 
NIKKI BLUE: SOURCE OF TROUBLE

By Jack Chaucer

Copyright Jack Chaucer 2015

Smashwords Edition: ISBN 9781310696633

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 ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art by Damon Za.

Discover other titles by Jack Chaucer:

Queens are Wild

Streaks of Blue (Nikki #1)

INDEX

PART 1: All Nikki Janicek's Point of View

CHAPTER 1: Enterprise Story

CHAPTER 2: Weirdos Make the World Go Round

CHAPTER 3: Hot Tip

CHAPTER 4: Silver Sands

CHAPTER 5: Busted in Bridgeport

CHAPTER 6: 25 Grand

CHAPTER 7: Money Trail

CHAPTER 8: Coffee in the Lobby

CHAPTER 9: The Other Kind of Auditing

CHAPTER 10: Rainbows and Unicorns

CHAPTER 11: Your Enemy's Enemy

CHAPTER 12: World Cup Breakup

PART 2

CHAPTER 13, Adam Upton's POV: Lion and Truth

CHAPTER 14, Roger Janicek's POV: Captain Rookie

CHAPTER 15, William Osborne's POV: Howl at the Moon

CHAPTER 16, Steve Pearson's POV: Nikki Blue

CHAPTER 17, Nikki: Earth Wing

CHAPTER 18, Nikki: Mars Wing

CHAPTER 19, Nikki: "I Crashed My Car Into The Bridge ... I Love It!"

CHAPTER 20, William: Cruise Missiles

CHAPTER 21, Nikki: Adam Bomb

CHAPTER 22, William: Nikki Beach

CHAPTER 23, Nikki: Loveless Fascination

PART 3

CHAPTER 24, Adam: Channel 77

CHAPTER 25, Nikki: Cape Town or Crash

CHAPTER 26, Nikki: A World Without Guns

CHAPTER 27, Nikki: Boundaries

CHAPTER 28, Adam: Bury the Truth

CHAPTER 29, William: Premature Wisdom

CHAPTER 30, Adam: Go to Jail, Collect $20K

CHAPTER 31, William: Jarring Threat

CHAPTER 32, Roger: The Graduate

CHAPTER 33, Nikki: Nikki Sapphire

CHAPTER 34, Steve: Trojan Horse

CHAPTER 35, Nikki: So Human, So Alien

PART 4

CHAPTER 36, Steve: The Interview

CHAPTER 37, Nikki: Dead-end Street

CHAPTER 38, Adam: Book Brawl

CHAPTER 39, Nikki: Scared

CHAPTER 40, Adam: In Stitches

CHAPTER 41, William: Little Candle of Hate

CHAPTER 42, Nikki: Tentacles

CHAPTER 43, William: Peephole

CHAPTER 44, Adam: Trap

CHAPTER 45, Nikki: Felicia

CHAPTER 46, Roger: Roy Roger

CHAPTER 47, Nikki: No Room to Heal

CHAPTER 48, Nikki: Fireman's Carry

NIKKI BLUE: SOURCE OF TROUBLE

The sequel to Streaks of Blue

" _Don't know where I'm going, I just keep on rowing ...

Can't feel my hands and the water keeps rising.  
Can't fall asleep 'cause I'll wake up dead.  
I just keep pulling, I just keep rolling ...

Rowing is living and living is hard,  
But living beats losing all that we are ...

I heard an echo, but the answer had changed  
From the word I remember that I started out saying."_

_

_**— from "Rowing"  
by Soundgarden**

PROLOGUE

Nikki Janicek

Life sucks sometimes. It can start at an early age and even young children can detect the varying degrees of suck. They don't let the rigid restraints of their new language stop them from reacting with brutal honesty either.

I still think about the boy in the cereal aisle of the supermarket. He must've been 3 or 4. His mom had tried to steer him away from a chocolate marshmallow cereal and sell him on two healthier ones. She held them up, one in each hand, as he stared her down while standing in the back of the shopping cart.

"That's bad," he tapped one box.

"And that's worser!" he slapped the other, knocking it out of her hand and onto the floor.

It was raw. It was awesome. Rawesome enough to make me laugh at the time.

But I don't laugh as much as I used to.

My bad was getting shot by Thomas Lee Harvey on the night of September 14, 2014, outside our New Hampshire high school.

Allowing myself to be manipulated into talking to him nearly four years later — even via Skype from two states away — was worser.

There are cereal killers, and then there are serial killers. From my perspective, Thomas was worser. He'd wanted to kill _everybody_ in our school and he ended up killing _nobody_ ... thanks to me.

I reached out to Adam Upton — his depressed friend and accomplice at the time — and derailed their massive shooting plot on the night before it was supposed to happen. Thomas shot Adam in the ass and me in the side, but we both lived.

Adam told the police everything, testified against Thomas, served less than a year in jail and eventually got hired as an unarmed mall cop near where we grew up. I emerged as a hero for saving countless lives and even appeared on "AC 360." And Thomas, who had fled after shooting us and nearly made it to Vermont before police apprehended him, got locked up — along with all of his unquenched bloodlust — in the New Hampshire State Prison for Men until 2039.

He still had 21 years to go. I bet he didn't expect to spend any of that time staring back at me, the person he once called Dead Girl Walking.

And yet there we were, face to face in cyberspace ... thanks to The Bridge.

Scientology is bad.

The Bridge is ...

Three weeks earlier ...

PART 1

All chapters are Nikki's POV

**CHAPTER 1: ENTERPRISE STORY**

The first assignment of my 2018 summer reporting internship for the Brass City Bulletin newspaper/website in Waterbury, Connecticut — a journey that would last just four days — felt like one big joke ... on _me_.

As I learned in journalism class at Boston University, enterprise reporting involves digging up stories that you won't get from press releases and news conferences. It requires developing sources and tips; combing through public records in musty town hall dungeons; filing Freedom of Information requests and conducting interviews from a position of strength. These stories, called "scoops" if you break them, usually catch every other media outlet flat-footed. They're special because they go beyond covering events. They explore the forces shaping those events.

My first assignment was to cover a groundbreaking, the lowest kind of dog-and-pony-show event, where people in fancy suits crown themselves with plastic yellow helmets, grab shovels and pretend to dig holes — all while smiling for the camera. When my editor, in the middle of dealing with a full-time reporter, glanced at a press release and told me to cover a church groundbreaking on Watertown Avenue, I wasn't surprised. I'm the summer intern, after all.

Less than an hour later, the joke began.

The artist's rendering of the "church" on the oversized easel in front of me caused me to laugh so loudly that I drew annoyed looks from some of the suits to my right.

I could not conceal my embarrassment as a short, stocky, clean-cut man approached in a navy blue suit.

"Is something funny?" he asked, sizing me up with an alarming intensity. I'm 5-foot-6 and he might have been an inch or two taller, but he still looked like he could kick just about anyone's ass.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed."

"Then why did you?"

"It's just ... the design of this church looks an awful lot like ..."

"Like what?"

"The Star Ship ... _Enterprise_ ... you know ... from ' _Star Trek_ ,'" I replied with much trepidation.

But it _did_ , in an inverted sort of way. There were no big engines or rocket thingies obviously, and the big circular top level was in the rear instead of the front, but the similarities were striking. The church had a large rectangular lower level in the front, and the two levels were connected by a glass stairway and bridge. Tall white pillars supported the upper circle all the way from the ground.

Before I get into the suited man's not-so-pleasant response, I must share this aside because, yes, I was born in 1997 — way after the original "Star Trek" TV show and movies came out. So, the only reason I know anything about Star Trek and the S.S. Enterprise is because my parents, Roger and Lynn, laughed hysterically one night a long time ago while watching a Star Trek-related skit on a "Best of Saturday Night Live" DVD.

I was like 8. I didn't really get it, but my dad explained it to me later. William Shatner, the actor who played Captain James T. Kirk on the Star Trek TV series and in some of the movies, was the guest host of "SNL" back in 1986. He played himself talking to a bunch of Trekkies at a Star Trek convention. They asked him a few questions and he got all frustrated because they knew more about the show than he did. Then he told them to "Get a life! Move out of your parents' basements and do something with your lives! It's just a TV show!" He even asked one of the Trekkies wearing Vulcan ears if he had ever kissed a girl. The freak just hung his head in shame.

Well, I had never seen both of my parents laugh so hard at the same time in the same room ever before ... or ever again. They got divorced three years later.

The point is my father forced me to watch a couple of episodes of the Star Trek TV show after the laughing incident, and I hadn't thought of any of that until the artist's rendering struck me with a jolt of comical déjà vu.

Unfortunately for me, no one else at the groundbreaking found it funny.

"First of all, it's not a church, Miss ...?" the man with the perfectly gelled hair said.

"Janicek ... Nicole Janicek. I'm an intern reporter for the Brass City Bulletin."

"Well, you're certainly off to a rocky start, aren't you?"

"It is my first assignment, and I do apologize for my laugh and my ignorance, but my editor told me this was a church groundbreaking, Mr. ...?"

"David Michael," he replied, squeezing the life out of my hand as he shook it. "I'm regional director for The Bridge."

"The Bridge?"

"They don't send you out with much information, do they?"

"No ... but if you're not a church, then what is The Bridge?"

"The Bridge is a new phenomenon that you'll be hearing more about in the coming weeks, months and years, I assure you. We're opening new centers in Watertown, Mass., this fall and Waterbury next summer."

_Phenomenon? What kind of non answer is that?_ Regardless, I whipped out my phone and tapped my recorder app.

"So is this a private club or something?"

"I would call it a place for the enlightened and the ambitious. Membership has certain requirements and we're not open to just anyone," he said.

"What requirements?"

"I'd rather not comment on all of that at this time. Today is a day to celebrate new beginnings. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Janicek, I see Virgil holding a shovel with my name on it," he said, abruptly walking toward three other similarly dressed men, except they already had their helmets and shovels.

The man he called Virgil was very tall and thin with a hawkish face. When Virgil handed David his crown and shovel, he and the other two men laughed at something David said. None of them looked at me, but I knew he must've said something derogatory about me. These people, whoever they were, gave me the creeps.

I snapped a few photos as the four men smiled and penetrated the dirt with their shovels. Several other local officials then crowded around them for a bigger group shot.

As they broke out of their poses and began to mingle with each other, my eyes drifted, taking in the strange backdrop to the empty 3-acre lot. A jagged 80-foot wall of rock loomed along the rear of the rectangular parcel off busy Watertown Avenue. It reminded me of a mini version of the head wall above Huntington Ravine on Mount Washington, a 6,288-foot New Hampshire peak I climbed many times in my youth.

Perched above the rock wall in front of me, however, were the backyards of a neighborhood. Clearly, these Bridge people had blasted the backside of a hill to create the property. Now only a 6-foot fence separated any children in those yards from plummeting to their deaths. I thought about next summer and what would it be like for a child staring down at a building that looked like a space ship.

Eventually, as some of the officials began streaming past me, I noticed one dark-haired woman with a Waterbury Chamber of Commerce button pinned on her cream-colored blazer.

"Excuse me, Ms., would you mind if I asked you a few questions about this event?"

"I wouldn't mind at all," she replied, shaking my hand. "I'm Lynn Williams, president and CEO of the Waterbury Chamber. Who are you?"

"Nicole Janicek, intern reporter for the Brass City Bulletin."

"Well, hello Nicole. What would you like to know?"

"My editor told me this was a church groundbreaking, but the regional director just described this place as The Bridge, not a church. What can you tell me about this new 'phenomenon' coming to Waterbury?"

"The truth is we don't know all that much about this organization yet. They're brand new. While they definitely prefer not to be called a church, it is my understanding that they have applied for tax-exempt status much like a church would. I believe at least some of their leadership are former members of the Church of Scientology."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I have to confess. I know virtually nothing about Scientology, except ... isn't Tom Cruise a member?" I asked, referring to the Hollywood actor.

"Yes, that's right," Williams said, smiling.

"And how do you feel about The Bridge coming to Waterbury?" I asked, not masking my creepy vibes for this group well at all.

She paused to ponder her answer for a moment, smiled and said, "Waterbury is a very diverse community and we welcome The Bridge with open arms. They tell us they plan on being strong leaders and partners in the local business community."

"What business do they actually do?" I asked.

Lynn turned and waved over the tall man named Virgil.

"Virgil, come meet Nicole Janicek from the Brass City Bulletin," she said.

Virgil nodded, smiled and walked toward us, gazing at me the whole time. He appeared much older than David Michael and stood at least a half a foot taller. We shook hands as Lynn passed the baton — me — and departed for the dirt parking area.

"Thank you for covering our groundbreaking," he said. "I'll be the director of The Bridge's Waterbury center. What can I help you with?"

"I guess my main question is, are you guys a church or not? Lynn mentioned some of the leaders of The Bridge are members of the Church of Scientology. Is that true? Are you a former Scientologist?"

Virgil grimaced. "Wow, that's a lot of main questions."

"Sorry. I'm just confused about what The Bridge is ... and what business you're in."

"I'd rather not get into a lecture on Scientology, but our purpose is to help people find a higher level of understanding and meaning in their lives. Some may choose to view us as a church, but we prefer to be seen as something entirely new and exciting. Quite often today, the connotations with the word 'church' are negative."

"In what way?"

"Well, many people see church as boring, unfulfilling and, in numerous well-publicized cases, a place where children are preyed upon by sexual deviants," Virgil said. "The Bridge is anything but boring and unfulfilling. We strive to do things that have never been done. We also care about making the future brighter for the children of today and the children of tomorrow."

"Can you be more specific? What things that have never been done?"

He just smiled for a moment, stared at me and blinked a lot. Effing weird.

"I'd love to tell you over coffee sometime," he said, handing me his business card, which I accepted. "And I hope you'll consider attending our opening gala next summer when The Bridge is completed."

"Well, I'm just an intern for this summer, but if I happen to end up working here after college, I'll certainly consider it."

"What college do you attend?"

"Boston University."

"Wonderful," he said. "We've got a Bridge center opening in Watertown, Massachusetts, in September. Perhaps we'll see you for that gala in the fall."

"Perhaps," I echoed awkwardly.

I'd never thought of myself as a gala girl, and suddenly, a complete stranger had been invited me to two in the span of thirty seconds.

"Your last name again was?" he asked.

"Janicek."

"How do you spell that?"

"J-A-N-I-C-E-K," I reluctantly answered, sensing Virgil would track me down if I didn't show up at one of these Star Trek conventions.

I desperately wanted to ask him about the bizarre blueprint that reminded me of the S.S. Enterprise. But after the nasty reaction I got from David Michael to my shriek of laughter, I decided to bite my tongue, say goodbye and beam back to the newspaper office in my Subaru Outback.

**CHAPTER 2: WEIRDOS MAKE THE WORLD GO ROUND**

"So ... how did it go?" city editor Kathy Kepler asked as she hovered over me while I struggled to type the first sentence of my story on one of the newspaper's antiquated desktop computers.

I felt dwarfed by the office's high ceilings and ornate brick arches. They told me it had been a train station in its former life, but the place seemed simply too grand for a newspaper office, especially a mid-sized daily with more than a few empty cubicles. The room was hot and stuffy because the air conditioning unit apparently malfunctioned regularly over the course of a summer. A huge fan provided more white noise than relief from the far end of the long, rectangular, second-floor newsroom.

"Well, I thought it was a church groundbreaking and, oh my God, I have no freaking clue what I just covered," I confessed, surprising even myself with how flustered I sounded.

Kepler's brown eyes lit up behind her black, wire-rimmed glasses. Tall and thin with a long face and friendly demeanor, she was probably in her mid 40s judging by the streaks of gray in her otherwise dark, shoulder-length hair. She was my favorite editor when I interviewed, but now I felt crowded by her and totally misled by the assignment.

"Wow, that sounds interesting," she said. "What happened?"

"First of all, these people don't like to be called a church because they say that word has bad connotations."

"Really? Well, kind of hard to argue with that one," she said.

"Then Lynn Williams from the Chamber told me they might be former Scientologists. So I asked the local director about that and he got all evasive."

"Interesting," Kepler said, her left forearm pinned across her chest by her right elbow as she chewed on the tip of a pen.

"And most bizarre of all, the design for the ... whatever you call it, they called it The Bridge ... looks like a bad knock-off of the Star Ship Enterprise from Star Trek," I said, my increasingly raised voice rotating a few heads away from their computer screens to look at me.

"What?" Kepler gasped, then laughed.

"I'm not even joking," I said, grabbing my phone and showing her my photo of the artist's rendering.

Kathy adjusted her glasses, leaned in for a closer look and laughed even louder. "Holy crap, it kind of does. These people must be crackers."

"Who's crackers?" a rugged-looking man asked in a booming voice as he strolled by in a fashion-challenged combination of shirt and pants.

"Check out this rendering of a church ... just don't call it a church," I told him.

The man leaned in from the other side, making a Nikki sandwich. He laughed, too.

"Who's building the Star Ship Enterprise?" he asked, his demeanor a strange blend of cocky and personable.

"Good. I'm glad it's not just me," I said.

"Steve Pearson," he said, shaking my hand only slightly less firmly than David Michael. I probably should've had my hand X-rayed. "I cover the city, the mayor, etc."

"Hi, I'm Nicole ..."

"Nicole Janicek is one of our summer interns," Kathy finished the intro for me.

"Welcome to wacky Waterbury," Steve said, flashing a broad grin through his stubble. I guessed he was in his late 20s or early 30s.

"Nice to meet you and, yes, things are off to very weird start," I said.

"Her very first assignment. We think it's going to be some ho-hum church groundbreaking on Watertown Ave. and she comes back with Star Trek," Kathy gushed.

"Who are they?" Steve asked.

"I'm trying to figure that out," I said. "They call themselves The Bridge, whatever that means. I don't know if they're a cult or what ... oh, get this, the regional director guy told me they're a new 'phenomenon.' I have no idea what to make of that."

"Yup, they're crackers," Kathy concluded.

"Well, they're not _that_ new if they're ripping off Star Trek," Steve quipped.

"I'm such an idiot, too," I said.

"Why?" Kathy asked.

"Because I kind of chickened out when it came to asking them why they designed the building that way ... but these guys were kind of short with me ... and intimidating."

"Hazing the intern," Steve snickered.

"I did get the local director's business card," I said.

"Yeah, just give him a call and ask him if they worship Star Trek," Kathy said with a chuckle.

"Hey at least you've got an interesting story. Sure beats another city aldermen meeting," Steve said before resuming his stroll back toward his desk. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too," I said.

"He's got a point," Kathy said. "How many interns get a crazy first story like this? Probably none."

"I just thought it would be such an easy little story about a new church and their happy little building-to-be," I said.

"Yeah, well, welcome to journalism. Great stories sometimes come from out of nowhere. The question becomes how well can you report the story and write the story. And don't forget to attach your photos to the article in our equally crazy computer system. I don't want our readers to miss out on the Star Ship Enterprise," Kathy instructed.

"I will. Now if I could just write the article."

"Make sure you call that guy, find out more about The Bridge and then just find your focus," Kathy advised. "What's your story about in one word?"

"Weirdos," I replied loudly.

"Perfect. Our readers love stories about weirdoes," Kathy said, walking toward her office.

"Weirdos make the world go round!" Steve shouted from his desk ... before launching into the chorus from "People Are Strange" by The Doors.

**CHAPTER 3: HOT TIP**

"Nicole, nice to hear from you again so soon," Virgil told me over the phone. "What can I do for you?"

"I forgot to ask you about the ... _unique_ design of The Bridge," I said.

"It's spectacular, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," I lied. "I've never seen anything quite like it in real life, though I do confess it reminds me of a sort of backward-pointing Star Ship Enterprise from Star Trek."

Virgil laughed, to my surprise.

"Yes, you're not the first person to have observed that. While I do tend to agree with you, I assure you the architects weren't thinking along those lines when they drew up the blueprint."

"So why is it designed like it is?"

"Ah, that's one of the privileges of membership. Let's just say being inside the building is better than being outside it, and the higher up you are inside it, the better off you'll be. The Bridge is about finding higher levels of human intelligence and using that to prepare for what's to come."

"Um ... what does that mean?"

"This is a dangerous and fast-changing world, and it's not going to get any safer," he said flatly.

Whoa. I paused to ponder that loaded statement.

"Of course, I don't have to tell _you_ that," Virgil continued, sounding strangely amused.

Say what?

"Why would you say that?" I asked.

"Much like newspaper reporters, we do our research," he said. "We've learned about your heroism in New Hampshire — how you took a bullet and likely saved hundreds of lives at your high school. We saw your interview with Anderson Cooper — such poise and insight from someone so young. Now here you are, in 2018, representing the media, asking the questions and seeking more insight. We love your story and I personally cannot commend you enough."

I was speechless, mostly from being creeped out, not flattered.

"I really don't know what to say to that."

"Just say yes," Virgil replied.

"Yes to what?"

"To attending our opening gala in Watertown, Mass., on September 21st," Virgil said. "It'll give you a much better sense of what we're all about. There will be a lot of heavy hitters there — the kind of people who could help get your book _really_ published and your poetry featured in all the right places."

"How do you ..."

"Research, research, research. Aren't those editors teaching you interns anything these days? They clearly didn't know anything about us before they told you to cover a _church_ groundbreaking. They have no idea what they're talking about."

"Well, it's not like you guys have been very helpful in providing information so far," I countered. "I still can't get a straight answer about what business you're in."

"Come to the gala and ..."

"Gala, gala, gala. I'm also pretty freaked out that you know so much about me. You're even stalking me on my Goodreads page now?" I said, referring to a popular online website for authors and readers.

"Stalking is a little strong. Everything we know about you is out there for everyone to see. All I did was hit a few buttons on my mobile device."

"I'm still creeped out by it."

"Please don't be. Members of The Bridge always try to be at least one step ahead of the rest of the world ... and sometimes that step seems like a mile high."

"Still a mile short of your egos apparently," I shot back.

Virgil chuckled.

"You have nothing to fear from me or any other member of The Bridge. We're trying to grow our numbers, not shrink them. But we're looking for the right kind of people — people like you; young people with a great story to tell."

"It's not a _story_. I actually lived it. And it wasn't a whole lot of fun. I still have nightmares about what happened," I admitted, wishing I would just shut up and hang up already.

For some reason, I didn't.

"My apologies. You're absolutely right. I should not make light of what you went through in any way. I just don't think a lot of young people would've done what you did four years ago. To show you what a good sport we can be, I'll give you a hot news tip just for _considering_ coming to the gala in September."

"A news tip?" I perked up.

"The kind of tip that doesn't come along every day, even in a corrupt city like Waterbury. The kind of tip an intern reporter would never hope to have in her hot little hands — on her very first day on the job, no less."

"You're serious?"

"100 percent."

"No strings attached on the gala?" I pressed.

"Zero. I would only add that not attending would be a major opportunity lost for someone with your potential."

"I'll consider it then," I said, forcing myself to push aside my fears and put my job first.

"Wonderful," Virgil replied, adding an exhale of satisfaction. "Waterbury Mayor Phil Battaglia is one of the few local officials who did not attend our groundbreaking earlier today because he was too busy having sex with a prostitute and her 13-year-old daughter at a hotel in Bridgeport."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"How do you ..."

"Research, Nicole."

"And spying?" I asked.

"I'll leave the methods to your imagination."

"Thanks for the tip," I said.

"But you're missing the best part," he replied.

"What's that?"

"The details. They meet every Tuesday and Friday at the Quality Inn. Our esteemed mayor checks in under the alias Len Stewart. Perhaps he's a Stew Leonard's shopper," Virgil noted with a laugh, referring to a high-end grocery store chain in Connecticut. "The festivities usually take place somewhere between 2 and 5 p.m. If I were you, I'd bring the police with you on Friday so you'd be there to capture his arrest as it happens. Who knows? Maybe you'll get the chance to ask Mayor Phil a couple of questions ... like why he decided to skip our groundbreaking?"

"This is real?" I asked.

"100 percent authentic."

"Thank you."

**CHAPTER 4: SILVER SANDS**

Derek and I held hands as we strolled down the long boardwalk toward Silver Sands Beach in Milford, a town on Connecticut's southern coast.

Just a mile or so behind us lurked the rat race of Interstate 95 and its ugly little sister, Route 1, with its endless strip malls and oversized SUVs. A few hundred feet ahead of us, beyond the beach, Long Island Sound beckoned, calm and blue. In between, sandals flip-flopped against wood; cattails rustled on either side of us in the salty breeze; and small children skipped with delight as their feet approached the warm sand.

The fine line between madness and serenity in this world is hard to fathom sometimes.

I'm from New Hampshire and I still believe it is one of the most beautiful places imaginable, but the fact remains that I got shot there. And though I had been told there are beautiful places in Connecticut, I had yet to see anything that resembled New Hampshire. It's hard to find beauty on flat, crowded highways. So far, I didn't like Connecticut or its maddening pace.

Thankfully, by showing me this place, Derek had given me my first glimmer of hope. And he needed to ... because the only reason I moved to this state was to be close to him.

Our first date was at Chili's on September 13, 2014. We were both just barely seniors in high school. A co-captain of the football team, he was so confident, handsome and funny that night. We toasted to our future and I felt on top of the world.

I got shot the very next night ... because I was worried about another boy ... about what he might do.

I had to find Adam Upton.

In most of my nightmares, I'm still looking for Adam. I'm searching his pickup truck on the side of the road. I'm looking into the windows of strange cars in dark, wooded parking lots. I'm seeing something run across my field of vision, baiting me to chase whatever it is.

And inevitably, a figure dressed in black steps out of nowhere to torment me. Thomas "Lee" Harvey.

There's a totally catchy song they used to play on the radio all the time that summed me up perfectly at various times over the past four years. I have no idea the name of the band, but the chorus is "I'm not sick, but I'm not well." There's another line from that song that spoke to me as well: "Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's coming to get me."

If it weren't for Derek, I might have given into the madness completely by now and had no chance at serenity. He was there for me and my mom at the hospital after I got shot. His football toughness rubbed off on me. He challenged me with his unwavering hazel eyes, but he also flashed me his playful smile at just the right times. He didn't even have to say a word. I knew in my heart I would make it, that we'd be together and not even Harvey's bullet could stop us.

But going to different colleges in different states and hanging out with different circles of people can be far more threatening to a relationship, especially between two young people, than any bullet.

It had been a struggle staying together, probably more for me than him.

And now we had just started living together for the first time, even if it was only supposed to be for June, July and August. With some help from his parents, Derek was renting a two-level townhouse on the north end of Bridgeport. His friend, Sean, a fellow business major at Fairfield University, lived downstairs. I moved in upstairs with Derek.

With our senior years of college just ahead, this would be our last summer before the so-called real world. It felt like we were both in a scary place, which meant our relationship was, too. It felt like anything could happen — we could decide to break up; he might drop to one knee and propose. It didn't help that his older sister was about to get married. I could sense he was wrestling with those kinds of bigger questions in his mind lately. What would I say if he did propose?

I had just turned 21 the month before. I knew I wasn't ready to get married. I didn't think he was ready either. But I'd rather say "yes" than hurt him and lose him forever. I just hoped I could honor my word ... because, sometimes, I really felt a pull to be free, single, a blank page all over again.

Too often people just cling to each other because it's the safe thing to do. No one gets hurt. You make the best of a not-so-great, long-distance situation and focus on college mostly. That's the priority — earn a degree, land an internship, make some contacts and ultimately get a job that puts a dent into your mounting pile of bills.

Marriage should've been the last thing on our minds, but it wasn't. We had talked about it. He seemed to be leaning toward it; me away from it. The next three months would make or break us, I thought. I feared they would break us. I wanted to cry when I thought about that, so I tried not to think about it. I just held Derek's hand and kept a lot to myself.

"How's this spot?" he asked moments after we arrived on the beach itself. It wasn't that crowded on this pleasant Tuesday evening in June, and there was plenty of daylight left for a swim and a chat, but not much for working on our tans.

"Perfect," I said, whipping out an orange beach blanket and setting it on the sand, which did not live up to its silver billing. It was blandish beige and not very smooth.

"I'm gonna go jump in for a few to cool off. Wanna come?" he asked, removing his T-shirt and showing off his linebacker physique.

"No, I'm kind of beat. I'm gonna lie down first," I said.

He gave me a quick kiss and headed for the water. Looking at him dive in and disappear — even for a moment — was enough to get me brooding again. _It's not him. It's me. I'm the problem. He's better off with someone else. Blah, blah, blah._ I was so sick of my own brain analyzing every little thing. Why couldn't I just be? Enjoy the beach, the present moment. Stop judging every interaction between us to see if it measured up to the standards of some future marriage that may never even happen. Like that's the ultimate prize anyway? Look at my parents. Roger, a firefighter, had an affair with a paramedic named Jamie, and my mother, Lynn, filed for a divorce. Sounds like some bad, working-class soap opera.

I didn't have much of a relationship with Roger after that ... until he saw my interview on Anderson Cooper. He called me. I couldn't believe it. He told me how proud he was of his little girl. I was anything but his little girl all those years, but it still meant a lot. I couldn't believe I made him cry. The big strong firefighter actually broke down on the phone with me that night.

All it took was one bullet.

Roger and I had gotten along a little better after that. I'd see him twice a year. I'd go to North Carolina once and he'd come up to visit me once, usually in Boston.

My mom still lived in New Hampshire. So did Adam. Ironically, the boy who had plotted to kill everyone in our school, except me and his younger brother Brody, was now helping to maintain security at a shopping mall. I was proud of how far he had come since his drunken, manic episode that Sunday night outside our high school. I had made a difference in his life at least. And I did manage to drag him up Mount Washington in the summer of 2016 with my best friend, Candace Cooper, but none of us had climbed a mountain since.

Adam and I still chatted or texted from time to time. We joked about how Candace had become the one to carry the blue hair torch. Not too long after I went back to my natural light brown hair color, C.C. became a hair stylist in Nashua, New Hampshire. She began to streak her auburn hair with all different colors. Fittingly, the last time I saw her over the holidays, she wore streaks of blue.

C.C. had been single since January and she seemed quite happy, but I wasn't so sure I'd be happy without Derek in my life. I hoped living together for three months would give me some definitive answers.

"What's wrong?" Derek asked, eyeing me warily before dripping his way onto the blanket.

"Nothing," I said.

"Nothing, she says. Is it the total lack of mountains? Is the sea not good enough for you," he jabbed with a twinkle in his eyes.

I smiled and then partially lied. "I'm just upset they're not running my story."

"Nikki, it's your first day. You're an intern. You said they're still using your photo of the Trekkie church people."

"I know, but I'm supposed to be a writer, not a photographer."

"Yeah, well I'm supposed to be a business administrator, and I spend at least a third of my day making coffee runs and driving people around," countered Derek, who was an intern at the management headquarters of a local sporting goods chain.

"Well I'm mad about it and I withheld possibly important information from my editors out of spite."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"This is just between us — very sensitive information."

"Of course."

"One of the Trekkie people told me that the mayor of Waterbury skipped their groundbreaking today because he was having sex with a prostitute and her 13-year-old daughter in a Bridgeport hotel."

"Holy shit."

"Exactly. I don't know if it's true, but he sure seemed confident about it. They must have spies, these people," though I made sure not to tell Derek how much Virgil already had dug up about me. "He told me the mayor does this every Tuesday and Friday at the Quality Inn. He even told me the alias the mayor uses to get a room. It's hard to think he's making all that up."

"Wow. So what are you gonna do with this flaming hot tip?"

"I guess I have til Friday to figure that out, but the source is a total creep. I know he's trying to use me somehow."

"Tell your editor lady. She'll know what to do."

"I know. It's all just a little too much for me on my very first day, you know? Why does crazy shit like this always seem to happen to me?"

Derek's eyes traveled directly to the scar on my right side, which I refused to cover up with a one-piece bathing suit. I took a bullet and survived. In a way, I was damn proud of that scar — way more than any tattoo. But it's not always easy being strong in a mad world.

Derek didn't say a word. He just hugged me and kissed my forehead. That's why I needed us to make it.

"Come on, let's go swimming together in the Sound," I finally said, jumping up out of my gloom and pulling Derek with me toward the water.

**CHAPTER 5: BUSTED IN BRIDGEPORT**

With the incessant talk about global warming and ominous predictions of monster hurricanes on the news, I absolutely felt guilty about my carbon footprint on Friday. I drove my car from Derek's place on the north side of Bridgeport to the newspaper office in Waterbury, a little under 30 miles to the north. A half hour later, I was on my way back to Bridgeport in Steve Pearson's passenger seat. Kathy Kepler had assigned us to work together on the possible arrest of Mayor Battaglia.

Yes, I had decided to share Virgil's tip with Kepler and she was ecstatic. She said if it turned out to be true and the Waterbury cops didn't leak it to any other news organizations, we'd have the story of the year _exclusively_. We were prepared to shoot photos and video on top of writing multiple stories and follow-ups. Kepler said that I would be inducted into the newspaper intern hall of fame — if such a place existed — if we landed this story.

"So ... do you believe this Virgil guy or is he sending us on a wild goose chase?" Steve asked in his typically penetrating voice as the wind blew my hair around while his short, bushy brown hair remained perfectly still. His clothing ensemble clashed slightly less today. He wore a wedding ring, and I had seen photos of his wife and two young children on his desk.

"I'm 75 percent sure he's telling the truth," I said.

"That's a decently high number for a story like this. Good for you if it's the real deal. You can just skip the rest of your senior year at B.U. and go straight to the New York Post or the Boston Herald," Steve bellowed as "Breaking the Law," by Judas Priest, blared from his car speakers. How fitting, given our assignment.

"Just because we get the story doesn't mean I know what to do with it," I said.

"Ah, _that's_ why I'm here," Steve said with a playful smile. "I knew there was a reason."

"You cover the mayor, so you tell me ... is he capable of this?"

"Absolutely. He's a complete asshole and nut job. I could see him thinking he's above the law very easily. Twice a week he's doing this? No, that's just the tip of the iceberg. I bet he's got some other arrangement with another mother and daughter on Wednesdays and Saturdays in East Hartford. He picks the dregs of the state for his romps and then jaunts back to run Waterbury, our shining city on a hill ... the one with a huge illuminated cross, no less."

"How do you get along with Mayor Phil?"

"I hate him, but I try not to let it show. He hates me and he doesn't hide it at all. I guess you could call it a loving relationship," Steve said with a chuckle.

I laughed. Steve was as funny as Derek but in a totally different way.

"How about you?" he asked.

"How about me what?"

"Are you in a loving relationship?" Steve asked, brash as ever. He did get paid to ask assholes tough questions. He certainly wasn't intimidated by me.

"Nice segue ... yes. I've been going out with my boyfriend Derek for almost four years," I replied, glossing over a couple of timeouts we took during that span when we did date other people.

"Wow, good for you. Are you guys talking about marriage or what?"

Steve certainly didn't waste any time going for the jugular.

"Not really," I said, looking to the right at an off-ramp sign that said "Beacon Falls." We were winding our way south through the Naugatuck River valley along Route 8.

"Good. You're too young ... what, 20? 21?"

"21."

"Way too young. Live it up," Steve advised. "You only get your 20s once."

"How old are you?"

"32."

"When did you get married?"

"When I was 27. I should've waited a few more years, but I kind of got my girlfriend pregnant," he said with a smile.

"Kind of?"

"Then we got married and I kind of got her pregnant again," he added with a laugh.

"How old are your kids?"

"4 and 2."

"Is it fun?"

"Yeah, it's a lot of fun, a lot of torture, a lot of everything ... especially diapers. At least my daughter's out of them now."

"Good to know."

"That's why I say keep it simple and have fun while you're young. Don't rush all the responsibility that comes with marriage and parenting before you've had your turn to become who you want to be ... and don't forget to see the world, too."

"Sounds like wise advice."

"So ... what's it like getting shot?" Steve shouted over the music.

"Geez, do you do this with everybody?"

"Do what?"

"Ask so many ..."

"Ask interesting questions, yeah, that's what I do ... 24 hours, seven days a week. Even in my dream the other night, I asked the Dalai Lama how to get to Saratoga Race Track. I was lost somewhere in New York. I thought he could enlighten me," he said with a laugh.

LOL. OK, Steve was funnier than Derek. He studied me, instead of watching the road, as I remained deep in thought.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" he persisted.

"How did _you_ know about _that_?"

"Kepler gave me a little background on you ... a little context, as she likes to say."

"What's with crackers this and crackers that?" I asked, changing the subject.

"She's from Pennsylvania ... Quakers, crackers, that must be it," he said with a shrug.

"Yeah, that explains it," I said, even though, amazingly, I had yet to set foot in Pennsylvania.

"You're certainly not our average, run-of-the-mill intern," Steve said.

"You're not going to let it drop, are you?"

"No, we're only in Ansonia. I've got several more miles to pepper you."

"I pretty much thought I was going to die. I mean, he was pointing a gun at me for what seemed like forever," I said, risking a new round of nightmares with every word I uttered. "When he turned to look at the headlights of a car pulling into the school parking lot, I just ... I don't know, my survival instincts took over. I took off up this hill."

"Wow."

"I remember thinking, 'I'm not going fast enough ... he's gonna shoot me any second.'"

"Did you honestly think you could outrun a speeding bullet, like Superwoman?"

"The kid was psycho. I figured I was dead either way ... why not at least try to get to safety? It was like a sledgehammer in my side. It's been almost four years and I still have nightmares about that night ... about him ... and the way he hated me."

"That's some heavy shit," Steve said. "Sorry I made you go there."

He didn't seem that sorry so I called him on it.

"No you're not."

"Fair enough. It's just not every day that ... I mean, look at you ... you're only 21 and you've already got your own war story."

"People way younger than me get shot and blown up all the time ... all over the world," I pointed out.

"Newtown, 2012," Steve said. "Twenty kids and six women died just up the road. Totally devastating."

"Did you cover that?"

"No, some people in our Southbury bureau did because they were closer to Newtown."

A rare moment of silence interrupted our conversation. I didn't want to talk about Newtown or the dream I had on Mount Washington that prompted me to do what I did in New Hampshire. I just wanted to move on.

"Well, you're one brave son of a ... daughter of a ... you know what I mean," Steve finally concluded.

"Thanks Steve."

"And I'm happy you're on our team. Hopefully, the police will disarm the mayor before we get near him, _if_ they let us get near him."

"Do you think he'll have a gun?"

"Other than a warm gun, as the Beatles would say, probably not," Steve quipped. "But you never, never know in this wacky world of ours. Phil does have quite a temper. This could be a fascinating trip to Bridgeport. I don't know that I've had a fascinating time in Bridgeport ever in my life, but today, ladies and gentleman, today could be the day."

A few minutes after arriving in that coastal city of about 150,000, Steve pulled into the Quality Inn parking lot.

"Here we are. And there's our staff photographer, Chris Mercer," Steve said, pointing out a handsome 20-something man leaning his back against a dark green Jeep.

"What are you doing here?" Steve asked Chris, who had short brown hair and green eyes.

"Bob told me to get down here," Chris said, referring to the newspaper's photo chief. "He wanted stronger lenses in case the cops kick us back."

"They're not here yet?" Steve asked.

"No sign of them."

"Good, that'll give us time to get set up. Chris, have you met our star intern, Nicole, yet?"

"No I haven't. Nice to meet you, Nicole."

"You, too, Chris," I said, shaking his hand when he came over to my window.

"I heard this is your big tip about the mayor," Chris said with a disarming smile.

"Yes."

"Congrats."

"I just hope it pans out after driving down all the way from Waterbury," I said.

Two metallic gray SUVs entered the rectangular parking lot on the right side of the two-story hotel.

"That's them," Steve said. "Unmarked cars."

"They don't want to scream 'the police are here' ... makes sense," Chris said.

"I'll go talk to them to see what part we get to play in all this ... if any," Steve said before parking his car.

"It's my tip. We better get something," I said as we both shut the door and walked back toward Chris.

"They said no guarantees," Steve said, leaving me with Chris and strolling toward the SUVs to chat with one of the four plain-clothed officers, all of whom were emerging from their vehicles.

After a minute or two, Steve returned with a seemingly deliberate poker face. Finally, he cracked a smile.

"We can stay here and watch," he said. "We can shoot photos and videos from here. That's about it."

"What? We can't even ask the mayor questions when he comes out?" I asked.

"Not only can we not ask Phil questions, but these guys aren't taking any questions here either. They're here to make the arrest and get the fuck out before it becomes a circus," Steve said. "The detective lieutenant who I just spoke with said he'll give us a thumb's up sign if it really is the mayor and that's it. We're not going to get any shots of the mother and daughter because they won't be brought out until after we leave. They'll be loaded into the second car. They're gonna bring the mayor back to Waterbury police station for questioning in the first car."

"That totally sucks," I pointed out.

"He said we can call the information officer tonight for more details. They may end up having a press conference, but that's not this guy's call to make. The good news is he did say there is someone checked in here under the name Leonard Stewart, so it looks like it's game on."

"Awesome," Chris said, his positivity failing to transfer to me.

"So it won't even be an exclusive then," I huffed.

"Not for the newspaper," Steve said.

"But the photos and video will be," Chris pointed out. "We'll blast that shit out on our website and social media. Trust me. We'll be breaking this. Now aren't you guys glad I showed up with my big lense?"

He hoisted his photographic bazooka into the air for effect.

"Way better than our company phones," Steve said, "but we can still get some video with them at least."

Nearly 40 minutes later, with rain beginning to fall from dark gray clouds, the detective lieutenant and his partner led a handcuffed man out of the hotel's side door and toward the first unmarked SUV.

The short, stocky mayor had covered his head and upper torso with his black shirt, exposing his hairy pot belly. The officer glanced in our direction, flashed us a quick thumb's up sign and loaded Mayor Battaglia into the vehicle.

Chris was firing way from on top of his Jeep's hardcover while Steve and I both shot video with our mobile devices on either side of Steve's car. Then Steve abruptly stopped shooting and started tapping away on his virtual keypad.

"Keep shooting as they drive him out of here," he instructed. "I'm posting this little gem all over the fucking universe."

"Will do," I said, getting a pretty close shot of the shirt-headed mayor riding past us in the back seat of the unmarked car.

"You're my hero," Steve shouted, tapping away with the giddy zeal of a 4-year-old. "I wanna be you when I grow up ... the girl who can't be stopped by bullets, the girl who takes down pedophile mayors, the girl with the dragon ..."

"Will you please shut the hell up?!! You're talking all over my audio!" I shouted.

"Oh shit. Sorry."

"Sorry, he says," I snapped as the mayor left the parking lot en route to Waterbury, the city he was supposed to be running while he was screwing a 13-year-old and her mother in Bridgeport.

Then I stopped shooting.

"Don't worry, we can still use your video as B roll," Steve assured me while finishing his tapping. "There. It's posted. Now all hell will break loose back in the 'Bury. Let's go, Lois Lane."

"I got some great shots," Chris declared as he jumped off the top of his Jeep and the rain fell harder around us.

"How? Battaglia had a shirt over his head," Steve said.

"True, but I'm sure everybody will recognize that hairy chest and belly," Chris said with a laugh.

"I'll race you back," Steve shouted before hitting the gas.

"You're on!" Chris yelled back with a huge grin as he climbed behind the wheel.

These guys were totally stoked by this story. Why wasn't I feeling so excited?

My phone vibrated. It was Virgil calling. Maybe that's why.

**CHAPTER 6: 25 GRAND**

I met with Virgil for lunch the next day at a Waterbury tavern called Pies & Pints, a cozy side street pub that featured pizza and micro brews. He was wearing his navy blue suit again, but his demeanor was much warmer and friendlier than at the groundbreaking. He even stood up to give me a hug before we sat down in a booth. I tried not to grimace too much, but I certainly didn't like this guy touching me, even if he did supply me with the tip of the year.

"Great job on the story, Nicole," he said, pointing to his copy of Saturday's newspaper on the table. The huge headline said, "MAYOR ARRESTED." The smaller headline underneath said, "Police: Battaglia nabbed with prostitute, her teen daughter in Bridgeport hotel."

"Thanks, but Steve Pearson and my city editor did most of the heavy lifting on that," I said, grabbing a menu.

"But you provided the essential nuggets of information," he pointed out, winking and smiling.

"Yes, the tip that you fed me. I was merely a conduit."

"I was happy to help," he said, fawning on me like a new pet.

"But why would you? The gala? Why do you really want me to go so badly?"

"I do want you to attend the gala, but I would prefer, Miss Janicek, that you attend as my director of information," he replied, beaming at the prospect.

I had to make sure I'd heard him correctly.

"Did you say you want to hire me as your director of information?"

"Yes, I did."

"But I'm an intern reporter who hasn't even finished her undergraduate degree yet."

"So what?"

"I haven't even written my _own_ byline story for this newspaper yet," I added, shaking the paper on the table.

The waiter interrupted us and took our orders. I kept staring at Virgil's wrinkled face and pointy nose in disbelief. He must've been in his 50s at least — definitely old enough to qualify for "dirty old man" status. What else could this be but an indecent proposal? I would never sleep with this man for a job if that was his motive.

"This isn't some ploy to get me to be your girlfriend or something, is it?" I asked.

"Absolutely not," he said, his tone sounding genuine. "This is strictly business."

"Because I have a long-term boyfriend."

"I know. His name is Derek. He attends Fairfield University."

"How ... "

"Instagram ... and a little research."

"You really are stalking me, aren't you?"

"Stalking implies hiding in the shadows and lurking around corners. I'm calling you directly, meeting you face to face and learning about you from what you freely post online."

"I still can't believe you checked out my Goodreads page."

"How else would I know that one of your favorite authors will be attending the gala in Massachusetts?"

"Who?"

"William Osborne."

"You're serious?"

"Totally."

"He's a member of The Bridge?" I asked, worried I might have to delete him from my favorite authors list.

"Not yet, but he will be," Virgil said, his face beaming throughout this whole conversation.

"What about Cheryl Strayed?" I pushed.

"We asked. She'll be on tour out West in September."

I exhaled and shook my head.

"So what if I was crazy enough to say yes?" I asked.

"To my job offer?"

"Yes."

"You would begin work Monday in my satellite office here in Waterbury, which is our base of operations until The Bridge center is constructed."

"But that's no notice whatsoever. I just started as an intern four shifts ago. I have to go to work an hour from now and I'm supposed to walk in and tell them I quit already? Just like that?"

"I guess that decision depends on how much they value you. How much are they paying you?" he asked.

"11."

"$11,000?"

"No, $11 an hour."

Virgil chuckled.

"It's an _internship_ ," I said. "What did you expect? $25 an hour?"

"Well, our job is not an internship. And I know this is all very sudden and inconvenient for you, so that's why we're willing to pay you 25," he said with an amused look.

"$25 an hour?" I gasped.

"No, no, no. A signing bonus of $25,000, plus tuition for your senior year at Boston University and $75,000 in year two of this two-year contract when you're fully ours," he said, pulling an envelope out of his blazer and placing it on my plate.

"Oh my God. That's crazy," I said, opening the envelope anyway and inspecting the contract.

"You can work for us part-time while you finish your degree. We don't need you on site here in Waterbury all the time and The Bridge won't be complete until next summer anyway."

"This is too good to be true."

"Well, it's both — too good and very true. You'd end up based here in Waterbury in 2019."

"I'd be in the same state as Derek finally ... and not just for three months," I said, though part of my brain warned me I wasn't ready to commit to living in Connecticut beyond that."

"That's right," Virgil said, smiling. "A win-win-win ... for you, him and us."

I began reading the contract more closely as the pizza arrived on the table.

"After the two years, you can opt out and pursue other opportunities as you wish, but we do expect you to honor the full two years," he said, his tone more businesslike.

"Director of information?" I wondered aloud.

"Isn't it time to put your communication talents to good use and be compensated well for it, Nicole?"

"I guess so, but I still don't even know what The Bridge really is other than the few cryptic things you've told me."

"All of that will be provided to you. We'll begin your training on Monday and have you up to speed in weeks, not months," Virgil said. "This truly is an exciting opportunity for someone as young and gifted as yourself. I think your editors at the newspaper will understand if you jumped at it."

"But it's more PR than journalism."

"It's greater than both actually, but your journalism skills will not go to waste. We've got plans for you. The bottom line is we need all the best people we can get ... people like you."

I took a bite of pizza and chewed on his flattery. This whole first week of my internship made very little sense to me.

"It's greater than both? When you talk like that, I'm lost. Level with me. Are you guys Scientologists or what? I can't work for you or represent you as your director of information if I don't know what I'm selling my soul for."

He smiled. "Fair point. Some of us were Scientologists and some of us had nothing to do with it at all."

"What about you? Let's start with you. Were you a Scientologist?"

"Yes ... until I was labeled a PTS. Then I found greener pastures with The Bridge."

Like I was supposed to know what PTS meant??

"PTS? What is that?"

"Potential Trouble Source," he replied with a smirk.

"Explain," I said, waving him on.

"It means that I hung around with David Michael too much. He was labeled a Suppressive Person, or SP, because he didn't like the way the Church of Scientology was being run any longer. He and several others felt that Scientology was an OK start, but just the tip of the iceberg really in finding higher clarity and meaning. We respect the founder, L. Ron Hubbard, and all of his efforts, but he really was a madman. His successor, David Miscavige, is even worse. Leadership really went to these guys' heads, and the church has lost its way and a lot of its followers. This loss of confidence I'm talking about is second only to Roman Catholics abandoning their church because of the rampant sexual abuse by clergy and subsequent cover-ups by the Vatican."

I raised my eyebrows and nodded at his sudden burst of candor. It was my turn to talk.

"I appreciate you finally answering my Scientology question, but I know next to nothing about Scientology. I do believe in God, but I don't attend any church at the moment. I do believe some of the victims from Newtown appeared to me in a dream nearly four years ago to warn me about what two boys were planning to do at my high school. I don't know why they chose me, but I listened and I acted. I also think I survived getting shot for some important, unknown reason. But my bottom line is this: I don't think I'm the right person to be director of information for a church ... any church."

"But, as I've said, we're not a church. We're The Bridge. And you'll be perfect for us," he said, firm as ever.

I sighed. Then he put his money where his mouth was ... handing me the $25,000 check, payable to Nicole Janicek from TBG and signed by David Michael, regional director of TBG.

