Tom, he at least had not lost his memory. Maybe he had even acquired a better sense of humor since the accident.

But instead of following up on their connection, Tom turned to walk away.

"Where are you going?"

"To bed. My mad wanderings today have made me feel like I'm going to collapse any second. I'm still taking the drugs from the accident. Maybe that's why I feel so tired."

He walked out of the kitchen and toward their bedroom without Sandy saying a word. She stood there, next to the refrigerator wondering if he would even notice she had not said a word and was not following him.

The noise of Tom opening their bedroom door and closing it behind him was her answer.

--------

The early morning sun peeking through the window in their bedroom allowed Sandy the opportunity to get a good look at Tom as he slept. She was able to clearly see what she first noticed last night--the skin on his face was perfectly smooth. It was as if during the emergency surgery in the Maui hospital the doctors who saved his life had also decided to slip in a facelift for kicks.

Sandy wondered if the skin on Tom's face felt as different as it appeared. She had been dying to find out the answer, but spent the last hour working up the courage to touch Tom's face.

Then her alarm clock went off.

Tom's eyes flashed open. He caught a flash of Sandy's finger hovering over his face before her finger moved away to silence her alarm clock.

"What's going on?"

"What?"

Sandy rolled back over, now laying on top of Tom.

"Your finger was hovering over my face."

She then did what she had been dying to do all night - touched Tom's face with her hand, and covered her action by saying, "I was going to wake you up by doing this..."

Sandy then kissed Tom passionately.

When they broke from their kiss, she asked him, "Any objections?"

"None." He moved to kiss her again, but stopped. "Wait. I have one. Why are you up so early?"

"I'm sorry," said Sandy. "I forgot to tell you last night that Helen and I are flying to D.C. today. Remember the bodyguard who tried to assassinate the Israeli Prime Minister... the story we heard over the radio in Hawaii?"

"How could I forget?"

"Well, Terry assigned it to me."

"You're kidding me? After almost being killed in a helicopter accident, and on the first day back to work, Terry has no problem assigning a major story for you to cover?"

"I'm not sure I'm getting your point," said Sandy.

She expected Tom to react in the same way he had in the past about Terry's lack of empathy, but her fiance was not amused at all.

"Are you all right?"

She couldn't believe his question. Ever since that night when Tom talked about his N.D.E. Sandy had run the exact same thought at least a hundred times through her brain, but the context for the question was to get the answer from Tom, not her.

"Are you talking about me?"

"It's just that after what you said last night, about seeing a guy in the subway who looked exactly like me, it got me to worry about you.

"Honey, I went through dozens of scans of my head, but no one did a thing to you. Maybe they missed something."

"Tom, I'm fine. I appreciate your concern. But I'm fine." Sandy looked over at the clock, and seeing the time allowed her to roll off of Tom, and this time he did not stop her.

"Shit, look at the time. I need to start getting ready."

Sandy hopped off the bed to the bathroom.

"How long will you be gone?"

She had started the water running in the shower and never heard Tom's question.

The 24/7 car service picked up Sandy thirty minutes later in the front of their apartment building. Helen was waiting in the back seat with all the research they had accumulated in the last 24 hours about everybody who was involved with the assassination attempt in Tel Aviv. Together they reviewed the information on the way to JFK airport and on their flight to Washington D.C.

After they landed at Dulles airport, Sandy tried one last time to get in touch with the Under Secretary for Political Affairs, Robert Davis, to discuss the assassination attempt in Israel by Bernie Rose. Her latest phone call went the same way the previous attempts had gone, with no chance of contact and Davis' assistant sounding as if she was reading from a prepared script - "Robert Davis, the Under Secretary for Political Affairs, has a press release for all media outlets on the State Department's official website. Beyond the press release, Mr. Davis will have no further comment on the assassination attempt in Tel Aviv. Are there any more questions?"

The only question Sandy had was whether Robert Davis was behaving in a dodgy way because of the specific story she was pursuing... or because he was being dodgy for personal reasons.

Before she met Tom, Sandy had dated Robert Davis.

It happened at a point when she was not the only one who had noticed his attractive qualities. TIME Magazine had just declared Davis one of The 50 Most Promising American Leaders Under Age 40.

Some people absorb such moments in the media spotlight as an accomplish they had not only hoped for, but perhaps had orchestrated.

Robert Davis was not one of those people. This was something Sandy found as an attractive quality when she and Davis began seeing each other. But somehow this attractive quality might have been the foundation behind what she witnessed in the ensuing months - Davis suffering a complete mental meltdown. Any deeper thoughts Sandy had about the situation were basically impossible due to the brief duration of their relationship, which ended up being much shorter than the time and energy the two spent breaking up.

Gaining access to the Department of State without an appointment would be difficult. Sandy had figured an approach and contacted her college roommate, Gwen Parsons. Gwen had gone straight from her graduation at Penn State to a junior advisor position at one of the top lobbyist firms in Washington D.C. The fact that Gwen's father was the major partner at the company had something to do with her entry-level job and her quick sprint up the company ladder. When Sandy called for help, Gwen had no trouble booking a meeting at the Truman building with an official at the State department, listing Sandy as one of her colleagues from the firm who would be at the meeting.

Sandy accompanied Gwen through the ground floor security checkpoint of the Truman building, then they both rode one of the building's 43 elevators to the 4th floor.

Gwen exited the elevator for the scheduled meeting, but Sandy stayed onboard and hit the button for the 7th floor. After the doors opened, she made her way to the floor's designated smoking area.

--------

Robert Davis had a lit cigarette in his mouth as he exited the doors to the Truman building's 7th floor smoking area. He was able to get a few relaxing puffs in before he heard a voice from the other side of the courtyard.

"Hey Robbie, I knew it was only a matter of time before you showed up here."

Davis had missed seeing Sandy standing in the shadows near some tables set up for people to use during their meal break.

"Sandy? What are you doing? Are you stalking me?"

He immediately regretted his choice of words.

"Me... stalking you?"

Sandy took a drag from her cigarette and waited for him to explain dodging all her calls. Davis turned away from her and continued to smoke his cigarette, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. He knew there were CCTV cameras positioned all around the smoking courtyard, feeding images to a security room on the basement floor of the building. He had visited the department himself and marveled at how the wall of monitors looked like the security control room at a major Las Vegas casino.

"You probably thought you were being clever here, but the entire courtyard is lined with cameras. So we need to pretend that we just politely said hello to each other before going our separate ways."

For a few moments, Sandy remained silent, allowing Davis to think what he had said was going to allow him to escape.

She then shouted across the courtyard, "I'm working the Tel Aviv assassination story for 24/7. When I was assigned the story I was thrilled because I knew I had a great source at the State Department. Someone who owed me personally... big time."

He shook his head in disbelief, and nervously took a long drag from his cigarette before responding.

"Maybe you didn't hear me," said Davis. "My people know about our prior relationship. If anyone suspects I'm your source about what happened in Tel Aviv, I will get the full rectal."

"I very much doubt they know everything about our past relationship, Robbie. So either you start talking about what you know about Rose and Tel Aviv... or get ready to practice coughing with a rubber glove up your ass."

"Sands, listen to me. I promise, I'll make good on your marker the next round," said Davis, staring in the direction of the flower garden running parallel to the east courtyard wall. "There's too many eyes on what's happening right now."

She took her time with an answer, knowing the longer she remained silent, the more pressure it would put on him to cooperate.

"Here's my problem. If I go back to New York without anything new on this story, I'll feel the compulsion to pitch Terry something else to make up for my failure. And the only other story I can think of to pitch is about a high-ranking State Department official with a credibility problem due to his past inability to handle rejection in his personal life. I think Terry will go for the pitch after seeing the security video I have of this State Department official breaking and entering into a woman's apartment, and then running around naked as he performs lewd..."

"Shut Up!"

He screamed the words so loud, a bird resting on one of the courtyard tables was startled enough to take flight. Davis angrily threw his cigarette down on the ground and stomped on the butt as if it was a live cockroach.

Sandy waited in silence, confident she had finally gotten through to him.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why won't any of my contacts at the Secret Service talk?"

Before answering, Davis pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it up.

"They won't talk because it turns out Rose had a lot of mental problems, and the professional attention he received was not standard protocol."

"What do you mean?"

Davis turned in another direction as if his interest was the spectacular view of George Washington University.

"When Rose was suspended, standard protocol would have been for him to consult with a staff therapist. But Rose was assigned a shrink from the private sector. No one at the Secret Service will admit how or why this happened. A short month later, Rose was given a clean bill of health from his private sector shrink, just in time for Rose to fly unrestricted to Tel Aviv and wind up standing outside the U.S. embassy waving his service weapon."

"So who was the private sector therapist who ended up treating Rose?" She watched Davis exhale a thick cloud of smoke before responding.

"You'll have to go to someone else for an answer. The shrink's name was redacted from all the briefing reports that came across my desk."

Davis looked at his watch and saw he had gone past the maximum time he normally spent on his cigarette break. If they took too much longer, the security camera feed of him standing in the courtyard would be flagged by the computer program and there would be a standard pre-cautionary search of the footage for any behavioral discrepancies.

"Are we done here?"

"I hope not. If you walk away now, we're both screwed," shouted Sandy. "I can't go back to Terry with only what you've said so far."

There was silence for a few seconds, long enough for Sandy to note the noise of traffic in the near distance.

"Everyone is assuming the target was the Israeli Prime Minister because Rose was guarding John Wolfenson for years and could have killed him anytime, But the truth was that John Wolfenson, the envoy to the Middle East was really Rose's target."

"How do you know this?"

"The C.I.A.'s report on the incident makes a big deal about Rose contacting Wolfenson prior to the Tel Aviv assassination attempt. But the Middle East Envoy refuses to meet with him, and two days later, Rose shows up in Israel, in front of the U.S. embassy, packing his service revolver."

Davis waited for his words to sink in, before throwing his last cigarette into an ashtray, and walking back toward the building.

"If I find out you've lied to me, or you knew more than what you've given me, you won't be happy. The security video I have of you wearing my panties on your head while spray painting nasty words on my apartment walls will be going straight to the sleaziest Internet site I can find. Are we clear?"

Davis raised his hand over his head to acknowledge her threat before he slipped back into the building.

Sandy sat down on the bench and took the last bite of her sandwich. She would need to stay in the courtyard for a few more minutes, but was satisfied that she got everything she could from her source at the State Department.

--------

For the last hour, Sandy and Helen had been watching the gathering outside the main gate continue to grow. The two women were in their rental car across the street from the Capshaw Capital Preschool, waiting for the classes to let out for the day. Parents, nannies, and guardians had been arriving in droves to pick up their children attending the expensive and exclusive school located near the capital building. Julie Rose, the widow of the assassin in Tel Aviv, had their son attending Capshaw Capital Preschool. Sandy and Helen were waiting and hoping Julie Rose would appear in person to pick up her son.

"I'm embarrassed to admit the bulk of my homework on the assassination in Tel Aviv focused on the Israeli Prime Minister, not the Quartet Envoy to the Middle East."

Helen made this confession in response to Sandy's update about what she had learned from her contact at the Truman Center.

"Don't be embarrassed," Sandy replied. "Only a few people besides foreign policy wonks know about the existence of the Quartet Envoy or have even heard the name John Wolfenson. Let me tell you all I know..."

Helen whipped out a notepad and pen from her jacket, and in less than five seconds was ready to take notes. Unlike many of her millennial cohorts, she was not a tech geek. In fact, her Luddite leanings almost prevented Helen from making it past the first round of job interviews with Sandy when she applied for the position of associate producer with 24/7.

"If you're looking for someone who can break apart a smart phone and reassemble it in the dark, I can give you my roommate's Facebook address," said Helen during that initial interview. Even though Sandy had intended to hire an associate producer who could compensate for her lack of hi-tech skills, she went with Helen because they both seemed to be rowing in the same direction. When Sandy told Helen the good news, and let her in on why she'd been hired, Helen's response was to say, "You know there's an app you could have downloaded that would have made sure you and your new associate producer were always rowing in the same direction."

"John Wolfenson became the youngest head of the World Bank at 34 years old. Before that achievement, his bona fides included being a member of the Trilateral Commission and the Council on Foreign Relations. Nineteen months ago he took over for Tony Blair as the Quartet's Special Envoy."

Though Helen knew little about Wolfenson, she knew the basic history of the Quartet's Special Envoy. The diplomatic position was created in 2002 in Madrid, with the singular purpose of helping to ease tensions in the Middle East.

"But here's what shocked me," said Helen, "the Quartet is made up of representatives from the United States, the European Union, Russia and the United Nations. Hard to believe that these four groups, who have never agreed on anything, somehow agreed on appointing a special envoy to the Middle East."

Sandy laughed, then asked Helen, "Don't tell me you've become one of those conspiracy nut jobs?"

"Never," answered Helen immediately. "But in the case of the Quartet, the diplomatic office hasn't been a feature of conspiracy theories because it's mostly been a punchline since its inception."

"You're right," said Sandy. "But that's changed when John Wolfenson was appointed as the new envoy. He's been working earnestly for years to bring peace to the region. And before Bernard Rose came along, it looked like Wolfenson was that close to bringing Israel and seven other countries in the Middle East together to sign a peace treaty."

"Wow, he must be quite the guy. You know him. What's his secret?" asked Helen.

Sandy shook her head immediately.

"I've never claimed to know John Wolfenson. I've met him, spent some time with him. Look, he's no Martin Luther King. He's not even a Ronald Reagan. John Wolfenson is not who I would pick out of a line of suspects if I was being asked to finger the guy who could bring peace to the Middle East."

"And yet he may pull it off," said Helen. "So what's your theory?"

She thought long and hard before answering. And in the silence, the attention of both women stayed on the crowd of people waiting outside the preschool. They were keeping a close eye on two men who they suspected were connected to Julie Rose and her son. It was not their appearance that gave them away; both were wearing the same type of clothes as the other fathers milling outside the main gate - jeans, sneakers, and a sports shirt. The difference was in their behavior. Neither seemed interested in mingling with the other parents, their attention focused entirely on the activity happening beyond the front gate of the school.

"I met a young woman at Terry's house in the Hamptons," said Sandy, finally responding to Helen's question. "This woman was part of Wolfenson's office staff, not a career government worker, but someone who was really proud of what they were all doing on behalf of the Quartet Envoy. She wanted to show me a picture of her and Wolfenson posing with the President of the United States and the German Chancellor. But when she got out her mobile phone, and pulled up the photograph, it turns out the envoy wasn't in the photograph she wanted to show me. She was there, standing between the President of the United States and the German Chancellor - but no Wolfenson."

"It was like he had become invisible," interrupted Helen.

Sandy looked over at her co-producer and nodded.

"Yeah. Exactly. If Wolfenson gets this peace treaty to fly, it's because he's able to become invisible. He allows the other people around him to shine."

Sandy suddenly sat up in her seat. "I think that's her..." She raised a pair of binoculars to her eyes and looked in the direction of the preschool.

A woman wearing sweat pants, a jacket over her blouse and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap pulled down over her face was crossing the street toward the main gate.

"Yeah, that's Julie Rose for sure."

The two women quickly exited their rental car. They immediately crossed the street before moving in the direction of the pre-school. As they approached the main gate, Sandy saw a young boy move from the supervision of his teacher only to be swept up into the arms of his mother a few feet later.

Sandy made note of the boy's appearance - pageboy haircut, brown hair, brown eyes, black corduroy pants, and a Red Sox tee-shirt underneath a light blue jacket. But then her view became obstructed.

"Excuse me... is there a problem?"

It was one of the two bodyguards Sandy and Helen had been watching. Sandy ignored the question posed by the security guy, keeping her attention on Julie Rose, who was about six feet away, still embracing her son.

"Mrs. Rose, can we speak with you for a moment?"

Julie Rose heard Sandy's overture, and it caused her to tighten her grip around her son before responding.

"What do you want?"

Sandy made sure her answer was both low in volume and serene in tone, "We just want to speak with you."

"About what?"

"We're producers for the TV show 24/7," said Sandy, choosing all of her words carefully, hoping to avoid alarming the young boy. "We want to talk to you about what happened recently in Tel Aviv."

Julie Rose stood up while still holding her son's hand. "I've been told not to talk about the situation with anyone."

"Told not to talk by who, the Secret Service?" Helen followed up her question by nodding to the two men who were standing between them.

"These two gentlemen are not Secret Service agents," said Julie. "Mr. Randal and Mr. Lloyd are part of a private security firm my lawyer hired to look after me... and my son."

Helen was surprised. Every inch of the beef standing in front of them screamed Secret Service agents.

"And this cute boy is your son?"

Sandy held her hands out to her side, clearly showing the bodyguards she was not armed, and no threat to their client.

"Yes, this is Bradley," Julie immediately answered with a surprising amount of good cheer.

"Hey, look, your shoe is untied," said Sandy. She used her observation to justify quickly stepping around one of the bodyguards, then falling to one knee in front of the boy.

"It's all right," said Julie, waving off the bodyguard as he reacted to Sandy's security breach.

"I love your shirt, Bradley," said Sandy as she carefully tied the boy's shoes.

"We're not losers. We're the Red Sox. We won the World Series." The boy spoke the words in an adorable but robotic way, as if all he was doing was mimicking what he had been taught... by someone who was a Red Sox fan.

Sandy laughed and then said, "I know your daddy was a big Red Sox fan."

"You knew Bernie?" asked Julie.

"No, I didn't know your husband," said Sandy as she stood up. "But I met him a few years ago at a dinner party hosted by my boss at 24/7. I got a chance to talk with Mr. Rose for awhile. We were both smoking outside."

Julie shook her head, acknowledging her husband's smoking habit.

"Honestly, I find it shocking... unbelievable really, that the same man I spent time with that night could be the same man responsible for..."

She stopped talking when Julie Rose picked up her son and turned away from her.

"Look, we're so sorry to disturb you during this difficult time," said Sandy. "We understand if you're not interested in talking to us. And if that's the case, I promise you, we won't bother you again."

She waited, but when Sandy did not get a reply, she motioned to Helen, and both women turned to walk away. But before they could even take a step, Julie finally responded.

"You said you work for 24/7. Does that mean you know Ben Peters?"

When Sandy turned back around, she didn't bother to restrain her excitement at Julie Rose's question.

"Not only do I know Ben Peters, he's been pretty much the only reporter I've worked with since I became a field producer at 24/7."

"Bernie watched your show every week," said Julie. "His favorite reporter on the show was Ben Peters. Bernie would always say that Ben never took any crap from anyone he was covering for a story. There's a picture of my husband and Ben... hanging in our living room."

Julie choked on the final few words before looking away.

"Mommy, are you all right?"

She wiped her eyes before responding to her son.

"Yes, honey, Mommy is fine." She offered Bradley a reassuring smile before turning her attention back to Sandy.

"I do have something to say about what happened with Bernie. Things I told the Secret Service, before... Tel Aviv, but they didn't want to hear it. I know my husband would want people to know what happened, and if he had a choice in the matter, he'd want to tell his story to Ben Peters."

Sandy stepped closer to Julie and her son so she could lower her voice. "Here's how it works - we're the two people you speak to first to tell your story. Then Ben comes in later to interview you on camera. But that doesn't mean you can't talk to Ben on the phone right now if that will make you feel good about trusting us to tell your story."

"So you're saying I could talk to Ben Peters right now?"

"I can have him on the phone in less than an hour, if you agree to speak with us about what happened with your husband," said Sandy.

Julie Rose fixed her eyes on Sandy, obviously trying to judge whether Sandy was someone she could trust. During this intense, silent scrutiny, which only lasted a few seconds, Sandy made it a point not to look away.

"We're in that red SUV parked up the street. Follow us to our house," said Julie. "We'll park in the driveway. But you need to keep going up the street, then turn and park in the alleyway behind the house."

"Okay, sounds good," said Sandy.

"And I'll be able to talk with Ben Peters?"

Sandy nodded confidently, "We'll have Ben Peters on the phone before we step into the house. How does that sound?"

Julie Rose's response was to tap the shoulder of one of the bodyguards, "Mr. Lloyd, can you escort us to our car? And let's allow these women to follow us home."

She then lowered Bradley to the sidewalk so mother and son could walk together behind the two bodyguards, who led the way to their waiting vehicle.

--------

THE SUV with Julie Rose and her son pulled into the paved driveway of a two-story Tudor townhouse, located just a few miles from the Capshaw Capitol Preschool. The bodyguards hopped out of the vehicle and began scanning the perimeter.

Sandy locked eyes with one of the bodyguards as she drove past the home in the rental car.

"I checked for Bernard Rose's permanent residence and came up empty," said Helen. "Either they are staying with friends or family, or the house isn't listed in Bernard or Julie Rose's name."

"Well at least that explains why there is no media camping out in front of the house," said Sandy.

Halfway down the street, she turned right, and in less than a hundred yards turned right again into an alleyway that ran behind the townhouses on the block.

They drove past a man walking his bullmastiff dog, and then parked in the alleyway, next to a waist-high wooden fence running around the perimeter of the townhouse. Julie Rose was waiting in the backyard doorway, while one of her bodyguards stood on the paver stone pathway cutting through the middle of the garden.

Helen handed Sandy her mobile phone before they got out of the car. "Ben's on the line, ready to go..."

The assassin's widow was pacing in the laundry room as she talked on Helen's mobile phone. The two producers from 24/7 waited patiently on the backyard stoop for the outcome of the phone conversation.

Ben Peter's voice was loud enough that Sandy could catch some of what he was saying to Julie. As a player in the journalism game for over 50 years, Ben had become one of the godheads in the industry, a legend in his own time. Only those who actually worked with him every day knew the real human being that existed underneath the marble veneer the rest of the public saw. But what Sandy saw every day made her confident Ben Peters would have no trouble closing the deal.

"I really appreciate you talking to me. Bernie would have loved to have met you. I'm also sure he would have appreciated his story being part of your show."

Julie had a look of relief on her face as she handed the phone back to Helen.

"Thank you for following through with what you promised. Please, the both of you, come in."

Sandy and Helen followed the assassin's widow down the hallway leading from the backyard toward the front of the townhouse. They heard the sounds of a cartoon show coming from the second floor. When they first arrived, Julie had told them that Bradley was in his bedroom watching TV with his nanny. When they came upon the family room, there was no doubt that it was the permanent residence of the assassin. One of the walls in the room was covered floor to ceiling with framed photographs of him.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Sandy looked over at Helen before responding, "Thank you, Mrs. Rose, we're fine."

"Please, sit down."

Before taking Julie up on her invitation, Sandy noted that one of the bodyguards was standing near the front windows facing the street, peering through a crack in the drawn curtains. The other bodyguard remained in the back of the house, monitoring the yard facing the alleyway.

She sat down in one of two leather club chairs placed next to each other. While Julie Rose took a seat in the other leather chair, Helen drifted to the wall adorned with the framed pictures.

"How do you want to start?" asked Julie.

Sandy pulled out a tape recorder from her jacket. "If you don't mind, we'd like to record this. It helps us when we plan our story."

Julie nodded, but Sandy would need more. She hit the record button on the audio digital recorder and placed it on a coffee table that separated the two leather chairs.

"This is Sandy Travis, and we're beginning an audio interview with Julie Rose in her Washington D.C. townhouse. She is aware that this interview is being recorded and will acknowledge her agreement by any words she chooses to use, but if you don't mind, Ms. Rose, can you include the words, 'I'm aware of this recording device and agree to have this interview recorded."

"You can both call be Julie." Sandy and Helen smiled, but remained silent, waiting for Julie Rose to say more. "Sorry... Yes, I'm aware I'm being recorded and agree to this interview being recorded. Is that all right?"

"Close enough," said Sandy, pausing long enough to proceed smoothly to the next point in their agenda. "If you feel comfortable, I think it would be best if our discussion was just between the three of us." Sandy motioned then nodded toward the bodyguard standing in the family room.

"Mr. Lloyd, can you give us some time alone?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered the bodyguard. "Do you mind if I keep watch from your master bedroom?"

"That will be fine," answered Julie.

Sandy waited until the bodyguard had disappeared up the stairs to the second floor of the townhouse.

"So, how are you holding up?"

"I'm all right. More angry than upset," answered Julie.

Sandy could not help observing that the assassin's widow looked neither angry nor upset as she said the words. In Sandy's experience, there were three basic emotions exhibited by people who had recently suffered the tragic loss of a loved one and Julie Rose had mentioned two of them. The other was confusion.

"When you heard the news about your husband, where were you?"