"What's TBG?"

"The Bridge Group," Virgil said. "No church in that title."

"So what business would I be in then?" I asked with a smirk of my own.

"Something you have plenty of experience with."

"Oh ... and what is that exactly?"

"Saving people's lives," he said, looking me straight in the eyes.

"And if I believe that, you've got a bridge to sell me," I deadpanned.

He didn't flinch, then corrected me. "Not a bridge. The Bridge."

"And I'm not a doctor or a faith healer, so how am I — little ol' Nicole — supposed to save people's lives?"

"Well, you already have and now you will for us ... simply by being yourself. We want _you_ on _our_ team, Nicole — nothing more, nothing less."

I nodded and exhaled as my heart pounded in my chest.

"OK, I'll do it," I said.

Virgil smiled and handed me his pen.

I read the rest of the contract, signed it, dated it and walked out of Pies & Pints ... instantly $25,000 richer.

**CHAPTER 7: MONEY TRAIL**

"You're quitting? Already? It's the fifth shift of your internship. You just broke the story of the year. Have you lost your mind?" Kathy Kepler scolded me.

I was supposed to work from 2 to 10 p.m. that Saturday on my Tuesday-Saturday schedule that no longer mattered.

"What about all the follow-ups on the mayor that you and Steve were going to work on together? What happened to you in the few hours since your big story hit the newsstands?" she continued.

"This happened," I said, showing her the check for $25,000. "The Star Ship Enterprise just hired me to be the director of information for their Waterbury center."

Kepler's eyes popped out of her glasses.

"And you said yes?"

"Do you see this check I'm holding?"

"It is real?"

"It's Saturday afternoon. The banks aren't open."

"But you said yes to these people?"

"Only after I drilled the guy for the past hour at Pies & Pints."

"What guy?"

"My source ... the guy who made today's front page story possible."

"And you trust him?"

"He was right about the mayor ... and he finally answered all of my questions, so yes, I'm beginning to trust him, weirdo or not."

Kepler shook her head, craned her neck at the ornate ceiling far above us and exhaled in disbelief. We were both standing in the corridor to the left of all the reporters' and copy editors' desks. The newsroom was largely deserted on this early Saturday afternoon.

"Not only are you leaving us high and dry with no notice," she said, focusing on me once again, "but you just joined an organization that you have no clue about."

"I know it's sudden, but I can't turn down a two-year contract with a total value of about $150,000, crazy cult or not. I can't turn down a chance to graduate with lower student loans and the security of a high-paying job in the same state where my boyfriend lives."

"Sounds like an offer you couldn't refuse," quipped Chris, the photographer, as he strolled toward us from the photo department, which was set off from the newsroom in an office with tinted glass. He was grinning as usual.

"I tried to refuse it and talk him out of hiring me, believe me, but this guy wouldn't take no for an answer," I told them.

"Who is it?" Chris asked.

"The Bridge Group," I said.

"Never heard of them," he said.

"She hadn't either until we sent her to their church groundbreaking on Tuesday," Kathy said.

"They're a church?" Chris asked.

"Not really," I said.

"Then what are they?" Kathy asked. "And _who_ are they that they can afford to hand a, pardon my candor, naive college student such as yourself $75,000 a year right out of the gate?"

"The Bridge is a place of higher learning and they're in the business of saving lives," I said, rehearsing for my new role, which would begin in just two days. What would Derek say? I hoped he would react better than Kepler.

"Are they a hospital?" Chris asked.

"I don't think so," I said.

Kepler shook her head again. I knew she was labeling me "crackers" in that brain of hers.

"Look, I can't blame you for leaping at the offer," Kathy said. "It's flattering that they want to give you this fancy title and throw all this money at you. I'd have a hard time saying no to that, too, if I were you, but I think you're making a huge mistake. You came here wanting to be a journalist, not some PR flak. And I'm quite certain there's a huge catch. If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. There's an asterisk or two, maybe more, in that contract you signed that will come back to bite you."

"I read it very carefully ... twice," I said.

"You should've had a lawyer read it very carefully ... _three times_ ," she retorted.

Chris did a half-nod in agreement but stopped when I looked at him. I had thought of that, believe it or not, but I don't know any lawyers and I wouldn't trust them either. In the end, I went with my ... wallet. I can't say gut because my gut still thought The Bridge was a strange, unbuilt building full of weirdos. But I also went with my heart, dammit ... to be closer to Derek. That should count for something, too.

"When do you start?" Chris asked.

"Monday."

"Wow. These Bridge people don't mess around," he said.

"They don't even have a building yet," Kepler pointed out.

"They have a temporary office on Grand Street until the space ship is finished next summer," I said. "I really am getting in on the ground floor with these people."

"I just hope you don't get ground up," the city editor said, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes.

"Steve's gonna miss you," Chris said.

"I'll miss all of you, too, but ... it's only been like five days," I said.

"Technically four," Kathy said. "I don't want you here tonight. You might as well take off."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean ... what's the point?" she said, making me feel even worse. "Another young journalist lost to the dark side."

"Geez, Kathy, lighten up a little on the poor girl," Chris said.

"Fine. Good luck, Nicole. I wish you all the best with The Bridge ... hopefully it's not The Bridge to nowhere ... or worse," she felt compelled to add.

"Yikes. That's lightening up?" Chris asked.

"It's OK, Chris. I don't blame her. I'm skeptical about these people, too, but I'd rather be a skeptical director of information with a decent bank account than a frustrated journalist with no money," I said.

"Frustrated? By what? You're an _intern_ ... _were_ an intern," Kepler snapped.

"You didn't even run my story on The Bridge. You just ran my photos."

Kepler rolled her eyes.

"First of all, we didn't have the space that night. Second, you didn't finish your reporting on them," she said.

"Well, _now_ I have the answers to those questions and I'd be willing to finish that story if you want it before I go," I said.

Kepler laughed.

"Um ... that would be a serious conflict of interest now, wouldn't it? Your story about The Bridge comes out in our newspaper on Sunday and you start working as their director of information on Monday. You're not using your brain, Nicole. You're not thinking things through. I'm telling you right now you don't have the answers — the _real_ answers — to your questions because they're feeding you a bunch of bullshit for some agenda you have no idea about. For your sake, I hope you keep a journalist's hat on somewhere inside your pretty little head because you're going to need it."

"Thanks for your advice," I said as Chris raised his eyebrows at me and began backing away from the two of us. Who could blame him?

"Believe it or not, I'm telling you all this for your own good," Kepler continued. "Did they ever teach you at B.U. to follow the money trail when you took investigative reporting?"

"I haven't taken that class yet. I'm supposed to next semester."

"Well, the real story about these Bridge people may well turn on you, because now _you're_ part of their money trail. They're spending a lot of money on you for some reason. How they use you and treat you could help provide the real answers ... the ones you haven't found yet ... because they won't tell you and you didn't bother to take the time to find out. You quit on the story and joined them instead."

I felt like a second-grader who got caught cheating on a test. I just started walking away ... nearly in tears.

"I'll let you get on with your work now," I said, more to myself than to Kepler. "I am sorry for the short notice."

"Good luck," I heard her say to my back.

Chris waited for me near the exit to the stairway down to the first floor.

"Let me walk you out ... and don't take all that too personally," he said as we began walking downstairs together. "Kepler's usually pretty cool, but she's probably just looking out for you."

"I know, I know. I'm barely 21 for God's sake. Can't I make a mistake if that's what this turns out to be? I don't have all the answers."

"I hear ya."

I stopped just before I was about to push my way through the exit door to the parking lot, turned around and looked Chris in the eyes.

"Tell me the truth. Do you think I'm making a big mistake? Could you turn down a two-year contract for $150,000 plus?" I asked, begging the cheery photographer for more of his rays of sunshine.

He stumbled for words. I knew I was being unfair to him, but I pressed on anyway. I showed him the check for $25,000.

"Could you just say no to this if someone offered it to you?" I continued.

"Probably not," he said.

" _Probably_ not?"

"Well, I guess I'd want to know who is signing the check before I could, you know, totally accept it and feel great about it," he said, squinting at the check more closely and making entirely too much sense for my agitated state to handle. "Is that David Michael guy pretty cool?" he had to add, twisting the knife through my gut even further.

The bad cop and the good cop were both right, and I was a greedy fool. I had never expected to feel like a greedy fool in my life, but now I did.

"No, I'm pretty sure he's a complete asshole, at best, from my brief interaction with him on Tuesday," I forced myself to admit. "But he wasn't the one who made me the offer."

"Hmmm," Chris said.

If that was the best Mr. Positivity could come up with for a response, I knew I was screwed.

"OK. Send a search party if I don't call you or Steve by this time on Monday," I said before crashing through the door.

***

Derek shared a couple of Kepler's concerns, but he was too blown away by the money factor and the logistical boost to our relationship to do anything but smile, laugh and talk excitedly most of that Saturday night.

We dined at an expensive restaurant in swanky Westport, babbled on about our future together over red wine, decided we'd have three kids, not two, and later rehearsed the act of making babies as the Beastie Boys' crazy song "Intergalactic" blared from the surround speakers in Derek's bedroom.

Of course I was drunk. I would never slap his ass repeatedly and scream "Harder, Captain Kirk!" under normal conditions.

**CHAPTER 8: COFFEE IN THE LOBBY**

It felt weird driving past the newspaper, its four-sided brick clock tower looming above me and guilt-tripping me for taking the money and splitting. I could hear Kepler's voice bouncing around inside that place and inside my brain: "She quit after four days. She's totally crackers."

Crack this. It's my life and I loved my new schedule. Virgil told me to report to his little temporary office on Grand Street, just a few blocks from the paper, on Monday through Friday from 10 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Only two-and-a-half hours?! I didn't have to speed up from Bridgeport and it allowed me more time to deposit my $25,000 check at the bank that morning. I had decided not to call and tell my mother about my abrupt change from intern to professional director of information until the check cleared Tuesday. I couldn't wait to brighten her day with the news that my senior year of tuition would be paid in full by The Bridge Group. No more student loans or parental assistance. I also couldn't wait to tell her I'd start my career straight out of college next summer with a salary of $75,000. It _was_ too good to be true, but I was willing to take that chance for that amount of money.

I parked in the four-story public garage Virgil had suggested and walked a block or so to the small storefront location. It previously had been a tax office, he said, but there was no sign of any kind on it now. The 15-foot-wide office, sandwiched between a pizza shop on the left and a Puerto Rican barbershop on the right, sat on a nondescript city street. The hot, humid air, even at 10 a.m., gave everyone walking the streets a zombie-like sluggishness. I just hoped Virgil's office had air conditioning.

Virgil did tell me to dress comfortably for these preliminary "sessions," as he called them. I wore a white sleeveless top, light blue shorts and tan sandals. My light brown hair was tied back into a pony tail. When I entered the office and felt a rush of cool air, I smiled more about that than greeting Virgil, who beamed back at me. It was nice to see him without his navy blue suit for a change. He just wore a white collared shirt, khakis and brown dress shoes.

"Welcome to our humble office, Nicole," he said, shaking my hand. "This is where it all begins."

"Thanks," I said, catching a whiff of hazelnut coffee in the air and smiling as I scanned the room. There wasn't much. A couple of desks with large Apple desktop computers to the left. An open door to the right leading to a separate room. All I could see in that room was a cozy chair and part of a coffee table. "It's peaceful," I added.

Virgil laughed. He seemed at ease and happy to see me.

"Yes, quiet and empty. I told you we're starting from the ground floor here and I meant it," he said.

"Not even a sign out front yet," I noted.

"No, we don't want people to even know we're here until we get all set up at our real location next summer."

"So what will we do in the meantime?"

"We'll start building The Bridge," he replied, ushering me into the room on the right. "Come have a seat and get comfortable."

I did as I was told. I sat down in the cozy chair that was visible from the main room. Virgil had a similar chair on the other side of the coffee table.

"Coffee?" he asked, pointing to a Krups coffee maker on top of a filing cabinet in the corner. It was half full and heated up.

"Sure," I said, and Virgil poured me a cup before topping off his cup, which was already on the table.

"How do you take it?"

"Just milk ... thanks," I said as he handed me the steaming mug. It tasted even better than it smelled. I loved my new job already.

Virgil sat down, donned a pair of glasses and focused on me from across the table. Then he sipped his coffee and our first session began.

"So, how did Derek take the news of your sudden new job?" he asked.

"A lot better than my city editor did."

"Well good. It's more important that he's happy and you're happy and we're happy than the newspaper. They'll soldier on without you. Those places treat interns like slave labor anyway. We view young people as the most important assets we have."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you are the present and future of this planet. We old folks have had our chance and we failed to do our part."

"In what way?"

"We kept ruining this planet instead of saving it. We've been unable to turn the tide and now it's too late. Now we've got to try to manage the unmanageable ... manage the chaos that will come."

"Um ... are you guys environmentalists?" I asked, completely puzzled.

"It's 'we' guys now," he corrected me, gesturing to both of us. "And I don't think labeling us serves any purpose. Are we church folks, environmentalists, political activists, etc.? No, I think we're human beings who are sick and tired of watching our civilization sink while nation states ignore the obvious, bicker like children and fight meaningless wars. The end of life as we know it on this planet is coming within decades, not centuries, and no one seems to have the foresight to do anything about it ... to prepare, to come up with a plan, alternatives, etc."

"So are you ... we ... like those people who thought the world would end on December 12, 2012?" I asked.

"No ... and let me explain my point a little better. This planet will be just fine. Earth will survive. It's been around for 4 billion years and gone through all kinds of extreme change. Mother Earth is very adaptable. _We_ are the ones who are in for a big shock. We are the ones who won't adapt very well to the changes that are coming. There's no stopping them now. And there will be chaos."

"Yikes."

"Yeah, yikes doesn't begin to describe what your future, your children's future and your grandchildren's future will look like. It's already happening — the Cat 5 hurricanes, the massive flooding in one region, and the endless droughts and wildfires in another. We've got glaciers melting rapidly on both poles. It's a vicious cycle we've started by warming up the planet too much too fast, and the genie is out of the bottle now. We're gonna wish we had woken up and paid attention a lot sooner. Some places are going to become uninhabitable. Edible food and potable water will be the new currency — way more valuable than gold, silver and oil. There will be wars over far more essential things than religion, I'll tell you that."

He raised my eyebrows on that one.

"Wow. This isn't what I expected at all. I thought I'd get a lecture on new age philosophy or religion today."

"Religion is more trouble than it's worth, Nicole. It really is. It does give people some comfort and it has helped me on some levels as well, but a lot of people just use it and twist it and kill on its behalf."

"So how is The Bridge any better?" I asked.

"The Bridge is better because we're based in reality, not faith or creed or some imaginary dude who lives in the sky," Virgil replied with a grin. "We're something solid and lasting; something that spans far into the future. We see real problems and deal with them intelligently and creatively for the best possible outcome. Ultimately, The Bridge strives to take the human race further than its ever gone."

A Trekkie alert went off in my brain.

"Further ... like where? Outer space?"

Virgil just smiled and sipped his coffee.

"I am working for you now," I said. "You could stop speaking to me in riddles and actually tell me what I signed up for."

"You're not ready yet. It might not look like it yet as you gaze around this tiny unmarked office on Grand Street in Waterbury, Connecticut, but you have entered the lobby of a massive structure that is far more invisible than visible at this point. You'll learn more about it as you earn your way into it and prove how you can help us achieve our ambitious goals. The Bridge is about saving lives and that's where you come in. That's your special skill. We need you to excel."

I took a deep breath and exhaled. "How can I help?"

"We need you to be in the strongest possible health — physically and mentally. On a scale of 1 to 10, how strong do you feel physically as we sit here today?"

"An 8 or 9, I guess."

"We'll pay your membership to the gym of your choice so you can improve on that," Virgil said.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Wow. That's really cool. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Our schedule will be fairly light this summer, so you'll have plenty of time to work out and get stronger. We'll also arrange for you to have a long weekend in July or August so you can go climb a mountain or two."

I gasped. "Perfect."

"Good. And how about your mental and emotional health ... from 1 to 10?" he asked.

I hesitated to answer.

"Please be honest, Nicole. It's the only way I can help you ... the only way you will be 100 percent ready to help us."

"Honestly, I'm not in a great place emotionally right now."

Virgil nodded but remained silent.

"I'd say a 4 or 5."

"Really? Why?" he asked.

I shook my head. I wasn't ready to open up to him about it. Then I smirked when I thought of the perfect nonanswer.

"Virgil, you've entered the lobby of a massive structure that is far more invisible than visible at this point. You'll be able to learn more about my emotional state when you earn your way into it."

He laughed out loud.

"Right back at me. Well done," he said. "We'll start working on getting that number up in tomorrow's session. I'll bring breakfast sandwiches to go along with our coffee. Would that help?"

"Yes," I said. "My emotions just jumped to a 6."

**CHAPTER 9: THE OTHER KIND OF AUDITING**

When I checked my savings account balance online that Tuesday morning and saw the $25,000 pop, I did a little celebration dance and then called my mother to tell her the good news.

"Hello Nikki," she said.

"Hi mom."

"How's everything going so far down in Connecticut?"

"Well, I won't be needing any help with my tuition payment this fall, so I guess things are going pretty well."

"What? How is that possible?"

"I got a job."

"The paper hired you? I thought it was a summer internship."

"Someone else hired me, gave me $25,000 up front, offered to pay my senior year at B.U. and wants to pay me $75,000 after I graduate in May," I said, intentionally downplaying my excitement — like this kind of thing happens to interns all the time.

"Oh my God! That's amazing, Nikki! Who hired you?"

"The Bridge Group."

"The Bridge Group? Who is that?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out ... today is only my second day."

"But what kind of company are they and how did they find you ... and why do they like you so much that they want to pay you all this money?"

"They're just getting started here in Waterbury and I met them on my first assignment for the paper actually. They had a groundbreaking at their new ... headquarters in Waterbury and ... I don't know. One thing kind of led to another, they researched about me ... they told me they liked my story, you know ... how I saved lives up in New Hampshire and everything. They want me to be their director of information."

"Wow. I can't even believe this," she said.

"Yeah, it's pretty crazy. Derek is really happy for me."

"How's it going with you and him ... under one roof?"

"Pretty well. It's nice to be able to spend time together."

"That's great, Nikki. I'm so happy to hear all this good news. I wish I had more time to talk, but I've got a dentist appointment in a few minutes. ... When's the last time you went to the dentist?"

"Um ..."

"Well, Miss Director of Information, you better make sure you maintain that healthy smile of yours."

"Yes, mom. I'll make an appointment."

"Good. I'll call you later. I want to hear more about your new job. How did the paper take the news?"

"Not well."

"That's understandable."

"I couldn't pass this up."

"That's understandable, too. Good for you, Nikki. I'm so proud of you."

"Aw, thanks mom."

"OK, gotta run. I love you."

"You, too, mom. Bye."

"Bye, Nikki."

***

With steaming coffee mugs in hand and half-eaten Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwiches on the table, Virgil and I began our second session in the cozy little side room. Police sirens wailed from the busy city street just outside, but there was no stopping Virgil's enthusiasm. He talked right over it.

"Today we begin focusing on ..."

My cell phone cut him off just as the siren began to fade.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be. Take it," he waved me on.

"Hello?"

"Nicole 'Mayor Slayer' Janicek, you're alive! It's Steve Pearson," he shouted into my ear. It was good to hear his voice.

"Hi Steve."

"Should I send that search party you requested from Chris?"

I chuckled and Virgil smiled, cooling his engines and patiently sipping his coffee.

"No, that won't be necessary. I'm sorry I forgot to call you guys yesterday. I'm fine."

"That was the shortest fucking internship in the history of journalism. Congrats. Take out the mayor and move on. Well done."

"Thank you. I'm sorry I left so suddenly."

"Like a thief in the night; like the Browns leaving Cleveland for Baltimore ..."

"What?"

"Just a football metaphor from long ago."

"Oh."

"That's OK. How can you say no to real money? I guess I'll have to cover Mayor Phil's downfall all by myself though. I'd been looking forward to us tag-teaming him, if you know what I mean," he snickered. I could picture his stubbly smile with every word. I didn't have the heart to cut him off while he was on a roll.

"I know, Steve. Sorry to disappoint you."

"You're busy, aren't you?" he finally detected from my curt answers. "You're hanging out with Kirk, Spock, Sulu, Bones and all the rest of them right now, aren't you?"

"Yes, Steve," I replied, trying not to laugh.

Virgil took a bite of his breakfast sandwich and raised his bushy eyebrows. I could tell he was eager to grill me about this ridiculous yet thoughtful call that I couldn't seem to wrap up.

"I'll let you go," he finally said. "We're all thinking about you. If you ever want to share stories about your deep space adventures over a beer or three, just call me and I'll be there ... just call me and I'll be there," he said, singing the chorus with all the white boy soul he could muster.

"Thanks for caring and I just might take you up on that offer," I said, chuckling.

"Good. Later."

"Bye."

Then I turned my phone off.

"There. No more interruptions. Sorry about that."

"Nicole, seriously, don't worry about it," Virgil said, getting resituated in his chair and gripping his mug.

"It was Steve Pearson, the reporter who wrote most of the story about the mayor," I said.

"Oh yes. He had a nice follow-up on the mayor in today's paper actually."

"So what did you want to focus on before the sirens and the phone call?" I asked.

"I want to focus on you. I want to get your emotional meter up to a 10," he said, meeting my eyes.

"How? Are you a shrink or something?"

"No, I'm not. But I was an auditor when I was with the Church of Scientology."

Here we go.

"Not the tax kind, I assume?"

"No, definitely not, even though it is ironic that this used to be a tax office," he replied with a grin. "I don't want to bore you with the process or scare you with the crazy E-meter machine that Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard invented to measure every twitch your body has as you talk, but auditing and evaluating where you're at emotionally will be useful for our purposes. The best part is you're getting paid to do this; in Scientology, the church charges people thousands and thousands of dollars for classes and auditing sessions. The bottom line is I can help you identify things that are weighing you down and give you the tools to shed those burdens so you can realize your full potential. I can do that simply through an honest conversation. How much you reveal is up to you, but I would ask that you be as truthful and forthcoming as possible so these sessions get you to where we want you to be."

"Is this just between us?" I asked, glancing around the room for hidden cameras. "Are you taping me or anything?"

"Absolutely not," he assured me. "I will not record these discussions. I do have a pen and notepad. I may jot down notes about what you tell me and write my own thoughts and ideas as you speak, but that will be the extent of it."

"Good. Then ask away," I said, grabbing my coffee and getting comfortable in my chair. I didn't see a box of tissues anywhere, so perhaps Virgil didn't plan on making me cry during these sessions. I wondered how many chats there would be.

"What's your biggest fear as we sit here today? Can you single one out that is weighing you down or freaking you out?" he asked, lacing his fingers together and pressing them against his lips. Clearly it was my turn to talk and I had his undivided attention. His determined brown eyes met mine and never looked away as I talked.

"My biggest fear? I'd have to say ... Thomas 'Lee' Harvey. He wanted me dead almost four years ago. He shot me. I got lucky ... I am lucky to be alive right now. But he's sitting in his prison cell up in New Hampshire probably thinking of ways to break out and get revenge on me for messing up his plan to kill us all. I'm the one who got his best friend to betray him and back out. Adam testified against him to get a short sentence. I'm sure he wants to kill us both. He's supposed to be in jail for another 20 years or so."

Virgil removed his clasped hands from his mouth.

"Thank you for being honest about your biggest fear, Nicole. I'm sure it's not easy talking about him."

"No, it's torture. I don't have nightmares about him as much as I used to, but I still do."

"How often?"

"It varies. Sometimes none for a few weeks. Sometimes I'll dream about him three times in one week."

"What you're experiencing is completely normal," Virgil said. "You went through a very traumatic event and this is the post-traumatic stress and emotions from that."

"Is there a magic wand in your Scientology tool box to get rid of it?"

"Not specifically, but I do have a risky idea in mind that could yield high rewards. It would take a lot of courage and strength to pull off, but I can help make it happen if you're willing to try."

"What's that?"

"I say we confront Thomas 'Lee' Harvey and show him who's boss in this situation," Virgil said, exuding confidence that I was definitely not feeling. In fact, I gasped at the thought.

"I say no effing way."

"You wouldn't have to face him in person," he pressed on undeterred. "Most prisoners are allowed to use Skype these days. I would have to get clearance from the prison warden, but our company can be quite persuasive when it wants to be."

"Even if I did, _and I don't_ , why the hell would he want to talk to me?"

"All we can do is ask."

"You think having me looking this homicidal maniac in the eyes again is going to help stop my nightmares and fears? It'll only make them worse," I said. "I don't want to ever see his face again."

"But you _are_ still seeing him and fearing him. It's affecting your quality of life. What if we look at this as an opportunity. You get a chance to vent at the person who shot you, who tried to kill you, directly. What a release that would be for you. And maybe, just maybe — with all this time that has passed to think about what he almost did to you and your classmates — he'll have some perspective on why he did what he did. He's not the same person he was in 2014 when he shot you, just like you're not the same person you were then. A lot can happen in a young person's brain between 17 or 18 years old and 21, 22. I'm not saying Thomas will be some reformed angel by now, but I'd be willing to bet he's at least slightly more mature. I'd also be willing to bet he's starved for interaction, especially with people from the outside world."

"I'm sure he is. And I don't want to give him that. He put a bullet through me. Isn't that enough?"

"Ultimately, this is your decision, Nicole. I would never force you to face this guy — virtually or in person. But what if I told you to look at it this way — you're in the position of strength. He is weak. You are free. He is incarcerated for the entire prime of his life. He shot you and you survived. Think about that for a moment. He couldn't even kill you with a loaded gun. What further harm can he do to you now? A few bad words or threats? Words are no match for what you've already endured. Words are all he's got. You are the boss. He was a coward then and he may still be one. But he's not free and he's nowhere near as strong as you."

"What you're asking ..."

"Think, Nicole. Cast your fear aside and think for a minute about everything that I've just said to you ... and then you can talk all you want."

I was annoyed, but I obeyed. I couldn't believe he was serious about improving my emotional state by having me Skype with the only person on the planet who wanted me dead. I guess he thought if I could conquer Thomas in an online debate, I'd somehow be cured of my nightmares. I doubted that highly, though I had to admit I was 2 percent curious to see how that conversation would go. I'd be a lot more fascinated by it if I could watch it in someone else's body — someone who had no enemies and enjoyed a normal life. I recalled the instant hatred Thomas had for me when I sat across the lunch table from him at the start of our senior year of high school. I had balls then. I had made the short, perilous trek to their table to talk to Adam. Thomas hated me for interrupting their little space and their evil plans. He'd probably made friends in prison by now with people far worse than Adam. And there I'd be again — showing up on a computer screen to invade his space, his realm of shit. Why would he even agree to see my face and talk to me? There's no way he would. I decided to gamble and call Virgil's bluff.

"OK, I've thought about everything you've said."

"And?" he asked, leaning toward me.

"I'll do it. I'll look that bastard in the eyes and talk to him. Let's see if he has the balls to make this happen."

Virgil's jaw dropped open. He clearly hadn't expected me to agree that fast. He probably figured he'd need the full two-and-a-half hours to twist my arm — maybe the rest of the week. But I didn't want to talk for hours and hours about that psycho. Just set this virtual cage match up, if that's even possible, and let's get it over with ... sooner rather than later.

"Good for you, Nicole," Virgil said with a smile and a clap. "Confront your biggest fear and conquer him like the weakling he really is. All my money is on you. We'll set it up, you'll rise to the occasion and then you'll truly be free. This experience will make all of your other fears fear _you_. Then there will be no stopping Nicole Janicek."

**CHAPTER 10: RAINBOWS & UNICORNS**

Two weeks later ...

What do you say to the person who shot a bullet through you nearly four years ago?

When the prison guard escorted Thomas into the prison's computer room and he appeared in the chair on my monitor, I shielded my face with my left hand at first. Then, peeking through my fingers, I noticed he looked very different from what I remembered. First, the obvious. On the night he shot me, he dressed like the Grim Reaper; now he lit up my screen with an orange jumpsuit. His previously spiky blonde hair was now buzzed, the gauges were gone from his ears, and his neck and upper body seemed more filled out. It could be the difference between 22 and 18, though if I had to guess, he must've been spending a good amount of time in the prison weight room. And the cold, light-blue eyes that were always filled with loathing, especially for me, surprisingly seemed less so now. His demeanor suggested annoyance more than outright hatred. Maybe he hadn't seen a female in a while.

"Good afternoon, Thomas," I forced myself to say, slowly removing my fingers from in front of my eyes.

"You've got a set of balls."

"Not really. I called my boss' bluff and lost ... big-time. I never thought you'd agree to it."

"Well, it's pretty fuckin' hard to turn down a bribe in my position ... a fat stack of stamps and dot cards like that," he said, referring to two common forms of prison currency. "I'll be the king of D block now."

"Congrats."

"Can we cut through the bullshit and get to the point of all this?"

"You'll probably be thrilled to know that I still have nightmares ... about you," I admitted.

"Hell yeah, I'm flattered," he said with a smile, then a laugh. "This should really help you then — seeing more of me."

"I know ... it's crazy, but I guess I'd like to ask you a few questions ... human to human."

"In case you forgot, I'm just a zoo creature in a cage."

"Do you think you should be free right now?"

"If there was any justice in this world, you'd be dead with all of your ..."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you want us all dead in the first place?"

He just smiled.

"You've had almost four years to think about it," I said. "You've probably grown up a little by now. Why did you hate us so much that you wanted to kill us all — most of us who you didn't even really know. What did I do that was so bad _before_ I spoiled all your plans? I reached out to Adam and you that day in the cafeteria. That took a set of balls, too. Imagine if you had just been friendly that day instead of nasty. I wouldn't have a scar ... scars, I should say ... and you wouldn't be locked up in a cage. It could've been very different, you know."

"Imagine," he sneered. "You've got one hell of a fucked-up imagination. There are so many rainbows and unicorns in your pretty little world ... how could I expect someone like you to be able to see the reality ..."

"What reality? Tell me. I'm a big girl. Don't forget, I've been shot one more time than you have, so don't tell me all I know is rainbows and unicorns. Who did you wrong? Why did you want to shoot hundreds of students and teachers?"

"Life did me wrong, honey."

"How?"

"The doctor slapped my ass when I was born and it all went downhill from there."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Then talk to me like a human being."

"You shouldn't even be breathing right now, much less talking."

"But I am. I don't know why, but I am."

"I tell you why. Because it was fucking dark. That's why I didn't get a kill shot. That's the only fucking reason you're alive right now. There's no big mystery to it. God didn't save you. Darkness saved you. You should pray to the dark from now on. That's why you lived and became a fucking hero and went on TV ... while Adam sucked up to the cops and lawyers and judges and ratted me out so he could get out of this fucking hellhole in less than a year. He couldn't handle this place for four years. He'd fucking crack. I haven't cracked. I'll be just fine. I'm doing my time and some day I'll get out."

"Would you kill me now if you had the chance?"

He smiled again, but this time it was his extra creepy smile, the one from my nightmares and distant reality.

"Would you?" I persisted.

"I think I'll let your sweet dreams answer that one, baby girl. I don't want any time added on for bad behavior or threatening language."

"What if I forgave you for shooting me and had the balls to ask you a favor in return?"

"Sexual favors? That would be pretty fucking weird, but we do have a little history together and we are both at a computer."

"No, Thomas ..."

"Are you the new prison chaplain now? Handing out forgiveness to all us bad boys?"

"My belief is that no one, including you, would want to kill anybody if you really got to know your targets first. It's easy to kill strangers or people you don't really know. But people like you see everybody as the enemy ..."

"I think if I spent more time with you, I'd want to kill you even more. You're already pissing me off with your fucked up opinions. Here's the fucking reality, darlin'. People like me are still killing people every day and heroes like you don't make one goddamn bit of difference."

"What? I _absolutely_ made a difference at our school. I prevented many, many funerals. ... But in another way, you're absolutely right. There's no end to the killings. There have been hundreds of school shootings since Newtown ... even since I stopped you from your wicked plan."

"You got lucky. And now you're pushing your luck ... taunting me with that face of yours. Reminding me of unfinished business. You ... and that chicken shit weasel who backed out of our plan."

"You've always hated me, Thomas, but I'm not your enemy. I never was. I wanted to be friends with your friend, Adam. That's all I tried to do. Can't you see that?"

"And look where that all got us? You stuck your blue hair where it didn't belong ... whatever happened to your freaky blue hair anyway? Hey, here's an important question for _you_. Did you die your pussy hair blue back then, too?"

I just shook my head, trying to stifle my anger and remember Virgil's advice. I'm the boss. I'm the strong one. He's the one who couldn't kill me, not even with a gun.

"When I heard about this ridiculous interview, I thought of a whole new nickname for you ... Code Blue," Thomas rattled on. "But then you show up on the screen and disappoint me like this."

"It's called a phase. I was 17 then. I'm 21 now. You could've been Code Blue four years ago, too. You should be thanking me that I talked Adam out of it. You'd be dead by a cop's bullet, your own bullet or, at best, in prison for life. Instead, like you said, you can still get out of there some day."

"More rainbows and unicorns from a stupid little girl who thinks she can save the world. Your people bribed me to play nice with you and I've done the best I could. I haven't called you DGW once in this little conversation you think we're having. This _is_ rainbows and unicorns, right here. It doesn't get any better than this between us. It can only get worse, especially for you," he said, leaning toward me with a menacing look.

I stood my virtual ground and decided to use his own words against him.

"I bet you've never even _seen_ a rainbow in your god-awful life that you don't have the balls to talk about?"

He backed away from the camera, shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"Clock's ticking, darlin'," he said. "Anything else you want to ask before I go back to my cage?"

"Answer the question I just asked, darlin'," I said, all fake smiles and playfulness, which caught him off guard.

"Whoa, look at you. You do want sexual favors."

"Sorry, I have a boyfriend. You remember Derek, don't you? You like to talk so tough, but I've seen you when you're all full of fear. Derek's the linebacker who would've smashed you into a locker like a rag doll. He's the one who you shied away from in the hall that day, the last time I actually saw you in school."

Thomas masked any embarrassment about that incident with Derek quite well. He just chuckled and leaned back, hands laced together behind his shaved head. It was like he had forgotten all about those events and was paralyzed in thought for a moment.

"Ah yes ... what wonderful memories," he finally said. "We should do this again sometime, DGW, don't you think? Talking about our fun-loving high school days almost brings a tear to my eye."

"Rainbows, Thomas?" I pressed. "Ever seen one? You're so negative you wouldn't have noticed anyway."

He pretended to choke himself for a moment, but then he stunned me by answering my question.

"Once," he said.

I actually had to think of a follow-up question.

"How old were you?"

"I don't know ... 5 or 6."

"You haven't seen a rainbow in, like, 15 years? How is that possible?"

"Uh, I've been in prison ..."

"Yeah, but only for, like, three or four years of those 15. And since you like to talk about rainbows and unicorns so much, let's go there for a minute. You and I have something in common. For as dangerous as you think you are, we've both killed the same number of people as there are unicorns in this fucked-up world — zero."

Thomas responded with a quick burst of haunting laughter. Then his face grew darker. For some reason, I just rambled on.

"Your whole life doesn't have to be defined by what sent you here ... something you did when you were a teenager. You can become better than that. I mean ... we all make mistakes, some bigger than others, but ... in the end, we're all human. Are we really _that_ different?"

Then he leaned forward again, filling almost the entire computer screen with his scariest face yet. I had to look away during his rant.

"First of all, you're one of the most annoying people to listen to on the entire planet," he snapped. "You squawk on and on and on ... and you have absolutely no fucking clue about what you're talking about. I talk about rainbows and unicorns as an insult to your face and what do you do? You seriously start talking about them and get all fucking philosophical. How do you know how many people I've killed? You don't even know me or what I've done except for a couple of weeks in high school. And did I actually hear you say we ain't that different? You're bitch-crazy mad. You should be in a fucking straightjacket."

It was my turn for a quick burst of haunting laughter, especially because I knew more about Thomas than I had let on.

"Wow. Just wow. My madness has nothing to do with insanity. I'm mad at cowards like you who are scared shitless inside but get off on hurting people to make yourselves feel better. If a gun is the cure for everything that ails you, then take it and kill yourself. Do us all a favor. Just stop killing everybody else first. _We_ didn't do you wrong. _I_ didn't do you wrong. ... Maybe Rodney Dwyer did you wrong."

"What?" he asked, nearly choking on his own spit.

"You heard me," I replied, reveling in the power of knowledge and research.

"Say that name again, bitch."

"Rodney Fucking Dwyer," I shouted. This time it was me leaning into the screen with a scowl at him. "Did you hear me this time?"

Clearly he did, but he was too stunned to speak. It was a triumphant moment of silence. In the week leading up to this little chat, Virgil had helped arrange a phone call between myself and Thomas' grandmother, who told me about a boy named Rodney Dwyer. He used to bully Thomas when he was in middle school.

"How the hell do you ...?

"Your grandmother told me about him."

Thomas actually looked more worried than shocked now. His eyes darted here and there as he processed everything. I had no idea that one name would've had _that_ much impact on him.

"And how the hell did you talk to my grandmother?" he finally asked.

"On this," I said, holding my personal iPhone up to the screen so he could see it. "I've done some research on you preparing for this little chat. I hope you don't mind."

"What the _fuck_ did she tell you?" he asked, still visibly disturbed by that name.

"Rodney was the boy who beat you up because you always smelled bad, because you didn't like to take showers and your grandmother couldn't afford to buy luxury items like deodorant," I said. "You had no dad around to protect you. Your mom would take off for weeks at a time because she couldn't deal. Your grandma did the best she could. But, really, the fact is you were powerless. Rodney Dwyer could, and did, beat you up whenever he wanted to. There was nothing you could do, Thomas."

As he squinted in my monitor and reflected on the loaded words I had just said, I actually felt a pang of empathy, even pity, for the person who had pointed a gun at me and tried to end my life.

But then, after a moment, his expression darkened again. Defiance. Anger. Something else I couldn't even begin to describe.

"Did you call Rodney on your phone, too?" he finally asked, curling his lips into half a smile.

Now it was my turn to be stunned. I didn't know where he was going with this.

"No."

Thomas laughed.

"Then you don't know shit, as usual. You only know what my crazy, senile grandmother told you," he said.

"She can't be that senile if she remembered the name Rodney Dwyer from when you were in middle school."

"Well she don't know shit about the whole story any more than you do."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Because the last time I saw Rodney, he was crying like a little bitch."

"Crying? When was this?"

"I don't know ... right before he went missing," Thomas said with a smirk.

"Missing?"

"That asshole's been missing since like 2011."

_What the fuck?? Was he really missing? Or was Thomas just lying to throw me off?_ I decided to cut to the point.

"Did you kill him, Thomas?" I asked, studying his face closely. He didn't even flinch. He couldn't be surprised any more in this conversation.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, repeating my earlier question to him in a mocking, high-pitched tone.

I ignored it and pressed on.

"Because you seem to know something that happened."

"Only what I read in the papers ... that he went missing and ain't never been found," Thomas said, shrugging his shoulders so innocently.

At that moment, a prison guard entered the computer screen in front of me, tersely announced "Time's up." Then he began escorting Thomas out of the room.

It all ended so fast, but not before Thomas leaned back toward me one more time, glared and growled, "Still think we're not that different, _unicunt_?"

My jaw dropped open with a gasp. I punched the monitor in Virgil's office without even thinking, but the bastard was already gone.

**CHAPTER 11: YOUR ENEMY'S ENEMY**

Fortunately, the big Apple desktop monitor was sturdy enough to take my punch. But if it had crashed off the desk and shattered into a thousand pieces, I would not have apologized for it. It was Virgil's ridiculous idea in the first place for that asshole and I to talk, so he and The Bridge Group could pay for any resulting damage, not me. I earned my $25,000 advance in the span of 20 minutes, as far as I was concerned.

When Virgil opened the side room door and stuck his narrow head into the main office to confirm the online showdown had turned to silence, I didn't hide my displeasure.

"I hope you're satisfied. Thomas still wants to kill me — even more now ... AND he called me the C WORD!" I shouted.

Virgil looked chastened.

"Coffee?" he asked, waving me into his office.

I fumed my way into the chair across from him and accepted my steaming mug. It was all I could do not to throw it in his face and race off back to Bridgeport.

"That was worse than getting effing shot!"

Virgil apparently knew it was safer for him to listen than interject at that moment, so he laced his fingers in front of his mouth again.

"I fully expect another four years of nightmares now, so thanks for that," I continued. "He all but admitted he killed Rodney Dwyer. He's going to kill me and Adam when he gets out. Nobody should have to talk to psychopaths, not even for a high-paying job. My emotional meter is negative 100 right now, OK? He told me _I_ was insane, that _I_ should be in a straightjacket. Maybe he's right if I'm spending my summer talking to murderers like him instead of doing the job I came to this forgettable, mountainless city to do, which is be a journalist."

"I did tell you it was risky," Virgil reminded me.

"Risky? How about torturous and pointless and extremely harmful ..."

"But you knew it would be. Look who you're dealing with. Why are you so surprised?"

"Because you said it was an opportunity to change the dynamic, to stop the nightmares ... you said he might not be the same fucked up kid he was four years ago. You said I was the strong one and he was the weak one and all that bullshit. How can you be so persuasive and so wrong? Tell me that."

Virgil remained remarkably calm despite my hysteria.

"Nicole, let's slow things down for a moment and recap what happened."

Just the way he said that tipped me off and I pounced again.

"You watched the whole thing, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Oh my god. How?"

"On my personal phone. We set it up. We have a right to know what he said to you ... to protect you."

"I can't believe this. I thought you said you weren't going to tape me."

"No, I said I would not tape the sessions between us ... this was different."

"How is it different? You still spied on me. ... Is this interview going to be appear all over YouTube now?"

"No, no, no, Nicole. This is a private, highly secure feed. It took considerable resources for us to make this arrangement happen and, quite frankly, for you to join our team, so we have a right to know about those who plan to do harm to any member of The Bridge, including you. We protect our assets."

"By dangling us in front of killers?"

"By dangling you, with the safety of a computer screen, in front of an incarcerated little creature whose pride was stung so badly at the mention of Rodney Dwyer's name that your future killer just admitted to you and us and the police, when we show them this video, that he was involved in Dwyer's disappearance ... or death."

I exhaled as my head spun.

"We didn't even know Rodney was missing," I said.

"Correction. _You_ didn't know," Virgil said, remaining calm but firm.

"And you did, but you didn't tell me? Thanks for watching out for me."

"Nicole, there's a difference between watching out for you and doing your work for you. When Harvey's grandmother told you about Rodney Dwyer, did you ever try to find out more about him?"

"No, I didn't."

"Well I did."

"I was a little distracted, sorry. It's not always easy to think clearly when you're about to interview the person who shot you and still wants you dead."

"All the more reason to keep a clear head and find out everything you can about your enemy, including every weakness he has so you can exploit it."

"Is this part of my training? Because this is getting a bit crazy."

"Is it crazy?"

"Yes. Am I training to go to war now?"

"Absolutely. You don't think The Bridge Group has enemies?"

"I have no fff ... bleeping idea because I'm just the director of information ... information that's usually withheld from me."

"A simple Google search for 'Rodney Dwyer New Hampshire' would've told you that Harvey is, indeed, correct. Dwyer has been missing since 2011. There were newspaper stories about his disappearance. He's still classified as a missing person seven years later. This information was not withheld from you, Nicole. You have to learn to seek information like your life depends on it ... because it does, especially in this case. You have a real enemy here who wants you dead. There's a pretty good chance he's got friends in prison by now. What if one of those friends is due to be released next month? What if that inmate and Harvey have bonded so well that they've made some kind of deal? You can't afford to ignore that any more than The Bridge Group can afford to ignore certain members of the Church of Scientology who might want to harm us for leaving the church and establishing The Bridge."

My head and heart were pounding.

"Can you just get to your final point on all this because I'm about ready to lose it," I said, shaking. "I need to get out of here."

"My point is this: you kicked ass today," he said with a straight face. "You looked your would-be killer in the eyes; told him what you needed to say; made him feel like the little coward that he is more than once; endured his threats and naughty words like the strong, tough woman that you are; and, on top of that, despite your lack of research, you fooled him into thinking you knew more than you did. The moment you said 'Rodney Dwyer,' he thought you knew he was the killer. You owned him and you didn't even know it. He made a choice right then. He decided he'd rather confess to making Dwyer cry like a little bitch the last time he saw him than to hear you describe his days as a bullied weakling one second more. Whatever torture you suffered during this interview pales in comparison to the torture you just put Harvey through, I assure you that."

"You're trying to persuade me again."

"Am I wrong? No, I'm not. Yes, it was one of the most horrible experiences of your life. But you also very likely solved the disappearance of Rodney Dwyer. You have provided the New Hampshire criminal justice system with the beginning of a confession it needs to put Harvey away for good. He was one of three suspects the police interviewed seven years ago, but Dwyer's body was never found and the case went cold. It didn't help that he wasn't missed much. They were all drug dealers and Dwyer was the scum of the Earth — worse than your enemy, Harvey. Well, now your enemy's enemy could very well turn out to be your best friend, from beyond his hidden grave."

"You're serious?"

"100 percent. My money is on Harvey never seeing another rainbow for the rest of his miserable life and on you forgetting that he ever called you a you-know-what ... because you won't have to worry about that foul-smelling twit ever again. How does that sound?"

"Like a breath of fresh air ... _if_ it all turns out to be true," I said. "But right now, I'd say that's a pretty big if. Can I go home now?"

"Yes, you are free to go. Great job," Virgil said, standing up and escorting me out.

"Thanks. Wait til my boyfriend finds out who I talked to today."

"You never told him about it?"

"No. I've already become an expert on withholding important and scary information."

**CHAPTER 12: WORLD CUP BREAKUP**

"Derek, do you find me annoying?" I asked him as I finished washing our dishes and a few of his housemate's for the third night in a row.

"What?" he mumbled, distracted by the World Cup soccer match on his giant flat screen TV.

I didn't know who was playing, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Team USA. Nevertheless, he was mesmerized by every dizzying kick up and down the field. I knew it was a bad time to talk, but this stupid World Cup tournament was going to last for another month and it seemed like they had matches around the clock. Enough was enough. I wasn't going to wait until August, especially with his older sister's wedding coming up and me dreading it for a number of reasons.

"Do you find me annoying?" I asked again, this time right into his ear as I joined him on the sofa.

"Seriously? You're trying to pick a fight with me _right_ _now_? While I'm watching _Italy and Mexico_?" he snapped loudly, not even turning to look at me.

"I'd like you to turn off the TV so we can talk. You've got a DVR. You won't miss one second of it."

If I wasn't annoying before, I sure was now, but he turned off the TV and faced with me an unsurprisingly impatient look.

"I mean, it's not like you have relatives in Italy or Mexico, do you?"

He bristled at that.

"Nikki, it's the World Cup. It comes once every four years ... kind of like your Olympic figure skating."

"Do you plan to watch this much sports on TV if, by some chance, we get married some day?" I dared to ask.

Apparently, my nightmarish chat with Thomas had removed any reins from my sense of curiosity and controversy. I felt like a new woman, but not in a good way; more in a dark, depressed and dangerous way. For some reason, I didn't care about the consequences. I just wanted to get everything off my chest and start over, come what may. I'm not sure I had ever felt this way before in my life. I knew this conversation with Derek could be the end of us and yet I pushed on, daring fate to decide for us which way we should go.

I was sick of wondering and hoping about the future sometimes, and fearing and loathing it at other times. Tonight was the night to find out if Derek and I were going somewhere or nowhere. Even after just three weeks of living together, I was too impatient for in-betweens. If I wasn't a cowering shooting victim or a wannabe journalist anymore, then my days of being an uncertain girlfriend would end, too. Umpteen shades of gray sucked just as much as fifty. I wanted things black and white now.

By putting "sports on TV" and "married some day" in the same question — phrased pretty much like an ultimatum — I knew this conversation could get ugly. When Derek's eyes bugged out, he looked the ugliest I'd ever seen him.

"You do want to pick a fight. Why? Why do you do this, Nikki?"

"Whether you like it or not, I don't think you understand that I am judging all of this," I said. "What's going on here between us this summer is kind of a test of our relationship, Derek."

"Oh, it's a test. I see. And how am I doing so far?"

"It's not about how _you_ are doing. It's about how _we_ are doing."

"OK, then, how are we doing? You're the figure skating judge. Hold up a sign from 1 to 10 and let's see where you rate us."

"It kind of depends on the day. I don't know ... a 6 maybe," I said.

"A 6 maybe," he repeated, scowling. "Wow. No gold medal there, I guess. All of our dreams are crushed."

"You don't have to be mean. I'm telling you my honest opinion about where I think we stand."

"You basically just trashed our relationship to my face and I'm supposed to be pleasant?"

"Derek, I'm not blaming you. I'm blaming us. We don't talk enough, especially about the important things."

He seemed incredulous that I would say that.

"What the ...? We just talked about getting married and having three kids a couple of weeks ago. Doesn't that count for something?"

"Yes it does ... if there's good communication going on other than when we're drunk and about to have sex," I said. "Relationships don't just run on autopilot for weeks at a time while the World Cup goes on for a month. Relationships take work."

"Yeah, I get that. And we're talking right now."

"No, I'd call this arguing more than talking, and we're only doing this because I forced you to turn off your precious soccer match between two countries neither one of us has ever been to or could really give a shit about."

"So, to answer your earlier question, yes. I find you pretty fucking annoying right now, Nikki."

"Well, of course you do right now, but I meant in general. Do you think I'm an annoying person?"

Derek rolled his eyes and yanked at what little hair he had on his nearly buzzed scalp.

"I wouldn't be with you if I thought you were an annoying person by nature, so where the hell is this question coming from?"

"Because someone told me I was the most annoying person on the entire fucking planet today. And even though the person who said it is a psychopath, it was his honest opinion and it bothers me."

"Who the hell are you talking about? What psychopath? One of the Star Trek people?"

"I'd rather not say his name because you'll be even madder than you are now."