"I was here. Actually, in the kitchen. My girlfriend had called me, frantic, telling me to turn on the news. I couldn't really understand what she was saying, but I heard the words 'Tel Aviv' and my husband's name, and I hung up the phone, afraid to turn on the TV. When I did, the moment I saw what was being reported... I knew it was Bernie. He was the one... the assassin."

"How did you know it was your husband?" asked Sandy.

"I just knew. You can barely see his face in the videos, but I knew it was Bernie. I knew it was my husband, lying there."

Even though Julie continued to respond to her questions without showing much emotion, Sandy took her time before proceeding.

"Did you know what husband planned on doing?"

"No. Of course not. But I did know something was wrong with him. Weeks before I had tried to help him, but everything I said, everything I did, only seemed to drive him further away from me. I finally got so desperate that I decided to break the wall of silence."

"Wall of silence?" asked Sandy

"There's a code the Secret Service agents live by - you not only guard the person, you guard their privacy as well. Every agent honors this, never sharing with anyone on the outside whatever is seen or heard on duty. Every agent, Bernie included, knew it and lived it. But over the years I came to understand that this wall of silence didn't just apply to those who were guarded, but also to the agents themselves. No matter what happened, no one was supposed to let the outside world know..."

Julie abruptly fell silent, and Sandy at first thought she was trying to muster the courage to proceed. But then she realized Julie was being distracted by Helen, who had continued to look at the pictures hanging on the family room wall.

"I know what you must be thinking, but my husband wasn't like Martin and Haynes," Julie said to Helen.

The framed photo Helen had been looking at showed Bernard Rose and two other men sitting in the corner booth of a pub raising glass mugs filled to the brim with ale.

"What's been written in the newspaper is not true. Bernie was never much of a drinker. Certainly he was nothing like those two. Bernie would tell me all the time how the two of them were drunk a lot."

That her actions had attracted the attention of Julie Rose right in the middle of Sandy's interview caused Helen to cringe inside. But it was no surprise which photograph had distracted Julie Rose.

The first newspaper story to examine Bernard Rose, his career, and his character, had appeared in the New York Times two days after the assassination attempt in Tel Aviv. Rose was portrayed as a man who had had no problems in the line of duty for his entire career, no official sanctions, only a steady record of reliable service. The article did point out that Rose had a close relationship with two other Secret Service agents, Myles Martin and Lawrence Haynes, who had been dismissed a year ago for drunken and disorderly conduct while protecting the President on a trip to South America.

"Julie, that's why we're here," said Sandy. "So you can give us the side of the story the New York Times missed."

The moment Julie turned her attention away from Helen and back to her, Sandy picked up where she had left off.

"You said you broke the wall of silence. How did you do that?"

"Things got so bad with Bernie, I called Aluf, because I knew Bernie respected him."

"Aluf Kinsberg?" Sandy asked. "The man who shot your husband?"

"Yes, and Aluf met with him because I had begged him for help."

"What happened?"

"Aluf knew there was something wrong, but he couldn't convince Bernie to take himself off active duty. That's why Aluf had no choice but to inform the service of my husband's... mental disability."

"How did your husband react to this?"

"He went crazy. And I had to hire bodyguards to protect me and my son."

Sandy was surprised to hear this. "Are you saying these bodyguards were hired before your husband's assassination attempt in Tel Aviv?"

"Yes," Julie answered without hesitation. "Bernie was not himself. I didn't care what happened to me, but I thought he could do something to hurt Bradley."

"And what was the Secret Service doing about helping your husband?"

"They relieved him of his duties and had a psychiatrist see him. I met with two officials at their office and explained everything I knew about what had happened to Bernie. I even told them about the accident, but they didn't seem to care. As far as Bernie was concerned, he was finished from working in the service. Of course this only made him more angry... and more depressed."

Sandy leaned forward in her chair, "Julie, did you say, 'accident'?"

Julie sighed, obviously from having to tell the same story over and over again.

"I believe it was an accident, a head injury, which caused my husband to change. We were on vacation in Montenegro. Bernie had been a diver in college and he couldn't resist showing off, especially around people who didn't know him. At the hotel we were staying at they had a pool and a diving board. He was trying to do some of his old tricks, and on one of the dives he hit his head on the board before landing in the pool. I thought he was dead. But then one of the guests gave him CPR and he started breathing again."

"But you said he was different after the accident?"

"Something happened when Bernie lost consciousness," answered Julie. "He told me he saw a figure... Bernie called it an angel. My husband said this angel told him that 'his purpose amongst the living was not complete.'"

Helen waited for Sandy to follow up, but when she saw her colleague was not quick to ask the obvious question, she jumped in, "And it was this near death experience that you believe changed your husband?"

"Yes, absolutely. Bernie was totally different. And he became... even more different... every day after the diving board accident. I told this all to the Secret Service, but they didn't care. They ignored everything I said as if it didn't matter at all. But it did matter. My husband... was not my husband."

Helen looked over to get Sandy's reaction but saw her colleague was pale, and that her eyes were fixed like whatever she was thinking about was playing out a thousand miles away.

"Sandy?"

Helen's voice caused Sandy to rise quickly from her chair. "Excuse me, but I need to use your bathroom..."

--------

"His purpose amongst the living was not complete."

Bernard Rose's words were similar to what Tom said after his Near-Death Experience in Hawaii. All Sandy could think of was calling her fiance.

Sandy turned on the bathroom faucet before whipping out her cell phone. She was hoping that Julie Rose accepted her excuse that she needed a break as she left the condo's living room. But running the water would do nothing to convince Helen that her exit was routine. Sandy saw Helen's face as she fled the room and her colleague knew something was wrong.

The phone call to Tom's mobile phone went straight to voicemail. "Honey, it's me. I'm in Washington D.C. Call me back when you get this message. It's really important."

She ended the call by tapping a button on the screen, but quickly pressed more buttons and her phone automatically dialed their apartment in New York.

After only one ring, the call went to voice mail. "It's me. I just left a message on your mobile phone. Tom, please call me..." She was about to hang up, but changed her mind and said, "I love you, Tom."

Call Ended appeared on the screen after she hit the smart phone button. Sandy stared at the icon until the image began to blur. She then shut her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. It didn't help her head, which still felt clouded by a dense fog of anxiety and dread.

She suddenly noticed the water had pooled in the clamshell shaped sink. Sandy quickly twisted the spigot, and the flow of water stopped before overflowing onto the floor. Sandy couldn't understand how the water had built up. She leaned in toward the sink for a closer look, but jumped back when there was a loud burping sound. The noise was followed by a rush of green and black sewage bubbling up from underneath the drain and in a flash, transforming the standing water into a dark cesspool.

What the hell, Sandy thought to herself as she stumbled backwards in shock.

"Can you tell me why you took this picture?"

Despite the waterworks drama going on in the bathroom, Sandy heard Helen's voice on the other side of the door.

"I was concerned about my husband. I had no idea who the therapist was that was trying to help him."

Sandy took in Julie Rose's response before stepping carefully back toward the sink. What she saw caused her to stop in her tracks, then replay in her mind everything that she thought she had just witnessed seconds ago.

Now the clamshell sink was completely spotless, with no evidence of that there had been any regurgitation of green and black muck flooding the basin from underneath the drain.

When Sandy emerged from the bathroom, Helen and Julie Rose were standing beside each other, looking at some printed photographs

"Are you all right?" asked Helen.

"Yes, I'm fine," replied Sandy, doing her best to sound refreshed after her bathroom break. She closed the door behind her and crossed the room toward the two women. "What are you looking at?"

"I found some photographs on the kitchen hutch. I think we have a picture of Bernard Rose's therapist," said Helen, handing Sandy one of the photographs.

The grainy quality of the photograph revealed it was shot from a distance, and at night. It showed two men standing in the alleyway behind the house, in almost exactly the same place where Sandy and Helen had parked their rental car. The only source of light was an alleyway street lamp, more than two dozen yards away from the focal point of the photograph.

"As you can see on the date stamped on the photo, Julie took the photo, and all these photos just one week before the assassination attempt in Tel Aviv," said Helen.

"And one of these men is your husband," asked Sandy.

"That's Bernie for sure," answered Julie.

But when Sandy still looked confused, the assassin's widow walked over to point out the man in the photo who she was confidently identifying as her husband.

"That's my husband right there..."

Sandy brought the photo closer to her eyes, making a point of checking it again. The skin on the face of Bernard Rose was stretched to the breaking point, exactly like what Sandy saw in the video shot in Tel Aviv.

She stepped over to the wall highlighting Bernie Rose's career and held the printed photograph next to one of the framed pictures. It was obvious that the man in the alleyway photograph looked very different than the man in the picture hanging on the wall.

"So you're telling me this is your husband in both photographs?"

"I know he looks different, but I swear to you, that's my husband in both pictures," answered Julie.

"I believe you," said Sandy, before she lowered the printed photograph from the framed picture on the wall. "Now tell me about the other man in the photograph."

"That's Bernie's therapist. At least that's what Bernie told me when I confronted him about meeting someone in the middle of the night. I didn't believe him. I mean, what therapist sees a patient in the middle of the night. When I heard him come home, I was waiting with a camera upstairs in our son's bedroom. I wanted to shoot pictures of whoever Bernie was meeting with."

Her words tumbled from her mouth so quickly it was as if they were spilled rather than spoken.

Helen put her hand on Julie's arm to reassure her. "Just relax. We believe you." Julie seemed comforted by Helen's manner, but Sandy still waited an extra few beats before proceeding.

"Do you know the name of the man your husband was seeing?"

Before Julie could respond to the question, the floor beneath them began shaking. Sandy had the presence of mind to look over at the wall of photographs, and noticed that none of the pictures were moving. Weirdly it seemed as if only the floor was shaking.

"Was that an earthquake," asked Helen.

"Yes. We've been getting them a lot in the last few weeks," Julie answered calmly.

Sandy and Helen exchanged looks. Both women were media junkies, both obsessive readers of the AP wire, the news service with "stringers" spread across the globe reporting on anything of significance - a verdict in a murder trial; a meteor sighted in Siberia; a baby Panda Bear born in a zoo in France. The look on both of their faces was the same--neither had read anything on the AP wire about earthquakes striking the Washington D.C. area.

"His name was Dr. Benjamin Fincher," said Julie, finally answering Sandy's last question. "I remember because I looked him up on the Internet, just to see if Bernie was lying to me."

"And was this Dr. Benjamin Fincher a therapist the Secret Service had assigned to your husband?" Sandy posed the question hoping Julie's answer would match the information she had recently received from her source at the state department.

"No, he wasn't. And it that was a problem for Bernie. He was really reluctant to meet with him when he discovered Fincher wasn't part of the staff at the Secret Service. But after just one meeting, that problem went away. And after a couple more sessions, the shrink was like Bernie's new best friend. It was totally weird. My husband, I'm telling you, he didn't trust anyone."

Sandy and Helen were both writing down Julie's words when another tremor began shaking the townhouse. This time not it was not only the floor that rumbled below their feet, a door beneath the staircase also shook violently.

"So how long did you say you've been getting these tremors?" asked Helen, after the shaking once again subsided.

Before Julie could respond, the door beneath the staircase began to shake, this time independent of any other disturbance in the townhouse. After a few seconds, the door's vibration rose sharply, at one point, it shook so violently it seemed like the door would break free from the frame.

But then it suddenly stopped.

Sandy walked across the room quickly and then put the palm of her right hand against the door. She felt nothing, not even a slight tremble. And the wood was neither hot nor cold to the touch.

Helen had her mobile phone out, but just as she began tapping onto the screen, Sandy stopped her.

"Helen, can we wait a beat before we call the police?"

"Are you serious?"

Even though Sandy didn't respond, Helen stopped dialing and lowered her phone.

Sandy turned to Julie Rose and asked, "Where does this door lead to?"

--------

Julie Rose couldn't remember the last time she had been in her cellar and was surprised to discover the key was laying in the front of the drawer rather than in a plastic container with the other keys seldom or no longer used.

Even after using the key, opening the cellar door proved to be difficult. Sandy and Helen needed to throw all of their strength into the challenge before they were finally able to pry open the door.

"Jesus," said, Sandy, quickly cupping her hand over her nose.

"What the hell is that?" Helen asked, looking to Julie for an answer.

"I have no idea." Julie Rose sounded embarrassed and defensive with her reply. "I've never smelled anything like this before."

Opening the cellar door unleashed a wave of stench so rank and nauseating that none of the women had ever encountered anything as disgusting.

"Well, whatever is down there is way past its expiration date," said Helen. She began to shut the door, but Sandy stopped her.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to check it out," said Sandy, still holding her hand over her nose as she answered.

"What? Something is dead down there. We need to call the Sanitation department." When her words didn't seem to be making an impact, Helen spoke up with what she believed was actually a better idea--"Sandy, we should call the police."

"Don't do that," said Julie, immediately stepping in between the women to get their attention. "Please, don't call the police. That will mean all the news stations will know where we live. My son... we'll both have to leave our home. Please, I'm begging you... begging you both... don't call the police."

Sandy put a hand on Julie to comfort her, and to help sell the sincerity of her words, "I want to hold off on calling the police until I find out the cause of this smell."

"Thank you," said Julie. "I really appeciate it."

"You heard me, right? If I find anything dead down there that has two, rather than four legs, I'll be screaming 911... okay?"

Julie nodded, somewhat calmed, but still facing the strong possibility that she and her son could very well be looking for a new place to live before the night was over.

Before Helen could weigh in, Sandy moved quickly through the doorway, stepping onto a wooden platform connected to a stairway that descended almost straight down into a subterranean cellar dark enough that the floor of the room was not visible.

Helen was surprised by Sandy's action and had trouble responding. The two women had been through a lot together over the years, including working on news stories in war torn Libya and Sri Lanka. There was also an exclusive on-camera interview with a Warlord in Indonesia in which the bodyguards protecting their leader insisted both women wear blindfolds before being driven to the secret meeting location.

And yet, none of what they had been through together somehow compared to the dread Helen felt as she stood at the top of a cellar entrance to a Washington D.C. townhouse.

By the time she finally recovered her voice, Helen noticed a light switch on a wall just beyond the doorway. She anxiously reached over and flipped the switch.

Nothing.

"What the hell is going on?" She turned back to Julie Rose for an answer, but the assassin's widow just shook her head in confusion and dismay. Her reaction did not dissuade Helen from continuing to flip the light switch up and down in an effort to make it work.

As Sandy continued to descend deeper into the cellar, she discovered the hideous smell accompanied by an extreme change in temperature. With each step she took, the more Sandy felt like she was entering the walk-in freezer at a meat slaughterhouse. About three-quarters of the way to the bottom, Sandy stopped, not because of the freezing temperature and pitch darkness ahead of her, but out of annoyance.

"Would you stop playing with the light switch, Helen? Clearly it doesn't work."

"Okay, fine. Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Just stand there and wait. I'll only be a minute."

"Screw that. I'm not just standing here and waiting."

Sandy waited a beat, but she didn't hear any sound that Helen was moving to join her.

"Why are you doing this?"

"That's a great question," shouted Sandy, before grabbing the bottom of her blouse and lifting it up to cover her nose as she continued her descent. The first answer to that popped into Sandy's mind was that opening the cellar door felt like opening a steel vault, one built to protect something. And the rancid smell and arctic temperature only seemed to validate her suspicion. She wondered if what was being protected was... a secret. Something that would shed light on how it was possible that the assassin, Bernard Rose, could have a Near-Death Experience, and describe his NDE with words similar to...

A spotlight suddenly appeared on the wall beside Sandy. She turned and saw Helen moving down the stairway toward her, holding a flashlight.

"Since when do you carry a flashlight?"

"I got the flashlight from Julie Rose. She gave it to me along with the key to the cellar door. I forgot about it when I freaked out watching you come down here." Since Sandy was in the lead, Helen handed the flashlight to her.

"Thanks for coming with me."

"You're welcome," said Helen. "But I don't think you ever answered my question -- Why are you doing this?"

"My first-year journalism teacher said that the best stories were hidden in the dark."

Helen sighed. "Okay, well, my first-year journalism teacher said the same thing, but I always understood the phrase to be more of a metaphor."

When the two reached the bottom of the stairway, the flashlight beam came across a light switch on the wall beside them.

"You try it," said Helen. "I don't like my luck right now."

Sandy tried the switch. Nothing.

"I can't believe all the lights are out down there," Julie shouted from the top of the stairs.

Helen looked back, but could not see Julie Rose, only hear her. It was as if a dark fog had mysteriously materialized between the bottom and top of the stairwell.

"It must be a blown circuit breaker," said Julie. "Bernie showed me the circuit box a few years ago. Do you want me to go and check if I can flip a switch?"

"Yes, that will be great," shouted Helen. Whether Julie Rose ignored her answer or left to follow through on her words, Helen could not tell.

"We should go back up."

"Why would we do that? We're already here. Let's check the place out," said Sandy. She was shining the flashlight in a slow left to right sweep across the basement. The room appeared to run across the basic concrete foundation of the townhouse, with a floor to ceiling span measuring about twenty-five feet. The flashlight beam highlighted stacks of boxes, old furniture, and garden equipment.

"See anything? I don't see anything," said Helen.

"No, I don't see anything, but I still smell something," said Sandy. The stench was not as overwhelming as when they first opened the cellar door, but the odor was powerful enough that she still had her blouse covering her nose.

"Wait... what was that?" Something written on the wall behind a stack of boxes had caught Helen's eye and she jerked the flashlight back. "There... Do you see it?"

"I see it," said Sandy, but I can't make out the words. What about you?"

Only the top part of what was scrawled on the concrete was visible over the stacked boxes.

"I'm tempted to make something up, so we can leave," said Helen.

"What are you so scared of?"

"Besides the foul smell and the Arctic weather conditions, I'm afraid of whatever Julie Rose said upstairs that caused a look on your face I've never seen before."

"We'll talk about that later. I want to check this out."

Helen regretted giving Sandy control of the flashlight because she was now forced to follow her boss as she moved into the basement.

The two women pushed aside some of the stacked boxes creating enough room for them to see the cellar wall without any obstruction.

Written in red on the wall across from them was: "The Whole World will be in the Power of the Evil One."

It was only after they got to the last line that the flashlight beam revealed more words on an adjoining wall--"He is filled with fury, because he knows that his time is short."

And on yet another wall: "Woe to the earth and the sea, because the devil has gone down to you! He wants the Perfect Possession."

The last flashlight beam highlighted dozens of carefully stacked glass jars full of what appeared to be urine. A roughly hewn cross-floated in each one.

Behind the containers, there were words written in blood and magnified in the amber -- 'The Restrainer Must Die.'"

"It looks like Bernie had a lot on his mind."

"How do you know it was Bernard Rose who wrote this?"

"Fair enough," said Helen. "Perhaps the Roses had a squatter from hell living in their basement."

Sandy started to shine the flashlight around the cellar, which confused Helen."

"What are you looking for?"

"We haven't found anything that explains the wretched smell?"

Helen suddenly snatched the flashlight from Sandy, and then quickly moved toward the cellar stairwell.

"What are you doing, Helen?"

"Let our first-year journalism teachers search for more answers," said Helen. "We're getting the hell out of here."

--------

"You need to call the police."

The reaction on Julie Rose's face to Sandy's words was transparent - she felt betrayed.

"I'm really sorry to go back on my word, but what we discovered in your cellar is too disturbing to keep to ourselves."

The assassin's widow shut her eyes before turning her back on the two women.

Sandy waited, but when she didn't get a response, she said, "It will look so much better if the phone call to the police comes from you. But, if you don't make the call, Julie, I will."

When Julie Rose turned back around, she had her mobile phone in her hand. "After I make the call, I'm sure you both will be on your way."

"Not true. We need to stay and tell the police everything we've seen," said Sandy.

"And we'll be here after we talk to the police," Helen chimed in. "For you and Bradley."

"My son and I won't be here, that's for sure," said Julie, before hitting some buttons on her mobile phone. "We'll be gypsies, moving from one place to another... trying to avoid the cameras." Before either Sandy or Helen could respond, there was an answer on the other end. "Yes, my name is Julie Rose. I'm the widow of the Tel Aviv assassin, Bernard Rose..."

While Julie Rose spoke to the D.C. police, Sandy used the opportunity to call Bob Harris, the managing editor for 24/7 and brought him up to date about what they had found scrawled across the basement wall, and the decision to call the police. Harris asked a few questions, but made it a point of being supportive and praising Sandy for her judgement in handling the situation.

Just as they were about to hang up, Sandy asked, "Are you going to call Terry?"

"Only if you want me to," said Harris. "I think this can wait until he wakes up. What do you think?"

"I agree," said Sandy, quickly finishing their conversation when she saw Julie Rose end hers.

"The police are on their way." Julie then angrily tossed her mobile phone onto a nearby couch. "I need to go upstairs to pack my son's things so we're ready to leave the moment the police are finished with all their questions." She clearly had no interest in hearing anything either of the women had to say as she stormed past them to the townhouse stairway leading up to the second floor.

Helen waited until Julie was out of earshot, before saying, "By doing the right thing I feel like we just earned our 'Front of the Line Ticket' when we arrive at the pearly gates. How do you feel, Sands?"

"Yeah, I feel super, but after Good Morning America runs their exclusive interview with Julie Rose during the May Sweeps, I'm sure we'll both feel differently." Sandy started walking to the back of the townhouse to retrieve their handbags left in the rental car. "We're going to need to show some identification when the police get here."

Helen nodded before following Sandy. "How long do you think it will be before the police arrive?"

"Thirty minutes under normal circumstance, but because Julie identified herself as the wife of the assassin in Tel Aviv, the DC police should be here in less than ten."

Helen waited a beat before asking her next question. "Is this a good time to ask about what happened earlier, when you rushed off to the bathroom?"

So much had transpired since Sandy sought refuge in the Roses' bathroom, it took her a few moments to recall the details. "I was embarrassed to say anything before. However, after what we found in the basement, I'm not feeling like such an idiot telling you the truth. Remember when Julie Rose described her husband having a diving accident that ended up triggering a Near-Death Experience?"

"Yeah, I remember," answered Helen.

"During his N.D.E., there was an angelic figure that spoke to him - 'Your purpose amongst the living is not complete.' Well, here's the thing - those were the exact words Tom told me he heard from an angelic figure during his Near-Death Experience."

"Tom had an N.D.E. after the helicopter accident in Hawaii?"

"Yes. I haven't told anyone, until now," said Sandy. "It's also the reason I wanted to check out the basement. I needed to know if whatever Bernard Rose went through before Tel Aviv is somehow connected to what happened to us in Hawaii." She opened the door leading to the backyard waiting for Helen's reaction.

"I know it sounds crazy, but you believe me?"

"Of course I believe you," said Helen, as she moved through the doorway into the backyard.

Sandy couldn't help but feel that Helen was hiding her skepticism behind her words. She noticed how Helen was moving so fast across the stone steps in the backyard it was as if she planned on escaping in the rental car rather than just retrieve their bags.

"Have I ever struck you as a conspiracy buff?"

"No. Never," answered Helen, stopping a few from their rental car, and turned back to confront Sandy. "Is there more?"

"Yeah, there's more," said Sandy, as she withdrew from her pants pocket the key fop for the rental car and hit a button to unlock all the doors. "I've gone my entire life never encountering the phrase 'the Restrainer.' But now those words have crossed my radar twice in the last 48 hours."

"Where else besides the basement wall?"

In my office, when I met with Alan Olsen."

"The priest? I thought he was there to tell religious jokes and talk over old times?"

"I wish," said Sandy. "No, Alan was there to talk about how his recent exorcism showed signs of an impending Apocalypse, as described in the Bible. He wanted to get my help in broadcasting his message."

"And he used the phrase, 'the Restrainer."

"Yes, he did," replied Sandy.

"Well, what did he say about it?"

"Honestly, I can't remember. I probably tuned him out around that point because everything he was saying was so off the rails. Seriously, can you blame me?"

"Yeah, at this very moment, I do blame you," said Helen, in a tone that was half joking, and half serious. She walked over to the rental car and opened the door, then turned to Sandy to speak again, but stopped when she heard a nearby noise - something moving across the alleyway gravel. Before Helen could see anything, a Mastiff dog leaped from out of the surrounding shadows, knocking her backwards with such force that the rear side window shattered.

Sandy rushed forward to help, but was too far away when the dog bit into Helen's neck, hitting a main artery, causing blood to spray across the passenger side of the rental car.

--------

Sandy gripped the leather collar around the hound's neck and used all her strength to yank the dog away from Helen. She stumbled across the gravel alleyway until she lost her footing and fell on her back.

"Helen! Helen! Get in the car," Sandy shouted, hoping her friend not only heard her voice, but was still capable of moving.

Hearing Sandy call out to her enabled Helen to step back from unconsciousness. She reached up and managed to grab the front passenger door handle, then used it as leverage to get on her feet. She opened the door and collapsed onto the passenger seat. All that was left to do was pull her legs into the car before shutting the door.

Sandy felt like she was wrestling with a bear as the mastiff rocked back and forth on its back, frantically rolling from one side to the other in an attempt to regain its footing. She was using her legs to keep the dog from rolling over, but it was only a matter of seconds before the weight, size, and the frenzy of the animal would allow it to stand upright.

Helen could hear the furious struggle between the dog and Sandy a few feet away, but her mental will was not enough to move her legs still hanging outside the car.

The leather collar suddenly broke in two, allowing the hound to roll away into the shadows. Sandy sat up, preparing for an attack, but when the canine emerged from the surrounding darkness, the dog was rushing toward the rental car to pursue its attack on...

"Helen!"

Sandy screamed her friend's name as she scrambled to her feet. As she made her move toward the car, Sandy could hear the appalling sound of the dog tearing into flesh, and the sickening silence from Helen, who was unable to put up a fight.

Just a few feet from the car, there was a sound of a gun shot. The mastiff reacted with a yelp, but two more gunshots echoed through the alleyway, causing the dog to fall way from Helen and the car without making another sound.

She looked over and saw one of Julie Rose's bodyguards, standing a few feet from the rental car, with the security lights attached to the townhouse's roof illuminating the smoke coming from the gun he had just fired.

She waited to make sure the bodyguard knew of her presence before approaching Helen. The street lights in the alley barely lit up the interior of the vehicle, but it was enough for Sandy to see the skin on Helen's neck had been almost completely torn away, leaving behind just blood and exposed bone. And everywhere around her was sprayed or splashed red - on the dashboard, the windshield, and on the gearshift console.

The sight triggered Sandy to have a mental flash of the tour helicopter in Hawaii when she first woke up to discover a similar mess all around her.

A moan coming from Helen ended Sandy's flashback, and prompted her to swing into action. Sandy pulled her blouse over her head, then rolled it up carefully before wrapping it around Helen's neck.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

Even though the words sounded as if they were miles away, Sandy registered Julie Rose's voice.

"A dog attacked them and I had to shoot it. Ms. Rose, you need to go back inside the house immediately."

Helen's eyes fluttered open. She took a few moments to focus on Sandy who was inches away from her, kneeling beside the car. "You were right," Helen said in a raspy whisper. Her words were barely loud enough for Sandy to hear as the siren became louder as the police car drew in closer to the alleyway.

"Right about what?"

"Just ten minutes," said Helen. "The police got here..."

Her voice trailed off and Helen's eyes seemed to glass over. Sandy tightened the blouse tourniquet around Helen's neck.

"Helen, you're going to be fine. Just stay with me."

Helen had closed her eyes before saying, "I might need some help."

"I'm right here."

"I know. Good. Now help me think of a new word for what just happened..."

At first, Sandy didn't understand.

"If you help me, I'll share the credit."

Then Sandy realized that Helen was referring to help discovering a new word that would get her creation officially in the English Dictionary.

Sandy saw flashing red lights illuminate the surrounding trees and walls and knew the police were arriving in the alleyway behind the Roses' townhouse.

"I'll help you, as long as you stay with me."

Helen nodded in response, which Sandy saw as a hopeful sign.

The noise of the police vehicle's tires crunching on the gravel behind their rental car was the final cue for Sandy to rise from her kneeling position. She wanted to make sure the police would immediately call for an ambulance. But after fighting through the glare from the headlights, Sandy was shocked to see not a police car, but an ambulance. Sandy was thrilled at the sight for a few moments, but then the skeptical part of her brain took over -

Julie Rose called the police. Why would the first response be an ambulance?

The attack on Helen happened less than five minutes ago, how could an ambulance get here so quickly?

Before she was able to address the questions running through her brain, the first paramedic emerged from the ambulance. The sight of the man caused Sandy to turn in dread at the other EMT emerging from the other side of the vehicle. When Sandy caught a good look at him, it confirmed a horrible realization - the ambulance EMTs somehow looked exactly like the same paramedics who were in the rescue helicopter in Hawaii.

"Your friend's going to make it," the first paramedic shouted out to Sandy.

"We'll take it from here," said the second paramedic, as they both advanced toward the rental car.

There was something else about both EMTs that connected them to the paramedics on the rescue helicopter, a detail she had somehow dismissed in her mind until this moment--the paramedics on the helicopter in Hawaii, and the pair of men approaching in the alleyway all had the same stretched facial skin Bernard Rose exhibited prior to his assassination attempt in Tel Aviv.

Sandy looked over at her best friend bleeding out just a few feet from where she stood and several thoughts shot across her brain -

Helen was going to die.

But what if she didn't die?

What if... Helen had an N.D.E.

Like Bernard Rose.

Like Tom.

If she didn't die, would she come back to the living...

And still be the same Helen?

Sandy bent down, grabbed Helen's legs, and lifted them carefully into the car. She then slammed shut the passenger door and raced around the front of the rental car to the driver's side. As she was reaching for the handle of the door, the first paramedic grabbed Sandy's arm.

"She's going to be fine. You'll both be fine."

There was a sincere expression on the paramedic's face to support his words, but all Sandy could see was the menace hiding behind the trusting veneer.

Yanking her arm from the EMT's grasp Sandy quickly opened the car door. When the paramedic put his hand on Sandy's shoulder to stop her, she responded by shoving him backwards, then jumping into the car and quickly closing the door.

The other EMT quickly approached the passenger side of the car, prompting Sandy to hit the button on the key fob, instantaneously locking all the car's doors. She then pushed the ignition button on the dashboard, firing up the car's engine.

"Let us help your friend," the second EMT shouted on the other side of the glass.

Sandy's response to his plea was to slam her foot on the accelerator. The rental car peeled out, fishtailing, and spitting gravel as it sped away from the back of the Roses' townhouse.

When Sandy glanced in the rearview mirror, she saw the two paramedics standing, in the distance, lit from above by the alleyway streetlight, looking lifeless, as if they were statues on display in a museum.

--------

Sandy guided her car from the alleyway to the street running in front of the Rose's townhouse. Almost immediately, a police car with its siren blaring and lights flashing sped past them.

She adjusted the rearview mirror, so she could watch as the police cruiser parked in front of the Roses' townhouse.

Julie Rose called the police... and here they were finally showing up as a response to their call.

So how is it possible the ambulance in the alleyway has the same two guys I saw in Hawaii, less than a few weeks ago?

Coincidence? NFW.

Sandy engaged the car's navigation system to search for the nearest hospital. She opted for the first medical facility that showed up on the computer screen -- Access D.C., an emergency hospital only a mile away. She hit a few more buttons on the dashboard, and the onboard navigator voice began with guidance instructions to the hospital.

"Stay on this road for the next three-quarters of a mile."

Helen began stirring beside her. Sandy reached up to switch on the car's interior light and was shocked when she saw her friend's alabaster appearance. It looked like Helen had been drained of all her blood.

"Sandy..."

She could barely hear her speak. Sandy unbuckled her seat belt, so she could be closer to her friend.

"Don't hurt the dog. Not the dog's fault..."

"I hear you, Helen. No one will hurt the dog. You just stay with me."

Even though Sandy could see Helen was still breathing, her eyes closed right in the middle of her plea for the dog's life.

"Helen, did you hear me? Everything is going to be all right. Helen?"

On the dashboard screen, a flashing red box with text caught Sandy's eye -- Is this a medical emergency?

Sandy quickly pressed the button for "yes," hoping it would alert the hospital to be ready when they finally arrived.

By the time she refocused her attention back on the road, Sandy discovered the car they were driving behind had made a sudden stop, so abrupt that Sandy had no choice if she was going to avoid a rear-end collision. She yanked the steering wheel to one side, causing her rental car to swerve across the middle divider and into oncoming traffic. Several cars flashed their lights, and beeped their horns as they reacted to avoid hitting Sandy's car. She looked at her side mirror before yanking the wheel in the other direction, steering her car back over the center divider.

The whole stunt caused Helen to fall in Sandy's lap.

"Prepare to turn right in 1000 feet," announced the car's navigation voice.

Sandy cut across two lanes so she could grab the next exit leading to the hospital.

"In 500 feet, you will arrive at your destination. Your destination is on your right."

She followed the signs with red arrows pointing their way toward the hospital's emergency entrance.

"You have arrived at your destination."

After parking, in front of the main entrance, Sandy slammed her fist on the steering wheel to honk the car's horn. She wanted to make sure someone inside the hospital would know they had arrived.

"Helen, we're here at the hospital. You're going to be fine."

She was surprised when Helen responded, nodding her head in her lap and then raising her left hand high enough to get Sandy's attention.

Sandy saw a piece of paper balled up in her fist. She peeled back Helen's fingers and snatched the paper from her hand a moment before the passenger door opened.

It was the hospital's emergency response team on the other side of the car with a gurney ready to transport Helen to the ER.

Sandy quickly scanned the faces of the doctors and nurses who had come to greet them, and when she was satisfied that none of them resembled the medics from the rescue helicopter or alleyway ambulance, she allowed Helen to be pulled from her lap and gently eased out of the rental car.

"What happened here?"

"A dog attacked her."

"Did you see the dog?"

When Sandy hesitated to answer, the nurse moved to the next question, "The dog that bit your friend..."

"Yes, I saw the dog. It came out of nowhere. I fought with it... tried to stop it from attacking Helen."

"I understand. Now listen to me. You need to focus here. Your friend's life may depend on it. Okay?"

"Yes. Okay."

"Was the dog foaming at the mouth, you know... rabid?"

"No. I don't think so."

"When did the attack happen?"

"A few minutes ago. Wait..." She looked at her watch. "Shit. Helen was attacked like... thirty minutes ago."

"Do you know your friend's blood type?"

Sandy couldn't answer. She tried to quickly search her memory for any time over the years that Helen mentioned her blood type... but came up empty.

"No, I don't."

The gurney smashed through the doors leading to the emergency operating rooms and everyone, including the nurse Sandy was speaking with, disappeared behind the swinging doors.

A security guard appeared just as Sandy took a step to follow.

"You need to go back down this hallway to the admission desk."

She stood there, staring at the doors, wondering if she had failed Helen.

Should she have known her blood type?

I don't even know my own blood type?

I bet Helen knows my blood type.

If the roles were reversed Helen would have been able to tell the surgical team the right blood to use to save my life.

"Ma'am, did you hear me? You need to check in."

"What? No. I need to be with her."

"Sorry, but that's not permitted. What you need to do is walk back down the hallway, make the first right, then go three hundred feet, and turn left. The admission desk will is this round, white thing with a lot of people working behind it. Someone there will help you."

Sandy nodded as if she understood, but when she didn't move, the security guard grabbed his walkie-talkie and spoke into it before turning his attention back to her.

"Miss, I'm going to walk you to the admission desk myself. I just called ahead. They'll be waiting for us..."

--------

After filling out the admission hospital paperwork, Sandy called Tom again. Like the other calls, it went straight to voicemail, and she was forced to leave a message.

"Tom, something awful has happened. Helen was attacked by a dog, and she's seriously hurt. Call me when you get this message."

She then placed a call into the show's assignment desk, and related the basic facts to the show's segment coordinator, Regina Latham. The other top executives with the show left hours ago.

"Regina, Helen has been attacked by a dog. I'm here at Access Emergency hospital in D.C. waiting for her to get out of surgery..."

Sandy didn't tell Regina much more, only that it was obviously important that the managing editor of the show, Bob Harris, call her, so she could bring him up to speed.

As she waited for the call back from Harris, Sandy stood in a waiting area of the hospital that had a glass wall looking out to the parking lot. This allowed her to keep a paranoid watch on the entrance area believing that it was probably just a matter of time before two guys with stretched faces showed up, either in an ambulance or circling in a helicopter.

After more than a few minutes went by, it occurred to Sandy that she had Bob Harris's private mobile phone number and reached into her purse to retrieve it, but then came upon the rolled-up ball of paper she had taken from Helen.

In all the craziness, she forgot to look at it.

She unfolded the paper and discovered a single word had been written in pen - Skenetimeo.

Helen somehow wrote the word on the paper while in the car. Sandy didn't know how this was possible, but a careful study of the word unmistakably revealed, despite the faint and unsteady manner of the script, that it was Helen's distinct handwriting style. And of course the paper was stained with her blood.

It didn't take Sandy long to figure out what Helen was thinking by writing down the word. She knew her friend had a pre-occupation of gaining entry into the Oxford Dictionary by creating an original word for the English language. Sandy didn't know what to think when she pondered Helen's final two thoughts while she struggled to stay alive - the first was about preserving the life of the canine that had attacked her, and the second was attempting to change the dictionary of record for the English language.

Sandy couldn't look at the blood-stained paper any longer and set it aside, pledging to revisit the matter another time. However, after some time passed, and Sandy had still not heard back from either Tom or Harris, she unfurled the paper, with the purpose figuring out the meaning of what Helen had written.

Skenetimeo.

Over the years, Sandy had often been the sounding board for Helen's creative process. She knew when Helen came up with an idea for a new word, she usually turned to the so-called dead languages - Latin, Aramaic, or Sanskrit - for inspiration. She would search for a word that once had a particular meaning, then look for another word that had a different meaning, and combine the two to form a creation that hopefully rolled easily off the tongue, but more importantly, was something original and distinct and could become part of the modern vernacular.

Sandy began with the natural break in the word, Skenetimeo, between the "e" and the "t." Then, using her phone's Internet connection. Sandy looked up "Skene" on an online dictionary. Sure enough she found an entry for the word--

Skene - Greek term for scaena (Latin).

Etymology: Ancient Greek σκηνή (skēnḗ, "tent").

  1. One of the three parts of the ancient Greek theater, the other two being the orchestra and auditorium. At first the skene was a temporary wooden structure where the actors changed costumes and from where they made their entrances. Beginning in the first half of the fifth century B.C., when theatrical action became more complex and second and third actors were introduced, the skene was built behind the orchestra or tangent to its circumference.

Sandy then looked up the word "Timeo" and also found in entry in the online dictionary--

Timeo - Latin term. Greek term for scaena (Latin).

Etymology: From a Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to choke," related to Vedic Sanskrit (tam, "to choke") and Sanskrit (tam, "breathless, difficulty breathing")

timeō (present infinitive timēre, perfect active timuī); second conjugation, no passive

1. Fear, am afraid. The verb timeō is a Latin verb of fearing.

After looking at the definitions, Sandy had to decide what Helen was going for with the creation of her new word. Was her friend trying to express the fear she had for the next stage... the place perhaps one goes after they leave the main stage? Conceivably, this would also be similar to the place where one waits before their entrance to perform on stage.

Or possibly Helen was after a totally different meaning with her word. Perhaps she intended to create a new word to be defined as a warning about something that was about to happen. A word meant to encompass the sounds/signs/clues that await from a separate part of the theatre, away from what the audience can see, but should dread before whatever character or twist of the story was getting ready to make an entrance onto the main stage.

"Ms. Travis..."

It was the hospital security guard addressing her. At first, Sandy thought he had come to the waiting area to check on her, but then she saw he was accompanied by one of the doctors who had worked on Helen in the E.R.

Sandy closed her phone and stood up.

"How is Helen? Is she all right?"

The doctor looked down before answering, as if Sandy's urgent, tearing eyes were too much for him to face straight on.

"I'm afraid your friend lost a lot of blood. We tried our best, but she finally succumbed to her injuries a few minutes ago. I'm so sorry."

Sandy's knees buckled and almost gave out, but she managed to stay on her feet as she began to cry.

--------

When her subway train pulled into Penn Station, Sandy walked across the platform and headed up the stairs leading to the main concourse. As she approached the top of the stairwell, she was surprised to see Tom. He moved quickly down the stairs to help her, but as he reached out to grab her bag, she stepped right past him.

She walked quickly across the marble floor of the concourse until Tom caught up with her.

"Honey, why are you acting this way?"

Sandy dropped her bag before turning and confronting Tom.

"Why didn't you answer or return any of my calls?"

"What are you talking about? Sandy, I answered all of your calls."

Because his negligence was so egregious, Sandy was astonished Tom was taking the approach of complete denial. "Okay, Tom, if you called me back there would be messages on my mobile phone, right?" She reached into her bag and withdrew her mobile phone, then mockingly waved it in his face.

Tom looked at the phone before his gaze back at Sandy, his face showing no sign of shame or guilt.

"That's right, Sandy, if I returned your calls, there would be exactly four messages on your phone."

Sandy turned her phone around to look and was shocked when she saw four voice messages on the main screen. When the plane landed, she had checked for messages, and did the same thing while riding the subway from the airport. Each time there were no messages.

She couldn't accept what was on the screen and hit the playback button for voice messages--

"Honey, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you called. What's going on? Are you all right? Call me when you get this..."

"It's me again. I don't know what's happening, but apparently you didn't get my last message. What's going on? I'm worried about you. Call me back."

"Oh, my god! I just got your phone message about Helen. I'm here. Call me when you can. Honey, I'm here if you need me. I'll catch the next plane to be there if you want. Just let met me know. Call me. Sandy... I love you."

"Honey, I just got your last phone message. I called back as soon as I could. I have no idea why but instead of ringing, my call went straight to voice mail. Listen, I'm going to meet you at Penn Station. Don't take any chances. I look forward to seeing you. I miss you so much."

After hearing all the messages, Tom could see on her face that he had the green light to move in for a hug. As they embraced each other, she said, "Tom, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's going on anymore."

"Don't worry about it, honey. After what happened with Helen... how can you not feel like you're going a little crazy. Let's go home."

He grabbed her bag and together they made their way across the main concourse at Penn Station to the platform where they caught a train to their apartment.

During the subway ride, Sandy did her best to appear contrite. She wanted him to believe she had been wrong about him calling her back. However, as they exited the subway train together, and made their way to the street, Sandy would not lower her guard. She had no idea how Tom managed to pull it off - get four voice mails onto her phone as if he had really called her back - but she knew somehow all the messages were fake.

If she was wrong, she was wrong... but she knew she wasn't wrong. One of the reasons she was confident in her conviction was the way Tom looked. He couldn't cover-up his face, which in the short time she had been away, had become stretched and taut in a way that resembled the face of Bernard Rose, right before he boarded the plane to Tel Aviv.

The moment they arrived back at their apartment, Sandy took off her shoes and walked barefoot into the apartment. She did this all the time to save the wear and tear on the loft's wood floors. When she emerged from the entryway, Sandy saw the easels scattered around the living room. She wanted to ask Tom about his latest work, but waited. He took her bag into their bedroom and she went through the motions of flipping through the mail on the bar counter.

"I'm so sorry, honey," Sandy said when Tom came back from the bedroom, "I forgot to ask about your work. Show me what you've been done since I left."

Immediately her fiance leaped in front of the nearest easel, protecting it from her curious eyes.

"No way. You're not allowed to look. Not until I feel good about the work. And the same thing applies for that picture, and that one as well. Promise me you won't look at anything until I'm ready to show you."

"Of course, I'll wait. But do you feel good about the work you did while I was gone?"

"I think so. I'm still not sure."

There was nothing Sandy could say because Tom's behavior was consistent with the way he normally behaved while working on a new collection.

"I have an idea," said Tom, steering Sandy toward the bedroom area. "Why don't I light a few candles, pour you a glass of wine, and get a bath going for you. After everything that's happened, the best thing you could do for yourself would be to just relax. What do you say, honey?"

All his words sounded romantic in content and tone, but there was something missing. And with the stretched look of his face, Sandy couldn't shake the feeling that she was being micromanaged.

"That's so sweet of you, but I think I'm going to pass on the bath and go straight to bed."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm positive."

"Come to think of it, that's a great idea," said Tom. "Let's both go to bed."

She quickly tried to process Tom's words before responding.

"So you're coming to bed with me?"

"If you want me to..."

"Why wouldn't I want you to?"

He sighed, before saying, "I'm doing the best I can. To be honest with you, I'm not sure what I should be doing. After what happened to Helen, I want to help, but nothing I do or suggest feels right. I almost feel like I'm in the way."

She closed her eyes before responding. Whatever strategy she had from the airport to their apartment wasn't working. Tom seemed to sense her suspicion and was making sure there was nothing in his behavior that would cause her to worry.

When she opened her eyes again it was to embrace Tom, then whisper in his ear, "Why don't you grab some wine and come to bed with me. However, I'm warning you not to have any expectations. After a couple sips, I'll probably be fast asleep. But I promise to make it up to you in the morning."

"Honey, I'm not expecting anything. I just want to make sure you're going to be okay. But that all sounds great."

"It's good to be home," she said, after they parted.

"Go to bed. I'll be right behind you with the wine."

He then kissed her quickly on the lips before moving toward the kitchen.

--------

True to her words, Sandy had less than half a glass of wine before she fell asleep.

At least, that's what she wanted Tom to believe.

Did she usually snore or make some other type of noise that signaled she was asleep? She had no idea. Tom had always been too much of a gentleman to mention whatever bothersome nighttime habits she might have.

She wondered if she faked any type of heavy breathing, would Tom see right through it. Did he know her better than she knew him? Better than she knew Helen?

Sandy noted every noise and every movement coming from Tom's side of the bed, but gradually all the acute observations became less audible, less noticeable, until everything on the other side of the bed and in the rest of the room seemed to disappear into a black haze.

As several hours went by, and Tom remained in bed, the premise of Sandy's ruse began to turn into reality... she began to drift off to sleep. If he had only waited a few more minutes, Sandy would have lapsed into a sleep deep enough to be mistaken for a coma patient. But the sound of Tom easing himself off the bed caused her to wake up.

She did her best to maintain a rhythmic breathing pattern as Tom slinked out of the room. Sandy heard the rustle of clothing as he dressed outside the door. A few moments later, his footsteps receded from the bedroom.

As quietly as she could, she slipped to the edge of the bed and sat up. The springs creaked beneath her causing Sandy to freeze. When she was satisfied he was not returning to the room, Sandy made her way quietly to her closet and quickly threw on a pair of jeans, a black sweater, and some running shoes. Wherever Tom had been going every night since they had come back from Hawaii, Sandy had no doubt that wearing tennis shoes rather than flats was the way to go.

Outside in the cold, Sandy saw a few people moving slowly in front of the storefronts around their apartment building. She panicked for a few seconds when she didn't see Tom, but then spotted him walking more than a block away, headed toward the Lower East Side.

Sandy had always considered herself a journalist, but as she began following her fiance, she suddenly realized she really had never had to use the traditional reporter skill of trailing someone without being discovered. Her skills were more along the lines of reading congressional reports and catching a Senator in a lie and confronting him on camera during an interview.

She went with her instincts and followed Tom at a safe distance, choosing to stay in the shadows wherever she could. Then the TV journalist in her kicked in, and she pulled out her phone and began recording her pursuit on foot. If nothing else, she wanted video so Tom couldn't deny the next morning that somehow he wasn't the person she was following in the middle of the night.

After more than a dozen blocks, Tom turned and headed south from East Houston, toward the Bowery. He went a couple of blocks before Sandy watched Tom approach a building that was like most of the city, brightly lit up no matter the hour. The light on the sign was for the YMCA, and she watched as Tom stopped to talk to someone waiting outside the building. She immediately recognized him, but looked away hoping that she was wrong. However, when she looked again, nothing had changed - it was the same man in the photograph Julie Rose had taken of her husband and her therapist -- Dr. Colin Fincher. Her fiance talked with Fincher for a few minutes before the doctor checked his watch prompting them to enter the building together.

She waited a few minutes before crossing the street. Sandy then walked down an alley next to a nearby building that allowed her access to the parking lot behind the YMCA building. After waiting for a minute in the shadows, she cautiously entered the building along with three women who had driven up in an SUV. Sandy stayed just a few steps behind the women as they approached the entrance to the facility manned by a single security guard in the middle of watching a soccer game playing out on a small TV behind the reception desk. His check of the three women flashing their YMCA gym membership cards and Sandy holding up her Metropolitan library card was cursory at best and everyone entered without any problem.

Sandy approached the elevator corridor and realized that her biggest problem was finding where Tom was in the building. There were seven floors, with a lot of activity despite the late hours. She then came upon a row of signs posted on the wall between the elevators that were meant as arrows to the different events happening that evening. When she came across one of the signs, she was relieved to know instantly which floor her fiance was on, while at the same time deeply troubled to discover what had lured Tom from their bed in the middle of the night.