"But you've come this far in setting this all up, so really, you're just dying to tell me ... so we can have a huge ass fight ... so you can end this relationship that rates a whopping 6 out of 10."

"No, I never said I wanted to break up, but I do think we need to be doing a lot more talking and figuring things out."

"It's been _three_ weeks since we started living together."

"Almost a third of the summer gone already," I pointed out.

"Pretty dramatic math right there, Nikki. Are you going to tell me who called you annoying or not?"

"Thomas 'Lee' Harvey," I finally said.

Derek launched himself off the sofa and circled back around at me.

"What? How the hell did that asshole call you anything so that you could hear about it? Is he ... is he on some new prison reality show?"

"I talked to him on Skype for about 20 minutes today."

Derek's face turned a new shade of crimson.

"Are you shitting me right now, Nikki?"

"No, I'm serious. I didn't want to tell you about it until I was sure it was going to happen. There were no guarantees until I saw his horrible face on the computer screen. I didn't think my employers would pull it off and I never thought Thomas would agree to it."

"You almost talk about it like you wanted to do it. Are you crazy?"

"No, I definitely did not want to do it."

"So these Bridge people forced you to talk to the asshole who shot you?"

"They didn't force me, but they insisted."

"Then you're not going back there ever again," Derek said. "That's completely ridiculous. He shot you for Christ sake. How would the prison he's in ever allow a shooter and his victim to talk? There should be no contact for life."

"Derek, I have no idea how my employers arranged it, but as you know, they throw a lot of money around. And I can't just quit. I signed a two-year contract. I cashed the $25,000 advance."

"Then give the money back and tell them to rip up the contract. You're 21. You didn't know what you were doing. Why did these idiots want you to talk to that piece of shit anyway? Are they trying to haze you or something?"

"Because I told them about my nightmares. They want me in top health — physically, mentally and emotionally — as I train for my new role. They said it was risky, but there was a chance, by confronting him, I could change the dynamic ... that I could come away stronger from it."

"And you believed that bullshit?"

"Not really, but I decided to call their bluff. I never thought it would actually happen. I also didn't feel like I could say no. They're paying me all this money and I've done practically nothing so far. So how can I turn down the one thing they want me to do?"

"Unbelievable," he said, throwing his hands up in the air. "You won't tell _me_ what's really going on at your new job, but you talked to the guy who shot you for 20 minutes today. How fucked up is that, Nikki? When do I get to judge our relationship? Right now I'd give it way worse than a six, I'll tell you that."

"Derek, you have every right to be pissed off. I should've told you they wanted me to do this, but I was afraid you'd try to stop it."

"Damn right I would've stopped it. Am I the only person with any goddamn sense around here?"

It was hard to argue with that. The Bridge didn't make much sense. I felt increasingly lost. I could feel my life spinning out of control and I didn't really know what to do.

Derek sat back down next to me and tried to process it all. I was willing to give him all the time he needed.

"So how did it go ... with you and that piece of shit?" he finally asked, his temper cooling. Maybe now we could actually talk.

"It totally sucked."

"And this will help your nightmare situation how?"

"Probably not, but, as my boss Virgil pointed out, I may have gotten Thomas to reveal that he was involved in killing someone seven years ago."

"How did you get him to do that?"

"By accident really. Virgil made me prepare for our chat by calling Thomas' grandmother, his only guardian, last week. I have no idea how they tracked down her number, but these Bridge people are like stalkers, private investigators ... whatever you want to call them."

"Wonderful. And these are the people you now work for."

"Yeah. The kind of people you don't want to say no to."

Derek shook his head. His temper began to simmer again.

"I'm a big girl, Derek. I'll be OK. The more I think about it, it seems like Virgil used this whole situation between Thomas and me as a kind of training session on how to confront and weaken your enemy."

"What, are you in the CIA now? Special ops?"

"No, but these people really seem to know what they're doing. You saw what they helped me do to the mayor of Waterbury. They're always five steps ahead of everybody else, even psychos like Thomas."

"Even you, Nikki. They used you then and they're using you now."

"Maybe, but I did get Thomas to confess that he had something to do with the disappearance of Rodney Dwyer."

"Rodney who?"

"You've never heard of him?"

"No."

"Thomas' grandmother told me that Rodney used to bully Thomas in middle school. Well, the summer before Thomas' freshman year of high school, Rodney went missing. Thomas and two other kids were possible suspects. They were all involved with drug dealing."

"He killed a kid when he was like 14?"

"Probably. He might've been 15. He stayed back in school at least once that his grandma could remember."

"So how did you get him to confess?"

"I just mentioned Rodney's name and he kind of freaked out ... like he thought I already knew he was involved with killing him ... like the police had told me they found the body or something."

"But they didn't tell you?"

"No. I didn't even know he was missing. But Thomas was so surprised I knew that name that it threw him off. Plus he was so ashamed about being bullied by the kid — the stuff I did know because his grandma told me — that he wanted to sound tough to make up for it. So he told me the last time he saw Rodney he was crying like a little bitch."

"Wow."

Derek still seemed pretty mad, but at least I had told him the truth. No more secrets.

"The only good thing to come out of today is maybe Thomas gets put away for good now," I said.

"That's great news," Derek said. "Maybe you won't have nightmares about him anymore if you know he's never getting out."

"I hope so."

But then Derek launched a virtual soccer ball at my head.

"As long as we're both being honest and getting everything off our chest and rating our relationship a 6 out of 10, I just want you to know that Deena called me."

Now it was my turn to simmer. Deena was a friend of Derek's sister. Derek and Deena had a fling while we were on one of our breaks from seeing each other two years ago.

"And this is one of the reasons why I'm dreading your sister's wedding. Deena wants you to help pick out the floral arrangements, right? When did she call you?"

"Two days ago."

"Would you have told me about this if we hadn't had this talk tonight?"

He mulled that over.

"Be honest," I pressed.

"Probably not."

"Do you still have feelings for her?"

"Not really."

"Oh, that's reassuring."

"Well, based on this conversation or whatever you want to call it that we're having tonight, my feelings for her could grow ... because I don't know if you're even coming to Litchfield for the wedding or not. You certainly made it sound like we're breaking up."

"Once again, I never said that. I said we need to work on our relationship. It's not going to just fix itself. Do you want to work on it with me or just watch the World Cup for the next month?"

" _Again_ with the friggin' World Cup?"

"I'm not going to do it by myself, Derek. That's not fair. I'm willing to work on it if you are."

"You make it sound so appealing," he said, nasty again. "Work, work, work. If it's that much work to be with me, then why bother?"

"So is that your answer? Just quit on it? Quit on us because it got a little harder and there's more at stake now than last year, or a few years ago?"

"I don't know what my answer is right now, Nikki. You spring all of this shit on me tonight out of nowhere. You're suddenly talking to the idiot who shot you; you're working for a company that makes no sense to me; you're baiting me into fighting with you. What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to feel? One week we're talking about getting married and having three kids; this week we're splitting up."

"I'll tell you why."

"Will you? Because you seem to have all the questions _and_ all the answers."

"Quite the opposite actually," I said. "I don't have any answers and neither do you ... because we're _too young_. This is all too much pressure for me ... and you, if you're honest with yourself."

"Don't put words in my mouth. That's not fair."

"Fine. You very well could be my Mr. Right, but the timing, for me, is all wrong," I said. "I'm not even ready to _think_ about getting married and having three kids and all that goes with that."

"It was just the wine talking then, eh?"

"Not all wine. I have dreams. I like to share them with the person I love."

"Person?"

"I will always love you."

"Spare me. Really."

"I'm barely 21. I'm not even ready to attend a wedding, never mind be the bride. I've been afraid that you're going to watch your sister get married in a few weeks and then you'll drop to one knee before the end of the summer and ask me to marry you."

"Don't worry. I won't."

"Easy to say that now, but you might have if we didn't have a sober conversation about it first and I would've been trapped into having to decide yes or no. It's easy to ask the question. It's a lot harder for the person who has to answer that question because it all rides on me. And if I say no, I'm the bad person. You buy an expensive ring you can't afford and I turn you down. I'm the bitch, even if no is the right answer ... for both of us ... at this point in time."

"So I guess I have no date for my sister's wedding now," Derek said, resignation in his voice and posture.

"Sounds like you do. Deena called you."

"We were just catching up."

"I'm sure."

"So you're moving out? Just like that? After three weeks?"

"I think so."

"And I'm the quitter?"

"Look at it this way. Now you can watch all the World Cup soccer matches you want and I won't be here to distract you with my annoying questions."

"Go then. I won't stop you. Are you going back to New Hampshire? Those Bridge people won't let you."

"They'll let me go back for a long weekend. Virgil said I could. I think that's what I'm going to do," I said, tears welling up in my eyes. "I'm sorry, Derek. I didn't know I was going to feel this way. I'm just struggling right now. I'm not ready for this. I'm being honest with you and myself. That's all I can do."

Derek seemed to accept that. He hugged me hard as he seemed to hold back tears of his own. I squeezed him with all that I had.

This would be our third "time out" in four years. Would there be any more "time ins"? I wasn't sure. I had my doubts, especially with Deena waiting in the wings.

I packed my suitcase and backpack, drove to Waterbury and checked into the Courtyard by Marriott downtown.

I didn't know which experience was the worst: getting shot, talking to Thomas or breaking up with Derek for possibly the last time. Actually, the worst part was I had brought all three upon myself.

Who was my enemy? Thomas or me?

Was I confronting my fears or running away from them?

The answers eluded me. So did a peaceful night's sleep.

***

I didn't call anybody about the breakup yet. I needed a chance to process it myself first. Even though I had a feeling it was coming, the reality was another kick in the gut altogether.

The next morning, the commute to Virgil's office was a walk instead of a drive, but the five-minute stroll felt longer than the 35-minute drive from Bridgeport. I was low on energy, esteem and everything else.

"Why the glum face? What happened to you?" Virgil asked, greeting me with coffee in hand.

"I confronted my second biggest fear and got rid of him," I said.

That got a silent eyebrow raise out of my boss. Then we sat across from each other in the side room, and I told him all about the breakup and how I had moved into the Marriott.

"Can you articulate for me what your second biggest fear actually was?" Virgil asked.

I pondered that for a moment. Virgil sensed that I was stuck.

"Did you fear love? Heartbreak? Commitment? A lack of commitment on his part? The fear of getting cheated on?"

"All of it, I suppose. The fear of pressure; constant pressure to be a certain way; to play a certain role that I'm not ready for or sure that I want. My dad cheated on my mom and left us, so I'm sure that's part of who I am, too."

"Absolutely."

"But Derek's not really like that. He never cheated on me when we were truly together — only when we took breaks."

"I don't think it matters who the man is in your life," Virgil said. "That fear of being betrayed like your mom was is a real issue for you and won't go away anytime soon."

"Great. So I'll always sabotage my relationships at some point, won't I?"

"Your defense mechanism against betrayal will be stronger than average, I suppose, but everyone has a fear of that. It's the risk of falling in love with someone. That someone could decide to let you down in any number of ways."

"Just like I let Derek down last night."

Virgil nodded. "At least you were honest with him and yourself," he said. "I think it's always harder to make the right decision than the wrong one. What you did took guts. Give yourself some credit. You faced down your enemy Harvey _and_ made an extremely difficult relationship decision in the same day. That's remarkable."

"And yet, I feel hopelessly lost and depressed."

"Because you need some time to cope with the trauma of confronting your assailant and the loss of your boyfriend. That's a lot to handle in such a short period of time. You need to adjust and start over. I suggest you finish your coffee, check out of the hotel and drive up to New Hampshire today. Go relax. Go climb a mountain. Go do whatever you need to do. Visit your mom. See your friends. And don't come back here until after the Fourth of July. We'll resume your training then."

I nodded and smiled for the first time in days. He was right.

"Live free or die," Virgil added with a grin. "You are free, Nicole. Go home and regroup. And please bottle some of that mountain air and bring it back, won't you? It gets awful humid here in the valley."

"I will, Virgil. Thanks."

PART 2

**CHAPTER 13: LION AND TRUTH**

Adam Upton

Nikki told me to pick the climb this time and she wanted it to be tough. We already had conquered Mount Washington — the highest peak around — two summers ago, so there was nowhere to go but down elevation wise. I chose Mount Chocorua (3,490 feet) in eastern New Hampshire because it's got some long, rocky trails. With the shape of the mountain, it's like climbing a lion from tail to head.

Once we got above the tree line and onto the lion's shoulders, the views kicked ass and the trail kicked my ass. I was huffing and puffing trying to keep up with Nikki through a series of "false summits," as she called them. That basically means the mountain kept punking us: it's the top; no it's not; keep hiking, asshole.

Overall, Nikki didn't seem nearly as talkative as usual. I had no clue why. Maybe because her totally stacked friend Candace blew her off and she had to hike with just me. It wasn't until we took a water break on a ledge looking northwest toward Mount Washington that I could catch my breath enough to ask Nikki what was wrong.

"Are you mad at me?" I finally asked her, the wind whipping her hair around. I kind of missed the blue hair she had in high school. Now she seemed blue in a depressing way, but her hair was regular light brown.

"What?" she asked, like I had just interrupted her thoughts with a sledgehammer.

"I said, are you mad at me?"

She looked confused by the question, but then her brain finally returned to where we were sitting ... more than 3,000 feet up.

"Why would I be mad at _you_?"

"Because you've barely said two words since we got above the tree line. You said something about the false summits and that's it. Did I pick the wrong mountain?"

"No. And I'm not mad at you. This mountain is perfect. She's gorgeous and a great workout."

"Then what's wrong? I know we don't hang out much anymore, but you're definitely not the usual happy Nikki."

She nodded.

"You're right. I'm not. Sorry I'm such a downer today."

"Do you feel like talking about it?" I asked, remembering times when I felt crazy inside and she got me talking.

"I broke up with Derek," she said, five words I never thought I'd hear; five words I silently cheered.

It must've tore her up to tell me that she was single like me. I had always been the single one; the fucked-up kid; the ex-con. She had always been the practically-married-to-Derek one; the perfect girl; the hero. She watched my reaction like a hawk. It was like she was looking for any sign of a smile. She always knew I liked her like that, but we were never more than friends because she always had Derek. It also probably didn't help that I had tricked her into doing LSD with those sugar cubes and plotted to shoot up our high school.

Most nice girls don't go for guys like me, and Nikki was the nicest of nice girls. I mean, she basically stuck her neck out for me, saved my life, took a bullet and even visited me in jail. That's not even counting how many kids and teachers she saved by fucking up the plan Lee and me had to gun everybody down. It was a great plan, too, with the fire drill and all.

But Nikki showed up at the school the night before, found me all drunk and crazy, and talked me out of it. I don't think anyone else but her could've done that, especially after my father told me he was dying of liver cancer.

Now maybe it was my turn to pick her up when she was down.

"That sucks," was all I could think of to say though.

"Is that really what you think?"

I knew she'd trap me with a trick question. She was good at that sort of thing.

"Yeah ... what happened?" I asked.

"I'm a quitter. That's what happened," she said with such a straight face that I just snorted and laughed. It had to be a joke, right?

Apparently not.

"You laugh? I always hated your laugh, by the way," she said, standing up and storming off up a pile of rocks like a runaway mountain goat.

I chased after her.

"Nikki, wait up! I didn't mean to laugh. You're the last person in the world I'd call a quitter. You didn't quit on me, even though I lied to you and tricked you with the LSD," I shouted.

She froze on a rocky hill about 20 feet above me. I'm pretty sure she would've gone to the top without me if I hadn't yelled what I just yelled as fast as I did. The "LSD" part seemed to echo all around us. I thought it was a pretty rad effect until a guy and his young son came climbing down the trail, past Nikki and eventually next to me. I stood there smiling and nodding at them like an asshole. What else could I do? It's not like they didn't hear me yell LSD. I was the only other guy nearby.

After they silently disappeared below us, I had to hustle to catch up to Nikki. She had reached the final false summit. The real head of the lion loomed above us now. I was so winded I could barely speak, but she finally let me have my say.

"Nikki ... sorry ... you're ... no quitter ... tell me ... what happened."

"I'll tell you when we get up there," she said, pointing toward the top with her walking stick. And then she was off again.

I needed another minute before I could even begin the final ascent. While I was running on fumes, Nikki's tank seemed to have an endless supply of fresh breakup fuel.

At last, when there was only blue sky above us and no more summits beyond the bald one I was standing on, I found her sitting and eating a sandwich. She was surrounded by awesome views in every direction, but she still didn't seem happy, as I literally collapsed next to her.

"Crash landing," I mumbled.

"Geez, are you OK?" she asked. If I hadn't crash landed, I'm not sure she would've even noticed me.

"I'm about to croak from a heart attack."

"You're in way better shape than two years ago. It took us forever to drag you up Washington."

"No shit. That's a lot higher than this."

"Yeah, but this was a long trail with some pretty steep parts at the top. Nice job."

"Thanks. My Aunt Donna is a runner. She makes me run with her sometimes for protection. She's kind of paranoid about muggers jumping out of the woods and shit," I said.

"Good for you, Adam ... running and climbing mountains."

_And not plotting to kill people_ was the part she was probably thinking but didn't say. I wondered how long she'd hold that against me. I guess it would always be a black mark, even though I had served my time at the New Hampshire State Prison for Men and had never missed an appointment with my probation officers. Aunt Donna helped keep me in line. She really stepped up for me and my younger brother, Brody, after our dad died in 2015. Our mom died of a drug overdose when we were very young.

"Thanks," I said. "So ... are you gonna tell me what happened now?"

She handed me a sandwich from her pack and finally started talking.

"We started living together almost a month ago and I was already feeling the pressure of ... I don't know ... marriage and kids and becoming that person, and I totally rejected it like a new liver or something."

She bit her tongue as soon as she realized what she'd said.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry," she said, referring to my dad's liver cancer. She was there — so were Candace and Brody — when I poured my father's ashes into the valley from high up Mount Kearsarge three summers before.

"It's OK," I reassured her. "I know you're not your normal self today."

"No, I'm not, but that's no excuse for being so insensitive to you."

"Don't worry about it. My dad's probably having a beer up in heaven right now," I said with a chuckle.

That seemed to calm her down, but she didn't smile.

"So _you_ broke up with _him_?" I asked.

"Yes. I didn't really give us a chance. I quit. And I quit being a journalist."

"What do you mean?"

"I had a summer internship at a newspaper down in Connecticut that lasted four days. A company offered me a PR job — if that's what it even is; I'm not really sure yet — and I took it for the money. I'm a sellout."

"At least you've got a good job, it sounds like. I'm making $10 an hour as a mall cop. They won't even let me carry a gun."

Nikki seemed uncomfortable when I mentioned the word "gun," so I quickly changed the subject.

"So you're definitely not mad at me then?"

"You never used to care if I was mad at you or not. You have changed, Adam. I'm not mad at you. You're a true friend," she said, looking right at me. I was blown away — in a good way.

"Really?"

"Yes. And I really need true friends right now, so thank you."

I had a feeling she was taking a shot at our missing hiking partner.

"Thanks," I said. "What happened with Candace anyway?"

"She's got a new boyfriend so she doesn't have time to climb and let me cry on her shoulder today."

I thought about grabbing Nikki and letting her cry on my shoulder, but I didn't have the guts. I was still just a true friend, after all. If only I could ditch the true part and add the boy part.

"Are you mad at her?" I asked.

"A little, but there have been plenty of times when she needed me to be there for her and I was too busy hanging out with Derek, so what goes around comes around, I guess."

"I can tell you're upset because you're usually more excited about the great views," I said, reaching toward the endless horizon of hills.

"You're right. I'm even taking the things I love for granted right now. I never thought I'd be that person, but right now I don't know who I am. I just feel, like, totally lost," she said, her lips trembling and everything.

And then it happened. She started to cry right there next to me on the top of Mount Chocorua. My instincts just kicked in and I hugged her without thinking about it — just like I did with Brody after I sent our dad's ashes over that ledge.

Nikki hugged me back even harder than I hugged her and she sobbed right into my chest. I couldn't believe it. It sucked that she was so sad, but it felt good that I was the one who was there for her. I was glad Candace blew her off and I got to be the one to hug her. I thought about trying to kiss her, but I didn't.

"Thank you, Adam, for being here for me," she finally said, looking up at me through tears and wild hair. "Don't let me take your friendship for granted."

There was that word _friend_ again. I just nodded like a dumb sheep. I really didn't know what to say. I just wanted to kiss her and make us both feel better.

Then she kind of pulled away from me, pulled her hair into a pony tail and killed the mood in a hurry.

"I talked to Thomas last week."

Now that practically threw me off the mountain top. She broke up with Derek _and_ talked to Lee? She visited him in jail?? Suddenly I didn't feel so special.

"What? How?"

"It's a long story."

"No wonder you're in a shitty mood."

"My new company kind of insisted that I confront him, on Skype, so I could, in theory, get rid of my nightmares about him."

I just shook my head in disbelief. Maybe my crappy job at the mall _was_ better than hers.

"You're crazy talking to him. What did you talk about?"

"I don't even want to get into it really. It was awful ... no surprise there."

"Have you had any nightmares since you talked to him?"

"No, actually. It's only been a week ... but no, I haven't, which I do find a bit surprising, especially since he plans to kill us both when he gets out. He told me that."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that."

"Good thing we've got til 2039 to live it up," Nikki said sarcastically.

"Don't worry. I'll be armed and ready and off probation by then. I'll finish him off myself," I said proudly.

"That's comforting," she said, sarcastic again.

"What? I thought that's what you'd want to hear."

"I don't want you to talk about killing anybody, even Thomas. You've been turning your life around. Don't go down that road again. We've got a long time before we have to worry about Thomas. Maybe longer than he thinks."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever heard of a kid named Rodney Dwyer?" she asked.

I froze at the name and tried to stay calm, but I knew I couldn't lie to Nikki. She'd smell a lie on me anyway. Ever since the LSD and the lie I told her on the phone about being home when I was really planning the attack with Lee, I just couldn't lie to her anymore.

"Rodney Dwyer ... um ... yup," I said, wondering how she knew that name.

"What do you know about him?" she asked, watching me closely again.

"Not much."

"Adam, please tell me whatever you know. It could help ... both of us."

I didn't know how she figured that. It could only hurt us.

"I don't see how," I said.

"Did Thomas kill him?"

"Nope."

"Is that the truth?"

"Yup."

"How do you know that? And why aren't you giving me more than one-word answers?"

I glanced around. There were no people near us on this part of the summit. I whispered in her ear anyway.

"Because I know who killed him and got rid of his body so it would never be found, OK."

Nikki looked worried and I knew why. She thought I did it. She pulled away from me even further. Who could blame her? I wish it had been me who killed that asshole.

"Not you, Adam. It wasn't you, right?" she asked, fearfully.

"No."

"Good," she said, exhaling into the mountain air. "Then why can't you tell me?"

"Because the person who did it confessed to me about it right before he died ... then he made me swear that I'd never tell a soul ... then he made me swear that I'd never kill anybody like he did. _That's why_ ," I said.

Nikki thought about what I said for a moment, her face all contorted.

"But Thomas told me the last time he saw Rodney he was crying like a little bitch ... and his grandmother told me Rodney bullied Thomas all the time. It had to be him."

"Rodney bullied me, too. He was a couple of years older than us. He threatened to kill me at least a dozen times."

Nikki did some more thinking and then her eyes popped open. She leaned closer to me and whispered, "Your father did it?"

Slowly, I nodded.

"Oh my God!" she said.

"Lee lied to you, Nikki. He was just bluffing. He wasn't there when it happened. All he knows is that kid never came around again. He had to be dead, because he always came around looking for us."

"And Thomas has no idea your dad did it?"

"Nope. My dad didn't even tell me about it until Lee was already in prison so how could he know? I wasn't going to tell him after everything that happened, after he shot me and you. I've never gone to see him since I got out and I never will. I can't believe _you've_ seen him ... computer or not."

"I can't believe it either. I also can't believe your dad did that."

"Maybe that's why he drank all the time," I said.

"A guilty conscience?"

"Yeah, but he also had plenty of regrets."

"Well, I definitely regret pushing you to tell me about this now."

"I only told you because of what my dad told me that day in the hospital after Lee shot us ... you know, when it looked like you might not make it. He was so disappointed in me. I remember it like it was today. He said I owed you my life for what you did for me that night. And he was right."

"Really? He said that? How can someone who killed someone also say something so nice."

We both sat silently for a moment, two little specks on a gigantic lion's head.

"Did he tell Brody, too?" she asked.

"No. My dad didn't want me to ... so I haven't."

"Why did he even have to tell you? Now you, and me, know something we shouldn't about a missing person. That's like obstruction of justice. Asshole bully or not, that kid's dead and we know why."

"My dad just wanted to confess, I guess."

"He should've told a priest then. Not you."

"He didn't believe in that holy stuff," I said. "Not even with death staring him in the face."

Nikki just shook her head and picked at her boots with her walking stick. I still wanted to kiss her, even though the conversation was the opposite of what girls call romantic.

"At least my dad loved me enough to protect me like that," I pointed out.

"Love? Wow. Is that what that is? ... It's like, the older I get, the less love makes any sense. I could say the same about life actually."

"You're only 21, Nikki."

"And more jaded by the day. The simple pleasure of climbing a mountain has been tainted by the revelation of the secret murder of a person who may have been even worse than Thomas Lee Harvey."

A big gust of wind nearly knocked Nikki over, but I caught her and tried to hug her again. She resisted this time. Her tears were gone, but her mood seemed even worse than when she was crying.

"I could be your boyfriend, you know," I said, before I could stop the words from running out of my mouth. "I could make you feel better, Nikki."

She didn't seem too shocked that I said it, and her face didn't give me much hope for the answer I wanted to hear.

"I'm not ready to be anyone's girlfriend right now, Adam. And I'm not sure I want to feel better. That just wouldn't be the truth," she told me.

I had never heard Nikki talk like that. Her words gave me the chills. They made me want to leap off the lion and join my dead dad down below.

**CHAPTER 14: CAPTAIN ROOKIE**

Roger Janicek

I get paid to put out fires and deal with emergencies of all kinds. I'm a fire captain in the suburbs outside Charlotte, North Carolina. But when my ex-wife, Lynn, called to tell me that our daughter, Nikki, had quit her newspaper internship, broken up with her boyfriend of four years and seemed utterly depressed, I have to admit: I was caught off guard.

The girl was bright; tough enough to survive getting shot; heroic enough to save her whole school from getting massacred and poised enough to hang with Anderson Cooper on live TV at the age of 17. Hell, she was the kind of daughter who could move me to tears, and I'm a pretty cold person — ironic, I know, considering I spend at least some of my days and nights in the close proximity of raging infernos.

About ten years ago, I cheated on Nikki's mother with a paramedic named Jamie and left New Hampshire to start a whole new family. We've got 5-year-old twin girls, Kelly and Karla.

But Jamie was pretty understanding when I told her I had to fly up and be there for Nikki this time. I always regretted not being there for her when she got shot. I wanted to talk to her face to face and see what was wrong. I know I've been a shitty father to her for most of her life, but I wanted to do better — for her and for me. I wanted to get it right this time for my younger daughters.

Nikki and I met at a little tavern near her mother's house in Middlebrook, New Hampshire, on July 2nd. I promised my family back in Carolina that I'd return in time for the fireworks, so it really was just a whirlwind visit. But I was looking forward to cheering up Nikki and buying her a beer or two now that she had reached the legal drinking age of 21.

I grabbed a booth within whistling distance of the bar and was half done with my first Bud draft when she finally walked in. She seemed a little thin and her face looked tired, stressed out and a tad upset all at once. It was still good to see her, so I smiled and got up to offer her a hug.

"Hi Nikki."

"Hi Dad," she said, hugging me back but without much gusto.

"Have a seat and let's celebrate your 21st birthday properly, even though it's a little late," I said, waving at the barkeep.

He nodded and sent the waitress over.

"What can I get you?" the older lady with the curly hair asked my daughter.

"I have no idea," she said.

"No idea? Nikki, this is a bar," I said.

She just rolled her eyes at me.

"Just get us a pitcher of Bud and a mug for her, please," I told the waitress.

"You got it."

"What's wrong, young lady?" I asked Nikki.

"A pitcher? Are we seriously going to get drunk together or am I imagining this?"

"Personally, I think it's just what you need."

"Wow," she said, not happy with me at all. "Dad, I appreciate you flying up here as soon as mom called you and all, but you have no idea what I need."

"You're right. I don't," I said as the waitress delivered the pitcher and a glass for Nikki. I did the honor of pouring my daughter a beer for the first time in my life. It was pretty surreal, but it would've been a lot better if she wasn't in such a pissy mood. She seemed happy the last time I saw her over the holidays. She and Derek flew down to Charlotte and they came to the house for a home-cooked meal. It was nice, especially having all three of my daughters under the same roof for the first time. And Derek seemed like a great young man.

"Mom tells you I'm depressed and you pour me a beer," she said, staring at the glass, not me.

"Damn right," I said. "Sometimes a beer can do a lot of good. Or, if you prefer, I can order you a glass of red wine to relax? How about that?"

"The last time I got drunk on red wine ... um, never mind," she said.

"Sounds like a good story. You can tell your old man."

"Um, definitely not."

"Fine. Well, at least you have gotten drunk at least once in your life," I said.

She squinted at me for some reason.

"Are you trying to be my college buddy pal or my father right now?"

"I don't know. Some of both, I suppose. I'd like to cheer you up is all. And sometimes, having a drink or two can help chop down the stress level."

"Is that what you firefighters do after sitting around playing cards all day?" she asked, really snotty.

"Nikki, why are you going after me? I'm here to help."

"Then help."

"How?"

"I don't know. You've never been very helpful before so this whole experience is bizarre."

"I'll tell you what, Nikki."

"What?"

"Drink that beer and I guarantee it'll help."

"I'll drink it if you answer me one question honestly."

My smile faded at that. I knew she would pull no punches tonight. But I took the deal because without beer, this conversation was going absolutely nowhere.

"Done, Miss Truth or Beer. Fire away."

"Have you cheated on Jamie yet?"

I gulped some Bud and her eyes measured mine like a polygraph test.

"Whoa, don't hold back or nothing."

"Answer the question _honestly_ and I'll share this whole pitcher with you," she said.

I swallowed hard. Another daughter situation I couldn't handle. She had used my own remedy against me. But I could not and would not lie to her face.

"The honest answer is ... timeout."

"No time outs. Answer my question."

"Is this just between us?"

"Yes."

"Swear on your mother's life," I demanded.

"Fine. I swear."

"Swear you won't tell Jamie."

"I swear I won't tell Jamie. I would never feel comfortable calling her anyway. I've really only met her once."

"Then the answer is yes. I have cheated on Jamie," I said.

Now I felt like shit, too. Maybe we could cry into our beers together.

"Wow," Nikki said, shaking her head and judging me in that constantly overworked brain of hers. Then she chugged at least half her pint glass of beer in one shot.

"Do you think even less of me now?" I asked.

"Um ... that's a tough one, but yes," she said, muffling a burp. "You actually had gone up in my eyes over the last few years. Ever since you called me after the Anderson Cooper show and told me you were proud of me."

"I was. I _am_ proud of you."

"I wish I could say the same ... that I'm proud of my father. But I can't. You're just a cliché to me now: once a cheater, always a cheater."

"Come on, Nikki. I answered you honestly. It was just a one-time thing."

"Oh, not a _regular_ thing like you had going with Jamie behind mom's back? No big deal."

I just drank some beer and let her rant. What else could I do? If it made her feel better to bash her old man, then I could serve as the punching bag for a couple of hours.

"Do you ever stop to think about your daughters when you do these selfish things? Or does the beer just take over and that's it?"

She slammed the rest of her first beer and poured herself another. My mission accomplished didn't feel so good though. I had won the battle and lost the war ... badly.

"Nikki, most men cheat and a few men don't. I'm a cheater, OK? I answered your question at my own peril. If you want to sit here and judge me, and blame me for Derek cheating on you ..."

"He didn't ... that I know of."

"He didn't?"

"No. There is another girl who is after him, but he hasn't been with her when we've been together. They did have a fling when we took a break from each other two years ago."

"From where I'm sitting, Derek seemed like a good guy," I said.

"Like one of the few who doesn't cheat, right?"

"Yeah, one of them. One of the good guys ... not a bad guy like me."

"Well, you and Jamie deserve each other. She's a cheater, too. She knew you were married when you two did what you did."

"Yes, she did. ... So ... are you going to tell me what happened with you and Derek?"

"Sure. I'm pretty sure he was thinking about proposing."

"Really?"

"Yes. And he didn't deny it when I brought it up."

"What's so awful about proposing?" I asked, even surprising myself when the words shot out of my mouth. "You guys had been going together for quite awhile."

"You don't think we're too young?"

"Age is only a number. Some 21-year-olds are more ready to get married than some 31-year-olds or even 41-year-olds. It really depends on the person," I said. "And as far as I'm concerned, you and Derek seemed like the mature type of 21s."

"Well thanks, dad," she said with a heavy blast of sarcasm.

"What?"

"Now I feel even worse about breaking up with him."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Most dads would say, 'What? You want to get married at 21? Are you crazy?' But you're like, 'Fine. Go for it.' ... Who cares if we don't know what the hell we're doing and we get divorced in two years while I'm pregnant."

"I don't care what most dads would say. I am your dad and that's how I feel. If you don't like it, too bad. Don't blame me if you broke up with Derek and you regret it now. That was your decision and you get to live with the consequences. Welcome to the real world, Nikki. Along with the privilege of getting to drink alcohol legally, you get the honor of making mistakes and living with the results, just like your serial cheating dad. The sooner you realize no one is perfect and everyone struggles with relationships and stress and heartache and money problems and misery, the better off you'll be."

Nikki smiled and nodded, but she was still being a little shit.

"Great pep talk, Dad."

"It's not a pep talk. It's the truth."

"Yup. The sad truth."

"It doesn't have to be sad if you're prepared ... especially mentally."

"Prepared for betrayal, lies ..."

"Yes, and fires; car accidents; tots jumping out of windows because no one saw them next to the open screen; babies dying in hot cars because they got left there with the windows rolled up ... should I go on?"

"Yes, please, my sadness is just melting away with every word," Nikki said, rather nasty.

"I've never seen you so cynical ... well, not since ..."

"Yeah, not since you ditched me and mom."

"Why tonight then, Nikki? Why tonight of all times ... when I am here for you?"

"Um, I don't know ... maybe because this is the first time we've really talked, face to face, sort of alone," she said, waving her hands around at the sparse gathering, "since you left us."

"That's not true."

"Um, yeah, I'm pretty sure it is ... and certainly the first time since I've become a young woman ... an adult ... not a kid anymore."

I raised my eyebrows at that.

"Well it is the first time we've talked over a beer," I said.

"And probably the last since I've put you through hell tonight."

"No," I said, though it was hard to get that off my tongue given how the conversation kept driving off a cliff. "I mean, this hasn't been an easy chat, don't get me wrong. But I don't blame you for getting some, I don't know, resentment off your chest that you have toward me."

"Resentment, yes, that's a good word."

"Yeah, I sense that. Am I the source of all of this sadness, Nikki? I really and truly hope not, but I'm beginning to wonder."

"Um ... if I'm honest with myself and you, yeah, you're definitely a big part of it. But I'm a part of it, too. I have high hopes for this life I'm living, but every day those hopes get trampled by someone or something that appalls me. It's hard to take and be happy at the same time sometimes."

"I can understand that, Nikki. It's the end of innocence."

"Innocence? That ended for me when you walked out ten years ago," she said, making me feel like shit again. "I've hiked and hiked, and searched and searched for beauty and peace ever since. It becomes harder and harder to find. I didn't find it at school or at home, I'll tell you that. I've mostly had to avoid people to find it. I've had to climb mountains to find it. All of this down here looks so beautiful from up there, but most of it is just a lie. My eyes are deceiving me. I can no longer trust my own senses to tell my heart the truth, and that's what's dragging me down. Yesterday I climbed a mountain with a boy who, just a few years ago, wanted to kill practically everyone in our high school. Now he wants me to be his girlfriend."

"He does?"

"Yes. It was probably the happiest moment of his life when I told him I broke up with Derek."

"Did you say yes?"

"No, I didn't."

"Good."

"Oh, you approve of that decision?"

"Yes. You shouldn't be going on hikes with potentially violent people. That's just plain crazy, Nikki."

"Almost as crazy as a sad, pathetic daughter hoisting beers with a dad who drinks too much, cheats too much and doesn't know shit about being a father," she said, cutting me down again.

I had given up on finding the happy drunk in my daughter at this point. I waved the white flag; I waved for the check.

"I guess this was a bad idea. I'm sorry, Nikki."

Then, just when I had given up all hope, my daughter smiled at me. It didn't seem fake for a change.

"What?" I asked, completely confused, as the waitress handed me the bill.

"Did I hear that right?" she asked.

"What?"

" _You_ said _sorry_?"

Well, I guess I did and I hadn't even realized it.

"Um, apparently I did."

"Sorry for what?" she asked, leaning toward me and instantly challenging the depth of my accidental apology.

It was time to get humble and be real with her ... about a lot of things.

"I'm sorry for dragging you to a bar when you've been depressed; sorry for bringing you into a world you've come to hate; sorry for cheating on your mother ... and bailing out on the both of you; sorry for drinking too much, cheating too much and not knowing shit about being a father. How's that?"

"Now _that's_ how you put out a fire," my daughter schooled me.

"Can't do it with beer alone, huh?"

"Nope."

Nikki always knew how to make this captain feel like a rookie.

**CHAPTER 15: HOWL AT THE MOON**

William Osborne

One more song and I could drink without interruption — without having to stick my hand into the glass jar, pull out an illegibly written song title and perform like a circus monkey for the masses at Howl at the Moon, a dueling piano bar in Coconut Grove, Florida.

Yes, I was too old for this shit, but it had been my old standby since I was in my early 20s. That was more than 15 years ago now. While many writers are oddballs and recluses, I only could be described as the former. I always felt at home on a stage and in crowded places of ill repute: nightclubs, casinos and even strip clubs. Bring on the spotlights and strobe lights. Perfect. All of that helped me forget the fact that I hadn't written a damn thing in more than two years. For any real writer, that's an eternity. My once stellar turn as both a writer of fiction and nonfiction books had flat-lined.

For one thing, I didn't get much joy from it anymore.

But mostly, I simply hadn't written anything out of spite for my soon-to-be ex-wife. They say don't shit where you eat. Well, if you're a writer, don't marry your literary agent. Shelly and I had driven each other crazy for at least five of our seven years of marriage, so about a month ago, I'd decided to change coasts. I cleared out of Clearwater on the Gulf of Mexico side and headed southeast for Miami Beach on the Atlantic Ocean side of Florida. Though Shelly and I were estranged and destined for divorce — both personally and professionally — the only major heartache I felt was for our 5-year-old son, Max. He deserved far better than a pair of narcissistic, dysfunctional role models.

At Howl at the Moon, nobody cared about your personal problems. They just wanted to be entertained.

"How's everybody feeling tonight? Anyone drunk yet?" I asked the crowd, which was pretty good for a Saturday, as the Piano Man himself, Billy Joel, might say.

They cheered and howled.

"Not bad, not bad. Once again, I'm the White Will I. Am, the White-Eyed Pea, and this will be my last song before Daytona Dave jumps in here and joins Joey Mac," I said, nodding toward my dueling partner, a sunglasses-at-night-wearing goofball at least a decade my junior. "Keep those song requests coming and please don't forget to tip your hardworking bartenders and waitresses ...

"Oh, and one more thing. Don't you ... forget about me!" I shouted, segueing into the 1980s classic by Simple Minds.

" _Hey, hey, hey, hey, Ohh  
Won't you come see about me?  
I'll be alone, dancing you know it baby"_

By the time I got to the chorus of "Don't You (Forget About Me)," I had the whole damn bar in the palm of my fingertips, in the la-la-la of my voice. Joey Mac, who sang backing vocals, bowed in reverence to me as he should.

" _Don't you forget about me  
Don't, don't, don't, don't  
Don't you forget about me  
Will you stand above me?  
Look my way, never love me|_

Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling  
Down, down, down, down

The entire nightclub joined in the for the next "Hey, hey, hey, hey, ooh," as Joey waved them on and I played the song like a madman. This was the fun part of living in South Florida. I was pretty sure my performance would tug on the G-strings of some tourist groupie, most likely a woman more from my demographic than the last one I bedded. She was just 25.

" _As you walk on by  
Will you call my name?  
Come on —_ _call my name  
Will you call my name?  
I say  
La, la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la ..."_

And on and on the la-la-la-la's went until I finished with a wild flourish and bowed to a standing ovation from the raucous howlers and moonies. I clapped for them as well before hopping off stage, high-fiving a few people and making my way toward my reserved drinking booth in the corner.

I chatted with my fans for a few moments, trying to figure out who might emerge as my groupie of choice, but a tall, sharp-dressed twit seemed insistent on cock blocking me. He kept hovering and eyeballing me as I talked to one slightly chunky prospect. After an awkward 30 seconds or so, I felt compelled to draw him into the conversation just to swat him away. He was ridiculously out of place with his navy blue suit and silent rigidity. I guessed he was gay, and it wouldn't be the first time I was hit on by a man at Howl at the Moon, but there was something about him that seemed even more queer than queer.

"Are you a fan of mine?" I asked the guy, who was slightly taller than myself and I'm 6-2. He was also pretty old. He sort of reminded me of Ralph Nader, the former minor party presidential candidate from long, long ago.

"I certainly am," he said.

My bullshit detector just went off.

"Virgil Raymond. Pleasure to meet you, Bill," he added, shaking my hand.

Whoever he was, he knew who I really was — Bill Oz, the author. Most people didn't know that about me over here or anywhere really. I'd had some success, but it's not like I was Stephen King or George R.R. Martin. Not even close.

"How do you know me?" I asked as I sat down at my table and motioned for him to join me. My favorite waitress, Kelsey, arrived with my mojito just in time to start drinking this pest under the table and away. I feigned politeness for the moment. "What'll you have, Virgil?"

"Nothing please," he told Kelsey, who departed, leaving me all alone with a buzz-kill stranger.

"Nothing? My performance didn't make you thirsty?"

"Early flight tomorrow," he said.

"Flight to where?"

"Hartford."

"Hartford? Why would anyone want to fly there?"

"I'm hoping you will, Bill — to Boston, actually."

"Why don't we start with how you know me and why you're here?"

"First, you're a famous author ..."

"Please," I said, waving off the bullshit.

"Second, I've talked with your agent a couple of times."

"You mean my soon-to-be ex-agent and ex-wife," I said, grinning and looking around for my next wife. There were a couple of prospects looking back at me from the bar actually. They waved. I nodded. Now all I had to do was get rid of Virgil.

"Estranged, she told me."

"Splitting hairs really. We're not getting back together and I am actively seeking a new agent," I said, tossing some bullshit back at him with that last part.

"Actively?" he had the gall to ask me.

"Yes. How much did Shelly spill to you? My unauthorized biography?"

"Bill, relax," he said.

"I would like to, but your ruining my post-show mojo and mojito. And you still haven't told me who you really are and what you want from me?"

"I'm with The Bridge."

"The Bridge Over Troubled Water? What bridge?"

"The Bridge away from Scientology and toward ..."

"Scientology? Virgil, come on man. I left Clearwater to escape those brief-case-carrying, Hubbard-hugging wackos. My ex-wife's one of them."

"So were you."

"Yeah, she sucked me into it — literally, if you know what I mean — to help my career. The parties. The contacts."

"You two were like Scientology's darling power couple for a couple of years there, weren't you?" he asked, leaning forward like he wanted to take my hand and lead me down memory lane.

No fucking way.

"What does any of this have to do with me and you, right here, right now?" I asked, letting my impatience show now.

"Well, for one thing, we were _both_ PTS."

Potential Trouble Source. I'd always kind of reveled in that label, which came soon after I missed a few payments on an auditing course.

"Get out of here," I said.

"It's true."

"You seem like you'd still fit right in with those wing nuts. How'd you piss them off?"

"I guess I talked too much with other disgruntled members ... and then we all left to help build The Bridge."

"And you guys are L. Ron 2.0 or something?"

"A more practical, less insane strain of the same virus," Virgil said with a chuckle.

I wasn't laughing. This guy was contagious with something.

"So where do I come in?"

"We're The Bridge to the second phase of your brilliant writing career."

"My career is on hiatus right now."

"I can see that. Are you taking this lounge act of yours on tour this fall?"

"Yes, maybe I will. What's it to you? Can we skip to the part where you pitch me what you're selling so I can drink in peace and get laid tonight because I _don't_ have to catch a flight in the morning?"

"My apologies, Bill. I'm here to woo you to become a member of The Bridge by offering a sizable cash advance toward your next writing project."

"Bribery then."

"Call it what you like."

"How much?"

"$250,000 for a one-book deal."

I nearly spat my mojito all over Virgil.

"A quarter of a million dollars?"

"Indeed," he said.

"You guys must be desperate if you're offering used-up hacks like me that kind of suck-up money."

"Not desperate at all. We prefer high-profile, talented people, especially those who have found their Church of Scientology experience frustrating or unfulfilling."

"You've got me there. How will The Bridge be any different?"

"No auditing classes, for one."

"I'm a fan already."

Virgil smiled.

"Come to our gala in Watertown, Massachusetts, on September 21st and we'll tell you many more things that will make you a big fan. You'll also get to meet my lovely assistant, Nicole Janicek. She told me she's a big fan of your work."

"Really? How lovely is she ... like on a scale of 1 to 10?"

"At least an 8 or a 9, if I was to be so crude as to rate her whole being on outer beauty alone," Virgil said.

"Not bad. How old?"

"21, I believe."

"21?!! Virgil, do I look like a cradle robber? I'm 38. She's practically young enough to be my daughter."

"Age is only a number, Bill. Besides your ... Shelly told me you prefer the company of younger ... women."

"Did she? What else did the former love of my life reveal to you so willingly? She probably called you guys up and sent you to harass me. That's straight out of the Scientology handbook."

"No she didn't."

"She'll get half anyway."

"Half of $250,000 is still $125,000. And you can write about whatever you want. You've got a full year to turn in your manuscript."

"Can it be negative toward L. Ron's House of the Holy Thetans?"

Virgil smiled again.

"We don't believe in micro managing our talent," he said. "It only stifles expression and creativity. But if that's what you choose, by all means, do it. You'll have our full support, Bill. We intend to get you back on the bestseller list."

"If I did happen to have some level of interest, where do we go from here?" I asked.

"If you're seriously interested in our offer, simply accept this contribution toward your travel expenses and time," he said, pushing an envelope toward me. "And Nicole and I will see you on the 21st of September. Bring a jacket. It might be a little chilly up in Massachusetts by then."

I peeked inside the envelope. There was a crisp stack of 100s.

"Wow. You really did enjoy my performance, I guess."

"I did," Virgil said. "But I didn't think it would be appropriate to stuff all of those in your tip jar. I prefer a more personal and private approach."

"Can I think about this?"

"Absolutely. That's why I came down here in July. We certainly can talk more between now and September. My card's in the envelope, too. You can sign the deal tomorrow, in August or at the gala ... whenever really."

"You don't even see me turning this down as an option, do you?"

"No, I don't. That's too much fuck-you money to turn down, isn't it, Bill?"

I laughed. Apparently Virgil was aware of my book, "That's A Lot of F--- You Money!"

I had interviewed a bunch of disgruntled blue collar folks who had won the lottery over the years. I found out what they did with the money and what they thought of their former employers now that they were able to say "fuck you" and retire rich. It was one of my bigger hits. Any decent book with an expletive in the title usually sells.

"Thanks Virgil. I'll be in touch," I said, feeling a little bit better about the guy.

"Great. In the meantime, try to stay out of trouble, Bill."

"You, too, fellow PTS. I guess you really did have a bridge to sell me."

**CHAPTER 16: NIKKI BLUE**

Steve Pearson

She was steam and I was punked.

Tight black shirt with plunging neck line? Check. Ass-gripping blue jeans? Check. Sexy wolf skin boots? Check. Then she had to go that extra mile and taunt me with the seductive blue eye shadow.

Yes, I feared for my marriage that Friday night in early August, when Nicole Janicek strutted into the Shamrock — an oversized Irish bar that rose out of the ashes of a failed Mexican one — to share a drink or three with me and Chris Mercer. I hadn't seen her in about two months, when we worked together on the sex sting story that brought down Waterbury Mayor Phil Battaglia. I didn't remember her being this ... dangerous.

"Do not leave me alone with this woman tonight," I told Chris just before she reached our booth in the loud, crowded pub.

Chris laughed and, polite as ever, quickly stood up to let her into his side of the booth. That was fine with me. I wouldn't have been able to keep my hands from grabbing her, especially after a couple of pints.

But my eyes certainly latched onto her as I smiled and asked, "How are you, superstar?"

"I'm OK," she said, reaching across to give me a little hug and torment me further with her home-wreckingly enticing perfume.

"Just OK?" Chris asked, winking at me and grinning. He was single. They would make a great couple. So why was I the only one at the table that felt like I was crazy from the sudden rise in temperature? "You look better than OK, doesn't she Steve?" he added, just to razz me.

"I didn't call her superstar for nothing," I said, reaching for my beer and dousing myself — on the inside, though I needed it over my entire body.

"Aw, you guys are too sweet. How have you been? How's the paper?"

"Same as ever," Chris said.

"Kepler misses you," I lied.

"Yeah right," she said.

The waitress interrupted to find out Nicole's drink of choice for the evening. She ordered a glass of some California red. Meanwhile, I kept staring at her baby blues. There was definitely something different about her, and I'd always been too blunt to keep my mouth shut.

"You're single, aren't you?" I asked, dropping her jaw and Chris's in one shot.

"What?" she replied, only half innocently.

"Can you confirm or deny that you've broken up with your boyfriend of four years?" I followed up like the diligent journalist that I am.

"Whoa," Chris said, cracking up. "We're in full press conference mode now."

She shook her head and smirked. You would've thought she'd be crushed, but that wasn't the case. She must've dropped him, I figured. He must be the crushed one.

"My ex-boyfriend is ..."