N.D.E. GROUP THERAPY

Room 33 / 3rd Floor

Dr. Colin Fincher

There was over a dozen people sitting in a circle. One of them, a middle-aged man with dyed black hair, was relating his Near-Death Experience to the others.

"It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, but then I saw him. He didn't say a word, but still I heard him speak. He said, 'I am the Angel of Light.'"

As Sandy watched covertly from the open doorway, everyone in the therapy group nodded as if they completely understood not only the words, but what was implied, and apparently needed no explanation.

"He told me that my work among the living wasn't done. I needed to go back."

"That's exactly what happened to me!" Tom exclaimed. He was leaning forward as if ready to launch out of his chair. "He said he was the 'Angel of Light', and I needed to go back!"

Tom's enthusiasm caused Sandy to move from the door to the group therapy room. She was afraid that perhaps she would either fall to the ground in despair... or run into the room in raging protest. Either way, it would give herself away as she stood at the entrance to the room, eavesdropping on the therapy session in progress.

"Tom," said Dr. Fincher in a sober, gentle voice, "maybe you feel comfortable enough now to tell the others about your N.D.E.? You know you're among friends."

Tom glanced around at all the expectant faces and cleared his throat before speaking again, "Hello, everyone. My name is Tom."

In unison, the group replied, "Hello, Tom. Tell us about your Near-Death Experience."

She was back in the doorway watching, and what she heard made Sandy shudder. Something about their voices, unnerved her. There was too much uniformity in tone you often hear with a group of cultists sounding off as a group.

"My N.D.E. happened in Hawaii on vacation with my fiancee. We were on one of the island's tour helicopters when there was an accident. I died. But like Peter, I also saw this tunnel, then this bright, beautiful light that ended up being... an Angel. An Angel of Light. I was ready to die, but then he said, 'you are not done with your work. Go back to the living. There is more you can do.' And here I am. Ready. For whatever I should do."

Sandy was stunned, not only by what Tom said, but how he spoke to the rest of the group. Like everything else he had been covering up from her, the secret he was most protective of was his capability for passion and excitement, two emotions she had not seen from him since the helicopter accident.

"That's great to hear, Tom," said Dr. Fincher. "Now let me ask you this - what do you believe is the reason you were sent back to the living?"

Sandy held her breath waiting to hear what her fiance would say. However, before she could hear Tom's answer, there were the sound of footsteps behind her.

"Miss," said a man wearing a YMCA staff shirt, "is there a reason you are standing out here and not inside the room?"

Sandy looked down and shook her head, but didn't say a word.

A person from the therapy session shouted from the room behind her. "Is there problem, Gerald?"

The question got the YMCA staff member to move to the doorway to respond, "I'm not sure. I was just checking with this woman in the hallway."

By the time the staff member turned back to look, Sandy was no longer standing nearby. She was already halfway down the hallway moving quickly toward a door at the end of the corridor with a highlighted red EXIT sign above the archway.

--------

For fifteen years, St. Jude's had been Father Alan Olsen's home, and he knew every column and pew. During his homilies, his voice filled the church, from stone floor to pointed ribbed vault, mapping the space with sound. Strangely enough, some of the sculptures never fully materialized in his mind until the choir struck up a hymn and delved into those details otherwise lost to him. As in any other structure, he had blind spots, but less here than anywhere else because he'd filled many of them in with tactile impressions, lovingly polishing each oak pew and its leafy fleuron carvings, fixing the hinge on the confessional when it came loose, dusting off the crucifix above the door to his chamber. The church employed a maintenance staff that could have accomplished these tasks, but Father Olsen knew that to care for something was to cherish it. This was his home.

And the Vatican was forcing him out.

On the desk in Father Olsen's chamber, a radio was tuned to a Catholic station, the voice painting in the contents and corners of the room. He listened as he packed his belongings into a cardboard box.

"It is extremely dangerous to simply pick up the Bible, with no exegetical knowledge, no historical or literary contextual lens, and interpret its message," the radio guest was saying. "The Bible's teachings are too complex--and historically there's been a corruption of the language: the Bible was originally set forth in Greek and Hebrew, but the versions we have now are translations--interpretations in themselves, conditioned and influenced by their cultural godmothers."

"Amen," Father Olsen said. He turned to the walls and began to take down the various photos of him posing with his parishioners. At the end of the gallery hung a cross, which Ami's little brother had whittled from olive wood, darkly veined, something to help with the exorcism. Tracing its crude contours, Father Olsen considered leaving it behind, a gift for the next priest, but ultimately decided to place it with his other personal effects.

Scattered and stacked randomly across his desk were documentaries and books on tape, long overdue at the library. Since his return from the Middle East, he had buried himself in everything regarding The Book of Revelation. He had become so desperate for information that he even researched the questionable prophecies of Nostradamus, hoping the quatrains would shed some light on the complex Bible prophecies--anything that might help prevent the End Days. His fervent research had been one reason Deacon Gregg had reported him to the bishop of their diocese, who had then filed a report with their superiors back in Rome.

It was just as well. Father Olsen's research had broken little new ground. Worse, he had found nothing to help identify the Restrainer, and that had been his priority: first find Satan's keeper, then protect him. Because once the Restrainer was swept from the devil's path, Father Olsen would be helpless to stop the dominoes from toppling.

"And I'll put it this way," the radio guest continued. "Picture children on a playground and on one side there's a field of land mines and on the other a field of poisonous serpents, and as you're watching these kids get bitten and blown up, you're thinking, 'Oh my God, this is horrible!' But then picture a fence keeping these children out of the dangerous fields, and you can breathe a sigh of relief and think, 'Okay, those children are out of harm's way now.' That fence is--"

Suddenly, the radio shut off.

There was silence. Then something banged against the wall causing Father Olsen to jump. He waited for a repeat of the sound, and when it happened a few moments later, the priest recognized it as the noise from the shutters mounted on his windows. The wind outside had caused them to swing wildly about. He got up to address the situation but struggled to close and secure the sash because his hand was trembling during the task. The freezing wind blasted against his packing box, and inside, the wooden cross started to dart back and forth, dinging the cardboard and cracking the glass in the picture frames.

He reached for the cross, but it shot through the side of the box, barely missing his head as it rocketed out the window. The sash slammed shut behind it.

Father Olsen stood there, his hair windblown, as he tried to take in what was happening. Immediately he could sense that the church had changed around him. He felt that everything had somehow shifted to the left of where he remembered: his desk, the bookshelves, the door--everything down to the brickwork. And it all seemed darker. Unhallowed.

Outside his door in the eerie quiet, something clanged.

Father Olsen stepped from his office and into the hallway. He could envision the corridor perfectly lit in his mind's eye. Outside, the wind mourned between the flying buttresses and into every crack of the church but Father Olsen heard nothing else. No prowlers. Nothing suspicious. He turned back toward his office.

"Marhaba, Father..."

The priest whirled around. The voice came from the end of the hall.

"Ami?"

"Why did you abandon me, Father?" The boy's voice had a guttural cadence, as if the voice running through his vocal cords were coming from another source.

"I didn't abandon you, son... I tried to save you."

"No, Father, you left me. You let them take me."

Father Olsen took a few steps toward the voice. "Ami, I tried to --"

He walked straight into a wall of stench, a smell so thick it was impassable. The priest tried not to stagger as the pollution impelled him backward.

"Help me, Father, help get them out of me. It hurts..."

A few times during the exorcism, Father Olsen had pried enough of the demon's fingers from around Ami that he had heard the boy's pure, untainted soul weeping, and he believed he was close to saving him.

"I need you, Father," Ami said, doubling over and clutching his belly. "I need you to make it stop..."

Father Olsen nodded and stretched his hand out.

In his chamber, the radio suddenly switched on. Except it was no longer broadcasting the Catholic station he had been listening to. Now it was blaring static, white noise distorting Father Olsen's visual blueprint of the church.

Ami lunged from the shadows and grabbed the priest's arm. Father Olsen tried to pull away, but the boy's hand held him like a vice.

Above them, surrounded by a shriek of radio feedback, something took wing from high on the church. Father Olsen could not only hear the sound of the creature leaving its perch, somehow he could visualize it as he looked up to the ceiling that featured a stained-glass window created for the church more than a century ago. Through his blind eyes he could see the shadow of a large beast diving toward the glass... dropping toward him. With great concentration, Olsen caught a glimpse beyond the darkness of the shadow and saw a beast, a gargoyle, but not a living creature, instead it was a stone statue sculpted from limestone.

The priest jerked his arm from Ami's grasp and leaped from where he had been standing. The stained-glass window shattered and the stone monster landed with a thud into the tiled concrete floor.

--------

--------

Nothing in her life had prepared her for this situation. Everything she had learned growing up, Sandy had tried to use to strengthen her character. But as she stood in the shadows of a building across the street from the YMCA, Sandy felt like everything she had learned had gone M.I.A.

What was happening with Tom? Why was it was happening? Why was it happening to them... to her?

She didn't have any answers.

She had no idea what to do.

While searching her brain for a clue, Sandy saw Tom exit the building across the street. His demeanor was different than when he had first entered. Now he only had a few words for those who tried to speak with him, as if he was aware of the time of the night, and how long he had been gone from his fiance who he believed was at home in bed. From across the street, Sandy emerged from the shadows and started to follow her fiance, but after only few steps, she stopped when she caught sight of Dr. Fincher emerging from the main entrance of the YMCA building. Sandy retreated back into her hiding place, then watched as Fincher exchanged some words with some of the patients in his group who were smoking outside the building. Sandy waited for a few minutes, but then grew anxious and decided to resume her pursuit of Tom, but it was at that very moment, Fincher ended his post therapy banter. She was forced to scramble back into the shadows when Tom's new therapist began making his way across the street... walking in a beeline to where she was hiding.

RUN is what Sandy immediately thought as Dr. Fincher approached. She decided to hold her ground when common sense overwhelmed her primal instinct for flight. Sandy told herself there was nothing to fear from a quack with a medical license he probably got online. And she got more courage by planning on running a full background check on Fincher as soon as she returned to her loft.

And yet, the closer Fincher got to where she was standing, she couldn't help sweating and shaking.

Just a few feet away from her hiding place, Dr. Fincher abruptly changed directions, veering off towards the Lower East Side.

After he was out of sight, Sandy crept out of the darkness and poked her head around the building corner to get a look in both directions. She tried to pick up the sight of her fiance, but could no longer see him heading toward their apartment building.

Sandy turned, looking in the opposite direction and saw Dr. Fincher moving confidently to his next destination. She felt she had no choice of who she should follow, and yet her decision caused Sandy to feel like one of the pathetic women guests who would frequent the daytime talk shows she and her mother watched on TV after she came home from school. They were more like staged confrontations than talk shows, oftentimes featuring a sexual triangle involving girlfriends/wives of philandering boyfriends/husbands and the guy's mistress. The astounding part of the spectacle was watching the girlfriend/wife pull their punches when it came to their boyfriend/husband, but then put on brass knuckles before taking down the woman who had come between them, as if the mistress' act of luring the man away was much more egregious than the guy's lying and cheating. She had decided to follow Dr. Fincher because she needed to see where he was going and what she might discover when he got there. Sandy needed to know how this man could possibly have the power to develop a hold on Bernard Rose, and on her fiance. And for some reason, it was Fincher that Sandy blamed.

Her pursuit led her across the Manhattan Bridge into the Bowery. During the entire time she had tailed him, Fincher had not once looked back as he walked with a cocksure swagger that Sandy found both nauseating and intimidating.

As they crossed into a dilapidated neighborhood, Fincher suddenly picked up his pace. He then walked even faster as he approached a street corner. The therapist took an abrupt left turn and disappeared from Sandy's sight.

A minute later, she approached the same corner slowly and cautiously, and from across the street realizing that all along Fincher could have been baiting her, leading her into a trap.

A cold draft slithered up her spine as she studied the street where Fincher had turned. There were no alleys, and all the buildings on the block were crammed together, side by side, and were a combination of residential apartments and street-level commercial shops lining the Boulevard.

Without any clue where Fincher had gone, Sandy began her trek down the same block. Halfway up the street, she caught sight of the building on the corner.

You've got to be kidding me, Sandy thought to herself. Tired from chasing two different men in the middle of the night, she had failed to recognize the neighborhood where her second pursuit ended. She had been there several times before, years ago, working on a story. On the corner of the street was the St. Jude church where Father Alan Olsen was the head priest.

She suddenly wondered if somehow things were beginning to come together. She didn't necessary feel closer to any answers, but at least Sandy had a feeling that all the pieces of the puzzle were finally being laid in front of her, so she could have a clear look at how they all might fit together.

Sandy's footsteps echoed throughout St. Jude's as she walked past the pews toward the main altar. Stained-glass windows, opaque in the candlelight, lined the entire church, decorated with tracery in trefoils, circles, and floral designs. The aisles on either side were separated from the nave by clustered columns.

As Sandy approached the pulpit, she noticed two old women with short gray hair, bony fingers pressed together below their bowed heads, and on their knees in the front pews.

She thought about asking them if they'd seen Fincher, but she was distracted when the soles of her shoes stepped on tiny bits of colored glass. Sandy then saw a gargoyle statue embedded in the floor a few feet in front of her. Looking up, she saw where the sculpture had fallen from the building above and crashed through the stained glass ceiling. The church was ancient, so she didn't immediately question why the gargoyle had broken off, but she was worried that no one was around to notice.

Sidestepping the stone beast, Sandy moved to the end of the corridor where a Koa wood carving of Jesus on a cross hung above the entrance to the priest's chamber. Sandy approached the door to the chamber when it flung outward on its own. Rays of light and a figure shot out from the other side of the doorway and before Sandy could react, she was thrown backwards against a wall.

--------

--------

"Father Olsen! It's me, Sandy--Sandy Travis!"

The light from his chamber allowed her to see the color drain from the priest's face before he stepped back and released her. "Oh my God, Sandy, forgive me."

Sandy stretched out her left arm, which had impacted against the wall when Olsen attacked her.

"It's all right..."

What are you doing here?"

Before answering "I don't know how to say this without going into a full confession. I'm here because I was following someone. Someone who I think is dangerous."

"We need to leave here immediately," said Olsen, grabbing her by the same injured arm and ushering her toward the front of the church.

"So he's here? Dr. Fincher is here in the church?"

"Who is Dr. Fincher?"

She stopped Olsen's forced march before replying, "I think we should both calm down and start all over. I was following a psychiatrist, who probably isn't armed, and if push came to shove, I bet I could take him in a fight. So we're not in any immediate danger... unless you're talking about something different?"

When Alan did not let go of her arm, she knew that it was the latter. "Sandy, we need to leave the church now. And it has nothing to do with whoever you were following. Now do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," said Sandy. "But tell me what's wrong, Alan. You look terrified."

"I will explain later, after we all leave. Did you see anyone else in the church?"

"There were two old women praying in one of the pews near the altar."

He nodded and gazed out toward the nave. "Okay, let me take care of them. Now, Sandy, you must do what I say, leave immediately. I'll meet you in front of the church. Promise me you will do this." His hand holding her arm was shaking.

"Yes, I promise. I'm leaving now, and I'll meet you in front of the church."

She lay her hand on top of his trembling hand clutching her arm before they split up.

Father Olsen began walking toward the church's main altar. As he came closer to the front pews, he heard two female voices, barely audible but consistent with what Olsen often heard while walking through the church as parishioners mumbled or whispers their prayers aloud.

But as he drew closer, Father Olsen stopped his approach when he realized the words he was hearing weren't being spoken in English, and they weren't prayers. The words were from the "dead" languages of Latin and Aramaic. However, there were phrases he heard that he recognized only because recently the same combination of words came up while performing an exorcism on Ami.

"Hello, Alan," the two women said in unison. , "Have you come to warn us to leave?" Both women's eyes were jet black like the irises of a shark. Their skin was pulled across their faces as if the flesh was large rubber bands secured at the back of each pair of ears. "You must be stupid as well as blind. We're here to make sure you leave. And Alan, we aren't talking about your retirement from the church."

The organ high above the narthex began to play Carl Orff's "O Fortuna," the pipes thundering loud enough to vibrate dust from the walls. The entire church became an orchestra, doors as bass drums, opening and slamming, stained-glass windows exploding like crash cymbals.

"His time has come. Behold the Angel of Light who will save us all from our wretched existence on this planet."

They both stood and raised their arms, then directed their hands toward Olsen.

"Don't worry, Alan, we shall put in a good word for you with the Landlord who controls your next stop."

"Father!" Sandy screamed from the narthex, shouting over Orff's deafening composition. The twins turned their heads, and for the first time she saw their faces, and realized that whatever Father Olsen had been warning her about, he was obviously not fully aware of the potential danger.

"Just stay right there," Sandy shouted as she started running toward the front of the church to help Olsen.

The twins looked at each other and nodded, every movement synchronized down to the twitch of their mouths, and then their black eyes rolled up to milky whites.

As Sandy ran up the middle aisle of the church, the pews all around her began to vibrate. When they all began to shake violently it caused Sandy to stop in her tracks in fear.

"Sandy, you need to leave. Go now," shouted Alan.

One by one, and then more and more with every second, all the pews in the church shook off the metal that had fastened the woodwork to the floor, sending steel bolts shooting across the church like bullets, shattering the stained-glass windows that lined the walls of the church.

In all the chaos, Sandy had no choice but to turn around and begin running up the center aisle. When she was made it past the congregation area unharmed, Sandy turned and was astounded by what she saw - all of St. Jude's church pews had somehow risen and banded together to form a huge towering stained pine wood beast with hundreds of cast iron rails as limbs to propel it forward like a lumbering predator going after its prey... Sandy.

She ran breathlessly across the marble floor with the thundering noise of the beast chasing after her. As she approached the doors to the outer lobby area, Sandy saw the pew monster was about to overrun her and couldn't help mentally flashing on her fate of being buried underneath hundreds of church pews. But then there was a loud screeching noise filling the church walls as the iron legs skidded across the marble floor. She turned to see that the pew monster had abruptly stopped the chase and had begun to re-assemble itself into a different shape, spreading out across from one side of the building to the other. It took only seconds, but when it was done, there was a massive wall of pine wood and cast iron separating the rest of the church from where Sandy now stood.

Near the transept and the stairs to the altar, Father Olsen clutched the front rail and climbed to his feet. The twin women whirled on him, their eyes rolling back to reveal again only white irises as drew on their powers.

The hymn books discarded when all the pews rose to form a monster, now began to shake. Then one after another the books flew from the marble floor as if they were projectiles being shot from a canon. The target of each of these leather-bound hymns was Father Olsen.

Despite being blind, Olsen could sense that he was under attack and reacted, avoiding the first couple of missiles that flew at him. But then one of the books hit him squarely in the head, and he became immobilized, which allowed several more books to strike him before he collapsed.

Sandy dialed 911 on her mobile phone, telling the emergency operator that there was a terrorist attack at the St. Jude Church. While still on the phone with the dispatcher, Sandy saw a fire rise and begin to burn across the church's main altar. She was able to pass along this information so the dispatcher would also alert the Fire department.

Just as she ended her call, Alan was struck down by the flying hymn books. She watched as the two witches began to move toward an unconscious Father Olsen.

"Why are you doing this? Stop!"

But neither of the women would acknowledge her screams.

Sandy knew she couldn't wait for the police and fire department to arrive. It would be too late. She thought about entering the church from the back entrance but feared it would take too long, and that when she got there the door would be sealed off.

She turned her attention to the pine wood and cast iron wall erected before her. Now that it didn't look like a wild beast chasing after her, it didn't look as intimidating. She saw gaps in the broken wood and twisted iron. When she located at the top of the wall one gap large enough to squeeze through, Sandy, didn't hesitate. She took a running leap, then began scaling the wall.

After feeling as if he had been stoned by a righteous mob right out of the Old Testament, Father Alan Olsen was feeling at peace. He no longer felt the pain from the dozens of books that had struck him. His body was now comfortably numb, which he believed was a sign that it was finally time to leave behind a body that had been a challenge to his soul and spirit for most of his life. He was laid out on the marble floor of the church he had guided for many years, shocked but very pleased that his final moments alive would be at a place he loved.

After feeling as if he had been stoned by a righteous mob right out of the Old Testament, Father Alan Olsen was feeling at peace. He no longer felt the pain from the dozens of books that had struck him. His body was now comfortably numb, which he believed was a sign that it was finally time to leave behind a body that had been a challenge to his soul and spirit for most of his life. He was laid out on the marble floor of the church he had guided for many years, shocked but very pleased that his final moments alive would be at a place he loved.

It was only when he felt the heat of the fire... and smoke began to fill his lungs that Father Olsen realized he was not yet dead.

And when he heard Sandy's voice screaming his name, it caused him to open his blind eyes. What he saw was not empty black space, but a face he had assigned to Sandy from his imagination soon after they met. It was the face he had for years matched with her voice, the one he was hearing echo in the church as she screamed his name--"Alan!"

He coughed as he rolled over and tried to stand. He heard footsteps coming toward him after falling back down. Olsen tried to breathe, but it only caused him to cough some more as he slumped to the ground next to what felt like a towering furnace. He summoned his strength and managed to push himself up.

"We're not impressed, Alan." It was the old women, still speaking in unison. "You're dead. Just embrace it and be done the whole bloody business."

They were only a few feet from him, but for some reason, they weren't attacking him, even though it was clear he was beaten, on his knees, ready to be put out of his misery. His mind wandered. He wondered if they were not finishing him off for a specific reason. Were there rules? Rules of engagement."

"Beg the Angel of Light for mercy," the old women shouted together as "O Fortuna" climaxed with a cannonade of drums and organ chords.

Then there was silence.

He tried to stand, but couldn't muster the strength. So he began to crawl. And he kept crawling across the marble floor with the expectation that at any moment, he would be struck down by the two demonically possessed women. Or perhaps it would be Ami, with the demon inside the boy pulling the strings that would force him to deliver the final blow.

He had moved about a dozen feet when he heard footsteps.

"Alan, you're alive!"

He wanted to respond but began coughing.

Sandy slung his arm around her shoulder and helped him up. "We need to get out of here. The whole place is on fire."

As they walked together, he heard the sound of sirens, some were close others coming growing louder. Sandy couldn't help but notice that the heat and smoke from the fire seemed to be causing weird shadows projected on the walls all around them. The dark gyrations seemed to be following them every step of the way.

Sandy felt some relief when through the thick smoke she saw the firemen chopping away at the wall of pews, carving out a place for them to escape the burning church.

"We're almost there. How are you doing, Alan?"

"I'm all right," he said, finally getting his voice back. "I am a little discouraged though that people will think that on my final day I burned the place down."

--------

Father Olsen looked terrible as he lay on the gurney. Strands of gray hair were frayed and sticking up around his bald spot and there was blood staining his face and hands. However, Sandy needed to take advantage of the opportunity to speak with him before he was driven off to the hospital.

"Help me out, Alan. What the hell is going on?"

His milky white eyes stared at her as he took his time thinking about how to answer his question.

"What do you think is happening?"

Thinking was a problem for Sandy. It felt like her whole life had turned upside down, and her analytical brain was not keeping up with current events.

"Honestly, I have no idea. You tried to warn me, but at the time I wasn't listening. You've got my attention now.

"Because of what you saw tonight," said Olsen. The tone of his question showed no sign he felt vindicated that Sandy was finally interested in what he had to say. It took the burning down of his church before he could convert his first true believer.

"Yes of course. But there's been other horrible things that have happened since we last met at my office. I was working on a story about the recent assassination attempt in the Mideast." Sandy waited for a reaction from Olsen, wondering if he kept up with current events.

"You mean the shooter in Tel Aviv?"

"Yes, that's right. I was in Washington D.C. meeting with the assassin's widow. Helen and I were walking to our car when she was attacked by a dog."

"Is this the same the young woman I met at your office?"

Tears had welled up in Olsen's eyes even before he asked the question.

"Yes, I tried to get her to the hospital but I was too late and Helen died."

He grabbed her hand. "Sandy, I'm so sorry."

She nodded, without tearing up herself. Perhaps she was too exhausted to cry.

Father Olsen continued to squeeze her hand as he asked, "And you believe the attack by the dog was unusual, somehow connected to what we just went through?"

"Not at first. But there's more..."

Sandy looked out of one of the van windows. She wanted to scan the group of onlookers on the street who had gathered to watch the church burn down. Sandy wanted to make sure Dr. Fincher wasn't part of the crowd.

"It's Tom. Ever since the helicopter accident in Hawaii... he hasn't been himself. He had a Near-Death Experience. Just like the assassin in Tel Aviv. And both claimed to see the same image during their N.D.E."

"The Angel of Light," said Father Olsen.

"Yes," Sandy said. "When I was coming to help you, I heard those two women use the same words. So, yeah, I believe everything that has occurred is somehow connected. However, I have idea how... why... or what to do about it."

Before Father Olsen could respond, two fire department paramedics stepped into the van.

"Okay, Father we're all set to go."

Sandy had already checked the paramedics out the moment she handed Alan over to them. No member of the crew had any resemblance to the thin-skinned goons she had encountered in Hawaii and Washington D.C. Though she still had not gotten a chance to mention that strange detail to Alan. Everything was happening so fast.

"Sorry, ma'am we need to take your friend now. You can follow us if you'd like. We're taking him to Mercy Heart Hospital just a few blocks up the street."

She nodded to the paramedic and stepped off the van. She shouted out to Father Olsen, "Alan, I need to go home first to see about Tom. I'll come to the hospital as soon as I can."

The paramedic shut the back doors before the priest had a chance to respond.

"No! Sandy, don't go home," shouted Father Olsen. "You need to stay away from Tom..."

But she didn't hear anything Alan was shouting out to her as the van pulled away.

When Sandy returned to the apartment, she was surprised to discover Tom was not there. It was hard to tell whether he had come home after the therapy session and then left again, or whether he had not come home at all.

She waited for a few minutes, just standing there in the middle of her apartment, too tired to think clearly, but still too wound up to sleep. After more time passed, Sandy finally decided to take a shower. She was a mess from everything that had happened.

Tom was still not home when she got out of the shower. She put on her pajamas and called the hospital to check on Alan. A nurse working the reception desk updated her on Father Olsen's status. He was in stable condition, but had three broken bones, multiple contusions all over his body, two that they were afraid had caused some internal bleeding. However, what caused the attending physician the most concern was that X-rays revealed that a head injury had caused the brain to swell. It was the main reason Alan would be staying in the hospital for at least 24 hours.

When Sandy asked to speak with him, the nurse told her that he had been sedated and would probably be asleep for several hours.

When Sandy hung up the phone she thought about sleeping, then going to the hospital, but after getting into bed, she decided that the events of the evening still had her wired. She was often like this while working on a story. That's when it hit her - she needed to do the background research on a member of the medical profession she suspected of fraud. Sandy would do what the staff at 24/7 called the full rectal - a complete and through check on someone using all the resources available to a network TV show. The target of her inquiry was Dr. Benjamin Fincher.

Sandy was at it for hours, eventually recruiting one of her fellow workers in the research department she knew was up and available. Her effort was so passionate and consuming that the first time Sandy noticed the time was when she heard the apartment door open. She closed the file she had been working on with her laptop computer before running to the entry hallway.

"Where have you been? I was worried about you."

Tom closed the door. "I was looking for you."

She turned away and shook her head.

"I woke up last night to do some work," said Tom. "But when I came back to bed you were gone."

"Yeah, right." She turned to walk away, but suddenly Tom was right next to her, his hand grabbing her arm just above the elbow. She had no idea how he got from one part of the hallway to the other in the blink of an eye. But then she thought about the last 36 hours -- no sleep... a traumatic experience at a church... and pulling an all-nighter working on a background check. Was it any surprise that her perception of reality had become seriously frayed?

"Where were you?" He was inches away; Sandy could smell his breath, which wasn't pleasant, but it didn't smell of booze or pot. But then there was the skin on Tom's face, which looked like cellophane pulled across a bowl of fruit you were hoping to keep fresh for a week.

"You know where I was," she answered without flinching. "I was following you."

He stared at her with a blank look in his eyes, as if his brain was trying to calculate how to react to Sandy opting for honesty rather than deception, and it was taking some time for the proper response to show up on his face.

"Tom, you've been different ever since Hawaii. So last night, after you got out of bed in the middle of the night, I followed you to the YMCA."

"You followed me?"

She yanked her arm out of his grip and continued. "Yeah, I followed you. And I saw the group therapy session with everyone, including you, talking about Near-Death Experiences."

He finally reacted, raising his hand to his forehead as if he had a headache. "I can't believe you followed me. Why would you do that?" As soon as he looked like he was going to make another move, Sandy backed up in the living room of the apartment. She now had it her mind that it was probably best to keep at least a couple of feet between the two.

"Normally, I'd be supportive about anyone, especially you, reaching out for help. But you lost me when you decided to keep everything a secret. Why keep it a secret, Tom? I thought we were in this together."

"Maybe I was embarrassed about what you would think."

The words were pretty good, but Tom didn't have the contrite look on his face to sell it. Sandy could see he was going through the motions. And it worried her that Tom was no longer even making the effort to sell his lies.

"You should be embarrassed," said Sandy. "Not for reaching out for help, but for reaching out to a guy like Dr. Benjamin Fincher."

He looked around and spotted her laptop on the kitchen counter. He quickly deduced what she had been working on. "I'm sorry, honey. I don't really care what you've dug up on Dr. Fincher. I'm not going to stop seeing him."

"Really? Nothing I've discovered would cause a change? What if I told you that in 2001 Dr. Fincher was asked to resign as the head of the psychiatric unit at Boston Memorial Hospital because an investigation found 'serial actions of unethical behavior. In 2003, he was forced to resign from Orlando Presbyterian for what the board of directors there cited as 'irregular, and unprofessional episodes in which Dr. Fincher refused to deny nor explain during an internal hospital investigation.' I have more. Way more. Are you telling me that none of this makes a difference to you?"

Tom shook his head, "No, it doesn't. But I am curious - why did you do all this?"

"Because I was worried about you!"

"Sure you were..." Tom turned and stormed away from her, toward the front door of the apartment.

She followed after him, "Honey, where are you going?"

"I'm sleeping at a hotel tonight. I can't get over how you invaded my privacy and followed me like... like the target of one of your news stories. I'll call you tomorrow..."

Before she could react, her fiance threw open the apartment door and rushed out.

"Tom, wait!"

But the door slammed just as the words were leaving her mouth. She waited, but when the door remained shut, Sandy knew he was gone. Things had spiraled so quickly out of control between them Sandy never got a chance to use her last weapon, the one she was saving to close the deal with Tom with his agreement to see another professional doctor who could really him.

I love you. She had planned on using the phrase at the perfect time, hoping that whatever it was that had a hold on Tom, her expression of love would give him the strength to break free. Sandy now regretted holding back because they had parted without her fiance hearing her say the words.

--------

Family and friends gathered around Helen's grave site. Sandy stood among them, but wished she was invisible as she said goodbye to her friend.

There were things she knew about why Helen was attacked and killed, but she couldn't tell anyone standing with her that day. Not yet. Not until she had more proof. However, everyone's eyes were on her during the memorial service as if she would have something to say.

As the priest concluded the last rites, the mourners bowed their heads and closed their eyes. After a brief period of silence, the people in the procession tossed flowers on the brushed-gold coffin, then one by one paid their respects to Helen's brother Charlie.

Sandy thought about trying to slip away, but she wasn't invisible. Everyone would notice. She also thought about Helen and knew that fleeing her grave site without a word to her brother would piss her off.

"Charlie, I'm so sorry for your loss," said Sandy. All Helen could talk about was how much she loved you... and your kids. I'm so sorry."

Helen's brother nodded before saying. "Thanks for coming, Sandy. My sister spoke so highly of you."

Feeling like it was the right moment, the next person to pay their respects moved forward, but Charlie raised his hand to stop him.

"Do you mind, giving me a minute?" He then turned back to Sandy, "Sandy, can we speak privately?" He began walking away from the grave site, and Sandy felt like she had no other choice but to follow him.

Charlie cleared his throat and adjusted his tie before looking straight at Sandy. "My sister looked up to you, admired you. So it pains me to ask this question -- is it true that emergency paramedics arrived at the scene where my sister was attacked, and you refused to let anyone see Helen even though she was bleeding... dying right in front of you?"

Under different circumstances, Sandy might have anticipated the embarrassing encounter with Charlie and been prepared to handle the situation. However, after the last few days of no sleep, her entire belief system thrown into a mental dumpster, Sandy considered her appearance at Helen's funeral a miracle. She certainly was in no shape to defend herself or her actions concerning Helen's death.

She ran every word from Charlie's mouth three times through her head before she finally opened her mouth with a response.

"Charlie, I loved Helen. She was like my sister. I wish I could have helped her. I'm so sorry."

Sandy was not surprised when her answer was not good enough for Charlie. Helen's brother stepped closer to her, not with the purpose of lowering his voice, because as it turned out, he actually spoke much louder, attracting the attention of almost everyone standing at the burial site.

"That's not really an answer, Sandy. I spoke to two of the hospital staff where Helen died, and they both believed that if my sister had received immediate attention after being attacked, she might still be alive. So, again, I'm asking you -- did you refuse to allow the initial responders to save the life of my sister?"

Charlie deserved to know the truth, and Sandy geared up to tell him everything that had happened. But as she was about to speak, a man interrupted, stepping in between them like a referee in a boxing match.

"You don't have to answer that," said Terry, Sandy's boss.

"Excuse me," said Charlie, "this is a private conversation..."

"And I do apologize for my intrusion," said Terry. "But I'm afraid this conversation is not in the spirit of the occasion. Take it from someone who's been to many funerals - the goal of the living during these services should be to maintain a mood of tranquility and respect. And everything else should be at least a rock throw away from the burial site."

Charlie turned to Sandy with fire in his eyes, "This must be your lawyer."

"Absolutely not," said Sandy before Terry took over the conversation again.

"Heaven's no. My name is Terry Rawlins. I'm the executive producer of the show, 24/7...I was your sister's boss."

"Terry Rawlins. I didn't recognize you," said Charlie, "Helen spoke about you all the time." Nothing on Charlie's face, or the tone of his voice let on about what Helen probably said about Terry when she was alive. Sandy could see Charlie was focused on just one target, and not interested in anyone else.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Terry. However, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Sandy about the night my sister died."

"I understand," said Terry, but rather than backing off, he stepped closer to Charlie. "I see the pain. Everyone on the show feels it as well. But you were Helen's brother, so even though we'd like to believe we're all experiencing the same feeling of loss, there's no way we can understand what you're actually going through."

Terry had a 24/7 business card ready and forced it into the palm of Charlie's hand.

"Take this. It has the phone number of the show's Human Resources Department. Charlie, I want you to call when you are ready to talk. I promise you they'll hook you up with the best grief therapist on the planet. And don't worry about the expenses. 24/7 will take care of it all. No matter how long it takes for you to recover from this tragedy. It's our way of showing you how much your sister meant to us."

Terry did not wait for Charlie's reply; he wrapped an arm around Sandy and pulled her away. The two did not say a word until they were completely out of earshot. And during that time Sandy ran through a few choices of what she could say to Terry, but in her frazzled mental state, she opted to speak candidly.

"I would thank you for intervening on my behalf, Terry... if I really believed that is what you just did. But we both know it was the show you were defending, not me."

"It's your choice to see it that way, Sandy," said Terry. "But it's a viewpoint that has me now worried for the first time about what happened the night Helen died."

"I tried calling you. There's a reason I wouldn't let the paramedics..."

"No, Sandy, I don't want to hear it. However, I do know of a man who is very much interested in everything you have to say. His name is Brian Gooden."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at hearing the name. "Brian Gooden, the show's in-house lawyer," said Sandy.

"I understand he has put in three calls to you since the incident, and you've not returned a single one."

"I wanted to talk to you first."

They arrived at the long line of black cars parked at the edge of the cemetery.

"I think I've been pretty blunt that your instinct misled you, Sandy. If you had nothing to hide regarding Helen's death, then there would have been no need to call me. You should have returned Brian's calls. If you did something you're trying to hide, why would you call me? I'm not your life preserver. If you drown, you go down alone, and there's no way you will take me, or the show with you. I'm not ashamed of this. I've worked on 24/7 my entire professional career. Why would I let you bring me down? I hope this makes sense to you?"

"Yes, it makes all the sense in the world," she answered without looking at him.

Terry looked back and saw everyone standing at the grave site was watching them. He made a point of hugging Sandy, so there would be no misunderstanding of his and the show's support for her.

"It doesn't matter what you've done, Sandy. This is why lawyers were invented. You know that better than anyone. So play this right. Don't talk to anyone until you and Brian have connected first. Understand?"

"I understand."

Terry motioned to his driver. "Henry, I want you to call the car service and get them to send another car to drive me back. I want you to drive this lady home. Make sure she gets there. Understood, Henry?"

"Yes, sir. Understood." Henry opened the back door and waited for Sandy to get into the car. She looked up toward the burial site, and tried to think of Helen, but her brain was not responding. She couldn't even bring up a mental image of her friend's face before she gave up and stepped into the back of the car. Sandy saw that Terry was already heading back up the hill before the driver slammed shut the door.

--------

"Charlie was looking at me with these accusatory eyes as if I were the one who actually killed his sister. And you know something? Maybe I did."

Father Olsen tried to sit up in his hospital bed, but when he had trouble, he quickly gave up trying. Alan did not want to distract Sandy from venting. She needed to get everything that had happened at Helen's funeral out of her system.

"If I had let the same guys who had helped Tom in Hawaii, and miraculously showed up in Washington D.C. help Helen, yes, Helen might still be alive, but she wouldn't be the Helen I knew. Just like Tom isn't Tom."

For the first time since walking into Alan's room, Sandy stopped talking. After she was dropped off by Terry's driver in front of her apartment building, she walked to the nearest subway station where she caught a train to Mercy Heart hospital. Sandy knew the only person in the world who could possibly understand what she was going through would be a blind priest undergoing a battery of medical tests hoping and praying that it would lead to him being discharged.

"And you truly believe this Sandy?"

"Do I truly believe I killed Helen?"

"No. I'm sorry. I wasn't referring to Helen's death. Sandy, you did your best to save her. But right this moment, you're feeling what many people go through when someone dies... guilt. Did I show them enough love, compassion, honesty when they were alive? What you feel is what you would feel no matter the circumstances of Helen's death. Given time, you will see this as the truth. My question was about Tom. Do you truly believe he isn't the same person you knew before the helicopter accident?"

As she contemplated how to answer, Sandy walked over to the hospital room's window. She saw the city streets below had become a mess since she arrived. Something had happened causing the police and fire department to yellow tape the entire block and reroute traffic.

"I've always been a skeptical person, and it's served me well as a journalist. But I think you already knew that about me, Alan. So I hope that gives me credibility when I say I honestly believe Tom has profoundly changed after the helicopter accident Perhaps I wasn't thinking that way immediately after we got back from Hawaii, but I certainly feel that way now. There have been too many Black Swans floating across my pond for me not to notice. And what happened at the church was the final tipping point. I now believe what's been happening to me is somehow connected to what's been happening to you. And that's why I'm here in this room with you."

"You should know, Sandy that I'm relieved to know I'm not alone in all this."

"What's sad, Alan, is that there's a part of me that wishes you were alone. I was... happy with my life."

"I understand."

When she turned away from the window, Sandy's face had the intense look of a prosecuting attorney about to cross-examine a hostile witness in court.

"So let's get to it. In my office, Alan, you used a phrase, 'the Restrainer.'"

"I heard the phrase when it was spoken by the boy, Ami, who I was attempting to exorcise in Israel. He used the phrase the Restrainer during a point of the exorcism when he seemed to be free of the demonic possession. It was as if he was trying to help me with a clue, something he knew about because of his possession. I also took seriously what Ami said because his freedom was fleeting. Only a few minutes later the demon who possessed the boy once again took over control. When I said the words - the Restrainer - the possessed boy spit on me, and then verbally and physically attacked me. I believe the phrase was not something I was supposed to know about."

After his explanation, Olsen's mouth was parched, and he motioned to Sandy to retrieve his glass of water on a nearby tray. As he drank, Sandy said, "I ask because Helen and I came across the phrase in Bernard Rose's townhouse basement. It was scrawled in blood--'The Restrainer must die.'"

Olsen was too excited to keep on drinking, "Was there any other words written on the walls?"

"We saw two other phrases--"The devil has gone down to you." And, "He wants the Perfect Possession.'"

"And this man, the one who wrote these words, like Tom, there was also some kind of accident which triggered an N.D.E. prior to his personality change?"

"That's right," said Sandy. "How did you know?"

"Ami, the boy I saw in Jerusalem, he also had been in an accident. He was hit by a car prior to showing any signs of demonic possession. I never asked the boy's parents about whether their son had a Near-Death Experience but insisted on seeing the medical reports following the car accident. I was satisfied that the change in his personality had nothing to do with his head injury."

Sandy had been pacing back and forth in the room as Alan talked and ended up at the end of his bed when he finished. The noises from the medical equipment monitoring Olsen's vitals seemed to grow louder in the silence Sandy needed to think things through.

"Father, let me run a theory by you. Imagine that you're involved in an accident which leads to a Near-Death Experience. You see this bright light, an ethereal figure, and because everything looks the way it should look you think, 'Wow. I'm in the presence of an angel sent by God.' And you're sent back to the living with a new purpose, with the feeling that everything that happened was beautiful and transcendent. But now imagine that the experience wasn't what you thought. What if it was actually occurred was the exact opposite of what you believed happened? What if this astral adventure left your body wide open, an opportunity for something else to slip in and become..."

"The perfect possession," interrupted Father Olsen.

"So you're ahead of me on this," said Sandy.

"No, Sandy, I'm still catching up. But what you said... it makes sense. I would only add that if this is happening, then it must be happening for something bigger than the demonic possession of a dozen of people."

"You believe this is about The End Days," said Sandy.

Olsen nodded. "At least give me credit for being consistent in my beliefs. Sandy, its's reason I came to you in the first place."

"Go ahead, Alan, tell me what you think. This time I'm really listening."

"The phrase the Restrainer is from Thessalonians 2, verse 6." Sandy watched as Father Olsen was able to quote verbatim the passage without using his brail bible as a reference, "And you know what is restraining him now so that he may be revealed in his time. For the mystery of lawlessness is already at work. Only he who now restrains it will do so until he is out of the way."

"I'm presuming the words 'him' and "it" are references to Satan," said Sandy.

"That's right," answered Olsen. "The restrainer is like some kind of gatekeeper preventing Satan from ushering in the End Days. Traditionally, the identity of the Restrainer has been a person, but I believe it could be someone or something that Satan must bypass before he can walk among us with the goal of triggering the End Days begin."

"And you believe this is all happening now... why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps because there is something happening that is unique, special, that needs to be taken advantage of. But, again, I don't know."

"And somehow Tom figures into this. Like he's a pawn in some kind End Days Game scenario."

Alan sighed. "I know it sounds like the plot of a video game the kids play in the rec room on Saturday at the church."

She looked at her watch. "Listen, Alan, I need to leave. But I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my apartment."

Alan took the news like he had been hit across the face with a sucker punch. "You're leaving because you don't believe in what we've talked about?"

"No, Alan, that's not true...." When her words didn't seem to sway him, Sandy moved to his bed and grabbed his hand. "Alan, right now, what we talked about seems to me to be the explanation that makes the most sense. Okay?"

"Then why go back to your apartment? Tom may be there."

"I doubt he will be. However, if he is, I'll deal with him. I'm going back to my apartment to get some things that I need because something tells me I won't be there for a while. Then I'm going to check into a hotel nearby this hospital. After I get everything sorted out, I'll be back here when you're supposed to be discharged. My plan was to then take you to the hotel where we'll be together. It'll give us a chance to keep on talking about all of this. Okay?"

He nodded, but as Sandy tried to pull away, Alan would not let go of her hand.

"Sandy, when was the last time you had communion?"

"Are you serious?"

"There's a chapel in this hospital. The priest who runs it, Father Martin, has been nice enough to visit me twice since I arrived." Alan threw aside his covers, as he prepared to get out of his bed. "I'm sure he won't mind if we use the chapel for a few minutes."

"Alan, no."

"Sandy, please, after everything that's happened. Look at it as putting on a bulletproof vest."

She could have pointed out to Alan that his beloved church was in ruin. Whatever holy protection the building had obviously failed. But she chose instead to tighten her hold on Olsen's hand before saying, "Father, I've survived a helicopter crash, a killer dog, and an attack by hundreds of pews chasing me across a church. Whatever I've got going for me; I'll trust will keep me alive until we figure this all out.

--------

By the time the car service had sent another car, Terry was one of the last to leave the cemetery after Helen's service. He was now paying the price by having his car stuck in traffic on its way back into the city. He was trying to make the best use of his down time by watching the network news and answering emails on his laptop computer.

"Reports from the Middle East couldn't be more upbeat as the final minor points have been hammered out leading up to the signing of a peace agreement between Israel and five Arab countries. The landmark peace accord is scheduled for a ceremonial signing this Friday with leaders from all the participating countries in attendance."

On the TV set, footage of Envoy John Wolfenson speaking in front of a gathering of Beltway VIPs rolled underneath the anchor's report.

"Meanwhile, the man responsible for bringing the entire region together for this historical moment, Envoy John Wolfenson, was feted last night in Washington D.C. He called the peace settlement 'a paradigm shift for all of humanity.' Members of the Quartet that appointed Wolfenson have already asked for him to stay at his post for an indefinite period of time..."

Terry turned down the TV and used his mobile phone to dial his office.

"Hi, Diane... well, I'm still stuck in traffic. That's why I'm calling. Yes, you need to reschedule my 3:00, 3:30 and 3:45 meetings. But before you do that can you get Brian in legal on the line?"

The driver of the town car tilted his head slightly, giving Terry the impression that he might be listening. Terry did not hesitate and used a button on his armrest to raise the black privacy partition. While he continued to wait for his secretary to transfer his call, Terry noticed the town car began to speed up. He hoped it was because the stalled traffic had finally started to move forward, but if it was because he'd ticked off the driver with his decision to raise the partition... too bad. Before he could give it another thought, the secretary connected Terry with the head of legal affairs for the show, Brian Gooden.

"Brian, I need to talk to you about this situation with what happened in the field with Helen. I was just at her funeral, and it was a total soap opera. The only thing missing was a commercial break, which would have allowed me to jump in before things got really ugly. I'm calling, Brian, because I think we need to do something about Sandy after all..."

Terry was forced to grab a hold of his armrest when the town car suddenly veered one way, then another, before picking up speed again.

"Excuse me for a second, Brian. It looks like I've got Steve McQueen behind the steering wheel..." Terry leaned forward and tapped the glass. "Hey, take it easy up there. I think you already heard. I canceled my next three meetings. We're not in a hurry!"

Terry settled back into his seat to continue with his call "Anyway, Brian, as I was saying, this situation is serious. I think we may be forced to pay off Sandy's contract and let her go--"

The car lurched to the right, and Terry slammed against the door.

"Goddamit! You need to hold on a second, Brian..."

Terry laid the phone beside him and reached for his seat belt, only to discover that it had been cut off. And when Terry reached to the other side, he found the same thing: a stub.

The privacy partition began to descend, revealing the back of his driver's head.

"What the fuck is going on!" Terry shouted. "These seat belts have been removed!"

The driver ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the road as he raced and careened around cars, forcing pedestrians in the crosswalk to jump out of the way.

"I had died. But then I was sent back to the living by the Angel of Light.

Terry gripped the door handle to keep himself from falling forward and from completely losing it.

"He told me that my time with the living was not over. There was still a purpose to my life..."

"What the hell are you talking about?! Stop this car! Did you hear me? Pull over right now!"

Terry scrambled to pick up his mobile rolling around on the floor in front of him. But when he finally had it back in his hand, he discovered that the phone call with Brian Gooden in legal affairs had become disconnected. Terry hit the redial button on the phone, but before it could reconnect, the town car jumped the curb and crashed through a department store display window, mowing down mannequins and then real people, before slamming into a support column.

Sandy unlocked the door to the apartment and took off her shoes before she entered.

"Tom?"

As she walked into the living room, Sandy saw that none of the lights were on and that the blinds were shut tight. And the place was even colder than what she experienced at the doorway.

"Tom?"

She made her way to the bedroom, but didn't see any sign her fiance had returned. His clothes were still in the closet along with all the items he had left behind in the bathroom.

Sandy made her way back into the living room, and stopped at the kitchen bar to check for messages. She lifted the phone off the hook and heard the stuttered dial tone. Sandy hit the button to call in for voicemail, then hit another button that automatically sent the code to playback the recorded messages.

"Hola, Ms. Travis," the housekeeper said on the machine, "I will not be there tomorrow. I have to take my girl to the doctor."