"Ah, there it is, folks," I said, quickly adding, "... sorry to hear that."

As Chris echoed my response but with more genuine sympathy, she shot me a quasi-annoyed look that lasted all of two seconds. Then it was right back to flirty mode.

"As I was saying, my ex-boyfriend is currently at a wedding rehearsal dinner in Litchfield and he's probably hooking up with the bride's friend as we speak," she said.

"Ouch," Chris replied, complete with grimace.

"Really? That sucks," was all I could muster.

"Nope. I asked for it. I broke up with him. I was too afraid he'd see his older sister getting married and want to do the same with me. I guess I took to heart what a certain older and wiser journalist once told me — 'live out your 20s, Nicole ... make a whole bunch of mistakes, see the world and wait until your 30s to get married,'" she said, her eyes all over me now.

"Oh, I see. So this is actually _my_ fault," I said.

"Sort of," she fired back, tilting her head at me and putting a rather saucy accent on the "f" — like I should compensate her broken relationship by wrecking mine.

"You seem happy so maybe deep down you know you made the right decision," Chris pointed out.

"I'm actually kind of all over the place about it," she said. "Sometimes I'm happy about it. Sometimes I feel, like, physically sick about it. Not much in between. One thing's for sure. I've been spending a lot more time in bars lately. My father even took me out to a bar in New Hampshire last month. That was weird, but the beer did wonders. He actually apologized for cheating on my mom a decade ago."

_Cheating? Dangerous topic! Shut up_ , I told myself. _Better yet, change the subject_.

"So ... you never told us what it's like to work for the Trekkies," I said.

"Yeah, how's that guy who signs your checks?" Chris asked.

"What guy?" I asked.

"A guy named David Michael," she explained. "He was at the groundbreaking in June and I thought he was creepy, but I actually haven't seen him since. I've only been working for a guy named Virgil Raymond so far," she said.

"And he's cool?" Chris asked.

"We've had our ups and downs, but at least he's been letting me stay at the Courtyard here in Waterbury ever since I moved out of Derek's place. That ain't cheap."

"Wait a minute. You're living at the hotel this summer?" I asked, my thoughts taking another dangerous turn.

"Yup."

More saucy sauce. More eye contact. I looked down into my beer.

"I'm going back to B.U. in a couple of weeks anyway," she added.

She was still in college. I kept forgetting.

"Are you majoring in journalism?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, print and web journalism, but Virgil wants me to take some broadcasting classes this fall," she said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because the company has a media wing and Virgil told me they want me in front of the camera for some reporting assignments."

"Wow. Very cool!" Chris said, hoisting his pint glass. "Here's to that."

We all clinked glasses.

"So you _are_ still a journalist ... even though we all know TV people aren't real journalists," I added, reaching across the table to tug her arm.

That raised Chris's eyebrows, especially when she pinched me back. He gave me a look that warned, "Don't play with matches, man." Then he asked Nicole, "I thought you were doing PR?"

"Mostly I am. I'm director of information for the Waterbury branch of The Bridge, which opens next summer. But Virgil told me today they also want to send me out into the field for their new national TV network when it launches next year," she said proudly.

"National? Amazing," Chris said.

"That is pretty bad ass," I said.

"And get this ... they want me to go on the air with blue streaks in my hair like I used to have it ... to appeal to the young folk, I guess."

"That's sick!" Chris said, slapping her on the shoulder. Good. It wasn't just me who felt like grabbing her. "You'll be like the first on-air news reporter with blue hair ... ever!"

"These Star Trek people are pretty rad after all," I had to admit. "I'm totally jealous right now. Do they have any openings?"

"I'll let you know. We are looking for the best people."

"Well, I _am_ the best."

"No doubt," she said, staring at me while she sipped her wine. Was Chris still in the booth with us? I had no idea anymore.

Then Chris' phone rang. He _was_ still there, but not for long.

"It's Bob. I gotta take this," he said, stepping out of the pub.

"Anyway," she continued, leaning toward me. "If you do happen to see me on TV next year, don't be surprised if they call me by another name."

"What? You're getting a stage name?" I asked.

"Yes, but not like a stripper, if that's what you're thinking."

"Not at all, not at all," I lied. In reality, my mind was stripping her completely naked and ravishing her right there on the table. "So ... what will your new name be?"

"Nikki Blue," she said.

***

Chris got called out to shoot a three-alarm structure fire in nearby Naugatuck and Nikki Blue, of course, had walked from her hotel to the Shamrock. That perfect storm put this overheated, chivalrous gentleman in the perilous position of having to offer to drive Nikki back to the Courtyard. When she accepted, I ended up in the exact predicament I feared would happen: alone with a newly single, hot and horny woman who wanted to make some mistakes.

I parked in the hotel garage and told myself not to get out of the car and enter _the forbidden building with the beds in it_ under any circumstances.

"Thanks for the ride," she said.

I did not look at her in my passenger seat. All of the looks had to stop or _I_ wouldn't be able to.

"It only took a minute and a half so don't worry about it," I told the steering wheel.

"You coming up?" she asked, bold as shit. I didn't answer for at least 30 seconds. I spent 25 of those seconds trying to determine if this whole scenario was real or a dream. I had never cheated on my wife and, as ballsy as I might seem, I had never showboated myself this close to Siren Isle before.

"Um ... I don't think that would be a good idea," I finally said.

"Good answer," she immediately said, shocking me almost as much as her question.

Now I looked at her. Yes, I wanted her. No, I couldn't have done that to my wife and children. Yes, I was glad she said what she said.

Nikki broke our stare, got out of the car, closed the door and came around to my side. The window was already down. Another chink in my defenses she could exploit.

"I respect you even more now, Steve," she said, kissing my cheek.

I'm damn sure I blushed like a maiden — definitely not an Iron Maiden.

"If I weren't married ..."

"I know, but you are."

"Then why did you torture me tonight?"

"I don't know. I guess maybe I wanted to find out if all men cheat ... or just my father," she said, looking down at her boots and sounding so sincere that I was less pissed off than I should've been for being the subject of her seduction experiment. "I'm sorry," she added, looking at me again.

"Don't be," I said, not sure why I was so quick to let her off the hook.

"No, I shouldn't be like that ... but sometimes you have to be a little shit to find out the truth."

"Or a big shit, in my case. It's what I am and what I do for a living."

"You're good at it," she said.

"You will be, too."

"I don't know about that, but thank you for helping me learn a better side of the truth tonight. I wasn't sure it existed."

"It does ... _barely_ ," I said with a smile and a wink. "You'll find more of it if you look in the right places."

"Right faces," she corrected me, staring at me again. I wasn't so sure it was an experiment. The chemistry between us was undeniable.

This time I broke the stare.

"I'm leaving now," I said, starting up the car.

"Thanks again," she said, sullenly waving as I backed up — a reluctant, one-mile-per-hour retreat from the edge of an unforgettable night that would've ruined all my other nights.

"See you on TV, Nikki Blue. You're way too hot to handle in person," I said, driving away with a newfound hatred for the bloody person who invented monogamy.

**CHAPTER 17: EARTH WING**

Nikki

"Well, how do I look?" I asked Meghan, my friend and college roommate.

"Blue like the Chaaahles Riv-uh," the red-headed spitfire said, referring to the nearby Charles River with her outrageous Boston accent.

She was not even 5 feet tall, but she had more personality than Candace and I put together. I'd never lived with Candace before — she was in Nashua, New Hampshire, these days doing the hair styling thing — but I immediately felt comfortable living with Meghan despite only having known her since sophomore year at Boston University. I had my doubts Candace and I would've hit it off this well as roommates even though I'd known her since middle school. We just naturally were more argumentative with each other. Meghan and I were more playful and funny together.

"Too blue, huh?"

"A navy blue blazer and skirt? _That's_ the uniform?" she asked, gagging herself with her highlighter. I kept interrupting her studies with my preparations for a mysterious journey into the unknown: The Bridge gala in Watertown, a small city a few miles northwest of Boston.

"Yup," I said, twirling around in front of the full-length mirror in our two-bedroom, high-rise apartment on Boylston Street.

Thanks to my Bridge advance of $25,000, I was able to afford a high-end off-campus apartment for my senior year, so I asked Meghan to share it with me at a reduced rate for her. I could tell she appreciated the step up in accommodations from last year's rat trap. And this year, we were close enough to walk to campus, which was squeezed between the Charles River to the north and Interstate 90 to the south. We lived just south of the bridges over I-90, not far from Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. It was a fun and lively place to live, pretty much any time of day or night. And we had a sweeping view of the city from the 12th floor of the 15th-story building.

When I attached my Bridge pin to my blazer, Meghan immediately hopped off the sofa and grabbed my boob for a closer look.

"What is that?" she asked.

"That's our logo ... The Bridge logo."

The circular pin had a white field with navy blue lines: one flat line leading right to a diagonal line, which ascended right to another flat line.

To me, it looked like the design of the building — the reversed Star Ship Enterprise knockoff where tonight's gala would be held.

To Meghan?

"It sure as hell doesn't look anything like a bridge," she said, laughing and finally releasing her grip before bouncing back onto the sofa. "In fact, that bridge won't get you ov-ah the 90," she adding, hooking her thumb toward the highway far below our balcony. "It looks like it collapsed in the middle and everybody got killed!"

"What?" I gasped, then joined in the laughter. "You're killing me, right now. How am I supposed to look at all these people with a straight face tonight? Now every time I see a pin, which will be like a thousand times, I'll think of you and laugh every time."

"Collapsed bridges all around you!" she howled.

"Stop! I've gotta go."

"Have fun. Your hair looks good at least," she said, digging my blue streaks, which I'd decided to bring back in time for the gala instead of waiting til New Year's Eve. If they wanted me to become Nikki Blue, then I might as well be her sooner rather than later. I knew Virgil would be pleased that I was embracing the role.

"Thanks. Call me in an hour or two and make sure I haven't been abducted to some other galaxy, will ya?" I asked.

"OK, Blue. But you bett-ah bring home a Bridge man for me, too."

"Sure, no problem," I said as we giggled, hugged and parted ways.

On the drive to Watertown, I realized I was in a much better place on a number of levels compared to the summer. Being single was good for me. Having some money helped, too. And though I missed Derek sometimes, I knew I'd made the right decision — for both of us, whether he liked it or not. He was single, too, the last time I talked to him almost a month ago. Amazingly, I forced myself not to pry about him and Deena. I'd lost that right when I let him go and I doubt he would have told me anyway. But whatever happened at his sister's wedding, it apparently hadn't led to a steady relationship.

The only thing dragging me down heading toward the gala was a spat Virgil and I had about Thomas. When the cops questioned him after seeing the video of our Skype chat, Thomas denied he knew anything and said he was just bullshitting me to see how I'd react. Without a body (or bones at this point), the cops didn't pursue it any further as far as we knew. But Virgil hounded me after I got back from New Hampshire. He couldn't believe I had gone up there and not found any new information that could've helped link Thomas to the crime so he could be put away for good. He said I should've at least interviewed Thomas' grandmother again in person.

Instead, I had "interviewed" my friend Adam Upton on the top of Mount Chocorua and accidentally discovered the shocking truth: that Adam's father, Gary, had killed Rodney and confessed to Adam on his death bed. Now Adam and I both guarded a secret we wish we never knew.

Virgil somehow sensed that I had changed in my attitude toward Thomas and he wanted to know why, but I denied it. I said Thomas must've killed Rodney, but my inability to say that with 100 percent conviction registered on Virgil's internal e-meter or something. He jumped all over me.

"Nicole, if you know something, you need to tell me," he said. "I need to know everything that's going on with you. It's the only way I can guarantee your safety, protection and success as a member of The Bridge."

I said I didn't know anything.

He didn't believe me. Then he had the gall to ask, "Nicole, are you a seeker of the truth or a hider of the truth?"

That's when I got mad.

"I _was_ a seeker of the truth when I was a journalist, but then you hired me away from that, so don't go throwing that in my face now. You Bridge guys hide plenty of truths, I'm sure."

" _You_ Bridge guys?" he shot back.

"Fine. _We_ Bridge guys, if that's what you want to hear."

"What I want to hear is the truth from my director of information."

"Well, you don't get all of me, Virgil. I'm not selling 100 percent of my soul for a two-year contract. I've sold enough. If you want me to be a real seeker of the truth, then send me back to the newspaper ... if they'll take me back."

That shut him up at the time and he'd been less friendly to me ever since, but I had a feeling me finally showing up at the gala — blue hair and all — would earn me some brownie points.

One encounter I dreaded at the gala was having to see David Michael. Virgil told me he was elevated to Eastern U.S. director of The Bridge Group and would be leading a presentation with some woman. I'd already forgotten her name because it wasn't even a name. It was like two initials and an Asian last name.

Though I had seen the new Bridge center mostly built when I drove through Watertown in mid August, the finished space ship, or whatever you want to call it, blew me away as I approached it. There was nothing like it along the city blocks upon which it loomed; nothing like it anywhere in the world unless you counted other Bridge centers — we'd have one in Waterbury pretty soon.

It mirrored the rendering I had laughed at in June, but now it was real and massive and very white, contrasted only by the black tinted windows on both the rectangular lower level and the upper flying saucer level, which was set further back. Dark glass also covered the stairway and walkway connecting the two levels.

My heart raced as I pulled into the parking lot, where an army of black-suited valet attendants relieved attendees of their keys and vehicles, and motioned for them to walk toward the main entrance. I turned over my keys to a man who sort of looked like a younger version of the guy from "Californication" and the "X-Files" — David Duchovny, that's it.

Struggling to walk toward the mother ship in my 4-inch heels, I certainly didn't feel any less dwarfed by the alien monstrosity lurking above me. I followed three men in navy blue suits through an automatic door and we all stood in line behind a group of six or seven others. There was only one woman other than me and she wasn't in Bridge uniform. She seemed out of place, but so did I, with my blue streaks, as most of the men turned around to gawk at me.

"Please stop at the white line one at a time and the facial scanner will admit you," a wiry man with glasses instructed us.

A small camera on the closed door in front of us apparently scanned each person's face and knew who was welcome at the gala and who wasn't. The first four men made the cut, the automatic door zapped open and they entered a brightly lit, oval-shaped corridor where many others were gathered.

When the woman who wasn't in uniform stepped up to the line on the gray floor, a light on the little camera turned red.

"Come this way, ma'am," the wiry man immediately said, waving her out of the queue.

"But I'm with the Boston Herald," she protested. "I have my credentials."

"We'll discuss it outside, ma'am," the man said, escorting her with vigor toward the outer door, where another attendant had approached to remove her from the building.

Perhaps seekers of the truth weren't welcome tonight, but when I stepped up to the white line, the door opened for me.

I followed the other blue suits down the wide, oval, tube-like corridor toward another attendant, who directed us to the left and through an automatic door under the sign "Earth Wing." Before entering, I glanced to my right and noticed a similar door under the sign "Mars Wing."

"Here we go," I muttered to myself. "Welcome to the Enterprise."

But when the door to the Earth Wing opened, I couldn't believe my eyes. I strolled into a massive rectangular ballroom — kind of like when Jack Nicholson hallucinated that ballroom scene at the Overlook Hotel in the movie, "The Shining," based on Stephen King's novel. There were hundreds of people mingling, talking, drinking and laughing. A band was setting up beyond a good-sized dance floor. There were dozens of blue and white balloons all over the place. There must've been 25 or 30 round tables with huge floral centerpieces and name cards at every seat. White-gloved waiters and waitresses, otherwise dressed in black, circulated with trays of hors 'd'oeuvres and fancy flutes of champagne.

I felt like I was crashing someone's wedding until Virgil spotted me, frozen in place by the grand spectacle.

"Nicole ... or shall I say Nikki Blue? Love the blue hair," he said, giving me a big smile and a warm hug. He seemed like he had taken advantage of the free-flowing champagne, the open bar to our left or both.

"Hi Virgil," I said, still looking around and taking it all in. "This is not what I expected."

"Surprise," he replied, beaming like I had never seen him before. "And there will be many more to come."

"I'm sure. I thought you said it was going to be like a conference or presentation or something."

"It is. There'll be some of that in the Mars Wing later — before dinner — but after the happy hour right here in Earth," he said, extending his arms like a game show host. "This is a grand opening gala, after all. This is a celebration for all members of The Bridge and very special invited guests only. So come. Let's get you a drink and I'll introduce you to some other members of The Bridge team."

"Are we getting a gala like this in Waterbury next summer?" I asked him as we strolled past several tables.

"You bet we are," he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. Yeah, he had a pretty good buzz going.

"Wow, I had no idea you Bridge people knew how to party."

"Yes we do, but do I still have to correct you after all these months?"

"I know. It's 'we Bridge people.' I'm a little rusty. I've been in college for the past month."

"And how are classes going?"

"Great so far. My broadcast teacher is really cool."

"Fantastic, Nikki Blue," he said, stopping to look me in the eyes. "You're gonna be our shooting star."

I shrugged, smiled and snared a flute of the fizzy stuff from the platter of a passing waitress as Virgil led me to a group of people standing near Table 22. I spotted my name card next to Virgil's. I wanted to see the name on the other side of my seat, but a tall man — even taller than Virgil, was in the way. He was next to a much younger woman, a brunette who looked about my age. Two other people left them just as we approached and Virgil introduced me to them.

"Nikki Blue, this is Dr. Peter van Wooten, director of the Watertown Bridge center and our host for the evening; and Stephanie Willard, director of information for the Watertown Bridge," Virgil said.

I shook their hands, said hello and wondered if every branch of The Bridge would have an old, tall male director and a young, pretty female assistant. Stephanie was prettier than I and didn't have any streaks in her long, dark hair. Peter was prettier than all of us — movie star handsome with high cheekbones and a well-chiseled jaw.

"Good evening, Nikki, and welcome to our big first night," Peter said with a charming foreign accent. I couldn't place its country of origin.

"Thank you so much," I said. "Where are you from?"

"Cape Town, South Africa," he said with a smile and a clink of the ice cubes in his Midori-looking drink, which nearly matched the color of his eyes. "But lately, I've been pretty busy right here in the Boston area."

"You sure have, Peter," Virgil said.

"You'll get your turn soon enough," Peter said. "Steph and I will pass along all the wisdom we can give you for your big gala next summer."

"Yes, that would be great," Virgil beamed, snagging a jumbo shrimp cocktail from a hovering waiter. I decided to pass. I could just see me splattering red cocktail sauce all over myself.

"Where are you from, Stephanie?" I asked, wondering if she and Peter might be more than Bridge associates. I'd sure be tempted if I were in her shoes, the heels of which were even taller than mine. I just hoped she didn't think I was hooking up with Virgil.

"I'm from North Attleboro, Mass., but I've been living up this way since I graduated in May," she said, her tone guarded but polite. I was dying to get her alone so we could compare notes, but something told me she wouldn't be as friendly or revealing as I'd like.

"Where did you graduate from?" I asked, moving closer to her as Virgil and Peter began having their own conversation as well.

"Scallops wrapped in bacon?" a waitress asked us.

"Yes," we answered in stereo and laughed. Maybe she wasn't so stiff after all. Maybe she was totally freaked out by this weird mix of glitz and sci-fi just like me.

"Brown University ... to answer your pre-scallop-and-bacon question," Stephanie said of the Ivy League college in Providence, Rhode Island.

"Wow. Good for you," I said. "What major?"

"English literature and Chinese."

"Really? That's an interesting double major."

"Definitely. How about yourself?"

"Journalism right here at B.U., but I don't graduate until next May ... right before our gala in Connecticut."

"That's great. I'm sure we'll see each other again down at your place then," she said, adjusting her Bridge pin and finishing the last of her champagne. I took a big gulp to match her.

When a handsome waiter approached with another armada of flutes, we looked at each other and giggled.

"Why not? It's a party, right? And this is definitely not the cheap stuff," Stephanie said, taking one off his tray. "Thanks."

"Yes, thank you," I told the waiter, who gave me quite a long stare as I selected my flute.

I guess I did look pretty good despite my uniform and collapsed-bridge pin. I almost laughed thinking of Meghan's wisecrack, but I contained myself.

Before I could ask Stephanie another in what I'd hoped would be 15 to 20 more questions, a fuzzy-haired older man — probably in his late 30s or early 40s — approached Stephanie and I from the right. He wore the navy blue suit but had managed to ditch his tie already. His Bridge pin was crooked and his face — though handsome — appeared confused, like he wasn't sure he was at the right party. Then I made eye contact with him and he smiled — almost like he recognized me. There was something strangely familiar about him, too, but I had no idea from where.

"You wouldn't happen to be Nicole Janicek, would you?" the man asked me, the bags under his eyes lightening at the hope I'd say yes. I decided to mess with him. It must've been the champagne kicking in.

"No," I said, which didn't seem to faze Stephanie — that wasn't the name Virgil used to introduce me to her. He looked crushed though. "I'm Nikki Blue. ... And you are?"

He paused to think for a moment.

"Bill Oz," he said, almost like he was ashamed to say it.

My eyes bugged out and I gasped. Now I knew why he looked sort of familiar, but who can remember a photo from a book jacket?

"No way," I said.

"Yes way," he replied, suddenly matching my intensity and my animated blue eyes.

Stephanie apparently didn't know who he was. Perhaps his works didn't rise to the level of Ivy League literature, but one of his early novels moved me very much. I instantly wanted to talk to him about it, but Virgil, of course, interrupted.

"What's all the commotion?" Virgil asked, pretending like he didn't see Bill. "Well, of course," he quickly added, grabbing Bill and hugging him. Bill seemed even more uncomfortable than I was about that. "How could there not be commotion with this guy around?"

"Virgil Raymond, my biggest fan," Bill said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

"Nikki, Stephanie ... this is Bill Oz, bestselling author and dueling pianist extraordinaire from Miami, Florida," Virgil declared with the pride of a father toward a son.

"For real?" I asked, admittedly awestruck.

"I told you he was coming, Nikki. Did I not deliver? Here he is in the flesh."

"Please stop. You're making me blush," Bill said with a half-embarrassed smile that could charm the power skirt right off me. I instantly knew I could get in a lot of trouble tonight and the champagne cheered me on with every sip. "My ego is big enough already," he added with a wave of his hand.

We all laughed. A waitress floated by with another flight of champagne.

"Do you have any mojitos?" Bill asked the young woman. She shook her head and told him to go to the bar. Virgil stopped him in his tracks.

"How could I forget? Mr. Miami loves his mojitos," Virgil said. "I'll run to the bar. You three stay and chat."

"Thanks Virgil. What a sweetheart," Bill said, slapping him on the back before he departed.

"I see Peter waving me over," Stephanie said. "I'll see you all again after Mars Wing."

"OK," I said, trying not to laugh at how she said "Mars Wing" with such an earnest expression.

Bill and I mirrored each other's raised eyebrows and grin as Stephanie walked toward Peter, who was telling stories for a group of at least eight people near the dance floor.

"Pardon my French, but what the fuck is this place and why am I here?" Bill asked.

"I know, right?"

"Mars _Wing_? I told Virgil to his face these Bridge people were wing nuts. Obviously, they embrace it and wear it like a badge of honor," he said, slapping his Bridge pin with his hand. "How long does it take to get a mojito around here anyway?"

I saw the reason for the delay. Virgil's return had been halted midway back from the bar by David Michael and some Asian woman who was even shorter than he was. Again, I thought of Meghan, who would meet the height requirement for top leadership of The Bridge. I had to assume the Asian lady was the one Virgil told me about — the one with the two initials for a first name.

"I can see your mojito from here," I told Bill, who turned around and spotted it, too.

"Oh yes, it got caught in a wing nut triangle — sort of like the Bermuda Triangle. It'll disappear forever now," he said.

"I have a confession to make," I said.

"I'm not a priest, but I can tell you to say one 'Our Father' and three 'Hail Marys' if you want me to," he quipped.

"You're Catholic?"

"Ex-Catholic, ex-Scientologist, ex-wifed twice over ..."

"Wow. You don't seem that old."

"Well, thanks ... just regular old, right?"

"No, no ... just not old enough to have gone through all of that," I said.

"I'm 38 and you never confessed to me, by the way."

"Oh yeah. My real name is Nicole Janicek, as you guessed correctly earlier."

"How could you lie to me like that? I was like a lost little puppy a few minutes ago."

"I know. I'm sorry. But I did tell you a half truth. I also go by the name Nikki Blue," I said, twirling my fingers through my streaks.

"Ah yes. You're so literal. Well, you're not the only one around here with two names."

"Really? What's your other name?" I asked.

"My real name is William Osborne. Bill Oz is my pen name."

"Oh."

"Are you really a fan of my work or was Virgil just bullshitting me?"

"Some of it."

"Just partial bullshit then."

"Isn't that what Virgil does?" I asked. "Just enough truth to hook you, but also enough bullshit to make you ask, 'What the fuck is this place and why am I here?'"

Bill laughed. "Very insightful, but you forgot one part. Truth is money. Just enough money to hook you. Right?"

"Yes. Is that why we're both here?"

"That's what hooked me, though he did tell me about you as well," Bill said.

"He used your name to hook me, too," I said. "He spied my Goodreads page and saw that I had you listed as one of my favorite authors."

"No shit?"

"100 percent true."

"He told me you're a writer, too," Bill said.

"Sort of," I said with a smile. "I'm working on a book, but I'm not a bestseller like you."

"Neither am I ... that's ancient history," Bill said as Virgil finally returned with the mojito, David and the Asian woman, who wore a red power suit instead of navy blue. What made her so special? Her hair was short and hugged her face tightly, curling inward just below her chin. She had a sly way about her that gave me the creeps — almost as much as the smug asshole who signs my paychecks.

"Your very belated mojito, Bill, with my sincere apologies," Virgil said.

"That'll come out of your tip," Bill cracked, sparking laughter all around, though David and the Asian woman seemed to force it.

"Bill Oz and Nikki Blue, meet V.X. Yun, Bridge liaison for H2O Corp., our partner company," Virgil said as we shook hands with her.

She just nodded, like _why am I here meeting a girl with blue hair and some crazy guy who already ripped off his tie?_

"And Nikki, you know David Michael, eastern U.S. director for The Bridge Group," Virgil said. "David, this is Bill Oz, the author I told you about."

David squeezed the life out of my hand again, just as he had in June, and then did the same to Bill. We shared a rapid glance of mutual pain as David pretended to like me. I still wanted to know what disparaging thing he said about me to Virgil and the other blue suits that made them laugh at the groundbreaking that day, but Virgil claimed no memory of it and I'd stopped asking.

"So good to see you again, Nicole," David said. My name springing from his tongue grated on my soul. "So glad you decided to join us and got to see the rendering become this breathtaking reality."

I could tell he saw it as a personal victory that I now stood inside that very rendering and that I should feel foolish for ever laughing at it.

"Absolutely," I forced myself to say. "I can't wait to celebrate our own gala next summer."

"Indeed," he said, raising one eyebrow and preparing to bolt. "Lovely to see you again. Nice to meet you, Bill."

"Same here," Bill said in between gulps of his mojito.

"We'll see you all in the Mars Wing momentarily," David said, turning his beady eyes to V.X. and changing course for Mars in one smooth exit.

The guy had no neck. I think that's why he creeped me out so much. That and the fact he definitely didn't like me. He seemed like the type who judged people 100 percent off a first impression. It truly shocked me that he allowed Virgil to hire me as his director of information. Virgil must have even more pull than he gives off, I figured.

"So, have you two been able to get to know each other a little bit?" Virgil asked Bill and me.

"Yes, we both have two names and a healthy dose of curiosity about this magnificent flying saucer within which we drink," Bill said poetically.

Despite the 17-year age gap and the two ex-wives, I liked him. He seemed like one of the most real people I had ever met, and I had only talked with him for about a half hour. I wanted to know more about him, but Peter was ready to send us all out of the ballroom.

"Hello and welcome to our grand opening gala here at The Bridge in Watertown, Massachusetts," Peter announced from a microphone stand beyond the dance floor and in front of the band's instruments. Stephanie stood several feet to his right. "I'm Peter van Wooten, director of this amazing facility and humble host of this tremendous gathering of some of the best and brightest people in the world."

I blushed at that, especially coming out of his mouth with that gorgeous accent. He was the opposite of creepy.

"If you need anything during the course of the evening, please don't hesitate to ask myself or my lovely director of information, Stephanie Willard," he said, extending his hand toward her with a smile.

I figured there was a 75 percent chance they were an item. Then I noticed Virgil smiling at me — like he could envision himself introducing me at the Waterbury gala next year — and I felt extremely uncomfortable wondering how many people would think we were sleeping together. Gross!

I tried to push that thought out of my mind as I scanned the room. There were probably 150 people or so wearing blue suits, and the ratio was about 70 percent guys to 30 percent women.

"In a moment, we'll all head across the hall to Mars Wing and listen to a presentation by David Michael and V.X. Yun, whom most of you already had the pleasure of meeting during this splendid happy hour," Peter continued. "Feel free to bring your beverages with you. There are drink holders in the amphitheater. After the presentation, we will return here to Earth for dinner, live music and dancing. This is a celebration of new beginnings.

"But first, before we embark to Mars, I just want to take a moment to thank the queen for gracing us with her presence tonight," he added as a spotlight above the band pit shined toward a table on the other side of the ballroom. There, standing in the light, was none other than Queen Cersei from HBO's hit show "Game of Thrones." I almost spat my champagne. I loved that show when it was on and she was one of my favorite actresses.

"Lena Headey, thank you for coming," Peter said. "We know you've got to zip back down to New York for your role on Broadway, but thank you for your cameo tonight, and for supporting our efforts to fix Mother Earth while also striving to colonize Planet Mars."

She nodded and everyone gave the queen a big round of applause. I smacked Bill's shoulder in excitement, but he shrugged like he had no clue who she was. Virgil nodded at me proudly. I wondered how much they had to shell out for her brief appearance. Lena gave a royal wave and a polite smile, but she was out of there pretty quickly after that. Still, I was completely stunned by that surprise cameo. What else was The Bridge hiding up its ballroom gown this evening?

Then the parade of blue suits slowly made its way toward the exit. Virgil waved us on, and Bill and I exchanged another look of stupefied amusement.

That's when my iPhone buzzed. It was Meghan calling. I answered it.

"Not now, Meg. We're on our way to Mars," I said, looking at Bill the whole time.

He stared right back and smiled. I could tell he liked me, too.

**CHAPTER 18: MARS WING**

Nikki

I sat between Bill on my left and Virgil on my right in the massive Mars Wing. It featured an amphitheater facing a stage crowned by a strip of giant rectangular movie screens, all of which were blank at the moment. The spotlight and our focus was on David Michael, who introduced himself and V.X. Yun, seated on stage to his right. David had a small microphone attached to his ear and protruding in front of his mouth as he paced before us and spoke with tremendous force.

"The elephant in this beautiful brand new Mars Wing is ... why are you all here? What the hell is The Bridge and why were you — out of all of the billions of people in the world — invited to this exclusive grand opening in Watertown, Massachusetts, United States of America?"

Then he stopped pacing and silently scanned the faces in the seats. It was an awkward and dramatic pause of 15 or 20 seconds in which he seemingly tried to look each one of us in the eyes.

"First, I have a question for all of you," he finally continued. "Have any of you heard of a man named Al Gore?"

The query drew a ripple of laughter, but David remained stone faced.

"Raise your hand if you've heard of Al Gore," he instructed.

"Wing nut convention," Bill muttered to me as we all raised our hands. Even V.X.

"I believe that's 100 percent of the room," David noted. "Here's a follow-up question: How many of you saw his 2006 documentary, 'Inconvenient Truth?'"

Bill and I didn't raise our hands, but Virgil and probably a third of the other blue suits did.

"About 33 percent," David estimated. "Well, for those of you unfamiliar with 'Inconvenient Truth,' I'll get you up to speed in a hurry. Say what you want about Gore and what you think of him as a person or a politician, but that man had the balls to tell it straight to the whole planet 12 years ago and his message was this: We're fucked. Do something about it. Yes, I've added some colorful language, but that's basically what he said. I am not going to stand here and regurgitate the film, the ominous data, etc., etc. We all know what's been happening with this planet. I'm not going to lecture you on the effects of global warming and rising seas when Gore already did that a dozen years ago and nobody listened. What's happened since 2006 in terms of real change or preparation for what's to come amounts to less than rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic ... and we all know how that turned out.

"I'd rather ask a question," he continued. "Does anyone in this amphitheater live in Miami?"

"Oh shit," Bill whispered to me, his breath minty from the mojito.

Reluctantly, Bill raised his hand. No one else did.

David stopped on the stage in relation to where we were sitting, basically orchestra left about 15 rows up, and gazed at Bill.

"What's your name for those who haven't met you yet?" David asked.

"Bill ... Bill Oz."

"Bill Oz, do you like living in Miami?"

"Very much," Bill replied.

"Well enjoy it now, Bill, because that city is fucked," David declared.

Bill nodded and smiled in a patronizing sort of way, and David resumed pacing.

I gave Bill a playful punch on the shoulder as he shook his head.

"Fear mongering dip shits," he whispered in my ear, causing me to crack up — just loud enough to stop David in his tracks and spur Virgil into giving me a cross look.

I focused on Bill instead, which was a grave mistake. He crossed his eyes and made a funny face. I tried to pull it together, but then I had a mental flashback to William Shatner and "Saturday Night Live" and "Get a Life!" and the Star Trek convention ... and there I was inside the S.S. Enterprise itself with a champagne buzz and Meghan's voice echoing through my brain about the stupid logo — "it looks like the bridge collapsed in the middle and everybody got killed" ... and I just frigging lost it.

Yup. I laughed even louder. #Iamsoscrewedinfrontofallthesepeople!

The entire amphitheater gasped and turned to look at me. Bill gave me an "oh shit" expression and Virgil seethed, but not half as much as David.

" _What_ is so funny?" David asked, stalking me like a wolf to a sheep trapped on a rise above him. "Tell us all your name and explain to us what about our sinking planet brings you to laughter."

"I do apologize," I said, utterly mortified now. "My name is Nikki Blue ... and I'm afraid I ... may have had a little too much champagne."

That got a smile out of Bill and a few laughs from the blue suits, but Virgil put his head in his hands and David was no less irked.

"Nikki Blue, how old are you?" David asked.

"21," I said.

"Perfect. Please join me on stage. You can sit in my chair next to V.X. and Peter will get you a microphone so we can all hear your responses," David said.

If it weren't for the champagne, I probably would've tried to get the hell out of there. But I felt a little bold, like I wanted to go toe to toe with David and finally get some real answers to my questions. So I stood up, skirted past an amused Bill, and left Virgil sweating and fretting over my fate — and his — as I made my way down the steps. Somehow I reached the stage and crossed it without stumbling in my heels. I gave David a wide berth and focused instead on Peter, who smiled and winked at me before affixing my microphone. It was all I could do not to pull his face down toward me for a kiss, but I resisted and took my seat — er, King David's seat — next to V.X. She gave me a withering look before turning to see what David had in store for me. He resumed his pacing.

"Nikki, you seem to make a habit out of inappropriate laughter," he started off, like a prosecutor. "I heard you laugh the first moment I met you, when you looked at the rendering of the soon-to-be-built Bridge center in Waterbury, Connecticut. Now you laugh while I'm talking about an American city disappearing from the map, covered over by a mixture of ocean water, dead bodies and raw sewage. Enlighten me on the comical impact of these topics, won't you?"

"I meant no disrespect," I said, avoiding David's glare and finding Bill's eyes in the crowd. He seemed turned on by my predicament, which I liked. "In both cases, I'll call them inconvenient laughs."

That clever quip got more than a few laughs in its own right, rattling David a bit. He seemed agitated and I felt weirdly calm. I can't explain why. It had to be the booze. It had to be Bill. Maybe it was just that I was telling the truth.

"I'm not a robot," I boldly continued. "You put me in a place that looks like the Star Ship Enterprise, hand me free drinks and no dinner yet, and this is bound to happen."

Bill and many others, including Peter, laughed out loud. Virgil's face was buried in his hands. That's when I sobered up a bit. I started to worry that I was costing Virgil and myself our jobs with every one-liner. I was about to speak, but David cut me off.

"Why would I bring this young woman with blue hair before you and let her turn this presentation into a roast, you may ask yourselves? Well, let me explain," he said, glaring at me more than the audience now. "She is Exhibit A on why we need to act now. Young people like her have the most to lose. The children and grandchildren of people like her have even more to lose. And yet, it's no big deal. Let's laugh it off and pretend this world is going to be just fine. That's exactly the attitude of most people on this planet — even 12 years after 'Inconvenient Truth'; even with signs of trouble emerging all around us.

"Nation states have no plan to manage the chaos to come. No plan to deal with the lack of edible food and potable water, not to mention the conflicts that surely will result over those dwindling resources essential to life. They're too busy fighting meaningless wars over religion and oil and things that won't save the ship from sinking. The people in this room and in other Bridge centers like it to come will be the ones with the clear heads while everyone else panics. We'll save as many people as we can. It's up to us. Nobody else is going to do it. It's already too late, but The Bridge will make a difference. We will save some lives on Earth, and we will establish colonies on Mars and beyond."

Just as I was feeling awful and used and totally on the spot, all eyes in front of me gazed upward as the movie screens lit up, the amphitheater darkened and David pointed to a panorama. I turned and craned my neck to see it.

"This is a tape-delayed feed of where some of you in this room tonight will one day call home," David said. "One of our TBG rovers, which launched to Mars last year and landed there in July, captured this footage earlier today from the Mount Sharp region of the Red Planet. V.X. will tell you more about our ambitious plans now."

V.X. stood up while David sat down next to me and ignored me.

"The Bridge Group, H2O Corp. and our other partners have mapped out a strategy to begin the colonization of Mars with a series of four manned launches beginning in 2029," V.X. said in a surprisingly booming voice for such a petite person. Her English was not perfect so I assumed she must actually be from China.

"Each rocket-propelled vessel will carry six people for a total of 24 humans. These original 24 will construct the first base, the first human colony on Mars. Supplies and rover vehicles will be sent before, during and after your arrival. I say 'your' because as David said, all of you in this amphitheater tonight will have the opportunity to vie for a chance to go to Mars and live there."

The camera feed showing a daytime 180-degree panorama of the dusty red surface then switched to three separate movie screens: one said South Africa, another Australia and a third China. All three displayed flat, barren parcels of land.

"What you are looking at now are three future launch sites for our Mars program in the countries indicated," V.X. continued. "We hope to have a fourth site secured by next year. Rockets carrying both humans and supplies will leave at regular intervals from these future launch pads, the construction of which will begin as early as 2020. David."

With that, the lights came back on, the screens went dark and everyone clapped. I joined the applause belatedly as David smiled, stood back up and strolled to the center of the stage. V.X. sat back down next to me, ignoring me as well.

"Thank you, V.X., and thank all of you," David said.

I could see Virgil seemed happier now. Bill was even paying close attention. I think we were all surprised and impressed with how serious these people were.

"These truly are exciting times," David continued. "Human beings have always been travelers, explorers and conquerors. Mars is next on a very long list. The Bridge Group, together with our partners, will be at the forefront of this long overdue endeavor, which has been delayed because governments are too slow and clunky to get it done. Private companies and partnerships can and will get people to Mars. Our training schedule for those of you who are selected to be among the original 24 colonists will commence as early as 2024, just six years from now. Think about that for a minute. Where were you six years ago tonight? In 2012?"

2012. I was a sophomore in high school ... and those 20 first-graders at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown were still alive ... for a few more precious months. Whenever I thought about the year 2012, my brain was conditioned to dwell on December 14th. It was so ingrained in me, especially since that dream I had on Mount Washington; especially because it almost happened again at my high school in 2014.

"Not that long ago, was it?" David asked the audience. "Time goes by so fast. Peter van Wooten and Stephanie Willard, our host and hostess this evening, will come around now and pass out a souvenir space pen to commemorate this special evening. They'll also hand you a notepad. I want to make this Mars stuff even more real to you now ... because it is. This is not sci-fi anymore. We _are_ going to Mars. So my question to all of you is, who will you bring?"

The blue suits murmured in confusion and excitement as Peter crossed the stage to deliver me my blue TBG space pen and a small white notepad. He smiled at me again, making me feel slightly better.

David paced the stage again.

"Most of you who were invited to the gala this evening are partial Bridge members," he said. "You've been hired or signed to short-term, preliminary contracts. To be in the running for consideration to go to Mars, you must first demonstrate a long-term commitment to The Bridge. What does that mean? It means you must become a special BIP member by January 1st, 2019. Not to be confused with VIP, BIP means Bridge Inter Planetary member. That choice is up to you, but we're not going to commit to send you to Mars if you don't commit to us. So please think about that requirement and make the decision that's right for you. I guarantee you that V.X. and I will select at least four BIP members from this room tonight to go to Mars. We'll announce who those four lucky members are at our next Bridge grand opening gala in Waterbury, Connecticut, in June. If you don't get selected in June, don't worry. There will be many more missions to expand colonization to 24 people and beyond, so all full-time members of The Bridge will continue to be in the running for those prized seats on future launches. And that's not all."

More murmuring from the crowd.

"Those four people we select in June will get to bring one special person with them," David continued. "That's right. We don't want to send you to Mars without a spouse, special friend, son or daughter, mom or dad, or whoever. As long as that special person also commits to a BIP membership, undergoes the same training as you, and will be between the ages of 12 and 60 by the year 2029, he or she is eligible to join you. So, if that special Mars companion is between the ages of 1 and 49 as we sit here tonight, he or she can go to Mars with you."

I could see Bill staring at me, and raising his eyebrows up and down. I almost cracked up again.

"Whether you end up going to Mars or not, I would like each of you now to take a minute and at least consider the opportunity of a lifetime that I have presented you with," David said. "On your notepad, please write your full name, date of birth and an initial answer of yes, no or maybe as to whether you'd be interested in becoming a BIP member of The Bridge. If your answer is yes or maybe, then also write down the full name and date of birth of the person you'd nominate to go to Mars with you. I will stop talking now and give you a few minutes to decide."

I could see Bill mouth the words, "Pick me, pick me," complete with prayer gesture. I shook my head and smiled. Given my poor relationship with David, I didn't have much hope of being selected. Would I even want to live on Mars?

But for some adventurous reason, I wrote yes. I couldn't pass up this crazy chance to go to space and look back at Earth from somewhere else. It must've been the mountain climber in me. I couldn't turn down the chance of seeing unfathomably beautiful views or becoming the first human to climb Mt. Sharp. I could be the Sir Edmund Hillary of Mars!

The second question was tougher. Who should I take with me? I decided to choose the only boy I ever loved — Derek Schobell, born March 7, 1997. Maybe we'd get along better on Mars than we had on Earth lately. Maybe we'd have three little Martian babies, not two. Tears welled up in my eyes as I folded the paper and Stephanie came around to collect it. She nodded and smiled at me. Then I caught V.X. staring at me.

"Are you OK?" she asked, shocking me. I'd thought she had no heart or soul just like David. Perhaps I was wrong to judge her so quickly. I didn't even know her.

"I ... I'm fine," I said. "Thank you."

She nodded at me and then looked at David, who spread his hands out wide and grinned at his Bridge folk.

"Thank you for your thoughtful answers, whatever they may be," he said. "Before we return to the Earth Wing for a celebratory feast, do any of you have any questions for V.X. or myself?"

A couple of people raised their hands, but David spotted mine first.

"This should be interesting," he said, approaching me and looking down at me. It's like he yearned for me to challenge him so he could school me again for all to see.

But the question I had burned at my insides. Kathy "She's Crackers" Kepler had told me to keep my journalist hat on, so I did. I desperately wanted to trip up David because, fancy Mars presentation or not, I still didn't trust him.

"On the way in here tonight, a reporter from the Boston Herald was removed from the building right in front of me. Why?" I asked firmly but calmly. My fits of laughter were long gone and the room hushed, taking my question seriously.

David smiled and turned to the blue suits. He was confident in his answer. He would not be tripped up by the likes of me.

"Because we don't need the Boston Herald," he said, smug as ever. His voice grew louder and more passionate as he spoke. " _We_ are the Boston Heralds. _We_ are the heralds of a new age. _We_ are the media, the experts, the scientists, the Red Cross, the problem solvers and the future leaders of this world, as well as the Red Planet after which this wing is named. _We_ are The Bridge for this drowning planet. _We_ are also The Bridge from this drowning planet to other civilizations. And some day sooner than you think, the drowning people will stop laughing. They'll wake up and they'll panic because they'll realize they should have listened to us, they should have joined us ... but by then, it will be _too late_. We can't save everyone and we _won't_. That's when the drowning people will fully understand the meaning of the words 'inconvenient truth.'"

Thunderous applause followed. David basked in his moment.

And I felt like throwing up.

**CHAPTER 19: "I CRASHED MY CAR INTO THE BRIDGE ... I LOVE IT"**

Nikki

My brief bout of nausea was cured by the sight and smell of the feast awaiting us in Earth Wing. A raging appetite overtook me and I barely talked to anyone at Table 22, including Bill, until I had cleared my plate of tender steamship round, mashed potatoes, gravy and mixed vegetables. Virgil distanced himself from me after my antics in Mars Wing. He was in full damage control mode, having an animated discussion with David, V.X., Peter and Stephanie at Table 1 across the room. The other blue suits at Table 22 were a stuffy group of Watertown-area officials, but at least I had Bill next to me. After dinner, we sipped coffee and chatted as the seven-piece band played some smooth jazz.

"I thought it was a great question," Bill said, "about what they did to the Herald reporter. Seriously. You really put that douche bag on the spot."

"Yeah, and he turned it around on me just as fast. He used me as his prop for a speech about world domination."

"Worlds domination, actually," Bill pointed out. "Earth, Mars and beyond."

We both smiled. I enjoyed the attention as his eyes entertained the evening's possibilities.

"You really burned him for a few laughs, too," Bill said. "I thought you kicked ass for a ... how old are you anyway?"

"21."

"21? Wow."

"So who did you pick to go to Mars with you?" I asked.

"You assume I answered yes or maybe to rocketing into space with these weirdos?"

"You wrote no?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe _maybe_? Or maybe you wrote no?"

Bill snickered.

"I wrote maybe, baby, just for laughs."

"So who would you take with you?"

"My son, Max."

"Really? You have a son?"

"Why, I don't look old enough to have a son?" he deadpanned.

I chuckled.

"Yes, he's 5," he said. "I wish I got to see him more often, but my ex is quite difficult. I'm in Miami now and they're in Clearwater."

"So how often do you see him?"

"Two weekends a month."

"That's rough."

"Now you see why I want to take him to Mars with me ... to get him away from his mother," he said with a forced, pensive grin.

"Do you think she'd allow that?"

"Never, but these Bridge people seem pretty persuasive."

"That's one way to put it."

"I mean, look at this place, this feast ..."

"We haven't even been upstairs to see the flying saucer part yet," I said.

"A guy in the bathroom told me we have to commit to a BIP membership to get up there. So ... who did you pick to go to Mars? You saw me pleading for you to pick me, right?"

"Of course, but why would I pick you when you can go, too?"

"Double my chances."

"But I thought you didn't want to go with these weirdos."

"True ... but it would be hard to pass up if, say, someone like you picked me," he said, his eyes locked on mine now. "Besides, I've seen enough of Earth. I wouldn't mind starting over."

"Really? Life here is that bad?"

"Not when you're 21 like you, but ask yourself that same question again when you're 38 and see what you say."

That shut me up for a moment. I already had seen enough in 21 years to agree to give Mars a try.

"You're pretty evasive," he said out of the blue.

"What?"

"You're pretty ... and evasive."

I blushed and sipped more coffee. I wondered what it would be like to kiss an older man.

"Who are you taking to Mars?" he persisted, leaning toward me and blatantly staring at me.

"It doesn't matter. They'll never pick me after I laughed at the worst possible time ... again."

"Who?" he asked again, practically in my face now.

"No."

"Yes."

"Fine. My ex."

He finally sat back in his seat, amused as ever. His eyes were all wild with excitement for some reason.

" _Why on Earth_ would you take your ex-husband to _Mars_?" he asked, cracking me up.

"Good one."

"You're not divorced?" he asked, this time with a straight face somehow.

"Not yet. I would've been if I'd stayed with him."

"How long did you date?"

"Derek and I were on and off for like four years."

"High school sweethearts?"

"Sort of. I mean, we didn't start dating until senior year."

"And how long have you been single?"

"Three months."

"Do you think you'd get along better on a different planet?"

"Probably not, but it's not like we fought all the time or anything. We actually got along pretty well."

"Then why did you split?"

"I just wasn't ready to be super serious yet ... like marriage or engagement serious. Do you know what I mean?"

"Oh totally," he said, busting me. "I feel the same way. I'm not ready for that either."

"I should hope not."

"Virgil told me you're working on a book."

"Did he?"

"Yes. What about?"

"Well, it's kind of based on what I've gone through over the last few years or so," I said.

"Boy troubles?"

"You could say that, but on a number of different levels."

"Got a title yet?"

"I didn't really have one, but this latest chapter in my life has certainly given me an idea."

"Which is?"

"I think I might call it 'Scar Trek.'"

Bill laughed.

"I love it," he said. "Very appropriate."

If he only knew my scars, from a bullet wound to daddy issues to commitment phobia. I surmised Bill had plenty of emotional baggage, too, after two failed marriages.

"Which book of mine did you like?" he asked.

"'Pinch-hitting for Dad,'" I replied without hesitation.

"Really? One of my early ones."

"I loved every word of it."

"Wow. Thanks. ... Why?"

"I just loved how the girl's uncle stepped in after her dad died and was an even better dad than her actual dad," I said, trying not to get emotional just talking about it. "I guess I wished I had an uncle or dad like that. I read it in like eighth or ninth grade, not long after my dad cheated on my mom and left us. I read that book like five times ... at least."

Bill seemed genuinely blown away by what I'd said.

"Thanks. I needed to hear that," he said. "It's been a long time since I've heard someone tell me something like that about one of my books."

"No problem. I wouldn't have said it if it weren't true. You're a special writer," I said, putting my hand on his arm.

We looked at each other like it was time for one of us to make a move, but there was no privacy in the middle of this ballroom and, of course, Virgil — frazzled as ever — was walking across the room to ruin the moment. He sat down in the chair to my left.