While listening to the message, Sandy noticed for the first time a large puddle of water stretching across the hardwood floor from the guest bathroom.

"I come on Wednesday," the housekeeper said. "Let me know if that's a problem. Good-bye."

"Tom, is that you?" Sandy called, approaching the closed bathroom door. She was still holding the phone in mobile phone unit in her hand as she approached the door. Sandy saw light and more water flowing steadily through the crack under the door.

"Tom, are you in there?!"

"Sandy," a man's voice said on the next voice message, "This is Bob... you need to call in. Terry was in a car accident..."

Her hand froze on the door handle. The voice belonged to Bob Harris, the managing director at 24/7

"We don't have many details, but it looks like Terry is dead. I tried calling your mobile phone first to let you know. Oh, my god, the network news crew just started sending back footage on the Sat-Feed..."

As Sandy listened in shock to Harris' voice message, she stopped paying attention to the fact that she was standing with her bare feet in cold water streaming from the bathroom.

"Sandy, call me when you get this message."

The voice service moved on to the next message.

"Honey, it's me. I miss you. I'm coming home tonight. I'm sorry for the way I've been acting."

Suddenly, Sandy saw something move, a figure crouching in the shadows, near a standing light.

"Baby, we're in this together. I love you..."

The figure touched the frayed end of the cord cut from the lamp, and a blue lightning bolt arced into the pool of water that stretched across the room and underneath Sandy's feet. Instantly she felt several paralyzing jolts shoot through her body, which caused her to go rigid, stopping her in mid-scream. All around her blue electricity crackled and danced.

The voice from the answering service said, "End of Messages."

With the phone still in her hand, Sandy toppled over like a statue pushed off its pedestal.

--------

Sandy's eyes shot open.

She lay in the water but couldn't feel it. She couldn't feel anything. Couldn't smell, couldn't taste.

Like a balloon, she drifted up from the hardwood floor--leaving her body behind. It lay in the puddle, its eyes closed, its chest still, as peaceful and empty as her mother had looked in her casket. Sandy could sense that she was tethered to it though, as if by a string, something easily cut.

A blast of wind buffeted her around, and light began to seep from everything--the water, the walls, the furniture, the blinds--every particle aspiring to be a sun.

In the front room, the man in the shadows was illuminated. He lifted the frayed cord from the water, and with hands gloved in black leather, he pushed back his hood. Sandy immediately recognized the goatee. The man, her executioner, was Tom's guru Dr. Fincher.

The humming sound grew louder, deeper, and the air in front of her opened into a large dark tunnel, suddenly bursting with bright light, forcing Sandy to shield her eyes and turn away. The luminance appeared manufactured to dazzle, evidenced by a hollow artificial quality. Halogen instead of celestial suns.

A shadowy figure emerged from the tunnel and eclipsed the radiation, save for a brilliant corona. She could see only his outline, no details, no facial features, his profile as black as the dark side of the moon.

"Who are you?" she asked, though her mouth didn't move. The sound seemed to generate from the trembling of the air itself.

"I am the Angel of Light," the shadow replied, his voice majestic and resounding, yet tinny, reminiscent of the Wizard of Oz amplified to deceive Dorothy. "It is not your time. There are things you still need to do."

He reached out to her, and she reached out too, both in slow motion, the corona moving around them in warm swells, but as their fingertips were about to touch, Sandy grabbed the angel by the wrist and pulled him out of his aura, revealing a horned goat skull onto which raw flesh had been melted, one eye socket impossibly deep, and in it a vision--all the world a battlefield bereft of the slightest skittering of life; cities reduced to skeletons of steel, concrete, and rebar; bodies upon bodies decaying in layers, the bottom one oily crude, all overshadowed by a sky of burning coal.

The deceptively divine light flared from the tunnel and enveloped Sandy in sweet blindness, hiding from her the hideous skull. As the brilliance faded, she felt her body reeling in the string that anchored her. The helium that had inflated her now hardened to the density of lead, and a moment later she opened her eyes, gasping for breath.

She woke up staring into Tom's eyes, his lips pressed to hers, performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

"Sandy, are you all right?"

He reached to embrace her, but she pushed him away and scrambled backward, hands splashing in the water.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

She glanced around, her mind spinning. The loft reeked of burnt hair. She noticed the frayed lamp cord in the living room and fixed her eyes on Tom.

"What have you done?

"I didn't do anything, except save your life."

"Tom, did you make the water overflow from the bathroom so that I would be electrocuted?"

He frowned. "Of course not. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, Tom, maybe so I could have a meet and greet with your guardian angel."

"You had an N.D.E.?!"

"Yeah... And trust me when I tell you that the Angel of Light is fucking Satan."

"Then you didn't see what I saw," Tom said, sitting back on his haunches.

Sandy climbed to her feet, too uncomfortable to lie vulnerable beneath him. She grew dizzy and almost vomited.

Tom moved toward her.

"No." She held up her hand and backed away. She wanted to run but needed time to recover; otherwise, she would just stumble and fall, and he would pounce. She came here with a purpose. Now she would use it to buy time.

"Tom, you need to listen to me. What I saw, what we both saw--it's possessing you. It wants to control you so you will do what it wants. Honey, you have to fight it."

"But I don't want to fight it," he said, taking a step toward her even as she took a step back. Very little room remained between her and the wall. "My purpose in life has never been clearer. Sandy, I want you to join me..."

He lunged at her.

She jumped away and crashed into one of his easels. The painting landed at her feet. It was a watercolor rendering of John Wolfenson.

Sandy darted farther into the painting area, into a funhouse of easels flaunting Tom's latest work: Wolfenson in different death scenes and a unique ribbon of blood unifying the collection, first forming a slash across the Envoy's throat, then looping above his head in a crimson halo and, on the next canvas, glazing a sharp point of glass gripped tightly in someone's hand. The red thread appeared continuous, as if the artwork had all been a single canvas, now segmented, so that when aligned the filament would tie them back together. One painting departed from the theme and depicted a shadowy figure descending from the heavens, but the last one picked up where the blood left off, and in bright-red letters Tom had written, "The Restrainer Must Die!"

Sandy slowed down to absorb the clues, realizing she might only have one chance to see them. Tom, having caught up, grabbed her from behind.

She bucked and writhed and kicked paintings to the floor. Tom's foot punched through one of the canvases, through Wolfenson's face, and his shoe caught in the rip. He stumbled.

Sandy broke away from him and scurried to the door. Tom kicked off the painting and took chase.

The deadbolt--she had locked it before. Now her fingers, seemingly fat and uncoordinated, fumbled to disengage it.

Tom growled, closing in. She jacked back the bolt. He pounced--and Sandy slammed the door in his face.

Barefoot, shoes still inside, Sandy broke out onto the sidewalk, shouldering past a few bystanders who got in her way. She ran for blocks until she realized Tom hadn't followed, and then she stopped, wheezing and stooped over.

After a few seconds, she lurched to the gutter and filled it with puke.

--------

--------

Terry had died. So many things had happened that Sandy had almost forgotten until she entered the Optio Entertainment building lobby. The receptionist, Margot, was crying behind her desk. Sandy moved to her, and they embraced. "I can't believe he's dead," Margot said. Her sobs rocked Sandy, bruised her deep into the bone, yet still she couldn't cry.

Bob Harris, the executive who had left the message on Sandy's machine, walked up behind the two women and waited until they parted. His hair looked more gray than usual, and his face more weathered.

"C'mon, Sandy, we need to talk."

She followed him to his office, chrome- and mahogany-themed. Nothing, not even a scrap of paperwork, cluttered his desk. He settled into his leather office chair, and Sandy seated herself across from him. Unlike his, her seat did not feature a built-in massager.

Bob sighed and folded his hands on his immaculate blotter. "I spoke with Brian in legal. He filled me in on what Terry wanted to do. Apparently, his last directive was to pay off your contract and let you go." The executive let the statement hang in the air before continuing.

"But something came up this morning concerning Envoy John Wolfenson. He's agreed to an exclusive interview with 24/7 in Jerusalem after the signing of the peace treaty."

"That's a nice get for the show."

Bob sighed, but this time she was hoping his breathy release wasn't his way of questioning her sincerity. Her statement was voiced sincerely, and also made in an attempt demonstrate that she was prepared to leave the network on the most positive terms.

"I know you did a piece on the envoy a few years ago."

"Yes, I did a story on Wolfenson before he was appointed by the Quartet to the post."

"Well you obviously made an impression: Mr. Wolfenson specifically asked for you and Ben to handle the interview."

"Really. Wow. That's flattering," said Sandy, trying not to sound to enthusiastic. She wasn't sure if Harris was using this discussion in some way that still ended up with her getting fired.

He sighed a third time and this time Sandy was sure what it meant. She had learned long ago that Bob only pretended to grapple with tough decisions, would even go through the trouble of weighing the options with you, when, in fact, he had already made up his mind. He scripted everything, complete with suspense and predetermined outcome.

"Here's the thing, Terry's not even in the ground, but I'm contemplating going against one of his last wishes."

"I'm sorry, Bob. I don't understand."

The executive tapped a finger on his desktop and frowned at her, faking deep thought. "I'm the only one in this building without a law degree who is getting paid to make a decision they will need to stand by. I can either go with the safe move that keeps me in this chair for sixty days or the risky move that might keep me in this chair for sixty months." He tapped his desk louder and slowed to a stop, the last beat lending a sense of finality. "So it's settled. Ben will conduct the on-camera interview, and you'll produce the piece. After that, we'll discuss your future with the network. I hope you don't fuck me on this decision, Sandy. It'll be a one night stand for the both of us." He stood up before she could answer, knowing what she would say.

"Thank you for giving me the story," said Sandy. "I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. You never have. I don't know what Terry was thinking." He was leading her out of his office, but at the door, she stopped him.

"Bob, do they know anything more about Terry... how he died?"

He shook his head. "Not really. Apparently, the driver was speeding and lost control. Don't listen to the rumors that the driver was the son of the driver behind the wheel of Lady Di's car. That's bullshit."

"So nothing unusual?"

Bob reached to open the door to his office, but stopped. "I told you Brian was talking to him on the phone when it happened. He told me Terry said something about... the seat belts being cut."

Sandy raised an eyebrow.

"That's totally between you and me and not to be repeated."

She nodded.

"If there's something that's not right about Terry's death, you have my permission to get all Nancy Drew on the situation--but not right now. The interview with Wolfenson airs this Sunday. So I need you to take an extra dose of Ritalin and focus completely on this interview. Capiche?"

"Yes, I completely understand," said Sandy, before leaving Harris's office.

Sandy emerged from the front doors of Optio/Ent and made her way over to the adjacent plaza courtyard.

She panicked when she didn't immediately see Father Olsen sitting at the bench where she had left him before her meeting with Bob Harris. Sandy looked around and was relieved to find him at another bench in the courtyard feeding the birds leftovers from the breakfast they had at their hotel. The priest was covered in bandages, and his right arm was in a sling, but otherwise he had been discharged from the hospital with no threatening injuries.

"You were right. I wasn't fired. And you were also right about my next assignment." Sandy held up her JFK boarding pass she picked up from the 24/7 program coordinator. "I've been booked on a flight to Tel Aviv. Ben Peters and I have an exclusive interview with the Mideast Envoy, John Wolfenson, after the signing of the peace treaty." She lowered her hand holding the plane ticket, suddenly remembering that Alan was blind.

"Are we alone? I mean is anyone watching us," asked Father Olsen. Sandy looked around the plaza and only saw tourists taking pictures in front of the plaza fountain and two nannies talking with each other at a different bench while the children they were watching slept.

"I think we're all right," said Sandy. It was the first time since she picked him up from the hospital that he showed any sign of paranoia.

Father Olsen crumbled up the empty bag and stood up.

"Sandy, can you help me to the nearest garbage can."

She quickly moved to his side, gently nudging him with her elbow. He grabbed her arm, and the two walked toward the nearest trash can in the plaza courtyard. They had now spent enough time with each other that their smooth rapport was similar to what had developed years ago when Sandy first shot her TV story on the priest.

"Of course, I take no satisfaction from being right," said Father Olsen. "Indeed, while you were at your meeting, I was praying that what I predicted last night would end up being wrong. I would have consoled you if you had lost your job, but I would have felt relieved that you were not being used as a pawn in some dark plot."

"So shouldn't we seriously consider that everything else you said last night is probably also true," said Sandy. She stopped in front of a trash can, took the trash from Father Olsen's hand, and threw it in the wastebasket. "Tom's possession was not a random event. He was chosen because of his access to me."

"And now you have a backstage pass to the biggest event in the last couple of decades - peace in the Middle East. Yes, Sandy I believe that there are too many black swans swimming past for us to ignore."

"So then what do we do next?"

"When do you leave?"

"Today. I have a flight from JFK at four o'clock."

"That doesn't give us much time," said Father Olsen.

She looked over at him. "So you have a plan?"

"The key is Tom. If we can remove him from the equation, then there will be nothing to worry about. You can go to Israel and do your job and the forces that have been plotting will need to come up with a different plan. One that does not involve Tom."

Rather than turning back in the direction of the plaza bench, Olsen led Sandy toward the street.

"Where are we going?"

"We need to get a taxi and go to your apartment. We need to act fast. The forces we are up against might already have grabbed Tom. I would not be surprised if he's on his way to Tel Aviv as we speak."

--------

As Sandy entered, she was immediately struck by the awful odor that permeated the entire apartment. Her instinct was to be embarrassed because she had come with a guest, but then Sandy remembered that the guest accompanying her was Father Olsen.

"Sandy, you do smell what I smell?"

"I sure do," answered Sandy. "It smells a lot like the Roses' basement."

When Sandy opened the drapes, the light revealed an apartment that looked as if burglars had ransacked it. Furniture had been tipped over, the couch cushions disemboweled, and all the easels with Tom's work and supplies had been scattered across the floor.

Taking an uncertain step, Father Olsen cracked a picture frame beneath his foot and bent to explore with his hand.

The debris confused his senses, which would be expected, but Alan was feeling tense, not from the mess all around him, but something he felt nearby. A presence lurked in the apartment, a threatening respiration, yet he couldn't zero in on it.

"Sandy, Tom is here."

Sandy touched Alan's arm. "Okay, let's not move from this spot." He nodded his head and tried to look confident about what he was sure was about to happen.

"Tom, are you here?"

"Of course I'm here."

The voice caused Sandy and Father Olsen to spin around toward the kitchen. It was Tom's voice, but Sandy only saw her fiance after he stepped out of the shadows.

"Why shouldn't I be here? I thought we agreed that I would have the apartment to myself Tuesdays, Thursdays and half-days on Sundays."

"What are you talking about, Tom?"

Before he could respond to Sandy, Alan took a step toward the kitchen.

"Hello, Tom. We haven't met. My name is..."

"Shut the fuck up, Father."

Olsen was no longer wearing his priestly garb, so Sandy was shocked to hear Tom's words.

"Tom, how did you know Alan was a priest?"

"Are you kidding me? I smelled his stench when the two of you were in the elevator. I can't believe you're leaving me for a priest, Sandy."

"What are you talking about, Tom. I love you. I'm not leaving you."

Tom emerged from the kitchen into the living room allowing direct light from the windows to fall upon his face, which was gaunt and completely smooth, the skin pulled back by an unseen force. He laughed as if he had just heard some joke whispered in his ear, then turned to address Father Olsen in words spoken in Latin -- "You may not be able to see, Padre, but I know you feel, lusting after my fiancee, the slut."

"What did he say," Sandy asked Alan after Tom had finished speaking. The priest kept staring forward, and when he spoke it was not to answer Sandy but to respond to Tom in Latin.

"Your Latin is very good. Where did you learn this, Tom?"

Tom laughed rather than verbally responding to Alan's query.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the apartment's front door.

Without saying a word, Sandy moved quickly toward the hallway.

"What are you two up to," asked Tom, speaking in English, and without any smugness on his face.

"Believe it or not we're both here to help. Tom. We're worried about you."

"Why are you worried about me, Father? I can take care of myself. For the first time I have a purpose in my life. All I want now is to be left alone so I can achieve my goal. Leave a legacy behind that I remembered for..."

"What about your paintings, Tom. Can't that be your legacy?"

"Nobody cares about art anymore. The artist has to actually bleed for his work or no one cares."

Sandy appeared in the living room followed by two beefy men wearing hospital uniforms.

"Who are you guys?" Tom asked with a sneer on his face.

"We're here to make sure you get the help you need," answered one of the men, a black man with a shaved head.

Tom turned his gaze to Sandy. "What have you done?"

"I've had you committed to a hospital," answered Sandy. "I'm really afraid that you're a danger to yourself... as well as to others."

"You can't just have me committed," protested Tom. "It has to be signed off..."

"By a mental health professional," interrupted Father Olsen. "That would be me. Besides being a priest, I am a board-certified psychologist registered with the state of New York."

Tom kept his attention on Sandy. "I can't believe you're doing this. How can you commit your own fiance?"

"Because whoever you are, you're not my fiance."

Tom nodded, apparently at peace with the situation. But then bolted across the living room. The two orderlies grabbed him before he made it to the bedroom. They dragged him out of the apartment with Tom shouting obscenities and threats, and literally foaming at the mouth every step of the way until Sandy shut the door behind him.

When she walked back into the living room, Sandy happened to come across a framed picture laying among the apartment wreckage. Broken glass was still partially covering the photograph originally shot at the luau in Hawaii. Tom was holding his shirt open to reveal a handwritten sign: "MARRY ME."

Alan had no idea that Sandy was close to breaking down and crying. He said the two words that he hoped would comfort Sandy -- "It's over."

"Do you really think it's over?"

"I do, Sandy. The dark forces behind this plot went to great trouble to recruit Tom. We've now eliminated your fiance as their pawn. You'll catch your plane, and I'll check on Tom once he's settled in at the hospital. It's going to be all right, Sandy. It's over."

"Come on, pal," the black orderly said to Tom, who writhed and spit like a cobra as he was escorted to a hospital van idling at the curb. "You're just making this harder on yourself."

"I don't know," said his co-worker, "he's kind of making it hard on me too..."

The orderlies threw open the van's back doors. Together they lifted Tom into the waiting hands of a blond-haired man... with an oddly stretched face. .

"Okay," Steve said, "I got him. We'll take it from here." Steve guided Tom to the bench and strapped him in. "You're going to be all right."

The black orderly was amazed to see how Tom had suddenly calmed down. "He's like a stuffed animal in your hands. Maybe we should call you... the Looney Whisperer."

Steve laughed before yelling to the driver in the front cab, who, aside from the brown hair, appeared to be Steve's identical twin. "We're set. You can go anytime."

The driver nodded before turning to Tom, "Don't worry. You're going to be all right." He then put the van in gear and pulled out into the traffic.

--------

The dining room of the Bedouin Diwan restaurant in Jerusalem had arched ceilings, and walls painted in the color of the desert. The aroma of chicken shawarma filled the air as Sandy, Ben, and Rick Walsh, the press liaison for the Middle East Envoy John Wolfenson, sat at a table grazing on appetizers as they negotiated the terms of the live network interview to follow the signing of the peace treaty.

"So we're in agreement on the time and place and the length of the interview, and most of the other ground rules, but there are still a few sticking points," said Walsh with his distinct British accent. "I thought I was clear on this point before your team flew out here. We will not allow any mention of Mr. Wolfenson's past presidency of the World Bank, his association with the Trilateral Commission, and the Council on Foreign Relations."

"You requested there would be no questions or any reference to any of those groups by Ben during the interview. And we did agree to that point," said Sandy. "But the language in your last email moved the marker on that point and demanded a response. C'mon, Rick, do you really expect that the network news covering the peace treaty is not going to use Wolfenson's resume during their live coverage of the peace treaty signing? We have no control over that. So we can't guarantee that. Sorry."

Walsh nodded without a fight. He obviously expected that he would not win that fight. But then his eyes lit up when he came upon another contested point.

"You've written here that, '24/7 has right at their discretion to re-edit any portions of the interview for future broadcasts. These re-edits will in no way change any word from the original interview?' What the hell is this all about?" asked Walsh.

Sandy waited to see if Ben was going to respond to Rick's objection, but when he made it a point to begin eating the artichoke gnocchi, she knew it was up to her to speak up.

"That's no big deal, Rick. We often re-air 24/7 interviews that have only the cut-away shots of the correspondent, sent through post production to enhance the look."

Walsh got it and moved on. "Okay so here's the final thing I have highlighted. In your last email, you wrote, 'John and his violin.' I don't know what this means?"

When she saw Ben set aside his plate and sit up to respond Sandy relaxed and began to drift mentally away from the table conversation. She looked all around her at the other tables and saw Arab couples--the women modestly dressed in hijab headscarves-- eating kebabs and fried kibbeh and wondered what Helen would have said about the surroundings. She had accompanied her on these news assignments for years, and without her there beside her, Sandy couldn't help feeling confused... sad... lost.

"I've seen him play; he's quite good. John played his violin at Terry's house in the Hamptons. He was the hit of the party. Right, Sandy?"

She did not miss a beat, jumping back into the conversation as soon as she heard her name.

"We're talking B-Roll of him playing," said Sandy clarifying their request. "We're not requesting something awkward, like asking him to play during the interview. We want to use it for the prime time presentation, run him playing the violin as we go in out of a break?"

"Rick, we're trying to add some personality to your man," said Ben, "not expose his lack of talent as a violin player."

"I understand," said Rick. "I personally love the idea. I'll talk to John about this and see if he responds to the idea. I'll get back to you after we speak."

Sandy's attention drifted again along with her eyes.

"So, I think that does it," said the envoy's public relations representative. "Unless there was anything else you two were planning on dropping in my lap at the last second?"

Near where the ceiling arch met the brick wall was a recessed window that looked out to the street. Sandy's eyes caught sight of a man staring into the window, his face sullied with dirt, dust and a half-grown beard.

"Sandy, we don't have anything else for Rick?" asked Ben.

It took her a few seconds to recognize the man staring at her in the window, but then she realized it was... Tom.

"Sandy, anything else?"

She sprang to her feet, banging her knee on the table and almost toppling all of their drinks.

At the window, Tom was already gone.

"What's going on?" asked Rick.

"Nothing," she said, "I'll be right back," and then she rushed away from the table.

The heart of Jerusalem is the Old City--Ottoman ramparts shaped like castle walls. And stretching along the cobblestone streets were small fluorescent lights attached to power lines running above the maze of stone walls.

Sandy emerged from the restaurant and immediately caught sight of Tom before he disappeared into a crowd of people heading toward the Damascus Gate, one of seven open entryways into the Old City.

She was about to take off running when she saw another figure she recognized - Father Alan Olsen sitting at a table in an outdoor cafe across from the Bedouin Diwan restaurant. Before she acknowledged his presence, Sandy noted tables around the priest seemed to be populated with people who looked nothing like tourists, and were overdressed to be locals. When she spotted the earpiece dangling from one of the people sitting near Father Olsen, Sandy did not bother to acknowledge she saw Alan all. She just took off running toward the Damascus gate.

The Souk Khan al-Zeit was a narrow market street packed with Arab merchants and customers haggling over pomegranates, shoes, and banana bunches. Sandy picked up Tom's trail and continued to follow him through the market place. He was moving at a good pace, but Sandy could not tell if it was because she was following him.

Like the Roman Cardo Maximus before it, the cobblestone street stretches north to south, and from east to west. Together the two thoroughfares divide the Old City into four neighborhoods: the Christian Quarter, Muslim Quarter, Armenian Quarter, and Jewish Quarter, each revolving around their holiest sites. Tom, with Sandy not far behind, turned into the Muslim district. She was able to keep an eye on him for a couple of blocks, then he disappeared near the Madrasa al-Omariya chapel. It was the path where Jesus bore his cross, and the cobblestone street was packed with tourists taking pictures for their Facebook page.

Sandy fought through the crowd until she caught sight of Tom down the street, turning down a dark street that led to the Armenian neighborhood. It was several blocks away from yet another marketplace where Armenians sold pottery and ceramics. For a few streets, Sandy had the light of the bazaar to help keep her from walking down completely dark streets.

She saw Tom standing at the end of one of the streets. He had turned now and was looking at her.

"Tom? What are you doing here?"

He wouldn't respond. She slowly walked toward him.

"Let's talk..."

He suddenly took off again, slipping into one of the nearby houses lining the street.

Sandy raced up the dark cobblestone street to the front door where she had seen her fiance enter. She tried the door and was surprised that Tom had not locked it after entering.

When she entered she saw the hovel was empty, but there was a fire going in the fireplace providing enough light to illuminate the room. Sandy saw Tom under a wooden beam leading to the hovel's kitchen area.