"Enjoying the gala, Virgil?" Bill asked with a shit-eating grin.

It was pretty ironic that Virgil had begged both of us to come to this thing and we were having a better time than him. No doubt I was to blame for his troubles.

"Ha, ha," Virgil said sarcastically. "You're damn lucky our host Peter likes you so much, Nikki, or David would've booted your ass and mine out of here already," he added, pointing his long index finger at me.

"I couldn't help it. I had a buzz and Bill kept making me laugh," I said.

"Oh, throw me under the bus," Bill said, rocking backward and flailing his arms around for effect.

"See," I told Virgil with a laugh, pointing at Bill. "You see how he is."

Virgil nodded reluctantly. Then Bill feigned being serious and leaned forward again.

"This young woman very much held her own up there," Bill told Virgil while suddenly grabbing my shoulder. I shot him a look and his hand quickly retreated.

"That's exactly what Peter said," Virgil conceded. "He thought Nikki and David should have a show together on the new network next year ... perfect foils for each other."

"No shit? That's the odd couple all right," Bill said.

"I hope Peter was joking," I said. "I'd rather be left stranded on Mars alone than work closely with that asshole."

"Shhhhh," Virgil said, nearly putting his finger on my lips. I would've smacked him if he did.

"I'm not a robot, Virgil. I have feelings. I laugh at the wrong time sometimes. I get drunk. I make mistakes. How many times do I have to say it? Don't think you guys can control everything about me and decide who I work with just because I signed a two-year contract."

Virgil rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Two years? How much did you get?" Bill asked me.

"That's none of your business. Why? What did you get?"

"There you go again. Answering my question with a question," Bill said, smirking.

"I'll answer yours if you answer mine," I said.

"I got a one-book deal ... $250,000 advance," Bill said.

"Do we have to compare?" Virgil asked, utterly exasperated, like a babysitter with two unruly kids.

"Wow. I see where I stand," I said, razzing Virgil just for the fun of it.

"Why? What did you get?" Bill pressed.

"About $150,000 all together. They're paying for my senior year at B.U. as part of the deal."

"Very nice for a 21-year-old," Bill said, nodding.

Then he winked at me and I stuck out my tongue for some reason. The coffee was making me hyper. I just wanted to dance and forget about this blue-suited dog and pony show.

"Did I hear you say earlier that this guy was a dueling pianist?" I asked Virgil while hooking my thumb at Bill.

"Yes I did," Virgil replied with the slightest hint of a smile.

I whispered in Virgil's ear and he smiled even more.

"Uh oh," Bill said. "What are you two up to?"

Virgil nodded and headed for the stage.

"What the hell did you just do to me?" Bill asked me with a crazed look.

"Oh, I think you know," I said with a sly grin. "Let's liven this place up a little, don't you think? It's a celebration, after all," I added, kissing him on the cheek.

He definitely was stunned by that, but he smiled.

Virgil talked to Peter and the host seized the microphone from the band.

"Did everyone enjoy their dinner?" Peter asked.

Everyone cheered. That was unanimous.

"Dessert will be coming around shortly and now it's time to party," Peter said, beaming. "It's my understanding that we have a real entertainer among us this evening ... Bill Oz from Miami, Florida."

Bill shook his head and smiled. He seemed resigned to his fate now. He had no choice but to entertain the blue suits on this night.

"Stand up, Bill, so everyone can see you," Peter instructed.

Bill did as he was told.

"Bill, won't you come up and sit in on piano ... maybe play a couple of tunes with the band?" Peter asked as Virgil clapped. At least he liked one thing I said tonight.

Others began clapping in rhythm with Virgil and I soon joined in as well.

"Some day, Blue, I'll get you back for this," Bill told me with half a grin before making his way toward the stage.

Bill shook hands with the band members and sat down at the piano. I'd had my turn on stage in Mars Wing and now it was Bill's turn in Earth Wing. The big difference was he looked completely comfortable — a lot better than I did wedged between David and V.X. Of course, I didn't have a piano to hide behind either.

"Here's an old and very fitting song you all might know ..."

With his tall, thin frame and fuzzy hair, Bill even looked like a younger version of Art Garfunkel as he began singing a tender and moving version of Simon & Garfunkel's classic, "Bridge Over Troubled Water":

" _When your weary, feeling small,  
When the tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all;  
I'm on your side. When times get rough  
and friends just can't be found  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will lay me down.  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will lay me down."_

As the song progressed, he changed the lyrics from silver girl to blue girl, he told me later. He looked at me as he sang it, too:

" _Sail on blue girl,  
Sail on by.  
Your time has come to shine.  
All your dreams are on their way.  
See how they shine.  
If you need a friend,  
I'm sailing right behind.  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will ease your mind.  
Like a bridge over troubled water,  
I will ease your mind."_

I was so impressed by his voice and his stage presence. We all gave him a standing ovation at the end and he nodded appreciatively, but he wasn't done yet. Now it was time for him to have a little fun at the expense of The Bridge.

"Thank you all very much. This next song I will play, the band has no hope of knowing. Only the really young people know this one. I play it for them once in a while at Howl at the Moon in Coconut Grove and they all go crazy. I hope you Bridge people have a sense of humor and know how to dance. It's by an unknown Swedish band named Icona Pop and ... I love it."

I started cracking up because I had a pretty good idea which song he was talking about and I loved it, too. Though the original version was sung by two young women, Bill's strong voice and wild stage personality had no trouble grabbing the fast-paced song by the hair and unleashing it at us until we stomped along to the beat. He used his hands to play percussion on top of the piano:

" _I got this feeling on the summer day when you were gone.  
I crashed my car into the bridge.  
I watched, I let it burn.  
I threw your shit into a bag  
and pushed it down the stairs.  
I crashed my car into the bridge.  
I don't care. I love it.  
I don't care."_

Stephanie and I led the charge of at least a dozen younger blue suits out onto the dance floor, and Bill smiled as he sang:

" _You're on a different road,  
I'm in the Milky Way.  
You want me down on Earth,  
but I'm up in space.  
You're so damn hard to please,  
we gotta kill this switch.  
You're from the '70s, but I'm a '90s bitch.  
I love it!  
I love it!"_

The truth is Bill completely hooked me with that song. Maybe because I'm a '90s bitch and I loved the way he sang that part directly to me like it was the last song of his life.

Turns out, it wasn't. Bill wrapped his jam session by turning the old funk hit 'Brick House" into "Bridge House," enticing older Bridge folks onto the dance floor as well.

Right after he took his bows and got off stage, I dragged Bill by the hand into the empty women's bathroom (the ratio of way more men than women certainly paid off), we killed the switch and crashed into each other.

No first date? 17-year age gap? What did Virgil, David and V.X. think?

I don't know. I never looked back.

I loved it!

**CHAPTER 20: CRUISE MISSILES**

William

Christmas Eve day on Clearwater Beach and I was Rudolph, except more than my nose was turning red. After taking a quick dip in the Gulf of Mexico and pointing out a few colorful sea shells to my 5-year-old son, I retreated to the umbrella. Only the love of a father for his son could get me on a beach during a hot Florida afternoon, so there I was. I'd much rather go in the evening.

A messy-haired kid like his father, Max had the darker locks and features of his mother. He'd always lived in Florida, so that northern kind of snowy Christmas was as foreign to him as a happy marriage was to me. Shelly would be stopping by my beachfront hotel to pick up Max in about an hour, so our father-son Hallmark Christmas neared its end.

Max splashed in the surf about 20 yards in front of me, entertaining himself as only the lonely child of a divorced couple could. It was second nature to him by now. A bag of Christmas gifts and a lunch of cheeseburgers and fries could only go so far. Attempting to play with him in the water already felt like an invasion of his personal space. He preferred that I sit in the chair and watch him like his mother does, mobile device in hand no doubt.

As if on cue, my own gadget rang. It was not a number I recognized.

"Hello?"

"Bill?"

"Speaking."

"It's David Michael from The Bridge."

I shook my head, but I kept my voice pleasant.

"Hi David. How are you?"

"I'm great actually. I don't want to take up much of your time on Christmas Eve, but I did want to thank you personally for committing to a BIP contract and sending it in. We're happy to have you on board and from what I've heard, you're being considered as a strong candidate for one of the prized seats on a Mars mission."

My bullshit detector wanted to go off, but the guy actually sounded sincere.

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

"I'm with my space partner right now, as a matter of fact."

"Who's that?"

"I'd like to take my son, Max, if I get to go, but my ex-wife will never allow that."

"Never say never," David said. "A lot can happen between now and 2024, when training begins."

"Yeah, I suppose it could," I replied distractedly as Max ran back toward me to display his trophy — a small dead crab in the palm of his hand.

"Membership has its privileges," David added, his voice a little weird.

"Dad, look, dad, look!" Max shouted, jamming the crab close enough to my face that I could've eaten it for a late lunch. The boy had no problem with personal space now, as long as a decaying crustacean was involved.

"That's great Max," I said.

"I can hear you're busy, Bill. I'll let you go," David said.

But Max took off running, dead crab in tow, and splashed back into the waves.

"No, I can talk," I told David.

"Can I advise you not to get too attached to you-know-who," he said.

"You-know-who?"

"That PTS your planning to spend your New Year's Eve with."

"Nikki?"

"Yes, her."

"How do you know about that?"

"She signed, too ... we try to be aware of where are special members are, even during the holidays."

"I guess I'm not surprised you guys do that, but I am surprised you take on people who you already feel are a PTS," I said.

"Our members don't always fit the mold perfectly and we do try to be open-minded, particularly in these early stages of our development."

"So are you telling me not to see Nikki on New Year's Eve? I mean, she already booked the flight to Miami."

"I'm not saying that at all. I'm just advising you to keep it all in perspective and realize that we view her as someone who may or may not work out. We are divided on a leadership level as to her future in The Bridge."

"Wow. Does she know that?"

"I'm about to call her and thank her for joining as well. I will tell where she stands and I have every confidence she will rise to the occasion based on what Virgil has assured me."

Now my bullshit detector lit up.

"She's young, David. Young means volatile."

"It can also mean stupid, reckless and misguided. I hope any time you do spend with her will be used wisely and in the spirit of helping her blossom into a valued and productive member of The Bridge. Nikki Blue is a dynamic young woman with a great life story. You could help influence her to be a future leader and problem solver ... or let her flail as a PTS."

"I'm surprised you still use the L. Ron lingo," I said.

"The Bridge itself comes from the founder. ... The Bridge to Freedom is his."

"So obvious I missed that," I said.

"We owe some debt to the founder after all."

"I'm in his flag city as we speak."

"All the more reason you need us watching your back. You know they don't like us," David said, referring to the Scientologists.

"The feeling is mutual," I said.

"Good to hear you say that. I look forward to reading your manuscript."

"Yes, it's coming along swimmingly," I lied.

Perhaps David's bullshit detector had just gone off because he paused for a moment before responding.

"Have you thought of a title yet?" he finally asked.

"I'm thinking, 'Cruise Missiles: Targeting the Madness of Scientology.' Now if I could just squeeze an expletive in there somewhere ..."

David laughed. Weirdly. I had never heard the man laugh before. He sounded like an out-of-tune machine gun.

"I wouldn't want to pay the legal bills fighting Mr. Cruise on that one," he said of the crazy Scientologist actor, "but it sounds like you're on the right track, Bill."

"Thanks. I'll keep working at it."

"Great. Merry Christmas to you and yours."

"Is that a joke?" I asked, pretty sure David wasn't a fan of Christianity.

"Sort of," he said. "Enjoy the holidays."

"You, too, David. Thanks for the call."

I tossed my phone onto the beach blanket and tried to process the bizarre conversation, but Max returned with a pile of colorful sea shells cupped in his hands, crowned by the dead crab. Shells a la Oscar. He grinned as he showed me his nautical treasures.

"Good stuff, Max," I said, ruffling his mop of hair. "Imagine what we could find together on Mars."

He squinted and gazed at me like I had three heads.

"Mars? What the heck are you talking about, dad?"

I laughed.

"Wouldn't you want to go with me to Mars some day, son?" I persisted, just to entertain myself; just to watch a 5-year-old process the same insane question Nikki and I and the rest of us Bridge folk were supposed to take seriously now that we had sold our souls to the likes of David Michael.

"Like in a rocket ship?" he asked excitedly.

"Yeah, a rocket ship. You, me and some astronauts ... and maybe even a girl with blue hair."

"Blue hair?"

"Yes, son."

"An alien?"

"No. She's an Earthling like us," I said with a chuckle.

"Can mom come, too?" he asked.

I paused before answering that stumper.

"No. She's too afraid of heights," I told him. "She won't ride a Ferris wheel ... how's she gonna blast off into space?"

Max nodded. My pity for him was as vast as the universe in that moment. I fought back tears just looking into his confused blue eyes. Perhaps a portion of that pity was reserved for myself.

Would my son even know me well enough by the time he was 16 to want to hang out with me on Earth, never mind Mars?

**CHAPTER 21: ADAM BOMB**

Nikki

It had always been impossible to tell my mother just a shred of the truth, because then she would shred me until she harvested all of it. Conversely, I'd always been a terrible liar — including by omission — and we both knew it. It was bad enough I had the terrible secret about Adam's homicidal father grating on my soul. I could not lie to my mother on top of that.

So yes, by Christmas Eve, I not only had revealed to her that I was interested in a 38-year-old man from Miami, but also that he was twice divorced and the father of a 5-year-old boy.

_And_ I was going to fly down to see him for New Year's Eve.

Needless to say, she was not filled with the Christmas spirit during my whirlwind visit back home to New Hampshire. It turned into a torturous, on and off, two-day lecture that could've been titled, "One Thousand and One Ways to Ruin Your Life."

"You broke up with Derek for this? A long-distance relationship with someone old enough to be your father?" she ranted, more to herself than me, because I'd already tuned her out at this point. "You really do have a screw loose, Nikki."

On and on she went. I knew what I was doing made no sense on a lot of levels, but for some reason, I didn't care. I liked Bill. A lot. He was interesting. Different. He could write. He could sing. He could captivate with a simple look or an over-the-top performance. I wasn't going to marry him any more than I was Derek, so what difference did it make if he was 38? I didn't want to marry anyone for a long, long time. So just let me live my life and stop judging me.

I had really been looking forward to seeing Bill again after our brief encounter in September. We had talked and Facetimed since then, but that was just a tease. I wanted _Bill Oz, Live in Miami_. And I wasn't going to change my plans just because my mom hated the idea. Besides, Meghan and her friend, Sarah, were flying down there with me. I wasn't going to bail on them now. The trip wouldn't _all_ be about Bill. Just mostly.

My phone's ring tone interrupted my mother's diatribe and I lunged for it like a life preserver in a riptide.

"Hello?"

"Nikki Blue?" the eerily familiar voice asked.

"Yes?"

"It's David Michael."

I held my breath for a second.

"Hi David."

"I just wanted to give you a quick call and welcome you as a new BIP member," he said, sounding sincere. "Thank you for signing on with us."

"You're welcome, but I only did it because Virgil and Peter assured me I had a 99 percent chance to go to Mars if I joined. ... You must be the 1 percent that stands between me going and not going, right?"

"Absolutely not right. You are that 1 percent. Take this membership seriously, become a productive and valued contributor to our cause, and you will punch your own ticket. Take it as a joke ..."

"I do apologize for laughing at all the wrong times."

"Apology accepted."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Why would you kick a Boston Herald reporter out of the Watertown gala and yet you approve hiring me ... a former intern reporter ... as director of information at the Waterbury branch?"

"Virgil saw something in you right away and he vouched for you. I value Virgil's opinion. Peter also sees something in you. I value his opinion. Even though you made a bad first impression on me, I really do try to keep an open mind."

"Well, I'll try to do the same with you then."

"That's great to hear because I have some news I think you will like."

"Really? What?"

"We have some exciting assignments planned for you in the coming year so be ready to take advantage of every opportunity."

"I will. Can you give me any hints about those assignments?"

"I can give you one at least," he said. "Peter has requested that you attend a taping of The Bridge Network TV show in Cape Town, South Africa, in February. You will be among a panel of guests."

"Oh my God! It would be so cool to go there! Tell Peter I happily accept."

"I will. Merry Christmas to you and your family, Nikki."

"Merry Christmas, David. Thank you for calling."

"You're welcome. Goodbye."

"Bye."

I stood there in shock, with my mouth open, for nearly a minute. Miami. Cape Town. Mars. Really? Suddenly I was a worlds traveler. And the creepy guy who'd been signing my paychecks shockingly had blossomed into someone far more pleasant to talk to than _my own mother_.

"Well, are you going to tell me what that was all about or what?" she nagged me as she pulled some gingerbread cookies out of the oven. The delightful scent pulled me closer to her in the kitchen.

"My boss' boss just called to tell me they want me to go to Cape Town, South Africa, in February to tape a TV show," I said, squealing and stealing a cookie at the same time.

"I don't know what to say, Nikki," she said, raining on my parade again with her sour expression and negative tone. "You've got so much going on so fast that I can't even begin to process it all."

"Say you're happy for me. Try that for once. The last time I was here in the summer, I was miserable. So were you."

"I was upset because you were depressed. Should I be happy that my daughter is depressed?"

"Well, here I am six months later and I'm much happier, but you're still so negative."

"Because you're happiness is based on some kind of tryst ..."

"Tryst? Oh, it's a tryst now to make it sound even worse? I'm not his mistress."

"Utter foolishness, madness ... whatever you want to call it then."

"Thanks. That's much better."

"One week you're flying off to Miami to see a much older man. In two months, you're flying off to the other side of the world to do God knows what."

Good thing I hadn't told her about the possible Mars mission at least. That might've killed her.

"It's my _job_ ," I said. "These are the people paying for my senior year at B.U., remember?"

"I know that, but I still worry that you're in way over your head with those people. And I do not approve of you seeing that older man whatsoever."

"Here we go again."

"Then why won't you listen for once?"

"Because I'm 21 now. I get to make my own decisions about who I see."

"Maybe if you listen to me, you won't make a huge mistake."

"Yeah, well, mistakes are part of life. You should know."

She looked crushed, but I wasn't done making my point.

"You and dad are almost the same age and look how that turned out. Age is only a number," I said rather sharply.

"Thanks, Nikki. Thanks so much for reminding me about that. You know what? I really don't like who you are right now ... I think I need to leave for a while."

I rolled my eyes.

"Mom, do you have to be so dramatic?"

She didn't answer. She went to put on her jogging outfit. She was going to run a few miles even though it was like 20 degrees out.

I now wished I had gone to visit my father instead. I hadn't gone to North Carolina because I refused to fly twice in two weeks, especially during the holidays. I'd decided the fairly short drive to endure my mother's torture was preferable to jammed airports and tedious security checks. I also wasn't sure I could get through spending a Christmas with my father and Jamie without spilling the beans that he had cheated on her, too. I know I would've tried to put him on the spot at least once or twice for my own entertainment.

Just then my phone pinged with a new text. It was from Adam.

"Herd yor in town. Get 2 gather xmas nite?"

I sighed and texted back.

"Not sure. Might just do girls nite out with Candace 2morrow."

Ever since Adam asked me out on the summit of Mount Chocorua — _after_ making me an accessory to obstruction of justice — my preference was to avoid him like the plague.

He didn't text back, which made me wonder what his next move would be. I'd heard Derek was back in town for Christmas, too, but we hadn't talked since before Halloween. I sort of felt like calling him, but I wasn't sure I could handle seeing him in person so I resisted. My focus was on Bill now, at least for New Year's. I really looked forward to warm sunshine, palm trees and finishing what we started in the ladies' room in Earth Wing.

***

Candace Cooper met me at the only place open on Christmas night — Chili's. Yes, that Chili's. The same one Derek and I went to for our first date more than four years ago. The night before I got shot.

Candace, my best friend in high school and former hiking partner, strutted into the restaurant wearing a long black coat, black boots and her shoulder-length auburn hair did indeed have a few streaks of blue in it. I hadn't seen her in so long that I literally started to cry when we hugged for like two minutes. Everyone waiting for a table stared at us — two young women with blue hair acting like lost loves!

"Merry Christmas, C.C. I love your hair," I laughed through tears.

"I'm totally sick of it, but I kept it one more night just for you," she said, standing nearly six feet tall in her elevated boots. I felt like her kid sister.

After we finally got a booth, Candace talked at length about her boyfriend of nearly a year. Kyle lived in Nashua like she did; he was 26, only five years older than she. They had met at a party. Boy, did I have a surprise for her. She knew I had broken up with Derek, but I hadn't told her about Bill. I wanted her reaction to that in person.

"So ... what's it like being single? I forget," Candace giggled, then sipped her salt-rimmed margarita.

I did the same. Oooh, it tasted good. Sooooo nice to be 21.

"I'm mostly single," I said, chuckling.

"What?" she gasped. "What does mostly mean?"

"I'm flying to Miami for New Year's Eve," I declared proudly, feeling more excited with every word.

"Are you serious? I'm so jealous now. Are you going there with someone?"

"No, more like going there to see someone."

"Oooh. Tell me more."

"He's someone I met through work. He's kind of a famous author."

"Wow. What's his name?"

"Well, his real name is William Osborne, but his pen name is Bill Oz."

"I've never heard of him."

"You're not exactly an avid reader."

"No shit, but wow. That's really cool."

"Guess how old he is," I said, smiling.

"Uh oh," she said, laughing. "Well, if he's an author, he must be at least 30. So, I'll say 33."

"Higher."

Candace opened her mouth and covered it with her hand.

"36?" she tried again.

"Higher."

"No way, Nikki."

"40? He better not be 40."

"38," I finally said. "Although he'll be 39 in January."

"That's crazy. You're 21."

"Don't start. My mom is all over me about it."

"Poor Lynn."

"Poor Lynn? Poor me."

We both laughed.

"Does your father know?" Candace asked.

"No. I didn't tell him about Bill yet. I'm sure my mother will at some point, but she's still mad at him for taking me out for beers in June."

Candace shook her head.

"That's just so unlike you, Nikki. You're the good girl. You get the good grades, rescue your high school from assassins ..."

"Assassins?" I nearly choked. "Those two?"

"OK, maybe I'm being overly cinematic. I've been watching lots of movies with Kyle lately. But my point is, you are not the girl who dates 38-year-old men."

"I'm not the same girl you remember. I'm ..."

"Yes?"

"Different."

"Well that's rather nondescript, Miss Writer, who dates famous authors I've never heard of."

"I don't know how to explain it. I guess I'm more jaded, more ... I-don't-give-a-fuck-anymore about certain things because ..."

"Wow. Who are you and what have you done with young, self-righteous Nicole?" Candace asked with a faux deep detective-sounding voice.

I gasped. "Self-righteous?"

"Yeah, a little too good for the rest of us."

"Really?"

"Really."

"No wonder he called me the most annoying person on the fucking planet."

"I didn't say that. Who said that about you?"

"My would-be assassin," I said as the waitress arrived with Candace's second margarita.

"Another for you as well?" she asked me.

"Yes, please," I replied, grinning. It sure was nice to drink legally and chat with my old friend.

"Adam had the gall to call you the most annoying person on the fucking planet?" Candace pressed.

"No, no, no ... Thomas did."

Candace pulled her own hair in confusion.

"Am I missing something? Isn't he in jail?"

"It's a long story. My company suggested ... more like insisted ... that I Skype with Thomas to stop the nightmares."

"And you didn't quit that job _immediately_?"

"The really insane part is it actually worked. I haven't had a nightmare since."

"I don't care. You should still _sue them_ right now if you haven't already," Candace said.

I so missed her confident advice. She had always been the practical one. I bit my lip and felt like crying.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"What's wrong is I wish you were in my life every day like you used to be," I said. "You always ... well, usually, had my back."

"That's fair," she said, nodding. "You pushed my limits and then some, but I tried. I mean ... hanging out with Adam? Hiking in the woods with a kid like that? I hope you didn't actually climb that mountain with him alone over the summer when I couldn't make it."

I bit my lip again.

"You did? What are you thinking, Nikki? And you talked to Thomas on Skype? What the fuck? Do you get off on spending quality time with psychopaths?"

"You've hiked with Adam more than once. He's not that bad. He's turned his life around somewhat," I said as my second margarita arrived. I immediately licked some salt and took a huge gulp. Candace watched me and judged me, no doubt.

"I think it's amazing how you reached out to that kid and helped him ... and saved all of us in the process," she said. "But there's a pretty big line there that he crossed when he _even considered_ doing what he planned to do. I look back on all that and I must've been crazy to go hiking with him after that. I only did it to be there for you. But at some point, you've got to be smarter than that, Nikki. Stop putting yourself into dangerous situations. You can't save the world. No one can."

"Yeah, I know. I'm not as naive as I used to be. Believe me."

"God, I hope so. ... So I'm afraid to ask ... what happened on the hike?"

"Well, he asked me out after I told him I broke up with Derek."

"Of course. Please tell me you said no."

"Of course."

"And he went nuts and tried to throw you off the mountain."

"No. He handled it quietly. He's not the same person either. He's grown up a little."

"And Thomas? I suppose he's a jailhouse scholar now."

"No. He's still a stupid asshole."

"And yet the fact that the stupid asshole who shot you also called you the most annoying person on the fucking planet bothers you, doesn't it?"

I grimaced.

"Unbelievable," she said, shaking her head. "Are you that insecure? Why?"

"I don't know. Is it true?"

"No, it's not true. Would I be sitting here with you right now if it were?"

"Well, we're definitely not as close as we used to be."

"Not because I think you're annoying. We have our own lives now."

"I know, I know. It's just hard. Sometimes I just wish things were the way they used to be."

"Everything changes."

"Change sucks sometimes."

"And sometimes it doesn't."

"You're so ... refreshing," I said.

Candace laughed. "Like a margarita, right?"

"Exactly."

Then it was her turn to grimace, apparently, as she looked past me, toward the restaurant's entrance.

"What?" I asked.

"Don't turn around. I can't believe this."

"Believe what?"

"Speak of the fucking devil. It's Adam Upton. He sees me. Us. Fucking blue hair twins. Tell me you didn't just Adam bomb me or I will agree with Thomas that you are the most annoying person on the fucking planet."

"I did not Adam bomb you. I had no idea he was coming here tonight."

"Well, he's walking our way right now, so isn't this just a fairy tale Christmas twist," she scoffed.

I glanced back. Adam approached our booth with some hesitation. He wore a dark, oversized ski jacket and flashed a nervous smile when we exchanged looks. In some ways, he was still the same big awkward mess of a boy who hiked with me and Candace around Rainbow Lake four years ago.

"Merry Christmas, Nikki," he said. "Candace, too. Wow. Haven't seen you in a long time."

Candace just raised her eyebrows and bit her tongue.

"Merry Christmas, Adam," I said, standing up to give him a quick hug. "What are you doing here?"

"It's the only place open. Just stopping by ... seeing who's back in town for the holidays," he said.

"I don't mean to be rude, but this is kind of a girls' night out," I said. "I hope you understand. I haven't seen Candace in a long time and I just want to catch up with her tonight."

Adam nodded, but he seemed annoyed. I did feel a little badly about it, but I also felt like he had searched for us and set himself up for this.

"Sure. I get it," he said, then looked distractedly out our window and frowned. "I thought you and Derek broke up."

"We did," I said.

"Well, he's here."

Candace and I followed Adam's gaze until we saw Derek, too. He was walking from his car toward the entrance. Shit!

"I don't believe this," I mumbled.

"The ghosts of Christmas past," Candace quipped, taking another drink. "The grim reaper might be next."

"I'm sorry. I so just wanted it to be you and me tonight," I said, flustered.

"Relax. Focus on me, talk to me ... forget about all of them."

Adam bristled at that comment and then exchanged suspicious looks with Derek after he'd entered the restaurant. I didn't even turn around. Candace whispered to me what was happening.

"I think he came here looking for you," she whispered, "just like this one," nodding toward Adam. He still hovered over our table with no sign of budging. Could this Christmas possibly get any more awkward? "And he's coming over," Candace added. I guess it could.

Adam looked extremely uncomfortable, but he had spent time in prison. I don't think he was intimidated by Derek, even when my ex strutted right up to our booth and ignored him as if he didn't exist.

"Merry Christmas, Nikki," Derek said, looking only at me but his voice as cold as the December evening. "Candace," he added, nodding toward her for a split-second, then glaring at me again.

I didn't get up. Clearly, this was not a friendly visit.

"Merry Christmas, Derek," I said, matching his coldness. "What are you doing here?"

Adam just watched the whole tense situation like he hadn't helped cause it. He probably thought I was lying about Derek and me not getting back together until he observed our frozen interactions for himself. It likely cheered him up. Candace's eyes bugged out at the whole scene and I knew she wouldn't keep her mouth bottled up for much longer.

"I was hoping to talk to you," Derek said to me.

"So was I," Adam suddenly piped up, but he, too, looked only at me. "Get in line, I guess."

Adam hedged his command just enough to make it sound less hostile, but Derek got right in his face.

"Take a fucking walk, Upton," he said, just loud enough to draw the attention of a passing male waiter and several nearby customers.

Adam backed up one step, but did not walk away. Candace stood up on her side of the booth.

"That's enough, both of you," she told Derek and Adam. "It's Christmas, for Christ sake. Can't we all just get along and leave poor Nikki alone? This is a girls' night out and neither of you were invited so why don't you _both_ take a fucking walk."

"Is there a problem?" the waiter asked as he stepped in between Derek and Adam.

"No," Derek said. "I'm gone."

He walked out, Adam shook his head and slumped off toward the restroom, and I didn't know what to do.

"I should go talk to him," I said, suddenly jumping up to chase after Derek.

"You've got five minutes, Nikki," Candace warned. "This is our date or I'm leaving."

"Got it," I said, running without my jacket through the double doors and out into the frigid night.

I knocked on Derek's driver's side window and he lowered it.

"I'm sorry about all that," I said.

"You should be," he snapped.

"Candace gave me five minutes to talk or she's gonna bolt so what did you want to say?"

"Your mother just told me you're dating a guy who's like 40," he said, totally pissed off.

"How did my mother tell you that?"

"Because I went to her house to find you."

"What? No call, no text ... you just show up there. Show up here. I already have Adam doing that to me ... and now you?"

"Don't put me on the same level as that psycho dip shit, Nikki," he said, pointing at me.

"Why are you so angry? We broke up like six months ago. You don't get to judge me or who I'm dating now. I don't do that to you."

He shook his head in disgust and started his car.

"Don't worry. You won't see me again. Go back inside and have a wonderful life," he said, backing up quickly and gunning it out of there before I could get another word out of my trembling mouth.

I stood there frozen on so many levels for a good minute. The former love of my life had just twisted a virtual knife through my gut.

Adam then loomed next to me.

"What happened?" he asked.

I didn't answer. I could see Candace rapidly waving to me through the window, ushering me back inside the restaurant.

"Did you guys get back together?" Adam asked for the second time that night.

I tried to contain my anger. And somehow I did. Sadness won out.

"Did it really look like we were still in love, Adam?" I replied through clenched, chattering teeth.

"Um ... no."

"Then there's your answer."

"Sorry I crashed your Christmas party," he said, slowly walking toward his car, probably hoping I'd run to him in my fragile state.

"Sorry I'm such a bitch," I replied, more to myself than Adam, as I stumbled back into Chili's wishing I were 17 again.

**CHAPTER 22: NIKKI BEACH**

William

It's not often the stars collide just perfectly in this life, but when they do, you better throw yourself into the beautiful explosion and become one with the orgasmic supernova.

Nikki had asked for a dark room, just like the ladies room in Earth Wing where we first collided. She could pretend I wasn't 38. I could pretend she wasn't 21. And we could just go at it like a man and woman should — without a second thought.

Instead, I took her to a neon outdoor nightclub throbbing with hipsters, tourists and supermodels; swinging with hammocks and white cabana beds cradling some of the hottest asses from all over the world; sparkling with Christmas lights, tiki torches and a floor of white Miami Beach sand that eventually led away from it all down to the moonlit surf of the Atlantic Ocean.

Why this place? Because it's actually called Nikki Beach. I did not make that up. Some other brilliant person did. And I thank him or her very much because Nikki Blue was very impressed ... to the point of undress.

The place is popular and I had been here twice before: once at night and once for a Sunday liquid brunch, believe it or not. But I had never been to Nikki Beach with a Nikki before.

In fact, I had never been with a Nikki before at all. And now it was time.

We ditched her friends, Meghan and Sarah, who were loaded and gyrating somewhere on the crowded outer dance floor way back toward the club's actual building. It's easy to forget there's an indoor bar here as well, because most of the action takes place in the sprawling beach bar area.

Hand in hand, we slipped away from the thumping music, the bumping, the grinding, and followed the yellow brick road — er white smooth sand — to Oz.

This Oz has always loved the beach at night, but especially when the young woman accompanying me suddenly breaks free from my grip and starts running toward the swirling foam and soothing thunder while leaving a trail of sexy clothes in her wake. I quickened my pace along her streaking path and matched her, unmentionable for unmentionable, until we reunited in a wardrobe of warm ocean water.

I led her deeper into the sea and a wave nearly knocked her over, but I grabbed her and made sure I got to be the one to do that — which I did a moment later. We rolled naked in the surf and attacked each other with a relentless barrage of saltwater kisses that left us breathless and unquenched. Then I righted myself in the water, waves pounding my back, sand scraping my bare ass and Nikki straddling my front. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, anchored herself on the hardest part of my body and rode me with a force equivalent to the ocean itself.

That thunderously pleasurable experience struck me as too euphoric for Earth, too wet for Mars. No, this was a new, secret and undiscovered place in the universe.

And all that other stuff back behind us was just one, big, loud front.

On New Year's Eve eve 2018, I'd finally found the real Nikki Beach.

**CHAPTER 23: LOVELESS FASCINATION**

Nikki

New Year's Eve. Clevelander Hotel's poolside bar. Ocean Drive. Miami. Flirting with Bill. Drinking. Laughing. Dancing with Meghan and Sarah.

Fun.

I never saw it coming. Danger. Again.

A stranger grabbed my hips from behind and wouldn't let go, grinding himself into me and freaking me out like I hadn't been scared since Thomas pointed a gun at me. His grip was so strong. Then one hand moved up, grabbed my right breast and squeezed. But seconds later, another stranger came to my rescue. A big black man. He put my attacker in a headlock, dragged him toward a barrier and tossed him onto the street like a rag doll. Then he jumped over the barrier, too.

I never saw either one of their faces.

"Are you OK?" I heard over and over.

So many concerned faces — familiar and unfamiliar — in front of me now. Bill. Meghan. Sarah. Two bouncers. Everyone else around the pool staring at me.

"I think so," I finally said. "Who saved me?"

"No idea," one bouncer said. "He wasn't one of our guys."

"Miss, do you want us to call the police?" the other bouncer said.

"I want to go thank him," I said, pointing toward the street.

"He literally just kicked that guy's ass down to the Atlantic," Bill said. "Let's get you out of here, Nikki. We can ring in the new year away from all of this ... at my place."

"But Meg and Sarah ..."

"Go with Bill, Nikki," they said.

"But the guy ..."

"I have a theory," Bill said. "Let's go."

***

The warm, tropical breezes caressing my face and hair on Bill's sea-facing balcony helped calm me down. A glass of red wine didn't hurt either.

"How are you feeling?" Bill asked, sipping — what else — but a mojito next to me on a clear, beautiful night. The charismatic piano man had an acoustic guitar by his side tonight. I was counting on a serenade to greet 2019.

"How much time til the ball drops?" I asked.

"Twenty minutes ... and you didn't answer my question."

"I'm sorry. I do that a lot, don't I?"

"Yes."

"I feel ... I don't know ... fucked up, I guess."

"Good. You should."

"It's all your fault," I said, trying to be playful despite the circumstances.

"Why?"

"You didn't want to dance."

"I wasn't drunk enough yet."

"Meghan is 4-foot-11. Sarah is 98 pounds."

"I know. I should've been out there with you," he said, shaking his head.

"It's OK."

"I feel bad ... especially because of what you've already gone through. Did that really happen? Someone actually wanted to shoot you ... kill you?" he asked.

I lifted my shirt and showed him the scar from the bullet wound on my right side. Though I'd told him what happened, I hadn't emphasized the visual proof until now. Bill silently inspected it in the multicolored glow of twinkling Christmas lights framing his cozy, second-floor perch.

"I guess I should've noticed sooner, but you distracted me with your ... you know."

He smiled. When he did, I did. It was automatic.

"I guess I'm just a magnet for crazy people," I said.

"Yeah ... here's another one," he said, thumbing toward himself.

I nodded and stared at him.

"The good kind of crazy," I said. "So ... who was that guy who rescued me?"

"I don't know for certain, but I'm pretty sure he was hired by The Bridge to protect you ... us," he said, struggling to get the last word out.

"Really? A bodyguard?"

"Why not? Membership has its privileges. We're both Bridge Inter Planetary stars of the universe now," he said, chuckling.

"Now that you mention it, Virgil has told me more than once, 'We protect our assets.'"

"We're officially assets. Don't you feel special?" he asked.

"Do you? I'm officially paranoid. We've got people watching our back now. They could be spying on us right now," I said.

Bill cringed.

"What about last night?" he asked.

"Do we have to think about that? I loved last night. Don't ruin it."

"Cheers to that," Bill said, clinking his glass into mine.

"I could use some cheers. Christmas was awful. Now this ... _incident_ ... tonight."

"What can I do to help?"

I nodded toward his guitar and smiled.

"Any particular request? 'Crashed My Car Into The Bridge' again?" he asked with a lovably goofy grin as he grabbed the guitar.

"I so loved that. The perfect song for that stuffy crowd. I love your reckless sense of humor."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"What's your listening pleasure?"

"I'm thinking."

I sipped my wine, looked up and saw a few stars twinkling somewhere over the ocean.

"I've got it," I said.

"What?"

"It's an old one. Definitely your era, not mine, but I loved it the first time I heard it. Maybe you'll know it."

"What song?" he asked.

"Under the Milky Way."

He squinted, pretending like he didn't have a clue, but I knew he knew it. He played dumb anyway.

"What band?" he asked.

"The Church," I said.

"The Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints?"

"No," I laughed.

"The Church of Scientology?"

Before I had finishing rolling my eyes, he started playing. And singing. Beautifully. He made his voice deeper just like the original singer. He knew every word. I blushed and sang along with him, at least the words I knew.

" _Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty  
Sound of their breath fades with the light  
I think about the loveless fascination  
Under the Milky Way tonight_

Lower the curtain down on Miami  
Lower the curtain down all night  
I got no time for private consultation  
Under the Milky Way tonight

Wish I knew what you were looking for  
Might have known what you would find  
Wish I knew what you were looking for  
Might have known what you would find

And it's something quite peculiar  
Something shimmering and white  
Leads you here despite your destination  
Under the Milky Way tonight"

I clapped and hugged him.

"I can't believe you knew all the words," I said. "That's kind of an obscure song."

"Not for me. It's one of my favorites, too, though I've never played it in a dueling piano show. I did change one lyric — I said, 'Miami.' It's supposed to be 'Memphis.'"

"Very nice. I'm not even sure why I love that song so much. It doesn't make much sense."

"Maybe that's the beauty of it ... doesn't make much sense ... just like life."

"Just like us," I added with a smirk. "Do you prefer a loveless fascination?"

"Well, I don't pretend to understand love so ..."

"Even at 38?"

"Even at 38."

"I guess there's no hope for me then."

"Don't get your hopes up ... and there's hope for you," he said, pausing to reflect for a moment. "I actually prefer _like_ over love. I understand _like_. I really _like_ you. I really don't _like_ that we have so little time together and then you're gone ... to South Africa and who knows where else."

"You're starting to sound like my mother."

"You're starting to cut me with your words," he replied with an exaggerated grimace while setting down his guitar.

I smirked. We stared.

"We _will_ see each other again," I said. "I know that."

"I hope so."

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Holy shit. We missed it. 12:02."

"We didn't miss anything," I corrected him, standing up and taking him by the hand. "Come on then. Let's go make _like_ , like there's no tomorrow."

PART 3

**CHAPTER 24: CHANNEL 77**

Adam

I hate when I'm in my zone playing GTA and my phone keeps blowing up. Finally, I got sick of hearing it and I answered the damn thing.

"What?!!"

"Turn on Channel 77."

"What the fuck, Brody? I'm playing GTA."

"Well, you're missing your girlfriend. She's on TV right now," my younger brother told me.

"First of all, she ain't my girlfriend if you're talking about who I think you're talking about, and second of all, you better not be bullshitting me!" I shouted, hanging up on him and, of course, switching from Grand Theft Auto to Channel 77.

Holy shit. There she was ... blue hair and all. Blue-and-white ski jacket. Interviewing some guy at a ski resort.

"It is an unusual winter," the guy said as the camera focused only on him now. "Much warmer than normal. Not much snow. We're making what we can, but business is down 75 percent so far from last year at this time."

"What does that mean for you guys here at Wildcat?" she asked, referring to a pretty rad set of slopes in the nearby White Mountains, just north of where I live with my aunt Donna.

"It's catastrophic," the guy said. "It means cutting staff, at least temporarily. If it were early December, I wouldn't be so concerned. But this is late January now. Even if the weather pattern changes back in our favor, too much damage has been done. We took a beating for the holidays and now the whole month of January has been freakishly warm. That's business we just can't get back."

Finally, the camera switched back to Nikki. She looked kind of short next to the Wildcat guy, but she seemed pretty comfortable holding a mike on TV. She didn't seem nervous or anything. I had no effing clue she got a job on TV. I thought she was still in college in Boston. Then again, we hadn't talked since Christmas night ... if you could call that talking. We hadn't _really_ talked since summer ... on Mount Chocorua. She'd hated me ever since I asked her out; ever since I told her about what my dad did to Rodney Dwyer.

"That's the story from Wildcat Mountain," Nikki said, looking right at me now. "Back to you, Kevin."

I immediately flipped it back to GTA and whoa ... my aunt scared the shit out of me, even though I'm half a foot taller and probably 120 pounds heavier.

"What the ... how long have you been standing next to me?" I asked her. I was living in _her_ basement, but she rarely came downstairs.

"I couldn't believe I heard you watching the news," she said with that up-to-no-good twinkle in her eye. "I had to verify it with my own eyes before I believed my ears."

"Yeah, just flipping through the channels," I lied.

"Sure you were ... we know that girl, don't we?" she asked, full of mischief.

I sighed. Now I've gotta hear about it from her, too?

"Yes, that's Nikki Janicek," I admitted.

"Oh, the girl you go hiking with? She's on TV?"

"Yes."

"How wonderful. What a great job. Good for her."

"Yeah."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, nothing. You really like her, don't you?"

"Don't even start."

"I'm not trying to pry. I'm just saying she seems nice."

"Yeah, well, she's not _that_ nice ... she used to be ... back when she gave a shit about me."

"What happened?"

I shook my head. Not going there.

"Maybe I could give you a woman's perspective," she kept at it, like I knew she would.

I heaved a long-ass sigh at her, but she didn't budge.

"I asked her out on Mount Chocorua and she totally rejected me ... that's what happened."

"Well ... maybe the timing wasn't right."

"She was _finally_ single. Broken up from Derek. The timing couldn't have been any more _perfect_ ," I pointed out.

"Perfect for you maybe. Probably not for her, if she'd just broken up after a long relationship. And you guys are friends. She may not see you as a boyfriend yet if you've been friends for a while."

"She hasn't been much of a friend lately either. She's got her own life and I'm not part of it anymore."

"I know it's hard when people you knew for years suddenly grow up and move on," Donna said. "I do. It happened to me. It happens to all of us."

"I'm fine with it."

"No, I don't think you are, Adam, and that's OK. But I do think you're in a rut. And when you see other people you know doing exciting things, like Nikki getting a job on TV, it makes you feel worse about yourself."

"I'm a mall cop ex-con who's still on probation. I live in my aunt's basement. I have no girlfriend and no chance of getting one anytime soon. That's the way it is," I said with a shoulder shrug.

"It doesn't have to be that way. But if you want a better life and a better job and a girlfriend, you're going to have to put in some real effort. You can't just sit around playing Grand Theft Auto with all of your spare time. You're going to be 22 soon. Video games are for children."

I shook my head in disgust.

"I'm just telling it to you straight, Adam," she kept hammering away. "Playing video games won't get you a better job and a place of your own. You need to figure out what your true passion is and pursue it. You've got your GED. How about taking some classes at the community college? I could help pay for it. Look at Brody. He's learning a trade. You could do that. Follow in your father's footsteps."

"No thanks."

"I don't know what else to tell you. I can't live your life for you. But if you do start making something of yourself, the girls will notice. I promise you that. Even if you don't end up with Nikki, you'll find someone ... or she'll find you."

I nodded and silently begged for the lecture to end, but she had to get in one more shot to the gut.

"You can't live in this basement forever, Adam. It's time to start becoming your own man."

**CHAPTER 25: CAPE TOWN OR CRASH**

Nikki

The red-eye flight from Boston to Amsterdam seemed smooth, sleep-filled and short compared to the 12-hour fly-athon that awaited Virgil and me from the Netherlands to Cape Town. We had to cover the vertical length of Africa on a 777 jumbo jet rocked by relentless turbulence.

Three hours or so into the flight — 37,000 feet somewhere over the Sahara Desert, according to the little virtual plane on the small movie screen in front of me — the fear of imminent death stirred me from my zombie-like trance.

"What the?" I said, white-knuckling the tray table as the plane violently pinballed while plummeting what felt like a thousand feet in five seconds. "Virgil, wake up! We're about to die and you're gonna sleep right through it!"

He didn't even respond, so I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow.

"What? What?" he finally roused.

"I don't think this plane is going to make it."

"Why do you say that?"

"We almost just dropped out of the sky, that's why! How can you possibly sleep?"

"That's just the trade winds blowing us around. We'll be fine. Try to get some sleep."

"Zero chance of that. It's Cape Town or crash right now, and crash is winning. Please talk to me at least or I'm gonna lose it in front of all these people," I said, noticing that no one else seemed too concerned by the turbulence. Was I exaggerating? I don't think so.

Virgil sat up a bit, wiped the sleep out of his eyes and put on his glasses.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

"I don't know. I feel like we should know each other better than we do," I said as the plane banked left and dropped again, lodging my heart firmly back in my throat.

"Relax. We're not going to crash," he said, resting his hand on mine. "How are you going to blast off to Mars in a rocket if you can't handle a little turbulence on a plane?"

"The blastoff is going to be insane, but at least there's no wind in space. Doesn't matter. We're not going to survive this flight anyway."

"We're not going to crash. I promise."

"How do you know? You're not in the cockpit. The pilot isn't going to announce that the plane is about to split in half and send us all spiraling to our deaths."

Virgil shook his head and smiled.

"That's a lot of dropping bodies," he said with a chuckle.

"What kind of sick, morbid person are you? I'm suffering here and you think it's amusing."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's a Scientology expression ... an inside joke, but I couldn't resist."

"Thanks ... what the hell does it mean, other than the obvious?"

"When the founder of Scientology, L. Ron Hubbard, died in 1986, the guy who succeeded him, David Miscavige, told us that Hubbard didn't die; that he intentionally _dropped his body_ in order to reach a higher level of existence and insight."

"And you believed that story?"

"No, not really, but Hubbard really was this mythical, larger-than-life figure back then. I mean he wrote "Dianetics" and cured people of psychotic disorders and basically invented a religion that in some ways — not every way, of course — made more sense than all these crazy faiths from thousands of years ago."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"No," Virgil said, ruminating in what seemed like regret for a moment. "It's better off I didn't. I spent too much time in the RFP ... I would've tried to physically assault the man if I had been given the chance."

"RFP?"

"The Rehabilitation Project Force. It was like slave labor for those of us who screwed up or associated with the wrong person."

"Actual slave labor?"

"Yeah, endless menial tasks; eating leftover slop out of a bucket for weeks at a time; forced isolation. We weren't allowed to talk to nonRFPers. In the early days, Hubbard used to keep his own RFP crew stuffed on the bottom deck of his ship. Can you imagine the sea sickness? At least I was on dry land."

"I'm already nauseous from this flight, so don't even go there."

"Fine."

"You know, when I asked you to talk to me, I was hoping you'd have something more cheery to say before we all die," I said. "And why didn't you just quit if it was so awful?"

"I'd rather not get into all of that."

"Cryptic, as usual."

"How about this? I get to ask you one question that you answer truthfully and then you can ask me three that I answer truthfully."

I sighed and weighed the proposition. It was a suspiciously generous offer for Virgil.

"I don't know if I trust your version of the truth, but I'm willing to give it a shot," I said.

Virgil started to talk, but I immediately cut him off and looked around. Everyone within earshot was either asleep, had headphones on or both.

"This better be just between us — no recording, no telling the world."

"I agree. In fact, I was about to make the same stipulation to you."

"Fair enough. Fire away," I said.

"Who really killed Rodney Dwyer?" he pounced.

I winced.

"Your reaction confirms to me that it wasn't Thomas Harvey, so tell me the truth. What did you find out on that trip to New Hampshire?"

"You're asking me to break a vow to a friend."

"Yes I am. You get three questions after this, so I want my one question answered, vow or not."

He stared at me and waited as the damn plane pinballed again.

"Oh what the hell. We're all gonna die anyway," I said. "A dead man killed Rodney Dwyer."

"A dead man? What are you talking about?"

"A man named Gary Upton, who has since died of liver cancer. He was the father of my friend, Adam Upton ..."

"Oh, the other boy involved in the plot to kill ..."

"Yes, him. Turns out Rodney had bullied Adam, too, just like Thomas. Enough so that Gary took matters into his own hands."

"Where's the body ... the bones?"

"Adam doesn't know. His father confessed on his death bed to Adam, but he didn't go into a lot of specifics."

"Do you trust Adam?"

"Yes ... way more than Thomas. With Thomas, it was like he was ashamed he hadn't killed anybody ... so he lied to me that he'd killed Rodney. I think Thomas wants to make up for not killing him by killing everyone else."

Virgil nodded. "Good theory."

"Yeah, but now Adam and I know who killed Rodney and the kid is still technically missing. He was never found. If that ever gets out that we knew what happened to him, we could get busted for obstruction of justice, right?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but that's a lot of ifs ... and the murderer is dead, so it might be a lesser charge or nothing at all with the right lawyer."

"So should I worry about it or not?"

"No. I'd worry about that much less than your current fears of dying in a plane crash," he said with a playful grin.

"Ha, ha. Good. Now it's my turn."

"Go ahead."

"Number one: If I quit The Bridge at some point, will you guys come after me or do something bad to me?" I asked, bracing for his real answer, not the canned-sounding response I got before I signed the BIP contract with major reluctance.

"Absolutely not. You would have to fulfill your buyout clause like we talked about. In your case, you would be responsible for the equivalent of your final year of tuition at BU, plus room and board. If you some day began training for a Mars mission and you quit during that time, you'd be responsible for the equivalent of our costs to train you up to that point."

"That's really it? No Scientology-style stalking or smear campaigns like I've read about?"

"No. I told you no in December and I'm telling you no in February."

"What about next year and so on?"

"No, no, no ... we left Scientology and started our own organization for some of those exact reasons. We do things much differently at The Bridge."

"Good. Number two: What's your deal? You're still kind of a mystery to me. I mean, do you have a wife, a family?"

Virgil laughed out loud as the plane did another one of those side-to-side earthquake shakes. I covered my head with my hands and braced for impact. Virgil chuckled and half-hugged me. Then he whispered in my ear, "Your gaydar is terribly off."

I looked up at him in shock and then smiled. He didn't seem gay at all. In fact, he seemed more asexual than anything, though he did hug me when he was drunk at the gala. And he'd just hugged me now. Were we _bonding_?

"I had no idea. Is David gay, too?"

"Is that your third question?" he teased.

"No, no, no."

"He's not."

"Are you married? Boyfriend? This is all part of my family question."

"No. The love of my life died back in the late '80s. AIDS got him ... and so many others."

"I'm sorry."

"It's OK. That's practically a lifetime ago now. Long before you were born. I've had a few relationships since, but ...," he shook his head somberly.

"Now I feel bad I asked you such a personal question," I said.

"Don't be. You're right. We should get to know each other better. We're opening a Bridge center together in a few months after all."

"True. Can I still ask my third question?"

"Of course," he said, though he struggled to recapture his same jovial spirit from before.

"Who rescued me from that asshole who assaulted me in Miami?"

"A bodyguard," he replied, repeating his usual answer.

"Virgil. Who is he? How often does he follow me?" I pressed.

He sighed. He seemed to be growing weary of plunging-jetliner-truth-or-dare.

"His name is Roy. You don't need his last name. His job is to watch your back and he does it only when the situation calls for it."

"Is he on this plane right now by any chance?"

"That's too many questions."

"Fine," I said, unlatching my seatbelt and standing up. "Excuse me. I have to use the restroom."

"The seatbelt light is still on. It's not safe with all this turbulence," Virgil pointed out.

"Oh, now suddenly I'm in danger? Well I can't hold it for 12 hours so I'll just have to roll the dice and hope I don't crack my skull on the way down the aisle."

"Do you really have to go or are you scheming to find your bodyguard?"

"Both. And I might be gone a while if I have to ask every black man on board if his name is Roy," I whispered in his ear. "There are quite a few Africans flying today."

The groggy middle-aged white man on the other side of Virgil was looking at me now, annoyed at the prospect of having to get up so I could exit the row.

Virgil shook his head and huffed. "39H," he said.

"Thank you."

"Go easy on him. He won't be expecting you, obviously."

"Don't worry. I'll try to keep it to three questions max," I said, allowing myself a grin for a change, as the plane finally found smoother air.

***

I could tell Roy was surprised to see me approaching his row in the rear of the plane. Dressed in a gray Under Armour T-shirt, his arm muscles blocked half the aisle. He retracted his left arm and deliberately looked away well before I reached row 39. He had headphones on and seemed genuinely stunned when I stopped to hover over him.

Slowly, he removed his headphones when he realized I wasn't going anywhere.

"Roy, can we talk?" I asked with a slight grin.

"What?" he played dumb.

"I made Virgil blow your cover. It's OK."

He shook his head and flashed a smile.

"Shit. Where? Ain't no extra seats down here."

"Come with me up to row 21. We'll make Virgil trade places with you for a little while."

He chuckled. "OK, if you say so."

Virgil was trying to get comfortable for another nap, but Roy, especially, got his attention as we both stood near his row.

"Virgil, may we switch seats for a few minutes so Roy and I can chat? 39H is open."

Virgil's annoyance was amusing as Roy shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward me. "This is all her idea."

"I'm well aware. You've got 15 minutes and then I want my seat back," Virgil said, taking a paperback with him as he and the guy in the aisle seat both cleared out. He apparently had had enough of the musical chairs, too, and headed for a restroom.

With the vacant extra seat, Roy happily stretched out next to me as we both sat down.

"So ... what's on your mind?" he asked.

"First, I just wanted to thank you for rescuing me from that asshole at the Clevelander on New Year's Eve," I said.

"Just doing my job."

"Well, that was beyond scary for me and I'm glad you were there to take care of him. Did you really kick his ass all the way down to the beach?"

"Nah, one headlock for 20 seconds seemed to get my point across."

"How often do you watch my back?"

"Oh, I don't really want to get into operational stuff, you know."

"I guess I understand."

I know I told Bill I didn't want to ruin my memory of our sex in the ocean, but my mouth betrayed us in an instant given the opportunity.

"Um ... did you happen to see us that night ... at Nikki Beach ... in the water?"

Roy blew a raspberry and then laughed. I guess I had my answer.

"That was straight-up hot, right there," he cracked, suddenly snorting, rocking back and forth, and generally reminding me of a much bigger, blacker version of Adam.

Meanwhile, I turned crimson.

"You think that's funny?" Then I whispered in his ear, "You saw me strip and ..."

"Hell yeah," he replied, louder than a whisper. "Two bare asses as white as the moon streaking toward the waves ..."

"I'm so mortified right now ... and here I am sitting right next to you."

"Hey now, I didn't watch every second of it. I couldn't see very well when you were flopping around in the water together, but I had to make sure you didn't drown or somethin'."

"Thanks ... so much for my wonderful memories of that night."

"Why did you have sex in public then?" he whispered. "And why did you come hunt me down for answers if you can't handle the truth?"

"I guess I was hoping for a better answer. I'm not exactly used to being followed around like that. Who knew I was such a valuable asset?"

Roy bit his lip and then erupted into laughter again.

"One white-hot, bare asset. No doubt."

"I'm so glad you enjoyed the free show. And now I'm afraid to ask ... why are you trailing me all the way to South Africa?"

"You never know," he said. "I can't let a white-hot, bare asset like you get eaten by some wild animal."

"Thanks ... _Roynoceros_."

He laughed. I allowed myself one chuckle. Maybe I would survive this awful, never-ending flight after all.

Too bad whatever remained of my dignity already had crashed in flames.

**CHAPTER 26: A WORLD WITHOUT GUNS**

Nikki

It's one thing to be chauffeured on the wrong side of the road with your eyes torn between impoverished shanty towns in the foreground and breathtaking views of cloud-draped Table Mountain in the background. It's quite another to exit that strange new world so quickly after arriving, and then ascend into the saucer for the first time.

Built exactly the same as the Bridge center in Watertown and the one currently under construction in Waterbury, Cape Town's version of the S.S. Enterprise offered me my first window into the upper levels of this ... company?

Try "GOD COMPLEX."

And Stephanie Willard, assistant to Peter van Wooten in Watertown, was not allowed to ascend with us. She remained on the lower level and seemed fine with that, but I could tell something else was going on with her and Peter.

"Why can't she join us?" I asked Peter, as he and Virgil led me across the oval-shaped, tinted-glass skyway toward the entrance to the rear saucer.

"Because she's not a BIP member," the hunky doctor/TV show host/Renaissance man replied matter-of-factly. "Stephanie is just passing through for a look at the future Mars launch site in the Great Karoo. She's taking a rather circuitous route to China and keeping a travel log for her future students."

"China?"

"Yes, she has decided to spend a year in China teaching English. The good news is we now have an opening for a director of information in Watertown," Peter said, turning back to wink at me so Virgil couldn't see.

My excitement about this trip and filming the TV show increasingly turned to queasiness. Why did Stephanie, a young woman a year older than me, basically jump ship? Did she and Peter break up? Is that the real reason she exiled herself to China? Or was I wrong to assume they had even been together like that?

"How long is she staying in Cape Town?" I asked.

"She's already been here for a few days," Peter said. "She's flying out tomorrow evening after she gets back from the launch site."

Virgil's expression remained stoic as a facial scanner on the front of the oval door green-lighted smiling Peter through, followed by Virgil and myself. There wasn't much to see other than an oval hallway of gleaming white — an outer passage that circled the saucer and spelled out its over-the-top creepiness one large black letter, one door at a time. Likely for my benefit, we made a complete clockwise lap, spelling out "GOD COMPLEX." No doors were open and there were no other people walking the hall. I didn't even hear any sounds, other than our shoes clopping against the hard white tile. Peter's top-shelf-woo-the-girls cologne masked any other possible scents. With Stephanie departing, was I the girl he planned to woo next?

"Well, what do you think?" Peter asked me, sporting a twinkle in his eye and a tone of amusement.

"Is this like a knock-knock joke or something? Why God complex?" I asked.

"Because there is no higher level than this," he said with a radiant smile and a sweep of his arm.

"Will our center have this level, too?" I asked the obvious.

"Yes it will," Virgil finally spoke, even adding a grin.

"The C stands for communications. Let's go make a TV show," Peter declared, flashing his face in front of the scanner on that sound-proof C door and ushering us into a newsroom nerve center. There were dozens of super-hi-def TV screens and several people — mostly men in the familiar navy blue suits with Bridge logos — working at computers. The whole room funneled toward a rear TV studio surrounded by huge cameras and glaring spotlights. There were two other doors exiting the room back to my left; they bore the letters O and M. So apparently COM — the communications wing of the saucer — made up three-tenths of the God complex pie.

I had been warned that David Michael would be on the panel, so I played nice, shook his hand and said hello as we all gathered near a semicircular table facing the lights and cameras. There were five chairs. Peter had told us he was hosting the show for The Bridge Network - South Africa, though TBN-USA also planned to air it at some point. David, myself and two other guests would be joining him on the panel: a global warming expert, Curtis Blaine, and a Mars mission specialist, Judith Feld. It was nice to have a second woman on the panel, though she was likely in her late 40s. I was the youngest person on the panel by more than a decade.

Virgil, apparently, just tagged along to watch. He loitered nearby and smiled at me as we all sat down for final touch-ups by the hair and makeup people.

"I hope I don't say something stupid," I confided to Virgil with my voice lowered.

"Just be yourself ... but don't piss off David for a change," he advised with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes and tried to calm my nerves, but it wasn't easy. I told myself to think before I spoke and say as little as possible.

***

After introducing us, Peter launched into the discussion with confidence and charisma. I found myself watching him more than paying attention to anything that was said. He must've been a TV news anchor, an actor or both. But how could he do that and be a doctor ... and help run The Bridge? Stephanie was a double major. Maybe he was a triple major. I felt like a slacker around these people.

The first half hour of the show focused on global warming and the impact of rising seas on various cities. Curtis Blaine, no doubt a hand-picked expert invited to the panel to stoke fears that may or may not come true, got my attention when he listed Miami, New York and New Orleans among the top 10 coastal cities in the world to suffer the worst effects of rising seas. China had a bunch, too.

"How about Boston?" I asked him.

"It's in the top 20," he said, adjusting his circular glasses to focus on me. He had short, dark, curly hair and bushy eyebrows ... Groucho Marx devoid of personality, actually. I wondered what he thought of me and my blue hair. "Seas will rise at least a foot by 2050 and as much as three feet by 2100 if current harmful emissions remain unchecked. The cities I mentioned could face between $6 billion and $1 trillion in annual losses from flooding as these next few decades unfold."

"David, where's the money going to come from?" Peter asked his shorter cohort, who was seated between me and the host. Curtis and Judith flanked Peter on the right side of the semicircle. What's with putting both women on the ends?

"Even rich countries like the United States won't be able to print money fast enough to pay for the damage and rebuild infrastructure," David said. "I firmly believe some of the cities you mentioned will be abandoned at some point in the next 30 to 40 years, if not sooner. They will be unsustainable. Nobody living there or running those cities wants to hear that, so they just ignore the warnings and pretend like their little worlds won't be destroyed."

"As a student at Boston University, what's your reaction to what David just said, Nikki?" Peter asked.

"I agree with him," I forced myself to say. "We're so immersed in our daily lives that we don't really think about what's happening with the planet. Most of us don't like to change the way we're living or be _inconvenienced_ at all."

"Great word," David said, smiling at me as he consumed another piece of my soul. I didn't smile back, but I nodded.

"David, I know you like to quote Al Gore's documentary film, 'Inconvenient Truth,'" Peter said, "but why should we all listen to some taxidermy-stiff, presidential-loser-has-been from the USA?"

"Because he's a straight shooter and not a politician when it comes to the planet," David replied. "People blasted him when he argued for fertility management to combat global warming, but he's absolutely correct. Africa, India, China — growth in these countries is out of control. Something needs to be done. Nine billion people on this planet by 2075? Again, unsustainable. Food, water, resources and habitable areas all shrinking by the day because of flooding, drought, year-round wildfires, smog ... I could go on and on. The bottom line is more people, more pollution: 90 million tons per day pouring into our atmosphere. When Gore called it an open sewer, he wasn't exaggerating."

Peter turned to the other side of the panel.

"Judith, we go from too much water on Earth to no water on Mars," he said, focusing on the reddish-gray-haired woman opposite me. She squinted and pursed her lips as she listened to Peter. "Is Mars an option? It sounds like it better be."

"Not a very hospitable one, but yes, it is," she said, her voice deeper than her mid-sized frame would suggest. "There's also too little air and too little gravity, never mind no food."

"I've been reading up on Mars," I said. "There's one website that calculates what your weight would be on all of the planets."

"Yes, Mars is a weight watcher's dream, isn't it?" Judith said.

"Then you won't mind me asking you, Nikki, what your weight on Mars would be?" Peter said.

"Not at all," I replied with a grin. "I'd range from about 43 to 45 pounds."

Everyone laughed, including Virgil off set.

"How about Jupiter?" Judith asked me with some playful mischief in her eyes and tone.

"About 280," I said with a shrug.

More laughter. Even David chuckled. And the host beamed at me.

"I know Pluto is no longer a planet, but I'd be about eight pounds there," I added, as long as I was on a roll.

Peter laughed and asked, "How much did you weigh as a baby, Nikki?"

"Nine and a half," I said.

"Wow. A bit of a whopper, weren't you?" he chortled.

"While we're all having fun _making light_ of the gravity issue on Mars," Judith noted with a pause for her little pun, "it does pose problems for our future manned missions and colonization. Gravity is 38 percent less on Mars than Earth, and that will take a physiological toll on colonists."

"What kind of problems are you talking about, Judith?" Peter asked.

"Muscle loss, osteoporosis, inner ear problems, sleep problems, immune-system breakdowns," she said.

"What can be done?" David asked her.

"We may need a combination of drugs and gravity-calibration chambers to counteract these effects."

Perhaps Mars wouldn't be so much fun after all, I thought.

"What other challenges do we face as we prepare to send humans to the Red Planet?" Peter asked Judith.

"The trip itself isn't too bad — only about six to eight months, depending on a number of factors — but everyone on board will face greater risk of cancer from radiation, especially if the spaceship is hit with a solar flare during the journey," she said. "Eggs and sperm also can be damaged by this, which puts future generations of colonists at risk."

Suddenly my 99 percent chance to go to Mars sounded like a bad deal. Perhaps I should be pissing off David ASAP, I thought.

"Why are we going then if all these bad things are going to happen?" I asked the panel. "Maybe we're not meant to live on Mars."

"Because human beings are explorers by nature," Peter said, sounding offended by my objection. "You wouldn't be alive and living in the USA today if Christopher Columbus was afraid of storms at sea, disease, pirates, shipwrecks, mutiny and God knows what else awaited him when he got to your shores. Never doubt the human will to live and survive and adapt, no matter how harsh the journey or the destination."

"Well said," David nodded.

"I see your point, but by that logic, shouldn't we also be able to adapt to rising seas here on Earth? Do we have to escape to Mars?" I pressed.

"We will _have_ to do _both_ ," David jumped on me now. "Most of the people who live on this planet right now, especially in rich nations, are too soft. They've had it too easy. They will struggle mightily to adapt to what's coming and it's going to get real ugly. They aren't made of the same stuff as the conquistadors. At the same time, we at The Bridge want to push mankind into new places and Mars is first on the list. It will be a massive undertaking, but it's going to happen. Multiple private companies, as well as governments of several countries, are in a race, as we speak, to put men and women on Mars. We are in the lead pack and we plan to win."

"Judith, any thoughts on that?" Peter asked.

"Oh, I definitely think The Bridge and H20 Corporation's 2029-and-beyond plan is workable," she said. "Ten years is a long time and we have enough great minds collaborating on the various challenges, so I believe that's a realistic window. I'd be shocked if there were no humans on Mars by the early 2030s and only mildly surprised if some entity attempts to go there by 2025 or so."

"Really? So is our plan too conservative then?" Peter asked.

"No, not at all. I firmly believe that anyone who attempts to go _that_ soon — just five or six years from now — will regret not having waited. I'm afraid the race to be first could result in a catastrophic failure for the journey, the entry, the landing or the colony itself."

"But at least those who follow could learn from that," David suggested.

"Absolutely," Judith replied, then shook her head. "But the downside of such failure and loss of life could scare people off, dry up the multi-multi-billion-dollar budgets required to make it happen and set the whole Mars push back to the 2040s."

"Let's think positive for a minute. Say we do get to Mars in 2029 and beyond with our own initial colony of 24 — and others arrive there as well with their first colonies — what should be done about government on Mars?" Peter asked, his eyes scanning all of us.

"I think it's premature to worry about that," Judith said. "The daily struggle to stay alive will be tough enough. The early colonists will be forced to work together or they will die. The Red Planet itself will govern every second of their existence."

"So we shouldn't debate whether there ought to be guns on Mars?" Peter asked.

"No, there will be enough threats to human life on that planet," she said. "Trust me. Guns would be incredibly superfluous."

"Nikki, any thoughts on that?" Peter asked, turning toward me.

I nodded.

"As someone who suffered a gunshot wound when I was 17, I find Judith's answer more refreshing than scary," I said. "I would be willing to risk my life to go to a world without guns."

**CHAPTER 27: BOUNDARIES**

Nikki

Big Roy drove Virgil and I in a black SUV that trailed a silver Mercedes containing Peter, Stephanie and two other Bridge members from the Cape Town center. We left the saucer and majestic Table Mountain behind, taking the N1 highway north, ultimately away from the coastal city and into the mostly barren Great Karoo. There were occasional small towns, but mostly just miles and miles of rolling hills, rocks and dirt. Trees and even shrubs were sparse.

There wasn't much to look at until I saw several creatures with long tails bound across the road in front of us and jump on the guardrail closest to my window.

"Holy crap!" I shouted.

"Baboons," Virgil said with a grin. "They actually run this country. They let the people live here."

A couple of miles ahead, there was another larger pack sitting on the guardrails.

"Why do they hang out along the road?" I asked.

"Maybe enough people toss their food or garbage out the window to make it worth their while," Virgil said.

"Well, now I know I'm not in New England anymore," I said.

After about another 20 miles or so of driving, we pulled up to a fenced-off, ranch-like property in the middle of nowhere. More endless African plains of sand, shrubs and hills surrounded this one flat section that stretched for the better part of a square mile. Several large earth-moving vehicles sat idle inside the fences.

We all got out of the cars and stretched under a warm afternoon sun. February meant summer in South Africa and that was a welcome respite from the snow and ice of Boston.

"Virgil and Nikki, please walk with me," Peter said, breaking away from the others to give us a personal tour of one of the sites that had flashed before our eyes on the big screen in Mars Wing.

"So this is where the magic will happen?" Virgil asked.

"Yes, a special place indeed," Peter confirmed, winking at me again.

I smiled and then snuck a glance back over my shoulder. I wished I could get a moment alone with Stephanie before she flew off to China. I needed to know more about Peter and The Bridge from someone like her.

"In less than five years, the training facility will be completely operational and the launch site will be well under way," Peter said proudly. "Ten years from now, if all goes according to plan, Nikki and I will be among the original six preparing to blast off to Mars."

He stopped strolling and gauged my reaction with a broad smile. His golden brown hair ruffled in the breeze as I processed what he said. Virgil smiled at me, too.

"You're joking, right?" I asked.

"Not at all," Peter said. "Two astronauts, myself and a guest, and yourself and a guest. We will be the first six to launch from South Africa ... and, because I have considerable pull, the South African launch site will be the first to send a manned rocket from among our four sites."

I felt woozy. "So this is ... _real_?"

Virgil laughed and Peter gave me a bear hug. I felt happy, afraid, shy and a yes, a little lustful, all at the same time.

"Welcome to the mission," Peter said, pulling back to see my face. "But this is our little secret for now. We'll make it official at the June gala when your center opens in Waterbury."

"I don't know what to say. I'm blown away. Why me ... out of all the people in the world?"

Peter laughed. "See Virgil, she's so extraordinary and she has no earthly idea ... she's perfect for Mars."

"That she is," Virgil chuckled.

***

"You and I are going to celebrate with a little drive down to the Cape of Good Hope," Peter told me after dispatching Virgil back to the others. "Then we'll discuss Mars over dinner and the best wine you've ever tasted."

"Wow," I said, still struggling to speak. "OK."

Before I could gather myself enough to ask a question, he briskly led me back toward the cars. Then Peter broke away and took Stephanie aside for a long embrace. Roy raised his eyebrows at me a couple of times and nodded to his right, so I slowly approached him. He slipped a small sticky note into my hand.

"From Stephanie," he whispered in my ear. Then he walked back toward the driver's side door of the van and got in.

I turned around, using my back as a shield from the others for 15 seconds, so I could read the note.

" _Peter likes you like he liked me. Don't let him! Don't pry about X either. Now rip this up — S."_

I felt light-headed again as I followed her instructions and let the African breezes carry the warning away in tiny pieces. I had just agreed to go on a drive and dinner with this man. Infinitely worse, I had just been told I'd be sharing a space capsule on a one-way trip to Mars with this man. And if all that weren't bad enough, what the hell did X mean?

Peter's voice cut through the wind and spun me around.

"Have a safe trip," he called out to Stephanie. "I'll see the rest of you back in Cape Town," Peter added, while everyone but him and me boarded the SUV.

We stood there and Peter waved as Roy drove off. Virgil smiled at me from the window seat behind Roy. I forced a smile back, suddenly wishing I had been left alone in a strange land with the old, safe, gay guy — not the middle-aged, dangerous, hot guy.

"Let's go show you some hope," Peter said, opening the passenger side door to his Mercedes for me.

"Hope?" I wondered, slowly getting in.

"The Cape of Good Hope," he said with a smile and that relentless wink of his before closing my door.

***

We didn't see any more baboons, but there were signs warning us not to feed them as we made the long, steady uphill climb from the parking lot to the Cape Point Lighthouse.

Perhaps I would've paid more attention in history class if I knew then what I saw in front of me now — the rocky southern edge of Africa jutting into the sea. The lighthouse overlooked the hallowed route used by conquistadors to round the continent's bottom tip since 1488.

Tourists buzzed and snapped photos around a wood-and-metal sign with metal arrows pointing in every direction to major destinations: Sydney to the southwest, 11,642 kilometers; Berlin to the north, 9,575 km; New York to the northeast, 12,541 km; and the South Pole to the south, 6,248 km, among many others. Wow. That kind of put the trip into perspective in a hurry.

It also put my selection for the Mars mission into perspective.

"No arrows pointing to Mars though?" I observed.

Peter smiled, snapping a photo of me by the sign with his phone.

"That will be quite a few kilometers," he said. "They'd need a bigger sign."

Though I took Stephanie's warning seriously, I'd remained cordial and pleasant on the sightseeing tour so far. I wanted to give myself a chance to get to know Peter better and form my own opinion of the man who had chosen me for such an unimaginable journey. If he did try to put the moves on me, I would simply tell him about my relationship with Bill.

So far, he had been the perfect gentleman. Was it possible she had just been bitter about their apparent breakup?

"What if we crash?" I asked.

"We won't."

I felt like I was having another jet crash argument with Virgil.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because we're going to have so many test launches and unmanned supply missions before we go," he said, patting me on the shoulder as we moved away from the sign and looked out toward the sea. "We'll get there."

I sighed.

"Would you prefer we send six baboons before we go?" he added with a chuckle.

"My mother will never let me go," I said.

"She can't stop you. You're an adult, Nikki."

"She gave me hell for going to Miami on New Year's Eve."

Peter laughed. "Beautiful city."

"I can't even imagine what's she gonna say about me going to Mars."

"Invite her along as your guest," Peter suggested.

"There's no way I could handle nine months confined in a space capsule with my mom. I would have to find a way to crash the ship," I said, getting a chuckle out of Peter.

Then his face turned more serious.

"You do bring up a good point," he said, looking at me and then back to the ocean. "It won't be easy to say goodbye to our loved ones. That will be the biggest sacrifice for sure. But the opportunity of a billion lifetimes awaits us. It's simply too mammoth to pass up."

It was hard to argue with him on either point.

"A whole new planet to explore and start over on ... yeah, I can't just rule that out," I said. "That's an incredible adventure ... a twist I never could've imagined happening in my life."

"And what will your father say about you going to Mars?" Peter asked, looking at me again.

I pondered that for a moment as the waves crashed into the rocks below.

"I guess he'll be proud of me for taking such a bold leap," I said, "but my mother will make him try to talk me out of it."

Peter laughed.

"How about your father?" I asked. "Assuming he's still, you know ..."

"Oh, he's alive and kicking all right," Peter said, waving his hand toward the blue water beyond us. "He's out there on a ship somewhere right now cursing my name and wondering what's taking me so long to change the course of human history."

***

We dined back in Cape Town, at a cozy, dimly lit harborside restaurant in the shadow of Table Mountain. For both of us, Peter ordered a springbok steak, a tender meat from a cousin of the gazelle. The South African red wine that danced down my throat overpowered me with its depth of flavor, born of grapes harvested just two hours' drive away, in the lush and fertile Stellenbosch region, Peter said.

I felt lush and fertile, too, in the company of such a man, but I gave myself a one-glass limit so I wouldn't forget Stephanie's warning. Two glasses likely would've changed the contents of her note in my mind to: _"Just go for it, girl! XOXOXO"_

I was hesitant to pry about anything, so I focused on letting him lead the conversation.

"So ... have you decided who you're going to invite to Mars with you?" he asked.

"I wrote down my ex-boyfriend's name when David asked us back in September, but that's not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because he hates me for breaking up with him last summer, which I understand. And then we had a bit of a blow-up on Christmas night, so it's really over this time."

"How many _times_ have there been?"

"Um ... three breakups all together."

"And yet I sense you still love him. Do you?"

I took a sip of wine.

"You certainly don't have to answer that," Peter said.

"It's OK. I suppose I could love him again at some point if the stars aligned for us, but I doubt they will ... so my answer to your original question is I have absolutely no idea who I'll invite to Mars as my guest."

"What about Bill Oz?" he asked, more than a hint of mischief in his eyes and tone.

"He's still got a shot to get a seat of his own, right?" I asked.

"Of course, but not on our rocket ... unless he's your invited guest."

"Well, he wants to bring his son, Max."

"Then perhaps they'll meet us out there from one of the other launch sites."

"Do you have someone special that you're bringing?" I asked.

Peter shook his head and smiled.

"I'm currently in between someone specials, so just like you, I have no idea," he replied, staring at me. "Fortunately, we've still got plenty of time to decide."

I felt uncomfortable. "This ... isn't a date, right?" I asked, worried the wine already was making my questions too bold.

Peter's eyebrows jumped on that one. "Celebratory dinner is what I believe I said."

"That's right. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm flattered you even broached the topic."

I laughed.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Because you belong with a supermodel, someone like that."

Now Peter laughed.

"I'm flattered again. You've already got your trip to Mars without flattery, you know."

"I know. I just like to be clear about things ... intentions," I said.

"My intentions for tonight are absolutely pure," he replied, sipping his wine. "My intentions for beyond tonight are absolutely open."

"Open?"

"That is, if your intentions and my intentions both went a certain way, I would be open to that. If not, not trouble at all," he said smoothly.

I blushed at the temptation and mentally cursed at myself for even considering it. _Remember Stephanie? Bill? This guy seemed even a few years older than Bill. If I dated him, what was to stop me from going out with grandfathers next? Get a grip, Nikki!_

"What's going on inside that pretty little head of yours?" he asked.

"Sorry. I didn't really respond to what you said, did I?"

"Not verbally, but telepathically ... wow," he said with a chuckle.

"I'm ... sort of serious with Bill right now," I finally said, though my level of conviction sounded surprisingly suspect. I really did like Bill, though deep down I knew it was a flawed match. Then again, I preferred flawed matches right now. I didn't want to meet Mr. Right yet, not when I felt like Ms. Wrong 99 percent of the time.

Peter nodded and let me off easy.

"Then I respect that and wish you two all the best," he said, even raising his glass.

"Thank you," I said, not raising mine and quickly changing the subject. "This really is a wonderful dinner. Thank you for this as well."

"You're most welcome."

"What will we eat on Mars?"

"We'll send supply drops in regular intervals, but the goal is to grow what we can and get the colony to the point of self-sustainability."

"I'm not exactly a green thumb."

"You don't need to be. We're actually looking for red thumbs and it'll all be part of your training. We'll simulate Martian conditions in a bio dome on the Great Karoo, and we'll grow wheat plants and algae and things like that."

"Really?"

"Really. Would you be open to trying algae pizza?" he asked with a seductive grin.

It was hard not to agree to anything he was selling, especially as my wine glass approached empty.

"Probably, but it sounds pretty awful."

"It is, but don't worry. We'll flavor the algae for you. What's your favorite pizza topping?"

I snickered.

"What's so funny?"

"Because sometimes the truthful answer could be misinterpreted as sexual innuendo," I said.

Another eyebrow raise and a laugh. "Sausage, eh?"

"Sausage and peppers, to be exact," I said.

"Bill _is_ one _lucky_ man," he said, having some fun with it.

"Oh yeah," I said, sarcastically. "I'm beautiful, completely normal and incredibly classy. You can take me out anywhere, even to a fancy restaurant in Cape Town."

He just smiled and stared at me, likely undressing me with those sparkling green eyes of his. There was some definite heat between us and I needed to throw cold water on it fast before I did anything foolish. But then he surprised me with what he said next.

"Well, being able to think and joke like a man from time to time will serve you well in our company."

I nodded. "Yes, why is the ratio so skewed? And now we ..."

I covered my mouth with my hand before I stuck my foot in it any further.

"What?" he asked.

"Never mind."

"No. Speak freely."

I hesitated, but he waved me on.

"And now we've lost another one ... Stephanie," I said, wincing.

"Yes, yes ... off to China. A great loss," he said, pondering her for a moment. "I suppose you want to know what really happened."

I shrugged my shoulders, but of course, I wanted to know.

"In every relationship, there are boundaries," Peter said, as serious as I'd ever seen him. "And some of them should never be crossed."

**CHAPTER 28: BURY THE TRUTH**

Adam

I got a sick feeling in my gut as soon as I saw the words zip by on the bottom of the screen.

Dozens of huge TVs at Best Buy staring back at me — all with the NCAA men's basketball tournament showing — and every one of them made sure I didn't miss the same horrible local news alert: "Human bones found in Middlebrook believed to be those of teenage boy missing since 2011. More details ..." blah, blah, blah.

"They found him," I mumbled to myself. "Fuck me."

***

Two hours later, after I got more details, I called Nikki. We hadn't talked since that Christmas night clusterfuck with me, her, Derek and Candace, but she needed to know what I knew. ASAP.

The last time I saw Nikki was on TV — kind of weird that TV also delivered the bad news about Rodney Dwyer. The only good news for me was Nikki finally might _have_ to talk to me after blowing me off for months. Sad to say, but my father's homicidal act and the secret we both knew might be the only bond left between us.

Her phone rang four times and went to voice message, so I hung up and texted her instead.

They found Rodney.

Send.

That would get her attention.

Nikki called less than a minute later.

"Adam?"

"Hi."

"You better not be joking."

"I wish."

"How did you find out?"

"It's all over the news up here. Where are you? Boston?"

"I'm actually on spring break. In Florida," she said.

"Oh. Lucky you."

"Yeah, lucky me. I'm so glad you told me about this last summer so now I've got to freak out. I hope you've kept your mouth shut."

"Of course."

"Good. I hate feeling guilty over something I had absolutely nothing to do with."

"It's the same for me. I didn't kill Rodney either."

"Um, well, not quite the same. It wasn't _my_ father who did it and then felt he had to confess instead of just taking the secret to the grave with him," she pointed out.

"He was delirious at the end, Nikki. He said a lot of stuff."

She sighed. "I'm sorry."

"You are?"

"Yes. It's not your fault. It's just hard to remember that you and Thomas, of all people, were victims of this kid. He probably deserved what he got."

"Well ... I mean, thanks for saying that."

"I really think Thomas tried to kill us all because he never got to be the one to get revenge on Rodney."

I had never really thought about it like that. Nikki was always good about coming up with interesting reasons for things.

"Is that why you wanted to shoot up our school, too?" she asked me.

"Nah. I was just messed up. I hated school. I liked shooting. I guess I just let Thomas talk me into it. I don't think I knew what the hell I was doing back then."

"Pretty scary that you didn't even think much about ending people's lives."

"Yeah. I don't feel good about it. I'm glad you stopped me."

"How are you doing now?"

I was stunned she asked. "I'm OK. ... Do you really care?"

"Yes ... I know it might not seem like it because of the way I've treated you since you told me what your dad did, but I do care. I want you to be a good person and to be happy."

"Thanks. I feel the same way about you ... even if ... we can't be together," I said.

She went silent for a little bit. I knew she didn't want to be my girlfriend, but ... whatever. I figured I'd better change the subject.

"I saw you on TV a couple of months ago," I said. "You looked really good."

"Wow. Thanks. I had no idea people actually watched The Bridge Network. What assignment was that and how did you know to look for me?"

"Brody called me. I guess he was flipping through and he saw you. He told me to put on Channel 77, so I did. And there you were. Interviewing some guy up at Wildcat."

"Oh yeah. The winter with no snow."

A thought occurred to me.

"Maybe that's why they finally found Rodney's bones."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"They found him in a dried-up stream bed ... not too far from Rainbow Lake actually, where we hiked with Candace that one time."

"Unbelievable," she said, sighing again. "Global warming strikes again."

"So what should we do? Nothing, right?" I asked. "Let Thomas take the hit."

"He'll deny it."

"But didn't he admit to you that he did it? That's what you told me last summer."

"Yes, but then he denied it when the cops questioned him later," she said.

"What if he tells them I did it to get revenge at me for backing out on the school thing?"

"Tell them the truth ... that you didn't do it, which is 100 percent correct."

"But it's not really the truth, Nikki. I know who killed him. Maybe I should just fess up that my dad did it and be done with it."

"Oh my God, Adam. That's like eight years worth of obstruction of justice."

"No it's not. My dad didn't tell me until like four years ago ... 2015 he died."

"Still. You're on probation as it is. You'll go back to prison. And what if they ask you if anybody else knew about the killer? Will you give me up and ruin my life, too?"

"Never. I would _not_ do that to you, Nikki. I swear."

"You're not going to blackmail me into being your boyfriend or something?"

"Never."

"I wish I could say your words soothe all of my fears, but they don't. In fact, I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Sick? Why?"

"Because you used to make a sport out of lying to me," she said. "Remember the sugar cubes laced with acid? Now you decide to be Mr. Honesty and run to the cops?"

"That acid trip was a long time ago," I said. "Did you forget that when I got out of the hospital I told the cops everything about the school plot? I told the truth and I served my time."

"I didn't forget, Adam."

"It's actually _your_ fault I have more of a conscience now," I told her. "You're the one who helped make me a better person. But maybe that was the old Nikki. Now it sounds like you're telling me to just bury the truth and swallow the guilt."

**CHAPTER 29: PREMATURE WISDOM**

William

My neck was killing me, trying to make sure Max didn't drown in front of me while at the same time keeping an eye on Nikki's animated phone conversation behind me. Pacing on the sand, she gesticulated even faster than she talked.

I just wanted to relax. Is that too much to ask on a beautiful day at Clearwater Beach? I should've been holed up somewhere writing the second half of "Cruise Missiles," so if I was going to waste time on the beach, I wanted it to be _less_ stressful than taking on the Church of Scientology.

My first mistake was having Nikki meet Max. She doted on him fairly well and all, but I could tell she was thrown off by the little third wheel and who could blame her? Part of me couldn't believe she was still interested in a 39-year-old narcissist like me. Though I liked her very much, I suppose I used Max as a test ... quasi-relationship sabotage perhaps? This is what you get when you enter the land of Oz. Nobody said liking me would be easy.

At last, Nikki returned and slumped in her low-riding beach chair next to me, her pretty face suddenly more pale than her Boston-based body.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Everything."

She was becoming a woman more and more every day.

"You must've been talking to David."

"No."

"Virgil?"

"Nope."

"Your ex-husband then?"

"No!" she snapped, before cracking a smile. That joke still had legs. Amazing.

"Then I'm at a total loss."

"If I were to tell you the whole story behind that conversation I just had, I'd be making you an accessory to obstruction of justice. Is that what you want?"

"No, but I do like when you get all judicial on me."

We exchanged steamy glares.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said.

"Shoot."

"Why do liars suddenly want to tell the truth and honest people like me get stuck hiding it and feeling like shit?"

"That's a very deep question for a 21-year-old."

"That's age discrimination and you didn't answer the question."

"See how it feels."

"You got me there. Now answer it."

"Well ... why do people do anything? It's usually either for love or money."

"God I hate you," she said, just loud enough so I could hear her over a pair of sea gulls screaming like banshees nearby.

"The honeymoon's over already?" I deadpanned, 99 percent sure this meltdown had nothing to do with me — a refreshing change of pace given my checkered history with women.

She ignored me and started talking to herself right in front of me. Perhaps we were the perfect match.

"He's doing it to impress me ... love in his own warped way. And I'm hiding it because I've sold my soul for money. You're effing right," she said, gazing at me through orange-tinted sunglasses, blue hair flying around in the Gulf breeze.

I probably should've asked her who the hell she was talking about. I probably should've been jealous. Instead I was muted by her unwavering eye contact, her neon orange bikini and her validation of my supreme intelligence: a turn-on trifecta. I don't think any female had told me "You're effing right" before in my life.

As troubled as she was, she seemed ready to go right then and there. So was I.

But we weren't at Nikki Beach this time. And it wasn't 1 a.m. And we did have a moppy-haired third wheel rolling up the beach right at us.

"Dad, can you throw me in the water?" Max asked, his eyes all squinty but excited as he jumped up and down in the sand.

"Is that what you want? You've never asked me to do that before," I pointed out. "Usually he wants nothing to do with me at the beach," I said in an aside to Nikki.

"Must be love, not money," she quipped.

"That's what that other dad is doing with his kid over there," Max said, pointing to the Joneses closer to the pier. "They're having fun."

"Ah," I exhaled. "Monkey see, monkey do. Just add that to my earlier answer, Nikki. For love, money or monkey see, monkey do."

"I will."

Then Nikki posed a question to my son as I stood up to escort him back to the water.

"How old are you, Max?" she asked, though I thought she already knew the answer.

He still managed to surprise me with his response.

"Practically 6," he said with a toothy grin.

"Well, stay 5 for as long as you can and make your dad have fun with you every chance you get," she advised, not joking in the least.

As I trailed my skipping son toward the surf, I was forced to ponder the premature wisdom of a 21-year-old lover I barely knew.

**CHAPTER 30: GO TO JAIL, COLLECT $20K**

Adam

I was munching on a slice of pizza in the mall's food court, just like I always do on my break, when my whole life changed in an instant.

A tall, thin, older guy in a fancy blue suit approached my otherwise empty table and looked like he wanted to talk to me.

"Are you Adam Upton by any chance?" he asked.

"Maybe. Why?"

"May I?" he asked, pointing to the seat across from me.

"Sure."

"My name is Virgil Raymond," he said, offering his hand. I shook it. "I work for The Bridge Group, the company your friend Nikki ... Nicole Janicek works for."

My eyes lit up. So did my hopes for some reason.

"Really? What's this about?"

"Well, I understand you think highly of Nikki and so do we, so we may have some mutual motivation in protecting her on a number of levels. I also see that you have some interest in security given your current job."

"Yeah, well, this job sucks."

"That's good to hear."

"Huh?"

"Because we have a security wing at The Bridge that pays very well and we think you may be the kind of person we'd consider hiring."

My head spun like I'd just shot-gunned a six-pack.

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Would I get to carry a gun?"

"If you prove yourself to be a loyal and productive member of our team, absolutely."

"I'm ready to start right now," I said.

The Virgil guy smiled.

"You may not like your first assignment, but if you do it, you will be paid $20,000 for that alone and put yourself into consideration for a security job at our Bridge center in Watertown, Mass."

"Holy ... I'm in. What's my first assignment?" I said as fast as I could get the words out of my mouth.

"Tell the police the truth about your father."

"What? How do you ..."

"Don't blame Nikki. I've been harassing her for months to tell me what really happened to Rodney Dwyer. I knew she found out when she came up here last summer. I know it was supposed to just remain a secret between the two of you. But the fact is, the bones have been found and our company cannot afford to have Nikki's name associated with the cover-up of this crime in any possible way."

I nodded. "I would never tell the police that Nikki knew. She had nothing to do with it. She was the one who pushed me to tell her."

"Yes, because she was hoping you'd say Thomas killed Rodney. Your answer threw her for a loop and exposed her to potential legal problems."

"I'm still on probation. If I tell the truth ..."

"Yes, you will have to serve some prison time. That's the bad news. Here's the good news: we will pay for your lawyer, a good one who will make sure you serve no more than 30 days in the minimum security prison — away from Thomas in maximum. Given your father's deathbed confession and your own grief at the time, the judge is likely to sympathize with your predicament. The fact that Rodney's killer is already dead will bring closure to this case and that'll help your cause, too."

Then Virgil pulled a white envelope out of his suit pocket and placed it in front of me.

"Here's more good news. Look inside."

I did. My eyes popped open at the wads of $100 bills. I couldn't even speak.

"That's $10,000 in advance," he said. "You get the other half when we pick you up outside of the New Hampshire State Prison for Men. That's when we'll very likely have another assignment for you as a real member of our security team. My colleague, Peter, is director of the Watertown facility. He thinks it's possible you may have an important role for us going forward, particularly in relation to Nikki's security."

"This is crazy. You're actually talking to _me_ , Adam Upton, right?"

"Yes I am."

"I saw Nikki on TV ... on your TV channel. Now I could work for you guys, too?"

"I'm offering you a chance to earn a spot with us right this second. Do the right thing for justice, for Nikki, for us and for yourself. No more secrets. Tell the truth, clear your conscience, serve a little time and get on with your life. You also get to enjoy having some real money in your pocket."

"I can't believe this is real."

"It is. You chose a friend wisely when you chose Nikki. She's going places."

"She actually chose me ... saved me, really."

"Then do this for her and make sure never to tell anyone she knew your father killed Rodney."

"I promise. Never."

"Good. Also, never tell Nikki about our little deal. Got that?"

"Got it. What now?"

"Go tell your manager you need to leave early today because you've got an urgent personal matter to attend to," Virgil instructed.

I couldn't stand up fast enough.

***

"Aunt Donna, I'm finally gonna get a place of my own," I told her, smiling like a rich man.

"Oh yeah, with what money?" she asked, in the middle of folding the laundry, some of it my own.

"This money," I said, fanning my Benjamins in front of her face.

She nearly fainted and I laughed.

"Oh geez. What bank did you just ra-ra-rob, Adam?" she stuttered, all freaked out and shit. I loved it.

"I didn't rob any bank. The Bridge Group just hired me. That's the same company Nikki works for!"

"And they just handed you a pile of cash?"

"Yeah, $10,000 for starters."

"I'm very afraid to ask what they want you to do for that."

"Tell the truth about something I can't tell you about and then go to jail," I shouted. "What a country!"

Aunt Donna looked pale. Real pale.

"Jail? Again? Are you serious?"

"Just for 30 days. Then I get another $10,000 and a real security job in Massachusetts working for The Bridge."

"Adam, you're out of your mind. This _has_ to be a scam."

"No, it's as real as this cash," I said, waving the wad in front of her face again.

"It's probably counterfeit."

"No, it's not. I'm gonna be my own man now ... just like you said."

"Well good then," she said, handing me a pile of my clothes. "Better start doing your own laundry now that you can afford your own cell ... place ... whatever."

**CHAPTER 31: JARRING THREAT**

William

April is a beautiful month in Florida — sunny and warm, but not hot and humid like the summer months. April also means an endless sea of tourists spending tons of money; i.e. my tip jar brimming with cash-backed song requests at Howl at the Moon. So many requests, in fact, that I had no idea which person threatened my life with the following note paper-clipped to a dollar bill:

" _Somebody's gonna hurt someone before the night is through ..."  
— "Heartache Tonight," by The Eagles  
P.S. Publish that book and ...  
P.T.S. You're dead!_

But the P.T.S. (Potential Trouble Source) certainly confirmed the source of the threat: the church targeted by my upcoming book, "Cruise Missiles."

I immediately called David Michael to let him know one of his prized assets needed protection.

"We'll send someone right over," he said, but his tone suggested the opposite.

"Is there a problem, David?" I asked.

"You've been advanced a ton of money and we're looking forward to reading your manuscript. Finish the book."

"Virgil told me I had a year to write it. That gives me until August."

"I have a source who informed me that you're only half way done with it."

"Yeah, and it's only April. Who's your source?"

"It doesn't matter."

"My ex-wife?" I pressed. She probably ratted me out to Virgil.

"I haven't heard you deny your pathetic level of progress yet," David jeered.

"Pathetic? Are you shitting me right now, David?"

"Frankly, we expected a lot more urgency and passion than what we've seen from you so far. Given the significant advance and tremendous faith we've put into you, we are surprised and disappointed that you're still playing piano and not putting all of your focus and energy into the book. We had hoped you'd turn in the manuscript well before the deadline."

My anger surged within me.

"Wow. You guys really show your true colors now. Just change the friggin' rules on me on a whim. Writing is a process, David. We all work at different speeds. Don't fucking tell me how to do something you don't know a rat's ass about!"

"Finish the book, Bill. Prove you _are_ an asset worth protecting. Then maybe we'll show some urgency and passion in protecting you from your former church."

"Your former church, too," I pointed out. "And Virgil's."

"Then you should know as well as I do that they don't kill people."

I laughed. "Per se maybe. Stalking, controlling, holding people against their will, beating people up ... not too big of a leap to outright assassination from there, in my opinion."

"You certainly have a great flair for drama," he said. "I hope you channel that into your writing."

Click.

He hung up on me, that little twit.

**CHAPTER 32: THE GRADUATE**

Roger

I had just watched my oldest daughter, Nikki, graduate from Boston University with all of her classmates on a football field — Nickerson Field to be exact. Sure I needed binoculars to see her from my vantage point up in the stands, but it still brought a couple of tears to my eyes, especially when she called me to find my location and waved up at me from that red sea of caps and gowns.

Waiting for her to appear at our rendezvous point in the bowels of the stadium felt like four years, however, and any tears shed here were brought on by the presence of my nagging ex-wife, Lynn. She used this opportunity to bond over our daughter as a blank check to complain to me about everything. I had a feeling this would happen if I didn't bring Jamie with me, but then we'd have to drag the twins along, too. And I was not risking Jamie, Lynn and Nikki all taking part in the same conversation — not with the dirt Nikki had on me about having cheated on Jamie, too.

So this was my burden to bear, I suppose.

"She barely talks to me anymore," my ex-wife said about Nikki for the third time. "She travels to this place and that. She's on TV. She has a fancy gala to go to. But she has no time for her own mother."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Say something. Don't you care what's going on with her?"

"Of course I do and it's called growing up. That's all. Our daughter is now a woman. If this day doesn't drive that point home for you, I don't know what will."

"Her wedding to a 39-year-old man would kill me. How about that? Don't you care about who your daughter dates and sleeps with, Roger?"

"Who said she was getting married to the guy? That's news to me."

"I can just see it. That's next."

"So it's not true ... just a hallucination in your own worked up mind then."

"It's only a matter of time. You wait. That'll be next."

"Lynn, you really need to relax a little. We did the best we could to raise her and now it's her life to live."

My ex laughed at me and shook her head.

"The best we could? You _are_ delusional. This is all _your_ fault she's doing what she's doing."

I smiled and nodded.

"Oh yes. Let's make old Roger the scapegoat for everything. Go ahead. Dump it on me if it makes you feel better. I can take it."

"Yeah, you better take it. But how about fixing it? Can you do that?"

"Fix it? What would you have me do — order her not to date the guy? That'll just make her want him even more."

"I've got a better idea," she said. "Go talk to _him_. He's standing 30 feet away from us, waiting for your daughter just like we are."

"Seriously? Where?"

My wife nudged me until I was staring at a tall guy with kind of wild-looking hair standing next to a stairwell. He was watching the graduates and their relatives stream past. He seemed younger than 39 to me.

"You knew he was going to be here? You knew he was standing there all along?" I asked.

"That's how little you know. You don't even know what he looks like," she snapped.

"How would I? It's not like Nikki has advertised to me that's she's dating this guy."

"He's an author. You could have Google him at least. But you don't even know his name, never mind what he looks like. That's frightening."