"Tom..."

She took a step toward him, but stopped when she saw that in his hand was a shard of glass.

"Sandy..."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure anymore," he said.

"Tom, everything's going to be all right." She started to move toward him. "Just stay right where you are..."

But then there was a noise coming from the street... footsteps approaching the hovel. She turned to look at the door and wondered if she should lock it so she had time to speak with Tom before they rushed in. She turned back to tell Tom about her decision to move and lock the door, but discovered he was now right beside her, holding the jagged shard of glass up to her neck.

A pounding noise at the door grabbed their attention. Someone was using force to open the door. The noise caused Tom to release Sandy, and she dropped to the floor. Her fiance disappeared into another part of the hovel.

A few moments later, the front door flew open and the same people Sandy had seen surrounding Alan in the cafe were now rushing in wielding guns.

"Where is he?"

She shook her head, not able to answer. They scattered in different directions to begin searching the hovel.

"Sandy?!"

She looked through the open doorway and saw Father Olsen standing on the street.

"Alan!"

He heard her voice and tried to move toward it, but was immediately restrained by one of the men wearing an earpiece and carrying a gun.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she shouted back. Sandy had lied. But it was impossible to be truthful under the circumstances.

--------

In a shin bet safe house, Agent Aluf Ginsberg watched a bank of video monitors as Sandy Travis and Alan Olsen interacted with each other in another room down the hall. After he and his agents lost Tom in the Armenian neighborhood, the American priest and journalist were driven in separate vehicles to the safe house where they would be interrogated. During the car trip, Ginsberg needed to decide on a strategy. He could continue to keep the two separate from each other, allowing him to judge the veracity of their stories and see if they matched. Specifically to discover if what Sandy Travis' had to say was consistent with the claims by Father Alan Olsen that originally triggered their citywide search for Tom Hansen.

Ginsberg ended up going with the strategy of putting the two in one room and observing how the two interacted once they were together, even if they presumably were smart enough to know they were being watched and recorded. The tipping point for his final decision was the priest's blindness. If the two had something to convey to each other, presumably they would need to verbalize their communication.

"So, he wasn't at the hospital the next day when you went for your visit?"

"Yes, Sandy, but what got me to catch the next plane to Tel Aviv was the discovery that Tom had never been checked into the hospital at all. Whatever arrangements I had made to have your fiance committed had been thwarted. So I caught the next plane to Tel Aviv and immediately contacted Shin Bet because I knew they would be in charge of security for the peace treaty signing."

"But Alan, why didn't you call me once you knew Tom..."

"I did call, Sandy. Several times. All the calls went to voice mail. And you never called me back."

She thought about all the voices messages Tom had sent that never got to her. "I believe you, Alan. Tom claimed to send me messages, but I know he didn't, and yet somehow they were there in my voicemail. You probably tried to send me some voice mails, and I have no doubt they were prevented from getting to me by whoever is doing this. I have no idea how this is happening. But I know you understand?"

"Yes, I do understand," answered Olsen.

"You sound tired," said Sandy.

He certainly had every right to be tired. The last few days were a relentless attempt to stop Tom from hurting anyone, specifically Sandy. After he discovered Tom had been never checked-in at the hospital, Alan made a mad dash to JFK to catch the earliest flight from New York City. And after a long plane trip across the ocean (with two stopovers in London and Paris), there was a daylong wrestling match with Shin Bet trying to convince the agency about the potential danger of Tom Hansen.

"Weirdly I've been feeling completely wired," said Olsen. "For the last 48 hours, I could feel the adrenalin coursing through my body. Everything I was dreading I thought was going to come true."

"Tom was going to become a killer, just like Bernard Rose," said Sandy.

"Yes, Sandy. I believe Tom is being used by a force that we should never underestimate. We've experienced firsthand the fact that they will stop at nothing to bring their agenda to fruition. Tom is here, in Israel, still walking around this city, because there are forces that are powerful enough to make it happen."

"But why, Alan? What is Tom being used for," asked Sandy.

"On the plane flight over, I did some more research," said Father Olsen. We both agree that Tom's paintings of John Wolfenson makes him the target for assassination. But why the Middle East Envoy? The priest answered his own question by quoting from the bible --the dragon gave the beast his power and his throne and great authority. One of the heads of the beast seemed to have had a fatal wound, but the fatal wound had been healed. The whole world was astonished and followed the beast.

"It's from the 13th verse in Revelations."

"I'm sorry, Alan. I'm not sure I understand."

Olsen took a deep breath before saying aloud what he was thinking, "what if Satan were able to possess the soul of the man who had just pulled off the greatest accomplishment in the last one hundred years - peace in the Middle East. Wouldn't his ability to further his dark agenda among the living be so much easier to accomplish if it was coming from the most celebrated leader of our times?"

"If your theory is true," said Sandy, "why have Bernard Rose kill Wolfenson? And why are these same dark forces trying to have Tom once again attempt to kill the Envoy?"

"Think about it Sandy," said Alan. "You know the answer to that question."

She stopped and pondered the situation, and it didn't take long for her to figure out the answer. "Bernard Rose was never meant to kill Wolfenson, only shoot him, so the Envoy would have a Near-Death Experience."

"But when that didn't happen," said Alan, "the forces guiding this plot needed another assassin."

Sandy fell back to her chair looking despondent. "Tom. He's the next one chosen to make sure Wolfenson is shot so he can have a Near-Death Experience."

"I believe Satan is working to have the opportunity for the perfect possession," said Father Olsen, "so he can usher in the End Days while walking among us."

The two sat in silence for a while before Sandy said, "we need to get out of here."

"No, Sandy, we need to tell these people what we know."

"They won't believe us, Alan."

"Sandy, right now, the best we can do is get them to believe us because we will need all the help we can get to stop what is about to happen. Do you understand?"

Before she could answer, the door to the interrogation room opened, and in walked Agent Ginsberg.

Sandy recognized him as one of the agents she had seen in the cafe sitting near Alan, and then later, after Tom escaped from the hovel. He was one of the agents standing off to the side coordinating the aftermath. Like many Israeli men, his head was shaved because his scalp was already in the process of going completely bald. Earlier when she saw him he looked bigger, probably because he was wearing a coat to camouflage his bullet-proof vest. He was now wearing a windbreaker over a tee-shirt and as Ginsberg sat at the table opposite them, Sandy couldn't help but feel he was too thin, a bit short, and looked very tired. He looked nothing like the hero she imagined was going to come to the rescue and make everything turn out all right.

"You are Sandra Travis, resident of New York city? You currently work for an American TV news show called "24/7."

"That's right," said Sandy. She noted his accent, definitely Israeli, and consistent with a Shin Bet agent. But oddly hearing him speak got Sandy to remember where she had seen him once before - on the video of Bernard Rose's assassination attempt in Tel Aviv.

"You know the man next to you, correct?"

"Yes, I do. This is Father Alan Olsen."

"And the two of you..."

"I also know who you are as well," interrupted Sandy. "Your name is Aluf Ginsberg and you're an agent with Shin Bet."

Ginsberg tried not to look too surprised or impressed, though he was feeling both as he replied, "That's correct, Ms. Travers. Have we met before?"

"No, we haven't," answered Sandy, leaning confidently toward the agent. "But I saw you before in dozens of different videos shot that day in Tel Aviv. You were the one who stopped Bernard Rose that day, shooting him before he could kill or hurt anyone else."

"Sandy, what are you doing," asked Alan, grabbing her arm. But she ignored the priest.

"I talked to Julie Rose, the assassin's widow, and she told me about your friendship with her husband. That's how I know what you had to do that day in Tel Aviv. You not only stopped an assassin; you ended up killing a friend. This is true, is it not, Agent Ginsberg?"

"Yes, I was the one who shot Bernard Rose," answered Ginsberg without hesitation.

"You killed a man because it was your duty to protect anyone who is intent on hurting other people. And even though you recognized the assassin, you did not hesitate to shoot because... he wasn't the same man you once knew. He looked similar to the man you once knew, but he also looked different. And that's because he was different. The man you shot was no longer the same man you once knew as your friend. Am I right, Agent Ginsberg?"

This time Ginsberg didn't immediately respond.

In his silence, Sandy reached over and touched Alan's hand that had been gripping her arm.

"Alan, everything's going to be all right. Oh my God, Alan, you of all people will so appreciate this. As it turns out, we're actually preaching to a member of the choir..."

Ginsberg checked his watch the moment he left the interrogation. It was late and he knew all of his phone calls were going to piss off a lot of people. He started by hitting the speed dial for the chief of Shin Bet. While he waited for his call to be answered, Ginsberg ran through his head what he planned on saying--I've just spent the last several hours with two people who are either a pair of religious fanatics who enjoy each other's company because of their shared delusion of an apocalyptic plot. Or the two consistently corroborate each other's sincere belief that a potential assassination attempt will be made during the signing of the Peace treaty at the Western Wall Plaza. As the head of the Shin Bet team in command of security, I need to proceed if the latter scenario is true and take extra security measures. My call is to alert you of the situation.

"Agent Ginsberg?"

"Chief Cohan, I apologize for calling so late, but there's a security issue that I needed to alert you to. It concerns these two Americans I've just spent the last several hours observing and..."

--------

Thousands of people, representing many different faiths, had come to the Western Wall Plaza to bear witness to an historical moment. Many had come hoping that their dream of peace for the region was finally about to become a reality.

For the signing ceremony, security fencing cordoned the square with a combined force of Secret Servicemen and Shin Bet agents working together. The U.N. Patrol was manning the checkpoints for all those entering the Western Wall Plaza. Sharpshooters were stationed on rooftops, perched like gargoyles trying to discourage evil spirits from making an appearance.

At the back of the plaza stood the Western Wall, taller in cubits than the biblical Goliath. Bushes and plants thrust roots between the building blocks, and prayers on scraps of paper mortared the lower Herodian seams.

Stationed a respectful distance from the open-air synagogue of the ancient retaining wall, an elevated podium held a long table with six chairs, one for each politician signing the treaty.

Sandy waited with Ben and their 24/7 cameraman near the platform, gathered with VIPs and government higher-ups. Rick Walsh, Wolfenson's press liaison, stuck to Ben's side, and Shin Bet Agent Ginsberg hovered so intimately behind Sandy, she could smell the oil used to clean his weapon. His eyes didn't seem as weary as they had in the interrogation room, and she knew he was scoping for Tom with binocular vision.

She had spotted Father Olsen in the crowd--could smell him, like a mass grave polluting the occasional breeze. And though he couldn't see her, he sensed her general location.

He had come with the mission of guarding against Tom, but had been swept up in the excitement of the crowd. If the eternal optimist inside him won out and no tragedy befell the pacifists, this day would ring in unprecedented peace. A feud, centuries long, would finally end and the gates of Old Jerusalem would no longer sustain bullet wounds by the name of conflicting gods. Of course, the Muslims still prohibited Judaic prayer on the Temple Mount, holy to the Jews, but the treaty constituted a momentous step in the direction toward long lasting cooperation between the faiths.

To one side of the plaza, a row of reporters conducted live stand-ups in a roped-off area for the press. From the staging area, Sandy couldn't hear their reports over the fervent Hebrew, Arabic, and English, but she knew what it was like to be isolated from the main stage, not being able to glean anything insightful stuck observing in the gallery. Today, she had a backstage pass. Indeed, Sandy had become one of the main players on a stage that the whole world was watching.

The motorcade parked near the staging area. As Israeli Prime Minister Bleiberg and the Arab leaders exited the cars, security agents assembled into a broad shield around them. Quartet Envoy John Wolfenson stepped out of the last vehicle. As Sandy had always observed with famous people, the man towered the size of God on television but appeared diminished and mortal in person.

With security detail in line, the politicians embraced and exchanged words with their relatives and other people gathered near the platform. Wolfenson approached Ben and Sandy as their cameraman shot the action.

"Ben," Wolfenson said, sharing a warm handshake with the anchorman. "Good to see you here."

"John, it's an honor. Thank you for the invitation."

"I'm sorry to hear the news about Terry. Please give his family my sympathy."

Ben nodded. "We'll see you after the signing."

Wolfenson turned to Sandy, who was pretending not to eavesdrop. They exchanged a hug, but she must have moved in too quickly because a bodyguard stepped closer.

"Sandy," Wolfenson said as they parted, "it's wonderful to see you again. Promise me you'll keep this bulldog on his leash later."

"Don't worry about, Ben," replied Sandy. "I promise you he'll be a pussycat during the interview."

Rick, the press liaison, motioned to Wolfenson to take the stage. The envoy nodded, and stepped into his spotlight, waving to the multitudes who had gathered and were now cheering for him. When the crowd quieted, the envoy began his speech, booming with a richness for which the sound system could not be fully credited. "Where God gathered the dust and breathed into it the life of Adam, King Solomon of the Israelites built the First Temple where they kept the Ark of the Covenant. And under the golden Dome of the Rock, just on the other side of this holy wall, Muslims preserve the stone from which Muhammad ascended to Allah. This land is where Christianity, Judaism, and Islam intersect, and yet it is also where they collide. But on this day, I urge you, brothers and sisters of the planet we share, let us not cling to our differences and harbor hatred. Instead let us celebrate our common ground. Let us usher in a new era of peace and prosperity and, most importantly, let us embrace a time of unity, the well from which eternal hope springs."

After he waited for the audience's deafening applause to end, Wolfenson introduced the Israeli and Arab leaders as each one made their way onstage. The entire group then posed for pictures and waved to the crowd who had gathered. Finally, the six men settled into their chairs, and to the clicking of cameras and boisterous cheers, they distributed the signature documents among themselves.

Sandy was watching the leaders sign the treaty documents when she caught sight a face that she instantly recognized--Tom.

Her fiance was slithering through the crowd, looking as if he was driven by the same single-minded purpose as Bernard Rose in Tel Aviv.

"There he is..." Sandy said to agent Ginsberg standing next to her. "I see Tom..."

The Shin Bet agent squinted and followed her finger. Into his headset, he relayed the information of Tom's location, then moved off with his gun drawn from the holster.

Tom continued to weave between people as he made his way closer to the stage. He was unaware that all around him security agents were quickly closing in on his position. As he got about one hundred yards from the stage where the leaders scribbled signatures on multiple copies of the treaty, Tom reached into his coat.

The Secret Service grabbed him. One of the agents confiscated his weapon--not a gun, but a pair of binoculars; the lenses glinted briefly in the sunlight before the device disappeared into the guard's jacket. Then the agents whisked Tom away. Sandy watched it all happen, and afterwards she thought that if she had blinked, there was a good chance she would have missed the entire confrontation.

All the leaders had finished signing the peace treaty and joined John Wolfenson at the center of the stage for one more photo opportunity. Each dignitary embraced the other, and together they all raised their hands triumphantly. The audience roared with their approval at the sight.

All around him Father Olsen was hearing the noise of people screaming with joy. He even heard a few people near him crying, overwhelmed by their emotions now that the peace treaty had officially been signed. Then the priest felt a cold hand fall on his shoulder, followed by a whisper in his ear, "The Angel of Light has risen and will become flesh."

Next to the stage, Sandy had been watching Father Olsen in the crowd, and she saw Dr. Fincher appear beside him. She calmly watched as the rogue psychologist quickly slip away into the surrounding crowd. Sandy then saw everyone around Father Olsen begin to change, become something completely different, right before her eyes. Everyone beyond the stage had become demons, their eyes were glowing red as they jeered and roiled madly.

Sandy felt something sharp in her hand--a shard of glass dripping blood. For a moment, as it changed angle in the sun, the glass reflected Sandy's smooth face. She and Tom could have been twins.

Through new eyes, black as a shark's, Sandy saw she was now on stage, leaving behind the rest of her team from 24/7. Ben Peters had dropped to his knees to help the 24/7 videographer who had mysteriously collapsed next to him. The glass Sandy had in her hands was from the broken lens of his video camera.

John Wolfenson was the last to leave the stage, following the Israeli Prime Minister and the other Arabic leaders as they all waved to the crowd. At the last second, the Envoy turned as a figure rushed him. He did not recognize the woman as Sandy Travers, because the person charging at him looked so different.

A gunshot rang out from a nearby building. Sandy was hit in the chest by a sniper shot. The punch of hot lead caused her to stop, then stumble back a step, before she continued toward John Wofenson. Sandy raised the shard of glass in her hand and plunged it into the neck of the Envoy.

More Snipers fired, and two bullets struck Sandy, one in the throat; the other hit her again in the chest, just an inch away from the first wound.

Both Sandy and Wolfenson fell; one left, the other right.

It had taken the audience a few moments, but now they began to react. There were screams, followed by a wild stampede.

Amidst the chaos, Secret Servicemen flocked around the envoy, their weapons drawn.

Two paramedics rushed on stage, and Sandy recognized them as they rushed past her as the same men who had resuscitated Tom and had tried to resurrect Helen.

"I'm a priest!" Father Olsen shouted, struggling his way past two security agents. "I need to offer her the last rites!"

The agents glanced at each other, and in their indecision, Olsen rushed past them both. Somehow, he knew exactly where to go on stage.

Sandy's eyes caught sight of the small cross dangling from Alan's neck, then his milky pupils staring down at her.

"It wasn't just Tom," she said, gurgling blood deep in her chest. "He possessed me... to get to Wolfenson..."

Alan brushed strands of hair from her face. "It's okay. That doesn't matter now. Sandy, do you want me to give you your last rites?"

She coughed up red blood as a response.

"May the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up."

He retraced the sign of the cross over her at the same time her eyes became fixed and dilated.

Father Olsen sensed she had left this world, and cradled her body as he began to cry

--------

John Wolfenson heard his wife Patricia talking to Dr. Diamant just outside his room.

"Is he okay," Patricia asked, her voice muffled but audible through the wall of his private room.

"I don't have to tell you that your husband is lucky to be alive," Dr. Diamant replied. "In fact, for a minute there he was clinically dead."

"Can I see him?"

The security guard opened the door for her, and Wolfenson's wife came into the room.

"Oh, honey," she said after seeing her husband reaching out to her. "Thank God, you're all right. I don't know what I would have done without you."

She hugged him as best she could with all the wires and tubes connected to his body.

"Are you sure, Pat, this is a good thing. You could have finally gotten the bridge partner you deserve."

"Shut up," she said, before releasing him and getting the first close-up look at her husband since the attack. Patricia was shocked by what she saw.

"I can't believe how good you look." Tears began to run down Patricia's cheek.

"How sweet of you to say such kind words."

I'm serious, Honey," said Patricia wiping away her tears. "It's as if the E.R. surgeons gave you a facelift after they stitched up your wounds."

Wolfenson tried to kiss her, but couldn't raise himself from the hospital bed. She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead.

In the doorway stood five men and a woman. When Wolfenson saw them, he motioned for the security guard to let them enter.

"Honey," the envoy said to his wife, "I want you to get a hold of whoever's in charge of the kitchen and demand that I get a slice of apple pie immediately. Tell them it's for the man who just brought peace to the Mideast."

Patricia nodded and kissed her husband's hand before leaving his side. As she was walking out of the room, she noted the group entering and didn't know what to think. When she got to the hallway, she was immediately greeted by her press secretary, Rick Walsh.

"How is he?"

"He's going to be fine," she answered. She then motioned to the people who had entered her husband's room.

"Who are they?"

"I don't know," Walsh answered. "I've never seen them before in my life."

The last man to enter the room shut the door behind him. Dr. Fincher stepped forward from the group first and knelt before John Wolfenson as if he was in the presence of royalty.

"It is so good to finally have you among us, my Angel of Light."

Wolfenson extended his hand, and Fincher wasted no time in embracing and kissing it.

Another person in the group stepped forward and said, "Someone sent you a get-well card."

It was from Father Alan Olsen--"'For we walk by faith, not by sight' 2 Corinthians 5:7."

The envoy smiled and handed the card back to his disciple.

Fincher waited for more of a reaction before speaking. "Don't you think the priest will be a problem?"

"No, I don't. I will deal with him," replied Wolfenson, but there was a small pit in his gut that felt different than his words and the Envoy was intrigued. He wasn't accustomed to the feeling because he had not experienced it for hundreds of years. "There are more demanding issues all of you must worry about."

When he saw his words seemed to have caused some distress, Wolfenson made a point of sitting up in his bed and begin to disconnect the wires and tubes attached to his body. He knew it was the perfect time to show his gathering that he did not suffer from any of the pain inflicted on the body he was now possessing.

"Make no mistake about the mission ahead. I ask for your effort because I will lead the way, but I will need each one of you to help me if we are to succeed."

The sight through his room window caught the envoy's attention. The sky had darkened, and it had begun to rain.

"What a beautiful day to be alive."

--------

The Story Continues in -

--------

DEMON DAYS - Book Two

#

EXCERPT FROM DEMON DAYS - BOOK TWO

##### CHAPTER 15

As the train started up, he patted his shirt pocket and felt the business card of the organ transplant network. He had yet to read the name the doctor had written inside the fold. Maybe because he wasn't sure what to do next.

George certainly didn't want to ambush the recipient with his sudden spiritual curiosity. But he was obsessed with what his wife would think of the man living off of her heart. He also was convinced that it was his responsibility to be the conduit to express her approval. Or disapproval.

Carri had always lived as if there were only twelve hours in a day. And in her eyes, most people were simply floating through life without any deep thoughts, measurable accomplishments, or emotional attachments. George never realized how much her thoughts had attached themselves to his own synapses. Now, months after her death, her negative opinions on the rest of humanity permeated his indecisive thoughts.

The train continued north toward the city, and George decided to remember this moment. He looked all around him, at the passing scenery, the faces of the passengers crowding the car, even the leather strap he was holding for balance. He wanted to remember because, after countless days of mourning over his wife, he had finally decided to visit and get to know the only part of her that was still alive. He hoped Carri would approve of his choice. But George had just enough sane brain cells left to know it didn't matter. If he didn't start living, then he might as well rip Carri's heart out of the recipient's chest and jump into the afterlife with her.

As Neal drove back toward the highway, Jenna pulled the eighth missing page of the Codex Gigas from the leather portfolio. It barely fit on her lap. She caressed its plastic cover and admired the capital letter illumination, the unique self-taught calligraphy, the mysterious words coded in Hildegard of Bingen's "unknown language."

She wondered why the scribe had encrypted only the keywords and not the entire Latin passage. And the fact that a Benedictine abbess had created the secret language by divine inspiration only deepened the mystery.

"So who text-messaged you?" Neal asked from out of nowhere.

"What?"

"Earlier at the motel?"

"Oh, it was just Mom."

"Mom texted you?" Neal said.

Jenna could have slapped her forehead she felt so stupid; she had forgotten her mother didn't know how to text. "No, I meant she left a voicemail. She wanted to know if we were still coming tonight."

"Then let's call her, shall we?" Neal dialed the number on his phone and waited for their mother, Ruth, to pick up.

"Hey, Mom, guess who I have with me right now? Yep. She says she got your message."

Neal smiled sideways at Jenna as he listened to Ruth. "Really, Mom, you have no clue what message she's talking about? Well then, why don't we let you talk to her? Here..." He handed his phone to Jenna. "Say hello to Mom," Neal said, still smiling that weird sideways smile.

Jenna took the phone from him, thinking, Crap. "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, dear. You're still coming tonight, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure anymore. It's entirely up to Neal."

"If you don't come tonight, then when? Neal said you're catching the morning plane back to London."

"Well, Mother, I've been trying to reschedule that flight. So... how are you?"

"Did Neal tell you that I fired Rene?" Ruth asked. "Some things turned up missing and I'm certain she's the one who's been helping herself."

"Oh, Mother, are you sure? You're always misplacing stuff. I'd hate to think you fired your nurse because of your own--"

"I'm not senile, Jenna, not yet. And not for at least a few more years."

Jenna didn't respond. "Neal," she said, "what the hell? Weren't you supposed to turn there?" She pointed back at the onramp. "Aren't you taking the highway back into the city?"

In the background, Ruth said, "What highway? I swear, Jenna, you accuse me of being senile..."

"Don't worry about it," Neal replied. "At this hour we're way better off taking the scenic route. You'll see."

"What's going on with you, Neal? You never take the scenic route. And that includes when you were lead trombone in the high school band, marching in the Grey Days Parade."

"Is your brother all right?" their mother asked.

Neal chuckled at Jenna's joke.

"Yeah," Jenna said, "he's just acting as if he's the one with jet lag."

"Well, you keep an eye on him please. I think there could be something wrong after his accident."