"You're unbelievable. You're also a coward," I told her, before walking toward the guy. Then my ex actually started following me. I spun around on her. "No fucking way, Lynn. If you want to badger me into this, then I'm doing it my way: man to man. I don't even want you in this stadium right now. I'm sick of you. Go bitch about everything to somebody else. And while you're at it, look yourself in the mirror. Maybe you didn't do everything so perfectly either."

That finally shut her up, I guess. I don't know. I didn't look back. I was all done with her a decade ago, never mind 10 seconds ago.

***

Still no sign of Nikki as her old man approached her other old man ... Bill, I guess his name was. So my ex had succeeded in coercing me into this ridiculously awkward situation, but I had come too far to turn back now.

"Are you Bill by any chance?" I asked him.

He seemed stunned that I had burst his fly-on-the-stadium-wall bubble.

"Uh ... yes. And you are?"

"Roger Janice, Nikki's father," I said, offering my hand.

He processed my identity for a moment with a look of confusion and shook my hand with some hesitation. He was understandably clueless on how I could've possibly identified him out of all these people and then sought him out. That's the black magic of an ex-wife, I suppose. Now he could share in the misery.

"How did you ..."

"I didn't know who you were or what you looked like, but my ex-wife, Nikki's mom, pointed you out. I wanted to introduce myself and, like any concerned father, ask that you do right by my daughter, who is younger than you by quite a few years."

"Fair enough," he said. "I like Nikki very much, so I always try to do right by her. Does that mean I need your blessing before I ask for her hand in marriage ... or just be a good guy?"

"Just be a good guy," I said.

"Perfect ... because I have no intention of marrying her. Based on my own experiences with marriage, that would be doing very wrong by her."

"Hard to argue with that. She's a grown woman now. She has to live her own life and I don't like to stick my nose in her business. I just don't want to see her get hurt ... by you or anyone."

"Spoken like a true father," he said. "I'm sure she'll get hurt again. She's already been hurt in ways I've never experienced. But I can assure you that I won't be the one to hurt her. She's special. You should be proud of her."

"I am. And if you two truly are happy together, then I'm happy. Age is only a number and life is too long to be miserable."

Just then Nikki emerged from the parade of graduates tugging a shorter girl by the hand. When her eyes spotted Bill and me together, she froze in horror.

"I'm not so sure she's happy to see _us_ together though," Bill wisecracked as we both smiled at the new graduate.

**CHAPTER 33: NIKKI SAPPHIRE**

Nikki

"Oh my God!" I gasped, grabbing Meghan's hand and then screeching us both to a halt. "Bill's here. With my dad. They're standing next to each other."

"Good. It's about time he met the parents," my fellow grad quipped.

They were looking right at us — and _smiling_? Bill specifically told me he was _not_ flying up for my graduation because he had too much writing to do on his book. My father did not know what Bill looked like. Yet there they were together. And where was my mother? I'd just graduated moments ago and already the real world had shocked me into disbelief.

"There she is," my father said, opening his arms toward me for a hug.

I hugged him and whispered in his ear, "What the hell are you two doing standing here together?"

"Ask your mother," he whispered back, before looking in my eyes and saying, "Congratulations, Nikki. You're officially more educated than your old man."

I forced a chuckle as Bill grinned, looked me up and down, and waited for his hug. Could this moment be any more awkward? Oh yes it could. My mom was looming just as I hugged Bill.

Again I resorted to whispering in ears. "This is a surprise. Thanks for coming, I think."

"You're welcome and congratulations. I decided I couldn't miss this big moment in your life," Bill replied, embracing me tightly despite the sharp looks from my mother. My dad and Meghan seemed amused by the situation.

"Nice to see you again, Meghan," Bill added. "Congrats to you as well."

"Thanks Bill," she replied, then hugged me. "I've gotta run to meet my parents. I'll call you later."

"Take me with you," I whispered in her ear before reluctantly letting her go.

She laughed and pranced away, leaving me to try to diffuse this cluster bomb alone.

"Bill, this is my mom, Lynn," I said, nodding toward her. "You've already met my dad, Roger, I see."

"Nice to meet you," Bill said, trying his best to act like a gentleman. He shook my mom's frosty hand as she bristled.

"Hello," was all she said.

Four sets of eyes darted this way and that during one long, excruciating silence in the middle of the graduation revelry all around us. Bill threw a different kind of dart to break the ice.

"How about I buy us all a round at the tavern across the street to celebrate Nikki's big day?" he suggested with a smile.

My mother shot him a disgusted glance and then gave my father an even worse look, if that was possible.

"Why don't you buy a drink for someone your own age," she snarled as I gasped. She was so mad she wasn't even making any sense. They were all about the same age, except for me.

Amazingly, Bill took it in stride.

"What? You're not 39?" he quipped.

"No, and you're plenty old enough to know better than to ..."

"OK, that's enough, Lynn," my father said, getting in between them and escorting her away from us despite my mother's shoves.

Just another Hallmark card graduation moment.

"Go have some fun," my dad shouted back at me. "Call me at the hotel tonight if you want to chat before I fly back."

Then to Bill, he said, "Maybe next time on that drink. Thanks for the offer."

Bill smiled. "The offer will stand."

***

Bill bought me a drink at his hotel's bar downtown, which was a far more quiet and relaxed atmosphere than raucous and tense Nickerson Field. I had shed my cap and gown, putting on comfortable jeans and a springy light green shirt.

"Here's another reason I came up," he said, sliding a little white jewelry box toward me.

My mind immediately bubbled with ramifications and my heart pounded, but then I quickly came to my senses. This is Bill. He would not propose.

I smirked, then smiled.

"You didn't need to ..."

"Just open it."

So I did. It was a gorgeous sapphire princess cut ring.

"This is so beautiful and thoughtful, Bill. Thank you so much for surprising me twice. For flying up and for this," I said, leaning across the small corner table to kiss him. Then I slid the ring onto my finger and gazed at it under the candlelight.

"You're welcome," he said. "Just a little something for your graduation and an early birthday present since I'm gonna miss that by a few days."

"You're very sweet. And thanks for trying to be nice to my mom. That was Mission Impossible. We haven't been getting along very well for a while."

"Because of me, no doubt."

"That's part of it. Not all of it. She's depressed, I think. At least my dad was pretty cool to you, from what I saw. How did that bizarre encounter go?"

"Better than I expected considering he blindsided me. Your mother set us up like some horrific blind date," Bill said with a laugh.

"I'm glad to see her plan backfired. Now she'll hate my father even more."

"I got the impression he'll get over that."

"Yes. I'm sure he will."

"But enough about them. What's next for BU graduate Nikki Blue?" he asked.

I smiled and flashed my new ring.

"Um ... don't you mean Nikki Sapphire?"

Bill laughed. We stared. And then we both knew exactly what would come next.

**CHAPTER 34: TROJAN HORSE**

Steve

Kathy Kepler approached my cubicle and hovered, ready to drop another bomb.

"What?" I asked, banging away at my laptop without looking up at her.

"Busy?"

"A Sunday story, a _high school graduation_ to cover and I forget what else."

"I know, I know, but we've got two people on vacation and you know the contact person on this one ... _if_ she still is."

"Lay it on me," I sighed.

"Remember our four-day summer intern from last year?"

Nikki, the temptress. "Yeah."

"Well, it's opening gala time."

"Holy shit. I totally forgot about that ... the S.S. Enterprise is finally opening?"

"Officially tomorrow night."

"That's a lot of notice."

"They didn't even send us a press release."

"Is Nikki still director of information?" I asked. We hadn't talked in months.

"That's a good question. I only know about the gala because Chris just drove by the place and saw all kinds of activity. I called the chamber and, sure enough, the gala is tomorrow night."

"Well, I still have Nikki's number in my phone so I'll find out what the deal is."

"Thanks," Kathy said, walking away.

Five minutes later, I called Nikki.

"Hello?"

"Guess who?"

"I know who ... I still have you in my phone, Steve."

"I'm flattered."

"What's new?"

"Um ... are you still director of information for The Bridge in Waterbury?"

"Yes I am."

"Really? Then why the wall of silence and lack of a press release about the grand opening of your spaceship there on Watertown Ave.?"

"Yeah sorry. This company is a little ... guarded about having the media attend."

"Why's that? I mean our readers certainly would be curious to see what's going on in that place and take a look around. Story, photo gallery, video ... that kind of thing," I suggested.

"We appreciate the interest, but that's not likely."

"Wow. Well now you've got my attention. I actually _want_ to do this story now. What are you guys hiding in there ... the alien from Roswell, New Mexico?"

She chuckled. The flashbacks of our close call in the Marriott hotel parking garage started looping through my brain ... and elsewhere.

"I might be able to squeeze Chris in here for 15 minutes. What's that society page with all the photos of the people on it that you guys run every Sunday?"

"Are you shitting me? All you're gonna give us is a Social Moment for this?"

"That's it. Social Moments," she said. "Send Chris over at 6:30 sharp and I'll get him in for a little while."

"Chris is OK but not me?"

"You're a reporter."

"No shit. Does this have something to do with ... you know?"

"Definitely not," she said. "Nothing personal at all. Just company and gala policy."

"Amazing. Why do they need an information director if you don't give out any, you know, information?"

"How's life at the paper?" she asked, completely ignoring my question.

I had to laugh. "Boy, they've got you trained really well. Ignore, ignore, ignore ... next topic."

"Yeah, I've always been good at ignoring certain questions. Even when I'm not working."

"Off the record, what can you tell me about The Bridge?" I pressed.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? We had drinks together. Almost a lot more than that, if you'll recall."

Realizing what I'd just said out loud, I sheepishly glanced around the newsroom, but no one seemed to notice. Eyeballs glued to their tubes as usual.

"I'm sorry ... maybe down the line," she said. "We've got a lot of higher-ups in town right now and I don't want to leak anything on purpose or by accident."

"Leak what? Is that thing going to fire up and take off for Mars tomorrow night or something?" I cracked.

She went silent for a moment and I sensed I'd struck a nerve.

"I better go," she said.

"Is there something to what I just asked you?"

"No."

"Nikki. It's Steve. Level with me. Are you guys doing something big or crazy or exciting?"

"No."

"You don't lie very well," I said.

"Next topic," she countered with another chuckle.

"Married yet?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"Good for you," I said, though that hurt to say for some reason. "And that's the real reason why you don't want me there tomorrow night, isn't it? Too much tension," I added jokingly.

"He won't be there," she said.

"What? They don't allow boyfriends in the spaceship either? Or is he a journalist, too?"

"He's just not getting along with the company very well at the moment."

"He's with The Bridge, too?"

"Clearly, I've already said too much."

"You should never fish off the company pier ... bridge, in this case," I quipped.

"Ha, ha."

"What's his name?"

"No way," she said. "Nice talking to you again, Steve. I do miss our conversations. Tell Chris I'll meet him by the left side entrance at 6:30 sharp. They won't let him in the front."

"OK, but I plan to find a way into that shindig, too," I said.

"No, no, no, Steve. Don't go getting me fired. I'm already risking enough sneaking Chris in for a few photos."

"OK. I'll back off for now. But I want an interview with you or somebody from that spaceship sometime this summer. You've got me way too curious not to start digging now."

"We'll see. Bye."

"Bye, Nikki."

I shook my head several times as I attempted to process what had just happened. Kathy apparently noticed me grinning and my wheels spinning. She strolled back over with a smirk on her face.

"Well?" she asked.

"Our four-day intern is the director of zero information. She won't even let me go to the gala. No reporters allowed per company and gala policy."

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious. They're gonna let Chris in there for like 15 minutes to shoot a Social Moment and that's it."

"So secretive."

"So stupid," I said. "I'm about to get Medieval on The Bridge ... better yet, Roman. We'll turn Chris into our Trojan horse."

**CHAPTER 35: SO HUMAN, SO ALIEN**

Nikki

" _He's the one_ who signs my paychecks," I told Chris, nodding toward David Michael as he held court in the Earth Wing ballroom.

"Is he still an ass?"

"Yes, but not as much toward me lately so please make sure you do not take his photo."

"You got it," Chris said, looking pretty GQ for the gala and smiling as he hoisted his big lens. "I'm just happy to be here."

I trusted Chris so I let him wander a little and do his thing. He'd herd people, especially the local Waterbury officials, in groups of four to six and get them to smile for their Social Moment. It was good harmless publicity for The Bridge without revealing anything. I'd planned to show Chris the door long before our ceremony in Mars Wing. Just thinking about that made me nervous.

Peter van Wooten, cocktail in hand, caught my eye and waved me over to where he, Virgil and V.X. Yun were standing. A different band than the one in Watertown had begun setting up nearby. Mars mission announcement or not, Bill's absence — from witty conversationalist to charismatic entertainer to ladies' room kisser — took all the fun out of the evening for me. Peter and Virgil, on the other hand, clearly had downed a couple of drinks already and seemed in the mood for plenty of fun.

"Tonight's the big night ... are you ready?" Peter asked, giving me a wink and a hard squeeze.

"It's still hard to believe ... _me_ going to Mars."

"Believe it and believe in yourself," he said, looking me up and down now.

V.X. even gave me a hug. Was I part of the elite inner circle now?

"Great to see you again, Nikki, and congratulations," she said, light years more pleasant toward me than in September.

"Thanks," I said, wondering if I should call her V for short. I didn't.

"This is really where it all begins for us," she added with a smile. "Announcing some of the future colonists and celebrating the missions to come."

I nodded and smiled. "Absolutely. It's like sci-fi colliding with reality."

Virgil kissed my forehead. Yeah, he was buzzed. He lived for these galas, as long as I was behaving myself. Without Bill here, there was little chance I'd get into trouble. I just found it hard to believe these people were treating me like I was one of their rising stars — a totally weird yet flattering position to be in given their legitimately grand plans.

"Having a good time?" I asked Virgil.

"You bet I am. Tonight is our night. Waterbury is on the map."

"How many Bridge centers have opened so far?"

"Five on the East Coast now, three on the West Coast and 12 internationally so far," Peter said.

"So we're No. 20?" I asked

"Yes we are," Virgil confirmed.

"How many will there be?" I asked.

"One on every corner," Virgil cracked.

"We try to open at least five per year," Peter said. "Slow and steady growth wins the race."

Peter then took me aside.

"So where's Bill tonight?" he asked, doing a bad job of playing dumb. Virgil or David had to have told him.

"He's finishing his book. He signed the contract so he needs to get it done," I said, the company woman in me shining through just as I noticed Chris straying a little too far. It was time to boot him back out the side door.

"Perhaps you're having a positive influence on him ... that's great," Peter said, taking it upon himself to adjust the Bridge logo on my lapel.

"I don't know about that," I said, feeling uncomfortable. "And shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"It certainly would be if I were in his place," Peter replied, his South Africa accent and suave persona delivering such a bold and forward statement with frightening ease.

I forced a smile and followed Stephanie's advice: _Don't let him_.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" I asked.

"Of course," he said, his smile undaunted. He seemed the type that would never take no for an answer. At least Bill was up front about his large ego. This man was less transparent about an even bigger one, I sensed.

I quickened my pace as I got closer to Chris, who was chatting up the attractive brunette from the Waterbury Chamber of Commerce — Lynn, I believe her name was — and three others. He spotted me tapping my watch and smirking at him, and gracefully bid them adieu. Then I escorted him toward the exit.

"Did you have fun?" I asked.

"Very much so. Got some nice photos of people having a good time," he said, a sparkle in his eyes.

"It was good to see you again, Chris, and say hi to Steve for me," I said as we stood near the door.

"I will ... and congratulations," he added, his smiling face morphing from Mr. Positivity to Mr. Positively Mischievous.

"For what?" I asked.

"The new ... facility here. It's impressive," he lied.

"No, say what you really mean," I insisted.

He pretended to be shocked at the accusation, but his affable smile remained. It truly was hard to be mad at the guy.

"I'm in awe ... that's all," he finally said, pushing his way out the door.

"Oh stop it!" I yelled after sticking my head out into the beautiful June evening air. "Don't tell Steve anything you found out."

Chris just smiled and waved, hauling his big camera and some invisible stolen knowledge back to the newspaper.

At that moment, I wondered if my former would-be profession would come back to haunt me and knock my rocket right out of the sky.

***

The Mars Wing amphitheater in Waterbury was identical to the one in Watertown. The only difference was everything related to me: I didn't have Bill to flirt with; I was not the butt of David's lessons on global warming and inappropriate laughter; and everyone stood up and cheered for me when David called my name.

"Nikki Blue, 22, a native of Middlebrook, New Hampshire, and director of information for The Bridge right here in Waterbury, has been selected for Mars Colony 1, Launch 2029A, South Africa."

I jumped up from my first row seat and took the stage beside our mission pilot, Barry Winters, and mission specialist, Judith Feld, who was on the TV panel with me in Cape Town. They already had been introduced to loud applause. They would not be bringing guests to Mars. The space capsule only holds six. Peter and I were the ones with the big decisions to make.

The name I had written down nine months earlier — Derek Schobell — no longer applied. We hadn't talked or texted at all since he drove off from Chili's in a rage on Christmas night. If I had to decide on the spot, I would choose Bill, but I didn't want to pull him away from Max. I also didn't think Peter or David would approve. They seemed to be giving Bill a hard time about his lack of progress on his book, though Bill wouldn't share much of that angst with me. He always tried to shield me from whatever struggles he was going through and dealt with them internally. I guess he felt like he shouldn't or couldn't burden a 22-year-old with his problems.

"Nikki will be allowed to choose one guest to bring with her," David announced. "Whom will she choose?"

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, which seemed to delight the packed Mars Wing.

"In September, she chose a man named Derek Schobell," David declared, much to my horror. "Does that invitation still stand today, Nikki?"

My smile was gone. I felt horrible having to dis my ex-boyfriend on a stage mostly in front of strangers. Everyone was looking at me as David approached and held a microphone to my mouth. Sickeningly, he'd made me his stage prop once again — even in my moment of supposed glory. What else could I do? I told the truth.

"No. We broke up. I don't know who to invite right now."

David spun back around toward the blue suits like a showman.

"She's got a ticket to ride ... to _Mars_! ... so you all better start lobbying Nikki tonight," he said.

Everyone cheered. I had never experienced feeling so powerful and popular — and weak and controlled — all at the same time. This crowded theater also felt as vacuous as space without Bill.

"The last member of the Colony 1, 2029A mission is certainly not the least," David continued, his voice bordering on giddy. "In fact, he'll be the future leader of The Bridge on Mars. He's currently director of The Bridge centers in Cape Town, South Africa, and Watertown, Massachusetts, but only for a maximum of the next decade. Let's hear it for Dr. Peter van Wooten."

Everyone jumped to their feet and applauded. Nine months ago, I might've been just as enthusiastic. But Stephanie had chosen to go to China for a reason. I already knew enough about Peter that made me dread blasting into space with him, never mind as his underling and possible romantic conquest, in his mind at least. So even as that beautiful man graced the stage and beamed for all, I could not shake the feeling that he was masking his ugliness somewhere beneath his smooth surface.

"Thanks David and thank you all," Peter said, already equipped with an ear mike. His selection was no surprise to him or anyone apparently. "I'm so excited to be a part of this amazing team, mission and journey to Mars. I'm humbled to lead The Bridge onto its second planet and I can't wait to begin training with these gifted mission members in South Africa in 2024. This is truly a night of remarkable beginnings for The Bridge Group and its partners, especially H2O Corporation. Thank you, V.X. Yun, for attending tonight. And before we head back to Earth Wing to celebrate, I just wanted to make sure you all know who your Bridge leader will be on planet Earth effective 2029."

The crowd hushed.

"My father, Dr. Willem van Wooten, has asked me to deliver this message: 'Earth will be yours, David Michael. Protect her, save her and restore her beauty wherever and however you can.'"

As the theater erupted in applause, David's eyes actually welled up. It blew me away that he was capable of producing tears.

So human, so alien ... _all of this_.

PART 4

**CHAPTER 36: THE INTERVIEW**

Steve

It took me about three weeks to nail down an interview with Nikki. She seemed to know why I wanted to talk to her, but she never admitted to it. She only agreed to the interview while she was on vacation and settling into her new home in the Litchfield Hills of northwest Connecticut.

"Interview me up here or not at all," she told me. "I need a break from Waterbury."

So I drove up to the tiny farming town of Morris, about 20 miles or so north-northwest of the city. We sat on the porch of her small white Cape, looking across a country road and into a field of corn. Beyond that, a huge white barn, flanked by two weathered gray silos, loomed on the crest of a hill.

"Sweet place," I said, the birds chirping all around us on this sunny, 80-degree day in early July. "How much are they paying you?"

"Didn't I already tell you?" she said, pulling her hair into a ponytail and easing back into her green lawn chair with cup holder. She sipped an iced coffee that I had brought as a "house cooling" gift, which made her chuckle, but overall she seemed anxious or worried or something.

"All I remember is that it's way more than I make."

"75," she said.

"Yeah, like I said, _way more_."

"Money isn't everything."

"But it helps."

"Sometimes."

I noticed the blue ring on her finger. It matched her hair, jeans, shirt and mood.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"You're just a sneaky little shit, that's all."

"What did I do?"

"You made sure Chris found something out about me."

"Like what?"

"Just start your interview, Steve, and don't make me regret it."

"All I've got to say about what your accusing me of is A. I didn't go to the gala as you insisted and B. Never underestimate photographers — they're journalists, too," I said.

"Fine. Lesson learned. What's your question?"

"So ... did you go with a 30-year mortgage on this place?" I cracked.

She gasped. "It's a rental."

"Makes sense. ... Do you have a place already picked out on Mars?" I deadpanned.

She shook her head and flipped me the bird. "Is that your first real question, on the record?"

"Yes."

"Rephrase it and maybe I'll answer it."

"OK. Have you been selected by your company, The Bridge Group, to go on a mission to Mars?" I asked.

"Yes I have," she said with a sincere tone.

My eyes popped open. It's one thing to piece together a theory, quite another to have something like that confirmed.

"Congratulations," I said, offering her my hand. She eyed me like this was a prank. It wasn't. "Seriously. That is freaking sick."

She shook it and we locked eyes for a moment. Then she threw me for a loop. "Wanna come with me?"

I couldn't tell if she was kidding or not. "You're joking, right?"

"Not at all. I get to bring one guest and I have no idea who to bring right now."

"You get to choose?"

"Supposedly."

"You're not even an astronaut."

"Neither are you," she shot back. "I'm not flying the ship. I'm a passenger ... a future Martian ... a colonist."

I slapped my head a couple of times. This was actually real?

"Training begins in 2024 outside of Cape Town, South Africa," she continued. "I've already traveled there and seen the future launch site and training center with my own eyes. These people are serious."

I started taking notes. "How many are going with you?" I asked.

"Six on my mission, but there are supposed to be four launches in 2029 and 2030 for a total of 24 colonists."

"Amazing."

"Maybe the S.S. Enterprise design wasn't far off after all," she said with a grin, then wised up. "That was off the record."

"Of course."

Then her phone pinged. She checked it, gasped at an apparent text and mumbled to herself, "Yes Candace, the loser's back in jail."

"Jail?" I asked.

"One of my friends from high school ... he's back in jail ... for _telling the truth_."

How else could I respond to that by singing some Billy Joel?

"Honesty ... is such a lonely word."

She wasn't amused. I couldn't make Nikki smile like I used to, but I'm pretty sure it had nothing to do with me.

"Back on the record?" I asked, trying to snap her out of her distracted daze.

"Back on."

"So how does it feel to be going to Mars?"

"I don't know. It's still so many years away ... hopefully that's enough time to wrap my head around it."

"Why don't you ask your boyfriend to go with you?"

"Off the record," she insisted.

"Sure."

"Because he's got a 5 ... 6-year-old son."

"Really?"

That threw me for a loop, too. I fought off her advances and she found another guy with a family?

"Yeah, so I don't think he wants to leave the planet without him."

"Understandable ... back on the record?"

She nodded.

"What excites you about Mars?"

"Looking back at Earth from out there ... having a whole new perspective ... getting to live on two different planets in one lifetime ... starting over."

"Tell me more about starting over," I said.

"Hopefully, it's a chance to learn from everything we've screwed up here and make it a better world there. The conditions will be much more harsh and challenging, so we'll have to work together and rely on each other."

"How did your family react when you told them you've been chosen to go to Mars?"

"Off the record, I haven't told them yet," she said.

"What? Wow."

"I suppose I'll have to tell them before this story comes out, but it's not easy to tell your mother and father you're leaving the planet and never coming back."

"Yeah, that's a difficult conversation ... one people really haven't had to worry about until now, I guess. Can you take one of them with you?"

"I can, but my father has young children with his second wife so he couldn't go. My mom and I aren't getting along very well right now, so ... no."

"Any friends that might want to go with you?"

"Maybe, but I'm just going to give it some time and see what happens," she said.

"Back on the record, I just watched video of your panel discussion on The Bridge Network that aired a few months back. Does it concern you at all when one of the company's top executives tells the world he supports population control to fight global warming?"

She did not look happy with me for trying to turn this into a real interview. The softball questions were over, as far as I was concerned.

"I'd rather not get into all of that, but it's a fact that this planet can only support so many people," she said.

"To me, that's a scary statement when David Michael talks about population control. What's next? Thinning the herd with selective killing?"

"Is that a question or your opinion about what he said?"

I kept going like a prosecuting attorney. "Is it true that the doors on the flying saucer level of every secretive Bridge center spell out 'God complex?'"

Nikki stood up and pointed toward the corn field.

"Get out!"

"Why?"

"Because you're turning this into an inquisition."

"Fine. Let's just talk off the record ... you and me."

"This interview is over. Done. Got it?"

"Got it."

She sat back down. I tossed my notebook and pen across the porch floor.

"How do you know about that?" she asked.

"God complex?"

"Yes. How?"

"I have a source."

"Who?"

"Just between us?"

"Definitely."

"Stephanie Willard."

Nikki's jaw dropped open.

"How did you get to her?"

"You know her?" I played dumb.

"Yes. She was director of information ..."

"Zero information," I interrupted with a grin, "for the Bridge center in Watertown, Mass."

Nikki offered no hint of a smile. "Not anymore. She's in China now. I saw her in South Africa before she flew to China. But how did you get to her?"

"Lots of digging. One very long distance phone call."

"And she knew about God complex?" Nikki asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Because ... never mind."

"She dated that Peter van Wooten guy, the host of the show you were on," I said. "I guess he told her a little too much and she did a little too much snooping around on her own. Then she got caught. She told me they labeled her a 'Bridge jumper' and cut ties."

Nikki blanched.

"They don't tell you much, do they?" I asked.

"Only what they want me to know."

"Stephanie figured out what the letters on the doors stand for," I said.

Nikki was locked in on me now.

"GOD is the research and development area, where they literally are trying to play God."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"Genetics, cloning, population control ... "

Nikki shook her head and covered her eyes with her right hand.

"There's that phrase again," I continued. "Stephanie doesn't know for sure, but she thinks population control involves more than birth control in third world countries and flood-prone areas. She suspects it means the use of viruses and biological agents to create epidemics that seem natural but are absolutely artificial ... _homicidal_. Sounds like Hitler for the global warming age to me."

I could see Nikki's head spinning. She had no idea who she worked for. Not a clue.

"Should I stop?" I asked.

"No. Tell me everything. Please," she said, looking at me again and waving me on.

"COM stands for their communications, publications and propaganda department."

"Yeah, that's where we taped the TV show," she confirmed. "That's also where my office is and it's the only part of the saucer I have access to."

"Can't you just open a door and check out the other areas?"

"No. Everything is controlled by facial scanner access."

"Well, somehow Stephanie found out the PLE stands for planetary living and exploration, a sort of mission control lab," I said.

"That makes sense. But what about X? She warned me not to pry about X with Peter."

"She said she's 90 percent certain it's The Bridge's security and spying control center. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Um ... yes."

"Why do you say that?"

"How do you think they got the dirt on Mayor Battaglia last summer? They had to be spying on him with that hooker. They also have bodyguards. I know that for a fact."

"Why? Do you have one?"

"Sometimes. He kicked someone's ass down in Miami on New Year's Eve."

"Awesome. It pays to have backup in a cat fight," I said with a wink.

"It wasn't a cat fight and don't wink. I hate winkers."

"Then I'll never wink again."

"How did you get Stephanie to tell you all of this? No offense, but the Waterbury paper is not exactly The New York Times."

"Ouch ... that hurts," I said, before turning serious. "I just told her I used to work with you ... I left out the four days part."

"Oh."

"She seemed to think that you, like her, fit the profile of the few women The Bridge prefers to hire — young, attractive, great back story and ... easy to control."

"How flattering," she said, her voice turning bitter. "Maybe not as easy as they think."

"Sorry to be the messenger," I said.

"No, thank you. This has been very revealing. I feel like we've interviewed each other."

"Except I can't use most of it," I pointed out.

"Neither can I ... yet," she said. "They'll crucify me if you print anything other than I've been chosen to go to Mars and how excited I am."

"Yeah, I get that."

"So what are you going to do with all this dirt?" she asked, her blue eyes pleading for mercy.

"Sit on it, build on it, try to confirm as much of it as possible and wait for the right moment ... because it will come. It's only a matter of time. This could be a massive story."

"Good. Hopefully by then I will have jumped from The Bridge, too."

"What about Mars?" I asked.

She pondered that for a moment and then stared at me.

"I can only control what I can control ... and I'll show The Bridge that's a lot more than they think."

**CHAPTER 37: DEAD-END STREET**

Nikki

The Litchfield Hills were about the best Connecticut could do for elevation, at roughly 1,000 feet, so naturally I rented a small house here to remind me of the White Mountains in New Hampshire. The little bucolic town of Morris felt far removed from The Bridge and Waterbury, yet it was only about a half-hour commute.

After my interview with Steve, it was a commute I no longer wanted to make. I felt ashamed for not trusting my gut. I had sensed The Bridge was shady from my first encounter with them, but I'd allowed myself to get sucked in by persuasive talk and glitzy galas and ego stroking and, mostly, money.

Now what? Quit and have to pay them back for my senior year at BU? Quit and give up on a once-in-a-zillion-lifetime chance to go to Mars? Quit and risk the wrath of Peter, David, Virgil and the entire God Complex, especially the X — door to the unknown? And what would happen with me and Bill? He seemed more and more withdrawn lately, as if him being in Florida and me in Connecticut wasn't withdrawn enough.

The whole situation made me sick to my stomach, and yet, I forced myself to go shopping for fresh produce. I stuck with my plan to check out the Sunday farmers market, which I could practically see from my house. The outdoor market, located next to a hilltop barn, overlooked a grassy field that flowed into a corn maze. Children laughed as they rolled down the hill while their parents looked on from above and shopped at dozens of vendor booths.

I felt like an outsider here for several reasons: I was new to town, I had blue hair and I was a single young woman. But I refused to stay inside and agonize for one more minute. I needed fresh air. I needed to see happy, honest country people. I needed answers from somewhere, someone.

What I got instead was a call from my mother. Reluctantly, I answered it.

"Hi mom."

"Hi Nikki."

"How are you?" I asked, strolling away from the market itself and toward the hill where the kids were rolling down.

"Wondering why you never call."

"Oh," I said, bracing for another guilt trip.

"What's that noise? Children?"

"I'm at the farmers market here in Morris."

"Well that's nice to hear. You need to put some roots down somewhere instead of flying all over the place."

"If you only knew the half of it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's gonna be out in the papers soon, so I might as well warn you."

"What now?"

"I've been selected to go to Mars."

"If this is your idea of some kind of sick joke ..."

"It's not a joke. My company is sending 24 people to Mars. They picked me to go. In 2029."

"And you said yes?"

"So far ... yes."

"Are you crazy?"

"Clearly."

"I can't even believe we're having this ridiculous conversation. You're not even an astronaut. What about your family? You just agree to fly off into space and leave us behind ... like good riddance to us?"

"Before you go off on me, it's 10 years away and there's a very good chance I'm not going to go."

"Why?"

"I don't really want to get into it."

"No surprise there. You never tell me anything."

"Don't start. It's just, the more I find out about my company, the more I ..."

"They just paid your tuition, Nikki, not to mention your swanky Boston room and board. They're paying you 75 thousand ..."

"Oh, so I never tell you anything? I told you my salary, which you're now quoting back to me. I hope you're not telling the whole world what I make."

"My point is you already quit journalism. Don't go quitting PR, too."

"Thanks. Just what I need to hear."

"No company, no job is perfect. Do you think my bank is perfect? Welcome to the real world."

"Fine."

"What really bothers me is that my only child hates me enough to sign up to go to another planet. She'd rather risk getting blown up in a rocket than deal with me."

"Here we go."

"Well I presume they didn't just walk up to your desk and pick you. You must've applied. Am I right?"

"Sort of."

"I want my daughter back ... the one who makes good decisions. That's what I want. Not the daughter who decides to date 39-year-old men ... who _sort of_ decides to blast off to Mars."

"Are you done?"

"Yes. Please respond. Say something that makes sense for a change."

"You know what, I'm not going to talk to you when you judge me like this. You've made plenty of bad decisions, plenty of mistakes, so back off and let me work through mine."

"I still can't believe you'd choose Mars over your own family. That might as well be a knife to the heart."

"Family? What family? Don't you mean _you_? As usual, this is all about _you_?"

"Oh yes, _I'm_ the selfish one. I'm the one who gets no say in my only child adding umpteen million miles to the already heart-crushing distance between us. Have you told your father you're going to Mars yet?"

"No."

"That should be one hell of a chat. Please record it for me. Good luck to you, Nikki."

"You know what ... I don't like who you've become either, mom. It's a two-way street."

"No, right now it's more like a dead-end street," she said.

Dial tone.

I stood there dumbfounded. Confused. Hurt. Paralyzed.

And then suddenly Bill called — such a rare event these days that I felt compelled to answer it even in my fucked-up state.

"Hi. Please tell me something nice."

"I wish," he said, sounding as troubled as me.

"What's wrong?"

"They're tailing me everywhere I go."

"Who is?"

"The Scientologists. The Bridge, too, for all I know."

"Did you finish the book yet?"

"Yes."

"Well get Virgil or David the manuscript right away."

"I will. I just wanted you to know how much I like you before I hit send."

"Bill ... are you really that afraid?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then I'm going to call whoever I have to call to get you protection. This is ridiculous."

"You can try, but they won't do it."

"Why?"

"Because they want me gone. You told me Peter made a pass at you in South Africa, so that means I'm out."

"And I told him that's not going to happen. I'm with you."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure The Bridge is a big believer in free will or playing fair. In fact, they might well be worse than the Scientologists. I might need to scrap this book and write a new one about The Bridge ... if I live long enough to do it."

"Bill, please stop talking like that. My mother just chewed me out again and now you're freaking me out, too."

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to tell you I like you."

"I like you, too. I'm going to do something about this."

"Good luck with that."

"Don't underestimate me."

"I don't. But I think we both underestimated _them_."

I sighed. "Call me later. Actually, _sooner_ ... rather than later."

"I will. Bye."

I heard live music and continued to think of Bill as I strolled past the vendors. I turned off my phone. I didn't want any more calls at the farmers market. Too damn depressing.

My ears led me to a beautiful sight at the far end of the market: a group of four children — two boys and two girls, ranging in age from probably 9 to 12 — playing in a cute little band. The tiny boy drumming had a mop of brown hair practically covering both of his eyes, but he was grinning and playing well. I sat down among the rows of little white chairs in front of them and smiled despite my sadness.

They were just finishing up one song and then began playing another. I recognized the melody, an early Coldplay song. The older of the two boys sang and the other three children joined in on backup vocals. The older girl played guitar and had such poise in front of dozens of people, both seated and milling around the market. I was blown away by how good they were at such a young age.

" _Look at the stars,  
Look how they shine for you  
And everything you do  
Yeah, they were all yellow_

I came along  
And wrote a song for you  
And all the things you do  
And it was called 'Yellow'

Tears filled my eyes even as I smiled, just watching them; listening to every note and loving their pure gifts offered so beautifully in the fresh summer air for a few tips in an open guitar case.

" _Your skin,  
Oh yeah, your skin and bones  
Turn into  
Something beautiful  
You know,  
You know I love you so  
You know I love you so_

I swam across  
I jumped across for you  
Oh what a thing to do  
'Cause you were all yellow."

**CHAPTER 38: BOOK BRAWL**

Adam

Virgil had warned me to be ready for payback. He already knew the story of me and Lee. I guess Nikki had told him all about it or he read it in the newspapers — how I'd backed out of our plan to shoot up our high school; how I'd told the police everything and served less than a year while my ex-friend got 25.

Lee never got back at me during my first term in the New Hampshire State Prison for Men, but by now, he had built up some real prison currency. He had a better chance of exerting influence and bribing people to tell other people to do his bidding for something in return.

"He'll find out you're there," Virgil told me. "Word travels from maximum to minimum and back again."

"I know," I said. "I've been there."

"Yeah, but it's been a while. Watch your back every second."

"I will."

On Day 29 of my 30-day term, Virgil's crystal fucking ball flashed red.

And I was ready.

I was in the prison library, putting books back where they were supposed to be — the same job I had back when I was here in 2014-15. Lee was a fool for waiting so long because the closer it got to the end of my term, the more I felt it would happen at any moment ... and the more I couldn't wait to wreck whoever tried it.

I don't know if the guard had been bribed to look the other way or not, but when he walked off for thirty seconds, my adrenaline surged. There were two guys sitting at a table well behind me who I knew and didn't expect any shit from. I was standing beyond all the aisles of books, stocking the long shelf along the rear wall of the basically square room.

Two other guys I didn't know very well — both shorter than me but pretty tough-looking — came in and started peeping around, but _definitely not for books_. My blood boiled and I imagined myself as who I always did before a fight — Shawn Thornton, ex-Boston Bruin and one of the best hockey fighters who ever lived.

I moved my cart toward the rear right corner of the library and played oblivious. I turned the cart the long way so it would block both the rear horizontal aisle and stick into the second-to-last vertical aisle at the same time. The only way they could get me without hurdling the cart was to come down the far right vertical aisle. I'd trapped myself in the corner on purpose and mostly kept my back to them. An exaggerated cleared throat not far away told me they'd found my aisle, my corner.

They both approached my ass single file as silently as they could while I raged inside — head pounding, heart banging through my chest. My left hand white-knuckled a hardcover of "No Easy Day" by Mark Owen; my right fist transformed into a hammer.

"This is from Lee in max," the first dickhead declared, but before he got the "x" out of his mouth, my left hand had flung the book at his buzzed head, causing him to duck and my right fist followed with a hard punch to his nose, stunning him. The second guy, with the barbed-wire tat creeping up his neck, backed up a step, stunned that I was ready for them. I bull rushed past the first guy and tackled the second. I started whaling on him right there on the floor when the two guys I knew from the table ran over to check out the battle.

"Holy shit, Upton!" the one name Eddie shouted. The other one, Calhoun, just laughed.

"Get the fucking guard!" I yelled. "Or grab ..."

Before I could shout another word, the first dickhead stabbed me in the back with something — a razor blade or the end of an X-acto knife maybe — and ripped downward. It fucking KILLED! I struggled to stand up as he put me in a headlock from behind, but I was so pissed off from getting stabbed that I rammed him into the bookshelf and crushed his arm enough to release me. Then I was free to wreck him up against the books. Every move I made hurt my back like a motherfucker, but I kept swinging anyway and wasted the rest of his face to match his broken nose.

That's when the guard finally showed up. By now, at least Eddie was holding down the second asshole. Calhoun must've run off to tell the guard what had happened.

"What the fuck is going on here?" shouted the guard, a new one I didn't recognize.

I shoved the dazed and bloodied mofo who stabbed me toward the guard's feet. "These two motherfuckers just ambushed me and I kicked their asses! Now take me to the fucking hospital!"

They all looked at me like I was insane, so I turned around to show them my gashed back — orange prison suit parted by a red sea of blood. The chorus of groans told me how bad it was.

I spun back around on them.

" _That's_ fucking why!" I shouted, loud enough so Lee could hear it in max.

**CHAPTER 39: SCARED**

Nikki

I was phone surfing and drinking a coffee on a park bench in the center of Litchfield — one town over from Morris and ironically the same place where Derek's sister got married the previous summer — when my father called.

Martian Nikki v. Disgruntled Parents, round two, I thought, as I sat facing the old Litchfield courthouse, which loomed over a row of high-end shops and bistros across the street from the Litchfield Green.

"Hi dad."

"Nikki, your mother tells me you're going to Mars. Please tell me she's gone from crazy to nuthouse crazy."

"Nope. She's just plain crazy."

"So it's true?"

"Yes ... I've been selected to go, but it's like 10 years away and a lot can happen in 10 minutes, never mind 10 years."

"Why did you put yourself in the running in the first place?"

"Why not? It's an adventure. We only live once. Why not make it unforgettable?"

"Are you that sick of this planet already? After barely 22 years?"

"Can you blame me?"

"Not entirely."

"Good. I get to bring someone. Wanna come?" I asked, more for my own entertainment than anything else.

"No thanks. Ask Bill instead. No one's even attempted to go there yet and you've got two seats already reserved? Who do you work for, Elon Musk?"

"You're scared, aren't you?"

"You should be. It's probably a suicide mission. ... Nikki, please reconsider this insanity for your parents' sake. No parent should have to bury his daughter. We almost had to do that with you once already. Isn't that enough?"

"Please don't guilt-trip me. You guys got to choose what you wanted to do. You've been living your lives. Don't limit me. Maybe I want to do something extraordinary ... something that rises above the usual, expected bullshit."

"What kind of usual, expected bullshit are you talking about now?" he asked with a sigh.

"Marriage, divorce, blah, blah, blah."

"Oh yes, of course. Escape then," he said. "Sounds like you're the one who's scared. Go ahead. Fly off to Mars. I'm sure everyone will be perfect there, with perfect moms and dads, beautiful love stories. Who needs oxygen when everyone is so in love? Just be careful. If something does go wrong, you won't have us to blame anymore. You just might have to blame yourself."

"I can live with that."

"Can you?"

Click.

Click.

Asshole!

But of course, I felt like one, too.

**CHAPTER 40: IN STITCHES**

Adam

"I called you even before my Aunt Donna," I told Virgil as I recovered face down on a bed in the ER of some hospital not too far from the prison. A uniformed police officer stood near the closed door.

"I'm flattered," Virgil said. "How many stitches?"

"25. The painkillers help at least."

"You should be proud of yourself. You heeded my warning about Thomas, beat up the two thugs he sent and earned an impressive battle scar. I'd pat you on the back, but ..."

"Yeah, I'll pass on that."

"The good news is our lawyer will get the final day of your term wiped away with ease tomorrow morning and you'll be a free man again. He'll also argue that you deserve to take a little vacation before you report back to your probation officer up here."

"Vacation. Where?"

Virgil leaned in close and spoke more softly.

"How does Florida sound?"

I smiled. I'd never been.

"Sounds perfect!"

"It'll be your first assignment for our security team at The Bridge, but mostly it'll be a paid vacation," Virgil said.

"Seriously? You're hiring me?"

He nodded and smiled.

"I'd jump around the room right now if it didn't kill me," I told him.

"Welcome aboard. You've certainly earned your stripes, with a razor blade down the back no less."

"Thank you, Virgil. Seriously. This is huge."

"Indeed. I'll make sure you collect the other $10K we owe you before you fly from Boston to Tampa next week."

"Awesome! More real money. What do you want me to do down there?"

"It's not set in stone yet, but we might need you to drive a package from Point A to Point B. Other than that, go find a beach, relax and heal. Do you think you can handle that?"

"Hell yeah. It sure beats prison ... _and the mall_."

Virgil laughed.

I loved the old guy. He was like a second father almost — with a Grand Theft Auto kind of wallet.

**CHAPTER 41: LITTLE CANDLE OF HATE**

William

Falling asleep to reports of a massive hurricane forming in the Atlantic, I slumped over on the couch, listing heavily to starboard. But before I'd completely capsized into a cushion, I roused to the sound of someone banging on the door of my Miami Beach condo. A car alarm also began piercing my ears. _Was that mine?_

"Who is it?" I yelled as I scrambled toward the door.

"It's Rey," my Puerto Rican neighbor yelled. "Your car is on fire."

"Holy shit!"

I burst through the door, following Rey down the hall and stairs.

"I already called 911," Rey said. "They're on their way."

"Thanks," I said as we both ran into the complex's outdoor parking lot that was supposed to be secure. Sure enough, my black Acura was fully engulfed, especially around the driver's seat and engine.

"Fuck me!" I screamed.

"Sorry bro," Rey said, staring at it just like me.

Sirens blared not too far away, and other people in the complex began to stir and watch the fire show from their windows and balconies even though it was 2:30 in the morning.

"Not much I can do to save it now," I mumbled, hoping it was all just a drunken nightmare.

"How much gas is in it?" Rey asked, still in his Miami nightclub player clothes. A single, early 30s, Don Juan type, he was the one who first told me about Nikki Beach.

"Quarter tank, I think."

"That's good. I'm just glad I didn't park near you. Those cars on either side of yours could light up if they don't get here soon."

Less than a minute later, two fire trucks pulled into the lot and a bunch of firefighters sprang into action. They blasted my car with a relentless barrage of water for three minutes or so until it was fully extinguished.

After the firefighter in charge had examined the charred remains of my Acura, Rey and I walked toward him.

"What the hell happened to my car?" I asked the tall, thin black man dressed in a yellow fire suit and black helmet.

"Looks like somebody kicked in the driver's side window and tossed in a Molotov cocktail. There's glass everywhere," he said, pointing toward the pavement around the car. "Outside and on the driver's seat."

Two police cars pulled into the lot next.

"You should go talk to them," the fire captain advised, nodding toward the cruisers. "Because this here was no accident."

***

My first call the next morning wasn't to Nikki. I had freaked her out enough with stories of me being tailed. I wasn't ready to tell her my car had been torched yet, especially until me or the police figured out who did it. If The Bridge was behind it and not the Scientologists, we were both in way over our heads.

So I called David, the twit, to see what he had to say. I had sent him and Virgil copies of my "Cruise Missiles" manuscript about two weeks ago and hadn't heard a peep outside of an email acknowledging they had received it.

"Hello Bill," David said on the fourth ring.

"My car got torched last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Where?"

"Outside my condo in Miami Beach. Do you know anything about that?"

"Why? Are you accusing _me_ of setting your car ablaze?" he gasped, totally offended, like it was beyond all comprehension.

"Well, it's either you guys or the assholes you splintered off from ... like a fucking lab experiment that went from bad to worse. So how about we set all our cards on the fucking table right now and get this the fuck over with!" I yelled.

"Are you quite done screaming at me and falsely accusing The Bridge of crimes I didn't know about until 30 seconds ago?"

"So that's your story? You know nothing about it?"

"Why would I?"

"I've been followed around here, around Coconut Grove ... hell, my life was outright threatened there. I've been tailed in Clearwater, too. If you claim it's not you guys harassing me, then I have to assume it's the Scientologists because of my book. I submitted my manuscript to you and Virgil two weeks ago and neither of you have said a word. You said you'd back me up with protection once I finished the book. Well, it's done. I _demand_ some security now, especially given what just happened here last night."

"Bill, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

"There's a fucking surprise."

"The manuscript you submitted is woefully lacking."

"Oh is it? Let's hear your expert opinion, David. Please. Don't hold back."

"We don't think it's up to your usual standards for one thing. And at 235 pages, we feel you've come up rather short, literally and figuratively. Virgil has been consulting with one of our publication specialists and will be getting back to you with some suggestions to improve the book. We'll also extend you a generous rewrite deadline of September 1st."

I cackled into the phone like a witch on crack. "Are you done with your critique yet so I can have my say?"

"You wanted the cards laid on the table ..."

"Here are my cards then. Take what I wrote and stick it up your smug little ass because that's the last word I'll ever submit to you guys. Virgil came down here last year spouting off about letting the artists have creative control and you guys not interfering, and then you pull this bullshit. You're all a bunch of liars, crooks and con artists ... fear-mongering assholes who ..."

"You still took our money, Bill. You signed the BIP membership, too."

"All under false pretense. You were never gonna pick me to go to Mars ... just like you were never gonna publish my book as soon as your boy Peter set his sights on Nikki and found out later she was dating me. That guy's even older than I am. He can have any woman in the world with his looks and his Bill Gates wallet, and yet he wants Nikki just for sport. Because of him, I'm out. It has nothing to do with one goddamn word I wrote because none of you hacks knows a goddamn thing about writing. All you know about is manipulation and intimidation and power ... just like the COS."

"Ah, there's the passion that's lacking in your book about Scientology, Bill," the twit replied sarcastically. "You've found it at last. Now go rewrite your book."

"Eat me. My next book will be about The Bridge, asshole! I'll show you how to burn bridges! And I'll do it with a fucking flamethrower, not a fucking Molotov cocktail!"

"Better get busy. I hear there's a nasty hurricane blowing your way that just might douse your little candle of hate," he sneered before hanging up on me.

I ran to the balcony and hurled my phone as far as I could toward the Atlantic.

**CHAPTER 42: TENTACLES**

Nikki

As I walked toward my glass office in COM, blogger Brandon and media buyer Zach approached me for some sucking up time. The fellow 20-something blue suits immediately looked glum when they saw I had stolen their thunder. One had a coffee in his hand; the other a newspaper with Steve Pearson's front page story about my selection for the Mars mission.

"Coffee, check. Paper, check," I said with a smile as I hoisted my own, one in each hand. "But thanks for thinking of me, guys."

"Nice story about ya," said Zach, the cuter of the two.

"Any decision yet on who you're taking to Mars?" asked Brandon, the potential clinger/stalker of the two.

"Nope. We've still got a few years," I said, strolling past them and into my office.

I closed the door and spent a few minutes reading Steve's story. It was fluffy and straightforward as he promised. He'd kept what Stephanie told him off the page for now. It was weird seeing my own photo staring back at me. Chris had taken a portrait of me in front of the shiny new Bridge center here in Waterbury. Pretty ironic and ridiculous, I thought, given my initial reaction to the rendering of the place more than a year ago.

Now I was sitting inside the saucer, one office away from Virgil's corner office, which he rarely used. He worked in GOD mostly. He also had been traveling a lot; for all I knew, he had an office in X, too.