"His scratches are healing fine," Jenna said.

"No, I'm not talking about the scratches. I'm talking about the several minutes he was unconscious."

"What are you talking about?" Jenna asked. Her question prompted Neal to look over at her.

Ruth said, "He told me he called you when it happened. You mean to tell me that he didn't?"

"He said he didn't want to worry me."

"Jenna, give me the phone," Neal said, glancing from her to the road. He extended his hand and said, "Give it to me."

He looked more than serious, so Jenna shrugged and handed it over. She thought he planned to say something to their mother, perhaps to reprimand her or to affirm that she was, indeed, senile, but instead he clicked a button on the phone.

"Did you just hang up?!" Jenna said. "You know, I wasn't done talking to her."

"I wouldn't have let you talk to her at all if I thought she would bring up the accident."

"Yeah, about that. Why didn't you tell me you were unconscious for several minutes?"

"Why did you tell me it was Mom who texted you?"

Jenna hesitated. Her brother had specifically instructed her not to link herself to the Codex Gigas, and yet she had sent a text message that could triangulate the exact motel where the deal had gone down. It was about as stupid as parking a car with diplomatic plates at the scene of the crime.

Neal pulled the car up to a stop sign, where the intersecting road ran parallel to the Virginia Railway.

"Look, Neal, I'm not going to lie to you anymore. The text was from my co-host, Raymond. I didn't want to tell you because... big brothers can be too protective. And besides, it had nothing to do with what we're doing."

Neal contemplated it a moment. "Are you telling me the truth, Jenna? Because right now is the time for the unvarnished truth." He turned the BMW onto the road running beside the railway.

"Neal, where are you going?"

He looked in his rearview, and, calmly, he said, "Someone's following us."

Jenna stared at him a second, at those cuts on his face, and then she turned around in her seat. A silver car was slowing down at the stop sign about two hundred yards back.

"Oh my God, Neal, are you sure?" She quickly stuffed the Codex page back in the leather portfolio.

"Actually," her brother said, "I need to talk to you about my own unvarnished truth. When I had my accident, I wasn't just unconscious... I was dead."

Jenna sat up in her seat.

In the distance, a train whistled. She barely heard it.

"You died?"

"Yes, but the Angel of Light sent me back to the living. He said I still have work to do."

Her brother's voice sounded odd, as if he were channeling someone else's words.

Then with a lurch in acceleration, he swerved off the road, into a grassy field.

"What are you doing?!" Jenna screamed. She braced herself on the dash as she bounced, long hair lashing around her head. The portfolio started to slide off of her lap.

Neal accelerated toward the railway, up and over a small embankment. He hit the incline at the perfect angle and speed, so that the driver's side of the car landed between the rails, and the passenger side landed on the edge of the railroad ties.

Without missing a beat, he hit the accelerator, maxing out at fifty miles an hour on the rocky terrain. The car sounded like a helicopter as its tires treaded the beams, jostling Jenna so badly she felt concussed.

The train whistle sounded again in the near distance.

Jenna reached over to grab her brother, but the seatbelt stopped her short. She reached for the belt lock, but missed; she couldn't steady her hand as the car shuddered.

As the double-decker train became visible about half a mile away, Neal said, "The Angel of Light will illuminate you."

#

EXCERPT FROM THE RELICT VAMPIRE BOOK SERIES

Chapter Two

"See anything?"

Matt didn't immediately respond to Jay's question as he stared through a pair of night-vision binoculars at his ex-wife's house.

Finally, he turned and walked back toward their parked motorcycles. Along the way, he handed the binoculars to Jay.

Beth's house was across the road: about three hundred yards across from where they had parked their bikes, in a part of the woods that was so dense not even a high-beam light from a helicopter would have been able to spot them.

"Okay, I see why you're not so chatty. But just because there aren't any lights doesn't mean your ex-wife isn't alive."

"Look at the motion-detection lights near the garage," said Matt. "If they were operative, we would see a small, flashing, red light."

He panned the binoculars across the one-story, mid-century, ranch-style house. It was pitch black, not only around the entrance to the garage, but the whole front of the house.

"And you know about the motion-detection lights how?"

"I installed them myself."

The last time Matt had seen Beth was more than nine months ago. It was possible she could have had someone change the lights. But why? An ex-wife changes the locks on the doors to their house, not the motion-detection lights in front of the garage.

"Maybe the guy who replaced you didn't like how the lights kept him up at night when every cat, raccoon, or rabbit strolled by."

When he didn't get a response, Jay lowered the binoculars and turned to look over at Matt.

Matt was rubbing black shoe polish all over his face.

"Looks like you already made a decision," said Jay as he walked back toward the motorcycles. "Mind letting me in on the plan?"

Matt tossed the tin of shoe polish back into the leather satchel on his motorcycle and reached in to grab something else. It was something he snagged from a sailboat anchored just beyond a harbor in Rhode Island.

"A flare gun? This is bullshit."

He was hoping for a clean exit, but the outrage in Jay's voice caused Matt to slowly turn around.

Jay was holding up the flare gun as if it was the perfect piece of evidence of his outrage.

"I'm sorry I got you involved in this."

Matt's words caused Jay to lower the gun.

They had been together for the last ten years in at least half a dozen hot spots across the world and Jay had never once heard Matt utter the words--"I'm sorry."

"I would ask for one last favor. If you see any of the bloodsuckers moving toward Beth's house, you fire the flare gun. Then get the hell out of here. Just west of here there's a canal system that goes on forever. You might be able to lose any patrol coming after you."

"I have a better plan. Why don't we both tub-thump your ex's house and we'll deal with any patrol along the way."

Matt shook his head.

"My ex-wife... My suicide trap. I don't want you joining the parade of people I see when I'm asleep. Okay?"

He didn't wait for Jay's reply. Matt turned and started walking away.

"So... I guess the threesome with your ex-wife I've been fantasizing about all this time is definitely off?"

Matt cracked a smile at Jay's remark, but he never broke his stride as he disappeared into the darkness of the surrounding woods.

After running more than a mile through the woods, the edge of the forest facing his ex-wife's backyard snuck up on him. Matt barely caught himself before he walked right into an open area.

He took a moment to look around to see if he was being watched. His effort was perfunctory. If one of the vampires were keeping an eye on the house, it would have had no problem seeing him in the darkness.

Then Matt scrambled across the open field to the wire fence - barely five feet high - which encircled Beth's property.

A few weeks after they had moved into the house, Beth had a landscaper put the fence up to keep deer from getting into the backyard and eating all of the bushes she eventually would plant herself.

Matt hopped over the fence and sprinted across the lawn. When he arrived at the back door to the house, he stopped to catch his breath.

At his feet shards of glass sparkled in the moonlight. Matt saw that the window in the door had been shattered.

He rose slowly, just high enough to look above the open wooden frame. Nothing. But if this was a trap, he hardly expected it to be sprung in Beth's garden room.

He pushed open the door while at the same time holstering his Beretta. Even with just the moonlight shining through the garden-room glass, he could see that all the potted plants and trees were dead. Dead for several weeks.

Through two tours in the Middle East, and a stint working as a paid mercenary soldier by a security company, his wife had been able to maintain the beauty of the garden room.

When he entered the living room of the house, he switched off his flashlight.

The curtains normally covering the front window had been ripped down, allowing plenty of moonlight to spill in.

The room had been overturned, like a team of burglars had their way with the contents.

For the first time since he had landed in the States, Matt finally started to believe something that he had dared not think about.

His entire trip had been a fool's errand.

An object on the fireplace mantle caught his eye and Matt walked toward it.

It was an antique jewelry case with a painted, lead-glass top and sides. Matt opened the lid and discovered gummy bears inside. He couldn't help but smile.

When he and Beth were still together, they would do grocery trips together. His wife would inevitably buy a ton of gummy bears. And each time, after unloading the groceries, the gummy bears would mysteriously disappear.

One day he discovered the stash - in the glove compartment of their car.

"Of course they're in the glove compartment of the car. That's where I like to 'bake' them while the car sits in the sun."

Once they were properly "baked," Beth would put them in the jewelry box.

Matt squeezed one of the gummy bears. Rock hard.

Beth was dead.

Convinced for the first time Beth was really gone, all Matt could hope for was that she was dead... DEAD.

Suddenly, there was a noise. Matt dropped the gummy bear as he crouched down and withdrew his Beretta.

#

EXCERPT FROM BLACK MARIAH Book Series

--------

Cassie broke apart her mobile phone, removed the sim card, and tossed it to the polished wood floor of the bedroom. She used the heel of her shoe to grind the computer chip into several small pieces.

"What's happening, Cassie?"

Like any other day, Rocky had no trouble reading her emotions. It was this ability that had pushed Cassie a week ago to tell him she was leaving.

"You remember all the drills we went through, right? Well, Rocky, this time it's not practice. What's happening is for real."

Her words caused him to bolt upright in his bed.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have thrown the plate..."

"No, listen to me, this has nothing to do with the dinner. Right now, I need you to focus on what we practiced. Can you do that?"

Despite her calm delivery, Rocky reacted by trying to scramble out of the bed. His frantic effort caused the I.V. needle attached to his arm to rip away. His daily regimen of medication squirted all over the surrounding sheets.

Cassie was able to stop him, but in holding him back, she was reminded of how brittle he was. The reptilian scales covering his body broke and flaked off underneath her restraint.

"C'mon, Rocky, calm down, we've gone over this a dozen times. There's no reason to be frightened," she whispered to him. "What did I tell you after each of our rehearsals...?"

"'We practice these drills so no matter what happens, we'll end up with a happy ending."

"That's right. A happy ending. Everyone loves a happy ending. And if we do exactly what we drilled, then guess what's going to happen?"

"A happy ending," Rocky answered.

After she was sure he had calmed down, Cassie released him. She looked directly into his reptilian eyes.

"Now, what do you do first?"

Rocky took a deep breath. Take a deep breath was Step One in the escape plan they had rehearsed.

"That's right, you take a deep breath," said Cassie. "You're doing great, Rocky. Now, you just keep on taking deep breaths until I come back. Okay?"

He nodded as he kept on taking deep breaths.

Cassie quickly moved to the left of the nightstand and kicked the wall. She and Rocky had rehearsed this part, so the noise of her slamming into the dry wall with her foot didn't distract him from his breathing exercises.

It took three kicks before the hole was large enough in the wall for Cassie to begin grabbing the stockpile of weapons and ammunition that had been stashed there long ago.

From the far end of the floor's hallway came the noise of an explosion.

Rocky let out a baleful moan as he lay in his bed.

"It's all right, Rocky. Remember, we're going for the happy ending," Cassie cooed to him just a few feet away.

She locked in a clip to a TDI Kriss Super V submachine gun at the same time the sound of automatic gunfire erupted outside the door of the room.

By the time Cassie had grabbed everything she needed from the stash, and moved back to standing next Rocky, the explosions and gunfire outside the room had stopped.

Rocky began whimpering.

"Gimme your hand."

When he hesitated, she snatched it like it was a bird flying past her and pulled him from the bed.

As she led him around a bedpost, Cassie said, "Rocky, tell me where we're going."

"We're going on a three hour cruise..."

A wall in Rocky's room was completely taken up with a cast photo of the seven castaways from the TV Series, Gilligan's Island.

Cassie reached out and tapped the face of "the Professor." Her action triggered an electronically rigged part of the wall to move back an inch, then slide open. "Ginger" and "MaryAnn" disappeared, while at the same time, a secret entrance to an underground passageway revealed itself.

Outside the bedroom door, there was an explosion so powerful the floor underneath them rocked like they were standing at the epicenter of an earthquake.

Cassie guided Rocky through the secret wall entrance, but as she tried to pull away, he would not let go of her hand.

"This is just like we planned, Rocky. All you need to do is follow the lights through the tunnel until you come to a ladder."

"But I'm scared!"

"I know you're scared. So am I. But the happy ending is right behind you. Just follow the lights..."

Cassie tried to pull away, but he held onto her hand with such determination she knew he was in a lot of pain. The green and black scales from the digits of his paw were being turned into dust underneath the intensity of his grip.

She leaned down and kissed his hand...

"You have to go..."

He finally released her hand.

She hit the professor's face and the secret door turned back into the seamless wall featuring the seven castaways.

The assault team's explosive charges sent the door of the safe house suite flying across the room.

The explosion filled the suite with a dark, thick cloud of smoke, and was followed quickly by the first wave of black-hooded attackers rushing into the newly created breach.

Cassie waited until all three attackers had entered before triggering her own explosive device, which was planted on the other side of the wall dividing the bedroom and the bathroom.

The bomb blindsided the black-hooded attackers with an explosive punch of shrapnel, marble, and metal fragments.

Only a few silent moments went by before two more members of the assault team rushed into the bedroom.

Cassie unleashed a stream of bullets from her TDI submachine gun. She then rolled off the mattress to the floor. Just as she was scrambling behind the club chair in the alcove, Rocky's canopy bed exploded from a grenade tossed by one of the attackers.

She tried to regroup for a quick response, but automatic gunfire tore apart the leather of the chair she was hiding behind. As the stuffing from the furniture floated in the air, Cassie caught sight of the second attacker moving toward her, thinking for some reason she had been hit. She could see he was a wearing a protective vest, which would explain why her first shots had not taken him down.

Waiting breathlessly as he drew in closer, Cassie suddenly rose a few inches above the back of the club chair and fired. Her headshot caused him to stop in mid-step and collapse to the floor like a puppet that had its strings cut.

Outside the room, the last member of the assault team was crouched behind the security desk Yasmine had obviously used for cover before she was killed. Her lifeless body lay right beside the masked gunman as he was using his satellite phone to communicate with whomever was in charge of the assault of the safe house.

"This is Penn Six to Overlord. We've met some resistance. Yes, all the other team members are down," he whispered.

He was waiting for a response when Cassie entered his eye line just a few feet away.

Blam!

Cassie moved through the hallway outside Rocky's suite. She wanted to make sure there was no one left alive from the assault team.

Near the elevators lie Mat's torn up body. Cassie flashed on his wife and two boys and had to steady herself before moving back down the hall.

She cautiously re-entered Rocky's suite. As it turned out, one of the five assailants was still moving. Not only moving, but trying to lift his weapon to fire at her.

Cassie shot him in the head.

She ejected the nearly empty clip from the TDI and made her way to the wall featuring the seven castaways.

There was no telling how far Rocky had moved through the underground passage. She admitted to herself there was even the possibility he had gotten scared and stopped halfway through the tunnel.

Cassie hit the professor's face and the secret doorway revealed itself just as she slipped the new ammo clip into her TDI.

She wasn't too surprised to see Rocky standing right there in the entrance to the tunnel where she'd left him. Cassie didn't know whether she should laugh or be angry with him.

"Rocky, c'mon, we rehearsed this..."

Her words were choked off by a burst of gunfire coming from the dark shadows of the tunnel behind Rocky.

"No!"

Larry Oberbie screamed the word when he saw Cassie thrown backwards by the gunshots.

"No."

This time he whispered the word as he stared at his office monitor in disbelief.

The woman he had recruited to work for ATM lay motionless in a pool of blood that was quickly expanding around her chest.

A hand landed on Oberbie's shoulder. "Larry, I'm so sorry..."

Oberbie was about to respond, but movement on the safe house video monitor grabbed his attention. A figure emerged from the entrance to the secret passageway. He wasn't wearing a masked hood like the rest of his assault team, but he was dressed in black--a turtleneck and a long dark leather jacket.

The man stepped past Cassie's body to the middle of the room. He looked up at the same security camera that minutes earlier Cassie had been peering into when Larry was speaking with her.

The killer had one distinct feature that prevented any other physical feature from being noticed. His entire face and neck had been badly burned and was covered with surgically grafted skin.

"Kyle... you're alive."

Larry turned away from the monitor to look at the man who now stood in his office, who was also his boss.

"Sir, did you say the name, 'Kyle', as in Dr. Kyle Westbrook?"

Before he could answer, Larry's eyes were drawn back to the video monitor as Cassie's killer began to directly address the security camera hidden in the room's ceiling. But because the video feed from the safe house had no audio, there was no way of hearing what the killer was actually saying.

Oberbie looked over at his boss for his reaction and was shocked to see him moving his lips.

"Sir, do you know what he just said?"

"Yes, I do. Dr. Westbrook was quoting the poet T.S. Eliot--'Do not let me hear of the wisdom of old men, but rather their folly...'"

# EXCERPT FROM THE WIND RAIDER Book Series

For years after the Cataclysm, many refugee camps sprung up across the Flat Line.

What became known as the Colbath settlement started when two thousand squatters ended several months of wandering across the Perimeter by pitching their tents in a spot on the Flat Line's eastern border to the Out Reach.

Scouts from the squatter group had discovered a single healthy tree, a Colbath Cactus, growing in the middle of a barren, dry landscape. Drilling beneath the hard ground revealed a source of water running underneath the cactus.

Despite the realistic expectation of a short stay in their new location, the squatters' ruling committee elected to call back the rest of their scouts and make the area their permanent home. After many years of wandering across the Flat Line, the squatters were desperate to have the children born after the Cataclysm live in a more permanent place, one that they could all someday look back at and call their "home."

Unfortunately, a few weeks shy of a year after having declared the Colbath location their permanent home, the source of water slowly began running dry. The ruling committee immediately implemented a strict rationing program, while at the same time dispatching squatter scouts across the region in search of other viable water sources.

And so, such were the circumstances when one of several Colbath children playing just outside the settlement spotted a moving dust cloud racing from the Out Reach toward the Flat Line border.

As the sun made its descent to the horizon, a fleet of land-sailors pulled up on the outskirts of the Colbath refugee camp. A large group of squatters had already assembled to greet them, including a dozen members of the settlement's ruling committee.

They watched as a lone figure emerged from one of the wind vehicles. He was wearing a long black duster over a red cinched waistcoat. But the figure's attire barely registered, overwhelmed as it was by the shoulder-length white hair that blew across the visitor's face.

His name was Roane Caine, and he was the second of twins born to a mother who died just weeks after giving birth. Pregnant during the Cataclysm, Roane's mother had unknowingly drunk water contaminated by one of the meteors that had fallen to the planet.

Roane did not bother to acknowledge the gathering of squatters, stepping quickly past them to get a closer look at the refugee camp itself.

As he stood there, surveying the settlement, he raised his right hand and extended his index finger, curling it slowly, rhythmically, again and again, as if beckoning someone to join him.

Suddenly, he froze... only to unfurl the remaining fingers in his hand... and instantly, the wind around him went still.

His long white hair settled over his face, making it impossible for anyone to decipher his thoughts as he turned toward the fleet of land-sailors lined up behind him. He undid the topmost button of his waistcoat - the agreed-on signal for everyone in Dagon's security force to join him.

"Are you... really a Ki Warrior?"

A squatter boy had emerged from the group of Colbath children, the smallest amongst a dozen little ones who had been brought to stand with the members of the ruling committee. No doubt, thought Roane, the children were there with the hope their presence would prevent the meeting from turning violent.

"Do I not look like a Ki Warrior to you?" Roane asked the boy, his mouth still hidden behind his long hair.

"I don't know what one is supposed to look like," the squatter boy responded.

"Like me," Roane quickly answered. "Just like me." The Ki Warrior reached into his coat, withdrew a tin flask filled with water, and tossed it to the ground.

Roane twitched the fingers on his left hand and the wind began swirling around him. He waved his right hand, causing the wind to come together and then move with a focused force toward the flask, lifting it from the ground and into the air before landing softly at the feet of the squatter boy.

"You really are a Ki Warrior," said the boy, completely awed by Roane's display of control over the wind. But his admiration lasted so long, a young female squatter from the group of children quickly swooped in and snatched the tin flask of water before scurrying away.

The boy barely reacted to the theft, his attention still focused on Roane.

"You must make me your retainer! I promise to be faithful to you and the Order. Please, I swear I will be the best Ki Warrior who has ever walked this planet. All I need is for you to give me a chance..."

Roane looked away in disgust.

"It is not for me to decide. Perhaps the girl who claimed the water I intended for you will be the one the Wind Spirits resurrect. However, if it was my decision, your eventual death in this world would be final."

Another squatter emerged from the group, this one an adult with a shaved head and bright blue painted stripes across his forehead, below his eyes, and down the length of his neck. Each morning a different squatter marked a member of the ruling committee with paint to remind them that their decisions impacted the entire settlement.

"My name is Gar Herd and I have been chosen to speak on behalf of everyone here."

The squatter representative was about to extend his hand when he realized Roane had not even acknowledged his presence. He knew it was better to simply keep speaking.

"What you see all around you are thousands of people living peaceful, decent lives. Some believe in the Wind Spirits, others do not. But years ago it was decided we would judge no one on their beliefs, only on their actions."

As he spoke, Gar tried to keep a friendly expression on his face, but it disappeared as his words were greeted only with silence, then with Roane kicking the heel of his left boot into the dirt twice. It was a signal for his two wingmen, Edom and Kiron, standing near the fleet of land-sailors.

The Ki Warrior's action greatly alarmed Gar, making him anxious to finish what he'd come to say. When he spoke again, there was a tone of panic in his voice.

"I've been authorized to offer you any aid you need on your trip across the Flat Line. All we ask in return is that you leave us in peace and harm no one."

Roane turned, looking directly at the Colbath squatter, but his face was still cloaked behind his hair, so the words he spoke seemed to come from behind a white curtain.

"I'm afraid your request will not be granted."

Gar shifted nervously in the sand before asking, "You are a Ki Warrior, are you not?"

His question failed to elicit a response from Roane, forcing the squatter representative to answer himself.

"Yes, clearly you are a Ki Warrior. So then, how can it be that you would not guarantee the safety of those around you, even though it is part of your oath and the code of conduct you have sworn to die a second time to uphold?"

Before he possessed the Ki himself, Roane was witness to the faces of countless people indebted to the Ki Order for helping and protecting them over the years. As a boy, he had dreamed of one day possessing power over the wind, so he too could safeguard the innocent against wanton destruction and death.

But now that he possessed the power, he could not recall seeing any grateful faces amongst the many people he had encountered. All he could remember seeing in his presence was fear.

Even at this very moment, his response to the squatter representative reminded him of a lesson he'd only recently learned - the past quickly lost relevance depending on which way the wind was blowing.

"Sir, do you see the wretched souls being brought before me?" asked Roane.

Gar Herd turned toward the line of land-sailors and saw Roane's wingmen pushing and dragging three men wearing clothes so tattered they barely remained dressed. All looked as weak as the people in his settlement who had gone days without water.

"Yes, I see them."

"These men are also Ki Warriors. Months ago, they chose to ignore their oaths and obligations. And their choice led them on a twisted path to this humbling moment in the sand. When I was just a retainer, my suzerain said to me - 'the past and the future can be distractions if the importance of the present is not seen with absolute clarity.'"

Roane raised his left hand, twitched his index finger, and for the first time the wind swept the white hair from across his face, revealing eyes without irises, corneas seemingly made of clear blue liquid.

"I want to bring absolute clarity to this moment so you will not be distracted by the past, allowing you the best chance to shape your future and the future of the people you care about."

The Ki Warrior's unsettling appearance had caused the squatter representative to fall silent, but he reclaimed his voice, hoping he wasn't already too late.

"I should have told you this from the beginning," said Gar. "The one you seek, the Ki Warrior you are searching for, he is no longer..."

"Save your breath," Roane interrupted. "Words of denial will not travel on any wind I control."

The Ki Warrior turned to look back at the refugee camp.

"My suzerain is here. And when I find him, it will allow me to reconcile the past with my future. Unfortunately, you and all of your people are caught... in the present."

The words made Gar's legs wobble, then give out, as he collapsed onto his knees in the sand.

This was the last thing Roane wanted. He flicked his left wrist and curled the fingers on his right. The wind swirled around and underneath the squatter and raised him back to his feet.

"Your weakness saves no one. Listen to me..."

Gar Herd tried focusing on what Roane had to say, but the Ki Warrior's eyes only distracted him. Moments ago they had been clear, but now both were filled with images of devastation and destruction... of the dead faces of people the squatter had spoken to just hours ago.

"It is these three wretched men who will be on their knees where you now stand. Together, we will create something that will leave all of you desert gypsies with just two choices - accept your fate with your eyes open... or shut. While a third choice still exists, you must warn your people about what is to happen. Sir, you need to run like the wind is chasing you, because that is exactly what will be happening soon enough..."

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Richard Finney is a Southern California based award winning writer, film producer, and screenwriter.

richardfinney.blogspot.com

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D.L. Snell is based in Oregon and is an editor and writer in the horror genre. 