My access was still limited to COM. I had loitered outside of the X door once, failed the facial scanner and then got scolded by Virgil. There were cameras everywhere, so I don't know how Stephanie had found out as much as she did ... unless Peter talked too much in the bedroom or he let her hang herself by snooping over a period of time under video surveillance and then called her on it.

With Virgil, I'd just asked him straight out once: "What's the X stand for?"

"Some day, when you run this place, you'll find out, but not until then," he replied sharply. "Focus on COM. That's your job here."

Lately, COM had been a joke. My initial wave of on-camera broadcast assignments and TV panels had ebbed right before I graduated, and then the focus turned to the gala. I did minimal PR work before the gala because I had been directed mostly to reject or delay requests for information from the media. After the gala, I was given a two-week vacation to move and settle into my new place in Morris.

Now it was late July and though my paychecks were huge, I mostly felt lonely, isolated and useless. Both of my parents hated me for choosing Mars over them. Somewhat justifiably, Bill was all wrapped up in his own paranoia and problems down in Miami. And, based on Candace's text during my interview with Steve, Adam was back in prison.

But just when I was about to call Meghan to try to brighten my mood, it was Adam, of all people, who texted me: "Hello from Florida."

_What???_ I didn't even text back. I just called him.

"Hi Nikki," he answered.

"You're in Florida? How's that possible? I'd heard you were in prison again."

Suddenly Virgil appeared and knocked on my glass wall. I raised an index finger to keep him waiting for a moment. He nodded and strolled toward the computers where Zach and Brandon were seated.

"Well ... I told the police the truth about my dad and how I knew what happened to Rodney but was too afraid to say anything sooner," Adam said. "I told them when they found his bones, I changed my mind and decided to do the right thing. The judge ended up being pretty cool about it, but he said he had to make me serve at least 30 days for violating my probation."

"And now you're out?"

"Yup."

"Why Florida?"

"Celebrating my freedom. I'd never been."

"Good for you," I said with some hesitation. The whole thing didn't seem right for some reason. "Where in Florida are you?"

"Tampa and St. Petersburg mostly so far."

"For how long?"

Virgil knocked on the glass again and I waved him off again. He didn't look pleased.

"Not sure yet," he said with a weird tone. I knew that tone. He could tell the judge the truth and serve 30 days, but he couldn't tell me the truth with no threat of a prison sentence. WTF!

"Adam. What is going on? You took a one-way flight to Florida? That's just not something you would normally do on your own."

"Why not?" he shot back, all defensive. "I've got money now."

Now I was really suspicious. "What money? How?"

"Never mind. I was just texting to say hi, Nikki. I knew you've been down here before. Maybe you could tell me some cool places to check out."

"Well you better start by staying on the Gulf coast because there's a hurricane bearing down on the Atlantic side."

"OK. Good to know."

"Go to Busch Gardens ... and Clearwater Beach. It's nice there. I really gotta go."

"OK. Bye."

"Have fun," I said, but he'd already hung up.

_Ridiculously weird. He's got money now? A mall cop who just got out of jail and jumped on a plane to Florida?_ I glanced at Virgil hovering outside my office and then I smelled his lie before it even hit me. I seethed as I waved him in.

"Christ, Nikki, who were you talking to for so long?" he asked, briskly walking in and sitting in the chair across from my desk. "I've got big news and you keep me waiting?"

I eyed him and simmered. "Oh? What news?"

"Answer my question first. Who were you talking to just now that was more important than meeting with your boss?" he asked, visibly annoyed.

I shook my head. "Why don't you tell me? You've probably got my phone bugged."

"I don't like your accusation or your tone."

"Well, I don't like you interfering in all aspects of my life."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Did you go behind my back and talk to Adam Upton after our conversation on the plane to Cape Town? I broke a vow to him by telling you all of that. I thought we agreed that was just between us."

His face paled and I had my answer, but I wanted some words out of his lying mouth.

"Answer me," I demanded, feeling pretty bossy myself.

"Only to make sure you were protected ... to make sure he didn't throw you under the bus for a crime you had nothing to do with."

"This is bullshit, Virgil. You have no right to stick your manipulative tentacles into the lives of my friends and use what I've told you in confidence to ..."

Virgil cut me off. "What did he tell you exactly?"

"Why should I tell you? I can't trust you."

"That's completely unfair, Nikki. Here I am trying to make sure the kid doesn't drag you down with him ..."

"How much did you bribe him to turn himself in, serve 30 days in jail and shut up about me? And why the hell did you tell him to fly to Florida to celebrate his release from prison ... _indefinitely_?!!"

Virgil cursed under his breath and I knew I had him cornered on this one.

"Indefinitely?" he belatedly tried to play dumb.

"Yeah, he told me he's not sure how long he's staying. What kind of an answer is that? Is he there for some purpose? Could he possibly be working for you ... us ... The Bridge now? And if so, _what the fuck for?_ " I shouted, standing up at my desk.

"Look, calm down," he said, standing up, too.

"No, I won't ... you haven't answered any of my questions."

"Nor will I!" he shouted back at me. "Security matters for this company are not part of your job here."

Brandon and Zach were ogling us through the glass now.

"Not even when they involve my own friends? That's insane!"

"Is it, Nikki? Keep your opinions to yourself and do your job."

"What exactly is my job? I don't have any information to direct. A reporter interviews me about being chosen to go to Mars and he knows more about this company and its shady dealings than I do."

"That's why you shouldn't be talking to reporters!"

"Even if I'm pretending to do PR here, PR people talk to reporters all the time ... unless their company really has something to hide."

We fumed at each other across the desk. Virgil's phone interrupted our standoff. He seemed eager to answer it.

"Hi David. OK. Two minutes. Perhaps we ..."

Virgil stared at his phone.

"What's the matter? Did he hang up on you?" I jabbed.

"We'll discuss this fiasco later," he said with a stern voice. "Right now we need to go to the big screen and talk to David. You're going to Florida to cover the hurricane for TBN."

I laughed. "A one-way ticket like Adam's?"

Virgil just frowned and skulked out of my office.

In those few seconds I had before talking to David, I texted Adam: "Do NOT take orders from The Bridge. Find a car and drive the hell out of Florida."

***

David's smug mug appeared on a 50-something-inch monitor looming slightly above Virgil and way over me in the center of the COM newsroom.

"Hurricane Felicia will be our Katrina," he said, referring to the Category 4 hurricane that sunk most of New Orleans back in 2008. "This is our company's moment to shine, to cover every angle of this storm and its brutal aftermath, and to be involved in the rescue efforts as well. We'll need all hands on deck and everyone at their best. Understood?"

Virgil and I eyed each other. I bit my lip and let him answer.

"Absolutely, David."

"I'm at the Bridge center here in Jupiter, and this will be our command and control center for the storm," he told us.

"Is that safe?" Virgil asked.

"Well, most of the latest forecast models predict it will make landfall between Fort Lauderdale and Pompano Beach, so it should be, but either way, we need to be close to the action. I've already lined up a fleet of helicopters to assist in the rescue efforts."

"Where do you want us?" Virgil asked.

"I'd like both of you to fly to Fort Lauderdale tomorrow, get a hotel room and wait for further instructions. We'll see what the forecast is then and figure out where to position you. Nikki, we'll want you as close to where Felicia makes landfall as possible."

"That's comforting," I said sarcastically.

"Is that a problem?" David asked as Virgil glared at me.

"Not at all," I said. "Why don't I just crash at Bill's place in Miami Beach and work my way up the coast as needed?"

David shook his head and Virgil huffed at me.

"That's not going to happen, Nikki," David said, looking right down at me.

"Why not? It'll save you the cost of a hotel room." I know. Pretty weak argument given this company's penchant for shelling out wads of money.

"Because Bill is a _jumper_ , that's why," David snapped.

There's that word again. Steve said it. It was the label they gave Stephanie before she got exiled to China. Lucky her.

"But Bill told me he sent you his manuscript," I said.

"I'm completely finished discussing Bill," David declared from above. "You'd do well to stay away from him if you value your future in this company and your seats on the Mars mission."

I so wanted to go off on both of them right then and there, but I decided to take a lesson from Steve. I'd let it build up and I'd get my say when the time was right. This wasn't it.

"Fine," I said.

"Good," David replied, pausing to make sure I had no further retorts.

Virgil seemed surprised I kept my mouth shut. The truth is I had no idea what happened with Bill. We hadn't talked in three days. I assumed Bill had a dispute with them about the book, his lack of protection or something like that. I planned to go to Miami Beach regardless of what they ordered me to do. There's no way I would fly to South Florida without seeing Bill. Period.

"We'll call you from Fort Lauderdale tomorrow then," Virgil told David.

"Very good. Bye."

"Bye David."

When David's virtual face disappeared, Virgil's real one got in mine.

"Bill is off limits. Do you understand?"

"Peter just wants him gone. I understand," I said, walking away. "You guys should hire _my mom_ instead. She hates Bill, too."

"What did you say?" he asked, starting to pursue me.

That is, until I turned on him to the amazement of Zach and Brandon.

"I said don't expect me to say one word to you on the flight to Fort Lauderdale!" I shouted, before resuming the march to my office and slamming the door behind me.

Right before I called Bill to tell him I was coming to see him, I noticed a reply text from Adam on my phone: "No can do. I need this job. In Virgil I trust."

I shook my head and texted him back: "Then you're a fool like me."

**CHAPTER 43: PEEPHOLE**

William

Peering through a peephole at your own condo door is like an out-of-body experience.

Ever since my car got torched and the cops offered no immediate answers about who did it, I'd been holed up in my neighbor Rey's pad across the hall. He had to go to Orlando and then Atlanta on a business trip, so he offered to let me crash at his place when I told him my life was in danger over a book I wrote that likely would never get published. He even stocked the fridge for me so I wouldn't have to go out in public for a few days. His only condition was to make sure his cat, Stella, didn't drown if Hurricane Felicia decided to smack Miami Beach instead of Pompano Beach.

The scary thing was, the latest forecasts had been shifting the storm south, with Fort Lauderdale or even the north end of Miami taking the worst of it. Felicia could end up swallowing Miami Beach and I'd have to try to swim inland with a cat on my back.

Mandatory evacuations had been ordered along the coast north of here, but not for Miami Beach yet. I planned to ride it out anyway. For one thing, I hadn't even bought a new car yet. I decided if I survived the hurricane, I'd buy a bike first and if that didn't get set ablaze or stolen for a week, then I'd consider replacing my Acura.

I also never went outside to retrieve my phone. I wanted no contact from the outside world unless I initiated it. No more David, Virgil and all the rest of them. If I wanted to call someone, I'd just use Rey's landline for now. The only two people I cared about were Max and Nikki. I called Shelly and told her how to reach me so I could talk to Max, but I hadn't called Nikki yet ... mostly because I didn't know what to do about her. She worked for a company that I no longer wanted anything to do with; that possibly wanted me injured or killed; that wanted its advance money back and only would get it over my dead body.

_They_ breached the contract, not me.

Continuing my affair with Nikki no longer made much sense, especially for her. I could only imagine the shit The Bridge would give her if she kept seeing me. I didn't need a 22-year-old woman's life ruined because of me weighing on my conscience on top of everything else I had fucked up in my life. What if we did hang out, and next time, the Scientologists or The Bridge assholes threw a Molotov cocktail into my car while she was sitting in my passenger seat? I could not live with myself if she got horribly disfigured or burned to death because of me.

So I took the coward's way out and opted not to call her yet. I guess I hoped a little time — and maybe the hurricane — would help me sort things out. In the meantime, I had gray-and-white fluff ball Stella cozying up to me on Rey's sofa as I made love to my tonic and gin ... and Jim Beam ... but, sadly, no mojitos. Those were for happy occasions. Mojitos should never be consumed by someone lost and depressed and possibly facing a horrible death. Hiding out in your neighbor's condo with a cat on top of you equals zero mojo anyway.

Part of me _begged_ Felicia to destroy me. I needed to be blown apart and rebuilt. As the landfall target drew closer to Miami Beach, I felt more alive, more ready to stare death in the eye and call its bluff — just like good 'ol paraplegic Lt. Dan did, screaming at his maker from the mast of a shrimp boat during that storm in the movie "Forrest Gump."

But it also took a lot of booze for me to maintain my doomsday courage. Fortunately, Rey's liquor cabinet was stocked better than some corner taverns. I'd expect nothing less from a Puerto Rican player who told me he grew up drinking Don Q rum for breakfast.

So yes, it's safe to say I was completely bombed when the sound of banging on my own door across the hall tore me away from The Weather Channel and Stella, and nearly made me trip — left foot over right foot — on my way to Rey's peephole.

I nearly shit my pants, very silently, at the size of the big black man looming outside the door to my condo. As he waited a moment and banged again, he turned his face just enough that I had a flashback: New Year's Eve ... the Clevelander ... the guy who tossed Nikki's groper over the barrier. Fuck!

What was _that_ guy doing _here_ ... looking for _me_? Would I be his next punching bag? At that horrifying moment, I wanted to kiss Rey for granting me asylum just several feet away.

Then the black man yelled. "Nikki. Are you in there with Bill? Open up. Let's talk."

Nikki?!! Why is he looking for her at my place? Did she fly down to find me?

Suddenly I felt like an absolute shit for launching my phone off the balcony and putting off calling her with Rey's phone. She had no idea what was going on. She couldn't reach me. As usual, I had only thought of myself.

When the black man left after two bangings, I let myself exhale again, stumbled to Rey's kitchen counter and punched her cell number into his phone. She let it go to message.

"Nikki, it's me. Call me back at this number."

Two minutes later, she called.

"Hi," I said, bracing myself.

"Hi? Where the hell have you been? No calls, no messages ... I'm so mad at you right now."

"Yes. You should be. I'm sorry."

"Where are you? What number is this?"

"I'm staying across the hall from my own condo in Miami Beach."

She sighed. "Good. At least you're here. But why ..."

"Wait .. you're here, too?" I asked.

"Yes. Almost. To cover the hurricane. But I shouldn't be this far south."

"What does that mean?" I asked, slapping my face and trying to sober up. The big man banging on my door had helped with that, too.

"It's a long story that I'd rather tell you in person. And why aren't you staying in your own place?"

"I'm hiding, practically in plain sight, thanks to my neighbor Rey. He's away on a business trip. He was here with me the other night when my car got torched."

"What? By who?"

"I have no idea, but the list of people I've pissed off continues to snowball ... make that fireball."

"You can include me on that list. What the hell is really going on, Bill?"

"Long story. Let's talk in person."

"Great."

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"Um, where to start ... there's a Category 4 hurricane bearing down on Miami. I ditched Virgil in Fort Lauderdale to come find you. Virgil and David have been calling my phone nonstop ever since ..."

"Just throw your phone away," I suggested.

"What?"

"That's what I did."

"Oh, that's your excuse for blowing me off?"

"It's the truth."

"You're unbelievable. And how would I call you right now without my phone?"

"Good point."

"Bill, are you drunk?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's just perfect. Have you lost your grip on reality?"

"I'm sorry, but my life is in danger and not just from the friggin' hurricane. Someone threw a Molotov cocktail into my car. A huge black guy just pounded on my door while I was watching from my neighbor's peephole."

"Wait. A big black guy?" she asked.

"Yes, that big black guy. The same one who rescued you from the creep at the Clevelander."

She sighed again. "That's Roy."

"Roy? You know him?"

"Yes. I met him on the plane trip to South Africa. I probably should've told you, but ... he saw us."

"Saw us?"

"That night at Nikki Beach."

"Wonderful. Another memory tarnished. So he's your bodyguard then?"

"Yes ... well, he _was_. Now he's probably hunting me down to bring me back to Virgil."

"Where are you exactly?"

"In a cab ... I'll get as close as the cops let me and then I'll walk to you ... wearing a blond wig."

I had to laugh. "Nikki Blond. I like it. I can't wait to see you."

"Me too. I'll find my way to your peephole somehow," she said.

"But what about Roy?"

"I think I can turn him to our side."

"How?"

"Well, he's seen my bare ass ... and yours. I'd say we've got some history with him, wouldn't you?"

"Do you really want to ride out this storm with me?" I asked. "It looks like it's gonna get nasty."

"Too late to turn back now," she said. "95 North is a parking lot and I'm a Bridge jumper just like you."

**CHAPTER 44: TRAP**

Adam

I parked the rental car at the end of the dead-end street at 2 a.m. and left it running just as Virgil had told me. All was quiet for several minutes so I lowered my window, closed my eyes and smelled the salty air from the nearby Gulf of Mexico. I tried to picture the package that was supposed to be deposited in my trunk by somebody else. What could it possibly be? Then I tried to picture the somebody else — a guy in a hoodie? I had no idea. Virgil gave me no hints.

Five minutes later, I had my answers. Two guys in black ski masks approached my car from the left side on the residential street. One guy carried a roped, blanketed bundle. He went toward my trunk so I auto-popped it. The second guy surprised me by opening my door.

"Move over. I'm driving," he said with a low growl.

Reluctantly, I hurdled over to the passenger seat while the trunk closed and the first guy got into the seat behind me. I could hear the package banging inside the trunk. _What the fuck? A person? That's the delivery?_

"But Virgil told me I was driving the package," I said.

The driver ignored me and turned the car around. The guy behind me stuck what felt like the barrel of a gun to the back of my neck. _This is a paid vacation?_

"Well, now you're a package, too, thanks to your big fucking mouth, so shut the fuck up and put on this mask," he ordered, jamming it into my face with his other hand. "And hand me your phone."

I did as I was told.

"What did I do wrong?" I asked.

"Same thing you're doing now — you talked too fucking much to someone you weren't supposed to. You can't follow a simple order to keep your trap shut," he snapped, jamming the gun harder into my neck. "The only reason you're alive right now is the old man has a soft spot for you, so say another fucking word on the way to the airport and I'll pistol-whip you and throw you in the trunk with the kid."

_Kid? Seriously?_ I wanted to scream and go berserk. But I did nothing. I became still like a piece of luggage.

Suddenly I wished I was playing GTA, not living it.

Aunt Donna's voice and Nikki's text both haunted me as we sped toward St. Petersburg.

**CHAPTER 45: FELICIA**

Nikki

There was zero chance of me getting to Bill undetected, even in the dark. The cab had to drop me off more than a mile southwest of his condo complex because the cops had blocked all traffic from getting near the beach.

Tropical storm force winds knocked me all over the sidewalks, even with my backpack weighing me down. Driving, horizontal rain soaked me to the bones, and after my wig blew off for the third time, I didn't even turn back to get it.

I found Roy waiting for me at the entrance to Bill's complex. As big as he was, even he seemed buffeted by the winds as he towered over me.

"You jumped," he said, no trace of a smile.

"Damn right I did. You should, too. The Bridge is ..."

He was already on the phone.

"You're ratting me out?"

He ignored me and tears filled my eyes.

"She's right in front of me," Roy said into his phone. "Just arrived at Bill's place 10 seconds ago ... that's crazy, we'll all die. The winds are too motherfuckin' strong already for a damn chopper ... I've got the camera with me anyway ... so then we'll all die here. What's the motherfuckin' difference? ... You people are motherfuckin' crazy if you think I'm getting my ass on a chopper right now ... I _am_ doing my job ... She ain't getting away from me. I'll anchor her down and make her do a report in 100-mile-hour winds."

Roy shook his massive head as he listened to ... David? ... Virgil? ... one of those assholes. I didn't care about them anymore. Instead I looked up toward Bill's balcony, wondering how much longer it would be before Felicia tore it apart and washed it away.

"Send it then. I don't care," Roy said. "It's on yo ass if the pilot crashes and dies."

He ended the call and shook his head again. "Damn fools. They're sending a chopper to pick us up in this shit and fly us back to Fort Lauderdale."

"Well, I'm not getting on it. I'm going up to see Bill," I said as the wind blew me right into Roy and he caught me.

"Where is he?" Roy asked, partially releasing me.

"If I tell you, will you make us get on the chopper?"

"Hell no. None of us are getting on that thing."

I smiled. "Good. He's in the condo directly across the hall from his place. He told me he's been staying there since his car got torched. The guy who lives there is away."

"He's one of the smart ones," Roy said.

Then I spotted Bill peeking out the main door to the complex, no doubt wondering if I'd ever get past Roy. I looked at Roy with pleading eyes. He nodded and took hold of my backpack so I could run through the wind and rain, and embrace Bill tightly.

"I haven't been outside in days," Bill said. "Feels great ... hurricane or not."

We kissed and Roy allowed himself a chuckle. "Don't start that shit again. Get a room ... get an ocean ... it's over there and rising fast," he said, waving a hand into the wind as palm trees bowed and the deserted street already looked like a shallow river in front of us. Rocked by strong and nearly sustained gusts, the light poles along the street remained illuminated for now.

"So what's the plan?" I asked Bill.

"We ride it out on the second floor ... the roof if we have to. We've got my place and Rey's place."

"Just so we all understand the situation, there's probably a 50-50 chance we die if we stay," Roy said. "She's a Cat 3, maybe 4, and this beach is going under fast. The Bridge is sending a chopper right now, but that looks like a death wish, too."

"Well I'm not getting on anything your company flies," Bill said, looking at Roy, then me, then Roy again. "I'd rather die here."

"And I'm not leaving him," I told Roy as I clung to Bill.

Roy nodded. "Well, I guess it's motherfuckin' unanimous. Death by Felicia over death by chopper blown out of the motherfuckin' sky."

A few minutes later, we heard the chopper, not far away at all. Its lights got bigger as it descended toward us in the darkness. It hovered over the street, causing the wind to swirl around us even more. Then a man rode a basket attached to a rope all the way down to the foot-high rapids we were standing in.

"It's now or never!" the man in the orange suit shouted over the sound of the rotors. "She's gonna pound and drown this place. Huge surge on this side of the storm. Last chance to get out. Right now."

"We're all staying," Roy yelled.

"Wait," Bill shouted, holding up his hands. "I do have someone inside who needs to be rescued so your trip isn't completely wasted."

"Hurry up!" the man ordered.

Roy and I shrugged our shoulders, and the chopper guy looked pissed off as we awaited Bill's return. He emerged from the main entrance a moment later lugging a gray pet carrier. I could see the cat opening its mouth to meow as Bill handed the carrier to the chopper guy, but I couldn't hear a thing through all the noise and rain.

"This is my neighbor's cat, Stella," Bill told him. "Fly her to safety please. Here's the owner's numbers."

Roy intercepted Bill's note, studied it for a moment and then handed it to the chopper guy. He pocketed the note, placed Stella's carrier in the basket and shook his head as it went up. "All this for a bleepin' cat."

"Why did you have to see that?" Bill asked Roy about the note.

"In case we gotta get in touch with you about somethin'," the big man barked back. "You've been unreachable and she told me you're staying at your neighbor's place," he added, hooking his thumb at me.

Bill gave me a nasty look.

"What would you have me do? He was right here waiting for me," I said.

When the basket came down again, the chopper guy offered us one last lifeline.

"This is really it. Don't expect anyone to save you now," he told us.

We shook our heads, he got in and the basket swung violently as it climbed toward the struggling helicopter. The man nearly got blown into a light pole during the perilous ascent, but somehow, he made it all the way up before the door closed and the chopper flew away from us — inland, toward the northwest.

The sound of the rotors faded, quickly replaced by the increasingly terrifying roar of Felicia.

***

As dawn approached, so did the storm surge — over the beach, past the beachfront properties and hotels, and onto the street in front of Bill's complex.

Roy kept hounding me — now clad in my bathing suit and ready to swim if need be — to file one report for TBN. He had brought a TV camera with him, and wanted me to wade into the waist-deep saltwater on the street and tell the world about Felicia.

"Don't do it!" Bill shouted at me through the storm. "You don't owe them anything."

Actually I did, if I truly jumped. I owed them a lot of money. So did Bill. I had a feeling Bill was hoping Felicia would kill him. But what if we all lived through it?

"Do it for me then," Roy yelled, the garbage-bag-wrap flapping around the camera despite his efforts to use his body as a shield. "I'm down here sticking my neck out for y'all. If I survive this bullshit, which I better, I'd like to keep _my_ motherfuckin' job."

"Why? The Bridge ...," Bill started.

"The money, fools!" Roy cut him off.

"We're all fools for taking their money ... look where it's gotten us," I yelled.

"You got paid. Now earn it!" Roy snapped. "Don't make me kick both yo asses because I will!"

I didn't hear Bill argue with that. We both had seen what Roy had done to my attacker at the Clevelander.

"Fine. I'll do one friggin' report. That's it!" I shouted.

"Well amen to that. Go get yo ass in there deeper then," Roy said, waving me in the direction of the beach. Then he started talking to David or Virgil on his Blue Tooth.

As the rain pelted us without mercy, Bill watched me and shook his head like I was letting him down.

"It's one report," I shouted at him.

"I'm heading back inside," he yelled back. "Gotta let Max know I'm still alive ... _so far_."

"OK," I said, watching him struggle to get back up the steps to the entrance as the wind blew us both around. Even grabbing the rail didn't seem to help Bill's progress much.

The storm was really kicking into high gear now. Roy waded toward me and put a tether around my waist that attached me to him.

"Now you've got a 280-pound anchor," he said. "Try to stay upright. If you fall in, that'll be good video, too. It is what it is."

"You owe me for this," I said, taking a TBN microphone from him and venturing even further into the overflowing Atlantic.

Roy talked into his Blue Tooth for a moment. Then he shouted to me, "Almost ready!" while nearly losing his grip on the camera when we got hit with a huge gust. He decided to changed tack.

"Wind's too motherfuckin' strong that way. I'm gonna get you facing this way," he said, turning to the north instead of east.

I adjusted the best I could and barely avoided falling into the water. "This is crazy!" I shouted over the din. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Tell them we're all gonna die. That should give the ratings a kick in the ass!"

"Great," I said, this time actually falling into the water.

We both laughed as I struggled to right myself.

"This is insane!" I yelled. "Just another idiotic person trying to do a weather report in a hurricane."

"I hear that," he shouted. "She's as ready as she's gonna be!" he yelled into his Blue Tooth. Then back to me: "3, 2, 1 ... go!"

"Hi, this is Nikki Blue reporting live from Miami Beach, Florida, and as you can see, Hurricane Felicia is unleashing her fury just before dawn. I'm doing my best to stand up in waist-deep water one block away from the beach itself and the storm surge is rising extremely fast. Felicia has really intensified here over the past hour. I can see parked cars becoming submerged further up the road. Most people have evacuated and that seems like a good decision. The wind is gusting to what feels like hurricane force, probably between 70 and 90 miles per hour, and the rain is just as intense. Flooding is going to be a major problem here and for all the communities up the coast."

I hesitated as the wind nearly dunked me into the water again. Again I righted myself, but this time I did not laugh. Instead I thought of David and Peter and Stephanie, and especially Virgil and Adam. I saw an opportunity. I wanted the last word. I felt an overwhelming urge to unleash my own hurricane and rip The Bridge off its pilings, toppling it into the roiling sea.

I did it for Bill. I did it for me.

"That's all from Miami Beach. For the last time, this is Nikki Blue reporting for TBN — owned by The Bridge, a despicable company that controls and uses people, that lies and wants to play god in all sorts of evil ways!" I screamed through Felicia toward a stunned Roy.

"Motherfff ... what the fuck was that?!!" he hollered back at me. "Are you suicidal?"

"No, I'm a _journalist_ ... reporting the _truth_!" I yelled, throwing the microphone toward the Atlantic and slipping out of the tether so I could swim back up the street toward Bill.

***

When I dripped my way up to Bill's condo, the door was locked. So I tried his neighbor's door and that was open. I found Bill sitting on the sofa, cordless phone in his hand. He looked like death, as pale as I'd ever seen him. Though the TV was on — only because the complex had a generator — Bill's eyes weren't focused on it. But at least he had it on TBN. Good. He must've seen me and heard what I said.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

He didn't respond.

"Bill, did you see me just now? Did you hear what I said about The Bridge? I just completely ripped them ... ON THE AIR!"

"No," was all he said.

"No?!! What do you mean, no?"

"You gave a weather report. That's all I saw, all I heard. Then you got knocked over by the wind and that was it."

"How is that poss... oh fuck!"

"You forgot about the seven-second delay," he said, his voice almost monotone. "They must've cut you off."

I screamed at the top of my lungs: "I so fucking hate them!!!"

Then Roy barreled through the door. "Are you crazy, Nikki?" he shouted at me.

"Why? Nobody saw or heard a goddamn word I said thanks to that effing delay I forgot about!"

"Yeah, well David and Virgil heard that shit loud and clear! That's all that matters."

"Good. They should hear the truth for once. Are me and Bill the only ones brave enough to stand up to them? What's your problem, Roy? Money isn't everything if your soul has been sucked up and spit out!"

"Enough already. I've gotta go to my place for a few ... I need some room to think," Bill announced, suddenly bolting toward the door.

"Bill, what's wrong with you?" I pleaded, stopping him.

"I don't want to talk about it right now," he said, brushing me aside.

Even Roy let him go. Weirdly, he didn't seem as surprised by Bill's behavior as I was.

***

Giving Bill some time to be alone proved to be a mistake. When Roy and I went to check on him a half hour later, he was gone.

"I'll look out front," Roy said, starting to make his way down the stairs from the second floor to the first. He didn't go far before he spun back around.

"Shit, we ain't going that way."

"Why not?"

"The water's too high. The whole first floor is under and it's still rising fast."

"Where could he be?"

"Maybe he jumped off the balcony and went for a swim."

"How about the roof?" I suggested.

"Maybe. Let's check."

Roy and I ran down the corridor, found an exit sign and pushed through the door. One set of stairs led upward and one downward. We ascended and I was about to slam through the top door when Roy stopped me.

"Careful. That wind will blow you right off. What do you weigh? 98 pounds?"

"115 ... soaking wet," I said.

"Get ready to soak some more," he said, tethering me to him again and nodding for me to go.

I pushed through and was surprised to find we came out along a partial buffer to the wind. The front facade of the complex was a half tier higher and we exited a door that was below the back of the facade. Hunching down to avoid the worst of the gusts, we made our way around some huge pipes and vents. That's when I spotted Bill crouched down next to the far edge of the roof along the right side of the building. He appeared to be looking down at the street that runs west, away from the beach.

"Bill!" I shouted through the storm. "What are you doing out here?"

He looked at me and waved me back, but he didn't say anything.

I removed the tether. "Don't worry. I'll stay low," I told Roy, who looked at me like I was crazy. "Let me talk to him alone for a minute."

"I'm giving you one minute. That's it."

"OK, OK," I said, then scooted toward Bill, practically on my hands and knees.

But Bill — sitting there and looking pathetic in a soaked white T-shirt, shorts and bare feet — became wildly agitated as I got within several feet of him so I stopped.

" _Please_ tell me what's wrong!" I pleaded as Felicia raged even worse now that it was light out; a morbid gray if you could call that light.

Suddenly, Bill crawled to me and kissed me long and hard. I was so stunned I barely kissed him back.

"I love you," he said, looking me in the eyes, but he seemed totally out of his mind. "Don't forget about me."

"Why? What are you talking about? Love? You told me you don't believe in love, don't understand it ..."

"The Bridge kidnapped Max and I'm going to find him. I'm done waiting," he said, springing to his feet as I fell over trying to tackle him by the ankles.

"Oh my God! Bill, wait!!!" I shouted.

"Fuck Felicia and fuck The Bridge!!" he screamed before running toward the edge and jumping.

My heart leapt with him, but my mind was too shocked to get my body to follow for a couple of seconds. Then I scrambled toward the edge as Roy cursed and yelled behind me. As he closed in on me, I caught sight of Bill being swept along by the rapids that used to be a street. I didn't even think. I just jumped in after him — through the sheets of rain, the stabbing wind and the thunderous protests of Roy above me.

I fell 15 or 20 feet and submerged in angry, spreading seas. Shortly after I stuck my head back above water, I realized I already had traveled nearly one block west. I couldn't see Bill, perhaps because a small sail boat had drifted across the intersection in front of me. I swerved my body to the right and somehow managed to avoid striking it, but just as the boat left my reckless path, a traffic signal — devoid of light and color, and dangling from a bent pole above — let go in the unrelenting wind and crashed into me.

It sent me under and robbed me of any chance to help Bill in his worst hour.

***

I awoke in a crumpled heap, sloshing over waves, to the sound of a little boat engine.

The taste of blood in my mouth made me spit. The pressure of water in my lungs made me cough. The searing pain in my head, neck, right shoulder and back got worse with every undulation and made me cry.

Was that Roy above me? My vision was too blurry to tell.

"Where's Bill?" I rasped.

No response.

"Where's Bill?" I tried again, my voice failing me as well.

The person finally noticed me and leaned closer.

"Where's Bill?" I gasped a third time.

He leaned away for a moment. "No trace. I'm sorry," Roy finally said.

Unfortunately, my ears still worked and there was no greater pain.

The troubled waters had swept us away and ripped us apart.

**CHAPTER 46: ROY ROGER**

Roger

The last time Nikki was laid up in the hospital — when she got shot in 2014 — I didn't even visit her in person. But this time, when the nurse told me my daughter had requested that I come, I made sure I got on the first flight from Charlotte to Miami. Fortunately, the hurricane had curved to the east-northeast after slamming the South Florida coast and my flight was able to get through.

I was proud to hear Nikki's company was on the front lines, making helicopter rescues from Miami Beach to Fort Lauderdale, and I was impressed Nikki braved the storm to file at least one TV report, though I never saw it.

When I found Nikki in South Miami Hospital, I was stunned she had been assigned a single room, given the disaster all along the coast. I was even more shocked by her visitor — a black man large enough to play defensive end in the NFL. When I entered, he stood up from the chair next to her bed and gave me the eye.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same," I said, before extending my hand. "Roger Janicek, Nikki's dad."

He shook it hard. "Roy ... the man who saved your daughter's life."

"Thank you for that."

"You're welcome."

He offered me the chair with a nod.

"Thanks," I said, pulling up close to Nikki. She was sound asleep, her head bandaged and her right arm in a sling. She looked like she had gone twelve rounds with Felicia. "So what happened to her?" I asked softly.

Roy sighed. He seemed to be thinking about how to answer me.

"Where to begin? Hurricane Felicia happened to her, love happened to her and, keepin' it real with you, stupidity happened to her. Then she got broad sided by a flying traffic light and nearly drowned."

"How bad?"

"Concussion, lacerations, sprained neck, broken collar bone and maybe some lung damage from all the water."

"My God. How did you save her?"

"I jumped off the roof of a condo complex just like she did and Bill did before her," he said. "I guess three wrongs make a right or she'd be dead, too. We were all at the mercy of the storm surge after that ... rapids running through the streets of Miami Beach. Some straight-up crazy shit right there."

"Are you telling me Bill is dead?"

"Probably. They ain't found him yet anyway. Maybe he's at the bottom of Biscayne Bay."

"Wow," I said, taking a deep breath and exhaling for 20 seconds. "Why did he jump in the first place? Was the condo building about to collapse?"

"The water was high, but it wasn't about to collapse. I have no idea why he jumped. You'd have to ask him."

"Sounds like I won't get that chance. So Nikki jumped in to try and save him?"

"I guess so. All I know is I had one shot when I saw her go down and I grabbed her ... got her up and managed to hold on to a light pole long enough to tether myself to it. We waited there for what seemed like hours, with shit flying all around us, until the storm finally died down a little bit. Then two guys in a boat picked us up. I almost capsized the thing when I got in."

I smiled, but not too much, because he didn't at all.

"Well, as a fire captain in North Carolina, I'm grateful you were there ... grateful for your bravery and heroism. I can't thank you enough."

He just nodded.

"How do you know Nikki?" I asked.

"We both work for The Bridge."

"Amazing stuff you guys are doing ... rescuing a lot of people, keeping people informed during this crisis."

He shrugged his massive shoulders and checked his phone. "I gotta make a call," he said, before strolling out of the room.

That's when I leaned over the bed, grabbed Nikki's hand and told her that I loved her.

She didn't wake up.

And I hated myself for not being the one to rescue her.

**CHAPTER 47: NO ROOM TO HEAL**

Nikki

When my eyes opened, there was a blur of light and dark. Then the dark moved closer and eclipsed the light.

"Nikki," a voice said. "You awake?"

I knew that voice. It was Roy. Then the pain stabbed me and I couldn't answer him. I didn't know which pain was more overwhelming — the physical, throughout my right side, or the emotional anguish as it rushed back to me. I tried to ignore it all and focus my eyes on Roy. Slowly, my vision regained focus and there he was — a mountain of a man leaning over me and blocking what I swear had been a few rays of sun. Was the storm over? Was it all just a nightmare? Where am I ... the hospital? I briefly remembered a nurse hovering over me. Did I tell her to call my dad or was that just in my mind?

"Where?" I asked him in a hoarse voice, barely above a whisper. I was lying on my left side and facing him as he sat back down in the chair next to my bed.

"South Miami Hospital."

"How long?"

"Two days."

"Two days?"

"That's right," he said, nodding emphatically, like it had felt closer to a week for him.

"My dad?"

"Oh yeah, he's here. Just went down to dinner. You've been asleep all afternoon."

I exhaled. At least I had family here. I shifted a little and rotated my left hand so I could see the ring. It killed me to move and it killed me to see it, but I stared into the blue and didn't blink until my eyes burned.

"And Bill?" I asked Roy, my heart hanging from a cliff.

He just shook his head and there it went ... down, down, down. I started sobbing right then and there. It didn't even matter that Roy was sitting there. I couldn't control it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Just let me cry."

So he did. He just watched me bawl my eyes out for a good five minutes. The man had seen me strip naked, have sex in the ocean, jump off a roof into a storm surge, get hit with ... wait ...

"Did you _rescue me_?" I finally asked through my sobs.

"Hell yeah, I did. You should be dead right now, just like ..."

He stopped himself and shook his head. "Hell, I should be dead, too. Just one fool after another like motherfuckin' dominoes."

"But you don't actually know if Bill is dead, do you?" I pleaded.

"Well, he ain't been found in two days so ... it is what it is."

I tried to move despite the searing pain. "I need to find him."

Roy put both of his hands on me. "Stay put. Doctor's orders. Your right side is all banged up. You're concussed and you broke your damn collar bone, too."

"From what?"

"From acting the fool and jumping off a roof into the rapids ... from the traffic light swinging loose in 100-mile-hour winds and nailing yo ass real good. You're damn lucky it didn't land right on top of you or you'd be in the morgue right now. You're damn lucky this black man can swim ... and horse-collared you before you drowned ... and tethered yo ass to a pole until a rescue boat picked us up."

"Thanks," I said, utterly embarrassed.

"Just doing my job," he shot back. "Even after you said what you said ... _on the motherfuckin' air!_ "

More memories and flashbacks washed over me.

"I'm sorry to you, but I'm not sorry I said what I said. I meant every word and that was _before_ I found out The Bridge kidnapped Bill's son. That's what Bill told me before he jumped ... that he was going to find Max."

"I don't know shit about any of that."

"Have you no shame? Just take their money and look the other way, right? You call him a fool for jumping? What else was he supposed to do? In the middle of an effing hurricane, he'd just found out ... no wonder he was all fucked up when I went up to talk to him. How did he find that out anyway?"

"Like I just said ..."

"The phone number. That's right. You saw it when he tried to give it to the helicopter pilot. You told those assholes how to reach him, how to tell him his son had been taken."

"I'm done talkin' about all that," he said, looking angry now.

"I want my father up here now," I said. "Go ..."

"Hell no. I saved your life, and you owe me and your company what comes next."

"Which is?"

He held up an index finger and called someone. "She's awake and talking," he said about me. "I'm puttin' it on speaker and going to guard the door." Then Roy got up, put the phone next to me on the bed and told me, " _Which is_ ... answer to Virgil for what you did. Yo ass jumped off The Bridge, now yo ass gotta pay the price."

Then he left the room.

"Nicole?" Virgil asked.

"What?" I snapped.

"Feeling any better?"

"Not at all ... like you care. What did you assholes do with Max? Bill is ... probably dead now," I said, barely keeping it together. "You waited until he was trapped in a hurricane to tell him his little boy was kidnapped by you evil pieces of shit?!!"

"Don't get yourself all worked up in your condition. Max is doing just fine," Virgil said, cheerfully creepy. "Why don't you talk to him yourself?"

There was an excruciating pause.

"Nikki?" the little boy asked.

My heart ripped into 400 pieces. "Max, no! Please tell me you're home and safe with your mom right now."

"I'm not. They took me ... in the middle of the night."

"Where are you?"

"That's enough small talk for now," Virgil said. "And before you go falsely accusing anyone of anything, Max has been chosen for advanced early training for your Mars mission. He's one candidate to be your companion on the mission. Here's the other."

Another devastating pause.

"Nikki, it's me. Adam."

"Oh my God! I hate you, Virgil, so, so much right now. You have no right ..."

He just cut me off. "Since you seem to be completely broken up with Derek and you've struggled to name a replacement, The Bridge leadership has taken it upon itself to make an executive decision on your behalf," he said. "We feel we're being extremely generous in giving you two options, especially considering your unprofessional and insubordinate behavior over the last few days."

"Well don't waste your time because I already quit your evil company and would never go to Mars on one of your rockets, so you've kidnapped Max and Adam for absolutely nothing. My next call will be to the police. Hang tight, Adam and Max. We'll find you and get you home safe as soon as we can."

"On the contrary, Nicole, you'll be very busy regaining the trust you've destroyed here at The Bridge and attempting to earn back your seat on the Mars mission. You've already been selected and introduced. You're a BIP member. There's no turning back now."

"And what if I tell you to go to hell, which is exactly where you belong?"

"Let's not frighten Max and Adam with that kind of talk," Virgil said. "But I'm sure you can use your imagination as to the consequences of such a foolish decision."

"Adam, where are you?" I pleaded.

"He won't be answering that, Nicole."

"So much for just having to pay back my tuition," I said. "Liar!"

"You're the one who went so severely astray and reneged on your commitments. Look yourself in the mirror, Nicole. You and Bill are to blame for all that has transpired since the gala in June. Now Bill is presumed dead and you are a broken woman with big hospital bills to pay. Foolish decisions have a costly ripple effect ... for yourself and others."

"This is blackmail. Extortion."

"Call it whatever you like, but the heartbeats of your future Mars companions rest squarely on you, your words and your actions now," he said. "And your first test is on her way up to your hospital room as we speak, I'm told. Bill's ex-wife, Shelly, would like to ask you a few questions. She called me first, but I told her to talk to you. Your my director of information, after all. It's about time you actually started working and earning your pay, don't you think?"

I was too stunned to utter another word. Roy, my father and a woman I presumed must be Shelly all entered the room. Roy grabbed his phone off my bed without looking at me, my father gave me a gentle hug and Shelly sat down in the chair previously occupied by Roy.

"It's so good to see you awake, Nikki," my dad said with a smile. He was absolutely clueless about the walls closing in on me. It made me want to scream, but I smiled through gritted teeth and tried to take some comfort that at least he was here. _Just breathe and figure this out. I survived Felicia. I'll survive this, too._

"Thanks for coming, dad."

"How do you feel?"

"I've been better," I said, biting my lip.

"Hang in there," he said. "You've always been tough."

Not tough enough for all of this.

"Thanks," I said, not even looking at him after I'd focused on Shelly's bruised cheek and red, puffy eyes, which were locked on me. She had gray-streaked brown hair and an understandably devastated demeanor.

"Shelly is Bill's ex-wife," my father said in a somber voice. "She's driven a long way to talk to you ... if you feel up to it."

Roy eyed me while standing at the foot of my bed. The Bridge had even made my dad an unwitting accomplice in this charade.

"Sure," I replied, barely masking my anger with this whole fucked-up situation.

"Thank you," Shelly said, holding a tissue in her hand. "My son was kidnapped the same night as the storm, but in Clearwater. Two masked men invaded my home, hit me, tied me up and blindfolded me. The police say they have some leads, but so far nothing. It's been two excruciatingly long days. I'm desperate. I called Virgil, who recruited Bill to join The Bridge. He directed me to you as director of information. Please, I know you're injured, but if you know something ... anything at all that could help ... like did Bill tell you anything before he ..."

She stopped talking and started sobbing. "It's just ... they're both gone ... at the _same_ time," she slowly added, dabbing her eyes with the tissue and crying again.

Roy crossed his massive arms over his chest and stared at me as my own eyes welled up. My father leaned against the wall and gazed at me with a mixture of concern and bewilderment.

I took a deep breath, then looked Shelly in the eyes and told her what I could.

"During the height of the storm, Bill told me someone had kidnapped Max and that he was going to find him," I said. "That's right before he jumped into the water and started swimming. I jumped in after him. The only reason I'm alive right now is because Roy rescued me."

"But did Bill tell you who did it? I know you guys were close ... he was writing a controversial book ... did he ever mention anyone specifically who might want to harm him ... us? Please, Max is just a little 6-year-old boy ... help him and me if you can."

I sighed and, for some reason, thought of Kathy Kepler. What would my former editor of just four days say in this impossible situation? I knew the truth and yet I couldn't reveal it to this poor woman, the mother of my missing lover's son.

"If you have any hope of seeing Max alive ever again, then I cannot tell you the truth," I said, feeling dizzy now.

All three of them looked at me in horror, likely all for different reasons.

"What? Why?" Shelly asked.

"Because the same people who took Max also took my friend Adam," I said as my rapidly fading energy level allowed me one last burst of clarity and conviction. "They told me if I revealed who kidnapped them, they would kill them both."

Shelly and my father both gasped. Roy's eyes popped open, but he didn't react verbally. Then he began texting on his phone. That's when I closed my eyes and could feel my body shutting down.

But for Shelly's sake, I forced myself to wake up again and add loudly, "So I'll just have to find another way to save their lives and get them back to us."

"Nikki, why the hell didn't you tell me about any of this?" my dad asked.

"I'm so tired and dizzy. Please," I begged.

"Ok, I think we should let her sleep now," my father announced.

But Shelly kept at it. "Please ... what other way is there ... to save their lives?" she asked, so desperate for hope.

I opened my eyes just enough to gaze at my dad, the fire captain; the man who saves lives and destroys wives for a living; the man who helped bring me into this awful world and then bashed me for wanting to escape it. Two words just came to me and I let them escape my lips.

"I'll cheat."

That's when a nurse finally entered the room and took control.

"Visiting hours are over," she said. "Give this woman some room to heal. Doctor's orders!"

"Who is my doctor anyway?" I asked her.

"I was just told you're being assigned a new one beginning tomorrow morning," she said with a smile. "He's a wonderful visiting doctor from Mass General in Boston who came to assist the hurricane victims. His name is Dr. Peter van Wooten."

My face blanched and my heart hit bottom.

" _Dad_ ," I said urgently as the nurse resumed her instructions for everyone to leave.

He leaned over me while Shelly stood up and Roy exited my increasingly blurry field of vision.

"Closer," I said.

My father put his head next to mine. "What can I do?" he asked.

"This is a burning building for me right now ... just so you know," I whispered before fading to black.

**CHAPTER 48: FIREMAN'S CARRY**

Nikki

I dreamed that I levitated off the hospital bed ... or so it seemed.

"Can you bear it?" my father asked of my pain as he carried me in his arms.

I couldn't, but I did. "Yes."

But why was he wearing a black helmet and yellow fireman's suit? And why were there four other firefighters escorting us out of the room?

"What about Roy?" I mumbled.

"What?" my father asked, lowering his ear toward my mouth.

"Roy?" I repeated.

"I found some brotherly reinforcements at the station around the corner just in case there was trouble, but it appears your company's security people don't work the same hours as firemen," he said with a slight grin.

Then a nurse stopped my father in a corridor that was way too bright for my eyes. I had to close them.

"Where are you going with her?" she asked loudly.

"She's my daughter and I'm taking her for a second opinion," my dad declared.

I think it was my favorite sentence he had ever spoken.

"I have to clear that with Dr. van Wooten," she shot back.

"Where is he? I don't see him," my father said sarcastically.

"It's 12:30 a.m. He's not here yet. I'll page the doctor on duty."

"That won't be necessary. I'm taking her home to North Carolina right now."

"I'm afraid that's against hospital policy," the nurse said. "I won't allow it."

One of the local firefighters intervened.

"Captain Janicek here has reason to believe his daughter is about to be treated by a doctor who dabbles in kidnapping and extortion," the fireman with the deep voice said. "We will be helping him remove his daughter from this hospital. Shall we do it peacefully ... or sound a fire alarm and force the entire hospital to evacuate in the middle of the night?"

The nurse didn't say a word. She just stepped aside. The pain in my head, neck, shoulder, back, chest and heart all seemed to step aside with her, even just for a moment.

When we emerged from the exit doors under a row of Felicia-bowed palm trees, the soothing tropical air replaced the cold, artificial blast of the hospital's air conditioning. I silently rejoiced in the tender warmth of Mother Earth and the irreplaceable security of a father's embrace.

Everyone should be rescued from their mistakes at least once in their lives — even the supposed heroes.

I just hoped there was still a way to rescue Max and Adam from The Bridge — the one I'd just burned with the help of these graveyard-shift firefighters. Then the one holding me thanked his brothers-in-hoses, bid them farewell and stopped himself just before he laid me across the back seat of his rental car.

It seemed like he had something to say.

"I'm glad you asked me to help you, Nikki, but why can't you learn to stay out of trouble?" my dad wondered as he looked down at me.

"Because it's everywhere, dad. You're a fire captain helping me escape from a hospital. Think about that for a minute."

THE END — BOOK 2

Photo by Pat Moody/Hickory Stick Bookshop

About the author

Jack Chaucer lives in Litchfield, Connecticut, with his wife and twin 4-year-olds. He is a 1991 journalism graduate of Marquette University and has worked in the newspaper industry for 24 years. His previous novels — the adult sci-fi thriller, "Queens are Wild," and the young adult drama, "Streaks of Blue" — are available in paperback at Amazon and in e-book formats at major online retailers.

Connect with Jack Chaucer online at his blog:

queensarewild.wordpress.com

On Facebook:

www.facebook.com/jackchaucerbooks

On Goodreads:

www.goodreads.com/author/show/6445477.Jack_Chaucer

On Twitter:

@JackChaucer

On Smashwords:

www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jackchaucer
